Life in the City

by Kelly M. Logue

  * * *

  He had lost everything in the War. His wife and son, and both had died in the camps.

  Now he would have to start over again. He was just on his way to the bank to check on his finances, and beg for the little extra he would need to survive. All practical sense told him, though, that he didn’t have a prayer. Still, he hoped beyond hope that perhaps he would get the money he needed.

  The bus pulled up to the stop. Slowly, the old man made his way up the steps. He heard a loud sigh. Then someone cried: “Get out of the way.” He was pushed off the steps, and landed on the sidewalk.

  “Fuck the Jews! They don’t vote for us anyway!” He heard a young man say, as the bus pulled away.

  The old man sulked for a moment, and bemoaned his fate. God had abandoned him long ago, and he felt so alone in this world. He just wanted to die.

  NO! He told himself. “I will stay alive just to spite those bastards.” He got up, brushed himself off as best he could, and sat down on the bench. Then, he felt ashamed of himself.

  “Excuse me...”

  Someone was talking to him, but he didn’t pay them any attention. Why should he bother? He was alone, and it was best to stay that way.

  “Excuse me—”

  Annoyed, he glared at the young man who had disturbed his peace. The man appeared to be one of those Arabs you hear so much about on TV.

  “May I sit here?”

  The old man was ready to tell the young man to go harass someone else, but then he stopped himself.

  “Cohen, you are an old fool,” he thought. “You are alone, this is true, but you have survived half a century and will probably survive for half a century more.”

  “Of course, young man,” Cohen said. “You may sit here. I am happy to have the company.”

  The two of them sat together, and waited for the next bus.

  THE YARCA CONNECTION

  Everything had been fine up until the accident.

  She had been riding her bike when it happened. She hadn’t been wearing a helmet, as that wasn’t considered cool. Had she been wearing a helmet, maybe what happened afterwards could have prevented. Though, had she been wearing a helmet, then she ran the risk of being picked on by the bigger kids. At best, they would have called her a dork. At worst, they would kicked her ass up and down the road.

  It wouldn't have been the boys, either. Boys, even the older ones, have some moral compass that made most of them protective of girls, even a girl of her age. Her age being defined as somewhere between kid and adolescent. She was old enough to bleed between her legs once a month. She was old enough to be embarrassed if her mom fussed over her in public (not that her mom ever did). But, not old enough to have her boobs stretch the front of her T-shirt. And, not old enough to drive. That last, still being at least four years off.

  Occasionally, she might be sexual harassed by the boys, and thanks to Anita Hill’s frequent appearances on TV about a year ago every kid in America gleefully knew what that meant. It was all talk, though, and in the end the boys were all right.

  No, it was the girls who were the problem. And, the girls who all the boys lusted after, could be especially vicious.

  Once, she remembered, she had been walking home from school. A girl called out to her, and ran to catch up. The girl couldn't have been more than a couple of years her senior, but, when you are a kid, even an age gap of two years seemed impossibly old.

  “I like your T-shirt," the girl said. “Ghostbusters. Sounds cools."

  They walked some more. The girl pumped for information the entire way. How old are you? What grade are you in? Who is your teacher? How far away do you live? Do you walk to school every day? Even when it rained? The odd thing was the girl never introduced herself, and never asked for her name in return.

  The girl was nice enough, even cheerful, but there was something off about her.

  They came to a bridge. The girl stopped.

  “Okay,” the girl said. “It’s time for your initiation.”

  She must have looked confused, as the girl soon explained the situation.

  “Everyone has to go through an initiation. It’s not a big deal.”

  That seemed a little dubious. There was a phoniness about the girl that any smart kid could easily pick up on. Not being that bright, it took her a little longer to see it. It was there, though, once you knew what to look for.

  “It's simple," the girl said. She had lost her cheerful facade, and now spoke in a cold, matter of fact, voice. “All you have to do is cross the bridge."

  The bridge seemed ordinary enough. It was small, maybe six feet across. The base was a metal grate, with stone barriers flagging each side. The grate was lightly rusted in some places, but looked brand new in others. This suggested that the metal grate was chosen, as it would be easy to replace. Below it, about six feet down, was a tiny stream that flowed over a rock bed. Simple, cheap and practical that’s all the bridge was.

  She was growing more and more uncomfortable, even as the girl became more and more impatient. So, mostly to pacify the girl, and put some distance between them, she started across.

  The girl pulled her back by the strap of her school backpack.

  “No stupid! Not that way. Over here.”

  The girl pointed to one of the stone sides that faced the stream.

  “Climb on top, and walk across. You know, like a balance beam...”

  But, there was still something off about the girl’s voice. It had a tinny sound to it.

  “Come on,” the girl insisted. “My friends do it all the time.”

  “She’s going to push you off... and you're going to fall and break your neck!" It wasn’t a voice, per se, that told her this. It was more of a budding intuition, or perhaps a dose of healthy paranoia. And, if she wasn’t creeped out before, she was now.

  She shook her head, and backed away.

  “I'm letting you off easy," the girl snapped. “It's going to be a lot harder if you don't."

  Again, she refused, and started to walk away.

  Enraged, the girl hit her hard in the back. But, the school books in her backpack saved her. The books took most of the impact of the blow. She did stumble forward, a little bit. And, that little bit was all the incentive she needed to break out into a full run.

  The girl, defeated, screamed. Screamed out in some sort of weird alien language! But, she had enough good sense not to look back to see if the girl followed.

  After that, she started riding her bike to and from school. Her mom objected, of course.

  “Nobody else is riding their bike!” Her mom said. “Everybody is going to think your weird!"

  That was her mom’s standard response to pretty much anything her daughter did. It didn’t matter what it was, even tying her shoelace could trigger an “Everyone is going to think you’re weird.” response from her mom. But, she didn’t care. A guide to parents when dealing with teenagers: a put down is only effective if used sparingly. Nothing could catch her on her bike, and that was all that mattered.

  The encounter with the strange girl had spooked her, and she had been scared to go to school the next day. She could imagine the girl lying in wait at every turn. She rushed to her classes—doing her best to avoid the halls as much as possible. Even going to the bathroom proved to be a challenge, as she didn’t want to be alone in a confined space. She would hold it in as long as she could, until her bladder was about to burst, then only use the bathroom when she saw other girls inside.

  Her paranoia held tense for about a week. When nothing happened, her paranoia broke.

  The odd thing was she never saw the girl again. Maybe the girl had been expelled. Maybe the girl had moved away. The girl, whoever she was, turned out to be the best kind of bully: one who never showed up.

  She never did tell her mom about it. Her mom might have provided comfort once, maybe even let her stay home, but those days were long gone. They had left them back in California. Now, she got the feeling
her mom wouldn’t have understood.

  Image is everything. It is the mantra of city life. Her mom obsessed about it. The thing about it was, her mom didn’t need to tell her she was weird, she already knew. It wasn’t just the glasses, or the Salvation Army clothes, either. If she was already weird, what did it matter what people thought of her. A very mature attitude to have, she reasoned, especially at her young age. This was in direct contrast to her mom, who seemed permanently stuck in snobby adolescence. It wasn’t just the drinking that was the problem. That could almost be considered normal. That last year her mom and dad had fought morning, noon and night, so seeking solace in the bottle would have been understandable. No, it was more that her mom had shacked up with a guy half her age, and it was pretty clear the guy was more interested in a free ride than any sort of relationship. The only time the words “I love you” passed his lips was when he was taking money out of her purse. Her mom was either obvious, or just didn’t care. Image is everything.

  That was until the accident...

  She had been sitting at the crosswalk waiting for the light to change. Her patience grew increasingly thin. The light stubbornly refused to turn green.

  She sighed aloud. She was tired and wanted to go home. The day had not gone well. She had failed not just one test, but three: math, biology and social studies— right in a row. She never had any time to study, so that wasn’t surprising.

