On/Off - A Jekyll and Hyde Story

by Mike Attebery

  Nothing.

  When Jamie did show up, an hour later, he’d come in quietly, trying not to wake her. His steps were heavy and uneven, landing harder, then softer, exhaustion clearly making it difficult for him to gauge the momentum of his movements. She’d opened her eyes and watched him as he disappeared around the corner, then came back, peering around at her, sizing her up uneasily. He had just slipped around the corner again when she called out after him and struggled to her feet.

  That was hours ago now. She’d left Jamie in his room to sleep. Bob and Carol and Ted and Alice, or whoever the orgy members in her suite were, had to be either sleeping or gone by now, but she had work to do. Some sound dubbing for her 16 millimeter sync class. They’d been working on one of her classmates’ productions the week before, and she had two reels of audio to transfer to mag stock before the next class screening. This seemed like as good a time as any to get over to campus, transfer the tapes, and get out of there before the slack pack came in and started fighting over the same equipment.

  She arrived at the photo building by ten and grabbed the reel-to-reel tapes from her locker on the third floor. It didn’t click immediately, but as she headed for the fourth floor stairwell, she realized the third-floor photo cage wasn’t open. It was always bustling by this time. A couple of photo students were slouched on the floor, looking exhausted and impatient, but there was no buzz of activity. Kelli made eye contact with a kid in a torn, chemical-stained Fuji T-shirt, who gave her a defeated look and shrugged his shoulders. She turned and walked up the stairs to the fourth floor.

  Two of her least favorite people were working at the film cage counter: Scooter and Brick. Scooter was a gossipy, arrogant piece of shit, who liked to wear T-shirts with bizarre phrases on them, stuff that made no sense to her. Today’s slogan said, “I eat farmed fish. Got a problem?” She had no clue what that meant. She doubted whether he did either. It was just some inexplicable, random bit of meaninglessness with which to cover his skeletal frame. Brick, on the other hand was built like an inflatable house, big as a bus and bulbous as a blow-up carnival playpen. He wore a bright yellow shirt with a picture of Uma Thurman in Kill Bill. She didn’t know if Brick was his real name. Probably not, just another cutesy film guy nom de plume or something, like McG. Of the two of them, Brick was still the more likable. Whereas Scooter was cocky and bizarre, he still got his share of play, owing to the fact that he was, well, cocky and bizarre, and one of the only attractive guys in the film program. The ratio at the school was certainly not in favor of the male student population, but when the majority of the men in competition for female affections were either software engineers, trashy looking art majors, or flat-out slobs, like Brick, a guy like Scooter, with a cocky attitude, but a curiously enticing manner about him, somehow did pretty well for himself. For a period of time the previous year, Kelli had regularly seen the guy sporting a shirt emblazoned with the term “Panty Peeler,” which set off two highly conflicting reactions in her gut. On the surface she was utterly disgusted by the guy. He was a creep, an asshole through and through, but, well, he did have a certain sexual element to him. He had a good body and a smirk that did the trick, but she was proud to say she was one of the few females in the program who had not yet given in to his charms. Brick on the other hand, he could be a real prick too, but he did try to be likeable from time to time, at least to the ladies, a fact Kelli found at once endearing, and even more infuriating, as it betrayed how he acted in order to stay tight with the rest of the film program ignoramuses.

  The cage counter clowns were talking with the AV technician who managed the film and photo cages. None of them seemed to notice her; they were all too wrapped up in a conversation about some sort of a fight the night before. She strained her ears to hear what they were saying, catching snippets of sentences, but unable to piece anything together. Finally, slightly annoyed, but mostly curious, she spoke up.

  “Excuse me, but would you mind telling me what you’re talking about over there?”

  Scooter shot her an irritated sidelong glance.

  Kelli smiled back at him. “I’m not being a bitch, I’m just honestly curious.”

  Brick looked up, then walked over to the counter. “Mike, our manager, was just telling us about something that happened to one of the photo cage guys last night.”

  “What?”

  The manager came over now. “This probably shouldn’t be getting out--”

  Kelli waited expectantly. Mike glanced at Brick as Scooter wandered over from the back. Finally, Mike shrugged his shoulders and walked away.

