Lambs

by Michael Louis Calvillo

  Age four.

  Like any other day he woke up at six a.m. Half asleep he thought he saw his mama standing in his doorway. He called to her with a still raspy-sleep voice, but as the fog of slumber dissipated she flickered a few times and then vanished.

  Arthur didn’t know what to make of it. His only thought was to jump out of bed and take the investigation to his parent’s room, but when he sat up he noticed the blood.

  The boo-boos his parents couldn’t see were still there and this morning there was more blood than ever. It saturated his Star Wars sheets and pooled into an inch deep pond that surrounded his tiny body. The flickering lady in the doorway was immediately forgotten as his eyes welled with tears and a scream breached his throat.

  Arthur had been waking to a similar nightmare for the past three days. First the wrists, then the temples, then the neck and now the same, all three in tandem, only worse because it seemed as though the blood flowed all night long. He remembered his mama saying if he wasn’t better today she was going to take him to the doctors. Arthur hated the doctors. He hated their white coats and their sticking needles and he would do anything he could to avoid it, but the blood was too much and even his four year old logic had to give in. He had to tell and he had to trust that his mama and dad were going to do what was best for him.

  It took every ounce of courage he had to climb out of bed and run to his parent’s room. Hustling down the hall a little pride cut through the mishmash of terrible feelings. He was making a responsible, grown-up type decision—the very first of his four years on the planet.

  At the foot of his parent’s bed he skidded to a stop.

  The grotesqueries before him were so jarring that his toddler’s brain instantly shut down.

  Black.

  He woke up a few minutes later, another pool of blood encircling him, soaking the carpet. Arthur’s brain was fuzzy, uncertain of how he got to his parent’s room and why he was sleeping on their floor. He stood and jumped clear of the mess and got a second dose of the world-shattering terror that scrambled his brain. This time it stuck. The little guy couldn’t take his eyes off the scene until vomit forced him to double over and puke.

  Everything was red.

  The Shabby Chic headboard.

  The wall.

  The duvet.

  Crimson splatters polka-dotted every exposed surface of all surrounding furniture.

  In the middle of the blood storm, his parents huddled together. They were slick, unmoving, bits of their pink skin standing out in between sanguine streaks, a swath of flesh here, a swath there.

  After he emptied his stomach, Arthur put his hands over his face and took another look through shaky fingers.

  His mama and dad were dead.

  A hot ball settled in his throat and tremors rumbled his stomach.

  Their skin had been shredded. Thick slashes parted flesh. Arthur closed his eyes but the disgusting scene had burned itself into his retinas.

  Gleaming bone.

  Ravaged capillaries.

  His mama’s beautiful smile torn in two, her lower jaw hanging by pulpy ribbons.

  His dad’s eyes quartered, cut horizontally and vertically.

  His still forming, four-year-old heart wrecked, never to fully recover.

  * * *

  There was Melanie—heat and validation and desire. You could spend years upon years beating yourself up, doubting, staring at the ugly beast that glowered back from the mirror all zitty and oily and asymmetrical and then one day there she was, and then one day you understood how it felt to be wanted. And it was everything you ever hoped it could be and more.

  * * *

  Melanie’s smile was infectious.

  Like his mama’s he guessed—big and bright and addictive. She ran her lithe fingers through his thick hair and paid absolutely no attention to the movie.

  Onscreen a zombie thing was ripping the head off of an eight-year-old boy. Despite the carnage (and sadness—the eight-year-old was one of the movie’s primary characters), Arthur felt the corners of his mouth pushing up, mirroring Melanie’s grin.

  “You’ve been wanting to see this since the first day we met.” He didn’t want to her stop caressing his scalp, but his idiot brain decided (ignoring the heat that drove him wild) to play the prude. Why? Hell if he knew, but he was ticking himself off.

  “I’d rather watch you.” She playfully twisted his earlobe and then went back to twirling his hair between her fingers.

  Arthur got a sudden chill. He looked over his shoulder toward the group, but there was nothing but darkness. No George the Destroyer, no Marvin, no Santos or Gabe or—

  “Where?”

