Shards

by Shane Jiraiya Cummings

  Red spots blaze before his eyes. He yelps, caught off guard by the agony that spears through his leg from his foot. A disturbingly fast stream of blood courses from the skewer jutting from his sole.

  That did the trick!

  His arm is a hell of a lot less demanding about being scratched now. Even better, when he does scratch, which he does, his nerves are much less enthusiastic about doing the jig.

  Blood pools on the cushion and flows in little torrents into the cracks in between. The pain is still incredible, but rather than messing up the sofa further, he raises his injured foot over the back of the sofa and leans into the corner. The carpet can be cleaned. He laughs a little with his leg in the air. The temptation enters his mind to turn on the TV to see if his new flesh and steel aerial would help with the reception.

  Of course, it won't.

  He turns back to his itch.

  He flexes his cold hand---his dying hand, he corrects---while he rakes his nails in slow arcs along his arm. If it wasn't for the skewer in his foot, he'd be able to luxuriate in the sensation.

  As he passes directly over the ragged lump, he notices a subtle change. A new pain blossoms as he touches it. The lump is weeping once more. That clear stuff mostly, a little blood. But there's something different. It feels harder.

  Maybe it is a wrist bone?

  He clenches his cold hand but it continues to grow colder by the second. The blood covering his wrist and forearm has caked. It's crimson-brown in the failing light, sticky and irritating now. The warmth it once held is gone.

  He squints to examine the condition of his hand, but the sunlight just isn't there. He'd get up to turn on the light, but ... Skewers in the fleshy part of the foot might help nerve sensitivities, but they suck when it comes to walking.

  The dried blood feels like a coat of paint, stuck there for good, a scarlet bandage. He scratches at it, ignoring for a moment the hard raised lump. It does no good. The blood's there to stay.

  Still scratching, still sprawled over the sofa, he spies the bloody handprint on the coffee table once more.

  It's a nice handprint. Strong. Virile, even.

  He studies his scratched-up forearm, the caked skin with hairs caught like bugs in tar. The hand at the end of it is growing stiffer, colder.

  He ceases his scratching and prodding. He tunes into the silence. Concentration music. Silence.

  At last, he notices a second lump, then a third, slowly pushing up through the skin.

  Then his eyes come to rest on the kitchen drawer near his foot, and all the utensils therein. The knives, the scissors, the sharp and unfathomable things that belong to a kitchen.

  He looks from the utensils to the handprint on the table to his own hand, and back again.

  Sharp. Metal.

  His hand. Dying. To be reborn.

  (His old hand to be shed? A stumpy arm the trade-off?)

  The bloody handprint. $239 overdue to the power company. Six elegant smears.

  His hand. Dying.

  Sharp. Metal.

  He props himself up awkwardly, still careful to keep his dripping foot elevated off the sofa (carpet steam-cleaning from $39, same day service, gets all the niggly stains out), as he rummages through the drawer once more.

  His fingers pass across the razor edges of the scissors, a cleaver, and several knives, before he decides. This time he retrieves two items---another skewer and the cheese grater (barely used, only a hint of rust).

  He flicks through the reflexology book while doing his best to ignore the rising itch from the new lumps.

  (Scratch me! Scratch me!)

  The page found, he memorises the nerve point of the foot linked to his hand, his dying hand.

  Before he does the deed a second time, he tests the weight of the grater against his skin. It's cold and prickly on the back of his hand, but not much colder than the skin itself. He lightly runs the grater along his hand and wrist, down to the newly formed lumps.

  (SCRATCH ME!)

  It feels good. The itch is appeased for the moment.

  He smiles and wonders what life will be like with his magnificent new hand. "Lopsided" he says, and then chuckles.

  He listens to the silence in the house as darkness completely takes hold. It's a good moment. Dark. Quiet.

  There's just the matter of a stab to the foot and a little carving. Grating, to be precise. The new hand needs room to grow.

  He nods and closes his eyes, and then begins the long task of scratching.

  * * *

  Stop

  STOP.

