Head in the Box

by C.P. Kemabia



  C.P. KEMABIA

  HEAD IN THE BOX

  NOTES:

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  HEAD IN THE BOX

  Copyright © C.P. Kemabia, 2014

  All rights reserved

 

  HEAD IN THE BOX

  I

  On the morning of October 22th 2011, something terribly shocking happened.

  It was so shocking and so unspeakable that the people involved would go on remembering it for as long as they lived.

  But to understand how it all happened, one must first understand where it all happened.

  The student housing complex had been built a little after the Great Fire of 1901, in Jacksonville, Florida, though back then it was merely a small family-owned hostel with just a dozen rooms to start up. Then, a few decades later, due to rapid urban sprawling, a long-sighted real estate entrepreneur saw the potential of the place to become much more enticing than just a little, two-bit lodging space, and in a rather bold move, he bought the family out of their business, especially because of the largely undeveloped land attached to the premises.

  The idea was to develop some fancy private homes for vacation rentals by hot-shot, out-of-towners. And when, later on, it became clear that this prospect wouldn’t successfully pan out, a purpose-built student housing complex was erected instead.

  Flystone, it was called (short for Dragonfly Stone – the name deriving from the apartment complex shape when seen from an aerial point of view). The complex really reached full-build in the mid-nineties, with its singles converted into full apartments and with hall lounges and terraces added on to each floor. With about nine buildings holding north of two hundred tenants—students for the most part—Flystone was a premium off-campus housing choice. That is what the glowing ads said in any case. Then a string of petty incidents, ranging from thievery to illicit prowling, called into question housing safety.

  To ward off the unavoidable bad publicity, management took proactive measures and fitted the buildings with electronic locks for each floor’s doors in every building, thus moderating accessibility for nonresidents during specific late hours in the night. This high-tech device was officially implemented in 2001 to general tenants’ satisfaction (the then-new Flexible Lease Terms that came with the upgrade certainly helped incentivize the tenants). Since then, Flystone has gone on to add more beds to its portfolio for a countrywide expansion.

  But we shall focus on the original housing complex founded in Jacksonville, Florida, all those years ago, the one which is closely bounded by the St. Johns River to the south of its dragonfly-like structure. So yes, this is where it all happened. The madness … if you can even give it a name. And, truth is, the unexpected resolution of this occurrence was twice as shocking as its troubling nature.

  This is what happened…

  II

  Charlie stood in front of the bathroom sink, eyes unmoving, staring forward. She was shrouded at the bosom by a rosy-colored towel. After a good night sleep (or even after bad ones), she always took a moment for herself just to listen to her thoughts. It was so easy not to listen. When you didn’t, you went on wondering why, on any given day, you strangely felt consumed by such and such unrecognizable feelings. But all it took was a close listen to see the warning signs.

  The flat of her hand wiped clean across the steamy mirror above the sink, exposing in its wake a youthful face poised on a slender T-shaped upper body. Charlie looked at her reflection and lightly touched her left cheek, remembering an old pain which had settled there not so long ago. If it wasn’t for the thin, fading bruise, which in time would easily look like a birthmark, you couldn’t tell her skin had been cut there bloody, and then healed up all right on the surface in less days than she originally feared. And all without making her look too bad overall.

  She looked at that face intently, losing count of the flying seconds, and worked up saliva on her lips with her teeth. Something was on her mind, something she hadn’t shared with anyone. Her eyes moved down to the small object her hand was nervously gripping—a pregnancy-test stick. She had seen the signs … or rather she hadn’t, in two months. Everything’s fine, she told herself. Just get it over with already. But she didn’t move. She had intended to take the test the day before, but the surprise birthday party thrown for her in the apartment had made it impractical. And now, with no more unexpected distraction, there was no running out on this.

  A car alarm suddenly went off outside. The tolling was shrill and deafening and even seemed to inflate. Another distraction… Charlie reached for the bathroom window and slammed it shut. She then flopped down on the toilet seat. Tara always said that, between the two of them, she was the smartest one, with her quiet strength and intelligent gaze. Now Charlie was wondering how stupid she’d been to find herself waist-deep in this quandary. Unwanted pregnancy was something of a real dread to her. All she’d have to give up to become a young mother. Christ, the scholarship, her student life derailing… I’m not there yet, she quickly thought, trying to give herself some hope. Unless this bloody test says otherwise anyway. She thought about the young Yanomami girls that she’d studied in her cultural anthropology curriculum. You never saw them shy away from child birthing. It was the most stupendous thing. Charlie decided she wasn’t even remotely as strong or brave as they were. Finally, with bone-white resolve, Charlie counted to ten before taking the test…

  III

  The lively noise of an idle chatter came from the living room, which, despite being in a state of total shambles, might have still won over the heart of a house seeker. The six young people relaxing in this convivial atmosphere had slept over after the party, thus pushing the festivities into the late hours of the night. And now, because it wasn’t a school day, they could keep on squandering their time any way they pleased. And for the moment, all seemed content to just palaver in small group discussion.

