Memoir of an Overseas Contractor Maybe Einstein was wrong? What if, the “Theory of Relativity” was just an exercise in “group think”, accepted as the truth, by a world seeking answers to large questions in an uncertain time? Furthermore, why do we accept the laws of mathematics as always being true? If you solve for “X” or “Y” in an algebraic equation, you subtract from one side, add to the other, end up with a fraction, divide, and achieve the value for “X” or “Y”. You might feel a sense of satisfaction from performing this equation, but what does it reveal about reality, fantasy, love, hate, or loyalty to those you hold dear?
Living and working on an isolated, volcanic atoll, in the Pacific for two years, made me question logical, lifelong beliefs, and, everything, or anyone, I’ve ever known. I learned there are no easy answers, no convenient solutions, mathematical or otherwise, to what life throws at us. What is for certain, I’ve got to get off this island, and return home, quickly. I have to protect the lunatic business world my stepdad created on this island, because in somebody else’s hands, his empire will blow up like a volcano, hurting those I love, namely my mother, girlfriend, and the ragtag group of misfits working with me on this desperate island. I stood at the end of the long runway which was built as an emergency landing strip for the Space Shuttle, but fortunately, never utilized for an emergency landing. I was relieved to see the approach lights of the Cessna which would take me off this island for the hour long flight to the Marshall Islands Airport where I would catch a flight to Guam, board a non-stop flight to LAX, and then catch a flight home to Vegas. I remembered the evenings my girlfriend, Jade, and myself, would smoke weed, lie on our backs at the end of the runway, and stare into the star filled sky. The stars appeared so close we could grab a handful, and on occasion, the weed made us believe we held stardust. It was a real “trip” to see satellites, meteorites, and unexplainable objects pass through the sky. The moon and mars appeared so close; we felt we could touch them. I’ll miss Jade but can’t take her with me. The less she knows the better. The Cessna 208 smoothly touched down, and taxied, towards me. I’m happy to see the pilot is Kai, a very capable pilot, and native of the South Pacific. He knows the islands like the “back of his hand”, and most importantly, he understands the unpredictable weather conditions. Kai is an Ferrini/Memoir/2 employee of our company, and responsible for mail and supply deliveries to and from the island. He wasn’t instrument rated, so he flew by the “seat of his pants” in bad weather. As the plane taxies down the runway, I feel a sense of relief that I’d finally be leaving the island. In the distance, I hear a horn honking, and see the flashing headlights of a Jeep quickly approaching, driven by my girlfriend, Jade. As the Jeep draws nearer, I hear the lyrics of her favorite rock band, “The Doors” blaring from the Jeep’s speakers, Are you a lucky little lady from The City of Light? Or just another lost angel? Jade believes the lead singer of “The Doors”, Jim Morrison, who died and was buried in Paris in 1971, is still alive, and she claims to have met him when he stopped off on our island while touring the South Pacific. She’s wearing her Doors tank top she claims was signed by Morrison. I never questioned the validity of her claims, because isolation and boredom creates the need in some people to invent an alternate reality for themselves. Jade was determined to get off the island and would stop at nothing to board the plane. Kai brought the plane to a rolling stop with the engine running. I jumped in, threw my duffle bag into the back seat, and screamed, “Take off, Kai!” “Hey man, that chick looks crazy! I think she’ll drive the jeep right into the plane if I attempt a take off!” Kai brought the plane to a stop, keeping the engine roaring. Jade pulled the jeep to the side of the plane, left the engine running, jumped out, and ran to the plane. Kai reached out, grabbed her hand, and pulled her into the cockpit. All of Jades’ possessions were in a single duffle bag. Jade took a deep breath, threw her arms around me, saying, “You didn’t think you could split without your baby, did you?” KaI was eager to take off, “You guys cool? We’re burning fuel so I have to leave with or without you.” Jade gripped my hand tightly. I didn’t want to take her with me, but she’d been so damn good to me, and, she looked so sexy in her cut off jeans and tank top, I instructed Kai, “Take off, man!” “Ok, boss. Strap yourselves in. You know these South Pacific weather conditions can change “on a dime”. ETA is about an hour to the Marshall Islands Airport.” Jade hummed the lyrics to”LA Woman” playing inside her ear buds, Ferrini/Memoir/3 Motel, money, murder, madness let’s change the mood from glad to sadness Kai took off smoothly, circling the island before setting course to the Marshall Islands Airport. I looked down