  Not that home offered her much comfort. No doubt her mom had been lounging around the house all day, making a mess and watching TV. She was pretty sure that as soon as she walked through the door, her mom would scream at her that the house was a mess, and then ask when dinner would be ready. Since her mom couldn’t be bothered to go to the store, dinner meant mac n’ cheese, canned green beans, and/or expired bread. Basically whatever she could pick up at the local food bank on her way home, which, opened at four. And, if she wanted to get there before everyone took all the good stuff, meant she had better get her ass in gear.

  But, the street light remained definitely red.

  Winter was fast approaching, which was another thing to add to her list of worries. If she were still living in California, then winter wouldn’t be a problem. California winters are famous for being notoriously mild. If the temperature dropped below 50 degrees, it was a statewide emergency. But, here, in this god awful city, winter was, and is, harsh and unforgiving. She didn’t have a warm jacket. That stressed her out to no end. She had been lucky last year to find one in the Salvation Army donation box, but that coat had literarily fallen apart with the coming of spring. This was around the same time that the Salvation Army picked up stakes and headed for greener pastures. Far, far away from the city that had no time, or patience, for salvation.

  God damn! How long was this light going to stay red?

  It was already getting cold, and when the snow hit she would be screwed. Fast as she was on her bike, her bike would be of little use in deep snow. If it wasn’t the snow, then the ice would trip her up, and send her sprawling over the handlebars. Her bike would be completely useless to her for at least four months, until spring, and warming sunshine, made bike travel safe again.

  What was up with this light!

  The bus, too, was out of the question. By some quirk of fate (the words “Red tape” and “Bureaucracy” were mercifully not part of her vocabulary yet) the bus didn’t come anywhere near the house. They lived just outside the city limits, and the bus was only for people who lived in the city: even though they couldn’t have been more than three blocks away. Not that she had money for the fare, anyway. So, the point was moot. It was clear that the bus was not for her. The odd thing was, she might have considered riding the school bus. She would even have endured the other kids calling her retarded, because only retards ride the school bus, she knew: except there was no school bus. She thought that was something the school had to provide, as there must be other poor kids, like her, who needed a ride to school, but apparently that was not the case. This place was seriously fucked up, man, as her dad would say. Her dad, the corporate shill, still talked like an old fashioned hippie.

  “Screw this,” she thought.

  Her enemy, the red light continued to send out its mock warning of unseen danger. But, the street was empty, to her eyes, with nary a car in sight. It looked safe, so she started to pedal across...

  The car came out of nowhere...

  She blacked out when her head hit the pavement.

  + + +

  Life came back slowly...

  And, when it did, it came with a buzz.

  The buzz hummed; then, faded into dull radio static.

  She was awake, and conscious. But, her senses were out of tune. The only thing she was aware of was the metal taste in her mouth.

  “We have done his work today.”

  A woman’s voice. It sounded tinny to her ear. It had a rusty squeaky quality about it: door hinges needing oil...

  “His works is our pleasure.” A man’s voice now, also tinny. “We live to serve.” His voice didn’t sound as rusty as the woman’s. There was a more muffled quality about it. It would fade in and out. Starting out normal, then drop to a whisper.

  It was hard to focus on either one. She tried to open her eyes, and immediately wished she hadn’t...

  How long had she been out? It was hard to say. When she had hit pavement—sans helmet—her mind retreated into oblivion. She was in a dark cave, of her own unconscious creation: dizzily aware that she was still among the living, but not much else. It should have been scary or overwhelming, but it was just nothing. Everything inside of her had been shut off, as her brain tried to restart the engine that powered her.

  It was only when she opened her eyes, that she felt pain. Real pain. That told her; yes she was alive, really alive, for only the living can suffer. Light! So much light! The world had become one giant reflective surface, and the sun shown so bright! It was killing her! She was going blind!

  Instinctively she closed her eyes: retreating back to the safety of her dark cave. Coherent thought was still something her brain could not access.

  “The work must remain hidden, until the time is right.” Rusty said. She didn’t know the woman’s real name, and Rusty was as good of a name as any other. “Soon he shall rise.”

  “His words are part of us,” Muffles answered. Again, what’s in a name? Though, the man’s voice was starting to level out, losing its charming fading quality. It didn’t help that both Rusty and Muffles sounded like a couple of Jesus freaks, and her natural reaction was to tune them out.

  The pain, as it always does, was starting to dull. Though, she could still feel a throbbing sensation in the back of her head. A memory began to push through. She remembered a time when she about nine years old, and had to get her eyes checked. She was in the fourth grade then, and had been getting bad headaches in class. Every time she tried to stare at the chalk board it would go blurry. She had some vague idea that meant she probably needed glasses, but didn’t want to tell her mom that. Glasses would make her look like a dork. She knew, instinctively, that if she got glasses that the rest of the kids would probably make fun of her. So, she kept it a secret. Her teacher ratted her out. She had been squinting to see the board, and her teacher noticed. The eye doctor put drops in her eyes. The drops give everything within her line of sight a sharp bright focus, and produced a dull throbbing pain in her eyes that lasted about an hour. She did need glasses. That was the bad news. Her mom, however, had given her some sound advice. “The kids are going to make fun of you for a couple of days, sweetie. Just stick it out, and eventually, they’ll get used to your new look. That’s what life is, a series of initiations.”

  Her mom had been right. The kids did make fun of her, but it wasn’t as bad as she thought. After a couple of days, they stopped. They had accepted her once more, as one of their own.

  This was back when they still lived in California, though, and back before her mom hadn’t lost her mind.


  She opened her eyes again. The world was still bright, but not as overwhelming. Everything looked sharp and clear, like she had been dosed with those same eye drops the doctor had used. The first thing she saw was her bike. It was lying in the street next to her. On closer examination, she saw it had come through the accident unscathed. For that she was thankful. There was no way in hell her mom would ever buy her a new bike.

  She sat up. She had also come through remarkably unscathed. Everything seemed to be in order, expect the blunt pain in the back of her head, but even that was starting to fade.

  She scanned her surroundings. It still hurt to stare at anything for too long. To her right she saw the bridge. To her left, a woman sat in a car, and a policeman leaned into the car’s driver side window. Rusty and Muffles, she thought.

  “I know. I know.” Rusty continued. “I was at the bar, but I swear I only had a couple of drinks...”

  “This is your third DUI arrest, miss.” Muffles finished.

  That’s weird, she thought. The Jesus talk was gone, replaced by what seemed to be a fairly routine traffic stop. Stranger still, she could clearly hear them talking, but could see that their lips weren’t moving.

  “The girl!” Rusty screamed, although no sound came out of her mouth. “She’s still alive!”

  They turned to look at her. Their mouths were too big for any human face, and the lips were drawn down into an impossibly long frown.

  Her mind was clear enough, to get on her back on her bike. But, some strange moral code, made her wait at the stop light. It was still red. She slammed the button with all her might, and mercifully it changed to green.

  She pedaled with all her life.

  Out of the corner of her eye, she thought she caught a glimpse of Muffles reaching for his gun.

  She made it home in record time. Out of breath, she locked the front door behind her. Her mom would have a fit about that. She could already hear her mom say: “How many times have I told you not to lock the door when you’re home! What if I didn’t have my key?”

  She spent a few terrifying minutes, obsessively looking through the drapes to see if Rusty or Muffles had followed. Then, with a kid’s ability to get bored at just about anything, she relaxed. If she had any friends, she might have called one of them over, but the other kids really didn’t like her. She didn’t fit. It was as simple as that.

  If she had been older, or watched more General Hospital, maybe she would have been savvy enough to know she probably had a concussion, and should seek medical treatment immediately. And, above all else don’t fall asleep! Unless you want to wake up dead! As it was, she was just a stupid kid. She laid down on the couch, and soon returned to her dark cave.

  She woke to a metal taste in her mouth, and a slight buzzing in her ears. After a few minutes both faded. Her nap had done her a world of good. The pain in the back of her head, while still there, was on a low ebb. Her eyes too, seemed to have adjusted and no longer bothered her.

