As I Fade (One Breath at a Time: Book 1) (7 page)

I waited for a reply, but no one answered. I felt hurt he hadn’t greeted me at the main doors, considering the power outage and the tornado warnings. Irritation bubbled up in me. I tried my best to hold it back, along with my tears, making up excuses for him, and why he wasn’t interested in how things had turned out. I was losing the battle, why wasn’t he here to protect me? This was so unlike him. He was usually so involved and always here for me. Quickly, I shrugged away any more negative thoughts.

If Mr. Piccart wasn’t visiting with him, I imagined he was lost in a book. He loved to read and when he did he lost track of time. Maybe he was sleeping. I glanced at my glowing watch face—impossible it was 12:15—he loved this time of night. Although somehow I’d managed to lose track of time too—it took me six hours to get through the city—another impossibility—it normally took less than 20 minutes.

He was probably reading by candlelight, oblivious to what was happening in the real world, sitting in the den, which was tucked away in the back of the apartment. He probably couldn’t hear me beyond the wind that was causing such a racket against the façade of the brownstone.

I would have to climb the steps, in the dark, alone. I shuddered, realizing I had to keep my wits together. I couldn’t allow myself the nervous breakdown I deserved after the day I’d had.

The click-clacks of my heels echoed in the darkness, up one stair at a time. Instantly, his vivid signature scent enveloped me. In one fragile breath, I inhaled the sweet alluring scent of his powerful pheromones, which told me he must have been here recently, looking for me. My anxiousness shifted to excitement. Staying focused when I smelled him was always one of my greatest challenges; just a waft of his scent interfered with my synapses, scattering all thoughts but one. All I wanted to do was fall into his strong arms.

In the short time I’d known him, he was one man who had made the greatest impact on my life. We were so connected. He had a way of calming all of my fears and anxiety. No drink or pill could ever do that. I’d seen his hands heal the sick in ways that our modern medicine couldn’t possibly comprehend. Everything about him was light years ahead of our time.

As I took another step, a sense of apprehension stiffened the fine hairs on the nape of my neck. Something was wrong—dreadfully wrong. My keen sense of hearing detected a faint sound of fingernails tapping against the wall, setting off alarms in my head. Someone was on the flight above me in the dark.

“Hello? Who’s there?”

I continued to climb the stairs, feeling my way to the second floor landing. I had to get to the third floor.

“Is that you? This isn’t funny. Are you
trying
to frighten me?” I called out with a huge degree of trepidation in my voice, wondering whom else could have been there. He would never frighten me, not intentionally. I
knew
that, but I just had to ask. Still no answer, and my mind began running through the worst-case scenarios.

What if my ex had returned and brought some friends and they were holding Him hostage? Returning during a tornado, when the power was out and no police around would be just like Jason. My heart plunged clean down to my knees. This would be my fault. There was no way that maniac would come alone. He was a real coward. Maybe they were holding Mr. Piccart hostage, too.

I pulled my cell-phone from my purse to call 911, the “no service” icon registered on the faceplate. I cast aside any trepidation and moved forward, determined to brave it out and get upstairs. Someone’s life could be in danger, so there was no time to act cowardly.

I needed a weapon. In my purse my key chain had a can of mace attached to it. It was a gift from my father when I moved out of our family home.

Using the backlight of my cell as a flashlight, I balanced my purse on my knee, grappling for my keys. My leg wobbled a bit and the bag fell, dropping to the landing below.
Crap! There went my keys and the mace.
It would have to lie there, I’d come too far, and there was no turning back now.

I wrapped my fingers in a death grip on my cell and hit the faceplate. The dim light helped, barely, and I made it to the top of the second landing when a large shadow crossed the opposite wall above me.

Heavy-footed, the sound of resolute footsteps struck against the floorboards of the fourth floor landing. They were heading in my direction.

“
Who’s there?” Chills tingled across my extremities. I stood there unable to move.

A sensation like static electricity jolted through me as a dense mist encircled my ankles and trailed up along my body, hindering my vision. Suddenly, a foul odor of sulfur—
no
, more like a mephitic scent, invaded my olfactory senses. It was as if the demons of Hell swarmed around me for just a moment, and then backed off. Thank God!

The footsteps sounded closer, now accompanied by the distinct smell of opium that stung my nostrils and eyes. I gingerly backtracked my way down the stairwell, one precarious step at a time.

I took three steps down, in fear of being seen from the light of my phone, I shoved it into my coat pocket and crouched against the wall. It was pitch black. I couldn’t see anyone, but it felt as if someone had touched me.

“
Get away!” I screamed, slapping my hands at the invisible presence. That was the wrong choice. I lost my balance, teetering dangerously on the narrow riser.

It all happened so fast. My hand grasped for something substantial to hold on to. I felt the smooth surface of the banister, but only for a second as it slipped through my fingers. All of a sudden, I couldn’t move, acutely aware that one of my heels had gotten wedged into the one and only small hole on the entire staircase. I panicked when I couldn’t take a step forward. Someone’s hand gripped my shoulder. When I pulled away, my shoe strap broke, releasing my foot from the sole of the shoe. Riddled with fear, in an instant, my body snapped like a rubber band into the air. My head felt like a bowling ball as I rolled backwards over each step. A dull thump registered in my ears as my tailbone hit the edge of the first stair. The noise terrified me and so did the following sound: the crackle of splintering bone.

On the final impact, a sharp object pierced my chest. My lungs deflated like a pierced balloon. I heard my breath whoosh out of me.

