You sit in the big armchair. Your elbows lean over the arms, your hands hang limply above your thighs.
The woman sitting across from you has her legs stretched-out, her feet resting on the coffee table. She's sort of lounging on the couch -the one you should, in all theory, be lying on.
"How long will you sit there?" she asks, looking at you from behind her glasses.
You say nothing. In all truth, there's absolutely nothing to say. Mark found you back home. She knows that. Her called you New Year's Eve. She knows that. He did it again. She knows that, too.
Who cares if your silence wastes an hour's worth of tape? You've become very tired of telling this woman all of your secrets. Of knowing that the tape-recorder on the coffee table is making a direct and complete copy of everything you say.
She sighs and looks at you, sitting-up and planting her feet on the floor as she removes her glasses. Classic demonstration of irritation. Maybe she'll let you go early today. Maybe she'll send you off and tell you to never come back...only in your dreams.
Neither of you says anything. Time begins to pass at a tortuously slow rate. But there's no way that you're going to let this woman -this professional psychoanalyst- win. You've done nothing but pour your soul to this woman. You're sick and tired of listening to what others have to say about your psyche. Fuck them all.
"How are things going since we last spoke?" She asks the question as she places her glasses back over the bridge of her nose.
You say nothing. Five minutes pass.
She sighs a little. "How did your friends react to what you told them?"
You say nothing.
"How was the group counselling?"
Still silence.
She sits up and glowers at you. "Don't you dare start this sulking bullshit! I raised three teenagers. I know what's going-on in your head. You! The whole world revolves around you! Don't you start this bullshit of saying nothing. Got it?" She's silent for a few minutes. "You are a child," she says strongly, almost with an accusing tone. "Yes, I know that you're twenty-one. But you are still a child. And, unfortunetly, you are a child that has taken more shit than you should be able to bear."
She's silent again. She pulls off her glasses, drops them onto the table, and runs her hands over her face.
"And that's saying a lot, hon. I've seen people who've lost everything and not get up. I've never seen anyone take this much shit and still be standing."
You want to say so much, but you can't find the most basic form of communication. Insolent teenager remains.
"I know that you resent the fact that I keep poking into your thoughts. But you have to accept it. And you have to start letting everything go."
How's that for a different approach to psychological therapy? The last counsellor you saw a definite fan of dancing around with a night-light and a rifle. This woman, however, prefers to run full-out into the deepest shadows carrying nothing more than bawled fists.
She watches you now. Waiting for you to make the next move.
Your eyes lock onto hers. And, immediately, flashbacks swarm through your thoughts. Everything flashes before your eyes.
Joanne isn't sitting before you now. Mark's watching you. He's sitting there, staring at you with a...a hunger in his eyes. You know exactly what he's about to do. You know that, in only a few seconds, he'll be on top of you again and you won't be able to fight him this time.
A cold sweat is pooling over your skin in heavy beads. You can feel them slipping from your forehead, along your temple and cheeks, and down your neck.
His eyes are roving over you -his beautifully dark, emerald green eyes. His perfect teeth, that form the most enchanting smile, now become his ravenous grin of hunger.
He stands, slowly, and stalks toward you. He's within arms reach. The corner you're pressed into provides no possible means of escape. You're trapped -physically and mentally.
Vanilla and cigarettes. The scent invades you. Your poor-excuse of a lunch -an apple and toast- begins to rise from your stomach and slips along your throat.
His hand grabs at your shoulder. Your breath stops and starts in a chaotic mess of panic. You can feel your heart slamming against your chest cavity. A dull throbbing begins to pound at the inside of your skull, all along your right temple. Your right eyes stings and, with a twinge of horror, all vision therein fades to shadows and darkness.
"Please don't," you whisper pathetically as you pull your head under the quasi-protective shield of your hands and forearms.
He's never relented before. He's never shown a solitary ounce of mercy.
His fingers clench around your upper right arm. His nails, always so seemingly dull, dig and tear into your flesh. The grip tightens. He whispers something hoarse and incoherent. The grin on his face is now nothing but the most malicious and terrifying smile. The once beautiful eyes glower at your from beneath dark brows with a merciless, ravenous, and violent desire.
Panic swarms you as tidal waves of horror slam you almost through the floor. Your breathing is so ragged, stressed, and irregular that everything is beginning to spin. Perhaps, by some form of miracle, you'll pass-out before you can remember anything.
Silently, you beg for death -mercy, really.
The God you grew-up with showed mercy and kindness. Yes, His wrath was vengeful and His judgment absolute, but what could you have possibly done to incur this horrible wrath?
Every day of your existence was lived according to His will and His laws. Every ounce of who you were was devoted to His name. Only after Keith started to lose control did you waver beneath His eyes. It only after Keith took his own life that you defied God's omnipotence. It was only after the man before you took every remaining fragment of your soul that you defied God's will and left Him in search of your true beliefs.
How can it be that, with nearly two billion souls on this planet, God would hold such a cast-iron grip on your existence? Why would He who is 'all-mighty' give a damn about how you lived? Or better yet, how could such omnipotence cast you into such a hellish existence? How could anyone do that?
You pull your knees up to your chin and shut your eyes as tightly as you possibly can. Your entire body is shaking. The unforgiving and ice-like grip of death slips into your chest and envelops your heart, lungs, and soul.
Searing tears creep along the sides of your face. Your voice shatters between sobs. Your words are only desperate pleas that he stop, that he not take the minuscule bit of you that has survived everything.
The wall that you're pressed against is beginning to spin -faster and faster. The floor is moving in sync with the walls. Your breathing is coming faster and faster, too. You know that there isn't enough oxygen in the room. You know that the merciless grip on your elbows is dragging you away to some god-awful destination. You know exactly what awaits you at the end of that road.
And then, everything stops. The spinning, your lurching stomach, your racing heart, your thoughts. Everything dies.
"Sweetie?"
You shut the word from your mind. Keith's voice is soft and apologetic as he speaks.
"I never meant to hurt you," he says, wrapping his arms around your shoulders and holding you close.
"You never did," you answer gently.
He frowns and kisses your temple. "Don't lie to me. Please. Even if you think it's going to help. Please don't lie to me about the things I've done."
You look up into his dark eyes. "I'm not lying. Bones and bruises heal. The important thing is that you're getting help."
He smiles, though only a little and brushes the side of your neck with his fingers. "I won't ever hurt you again. I will never do it again."
The warmth from his body pools between you both. You step a little closer and hold him, resting your head against his chest.
Every word he says is the truth. He won't ever hurt you again. You believe him now. You know he won't -can't- ever do anything again.
You can feel him kiss the top of your head and hug you close. His breath on your neck is warm and soothing.
Nothing matters anymore. All the things you've both endured -survived- melt away into the earth you're standing on. Everything is exactly the way it's supposed to be. No one will ever hurt you again. Keith will protect you. He'll hold you, share your grief, help you stand, never let you fall. He will forever be with you. He'll never hurt you again. Nobody will.
"Sweetie? Can you hear me?"
That wretched voice again. Damn imagination trying to ruin everything!
You shake your head softly and shut your eyes. You take a deep breath and absorb Keith's scent. Dragon's blood and lavender. The Dragon's Blood is his favourite incense, but the lavender is something you only discovered after having lived with him.
"I like the shower stuff," he explained with a trace of embarrassment. "It smells really nice and my skin doesn't get irritated."
You had smiled and, the following day, had bought him a mess of lavender-scented shower products.
"I remember that day," he says to you very softly. "It was probably one of the sweetest things you ever did for me."
You look up into his eyes and wonder how he knows what you were thinking.
"Precious," he says gently, "It's time that you go."
Go? Go where? You can't help but feel panic rising in your throat as the air surrounding him becomes ice-like.
"Precious, just let me go. Nothing will happen. You'll be happier this way. Just let me go."
He says all this with a very warm smile.
"I can't lose you again," you whisper as soft tears escape you.
He says nothing. His smile fades to a frown and his eyes darken to empty sockets. An instant later, you stand completely alone. Your breath floats before your eyes in small white clouds.
"Sweetie?"
Again that voice. And with this third calling comes a flood of memories.
Very slowly, you open your eyes to see Joanne kneeling before you. There's nothing to say as you breakdown and beg that the gods just end your existence. There's nothing to stop your tears anymore. The world has turned its back on you. It did that a very long time ago. And now -only now- do you realize just how very alone you are.
Monday, August 23, 2004
Sunday, August 22, 2004
Walk Away
The coffee shop is bustling with people. Sundays, for some reason or another, always draw such a crowd. You watch as people come and go. Laughing and smiling without any cares in the world -at least, without much thought of their worries.
Four women are seated inside. You watch them chat and laugh together. The warmth of the spring morning pools over you. And yet, your body remains irreversibly cold. Even with the thick jacket, the long-sleeved black shirt, double pair of socks, and shorts under your blue jeans. The only part of your body that's warm is your stomach. Life is warm. Yours is over. Or at least, it will be in a decade. So the doctors have said anyway -over and over again.
"...The cerebral damage is going to accumulate..."
"Nothing to be done."
