On The Bridge (7 page)

Doug found one woman particularly interesting. He liked how she called a spade a spade, how she was brutally honest and made no excuses for how she felt. He also found her sub-surface kindness and genuine concern for her fellow users delightful and somehow safe, if that was a state of mind anyone could have on such a site. Doug felt attracted to her, not in a romantic way, but as an accessible and knowledgeable person he could easily relate his story to. Her screen name made no secret of her past transgressions or what she had endured at the will of other suicides.

She called herself
“
The Suicide Queen
”
because not only had she tried to commit suicide by overdose of sleeping pills in her attempt not “to get messy”, as she so aptly put it, but had also had the misfortune of seeing two suicides. One was of a teenage boy who hung himself after his girlfriend had left him and the other a very elderly uncle of hers who had suffered immensely from a long bout with cancer, a man in perpetual pain. Suicide Queen hinted that she had helped him take his life because she loved him so much and couldn’t bear watching the doctors keep him suspended in hell for the ego of their profession. Doug understood.

She was normally online early in the morning before she went to work, and soon Doug was getting up early to chat with her. They had long conversations about suicide and how to cope with having seen one. Suicide Queen felt that people had every right to commit suicide if they wanted to, and didn’t feel at all guilty that she had attempted it. Her opinion was that she had good reason, at least to herself, for doing it and that what one feels comes before the opinions of others who did not share your pain, though she did admit that, in hindsight, she was now glad that she’d failed, no matter how deeply disappointed she was to wake up two days later in hospital.

“Yeah, I guess it was a foolish thing to do, but I was very young and very hurt – in pain. You know, in a way I was like my uncle. I couldn’t bear it, and hadn’t the maturity to know it wasn’t permanent,” her words ran over the screen as she typed in obvious certainty.

Eventually, Doug felt comfortable enough to share his nightmares with her.

“My God, dude, that’s just creepy,” she answered in her green cloud on the instant message screen. “How long had you been having them?”

Doug told her that it had been weeks since they started.

She paused for a few seconds and then advised her new young friend on it.

“You should go s
ee your doctor and just tell her about it, just so she knows, right?”

“
I get your point, but going back to Dr. Lamaskaya means I’d have to tell my parents and there’s just no way. I can’t talk to them about it, especially my dad,” Doug explained.

“Okay, then just go with
it, Icarus” she said finally, “and you never know, maybe if you stop fretting about it, it’ll finally go away, ya know?”

Ah, the wisdom he so loved! She always made him feel better.

A few days later, while chatting, Doug decided to tell her otherwise, though. He did not want to talk about the nightmares anymore.

“And how are we doing, Doug
?” Krista joked in her caring way.

“Good, I’m good,” Doug replied, trying to be glib about it all.

“Hey, by the way, how are you dealing with the bad dreams?” she asked.

“
Oh, they’re gone now,” he lied to sound stronger and healthier.

“Gone? That’s gre
at!” she cheered his progress. “You know, it’s no cause for alarm, really. You just keep taking your meds and soon you’ll forget you ever had them.”

“
I know,” said Doug.

“After I assisted my uncle, you know, to leave, the guilt was killing me. I’d dream bad things too, about how I cut off his oxygen and the horrible sounds he made just before the end and such…” she paused a moment, “…I blamed myself for his decision to die and to tell you the truth I had nightmares for months after. My future was uncertain and I had all this guilt.”

“But you got over the bad dreams. They disappeared, right?” Doug fished for approval.

“Totally.
” Krista typed back.

“Yeah, I haven’t had them for a few days now, so that’s off my back as I predicted,” he fibbed and felt the responsibility of his nightmare report disappear from their discussions, hopefully for good now.

Doug figured that he was coping well enough, despite the nightmares. His obsession with suicide was much greater than obsessions he’d had before with learning about something new that had caught his interest, he had to admit. He remembered that once he’d spent a week trying to learn everything he could about selenium - its use as a preventative substance and a cure for cancer and many other conditions.