Ever so still I lay there, twisting and turning inside of myself, on the gritty cold floor under my body. My screams bubbled forth from the back of my throat like boiling water.

I released my breath, exhaling the pain. “Gawd damn!” I belted out. “It’s over...it’s over. God, why?” I wept, over and over.

The last thing I heard was the sound of footsteps bypassing my dead weight. And then, I
Faded.

-3-

Deep Sleep

I couldn’t open my eyes, and the harder I strained to do so, the more frightened I became. When I discovered I couldn’t move my limbs, simple fear was replaced by absolute terror.

Between small gasps of air, I choked, sobbing aloud, “Am I dead?” At least I
thought
I spoke aloud.

There were no replies.

I can’t die...not yet!
I thought, the inner me writhing in panic. I needed to get the manuscript to Sydney.
I’m the only one who can finish this piece...no one can write the story, but me!

My grandmother’s adage,
“What is written makes it so,”
flashed in my mind.

I couldn’t feel the ground beneath me. My hair swept over my face, blowing in the wind. Someone lifted me. The feeling of cool raindrops spattered upon my face. It seemed I was traveling in a tunnel. Fast. At least, it felt that way.

Can someone turn on the damn lights?

I could hear voices coming from all directions in hushed whispers that urgently buzzed and hummed their way into my consciousness. I couldn’t understand what was said.

Hearing voices in my head—arguing, chatting, laughing and singing—didn’t alarm me. At least not anymore, and hearing disembodied voices didn’t perturb me in the slightest; human voices were often far more frightening. I figured I was dead, and the voices were there to accompany me to the other side.

“
Please,” I sobbed, tiny moans escaped my lips.

The metallic taste of blood swirled in my mouth, hindering my ability to breathe. This confirmed I wasn’t dead, not yet. I wasn’t going to die without putting up a fight.

It was almost as if I were outside of my body looking down at myself.

I thought I’d once had an out of body experience after contracting spinal meningitis when I was nine years old. A horrific lesson, I learned to never play again with the pigeons in Central Park. Their dried feces are more toxic than one would imagine. That was how I contracted the deadly meningitis. To this day I still feel as if I died even though my mother insists I didn’t. I remember flying around the room like a bird, with large white wings. I felt like an angel. There were other white wings flapping around me too, angels I assumed, but I couldn’t see their faces. I told my mother how beautiful and peaceful it was and she brushed it off. Years later, she overheard me telling my friends that I had died once, and she took me aside and told me to stop telling that story. She informed me at the time of my illness she had asked the doctor if I had ever came close to dying. He told my mom the visions I had had were hallucinations from the high fever. That was disappointing to hear because after having the “hallucinations” I was never again afraid of dying.

But this time was different, and I could see myself lying on the ground and in the present time. There weren’t any white wings flapping around, which would have been comforting, but since they weren’t there, I saw it as an omen. I floated high into the air. Bloody tears stung against my cheeks, dripping onto the white sandstone and staining it red. This time, pain connected my essence to my body, whereas when I was a child, there was no pain.

I could see it all so clearly this time. Dark shadows hovered over my motionless body. I couldn’t see their faces because their eyes were looking down on me—my broken body. The gap between my weightless body and the one on the ground suddenly slammed shut, and the pain overtook my body with its full force. I wanted to fly away but something—an undeniable force sucked me back into my human remains.

“Get your hands off of me!” I squirmed and managed to shove away the interrogating fingers fussing around me. “Get the hell away—my chest,” I cried as they probed my body with their intrusive hands and instruments Excruciating pain traveled the length of me, radiating from inside out.

Internal damage?

God, if it’s my time to die make it fast
, I silently pleaded.

The open wounds on my lips and cheeks viscously burned, exceeding while stabbing pains shot through my head. There was not a place on my body that didn’t hurt. The excruciating pain took my breath away. All I wanted to do was crawl into a ball and sleep—or make my way into Heaven.

“Hold still, please, we are trying to help you—Olga, hand me that, hurry,” a man’s voice called out. “We can’t do this when she’s hysterical.”

What the hell was that?
I screamed inside my head when I felt a stinging blaze coursing through me.

A bright warm light surrounded me. Surprisingly, the pain ceased and a feeling of awe washed over me. That was how I remembered dying felt like, no pain. I wasn’t sad to go—to float back to the edge of the atmosphere was peaceful. I imagined the white wings again. Before I let go, one breath is all I wanted. “I love you,” I whispered, as I wondered if
He
could hear me. If it were possible for the one you love to hear your dying breath, I knew he would hear mine. “Goodbye, my love.” I breathed that one final breath,
as I Faded
into nothingness; I heard his voice.

“
Brielle, I’m with you forever.”

-4-

Gone Like a Dream

For the next few hours, maybe it was even days, as I drifted in and out of the quiet realm of my sub consciousness, I contemplated...

Who am I? Where am I?
Is this Heaven?

My memories were fading fast and, vanishing one by one. I struggled to hang onto them, the way you do after opening your eyes from a dream, then poof—they’re gone.

Concentrate! Think! Concentrate damn it, self.
I cursed whoever I was.
Am I brain dead? When I wake up am I going to be a human carrot without a memory? An empty shell of nothingness! Will I even wake up?
And where the hell were all my loved ones who had passed on before me?

The harder I tried to hold onto my vague memories, the faster they withered.

Is it time to accept my fate and let them go?

* * *

The first glimmer of hope came to me. An image of a worn deck of Tarot cards flashed in my mind. The death card had been dealt and lay face up on a table. Although it was not the most positive of images, it was a memory.