Never Fear

by Heather Graham

  “Clean, baby, gotta get you clean before company comes!”

  She scrubbed hard at my face, mostly upon the cheek she had kissed. My cheek was starting to bleed. I didn’t understand why Mommy was so sick. I had mentioned her going to a doctor, and she just laughed and told me that her sicknesses would not go away, regardless of what any doctor did. She reached up and turned the faucet handle. I let out a little whimper and tried to get out of the water. It was getting too hot. But she just gripped my shoulder and pushed me down.

  “Burning is cleaning. Heat will kill the sickness before it can get into you!”

  Her words were loud and slurred; her eyes had a feverish tint to them. She coughed. It was a deep cough that rattled in her chest. She dunked me under the water and held me there. I lay still. My chest began to burn and I began to feebly struggle, but she held me down still.

  “Almost done, baby. Gotta let the heat kill the germs. Gotta let it vaporize the filth!”

  She let me rise, and I gasped for air. I shook. I was afraid of her. No--not of her, of the illness that had done this to her. She had not always been this way. I remembered fun times. But then she had changed. She started working with men. Some of them scared me. Some had said things about me, or looked at me funny. That's why I had to hide in the spare bathroom whenever the people came over.

  I was spared more vicious scrubbing by a loud knock. My mother jerked up, and I looked up to her with half of my face raw and bleeding slightly. She adjusted her skirt and the small blue top she had on.

  “Stay in here, baby. Keep the door locked and don’t come out till Mommy comes to get you.” She cleaned herself quickly in the mirror, before a loud knock was heard again, this time making her jump.

  She called out hastily, “Coming, honey, hold on for just a second. I am getting myself ready!”

  My mother moved to the door. She was halfway out it before she stopped and glanced back at me. She touched her lip, and for a moment the look upon her face was one of sorrow and sadness--but there was something else. There was fear.

  “Keep cleaning yourself, baby. I know it hurts, but you're my baby and you have to be clean, I need you to remain healthy and not get the sicknesses that Mommy has.” That look upon her face vanished as she turned and slammed the door, making sure it was locked before she went to work.

  My mother died a few months later. The police told me it was a bad man that had come into the house, but I knew she had died because of the illness. The diseases she had are what killed her. They made her drink her adult juice, which then made her act bad. I loved my mommy, and she died because of the sickness she had been given by someone. The illness ruined my mother. It ruined my family and my life. It was a horrid thing. Only when I was older did I understand the names of the sicknesses and what my mother really was. Once I was on my own, I vowed I would protect people from this hidden horror: this destroyer of families and lives.

  * * *

  But I had to be clean to do that.

  So here I sat in the almost scalding water, scrubbing and washing my body. I now had an array of soaps and other cleaners that I used to make sure my body was clean.

  An hour later, my body burned. I felt clean once more. All the rage, all the bad memories had been scrubbed and burned away.

  I was suddenly startled by a knock at the door followed by a sweet voice that instantly lifted my mood, a slight smile spread across my face.

  “Mr. Connors, are you home? You missed the cookout and everyone is wondering where you’re at.”

  Susie, of course, had not even bothered to wait to see if I answered and was indeed home before she went on delivering her message.

  I stood, not bothering to wrap myself in a towel. I stumbled out of the bathroom, my body shaking as if I were a newborn animal.

  “I’m home, Susie. Just not feeling well. Tell your parents and the others I’m sorry I couldn’t make it. I needed to get home, take a nice long shower, get clean, and relax. It has been a long, messy day.”

  “Ok, Mr. Connors, I hope you feel better. I will let everyone know. Expect Mrs. Guter to come by some time with her chicken soup!”

  “Thanks, Susie, I look forward to it. Have a good night.” I heard her skipping or running down the hallway. She always had so much energy and an infectious smile. I never minded or feared that kind of infection.

