Free Beast
Page 18
I think of their schedule and how to avoid them. I want no part of them, specifically half-corpse man. When do they go to the family room? Is it an hour after dinner? When is that exactly.
“Dear...” safe house mother says kindly.
“Sorry, I didn't hear you. What were you saying?”
“Is there anyone you want to contact at all?”
I shrug no.
“Surely there's someone you want to talk to? Let them know you're safe?”
“No.”
“I want you to know you're safe here and welcome to use the phone any time.”
“Thank you. I appreciate that.”
She is so insistent. I have to wonder if the phones are tapped or traced. Why she wants me to reach out to the world so badly. Or perhaps she is just very kind and I am very untrusting. I can't tell what is the truth and what is not, like I used to... somewhat... What is up and what is down. Everything twists topsy turvy.
I'm slowly attempting to redraw myself, find my core, the very center of me. Once I find that I'll know what is up and what is down, it'll serve as a reference point in a spinning, slipshod world. I find myself plotting and planning. I will find a job in town, a small place of my own or roommates. Maybe I can even meet friends. But before that I'll have to think of everything I've experienced: Jamie, Danita, Dr. M, the torture. I'll have to make peace with it, learn what I can, but force myself to move on. It's all easier said than done, I know. I try. Force. Push my zombie self forward when I want to lay still and be swamped forever in the past, the injustices of life, how I would do things differently, that stasis of memory and feeling and wishing.
The pain I know is the only thing I know. You don't know what you don't know - what life is like without pain and yearning. I read that somewhere and it applies to me right now a hundred times over. Perhaps dreamy woman across the hall is in her own stasis as well, of memory, feelings and wishes. Perhaps most of us are to some degree. It's a fine, intricate balance. Life is.
Mother and father tumble roughly down a grassy hill under skies that haven't woken up yet, still a groggy, heavy mess of spilt paint water. They suffer bumpy somersaults, rolls, angled flips, contorted necks and arms. Limbs flailing, unable to stop. Forever and ever, like thrown grenades rolling and rolling.
We watch with wide, unblinking eyes and wait for the blinding flash.
I awake with a start, sitting straight up. I'm losing them, what they looked like, how they spoke. My memories of conversations are just words now, barely any yawning sound, just text, meaning and conjecture. And then I'll remember something random... father's lowered, naked tone bulging with regret. Off key and loosed without proper form. Ragged with apology. That's the last one... and it will recede too.
A ROOTING
He's sort of trapped me against the computer in the family room. I've just finished searching the sites for jobs and switched it off. I turned and there he is. Rotten tobacco scent wafts up from his dry, brown-stained fingers. His middle-aged lines sink into his ashen face. It's as if blood flow hasn't reached it in many years. He's the one who lives next to safe house mother downstairs. Been here for ages.
“Do you know where?” He asks.
“What did you need?”
“Do you know where to get more rolling papers?”
“No, I don't smoke.” I start to get up, but he maintains his hovering position over me. I sit back down and wait passively, hearing the young couple fight upstairs. He only hits at night, but they sometimes shout during the day. The young man yells something fierce and cruel, and I flinch uncontrollably. The middle-aged man doesn't notice or doesn't care.
“I used to get it from... the three old wise men.” He emphasizes the last part, lording over me.
I sit there silently, unemotional and self-involved. I don't want to give anything, not attention, not even words. I don't have the energy to fight or untangle miscommunications.
“Do you know the three old wise men?” He studies my face carefully as he asks. He tries to detect an underwater fracture, a small leap of flame. Something I'm don't know.
“No.”
“I think the three old wise men might know you. You are a smoker.”
“No. Now, if you don't mind, I want to go. I don't know who they are.”
He steps aside so I can leave and as I climb the stairs to my room I realize the phrase was a code he used to use. He wants to know who else knows it. Perhaps he wants to go back to his previous life. Perhaps he's a spy for the government. Or perhaps he was told to search that out when he got to the home. Like me with the black tooth.
And for some reason I realize that maybe Jamie was here before me. It stings me something sharp. I have to sit on the top stair to steady myself, itch the curiosity. Was he here? Could he be alive? It was about two weeks between when he was arrested and I was. Could he have found a job that soon and moved out? It's not likely, but I desperately want this illusive hope.
Safe house mother would know, but I don't know how to ask without giving my identity away. Would someone else know? Dreamy woman? Would she let others know that I asked? I have to find a way. I must.
Come on Jamie. Come back to me. Come back to me. My eyes close tightly, my breath rises and falls serenely in sloping waves. The foliage outside flaps against the window.
Jamie.
Calm, serious, a rooting into the deep other side. But it's a flat line. Nothing but a singular bird whistling high above. Then guttural babbling from a free, undisciplined throat and tongue, a young one fiddling its wet voice.
I see a flash of the back of his head. The dot of skin where the beautiful, delicate whorl of hair begins to grow and fasten around the skull. A mass of springy, blonde curls, then the gradual fade of hair to neck, how soft and fine. How I loved to caress that curve of head then slide down towards his neck. How my fingers cradled that globe.
