by Loretta Lost
I must confess that I’ve had second thoughts about my decision a few times today. Now that the bliss and euphoria of being alone and having absolutely nothing to do is wearing off, I can’t help wondering how I will pass the time once I feel better. My fingers keep itching to design something, and I don’t know how I am going to force myself to just Netflix and chill the fuck out instead.
Maybe I will continue to design things—but won’t it drive me crazy not seeing them become real?
Running my hands over the dusty old photo album, I wonder to myself whether I should open it. I haven’t opened it in years, because I was in denial that Scarlett was really gone. I figured that if I started looking at old photographs, it was acceptance that I would never see her again.
Now, I found myself sitting here alone in the desert, wondering if I even really remember what she looks like. Sometimes I stare at strange women on the street, because they might have a feature of hers. Pale, clear blue eyes, or unnaturally jet black hair. I stare at them as they walk down the sidewalk, until they have walked far away.
When their backs are retreating from my line of sight, it is then that they look the most like my Scarlett. Sometimes, my chest swells up and I have to fight the urge to chase after them and call out her name.
Smiling derisively at myself, I unlatch the album and prop it open. I inhale sharply at the first picture of her, and I feel pain in my still slightly raw lungs. I am no longer coughing up blood, but my throat feels sore, like I’m recovering from a bad cold. Contrary to the notes in my journal, I have been eating healthy and getting enough nutrients to heal. Rubbing my neck subconsciously, I stare down at the album.
The photo is one I took of her for a school project. It was a windy day, and her hair is covering most of her face. But the striking blue of her eyes is visible, and it still makes my breath get stuck in my sore throat. I developed that film myself in a darkroom. What a useless class that was—if only they had known that film photography would go the way of the dinosaurs! But in the early 2000s, film photography was still what “real artists” did, and it was pretty cool to go through the extra effort.
As I flip through the album, I see more photographs of Scarlett trying very hard not to be photographed, and a few of us together. God, I was skinny back then. Regular gym time does wonders for a man’s body—I must have nearly doubled in size.
Scarlett basically looks the same in these photos as she did the last time I saw her. The only difference is the development of her fashion sense, ability to afford those fashions, and some new skill in styling her hair and makeup that she usually didn’t bother to use unless we had an important meeting to attend. The girl who used to walk around the house wearing one of my t-shirts and singing into a hairbrush looked the same at age twenty-three as she did at age thirteen.
I can’t believe I’ve known Scarlett so long that I took photos of her with film. It makes me nostalgic, and I wish I had some pictures of my parents, or pictures of myself from my childhood, but they were all destroyed in the fire. Mr. Bishop has some of me playing with his son in his family albums—those were taken as Polaroids in the early ’90s. Polaroids.
I can’t believe that I just said goodbye, for good, to some of my oldest friends. My family.
And I totally ghosted Scarlett.
What was I thinking?
Sighing and shutting the album, I reach up to flip off the light switch. I lie back down in the dark, with the images from the photographs fresh in my mind. Images of the life I used to have. It all seems so far away now.
I know I shouldn’t have asked Rodriguez’s goons to bring me this photo album. I should have left everything just as it was, as if I had really died. When people get murdered suddenly, they don’t usually have a chance to pack their photo albums in a carry-on for the afterlife. I kind of ruined the authenticity of my death with this tiny detail—but the album was locked away in a fireproof safe with other sentimental items, so I’m sure no one will notice its absence.
Except Scarlett. If she returns to the house, and carefully examines all of our belongings, she might notice the missing album. She’s a smart girl. The smartest girl I’ve ever met. Would that tiny clue be enough for her to figure out that I’m not really dead?
Did I leave that clue intentionally? Do I want her to figure it out?
No. Absolutely not. If she notices, she will probably just think I moved it to another part of the house. I don’t want her to figure out that I am alive. Ever. She stopped replying to my letters. She’s marrying some other guy. I’m already dead to her.
