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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 wordyour 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. Ive 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?” 
― 
PlatoThe 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

 

 

 

 

 





When everything sleeps at night, clock and heartbeat give battle to silence, and sometimes, they dominate. At midnight, Ilona’s sleep dissolved prematurely into the lightless reality of her room. She could hear them well: out of phase and relatively shrill, dialoguing with their respective ticks, creating improvised Morse codes.  Waking up, she rubbed her eyes and instantly knew that nothing about that particular instant in her life was different, except everything.
She first monitored the tell-tale rhythm of her heart; it galloped, warning of knowledge she had already acquired, but not yet fathomed. Realisation came within seconds. As her eyes adjusted to the weak exterior light, not only the chest contractions of Joseph who slept beside her, not only the diminutive outline of her baby daughter sleeping safely in her cot, not only the carcasses of toys and dirty laundry, but, also, an unknown shadow, revealed itself. It stood motionless in a hidden corner of their bedroom. The projection, Ilona noted, had a texture which could pertain to no item of furniture. It was not the kind of shadow that loiters on your walls when a vehicle moves outside your house; nor the kind that one is likely to see when the wind seduces a leave and makes it dance for it at night.  It was, surely, of the human kind. The shadow remained still, its source hidden between wall and wardrobe just opposite Ilona’s wide-eyed gaze.
“Joseph? Joseph, wake up.”         
Nothing: her whisper crashed against his unconsciousness like waves against cliffs. Her breathing slowed and she savoured every gulp of it, with her hands holding her face which shook uncontrollably with palpitations.
“Joseph?”
She started shaking him, only to make him shift to a more comfortable position. Trembling, she found the courage to address the blackness in front of her.
“Who are you?”
Alas, on that rainy evening of December, clock and heartbeat stood as her only companions. She started crying. Not the kind of tears she had shed during that terrible week, when, her husband had that accident at work and her now sleeping baby was diagnosed with severe autism. These tears were different. She looked at Joseph; she thought of her baby.
“God…”
The shadow moved forward, pulling its deliverer behind it and shattering with its every step all notions of privacy and safety. The silhouette-blacker than the very shadow that had promoted it-sauntered into her den and in doing so, trampled over Joseph's clothes, trampled over her daughter's toys. Devoid of smell or any other recognizable trait, it demonized expectations. Ilona watched and listened as the soft brushing of its footsteps on the carpet blended with the baby's breathing.  First it moved close to Joseph who still rested oblivious to it all. With features hidden behind a curtain of hair, it regarded him from its height with a hint of derision.  Ilona raised her hand as if hope were tangible.
 “Please… don't hurt him, please.”
 She could see herself waking up and attacking the intruder. She could see herself saving him, only she was paralysed. Tears resumed their course down her face. Again, they were not the same tears she had shed a month earlier, when she got the bill from her daughter's specialist, nor were they the same tears which trickled after her husband got fired because of his new disability. These, she could sense, were bittersweet, much more bittersweet.
She could see better now. The sound of violent regurgitations emanated from what she could sense as the most corrupt of throats. The trespasser’s figure claimed no particular sexuality as a large black coat enveloped well its identity. Monstrous in demeanour yet human in its gait, it carved a paradox into the night.
“Who the hell are you? What do you want from us, from them?”
 Her command over her own voice was gone. She forced more menace out of her.
“I am talking to you! Who are you? I want you to get out now!”
 From the depths of her bed, beneath the warmth of her bedding, she trembled without acknowledgement. The figure seemed to be interested only in Joseph and, the baby of course.
Her daughter moaned and moved a little bit. The intruder moved accordingly. Ilona's hysteria intensified, gathering itself in lumps inside her throat.
“Joseph, wake up now!”
Cruelty and Innocence met. Their contrasting sizes stood out in the darkness: she sleeping, it staring. For a second Ilona waited, anticipating the horror which made promises, like a tempest on the horizon. Then it happened.
“Joseph!”
It was no whisper now: it was the most heart-breaking of screams.
“Ilona?”
