by Paul Haines
Later in my life, I discovered stillness meditation and practised it consistently for a year. I still steal snatches of the meditative zone, but as always with things that are worthy, it's hard to do and I need to work harder at it.
Incidentally, this is the first short story I finished writing where I sat back and thought, "Wow, I've written a real one." It set the tone and voice of what became known amongst my Australian peers as backpacker horror.
I'm not so cynical these days, either.
***
Malik Rising
'You will be famous. Imagine!'
The words ooze from beneath Taurus's plastic lips. The light from the open refrigerator shines on his mask, a bestial contraption fixed with worn hide and yellowed horns. He removes a tray of test-tubes and places it on the chipped, laminated table in front of us. 'This will be a beautiful thing!'
This is about belief—and no one's belief is stronger than mine. I will become an angel. The angel.
'Is this it?' Craig asks, indicating the tray. His brow is furrowed and worry lines already crease his olive teenage skin.
Four of us, all volunteers, sit around the table in front of Taurus. I thought I might recognise their faces but they are blanks drawn on different coloured skins. One is even a woman, a white woman. Why have us know each other? Why draw the noose tighter than need be around their necks?
A laugh wheezes from Taurus. 'Yes, this is it.' Dark eyes peer through the slots in the mask, fixing each of us in turn. He taps a gloved finger on one of the four tubes suspended in the tray. 'There's one for everybody.'
'Looks like a vodka shot.' Craig laughs nervously. 'Do we drink it?'
The woman sends a scornful glance his way. I don't know her name; she hasn't spoken once since we descended to the lab. Unlike Craig, who hasn't stopped.
'No.' Taurus snaps his fingers at one of his masked attendants. The attendant shoulders his Uzi and places a syringe on the table. Dried blood coats the needle. Taurus picks it up, depresses the plunger and inserts the needle into one of the tubes. 'We do it this way.'
'But the needle's not sterile ...' Craig's words fade. He bites his lip and stares at the table.
Taurus wheezes another laugh. 'Very good. Very funny.' He draws back the plunger and the opaque liquid is sucked into the syringe. 'Now, who will go first?'
This is about belief—and no one's belief is stronger than mine. I roll back my sleeve and slap my arm on the table. The vein throbs in the crook of my elbow like a butterfly ready to burst forth from the cocoon. People will remember that I was the first, the bravest, the most loyal. I will be the first angel to step out into the city.
'Good boy, Malik,' croons Taurus. He taps my vein and with a lover's touch slides the icy needle into my arm. I steel my jaw and narrow my eyes as the fire roars in my bloodstream.
I stare at the others. The woman's face is focused on the needle, the young Chinese boy is smiling and Craig is finally silent, his eyes wide and burning into mine. I hope my eyes don't mirror his—there's a sheen of madness glazing his stare.
The needle slips from my skin and a bubble of blood follows. Taurus pulls my sleeve back down. The eyes behind the mask intensify. He thrusts the needle into another tube and sucks back its contents. 'Next.'
A slap of arms on the table. Taurus selects a vein and punctures it. The Chinese boy moans but only once.
'You have six hours, children. Use them wisely. Mingle. This world, our people, our faith, will never forget you.'
When Taurus has finished, the attendants herd us out of the lab, up dank stairs and through the back of the warehouse into the lane outside. The sun creeps towards the skyline. Dawn slinks into the streets. Rush hour will soon be upon us.
We head through the waking city towards the station. I don't feel any difference.
'What do you want to be?' asks Craig.
'What does it matter?' says the woman.
'A vampire,' says Craig. 'Bringing those who oppose us to our cause! Making my enemies my own brethren! Do you think I'll grow teeth?'
The woman laughs. 'It's a metaphor, stupid. Make sure you get on the eastern line.'
'What's a metta for?' Craig asks.
'Salvation,' I say.
'I don't understand.'
'You don't need to,' she says.
Ahead lies the station, its stonework golden in the early morning. As we purchase tickets, I smile at the CCTV. 24-hour, slow-motion, instant replay, infra-red won't spy any weapons this morning. I hold up a picture of an angel wielding a flaming sword. We descend on different platforms and wait for the morning trains to open their doors. I'm heading south. Infected. A part of the first viral cross to purge this city of the wicked.
This is about belief—and no one's belief is stronger than mine. I can feel the wings forming between my shoulder blades, cartilage sprouting through the pores of my skin, heavenly feathers fanning over my back.
Soon I will fly.
***
Afterword: Malik Rising
One of my early goals as a writer was to be published in all of the Australian speculative fiction markets that existed. I had managed to eventually tick them all off the list when I noticed that Shadowed Realms, an online market, was getting a lot of exposure. I checked it out. The production values looked high and the pay rates were even higher. Unfortunately, it meant I would have to write flash fiction, stories with around 1000 words.
Flash fiction is notorious for being a) hard to write, and b) hard to read. Most rely on a pun or twist ending, as both plot and character development are severely limited due to word count, and generally the puns are poor and the twists screamingly obvious. In Australia, Bob Franklin can pull them off wonderfully with both a twist and a pun, while Shane Jiraiya Cummings has made it his art form as both editor and writer, but there aren't too many authors operating successfully and consistently in this most difficult of sub-genres.
