Chapter Text
The first sign was the sound the rain made when it hit the floor that evening. It wasn’t the ground, but the floor made of porcelain, the bottom of my bathroom where only water from the shower should reach. The water wet my white socks when I stepped inside, finally warning me of an issue I had no idea was there. I looked up at the ceiling made of plaster and there it was; the gap that was allowing for all of that. I remember sighing, taking my shower anyway, and ignoring the problem for the first twenty minutes of being aware of it.
Showers had become more often now that we were reaching July and the weather was really starting to heat up. Sometimes they happened in the morning, but always due to forgetting to take them the night before. It was six and something then, the sun preparing to set, and I took the same shower I always did, hot and shortly cold near the end, washing my hair with bamboo essence or whatever it was that Jane had recommended to me. That time, I had to stand a little to the left as I dried myself, avoiding getting wet from the hole in the ceiling. And there was no way to ignore it anymore.
I put on my clothes and got to work. My idea of “work” was grabbing a bucket and putting it where the leak was, and then the effort was over. I made sure to choose a large bucket, though, and it was in a perfect state for my luck. My next instinct was to lay down and go to sleep, but I knew better than to let laziness win every time, and the bucket would eventually fill up... There had to be a next step.
But before doing anything, I checked the rest of the house for leaks. The mansion was both hard to clean and hard to dry, so I had to assure myself that I wouldn’t have to do either of those things. I didn't find anything, and by the time I was back in the bathroom, half of the bucket was already filled up. I threw the water in the sink and placed the bucket under the leak again. But there had to be an easier way than that, there had to be a way to fix the hole instead. I tried to remember every single utensil I owned.
I walked around my bedroom as I usually did, looking down at the skin on my hands to make sure there weren’t any new moles there. I swept the nails of my fingers as I always did, simply because it felt good and clean. And I touched every wall in the room, with the objective of obeying my brain’s new and old rules, all at the same time. I pressed my skin with the correct pressure on the wooden walls, repeating the process three times at least. I had remembered half of my utensils.
My hands started twitching with sudden cold and that was the second sign. When it was finally time to stop touching the walls, I went back to the bathroom, repeating the bucket process and noticing the lack of warmth in my hands. The water hit my thumb while it held the bucket upside down, and that rainwater was cold like ice. I had not remembered all of my utensils, but I knew for sure I had something useful in my office.
Tape.
I couldn’t trust that tape would fix all my problems; the hole would probably grow bigger with time and summer rains would keep happening. It would be useless to give in then, simply taping my ceiling to itself and allowing for a puddle of rainwater over my roof. How did my roof even work? I had never been up there, and I hadn’t built the house, so I didn’t have the slightest idea where the water was even coming from. I convinced myself that that wasn’t important but something else kept repeating a “what if it is?” inside my ear. That was also the third sign.
But tape could help, for the time being, it could help me at least have an evening with less stress, working along my medication to achieve that. I used the roll of tape and the water stopped coming in. Barely.
I could feel some weight leave my shoulders but I kept the bucket right there, just in case something happened. My head told me it would, as it always pictured the worse side of every situation. I breathed in, thinking of sending all the bad thoughts away, but they had nowhere else to go.
I wouldn’t know how to use words to describe the state of my brain in those few years in my late twenties, how my head existed as a force despite myself. Bad thoughts had shown up since I was a child, sure, but they began growing stronger than ever and committed to getting me medicalized. Again, words are simply too mere to describe. However, if I had to choose one, the one would be “turbulent”.
The mind was practically the only thing that I believed in anymore. Since the accident in that very house, I hadn’t been able to picture a world where God existed or even believe in emergency doctors. Nothing that had happened could prove to me that salvation was possible, and the one being I was sure controlled everything was the brain. It controlled because it was uncontrollable. It could make anything up, it could convince the universe of anything. If it decided on a sight, the eyes would then obey.
I was more aware of my body and my internal organs on that evening than I had been in a while. I could almost feel my heart beat inside my chest, worried if it beat faster than usual because that could lead to death. I could feel my limbs connect to the rest of myself, every length of dark skin that was so fragile and could be ripped apart by the forces of nature. The skin on my face was still rigid, but I couldn’t help but wonder how long it would take to soften up, and become stretchy and mature like my grandmother’s.
Maybe I was beginning to look like her. I looked at a picture on my phone, comparing the two of us. I, in the present, and she, twenty-five years before.
Not at all.
