An alarm sounds, awaking Henry who sluggishly throws his arm over and tries to slap the top of the clock to shut it off. He misses. The clock reads 6 AM.
The host from Radcliffe’s only talk-radio show switches on. His voice is nasal, much like a host from fifties or sixties. “The campaigning for sheriff is in full swing, with front runner, current Sheriff Wharton promising sweeping changes. He intends to continue his work with the newly appointed Dean of Students at our Radcliffe University.” He switches to a clip from a campaign press reading.
“It is our goal to maintain a standard for the people within this community and student body. There cannot be a divide between the two,” says Sheriff Wharton whose voice has a deep, country twang. It is hard but reassuring for the red neck white trash who calls this dump home.
Henry finally rolls out of bed and slowly walks over to his bathroom door, which has no knob so he just pushes it open. He reaches into his yellow stained medicine cabinet and pulls out his tooth brush and tooth paste, untwists the top, spreads the tooth paste on the brush and starts brushing.
Sheriff Wharton’s campaign message continues in the background, “We also need to have a welcome environment for our incoming students. I do not want to sugar coat the problems we have here. The crime rate has been going up. Illegal substances, such as narcotics are on the streets. We need to clean that up, for the safety of the residents also for present and future students.”
Henry rears his head back, then lunges forward and lets out a loud spit into the sink. He looks down and sees a small amount of blood mixed in with the discharged tooth paste. He turns on the sink, cups his hands, fills it with water and puts it in his mouth. He rinses and spits it back out. Only small traces of blood remain.
“If re-elected I fully intend to continue working closely with the university. We live in a college town. We are also small, Christian town as well. We need to get back to our close knit, small town values that helped this city thrive. We will get back,” closes Sheriff Wharton. Henry can only imagine that at the end of the message he delivers a wink and gun.
He walks across his room, his bed, if you can call it that, is merely a mattress thrown on top of a box spring with a ragged pillow and black comforter. The only other objects in his room are a small plastic crate serving as a night stand which holds his dated clock radio, a little refrigerator, and a microwave. Nothing is on the walls and only one small window.
The radio host reappears, “This station is of course endorsing Sheriff Wharton and his cause to get us back to where we belong. I love being able to know everyone’s name and not being afraid to walk our streets. Yes let’s get the university involved and integrate into our community. Let’s not be separate. The university needs to clean up too. The students are proud to be decadent, hedonistic; fools for freedom. Let’s come together”
As Henry walks by, he stops and hits his mark on the radio to shut it off and something else catches his attention. He walks to his window and looks out to see a homeless, decrepit black man swinging his pocket sized Holy Bible in the air, yelling nutty, religious nonsense and laughing hysterically. Drunk with lunacy, he is alone and filthy. His sweater is covered in dirt and his pants pocket has a bottle of whiskey hanging out the side.
A fat, white man with a gigantic belly and greasy hair walks toward the Holy Roller. In the fat mans hand is brown bag that is wrinkled and squeezed against the bottle which it is covering. As he passes, the Holy Roller reaches for the brown bag and as the white man pushes him away, the Holy Roller taunts his mini Bible at him, cursing him.
Henry finishes his short walk and stops at his closet. He opens it to reveal a scant amount of clothing. Most of his clothes are his work clothes; green, collared cotton shirts with navy blue pants. The rest are tee shirts and jeans. He puts on his clothes, grabs his keys from a nail by the door and walks outside.
Once out of his door, he is immediately greeted by propaganda from different candidates for different local office positions whether it is sheriff, school board and even commonwealth’s attorney. And as he saw in his head, there is of course a pamphlet for Sheriff Wharton giving a wink and a gun, a large smile and turning his body in a way to showcase his large badge. He walks up the exterior stairs to ground level and takes a disgusted look at his house, which was seemingly built by a blind carpenter.
It is a cold morning, with overcast, the usual for the City of Radcliffe. The days of sun are few and far between. This is a place needing change. The sound of the only train that comes though town comes roaring down its tracks accompanying Henry as he walks along them. He sees several cargo cars empty, thinking maybe he should hop aboard and leave this town. Then near the caboose of the train one cattle car carries a group of nomadic, second guessing students who probably saw one look at the brick arch way of hell and refused to get off. The lost souls stare at him with a blank expression and glassy eyes. As the train passes, he can hear the din of the handless clock tower.
Henry stops and looks at his shape shifting town. He sees on the left of the highway the first semblance of progressive movement. There are soccer fields, a newly constructed playground, and a large swimming pool with a slide and fountain in the middle. All of which is built over top of old sewage grounds.
