 ; “Hey man, what do you think you’re doing in here? It’s almost 2AM dude! Come with me.”
The man was large with muscles bulging out of his blue uniform, but the sight of a small, middle-aged man with disheveled salt-and-pepper hair tumbling out of (what he was sure had been) an empty row of books had left him visibly shaken. Nevertheless, the security guard picked the much-smaller man up by his ragged black leather jacket and wheeled him towards the exit. He was used to finding homeless men and women in the library’s nooks and crannies after hours, especially in the colder months… but he had secured the building twice already this shift and there had been that weird POP noise that just didn’t seem like it belonged to the building or the man. Undeterred, the guard grabbed the carabiner of keys from his belt loop and unlocked the door and pushed the intruder out before locking the door behind him with gusto.
Outside now, in the harsh artificial light of the street lamps, Moggett stands confused. He looks down and sees the two legs, the dangling limbs, the strange clothing. He had been transformed into one of the aliens he had met in his previous nightmare. He shivers despite the warm summer night air. What had he done to deserve this? Looking up and down the street he can see no forest to retreat to, no building with fresh hay either. Just long stretches of pavement lined with tall buildings on either side. Confused and scared, Moggett crouches down at the base of the steps that lead up to the building he had just been removed from and hugs his knees into his chest, hoping to become as small as possible.
Daylight gives him some relief from the strange orange lights, but more and more of the alien creatures come and go around him now. They all seem to be busy, or to have somewhere they are going. Moggett watches warily from the base of the steps, but no one seems to notice him. He is beginning to wonder if he had actually turned invisible when he hears a sigh from behind him and he turns to see the large man in blue from the night before. “It’s open now, you can go back in. But I better not catch you in here again tonight, you understand me? This may be a public library, but it has hours of operation. You can’t sleep here.” The security guard says all of this while walking down the steps, clearly frustrated and tired after a long shift.
“Where should I sleep?” He asks meekly, realizing that he is very tired after all. The guard shifts uncomfortably, not wanting to face the human aspect of homelessness (he didn’t get paid enough for this, he decides). “I don’t know man, just not here. I think there is a list of shelters and stuff at the info desk if you need it.” Then he hurries off, hoping that his next shift will be much less alarming. Moggett watches him go and then looks back up at the building behind him. In the light he can see letters carved into the stone above its doors: “Library”. He wonders for a moment what that means before getting himself up and heading inside.
There are more creatures here now and all of the lights are on. The building hums with activity but is eerily quiet at the same time. Before him is a large circular desk which says “Information and Circulation” in big black letters on a sign that hangs above it. There are all sorts of papers, fliers, and brochures that line the surface of the desk and Moggett slowly moves to examine them, hoping the muscly man had been correct. As he tries to make sense of what he is looking at, a small female creature with her golden hair pulled up in a tight bun comes up to him with a smile. “Anything I could help you find today, sir?” Moggett flinches at her squeaky, cheery voice which seemed much too loud. “Umm, I just want to find a place to sleep…” His words barely leave his mouth they are so quiet. He keeps his earth-colored eyes on the sea of brightly colored papers before him, hoping that she will lose interest in him. Instead, she grabs a paper from the group and holds it out to him. Moggett reaches for it almost instinctively and when he takes it he can see that she has a sad look in her blue eyes. “The Bayan House is only a block from here, you could try there.” Her voice is much softer than before and she gives him a gentle smile before turning to assist another patron.
---
Finding the house had been a task, but he had managed and the kind people had provided him with a bed, blanket and pillow without asking too many questions. He slept deeply despite being surrounded by at least 10 other men, tired as he was from his exploits. When he woke, he stumbled upon a community room which was empty save for one little girl sitting at a table reading a book. Moggett moved into the room and sat in a large chair, trying to get his wits about him, but the little girl (perhaps 6 or 7 years old, with bushy brown hair and freckles) comes over to him and taps him on his shoulder. Moggett flinches, but the girl seems relatively harmless as she smiles, showing off a missing tooth. “Hey, can you help me read this?”
