Page 39 of Catching Camila

“No, let’s do it.”

“You sure?” She perked up.

“Yeah.” He settled back and closed his eyes. “It can’t hurt, right?”

With his vision gone, the rest of his senses picked up the slack. He was suddenly aware of the sound of water lapping at the shore, the ribbets of frogs in the cattails to his right, the shrill cicada’s buzz. He heard Camila lean closer in the sand. Her knee brushed against the fabric at his thigh as she shifted. Over the smells of lake water and earthy forest, he found the scent of her strawberry shampoo. If she'd stay this close to him, he'd do any memory exercise in the world.

“Okay,” her voice said above him. “I want you to clear your mind.”

“Isn’t that the problem?” he said, smirking.

“No, silly, I mean clear it of all the thoughts of the day, the worries, the fears. Just try to make your mind blank.” She shifted and again he felt her knee brush his thigh. How could he clear his mind when she kept touching him?

“I’ll try,” he said, blowing out a breath. “For you.”

John settled himself and pressed the thoughts out of his mind. Many came swirling back, the anxieties of the day buzzed around like pesky flies, but he fought back, chasing them down and swatting them out. When Camila spoke next, it was as if her voice came from farther away.

“I want you to go deep, deep inside your mind. Deep into the places where you’ve hidden your memories. As I count to ten, you’re going to go deeper. At ten you’ll be so deep you’ll find those memories you’re looking for. Okay, one…two…three…”

This is never going to work, John thought, but he cleared that thought away and listened to the soft vibration of Camila’s voice. With his eyes closed, he was actually feeling pretty drowsy.

By the count of six, he felt his head dip.

By ten the lake, the sand and even Camila were gone.

* * *

Thursday 6:48 p.m.

Darkness.Then sparklers of light at the backs of his eyes. Suddenly there was a flash and the sharp smell of something burning. Then the feel of moist dirt on his bare skin.

Another flash. His head spun. Then he was hurtling downward in a black void. Stars whipped past in streaks of light through the small semi-translucent window. He was in some sort of organic pod, warm and pulsing. It felt like being inside a beating heart. A voice spoke, vibrating the walls. Someone familiar. He wanted to hear more, but the image bled and shifted.

The silo flashed before him like a neon sign on a black backdrop. This time he was farther back and he could see the whole thing. It was taller, more bulbous at the top. Some type of tower? He started to walk toward it.

Then it too fizzled and died.

Deeper, further. He needed more.

He pushed inside himself, digging at memories through a membrane of foggy confusion. Just as he was about to break through the fog, a searing pain hit him like a fire poker wedged through the two halves of his cranium. His head would split apart.

He cried out.

He woke gasping.

Cradled his throbbing head in his hands, he moaned. He couldn’t open his eyes. They would rupture and leak out if he tried.

“John? Oh God, John. I’m so sorry. Are you okay?”

He turned toward the voice. “Camila?” he mumbled. God, his head. It felt like someone had dropped one of those train cars on it.

“John? What happened?” A hand closed over his and a thumb moved in gentle circles over the back of his wrist. He concentrated on the sensation of her fingers on his skin and the headache abated slowly. He opened his eyes.

A jab of pain, but then it backed off until he could focus on her face hovering over his. Her dark brows furrowed. Her hair fell over her shoulder and tumbled down to where it lay pooled on his chest like a silk curtain. Her tank top spilled forward revealing two mounds of soft tan flesh. Suddenly his headache seemed a lot better.

She shook her head. “I can’t believe I did that. God, I’m sorry, John.” She continued to rub his hand. “That never happens on Guiding Light.”

John sat up and the pain lanced the backs of his eyes. He pressed his fingers to his eye sockets and waited. Then he opened them again. “I think it might’ve worked. At least…” He looked up, trying to remember.

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