Beyond Anon

by Giglio, Peter

  No cuts yet. The bracelet was still on her right wrist.

  Start again…

  She put the blade on the edge of the tub, then grabbed a bar of soap and started washing.

  No matter what, days of detachment were in the past. There was something worth fighting for.

  And she would win.

  —Chapter Eight—

  1

  Michelle went back to work on Monday with a clear head and an attitude to match. Every time Malcolm Conner said something that struck her wrong, she raised her hand and corrected him.

  She had to be here; she didn’t have to make it easy for her abusers, like she had so many times in school.

  The first few times it happened, Sabrina jabbed her in the arm and shot her a disapproving glare. That didn’t stop Michelle. And Sabrina, to Michelle’s delight, eventually got into the spirit of taunting the trainer, as did others in the class.

  Conner, who met most of the retorts with dumb-eyed shock, was an exceedingly easy target, but he soldiered through the early morning session.

  After lunch, he launched into a section on credit scores.

  “Credit worthiness,” he said, “determines customer value. If the score is over seven-sixty, then it’s too high. That means the customer has a propensity toward on-time payments within the grace period, and we, as a result, stand to make less or nothing from them. But if the score is too low—”

  “Wait,” Michelle said, not bothering to raise her hand. “So you’re telling me that a customer can be denied for having too high a credit score?”

  “Not exactly,” the trainer tersely replied. “But we would offer our services with a higher interest rate and no grace period.” He pressed a button. A graph appeared on the wall. “This is the curve that—”

  “You mean we’re penalizing people for being too responsible?” Sabrina chimed in.

  “Sounds pretty shitty,” Michelle blurted. A chorus of chuckles went around the room.

  “I’ve worked for several credit companies,” Sabrina said. “This is the first I’ve heard of prohibitive lending for those with spotless credit histories.”

  Conner took a deep breath and tried to explain. “With all due respect, Ms. Drake, Anon Financial is not like other credit companies. We—”

  “Don’t you mean you?” Michelle said. “I don’t remember anyone consulting me about what I want to do for people who pay their bills on time.”

  Malcolm slammed the training manual shut. “I’ve had enough of this,” he said, striding toward the exit. At the door, he turned. “Michelle Breedlove and Sabrina Drake, come with me.”

  “I think we’re in trouble,” Sabrina whispered.

  “Yeah,” Michelle said. They were allies again, and Michelle couldn’t keep the smile from her face. “Sorry.”

  “Hey, what did I tell you about apologizing?”

  They followed the trainer, Sabrina mockingly waddling like him for a few steps.

  “Stop that,” Michelle said. “You’re going to make me laugh.”

  Conner led them into a room with no tables and chairs. “Wait here,” he said, then slammed the door.

  Sabrina walked around, inspecting the space. “Looks like a recording studio,” she said.

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Parents bought me a little studio time last year. I thought I was going to be a big recording star for a minute.”

  “Thought you were going to be a writer?”

  “If you haven’t figured it out yet, girl, I’m what normal people call flaky.”

  Michelle laughed. “Now that you mention it.”

  “Shut up. You were supposed to say something nice in my defense.”

  “I didn’t know if you still liked me or not,” Michelle said.

  “Uh…” A sullen expression swept Sabrina’s face. “I do like you, Michelle. I’m sorry that—”

  “I could really use a friend sometimes. You know, I live alone in a big house. Maybe this weekend, if you want to, you could come and stay with me. Nothing, uh, serious or anything. It’s just been a long time since I’ve had anyone to talk to.”

  “That sounds nice, but—”

  “But you can’t.”

  “We’ll see,” Sabrina said.

  Changing the subject, trying not to sound hurt, Michelle said, “It’s weird that there’s no place to sit.”

  “Yeah, I’ve been disciplined before but never—”

  The door swung open, revealing Malcolm Conner; at his sides, Stan and River Drake.

