A perfect stage of darkness rests behind closes eyelids. Plastered to the back of midnight cherry sheets: here, a world in which his mind can loom free. His heart stirs. See the sin rise and paint. A girl in a pretty white dress, a girl who lives next door, a girl who works as a prostitute at the local strip club. She is an impossible constellation hidden behind cloud. The longer Hugo stares at her the less sense she makes, for nothing changes. She is static imagery forged from memory and impressions. Every new mote of information he creates now is fake. All she is – this Janelle of the mind – is a marionette’s plaything. You can make her arms move, her mouth move, her body bobble and dance in almost real motion, but you cannot unsee Hugo’s strings keeping her animate. Yet, wouldn’t it be nice to see her dance?
So what is stopping him from doing what he likes to the puppet? Well, his own moral core for one. But she’s a tempting siren song, isn’t she? All tiny spaces and unknown quantities in the floral chorus of fabric. Those tights. Damn. Dark pearl lacquer pasted onto her shivering, bare legs. A nice snap back as you let them go. A mouth open like a little anime girl all inviting for whoever she sees, eyes doey and moist in moonlight’s call. Elements of desire. Pizza in two hands, pepperoni on the tongue. What is she like without clothing? Imagine two thumbs through the elastic stockings poised and ready just at the tip. Over she bends and down they sliiiiiiiiiiiiiiiide. Panties like–
Oh shit! Remember the other night? When she broke your stream? You turned around and saw her shadow in her window, flat body on display, fingers circling those perfect flat nipples…Jesus, boy, you’d never seen anything like it. Pink panties, man…
Haha, remember how it felt with you on your bad fapping away into those tissues, replaying the scene, dragging the memory out into new places. Man, it felt so fucking good–
–to commit adultery in his heart with a child. A child. Child. Child. Which makes him a paedophile. Incorrect. Janelle is pubescent. Then what? A hebephile. Look it up, it’s a word. Does that really make it any better, Hugo? Giving your perverted rose any other name?
Hugo sits upright and pushes hands into face, resisting the urge to reach out and grab some nearby hobby item to grind into dust. In darkness, the man collects his thoughts in a logical waterfall. Will the day come when his desires, having festered for so long inside his heart, simply take over? Will his resolve to fight against the moral wrong be outweighed by the very adult tendency to justify, by degree and increment, his behaviour? They’re only cartoons, it’s only tiny teen porn, ok well at least it’s only pictures, it’s only videos, it’s only a pic of the neighbour’s daughter, it’s only a visit to a legal brothel to find a twelve-year-old to fuck. Maybe six years or more until we go from A to F.
Where is she now, this Lolita? Fire of lions, etc etc. She is most likely asleep in her sheets, dreaming, maybe of the man whom she shared a dinner and supernatural experience with, maybe recounting the kiss with such sweet innocence. Pineapples and…fuck, what is it? What do you want it to be, Hugo? Rose? Again – fake information to feed into a constellation. She could be masturbating, hands down the panties in wet foray. She could be praying to Jesus to take her sins away with those same hands clasped in sticky supplication. She could simply be asleep.
Please stop. He doesn’t want to hurt her or anyone else. If he understands the consequentialist reasoning as to why the distribution of pornography is ethically wrong, then the wrong inherent in child pornography and child abuse is as clear to him as daylight to the moon. And to think – a large part of him festers with this evil. Two hundred thousand children in sexual servitude in South East Asia, another two hundred thousand in America, and the evil inside his heart is the driver for such behaviour. He deserves to die before he ruins a life. It’s not a case of pushing others away – run, run, Janelle, before the monster pins you down and strips off your midnight stockings! No. It is fact.
Taptaptap.
Creature at the window; Hugo feels the shock of her split his eyes and heart apart. What is Jan doing here? Wait, no. This child all clad in shadow and moonlight…she is the girl from last night. Mirror Mirror. In the second it takes for him to realise, the girl has bled through the walls to stand at the edge of his bed. Here she is. A cheeky smile across her face, head tilted perfectly to one side. She is a weapon without a weapon. ‘Slut’ emblazoned in gold across her purple shirt hugging tiny breasts. The thick V of her short shorts riding up so high over landmark socks. When she coos, Hugo tastes that familiar sweet lick of lust:
‘Wanted to say I’m real sorry for last night. Can I make it up to ya?’