  Her mom still wasn’t home, and it was getting dark outside.

  She got up, with some reluctance. It was every teenagers’ god damn right to laze around the house, but she was also the adult now in everything but age. So, she got up and started diner. Damn she had forgotten to go to the food bank. Luck was with her though as a box of mac n’ cheese was in the cupboard. There was also some milk in the fridge that looked slightly chunky, but hadn’t completely spoiled...

  Once dinner was made— and the mac n’cheese was divided between two plates—she went back into the living room. She was starving, as lunch money wasn’t exactly forthcoming, but would wait until her mom got home to eat. She still had at least that much respect for her mom. What waited for her in the living room, now, was pile of clothes. The clothes were clean, but had been dumped haphazardly into a chair. She hadn’t had time to fold them this morning before school.

  About an hour later, she heard keys jingling outside.

  Shit, she thought. She had forgotten to unlock the door.

  Her mom didn’t scream at her about the door. Instead, her mom made a bee line for the kitchen. A few seconds later, her mom stomped out into the living room.

  “Why aren’t the dishes done!” Her mom screamed.

  She said nothing. Instead, she continued to fold the last of her mom’s clothes.

  “You had plenty of time to get the dishes done, young lady.” Her mom screamed. “I can’t believe this. You know the rules! Dishes need to be done! Need to be done...”

  She pushed the folded clothes over to her mom. It was then that something miraculously happened. She heard her mom calling out. Not the ugly hateful words screaming out of her mom’s mouth. No. This was soft radio static playing in her head.

  She heard her mom say: “Honey, I’m sorry. I don’t know what’s going on. I don’t know why I’m saying these hateful things to you.”

  Her mom’s face suddenly went white.

  “It’s not me sweetie.” The radio static continued. “If you can hear me! I love you! I love now, and I will always love you!”

  She couldn’t believe it. She reached out and hugged her mom. For a brief beautiful moment, her mom hugged her back. It wasn’t long, though, before she was pushed back. And now, her mom frowned. Though, the frown seemed too big for her face.

  “Stop it! What are doing?” Her mom screamed. Not at her daughter, though, more at herself.

  She reached out to touch her mom, again. This time, her mom flinched away. “Go to bed!”

  The mood had changed. She did as she was told.

  The dark cave was her refuge. It offered her peace, and relief. The big scary world outside was lost in the darkness of her mind.

  Voices disturbed her, and she was cheated out of sleep. She opened her eyes. It was still dark outside.

  “The mother nearly broke through,” she heard her mom say. Her voice was a rusty tin.

  “This is a disturbing development,” her mom’s boyfriend answered. His voice was muffled, and faded in and out. “Have you been taking your injections?”

  “Of course,” Her mother answered. “Perhaps this form has developed immunity...”

  “We must double the dosage.” Boyfriend said. Even muffled, it was the most intelligent he had ever sounded.

  “The strain could damage this form.” Mom answered.

  “That is a risk we must take.” Boyfriend answered. “The plan must continue...”

  “There is something different about the daughter” Mom interrupted. “Do you think...”

  “She can hear us!” Boyfriend screamed. “Quickly! Change the frequency!”

  A loud whine stung her ears. She almost screamed, but was sane enough to hold her tongue. The last thing she wanted was her mother, or rather the strange thing that claimed to be her mother, coming in and checking on her. Something was wrong. If she had grown up on a steady diet of sci-fi movies, maybe, the idea of pod people or invader from Mars might have popped into her head. But, her concept of such things was rather thin, having been fed instead on a diet of romantic comedies and weepy dramas.

  The whine was brief. It was followed by a low hum. She was frightened, but she was also still a kid. So, hiding under the covers of her bed seemed like a safe bet. It was quiet, now. She strained her ears, but heard only that low hum. At some point she must have fallen asleep. Painful sunlight woke her. Her eyes were still sensitive, though thankfully not as serve as the day before.

  She wasn’t in her bed. Instead, she found herself propped up in a chair. She shook off the last bit of mind numbing sleep. It wasn’t long before she realized that she was shivering. The bedroom door was wide open. She could have sworn she had closed it last night. But then, she was half out of her mind, so God only knew what had really happened. The accident, she reasoned, had made her go a little crazy. It had, in fact, made her hear things that were clearly not true. She had no lock on the door, so it was possible that a draft blew it open. Someone must have left a window open, becau
se she could see her breath, coming out in big white puffs. In more carefree times, on cold days, she would pretend like she was smoking cigarettes, until her mom would tell her to cut it out.

  She quickly showered, and then dressed. She hoped that she wasn’t late for school.

  The house was quiet. That made her uneasy. Cautiously, she went downstairs.

  Someone had left the front door wide open. She closed it. The smell hit her then. The entire downstairs, had a heavy moldy smell about it. It seemed worse in the kitchen. There she saw the plates of uneaten mac n’ cheese covered in sickly green film. The unwashed dishes too were covered in that same green stuff. She wrinkled her nose. With the tips of her fingers, she threw the mac n’ cheese away— plate and all— into the trash. Her stomach grumbled from a missed dinner—and it looked like a missed breakfast— but she didn’t think she could eat anything, right now. She ran hot water over the dishes in the sink. Then let the sink up fill so the dishes could soak. That helped a little, but chunks of green mold now bobbed in the rinse water. She tried not to think about that, but despite her efforts the smell remained heavy in the air.

  She had no idea what had happened to her mom, but given the way things had been lately, it was better not to ask too many questions.

  Outside... she gulped in fresh cool air. She started toward the side of the building where she kept her bike. When she got there, her heart sank.

  Someone had slashed her tires. Both the front and back were completely shredded.

  She sighed loudly, and did her best to put on a brave face. She wanted to cry, but knew if she started it would be a long time before she could stop. Crying was for little kids, she told herself, and she was a big girl now.

  A car horn blared out, and she jumped.

  She had thought she was alone, but as she peaked around the corner, she saw a car. The car was not one she recognized. It looked old and rusted. Her mom’s boyfriend sat behind the wheel. He stared out the windshield.

  Shit! She thought. The only way she could back get inside, or out into the street, was to pass right in front of the car. She didn’t really want to have anything to do with her mom’s stupid boyfriend, especially right now, but what choice did she have. She couldn’t stay outside in the cold all day— not without a coat. She did wait, though, for at least ten minutes, hoping he’d leave. Then, realizing she would be late for school if she waited any longer, she sucked it up, and stepped out front.

  As soon as she did, he reached over and opened the passenger side door. Well... now what? She could keep walking, and pretend like she hadn’t seen him. That plan seemed dubious at best.

  So, giving into fate, she walked over to the car, but didn’t get in. Up close the car looked even worse. It seemed held together through force of will than by any sort of craftsmanship. Her mom’s boyfriend wasn’t the brightest bulb, but she didn’t think even he would be this stupid. The car looked abandoned, how it still worked was something of a miracle of engineering. On the passenger side, she could see a large gap in the rusted out floor boards. The seats looked damp. To her surprise, long straight weeds had taken root, and were actually growing in that damp cloth and cushioning. Then, the smell hit her again. It was same moldy smell from the kitchen.

  He patted the seat.

  “Get in,” he said dully, “I’ll take you to school.”

  She shook her head.

  “That wasn’t a request,” he answered. “Why not make it easy on yourself.”

  She obeyed, after a few seconds of hesitation. He was an adult after all, and was suppose to know best.

  The seat made a squishing sound as she sat down, and she could feel a wet spot forming on her butt, and on the back of her shirt.

  He started the car. Surprisingly, the engine roared to life. He pulled out into the street.

  “I had to take your mom to the hospital last night,” he said again in his dull manner. “She wasn’t feeling well.”

  She heard the humming again. It started in the back of her head, and then buzzed its way forward.

  “Like the car,” he asked casually.

  She nodded. Not daring to say no.

