Writing Crash
Page 7
Vivid Whispers
The days became fuzzy, like the air had fur on it. I couldn’t see clearly, images blurred and distorted, forming new visions and deceiving me. The sounds I heard were muffled – esoteric.
I was lying in my bed, the sun rudely peeking through my window under the blind like a persistent stalker. Ghosts abounded – the spectres of sounds hounded me as I tried (in vain) to get a grip upon reality. My mind recalled a body, a woman, a vision in my head. Her picture so clear, so lucid…yet her name was a mystery. I heard her speak and the sound was an aural elixir, soothing and sedating.
The room spun, the bare globe in the ceiling appeared to run around like a mouse on speed. In the corner of the room I could feel myself squashing into the cornice – perched up high like a spider patiently waiting for its prey. I clung onto the sheer walls, spreading my limbs for stability. I could taste the paint of the ceiling, feel the rasp of the edge of the cornice.
Below me was myself – supine and snoring. I lowered myself down, hovering above my form.
Her words, an incoherent balm, rang in my ears. Her vision formed in my head.
I recalled the feeling, the out-of-body. I smelled her perfume, tasted her scent in the air. I could feel the warmth of her neck and the sweet aroma of her body and I breathed her in.
Or did I?
Now that I was waking, I could see I was alone. But reality had been with me, I was sure of it. I had never been so certain – it simply had to have happened. Didn’t it?
Or was I simply remembering my words – the sounds and visions an implant. Were they created in an alternate state of consciousness and, therefore, in the lucidity of sobriety – or rapidly approaching it anyway – they manifested themselves as reality?
Nothing felt right and I doubted myself. I wasn’t even sure if I was here right now – perhaps this is the dream and the reality is waiting for me elsewhere?
I picked up the typed sheets of paper, unsure if they were mine or whether I had procured them from places unknown. As I read, I realized I was re-reading.
Remembering and re-remembering.
Out of sync – that’s for certain.
Yes – I was out of sync. Nothing matched up. I read on:
Her svelte, size 8 figure seemed untouched by the ravages of road trauma, devoid of the pain of torn muscles, broken bones and eviscerated skin. Carlton noticed the bottom of a tattoo poking out from below her white, mid-riff baring tank top - spidery black legs crept across her taut belly on the skin above the tight black jeans she wore. Later he would see the lace-thin tendrils of more tattoos snake their way up the back of her neck and into her hair.
Short blonde hair, messy, a couple of pinkish streaks that punctuated her designer-mess of a hairstyle. She was a late 80’s style uber-punk - more Cyndi Lauper than Lady Gaga.
Retro chic perfected.
She was, by far, the most interesting thing that happened to him today.
This group was about done for him. There were less and less showing up each week and he hadn’t seen any decent prospects in a long time. Carlton felt that maybe Tobias would be a candidate, but the guy simply continued to withdraw. He wondered why Tobias bothered to show up at all - perhaps there was a voyeuristic streak in him? That he took pleasure in reliving other people’s pain and suffering. Carlton hoped that was it - it would make Tobias a lot more interesting.
And it would also make him much more likely to be a candidate.
Colby wheezed away in his wheelchair, computerized bleeps and pings created a science-fiction backdrop. Once he finally received his computerised voice, a complex software program that turned text into sound, he was at least able to communicate. The conversation was stilted but at least it wasn’t one-sided anymore.
But these two were not what Carlton was after - these were genuine victims. These were the people that he had resolved to help in a moment of weakness that he now recognized as altruism. He was not a counselor, or a therapist, or qualified in anything other than an ability to bullshit and talk people into anything.
He talked the doctors into letting him hold a VRT support group here.
He talked some of his previous “clients” into helping him fulfill his desires, passions that need sating through manipulation, persuasion and voyeurism. It was never enough for Carlton to simply participate, he had to pull the strings and watch his marionettes take on a life of their own – all the while Carlton dictated their actions.
Then the sexy interloper noticed Harry was still clearing the tears from his eyes. “I hope I haven’t interrupted a ‘moment’ here?”
“No, that’s fine,” replied Carlton. “Harry was telling us about his feelings of loss after his wife was killed in an accident. It’s good to get these things out.”
“Is it?” She asked, almost accusatory.
He wondered if she was here voluntarily.
“So, what’s the go anyway?” She asked. “How does this work?”
“Well, most people tell us their names and why they are here. Sometimes they also say what they hope to get out of being here.”
“I thought names were forbidden or something?”
“It’s not AA - we are here to discuss what has happened and each of us helps the others to deal with the hand that life has dealt.”
“Life? How secular of you. In the past, people would have said ‘God” instead of ‘Life’. I guess you can’t bring religion in I suppose?”
“I prefer not, but if it helps you open up and deal with things, then that’s fine.”
“It doesn’t and it won’t… I was just saying.”
Oh yes, thought Carlton, definitely out of sync with the group.
The dynamic changed as soon as “She” entered. The fact that she was a woman, and an attractive one as well, changed the mood/vibe instantly. Tobias lowered his head, avoiding eye contact and clearly intimidated by her.
Colby sat in his catatonic state - his face suspended in mid emotion. His fingers remained resting lightly on the keyboard, the tips nervously wandering over random keys. This was his way of not knowing what to say.
“Well,” began Carlton, “perhaps you could start by telling us your name and why you are here?”
Ice-breaker question and hopefully she could help him out - bring the life back into this room of sad broken cases.
She was confident and precocious, that much Carlton could tell. The way she walked into the room, grabbed a spare chair casually and dragged it into the circle showed him that she was used to being the centre of attention. With her cut-off tank-top, tight black jeans and Doc Martin boots, she looked more foot-soldier than princess - yet she was certainly enjoying the attention she garnered. Her make-up was simple, basic and not too heavy - dark mascara was applied lightly so as to emphasize her eyes, rather than disguise them. She wore no visible mask - hers was much harder to discover.
Her confidence stalled as she contemplated an answer to Carlton’s simple request. She was working out an answer, one that would invariably be bullshit – but very convincing bullshit nonetheless. He knew a manipulator when he saw one.
He knew his own kind.
It was instant - a subconscious acknowledgement of a kindred spirit. This was someone that Carlton quickly identified with. Her story, and her motivations, would follow. But, as it stood now, Carlton was falling in love.