The Fray Theory: Resonance (6 page)

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sweet hole
. Neve collapses onto her bed,
her arm and leg dangling over the side like a starfish. With her face buried in
her sheets, she kicks off her shoes and relishes the soothing sensation of cool
air on her aching feet.
Her entire body is so
sore that it feels like she’s fallen down a flight of stairs.

Months of tedious planning, thirty-six
paintings, stress, sweat, and tears, and she barely managed to break even with
her expenses. Elliot never showed. Her mom’s brief visit was really more of a
critique of Neve’s life choices than actual support. And chatting with Romer just
wound up raising more questions.

For some reason, she keeps
thinking
back to four Christmases ago. Back to
that gloomy afternoon she was waiting
for Dylan by the escalators of the movie theater, holding two cups of hot chocolate.

A matinee on a snowy day.
Perfection
.

She remembers spotting Dylan
as he walked past the windows of the lobby, his rosy cheeks peeking from
beneath his navy scarf. And although his mouth was concealed, she remembers him
smiling.

It must’ve been in his
eyes.

And she remembers how as Dylan
reached for the door, a boy suddenly appeared from behind the wall, running
towards him at full speed. And how when he leaped onto Dylan’s back, his
momentum propelled them both onto a pile of snow.

And she remembers beaming
with envy as ‘Ro’— the boy she often heard of, but rarely saw—shoved handfuls
of snow into Dylan’s mouth, their laughter audible even through the thick
windows.

It was little more than a
moment in time, and yet it instantly became one of Neve’s favorite memories.
Because that was the kind of friendship she’d kill for.

Neve finds herself inside the university’s Aquatic Centre,
standing on the higher of two diving boards. The water beneath her is as still
as glass. The humidity is suffocating, and the smell of chlorine is strong
enough to be tasted.

Scanning the vast open space, she tries to pinpoint the
source of dripping water. There’s an eeriness creeping about, but it eludes her
with much finesse.

I thought I was afraid of
heights
…

She looks down to find herself fully clothed. But what’s even
more peculiar is that she is clutching a heavy steel anchor.

Makes sense
, she
thinks.
Without it I would float right back up.

With that thought, Neve steps off the board and plummets
towards her reflection.

Like missing the final step going
down the stairs, Neve kicks awake in her bed. Her heart is pounding, and her skin
is glazed with a thin layer of cold sweat.

She can’t seem to shake the
sensation of falling, so she just lies there and waits for her nerves to calm.

It’s still dark outside, so she
slips her hand under her pillow, grabs her phone, and checks the time.

6:12 a.m.

She groans. It feels blasphemous
to be up so early on a Sunday.

With the exhibition now behind
her, Neve realizes she’s made no concrete plans for the summer—none besides
hanging out with Elliot. And with most of her exhaustion now stripped away,
she’s starting to feel really raw about him.

He didn’t even bother to send her
a quick text. At least then Neve wouldn’t have spent the whole night alternating
between checking her phone and staring out the gallery’s windows.

But worse than being mad at Elliot
is how badly Neve wishes she could just call Dylan to talk about it. About
anything, really. And to be fair, she still hasn’t heard Dylan’s side of things.
So reaching out to him wouldn’t be pathetic… right? It’d be the mature thing to
do.

She huffs a sharp breath and pulls
up his number.

She stares at it, expecting to
come to her senses. But for the first time in a long while, her mind and heart don’t
seem to be at odds. So she swallows the tension in her throat, licks her lips, breathes
in the courage she desperately needs, and calls him.

It rings, and rings, and rings,
and rings, and, “Hey, you’ve reached—”

She hangs up.

σ

Neve wipes
the bathroom mirror with her towel, and steps out of the steamy cocoon wearing
a white tank top and black and white striped pajama shorts.
She grabs her phone off the bed and checks it, saddened to
not have a single text, notification, or missed call.

Well, I
did
call him at the crack of dawn
…

She drops her phone back down and walks
over to her mini-fridge. Minus a few condiments, it’s more or less empty. With finals
and the exhibition keeping her occupied, she’s been surviving on frozen dinners
and instant noodles.

Mulling over her limited options, a
faint dial-tone reaches her ears.

Neve looks towards her phone and
sees that the screen is lit up. She walks over and grabs it, realizing it’s making
an outgoing call to Elliot.

Thinking she dialed him by
mistake, she taps and ends the call. And then her eyes widen at the sight of a
string of outgoing calls—all to Elliot—and all of which were made while Neve
was in the shower.

She stares with knitted brows.

Software bug
?

Without being prompted, her phone
begins to dial Elliot again. This time, Neve finds herself starting at it, not
wanting to end the call.

She might have always been a bit
of a malfunction magnet, but this feels different. Darker. The kind of feeling
you get when you’re watching a horror movie all by yourself.

