by Anthology
~
There are no dreams, only memories:
Razor bends the spoon, slightly, setting it on the table. It does not wobble. He then rips the end off of a Q-tip, setting the tiny cotton ball next to the spoon. He nervously twists the remains into a question mark. His hands are moist, his heart beginning to race. Anticipation is such a sweet addition to the rush. He taps the dope from its plastic baggy onto the spoon, the specifics of said dope unnecessary, the gist here deals as much with the process as it does with the high; nonetheless, the dope is crank, cocaine's dirty white trash cousin. His anxious fingers are now concrete in precision. He squeezes water from the syringe onto the dope. Flipping it over, Razor uses the plunger end to stir the mixture; it dissolves almost instantly, leaving an oily film over the top. Good. He closes his eyes, his nostrils flare; a hint of ether. Definitely some good shit. Blood sings in his ears. His brain is a beehive----oh, yes, very good shit. His thoughts are focused, streamlined; he is the conductor. He drops the cotton ball into the mixture. It soaks up the liquid like the sponge it is meant to emulate, like the putty of a child's mind. Always wanting more, whether it is knowledge, attention, or satisfaction.
For Razor, it has always been satisfaction. Circumstances have only magnified this desire, altered the means by which his satisfaction is achieved. Now, satisfaction means escape, running away, hopping on the metaphysically mutated freight train raging through his body. He vaguely remembers some ancient classic rock performer's nasal bleat and cackle: All Aboard!
Razor uses the needle end to roll the cotton ball around, making sure to get everything. He puts the flat end of the needle on the cotton ball, drawing the plunger back. He raises the syringe to eye level, admiring the yellowish color. He pulls down on the plunger again, taps the syringe with his forefinger, and watches the bubbles rise. Sweat trickles down the sides of his face. Razor firmly presses the plunger back up. He clenches and unclenches his fist, tightens the belt around his upper arm. The veins protrude like mountains on a relief map. The needle pierces flesh. Razor gets the register; he is perfect as always: blood flows into the syringe. He inhales and exhales, emitting an audible sigh of pleasure.
Now: Razor presses the plunger, slowly (teetering [patient])---Hold it (this is better than), hold it (any heaven they... who are they?), hold it (could promise), pulling back on the plunger (in the afterlife: 1. death 2. hunger...), jacking off (that's what Metal Fred called it, milking the high, lingering before surrender: teetering...), so good, so good... pressing in again, fully, the freight train in overdrive (All Aboard! Hahahahaha...)----Pounding on the door----shit, the cops----yanking the needle from his arm----
SHITSHITSHIT! (pounding----no, wait----scratching...)
derailed by paranoia, by...
(scratching?)
cops?
~
eyelids
quiver in defense
light streaming in like sandpaper (abrasive----WAKE UP!)
SOUND: scratching at the door, muffled pounding----the cops? Confusion. Why don't they say something? Why don't they---(WAKE UP!)
There are no dreams, only memories... and Reality!
The door splints from the pressure. They---the dead----slowly shamble through the opening; a throng of arms and legs and gaping maws converge to fill the allotted space. Like excrement forcing its way through an ever-widening sphincter, the bodies fill the doorway with disregard toward everything but the purpose at hand: the acquisition of food. They are scavengers driven by the hunger. That is all that they are.
Rubbing his eyes, Razor back-peddles on his rump to as neutral a corner as possible, gagging on their abhorrent stench. His eyes are watery but clear, lucidly soaking in the true Reality manifesting before him. A Reality he had so tried to avoid... to escape from...
The dead, in all their revivifying glory, tear the baby----what was her name?----to pieces, clutching and yanking with selfish fingers more akin to vulture's talons. Eyes glazed like slivers of shattered stained-glass hope, patches of skin gray with putrefaction... if there is any skin at all; they are nothing more than the urge: to feed. This point is made abundantly clear by the constantly flexing jaws, chewing air, in desperate search of meat. And when meat is procured, momentarily sated by a fistful of flesh, stringy entrails, or once vital organs: grist for the bone mill.
