No. 12
October 11, 1985.
The undergrads at the university have midterms today, and the air on campus is tense and anxious. Although I'm no longer a student, I still remember exam day back at UW, and a sort of empathy overcomes me to see kids huddled in corners busily studying in the library or munching out of family-sized bags of chips and trying not to panic.
In the afternoon, I go on a run around the school. The weather is getting colder and colder, and even though I'm bundled up in my jacket, a blustery wind makes me shiver.. The forecast promises a clear sky tonight. After a faculty meeting through 6 o'clock, I make it home at 7:30 with a stack of essay papers in my hand to be graded. Adrian is making the finishing touches on dinner by the time I'm back, and as we eat he tells me he has a meeting late tonight and won't be back until 12 or so.
He kisses me goodbye at 9 and leaves me to work. The TV is on in the corner, and I hum along to the jingles of advertisements as I scan through tests.
Eventually the air is growing colder and colder from night, and even as much as I know I have to go to sleep soon, the papers need to be graded as soon as possible. And part of me just wants to wait for him to come home.
I jerk my head upwards as the hallway lights suddenly flicker. After a moment, I look back down, tapping the pen against the sheet of paper in my hand, my mind temporarily distracted.
Tap. Tap tap tap.
It takes me a couple of moments to reread the lines before me.
An additional area in which cognitive behavioral therapy has been found to be effective in stress-related disorders is PTSD, which occurs after an individual has experienced a major traumatic event. Typical symptoms include reliving the event, recurring thought of the event, avoidance, numbing and detachment and estrangement from family and other people.
The handwriting goes a bit awry there and I squint, trying to discern the letters.
Tap. Tap tap tap.
Click.
The room goes dark when the breaker goes down, startling me from my thoughts. As I'm about to get up to check, suddenly, a low rumble shakes the room and I hold on to the edge of the coffee table. The sound dies down to a dull hum.
"What the hell…"
A stark white light suddenly flares on behind me, casting my shadow in a jagged line onto the wall. I turn, and stare open-mouthed at the television that turned on by itself, white snow flashing across the screen. A moment later, and color cuts onto the convex glass.
"War has been declared by the Soviet U-"
And then a man screaming, his hand clenched white-knuckled onto sofa armrests.
"They're murderin' women and babies! Just...just stabbing through the stomach 'til the guts're spilling out-"
"First missile strike in Washington D.C. has a reported death toll of-"
The soldier tips his head back, staring at the waning sunlight, the elephant grass swaying lazily around them. The mesh is falling into his eyes, his voice strangely calm.
"Well, with the first strike, the rocket came right down, impaled the man beside me an' exploded. Whole face - well, my whole body, really, covered in blood, an' lost my ear-"
"-president has evacuated the White H-"
His lips are trembling as his wife lays another damp cloth over his forehead, his dark, wispy hair backdropped by pastel roses. Outside, the sun is shining down on the green-cut lawns.
"You wouldn't understand. No one understands. It's like being caught - being trapped in this shithole of a maze, and the fuckin' trees are the ones shooting at you, and-and it's like breathing underwater, never enough clean air-"
"World War Three-"
The heart monitor beeping erratically as an army doctor rushes by. Hands shaking as he tries to take a sip of water; the cup drops from his hands and lands on the ground, the water soaking into the muddy soil.
"At night I can still see it, when I close my eyes - the little boys wit' the necklaces of human ears, three at a time, trading 'em like baseball cards. The village chief disemboweled before our eyes, his wife 'n kids crying-"
"War-"
And the next one is my patient - my own patient six years ago. Jackson Howard is shouting, his hands covering his face, eyes staring out between clawed fingers.
"-sawed his whole foot off, then his leg, cause of the goddamn shit-covered punji sticks - and they won't stop the killing, and the goddamned heat - it's driving us all insane-"
"War!"
"Oh god, oh my god and they just burned the shit outta him, set his whole body on fire-"
"War!"
"I CAN'T TAKE IT ANYMORE-"
"WAR!"
Terror is clenching at my heart, my spine, and I scream, trying to cover my ears as the channels switch rapidly. It's too much, it's too much, it's too much.
And then a voice, behind me. "Lena!" Startling, I back up into the hard edge of a table as a woman steps through the open door. Her hair, her eyes, her face - they're all just as I remembered them. The sharp edge of the low-cut strands, the paleness of her skin in contrast to the shadows under her eyes, the rosy tone of her cheeks and the darker shade of her irises.
Impossible.
But there she is, standing in front of me, whole and unbloodied and unbroken. The way I'd last seen her, sitting with me on the docks in front of Lake Union. With the wind ruffling through my hair and her soft, bright laughter and the fading sunlight brushing gold across the waterline.
Impossible.
As if to counter my thoughts, she smiles. Reaches forward, hand brushing my shoulder. Solid and real. "I'm here, Lena."
