The Musician

by Douglas Gardham

  The knife went farther. The tape pulled his skin. The tip of the knife touched his tongue. It took everything he had to hold his tongue still. His resolve was slipping. The heavy door was back and so close he felt as if he could touch it.

  “Now there’s a hole you can drink through,” the Madonna mask said.

  Ethan was sure he could hear the smile in its voice. It was enjoying the terror it was putting its captive through. The knife had stopped moving but was still in his mouth.

  “The value equation. Equation—now, there’s a word you engineers like. Finally, we’re getting to that word formula. There is a God.”

  Ethan felt the tip of the blade against his tongue. He was balancing, barely, the door, the déjà vu, and the lethal knife. Again, the Madonna’s titter-cackle sounded. It was short-lived but no less dreadful.

  “Sorry, Ethan, but this is funny,” the Madonna mask said. “The value you have given the knife might just change. What if it’s not the means to the end you’re thinking but the end itself?”

  The Madonna mask had moved in closer to whisper the last words in Ethan’s face. Ethan could feel its breath through the mask and whatever it spoke through. For an instant, he thought those would be the last words he heard.

  The Madonna pulled the knife from Ethan’s mouth, but the blade didn’t come out straight. Ethan felt a sting as it nicked his lower lip. His heart pounded its menacing needs in his ears. His tongue went to where the knife had left its mark, but that was all that moved.

  “It’s funny how our emotions reign supreme over our decisions,” the Madonna said, setting the hunter’s knife down on the bed. “No matter how hard we try to prove otherwise. We want to make better, right decisions. You guys all want reams of data and information to make better decisions. It doesn’t change the fact that your emotions are in charge. Even after all your research and data crunching, it still comes down to how you feel at that moment of truth. It’s how we feel!”

  The Madonna mask screamed again. Ethan didn’t flinch; he didn’t blink. Johnny Cash’s “Folsom Prison Blues” found its way to his ears.

  “What’s even funnier is how much you hate that it’s true. It’s our constant need to be right, to control things. The more right we are, the more power we have. That’s how it works, Ethan.”

  Ethan didn’t move. His pupils didn’t waver.

  “Proud of you, Ethan,” the Madonna mask added with the water bottle now in its hand. “You’re listening, you’re learning, and you’re obeying!” it shouted. “You’re remembering. You’re quite a student when you want to be, you know—and why?”

  The Madonna face paused but only for a second. “Because you emotionally measured your decision. Allowing me to cut the hole had more value than the alternative.” The Madonna leaned in close to Ethan’s face again and hissed, “And you’re praying you’re right.”

  The Madonna moved back and straightened up. “What do you think is in this bottle?” it asked, holding the white bottle in front of Ethan. “You can’t answer, so I’ll help. You want it to be water. You need it to be water. You’re at the bottom of Maslow’s pyramid—crapping, sleeping, breathing, eating—and you have to drink. It’s been more than a day since you last sucked up some water. You’re dying of thirst!”

  The Madonna’s cackle was short again.

  “You need water so badly you’ll do almost anything for it. Not anything yet but almost.” The Madonna nodded. “Now, if this is water, you’re all set. You can drink it. Warning: you’ll need to drink it slowly, or you’ll throw it all back up. Not only will you feel better from the water, but also, the counter will start again. You can go another day or two without more. You’ll live longer, and as long as you’re living, your game is still on.”

  The Madonna tittered-cackled, unnerving Ethan with its repetitive horror.

  “But, Ethan.” The Madonna face bent down closer to his face and whispered. “You’re still gonna die in here.”

  Abruptly, it straightened back up. “But let’s get on with this decision. First, do you think this is water? Or is it something else, like vodka or, worse, poison that will kill you in minutes? That’s the first decision.”

  The Madonna mask stopped and moved in close. The real eyes scrutinized Ethan’s. Ethan didn’t move. It took every bit of willpower he had not to. Don’t think; just do. It was like confronting a bear in the forest unexpectedly. He had to stop, remain still, and play dead, as he’d read somewhere. Yet he knew that at any moment, the bear could simply turn and tear him apart. What breathed behind the Madonna face seemed to chuff like a bear. Ethan was exposed, vulnerable, and balancing precariously. He felt the heavy door and was nearly ready to risk what was behind it.