Sara's scream cuts through the monotony, a jagged, agonizing wail, much like the rotting teeth that penetrates her flesh and unconsciousness. Razor cringes, impotent to react, eyelids slamming shut, fingers plugging ears, trembling. It is not as if he cares; his body coils inward----closing himself off out of a learned, well-oiled reflex of denial. She squirms, but already too many bony fingers dig into the freshly excavated cavity in her abdomen. They scoop her intestines into their dust dry mouths, sucking as a child would on a plate of spaghetti. Her farewell refrain is a gurgling confirmation of participation in the ultimate physical travesty: to be eaten alive, a violation beyond reciprocation. The gurgling coda is eclipsed by one of the androgynous dead----gender and genitals having been withered by the passage of time----as it chews her tongue right out of her mouth.
When Razor harnesses the courage to open his eyes again, it is to the same bleak scenario that closing his lids had blotted out. With dull, machine-like precision, the dead continues to strip the last of Sara's meat from her bones, slurping the final droplets of blood from the hardwood floor. Some even suckle on her clothing----much as a baby would its mother's bosom----drawing blood from fabric, or possibly even sustenance from the very scents that lingered within.
Razor whimpers. It's all his body can muster as a response to the cruel play before him: an improvisation of insanity. All he wants is to be away from this ramshackle theater of the macabre. It, too, is a violation beyond reciprocation, a reiteration of the reality in which he is trapped. Scrunched into the corner, he wishes he were wood, wishes he were able to blend into the wall. His eyes flicker to and fro, still looking for a means of escape... when he spots one.
It glimmers, a winking reflection of light, a light at the end of the tunnel: the hypodermic syringe. Equidistant between the gorging horde and him laid the needle. Naked and singing, singing to him! He instantly becomes transfixed on it, focusing to a point of blocking out the madness. The bogus barrier his mind creates gives the impression that it had eradicated the obscene exhibition, bringing down the curtain, but not in the purest sense. He can still see them, but now it is as if they are behind a TV screen----their usual mode of intrusion, cameras poking out of windows, or on top of buildings, peering down on the deluge----their heinous acts being transmitted from some place far beyond the confines of the studio apartment. They are real----TV never lies----but are no longer his immediate concern.
Razor crawls toward the syringe, oblivious to everything but the hypnotic lure of the needle. A needle that serenades him with promises of escape, of attaining the state of sweet nothingness he so covets. As his fingers pluck the syringe from its solemn resting place in the middle of the room, his wrist is roughly accosted by one of the dead. Illusory TV screens melt into pools of stark reality. A gasp squeaks from his larynx, a gasp of shock and futility. Worse than the cold, bony grip on his wrist, though, is the revelation within the syringe: it was empty. The promises it tendered, all counterfeit.
So why was it still singing?
Razor breaks free from the skeletal grip, breaking a couple of bony fingers in the process, scampering rat-like to his corner. But it is too late. His scent is the only enticement they need as they crawl and stumble toward him. Intoxicated: caught in the forever feeding frenzy.
He jabs the needle into his arm. Something sharp to set him free----that is all he ever wanted anyway----but nothing. Again he jabs, repeatedly puncturing himself, ripping many holes like tiny, lipless mouths, lipless and laughing (HAHAha)... They all laugh (HAHA), drowning out the spiking pain. (Drowning...) Blood trickles like crimson streamers, decorating his arm with the appropriate attire indicative of
the sullen celebration. Disillusionment blossoms on his face; a serrated slash devoid of verbal release blooms from his mouth. He continues to assail his arm with the needle; many more tiny, lipless (mocking) mouths join in the chorus of laughter (HAHAhaHA-HAHAhaha) that fills his head. The dead paws him, and swiftly indulge. Razor is impervious to everything but the morbid quest at hand, desperately jamming the needle with vicious intensity into his now mutilated arm, knowing full well that death is near----its imminence assails his nostrils, dulls his brain, his motivation quickly disintegrates into listless, automated repetition----and not wanting to face it. Not realizing that in death he will finally be set free.