upon the island, and it was just a dot in the Pacific Ocean. I felt trepidation as I recognized the ramshackle assemblage of buildings which was my home and work; the beat up shipping containers lashed together which comprised the commissary and makeshift bar called, “Jimmy D’s”; the metal warehouse where we serviced the “underwater autonomous vehicles” known as, “AUV’s”; and the office trailers serving as the administration building and bunkhouse for our company employees. I saw JamesD and Griz, looking up towards us, and waving, as if to say, “We’ll see you again soon”. I prayed they were wrong. It would take a long time to shed the experiences I lived on this island Jade was my friend and lover but her past was murky. She never spoke much about herself, and didn’t ask much about me. I liked it that way. It didn’t make sense she’d be the only female crew member on the desolate island, working amongst a rough crew of hardened, retired sailors. She worked as a manager in the administration office, handling payroll, and all of the company’s paperwork with the mainland offices. She never told me how she arrived on the island but some of the crew speculated she was dumped by her surfer boyfriend. Jade was a beautiful Japanese-America woman who wore her long, straight, black hair, in a braid which hung low to her waist. Her petite body was shapely and toned. Jade loved the ocean and the beach. She awoke at dawn every morning and jogged the circumference of the island. Jade also loved to swim after work, just before sunset. Despite my warnings about sharks, Jade took advantage of the infrequent swells caused by storms out at sea, and was a damn good surfer. Jade was from Honolulu where her father was a “high ranking labor union official”. She completed an MBA from the University of Hawaii, rejecting lucrative job offers on the mainland, to live and work in her beloved Hawaii, eventually accepting a position below her qualifications as an administrative assistant to the CFO of an HMO. Jade hated the grind of working “nine to five” and quit. She confirmed the rumor amongst the crew by confiding in me that she had met a pro surfer and accompanied him as he competed in surfing competitions. Jade had a brother in LA who owned a pool cleaning business to the “stars”. She was an accomplished bass guitar player. Although in her late twenties, she never married, and had no children. Having Jade with me will only complicate my life as I fight for control of our company. When we get to LAX, I should dump her, but something about Jade, told me I’d keep coming back to her, even though I wanted to resist. We had chemistry, and bonded. We were lovers and best friends. Jade made me feel good when I needed it the most. She took care of me like a wife or mother. Jade cleaned and mended my clothes, cut my hair, and nursed me back to health from a Ferrini/Memoir/4 flu bug or a cold. Jade motivated me to keep moving forward despite the boredom and the homesickness we both suffered. She listened intently to me, permitting me to vent, without offering advice or condemnation. I had to vent because I was holding a secret which was filling with air like a balloon, and would soon burst, taking me, this whole damn island, and its inhabitants with it. Nobody knew I was the boss’s stepson, including Jade, so I believed her love for me was genuine. The plane finished its circle of the island and onto its flight path. I looked back upon the runway, remembering my special times with Jade, staring into space while the trade winds cooled our bodies, and the weed opened our minds. We’d do Tai Chi and yoga together, early in the morning, as twilight was replaced by the rising sun. After a stressful day, we would get high from booze and weed, flown in with the other supplies by Kai. Sometimes when we were high, the trade winds brought with it the sounds of battleship canons booming, and the death screams of sailors whose ships were sinking. The older guys on the crew said only the “sensitive” can hear the ghostly sounds, but they never denied the reality of what we heard. We witnessed beautiful, and sometimes, strange, eerie, sunsets. The older guys on the crew said the sunsets were created by the lingering fallout of nuclear tests in the area decades past. Jade fell asleep in my lap with “LA Woman” blaring from her ear buds, Midnight alleys roam… Kai shouted, “Turn off that music. I can’t concentrate on flying this crate!” I recognized the sound of Kai’s engine from his monthly, late night, fly over’s as he dropped parcels wrapped in black packaging, marked, “Top Secret. Security Clearance Required”. Only Griz and I could open the packages, and the crew was remanded never to touch them. The plane caught a gust of wind and was buffeted sideways. My heart skipped a beat. Jade gripped my hand tightly. Kai wasn’t upset, so, for the moment, everything seemed under control. I closed my eyes and remembered the events which brought me to the island. I loved my father. He entertained me as a child with elaborate