As I emerged from the Portal's disorienting embrace and stepped onto the familiar driveway, the sight of the truck, stationary and intact, was both a relief and a source of new anxiety. My heart was a cacophony of conflicting emotions—relief that Joel hadn't vanished or done something rash, coupled with a creeping dread of the conversation that awaited me.
I paused, allowing myself a moment to close my eyes and gather my thoughts. My mind raced, desperately cobbling together a plausible story that wouldn't sound like the ramblings of a lunatic. How could I possibly articulate the day's surreal events without sounding unhinged?
"Hello?" My voice sounded louder than I intended as I approached the truck, the word slicing through the thick silence. I quickened my pace, navigating around the vehicle to inspect the open cab door. The engine's silence was a stark contrast to the turmoil in my mind, and the keys left in the ignition seemed like a silent accusation, a reminder of my hasty departure.
My gaze drifted to the house, its front door ajar, an invitation or perhaps a warning of the what lay within. A fleeting thought crossed my mind—maybe Joel had simply needed another bathroom break, a mundane explanation that I clung to like a lifeline.
With a sense of urgency propelling me, I retrieved my phone, its screen a gateway to a myriad of other pressing issues. There was no time to dwell on the potential implications of Joel's actions or my own. The immediate task was clear: address the more pressing crisis at hand before confronting the inevitable questions and confusion that awaited me.
"Hello, this is the Hobart Family Doctor's Practice. You're speaking with Michelle. How may I help you today?" Her tone was cheerful yet professional, the kind of voice that instilled a sense of calm reliability.
"Hi, Michelle, it's Luke Smith calling. I need to see Dr De Bruyn urgently, please." My voice was taut, laced with the urgency of Jamie’s brutal injury. Dr De Bruyn wasn't just any doctor; she was the one person I trusted to handle this delicate situation without jumping to catastrophic conclusions.
"I'm sorry, Mr Smith. Dr De Bruyn is fully booked today. If it's urgent, it may be best if you visit the emergency department," Michelle replied, her voice shifting to a practiced, almost automated cadence that spoke of her experience in handling such calls.
"No," I insisted, a hint of desperation creeping into my tone. "It must be Dr De Bruyn." My insistence wasn't just about medical expertise; it was about trust, about understanding, about the kind of personal sacrifice that Jamie's unusual situation demanded.
"One moment please." The line went quiet, save for a distant, indistinct chatter that teased my ears, offering no clues, only heightening my anxiety.
"Are you still there, Mr Smith?" Michelle returned, her voice clear again.
"Yes, I am."
"You're in luck. We've just had a late cancellation. I'll book you in for late this afternoon." Her words were a lifeline, a glimmer of hope in the murky waters of our crisis.
"What time?"
"Four-fifteen." The time was later than I'd hoped, each passing minute a potential risk to Jamie's wellbeing.
I cringed inwardly, the tension in my body winding tighter. Jamie's condition was more than just a routine burn; it was a ticking bomb, and Dr De Bruyn was our best shot at defusing it without setting off alarms.
"Thank you," I managed to say, the words barely escaping my tightened throat before I ended the call. The relief of securing the appointment was tempered by the weight of the hours ahead, each one heavy with the potential for Jamie's situation to deteriorate.
The open front door loomed before me, an ominous gateway back into a house that felt eerily unfamiliar without the usual signs of life. Joel's absence gnawed at me, a growing concern that added weight to each step I took inside. "Hello?" My voice echoed in the empty space.
The absence of the dogs' welcoming scamper on the tiles, the lack of any domestic sounds that typically filled the air, it all contributed to a mounting sense of unease. A breeze whispered through the open doorway, its chill raising goosebumps on my arms, a physical manifestation of the anxiety that tightened its grip on me.
I proceeded with cautious steps down the hallway, the silence enveloping me, punctuated only by my own tentative calls. "Hello?" I reached the toilet, the door slightly ajar, an invitation or perhaps a warning of what lay beyond. With a gentle push of my foot, the door creaked open, its resistance adding to the tension that thrummed through me.
My heartbeat accelerated, a rapid drumroll of apprehension. Questions cascaded through my mind, each more alarming than the last. Is Joel in trouble? In need of help? My imagination conjured images of potential scenarios, each more distressing.
With a firmer nudge, the door swung wider, revealing the unoccupied room. Joel's absence hit me—a room devoid of life, devoid of answers. The relief of not finding a worst-case scenario was quickly overshadowed by the deepening mystery of his whereabouts. Where could he have gone without a word, without a trace?
Standing at the threshold of the empty bathroom, the silence around me felt louder, more oppressive. Joel's disappearance was a puzzle, each missing piece a source of growing concern that echoed in the empty chambers of the house and the corridors of my mind.
"Where the hell is he?" The words slipped out in a whisper, laced with a growing sense of dread. My feet carried me back through the hallway, each step echoing my escalating panic. The once comforting familiarity of the house now seemed to mock me with its silence. The possibilities of Joel's whereabouts dwindled with each passing moment, the most unsettling one—that he might have stumbled into Clivilius—looming larger in my mind. The implications were dire, the potential complications spiralling far beyond my immediate grasp.