  “Do you know Victor?” Brick asked.

  “I know of him,”Kelli replied.

  “He got attacked last night, somewhere back in the swamp,”

  “Really? Who did it? Was it bad?”

  “They don’t know who,” Brick said, “and yeah, it was bad. One of Mike’s buddies works in the campus safety office and took the first call. He got beat up pretty good, cuts and slashes on his face-”

  “The guy lost his fucking eye,” Scooter interrupted.

  Kelli grimaced. “Shit.”

  “Yeah. That’s sort of the gossip here. Guy’s supposed to be an amazing photographer, an asshole, but an amazing photographer.”

  Kelli just nodded her head.

  “It’s kinda scary though,” Brick continued. “I know we’re out here in Henrietta, this isn’t some Iowa corn town, but you don’t think about something like this happening here, you know?”

  A sliver of ice slid through her lower skull. Her spine went cold.

  “Did anyone see this happen?”

  Scooter shook his head. “It was late.”

  A voice was whispering in the back of her head now. Soft and breathy. She couldn’t hear the words.

  Brick pointed his index finger at her. “You need something?”

  “Oh, yeah, could I check out the patch bay and a nagra machine.”

  Brick turned to get the key.

  “You got it.”

  ***

  Kelli was in the sound room pretty late, later than she needed to be. She was stalling, delaying the moment she’d go back to her dorm room, or back to see Jamie. She knew she’d be going back to Gibson G. They hadn’t had a fight. She was just alarmed by the total sense of confusion he’d been giving off. He’d looked like shit, seemed completely foggy. It had scared her. There was something about him that she’d have to find out eventually. The scars on his head. The medication. But she just wasn’t ready to ask, or to know.

  Fortunately, when she did return to the academic side, after first stopping at her dorm to shower and change, she found that she’d finally slipped out of the mental obstacle course she’d been maneuvering all day, and had almost forgotten the events of the previous night, as well as the photo cage conversation that had so disturbed her. She walked into Jamie’s dorm room, and was pleasantly surprised to see him sitting at his desk, freshly showered, his short hair slicked back, studying. He turned and smiled at her, even as his hand reached for his cap. She walked up behind him, resting one hand on his shoulder, and kissed the top of his head. She felt the knotty scars under the thin layer of hair. Jamie hesitated before pulling the cap on and turning to her.

  “You wanna go to dinner? I’m starving.”

  The news of Victor’s attack was the primary topic of conversation at Gracie’s. Snippets of each table’s conversation, combined with the late evening release of Monday morning’s campus paper, fed the ongoing murmurs about the previous night’s events. Kelli watched Jamie closely as these wisps of discussion swirled around them. He seemed interested, but guarded.

  “You know him, don’t you?” Kelli said.

  Jamie was lifting a spoonful of fruit cocktail to his mouth, grimacing as fluorescent light glistened off the edge of a cling peach. “Yeah, I know him. Can’t stand the guy actually, but that’s terrible news.”

  Kelli wanted to ask him more, but the sinking in her stomach said to hold off. She didn’t
want to know. That would change everything. One flash of Jamie’s old smile -- that’s all she needed to wipe the slate clean. Tabula rasa, as her old Latin teacher would say.

  They finished their meals, walked back through the snow, and slipped into Jamie’s room, where they lay in the shadows, moonlight shining in through the curtains, snowflakes hovering in the air, and fell asleep. That would have ended all of Kelli’s thoughts of Victor, and Jamie’s missing night, and the feeling of dread that had taken up residence in her stomach that day, had she not awoken in the middle of the night, 1 a.m. to be precise, and reached out her hand to find a cold, empty bundle of sheets on Jamie’s side of the bed. She hadn’t heard him get up, but he had clearly been gone for a while.

  She got out of bed and pulled on a sweatshirt. The room was cold. She opened the door to the hall. The floor was quiet. Somewhere at the end of the corridor, she could hear Conan O’Brien doing his monologue. A few doors were propped open down the length of the hall – one was Fritz’s. Kelli walked down the hall and stopped in the entryway, leaning against the doorframe, watching Fritz as he sat at his desk, hunched over a text-book. Feeling eyes on him, he looked up with a start. Then he leaned back in his chair and looked at her.

