Exposed (19 page)

I am exposed.

And you are behind me, pushing into me. One hand on my hip, guiding my motions, the other clutching the queue of my braid.

You fuck, and you fuck, and you fuck.

In this, there is no pleasure for me. For the first time that I can remember, you do not spare a single moment of attention for me. You only drive with single-minded madness into me again and again and again, hips slapping loudly against the taut roundness of my
backside. I hear that, and only that. The
slap-slap-slap
of your body meeting mine. I glance out the window, and across the street I can almost see a face in a window, watching me.

You come, and I feel the hot rush of your seed filling me, dripping out of me.

You have claimed me, but there is a secret only I know: Your mark does not adhere to my skin, your claim does not sear into my soul.

In the last few minutes, I felt the earth shift, felt the shackles of your sorcery fall away.

You step away, and I spin in place, rest my bottom and shoulders against the glass, stare at you.

Something within me aches.

There are no words to speak.

I turn away from you, return my gaze to the world beyond the glass. After a time the silence grows profound, becomes empty, and I know you’ve walked away.

My cigar, at some point set in an ashtray, still smolders. I place it between my teeth, pour a measure of scotch, blow thick plumes of smoke into the rays of sunlight, and swallow burning mouthfuls of scotch in an attempt to drown the screams of self-loathing welling up within me.

I smoke, and I drink, and I listen to you shower.

I remain naked, because clothes cannot cover my shame.

You emerge dressed, hair wet and clean and slicked back, dressed in a tan suit with a pale blue shirt, no tie, baring that sliver of skin. You stare at me, a frown pinching your face, razoring a line into the bridge of your nose.

I want to yell at you. Tell you how much I hate you. Tell you how empty I feel. Tell you that everything is different now, everything is changed. I am changed. If I am addict and you are a drug, the high has soured.

I say nothing, however, because there are no words that can express the weltering chaos within me.

Neither of us speaks, and after a moment, you leave. The elevator doors close together, narrowing my view of you until there is nothing left but the doors.

And I am alone once more.

I give in to the screams, and my voice echoes off the glass in raw, ragged, jagged fragments. I scream until my voice gives out, and then I weep.

I allowed you to use me again. I feel the cancer of it like a film of grease on my soul.

No more.

Never again.

I cease weeping, and I shower you off me.

I step into a long, loose dress, wrap myself in a blanket. While away the hours with a book, bored and alone and drowning in self-loathing and disgust. Eventually, the day fades, and I fall asleep on a couch, because I do not want to be in your bed, even to sleep.

R
ain slices like knives forged from ice. I shiver, but not from cold; I bleed. I taste blood in my mouth, feel it spill warm and wet from my head and my hip, dribble down my cheek and drip off my chin. Darkness. All is dark. A pale rectangle of light from a window illuminates a portion of sidewalk and some of the street, the curb between them.

I hear sirens. They sound like the warbles of prehistoric birds, echoing off cliff faces.

I want only to be warm.

I want to not hurt.

My stomach shudders, and I hear a sound. A sob. A scream.

My throat aches, and I realize the sobs and screams emit from me.

I am alone.

I cannot lift my head.

I can stare sideways at the pale scrap of light and wish I could reach it, crawl to it, lie in its warmth. Anything must be warmer than here, where the rain batters me and the cold cracks open my bones, freezes my marrow.

Why am I here? I don’t remember.

I have an idea of horror, dreamed remnants of terror. Smashing glass, twisting metal. Razors splitting open my skull. Hammers bashing my body. Weightlessness. Darkness.

Blood.

So much blood.

A face appears. An angel?

No, too dark, the eyes like glinting shards of night betray too many devoured dreams, speak of nightmares feasted upon.

An incubus.

I fancy I can see his wings spread to either side of his wet, muscular body, thick coiled whipping things like feathered serpents. I blink, and he is only a man.

I blink, and I know his face.

I scream, or perhaps I only try to. He is lifting me, and I see blood on his hand as he brushes my hair away from my eyes.

The world tilts and darkens, and a hole attempts to swallow me from inside out, and then I see the flames. I want to be in those flames, where it is warm. I want to be in those flames. I want to be with those in the flames.

I strain, and iron bands hold me back. I reach for the flames. I peer into them, and I can see a hand, blackening. A shirtsleeve crisping, curling. Perhaps I imagine it all. Perhaps I imagine the flames.

I don’t know. I know I am cold.

So cold.

I know pain is all.

I know the iron bands strapped around me are warm and breath smelling of whisky bathes my face.

I look up, and eyes pierce mine. “Sssshhhh. You’ll be okay. I’ll get you help.” The voice is the texture of a blacked-out room, smooth as velvet, powerful and deep.

I am falling. I fight against gravity, because that way lies darkness, and
in the darkness lurks obscurity. I don’t know what that thought means, but I know I must fight.

I lose.

I fall.

Through depthless dark, I fall.

•   •   •

I
wake with a start. My voice is hoarse. My throat hurts.

