Numb, p.1
Numb, page 1
Numb
Yolanda Sfetsos
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2024 by Yolanda Sfetsos
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or used in any manner without written permission of the copyright owner except for the use of quotations in a book review. For more information, address:
Tanuci69@gmail.com
First paperback edition 2024
Anuci Press edition 2024
www.anuci-press.com
Cover Design by Ruth Anna Evans
ruthannaevans.com (google.com)
ISBN 979-8-9905033-5-9 (paperback)
ISBN 979-8-9905033-6-6(eBook)
This one’s for all the girls who are trying to find themselves, while actively ignoring that pesky inner voice trying to stop them.
“There is a voice that doesn't use words. Listen.”
—Rumi
ONE
NOW
Saturday, 3am
May 5, 2018
“You can see me, can’t you?”
I don’t answer, but of course I can see my shadow stretch unnaturally along the grimy wall in front of me. Watch helplessly as what’s supposed to be a reflection of myself extends much taller than it should.
My heart races as a section separates from my left shoulder and skitters into the ceiling like a startled spider. How can my shadow stretch and split away like this?
Although I can usually rely on my eyesight to reveal the truth, my brain isn’t as trustworthy. My mind likes to play tricks on me. And right now, I can’t tell if this is a trick, a nightmare, or if it’s really happening.
It’s getting harder to separate what’s real from what’s not.
“I’ve finally got you where I want you,” he whispers.
I open my mouth to respond but nothing comes out.
“Checkmate.”
I’m paralyzed, useless. At his mercy.
“Be a good girl, Chester. Stay very still so I can show you what I can really do.”
The sharpness of the voice always makes me wince, especially when he uses my name. For as long as I can remember, I’ve heard voices inside my head—whispers, as my mother calls them. Mum used to tell me that whispers aren’t a problem because everyone comes equipped with their own personal internal voice. The inner narrative that takes over when I read and write or work through exam questions.
This is not that voice. This voice is harmful and awful, tries to defeat me whenever I feel positive enough to take control of my own thoughts and feelings. He feeds me lies and tries to weaken my resolve, makes me double guess my instincts.
“Keep very still and don’t take your eyes off the wall.”
I try to move my arms because I refuse to listen to him, but no matter how hard I try my limbs refuse to budge. I can barely wiggle my fingers and my feet are stuck to the dirt and hay-strewn ground.
“Don’t fight me. You know this is what we’ve always wanted.”
Maybe he wanted whatever this is, but I don’t. I just want to live a normal life. I want to actually pay attention in school, and not have constant headaches knocking me out for hours at a time. I don’t want to have a creepy voice telling me what to do whenever I forget to take my medication—sometimes on purpose. And I certainly don’t want to surrender to whatever the hell this thing is.
No matter how many times the voice suggests I give up, I refuse.
“Watch closely.”
I don’t want to but find myself focusing on my shadow. I can see my arms are pinned at my sides and no matter how hard I push them to do something—anything—I can’t. But my shadow raises both of my arms over my head.
This reflection is supposed to mimic my actions, but it’s not me. So, how is he doing this? And who the hell is he? I still don’t even know that.
“No.” The whisper is barely a breath between my lips.
My shadowy hands bend the wrong way, the fingers twist at odd angles. Laughter echoes around my skull. I wince. Whenever this happens, I feel like the inside of my head is a barren corridor full of closed doors on either side, and whoever is doing this is hiding behind one of those. Waiting for me to finally open their door completely so he can take over.
“I like the way your body feels,” he coos.
My shadow sways from side to side, in a disturbing full-body shimmy.
“I could definitely get used to wearing you.”
“No.”
“Do you know how to say anything else?” The laughter is loud and bounces inside what feels like an empty, cavernous skull.
That’s when I notice my shoulders actually shift a little.
“Don’t go getting any ideas, Chesty.”
I hate it when he calls me this even more than when he uses my actual name, makes me so angry I want to punch myself. Because who else can I hit if not myself? This thing is inside me, and as much as I want him out, I don’t know how to get rid of this pest. Only Mum knew how to keep him dormant and she’s not here. My mother is gone, so she can’t help me.
One day she disappeared, vanished. And no one knows where she is.
No matter how many times I will her to return, she doesn’t. Elvi is still here and tries her hardest to help keep me in check, but she’s not like my mother. Mum used to watch me like a hawk and could tell when I was feeling worse just by looking at me. She recognized all my tells and knew when I was cheating the pills.
“Get out of my head,” I say.
“You know I can’t do that. You know I will never do that.”
“Why?” I scream, and it hurts my dry throat.
“Because you were promised to me. And no matter what, I will claim you.”
Who promised me to him? This isn’t the first time he’s mentioned that I belong to him and therefore should allow him free access to my brain and body. But I never get straight answers from this smug voice and Mum refused to answer directly. All she told me was to concentrate and fight—keep the whispers at bay.
