Dear Diary, page 7
“Get him,” he laughed. It was an evil cackle that scared me.
“How, Michael?”
“Get him,” he repeated and laughed again. “Push him on the train tracks, set him on fire, put bleach in his drink. Get him. Get him. Get him. Do it.”
I grabbed a pencil and a notepad to write down the instructions. I barely made out what he said. His faint voice frustrated me. No matter how tight I gripped the pencil, I couldn’t write one word. My hands trembled. Finally, the lead connected with the paper, allowing me to scribble illegible words.
“What’s happening to me?” I yelled out. I flipped the pencil over and erased what I had written. Regardless of how fast and hard I tried, the words wouldn’t disappear. My grip tightened on the pencil. I was determined to correct my mistakes, but the pencil snapped in two. That was all I needed to send me over the edge. I threw the pencil pieces across the room and paced, biting my nails and tasting blood in the process.
“Destroy him,” Michael loudly demanded. I heard him clearly as his voice seemed to come through the television. “Trick him. Destroy him.”
I became so enraged that I faced the TV and screamed, “Michael, please stop yelling at me.”
“I’ll leave,” my brother threatened over my disobedience.
Of course, I didn’t want that. I dropped to my knees and hugged the flat screen. “Please, don’t leave. Please, I’ll do whatever you want.”
“What are you doing?” Myles asked from the doorway.
I forgot he was due back from a business trip. Our living arrangements worked perfectly. Myles was away for work a lot, making it easy to hide the real me. When he was here, most nights, we slept in different bedrooms. When we did share a bed, the most we ever did was cuddle and kiss.
“Lie,” Michael whispered. His voice sounded as if he were far away instead of booming through the surround sound as before.
“I was praying,” I lied.
Myles eased into the house, made his way to the remote, and lowered the volume. His eyes narrowed as he surveyed the mess I had made. “I could hear the TV from down the hall and you yelling over it.”
Desperate to change the subject and feel the safety of being entangled in his arms, I jumped up from the kneeling position to run over and hug him. I stumbled in the process. Myles caught me before I hit the floor. He scooped me up and carried me to the couch.
“Wait here,” Myles said and ran over to his luggage that was still by the door. He rushed back with his laptop in his hand as if I were in my final moments of life. “Tell me your symptoms.” He pounded away at the keys.
Michael laughed at how Myles tried to diagnose me with the help of WebMD. His contagious laugh caused me to laugh. “Shh.” I lifted my index finger to my puckered lips to hush my brother.
“I’m sorry if I’m being loud, Eva, but please tell me your symptoms,” Myles said, thinking I was talking to him.
It was challenging to contain my laughter. Michael had jumped from the TV and back into my head.
“Eva,” Myles hollered and waved his hand in my face.
I felt sadness for him and panic for myself. I didn’t answer. If the website was accurate, it would expose the other side of me.
“Eva,” Myles slowly called through clenched teeth. “Your symptoms,” he said, clearly frustrated.
“Comply,” Michael instructed.
At what seemed like twenty miles per minute, I listed each symptom. “It’s weird, Myles. Sometimes I’m restless and tired at the same time. My head won’t stop hurting. I haven’t really been eating either.” I wasn’t sure what prompted me to laugh, but I did.
“When was the last time you ate?” Myles asked.
I thought about it before answering. I couldn’t recall the last time I had anything to eat or drink. “I don’t know,” I replied.
Myles lowered his head and voice. “When was the last time you showered?”
I pushed his shoulder. “That’s a rude thing to ask.” No woman wanted to hear a man, her man, question her hygiene. But I did give it some thought. I knew I hadn’t showered in a few days. How many exactly? I was unsure.
“I didn’t mean to offend you, Eva.”
“Well, you did, Myles.”
He typed some more and said, “According to this, you have cancer. Get up so I can take you to the emergency room.”
Michael laughed. “Dummy.” I laughed too.
“This is no laughing matter, Eva. It may not be cancer, but you need to get checked out. I’ve never seen you like this.”
