Everyday Edward sits alone in the dark corner of the bar, isolated from the world, with a frosty mug, half full, that sits in his right hand as he stares off into space. The world goes on without him, and he is just there to observe. To always be on the outside looking in. That is what he always told himself everyday. His life was going to just be the same . Wake up, go to work, sleep, and repeat. He was a waste of a life, no point, no reason, just to exist. At least that is what he would think until today.
Today started exactly the same as everyday. But for some reason, it felt different to him. He woke up promptly at 6 o’clock, leaving him with enough time to prepare his favorite breakfast dish. Well not really his favorite, but he doesn’t seem to enjoy anything. It could be thought of as the dish that he dislikes the least.
He sits down at his dining table staring at the empty seat before him. The table on that side is clean and spotless, and there is no evidence that it has ever been used. Edward pops open the top of his nearly empty syrup bottle.
“It seems I’ll have to pick up new one today,” he complained to himself. Tipping the bottle over guiding it to evenly distribute its contents across his french toast. He tapped the back twice to make sure his toast got ever last drop that was in the bottle and then consumed it within minuets. Then its off to work in his old busted up brown Corolla, bumpers hanging by tiny slivers of rusted metal. Driving on the same road to work everyday followed by a tiny cloud of smoke and the thunderous roar of the engine. His own little thunderstorm to keep him company on his long drive to work. His drive became so routine that the 30 miles only felt like a few minuets. He never thought about the drive anymore, he even once made it to work drifting in and out of sleep.
He blinks a few times and he’s already sitting in his chair, at his desk, in his tiny cubical. Hands on his keyboard, typing something that wouldn’t even be read anyway. On a normal days of work for him would include a few hours of mindless typing, followed by a few weird activities he did to kill time. One of which would be to pull up every memo that goes around everyday, even if it had nothing to do with him, and he would play a little game. He would read each one a few times, then proceed to count every word. From that word count he would guess how many letters were in the memos. It wasn’t one of the most exciting of games, but he was getting good at it, and was able to guess fairly close to the actual number 3 times out of 5.
After his 8 hours of torture, Edward goes off to the bar he frequents, “Bottoms Up.” He planned to do the normal night out. Sit around for 3 hours and choked down his a glass and watch the people go about their own life. He use to attempt conversations , when he still felt as though his life had a point to it, but not anymore. He couldn’t remember the last time someone came up to talk to him.
His isolated corner felt different from usual. Maybe it was the lighting or something in the air, he couldn’t tell. But today, something was definitely out of the ordinary. He took a quick sip from his mug and time seemed to slow down. He surveyed the area filled with dozens of faceless bodies. Back and forth his eyes darted, until they came across a face. While he didn’t know her, when he looked at her he felt like he did, or at least he should. He stared until his eyes were screaming for moisture and was forced to blink. But when he opened his eyes, time had returned to normal, and the woman was gone.
“It must have just been my imagination,” he sighed and took another sip.
He turned back forward and there she was, with a frosty mug in her left hand she sat across him. She sat there silently for a moment, perhaps waiting for Edward to make the next move. But, with no sign of that happened, she parted her lips and sweetly spoke.“Hey, what’s your name?”
Monday, September 29, 2008
Sunday, September 28, 2008
Dmbss
You wake up with the alarm shrilling in your right ear and think about how you really, really need to get a much more pleasantly sounding alarm. This thought doesn't last long as you've already rolled over to the other side of the bed, smashing a pillow over your head which was under it three seconds previous. You think five more minutes. Five more minutes. Five more minutes. Five more minutes.
Shit! Now you're late. Good going, Dumbass.
You hurriedly scramble through your laundry basket seeing if any of the shirts could possibly be detected by other students that it's been worn three or four (or five or six) times. Most smell. Most smell horrible, actually. But eventually one is found that's tolerable. After all, you've only worn it twice since its last wash, and the curry stain on it isn't that big.
The closest thing you've had to a shower the past few days was when you decided to take a short-cut to class through the open field just in time for the sprinklers to clean you. Your solution to body odor? Easy. The extra strong cologne your sister gave you last Christmas works wonders, especially when applied in massive doses-- at least you think so anyway.
You rinse your mouth out with mouthwash because brushing takes way too long and check to make sure that you've got at least a few packs of gum or mints on you, just in case. Right before you leave, you quickly make and shove a strawberry jammed toast in your mouth, pick up your bag and books by the door, and lean your nose downward nestled in between your crotch to make sure that the smell of your week old undies are alright. And then you're set!
Now run. Run as fast as you can across Dole street, through the parking lot, up the campus center stairs, and down the campus center stairs. Run, Dumbass, run! Run, run, run.
Only six minutes late! That's record time for you. You're proud. Too bad you didn't do your homework and totally forgot about the quiz that day. Looking down, you also see that there's a few smudges of strawberry jam from breakfast. It's right next to the curry. You try to cover it up by creasing over the most obvious areas of the stains and adjusting yourself in awkward positions. You shift to the right and left, then lean forward all the way so that your ribs are smashed against the desk. When that becomes uncomfortable, you lean back and hold the creases of disguise with your unused left hand. This is all the while trying not to move by breathing as shallowly as possible without passing out because then parts of the strawberry curry reappears-- breathing ruins everything. The girl next to you thinks you're weird, for sure. As she turns her head to look at who you are, she just as quickly looks down. She sees the stain. Damn. You think, maybe that's why Rina left me. And Keri, and Teresa, and Mari, and Ann. You're probably right.
The professor hands you the quiz sheet. Okay, so the Torrah is kind of like the instruction manual or bible, or something. Moses was that guy who got the commandments. A synagogue is a temple, churchy-esque praying place. But wait, what the hell is Ultra-Orthodox Judaism? What's a Yom Kippur again? You don't know the answers to any of the other thirteen questions either. Ultimate fail.
Your class finishes right after the quiz that you gave up on, and you decide to skip the second and third classes of the day. It's been rough for you anyhow. You walk up the campus center stairs, down the campus stairs, through the parking lot, and sludge across Dole street back into your little abode. The stink of piled, rotting clothes hits pretty hard once the front door's opened. Hell, you can barely sense your own bodily zest anymore. However, you can still smell your molding skivvies which has notably gotten much worse from earlier, and not even the antibacterial cologne can do anything about it.
As you rest your head back on your pillow and set your alarm to wake up two hours from now for homework that you probably won't do anyway, something in the back of your head says do the laundry, Dumbass, do it. Then, you pick at your nose, close your eyes, and drift off to sleep.
Shit! Now you're late. Good going, Dumbass.
You hurriedly scramble through your laundry basket seeing if any of the shirts could possibly be detected by other students that it's been worn three or four (or five or six) times. Most smell. Most smell horrible, actually. But eventually one is found that's tolerable. After all, you've only worn it twice since its last wash, and the curry stain on it isn't that big.
The closest thing you've had to a shower the past few days was when you decided to take a short-cut to class through the open field just in time for the sprinklers to clean you. Your solution to body odor? Easy. The extra strong cologne your sister gave you last Christmas works wonders, especially when applied in massive doses-- at least you think so anyway.
You rinse your mouth out with mouthwash because brushing takes way too long and check to make sure that you've got at least a few packs of gum or mints on you, just in case. Right before you leave, you quickly make and shove a strawberry jammed toast in your mouth, pick up your bag and books by the door, and lean your nose downward nestled in between your crotch to make sure that the smell of your week old undies are alright. And then you're set!
Now run. Run as fast as you can across Dole street, through the parking lot, up the campus center stairs, and down the campus center stairs. Run, Dumbass, run! Run, run, run.
Only six minutes late! That's record time for you. You're proud. Too bad you didn't do your homework and totally forgot about the quiz that day. Looking down, you also see that there's a few smudges of strawberry jam from breakfast. It's right next to the curry. You try to cover it up by creasing over the most obvious areas of the stains and adjusting yourself in awkward positions. You shift to the right and left, then lean forward all the way so that your ribs are smashed against the desk. When that becomes uncomfortable, you lean back and hold the creases of disguise with your unused left hand. This is all the while trying not to move by breathing as shallowly as possible without passing out because then parts of the strawberry curry reappears-- breathing ruins everything. The girl next to you thinks you're weird, for sure. As she turns her head to look at who you are, she just as quickly looks down. She sees the stain. Damn. You think, maybe that's why Rina left me. And Keri, and Teresa, and Mari, and Ann. You're probably right.
The professor hands you the quiz sheet. Okay, so the Torrah is kind of like the instruction manual or bible, or something. Moses was that guy who got the commandments. A synagogue is a temple, churchy-esque praying place. But wait, what the hell is Ultra-Orthodox Judaism? What's a Yom Kippur again? You don't know the answers to any of the other thirteen questions either. Ultimate fail.
Your class finishes right after the quiz that you gave up on, and you decide to skip the second and third classes of the day. It's been rough for you anyhow. You walk up the campus center stairs, down the campus stairs, through the parking lot, and sludge across Dole street back into your little abode. The stink of piled, rotting clothes hits pretty hard once the front door's opened. Hell, you can barely sense your own bodily zest anymore. However, you can still smell your molding skivvies which has notably gotten much worse from earlier, and not even the antibacterial cologne can do anything about it.
As you rest your head back on your pillow and set your alarm to wake up two hours from now for homework that you probably won't do anyway, something in the back of your head says do the laundry, Dumbass, do it. Then, you pick at your nose, close your eyes, and drift off to sleep.
Wednesday, September 24, 2008
FREAR HALL IS OUTSIDE MY WINDOW!!!!
His suit is vacuumed, tight against every inch of his body, which had become especially uncomfortable, after it began invading every crack and crevice it managed to find.
Struggling. Climbing up the side of the immense immenseness of the tower, the mask creature glanced down to see his progress, to see his fans. He is up around the eighth floor, and students in the hallways are pointing, laughing, egging him on. They love this.
He falters slightly, as the wind sucks the life from his contacts rendering him blind for a moment. He hears the gasps and whooping as he regains his composure and immediately begins the trek up the concrete giant. His heart shrieks with excitement as he gazes upward and realizes the immense immenseness of the journey. The journey never has to end!
He moves cautiously. Slowly inching his way to glory. His arms and Legs tremble, searing with exhaustion, yet the ecstasy of the climb is too over whelming. The only audible sound is the blood banging on his forehead, threatening to break free.
A mob forms below, absorbing every person that gets too close. Soon the walkway is packed with students, teachers, delivery men, cafeteria workers, gardeners, and even some creepy old men who like to just wander around the university campus. Everyone in the mob seems to be watching, waiting, itching for something to come crashing down, smashing the sturdy monotony of their daily routines.
A fire truck, three police cars, an ambulance, and four news vans part the sea of people. A cop starts barking through a megaphone, asking if anything is wrong, if he’s planning to jump, why he’s up there. They demand that he gets down. He climbs. The cop starts to get irritated; he can see the look on his face as his eyes widen, and he rubs his head in confusion.
His whole suit is drenched with sweat, and the fatigue is getting unbearable, but he’s so close to his goal. A small cheer section has formed below, chanting, pushing him onward. His last story was upon him. He climbs. The cheering below has drowned out the megaphone, and the police give up.
He collapses, sprawled out on the rooftop, breathing so hard his head is going numb, his body so stiff he can’t move anything but his head. He closes his eyes. He climbs.
Struggling. Climbing up the side of the immense immenseness of the tower, the mask creature glanced down to see his progress, to see his fans. He is up around the eighth floor, and students in the hallways are pointing, laughing, egging him on. They love this.
He falters slightly, as the wind sucks the life from his contacts rendering him blind for a moment. He hears the gasps and whooping as he regains his composure and immediately begins the trek up the concrete giant. His heart shrieks with excitement as he gazes upward and realizes the immense immenseness of the journey. The journey never has to end!
He moves cautiously. Slowly inching his way to glory. His arms and Legs tremble, searing with exhaustion, yet the ecstasy of the climb is too over whelming. The only audible sound is the blood banging on his forehead, threatening to break free.
A mob forms below, absorbing every person that gets too close. Soon the walkway is packed with students, teachers, delivery men, cafeteria workers, gardeners, and even some creepy old men who like to just wander around the university campus. Everyone in the mob seems to be watching, waiting, itching for something to come crashing down, smashing the sturdy monotony of their daily routines.
A fire truck, three police cars, an ambulance, and four news vans part the sea of people. A cop starts barking through a megaphone, asking if anything is wrong, if he’s planning to jump, why he’s up there. They demand that he gets down. He climbs. The cop starts to get irritated; he can see the look on his face as his eyes widen, and he rubs his head in confusion.
His whole suit is drenched with sweat, and the fatigue is getting unbearable, but he’s so close to his goal. A small cheer section has formed below, chanting, pushing him onward. His last story was upon him. He climbs. The cheering below has drowned out the megaphone, and the police give up.
He collapses, sprawled out on the rooftop, breathing so hard his head is going numb, his body so stiff he can’t move anything but his head. He closes his eyes. He climbs.
Saturday, September 20, 2008
The Dream
I remember some things from my childhood. Very few things, but the ones that matter. I remember very little about school or friends or much of that kid stuff that everyone seems so enthralled by in those first ten years of life. No, I remember something a bit different. I remember music, the laughter, the sweet sting of wine, the smell of scotch as its first opened, the vibrant voices and clumsy giggles, and the thick air that filled those lingering nights. Nights that have spotted my eyes with a wild streak, a thrill for being near laughing drunken fools. They were the happiest times of my life, the happiest times of my childhood. They have scarred me and left me a day-dreaming absurdity—a soon to be blithering wino I’m sure. But I honestly don’t really mind.
My mom and her girlfriend, Gaye, were the artsy-happening couple of the 90s—the eccentric photographer and the beautiful professor-activist. Every weekend in our wild and overflowing house, brimming with odd collections of art and dishes and old rusted things, people would gather from all over the islands, starting at around eight o’clock. Professors, painters, writers, activists, musicians, drag queens, sculptors, and a few un-established souls with a fiery mind and an even sharper tongue. The red wine would begin to spill, the taste getting stronger on their tongues as the night progressed into a further blur. I would just sit and watch, listening to the scattered conversations from the bizarre minds of intellectuals. I would just sit there quietly, with a smile across my face.
I would get a pat on the head every once in awhile, not much recognition except for the occasional exclamation of “How adorable she is!” or “Why is that little boy wearing a dress?” I was an odd-ball, trained to be as such by all the odd-balls around me. They never made clear what they wished me to be, only what never to be. “Don’t ever be like one of those silly little girls your own age,” they would say. “Remember, you are so much better than that.” I never quite knew what that meant, but I certainly tried to figure it out.
Once the party would die down, and the last lingerers were finally ushered out the door, Mom and Gaye would pour themselves one last glass of Cabernet, put on Patsy Cline, and slow dance until the sun began to set outside our living room window. I would just sit there, as I always did, and watch them until I fell asleep on the couch, curled up against its hard wood arms. I would wake up the next day, usually around noon, and find myself in my bed, tightly tucked away beneath layers upon layers of blankets, despite the sweltering heat of the Hawaiian sun. I would wake up, as always, and wonder, was it all a dream?
But as I stepped outside my room and looked around the house, at the empty glasses and half-empty bottles scattered around the tables and floors and book shelves, and the crumpled white and red-stained napkins lining the black furniture, I would know. The harsh noon heat would burn away the sweet smells of the night before, sifting through the thick air, and then return to me as only a memory, a memory of what was.
My mom and her girlfriend, Gaye, were the artsy-happening couple of the 90s—the eccentric photographer and the beautiful professor-activist. Every weekend in our wild and overflowing house, brimming with odd collections of art and dishes and old rusted things, people would gather from all over the islands, starting at around eight o’clock. Professors, painters, writers, activists, musicians, drag queens, sculptors, and a few un-established souls with a fiery mind and an even sharper tongue. The red wine would begin to spill, the taste getting stronger on their tongues as the night progressed into a further blur. I would just sit and watch, listening to the scattered conversations from the bizarre minds of intellectuals. I would just sit there quietly, with a smile across my face.
