Devon Hartford - Reckless

I woke up in the middle of the night, gasping for air.

Alone.

“Christos?” I asked the emptiness that enveloped me.

My darkened apartment was empty. I shook off my nightmare and reached for my phone, sensing deep in my heart that something was wrong with Christos. I dialed his number for the fiftieth time that night. It rang four times, then went to voicemail.

For the fiftieth time.

I had tried following him when he’d left my apartment earlier, but there was no way I was going to catch his Ducati with my VW.

After driving all over my neighborhood for thirty minutes, feeling lost only blocks away from my own apartment, I’d given up and gone home.

I had then texted and called Christos repeatedly, but he’d never answered. Eventually, I’d given up trying, exhausted from the worry.

After the draining conversation with my parents, the frightening conversation with Christos, and the panicked calls to his phone, I’d had zero energy left. I was so exhausted, I didn’t even consider ice cream before crawling into bed and sobbing myself to sleep.

Now that I was awake, the images from my nightmare still haunted me.

A fallen angel.

Darkness.

Alone.

I couldn’t just sit still. I needed to make sure Christos was okay. Maybe he’d finally gone back to his house?

I needed to check. I threw on clothes and ran to my car. If I could see him with my own eyes, see that he was safe, everything would be all right.

As long as I still had Christos, everything would be all right. I didn’t care about his trial, or jail, or my parents. None of it mattered if I had Christos.

He had no idea how deeply I loved him. He wasn’t a criminal. He was a beautiful man.

He was my angel.

My savior.

I needed him.

I drove to the Manos’ house fearing the worst. I told myself it was nothing, just nerves. I tried to imagine the soothing calm I would feel the second I laid eyes on Christos. He would be sleeping peacefully in his bed. I would crawl into bed with him and curl up beside him. I would whisper to him that everything was going to be all right, that we would get through this dark journey together.

As long as I could feel his touch, his warmth, and his love, I would be fine.

We were going to be okay. No matter what.

I shook my head, smiling to myself as I turned onto Christos’ street. Any second, I was going to pull into his driveway and see his motorcycle parked beside the house.

When I drove up, the driveway was empty. That was okay. His motorcycle was probably in the garage.

I’m sure he was fine.

Dread.

When I parked my VW, I jumped out and ran into the entry court. I pounded on the front door. There was no answer.

I ran out of the entry court and looked up at the front of the house. All of the windows were dark, each one a black pit echoing the dread in my heart.

Dread.

I ran back to the front door and pulled out the key Spiridon had given me. I had never had to use it because either he or Christos had always been in the house.

Dread.

The door creaked open ominously as I crept inside. The entry hall and living room were dark. Only a light in the kitchen cut through the gloom.

“Christos?” I called nervously. “Spiridon?”

My words were sucked into the darkness of the house. It was eerie being inside this place alone. The sense of emptiness was heavy and foreboding.

I went from room to room, calling out.

“Christos? Are you here? Is anybody home?”

Dread.

The studio was cavernous and empty when I flipped the lights on. It had never seemed so barren. I don’t know why, but I half-expected to find Christos curled up in a corner, staring into oblivion like a mad man. I dismissed the notion as crazy. Yet I feared my dark vision was preferable to what the storm in my stomach told me I was going to find.

There was no one downstairs.

I trudged up the staircase to the second floor, lifting each heavy foot, almost afraid to go farther, to find out what awaited in the darkness. Images of what I would find flashed through my mind.

Christos in a pool of blood, his body torn and broken beyond repair…

I cringed, pushing away my terrible thoughts. I tried to focus on something else. My mind went straight to…

Bitch. Slut. Whore.

No!

I got rid of you!

Emo. Goth. Suicide Watch…

Leave me alone!

Suicide Watch…

My old pain, my damage. It was all still there. I had never healed any of it. I’d wanted to think I had. But it had barely been two months since I broke my silence about Taylor Lamberth.

Who was I trying to fool? I was still broken.

The stress of this moment had brought it all crashing back. And it was going to rip my head and heart apart.

Suicide…

The only thing that could possibly hold me together was Christos. I had to find him. And he was…

An insane laugh was about to rattle out of my throat. I stifled it down, worried that if I allowed it to escape my body, it would take my sanity with it.

I took a deep breath, trying to calm myself. I was acting crazy. This was crazy. Christos was fine. He was probably out with Jake or, or, or…

No!

Christos was fine.

He was fine!

I walked calmly down the upstairs hallway, toward his bedroom. The door was closed.

I winced as I touched the doorknob, fearing what I’d find inside.

I could do this.

Christos was fine.

Christos was…

—I yanked open the door—

…not in the room.

I checked the bathroom, just to be sure. Empty.

I searched the rest of the upstairs.

“Christos? Spiridon?”

No one was home.

I returned to Christos’ bedroom and sat down on his bed. I tried calling him. He didn’t answer. I sent him a text,

<3 Please call me. I love you. <3

I’m sure he was fine.

I crossed my legs and leaned my forearms on one knee, slumped over, preparing to wait. My foot started bouncing. Christos was probably out someplace having a good time with Jake again. He was…

Christos’ sketchbook caught my eye. It rested on the night-table beside his bed. I leaned over and picked it up. There was a pen keeping place in the middle of the book.

I opened the sketchbook all the way.

The marked page was the last one with anything on it.

On it were written the following words:

“Alone

I must brave this day

Alone

I have sealed my fate

Alone

I will touch the sky

Alone

I must die”

Beneath those words was the date. Today’s date.

Oh no.

Suicide…

“Christos?” I whispered to the empty room.

Dread.

CHRISTOS

I stood on the edge of an abyss. Not a metaphorical one.

A real one.

Ten stories below me, cement death called my name. I gazed down at it like an old friend. I’d been up here, balanced on this exact railing, countless times in the last six years.

This was my favorite destination when the pain in my life became too much.

After speeding up and down the Five freeway at 175mph had failed to produce any novel results this evening, I’d come here.

The dormitory building was called Nyyhmy Hall. Its sister dormitory, Paiute Hall, stood next to it. Both were named after indigenous tribes that inhabited the area surrounding Mono Lake, located just east of Yosemite Valley.

These dormitories were the main housing for undergraduates who attended Ansel Adams College, one of the sub-colleges that comprised San Diego University. Adams, as the students called it, was named after the pioneering environmentalist photographer Ansel Adams.