Corona of Blue

by Berntson, Brandon

  ~

  We’ve made it through several drinks, and it has gotten easier to talk, at least about this. I don’t know why I’ve told George. It doesn’t make sense, and I feel this incredible shame come over me. I feel sick and relieved at the same time. I will regret telling him later. I can already feel it.

  Horror girl, brought back from yesteryear. Demons of your past have reached up with tentacles of flame and padded your brain with true love. The moment you go insane is when the end will come.

  That must be now, I think.

  I feel I’ve lived in a padded cell my whole life. Nothing changes but the dark and destruction. Even I cannot pen words of make believe. It’s been too easy to get over lately. Stars move in and out, crossing back and forth. In the end, the light has changed to dark, and I feel myself getting smaller and smaller.

  These thoughts keep coming back to me. I don’t realize how unequivocal it is. It just happens.

  Lucky me, I think, and grab my drink off the table.

  I realize how hard it’s been. I’m only good in small groups. I don’t go out and socialize. I am trying to come to grips with who I am and why and what the universe has been trying to tell me. But it hasn’t been easy. Is this normal? Does everyone have this going on inside of them? If so, why do I feel so alone? Why do I feel so locked inside myself? How can I get over it and become someone else, someone new? What does it all mean?

  I know I’m asking too many questions, most of which I don’t have the answers to, but that’s okay. I like it better this way. It gives me a reason to stay mad just a little while longer. I mean, what the hell do I care? It’s only my mental state we’re talking about. People live without it all the time.

  I take a deep breath.

  “Do you feel better?”

  “I don’t know,” I say, looking at Junky. He is prowling, inspecting pictures and plants. He rubs his whiskered nose against an end-table. “I kind of feel worse.”

  This is who you are, I think. That doesn’t make me less beautiful. It doesn’t make me ugly. At least, this is what I’m trying to convince myself of.

  If you tell anyone, I swear to God, I’ll fucking kill you.

  Another shiver moves through my nerves. I am hurting and crying all over. I wish I could just be someone else, something else, stronger, better, BIGGER.

  “I think you should introduce me to Lewis,” George says.

  I look at him and wonder why he would say that, but for some reason…

  “I think that’s a great idea,” I say.

  He nods and smiles. He looks at the wall, staring at something only he can see. I get the impression George knows more than he’s telling.

  ~

  In a split second, I see George’s apartment covered in blood. I look over at Junky and imagine him dead. I can see him with his throat cut. I shake my head, the brandy swirling through the chaos of my mind. I can’t tell if it’s making it more chaotic or smoothing out the chaos. As long as it takes me into the darkness of sleep, that’s all that matters. George has retrieved a box of Kleenex, and I am pulling them out one by one, my hand stuffed.

  “I’m so sorry, George,” I say, in a nasally whine.

  I’m ashamed to look at him, my face a swollen, pale, red-eyed, mangled plum.

  “It was bound to happen,” he says. “I think it’s been leading up to this, everything in your life. Something happened to you; something is obviously happening now. I don’t think you really had any control over it then. Obviously. You couldn’t have prevented it.”

  I close my eyes.

  “I got in a fight when I was a boy,” George says. “Hospitalized him. Justin Fonteneu. He was okay. But I broke his jaw, his nose, and gave him a concussion when he hit the pavement. Then, I kicked him.”

  I looked up.

  “Kids can be mean little bastards when they want to be,” he said. “I wasn’t proud of it. I was probably nine. But I was big even then. He said something about my mother, so I…rocked his ass.” He looks over at me. “But I could have killed him. They had to drain blood out of his brain. I saw him again during the war.”

  My world toppled, and I did not think about anything.

  Through a thick voice, I say, “During the war?”

  “During my turn to watch. I almost always saw him. He would sit with his back against a tree and pull his helmet off, handing it to me. His brain was always inside the helmet. Every time, his helmet was full of brains and blood. But it was only a little kid sitting with his back against a tree wearing army fatigues, a little boy with a rifle slung over his shoulder. I thought maybe it was something in the grass we smoked.” He looked over at me and raised his eyebrows as if, of course, how could I believe that?