Death was one of the things my mind told me about, and aging sometimes came along with it. I felt like I was the only man at twenty-nine who wished to get old, no matter how wrinkly. My female friends spoke so low of the aging process, the idea of getting to eighty-six and still walking the streets. I told them that I’d walk the corridors of my mansion, not daring to go outside.
I avoided speaking of death with them, though. The topic was somber, and I knew they wouldn’t like my opinions. Whenever I talked to Jane or Roxy, the two friends I had kept, I just hoped they didn’t think like me. And I silenced myself whenever dying was brought up, whenever characters passed away in horror movies that we insisted on watching still, and when Jane looked me in the eyes and asked me, many times:
“Are you afraid to die?”
I could never reply to Jane the same way after what had happened, even if she was a dear woman that I dreamed about a lot at night. My answers were always simple, and perhaps they were lies, both to her and to myself. I didn’t want to continue on the topic, however, and the idea of her dying terrified me more than death for myself.
I always replied the same way: “no”.
“How do you think you will die?” she sometimes insisted, convincing me that she thought about the subject more than I wished she did. I always shook my head. “Do you think we’ll die together?”
And then I’d kiss her. Sometimes it was because her lips looked beautiful, and they looked like they tasted like strawberries. Other times, it was simply because I wanted her to stop talking.
I felt the rain go by in slow-motion, as I thought and thought about what wasn’t so important then. Maybe there was a fourth sign happening somewhere, but I couldn’t care to look, because there was far too much inside my brain to allow for distraction. I thought of Jane, and of Jane, and of Jane some more. And I quickly grabbed my cell phone from my desk, hit by a wave of energy.
It was a Thursday now, and Jane was usually available during weekends. I decided that it would be a good idea to invite her out, despite the rain and the hole in the ceiling, because she was great company. My therapist forbade me from being alone for more than a week, and it had already been five days since I’d seen anyone else. Inviting Jane was a good idea, and calling her on the phone to do it was how I would begin.
I already knew how it would all go, and she would complain that I was calling her instead of simply sending her a message, but she wouldn’t mean the complaint. Jane liked me far too much and she knew me more than she did before, and we both knew that her jokingly attempt at telling me I should text her instead was just a way to instill inside jokes between us, her pointing out that I was antiquated and me asking for permission before holding her hands in mine. The truth is we liked the fact that I called her on the phone, but we never stopped talking about it out loud. After that, I would tell her how fond I was of hearing her voice, and she would call me a gentleman. “You’re a gentleman, Jake,” she would always say.
Everything I expected to happen happened the exact same way. “Hello?” she picked up first, giving space for me to start talking before she even said anything. “Hi, Janey,” I said, calling her by the nickname I wasn’t sure she liked very much anymore. And then it would happen. “There you are calling people on the phone instead of messaging them. You seem to be from another century, Jake!”
I smiled, starting to walk around the room that I was also aware of. White walls with paintings hung up, glass vases that could break at any time of any day. So much decoration one could use to hurt another, so many plants.
“Why, if I message you, how will I hear your beautiful voice?” I could feel Jane blush from the other side of the call, because that is what she always did when she was with me. I simply waited for the obvious response.
“You’re a gentleman, Jake…” Her voice was slow and low this time. I felt my smile fade away with time, only desire to be with my friend now. “What’s the reason for the call this time? How are you?”
Out of my two friends, I felt Jane was the one who was like me the most. We had met in childhood when we were both neighbors to one another, and had been inseparable ever since. It was only in the year of the accident that I started seeing her less and less, and sometimes I would be alone for months on end. Now, we were both twenty-nine and the rich friends others talked about. We had traveled together as children and teenagers but now our trips were scarce, and Jane went alone or with her father whenever she left the country. Still, we were alike in various ways. We both enjoyed romance movies, even if her taste was a hundred percent better than mine. We both were more than a little afraid of cats, we liked black clothes. We liked each other, I thought. And we both were haters of the government and death. We thought those two fit well together, though.
“I called because I wanted to talk to you,” I replied to her, ignoring her second question, which marked a difference between the two of us. Jane liked talking about how she felt, and she felt comfortable doing so. She always told me that I should open up more, being accompanied by my therapist. “The rain reminds me of you”.
“It does?” she asked. Jane and I never got straight to the point now that our relationship had progressed. We always took our time, doing our best attempt at flirting and conversing.
“Yeah,” I replied to her. “You’re emotional like the rain”.
“And you like that about me?”
“There’s nothing I don’t like about you, miss”.
She laughed, and it was a good laugh to hear. I felt my smile return in response to that, growing with every second she giggled for. “Stop being like that!”
