NUMB by Judy Colella (tools of titans ebook txt) 📕

By this time, Jett had made it to the side door and gone inside. Glaring at the reporter but not bothering to elaborate, Bryson finally released him and followed Jett.

Celia was standing by the bottom of the stairs when he came out into the front hall; she was looking up at the retreating figure of her son, tears gleaming down her face. As soon as she saw her husband, she pulled him to her, hugging him with the ferocity of wretchedness, crying hard against his chest.

“Ah, love,” he whispered. At least her reaction he could understand. He stroked her hair, containing his own emotion as best he could for her sake. Still in shock that Atarah was gone, he forced himself to try and think calmly, logically.

Jett was going to be a mess, and something would have to be done to help him through this loss. But what? Therapy? One of those group things for other people who had lost loved ones? And would any of it be enough? Well, he had no answers. It was too soon. But he’d have to have one before much more time passed or his son might do something desperate, permanent.

And that would be the final grief that would end Bryson, too.

*******

Ondine sat in the art studio, the only illumination coming from the dial on the radio and the streetlights outside the bank of windows. For the longest time she could do nothing else. Nothing else physical, anyway. Her thoughts, however, were tearing around her mind, screaming.

Learning that one’s best friend was dead was horrible. Learning about it from a news broadcast was worse than watching someone murder a kitten. So her inner self wept, railed, shrieked at the heavens, cursed the earth, and when she could take no more, she picked up the radio and ran at the windows. With all her wiry strength she flung it through one of the large panes, not caring if it landed on anyone two floors below on the sidewalk, not caring that she was destroying private property, not caring…

She was still looking down at the splintered glass glittering on the concrete – the beauty of the sparkling reflections mocking her, reminding her of Atarah’s fate – when the sobs began. Eventually, she collapsed to the floor, unable to move, barely able to breathe. Her best friend was gone.

Gone.

The media presence outside had ebbed and flowed, waves crashing against an implacable, unyielding cliff. None of the reporters had been able to coax anyone outside, but they weren’t giving up, apparently. Or not until the police came and forced them to vacate the street (once again) in compliance with the neighborhood curfew.

Jett watched all of this from his bedroom window, not having moved from it since coming home earlier in the day. Reporters – they knew by now what had happened, of course, and he didn’t blame them for wanting more information.

With his first appearance at the Olympics, Jett had become the center of a lot of media focus, but he’d never minded. In fact, he appreciated that so many people were calling themselves his fans. Unlike most who found fame, he had never sought it. What he did, he did because he not only loved sports, but recognized this physical ability as being his very life-force. Until he’d met Atarah, whose energy had instantly merged with his and given him the best reason of all to greet each day.

So his following, which was a result of merely doing the only thing he ever wanted to do, was valued. He had always been nice to the reporters, pleasant and respectful, even on days when he was so tired that this behavior was difficult.

The ones parked outside all day were probably expecting him to talk to them, an expectation that no doubt was born of that willingness of his to talk to them. Only…not today. Maybe never again. Every time he saw a reporter from now on, he knew he’d be reminded that his beloved wife had been torn from him. To go out and tell these people any of this was simply beyond him, and all he’d been able to manage through the day was to stand there, watching them, as his mind slowly numbed. Jett had become paralyzed with sorrow, not changing his position at the window by so much as an inch.

But now, finally, as the last of the cars drove off, he allowed himself to turn away, walking stiffly to the light switch near the door. He went to the silver-framed mirror on the wall over his dresser and stared at himself. What he saw was the place where his soul had once lived – familiar, unchanged, empty.

And then he saw the rest of what the mirror was reflecting: the bed, the nightstands, one of them sporting the wedding photo that his mother had placed there while he’d been in Tuscany, the open closet in which a number of lovely dresses and other outfits still hung. Reminders. Stabbing him in the eyes. Pointing out the vacuum left by someone who wasn’t coming back.

Enough of his mind was still capable of rational thought to devise a plan. He realized killing himself would be epic-level selfishness. His parents were already devastated, and losing him, well, who knew what it would do to them? But he wasn’t ready to fully accept the truth yet, and recognized that he would soon be shutting down.

Arrangements would have to be made, then. That was the only answer. He went to his computer and began looking for the right place, and when he found it an hour or so later, he made a few phone calls. Then the bank transfer…an email to Mitch…last, a letter to his parents explaining, in part, what he had to do to keep himself alive.

Not where or how, only what. That would have to be enough. There wasn’t much time left. Jett desperately needed to sleep, but refused to try and do so naturally, and not in his bed. Not in…

Shut up. Stop. Don’t go there.