  I had stayed inside for the next few days, writing a bunch of transcripts and giving myself time to compose my thoughts. I made sure my apartment was cleaned and my tools were sanitized properly and hidden away. The clothes soaking in bleach were dry now and stored in a plastic bag ready for disposal. The police, of course, had found the latest victim of “The Ripper,” but when they questioned our complex, everyone vouched for everyone, saying they overheard nothing and everyone was accounted for--even me. Everyone swore I had been sick and had been in my apartment, which was what I told the cops. My neighbors were wonderful, sweet people. They gave me a solid alibi because, in their mind, how could Allen Connors, the young single tenant from 3B, harm anyone?

  Finally, I was ready to go out. It was about 2 p.m. After I tossed some clothes on, and grabbed a bunch of transcripts I needed to mail off, I headed out to check on my, no doubt filled, mailbox. Once outside my apartment door, I heard the tell-tale signs of Susie, the thumping of sneakers hitting the floor. The door across the hall opened.

  “Mr. Connors, you're all better!” She skipped over and gave me a massive, unexpected hug. She stopped when I did not return her hug. She frowned and stepped back. “Are you still sick? You’re shaking.”

  My eyes were focused on her, and I indeed was shaking. Her eyes were wide, pupils dilated. I managed to push a few words past my lips, my voice almost failing me. “Wha... what is that?” A shaking hand lifted pointing toward her.

  Susie instantly pouted, her little brow furrowing. Her hand snapped up to cover her mouth. “It’s just a cold sore.” Susie's voice took on a sad, almost whiny, pitch. “I must have gotten it from someone at school.” I could tell she was upset and hurt for having noticed it, and for having reacted in the manner that I did.

  “No, Susie, I am ok, just... a little off. What are you doing? Where are your parents?” My voice was distant and hollow, shock and horror overwhelming my normal ability to banter.

  Susie slowly removed her hand, exposing the swollen, large blister upon her lip.

  “They are out for a date day. So I get to stay home all by myself! I wanted to go to the park, but with what happened with that lady in the alley, my parents said I have to stay in.”

  I knew Susie loved to go to the large public park a few blocks south of our apartments. I had gone there with her and her family and many of the other tenants who lived here. She loved to play soccer or just go exploring in the moderate patches of wooded area the park had. She was very talented at finding spots that were hardly tread upon by other park-goers.

  I could almost see it pulsating upon her once pretty face. It could pop at any moment, allowing its liquid filth to dribble on, and infect, others. “I... see. Well, I can take you to the park, Susie. I will make sure you are taken care of. We can even go exploring.”

  Her smile returned a bit at my suggestion, but only for a moment. “I would love that, Mr. Connor. But you seem... sad. Are you sure you're ok?” She sounded truly concerned for me. It made me want to cry, for I was indeed sad. “No, I am ok, Susie. Something sad happened today, but I will explain it all to you... at the park.”

  I turned to walk back to my room, then looked back to find her sad concerned gaze still upon me. I forced a small smile. “Trust me, Susie, everything will be fine.”

  She nodded and her smile returned. “Ok, I’ll go get changed, after I get the mail.”

  She moved to go back inside, but I spoke out, halting her for a moment.

  “Susie sweetie, don’t tell your parents. They will be too afraid, and don’t tell anyone else either. You know how gossip spreads.”

  Susie nodded befor
e entering her apartment. Her door closed at the same time as mine did.

  Tears fell freely down my face as I dropped my packaged transcripts. My purpose, my path was clear, despite the tears that were blurring my vision. Tonight my righteous duty required a great and terrible sacrifice. But for the good of all people. I would endure, and stand firm, once more in the knowledge that what I did served a greater purpose. God forgive me.

  I moved to my room, and in a few moments returned. As I sat on the sofa, free falling tears dripping on the whetstone, I began sharpen my knife. Whispered words of strength passed my lips over and over in an attempt to bolster my wavering resolve.

  “Nevertheless, the righteous will hold to their ways, and those with clean hands will grow stronger.” Job 17:9

  Poor Susie.

  Her energy would be missed.