Moggett looks down at the thin book in the girl’s hands which she has pushed towards him. It has a colorful picture of a unicorn on it which makes his stomach tie into a little knot. “Erm, sure I guess.” He gulps and takes the book gingerly, but almost cries out when the little girl swings up into the chair beside him and nestles in. Over the initial shock, he realizes that he doesn’t mind this too much and he opens the book. Before he can begin reading, however, the little girl points at the picture of the white, sparkly unicorn and says in a near whisper “My friend Ashley says she has seen a unicorn at the library before.” Her face is taut in solemnity as she divulges this fresh piece of news to her new friend. Moggett looks at her blankly, unsure of what to say in response. She takes his silence as permission to continue. “I didn’t believe her, but then Valerie and Nikki said they had seen one too! I want to go see for myself, but Dad is really busy and Mom is still in the hospital…” Her words fade away as she seems to become lost in thought.
Moggett thinks for a moment and then says, just as quietly “I didn’t see any unicorn when I was at the library, but maybe we could go look?” Perhaps, if there were a unicorn, it could get him back to his original form and maybe even back home. It was worth a shot. Also, if he was with the girl there might be less of a chance that he would be kicked out by the muscly man in blue. The girl’s hazel eyes light up with delight and she clasps her hands together tightly in excitement. “I really want to go see! Miss Anne is taking me to the hospital tonight to see Mom… can we go tomorrow when I get back from school?” Moggett doesn’t know who Miss Anne is, or what a hospital or a school was, but he didn’t mind waiting until tomorrow to revisit the library. "Sure" he says simply. The little girl jumps up from the chair and grabs the book from Moggett’s hands, hugging it to her chest. “Ok! See you tomorrow!” She runs out the door but just as quickly pops her head back into the room to add “My name's Jenny by the way! What’s yours?” “Oh… Moggett.” He stammers, unaccustomed to the boisterousness of youth. Jenny smiles her gap-toothed grin and takes off once more.
---
The next morning Moggett settles back into the comfortable chair in the community room. There were more people today. Some read newspapers, others clicked away at whirring boxes that had lighted pictures that moved around, while others still just sat and talked. Moggett grabbed a magazine from the table to stare at, mainly so he wouldn’t be disturbed. At one point a woman came in and announced that there would be mock interviews being held in another room in half an hour for anyone interested. Much to his relief many of the room’s occupants followed this woman out. By about lunchtime Moggett was wondering if Jenny would be coming after all or if he should just go to the library without her. He decided to go get some lunch and then sit outside for a while to get a bit of fresh air. He took his lunch to a bench outside the house and ate, observing the strange world pass him by.
After an hour or so children began to walk by, so he began to scan their faces for any sign of Jenny. When he finally spotted the bushy-haired girl he almost didn’t recognize her; she stood at the corner, bag hanging limply from her hand, as she watched another child her age cross the street hand-in-hand with what appeared to be their mother. The child was smiling and talking to the woman, who smiled in return. Jenny did not move until the pair turned a corner and was out of sight, then, as if on autopilot, she began to move mechanically towards the house. Upon seeing Moggett, her demeanor changed drastically and she suddenly seemed much more like she had the day before, despite the drawn look around her eyes. “Hi Moggett! Are you ready to go to the library?” He stood up and she grabbed his hand happily, skipping along beside him. Never having been around children (of this variety or his own kind), he was uncomfortable but he simply kept walking towards the only other building he knew.
When they arrived, Jenny let go of his hand and ran up the steps, throwing open the door excitedly. “Let’s go!” She encouraged and Moggett picked up his pace, not wanting to leave her waiting. When they got inside she seemed much less sure of herself. Moggett leaned down to her and whispered “Where should we look?” She looked around, and, having made a decision, headed off to the left. Moggett followed her lead and they began walking down rows and rows of books. Every once in a while, Jenny would take one off the shelf and examine it, as if looking for clues. For his part, Moggett kept his eye out for any large men in blue. After several minutes of this, Jenny finally tugged at Moggett’s jacket and showed him a book that looked much like the one she had yesterday. “I think we’re in the right section!” She whispered furtively and then continued her search. Intrigued, Moggett also began to look more closely at the books, pulling some off of the higher shelves that Jenny couldn’t reach.
