Geoffrey couldn’t die. He could feel pain. He could get hurt, but would simply heal. He could not die. Something moved within her. Maybe. She thought back to the house she left behind. She thought of what it had been like to be in love. She felt agony inside. It was both profound grief and the possibility of hope. Both were equally as painful. He turned to face her. Through the dying embers, she saw his questioning eyes. She closed her eyes and turned away.
Her night was interrupted by the now-familiar screams. She followed the sound and saw Geoffrey punching a rock, so she approached him and put her hand on his shoulder. He turned to face her and pulled her towards him, holding her tightly. She put her arms around him, and they stood there for a long time. The wind was pushing them towards the rock. She should have pushed back, but Emily didn’t want to move. She felt his breath steady. He stepped back and looked at her.
He touched her cheek gently, and she kissed his lips. He started to respond and then stopped. She pulled away and went back to the sleeping bag, feeling humiliated by the rejection.
The next morning, she was awake and packing before she saw Geoffrey. She had even eaten some of the food. She didn’t want to face him. When he came back, he was carrying a full water bottle. He handed it to her.
“Ready to get home?” He asked.
She nodded and continued to pack. Geoffrey took one of the backpacks. Emily grabbed the other one and started down the mountain. He followed her for about three yards, then stopped.
“You know you are heading back to my house,” he said.
Emily looked up at him.
“We walked down last night,” she said.
“Distance and location are rather odd around here.” He turned up the mountain and walked perpendicular to the mountain. She followed.
By evening, they had walked through mountain ridges for hours. They were back sitting on the sleeping bags against another set of rocks. They did not speak all day.
“Why do you want to go back to Los Angeles?” Geoffrey asked.
The question surprised Emily. “That is my home.”
“Do you have friends and family waiting for you?” He asked.
She shook her head.
“Do you have anyone you would want to see?”
“Tom…” she said.
“Boyfriend?” He asked.
“Was,” she said. “He’s dead.”
“You could stay with me,” Geoffrey said, avoiding looking at her.
Geoffrey asked before. It surprised her this time because it felt real. He did want her around. The hope returned to her, but she immediately dismissed it.
“You don’t want me around, and I don’t want to be trapped.” She answered.
“I don’t see it as a jail sentence,” he said. “In time, there are worlds you could explore.”
She thought about the pronoun “you.” He didn’t say us. What the hell did he want from her? Did she want to live with this man in his weird world? Did she want to escape? She missed home. Tristan was there, and that wasn’t good. There was someone out in the world ready to kill her. That was not a comforting thought. It was outright terrifying. She slept that night dreaming of two moons and a cabin in green mountains. She dreamt of the faces. Geoffrey returned into her mind over and over again.
She woke up unsettled. Geoffrey was already packing up camp when she opened her eyes. Soon after, they were walking through the desert. By the afternoon, she heard a sound that startled her. In the distance, she could hear cars. There was a highway close. Her heart raced. She could be home by the evening and be walking the streets of Los Angeles.
As they came over a ridge, she saw the cars down below. An easy climb, and she would be within reach of civilization. She stopped at the ridge. Geoffrey came up next to her.
“You are home,” he said.
He placed a phone in her hand. She looked down at it and saw the app for a ride share service. She laughed.
“Why do you have this?”
“I do find it useful to go into society at times. I don’t like it anymore. It is too much. Too overwhelming. The noise, the lights, and the chaos hurt me.” He answered, looking into the lights in the distance with repulsion.
She looked down at the phone and out into the distance. In the light of the setting sun, she could see the masses of people were close.
“You could stay with me,” Geoffrey repeated.
“Why?” She asked.
“You would be safe. There is so much out there to discover. You are just starting on your path. You could wait. You could return, face the demons that await you there, accept the loneliness until it becomes so unbearable that you break down your promise to yourself and find company. At that moment, you return to ground zero. Everything collapses around you. You repeat the cycle until you are old and exhausted. Or Emily, you could come with me.” He said.
She looked at him, surprised. “How do you know so much about me?”
“We are not that different.”
“Did I arrive by accident?” She asked.
“There is very little in this universe that is an accident. Scientific chaos is simply a more expansive kind of order.”
She rolled her eyes at him and continued to stare at the cars.
“If I leave and change my mind, how can I find you again?” Emily asked.
“I can always find you in the way that if you wanted to find me, you could always find me.”
She thought about Tom. She forced herself to relive the moment of his death in her mind. She wanted to be part of the world, but she knew that it meant a life alone, persecuted, and always hiding. Wasn’t it the same thing if she stayed with Geoffrey? He lived in another world. If she was right and there were many other worlds out there, maybe there was a solution to her problem. Maybe there was a way she could be normal. And if Geoffrey couldn’t die, then perhaps, just maybe, there could be something there.