This is just a formality.
Sighing, I put the photo album aside and let sleep wash over me again. But with the photographs dancing across my brain, I know that I am going to dream of her. I try to push the dreams away.
I came out here to detox, to heal, and to truly, completely let go.
It will take some time. It won’t happen overnight. But very soon, I know that my mind and heart will be completely cleansed.
I will be renewed.
Chapter Six
My rebirth
Sleep is amazing.
I wish I could sleep on the side where I was shot without too much pain, or on my stomach without hurting my face, but I’m getting there. Regardless of the limited number of sleeping positions, and the limitations of a twin-sized mattress when I’m used to a California King, sleep is amazing.
Sleeping here, in my Nova, is amazing.
I don’t think I can adequately describe how peaceful this is.
Enclosed tightly in this pitch black, soundless safety bubble—it’s a pure, almost meditative experience.
I think that for the first time in my life, I can understand the allure of taking a monastic vow of silence. Who knew that silence was so precious? I suppose the monks did. Monks from almost every religion on earth, actually, value contemplative silence. There must be something to it. I guess that relinquishing all my earthly possessions except the NovaTank and a few things I absolutely need is sort of like a vow of poverty. Detachment.
A few times, I have ventured out of the Nova at night to stretch my legs, walking in small circles around my mobile home in the cold desert oasis. I was greeted with a stunning display of the Milky Way that was so powerful it nearly knocked me to my knees. It’s the closest thing to holiness that I’ve ever felt. I can’t even recall the last time I beheld the immense river of stars stretched across the night sky like this; it’s a glittering postcard from my past. I almost forgot it was there.
It is comforting, this celestial blanket wrapped around our little solar system. A reminder that we are all spinning, spinning, spinning, utterly insignificant and powerless.
I think that’s the problem with modern day America. Light pollution makes it impossible for eighty percent of our population to properly view the night sky—this makes it easy for us to lose touch with our origins. How can we truly understand what it means to be human anymore if we can’t look up and be reminded of ourselves? Many of us are becoming more machine than man. I know I was.
But that’s changing now. Sitting up in bed, I reach for a sweater to prepare myself for the cold desert nights. I am feeling the pull of the sky, and I am excited to go outside and walk around a little. Even if I only have enough strength for five minutes or less, that’s enough to touch my soul.
The galaxy is absolutely surreal. It vaguely reminds me of a spiral staircase I designed for a building in Barcelona. It is evidence that my job is completely unnecessary, and perhaps ridiculous. Tectonic plates created these perfect mountains, and this nearly magical geyser in my idyllic oasis. Gravity has shaped thousands of galaxies, and thousands of solar systems inside those galaxies. Each one is designed a little differently, but the basic bones of the blueprint are always the same. Nature already has enough art, mastery, and functionality. It doesn’t need me.
I guess I really am coming to terms with my retirement.
Smiling, I reach for my boots and tug them ont
o my feet. I never intended to retire before thirty, but I guess life had other plans for me. I’m just happy to be here, and I’m excited to see another exquisite clear sky outside my NovaTank.
Just gazing up at that giant arch across the horizon makes me feel humbled. It’s like the perfect vaulted ceiling, far superior to any of my favorite Byzantine era architecture. It teaches me how foolish I am, and makes me feel connected to parts of myself I forgot long ago. So long ago it predates my parents, my lifetime, my pain. It predates my ancestors, my species, my planet. I’m remembering the true scope of things.
In the few days I’ve been out here, I feel like my mind has expanded and relaxed. My whole perspective has been refreshed. Standing up and stretching my arms out slightly to prepare for my walk, I wince at the pain in my shoulder that radiates up my neck. But everything feels small now. I am beginning to feel different—if I might be so bold as to use this term, maybe even a little…enlightened.
When I started thinking in geological time instead of Google Calendar time, it became a lot easier to breathe. A lot easier to let go.
