Speak

He was wearing a purple sweater. It was ripped over the right shoulder, showing a sliver of pale skin underneath.

A pair of jeans, the cuffs torn off to reveal mismatched socks.

A dog tag necklace around his neck, its silver glinting in the sunlight.

Black dress shoes. There was something kind of substance on them; you couldn’t tell what it was.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” you whispered.

“Sorry, darling!” he chirruped. “Can’t hear you! Gonna have to speak louder than that!”

His mouth was red. Crimson red.

Actually, the stuff was all over him. The smudges on his shoes, the rouge on his face, dripping from his long dark hair, dripping from his hands, dripping dripping dripping dripping

Plop.

“I missed you.”

His piercing voice cut you out of your thoughts. You looked up, back at that haunting face.

The blood stared back at you.

He took a step closer.

Your breath caught. “Stay away,” you warned, but it came out as a whisper.

“Remember me?” he replied, ignoring you. Another step.

Speak. You squeezed your eyes. “You’re that guy, aren’t you? The guy they told me about.”

“Ah, the lady knows who I am! This is a good start.”

You sucked in a breath. “You’re supposed to be dead.”

“Oh! Am I?” He sounded amused. Happy, almost.

You swallowed. “That’s what they told me, they said you were dead. They said they found the body--”

“Who told you that?”

“The doctors. The police. Everyone.”

He raised an eyebrow. “And you believed them? You know better than that.”

But no, no you don’t.

Because you can’t remember anything before the accident.

You believed them because you had to. You believed them because when you woke up in that hospital bed you couldn’t even remember your own name.

“You don’t remember.” His voice was quiet.

It sent shivers crawling slowly up your spine, spiders slinking up one by one.

You avoided his eyes.

“Answer me when I speak to you, please.” Louder now, and when you looked up again you found his face inches away from yours, staring into his eyes.

Cold, calculating grey eyes. Eyes that could have been beautiful if they weren’t so… so…

“Yes,” you said, spitting the syllable into his face. “I remember everything.”

His lip curled. “Liar.”

You raise your chin. “You’re right. I lied, you came back from the dead. I don’t think you should--”

He laughed, and took a step back. “Now there’s the woman I remember. Sparks! There it is.”

“What?”

He leaned in, so far that your noses almost touched. And he whispered, “The reason I married you.”

You shoved him away. Married, ugh. “Don’t lie to me.”

“Every word I have ever said and ever will say to you is the truth,” he replied easily, and then added, “my love.”

How--How did he make a four-lettered-word sound like that? Disgusting and ugly, evocative and persuasive and taunting all at once.

His words were shards of glass. Almost beautiful enough to hide the cracks.

Something wasn’t right.

But what?

“I need a shower,” he muttered, breaking you from your thoughts. “I smell like ashes and death.”

You blinked.

“And some new clothes,” he continued. “This reeks.”

And it was like a button was pushed. A lever pulled, something, something happened. Like he’d transformed before your eyes. One moment he was standing there, bloodied and dangerous--and now there was a softness to him, a small light in his eyes. He wasn’t a psychopath on the street anymore, a creep or a weirdo who said things that weren’t meant to be said.

He was just a tired, beaten young man.

“I have,” you said aloud, “some things. A bathroom to tidy up. Probably some clothes?”

He raised his eyebrows. “Do you really?”

“Actually I haven’t seen my house yet.” You bit your lip. “But they told me where to go. I’m sure there’s a bathroom in there somewhere. Otherwise I was have been an idiot.”

He laughed again--and you actually took a step back.

Light and playful, kind, full of joy. You wanted to drown in the sound, drink it like good spirits and fall into it like a cloud.

Such a dip to his stoic personality! But you much preferred this version of the bloodied boy on the street.

He said, “Where to, mademoiselle?” and you smiled.

The amnestic girl and the broken boy.

Together you walked to the unknown.

***

It was fine then. It was fine for two days--he was a good roommate. Did the dishes every day, cleaned after himself and was an exceptional cook.

Then the first flashes came. On a Friday.

They came in the form of a dream.

They came like a gunshot, like a knife slicing through reality, vivid images dancing in the moon, voices calling out in the wind.

You’d woken up hardly remembering any of it.

But there was a name. There was a name, and it kept ringing in your head ringing, ringing, ringing.

Daniel Klane.

You’d woken up that Friday, with a headache and those eleven letters, and you did what anyone would do. You made a cup of coffee, and then, when that didn’t work, two more.

He’d told you his name was Danny.

That was a lot nicer than Daniel Klane.

So you asked him about it on your way out for lunch. “Is your full name Daniel Klane?”

Silence.

He was ironing out a shirt, but at your question, his hand froze.

“Danny? You’re gonna burn the--.”

He turned, and you took a step back. For a second there you thought you could see a fire in his eyes--but it disappeared quickly, leaving you to wonder whether you’d imagined it.

He answered smoothly, “That name is dead to me, and I would appreciate if you didn’t bring it up again.”

You made sure to take extra long on your walk.

***

The second you pressed enter, tens of articles flooded the screen.

“Daniel Klane Found Dead In His House.”

“Police Report Daniel Klane is Dead.”

“Daniel Klane Suffers Multiple Stab Wounds.”