Unfortunately that is not the reality of this excrementitious dump within the valley. Henry looks to his right and sees a row of weather beaten brick apartment buildings that have not seen maintenance since their inception. The mortar that holds the buildings together are falling apart, making him wonder how the building is still upright. Also, there is an abandoned shopping mall and the old paper factory. Some of the windows of the shopping mall are boarded up, others are covered in steel. The walls painted black and decorated with graffiti. The factory has been left for dead for years. The small, stained windows have been either shattered or are broken from the hoodlums throwing rocks through them. Gone are the steam columns and the stench of burning wood.
The roads and side walks are cracked, uneven and covered with trash and dead leaves. Along the side walks are trees that look as if they are transplants from a haunted forest, rotted; no leaves. They reach into the sky like the ghastly fingers of a witch. The roads are filled with pot holes and layers of garbage, left by the garbage that resides within the broken down houses.
Henry finally reaches a cemetery and pushes an unlocked black, metal, cemetery gate which creaks as it swings open. He walks through along a thin, foot-beaten dirt path through the graves. After passing row upon row of headstones, he leaves the path he walks finely between the sites as to not step on and disrespect the dead. The grass is long and has not been maintained. Some of the larger headstones have been dishonored and defiled by graffiti, some even spray painted completely black, blocking the name. The rest of the larger headstones that have not been vandalized have disintegrated. The flowers which have been placed on the graves have all wilted and withered, while some have no flowers at all, just empty vases.
He finishes his walk and stops at one particular grave plot, kneeling down slowly and bowing his head. He then pulls a handkerchief from his pocket and wipes away tears. There is no name on the grave, just a small metal handle on the marker.
Upon getting up, he turns around and notices something he has never seen before but does not look new. It is a statue of an angel. She is on her knees, but not in prayer. She has her head in her hands which is resting on a bench. Her wings are relaxed and not ready for flight.
Al’s Used Auto Parts and Hardware is one of the few surviving businesses. Sharing the same building however is Radcliffe Steel, which is closed down. Their carrier trucks still fill a few parking spots collect rust. A tall, chain linked fence surrounds the building, with a row of barbed wire on top, much like a prison.
Henry walks along the wet parking lot, listening to the faint pitter padded of rain falling on the aluminum roof. Junk cars are scattered, hoods and doors opened missing parts from inside. Every car collects its share of ru
st. He ends his walk at a blue entrance door, the sign reading: ‘EMPLOYEES ONLY’. He grabs the round, metal door knob with one hand and places his other hand on the door. He takes a deep breath and pushes open the door. He walks to the back of an open floor space to where his metal desk is positioned facing the floor. His work space is the receiving area of the warehouse. All new coming products must be seen and put into the inventory by him. His desk is cluttered with manifests of sales transactions and an old computer used only for managing the inventory. Henry looks down at his papers. His manager has left a note asking him to count the product for an inventory check. He sits down at his desk and looks around the warehouse. Directly in front of the open space, there are three rusty, rotating bins, much like what are seen in a laundry mat, only these containing parts and various assortments of hardware. Within the bins are 40 sections that are about 8 feet tall and 3 feet wide. There are also 10 shelves per bin containing boxes with parts inside. The parts inside the boxes range from the size of a small nut to the size of a ball joint. All parts must be counted and counted correctly.
As Henry rifles through his desk drawers looking for a pen and a clip board, the parts driver, Maxwell, who works from the back also arrives. Even at a distance the smell of alcohol and cigarette smoke is over bearing. The toxins have become one with every drop of perspiration and likewise every stitch of cloth that covers his body. He looks like he has not slept as well. Or showered. Or brushed his teeth. But he doesn’t have teeth, or wear his dentures, and presumably does not have any running water. His hair and beard are greasy and speckled with grey. This is not an old man by any means being in his late 40s.
Maxwell walks right past Henry with out acknowledgment, going to the back door and outside to smoke a cigarette. He lights one that has already been lit and smoked, partially. He takes a few drags, puts it out and walks back in; right to the radio and turns it on, looking for his favorite classic rock station, but all he gets is static.
Henry rolls his eyes and takes a deep breath when he hears, “Homie!” from Maxwell in a slurred, cigarette-scratched voice.
“I am surprised you aren’t late today?” Henry responds.
“I almost quit this morning. Tim had to talk me into coming back. I have been here for 10 years and I don’t make enough to support myself. No appreciation either,” again slurring.
“How many times have you quit, and came back?”
“Too many times to count, I don’t know.”
“To be honest, and I mean no offense by this, but you should consider yourself lucky. You are not really qualified for much else. You’re an alcoholic and extremely unreliable. You should consider yourself lucky. There is not much work around here. Look right next door. They had no idea they were closing down until pencil pushing human resource genius came down and told them to go home and not come back. Jobs are scarce. But you seem like a person who would enjoy living off of unemployment.”