I would get a pat on the head every once in awhile, not much recognition except for the occasional exclamation of “How adorable she is!” or “Why is that little boy wearing a dress?” I was an odd-ball, trained to be as such by all the odd-balls around me. They never made clear what they wished me to be, only what never to be. “Don’t ever be like one of those silly little girls your own age,” they would say. “Remember, you are so much better than that.” I never quite knew what that meant, but I certainly tried to figure it out.
Once the party would die down, and the last lingerers were finally ushered out the door, Mom and Gaye would pour themselves one last glass of Cabernet, put on Patsy Cline, and slow dance until the sun began to set outside our living room window. I would just sit there, as I always did, and watch them until I fell asleep on the couch, curled up against its hard wood arms. I would wake up the next day, usually around noon, and find myself in my bed, tightly tucked away beneath layers upon layers of blankets, despite the sweltering heat of the Hawaiian sun. I would wake up, as always, and wonder, was it all a dream?
But as I stepped outside my room and looked around the house, at the empty glasses and half-empty bottles scattered around the tables and floors and book shelves, and the crumpled white and red-stained napkins lining the black furniture, I would know. The harsh noon heat would burn away the sweet smells of the night before, sifting through the thick air, and then return to me as only a memory, a memory of what was.
The Hit
The stars twinkled brightly over the barren desert as a frigid wind scoured the scarred landscape. Though normally a lifeless place, the roar of a diesel engine in the distance gradually filled the air as truck came motoring over the horizon. In the bed of the truck was a man who was staring at the sky.
It's kind of strange. I seem to be catching myself gazing at the stars more frequently. I guess questions about my past are finally catching up to me. Who am I? Where did I come from? How is my family? Is there a crush back “home”? Does she like me? If only I could just remember my name, there may be a chance to regain my lost memories and fill this emptiness within my soul.
“Huuu. . .”
Halfway through his sigh, a presence appeared behind him and had placed a hand upon his shoulder. His muscles took and when he finally caught himself, he was already pointing his modified Beretta at the man behind him, who had instantly froze like a deer in the headlights.
“Geeze Chris. What are you thinking? Are you trying to get your self killed? You should know better than to sneak up behind me while we are on a mission.”
Holding a beer bottle in one hand the man raised both hands into the air and began to speak,“Alex; it's your first time so you should at least show a bit more emotion,” said Chris with a bead of sweat rolling down his cheek and his eyes warily locked on the barrel aimed at him. “Your eyes seem glazed over as though you were lost in though. So I thought that I would come over and give you a pick me up,” continued Chris while he lowered his arms to use the bottom of the bottle to gingerly push the muzzle away from him. Finally Alex lowered the gun and took the bottle from Chris, who had noticed the barrel protruding from Alex's pocket.
“Can I ask you a question Alex?”
“Sure.”
“I was wondering, considering how great your skills were during the training, why did you bring modifications for your gun when we are only doing a routine hit?”
“Well I want to test out this new tech I just made, which I like to call it my little insurance. Because in case shit happens, I have my little insurance to get me out of trouble,” replied Alex as he cocked his gun and checked his clip for ammo.
“I guess that does makes sense. Maybe we should nick-name you the 'Boy Scout' cuz you are always prepared,” said Chris who was rolling on the floor laughing from his own joke.
“Ha. If they call me the 'Boy Scout' then you must be the 'Sloth' because you always take so long to kill your targets,” said Alex with a smirk on his face.
After laughing for a few moments, Chris finally caught the joke that Alex had directed towards him. “Hey! What's that supposed to mean? I mean I take a bit longer than you and Misa, but that's only because I like to take the time to know the target. I like to make each kill feel personal. You know what I mean?”
“No Chris I don't know what you mean. Personally I would just get the info on the target and go and do the hit. I don't think that I would ever take the time get to know any of them,” said Alex as he rolled his eyes.
“That's right it's not your job to know the targets background,” said Misa yelling through the little window on the rear of the cab. “Besides, there is no time to really ask about the target. We are already at the designated point specified for the hit.”
The two men peeked over the cab and to their surprise, there lay in the distance a rickety-old warehouse. When they finally arrived outside the front doors, a piece of the roof had flaked off from the many years of rust and landed a few inches away from Chris. “Holy crap,” said Chris glancing around for any more potential hazards.
“Calm down,” ordered Misa who signaled for them to ease away from the building to wait for orders. “Alex, Chris, about the conversation earlier, I may not wonder who the target is, but I am concerned of why all three of us were assigned to this mission.”
Beep beep. Beep beep. “Speaking of which,” said Chris appearing annoyed, “ I wonder who's calling?”
“Just answer the damn communicator Chris” grunted Alex.
“Alright, alright.” God, this guy can't even take a joke. What a pain. “HQ it's Long Shot.”
“Nice to hear that you made it safely to your destination. Are Junior and Chameleon there too?”
“Affirmative.”
“Your target has been cornered by the agency in the abandoned warehouse. Your job is to eliminate him at all costs. Be warned though, he is highly skilled and if taken lightly, will result in your demise. That is all everyone,” click.
“OK guys, you heard the man. I guess the general plan is for Misa to go through the front to create a diversion for me, while I sneak around the back to finish the job. Meanwhile, Chris is to provide cover fire when possible form the best vantage point accessible to him. If anything goes wrong, just use your heads and improvise. Is that understood,” said Alex with a stern look at Chris.
“Sure thing boss,” said Chris with a little sarcasm in his voice. “I'll be supporting you from the tower over there. I hope you two stay out of trouble and get along like good little children while I am gone,” Chris stuck his tongue out as he strolled back towards the truck to retrieve his M4 Custom.
When he was sure that Chris was out of hearing range, Alex turned to Misa and said, “If the two of us get out of this alive, I have something that I would like to discuss with you. Even though my past is a blur, since the first time we met you seem to remind me of someone I once knew.” With the stare of a marionette she replied,” I am not sure if we have met prior to you joining the syndicate. But I can grant you that talk. So remember not to die on me,” and then gave him a slight smile.
Alex stopped half step, and thought for a second. Did I really see what I though I saw? Did she actually smile, or where my eyes playing tricks on me from all this pressure? No, it was a smile and it was directed towards me. He landed his hovering foot on the ground and then placed a hand on his chest as it started to tighten. It was at me.
“Hey Alex. Do you read me?”
Snapping back to reality, Alex looked around while trying to regain his composure.
“Yeah you heard me. I can see your flustered face fairly clearly from my position.”
“Is that you Chris,” said Alex who was now looking in the general direction of the tower.
“Of course not It's Uncle Sam. Who else would it be.”
“Chris, what did I tell you about surprising me.”
“Yeah yeah. I heard you loud and clear. Now get your ass into position. By the way, what just happened between you and Misa to make you like that?”
Alex stopped at the back door and felt the blood rush to his face as he thought back to what just happened. “It was Misa. She actually smiled. And to top it off it was at me.”
“What do you mean, that Ms. Marionette actually smiled. She normally never shows any emotion on a mission.” Perhaps this kid means more to you than I had originally thought. I wonder what your pasts may have been like? If I am guessing right, I would say that they have been intertwined in some way or another. Maybe. Just maybe. This kid is the key to your lost memories, and most importantly, your emotions that have been locked away by that ass of a doctor. Chris shifted himself to prepare for the potentially long game of cat and mouse that lay ahead. I wish that he would abandon his dreams of a super assassin. Then if that were to happen, innocent people like these two wouldn't have to be dragged into our world. When he was finally comfortable, Chris said with a sigh, “Alright Alex I'm placing my faith in you. So don't let me down,” and propped the M4 on his shoulder. Chris put the scope against his eye as he watched the scene below him unfold.
“Are you in position Alex,” asked Misa.
“Yeah”
“Remember, Chris, if given the opportunity, take the shot.”
“Will do.”
“O.K. We are now commencing with operation Ghost Buster.”
A bit of moonlight entered the warehouse through the crack that Misa was using to peek inside between the door and its frame. “I don't sense any movement within the building. Chris can you see anything from your position?”
“Negative. All I see are a bunch of crates and a forklift.”
“Understood.” Misa ran her knife around the door to check for booby traps. After checking most of the door, she stopped as her knife snagged on what felt like a wire. I was right to worry about this target. He seems to know what he's doing. I better inform Alex while there is still time. “Alex do you read me?”
“Yeah.”
“Tread lightly. The target has set up booby traps within the building.”
“Understood.” After hearing the news, Alex released the doorknob and backed away to collect his thoughts. If I were the target, were would I set up my traps and how?
“Now that he knows, I must figure out how to get past this little hindrance. Hmm.” Misa nudged the door open in order to get a better look at the trap. It looks simple enough. Reaching around the edge of the door, Misa's fingers came across something that felt like a steel pipe directed at her. I see he was using a shotgun instead of a claymore. Moving her hand down to where the doorknob should be, she lifted her wrist and removed the hindrance from the doorknob. Once she was certain that the trap was disabled, she quickly darted past the door only to finder herself slipping on the thin layer of powder like film on the floor and crashing into the nearest crate. CRASH! “Unn. My head.” With her right hand, she examines the spot on her head that was hit. A warm gooey liquid oozed between her fingers. It seems that the damage taken is more severe than I had suspected. The sound of foot steps approached her though muffled by the film that she had slipped on moments ago. Who's foot steps are those. I need to my get on my feet, but my body isn't responding to me.
The foot steps come to a halt as the man leaned over to subdue Misa with zip ties. “You know. That wasn't quite how I planned it, but I'll take it. Now all that's left is that sniper and the pup.”
After hearing the crash, Alex reached for his communicator and tried to contact Misa. “Hey Misa. I heard a crash that came from your side. Are you alright?” A few moments passed without a response. “Chris do you see anything?”
“Negative.”
“Fine. I'm going to proceed as planned.”
Taking Misa's advise, he hastily examined the door for anything suspicious. Luckily there wasn't anything out of the ordinary and with a shove, he advanced into the unexpected.
With a few steps, Alex found himself awed with the inside of the warehouse. Though it was dark the ceiling reminded him of the night sky with all its stars. And everything inside the factory was covered with what looked like snow. But inside he knew better. It was just spots of rust peppered throughout the ceiling letting light in, and a layer of dust that had been accumulating over all of the years of inactivity.
When out of the corner of his eye noticed movement. Swiveling around to with his gun aimed at the suspected area, he catches the glint of metal and dodge rolls behind a crate. Bang! There was a small hole in the floor where Alex was once standing. Alex returned fire however his target had taken cover behind the forklift that Chris had spotted earlier. Crap, these 9mm rounds won't even leave a dent on that forklift, let alone pierce it. To make matters worse, I have only one round left. I guess that I could test that thing out now. But I should ask Chris if he has a shot on this guy. “Chris do you have a shot?!”
“Sorry man. From the angle that I'm at, all I see are crates. If you wait a bit I may be able to find another spot for a shot.” said Chris with a grimace on his face. Sorry Alex. I was ordered to just be an observer. Believe it or not, this mission was intended to test your skills to see if you could fill his shoes. You are on your own on this one.
“Great. I mide as well try the new tech that I brought with me.” Alex removed the slide from his gun and switched the barrel with his own. Not knowing how many shots his Beretta could handle, Alex waited for an opportunity to attack.
Clunk.
Alex realizing that his target was reloading took aim and let loose his makeshift hand cannon.
BANG!
As the moonlit room began to fill with the grotesque smell of gunpowder and death, a man's silhouette slowly crept out through the cloud of smoke and dust. With his gun at the ready Alex cautiously approached the decrepit forklift to confirm his target's termination. Upon reaching the forklift, along with the gaping hole in the side, he noticed a dark liquid seeping out from beneath it. Unsure of its source, he peeked around the side of the forklift and froze at the scene that lay before him.
Using the forklift for support, the man was leaning back with his hand against his side. “That was a nice shot. Did you make that yourself Tatsuya? I suppose that you would be in shock being that you just shot your mentor.”
Staring at the man with a perplexed look, Alex asked, “Who is Tatsuya?”
“Huh. That's your real name. Tatsuya Sanada. I was planning on telling you it,” said the man who was interrupted by a bloody cough, “before I ran away. But I missed my chance.” Wiping off the blood from his mouth, the man began to breath laboriously. With his last few breaths, he said, “As a parting gift to you. I give you. My title of Shinigami, the Death God. The best assassin in the organization.” Then with one final breath, the man's face became placid and his body limp.
Tatsuya's gun gradually slipped through his trembling fingers as he used one hand to close the eyes of the man, and lay him down. Raising them both to his face, beads of sweat formed on his brow as images of his past flash across his mind. Who he was, where he was from, and his family all came rushing back to him as though a mental dam had been removed. He was a high school student from Japan who came to America for a senior field trip leaving behind his parents and sister. Finally, her smile filled his thoughts. A smile that seemed so familiar. He was certain that it was the smile of the girl that he had a crush on. But in the back of his mind, he knew that he had seen it somewhere; somewhere recently. And then it hit. Misa. Why did the image of her appear in my thoughts? However, the moment that Tatsuya thought of her, a jolt of pain came across his head. Wincing from the pain, ha asked, “Who are you Misa?” With his mind reaching its limit, Tatsuya felt his legs buckle beneath him as he tried to cling to what little sanity that he had remaining.
Staring at his crimson covered hands, an eerie silence filled the room as his eyes began to blur. Orbs of warmth rolled down his cheeks while his eyes started to glaze over. And in the moments before total darkness enveloped him, he finally understood the weight of his situation.
“What have I become. . .”
What I Cannot/Must Read or Write at Night
Silence…She listened. Darkness slowly dissolving her inner courage...Diana held the wooden handle at a nervous ready. She listened intently. Her sweaty palms barely keeping the pathetic blade in her grasp. She could hear him…hear the slow and heavy thumps getting closer…hear the increasing silence, hear her accelerating heartbeat…closer…hear her still breadth, hear her stopping heart…closer…hear a stopping thump…and then…the phone rang.
“Hello?” Sarah felt her nerves resettle. She had forgotten how uneasy she used to feel about these sort of movies. “Hello?”….Silence…Sarah hung up the phone and went back to sit on the floor in front of the television. Before her marriage, Sarah hated scary movies. Her heart would spaz just thinking about them. However, Nick’s presence made scary movies seem silly. They’d sit on the floor in front of the T.V. and he’d make stupid jokes about everything that would frighten her. Nick made her feel safe.
But tonight, Nick wasn’t there. Nick was in Japan, trying to strike a contract. His company was trying to expand, gain a global face, network. It would the first time they’d be apart since they moved in together last month, but he had to go. So she let him.
Tonight, out of habit, she had watched a scary movie. She knew something felt a little strange; however, it wasn’t until the phone call that she realized her jester was missing.
It was already over by the time she sat down. She pointed the remote at the television. White words flowing up the dark screen. On second thought, maybe she should leave the television on. The noise in the background would keep her mind from wandering…
She got up and was about to change the station to something comedic to soothe her subconscious nervousness, when…zap. The lights went out. Her muscles tensed…Of all the times in the world…
Sarah could barely make out the silhouette of the television in the crescent moonlight. Slowly, a human-like figure began to emerge from behind it. She closed her eyes. Surely, she’d be safer from her imagination behind her eyelids. Slowly, she turned towards the couch a few feet behind her. Her heartbeat beginning to gain in volume. If she made it to the couch and hid under the blanket she’d be fine. Ever since she was little, somehow a blanket seemed impenetrable to all the spooks and monsters that would roam her room.
Sarah slowly moved forward, stretching out her arms into the darkness. She could hear her feet brushing against the carpet fibers. Her senses hoping that the carpet fibers would be all that she could hear.
Her pulse quickened…The darkness was staring at her…Sarah quickened her silent steps toward her feeble sanctuary. Waving her arms up and down in anticipation. Panic mounting. The couch wasn’t where it should have been.
Sarah knew she had to find her bearings. But that meant she had to open her eyes…Her heart jolted. A blood-drenched, crazed-hair lunatic ran towards her out of the darkness. Fuck. She blinked. Her brain was beginning to become sadistic to her nerves. She had seen the couch. It was right in front of her.
She frantically felt around…Nothing but cushion…Shit…Did she forget to put it back? Fear was creeping in quickly. She just wanted to find the stupid blanket and force herself to sleep. She chanced it….Blink….Stupid blanket, sitting on the armrest.