He got up from the desk and changed into a simple outfit – old jeans, a light green tee-shirt with a black pullover sweater over that, clean socks, his old sneakers. Done. Nothing in his pockets. No watch, no adornments whatsoever. Except his wedding ring. Maybe. Can I see that and not go completely insane? Can I leave it behind? Closing his eyes for a few seconds, Jett tried to work that one out, but his mind kept dragging him back to the altar, to the moment he thought he’d captured forever. Yes. I can leave it. I have to. Removing it was like having a vital organ excised from his body with no anesthesia.

What else? Oh, God, I don’t want to hear my own heartbeat any more.

One more thing. He took the letter from the printer and left his room. Where are they? I hear…ah. Downstairs. His parents’ voices were muted by walls and distance, reminding him suddenly of bedtime when he’d been small.

“Jett? Are you all right, honey?” His mother had gotten quickly out of her chair when he appeared in the living room door.

“No. Here.” He handed her the letter, which he’d folded and stuffed into an envelope. “Don’t read it yet. I have to go…out. I’ll get a cab.” Hearing his voice, he wished he couldn’t. It reminded him – No! Shut the hell up! Stop thinking!

“We love you, Jett.” This from his father.

He wanted to say it back, but the word “love” had become a poison-edged razor Jett couldn’t touch. Wouldn’t touch. So he nodded and turned away.

Using his cell for what he figured was probably the last time – in a long time, at least – he called for a taxi, placed the phone on the table by the door, then went outside.

The front of the house was still free of paparazzi and other reporter types; only two patrol cars were on the street. He was glad, but also didn’t care. A few minutes later, a yellow cab slid up to the curb. Jett went down the driveway, opened the back door of the cab, and got in.

“Hey, you’re Jett Kinsley! I heard…uh, never mind.” The cabbie lowered his gaze from the rear-view mirror. “Where to?”

Jett pulled in a shaky breath, released it, and told him.

*******

“Didn’t he give any clue at all?”

“No, Bry. Only that he’d already made sure he’d be safe and cared for. And that we shouldn’t worry.” Celia uttered a loud, bitter laugh. “What are we supposed to make of this? As if it isn’t bad enough that we’ve lost ‘Tarah, now our son disappears on us?”

Bryson reached for the sheet of paper. “May I see that, please?”

“Sure.” She handed it to him, then went to the sofa and curled up in a corner of its blue and white stripes.

Frowning, Mr. Kinsley read his son’s note several times before joining his wife. He sat without grace, as if controlling his body’s descent was no longer worth consideration. “Sounds like he’s going somewhere to get psychological help. I’d have suggested it myself, if he’d been able to talk about it.”

“Should we look for him?”

“No. I’m about a million percent sure he doesn’t want to be found.” He leaned back and patted Celia’s closest knee.

“I’m sure you’re right. But damn it.” She bit her lip, frowning back tears.

“At least he’s doing something constructive.” He gathered her closer and held her tight.

“I guess.” The words came out as a sob, and a moment later, Celia let herself cry.

And quietly, Bryson did, too.

*******

“Welcome to The Bluebird Foundation, Mr. Kinsley.”

“Please don’t use my name again.”

“Of course. We have a room for you, and here’s a schedule of treatment, if you’d care to go over it?” The woman in the blue and white medical uniform picked up a sheaf of papers and handed them over the counter.

“Thanks.” He scanned the pages quickly, noting all the different medications they would be administering, and shook his head. There has to be another way – I hate taking medicine.

“From what you tell us, M…uh, right. What do I call you?”

“Whatever you like – but not my real name.” He handed back the papers. “I don’t suppose any of this is natural or holistic?”

“Any of what – the medications? I honestly don’t know. They all come from the same pharmaceutical company, though, and it’s a reliable one.”

“Oh. I need to go to my room now. I don’t believe I’ll be able to function clearly for much longer.” He could feel himself closing down, his mind going dark. The grief was beginning to make itself known, and he needed to detach before it could snare him.

The woman gave him a strange look, but it wasn’t an unsympathetic one. “I’ll have one of the orderlies help you. The room is on the fourth floor, if that’s okay.” Whatever she had wanted to ask him was apparently forgotten now.

“Why wouldn’t it be?”

“Some people fear heights, even when they’re inside a building.”

“I climb cliffs.”

She looked momentarily embarrassed. “Of course – sorry. I forgot about that.”

“Don’t apologize, and for my sake, please try and forget who I am