She thought how desperate she had been to live and how exciting it was to be with Geoffrey in a new adventure.
“Your rage scares me,” she said.
“I keep it controlled. I will never hurt you. There is nothing so profoundly repulsive as a violent man. I have been that man, and I never want to be that again. I told you. I chose a life of pacifism because I can’t see violence against others. I can’t tolerate it. One of the problems of a long life is that things become numb. I have a hard time feeling anything at all at times. I have loved, grieved, raged, and now it all lacks intensity. It mutes everything inside of me. Even pain eventually becomes muted. The rage serves me to feel. Not pretty. Not pleasant. But it is not dangerous.” Geoffrey said.
“Will you ever die?” She asked.
“If I am lucky, I don’t have that much more time here.” He said.
“Oh,” she said, disappointed.
He looked at her with surprise.
“You can’t fight the inevitable.”
The stood in silence for a long time watching the traffic. The sun set completely. The snake-like lights of the highway felt intrusive to the moment. The noise was jarring. She wanted to both run down and run back to Geoffrey’s house.
“I want to stay with you,” Emily said.
“Are you sure?” He asked.
“Yes.”
TJ56823
Journal 1
Tristan was amid his discovery at the same bar where he had met Emily. He was in the midst of another conquest. This was the life he loved filled with violence, sex, and power. Of the three, he liked the last the most. He made money doing errands for the hermit Geoffrey. The man paid him enough to live in a lifestyle he appreciated. He had just handed that girl to the man. God only knows what he wanted with her. It wasn’t his problem.
He was enjoying the company of another of his conquests. There was probably an illness that described his complete lack of interest in the things most people wanted. One had to take care of number one, and the rest of the world could go fuck themselves. He tried to remember the name of the
woman next to him. No name came to mind. Ann, Susan, Ashley? She looked like an Ashley. One of the many Ashleys that had come in and out of his life. Irrelevant. Tristan was telling her the sob story of his dead brother. He even pulled out a picture to show her. The doorman, Chris, was looking over his shoulder curiously. Tristan glared at the man, annoyed. He was busy. The man left, shaking his head. The woman went to the restroom, and Tristan saw Chris signal to him. Tristan hadn’t been back since he chased after Emily.
“Did you get her?” Chris asked.
“Did I get who?” Tristan replied.
“The girl who killed Tom,” he answered.
“What are you talking about?”
The doorman pulled him into a quiet corner in the crowded bar.
“Just saw the photo of your brother. He was here all the time. I didn’t realize that was him. I wondered what happened to him.”
“Get to the fucking point,” Tristan said.
Chris continued, “She was with Tom here the day he disappeared. She has to be the one responsible. The one I showed you. You asked about her. She was constantly casing the joint and was looking for the next victim. What was her name? Emily?”
“The bitch,” he said. “I didn’t realize it. I thought she was someone… a client was interested in her. I delivered.”
Tristan handed the doorman a twenty. He looked at the woman he was with returning from the bathroom.
“I’ll deal with it tomorrow.”
“What are you going to do?” Chris asked.
“Go camping,” Tristan laughed.
“You?”
“Desperate times call for desperate measures.” Tristan walked away, smiling, and the woman waiting.
“Shall we go?” He asked.
A little while later, in a dark alley, he got what he needed and left. He wanted to leave the woman’s body broken for anyone to find. He didn’t give a damn. Tristan had gotten carried away, but the image of Emily kept interrupting his thoughts. The violence made him feel like he was doing something to revenge the death of his brother. Now Tristan had a face. He couldn’t believe he had missed the opportunity. As the woman’s lifeless body dropped to the floor, he wondered if he could end his obsession to feel power over others. Tom was a good man, and he would be deeply ashamed to see Tristan now. And he was dead. It was not his way.
The dead body repulsed him, and Tristan was aware that if he got caught, he was a dead man. It was their stupid fault anyway. If you were dumb enough to mess with Tristan, this was the result. He pulled his car closer and deposited her in his trunk.
Chapter 7
EB26392
Journal 1
The return was much smoother. The air quality of Geoffrey's home still made her exhausted. He promised it would improve, and she desperately wanted it to happen quickly. She disliked feeling ill. Once she was back at the cabin, she regretted not convincing him to make a quick shopping trip in civilization. Old lacy underwear was a nightmare. There was no way on earth she would put on a corset. The closet was full of them. Emily asked Geoffrey about them, and his mischievous smile returned.
Soon she found she couldn't sit in a room waiting for life to happen. It drove her insane to be still. Emily needed to do something, or she would go crazy. She asked Geoffrey for suggestions, and she regretted it as soon as she opened her mouth. There was a list. A long list. There were chickens on the property and required care. The garden on the property needed attention. There was a mill. A damned mill. Who has a mill? No one has a mill. It also required care. Emily became a farmer.