Hands shaking. Sarah awkwardly lay down. The couch creaked. A spurt of blood shot through her nervous system. She shoved the blanket over her head. Now she just had to calm herself so that sleep would overcome adrenaline…
Fuck….she heard a creak…Shit. Shit. Shit…She listened. Only the blanket separating her from terror…Were those footsteps she heard….Sarah forcefully slowed her breath… her pulse beating in her ears…creak….It was louder this time…Sarah froze every muscle she could control…sweat began to slide from her stomach to her back...Just the wind, just the wind, it had to be…pushing around a door, playing with her imagination…She waited….See, no more creeks…Her muscles began to unsteadily relax…Fuck….She had to pee.
Sarah peeked out for a glance at the clock. Six hours. She tried to hold it. The couch beginning to soak up her perspiration. Another glance at the clock…Shit…ten minutes…she tried to sleep….glance….fifteen minutes…..her bladder slowly hardening from the pressure….glance….seventeen minutes….Shit, she was prolonging the inevitable. It was either get up and walk down the desolate hallway or sleep on a damp couch.
Gathering courage from the irritation caused by the war with her bladder, she poked her arm out from under the blanket and felt under the couch. Her hand hit something hard, metallic, and cold. A Maglite. Nick didn’t think that they needed so many in so many places, but he knew that it comforted her. She pulled out the hefty flashlight and let it warm under the blanket against her chest. Light was another tool against the terrifying images her mind liked to burn into her memory. Like a blanket, nothing could penetrate its barrier.
She wiped her sweaty hands on her clothes. The metal handle still felt slippery in her aching grasp. She decided to do it quickly. Determination and purpose deterred specters and psychos. She flicked on the light, threw off the blanket, and stood up….Thank God, the flashlight worked…for a moment she began to fear what would have happened if it hadn’t…No, stay focused. She had to pee.
She began to shine the light around the living room quickly and continuously. Good, nothing there. Her nerves felt a little less strained.
Sarah shone the beam at the doorway leading to the hallway. She could see the kitchen just beyond. Her heart faltered. Something moved…unconsciously, she felt herself let beam slowly pan doorway back and forth…A glint of eerie light….Thank you, Lord. It’s just a pot.
She stepped into the hallway...Fuck…her legs jerked her backward into the living room…She’d forgotten. Her house had been designed by a fricken moron. The bathroom was at the end of the hall…right next to the stairs leading to the basement…
She’d never been down there. She’d tried, but the terror grew so intense that she felt the sickening taste of puke in the back of her mouth. It was settled. Nick had to do all the laundry. It was kind of pathetic how she could be afraid of her own house. But she was sure that it had a sinister air…
Frick…she had to pee…but she couldn’t go back into that hallway. Telepathic images of an impeding darkness loomed before her. She could feel it emanating forth. Creeping down the hallway. Searching for her…
Her bladder hurt….Frick…She ran into the hallway. Illuminating the stairway with a hard resolve. There…as long as she kept the light on it, she could keep its forces trapped within itself. Steadily, she began to walk down the hallway. Erect. With a new strength….
Fuck…she felt a slight breeze on the back of her neck…she’d been so preoccupied with the basement before her. She’d forgotten about what was behind her….
Sarah immediately flashed the beam of photons behind her. A quick glance. Then back to the stairs in front of her…She continued pitifully switching the direction the flashlight. He body getting tenser with each switch. The shadows behind only growing darker as her eyes became dependent on the light in front. She could only spend a fraction of a second contemplating in each direction before the opposite one began to encase her with fear…
Shit…it was bad enough that she had to stare at the basement stairs…The doorway connecting the entryway to the hall was just a few feet ahead of her…she hated it…the immense expanse between the front door and the hallway….the haunting emptiness…She felt naked. Exposed in the darkened passageway….She held her breadth. Ran past. Light-footed to avoid any noise. Her heart pounding with each step…Fuck…she was running closer to the fiends that lurked in the basement…Shit…She could see down the stairs now. The stairs that led to unknown horrors….
Stillness. Quiet. Her adrenaline was rapidly leaving her nerves to fend for themselves. She looked up. The lonely bathroom was there, to her right, and the non-comforting dark bedroom to her left.
She’d finally gotten to the bathroom. She could finally relieve her bursting bladder of suffering…
No….she knew she couldn’t….couldn’t sit in the dark and pee without the photon beam, the mirror, the darkness, and her mind conspiring to form a spirit of some kind… She had to go to the basement. She had to go and reset the circuit breaker…Fuck….She had to pee….
She peered down into the darkness that no light could penetrate. Sarah wiped her hands quickly on her clothes…She gently put her foot on the first step. Her free hand was used for balance…The walls were cold...Sarah prayed to every higher entity she knew of…she prayed for protection…she prayed for courage….she prayed the chance to see Nick again….Sarah slowly descended. Descended towards a pool of terror at the end of a cold stream…
“Hello?” Sarah felt her nerves resettle. She had forgotten how uneasy she used to feel about these sort of movies. “Hello?”….Silence…Sarah hung up the phone and went back to sit on the floor in front of the television. Before her marriage, Sarah hated scary movies. Her heart would spaz just thinking about them. However, Nick’s presence made scary movies seem silly. They’d sit on the floor in front of the T.V. and he’d make stupid jokes about everything that would frighten her. Nick made her feel safe.
But tonight, Nick wasn’t there. Nick was in Japan, trying to strike a contract. His company was trying to expand, gain a global face, network. It would the first time they’d be apart since they moved in together last month, but he had to go. So she let him.
Tonight, out of habit, she had watched a scary movie. She knew something felt a little strange; however, it wasn’t until the phone call that she realized her jester was missing.
It was already over by the time she sat down. She pointed the remote at the television. White words flowing up the dark screen. On second thought, maybe she should leave the television on. The noise in the background would keep her mind from wandering…
She got up and was about to change the station to something comedic to soothe her subconscious nervousness, when…zap. The lights went out. Her muscles tensed…Of all the times in the world…
Sarah could barely make out the silhouette of the television in the crescent moonlight. Slowly, a human-like figure began to emerge from behind it. She closed her eyes. Surely, she’d be safer from her imagination behind her eyelids. Slowly, she turned towards the couch a few feet behind her. Her heartbeat beginning to gain in volume. If she made it to the couch and hid under the blanket she’d be fine. Ever since she was little, somehow a blanket seemed impenetrable to all the spooks and monsters that would roam her room.
Sarah slowly moved forward, stretching out her arms into the darkness. She could hear her feet brushing against the carpet fibers. Her senses hoping that the carpet fibers would be all that she could hear.
Her pulse quickened…The darkness was staring at her…Sarah quickened her silent steps toward her feeble sanctuary. Waving her arms up and down in anticipation. Panic mounting. The couch wasn’t where it should have been.
Sarah knew she had to find her bearings. But that meant she had to open her eyes…Her heart jolted. A blood-drenched, crazed-hair lunatic ran towards her out of the darkness. Fuck. She blinked. Her brain was beginning to become sadistic to her nerves. She had seen the couch. It was right in front of her.
She frantically felt around…Nothing but cushion…Shit…Did she forget to put it back? Fear was creeping in quickly. She just wanted to find the stupid blanket and force herself to sleep. She chanced it….Blink….Stupid blanket, sitting on the armrest.
Hands shaking. Sarah awkwardly lay down. The couch creaked. A spurt of blood shot through her nervous system. She shoved the blanket over her head. Now she just had to calm herself so that sleep would overcome adrenaline…
Fuck….she heard a creak…Shit. Shit. Shit…She listened. Only the blanket separating her from terror…Were those footsteps she heard….Sarah forcefully slowed her breath… her pulse beating in her ears…creak….It was louder this time…Sarah froze every muscle she could control…sweat began to slide from her stomach to her back...Just the wind, just the wind, it had to be…pushing around a door, playing with her imagination…She waited….See, no more creeks…Her muscles began to unsteadily relax…Fuck….She had to pee.
Sarah peeked out for a glance at the clock. Six hours. She tried to hold it. The couch beginning to soak up her perspiration. Another glance at the clock…Shit…ten minutes…she tried to sleep….glance….fifteen minutes…..her bladder slowly hardening from the pressure….glance….seventeen minutes….Shit, she was prolonging the inevitable. It was either get up and walk down the desolate hallway or sleep on a damp couch.
Gathering courage from the irritation caused by the war with her bladder, she poked her arm out from under the blanket and felt under the couch. Her hand hit something hard, metallic, and cold. A Maglite. Nick didn’t think that they needed so many in so many places, but he knew that it comforted her. She pulled out the hefty flashlight and let it warm under the blanket against her chest. Light was another tool against the terrifying images her mind liked to burn into her memory. Like a blanket, nothing could penetrate its barrier.
She wiped her sweaty hands on her clothes. The metal handle still felt slippery in her aching grasp. She decided to do it quickly. Determination and purpose deterred specters and psychos. She flicked on the light, threw off the blanket, and stood up….Thank God, the flashlight worked…for a moment she began to fear what would have happened if it hadn’t…No, stay focused. She had to pee.
She began to shine the light around the living room quickly and continuously. Good, nothing there. Her nerves felt a little less strained.
Sarah shone the beam at the doorway leading to the hallway. She could see the kitchen just beyond. Her heart faltered. Something moved…unconsciously, she felt herself let beam slowly pan doorway back and forth…A glint of eerie light….Thank you, Lord. It’s just a pot.
She stepped into the hallway...Fuck…her legs jerked her backward into the living room…She’d forgotten. Her house had been designed by a fricken moron. The bathroom was at the end of the hall…right next to the stairs leading to the basement…
She’d never been down there. She’d tried, but the terror grew so intense that she felt the sickening taste of puke in the back of her mouth. It was settled. Nick had to do all the laundry. It was kind of pathetic how she could be afraid of her own house. But she was sure that it had a sinister air…
Frick…she had to pee…but she couldn’t go back into that hallway. Telepathic images of an impeding darkness loomed before her. She could feel it emanating forth. Creeping down the hallway. Searching for her…
Her bladder hurt….Frick…She ran into the hallway. Illuminating the stairway with a hard resolve. There…as long as she kept the light on it, she could keep its forces trapped within itself. Steadily, she began to walk down the hallway. Erect. With a new strength….
Fuck…she felt a slight breeze on the back of her neck…she’d been so preoccupied with the basement before her. She’d forgotten about what was behind her….
Sarah immediately flashed the beam of photons behind her. A quick glance. Then back to the stairs in front of her…She continued pitifully switching the direction the flashlight. He body getting tenser with each switch. The shadows behind only growing darker as her eyes became dependent on the light in front. She could only spend a fraction of a second contemplating in each direction before the opposite one began to encase her with fear…
Shit…it was bad enough that she had to stare at the basement stairs…The doorway connecting the entryway to the hall was just a few feet ahead of her…she hated it…the immense expanse between the front door and the hallway….the haunting emptiness…She felt naked. Exposed in the darkened passageway….She held her breadth. Ran past. Light-footed to avoid any noise. Her heart pounding with each step…Fuck…she was running closer to the fiends that lurked in the basement…Shit…She could see down the stairs now. The stairs that led to unknown horrors….
Stillness. Quiet. Her adrenaline was rapidly leaving her nerves to fend for themselves. She looked up. The lonely bathroom was there, to her right, and the non-comforting dark bedroom to her left.
She’d finally gotten to the bathroom. She could finally relieve her bursting bladder of suffering…
No….she knew she couldn’t….couldn’t sit in the dark and pee without the photon beam, the mirror, the darkness, and her mind conspiring to form a spirit of some kind… She had to go to the basement. She had to go and reset the circuit breaker…Fuck….She had to pee….
She peered down into the darkness that no light could penetrate. Sarah wiped her hands quickly on her clothes…She gently put her foot on the first step. Her free hand was used for balance…The walls were cold...Sarah prayed to every higher entity she knew of…she prayed for protection…she prayed for courage….she prayed the chance to see Nick again….Sarah slowly descended. Descended towards a pool of terror at the end of a cold stream…
CRASH
Darkness. A loud crunch. Eyes open to somehow understand why the bumper of a truck is in front of my face. What was that last memory...
--
The Office, 7:30AM. A hunter-killer searches relentlessly, breaking into every byte to leave no bit unturned as the computer watches in horror as the corpses pile up, a worm here, a trojan there. The program has been running for hours, cleaning the cruft off of the computer, and I doze away in the plush chair. Eyes open to see twenty minutes have passed. Another thirty minutes. Another fifteen. Too long I've been here, dozing in front of an automated machine, must get active in order to cut down the size of the queue before the weekend and Saturday job requests. The program has been searching the computer for a while now - maybe it'll take ten minutes more to finish the search, I can wait that long...
There was the field work, 10:30AM. Raking up leaves and branches, cutting down Termite Swiss Cheese, unloading wheelbarrows of assorted green waste into the compost area. The sun commanded all the sky to be still, and so the clouds stood guard at the edges of the valley while the sun supervised our labor, his firey eyes keeping a careful watch on everyone...
Lunch, 12:30PM. A strawberry smoothie! Possibly the best part of the day so far, hopefully not the best part of the day to come. Random work on assignments, rushing of turning things in - too many friends around to concentrate well. Possibly need to leave to finish work, will head home early in order to sleep and finish stories. Nothing as bad as turning in things that won't make me proud, so we'll polish one of the stories up so I won't need to sit right down and shit some out. (With apologies to Ben Folds)
Road, 3:42PM. Dozed off in traffic after waiting for light to turn red. Man walked up and tapped on window, sharp raps woke me up. Waved him goodbye, drove on to catch up with traffic twenty feet ahead. Don't think it's been that long I've been dozing - to head to a friend's house to nap for the moment? A mall, a parking structure? Or can I make it home? Not sure. On route to friend's house... turned away, with a couple of places left to stop afterwards in case I feel worse. I think I can make it.
--
Oh shit. Here's that bumper again, hazard lights are going up. Car goes in parked mode, emergency brakes on. Man comes out of his pickup truck, a white Toyota. He's 200 pounds, 5'11" - tattoos hissing in the bright light. Asks a question - what where you doing? Response: I'm sorry, I must've been falling asleep. Bags under eyes, too tired. He's angry, and we manage to get onto the shoulder lane, out of the incoming traffic. "On our latest traffic report there's been a fender bender on the freeway near the cutoff at-" I walk up, he's taking out pen and paper. Calmly write down information, nothing to be gained by worrying, anger, fear. The punishment will come after the damage is estimated. His truck: minor cosmetic damage, some paint on his rear bumper. Made of stainless steel, don't see any physical dents on it. No looks underneath the body. My car: dented hood. Symmetrically dented, square impact against his truck. Possible cost estimated up to 1,000 dollars for replacing hood, minor work on front grille. Brother will be happy, car work for him to do. Police are called and on their way - estimated time with traffic is twenty to thirty minutes. "Mooshed Potatoes." The word was "mooshed", I can change it after this is said and done. A tidal wave of green ketchup on the mooshed potatoes, red ketchup for the burnt roast, purple ketchup for the soggy peas and carrots. Blue lights race forward!
Police have come and gone - no statement taken, only insurance, registration and license. Name and phone number - all information matches. GIven permission to leave, truck pulls away in front of me. Waiting for a couple of cars to pass, waiting for an open space, waiting for distance between myself and that truck. Police allow me to get on the road and follow behind me - they pull across the lanes, speeding towards the next dispatch. Looking to get into a slower lane in order to keep car in one piece, spot opens! Black Toyota truck swings in infront of me from other side. Slow down to avoid second accident in one day, much less one hour. White male, mid fifties, aloha shirt and no turn signals. He gets in, I slide behind him and we speed off on the road. The mother is tired of her life, quietly sabotaging her husband, her family with the chores at home - especially dinner. Two wrongs do not make a right, but teenagers mixing food coloring to show off a ketchup rainbow is disconcerting. Strong yellow/orange dye for yellow. Rain falls, the clouds relieving themselves on us after watching the accident. Hah hah, very funny. Next time head to the bathroom, there are whole forests to wipe yourself with.
Darkness. A loud crunch. Eyes open to somehow understand why the bumper of a truck is in front of my face. What was that last memory...
