Enormity

by Nick Milligan

  I think back to what I read in the texts at the newspaper building. I can’t recall reading about Carver bones. “You’ll have to enlighten me.”

  “They were uncovered by a man named Dr. Carver. It made everyone wondering if we used to have wings,” explains Rose.

  “Do you think we did?” I ask.

  Rose scrunches her face. “Not really. Seems a bit far-fetched. These supposed ancient creatures of the land,” she says, gesturing to the torso, “were rapists. Demons.”

  “Right,” I say. “So the theory was that people evolved from insatiable, self-obsessed monsters that lived only to feed and have sex...”

  “Apparently,” says Rose.

  “How very far-fetched.”

  We move on to the next artwork. Two severed heads, skinned, facing each other, locked in a kiss. The absence of eyelids means their eyeballs stare directly into each other. One seems more masculine than the other head, suggesting that there is a male and a female.

  “In some ways it’s a beautiful metaphor,” says Rose, who seems slightly revolted by the heads, but is determined not to let it get to her. “That feeling of being exposed. Naked.”

  I don’t reply, instead moving on to the next case. Two full bodies, patches of their skin missing, with carvings and tattoos across the remaining epidermis, are arranged on top of each other, as if in an act of coitus. A man and woman, eyes closed, naked. Trapped together forever.

  “How do they know for certain that these people all donated their bodies?” I ask.

  “The cult had a lot of documentation. Written messages from the dead, giving their consent. Of course they were probably brain-washed,” explains Rose.

  “It’s highly probable,” I say.

  “We all leave something behind, but very few of us can actually leave our mortal remains like this,” adds Rose, who bends down to inspect the two bodies. “It’s like living forever.”

  “So you’d donate your body to art?”

  Rose gives a short laugh. “No.”

  “Really? You sound like you’re sold on the idea. This cult could have hired you as their publicist.”

  Rose raises a disapproving eyebrow. “I don’t advocate any of this, but what’s done is done. I’m fascinated by anything that might teach me more about myself... or other people. About humanity.”

  We venture into the next room, which becomes progressively more gruesome. Open chest cavities. Standing cadavers draped in viscera. Artistic, perhaps. Horrific, definitely. Rose becomes increasingly clingy, often taking my arm around hers, pulling herself against me as we move between the brightly lit glass cases.

  We arrive at another black curtain, which is labeled the exit. To its right is the final case. Inside is the standing body of a man, arms outstretched. Except this body has had six extra arms sown to its side, as if it were a human spider. The man’s lower jaw is missing and he stares blankly, straight ahead, from inside his thin translucent cocoon. His eyelids have been removed and his long-dead eyeballs bulge from their sockets. Rose doesn’t linger on this final artwork and quickly pulls back the curtain and exits. As I go to follow her, I catch a subtle movement in the corner of my eye. Looking up, I see the spider man’s eyes roll in his head and fix on me. Staring. The rest of his body, including his eight arms, is rigid. Terror smothers me like a hot blanket and as I stare back, I cannot move. I’m frozen.

  “Jack?” calls Rose, from beyond the curtain.

  The sound of her voice startles the artwork and his eyes swing to their original position. As the sound of a whimper and a desperate, muffled cry creeps from one of the glass cases behind me, I dart through the curtain. I’m slightly addled and I know my mind is tricking me. Taking Rose’s hand, I smile at her, regaining my composure, and we head in the direction of the gallery’s entrance.

  “Are you ok?” asks Rose, concerned.

  “Yeah, sure,” I say, wiping the sweat from my free hand on my jeans. “You okay?”

  “I’m fine,” she shrugs.

  “Great,” I say. “So what would you like to do now?”

  “I don’t know,” she replies. “I don’t suppose we can spend all night in the gallery?”

  “I’m in no hurry to leave. I’ll do whatever you want.”

  Rose smiles and leads me through an archway to our left, which opens into another giant room lined with paintings. Down the centre are sculptures, all more traditional than that of the Marioneta de Carne. Clay. Wood. Steel.

  “So are you going to tell me how you got us after hours access to the Walkley Gallery?” asks Rose.

