Through the Veil

Epilogue

Rhett walked into his townhouse and tossed his keys into a clay bowl. The familiar clinking sound barely registering as he went through his every day routine. Jacket was tossed carelessly over the back of his lone dining chair. Tie hung on the doorknob of the hall closet as he walked back to his bedroom. Shoes kicked into a corner by the staircase. He walked upstairs and tossed the rest of his clothes into a beat up wicker hamper by his closet. Dazed and exhausted he walked to the bathroom, turned on the shower as hot as he could stand it, and watched as steam rose in curling billows that filled the room, fogging up the mirror. He stepped under the water, pumice stone in hand, and scrubbed his skin until it was practically raw as his mind started swirling in a downward spiral of negative thinking.

No evidence, no case. No case, no investigation... Those are the rules. He angrily lathered his cheap shampoo/conditioner combo into his hair, practically clawing his scalp raw in the process. With a growl of irritation he squeezed his eyes shut and he rinsed the lather off, shuddering as he felt the suds slide down his body. Fucking bullshit case... I know they only gave this shit to me as a distraction... He growled in irritation and turned the water off, stepping from the shower to the scratchy bathmat. The cool coastal air coming through an open window made him shudder, goosebumps forming on his arms as the steam swirled around the room. He narrowed his eyes and stared at the foggy panes of glass, I don't remember opening the window... He frowned and slid the small window closed, slamming it loudly and turning the lock until he heard it click into place. Spinning on his heels to look at himself in the mirror he paused and stared, "Jesus fuck..." A chill crawled slowly up his spine as he scanned the foggy mirror. Jaw tensed as he read his name clearly written in the condensation on the glass. He shook his head and ground his teeth as he wiped it off with a swipe of his hand. I'm not dealing with this hallucination bullshit again... I haven't needed my meds in months and I am not ruining that record... He wrapped a towel around his waist and used another to tousle his hair dry. Deliberately not looking at the mirror again he absently walked out of the bathroom and to his bedroom.

He sat on the edge of his bed and rubbed his face with his hands, the rough callouses felt like sandpaper against his cheeks. Too mentally exhausted to practice the grounding techniques his therapist had taught him, he opted to ignore his emotions and intuition in the name of getting sleep. Closing his eyes and rubbing them with his fingertips he heaved a sigh. My name on the mirror was nothing but a hallucination. Even if it wasn't, there's no reason to believe someone broke in just to write my name on a mirror. Nothing is stolen. No one is attacking me. I'm fine... Opened his eyes and looked around the room, taking in every minute detail and noticing that there wasn't a single thing out of place. His chaos was still where he'd left it. He chuckled thinking to himself, They tell me to tidy up... ha! It's easier to cover up moving things if it's orderly but no one can mimic my level of chaos.

He walked back into the bathroom and began brushing his teeth. Looking at his reflection in the mirror carefully, checking to see if the mirror had been tampered with. Satisfied with his findings he turned his gaze back to his reflection, running his fingers through his thick, black waves, glaring at the grey wings by his temples. I look like a fuckin boomer... Running his fingers over the crow's feet by his eyes, he grunted in disapproval and frowned, "30 fuckin years old and I look like I'm ready to retire..." He rubbed his jaw, scowling at the salt and pepper stubble that was already appearing after shaving that morning. He sighed, staring at himself as his depression settled into his tired eyes, "I look as old as I feel..."

He rinsed his mouth with mouthwash and walked back into his bedroom, stopping mid-step as his gaze fell on the bed. He turned and felt his heart starting to beat a little faster in his chest as he scanned his bed. I never make the bed... what the fuck...?

He growled under his breath and messed up the bed on purpose, making a chaotic nest of blankets and pillows before crawling into the middle of it and sighing heavily. This is how a bed should be... nice and messy... He controlled his breathing and tried to force his body to relax so he could sleep. It didn't take long before he let the heaviness in his body drag him into a heavy sleep.

Suddenly, he gasped so hard it sent sharp pains through his entire chest, jumping awake so violently he nearly fell off the bed. He felt like he couldn't breathe then noticed that his sheets were tightly tangled around his ribs, clinging to the cold sweat that covered his body. He growled and angrily untangled himself from the mess of now filthy sheets, breathing hard as he tried to talk himself from his nightmare induced panic. Once freed, he moved to the side of the bed and sat with his head in his hands, taking note of how the carpet felt beneath his feet, the warmth of his breath on his palms, the stubble scratching his skin. He ground his teeth and started reciting the facts about himself he'd memorized to ground him in the present. My name is Rhett Black. I was born at 3am in California, in 1982. I live in Oregon. I am safe. He repeated those facts to himself a dozen times before he finally felt his heart stop pounding painfully in his chest and his pulse slow to an acceptable rate. He looked at his mess of a bed over his shoulder and grumbled to himself as he laid back, closing his eyes and covering his eyes with his arm. "I can't believe this shit is happening to me... again..."