by O'Brian Gunn
The mobile cadaver crushes his eyes shut. He stumbles back into the wall of the auto shop, withers down to the ground, rips at the buttons on his silk shirt, and takes a deep breath.
“There, that’s—” Another breath. “—that’s better. Just need to breathe.”
He puts his hand to his heart...and feels it doing absolutely nothing.
Giorgio Quintero stops. Giorgio Quintero blinks. Giorgio Quintero laughs.
“Even in death we’re creatures of habit.” He smiles as he lifts a hand to his face and studies it. He makes a fist, uncurls his fingers, turns his palm over and back before looking at the lines and veins. He traces them with a finger.
“All of these little lines. Where do they lead? What do they mean? Are you coming or are you going...little line? Did you lead me here?”
He drops his hand and leans his head back against the chilled bricks as he looks up at the great empty sky.
“Someone up there is mocking me, pointing a great universal finger and clutching at their gaping black hole of a stomach. Why, hmm? Why me?” He laughs at his own question. “I wager you hear that a lot, don’t you?”
He climbs to his feet, opens his arms.
“Well?” Headlights splash over him. “Why am I back?”
A beat.
“TELL ME, DAMNIT! TELL ME WHY I’M BACK!”
Wind blows.
He drops his arms.
His mouths something, but his next words are lost in the breeze.
Dwight Senior stares with vacant eyes at the fresh pair of handcuffs shackling him to the table, keeping him fettered to reality and preventing him from killing someone else he claims to love. His gaze is fractured when Detective West steps through the door held open by a uniformed correctional officer. “Be right outside if you need anything.” The woman slices a glance at the man in the prison jumpsuit chained to the table, eases out of the room.
Perry pulls the remaining chair out from the table, eases down into it. “How ya doin’, Mr. Wheatley? They give you your medication?”
Dwight nods. “Yes, thank you.” He tries to sit up straighter in his chair, instantly slumps forward again.
West leans forward on his elbows, waits until the other man meets his eyes before speaking. “Didn’t come here to churn up any more guilt or point any accusatory fingers. Just wanted to let you know I think I understand why you, uh...” He scratches at his cheek. “Why you did what you did.” Eyebrows quirk. “You were protectin’ your family.”
The handcuffed man scrunches his eyes shut, but it’s not enough to hold back the fresh roll of tears, face red as he struggles to fight back the tide. His mouth cracks and a sob rattles through. “Since when is murdering your family the same as protecting them?”
“Growin’ up, I had a father who never learned how to communicate or work through his emotions in a way that was healthy. He smacked my mother, sister, and me around. It was only sometimes, but...” He flicks fingers and squints his eyes as he’s submerged in remembrance. “He always apologized afterward, said that he loved us no matter what, just that we made him angry sometimes. He had a trigger temper, ya know, everything bottled up came smashing out. An’ I believed ‘im because I thoug—no, I knew he loved me.” The detective rolls his sleeves over his forearms, focuses on Dwight. “At that age, it’s your parents who help you lay the foundation for your definition of love, and that was mine. But then it was like he actually managed to smack some sense into me, hit me like thunder ‘n’ lightnin’ covered in flesh and rage. Love shouldn’t make you seize up every time it steps into the room. Love shouldn’t make you feel like no matter how many times you course correct, you’re still doin’ somethin’ wrong, like you were born guilty.” A smile wrings its way across his mouth. “I realized my dad didn’t love me, not in the right way, at least.” He sniffs. “So I blew a hole in his chest with a gun I stole from our next door neighbor the next time he raised his hand at my sister.”
The words temporarily sever Dwight from his remorse.
“Not comparin’ us or anythin’, just sayin’ that sometimes we go to the extreme when it comes to protectin’ the people we love, keep ‘em from becomin’ victims, and we don’t always make the best decisions. You sacrificed your mental health to take care o’ your son.”
Dwight shakes his head. “But still the fact remains that I shot my son.” He pauses. “I s-s-shot my son.” The tears come on anew. “And I wish I could bring him and his mother back.”
“You might very well soon have that ability, Mr. Wheatley. You, or someone else.”
The sound of Curtis Mayfair’s “Here But I’m Gone” fills Leo’s ears.
He looks out of the window of the bus, watching as Phosphorus Park rolls by. He adjusts his headphones, looking down at the bandage wrapped around his hand. He runs the tips of his fingers over the tan material. If only he could rub it out. His hand flexes open and closed.
He reaches for the scissors stashed in his messenger bag and pulls them out, watching the way the dried blood seems to swallow the light. He pulls the scissors open. Snaps them shut. Pulls them open. Snaps them shut.
Snicker Snak Snicker Snak
He slaps them across the vein on his wrist.
Lyrics unwind in his ears. How did he get so far gone?
Leo’s hip buzzes. He slides his free hand into his pocket and pulls out his phone.
FRANCIE
He hovers his thumb over the accept button. He grits his teeth, looks out of the window, and allows the small tremors of the phone to jar him to his bones.
A minute later his phone loosens a final pulse.
1 NEW VOICEMAIL.
He pulls out one earbud and brings the phone to his ear.