  The Madonna mask remained close to Ethan’s face. The mask was amazing in its detail, with wavy platinum-blonde hair brushed and set perfectly above the clear, perfect skin of its rubber forehead. It looked almost real. Real dark eyes looked out from behind the long-lashed, mascaraed holes. The face was porcelain-doll perfect, with the Material Girl’s straight nose and flaring nostrils. Pearl clusters hung from each rubber earlobe and shook with each movement of its Madonna head. Brilliant red lipstick coated the open lips, which surrounded whiter-than-natural teeth. Darkness separated the top teeth from the bottom and emitted the electronic voice. In normal circumstances, Ethan would have screamed. If he got through this, he would never again be able to look without fear at the face that was fast becoming one of the world’s most recognizable women.

  The heavy door was open.

  “This is how it’s going to work,” the Madonna said, standing up in front of him again. “Hint here, Ethan—the rules are still in place.”

  The Madonna raised its index finger off the water bottle it was holding and pointed it toward him. “First, there’s water in this bottle. That’s your decision or the decision you’ve delegated to me—sound familiar? Now the test.”

  The Madonna’s left hand went into the pocket of its black jeans and pulled out a quarter. “It’s a coin toss!” it yelled through the mask’s grotesque-sexed mouth. It chortled, causing Ethan to hear the background music of Steve Miller singing “The Joker.” He pictured the image of the album cover, with the leather-jacketed figure in a green-and-white mask. The Joker’s mouth was open, and his head was back in an apparent state of laughter.

  “People laugh at this, Ethan,” the Madonna said, settling back into the job at hand. “They say, ‘You make your decisions by tossing a coin?’” it said, mimicking some high-pitched voice. “But you know, it works.”

  The Madonna held up the coin in front of Ethan, holding it between its left thumb and forefinger. “You call it in the air,” it said, tossing the coin in the space between them. “Heads, Ethan, because it’s your head that’s on the line.”

  It chuckled, caught the coin, and flipped its hand over on its right forearm. The white water bottle was still in its right hand.

  “Now, here’s where it’s not quite what it seems,” the Madonna said, bending down so Ethan could see the outcome of the toss. Ethan wasn’t sure where the Madonna was going with this display. Another level of fear loomed inside his head at the possibility he wasn’t going to get any water after all. The coin toss no longer made death seem extraordinary.

  “If it’s heads,” the Madonna said, “then your decision that there’s water in the bottle is right. Now the rub: How do you feel? Emotion, Ethan. Emotion!” The Madonna mask screamed again, all but shaking in its apparent excitement. “See, you get a second chance here. If you feel good, then you know your decision. If you don’t, guess what? Then you don’t like the decision. You don’t feel good. Guaranteed you’re gonna reconsider.”

  The Madonna stood up, appearing satisfied with its demonstration. “Every decision we make, Ethan, instantaneous or long and drawn out, comes down to whether we feel good about it and how we measure its value emotionally. That’s
it.”

  Ethan didn’t know how he could hold it together much longer. He was going to move. The pressure of fear would find its release somehow. Fuck this Madonna’s feel-good decisions.

  “And so ends lesson three, Ethan. We make decisions based on how they make us feel and what our motivation for that feeling is.”

  The Madonna then stopped and tilted the white water bottle sideways, dribbling some of its liquid onto the green carpet. Ethan continued to stare ahead. He did not follow the movement of the bottle in the Madonna’s hand.

  “God, we are so human and not all-powerful,” the Madonna mask said, and then it stopped, seemingly for effect. “Except in this room, Ethan, remember, I am your hope, your fear, and your truth. Here, I am all-powerful!”

  The Madonna face shouted the last two words as if the loudness made it so.

  Ethan was dying for the liquid that dripped onto the carpet—even for a few drops. It looked like water. The Madonna had told him it was water. That was good enough for him. Pain or no pain, he had to drink.

