In Sight of Stars by Gae Polisner
For Annmarie, who read chapter by chapter, draft by draft.
Because Klee was always your favorite.
And, for all who suffer and can’t see the stars through the dark.
For my part I know nothing with any certainty,
but the sight of the stars makes me dream.
—VINCENT VAN GOGH
a splash quite unnoticed
this was
Icarus drowning
—WILLIAM CARLOS WILLIAMS, “LANDSCAPE WITH THE FALL OF ICARUS”
Even before I push the fucking door open, I know.
Sarah is in there, moving in slow motion.
I head toward her, desperate to tell her, to reach out. To hear her tell me it will all be okay.
But, something’s not right.
The silhouette of her body.
The cadence of arms and limbs
The pain is swift and excruciating.
I cry out, but no sound comes. I back up and turn to go.
I knew she couldn’t help me.
She told me she isn’t the one.
Someone—not Sarah—calls my name, says something obnoxious, and I freeze.
That douchebag Abbott.
I should hurt him, but no.
I don’t give a shit. Screw him. Screw all of them.
I’m done with this place. Done with my mother. With Sarah. With Northhollow.
I jam my hands in my pockets and move fast toward the door, but Sarah yells to Abbott and he follows me.
My fingers strike metal in my pocket.
“Hey, man…”
Leave me alone!
I don’t know why I do it. Pull it out. Brandish it in front of me.
I won’t use it. At least not on him.
Show her. Show her how bad you hurt.
I reach up and slash.
The air grows cold and dizzying.
“Holy fuck! What the hell, Alden?”
I lie down on the cool tile floor.
This pain will make that pain stop.
“Alden, what…?” Sarah stands over me, eyes filled with fear. I close mine against hers, as footsteps rush down the hall.
“What did you do? What did you do?” she whispers. Warm liquid runs down my neck to the floor.
Everything grows spotty.
Sirens drift in, soft, then screaming, pulsing red behind my closed lids. The ceiling grows farther away.
The door opens, and air rushes in.
Chatter, laughter.
(Someone is fucking laughing at me.)
More lights. A girl’s voice. Not Sarah’s.
“Jesus Christ. It’s so not funny, man.”
The sounds and faces swirl, blue and yellow, obfuscating, suffocating my brain.
Things come out of sequence. More footsteps. More voices. A bright, intense white in my eyes.
“Turn off that fucking light, asshole!”
Time slips.
It’s not even now.
Someone says, “Look here. Look at me, son.”
Someone says, “What the fuck happened here?”
Someone says, “Get away. He wasn’t doing nothing. Leave him alone!”
The light flashes through both my eyes again.
“Turn it off! Please…”
Darker. Better.
I didn’t expect so much blood.
*
Quiet.
Nothing.
“Klee?”
My mother’s voice.
I close my eyes, blocking her out.
I didn’t mean to do this. I’m not like him …
“You rest. I’ll come back in the morning.”
The tap of heels disappearing down a corridor.
Doors open and close.
I try to sleep, but strange voices wail and moan.
Wheels squeak on a linoleum floor.
*
A shade opens. Daylight.
A nurse smiles at me, eyes crinkled, half her face hidden in the flood of sunshine.
“How you feeling, hon?”
I shake my head. “I didn’t mean…” but my words fail, crumbs stuck in cotton, buried under stone.
But I didn’t … I wasn’t trying to … It’s something I need them to know.
“We’ve got you covered, hon,” the nurse says, that one eye winking. Then another sharp stick, and the colors swirl some more.
*
Dusk. Heavy lidded. A toxic viridian green.
I’m in a dim, dusty studio. I squint in the low, filtered light.
Is this real or a dream?
“No matter. Come here. It needs a touch of Veronese?”
A man stands before me at an easel. Red beard, straw hat The canvas is covered in sunflowers. But the colors are wrong, and his beaker overflows. He dips his brush and swirls it till the water turns cloudy and crimson.
I reach out, knock it away, spilling the liquid to the floor. Violent red splatters across a shower door.
I cry out and a nurse appears. I feel the pinprick stick, swallow pills down, and the water runs clear again.
*
“Klee, it’s me. Are you feeling any better?” My mother’s voice, high and false, drifts in again.
I roll my head away, stare out a dirty window. The man from the studio is outside. His brush moves methodically over a canvas.
Wheat fields arise, vast and swirling. Oceans of golden waves. The sky lightens, electrifies blue mountains that hum beneath the glow of a yellow orb sun.