“Hey, baby, I was just calling to ask if you still wanted to go see the new Afrofutara movie tonight, know how caught up you get in your work sometimes. And, I was thinking that we should do something about the tile in the bathroom. I have to shower with my eyes closed it’s so nauseating. Good thing there’s already a toilet in there.”
Francie’s laugh rolls heavy through the speaker and makes him smile.
A beat passes.
“Let me get off here and get some of this work done, papers are starting to look like a column. Your pretty butt is cooking dinner tonight, hope you didn’t forget. Bye, brown beau. Love you.”
Leo’s hand is halfway to his mouth before he realizes that the strange sensation he feels is a smile leaking across his face. He slips the scissors back in his bag, rests his elbow on the edge of the window and tries his best to hide the single tear that blurs his vision before rolling softly down his cheek.
“I love you, too, baby. Thank you.”
The bus rolls to a stop at the corner of Cherry and 8th. Leo Kennington steps out and breathes deep. He adjusts his shoulder strap as he walks down the sidewalk, mumbling the words of the next verse.
Across the street he pauses to watch a woman burst into ecstatic acceptance at the man on bended knee. She beams. He beams. The ring beams. They hug and kiss as the small gathered audience applauds.
“Thank you, ladies and gentlemen. We’ll be here all week.” Leo puffs out a bitter laugh. He moves on.
Ten paces away he pauses.
Their happiness is almost blinding, enough love to rival the brilliance of a hundred suns.
Leo looks over his shoulder at the couple, chewing on the inside of his cheek and wishing he could burn out his mind with all that blinding happiness.
Excerpt from Lamar Koehler Live:
“Welcome back. I’m sitting here with someone whom some are already calling the singularly most remarkable woman in history, Nikki Mullen. Again, thanks for joining me, Nikki.”
“It’s my pleasure Lamar. Thanks for having me.”
“Now, I know you’ve created quite a name for yourself in the past couple of years, but could you explain to the viewers who have just tuned in and for those of us who have been living under a very large rock for the past few months wh
at makes you so remarkable?”
“Sure. I’m an Alpha-Omega with the ability to retain and recall any information that I receive through my five senses.”
“Anything that you read or hear, see or smell?”
“Yes.”
“So you remember where you were, who you were with and what you were doing a year ago today at this exact time?”
“Correct. I remember that I had just finished reading page one-hundred and nine of Amel Braxton’s novel, Kettleblack. My cat was napping at my feet and the 312 bus was rumbling past my window.”
“What was the weather like?”
“Spring had come early to Fossoway, and in two minutes and fourteen seconds I’m about to open the window.”
“Remarkable. Before the break, we were talking about how your abilities made it possible for you to become not only an author, but an actress, doctor, guidance counselor, and a psychologist as well. You don’t like to sit still, do you?”
“No, I don’t, Lamar. I don’t think my A-O gene will let me.”
“Now, despite all of the marvelous things that you have done in the past two years and the things that you have yet to do, there are still some out there who, quite frankly, despise you simply because of who you are, an Alpha-Omega. How do you deal with that?”
“I don’t, to be honest. I think that if I stop and dwell on how many people there are out there who despise me, I won’t be able to keep doing what I’m doing. And unfortunately for me, I can’t forget or block out a hateful comment or incident; it’s crystal clear and right there in front of me.”
“So you have no choice but to remember the good times as well as the bad?”
“Right. And some people might view that as a bad thing, but sometimes it’s nice to remember what triggers an especially bad day. Sometimes, ah, it’s something that’s completely out of my hands and I have to handle it the best I can, but other times, it’s something that I can stop, look at, and say to myself, ‘you remember what happened the last time this happened.’”
“Now, Nikki, I have to ask you: How do you feel about the existence of people like yourself? Do you think that you’re all stars burning brightly and briefly, or do you think that Alpha-Omegas are simply a new minority?”
“I’ve given that question a lot of thought, Lamar. Um, I certainly don’t believe we’re all devils just as I don’t believe we’re all angels. And I’m not saying that to simply be neutral or politically correct, but what I am saying is that our planet has been host to some of the most wonderful things just as it’s been the stage for horror and atrocity. I’m not sure which A-Os are, a wonder or a tragedy. But I do think that each of us, each individual with an active A-O gene, has a decision to make, be it right or wrong. We’re here, we exist, and just as a mother can’t push her child back into the womb, neither can we take back who we are.”
“What’s done is done and can’t be undone.”
“Exactly. And I just want to wrap up my answer by saying this to any other A-Os who may be watching: We have to remember that we are human first and Alpha-Omegas second.”
“Well said, very well said. Moving on. Uh, we talked about this briefly during the break, but would you care to share with the audience what you’re doing right now with your skills as a scientist?”
“Absolutely. Currently, I’m trying to discover why the A-O gene is activated in some individuals, but not in others. Ah, are there certain groups of people who will never bear an A-O gene much less an active one? Are there family lines that will have an active A-O gene in each generation? Why have gene activation and A-O power levels ramped up so much in the past several years? These are the types of questions I want to answer.”
“And what have you found so far?”
