A
Translator of Souls
by
Julian Cardona
The
horrors started every time I put pen to paper. First, I thought it was my brain
decaying with old age and loneliness, then I accepted the burden of sanity. My hands were becoming a conduit, my mind an
orphanage, sheltering the dread that people left behind. Whether it be on the
bus, at the park, or accompanying my granddaughter to school, hate poured into
me, mingled with my thoughts becoming indistinguishable, flowed through my hand
inseminating the virgin paper with spite.
It
started last year, a couple of months after I lost my wife. Janet’s death had opened
something in me, some crevice from which the little good that was left spilled
out. I was barely 62, not prepared to be alone for at least another twenty
years. I felt cheated: she had promised me she’d let me die first. But Cancer
ridiculed my plans and showed me that she had simply been on loan. The last
thing Janet told me before she closed her eyes was to find peace. This past
year I did everything but.
I
was in church, asking God why I couldn’t stop hating him, a thick sheet of prayer-murmur
rising around me like mist. Pray on,
I remember thinking as I looked at the faithful judgmentally: let me see you praying when your wife is
screaming with pain, asking for death and telling you to get the hell away from
her. I almost enjoyed hating God on his turf: a small victory perhaps. Suddenly
I felt an itch in my hand pleading me to feed her a place to write. The urge to
write ran through me like electricity until I reached home, switched on my PC
and let it all out.
I
jumped out of my chair in shock and switched off the monitor to rest my eyes.
The words persisted inside me, threatened to spread fires unless I extinguished
them with writing flow. I felt embarrassed. They were not mine, didn’t belong:
they were settlers in a land that was too fragile to hold them. I peeped again,
an insatiable voyeur: no such things should be thought about other people’s bodies,
no such things should be wished onto other people’s children. Hate, harm, pain,
murder, blood; different from me, different from you, us and them, black and
white; fat, ugly, useless, wretched, stupid; hope you die, hope you hurt, hope
you get diseased. I gasped, my head snapped backwards. I fell to the ground and
my body spasmed. And to think that I had been in church. I felt as if a foot
was trying to keep me underwater. I forced myself up and showered. I let the
water run cold, my skin aching almost as much as my head. I slept at 6 pm.
#
Lisa,
my granddaughter, is an ambassador of hope. Hope and wonder. She asks questions
as if they help her breathe. I wouldn’t miss our daily twenty-minute walk to
school for all the gold of this world. I usually buy her a hot chocolate--an
ice cream if it’s summer school--and we enjoy each other’s company: she 6 and
asking, me old and happily supplying answers. She asks about why the skies are
blue and the leaves are green, how life would be if we hopped like frogs or
flew like birds. She was the only one, in the weeks following the funeral, who
asked me if I was ever happy. I always replied that I was happy when I was with
her. Elated, she would squeeze my hand then run and hop and dance in the
street, her blue eyes gleaming, assaulting passers-by with a happiness that
startled them. She also wanted to force a pencil in her schoolfriend’s eyes.
It
was the day after I had been to church. We had been walking for a few minutes on
our way to school when my hand started itching. I hoped it was not her, tried
to control it, ignore it. Both failed.
“No
questions today, honey?”
“Nope.”
We
stopped and sat on a wooden bench in front of a small lake. She was restless,
didn’t have the patience to sit. She threw bread at the ducks, then stones. I took
out my smartphone, having nowhere else to write on. I teared as I typed.
Perhaps it was not her. Perhaps I had picked them up from someone else who
walked past. But I knew better. Thoughts, like bodies, have a unique smell to
them: an authenticity that’s like a signature that cannot be forged. I looked
at her as she searched for stones, typed some more and studied her eyes as she
walked slowly towards an unassuming duck, read the fire in her retina as she
threw and rejoiced at the hit. After a few minutes like that:
“Question…”
“Yes?”
“Is
it okay to stop being friends with someone?”
“Why?”
“You
tell me it’s rude to answer a question with a question like a Pontitician.”
“It’s
called a Politician, honey, and you’re right. It depends on whether the person
has done something wrong to us. If a person treats us well, then she deserves
our friendship, if not, they don’t.”
She
shrugged and we resumed our walk. I decided that I would phone the school that
day, right around lunchtime. Maybe the thought of blinding Simone with a pencil
and pushing Joanna down the stairs during lunchbreak had been just a thought.
#
It
was. As is for many, I learnt. It is safe to say that that week was the most
profound of my life. At 62 I thought I had seen everything: I was wrong. I
learnt that actions are, generally speaking, a limited expression of an entity
that’s bound by flesh and bones. And the law. Hands, legs, head and eyes are
inconsequential: that’s not who we really are. Just a pathetic finiteness
disguising the infinite. To view humanity like this…l felt like an astronaut
that observed the earth relative to the universe. Evil, I learnt, not only breeds
but makes a natural habitat out of us: a species that has wants that become
needs that escalate to obsessions. I also concluded that love for others was
really love for oneself. Perhaps it was the phase. Why wasn’t I trying to think
positively and absorb love? Because seduction is selective. I imagined a
supreme court that judged only thoughts: it would have been a world in which
the death penalty made sense, a world in which it was okay to play God, because
in a way, we would be.
I
took pen and paper with me wherever I went. By the second day, I had mastered
the mechanism. The ‘gift’, if one chose such a colossal misnomer, allowed me to
pick up the negativity around me, and put it into words. The itch became a
sore, the sore a perpetual ache. It also functioned like an ear. Similar to how our ears filter what’s relevant
amongst the wall of chatter formed by crowds, so did my thought-channelling
process. In time, I learnt to direct it, just as one learns to listen. The
first time I truly experimented with it was when I entered a park and suddenly
a wave of contempt embraced me.
I
sat down next to an old man who looked like he could have filled in for Santa
on his sick days. It was midday and hate
stank on him like cheap wine. He pretended to read. Pen and paper touched
viciously: to call that “writing” is
wrong. With each verb and noun, his children died a little bit, with each coma,
a crescendo of dark thoughts. I hammered exactly 73 “whys?” onto the paper.
Why? Why? Why? Why had they abandoned him? He had taken care of them all their
life. Now they were just disappointed that he was still alive and not dead and
recycled into will money. I filled a page. He shifted uncomfortably on the
bench and turned the pages violently. The words that came out smelled of boiled
chicken and catheters. Another few “Whys?”, another page. To think they were
his blood, to think he cried with joy during their birth. How do you spell “Aborsion”?
The
mother rocked her baby and thought in poems. Or maybe I did, or maybe they transformed
when they touched me. She was young, black-haired and had holes in her arms. I
stopped next to her and played the lulled tourist. The words were wet.
I
think, sometimes I love you;
need
you, want you, call you a gift.
Then
your eyes gleam and your smile stretches,
and
the change in me is swift.
That
lullaby in my bones…it rose, ached, and fornicated with a sweet smell of an
unidentified bodily fluid. Rhyme, rhythm and metric formed a symmetry that
strangled hope. She rocked the crying baby harder. Maybe the little one was
hungry, maybe he needed changing. Maybe the mother needed changing. The
draperies of her long, black hair moved slowly with the breeze and revealed her
eyes--her ministry of defence--making me fear for the baby. She sat unnaturally
hunched. With the little one in her arms, her body swayed morbidly. I thought
of intervening: the pain in my hand was so acute that I honestly thought that I
had broken something.
“You’re
a mother,” they tell me,
a
rose, a light, an adoration.
But
those words die when I remember
that
you live off my violation.
She rose suddenly from the bench and dumped
the baby in its carriage as if he were a shopping bag. She left, stumbling and
confused and I had to let her go.
I threw the pen away and left. I could almost
hear it calling. The world span around me and stopped occasionally on something
that it desired me to see, like a roulette pushed around by fate. A young
couple: she loving, he touching. She pushed him away and he came back for more.