The sudden, jarring clang of the truck's back door slamming against its side sent a jolt of adrenaline coursing through me. For a fleeting second, my heart leaped with hope. "Oh, thank fuck," I exhaled, a mixture of relief and irritation swirling within. It seemed Joel was back, albeit with less care for his vehicle than I'd have expected.
My composure quickly returned, but the knot of anxiety in my stomach remained, manifesting in a loud, embarrassing gurgle. I wiped my clammy hands on my pants, chiding myself for the ease with which panic had taken hold. "This is ridiculous," I muttered, a vain attempt to scold myself back to rationality.
Despite the semblance of relief, caution still nibbled at the edges of my mind. I couldn't shake the feeling that something was off. Moving on instinct, I slipped into the kitchen, my steps silent, my body tense. I crouched behind the sink, the coolness of the tile against my skin contrasting with the heat coursing through me.
Gradually, I rose, allowing just my eyes to crest over the windowsill, seeking a vantage point to assess the scene outside. The truck sat there, its back flung open, an invitation or a challenge. From my angle, the interior remained hidden, a secret kept just out of sight. Joel was still nowhere to be seen, his absence a silent echo amplifying my fears. The puzzle of his whereabouts remained unsolved, each moment without answers feeding the growing unease that twisted inside me.
Chastising myself for the excessive caution that now seemed more like paranoia, I straightened up, shaking off the lingering tendrils of fear. With a mix of determination and a hint of embarrassment for my earlier skittishness, I strode towards the front door, pushing it open and stepping into the daylight.
As I approached the truck, the familiar, solid feel of the metal door under my grip brought a momentary sense of control. I swung the door, intending to shut it with a firm, decisive motion. But my timing was off. I reached out, fingers stretching to catch the door, to prevent the loud, metallic clang that would echo my earlier panic. But the door merely groaned, moving torturously slow towards its frame, not sealing, not closing.
Compelled by a blend of curiosity and an unshakeable sense of foreboding, I moved closer, my eyes narrowing as I peered around the half-closed door into the truck's shadowed interior.
"Holy shit!" The exclamation was a breathy whisper, my voice strangled by a sudden surge of adrenaline. There, protruding slightly over the edge, was a foot—distinctly human, unmistakably familiar. It was the shoe that confirmed my fears: it was Joel's.
Panic and concern collided within me, propelling me forward. "Are you alright?" The question was out before I had fully grasped the situation, my voice laced with a mixture of fear and urgent concern.
Without hesitation, I hoisted myself into the truck's bed, my heart pounding against my ribs, bracing myself for what I might find. The reality of Joel's condition, the implications of his unexpected presence here in this state, ignited a flurry of thoughts and fears, each demanding attention, each as pressing as the next.
The swarm of questions buzzed through my head with relentless urgency as I reached Joel's side. The potential outcomes of what I might discover bore down on me with a weight that seemed to constrict my chest.
In the dim, confined space of the truck's interior, I fumbled to find Joel's pulse, my fingers awkward and uncertain. Time seemed to distort, stretching out as I probed the delivery boy's neck, each second an eternity of growing dread. My lack of medical expertise was painfully evident; the fear of doing something wrong, of not doing enough, gnawed at me relentlessly.
Nothing. The word echoed in my mind, a terrifying void. I shifted to the other side, a flicker of hope urging me on, but it was met with the same chilling absence. Desperation tinged my actions as I pressed my fingers more firmly, willing myself to find a sign of life, any indication that the situation wasn't as dire as it seemed.
The realisation hit in a visceral wave. My fingers weren't just warm; they were wet. A cold horror crept over me as I brought my hand closer, the dim light revealing a sight I was unprepared to confront. The reality of what I was touching, what it implied, struck me with a force that unravelled the last threads of my composure.
My stomach revolted, a primal, uncontrollable reaction to the brutal truth before me. Acid scorched its way up my throat, a bitter, burning tide that I couldn't contain. I turned away, the contents of my stomach ejecting in violent spasms, each heave a physical manifestation of the shock, the horror, the overwhelming reality of Joel's condition.
After the violent upheaval of my stomach had subsided, I wiped away the lingering, acrid trace of bile from my lips, my hand trembling with the aftermath of shock. The scene before me was one I couldn't escape, couldn't unsee. Joel, the person who had been alive and vibrant, was now lifeless beside me, his blood—a stark, damning red—seeping into the fabric of my jeans, creating a grim tableau with the vomit that had escaped me.
The initial thought that perhaps Joel had suffered an accidental fall, that a tragic but innocent mishap had occurred, dissipated as quickly as it had formed. The reality was far more brutal, far more intentional. The large, grotesque slice across his throat spoke of a violence that was deliberate and personal. The arterial spray painted a macabre picture across the interior of the truck, each droplet a word in a story of horror I never wanted to read.
In that cramped, blood-stained space, the magnitude of what had happened pressed down on me. The air felt thick, charged with a silent scream that echoed the violence of Joel's final moments. My mind raced, trying to piece together the hows and whys, even as a part of me recoiled from the answers that might emerge.
The physical evidence was undeniable, irrevocable. Someone had done this, and that realisation brought a new wave of terror. The implications were vast and terrifying, a ripple effect that threatened to engulf not just me but everyone connected to this place, this moment. Perhaps, even everyone connected to me!