  The sign stood guardian to the intersection of Wedgewood Road and Joondalup Drive. A busy arterial feeding onto an even busier four-laner. This time of the morning, the peak-hour traffic was near-suicidal.

  STOP.

  Paul heeded the sign every day on his morning drive to work. It was the first marker of his daily drudgery. Every morning it was red and cheery in its way but always there to regulate. To safeguard and protect. He'd often nod his head to the STOP sign in those moments before a gap opened in the traffic that he could exploit. He'd sometimes mutter "hi" when he nodded, more to unrust his vocal chords than to greet the sign.

  This morning, the sign appeared sombre as he approached the line of cars at the intersection. The red octagon appeared darker, sharper, more intense about stopping the Wedgewood Road traffic. Ahead, a white Mitsubishi waited for more than two minutes at the intersection before slipping free. Paul noted the traffic gaps appear but the dark red of the STOP sign held sway over car and driver. Not even the honking of the three cars ahead of him could overcome the sign's thrall.

  STOP means STOP. In bold white letters. STOP.

  As Paul crept forward, intent on the flow of traffic, he kept glancing at his watch. The blue Toyota that had pulled to the front of the queue in the Mitsubishi's wake was halted for nearly three minutes. Again, the gaps appeared as cars rumbled along Joondalup Drive. Again, the driver delayed a fraction too long each time, caught in the red glare of the STOP sign. The Toyota eventually escaped to a chorus of car horns.

  Within a dozen metres of the sign, his pulse slowed and thickened. The "hi" and casual nod he'd mentally rehearsed faltered as much as the driver's nerve up ahead.

  STOP. There was a message in that. STOP.

  He glanced at his watch again. 7.44 am. With a three minute average wait time to break onto Joondalup Drive, two minutes to the freeway, and an unbroken thirty-five minute run into the city, he'd timed his morning to perfection.

  Another car scraped into the flow of traffic. Its entry onto Joondalup Drive was sluggish and a minivan was forced to slow down to allow the car in.

  "Hi," Paul muttered to the STOP sign. Ritual was important, even if mistimed. His jaunty nod was barely more than a twitch.

  He looked up at the sign and stopped. It was crimson, as though flushed with blood.

  STOP. An eye with a white pupil swimming in red. Its gaze, stern and uncompromising, anchored him in his driver's seat. His legs were dead weights. Pins and needles tingled along them. The sensation pulsed through his fingers, too, as he gripped the wheel tighter.

  He blinked. The tradie's ute ahead of him had taken off. Brakes squealed as a passing sedan nearly slammed into the ute. To Paul, the ute moved like a sliding brick, seeming to lose momentum the further it pulled out onto Joondalup Drive. A crash was barely avoided when the braking sedan chopped into the inside lane, giving the ute a long horn blast as it went past.

  His turn now. A lull in traffic loomed, enough for him to merge with seconds to spare. He tapped at the accelerator, stuttered forward, and then pumped the brake. The car rocked from the sudden halt. His heart rocked with the car, filling his chest to bursting.

  A horn blasted from behind. He flinched at the sound, checked the rear-view mirror and saw an Asian woman scowling over the top of her too-big steering wheel. She blasted the horn, a staccato rumble from deep within the bowels of her Landcruiser, to dispel any doubt as to who was in the rig
ht.

  Paul wrenched his gaze from her, took a second to study his own flushed face, calm his pounding heart, and then stared at the sign again.

  It was just a sign. His sign: STOP. Holding him in place.

  It had grown darker. The shade of congealed blood.

  "Come on," Paul muttered at his dashboard, "no more."

  The Landcruiser blasted its horn again. Another gap had opened in the traffic, but closed too quickly for him to move. Even if he'd been on the ball, it was too risky for him, too small a gap. Obviously, the woman behind him disagreed.

  His heart thudded harder than before as the seconds ticked away. Cars and trucks thundered past. Their colours blurred and swam. His life---friends and deals and missed opportunities, the loves lost and gains never ventured---it all passed before him like the traffic. Fleeting, all of it. Moments of caution punctured by STOP signs.

