Apnea

by Nathan Tackett

  I know how it ends, for Rachel anyway. Since this is a story about her it will soon wrapping up. Then I shall disappear.

  Come to think of it, Rachel and I had this thing for disappearing. We were like 'relationship magicians' in that sort of sense. Sometimes months would pass without a simple acknowledgement of each other. When you weren't with Rachel- I mean RIGHT THERE sitting on the living room carpet with her- you simply didn't exist.

  I often wonder how we became friends at all.

  The winter had melted away, and spring reluctantly revealed itself from underneath the ugly snow. It was during that swollen transition of the seasons-when the world is a slush covered mud pile that Rachel had called me for the last time.

  The solid tone of her voice gave me no indication that this would be the last time we would talk. If she had given me any kind of sign- a waver, a question, a slight shiver in her tone- I would've kept her on the line a bit longer. I'd have kept her rambling on and on for years if it meant anything to her.

  But it didn't matter. Not to her anyway.

  Rachel was always one to prove a point.

  "I need you to come over...later..like REALLY later. How about four hours from now? Make it eleven o'clock tonight. I've got PROOF."

  That was all I got.

  To be honest, I spent the rest of the evening like any other evening. Somewhere in between the fourth and fifth beer or the 10 o'clock news I almost forgot about the obligation altogether. But then, that single word popped back inside my brain just as I was about to fall asleep.

  PROOF

  Proof of what? It was always Rachel that needed convincing. Just what had drawn her to go out and conjure up such PROOF? If she had somehow mated a monkey with an angel and now had trained it to perform dance routines in her kitchen just to prove both Darwin and God wrong, I wouldn't have been surprised in the least.

  That night, the last night, I left the television on as I left my place figuring I wouldn't be gone all that long.

  It hadn't even crossed my mind that it was a Thursday.

  It was nothing new for me to let myself into Rachel's apartment. All the lights had were off except for those cheap clear Christmas lights casting a depressing planetarium feel about the place.

  The lights were shorting out causing the shadows to dance about the deep red walls. I had stepped into the waiting room of hell. I had to watch where I stepped. That was nothing new. Rachel always kept the place chaotic. It was as if a thrift store had exploded all over everything all the time.

  The smell was strong. It was a thick mixture of roses and shit-sweet and sour. Flora and fauna, death and decay, all stinging up my nostrils. It was the smell of sadness.

  A row of white votive candles in those little glass cups led the way from the living room down the hallway to the bathroom. Feeling the weight of a funeral in my stomach, I followed them.

  There were a lot of things I felt stepping into that scene; sorrow, fear, anger, disgust. I would even go as far to say I felt cheated. Call me selfish if you must, but this is my story. I felt all the emotions one would expect to feel. All except one-surprise.

  She was lying in the tub-eyes closed with a gentle smile on her face. Resembling one of those full page ads you see in magazines for skin-care products, with her head peeking out just above the water , and her hands drawn across her stomach.

  The water the shade of red that appears just before the curtain is dropped.

  This was the only logical end to Rachel. It was an act as simple as striking a period at the end of a sentence.

  I don't know exactly how long I sat there on the toilet. For the first time since I had entered Rachel's world the place was quiet. I was going to enjoy it. I suppose that there were a million things I wanted to say to her. But what was the point? Everything became stuck somewhere halfway up my throat. So I just sat there silent, taking in the last few mental snapshots I'd have of her.

  The chaos had left her now. All of the turmoil and terror that had kept her alive for the past 30 some years had slipped out into the water. Only peace and the dying light of the candles remained.

  As I've already stated-all things physical; earth, flame, cocktail rings, even her body, were simply objects to Rachel. I guess she was just done with it. But there was something still flickering behind her eyelids. It was as if she had somehow become aware of the punchline to all the universe, and she wasn't going to share.

  I'd have to find that out myself. The smile on her face was telling me that much.

  Rachel had finally mastered time travel. She was free to fly.

  Only a few candles were burning by the time I felt ready enough to leave. I crouched over her one last time, kissing her forehead. It was cold enough to tell me this wasn't an act. I'd be lying if I had hoped otherwise, if only for a moment.

  Getting to my feet, I noticed the object. It was still tight between the fingers of her right hand. Its flimsy plastic edge poked out of the pink water just above her navel.

  I tried my damnedest to ignore the ghastly self-inflicted shark bites that ran up her forearms. I was determined to get at that object. It held some sort of answer. I pulled at her fingers. Her hand flopped loosely about as if I was close to ripping it clean off. She was stubborn even at this moment. But, I was able to pluck it free from her. It was one last artifact that Rachel had kept just for me. It was a polaroid, the image too stained with bloodwater to make it out.