Even as the TV is still screaming its filth and ruin, the books are falling off the shelves, the ground shaking, the glasses shattering one by one in the kitchen. Even as the clock in the corner is ticking erratically, the hands rattling beneath the glass.
Even as I realize the humming outside is the sound of the nuclear bomb siren.
But I feel as if I'm in a dream, so unreasonably slow and peaceful. Like there's suddenly nothing - everything, Lena, Adrian whispers - to worry about.
"Avalyn, we have to get to the shelter-"
She cuts me off, shaking her head sharply, that same strange smile on her face. "No, it's too late. I'm so sorry we didn't get more time. I'm so sorry."
"Ava-"
Outside, there's a brilliant flash of white light. It's hot - it's too hot, and the pressure on my ears is painful. Another beat, and everything just - implodes.
The last thing I see is her face. Her hand extended, just a brief farewell.
/
"Lena."
/
It's hot and it burns and I wish it would stop.
/
"Lena, wake up!"
I inhale sharply, gasping as I sit up on the couch. The papers in my lap spill down in a whoosh onto the carpet, and a sob escapes my mouth when I see Adrian kneeling before me, his eyes intent and concerned.
"I can't - I...I'm so sorry," I whisper, my throat raw. "Oh my god...oh my god..."
"Shh, shhhhh, shhh." His hand is gentle as he pulls me up against him, letting me press my face into his chest.
"Don't wanna...I-...Adrian," I plead helplessly, eyes stinging with tears.
He keeps holding me like this, hand brushing gently across my shoulders, my back. Not even asking, just giving and giving and giving.
And when the tremors stop, when my sobbing quiets and he presses another kiss to my forehead - I work up the courage to speak again.
"I saw...I was dreaming, and it was - everything was going wrong, and I saw Ava, she came through the door and I saw her-"
"Avalyn Tamsin? The woman that-"
"Yeah, it was...it was her. She...well, you know that we were friends back at UW, but it was a few years...I mean, it was a few years later that it all happened. The stuff that I never told you." I look at him and Adrian merely nods, his thumb rubbing gently against the back of my hand. "So, she got a husband, a bad type. And he basically held her - held her on this leash made of threats and lies and the kids - she stayed for the kids, but he, some nights he'd-" My throat hitches, and I cover my mouth as a whimper escapes me.
"Oh, Lena," Adrian whispers, so sad and loving.
"And…you see…One day she just doesn't show up. To our get-together at this stupid coffeeshop. And I'm thinking that it's normal – she's late sometimes, sometimes doesn't even make it, you know, with her kids and such. But I hear the news in the afternoon." Face feeling frozen, I stare blankly at the steel-grey walls in the penthouse. "She's dead. Of suicide, apparently. But it wasn't, I know - I know what he did to her."
I choke suddenly on a sob, and then the tears are streaming down my face; my throat is burning. His hand tightens around mine and he pulls me towards him, cupping my face in his hands, but I shake my head, moving away.
"She told me last time that she was scared. That she was scared he was going to do something bad."
"Lena, it's not your fault."
"But it is – it is. I should have done something. I…I fucking told her that he'd never go that far. I told her that we lived in a better world than that. But it seems like we really don't. And...and then I knew I had to do something.
"And that morning after...after it was done…I went on a jog around the lake. And I was tired, and I was frustrated and sad. I didn't know what I had done. I couldn't bear knowing that I had… killed someone."
I look up at him, face red and eyelids puffy and swollen. My hair is sticking wildly to my cheeks from the tears, and I sniff wetly. "And I met you. And since then I've never looked back - I've never, ever thought about it, not until now, and I don't know why, and I'm so...I'm so fucking scared-"
"Listen to me. Lena, please." When I continue to look away, he lowers his voice to a soft whisper. "Lena, look at me, please."
His eyes are so warm.
"It's not your fault. It never, never is your fault. You have to understand that."
"But-"
He cuts me off. "What happened happened, and it... I know that it only goes to show - how wicked and unjust and cruel this world is. But it's not your fault. There's so much evil and there's so much good and you have to know that you did the best you could."
"But...but it's not just that, this war - it's gone so far. I'm scared."
He takes my hands - knots his fingers through mine. "I will save you. I promise."
The newspaper the next morning comes with a gruesome image - a large man lying on the sidewalk, blood pooling around him and his face covered in lacerations. I grimace and flip to the inside article, trying to will the picture out of my head.
Adrian kisses me on the cheek as he leans forward to grab a bagel from the toaster. He raises his eyebrows as he sees the headline.
"'67 Year Old Man Edward Blake Fell 23 Storys To His Death.' Hmm. Suicide?"
"I don't know. We've been getting a lot of cases of mental breakdowns and problems because of...y'know, what's happening right now. But this is new." I sigh, feeling saddened.