“I’m fine,” I said and tried to stand from the couch. I was too weak and sat back down.
“You are not fine. At least let me run you a hot bath and make you something to eat.”
Again? The nerve of him. “Just leave me alone.” I pulled the fuzzy gray blanket that Myles had covered me with over my face. I needed him to take the hint and disappear on his own before I helped him faster than Michael had planned.
Neither of the two men in my life understood my need for alone time. Myles continued playing doctor, and Michael continued talking. It was too much at one time, and I lost it. Unfortunately, Myles was the one I lost it on. He had been in my face with the back of his hand pressed against my forehead, checking for a fever.
Michael talked loud and fast in my head as if he were an auctioneer, still ranting, “Trick him, destroy him. Trick him, destroy him. Hurry up. Do it.”
“Move.” I pushed Myles’s hand from my face and jumped up from the couch. I didn’t know where that energy came from. I stood in the middle of the floor with my palms cupped over my ears, spinning in circles. “Shut up, Michael. Please give me a break.”
I remember the force when Michael grabbed my hand and used it as a weapon against Myles. My brother made me slap my boyfriend. I wasn’t sure if it hurt him, but it certainly scared him enough to make him back away.
After my meltdown, the extra energy disappeared. Sweat poured from every inch of my flesh. Unsure of how I ended up seated Indian style on the floor, I exhausted what little was left in me by attempting to stand. My knees buckled, and the floor caught my bottom, and my eyes caught a glimpse of Myles, who was tucked away in the corner. He shook worse than an off-balance washing machine.
My mind flooded with questions. Was Michael messing with Myles too? Was I no longer the liaison? Was he not happy with my work? Or maybe Michael was in Myles’s head trying to get him to do things to me. Nah. My brother wouldn’t do that.
Those butterflies were back. They, too, were different. The flutter was no longer graceful but now painful.
“Myles,” my voice cracked.
He didn’t answer. He must have hated me. I didn’t blame him.
I pulled my knees closer into my chest and buried my head in between them. If only I could have pulled them in even more to crush the rest of my soul, then I wouldn’t have had to face what had taken place.
I didn’t know how long we sat in opposite corners before the smell of Myles’s cologne reached my nose. “Eva,” he delicately said. “I’m here for you, but I need to understand what just happened.” He wrapped his arms around me, and I immediately felt safe, even though my secret was out. Myles still loved me despite what he had just witnessed. However, what he did next made me question that thought.
Entry 11
Dear Diary:
“Let me get you some water,” Myles said and vanished into the kitchen.
Once the ice cubes stopped pounding against the glass, I heard him speaking on the phone. Although only half of a wall divided the living room and kitchen, I couldn’t make out what he said. I assumed it was his job, given how often they called and with no regard to time.
Myles ended the call before returning to my side with the water.
Both of my hands clutched the glass. I could feel my heartbeat returning to its usual harmonious thump as I took slow sips. Still, I couldn’t bring myself to say anything nor make eye contact with Myles.
Worry invaded every inch of my brain. I wondered what Myles thought of me. Did he think I was some kind of freak? Then again, maybe he played it safe, fearing I’d do something to him. I wouldn’t. I promised. That slap was a one-time thing, forced by Michael.
I tried to control my shaking hands, but the sudden ripples throughout the water caused a little spillage. Myles noticed. He crawled over to me and wrapped his arms around me again. I quickly drifted off into a relaxed, peaceful place, knowing that he still cared about me.
When the doorbell sounded, I sat up, perplexed. One of the perks of living on the fifth floor of the upscale Cambridge Lofts was the difficulty accessing the building. If anyone failed to check in at the reception desk and obtain a visitor’s pass, they wouldn’t get very far. Security was tight and posted throughout the building. A visitor’s pass wasn’t the only thing needed. The staff at the front desk also had to notify us. I was confused because the doorbell rang but we hadn’t been informed.
