by Jules Hedger
It was funny to think about how often my uncle dreamt from the heroine and the loneliness. I, on the other hand, had only the space in my mind where existence was forgotten in one black moment that lasted until waking, and remembering life was feeling. I had only darkness until the night Marty forced his way into the apartment.
And it was that night, as the serene and bottomless blackness was split violently apart by the incessant sound of a car alarm, that I heard my uncle stumble back through the door.
My eyes saw red as I jerked myself awake out of sleep and into the bright, flashing neon world of the apartment. The curtains were pulled back and a slight breeze was blowing in from the open window. I blearily picked up my digital wrist watch and stared at the flashing time on the small screen: 3:43 a.m.
I had fallen asleep waiting for my uncle, so my limbs felt stiff and hot underneath my leather jacket and tight jeans. I breathed in a sign of relief when I saw he had collapsed on his mattress. It was always a toss-up if he'd come back to sleep or come back with friends. Luckily, this time Marty wasn't here to leer at me.
Suddenly aware of how silent the world was, I slowly drew in a breath and untwisted the sleeping bag from my feet. I made my way across the room, stepping carefully over the mattress where my uncle lay, and stood by the window. I pulled the jacket collar tighter around my neck and strained my ears. There were so sounds from outside, no barking dogs or taxi cabs; in fact, the street was strangely devoid of cars. New York was usually always loud and active, but now it felt eerily dead. The neon signs flashed unceasingly, as they will until the earth sparked out from existence.
The breeze shifted and blew against my hair. It sent a delightful shiver along my back, down through my feet to the tips of my toes. The neon signs by the window flickered and the skin on my forearm tingled, a whisper of premonition that something wasn't right, some piece of the world had become disjointed. Or even smaller than that: a tiny sliver of something familiar had changed. The air held a feeling of expectancy in it, as if waiting for a movie to begin.
Turning around to face the apartment, nothing seemed amiss. My breath entered the air in white clouds and the familiar creaks of the old building stayed silent. There were the leftover Chinese cartons from God knows when. There was my carry-on bag, opened by the foot of my mat. And my uncle was sprawled on the mattress with his clothes still on. His arm lay over his chest and rose and fell with the breath of . . .
Wait.
I took a faltering step towards my uncle and then two. And then scrambled across the room to where he lay.
He wasn't breathing. His thin rib cage was still and his hands were cold. Freezing.
"Oh fuck," I breathed, feeling up his arms to the pocket in his neck. Where was his pulse? Oh God, is he dead? He is dead.
Fuck.
Fuck, fuck.
I heard the elevator jangle down the hall and looked wildly around the room. My breath caught in my throat and what must have been my heart struck the inside of my chest like a sparrow flapping frantically against the cage of my ribs. I was going to vomit, but not before snatching off my skin which was starting to burn like flaming nettles . . .
Breathe. Breathe and cool down.
I forced my eyes closed and made my fingers clench around the folds of my white tank top. Swallowing hard, my breath began to slow and the frost of calm to spread across my body. My fingers relaxed and the fire in my skin faded. I opened my eyes to the dark room and the dead corpse of my uncle. But I was calm. I was steady. I can handle this with composure . . .
BAM BAM BAM!
"SHIT," I yelped in surprise. The heavy banging at the door continued. I heard feet shuffling and the knocking grew frantic. Clutching my braid like a safety rope, I crept to the front hallway where the lights of the outside corridor shone across the floor, broken up by two unmistakable shadows of shoes. The door shook with more banging and even through the wood I heard the unmistakable wheeze of heavy breathing.
"Steve? Steve, come on. Open the door," a voice yelled from outside. It swore quietly under its breath. "Steve, I'm not playing around. Are you alright? Let me in!" This plea was followed by a fresh round of knocking. I took the opportunity to peek through the spy hole.
A man's face, distorted from the curved glass in the window, was glancing furtively to his left. Gray stubble played about his chin and his eyes were wide and bloodshot.
Marty. Ugh.