  17

  Chronophobia

  fear of time

  Crystal Perkins

  Chapter One

  I feel it coming on again. The panic. It’s always this way when I wake up. I’ve been in this cell for 1,856 days. I’ve marked them on the walls. A hash mark for every day. It’s the only way I can keep track of what day it is, and keep myself sane.

  I look to the side, needing to touch those marks and know that another day has passed. Wait…where are they? Where are the marks? They’re all gone. No. They can’t be gone. They can’t.

  I’m pulling at my shirt, as I feel it suffocating me. It’s not enough, and I start to scratch my arms, digging long grooves into them. I need to get out of this cell, out of this prison. Yes, I killed two people, but I should still have a chance to get out. I’ll die in here if I don’t. Not when it’s natural, like my sentence demands, but by my own hands. I can’t live like this. Who could live like this?

  “Good morning,” a guard I’ve never seen before says, walking up to my cell. “How are you adjusting to your first day here?”

  “First day? I’ve been here over five years.”

  His face hardens. “Piece of advice, honey. Don’t fuck around and maybe, just maybe, you’ll survive until the end of your sentence.”

  “I’m not. I swear it! Please tell me this is a joke. Please?”

  “I don’t joke,” says the beautiful Asian woman before she walks away.

  The walls are closing in. I can feel them, they’re physically getting smaller around me. I start scratching my arms harder, digging in as the blood starts to flow down them and onto my hands. I stand up, running to the cell door, attempting to will it open. It’s not time for my hour in the yard yet, but I need to get outside. I need to. I need to…

  ***

  I wake up on the floor with my own blood smeared on the concrete in front of me. I start to stand, but freeze. The hash marks are back on the wall. That’s impossible? They were gone. I look down at my arms, and know that it was real. It is real.

  “Guard,” I yell.

  “What did you do to yourself?” my normal guard asks me, looking at my arms. “We need to get you to the infirmary.”

  “What day is it? What year?”

  She tsks at me. “You know the answer. We’ve let you make all those marks on the wall. Now back up so we can open your door.”

  I stand back as another guard joins her. Once the door is open, they come in and put the restraints on me, then motion me out. They stand on either side while leading me to see the doctor. It’s a long walk from my cell in solitary, and I walk as slowly as possible, relishing this small piece of freedom. I killed those people, and nearly destroyed the other one, too, but my punishment doesn’t fit the crime. I shouldn’t be kept alone for the rest of my life. Everyone deserves human contact, and I’ll take advantage of whatever I can get.

  “Hello,” says the doctor, a voluptuous Latina woman. “What have you been doing to yourself?”

  I shrug, since it’s obvious that I scratched myself. “I guess I had a panic attack.”

  “And what caused that?”

  I look around at the guards as I fight the urge to start scratching again. “I-I thought it was five years ago all of a sudden.”

  “I see,” she says, patting the examination table; I climb on. “That’s rather common for prisoners--losing track of time.”

  “I keep track. I have hash marks on the walls. They were gone, though. Now they’re back.”

  “It seems as though your imagination was playing tricks on you.”

  “I scratched my arms when the marks were gone. And I saw a guard I’ve never seen before,” I say earnestly, trying to make her understand.

  “There are no new guards,” the one I see every day tells me. “You must have been dreaming.”

  “I wasn’t,” I protest. “I scratched myself. You can see that.”

  “Calm down, my dear.” After the doctor has finished cleaning and bandaging my arms, she looks at me with this condescending fake concern. I can see that it’s fake--it doesn’t reach her eyes.

  “No,” I tell her, feeling another panic come on. I know I wasn’t dreaming. I couldn’t have been. “I’m not crazy.”

  “Let me give you something to calm you down,” the doctor tells me, carrying over a syringe with some amber liquid in it.

  “I don’t need it. I don’t.”

  “You do. You’re obviously suffering from delusions, and I want to help you. I will have the guards hold you down if you’re not willing to cooperate.”