  Another car horn sounded from behind, joined by the now-familiar boom of the Landcruiser.

  Paul flinched. He hit the accelerator and the car leapt forward into the stream of vehicles/memories flashing before his eyes.

  A different horn blasted once, twice, much louder and coming from the side. He didn't see the bullbar expanding to fill his driver's side window. Instead, his eyes were still fixed on the STOP sign. His forward progress couldn't get him past its red face. The sign blazoned its white letters S T O P into his mind, its scarlet background filling his consciousness.

  He didn't stop, though; he sped forward, heedless of the sign's warning, heedless of his instincts, and closed his eyes at the last, shutting STOP out of his thoughts for one fleeting moment.

  For the first time in his life, he abandoned the comfort of the signs, his sign, STOP, and took a chance.

  The bullbar slammed into his door, into Paul, but the sign had lost its sway.

  STOP means STOP, but for the first time in his life, and the last, Paul chose not to.

  * * *

  Postcard from Paris (A Reply)

  Dearest Chrissie,

  Thank you for your postcard from Paris. I never imagined you could do that at the Louvre! Backpacking must be such a wonderful adventure. I'm glad you've found such good friends in Peta and Ulrik. Especially Ulrik, it seems.

  I've framed your card, together with the ones from Amsterdam and Stockholm, and that picture of you I've always loved. You remember, the one where you're in the red hotpants? It's on the wall right now, one big collage of you staring at me, just above the picture of your parents and Nate.

  I was heartbroken when I couldn't come up with the money to join you. Six months without you is gonna be hard. I've been missing you terribly and it's only been six weeks. You make me ache. Uni life has been even more demanding since you left and they cut back my hours at work, so it looks like I won't be able to join you at all.

  However, I've enclosed little pieces of home so you'll always remember me. Yeah, I know you said you've "fallen in love" with Ulrik (and thanks for breaking the news via postcard, by the way) but I'll forgive you for that lapse. It's holiday romance gone to your head, that's all. You'll see that when you get home and the daily routine of life wraps its claws around you once more.

  I'm sure of it.

  I'll always be here.

  The enclosed little green pouch is sand from where we strolled along Cottesloe beach. You remember? The night we met. The night we made love under the stars. You said it was the most romantic night of your life. At least, that's what you told me. What do you tell Ulrik? I bet he can't even speak English properly. His words probably come out like some retarded ABBA wannabe. No doubt it gets you hot, though. You were always into that exotic stuff.

  Well, I can give you exotic---the red pouch is a surprise. I took it from Nate. Your little bro was a tad surprised when I did, but I thought you'd want a piece of your family or two, to remind you of your roots. What does he need two ears for anyway?

  I hope you like what's in the black pouch. You and Ulrik should learn from it. Your parents were only too glad to offer help, particularly after I'd spent all those hours with them. It was kind of them to allow me to send you their wedding rings. Damn things were stuck on their fingers after so many years, but as you'll see, I found a way around that problem. Relationships are solemn things, Chrissie. Your parents know a good relationship is give and take and share and share alike. There's commitment---and there's sacrifice.

  The rest of your Mum and Dad are here with me now. Nate too. We're all here, waiting for you to come home.

  Come home soon. I think we can still make it, you and I. I can't say the same about your folks. You'd better hurry.

  I love you, forever and always.

  Marcus.

  PS. I don't know if you've used my mittens yet, but Angelica, my tarantula, has been missing for a while. They were her favourite hiding spot. Enjoy the rest of your holiday.

  * * *

  Song of the Infernal Machine

  The machine dominated the warehouse. It was a vast collection of black titanium boxes and cylinders flooding the space with an insidious hum. Between towering tanks, bunches of steel tubes criss-crossed in a labyrinthine tangle. Every so often, steam hissed into the stuffy air. The contents, hidden behind the polished case, buzzed with electricity. Sometimes, muffled noises---clawing, scratching, moaning---escaped from behind the metal plates.

  Life pulsed from the abyssal bowels of the machine.

  Standing at face level to display screen D5, one of dozens glowing with ghostly light, Forrester inspected the readouts from behind plastic safety glasses. His glasses shone with a purple tint in the beam from the spotlights above.

