Watching Over by: Julie Wells, Acrylic on Canvas – 2017
He awoke to the same sound he heard every night that week. A sharp, metallic scraping sound coming from next door—piercing as it was muffled. Though it was such a small sound, it was such a distinctive one; it always woke him up. He groped in the dark for the remote and clicked on the TV. It had taken him so long to grow accustomed to sleeping without it and here he was—relapsing. The TV instantly illuminated the entire room. From outside, one would be able to see the windows glowing despite being well blinded; John had made considerable profits early in life. He covered what he could of his face with his pillow while still being able to breathe. The flashing, blue light crept in through his eyelids, and he was reminded of the countless studies he’d been told about relating insomnia to blue light, but at least the sound covered the odd scraping noise.
Helen insisted that she went to bed at nine, but he wondered how she could fail to notice a noise so clearly coming from her apartment around eleven. He’d asked her about it probably a half a dozen times now, and he could tell her patience was wearing thin. “Seriously, John, I don’t know. Maybe you’re confused. Are you sure it’s coming from my apartment? I thought you said it was a quiet noise. How can it possibly wake you up if you can barely hear it? Maybe see an ear guy,” she’d say. He’d shake his head and insist he had good hearing, and lately she’d begun to look at him with a slightly irritated, and more discerning look on her face. Perhaps she thought this was some weird way he’d devised to hit on her. She was, after all, very pretty, and he supposed she probably dealt with her share of men who felt she owed them sex for being nice, and future stalker types. Thinking over the last months’ events again, he decided he wouldn’t bother her about it in the morning this time.
John awoke in the morning with a start—gasping for breath from phantoms of an unpleasant dream, and didn’t remember last night’s repeat performance until he realized that the TV was still blaring. On screen, a man was trying to sell some novel type of laundry detergent in what John supposed was probably an hour paid time slot. With a start, he realized that he hadn’t decided about what to put on last night. The delirium episodes were getting worse. He padded to the kitchen in his bare feet. Though it was in the nineties outside, the air conditioner had made his tiles cold enough to be uncomfortable, and he felt his testes shrinking with discomfort. Just as he was reaching for the door handle of the fridge, a loud knocking sound startled him. Shaken, he looked around. The knocking came again. This time, he realized it was the front door. “Just a moment!” he shouted. Panicking, he groped around the counter until he found it—the coffee he had prepared the night before. He drank it all down in one gulp, and headed for the front door, wiping his mouth with his sleeve and wondering if he’d be an addict his whole life. “Yes?” he asked as he swung the door open. He found himself face to face with his ex. “Fuck are you doing here?” he asked abruptly. Ashlee looked as though she would cry. Suddenly, he felt the same way. “I’m sorry, I’m really sorry!” he said, a bit choked up, “I just have been having a fucked-up week.” She looked a bit relieved but still hurt. “Well, I’m here ‘cause we had plans, remember?” He did not, and said so. She shook her head. “It’s still happening, isn’t it?” He nodded his head slowly. “I suppose it is.” She looked sad. It was probably the biggest factor in their breakup, he supposed slowly—his brain just beginning to process the caffeine.
She shook her head. “C’mon dude, let’s go.” He swallowed. He could feel the caffeine taking in his heart. “Hang on, I need to get ready. Come in.” She followed him in, closing the door behind her softly. He leaned over and grabbed a pair of sneakers from under the counter as she sat down and looked around. “What’s different?” she asked suddenly. He stared blankly. “I don’t know—a lot of shit, probably.” He knew this vague answer would anger her, as ones in its likeness had so many times during the decade they dated. Suddenly, he wondered how it must feel sitting as a guest in what used to be her home breakfast bar. He shook his head, almost as though he were trying to shake away such uncomfortable thoughts, and focused on tying his shoes. “Done!” he shouted. Ashlee looked absolutely dumbfounded. “Umm, ok? Great, buddy. Let’s go.” He glared. “You don’t need to talk down to me. You know it’s hard not getting stuck in my head with all the—whatever-” He trailed off. She looked abashed. “I’m sorry. Let’s just go, dude.” He nodded, and stood up.
After wearing leather dress shoes all week, the sneakers felt like the embodiment of the weekend wrapped around his feet, and for the first time in the last few days, John felt good—optimistic, even. He followed, as Ashlee led outside, locking the door carefully behind him. She beeped her car unlocked with the fob. “Are we taking yours?” he asked. She stared at him as though he was insane. “Dude… yeah.” she finished softly. He shrugged. “I guess we always take your car, huh?” She gave him another look. “Yeah.” She started the car, and he settled in. Familiar sensations, like the muffled sound of the engine and the softened rumbling of the automobile comforted him a lot these days, and he felt a bit relaxed. “Where are we going this time?” he asked. Though they had never done stuff like this while they were dating—these weekly rituals that Dr. Stephan had recommended were beginning to be the high point of the week. “We’re going to Baylands.” She smiled.
