by J D Jacobs
“Uhh, yeah,” I answer, looking at him through the window. He again reaches behind his back and pulls out a potato this time.
“If I wanted to toss you this potato, I would have to open this window, correct?”
“That’d be a good start.”
Xander swipes his nonexistent eyebrow, and the glass doors of the window slowly open. He then underhand throws the potato to me. I don’t have time to put the mitts on so I reach out and catch the potato with my bare hands. Bad idea. The potato is scorching hot, and I instantly drop it to the floor as I wave my hands to cool them off. “What the hell, Xander?”
“Don’t ‘what the hell’ me! You’re the one who dropped my perfectly good potato.” Xander then reaches down and picks it up. “You needed those mitts on to catch this potato, didn’t you?”
“Yeah, whatever. Congrats, you win a game of hot potato. Who cares?”
“I care and so should you, because I’m relying heavily on metaphors right now. This potato I’m holding represents the flashbacks you experience. In order for you to grasp on to this nice, firm, and satisfying potato, what do we need?” He pauses for me to answer, but I shrug my shoulders impatiently. “We need this window to be open and we need for you to have those oven mitts on.” He then pats the wooden frame of the window that is still floating in between us. “This window represents things that you want. If there was a specific event that you wanted to experience first-hand, then this window would be open. If there was an event that you honestly wanted to avoid, it’d be closed.
“Now, even if the window is open, you can’t handle the potato without those oven mitts on. In order to grasp the flashback and experience it, you have to be able to handle it. Not physically, but mentally. The flashback has to be something that I can show you without causing you to freak out or derive from your original life path that you’re on. That’s why I have to be very cautious with the timing of your flashbacks. The oven mitts are usually the problem; most of the stuff that you think you could handle if you found out, you couldn’t. But in this particular case, it’s the closed window that’s the problem.”
I let every word individually settle before I speak. “So what you’re saying is that there’s a flashback you want to show me, but you can’t show me it because I don’t want to see it?”
“Exactly. Look at your past flashbacks… In the helicopter ride to Avvil: your dad just told you not to trust Jenkins, but then you had a flashback about Jenkins’s most vulnerable and humanizing moment. You wanted a reason to believe that Jenkins isn’t as bad of a guy that initially you, and now your dad, thought. You were looking for that answer and you didn’t even know you were looking for it.
“Then look at the very first flashback you ever had, when you found Mrs. Armstrong’s body in Westwood. So many questions had been brought to you in such a short time, but you wanted to know, at that particular moment, what happened to Mrs. Armstrong. And not necessarily how she died because you already knew that: a bullet to the head. No, you truly wanted to know why she died. What led her to pulling that trigger.”
“The flashbacks I had when I stepped into my house after the Cozmin spread…” I begin, the concept making more sense to me. “I told myself I was stepping in that house because I wanted one last look of everything before I burnt the house down, but the truth is, I really wanted a reason not to burn it down.” I look over at Xander and think back to that day. Just a couple of hours before those flashbacks I had in my house, I threw a Molotov cocktail at Xander with every intention on either smoking him out or getting rid of him for good. Even after that, he was watching over me, making me do things that I didn’t even know I wanted to do. Things that were best for me.
“The list goes on and on with every flashback you’ve ever had,” he tells me.
“You said that now there is an important flashback you’re trying to show me but you can’t. How do I make myself truly desire something when I don’t even know what it is that I want?”
“Like I said, the flashback is about Ricardo. I want you to see Miguel Ricardo as the raving psychopath that he is,” he informs me with fire building in his tone. “I want you to know why and how Ricardo became the ruler of this city. I want you to know why everyone shakes in fear when they’re around him. I can’t show you when you’re still holding on to hope that Ricardo might be on your side after all.”
“I don’t think that!” I try to convince him, but as much as I don’t want to admit it, we both know that I’m lying. “Just tell me what I need to know about him. You don’t have to send me through a flashback; let me know right now!”
“It doesn’t work like that. You have to experience it.”