An incoming call makes her jump
out of her skin.

It’s from a blocked number.

With zero guesses as to whom it
could be, Neve clears her throat and receives the call. “Hello?”

“Is this Miss Knightly?” an
unfamiliar voice asks.

σ

Neve’s
damp locks lash against her skin as she bursts into the hospital’s emergency
ward.
And right before a fresh onslaught of
panic cripples her, she notices a young girl behind a small reception desk.

There is a ‘VOLUNTEER’ tag clipped
to her shirt.

“Can I help you with something?” she
chirps with an excessively chipper voice.

Neve goes to speak, but a police
officer at the end of the hall beckons her attention.

Is he the one who called her?

Neve swallows the tension in her
throat, and with gravity clawing at her feet, sets out in his direction.

Her steps become smaller and
smaller, and then she is just standing still, waiting for him to meet her
halfway.

“Miss Knightly?” he approaches.

“How is he?” Neve asks with a
whisper-soft voice.

“Can I see your ID, please?”

“Oh. Yes.” With her eyes
struggling to focus, Neve rummages through her bag until she finds her wallet.
She pulls out her driver’s licence and hands it to him.
“I’m not family,” she says as the officer checks her ID. “His
family lives in Toronto.”

“We’re in the process of getting a
hold of them as well. We called you because you’re listed as his local
emergency contact.”

Neve nods, barely registering his
words. “So, what happened?”

“I’m afraid I haven’t been updated
on his status. But the doctor should be out soon.”

“Okay, but what
happened
? You
said you would explain once I got here.”

“Well—” he drops his gaze and rubs
his stubble. “I don’t want to jump to conclusions, but so far it looks like attempted
suicide.”

Suicide
.

She’s underwater. She can no
longer hear a word he’s saying. The world is fading to black, and all she sees
is Elliot dangling from a rope in his dorm room. Or lying in a pool of his own
blood with slit wrists resting face up on the rim of his bathtub.

“Did you have any knowledge of
this?” the officer asks, redrawing Neve’s wavering focus.

Her frown deepens, and she shakes
her head, ‘no’.

“Because we found eighteen missed
calls from the same number we reached you at.”

The calls
, Neve’s heart drops.

“My phone was—um… I was supposed
to see him last night, but he didn’t show,” she starts to well up.

“I’m sure he’s going to be fine.”

“How did he—” Neve chokes on the
words, hoping he’ll spare her the gruesome details.

“It looks like he was trying to
drown himself.”

Confusion taints Neve’s expression.
“What..?”

“Apparently, the custodian kept
hearing a phone ring, and figured someone had lost it. And when he turned the
corner, he saw Mr. Wilder jump, and dove in after him.”

Dove
?
Custodian
?

Off Neve’s expression, “into the
pool,” the officer clarifies. “At UBC’s Aquatic Center.”

She can’t breathe. She can’t
think. The heavy pain in her gut is threatening to drop her to her knees.

“Real lucky timing too. If it
wasn’t for your calls,” he shakes his head, his lips pressed together.

 “But, Elli’s a world-class
swimmer,” she says. “He even used to compete.”

With that, palpable unease
overcomes the officer and he drops his gaze. “When we got to the scene, we
found a fifty-pound disc-weight and a metal chain in the deep end of the pool.”
He scratches his temple. “It was apparently quite the struggle to pry them off
of Mr. Wilder.”

An anchor
...

Neve’s vacant gaze sinks through
the air, and she stares through the floor at where the pool’s surface would be,
if she was back up on that diving board.

“I really can’t imagine how hard
this must be,” the officer says, “but try not to worry. The doctor should be
out soon.”

“Well what’s he doing in there
anyway?” she looks up, body atremble. “You either drown, or you don’t.”

σ

Neve leans
forward on her elbows, and buries her face in the palms of her hands.

It has been forty four minutes
since she arrived at the hospital. She almost wishes there was someone else in
the waiting room. Someone she could sneak glances at, wonder about, distract
herself with. She’d settle for a screaming child at this point. Anything would
be better than to sit here in silence while the officer’s account of the
incident replays in her mind. And what’s worse, she can’t seem to make sense of
any of it. Of the timing of her outgoing calls to Elli. Of the similarities
between her dream and how he tried to—

Her fingertips rake into her
hairline. She grips her aching head, trying to piece her fragmented thoughts
together. But they keep being drowned by the sound of her heart, pounding. Counting.

What the hell is taking so long
?

At the sound of approaching
footsteps, Neve leans back in her seat with her eyes glued to the door.

An older man
with gray hair and matching scrubs emerges from the
hallway, and his eyes immediately land on the only other person in the waiting
room.