But what could I do? I ran through the options in my head. None involved the man stood outside the door coming into the apartment. I drew back the chain lock and poked my head out.
"Maggie!" Marty yelped in surprise, quickly drawing back from the open door. "What are you doing here?"
"He's not in any position to buy anything, Marty. Go away," I said as determinedly as I could. Marty shook his head and tried to see past me into the hallway.
"No, no, no, I need . . . I need to see him," Marty stuttered. His fingers wove in and out of his sleeve holes. His weathered face looked terrified. "Just, let me in to talk. Just to talk. I need to make sure he's alright."
"He's not alright, Marty," I said coldly. But then again, why shouldn't he see what his needles could do? I wrenched the door open in disgust, but Marty hardly noticed my expression as he scurried into the apartment and down the hall. I hurried after him into the front room, where he was already bending carefully over my uncle's body.
"He's dead." Marty's voice was a whimper. "It's true." His knees buckled onto the linoleum floor and his body followed in a hopeless slump over the corpse. "He's as cold as ice."
"No shit, Sherlock," I said quietly. "He overdosed on your shitty drugs."
"He wasn't with me tonight. I . . . overslept." Marty smacked the side of his head. "Shit. This wasn't my stash!"
"If he wasn't with you, where was he?"
"I don't know. This is bad. This is really, really bad," Marty said, looking back at me furtively and shaking his head. "Like, you don't know how bad."
"I know how bad, you moron!"
"And he knows. He's already waiting," Marty said softly. He stood up suddenly and started to go through his pockets. I stared at him in disbelief. "We need to leave."
"And do what, Marty? I am not going to help you hide a body, if that's what you're suggesting. Jeez, go call the police!" I yelled. Marty shook his head and shot me a glance that could only be classed as condescending.
"My dear, the day I ask you to drop a body in the river is the day we follow that with dinner and a movie." He continued to pull out paper receipts, empty ounce bags, and pencil stubs. "I need a smoke."
He finally retrieved a cigarette from the depths of his back pocket and lit it with a match. He inhaled like a man downing water in the desert and sat slowly back down on the ground.
"We're in deep shit. Can you comprehend how deep?" he asked. "He didn't waste any time. I've already been told to report. You need to fix this."
I raised my eyebrows.
"Me? Dream on, Marty. You sold him the drugs, you take the fall. I am not getting involved in this."
A laugh escaped Marty's lip mid-exhale and his smoke came out like a cloud of dust. "Little girl, you are in over your head whether you like it or not. Your uncle is dead but it's a bit more complicated than signing some papers and fighting over the family silver."
"What do you mean?" I asked. Marty took another drag and regarded the lifeless body sprawled next to him. He looked about to speak, but made a fizzing sound through his teeth and started to look around him at the paintings. My jaw clenched shut in frustration.
"I've never been in your apartment sober. I don't think I've ever looked at the walls." He shivered and glanced over at me with a grimace. "These painting make him look like a fucking loon."
"You're the loon," I said.
"These paintings –" he continued, "I bet your uncle didn't tell you that when he painted his dreams, he was painting a world entirely different from yours." Marty gestured towards the walls and out the corner of
his eye watched me cross the room to the phone.
"Look, I'm giving you fair warning. I'm calling the police and you can just be here when they show up to explain."
"It wouldn't do any good. In fact, you would be making it worse for your uncle," Marty cautioned.
I groaned and rolled my eyes. "Fuck you and your fucking cryptic threats." Quick as a cobra, Marty jumped up and slammed his hand over the dial. I recoiled with a gasp, dropping the receiver and backing a few feet away.
"You obviously don't understand anything about who your uncle really is!" he hissed. Marty drew his hand back to rub his palm quickly over his buzzed head. "And here it comes. The doozy. The part where you think I'm insane."
A bit late for that, I thought.
"He's the Painter."
There was as slight pause as we looked at each other in different shades of disbelieving.
"A Painter?" I repeated sarcastically. 'I KNOW. Look around you."