"Well, don't let it ruin your day, Lena. We're still alive and that's what matters."
"Yeah, I know." I frown. "I just feel like...everyone's scared. Things've been rough all around." I finish the last few bites of my sandwich and swallow, feeling the familiar soreness of my throat from crying last night. "Ahem. Anyways. I was, um. Thinking of taking a run in Central Park in the morning. Do you want to come with me?"
"I'm afraid I have too much work to do with. A conference with GE and several other energy companies, and an early interview with Nova Express."
"'S okay. I'll be back at around 10." I kiss him. "Love you."
He touches my arm then, and I turn around. "Are you alright, Lena?"
I blink, pretending to look surprised. "Yeah? Yeah I'm...I'm fine."
He purses his lips and then smiles faintly. "Okay."
Truth is, I don't know if I'm fine. Maybe it's just that time of year again, the anxiety all coming back. The wheel of history turning. But I don't want him to worry about me. And though I know he'd never admit it if I asked, he has more important things to think of.
So, yeah, I keep it to myself.
The wind whistling between the skyscrapers and alleyways is cold, yet the air is still somehow warm from the throngs of people and cars all around. My nose scrunches up at the molasses-bitter smell of diesel.
Bernie calls out a greeting when I run up to him, and we exchange a few pleasantries before I'm off again, heading towards the park ahead. Central Park in the morning is all but silent; the tourists haven't gotten up yet, most residents are rushed to get to work and the only sound I can hear are the soft burbling cooes of pigeons and the sounds of hot-dog vendors setting up. The small lapping waves down at the lake are gold-rimmed from the sunlight, and it's peaceful enough that I can sit there and take a breather. Not think about last night. About Ava.
No, of course not.
After changing out of my clothes back at the penthouse I leave for campus to get the next stack of finals for Saturday grading. And after that it's a slow day of marking page after page of test answers and putting scantron sheets into the machine.
I can't stop thinking about the newspaper, the shape of the body on the concrete sidewalk, the blood being washed away, robe soaked in it.
Blood being scrubbed away from the floorboards, my fingers turning wrinkled and pink and the bucket of water just as red.
When evening comes at home, I turn on the table lamp in the bedroom and sit down with another stack of worksheets and term essays. The sky is clear enough in the evening that I can see the way the sun paints the grey smog a rosy orange.
As I'm scanning through a rather promising essay, I hear a faint tapping sound from the bedroom window and turn to see Rorschach perched on the windowsill, his grappling gun still hooked onto the side panel.
"Rorschach! What are you - what're you doing here?" I walk over as he lets himself in, and close the window behind him as he looks around the room.
"Came to tell you something." He takes off his hat as he turns back around, and I watch silently as the inky blobs move. "Comedian is dead."
"The Comedian? How?"
"Edward Blake. Thrown from penthouse last night. Trust you've seen news."
A chill passes over me and I nod, recalling the paper from this morning. "But... why? They got a suspect or anything?"
"Veidt not tell you? Typical," Rorschach snorts. "Daniel came to visit in to Veidt about Comedian. Seems Veidt didn't pass on news."
"Hey, come on. He probably just forgot. I mean, he was gone all of last night, and this morning, too." I can almost feel him roll his eyes, so I move on. "It wasn't suicide, was it? And probably not a burglary or anything. I mean, that guy was built like a horse."
"Think someone's trying to take out masks." He looks away, running a finger over the mahogany edge of a bookshelf.
"Nah, you don't really…" I shake my head, walking past him to my desk to rearrange some papers as I order my thoughts. "Could it have been some kind of...I don't know, political assassination? I've heard he's been working for the government overseas, doing all sorts of sketchy business."
"Hurm. Same thing Veidt said. Must be rubbing off on you." He turns and the accusation in his voice is clear. "Comfortable, wealthy life. Doesn't suit you, Madeline."
I cross my arms, eyes narrowing. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"You grew up fighting. Knew what was right and wrong. Not wealth, no…" He gestures with a gloved hand. "Gilded cage. Place doesn't suit you."
"Glad I don't need your seal of approval, then." At his silence, I continue. "Adrian's a good man, Rorschach. He's..he's trying his best to save us all."
He scoffs. "Should pick his character and stay with it. Maybe good man before. Now, working with all the elites - the fat cats and the moneybags. Selling us on little figurines and toy cars. No greater cause, is there?"
"Get out." I point towards the window, glaring at him as my voice breaks. He stares back, the patches of black on his face slipping in strange shapes back and forth across the mask. After a moment, he puts his hat back on and walks back towards the window.
"Be seeing you," is the last I hear before the window swings shut behind him.
I sit down and put my face in my hands.
The Comedian is dead and the war - it's coming closer than ever.
It's getting to be winter again.
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