“Who could that be?” I asked Myles.
Myles’s look said he already knew who it was. When he opened the door, my eyes zoomed from the police badge to the baton and gun, and then quickly scanned the bulletproof vest.
Conversation came from the two-way radio, but I yelled over it. “How dare you, Myles?”
“Ma’am,” the male officer said as a warning.
Myles hung his head. “I’m sorry, Eva.”
“‘I’m sorry, Eva,’” I repeated, mocking him. “You are not sorry. Is this your way of getting rid of me? You called the police to have me locked up. Is this your definition of love? Because I would have never done anything like this to you,” I screamed at the top of my lungs, and I could feel my tonsils vibrate.
The female officer inched toward me. “Ma’am, you need to calm down.”
Feeling brave and challenged, I took two steps toward her. I wasn’t sure if she placed her hand on her gun or Taser, but it was enough to make Myles jump in front of me. Good thing he did, because I was not about to let them take me anywhere without a fight.
The sight of Myles pissed me off. And because he was so close to me, pretending like he cared and acting like he worked for the police department, trying to diffuse the situation, I felt the sudden urge to connect my flesh with his. “Slap him,” echoed throughout my ears. Although I promised never to do it again, I did. Every nerve in my body stung until I satisfied the craving. I felt powerful with each quick open-handed slap to his left cheek.
The officers dropped me. Pieces of the tan shag rug made their way into my mouth. I struggled to break free, but they kneeled on various parts of my body and cuffed me.
“Myles! Myles, please help me,” I begged. “How could you do this to me? Please don’t let them take me.”
He mumbled those same stupid words. “I’m sorry, Eva.”
“I hate you, Myles.”
As I refused to walk, the female officer and three other male officers picked me up and escorted me to my awaiting chariot—the police cruiser. Once inside, I tried to kick the window out with my bare feet.
Frustrated with my actions, one of the male officers snatched the car door open and threatened to tase me if I didn’t calm down. “Don’t tase me. Shoot me. I dare you,” I challenged him.
He pointed his gloved finger in my face. “I’m warning you,” he said and slammed the door.
If I had a choice of death, jail, or the psych ward, death would be my first pick. I hated the admissions process, and my disdain grew worse each time. With every visit, everything was taken away from me. Simple things like belts and shoestrings were considered weapons. Why would they care if I chose to hang myself with them? My freedom was already gone. So was my privacy.
The hospital staff controlled my day-to-day activities, and my input didn’t matter. We had to be awake at a particular hour. We were forced to take our meds and participate in individual and group activities whether we wanted to or not. I hated feeling the need to peek over my shoulder every second, not knowing when one of the crazies would harm me. Worst of all, I hated enduring the unidentifiable stenches floating past my nose in all directions.
This particular time, I chose death.
“Shoot me,” I yelled as loud as I could to make sure they heard me through the glass. My request went ignored. The glass windows of the cruiser couldn’t have been thick enough to drown out the sounds of my death wish.
The officers were locked in on whatever Myles said. His mouth hastily moved, and I was sure whatever came out was lies.
I believed they had conspired against me. They planned to torture me and dump my body into a wooded area. I accepted my life ending. I wanted that for myself until Michael showed up. “Revenge. It’s a part of the plan.”
I squirmed in the back of the squad car, trying to break free from the tightly locked cuffs. “Michael, please don’t let them do this to me.” I rocked back and forth. “I don’t like this plan. I don’t like this plan. I don’t like this plan,” I repeated and started banging my head against the window.
Multiple officers approached the car like they were ready to fight me. One opened the driver’s side door and let all four windows down. “Ma’am, stop doing that.”
I pleaded with my brother. “Michael, please do something. Can we change the plan? I don’t want to go to jail, and I don’t want to go to the hospital.” His lack of response made me angry. “Michael, say something,” I screamed.
“Eva, stop it! Michael is dead.” Myles turned his back toward me, but that didn’t stop me from hearing his sobs.
“That’s what you think,” I said.
