The Doves that Strut

6

"Hey, relax. I'm here, okay?" I imagine her whispering and echoing, her petrified look emerging into my blurred vision as I gorge a puff off of my inhaler. "Look at me! I'm here with you," she once said, her worries hidden within a lucid smile. "But in case I'm not around and you have another attack, just think about me, okay? Imagine you're holding my hand, take a deep breath in, then slowly exhale..."

I take three more puffs off of my inhaler. My consciousness returns and my eyesight sharpens, as Claire's face fades away. Pull yourself together, Will, and stop being such a wimp. You're alone this time but you're not going to be a liability like you have been! No, of course, I don't enjoy being weak, vulnerable, unable to accomplish anything that requires physical power. I hate being like this: getting my ass rescued by her every single time. I should have been the one protecting Claire, making her feel safe, but it always, always seems to be the other way round. And now... I don't know where she is. I can't protect her even if I want to... No, I refuse! I can't just stay here at home and count on my self-pity to miraculously make a difference.

My thoughts are jumbled, but one is clear: I need to find out where Claire is. Using the couch's armrest as support, I steady myself, and close my eyes again, trying to suppress all the discomposure and nausea lurking inside of me and force myself to stay conscious. I have to, because there is no alternative in this matter.

A million thoughts swirl through my mind at breakneck speed, never resting, until one image forms.

Claire's home. Six blocks away.

I dash back into my room and pull some random fabric off one of the hangers in my closet, which, ironically, is the black jacket practically everyone is clothed in tonight. It redirects all the memories back into my mind—nightmares and glories. Both, I have chosen to shut my eyes to now. I put the jacket on as I hurry out of the apartment, turning off the TV and picking up my inhaler, phone and keys on the way.

I press the elevator button, but then I see the reader saying the elevator is still twenty-five floors above me. Damn it! I sprint my way down eight floors of stairs, skipping every other tile, nearly tripping and killing myself four times.

On the street, I bolt, charging into gusts of wind, the weight of my lungs surging with each breath. The old Channington street, where I've been living on for sixteen years, used to be packed with people every weekend to the point that I thought crowd control should be mandatory, but tonight the street has turned so empty that I am hard put to see only one or two passersby or so wending their way down the sidewalk. Not a single extra sound can be heard—only my breathing, footsteps, and the clatter of my inhaler colliding with the parts of Claire's gift.

"The clock doesn't halt or reverse for you to make up for your mistakes. It keeps ticking, relentlessly. So does the countdown of our hour on the stage."

I cannot lose you, Claire. I can have everything, everyone erased in my life except you. You bring light to me, and there's not a single moment with you I'm not grateful for. I need to find you. I would do anything, everything to keep you safe.

My lungs feel sore, tormented by a stretching pain as if they were burning, and every step I take gets heavier. But I've been through worse, and I savvy what's happening in the university, where Claire's in, most likely, which is just why I can't afford to slow down, why I have to keep going until she is found.

At the second intersection, I take a right turn to Palton Street, then hang a left at its third intersection, haring, hoping against hope that I would find her there.

"Claire? Claire?" I shout outside her apartment, not rendering myself a moment to catch my breath. I clench my left hand into a fist and swing its knuckles at the center of the umber-colored door, rapping on the flinty wood thrice in a row each time. I look like a madman or a typical mad jealous boyfriend, which I'm not. "Claire?" I'm at the top of my lungs. I just need her to hear me, open the door and shoot me a puzzled look. Then nothing else matters. "Claire?" I repeat, and repeat, and repeat, ignoring the corrosive sores on the back of my reddening hand.