You brush away a flyaway strand of hair. Shush me.

I taste the dream, still.

I push you away. Your touch holds no comfort, your voice no respite from the images haunting my brain. “Get away.”

“It’s me, it’s Caleb.”

“I know.” I struggle for a single deep breath. “Don’t—don’t touch me.”

I sit up, curl the blanket tighter around my shoulders, hunch in on myself, eyes clenched shut so hard I see stars and my eyes hurt. I do not want to share this with you, but I must speak it out into the world so it doesn’t die the death of dreams, lost somewhere between brain and tongue.

“I remember how wet it was,” I whisper. “I remember the darkness. I remember hurting. I remember being so cold. I remember being on the sidewalk and seeing this patch of light and wishing I could just make it to the light, because maybe it would be warmer there. And then you . . . and flames. I feel like—I feel like there was more in the dream, but I can’t remember it. I can’t see it now.”

“But you’re safe now. You’re okay.”

I shake my head. “No. I’m not safe. Not with you. You do not tell me all of the truth. There
is
no truth. And I’m not okay. I’m a splintered ghost of a person. And I don’t know how to put the pieces together. I don’t even
have
all the pieces.”

“Isabel—” you begin.

I chop out with my hand to silence you, and make contact with your leg. “No. Shut up. You are an incubus. You lie.”

A moment of silence. And then your voice, cold and distant as you stand up. “Dr. Frankel is here. There’s a clinic a few floors down. He’s setting up there.”

I stand up, let the blanket fall to the floor at my feet. “I’m ready. Let’s go.”

“Do you want anything to eat?” you ask.

“Do not suddenly begin pretending as if you care, Caleb.” I breeze past you.

You seize me in a vise grip. Spun around. Fingers pinch my jaw, as if to pry the mandibles apart. “You will
never
comprehend how deeply I care.” You release me.

“No, I will not.” I stare up at you. Your eyes are blazing, hot, open, wild, glinting with fury and agony. “Nor do I wish to.” This is a lie.

You stare down at me, jaw muscles clenching and pulsing, eyes darting, seeking something in my gaze. Not finding it, I do not think. “I do not know how—I don’t know how to make you understand. I am not that man.”

“You have not tried.”

“I have. For so long, for—”

“How long, Caleb? How long?” My understanding of my own life’s time frame doesn’t make sense.

The years, the dates, how long I was in a coma, how many years of memory I have, how reliable the memories I do have are . . . all of this is in doubt. Nothing I know, nothing I
think
I know, is necessarily true.

“How old am I?” I ask.

“They weren’t sure exactly how old you were when the accident happened,” you say.

“And what year did the accident happen in?”

“In 2009,” you say, immediately.

“And I was in a coma for how long?”

“Six months.”

I push past you. “I think you are a liar.”

“Isabel—”

“Take me to Dr. Frankel.”

Your teeth click together, your head tilts back, your eyes narrow. “Very well, Ms. de la Vega. As you wish.”

We wait for the elevator in tense silence. As the doors open, I turn to you. “Tell me the truth, Caleb.”

“About what?”

“About me. About what happened. About everything.”

You twist the key. “Dr. Frankel is waiting.”

Not another word is spoken. We transfer elevators one floor down, and go from there to the thirty-second floor. Bare hallways, featureless, identical doors differentiated by alphanumeric designations. A sparse white room, a bed with white paper laid over hard, plasticky leather. Dr. Frankel is a short, pudgy man at the unforgiving end of middle age, a man to whom time and gravity have not been kind. Jowls hang and sway, a pendulous belly covers a belt buckle, khaki pants are tight around thighs and loose around calves. Brown eyes reflect a quick mind, with hands that are small and quick and nimble and gentle and sure.

“Ah. The patient. Very good.” A pat of a hand invites me to sit on the paper, which crinkles and shifts under my weight. “Yes, yes. I remember you. A rather remarkable work I did, if I say so myself. Not a trace of your old injuries remains. Very good, very good. This will be quick and easy. A local anesthetic, a quick incision, and it’ll be done. No pain, no mess.”

I lie down on the bed. “Let us proceed then.”

A clearing of the throat. “Well, the incision is in your hip, you see. So I’ll, ah, need you to disrobe. From the waist down, at least.”

Without hesitation, I hike my dress up to my waist, staring at the wall, and work my underwear off. “Better?”

“Um. Yes. I would have left the room, you know.”

“I want this over with. I want the chip out.”

“I didn’t think you knew.”

“I didn’t,” I say. “I do now.”

A bob of a heavy head. “I see. I see. Well. I’ll just spread this over you . . .” Dr. Frankel drapes a large square of blue tissue over my waist, a square in the middle left open.

The square encloses the scar on my hip, and the doctor uses medical tape to make sure the tissue remains in place. Dr. Frankel dons a pair of blue exam gloves from a packet, very carefully not touching any of the glove except the very ends near the wrists as he slides them on.