  “You’d be surprised what people throw out?” He said. “All kinds of wonderful things...”

  He began to list some of them— droning on in a monotonous tone. The humming grew louder, until it took on its familiar tin. Then, a tin voice said: “Yarca is coming. Have to warn the girl. Somehow I have to tell her...”

  It sounded like her mom’s boyfriend, but he was still droning on about the wonderful things that people threw out in the trash.

  “Can you hear me? Please! Listen!” The voice in her head pleaded. “Yarca lives in the earth! It’s lonely! It sucked me in! Run before it gets you too!”

  A loud whine stung her ears, as it had the night before.

  Her mom’s boyfriend turned. He now wore a long frown.

  “You shouldn’t snoop on people,” he said. “It’s not nice.”

  They sped up. He hit a dog, didn’t stop, but picked up more speed. The car was driving impossibly fast. The scenery outside the window became a blur.

  “I’m sorry,” she cried. “I’m sorry...”

  “Well that’s alright then.” He answered dully.

  The car came to an abrupt stop. They were now outside the school.

  “There we go,” he said. “Speedy delivery. That’s my motto.”

  She opened the car door, and fled. She was sobbing.

  He merely sat in the car, and stared blankly out the window. He didn’t even bother to close the passenger side door.

  Somehow, she stumbled her way onto the school courtyard. The humming was back, and louder than ever. The back of her head pounded. That terrible buzzing, only added to her sorrows.

  The students let her pass, giving her a wide berth as she ran down the hall. The student body sensed that something was wrong with her, and instinctively acted as if she carried a deadly plague. Nobody wanted to come near, lest they too became infected and had to be cast out.

  She sought refuge in the bathroom.

  Luck had finally kicked in, and she was mercifully alone. It was quiet, and the quiet was good. The buzzing had lowered to at least a tolerable level. She splashed water on her face. It was cold, but felt good. No doubt her performance would bring her a lot of unwanted attention from the student body. They would make fun of her, of course, and she would have to steel herself for a few days, maybe a couple of weeks, but the teasing would go away eventually. They would forget. At least she hoped.

  It was only then that she realized that she was no longer wearing her glasses. She couldn’t remember the last time she had worn them. It had to be before the accident. She had probably lost them on the road after being hit by the car. But the sharpness in her eyes was still there; things still seemed focus and clear. Maybe smashing her head against the pavement had jogged her eyesight back in place. God only knows.

  Suddenly, the buzzing rose to a higher pitch. She felt as if she were going to scream! Then, she breathed a sigh of relief. The sound was coming out of the school speaker.

  The speaker clicked and hissed, waiting for Miss Graves creaky voice to make some profound announcement about the school lunch menu.

  “Yarca is the god of unmentionable things,” Miss Graves intoned. “Oh no!” she thought. No, no, no. She didn’t think she could take any more of this. Why couldn’t Yarca, or whatever it was, just leave her the fuck alone.

  “The god of light might be omniscient on His throne in heaven,” the speaker continued, “but He has fooled Himself... if He thinks He chased away... all things that were before.”

  There was a short pause, and she thought it was over, but the tinny voice of Miss Graves read out the next announcement.

  “Yarca lives below! Yarca is the heart of the city. All cities pulse with its blood. Let the light bringer have his pitiful souls! Yarca only wants the mind and the flesh!”

  Her nose began to bl
eed; the steady hum in the back of her head began to throb.

  “The Blind Knight is loose upon the world. The Queen of Sorrows has left her mark on the ones you love. See her blasphemous mark and DESSSPAIR!”

  The last word was a long drawn out shriek. She fled. Where would she go? She did not know, but anywhere was better than here.

  “Pizza and French fries are on the menu today...” Miss Graves squeaked over the speaker...

  The world outside had grown quiet. That was almost worse; it meant she was even more alone. The halls were empty. The students were locked up, and shut up, tight in the surrounding classrooms. She was an outsider looking in. She would never be a part of the group. But a group wasn’t safe either. It meant being swallowed up whole. It meant losing your identity...

  “Hey,” a voice called out. “What are you doing?”

  She was afraid: skittish like a bird. People weren’t safe. People hurt you.

  “Come over here, young lady!” The voice called out again.

  Where could she hide? She was exposed. It was too bright. Only the dark could save her. Her only salvation lay in being buried deep. There are lots of places to hide under the earth.

  Footsteps raced to catch up. She heard heavy breathing close to her ear. Something grabbed her from behind, and spun her around.

  “Young lady what are you doing out of your classroom!”

  The face looked familiar. The voice was soothing: warm, fatherly and full of concern.

  She collapsed, sobbing into his chest: her bloody nose tarnishing his pristine white shirt.

  “It’s going to be okay,” Vice Principal McGraw said. He patted her lightly on the back. “You’re safe now.”

  She shook violently awake. The peace and calm of her dark cave shattered. Had she heard her mother’s voice? Calling out? It was fading now: just another trick of the mind.

  “Young America Riding and Cycling Association.” She blurted out. Her voice shaky, and tasting of metal. “YARCA!”

  She remembered it now. YARCA was a joint venture between the YMCA and the police department. In the waning years of Reagan’s reign of terror, a brief wave of sensational kidnappings dominated the media. She had been what nine, or ten, at the time. The program worked liked this: you bring your bike into the school gym on a Saturday, and a member of California’s finest would give the bike a free tune up. All they asked in return was a set of your fingerprints. That way if you happened to be kidnapped, your fingerprints were on file, and it would be easy for the police to find you again. The program hadn’t lasted long, maybe three months, before it lost what little funding it had. It had disappeared around the same time media lost interest in kidnapping, and moved onto something else even more sensational. The police officer, who had tuned up her bike, really hadn’t done a good job. About a week later her bike wound up in the shop, because the brakes were all messed up. Her dad was furious. But, in that last year in California, her dad had been furious a lot.

  Something, in her brain, snapped back into place. She really should have gone to the hospital. Her brain was, to quote her dad: “All fucked up! Really fucked up, man!”

  She knew her mom wouldn’t take her. That left who? Vice Principal McGraw? Maybe. The school nurse, she thought. At least the nurse would call an ambulance. She could worry about what her mom would say, later. Right now, she needed to go to the hospital.

  Where was everybody? She had some vague notion that she was laying down in the nurse’s office. She half remembered McGraw speaking with the nurse. She looked over at the window. It was dark outside. How late she couldn’t say. Had they just left her? It was hard to believe the school nurse had just forgotten about her.

  Her teeth were chattering. She hadn’t noticed before, but the “Click! Click! Click!” of her teeth—and her shallow breath— now made themselves known. The room was a wintery cold. Someone had cruelly left the window open.

  She rolled over, and tried to stand.

  PAIN! It shot through her entire body! This was more than the dull pain in the back of her head! It was even more than the sharp pain in her sensitive eyes. No, this pain was mind numbing!

  She slumped to the floor. After a few second she began to sweat.

  Though she still hurt, she was also instinctively worried. Lying on her side, she brought her knees up and reached down.

  Her feet were no longer there.

  Her mind couldn’t comprehend what had happened. She reached down again, and felt sharp bone.

  It was then that the smell hit her: the moldy smell.

  “You didn’t listen,” A voice chided her. A girl’s voice: the one from the bridge. Oh god! “I wanted to make it easy for you, because I felt sorry for you. You seemed so lonely...”

  Silence then. Neither spoke. Her teeth continued to chatter.

  “Don’t worry... your initiation is almost over!” The girl said. There was a note of sorrow in the girl’s voice.

  Slimy fingers reach out for her. She tried to turn away in disgust, but there was no escape. The fingers lightly touched her face, leaving their mark. Her face felt soggy and wet. Her lips sagged, and then pulled impossibly down...

  “Rejoice, you have heard the holy words...”

  Hands, she felt more than one, grabbed her and pulled her through the open window.

  By the time they reached the bridge, she had gone completely insane.

  And Yarca still waited below...

