Another kamikaze moth joined the first’s relentless attack on the harsh blue light of the neighbor’s mercury vapor lamp. A slight and intermittent breeze began to stir the leaves, and the vague rumblings of the approaching storm out over Lake Michigan became more ominous and insistent.
A dark, striped cat pounced onto the porch steps, its queer yellowish-green eyes an unreadable alien ocean of knowledge, unblinking, its head pivoting as it sauntered across the top step.
I am not fond of cats. My car sports several bumper stickers, with perennial favorites such as "Fuck censorship!" which I thought paired rather nicely with the one on the cheap espresso maker in the house that asserted that we should "Fuck Decaf!" Of more direct relevance, the car also bears a bumper sticker that proclaimed, "I love cats, they taste like chicken," right next to the anti-vegetarian bumper sticker that suggests that, "There’s room on this planet for all God’s creatures. Right next to the mashed potatoes." This furry feline hadn’t perused my bumper stickers as it passed the car in the driveway, or hadn’t given a sweet fuck. It sat on the top step of the porch, and glared at me. I returned its gaze, and watched him in return. The cat's gaze was constant, and it still hadn’t blinked.
I felt a sense of déjà vu. A small rumbling cloud of uneasiness drifted through my mind, but I dismissed it. I shouldn’t have dismissed my misgivings—his appearance was just the tip of an iceberg that I didn’t want to see. The rest of the story lurked below the murky waters of my memory, and it was tremendous, terrible, and important. In retrospect, I should have been terrified of that fuzz-ball’s appearance, but instead, I looked at him uneasily and wished he would go away. Memory is amazingly elastic, and bizarrely selective. Denial. It’s not just a river in Egypt, motherfucker.
Denial’s awe-inspiring power lies in misdirection, and my mind’s self-protection mechanism labeled that cocksucking cat as one of our neighbor’s fucking flea-bitten pests. I knew I could recognize most of the neighbors’ animals on sight, but I couldn’t cough up the name of the bastard that owned this skanky fuzz-ball. It was familiar to me, but I couldn’t place the little bastard to an owner. Warning bells started ringing in my head again, but why should I be afraid of a god-forsaken ten-pound fleabag?
The cat didn’t mewl; it didn’t twine itself around in circles around my legs, demanding attention. Instead, it looked away, disinterested in me, and started washing its face with its swipes of its paw. I gave up trying to figure out whose fucking cat it was. The cat was familiar to me, but I couldn’t recall why. I assumed it wasn’t important, but I was wrong. Assumption is the mother of all fuck-ups.
I idly considered tossing my now empty beer-can at him. The cat paused, with one paw over its twitching ear, and peered at me, as if it could read my thoughts. At least the cat wasn’t making a nuisance of itself, like the orange and white hell-fire that belonged to Mrs. Cranston who lived two doors down. That nosy old biddy’s puss liked to tear shingles off the roof of my garage; I’m sure just for the pure amusement factor of pissing me off. My friend Mike Allister’s cat demands attention from anyone who went anywhere near it. If you stopped petting the goddamned thing, it would bite and claw at you until you resumed giving it the attention it demanded. I’ve restrained myself from choking the living shit out of that little fuckstick on several occasions. Less out of respect for that asshole cat’s demands, and more out of respect for Mike. Of course, my loyalty to Mike might also be misplaced. However, since the cat on my porch wasn’t being a pest, I decided to leave it alone. The cat cocked its head sideways, then glanced away contemptuously, as if to say, "Toss a beer can at me? I don’t think so, jackass," before it resumed preening itself.
That strange calm feeling crept back over me as I sat on my porch watching the twilight transition. The cat. The approaching thunderstorm. The shape shifting toys in the backyard. They all were irrelevant, yet fascinating at the same time.
The cat stood up and stretched in one fluid motion, then took a few steps. It glanced over its shoulder, and then took a few more tentative steps. It stopped again, and looked back at me for several seconds. Then it sat, and stared at me again, mewing. It wanted me to follow him. "Fuck it. Why not?" I thought.