I worry I may forget him. Not what we did, but the sensual things. His smell of salt, pepper and wood. How it surprised me because he looked so ethereal. I expected airy sweetness. The smoothness of his skin. Feel of his round, puffy pillow of cheek against mine. His warm embrace, how secure it made me feel.
It's all burning away with time.
Safe house mother leaves for the day, and I volunteer to cook dinner. Nothing man offers to help. We stand in the kitchen looking through the fridge, brainstorming meal ideas. I think jokingly that he must want to eat air. Or just vegetables. We both agree on a meat and vegetable dish and I begin chopping the root vegetables into bite-sized pieces. He starts up the water to boil and the frying pan for searing the meat. I'm still chopping when he sidles to my side, his eyes surveying the area discretely. No one is nearby, no one in the family room next door. He leans in close for a second, I stop chopping, worry about this surprising advance, this surprising touch of carnality. A small fright crawls in, I don't know what to expect. The meat sizzles loudly, and he whispers in my ear, cleaning slippery. It's powdery, as if I had imagined it. As if clouds of flour had escaped his lips. And he steps back and motions to the meat, as if pretending he mentioned something about the cooking time.
I look down at my fingers, not knowing how to respond. My fingernails haven't started to grow back. They're just stumps. I remember to go along with the make-believe and look back at the frying pan and nod. Is this a trick of some sort. Is this up or down. My subconscious begins to careen. I step towards the frying pan, stand next to it, watch the translucent flesh beginning to come-to into something definitive. A leap of oil lands on his shirt, the fleck grows into a wet misshaped birthmark on the beige.
He says quietly, pointing at the meat, Titan's Cross in Gahn, Tuesday, 2pm. I have to lean in to hear. He's worried about being videotaped or recorded. But the meat sizzles loudly and the boiling water bubbles over, crashing into the flame with bluster. It all covers him.
And I go back to chopping, making it sound loud, imposing and defiant like marching orders.
Tuesday. Two days away.
BORN AMIDST
I've told safe house mother to relax in the yard, that I'd love to cook another meal. The mechanics, the chopping and stirring, it calms me. Puts my mind in the moment, a purring groove. I've become accustomed to our routines here, as if we were some sort of family. The young, abused woman is on the computer in the family room looking for jobs. Dreamy woman is up in her room reading, waiting to be called to dinner as a young child would. Corpse-like man is the odd grandparent who doesn't say much. The scary one with stories no one ever asks about. Through the kitchen window, I watch the cars glide by, note how the tree in front sways languid. It's all a translucent front for family life.
I remember that I have a cup and dish in my bedroom that need to be washed. I'm in a rush to get them from my desk when I catch a glimpse out my window, which overlooks the garden in back. And I see safe house mother in my garden plot. She stands there with hands on hip, looking around. The breeze blows her hair lopsided. She kneels on her hands and knees and begins to gingerly dig under the tiny buds that have sprouted. She becomes fervent and desperate, as if searching for something worthwhile in the damp. Something worn close to the heart.
My gut sets. I knew it. She's one of them. The fear buzzes me sick. I'm slow and thick, as if life had been zapped out of me.
Everything is not what it seems. It never was.
It's back to the underside.
Later, she returns to set the table and mentions how beautiful the sunlight looks at this time of day.
“I realized something yesterday. I always knew, but not really...“
We watch nothing man with blank faces and hearts. The room settles as the sun streams in, landing on the floor in long, rectangular patterns.
“I'll never see my family again.” My eyes follow the length of sun on the carpeting, to the edge of sofa, up his gangly, resting legs and to him. His face morphs from ether to reality, a presence in the here and now. Raw with reckoning.
“And it... ruins me.” He begins to weep quietly, looking at his feet, the sadness quaking through him in small tremors. It's silent but for the sound of his sniffles and mumbling, those quiet signals of pain.
“I'll never... see them again.”
I can feel his presence inside me, my empathy reaching and embracing. The bits of himself scattering, a loneliness. Without shelter. The longing to belong, to drop and moor. Cling onto mother as a toddler instinctively does. And I wish I could be an angel to him.
It's about four miles away, an hour walk. Not the first town nearby, but the second. How did he know I had the black tooth. Did it track me here. Is that how he knew? What is this safe house really for. I search for the esoteric constellation for how he and I came to be here. And I find bits and pieces of a maze but not the ultima. What will he tell me. Will he tell me about Jamie? About a new life? Or will he kill me. I turn back to see if anyone follows.
It's all clear... the bright, silver day, the green, wild hedges with needle-tipped thorns. Mist instantly evaporating into light. A secret sublimating. Born amidst all this.
CONDUIT
The town stretches wider than the one closest to us. I walk systematically through each row of road, back and forth. My eyes search the charming buildings and signs while being led astray by the fine imprint thrown by the tree's leaves. The black, intricate patterns flower rapturous, wild and beautiful all around me. They're a reverie of dream under lyrical canopy. I'm reminded of the time I searched for the black dot. How that started it all. This is another chapter, but I don't know where it leads. Whether to a staleness or heroics or death. My logical side hopes for Jamie, which isn't very logical, I know.