She picked up her bag and left. He followed her and tried to grab her. They
disappeared into the nearby woods and the pain spread to my back like a million
rats climbing up my spine, raking and grating against my frame. My fingers felt
numb, the edges dead. Struggling to breathe I moved on, the world blurring at
the edges. I needed to find a safe place, safe from life. My head was almost
pulled sideways as I spotted a group of men walking 50 metres behind an old
couple enjoying their afternoon stroll. I had to hold on to nearby street
railings. The distance between the men and the elderly couple diminished and
with every metre lost the pain sharpened a notch. Someone asked me if I needed
anything. I think I yelled at them. They were ordinary humans, what did they
know about pain? I saw my bus approaching and my legs paddled hard. The pain
spread to my chest and I tripped as soon as I stepped on the bus. Some people
offered their hands and I refused. As I collapsed on a seat that a young man
had vacated for me. I looked outside my window and saw a driver waiting-- his back
against the door--for the last few students to board. They couldn’t have been
more than 6 years old, just like Lisa. He gave a look around him, grinned, slammed
the door and left in a hurry. I thought I was having a heart attack. It was as
if the whole world was unloading its pain onto me, asking me to document it
lest it fade unheard. I realised that the bus was not the place to be: a
blitzkrieg was unleashed in my head. I stepped down, knowing exactly where I
wanted to go. I also realised that I was not just reading thoughts; I was translating
souls.
#
The pain left with the rest of
humanity. The little beach where I had spent most of my youth was blissfully
empty. I remembered the good old days, spent courting beautiful women and even
more beautiful dreams. What was it like to have faith in the world? I
struggled. I sat there on the same old rock in front of the same old little
kiosk where my friends and I had gulped thousands of gallons of beer between us,
and solidified eternal friendships. Roger, the kiosk owner who was now surely in
his eighties, waved. I waved back but stayed put and he stood there immobile as
if waiting for me to join him over a pint. Not today, Roger, not today, I
thought. I loved that silence. We always joked that one could kill and bury
someone on that beach and no one would ever know; eventually we urged Roger to
change the name from “Roger’s” to “Roger’s Kill and Bury”. After much nagging,
he did. A silly name of course, but it was our way of cementing timelessness. Notwithstanding
the beautiful memories, the dread came back. I had seen too much of a world that
should stay hidden. Sitting there on that cold afternoon, I wondered about how
it would change me.
#
“Is it okay if I tell a girl’s secret to the
teacher?”
“Is it bad?”
“Yes.”
“Can you tell me?”
She looked at me questioningly.
“It depends on my answer, I see.”
We walked on.
“Will someone get hurt?”
“Maybe.”
“If you think she’s a bad girl then
yes. The teacher will help.”
“You told me there are no bad
children.”
“Yes…”
“Are there bad children, Grandpa?”
“Tell the teacher, Lisa.”
#
I couldn’t sleep that night. I left
my house deciding that I needed a walk. Surely, I couldn’t go on living like
that. The week progressed and it seemed to be getting worse. I had become a
prisoner in my own house, going out only for the painful, twenty-minute walk
with my granddaughter. I couldn’t even phone anyone. Whenever I answered a call,
a cacophony of hate would jump at me rougher and stronger than the little voice
repeating “hello” beneath it. Luckily, I lived in a bungalow; I dared not
ponder how living in an apartment would pan out. Going out at night seemed to
be a clever way around it. Surely, I thought, only strays would populate the
streets at that time: nothing to worry about those, that’s for sure. The park was
empty so I couldn’t understand why my hands were swelling. I looked around,
searched and prepared. My hands, or something inside them, smelt suddenly of
vodka. I sat on a bench and took out my phone, unable to help myself.
“Soon,” I wrote. “Very fucking soon.
Motherf-” the curses were unrepeatable. “I will tear them apart, hair by hair,
eyeball by eyeball. Screams… their fucking throats will bleed. If he didn’t
deserve to live, none of them does!” I threw the phone as far away from me as I
could and emptied my stomach in a nearby pond. It was only bile, as I was not
eating. A noise, right behind me. I turned, still sick and disoriented, and
barely made out a hooded figure that emerged from a dark alley. He, for it
looked masculine, hurried away as soon as he saw me. I dared not follow him for
I was just an old man alone at midnight. Who did he want to kill? Where they
just thoughts?
#
That pretty much took midnight
strolls out from my list of options. I sank in my bed sobbing, having nothing
left to give. The mirror told me I looked ten years my senior. I remembered
Janet’s words urging me to find God. What would she think of me now? I had
become a wreckage of myself. It was funny that I didn’t feel the need to write
down my own negative emotions but only those of others, even though I doubted
writing would have actually helped me. Would I meet Jenny if I died now? My
razor blade slept in the bathroom cupboard.
#
But I didn’t want my Lisa to remember
me that way. As always, she was my saving grace. I thanked whichever God was
willing to listen that somehow, I had found the strength.
“Someone’s jolly.”
“I am, I am, I am!”
Thanks to her, something changed the
next day.
“Anything to share?”
“People are funny.”
“Aha?”
“They think and say things that are
bad. Then...”
She shrugged.
“Aha?”
“So, first Simone wants to punch
Melissa because Simone likes Steve but Steve likes Melissa who was my best
friend last week, and then Joanna wants to punch Melissa too because she is
Simone’s best friend and they tell me because they think I am their best friend
but I tell them that I will punch them if they do it, even though I wanted to
do more to them, Grandpa, because I was very angry, but I don’t think I would
have done it, I would have said something to the teacher. But then they didn’t
do nothing-“
“Anything.”
“Anything, yes, and so they became my
best friends and now we are all best friends. I told them not to tell me what
they think anymore because they sound like crazy and stuff.”
She was six going to twenty.
“So, you think that we shouldn’t judge
people based on what they think or say they’ll do?”
“Yes, because they think bad stuff
but then don’t do it.”
She had concluded in 6 years what took
me 62.
#
That night, as I lay in bed, I
remembered that the last time I had smiled and meant it was when Janet had
surprised me on my 61st birthday with a trip to Euro Disney. “You’re
gonna take every damn ride, take pictures with Mickey, share a milkshake with
two straws and watch the night fireworks.” Janet had long been trying to unlock
the lighter me. It was as if peace came natural to her, whilst I struggled. Her
death didn’t plunge me into negativity, I realised on that faithful evening,
but simply steepened the descent. What was happening to me was not an accident.
A crazy idea occurred to me. What if
I went out again and tried to find that hooded man who desired murder? What if
I tried to use my gift for good? I took me until 4 in the morning to find the
courage and I left the house determined to find him. It was immediately evident
that the pain was starting to relent. I went to the usual park and studied the
movements in my body, my notepad ready in hand. I had decided to throw the
writing pad away once I found him; I was adamant that I would discover the
person through his humanity and not thoughts. Something changed. I scribbled
quickly: a fire, a wish for fire, a wish to burn. I took a deep breath and
searched. A homeless man sat, hidden behind a wooden bench. I approached him cautiously, forcing myself to
think Kindness. He was not whom I was looking for but something made me go on,
ignoring the howling pain and the energy abandoning my legs. He cursed at me.
Perhaps he had been sick, lost his job, and never given a second opportunity. Perhaps
someone had stolen everything from him. He spat at me and ordered me to go and
die. I took out my wallet and smiled at him. He paused, confused. I gave him a 10-euro
bill and a half-filled bottle of water. The pain left as he wept. “Don’t give
up my friend. There will be people who love you again. May God bless you,” I
heard myself concluding, not knowing from where that had come from. I swore
that I would never again judge a person based on his thoughts. I repeated that
I would turn my curse into a gift.
My priority remained that hooded man.
I left the park and started walking randomly around our small village. I felt
fearless. Street after street greeted me with nothing but emptiness and
rudimentary lighting, but hope grew. I was free of pain, free of negativity…almost
happy. Are you proud of me, Janet? I
kept thinking. I love you. I miss you.
