Watch Over You (7 page)

“This is a tattoo?”

“It’s a swallow,” he said. He tried to free his hand, but she held onto it. “Please, Tara. You don’t understand. Let my hand go.” He was breathless when he spoke, making her heart squeeze painfully - but she had to see.

“Let me look.” She touched the blood with her fingertip, but as she did, pain shot through her hand, reverberating all the way along her arm and exploding up along her neck and face with a numbing buzz. She cried out and let go. His hand dropped down to his knee and he slipped sideways as she scuttled to the other side of the kitchen and cradled her arm. “Devan!” she exclaimed, but he didn’t answer.

He wasn’t moving. Her heart pounded so hard in her chest that she could feel the surge of blood through every vein in her body. “Devan?” As she moved towards him, pain surged through her shoulder and into her body, where it spread out like running water. She couldn’t see. She couldn’t hear. Everything grew dark. She couldn’t even feel. She just was.

She called his name. “Devan,” she whimpered, but there was no sound.

Chapter Eight

It was the kind of darkness that light couldn’t penetrate. There were no shapes or shadows. There was nothing but rich, thick, devouring darkness, and no amount of time would enable her eyes to adjust. It was scary and disorientating. Tara held out her hands in front of her. She couldn’t see them. She couldn’t see a thing; not even shades of darkness outlining furniture. She turned around, tried to look, but she saw nothing. She strained her ears, tried to listen, but she heard nothing. She breathed in deep, tried to feel the air through her nose, but felt nothing. That’s all there was…nothing.

Tears built up behind her eyes as the panic twisted her gut, causing a rush of fear to run up along her spine. She wrapped her arms around herself to offer some self-comfort, but that was of little help to push down the growing distress inside. She used to hug herself that way after Eric had died. Sometimes she would try to imagine it was him and rock herself to sleep. She did that now, not to sleep, but to push the fear away - only it wasn’t working. If anything, the complete lack of her senses made her more afraid.

“Devan?” she called desperately. She was certain that she wasn’t dreaming. It didn’t feel like a dream - it was too real. Being able to maintain enough control of your faculties in your dreams to debate whether you were actually asleep or not seemed more like a thing for the movies or books. She stretched out her fingers to scratch at her back where she held herself; her nails bit into her flesh. She wasn’t dreaming.

There was a dot or a light, or maybe even a star, off in the distance. She squinted to try to bring it into better focus so she might identify it, but it was no use. She concentrated so hard that it became hard to decide if it was real or just something she had made herself see. She inched forward, afraid that she would fall over something if she took full steps. What if there was something on the ground? She couldn’t see her feet. She couldn’t see anything at all. She brought a hand to her face, but even while touching her own nose, she couldn’t make out her hand; not even a blurred shape of it.

“Devan?” she called out softly. She said it again, raising her voice a little. “Devan? Are you there?” She had a vague memory of Devan’s hand. It had dropped when she let it go and he had slid sideways as if he had no control over his body. What if he was dead? What if she had done it again? Fresh panic rose with images of him lying dead in her kitchen - and it would be her fault again. She started to run, forgetting her fear of tripping. Thoughts of Devan and the need to get to him flooded her mind. Panic propelled her forward, towards the tiny dot of light - but she didn’t seem to be moving at all.

She was running, yet her feet made no sound as they hit the ground. In fact, it didn’t feel like there was a ground. She stopped and dared to crouch down, her hand out, fingers reaching. She found her feet; she wasn’t wearing any shoes. She slid her fingers along her bare skin until she got to her toes. She could feel under her foot, yet she hadn’t lifted it up. She knelt down and splayed her hands out where there should have been ground - but there was nothing there. With one hand, she reached down into the nothingness - there was no invisible force to stop her hand. She slapped the non-existent ground, and something did stop her hand then. But it was nothing still. 