  CHAPTER 75

  Eyes Still Remain Open

  Ethan had made his decision to move and was about to do so when the déjà vu feeling blocked him. It wasn’t faint this time. He’d been there before. He knew the lessons, the rules, the cinder-block walls, and even the mask. But the perspective was different. He’d been the one in control. He’d been the one behind the mask. He’d been holding the water bottle. It wasn’t water in the bottle. It was vodka, intended to make his victim sick and obedient—and maybe dead.

  The Madonna moved the spout of the white bottle toward Ethan’s mouth. “Finally,” it said, as if it were working in Ethan’s best interest, “you’re getting a drink.”

  The Madonna pushed the spout through the slit it had cut in the duct tape.

  Ethan prepared. He was fighting himself and the feeling of déjà vu over what was real and what wasn’t. It’s not water, you fool. If you drink it, you’re gonna die. The voice was his own yet different—a different him. He didn’t understand it. But he held his resolve as the plastic drinking spout touched the tip of his tongue. There was instant recognition in his mouth. The foul taste of alcohol from what remained on the nozzle of the drops that had dribbled onto the carpet.

  It’s a trick, my boy—sleight of hand. His inner voice spoke again.

  Though confused, afraid, and vulnerable, Ethan knew he wouldn’t swallow.

  The spout rested a moment longer on his lips, and then, suddenly, a gush of burning alcohol exploded in his mouth.

  Ethan gagged. He couldn’t breathe. He knew what was about to happen and braced himself. The alcohol had to escape. Like an open wound exposed to alcohol, his nasal passages lit up, screaming in agony as the vodka found its path of exit and sprayed out his nose. He was no longer in control. His head rocked backward, and his back slammed against the chair back. His arms yanked at the chains bolted to the wall. The regurgitated alcohol spurted across Madonna’s rubber likeness and black shirt.

  “You fucker!” the mask yelled, drowning out Kansas playing “Dust in the Wind.”

  Ethan’s eyes closed. The white water bottle was ripped from his mouth, catching on his lower front tooth—a tooth he was sure he would lose. He knew a beating was coming. He’d broken the rules. Despite all his concentration, listening, learning, and remembering, he’d disobeyed. He’d moved.

  But he’d done the right thing. The alcohol would have brought him closer to death’s door.

  He didn’t have the strength to lift his head upright; it hung backward over the back of the chair. He prayed the alcohol that burned in his sinuses might be punishment enough for having moved, yet he knew harsher and deeper pain was imminent. His arms extended from his sides, suspended on the chains fastened to the steel bracelets around his wrists. A picture of Christ nailed to the cross rose before his closed eyes. The agony Jesus the man must have gone through, with spikes pounded through his palms and feet, fixing him to the crucifix. Steel cuffs held Ethan to the wall and chair. Jesus had hung in front of the Romans, who’d hated him because of what they thought. The Madonna mask hated Ethan because of what it thought. Ethan knew he was near the edge of his real world becoming what was behind the heavy door.

  He opened his eyes to see the flat, drywall-smooth ceiling painted the same beige color as the cinder-block walls. He couldn’t remember having seen it before. He’d been unable to. He knew six inches of insulation and soundproofing lay above the painted ceiling surface. No one was about to hear what went on in that enclosed space. They were in the basement of a house that only the Madonna knew about—because the Madonna had built it. Ethan wasn’t imagining it either. He knew it. But how he knew it, he still didn’t know.

  At the bottom of his line of sight, he could see the Madonna wiping its wet shirt with its hand while holding the hunting knife in the other.

  “I thought we were there,” it said, as if it had just guttered a bowling ball after having knocked most of the pins down with its first shot. “We were close, Ethan—so close.”

  It held the knife up in front of its mask. “It was a bit of a dirty trick, but it’s how the story goes. It is fun to watch you suffer, though.”

  The electronic titter erupted from behind the Madonna face.

  “What’s even better is you brought this all upon yourself!” it shouted, and then it tittered and moved toward Ethan.

