I see a miniscule magenta mark on his hip. More of a smudge, like a wax seal on an exclusive bottle of liquor. A small, rounded blemish with some random shadows within it. A strawberry birthmark of sorts. The kind he would've been glad to have hidden on his hip instead of on his face when he would've been a teenager.
I wait and expect to see black and brown crumbles when he's opened up. Something rotting noxious and barbed inside him. But his body sparkles clean with health, except for the luminous, semi-opaque, sticky substance clogging his tiny, rooted lungs. He died of asphyxiation. I take a spoonful of it and put it in a plastic bag that's marked “lungs”. Little, orange specs pepper the blob. I'll never learn what it is. Dr. M gets the final chemistry reports and doesn't share them with me.
Perhaps his mother concocted the substance to kill him with it. Or perhaps he somehow accidentally swallowed something he wasn't meant to. Maybe household cleaner. His death is not attributable to anything environmental. A rarity in these times.
I watch Dr. M as he works on the baby. Look for some hint of the mole incident or a shade of sadness. Does he feel what I feel. Does he have the same awareness I do. And I think I see a mirage in his eyes, but not enough to well up and flow down his cheek.
More and more, I'm beginning to read him, see a hint of the currents that run underneath. As if we were family sharing a room.
His name is Jamie. His laugh draws me in, keeps me company. I don't feel so alone. And I adore him. The way his Adam’s apple shimmies a little when he talks. The way he directs all his attention to me when we're together - physical, emotional and mental. He sees me. I feel soaked through with warmth around him. He is my sun and I'm beginning to rotate around him. Slowly, as we spend time together, I go beyond polite, acceptable small talk and say what I really think about the world and various topics. I share my observations with him. And he ruminates over them in his mind thoughtfully. Whether or not he agrees with me, he accepts my voice and mind. Doesn't try to smother it or outdo it with machismo or competitive feelings. This is something for any woman, especially a shy one.
His serene presence settles me. He's so easy and bright, a breeze on a warm day, a happy, surfer cool. The way mother describes the surfers and hippies of the past. How did he come to be that way? Is it genetics or parenting? Is it from a lifetime of smooth, paved everything's? I don't fret over the world when we're together, don't sink as much into dark, coagulated, curdled thoughts. He is the light to my night. The one I want to serve and kiss softly.
MAKING IT SOLITARY
I hear dense plop plops through the window. I crane my head to hear the foreign sound better. The plush, lush sound doesn't echo, it lands solid sloppy. It can't be, disbelief overcomes me. I run to the window with my mother and we stare incredulous and speechless. It is raining hard. Torrential drops of clear water fall like mana from heaven.
The dust flakes thicken and muddy the streets before the torrent of rain sweeps them away down old street drains that sat powder dry from drought.
We watch and marinate the event in our minds and hearts, in silent reverie. Like the days when the pin bursts flowered in the air. I open the window wide, as far as it can go to capture the scent and humidity. That rain forest atmosphere where moisture swirls deliciously around you, swaddles and envelopes you with the perfume of earth and water. A calm balm.
Slowly, it fades. Our hopes subside, ebb away in a foamy tide that becomes thin and straight as it backs away from you. I say goodbye quietly, my hand on the window screen, longing to draw it back with a furling hand motion.
I can't remember the last time. Maybe a few years or so. Definitely before.
The sky clears and reveals a vivid blue and a sparkling disc of yellow sun. It looks technicolor, hyper saturated, the stuff of dreams and films because we haven't seen it in so long. It is our desirous hallucination projected onto a dome. People trickle out of their homes to absorb it. They pack the street, all their little heads tilting upwards in unison. Some stand unblinking and stoic, letting the sun's rays fall on their starved skin. A few cry tears of joy and sadness. Our temple leader will have a field day with this at today's sermon. He'll take credit for it and espouse the power of our sun prayer. Power and megalomania will power through his veins and amp him up to higher heights so he can make bolder claims. So he can vaingloriously consolidate and grow his influence.
I run down the stairs and onto the streets without my mask. I start to jog and then run. No one seems to notice. I laugh out loud in surprise and delight, look at the sky as I run faster and faster through our neighborhood. I run directionless, my legs cycling quick and agile. My heart pumps and thumps in my chest, it has been so long. The sun warms me so I begin to sweat, it has been so long. A cool breeze flutters past my face and body as I slice through it. All the freedom sensations return home. The royal blue sky and shining sun hover afar in the distance like a lighthouse showing how far you have to go.
My lungs swallow and gulp the clean air, the running helps them soak up as much as possible. I am a sponge, hungrily absorbing the liberation, the air, the sky, and the sun before it goes away. Before we return to our famine full of gray, deadened senses. Someone behind me has begun to run too. They understand it's a way to soak up as much of it as possible. I alternate between laughing and crying. It's all so overwhelming, something in me crashes down, good or bad I don't know. It's a relief, the kind where you fall uncontrollably to your knees once you've been saved or given a reprieve. My heart bursts with happiness, it's too large to wrap myself around. I don't want to think about when the gray feathers will begin to fall again, any time soon I'm sure. I will tell Jamie I ran today and sopped up everything I could, all that explosive joy. He will understand.
