The Fray Theory: Resonance (2 page)

The stretcher starts to squeal,
and then collapses under Neve’s weight with a blaring bang!

The
speeding ambulance starts to sink as though being weighed
down by a massive anvil. And when the wheels abandon the deforming axels, it DROPS
to the ground, its momentum propelling it onwards.

An ear-splitting screech
saturates the atmosphere as the vehicle’s base grinds against the asphalt. And
the whole world holds its breath until the ambulance lurches to a staggering
stop.

In an utter state of
shock, the paramedic and EMT surrender their authorities and seek refuge in the
far corners of their confinement. They watch as Neve effortlessly liberates herself
from her restraints, and ascends like a phoenix rising from the ashes.

With her glowing gaze
glued to her assailants, she steps off the deformed stretcher, sinking the vehicle
by another few inches.

And then all that lingers
in the air, is fear.

“Move.”

~Two Weeks Ago~

The
lecture hall is filled to capacity. The air is
thick with tension, and the silence is all-consuming. And in the backmost row,
Neve slouches in her uncomfortable aisle seat, inspecting her multiple choice
sheet for what feels like the hundredth time.

Her weary gaze soars over her
colleagues to the front of the hall, where the proctor is slowly pacing the
platform.

His piercing glare is
beyond incriminating, akin to how a detective would stare at his prime suspect
in an interrogation room.

Not that Neve can blame
him.

If any student were to
ever cheat on any exam, this right here would be it. And at this very moment,
morality feels more like a burden than a virtue.

Neve waits for him to turn
his back to her section, and then she sneaks a glance at her colleague’s exam.

Poor bastard
, she thinks at the sight of the messy markings on
his exam package. Looks like he’s trying to use the process of elimination to weed
out all the wrong answers.

She feels for him. She’d probably
do the same. But unfortunately, deductive reasoning is of no use when the exam
has been formulated by Marcus Holt.

A frazzled breath escapes her.
She pulls her hair back behind her ears, and makes one final attempt at giving
a rat’s ass:

24.
Phantom Limb is
an example of:

a.
sensitization of
cutaneous pain endings due to injury

b.
sensory
projection

c.
referred pain

d.
psychological
hallucination

e.
pain modulation

‘f. this.’
Neve scribbles under ‘pain modulation’, a triumphant
grin tugging at the corner of her lip.

Oh, how she wishes she
could
just leave it. She might as well. The odds
of anyone passing this exam are slim to none, even without antagonizing Holt. At
least this way she can revel in her own small victory.

Eager to throw in the
towel, Neve looks up at the
hideous mass-produced
clock above the east exit.

Still 3:53 pm
!?

She slides down in
her seat. It feels like time itself is stuck in limbo.

She
could
just take off… It’s not like if she keeps sitting here, the correct answers are
going to leap off the page at her.

But then, if she
fails—which she probably will—a part of her will always wonder whether it’s
because she didn’t give this damn test her all.

And it’s much
easier to blame Holt than to blame herself. So she begrudgingly stays put, and
endures another seven or so eternities.

The moment the
proctor announces the end of the exam, Neve springs out of her seat and
strides down the steps towards the front
of the hall.

Tight-lipped, she
drops her insipid burden on the desk, avoiding eye-contact with the proctor.

The urge to flip
him off is simply too real.

She exhales the
tension she’s been bottling up and turns to scan the crowd for a string-bean in
hipster clothing.

Failing to spot
her best friend, Elliot, she makes her way out of the nearest exit onto green
university grounds.

The timid Vancouver
sun is peeking through the pillowy clouds. Generous stretches of emerald grass
carpet the landscape. But prettiest of all would have to be the cherry blossom
trees, their plush canopies flush with pastel pinks.

Springtime in
Vancouver is absolutely enchanting, especially at the University of British
Columbia, or UBC as everyone affectionately calls it. And although the stress
of final exams is weighing down on nearly everyone, today’s gorgeous weather
makes it almost impossible not to smile.

Neve walks over
to the nearest bench and takes a seat, the sunbathed panels toasty-warm beneath
her thighs. It’s such a far cry from the sodden surfaces she’s long become
accustomed to, so she closes her eyes and pretends to be somewhere else.

Somewhere
different.

σ

Like a broken line of ants, Neve’s colleagues slowly trickle out of the
building. It’s beginning to feel like she’s been dawdling out here for hours, so
she grabs her phone and texts Elliot.

are you? Thought we were grabbing soosh…>

A few minutes go
by, and nothing. Neve is starting to seriously wonder about what’s taking him
so long.

She rises from
the bench to go back and fetch him, but just then, she receives a text from a number
she can’t quite place.

talk to you>

Is it from
Elli
?
Did he lose his
phone
?

Neve sighs and
plops back down on the bench.

this?>

Her text is
immediately marked as ‘read’, but no response pops onto her screen.

After a drawn-out
minute of waiting, she gives up on the prospect and rises once more. As she
throws her purse over her shoulder, she receives another text from the same
number.

Neve’s blood freezes.
Feeling dazed, she stumbles back onto the bench.

‘
It’s Dylan?’
She stares into space. ‘Hey Neve, how’s it going?’ ‘Oh hey, Dylan, what have
you been up to?’ ‘Oh you know, just locked up in a cell for the last three years,
or I would’ve totally dropped you a line.’ ‘Oh, ha ha, you’re so funny, D. You
smart good.
’

Neve shoves her
phone into her jacket pocket and begins to tap her foot maniacally. She’s not
going to respond. She owes him nothing.

A few more
minutes drag by with no sign of Elliot, so Neve surrenders to her compulsion
and pulls up the text again.

