“Mary, was that you? Please, I’m—I’m scared, don’t leave me in the dark!” said the growing sounds of his sorrowful voice. Mary felt awful for the old man. Her heart ached with pity for him, understanding. A foreign feeling rose into her heart, sharing his feelings of fear while her mind continued to widen with fear for Mark’s safety. Somehow, his words were almost luring, an overwhelming, powerful force drawing her to his side. The foreign feeling almost seemed to whisper to her, into her inner consciousness with great persuasion, as if all her troubles would be washed away if she cared for Christian, his soul darker than the black voids of space and death. She saw another nurse, opened her mouth, but fell short, and quickly opened the moss-colored door behind her. The old man halted his wails and continued to breathe heavily as if that were his normal rhythm. Christian had a rag on his forehead that seemed to need changing and was slightly bent forward by three pillows. Mary could also see red blisters that covered his entire body. The virus had seemed to spread throughout. Christian looked older, with parted white hair and the rest frail and thin. His figure was thin as well; Christian already seemed deceased. It was hurtful to watch as this new whispering voice grew louder in her mind. Mary’s heart broke for him. He seemed to be crying from the pain, coughing, and breathing rapidly.
“Don’t, feel bad, for me,” Christian stated with a sudden change in voice pattern. “I—I am, an old man, who, who has done some wonders for the world, wonders no one could ever believe. Come closer dear, I—I wish to see your, beau-ti-ful strength,” Christian asked, saying the word beautiful over and over again, exaggerating the syllables with enticement. Mary walked half of the room’s length, her eyes wide with wonder as she stared into his, the whisper in her head becoming a voice, and the voice becoming a dull scream as she got closer, losing control of where she walked while somehow wanting to cry. Then, about a yard away from Christian’s deceitful, expanding grin, his teeth rotting and eyes changing in front of her very eyes, an opposing force swept through the room. The first voice, screaming in her head, was cut off like radio connection, and as her knees bent to sprint toward the door, he shot a mist of his saliva all over her face like a reptile, landing in her mouth and eyes. The withered man burst out in relief, breaking out in uncontrollable laughter as she ran, wiping her face as if acid were settling into her skin.
“You may leave,” muttered Christian in the middle of his short breaths. He then grinned, more than pleased. “I—I am no longer fear-ful. Thank, thank you for, inviting me into your house, today a lie became a truth, and a truth became a lie.” The heart monitor evened out, as if that moment were planned, circled in his calendar.
Yesterday
The commissioner behind Aaron wasn’t quick enough. Mark, falling out of his trance, stood up quickly and punched the officer’s elbow, overextending his joint and breaking his arm. The commissioner squealed and dropped his weapon. Then Mark wrapped his arm around his neck, ran toward the faded pine-colored door, and broke it open with his thick, bulky shoulder, getting nipped by a bullet from a young police officer in the back, who seemed to have had some redness in his eyes from tears. Mark quickly shut the broken door and found a chair to wedge it in place.
“MARK, NOOO!” Aaron yelled. “LEAVE RIGHT NOW!”
Police officers began to swarm outside the room while Aaron continued to scream, crawling over to the door as blood continued to pour out like a cracked metal pipe.
It was dark. The air was stale. While aiming his weapon, Mark took off the police officer’s belt and placed it around his own waist, while the man squealed in pain and fear from Mark’s behavior. “You’ll live, Francis,” Mark stated while his eyes wandered around in the darkness. Aaron continued to yell while Mark searched for a light switch, calling for Mary.
“Mary,” yelled Mark, “Mary, it’s me. I missed you so much!” He continued to feel the walls. “I have so many questions, Mary. Have you been painting? Have you been cooking?” Mark flicked one switch but nothing happened. Aaron still screamed in the background, banging on the bottom of the door as urine began to fill his pants. “I’ve been cooking. Every meal, in fact. You’d be proud!”
The SWAT team from the neighboring town arrived, and Aaron saw them swarm the building by the open door, with cold, emotionless faces replacing the others.