I stood, and the cat padded a few more steps away, and turned to see if I was following yet.
A cool breeze stirred, a refreshing sharp edge that cut through the stifling humidity and heat that still lingered from the hot, thick, hazy day. The vague whisper of the leaves rustling in the woods seemed to call to me, and I stepped off the deck into the underworld of my backyard. The step down felt pivotal, final, somehow. Perhaps the first step on what was going to be a very long journey. Satisfied that I was following him, the cat bounded into the dimness of the backyard. It disappeared into the grey noise of twilight, blending into the gloom.
I heard the alien howl of semi-truck tires prowling down the highway in the east off to my right. I walked deeper into the backyard, the soft hum of mosquitoes buzzing around me. I didn’t see where the cat went until it moved again. The cat, which had laid down into the overgrown grass, stood up again, and my eyes focused on the cat’s outline. It was like a strange version of "Where’s Waldo?" Waldo is a fuck of a lot easier to find when he moves, it. The human eye and brain are adept at finding and spotting movement. The cat slid deeper into the gloom again, and I followed.
I glanced back at the neighbor’s mercury vapor light as a dark shape of a bat swooped to feed on the swarm of moths and other bugs that were blindly and madly worshipping the bluish-silver light of the mercury vapor light. The harsh glare of the light destroyed my night vision, and I could see almost nothing as I glanced back into the veiled darkness of my deep shadows of my backyard. If the cat weren’t distancing himself a few paces in front of me, I would have stepped on the little bastard.
As my night vision recovered, I saw the amorphous shapes emerging from the background noise of the deepening twilight. I saw the shape of a plastic tricycle off to my left from the edges of my vision. I glanced at it and it dissolved into the background again, too dim to see when I looked at it directly yet. As soon as I looked away, I could see it again at the periphery of vision.
I didn’t know it, but I would never walk here again. This was my last communion with summer twilight in my backyard. I remember it well, and I still long for this one dark and peaceful moment in time, this one shining moment of perfection, the lingering humidity from the heat of the day, the sharp breeze with cool fingers that smelled of ozone and promised rain, and the soft rumbles of thunder in the distance. I knew a bleak and restful peace in that one moment. I was balanced between worlds, belonging to all of them and none of them, and that was as it should be. Everything would be taken away from me, but I still cherish the memory of that single moment, my little piece of Zen.
The cat, however, represents part of the destruction of all that. You’ll see why I hate that fucking cat. I should have killed that cat. If nothing else, the cat represents knowledge of all that lies above, and all that lies beneath. Then again, perhaps that’s just misdirected anger. The Egyptians held them in special regard. Perhaps I should have done the same?
Maybe I had killed the little bastard, once, long ago, and the little fucktard was only on life number three or four. I don’t know, but I know I hate that cat. Some cats bring you dead mice. It’s almost funny in a way. They show their admiration, loyalty, and dedication to you by sacrificing small furry rodents and presenting them as gifts. All hail the master! This cat brought me something far more terrible, horrific, and final. I tried to forget, and then I didn’t remember soon enough. The real question, though, is did the cat have any choice? Was the cat simply playing out his part in fate?
This cat didn’t bring me sacrificial rodents. It turns out that seeing the little fuckwit is bad news. We have a love/hate relationship now. He loves to torture me, and I hate the furry bastard. If only I had remembered where I had seen that cat before, I might never have followed the little shit into the ba
ckyard. I should have run, from him, from Trish, from everything. Either way, it is irrelevant now.
His fate was to lead me into the backyard; my fate was to follow him. Fate’s funny that way. We call it free will, but I don’t know if I ever actually had a choice. As Einstein once wanted to know, did God have any choice in creating the universe? I suspect that he didn’t. Blasphemy perhaps, but that question worries me. Do you realize how truly frightening the implications would be, what it means, if God didn’t have a choice?