  Satisfied with the energy outputs, he shuffled over to screen D3 to check on the input levels before taking a break. The display glowed green across his pallid skin. Unlike the techs, such as Forrester, the machine never rested. It was inexorable and single-minded.

  "Jacobs!" Forrester called out. The words boomed throughout the warehouse.

  He pulled his attention away from the display to scan the vault for signs of the other technician.

  Except for the myriad of dark shapes and interconnected tubes that comprised the machine, the warehouse stood empty. Reinforced concrete surrounded him---and the machine---on four sides. A single cable, much thicker than the rest, snaked from the centre of the machine and along a wall until it disappeared into the shadowed ceiling above.

  He traced the cable's length with his gaze, squinting as his eyes met the network of interweaving girders supporting dozens of high-powered spotlights. In the absence of windows, the spotlights provided the only source of light. Centred on the sprawl of the machine, the lights cast pools of darkness outside their direct beams.

  "Jacobs!" he called again.

  Two doors accessed the warehouse. The main door was a monstrosity---twin titanium monoliths that allowed admittance to the outside world. The other, inconsequential in comparison and set well away from the main entry, was a regular timber door that opened onto the staff area.

  The swish of his lab coat contrasted to the machine's hum as he strode toward that door. In the coat, Forrester, now the senior technician, almost felt the scientist his dress suggested. It was all a charade, of course, designed to impress the bureaucrats on their quarterly inspections. In his heart, he was nothing more than a glorified sparky. The pretence sat well enough with him.

  "Jacobs, where the hell are you?" He reached the staff door.

  Every word and every step was magnified by the immense space.

  The click of the knob echoed through the warehouse, announcing his entry into the staff area.

  The common room opened up before him. The duty roster was only ever two people, yet somehow the place had been trashed.

  "Jacobs?" He picked at the papers and rubbish strewn about.

  Several of the chairs were knocked over and the table had been rammed against the wall at an awkward angle. Soundproofing must have prevented him from hearing the commotion while he was out with
the machine.

  The small television was propped on the counter next to the microwave. The volume was down, the screen filled with actors he vaguely recalled. He didn't have much time for TV these days. It was Jacobs who insisted on bringing it in---to relieve the boredom, he had said. A cracked pair of goggles lay on the floor nearby.

  "Great." He planted hands on hips and shook his head.

  Forrester retrieved an overturned chair, returned the table to its rightful place, and sat down. The purple tint to his goggles was disorienting when he glanced sideways. Maintaining his composure, he held his eyes straight ahead, watching the door to the bathroom."Jacobs." He slid his hands into his coat pockets. "I know you're in there. We need to talk."

  Cursing rose from the far side of the bathroom door.

  A bead of sweat formed on Forrester's brow, rolling into a bushy eyebrow.

  "Come on, Jacobs, let's talk," he coaxed.

  Porcelain smashed inside the bathroom.

  Sighing, Forrester dabbed at his forehead with a handkerchief from his pocket.

  The door opened inwards, awkward on its splintered timber frame.

  Standing in the doorway, with one leg saturated, was the disheveled form of Jacobs. His stringy hair was plastered to his head.

  "Pissed yourself," Forrester muttered.

  Jacobs' lab coat splayed when he stepped into the common room, revealing a ripped shirt. His chest was scratched. The smell of faeces clogged the air.

  "Soiled yourself, too," said Forrester.

  Edging closer to the table, Jacobs met his gaze with frantic, blood-shot eyes. His hands were hidden behind his back.

  "What happened?" Forrester looked him up and down.

  "You know what happened!" Jacobs spat.

  Forrester studied him, fresh beads of perspiration on his face the only sign of his concern.

  Jacobs' lip twisted into a snarl, betrayed by the slight quiver of his chin. Like Forrester, his face had broken out in sweat.

  "That damn buzzing!" Jacobs pressed his palm over an ear and screwed up his face, leaving his other arm behind his back. Something metal scraped on the ground. "I've gotta get outta here!"