Chapter Two
Declan
Idied when I was three years old. My mother, for reasons still unknown to me, decided to test the smoke detector outside my bedroom door while I slept.
As I came to understand much later, she climbed onto a chair with a lit cigarette and holding it to the sensor.
To nobody’s surprise but mine, it shrieked loudly, echoing up and down the hallway.
Having never encountered such a noise before, I woke up in a panic and started screaming at the top of my lungs.
The alarm and my terrified cries filled the air for what felt like forever until my father finally burst into my room.
The normal thing would have been to comfort me.
Console me. Tell me everything was alright.
Hug me. Make me feel safe. Instead, he screamed at me to shut up.
To knock it off. To stop being a baby. To stop acting like a girl.
But I couldn’t, I simply continued to wail.
Frustrated with the noise, he scrambled across the small unlit room, thrust his coarse laborer hands at my throat, grabbed me by the collar of my pajamas, and hoisted me violently up from the bed.
I cried and screamed, even more than I had been doing either.
My limbs flailed in a panic. Fuck. I was three.
This was a man who was supposed to love me.
Without taking a breath, he slammed me back down to the mattress, and repeated his barbaric actions. Lift. Slam. Lift. Slam. Lift Slam.
“Stop your fucking crying!” he shouted in unison on the fourth series of ragdoll tossing. He carried on. Six or seven more times. Each time making me cry harder and louder. Snot flung from my nostrils, and I started choking on saliva, air and fear. Terror swirled around me, making everything worse.
When I didn’t stop, my father took what he saw as the next reasonable step to end the noise.
With his fists full of my collar, he yanked me back up and hurled me at the nearby wall.
My barely aged bones crashed through the plaster and drywall into the neighboring bathroom.
I eventually landed head first in the bathtub, where my skull cracked against the faucet and everything went black.
Thankfully, my mother knew CPR. Though she smoked like a chimney, her breath brought me back from the dead after a minute or two.
The smell of old cheese enters my nostrils as I inhale the air coming from the filthy vents in my car.
The misaligned front wheels sound like a herd of West Nile mosquitos caught in a vortex, getting louder as I accelerate.
My grandfather believed you should drive any car you own until the wheels fall off.
In the case of this mid-eighties Dodge Shadow, such time can’t be far.
I never wanted this shit box. But a bit of Irish luck and a perceivably harmless comment destroyed my first ride, leaving me with little choice.
Rolling out of bed this morning was difficult, as it often is.
I didn’t make it through the night undisturbed again, and it feels like I’m getting less and less sleep with each passing night.
The last doctor I saw suggested I’d get used to it, much like a man who goes blind gets used to living without sight, but that’s a load of shit.
I enjoy going for drives. Even if I have no confidence I’ll get anywhere or be able to return safely.
It allows me to imagine the life I’ll never have.
The life where I own a large two-story house with a porch that wraps around the first floor.
As corny as it sounds, I want the white-picket-fence around the yard, and a little vegetable and flower garden.
I don’t know how to grow so much as mold, but I dare to dream.
The backyard is a sea of green stretching for acres, with horses roaming free throughout the field.
I have a beautiful and kind wife who works as a nurse at the local emergency room, and we have two handsome sons, Aiden and Zachary, both of whom love to play baseball.
As for me, in my fantasy, I’m a psychologist who dabbles in poetry in my spare time.
Suddenly Highway to Hell crackles and claps through blown speakers, and I’m reminded this is a future I’ll never have. Thinking about everything I won’t accomplish makes each day seem pointless. I was lucky enough to finish my bachelor’s degree and make it into the mental health field.
I have an amazing girlfriend, to whom I’m unconditionally devoted.
Though there are things she wishes I could put behind me, she doesn’t judge me for my past. Instead, she adores me for the better man I strive to be for her every day.
She continues to provide me with encouragement while I seek help, we both know I desperately need.
My friends, the rat traitors, all say I’m whipped.