--
The Office, 7:30AM. A hunter-killer searches relentlessly, breaking into every byte to leave no bit unturned as the computer watches in horror as the corpses pile up, a worm here, a trojan there. The program has been running for hours, cleaning the cruft off of the computer, and I doze away in the plush chair. Eyes open to see twenty minutes have passed. Another thirty minutes. Another fifteen. Too long I've been here, dozing in front of an automated machine, must get active in order to cut down the size of the queue before the weekend and Saturday job requests. The program has been searching the computer for a while now - maybe it'll take ten minutes more to finish the search, I can wait that long...
There was the field work, 10:30AM. Raking up leaves and branches, cutting down Termite Swiss Cheese, unloading wheelbarrows of assorted green waste into the compost area. The sun commanded all the sky to be still, and so the clouds stood guard at the edges of the valley while the sun supervised our labor, his firey eyes keeping a careful watch on everyone...
Lunch, 12:30PM. A strawberry smoothie! Possibly the best part of the day so far, hopefully not the best part of the day to come. Random work on assignments, rushing of turning things in - too many friends around to concentrate well. Possibly need to leave to finish work, will head home early in order to sleep and finish stories. Nothing as bad as turning in things that won't make me proud, so we'll polish one of the stories up so I won't need to sit right down and shit some out. (With apologies to Ben Folds)
Road, 3:42PM. Dozed off in traffic after waiting for light to turn red. Man walked up and tapped on window, sharp raps woke me up. Waved him goodbye, drove on to catch up with traffic twenty feet ahead. Don't think it's been that long I've been dozing - to head to a friend's house to nap for the moment? A mall, a parking structure? Or can I make it home? Not sure. On route to friend's house... turned away, with a couple of places left to stop afterwards in case I feel worse. I think I can make it.
--
Oh shit. Here's that bumper again, hazard lights are going up. Car goes in parked mode, emergency brakes on. Man comes out of his pickup truck, a white Toyota. He's 200 pounds, 5'11" - tattoos hissing in the bright light. Asks a question - what where you doing? Response: I'm sorry, I must've been falling asleep. Bags under eyes, too tired. He's angry, and we manage to get onto the shoulder lane, out of the incoming traffic. "On our latest traffic report there's been a fender bender on the freeway near the cutoff at-" I walk up, he's taking out pen and paper. Calmly write down information, nothing to be gained by worrying, anger, fear. The punishment will come after the damage is estimated. His truck: minor cosmetic damage, some paint on his rear bumper. Made of stainless steel, don't see any physical dents on it. No looks underneath the body. My car: dented hood. Symmetrically dented, square impact against his truck. Possible cost estimated up to 1,000 dollars for replacing hood, minor work on front grille. Brother will be happy, car work for him to do. Police are called and on their way - estimated time with traffic is twenty to thirty minutes. "Mooshed Potatoes." The word was "mooshed", I can change it after this is said and done. A tidal wave of green ketchup on the mooshed potatoes, red ketchup for the burnt roast, purple ketchup for the soggy peas and carrots. Blue lights race forward!
Police have come and gone - no statement taken, only insurance, registration and license. Name and phone number - all information matches. GIven permission to leave, truck pulls away in front of me. Waiting for a couple of cars to pass, waiting for an open space, waiting for distance between myself and that truck. Police allow me to get on the road and follow behind me - they pull across the lanes, speeding towards the next dispatch. Looking to get into a slower lane in order to keep car in one piece, spot opens! Black Toyota truck swings in infront of me from other side. Slow down to avoid second accident in one day, much less one hour. White male, mid fifties, aloha shirt and no turn signals. He gets in, I slide behind him and we speed off on the road. The mother is tired of her life, quietly sabotaging her husband, her family with the chores at home - especially dinner. Two wrongs do not make a right, but teenagers mixing food coloring to show off a ketchup rainbow is disconcerting. Strong yellow/orange dye for yellow. Rain falls, the clouds relieving themselves on us after watching the accident. Hah hah, very funny. Next time head to the bathroom, there are whole forests to wipe yourself with.
--
Home, 6:00PM. Phone calls are made, topics discussed with others. Junkyards are looked up in the phonebook - it'll be cheaper to replace the hood than to repair. A quick dinner, some leftovers from the fridge, a review of the police report and the damage to the car. No engine problems, but the front frame might need some work. No engine problems on drive back, odd vibrations possibly due to bent frame. Stifled yawns while writing down phone numbers to call later. A shower, some writing, a post, and a soft embrace by the moon. A gentle release into that good night.
--
The Office, 7:30AM. A hunter-killer searches relentlessly, breaking into every byte to leave no bit unturned as the computer watches in horror as the corpses pile up, a worm here, a trojan there. The program has been running for hours, cleaning the cruft off of the computer, and I doze away in the plush chair. Eyes open to see twenty minutes have passed. Another thirty minutes. Another fifteen. Too long I've been here, dozing in front of an automated machine, must get active in order to cut down the size of the queue before the weekend and Saturday job requests. The program has been searching the computer for a while now - maybe it'll take ten minutes more to finish the search, I can wait that long...
There was the field work, 10:30AM. Raking up leaves and branches, cutting down Termite Swiss Cheese, unloading wheelbarrows of assorted green waste into the compost area. The sun commanded all the sky to be still, and so the clouds stood guard at the edges of the valley while the sun supervised our labor, his firey eyes keeping a careful watch on everyone...
Lunch, 12:30PM. A strawberry smoothie! Possibly the best part of the day so far, hopefully not the best part of the day to come. Random work on assignments, rushing of turning things in - too many friends around to concentrate well. Possibly need to leave to finish work, will head home early in order to sleep and finish stories. Nothing as bad as turning in things that won't make me proud, so we'll polish one of the stories up so I won't need to sit right down and shit some out. (With apologies to Ben Folds)
Road, 3:42PM. Dozed off in traffic after waiting for light to turn red. Man walked up and tapped on window, sharp raps woke me up. Waved him goodbye, drove on to catch up with traffic twenty feet ahead. Don't think it's been that long I've been dozing - to head to a friend's house to nap for the moment? A mall, a parking structure? Or can I make it home? Not sure. On route to friend's house... turned away, with a couple of places left to stop afterwards in case I feel worse. I think I can make it.
--
Oh shit. Here's that bumper again, hazard lights are going up. Car goes in parked mode, emergency brakes on. Man comes out of his pickup truck, a white Toyota. He's 200 pounds, 5'11" - tattoos hissing in the bright light. Asks a question - what where you doing? Response: I'm sorry, I must've been falling asleep. Bags under eyes, too tired. He's angry, and we manage to get onto the shoulder lane, out of the incoming traffic. "On our latest traffic report there's been a fender bender on the freeway near the cutoff at-" I walk up, he's taking out pen and paper. Calmly write down information, nothing to be gained by worrying, anger, fear. The punishment will come after the damage is estimated. His truck: minor cosmetic damage, some paint on his rear bumper. Made of stainless steel, don't see any physical dents on it. No looks underneath the body. My car: dented hood. Symmetrically dented, square impact against his truck. Possible cost estimated up to 1,000 dollars for replacing hood, minor work on front grille. Brother will be happy, car work for him to do. Police are called and on their way - estimated time with traffic is twenty to thirty minutes. "Mooshed Potatoes." The word was "mooshed", I can change it after this is said and done. A tidal wave of green ketchup on the mooshed potatoes, red ketchup for the burnt roast, purple ketchup for the soggy peas and carrots. Blue lights race forward!
Police have come and gone - no statement taken, only insurance, registration and license. Name and phone number - all information matches. GIven permission to leave, truck pulls away in front of me. Waiting for a couple of cars to pass, waiting for an open space, waiting for distance between myself and that truck. Police allow me to get on the road and follow behind me - they pull across the lanes, speeding towards the next dispatch. Looking to get into a slower lane in order to keep car in one piece, spot opens! Black Toyota truck swings in infront of me from other side. Slow down to avoid second accident in one day, much less one hour. White male, mid fifties, aloha shirt and no turn signals. He gets in, I slide behind him and we speed off on the road. The mother is tired of her life, quietly sabotaging her husband, her family with the chores at home - especially dinner. Two wrongs do not make a right, but teenagers mixing food coloring to show off a ketchup rainbow is disconcerting. Strong yellow/orange dye for yellow. Rain falls, the clouds relieving themselves on us after watching the accident. Hah hah, very funny. Next time head to the bathroom, there are whole forests to wipe yourself with.
Darkness. A loud crunch. Eyes open to somehow understand why the bumper of a truck is in front of my face. What was that last memory...
--
The Office, 7:30AM. A hunter-killer searches relentlessly, breaking into every byte to leave no bit unturned as the computer watches in horror as the corpses pile up, a worm here, a trojan there. The program has been running for hours, cleaning the cruft off of the computer, and I doze away in the plush chair. Eyes open to see twenty minutes have passed. Another thirty minutes. Another fifteen. Too long I've been here, dozing in front of an automated machine, must get active in order to cut down the size of the queue before the weekend and Saturday job requests. The program has been searching the computer for a while now - maybe it'll take ten minutes more to finish the search, I can wait that long...
There was the field work, 10:30AM. Raking up leaves and branches, cutting down Termite Swiss Cheese, unloading wheelbarrows of assorted green waste into the compost area. The sun commanded all the sky to be still, and so the clouds stood guard at the edges of the valley while the sun supervised our labor, his firey eyes keeping a careful watch on everyone...
Lunch, 12:30PM. A strawberry smoothie! Possibly the best part of the day so far, hopefully not the best part of the day to come. Random work on assignments, rushing of turning things in - too many friends around to concentrate well. Possibly need to leave to finish work, will head home early in order to sleep and finish stories. Nothing as bad as turning in things that won't make me proud, so we'll polish one of the stories up so I won't need to sit right down and shit some out. (With apologies to Ben Folds)
Road, 3:42PM. Dozed off in traffic after waiting for light to turn red. Man walked up and tapped on window, sharp raps woke me up. Waved him goodbye, drove on to catch up with traffic twenty feet ahead. Don't think it's been that long I've been dozing - to head to a friend's house to nap for the moment? A mall, a parking structure? Or can I make it home? Not sure. On route to friend's house... turned away, with a couple of places left to stop afterwards in case I feel worse. I think I can make it.
--
Oh shit. Here's that bumper again, hazard lights are going up. Car goes in parked mode, emergency brakes on. Man comes out of his pickup truck, a white Toyota. He's 200 pounds, 5'11" - tattoos hissing in the bright light. Asks a question - what where you doing? Response: I'm sorry, I must've been falling asleep. Bags under eyes, too tired. He's angry, and we manage to get onto the shoulder lane, out of the incoming traffic. "On our latest traffic report there's been a fender bender on the freeway near the cutoff at-" I walk up, he's taking out pen and paper. Calmly write down information, nothing to be gained by worrying, anger, fear. The punishment will come after the damage is estimated. His truck: minor cosmetic damage, some paint on his rear bumper. Made of stainless steel, don't see any physical dents on it. No looks underneath the body. My car: dented hood. Symmetrically dented, square impact against his truck. Possible cost estimated up to 1,000 dollars for replacing hood, minor work on front grille. Brother will be happy, car work for him to do. Police are called and on their way - estimated time with traffic is twenty to thirty minutes. "Mooshed Potatoes." The word was "mooshed", I can change it after this is said and done. A tidal wave of green ketchup on the mooshed potatoes, red ketchup for the burnt roast, purple ketchup for the soggy peas and carrots. Blue lights race forward!
Police have come and gone - no statement taken, only insurance, registration and license. Name and phone number - all information matches. GIven permission to leave, truck pulls away in front of me. Waiting for a couple of cars to pass, waiting for an open space, waiting for distance between myself and that truck. Police allow me to get on the road and follow behind me - they pull across the lanes, speeding towards the next dispatch. Looking to get into a slower lane in order to keep car in one piece, spot opens! Black Toyota truck swings in infront of me from other side. Slow down to avoid second accident in one day, much less one hour. White male, mid fifties, aloha shirt and no turn signals. He gets in, I slide behind him and we speed off on the road. The mother is tired of her life, quietly sabotaging her husband, her family with the chores at home - especially dinner. Two wrongs do not make a right, but teenagers mixing food coloring to show off a ketchup rainbow is disconcerting. Strong yellow/orange dye for yellow. Rain falls, the clouds relieving themselves on us after watching the accident. Hah hah, very funny. Next time head to the bathroom, there are whole forests to wipe yourself with.
--
Home, 6:00PM. Phone calls are made, topics discussed with others. Junkyards are looked up in the phonebook - it'll be cheaper to replace the hood than to repair. A quick dinner, some leftovers from the fridge, a review of the police report and the damage to the car. No engine problems, but the front frame might need some work. No engine problems on drive back, odd vibrations possibly due to bent frame. Stifled yawns while writing down phone numbers to call later. A shower, some writing, a post, and a soft embrace by the moon. A gentle release into that good night.
Friday, September 19, 2008
Fish Bowls
Crisanta resided in an apartment full of shit. Cockroaches scurried across the kitchen counters when the sun no longer illuminated the room, the toilet took two attempts to flush its contents completely, and the garbage disposal always backed up, releasing a putrid aroma of last night’s left-overs. She slept, ate, and studied in her bedroom. Her bed doubled as a desk as well as a place to restore her energy each night. Her closet looked as if it might spew out its matter at any moment if the door slid open all the way. A collection of vintage t-shirts, embroidered sweaters, sun dresses, leggings, knitted scarves, and skinny jeans that she scavenged for in trendy thrift stores the past four years, and so forth defined her, lined the metal bar. Piles of music and glamour magazines from past year’s subscriptions, boxes of papers, texts, and course readers from her classes from previous semesters, a vast compilation of scuffed Chuck Taylors, flats that scrunched her toes inward, and shoe-lace-less slip-on sneakers, were strewn in any free space they could fit. Cozy, to say the least. After several attempts of living with other people, she realized she needed her own space, even if this modest dwelling was all she could afford.
Living alone on the 23rd floor of a 26 high rise apartment presented her with many opportunities. When the girl directly above her belted out Spice Girl songs at the top of her lungs or worked out to Tae Bo instructional video tapes, Crisanta knew it. When the inhabitants to her right squabbled for the third time that day only to make their bed play knock knock jokes with the wall five minutes later, she knew it. And when machine guns sputtered surround sound shots, making her second guess if her apartment building was being attacked or if it was just her neighbor to the left participating in the virtual world of video games, she knew it as well.
Not everything about her living space was a nuisance. She absolutely loved the view from her bedroom window. Past the grimy, smudged glass and mesh screen, a community of other charming apartment complexes encircled her. A maze of charcoal asphalt crowded with vehicles and cerulean rectangles that mirrored the atmosphere above and structures beside cut each corner of every apartment. Sun bathers came and went until their skin turned an appetizing shade of mocha. Children splashed their mothers and amused themselves with their underwater world of imagination. Cars and mopeds zoomed by, reverberating up through her open partition with the breeze. In each skyscraper that surrounded her, there were identical ceiling to floor windows and balconies stacked neatly on top of one another. Through each one was a looking glass, a fish bowl into the lives of the inhabitants around her. The view made everything in her shitty apartment worth it. The whole world outside her window carried on with their business, and she got to watch it all unfold.
At times, she did feel creepy and stocker-like but she didn’t see any harm in it. People left their curtains and windows open for a reason. Yes, partially for some fresh air and to not feel so claustrophobic in their little square rooms, but they wanted to be seen. They wanted people to watch their life’s play out.
Whenever she got home from work, whenever she wanted to avoid doing her homework, whenever there was nothing on the television, she would expose her own room and simply watch. She didn’t need reality TV, she had her own with more than 35 channels right outside her window, all the characters life-size. To switch the channel, all she had to do was adjust her eyes. Night was the prime time for people watching. The lights contrasted with the dim abyss, forming spotlights into each fish bowl, highlighting what once were silhouettes. Most people sat and watched their own televisions the majority of the time, but everyone had something interesting to offer. She believed she had come to know the one’s she analyzed.
On the 17th floor across the way, there was the man that only sported boxers. Crisanta called him “eye candy” because his sculpted body was quite pleasant to look at. He flaunted it and knew he was hot. Sometimes different girls would appear on his couch, but most of the time he flexed his muscles on his Bo-Flex pro system, ran on his treadmill, or was deep in concentration on his computer. She knew if he passed her on the street, she wouldn’t get a second glance. She would never date this kind of guy or probably never be his friend, but he was purely pretty to look at.