I had written flash fiction before, had it published, and received critical appreciation, so I knew I could do it, although there had been something extra with those stories that made them easy for me to write. Each and every one had arrived fully formed and had, for the most part, written themselves. A vision, you might say, a gift.
This time, I had nothing. However, Shadowed Realms was another box to tick on my to-do-list and they paid better than most of the markets. How hard could it be? (Just so you know, I have a folder on my hard drive full of unfinished, unpublishable flash and shorts that are truly awful).
So I sat down to write to order. It's all about belief, especially in oneself.
The vision came almost straight away.
***
Her Collection of Intimacy
Carla liked to think of the viewing as a post-coital cigarette that didn't damage our health. We'd watch ourselves afterwards on the enormous flatscreen television in her bedroom. Then we'd have sex again. Usually with the camera off. It had only been two months, and though I hadn't said those three words yet, I was falling in love.
I had never been good with intimacy. The word itself conjured up inadequacy and awkwardness. Dare to show my heart? To give it to someone? With Carla, it was different. I felt I could tell her anything. She would listen and accept me and love me regardless. I trusted her completely.
So one night, as we lay naked in each other's arms watching a particularly beautiful moment, I decided to tell her. I had never said those words to a woman I cared for. Before I met Carla, I had never cared about a woman. Women were just there to have a good time with for a while.
'I love you.' I whispered, followed by a kiss on her ear. Her auburn hair smelled of apples.
'Oh, Matt.' She squeezed me and kissed my chest. 'You're so sexy.' She snuggled in closer and rubbed her thigh over mine, but she didn't return the sentiment.
We watched the rest of the recording in silence. I lay there, breathing in the clean sweat of her body, feeling her heart beat against mine, terrified I'd said the words that could end it al
l. Had I overstepped boundaries that I hadn't understood? Would we now go through a cooling-off period until there was nothing left between us except the uncomfortable unsaid?
When our screen versions climaxed, she killed the television and propped herself up on one elbow. Her breast hung above my chest, and as she moved closer, her nipple brushed my skin. Her green eyes had that fuck-me look. Her fingernails traced my stomach as she gently kissed my lips, and again, we lost ourselves in each other.
#
The late morning sun sparkled on the water. Businessmen and criminals lounged on launches moored at the docks, while brunchers dined at harbour-side cafes. We sat on Carla's seventh-floor balcony, overlooking the docklands. She sipped coffee, soaking in the view, while I admired the curve of her throat. I wondered how many other lovers had pressed their lips to her soft skin.
'Do you ever watch us without me?' I asked.
'I might.' She smiled and placed her cup on the table. 'Why do you ask?'
'Does it turn you on?'
'What do you think?'
'Stupid question. I've seen your drawer full of toys.'
'Not just seen.' She kicked me under the table. Her bare foot lingered against my shin. 'Why did you really ask? You jealous if I watch without you?'
'Not at all. I'd get a kick out of watching you watching us. But only if you didn't know I was there.'
'This apartment's too small. I'd know you were here. It wouldn't be the same. You wouldn't be seeing the real me.' Her toes tickled the soft skin beneath my ankle.
'True.' I slid my foot up her calf, then along the warmth of her inner thigh. 'Can I have some of the recordings?'
She pushed my foot away and laughed. 'So you can post it to the web? Show all your friends? You've got to be kidding.'
Her reaction was honest, but the words stung. 'Is that what you think of me? Jesus, didn't you hear what I said to you last night? I've never said that to anyone before.'
Her face softened, and she held my hand. 'Hey, I didn't mean it like that. Those recordings are intimate. They're mine. Ours. I don't want anyone else to see them. Except you.'
I nodded, taking comfort in the warmth of her fingers tracing the veins on my wrist. 'Do you keep them all? Of us?'
'Of course.' She pressed my hand to her lips. 'Do you want to watch one?'
'Maybe later.'
She kissed my hand again before returning to her coffee. My eyes lingered on her throat, wondering about those countless unknown kisses, my original question unasked.
#
I always knew when Carla was about to orgasm as beads of sweat formed in the small of her back seconds before her eyes fluttered and her thighs squeezed hard against my hips. I told her again that I loved her as the last shudders wracked her body.
She lay on her stomach, her eyes closed, smiling, with candlelight flickering over her skin. I kissed the sweat away and lowered myself next to her, wondering if she was ignoring my words or perhaps hadn't heard me.
'Mmmm,' she murmured.
'You liked?'
'Very.'
We lay in a comfortable silence, content with the press of our bodies, her back curved against my belly.
'Go on,' she said. 'Ask me.'
'What? To marry me?'
She giggled. 'No. About the others. It's what you wanted to ask me the other day.'
I did want to ask. The sudden, nervous unease in the pit of my stomach argued against it. I'd never had a relationship last longer than a month—my choice. I'd slept with maybe forty women, and I was no stud. I wanted her to say she'd had a few long-term boyfriends, a couple of one-night-stands. The fewer lovers the better. I wanted her to make me feel superior in my sexual conquest of the world.