The female officer rubbed his shoulder, trying to console him. “Stop touching him, you slut,” I yelled and tried to wiggle out of the cuffs like I was a magician.
“Eva, please stop,” Myles begged.
My throat burned from the constant yelling, and it continued to burn as I yelled, “You just want to get rid of me to be with your little slut over there.”
“Who is Michael?” the female slut asked Myles.
He began to tell the most ridiculous story. “Michael was her brother—”
“Is my brother. You tried to kill him.”
Myles held his hand up. “I can explain,” he said. “Her brother and I were involved in a car accident years ago. He . . . died,” Myles hesitantly said.
“He should be in jail, Officers. He tried to kill my brother. He’s not dead. Michael, tell them you’re not dead.”
Michael was silent once again.
“Don’t be shy. If you talk to them like you talk to me, they’ll see and let me go.”
Still nothing. I wondered why my brother chose to disappear at such an inopportune time.
Officers kept me in the back of the police car until the ambulance arrived. There was more resistance on my behalf and a slight struggle. As soon as they removed one of my wrists from the cuffs to transition me to the ambulance, I broke free. I hadn’t run like that since making the decision to step away from the track team. Wind blew through my wild hair. It felt good.
“You can’t catch me,” I said and circled the cruiser, laughing.
The officers surrounded the car but kept their distance. “Ma’am, please don’t make us tase you.”
I stuck my tongue out. “Bet you won’t shoot me.”
“Eva, stop,” Myles pleaded with me while walking toward me.
“If you come near me, I will slap you again.”
I felt the jolt from the Taser. After that, I don’t remember much more. I woke up cuffed to a hospital bed, feeling sluggish and sick, similar to how people described a hangover.
When I noticed the bracelets, a bit of adrenaline kicked in. “Nurse! Nurse!” I wiggled and yelled. Instead of the nurse coming, an officer stepped into the room. It wasn’t one from the house. A different one. A mean one.
“Pipe down, ma’am. All that noise is not necessary.” His hand rested on his gun like he was prepared to draw and shoot at any minute. Although I didn’t mind dying, I didn’t understand his reaction. I was sick, not a villain. Why so eager to shoot? I was a buck fifty. He was over six feet tall and muscular. He could take me with no problem.
“Can you uncuff me?” I gently asked. “My wrists are sore.”
“That’s your problem,” he said and returned to his seat in the hallway.
After I was hydrated, patched up from a few minor cuts, and my vitals returned to normal, I was transferred to the psychiatric unit. For the next seventy-two hours, I wanted to hurt Myles more than Michael did.
Entry 12
Dear Diary:
Myles betrayed me. Much to my chagrin, he was waiting for me when I rounded the discharge station. He stood with his hands stuffed in the pockets of his black sweats. When we locked eyes, a slight grin lifted one of his chiseled cheekbones. Three days ago, he learned I was certified crazy, yet he was here instead of Uncle Bobby and Clara. I instantly froze, and every organ seemed to have uncomfortably traded places with another. Had something happened to my aunt and uncle? Did Myles have a suicide note from them?
I crept toward him. Instead of a greeting, I bombarded him with questions. “Where are Uncle Bobby and Clara? Are they okay? Do they know I’m here? Did something happen to them?”
Myles reached for me, but I turned my body so that no part of him brushed up against me. I wanted to claw his eyes out like I was a cat, but had I done that, the staff would have guided me right back to my room. I didn’t want to leave with him, but I also didn’t want to stay at the hospital.
When we got outside, he tried to hold my hand. Once again, I jerked away. “Don’t touch me, backstabber.”
“I’m sorry you feel that way, Eva. I had to make sure you got help.”
I scoffed at how casually the word “help” rolled off his tongue. “You were not trying to help me. What you did was embarrass me.”
Myles reached into the car and pulled out a bouquet of flowers. Normally, that gesture would have put a smile on my face, but I just didn’t like him or any attempt he made to downplay what he had done.