"We can send you to some specialists who should be able to give you a definitive time."
"Your personal progression is astounding...Nothing to be done, though."
"Ten years."
"We can't offer you anything."
"Gradual loss of control..."
"Vancouver. Toronto. New York. London, maybe."
"...emotional and then physical..."
"Specialists around the globe..."
"...Maybe fifteen..."
"...it can't be prevented."
"Twenty years...if you're lucky."
"No matter how much you fight..."
"I'm so sorry."
"Condolences, hon."
"I'm so very sorry."
Fragments of conversations forever imprinted into your thoughts. Ten years, at best. Thirty-one years old. Tenth birthday...maybe. Only maybe.
The four women inside the coffee shop were supposed to be told about those conversations. They were supposed to be informed of your pregnancy, of the extent of the damage to your body, and the generalities of what would be in your near future. But now you watch them smile and laugh, and you can't bring yourself to take a single step toward the doors.
Once upon a time, you had jokingly asked them what they would do if you simply disappeared. What would they say if you suddenly stopped all means of communication, and never looked back. Their replies were mostly anger.
"I'd kick your ass," was Leeda's reply.
"Provided you found me," was your own.
"You wouldn't do it though," was Sam's soft and slightly nervous answer, her eyes penetrating into your thoughts with that silent demand of hers.
"How can you be sure?"
Kate was next on the list, "It would be like leaving your family forever. I know I wouldn't be able to do it. And I don't think you would either, hon. I'm not saying you're weak. But I just don't think you'd be able to up and leave without so much as a goodbye."
"People do crazy things, though." You weren't serious. You would never have been able to leave those women, then. They were sisters to you. Your only family, really.
And then Lynn stepped into the conversation. "I wouldn't look twice at you in the future."
Her response had shocked you a little. It seemed to have the same reaction with the others as well.
She continued, softly and with a deep bitterness in her tone. "I wouldn't. If I saw you on the street years later, I wouldn't look at you twice -even if I knew it was you. You disappear without saying anything, then fine. I'd be hurt for a while, but I'd get over it."
You knew it was a scare tactic. But she was also very serious. And as you stand outside the shop, leaning against the neighbouring building, you know that such a reply is what you were looking for -deep down, anyway.
The women inside are happy and young. They have ages to live. They have dilemmas, not catastrophes, to deal with. This paper is due in three days and I haven't even started it yet! There's isn't enough time to study for the exam and get that project done! Those are the situations they're faced with. Nothing like, How am I going to support myself and a baby? Or, I can avoid paying the phone bill for two months before they disconnect the line. Or, better yet, Who's going to take care of my child come ten years?
You bow your head and shut your eyes, fingers pressing into your temples and massaging the throbbing flesh. You cherish these women. You would never have survived without them. And yet, you survived a sudden and violent detox on your own. You just stopped using heroine. Destroyed your supplies of crack and stopped it all. You did all that on your own.
Really and truly, what have these women offered you? A shoulder to lean on has been inaccessible since September. A compassionate hug has come only at holidays. They have listened to you. They have stood by and offered advice. But other than that, what have they ever really done? None of them has made a great effort to come to your door and sit with you through the long and terrible nights. None have come out and demanded that you make time in your schedule so that they may attempt to help you, comfort you, to show you their love and concern.
In all truth, you have been completely alone. Few people have been told everything. You explained the events that would have betrayed you through odd behaviour. Some things are not able to be hidden. You told them what they needed to know. And now, you stand outside their world. You stand alone, on the outside of their inner circle. You always have been an outsider.
Silently, you turn away from the bustling coffee shop. There is no need to step inside and tell them that you're pregnant. There is no need to tell them about what you discovered. There's no need to interrupt their worlds.
They saved you -time and time again. They've never been anything less than the most awe-inspiring friends. You never really deserved the love and support they've always shown you. No matter how much you try and paint them as traitors, as liars, you're lying to the world. They've never left you alone. They've never turned you away. Not once.
The warm sunshine splashes over your face. The iridescent beams of invisible light heat you from the outside in. You'll survive what's been cast upon you. You haven't any other choice. At least, not for another decade.
Four women are seated inside. You watch them chat and laugh together. The warmth of the spring morning pools over you. And yet, your body remains irreversibly cold. Even with the thick jacket, the long-sleeved black shirt, double pair of socks, and shorts under your blue jeans. The only part of your body that's warm is your stomach. Life is warm. Yours is over. Or at least, it will be in a decade. So the doctors have said anyway -over and over again.
"...The cerebral damage is going to accumulate..."
"Nothing to be done."
"We can send you to some specialists who should be able to give you a definitive time."
"Your personal progression is astounding...Nothing to be done, though."
"Ten years."
"We can't offer you anything."
"Gradual loss of control..."
"Vancouver. Toronto. New York. London, maybe."
"...emotional and then physical..."
"Specialists around the globe..."
"...Maybe fifteen..."
"...it can't be prevented."
"Twenty years...if you're lucky."
"No matter how much you fight..."
"I'm so sorry."
"Condolences, hon."
"I'm so very sorry."
Fragments of conversations forever imprinted into your thoughts. Ten years, at best. Thirty-one years old. Tenth birthday...maybe. Only maybe.
The four women inside the coffee shop were supposed to be told about those conversations. They were supposed to be informed of your pregnancy, of the extent of the damage to your body, and the generalities of what would be in your near future. But now you watch them smile and laugh, and you can't bring yourself to take a single step toward the doors.
Once upon a time, you had jokingly asked them what they would do if you simply disappeared. What would they say if you suddenly stopped all means of communication, and never looked back. Their replies were mostly anger.
"I'd kick your ass," was Leeda's reply.
"Provided you found me," was your own.
"You wouldn't do it though," was Sam's soft and slightly nervous answer, her eyes penetrating into your thoughts with that silent demand of hers.
"How can you be sure?"
Kate was next on the list, "It would be like leaving your family forever. I know I wouldn't be able to do it. And I don't think you would either, hon. I'm not saying you're weak. But I just don't think you'd be able to up and leave without so much as a goodbye."
"People do crazy things, though." You weren't serious. You would never have been able to leave those women, then. They were sisters to you. Your only family, really.
And then Lynn stepped into the conversation. "I wouldn't look twice at you in the future."
Her response had shocked you a little. It seemed to have the same reaction with the others as well.
She continued, softly and with a deep bitterness in her tone. "I wouldn't. If I saw you on the street years later, I wouldn't look at you twice -even if I knew it was you. You disappear without saying anything, then fine. I'd be hurt for a while, but I'd get over it."
You knew it was a scare tactic. But she was also very serious. And as you stand outside the shop, leaning against the neighbouring building, you know that such a reply is what you were looking for -deep down, anyway.
The women inside are happy and young. They have ages to live. They have dilemmas, not catastrophes, to deal with. This paper is due in three days and I haven't even started it yet! There's isn't enough time to study for the exam and get that project done! Those are the situations they're faced with. Nothing like, How am I going to support myself and a baby? Or, I can avoid paying the phone bill for two months before they disconnect the line. Or, better yet, Who's going to take care of my child come ten years?
You bow your head and shut your eyes, fingers pressing into your temples and massaging the throbbing flesh. You cherish these women. You would never have survived without them. And yet, you survived a sudden and violent detox on your own. You just stopped using heroine. Destroyed your supplies of crack and stopped it all. You did all that on your own.
Really and truly, what have these women offered you? A shoulder to lean on has been inaccessible since September. A compassionate hug has come only at holidays. They have listened to you. They have stood by and offered advice. But other than that, what have they ever really done? None of them has made a great effort to come to your door and sit with you through the long and terrible nights. None have come out and demanded that you make time in your schedule so that they may attempt to help you, comfort you, to show you their love and concern.
In all truth, you have been completely alone. Few people have been told everything. You explained the events that would have betrayed you through odd behaviour. Some things are not able to be hidden. You told them what they needed to know. And now, you stand outside their world. You stand alone, on the outside of their inner circle. You always have been an outsider.
Silently, you turn away from the bustling coffee shop. There is no need to step inside and tell them that you're pregnant. There is no need to tell them about what you discovered. There's no need to interrupt their worlds.
They saved you -time and time again. They've never been anything less than the most awe-inspiring friends. You never really deserved the love and support they've always shown you. No matter how much you try and paint them as traitors, as liars, you're lying to the world. They've never left you alone. They've never turned you away. Not once.
The warm sunshine splashes over your face. The iridescent beams of invisible light heat you from the outside in. You'll survive what's been cast upon you. You haven't any other choice. At least, not for another decade.
Trademark
She sits there, on his bed, staring into the darkness. He hates the morning sunshine. She loves it. Really, it's the only thing that keeps her alive anymore. That faint trickle of light, the one that just manages to escape over the heavy black drapes and skirt across the ceiling.
But he caught that light not too long ago. Took a roll of heavy gray tape and covered the remaining piece of outside. He managed to cover the last fragment of sanctuary she had.