“Tom said he spoke to you. He’s a card isn’t he? I know, I know, he’s not me, so it’s not the same. But we won’t be separated any longer.” Mark saw the dangling light switch above Mary’s bed and smiled. “Because your Hand Mitten’s here!” He flicked the light on and looked toward the bed. It was empty, dusty, and crowded with office supplies, papers, and old boxes full of paintings. Aaron began to cry profusely by the sight of the light through the door’s crack. The rain fell to a light drizzle, and the lightning lost its thunder.
“Wh-what is all of this?” Mark whispered anxiously. “Wh-where’s Mary?”
“She’s not here,” said a calm voice behind Mark. He quickly turned around, forgetting about the commissioner in the corner, who was still shrieking in immense pain.
“Tom,” said Mark, in shock. “How’d you get in here? You must get out, it’s dangerous!”
“I promise, Mark, I am in no danger,” Tom stated. “You must turn yourself in. Walk out with your hands up. It’s the best you can do.”
“Where’s Mary?” Mark quietly yelped back.
Tom stepped closer with concern on his face. “They never told you, and I never dared for a perfectly good reason.” Aaron’s yells were still continuous on the other side of the wall, but they faded as he began to lose consciousness. The commissioner was beginning to freak out by the sight of Mark speaking to himself, speaking to the wall.
“Tell me what?” Mark asked in a concerned voice.
“Mark, how old are you?” asked Tom naturally.
“I—I’m twenty-three.”
“Why do you believe you are beginning to gray?”
“It’s the stress,” Mark declared softly.
“Then why did Nurse Kennedy seem so much older than the last time you saw her two weeks ago?” Tom took another step closer. Mark began to breathe heavily.
“I…I don’t know.”
“And that’s why they never told you,” Tom stated firmly. He began to pace. “Why do you believe Dr. Kenny knows your name? Why, no matter what you do, won’t Aaron let you excel at the station?”
Mark’s eyes began to water, his heart raced. “Why?”
“Because you’re forty-five, Mark. You can’t remember past Mary’s illness no matter what they’ve tried. You’ve been told at least a dozen times the same exact thing over and over again but you can’t remember! Then, whenever you do, it always ends with you trying harm yourself!” Tom yelled.
“That can’t be true! It can’t!” Mark cried while he fell to the ground and shut his eyes. “I’m twenty-three, Mary’s in her bedroom right now sleeping, she’s waiting for her nurse to give her pain killers.”
Tom exhaled loudly. “Mark, not this again. You can’t live in the past! Please do this for me, I can’t stay here long.” The SWAT team began to ask Mark to step outside, reminding him of their defense.
“Don’t leave me!” Mark yelled.
“Then remember, Mark. Remember what happened and accept it.”
Aaron was finally rushed off by a stretcher. He was pale white, reaching for the door at the end of the hallway, fading away as the distance lengthened. Mark began to think very hard.
“U-ummmm, I remember Mary. She was ill—”
“Think past that!” Tom commanded passionately. The SWAT team began to set up snipers around the block.
“I-I remember being angry. Very angry. Drinking, I remember a funeral!”
“Some memories deceive,” Tom stated calmly. Mark lifted his head with an idea, his eyes lit up with color.
“Is she in heaven?” he asked u
rgently.
“Mark, if you shoot yourself, you won’t go to heaven.”
“It’s worth a try!” he yelled as he lifted the gun, his hand shaking as the barrel leaned against his temple. Tom never let Wegman out of his sight, his first dead stare into his eyes.
“I’m disappointed.”
Mark was then hit with a lamp from Francis Baker, his left arm gripping the lamp for dear life, knocking a blow to Mark’s temple so hard he was out cold before hitting the ground. The dust on the tiles rushed into the air, swirling around his body. Twenty years of dust began to cover his limbs, burrowing into his hair and streaming into his open mouth, the dead air more potent than ever. Tom disappeared. He was instantly miles away at the hospital, on the sixth floor. Even if the commissioner didn’t strike Mark, the sixth bullet was a dud, and even if the events escalated, the snipers would have missed major organs, arteries, and anywhere that could have been even relatively lethal. He was, in fact, no more in danger than a toddler cradled by their mother, watched closely by her protective eye.