Would he really kill? And who? What
if someone had hurt his family? What if someone had frauded him. I knew I was
close when my heartbeat quickened suddenly and the joints around my knuckles
tensed: it was as if I was suddenly plagued with arthritis. I held my breath
and slowed my pace, took out my notepad but soon found out that I would not need
it. I saw a small light in a porch and two people arguing.
“Stay. You’re not yourself!”
“Sleep…”
“You won’t see me again if you leave.”
“Well...that won’t really matter.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
The man left and the woman sank to
her knees, pleading for him to come back. The smell in my hand was familiar,
the pain also. I had zero doubts that he was my man. I threw pen and notebook
away and followed.
He was walking in a zigzag that
suggested too much alcohol or worse, but it seemed he knew where he was heading.
I tried to stay 30 feet behind him, making sure not to instigate him. He
reached a parking area that felt familiar and collapsed to the ground. He then
took out a bottle. I knew he was dangerous, perhaps even armed, but could still
convince him to change his ways and return to his woman. Deciding that there
was no ideal time to approach him I summoned my courage and walked over.
“It doesn’t have to be like this,” I
whispered.
He rose violently and the alcohol
spilled out.
“Stay away!” he screamed. “I’ll gut
you!”
“I am willing to listen if you feel
like talking.”
“Talk to an old shit?”
“Better than to a bottle.”
His stained shirt was almost glued to
his skin and his khaki shorts had cigarette burns. The wild stink of alcohol
paled in comparison to that of burnt hair.
“Leave!”
He took out a gun and aimed it at me.
One day, perhaps, I’ll understand how I kept my cool.
“Killing will achieve nothing.”
“So, stay the hell away from me!”
“Not talking about me.”
His face changed and he hunched a
little. I had hit something.
“What do you want?”
“I know you’re hurt. But murder is no
solution.”
“What do you know about pain, you?”
He was sobbing.
“I just lost my wife.”
“A wife is nothing. Nothing! Try
losing a seven-year-old son!”
The gun fell from his hand and he slid
down to the ground crying.
“What took him?”
“Asthma. Fucking Asthma! The doctors said
it was very serious, couldn’t do anything. Fucking pieces of shit they let my
son die!”
It all made sense, I concluded,
presuming who he wished to kill with full confidence. I had hated the helpless
doctors that looked at me and told me that she had little time left. I decided
to move closer to him and sat beside him on the cold floor. I found myself
confessing to a stranger.
“I felt like killing the doctors for
being helpless.” I took his hand in mine and patted him gently. He surrendered
to me completely and wept more intensely.
“How will I live without him, man?
How?”
“You will never be whole again, but
you will carry on.”
He looked at me gratefully: I hadn’t
bullshitted him.
“Do you have a friend who’s not family?”
He shook his head.
“You’ll need someone who’s not
grieving.”
He nodded then looked me pitifully in
the eye.
“I could, yes.” He tilted his head, smiled,
seemingly amused, then a look of comfort overtook him.
“Would you care for a…” he looked at
the empty vodka bottle near his feet and smiled. “…a coffee, perhaps.”
“Any day, my friend, but not today. There’s
someone waiting for you…”
“My wife…”
“Yes. Go to her and pick each other
up.”
We stood and he hugged me.
“This is my number,” he offered.
He then paused and wiped his tears: “You
saved my life today, man. Perhaps... not just mine.”
I looked at his business card, read
the name, “Stanley Morgan”, and nodded reassuringly. Is this what you meant by peace? I asked Janet silently.
“Remember to love, Stanley. Everyday.”
“It surely beats thinking about killing,”
he retorted, and we both laughed awkwardly.
“That doctor owes me a free check-up,”
I told him, feeling comfortable enough to joke.
It was then that his smile died and
he appeared embarrassed. A tension rose between us and I couldn’t read him
anymore. He shook his head and tears flowed again. There was no pain in my hand;
his thoughts were clean but deeply troubling.
He continued to shake his head. “You
don’t understand man,” he repeated on and on...
“Pain cuts deeper when you see happiness.
To see them full of life...I just…I just needed to see less happiness. To
switch it off.” He almost choked in his words.
I suddenly understood that I was
wrong. No, it was not doctors’ lives he had wanted to end. I wished I hadn’t
thrown the pen and paper away.
“Are you alright?”
He rubbed his eyes and nodded vigorously.
“I’m working on it.”
He then looked at me. No, not at me. In
my direction but not at me. It was as if something behind me had stabbed him. I
will never forget that moment as long as I live. I still wake up every night,
replaying that look in my mind, shivering with the same chill I felt that very
moment when I realised.
Having been so focused on him I
hadn’t even realised in which place we had stopped. It was a school parking
area; he was looking at a school, the same school that my Lisa attended. “If he
didn’t deserve to live, none of them does!” Those words grew inside me like a
deadly tumour. I looked in his eyes and read clearly, I didn’t even need to
write it down: the sight of happy children pained him just as much as the sight
of happy couples had pained me. That gun… I could hear him talk to me but the
words did not connect. I shut everything around me and let the vision poison me.
A
school shooting. Lisa. My Lisa.
“I had some… crazy thoughts. Thanks
to you I’m healed.” He smiled. “God sent you to me tonight.”
“God”. The word tasted foul. Janet’s
smile disappeared from in front of me. My hands tensed forming a fist: I was in
a state of Apnoea. Never will I ever
judge a man by his thoughts. Never. He looked at me smiling as if
expecting more sympathy. I think he asked me if I was okay. I think I nodded. I
think I made the decision at that moment.
“About that coffee. I changed my
mind. I know a kiosk. Should be open even now. It’s called Roger’s Kill and
Bury.”
End
The Sun-forsaken Leaves
The
sweet, soft, sunlit leaves of spring could almost make you think that the sun
shines down on everyone. But he who spies
on our busy mornings knows otherwise. He who observes through the shadows can bear
witness. Every day, a long line of
familiesrush their stressed selves as they unload their baggage from their cars;
unburden their minds from the little inconveniences of the world, and then
depart, forever it seems, leaving behind them a trail of nostalgia. And so the
sweet, soft leaves continue to fall all around, in the shadows, leaving the
ever-keento pick them up, and philosophize about them, in their simple little ways.
‘Steve?’
‘Yes, honey. This being
my phone would generally mean that there’s a reasonably high probability that
it’s me, so-’
‘Cut the crap, Steve, I need you to talk
to your son.’
‘The word“your”
hints that I’ll be blamed for whateverit is he has done wrong.’
‘He seems to have inherited your bullshit
genes.’
‘Indeed. Good
morning to you too, beautiful. Already so much love at eight in the morning. My
twenty million Euro client who’s sitting in my office
waiting so patiently for us to finish will betouched when I tell him.’
‘That’s exactly
what I mean, Steve. I am putting you on speaker so that you can talk to him.’
‘Talk to him? Wait a minute…are you still
at home?’
‘How very
perceptive of you, really! Yes I stayed at home. Robert is sick.’
‘What about the
fifty Euros a day Ispendon
Anita? I hope there’s more to her CV then cooking and cleaning.’
‘I’ve already called Anita, Steve.’
‘And…’
‘She’s also feeling
bloody sick this morning.’
‘Oh…’
‘Believe me, Steve, you’re my last resort.’
‘Listen, I can’t come. I’ve
got that guy Lapin here who-’
‘I’m not asking
you to come. I can handle Robert by myself. I called you because maybe he’ll
listen to you.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘He’s got me locked in the bathroom.’
‘You’re kidding me, right?’
‘I am in no bloody mood to kid you.’
‘How did that happen?’
‘Bloody key was on the outside. I entered
and he pulled the prank on me.’
‘I thought you said you can handle him.’
‘Jesus Christ,
Steve, why do you always have to make everything so complicated? Just talk to him!’
‘I guessyour family’s Christmas dinner
won’t be so boring this year.’