  Before he could clarify his question Melanie moved in and started sucking on his neck. It felt incredible, but again with the inner prude. He pulled away from her. “No hickies.”

  Undaunted, Melanie leaned in closer and sucked on his lower lip. Finally Arthur’s body relaxed and he gave in. They kissed deeply and Arthur became air. The movie theater with their missing chaperones melted from mind. The outside world whirled around them and it was as if the young lovers were making out in the eye of a storm.

  Between each intense kiss Melanie moaned, “I want you.” More kissing, “I love you.”

  Arthur pushed his tongue and breathed her in. Star fields played over the undersides of his eyelids. He closed them tighter and the fields exploded, a million stars leaping into light speed. He wanted to absorb everything she was, to meld, to escape. “I love you too.” It came out breathy and sloppy, but it was the first time he had ever told anyone (apart from his parents when he was just a tyke) those three magical words. The exploding stars cascaded downward, illuminating his heart, his soul. He said it again, “I love you” and again “I love you” and again “I love you.”

  When he opened his eyes he was alone.

  * * *

  Then there was a return to reality.

  * * *

  He woke to a pair of filmy, blue eyes.

  “Mr. Sanders?”

  The name meant nothing to him but the old guy with a crown of white hair said it again. “Mr. Sanders?”

  Arthur shook his head in an effort to drive off sleep. It seemed as if that was all he had been doing for the past day and a half. His head shakes sent pseudo-blood flying in all directions. A few spatters peppered the old guy’s polo shirt. With perfect timing the guy wiped at the droplets as if he could see them. The coincidental synchronicity painted a weak smile upon Arthur’s lips.

  He was about to speak up and ask where he was, or who this “Sanders” character was, or where were Melanie and Connor, but the pain in his foot resumed and reminded him why he had passed out in the first place. His head swam woozily and suddenly there were three or four old men floating in front of him.

  “I…” He tried to speak but his mouth was bone dry and the words crumbled in his scratchy throat.

  The old men moved closer and put four hands on his shoulder to steady him. “Take it easy son. Someone will be along to take care of that foot.” One of them pulled a cell phone from his slacks and brought it to his face.

  Arthur adjusted in the chair as much as he could without moving his legs. He noticed he wasn’t wearing any pants and ripples of embarrassment brought a little color to his face.

  “Pickett? Where is the goddamn doctor? Get some water in here right away.” The old man put the phone back in his pocket. He kept a hand on Arthur’s shoulder and gave it a light squeeze. “Been through some shit huh?”

  Arthur grunted in affirmation. He didn’t expect the old guy to cuss. It put him at ease—as if he was right back at the group home with his foulmouthed housemates.

  Where the hell were they anyway?

  The room reminded Arthur of a dungeon, what with its dark stone blocks and cold, castle feel. Something out of D&D, but a meager mini-dungeon given its pathetic dimensions—maybe a cell? A solid, wooden door, stained dark and bolted to the stonework with thick metal hinges, closed th
em in. The room was smaller than the small bedroom he shared with Connor at Cottonwood.

  Used to share with Connor at Cottonwood.

  Little psychopath, what the hell was he thinking?

  The beastly wood door swung inward and a man in a black hooded robe entered with a glass of ice water. Arthur’s attentions narrowed to a fine point, thoughts of Connor, let alone anything else other than the cool, soothing water, derailed into primal need. The hooded figure couldn’t get to him fast enough.

  Arthur took the glass in shaky hands and finished it in one gulp. The icy overflow felt good on his cheeks, his chin.

  The old man nodded at the hooded guy. “More.”

  Arthur handed back his cup and the robe left closing the door behind him.

  The old guy sat in the chair opposite Arthur and asked, “Better?”

  Arthur shook his head yes and wiped the excess water from his face.

  “We’ll get that foot taken care of soon.” The old guy gave the glass infused gash a look followed by a wince. “I imagine it hurts.”

  Arthur nodded.