Today, I saw another unicorn. Another body untainted by the environment. Usually bodies untainted by the environment are those of older, wealthy citizens. I assume wealthy because they would have been able to afford the expensive systems to make their whole life air-tight, untouchable.
He was in his twenties, overweight, actually fat. His whale of a pale body flopped open on the tundra of the table, glowed under the surgical saucers. The burgundy and purple bruises around his neck stood out against the porcelain white of his skin. He had been strangled. Murdered. Someone hated him so much, had such a rage for him that they strangled him, watched his light go out. Marks from the killer's thumb remained on the neck.
What did he do to cause this? Or how did his life become entangled with someone so deranged and inconsolable? Was anyone waiting for him when this happened? Did anyone love him? What was the animus? I wish I could delve into these lives and witness them. Put the puzzle pieces together and hold a magnifying glass to human nature and all its variations. All its struggles to survive, all its turns and revolutions. The palatable and vinegary words. I know some things never change. I assume jealousy, hatred, competitiveness, anger, happiness and love have existed throughout time's narrative. But when did those emotions actually come into being? When did cells feel that first sear of emotion. Emotions push us towards survival. Have they evolved or become stunted in present day? Or are they the same, but simply masked by the unique factors of our time? Hate is hate, now and back then. Love is love. Stars will always shine against the black. But only now, we can't see them.
We saw no damage inside when he was opened. Like the baby boy. His lungs were unaffected by the toxic dust.
His face rested on a look that was neither peaceful nor fearful. He looked ill at ease, as if he were holding in a burp or fart. His large, beak of nose crested atop his face and gave it a strong, demonstrative profile. His full lips grimaced. His small, thin ears nestled against his bald head. A small, round, red tattoo of a symbol resembling a coin with a man's profile and unreadable inscriptions rested on his inner thigh. His aura scattered finely around him, serious and sad. If he were thinner he would've had a brooding, cinematic look, someone not handsome, but of weighty mystery and consequence. The one you willingly follow int
o hell. But the fat made him look ordinary, that plain, generic slate most people reflect.
I spoke to Dr. M today. Addressed him directly. Asked him a question. I never do this. I asked what happened to the baby. What was the substance? I needed to know so I could have closure, lay it to rest in my heart and mind. He stopped in his tracks, continued to look down into the chest, but he froze. I don't think he's allowed to tell me much of anything. Or maybe he's a haughty, elitist man who thinks I'm below him and doesn't deserve to know. The fear raced through me, all the way to the back of my brain where it prickled because there was nowhere else for it to go. Are there repercussions for asking? I think so. I wanted to take back the words, rewind time.
He coughed an unintelligible word without looking up. It sounded like “not”. Then he paused for a second before going back to work on disconnecting the heart. Making it solitary.
HAIR-THIN SEAMS
He sleeps a lot. Into an unknowable valley out of this world. As if all his brightness sapped his battery, and he needed recharging in another dimension. When he takes a nap, like now, I watch shows, wander through his spacious apartment, look at all the books he has, or cook something. It seems odd that such a sunny character would be bookish and profound. Usually those types seem distant and mousy, unable to physically thrive much less shine. But that is a side of him you can only know by entering through a hidden door with imperceptible, hair-thin seams, the kind mentioned in mystery riddles. The kind found by fingertips slowly roaming across the wood grain.
Fiction and history books tower in his living room and bedroom in crooked stacks. He prefers the real form over the digital. The majority of people don't read long form things like books. They read digital magazines and short form stories, and they view holograms. In school we were taught by lecture, videos and holograms. Book stores are rarities and information on the country internet is mostly in the form of concise articles, drawings, and short holograms and videos. It is the easy, effortless consumption of air. Unlike the tiny grit of old paper, the quiet rustle and flipping of the page, the ridged spine held in the cradle of your palm, the faint, buttery odor of rooms the book has traveled through. And the transmission of long form knowledge through symbols that mean nothing when alone, but everything when put together page after page.
I run my finger over a peach-beige shell that spans his long, outstretched hands and graceful fingers. Feel its uneven, chalky ridges and pointed spires, the glassy, smooth interior that curves in on itself. It's been so long since I've seen the aqua marine ocean, smelled its salty, steamy dew. I hold it to my ear and hear an eternal echo, the ocean froth forever receding, pulled by the moon.
“That's from my childhood. It's the only thing I brought from my parent's home,” he says.
“I miss it. I really do. Don't you? I can't even explain how much. I mourn it,” I say.
“Let me take you somewhere like it.”
“No, no, that's ok.” It's too much. No one has ever wanted to take me away. I could only wish, but now it's too much. I need to look away. His head leans to one side as he studies my profile. He's seeing a new expression on my face for the first time. I wish I could see myself through his eyes, but then I don't because I'd be appalled.
He pulls me in, covers my neck with encouraging kisses. He knows what I'm thinking, and I know that he'll plan it anyway. And to be honest, that's what I love about him. He knows how to pave the way for me and lead me down the path, even if I don't feel worthy.