  I, SEE

  WHEN WAS THE LAST TIME YOU ROAD THE BUS?

  The advertisement boldly asks. The word “ROAD” catches my eye. It’s the wrong “rode.” I have a hard time remembering things now—but something about the sign nags at me.

  I don’t like to think about it, because it’s better to just forget. Memories push and prod, but I just want to sleep. My old life tugs at my sleeve, and for a moment I remember:

  Once, I was an important man. I was chief adman at Firedrake, Inc. I could sell just about anything, and the bullshit I pedaled could fill a lake. I had just closed a big deal, when the head of the company called me into his office.

  I remember hearing a strange buzzing sound. Then, I saw Mr. Errol staring out the window.

  “Shut up… shut up…” I heard him say, “I’m not listening to you. Do you hear me? You’re trying to ruin me.”

  “Mr. Errol.”

  He turned to look at me, and the thing I remember most, is the haunted look in eyes. He stared at me. I noticed the dark circles under his eyes, but said nothing. A good salesman knows when to keep his mouth shut.

  “Oh Black, I didn’t see you there.”

  He lowered his eyes.

  “Come in and sit down.”

  He offered me a chair across from his desk. “I’m sorry you had to hear that. A conference call went on longer than expected. May I call you Frank?

  I nod, though I was starting to feel uneasy. Every time I would look at Mr. Errol, he quickly looked away—avoiding eye contact whenever possible.

  “Frank,” he began, “your work with us has been exemplary. You have achieved a great deal with us. But, I think it’s about time you moved on.”

  “Am I being replaced, sir?”

  “Quite the contrary,” he answered, “I would like to offer you a position with our Hawaiian office at, say, double your present salary.”

  I didn’t know what to say. Mr. Errol apparently took my silence as hesitation, and then added: “I understand this is a big step. I don’t want to rush your decision, but I need someone there right away...”

  “No,” I smiled. “No, I can’t believe this. Of course, I accept. I was born in the city, you know, but I have always wanted to travel.”

  “I’m glad to hear that,” he said. He paused as if listening to something. Then, he shook his head.

  “NO!” he shouted.

  I wanted to leave. Something wasn’t right.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, “I was thinking of something from earlier. Would you do me a
favor?”

  He reached into his desk and pulled out a camera. I had no idea what to make of it. Travis Errol had a reputation for the bizarre. ..

  “Would you take pictures of the sunsets in Hawaii? The sunsets here are so gloomy.

  “Of course, sir.”

  “Thank you,” he answered meekly. Then, with more confidence, he added: “You will leave tomorrow. My secretary will arrange all the details.”

  I bolted out of my chair.

  “Please close the door on your way out.”

  I couldn’t wait to go home and pack. It wasn’t long before I realized that I had left the office empty-handed, and returned to retrieve the camera.

  I opened the door, slightly. I heard the buzzing sound again, and Mr. Errol was once again facing the window.

  “No!” He screamed, “No, do you hear me?”

  I left, not wanting to disturb him.

  I remember returning home to pack… then what?

  I paused in front of a billboard. There big as life, I see a smiling, handsome man in a white suit, pointing a finger right at me.

  FIREDRAKE, INC. FOR LOYALTY AT A PRICE YOU CAN AFFORD.

  My last ad before…

  Then, I remember.

  “Why won’t you let me leave?” I call out.

  A whirlwind of newspapers appears at my call. “You belong here.” It answers.

  “Who are you?”

  “The city. I am the city, and I love you. I love all my children.”

  The whirlwind approaches. At first, I try to run, but it easily catches me in its embrace.

  The city loves me. It’s a warming thought. The old newspapers cling to me, providing me with a blanket—which is good because it is a chilly night.

  I’m shivering. How could I ever think about leaving this place? This place is my home. I’m beginning to feel numb. My eyesight is falling. Soon I will go blind. The city doesn’t want me to remember—knowing how painful that is for me.

  The city loves me.

  And I love the city.

  A VERY BAD PLACE

  It begins as it always begins for him, in the dark.

  At first he thinks he’s blind, but no, he’s just closed his eyes. He’s been asleep. Asleep for what feels like a thousand years. His body aches, and his old bones feel like dust. He just wants to rest.

  The sound of dripping water stirs him.

  Slowly, he rises.

  He’s feels a great sense of loss, and confusion.

  He keeps his eyes firmly shut, convinced that the longer he keeps them shut, then he can still pretend to dream. Reluctantly, he opens his eyes, and he sees he’s hit rock bottom.

  But, at least I’m alive! He thinks.

  Immediately, he wishes that the opposite were true, as a throbbing pain chips away at his brain.

  He doesn’t know where he is, but the scene is familiar. It’s not the first time he’s woken up next to the toilet, and it won’t be the last. This toilet is filthy, but now-a-days he’s not too picky about who he sleeps with.

  Strangely, the air smells sweat, like apples, and his mouth waters as he breaths in. But, his first taste of air is sour, and his insides revolt.

  He quickly lifts the toilet lid. This isn’t the first time he’s been here in this position, either, and his muscles know what to do, and act almost on instinct.

  His guts wretch, but do not deliver the promised reward— the tank remains empty.

  Breathing hard, he slinks back, and slumps to the floor. He leans his back against the wall of the bathroom stall. Yes, a stall, he thinks as his mind begins to clear, so a public bathroom then.

  He bangs the back of head against the stall. Part of it is frustration, but another part is to focus on something other than that damn apple sweet smell.

  “Hey buddy,” a voice says. “Are you all right?”

  The voice startles him, as it comes out of nowhere. At first he thinks it’s his own voice, but realizes that’s crazy. It’s clearly someone in the next stall over.

  “I’m fine,” he says, but his voice is hoarse, and makes a liar out of him.

  “You don’t sound fine,” the voice prods.

  “I’m fine,” he repeats, but even he can hear the lack of conviction in his words.

  “Have you been eating right?” the voice asks

  He doesn’t answers. He wants nothing more than to tell the asshole in the next stall to mind his own business, but he just can’t seem to find the words. No, he thinks, it’s not that he can’t find the words, it’s that he doesn’t want to say them, because, the voice is oddly soothing, almost comforting in a way.

  “Hey are you listening?” The voice asks. “You know what they say about apples don’t you?”

  “About them keeping the doctor away,” he answers.

  “No,” the voice chuckles, “that there always something trying to worm it’s way in.”

  Despite himself, he smiles. He doesn’t want too, it’s corny and stupid joke, but the voice is warm and welcoming, and overwhelming friendly— overwhelming like the scent of apples that still hangs in the air.

  “Well, buddy, it seems like we have something in common,” the voice continues jovially.

  He doesn’t answer. It’s starting to sink in just how weird things are becoming between him and whoever is in the stall next to him. After all, they are a couple of dudes in the bathroom, with only a plastic wall separating them. And he may not know where he was, or how he got here, but he was damn sure of one thing, and that one this is that he isn’t a goddamn fag. He’s on his guard now.

  “Hey pal, did you fall in?” his new “friend” asks.

  He says nothing, hoping his friend will just get bored and leave him alone.

  “Hey pal, did you hear me?” His new friend asks, a few seconds later. The voice is still warm and friendly, but there is a trace of something else, too. Annoyance? Maybe, or maybe it was desperation.

  “Yeah, I heard you,” he answers, finally. Though, he couldn’t see the guy, he knew the type: pushy, wouldn’t leave you alone, someone who wastes your time. And he probably just made the biggest mistake of his life, engaging the guy any further. The best thing he could right now, was to get up, and get the hell out of here. Otherwise, he’d be here talking to this guy all night. But, his guts still feel like shit, and he’s not confident enough that he can stand on his own feet without tipping over.

  “So do you know what we have in common…. We’re both full of shit.”

  “You are maybe,” he hadn’t meant it as a joke, but his friend took it that way, and starting laughing.

  The laughter is infectious, and he couldn’t help but join in.