"No no, not a painter. The Painter. Creator of Palet and of all existence," Marty replied reverently.
"Palet?"
"A world as real and wonderful as the one you exist in so innocently now," Marty said with a flourish before taking a dramatic drag of a cigarette. I stared at him in disbelief.
"What the fuck, Marty?"
"He's been around for hundreds of years," he continued. "Time runs differently in Palet and . . . oh Jesus, I really need a beer."
He stubbed out his cigarette on the floor and looked at his watch. "No time. Oh, shit, Maggie I messed up. But I need five minutes, that's all, and then we need to go."
"I am not going anywhere with you."
"Yes, well," Marty said, ignoring my refusal completely, "the matter involves you as well. I wish there were another way, but I must take you with me. And I will knock you about the face and carry you over my back if I have to, but I don't think Cirrus would want you damaged." He then tried to smile reassuringly, which didn't help seeing as he had just threatened to hit me over the head with a blunt object. "I'm so sorry, Maggie. But I wouldn't ask it of you if it weren't important. Your job is so much bigger than yourself and unfortunately that is how the world works most of the time."
"If my uncle dies –"
"Did you forget how this all began, Mags? He is dead!" Marty's voice rose. "What do you think he's doing there, sleeping? But the people inside his head? The world he created with these paintings . . . they aren't dead. And they want you."
He kneeled down in front of me and spoke very slowly. "Now I am going to tell about Palet and about Cirrus. Pay attention and do not forget what I say. Forgetting for a moment that you are no longer your own person will be the death of you." He reached over and patted me on the shoulder "And just remember that really, most of us want you to win."
"Win?" I whispered. The look Marty gave me was full of sympathy.
"Please, Maggie. Listen. You're about to take a very long walk . . ."
Chapter 3
"You've naturally heard of invisible friends?" Marty asked.
"I never had one," I replied. I couldn't stop myself sneaking glances over at my uncle. Still dead. I wished someone would close his eyes.
"That somehow doesn't surprise me," Marty said. "Well, I was your uncle's."
"My uncle dreamed up a scabby old hobo to play ball with at the playground?" I asked. Marty's eyes narrowed but other than that he ignored me.
"Imaginary friends, however recreationally entertaining, usually disappear as quickly as their child discovers television. Your uncle was different. One day not so long ago, he must have put me down in grease paint. It was at that moment that I suddenly found myself concrete, tangible and feeling."
"You're telling me that because he painted you, you became real?"
"Like the first man on earth, I could feel my blood flow for the first time as I took the first breath ever breathed. After feeling like that, why do you think heroin is such a rush?" Marty walked to the walls where the painted dreams hung. "They all became more than just ideas. Every one of these ugly creatures has a real face and name."
Marty looked over to one of the paintings, two angels fighting high above the plains of what looked like a great green and yellow dustbowl. One of them held an upraised silver sword, ready to plunge it into the breast of the other. My uncle had painted their bodies at the sheer limit of physical effort. Every muscle looked to be in action, straining to win over the other. Their faces, however, were serene. Their lips were slightly parted, as if speaking soft poetry. They looked at each other with the tenderness of lovers. The sword would never be thrown and the battle would forever be fought in their manner of violent quiet.
"Understand, Maggie, that every world has a very sensitive balance of good and evil. Not even evil, Maggie, but imperfection. It needs bad as much as good or it would tip into ruin. In Palet, it is understood that everyone has a responsibility to uphold the balance."
Marty held his stillness for a second before turning around.
"Now that balance is in jeopardy" he said. "The balance is being tipped and it's being tipped by a man called Cirrus." He smiled. "My new boss and your challenger. He's an important man in Palet right now. But uneasy sits the crown. You pose a real danger to his new position."
"What do you mean by that?"
Marty spread his hands wide and gave a short bow. "You're the rightful heir to the throne. You could shake things up. Make it real difficult for Cirrus if you were to ever claim your right."