She knew it was his favorite hiking spot. Though she’d told him many times, she didn’t know why. She felt the wooden paths detracted from nature. Palo Alto had plenty of more natural trails. “Cool.” he said, nodding enthusiastically. Something about her nurturing nature made him feel like a child sometimes, but in a weird way, he didn’t mind. He allowed his mind to drift and stared out the window at the scenery speeding past him. Perhaps he was speeding past the scenery, but who was to say, right? In the distance, he saw a Cessna flying through the clouds outside. In his mind, he saw a small aircraft, taxiing down an Alaska runway, the bush pilot nervously adjusting his headset. With perfect form, the aircraft nosed upward just as it reached flight speed, soaring into the pure white sky. The airplane turned into a jet fighter, barreling at tremendous speeds. Rotating, and rolling like an otter. The otter was cracking open a nut with a rock now, laying on its back—smiling, the way mammals do as it discovered food. “John!” she screamed. He started “What?” he asked, his heart racing. “We’re here,” Ashlee said, sounding concerned. He nodded and gulped. He climbed out of the car, which was a relief for his legs. “I have to pee.” She looked concerned—frustrated—angry, even. He turned and fled to the bathroom. Inside, it smelled as all state and national park bathrooms do—musky. Murky? He sniffed the air, and idly wondered what kind of bacteria lived here—what kind of animals wandered in in the middle of the night. We have them surrounded by roads and cities he thought, just as idly. He reached in his pocket and pulled out his paper bag. If he kept his pills in a paper bag, they didn’t make a bunch of noise as he walked or climbed stairs. Five pink pills, he counted out onto his hand. Though most people knew the pink antihistamines as simple allergy pills, they were his opium. Without them, he was lost—all was desolate. By now, he could swallow several at a time without water. One day, he aspired to order powdered diphenhydramine online so he could snort it, but to then—all he had done was buy boxes of pink pills at the pharmacy. By now, it was obvious he was using it to get high to the sales clerks, but they cared little and had no means to stop him. It was an unusual drug, and he had no explanation for his behavior other than mental problems, which many close to him had come to accept. He was just crazy.
He jogged outside, feeling better–to reach Ashlee, who was leaning on the hood of her car, waiting for him. “What took you so long?” she demanded. “Were you smoking?” She leaned over to smell him. “No,” he replied angrily, pushing her away. “I wasn’t fucking smoking right before we take a hike.” She looked taken aback. “Damn, chill, John!” His heart sank as he realized he had done it now. Her mood would remain sour for the duration of the hike—all because he made the mistake of losing his temper for a short time. Suddenly, it angered him. How was that fair? She never tried to be diplomatic or defuse tense situations; she always had left that to John. A thousand apologies flashed before his eyes—all his. He wished he had never given in—wasted so much time bowing to Ashlee’s inability to compromise.
“You chill.” he said quietly. Nevertheless, she heard it. “What?” she asked sharply—turning around even. “You chill!” he screamed. “What the fuck is your problem? All I did was take a fucking piss and you give me the third degree and when I stand up for myself, you just fucking lose it. Because you’re a control freak! You always have been! Your mother was a man hater and you’ve always used that as an excuse to boss me around! Feminism means equality, not turning tables!” He had done it now. As soon as the words left his mouth, he regretted every one of them. She was shaking now. “You know what she went through. I can’t fucking believe you.” She turned around, threw her bag into the passenger seat, got in her car, started it, and peeled out just as suddenly as the fight had erupted. Stunned, he stood there, still shaking from emotion, staring at the empty spot she had left in the parking lot. For some reason, all he could think about now was the scraping noise. He’d hear it tonight, alone in bed again—twisted on deliriants…
The pills. The pills; was it the pills? He shook, thinking about it. He’d had recurring hallucinations before. He had always assumed a noise so regular couldn’t be a hallucination, but hadn’t Poe heard the ticking? That wasn’t opium Poe smoked. He called a cab as he paced back and forth. He was excited to get home now. He would take doxylamine tonight! That way, he would fall asleep long before the hallucinations began.
He burst in the door, and made a beeline for the bathroom. Years of getting high, and he kept them in the medicine cabinet as though they were for first aid.
Crack! He heard his bones break from the impact. A shooting pain came from everywhere at once. He crumpled to the floor like a poisoned insect. He could see red. Red everywhere. The pain was unbearable. He howled in agony, but he couldn’t move. His arms would not respond, nor his legs. Standing above him, he noticed her for the first time—Helen was in his bathroom holding a bloody screwdriver. She smiled a half smile. “You fucking idiot. Every day it’s the same dumb shit, but today you come home early.” Instantly, he regretted mentioning the noises to her. “You’re gonna come live with me,” she went on. “That’s why I jabbed you there. So you can’t move.” She said it pleasantly, as though she was explaining her cooking method in a dish she was proud of.