He comes from money. The kind made from political connections. The kind passed from father to child and from friend to friend with a slick knowing and an unspoken understanding of how the system works. How to preserve the wealth so it perpetuates far into the future. His father, now retired, was a high-level member of the state's cabinet. And his mother was the brains and strength behind him, the clever, unsung hero and strategist. They made a very lucrative living after he held office with speaking engagements, media deals, consulting projects, and exchanges with various think tanks. His influence towers over the conservative party even though he's now retired. Jamie plays it off well without being dismissive of them. He clearly loves them and enjoys the perks of being their only child since that's all he's ever known. But now, he also enjoys this new style of life and has for the last few years. It's the life of an airy bohemian and an intellectual who never has to worry about how to make the rent check. He is an artist of life as he slow paints his way through the experience of being unbound by anything. Part of me envies that, and part of me pities it. And yet another part of me is neutral and indifferent, prefers to look away.
He lives a life that is optimized in every sense of the word, yet without much effort on his part. He takes very expensive, pharmacy-grade vitamins every day that claim to counteract the dust. He lives in a large condominium in a city where space is a precious resource, and it is owned by his parents, bought and paid for free and clear. He can purchase any book or artwork he wishes to expand his mind. His designer food is delivered every week, his mother makes sure of it. And through all of this, he doesn't act spoiled or pretentious, higher than me or anyone he knows. Why did he choose a life of free thinking and intellectualism over a life of being groomed and ushered into a power role? Is it a way of experiencing the “ghetto”? Just for kicks? Am I the ghetto woman he gets to experience and reminisce about later when he's older and married to someone more appropriate? Have his parents told him it's OK to slum around for a few years, but then it's back to the business of building family wealth and connections? This is my big worry, that I'll burn as I fall deeper and deeper into his sun.
We haven't slept with each other. Yet. I spend some nights over, but not too many because I don't want to leave mother alone. She doesn't say it because she doesn't want to bother me, but I can tell her health is failing. I don't know what it is, but she's frailer, whiter, thinner. And though she is frailer, she is happier too. All for me. She's so exuberant and giddy about me finding someone as kind as him. I haven't told her about his background, only that he's a good person and that he complements me well. They talk about various light topics when he picks me up, and he always tells me after we've left my apartment how kind and gracious she is. Not a mean bone in her, he says. It's a mutual admiration society between them.
The lump of coal before us crumbles gritty and dry. Desiccated by time, dust, the loss of hope. The inability to fight onward. I can almost see particles on the top surface dissolve into the air as it rests before us, like fairy dust. Most likely this man, cut open on the steel table, lived on the streets, or a place where he had constant exposure to the dust.
His thin, white skin peels and puckers. The hard, grey-pink flesh rests behind the transparent, chiffon of skin, which drapes like the thinnest wedding lace. The areas that were covered by clothing are a little better, thicker and soaked with humectant, more identifiably human.
Dr. M cut into him cautiously to avoid applying too much pressure. It's obvious what the cause of death is here, but nevertheless we have to perform our methods of inquiry to follow the madness to the core.
The ribs cradle the insides, which are cratered, thorny, charcoaled. A hilly, barren landscape of sharp, blackest black coral. We try to find the area that succumbed to the dust first, but it's difficult because all the organs are at the same stage. Beyond the point of no return.
Dr. M stops peering and looks at me directly. Straightens his back. I freeze, unaware of what I've done. Perhaps I've touched something I wasn't supposed to. I wait. Stare back directly as I gather my courage and stand tall to show him that I am his equal. What do you want, I think. He looks down and uses an instrument to tap once on the rib closest to the neck. Then taps the third one down. Then the eighth one, as if playing a musical instrument. The camera behind him can't see this. I cock my head to the side to show I don't quite understand. First, third, and eighth rib. I don't know what it means. I keep my face neutral in case it's seen by the camera, to show we're working as usual. He b
egins again, taps on the first rib. Pauses, then taps on the third one, which cracks open and exposes its airless, hollow cave. The insides have been devoured by our plague. The long line of black-grey bone could be elegant if it were from a prehistoric animal found in desert sediment. He's forgotten how splintery this man is. That games must be played on solid ground for them to have a chance.
One. Three. Eight.
Does it stand for letters? A, C, H?
My mind spins round and round as he resumes his work. His movements jab quicker and more curt than usual, indicating his frustration at my stupidity or something else.
I rifle through all the possibilities. Is it related to the man on the table?
Is it a time? What is supposed to happen at 1:38?
Is it a code to a hidden door?
It ignites a trail of gun powder through my mind, this message, direct from the other. The one from the other side.
SNEAKY POOR PERSON
He lies in bed and reads a tattered book with large black, capital letters on the cover when I enter the bedroom. I've let myself in with a key he's given me. I drop my things to the ground and crawl into bed with him, snuggle into the warmth under the curve of his shoulder.
“What're you reading?”
“Mein Kampf. It means, my struggle.”
“What's it about?”
“It's something a guy named Hitler wrote. Have you ever heard of him? Do you remember learning about him in school? I don't really.”
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