Perfect Trust: A Rowan Gant Investigation (17 page)

Where am I?

Darkness underscored by a faint, high-pitched
whine.

I scream… Or do I? I hear nothing.

What is happening to me?

An explosion of blinding light.

Blink.

Psychedelic spots before my eyes.

Staring into nothingness.

Darkness.

A second bright blast.

Blink.

My heart races.

The kaleidoscope goes on.

Darkness…

Darkness…

Yet another sudden infusion of
brightness.

More spots in the mix.

Darkness fading to a soft light.

A silhouette moving in the shadows.

Visceral fear.

My ethereal self jerks quickly back as the
most recent experiences of Debbie Schaeffer’s life—and perhaps
death—assault me without apology. Her fear wraps its icy grip about
my heart and begins to squeeze mercilessly. I have no idea what I
am going to see, but I am certain it will be less than
pleasant.

Felicity’s grip on me remains steadfast; I
don’t think I could break free of her even if I wanted to. As I
force myself back forward into the ethereal quest for answers, I
feel a wholly familiar presence in the room. In the here and now—in
the land of the living. But I can tell beyond a shadow of a doubt
that it no longer belongs on this side of the bridge.

Phasing in and out of synchronization with
time, the entity’s feminine voice rings directly into my ear.

“Well, look who finally decided to show up.
I’ve been waiting for you, you know, Rowan. What took you so
long?”

Before I can respond, Debbie Schaeffer turns
her attention elsewhere. She is apparently observing something that
I cannot see. She continues her recitation off in the distance,
speaking as much to herself as to me.

“What’s he doing now? Oh man, is he kidding?
Would you look at that, Rowan? Is he an idiot or what? I mean it’s
not like it’s rocket science to pick out an outfit, you know. He’s
got to be color blind or something.”

I have no idea what she is talking about.

I cannot see what she is seeing.

The volume of her voice fades from high to
low and then low to high as it moves about my head in an insane
demonstration of stereophonic principles. The disconcerting pattern
of her speech continues to shift in and out of time between planes
of existence.

“Get a grip, will’ya? Those red shoes don’t
go with that skirt. The black ones, you moron, the BLACK ones!” Her
voice seems directed at someone unseen by me.

“I don’t think he can hear me. Hell, I can’t
even hear me. What do you think, Rowan? Can he hear me?”

“Who?” I ask aloud. “Tell me
who
can’t hear you.”

“What’s that?” Ben’s voice slowly rumbles
past me in a discordant echo.

Oh God, what’s happening?

Where am I?

Absolute terror burns its way into my
chest.

I can see only a silhouette in the dim light.
I can’t make out any features.

An explosion of brightness sears my eyes.

I’m blind.

I try to scream, but it catches in my throat
and rests there, making me choke.

I can feel the burn of tears welling in my
eyes.

An angry voice exclaims, “Fuck! Not again!
STOP IT! STOP CRYING! Your makeup is running!”

“I don’t care. It serves you right, you
weirdo. Oh, no way. Are you blind? That lipstick is way too dark.
Look at me, you idiot.” Debbie Schaeffer’s voice vibrates inside my
head as she admonishes some unseen figure.

She turns her attention back to me for a
moment. “Can you believe this guy, Rowan?”

Before I can even begin to answer, she is
yelling at him again.

“Go ahead, make me look like a circus clown,
you dipshit!”

Her voice bounces around inside my skull,
trying on my psyche for size. From one moment to the next, I am she
and she is me. We are one and the same. We are neither and
separate. We phase in and out of one another like playing cards
shuffled into a deck.

She stands at my shoulder.

She faces me.

She steps into me.

She steps out of me.

She runs to the brink of a distant unseen
abyss and casts her deprecating observations into its depths.

The darkness enveloping me bleeds black then
suddenly shifts to blue grey.

Then it all becomes blackness again.

She jumps in and out of my head as if trying
to find the most comfortable spot to reside.

I try not to fight the process but wonder if
the pain is truly worth what I may eventually discover from her; if
I discover anything at all.

She settles in behind my eyes, and the
landscape becomes a muted haze. I am beginning to see what she
sees. But what for her is vivid color, for me is nothing more than
a faint outline.

Together, we watch with growing interest as
the shadow moves about.

Who are you?

Why are you touching me?

No! Please, no?!

Oh God, please don’t!

A violent thrust from nowhere purges Debbie
Schaeffer from me. The suddenness of it all is even more painful
than her careless entries and exits have been. The scene changes
point of view, and I see a young woman clad in a party dress. She
is arranged in a chair, her body limp. Her face is a palette of
colors, painted haphazardly on delicate features.

Visceral, primal thoughts race through my
head.

Electrically charged sexual desire wells
within me, coursing throughout my body with an animalistic
passion.

The feeling is unnatural and foreign.

The intensity of the desire frightens me, but
I cannot back away from it.

In the real world I am disgusted by something
dark that permeates the arousal.

In the real world I begin to feel physically
sickened by the perversity that is woven within the shroud of
lust.

Between the worlds I am engaged by it and
craving more.

Oh Jesus! She is just so gorgeous!

She’s so close! So close!

Damn! She’s almost perfect!

Muted darkness.

Explosive blinding light.

Muted darkness.

Explosive blinding light.

Muted darkness.

Jesus…So close.

My desire is stiffening, and I can’t wait any
longer.

I must fulfill the need.

Quench the fire.

On this side of reality I deny the urge to
take myself in hand. In the darkness between, I am unable to
resist.

“Dammit, Rowan! Don’t let him in!” Debbie’s
voice scrapes past my ears with anger charged static. “You aren’t
like him. Stop it!”