  “What did you do?” I ask.

  “Told him to go away. Shut my eyes. Sometimes it worked; sometimes it didn’t.”

  I do not know what to say. I look down and stare at the rug.

  “The point is, it ended. Somehow. With the war. When I came home. I would get these visitations from him. My wife witnessed it a few times, my seeing him, not her seeing him, of course. I think that might be what drove her away. I don’t know. I don’t know how it related unless it was guilt. But it ended. I told him I wouldn’t put up with it anymore, and if he didn’t leave, I really would pull his brain out of his head a second time.”

  I still don’t know how to respond to this. How come I didn’t talk to George earlier?

  “But that doesn’t seem like this,” George says. He grabs my glass and refills it from the kitchen. Junky is trying to steal George’s seat, but we’ll see how long that lasts. George comes back from the kitchen and hands me another brandy. I warm it and take a sip. I don’t realize how much I need it, and I drink the rest, taking a deep gasp after the fire spreads through my throat.

  Maybe George is trying to tell me there are two realities. I don’t know what he’s trying to tell me. Could it be I’ve brought all this to life from some dark corner of my mind? Is that why I’m reacting this way?

  I would have to disagree, Carmilla says. Tell that to Pug, to the bum on the street. Tell that to Janeen.

  The thought of Janeen sends a shiver through me. I’m trembling and don’t know how to stop. The drink is empty, and George makes me another.

  “Better take it easy on this one,” he says.

  I nod and let it sit on the table beside me. He takes his chair after Junky protests, but Junky jumps back onto George’s lap.

  “I don’t think this is going to go away that easily,” I say to George.

  He nods and looks over at me. He has pulled out a cigar and is rolling it between his fingers under his nose.

  “No,” he says. “I don’t think it’s going to go away so easily, either. This is different.”

  A long pause fills the space between us. We are reflecting on caged demons running in circles in our brains.

  “What do you think we should do?” he asks. He has already included himself.

  I see blood again for a split-second. It washes over my vision, as if a piece of glass is lodged in my eyeballs. “I think I don’t want to get you involved. I’m scared for everyone around me, even my neighbors. I’m terrified, George.”

  “That’s okay, lassie,” he says. “I have to live for something, don’t I? So what’ll it be?”

  I think for a long time. I have no idea how this happened. I am so terrified. The abysmal darkness of the unknown opens up in front of me. It is getting bigger and bigger, more consuming, and I am stepping into it, because it will keep following me no matter where I go. It will never stop haunting me. So, what choice do I have?

  “I have to go home again, George,” I say. “I don’t know why. I don’t know when. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do when I get there. But I have to go home again.”

  He nods and lights his cigar, taking a few puffs to get it going. Gray smoke circles his head and rises to the ceiling. I love the smell; I have always loved the smell of cigar smoke.
>
  “Well,” he says. “Would you mind a little company?”

  I smile. What he says is answer enough. The only thing I can think of to say is, “I think Junky likes you more than me, George.”

  ~

  I think about you all the time, especially here and now. I think about the dreams you had of me, and it makes me want to stay.

  The wind hushes and whispers through the trees. Bandit is off looking for food. I am back home, at least for now, but I don’t understand where to go or what to do. Through sleep, I dream, I suppose, but the image doesn’t leave. I can’t make sense of it.

  There is no magic now; it is just me and the book of lies I’ve told. Janeen’s face looms at me in the dark. She is looking over her shoulder at me with an intense gaze. She has vengeance on her mind.

  The wind blows murderous around me, sending me here and there. My hair swirls around my head in a titanic fury. My eyes sting. Encircling me in a mad pillar of flight are roughly a hundred bats. It seems like a thousand and could easily be more, I suppose. I tell myself this because it makes it more interesting.

  Janeen is laughing, moving with the bats. Every so often, I get a glimpse of her face looking back and me, and the echo of her girlish laughter.