But are they his words or hers? Hugo can’t remember saying them but in that moment his and her thoughts cross and meld. He folds back the covers and watches her undress. Zip and strip. Rustle. A vertical blind of moonlight makes a racing stripe up her bare chest. More. Hugo takes relish in the next moment: where the thumbs finds loops on her shorts and the fabric sing songs on its way down her legs. That soft call as they hit the floor. Click and clack of belt as she steps out. Those same pink panties.
She climbs over the edge of the bed, this monotone tiger of grey, this nymphet with opal eyes and a dog-red tongue. Her soft weight presses into his as she finds his chest and pushes the man back into the embrace of pillows. Between her chopstick fingers she plays with his bottom lip, drawing lines and songs as if she’s done this a thousand and one times before at a club downtown where people can pay for the privilege to have her do whatever. But tonight, she is working free for him and him alone. What a privilege, dear Hugo, for you to be entertained so. He feels the rise between his legs coming up along the inside of her thigh. Girl blushes and enjoys it. Grinds. Closes her eyes.
Only then does Hugo see the strings tied around her wrists and neck and arms and legs. Were he to look up at the ceiling perhaps he might see a giant Hugo performing a puppeteer’s cruel dissertation. So, why not dance. Why not? What harm will there be?
Why not dance?
Fantasy folds over in those sticky and juicy minutes. Penetration and fingers through the hair, quiet sodomy, pink face flushed and clenched, position after position and into a thousand and one aftermaths. Slapping her hips into his with the motion. Silk thighs python-squeeze his face and draw him in. On the beach with her schoolgirl skirt lifted, vibrator egg in, cord out, lewd writing on her face. Fantasy folds over and become reality when Mirror Mirror lies next to Hugo and bites his nose like a playful pup while he keeps his hand between her legs. Her little rose glistens, leaves sticky slime trails over his fingers. Mirror Mirror, her panties around his shaft, rubbing. Mirror Mirror, eyes to the ceiling as she rides and rides his dick, his hands on her flat chest, over fresh nipples, her hips, and…
Fantasy folds over. Locked and solidified. You cannot undo.
Mirror stands at the edge of his bed with her naked back to him like moonlight’s canvas. Briefs and V pants snap back into place to cover dark grey flesh. She turns to him. Used condom the colour of a sucked finger dangling limp from her teeth. All of that. A smile so intensely wicked as she spits it, catches the rubber.
‘You don’ want to know what I charge fo’ dat. Don’ think you could afford it.’
Are they his words or hers? Hugo can’t remember saying them but…in his head, it makes sense for her to say that. A constellation of Mirror – and this being the final scrap of information he imparts onto her as she throws the condom in the bin like a cowboy spitting tabacky into a jar. Ping.
‘If you want some more, why don’t you try the other Janelle down at the club? You could buy her easy, you know?’ Mirror laughs and cracks, ‘See you tomorra for more, ya big ol’ paedo.’
Mirror slips between the wall and walks away, out. Hugo watches from the window, her hips left and right, across the lawn until he can’t see her no more. Can’t see her anymore. Either way, she is gone but for the single kernel of truth left behind.
She is right. Hugo – head on the pillow and eyes on the ceiling – is a monster. A rose
by any other name. In the aftermath, all of the sordid facts touch his heart and convict him of the truth, as if the used tissues by his bed weren’t enough. Pain in the hand – where were you to stop me! Where were you? But he has nobody to blame but…Oh my fucking god…hands over the face now. No more ghosts behind the eyelids. No more! Go away, army of Janelles and Mirrors! Let go of my arms and legs. Keep me clothed and free! Please, no…Oh it’s so easy to regret your actions in post-refractory bliss, isn’t it?
Pineapple and lemonade. That was it.
Make it stop. How?
And so, it is simply fact that he must die because he can never, ever get better. Right? Who will help him?
Ok, it’s sorted. Hugo decides.
Method: sleeping pills? Ruins the liver, ineffective. Razor blade and hot bath? Painful if you fail, painful if you don’t. Belt? What ceiling support is going to keep his fat ass from sweet mother gravity. Jumping in front of a train? Poor driver.