They’d had a talk at school about mercury poisoning and how the increase in mercury in the environment was a very serious problem. The guest speaker mentioned that increasing selenium intake could combat poisoning, and with that young Douglas embarked on his first obsession, intensive research and a ridiculous amount of scrutiny, but nowhere close to the obsession he was nurturing now. Perhaps if he studied psychology this time, he thought, he could discover the root of his obsession with obsessions. The thought amused him greatly.

Softly he prodded down stairs in the dark, minding the noise he made so that he would not rouse his parents. Doug ran his hand along the wall as he descended the stairs and it felt wonderfully cold against his palm. His mind being fraught with devilish things of late, the cold smoothness of the painted staircase wall conjured thoughts of what could be lurking just under the surface. Every second step he would expect some sharp claw with long nails darting from the wall and cutting up his fingers, or a face protruding to take a snap at him like a demonic dog. In the dead of night he could hear everything so clearly it made him wonder if things even made a sound during the day, when there were dogs barking, phones ringing, blenders, lawnmowers and passing cars hooting. Or did they wait to creak or moan only during the night when they could be heard. He had just had another shocking nightmare and he was going downstairs for coffee, strong coffee. In his chest his heart still raced and his pyjamas clung uncomfortably to him from the perspiration of his disturbing slumber and its denizens.

Norman always hated it when his son walked around in the house after bedtime. Things like snacking and coffee were reserved for ”up hours,” as his dad put it, and after bedtime Norman did not want to have to worry about suspicious sounds in his house which he would have to investigate – only to find that it is his son, snooping about. He used the fridge light to see in the dark kitchen as he carefully filled the pot without opening the tap too big and risk the pipes making too much noise. From the dark cupboard he pulled the coffee can and the sugar. Normally he would have preferred percolated coffee, especially now that he has declared war on sleep, but for now it was imperative that his parents were not woken by the smell of morning caffeine and the gurgling sound of the coffee machine which in itself, would make his skin crawl in the eerie darkness.

While he waited for the kettle to boil the water, Doug looked out the window and pulled his night shirt away from his skin to alleviate his body from the awful moistness and heat.

‘Now I have to take another shower… oh, I can’t. They’ll wake up,’
he lamented in his mind. Perhaps he could just run some water in his basin and wipe off his body with some warm water. After the water had boiled he poured and listened to the hum of the big old fridge. It was rather comforting to hear it humming when the sound of the kettle died down and left him all alone in the empty bowels of the house. Quietly he prepared the coffee and braved the hot water to take a huge gulp to quench his thirst. It was a by-product of his night terrors, waking up so thirsty he could drain a lagoon.

The fridge dialled down and switched off, as fridges do between hums, but this time he was appalled by the audacity of the appliance to simply switch off its hum and leave him in the uncertain solitude of complete silence. He drank more as he looked out the black window, where he could hardly see anything outside, save for a few trees and flower bushes that the street light could reach. Other than those, the rest of the garden was hidden in darkness as the atmosphere in the house now floated in silence. He could hear himself swallow and he loathed it.

Then he saw something in the window. From behind the ice cream bush in his mum’s garden a figure emerged, moving only an inch or so. It was of no specific shape but it stretched as high as his dad would if he stood behind the brush, and it held no colour either. It toggled between brown and black and the boy narrowed his eyes to sharpen his view. It appeared to be wearing a hat, but then the hat would fade and become hair. Doug cupped his hands against the window and peeked though to see clearer and found that the apparition had disappeared. As soon as he stepped back again, it would reappear in the garden. It bent slightly to one side and Doug jumped to his right to get out of sight, but he knew the man must have seen him by now. Gradually the curiosity compelled him to check again and he snuck back to the window in the faint light of the open fridge.

It was still there!

It had not moved or bothered to take cover. Again Doug pushed his face up against the window and cupped out the kitchen light and once more the figure disappeared and it was then that the shocking truth hit him – it was not standing outside, it was a reflection from behind him.