‘Yes, you can mock
the crap out of me as much as you like. For now I just want you to pretend you
have authority and convince him.’
‘Pretened to have
authority.Interesting. Anyway, let my magic unravel then. Bobby? Honey,
it’s your daddy. Is he close to the door?’
‘Yes, I can hear him in the kitchen.’
‘Bobby? I want you to be a good boy and open up for
mommy please. Show me that you’re my little man.’
‘Nothing…’
‘Just give him a minute will you? Bobby. Listen to me, son. How about
me and youtake a little break next week togo and watch United play? How about
that? How about I take you to see Wayne
Rooney? Not on the television this time, Bobby, but for real.’
‘This thing’s gonna cost you a fortune,
Steve.’
‘Remember when we said “I
Do”?’
‘How could I forget, mon amour?’
‘I could multiply
every letter by fifty thousand. That’s how much family life is costing me,every
frickin’ year.Do I hear you laugh?’
‘You’re laughing
too, dear. To compound your misery, just remember that next year, our son
starts private school. That’s about another fifteen K a year, darling.’
‘And that’s why I really got to go now,
Liz. Lapin’s waiting.’
‘You’re gonna abandon your wife in the
bathroom?’
‘Didn’t you abandon me for a whole month?’
‘I told you it was
an ultra-important conference in Berlin. What could I do, snub the governor?’
‘Don’t you say that we should start
putting family first? Liz?’
Silence.
‘Liz?’
‘Robert? Sweetie?’
‘Talk to me, Liz.’
‘I don’t think he is feeling well. I think
he’s…’
‘What?’
‘I think he’s vomiting, Steve! I think
he’s getting worse!’
‘Alright, Liz,calm down. I’m…I’ll try to come, all right?’
‘Please, Steve, I don’t think that he’s
gonna let me out. He needs us.’
‘All rightallright!
I’ll try to excuse myself. ‘
‘Hurry up!’
‘Just calm down,
all right? Keep talking to him, and calm down. I’m on my way.’
‘All right… love you.’
‘I…I love you too.’
Steve’s
coffee had gone cold. The ice in his whiskey had melted. The Rolex clock ticked
deferentially. The client smiled and subtly touched his watch. From outside the
office, one could have seen the two dialoguing, shaking hands and exchanging
contact numbers. Both wore fine tailored suits and pristine, white smiles.
Steve’s smile seemed strained. The client left and Steve plonked himself down on
the sofa. It was the same sofa on which Steve had sat after they had phoned him
to tell him that his son Robert had broken his leg at playschool the year
before; beside the same desk on which Robert had workedon that night he had
missed Robert’s school play.
‘Liz? What happened? Five missed calls!’
‘Where are you?’
‘I’m driving out
of the underground. Why are you crying? Tell me what’s wrong!’
‘I don’t know what’s wrong with him! I’m
scared.’
‘Are you still in there?’
‘Yes.’
‘Tell me, Liz. What can you hear?’
‘He’s behind the door. I can hear him
breathing.’
‘Why are you whispering?’
‘He is close to the door. I think he is
listening to our conversation.’
‘Put me on speaker again-’
‘Wait…’
‘What?’
‘He is…I think he is following my hand.’
‘He’s doingwhat?’
‘I am moving my
hand along the door and he’s following my movement. I think he is trying to
tell me something, Steve. I don’t think this is a game, I think he is really
trying to send me a message. I just don’t know why he isn’t talking to me! I
just don’t know!’
‘Put
me on speaker, Liz.’
‘All right ...’
‘You can tell us everything,
little one. We are your parents. We love you immensely.’
‘Open the door,
sweetie. Your mama needs to hug you and kiss you. God, I love him so much,
Steve. Please open, dear. Please.’
‘Keep trying, honey, keep trying. There’s
a little traffic here, it might take me close to thirty.’
‘Oh God…’
‘I’ll try twenty honey but I can’t pro-’
‘No, Steve it’s not that…’
‘What?’
‘It’s a letter, a letter from school.’
‘What?’
‘Bobby passed me a letter from beneath the
door.’
‘A letter…’
‘I told you he wanted to tell me
something.’
‘Read it.’
‘Dear Mr/Mrs Straus, after trying to contact
you at your residence by phone these past two weeks, the school is sending you
this letter to request a formal meeting with you concerning Robert’s progress.
It has come to our attention that your son may have been identified by teachers
and supervisors with the condition known as Attention Deficit/Hyperactivity
Disorder (ADHD). We believe there are certain issues that should be discussed
with you in person, in order to decide on any future action plan for the
benefit of your child. We sincerely hope that you contact the school as soon as
possible so we can set up the meeting at your convenience.’
‘Did they mention it during parents’ day?’
Silence.
‘Liz? Talk to me.’
‘I didn’t go, Steve. I never do…’
‘What do you mean you never go? Jesus
Christ!’
‘I work ten hours a day, just like you!’
‘Why haven’tyou
ever discussed it with me? We could have found an arrangement.’
‘We never gave it
importance, Steve! We never give anything any importance! Besides work,
of course.’
‘Jesus, we’re raising a stranger, Liz. Do
you realise that?’
‘There’s more…another paper!’
‘What? Please stop
crying…we need to stay calm. I’m on my way. I’ll get you out of there soon.’
‘It’s from his class teacher, I think…oh
God…’
‘Talk to me!’
‘This is horrible,
Steve! We should have noticed this! Our
son... he needs us desperately! He can’t write, he can’t spell, and he can’t
even keep the writing in between the bloody lines. God, we’ve abandoned him
completely!’
‘I had told you,
remember? I had told you, damn it! You shouldn’t have taken that job. You were
doing fine where you were. You were happy. Back home by five. We were already
happy and our son had a mother. Now he’s an orphan!’
‘Don’t you dare
say that! Don’t you dare blame me! Can’t you see that he’s been trying to get
your attention too! I think I understand, Steve. I finally understand! He has
been acting sick just to get our attention. The child is desperate, and you’re
to blame as much as I am!’
‘But you’re the mother for God’s sake!
You’re the mother!’
‘What the hell does that- Robert? Bobby,
honey, what are you doing?’
‘What’s going on now?’
‘I think we’ve
upset him! Bobby! Bobby, stop! Jesus, Steve, he’s smashing things up! I hear
plates breaking!’
‘Put me on
speaker! Bobby, son, It’s me. I’m sorry, Bobby, I am so sorry son! It’s normal for
mommy and daddy to have a little argument. We’re sorry, son, so sorry!’
‘We’re so sorry,
darling for all of this! From now on we’ll be with you, all the time! We’ll do
homework together and you’ll do well. We’ll meet your teacher, Bobby, I am sure
she’s just lovely. Just let me out, darling. I need to get out!’
‘Stop, Liz. Stop!
He’s not gonna let you out. He’s angry and I don’t blame him. You need to calm
down. Stop crying. Wipe your eyes and stop beating on that door.’
‘I am trying, Steve! God knows I’m trying!’
‘Liz, take me off speaker and listen to
me!’
‘Okay, Okay!’
‘Listen, that kid…
I’m not liking it. I can hear him smash up things from here! He’s not
himself. I still have another fifteenminutes. Do you think you can make it out through thebathroom
window? It’s reachable if you climb on the rim of the bathtub.’
‘I don’t know, honey. It’s pretty small!’
‘Calm down! Before you do anything, I need
you to calm down!’
‘I am so sad and
angry with myself, Steve! I can’t bring myself to calm down.’
‘I need you to
listen to me. I am so sorry for what I said! I am as much responsible as you
are. We both are his parents. I am terribly sorry and I promise that I’ll make
it up to you. But first, we must deal with this.’
‘Yes. We do!’
‘See if you can
fit through the window, Liz! You can get down and reach the garden. It’s not too
high to jump.’
‘But the door will be closed from the
inside!’
‘You will be able
to see him and he’ll see you. He’ll be easier to convince if he sees you. If
not, than smash the damn glass.’
