I push my hungry mouth forward, inhaling her cathartic saliva again, knowing she is exactly what I need. I wonder what would have happened had I chosen to go down a different path other than the one leading to The Risqué Cabaret. Would I already be dead?
I kiss her deeper and try to forget that I’ve forgotten.
chapter thirteen
While Molly packs clothes into a duffel bag, I wander off into the kitchen to wash the blood off my chest. I scrub myself with an old sponge and old food and mold scrape against my flesh. It’s preferable to brain matter.
Maybe Molly’s right. I was just protecting her. I’m not a killer. I’m a good man.
No. I know who I am. What I am.
What truth do I fear? That I’m a cold-blooded murderer—a monster? Maybe I’m better off buying into Molly’s spin of who I am, of what makes me me.
Bob.
Big Bob.
Brother Bob.
Who are you, you bastard?
Obviously Bob isn’t my real name. I reminiscence back to my little hallway interlude, when me and my other self finally got our turn with the man behind the desk, picking out new names for the people in line.
Picking out new names.
Earlier in the apartment, I’d told Molly about the flashback, but she didn’t seem to fully connect the meaning. Does she realize Bob isn’t my real name? Does she know, that for some reason, I’ve been lying to her all this time?
The question is—why? What do I have to hide?
And of course, the answer is obvious.
Monster.
“Babe, you almost ready to go?”
“Yeah,” I call out, squeezing a stream of pink water out of the sponge and watching it splash into the metal basin below, “give me a minute.”
One day, we will all splash down the faucet, and into the river we will go.
I sigh, dropping the bloody sponge into the basin. I debate emptying my gun into my own skull—wipe all this misery out in one quick, painless bang. It’s almost frightening, how powerful the temptation is.
Then I hear Molly’s voice again, calling my name. Her voice makes the entertainment of suicide ludicrous.
I bend over the refrigerator, scavenging through the sparse contents inside: a couple cans of soda pop, a slice of cheese, some lunchmeat, a half-eaten hamburger wrapped in foil, and a full bottle of milk. I quickly devour the hamburger, overwhelmed by an unexpected hunger, and grimace at its bitter-cold taste. Two seconds after tossing the last bite in my mouth is when, of course, I spot the microwave plugged in on top of the fridge.
The fridge’s contagious frost chills over my flesh as I hug the bottle of milk and head back into the living room, finding Molly sitting down on the mattress, watching cartoons. The packed duffel bag rests on the ground beside her. I unzip the bag, revealing clothes, diapers, and baby toys. I stuff the cola and bottle inside and close it again.
“You all set to go then?” I ask.
“Yup,” she says, not taking her eyes off the television set.
I grab a T-shirt from the floor and pull it over me, scanning the room for any available footwear.
“Hey, uh, Mol?” I say, and a wonderful feeling soothes through my body as soon as I call her by her shortened down name. Mol...this is what I’ve always called her. It’s so natural, I could die comfortably.
“Yeah, babe?” Molly says.
“Do I have any shoes around here?”
“Um, you would have had them on your feet when you left for work today, so...”
“Yeah, I’m thinking those shoes are probably in the same place as the rest of the clothes I was wearing today.”
“And those are...where, again?”
I give her an incredulous look.
“Oh, right. Duh.”
“So I don’t own any other shoes? Not one single other pair to my name?”
“Well, you have those rabbit slippers. What did you call them? Your funny bunnies?”
I sigh, looking around for the slippers. Molly giggles behind me.
“What’s so funny?” I ask, feigning irritation. In reality, the sound of her laughter is like heaven on earth.
I turn around just in time to see her pointing at the television set, her other hand covering up her mouth to suppress the disruptive fit of giggles.
“They...they...they painted the dog pink!” Molly shouts, completely losing it.
“I love you,” I tell her, enjoying her laughter all the more as it progresses. Lamb, Indigo, and all these assholes can go to hell. I think I’ll just stand here and watch Molly laugh like this for the rest of the night. For the rest of our lives.
