Through Glass

by Rebecca Ethington

  I looked away, not wanting to think about the truth behind them—the fear—only to freeze at the mad concoction of letters and words that I was now surrounded by.

  The light from the small fire flickered against the walls, casting shadows on the words as they moved and danced in the firelight.

  One disjointed warning after another circled around me, paint ground into drywall. In some places words or letters were missing where drywall had been ripped away, leaving only dark holes and spider webs. I stood slowly as I began to turn in place. My eyes darted from one terrified message to another.

  “We are all mad here…” I whispered to myself, my mind stringing the words together on their own. The parallels screamed themselves inside my head, the warning loud and terrifying.

  I wanted to believe that the words made no sense, that they were simply the mad ramblings of someone left too long in loneliness.

  I couldn’t. The connection I had made when I saw that first message still rang clear. I could feel my pulse beat faster, no matter how hard I tried to deny it.

  The Tar. Each of the desperate warnings talked about The Tar, mentioned them like they were living things, but I already knew they were living things. I still had dried specks of their blood on my skin. Seeing the Tar referred to so many times only confirmed it in my mind. The Tar were the Ulama.

  With that one piece in place they no longer played out like the ramblings of a haunted man, the deranged warnings of a schizophrenic. The jagged writing on the wall was nothing more than an instruction manual.

  I wasn’t sure that made it better. I didn’t want to accept them as instructions. If I did, it only made the danger that I had willingly walked into more real. My choice to run more dangerous.

  I looked from word to word, phrase to phrase. My heart beat faster in panic with each word—each warning—until I faced the final message. The one that was painted into the back of the door with bright red paint and a bloody handprint right below it. The last word of the painted message had been crossed out with a jagged X that had been carved into the wood.

  My jaw dropped as my body began to shake. The bright red of the author’s blood had been sprayed over the back of the door. The red, bright and glistening in the fire light. It wasn’t the arc of blood that remained that was sending the sliver of panic right into my heart. The words weren’t written in paint as I had first thought; they were bright and glistening as someone had written in their own blood, their fingerprints still visible in the bright red surface.

  My eyes slowly opened to the flicker of the fire, dim light illuminating the room. The flames that I had placed in the large frying pan I had found amongst the garbage of the room were just beginning to die. I had thought I had put enough paper and wood in the pan to last more than one night, but I guess not. I hadn’t really had to rely on a fire for anything before, so obviously my calculations were way off.

  The glow of the dying flames was just enough to give a nice orange glow to the room. Hopefully, it was still enough to keep the Ulama at bay. Seeing as I hadn’t been attacked in my sleep, I was going to assume that it was in fact enough.

  I was actually surprised I had been able to get any sleep at all, even though my body was exhausted, the fear of another attack had stayed with me, tensing my muscles until they ached. I had lain still, Cohen’s picture against my chest as I tried to relax. However, the sounds of the Ulama’s screech still ran through my head, making me jump at odd intervals and always when my tired bones had just begun to relax. The sound of death played over and over, haunting me as I stared at the writing on the walls. I ran over the words, trying to figure out the ones that were missing, trying not to let it freak me out more than it already had.

  But now, with the dull light of the fire illuminating the disjointed writing, it was harder to ignore. My mind put words into place; haunted warnings becoming clearer with each word I figured out.

  I looked away and slid off the bit of the broken mattress I had been sleeping on then threw a few more pieces of broken dresser onto the fire.

  “Thanks for helping me sleep, Cohen,” I whispered to the picture, fully aware I was talking to a slip of chemical covered paper. I hadn’t been out of my house for that long, so I didn’t think I had gone that crazy, but then again, I had been talking to a spider for the last six months. Anything was possible. I laid the picture on the ground by my knee, Cohen’s smiling face peering up at me.

  I looked at him in the silence, not really wanting to look away, even though I needed to. I could already feel my heart pinch together and my eyes burn in threat of tears. I don’t think I had fully accepted him as being dead yet. I had seen him carried away, saw his hand fall limply down. Yet, deep down inside of me, he was still alive. I shook the thought from my head and pulled my eyes away from the picture that I had memorized years ago. Letting emotions like that continually cloud me was only going to get me killed.

  I pulled the backpack to me and then pulled out one of the few ballpoint pens from the front, running it over the skin on my ankle in large circles before the ink began to flow.

  I ran the ink over the skin on my right wrist, the black of the ink seeping into my dry skin like it was moisturizer. The pen followed the same lines it had for the past two years; my own face looking back up at me the same way it had since that very first day Cohen had placed it there.

  “One of these days, Cohen, I am going to find a tattoo parlor.” My voice was quiet as I spoke to him, the sound disjointed in the quiet room. “Then I can make this permanent.”

  I’d had the thought before, the idea foreign to a straight-lined eighteen-year-old, but I wasn’t sure who I was anymore. Right now, the idea was welcome.

  I wanted to make this permanent.

  I wanted to always carry the memory of him on my body.

  I ran my dirty fingers over the skin as I finished, the dry ink staying still on my skin. Part of me wondered if years of tracing the same lines had made it permanent, but I wasn’t going to wash it away to find out.