I stopped my slow walk through the backyard; staring at the strange outline where I knew the children’s swing set was. From where I stood, it looked like a bizarre contraption of torture, raised and primed from the depths of suffering, stained with shit and bile, crusted with blood and maggot-infested rotting flesh, yet the chains and bindings were always strong and ready for use. If I walked closer, the rack of pain would disguise itself as just an innocent slide again. The rusty, barbed, and hooked chains would conceal themselves as supports for swings. I squinted, trying to find the cat again before he gave away his position with movement, and instead saw a figure leaning against the rack/slide. I couldn’t tell who it was, only that this person was wearing a hat. The soft red light of a cigarette glowed in his left hand by his side.
The cat was nowhere in sight. Nowadays, I’d strangle the little fucker if it would do any good. However, I know it wouldn’t change anything. I have glimpsed worse. Worse has caressed me with its bony, cold, dead fingers. Maybe having the cat is better. Maybe other revenants would like to lead me. Something from a deeper, more personal, more intimate, more dangerous level. Something that may never let me go. That’s making the assumption, holding on to the hope, that the cat may one day let me go, though.
I stepped closer to the slide, watching him. I stopped when I could discern that it was an older gentleman, dressed in a dark business suit. He also wore a dark hat, with a narrow brim. The man watched me the entire time, silent. He lifted his left hand in front of his face, and the cigarette flared, highlighting his lined, weathered, and aged face in a brief harsh red glow. His features were familiar, yet sad and harsh at the same time.
I stood still, watching him. The tranquil feeling lingered within me, and I felt neither fear nor anger towards this trespasser. I waited, listening to the strengthening rumbles of the approaching storm. The flickers of lightning were backlighting the sky now. It was much closer; I felt the resonant rolling bass of the thunder in the air and through my feet. I still felt light and buoyant, the lingering effects of the peaceful feeling of the magic of twilight. I knew he would soon speak. The man seemed deep in thought as he regarded me. I waited patiently from a few feet away, breathing slowly and deeply as I watched him.
The deepening twilight with the intermittent lightning strobes of the approaching storm muted the soft chirps of the crickets somehow—as though they had slipped sideways with the rest of the backyard into the underworld of the gloaming—the in between of shadows. The crickets were still there, but the sound was flat, almost deadened—as though they were halfway dissolved and between worlds. Even the barking dog had taken on a toneless and compressed quality, as though heard through a tinny old-fashioned land phone line. The strengthening breeze that was stirring the leaves was no longer caressing me with its chilly and ghostly fingers with any insistence.
The cigarette flared again. I could hear the soft exhale, though I couldn’t see the smoke. The man flicked the cigarette; sending a small shower of sparks that winked out before reaching the ground.
"You never remembered." His voice was a familiar, deep baritone. He stared for a few seconds before pointing at me with the hand holding the cigarette. "That and you have no idea what I’m talking about."
I shook my head. The rumble of thunder from the approaching storm had also taken on a tinny quality, and the breeze was strengthening, rustling the leaves—yet the breeze didn't touch my skin.
The man unfolded his arms, and stared at his hands for a moment. After a few moments, he looked back up at me. His bored in on me, as though he was looking inside of me, before speaking again. His face contorted, experiencing a range of emotions. He started to speak, and then stopped. I watched him, waiting for him to decide what he wanted to say. He sighed, and looked away.
"Nope. You don’t know, and now I fear it’s far too late."
I glanced back towards the house. I could see the outline of my wife in the kitchen window. I looked back at the gentleman, and I realized who he was, although it wasn’t possible. I was still flying high on the peaceful feeling, and I knew that the impossible was true with absolute conviction. Some people could play a piano without lessons. Some could multiply extremely large numbers in their head. Sometimes I just knew things I had no way and no business of knowing.
I could scare people with it sometimes. Psychic, warlock, or otherwise, when I knew, I knew. It was creepy, but there was jack shit I could do about it. There was no mistaking when it happened. When I knew something that was impossible to know, it’s as if a forty-watt light bulb inside your head is suddenly putting out ten-thousand watts of power and yet it didn’t blow out. The needles slam sideways to overload, the light drowns out everything else, and you know you’ve been blasted a message from somewhere other than Western-fucking-Union that defies conventional explanation. A stupid rhyme flitted across my thoughts. Eenie-meanie-mienie-moe, can anybody hear my radio? Fee-Fie-Foe-Fum. Loud and clear with a little hum. Now where the fuck did that come from? Sigh.