Then the front door opens and I hear a man saying, “The hell...”
I waste no time in picking up Little BOB from the floor and hurling it across the room toward the general direction of the voice. A man with crazy, spiked blue hair ducks and drops to the ground just as the vibrator flies over his head.
“What the hell was that?” he yells. “A grenade?”
“No, it was a vibrator! And there’s plenty more where that came from!”
Molly gasps behind me. “You found my Jack Rabbit, too?”
The intense atmosphere quickly diminishes as I turn around with a queer expression across my face. “Uh...what?”
“Er, nothing.”
I shake the thought of what a Jack Rabbit might possibly be and face our intruder again, who’s already risen to his feet, wiping dust off his kilt.
I pick up the submachine gun lying next to Trig’s corpse and point it at the spiky-haired punk. He doesn’t look like a threat, but I still can’t afford to let my guard down.
“You one of Lamb’s boys, huh?” I yell at him. “You see what I did to the last pack of rats he sent along?” I gesture to Trig. “I will not hesitate to give you the same fate.”
Instead of becoming dreadfully frightened as I had imagined, the man instead starts to laugh. “Look at you, all serious and shit. Oh, who’s a menacing wee boy? You are! You are!”
“Excuse me?”
“Bobby, relax,” Molly says from behind me. “It’s just the Rev.”
“The what?”
“The Rev. He’s Ezzy’s babysitter.”
“Oh.”
I lower the submachine gun, offering a guilty smile.
He raises his eyebrow at me. “Having problems there, are we, mate?”
Wait a second. I know who this guy is. I’ve seen him before. Tonight, actually. But at the same time, it was also over five years ago. At the time he had been younger, just like myself back then.
He had also had a tall, green Mohawk.
“Where is my daughter?” I ask.
“Oh, um...” He clears his throat and, in a low, barely audible tone, says, “In the dumpster.”
“What?”
Looking at his feet, the Rev repeats himself. “The...dumpster?”
This time it is Molly who says it. “What?”
“The dumpster!” he shouts. “Goddamn, are you blokes deaf or what?”
“What?” On that particular “what” it happens to be Molly and I both.
“The dump—”
“Why the fuck is she in the dumpster?’ I demand. Molly is already running out the door, down the hallway. The Rev and I follow her lead in a jog.
As we hit the stairs, he tries to explain. “Well shit, mate, I walk up to the building and suddenly I hear all this shooting. I didn’t know what the hell was going on. Me figures, some blokes with guns are gonna be coming out, you know, fleeing the scene, and I had the baby with me just standing there like some wanker. So I stashed her in the dumpster to be on the safe side. After a while, when no one came out, I decided to come up and check if the coast was clear. Apparently it is. And apparently you also turned into some kind of badass Rambo boy overnight.”
We make it down the steps and Molly’s already outside, running across the street and into an alleyway. She struggles to climb the dumpster, her perfect little legs kicking back and forth to in
itiate progress. By the time we join her in the alley Molly has already managed to fall inside the dumpster, sobbing in what I take to be relief.
I’m out of breath and my bare feet ache from running across gravel, but none of that seems to matter. Molly stands up in the dumpster with a child held cradled in her arms.
I instinctively think of her as our child, and I suddenly have the urge to punch the spiky-haired punk square in the face for what he has done with her. What he has done with my child. Then a more sensible part of me tries to convince myself that what he did is exactly what he should have done. Despite its most unattractive nature, this is probably the safest place he could have hidden her. Whoever this guy is, he is okay. I think he’s a friend—my friend. And he must be, if I trust him enough to babysit my own daughter.
I glance over at the Rev, also trying to catch his breath, and give him a nod in approval, as if to say, “Thank you for stashing my baby in a dumpster.”
He nods back. “You’re welcome.”
Her panting subsiding, tears rolling down her cheeks, Molly showers our baby with a series of kisses all over her face and then hands her to me so she can climb out of the dumpster. Hesitant, I reach out and take the baby (my baby) in my arms, all anxiety fading from my system as soon as she settles into a comfortable position. She’s the last piece to an extensive jigsaw puzzle connecting everything in the universe together at once.
