My Kind Of Crazy (7 page)

Sanity wins out over greed today. Mr. Taylor manages to hold
it together as he gets to the driver’s side of his car, and then he calmly
locks the doors before he pulls out his key to start the Lexus. I watch him
drive away until the dust falls back to the ground. Then I let the stick drop
from my hands and finally take a deep inhale of fresh air.

It’s not three seconds after I inhale that my knees hit the
dirt, and I hear Anastasia say my name. Her cool hands are plastered on my face
as she tries to get me to look up at her, but I’m starting to fade away. I feel
her arm cushion my fall as I slide backwards on the dirt driveway. Then I’m
just nothing, a speck of darkness within a sea of black.

The smell of meat and cheese cooking wakes me up.

My left eye opens first, and I rub at the right eye to get
the crust of sleep out. Just to get Anastasia’s attention, I yawn loudly and make
a ruckus as I slide off the bed. It does the trick because her blue eyes are
boring into mine when she pokes her head around the doorframe to my bedroom.
The furrow between her brows and the way she manages to quirk one eyebrow at
the same time makes me smile.

“What happened?” As I’m asking her, Anastasia slinks around
the corner and moves one prettily manicured hand onto her hip with the other
one dangling at her side. She looks me up and down from head to toe before she
shrugs one shoulder, her silence is killing me.

“Why don’t you come out to the kitchen and drink a glass of
water? Then you can tell me what
you
remember from earlier, and I’ll
fill you in on the parts you won’t remember.” That sounds ominous, and my
excellent mood immediately plummets as I follow her out to the kitchen. True to
her word, Anastasia pours me a freezing cold glass of water and gently puts it
in front of me at the table. I slide into my usual chair and guzzle half the
glass of water before I realize she was right. I’m
extremely
thirsty.
It’s empty by the time I put it down on the table with a few beads of
condensation pooling around it.

“I remember Mr. Taylor pulling up, and I grabbed a beam that
was still somewhat useable. He was irritating you, and I was getting pissed. Then
it all sort of fades to the background. You said my name last, and then I was
out. So what happened?” I was right. There’s something baking in the oven with
cheese and meat in it. It’s not until she opens up the oven door that I
recognize lasagna, and my stomach practically tries to jump out my throat so
that it can devour the lasagna itself. Protein and carbs are just what I’m
craving right now.

“Well, you passed out, and you started to wake up. I was
trying to help you up the steps,
again
, when you called me a stupid
bitch and tried to get away from me. The scrape on your knee is from that
incident. Then you profusely apologized and made your way up the rest of the
steps on your own. You complained of a skull splitting headache and collapsed
into bed.” I feel heat flush my cheeks and embarrassment flood me as I look
down at my hands. They’re clean hands, and then I start looking myself over.

I’m entirely cleaned up, and I don’t remember getting
changed. There is no way that Anastasia could have bathed and changed an
unconscious man. Suddenly my throat seems to dry up as a dying man’s in the dessert
would, and realization hits me in the chest like a ton of bricks. It wasn’t me
who called her a bitch, and it wasn’t me who showered and dressed. So what
happened during that time?

“Did I hurt you?” Anastasia closes the oven door and turns
around as she’s pulling off her oven mitts. Something odd crosses over her face
as she puts the mitts into a drawer. Is that amusement or anger? I could
understand anger, but I cannot understand why she would feel even a hint of
mirth right now.

“No, Jonah, you didn’t hurt me. In fact, you were very kind,
gentle, and caring after your shower, but I have a feeling you don’t remember
that either.” She’s not facing me, and I can’t discern what she’s trying to
imply by that statement. She definitely doesn’t seem upset by what occurred,
but I wish I knew what it was.

“Oh?” I prompt her as I scrape my chair back and stand.
Anastasia turns around with the crease between her brows still prevalent and
straight lips.

“You
kissed
me, and you said Jonah was just too
chicken shit to take advantage of a good thing when he saw it. So, I take it
that wasn’t
this
side of you, but the side that’s not so nice and called
me a bitch.” She pinches the bridge of her nose and taps one of her feet
nervously on the linoleum floor as I advance.