I see it hidden in a corner. A pine green and black wooden building. An old and faded hotel, grand with history. Gray, veiny marble and brass filigree decorating the steps and wide door. Titan's Cross.
I walk in and an expansive lobby unfolds before me. Glossy wood paneling, workers preening in stiff wool, navy suiting. Expensive, beige stone floors so clean you can eat off of. Exotic palms planted in pots the size of a round dining table. I expected grunge and strange, critters that never see the light of day. I snuggle deeper into my hood to obscure my identity from the overhead cameras. There's a group in their young-twenties laughing and prankstering. Their body language carries itself carefree without pretense, urgency or coyness. The hormones create excitement in the air as they joke and guffaw. And their faces are kind and open, unmolested by anything rotten. No angst. They create a commotion and movement I can hide behind.
I don't want to seem odd by walking around so I stand and survey the area while looking at a directory, peeking at every nook and cranny, every doorway, archway, and pathway to find something that leaps out. I don't see anything. I don't see nothing man. One or two workers eye me briefly knowing I don't belong.
The hall to the restroom is the only one I haven't explored from my vantage point. I walk towards the sign and enter. There's one entrance for the men's and women's room. And I can see it splits into two separate rooms further in beyond the cameras. And right before the entry way, I see a sign. CLOSED FOR CLEANING – SLIPPERY WHEN WET. I laugh softly, inwardly.
I walk into the women's side, search each beautifully crafted beige marble stall. It's all gleam and mirrors and polished minerals. A cold subterrane to do private things in, to whisper sweet-nothings in. I find nothing, just light pinging off icy surfaces, piercing my eyes.
I walk into the men's side and do the same. A janitor's cart hides in the corner. When I come to the largest stall at the end I see the familiar, run-down shoes peeking, winking. I knock.
He lets me into the stall where he stands tall, not stooped like he is in the home. And he shows me a broad smile, it's a gift. He is real and present. Not airy, not a saint. But a live, brick of human. He ushers me in, locks the door behind me, his janitor's uniform draping loosely around his slim frame like a sagging flag. He removes his gloves with care and tidiness.
“If someone enters, we're lovers.” He waits until I nod my understanding. “The black box. May I?”
I lean back against the stall, my head tilting up. He puts his hand on my shoulder to steady me. I open my mouth, feel the sticky pull and tug.
And he shows it to me. It's still shiny and gelatin-like. He wipes it on his pant leg and bends down to pick up a black bag from the ground.
“Wait,” I say. I need to know some things first. I squeeze his arm so he knows I'm serious.
He stops, realizing that I'm there. That he needs to deal with me first before dealing with his agenda. His back straightens, his hand drops the bag. And he faces me, straight and righteous. Palms open.
“Ask me.”
“How long have you been at the home?”
“A month or so.”
“Was there a guy there? Before me? With blonde hair, blue eyes, lean body.” I'm urgent.
“No,” he shakes his head. Sees the sadness in my eyes and knows that I'm asking about a loved one. “Sorry, no.”
I feel a death slam inside. It's an unbroken answer. I need a moment to grieve. No, after this... I need to hold it together here. Here.
“What is this about?” I ask. I'm confused about the black box, what it is, what it symbolizes, what he's trying to do with it. I'm a conduit for something and I don't know what.
“This...I believe it's proof of something... we could never imagine.”
“Proof of what?”
“Something we're not to know about.”
“Nothing is as it seems.”
We nod in unison.
He pauses. “There are rumors. About the unethical.”
“How did you get involved. Did a group reach out to you. I want to know what group is involved.”
“No group. Someone just asked me to help.”
“Who do you know? Who asked you?” I want to ask if he knows Dr. M but don't want to give myself or him away.
“A friend. A good one.” His eyes flash with a sad hint of memory. An overcast
back story with body language hidden in shadow.
He pulls a tablet and extension out of the black bag. Inserts the black box into the extension, which he inserts into the tablet. His movements act angular and precise here, not like the stardust at home.
How long does he have? He enters a multitude of codes in crisscross entry points and we're in.
CURL INTO
A jet-black screen. No movement, no silhouette.
A smattering of agile footsteps rattling like rain on a roof.
Robo voices recite nonsensical codes. Young children repeat them and learn.
46-N-Y-1
33-L-Q-34
3-S-K-55
Then the elucidations.
Stab. Stab. Stab.
Strangle. Strangle. Strangle.
Shoot to kill.
The children repeat and incorporate them into memory. Their high, wee voices not lifting or lowering. Flattened to follow. Eerie one-tone chirping.
Then silence. I imagine them viewing silent movies that show the actions.
Strangling. Aiming for the heart. Knifing. Twisting the spinal cord at the neck.
All the infinite ways to seize the light.
To teach action without consequence.
To not value life.
It's dark when I'm back. Quiet, and all the bedroom doors are closed. The aroma of dinner still falters in the air. This is my favorite time, when the action has settled and innuendos of it still hang in the rooms, like calico patterns of intentions and conversations flowering in my mind. Nothing man sleeps away some nights and now I know why. His job gives him accommodations after a long shift. He'll have to be extra careful to hide everything.