Fell of Dark

by Patrick Downes

  Now I feed myself. Ten months, no mother. Eight, no father. I go to high school part-time, at night. I go at night, since I work thirty-two hours a week at Only a Game. Most days and every other weekend.

  Along with math and chemistry, I take a course in creative writing. We got an assignment: Six-Word Stories:

  The fever broke. We finally slept.

  We prayed for rain or death.

  Only a Game. I mostly work with the board games, the games of strategy, and chess. I’m sort of a specialist. We’re in a golden age of board games. New ones come out all the time. Some take an hour to play; others take days. Everybody’s caught up in video games, but the tabletop is where it’s at. For some of us. We’re old-school.

  The store has a whole section devoted to video games, of course. I see the kids and men, almost always boys and men, barely any girls, checking out the first-person-shooter games. I know what those games are, but I don’t understand them. When you play board games, you learn about your mind and other people’s minds. You find out whether or not you take risks, whether or not you’re a short- or long-range thinker, whether or not you like to wager.

  But in those shooter games, there’s only one way to go. You can only go forward. Killing. There’s nothing to learn. No thinking. It’s some lower level of mind, instinct. You don’t have to talk. The game gives you all the noise.

  I played one of them. Once. After closing. A hired assassin. It went like a bad night’s sleep. Shooting. Strangling. Stabbing. Kicking a man to death. Gunfire and grunts and wailing. Four hours gone in death. I died over and over. Other people died. Blood and broken bodies. The noise of it. When I stopped, I could barely stand up. I got sick.

  Everything around me looked like a cartoon. Brighter colors. Sharper sounds. I was a five-and-a-half-foot length of live copper wire. I wanted to sleep, but I was shaking. Shuddering. Lightning. I sensed the Protector just under my skin, watching for danger, expecting a fight. I wanted to cry, so I did. I cried. I hated myself.

  Is this what it’s like in real life? Killing, I mean. The fear, the suspense, the sickness, the ease of it?

  I don’t know. Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe a person can learn something from those games, like whether or not you think you have the stomach to kill another person.

  Could I have killed my father when he was lying on the floor that day his foot nearly snapped off? He was helpless. I hated him. If I were a hit man, he would’ve been dead in seconds. I didn’t want him dead. I wanted him to suffer. There’s a difference.

  Could I ever see myself killing someone? If not my father, anybody? Maybe if I had to save someone else. Maybe if I had to protect myself. Maybe if I had to protect the world against evil. Otherwise, no.

  Wait. Does killing someone include killing myself? Do I count?

  What am I talking about? I play chess. It’s a field of battle. People die. I sacrifice my soldiers. And those strategy games? I kill all the time.

  But I’m old-school. The killing I do doesn’t look like killing, or even pretend to look like killing. I play quiet games. I have to think everything through.

  Wow.

  I’m even uglier than I thought. Just like that. I’m worse than those first-person shooters, playing assassin. Worse than almost everybody in a new way.

  I plan my killings. Premeditate. Pawn, knight, bishop, rook.

  “I don’t know.” Candace crossed her arms and looked around my apartment for the first time. I’d never brought her here, but my parents were gone. They left everything behind. “I don’t know. It feels empty.”

  “Everything’s here.”

  “I can see that, but it feels empty.”

  I tried kissing her, and she pulled away. Why would she do that?

  “Something’s not right.” She started looking all over the house. “Do you even have parents?”

  Why would she pull away? Is this the beginning of the end? It must be. It must be. I shuddered. That same jolt of electricity. It comes when I’m somehow scared or suspicious. The Guardians, or the Architect himself, I think, prodding me, telling me to be careful, to think.

  There’s only one reason to pull away from a kiss. You don’t want to be kissed.

  “I saw that, Thorn. The spasm. It’s happening more and more.”

  “I know,” I growled.

  “Don’t get angry with me. Do you have parents, yes or no?”

  “Why would you ask such a question? Of course I have parents. Kiss me.”

  “No. I’m thinking.” Candace picked up my mother’s iron from the board in the hall.

  “Don’t.”

  “It’s just an iron.”