I stared back at him. "It’s never too late."
His gaze held me, even and sad. "It was too late three millenniums ago. You’ll find out soon enough. All else is aftermath, isn’t it? So it is writ."
I stepped closer to him. The peaceful feeling persisted, yet I felt out of place. I was in the alien landscape of my backyard, having a strange conversation with my dead grandfather. I had never met him before. He had died long before I was around. I knew that this conversation was impossible. He was dead; I was not. I may have problems with psychological stability, and this falls under the category of being loony-fucking-tunes, but I had no doubts about who the fuck he was. This wasn’t somebody who looked remarkably like him. This wasn’t a relative of him. This was him.
I watched him, patient. My heartbeat was steady; my breathing was steady and regular. I felt I should have been panicking, yelling, or losing my temper, but I didn’t. Either I had lost my goddamned mind, or I was having a conversation with my dead grandfather. Either possibility was outside the realm of normal and rational thinking. Either prospect should have frightened me, yet the tranquil feeling flowed through me, and I regarded him without trepidation. He regarded me with contempt.
I broke the silence first. I had his number. "I know who you are." Like a game of chess, I had just attempted to put his king in check.
His mouth curled into a vague smirk, but his eyes remained flat. That smile was dangerous. It was my father’s smile—a smile that dripped with contempt and terrible patience. "You know nothing. This isn’t a game. You can’t beat me. You don’t even know where you are right now, do you?"
I smiled. "I’m in my backyard, and you’re my supposed grandfather."
He smirked.
I glared at him for a moment, feeling like a teenager again. The peaceful feeling was slipping away, and I could feel the familiar fear and resentment rising against me. I was steeling myself for the old battles of endless rhetoric, terrible patience, and verbal sparring that could last for hours with my father’s "lectures", the lectures that always had one terrible and inevitable outcome. I could taste the bile; I could smell the hot and bitter ammonia aroma of urine again. I dropped my eyes, wondering how a dead man could make me feel like I was a worthless failure again. He was the one standing in my backyard, uninvited. Fuck him.
He dropped his cigarette, and crushed it with his shoe, grinding it into the grass.
"Huh. So, you think you are in your backyard, talking to your dead grandpa, eh? Alw
ays the smart-ass know-it-all little bastard, aren’t ya?" He gestured around him with his hands. He dropped his voice so that it was low, dangerous, friendly, and joking. "Tell me son, do you see anything amiss here? Does this look normal to you?" He smiled like a shark, all teeth.
He paused for a few seconds waiting for me to answer. I stared at him, my eyes blank. My patented dead fish-eye "Psycho" look. I refused to give him the benefit of a reaction. Normally, it trips people the fuck out. It didn’t seem to faze him though. I wasn’t surprised; he probably had his own version of the look.
His eyes narrowed, contemplating me. "You think you know it all, but you know nothing. We’re in between worlds. The space between heaven, hell, and earth. The spirit realm. The underworld, haunted by shades. I call it the Shadow Lands, you little bastard child. You are Elioud. You are an abomination before god, son. This is a perfect place for you. You belong nowhere, as a mutant quarter-breed. You’re like a mule, and just as goddamned stubborn but nowhere near as useful."
Elioud. Abomination. As my father used those words towards me, they mean the same thing. Those words hit me like a sucker punch in the stomach. If I had not shoved the rising shame and fury back down that I associated with those words, if I had stopped to think why I hated those words, maybe things would have happened differently. If I knew what they meant, perhaps things would have been different. However, I was the stubborn know-it-all little bastard he accused me of, stubborn to a fault. Runs in the goddamned family. He was playing me like a fucking fiddle. Dance for the puppet master; see how he pulls your strings.
Ryan's Suffering Page 2