‘All right, I will do as you say. But
please hurry up!’
‘Don’t hang up. I’ll stay with you.’
‘Okay…’
Steve heard panting.
‘You can do it, Liz.’
...more panting.
‘Liz?’
‘I don’t know. It’s just too damn tight!’
‘Try to remove some of your clothes.’
‘I’ve taken off my jacket already.’
‘You’re wearing a jersey? Take it off!’
‘I did that
already too! I’m in my bloody bra! It’s impossible, Steve. Only a small child
could make it.’
‘Just try harder. Please, Liz. Don’t give
up!’
‘It’s too bloody tight, damn it! It’s
impossible!’
‘Damn!Can you try and-’
‘Hush…’
‘What?’
‘I can’t bloody believe this!’
‘What?’
‘I can’t bloody believe this, Steve!’
‘What?For
Christ’s sake, talk to me!’
‘He’s getting up here! Robert is climbing
up here!’
‘Can you see him?’
‘No…I can’t! He is
too far right! Honey! Go back down! You’ll hurt yourself. Bobby, go down! I can
hear him coming, but I can’t see him!’
‘You’ll soon see him. As soon as he gets-’
‘He stopped. He
stopped climbing. It’s like he doesn’t want me to see him! Where are you,
Steve?’
‘I am ten minutes away, Liz. Liz?’
‘He just threw a balled-up piece of paper through
the window.’‘What’s on it?’
‘Wait. Let me open it and I’ll tell you.’
‘Damn
traffic is incessant. What’s in it?’
‘It’s a drawing,
Steve. It’s a little boy with a man. I think it’s you dear. I think it’s a
drawing of you and him.’
‘Jesus! Kid had to
lock his mother in the bathroom to get some attention. Can you see him yet?’
‘No. He just threw
me a second piece of paper. It’s another drawing. Again, it’s a boy with what I
think is his father. Poor kid, Steve, what have we done?’
‘Try and break down the bathroom door and
get to him…’
‘He threw another one and –’
‘What?’
He hears her
inhaling.
‘Liz, talk to me!’
...her inhaling grows
deeper.
‘Liz, talk to me, damn it!’
‘I don’t think this man in the picture is
you,Steve…’
‘Why are you whispering?’
‘I don’t think this is you, Steve.’
‘Why do you whisper?’
She’s struggling for
words.
‘Who is it? Talk to me! How do you know?’
‘Because- Oh God! Oh God! Oh God! ‘
‘Liz? Liz! Liz! Talk to me! Liz! Talk to
me! Why are you screaming! Talk to me damn it!’
‘A hand! A hand
came in from the window and then disappeared! An adult hand! I think it was a man! A man!’
‘What? What hand?
Who? Damn it! Damn lights! Move! Move! Get out of my way!
Move! Jesus, Liz, talk to me!’
‘There’s a man in our house, Steve! A man!’
‘Get me on thedamn
speaker! I am coming home, you animal. I am coming home to kill you! If you
touch my family I’ll kill you? You understand me? I’ll kill you!’
Silence.
‘Steve! I can’t see! He has our son!
‘I am gonna kill you, you son of a bitch!’
Silence.
‘Liz?’
Silence.
‘Liz? Liz, talk to me…’
‘Steve…hush…’
Steve waits in limbo.
‘He’s close…close.’
‘Liz…’
‘Steve…’
‘Since you don’t
care for this beautiful child, I’ll take him,’a commanding voice is heard over the door and the mobile phone.
‘No! No! No! No!’
‘You damn son of a bitch! Leave my family
alone! Leave my family!’
‘No! Bobby! Bobby! Don’t touch my son!
Bobby!’
‘I’m coming Liz! I’m coming! I’m coming!’
‘Bobby!’
At
six o’clock, the sun sets on this little town and the SUVs return to pick up
the little ones. It’s been another hard day for the parents, another lonely day
for the children. Very soon the school playground where they’ve played all day is
vacant, and the teachers make their way home, leaving the fallen leaves to brave
the night on their own. Before the leaves settle on the ground theyswirl in
little eddies as the gentle wind plays a serenade for them. In the darkness,
they wait for someone to pick them up and admire them. In the darkness, they
wait for someone to come and take them away from the world, somewhere far, far
away never to be seen again. In that darkness, the night is cold.
Patrick’s
Cave
by Julian
Cardona
“How could
they see anything but the shadows if they were never allowed to move their
heads?”
― Plato, The Allegory of the Cave
1.
After
almost half an hour of fidgeting with his tape measure, Patrick concludes that
their bedroom has shrunk overnight by exactly 11.7 cm lengthwise. Width and
height are unchanged. So, it has begun,
he thinks.
“Linda, we need to talk.”
“Why?”
Linda
comes out of the bathroom wearing her red, cold shoulder dress which still has
the price tag attached: it reads €205.50. Her long, tan legs appear like moving
cathedral columns to her husband who is still sitting on the floor, double-checking
the numbers.
“You’ll
dirty your PJs.”
“I
think we have more serious issues.”
Linda
shrugs and continues to design knots with her dark curls. She then asks him
whether he prefers Quinoa salad with Camu Camu dressing or Ginger and Honey
Stuffed Papaya for dinner. He replies that a sandwich is fine. She rolls her
eyes, sighs and leaves.
As
he makes his way down the stairs to meet the rest of the family, Patrick starts
to get the impression that the shrinking has not been confined to their
bedroom. Has the first-floor corridor narrowed?
The box room underneath the stairs looks slightly skewed to him. He decides to ignore it.
#
“How
was school, Sara?”
“I
came first in the maths test today,” intrudes Jack. The huge gap between his
front teeth seems to widen and suck everyone’s rightful oxygen as he grins and
spits excitedly. If he weren’t so
goddamn fat maybe he’d leave a little space for his sister to sit,
thinks Patrick.
“Don’t
be rude, son, I was speaking to your sister.”
There’s
silence, except for the clatter of their custom made, gold plated cutlery, and
the cooing of baby Donna.
“It was okay, Dad,” whispers Sara. Patrick still cannot stand to
see her once beautiful, ginger hair completely shaved off. Linda’s excuse was
that some of the school children had lice. Fact remains that his girl now looks
like a non-humorous parody of herself; she was also becoming skinnier by the
day.
Patrick
shakes his head in disbelief. His wife smiles at him and winks, her lips form a
silent “calm down, honey.” He raises both palms as a gesture of surrender and
turns to his son.
“Well
done for the maths, buddy. What was the test about?”
“Trigonometry.”
“Aha!
Tell me, what’s Sine over Cosine?”
The
boy smiles and hides his hands beneath the table. “Wait, dad.” His sister eats
silently besides him.
“Two
minutes start…now.”
“Bettina Silverstone asked us to join her for
tea tomorrow,” breaks in Linda.
“Do
we have to?”
“That’s
a yes. The Witherspoons have also invited us on their yacht.”
“So,
they are our friends now? One minute, Jack.”
“People
we want to be seen with, Patrick.”
“I
don’t.”
“You
will. Besides, Jack enjoys the company of their son. Right?”
“Yes,
Mom, I destroyed him in table tennis.”
“30
seconds, Jack.”
“May
I be excused?”
“Sure,
Sara. A kiss for daddy before you leave?”
“Your
brother is still eating, Sara.”
“Mother?”
“Time’s
up, Jack.”
“Answer
is Tangent, which is also a line that touches exactly… one point!” And with
that Jack takes out the matchstick he’d been hiding and inserts it roughly into
his sister’s ears. Sara screams, Jack flees, and Patrick yells. Sara starts
bleeding from the ear and her crying intensifies with a bittersweet crescendo.
Patrick
rushes to his daughter. “Shit! Clinic! Now!”
“Oh,
it’s nothing.”
For
a second, he stares at his wife, horrified: she smiles, winks, and her lips
form “calm down, honey.”
2.