A sudden gasp arose out of the girl and Moggett jumped to see what was the matter. Jenny was squatting, both hands on the ground, peering into the space a book had left open on the bottom shelf. A light was hitting her face as if she were looking out a window onto a bright sunshiny day. “Look!” She said quietly and Moggett knelt down and pushed his face next to hers to see a very familiar scene. It was the land he had lived in temporarily as a unicorn. He could see the others grazing peacefully in a field of golden grass and he felt the warmth of the breeze on his face. He was about to try to call out to them when movement nearby caused Jenny to quickly place the book back into its spot on the shelf and stand upright. Alarmed, Moggett turned to look and saw a larger woman in a dress running towards them. She grabbed Jenny in a hug and glanced apprehensively at the raggedy man on the floor. “Jenny, the shelter called and told me you hadn’t checked in after school! I was so worried. We need to go dear.” Jenny held her ground stubbornly for a moment. “I just wanted to go to the library to find another book to read. I didn’t go alone, my friend Moggett came with me.” Moggett, suddenly in the spotlight, turned red from embarrassment but tried to smile nonetheless. The large woman, obviously not pleased with this, grabbed Jenny by the hand. “We can talk about this later, dear. We need to go. Your mother…” Her words caught in her throat, but it was all she needed to say as the girl was suddenly bolting for the exit, having left her bag, her book, and any hope at meeting a mystical creature behind. The large woman followed hastily and Moggett stood and followed after both of them at a safe distance.
When they returned to the house Moggett could see that the woman was now crouching next to a man who sat on the bench Moggett had occupied not long ago. He did not seem to see her or hear anything she was saying; his head hung in his hands and he stared at the empty space before him. Jenny stood off to the side, arms hanging limply as she watched the scene before her unfold. She doesn’t react when the man suddenly stands and heads inside, yelling over his shoulder “I don’t know why you bothered to call me off work. How the fuck am I ever supposed to get us out of this hellhole if I don’t work? Nothing I can do here!" Incensed, the large woman stands and yells after him, her tone bordering on parental, “Your daughter needs you, John!” but he is already through the door. The woman moves to hug Jenny but the girl simply crumples to the sidewalk, a high-pitched wail rising from her small body. Moggett can hear the woman trying to make comforting noises, but they are consumed by the girl’s grief as she screams one word over and over again, her anguish washing over them like waves. That night, after Jenny had been carried away and Moggett had forced himself to bed he knew for certain that whenever he heard the word “mommy” in passing, for the rest of his days, he would be transported back to this night, watching her little form sob on the sidewalk in the orange glow of the street lamps. moggett I’m a weight around your neck
2,479 words
1) A frightened security guard
2) A children's book
3) An amazing rumor that turns out to be true.
Probably not as sad for those who haven't worked in human services, but was a doozy to write, lemme tell ya.
if the heavens ever did speak
Trigger warning: death, illness, vomit, mature language.
I’ll worship like a dog at the shrine of your lies
tell you my sins so you can sharpen your knife
“Hello? Is anyone there?”
The banging on the bunker door shocks Alex from his half doze, he stumbles up and off the cot, peers at the video screen. The girl at the door is a mess, clothing torn, hair matted. Something’s streaked on her cheek, and Alex can’t tell if it’s dirt or blood. He pushes the buzzer and speaks into the mic.
“Are you clean?”
“I haven’t seen anyone in weeks. No fever. No cough. No wounds.”
“What’s on your face?”
He watches through the screen as she lifts her fingers up, touches the blotch there. She spits on her hand, rubs it against the stain again.
“Killed a squirrel the other day. Made a fucking mess of it.”
“No open wounds?”
“None. Look.”
She’s spotted the camera now, looks at it dead on. She lifts up her filthy hair, shows her neck, each arm. Without hesitating, she strips. Her skin is dirty, but no fresh injuries. There’s a tattoo on her forearm and winding down her wrist, a cartoonish tree and a boy, arms outstretched. It looks familiar, but Alex doesn’t remember how he knows it.
Without him prompting, she balances on one foot, than the other, steady as a beam.