Panting…

Heart racing…

Quickening…

She’s so close…

She’s the closest yet…

If only she was really her…

So close…

Quickening…

Faster…

Again, Debbie’s voice punches inward and
wrestles me away, evicting the sudden perversion from its warm and
comfortable place in my head. For all the disconcerting imagery she
brings with her, I am thankful for the rescue. Her voice is
frenzied and caustic—aimed at me, him, whomever. She slips into the
three-piece suit of my id, ego, and superego taking absolutely no
care as the seams rip. The intensity of her emotion painfully rends
the garment that is I.

“Look at me, shithead. I must look like a
two-year-old who got into Mommy’s makeup. Are you blind or are you
just stupid? How in the hell can that be getting you off?”

She slips out without warning and stands
before me. I feel the hard sting of her palm against my cheek.
“Don’t you ever do that again! It’s GROSS! You’re supposed to be
HELPING me, Rowan, not acting just like HIM!”

Her voice calms, and she studies me
carefully.

“Okay. That’s better. So now that you’re
back, you want to tell me what is up with this guy, Rowan?”

Again, she flits away before I can answer. I
am left standing in the cold darkness.

I hear her distant tenor echo in the
abyss.

“Hey, you! Perv boy! Are you listening to
me?”

She returns as quickly as she left, making
my stomach churn as she turns my neural pathways into an amusement
park ride.

Her momentary occupation of my conscious ends
as she is bludgeoned from behind and thrown forcibly into the
cold.

My hand is warm and wet…

Panting.

Heart still racing.

I’m spent…for now.

I tug at my zipper.

She’s so beautiful.

She’s so very close.

If only she really was her.

Then…

Then she would be perfect.

I tap directly into the solid grounding
Felicity is forcing upon me and fight to expand my “self” outward.
My growing consciousness forces the vile invader from within me.
But it isn’t enough. I’m caught between Debbie and the shadow of
her tormentor—effectively outnumbered. And, each time I chase one
of the them away, the other comes from behind to occupy the space.
I struggle to follow the tennis match going on between the
hemispheres of my brain.

For one brief instant, calm ensues and I find
myself face to face with a petite blonde.

She strikes a pose then begins to dance
about.

Hey, hey, hey, whaddaya say!

Rowan’s here, now we can play!

Hey, hey, hey, whaddaya say!

Look at me, I’m dead today!

Take a good look, don’t you turn away!

Just look at me, Rowan, I’m dead today!

She stops and glares at me with a serious
frown.

I’m dead,
Rowan
.
So what
are you gonna do about it?

“Rowan?” Ben’s voice slides in behind the
morose prose. “What’re ya’ seeing? Tell me what you’re seein’.”

Before I can open my mouth to answer, my
“self” is hijacked yet again.

“Oh yeah, that’s a great dress, asshole—if I
was going to some kind of retro masquerade prom, MAYBE. Who the
hell wears that much puke green taffeta? It makes me look like a
bridesmaid in some kind of wedding from hell.” She unleashes a
verbal assault then whispers into my ear, “Can you believe this
guy, Rowan? He’s got the fashion sense of a rock.”

I just can’t even move.

I’m just so tired.

Don’t know why.

I’m so scared.

What is he going to do to me?

“But, you know, that dress is just plain
ugly.”

What is he doing back there?

Oh God no, please…

I’m sobbing inside.

“Will you quit messing with my hair, you
freak?” She shifts her view and yells angrily into the darkness,
“Can’t you see that you’re scaring me?

“Yeah, that’s it. Come around here where we
can see you.”

She turns her attention to me with a quickly
uttered instruction, “Watch close, Rowan, here he comes.”

Blinding light.

“Dammit! Did you see him, Rowan? Did
you?”

I see nothing but darkness.

“All right, you weirdo, quit messing with my
feet. Get up and turn around so Rowan can see you, fetish boy.”

What is he doing now?

OUCH! That hurts!

What is he doing to my feet?

Why?

My heart rattles in my breast.

I can hardly breathe.

I’m so frightened.

“Look at that. The moron can’t even tell
left from right.

“Move so Rowan can see you. Yeah you, you
fathead, Rowan needs to see you.

“Oh, this is good. Look at this, Rowan.
Sequined pumps. SEA FOAM GREEN sequined pumps. And would you look
at how high those heels are! Where the hell did he get those
things? Now I ask you, do I look like I have doll feet?”

A sudden flicker of light.

Psychedelic spots again.

“I think he’s got a wiring problem in that
place. The lights kept doing that.”

Another bright flicker.

Pain rakes through my grey matter like a
cheap wine hangover as the sudden switch of personalities occurs
again. The throb hammers in my temples as the alternating trio of
psyches begin a knock-down, drag-out battle for possession of
me.

Oh sweet Jesus, she’s so beautiful.

She’s so close.

So close…

“What are you doing?

Please, no.

PLEASE let me go?!

Please don’t put that in my mouth.

Please no!

Somebody help me, PLEASE!

Gagging.

Bitter.

“You shouldn’t have given me that, you
moron.

You already gave me too much to begin
with.

You ever hear the word overdose?

Sheesh! What an idiot. Man, I just don’t
care anymore.

Just let me sleep.”

Heavy breathing.

Struggle.

I feel so tired.

My chest hurts.

My heart is pounding so hard I can hear
it.

Breathe.

I need to breathe.

“Come on you jerk, quit grunting. I’m not
that heavy.”

Panting.

Excitement.

Arousal.

It hurts.

Oh God, it hurts.

Why is my heart racing?

God it hurts.

“Look, I may be a cheerleader,

but I don’t bend like that.

Give me a break.”

Heavy breathing in the darkness.

Oh God, why can’t I breathe?!

“Look at him, Rowan. LOOK AT HIM!”

Hair just so.