  I couldn’t risk losing it, so a tattoo it would be. That was if there were any tattoo parlors left in the world I was trapped in. Maybe a group of survivors would have one. That was if I found anyone. I guess, worst case scenario, I could ask the Ulama to do it.

  Yet, someone had drawn rules on these walls. Someone had survived the Ulama’s attack and knew enough about them to write the rules down. To warn me. To warn others.

  Somewhere, someone might be alive. I looked from word to word, almost expecting the Tar to burst through the door at any minute.

  I hadn’t heard a sound since the ones who had tried to attack me yesterday fled from the light. Everything had been quiet, even the usual crackle of the fire seemed quieter than I would have expected. The darkness swallowed up the sound since it couldn’t steal the light away.

  I pulled one of the packets of food out of my hastily repacked backpack, careful not to cause any more damage to my family’s portrait than I had already caused after my frantic fire lighting last night. I ripped the top off the packet and the putrid smell hit my nose like a wave of vomit. My face curled up in disgust and I sat back, my stomach tightening in fear of what I was about to put inside of it.

  I hadn’t bothered to eat last night, the jittery nerves had sloshed inside of me and taken away any hope I had of eating, not that the packets of moldy food sounded even the least bit appetizing. I was actually starting to regret thinking about eating right now.

  “Well, Lex, here’s to a breakfast of bacon and eggs.”

  I knew that no matter how much I tried to get myself to believe that, it simply wasn’t going to work. Besides, I wasn’t sure I remembered what bacon and eggs tasted like anymore. So, either way, it was worth a try. I could be pretending it tasted like sardines for all I knew, it would still have the same effect.

  It would taste like vomit.

  My lips pressed against the brown paper, pressing the sludge into my mouth just as my eyes lifted to the words th
at were smeared onto the wall in black ink. My mind replaced the missing letters instinctively.

  Do not eat the f…ood

  I froze as I stared at the large, jagged letters. My whole body went numb at the words of the instruction manual, the rough edges of the letters cutting through me. It was nothing, it was only words.

  I tried to tell myself that, but my brain didn’t want to listen. The words of every warning ran through my head as I stared at the five words in front of me.

  They were only words.

  Did I believe that? Could I believe that? They didn’t feel like words. They felt like warnings.

  Rules.

  An instruction manual.

  I repeated it to myself, the same thought that I’d had last night rang clear in my mind. I tried to tear my eyes away from the jagged letters, tried to move my fingers to push the food into my mouth. Nothing responded to me; my fingers wouldn’t move.

  I tasted the rancid taste in my mouth of what little I had pushed into my mouth from the packet. The bitter taste on my tongue as my stomach worked to reject it. I could feel the churning in my stomach as the bile tried to rise.

  Do not eat the food.

  Everything in me began to shake, my body and mind revolting against the very idea of swallowing what still sat heavily on my tongue.

  I couldn’t do it. I threw the packet across the room and then my hands clawed at my tongue to get what little was left inside of my mouth out. My hands shook as I clawed it out of me.

  The taste only seemed to grow the more I battled against it. The bitter flavor growing until I couldn’t control the bile anymore. I threw myself to the side, falling to my hands and knees as I tried to keep the vomit inside of my stomach, the muscles already convulsing in warning.

  I fought it with each deep breath I took; the smell of smoke shuddering through me. I focused on the smell of burning wood and the pleasant memories it brought back. I focused as I breathed, my eyes closing as the nausea began to subside.

  “Do not eat the food. Then what am I supposed to eat?” I almost laughed at myself, the absurdity of the question irritating.

  I fell back to sitting, my eyes opening to the cluttered room around me. I could look through this garbage like I had searched my house so many timed before, but I had a feeling I wouldn’t find anything.

  Broken dresser, bits of mattress; my eyes dragged around the trash that towered over me, not really caring, not really seeing until a small circle of silver stopped me.

  A can.

  I looked at the cylinder from where I sat. The laugh I had so recently restrained was now bursting from my chest.

  “Really?” I scoffed, my voice scratchy in the silence, “I ask for food and it magically appears. What kind of a room is this?”

  I sat up slowly, moving toward the can as I carefully weaved my way through the piles of trash I was surrounded by.

  “I should have asked for a damn gun,” I growled, my legs slipping on some papers as I reached for it. “Or a time machine…”

  I reached out and grabbed it, the silver can ridged and familiar in my hand. I looked at the can as I spun it around, looking for some indication as to what would be inside. Even without a label I could see a million possibilities in front of me.

  Corn. Green beans. Beef stew.

  My mom had barely used canned foods, preferring instead to cook fresh, but even with that I knew what kind of foods people canned. As long as whoever had left it was not some nut job that canned paperclips for fun, I was holding food in my hands.

  I wrapped my hands around the can as my eyes went wide. I wasn’t starving anymore, not by any means, but I held real food in my hands. Real food.

  Not sludge or molding porridge.

  My eyes looked away automatically, darting through the mass of trash in front of me for a can opener.

  I almost laughed right out. There was no way I was going to find a can opener here. However, I needed to get the can open.