No…suicide is not the answer. It can’t be. Good angel Hugo’s there to tell him that suicide leaves more broken hearts than solutions. His life punctured from the pages of reality. Threads and threads broken in rude fashion. His parents would go to the Shit Stacks, never mind their distress and heartache. His team might not win nationals – they’d be sad too. And yes – Janelle would be pretty shaken that the very person who saved her life couldn’t save his own.
And yet, wasn’t it a simple fact that he must die?
Para…wait.
Fuck this. What time is it? Late enough. Hugh pushes back the sheets and gets dressed in the moody, grey lamp light.
He is going to see Para, right now. He needs to exorcise this daemon from his arm, and the monster inside his heart.
Parallel
Quiet ride through the city skin. Thursday morning, 2AM. Darkness parts with the halogen glow of the man’s cycle light. Hugo rides through the bitter cold in a sleepless, caffeinated high. So focused. Every so often his right hand will twinge and scatter a memory of pain straight up to his head. Good. That gives him precious seconds to forget the rape. Keep on, keep on. Only a small queue at the border between Eastern America and Canada. This enormous arch like a neon Tori gate to divide the countries. Canada pays for the electricity to light the gate, by the way. Hugo lines up behind a campervan and rests a foot on the bridge. Tapping. Impatience. Distraction: out left, the land sliced in half and lit up with the flowing night-blood of the lake. Thousands of tiny jewels glimmer on the horizon and if you skint your eyes, the world turns into a Bokeh landscape. No such light behind him, until you get to the Power Down slope…
A Canadian takes his passport and runs a UV scanner across the visa. ‘’Ere for long, sir?’
‘Nah, jus visitin’ grandmomma up by the lake.’
The man looks from Hugo’s passport to Hugo, pauses. ‘At this hour?’
‘Dementia keeping her awake all night so she calls when she gets lonely. Out I come.’
The officer puffs out a long steamstack of warm breath and inspects Hugo sideways. His visa’s always up to date so the conversation naturally gravitates into the inevitable conclusion:
‘Good man. All the best for your gran.’
‘Yea, thanks. You have a good night.’
And off he goes.
Canada sprawls in her low-lying, dark, endlessly flat mess. He doesn’t have to venture too far. It’s a twenty-minute cycle at high-speed along the main road. Most of this area has been declared as natural parkland, although the initial foray into Canada’s southern tip is vaguely reminiscent of outer-Detroit-esque landscapes. (Wait, isn’t this story set in Compton? If the story’s set in Compton, this would be the Western America/Mexico border, and you can imagine the one-thousand song landscape without me describing it. Alternatively, Hugo could be cycling up to Santa Barbara. Anyway…so Hugo cycles on past the White House…)
Never mind. His city metastasises over the borders and infests the scenery. Mercifully, it ends soon. Parkland begins, all mysterious and restless and hooting-owl eyes in the bushy forestry. Which, of course, flattens out to feed into the marsh and lakes. Hugo drives by a sign that welcomes all and sundry to Peele Point Parklands and he comes to a car park. Empty. Lit by Canada’s plentiful electricity: a solitary lamp up high. Hugo rests his cycle by the information hut and sets off down the main track with some supplies in hand. Bitter and cold and dark, yet on he walks down the tree-girded lane.
The walk through time begins. Under a canopy of dark branches, our intrepid traveller marches, the small container of food and drink clanging at his hip. Hugo knows the path well, knows the inconsistencies and falsities that belie a changing reality. It begins with a wind. Always the wind. Not unkind on the bones – the climate’s already doing him no favours – but rather a music in the ears. Like in a video game where the soundtrack dies and windswept mountains cry out in infinity. Over and over. This special place is barren and empty. But the sounds compound, taking on summer yellow quality, birds chirping and suns breaking from the horizon. Next comes the visual mark: Hugo looks up and sees the daylight at the end of this forested path all arched by trees. Smoky-fresh sunlight. It isn’t long before he is out of the tunnel of darkness.
The night has passed. Morning sun smiles upon Mother Earth.