Maxwell is getting frustrated. His voice becomes louder because when people who do not know what they’re talking about feel they are losing an argument, they think an amplified stupidity makes them sound more intelligent.
“Hell, I have a buddy who runs a shop that will hire me on the spot, sixty thousand a year on the spot. I don’t really need the money, but it’s there.”
Henry just stares at him, not wanting to engage in anymore conversation with a person who is too unintelligent to make a decent argument. He picks up his papers and pen and walks up to his first bin to start his counting. Grabbing a step ladder, he positions it in front of the bin and sits in top to begin counting. He grabs his first box and pulls a part out, reading the number; he puts a check on his manifest. He does this with the rest of the parts in the box and put it back.
He repeats. Again. And again.
His eyes follow the bin to see the vastness of the boxes and shelves and countless boxes on the shelves.
He scratches his eyes as he drops the volume of papers down on the cluttered desk of his boss. Looking at small numbers endlessly has him exhausted and irritable. Just as he turns to walk out of the office the manager, Tim, walks in. Tim is in his late 60s and has been working in auto parts since he returned from Vietnam. He was in the NAVY. His stature is that of a man who at one time was very muscular. He has a barrel chest and large, veiny forearms. He also has white hair, which he combs over to hide his bald spot.
“Alright, bud, how’d it go?” opens Tim.
“It went well, sir, just as well as it could, I guess.”
“Yeah, I know what you mean. But I know you did a good job. You’re probably one of the hardest workers I have here.”
“Thank you, sir, I appreciate that. It’s my job. That’s all.”
“You know, I’ve been thinking, Henry. I already got your raise approved. I wanted to talk to Al about promoting you.”
The assistant manager, John, walks in the office. He is a short stocky man, looks Italian. He had been the top salesman before becoming the assistant manager. Still is. He has a certain cockiness about him. He is a gift to all and needs to be shown as such from his underlings. Henry, unfortunately to John, does not see it this way; this causes friction between the two. There may be some jealousy as well from John.
Tim continues, “I can get you up on the front line working with John, and get you familiar working with customers and the system. Just so you know how to do more than just looking at numbers. I bet you see and say those numbers in your sleep.”
John looks at Henry and just shakes his head.
“Again, thank you, but I like where I am at right now. I have a routine and I think I do a good job. I am where I am and that is where I would like to stay. And quite frankly, I am not a people person. I am not a salesman.”
John snickers to himself and walks out.
“I mean that with no disrespect sir, but I have to politely decline.”
Tim looks to the ground, disappointed, nodding his head in acceptance.
After an uncomfortable silence, “I understand you have an anniversary coming up? Your mother was a good woman. I still miss her.”
Henry looks down at his feet and slumps his shoulders.
“I know this is very late notice but is there any chance that I could have the day off tomorrow? It’s going to be quite difficult.”
Tim, turning and looking to his computer, mutters callously, “Not a chance.”
Henry rubs his eyes, approaching a breakdown, and walks out.
He walks into the break room to clock out. He sees today’s paper. He notices the main headline on the paper reads: ‘Federal Probe Clears Wharton.’ Captivated, he grabs, folds, and tucks it under his arm. Just as Henry turns to walk out, John cuts him off by intentionally bumping into him.
“Hey, what’s that? What in the hell do you think you’re doing? Are you stealing the newspaper again?” John says angrily.
Henry tries to push past John, but he keeps cutting him off at the door.
“Excuse me, please. I just want to go home,” says Henry.
“No. Put the damn paper back! You can’t just take the paper you little thief.”
“It doesn’t belong to anybody and it would just be thrown away anyways,” says Henry as he quickly squeezes threw the door jam and John. “I need it to sleep and I just want to go home!”
John lets out a bellowing laugh as Henry quickly walks away.
Off work, he walks the streets illuminated by the moon and streetlamps shining through oxidized lenses. The steady wind is making the shadows of the trees dance like wild fire on the streets. Henry walks along the flames, reaching his house which is completely dark, absolutely no lights on at all. He goes down the exterior stairs to the outside of his door and sees a master lock on his door knob. He shakes it violently trying to open it. Not working. He kicks the door, still nothing. He walks over to his one window and it is boarded up. He circles around to the front of the house which has boards covering every window.
Having no other
place to go, Henry finds himself in the parking lot of a homeless shelter. As he walks slowly to the door, a bus pulls in and parks by the front door. People pour out of the door, all homeless, coming home from their jobs. Henry is stunned. There are so many. All in hand-me-down rag donations for clothes.