  The laughing didn’t help his sore ribs, and he could feel them almost tighten inside him, but he had to admit that he just didn’t care.

  When the laughing jig finally subsided, his friend asks:

  “So what’s your name? It doesn’t feel right to keep calling you buddy or pal.”

  “Marcus,” he says.

  “Marcus, eh,” he friend says, mulling the name over. He knows it’s coming, it’s a question he’s been asked a hundred times, maybe more, and something that has become a point of annoyance for him over the years. He can almost hear his friend say it, even before he asks: “Marcus? Why not Mark?” And he’d mumble something under his breath like: “Because that’s not my name.” So he steeled himself in anticipation, for a question that surprisingly never came.

  “I like it,” his friend says, much too his surprise.

  “Too many people cheapen a name by shortening it. Someone gives you a name, you should own it.”

  Wow, it’s like this guy could read his mind. If they hadn’t met in such usual circumstances, he’d probably by this guy a drink. Hell, he still might. The thought to just get up and leave, though, strangely had vanished from mind.

  “So, what do they call you?” He asks. There is tint of nervousness in the asking. Where this queasiness comes from is a bit of m
ystery. Hadn’t his friend asked something similar just a few seconds ago? But, when he asks, it almost feels dirty, like he was doing something wrong— something taboo.

  For a long time, his friend does not answer. At least it seemed long, and that only intensified the feeling of queasiness

  “Are you sure you want to know?” His friend asks. The tone is still jovial, but it was off somehow. He couldn’t figure what it was, and maybe that off feeling had always been there, and he’d just picked up on it now.

  “Marcus, are you still with me?”

  This time he didn’t answer. He merely shook his head. He knew what it was now. The tone was less jovial and more sly.

  “Come on Marcus, we’re all friends here, right?” His friend asks. But, the tone is a little too friendly for his tastes. “We’re just joking around right? No hard feelings.”

  “Yeah, no hard feeling,” he says as he looks over at the door, but finds his legs have decided to stick around, and stubbornly refuse to work, he feels weak in the knees making him something of a captive audience. And that apple smell is back, back and even more offensive than before. If he could just catch his breath, he’d be okay… at least that’s what he tells himself.

  “Hey, I’m sorry man,” the guy in next stall says. His voice is smooth, making it easy to swallow. Though, he can’t help but feel he’s being played. That he’s been marked, so to speak.

  “Sometimes, you know, I get to talking and I don’t know when to stop. Sorry if I spooked you.”

  The guy chuckles a little, but it sounds fake.

  “No problem,” he answers, thinking that now would be a good time to crawl out of here.

  “Tell you what, how about I make it up to you,” he hears the guy say. He’s trying not to listen, but goddamn it’s hard. The guy is just so… what’s the word… intrusive. No, that wasn’t it. It’s hard to admit, it’s like no matter how hard he trying to pull away, he’s hanging on this guy’s every word.

  He wishes that apple smell would go away; it’s making it hard to think. The smell just seems so out of place here in these hollowed filthy walls, where unspeakable acts take place. Unspeakable at least in polite society—for you’re never more vulnerable than when you are answering a call of nature.

  “Do you want to hear a secret?” his friend’s asks, letting the words hang in the air. And, something about the way his friend asks makes him, compels him, to want to know more despite the creepy vibes in the room.

  “What kind of secret,” he asks.

  “Oh, well all kinds really,” his friend says. The answering is leading. Leading him down a path, he knows too well, down a path full of empty promises.

  “Whatever,” he says. He never was that good at reading people, but everything right now is telling him that his friend is playing him for a fool.

  “Oh come on, man,” his friend goads. “Don’t be like that.”

  But whatever spell his friend had cast over him, had shorted out. He starts to get up, but the sound of metal scraping against metal stops him.

  “What the…” He doesn’t finish the curse, because his friend has already beaten him to the punch.

  “I could, for example, tell you why you’ve been chained to the toilet.”

  And he found the proof, when he lifted his pant leg and saw a metal loop cuffed around the bottom part of his shin. The loop’s companion snaked around a drainage pipe behind the toilet. A thick strip of chain coiled on the tiled floor. He did what only came natural then…

  “You sick fuck,” he screamed.

  “Hey now, there’s no need for that language,” his friend answered. “You act like this is my fault.”

  “Are you fucking kidding me?” He shouts.

  “No joke, friend,” his friend answers, and to add insult to injury he can hear the guy chuckling softly under his breath.

  He pulls at the chain, knowing full well it’s a useless effort. He’s seen enough movies to know, escape is never that simple. Instead he tries a different route. If he can just open the door, maybe somebody will see him. But, he comes up short. His leash only allows his fingers to lightly brush up against the handle.

  He gives up.

  But that had been the story of his life, hadn’t it.

  Whenever he was pushed, he’d always gives up.

  He sits up, and leans his back against the wall.

  He could almost hear his mother telling him, with pure delight in dripping from her mouth, that he was a screw up, just like his dad. Well she had certainly raised him, right hadn’t she?

  Look at your son now, you fucking bitch. Aren’t you proud?

  No, he told himself, don’t let her get to you, it’s just going to piss you off.

  He banged the back of his head against the wall. The pain felt good, and shattered some of the bitter thoughts forming in his mind. But what now?

  “Marcus,” his friend called out. The voice quiet, sounding like a purr. “Are you alright?”

  “You know what they say about curiosity?” He asks. What did he have to lose, honestly.

  “No, what do they say,” his friend purred again.

  “It’s the number one thing that kills little pussies,” he says it, and doesn’t holding back on any of the bitterness.

  He hears his friend chuckling.

  “It’s a good thing I’m not a cat, then.” his friend says.

  “What the hell are you then?” He asks.

  “Same as you,” comes the reply.

  “So you’re a mouse then?” He asks.

  “Oh, Marcus,” his friend answers, his voice dripping with delight, “don’t sell yourself short.”

  He laughs. It’s not a kind laugh. But, he quickly stifles it. That’s how it starts, he thinks, with a laugh. How could he have forgotten? Laughter had ruined his life. And, it all comes flooding back. He remembers the day when laughter became a bad thing. He had come home from school, and his mom started hounding him about getting a job. She had been hounding him for months. He had just turned sixteen, and was now old enough to legally get a job, and that’s all that mattered. Never mind the fact that didn’t even have a driver’s license yet. This was all pretty normal, except on this particular day, some douche bag, and a couple of his douche bag friends, had cornered him in the locker room, and then cut loose on him. The first punch was the worst, the rest he didn’t even feel. After they had had their fun, they promised more. So there he was, with a swollen eye, and face plumed like hamburger, and all his mom could do was hound about getting a job. Something snapped inside of him then, and he started to laugh. He vaguely remembers his mom screaming at him to stop, but he couldn’t. He just laughed, and laughed, and laughed. He almost passed out from the pain in his ribs, where he had been kicked multiple times, but not even the pain could stop him from laughing.

  In fact, he kept laughing even when the men in white coats came, and took him away.

  He spent about a month in the looney bin, after that. His mom was so embarrassed that they eventually moved to a different town, as she just couldn’t face the neighbors anymore, what with them knowing she had a fucking lunatic for a son.

  And that bitch never you him forget it, did she. The though is like a punch to the face, or maybe more like a kick to the ribs. Still, looking back, the whole thing was kind of funny, when you thought about it.

  “Marcus,” he hears his friend. “Did I lose you again? You know it helps to talk about your problems.”

  He doesn’t answer. Let his friend stew. If he’s read his friend right, then he knows ignoring him would drive the guy crazy. And his friend proved him right, only a few seconds later.

  “Marcus, come on, don’t be like this,”

  “What the hell do you want!” He snaps, and immediately feels ashamed that his resolve hadn’t lasted long.

  “The same thing you want, Marcus,” comes the answer, and he can’t help but hear the sarcasm in his friends voice. No, the sarcasm at least is loud and clear.

&
nbsp; “What do I want then,” he says. He decides to go along with this sadistic game, but figures he doesn’t have to be nice about it.