A few floors down, there was the girl who grew plants on her balcony and tended to them everyday around 8 in the morning. It was a hyrdoponic kind of garden. Every weekend, her friends would come over and help her harvest the plants. Afterwards, they’d light up and inhale. Sometimes the fragrance wafted across the way into Crisanta’s nasal passage and reminded her of the days she did the same, with friends who were far gone. Times when they would think up brilliant inventions and have intricate conversations about nothing, only to forget the next day. When her mind would take over and make her suspect that everyone was out to get her, She missed it and she didn’t.
On a floor directly across from her, a decrepit man always sat in his camping chair on his balcony. Breathing slowly with his white undershirt rising and falling, excess skin and fat bulged over his knickers. Crisanta concluded that he wasn’t able to leave his apartment; his son brought him dinner everyday and kept him company if he was lucky. He too, like Crisanta examined the creatures that roamed each rented space. Aware of his loneliness and confinement through his boredom, she would try to give him a smile if he was looking her way. He reminded her that growing old was not going to be a heyday, she really wasn’t looking forward to being miserable and jaded.
Then, on the top floor, there was a plump boy around the age of 8. He gazed over the rail of his balcony everyday. He was on top of the world, had the best bird’s eye view for miles, and always had anticipation in his eyes. He would lean over the barrier that separated him from a 28 floor drop, and rest his chin on his folded arms, always staring off into the distance. Crisanta knew he was a day dreamer, probably, much like her. He probably wanted to escape, but he still had a few more years of simplicity before he realized how cruel and unfair the world could really be. Crisanta envied him.
The list went on, and each day she observed she tried to learn something new about someone else across the way. Those who let her in, she gladly accepted the invitation. This made Crisanta content. She realized that she wasn’t the only one with problems, worries, and difficulties. She was done worrying about her own, and would rather take the time to learn about someone else’s. It kept her human. After wasting so much time worrying about things that didn't require all the worrying in the first place, she liked focusing her energy into observing those around her. Although the people she examined didn’t know her, and majority of the time didn’t know she was watching, she felt connected to them with the similarities she found they shared. She truly wasn’t alone; she was more surrounded by people than ever. This was her learning channel, and she wondered who was gazing into her little fish bowl.
Living alone on the 23rd floor of a 26 high rise apartment presented her with many opportunities. When the girl directly above her belted out Spice Girl songs at the top of her lungs or worked out to Tae Bo instructional video tapes, Crisanta knew it. When the inhabitants to her right squabbled for the third time that day only to make their bed play knock knock jokes with the wall five minutes later, she knew it. And when machine guns sputtered surround sound shots, making her second guess if her apartment building was being attacked or if it was just her neighbor to the left participating in the virtual world of video games, she knew it as well.
Not everything about her living space was a nuisance. She absolutely loved the view from her bedroom window. Past the grimy, smudged glass and mesh screen, a community of other charming apartment complexes encircled her. A maze of charcoal asphalt crowded with vehicles and cerulean rectangles that mirrored the atmosphere above and structures beside cut each corner of every apartment. Sun bathers came and went until their skin turned an appetizing shade of mocha. Children splashed their mothers and amused themselves with their underwater world of imagination. Cars and mopeds zoomed by, reverberating up through her open partition with the breeze. In each skyscraper that surrounded her, there were identical ceiling to floor windows and balconies stacked neatly on top of one another. Through each one was a looking glass, a fish bowl into the lives of the inhabitants around her. The view made everything in her shitty apartment worth it. The whole world outside her window carried on with their business, and she got to watch it all unfold.
At times, she did feel creepy and stocker-like but she didn’t see any harm in it. People left their curtains and windows open for a reason. Yes, partially for some fresh air and to not feel so claustrophobic in their little square rooms, but they wanted to be seen. They wanted people to watch their life’s play out.
Whenever she got home from work, whenever she wanted to avoid doing her homework, whenever there was nothing on the television, she would expose her own room and simply watch. She didn’t need reality TV, she had her own with more than 35 channels right outside her window, all the characters life-size. To switch the channel, all she had to do was adjust her eyes. Night was the prime time for people watching. The lights contrasted with the dim abyss, forming spotlights into each fish bowl, highlighting what once were silhouettes. Most people sat and watched their own televisions the majority of the time, but everyone had something interesting to offer. She believed she had come to know the one’s she analyzed.
On the 17th floor across the way, there was the man that only sported boxers. Crisanta called him “eye candy” because his sculpted body was quite pleasant to look at. He flaunted it and knew he was hot. Sometimes different girls would appear on his couch, but most of the time he flexed his muscles on his Bo-Flex pro system, ran on his treadmill, or was deep in concentration on his computer. She knew if he passed her on the street, she wouldn’t get a second glance. She would never date this kind of guy or probably never be his friend, but he was purely pretty to look at.
A few floors down, there was the girl who grew plants on her balcony and tended to them everyday around 8 in the morning. It was a hyrdoponic kind of garden. Every weekend, her friends would come over and help her harvest the plants. Afterwards, they’d light up and inhale. Sometimes the fragrance wafted across the way into Crisanta’s nasal passage and reminded her of the days she did the same, with friends who were far gone. Times when they would think up brilliant inventions and have intricate conversations about nothing, only to forget the next day. When her mind would take over and make her suspect that everyone was out to get her, She missed it and she didn’t.
On a floor directly across from her, a decrepit man always sat in his camping chair on his balcony. Breathing slowly with his white undershirt rising and falling, excess skin and fat bulged over his knickers. Crisanta concluded that he wasn’t able to leave his apartment; his son brought him dinner everyday and kept him company if he was lucky. He too, like Crisanta examined the creatures that roamed each rented space. Aware of his loneliness and confinement through his boredom, she would try to give him a smile if he was looking her way. He reminded her that growing old was not going to be a heyday, she really wasn’t looking forward to being miserable and jaded.
Then, on the top floor, there was a plump boy around the age of 8. He gazed over the rail of his balcony everyday. He was on top of the world, had the best bird’s eye view for miles, and always had anticipation in his eyes. He would lean over the barrier that separated him from a 28 floor drop, and rest his chin on his folded arms, always staring off into the distance. Crisanta knew he was a day dreamer, probably, much like her. He probably wanted to escape, but he still had a few more years of simplicity before he realized how cruel and unfair the world could really be. Crisanta envied him.
The list went on, and each day she observed she tried to learn something new about someone else across the way. Those who let her in, she gladly accepted the invitation. This made Crisanta content. She realized that she wasn’t the only one with problems, worries, and difficulties. She was done worrying about her own, and would rather take the time to learn about someone else’s. It kept her human. After wasting so much time worrying about things that didn't require all the worrying in the first place, she liked focusing her energy into observing those around her. Although the people she examined didn’t know her, and majority of the time didn’t know she was watching, she felt connected to them with the similarities she found they shared. She truly wasn’t alone; she was more surrounded by people than ever. This was her learning channel, and she wondered who was gazing into her little fish bowl.
clubbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbb
“I‘ll see you later Kasie. I‘ll tell Mike you said bye”
“It’s okay, I have to tell him goodbye in person or he’ll get mad.”
“I‘ll tell him for you, so don‘t worry about it. Just go home.”
“no seriously, where is mike?”
“just go home kasie. Don’t worry, I got it.”
As I’m turning to leave, I see it. There, over my friend‘s shoulder, in the middle of the dance floor, amidst the herd of people, blasting speakers, strobing lights, is Michael, making out with some skank!
I desperately try to convince myself that maybe I made a mistake and that wasn’t Michael, that couldn’t be my boyfriend making out with that trashy ho. Or maybe it was him, but he was merely hugging an old friend he had seen on the dance floor. There was no way my boyfriend would do this! We were supposed to struggle through the rest of college together, then get married and have kids, and name our kids Phil and Lil, and get a nice Lexus for each of us, and we were going to live happily ever after. There was no possible way Michael could do this to our future, right?
I don’t want to know the answer. My chest starts to tighten up. I desperately shove people aside and head outside to get some fresh air. I sit and recount what I just saw in disbelief.
“what’s wrong? is someone picking a fight with you?” asks a rather large and ugly bouncer.
I don‘t even bother lifting my head up and just yell, “No, just my fucking boyfriend was making out with another girl.”
He grimaced and cautiously asks “where are your friends? Where is your ride? Was your boyfriend your ride?”
“I came with my girlfriends and they’ll be out in a minute, OKAY?!”
The bouncer slinks away, leaving me to the mercy of my imagination.
Like a pack of rats, people start scurrying out of the club, hurried out by the bouncers. It was closing. The click clacking of high heels and the chorus of idle talk seems to drown out my anxieties for a second. A familiar figure catches the corner of my eye. I turn and see a stumbling drunken idiot of a man, with his arm around that same girl.
Rage starts to bubble up. All of a sudden my eyes flashed open, wide ,awake and full of wrath. I take a deep breath and just glare for a second. Nothing in my mind was rational anymore, yet nothing had ever been so clear. The only purpose in my life is to hurt it as much as I could. Without thinking, I rush forward. I’m standing face to face with him and all I can do is smile. I slap him, because he made me feel helpless and unwanted, because of all the dreams and fantasies shredded and torn, because I hate him, and I love him.
“It’s okay, I have to tell him goodbye in person or he’ll get mad.”
“I‘ll tell him for you, so don‘t worry about it. Just go home.”
“no seriously, where is mike?”
“just go home kasie. Don’t worry, I got it.”
As I’m turning to leave, I see it. There, over my friend‘s shoulder, in the middle of the dance floor, amidst the herd of people, blasting speakers, strobing lights, is Michael, making out with some skank!
I desperately try to convince myself that maybe I made a mistake and that wasn’t Michael, that couldn’t be my boyfriend making out with that trashy ho. Or maybe it was him, but he was merely hugging an old friend he had seen on the dance floor. There was no way my boyfriend would do this! We were supposed to struggle through the rest of college together, then get married and have kids, and name our kids Phil and Lil, and get a nice Lexus for each of us, and we were going to live happily ever after. There was no possible way Michael could do this to our future, right?
I don’t want to know the answer. My chest starts to tighten up. I desperately shove people aside and head outside to get some fresh air. I sit and recount what I just saw in disbelief.
“what’s wrong? is someone picking a fight with you?” asks a rather large and ugly bouncer.
I don‘t even bother lifting my head up and just yell, “No, just my fucking boyfriend was making out with another girl.”
He grimaced and cautiously asks “where are your friends? Where is your ride? Was your boyfriend your ride?”
“I came with my girlfriends and they’ll be out in a minute, OKAY?!”
The bouncer slinks away, leaving me to the mercy of my imagination.
Like a pack of rats, people start scurrying out of the club, hurried out by the bouncers. It was closing. The click clacking of high heels and the chorus of idle talk seems to drown out my anxieties for a second. A familiar figure catches the corner of my eye. I turn and see a stumbling drunken idiot of a man, with his arm around that same girl.
Rage starts to bubble up. All of a sudden my eyes flashed open, wide ,awake and full of wrath. I take a deep breath and just glare for a second. Nothing in my mind was rational anymore, yet nothing had ever been so clear. The only purpose in my life is to hurt it as much as I could. Without thinking, I rush forward. I’m standing face to face with him and all I can do is smile. I slap him, because he made me feel helpless and unwanted, because of all the dreams and fantasies shredded and torn, because I hate him, and I love him.
Thursday, September 18, 2008
The influence of the bible on the entertainment industry.
"What did you do in class today Don?"
"Eh not much man, we got this assignment for my religion class that I need to do before Monday and I have no idea where to start."
"So why don't you grab us a couple of beers and lets see if we can come up with something that the teacher had not heard before."
"Sounds good"
"How about this man, fucking video games and the entire entertainment industry man."
"Dude I think you have smoked a little to much for your own good." "Na man im serious just listen, alot of thing are influenced by the Christian bible and just how far the word’s of God have reached...", on a side note we were working on finishing the half-rack that was in the fridge before we started this oh so deep thought voyage.
"Alright man what do we have so far?"
"Um let me look"
The bible and religion are in everything that man has created to help explain and deal with their existence. One area that tends to rely on religion and the bible the most is the entertainment industry. The most obvious of this is movies, and for good reason. Most people today have an attention deficit order to pay attention for more than an hour or so. There are so many movies out there that are either blatant in religious theme; Dogma, Passion of Christ, Ten Commandment for example. Than there are the ones that require more thinking like the Matrix or Star Wars and The Chronicles of Narnia. Another form of this is in the music. Every form of music out there has a connection to religion and the bible. From rock to rap, country to new age, all music has been touched by the word of God, even if the artist does not believe in God, for example the artist Marilyn Manson has come out and said he dose not believe in organized religion and questions the blind followers of a faith with out asking some questions of their own. The other form of entertainment that is out there is the video game industry. Most of the video games are created in Japan which has a very different view of religion than that of the western cultures. The video game that I want to talk about is Super Mario Bros. from the Nintendo Company.
Super Mario Bros. is a game where a little Italian plumber works his way from level to level trying to accomplish some goal. It could be saving a friend, to reestablish a kingdom or correcting a wrong by the main evil character named Bowser. The game has been around since the mid eighties from the Japanese company Nintendo. The game has had numerous follow ups to the breakthrough game titles Super Mario Bros. Each one is more of the same that was in the last game. Which Mario goes and defeats the forces of Bowser to save the Princess Peach, along the way Mario teams up with friends to help him accomplish his task. In the first game it was to rescue the princess from Bowser, the second was all of Mario’s friends in a dream world, third was Mario traveling to distant lands to help the kings get healed. When looking back at the bible you can begin to see some of the similarities between the them.
The main character(Mario) is a character of blue collar working force. Jesus grew up the son of a carpenter and was a carpenter in the beginning of his tale in the bible, Mario was a plumber before being called upon for a divine quest of his own. Both of these men were tradesmen who possessed a certain trade skill. In the game Mario has a twin brother named Luigi, you can only use Luigi in two player mode after player one(Mario) dies. So you can think of Luigi like the risen Jesus after his crucification. The main villain (Bowser) is a dragon character who has his castle in the depths of a world with a huge lake of fire around his castle. Which is an obvious relation to the depths of Hell. Also Bowser is in a demon form instead a human form to make him appear to be more satanish. Bowser goes around and makes life very hard for Mario and his band of friends, much like Satan does in the bible, also seen in the creation story with Adam and Eve in the garden with the serpent. The main female character in the game is Princess Peach who can be compared to Mary Magdala, the one that has Mario and Jesus’s heart even though in the game nor in the bible does it ever show these two characters getting together. Both ladies are pictured like a girlfriend or more but it never outright states it. Some of the friends that travel around and assist Mario with his epic battle against Bowser is his loyal friends Toad and Yoshi. Toad is a very short character who wears a mushroom for a hat and is very strong. He goes around and helps Mario in the same way that the apostles did for Jesus. Toad more often than not got himself and Mario into trouble by mistake. Mario knew this would happen but still kept Toad by his side. Jesus shows this many times over right before his betrayal from his closest of friends. Yoshi would fall into the category of beast of burden. He just does what he is told, kinda like a donkey in the bible. Jesus sees a man beating his donkey and spares the creature, Mario does the same with Yoshi. Yoshi is a donkey like creature that Mario can ride and use to get around and carry items. In the game there are a lot of secondary non-playable characters that can be viewed as any of the different ethnic and religious tribes that are mentioned in the bible. The minions of Bowser can be viewed as the Romans in the Christians eyes and the helpless people of the Mushroom kingdom can be viewed as the Hebrews from the Old Testament.
"I dunno man it seem like a bit of a stretch."
"Thats the point, how many other students are going to do a paper on Mario? Not to many I would think, and thats what makes it full of awesomness."
"Alright well lets see here where was I, oh yeah here we..."
