Exit Wounds

05 | gone girl

F I V E

LOS ANGELES, CA

          Being back in California is a fever dream.

          I haven't seen this place in person for so long that part of me doesn't believe I'm actually here, but the steady pressure of Sadie's hand on my arm keeps me rooted to reality when the plane lands. We fly commercially, as I'm not important enough to own a private jet and we care about the environment far too much to be flying around for no reason, but we remained unbothered throughout the entire flight. Granted, I've been wearing a baseball cap and a hood over my head, not to mention the sunglasses, but I'm not a household name that justifies taking all these precautions so I won't be recognized.

          Sadie senses my discomfort. At least I want to believe she does, like pet owners truly believe animals can feel human emotions exactly like they do, and they project all these characteristically human experiences onto their pets. If I do it, if I believe in her humanity, it makes me feel not as bad about landing in LAX.

          "How are you feeling?" she asks, hand still set on my wrist as we head towards the baggage claim area. It's more of a gentle squeeze to my wrist bone than anything else, but it's the most affection I've gotten from her after all this time, so I don't make any snarky complaints about it. "I can feel your pulse racing. I have water."

          "I think I'm about to throw up," I murmur, which isn't a lie, but it's also not a perfect match to the truth.

          Truth is, I'm not entirely sure how I'm feeling. Ever since I first left California, ever since I stumbled into a therapist's office and swore them to secrecy under the threat of a lawsuit, I've been experiencing feelings and emotions I can't describe in detail. It starts with something freezing cold spreading across my chest, swimming through my bloodstream, and lodging itself in my nerves. It's a rush of blood to the brain, so fast it knocks me off balance, and it has made me black out on occasion.

          When I come to my senses, I'm shaking like we're in the middle of a blizzard. Luckily for me, it usually happens when I'm by myself, but Sadie has witnessed this firsthand, being nearby to ensure I didn't hit my head. Before losing consciousness, I'm overwhelmed by the weight and pressure of the air around me, the incessant buzzing in my ears like there's an entire swarm of wasps in my brain, and the terror of knowing something terrible is about to happen to me has me heaving on the spot.

          I can't identify what triggers these episodes or how to make them stop, but I can usually detect them once they begin. It doesn't do me any good to know when they're happening considering I can't stop them, so my brain is a hostage of itself.

          Nausea is easy to explain. Everything else is not—especially those things that are exacerbated by being in California.

          "Look at me," Sadie asks, pulling me back by an arm when we stop by the baggage carousel. "Harley."

          "I don't want to be here."

          "We can talk about the whys later. Right now, I just need you to look at me."

          I don't want to. The second I look at her, all her humanity will fade into the busy air of the airport and we'll go back to being Harley-and-Sadie, client and agent/publicist, and that's not what I want from her. I'm not sure I can ask her for anything more, not when she's been keeping me at arm's length ever since I first signed that contract and she made it clear she's not here to be friends with me, but she's all I have. Maybe I can fool myself for a little while longer, make up this entire narrative in my head where she came to California with me because she cares and is worried about me.