Carissa Ann Lynch - Like, Follow, Kill

From the window, I watched her climb into the driver’s seat of her black Camry. Quietly, she sat, staring straight ahead at God knows what, for what felt like several minutes. Finally, she put the car in gear, and slowly reversed down the snaky driveway. I watched her taillights until they disappeared at the bottom of the hill.

Screw her! She was rude to me. It was her, not me, right?

Before I could waste any more time feeling guilty about my sister, I plopped back down in my desk chair and took a sip of flat Mountain Dew. Taking a deep breath, I clicked the refresh button on Valerie’s page and reread her brief, but kind, message.

I slept with my door closed and the ceiling fan on high, the spinning wood paddles lulling me to sleep … but now those paddles are the blades of a helicopter.

A spotlight beams from overhead and the whoosh, whoosh, whoosh of the heavy blades signals that help is coming …

“Don’t worry. Help is on the way, Kid,” Chris says, reading my mind.

Painfully, I twist my neck to the right, but then I remember … Chris is dead. I killed him … oh, Chris … it’s all my fault, isn’t it?

I don’t want to look … don’t want to see Chris that way again … but he’s talking.

He’s talking! I just heard his voice!

I must have dreamed that he was dead … he’s still here … he must be because he’s talking, dammit!

But when I look at my husband, the parts of him that I love so much—his lips, his eyes, the dimple on his right cheek, the scar where his eyebrow piercing used to be—those parts of him are gone. All that remains is a crumpled body in the passenger’s seat. A body without a head. It doesn’t even look real, like some sort of movie-set prop or clothing-store mannequin …

And blood. There’s just so much of it …

“Back here, Kid.”

Moaning, I force myself to lift one floppy arm and reach for the rearview mirror. It’s slow and painful, like it’s somebody else’s arm—I’m commanding the arm to move, willing it with my mind like I’m telekinetic.

When the mirror is lowered, I can see the entirety of the backseat.

But where is his voice coming from …?

Then everything comes into focus. In the rearview mirror, I come eye to eye with Chris.

Chris’s head is in the backseat.

Chris’s head is talking to me.

Chris: The Talking Head, is frowning.

“You promised. You promised me you’d stop drinking,” his lips are moving.

“I know. I—I’m sorry … I fucked up so bad …”

“You lied. You’re a liar … you made me bleed …”

A new voice breaks in.

“Ma’am, don’t look back there. Look at me. Listen, you’re in shock, but we’re going to cut you out of there. There’s a helicopter waiting to transport you to university hospital, okay? Keep your eyes on me and breathe.”

The man is squatting down, looking in at me from outside the shattered driver’s window. His face smudgy and dark, my vision blurred … but his voice is soothing and kind. I allow my eyes to lock onto his, sucking in huge gulps of air.

“Don’t look at either of them. Look at me,” comes a bell-like voice from my past. Slowly, painfully, I twist my neck to the right. Past the broken glass in the console, past the body that used to be Chris’s in the passenger’s seat … there’s a familiar face peering in at me through broken glass.

“Look at me, look at me … focus only on me,” says the girl with the bell-like voice.

The man is talking, Chris is talking, and somewhere inside my head I can hear them both pleading … begging me not to look.

But it’s not Chris’s body in the passenger’s seat that I’m looking at. It’s the girl in the window. My gaze follows her wherever she goes …

I can’t peel my eyes away from her shining, beacon-shaped face. That smile, so contagious …

Valerie.

***

I gave up on sleep hours ago.

This probably happened because I took my meds later than usual.

The dreams were always disruptive, but usually I slept at least six or seven hours before they caused me to shoot up out of bed, drenched in sweat and shaking.

My skin was still red with heat from the dream, a cool breeze shifting through the slope of trees that lined the back of my rental property. A cold chill rushed through my hair and blew it around my face.

I inhaled, closing my eyes as I tasted the wind.

I exhaled, tried to push the dream out of my mind. Tried to rid my body of memories and horrors that ran too deep …

My iPhone sat on the flimsy lawn table beside me. I picked it up and held it to my chest.

You don’t need it. It’s a crutch. Promise me you’ll stop drinking … you don’t act like yourself when you do, Chris’s words whispered between the trees.

But I did need it— a crutch . Even before the accident, I’d struggled with anxiety my whole life. The alcohol dulled my nerves and created a sense of euphoria in a world where there was none for me. Even when I was happy, that pessimistic inner voice liked to spoil all my fun. Crutches helped. They allowed me to focus on something other than the deep dark voice inside me.

I never used to drink during the daytime—I had to work my food-prep job at The Pink Buffet. And after work, I’d either work extra hours, waiting tables, or I’d come home and write or edit until Chris came home. But in the evenings, after all the work was laid to rest … I drank.

I drank until I promised Chris that I would stop.

Only, I didn’t, not really … I just got better at hiding it. I’d wait until he went to sleep at night, then I’d sneak sips into my soda water and fill my mouth with Listerine strips in between … sometimes, drinking so late at night, that I was still half-drunk when I showed up for my early morning shift at the buffet.

My eyes still closed, I imagined sitting out on the back deck with Chris when we lived in our townhome. I could almost feel the squeeze of his hand on mine, his promise ring digging sharply into my palm … I’m proud of you for not drinking, Camilla. You’re working hard to stay sober; I can tell.

But it was all a farce … I was working hard to stay drunk, more like it.

Liar … his words from the dream rushed back at me.

Lies … I told so many of them. Even now, I can taste them—like vinegar on my tongue. They tasted bad, but they flowed like honey from my mouth …

Chris’s hands—so tender and sweet—are squeezing harder and harder, choking the breath from my chest …

Opening my eyes, I poked a finger at my phone, causing it to light up. I was surprised to find several unread texts from Hannah. She messaged me daily, but evening calls and texts were a rarity. Evenings were reserved for her and Mike.

Mike: the perfect husband. Mike: who was alive and still had a head. Mike: who went to bed early and woke up early. Who took my sister to dinner shows and vacations.

Things I never had a chance to do with Chris.

Hannah had sent several messages between 11pm and 12am, while I was dead asleep and dreaming.

Reluctantly, I opened them:

Hannah: I miss you, Milly.

Milly … Hannah hadn’t called me that in ages. Not since we were kids.

The endearing nickname made my throat and chest constrict, like peanut butter in my gullet.

Hannah: I’m sorry for the way I acted today. I just don’t know what to say to you anymore. I don’t know how to fix things the way I could when we were kids. You were young then, and you listened to me. Now … now, I don’t know how to help you. But I want to … I want to help you, Milly.