“What am I like?”
“You’re… I don’t know, you’re… crazy”.
“I sometimes fear that,” I told her, jokingly. “But there’s nothing crazy in what I feel for you. You know that”.
Jane laughed again, and she went quiet for some seconds. We both liked that too, the silence. I remembered the both of us on a silent beach in Portugal when we were only fourteen.
“Is the rain bad there?” Jane asked.
“Getting worse now”. And I looked out of a window. I just hoped the tape would work for a long time… “Any plans for the weekend? In case the rain stops”.
“No plans either way,” she replied. “I think it’s going to pass, though. Just for tonight”.
Ah, how delightful it was talking about the weather. A subject everyone knew.
“I was thinking. Would you like to do something this weekend?”
“Together?” she asked. Her voice was as soft and sweet as it always was. “Your therapist is bothering you a lot, isn’t she?”
“No, that’s not it,” I chuckled out a short laugh, hearing Jane laugh back on the other side of the call. “There’s a date coming soon. Do you remember?”
“Jake English? Remembering dates?”
“Hey, I’ve gotten better, alright?” Jane just kept giggling at everything I said. “So you don’t remember, do you?”
“I think I do, Jake”.
I smiled. “One year”.
“One year, yes. I want to say it went by fast. Don’t you think so?”
“Time is slow by your side”.
“I think it goes fast… When you’re having a good time, that is”.
“It’s felt longer,” I finished. “What’s your favorite thing we do together?”
“I like the simple talking”. That was where we were different, again. “I like teaching you the piano”.
“I’m a lousy player”.
“That you are”. And Jane and I laughed together, once more. “Can’t say it’s not your fault”.
“How is it my fault? You’re the teacher”.
“Jake, you always give up and ask me to play for you instead”.
I nodded. “Yeah. But you’re a better player. It makes no sense for me to play instead of you”. Silence again. “We could play, then, this weekend. Tomorrow, if you can. What do you think?”
“We can! I’m-” and Jane paused suddenly. “Oh, no”.
“What’s the matter?”
“My father’s hosting parties at home this weekend. We won’t have the living room and the piano… You understand, don’t you?”
“Yes,” I answered quickly. Jane rapidly continued.
“I can make it next weekend, but then, it wouldn’t be the anniversary and…”
“No,” I interrupted. “We can meet at my house. I own a piano too”.
Jane didn’t answer straight away. I could hear her throat making a short noise.
“You… Are you sure?”
“Yes”. My voice sounded sure, I hoped she would pick that up. “It’s idiotic to not invite anyone here. It’s been many years since it happened, right? The house is safe”.
“How long have you not had a guest over?”
I didn’t want to reply. The answer was embarrassing.
“Well, if you’re certain…”
“I am. The house is way too beautiful to not receive anyone. And the piano has been silent for years”. I looked around desperately, trying to remember where the piano even was. “I think it’d love being played by you”.
Of course Jane would say yes.
“Okay! What time tomorrow?”
“Five?” I suggested. “We can have tea”.
“I don’t like tea, Jake,” she grinned. “Five sounds perfect”.
“Anything I can do to prepare?”
“Just make sure the piano is still playable. And it’s okay if it’s out of tune. It'll still sound beautiful”.
Anything would sound beautiful with good players using them, though. I wanted to add that.
“I’ll see you tomorrow, Jane”.
“See you, Jake. I’ll…” I waited. “I’ll bring a cake for us”.
I smiled at the idea. “Please do!”
“Until tomorrow, Jake”.
But Jane waited for me to hang up first. I saw the numbers on the phone, telling me she was still listening. And then I turned the call off, finally.
Now that that was over, I had to check the hole in the ceiling again. I walked patiently toward the bathroom, where it all seemed to still be fine. There were some droplets falling now and then, but nothing that would fill up the large bucket. There was no sign of a fourth or fifth sign, one that would make me finally realize something was different. Maybe the house being dead silent despite the rain turning into a thunderstorm outside, but nothing bigger.
I walked down the main set of stairs, and I remembered where the piano stood abandoned. There was a white sheet covering it up since Heaven knows when, and it almost made its own noise when I took it off, from how dirty it was. For now, a single touch of a towel would fix it. And next, I had to test the sound.
I pressed a key that I believe made the “C” note. Of course, I didn’t know what it was supposed to sound like, so it was hopeless. And my head told me it was wrong. I had to believe it.
