by Tim McBain
And my eyelids flutter open, and I stare up at the church ceiling, candlelight flickering on the walls, the shadows bending and stretching everywhere. Perhaps the fear and adrenalin did one good thing if they helped hurry along my recovery from whatever shock I’m in that’s rendered me motionless.
I still can’t move much, can’t turn my head to see what the fuck is in the room with me making wildebeest noises, but looking down, I can see my arms folded on my chest, partially tucked into the red robe. Hopefully that means my feet are also untied. I try to move my hands, and my left pinky twitches slightly. So yeah, I’m not going anywhere for a while, but it’s better than nothing.
And then I remember that this robe used to be white. That the red color to it is my blood soaking it entirely, poured out everywhere, still wet, pooling on the altar on both sides of me. The fact that it’s still liquid, that none of it has gone dry or even a little brown tells me that not much time has passed since the knife was pulled from my heart. It also tells me that there’s no way I should be alive, but I kind of knew that one already. Not too many people survive a full on heart stab, right?
Ragged breaths puff in and out, a little closer to me than the demonic noises, and my chest constricts, fear floundering in my torso again. I close my eyes. I want to run. I want to tear out of here, sprinting. I can see it in my mind, the point of view of me zooming out of here, gliding down the steps, out through the front doors into the daylight. And when I get outside I don’t stop, I run straight across the street, into the cornfield, dried-out husks of corn stalks scratching at my legs as I fly through them, all papery. I reach the end of the corn and keep going, crossing a street and running between houses.
When I open my eyes, though, I still stare at the ceiling. I still see the shadows flicker along with the flames of the candles. I still can’t move.
The breathing morphs into violent bursts of high-pitched whimpering, whining on the way in and almost neighing on the way out. It sounds like a dog panicking in a crate, snarf noises mixing in, abrupt throat clicks and scrapes. I can’t tell if it’s the same being or not. It barely sounds human either, but the first one lacked any trace of humanity. This whimpering is closer to me than the other one, too.
Jesus.
Shit.
Not to be rude, but I’d really like to step outside if this pair of fucking were-demons doesn’t mind. But oh no, Grobnagger. Don’t trouble yourself with all of that. Just lie here a while in a gallon of your own blood. Hell, make yourself at home. Sprawl out, man.
And now the whimper reverts to panting breaths, and I hear footsteps as it shuffles closer and closer. And now I’m paralyzed twice – once from whatever shock I’m in and now further from the pants-shitting fear. And hey, for all I know I just did shit my pants, and I didn’t feel a thing.
I lie still and blink a lot. I kind of want to close my eyes, commit to the whole playing dead notion, at least until I can move again, but I can’t do it. I’m too scared to look and too scared to not, so I blink. A lot. The ceiling flitters in and out of my eyelashes, disappearing and reappearing over and over again.
Nausea crawls from my stomach to my throat to the back of my mouth, a twitter of sick that bloats my middle and washes over me, like a wave of dread and loathing. It narrows my eyes to slits and makes me gag and wish I could get away from it, makes me wish I could just vomit to get it out of me. And I hover in that place a moment, the sickness swelling and swelling and beginning to block out my sense of reality. And the sick feeling finally forces my eyes shut for a beat, like I’ll definitely barf if I leave them open any longer.
And a puff of breath emits closer still, I think from nostrils based on the sound, and I feel its flutter on my cheek, just the tiniest stirring of air, the faintest warmth. And my skin crawls all up and down me, goosebumps firing everywhere like thousands of flare guns warning me to get the hell out of here, and the tingle of fear is everywhere, inside of me, on my skin, in the air. It smothers me.
And I’m frozen. I can’t move. I can’t breathe. I’m not even sure how my heart has the balls to keep beating. It does, though, slamming away in my chest like a kick drum in double time.
And a sigh coos from just over me. It sounds like a dog yawning. And then the footsteps shuffle off, moving away from me out into the aisle running between the rows of pews.