She hasn't anything anymore. She knows she didn't have anything to begin with. But now it's just so much more pronounced -so much more real. She has friends. She has family. But they don't know what's been happening all these years. How can they? He's a master actor. He goes to school for English, but he should be going to school for Drama. He would do well in Drama. Or maybe she would. She's the one who has no sense of dramatics anymore. Everything just melts together. The differences between what is real and what isn't don't exist. Maybe she should take a Drama course next semester.
He's in the shower now. She doesn't shower with him. She never has. Now she knows it's safer that she never did. It's easier to slip in the tub. The wet ceramics are dangerous. She could easily slip while he holds her close. She could easily smash her skull against the faucets, the side of the tub, and bleed to death. The tub would be slippery. A horrible accident. He would cry like a toddler. He really should go into the Drama department.
The water's been running for ten minutes now. She won't be able to have her turn for another twenty minutes. Even then, she'll have to wait for him to shut off the hot water. He doesn't like wasting the hot water. It takes her five minutes in the shower. She rushes. She has no choice. If she does go longer than that, he's likely to explain why she shouldn't be wasting so much water. His house, his rules. Even though she's the one who pays the rent and the bills.
She's got another twenty minutes. She always does the same thing while she waits for her turn in the cold shower.
The razor blade in her hand is very small. She peels a new one off every morning that she wakes-up here. It's just the blade from those cheap little pink razors women use to shave their legs. They're sharp though. She's become a master at popping them out from the plastic casing. Her fingers don't even get cut anymore. Which is a good thing, less likely to have people ask why her fingers are cut, bleeding, and swollen. Less likely that he'll get defensive at their questions, and explain to her why people shouldn't have a need to ask such questions about their relationship.
It's almost too dark in the bedroom to do this with much accuracy. But she's come to know where the older wounds lie. She's able to avoid them with the utmost precision -often with nothing more than the width of the blade's edge separating old blood from fresh.
The small metal object is clenched between her thumb and index finger. Her pinkie sticks straight out, as though she's having tea with British Aristocrats. She runs her ring finger over her cold flesh. She doesn't feel any scars.
The small point of the sharp blade presses into her skin. She can feel a tinge of pain -like being poked by a needle- at her side, just above her waistline. She very slowly drags her hand toward the front of her stomach. The sensation is astounding. Like dozens of tiny needles all poking into her body at a furious pace, forming a thin line of minute pain.
She stops. Her hand remains motionless for a moment. She basks in the stinging pulse that streams over her entire body. She waits until the count of fourteen, and starts once more, a few centimetres below the initial gash.
She does this four times. A five inch gash. It takes ten seconds to make. She counts to fourteen. She starts again. She makes four -almost identical- slashes over her skin.
The pain she feels is wonderful. She feels the broken skin pulsing and demanding to be told what is happening, why this occurs again and again. Her body demands that this abuse stop, but her mind continues to beg for more.
She releases a long and soft sigh, shutting her eyes. She waits a few minutes before wrapping the razor back into its piece of tissu paper, and tucking it into her shoe.
Her fingers run over the first slash on her flesh. The blood is fresh. Small globules of deep red forming where the blade struck deeper. Thin red smears of her own blood paint themselves on her skin as her fingers run over the four cuts.
The shower is still going strong. She can hear the water. He never notices the cuts. He just assumes its his own handy work. He smiles when he sees the bleeding parallel lines. Even if it's not his hands that physically create the wounds, it's still his trademark. It's his own personal graffiti painting 'Keith was here'.
But he caught that light not too long ago. Took a roll of heavy gray tape and covered the remaining piece of outside. He managed to cover the last fragment of sanctuary she had.
She hasn't anything anymore. She knows she didn't have anything to begin with. But now it's just so much more pronounced -so much more real. She has friends. She has family. But they don't know what's been happening all these years. How can they? He's a master actor. He goes to school for English, but he should be going to school for Drama. He would do well in Drama. Or maybe she would. She's the one who has no sense of dramatics anymore. Everything just melts together. The differences between what is real and what isn't don't exist. Maybe she should take a Drama course next semester.
He's in the shower now. She doesn't shower with him. She never has. Now she knows it's safer that she never did. It's easier to slip in the tub. The wet ceramics are dangerous. She could easily slip while he holds her close. She could easily smash her skull against the faucets, the side of the tub, and bleed to death. The tub would be slippery. A horrible accident. He would cry like a toddler. He really should go into the Drama department.
The water's been running for ten minutes now. She won't be able to have her turn for another twenty minutes. Even then, she'll have to wait for him to shut off the hot water. He doesn't like wasting the hot water. It takes her five minutes in the shower. She rushes. She has no choice. If she does go longer than that, he's likely to explain why she shouldn't be wasting so much water. His house, his rules. Even though she's the one who pays the rent and the bills.
She's got another twenty minutes. She always does the same thing while she waits for her turn in the cold shower.
The razor blade in her hand is very small. She peels a new one off every morning that she wakes-up here. It's just the blade from those cheap little pink razors women use to shave their legs. They're sharp though. She's become a master at popping them out from the plastic casing. Her fingers don't even get cut anymore. Which is a good thing, less likely to have people ask why her fingers are cut, bleeding, and swollen. Less likely that he'll get defensive at their questions, and explain to her why people shouldn't have a need to ask such questions about their relationship.
It's almost too dark in the bedroom to do this with much accuracy. But she's come to know where the older wounds lie. She's able to avoid them with the utmost precision -often with nothing more than the width of the blade's edge separating old blood from fresh.
The small metal object is clenched between her thumb and index finger. Her pinkie sticks straight out, as though she's having tea with British Aristocrats. She runs her ring finger over her cold flesh. She doesn't feel any scars.
The small point of the sharp blade presses into her skin. She can feel a tinge of pain -like being poked by a needle- at her side, just above her waistline. She very slowly drags her hand toward the front of her stomach. The sensation is astounding. Like dozens of tiny needles all poking into her body at a furious pace, forming a thin line of minute pain.
She stops. Her hand remains motionless for a moment. She basks in the stinging pulse that streams over her entire body. She waits until the count of fourteen, and starts once more, a few centimetres below the initial gash.
She does this four times. A five inch gash. It takes ten seconds to make. She counts to fourteen. She starts again. She makes four -almost identical- slashes over her skin.
The pain she feels is wonderful. She feels the broken skin pulsing and demanding to be told what is happening, why this occurs again and again. Her body demands that this abuse stop, but her mind continues to beg for more.
She releases a long and soft sigh, shutting her eyes. She waits a few minutes before wrapping the razor back into its piece of tissu paper, and tucking it into her shoe.
Her fingers run over the first slash on her flesh. The blood is fresh. Small globules of deep red forming where the blade struck deeper. Thin red smears of her own blood paint themselves on her skin as her fingers run over the four cuts.
The shower is still going strong. She can hear the water. He never notices the cuts. He just assumes its his own handy work. He smiles when he sees the bleeding parallel lines. Even if it's not his hands that physically create the wounds, it's still his trademark. It's his own personal graffiti painting 'Keith was here'.
Tuesday, August 17, 2004
Run
The city is oddly quiet. The stars high above the building tops shine brightly. The moon is nowhere to be seen. There aren't any sounds. No cars driving by or honking. No sirens in the distance. No clatter of people ambling about. Nothing. Just the occasional bang, or rat-tat-tat-tat.
It's starting to rain. The droplets are heavy. They fall from the sky, hurtling toward the concrete and asphalt surfaces of the city, like small kamikaze soldiers. They pummel any and all who wander beneath their attacks.
It's late out. Maybe a little after one o'clock in the morning. It's far past the city's curfew—ten thirty. The Patrols are skulking about, looking for anyone who isn't locked indoors. They shoot now, rather than ask questions.
A set of headlights flashes in the wet night. A van rumbles passed. Its tires splash at the roadway, sending small waves of water into the air. Patrols are in that vehicle. A woman up top, rifle in hand. Two men in back, looking out the rear window for anyone daring to defy the Laws.
I'm standing in an alley. I heard the Patrol van at the last second and ran into the alley. I watched them drive off. Waited until I heard the engine rumble away into the distance.
Crouching, I stay low to the ground and look around. I can't see any lights. That's one thing about the Patrols, they always have flashlights or headlights. Always with the freaking lights. But it works well. Sort of like a warning to us. It's safer for us that they have their lights.
I wait there. The rain is soaking through my clothes. The heavy fabric weighs me down. I hate this damn uniform. But it's the only way we can get to our destination. Less likely to be seen if we look like the Soldiers.
The uniform consists of big and heavy military boots. Heavy pants, lined with some sort of leather to act as armour. A white shirt underneath a heavier shirt, again lined with the leather armour. Thick gloves that barely allow the fingers to move. Though the index finger on both hands is naked. Better to shoot with. Then there's the jacket. It's big, bulky, heavy. It goes down to the knees. It's supposed to be waterproof. The seams always come undone, though. Shoddy craftsmanship. The jacket is made entirely of that leather crap. But the fabric holding it all together is very thin. It acts like a sponge for the water, absorbing the cold rain with hunger only to spit it out against your skin. I hate wearing these damn clothes. We both used to like that military-forest-green colour. Now we hate it. Everything is that colour.