My shadow is bouncing on the spot, and I can feel the floor vibrate beneath me, stirring up enough dirt that it coats my tongue and fills my nasal passage.
Where am I?
I don’t recognize this wooden wall, so I can’t be at home. It’s dark and shabby, the wood is rotten and splintered. It reminds me of those abandoned and supposedly haunted houses Darwin is always making me watch on YouTube.
“Jesus!” someone yells behind me. “What the fuck?”
I try to turn my head but can’t because my neck is fixed in one position—forward.
“He’s going to ruin everything. We’ll have to take care of him—”
The awful voice is drowned out by a much louder one. “Seriously, Chess, you’ve got to stop doing this creepy shit.”
I recognize this guy who calls me Chess with such familiarity, I feel like we know each other well. So, I zero in on his voice and suddenly remembered we were kids when he gave me the nickname. But I can’t remember his name, and he sounds like he’s talking through a crackly phone line.
“Block him out.”
No! This guy, who calls me Chess, makes me feel safe. I can’t remember his name yet, but I know he’s… family. Someone I trust.
“Hey, can you hear me?”
I try to nod but my neck is still stuck.
Don’t panic.
I focus on what my mum taught me about psychic attacks. “The best way to fight them is by staying calm and focused,” she always said, “Visualization is one of the best weapons the human mind has at its disposal, so don’t be afraid to use it.”
My fingers are tingling and I’m starting to get enough feeling back in my hands to open and close them. I imagine raising my fists and smashing the wall, to beat this impostor out of me.
“Leave me alone,” I say and smack my right fist into the wood.
“Please, don’t do that! You’re going to hurt yourself.” The other guy sounds like he’s getting closer, and his concern makes a shiver race down my spine.
A hand presses down on my shoulder and I startle, jump.
My shadow remains stationary, both arms in the air.
“Don’t slip away, we’re so close.”
Hitting the wall didn’t work, but I know what will.
I struggle to take a breath and manage to lift my left hand to the side of my head. I see the punch reflected in front of me a second before my fist smacks into my temple. There’s no pain but the shadow wavers and the other set of arms drops to my sides.
“Chess, don’t do that.”
I hit myself a second time.
The shadow deflates.
“Please!” The agony in whoever is trying to stop me tears at my heart and I’m not sure why.
I punch myself a third and fourth time but lose count when I keep slamming my fist into the side of my head. I don’t stop until someone forcibly grabs me.
“Calm down, Chess,” he says near my ear. “It’s okay. You’re sleepwalking.”
I blink and calm my breathing long enough to spot a dormant shadow now standing in front of me, but it’s blended with that of a taller person. We’re standing in front of a familiar wooden wall. The panels run all the way across the room, and I know they hide a large wardrobe. Next to this is the yellow bookshelf he’s packed with so many hardback books the shelves are buckling under the pressure.
“That ’s it, breathe.”
I finally know where I am, remember who this is.
Darwin. His name is familiar and comfortable. He makes me feel safe.
“Are you back?” He’s got one arm wrapped around the front of my midsection and the other is holding my fist. Our shadows blend and appear normal.
I managed a quick nod, but my neck still feels stiff. How long have I been standing in this rigid position? Was I in his room all along? So, why didn’t the wall look or feel familiar before? I was definitely somewhere else. I was probably having a nightmare.
“I’m going to let you go now.” Darwin slowly unwinds his arms and takes a step back before he spins me around until I’m facing him. He cups my face in his warm hands, forcing me to tilt my head back because he’s taller. “Are you okay?” His gentle touch helps to keep me anchored. His brown eyes are wide and examining me too closely. “Do you know who I am?”
“Of course, I do,” I whisper.
He doesn’t say a word.
“Darwin.”
“You remember me, that’s a good sign.” He’s still staring into my eyes too intently and I feel like the bugs he used to catch outside when he would come home for the summer. “You need to focus on me. Come on. Chess?”
I try to push him away but I’m weak and pathetic, so the jolt makes no impact, and he leans closer. “I’m fine.” The lie comes easily because his fingers feel good on my face, and I wish we could stand like this forever. In a cocoon of comfort and safety. For the first time since awakening from my latest disorienting nightmare, I feel self-conscious and inappropriate. Why did I come to his bedroom in the middle of the night? I see the light filtering through the outline of the blinds. It’s daytime.
How long was I taken over this time?
I shrug him off as gently as I can, and he takes an awkward step back. I can’t focus on anything for too long because I want to gobble up every familiar facet of his room. Wrap the details around myself like a blanket and forget about everything that came before he woke up and found me—an intruder.
My weird display has obviously disturbed him, it’s written all over his face.
“Are you sure you’re okay?”
I shrug. I feel so far removed from okay.
My heart sinks at the thought.
Why did my shadow stretch in front of me while I was stuck? How did a piece slip away? When did my shady reflection develop a mind of its own?
I peek over my shoulder and our shadows are completely gone because the sun is rising and streaming in through the twin windows above Darwin’s bed.