  Outside, the sun had been up for a while and was flooding the apartment with its fresh and warm light. As a result, the paneled walls gleamed bright and rich, rendering the whole place more modern than it was. All in all, the apartment was spacious and tastefully furnished, with jars of flowers heightening a sense of astute decoration, Lilith and Violets for the most part. It was Tara’s attempt to make the living room look sort of nature friendly, even though at heart she had little regard for nature, being born and bred in a metropolitan city. However, majoring in environmental design had taught her to view it as a necessary adjunct to achieve architectural beauty, and she always strove for it in all her sketches. And though her fingers may have made wonders designing post-modern buildings, they were rather clumsy in all manners of giving a massage, as evidenced by Dominic’s complaints.

  “You’re doing it wrong, Jeez,” he kept saying.

  Finally, Dominic shrugged her hands off his shoulder blades and proceeded to knead them himself, one at a time.

  Tara watched him reach behind his back and strain his layers of muscle with aching results. It was fine by her if he wanted to have a go at massaging himself like that, and do a poorer job. But then again, she liked to have these kind of little, corny moments with him. It was the little things that held long-lasting couples together.

  “Alright, it’s not my fault if you’re too tense,” she said, flicking his hands away and resuming the massage. “You’re really tight, you know. Tilt a little forward.”

  Dominic did as he was bid and reckoned the splat chair he was sitting on was unsuitable for complete full-body relaxation. To be fair, the living area was not a good setting ei
ther with the others around. He wished he was in Tara’s room where he could’ve taken his polo shirt off and laid on her bed. But then that may have given him some ideas. The thought made him grin involuntarily.

  “Am I in the ballpark here?” Tara asked him, working up the upper left muscle of his spine as if she was molding a clay body into an amorphous shape.

  “Yeah, just move up a little.” Following the command, Tara’s fingers shifted gear and applied a forceful knead just below his nape. “Yeah, there… Right there,” Dominic said, his voice becoming a soothing moan. “You’re getting good at this, huh?”

  Tara nodded, aware that her hands were somewhat targeting his spine tissue with intuited discrimination. She said, “You didn’t get a good night’s sleep?”

  “Barely,” Dominic said. “The night was a little agitated.”

  “Agitated?”

  “Well, there was this noise on the roof. And you know I’m a light sleeper.”

  “What noise?” Tara asked, letting up the sustained deep pressure she had been applying.

  “I don’t know––something on the roof.” After a moment, Dominic added, “Where were you, by the way?

  “I couldn’t sleep either. So I went out.”

  “In the middle of the night?”

  “What’s the big deal? I was chilling out on the terrace.”

  Dominic slightly turned his head as if he hadn’t heard very well. Tara knew this was, usually, a sign that he was seeking a cause for complaint. However, in hopes that he wouldn’t, Tara extended the massaging to the region of his ear and caressed his earlobe sweetly. Still, despite the subterfuge, Dominic uttered his complaint an afterthought later.

  “Look, if you were still mad––”

  “—I wasn’t mad,” Tara quickly said. “I mean, I was, but––whatever.”

  Dominic went on. “I know I overreacted last night, but I really thought you guys were flirting or something…”

  In saying so, his watery blue eyes had sullenly landed on a twenty-something young man lounging across the living room near the hearth, and who automatically drew sympathy whenever looked upon.

  This was Peter and he was seemingly paying heed to the conversation between the two maidens sitting across from him. The girls were in their early twenties as well.

  “He was just being nice,” Tara said, purposefully tugging at Dominic’s earlobe. “Something you should probably take a note of…”

  Something in the way she had said that had made him want to throw a speculative eye at her to make certain they were still on good terms. Dominic knew himself to be a little emotive and quite excitable whenever Tara’s affection was concerned. And it wasn’t like he could help himself. He loved her dearly. And unlike the bridges or buildings they both studied, he wasn’t made of marble and stone to pretend to be hard and insensible.

  IV

  “Pardon…” Peter said to Jen, one hundred percent apologetically. He’d always figured murmuring an apology whenever intruding a conversation made one out to look amiable. After all, those two young women were having pride of place over him. “Jennifer, right?”

  “Just Jen.”

  She tilted her head with a conscientious expression, as if to invite him within the privy circle she and her blonde girlfriend belonged to.

  “Can I borrow the newspaper?” Peter asked.

  Jen made an attempt to rise from the two-seater couch to hand over the newspaper which was spread over her lap. But Peter bothered to get up and fetch it off her before she was on her feet.

  “Thanks,” he said, sitting back down.

  A foldable pet stairway stood propped against the seat cushion. Tara had mentioned owning a kitten last night. Peter felt a little bad for taking up the comfy spot of Snoot (a reference to the kitty’s pale pink nose), but the cat wasn’t around to reclaim it.