“Can I experience something else then? Something about him that might tell me how to get out of this room, or maybe experience something else that might get us out of this city?”
“I can’t do that, Jaden,” he says, his voice falling. “Don’t you remember what I told you on the roof in Stevenson’s? You can’t know everything.”
I had forgotten about the words. Forgotten about the way he taunted me with that statement, holding my fate in front of my face only to snatch it away and laugh when I desperately reached for it. But this time, the words don’t tease me. Instead, they act as an explanation. He wasn’t holding information from me because it was fun for him to watch me beg. No, he held the information from me because I couldn’t handle what I was asking for. I wanted to know how my fate would turn out, but there’s no telling how I would have reacted if he actually told me my future. I didn’t have the mitts on when he yelled that statement through the empty Stevenson’s parking lot.
“What can I do to open the window now?” I ask.
He walks up to me, looking at my battered face with his nonexistent eyes. “Don’t ever let your window close.” And before I can question him, he flicks his index finger over his invisible eyebrow, and he disappears.
24.
Don’t ever let your window close, I repeat in my mind for what must be the millionth time. I’ve thought a lot about what Xander told me before he left, trying to decipher that phrase. I think he’s telling me not to jump to conclusions, even if it’s only pure optimism. I admit, I don’t want to see Ricardo in the prime of his vileness because it’ll rid of the small gleam of hope I have that maybe he won’t hurt me or stab me multiple times in the gut for breathing the wrong way. But I have to remind myself that Ricardo is the guy who threw me in this room and televised the brutal death of Stewart solely out of pure sport. I have to open that window, even if it means ridding of any optimism.
Or at least that’s what I think he meant. Leaving me with a vague answer instead of bluntly telling me how to solve my issues is Xander’s specialty. That’s always been Xander: vague and mysterious. And a little obnoxious.
“You’re being quiet,” Sabrina tells me from around the corner. “Still thinking about what this ‘Grim’ guy told you?”
“Yeah,” I respond. I tried explaining to her that I spent five minutes yelling at a faceless dead person instead of myself. As expected, she didn’t understand. She laughed hysterically at me and now probably thinks I’m some schizophrenic weirdo. She wouldn’t be totally wrong. “I can’t fully comprehend what he told me.”
“Oh, yeah, of course,” she sarcastically begins. “Whenever the armless spirits come out from under my bed to talk, I don’t really understand them that well, either.”
“You got jokes, Sabrina. Not good ones, but jokes, nonetheless.”
Sabrina gives the soft laugh that I’ve been swooning over for the past two hours. We’ve been sitting out here ever since Xander left. We’ve started warming up to each other, and I feel like I’m beginning to trust her now. Every time she laughs, a part of me grows fuzzy inside. I had forgotten how warm of a feeling it was. I used to feel it all the time when I was around Scarlett.
“Okay, Jaden, tell me again what your no-faced friend told you that’s confusing you so much.”
I
don’t want to tell her because she won’t understand it. Even if she understood, she still wouldn’t believe me. And even if she believed me, I want to avoid mentioning Ricardo around her. “He told me that if you don’t quit making fun of me, then we’ll have to fight to our deaths in the Arena thing below us.”
“Oh, you wouldn’t stand a chance,” she boasts.
“Oh really?”
“I would kick your ass.”
“Those sound like fighting words. To be honest, I’m a little intimidated. I don’t know what you look like, so you could be an oiled-up bodybuilder looking to tie me in a knot, for all I know.”
“Please. Do I sound like I could tie you in a knot?”
“I’m a fragile guy; it wouldn’t take much to do it.”
“I’m curious now. If you had to guess my age, just from my voice, how old would you say I am?”
“You’re asking me to guess your age? Sounds like a trap.”
“It’s not; I’m just curious!”
“Alright then… You’re young, I can tell that much. I’d have to make an educated guess of… thirty?”
“Thirty!?” Her tone tells me that she isn’t quite thirty yet. Why didn’t I say something like twenty-two? Heck, I should’ve went with twelve, just to be safe. “I can’t believe you think I’m that old!”