A
month has passed and Patrick is now sure. On a coffee-stained paper, he writes
-8.7cm width, -16.2cm length and -5.3 cm height. This is already his tenth
check of the day; the numbers are immutable. That was just the bedroom. The
first-floor corridor has narrowed by 12 cm, the library wall with the big
Atlantic Ocean painting has retreated by 7.6cm, and he is sure that the angle
that the staircase makes to the ground floor was decreasing, that’s why the box
room seemed different. He cannot keep denying that this is happening. But they said it would not happen this
year.
“Linda,
we have to talk.”
“Why?”
She
comes out of the ensuite bathroom: no
price tags today, Patrick muses with a grin.
“Our
house is… shrinking.”
“It
is?”
“Perhaps
we should consider leaving.”
“Oh
yeah?”
“I
am serious. Look.”
He
hands in his coffee-stained paper to which she replies with a smug “aha”.
“Jesus
Christ, Linda.”
“Where?”
she rotates her head dramatically and laughs at her own joke.
“Linda-“
A
knock on the door downstairs startles them.
“Expecting
someone?”
“Maybe
it’s Jesus,” and continues to laugh as she walks outside their bedroom.
“You’re
answering like that?”
She
looks at the mirror and only then does she seem to realise that she is
completely naked.
“Oopsy...”
#
The
children open the door.
“Nanna
May?”
May
is an eighty-five-year-old who used to be their neighbour when they lived in
the Centre. She is not really their grandma but have always called her that out
of affection. Her clothes seem to cling to here out of pity rather than
gravity: her bones are thin, pale and morbidly hairless, her gentle smile seems
to disguise a long narrative of pain.
“Little
ones...”
Sara
and Jack are 11 and 13 respectively but she calls them that out of affection
too. Jack extends his cheek for kissing then wipes it away. Patrick helps her
onto the living room sofa.
“How
are you, dear May?”
“Dying.”
Jack
snorts, then covers his bulldog-like face that shakes with fits of laughter. Patrick
scowls at him. Linda covers her grin with a tuft of hair then points out to
Sara that her ear is discharging again; her lower lip curls showing disgust as
she walks to her daughter with a tissue. The slight perforation caused by the
matchstick led to a persistent drum infection. May coughs.
“You’re
still in pain?”
“Oh,
it’s growing every day, Patrick. My joints scream.”
“Can
I get you something?”
“Peace.”
Patrick
pats her arm respectfully. Everyone in the room seems to be waiting for her to
explain why she’s there. She promptly explains.
“I
had nowhere else to go. They made me vacate my house. “Security,” they said.”
“Who?”
“Authority,
I suppose.”
“How
is it?”
“Seems
pretty bad. The Big Mist is here. They keep saying that the earth will shake, then
break. The fires of hell will come up and engulf us.” She shrugs, doesn’t look
convinced.
Patrick’s
shrinking numbers are confirmed; he looks at his wife who finally looks
terrified at the mention of the earth breaking. Linda pulls her son to her
tightly.
“No
one is moving from here, nanna May,” she says, looking at Patrick to make her
point. Jack nods vigorously.
“Expect
more people to come, houses are falling one by one. You live in the periphery
so it will reach you last or not at all.” May makes a great effort as she
speaks and coughs constantly.
Patrick
looks out of the window and already can’t see further than fifty metres: a
thick mist embraces their village. Seems like the rumours were being fulfilled,
although his gut tells him that staying in is not the answer.
“Can I hold the baby?”
“Of
course.”
Donna
is blissfully silent as she settles in May’s arms. Her blue eyes search May’s
and the old woman can’t help herself but cry.
“Only
time I feel alive is when I hold a baby.”
“You
can stay with us as much as you want, May.”
May
touches Patrick’s hands showing her appreciation and he is surprised by how
cold they are. Jack moves closer to her and his eyes widen.
“Wow!
You are 85 and the baby is, like, 0. I can’t believe how old you are.”
“Jack!”
“He
is only a child,” offers Linda. May smiles feebly and Jack’s voice gets louder
as if flaunting his newfound-sense of empowerment: “So when will you die?”
3.
Next
morning Patrick goes down the stairs with a dead cat in his hands. Its Mimi: her
lungs collapsed during the night. Earlier, he discovered that he had to leave
the bathroom door open in order for his legs to fit whilst he was sitting down
on the toilet. The cat is a more urgent matter than the shrinking, however; Mimi
was well loved.
“That’s
gross, dad. Take her to a dump.”
“This
is your Mimi, Jack.”
“Well…not
anymore.” He sings the last part.
Jack
is affixing a bucket containing a yellow liquid on top of a door that’s ajar.
He then calls his sister. Before Patrick can intervene, Sara walks in and the
bucket falls, its content drenching her. Only then does Patrick realise that
the liquid is milk gone bad. The falling bucket also hits her head and blood
trickles down her temple.
Jack
flees and Sara remains still, neither crying nor moving. Before Patrick can
react Linda walks in.
“What’s
that stench?”
Patrick’s
mouth opens but nothing comes out; looking at his wife in her beige,
rhinestones cocktail dress with a tag that proclaims €598, he feels he is
navigating through a nightmare.
“Oh
God, €175 of prime fabric ruined, Sara.” The girl does not protest even if they
can hear Jack giggling from upstairs.
“We
need to talk about Jack.”
Linda
laughs. “Mr tape measure wants to be a father.” She turns to her daughter who
hasn’t moved yet.
“Try
to make yourself look nice, Sara. We have people downstairs.”
“People?”
“Yes,
Patrick, people: creatures with hair and
money. And throw that damned cat away!”
#
Patrick
reaches the living room and notices that a section of the wall is bulging. It
also seems that their entire hamlet decided to visit: Mitch and Lorna, Simone
and her boyfriend Luca, Gwen and her girlfriend Rhonda, Wan, Yuan and Lin and-
Before
he can finish scanning the room his attention drops on May who appears dead,
but then he sees her chest rising, albeit with great difficulty. Various people,
led by Jack, play with her eyelids trying to push them open and have fun
comparing their low age figures to hers.
“We’re
the last house standing,” Linda tells him with a wink before he can open his
mouth and ask what was going on. Patrick realises that something is about to
happen when the crowds start chanting:
“EXTROS
CIRCLE!”
Gwen
and Rhonda take the centre and a group of 20 form a circle around them singing
in unison:
“FUCK
THE INTROS, BLESS THE EXTROS!” and then:
“TELL
IT ALL, ALL, ALL!”
Gwen
started: “Have we ever told you that we are two Dyke Strum Queens? Do you know
what that means? We masturbate in front of each other!”
Rhonda
followed: “We Hand the Gland, baby! Buff the Muff, Paddle the pink canoe!”
Patrick
feels sick: What is this overt divulging supposed to mean? Everyone else,
including his Linda and Jack, cheer them on and applaud energetically. His
living room is now unrecognizable. A wall of screams consumes him. How many are
there? 50 perhaps? Some sit on each other due to lack of space. The air is
thick and breathing is difficult. Is someone smoking? Sara comes down, still
bleeding on her pink, daisy print dress. Linda rushes to her, frowning. She
checks the price tag of her daughter’s dress. Patrick exclaims:
“Donna!
Where’s Donna?”
“I
am sure she’s fine, Pat.”
Patrick
searches desperately and his shouting evolves into screams. He stumbles over a
couple who perform yoga on his carpet, then drags himself to the kitchen where
he finds his baby completely naked at the centre of their empty, marble dinner table.
She is as silent as death.
4.
Patrick
sobs uncontrollably; his relief at Donna being still alive is overwhelming. He embraces
her tightly. His skin feels like a stranger residing on his bones.
“When
did you last feed her?”
“I
don’t know…”
“What
do you mean you-“ he can’t even complete the sentence. “She could have died!”
“Yes,” Linda answers simply. Her face is
expressionless as if they were discussing the laundry.
