As often, I dreamed about Prometheus.
In the dream, it was me, me in the loincloth on the rock, only Ethon wasn’t an eagle but an enormous, faceless shadow pitted with abysmal depths. I felt it engulfing me. Smile! it said, with a mouth that wasn’t a mouth but a chasm. When I smile, you don’t have to be scared of me, okay? And it smiled, and a chasm did open. It chained me to the rock, not by my wrists, not by my ankles but by the corners of my mouth, with iron rings pounded through my cheeks. And me in a panic, trying to turn away but lying there helplessly, the metal giving no quarter, me tasting it on my tongue . . .
Till I realized I was awake and still tasting metal. And in an instant, wide-awake, I shook my head wildly and felt stabs cut my cheeks and neck. I was ensnared in something. A ferocious, half-conscious panic rushed over me, but I immediately stopped moving, afraid my whole mouth would be ripped open. Reached for my face.
Felt barbed wire.
No, steel wire.
The kind Nick had used this spring to fence off the garden hedge so Ramses wouldn’t be digging his escape to the neighbors’ yard.
The kind of steel wire that was rolled up and waiting in the cellar.
Nick.
Oh, Jesus, was Nick in the room?
Even in my state of disorientation, it was clear to me that if he was still in the room, if he was watching me wake up to discover that my whole face was entwined with steel wire, pulled tight from the corners of my mouth and fastened behind my neck, that something much worse was about to happen. The fear was razor sharp and hot and turned my vision inward. It was like my senses had kick-started a life-support system strictly limited to my immediate surroundings. Beyond it, the room was vague. Beyond it, the light an unreal, shimmering gleam, like you’re underwater and staring at the sun. Dark blotches were swimming in the light, but none of them were Nick.
But the shock still came, mean and cold, when the first wave of panic ebbed away and the spots at the edge of my vision began to take shape.
Everywhere on the walls—left, right, above the bed—there were drawings of hideous black birds.
9
Nick stared at the walls for a long time. His hand absently brushed the smiley mouth on his bandages, his face exhibiting disbelief, dejection, and utter exhaustion. Finally, he tapped:
I’m really sorry. I don’t remember doing this.
“Don’t remember?” I said, my voice shaking. Almost rammed that twisted piece of steel wire into his face. “You don’t remember doing this?”
I pointed to the streaks on my jaw, the bloody pits in my neck, where the tips had pierced my skin.
“Don’t fucking remember?”
Almost shoved my iPhone down his throat, the selfie of me before I managed to free myself, the horror selfie that ain’t never gonna be your new profile pic.
“I mean, breakfast in bed, I dig, but this shit? You’re overdoing it, Nick.” Almost shouting now, drool splattering on his bandages. “So I googled the symbolism of your boyfriend wrapping your whole fucking face in steel wire and the experts are as yet undecided. But none of them recommend it as constructive couples therapy, Nick.”
Me spitting his name out, it made Nick flinch like I’d whacked him.
His gaze drifted back to the birds, those birds on the walls. Drawn with a thick marker. Probably the Sharpie Magnum from the same set as the one he had used to draw the smiley on his bandages. Some no more than strokes, coarsely rendered Vs representing distant flocks. Others were life-size and shockingly in-your-face, pitch-black nightmares with shrieking beaks and spread claws that looked like they were coming straight out of the walls. What fucked-up zone was Nick’s mind in to make him do that? And was it really possible he couldn’t remember jack shit? It was pretty clear his horror wasn’t sham. In some twisted way, that was encouraging. A sane Nick, a Nick who, just for a flash, was himself, was capable of understanding my rage. And believe you me, I was raging. Man, it felt good.
“You’ve gone too far, Nick. Way too far. Remember or not, same diff. Except that it does make it worse. What if next time you write ‘I love you’ on the wall, wrap my neck in steel wire, and strangle me in my sleep? What if you wake up to that without remembering it?”
I flung the steel wire at the biggest, most grotesque of the birds. It bounced off and landed in the corner.
Nick looked like he was going to type something, but he didn’t. Once again, all sorts of movements were going on behind that mask. But now it was only pitiful shivering, that broken face’s final protest. Nick started to cry. Collapsed, sat on the edge of the bed, shoulders shaking, hand clasped over his bandages.
And I faltered just for a sec. Tried staying indifferent. Can’t deny getting a little kick out of the role reversal and now being in charge. Even my aversion to him contained a dash of relief, cuz it wasn’t coming from fear of his behavior or his mutilation. It stemmed from power. I’d always admired and idolized the pre-accident Nick cuz he had power, not only in his looks or because he never lost control, but because he almost never seemed self-conscious. This little bitty bit of human, sobbing uncontrollably on the edge of the bed, had none of that power. It was too sorry for itself. Nick had diminished into a mini Nick to me.
With shaky fingers he tapped between the tears splashing on the screen.
You’re right, it’s inexcusable. I’ve lost control. What’s the matter with me???
“What’s the matter with you? Jesus, Picasso, if you really can’t remember going into the bedroom and scribbling all over the walls and fencing up my face, it’s spelled psy-cho-sis. And maybe you went through some god-awful shit on that mountain, but that means you need some serious help, cuz I’m not safe around you anymore. And neither are you.”
Suddenly my skin started burning. I rubbed the cuts on my neck and thought, And you. How come you slept right through it?
Too creepy to dwell on, so I pushed the thought out of my head.
A shadow slipped in and jumped onto the bed. Ramses. I’d already resigned myself to not being forgiven by the cat for leaving him in the lurch for all those weeks, didn’t expect him to toss any crumbs of reconciliation my way anytime soon, but I was still surprised that he didn’t hesitate to rest his paws on Nick’s thigh and start sniffing his tear-soaked bandages. Prrr, prrr. Traitor.
There it was again, the schizo voice in my head. It’s one thing to think Nick can take your shirt off while you’re sleeping, without you waking up, but what’s your hypothesis about him tightening a length of steel wire around your—
Whoa. Hold on. Don’t go there.
And what about Lausanne, right after the accident, when he started talking to you out of the blue and the bandages started bleeding? Big, blooming flowers of blood, practically black against the backdrop of the lightning in the mountains—