“I’m sorry.” I don’t know what else to say, but apparently
it’s sufficient because Anastasia nods once.

“It’s not that big of a deal. I just didn’t expect two sides
of one person to have such different opinions. I just didn’t want you to
remember that detail and be upset with me later for not sharing it with you.” I
sidestep at the last second to pull open the refrigerator, and then I fill up
my water glass with tea instead. I’m in trouble because that is not at all the
case here. It’s just that side of me that doesn’t remember what happened is a
lot more cautious around women and relationships.

I’ve avoided them like they’re the damned plague since I
found out at my mental illness because what type of woman would want to date a
man like me?

“Well, thanks for telling me. I appreciate the honesty. Is
that lasagna almost done?” My stomach clenches and gurgles as I look at the
oven. Anastasia mumbles something about men and their primitive behavior, and
then she checks the timer on the oven display.

“No, another half an hour and it’ll be done. But I’ll tell
you what you can do in the meantime.” She points out the kitchen window and
doesn’t say a word until I move up beside her to see what she’s pointing at.
The poor dog is sitting outside with her head hanging. It seems May got the
bright idea of rolling in wet ashes.

I get the hint, pull on my shoes by the front door, and
attempt to tackle a wet, stinky German Shepherd.

Half an hour later I’m a little more worse for the wear, May
smells a lot better, and I have a massive hunk of lasagna on a plate in front
of me at the kitchen table. What kind of man can resist a woman that can cook?
I
can
, I remind myself as I pile in the meat, cheese, pasta, and sauce.
But
for how long?
The darker side of my mind whispers to me. At least this
woman knows of my condition up front.

Neither one of us speak of the incident for the rest of the
evening. Instead, I busy myself with trying to organize the damage from the
barn so that it will be easy to put all the debris into a dumpster when I get
one. It’s funny; I don’t feel any different about this property now that I know
it’s mine.

The sun is starting to set when I finally stumble back
inside and lock the door behind me. A corny show is playing on the television
in the living room, but Anastasia is not sitting on the couch. That’s my first
hint that something is wrong, but I ignore my instincts and calmly go to my
bedroom. I furrow my brows when I hear May whining, and cock my head to listen
for the sound.

Frustrated by the level of noise from the television, I grab
the remote and turn it off. The sound is coming from the kitchen. “Anastasia?
May?” I call out to the both of them, hoping that Anastasia is just clipping
the dog’s toenails or something.

I get into the kitchen and find the dog lying underneath the
table with severely dilated eyes. Her tail doesn’t thump when I get closer to
her, but she does lift one lip up in warning. A small piece of beef is laying
in front of her with something white crumble over it. I don’t touch the meat,
grab May around the middle and pull her out from under the table. My first
instinct is to look for Anastasia on my own, but it looks as though May has
been out for a while.

The phone line has been cut, and when I hear beeping in my
ear my skin grows cold all over. I take in several deep breaths as the panic
threatens to override me, and I manage to get to Anastasia’s room without
losing my cool. Her cellphone is underneath her bed as if she tried to grab it
and lost her grip. I see two numbers in the screen, a nine and a one. I finish
dialing the number and hold my breath as I wait for the dispatcher to pick up.
Rage burns through my veins like a seductive drug and I feel myself starting to
lose control.

“911, what’s your emergency?”

“Anastasia D’Salvatore has been kidnapped, her dog has been
drugged, and I’m going to need a strait jacket.” My thumb hovers over the end
call flashing on the screen, and then I hit it. It’s amazing how surreal fear
and rage can make a person feel, and I’m going to use it to help me find her.

I leave May at the foot of the stairs so that the police
will find her immediately, but I don’t touch the piece of meat in the kitchen.
Any evidence against me will surely look bad, and I don’t want to end up in
jail when I should be looking for Anastasia. As abrasive as she may be at
times, she’s a good person just like her father.

Now that I’ve done what’s necessary, I let myself go, and
everything blackens as if a thick curtain has been pulled over my eyes.

