Bleed Through Read online

  His stepfather’s telltale signs of irritation bubbled up right on cue; the vein in his neck popped out and he rubbed his thumb on his palm.

  Allison jumped to her feet. “Uhh, I’ve got leftovers in the fridge. Don’t worry about it, Liam, I’ll go heat them up.”

  Super. Reheated quinoa with a dash of “it’s so healthy!” spinach. Old lady replica never sounded so tasty.

  “Ready to start classes tomorrow?” Isaac asked.

  Liam shrugged. “Only one way to find out.”

  Isaac’s jaw tensed, and he darted a glance at Allison. They were always there, the subtle reminders of the requirements in place for Liam to live with them: take his medication, go to school, never, ever be alone with his little sister.

  “I’m ready,” Liam muttered. He stood with a slight stumble and gestured toward his room. “Don’t worry about making me a serving of leftovers. I’m knocking off early tonight.”

  Nobody but Tasha argued with him.

  “But I just got home!” His sister stomped her foot in petulance.

  “I know, baby girl. And I’m sorry. But I’ve got to rest up for class tomorrow.”

  Tasha sighed. “Tomorrow?”

  “Promise.” He held up his fingers in a scout’s honor sign.

  He walked down the L-shaped hall to his room at the rear of the house. Unlike Tasha’s matchy-match décor, his bedroom veered toward generic. A guest room before his unanticipated arrival, neither Allison nor he saw any sense in personalizing it. A navy bedspread covered his twin-sized bed, which rested on a simple metal frame. Soft light spread from a taupe lampshade atop a nondescript dresser. Although the bare walls practically screamed for a Picasso or de Kooning print, only one item graced them. Next to his nightstand, he’d pinned a picture of his father and him from Before. A five-pound bass dangled from his fingertips, and his father shot the camera a thumbs-up. They both smiled wide, unaware of the future and its miseries.

  He kicked off his shoes and turned on Pearl Jam’s “Ten” album. It had been his dad’s favorite. Isaac also happened to hate it.

  His mother’s fancy handwriting proclaimed tomorrow the “First Day of Class!” on a calendar on his wall. Below, in a much smaller and constrained script, Isaac had written, “Dr. Jen appt. 0900.”

  Nine a.m. couldn’t come fast enough. Liam set his alarm clock. His psychologist would help him unpack what he saw today and make sense of it all.

  “You’ve got them worried,” Joshua said. Perched on the edge of a denim-cushioned papasan, he picked at the rattan frame with dirty fingernails. He tapped his boots against the linoleum floor.

  “I’ve got it covered,” Liam said.

  “The hell you do.” Joshua yanked off a sliver of rattan and threw it at him. “Don’t make me hurt you.”

  He took a step backward. “You can’t hurt me.”

  The papasan frame creaked as Joshua leaned forward. “We both know that’s not true.”

  Liam hung his head and avoided meeting Joshua’s eyes.

  “He knows what you saw. He’s going to find you and kill you too.”

  Liam didn’t have to ask who “he” was. “He” was the murderer. Cull.

  Springs from the stiff bed poked his back as he eased onto it. “I know.”

  TUESDAY, AUGUST 26th

  eople always accused Liam of making poor decisions, but they could make some mighty odd choices themselves. Take Dr. Jen, for example. In all likelihood, she could decorate her tiny office however she liked. Nobody told her what color chair to buy, how to organize her desk, or what artwork to display. So when she chose to hang a print of Van Gogh’s “Corridor in Saint-Paul Hospital” above her computer monitor, it left Liam scratching his head.

  His chest constricted every time he looked at the print, which depicted a vast hallway of repeating golden arches that turned the color of corroded copper as they snaked away in the distance. The crimson floor, full of movement and sheen, resembled a canal of blood. Not even the hemorrhaging hallway in The Overlook Hotel frightened him more.

  “You’ve got some shitty taste in art, Dr. Jen. Do you actually enjoy looking at that piece or do you like torturing your patients?” Liam gnawed his pinky nail down to the nub.