  “The truth,” comes the answer.

  Cliched thoughts of Jack Nicholson screaming about the truth enter his mind, only to be chased out by another image of Jack Nicholson holding an axe and running through a maze in the dead of winter. And, what was up with him being in that picture at the end of The Shining anyway? Was he ghost the whole time? But he realizes his mind is starting to ramble, the way it used to back in the looney bin, and he had better put a stop to it, and quick, or he might just lose it again. A defense mechanism the doctor had said. Something to keep you from seeing the true horror of your situation. To keep you from seeing the truth…

  “What the hell are you talking about?” He asks, pretending to laugh a little to cover his fear. Though, if he was going to shit his pants, this would be the place to do it. The toilet is right there.

  “It’s a mean and nasty thing,” his friend confines.

  “Like you,” he snaps.

  “Be serious, Marcus,” his friend answers, but he can’t help but hear the mocking tone in his friend’s voice. “I’m only trying to help you.”

  “You can help me in one of two ways,” he begins. “One, you tell me how to get the hell out of here. Or, two you shut the hell the fuck up.”

  His friend decides to take option two for a spin, and he at least is glad for the silence.

  Nothing is said, but a lot remains unsaid. Like the fact that he hates the quiet, it drives him crazy, because it makes him think, and he doesn’t like to think. In the quiet times, which are frequent these days, given how many people he’s pushed away, his one salvation is to drink. Not that he particularly liked the taste of alcohol, hated it in fact, but it was one of the few things that let him forget. That cast a fog over his mind, and gave him a pleasant buzzing in his ears, and let him slip into peaceful oblivion.

  “You know I knew this girl, once,” his friend says, apparently, forgetting his vow of silence. “The kind of girl who had everything going for her. The whole world worshiped the ground she walked on, but the thing of it was she was miserable. Any good thing that would come along, she’d do everything in her power to mess it up. Took me a long time to figure out, but then I realized something, this girl was only happy when she was miserable. Man, from Pandora to Eve seems like the fairer sex are only happy when they are destroying the world. You know anybody girls like that, Marcus?”

  “Shut up.” He wants to say more, but those are the only words that come to him.

  “Struck a nerve, did I?” His friend asks, and he can't help but notice the overly chipper tone that lies there now.

  What else was there to say? He was damned if did, and damned if he didn't.

  The Queen of Chaos, he thinks, now. It's the worst kind of thought, completely random. And those are the thoughts that hurt the most— the ones that just come out of the blue. That first thought triggers another, and now he thinks of his mother. And right now, he's a psychiatrist’s wet dream. He could almost hear old Sigmund Freud himself say: “This obsession you have with your mother is completely unhealthy and gets me hard. Please tell me more.”

  All right Sigmund, he thinks, let me tell you about my mother. She was the undisputed Queen of Chaos. She was never happy unless everything around her was falling apart. And of course, it was always everybody else's fault, never hers, because why should she be held accountable for anything. We had to move every three months, because she would never pay the rent, and that was the amount of time the landlord's patience would finally break, before filing an eviction notice. And, the first thing she would do, whenever we moved to new place, was pick a fight with the neighbors. And she could never hold down a job for more six months, because she would be at war with either her boss or co-workers. They were always signaling her out, because they were all jealous of her. And when the neighbors, or her co-workers, or her boss, or the landlord weren't signaling her out, or not cooperating with her master plan, then, Sigmund, oh then, she would turn her attention on me.

  Because the truth, and there is that word again truth, is they don't lock the real crazy people up. Look at the world, Sigmund, and tell me that's not the product of a crazed mind. The world is irrational, and doesn't make any sense. The world is demeaning, and dehumanizing. And, worst of all it is mean. And the people who are kind, or gentle, or want to help are a plague on the world. Those people are degenerates and social outcasts in a world that is completely mad. And mankind can fool itself all it wants about being civilized, but we are still nothing more than apes at heart. The world we live in is still the jungle, a jungle of concrete and steel true, but a jungle is a jungle, regardless. And, deep down that’s the way we like it.

  He sat back leaning against the wall. That was the most rational and borderline coherent thought he had had in a long time.

  And, it suddenly occurred to him that his friend had been unusually quiet. Maybe his friend could read minds, and had been listening in.

  Of course, there was another possibility, and that one hit like a splash of cold water. It could just be he had been talking to himself the entire time. And, the more he thought about it, the more it made sense. He was getting worse… isn’t that what the doctor had said? And, mixing pills and booze couldn’t be good for him, at least as far as his sanity was concerned. Could this just be the product of his diseased mind? A mind that had, in desperation, led him to the bridge and then the cold and the dark…

  But, when he felt the cold iron chain on his foot, he knew he had been fooling himself. No, someone was out to get him. Had taken advantage of him, and was now holding him captive? If he could just remember what had happened after the bridge…

  He soon lost his train of thought, however, and his mind went blank as it sometimes did. He was an empty shell, a lifeless robot, at least until his mind rebooted, and he powered on again.

  Life came back slowly, and begins as it always begins for him, in the dark. At first he thinks he is blind, until he remembers his eyes are closed. When he opens them, he is at first confused about his surroundings. He briefly panics when he sees the chain wrapped around his foot.

  “Marcus,” a voice calls out, from somewhere, “Easy, it’s alright.”

  He is panting, the last gasps of a panic attack, but soon his breath starts to stabilize. He aches for a drink, to steady his nerves, but the only drink available is the soiled water of the toilet that currently served as his jailer.

  “Sonofabitch,” he cries, as he shakes off the last of whatever it is that possessed him.

  “Thought I lost you there for a moment,” the voice again, he recognizes it as his friend. “Off in your own little world?”

  He doesn’t answer. Not that any answer is coming to him, anyway. He knows, on a primal level, that if he is going to get out of this, then he’s going to need his wits about him.

  Okay, he thinks, okay, okay. Don’t think about how you got here, or who did this to you. Right now that’s not important. What do you now? Right now, not much. All I know is that the guy in the stall next to me is an asshole. And, he gets off on pretending to be my friend, but taking the piss out of me at the same time, so…

  So what?

  But then, a wicked thought crosses his mind. It’s those random thoughts you got to watch out for. Those thoughts can lead you down a rabbit hole of crazy. But every now and again, God decides to sprinkle in some divine inspiration.

  “Call me crazy,” he begins, almost as a joke, “but I’ve been thinking a little bit about what you said. You know about women, and I think you’re a bit short sighted.”

  “Am I?” His friend says, and he can’t help but notice the surprise he hears in the voice.

  “Yeah,” he says, summoning up everything he can remember from Sunday school, “Eve wasn’t there to destroy, she was there to inspire. You know, to give us wisdom.”

  “Oh yes I can see your point,” his
friend says, fringing as if in deep thought, “To bad most people don’t know what to do with the brains God gives them.”

  “Tell me about it,” he says.

  “Although,” his friend responses, “technically it was the serpent who put the idea in Eve’s head. So that would mean the serpent is response for making people more than just a bunch of goddamn apes.”

  He chuckles, and can’t believe how stupid he’d been. It was staring him right there in the face the entire time, and naturally he had completely missed it.

  “So is that who you are?” He asks. “The devil.”

  There is silence from the other stall, and he get the impression that his friend is shrugging his shoulders.

  “If you like,” he hears.

  “And is that why it smells like apples?” He asks. “Because you reek of wisdom?”

  “Something like that,” comes the answers.

  “So I’m in hell then. Is that it?” He asks. “God knows I probably deserve it.”

  “I’d say,” his friend pauses for a moment, and chooses his words carefully, “That you in a very bad place. But don’t worry I’m here to help. To see you through, so to speak.”

  “You want to help me, then why don’t you come over here and unlock this chain!”

  “God helps those, who help themselves,” comes the answer.