playing card shuffles and slights of hand with the playing cards. My father was a Vegas card dealer with one of the independently owned casinos in Vegas. The indie casino operators still had the muscle, and the means, to punish crooked employees. Dad employed several methods of skimming money from the poker tables which provided our family with a middle class lifestyle, until he got greedy, fueled by a coke habit. The casino owner punished dad, leaving him with only his thumb, and pinky finger, on his dominant hand. Dad was blacklisted in Vegas. He split from home in the middle of the night, never saying goodbye. I awoke the next morning, only to find mom sobbing in the kitchen. Ferrini/Memoir/5 My father never taught me to play poker. His rebuke to me was “If you ever sit at the poker table, you’ll be playing as a “high roller” and not a card dealer like your old man!” Mom was a beautiful showgirl nearing retirement age, but kept up with the younger dancers in a popular casino revue named, “Show me the Money”. It was similar to the 1930’s motion picture musicals designed to lift the spirits of a depression era nation. I guess mom’s show was designed to lessen the gamblers pain of losing the mortgage money or kids college fund to the casino. She was determined to find another husband, and this time, a well to do “meal ticket”. She saved money on babysitters by taking me to work with her. I’d sit in a booth by myself, eating gourmet dinners, watching her and the beautiful cast member’s dance. She took me back stage to meet movie stars, politicians, and other “VIP” men. I always dreamed of growing up to be rich and powerful like them. Mom would tell me, “Sweetheart, study hard, get your college degree, and you can be just like them when you grow up!” Despite my admiration for these powerful men, I didn’t respect them for using my mom and discarding her. I’d awake in the morning, only to find a “VIP” making a hasty retreat after leaving mom’s bedroom. Mom would enter the kitchen, prepare breakfast, and say, “It’s just a numbers game, honey. Mommy will find a fine daddy for you soon!” Needless to say, none of these men asked for a “second date” with mom. Mom worked hard at dancing, and I remember her aching muscles, sore feet, and ice cold buckets of water to soothe her pain. I wanted to provide her with the best retirement money could buy. The Pacific Ocean is the largest ocean in the world. You realize it when flying over it in a slow moving, propeller plane like Kai’s. Kai didn’t talk much. He preferred to hum the lyrics of Polynesian folk songs I couldn’t understand. I realized how vulnerable we were without Kai. There was nowhere to land, and Kai was the only person capable of flying the small plane which was being buffeted by the strong trade winds. The plane would suddenly, dip, climb, and be thrown sideways by the winds. The skies were clear but in the distance, I could see a dark wall of ominous looking clouds facing us. Mom met a man named, Drake, who was visiting Vegas on a gambling and womanizing junket. Mom knew she had hit the “jackpot”, and with her womanly skills, determination, beauty, and charm, convinced Drake to divorce his wife, move to Vegas, and marry mom. As a kid, I desperately craved a father figure, and I was impressed by Drake. Every time I grew closer to him, he’d pull away leaving me broken hearted. He was a former Navy Chief Petty Officer, who thrilled me with his stories of the sea. Drake was about 6’2” tall, square jawed, clean shaven, hair cut into a crew cut and in good shape for a man in his seventies. He had seafaring tats on each arm. He’d take me with him to visit his company’s offices at the seaports in Los Angeles, San Diego and San Francisco. He showed me the important work his business, Ferrini/Memoir/6 “Overseas Services Company”, performed, involving the repair and maintenance of sophisticated “AUV’s” used by the Navy. I became a rebellious teen and resented Drake. I missed my father who never wrote, and, I resented mom for never mentioning dad, who I believed had written mom for money. I was ambitious and set out to become a successful consulting engineer. Although I was good with numbers and my engineering courses weren’t challenging for me, Vegas and its distractions were interfering with my engineering studies. I began smoking pot, drinking, and was placed on academic probation by UNLV. Mom was disappointed and implored Drake to “straighten me out”. Drake suggested I consider joining “OSC” as a crew member, saying, “Go off and make some real money. By the time your classmates graduate, you’ll have banked enough money to buy an engineering firm.” Drake’s suggestion resonated with me, and I hoped his offer of employment would provide me with the income necessary to permit mom to retire, and make my father proud, knowing his son would sit at the poker table as a “high roller”. I quit school and Drake hired me as an “apprentice” crew member, drove me to the airport, and firmly shook my hand. I was hoping for a hug