The frightened boy swung around and there it stood in the lobby, against the wall, confirming his fearful suspicions. He yelped inadvertently from fright and quickly put his hand over his mouth, afraid that his cry may have woken his father. Frozen, the teenager stood in the dead quiet dismal light, staring stiffly at the figure which confronted him from the dark corner next to the front door. Now it seemed to be made of smoke, black smoke which rippled in the atmosphere like water on a wind-driven lake. It moved its arms, but they melted into its body and again the perceived hat rose from the head and disappeared. Doug’s entire body quivered from the ghastly sight and his palms seethed with sweat. He dropped his eyes and saw a briefcase in the thing’s hand. There was that feeling in his throat again, that dry burning like when he was drowning in his dream and his eyes widened as the shape in the lobby stretched to over seven feet tall and snapped its own neck to the side.

Doug cried out behind his hand and not a moment later Norman came storming around the corner, walking right through the apparition. The boy watched the figure dissolve briskly and now had another unpleasant confrontation coming.

“What in God’s name are you doing, Douglas?” he said in a loud whisper, not to wake Jean. He stopped and looked hard at the fridge, standing with its door open and looked at his son with a bewildered expression. “And this?” He slammed the door shut and switched on the light of the kitchen, a white cold light Doug found as threatening as his father’s tone.

“What the hell are you doing?” he asked. “You want to break the fridge by leaving the door open? You think these things come cheap? What are you screaming about?”

Doug found any explanation futile and just stared at his father, forgetting entirely his hands over his mouth until Norman pulled them from his face. Surprisingly, Norman’s scowl vanished as he looked at his terrified child. It was as if he somehow, for once, understood that Doug was truly shaken by something and he decided not to ridicule the boy before actually listening to his explanation.

“Come on, son,” Norman said, “what are you on about then?”

Doug was grateful for his father’s generosity, but he knew if he started talking about things that disappear into thin air, he would lose his dad’s benefit of the doubt. So he lied again.

“I am so sorry, dad. Spider fell on my hand when I opened the tap,” he said. Norman had a very disturbing opinion of spiders. Doug was perfectly aware that his father was afraid of the hairy eight-legged things and heard him once calling them
“monsters of God
.” In his juvenile wisdom he picked the perfect scapegoat to justify his freak-out to get his father on his side, and it worked swimmingly. Norman’s face twitched in horror and he immediately started looking around the sink behind his son.

“Oh, don’t worry, dad. I killed it and ran it down the drain,” Doug said quickly. He was proud of himself for this well-needed aversion from a definite third degree from his father.

“Damn monsters,” Norman said quietly while his eyes still darted about the kitchen. “Keep the windows closed at night or the bloody buggers will come in from everywhere.”

With that Norman seemed to have forgotten all about his vexation with Doug’s nightly disturbances and with his hand on Doug’s back he ushered him from the kitchen and switched off the light.

“You are wet,” he noted as they went up the stairs and Doug simply giggled nervously. When Norman had returned to bed the young boy could not get the hallucination out of his mind. Where had it come from? He had never seen this kind of smoky thing before. It looked exactly like the man on the bridge, so now the ghost came in different guises?
The thought frightened him terribly. Doug ran a basin full of lukewarm water and did everything possible not to look in the mirror. After all, that is apparently what provoked the molten mass of black which took on the Ferrari man’s figure. From the silver towel pipe he took his small gym towel and draped it quickly over the mirror to prevent him from giving in to temptation and looking into the reflective home of creepy apparitions.

Now he had more than nightmares to worry about. As he soothed his skin with the cleansing clear water, he sank deeper into contemplation. Considerations came with every stroke of the wash cloth on his skin, as if the gentle grazing of the warmth clarified his mind and calmed him and he came to one conclusion – these happenings were night things.

This is why they called these experiences
night terrors
.