  “So then Mr. Sanders,” The old man leaned forward, forearms on his thighs, “What—”

  Arthur cut him off, “Why do you keep calling me that?” It came out faster and louder than he planned. He didn’t intend to be rude or disrespectful. He prided himself on being polite to adults. It had served him thus far and he didn’t plan on giving it up any time soon, but the state of his head, the aches, the wounds, the smoke, made him feel uncharacteristically snippy. He softened his voice, “I’m sorry. I mean, well, I mean I’m sorry, but my name isn’t Sanders.”

  The old man frowned. “Arthur Sanders. You’re Arthur Sanders right?”

  “Arthur yes, Sanders no.”

  “Of course, of course,” the man chuckled. “And what is your last name?”

  The hooded guy returned with more water and handed it over to Arthur. Again Arthur finished it in one satisfying gulp and then handed it back.

  “Diviner,” said the hood, “Doc Mendel is two blocks away. He should be here in a few moments.”

  “Good.” The old guy, the hood called him Diviner, put up a dismissive hand and the robed guy left.

  “What’s with the get up,” Arthur asked.

  “Brother Pickett is on duty. The robe is required.”

  “Is he a monk?”

  The old guy smiled and nodded, “Yes, a monk sounds about right. Mr…I’m sorry, I didn’t catch that last name.”

  “It’s Smith. Where am I? Where are my friends?”

  “Mr. Smith.” Arthur didn’t like the way the old guy said it. Creepy. Weird. Like he wanted to steal it. “What in the devil happened to you?”

  Arthur wasn’t exactly sure who he was talking to. He wanted to kill Connor for his idiocy, but didn’t want to rat on him. The kid was screwed up and though he seemingly tried to burn him alive, Arthur had to give him the benefit of the doubt and hear his side of the story first. There was something not right in his eyes, something not Connor, and if anybody could understand being out of sorts it was definitely Arthur. Instead of answering the old man’s question, he reiterated, “Where are we? Where are my friends?”

  “You are in a safe place Mr. Smith, as are your friends.”

  “I want to see them.”

  “I assure you they’re fine.”

  “But I still want to see them.” Perhaps it was the smoke inhalation or the shard of glass steadily bombarding him with jags of pain, but it took Arthur a bit to come to the realization that something was off here. Up until now his brain teetered with half thoughts and he was complacent to idly chat with the stranger, but cognition deepened and worry began to supplant the fuzzy calm. Questions attacked.

  Who was this old man?

  Why was he in a stone cell?

  What happened to Melanie and Connor?

  One minute he was in the passenger’s seat of Melanie’s father’s car, the next he was waking here. It suddenly dawned on him that apart from being an odd situation, it could be a bad one. This could be police or social services. The setting was strange and the robed guy was weird, but maybe they got nabbed near Medieval Times or something. Maybe this was the Medieval Times jail. Maybe Connor was being grilled by a wizard and Melanie interrogated by a knight. Arthur had seen the commercial on TV and always wanted to go. It looked like fun.

  There went that brain again.

  Fuzzy. Loopy. Nonsensical.

  Focus.

  Technically he didn’t do anything wrong. He jumped from a window and saved himself from certain doom. The fire, Leon, it was all Connor’s fault. But again, Arthur wasn’t ready to rat. Not yet. Hopefully, not ever. But if it came down to it, a plea bargain or something, he’d have no choice but to take the little fucker down.

  “You’ll see them soon. Right now I have a few questions.” The old man’s face rolled like a wave of heat. Arthur shook his head vigorously. Consciousness was waning yet again. The pain in his foot was so strong he couldn’t even feel it, like when you run scalding water over your hand and it feels ice cold or the opposite, ice water seeming to burn. Arthur wanted to ride it out, but the pain wasn’t satisfied with being ignored. It slapped him upside the head and threatened to take him down.

  When he failed to answer, the old man leaned in closer, “Arthur? Are you okay?”

  Vision continued to seesaw. Arthur caught sight of his savaged wrists and instinctively turned his arms so that the wrists faced downward. He noticed the river of blood soaking the front of his shirt and remembered his meaty throat and perforated temples.