Some come back carrying signs on strings that they wear over themselves; just to let everyone know they are homeless. All the signs say the same thing: ‘I am hungry and need food. Jesus loves you.’ There also appears to be some scuffling by the front door. A raggedy looking woman is flailing her arms. She is wearing loose-fitted pants, a green Army jacket and has cameras and straps around her neck. Her sloppy, ratty, brillo pad brown hair is held up by a red bandana. She also has a book bag on as well. She is arguing with a big, black woman who is either security guard or supervisor. The black woman grabs a telephone from the front desk causing the raggedy woman to run towards the front door. She gets there as quick as she takes off and explodes out the door and runs by Henry, eyes big as saucers.
“We are calling the cops this time! We are calling the cops!” shouts the black woman, madly punching numbers on the phone.
Henry’s eyes follow her. He turns away from the homeless shelter and looks up the street to his destination in the distance: the Quick Mart.
As custom with most convenience stores, there are steel security bars on the outside of the windows along with an ABC sign with ‘ON’ highlighted.
Already gathering outside are the local street urchins. Rising from the dark underbelly of the small, college town, the townies as they’re called, all meet here for their misguided congregation. Addicts, dealers, hookers, and other embodiments of shame discuss their nightly plans.
Henry feels their eyes upon him like bugs crawling on his skin. He quickens his walk to safely get inside the store, where he walks over to the milk freezer and picks up a gallon of whole milk. As he walks to the counter to pay, he notices someone looking at him through the food shelves. All he can see are eyes. No other features. He again tucks his head and walks to the counter, moving a little faster. He places the milk on the counter; he reaches for his wallet-
“Wait! I got it,” shouts the wild, raggedy woman, who quickly runs to the counter with a small change wallet.
Henry stares, confused at what is happening. Hope reaches in her wallet, puling out single dollar bills and some loose change. She pays the exact amount.
“Excuse me, but what are you doing?” Henry asks, confused.
“Something bad is going to happen to you. I can feel it. In my bones. Those people outside are going to hurt you.” she says, panting, wild eyed.
“And you’re going to save me? Please, I am sorry, but I will take my chances. Thanks for the milk,” he says lifting his milk and turning toward the door.
She runs in front of him cutting him off and putting her hands on his chest to stop his progress.
“I am serious! Please believe me. I am deathly serious. I know these people. These people are rougher than you’re used to. You might think you know how bad this place is, but you don’t know these people. These people are dangerous. I will protect you,” she says speaking very fast.
Henry has a hard time keeping up with what she is saying. He rubs his forehead. He is exhausted. He does not need a complete stranger standing in his way of trying to get some rest, even though he knows he wouldn’t be getting that much needed rest anyways.
“Please, lady, I just want to go home. To my bed.”
She stares at him unfazed.
“To sleep,” says Henry as if she did not understand what he was talking about.
“But that is the thing though. You will not make it home, without me. Look, I know them. Just walk out with me and you will be just fine.”
Henry really has no choice. He does not care either way. If he makes it out and to his home that is fine. If not, that is just how it is supposed to be. He just nods and they walk out together.
As it turns out, the junkies are not just loitering for the sake of it. They are waiting for someone.
Henry and the wild woman quickly walk past them along the sidewalk. Henry has his head down so he does not make eye contact. Not out of fear, but because he does not want to look at them and become nauseous by their filth. They hide along the side of the store, waiting to see where the junkies will be spending their night.
“Can you please explain to me what exactly we’re doing?” he asks quietly.
“Look, I am a photographer. I am working on a new self help book in which I take pictures of addicts as a way for them to see themselves for what they really are.”
“What?! I thought they were going to kill me? And why do you need me? And why would a drug addict buy a book?”
“I can’t go alone again. And what else were you going to do tonight?”
Henry can only look at her, utterly confused
A white Ford Mustang pulls up in front of the store. This is an old mustang, early 90s that is rusted at the bottom. The windows are black as midnight.
“There he is,” she says, excited and rubbing her hands together.
Henry looks on, still confused.
The crowd of human waste surrounds the car. There is no clear view of what is going on or what is being said. The people are franticly fighting their way to the windows as if they are baby birds getting food regurgitated from the mother.
“It never amazes me. He has so much power over these people. He is like God to them you know?
She grabs a camera from around her neck and starts snapping pictures.
“What do we do now?” Henry asks.
“We wait. Once he pulls off, we follow the people.”
Just then, the car screeches and peels away, out into the darkness of the city. A patrol car rides along the road in front of the store, obviously having seen the car and the junkies, but does not follow or slow down to gather information from the crowd. A street light which was green quickly turns from yellow to red, causing the patrol car to turn is sirens on to go through the light. Once through the light, the siren turns off. The people form their separate groups and leave the scene chattering, all heading towards their drug dens.
“Are you ready?” she continues.
Henry shrugs his shoulders.