  “My mother would kill me if it broke.”

  “Oh.” Candace put it down on the board. “Like I’ll drop it.”

  Why won’t she kiss me?

  “Why won’t you kiss me?”

  “Stop worrying. You always worry. Soon as you don’t get what you want, you worry. Like I’m always pushing you away, right? Like I have someone else.”

  “Do you?”

  “You see? You always get like this.”

  “Not always.”

  “Always.” She wasn’t even looking at me. By now, she was looking at Kermit’s and Tatiana’s bookshelves in their room. “I’ve never seen so many books on chess. Mom or dad?”

  “My father.”

  “What’s his name?” She pulled out a book and fingered through it.

  “Don’t.” I was getting angry, but something in me wanted her to know everything.

  “What’s his name, Thorn?”

  “Joseph.”

  “And your mom?”

  “Mary.”

  “Very New Testament.”

  “I can’t help that.”

  “So why does this book say, ‘To Kermit, Happy Anniversary, I love you. Tatiana’?”

  “It’s used. Why won’t you kiss me?”

  She brought the book over.

  “Except it’s signed ‘We love you. Tatiana, Salome, and Thorn.’”

  “—”

  “Salome. Your dead sister.”

  “Don’t say her—”

  “You lied. Why would you lie?” She snapped the book shut. “And, really? Kermit, Tatiana, Salome, and Thorn?”

  “Don’t say her name.”

  “It’s all weirdly beautiful. But why lie?”

  “I can’t tell you that yet.”

  “Yet? Why not?” She sat on the end of the bed.

  “I’m not ready.”

  “I know you play chess.” She flopped back on the bed.

  “You’re so beautiful.” Why won’t she kiss me? What does she want? Who does she want? Suspicion. The Sawmen were cutting.

  “Sometimes, you look at me with your hand on your face, staring at me, like you’re wondering what your next move should be.”

  “No I don’t.”

  She laughed. “Yes you do. It’s intense and stupid.”

  “Why stupid?” I stood there, stupid. “You should kiss me.”

  “Because there’s only one move. And you’re looking down on me, just like that. Again.”

  By now, I was so nervous, angry, and suspicious. Desperate. I didn’t know what to do. The Sawmen halfway through my stomach.

  “Zugzwang.” The Architect was angry. The Guardians. The Sawmen. Everybody in motion. Everybody. All moving.

  “What?” Candace sat up.

  “Time to get out of here.” I pulled her up by her arm. “Time for all of us to get out of here.”

  Liar. Liar. Why won’t you kiss me? Why won’t you be honest? Liar.

  I know your kind. I’ve known your kind my whole life. Liar.

  Liar.

  I have dreams. Long, frightening dreams. Last night I dreamed of a scaffold. Not a wood sca
ffold. Nothing simple like my mother swinging in a tiny circle. A man was the scaffold. That’s all I can say. He was huge. He held me up. Another man would beat me until he got tired, but the scaffold wouldn’t let go. He held me up and didn’t say a word.

  What’s the interpretation? Only one. My conscience held me up and beat the hell out of me. Why? Because I told Candace I wouldn’t talk to her again? Because I told her not to look at me? If she sees me on her side of the street, cross it. If she sees me anywhere in the world, hide.

  Or was the scaffold the devil, and my father the demon that beat me?

  No. There is only one interpretation.

  Here’s the problem with the ending between Candace and me. I don’t think I’ll ever meet another girl who likes me the way Candace did. I’ll never touch another girl. I’ll die before that happens.

  I’m back to shaving myself. It takes me nearly half an hour. I ask myself, Why not get an electric razor? So far I’ve been too stupid to know why.

  I will let the beard go for a couple weeks. I don’t care. By that time, I’ll look like a wolf. I have large eyes. There they are. Bright blue shining out of a black beard, black eyebrows, and black curly hair. They burn through the dark. I sound like Superman, except his terrible little brother. A dwarf. Something dark and twisted in his supersoul. Hidden away. In the ice of the Fortress of Solitude. I’d wait for Superman to come home, and I’d yell at him. I’d dance on his head like a monkey.