  “You’ve got to be kidding?” Sabrina said. “What is this—third grade? You went and told my parents?”

  Malcolm stepped into the room, nodded at the expressionless Drakes, then moved aside as they entered. River closed the door and walked toward her daughter. Stan made his way for Michelle.

  Two on two, Michelle thought. But none of this made sense. Before she could say a word, Malcolm put a tight hand around her mouth, using his other hand to hold her in place.

  “Dad,” Sabrina pleaded, not even looking at her approaching mother, who started pulling something from her yellow blazer, “what’re you doing to my friend?”

  “Fucking dyke,” Stan whispered in Michelle’s ear. “Spoiling my good daughter. My precious fucking daughter.”

  “Dad!” Sabrina shouted.

  Michelle watched River Drake’s hand come away with a butcher knife. She thrashed futilely, trying to break free from Stan’s strong arms. All she could manage were muffled cries.

  Sabrina turned too late, the blade slashing her throat. She staggered back, grasping her neck, blood pooling around her fingers, and collapsed.

  River wasted no time. Holding the knife above her head, she lunged at the dying girl. Stabbed and stabbed and…

  Stan’s hand came away from Michelle’s mouth, though his grip on her body didn’t lessen.

  “Help us!” Michelle screamed. “Help us!” Then, remembering what Sabrina had said about the soundproofed look of the room, she felt light-headed.

  In the corner, Malcolm Conner cackled. “Serves you bitches right,” he said.

  Stan Drake pulled Michelle’s face toward his. “Fucking Dyke!” he shouted. Then he spit in her eyes and threw her down.

  She thudded on her ass, numbness spreading, unable to move, unable to think. She could only watch and couldn’t even do that well, her vision cloudy.

  Stan joined his wife above their prone and bloody daughter. He reached into his jacket and pulled out a matching knife. The couple shared a brief smile and kiss.

  “Are you ready?” River asked.

  “Ready,” he said.

  In a staggering display of speed, they swiped blades across their own throats.

  “For Anon,” River gurgled.

  “For Anon,” echoed Stan.

  Then they fell, joining their daughter in death on the floor.

  “Why?” Michelle cried.

  Malcolm Conner, standing above Michelle, sang: “Go to sleep, go to sleep, go to sleep, little biii-iitch.”

  And Michelle passed out cold.

  2

  If there was one thing Miles Winslow hated more than insubordination, it was creativity.

  Fingers steepled beneath his chin, he sat behind Faith Breedlove’s former desk and thought about the Drakes—faithful, obedient employees who never stepped out of line. Not that he cared about them. Far from it. But now they were wasted assets. And, more importantly, time had been wasted. Precious time.

  Through the open door, Malcolm Conner slogged. He took a seat, face haggard and eyes tired. “I’m sorry,” he said.

  Filled with anger, Winslow wasn’t fast to respond.

  “The Breedlove girl stepped out of line,” Conner said. “She had to be taught a—”

  “You didn’t sleep last night,” Winslow said. “Why is that?”

  “No…I mean yes…it’s true…I—”

  “You were worried. You still are.”

  Conner nodded.

&
nbsp; “And why,” Winslow said, “would you be worried, Mr. Conner? Why would a leader within this organization, the expediter of so many dreams, need to worry?”

  “I don’t know, sir.”

  “What were my instructions regarding the Breedlove girl?”

  “If she stepped out of line, ignore it. If her actions couldn’t be ignored, come to you.”

  Winslow looked across the room as he nodded. In the corner, his younger self smoked a cigarette, the owner of a knowing expression. His younger self was a constant reminder of the prize, a thing that Winslow respected, but he wished his companion would make himself scarce more frequently than not. He redirected his gaze to Conner. “So my words were clear?”

  “Crystal. I just—”

  “You just what, Mr. Conner? Decided to ignore them?”

  “No, no, of course—I tried to call you but you weren’t available.”