Insanity
trades well in that room, everyone seems obsessed to acquire it. He looks
around and imbibes the madness. Truth be told, he also feels a slight pity for
them: their smiles stretch like wounds as they pursue their fondling and obsess
over trivialities. He needs to act now, kill the disease.
“This
place…we need to get out!”
“Oh,
Pat, not again. “
Again, yes, Patrick
thinks as he leaves the room.
“Everyone
out!” he yells as he passes through an assault course of people who smoke,
dance, drink, sing, curse and expose themselves. A young man takes his turn
into the circle of honesty.
“TELL
IT ALL, ALL, ALL”
“Did
I ever tell what I like best about my crippled wife? No matter how much I cheat
on her, she always comes crawling back to me! Got it? Crawling back to me?”
The
door is locked, from the outside. He sees Sara sitting alone on the staircase,
her face pale and bloodstained, her expression neutral. He cannot remember the
last time she spoke. He signals for her to come to him but she remains
motionless. She tilts her head questioningly as if she doesn’t recognize him.
Suddenly
the door opens, almost slams in his face. In that brief moment, he glimpses the
outside world in a state of perpetual night. Ash falls from the sky. Towering Authority
officials storm in, almost trampling over him. There is four of them, all
dressed in white uniforms adorned with black badges. They walk towards the
middle of the living room, stepping over the human debris. Inside the house a surreal
silence takes over. Their leader steps forward and announces:
“This
is an official statement from our Lord Ruler. For your and your family’s
security you are:
Not to leave the building you are
currently in,
Not to communicate with friends and
family and
Not to ask questions or make
statements.
“This house is not safe anymore,” protests
Patrick.
“Breaking
rule 3 already,” barks the official. Then he forces a smile.
“Way
safer than outside, I assure you.”
Just
then, workers wearing corduroy shirts and yellow helmets enter the house. Just
as the door is closing Patrick glimpses enormous sink holes devouring anything
in their path outside: bushes, sign posts, cars and strays disappear into unknown
depths. The workers stump around the house with their heavy safety boots; they
shut windows, rivet bolts into keyholes, remove chairs and tables from the
building and erect wooden beams to keep the roof from collapsing. The air is
thick with smoke and sweat as people pile up at the centre of the living room. Sara
coughs and Linda waves at her to be silent. She recomposes herself, smiles and
adjusts her crystals embellished headband on which an attached tag reads €535,
then approaches her stunned guests.
“Scrabble
anyone?”
5.
“This happiness sickens me!”
The house growls like the inside of a vast
machine. Paintings fall and appliances burst open as if being squeezed in a
vice. A few candles flicker sombrely in that otherwise pitch-black furnace of
arid smells. Patrick is now convinced that they have to leave.
“I want all of you to stop! This ends now!”
Patrick stares directly into the eyes of the fifty-five
or so people that are cramped in his living room. His feet shuffle through the
dust and garbage that has accumulated, puddles of soda and vomit decorate the
chaos; everyone listens with half a smile.
“This place is falling apart. Us included.”
“But the Lord-“
“I don’t give a shit about any goddamn Lord! No
one will save us! We need to find a way across the town and towards a new
settlement!”
“But everyone is so relaxed in here, honey.”
Linda’s lips form a silent “relax, baby”, her rose, gold-tone enamel bracelet
glinting in the candle light as a price tag dangles below it.
“That’s the damn problem! I don’t want you to
be relaxed. I don’t want you to be happy! You’ve almost let our baby die and abandoned
your daughter. You’re a shit wife and an even shittier mother. “
Laughter explodes and an exaggerated applause
follows. His mind is finding it hard to register what’s going on. He pushes on.
“Get up! Get up, now!”
He pulls people up from the floor, shoves them,
pushes them towards the exit, kicks their stuff and screams and yells in
everyone’s face. A drunk, naked man asks him to take his turn into the circle
and Patrick slaps him across the face. He holds baby Donna in one hand and makes
sure that Sara is following him.
Once again, the door is locked from the
outside. Patrick gets a large axe and a 10m rope from the garage; even with
Donna in his arms he manages to carry everything to the living room. The rope
coiled around his left shoulder and his right-hand fingers open and close
around the handle: he’s ready. He lowers the baby to the ground, raises the axe
and hits the wooden door screaming. A large dent appears and this fuels an
inhuman rage. A second hit and an even louder applause. They chant his name and
touch his body as he strikes over and over and over again. A hole finally
appears, big enough for an adult to step out. Women touch him ribaldly, men
massage his back and chant his name. He picks up the baby ready to step
outside.
“Where do you plan to go?”
“Anywhere but her.” He grabs her by the
shoulder and shakes her.
“Can’t you see that whatever is happening
inside here is driving us nuts? What if we stay and approach a tipping point.”
Linda’s eyes narrow, betraying a very subtle
expression of concern that reminded him of the old her. Then, she finds her
smile back.
“One shot, that’s all I’m giving you.”
“Follow me, and live.”
6.
The
sky is hidden beneath a velvet carpet of smog. Outside, horizons are undefined,
sounds dampened, smells castrating and vision stabbed by fog. Patrick ties the
end of the rope around his waist and urges everyone to hold on to it. He leads
the way through mist and fires, around sink holes and sign posts that promise
death to anyone who wanders. An axe in his right hand and a child in his left,
he marches on with half a village behind him. Patrick makes sure all of his
family is there. May is there too, a feeble hint of a breath tells him she is
still alive. He reassures Sara who is right behind him that it’s gonna be
alright, but she keeps weeping
tragically. He walks on and the long
line forms a train of hope. Some cry, some are silenced by the horror, others
turn back. He pushes the remaining on, raises their hopes and tells them that
they can do it. The road is arduous: steeping upwards and with deep crevices
and boulders adorning it. Is this the
right path? Patrick keeps pushing forward. “We’re almost there”, he
tells them. Screams and explosions populate the hidden sky. It seems reality is
at war with a nightmare of human make. Let it be known that on that day Patrick
tried, let it be known that he loved his family unconditionally, led his people
away from hopelessness and battled laws designed to crack his wings. Let it be
known that he clutched at every straw that life threw.
They
come to a crater, 100 metres in diameter. In its belly, a liquid fire sways to
the tune of a welcoming hell. This is where the village ends. Far beyond a
white horse stops mid-gallop and stares at him. Perhaps he should dare hope, he
tells himself. Patrick exclaims loudly: “all we have to do is walk around it,
reach the other side”. A young girl who thought it wise to bare herself and
surrender to three men on the floor of his living room plunges into the roaring
fires; as she falls she screams to an absent God. A young man steps to the edge
ready to throw his crippled wife who moans hopeless in his arms. What happened to the luminous smiles?
Patrick prepares himself to negotiate the crater as jets of fire rise and fill
the air with a kind of light that’s worse than darkness.
He
is at the edge, ready for the crossing. The view is terrifying, the depth of
the crater incalculable. A sudden misstep almost leads to his fall: the effect
of fear perhaps. The baby is almost flung from his hand, but luckily, he grabs
a nearby boulder and both he and the baby survive. His heart pounds and he is
not sure if he can really make it, perhaps he’s bitten more than he can chew. Suddenly
a hand holds his. It’s his wife, Linda, young Jack smiling by her side.
“One
shot!”
“I’ll
make it.”
“I
seriously doubt it.”
“Watch
me!”
He
tries to reach a boulder 5 metres below him, from there he can then reach a
lower rim which is wide enough for walking. He slips again, baby almost falls a
second time. Everyone gasps.
“You’re
not cut out for this.”
“Shut
up, Linda!”
He
tries to reach a ridge from where he believes he can reach the rim. Clay gives
way beneath his right foot and by some miracle he avoids falling. This is
proving much harder than he thought.
“That’s it!” scolds Linda.
“We
need to give at least her a
chance,” he replies holding Donna tighter.