  The ghosts.

  Panic.

  He blurted, “What time is it?” but his speech came out slurred and it sounded more like, “Whatimeisit?”

  The old guy sat up and gave him a quizzical look.

  Arthur slowed down, “The time? The day?” The clock read 10:59 when he jumped from the window. Was it already after midnight? Was Adele on the loose?

  Just then the wooden door swung open and two men crowded the room. The old guy stood up, abandoning Arthur’s crucial questions for greetings. “Dr.,” he nodded at a tall, dark haired man in a navy trench coat. He held a leather medical bag in his right hand. “Brother Collins,” the old guy shook the second man’s hand. He was a little shorter than the doc and had sandy blonde hair. There was something familiar about his eyes. Both men referred to the old guy as “Diviner.” Neither were dressed in Medieval garb.

  The doctor moved into action right away. “Hi Arthur, I’m Dr. Mendel.” Arthur nodded. The doctor sat his bag on the ground and leaned over to look into his eyes. “He’s been responsive?” he called back to the old guy.

  “We were talking and he was with me, but then he started to slur his words and roll his eyes.”

  Arthur tried to answer at the same time, “I’m fine,” but again the words slipped through his lips like clumpy slime. Movement caught his eye in the open doorway. He expected to see the robed guy or maybe a serving wench or a juggling dwarf, but instead heat flooded his systems and a cold sweat broke over his skin. Adele. She flickered in the hallway just outside the room and floated closer, hovering just behind the old guy and Mr. Sandy Hair Familiar Eyes.

  Eyes glued, Adele there and not there, there and not there, Arthur asked, “What time is it?” again, but the words came out automatic, uninterested. Adele’s form already gave him an answer, but the question kept him grounded.

  The doctor put one calming hand on his shoulder and checked his pulse rate with the other. “You’re going to be okay Arthur, but I need you to concentrate on relaxing.” And then to the men at the door he called, “His pupils are dilated and his pulse is way up.” The doctor removed his hands with just as much tenderness as he placed them and then knelt before his bag. After a little rifling he pulled out a syringe and a vial.

  Adele continued to flutter between worlds. Arthur’s transfixed stare drifted to her right hand as it whisked the cutting razor round and round.

>   “Are you going to sedate—” the old guy’s eyes widened and his question died mid-sentence as he stared just above Arthur’s head. “Where’s the girl?” he asked no one and everyone at the same time.

  Mr. Sandy Hair Familiar Eyes looked around and shrugged, “What girl?”

  The doctor kept at filling the syringe. He eyed Arthur’s damaged foot and grimaced. “He’s lost a lot of blood.” He answered the old guy’s first question. “I’m giving him a little something to ease the pain and put him to sleep. That foot is going to require some serious attention.”

  “Can you handle it here?” asked Sandy Hair.

  “I think so. No need for a hospital.” The doc pulled the needle from the vial.

  The old guy locked on to Arthur’s stare and then followed his line of vision. He took two quick steps forward and let out a quiet, yet audible gasp when his gaze fell upon the spot where Adele’s near transparent form faded in and out.

  Arthur fought with consciousness, woozy, woozy, Adele’s presence making him drunk, and he watched the old guy’s strange reactions.

  Could he see her?

  Arthur’s brain trumped thought and took the initiative. It took control of his lips and shouted, “You see her?”

  The doctor tested the syringe and shot a splash of fluid into the air. He took Arthur’s question as inane rambling. “He’s in shock.”

  Sandy Hair gave Arthur a sympathetic smile.

  The old guy took another step away and continued to stare at Adele. He nodded yes.

  Arthur’s brain reeled. “You see them?” he asked. The old man rubbed his pate with his hands and broke from staring at Adele. He cast his stare just beyond Arthur. Again, he nodded yes.

  What the hell?

  The doctor motioned to Sandy Hair Familiar Eye and the two men held Arthur steady for the shot. Arthur resisted. He didn’t want to sleep. Not now.