  “No, thank you,” Carol said to Peter as he paged through the paper and settled on the sports section. “I’ve been trying to get her to stop reading that drivel all morning.” She turned to Jen with a suddenness which had her tidy butter-yellow hair go all disheveled. “I never understood how you could follow the news so religiously like that, you know.”

  “Religiously?” Jen said, refraining an oath. “You don’t always have to treat everything as a dramedy.”

  “I’m serious; it’s like a vital part of your daily routine.”

  “Well, I like to keep up with current events. Not everyone thinks it’s torture, am I wrong?”

  Jen riveted her eyes to Peter for support, without avail. His attention wasn’t on their banter, but rather on the newspaper he was perusing. So she let her gaze linger on him until Peter felt it and looked up from the paper.

  “Oh,” he said. “Me… I wouldn’t call it torture, unless you have a seat on the Exchange. Now that’s a good reason to check in throughout the day and be on top of things, to survive these volatile markets.”

  “Is it what you mean to pursue academically?” Jen asked. “I mean trading?”

  “Well, I’ve been teaching myself for some time already. Really there’s nothing to it, you know. All you have to do is come up with a sound strategy and stick to it at all times.”

  “A strategy?” Carol said pointedly with a smile. “I hardly see how you’d need a strategy when this whole business is no different than rolling dice.”

  “True, except you can control the way you’re going to roll the dice, and sometimes it can make a huge difference, yes?”

  Carol seemed to give it a thought. It didn’t take an analytical mind to see that those versed in this line of work mostly capitalized on quantitative probabilities. But take away all the math, chance was still a big factor to win a trade. And she wondered if Peter was of a gambling nature.

  She said, moving her fine hand over Jen’s arm, “Jen here is monitoring the state of our economy. You may want to pick her brains to find out where the market’s heading.”

  “I’m not monitoring anything,” Jen said, placing her hand over Carol’s. “You could say I’m a bit of a news junkie. It’s good food for thought though, especially when you have a paper about geopolitics on global energy that’s due in five days and you’re lacking inspiration to write it.”

  “I thought I was all the inspiration you needed.”

  Jen made a funny face at Carol, which amused Peter.

  During the party last night, he’d briefly observed the both of them as they stood by this very hearth, with a little fire roaring in it more for show than for heat. The pair was having a good time, surrounded by four senior students holding plastic cups in their hands and taking turns in making witty comments that bent everyone else over in laughter. And as far as Peter could tell, those two never left each other’s side throughout the evening, mostly drinking side by side and murmuring into one another’s ear to communicate within the collective din of the rave-up. Surely, this kind of collusive behavior—though very charming—may have offended some in a different setting. But here, most invitees had been either friends or close acquaintances who probably knew the girls’ inclination for discreet conversations.

  Peter looked at Jen as she was muttering something under her breath for Carol's ear only. She was about the same age as Carol, though, he reckoned, the latter was probably older. From his observations, he had intuitively gathered that Carol, with her stern brow and emerald green eyes, had an inbred heft about herself, which may have stemmed from being part of a wealthy family, whereas Jen looked more like the typical everyday Jane, even though she displayed strong characteristics of a tomboy: strong jaw line, strong cheeks, narrow-set eyes. However, you could tell cosmetic efforts had been made to combat that image over the years, the culmination of which being the short copper hairstyle she now sported splendidly.

  With a deft movement in the knees, Carol suddenly rose like a lady, somewhat negating the idea that she was anchored too deep in that couch to get up with such commanding grace. She said something about having an empty stomach and str
ode off. Peter watched her. It was easy to imagine her erect carriage in that plush dress of hers, the color of bluebells, fluttering in her steps. Peter turned to Jen and, to get the conversation going, he asked, “You majoring in economics?”

  “Nope, political science.”

  “No kidding.”

  “You’re not one of those who think women should stay clear of politics, are you?”

  “On the contrary, I’m all for it,” he said. “I mean, what have we men achieved? Two world wars, a cold one and too many armed conflicts possibly leading to a third large-scale conflagration of nations. So yeah, I’d say now humanity’s best bet is to give you guys carte blanche to clean up this mess, you know. Let us have your version of the greater good.”

  “Men might not like it … being excluded and all.”

  She curiously smiled as if she knew it for a fact and there was no debating it. But Peter took her hint and enjoyed looking at her smile. Evidently, balancing her feminine and masculine traits had made her indisputably attractive.

  “Well, so long as we’re still the ones wearing the pants at home…” he finally supplied. Then, nodding to where Carol had gone off to, he added, “Is she into politics too?”

  “English literature; she wants to be a writer.”

  Peter nearly quipped aloud that Carol could certainly afford the price to follow the starving-artist career path. But the remark might have been ill-received. After all, they were acquaintances of only one day (less than a day actually), and though the ice had relatively been broken during the party, the familiarity was still not there yet. At any rate, Carol’s quick return to the couch, with a bowlful of strawberries and a bottle of chocolate syrup, prompted him to get on to something else, so he folded the newspaper and handed it back to Jen.