And I open my eyes. And I can breathe again, which I celebrate by wheezing air in and out of me at an incredible rate, flecks of spit flying out of my mouth when I exhale. And the disconnected part of me tries to picture what kind of frightened rodent I look like just now, with my eyes wide open and my mouth agape, chest quaking as I pant for breath. Hamster is a possibility here, but I’m going with flying squirrel, I think.
I feel sweat drip down from my forehead, trailing off along my brow and running down the sides of my head just above my ears. Something about how long this perspiration runoff takes emphasizes how far into slow motion I’ve gone. Every second stretches out for what feels like an eon, an eternity. How long have I been conscious now? Maybe a few minutes. Maybe not even that long.
Black spots dapple the edge of my vision, and I know I’m not getting enough oxygen. I’m panicking, and I’m going to pass out. And I close my eyes again, and I concentrate on slowing my breathing down, getting it away from the hyperventilation realm.
And I realize as I lie there, struggling to not inhale and exhale so quickly that I knock myself out, that once more I need to give in. I need to accept my powerlessness. I can’t freak out about it. I have to incorporate it into my understanding of my life and my circumstances. I have to let go, accept the fact that I’m paralyzed, powerless, small and have no control over what is going on.
And if I do that, if I let go, I might have a chance. I might not, but I might.
It’s better than nothing.
With my eyes closed, I block everything out. I don’t hear the breathing or the whimpering or the growling or the footsteps around me. I don’t sense the flutter of the candlelight through my eyelids. I don’t smell the smoke or the incense. I don’t feel the sop of the blood-logged robe clinging to my skin. I don’t even feel the fear that makes my heart pound in triplets and shoots cold electricity all through me.
Instead, I turn everything inward, every bit of focus, every shred of willpower, directing it all inside. I retract, falling into myself until nothing outside can touch me, sucked up into my head totally and fully. And for these few moments--maybe just a few seconds, it’s hard to say--my weakness becomes my strength. The endless layers of self consciousness that usually pick me apart now offer me some comfort. The part of myself that torments me offers me a respite, helps me find some peace.
Chapter 46
I open my eyes when the screaming starts, a series of yips and harsh gagging sounds that I mistake for some demonic laughter at first. But no. These are screams, horrible pained howls that make my shoulders shudder, make my eyes squint, my mouth pucker. These are the sounds of misery, of some being in unspeakable agony.
I feel helpless again, so I do the only thing I can again: I cringe. I wince. I try to shrink away from this other person’s pain, though it’s more of a twitch than really shrinking since I still can’t move much.
And my fear takes on a twinge of sympathy. No beast deserves to suffer this way – not Farber, not whatever werewolves I’ve been lying here listening to. Nobody. The dread welling inside of me brings a feeling of deja vu with it. It dredges up a childhood memory of watching a dog get hit by a car. The animal cried out with two screeching yelps, took a few steps and then flopped over, little ribcage still panting a while, eyes watering, blinking. I didn’t know what to do, so I just stood there at a distance, watched the animal die alone.
And I’ve never felt so helpless, never felt so useless. Until now.
When a second series of anguished yells joins in, out of tune from the first, I have to really focus to not let panic take hold again. I take a few controlled breaths, in slowly an
d out slower. And I stare into the ceiling, beyond which is a sky that may or may not care about what is happening here, may or may not care about all of the suffering that unfolds here each and every day.
The two voices wail together, drifting in and out of harmony with each other. Mostly out. It’s hard to not think about pack animals howling at the moon, all of the voices lifting together in a way that’s pitiful and lonely.
My torso quivers, muscles jerking along my ribcage and belly, making me squirm involuntarily. And the detached part of me thinks maybe this is good, that maybe any movement is good movement for now, that it might be a sign of me recovering mobility before long.
I look down at my hand, try to ball it into a fist. After a second my fingers move, but just barely, more like a faint tremble than a clenched fist, but it’s better than before. I wish I could get a peak under the robe, to see what my injury looks like, but I can’t muster that kind of maneuver at this point.