Mark heard the voice again in between consciousness and his constantly recurring dreams of the past, the same voice he heard after the car accident repeated. “If we don’t get blood soon, we’ll lose him, faster!”
◆◆◆
Mary’s faith in God grew more and more as she lay in her bed. Her fears of death began to fade away. She began to ramble off about how thankful she was for life, and living as much as she did. She never burst out in outrageous spurts of anger anymore, and only in immense pain did she not smile. Mark usually sat in a chair next to her with a mask, gloves, and a full body suit to tell her about his day. While in return, she told him about God, his grace, and its principles, like a small child returning from school. In these days, death seemed to be in every corner of the house. Any day, Mary would pass; everyone expected it.
“G-God wants his people to—walk to, him,” Mary stated weakly between her heavy breaths, on her hot and blistery face, “and seek, him. God wants—you. To let go of the stool, you’ve been…holding on to, an—and reach for him.”
Mark ignored what she stated and continued to ask her to save her strength. But she’d always say the same thing.
“Mark, instead of prayers. Praise, an—and be glad, that, that suffering’s over. I—I trust God, he’ll take me, me home.”
“No, Mary, don’t ever say that,” cried Mark, “you should never say things like that. You will live.” While in Mary’s presence, Mark still fought to keep his eyes from running, to show his human weaknesses, yet every day made it harder and harder to do so.
“M-Mark, for th-the first t-time in my life, I-I’ve never felt m…more alive.”
Mark stormed out in anger, leaving Mary alone. Then he burst into angry tears outside of her room, anger toward God as he pounded on the wall, screaming into the shirt he wore while biting on his sleeve with great force. This was the third time he’d visited her, and every time ended with him on the side of the wall, screaming into the air.
He soon began to ignore her day-to-day words, believing she was hallucinating. The drugs were forcing her to say so many wild thoughts. Mark wouldn’t speak anymore, watching Mary either sleep or praise God. In either situation, he had nothing to say. That day was unfortunately the day where his first solo shift at the station took place. He sat in the car motionless, wrecked, and tired. His rage was continuing to build toward God. He sat there, starring at a lone, stained brick wall about a mile away, made to hold a large, steel garbage can. Mark ignored any calls that came through, while focusing on that lone brick wall. Possibilities. He then placed his police car in first gear.
“You take away my hair,” he quietly stated. Second gear. “You take away my boy.” His voice became louder. Third gear. His engine revved back down and escalated again. “You take away my wife!” Fourth gear. The wall was getting closer and closer. He could see the indents in the red wall, the stains and the flaws. The imperfections and the impurities. It was right there. It was glaring Mark in the eye. Then a few yards before the collision, Mark pushed on the brake. The car swerved around to the side and smashed in the wall on the passenger’s door. If there were a passenger, they would have died, smashing their crown into the passenger door, and the imploded door would have also wedged their arm in place, like a sandwich. Mark pounded on the airbag with rage and anger, spraying unpleasant words toward the sky while crying profusely.
Aaron was eating dinner with Mark that night. He was hanging out with Wegman more often, in order to offer company during the difficult time. Aaron made eggs, toast, and hash browns. They were nothing close to what Mary made—his meal was potatoes from a frozen bag, overcooked eggs, and the toast wasn’t buttered. They sat across from each other and Aaron watched Mark drench his food in hot sauce. “That’s a lot of hot sauce,” Aaron calmly said with folded hands. Mark didn’t look up.
“I don’t know why, but I’m just craving a lot of hot stuff lately. Is it a crime?”
Aaron rubbed his eyes. “Well the thing about hot sauce is that it is sometimes used as a pain reliever… How did you crash your car?” Aaron asked firmly.
“I—I told you, man, a dog jumped in front of my car and I swerved to the side. Chill out.” Mark looked back down and slurped up those soupy, red eggs like sweet-and-savory ice cream.
“Mark, you’re not yourself!” yelled Aaron. “You’ve been acting very strange—”
“Well maybe it’s because you gave me breakfast at seven o’clock in the afternoon! Now my entire schedule is messed up!” He threw his fork at his plate. Some hot sauce sprayed over the table like blood.