  Winslow got up and began pacing the room. “I’m a busy man, often out of pocket. You know that. You should have left a message and waited for me.”

  “But…” A faint smile cracked Conner’s lips. “But the solution seemed so clear, so…elegant.”

  Standing behind him, Winslow put a hand on the man’s shoulder. “I empowered you, as I do with all my leaders.”

  Without looking back, Conner said, “Thank you, sir.”

  “I’ve always known what a sick man you are, but I thought your odd outlook would come in handy.”

  “I appreciate that. You don’t know how hard—”

  “I was wrong.”

  “Again, I’m sorry. Cleanup is complete. The Drakes are wiped—never existed.”

  Winslow unhanded the man and turned to his younger self, looking for guidance.

  Young Miles shrugged and took another drag from his cigarette.

  Some fucking help. He enjoys watching this old fool try his hand at improvisation, thought Miles. His younger self clicked his tongue and feigned indignation, smile never dissolving.

  A painful spasm rippled through Winslow’s back. One of his maladies, which always flared up when he was agitated, but it meant more; he was getting older, and that troubled him above all else.

  Winslow made his arm into a snake. His younger self bellowed laughter.

  Conner turned to Winslow. “It won’t happen again. I promise.” Then he looked down at Winslow’s coiled arm and gasped.

  The snake-arm leaped at Conner, wrapping itself around his neck. He dropped out of his chair, kneeling on the floor, face turning red.

  Winslow’s body vibrated as the powerful serpent did its job.

  It didn’t take long for life to leave the trainer’s eyes, or for Winslow’s arm to take normal shape.

  Young Miles joined Winslow at his side, still laughing. “Dark aspects are so unstable,” he said.

  “He was slated to be one of Oak Lawn’s Curse Keepers.”

  “You’ll find another. Besides, it’s not like Clear River rebuilt after losing her Keepers. Scorched earth is scorched earth.”

  “But if the economy rebounds—”

  “Spoken like a true optimist.”

  “Fuck you.”

  —Chapter Nine—

  1

  She slips in and out of consciousness with no sense of time.

  White walls.

  The beep of a monitor.

  A needle in her arm.

  Distorted faces swim in and out of the miasma.

  But most of her moments are wrapped in darkness.

  In rare seconds of something approaching clear headedness, she tries to work out the logic of her situation. Tries but fails, edges of reason trailing away more quickly than she can grasp.

  She wants to pull her arms free, but they’re strapped to the bed. So are her legs.

  The ghosts of her past sometimes visit but say nothing. Tortured images projected against the back of her mind—victims and victimizers alike…

  Silently judging her with accusatory eyes.

  Voices occasionally bleed into gray corners of her mind. Indecipherable. Far away. Maddening.

  And sometimes she hears the rattle of discordant notes. Distant then close then distant again, reminding her of Grammie’s wind chimes from the garden, only more haunting. Unnatural.

  She finds herself thinking about animals in a rare flash of ease, specifically cats, and she remembers how much she loved them as a child. Asks herself why she doesn’t have a pet. Then she thinks of blue skies and wonders if she will ever see one again. If she does, she wants to enjoy it with a cat. A cat and a friend.

  No. Friends are dangerous. They only die.

  But, she tells herself, cats can die, too.

  She screams at her desperation but makes no sound. Damns her unfulfilled life then tries to fit the broken pieces together.

  She wants to learn guitar…

  She wants to travel more…

  She wants saltier snacks and fresher beverages and a llama named Fred and a gun named Ted and…

  She wants—

  A hideous, disjointed puzzle takes shape.

  Nothing fits.

  Nothing solves anything.

  Then darkness returns, and she welcomes it.

  2

  Michelle opened her eyes, and the room didn’t spin. Her arms and legs were still bound, but her head felt clear. From the high corner of the room, her name was called softly. She turned her attention to an attractive, middle-aged woman on a wall-mounted video monitor.