And the sobs grow louder, more mournful, more frightened, more shrill. The voices rise and fall over each other, one with a grainier texture, a rasp, the other veering into falsetto more frequently. The second is the one that gets me. The high-pitched moaning sounds like a suffering child, and I can’t take it. It makes me grit my teeth. I wish I could put my hands over my ears to block it all out. Instead, I do nothing.
My shoulders spasm again, trying to writhe and not quite pulling it off. I can’t even be upset or fearful correctly, which the detached part of me finds amusing.
And now I hear wet sounds and a plop, like a soggy piece of bread falling on the floor, or maybe a melted piece of cheese flopping onto the counter. And the raspy set of moans cuts off into gagging noises, into choked throat sounds, dry coughs trying to retch up actual lung chunks.
It hacks away for some time, the sounds growing throatier, more desperate, the falsetto whinny still accompanying it.
And then there’s a big cough, a heave bigger than all of the rest combined. It makes me picture burst blood vessels in eyeballs, a neck rippled with veins, like surely something spewed out as the result of such exerted force. And something heavy topples to the ground, a small thump followed by a louder one.
And everything is quiet for the first time in a while, and something about that is more uncomfortable than anything that has come before. A new energy descends upon the room, all still and awkward, both voices suddenly silent like a pair of moths.
I remember to breathe, to channel my anxiety into self control instead of panic. Whatever is going on out there, I can’t control it. I can’t affect it, so I shouldn’t worry about it, at least not to a level of hysteria.
Just breathe. I let my eyes droop closed, the air puffing up my chest and then deflating it on the way out a few times. It seems to help.
I look down, try to wiggle my fingers. They move. They’re quite weak, my motions inarticulate and sheepish, and I don’t really have much sensation in them for now, but this is progress. This is reason for hope.
And the whimpering picks back up, just the falsetto voice, a little more aggressive now, little barks of anguish, high pitched shrieks like some mouthy little dog with its face pressed up against a window, furious at the squirrel on the other side of the glass that it can never get to. There’s a note of outrage to it, like a toddler incredulous at how not fair the world is, a gutless kind of indignation, an impotence, a fatalism. It sings a song of defeat. It postures as anger, as something aggressive, but it’s not a rage with any intent to rise up against its antagonist. It’s a rage lamenting a loss, bemoaning its powerlessness. A rage that knows it’s pathetic.
And the barks grow even more piercing, more thin and sharp. My eyelids flutter without my say so, trying to shield me from these awful sounds. And then there are three thrusts of a gagging sound, like the sound of that suction tube at the dentist that vacuums spittle out of your mouth, and the whimper cuts out, replaced by another heavy thud on the floor.
And it’s quiet again. And I think maybe I’m alone, for the moment, at least. But the silence troubles me, makes the urge to wriggle well up in me until it overflows. I have to get the fuck out of here. I try to sit up, but my head doesn’t budge, my abdominals disobey me. I remain limp and lifeless and glued to this fancy table by my own bodily fluids.
I stop myself. I breathe. I close my eyes and breathe.
And then footsteps thump out there somewhere, all heavy like sledgehammers thwacking the floor and coming right at me.
Chapter 47
The pounding of feet halts, and a scream comes from the same vicinity. It sounds wild like a jaguar about to kill. And I feel my body go to loosen my bladder, but I manage to intervene, holding back the urine for the time being.
And then quiet falls on us again, and I am frozen like before, shoulders quivering ever so faintly. The silence is broken by a stray pound on the floor and then another.
What the shit? I can no longer imagine a scenario that could piece these sounds into a narrative that makes any sense. It’s fucking nonsense.
And I try to rotate my head to get a look for the first time in a while. To my surprise, the muscles in my neck comply, going too far even, shifting my head all the way over to the right so my face plops in the pool of blood on the altar. Jarred by the impact, by the splash of cold blood on my cheek and forehead, I lie there a moment, blinking, and then I remember to look out, to find the source of the sound.