***
The virus – called Captain Trips by some, for the way its victims stumbled, zombie-like, before collapsing and bleeding out through their various orifices. It hit too quick for anyone to do much about it – other than baptize it with a ridiculous name – and everyone was dying before they really knew there was a problem. A few symptoms were common enough that the newscasters managed to shout them out before everything went to static. Like some fucking nightmare hybrid of flu and Ebola – fever, nausea, fatigue, ataxia. And bleeding, of course. Out of eyes and ears and nose and every place you never wanted to see blood. It hit quick, at one week a quarter of the world was reported dead.
At two weeks, at least half.
At three weeks, well, the people doing the counting were dead, too.
Alex was lucky (not that that words means much, these days). The houses out here were few and far between, and kept well-stocked, since the nearest town with anything resembling a proper grocery was a 45 minute ride along roads that set your teeth on edge.
That alone might have saved him, but the kicker was his father, who’d built the place with his bare hands and fever dreams, and had added in the bunker. It wasn’t much larger than the basement in the house, but the door sealed and there was video outside. The place itself was stocked with rations, water bottles, everything you might need to live out your post-apocalyptic fantasies.
The great irony, of course, was that his father didn’t live to see Captain Trips – he’d keeled over of a heart attack when going to slop the pigs, and it was several hours before Alex found him, and, by then, well--
Pigs will eat anything. They’re opportunists. Alex was convinced it was the worst thing he’d ever seen, his father’s body in the pen, the sounds of the pigs taking their meal. He’d had to take his gun out, fire into the air to get them to move away so he could drag his dad’s corpse out and call 911 for an ambulance that was as useless as – well, as useless as lipstick on a pig.
***
Alex knew he should turn away. Shouldn’t listen to whatever she had to say. He had no way of knowing this girl was uninfected.
But almost three weeks in this fucking bunker, with nothing but a handful of books and crosswords and short jaunts outside to empty the slop bucket, and he was going fucking insane. He thought he was used to solitude – even with dad on the farm, they hadn’t interacted much, and after he died Alex had moved through the house like a ghost himself.
But this – being trapped in the small, confined space, nothing to do, while the world collapsed around you – that was a different kind of solitude. And it fucking sucked.
He went to the keypad, typed in the code: 0919. His mother’s birthday. She’d passed almost five years ago, a nasty pancreatic cancer that burned through her like a wildfire. Dead not six months after the diagnosis. It was her death that had really sent Alex’s father into the spiral, convinced the cancer had been contracted at her job (a government position, working on weapons to be used in far-away countries, all whilst unaware of the weaponry unleashed in her own body).
The keypad flashes green and there’s a click as the door unlocks. He swings it open, catches the girl as she finishes pulling her shirt over her head.
She stumbles into the bunker, and he realizes he can smell her, body odor and dirt and something else, something deeper and rank. He wonders what he smells like. Lord knows. It’ll go away soon enough, like the monkey house at the zoo. You can get used to almost anything.
“I’m Alex,” he says. He doesn’t offer to shake her hand, nor does she look for it.
“Lauren,” she says. She’s still looking around, taking in the bunker – the shelves of canned food and bottled water, the cot wedged in the corner. She looks at the radio, currently off – he turns it on, sometimes, runs through the channels. Mostly it’s static. Once he heard a man praying. Once he heard a woman’s voice, asking hello, hello, is anyone out there? I need help, my kids need help, please --
He’d shut it off, after that.
Her eyes go back to the shelves, wide, and he takes the hint.
“Want something to eat?”
“If you’re willing to share.”
He walks to the shelf.
“We’ve got corned beef, beans, chili, tuna – can’t warm any of it up, really, the gennie doesn’t give me enough power for the microwave--”
“Chili’s fine.”
He grabs a can and the can opener, hands them to her. As she opens it he hands her a spoon. They sit at the small table in silence, and she eats eagerly. When she’s done, she scrapes the edges of the can.
“Fuck, thank you,” she says, “I haven’t eaten in days. I broke into somebody’s house, a week back, took what I could, but the stink of it – been loath to go into any of the houses. Or stores.”
“Bad out there?” he asks. A stupid question. To her credit, she doesn’t laugh.
“A fucking nightmare,” she says, “roads all jammed. Most of the cars have bodies in them. People out on the sidewalks. Like they had to have an audience. No dignity. Couldn’t crawl off peacefully to die like most animals.”
