As much as it hurt, it felt good to finally feel something—anything. Pain. It was the only thing that made her feel like she was still alive. For a moment, she thought of Welita and she questioned what she was about to do. It wasn’t too late. The cuts weren’t deep. But the pain faded, leaving her cold and empty again. There was nothing left. Not for her.
Wiping her hand on her jeans, she gripped the blade, flipped her left hand over, and touched the tip to the darkest point of the blue vein.
“Forgive me.”
Gritting her teeth, she slid the blade downward. She cried out, and the razor clinked on the ground as it fell out of her hand.
Blood streamed down her arm, and she watched as it splashed on the floor. There was more pain now, but there was also a sense of peace. This would be over soon.
As the room began to spin, she let herself collapse to the floor, pressing her cheek against the coolness of it. “It’s almost over.” She prayed that she’d go quickly.
Time ticked by, and her hands slowly began to numb. Her vision blurring, a heavy wave of exhaustion washed over her, and Naomi closed her eyes. From a distance, she could hear knocking on her door.
“Naomi, open up!” The doorknob rattled when she didn’t respond. “Damn it, Naomi!”
Through a haze of white noise, Naomi heard a loud crash and the splintering of wood.
“Open.”
Bam.
“The.”
Bam.
“Door!”
A shadow loomed over her as Naomi slipped into the darkness, and strong hands lifted her.
“No,” she murmured and passed out.
Chapter 8
Naomi opened her eyes to white mist. Her legs felt heavy, and she tried to move them. Nothing. She pressed her palms on a damp hard surface and pushed herself into a sitting position.
What is this? She brushed her hand against the wood’s bleached texture. She expected to find herself in a bed or still on the floor of her apartment. She looked around and blinked, trying to see through the thick mist. Where am I?
A tingling sensation spread through her legs as she slapped them awake. A cool breeze sent a shiver through her. She was outside, somewhere. The mist slowly began to dissipate, and she heard seagulls flying overhead. She looked up as one bird spread its white wings and soared through the sky. The tips of its wings were black as if dipped in ink. The sky began to spin, and she gripped the wooden floor to keep her balance. When the dizzy spell passed, she noticed that she sat on the bottom step of a platform facing what looked like an ocean of water.
Waves tossed the grey waters, and seagulls dove in, catching their early morning meal. That is, she thought it was morning. It was hard to tell with the thick fog. She eased herself up and shuffled across the wooden platform, her legs still feeling wobbly. There was something oddly familiar about this place.
To her right, a flash of red caught her attention, and she blinked several times with disbelief. That’s the Golden Gate Bridge!
She pressed her hands against her temples. Her head felt like it wanted to explode. What’s going on?
She tried to remember the last thing she had done: the music, the letters, the razor blade . . .
“I guess I did it. I’m dead. So is San Francisco Heaven or Hell?”
“That would depend on you.”
She spun around and yelped when she saw a tall figure glide toward her as if it were as weightless as the mist that surrounded them. Her eyes scanned the area, looking for something to protect herself with, even though logic told her that if she were in Hell, it would be useless even to try. As the figure grew closer, she felt a strange sense of calm fill her. Cornflower-blue eyes held on to hers as he approached her cautiously. His porcelain skin was flawless, yet the way he carried himself made him seem older than his appearance let on.
She tore her eyes away from his unearthly face and mentally slapped herself. Her father had taught her that looks could be deceiving, that she should always be on guard with strangers, especially men. Her fight-or-flight response came into full gear. She clenched her fist and straightened up her back. Growing up in Houston, if you didn’t look like you could take care of yourself, you were toast.
“Who the fuck are you?” Naomi tilted her head up, hoping she sounded tough.
The man flinched. “Please do not use that type of language in my presence.”
This was a first. Naomi looked at him suspiciously. Normally, she would have been offended by having someone scold her about her colorful language. No one except Welita and her parents could get away with that. For some reason, though, this stranger’s reprimand made her feel extremely guilty.
“Uh, sorry. You caught me by surprise. Who are you?”
“My name is Raphael. I’m here to help you.”
“Well, you can help me by telling me how I got here.”
“I believe you have the answer to that.”
“If I did, I wouldn’t be asking.” This man was strange. Beautiful, but strange. There had to be something wrong with him.
He frowned at her. It was the type of frown that made her feel guilty again. What was it with this guy and guilt?
“A little help would be nice … please.” She added when he looked at her expectantly. It was the same look Welita gave her when she didn’t remember her manners.