There are items throughout the game that aid and hurt Mario. Mario eats mushrooms to gain in size and strength but there is a poisonous mushroom that hurts and can kill Mario like the fruit from the Garden in the creation story in Genesis. When Mario eats a fire flower he can shoot fireballs out that destroy anything that it touches. This is close to the fire that fell from the sky that destroyed the cities of Sodom and Gomorrah. Granted that is was not Jesus that did this in the bible but an act from God, Jesus and God are getting to be close to the same towards the end of the Bible. Another item that is of interest is the star. The star in the Bible is what led the three wise men to find Jesus and in the game the star makes you invincible. When the three wise men showed up they came bearing gifts for a king, in the Mario Bros game there are special items that can be viewed with the same awe. The wise men in this case would be the game designers for allowing Mario find these kingly gifts. They are gold coins that when you get enough of them(100) you get an extra life.
In Super Mario Bros. 3 game they introduce the twelve kings of Mushroom Kingdom. These Kings remind me of the 12 tribes of David. Another view on these kings is that they are all under a spell from Bowser and they need Marios help to cure them. So Mario travels all over the place helping to heal the people just like Jesus did as one of his miracles. The game Super Mario All Stars, on the Super Nintendo, is a collection and retelling of the older/original Mario Bros game just like the book Revelations appears to be a retelling of the Old Testament. Throughout the new testament the gospels are retelling’s of the book of Mark. In this collection of games you had the original games but they were made to look prettier for the new graphics that were out and a new game, Mario bros. The Lost Levels, that is an add on to the very first game out but it added new stories to complete and explore. This is comparable to the Apocrypha. It was not in the original Bible but was included in the remake by King James Version.
So we have the Bible and religion and the influence on the world everyday. It could be from a sports athlete showing an outward sign to God for a good play or in a movie, music and even video games. It could be blatant show of faith or a deeper hidden showing that you have to uncover to get the true meaning of it. It could take many times going over it and you may never get it. In Video games there is a subtle way to show religion without people feeling like they are being force feed religion but at the same time are getting the same message that reading and reflecting on the Bible would have. Some people will not believe this and its ok for we are all allowed to have our own opinions and thought and beliefs of what is around us. After all this discussion and many many beers we stopped to think what does the eastern religion’s think of their work being plagiarized from the oldest story told on earth.
"Dude I think you got it."
"Damn that was easier than I thought it would be thanks for the help Matt."
"No worries bra, now had me another beer while your up and I will load up another hit."
Apologies
“Grandfather...!”
The words were flung into the dimly lit room, disrupting the otherwise pleasant ambiance exuded by the merry reflection of the dancing flames against the dark finish of the cherry wood floors and walls.
“Not so loudly my dear child,” the words originated from the far side of a large armchair in front of the hearth. “I am not so young as I once was, true, but my hearing, I can assure you, is as keen as ever.”
“Yes, Grandfather,” the young woman bowed slightly in deference causing her straight brown hair to fall in her face, “I apologize.”
“Well now,” there was a slight chuckle in the words, “there is no need to apologize. It is not quite so heinous an offense, speaking loudly, that is.”
“...”
“Come, child. Join me by the fire. I have no patience for these family gatherings, but it is still lonely in this study with no one to keep me company,” a wrinkled hand reached out to the side of the chair and beckoned for the girl to step forward.
Without hesitation, she complied, moving to plop herself down on the carpet in front of her grandfathers cushy armchair.
He was an ancient man, her grandfather. A man whose face seemed to hold thousands of wrinkles for every sorrow he had experienced, and a twinkle in his eye for every joy. It was a peaceful face, whose owner exuded a sense of wisdom that only those who truly know themselves hold. Besides, noted his granddaughter as she took a look around the room before truly settling in, the books on his shelves weren’t to impress his visitors. She was the only person, aside from her grandmother, who dared to disturb him here without fear of his wrath.
“What seems to be the trouble, my dear?”
“Zorion is out there.”
A small smile crinkled the lines around the old man's lips. “Have you gone and gotten yourselves into yet another fight? Never mind,” he waved his own question aside, “of course you have.”
“I don’t see how I’m supposed to become the wife of such an immature brat,” the adolescent looked downward, to the rug beneath her grandfather’s chair.
“I will admit to not being entirely sure myself. You are, after all, a rather willful young woman who rarely takes no for an answer, as evidenced by your regular escapades into my study. However,” here her grandfather frowned, “you were given a chance to back down from this arrangement quite some time ago, and if I’m not mistake, you chose not to. For whatever reasons seemed important to you at the time.”
“I was guilted into it by grandmamma.” A rather sad but defiant look crossed the child’s face as she added, “All I ever really wanted was a beautiful wedding with friends, family and the man I loved, but I suppose all I’ll get now is a wedding with family at it.”
She seemed rather sullen about that final point.
“You know,” the elderly man smiled gently, “all girls dream of a romantic wedding. It seems to be the core of all childish fantasies for them. However, very rarely does it occur, and even less likely is to last.”
“But grandfather,” the young woman protested, her eyes shiny from unshed tears. This was not exactly how she had wanted this particular conversation to go when she had come here.
“Enough. Listen to me my child,” gently he held his granddaughter’s chin in his hand, forcing her to look him in the eye. “A marriage of convenience this may be, but do not be disheartened. You are young, and if you are never in love with him you may yet still come to love him for who he is.”
“I will never love him,” the girl shook free of her grandfather’s grasp. Wet droplets dashed on the elder man's shirt as her tears were sent flying by the violent motion. “Not like that...” the last words came as a whisper.
The old man look reprovingly at his decendent, “Never say never. It is a very long time, and only one may see the end of it. You are not she...”
“No, but neither are you.”
He smiled, “True. If I were, then I would not be your grandfather, would I, Aundrea?”
Aundrea shook her head, “No. But grandfather...!”
“Hush...” strong arms enveloped the young woman, drying her eyes on a handkerchief, “I see that my teasing has not appeased your heart, however, this is neither the time nor the place for this conversation.”
“When then?”
“After you have apologized for the remarkable harsh words I’m sure that you spoke in your heated anger.”
Aundrea had the grace to blush at her grandfather’s gentle rebuke, “Yes sir.”
“I thought as much,” the words seemed innocent enough but the twinkle in his eyes led Aundrea to think he might be perfectly aware of what had transpired.
She got to her feet slowly, giving her grandfather’s hand one last squeeze before she exited his study.
The words were flung into the dimly lit room, disrupting the otherwise pleasant ambiance exuded by the merry reflection of the dancing flames against the dark finish of the cherry wood floors and walls.
“Not so loudly my dear child,” the words originated from the far side of a large armchair in front of the hearth. “I am not so young as I once was, true, but my hearing, I can assure you, is as keen as ever.”
“Yes, Grandfather,” the young woman bowed slightly in deference causing her straight brown hair to fall in her face, “I apologize.”
“Well now,” there was a slight chuckle in the words, “there is no need to apologize. It is not quite so heinous an offense, speaking loudly, that is.”
“...”
“Come, child. Join me by the fire. I have no patience for these family gatherings, but it is still lonely in this study with no one to keep me company,” a wrinkled hand reached out to the side of the chair and beckoned for the girl to step forward.
Without hesitation, she complied, moving to plop herself down on the carpet in front of her grandfathers cushy armchair.
He was an ancient man, her grandfather. A man whose face seemed to hold thousands of wrinkles for every sorrow he had experienced, and a twinkle in his eye for every joy. It was a peaceful face, whose owner exuded a sense of wisdom that only those who truly know themselves hold. Besides, noted his granddaughter as she took a look around the room before truly settling in, the books on his shelves weren’t to impress his visitors. She was the only person, aside from her grandmother, who dared to disturb him here without fear of his wrath.
“What seems to be the trouble, my dear?”
“Zorion is out there.”
A small smile crinkled the lines around the old man's lips. “Have you gone and gotten yourselves into yet another fight? Never mind,” he waved his own question aside, “of course you have.”
“I don’t see how I’m supposed to become the wife of such an immature brat,” the adolescent looked downward, to the rug beneath her grandfather’s chair.
“I will admit to not being entirely sure myself. You are, after all, a rather willful young woman who rarely takes no for an answer, as evidenced by your regular escapades into my study. However,” here her grandfather frowned, “you were given a chance to back down from this arrangement quite some time ago, and if I’m not mistake, you chose not to. For whatever reasons seemed important to you at the time.”
“I was guilted into it by grandmamma.” A rather sad but defiant look crossed the child’s face as she added, “All I ever really wanted was a beautiful wedding with friends, family and the man I loved, but I suppose all I’ll get now is a wedding with family at it.”
She seemed rather sullen about that final point.
“You know,” the elderly man smiled gently, “all girls dream of a romantic wedding. It seems to be the core of all childish fantasies for them. However, very rarely does it occur, and even less likely is to last.”
“But grandfather,” the young woman protested, her eyes shiny from unshed tears. This was not exactly how she had wanted this particular conversation to go when she had come here.
“Enough. Listen to me my child,” gently he held his granddaughter’s chin in his hand, forcing her to look him in the eye. “A marriage of convenience this may be, but do not be disheartened. You are young, and if you are never in love with him you may yet still come to love him for who he is.”
“I will never love him,” the girl shook free of her grandfather’s grasp. Wet droplets dashed on the elder man's shirt as her tears were sent flying by the violent motion. “Not like that...” the last words came as a whisper.
The old man look reprovingly at his decendent, “Never say never. It is a very long time, and only one may see the end of it. You are not she...”
“No, but neither are you.”
He smiled, “True. If I were, then I would not be your grandfather, would I, Aundrea?”
Aundrea shook her head, “No. But grandfather...!”
“Hush...” strong arms enveloped the young woman, drying her eyes on a handkerchief, “I see that my teasing has not appeased your heart, however, this is neither the time nor the place for this conversation.”
“When then?”
“After you have apologized for the remarkable harsh words I’m sure that you spoke in your heated anger.”
Aundrea had the grace to blush at her grandfather’s gentle rebuke, “Yes sir.”
“I thought as much,” the words seemed innocent enough but the twinkle in his eyes led Aundrea to think he might be perfectly aware of what had transpired.
She got to her feet slowly, giving her grandfather’s hand one last squeeze before she exited his study.
foolishness
“Well?” He looked expectantly at his partner.
Jerry started slightly as Van’s words signaled his presence at the top of the stairs. As Van descended the stairs to stand by his partners side he was amused to note that Jerry had the grace to blush as he realized Van had witnessed his slightly less than appropriate show of affection for the woman who had just left his side.
“Did you enjoy that? I know you enjoy when others find you attractive.”
The elder man said nothing, choosing instead to stand stiffly and await Vance’s anger. If not anger it was obvious that he was, at the very least, expecting to see disappointment.
Vance on the other hand, despite the scene he had just witnessed, felt no tension. There was no overwhelming need, no desire, to rush the situation. Instead, there was merely patience and a calm certainty. It was a good feeling, to be this certain of something. He felt as though he had forgotten what that was like in recent weeks.
Vance extended his hand. “Come on.” A slow smile gently lit his face. “Dance with me.”
The soft words flowed out, past Jerry, onto the dance floor, calling him to join them. There was only the briefest of hesitation before the elder man followed them, allowing himself to be enveloped in Van’s embrace.
A word, muffled by Van’s suit and sounding suspiciously like “why…?”, escaped Jerry’s dry lips, eliciting a small laugh from Vance.
“Did you know,” he started, by way of explanation, “that when I’m with you, even when we argue, you make me happy. Not with what you do, or how you look, but because of who you are.”
He felt Jerry’s head nestle into a more comfortable position on his shoulder.
“It’s not the same for everyone but I would call it love. You’d think after 15 years you’d be used to it.”
This time it was Jerry’s turn to laugh and Vance felt the tension drain out of his body. “If I ever got used to being loved by you, then I would be a fool.”
Jerry started slightly as Van’s words signaled his presence at the top of the stairs. As Van descended the stairs to stand by his partners side he was amused to note that Jerry had the grace to blush as he realized Van had witnessed his slightly less than appropriate show of affection for the woman who had just left his side.
“Did you enjoy that? I know you enjoy when others find you attractive.”
The elder man said nothing, choosing instead to stand stiffly and await Vance’s anger. If not anger it was obvious that he was, at the very least, expecting to see disappointment.
Vance on the other hand, despite the scene he had just witnessed, felt no tension. There was no overwhelming need, no desire, to rush the situation. Instead, there was merely patience and a calm certainty. It was a good feeling, to be this certain of something. He felt as though he had forgotten what that was like in recent weeks.
Vance extended his hand. “Come on.” A slow smile gently lit his face. “Dance with me.”
The soft words flowed out, past Jerry, onto the dance floor, calling him to join them. There was only the briefest of hesitation before the elder man followed them, allowing himself to be enveloped in Van’s embrace.
A word, muffled by Van’s suit and sounding suspiciously like “why…?”, escaped Jerry’s dry lips, eliciting a small laugh from Vance.
“Did you know,” he started, by way of explanation, “that when I’m with you, even when we argue, you make me happy. Not with what you do, or how you look, but because of who you are.”
He felt Jerry’s head nestle into a more comfortable position on his shoulder.
“It’s not the same for everyone but I would call it love. You’d think after 15 years you’d be used to it.”
This time it was Jerry’s turn to laugh and Vance felt the tension drain out of his body. “If I ever got used to being loved by you, then I would be a fool.”
Well I Guess This Is Growing Up
“Seth will you listen? I need to tell you about tonight.”
“Okay, What mom?”
“Michael can sleep over, but I’m not going to be around, just dad will because…”
“Why where you going?” Seth interrupted.
“Your sister and I are spending the night at the barn, Rosie might give birth tonight.”
“Oh okay.” From the disappointment in his voice you could tell he didn’t care for his mothers horses, he did not want to be at the barn; he would rather be playing baseball, basketball, or some kind of sport that involves winning. He was ecstatic to have the living room to himself for the night. Usually he was last in line but tonight his older brother was out camping with friends, his older sister was with his mom and his dad would most likely stay cooped up in his own room with the television on all night.
As soon as his sister and mom left the house Seth ran to the phone to give Michael his good news.
“Hello?”
“Hi, It’s Seth, is Michael there?”
“Seth, you know he’s here. Why do you call so much when you can just walk 15 feet outside your door to our house and talk to him in person?"
“Tanya! It’s really important and I need to tell him now, will you give Michael the phone?”
“Miiiiiiiiiiiiccccchhhhaaaaeellllll!”
Seth was getting impatient he thought older sisters were such a pain. He heard her give him the phone whispering, “It’s your boy friend again!”
She often made hurtful remarks like that, as if she were jealous of their friendship. Michael and Seth became best friends as infants; she on the other hand never had many friends. Unless you count the men ten years older than her that show up when her parents are at work; sneaking through her bedroom window. Once Michael and Tanya were both punished, and told to not leave the house. Tanya wanted to have one of those good friends over despite her parents orders, “Get out of the fucking house before Travis comes over, it’s your own dumb fault we’re grounded! Go find Seth or something.”
Michael didn’t care; he had been waiting to ride bikes with Seth. As soon as he got to the street he skidded to a stop. He saw his mom’s car coming down the hill. When he screamed “Mom’s home!”
Tanya heard and in panic shoved her company out the window while he was trying to pull his pants up from his ankles. Seth saw the whole scene from his bike on the street and thought it was hilarious. Even though he was laughing he felt like throwing his bike in fury watching someone else with her. Seth kept those feelings wrapped tightly inside his mind like a caterpillar keeps itself in a cocoon. He was good at keeping things to himself.
“Hey Seth, wusup?”
“My mom said you can spend the night tonight, it will be just me and my dad.”
Michael didn’t question the circumstances; he didn’t care. He was practically out the door before even hanging up the phone.
Seth and Michael spent their night sitting on the living room floor trying to unlock new levels on their video game. When they played the two-person game Seth always won, Michael never got upset about it, basically he was just happy to be hanging out away from his own family. They played until their eyes could no longer stay open and it hurt their retina to stare at the bright television screen. At that point they both put the controllers down and went to sleep.
Before he knew it Seth was opening his eyes in drowsy confusion, he couldn’t figure out why he was sleeping on the futon in the living room instead of in his own bedroom. Then he saw Michael sleeping next to him with his head in the opposite direction. Michael’s dirt covered feet were very close to touching Seth’s face. Moving away from him Seth remembered his mom telling him she would be out for the night. He then realized what it was that had woken him up. The constant ringing of the phone. He was closest to the phone in the kitchen on the same floor as he was. There was also a phone in the middle room, one floor down from where his father slept. Both were ringing non-stop.