He thinks of his dad, face down in the mud. The snuffling noises of the pigs. There’d been no dignity to that, either.
“You been here the whole time?” she asks.
“Yeah. As soon as news broke I pretty much took cover in here.”
“You been preparing for something like this?”
“My dad was. He liked building things. Liked being prepared.”
She looks around again. At the one cot. He answers the unspoken question.
“Heart attack. Two months ago.”
“I’m sorry.”
He laughs. It’s not funny.
“Seemed like the end of the world at the time. Trips puts that in perspective, I guess.”
“Guess he saved your life, though.”
He changes the subject.
“What about you? You’re the first living thing I’ve seen in weeks.”
She looks past him.
“Seems I’m immune. I was with my family, when it hit. Never touched me. Guess I’m lucky.”
She spits the word like a curse.
“Luck’s all relative,” he says. She laughs, and the noise sounds high and dangerous, razor’s edge from a sob.
***
“There’s not much to do,” he says, as she peruses the bookshelf, “I threw some stuff in a suitcase, but that’s about it.”
She grabs a crossword book, holds it up.
“Do you mind?”
“Be my guest. I’m garbage at them.”
She flips through; glances at his attempts, each one screwed up as he wrote in the wrong words and fucked the whole thing up. She wrinkles her nose.
“No kidding.”
They sit in silence at the table, her pen scratching at the pad. He has a book, but it’s one he’s read a half-dozen times already. He mostly watches her. She’d accepted his offer of baby wipes without any scowl, had wiped some of the dirt off.
“Six letter word for disaster?” she asks.
“Trips,” he replies.
“That five letters.”
“Write bigger.”
“Very funny.”
He glances up. She’s looking down at the page, but she’s smiling. He feels a tingle on his skin, a touch of heat. He doesn’t say anything else.
***
“I’ve got a treat,” he says. It’s grown dark outside, the bunker more contrasted in its shadows. He doesn’t know exactly what time it is – his circadian rhythms are thoroughly fucked up – but he can get a vague sense of time. From the top shelf – the one where his gun is kept – he pulls down a bottle of Jameson.
“I was saving it,” he says, “for a special occasion. And I guess another survivor is as special as it gets.”
He pours the whiskey into two glasses, hands one to her.
“What should we drink to?” she asks.
“To luck,” he says, “to survival.”
“To luck,” she replies, tipping her cup to his. They drink. The whiskey burns in the best way, heat radiating all over him. It’s warmer, with another person in the bunker. He’s no longer sure how to share space, especially in such small confines. She seems unaffected by it, only high spots of red on her cheek from the drink, blooming like roses.
“You know what’s lucky,” she says, “is I have a food over my head. Food in my belly. And I’m not fucking dead.”
“Amen.”
He pours another drink. Another. He’s buzzed, soon, and the room tilts in ways it oughtn’t. He ends up on the floor, boneless, looking up at her. She’s ringed in the fluorescent glow of the light, haloed like a goddess.
“Lauren,” he says.
“Yes?”
“Your tattoo…”
“Which one?”
“On your arm. The tree. What’s it from?”
She looks down, at the drawing. A tree, a boy, an apple falling. She smiles.
“The Giving Tree,” she says, and he remembers. How could he have forgotten? It was one of his mother’s favorites, she’d read it to him over and over again. The tree, giving pieces of itself away, again and again; until it had nothing left to give. Until the boy was an old man, sitting on the tree’s stump. One final gift.
“And the tree was happy…” he murmurs. Lauren smiles, surprised.
“Exactly,” she says, “it was my girlfriend’s favorite story. Mine too. We joked it was fate.”
He waits for more, for her to talk about her girlfriend. To give that piece of herself. But she’s quiet.
“You miss her,” he says. A stupid thing to say.
“I miss a lot of people,” she replies.
“I’m sorry.”
***
He doesn’t remember falling asleep – passing out on the damn floor like a frat boy – but he wakes up with his stomach churning. Fucking Jameson. Lauren’s asleep on the cot, and he doesn’t want to wake her in this particularly disgusting manner, so he keys in the number – 0919 – and stumbles outside before puking up the Jameson and corned beef he’d stupidly eaten for dinner. He leans against the tree, breathing heavily. It’s the longest he’s been outside, and the air feels impossibly fresh and clean. He looks up to the stars, the haphazard skew of constellations. His mother had known a dozen, used to point them out, but the only thing he really remembers how to find is the North Star. Brightest in all the sky, his mother said, pointing, and for centuries, it’s guided people home.