“Is Daniel Klane’s Reign Finally Over?”

The last one stopped you in your tracks.

Reign? An interesting choice of words.

“What are you looking at?”

You spun around to find him watching at you.

“It’s the middle of the night,” he continued, leaning against a wall. “I thought you went to bed.”

Speak. “I couldn’t sleep,” you lied. “I was looking up remedies for insomnia.” Your left hand found the shutdown button, and you closed the computer. “I think it said that warm milk helps.”

“Huh.” His eyes were fixed on yours. Daring you to look away. “I could make you some.”

You stood, shuffling to the kitchen. “It’s okay,” you murmured. “I can do it.”

There was a rustling, behind you.

You turned. “Where are you going?”

He had one arm up the sleeve of a coat. One of the dark, heavy ones. “Out.”

“Why?”

He tilted his head slightly. “I have errands. I hope you’ll be asleep by the time I’m back.”

And then he was gone, and you were alone.

***

The next day, the computer disappeared from the house.

***

Three days later, you woke up leaning against the kitchen counter with a knife in your right hand. You couldn’t remember how it got there, and you made sure to put it back before Danny woke out.

***

A week later, you were in your car on the way to work.

It was then that the second wave of flashes arrived. Like a bomb, a firecracker exploding in your head, sending fragments of images and sounds to every part of your brain. Pieces of a puzzle that you didn’t know how to solve.

Something sharp.

The roof of a building.

Wind.

A voice… his voice.

More wind.

Bright lights.

It wasn’t until you heard the sirens that you realized you’d crashed your car.

***

Danny didn’t pick you up from the hospital that day, and your car was too totaled to drive. You walked home yourself.

Just like last time.

On your way out of those fluorescent lights and doctor office smell, the nurse had called, “At least there wasn’t any blood this time, yeah?”

Blood.

Was there blood last time?

Of course there was; Danny had been covered in it.

***

It was Wednesday night, laying in bed, wondering if Medusa’s leg hairs were just little snakes, when the third wave came.

Just a flash.

Of a man leaning over you with a knife in his hand.

***

No, that wasn’t right. Because if Danny was the one holding the knife, why did everyone think he was dead and bloodied up?

You scoffed at yourself. An overreactive imagination, and suddenly you’re thinking that every single dream was real.

Ugh. It probably wasn’t a good idea to have all that vodka before bed, but it wasn’t your fault. Staying up late, mouths never closing. You’d gotten lost in his eyes.

***

“What are you thinking about?”

You turned to find him in the hallway. Crisp white button-down, khaki pants, mussed up hair.

A beautiful specimen.

He closed the distance between the both of you and pressed his lips against his brow. “Hmm?”

“I had this… I think it was a dream. Last night.”

His arms closed around your waist. “Really?” His voice was low and quiet. “What was it about?”

“It was stupid. I think I had too much to drink yesterday.”

He exhaled. “Alcohol is a dangerous thing.” You felt his chin onto the top of your head. “What was the dream?”

You laughed. “It’s so dumb.”

He tapped his foot

You rolled your eyes, laughing. “Fine! There was a guy standing over me. I think he had a knife… It could have easily been a banana--”

“You’re remembering.”

You opened your mouth. “What?”

And then there was a strike of pain in your abdomen.

Like fire, licking at your core.

Like acid, burning through.

The flashes started coming, but you couldn’t make sense of any of them.

You felt yourself stumbling backward. And you looked down.

The handle of a knife protruded out of your stomach.

Just like that. Like you had seen in countless movies. The worn-down wood, the small sliver of metal.

The dripping red.

God, that was a lot of red.

Danny touched your cheek. Your nose. He put his fingers under your chin and lifted your face up to see his own.

There were rivers of tears on his cheek. Tears and blood, mixing together like watercolors on a canvas.

“I’m sorry,” he sobbed quietly. “I’m so sorry, my love.”

Your knees buckled, and he fell with you onto the carpet.

His hand was still on the handle of the knife, and you stared at it in horror.

“We used to be a team,” he whispered, his eyes dazed. “Every night, sneaking out into the city. Kill some bastards, drink to their memory.” He pressed his lips against your ear. “It was wonderful. We were so happy together.”

Spots appeared in your vision.

“You were right about the knife. Of course you were. That was me. But do you remember what happened before that, my love? Remember us, on the roof of that building? We would have slept under the stars that night. But you had other plans.

“Your little paring knife against my throat. I thought it was a joke.” His voice softened a bit. “You had this look in your eyes. I don’t know what it was, but it excited me. A duel between lovers! Wouldn’t that have been swell?”

He laughed. The sound was guttural, predatory. “So you won that round! Cheers to you, congratulations. Tried to kill me? Had enough of blood on your hands?”

Everything was slick. The tang of your blood mixed with the salt of his tears had somehow gotten into your mouth.

He cried out, sobs convulsing his body. “And every time," he choked, "I told myself, ‘Jesus, Daniel, she is going to tell someone. She is going to be the person who lands you behind bars.’ But I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t bring myself to cut you out.”

You watched, slowly, agonizingly, as he pulled the knife back out.

“I won’t make the same mistake again,” he vowed quietly. “You know too much.”

A broken boy drowning in his tears.

He whispered, “I love you.”

Speak.

But no words came out.