  Dr. Jen turned her head and looked at the print. “I thought it might make a few patients feel better. Some of the most talented and revered people in history have had their struggles with mental health. Vincent Van Gogh was but one of those people. Knowing you’re not alone is half the battle sometimes.”

  “Yeah, well, the other half is not being reminded you’re one step away from a mental institution. Maybe next time you should pick out ‘Sunflowers’ or ‘Starry Night.’ Neither of those would make me want to stab you.” He yanked at his earlobes.

  “Let’s examine this feeling further. What exactly about the painting disturbs you?” Dr. Jen pushed her thin, silver glasses back up to the bridge of her nose. Sapphire earrings flashed against her dark-beige skin.

  He spit out his nail. “It makes me feel like a caged rat, waiting to be drowned.”

  She nodded, and her chestnut bun wiggled on top of her head. “You feel trapped at home.”

  “I need to move out today.” He continued to stare at the print. Or maybe the print stared at him.

  “I understand your desire for independence. And while you’ve made great strides toward your goal of moving out, I’m not sure you’re ready yet.” Dr. Jen smiled kindly to soften the blow of her words. She had a singular talent for telling the truth without hurting his feelings.

  “It doesn’t matter if I’m ready. If I stay, somebody’s gonna kill me.” He squeezed the arms of his chair until his knuckles went white.

  “Why would you think that?” Her hands lay over a notepad in her lap, still and tranquil.

  “I saw a murder.” He licked his lips. “A man beat the bloody hell out of a guy right before my eyes.”

  Dr. Jen leaned back. “When did this happen?”

  “Yesterday.”

  “Were you alone at the time?”

  “Yes.”

  She arched an eyebrow. “Have you reported it to the authorities?”

  “No.” Liam chewed his cheek, wishing he didn’t have such an awful track record with reality. “You think I had a hallucination, don’t you?”

  She tapped her blue ballpoint pen on her notepad. “The more important question is what you think. Were there any signs it could be one?”

  “Maybe.” He scratched his scalp. “It seemed like the murderer, Cull, couldn’t see me. Like I was invisible to him.” He didn’t mention Cull, and his boat, disappearing into thin air. “But it was so different than my usual hallucinations. The killer didn’t threaten me. He didn’t encourage me to hurt anybody. He didn’t even acknowledge me.”

  “For now, let’s table whether or not this event is real. Instead, I want to know why you’re scared of a killer who can’t see you.”

  He picked at the orange bracelet Tasha made him. “I just have a feeling.”

  The psychologist stood and adjusted her modest black skirt suit. “Feelings can be powerful.” She reached over her desk and grabbed both golden-framed sides of the Van Gogh and lifted it off the wall. With a quick flip of her wrists, she turned the print backward, hiding its nasty hallway from view. “Emotions sometimes lie to us and make us want to behave in an unacceptable manner. How should you handle your fear?”

  The office felt ten feet bigger without the print’s overbearing presence. Liam slid his legs forward and relaxed his knees. “By distracting it. By remembering, there’s more to life than being afraid. By engaging in activities I enjoy.” He gave a sheepish shrug and looked to the side. “To be honest, I like to paint.”

  She chuckled. “Doesn’t surprise me. You’ve certainly got a better command of tone and interpretation than I do.” She sat back down and crossed her ankles. “Painting is a wonderful and safe avenue of self-expression. You can pour your frustrations and fears into artwork without repe
rcussion.”

  He stifled a cough. Although Dr. Jen’s sentiment was lovely, it wasn’t true. There were always repercussions, even for hobbies as innocent as slopping paint on a canvas. He’d learned that lesson the first time he’d caught his mother sobbing over one of his more vivid portraits. Granted, he’d painted Joshua stabbing him in the neck. Maybe his mother had been right to cry. At any rate, Liam hid his artwork now. Any creations went straight under his bed, where they could offend only the dust bunnies.

  “Are there other self-calming methods you could practice?” she asked.

  None that worked, but he knew what his psychologist wanted to hear. “Reading,” he said.

  The wrinkles around Dr. Jen’s mouth deepened as she grinned at her patient’s progress. “My favorite pastime.”