The rain comes harder suddenly. The entire world around me seems to be blanketed behind curtains upon curtains of gale-like rain. This is my chance!
I look around, and quickly bolt out from the security of the alley. I run fast, but softly. I don't want my footsteps to make horrible splashing noises. That's the last thing I need right now.
I make it to the next small alley and duck into its shadows. A Patrol van flies passed. My heart is racing like mad. They're passing by slowly. I can see the searchlight running along the ground. I thought for sure the rain would muffle my splashing strides.
The searchlight falls into the alley. I'm already lying flat on my stomach, face pressed against the concrete ground. This is our tactic. This is why we wear the uniforms. We play dead. The light is still on me. I can't hold my breath much longer. They won't stop to inspect me. Please don't let them stop to inspect me.
The engine roars to life and they drive off. I wait. I count to ten. To twenty. To forty. To two hundred.
I can hear the engine off in the distance. It's been at least ten minutes that I'm lying on my stomach, eyes shut, face pressed into the concrete, inhaling so slowly and holding the air in my lungs desperately. I want to be one hundred per cent that it's safe to move. I can't afford to get caught. I don't know what I'd do if that happened.
Finally, I look over at the entrance to the street. I don't see any shadows, don't see any puddles moving from footfalls. Slowly, I sit up, and then crouch. I edge toward the mouth of the alley and peer out into the street.
I count four bodies. They must have been here for a while—probably just after dusk. The rats have already started congregating. That's why I can't get caught. We aren't Patrols. We aren't even Soldiers. We're just civilians who aren't following the Laws. But I'll cross Death itself to see her. And she would, too. That's why we break the curfew. That's why we wear these damn uniforms, and skirt through the city's streets at night, dodging the Patrols and risking our lives.
We do all of this just to hold one another. Just to remember that no matter what happens, we belong to each other and no one else.
I can see my destination. The old coffee shop. OUR old coffee shop. It was closed down last year. When all this started. I don't even remember how any of this happened. All I know is that we were separated. We were forced to marry Patrols. But we found each other quickly through the lines. It wasn't difficult. It was only two weeks after being separated. That's when we started meeting after the curfew. It's the only time we can. Our husbands can kill us if they discover what's going on.
I see a shadow cross into the opening at the side of the shop. It's her! I know it is. The way she moves, the way her body slips along the broken sidewalk and into the small opening. I feel my heart start to race. I want to run toward her but I can't just yet. There are a good two hundred metres separating me from her. I can't afford to be reckless now.
Very carefully, I inspect the empty streets. No headlights. No flashlights. I can't hear if there's anyone walking in the dark, the rain is falling too hard. It's hard to see, too. The water dripping from my hair is stinging my eyes. I try to wipe it away but I just can't keep up.
I look around once more and see her appear in the grimy window of the old shop. I know it's her. And I can already feel her body against mine. Feel her hands pulling off my clothes. Her lips running over my body.
With a deep breath, I rush into the night. My feet splash into the puddles and I swear at the rain under my breath. I quickly duck behind a large chunk of asphalt that's been upturned. There are two bodies lying beside me. I try to ignore them. One is dressed like me. The other is wearing the Patrol's outfits. I try not to pay any attention. But it's still hard to just ignore the bodies scattered around the city at night. The Sweepers will be here within two hours to collect these ones. That’s when the fighting takes place. At night, never during the day. You’ve got a better chance to survive if you fight at night.
I peek over my shelter and look around cautiously. I don't see anything. Very slowly, I crouch down and make to run.
I hear something ring in my ears. It's rapid gunfire. I duck behind the asphalt. How could they see me? There's no one anywhere within sight.
More gunfire rings through the street. I peek around the chunk of roadway to see how many of the Patrols have seen me.
I see something else. Two Patrol officers chasing a man in a green uniform like mine. They're running toward me. I start to panic. They'll see me. The man in the green, the Soldier, rushes past me. His arm is pointing back in the direction he came. The automatic weapon he's got fires. The two men chasing him fire back.
The gunfire is loud. The asphalt explodes as bullets lodge themselves in it. I hear the Patrols coming closer and closer.
Gunfire explodes all around me. They're just trying to kill the fleeing Soldier. I instinctively lay flat, under one of the dead bodies. There's no smell. Thank the gods on that one!
The two men run past me. I listen to their footsteps, their shouts, their gunfire; all grow more and more distant. I look up, and carefully push the body off me. My stomach lurches and I throw-up, violently. I know she’s watching. From her vantage point she can't actually see me. The broken shard of roadway is blocking me from her view.
Quickly, I look around myself. I don't see anyone. The rain is even harder now. It hurts as the drops assaults me. But I also can't see anything. Or hear anything. I decide to go.
She can't see anything from inside the shop. She strains to see me through the rain, but she can't. She saw the gunfire. From her angle, she watched as chunks of the asphalt barrier flew through the air.
My feet slam into the ground. I can't see anything. I know I'm going in the right direction. I'm positive about it. My heart is slamming against my chest, my lungs burn and strain. I'm swallowing a lot of water. My legs are sore and my chest is tight. But I can't stop running until I get to the shop. If I do, there's no way I'll make it.
At the very last second, I see a mass of brick in front of me. I stop just in time. My feet slip and slide on the broken sidewalk. I lose all balance and fall backwards onto the ground. I see the small opening now. And then I see two hands grab my ankles. I'm pulled in hard and fast. Something looms over my head and I instinctively use my arms as a shield.
But it's her. She’s slamming the small bit of metal over the opening.
I stare at the ceiling, trying desperately to catch my breath. Water is pooling around me on the floor. My eyes sting from the rain. My hair is drenched. My clothes are stuck to me like a second skin and I'm shivering.
"Oh god, love!" She pulls me against her body and holds me close, tight. Her voice is scared, but so relieved. Her lips press against my temple, my forehead, my hair, quickly. "Thank god you're safe!"
I smile and wrap my arms around her. She’s only wearing the white t-shirt and the pants. She was dry. And as I wrap my arms around her body, I feel her shiver against me a little.
She releases me, a little, and kisses me. The feel of her lips on mine is amazing. She kisses me hard.
I pull off my jacket and move forward. I slip my hand to the centre of her back and ease her to the floor. I keep kissing her, my wet hair tickling her face as my body presses against her gently.
Our lips break apart and I sit up. The smile on my face fades quickly though. "Oh my gods," I whisper, looking at her side. "You're bleeding!"
She sits up quickly and looks at her ribs. "I can't be!"
I pull at her shirt, lifting it along her chest, up to her chin. There's no wound. There's nothing there. I stare and run my fingers over her perfectly sound flesh.
Her eyes widen and I feel her tear open the green shirt I’m wearing, revealing my soaked white one—and the growing splotch of blood on my right side.
"Shit," I whisper, my head suddenly spinning.
She catches the slight movement as my body acknowledges what's happened. I feel her hands on my back and neck as she eases me down to the floor. She peels off my wet shirts and stare at the bullet holes in my ribs. Her fingers skim over the throbbing flesh and she leans closer to inspect the wounds.
"How the hell did the bullets get through the asphalt?" I ask, staring at the ceiling. My voice is calm. I don't feel any pain. It's just numb right now.
She looks at me. Her eyes are dark, scared. "That's not a bullet," she says softly, looking at the blood covering my stomach and then back to my eyes. "It's a chunk of asphalt." She hesitates for a minute, and kisses me so softly. "It's a bunch of small chunks," she says in a soft and angry voice.
I go to move, to sit up. But there's a sharp pain in my ribs. I gasp and squeeze my eyes shut. I feel her hand on my forehead, her lips against mine.
"I'm cold," I whisper, the pain in my body fading quickly.
She lies beside me on the floor, wrapping her arms over me and holding my body close. "Please don't die," she whispers, in my ear.
I smile and turn my head, kissing her gently. "I won't. I'm just tired. That was a hell of a run I took out there." I shut my eyes and snuggle my face against her neck. "Just need a quick nap and it'll all be good."
She holds me closer, tighter. I hear someone sobbing quietly. It's her voice. But I know it's not her. Why would she be crying right now?
I'm so cold.
She picks-up on that and hold me closer, trying to warm my body.
It's strange. Normally when she holds me like this I'm warm within a couple of seconds.
I feel her kiss my temple gently. Her lips linger against my skin longer than I remember her ever having done. I hear you her whisper, very softly, "I love you."
It's starting to rain. The droplets are heavy. They fall from the sky, hurtling toward the concrete and asphalt surfaces of the city, like small kamikaze soldiers. They pummel any and all who wander beneath their attacks.
It's late out. Maybe a little after one o'clock in the morning. It's far past the city's curfew—ten thirty. The Patrols are skulking about, looking for anyone who isn't locked indoors. They shoot now, rather than ask questions.
A set of headlights flashes in the wet night. A van rumbles passed. Its tires splash at the roadway, sending small waves of water into the air. Patrols are in that vehicle. A woman up top, rifle in hand. Two men in back, looking out the rear window for anyone daring to defy the Laws.
