In The Air Tonight, Part 15

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Michael Vaughn felt his spirits lower along with the elevator as it carried him further and further away from Sydney. How did I ever let Jack talk me into leaving? he asked himself, frustrated. But before he could ponder it much further, the doors to the elevator opened to yield the main hospital lobby.

Ignoring stares of passersby who obviously wondered why someone who potentially worked at the hospital was carrying around a bag of bloody clothes, he crossed the lobby and shoved open the front doors. The night air was still cool and the stars above still shone brightly, but Vaughn could no longer find peace in them as he had hours ago. Everything in his life had changed…or so it seemed.

The ache from the wound in his leg was back in full force, so he limped slightly as he rounded the back of the building to reach the Emergency Room parking lot. As his black sedan came into view, he hit the open trunk latch button and watched dispassionately as the hatch popped open. A fresh pang of anguish stabbed his heart when he saw his duffel still sitting there, packed and ready for his now-forgotten trip to Santa Barbara. Forcing himself to look away, he dumped the plastic bag into the trunk and slammed the hatch closed with quite a bit more force than was necessary.

Unlocking the door, yanking it open and dropping himself despairingly onto the seat, he slouched over, wearily leaning his head into his hands. Deep gulping breaths tore from his chest as, for the first time that evening, the emotions overwhelmed him. Over and over, his mind mercilessly replayed the graphic images: Will's bloody body in the bathtub; the streaks of blood on the floor, the walls, the kitchen countertop; Sydney…

Oh, God…Sydney… His brain repeated the scene of his finding her body like it was caught in an unending loop. Vaughn's body shook from the anguish that he fought to keep inside. I will not cry, he told himself. I won't do it… I won't…

His stomach lurched violently and he sank onto his knees on the ground in front of the open car door, bracing both hands against the warm, black pavement as he vomited, the urge coming over and over again in waves until it dwindled into weak dry heaves. Finally, wiping his mouth on the sleeve of his shirt, Vaughn feebly pushed himself backward into an awkward sitting position on the ground, leaning against the car for support. He felt the sting of tears welling behind his eyelids, but he refused to let them fall. He reached up and pinched his nose hard at the junction between his eyes until the impulse subsided.

Not sure whether he had the energy to stand, Vaughn dragged himself into the car, pulling the door shut behind him. After a couple of deep breaths, he shoved himself upright, blinking a couple of times to bring his sight into focus. As he stuck his car key into the ignition and turned, putting his car into reverse, Vaughn put his mind into neutral. He refused to think. He needed to concentrate on three things: forcing his heart to continue beating, remembering to take a breath every so often, and keeping the damned car between the yellow lines.

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How he got himself home, Vaughn couldn't be sure. It was all an anesthetized blur. But he didn't care. If there was no memory, no emotion, then there was no pain. Stumbling out of the car, Vaughn popped the trunk with his key ring. Don't think, he ordered himself. Don't think; don't feel; don't remember… as he robotically grabbed both bags from the trunk and slammed the hatch shut with his elbow. Dragging each foot as though a lead weight were attached, his internal monologue continued, Don't look down…the bags, they're really not there. They don't exist. The pain doesn't exist… You can do this… Just three more steps…Come on…

Vaughn shoved his house key into the lock, turned it and leaned against the door, allowing his body weight to push the door open. He trudged inside, kicking the door closed with a slam. His parcels slid unheeded from lifeless fingers. Across the darkened room, a light blinked three times, then stopped, then blinked again: the light from his answering machine. Shoving a shoe off each foot as he walked, he marched stiffly toward the miniscule red beacon.

He pushed the button beside the light, bringing the machine to life. Don't think… The first message was from an acquaintance, Tyler, who played on his pick-up hockey team, telling him that the practice had been cancelled for tomorrow. He pressed 'erase'. Don't feel… The second message was from his mother, reminding him of his promise to stop by on Thursday for dinner. He pressed erase again. Don't remember… The third message began to play…No, no, I can't!…Don't feel! Don't feel it…it's not real!

His gray world suddenly exploded into colors, each one stinging his body like thousands of poisoned needles. The sudden pain was blinding, intense. "Mr. Vaughn," a polite female voice intoned, "this is the Cheshire Cat Inn… Just checking to see if you are still planning on keeping your reservation for this evening. Please return this call at your earliest convenience… (805) 569-1610. Thank you."

