Burn, Baby, Burn by Michael Seale (Chapter 6)

Chapter 6

Black eyes

Highway 7 merged with Highway 41 just past the Great Barrington Police station which changed to Route 23 just after Bryant Court. Now, I never could understand how one street could have so many names. Then after a while Route 23 turned back to Highway 7 and then eventually into Stockbridge Road. Or maybe it was always the same. It has always confused the hell out of me.

Past the Riverwalk, I made a left onto High Street. There in a beautiful Victorian house was a doctor's office. My appointment was at 10:00 as usual I was five minutes early. I hate being late, I'm never late. I would rather wait half an hour than be one minute late. 

Dr. Martin Webber did a little blood work. He also asked me tons of questions. If I had taken any drugs, how my stress level was, am I sexually active, the usual. It would be a few days before the test results came back.

I would have to say, I didn't feel better after talking to him. The one thing that he told me had to do with Epilepsy, he said that maybe I was having Focal Seizures. These types of seizures start in one particular part of the brain, they can cause physical and emotion effects. They can make you feel, see, or hear things that are not there. He stated that sometimes the effects are mistaken for mental illness. 

Or I could just be losing my mind, I joked. He didn’t think it was funny. I would have to wait, one for the results and two to see if it happens again. I suppose, if there is something I can, I'll do it. But I won't let it control my life. 

I sat in my car at the corner of High Street and Highway 7. Soul Asylum played on the radio, Runaway train. How can so many people go missing, it blows my mind? Crazy shit. The song changed to Live, smell the drama.  

I could hear a ringing in the distance. Starting my car, I tried to ignore it. It was barely there. I was imagining it. No, it’s coming from inside the office, a window must be open, I told myself. It got louder, louder. I changed the station. But Britney Spears may have done it again, but the ringing was still there. I turned the radio off.

I realized I hadn’t taken a breath. I breathed. It stopped, or at least I thought. Seconds ticked by without a sound.  

The ringing started again, jack hammering in my head, in my ears, pounding against the sides of my skull. I squeezed my eyes shut, pressing my hands over my ears. I opened them, my car speeding down Highway 7. 

I tried to stop the car, but I couldn't, my feet didn’t react. I was driving faster and faster. My foot wouldn’t budge from the gas pedal. The speedometer pushed farther and farther up. Sixty, seventy mph. Eighty. 

The ringing echoed in my head. I could hear nothing else, it pulsated behind my eyes. Spots gathered in front of them. The road was rather straight, but if I passed out. That it pulled at my heart. If I crashed at this speed, I was dead. The ringing crushed my skull, my eyes felt as if they might explode. I could feel the darkness pulling me, the spots grew bigger. The ringing dragged me towards the end. My eyes closed, no, no I tried to scream but nothing came out.

The darkness was pure, pure black. I couldn't see, I couldn't feel. I must be dead though. But I am breathing, I can feel my heart race, a faint sound whispers beyond the darkness. 

A laugh, a muffled cry, the shroud of darkness covered me. But I felt that I was not alone. 

I could still feel the car speeding, but I could no longer move. The darkness covered my eyes; it blinded me; the feeling of despair was crushing. I felt the car drift. This is the end, I thought. I could hear screaming, someone yelling at me to stop. There is someone in the car with me, a woman. Her screams growing louder, then the laugh. It pierced my soul, the evilness of it. There was no control, no gas, no brake, no steering. I was not there. The car swerved beneath me, a crash, loud steel smashing crash thundered above the screams. Suddenly everything was still.

The screaming, the laughing both had abruptly stopped, I heard only labored breathing. Smoke filled my lungs, and I dragged myself away from the wreck. My eyes finally open, seeing the chaos that I had caused twisted metal, broken glass, smoke and heat. The mirror hung from the side of the door revealed my reflection my blue eyes were black. They weren’t mine, but there I was. I pulled myself farther away from the wreckage that was once a car; not my car, but I pulled myself out of a wreck of a car. It had flipped over and was lying on its roof.   

From the wreckage, I could hear a wet slapping sound. The woman, I thought. Her bloodied hand slapped against the plastic upholstered seat. I urged myself to move back towards the unknown car, but my feet didn't move. My body refused my directions. I couldn't control my movements, I was a helpless witness. A woman, there was a woman in the car. She had screamed at me. Looked to me through bruised eyes. She hung upside down, strapped to her seat. Her face bled; a piece of glass had shredded her jawline, leaving a flap of skin hanging lapping over her cheek. 

The car quickly filled with smoke, as the fire burned, hotter and hotter. I watched, unable to do anything. My will wasn’t strong enough. I could see my reflection in the black smoked glass, but it wasn't me. I mean, it was me, but it wasn't. I changed, different. My eyes were black, and I smirked at the wreckage, like I enjoyed it. But I didn't, I don't enjoy it. I want it to stop; I want to save her. 

Her hand reached for the glass, blocking out my image, calling me, beckoning me to save her. Her skin already charred and black. Momma? I felt like I could hear her skin sizzle and pop. Like bacon crisping in a pan. She screamed and screamed. I realized that I was laughing. I stood next to this burning wreck of a car and laughed while the woman inside burned alive. 

The radio blared to life with another hit, Fountains of Wayne, Stacy's Mom. I was back sitting in my car. An old man stared at me from across the street. He pointed at me. He seemed to cry. His clothes were dirty, his hair long and messy, like he hadn’t washed in a long time. He walked across the street yelling something. Cars whizzed by him. They didn’t take notice. 

He stood in front of the hood of my old Pontiac Grand Am, my car, not a wreck. He placed his hands on the hood, and yelled. Tears streamed down his face. His teeth looked broken and rotted. His clothes were more in tatters than whole. He scared me; I didn’t know what he wanted from me.

“Look,” he yelled. 

“What…” I stuttered.

“Look and see. It was you.”

The song changed. Collective Soul, Shine. Just like that, he disappeared. One second there and the next, poof. 

Was it another dream? How could he have disappeared? I looked at the clock on the dashboard. I had been sitting in my car for close to an hour. How could this be?

It had to have been two hallucinations. I didn’t understand. What the hell is going on? I rubbed my temples, my head pounded.  I got out of my car and looked around. It had to have been real. It must have.  

Jumping back into my car and turned left on Highway 7. The direction I had been driving in the hallucination. I drove and drove, out of Barrington, north past the Thornwood Inn and Fountain Pond. There it was, just past the pond, a slight break in the tree line. 

It was a shrine, or a memorial. Flowers, photos and candles littered the side of the road. I slowed. The name was on the memorial was Naomi. I had known a Naomi. But she had left town, she had moved, hadn’t she?

I stopped the car on the shoulder, the tires of the Pontiac screeching over the loose gravel. My hands shook, I didn’t understand. Why should I be, I thought? 

I walked to the memorial; the flowers were old and decaying. Their bright colors faded and browned. They were crisp to the touch. The banner with Naomi’s name had a date: June 29, 1997. It was a year ago, almost to the day. It was my Naomi, not mine, but the Naomi that I knew. Naomi was beautiful. She had long brown hair, deep brown eyes with flecks of green.  One crooked tooth; which she hated, and I remember we joked about that. I hadn’t known her well; she was like most women in my life, playing only a short supporting role. I was never good with the whole boyfriend thing. But I was good at hook ups. They knew how I was.  

I suppose she never moved.  Why didn’t I know that this happened? How could I have not known? It confused me. I tried to remember the last time I saw her; I thought about it. We had gone out for a drink the day before she was moving. We hooked up that night, that one time, the next day she moved.  

Why didn’t I remember this happening?