She worked from sunup to sundown. In the evenings, Geoffrey introduced her to his book collection. He liked books. He loved books of every era and in more languages than she could imagine. Some books didn't look like books. She felt more curious about the books that looked like they didn't belong to earth at all. She wanted to know more about other planets, cultures, and even more about the travel between them. He didn't say much.
To be fair, Geoffrey never said much. His words were limited. It was as if he had forgotten what it was like to live with another person. In the evenings, while Emily looked through the extensive library and sat by a fire reading, Geoffrey sat at an old desk and wrote.
“Why do you keep writing?” She asked.
“My life story,” he answered.
She waited for more, but nothing came. “Why do you need to write your life story?”
“How many people have lived as long as I have? I have a unique perspective.”
“That’s one way to put it,” she answered.
“You should try it as well. It is easier to write about your life when you can still remember it.” He said.
“I don’t have an extraordinary life,” she said.
“Really?” He said and looked at her for longer than was comfortable. Then he smiled the smile that also made her uncomfortable. “There is still time.”
She waited for more, but nothing else was said. Geoffrey returned to his writing. When he finished that evening, he opened a giant cabinet. She looked past him and saw that it was full of manuscripts. He had effectively been writing his whole life. It was a bit scary. How could one person have so much experience? He took out a leather-bound journal and handed it to her. It came with a pencil. She smiled.
“It is good to keep your thoughts and experiences somewhere,” he said.
She wasn't sure what she would write but knew what she would draw. She wondered what happened to the drawings she had left behind in Los Angeles. That evening, she took her journal with her to her room and sat in bed for a long time, drawing. In the late hours, she heard Geoffrey's screaming. It was a nightly ritual no longer frightening. Mostly, it filled her with pity and grief.
As she began to draw, the drawings became more intense. Living in the confines of that house surrounded by the images of the women she had seen for years made them that much more real. The images that came into her mind were full scenes. It was like a little movie, she knew intimately, but she had never actually seen. Most of them included Geoffrey. Some made her embarrassed. They felt so personal, erotic, and beautiful, forgotten love. She wondered if she was falling for Geoffrey. He was an old man, but it wasn't as if she was a child. She was the wrong side of thirty, but he was OLD.
She watched the moons outside her window as she heard the screams. Geoffrey wanted to die. What a terrible way to live? She could relate. For so long, she wanted the same thing. It had changed the moment she faced death. She knew at that moment she desperately wanted to be alive. She still had to deal with her curse. Sex meant death. It was almost as if she was an analogy to all the misogyny in the world. She was the evil men defined, and it felt so very, very wrong. It felt utterly unjust. Whose life was fair, though? Everyone had their issues. She was not the only woman on the planet earth who had problems with intimacy. To be honest, her issues carried unforgivable consequences. Geoffrey couldn't die. She smiled at the thought as she fell asleep.
The next evening, Geoffrey was in an odd mood. Emily was tired, and it had been a long workday. Even the idea she was on a different planet wasn't exciting if you spent the day doing manual labor. Manual work was the same everywhere. She looked at her hands, and they were blistered and bruised. She was washing them in the kitchen sink. Geoffrey was cooking. That was his thing. He didn't like anyone messing with the food. Honestly, he ate very little. What he ate, he valued. The result was that he was a fantastic cook. Emily had never eaten so well in her life. The fact that animal products were absent was a non-issue. This was not the food of the Los Angeles vegans. This was the food of a man who felt he was honor-bound to turn food into a remarkable sensory experience.
As usual, he didn't speak. Emily must have been mumbling to herself. She was not happy. She was attempting to remove the dirt from her nails when he walked over to the sink.
“You are hurt,” he said.
She looked at him as if he was stating the obvious. He grabbed her hand gently and dried them. He took
both hands in his and kissed her hands.
"It is hard for me to remember that you don't heal as I do," he said.
“No one heals like you do,” Emily said.
He nodded, taking a small bottle out of a cabinet. He took some of the oil out of the bottle and gently rubbed it onto her fingers. Pain immediately disappeared, and the skin healed. She rubbed her hands together, testing them. They were fine.
“That was impressive. What is that stuff?”
“Nanites. Small robots capable of rebuilding the skin.” He said.
“I know what a nanite is. I thought you didn’t have any technology.”
"I live surrounded by amazing technology, including the biology that created me. With time, it felt like most things didn't need it. If I surrounded myself with all the technology I have seen, I would just sit all day at my desk imagining the world and let it happen. There is an art to doing things by hand." Geoffrey answered.
Dance of Life: The Belief Chronicles: Book One (Chronicles of a Planet's End) Page 6