Lifting a syringe, the doctor casts a glance to me. “A little pinch now.” There is a brief sharp poke, coldness against my skin, and then nothing. “Some iodine to sterilize your skin . . .” A small white carton has its lid torn off, revealing a brown liquid and a sponge.

The iodine is cold and turns my skin orange.

Another packet is opened, revealing a scalpel and a pair of forceps. Dr. Frankel lifts the scalpel and prods my scar with it. “Can you feel that?”

I shake my head. “No.”

“Very good. I’ll begin. Look away, perhaps? And if the anesthetic wears off, let me know right away and I’ll administer some more. I don’t want you to feel a thing.”

“All right. Carry on then.”

I watch in curiosity as Dr. Frankel presses the tip of the scalpel directly over my scar, free hand keeping my skin taut. After a glance
at me to make sure I’m not experiencing any pain, the incision is lengthened, precisely to the size of the previous one. Blood wells after a moment, and a cloth smears it away, and then forceps delve into the opening of my skin. I am morbidly fascinated, watching as my skin is parted. The scar isn’t actually directly on my hip, but nearer to my buttock, just behind the bone, which explains how something like a chip could be inserted subcutaneously without leaving a bump. A moment of searching with the forceps, and then Dr. Frankel withdraws them, pincering a tiny red-dripping square of plastic. The chip is so small I wouldn’t have suspected anything amiss even if it had been placed where it would leave a bump. It clatters in a bowl, and then Dr. Frankel deftly sews the incision shut with a few quick loops of black thread and tapes a bandage over the area.

The entire procedure took perhaps five minutes from start to finish.

“Wonderful. That’s that.” Snapping the gloves off, Dr. Frankel wraps up the entire mess, sans surgical instruments and syringe, and discards it in the trash, and the instruments are deposited in a box on the wall labeled
SHARPS
.

“Thank you very much, Dr. Frankel,” you say. “Your balance should reflect your payment by the end of business today.”

“I have no doubt.” A quick glance at Caleb. “And this evening?”

“A limo will be waiting for you at your hotel, with your companion for the evening already in attendance.” You pause. “I must remind you of the rules regarding my employees. They are companionship for the evening
only
. And, of course, your complete discretion regarding the procedure you just performed is expected.”

“Don’t have to remind me on either score, Mr. Indigo. I know the rules. I signed an NDA years ago, and besides, I didn’t get where I am by having loose lips.”

“Of course not,” you say.

A glance at me. “Take it easy on those stitches. There aren’t many, and they’ll come out on their own in time. But try not to get them wet for forty-eight hours at least.”

“I’ll keep that in mind. Thank you, Doctor.”

“Pleasure. Next time, try to give me more than a couple hours’ notice, will you?”

“Hopefully there won’t be a next time,” you say.

Dr. Frankel laughs. “Ah yes, the plight of the doctor. Happy to see us show up, happier yet to see us leave. And happiest of all to never have to see us in the first place.” With that last quip, Dr. Frankel is out the door.

When the good doctor is gone, you glance at your watch, and then at me. “A rather expensive seven minutes, I’d say.”

“If you hadn’t put it there in the first place, you wouldn’t have had to spend three million dollars to have it removed.” I frown. “Why
did
you have him put a tracking chip in me, Caleb?”

A breath that isn’t quite a sigh. “A last-minute quirk, you could say. A means of ensuring I could protect—”

“Your investment?”

“Are you so determined to believe the worst?”

“Yes.” I step into my underwear and allow my dress to fall back into place as I stand up. I wobble, as my hip is still numb. “With reason.”

“You misunderstand me, and the situation.”

“Because you do not tell me the truth. Thus, I have no way of truly understanding the situation.” I prop myself on the bed in an attempt to find my balance. “Or of understanding you. You, most of all.”

You merely stare at me. At a loss for words, perhaps? I wait, but you say nothing.

I shake my head and walk away, or try to. I have to cling to one surface or another, have to surf from bed to door post, door post to
wall, wall to elevator. I have to lean against the elevator wall and focus on breathing. The local anesthetic is beginning to wear off, and my body is now reminding me that I just had my skin sliced open and sewn shut. It isn’t a pleasant sensation. At no point do I stop to wonder if you’ll follow me, because you won’t. This isn’t new.

I had a cell phone, at one point. But I am unaccustomed to carrying any possessions with me, and I’ve misplaced it. At Logan’s home, perhaps? I don’t know. I wish I had it now. I would call him. Beg him to come get me.

I make it outside, where the world is bright and loud and chaotic. I feel panic creeping at the edges of my mind, lurking at the bottom of my lungs, stealing my breath. I focus on walking, clinging to the wall of the building. It is a laborious process, made all the harder when I run out of building and must totter to the intersection and pretend I am not about to collapse. The light turns, the crowd around me surges forward, and I am swept off balance. I nearly fall several times but rebound off those around me and manage to stay upright. Reaching the far side of the intersection feels like a miraculous accomplishment. I still cannot breathe, and the edge of my vision darkens, narrows, but each step requires such focus and determination that I cannot allow myself to falter, or I will fall.