  “Where am I?” Michelle asked.

  “You’re in a safe place,” the image said. “My name is Dr. Honeywell.”

  “I’m not supposed to be here.”

  “Michelle, you had a break with reality, I’m afraid. Your employer brought you here for your own protection.”

  “My employer murdered my friend right in front of my eyes. They—”

  “Michelle, you’ve been through a lot. Losing your mother and grandfather in a short span of time—”

  “Let me out of here!” Michelle shouted. “You don’t understand!”

  “Please, don’t make matters hard on yourself. You passed out at work. When you came around, you threatened others and yourself. Do you remember?”

  Michelle shook her head. “I remember passing out, after Sabrina was killed and—”

  “I brought you out of chemical restraints to talk to you, Michelle, to assess your mental state, and I so hoped you would be better.”

  “Let me out of here!”

  “Next time you wake, I pray you’re at peace with the truth.”

  A burble from the IV bag. Michelle watched the line attached to her arm, red liquid swimming through saline, bleeding closer…closer…

  “What do you want me to say?” Michelle pleaded at the screen. “What do I need to say to get out of here?”

  “You just need to tell yourself the truth.” The doctor sighed, fingering her brow.

  “But I…”

  The room started spinning.

  “Anon isn’t the enemy,” the doctor said.

  “I…”

  Then Michelle fell softly into the gray.

  3

  Lucidity came with a bright flash and a gasp. Michelle found herself propped up in bed, no longer bound. Dr. Honeywell, not an image on a monitor, sat beside her in an orange chair. A clipboard resting in her lap, she removed the IV needle from Michelle’s heavily bruised arm.

  “How long have I been here?” Michelle whispered, throat sore. It felt like she’d been eating glass.

  “Four days,” the doctor said, pulling a small square object from her white coat. She pressed a button on the thing then spoke into it: “Thursday, September thirteen, two thousand-eighteen, Four-nineteen p.m. Patient, Michelle Breedlove.” She rested the recording device on top of her clipboard and shook hair out of her eyes. “Now then.”

  “Seems like…longer,” Michelle said.

  The doctor handed her a glass of water. “Don’t worry. It’s not drugged.”

  Michelle to
ok a long greedy drink then rested the glass in her lap. “My throat’s like a desert.”

  “You’ve had time to rest and think,” the doctor said.

  Michelle nodded, though it wasn’t true. She could no more think on dope than perform a high-wire act; but Honeywell’s expectations pointed like daggers from her eyes. “I had a break with reality,” Michelle said.

  The truth lies…

  “Yes, you did,” Honeywell agreed.

  Michelle took another drink of water. “When can I leave?”

  “Soon,” the doctor said. “A few more questions first.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Who is Sabrina Drake?”

  Michelle pushed back tears and said, “I don’t know who that is.”

  “You seem tormented by the mention of that name. Is there any reason why?”

  “This whole episode has been very taxing for me. I guess she was someone I read about in a book once. I’m not really sure.”

  “Your employer has very generously held your job for you. You’ll return to work soon. How does that make you feel?”

  Michelle swallowed the dry lump in her throat. “Grateful.”

  The doctor drew Michelle’s attention to a vase on the table by her bed; within it, an arrangement of red roses and pink peonies. Michelle’s efforts not to cry became unbearable, numbness pricking every inch of her trembling body. She took a deep breath and said, “Very…nice.”

  Honeywell pressed another button on the recording device and slipped it back into her coat. Then she walked across the room, gathered a neatly folded stack of clothes from a chair, and brought them to Michelle. “Get dressed,” she said. “Your ride is here to take you home.”

  “Who’s here?” Michelle asked.

  The doctor didn’t answer, just smiled and left the room.

  4

  Twenty minutes later, Michelle dressed and waiting on the edge of the bed, Dr. Honeywell returned.

  Michelle approached the door. The doctor frowned. “Aren’t you going to take your flowers with you?”