“You’ll just have to wait and see like everyone else.”
“You heard it here first, ladies and gentlemen, we’ll just have to see for ourselves.
“Now, let’s talk about your acting career. When can we expect the release of Blue Man’s Comet?”
FADE OUT
Dominion City – Oswyn
“PLEASE.” She takes his hand in hers. “Do it for me.”
He presses his chapped lips together. His black eyes look down at the hand enfolding his, eyelids slowly close. “I can’t.”
“Yes, you can, Brad, you can.” Mucus clogs her nostrils and she sniffs it away. “I know that you don’t think you’re strong enough, but I can be strong enough for the both of us.”
He drops her hand. Slowly.
“It’s not enough, Terry.” The heels of his palms are pressed to his forehead. “You’re the strong one, you’ve always been the strong one. I’m weak. That’s why I started, because I’m weak.” He shakes his head. “I don’t know how to quit. To be honest, I…I really don’t want to.”
“Brad, if you—”
He takes her hand. Quickly. “Have you ever felt a color, Terry? Have you ever felt a—a cool blue, or a burning red, or a sparkling green? Have you ever felt anything like that?”
She shakes her head.
He drops his voice. “That’s how it is. You feel things you didn’t even know you could. It’s like waking up a totally different part of your brain and just...just swimming, drowning, yourself in...something new, something better.”
Her face hardens. “That shit is killing you, Brad.”
He pauses when he sees her expression. “Then it’s the sweetest death I know.”
She regards him, studies the light in his sunken eyes, watches as it almost illuminates the bags under his eyes. “Nothing I say can—”
“No.” His head bobbles and shakes. “Nothing.”
She leaves.
“It has to be voluntary, Ter.”
“Fuck voluntary!” She slams her hand down on the steering wheel. “Brad doesn’t have enough sense to fill a disposable paper cup; how is he supposed to help himself when he doesn’t think he’s in trouble?”
The voice on the other end of the phone drops a bit. “Terry, you cannot force an addict into rehab. If you do, they’re only going to stay long enough to please you, and the minute they’re out, they’re going to be looking for their next fix.”
Her fingernail is between her teeth as she starts to cry while stopped at at red light. “But I love him, James.” The words are hoarse.
“Sometimes love isn’t enough, lil’ sis.”
“You never were good at telling a comforting lie.”
He can hear a thin smile mixed into her words. “I know, I’m sorry.”
“No you’re not.”
“You’re right, I’m not.”
Terry presses her foot against the brake pedal a bit harder and looks out of the window.
“I could make him go into rehab.”
“Terry, no. You know that’s not right.”
“I can turn his addiction towards something else, something healthier. I’ve been practicing and I think I can do it.”
“Who have you been—Never mind. His mind is already messed up enough as it is without you screwing with it.”
“But he would be off of the drugs.”
“And you could put him in the hospital, or you might kill him. I understand your need to help your best friend, but this isn’t the way. If you want Brad back, he has to come back on his own. Okay?”
She pauses.
“’Kay.”
The light turns green.
Terry stares at Brad as he slides into the car. Her eyes drift past him to the apartment building and back to him. “Who lives here?” She shifts into D.
“Just a friend.” He sniffs, twitching one side of his nose up.
The interior of the car suffocates on silence.
“Are you fucked up right now, Brad?”
She feels his eyes on her as she makes a left turn. “Wh—what?”
“Are. You. Fucked. Up. Brad?”
“Wha—No, I’m...I’m not fucked up. Damn, Terry.”
“Give me your hand.” She takes a pal
m from the wheel and holds it out.
“Terry, why—”
“Please, Brad.” She spreads her fingers.
He slides his hand from his jacket pocket and places it in hers. His palm is damp.
She squeezes his hand, pauses for a moment, and her eyes go distant.
The car rumbles along.
When she speaks next, her voice is compelling, intoxicating.
Addictive.
“Brad, I want you to do something for me.”
His eyelids droop lazily.
“I want you to check yourself into rehab, and then I want you to turn all of that time, all of that attention, and all of that passion you had for purple meth and focus it on becoming the absolute best financial advisor you can possibly be. I don’t want you to ever even think about purple meth or any other kind of meth. You’ll do that for me, won’t you, Brad?”
His pupils spiral distantly and his forehead twitches.
“I’ll do that for you. Anything for you, Terry.”
EPISODE TWO: Struck in Chains
The vigilante watches Theodore Gordon step out to greet the day with a smile plastered on his face. Theodore waves congenially to his neighbors, drops an envelope into the mailbox, and slides the red flag up before ambling down the sidewalk, zipping his jacket against the chill air.
The vigilante follows with a smirk.
He shoves his hands in his pockets and tries his best to ignore the cool-kissed air slithering over his shaved head. He trails Theodore to the market and watches as he buys a shiny red apple and newspaper, telling the cashier to keep the change. He watches as Theodore munches on his apple and flips through the paper while riding the metro to Greenbriar and Bujore. Had Theodore’s eyes not been glued to the sliver of exposed skin beneath the short sweater of the woman across from him, he might have noticed the vigilante shadowing him across the platform.
He might have.