Dead Give Away (short story)

4 | Waterfall

Time blurs, stretches, fades. The road is a strip of light in the darkness, fog whips past the windscreen—or maybe it's his eyes.

Kayla would murder him if she knows he's driving at this hour. That's the reason why he opts to pass out at his office nowadays.

At this moment, adrenaline pumps through his veins, but it's not enough to wash the veil from his eyes. Thoughts jumble in his brain and fight for attention, but he pays them none.

His white hands grip the steering wheel as he manoeuvres the vehicle around the winding incline. This motion, riding on the fringe of what feels like the heavens, is familiar. The headlights cut off after a few feet now, no longer bounce off gnarled tree trunks, but restrained by the endless abyss of darkness.

The road levels out, and Dylan exhales through his nose. Millions of stars glitter in the sky above. An eternity of crystalline teardrops, Kayla might say, hanging in the heavens.

"Ten minutes to your destination," a robotic voice chimes from the GPS, as sudden and loud as a gunshot in the still night.

Startled, he turns off the air-conditioning and lowers the window. He tunes in to the sound of the peaceful, undisturbed night. The brisk wind, the quiet rustle of leaves, the hoot of an owl in the distance.

White noise. It grows louder, more defined, until the underlining of rushing water strengthens to a roar.

Dylan stops the car. The headlights beam against the glittering, gushing waterfall. It cascades down the mountain's edge, over mossy rocks and fern.

"Kayla!" He yells. His voice is snatched away into the roar off the waterfall before it reaches his own ears.

He grabs the torch wedged between the passenger seat and flicks it on. He surveys his crisp, white suit. The reserved suit. The one thing he hadn't thought to think of. The suit he never thought he'd wear. Without sparing a second thought, he pulls off the coat, vest, then buttondown. The cold atmosphere washes over his chest, snakes into his bones.

He'll regret it the next day, when he's caught in bed with a cold and fending off phone calls. Or taking them. But at least Kayla would be feeding him warm soup.

He aims the string of light at the rocky ground and advances. The barrier between his mind and memories trembles. Each cautious step yanks at the stitches in his heart, and fresh pain courses though his being.

Millions of tiny water droplets bite at his his skin, weigh on his back and shoulders, the force knocks him off his feet. He smacks against the cold, stony dirt wall in the hollow beyond the waterfall. Blood seeps into his mouth. 

"So, see? This is our little secret. Nobody will ever find it out."

"Oh yeah? You sure about that?"

"Hundred percent. Sometimes, Dill, secrets are hidden in places too dangerous to reach. If you try, you might as well sign your death note."

"First, stop sounding like a book. Second, what if someone already knows?"

"Well...then you'd just have to pretend it doesn't exist. What else can you do?"

In the slant of moonlight, Dylan stands, on the ledge of the alcove he used to be able to sit on. He wipes the water off his face, his hand comes away dripping in blood. He stares at his palm, the clear liquid that splashes there. Tears.

"Kayla," he whispers. "Where are you?" His heart knows her name is not the one his most wishes to cry into the thunderous crash of rushing water.

Just as he begins walk the path of defeat back to his car, he freezes. Faded splatters of brown and yellow paint map the ground, the walls. His senses come alive, push past the fog in his head, detects the lingering scent of turpentine.

An image streaks through his brain, and he grabs his skull, whimpering at the pain. The large oak cabin. Huge, white framed windows beckon the full light and warmth of the sun. Flames pop and sizzle in the fireplace.

"Mom, why on earth is there a fireplace here?"

"It's a summer house, as much as a winter house, Dylan."

"Those are two different things. I say we should take this thing out and put a TV here."

"Dill, Mom put a lot of effort into designing this place. I think she considered everything."

"Thank you, darling."

He knows what to do.

Dylan nearly looses his footing as he breaks through the waterfall, scrambles over mossy rocks. Once his now muddy executive shoes kiss level ground, he jogs back to his car, diverting his eyes from the glare of the headlights.

He puts the car in reverse and hurtles back unto the dirt road, which soon fades into weeds and bushes. The air whips against his face and bare chest. Good. The sharp, tingling pain jolts his brain, keeps him awake.

His third eye, wide and clear, stares in horror and reverence at the images his brain has been protecting him from. Images of his past life—his childhood, push past those stiches, rip the wound back clear open. They fill his mind, an empty vat, to the brim in seconds. Like atoms, they dart to and fro.

A strangled sob, that of a child with a man's voice, sounds over the rush of the waterfall, now a sliver in the distance.  His throat burns with the desire to weap, yet the tears don't come forth.

He remembers everything, yet nothing. His memories are a jigsaw of a thousand pieces, scattered, desperately seeking their right places.

Dylan doesn't know what force stops the car, but all of a sudden, all is still. His raw heart still reels from the shock of an overdose of emotions.

The cabin, an aged, weathered version of it's former self, beckons to him.

Inside, the lights glow.