  How is she me, I think? I don’t understand. How can she possibly be me?

  There’s a frightening expression in all of us. We’re scared by different things. That’s what makes us unique.

  You let me kiss you. You let me touch you. You let me love you.

  “You imagined it all,” I say. “You were obsessed with me. You wanted to be me.”

  Was that so bad? To love and want to be like you?

  I ignore it. The bats are enough. I call for Bandit, and suddenly he is here. I am sitting down, hugging his neck as he stands and barks furiously at the bats and Janeen’s image. I close my eyes.

  Treasured glimpses of my past. There was magic even then. How come I didn’t see it?

  The world has turned against me. The darkness is like a gloomy movie theater. A soft blue glow is everywhere around me in the fields under the oak. Janeen is screaming in the fields, a hand over her mouth, muffling the sounds, a man’s heavy panting and breathing. His sweat-grimed face and stubble are rough against my cheek. I can hear all this loud and clear, smell it, oil, filth, body odor, myself.

  I scream against this image but nothing comes. She tells me everything is my fault, but I ignore this, too. I didn’t drag her out of her house. I did not force her to come over.

  I see her in school with her pink shoes and her pink and white shirt.

  The bats fall away and fly off in various directions under the moon and the stars. Janeen blows away with the wind, but I can still hear her fighting it:

  I will never stop loving you. I will always be here.

  Bandit sends off a few more final barks. I think about the pain of turning away Ricky Bradford. I wonder what he’s doing now.

  ~

  I open my eyes and am staring into the gloom of George’s apartment. The lamp is still on, and he has put a red and green afghan over me. I don’t realize I’ve fallen asleep. George is still sitting in the chair with the cigar in his mouth, petting Junky, who is curled up on his lap.

  “How long have I been asleep?” I ask.

  “About an hour,” he says.

  “What time is it?”

  “Quarter to twelve.”

  Miles Davis is coming from the stereo on the opposite wall, turned low. I put my head back and think about how comfortable I am here with George. I wonder why that is. I wonder what he’s thinking about.

  “What are you thinking about, George?”

  He pulls the cigar out of his mouth and looks over at me, smiling. “Junky’s a cool cat, aren’t you, Junk?” Junky looks up at him because he can’t smile. “I was just thinking about Junky and his master. Junky and his master are very good people. I like them. Sure would hate to be the person who tries to harm Junky and his master. That would be bad because George would have to get physical. George would not be happy at all. George would be very upset.”

  He puts his head back, takes a long pull from the cigar, and blows smoke toward the ceiling.

  I curl up with my feet under me, and I turn to George. “You’re a great friend, George. I don’t know what I’d do without you. You save me.”

  He rocks in the recliner and continues to stare at the ceiling.

  I know what he’s thinking, and he probably knows I’m thinking the same. Hell, I wonder what Junky is thinking, if anything.

  I don’t want to leave, but I know I should. I don’t know what the coming days will bring, but I am going to prepare for them the best way I can. If my life is going to come to a halt, then I have to be ready.

  Talking myself in and out of it, I sit and watch George, the most comfortable silence passing between us. Junky is a good kitty, not protesting, not saying anything. I wonder what Lacey is doing, when I will see Lewis again. I have been away for miles in my own brain. I wonder if anyone can understand that, if it even makes any sense. It seems a world away, unreachable, non-existent.

  Distancing myself from it even further, I watch smoke circling George’s head and smile. Junky curls into a black ball on his lap and closes his eyes. I drift away to the sounds of jazz and realize how much I love Miles Davis.

  13.

  Broken Books

  There is so much to do; I don’t know where to begin. If I’m supposed to go home again, what will I do when I get there? I appreciate George’s concern, but the more I think about it, the more I realize it’s not a good idea. What if I put him in danger?

  George gives me a hug, telling me to keep in touch, keep him posted, and to ask for anything. The brandy has put me under for a long time, and I manage to make it back upstairs with Junky in tow. Junky protests as we leave George’s apartment. I guess he could’ve stayed, but I don’t want Junky to eat his plants. I go to bed quickly when I get home.