“Are you waiting for Mr. Wilder?”
he asks.

“Elliot Wilder. Yes.” Neve slowly
rises to her feet. “How is he?”

The doctor looks down at his
clipboard, but he’s not actually reading what’s on it. His lips are parted as though
the words are on the tip of his tongue. “I’m afraid we were unable to
resuscitate him.”

Neve watches him readjust his
glasses.

“I’m guessing you’ve been briefed
with regards to the pool, but the official cause of death is overdose.”

Cause of death
, Neve thinks, robbed of all hope.

“Phenobarbital,” the doctor elaborates
when Neve fails to acknowledge his revelation. “He had almost ten times the
recommended dosage in his blood.”

“Overdose…” Neve lags behind.

“I’m terribly sorry for your
loss,” he heads for the door, but hesitates. “If it’s any consolation,” he
turns to Neve, “Phenobarbital is a sedative. It’s unlikely he felt any pain.”

And all Neve can do is stare,
devoid of language.

With a terse nod, the doctor makes
his way back out into the hallway, and vanishes from sight.

But not from memory.

And eventually Neve finds herself
wandering back towards the entrance, the flogging of her flip-flops echoing
through the hallways. She walks through the sliding doors and heads towards the
parking lot. She walks in anticipation of her emotions catching up to her. Of
becoming completely undone.

But with each step, she feels even
less.

Ivory clouds hang low in the cerulean
sky. The gentle breeze is so bashful Neve can barely hear its whispers. Lying
on a plush blanket of moss, she closes her eyes and gently caresses the delicate
texture. It’s spongy and slightly cool to the touch. Soft and soothing. She
could lie here forever.

Minutes meander by with nothing on her mind but peace. And
then, a gentle breeze lifts the heat off her cheeks and prompts her to open her
eyes.

She sits up and marvels at an enchanting field of grass. A
serene meadow sprinkled with thousands of white daisies.

Straight ahead, the meadow meets the sky as though it is
overlooking a cliff. Neve follows the rim until it dawns on her that it spans
the entire perimeter.

She’s atop a secluded summit.

And she’s not alone.

Right next to her stands a boy—she looks up—with scarlet
hair.

A gust of wind swooshes past and Dylan’s tousled locks ascend
to bid it farewell.

Neve waits for him to look down, but he keeps staring into
distance.

“Hey,” she rises to her feet and faces him.

 He remains oblivious.

“What are you doing here?”

With Neve’s inquiry, the clouds above begin to blush a deep
shade of pink.

Captivating, yet frightful, somehow.

All of a sudden, the sun seems to be diving towards the
horizon as if trying to escape the night. Sheets of light pour down like water
as darkness wrings out the sky.

“Dylan?” Neve reaches out and touches his arm. “Oh my God,
you’re freezing!” She weaves into him, but his arms remain dangling.

She closes her eyes and starts to rub Dylan’s back, but his body
remains ice-cold. And in that moment, with her cheek pressed onto his neck, Neve
realizes he doesn’t have a pulse.

“Do pink clouds rain blood?” Dylan speaks in a voice far
steelier than his own. And when Neve opens her eyes, her vision is draped off
by longer, darker strands of hair swaying gently in the breeze.

Neve’s heart skips a beat, and she pulls back, only to be
struck by the familiar features of a complete stranger. A young, androgynous
man with wild eyes, blade-like brows, and dark hair draping over his shoulders.

There’s a soullessness to him that’s hard to put into words.
His beauty feels toxic.

Lethal, like an exotic serpent.

“Who—” Neve takes a step back, realizing the man is gripping
both of her wrists. “Let me go,” she demands, but he doesn’t even blink.

Neve tries to pull herself free, but the man’s grip is firm.
Unyielding.

“Do pink clouds rain blood?” he repeats.

A warm drop of rain lands on Neve’s chest, and she looks down
at a crimson splat seeping into her white shirt.

Her eyes fill with terror. She looks up just as another drop
lands onto the stranger’s cheek. It hugs the contours of his face as it runs
down to his defined jaw.

“Let me go,” Neve demands once more, her voice reeking of fear
and desperation. “Let me go. Let me go! LET ME GO!” she belts out like a broken
record as the stranger’s stare wreaks havoc inside her.

Another crimson drop lands on Neve’s bare shoulder, “help—” and
another, “help me!” and another, “HELP!” until all she can see is red.

Neve opens her eyes to the white ceiling
of her apartment. But the horror of her nightmare—the red filter of the world
drenched in blood, lingers.

Through labored breaths, she
awaits her return to normalcy. But instead of peace, she finds pain.