  “How could you love them? How could you save them? Why couldn’t you let them all die?”

  “I have to love them and save them.”

  “You make me sick.” I’d pretend to throw up on the ice.

  “Love is the hardest thing of all to do. Faster than a speeding bullet? Stronger than a locomotive? That’s just like breathing. But love? Love is worse than Kryptonite.”

  What can I say to that? The son of a bitch would be right.

  You people. You people. Youpeopleyoupeopleyoupeople. Cowards, every one of you. What, what, what, what keeps your legs from breaking under all the weight of your fear and lies and hatred? Human beings. I’m not one of you. I’m not one of you. I’m outside your fences. I’m running around you at the speed of light, you goddamn beasts. But you think I’m the monster. You cry and gnash your teeth. You throw stones at each other, at me, and you expect mercy all the time. You harm and harm and harm, and your lips turn blue and your teeth red and your eyes yellow and your skin green, and you bring down your swords, tear up each other’s skin, throw your stones, and I run around you. But I’m the monster. I’m the goddamn monster. Alone.

  You see, you see, you see? I feel the Guardians. All their rage.

  I want to be human. You’re not all hateful cowards. I know that.

  I’m turning into a monster or a ghost, I don’t know which.

  I don’t want to be angry anymore. Or protected, if it means I feel this way, speak this way, and get sawn in half. That’s the end result of the anger and protection: I get sawn up.

  Don’t be one of them, the Guardians say. Stay with us. If you stay with us, we won’t need to saw you. You’ll be safe.

  I’m not safe with you, I can argue, or in the world. Where will I be safe?

  I’m very, very sad, and very, very tired.

  Three words. First-person shooter.

  . . . and the entire world shades of purple. I don’t know the names of more than one purple, lavender, so the world in shades of lavender, dark, light, black lavender, red lavender, blood lavender, all the trees, all the trees, dropping their purple leaves, and all the houses on every block wiggling and purple, like they’re all mirages, the grass spikes of bright lavender, lightning lavender, cracking under my feet like icicles. Where’s Candace now? Where’s Candace now? Where’s Candace now? Liar, she’s sitting in a coffee shop with her new boyfriend, laughing at me. They’re laughing at me, because I’m ridiculous. Right? Right? Ridiculous, crazy, sad. So sad. Dead sister, dead mother, a father better off dead, finally gone. Only gone. Only gone. Only a game. First-person shooter. Bam. The lavender world, a headache. The Guardians say, This is our world, buddy-boy. This is the color of our world. Take it, take it. Where’s Candace now? I’ll walk until I find her. When did I stop sleeping? Days ago. Maybe naps like a purple cat, curled up in the purple sun. Pigeons. Pigeons. Pigeons and cats, a war between them, and both die by the dozen, pecked or clawed, pigeon blood, cat blood, everything terrible. I want to cry over the cats, not the pigeons. The pigeons that follow me, gurgle monsters. Gurgle monsters, they want to kill my hands. I haven’t slept a full night for more than a week. I can’t. I can’t sleep, up, up, up, up, and I can’t stop thinking.

  All I want to do is walk. Walk and walk, miles and miles. One end of the city to the other, and one side to the other, and then all the middles, all the circles. I want to get beaten up, mugged, killed, killed, killed. Where’s Candace? If she loved me, she’d be here now. She’d tell me nothing’s purple, she’d tell me the houses shake and wiggle because I haven’t slept, and she’d send me to bed and get me toast and ginger ale until I died. I’ll walk and find her, if I have to go to every coffee shop in the city. We were right, the Guardians say. We were right. You trusted a human being, and look where that got you. You deserve the saws, all the saws.

  I hear Candace and her boyfriend kissing. I hear them, explosions between them, I can hear them, all the kisses. Their tiny explosions. Like gunshots. POP. POP. POP. I see them in my apartment right now, my apartment now, dead mother, father gone, and they’re in my mother’s bed. I’ll go home and find them, and he’ll stand up, naked, and confront me. I’ll break his arm. I’ll make him eat his hand. When Candace screams, I’ll say, You shut up and stay where you are. Do not make a move. Not a move, until I’m done with him. After he’s swallowed his hand, I’ll break his feet. You’re not going anywhere. Then, I’ll turn to Candace, and I’ll say, Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why?