But the truth is I’d be lost without her.
She’s the one who always suggests I try one more before quitting my search for a doctor who will listen to me.
I’m doing this for her. I want to get married and start a family, but that possibility looks less and less likely with each passing day.
Expecting anything more now would be inappropriate and irrational.
I haven’t let anyone else in on that small fact, and I feel guilty for dragging my loved ones this far.
But the truth is I carry a growing sense of doom with me everywhere I go, and I’m at a tipping point.
The kind where it’s going to end, either by finding the help I seek or taking matters into my own hands.
I haven’t had a good night’s sleep in longer than I remember, and I can’t take a relaxing breath without this overwhelming fear that every dim corner is after me.
I’m running late as usual, hoping I won’t miss today’s appointment.
Dr. Campos is one of the most prestigious in his field, and I’m out of options.
I’m twenty-seven years old, and for the past decade, I’ve been without a moment of true peace.
I push the Shadow as hard as I can, but even then, it tops out at a lightning-quick forty-five miles per hour.
Between the car’s ability to get me there and some of my previous experiences, perhaps this is my subconscious’ way of conveniently delaying my arrival.
The burn marks from the visit to the last “specialist” are still faintly visible on my arms and chest. They had me lean back on a tilted exam table, then proceeded to clamp tiny wires to various places across my body.
The intent was allegedly to record my physiological responses to a myriad of words and shapes.
“Home,” the supposed doctor said, and my left forearm twitched.
“Fire,” the idiot continued, and my right eye flinched.
The test carried on until the word “failure,” at which point I began convulsing from the feet up.
It was later determined that the dummy running the test had hooked the machine up backward, and instead of taking readings, every time a word registered, the machine jolted me with volts of electricity.
Considering everything doctors have done to me, I can’t help but wonder what will be asked of me this time around.
I doubt there’s a test currently being administered that can help, but I understand Dr. Campos has a rare theory of his own.
If I’m lucky, it will come for me while I’m there.
At least then someone else will see that I’m not making up this insane story. At least then, there would be proof.
Seeing the gargantuan homes lined down the street, my jaw drops to my lap as I make a left turn just off the main road.
A friend once mentioned that many of the homes in the nearby rich neighborhoods are big, but holy shit was that an understatement.
Every house I roll by looks like Disney’s Haunted Mansion.
The driveways have tall, barred gates and large brick or stone walkways.
One of the properties even has two headstones in the front yard.
Many of the windows are made from stained glass and look like old Victorian churches.
The property taxes here must be absurd. Far more than I’ll ever be able to afford.
Parking along the sidewalk about where the address I seek should be, I hop out of the car and slowly take in my surroundings before making my way toward the doctor’s home.
As I approach the end of the driveway, I come upon a tall gothic gate held up by two massive marble columns with dingy, emerald-colored gargoyles mounted at the top.
Who is this guy?
A couple minutes pass while I poke around the columns and gate, wondering how exactly I’m supposed to find my way in, until finally a small electronic box pushes itself out of the left pillar.
Painted to match the home’s outer décor, the magically appearing box dons a small green button on the front.
Thinking nothing of it, I press the protruding knob. But, nothing happens.
“Well, that’s disappointing,” I bellow aloud, looking at the gargoyle above me, half expecting it to respond.
Another moment passes before I press the button again, and still, nothing. Instead, I turn to the gates and try to push my way through, but the second my hand touches the cold coarse metal bars, a small surge of electricity fires through me.
“Ow!” I shout at the other gargoyle. “God. Fucking. DAMMIT.”
Like many children growing up, I sucked my thumb—the right one.
However, unlike most of those same children, as I grew older, the bad habit didn’t go away.
I was the only ten-year-old in class with his thumb in his mouth, sucking like it was my last meal.
I don’t remember when the habit broke, but the pain I feel from the immense charge of electricity assaulting my body has me sucking the area between my right thumb and forefinger, hoping the tingling sensation stops.