I pushed out a laugh in a lame show of bravado. "Marty, he can have it. Tell your friend Cirrus that he is welcome to the kingdom of my uncle's heroin-fueled fairyland." I gestured to the door with a shaky hand. "I'll take the next world you come up with, ok?"
"Mags, this is serious."
"I'm sorry Marty. I just want you to go." Marty was shaking his head and I could feel my anger rising. "Marty, I would literally allow you to take anything you want, smash anything that's left and stick your hand down my pants for good measure. That is how much I want you to leave right now."
"Honey, on any other day I would be your stallion, But right now I need you to come with me. Cirrus has challenged your right to rule and there are . . . rules," he finishing awkwardly. Sighing, he pulled an ounce bag from his inside jacket pocket.
I blinked. Two marbles.
"This really doesn't help your case for sanity, Marty."
"Yes, hardy har har," he said, rolling his eyes and tipping both small globes of glass out of their bag. They rolled into his palm with a little click. "Swallow one."
"Excuse me?" I asked.
"Swallow. One." He took my hand and pushed one into my fist. "It'll take us to Palet. To be part of the world we need to induce the state that sustains it in the first place." I stared at the marble in my hand confusingly.
"Induce what state?"
"For Christ's sake, Maggie, it's a drug!" Marty said and I inadvertently flinched in disgust, almost dropping the glass marble to the floor. "Oh, act like an adult and take it already. I'm right here with you."
"Marty, I am not swallowing a ball of glass."
"You will swallow that marble or I will force it down your throat," Marty replied, pushing my hand up towards my mouth. I jumped back and tried to rein in my panic. My mind was desperately scrambling to keep up but was being swept along quicker than I could swim. What was Marty saying? Why is he here again?
"Marty, I don't know what is happening," I said slowly.
Marty's face softened. "Maggie, I'm sorry. Maybe I'm just crazy old Marty trying to get you high on a piece of glass." I swallowed hard and he leaned in close. "I will do my absolute best to protect you," he whispered, "which is not saying much but I haven't killed anyone yet."
I raised my head up tentatively to look at my sprawled uncle. Marty shrugged sheepishly. He cupped the marble in his hand and toasted me. "To Steve, the best friend a guy could have. To the Painter." Throwing his head back he swallowed the marble.
I considered my marble
. What's the worst that could happen? Famous last words.
"Do it," Marty said. He took a step towards me.
"Fine fine! Jeez. Down the hatch," I said, swallowing the marble and wincing painfully as the round glass slid slowly down the back of my neck. "There, Marty. Happy? Now, can you please –" But before I could continue the scene grew fuzzy. I staggered sideways and suddenly found myself in Marty's arms, clinging close to his moldy jacket and trying not to vomit. I thought – not for the first time in my life – that I might be falling in with the wrong crowd. And then my body collapsed on the ground. And my eyes went black. And I heard the faint ticking of a clock until that too become nothing.
Chapter 4
There was a little girl, who had a little curl . . .
Tick, tick, tick . . .
Who had a little curl –
Tick, tick, tick . . .
Right in the middle –
The first thing I felt was my mouth. And then my chin. I blinked in the new light, the glare of overhead fluorescent through the already fading black spots. A few moments later I felt my stomach and then – oh, Christ.
"GggaaaAAHHH!" I screamed, doubling up on myself in the fetus position. My insides felt like they were eating each other, crawling from the inside to get out. The thin carpet scratched my face and I vaguely sensed Marty kneeling over me, rubbing the sides of my arms.
"Sorry about this Cindy," I heard Marty say. "She's a newbie. She isn't used to the after effects. Say . . . do you have a bucket?"
I retched and groaned into the ground. Marty smiled embarrassingly up at the young woman behind a low counter, who was watching us with an expression of concerned patience.
We were in a large waiting room. It was silent except for the soft murmurings coming from me fighting down the nausea on the floor and the light jazz emitting from a hidden speaker system in the ceiling. The walls were papered in a floral pattern. Marty gave me a short pat on the back and straightened up to peer pleasantly over the desk.