  “I’d prefer not to,” I reply. “I’m going for mystery here. Charm and mystery.”

  “Would it change your mind if I told you you’re not charming or mysterious?”

  “No.”

  We wander the gallery for another half an hour, moving at Rose’s pace. Some of the rooms are better lit than others. She stops occasionally to inspect a painting, sometimes commenting. She’ll lean against me for a moment and I’m able to smell her hair, then she’ll move away just as quickly. A slow dance. A tease. Every so often I’ll put my hand on the small of her back, feeling her slender body through the thin fabric of her dress. Then she’ll spot another famous artwork and leave my touch. To and fro. Ebb and flow. A rhythm that can be frustrating, but so often has a predictable ending.

  We leave the Walkley Gallery through the front doors and I thank the two security guards, who nod courteously. As Rose and I descend the wide, mammoth set of stairs she asks me, “So, what would you like to do now?”

  “It’s up to you,” I smile. “If you’re tired, I can call one of our drivers and drop you home.”

  Rose looks unsure. “I don’t know if I’m ready to go home yet.”

  “Well, we could go out to a club or something? I haven’t been to The Honey Pot in a few weeks. Or we could go to Echelon?” I offer. “I’ve been there recently, but I... don’t remember much of it.”

  Rose gives me a knowing look. “I think a club would be too hectic right now. I just feel like... talking.”

  “Talking. Yeah, of course. That would be cool,” I say. “Well, where would you like to talk?”

  “We could just go back to your place,” suggests Rose, with a smirk.

  “You sure that’s a good idea?”

  “Is it a bad idea?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  We return to our waiting chauffeur. The vehicle makes its way to my apartment, the traffic thickening as we get to my block. I live in a club district. Fancy places. Very high-end. But you don’t have to look very far for mischief, particularly if it’s always over your shoulder. Rose and I sit in the back. I gently take her hand in mine and she gives me a warm smile. One of Big Bang Theory’s songs comes over the car’s radio. The sound of my voice fills the vehicle, and I pretend to sing along, miming, which makes Rose laugh. It’s ‘Here Comes Your Man’ by The Pixies.

  I pay the driver and we walk across the footpath to the entrance of my apartment building. A doorman lets us into the foyer and I pass him a small tip. Our feet echo across the broad, slick foyer as we arrive at the elevator.

  Rose puts an arm around my waist as we wait. The elevator opens and a smartly dressed man steps out with two young women, dressed to go clubbing. It’s a film actor by the name of Calvin Meloy, who has recently exploded with a string of successful releases. Science fiction, mostly. He’s at least ten years younger than me. Square jaw, blonde locks, blue eyes. Moderate ability. He just moved into my building.

  “Jack!” exclaims Calvin, giving me an enthusiastic hug. “What are you up to, man? You look fucking amazing. We’re heading to Echelon. You should come with us.”

  “Love to, Cal, but I’m calling it a night. Got a mountain of stuff to get through tomorrow.”

  “Yeah, I’ll bet!” he says, slapping me on the shoulder. “I’ve heard about the mountains of stuff you get through. We have to party soon. I’m putting a band together and I want to play you some tun
es we’ve been kicking around.”

  “Sounds good,” I say. “Enjoy your evening. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

  Calvin throws his hands in the air as he leads his ladies across the foyer. “Hell, that doesn’t leave me many options! Take it easy, Jack.”

  “You too,” I call out, raising an arm in farewell.

  Rose and I enter the elevator.

  “Was that...?” asks Rose.

  “Yes,” I say. “He lives in my building now.”

  “Seems nice.”

  “Yeah, he’s a sweet kid. Enjoying the fruits of success,” I say, with a hint of sarcasm.

  “You wrote the book on enjoying success, Jack, so don’t be mean about it.”

  “How did you know I was writing a book?”

  Rose smiles. “I doubt Calvin Meloy can live up to your debauchery.”

  I scoff. “Don’t believe everything you’ve heard about me.”

  We arrive at my floor and soon we’re in my apartment’s kitchen. I choose a bottle of white wine from the refrigerator.