They begin to follow one crowd down a non-lit street. The filth on the street is incomprehensible. Henry sees trash piled on the sides of the road, like it was just pushed to the side by a brittle broom and just piling on top of itself.
The houses down this street either have boarded up windows or have cellophane covering them. Vines of dead, brown ivy have grown up the sides and the weeds are waist high. The wood fences are dry rotted and falling apart. The cars in the driveways have no wheels and are held up by cinder blocks. A few hoods are open as well.
The faint sound of police sirens fill the air along with that of ambulances and fire trucks forming an ambiance of the piercing sounds of accidents and emergencies.
“Here we are.”
They stop in front of a white Cape Cod. The house is decorated with dead, scraggly bushes on both sides of the door. The grass is at least thigh high. The front yard is littered with needles, cigarette butts, beer cans and bottles. The smell is horrific; combination of all of the previously mentioned trash plus the garbage cans with decaying debris and oddments. Large metallic green flies buzz around the cans.
The woman stomps through the tall grass and waves her arm to Henry. “We have to go along the side here.”
The dogs, next door, start howling, barking, and jumping on the chain linked fence.
They come to an open door at the back of the house that was somehow left open. Once inside, the rooms appear smaller than they would seem from the outside. Henry is in the early stages of claustrophobia. The wall paper is peeling off the walls and there is a stench of death in the air.
Henry keeps looking around, getting more nauseated. Cabinet doors are off hinges and empty. The counter tops are covere
d with dirt, grime and spoiled food. The sink is filled with dirty dishes and silverware, and the trash bag has been ripped and torn into by scavenging animals. Giant house centipedes spot the walls. A snake slithers by his foot.
The interior is lit only by candelabras and filled with shadows, making the macabre setting ever more mysterious and dangerous than it already is. Henry continues walking in to the living room area and sees the wild woman in the living room with three wastes of flesh, setting up her equipment for a photo shoot.
The first junkie looks like he was a war veteran; or just dressed like one. He is the oldest looking out of the bunch; grey hair, no teeth, lips and cheeks sucked into his mouth and his jaw has severe under bite and extends past his nose. He is wearing a red bandana and a camouflaged Army jacket with the sleeves cut off. At the end of the frayed sleeves are tattoo covered arms so blurred and wrinkled from age and decay that they are indecipherable. He also has no left leg and is sitting in a rusted out wheel chair.
The next junkie is passed out on the floor with his face buried underneath the couch. He is pale and bald. His clothes are covered in dried mud.
The last junkie is the most horrid. He is sitting on a worn out couch, skeletal. His skin is paper thin and greenish-grey His ultra stained white tank top looks large. Every bone from his shoulders to his chest is visible. His collar bones shoot from the top of his shoulders like knives. His face is even more disfigured. His eye balls are bulging out of his sockets, and his chest bones are almost cutting through his thin skin. Even his teeth are visible through the tops of his lips, and his tongue is swollen inside his mouth from the Devil’s dry kiss. He also has a tunicate around his upper bicep. His arm looks like he has repeatedly stabbed himself with a black inked pen. A syringe is still in the nook of his elbow, and dried blood is spread throughout his forearm like spider webs.
The junkies are not moving AT ALL. They are stoned frozen, staring into oblivion. They do not even realize that others are even there. They look like they are arranged set pieces of the photo shot.
The wild raggedy woman has set up her tri pod and is steadily snapping picture after picture, obviously not affected by her surroundings..
Henry’s heart is about to burst through his rib cage. Sweating bullets, he doubles over and vomits on the floor. He turns and runs towards the bathroom. He pushes open the door but can’t find a toilet. The room is filled with a thick, white smoke. He thinks he can hear what seem to be screams. They get louder and turn into a joyous chant. The white smoke begins to clear and on the floor, a man lying dead. Henry’s vision blurs but he can make out that the man is bleeding profusely. The chanting gets louder and louder and it speckled with small explosions. Henry walks closer to the man rubbing his eyes to better view the mayhem. The man is wearing a grey suit and is bleeding from his abdomen. Just then he hears something from outside. It sounds like a wooden door slammed. Henry scurries out of the room and over to the back door where they came in and sees nothing. He goes back to the room he just came from, opens the door, and sees and hears nothing; just a hole in the floor where a toilet used to be.
A car screeches loudly in front of the house.
“RUN! RUN! We have to get the hell out of here!” screams the manic woman.
She grabs the spaghetti legged Henry by his shirt and heads out the back door. The front door is being kicked with the intention of breaking in.
They run to the side of the house and peer around to see who is there. A black Lincoln Continental is parked out front. No one is there so they sprint up the street. Henry looks back to see who was breaking in and sees a well dressed man in a black suit running out the front door. He is an older man with short gray hair and a big, pompous nose. They make eye contact. Henry freezes. She sees this and runs back to grab Henry.