Hugo steps into warm daylight. Silence now, save for birds on the still wind. Perfect marshland with the lake shining with all the qualities of grandma’s gems. Warm on the face like springtime. Hugo makes his way across the boardwalks until he’s right at the lip of the lake. A small walk in the glorious sunshine takes him to the jetty, and there he sits right on the end. Jacket off to make a cushion for the butt. The man pops the lid off the container: milk and cream and bread and jelly (jam).
‘Here you go, Para.’
‘It’s real good to see you agen, Hugo.’
Para sits beside the man and takes the offering. Smiles. Hugo leans back and spreads his hands on the wood for support. Looks to the girl. She hasn’t changed, has she. There aren’t many black girls with blue eyes, or anyone with blue eyes like hers. That’s how you can tell she’s a ghost; language is a failure to describe how those marbles glow and work. She bears a light smattering of freckles like a galaxy, hair all curly, all DNA twisty. Shirt and pants like a true tomboy. A body frozen in time, the time of death, at perhaps fourteen years old, or under a decade ago. However Hugo sees it, he cannot deny just how beautiful she is. The spirit picks up the jelly and pours the runny blood over bread, adds cream and takes a bite and – ah – how those eyes light up. Between mouthfuls, Para talks.
‘Be’n a long while since we saw each uther. You should come more ofen, bring more good stuff like this. I’ll transform you into a god if you keep supplyin’ the raspberry jelly,’ and she laughs with her mouth full.
Hugo smiles to himself and enjoys the scenery. A cloud of birds take off from the water’s surface to become a school of fish in the waterscape sky. Perfect song of flight and dance and water breaking. Despite the tired-eye pressure of no sleep, Hugo feels himself relaxing and energising slow. It is good to be here, he made the right decision to come. Despite the guilt…despite the guilt.
‘You miss me?’ Hugo asks.
‘I got better things to do than spend my life haunting this place. Sure, it’s special – I drowned here – but would you wan’ spend yo’ entire afterlife stuck in the national marshes? In the immortal words of Sweety Brown: “Ain’t nobody got time fo’ that.” But I guess in my case I have all the time I could want. I dunno when I expire; there never was no contract or nothin’, so I’m under the impression I get to stay fo’ as long as I like.’
‘So you missed me.’
‘Course I did, you big ol’ baby. Geez, you must be in a real mess tryin’ to get a sense of self-worth from a little ghost girl.’
‘Daemon girl.’
She leans in, confirms: ‘Spelt with tha a and e pressed together?’
‘You know it.’
‘Classy. So wha’s on
your mind, big Hugo boy?’ She finishes off the last bite of jelly bread and licks her fingers one by one, crosses her dark legs on the wood. What’s on his mind? He’ll get to that in a second. First, his arm. Hugo raises his right hand and wiggles the fingers.
‘Ah, how’s the Osu playin’?’
‘Cayn’t play no more. Got my fingers all fired up. Whenever I try, I get a reaction and pain; the underlyin’ creature – whatever you put inside a me – it shows up. Nearly took a layer of skin off. Think the gift you’ve given me has backfired.’
Para takes his arm and draws it to her lap; it tickles. Girl corrects, ‘I didn’ give you nothing. Just facilitated a trade is all. Any slowdown in reaction time?’
‘No, none. Matter of fact, I saved the life of a young girl with that set of reactions.’
‘Good man. What happened?’
‘Girl next door bein’ attacked by a mirror image of her. Crazy, man. Shit. See, I can fight with the hand but it’s causin’ me trouble when I play. The whole arm shakes up too.’
‘Let’s see.’ Para reaches over. With two small sets of fingers around his colossal size she pulls Hugo and brings up his hand before her eyes. The inspection starts. That intense glare, blue eyes like oxygen wildfire and scanning every inch of skin, every angle, flipping the hand over, testing each finger by manipulation. It kind of buzzes in that special way when doctors treat you: direction for your body with their calm, overwhelming will. You must give in, and it feels simply so good.
Para holds the man’s hand between her own and a sad look comes across her face. She taps the skin like knocking on wood. It sounds like wood anyway. And in a glorious moment of magic Hugo watches as his blackness peels away like a bad sunburn. He becomes transparent and that monster arm is revealed. All hairy and demonic, a gorilla’s glass arm made of wavy, flamelike darkness. All the nerves light up like the silicone blue of his computer lights. True form.
After Hope Dies Page 15