Someday, every skyscraper I’ve built will turn to rubble and eventually dust. Everything turns to dust, in the end. But I’ve done a great deal in my lifetime. Whether I’m dead or alive, my NovaTank might eventually be modified for use on the Moon or Mars, when people are finally able to expand their tiny reach. I’ve contributed to all of this. I gave all of myself that I could possibly give.
Now, maybe I deserve a little… serenity.
The word makes me feel light instead of heavy. Even though it’s Scarlett’s birth name, I am able to think of the concept without thinking of her, for the first time. It might be too soon to say for sure, but I really think that soon, I will be free of her. I will just be free, in general.
Opening the door of my NovaTank, I step out into the oasis. And I am struck by a few realities. I am struck by these realities fairly quickly, in rapid succession, or possibly all at once. If I try to break down the processing structure of my brain, the realities would probably hit me in this order:
#1. It is not night. It is glaring, blazing daytime, and I can’t see the stars I came out here to see.
#2. I guess pretending to be a hippie and not looking at a clock for days has caused me to lose track of time. That’s embarrassing.
#3. I’m not alone. There’s someone here. Someone is moaning loudly.
#4. Um, how the hell am I not alone? I am dozens of miles from any sort of civilization or even trails. Who could find me out here? Is it a crazy, lost wanderer? Should I get a gun?
#5. Actually, I just need to go back inside and shut the door. The Nova is a Tank after all, and has a built-in arsenal. I haven’t tested out the ammunitions aspect yet, and I was hoping to use it to score some wildlife for dinner. But self-defense could be a good field test, also. Not that I need to field test my product, because I’m retired now that I’m dead, remember? Get it together, Cole.
#6. It is a woman’s voice. She seems to be crying.
#7. I can’t see anything. Stepping out of the Nova from complete darkness and into the blinding sun was a gross miscalculation, and my eyes are still adjusting to the landscape as I shield them with my hand.
#8. I hope I don’t look like too much of an idiot, and I hope there isn’t another gun pointed at my head. You never know in rural America, and I’ve been riddled with enough bullets to reach my maximum lifetime comfort level of bullets colliding with my body. Yes, that’s a thing. Everyone has their maximum, and mine must be significantly lower than 50 Cent’s.
#9. I start closing the door and retreating into my Nova slightly. Getting shot isn’t fun. The mere thought is enough to make me want to slam this door and hide away in here for a year. If you think getting shot is cool, or heroic, or dramatic, think again. It fucking sucks. If there is any way you can possibly avoid getting shot, you should definitely do that instead of the alternative.
#10. The Nova’s door is nearly closed when I hear the woman speaking. She speaks one word, over and over in a whisper, between sobs. And I recognize her voice. And it sends chills down my spine. I do not close the door.
#11. Against all of my previous thoughts, reactions, and all of my arrogant ideas about “enlightenment” I swing the door wide open, because I don’t care if she has a gun. She can pump me full of bullets for all I care, I just want to look at her, and hold her, and assure myself that she is real. That she is here. I squint, trying to see better.
#12. Hey, how many painkillers did I have today? Is this really happening? It could be an opium dream. I think some of my painkillers are opioids.
#13. Shit! If this is an opium dream, I better move fast and give her a hug before she disappears.
#14. My vision is clearing up. Finally! I can make out an outline of her body, her dark hair… She is kneeling on the ground, crying into her hands. Her shoulders are shaking slightly.
#15. “Knock, knock,” she whispers, over and over again. “Knock, knock.”
I am no longer thinking clearly enough to know what the hell I am doing as I stumble forward. I come to a sharp halt standing above her, looking down in absolute shock as a lump forms in my throat. And I’m pretty sure it has nothing to do with my recent bout of poisoning.
“Scar,” I whisper hoarsely, reaching out to touch her hair. My hand stops a few inches away from her scalp, because I’m sure she’s going to disappear as soon as I make contact. That’s already happened in my dreams for several years, so I’m familiar with the plotline chosen by my sadistic subconscious psyche. It can’t fool me this time. I’m not going to touch her.