It’s been six days since Elliot
stopped breathing. Since his broken heart stopped beating. Since Neve ate
anything larger than a bite, or remained asleep for longer than a few hours.
Ever since the incident, she’s been plagued by nonsensical nightmares jolting
her awake at all hours of the night. By lyrics of songs she has not listened to
in ages. Ever since that awful phone call, she has been wavering between hollow
denial and heavy anguish. And in just a few hours, she’ll be forced to rip off
the scab and feel the burn all over again.

σ

Adorned in
black, Neve stumbles out onto the stone deck of the country club. Her eyes are
bloodshot and her nose and cheeks are rosy thanks to the cheap tissue paper. Her
body feels bruised and beaten.

One more tearful outburst, and she
fears her skull will crack.

She turns a corner and seeks
refuge on the side stairs leading down to the parking lot. Mourning all morning
has finally taken its toll.

She can still hear the homemade
video of Elliot playing in the ballroom. A lengthy compilation of the
milestones in his life, punctuated with random clips of his shenanigans as a
child.

Every once in awhile, the tormented
laughter of his family and friends roars, and then slowly wanes into somber
awe.

This was intended to be his
celebration of life, but it’s been nothing but a painful replay of all the
things she will miss about him. Things she will now have to live without.

But worst of all has been the
parallel she keeps drawing between reality, and her vivid nightmare heralding Elliot’s
untimely demise.

Her tears escape her once again,
and she reaches up and collects them with her damp sleeves.
Did she somehow
know
this was going to happen? Is the
gut-wrenching feeling bending her at the waist really guilt disguised as grief?

Could she have intervened before
it was too late?

With that thought, Neve retrieves
her phone and dials her mother. By the second ring, she is already bracing
herself for the answering machine. But much to her surprise—

“Hi sweetie,” her mom picks up.

“Oh—hi,” Neve stammers. “Hey,
mom.”

“How’re you doing, honey?”

Neve breathes a silent sigh. “I’m…
okay.”

“How was the service?”

The service
, Neve thinks. It was well-orchestrated. Uncomfortable.
Heartbreaking. It was—and still is—all the things it’s supposed to be, and none
of the things it needs to.

“Mom—” Neve starts, but hesitates.

“Honey, I think you’re cutting
out,” her mom says.

Neve looks over her shoulder. Roughly
thirty feet behind her a slender man—
Elli’s uncle
?—is lingering by an
antique cart filled with red geraniums. Staring into his whiskey glass, he
seems far too broken to even notice Neve, let alone care to eavesdrop on her
conversation.

“Neve? Can you hear me?”

As Neve turns her back to the
grieving man, her obsidian hair drapes off of her shoulder, concealing her
face.

“Mom—
do you remember how I used to have all these weird dreams.
when I was a kid?”

There’s a pause. Too long a pause.
“Everyone has weird dreams, honey,” her mom eventually speaks. “It’s normal.”

“If it’s normal, then why did you
take me to see a psychiatrist?”

A soft, yet frustrated sigh. “It
wasn’t the dreaming itself. You kept riling up all the kids, telling them you
can predict the future.”

And it’s like Neve is six years
old again…

…sitting by herself on the seesaw at recess. This autumn is
an explosion of yellows, reds and browns. The sky is fog-gray, and the air is
comfortably crisp.

All warm and cozy in her rouge parka, Neve watches the boys
chase one another on the playground. Her gaze closely follows the boy in the
marigold sweater, who seems to be losing steam already.

He waddles into an impasse, his shoulders slacken, and he tilts
his head back, breathing puffs of white clouds into the air.

Lazily, he wanders back over to the swings, grabs the chains,
and pulls himself up onto the wooden seat.

At the sight of this, Neve rises in quiet anticipation. Her big,
brown eyes dart back over to the other boys who are gathered in a small
cluster, visibly disappointed.

One of them jolts as though he’s just come up with the best
idea there ever was.

Mischievous grins blossom on their faces as their new group strategy
reinvigorates them.

They giddily run back and gather behind the swings, and each
time the marigold boy swings back, they collectively push onto him.

The higher the boy reaches, the louder his pleas for mercy become,
but the others seem adamant to swing him all the way around the horizontal bar.

Neve’s mittens rise up to cover her mouth, her panting
warming her tiny fingers through the thick layers of fabric.

She’s wrong. She has to be. Because if not—

The screaming boy reaches the apex and unwittingly releases
his grip of the chains.

Neve’s mittens swallow her scream as the bar breaks the boy’s
back in the process of breaking his fall.

That horrific incident was
Neve’s first damning premonition. One she had hoped would also be her last. But
time kept taunting her with more unsettling surprises, some big, and some small.
And now with Elliot six feet under, she’s once again fallen victim to confusion,
doubt, and despair.

And if her mom couldn’t empathize
with her as a child, there’s no reason to assume things would be any different
now.