  His lips, on their way to a fake smile, hitched mid-scowl when he noticed the edges on her face blurring as if she was a photo out of focus. He blinked. Instead of disappearing, the blurring became a fuzzy halo radiating from her entire body, a great flowing mass of whiteness that throbbed and pulsed like a living organism until it coalesced into an image of a woman who resembled her. Same facial structure with high cheekbones, same full-figured body build, but she wore a decade or two less of age on her face. The corners of her mouth turned down, and unshed tears brimmed in her eyes. The woman stood as motionless as a 3-D photograph.

  He pointed a shaking finger at the apparition. “Can you see her?”

  Dr. Jen tilted her head to the side. “See who?”

  “There’s a woman next to you. She looks like you. But she’s stark white, like a ghost.” Liam’s heart jumped up into his throat.

  Apparently immune to terrifying declarations from her patients, Dr. Jen didn’t bother to glance around the room. She kept her laser-like focus on him. “Does she frighten you?”

  “I’m not sure.” The adrenaline thrumming through his veins would seem to indicate she did, but another emotion churned under the fear. Anticipation, maybe?

  “Is she threatening either of us?”

  “No… but she’s connected to you. It’s like you’re projecting her from your body. Like you’re conjuring her somehow.” The longer the ghost woman ignored him, the easier it became to breathe again. His heart sunk back in his chest.

  “Have you ever seen a projection like this before?” Dr. Jen scrawled an observation in her notepad.

  He shook his head, scrutinizing the woman in white. “She’s wearing a long dress, with horizontal stripes on it,” he said.

  The scratching of pen on paper stopped as Dr. Jen looked up.

  “Her hair’s up, like yours. But she also has on a thick, black headband. She has a tattoo on her wrist. An infinity symbol.”

  The pen fell from Dr. Jen’s stiff fingers, bouncing off the carpet before landing at his feet. Her mouth hung open, and her hands trembled.

  She whispered, “How do you know about her?”

  He squirmed in his chair. He’d finally accomplished the unthinkable―he’d upset Dr. Jen. Deep down, he’d always known she would reject him at some point. He wouldn’t have thought this hallucination would be the deal breaker, though.

  Trying his best to be surreptitious, he glanced from his doctor to the doorway. “What do you mean? I’m only telling you what I see.”

  “Liam, for our relationship to work best, you shouldn’t know about my personal life. Why did you investigate my past?” She placed a still shaking hand over her abdomen and grimaced.

  “I didn’t.” He pushed up in his chair and tapped both feet against the carpet.

  The air hung thick with her accusation and measured breathing. “We’ve never lied to each other before, Liam. It’s what makes this work. Tell me why you researched me.”

  He fought back the scream building in his throat and jumped out of his seat. Unable to take the look on Dr. Jen’s face, he closed his eyes and fumbled for the door handle. A sharp ringing in his ears overwhelmed all other sound as he jerked open the office door and walked out.

  He’d never left an appointment with Dr. Jen before finishing his allotted time. These sessions kept him sane. She kept him sane. But he was no liar. She should know by now.

  Eyes lowered to avoid any potential interactions, he scuffled through the waiting room. The receptionist slid back the glass partition separating her from patients, expecting him to stop and make his next appointment. He didn’t. Instead, the weight of Dr. Jen’s rejection propelled him forward as icy cold tentacles of fear spread through his chest. He pushed open the glass exit door and stepped into the muggy Florida morning. His mother’s car, a run-down red Hyundai with one door faded pink, awaited him across the street. Like a convict escaping prison, he ran to it.

  he Hyundai’s noisy engine struggled to life. Liam shifted the car into reverse, zoomed through the parking lot and onto busy Highway 98. A woman driving a cherry-red convertible shot him the bird as he switched lanes and cut her off. He flipped one back. Generic hotels and billboards advertising mobile homes littered the side of the road.

  Two new symptoms in two days didn’t bode well. Despite his knotted stomach, he forced himself to breathe. How could Dr. Jen accuse him of manufacturing the vision? And who had that woman been, and why had she upset his psychologist so much?