“Okay, well thirty isn’t that old,” I try defending myself. “How old are you then?”
“25.”
I contemplate saying it but do it anyway. “I wasn’t that far off. 25 does round up to 30.” She laughs with a playful verve to her. “Okay, how old would you say I am, just by my voice?”
“Forty,” she says without hesitation.
“Jokes on you, I’m actually fifty, so thanks for the compliment.” We both laugh, and I wish that this wall wasn’t here and I could see her. See the 25-year-old with such a beautiful laugh.
“I’ll guess you’re twenty-one.”
“Close. I’m nineteen. Well, not yet, but I will be in a couple of days.”
“So you’re eighteen!? Jesus, you’re a baby. Were you even out of high school when the Cozmin spread?”
“Nope, I was a senior. Technically that makes me a high school dropout. Too bad, I was really looking forward to college.”
“Ehh, college wasn’t what it was hyped up to be for me,” Sabrina tells me with a hint of displeasure.
“Really? Are you telling me that it wasn’t four years of nonstop day-drinking and hangovers? What a shame, I was looking forward to drinking my first beer.”
“And you never drank a beer before, either. It’s weird how young you are.”
“Actually, I never drank any alcohol before,” I defend myself, thinking that it would somehow make me seem older, “but that’s because my dad was an alcoholic.”
“I’m sorry,” she sincerely apologizes. “I heard you mention that earlier but forgot about it.”
“You’re fine. My dad is still alive and sober now, so it’s all good.” Despite my positivity, the thought that I may never see my dad again haunts the back of my mind. “What, uhm… Why wasn’t college any fun for you? Too many 8 AM classes?”
“Well, that too. I had a boyfriend throughout college and we didn’t work out. When things ended between us, it just made me feel like I wasted years of my life on him.”
“Don’t feel that way,” I tell her, knowing that I cannot relate whatsoever. I scan my brain for any encouraging words for this situation. “You never really waste time, you just live and learn from your mistakes, you know?”
“No, Jaden, I literally wasted my time. He told me he was going to always be there for me if things got tough, and when they did, he left. He was always scared of anything that was uncertain. It’s just… I don’t know. I guess I should stop letting it bother me so much and quit being bitter; this was over three years ago. He’s probably dead now, anyway.”
I want to know more about this past relationship, but I feel that it’s a touchy subject and I don’t necessarily want to walk on thin ice. “You said it yourself, any man who runs off when things get tough is scared,” I tell her. “I was told that being scared is a waste of time. All people have fears, but eventually, we have to man-up and brush them aside. I had to do it, I’m sure you had to do it. If this guy wasn’t man enough to brush his fears to the side for you, then he didn’t deserve you in the first place.”
“Thanks,” she softly tells me. I feel bad for having her bring it up to a stranger that she really hasn’t met yet. “I’m sorry,” she apologizes again. “My life story is depressing. I’m sure you didn’t want to hear it right now.”
“No, you’re fine,” I assure her. “There wasn’t much excitement in staring at a murder pit anyway.”
There she goes again with the soft laugh that I adore. I continue, “I’ve had a depressing life-story, too. Like I said, all my family members died before the Cozmin, and the only one who survived used to abuse me when I was little. Look at me now, though: locked in a room in some strange city, not knowing when my death sentence will come, talking to you. There are much worse places I could be right now.”
“I guess you’re right,” she says with a tint of zeal in her voice. “So what about you? Did you have a high-school sweetheart?”
Scarlett. Just thinking of saying her name out loud gives me goosebumps. I miss her, I really do. I miss her hair, her smile, her face, her presence. For some reason, it takes a little courage in me to finally mention her to Sabrina. “Yeah, her name was Scarlett Avalon. She was one of my best friends, but I was…” I chuckle at the irony of what I’m about to say. “I was scared to tell her how I felt. I was afraid that if she didn’t like me back, our friendship would be awkward from then on. So I sat on my feelings for four years. I’m sure she knew I liked her, but I don’t know. Now, I like to think that she would’ve liked me back.”
