Oh god, oh god-he slammed my bloody face into the bar-shaking back and forth.
"I called you. Why didn't you answer?"
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," I cried. The bar lowered my voice.
"Why did you let me do this to you?" he shouted.
I tried to fight back. He is too strong. I fumbled along the railing, grabbed a beer bottle, twisted my neck with great strength, and shook it with all my strength, just before the bottle hit his face ー
I woke up.
"Damn!" Terry said. "What the fuck is going on?"
I gasped. My face bounced off the dashboard. I stretched out my hand to cover my nose, and when I took it out, the blood ran down. The blood stained the dashboard. I hurriedly wiped the sleeve of the sweatshirt I bought in the drugstore, and then wiped my nose with the same sleeve. I hold it and pinch the bridge of my nose to stop the bleeding, being careful not to splash the blood on the cushion of the passenger seat.
We are still on the road, almost at the exit of the expressway. Downtown Portland is on our left. The Willamette River gleamed in the light of the setting sun.
"I dreamed of the car accident," I said, as if it were a logical explanation for why I just smashed my face into the man's dashboard. What I'm thinking is-Ben called! He called, but I didn't answer it. What does he want
"You will be fine. Just give it time," Terry said. He reached out and patted the seat next to my knee.
"What is your way out?"
"Next."
"Luckily you woke up," he said.
It is indeed a good thing.
After getting off the highway, I told him how to get on my small three-story car. I think I was surprised, it looked exactly the same as when I left yesterday morning.
"That's it," I said. I reached into the pocket of scrubbing pants and took out my wallet.
"No," Terry said, pointing to my wallet. "Take that away."
"Thank you. I really appreciate it."
"Take care of yourself and get a good night's sleep. The kind of person who doesn't have nightmares and bleeding noses."
"Okay," I said through the sleeve of the sweatshirt that was still pressing on my nose. I came out of the truck cautiously, and sat down stiffly. When I was standing, every muscle was tight and full of anger.
Just as I was about to close the door, Terry said: "Mr. Silas wants me to tell you something. He said, this is what he said, you are not her. You are yours."
I nodded.
Terry nodded. I closed the truck door and he drove away from the side of the road. I guess he was driving two miles above the speed limit.
I opened the door with the spare key hidden in the dwarf in the evil plaster garden by the porch of my house. I stepped the dwarf under my feet and let him lie on his side. I was too tired to hold him upright. He looked at me unhappily, disapproving of my decision to abandon him. As soon as I entered the house, I found the cordless phone before sitting on the sofa. I'm worried that once I sit down, I won't be able to get up again-never again. I dialed the voicemail on the phone, and I thought my phone was still in the wreckage of the car, no matter where it was.
I must figure out what I wanted. I can't believe I completely forgot that he called.
The first message-Abby. I’m Nick. Listen, I really don't know what happened. Are you ok? If you are upset about what happened at the reception, don't do this. it's not a big deal. real. call me back.
The second message-serious Abby. call me back. I am anxious. Please call me back.
The third message is to hang up.
Fourth message-Abby, I got your number from Jill. hope you do not mind. Damn, I don't know what to say.
Abby, I think I'm fucking crazy. Something is wrong, Abby. What the hell is wrong. I always have these horrible dreams, and you are in the dream, but this is not the worst part. One day it was pitch black before my eyes. I paused. Does the name Neil Black mean anything to you? Dr. Neil Black? I don't know, I feel crazy, but I'm not crazy, Abby. I come to see you. I have to talk to you. I think this may be related to you. Oh my goodness. I am coming. I am on the road and will arrive in about an hour and a half.
Fifth message-Abby, this is Nick. I am in a hospital by the sea. You were hospitalized there last night after the accident. Guess what? You are not here. They said you slipped out in the middle of the night. Call me.
The sixth message-this message is for Abby. Ms. Neely, this is Carrie from the Providence Seaside. You were discharged from the hospital this morning without the doctor's permission. He said you need more care. Please come back or call.
The seventh message-Yo, Abby.
This is written by Jason.
What's wrong? Your friend Nick called and said that you had a terrible car accident last night, you were in the hospital, and you slipped out in the middle of the night. You worry us all, boy. Call me.
The eighth message-Abby, or Nick. I'm still by the sea. I do not know what to do? are you still here? Should I go home? Please call me back. Stop, Abby, I saw them pulling you out of the car. You are not breathing. Pause, I took the camera out of the trunk, all the cameras. I don't know if I should do this, but I did. Well, anyway, I already have it.
The new message ends.
Around 7 o'clock in the evening, I was sitting on the sofa. I sat on the sofa for nearly an hour. Just sitting and breathing in the shape of Abigail, my sofa remembers and will never forget.