  “So all the stories about you are... a myth?” asks Rose, as I hand her a glass.

  I just smile. “I’d rather not go into it.”

  “Oh c’mon, Jack. I’m giving you an opportunity to clear your name. You can confirm or deny all the things I’ve heard about you in the news.”

  “That sounds like one of the most fun games ever.”

  “It would give me a better idea of who I’m dealing with,” says Rose, taking a sip of her wine.

  “You know who you’re dealing with,” I say. “I’m the Messiah.” I give her a sly grin.

  “You won’t let me live that down, will you,” says Rose.

  “Not soon,” I say.

  “Seriously though, I’d like to know more about you.” She moves closer to me.

  “You already know everything,” I shrug. “You’ve shared my company. My bed. My conspiracy. You’ve seen who I am.” I pick up my wine and with the other hand I lead Rose out to my balcony. We both sit at my glass-topped outdoor dining setting. “I’ve done things that would disgust you, Rose. Things I regret doing. Some I don’t... but most I do. One of those things was messing around with you and ... disrespecting you in the process. I’m trying to make a fresh start,” I explain.

  Rose just smiles, looking out across the city’s flickering nightscape. “This really is an amazing view at night.”

  I’m flooded with a desire to kiss Rose. To lose control and ravish her again. I wonder if she feels the same. Is she wrestling with her own desires? She’s giving very little away.

  There’s a pause, while we sit in silence, sipping our wine. Rose smiles at me for a moment, then looks out to the city again. I consider telling her that I saw the eyes of a human sculpture look at me. But I’m not sure she would find it impressive or amusing.

  Finally Rose asks, “So how’s your new recording coming along?”

  “Good,” I say, simply. “It’s coming together.”

  “I look forward to hearing it,” she says, putting her glass to her lips.

  “Stay here,” I say, heading into the apartment. I return with my acoustic guitar, which I sit on my lap, pulling my seat away from the dining setting.

  Rose doesn’t say anything, but sits intently.

  “This is something I’m working on,” I say, and start to play. I sing the slow-burning dreamscape chorus of the Ryan Adams song ‘Wildflowers’. When I finish, I reach for my wine and drink the last mouthful.

  “That was beautiful,” smiles Rose. She takes a final drink from her glass and says, “I better get a refill.”

  “Me too.” I place my guitar next to my chair and follow Rose to the kitchen. She leans back against the kitchen counter while I take the wine bottle from the fridge. Her empty glass stands next to her on the counter and I fill it, my face now close to hers. I sit the bottle down and raise a hand, tucking the hair that hangs over her face behind one of her ears.

  Then I lean against Rose and she allows me to kiss her. The sensation is immediately familiar. It’s as if our lips never parted. In that moment, my mind wanders back in time to a distant planet. The dust from a distant sun. There’s a girl there who mourns me. Who perhaps still misses me. But she would allow me this small comfort.

  I move my lips to Rose’s neck and she gasps softly. A small release from the back of her throat. Her smell is so distinctly feminine. So human. My hands move to her waist, poised to slide lower. My heart races, writhing and pulling like a dog on a chain. A primal aggression stirs within. Rose puts her arms around my neck, holding me tightly. I lift up her skirt, running my fingers up her thighs until I find the edge of her underwear, which I swiftly pull down. Her panties fall to her ankles and she steps out of them.

  Now Rose looks into my eyes, but she gazes with distant burning. A hazy desire. There’s a fire in her pupils that humans get when they’re drunk on adrenaline and hormones.

  “I want you inside me again...” she whispers, which reminds me that she’s also drunk on wine.

  A faint but recognisable voice appears somewhere in the back of my brain. My morality. I tell myself that nothing matters and that the unequivocal finality of our existence means that everything is pointless. Any minute where a man is not eating or fucking is a minute wasted. Yet I still feel anxiety. Am I in too deep? Am I taking this fantasy too far?