“We can’t stop now, let’s go!” she says panting.
They continue sprinting up the street and turn to cut through a heavily wooded forest, constantly running through thick spider webs that crack when they are torn. The tall pine trees are thin and swaying violently in every conceivable way, knocking into one another, only moments from snapping and falling to the earth. The other trees that have reached their fallen fate only serve as more obstacles. The branches. Which are wrapped with ivy and throns, look as if they are trying to grab and swallow them. The rain has made the ground soft and muddy, and with every step the entirety of one foot sinks into the ground.
Henry is panting, exhausted. His legs are already weak from the visual sickness he has endured. Every step requires full body strength. Henry hears sirens again in the background and can see the vague blue lights racing through the air. He can see the strange woman flailing her arms in the air as she runs. Her hair is wild and wet.
They reach the end of the forest and come to a street with a lone abandoned office building. The wild woman, who was far ahead, walks into the front door of the building. Henry is struggling to take deep breathes. Sharp pains in his chest feel like stab wounds. He slowly walks towards the abandoned office building, not knowing what exactly lies behind that closed door.
He carefully walks through and sees emptiness. There is nothing in this building other than pillars, dust, stairs going directly into a wall, no door or opening at the top and another door on the first level left ajar with amber lighting shining through. He walks to the door slowly, placing his left hand on the door and cautiously pushes it open. She is hard at work at her work table, developing her newest pictures. The amber lighting protects the photographs from the damage of the visual spectrum. Henry walks around the room quietly, unnoticed. He looks at some photography hanging up to dry. He sees a woman lying next to train tracks, cut in half, entrails scattered across the ground. He walks closer to get a better look, reaching up, he grabs the photograph.
“No! Do not do that. You could sabotage my picture. It isn’t done drying,” the woman says furiously but carefully grabs the picture from Henry.
“Oh sorry. It is just an incredible picture. I wanted a closer look. What’s the story behind it?”
“I was walking home along the train tracks one day. And saw what I thought was a mannequin. Well, with blood,” she begins to snicker. “She apparently passed out drunk on the tracks and when the train came…split! Right in two! And I always have my cameras with me. Never know when something like that comes along.
“Incredible. I can think of a thousand places I would rather be if I were intoxicated than near train tracks.”
“You know what I kept thinking though? I wondered if her conscious mind knew what happened after the fact Like when people were guillotined, executed, they would make faces or cry. Some smile. I wondered when that train cut her in half, could she look and see that she was cut in half. Did she feel it? If so what is that pain like?”
Henry’s mouth drops. That is all she could think about? He thinks to himself ‘What if this dead woman was a mother?’ She surely had to be someone’s daughter. ‘How did her family feel?’
“I, I think shock sets in and takes over. I don’t think she would feel anything,” Henry says.
She shrugs her shoulders and turns back to her table developing pictures.
Henry continues walking around the room looking at different photographs. He scratches at his head. He feels something crawling on him. His eye catches a frightening image. A picture already developed but still hanging.
Against a black background is a white face with a clean shaved head. Eye sockets black, pupils are red; which is the only color in the picture. His eye balls are bulging out and wide, so much so it may have broken the orbital bones around them. The head itself looks like just a human skull, covered with a thin layer of flesh and black lips. The cheeks are and sharp. The photograph draws Henry in closer he cannot take his eyes off of it. He grabs it, it is magnetizing. His hands start to shake, he is starting to sweat, he -
“That one was taken at a viewing I had the privilege of attending. I think every picture I take involves some so
rt of pain really,” she says interrupting the pictures hold over Henry.
Henry drops the picture on the floor. The red eyes follow Henry on the way down. He slides it under the table with his foot. “You don’t say. What do you plan to title your book?”
“Circle the Drain, Tears in Vein.” But I spell vein like a vein for heroin. Do you like the word play? Whether it is physical or emotional, that is what I want to capture. My work will be able to help people see, really open their eyes. It’ll be a mirror, but also a way to see your future. People can live their life differently if they see their own future.”
Henry continues to look around the dark room. “Those people don’t live for anything, especially a future that offers nothing. Life is just something to live through, not for.”
He scratches at his head and arms, once more pulling away shards of thick spider web from his head.
“You are very lonely aren’t you? I can see in your eyes you’re in a lot of pain. “
“Do you want to take my picture? Hey, who was that guy, at the house? I should’ve asked sooner.”
“That was nobody,” she quickly interrupts without even thinking.
“It had to be somebody. He was dressed a little too nice to be in such a dump like that. Do you know him?”
She is working more frantically, getting more frustrated.