She is so small, so fragile. Her entire life depends on me. All I have to do is squeeze hard enough and bam, she’s gone. I have control. Looking down at her, she looks back up at me, and I think she understands this. I think she understands this better than I do.
I thought Molly was the most beautiful thing I would ever lay my eyes upon tonight, or any other night, but I was wrong. I hadn’t thought about what kind of beauty the both of us would be able to create together.
Even if someone had told me previously, I don’t think I would have believed them. She...this creation in my arms, this gift...she is unreal. Not of this world.
The rapid beat in my heart ceases, going on an indefinite hiatus as I try to comprehend the sheer amount of power and certainty that this tiny being delivers to my soul. Every detail sinks into my conscious at once. Her dark, curly brown hair. Her round, beautiful face. Rosy cheeks. Her small, delicate hands. Fingers gripping the fabric of my T-shirt. A red and black checkered kilt strapped around her waist, the hems ending at her ankles. The baby blue T-shirt with the words MY MOM’S TITS ARE BIGGER THAN YOURS printed across the chest area of the clothing.
But none of these are the most important detail. Incredible, yes—but not the detail I concentrate all of my focus on. I look deep into her eyes, the eyes that match her mother’s. So green they’re almost uncanny. They are just how I imagined. Perfect. She is perfect. So, so perfect. Oh God. She is mine. My own.
My baby girl.
(memoria iii)
me #2 paces back and forth, shoes squeaking on the waxed linoleum each time he turns around, hands frantically running through his wild black hair, making it stand up all over the place. and judging from the look on his face, his mind is probably somewhere in the same general area.
i find myself sitting at the edge of a sink, arms crossed, just watching my other self go crazy. and surprise, surprise, we’re in a public bathroom again. there’s a whole row of sinks next to me, the one i’m sitting on being the last one in line, a square mirror in front of each of them. nothing strange here—minus the hysterical man in the dead center of the room, of course. his eyes are watered up and he keeps breathing heavily, in and out, in and out, like he’s hyperventilating.
‘fuck!’ me #2 shouts, punching his thigh and marching over to the sink i’m resting on. he places a hand on either side of it for support and leans forward, staring straight into my eyes, mere inches apart from one another.
for a second i almost believe he’s looking at me rather than the mirror. but i know i’m not really here—at least not in the literal sense. although, in a way, i guess i am. i once was here, and now i am reliving it.
but as what? a ghost? i just don’t know, and a part of me is not even sure if it matters. why would it?
‘you fucking idiot,’ me #2 says into my face.
come to think about it, he is looking at me. he’s looking into the mirror, which in return reflects himself. reflects myself. reflects all of us.
i stay sitting where i am, trying to search for an answer in my other self’s dismal eyes but only coming up with a deep sadness. what the hell can it possibly be? this man, while still just as young as the one i encountered back at the bar, is nowhere near as happy.
‘lies,’ he mumbles, ‘all lies. lies. you’re just a lie, a goddamn lie. too close, you got too close, too...too close. just a lie and another lie. can’t... lies. shit. shit. shit. this is fucked. this is so fucked. what did he say, you fucking idiot? too close too close too close! now what? what happens later? aw shit, what happens? lost. fucked. this is all just so fucked.’
he stops talking, just stares at himself for a while through the mirror, through myself. after so long he finally gains control of his breathing and he turns on the sink, splashing some water in his face. he blinks over and over for nearly a solid minute, until the door opens and a man with a long green mohawk hurries inside.
‘bobby, man, what the fuck are you doing, huh?’ he asks. ‘you missed it.’
speaking in a very calm and levelheaded voice, me #2 says, ‘it’s over already?’
‘yeah, it’s done. you got mol scared, mate. what’s going on?’
‘i don’t know. i guess i freaked out. this is all just...you know?’