(HAHAhahaHAHAHAha...)
~
"...as another day comes to a close, my friends, another day like all the rest, accumulating as scratch marks on the wall. I can only hope your day was as uneventful as mine. A tepid plea, I know, my friends. After all, misery loves company, but suffering is integrated into our very souls, woven into the very fabric of each of our lives. A neck within a noose----waiting..."
Memory Bones
MICHAEL STONE
The sickly butcher's shop smell got stronger as he ascended the stairs. The carpet stuck to his feet.
"It be the bedroom on the left, Doctor."
Messinger turned to acknowledge the speaker but he had already ducked from view. He muttered his thanks and continued up the stairs, his Gladstone bag bumping against his leg. A dust-dimmed window let in just enough light for him to make out two doors, one on each side of the tiny landing. He pushed open the door to the left.
The room stank of open wounds and wet bandages. Wrinkling his nose, Messinger peered myopically into the darkness, trying to discern edges and corners in the flat grayness.
"You must be the doctor."
Messinger faced the voice and a bed coalesced in the gloom. "Ahh. Mr. Lode, I presume." The attempt at humor didn't bring any response. He asked politely if he could draw back the curtains. "I need to see you if I'm to examine you."
"Aye." The speaker sounded hoarse. "If you must. It's just that my eyes are very sensitive at present."
"I shall take a look at them in a moment, Mr. Lode." He parted the heavy drapes to let in a chink of light.
"That's enough! No more than that."
There was just enough sunlight for Messinger to see a man propped by pillows, his body hidden by a high-collared, ankle-length nightshirt. The doctor smiled wanly. The nightshirt looked to be the source of the bad smell that pervaded the room. The patient's age was difficult to determine----his hair was as thin and colorless as melting snow, but his long face was unlined, the skin around his jaw smooth and tight. Lode's pupils were pinpricks in pools of baby blue.
Messinger sidled to the bed and eased himself down, placing his Gladstone bag between his feet where it clanked on a bedpan. It was then he noticed the scratches in the wall behind the bed: reminiscent of a prison cell, hundreds of short vertical strokes with a diagonal slash denoting groups of five covered an area of wall larger than the bed's headboard.
"So what seems to be the problem, Mr. Lode?"
"It's not me you've come to see, Doctor."
"Oh! I do apologize. I was told the patient was in this room. By your brother, would it be?"
Lode nodded. "Aye, he weren't having you on." Lode reached out and gripped Messinger's wrist. "You've taken over old Dr. Dimmock's practice, yes?"
Messinger nodded.
"Did he mention me?"
"No, but I didn't actually have the pleasure of meeting Dr. Dimmock. I was appointed by a selection committee after he retired."
"Pity. He was a good man, Dimmock. Open-minded. Are you a broad-minded sort of lad?"
"Well, yes, I suppose I am." Messinger tried to smile.
"Good, because I want you to listen to me. Right?"
Messinger nodded, although he felt things were far from right: Lode's grip was surprisingly strong.
The grip lessened and Lode settled back on the pillow, his blue eyes never leaving Messinger's. "How old do you think I am, lad? You won't find the answer in your notes so don't bother looking."
Messinger straightened up. "And why won't I find any mention of it in my notes?"
"Because your predecessor made up a name and date of birth for me, that's why. Like I said, he was a good doctor; I'm hoping you'll be the same. Now answer the question: how old do you think I am?"
Messinger considered arguing that Dimmock wouldn't have falsified Lode's details because of the minefield of National Insurance, NHS records, vaccination programs and the like, but decided to humor the man. Maybe that was what Dimmock had done; humored him. It was a fact that consultations went smoother once one had gained the patient's confidence.
Messinger's eyes were becoming adjusted to the dim and dusty light now, giving him a better opportunity to observe the patient's features: the unlined face and clear blue eyes that contrasted sharply with the thin hair and liver-spotted hands. "If I had to guess at your age, I'd venture that you're somewhere in your early fifties, perhaps."
