Page 8 of A Song of Death and Desire

I sit at our kitchen island and let Kelly fuss around me, dishing up a huge plate of breakfast or lunch or whatever you want to call it. I tuck in immediately, having not eaten in about twenty-four hours now.

“I've already called Tom. You have been all over the news, so he knew about what happened to Don and Steve and how they found you. I requested that you have the week off work to recover, and he was totally okay with that.”

He would be. He'd give me pretty much anything if I asked. A week off after a boat crash and nearly drowning? A no-brainer. I’m surprised that he didn’t just shut the office down for a week but I know that would cause even more of a headache in the long run. I can't help the flicker of annoyance that she contacted Tom about my time off. I know she meant well, but I wish she had spoken to me about it first. This isn't the first time Kelly has decided for me without asking. It's something we have argued about on multiple occasions. She often feels that she knows what's best in any given situation and will act accordingly. It is expected that I'll go along with it even if I disagree.

I enjoy my work. As a graphic designer, I have a lot of flexibility in how I spend my time, and it keeps my mind busy. I like fixating on details, changing things here and there to ensure that they are perfect. Now I'm going to have to spend the week at home thinking about everything that has happened.

I eat the rest of my meal in silence, contemplating how I'm going to spend my day. My week. My way of coping with hard things is to throw myself into literally any task that keeps my body and mind busy— work, exercise, random DIY tasks around the home. One time, I even went through a baking phase because nothing else was working. And obviously, fishing. But that’s not going to happen again for a while. You name it, and I’ve done it. Anything to avoid dealing with my issues. So, the prospect of not being busy this week is making me anxious.

I leave Kelly in the kitchen and go upstairs to take a shower. I adjust the water temperature until it is scorching hot and step in. I face away from the water and let it cascade down my back. Instead of relaxing me, though, it causes me to tense up. Memories assault me. Images of crashing waves, pulling me below the surface again and again. The loud cracks of thunder and flashes of lightning light up the dark sky. The stings of pain as my body tumbles in the surf, hitting rock after rock.

In the shower I gasp for breath, my throat closing up at the memories. My heart beats hard and fast, and my breathing becomes ragged as I frantically try to suck in the air around me. My pulse thuds loudly in my ears as my body tries to fight against the onslaught of memories. The sound of the water on the tiles reminds me of the rain slapping against the ocean. I feel like I’m back in the water again, like I’m drowning. My lungs are filling with water.I can’t breathe.

With my back to the wall, I slide down to the floor. Resting my elbows on my knees, I hold my head. I thread my fingers through my hair, gripping hard and pulling on the strands, using the pain to ground me and remind me of where I am.I’m at home. I’m safe.

I try to remember the breathing exercises Kelly talks about, something she has read in a self-help book and uses when she is stressed.

Breathe in. One, two, three, four.

Breathe out. One, two, three, four.

Breathe in. One, two, three, four.

I repeat this over and over until my heart slows and my breaths become steady. The visions of the ocean and the storm fade and I am once again aware of my surroundings. I stay under the stream for a few more minutes, and while my eyes are closed, my mind is filled with the red-haired goddess I saw in the hospital. I don’t think I have ever seen her before yesterday, soI don’t know why her image keeps popping into my mind. And why the image elicits such a sense of calm within me. Who is she?

“Will you stop hovering,” I growl at Kelly after she offers me something to eat for what feels like the tenth time in as many minutes. I’m on edge and becoming increasingly more snappy towards her and she won’t leave me alone. It’s like if she loses sight of me for more than a few minutes then I will fade out of existence.

She huffs at me in annoyance. “I’m just trying to make sure you have everything you need. You need to rest and I’m just trying to help.” I get it, but I don’t want or need her help right now. “I still feel so guilty that you were out there that day partially because of me,” she says and her mouth quivers as she tries to hold back, what I assume to be another round of tears. This isn’t a new conversation. I have been spending a lot of time reassuring her that I’m okay and that I don’t blame her for the accident, that it wasn’t her fault. It was, but I’m not going to hold that against her. No one could have predicted this.

