Finally My Forever (5 page)

Chapter 6

Five years later.

"Zeke?" I called, opening his front door.

He hadn't returned my texts all afternoon. I knew he was home. I'd seen his car in the driveway.

"Zeke?" I said a little louder.

His tiny house was dark and cluttered. There was trash and piles of clothes strewn out all over the place, and to top it all off, it smelled terrible.
What was that stench?
I covered my nose and mouth with a hand as I tiptoed through his disaster of a living room.

"Zeke?" I repeated.

I had a gut-wrenching feeling something was wrong. Dread and fear began to flood my body. I had a distinct feeling that he was home, and yet he wouldn't answer me.

"Zeke!" I yelled in a frustrated tone. "Where are you?" I peeked into the tiny kitchen. "Stop messing around, you're scaring me!"

It was an itty-bitty, two bedroom house. I'd been there tons of times, but somehow it seemed unfamiliar. I peered into the extra bedroom, which Zeke used for his art stuff. He was a singer, a poet, a painter, and an actor—and this room housed many of the supplies he used. I usually loved Zeke's art, but even this room seemed dismal and eerie as I looked inside.

"Zeke!" I called, feeling jumpy and on edge.

From my vantage point in the small hallway, I could see into his tiny, dated bathroom and partially into his bedroom. Something told me I'd find him in his bedroom. He was probably sleeping. He'd been drinking lately, and was likely passed out.

"Zeke, your house is a mess!" I called. I tested my luck with uncovering my nose but realized it still stank and quickly covered it again.

I stepped into his bedroom feeling certain I would find him in there. My heart sank as I stared at his empty double bed. There were windows on the far side of the room but heavy curtains covered them, making it really dark. I decided to open the windows and let a little bit of light and fresh air into the place. It was disgusting, and I felt a strong urge to clean. I vaguely wondered why I was even dating a guy who lived in such a messy place. I walked around the foot of the bed to the other side of the room and pushed open the heavy fabric covering the window. Sunlight spilled in, making me squint and glance downward.

And there he was—what was left of him anyway. I instantly covered my mouth again and gaged as I tried to focus on the figure that lie on the floor on the far side of his bed. Panic flooded my body. I wanted to run, scream, do something… but fear had an iron grip on me, and I was completely paralyzed. I just stood there and stared down at his lifeless body for several long seconds. I should have looked away, but I couldn't. I stayed completely motionless, like a stone statue.

There was no question he was dead. The top half of his head was completely blown away. All I could see was mangled flesh and blood.

The fear.

The dread.

The crippling grip it had on me was too much to handle. It was the most disturbing image I'd ever seen. I tried to scream, but it came out more like a moan.

I couldn't move. All I could do was look at what used to be my boyfriend. I tried to scream again, and again it was a moan. I could see myself moving and screaming. I could see my body doing it, but I knew I was paralyzed—unable to move or even make a noise.

And then I did it.

I made one final gut-wrenching push, and it was over.

I was out of there.

My eyes opened, and I awoke from the dream, staring at the ceiling of my own bedroom. My heart was pounding, and I was struggling to catch my breath.

A cold sweat had come to the surface of my entire body. I stayed there, completely motionless for several long seconds before I picked my head up to glance around.

It had only been a nightmare. I was in my own bed in my own room. My shaggy, brown dog was lying flat on his back next to me and I reached out and put my hand on his warm belly just to try to get some sense of comfort and peace.

He stirred a little at my touch, but didn't wake up. I reached onto my nightstand with the other hand and picked up my phone to check the time.

"Two A.M.," I whispered before letting my head hit the pillow again.

My body was so wound up from the nightmare that it took a good fifteen or twenty minutes for my heart rate to slow down afterward. I was so relieved to have Roscoe lying next to me in the bed. Waking up with a nightmare was never easy, but having him next to me helped the aftermath. It took me three hours to fall back asleep.

The next day was Sunday, so thankfully I didn't have to work. I had plans to have coffee at 10am with a friend of mine named Trish, and I showed up looking as tired and frustrated as I felt. I saw her through the window as I approached, and she told me with hand gestures that I should just come to the couch where she was sitting because she already had my coffee.

"What's the matter?" was the first thing out of her mouth when I got close enough to hear her.

I sat on the couch with a huff, not even bothering to take the bag off of my shoulder. "What'd you get me?" I asked, sitting up to grab the paper cup off the coffee table.

"A vanilla latte. What's up with you?"

"The dream."

"Again?"

I took a small sip of coffee, set it down, and rubbed my face with my hands. "Thanks for that. It's good." I sighed. "Yeah, same dream." I sat back again, still feeling disturbed and restless. "It's been two months since the last one, though."

She smiled. "That's a good thing."

I managed a half smile. "I guess."

She studied me as if I was a puzzle she could put back together. "Was it exactly like…" she started to ask.

"Yes. It was exactly like it happened in real life," I said. "Only in the dream, his house was different—it was gross and dark. I was scared even before I saw him."

I started dating Zeke when I was seventeen years old and he was eighteen. We dated for a year before he committed suicide. He worked at a music store in the mall during the year we were dating and had plans to start college with me. He said we'd be freshmen together.

His depression came on quickly. He always wrote a lot of poetry, but during the summer when we celebrated our one-year anniversary, his poems took a melancholy turn. He began acting like he changed his mind about going to college saying he would never amount to anything anyway. I knew he was sad, but I had absolutely no idea he was capable of doing what he did. He took his own life in the bedroom of his parents' house, and since they were at work, I'd been the one to find him.

