Opaque

05 | Rule Number Nine

"The past is never dead, it is not even past." - William Faulkner

                Chapter Five

I couldn't believe my eyes. Was this really happening? 

I felt my forehead, wiped off some sweat, and fanned myself as I felt myself heating up. I knew the flashes were coming, if the sudden spike in my body temperature was any indication, but I had no defense against them. There was simply nothing that I could do to prevent them from torturing me.

After years of tossing and turning on my bed, avoiding sleep like the plague, and trying millions of different methods, all except medicine, I still hadn't figured out how to rid myself of the flashes. One would think that, after enduring extreme training to join the FBI, after fighting experts and skilled adversaries, I would have a high endurance level for pain, but sadly that was not the case.

I could survive bullets, life threatening stunts, internal and external wounds, thirty six different torture techniques, but I was helpless against the flashes because it was my own mind that conjured them up. I wasn't afraid of Blaze or any other criminal, at least not yet, because if the need arose, I could run. I could run far away and begin again, in a different city, in a different country, with a different identity. Luckily for me, I had yet to meet a criminal who I couldn't defeat.

Rule number nine: let nature run its course.

Since I couldn't run away from myself–trust me, I've tried– the next best thing was to simply deal with the enemy, which in this case was myself, and let it do the damage. Picking up the pieces and gluing myself back together was the easy part, but dealing with the past, with the flashes, was easier said than done.

I read and reread the two simple words a hundred times. All logic flew out of my mind. Obvious questions and thoughts, such as "Am I over thinking?" and "What if this was accidental message sent to me by mistake?" didn't enter my mind as fear took possession of my body.

If this was him, or his accomplice, then my past was coming back. As the thought of his return hit me like a bag of bricks, momentarily, I forgot how to breathe. My heart stopped beating for a split second. I gasped for air as my legs gave out under me and I collapsed on the cold, hard ground.

The flashes began again like an incessant cycle that had no end, which never stopped, and which continued continuously until the end of time.

Screams. The shrieks of a woman, her cries for help, and her pleads for mercy blasted in my eardrum as if I was in the same room as her.  Then, a girl screamed, as if in extreme pain, as if on fire, sounding eerily like me.

I clutched my head as the throbbing pain hit me, front and center, and I doubled over in pain. The pounding in my head did not stop and I felt my throat constrict as I tried to keep my screams of pain lodged in my chest.  I closed my eyes tightly, similar to how a person scared of heights would on a roller coaster.

Breathe Angie, just breathe. I gave myself a pep talk to avoid falling over the edge.

Bones. As if a paper was being ripped right next to my ear, as if glass was being crushed under the heavy weight of a person, I could hear bones being crushed. Each individual bone made a sickening crunching sound; I bit my tongue.

Whatever you do, just don't scream. No one would ever have the pleasure to hear my screams–no one. This was a promise that I would never, ever, break.

Blood. As the shrieks and the bone crushing sounds began to get farther away, I almost felt relieved until I heard the pitter patter noise, which would typically be associated with rain, but it wasn't rain. It was much worse.  It was the steady sound of blood dripping.

Tip, tap, drip, drop, and then splatter, splash, squish.

I hugged myself, rocking back and forth as I sat on the cold ground, and almost lost control as I felt the blood splatter all over my face and body. The putrid metallic smell of blood flooded my nostrils, gagging me, and I almost threw up right then and there, but I controlled myself.

It's not real. I tried hard to convince myself. If I opened my eyes, I was sure to find myself alone in the auditorium.

It was strange that I never flinched when I bled or when I made someone else bleed, usually a criminal, but when these flashes occurred, I suddenly became a hemophobic. Maybe this was sign of a mental disorder, or a disease, but I didn't know and I certainly didn't want to find out. Ignorance was bliss at this point, besides I was fine. Wasn't I?

I shook my head roughly, but, try as I might, I couldn't end this nightmare. There was no end to this cycle; only pain, suffering, and more pain.

Gun shots. One. Two. Three. Four. Four gunshots in total. It was a blood bath; holes were made in the bodies of humans and blood was spilled.

Then all was silent. I didn't know what was worse, the silence or the screams.

I forced my eyes wide open, breathing heavily. I pushed my phone away from me, not caring where it went as long as it was out of sight, and ran my hands through my hair.

Pure silence surrounded me, a striking contrast to the loud noises I had just heard, and I sat there trying to disappear into thin air.

I was a mess. Sweat made my hair cling to my scalp, my skin was deathly pale, and I felt like I just ran a marathon.

Now that the flashes were over–for now, that is–I could think and process information more clearly. How could I parade around, acting like I'm strong, when a single text from an unknown number was enough to make me double over in pain and fear?

Who was I fooling? These flashes were not a figment of my imagination. I didn't and couldn't have made these flashes up. They were real and they were a part of my past. Why couldn't I leave my past behind and move on?

Because you don't want to.

My subconscious answered my question for me. I hated to admit it, but I was a masochist in a sense. I didn't enjoy these flashes, but the pain made me stronger. Every time I saw my past, in bits and fragments, every time I fell apart, I came back stronger and braver than ever before. It was how I functioned.

I sat up, Indian style, and thought–simply thought. I didn't even know if it was him. It could just be a prank message or a wrong number, but dread fell heavily upon my heart. These flashes were getting worse, if that was even possible, but I wasn't willing to go to a therapist. Call it trust issues or stubbornness, but the thought of some person, who I didn't even know, asking me countless personal questions wasn't all that appealing to me.

I sighed. I was drained and tired, but not exhausted to the point of being unconscious.  I still had some energy in me.

These flashes were my kryptonite. They were my reality check, my daily reminder of what had occurred ten years ago, and without them, I was lost. However, I couldn't dwell in my thoughts and the past forever. It was too painful. So I did the next best thing–I ignored.

This was beyond pathetic. I couldn't sit around all day like a living corpse because of a stupid text. I glanced at my phone, which surprisingly hadn't moved that far, and reluctantly picked it up. It wasn't broken; I wasn't sure if that was a good or a bad thing.

I sighed again, exasperated by my weakness. I had to get over my nightmares before my enemies found out.

Agent Beta was right. Eventually I had to face my fears, but that day wasn't today. With that thought in mind, I deleted the message and sighed in relief.

I looked at my watch. It was only eleven in the morning so I had more than enough time to think about my problems later. For now, I was going to blow off some steam. I called the only person I knew who was capable of helping me. 

"Hey Dex. Ready to dance?"

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