I'm standing in an alley. I heard the Patrol van at the last second and ran into the alley. I watched them drive off. Waited until I heard the engine rumble away into the distance.
Crouching, I stay low to the ground and look around. I can't see any lights. That's one thing about the Patrols, they always have flashlights or headlights. Always with the freaking lights. But it works well. Sort of like a warning to us. It's safer for us that they have their lights.
I wait there. The rain is soaking through my clothes. The heavy fabric weighs me down. I hate this damn uniform. But it's the only way we can get to our destination. Less likely to be seen if we look like the Soldiers.
The uniform consists of big and heavy military boots. Heavy pants, lined with some sort of leather to act as armour. A white shirt underneath a heavier shirt, again lined with the leather armour. Thick gloves that barely allow the fingers to move. Though the index finger on both hands is naked. Better to shoot with. Then there's the jacket. It's big, bulky, heavy. It goes down to the knees. It's supposed to be waterproof. The seams always come undone, though. Shoddy craftsmanship. The jacket is made entirely of that leather crap. But the fabric holding it all together is very thin. It acts like a sponge for the water, absorbing the cold rain with hunger only to spit it out against your skin. I hate wearing these damn clothes. We both used to like that military-forest-green colour. Now we hate it. Everything is that colour.
The rain comes harder suddenly. The entire world around me seems to be blanketed behind curtains upon curtains of gale-like rain. This is my chance!
I look around, and quickly bolt out from the security of the alley. I run fast, but softly. I don't want my footsteps to make horrible splashing noises. That's the last thing I need right now.
I make it to the next small alley and duck into its shadows. A Patrol van flies passed. My heart is racing like mad. They're passing by slowly. I can see the searchlight running along the ground. I thought for sure the rain would muffle my splashing strides.
The searchlight falls into the alley. I'm already lying flat on my stomach, face pressed against the concrete ground. This is our tactic. This is why we wear the uniforms. We play dead. The light is still on me. I can't hold my breath much longer. They won't stop to inspect me. Please don't let them stop to inspect me.
The engine roars to life and they drive off. I wait. I count to ten. To twenty. To forty. To two hundred.
I can hear the engine off in the distance. It's been at least ten minutes that I'm lying on my stomach, eyes shut, face pressed into the concrete, inhaling so slowly and holding the air in my lungs desperately. I want to be one hundred per cent that it's safe to move. I can't afford to get caught. I don't know what I'd do if that happened.
Finally, I look over at the entrance to the street. I don't see any shadows, don't see any puddles moving from footfalls. Slowly, I sit up, and then crouch. I edge toward the mouth of the alley and peer out into the street.
I count four bodies. They must have been here for a while—probably just after dusk. The rats have already started congregating. That's why I can't get caught. We aren't Patrols. We aren't even Soldiers. We're just civilians who aren't following the Laws. But I'll cross Death itself to see her. And she would, too. That's why we break the curfew. That's why we wear these damn uniforms, and skirt through the city's streets at night, dodging the Patrols and risking our lives.
We do all of this just to hold one another. Just to remember that no matter what happens, we belong to each other and no one else.
I can see my destination. The old coffee shop. OUR old coffee shop. It was closed down last year. When all this started. I don't even remember how any of this happened. All I know is that we were separated. We were forced to marry Patrols. But we found each other quickly through the lines. It wasn't difficult. It was only two weeks after being separated. That's when we started meeting after the curfew. It's the only time we can. Our husbands can kill us if they discover what's going on.
I see a shadow cross into the opening at the side of the shop. It's her! I know it is. The way she moves, the way her body slips along the broken sidewalk and into the small opening. I feel my heart start to race. I want to run toward her but I can't just yet. There are a good two hundred metres separating me from her. I can't afford to be reckless now.
Very carefully, I inspect the empty streets. No headlights. No flashlights. I can't hear if there's anyone walking in the dark, the rain is falling too hard. It's hard to see, too. The water dripping from my hair is stinging my eyes. I try to wipe it away but I just can't keep up.
I look around once more and see her appear in the grimy window of the old shop. I know it's her. And I can already feel her body against mine. Feel her hands pulling off my clothes. Her lips running over my body.
With a deep breath, I rush into the night. My feet splash into the puddles and I swear at the rain under my breath. I quickly duck behind a large chunk of asphalt that's been upturned. There are two bodies lying beside me. I try to ignore them. One is dressed like me. The other is wearing the Patrol's outfits. I try not to pay any attention. But it's still hard to just ignore the bodies scattered around the city at night. The Sweepers will be here within two hours to collect these ones. That’s when the fighting takes place. At night, never during the day. You’ve got a better chance to survive if you fight at night.
I peek over my shelter and look around cautiously. I don't see anything. Very slowly, I crouch down and make to run.
I hear something ring in my ears. It's rapid gunfire. I duck behind the asphalt. How could they see me? There's no one anywhere within sight.
More gunfire rings through the street. I peek around the chunk of roadway to see how many of the Patrols have seen me.
I see something else. Two Patrol officers chasing a man in a green uniform like mine. They're running toward me. I start to panic. They'll see me. The man in the green, the Soldier, rushes past me. His arm is pointing back in the direction he came. The automatic weapon he's got fires. The two men chasing him fire back.
The gunfire is loud. The asphalt explodes as bullets lodge themselves in it. I hear the Patrols coming closer and closer.
Gunfire explodes all around me. They're just trying to kill the fleeing Soldier. I instinctively lay flat, under one of the dead bodies. There's no smell. Thank the gods on that one!
The two men run past me. I listen to their footsteps, their shouts, their gunfire; all grow more and more distant. I look up, and carefully push the body off me. My stomach lurches and I throw-up, violently. I know she’s watching. From her vantage point she can't actually see me. The broken shard of roadway is blocking me from her view.
Quickly, I look around myself. I don't see anyone. The rain is even harder now. It hurts as the drops assaults me. But I also can't see anything. Or hear anything. I decide to go.
She can't see anything from inside the shop. She strains to see me through the rain, but she can't. She saw the gunfire. From her angle, she watched as chunks of the asphalt barrier flew through the air.
My feet slam into the ground. I can't see anything. I know I'm going in the right direction. I'm positive about it. My heart is slamming against my chest, my lungs burn and strain. I'm swallowing a lot of water. My legs are sore and my chest is tight. But I can't stop running until I get to the shop. If I do, there's no way I'll make it.
At the very last second, I see a mass of brick in front of me. I stop just in time. My feet slip and slide on the broken sidewalk. I lose all balance and fall backwards onto the ground. I see the small opening now. And then I see two hands grab my ankles. I'm pulled in hard and fast. Something looms over my head and I instinctively use my arms as a shield.
But it's her. She’s slamming the small bit of metal over the opening.
I stare at the ceiling, trying desperately to catch my breath. Water is pooling around me on the floor. My eyes sting from the rain. My hair is drenched. My clothes are stuck to me like a second skin and I'm shivering.
"Oh god, love!" She pulls me against her body and holds me close, tight. Her voice is scared, but so relieved. Her lips press against my temple, my forehead, my hair, quickly. "Thank god you're safe!"
I smile and wrap my arms around her. She’s only wearing the white t-shirt and the pants. She was dry. And as I wrap my arms around her body, I feel her shiver against me a little.
She releases me, a little, and kisses me. The feel of her lips on mine is amazing. She kisses me hard.
I pull off my jacket and move forward. I slip my hand to the centre of her back and ease her to the floor. I keep kissing her, my wet hair tickling her face as my body presses against her gently.
Our lips break apart and I sit up. The smile on my face fades quickly though. "Oh my gods," I whisper, looking at her side. "You're bleeding!"
She sits up quickly and looks at her ribs. "I can't be!"
I pull at her shirt, lifting it along her chest, up to her chin. There's no wound. There's nothing there. I stare and run my fingers over her perfectly sound flesh.
Her eyes widen and I feel her tear open the green shirt I’m wearing, revealing my soaked white one—and the growing splotch of blood on my right side.
"Shit," I whisper, my head suddenly spinning.
She catches the slight movement as my body acknowledges what's happened. I feel her hands on my back and neck as she eases me down to the floor. She peels off my wet shirts and stare at the bullet holes in my ribs. Her fingers skim over the throbbing flesh and she leans closer to inspect the wounds.
"How the hell did the bullets get through the asphalt?" I ask, staring at the ceiling. My voice is calm. I don't feel any pain. It's just numb right now.
She looks at me. Her eyes are dark, scared. "That's not a bullet," she says softly, looking at the blood covering my stomach and then back to my eyes. "It's a chunk of asphalt." She hesitates for a minute, and kisses me so softly. "It's a bunch of small chunks," she says in a soft and angry voice.
I go to move, to sit up. But there's a sharp pain in my ribs. I gasp and squeeze my eyes shut. I feel her hand on my forehead, her lips against mine.
"I'm cold," I whisper, the pain in my body fading quickly.
She lies beside me on the floor, wrapping her arms over me and holding my body close. "Please don't die," she whispers, in my ear.
I smile and turn my head, kissing her gently. "I won't. I'm just tired. That was a hell of a run I took out there." I shut my eyes and snuggle my face against her neck. "Just need a quick nap and it'll all be good."