  The morning’s unexpected turn left him with a sour taste in his mouth. He’d expected his session with Dr. Jen to prepare him for his first day of college. Instead, it’d only made him more anxious.

  Gulf Coast State College loomed ahead, the start of his supposed road to recovery. He drove past the exit. One missed class wouldn’t make a big difference.

  Sorry, Mom. Valedictorian I ain’t.

  He crept over the Hathaway Bridge, still congested by crowds of tourists jamming in one last vacation before the end of summer. Minivans piled full of kids and haggard parents lined the bridge alongside him. Traffic didn’t get any better as he turned onto Thomas Drive. He didn’t mind―he had some time to kill.

  Tacky beach attire stores and kitschy restaurants with blinking neon signs led the way to Diamond Bay Park. He turned into its packed lot and pulled into the one open spot. The engine clicked and moaned its way to sleep. He grabbed his backpack, which, along with the thick accounting textbook, contained a tattered copy of “The Catcher in the Rye.” He’d take Dr. Jen’s advice. Perhaps reading would calm him.

  Despite heavy platinum clouds in the distance, throngs of people crowded the beach. He dodged through groups of kids throwing snow-white clumps of sand at each other in play, barely avoiding a missile some brat purposefully lobbed at him. Siblings and friends splashed in the clear water as Liam edged around sand castles sunburnt fathers built for diapered toddlers. Happiness, or a close approximation of it, shined everywhere. It made the absence of joy in his life all the more glaring.

  If his father had still been around, he’d urge Liam to stop waiting for life to serve up a fun time and create his own entertainment. And the man would have a point. Since moving to Tyndall five months ago, Liam hadn’t once gone to the beach with his mother or sister. The trip would never happen if he waited for an invitation. He needed to take the initiative and organize an outing. Tasha would like it. For that matter, so would he.

  He kicked off his Adidas flip-flops and carried them as his feet sank into the warm sand. A bolt of lightning streaked in the distance. He closed his eyes with gratitude. Nobody with a brain would remain under the wide-open skies of the beach during a Florida thunderstorm. Dutiful parents proved him right when they gathered their children and belongings.

  Thankful he’d have a few minutes of peace before the storm hit, he settled down on the sand. Though departing vacationers kicked sand in his face, he ignored the momentary discomfort. A little pain for a lot of solitude was a worthwhile trade. He flipped open his book and tried to let his mind wander into its alternate world.

  The beach quieted except for the rolls of thunder booming closer and closer to the shore. A strong wind flipped back the p
ages of his novel, placing Liam chapters behind where he wanted to be. He ignored the oncoming storm and searched for the page he lost.

  A pair of petite feet with toenails painted a turquoise blue parked themselves under the novel. A woman cleared her throat.

  “Point made, troubled white boy. You’d rather get electrocuted than put down Holden Caulfield. Your life must be so tough.”

  He lowered his book and gazed upward. An Asian woman with shiny black hair cropped short against a round face stood over him. Her eyes, a brown so dark they were almost black, danced with mischief. She wore a gray tank top and jean cutoffs that accentuated her ample lower body. A ray of sunlight broke through the clouds and settled on her, making her tawny skin glow like an angel had kissed her.

  Liam struggled a moment to find his voice. “Excuse me?”

  “I don’t know if you noticed, but a storm’s coming. Pretty bad one, too.” She spoke with a heavy Panhandle drawl and placed a hand on her hip in overplayed exasperation. “Why don’t you pick up your poor, tortured soul and drive it on home so you can come publicly pout another time?”

  “You’re not a lifeguard, you can’t tell me to leave.” He snorted. “Besides, aren’t you risking your life simply to lecture me?”

  She cocked her head. “True. But it irritates me when people die for stupid reasons. Natural reasons, okay. I don’t like it any, but that’s how the universe works. Dying because you won’t leave the beach when you should? Unacceptable.”

  “Why do you care about me? I’m a pathetic, white-boy loser.” Giant raindrops speckled his paperback. In annoyance, he threw it into his backpack and stood, brushing sand off his shorts and legs.

  She shrugged. “I was in my car getting ready to leave when I spotted you. I guess I’ve got a soft spot for wounded birds.”