Henry continues, “You looked so scared. A normal person would have been more scared of the deathly-looking people on those nasty couches. I –”
“Don’t worry about it, alright!” she yells high pitched and manically.
“Oh wow ok…”
The woman drops everything she is doing rather abruptly. She starts flapping her wrists to fan her and tears begin to well in her eyes. She tears her jacket off, slings it on the ground and starts crying hysterically. She rips photographs off her drying racks and knocks over her equipment. Henry stands back in awe. She throws herself in the corner of the room and sits down with her head in her hands between her knees. Henry slowly walks over in an attempt to consol her.
“I’m really sorry. I didn’t mean to pry.”
Henry is creeping closer to her, cautiously. A violent outburst could happen again at any minute, as the wild woman is crying uncontrollably.
“You just don’t understand what I have been through. All ever wanted to do was to just have a normal life, like everyone else.”
She wipes away some more tears and uses the bottom of her shirt to wipe her runny nose.
Henry squats down beside her. He is now at her level.
“Do you want to hear a story?”
“As long as it doesn’t involve vampires or werewolves sure.”
She clutches her hands together and looks towards the unlit ceiling.“It was Christmas and I was thirteen years old. I had just set up my new vanity I got. It was white wicker with and overlarge mirror. We were going to attend a party at City Hall. I didn’t want to go for obvious reasons, but my father thought it was important that we make an appearance. We got all dressed up. I used my vanity. The ride there was ironically tense. My father kept looking to my mother, who was silently weeping, and telling her that everything would be alright. She never looked back at him. I was so confused but all I could keep looking at was the first snow falling into the windshield. Once we got there my father grabbed me tightly and held me close. I could feel his hands squeezing my shoulders and his body tensing up. The dance hall was large and beautiful. Everyone was wearing black and white and dancing on the black white tile floor. There wasn’t the first table or chair anywhere. My mother was still crying, but wiping all her tears away with her kerchief. He lead me over to the bar where he ordered himself an Amaretto sour and my mother a vodka and cranberry. He was telling me over and over again how much he loved me which made me both happy but nervous. Instead of going back and finding my mother, who disappeared, he led me down a long hallway with one door at the very end straight ahead. There were no pictures on the wall or anything. Just white, like a hospital. At the door we stopped and one final time he said, ‘you know how much l love you right’? I said quietly, ‘yes I do father.’ he opened the door and guided me inside. It was dark. Once the door shut I stood there for a moment confused. Then the light came on. There a bunch of dressed up uniformed police officers. Hats, mirrored glasses and shirts with badges on them. They didn’t have any pants on, but had long black socks and black boots. They were all holding hands. I was drawn to the center of the room where an incredibly fat man sat on the ground like a dog. He was wearing a cowboy hat, bolo tie, a gold watch and white underpants. Nothing else. He wasn’t looking up at me. I stared for a moment, and then I realized the circling cops were inching closer and closer and closer, moving me inward to the center of the room until I stand next to the fat cowboy. Finally he slowly rose, but not like a normal person. His stomach was so big that his legs needed to be placed wider and he slumbered up with a labored grunt. He bumped me with his belly. His skin was so pasty and white but his forearms, neck and face were tan. He took his tooth pick out of his mouth and said to me, ‘you ever rode a stud?’ I didn’t understand what that meant but the circling cops were steadily moving even closer until I was stomach to stomach with him. I looked in their glasses and saw myself. They didn’t smile or have any emotion. I stared at each and every one of them and saw myself. After that I could never look in my white, wicker vanity the same way.”
Henry has sat down on the floor, weakened.
“So I ran, and I loved and hated what I saw. There were no emotions. No love, pain, suffering. Just death. I found death in that moment. In the reflection of the protectors’ eyes I saw my own death.”
Henry is heart-broken and slightly bewildered. He contemplates putting a hand on her shoulder. He reaches slowly over, fidgeting along the way until it finally lands.
She relaxes her shoulders and is somewhat at ease, feeling better that she has connected with someone. Her volcanic explosion has released some of her dormant demons.
Well I think you are just fine doing what ever you want. You don’t seem to be hurting anyone. But until you confront him you will never truly be free. Running away is not revolting.”
Hope is lost.
He continues, “I think I am going to the restroom. I am still a little ill from earlier. And from what you just told me.”
He is stunned with how dirty and squalid the bathroom is. The sink is a stand alone sink mounted against the wall. The knobs are broken off and the drain pipes are broken before they reach the ground. They are also rusted through. The color of the sink used to be white, but the layers of dirt and grime permanently changed the color to brown. The toilet was beyond unusable. There was no seat and no water in the bowl. It was the same color as the sink. Dirt and dust explode off the floor with each of Henry’s steps. Wood planks were also on the floor with rusty, tetanus covered nails on each side of them.