Turn off the TV. Turn off the radio. Everything is cancelled.
The sun is still shining outside. The temperature was hovering around ninety degrees, and he refused to let go. It's so hot inside, I can no longer wear my bloody pharmacy sweatshirt, but I still wear it. I have decisions to do and actions to take, but most importantly, I just want to sit down. As long as I can bear it, I succumb to that impulse.
The one on my right shoulder begged me not to stand up, but the one on my left shoulder was worried, afraid to fall asleep, afraid to go anywhere, but I am confident that she and I need to do something, and we need to do something now.
I feel lonely. I am eager to call someone, anyone, but what am I going to say to them? Do I have dreams of the terrible reality of myself that I used to incarnate? A nurse used a folded card with the address of someone who could help me and predicted that I would die prematurely, and then sneaked me out of the hospital? I don't know if I believe all of this, but I have experienced it myself. I am pretty sure that no one else will believe me.
Let's face it, apart from the one hundred and seventeen dollars in the bank, the respect of my friends is the only thing of value to me, and the savings voucher that my aunt gave me when I was seven ー oh , And old photos of my father. Those things are priceless to me, but they have no value to others.
That's it. The sum of my parts.
I got rid of fatigue and went to take a bath. I smell bad. I smelled the hospital, fear, sweat and blood. At least, I am ready to stop carrying olfactory baggage with me.
I wrapped the plaster in a plastic garbage bag, sealed it with tape, and took a shower with one hand. I rub every part of me until I squeak, being careful of the pain points around. I brushed my teeth twice and rinsed with mint mouthwash three times.
When I can no longer smell myself, I feel better.
I wore a pair of loose overalls and a vest. Tie the wet hair into a loose one-hand bag. Eat a jar of spaghetti. Drank a lot of water and a large glass of iced instant coffee. I found some old coffee shop chocolate biscuits, soaked them in my instant coffee, and ate them until I was full.
While eating, I kept staring at the folded card that the nurse gave me. I put it on the table. No phone number, no name, only one address. I did not recognize this street. I must check before I go if I go.
I am vague back and forth.
go
Don't go.
go
Don't go.
This is ridiculous. I gotta go.
If I think I can fall asleep without having those terrible nightmares, I will do that. I just want to sleep. In fact, I haven't had nightmares for seven days. The nightmares have become more and more real, more terrifying, and more painful. If I am very honest with myself—this is my principle, and only do this on very rare and special occasions—I will not be so sure that I will wake up the next time I sleep—these dreams are so real and fear.
I made up my mind. I gotta go.
At this moment, the phone at home rang, and I was almost taken aback. I did not recognize this number. Let them leave a message; I don't want to talk to anyone in my mind right now. Recently, only the person who collects the bill will call my house.
I found the address of the note card on the Internet. It's close to the Willamette River on my side, close to a wine bar I went to on a date, right next to the railroad tracks, on the way to the Museum of Science and Industry. If I remember correctly, this place is almost a warehouse. Near the museum, the warehouse has been transformed into a lovely tavern, bar, cafe and art loft.
Now, the only trick left is to find a way to get there. I'm not going to ride a bicycle-my hands are broken. The road is far, so there is no need to walk.
I walked out of the house, walked around the house, and knocked on Ingrid's door.
Ingrid is my old neighbor. Her son owns this converted three-story apartment. She has a little Jack Russell named Boots and a cat named Mr. Lincoln. She used to be a ballerina, but in her day, she was a big man. Now, she works in her garden and reads romance novels, and there are many men to accompany her.
She once told me that she prefers to be with Booth and Mr. Lincoln, rather than with her three boyfriends-I remember three. She said that no one in the world loves her more than Boots. Mr. Lincoln is as fickle as other men, but at least for Mr. Lincoln, she is never surprised.
She opened the door before I knocked; she saw me coming from the other side of the house. Her house is the main entrance; she has the front half of the house and the upper floor. My entrance is the side door, and the back half of the house is mine. A man named Francis lives in a converted basement. I almost never met him. I think he is on the night shift. Ingrid likes to monitor the in and out of all her neighbors. She is a neighborhood watcher of a lone ranger.
"Oh, my God, Abigail. You look terrible, honey. Come in. Come in. I'll pour you iced tea. Would you like some iced tea?" she asked. Ingrid is a petite woman with a slim neck and ankle. She is aging gracefully.
"I don't have time to visit her. I hope to make another appointment next time. I'm actually here to ask you for a favor."
"What is this, dear?"
"I have to go somewhere tonight. Can I borrow your car?"
Ingrid has an old Buick, and she put it in the only garage in the house. She drives as little as possible, preferring to walk to shops and farmers’ markets. (To be continued) (End of this chapter)