  “Oh so you’re God now,” he scoffs. He’d been fooling himself again. This guy, his friend, was just another pathetic loser like the ones he’d meet back in the looney bin. Small men, with nothing going on in their lives, pretending to be something greater than they are. Pretending, so much that they started to believe their own fantasies. But, he had enough crazy in his life. He certainly didn’t need any more. He was all full up, and couldn’t take anymore.

  “You know it’s funny,” his friend begins, “used to be a fella talked to himself people would think that he was a great prophet who spoke to the gods, and thereby spread good news to the masses. Now-a-days, a fella talks to himself, and he’s pumped full of anti-depressants, so he can’t think, and locked away so his crazy doesn’t spread to other people. Sad really. Nobody wants to hear the truth, not anymore. What a lonely world it is without gods or good news.”

  He doesn’t answer, but he has a wild idea. The rational part of his mind, however, was screaming at him to stop.

  His friend in the stall, was also in a state of panic, and echoed the rational parts of his brain by saying: “Marcus whatever you’re thinking about, don’t do it…”

  But he wasn’t listening. He was instead thinking of polite society. He was thinking what a joke it was, always telling you what you can and cannot do. But the funny thing was, polite society had never a goddamn thing for him. The only thing that polite society ever did do for him was to lock him up, dope him up, and get him to the point where he wanted to die. Fuck being polite.

  “Marcus stop!” He heard his friend scream. “You’re not ready for the truth!”

  He wasn’t listening. Instead, his thoughts turned primitive. And, if he had learned one thing in this sorry world of ours, it was this: primitive cuts through all the bullshit.

  He barred his teeth, steeling himself for what he had to do next. Then, with all the force he could muster, he slammed his forehead down hard on the porcelain bowl.

  He heard something crack. Whether it was the toilet or his skull he couldn’t say.

  His eyes rolled back in his head.

  And the last thing he heard, just before everything went black was the sound of water dripping.

  It begins as it always begins for him, in the dark.

  He awakes slowly, and his head throbs. He feels something cold and wet on the front of his pants. Briefly he wonders if he’s pisses himself, knowing with embarrassing insight that it is not the first time that’s happened.

  It feels like his head is swimming, and his eyes are watery when he finally opens them.

  The first thing he sees frightens him. It’s a face. A smiling face. Gradually his senses come back to, and he realizes the face is his own, reflected in a pool of water. He touches his lips, and can only express confusion when his own mouth seems to be fixed in a permanent frown. When he looks again, the smiling man is gone. His own movements, small they maybe, distort the liquid mirror into tiny waves.

  He stands, or tries to, but his head pulls him down like a heavy weight.

  He takes a deep breath. Then using whatever will he can find, pushes through the pain, and is on his feet. Almost immediately he can feel himself slipping, and quickly reaches out to the wall to support himself. On an instinctual level, he knows that if he falls there is a good chance he won’t be getting up again, at least not for a long time.

  He stands letting the screaming pain in his head mellow into a dull throb.

  What snaps him out of the doldrums is the realization that his feet are soaked to the bone.

  His head droops, as he looks down, and that’s when it hits him that he’s seeing double. But, impaired vision or no, he can still see that an inch of water now covers the floor.

  Curiosity peaked, he ignored the shooting pain in his head, and looks up. There he sees that the top of toilet has been split down the middle. Only the base remains, and a geyser of waters spits offensively from the open wound.

  Elated, but not wanting to get his hopes up, he cautiously pulls at the chain by dragging his foot back. It takes a few tries, but with nothing on top to hold it in place, the chain pulls free of its jailer.

  The chain hangs like a lasso from his foot, but he’s free. Well, almost free. Slowly he makes his way over to the stall door. Doing his best to not jostle his head too much, and send another shot of pain straight to his skull.

  Soon, his fingers close around the lock. There is more panic as the lock doesn’t want to turn, and he wonders what he’s going to do if the lock is rusted shut.

  He takes a deep breath, bites his lip, and braces himself from the headache that he is about to reap. Then he applies a little more force to the lock, and the lock gives without complaint.

  He has a brief flash that something is waiting for him on the other side. What it was, who knows? Maybe an endless void. Maybe a guy with horns and a pitchfork. Maybe his mother (and wouldn’t that just be wonderful). But, he pushes pasts these thoughts. These are thoughts designed to scare him. Just another way to keep him trapped.

  His wet feet are shaky, and he nearly falls out of the stall. But he is able to steady himself.

  There is a dull throbbing in his head, which causes his vision to blur even worse than before. Worse of all, he can’t make out an exit. He searches for the familiar glow of a green or red neon sign, but there is none. Nor can he see a sink or mirror. From what he can make out the room appears to be round, almost a complete circle. And he thinks that he must be seeing things, or that bump on the head is really messing with his mind, because stall doors seem to be surrounding him on all sides.

  He closes his eyes, and counts to ten, an old military trick his dad taught him, back when his dad was still around.

  When he opens his eyes again, his vision has improved somewhat, but not much has changed.

  The room is round. There is no sink. There is no mirror. And, you can forget about an exit, because there is none. But, there is an air freshener plugged into the wall. And, on the fresh air dispenser is a picture of an apple.

  His mind reels, and he’s unsure of what to do.

  What can I do? He thinks. But no answer is forthcoming.

  He sinks into despair.

  That is, until he hears a voice.

  Then he hears another, and another, and another. Behind ever locked door, behind every stall.

  It is the voice of God, he thinks.

  And one he recognizes. He should, after all because it is his own voice.

  And maybe this is all in his head, or maybe it was something else. Either way, he knows, now, that he’s in a very bad place.

  And he can’t hel
p but laugh, and finds he can’t stop laughing. For he realizes, that he has been talking to himself this whole time. And, will continue to do so for a very long time to come.

  THE GREAT DIVORCE

  “The lawyers took everything,” Travis Errol said, “I’m ruined.”

  “Nothing lasts forever, Travis,” said a voice—buzzing in his ears.

  “This used to be my office.”

  Travis cleared some glass away from the broken window.

  “Too much sun,” the buzzing voice answered.

  “On a clear day I could see the entire city from here. “

  Travis closed his eyes: “Now look at it? the city is a wasteland.”

  He turned away, opened his eyes and said: “I should have never listened to you.”

  “But, you got what you wanted, Travis, and we got what we wanted.”

  “Still,” Travis thought aloud, “all those accidents. If only I had fixed the brakes. I had enough money. I didn’t need to cheat people. I have blood on my hands”

  “Did you physically cause the bus to crash, Travis?”

  “No,” Travis confessed.

  “Then your hands are clean, Travis.”

  “But I was the one people blamed. “

  “Don’t worry Travis.”

  “But all those people…”

  “Everyone dies, Travis. You did those people a favor.”

  “What do you know?” Travis Errol cried, “You’re just a pack of bloody flies.”

  The flies swarmed around Travis Errol’s head— buzzing in his ears.

  “I shouldn’t have listened to you.”

  “Have we not always been good to you, Travis?”

  Travis thought, and then nodded in agreement.

  “So, what do I do now?”

  “Go to the window, Travis.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “We’re hungry again. Go to the window Travis, and jump.”

  “But I’ll die.”

  “Only the body dies, Travis. The body dies... so we can live.”

  Travis walked to the window. He stepped over the broken glass—being careful not to cut himself— and made his way to the ledge.

  “You won’t abandon me, will you? Everyone else did when the company fell.”

  “Never Travis. Soon you will be a part of us, forever.”

  “Thank you.”

  So, in his last rational act, Travis Errol jumped—because the flies told him to.

  But, that was not the end of his suffering.

  It was just the beginning...

  END NOTES

  Cover design by Oliver Tria

  Images provided by Wikimedia Commons

  https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/Main_Page

  Original edition published in 2002 by the iUniverse imprint

  Copyright © 2002 by Kelly M. Logue

  New to this edition are the previously unpublished stories: Introduction, The Yarca Connection, and A Very Bad Place. Copyright © 2015, and 2016

  by Kelly M. Logue.

  Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.