“Give
her a chance?” she challenges,
“Someone’s selfish, alright.” Some of the followers wave their hands in
dismissal and start on their way back. Linda’s expression turns dead serious.
“You’ve
had your chance, Pat. Give me back the baby.”
“If
we go back it’s over. It will turn us, Linda, forever.”
“You
don’t know that. Besides, it’s still safer than being out here. We are parents,
we have responsibilities now. Grow up!”
“You’ve
changed, Linda.”
“You
should too!”
The
lava bubbles upwards, a fissure appears across the wall of the crater and
spreads in his direction.
“This
is our last chance, Linda!”
But
she snatches the baby and leaves. May looks at him expectantly. “Not without my
family,” he tells her weeping. She nods
in understanding then eyes the crater intently.
“Maybe
they’re right, May. It’s too dangerous!” He has to scream to be heard; the
sound of a sudden tremor is deafening. May seems intent on proceeding.
“Well,”
she tells him, steeling herself for the crossing, “I have an advantage over
you.”
She
looks at him and throws him a smile which is quite different from her customary
sweet ones.
“I
am dying.”
She
holds her dress, inhales and disappears into the smog towards the bowels of the
crater. He will never see her again.
7.
He
wishes the bed would devour him. Nothing left to live for now. He can lick the
ceiling if he wants to, touch the sides of the room: his bedroom is now
something akin to a tunnel- a tunnel with a door at the end. The foundations of
the house whimper like the wooden planks of a galleon in the throes of a storm.
There is water everywhere as the plumbing surrenders to the pressure of moving
concrete. Meanwhile, happiness has
rekindled downstairs; merriment spreads like plague. His chest feels heavy and
he wishes he had the strength to do it… His veins look tempting; he imagines
his blood staining the sheets on which he made love to his wife and played with
his children on beautiful Sunday mornings.
The
door opens. It’s Linda. She puts one hand on his chest.
“You’ve
been in denial, my love. You’ve been angry. Then you tried to fight it, endangering
everyone in the process. What did you expect to happen, honey? Now you despair,
but it’s inevitable. I believe I know what’s lacking in your life.”
She
looks at the door and nods and in comes a hooded man.
“Only
Acceptance can change things, son.” The man mumbles incoherently, raises his
hand carving imaginary signs into the air, then opens his suite case from which
he pulls out a black book.
“This
is what saved me, honey.”
Patrick
motions with his hands indicating that he doesn’t want to hear.
“We
could have continued. May did.”
Linda
shakes her head in disappointment and looks at the man who curls his lips and
nods, showing that it’s to be expected. Then he turns to face Patrick.
“It’s
now time for the Ritual of Acceptance.”
“I
am not weak.”
“You
are if you don’t, honey.”
“I
need to change things, Linda! I hate…everything.”
“You
see nothing but darkness. That sadness me.”
“You are my darkness.”
“And
until you change, you are mine.”
“Change?
What will happen to us if we let go? What will we change to?”
The
man holds his hands, Patrick glimpses a grey eye beneath the shadow of the hood.
“What
are you doing to me?”
“Perhaps
you’d like to confess, honey? You will feel cleansed after. Self-forgiving. I
do it all the time.”
The
man nods and makes David swallow a pink liquid whilst reading verses from the
book. Linda leaves the room.
He
feels himself drifting away: problems fade, smile widens, giddiness abounds. This
is the tipping point, he thinks.
8.
Dear
Donna,
If
you ever read this, please forgive me for what I did that day.
The
pencil drops from his hand, he feels numb and cannot stop smiling now.
Diseased,
like the rest.
Patrick
finds himself on the couch in the living room again; there is chatter all
around him, irrelevant as it is irreverent. The debauchery has resumed. He
feels numb and wonders what the hooded man has done to him. Workers are busy
nailing wooden partitions to the windows; a beam of light from the only exposed
window falls onto the centre where his wife laughs hysterically on the cold,
wet floor. This is no longer a living room, but a small grotto. Yet everyone
celebrates. The shrinking and tremors have stopped and people jump and sing and
worship. Worship the God of Safety. He tries to write before it is too late but
someone grabs him by the arm and shoves him towards a circle of chanting folks
that hold each other’s arm and dance around the crouching beast that used to be
wife.
“FUCK
THE INTROS, BLESS THE EXTROS. TELL IT ALL, LINDA.”
She
laughs deep throaty laughter. Lorna is bare-chested, one breast gone. The
people chant in unison. “TELL IT, TELL IT ALL.”
“Did
I ever tell you how I got breast cancer and then became a total bitch?”
Laughter
explodes. “I spend all my husband’s money to feel woman again. Maybe he’ll fuck
me when I grow another tit. They sprout like onions don’t you know?”
The
mob bends backwards with vulgar laughter and scream at the top of their lungs:
“GIVE
HER THE MONEY, PATRICK. GIVE HER THE MOTHERFUCKING MONEY!”
Patrick’s
mouth laughs as he looks for Donna. Time bleeds to death.
“Did
I ever tell you about my down syndrome daughter who tries to kill herself every
other day because of all the bullying she gets? Where the fuck is the brat?”
“BRAT!
BRAT! BRAT! BRAT! BRAT!” With every “brat” comes a clap that makes the ground
shake.
“Come
and show us how a fucking mongoloid talks, honey?”
Sara
is coiled under an upside-down sofa with a knife in her hands. “Come on, we
won’t laugh at you, promise.” Everything plays like a soundtrack: slabs of
concrete floats all around them, dust and debris dripps upwards like final
credits. Has Gravity inverted?
“Have I ever told you how Jack’s school Principal
invited us to his office to show us the psychological report? Says the boy is
narcissistic and manic depressive. Says someday he just might even rape and kill
someone. Might as well start today. Bring me the brat, Jacko! Grab the sister
by the pussy, Jacko. I says the boy is
smart. I says he might be Lord one day.”
“JACK!
JACK! JACK! JACK!”
Jack
drags his sister to the centre. The hooded man makes his appearance. He burns
the pink liquid and a thick fog fills the air as incense and incest mingle.
Patrick
falls to the ground and stares in horror at his wife’s laughing face that
shifts from dark to bright as the clouds travers the moon. He vomits last month’s Ginger and Honey
Stuffed Papaya that his wife cooked for him before they had sex and both
couldn’t cum, last week’s Caipirinha
Cocktail that he had on the Witherspoons’ yacht and Bettina Silverstone’s awful
fucking tea. It was all there: orange, flaky and real. The bowels-soup smells as
foul as a devil’s wish. His ribs ache with laughter, his eyes swell with tear
shed.
Donna.
Feet
unresponsive, he pulls himself with his arms towards the discarded baby. He
reaches her, his only anchor of rationality. She is alive and he cries and
cries and cannot stop. He retrieves the note that he started writing on the
coffee-stained paper. The tears, as they often do, give him strength to write.
She was once a good woman, your
mother. Then life got a bit hard. I should have done something… Instead I acted
“as if”. It got us close. For a while. Made me hope that she loves me. For a
while. But perhaps life is a collection of whiles. I love you Donna, so I… let
you go. Forgive me. They will tell you outside is scary. They don’t know what
it was like on the inside.
Stay proud.
Love, Dad.
Patrick
crawls through the wreckage towards a spot in which he identifies a hole in the
wall. It’s a hole big enough for a baby to fit.
Ps. They will come together where
it’s safe, then tell you to Accept. Don’t! At least not all the time.
He
kisses his daughter on her forehead lowers the baby slowly onto the ground,
folds the note and slips it into her nappy. The baby looks at him and giggles,
then crawls through the hole towards the world outside. He feels like a father
for the first time in his life.
End
Really, really good. Well done. I enjoyed this. Sad, tortured yet freeing and fresh.
ReplyDeleteHi Jc,
ReplyDeletei have started an audio short story podcast. Would you like to contribute a story or two? Maybe narrate them for the podcast?
Here's a link to the site.
http://darkdreamspodcast.blogspot.com/