I woke up this morning with an unfamiliar melody replaying in my head. It’s an eerie yet beautiful tune that I can honestly not remember hearing before. I’m frustrated that I still have large memory gaps, and I feel guilty that I can’t offer any closure to the families of Don, Steve, and Brenton. They deserve to know what happened, but every time I try to bring forth the memories, my heart rate immediately spikes, and I gasp for breath. I feel like I’m transported back in time and it takes me a while to calm myself back down again.

All my twisted-up emotions mean that I don’t have much patience with Kelly’s hovering. I just want to be left alone. I force myself to sit with her and watch movies and try to concentrate on her while she tucks herself into my side on the sofa. My mind keeps drifting though, to the scarlet-haired woman and the song.

The next three days pass similarly, torturously, just as I suspected they would. I’m irritable and I can’t get this fucking song out of my head! Kelly’s constant presence is driving me crazy. I love her, I truly do, but I feel like our relationship has only worked as well as it has for the last three years because we spend a good amount of time apart as well as together. We both work full-time jobs in separate locations and have different groups of friends. I like being alone, the opportunity to do whatever I feel like without judgment, and the silence that comes with not being around others. Kelly talks. A lot. And the less I talk, the more she does so to fill the space. Her extroverted manner and sociability are wonderful qualities that she possesses, but not for the first time I consider that perhaps we just aren’t that compatible.

I’m watching television when the news broadcasts footage from Don, Steve, and Brenton’s funeral yesterday. The funeral was as terrible as you would expect. There were no bodies to bury and still no closure for the families. The town came together to organize a joint memorial service for the three men. I didn’t want to go, but Kelly pushed me until I relented. Of course, I wanted to pay my respect, but I didn’t feel like I could face everyone.

I am overcome with guilt and the reminder of how gods damn awful I felt standing near their families. Their grief was tearing them apart. Wives who have lost their husbands and children who have lost fathers. And then there was me, the lucky son of a bitch who, against all odds, managed to survive. They didn’t seem to resent me, genuinely appearing happy for my safety. But I think I hold enough guilt and resentment for all of us.

My eyes burn as I try to hold back the tears threatening to fall. Seeing the footage has brought up all the emotions I had been suppressing the last few days. I feel another panic attack coming on. They have been occurring sporadically all week. Sometimes I can work through it well enough but sometimes nothing helps.

“Dianna really wants to catch up with us. Do you remember Dianna? She was horrified to hear about the accident and would love to see you. Oh, and she’s having all those issues with her husband. Do you remember me telling you about Jason?”

Oblivious to the war raging within me, Kelly continues to go on and on. She won’t stop talking, and I just. Don’t. Care. I’m trying to tune out her voice while I wrestle with my growing panic. Is that selfish of me? Possibly? But despite not engaging in the conversation at all, Kelly continues. I feel my anxiety start to morph into rage, and I need her to be quiet.

“Would you just shut up already,” I say, much louder than I mean to. Kelly stops mid-sentence and stares at me as tears form in her watery eyes. Oh fuck.

“Wh…what?” She stammers.

“I need you to stop talking. I can’t handle it. Just go back to work and leave me alone,” I say, unable to stop the words coming out of my mouth but simultaneously knowing the hurt they are causing.

Without a word, Kelly walks out of the room, packs a bag, and leaves the apartment. She doesn’t say anything, I don’t say anything, and the only sounds are her sobs that she is trying tomuffle. She does exactly what I asked and leaves me alone. And now I feel like a total asshole. And the song, that bloody song, continues to fill my mind, drowning out everything else.

Chapter 8

It’s been a couple of weeks since the boat crash and life has more or less returned to normal. After the week from hell, when I pissed Kelly off so much that she had to stay with her mother for a couple of nights, I came back to work. I was greeted with a lot of pitying looks and pats on the shoulder, along with a “glad you’re alive.” Don and Steve’s desks were cleared, but staff have taken to placing bouquets of flowers on top of them. There are also photos, and the desks have turned into somewhat of a memorial.

While people generally though I was okay, they loved Don and Steve. The loss is felt around the office every day and it’s not uncommon for someone to randomly start crying at some point in the day while standing at Don or Steve’s desk.

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