As I went to play the key next to that one, wind was blown on my face, and my brown hair flew around in place. The note which was allegedly “B” played messily as the colored shadow appeared behind me, with the capacity of sending me into cardiac arrest once I saw it. I gasped with the force of my bottom teeth and my body fell to the back as I held the piano to prevent myself from hitting the ground.
And there it was. The final sign. It had blond hair and was more human than a hint, but less human than me. It wore clothes I recognized and had a perfect long nose. It could stare as I could and it did without caring about the consequences, and it engraved itself in my brain without meaning to. It had a name I remembered well. And it had his expression.
My dead fiancé was standing in front of me. Dirk Strider was his perfect, perfect name. “D”, the letter that I loved the most in the whole alphabet, simply because of him. The rare letter “k” made his name so much more special than it could have been, if only he was a less extraordinary man. “Strider” was an incredible surname, with origins unknown to both myself and him, and he made it work so well.
Dirk Strider had died in the accident in my home, about six years before on a Wednesday evening. He would’ve been my age if he still existed, only two days younger, and to my confusion… he did exist now.
Dirk stood in front of me. With my heart almost failing and giving up on my body, I knew for sure that Dirk was right there. It wasn’t impossible for him.
I waited for my eyes to adjust, and got myself back up as quickly as I could, walking away slowly. I had a gun somewhere and I could point it at him, but who would want to draw blood from a man like Dirk? His skin was olive and dry and his eyes were dark brown like my hair. His lips were almost as smooth as his voice was. And when he spoke, I remembered always cherishing that voice.
“Did it work? Can you see me?”
I didn’t understand what he was referring to, but I shook my head up and down. If somebody were to take a picture of my face right then, I’m sure it would come out ridiculous, and my heart beat louder than it did whenever I worried about it. I stopped walking away, standing about six feet away from… Dirk.
Dirk, who was gone. Dirk, who had been gone. Dirk, who was supposed to be gone.
“Don’t panic,” he told me, hands in front of his body, and it was the same voice as always. I didn’t remember how good it felt hearing it delicately enter my ears when face-to-face. “I can explain this. Please, don’t have a heart attack. Please, don’t scream. Please, don’t run away. Stay just like that… Shocked. Like you are”.
I obeyed him, I would, even if I didn’t want to. I couldn’t move my mouth, trying to process any words in existence that didn’t start with the letters “D” and “S”. Sometimes a word with “H” would come up.
“I’m almost as lost as you are. But Jake, it’s me. Alright? It’s Dirk”.
I nodded again, from far away.
“And… I’m dead, still. Sorry if that’s not obvious. But I’m contacting you now”.
And through the use of all of my strength and courage, I spoke. “A-Are you… haunting me?”
“I guess you could say that,” Dirk smiled, as if it was just another day and as if me seeing that smile wouldn’t break my heart inside. “Ghosts don’t work as they do in your stupid movies, that’s for sure. And I learned that the hard way”.
I felt my wide eyes shut close, and then open again, smaller distance between my eyelids. “Dirk?”
“Jake…”
“It’s really you…”
“It’s me, alright?” Dirk spoke like he wanted to convince me, like he had talked to people who didn’t believe him before. “Before you ask, no, I haven’t been watching you since I died. I was somewhere else. And now, I am here. You look like you grew taller”.
“I can’t believe you’re here…” And I didn’t care about Dirk’s ghost stories or whatever he may have gone through before he got there. All I cared about was the fact that he was there.
The truth is my head had never silenced itself about Dirk since it happened. It was one of the reasons, his death, for all the thoughts about dying, all the thoughts about just how many things around me were capable of killing me. Dirk was the one subject my mind obsessed over for ages, and he had his name written down in the notebook of my brain. The “S” in “Strider” was written in lowercase, a simple mistake made by me. And there he stayed for years.
He would stay there forever, and be the subject of my mind for many years to go. I wished to grow old simply to make those thoughts come along, bringing Dirk Strider to age by my side. He would grow up inside my head and we would share together the life we promised we would share, and everything would be as it was meant to be. The only way was to not die young too.
And now he was there. He was there being real and not just a figment of my imagination. And my heart beat loud not because of the fear anymore, but because of how much I still loved him. I felt for Dirk the same thing I did all those years ago, when we were only young adults starting a life together. Looking into his empty brown eyes, I felt that he felt everything back.
You will never stop thinking of Dirk Strider, my mind reminded me. And your heart will never stop speeding up because of him.
“It’s me,” he repeated. I felt my head spin around. Maybe I was about to pass out.