As my head swivels up out of the red puddle, my eyes fall on a golden mask on the floor first; the expressionless eye holes stare into mine, apparently unmoved by whatever terror transpires in this room at the moment. My vision drifts up from there, toward the robed figure standing in the aisle, faced away from me. He staggers there, not really going anywhere, just taking choppy steps in place, struggling to stay upright. The footsteps bludgeon the floor, clumsy, too much weight behind them like the person is drunk or otherwise inebriated.
And I remember to check my wound, my eyes dancing back to my chest, my hands just strong enough to peel the soaked fabric away from my torso. I find only smooth skin underneath. No signs of the stab wound that tore through to my heart, not so much as a scratch.
I flop my head toward the sound again, this time managing to put on the brakes in time to avoid a sequel to the cold blood spatter. It takes a second for my eyes to refocus in the half light. My pupils constrict, and the blurry shape sharpens into a robed form again. Human... I think.
The hooded figured turns a little, and in profile I can see the arms bending upward, the hands cupping at the face. But between the bad angle and the hands obscuring things, I can’t make out who it is, can’t tell what causes its suffering.
He thrashes back and forth, guttural sounds grating out of his throat that give way to more screams. Furious noises, hateful ones. While the others mustered feigns at aggressive sound that ultimately rang out in a powerless way, this voice’s aggression is authentic and terrifying. Every scream makes adrenalin pump ice into my veins, makes my lips pull back in a grimace. Before it was like listening to a small dog. This is like a silverback gorilla going off in a supernova level tantrum out there.
And he turns toward me, and his hands move up to the top of his head, and I can see. I can see his face. And it’s Farber, but he’s not quite right. He’s not quite himself. His eyes smolder, the hatred as bright as a flame in them, but that’s not what seems different. His complexion is off, his skin all waxy, and it’s not just the glossy sheen that seems off. It’s the place where the skin seems to pull taut. Along his jaw looks bulbous, like the shiny skin wants to pull that direction somehow. And his cheekbones look emaciated, just the thinnest wisp of flesh covering them, all hard angles and sunken underneath.
He looks at me, but I know he doesn’t see me. He’s fucked up. I don’t know if he sees anything that’s going on. Maybe that’s why he was stomping around like a drunken sailor a second ago.
And he hisses and spit squirts between his teeth, little flecks of foam shooting o
ut of his mouth.
And his hands shroud his face again for a moment, and when they drop away I see that both of his eyes droop now, the flesh around them sagging down into his cheeks, baking a permanently sad expression onto his face. The corners of his mouth suffer the same fate, the pink of his lips smearing into the fattening sack of flesh swathing his chin and jawline. And his nose seems to flatten before my eyes, the skin going soft, the point dissolving into the rest of his face.
And he screams again, and he sounds different now, like some hateful carrion bird trying to protect its dead raccoon from the other death eaters, the squawk all scratchy coming out of his throat.
And then his skin detaches from the cheek bone on one side, a flap of wet red dangling from his jaw, unveiling stringy muscle and teeth and bone, blood drizzling down from the open place. And his mouth opens and shuts a few times, teeth parting and clacking together, as though he’s trying to feel the extent of the damage. In his expression, however, I don’t read any real sense of an understanding of his situation, just the same vague aggression as before.
He thrashes again, lunging in frustration, balled fists jerking with no place to go, nothing to hit, the drooping bit of flesh lurching and swaying and smacking into his neck. And his mouth opens, and he pants for breath, and I watch as the skin from his forehead slouches to cover his right eye, the flesh about the consistency of cheese dip at this point.
And the jaw flap falls away from his face, landing on the seat of the front row pew with a wet slap. And this he seems to see. He freezes for a second, eyes locked on the severed bit of himself. And then he kneels, fingers scrabbling over the sheet of flesh in a panic, getting a grip, lifting it like a bloody dish rag and trying to press it back to his face. He palms it to his cheek, fingers pressing along the top edge like they can reseal it to the bone, but it drains out around the sides of his hand, going to sludge as he handles it.