“Mark, don’t make it a joke. You’re very smart and you understand what I’m talking about.”
Mark and Aaron didn’t speak for the rest of the meal. People at the station whispered around him. But eventually, everyone came around and told Mark that his wife was in their families’ prayers. He ignored every kind gesture and acted as if they never spoke. He found relaxation through his job, the authority he carried, along with his badge and gun. Heroin addicts were always waiting for their next high, never as satisfied as they were with the first. Mark was the same way. It all began when the police force came into direct contact with a band of illegal immigrants, caught transporting twenty-five pounds of heroin to a major distributor in Tucson. They almost got away with it, as the transporters were a couple hours from the border, and had their envelope of cash within arm’s length before being caught in the desert. A standoff began between cops behind their vehicles, and the transporter’s and the distributor’s teams behind theirs, all well armed. A police chase with the two vehicles ran them out of the desert and closer into the city before road spikes forced them to find cover behind their own cars and begin a full-on shootout. After one of the two transporters was shot in his ribs and right lung, the bullets stopped flying. After ten minutes of silence, waiting for any reaction at all from the opposing side, Mark randomly stood up from his crouched position and walked through a modern representation of No Man’s Land. Although every cop shot harsh, sharp whispers while grabbing onto his legs and motioning disapproving hand gestures, he continued to press forward toward the other side. Yet when he walked out of cover, no one fired; his movements so quiet that the other sides were never tempted to look, the risks of checking far higher than not, also believing that no police officer was mad enough to walk over uncovered. Mark then proceeded to walk behind their cars and shoot them all in their legs, all unexpected and too slow to react. One screamed curse words in Spanish, never expecting anyone to pop their head so far past safety, and, as another raised his weapon, Mark shot the man’s hand off as naturally as swatting a fly. There was not a single fatality, and, because of what many believed was genuine bravery, Mark was broadcast across the entire country, asking him whom he owed his courage to. He pointed to a random person across the street and yelled, “That man! He gave me the courage!” They
all ran over to him, and the college student was very confused. The head and president of the local chess team strolled by on his bicycle after a match in the community center and was frightened when seven to eight news reporters rushed to his side, demanding to know when he and Mark first met.
After this first encounter, his chase for the same high began, living close to death every second he could. The rush was what he enjoyed: smashing someone’s head into the hood of their car, the sound of cuffs snapping tightly around their wrists, the feeling of chasing someone on foot, searching a house, and, especially when he was threatened, laughing with complete madness as if the seventeen-year-old juvenile had just told the most hilarious remark in the tens of thousands of years humans have been around. Mark would cry so hard from laughter, banging his fist on the boy’s car, denting it even more than when he slammed the boy onto the hood. “Please,” Mark said, unable to contain himself, “please do it.”
He would work without stop, trying to escape the thought of Mary’s increasing severity, her worsening condition. But the heavy work took a toll on his body, as he still was recovering from the cancer. Some late nights as he left for home, the darkened streets would remind his body of how exhausted it was, and he would fall in and out of consciousness, more intoxicated than anyone else under the influence. The sound of a car’s horn would wake him abruptly, turning his car back into the middle of his lane only for the process to happen again a few minutes later. There were also moments when work was slow, and Mark was forced to sit there in the police car with nothing to do but reflect. He would stare outside with sorrow, or attempt to blurt out music on the radio to keep his mind from settling. “Sweet Caroline!” Mark yelled as the music blasted through the speakers, and, as he banged his hands on the police car’s dash, “Good time’s never felt so good!”
Soon Mark began to run home during work to check on Mary and see if she was any stronger than before. He’d sometimes spend the night in that lumpy old chair next to her sofa, wishing to be sick like her. Time passed slowly. He dreamed of lying in bed with the same rash, same pains, to not sit and watch her suffer. But some nights he slept alone in the queen-size mattress they’d had since marriage, acting restless as he tried to forget Mary, her entire existence, for the night. He didn’t want to forget her forever but only for the night so he could sleep and think. Except, as little time passed, escape never occurred, because again, all he could do was think about Mary’s suffering.
My Hand Mitten Page 17