  Ethan caught the flash reflection of the overhead light across the polished knife blade. Then he heard what sounded like the cracking of walnuts, and a wave of agony overcame him as he realized he was hearing his own bones breaking.

  The voice, the masked devil incarnate, stood there unmoving, staring down at him, its weight on his foot. Ethan twisted, unable to control himself; an eruption of pain beyond what he’d suffered seemed determined to exit his body.

  “You’re making it worse, Ethan!” it yelled, shaking its masked head—in rage or laughter, Ethan couldn’t tell, nor did he care. He was closing in on the route outside himself and the room.

  “You’re moving!” the voice shouted, maintaining its weight on Ethan’s left foot as he writhed against his restraints. “You know the rule, but even with our best decisions—our best intentions—things turn out differently, and that’s when we really learn.”

  It stepped back; the weight came off Ethan’s foot. He had moved. His head was slumped forward, his chained arms holding him from slumping farther. He didn’t care.

  “It’s now time to live, Ethan,” the voice said, speaking from somewhere in front of him. Ethan wasn’t even trying not to move. “Remember, I am your hope, your fear, and your truth. The length of your stay here depends on me. You forget that, and your life will be shortened just like hers. She was given to me, and you took her away. Sounds a little Shakespearian, don’t you think? Kind of ‘To be or not to be.’”

  Ethan sensed the voice’s proximity but paid no attention. He was spent. His foot screamed. It was unbearable not to touch it, hold it, or do anything. His thirst was gone, consumed by his pain.

  As he felt the edge of the heavy door come into his hand, his head was jerked up. The jarring pain of a handful of his hair yanked backward muted the numbing pain blaring from his broken foot.

  The sweet, sickly aroma of reeking garbage covered his face. Like a rag doll, he was limp to resist.

  “Now, let’s get on with it,” he heard the voice say, and that was all he heard as darkness swept over him.

  CHAPTER 76

  A Forest

  It was unbelievable, yet there she was. The liquid-chocolate eyes that melted him into a stammering adolescent were unmistakable. Gold-hooped rings dangled from her ears like those of an ancient Egyptian goddess on display for all to see yet seemingly for his eyes only. His heart beat to some synchronistic rhythm between them. Her crimson lips parted—full and inviting, meant for his—revealing her perfect whi
te teeth and her endearing smile. It was as if they were meeting again for the first time; his feelings were no less alive and ingenuous. It was like one discovering love for the first time, having never experienced its magnificence before.

  Christa was leaning against the trunk of a large tree. He had walked up a dirt road—a path, really—with trees lining both sides in nature’s own pattern. Christa’s manicured fingers rested on the crevassed gray bark of a huge hemlock, contrasting with the tree’s bark, just as she was in contrast to the forest that surrounded her. Diffuse rays of sunlight scattered around them like flashlight beams, teasing them to participate in their orgy of light. If true tranquility existed, he had found it, both in his love for her and in this place.

  How he’d come to be there he couldn’t remember.

  “You have found me, my sweet,” Christa whispered, her voice like a light breeze passing through the ferns and foliage around them. “I don’t know where you are, but I will find you.”

  Ethan, unable to speak, stared at her. Instinct told him she would disappear if he turned away, leaving him alone and lost, maybe forever.

  He ached for her, longing to hold and kiss her. There was much to explain and understand. But his voice seemed sealed, as his memory was.

  “I know,” she said.

  Just hearing her voice was comforting.

  “I found you once,” she whispered, her lips barely moving. “I will find you again.”

  Ethan didn’t understand. She would find him? He was right there in front of her. He kept staring, afraid a mere glance away would take her from his sight. Seeing her was a gift to savor. No matter how long she was there, her leaving would come too soon.

  “I need you to speak, babe,” she whispered.

  Ethan shook his head, his eyes not leaving hers. He wanted to point to his mouth; he couldn’t speak. Maybe this was heaven; when he was with her, he wanted for nothing.

  “I know,” she said, as if answering his thoughts. “I will find you and never stop looking until I do.”