‘yeah, i understand. no worries, huh? come on. let’s go check out your little girl.’
‘how...how is she?’ me #2 asks.
the rev sighs, glancing over at the wall. ‘bobby, i don’t know how to break this to you, so i’ll just tell you straight up. your daughter...she only has eight fingers.’
‘what?’
‘but, on the plus side, she also has two thumbs.’
‘oh, you asshole, i am going to kill you.’
‘nah, save that for later. right now, you have something more important to deal with.’
‘yeah, you’re right. but don’t think i’m gonna forget about that.’
‘you will, too, and you know it,’ the rev says as they start to exit the bathroom. i try to follow them but a strange shield (one very much akin to the shield that had kept me confined to my stool back at the bar) forces me to stay where i am on the sink.
‘okay, that may be true,’ i hear me #2 saying. ‘but sometime in the future, like two or three years from now, i am totally gonna remember. then i’ll kill you.’
‘fair enough,’ the rev says, and then they are both gone, the bathroom door swinging shut behind them.
‘well, now what?’ i ask the empty room, my words nothing more than surreal sound waves drifting through the air.
it answers me by dragging my nonexistent body backwards, pulling me over the sink and into the mirror. but instead of shattering the glass like my reflexes expect, i merely sink into the material like it’s a thick goo.
i try to scream, but it is no use. before i can so much as open my nonexistent mouth, my entire body is drowning in this sea of mirrors, everything twirling around and around until i find myself clawing out the other side, out of another mirror. this one is considerably smaller than the mirror back in the bathroom.
caught in a frenzied whirlwind, i climb out of the mirror as fast as i can, dropping onto the floor with an imagined thud. looking around, i can see that i’ve been sent to a small hospital room. a woman with long red hair lies on a bed in front of me, rocking a baby back and forth in her arms.
the door swings open and in comes good ol’ brother bob, marching in this numb trance toward the bed, his hands shaking at his waist.
‘oh god, molly, i’m so sorry...’
her head shoots up, worry written across her
face. ‘what happened?’
me #2 collapses down on his knees next to the bed, his elbows pushing into the cushion. i stand up and walk over to join them.
‘i’m sorry baby, it was just all...it was all too much. i panicked. i’m sorry mol, so sorry. i’m here now, okay? and i’m never leaving again. i’m here, i’m here, i’m here...’
‘that’s right, you are here,’ molly says. ‘and that’s all that matters.’
‘yes.’
‘now, would you like to hold our baby?’
i can damn near feel me #2’s heartbeat pounding against his chest at the thought of holding her. he freezes, looks at molly, watches her for a moment or two, and nods. he needs this more than she ever will.
we both do.
smiling, molly hands over the baby and me #2 cradles her in his arms, ever so gently, fearing he’ll break her in half with the slightest bit of pressure. i know this is what he is afraid of at the moment because this is what i’m afraid of, too. be careful, you handsome son of a bitch. be careful.
we both look down at our newborn baby, at her eyes, her beautiful, green eyes. and i know we’re thinking the same thing. by god, she couldn’t be more perfect. fuck everything else. it’ll eventually figure itself out. everything is going to be fine. yes. it is okay.
and it always will be okay as long as our family is together. our beloved other half—yes, that is the correct term for what molly is, i realize now. she is our other half. and this wonderful creation in our arms...she, she is the key who locks both halves into place.
our baby girl.
chapter fourteen
“Da-doo.”
I snap out of my little daze and return to reality, standing next to a dumpster with my little girl gently cradled in my arms, her perfect green eyes staring up at me and projecting all the beautiful secrets of humanity.
“Da-doo!”
God, her voice is every bit as wonderful as the rest of her. I just want to hold her and squeeze her against my chest and never let go.
“Yes, baby?”
“Hi!” my baby girl (Ezzy...her name is Ezzy...my baby’s name is Ezzy) shouts.
“Hi!” I shout back, just as excited to see her as she apparently is to see me.
The Mind is a Razorblade Page 12