Knockout (36 page)

He looks
to be about my age, his pale skin contrasting sharply with his buzzed black hair. He’s naked except for a black Speedo-esque swimsuit. Even to my drunk mind, that seems like weird attire for December in Nebraska. I quickly strip off my heavy coat and throw it over his chest, shivering immediately in just my T-shirt. I don’t see his chest rising or falling so I grab for his hand to take his pulse. Relief floods through me when I find his skin is relatively warm and pliant. I’m hoping this means he’s not dead yet.

The second I touch him, he lurches forward as though I shocked him. His arms and legs spasm wildl
y before he leans over to cough. He ends up puking almost directly into my lap. It’s all liquid but I smell something chemical in it, something vaguely familiar. I wonder if it’s some kind of alcohol. He drops back down hard onto the rocks, but they don’t make a sound with the impact. I watch as he stares unblinking at the sky, lying so still I think he must be dead now. I may have just witnessed death throws.

I rub his hand between both of mine and lean
in close, so close our noses are almost touching and my hair falls around us. His eyes latch onto mine. I gasp at how bright they are. How brilliantly green. How utterly alive.

I whisper one word to him, the only thing I can think to say.

“Breathe.”

He vanishes.
My coat is lying on wet stones, my hand is holding cold air.

My heart
stops beating. My breath freezes in my lungs. I clench my hands tightly, feeling them tingle and itch where my skin met his. He was real. I held his hand and I’m awake. I know that I’m awake. There’s no way that was a dream.

“What the hell?” I whisper, my voice quivering.

This is it. This is insanity taking hold. I’m breaking from reality. I’m losing my mind, though it never fully felt like mine to begin with.

Trembling from the cold, shock and a growing fear, I grab my jacket to pull it on.
I can’t get my hands to work right. The zipper feels painfully cold between my fingertips and I abandon any hope of closing it. Standing quickly, I run back across the rocks and up the bank to my sister’s car. By the time I get there I’m nearly hyperventilating.

Her friends have arrived and they’re standing in a halo of streetlight, clouds of warm breath rising around them in the cold air. Cara sees me and my anxiety must be on my face because she rushes over.

“What’s wrong? Were you sick?” she asks, touching my arm. She frowns and pulls her hand back. “Your coat is wet.”

“Yeah.”

“Did you puke on your coat?” she asks, her face disgusted.

I think of the guy leaning over and throwing up river water.

“Yeah,” I mumble.

“Gross. I think you’re done for the night.”

“Me too,” I say eagerly. I nod but it’s more of a convulsion and I practically run for the car.

Cara says a hasty goodbye to her friends who laugh in understanding. Once
inside, she cranks the heat and eyes me, watching me shake.

“You
sure you’re okay?”

“I just want to go to sleep.”

“That’s a first,” she says, but leaves it at that.

Over the years Cara has learned that I don’t like to talk about half the stuff that goes on when I’m asleep. I’ve seen things and been places that I don’t like to revisit, waking or otherwise.

“What’s that smell?” she asks suddenly.

“My dinner’s second coming.”

“No, you smell like a swimming pool.” She scrunches up her nose and glances sideways at me. “Like chlorine.”

This night is getting weirder by the second. I vow to never drink again.

I was born in Eugene, Oregon and studied English Literature at the University of Oregon (Go Ducks!) It was there that I discovered why Latin is a dead language and that being an English teacher was not actually what I wanted to do with my life.
My husband, my son and my 80lbs pitbull who thinks he's a lapdog are my world.

Visit my website for more information on upcoming releases,
Tracey Ward