anemoia

"It’s been five days, and he’s still not home. He’s not at his bestfriend’s place... Nor anywhere else that he usually hides out in. His phone is off too.” I look imploringly at the police officer, ”please. I’ve filed the Missing Persons report, I have followed all the necessary procedures, couldn’t you begin the search faster, jumping the line for his sake... Please, just consider the fact that he’s mentally unstable and—And...”

I don’t want to lose him.

I cannot bring myself to continue telling the police how serious this matter is, not with my throat clogging up, not with tears prickling painfully at the back of my eyes and then treacherously trailing down my cheeks.

“Look, miss,” the officer says gently, “we’re doing all we can at the moment. You must realize that New York is a big city, and these missing people have a lot of places they could turn up in... Try and understand that we have other cases at hand, of kidnapping, murder, arson—”

Is this man even trying to make me feel better? Because, I feel so much worse than before. No, NONONO... Logan won’t be murdered, he won’t be kidnapped. You know why? Because, we have no enemies, nor potential animosities; he’s a good person, so no. He’s fine. I just have to find him, double my efforts in searching for him.

“We are doing the best we can here,” he convinces solemnly. “We will inform you of any developments, and meanwhile, I suggest that you try to keep yourself together, miss. Get some rest, and—”

I stand up, abruptly; silencing the stupid cop. I’ve heard enough, rest? REST? No, not until I have my arms wrapped around my Logan, and I know that he’s here, with me, safe and sound. With purposeful strides, I exit the office, feeling the other uniformed people stare after my speedy wake. Getting into my car, I open my cellphone and send a text to the only other person Logan’s ever trusted—his best mate Noah.

[17:40] You sent a message to Noah Atkins

| Still no help from the “TO SERVE AND PROTECT” idiots. You got anything? |

[17:40] New reply from Noah Atkins

| Yes. At his work. He told some Lisa here that he was going to his therapist’s. Heading there. |

[17:41] You sent a message to Noah Atkins

| I’ll be in ten. |

I rev my engine and make for Logan’s counseling center in Queens. Upon reaching, I see Noah already there, talking to Dr. Ashford Hauser—Logan’s counselor, or as he liked to call him, ‘my geek of a quack’. I smile inwardly, saddened by the thoughts about him and his little quirks, his endearing tendencies. Ashford tells us that the last time he saw Logan, on Wednesday—five days ago, he had been exceptionally depressed, much more so than ever before. So, he’d prescribed some sleeping pills and a higher dose of Desyrel, he’d also suggested that Logan take a break from work, instead rest at home and do whatever he loved most.

What use is all that information? How will that help me find my boyfriend?

Noah notices my pained expression and sighs, wrapping an arm around my shoulders and pulling me into his side. Distantly, I hear him thank the quack and register that we’ve begun walking. I do not know where he’s taking me, and frankly, I really do not care where I go... All I can think about is Logan Templeton, the love of my life. We’ve been together for three years now, met when I was eighteen and he was twenty. He was the classic bad boy, from a broken, troubled family; and I was the typical ‘goody two-shoes’, apple of my parents’ eyes, only freshly accepted at NYU. We met in the college café, where he worked as a busboy. After our first meeting—when he flirted at length with me—everything was a whirlwind sweeping me into an addiction to him and his perfection; soft, obsidian hair, icy-blue irises, his beautiful, tattooed body, his lush lips, and his mutual, irrevocable love for me.

It wasn’t until about two months into the relationship that I found out about his condition—rapid-cycling bipolar disorder. He attempted suicide thrice, each time either Noah or I were there to save him. We called up his familiars, no one wanted to help with his chronic situation. All he ever had was me, and his childhood buddy Noah; only then did I realize how shattered his inner world must be, the one he hid from me behind naughty masks and devilish grins. I called my sister regarding this, asking for help. But, that didn’t work well for me; she told my parents, and they commanded me to cut off all associations with Logan, break off the relationship and concentrate on getting a degree.

Of course, I didn’t listen; not only because I loved him so very much, but also because I didn’t want to be like the other people in his life, didn’t want to leave him to his own dangerous devices, didn’t want to lose him to a stupid mental configuration! I promised to be there for him, and that angered my family, making them disown me. My father used to quote the Bible; Matthew 10:8 Heal the sick, raise the dead, cleanse lepers, cast out demons. You received without paying; give without pay.

How could he be so hypocritical? How could that man forget his own preaching, and demand that I surrender Logan at the mercy of his mind’s demons? How utterly ruthless, attempting to make me turn my back on the one I love! My submissive mother sided with her husband, my sister followed suit.

My family’s heartlessness baffled me initially, then made me regret my decision for months; but something about Logan and the strength of our relationship compelled me to stick to his side and stay with him, no matter how hard life got. That’s one of the many good qualities about him that I love, he makes me feel confident and capable of being able to achieve anything, despite there being almost no one to help me and no beloved close-ones to spur me on; he was—is—always enough for me on his own. I dropped out of Uni and worked three jobs, while he worked four; we lived together in his small, one-bedroom apartment in the shadier Bronx—putting all our efforts into ‘us’ and our ‘happily ever after’.

With his consent, I had signed him up for therapy after a year of living with him; thinking that it would help him through his phases. These phases of severe depression are when he either catatonically lies in our bed, or just completely disappears—for a day or two at the most, but never for this long. Five days...

Noah takes me to his house where I busy myself with Logan’s files and papers, thumbing through our pictures and memories over and over again. I’d inadvertently planned on doing that the whole night, but Noah coaxes me to some dinner and sleep. I do give in to slumber, and I dream about Logan throughout.