This time,
it hits her.

It’s
Dylan
.

σ

“What!?” Elliot’s door flies open from under Neve’s pounding fist.

She stares at him
deadpan, and then marches into his dorm room and plops down on his couch.

Elliot swings the
door shut and walks over to his bed. He collapses onto it, making his comforter
puff up around him like a loaf of bread rising in the oven.

His room smells like
stale junk food, and there are far too many empty cans of beer lying around.
But at least she can hear the peaceful sound of ocean waves through the crack
in his window.

Or is it the
swoosh of all the cars speeding along the coastal road? It’s hard to tell.

“I waited for you,”
Neve breaks the silence.

With his face still
buried, he draws a deep breath and exhales it back into his comforter. “Sorry.”

Neve’s gaze loses
focus as her mind starts to drift off again. “Dylan texted me.”

“
Confuse me
!?”
Elliot’s wide and hostile eyes peek from behind his sheets. “Are you
kidding
me?”

“He wants to talk.”

“It’s been
three
years
!”

“And two months.”

“Jesus Christ,”
Elliot props himself onto his elbow, staring at Neve with equal parts anger and
unease.

It’s coming: another
one of his anti-Dylan tirades.

“I don’t even…” Elliot
mutters and sits up.

He runs his fingers
through his mousy hair, which is in desperate need of a good wash. And his eyes
are bloodshot.
And
he seems spindlier than usual.

“Are you okay?” Neve
asks. “How’d you do on the final?”

Elliot’s posture
wilts. “I didn’t go.”

“Uh… please be
kidding.”

He shuts his eyes
and squares his shoulders.

“Elli—did you actually
skip the final?”

“Yessss,” he groans.

Neve continues to
stare. “Why?”

“Because who
cares? That’s why.”

She turns her
head slightly, eyes still glued to him. “Did you at least call in sick, or
something?”

Nothing. He
doesn’t even acknowledge her.

“Elli—it’s
Marcus
Holt
we’re talking about. He’s not going to cut you any slack just because you’re
at the top of his class.”

Elliot remains stoic,
staring into space as though she’s not even there.

Failing to
inspire a sense of urgency, Neve rises from the couch and sits down next to him
on the bed.

Still nothing.

“Elli,” she takes
his hand, “I know it’s hard. I can’t even imagine how hard, but you gotta push
through these episodes.”

“Neve—” he
grimaces, “don't shrink me. Please.”

“I’m just trying
to help.”

“Well, don’t,” he
lies back down, his hand sliding from Neve’s gentle grasp. “It is what it is.”

Neve bites down
on her lower lip. “Look—I know this is probably the last thing you want to hear,
but I really think it’s time you see a professional.”

Elliot frowns. “Were
you counting the ceiling tiles in Ethics class?”

“I think I
might’ve been fluffing my pillow.”

“Every shrink’s first
priority is to cover his own ass. They don’t give a shit about their patients.”

“They’re not
all
like that. You just need to find one you click with.”

“Thanks,
mom
.
Are you going to tell me to wait at least an hour before I go swimming?”

“You know—you can
be a real chore sometimes.”

“Then why don’t you
go hang out with your other bestie?
Ohhh
, you can’t.” He crosses his
arms behind his head, challenging Neve with raised brows.

“I would if it didn’t
cost me a flight to Paris.”

“Yeah. I’m sure little
‘Miss Croissant’ is just dying to hear about your epic adventures in
Neuroscience
.”

And for a moment,
Neve wonders if Elliot’s got a point. That it’s naïve of her to cling onto a
childhood friendship strained by a five-thousand-mile gap.

“You’re still
here,” Elliot grumbles.

“Elli—” Neve lies
down next to him. “It is not easy being friends with someone who has depression.
Not
because it’s a burden, but because you
love
them. So their
pain becomes your own.” She rests her hand on his chest. “You really expect me
to just sit by and do nothing?”

“You’re the one
to talk.”

“Anxiety is
different.”

“No, it’s not.
Shut up.”

“It is,” she chuckles,
smoothing out the wrinkles in his shirt. “When I have a panic attack, I just
want to ride it out without someone suffocating me.”

“That whole
‘suffocating’ thing goes both ways.”

“Except my
attacks come and go, and last a couple of minutes, tops. Some of your episodes
have lasted for
months
. You can’t keep brushing this off.”

Elliot shuts his
eyes and exhales through his nose.

“Look—I can start
looking for a psychiatrist—”

“It’s all
bullshit
!
They all sit there, looking at you like you’re damaged. They nod at everything
you say, but what they’re
really
doing is making mental notes of what
not
to say to you, just in case you decide to go and off yourself.”

And suddenly Neve is six years
old again, tightly clutching her mother’s hand.

The waiting room is well-lit,
but its aura is darker than the night itself. The woman sitting behind the
front desk is beautiful, yet there is something unnerving behind her glossy smile.

Like a poisoned candy apple.

Elliot stares at
the ceiling with vacant eyes.

His defeated
expression is practically a portrait of Neve’s childhood. She was too young to
know how to write, so she would draw. She would awaken from a dream and dive straight
for her little notepad.

And just draw.

So that once her
dream came true, she’d be able to prove to everyone that she wasn’t making it
all up.

But instead of
being applauded for her initiative, she was chastised. Her enthusiasm was extinguished,
time and time again, until she became just another rehabilitated child.

A statistic.

“Elli,” she props
herself onto her elbow, “It’s easy to look at other people and feel like you’re
alone in this. But just because we all pretend to be fine,” she shakes her
head, “doesn’t mean we are.”