Vaughn's head swam and his knees turned to jelly. He gripped the edge of the table for support, his knuckles whitening from the effort to remain upright. For several moments, he stood in emotional limbo. I should call, he thought, to let them know we're not coming… but no matter how much he willed it, his arm would not move. Vaughn could not get his hand to pick up the telephone and punch the numbers, because somehow doing it would make tonight real. It's not real! his mind screamed. Don't make it real! He covered his ears with his hands, as if doing so could drown out the sound of his own thoughts. Finally, to end the torment inside his head, he grabbed the answering machine, ripped it forcefully from the wall, and heaved it across the room, hearing it shatter upon impact with the wall and drop to the floor with a satisfying thud.

I will not cry…I will not feel… his desperate mind whispered. There is no pain…it does not exist. Like an automaton, he walked across the dark apartment toward his bathroom, shedding articles of clothing as he went, creating a trail of discarded garments.

He did not turn on the light; it would hurt too much. Hide…hide the pain…let the darkness swallow it up…let it swallow you up… Shoving aside the shower curtain, he turned the water on blistering hot. Kicking off his boxer shorts, he stepped under the stream, hissing at the sensation assailing his skin. The water hurt, but it was a healing hurt, a cathartic hurt. Yes, let the pain seep out of you, let it drip to the ground, flow down the drain….

The drain. The water. The blood. It all came back with a crushing blow, forcing all the air out of Vaughn's lungs as if someone had gut-punched him. His mind a tumbling maelstrom of emotion out of control, the anger surfaced first. "No!" the sound tore from his throat, punctuated by the slamming of the side of his fist on the shower wall. "No!" Pound. "No!" Pound. "NO!" Pound. "NO!" Pound. Pound. Pound. Pound.

Vaughn's screams got louder and louder, and his banging became more and more violent until; finally, he collapsed against the shower wall, the sorrow overtaking him. A deep, guttural cry burst into the wet blackness. Then a great keening wail escaped his lips and echoed in the small room, melting into gasping sobs as his body slid bonelessly down the shower tile to the tub floor. Curled up in fetal position under the unmerciful water stream, Michael Vaughn wept hysterically, grasping his knees, rhythmically rocking to and fro, until his throat was hoarse and he had no tears left to cry.

His sanity slowly returning, Michael realized the water pounding his head and shoulders had long since turned cold and that his shivers were not just from spent emotion. Feeling blindly along the wall, he finally found the water tap and shut it off. It took several long, deep breaths before he could push himself to a stand and carefully climb out of the porcelain tub. Grabbing his towel from the towel rack, he vigorously dried off his body, trying to restore warmth and circulation. Then, leaning over, he tossed the terrycloth over his head and scrubbed the water out of his hair, making his hair stand up on end. At last, he stood, placing the towel back on the holder and grabbing his robe from a hook on the back of the door, shrugging it over his shoulders and tying it at the waist.

He padded barefoot from the bathroom to his bedroom, pausing to glance at the time on his bedside clock; 1:34 am its green face glowed. Sighing, Vaughn looked down at his hand, just noticing that it was still bandaged and that the bandage was soaked. Removing it deftly, he unceremoniously dumped it into the wastebasket next to his desk, the bandage on his thigh soon following. Making a mental note to replace the bandages in the morning, he walked over to the window and pulled up the shade, allowing moonlight to stream through the glass while he gazed out into the night.

Despite his breakdown—or quite possibly because of it—Vaughn felt somewhat better. He finally felt as if his mind was functioning properly again. He no longer felt such sharp, agonizing pain, nor did he feel the robotic numbness that had threatened to envelop him. A determination set his mouth in a grim line. He needed to be able to concentrate, to focus, if he was going to be able to save Sydney from possibly a worse fate. That, and he needed some sleep.

Setting his alarm to go off at 6:15, Michael untied the robe, letting it slip down his arms and puddle at his feet. For a moment he stood, considering. Normally he wore boxer shorts to bed…but tonight he was just too emotionally drained and physically exhausted to care. He threw aside the blankets and slipped his naked body between the cool, cotton sheets.

He sighed at the pleasant sensation and rolled over onto his stomach, bunching a pillow up under his head. As tired as he was, Michael couldn't seem to get comfortable. He rolled onto his back and placed his hands behind his head, kicking one leg out of the sheets to keep from getting hot.

Instead of getting more relaxed, Michael was feeling tenser by the moment. He had the distinct feeling he was being watched. That's ridiculous, Mike, he told himself. It's just your mind on overload… But the feeling wouldn't subside. The hairs on the back of his neck started to prickle. A cold sliver of fear pressed upon his psyche, forcing him at last to sit up and open his eyes, anxiously scanning the dark corners of his bedroom for anything amiss.

Vaughn almost missed it, the slight movement near his closet. His eyes trained to the spot, adjusting slowly to the darkness. Out of the shadows, Michael watched in horror as a specter rose, using a voice straight from his worst nightmares.

"Good evening, Mr. Vaughn."