He walks over to the mirror and tries to pull himself together. The mirror is broken so he can see inside the medicine cabinet. He opens the cabinet and sees burned, metal spoons, a black case and a cloudy plastic bag with the remnants of white powder inside.
Henry slowly unzips the black bag and sees her refuge; a contaminated syringe. He puts everything back into the cabinet and shuts the mirror. A reflection in the mirror is of the beaten and bruised man. The face is beaten beyond recognition. His eyes are blacken and swollen. The left side of his face is another swollen mess. The left eye may be lost for good. Blood is dripping from the cuts around the mouth and eyes. Henry walks backward out of the bathroom; the reflection remains unchanged and unmoved.
He walks back in the dark room; the wild and now fragile woman is frantically looking for something. She is knocking over containers, equipment and pictures. She tears through her cabinets and drawers until she finally finds what she is looking for: a small razor blade. She rolls up her sleeve which is adorned with other small cuts and scars, most on her forearms. They vary in length, some small, maybe an
d inch or two. Others could be upwards of six inches long. The worst of all is the one from the palm of her hand to the middle of her forearm. She puts the blade against her skin. She presses the blade into her arm. Blood trickles out. She relaxes. Henry, who was unnoticed, runs over and grabs the blade, tosses it aside and grabs her arm forcefully.
“What are you doing? What are those?”
“They’re cuts and scrapes, what do they look like?”
“Did you do all of this to yourself?”
“It is the only pain in my life that I can control,” she insanely giggles.
She crosses her arm to cover the scars and looks away from Henry.
Henry rises and is slightly alarmed. Her struggle towards freedom is not only a physical one but she still struggles with emotional freedom.
She doesn’t acknowledge him. She starts rocking back and forth mumbling to herself and shaking.
“I think it might be best if you at least try to get some help. I know someone you can talk to.”
She raises her head; eyes are gigantic and turning red with anger.
“I can’t imagine it being any worse than where you are or where you’re going to end up,” he says softly and carefully as if his words were walking on thin ice.
“Excuse me! Who are you to tell me what is best for me? Are you kidding me?”
“If you’re mind isn’t even free how do you expect to be free at all?”
“Get out!!”
She grabs her camera and heaves it across the room at Henry, connecting with the left side of his face right by his eye, opening him up. She starts terrorizing her work space. She starts knocking over her equipment and ripping up her pictures. Her screams are blood curdling.
Henry, who was briefly knocked out, awakens and is now semi conscious on the ground, lying in a pool of his own blood. He tries getting up, using the table as a means to lift him. He struggles back to his feet and he sees a photograph he passed over. It is of him; by his mother’s grave. Paper clipped to that picture is of another woman lying dead on the floor. She is dressed in nice clothes that are assembled poorly. Her hair is a scattered mess and covering her face. Her shoes are missing and there is a gun beside her head, which is missing its entire back half. He raises, picture in hand, utterly confused.
“What is this? Have you been following me? Was I going to be a part of your book? You just wanted to use me! Who is this woman?”
“STOP IT, PLEASE STOP IT!” she screeches.
“This is so wrong and so disgusting. I cannot believe this! You know what; this is never going to work, your idea. You can’t induce a personal apocalypse on people and be a hypocrite at the same time. You are no better than the people you try to help. And you want to help save, show them their future? What about yours? There is nothing you can do for those who don’t want change. You of all people should know. Maybe instead of trying to change others change the world of the drug addict’s, maybe you should start by changing yourself. There is no future for them, for you, for me. Wake up!”
The woman lets out another screeching scream. “OH MY GOD! PLEASE STOP! PLEASE! YOU ARE HURTING ME MORE THAN ANYTHING BEFORE! PLEASE GO! STOP IT! GET OUT! LEAVE ME ALONE!”
She throws her tri pod towards Henry who finally runs out of the dark room, through the empty and dusty corridor and back outside.
Henry walks quickly out of the building and down the sidewalk, blood dried to his head, side of his face, and also covering the front of his shirt.
There’s a junkie sitting on the ground along side the building. He looks like an out of work rock and roller. He has short, black hair that is like spikes and chains around his neck. His tight, black leather pants are littered with holes. Upon further examination, he looks more like a cliché. He is completely out of it, catatonic, although he has a one hundred dollar bill tuckered into his front pant pocket.
Henry merely steps over top of him without the junkie even flinching. He walks down the street and finally looks back towards the abandoned office building. The junkie is gone.
He looks around; infinitely confused. There are other buildings around, apartment buildings, with lights on the inside. He sees a shadowy silhouette staring at him through one of the windows. Henry quickly turns and walks down the road back towards the darkness of the city.
V
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