Although it was snowing and the air turned colder than it had been all week, I felt warm and fuzzy inside. The headache that had started to thrum around the base of my skull was barely noticeable as we meandered through the city and finally made our way through Central Park. I hadn’t been back here since earlier this week; my nightmare about my Nana burning alive making me steer clear of the area. But I couldn’t hide forever, and seeing that I would be with Sara-Kate made it seem bearable.
It was late afternoon when we made our way past Turtle Pond, our destination being the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Though our friendship was new, I knew that Sara-Kate was an artist at heart. She loved the fine arts: theater, singing, and painting. Her dream currently was to get into Julliard either for theater or voice; she still couldn’t decide.
As we walked the familiar steps, a sense of dread and foreboding took root deep in my chest; the headache I had been ignoring reared its ugly head in full force. I squinted through the ever-falling snow, trying my best to pay attention to what Sara-Kate was saying.
“I mean, I keep telling my mom that maybe I should have a backup plan in case Julliard doesn’t work out, but she is so focused on getting me to lock in on my voice lessons and beefing up my resume. I guess I have the opposite of a controlling helicopter mom who wants me to be a doctor, but one who like believes in me almost too much, you know?” She continued to talk, pulling our hooked arms closer to conserve heat. “What about your uncle and aunt? Are they cool?”
I rubbed the back of my neck absentmindedly, trying to rid myself of my headache as I replied, “Oh, it’s really too soon to tell, but definitely not getting mommy dearest vibes from Tiff or Uncle Dan. I’ve barely seen him since he’s so busy at the DA’s office.”
My words faded as I realized we were headed right for the Obelisk monument.
“Mari?” Sara-Kat tugged at my arm. “Are you okay? You look really pale.”
“Paler than usual?” I tried to joke, but the words stuck in my throat, my mouth unbearably dry.
The headache sharpened, feeling like a tight vice around my head, my vision blurring for a few moments.
“I just need a second.” I stumbled, but Sara-Kate held me tight, leading me to a bench right across from the monument.
“Take a deep breath. Here, have some water.” She pushed her water bottle towards me and I took gingerly sips.
“This can’t be happening again,” I mumbled, feeling a tinge of embarrassment flow through me.
“Again? Has this happened before?”
“Yeah, last weekend. I felt faint at the store, but I was doing better. Just some headaches every now and then. But this feels worse somehow.”
I closed my eyes, burying my head in my hands, trying to protect myself from the daylight that suddenly felt blinding. Sara-Kate gently rubbed my back in an effort to comfort me.
“Don’t stress, baby girl,” Sara-Kate chuckled. “Maybe you’re still experiencing jet lag or something.”
I looked up, eyebrows raised slightly. “From a two-hour plane ride a week ago?”
“Okay, maybe not,” Sara-Kate conceded, her smile turning concerned. “So, what do you think the deal is?”
But before I could respond, there was a loud scream; a deep, throaty screech that sounded more animal than human. We both looked up and saw a man on his knees about ten feet away, screaming as he held his hands to his ears. His face was scrunched in pain, his shaved head shining in the snowy light. He eerily reminded me of Ashe, the girl who hadn’t been to school in a week after this very same thing occurred, not in appearance, of course, but an odd sense of déjà vu overcame me. That same deep-seated feeling of dread flared, making my chest feel hollow and my headache burst anew.
A police officer made his way through the small crowd that had begun to gather around the man who was still screaming in what seemed to be a different language I couldn’t recognize. He gently pulled the man to his feet, asking what was wrong, what had happened, and if he was hurt. The man stopped screaming and turned his open mouth towards the stone Obelisk, inching towards it as if it were speaking to him.
“Ne znam šta hoceš od mene!” The man screamed, his throat hoarse and raw from yelling. “Ostavi me na miru!”
He suddenly made a mad dash through the park, heading toward Fifth Avenue. The police officer took chase, and the crowd dissipated once they realized their entertainment forthe afternoon was gone.
“God, this city is so bizarre,” Sara-Kate mumbled under her breath. “You’ll get used to all the weirdos New York has to offer soon enough.”
Instead of laughing, changing the subject, or even insisting we continue our way to the museum, I froze. Because that man reminded me of Ashe in more ways than just the apparent public mental breakdown. The man also had a golden tattoo of a strange sigil that seemed to branch out down his neck, disappearing underneath his clothes. It glowed brightly against his dark skin as I watched him run out of the park. But when I mentioned it to Sara-Kate later, she shook her head, insisting she didn’t see anything of the sort.
I had an eerie feeling that no one else could see it. No one besides me.
Later that night, I sat numb as I watched the local news report on how a Bosnian man allegedly went crazy and ran into oncoming traffic, dying on impact with a city bus. At the same moment, Sara-Kate texted me that apparently Ashe wasn’t in rehab, but at the morgue. She allegedly committed suicide earlier today.
SK???????
I just saw online that Ashe killed
herself this morning. ?? So sad!
Mari????