  After I wake up, I can smell the rain through the window. The apartment is darker with the onslaught of thick, gray clouds. I have to open the bookstore but want, instead, to call Lacey, call Lewis, call Mom and Dad, and tell them everything that’s happened, but I can’t go home if I’m in a mental institution.

  I get up and get the morning routine in order. What I hate about drinking too much (besides hangovers) is how hazy it makes you feel the next day and the dry carpet it leaves in your mouth. You try to drink coffee to get rid of the haze, but that only makes you more dehydrated, and no matter how desperately you brush your teeth, the carpet is still there. So, I brush and brush, drink some coffee, decide to wait until lunchtime to eat, and swallow some aspirin with a multi-vitamin, hoping it’ll all kick in. I put on some pants and a sweater, a jacket, shoes, and put Junky in his little cage and walk outside, locking the door behind me. I walk down the street in the cool, misty rain. It feels good. I did not put on any make-up, and soon, after Junky and the cage are getting heavy, I switch them to the other hand. Sometimes, carrying Junky can be a real pain in the ass, but I love Junky. He seems to hear this and protests.

  I make it to The Broken Spine, shivering for the first time as I see the monster painted on the window ripping a book to shreds. For the first time, Horror Girl does not like horror anymore. It is backfiring, gathering its forces. It is not making me very happy, and I am upset my devotion has betrayed me. I think this is very unfair.

  I put the key in the door and unlock the shop. I step inside, setting Junky down, and open his cage. He bolts immediately. He does not like the cage, and I can’t blame him.

  The bookstore is very cold. I take the cage into the back room and turn on the heat. I inspect Junky’s dishes and refill them with fresh food and water. He weaves through my legs. He does it only when I feed him. He’s a very selfish kitty. He starts to eat immediately.

  I go back into the store and sigh. I’m very confused, and in a way, relieved at the same time. I leave my jacket on because the heat hasn
’t kicked in yet.

  I hear the bell ding already. I have a customer, and I am not ready for them. I am still groggy, foggy, hazy, lazy, and tired. I turn from where I am and think I should recognize this person, but for a second, I can’t. Not right away anyway. I recognize the clothes, the hair, the dark, horn-rimmed glasses, but that is all. Pug is being swallowed by his clothes. For a minute, I am furious with him. His cheeks are sunken and hollow. His eyes are withdrawn, trying to shrink into the back of his head. Pug has started smoking crack, and I am going to kill him because of it!

  But there’s something about him. I don’t know what. He doesn’t look like he’s about to pick at himself or do the things crack-heads do. He’s not biting or licking his lips, and his eyes do not have that gawking stare. He looks haggard, forlorn, and tired. Pug looks sad and broken-hearted. Pug, I realize, looks completely haunted.

  “Pug?” I say, raising my eyebrows. I don’t know why I say this, as if it’s a question. I get the impression this person is not Pug, and the thought worries me. I wonder how much more I can take.

  “Ray,” he says in a weak, barely audible voice. He won’t look me in the eye. He bows his head. He tries to look me in the eye, but I can see—for whatever reason—that he is very ashamed.

  “Pug, what’s the matter?” I ask. “Did your father—”

  He raises his hand, cutting me off, and I stop.

  “Pug?” I say, again.

  He shakes his head. His complexion turns even paler. He puts his hand to his head, wavers a little, like he’s losing his balance, and Pug starts to cry. The sight is very painful to watch, and my heart breaks, because it is one of those ragged, broken cries. The kind of cry that defines hopelessness and despair, and for a second I just want to hold him. My tears are one thing, but Pug’s tears are something else. This is a rebellious, naïve teenager trying very hard not to be naïve, and he is filled with lots of angst. Watching him cry makes me realize there are no guarantees in life. Watching him cry makes me realize I can do nothing but be his friend. Watching him cry makes me cry, and I am suddenly very concerned and scared for Pug.