  That’s not where they are. Why go to the monster’s lair? No, they’re somewhere, laughing and kissing. POP. POP. POP. Make it stop. Make it stop. Candace, please bring me ginger ale and toast. I’ll sleep. I promise, I promise. Take me out of the purple world.

  So I walk, and walk, and walk. I’m not worth my shoes, and the pigeons know this, but the cats kill them, feathers everywhere, bird bones breaking in their mouths.

  Lavender. Black lavender teeth. You stop smiling at me. Stop smiling at me. I see your teeth, black lavender.

  Candace? Ginger ale. Toast.

  Screaming. Like these cats, these armies of cats. The armies of pigeons are silent except for that low sound they make in their throats. What are they called, those sounds? What?

  Hospital.

  I need a hospital.

  Where else can I go?

  Where are you, Candace? Where are you? Ginger ale and toast, toast and ginger ale. All of it the colors they’re supposed to be. Hospital. The halls are triangular and wiggling like the lavender houses. These halls bright white lavender. Make it stop. Read the signs. Read the signs.

  We’re against this. The Guardians speaking. We’re against this. The Sawmen go to work. Help me. They’re here. I’m bleeding all over the floors, and I slip in my own blood, splash in puddles of my own blood, and then I’m healed, and I can stand up, get my balance, the blood gone, until the sawing comes again. We’re against this. We’re against this.

  Emergency reception. Two nurses laughing with a man. Don’t they see me? I’m invisible. Invisible as my saws. We’re against this. Ginger ale. Toast. Not rye, not wheat, not white. Pumpernickel. Pumpernickel toast and soda forever. Yes, Candace. Yes, Candace. I’ll sleep. Don’t these people see me? A guard over my shoulder. Why? Going to hurt me? I’ll bury that gun in his ear. Then I’ll pull the trigger. First-person shooter. Only a game. That’s where I work. Only a Game. I won’t be there today. Don’t these people see me? They’re laughing
and laughing.

  Out on the street. Walking. A park, a path, a tree. Sobbing. Sobbing all over. Crying and crying, so I can barely breathe. Watering the tree, making it grow. Salty leaves. Salt everywhere. Salt drifts, saltmen, salt forts, saltball fights. Storms of salt, drowning cats and pigeons, pigeons forced out of the sky, saltfall, so hard. Sobbing that much. Can’t stop. Where are you? Candace? Please, just some ginger ale and toast, and I’ll sleep right here.

  A bad day. I have to get home. Six miles? I can do this. I’m not crying anymore. I’m not sleeping against a tree. I can walk and go home and sleep. I’m better now. Except for the saws, I’m fine. I have to walk.

  I’ll buy some ginger ale and pumpernickel and butter. I’ll be fine. Just get home.

  I can’t eat. I can’t drink.

  Sleep. I can’t sleep.

  Yesterday. A bad day. I feel as if I had my ass kicked. Everything hurts. All the energy taken up by a day like that. Every muscle fighting itself.

  Here I am at home. Ginger ale, butter, pumpernickel. I don’t even like pumpernickel.

  What did I do? Where did I go? I remember the hospital. I remember crying. I remember everything was purple. I must have bought soda and bread and butter. I don’t remember doing it. I remember the saws. Nothing else.

  Is it worth remembering?

  Your life is shaped by the end you live for.

  You are made in the image of what you desire.

  —Thomas Merton, Thoughts in Solitude

  ERIK

  The Beginning of the End

  I’VE WALKED THIS CITY enough. I’ve walked it enough for two people. So what? I know nothing, I understand nothing. I sit on park benches and rest next to lunatics. Bar-bar-bar-bar-Barbara Ann. Not so long ago, a man asked me if Jerry Lewis had died, whoever that is. He wasn’t too sure Jerry Lewis had died, so he wanted confirmation, a crucial want, it seemed to me. One man read the Bible aloud, even though he held it upside down.