The next time this side of me is conscious, I’m in the
middle of the woods with scrapes on my arms, and I can hear sirens in the
distance. I have a scrap of cloth in my hands, which has blood on the end, and
I recognize it as part of the white, long sleeved shirt that Anastasia was
wearing this evening. The last of the sun’s rays are setting, and the air is
starting to grow noticeably cooler. It’s supposed to be in the sixties this
evening due to a freak cold front moving in, which is bringing thunderstorms.

I stumble through the trees towards the sounds of sirens,
and burst through just in time to have guns shoved into my face. Three police
officers scream for me to get down on my knees and put my hands in the air. I
do as they say, with the scrap of cloth still tucked between my fingers safely.
One of the officers takes it from me just before the second puts the cold,
metal cuffs over my wrists. I’m starting to black out again, but I try to hold
off this time.

“You have the right to remain silent,” the officer states my
Miranda rights to me as he leads me none too gently back to the cruiser sitting
out front of the farm house. He puts his hand on top of my head and bends me
down into the back, and then he closes the door. My claustrophobia starts to
kick in when I notice there are no door handles on the inside, and I start to
feel nauseous and light headed at the same time.

I close my eyes against the onslaught of lights and put my
hands over my ears to block out the sound. That’s when reality slips away, and
I enter into the darkness that is my mind. Flashes of the bloody piece of shirt
and leaves under my hands come back to me, but nothing of importance actually
derives from the snippets of memory.

“Jonah.” The voice is far off, but I can tell by the tone
that the owner of it is irritated by my lack of response. “Jonah Quinton, do
you want a lawyer present?” I try to find my way back to myself, but it’s like
trying to walk through a pool filled with Jell-O. “Jonah, I need you to answer
verbally for me.” Did I nod? Finally, it’s like someone has taken away the
Jell-O and I shoot back into consciousness, right into Hell.

I’m sitting at a metal table with my hands cuffed in front
of me and chains dangling around my ankles. The chair they planted me on is
hard, and the room is freezing cold. I know that they don’t try to make these
rooms comfortable, but do they actually attempt to make them this uncomfortable
for a human being?

“I don’t want a lawyer. I just want you to find Anastasia.”
The officer is standing behind me, so all I have in my vision is the large,
tinted glass window in front of me. This is a rather big deal, nothing like
shoplifting, so I assume that there are a few higher ups behind that thick
glass. I suddenly have the urge to misbehave and scream, but I tone that side
of me down rather easily. Losing my temper is not going to help Anastasia come
home safely.

“Then tell me what happened this evening.” The officer
finally comes around my right side and settles himself in another
uncomfortable, metal chair with his left foot propped up on the table. I study
the blades of grass and soil on the bottom of his shoe.

“You didn’t find her.” It’s not a question. As soon as I saw
the grass I realized that they must have given up searching for the time being.
Otherwise, every available officer would be out there right now.

“I can’t tell you that, son. You called 911 at eight sixteen
this evening, why?” There’s a camera in the corner of the room with a red light
blinking, and for a few seconds I can’t help but stare at it. I’m using those
seconds to reign in my fear.

“I was outside cleaning up bits of the barn that were left
over, and then I realized that it was getting late. When I walked into the
house, the television was on, and there was no sign of Anastasia or May.” The
officer stops me mid-thought with a raised hand.

“May is the dog?” I nod, and he jots something down on a
small notepad. “Okay, continue.”

“I was going to take a shower, but I wanted to find
Anastasia or May first because I thought the television being on like that was
odd. I went into the bedroom on the first floor, and I heard a sound. It was
too feint for me to figure out what it was, but I thought it was May. So I went
back into the living room and turned off the television. I found May in the
kitchen with a piece of meat by her that looked like it had some type of drug
on it. I didn’t touch it.”

“Why not?” Condescension.

“Because I knew that if I touched it, it would look like I
had done it. That’s why I’m here, right? You think I lost my marbles, and I
killed her. Now you’re just flouncing around the woods like faeries looking for
a dead fucking body!” I slam my fists down on the metal table and bite the
inside of my cheek to get the words to stop pouring from my mouth. By the time
I feel under control, there’s blood coating my teeth and sliding down my
throat. Oddly, the taste doesn’t disturb me.