Mum designed his room and Elvi built the series of levels. Mum was… is an interior decorator and furniture designer, while Elvi is a carpenter and artist, so she creates the pieces. Neither batted an eyelid when Darwin returned from boarding school when he was thirteen and announced he wanted a bed with steps and drawers underneath. Wardrobes masquerading as walls so he could avoid what he calls distracting clutter and keep all his belongings hidden. Even his desk is behind closed doors along the adjacent wall.
The boy doesn’t like clutter, which is the complete opposite of me.
“What happened this time?”
His question rouses me from my musings. I’ve been spending way too much time inside my head lately and it’s disturbing. Maybe that’s why the voice is inching its way inside.
“Well?” He scratches the back of his neck and yawns, the action raises the hem of his Looney Tunes tee and reveals the tight line of his abdomen above the elastic of his pajama pants.
“Do you like what you see?”
What? The shock of hearing the voice asking such a question shocks me.
“If you like what you see, take it.”
There’s no way I’m ever going to do such a thing. It’s not like that. Besides, he’s my brother.
“Not really. Not by blood.”
No matter what this horrid tormentor claims, Darwin is family.
“You’re no fun. I can’t wait to break you, Chess,” the voice hissed.
I’ll never let that happen. And why am I even responding?
A chuckle fills my mind and fades away.
“Chess, hello, I asked you what happened.” Darwin says.
I look away, hoping he didn’t notice me staring. “I don’t know.” And I really don’t. The last thing I remember before finding myself facing the wall was going to the kitchen to get a glass of juice. “Oh, shit!”
“What? What’s wrong?”
I race out of his bedroom and my bones creak with the effort, another reminder that I’ve been standing as stiff as a plank of wood for too long. At least I didn’t give Darwin a heart attack when he found me acting like a possessed creep.
As I rush into the kitchen on socked feet, a groan escapes me.
The puddle of juice on the tiled floor is almost dry but glistens where the sun catches the spill. At least the cup is plastic and didn’t shatter. Since I started randomly passing out all over the house and broke two glasses in the process—one which resulted in the scar on my jaw—we only keep plastic cups in the house. Mum and Elvi hid the glass.
Darwin charges in behind me but stops short. “Did you pass out in here?” He glances at me, and even though he tries to hide it, I spot the concern on his face.
“Maybe… I’m not sure.” I can’t see any sticky parts on my PJs or hands.
“Think, try and remember,” he snaps.
The remark reminds me of the voice and I instinctively wince.
He notices. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to sound so—”
“It’s okay.”
“No, it’s never okay to sound like an asshole.”
“You’re not an asshole.” How can he consider himself an asshole when he’s saved me from myself so many times? He’s my best friend, even closer than that because our mothers are married, and we’ve been in each other’s lives forever. He puts up with my strange and odd behavior without hesitation. He knows whatever’s happening to me isn’t normal, but he’s still always there. I depend on him way too much.
Yet, he never complains or hesitates to lend a helping or comforting hand.
“Sometimes I feel like one,” he says. “I should stop asking questions.”
“No, don’t. You should ask more, so many more.” I look at him and feel so much gratitude, I can’t even begin to describe how lucky I am to have him in my life. If it wasn’t for Darwin helping me find my way back from these delusional episodes, or him being my accomplice in hiding my latest accident, I might have given into that eerie voice years ago.
Where Mum tries to drum rules into me and pushes until all I want to do is ignore her, Darwin handles every situation with care and concern. My mother makes me feel like I need to be fixed, but he insists there’s nothing wrong with me.
“Yeah, well, I think my timing’s off,” he says with a shrug. “Now’s not the time for a hundred questions.”
“It’s okay.” I offer him a weak smile and check the digital clock on the stove. “I have to clean this up before Elvi wakes up. I don’t want to upset her.”
He nods and doesn’t contradict me because we both know how much my illness reminds her that Mum is still missing. That the cops haven’t found a single trace of her, and that no matter how many times we drive around the suburb or ask around, she’s nowhere.
I skirt around the sticky puddle and pick up the cup, which makes a slurping sound because it’s stuck. I dump it in the sink and switch the hot water tap on. By the time I’m done wiping away the congealed juice, Darwin is already waiting with a mop and bucket full of foamy water.
“I’ll take over before you ruin another pair of socks.” He grins and grips the mop handle tightly. “I’m running out of socks.”
“Oops.” I self-consciously consider the blue and red lined pair I stole from him because they’re so comfy and keep my feet warm when the weather changes. It’s almost winter and my feet are always so cold.
“It’s okay, just teasing,” he says. “I know I’ve got great taste in clothes.”
“Thanks.” I can’t help but grin because his eclectic outfits are often questionable.
“I’ve got this.” He returns the smile. “You can get rid of that disgusting rag and I’ll take care of this.”
“You don’t have to,” I say. “It’s my mess.”