She holds me closer, tighter. I hear someone sobbing quietly. It's her voice. But I know it's not her. Why would she be crying right now?
I'm so cold.
She picks-up on that and hold me closer, trying to warm my body.
It's strange. Normally when she holds me like this I'm warm within a couple of seconds.
I feel her kiss my temple gently. Her lips linger against my skin longer than I remember her ever having done. I hear you her whisper, very softly, "I love you."
Sunday, August 08, 2004
Evening Strolls
Marion stared out the large window. Her eyes set on the snow covered forest. She watched a small white rabbit, barely noticeable, and watched as it carefully made its way through the treacherous surroundings. Her grandfather, still peacefully puffing on his pipe, watched her standing before the window.
Where has the time gone? he thought. It seemed like it was only yesterday that he had taken her into his home. But he knew that she would soon be leaving him. It would only be three years before she would leave this house for schooling and her own life.
Marion suddenly screamed, jumping away from the window. Her grandfather bounced up from his chair. He moved with amazing ease considering his age. Quickly, he moved to where his grand-daughter stood.
"What’s wrong?" he asked, looking at her fear-stricken face. Marion said nothing. She couldn’t. She was breathing far too fast, and her grandfather assumed that her heart was beating a mile a minute.
He stepped toward the window, ready for whatever had terrified the girl.
He looked outside, bracing himself, and saw nothing but the small rabbit scurrying off into the forest. He looked at his granddaughter with an air of confusion.
Seeing the expression on the man's face, Marion made her way to the window as he walked away, muttering something incoherently. Just then, she screamed again.
The old man spun around, only to see a ski mask-covered face peering into the room. You little shit! he thought, his mind registering who their assailant was. He couldn’t help but chuckle.
Hearing the sounds of her grandfather’s laughter, Marion turned toward him, then back to the window.
"I’ll kill him!" she shouted, running to the front door, tearing at her jacket and taking off after the shadowed figure trying to escape her fury.
"Marion, don’t hurt him..." was all her grandfather could say before the door slammed shut. He stepped toward the window and watched as his grand-daughter raced toward her assailant and tackled him like a pro football player. "Oh are you ever in for it now," he muttered, watching his grand-daughter drag the struggling snow-covered figure back to the house.
Henry Stone watched in amusement as his grand-daughter showed no mercy toward her friend. She opened the front door and threw him into the entrance, giving him a few more scrapes and bruises to match those from her tackle.
"Hello mister Stone," said the teenager as the old man walked into the entrance, only to see Marion take the boy by the collar and lift him until he could stand.
"Hello, Daniel. Out for an evening stroll I suppose," he said, casually puffind away on his pipe.
"Well, it was such a beautiful evening. I didn’t want to stay cooped-up in that house," said the boy as he took off his coat.
"So, you decided to come and scare the living crap out of me?" shouted Marion, anger boiling over with each word.
"Well, I had nothing else planned for this fine evening so I thought I’d come and pay you a visit," said Daniel as Marion walked past him, heading toward the den.
"Daniel," started the old man slowly. "You could have chosen a more suitable way to say hello."
"Such as?" inquired the boy with a smirk.
"Try knocking next time, Daniel." The white-haired man answered a little sternly. "You’ll have fewer wounds that way," he finished as he pointed out the bruise on Daniel’s jaw.
"But it’s just so much more amusing this way," said the boy as he followed the old man into the den.
Where has the time gone? he thought. It seemed like it was only yesterday that he had taken her into his home. But he knew that she would soon be leaving him. It would only be three years before she would leave this house for schooling and her own life.
Marion suddenly screamed, jumping away from the window. Her grandfather bounced up from his chair. He moved with amazing ease considering his age. Quickly, he moved to where his grand-daughter stood.
"What’s wrong?" he asked, looking at her fear-stricken face. Marion said nothing. She couldn’t. She was breathing far too fast, and her grandfather assumed that her heart was beating a mile a minute.
He stepped toward the window, ready for whatever had terrified the girl.
He looked outside, bracing himself, and saw nothing but the small rabbit scurrying off into the forest. He looked at his granddaughter with an air of confusion.
Seeing the expression on the man's face, Marion made her way to the window as he walked away, muttering something incoherently. Just then, she screamed again.
The old man spun around, only to see a ski mask-covered face peering into the room. You little shit! he thought, his mind registering who their assailant was. He couldn’t help but chuckle.
Hearing the sounds of her grandfather’s laughter, Marion turned toward him, then back to the window.
"I’ll kill him!" she shouted, running to the front door, tearing at her jacket and taking off after the shadowed figure trying to escape her fury.
"Marion, don’t hurt him..." was all her grandfather could say before the door slammed shut. He stepped toward the window and watched as his grand-daughter raced toward her assailant and tackled him like a pro football player. "Oh are you ever in for it now," he muttered, watching his grand-daughter drag the struggling snow-covered figure back to the house.
Henry Stone watched in amusement as his grand-daughter showed no mercy toward her friend. She opened the front door and threw him into the entrance, giving him a few more scrapes and bruises to match those from her tackle.
"Hello mister Stone," said the teenager as the old man walked into the entrance, only to see Marion take the boy by the collar and lift him until he could stand.
"Hello, Daniel. Out for an evening stroll I suppose," he said, casually puffind away on his pipe.
"Well, it was such a beautiful evening. I didn’t want to stay cooped-up in that house," said the boy as he took off his coat.
"So, you decided to come and scare the living crap out of me?" shouted Marion, anger boiling over with each word.
"Well, I had nothing else planned for this fine evening so I thought I’d come and pay you a visit," said Daniel as Marion walked past him, heading toward the den.
"Daniel," started the old man slowly. "You could have chosen a more suitable way to say hello."
"Such as?" inquired the boy with a smirk.
"Try knocking next time, Daniel." The white-haired man answered a little sternly. "You’ll have fewer wounds that way," he finished as he pointed out the bruise on Daniel’s jaw.
"But it’s just so much more amusing this way," said the boy as he followed the old man into the den.
Friday, August 06, 2004
White Coats
The room is empty. It smells like amonia and bleach cleaners. There aren't any windows in this room. It's suffocating. This room is meant to suffocate you. It's meant to drain every ounce of life from your body. You're supposed to come here to get better. But you don't. If you do leave, you're going to die anyway. If you leave. You don't though. The only way you leave this place is if you're not breathing.
The people in the lab coats lie to you. They look you straight in the eye and give you hope. Even when they know they're lying. It's what they do. They lie. That's all. The tests and the medicine doesn't do anything. It just helps the lies they tell you. And they know it, too.
The bed is naked. The sheets are gone. The wires are gone. The tubes are gone. The life is gone. An hour ago there was someone in this bed. Who was it? A friend? A sister? Something like that anyway. Someone that hurts you right now. That's all. When you look at the bed it hurts you. The nakedness of the bed makes your chest heave and shake. It makes these horrible sobs push out your mouth. Forces salty water to fall out of your eyes.
You're dreaming. You know you're dreaming. Things like this don't happen in real life. It's another one of your nightmares. You haven't had a nightmare in a while. It's about time you get one. It makes sense, right? You've been worrying about her for a while. Worrying that she'll die and you'll be without a best friend.
That's it! That's who it was. It's not a friend or a sister. It's both. She's your bestfriend. She knows everything about you. You guys have been pissing each other off for a decade. Damn. How could you forget who she was? That's rather silly and thoughtless of you.
Those damn people in the lab coats. They lied to you. They lied to everyone. They lied to her. They said she would be fine. They told her it was all gone. The medicine was just to stop it from coming back. They lied. They lied about everything.
Why are you so upset? You're dreaming. Stop getting so upset in your nightmare. You're supposed to get upset after the nightmare's over. Getting upset is what you do when you wake-up. Not yet. You're still sleeping. You're lying sprawled out on your bed, mouth hanging open, snoring. Your eyes are shut and your breathing through your nose, even though your mouth is open. Gods you sleep so weirdly.
The naked bed is laughing at you. It's laughing because it knew that the white coats were lying to you. To all of you. It knows that when people sleep on it, it kills them. Takes them away forever. Hurts them while they sleep, while they can't protect or defend themselves. Sneaky bastard of a bed.
Well, that sneaky bastard stole your bestfriend. Took her away right in front of your eyes. She was smiling and laughing one minute. Then she said her chest was hurting. She said she couldn't breathe. Her eyes rolled back in her head and her back arched off the bed. You watched her hands shake. You watched her body start to shake and slam on the bed. The bed was killing her. It decided that she shouldn't be smiling. You made her smile.
The other one in the room started screaming. She ran right past you. She almost knocked you down. That's because you were walking to your bestfriend who was lying still on the bed now. Her body was still shaking. There was this weird spit stuff leaking out her mouth. There was blood leaking out from her nose. The bed was laughing a lot now.