  Her entire face has hardened, and she’s practically sneering at me. I don’t want this shot, but I also don’t want a repeat of what happened earlier. I hold out my arm. “That won’t be necessary.”

  Chapter Two

  I wake up thinking today has to be better. The doctor gave me that medicine, and it made me feel calm all day yesterday. Today is a new day, and I just have to mark that on my wall. That will keep me calm. It has to. I’m too strong to rely on some drugs.

  I start to reach for my marker, but my body stops. My hand looks old and wrinkled. The bandage is gone from my arm, and there’s just wrinkled, spotted flesh in its place. No scratches, just loose flesh. The kind you see on people who have lost a lot of weight. I haven’t lost weight. I’m still as beautiful as ever. Only I’m not.

  I jump out of bed and run to the reflective surface on my wall. I’m covered in wrinkles; my hair is thin and white. It hangs limply around my face, accentuating the fact that my beauty is gone. Some of my teeth are gone, too. I look horrible. No. No, no, no! I am not ugly. I’m not. This isn’t me. It can’t be. It’s a trick.

  I touch the plastic surface in front of me, and then touch my face. I can feel them. I can feel the wrinkles, and as I move my tongue, it hits the gaps where teeth used to be. This isn’t right, I’m not old. I’m not even thirty yet. I glance to my left and let out a blood-curdling scream. The left wall is covered in hash marks from about two thirds up, all the way to the ground.

  “What is it,” a guard asks, running up. I don’t recognize her. She has chocolate brown hair, and the body of a centerfold.

  “Who are you?”

  “Not this again,” she says with a sigh.

  “Again?”

  “You’ve been forgetting me at least once a week for the past five years.”

  “I’ve only been here for five years, and I’ve never seen you before.”

  “You’ve been here fifty-five years,” she says all too calmly, like she’s said it a million times.

  “No. This is a dream. Just a dream. I’ll wake up from it and be okay again. I will.”

  “Calm down. You’ll remember once you calm down.”

  No. I won’t remember. This isn’t real, and I’m not old. Even if I was old, I wouldn’t look like this. I run forward and try to rip the plastic mirror from the wall. I pull and tug, tearing what’s left of my nails to pieces. I can hear the guard yelling, and threatening, but I don’t care. I scratch and pull, tearing it half off the wall before she and another guard enter the cell. She tazes me and then it all goes dark.

  ***<
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  I’m happy to wake up again, because that means my nightmare is over. As I shake my head, I realize that I’m on the ground. I look down and see that my nails are shredded, and pieces of metallic plastic are stuck to them. My side hurts, and I feel disoriented. I’m scared to look up, but I do.

  The plastic mirror is torn half off the wall. I look right and see my hash marks, just the ones that should be there. I slowly look left, and see that the wall is bare. Leaning on my left hand to get up, I almost fall under the weight of myself. I look down and scream.

  My left hand is old and wrinkly, just like in my dream. Or was it a dream? I lift my top to find the marks from the Taser. What is going on?

  I stagger to my sink and splash cold water on my face. As I rub my eyes, I notice that my face feels different. I chance a look in what’s left of my mirror; another scream. My face is half normal, half old and wrinkled. I continue screaming until the guards come, and then I fall to my knees.

  “What are you screaming for?” one of them asks.

  “Look at me. Look at my face. My hands,” I say, holding them out.

  “You look the same as you did yesterday,” says the other.

  “I don’t, I don’t. Please make it stop. Make. It. Stop.”

  “Make what stop?”

  “Whatever’s happening to me? What is happening to me?” I ask, sobbing.

  “We need to get you to the shrink.”

  They come towards me, and I lash out. I don’t trust them--I don’t trust anyone right now. Not even myself. It doesn’t take them long to get me to the ground and cuff me. I’m losing my strength along with my mind.

  They pull me to my feet and start walking me towards the medical wing again. I can feel the difference as I walk--me left side is considerably weaker than my right, and my left knee feels like it’s cracking as I walk. How can the guards not see this?