Out from his sleep he came and reality divulged its contents mercilessly. Before both could react, the baby was raised from her cot and taken for a ride in the neighbourhoods of death. The baby lost her sleep and started crying. Joseph understood.
“Jesus Christ! The baby, Ilona!”
They first saw an index finger, then, it disappeared. The finger, which wasn't fit to caress the most infected of rodents, entered the baby's mouth and tested her toothless interior, perhaps enjoying the wetness of it.
“I can't look, Joseph!  My God!  I can't look. Please do something!”
With a second finger, it played with the baby's earlobe, perhaps, amusing itself with the charm of its flexibility. And as with Joseph, so with the baby: it was somehow mockery which fuelled its intentions.
Joseph tore from his bed and attacked the impostor. Ilona: Mother and lover, did nothing. ‘Nothing’: it was a word that echoed provocatively in every corner of her mind.
‘Nothing’
She turned and buried her face in the pillow. Thereafter, just a couple of feet behind her back, the massacre started.
“Ilona!”
She could hear the baby being dropped back, thank God, in her cot. She could hear Joseph kicking to no avail and, from time to time, his head hitting the ground. She could hear him paint agony with the coarse brushes of his screams.
“I can't feel my eyes, Ilona! My eyes!”
On the soft fibres of her pillow, tears formed a new puddle. It was then that she finally understood. These were the tears she had cried every night after cheating on her incapacitated husband of ten years, with Joseph. These were the tears she had shed every morning during that last month, every time she had packed her bags and looking at her sleeping baby, resolved on abandoning her crumbling family.
These were, undoubtedly, the bittersweet tears of guilt.
“Ilona!” 
But no, she would not help him; she would let him die, of course. It was better that way. His existence meant guilt; the lack of it, relief. To see Joseph dying was to feel herself lighter. 
“Ilona!”
It was his last scream, then, she heard no more. Her husband, Michael, will now, never know.
She knew of course what was going to happen next. Every limb of her selfish body anticipated it. The evitable, as it so often does, became inevitable. The baby resumed its crying and a faint smell of her breast-milk befell the room. What were once soft, baby-lungs fuelled whimpers became shrieks. Ilona's eyes pressed against the guilt-drenched pillow. Behind her, suggestive sounds brought complete information. Yes the baby would die very soon. She could hear her child being raised and shaken and bitten and beaten and dropped; this time not in her cot. To pray to her fallen God felt fake and thus, she screamed faithlessly.
“Leave!”
She could hear the baby's crying becoming progressively quieter; slower; weaker.
“Leave! Leave! Leave!”
Ilona pleaded. But only part of her did so. The other part shone with hope. To think of her daughter perishing was to think of her freedom. To see her daughter dying was to see herself being born again.
“Leave her!  Please, leave her!”
Think about how refreshing it would be, Ilona, she told herself stubbornly, to start all over again in life, to find a new husband, have a new baby. No disabilities, no bills to pay on pills and disease and pain. The unlocking, yes, the unlocking of the suffocating chains of a routine riddled with disability. The perpetual erosion of joy; the deflowering of simplicity, all would end when everyone was gone because yes, because this family had gone rotten and it needed changing.
Then, the baby's crying stopped. It was over.
In the lightless reality of her room, the man or beast or none or both walked away.  Its presence faded, and with it, although still shivering in her bed between night and dawn, so did her crying, which slowly melted into sobs. And, as she had desired for quite some time, she was now lonely. No, she thought, not lonely but alone. She smiled appreciating the difference. Alone, she repeated, laying comfortably her head on the pillow again. She had always thought of herself as mother and a wife first, and only secondly as Ilona. But doesn’t being Ilona come before everything else?
It was a reasonable question to ask.
Alone, yes, she liked the sound of that. This meant that nothing would dare define her anymore; she’d finally earned the freedom to define herself. All it took was courage, a desire to keep hoping, and, something sharp.
At exactly five minutes past midnight. Sleep returned and with arms wide open, she welcomed it. Closing her eyes, she slept and her sleep would have been serene, dreamless and perhaps most of all in complete silence, if it wasn’t for the gentle din, of clock, and heartbeat. 

The End


If you liked this taster story and would like to read more, you can follow the link to the book here: http://www.amazon.com/dp/B009NZG606

2 comments:

  1. Really, really good. Well done. I enjoyed this. Sad, tortured yet freeing and fresh.

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  2. Hi Jc,
    i 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/

    ReplyDelete