Lode laughed. "Way off, lad, way off. Actually, I'm 149!" He laughed again, throwing his head back. Messinger noticed that his teeth were unusually small, very white and even. Lode's laughter snapped off suddenly as he looked squarely at the doctor. "You think I'm mad?"
Messinger gave a non-committal smile. "That's not within my remit," he said smoothly. "However, I'm a busy man with a lot of patients to see this morning, so can we stop playing around?"
"You ought to show some respect for your elders!" barked Lode.
The bed squeaked as Messinger pushed himself to his feet. He heard a corresponding creak on the landing.
Lode shouted. "It's all right, Eustace; the young man is not going anywhere!"
Messinger heard footsteps retreating down the stairs. Disquieted, he sat down.
"I am one 149 years old. When I was born, Victoria was on the throne and Britain was at war with Russia. Just accept that. I could verify it by telling you loads of historical details but you would dismiss them as mere fancies learned from books. My bones are as full of memories as yours are of marrow jelly, lad.
"When I was in my mid-forties----I forget exactly how old I was----something strange happened. I fell under a carriage. It ran straight over my arm here," Lode indicated a point below his left elbow, "severing it completely. I picked it up and ran home to my wife. Screamed my bloody head off, I did!" Lode chuckled at something he'd said before fixing Messinger with a searching stare. He shook his head. "Regular little doubting Thomas, aren't we, lad?" He rolled the left sleeve of his nightshirt up to reveal a thick, ropey scar that circumscribed his forearm.
Messinger peered closer. "There's no way they could have stitched your arm back on in the 1890s," he said. "They didn't have the know-how."
"Nobody stitched it on. It grew back!"
"Of course," Messinger sighed. "Silly me. It grew back."
"Don't get sarcastic, lad, I'm warning you."
"And what became of the arm? Did that grow into a pet?"
"I buried it in the compost heap."
"Pity, you could have hand-reared it."
Lode's lips tightened.
Messinger sighed. "You were saying, Mr. Lode."
By way of answer, Lode leaned forward and raised the hem of his nightshirt to reveal his knees.
Messinger recoiled. "Jesus Harry... who did that?"
"Eustace."
"The bastard must have used a lump hammer!"
"A sledgehammer, actually. Every other Thursday. He seems to think I might run away." Lode sucked on his teeth. "There are times when he might have been right."
Messinger jumped to his feet, unclipping a cell phone from his belt. He saw again the scratches on the wall behind the bed, and again he thought of a prisoner counting the interminable days of incarceration. The fives were arranged in columns of ten, and there were fourteen completed columns... making over 700. But 700 what? Days, weeks? Surely not months?<
br />
"If that's what I think it is, put it away, lad."
Messinger put the phone to his ear.
"If you don't put it away, I shall call in Eustace." Lode let the threat hang in the air.
Messinger shot a nervous glance at the door as a floorboard creaked, and felt the fight in him drain away. "Ah, sorry. Wrong number. Yeah, my mistake. Bye." He broke the connection.
"Now come and sit down." Lode patted the side of the bed. "Come on, lad."
He sat down. "But why----" he began.
Lode held up a hand. "All in good time, lad."
"But this is crazy."
Lode's face softened. "Aye, lad, I know I'm asking a lot of you." He looked at the doctor from under lowered eyelids and chuckled. "The best is yet to come."
"I can't wait."
"I'll ignore that. Anyway, Bessie and me, we kept the arm incident a secret. I lay low, hardly venturing out while the arm and hand were growing back. We nearly starved to death, with me not being able to go to work. Times were different then. That's when we started the vegetable garden, all the way back then."
Lode's eyes clouded over. "Bess died in 1919 of 'flu. Bloody terrible, that was. You young 'uns don't know you're born, I swear. We weren't any more able to cope with grief then as you are now, you know? Just because folks lost babies to disease and brothers and husbands to war, it don't mean we became immune. I was one of twelve children. Only eight of us reached adulthood. My mother used to keep daisies in four little jam jars. 'One for each of my little mites in Heaven,' she used to say.