His sleepy eyes moved slowly to the glowing numbers on the VCR, they read 4:14am. He didn't want to think of who could be calling and he had no intention on getting involved in whatever it was. More than anything he wanted to go back to the dream he was having about winning the lacrosse tournament. His mind muted the ringing and he closed his eyes.
Drifting back to sleep Seth heard his dad slam the door to his bedroom and stomp quickly down the stairs to the middle room to answer the call, “Hello?” his dad was pissed off by the mere fact that someone would wake him at this hour.
“Son! Calm down tell me where you are?” In a flash his dad went from being pissed off to being scared out of his mind. Seth heard the immediate change in his voice; he opened his eyes and sat up straight knowing his older brother was in trouble. He was relieved he wasn’t the one who answered the call. The trembling of his dad’s words sounded horrible to him. He wondered how he would have handled the emergency, had he answered the call.
He listened closely to what his dad said next, “Oh son, oh god! How bad is it? Tell me where I can find you please!” his dad was practically sobbing into the phone, he couldn’t get the answer he needed. He did not know how to find his son, who was in great danger.
Seth stayed calm not knowing what to think, he looked over at Michael still sound asleep, his fathers sobs from upstairs grew silent for a second and he heard him say, “Okay! Stay there don’t move I’m on my way!”
When Seth heard the phone slam down on the receiver he quickly put his head back down on the pillow and pretended to be asleep. He lay there very still and quiet listening to his dads fast and heavy footsteps above him. His plan was to continue fake sleeping until his dad was out the door. He didn’t want to see the eyes that matched the voice he over heard. When the footsteps came down the stairs to where he was, he wasn’t so sure he could continue to fake sleeping. His breathing was becoming short and fast.
“Seth are you awake?” his dad was only whispering.
Seth could of easily ignored him but chose not to. He sat up on the futon staring at the pale man in front of him; his clothes were thrown on in panic, his shoelaces dragging on the floor. His eyes were serious and his voice still shaking, “Max is hurt really bad.” He paused and took a deep breath as if he couldn’t possibly bear to say anymore.
Aware he was wasting precious time he shouted, “I have to go get him, I’ll be back, stay here!”
At that he ran out the door. Seth felt as if he were frozen solid to the futon. His body stayed perfectly still, only his eyes moved as he watched his dad’s car leave the driveway. He turned his head slightly towards Michael who was still sleeping like a baby. Of all the times in his life Seth felt he needed his friendship the most right then. He had a feeling his brother was going to die, but he didn’t want to believe it, he wanted someone to tell him that everything was going to be okay.
As he sat there staring out the window tears slowly warmed his cheeks. He had never felt so alone or helpless. After about thirty minutes the phone began ringing. Seth’s heart pounded against his chest, to him the ringing was the sound that had started this nightmare. This time he pushed away his fears and ran to the phone.
“Hello?”
“Honey, its Mommy.”
Seth couldn’t hold back the tears. He watched through blurry eyes as his teardrops fell down his cheeks onto the tile floor of the kitchen.
“Seth I don’t know anything yet either, Dad just called me. I called to check on you and make sure your okay, Michel’s there with you right?”
“Yeah, he’s here.”
Seth wanted to tell her that he wasn’t okay, and that he knew Max wasn’t okay. He wanted to tell her that he was scared, he wanted her to come home to him right away. He wanted to tell her that Michael was still asleep and he was alone. Instead he said nothing.
“I love you honey, I’ll be home soon.”
After hanging up the phone he stood in the kitchen crying quietly. Five minutes passed, he was walking towards Michael to wake him when the phone rang again. This time he picked up without thinking. “Hello?”
“Honey it’s me again, I need you to be brave for what I have to tell you…” he could tell she was crying too. “Max was camping with his friends, they were drinking,” she could hardly speak. “Jeff cut him in the head with a machete they found, then he ran off. Dad didn’t see him anywhere. He took your brother to the hospital, and I’m on my way there too but I have a feeling Jeff might show up at our house.”
“Okay Mom” he realized she was right, he had to be brave for this.
Seth could feel his insides freezing again; he almost dropped the phone. He promised he would call if Jeff showed up. Jeff was his Maxs best friend; he was at the house everyday. Seth looked up to Jeff as if he were another older brother; he didn’t understand why Jeff would do such a thing. He didn’t want to think about the word murderer, though suddenly he couldn’t get it out of his mind. Looking once again at Michael on the futon, he decided he should wake him up and they should lock the doors then sleep upstairs. He knew he would have a better view of the driveway from up in his bedroom window.
Michael was groggy and not easy to wake. Seth didn’t feel like he had time to explain everything so they moved quickly upstairs to his bedroom. Once they were both situated Seth ran back downstairs to make sure all the doors were locked. He got back to his bedroom and a car pulled in the driveway. The headlights shown into his dark window, he ducked below the frame as fast as he could.
“What’s going on?” Michael asked.
“Shhh”
When the car turned it’s lights off he lifted his head for a peak. It was Jeff’s black Nissan truck. Jeff was sitting alone in the driver’s seat with his head down on the steering wheel. Seth couldn’t pry his eyes away. He was tightly gripping the phone in his right hand when it started to ring again, “Hello?” he said, more frightened than ever.
“Is Max home?” It was Jeff, his voice was slow and monotone, he sounded drunk but Seth couldn’t really tell.
“No Jeff. You hurt him really badly, he’s at the hospital.” He tried to keep his voice from shaking but found it uncontrollable.
“Can I talk to him?”
“You can’t talk to him because he’s not here! You hurt him, he’s at the hospital!” Seth hung up the phone and dialed him mom’s number like he promised he would. His sister answered weeping and sniffing.
“He didn’t make it Seth” she wailed.
Seth could only think of...
“Okay, What mom?”
“Michael can sleep over, but I’m not going to be around, just dad will because…”
“Why where you going?” Seth interrupted.
“Your sister and I are spending the night at the barn, Rosie might give birth tonight.”
“Oh okay.” From the disappointment in his voice you could tell he didn’t care for his mothers horses, he did not want to be at the barn; he would rather be playing baseball, basketball, or some kind of sport that involves winning. He was ecstatic to have the living room to himself for the night. Usually he was last in line but tonight his older brother was out camping with friends, his older sister was with his mom and his dad would most likely stay cooped up in his own room with the television on all night.
As soon as his sister and mom left the house Seth ran to the phone to give Michael his good news.
“Hello?”
“Hi, It’s Seth, is Michael there?”
“Seth, you know he’s here. Why do you call so much when you can just walk 15 feet outside your door to our house and talk to him in person?"
“Tanya! It’s really important and I need to tell him now, will you give Michael the phone?”
“Miiiiiiiiiiiiccccchhhhaaaaeellllll!”
Seth was getting impatient he thought older sisters were such a pain. He heard her give him the phone whispering, “It’s your boy friend again!”
She often made hurtful remarks like that, as if she were jealous of their friendship. Michael and Seth became best friends as infants; she on the other hand never had many friends. Unless you count the men ten years older than her that show up when her parents are at work; sneaking through her bedroom window. Once Michael and Tanya were both punished, and told to not leave the house. Tanya wanted to have one of those good friends over despite her parents orders, “Get out of the fucking house before Travis comes over, it’s your own dumb fault we’re grounded! Go find Seth or something.”
Michael didn’t care; he had been waiting to ride bikes with Seth. As soon as he got to the street he skidded to a stop. He saw his mom’s car coming down the hill. When he screamed “Mom’s home!”
Tanya heard and in panic shoved her company out the window while he was trying to pull his pants up from his ankles. Seth saw the whole scene from his bike on the street and thought it was hilarious. Even though he was laughing he felt like throwing his bike in fury watching someone else with her. Seth kept those feelings wrapped tightly inside his mind like a caterpillar keeps itself in a cocoon. He was good at keeping things to himself.
“Hey Seth, wusup?”
“My mom said you can spend the night tonight, it will be just me and my dad.”
Michael didn’t question the circumstances; he didn’t care. He was practically out the door before even hanging up the phone.
Seth and Michael spent their night sitting on the living room floor trying to unlock new levels on their video game. When they played the two-person game Seth always won, Michael never got upset about it, basically he was just happy to be hanging out away from his own family. They played until their eyes could no longer stay open and it hurt their retina to stare at the bright television screen. At that point they both put the controllers down and went to sleep.
Before he knew it Seth was opening his eyes in drowsy confusion, he couldn’t figure out why he was sleeping on the futon in the living room instead of in his own bedroom. Then he saw Michael sleeping next to him with his head in the opposite direction. Michael’s dirt covered feet were very close to touching Seth’s face. Moving away from him Seth remembered his mom telling him she would be out for the night. He then realized what it was that had woken him up. The constant ringing of the phone. He was closest to the phone in the kitchen on the same floor as he was. There was also a phone in the middle room, one floor down from where his father slept. Both were ringing non-stop.
His sleepy eyes moved slowly to the glowing numbers on the VCR, they read 4:14am. He didn't want to think of who could be calling and he had no intention on getting involved in whatever it was. More than anything he wanted to go back to the dream he was having about winning the lacrosse tournament. His mind muted the ringing and he closed his eyes.
Drifting back to sleep Seth heard his dad slam the door to his bedroom and stomp quickly down the stairs to the middle room to answer the call, “Hello?” his dad was pissed off by the mere fact that someone would wake him at this hour.
“Son! Calm down tell me where you are?” In a flash his dad went from being pissed off to being scared out of his mind. Seth heard the immediate change in his voice; he opened his eyes and sat up straight knowing his older brother was in trouble. He was relieved he wasn’t the one who answered the call. The trembling of his dad’s words sounded horrible to him. He wondered how he would have handled the emergency, had he answered the call.
He listened closely to what his dad said next, “Oh son, oh god! How bad is it? Tell me where I can find you please!” his dad was practically sobbing into the phone, he couldn’t get the answer he needed. He did not know how to find his son, who was in great danger.
Seth stayed calm not knowing what to think, he looked over at Michael still sound asleep, his fathers sobs from upstairs grew silent for a second and he heard him say, “Okay! Stay there don’t move I’m on my way!”
When Seth heard the phone slam down on the receiver he quickly put his head back down on the pillow and pretended to be asleep. He lay there very still and quiet listening to his dads fast and heavy footsteps above him. His plan was to continue fake sleeping until his dad was out the door. He didn’t want to see the eyes that matched the voice he over heard. When the footsteps came down the stairs to where he was, he wasn’t so sure he could continue to fake sleeping. His breathing was becoming short and fast.
“Seth are you awake?” his dad was only whispering.
Seth could of easily ignored him but chose not to. He sat up on the futon staring at the pale man in front of him; his clothes were thrown on in panic, his shoelaces dragging on the floor. His eyes were serious and his voice still shaking, “Max is hurt really bad.” He paused and took a deep breath as if he couldn’t possibly bear to say anymore.
Aware he was wasting precious time he shouted, “I have to go get him, I’ll be back, stay here!”
At that he ran out the door. Seth felt as if he were frozen solid to the futon. His body stayed perfectly still, only his eyes moved as he watched his dad’s car leave the driveway. He turned his head slightly towards Michael who was still sleeping like a baby. Of all the times in his life Seth felt he needed his friendship the most right then. He had a feeling his brother was going to die, but he didn’t want to believe it, he wanted someone to tell him that everything was going to be okay.
As he sat there staring out the window tears slowly warmed his cheeks. He had never felt so alone or helpless. After about thirty minutes the phone began ringing. Seth’s heart pounded against his chest, to him the ringing was the sound that had started this nightmare. This time he pushed away his fears and ran to the phone.
“Hello?”
“Honey, its Mommy.”
Seth couldn’t hold back the tears. He watched through blurry eyes as his teardrops fell down his cheeks onto the tile floor of the kitchen.
“Seth I don’t know anything yet either, Dad just called me. I called to check on you and make sure your okay, Michel’s there with you right?”
“Yeah, he’s here.”
Seth wanted to tell her that he wasn’t okay, and that he knew Max wasn’t okay. He wanted to tell her that he was scared, he wanted her to come home to him right away. He wanted to tell her that Michael was still asleep and he was alone. Instead he said nothing.
“I love you honey, I’ll be home soon.”
After hanging up the phone he stood in the kitchen crying quietly. Five minutes passed, he was walking towards Michael to wake him when the phone rang again. This time he picked up without thinking. “Hello?”
“Honey it’s me again, I need you to be brave for what I have to tell you…” he could tell she was crying too. “Max was camping with his friends, they were drinking,” she could hardly speak. “Jeff cut him in the head with a machete they found, then he ran off. Dad didn’t see him anywhere. He took your brother to the hospital, and I’m on my way there too but I have a feeling Jeff might show up at our house.”
“Okay Mom” he realized she was right, he had to be brave for this.
Seth could feel his insides freezing again; he almost dropped the phone. He promised he would call if Jeff showed up. Jeff was his Maxs best friend; he was at the house everyday. Seth looked up to Jeff as if he were another older brother; he didn’t understand why Jeff would do such a thing. He didn’t want to think about the word murderer, though suddenly he couldn’t get it out of his mind. Looking once again at Michael on the futon, he decided he should wake him up and they should lock the doors then sleep upstairs. He knew he would have a better view of the driveway from up in his bedroom window.
Michael was groggy and not easy to wake. Seth didn’t feel like he had time to explain everything so they moved quickly upstairs to his bedroom. Once they were both situated Seth ran back downstairs to make sure all the doors were locked. He got back to his bedroom and a car pulled in the driveway. The headlights shown into his dark window, he ducked below the frame as fast as he could.
“What’s going on?” Michael asked.
“Shhh”
When the car turned it’s lights off he lifted his head for a peak. It was Jeff’s black Nissan truck. Jeff was sitting alone in the driver’s seat with his head down on the steering wheel. Seth couldn’t pry his eyes away. He was tightly gripping the phone in his right hand when it started to ring again, “Hello?” he said, more frightened than ever.
“Is Max home?” It was Jeff, his voice was slow and monotone, he sounded drunk but Seth couldn’t really tell.
“No Jeff. You hurt him really badly, he’s at the hospital.” He tried to keep his voice from shaking but found it uncontrollable.
“Can I talk to him?”
“You can’t talk to him because he’s not here! You hurt him, he’s at the hospital!” Seth hung up the phone and dialed him mom’s number like he promised he would. His sister answered weeping and sniffing.
“He didn’t make it Seth” she wailed.
Seth could only think of...
Wednesday, September 17, 2008
Curiosity
As a pup, Negi was very curious. At times he would follow anything that moved with his nose to the ground and tail in the air. Of course he would end up getting himself lost and howl until his pack was able to find him. Often times he could be found cowering in a hollowed out tree.
One day when he was still fresh to the world, a small frog caught his attention and he followed it around for hours. On that same day a wolf from his pack wandered into a nearby village, injuring one of the many human children. Sending the villagers into a panic with only one thing on their mind, to prevent anymore incidence from occurring. With great fear and rage they formed a mob and struck at their den. Those in his pack who attempted to fight back were quickly taken care of, all those who remain fled never to look back.
When little Negi finally realizing he was lost and alone, he huddled in a hollowed tree hoping his pack would find him soon. However, this time no one would be coming to look for him. That night while working on a painting, a female artist heard the cries and howls of a tiny pup coming from her garden. She discovers Negi rooting through a patch of onions. Her first instinct was to chase it away, however, she had grown lonely since her husband had passed. So she decided it would be best to take in this lost pup and finally have some company again.
A few years went by and they had grown close. Negi being as curious as he was would dab his tail into the ink a brush it across the floor as he watch the artist paint, though she never got upset. She would only smile and scratch behind his ears. They ate together, slept together, played together, and even went on talks together. Though somehow with Negi instincts and his constant interest in following things around, he also became a fine hunter while his friend was out and about.
However as the months went by, it was apparent to Negi that something wasn’t right with his friend. He would see her have coughing fits and some days wouldn’t even get out of bed. One day when they decide to go for a walk. They took shelter in a cave from the rain that seemingly came out of no where. But the frail woman's condition took a turn for the worst. Unable to move in her sickly condition and with no one to notice she was missing. She passed on after a few days. It was then Negi's journey became solo.