No one should ever, I repeat EVER have to see anything like that. It had been four years since I found him, and I still resented him for making me look at that. Imagine if it had been his mom.

Trish put her hand on my leg and let out a long sigh. She had no idea what to say, and I couldn't blame her for that. "Do you think you should try those pills?"

"I'm not going to get on pills for the rest of my life. The nightmares are getting farther and farther apart, and I'm able to live a pretty normal life in spite of them. I'm not gonna subject myself to a lifetime of prescriptions to help me get over it." I shrugged. "People see things in life that suck. I should be able to get over it by myself."

"Have you seen a therapist?"

I glanced at her. "Who do you think gave me the pills?"

"Did it help you to talk about it?"

"It helped a little, I guess. No amount of talking can remove the memory, though."

I took another sip of my coffee and stared blankly at the chair in front of me. It was the first brisk day of fall, and I had on a tank top and a loose, grey sweatshirt with a huge open neck that hung off of my shoulder. I knew I looked like a mess, and I was thankful that Trish didn't care. She and I met a year ago when we were doing our student teaching at the same high school and had hit it off instantly. We were both in our first year of teaching now, but at different schools. I was teaching physical science at Roosevelt High, and she taught English at Reagan.

"It might be a bad day to tell you this," she said, "but one of my roommates just told us she's moving out in a few weeks. She's going to live with her boyfriend."

I was still living with my mom and stepdad. I was 22 now and well aware of the fact that I should probably look for a place of my own—especially now that I had a real job. Moving in with Trish wouldn't be a bad option, actually. She lived in a 4-bedroom house with three roommates. I definitely wasn't ready to live in a house by myself. I wasn't sure if I'd ever be.

"What about Roscoe?" I asked.

"None of us have dogs, but I don't think the landlord would care. He's potty trained, right?"

I nodded.

"I'm sure you'd have to pay a pet deposit or something. I'd have to look at the lease."

"Would your other roommates mind?"

She shook her head. "I don't think so."

"How much is rent?"

"Six fifty, but the bedroom you'd have has its own bathroom."

I loved her house. It was in a great neighborhood. I loved her roommates for that matter. I knew it was Brittany who was moving out to live with her boyfriend, because her other two roommates were guys. I'd met them both several times and liked them a lot.

I was relieved to have something else to think about besides the dream. "Do you mind if I think about it for a day?"

"Not at all," she said. "We're not going to put an ad out or anything. If you don't want it, Ryan and Isaac both said they know someone to ask."

"Don't let them ask just yet," I said. "I think I might want it. I just need a day to think about it."

I relaxed onto the couch with my cup of coffee and took a few sips.

"Just think about paramedics, and cops, and doctors," she said, obviously still concerned about my dream. "Think about all the messed up stuff they have to see every day." She paused and shook her head absentmindedly. "They must get immune to it."

"That's why I'm a teacher," I said. "I can't imagine getting confronted with tragedy every day. I wouldn’t be able to leave the house. I don't know how they do it."

In the four years since it happened, the trauma had decreased significantly. I went to college, got a job, and lived a somewhat normal life. It was mornings like this that were hard.

The dream was even more disturbing than the reality had been, and it always made the memory so fresh in my mind. "I'll be fine," I said. "Who knows, maybe last night was the last time I have that dream."

"Maybe so," she said with a smile. "Maybe your new bedroom will only allow sweet dreams."

I started to ask what she meant by new bedroom but then realized she was talking about the one at her house. I smiled.

"Excuse me, did you volunteer at the Happy House?" I heard a woman's voice say from my right side. Her voice was soft and tentative, and I assumed she wasn't talking to me, but somewhere in the back of my mind I registered
Happy House
. I knew I'd heard that somewhere before. I glanced in her direction and noticed a lady sitting at a table, swiveling in her chair to face me. She had a familiar smile. Wait. She was Claire Bennett.

A flood of memories washed over me as I looked at her. I must have been staring blankly because she said, "Are you Mike Murphy's daughter?"

I managed a smile and a nod. "Step daughter, yes."

"I'm—"

I cut her off. "Mrs. Bennett. I remember you."

"It's so good to see you," she said. "How have you been?"

"Great," I said, which was only a little lie.

"Thomas is going to be thrilled to see you. He talked about you for months after you helped out that day."

"Is he here?" I asked, looking around. "He's with his sister at the counter getting our food."

She gave me a huge, goofy smile. "I'm the official table saver."

I felt like I was in the twilight zone, but somehow managed to remember to introduce Trish. They were greeting each other when Thomas and his little sister Emily walked up carrying trays. I thought of her as 15 because Thomas told me that's how old his little sister was, but obviously time had passed. She was a beautiful girl who was, if my first grade math was correct, 20 now.

"Thomas, look who it is!" Mrs. Bennett said. I didn't want her to put him on the spot. I knew there was no way he would remember me after such a long time. I unfolded my legs and stood up with every intention of reintroducing myself.

"Carlyyyy!" he said. He was holding a tray with a sandwich, and he raised it over his head in his usual greeting.

"Be careful, Thomas. Watch your food," Emily said cringing up at the tray. He quickly set it on the table in front of his mom and crossed over to me with his arms held open wide.

He hugged me with such love and relief it was as if I was a long lost friend—someone he'd been waiting desperately to see again. I was already on edge emotionally, and there was such love in his embrace that tears rose to my eyes. I tried to hold them back but I couldn't. I blinked hard, trying to clear my vision.