  Kelli hesitated for a moment, then opened her mouth.

  “Fritz, what do you know about the scars on Jamie’s head?”

  ***

  The moon floated above him as he raced though the night, under the clouds and over the branches, it didn’t lose an inch. He couldn’t shake it. He was desperate to get out of its glow, but it was always there. It wanted him dead. Wanted him to be caught. He had to get out sight now. The man was following him, the man in black, with the wicked smile and the burning eyes, he was after him again, really after him.

  He didn’t know how he’d gotten here. Or where he even was. He was on the edge of a wooded area, on a trail that stretched out in either direction as far as he could see. He heard the man behind him, his pursuer’s feet cutting through the tall grass with a sweeping, thrashing sound. He was getting closer.

  Jamie clenched his jaw and ran on. His legs were burning. His arms were rubber. He glanced at the ground, his feet a blur - back up to the trail, which was heading for a tunnel of trees. The last place he wanted to be, but he had no choice. He opened up his stride and pushed it with everything he had. Tears streamed from his eyes. His breath burned in his throat. Then he was in the shadows, running blind. The branches caught at his clothing like fingers, like claws. He thought the man was catching him, pulling him back. He twisted his upper body, pinwheeled his arms. Dipped and dodged.

  Then the tunnel opened up. Moonlight beckoned a dozen yards away. He closed his eyes and willed his legs to move faster. Still the footsteps clammered behind him. He didn’t stop. If he hesitated, even for a moment, that would be it.

  He opened his eyes. He was in the clear now, broken free of the woods, and running on a path, somewhere on the academic side of campus. The sharp brick buildings loomed overhead, their shadows creeping across the snowy lawn, crisscrossing and pooling in the pale blue light. Jamie slowed his pace, felt his body relaxing. Then he heard footsteps again. Echoing around the plaza. They were coming from the passageway between the photo building and the college of fine arts. Then they were coming from the right, the courtyard with the infinity loop sculpture. He ran straight ahead, ducking into the shadows under the liberal arts building and coming to a stop. Jamie pressed his back against the curved brick wall.

  The footsteps stopped.

  Jamie held his breath.

  Then he heard a new sound. A sort of scratching, dragging noise, like an old man in slippers. Small, barely lifted footsteps that dragged along the brick walkway. This was someone else. Someone different walking up behind him now. Even before he saw him, he knew who it would be. Who it was. And he couldn’t bring himself to look. Didn’t want to see. He stood in the darkness, eyes clenched shut. His finger scratched nervously at the brick and mortar under his hands. The footsteps came closer. Closer. He could hear the man breathing now. Wheezing. Wet and bubbly. Then the movement stopped. The breathing slowed. Whoever was there, he was watching him. Jamie felt eyes on him now. His eyelids fluttered. He balled his hands into fists, and opened his eyes.

  There he was.

  Jeff Pepper. Standing before him. Older, frailer, but looking remarkably the same as the last time Jamie had seen him. The last time he had seen him alive, he didn’t count the recent incident at the house. Jeff stood there watching him, his eyes peaceful, patient. Jamie watched as his father nodded his head gently, paused, then turned and walked away, across the courtyard, towards the library. It was starting to snow, the flurries filling the air with white static. Jamie wanted to say something to the man as he walked away, even as the better part of his mind told him that Jeff Pepper was not there. He knew that for a fact now, all in an instant of perfect, clear understanding. This was a hallucination. Yes, he was standing here now, out in the cold, that was real, but the figure of his father that was leaving him now, that was something else - the product of a damaged mind. The implant. If he had suspected anything earlier, then what he felt now was nothing short of pure certainty. Something had gone wrong. The implant, the medication, something in his brain had shifted. He wasn’t well. This wasn’t right. His body was working, but his mind, his mind was turning in on itself, folding back to the past, stripping away reason and logic, replacing it with instinct, fantasy, and anger.

  Jamie watched the silhouette floating through the snow, fading with each passing step, swallowed up by the white. Gone.

  He walked out from the building’s overhang, following the path his father had just taken. He turned in the middle of the courtyard and headed back to the dorms. Above the soft glow of the snow, the sky was growing lighter with the break of day.