“Of course,” he said loudly to himself as it dawned on him that the apparition hunting and scaring him was a night thing. The dreams came when he went to bed at night. Now the hallucination, which he preferred to call “a waking nightmare,” proved the same. It only came at night. During the day he would be safe.

Doug smiled at the revelation and had a plan. From now on he would not sleep at night anymore. Lucky for him there was no school for a while and he could test his theory, maybe even nip the entire ugly problem in the bud once and for all. He could not wait to tell Krista about it, but for now he had to drink lots of coffee not to fall asleep again before the safety of daylight blessed him.

And so he sat awake all night long until the birds announced dawn. Doug made sure not to listen to soothing music or watch action movies on his computer, because they always made him fall asleep. Instead he watched raunchy music videos he got from Mick and sat by his bedroom window to let the cool air come in. He would sleep in the day somewhere so that he would not be sleeping tonight. It was amazing how the new plan gave him hope, so much hope that he actually felt happy. He did not need professional help or useless advice from people who did not understand. This was his private fight and he was going to conquer it himself.

Through the day the clouds gathered and the wind picked up, but it was pleasant altogether. Jean did some gardening, loosening the soil around her hedges and rose bushes. It was cool enough not to sweat, but mild enough to let through some sunshine. Norman was off to the shops and she took the time to prune some of the longer branches. It was just after noon when she went inside to prepare some lunch and she wiped her forehead with her sand covered hand.

“Doug, would you like a sandwich?” she called out. In the coolness of the house she noticed that there was nothing going on upstairs and thought perhaps her son had his headphones on again. It annoyed Jean no end when Doug listened to music on his headphones. On one hand it was a blessing not to have to listen to his bad taste in music, but on the other hand she could not ever communicate with him without having to go up there and repeat everything she said a second time. She washed her hands and made a snack for both of them but still Doug did not show up and she still heard nothing upstairs. Not movement or music or his computer games blaring. Jean walked up the stairs to check on him and knocked twice on the door before entering.

To her amazement, the child was still sleeping soundly in his bed. She stood for a long moment, mulling over the strange phenomenon of her normally active son sleeping well beyond midday. Jean placed her hands on her hips, unable to decide if she should feel sorry for him or drag his ass unceremoniously from bed for being a lazy brat. But the latter seemed harsh. It was, after all, holidays and he had every right to enjoy the benefits thereof. Norman had not told her that Doug was scuttling about the kitchen well after bedtime and thus she did not know that he could have been tired from being up late.

Perhaps he was ill? She frowned and elected to check his temperature before opening his curtains to let in the daylight. Jean kneeled next to her son’s bed where he was slumbering undisturbed and she gently placed the back of her hand against his forehead, but found that he had no temperature. His breathing was normal. Perplexed, she went to the bathroom to wash off the bit of dirt she discovered she had on her own brow from wiping her sweat with that dirty garden hand.

There was a towel over the mirror. Why was there a towel over the mirror? Jean stood frozen in her tracks, trying to add up all the oddities of this day. How did Doug’s day sleep connect with the covered looking-glass in the bathroom? With a scoff she went and pulled the towel off and hung it back on the silver railing. There was no evidence that Doug had been sick, vomited or had a nose bleed, but his face cloth was still wet even though he had bathed early in the evening already. She went back into his room and decided to wake him.

With immense struggle the teen opened his eyes and stretched endlessly to wake properly. He looked absolutely drained, but he had colour in his face.

“Why are you still sleeping, love?” she said, trying not to make an issue of something which was probably nothing. Doug thought to keep his explanation simple.

“I just couldn’t sleep much last night, mum,” he replied. “I only fell asleep shortly before the sun came up. Don’t know why, really. Just one of those nights.” He kept his tone light so that she would not suspect any dark things going on in his head. Jean seemed to buy it and she drew his curtains.

“Well, I have made us some lunch. Breakfast for you,” she smiled and he sniggered with her.