“Well,” Sabrina begins, “a friend of mine told me that being scared is a waste of time. All people have fears, but eventually you have to man-up and brush them aside.”
I snicker. “I feel like whoever told you that is a smart man.”
“Do you know what happened to Scarlett?”
Jenkins. I think of that specific flashback for the first time in a while. It’s all an unpleasant memory. “Yeah, she was killed,” I tell Sabrina. “Her, her brother, and an older man that was with them. They were all my friends, all from my hometown in Mississippi. They were thrown out of Tryton and left to be killed by the Cozmin.”
Silence; the only appropriate answer. “Promise me something, Jaden: if you ever get out of that room, don’t be scared. Life’s too short to run in fear. Promise me you won’t.”
“Only if you promise me the same thing.”
I hear a thud on the wall between us. “I can’t make you a pinky promise, but this is as close as we’ll get.” I then shoot my hand with my pinky extended against the wall, smiling.
“I promise.”
Our moment is interrupted by a knock on Sabrina’s door. “Who’s that?” I ask her.
“Oh no, I can’t believe it’s already that late,” I hear her murmur. “Miguel is about to come in my room. Don’t say a word to him.”
“Is he going to hurt you?”
“Jaden, please. Do not say a word to him. Promise me.” I hear her put her hand back against the wall for me to repeat the action I did a few seconds ago. “Please, stay quiet. Try not to listen.”
“Sabrina, what is he going to do?” She doesn’t answer, but instead calls out for Ricardo to come in after he knocks again.
“Hey, babe,” I hear Ricardo greet Sabrina. I then hear the two kiss. “I’ve missed you all day. I’m so sorry for what I had to do earlier today. You’re not upset with me, are you?”
“No, Miguel,” Sabrina says. Is she acting friendly around him on purpose or does she actually like him? “You had to do what you had to do.”
“I’m glad you understand. Nobody can touch my beautiful Ribbon’s hair, or lay their lips o
n my Ribbon’s mouth, or touch my Ribbon at all, for that matter.” I hear a loud smack followed by a soft whimper from Sabrina.
“Not tonight, sweetie,” she tells Ricardo. “I’m not feeling good tonight.”
“I don’t care how you’re feeling. I’m feeling fantastic!” Ricardo’s voice has grown imperious all of a sudden.
“Miguel, please…”
“Shhshhshhshh…” Ricardo hushes her in a whisper, “don’t say a word. Just do it.” I then hear him throw Sabrina on the bed of the room.
Rage floods my veins. I don’t want to fathom what’s going on between the two, but I can’t avoid it. She’s helpless, doing whatever Miguel tells her to, but there’s nothing I can do. I promised her that I wouldn’t say anything, but the more I listen, the more my blood boils. Every agonizing groan from Sabrina, telling Ricardo to stop. Ricardo telling her to shut up while he continues having his way with her. This is torture for her. Torture for me.
It’s at this moment I realize that Ricardo is the scum that Xander told me about. He acts helpful and friendly, just to appear that way to you, but his intentions are known. He killed Tankian not for beating me up, but because he can’t stand for someone to question his authority. He’s a disgusting pig who needs to be dealt with. How dare everybody in this city fear him! They’re all pathetic cowards for letting Ricardo do whatever he wants, whenever he wants. Somebody needs to handle him or he’s going to continue tormenting the people in Avvil until he’s satisfied. Continue raping the women that he wants to rape.
And that’s the moment that Xander’s been waiting for. That’s the moment my window opens. I realize it instantly, because my vision fades and spirals into nothing.
I’ve never been more excited to see sepia. What is it that Xander wanted to show me about Ricardo? I look at my surroundings for clues.
A sea of people is standing on the grassy field that borderlines the amber glass of Avvil. The crowd is angrily yelling at three men in thin bodysuits standing on the amber glass, desperately pleading for the men to let them in the city. The three men remain stationary, their faces hidden by the oxygen masks they’re wearing.