Some people in green pants and shirts ran into the room. They pushed you out of the way. They grabbed your friend. You couldn't see her anymore. All you could see were green people. Someone was pulling you away. The green people were trying to work and you were getting in their way. But how could you leave? Your bestfriend was leaking spit and blood. You had to help her somehow. Maybe if you kissed her she'd wake-up and laugh at you. She'd shout "Gotcha!" and laugh. You'd be angry with her for having scared you. But it's only fair. You made her angry. She made you angry. She yelled at you. You didn't say anything. You got a little bit more angry at her. Then she made you laugh. No need to say sorry or anything. Your bestfriend knows you're sorry. Just like you know she's sorry, too.
That damn bed. It's still laughing at you. It's laughing because it can. You can't anymore. You don't know when you'll laugh again. Maybe today. Probably not. How about tomorrow? No, probably not. The day after that? No. I don't think you'll laugh for a long, long time. How can you laugh? The last time you laughed, your bestfriend died.
The white coats lied to you. They always do. Stupid white coats.
The people in the lab coats lie to you. They look you straight in the eye and give you hope. Even when they know they're lying. It's what they do. They lie. That's all. The tests and the medicine doesn't do anything. It just helps the lies they tell you. And they know it, too.
The bed is naked. The sheets are gone. The wires are gone. The tubes are gone. The life is gone. An hour ago there was someone in this bed. Who was it? A friend? A sister? Something like that anyway. Someone that hurts you right now. That's all. When you look at the bed it hurts you. The nakedness of the bed makes your chest heave and shake. It makes these horrible sobs push out your mouth. Forces salty water to fall out of your eyes.
You're dreaming. You know you're dreaming. Things like this don't happen in real life. It's another one of your nightmares. You haven't had a nightmare in a while. It's about time you get one. It makes sense, right? You've been worrying about her for a while. Worrying that she'll die and you'll be without a best friend.
That's it! That's who it was. It's not a friend or a sister. It's both. She's your bestfriend. She knows everything about you. You guys have been pissing each other off for a decade. Damn. How could you forget who she was? That's rather silly and thoughtless of you.
Those damn people in the lab coats. They lied to you. They lied to everyone. They lied to her. They said she would be fine. They told her it was all gone. The medicine was just to stop it from coming back. They lied. They lied about everything.
Why are you so upset? You're dreaming. Stop getting so upset in your nightmare. You're supposed to get upset after the nightmare's over. Getting upset is what you do when you wake-up. Not yet. You're still sleeping. You're lying sprawled out on your bed, mouth hanging open, snoring. Your eyes are shut and your breathing through your nose, even though your mouth is open. Gods you sleep so weirdly.
The naked bed is laughing at you. It's laughing because it knew that the white coats were lying to you. To all of you. It knows that when people sleep on it, it kills them. Takes them away forever. Hurts them while they sleep, while they can't protect or defend themselves. Sneaky bastard of a bed.
Well, that sneaky bastard stole your bestfriend. Took her away right in front of your eyes. She was smiling and laughing one minute. Then she said her chest was hurting. She said she couldn't breathe. Her eyes rolled back in her head and her back arched off the bed. You watched her hands shake. You watched her body start to shake and slam on the bed. The bed was killing her. It decided that she shouldn't be smiling. You made her smile.
The other one in the room started screaming. She ran right past you. She almost knocked you down. That's because you were walking to your bestfriend who was lying still on the bed now. Her body was still shaking. There was this weird spit stuff leaking out her mouth. There was blood leaking out from her nose. The bed was laughing a lot now.
Some people in green pants and shirts ran into the room. They pushed you out of the way. They grabbed your friend. You couldn't see her anymore. All you could see were green people. Someone was pulling you away. The green people were trying to work and you were getting in their way. But how could you leave? Your bestfriend was leaking spit and blood. You had to help her somehow. Maybe if you kissed her she'd wake-up and laugh at you. She'd shout "Gotcha!" and laugh. You'd be angry with her for having scared you. But it's only fair. You made her angry. She made you angry. She yelled at you. You didn't say anything. You got a little bit more angry at her. Then she made you laugh. No need to say sorry or anything. Your bestfriend knows you're sorry. Just like you know she's sorry, too.
That damn bed. It's still laughing at you. It's laughing because it can. You can't anymore. You don't know when you'll laugh again. Maybe today. Probably not. How about tomorrow? No, probably not. The day after that? No. I don't think you'll laugh for a long, long time. How can you laugh? The last time you laughed, your bestfriend died.
The white coats lied to you. They always do. Stupid white coats.
Tuesday, August 03, 2004
She's The Only One
She goes back everytime she's home. She parks the truck, or car, or station wagon. She counts to eight. Her lungs slowly fill with air. She holds it there, trapped in her body. She holds her breath for ten seconds. She exhales fast. She can't trap anything.
The keys always jingle in her pocket. The cold metal digs into her thigh. The pain forces the understanding that she's awake, that she's not trapped in some nightmare.
The ground is always uneven. From the street it looks flat and monotonous. But it's not. How can a place holding so many different people possibly be even?
She walks along without thinking. She visits this place at least once a month. It depends how often she comes home. She always finds the time. Always. Even now she's trapped.
Her legs stop moving. She looks to her right and sighs as she turns. Her knees bend. Her hand supports her slow descent. She sits on the cool ground. Her legs press against her chest. Her chin rests on her knees. Her hands are locked together against her shins. She becomes a small ball. At least once every four weeks, she becomes the small ball.
She sits there on the cool mid-summer grass. She's sat there on the mid-autumn's dead leaves. She's sat there on the mid-spring's newborn flowers. She's sat there in the mid-winter's frigid snow.
It's the winter the prefers. In the winter everything's dead. Sleeping, her mother says. But she knows that everything's dead in the winter. Especially in this place. Even she's dead in the winter in this place.
She pulls her legs closer. The summer is cold here. Everything is cold here.
Her eyes read the engravement before her. The letters, digits, symbols come together. Their individuality is lost to logic, which strings them together. Words form in her mind. Meaning forms in her mind. Memories form in her mind. Thoughts die in her mind.
She reads from the base up.
'1980-2003'
'Keith Poikayer'
There aren't any fancy symbols or pictures. No kind and loving words of memoriam. Just a name. With a fragment of time etched in stone.
They could have wrote a lot of things. They wanted to write a lot of things.
'Son. Friend. Brother.'
'Too young and too soon.'
'We will always love you.'
'Be with God, my darling boy.'
She asked that something be written. She had no right to ask. But she asked. Even if everyone knew it wasn't her place.
'Be at peace.'
Three words. They could have meant anything to anyone.
She had one meaning in mind. His was a tortured soul. She shouldn't have loved him as much as she did. But who can decide something like that? She loved him. She feared him. She pitied him. She prayed for him.
Now she visits him. She comes alone. She would never have chosen to be alone with him before. Now she has to. She can't bring anyone with her. This is how it was in the beginning. They would sit together in silence. Even now she doesn't say anything. It's still not her place to ask him anything. It's still not her place.
She knows they visit their son on Sundays. They tower above the ground in silence. She knows they visit their brother on Saturdays. They crouch and touch the markings representing the man she loved.
She's the only one who sits on the earth. She's the only one who doesn't shed tears anymore. She's the only one who knows how much he loves the silence.
When she leaves, she's the only one who takes a final look at the gravestone. She's the only who still looks back. She's the only who looks back and still feels trapped. Someday she'll be the only who won't come back to this place. Someday.
But not next month. Or the one after that. Or even the one after that. For now, she has too many thoughts about him. He was a victim, like she was. Only he'll always be a victim. She won't. And she feels bad for that. She's the only who feels bad for that.
The keys always jingle in her pocket. The cold metal digs into her thigh. The pain forces the understanding that she's awake, that she's not trapped in some nightmare.
The ground is always uneven. From the street it looks flat and monotonous. But it's not. How can a place holding so many different people possibly be even?
She walks along without thinking. She visits this place at least once a month. It depends how often she comes home. She always finds the time. Always. Even now she's trapped.
Her legs stop moving. She looks to her right and sighs as she turns. Her knees bend. Her hand supports her slow descent. She sits on the cool ground. Her legs press against her chest. Her chin rests on her knees. Her hands are locked together against her shins. She becomes a small ball. At least once every four weeks, she becomes the small ball.
She sits there on the cool mid-summer grass. She's sat there on the mid-autumn's dead leaves. She's sat there on the mid-spring's newborn flowers. She's sat there in the mid-winter's frigid snow.
It's the winter the prefers. In the winter everything's dead. Sleeping, her mother says. But she knows that everything's dead in the winter. Especially in this place. Even she's dead in the winter in this place.
She pulls her legs closer. The summer is cold here. Everything is cold here.
Her eyes read the engravement before her. The letters, digits, symbols come together. Their individuality is lost to logic, which strings them together. Words form in her mind. Meaning forms in her mind. Memories form in her mind. Thoughts die in her mind.
She reads from the base up.
'1980-2003'
'Keith Poikayer'
There aren't any fancy symbols or pictures. No kind and loving words of memoriam. Just a name. With a fragment of time etched in stone.
They could have wrote a lot of things. They wanted to write a lot of things.
'Son. Friend. Brother.'
'Too young and too soon.'
'We will always love you.'
'Be with God, my darling boy.'