Today, I restart my search for Logan with a renewed fervor, and a steeled determination. I go back to all the places that I think he’d be at, and wait there for an hour each whist Noah goes around on his own, keeping me updated with our cellular exchanges. We search for the entire day, but now Noah has to go to work his afternoon shift. I let him go; he also has a life, a house to pay the rent and bills for, an old father to look after. Thence, I set out on my own; going by the places again, asking people around.

It is past midnight by the time I’ve parked near Flushing Meadows Corona Park, I sit in my car; watching the place where Logan and I made frequented visits to walk around hand-in-hand, feed the ducks, have fun at the carnivals, buy things from the numerous thrift-stores. These recollections, being so crudely shown to me by my agonized brain, make me start crying again; sobbing with my head against the steering-wheel. I bawl, really, till my face is puffy, my eyes red and the lids swollen. But, reasonably, I am able to stop when I hear my phone ringing.

It’s an unknown number, the sight of which makes me scramble to answer the call, hoping and praying for it to be Logan, calling from a local booth. However, the voice on the other end is not his; it’s that of a woman. “Miss Garner?”

“Yes?” I try not to sound disappointed. I am failing, probably.

“I’m calling from the forty-ninth precinct, we may have a lead on your Missing Person.” I sit up straight in my seat, paying close attention to what she’s saying, “we caught a man with a matching facial profile as your report on the traffic camera in Times Square.”

“Okay. Where’s he now?” Breathless with relief and the expectation to see my Logan, I feel a tingling in my palms, goosebumps all over my skin. The woman speaks, “in one of our cells, we had the involved precinct put him in our custody.” After a pause, she adds, “you might wanna hurry up, ma’am. We had to lock him up because he kept trying to escape.”

“I’ll be there.”

That definitely has to be Logan. Cutting off, I send a short text to Noah.

[1:23] You sent a message to Noah Atkins

| Found Logan. At precinct 49. |

I rush there, thankfully there’s no traffic to block my path. Even God wants me to reach him. My parking is haphazard, I know not if I’ve even locked my car’s door—I cannot be bothered about such trivial matters at the moment. The Kombats I’m wearing beat a staccato rhythm on the asphalt with my stumbling steps as I dash inside, shouting, “Logan!”

The male cop from yesterday guides me to a cell. What I see inside, further breaks my already broken heart, yet also fills me with an inspiriting swell of happiness. Logan is there, curled in the corner, clutching his knees to his chest, with his head leaning against the wall, and eyelids shut. He looks so pitiable, with his handsome face botched and tear-stained, lips pale and chapped, clothes torn and dirty.

“Logan?” I gasp, out of breath. His eyes flick open, clear blue gaze trained on me. When he talks, his voice is hoarse and cracking. “Ana... Anabel?”

I nod, lowering myself on my knees and holding him in a tender embrace. Slowly, like he’s taking his time to comprehend reality, his arms encircle me. When convinced that I am, indeed, real, his hug tightens, and so does mine in response; we cling to each other as though holding on to a lifeline in a turbulent storm.

I can feel the whole office’s scrutiny on us, it’s invasive and intrusive. Pulling up a sniffling Logan, I support him against myself and leave, murmuring a word of gratitude to the concerned officer. The drive homewards is quiet, save for the small sounds Logan makes as he cries. I reach out and grasp his hand, squeezing reassuringly. “I’m here, baby.”

Once in the privacy of our apartment, I help him strip off his filthy clothes and make him sit in the warm bath water I’d made. Placing myself on a nearby stool, I watch him clean himself with slow, unhurried scrubs.

“Why did you leave?” I ask, after a moment. He briefly looks at me, then returns to the scrubbing. “Because... I am a burden to you. You deser—”

I hush him before he can finish that awful statement. “Logan, look at me,” I say. ”Please."

When he does so, I pour out my heart to him, “you’re the best thing that ever happened to me... There’s nothing better than you in this world, and there never will be, never can be.” He nods, I resume with a light laugh and add, “nothing except for your coffee, which is heavenly!”

Logan chuckles a little before that downtrodden visage is back, “I just thought—”

“Maybe... You should stop thinking like that?” I interrupt again. “I love you, so damn much... You cannot let the voices in your head tell you otherwise. They don’t exist, they don’t matter, you can’t let them separate us! We’re in this together, yeah?”

“Yeah.”

That’s the thing about his delicate constitution; one moment he’s normal, loving me, working, sending sweet texts, taking me out—and the next, he’s convinced that he’s worthless, not good enough for me, undeserving of life, and other negativities.

Before I put him to bed, with the childlike phase that he’s undergoing, I learn that he’s been avoiding his medication. I make sure that he takes the night dose, though—I do not want to relive what happened the past six days. Life is mirthless, life is tough, but Logan Templeton is mine and as long as we’re together, we’ll be unconquerable. All the circumstances that try to take him from me, I shall fight them and resist with my dying breath, because Logan Templeton is mine, and mine only.

I’ve got a text from Noah.

[1:25] New reply from Noah Atkins

| Is he ok? |

[3:04] You sent a message to Noah Atkins

| Yes. Sleeping. |

[3:04] New reply from Noah Atkins

| I’ll come by tomorrow morning. He needs you in his life. |

I know...

Slipping inside the covers, I snuggle into Logan’s bare chest; he pulls me closer against his body, still asleep. Reveling in his warmth, which confirms for me loud and clear that he’s right beside me and he’s fine, I drift off to sleep.