She sat back on her haunches. “Devan?” she cried. “Please answer me. Please tell me what’s going on.” She sobbed into the nothingness and began to crawl. The dot was still there. It was the only thing she could see; the only thing that gave her any hope at all. “Devan, please just answer me.”

Tears ran down her face. Sobbing she repeated his name over and over. “Devan?” she called, until she was screaming his name. But there was still no answer. She moved towards the dot, but she never seemed to be getting any closer to it.

It was then that she heard her name. It was quiet and far away and off to the side. “Tara?”

“Devan?” She stopped to listen. “Devan, is that you?”

“Tara?” His voice was all around her. “Tara?” he repeated. It was Devan…no, it was Eric…but then it was Devan again. Her head spun in confusion.

“Eric?”

“Tara?”

“Where are you?” She stood then and ran towards the dot of light again. She ran until her legs hurt and her lungs burnt in her chest. She ran forever, calling their names. “Devan…Eric.” She yelled them over and over until her voice became hoarse. Then, suddenly, she was falling. She hadn’t tripped; there had been nothing in the way.  There was no wind to rush against her face; there was nothing at all, but the sensations in her head and stomach told her that she was falling, fast. She stretched her arms out to the side to grab onto something - anything. She tried to look above her. “Devan?”

Abruptly, her fall stopped, She put her hands over her face, not daring to look anymore, but she didn’t hit anything.. She just breathed and listened. It was as if someone had turned the volume up gradually. Sounds suddenly began to filter in again, but they were faint, hisses she couldn’t quite make out. Air kissed her skin, warm like sunshine. More importantly, she could feel someone there.

“Eric?”

“Open your eyes,” he whispered. His hands were on hers, removing them from her face. “Open your eyes, Tara,” he said, but it wasn’t Eric’s voice.

“Devan?”

“I’m right here.”

She tried to blink, but daggers of light pierced her pupils, making her blink them closed in defence again. She rubbed them, hoping to ease the strain. She lowered her hand but Devan caught it in his own. “What happened?”

“You fell,” he said. “Can you open your eyes slowly?”

She nodded and tried, but the moment they opened, pain speared through them once more. She had to force them open. The world seemed different, tilted in some way. She tried to sit up, but her head swam.

“Don’t try to get up. Just give yourself a moment.”

“No, I didn’t fall. I…” She cast her mind back to before the darkness. She thought about Devan throwing up and then her sitting with him. His hand - she’d touched his hand and then what? She attempted to sit up again, but her head felt weighted down from the inside. A wave of nausea rushed over her and she sat back again. She licked her lips; they were dry. She tried to swallow, but her mouth was dry too. “On your hand…I saw... I touched it.”

“Don’t think about that now. Here, open your mouth.”

“What is it?”

“Water.” Devan put a glass to her mouth. She took small sips until the dryness in her mouth vanished and she could swallow without the twinges of pain. Taking in her surroundings, she realised she was in her lounge, lying on her sofa. She didn’t remember getting there. She did notice that the lamp was on in the corner and the curtains were drawn.

“What time is it?”

“It’s just evening.” Tara strained to see the clock on the mantel piece. It was after six in the evening.

“I passed out?”

“For a while.”

“It’s been hours.” Tara attempted to sit up again, but Devan pushed her back down. “Just help me up?”

“I don’t think it’s a great idea,” he said, his hand on her shoulder.

“It’s fine. I need to get up and move about,” Tara insisted. Devan’s proximity wasn’t allowing her to think clearly either. She wanted to get up and go and look around. She wanted to go into the kitchen. It felt as if she had been away for a long time and was coming back a changed person. Things felt different. Being awake felt like she was dreaming. She turned to look at Devan. “Did I lie on the sofa all day?”

He rocked back on his heels. “About an hour.” When she frowned he added, “I woke about an hour ago, then I put you on the sofa.”

“You don’t think that’s strange? The time?”

Devan shrugged.

