Page 134 of Trapped: Until The Darkest Of Night

“Today’s hero of the week comes from lonely Canada, more precisely, the Yukon Territory.”

I close my eyes and send a prayer to heaven that Lou is sitting in front of the television with her brothers today. Is she thinking of me? How does she feel when she sees pictures of the snowy Yukon? Does she remember our night under the willow tree, our kisses, and the smell of the forest?

“Brendan?” London McLane clicks her tongue impatiently.

I shake my head in confusion and hear the closing words, which are also my cue: “At just twenty-two years old, he has already saved five lives. Let’s give a hand to Brendan Connor.”

Applause rings out from the recording room and pounds in my ears. I feel like I’m underwater, everything blurs. London opens the door and slaps me on the shoulder to make me run. I stumble clumsily and catch myself just in time to enter the studio.

At first, the light is so bright that I can’t see anything at all. Bright stars dance before my eyes, in between a dark dot, probably David O’Dell. I fixate on the dot and try to pay attention to what the moderator says. I know his text because it was shown to me before the broadcast, plus, I also know all the questions he will ask me. It is mainly about the situation during the bear attack. I glance down to collect myself. The sentences fly by me and circle in the air. The spotlights burn the top of my head.

At some point, the room grows quiet.

Answer!

I clear my throat awkwardly, then rattle off the first of my memorized answers, not knowing if it’s okay.

Silence again.

Even louder applause.

Jordan Price rises from my thoughts as if from a tomb, and all of a sudden, it all seems so grotesque to me. They’re celebrating me here as a hero of the week, yet I killed a man and kidnapped a girl.

But you let Lou go. And Jordan knew what he was himself getting into…

Even as my inner voices argue, David O’Dell keeps talking. My throat tightens with every answer I give. Sweat collects on my forehead. The heat from the lights is unbearable. Again and again, I glance at the floor because the light burns my eyes.

I’m about to freak out.

You need a stimulus. Something that keeps you in the here and now.

However, I don’t have any ice cubes to suck on—a tip Dr. Lee gave me for when I feel like I’m drifting. Ice cubes or chili peppers. I bite my cheek hard. A second later, I taste copper.

David O’Dell’s face becomes more defined.

“And, Brendan,” I hear him say, “among the many heroes of the week, do you have a personal favorite who should end up being Hero of the Year?”

I swallow. I didn’t need to memorize this answer. “Not a hero, but a heroine,” I reply softly. “Though she was never on this show, she saved my life.” Despite the brightness, I look straight into the camera and pray Lou is watching.

“A hero who was saved himself? Sounds exciting.” David O’Dell laughs. “Who exactly is this heroine?”

I still don’t look away, imagining peering through the camera right into Lou’s northern-sky-blue eyes. A warm feeling of gratitude flows into my heart. I have to stop for a moment. So many memories wash over me, only bright, light memories this time. I have to pull myself together so I don’t cry. She gave me so many things. Much more than love and hope, but also wonderful moments. They are bringers of light in my darkness.

“It’s a girl from Nevada,” I finally say softly as if only she should hear. “She proved to me that I’m not as bad as I used to think. She believed in me when I couldn’t anymore.” I clear my throat briefly because I’m saying a lot more than I wanted to, but I can’t hold back the words. “She shone rays of sunshine into my darkness and showed me that gray is merely silver that doesn’t shine. For that…” I pause, blink. “I’d like to thank her today, that’s why I’m here.” My surroundings blur a second time that evening, but not because I feel unreal. I press my hands against my temples briefly to collect myself. This is too important. This is my hope, my chance. “This girl…” Too quiet, I start again. “This girl wanted me to make her a promise before we went our separate ways.” I swallow again and it hurts because my throat is burning. “I didn’t know if I could keep it, so today… I want her to know that I’m in therapy…and…and that I will wait for her if she’s willing to give me another chance.” When I finish, I’m out of breath and my hoodie is stuck to my back. My eyes are damp, but I don’t care. Applause follows again and I use the moment to take a deep breath into my stomach. Just like during a fight.

Later that day, I walk through the neighborhood of my youth with my hood pulled up. The sky is pitch black and cloudy, not a star can be seen.

I leave the vapid rows of houses and the silhouette of the silvery skyscrapers behind, walk along the concrete Los Angeles River, and at some point, cross the decommissioned railroad tracks toward Compton. A dog barks in the distance and a few drunks down the street sing “Jingle Bells.” At the shabby corner kiosk, an elderly woman is rummaging through the garbage can. On impulse, I hand her a hundred-dollar bill even though I know half of it will probably be spent on crack.

I feel strange, but can’t describe in what way. I think of Lou and imagine how she may have reacted to my performance. In my imagination, she is sitting in her room, which is undeniably painted yellow and pink, clutching a heart pillow to her chest, her blue eyes full of tears. That’s nonsense, of course, she probably doesn’t even have a heart pillow. Besides, I shouldn’t picture Lou like that as if I know everything about her.

I banish these images from my mind as I walk on.

At some point, the asphalt gives way to gray gravel. The poor neighborhood still appears deserted, but in the last house on the left side of Thorson Ave, many windows are brightly lit. A colorful strand of lights stretches below the roof along the gutter. Next to one of the royal palms in the front yard, is a brightly blinking reindeer with a Santa Claus sleigh.

Like last time, my heart starts beating at the sight of my former home. A few months ago, this environment seemed foreign, now it reminds me more of a treasure. Something utterly precious.

I stop right in front of the waist-high gate. Two cherry-red pillar candles burn on tall candlesticks behind one of the windows. The others are transformed into glowing squares by strands of lights. A wreath of fir branches hangs on the front door, decorated with red-and-white candy canes. I stare at the window on the right. The curtains with the fire engines are drawn and the teddy bear mobile hovers silently in the air as if it were sleeping. The little boy must be in bed. He’s probably dreaming of tomorrow and the presents that will be under the Christmas tree.

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