She asked that something be written. She had no right to ask. But she asked. Even if everyone knew it wasn't her place.
'Be at peace.'
Three words. They could have meant anything to anyone.
She had one meaning in mind. His was a tortured soul. She shouldn't have loved him as much as she did. But who can decide something like that? She loved him. She feared him. She pitied him. She prayed for him.
Now she visits him. She comes alone. She would never have chosen to be alone with him before. Now she has to. She can't bring anyone with her. This is how it was in the beginning. They would sit together in silence. Even now she doesn't say anything. It's still not her place to ask him anything. It's still not her place.
She knows they visit their son on Sundays. They tower above the ground in silence. She knows they visit their brother on Saturdays. They crouch and touch the markings representing the man she loved.
She's the only one who sits on the earth. She's the only one who doesn't shed tears anymore. She's the only one who knows how much he loves the silence.
When she leaves, she's the only one who takes a final look at the gravestone. She's the only who still looks back. She's the only who looks back and still feels trapped. Someday she'll be the only who won't come back to this place. Someday.
But not next month. Or the one after that. Or even the one after that. For now, she has too many thoughts about him. He was a victim, like she was. Only he'll always be a victim. She won't. And she feels bad for that. She's the only who feels bad for that.
Sunday, August 01, 2004
The Little Things
She can't remember the last time she felt this good. Everything is bright and warm. Everything is new. It's all so real. There aren't any shadows around her. There aren't any dangers. All she can see is waiting for her touch, for her experience. It's all waiting for her.
"Look at that!" she says, pointing off into the distance.
"Look at what?"
"That!" She's smiling from ear to ear. Her eyes are bright. She looks like a child seeing something magnificient for the first time.
"You mean the hot-air balloon?"
"Yeah!! It's amazing!"
"If you say so, hun."
Her friends are being sweet. They've stolen her. They learned about her relationship. They put all the pieces together. They sat down two weeks ago, the three of them, and came to a decision.
"We can't leave her there...not with him."
"We can't really take her."
"Why not?"
"I don't know."
"We have to try."
"What if she fights us."
"She won't."
"How can you be so sure of that?"
"Yeah, what if she doesn't want our help?"
"If she didn't want our help, she wouldn't have said anything."
"Maybe."
"Listen, either we get her out, or he'll kill her. Her bruising is getting worse and worse everyday. If we don't step in, we'll be going to a funeral and a murder trial real soon."
They all watch her. They're just at the park. They're watching the sailboats out on the water and the few air ballons lazily crossing the horizon. It's nothing special. It's just a usual summer day in the city at the waterfront.
But she keeps pointing at little things. A sailboat turning over in the wind. A child running and splashing in the water. The little things.
They're all very happy they got her out. They're happy they made the decision to get her away before he went too far.
"So how do we do this?"
"She said she doesn't have anything had their place."
"Okay. No worries of getting her stuff then."
"I've got clothes she can have."
"Me, too."
"Same here."
"Good."
"Where is she going to stay?"
"My place. Mom and Dad aren't keen on how things are with her. And if he does show-up at our place, Dad'll kick his ass."
"Right after you do, right?"
"Yeah."
"Okay. So clothes is set. Possessions don't exist. And sleeping is done."
"So how do we get her away without him trying to kill us in the process?"
They waited for her after work three days ago. They waited for her outside the parking lot. They'd watched her for a week. They didn't want to let it drag as long they did. But they had to plan it perfectly. If he caught any hint of what they'd planned, she'd be the one to pay the price. They couldn't let anything else happen to her.
So they watched her. He showed-up between 5:30 and 5:50 every afternoon to pick her up. Always in the same place. One day she was late. They watched him look around the parking lot for a minute. They watched her walk out the doors. Her head was lowerd. She had her arms crossed over her chest. Her hands were shaking.
They watched him grab her by the neck and force her head down onto the passenger's doorframe. They watched the blood collect and fall along her face from her forehead. They watched him throw her to the asphalt and kick her twice. And they watched him grab her and throw her into the car. He slammed the door on her hand.
She came into the work the next morning with three broken fingers and a long, deep gash on her forehead. She told them she'd been mugged.
"We just grab her and take her back to your place."
"I'll tell Mom and Dad."
"Good."
"She'll fight us."
"Then we'll just fight back."
"We'll have twenty minutes."
"This will work, right?"
"I hope so."
"Me, too."
"It'll work. It has to work.:
It did.
Two weeks after the plans were made, they waited outside for her. They took her hands and brought her to the car. She climbed into the backseat. They drove away. She was completely silent. She didn't show any emotions on her face.
Once they parked the car and got her into the house. She started to cry. She cried for a long while. They held her close and told her that they wouldn't let anything happen ever again.
Now they're all at the waterfront watching her laugh at the little things. They're smiling and laughing with her. All four of them keep looking around the beach, watching for him. They've made more plans since that first one. If they see him, they gather their things and walk away slowly. They hold her hand and walk away without a word. If he knocks at their door, they call the police and have him arrested.
If she goes back to him, they decided they would stop making plans. They decided that it's her decision, after all. The decided that she's an adult, after all.
But she's also laughing at a man whose bathing suit just fell down to his ankles. If she goes back, they'll go to get her again.
A child is unable to make a decision in that complexity. At least, that's what they believe. And so long as they believe it, then they'll keep doing it.
"Look at that!" she says, pointing off into the distance.
"Look at what?"
"That!" She's smiling from ear to ear. Her eyes are bright. She looks like a child seeing something magnificient for the first time.
"You mean the hot-air balloon?"
"Yeah!! It's amazing!"
"If you say so, hun."
Her friends are being sweet. They've stolen her. They learned about her relationship. They put all the pieces together. They sat down two weeks ago, the three of them, and came to a decision.
"We can't leave her there...not with him."
"We can't really take her."
"Why not?"
"I don't know."
"We have to try."
"What if she fights us."
"She won't."
"How can you be so sure of that?"
"Yeah, what if she doesn't want our help?"
"If she didn't want our help, she wouldn't have said anything."
"Maybe."
"Listen, either we get her out, or he'll kill her. Her bruising is getting worse and worse everyday. If we don't step in, we'll be going to a funeral and a murder trial real soon."
They all watch her. They're just at the park. They're watching the sailboats out on the water and the few air ballons lazily crossing the horizon. It's nothing special. It's just a usual summer day in the city at the waterfront.
But she keeps pointing at little things. A sailboat turning over in the wind. A child running and splashing in the water. The little things.
They're all very happy they got her out. They're happy they made the decision to get her away before he went too far.
"So how do we do this?"
"She said she doesn't have anything had their place."
"Okay. No worries of getting her stuff then."
"I've got clothes she can have."
"Me, too."
"Same here."
"Good."
"Where is she going to stay?"
"My place. Mom and Dad aren't keen on how things are with her. And if he does show-up at our place, Dad'll kick his ass."
"Right after you do, right?"
"Yeah."
"Okay. So clothes is set. Possessions don't exist. And sleeping is done."
"So how do we get her away without him trying to kill us in the process?"
They waited for her after work three days ago. They waited for her outside the parking lot. They'd watched her for a week. They didn't want to let it drag as long they did. But they had to plan it perfectly. If he caught any hint of what they'd planned, she'd be the one to pay the price. They couldn't let anything else happen to her.
So they watched her. He showed-up between 5:30 and 5:50 every afternoon to pick her up. Always in the same place. One day she was late. They watched him look around the parking lot for a minute. They watched her walk out the doors. Her head was lowerd. She had her arms crossed over her chest. Her hands were shaking.
They watched him grab her by the neck and force her head down onto the passenger's doorframe. They watched the blood collect and fall along her face from her forehead. They watched him throw her to the asphalt and kick her twice. And they watched him grab her and throw her into the car. He slammed the door on her hand.
She came into the work the next morning with three broken fingers and a long, deep gash on her forehead. She told them she'd been mugged.
"We just grab her and take her back to your place."
"I'll tell Mom and Dad."
"Good."
"She'll fight us."
"Then we'll just fight back."
"We'll have twenty minutes."
"This will work, right?"
"I hope so."
"Me, too."
"It'll work. It has to work.:
It did.
Two weeks after the plans were made, they waited outside for her. They took her hands and brought her to the car. She climbed into the backseat. They drove away. She was completely silent. She didn't show any emotions on her face.
Once they parked the car and got her into the house. She started to cry. She cried for a long while. They held her close and told her that they wouldn't let anything happen ever again.
Now they're all at the waterfront watching her laugh at the little things. They're smiling and laughing with her. All four of them keep looking around the beach, watching for him. They've made more plans since that first one. If they see him, they gather their things and walk away slowly. They hold her hand and walk away without a word. If he knocks at their door, they call the police and have him arrested.
If she goes back to him, they decided they would stop making plans. They decided that it's her decision, after all. The decided that she's an adult, after all.
But she's also laughing at a man whose bathing suit just fell down to his ankles. If she goes back, they'll go to get her again.
A child is unable to make a decision in that complexity. At least, that's what they believe. And so long as they believe it, then they'll keep doing it.
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