  ***

  Kelli was in the waiting room next to Lynn. Hard to believe they’d met just two weeks earlier under such different circumstances. Christmas seemed a lifetime ago now. Back then she’d just been a girl who was nervous to meet her boyfriend’s mother. She didn’t know the truth about the scars, about Jamie’s condition, or the implant. She didn’t lie to herself; she didn’t want to know. A part of her had just hoped his hair would grow in and cover the evidence, the unspoken secrets would never come to the surface. The corner of her mouth curled slightly. Maybe that was the story with all relationships, it certainly had been with all of hers.

  Lynn sat in the chair next to her, going over several pages of longhand writing in a notebook. She hadn’t said much on the ride in. Had said even less once they arrived at Jamie’s doctor’s office and settled into the waiting room. Jamie and Lynn’s mannerism at the reception counter told her they were veterans of the process. They’d clearly been jumping though the medical system’s hoops for a while now. Paperwork was filled out promptly. Questions answered succinctly. Then they’d sat quietly until Jamie was called into the examination room. They didn’t discuss the night before. There was no mention of Victor, or the party, or where he’d been until the moment she’d seen him again. She’d gone through her day, and she supposed he had gone through his. Then he’d shown up at their class, come in the door just at the top of the hour, and sat at a table across the aisle from her, where he sat and watched her. Looking from Kelli to Professor Ryan, then slowly back to Kelli. She caught his eyes a couple of times, alarmed at the angry glint she detected there. What had he been thinking? Was it just her, or was he getting paranoid? At the end of class they’d walked out into the hallway and fallen wordlessly into step together. Jamie reached down as they walked, took hold of her hand, and held it tightly.

  “Let’s make a call,” he said softly. “Something’s gone wrong.”

  Now he was in the doctor’s office and she was here. She didn’t know what was happening, what was being said, but when he came out, things would either be better, the same, or, much as she hated to think it, much, much worse.

  ***

  “T
ell me again why you’re here.” Price had taken off his glasses and was facing the window, looking out onto the parking lot as he twisted the ear pieces angrily. This was getting to be a problem.

  Jamie sat in the chair across from him, watching the man’s shoulders tense up. “I told you, something’s wrong. I’m not acting normally, not thinking normally-”

  Price had had enough. This kid, making him well, none of that had ever been the goal of the program. His body, the ability to control his muscles, keep his frame and faculties in check, that was the goal, had been all along. Who gave a fuck if there was another artist out there on the streets, wasting a good mind and a sound body for the pursuit of some bullshit paintings. Photographs. Films. Whatever the fuck it was. He could give two shits about any of that. Science was for one thing. The body for another. The mind was a different matter altogether; for some it was important, for him maybe, but not for this kid. And certainly not for what he was hoping to achieve. What he had achieved.

  “We spoke about this last time,” Price interjected. “What are you hoping to hear?”

  Jamie stopped short. His mouth hung open, unsure what to say next. Price turned and stared at the boy. His eyes narrowed as he slipped his glasses back up the bridge of his nose. He was after one thing, the ability to stop tremors in neurologically disabled individuals, the people that might otherwise serve little purpose to society. Artists weren’t necessary, were never necessary, except perhaps for the amusement of a more worthwhile class of people. As he saw it, and as the funding agencies for his research saw it, a body handicapped from a misfiring brain was the real waste in the big picture, the true shame. How many people out there would have been classified 4F in the draft thirty, sixty years ago? How many of them could have stormed at the forefront, taken the first wave of fire? Thousands. Millions even. Now they could and would. Take people that would otherwise be nothing more than farts in the wind, rework their minds, send them out to fight. If their instincts turned violent, if their their base instincts won out, so much the better. A blood-thirsty soldier, unafraid of self-injury, undiscerning in his attacks, that was just a bonus in the big picture. Hell, the pentagon spent millions of dollars each year trying to bring out just such instincts in their soldiers. Now perhaps, his research, this program would give them extra manpower and bring all those underlying instincts to the surface. This kid. He was just the first in hundreds to follow. He’d served his purpose. Done the most that could be expected of him. Time to cut him loose and move on.