  I clasp Rose’s hand and we return to the balcony. My guest is soft and beautiful and the thought of being inside her again fills me with overwhelming lust. Rose rests on the balcony’s railing, the city stretching out behind her. A planetary backdrop of blinking lights and humming car noise. Flickering neon constellations. Rose pulls her skirt up above her waist. In the dim light I can make out the waxed smoothness between her legs. Just as I remember. It’s a compelling invitation.

  I push my mouth against hers and it’s a long, deep kiss. Practically pornographic. I then fall to my knees and taste the wetness between her thighs. Her tight space unfolds against my tongue. I remember the smell and the taste of her sex. Rose moans loudly, as many girls would in this situation. The alcohol flowing through her veins hampers her volume control. I feel a deep, romantic connection with her.

  My tongue settles into a cyclic rhythm and Rose braces herself against the railing. She lifts her left leg over my shoulder, using her calf to pull me closer. Her hands are now firmly on the back of my head. I slide my index finger into the slippery warmth of her vagina and a minute later she climaxes. The loudness of her orgasm nearly masks the creaks coming from the edges of the railing, specifically the industrial strength bolts that hold it in place.

  Our passion is fractured as the right side of my balcony’s railing breaks away from the pillar, swinging open like a rusted gate. Rose falls backwards, desperately reaching out for something to hold on to. The thirty-eight storey drop opens beneath her like a ready mouth. In a split second I have found Rose’s left hand, while her right hand grabs the edge of the other pillar. She supports herself long enough for me to grab her dress where it is bunched at the waist. With all my strength I pull her back to the safety of the balcony.

  We lie on the edge for a moment. I hold her tightly and she covers her face, which is taught with shock. She shakes like an injured kitten. Then, with a violent snap, the remaining bolts that hold the swinging railing lose their grip and it plummets to the street below. I hurry Rose to the couch, where I have to leave her. I take the elevator and rush across the expansive foyer of my building. There’s already a growing crowd out on the footpath. Pushing through the revolving door, I step outside and attempt to burrow my way through the tightly packed onlookers. My eyes dart frantically, trying to peer over shoulders and past heads. My stomach ties in a knot as I brace myself to find dead bodies. Twisted carnage. When I finally glimpse the damage, I breathe a sigh of relief. There’s no blood. No crushed bone or severed limbs. Just a delivery van on the opposite side of the street that has been cut in half. I can’t see any injured
. It’s a miracle. The railing stands upright, jutting out of the twisted metal. Bull’s eye.

  “There’s no one in there,” says a bystander, referring to the van.

  People are taking footage of the wreckage on their mobile phones, intently staring at their small, glowing screens, blocking traffic.

  “It’s Jack from Big Bang Theory!” exclaims someone.

  Suddenly twenty phones are pointed at me. A camera flash goes off. I shove people away and retreat inside.

  Rose is standing in my kitchen, drinking a glass of wine. She looks ok, considering what has transpired. She empties her glass with a swig then pours another.

  “Are you ok?”

  She smiles, meekly. “I think so.”

  “I think I saved your life.”

  “Or nearly killed me. Depends how you look at it.”

  “Yeah,” I say. “Different people, different points of view.”

  Rose has another mouthful of wine.

  “Did you climax?”

  “Not appropriate, Jack.”

  “Okay.”

  “So how many dead bodies were down there?” she asks.

  “None.”

  Rose looks relieved. She drinks more wine. “I was sure we would have killed someone.”

  “Sorry to disappoint. Though someone’s van is going to need a damn good panel beater.”

  “How the fuck did that happen?” she asks. “A balcony railing shouldn’t just break like that.”

  “It’s had a lot of people lean against it...” I say, then cease that sentence. “Don’t worry, I’ll definitely be taking this up with the body corporate.”

  I walk over to the kitchen phone and call Amelia. I explain the story of what happened, excluding the oral sex. There’s silence as she takes in the details.

  “So you haven’t killed anyone?” she asks.

  “Not as far as I’m aware.”

  “So the railing just broke as you leaned on it?”

  “Yeah, something like that. Maybe I’m putting on weight.”

  “You don’t really eat anything that isn’t in pill form, Jack.”

  “Can you take care of this?”