  I waded through the trash back towards the fire, looking for anything I could use to open the shiny silver can, though nothing popped out at me.

  I bit my bottom lip, trying to figure it out before I turned on the spot, grabbing the long bed rail from where I had left it on the floor.

  “It’s as good of a can opener as any I suppose.”

  I let the can fall to the floor. It rolled a bit before it stopped against a shard of dry wall, the silver side glinting in the fire light.

  “Tonight, we will eat like kings,” I whispered, raising the bar high above my head before one quick decent sent it right on top of the can, a loud smack resounding through the dilapidated room.

  I jumped at the sound, half expecting the Ulama to come barreling through the door, but I knew better. They wouldn’t come near the light. The instruction manual had affirmed that, if I hadn’t known it already.

  I pulled the bar back up into the air, my eyes narrowing at the large dent that had almost folded the can in half. One more time.

  I lifted the bar again, sending it back into the can with all the strength I could muster. This time, the loud smack was replaced by the dull thud of liquid.

  I let the bed rail clatter to the ground as I dropped to my knees, beef stew spilling over the dusty carpet. I stared at it, disbelieving that it was actually there. Food, real food. I didn’t care that it was two years old, that it was cold, that it was all over the gross flooring, I scooped it up with my hands, bringing it to my face as the smell of spices hit my nose. The smell was warm and comforting like home, like forgotten Thanksgivings and after school snacks.

  I breathed it in and let the memories hit me before pressing my fingers to my open mouth, the taste rushing into my blood stream like the heavy hit of a drug. It rushed through me like fire, my nerves prickling in joy as the food hit my tongue; the flavor strong and desirable.

  I couldn’t help it, I groaned. I groaned as I licked the heavy broth from my fingers, my hand scooping it up and pressing it into my mouth. I groaned as I gobbled it up, pushing more and more of the food into my mouth. I ate in a panic, my hand not able to move fast enough to get it into my mouth; to experience the next jolt of enjoyment that such simple food was giving me.

  I pressed my hand against the carpet, hoping to sop up every last bit. My finger pressed against the indention of the can as I drizzled the last of the dregs into my open mouth as my tongue wagged in the air to rescue it.

  I am sure I’d had better food before. I knew I had. Yet, right then, that one can of two-year-old beef stew was the best thing I had ever eaten. I wanted more. I groaned in appreciation as I dropped the can into my lap, savoring the last of the flavors that were trapped inside my mouth.

  I turned toward the pile of trash to my side, my eyes scanning over everything once in a desperate need for more.

  There had to be something in there.

  I moved toward the pile, my hands moving through the garbage, moving forgotten and broken objects aside as I pushed them out of the way.

  Papers, pictures of someone else’s family; useless things that only opened more questions than answers and certainly didn’t provide any food. I looked without really seeing them, my eyes unfocused in my search for silver; for anything that might hold food. My hands moved papers, clip boards, diamond rings, only to stop at the blur of red that streaked itself through the carpet below the remains of someone else’s life.

  Food was forgotten as my fingers fluttered over the streaks of red. My mind screamed blood—danger—but I couldn’t stop the movement of my hand, the morbid curiosity that was creeping into me. The red was stiff and hard against the carpet fibers, the feeling almost familiar. The texture was a sharp reminder of evenings with Cohen and the feeling of the stains on his work shirts, the smell of acetone and latex, the gentle prickle of a brush.

  Paint.

  Cohen.

  I pushed the papers out of the way, desperate to find more paint; to find where it was coming from. My fingers followed the lines of th
e red as more and more came into view.

  The large, jagged letter stuck out from the dark carpet, the light of the fire igniting it and making it look like it was burning.

  I stared at it for a moment, my stress running through me. Another message. Did I want to know?

  I looked to all the others that lined the walls, the disjointed messages spelling out the guidelines that someone had lived by. Crazy or not, each one was a rule to them, something that had kept them alive; even if it had been for only a little while longer.

  Yes, I wanted to know.

  My hands began to move before I was aware of them, pushing away letters and broken pieces of dresser, lifting large chunks of mattress or clothing. With each piece that I moved, more letters began to appear until a word formed.

  I gasped as I saw it, panic creeping into me. I felt my hands shake as I read it and tried not to accept everything that it could mean.

  The red shimmered in the light, making the word look as if it was alive. The warning cut through me.

  I wanted to stop right then, grab my bag and run from the room I had unwillingly trapped myself in, run from the words.

  I couldn’t.

  My eyes focused on a line that ran beside it, a word beside the first, hidden underneath the piles of trash.

  I stared at it, trying to convince myself to run, to leave the messages of a mad man to their buried prison.

  I couldn’t.

  I leaned forward in a panic, my hand shaking as I moved aside debris and forgotten memories, trailing through the piles desperately. I should have been scouring for something useful, yet I could only focus on the continuing message that was now forming in front of me.

  My hands moved faster as the words strung themselves together, the paint thicker in some places than in others. They all ran together in my mind until everything was uncovered. The lines of the letters exposed from their prison and the words set free.