And what if you’re already home, he thinks, but everything’s gone wrong?
Luck’s all relative.
Another wave of nausea overtakes him and he staggers further away. There’s not much left to puke up, mostly bile that burns at his throat. Something white in the dirt catches his eye. Still on his knees, he crawls towards it. He reaches out, picks it up.
It’s a bird’s skull, small and impossibly delicate, barely larger than a penny. He runs his finger over the surface, feather-light. He looks at the thing, there in his open palm, the curve of the beak and wide eye sockets. His fingers curl shut, the beak cutting briefly into his hand before the whole thing crumbles in his palm. When he tips it back out it falls onto the earth into a dozen pieces. He feels something wet on his cheeks, can’t believe he’s fucking crying at this.
The entrance to the bunker seems further away. When he rises to walk back, he stumbles again. Must still be drunk. He never was very good with whiskey.
***
He grabs and extra blanket and curls up on the rug. His stomach still shifts uneasily and the bunker’s still hot – almost sweltering – but he figures he’ll make do. His little jaunt outside was exhausting, and he resolves to figure out a better workout regime. Maybe Lauren will have some ideas.
He sleeps, fitful, and when dreams come, they come strange. He dreams of his father, his mother, of the bird turning to dust. He imagines carving pieces of himself and handing them out. Here, take this. Here. Here. Here
…and the tree was happy…
He wakes up and his cheeks are wet. Must have been crying again. He lifts an arm up – it feels oddly heavy – and wipes at his cheek. The light in the bunker is dim, but not dim enough to obscure the fact his palm comes away dark.
The realization comes quick as a heart attack.
He drags himself to a sitting position, wipes at his face again. As if there might be different results.
His hand is covered in blood.
He tastes it now, too, and it tints his vision, turning the world an almost pinkish hue. Like rose-colored glasses.
There’s a noise, as Lauren rises, her voice calling out.
“Alex? Are you – oh, fuck.”
“Go,” he says. Speaking feels almost impossible. A marathon to move the word out.
“Alex…”
He tries to stand. He’s not sure why he bothers. Perhaps some distant, foolish part of him is convinced that if he can stand it’s a sign he’ll get better. A triumph. He almost makes it, but then she’s holding his shoulder, guiding him. She has something in her hand. Something she took off the top shelf. More whiskey? No…
“I’m very tired,” he says. As if this explained it.
“Sit down, Alex. Sit down and rest.”
And Alex did. Something cool presses against his head.
(and the tree was happy)
***
He never even heard the gunshot.
sleaze
cancer x garbage
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Word count: 2500 exactly (yikes)
Required elements:
- Whiskey (Alex & Lauren drinking Jameson)
- A children’s book (tattoo of and allusions to The Giving Tree by Shel Silverstein. PDF can be read here)
- Skeleton of a bird (Alex finds a bird skull outside)
Trigger warning: violence, kidnapping.
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It is like waking from an endless slumber.
She has sloughed her equine skin in exchange for two legs, and her memories lay in shambles somewhere in the back of her head. Trapped girl, in a constant state of remembering and forgetting and fearing.
There is a solace in replacing lost things.
Saedis is small and fleeting against this breath of eternity, a wanderer, one face among many and the people on the street pay no heed to her.
There is something to be said for cities.
Her hair is less the white of arctic wolves in this new universe, and more the yellow of spun honey. She, slight and pale-skinned, peculiar and with a stargazer´s eyes does not belong here. Pollyanna in a world of cynics.
Saedis was not paying attention. She was walking, yes, but her eternity-eyes darted from street to window to bright lights. When she saw the boy – too late – she did not change her course, but the collision was not a hard one. She stumbled backwards, fumbling at the same time for an apology.
”Watch it…” he barks, until his too-dark eyes settle on her and widen slightly as if something about her has put him off.