When the pain and tremors finally subside, I regain my composure, and figuring this is a lost cause, start back toward my car, my head slumped in defeat.
“Who is it?” a slow, crackling, high-pitched voice asks from I don’t know where, and startled, I trip over my own feet. Still dazed from the electrocution, I struggle to respond.
“Um, my name is, uh, Declan.” I feel stupid using my full name. I loathe the name Declan. But it was my great uncle’s name, and my mother idolized him. So, my name is fucking Declan. “Sorry, it’s Declan Roberts.”
“What do you want, Missster Roberts?” the stern female voice asks, causing me to wonder if I’m at the right house.
“I have an appointment with Doctor Campos,” I say, crinkling my eyes, waiting for the voice’s rejection.
“Really?” the voice asks. “Hold on. Let me check the doctor’s schedule. Don’t you go anywhere, dear.”
The click of the speaker switching off sounds nearby and I’m left to wait in silence.
I turn back to the gate that shocked me and pretend to lunge my head and shoulders forward, as my plan is to fight the inanimate bars.
I’ve been attacked and I want to exact my revenge.
How one goes about such retribution I do not know, but I want it nevertheless.
Looking around the rest of the block as my patience is tested, I notice a stunning assortment of statues.
The neighbor next door has a stone sculpture of Jesus standing in a fountain, perhaps a reference to Christ’s ability to walk on water, if only the water’s fountain didn’t stream from the Lord’s midsection.
Another house has a statue of a giant eagle perched on the center of the highest point of the roof. That same house has a pole flying American, State, and P.O.W. flags at half-mast.
Did someone die recently?
But my favorite house is near the other end of the street. It’s designed like a modern igloo. In southern California. The main part of the house is dome shaped, with a long tunnel-like walkway leading out to the street. It makes no damn sense, and I love it.
A few minutes passed and I am beginning to wonder if the voice from nowhere has forgotten me, or worse—it was all in my head.
Knowing the latter is more than plausible, I press the button outside the gate once more and cross my fingers.
It’s usually a useless gesture, but I really want luck to be on my side for a change.
A scratchy beep rings out this time, followed by a response.
“I thought I told you to wait,” the cranky voice says in a fit of frustration.
“I—I’m sorry,” I reply. Another moment passes without a sound and I’m sure I’m wasting my time.
“Stand back, Missster Roberts,” the voice says with a drawn out hiss. “I shall buzz you in.”
Not knowing what to expect, I step out into the street, far enough to prevent anything from biting me again.
A few seconds later an alarm blares somewhere behind me.
When I was six years old, my family moved to the southeast. It’s a time I rarely think about, but as the familiar sounds of a tornado siren go off, I’m right back in the family bathtub, praying I won’t be swept away to Oz.
Overlooking the gate, bright red light bursts out from the centers of the gargoyles’ eyes while their mouths drop open.
Long billowing streams of hot air flare out from each.
The noise of hot steam escaping from a thin pipe is painful to hear, sending shivers down my back and forcing my hands to fly to cover my ears in a reflex.
The sound’s vibrations shake the very earth beneath me, and I feel like I’ll vomit any second from motion sickness.
Finally, the pseudo-pyrotechnics halt before a loud pop echoes, followed by the sound of metal bending under stress.
The quaking gradually subsides, and the gates creak, opening inward and revealing what looks like a maze just beyond the driveway.
Once all the moving parts are completely open and resting in place, the voice returns.
“You may enter Missster Roberts.” It’s likeness to a cartoon snake is uncanny.
“O—okay,” I reply. “Where am I going?”
“Ah.” The crackling voice observes. “That is why I didn’t see you on the schedule.
You are new.” The voice pauses, as if to catch its breath.
“You will walk directly forward Missster Roberts, and when you reach the end of the driveway, you will see our door to your immediate left.” The voice stops again.
“I shall meet you there, Missster Roberts.”