One day when he was still fresh to the world, a small frog caught his attention and he followed it around for hours. On that same day a wolf from his pack wandered into a nearby village, injuring one of the many human children. Sending the villagers into a panic with only one thing on their mind, to prevent anymore incidence from occurring. With great fear and rage they formed a mob and struck at their den. Those in his pack who attempted to fight back were quickly taken care of, all those who remain fled never to look back.
When little Negi finally realizing he was lost and alone, he huddled in a hollowed tree hoping his pack would find him soon. However, this time no one would be coming to look for him. That night while working on a painting, a female artist heard the cries and howls of a tiny pup coming from her garden. She discovers Negi rooting through a patch of onions. Her first instinct was to chase it away, however, she had grown lonely since her husband had passed. So she decided it would be best to take in this lost pup and finally have some company again.
A few years went by and they had grown close. Negi being as curious as he was would dab his tail into the ink a brush it across the floor as he watch the artist paint, though she never got upset. She would only smile and scratch behind his ears. They ate together, slept together, played together, and even went on talks together. Though somehow with Negi instincts and his constant interest in following things around, he also became a fine hunter while his friend was out and about.
However as the months went by, it was apparent to Negi that something wasn’t right with his friend. He would see her have coughing fits and some days wouldn’t even get out of bed. One day when they decide to go for a walk. They took shelter in a cave from the rain that seemingly came out of no where. But the frail woman's condition took a turn for the worst. Unable to move in her sickly condition and with no one to notice she was missing. She passed on after a few days. It was then Negi's journey became solo.
Tuesday, September 16, 2008
“MURDERERS” On Repeat
The song blared in Larkin’s headphones draining out the scratching noise coming from his hands. Sweat beads dripped down onto his work as he sat hunched and concentrated. The ubiquitous sound of rough surface wearing away rough surface was loud enough to wake his brother. In fact Larkin was sure it would wake Al, but that didn’t stop the fierce noise. He remembered conversations he had with his brother about this particular object, and about the defacement of it as well.
“Bro that’s fucking weird.” His brother said politely. “You’re obsessed. I can’t even begin to understand what’s going through that head of yours. She’s gone. She’s been gone. And she has a new boyfriend. Didn’t you see that notification on Facebook?”
“Yeah I saw it... because of that News Feed thing, that’s a good feature.” Larkin replied trying to veer away from this topic entirely.
“Why is her face everywhere?” Al asked.
“What do you mean, her face isn’t everywhere.” Even as Larkin replied, he knew it was a lie. Her image stained the entire one-room apartment on every wall. He knew that in books, there were pictures and old writings. He knew that he still kept her emails and that her photography was stashed in every drawer of his room. He also knew that any rational person would have disposed of these nostalgic tokens. Larkin glanced at paper flowers sitting on the desk. She had made them for him and he could never bring himself to throw them out. They seemed so fragile and white. The flowers had always brightened up his dark room, which was a benefit due to the apartment’s heavily screened windows.
Al’s eyes narrowed as he stared at the vestiges of a once loved relationship. He remained quiet as if he were trying to provide evidence for a court-case.
“Look at all of this shit. Maybe the reason you’re so down all the time is because she’s everywhere. She’s here, reminding you of what you lost” He stepped over to the art on the wall, her art. Al acted as though he were absorbing the beauty of the work, but he wasn’t. He pulled out Larkin’s favorite surfboard.
“Look at your board. That’s just weird.” On the top of the board was the image of her, a portrait he had done the previous year. “Doesn’t that seem a little weird to you? Okay… Imagine I’m your new girlfriend and I say…” Al paused for a moment. He closed his eyes, carefully transitioning his deep voice to a high pitched one. He also added a lisp to try and make his next statements more realistic. It was the most feminine voice Al could muster.
“…Larkin baby… let’s go surfing. Oh, who’s that chick on your surfboard? YOUR EX? That’s so creepy. What is your deal? Get away from me. I will never-ever have sex with you!” Al smiled at this and began to laugh silently.
“Really?” Larkin replied with a laugh.
“Really Al, its going to be like that. That’s ridiculous----- It’s not weird, its art.” “Who cares if it’s a picture of an Ex?” Larkin asked as though he were asking himself. “I don’t keep it on there because I’m attached or anything… That’s definitely not the case, I keep it there because…” Larkin sighed. “…Because I think it looks good. Its that simple.”
“You’re…” Al paused mid-sentence. “Never mind.”
“I’m what.”
“Nothing.”
“No seriously, SAY it.”
“You’re delusional. You guys are done. Why is all of this shit still here?”
“So you’re saying I need to have a Pagan picture-burning ceremony to get over someone?”
“All I’m saying is that any rational person can tell that you’re borderline obsessive… it’s all I’m going to say.”
Later that day Larkin got ready to go surfing. He examined the shortboards in his closet trying to make the day’s decision. His hand came to the board like a magnet. It was a 5’9” quad fish, complete with the stylized painting of his pretty Ex smiling. Like a jinx put on him, Larkin couldn’t stop looking at the painting and feeling strange about it. On the water he sat, but instead of looking to the ocean he looked at her. The plastic look in her eyes, mixed with the constant “ever-watching” gaze reminded him of those creepy American Doll advertisements that depict a smiling toy sitting on someone’s lap. And how the eyes seem to follow you as you walk past. This started to make him feel strange. Not to mention the countless times he’d be carrying his board with other girls and had received inquisitive glances. For the first time, he understood his own silly obsession.
Larkin drove his moped home and immediately dove down under the sink for a garbage bag. He knew that she still had an elaborate web of memories in his house like a black widow.
“The remnants of her must be destroyed,” At this Larkin stopped and looked up as if recalling some information. “That’s from the The Lord of the Rings.. The One Ring. She’s my one ring, making me weak with her invisible hold…. I guess that would make me Frodo… I watch too many movies.” For a moment, the parallel between himself and Frodo Baggins made him stall. On went Larkin’s headphones. He knew which song. He scrolled through the settings menu, hit “repeat one”, and began.
The music reverberated in his head. “MURDERERS”, by John Frusciante. A beat. A theme song. No lyrics to relate to, no cheapening of emotions, no clichés. Just a theme song. It played again and again in his headphones as he searched the toolbox for sand paper. “P16” because of its coarse teeth-like texture.
Larkin walked over to the beautiful image of a beautiful girl painted on a beautiful board. He gently ran the tips of his fingers over her. The paper felt light and excited in his hand. SCRATCH. Then another, and another until dried chemical dust invaded the air. The glaze, paint, and glass slowly began to fly. After fifty strokes, he blew the dust off and nothing had changed. Even with all of the scratches, she still stared at him with those toy-like plastic eyes. MURDERERS kept him strong and with every beat came a stroke of his hand. When the beat played faster, so did the sand paper, almost as if its rhythmic noise became part of the song. Faster and faster it went, along with the paint and the glaze.
To his dismay, her image would not be rubbed off of the board. Larkin could remember why he wanted Her off in the first place. Being face to face with Her every time he paddled out was a sort of bizarre occurrence. At various moments during their relationship he found comfort in this portrait. Sometimes Larkin felt like this painting was all he really had. With her moving to another part of the world, it was the only connection he had to her.
At her unwillingness to be scratched off, Larkin stopped what he was doing and sat there quietly. He felt silly. He felt silly trying to remove the paint. He felt silly about loving her, about trying to keep everything together after she left, and about the drastic steps he’d taken to get over her. Love. What is that? Silliness. She was silly and so is the idea of love. MURDERERS escorted his thoughts, as they started picking up speed.
“This is stupid, this shit’s never coming off.” Larkin muttered as he reached for a new sheet of sandpaper.
Just then he thought about how many meals he had skipped in the last few days. He felt weak and light-headed due to all of the morning’s coffee. The beat going on in his head blared as the scratching continued. His forehead glistened with sweat, as the smell of the toxic mist in his room couldn’t be detected anymore. The beat continued. It amazed him. He no longer heard the music. Larkin felt the music. Instead of hearing a guitar, he saw the tabs coming off the page like the videogame “ROCKBAND”. “BAM, TISK, BAM BAM, TISK, BAM, BAM, TISK BAM BAM, the beat continued. No words, just music. The theme song. Larkin breathed heavily as he nodded his head to the song. Faster and faster his heart raced with the oxygen in his lungs. Due to all of these factors, the memories came back like hallucinations. He remembered seeing her for the first time, and how easy it was to make her laugh. He remembered movies and tea, singing hip-hop songs and making dinner. He remembered the way her small hands looked as she worked the knife and fork. He remembered how they tried again and again to impersonate Dwight off of “The Office” and how impossible it was get it perfect. Larkin started remembering everything he loved about this girl and at once stopped the sanding. He dusted the polyurethane and paint off and put the board down. He took the headphones off his sore ears and the world seemed oddly at ease. Larkin walked over to the window and opened it. He could smell the family below in apartment B-85 cooking rice. He looked down at the board and smiled.
The song blared in Larkin’s headphones draining out the scratching noise coming from his hands. Sweat beads dripped down onto his work as he sat hunched and concentrated. The ubiquitous sound of rough surface wearing away rough surface was loud enough to wake his brother. In fact Larkin was sure it would wake Al, but that didn’t stop the fierce noise. He remembered conversations he had with his brother about this particular object, and about the defacement of it as well.
“Bro that’s fucking weird.” His brother said politely. “You’re obsessed. I can’t even begin to understand what’s going through that head of yours. She’s gone. She’s been gone. And she has a new boyfriend. Didn’t you see that notification on Facebook?”
“Yeah I saw it... because of that News Feed thing, that’s a good feature.” Larkin replied trying to veer away from this topic entirely.
“Why is her face everywhere?” Al asked.
“What do you mean, her face isn’t everywhere.” Even as Larkin replied, he knew it was a lie. Her image stained the entire one-room apartment on every wall. He knew that in books, there were pictures and old writings. He knew that he still kept her emails and that her photography was stashed in every drawer of his room. He also knew that any rational person would have disposed of these nostalgic tokens. Larkin glanced at paper flowers sitting on the desk. She had made them for him and he could never bring himself to throw them out. They seemed so fragile and white. The flowers had always brightened up his dark room, which was a benefit due to the apartment’s heavily screened windows.
Al’s eyes narrowed as he stared at the vestiges of a once loved relationship. He remained quiet as if he were trying to provide evidence for a court-case.
“Look at all of this shit. Maybe the reason you’re so down all the time is because she’s everywhere. She’s here, reminding you of what you lost” He stepped over to the art on the wall, her art. Al acted as though he were absorbing the beauty of the work, but he wasn’t. He pulled out Larkin’s favorite surfboard.
“Look at your board. That’s just weird.” On the top of the board was the image of her, a portrait he had done the previous year. “Doesn’t that seem a little weird to you? Okay… Imagine I’m your new girlfriend and I say…” Al paused for a moment. He closed his eyes, carefully transitioning his deep voice to a high pitched one. He also added a lisp to try and make his next statements more realistic. It was the most feminine voice Al could muster.
“…Larkin baby… let’s go surfing. Oh, who’s that chick on your surfboard? YOUR EX? That’s so creepy. What is your deal? Get away from me. I will never-ever have sex with you!” Al smiled at this and began to laugh silently.
“Really?” Larkin replied with a laugh.
“Really Al, its going to be like that. That’s ridiculous----- It’s not weird, its art.” “Who cares if it’s a picture of an Ex?” Larkin asked as though he were asking himself. “I don’t keep it on there because I’m attached or anything… That’s definitely not the case, I keep it there because…” Larkin sighed. “…Because I think it looks good. Its that simple.”
“You’re…” Al paused mid-sentence. “Never mind.”
“I’m what.”
“Nothing.”
“No seriously, SAY it.”
“You’re delusional. You guys are done. Why is all of this shit still here?”
“So you’re saying I need to have a Pagan picture-burning ceremony to get over someone?”
“All I’m saying is that any rational person can tell that you’re borderline obsessive… it’s all I’m going to say.”
Later that day Larkin got ready to go surfing. He examined the shortboards in his closet trying to make the day’s decision. His hand came to the board like a magnet. It was a 5’9” quad fish, complete with the stylized painting of his pretty Ex smiling. Like a jinx put on him, Larkin couldn’t stop looking at the painting and feeling strange about it. On the water he sat, but instead of looking to the ocean he looked at her. The plastic look in her eyes, mixed with the constant “ever-watching” gaze reminded him of those creepy American Doll advertisements that depict a smiling toy sitting on someone’s lap. And how the eyes seem to follow you as you walk past. This started to make him feel strange. Not to mention the countless times he’d be carrying his board with other girls and had received inquisitive glances. For the first time, he understood his own silly obsession.
Larkin drove his moped home and immediately dove down under the sink for a garbage bag. He knew that she still had an elaborate web of memories in his house like a black widow.
“The remnants of her must be destroyed,” At this Larkin stopped and looked up as if recalling some information. “That’s from the The Lord of the Rings.. The One Ring. She’s my one ring, making me weak with her invisible hold…. I guess that would make me Frodo… I watch too many movies.” For a moment, the parallel between himself and Frodo Baggins made him stall. On went Larkin’s headphones. He knew which song. He scrolled through the settings menu, hit “repeat one”, and began.
The music reverberated in his head. “MURDERERS”, by John Frusciante. A beat. A theme song. No lyrics to relate to, no cheapening of emotions, no clichés. Just a theme song. It played again and again in his headphones as he searched the toolbox for sand paper. “P16” because of its coarse teeth-like texture.
Larkin walked over to the beautiful image of a beautiful girl painted on a beautiful board. He gently ran the tips of his fingers over her. The paper felt light and excited in his hand. SCRATCH. Then another, and another until dried chemical dust invaded the air. The glaze, paint, and glass slowly began to fly. After fifty strokes, he blew the dust off and nothing had changed. Even with all of the scratches, she still stared at him with those toy-like plastic eyes. MURDERERS kept him strong and with every beat came a stroke of his hand. When the beat played faster, so did the sand paper, almost as if its rhythmic noise became part of the song. Faster and faster it went, along with the paint and the glaze.
To his dismay, her image would not be rubbed off of the board. Larkin could remember why he wanted Her off in the first place. Being face to face with Her every time he paddled out was a sort of bizarre occurrence. At various moments during their relationship he found comfort in this portrait. Sometimes Larkin felt like this painting was all he really had. With her moving to another part of the world, it was the only connection he had to her.
At her unwillingness to be scratched off, Larkin stopped what he was doing and sat there quietly. He felt silly. He felt silly trying to remove the paint. He felt silly about loving her, about trying to keep everything together after she left, and about the drastic steps he’d taken to get over her. Love. What is that? Silliness. She was silly and so is the idea of love. MURDERERS escorted his thoughts, as they started picking up speed.
“This is stupid, this shit’s never coming off.” Larkin muttered as he reached for a new sheet of sandpaper.
Just then he thought about how many meals he had skipped in the last few days. He felt weak and light-headed due to all of the morning’s coffee. The beat going on in his head blared as the scratching continued. His forehead glistened with sweat, as the smell of the toxic mist in his room couldn’t be detected anymore. The beat continued. It amazed him. He no longer heard the music. Larkin felt the music. Instead of hearing a guitar, he saw the tabs coming off the page like the videogame “ROCKBAND”. “BAM, TISK, BAM BAM, TISK, BAM, BAM, TISK BAM BAM, the beat continued. No words, just music. The theme song. Larkin breathed heavily as he nodded his head to the song. Faster and faster his heart raced with the oxygen in his lungs. Due to all of these factors, the memories came back like hallucinations. He remembered seeing her for the first time, and how easy it was to make her laugh. He remembered movies and tea, singing hip-hop songs and making dinner. He remembered the way her small hands looked as she worked the knife and fork. He remembered how they tried again and again to impersonate Dwight off of “The Office” and how impossible it was get it perfect. Larkin started remembering everything he loved about this girl and at once stopped the sanding. He dusted the polyurethane and paint off and put the board down. He took the headphones off his sore ears and the world seemed oddly at ease. Larkin walked over to the window and opened it. He could smell the family below in apartment B-85 cooking rice. He looked down at the board and smiled.
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