But as my vision grows even sharper, I begin to see other details that pique my interest.
Her arms are deeply reddened and sunburnt, like she has been outside all day. Scarlett’s skin is naturally very pale, and she burns easily. I have spent a lot of time slathering her delicate skin with a high SPF sunblock, because it was the only way she could go outside for an extended period without turning into an Oompa-Loompa.
I would say she is deep into Oompa-Loompa territory, and maybe even passed it entirely on the spectrum and graduated to the realm of boiled lobsters with Rudolph-noses. I notice some other details then, too. Her clothes are dirty and damaged, like she has been walking for a while and she has fallen many times. Her body is bruised, and her hair is frizzy and unkempt. There’s even a twig in it.
Reaching out uncertainly, I remove the twig from her hair.
I stare at the twig in appraisal, and twist it between my fingers. It seems like a real twig. It feels like a real twig. It even smells like a real twig. Okay. I think this might actually be happening. And that would have to mean that she drove to my house to look for me, and walked…
The lump in my throat grows bigger. She walked all this way…
“Scar,” I say again, tentatively touching some of the frizzy, flyaway hairs sticking up erratically from her head. I can feel the dry, coarse texture from years of hair dye, and the desert sucking away all the moisture and softness. She feels real. This is too real. “Scarlett,” I say again, as my heart begins to pound so violently that I fear I’m going to rip an artery open more efficiently than a bullet ever could.
She does not respond. She only shakes her head in refusal. She shakes her head vehemently, as if it is all too much to bear, and it is then that I know she feels exactly as I do.
I fall to my knees and wrap my arms around her body, crushing her against me. I bury my face in her hair as I hold her, swaying slightly from the dizzying emotions. Tears spring to my eyes and I can’t hold them back. None of the pain matters anymore. It hurts to breathe, and my shoulder is ablaze at the effort it takes to hold her, but I don’t give a damn.
She is crying against my chest, sobbing and clinging to me. I can’t believe she’s here.
“Honey,” I say, hoarsely, a term of endearment we don’t usually use. It feels awkward on my tongue, but I don’t remember exactly what to call her to show my aff
ection. “I never thought I’d see you again.”
“Why,” she breathes, choking on her words. Her voice breaks and mounts to a shriek. “Why the hell would you do this to me? Why the hell would you do this to me?!”
It occurs to me then, as I really begin to process the situation, that no one knows precisely where I am. They know I went to the cabin, but they didn’t know about the geyser dozens of miles away. Only Scar knew that. Also—my friends wouldn’t betray my confidence. I told them not to tell her that I was alive, and I am sure they kept it a secret. They are loyal and trustworthy.
So how did she find me? Was it the picture album? The lump returns to my throat. She must have actually thought I was dead up until this moment. I sort of feel like I have been dead for years, and somehow, in this moment, holding her is making me feel alive again. I release my grip on her body so that I can look at her. Wiping some of her black hair out of her face, I see that the whites of her eyes are heavily bloodshot. There are dark, puffy circles under her eyes, and her lips are cracked and parched. She looks desperately in need of sleep and water.
“I didn’t think you cared anymore,” I tell her softly.
“You asshole,” she mutters, clenching her palm into a fist. I don’t have time to blink before it collides with my jaw, making me wince.
“Hey, take it easy!” I say, holding up my hands in a gesture of peace and surrender. Luckily, she hit my good side, but the pain of the impact still spread throughout my face. “I might be alive, but I was still shot, you know.”
“I hate you,” she says tearfully, balling both of her hands up into fists as if she intends to beat the shit out of me.
Catching her wrists in my hands, I hold them fast to keep myself from being pummeled. I gently push her to the ground, and sit over her, using my own body to restrain her the way I used to when we wrestled as children.