I wanted her to say that, but I knew she wouldn't.
She recorded our lovemaking sessions to watch later. I knew what that meant in terms of experience. I wanted to be cool about it. I wanted to be able to handle it. Whatever went before didn't matter.
'Do you keep all the recordings?' I asked.
'Yes.'
'Do you watch the other ones? The ones I'm not in?'
'Yes.' She wriggled around to face me and wrapped her arms around my waist. 'But I haven't watched them since I've been with you.'
She was studying my face, looking for something.
'There are four separate cameras in the room. I edit the performances afterwards, cutting between shots,' she said. 'Each disc holds up to three hours. A separate disc for each lover. Some discs might only have five minutes on them.' She smiled and massaged my penis. 'They didn't last long if you get my meaning.'
'How many discs am I on?'
She nipped my lower lip. 'Ooh, confident. What makes you think I've got enough footage for more than one disc?'
'Because I'm fucking good, baby!' I rolled her onto her back, parted her thighs, and slid inside her.
'And. I. Love. You.' I punctuated each word with a slow thrust.
She laughed. 'I've started the fourth disc. You're in the lead.'
'And?' I held the thrust, waiting for those three words.
'Fuck me hard.'
#
We were sitting at the bar in Mancini's seeking the comfort of air-conditioning on a suffocating summer evening. She drank chardonnay while I nursed a beer to soothing acid-jazz.
'So when do I get to meet the olds?' I had meant it to be a flippant comment. Something that would get a laugh, or maybe, hopefully, what I asked for.
The smile on her lips fled. The temperature of the room dipped. She stared at the condensation on her glass. The background music now seemed loud and vulgar, but the song hadn't skipped a beat—we had.
'Hey, just a joke,' I said.
'That's not funny.' Her voice sounded strained. 'I think I'd like to go home now.'
'Are you okay?' I reached over to caress her arm, but she brushed me away.
'I need to be alone.'
Without looking at me, she got up, kissed me on the cheek, and left.
I should have chased her into the street, swept her up in my arms, said I was sorry. Said I loved her.
Instead, I sat there and fumed into my beer.
#
She called for me three hours later, after midnight.
We sat together on her couch. She held a framed photograph of herself with her parents and brother. I'd never seen it before. Although original artwork adorned her apartment walls, photographs were not displayed anywhere.
'I thought I'd told you already,' she said. 'This was the last photo we had taken together. Six years ago.'
I sat there, thoughts swirling madly in my head. One of those detached moments as I realised the implications of what I had said at Mancini's.
She traced her finger around her father's face. 'He was killed in a skydiving accident.'
'Oh God, I'm so sorry, Carla. I didn't—'
'Mum committed suicide a year later. She couldn't bear it without him.' Carla's face was emotionless, her voice calm. 'My brother died shortly after that in a car crash.'
I didn't know what to say, so I held her until we were woken by the soft light of dawn through the balcony windows. We made love on the floor, and when I told her I loved her, she cried.
#
I knew where she kept the discs. It was no secret. Up until then I had convinced myself I didn't need to know, and I hadn't looked or asked again. But temptation can be a parasite that feeds and grows and eventually consumes. Can be. It wasn't yet, but it was nibbling.
She labelled the spine of the disc case with my name and the date with a red pen.
'Not just anyone gets this colour,' she said. 'You join a very select few.'
I watched her put it into the wardrobe. Her naked body obscured my view from where I lay on the bed. She turned, winked, and slipped into the bathroom. The shower splattered water onto the tiles.
She wanted me to look. I wanted her to say she loved me. I suspected—hoped—that maybe this was the first step to those words. To tru
st and intimacy. That maybe this is how she dealt with the loss of her family. I hadn't told her I loved her in over two weeks. I didn't like the misdirecting gestures. The kiss. The hug. The lack of reply.
But I needed to say it to her, and I hoped she needed to hear it.
The wardrobe took up the entire wall, with multiple sliding doors. The primal brain that spoke from my gut was terrified there might be no clothing hung behind those doors. That the entire wardrobe was crammed with recorded discs, thousands of them, name after name after name. Phonebooks. Names I knew. My rational brain dismissed this thought. It didn't matter. I was the red pen, and there weren't many of those. My primal brain whispered, 'Not many compared to what? Forty red names? Fifty? Never mind all the black names.'
I stood in the bathroom doorway, watching Carla rinse the lather from her hair. My hand rested on the wardrobe door. She smiled and nodded.
I opened the wardrobe.
#
I wasn't sure I could handle watching Carla with someone else. Watching her eyes roll as another man brought her to orgasm; penetration; taking him in her mouth; even the simplest of intimate acts—kissing. Black leather masks, whips, asphyxiation, faeces, rape ... These ideas had already crawled from my primal brain and clouded what I felt and thought about her. I needed to know.
And here was my reality.
Custom shelving built into the wardrobe housed roughly two hundred discs. I scanned the names, and my interest was piqued. Lisa. Delia. Kelly. More than half the titles were women. Andrea and Sonya. Karyn, Mel, and Toni. Orgy#3. There was only one disc with a red spine. It had my name on it.