  I realize now that it was nothing more than a practical joke to leave me insane for decades.

  I dropped the picture into my pocket and left.

  That was the last Thursday I spent with Rachel.

  I stare at that picture still. I guess you could say I've formed an obsession with it. I don't keep it on my pillow or anything like that, but I find myself unable to sleep just knowing it exists. I don't tell anybody about it. I can't! The image alone disproves God, organized religion, and just about anything else your science teacher ever told you. Just looking at the thing causes my own sense of the universe to slip away.

  Then, there are times, usually early in the morning when I manage to stomach a beer or ten, when I can convince myself that it was nothing more than what it is.

  The image is simple enough. It is a picture of a young bearded man in thick spectacles and wool-lined jean jacket. I assumed the man to be Rachel's father from how she had described him that night.

  In the corner of the photo is the blurred finger accidentally placed in front of the camera lens.

  On that finger sits a gawdy clear plastic cocktail ring.

  A Remark About Clara Bow

  It smells like piss. The whole place does -bleach and piss, because that's what they use-bleach to cover up the piss.

  ...but you can still smell the piss.

  I can't get no sat-tis-fact-tion.

  Somebody's got a yet-to-be-confiscated radio propped up against their door and you can hear it all the way down here in corridor 9. That’s where I'm sitting.

  You can hear everything everywhere in this place. It's the way it was built-all stone and ugly. Sound travels through the halls like LOVE as the kids would say.

  Shit rolls downhill, as we say.

  It's probably Wilson, that rat faced schmuck is always sneakin shit in here he ain't supposed to. His old lady Edina comes around so many times she bout needs to get herself COMMITED. I'm sure we got a gown to fit her. Even when they lock Wilson up tight-that wife of his manages to pop right through.

  Last week they shut off his lights. Yup, they caught him with a bag of skittles , some duct tape, and a rosary.

  What the fuck he was plannin on doin with the duct tape I'll never know.

  There's a lot of things I don't know, and even fewer that I'll pretend to know, but what I DO know is that I'm sitting here.

  Waiting my turn.

  Burns is sitting across the hall from me. His face is down to the ground, always is. The joke is, Burns would have the tiles of these floors memorized if it weren't for
the fact that they're just black and white...

  ...black and white.

  Burns is a real stand-up guy. He's one of those enlarged children that don't speak much. They say he took a nine iron and an inflatable baseball bat to some dude out in Decatur.

  I don't know if any of that is true, but he laughs at all my jokes.

  That's what got us down here in the first place.

  ...waiting....

  I still got the stomach cramps from the meatloaf served during lunch time - all slopped up and dripping down the sides of our styrofoam bowls to be devoured with those plastic half spoon half fork hybrids. What do they call them?

  ...oh yeah SPORKS.

  That's how I feel. Welcome to my world.

  Anyhow, as I was saying, it all went down during lunch. IT being the reason why we're both sitting here like cracked lawn gnomes.

  I was taking a poll, that's all. I was asking all the fellers if they thought that Nurse Jenkins looked like Clara Bow, only with bigger tits, which is true.

  Staff considered this in-sub-bored-in-nation. So they sent me down Corridor 9.

  Poor Burns, all he did was agree with me.

  You can hear the wheels cutting down the tiles before you actually see the gurney. Sometimes you might actually raise your head enough to get a good look at whomever they're cartin' out on it. But you don't need to look all that much.

  You wind up there soon enough.

  That feared Gurney with the gimp wheel.

  ...screeeeeech...click click....screeech...

  BUT I TRY...AND I TRY...AND I TRY...AND I TRY...

  The Lou Reed Treatment-that's what we call it -if only for the lesser known fact that dear Lou's parents submitted him to the shock more than a handful of times to cure him of his homo-sexuality.

  For some reason 'going to see LOU' sounds a hell of a lot better than what's really going on here-in that room 2B down corridor 9.

  Which, in case you haven't figured it out yet, is where we're sittin- Burns and I.

  "Waitin' for the man." That's funny I suppose.

  Not sure who's going next ,Burns or I. Kinda hoping it's me just so I can get it over with and make it back to recreation before lights out. Just maybe I can catch the end of JEOPARDY.

  I first feel their fat hands wrapping tight around my arms -the boys. I got no beef with the boys. They're just doing their jobs, getting their paychecks, screwing their old ladies.

  No need to lift me, hell, sometimes I lead. It's the whole song and dance act we got going on here.

  Even if I'm the only one hearing the music.

  I'd look over at Burns to see his reaction. Just to watch as the realization tugs at his sack that he's next. But it's pointless.

  All he ever does is stare down at the tiles....

  black...white...back...white...