Tara pushed herself to her feet. Her muscles were stiff and they argued as she stretched them out. She stood on wobbly, unsteady feet.. Devan reached out to grab hold of her with his unbandaged hand. A jolt ran through her at the contact. She could feel his skin against hers. Really feel it. Not just the presence of his hand around hers, but every contour, every texture - and the temperature. “You still have a fever?” she asked when she noted how hot his hand was.

“It’ll pass. It always does.”

“You get them a lot?”

He shrugged again but didn’t answer. She let go of his hand and moved to go to the kitchen, but Devan stayed close, a warm shadow behind her. She used the door frame, furniture, anything really, to steady herself as she walked. Her confidence grew with each step, along with her strength. She led Devan through the dining room to the kitchen,
everything suddenly seeming so alien to her. She glanced around to see if anything was missing or moved. Something felt wrong and off. When she got to the kitchen, the table was as she had left it. She touched the coffee pot - it was stone cold. There were a couple of flies buzzing around the food, delighting in their find. The pan was where Devan had left it after serving breakfast, sitting on the counter unwashed. She picked it up to examine it. The food was hard and dark, as if encrusted over longer than just a few hours.

“How is this possible?” she demanded of Devan as she thrust the pan in his direction to show him. “It’s like it’s been here all week. What’s going on?”

Devan took the pan and moved the spatula around in it. The food snapped away in hard clumps. “You had a nasty fall. It’s okay.” He put the pan back on the side and went over to her. He placed a comforting hand on her shoulder, and while his touch did make Tara grow a little calmer inside, it also clouded her mind. She was forgetting something, but she didn’t have a clue what it was.

Suddenly exhausted, she collapsed against the counter, her eyes struggling to stay open. She could very possibly fall asleep while standing up. She didn’t argue when Devan came to stand beside her again. She leaned into him. “I think I just need to go to bed. I don’t feel so good.”

“Do you want me to help you get back to the sofa?”

“No. I’d like to go to my room.”

It wasn’t the easiest thing to do. Walk. Her legs felt like she had concrete shoes on while trying her hardest to wade through muddied water. Her thighs were stiff too, even though she stretched them out. If she could have, she would have sat down on the floor in the kitchen and cried for whatever it was that was going on. She had never been so drained. She had to lean on Devan as he walked her to the foot of the stairs, but when she tried to lift her foot to climb upstairs, the muscles in her calf burnt with the threat of cramp.

“I can't do it,” she cried and let herself slump to the floor. Devan grabbed for her, but he was too late. Her legs folded under her until she lay crumpled on the floor, her head resting against the bottom step. “I wish Eric was here,” she sobbed.

She hated these moments the most, when she was feeling bad inside. When something was wrong and she was sick or tired, or had just had a bad day. Those were the days she missed Eric the most. She missed how he’d comfort her or take her into his arms and just hold her. He had made her feel so protected and cared for – so loved. It was stupid; anything could set her off. Something as simple as having to mow the lawn herself was enough to make her cry and twist that pain in her chest. Eric had always done it. She avoided doing so many things. She didn’t want to feel that hole inside. She didn’t want to face that emptiness he had left.

“What can I do?” Devan asked from behind her.

“There is nothing.” She sat up and turned a little to face Devan. She stopped caring how puffed up and swollen her eyes looked, or how dishevelled her appearance probably was. Her nose was stuffy and she had no doubt that her face was bright red. “Eric is dead,” she said. “He won’t mind if you’re here or if you borrow his clothes. He’s gone. He doesn’t know or care about anything anymore.” She hugged herself tight and fought back her tears.

“That’s not true. I'm sure he cares very much that you're suffering.” It was the first time Devan had said anything that remotely identified he knew Eric, and while Tara wanted to jump on it and ask questions, her mind had already caught the grief train to self-pity station.

“He doesn’t know. He’s dead.” She said the words as if she were trying to slap herself with them - shock herself deep inside and take her pain away. “You should leave me here. I’m so pathetic. Go and find your sister or whoever it is.”