”I´m so sorry” she whispers, ”I didn´t mean to…”
And it is here, though they are both unaware, that the world begins to spin ruthlessly around it´s own axis; here is where fate has caught up with them. Here is where the story begins anew.
There; the fell beast in wait – she; the flickering moth to the flame.
”It´s hard to pay attention on so beautiful a morning” he says, but his eyes are focused on hers, capturing them like a butterfly between cold fingers. They were endless and they were dark, and they said no, it wasn´t the morning that was beautiful – it was her. More beautiful than any morning could be. He reaches for a cigarette and a box of matches in his pocket, fumbling slightly as he lights it. There is a nervous edge to his movements that makes her hair stand in a mild thrill and revulsion all at once.
”What´s your name?” he begs and she answers.
Saedís, Saedís, Saedís -- it is a name that falls easy off the tongue, one that could be penned into the lines of a thousand lovers´sonnets or a hundred songs; it could be the name of a star, or a mountain, or a beautiful clear-eyed girl.
He doesn´t give his in return.
”So, what are you doing out here tonight?” she asks, and the butterfly between his fingers tremble.
His glitter-dark eyes burn, haunting and tumultuous in the shadows.
”See that hair salon over there?” he motions with his head, and her ocean-eyes follow his gaze until they settle on the hair salon. It is lit with a plethora of bright colors, and a neon sign indicating that it has closed for the night. In front of it is a man. Security, it reads in proud letters over his chest, idly rocking back and forth on his heels. The perfect illustration of boredom.
”I´m going to rob it” her newfound acquaintance continues. The rich discordant hum of his voice is self-depricating and wry. Inviting Saedís to laugh with him, at him.
She doesn´t.
The consonants and vowels of their existence flutter nervously in the quiet that hangs heavy and iron curtain-like between them; and the consequence of the sounds that he has allowed to slip from his dry throat makes itself reminded. Saedís must answer when she has no means to find the words to do so.
”Why…why would you do that?” she asks nervously.
”Because I need the money, and you are going to help me.” and before she knows it, he has her by the edge of glinting metal in the moonlight. He presses the mouth of the gun into the soft skin of her neck and she stiffens, terrified. Don´t talk to strangers her mother had always said, but Saedís – too innocent and pure of heart to understand the perils of strangers in the night never paid her much heed.
The consequences of being her, alas.
He leads her across the street and she follows willingly – until they reach the security guard. His eyes are not filled with idle disinterest now but with terror. ”L…L..et her g…go” he stutters at Saedís´captor – but he only shakes his head. ”Open the door!” her captor demands, and the guard fumbles with the keys – Saedís is still unable to speak; to breathe; to think. Fear – wild and relentless, stretches its claws inside her and purrs softly against her ear. Their villain – impatient with madness suddenly tosses Saedís to the side and instead bangs the gun into the head of the security guard. ”Move it” he barks, and Saedís lets out a shriek. She should run now, she knows this – and yet, something holds her back. Why can you not think about yourself, for once, little dreamer
”Please” she pleads ”Don´t hurt him!” She shudders, she doesn´t want to meet the black of his gaze – afraid of what she will find there.
”Don´t hurt him?” the villain-boy echoes as he turns toward her again and the pseudo-sincerity of his voice glides easily over mocking and cruel amusement. ”Who are you, bloody mother Teresa?”
And it is then that the security guard sees his opportunity to flee – as their burglars eyes are trained on Saedís´ pale face. In one swift moment he turns around, and something glitters in his hands as he brings them down with full force over the arm that holds the gun. She doesn´t hear the sound of the bullet as it presses through her skin where she stands – swaying and bewildered and destroyed.
Instead – a scream pierces the sickening silence, and now she can taste the blood on her tongue.
She should have died by the ocean, she thinks, that would have fulfilled the meaning of her name.
”Run” she whispers to the security guard – whose actions had betrayed her so. But those noble words, they did nothing to soothe the burn in her shoulder or the horror in the back of her brain.
The taste of fear and hopelessness (mingled faintly with the acrid flavor of defeat) strung bitterly along her thick and heavy tongue as she whispers again - ”Run.”
Strange how few things change, even underneath the tolling, marring forces of hurt.
But the world never did favor the pure of heart.
SAEDÌS
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