which would never be forthcoming from Drake. He looked me squarely in the eye, and said, “It’s up to you to “sink or swim”. You’re a young guy just starting the “party” which won’t last forever. Make “hay” while you’re still young.” Drake grabbed me by the shoulders and said, “Son, always consider the other guys motivations. Always ask yourself, what are the vested interests of the parties? Be on guard that relationships, of any kind, have strings attached. This advice will guide you throughout your life, particularly with women on the prowl for a suitor, and your business dealings.” At the time I didn’t realize it, but Drake was providing me with a crash course on life and business, he learned the hard way. It was the tough, old bastard’s way, of providing me with a sendoff gift, of sorts. He taught me to think like a hardened businessman. These were last words he spoke to me, dying of a stroke just a couple months shy of completing my two year contract with OSC. I flew for almost 24 hours, eventually landing on a volcanic atoll somewhere in the Pacific Ocean. I was met by the crew’s foreman, who introduced himself as “Griz”, saying, “So, you’re the new hire Drake sent. Follow me.” We began walking towards a metal warehouse and some office trailers on the otherwise deserted island. The sun was intense and the wind whipped across the island which was flat and devoid of any shade trees. Griz continued, “The Island has no name, just coordinates on a map. We don’t even know what nation owns it, but Drake’s Company has a 99 year lease on it. He also has shoreline facilities in Manila, Guam, Honolulu, San Diego, Los Angeles, and San Francisco. I’ve been Drakes “right hand man” since our time together in the Navy, and I’ll be your boss.” “What do we do here, Griz?” Ferrini/Memoir/7 “We repair and maintain AUV’s which we send out to sea. We can coordinate their destination anywhere as long as they have battery life. We send them to survey the ocean floor as far away as Guam, the Philippines, Hawaii, LA, Alaska, and San Francisco.” “Where are we, exactly?” “You’re 17 hours from home, son. You’ll be living and working on a volcanic atoll in the Pacific Ocean, somewhere between Hawaii, Guam, and the Philippines. Some call it, Micronesia.” Drake led me to an office trailer. The wall mounted air conditioner cooled the small office in which sat a beautiful Asian girl in her twenties. “Here’s our new hire, Jade. Get him squared away after I introduce him to the rest of the facilities.” Jade looked me and up and down, returning her attention to the computer screen, and simply nodding her head in agreement. I was taken to a prefabricated trailer which served as a bunkhouse for six male crew members. “Grab a bunk and get some shut eye, kid.” I was already regretting my decision to accept the job. “You’ll hear the dinner horn blow; just follow the crew to the mess house. You can meet your fellow crew members at dinner.” I fell into a deep sleep. I dreamed mom was in danger but I was too far away to help. I was awoken suddenly by Jade who sat on the edge of my bed. She smelled like fresh cut flowers. She was beautiful except for a tattoo of a black widow spider on her shoulder which was unsettling. “Hello, Mitch. I’m Jade. I run the business office on the island. Missing Vegas already?” It was obvious she knew my background. I smiled, and quipped, “Ask me tomorrow.” Jade grinned, handed me an ice cold bottle of Heineken, saying, “This will quench your thirst, honey.” Jade pulled out a handkerchief from her pants, and gently wiped the beads of perspiration from my forehead. “You were having a nightmare when I sat down? What’s troubling you, honey?” Ferrini/Memoir/8 “I was dreaming about my mom being trouble and I couldn’t get home in time to save her.” “Don’t worry about it, sweetheart. It’s the isolation of the island getting to you. It tends to make us all homesick. I’ll always be here for you to talk about anything troubling you. Just ask me.” When she spoke, she looked directly into my eyes. Jade radiated a nurturing, loving, and caring persona. It was like a mother-son or wife-husband bond we immediately shared. Whatever it was, I craved more of it. It was the beginning of our beautiful relationship. “Dinner’s about two hours away. I’ll leave this payroll paperwork for you to fill out and return to me. Your money will be wired weekly to your bank account.” Jade rose, and walked to the door. Before exiting, Jade turned, and remarked, “It might interest you to know, you’re the second highest paid crew member behind Griz. You must be some important dude!” I fell back asleep and was awoken by the dinner horn, rose from the bunk, and followed a group of older crew members to a makeshift commissary consisting of lashed together shipping containers. Fans kept the dining room cool but it was still hot and sticky. If the food was as dreadful as the dining hall, I was in for a hellish two year employment contract. There were a total of seven employees including myself, Jade, Griz, JamesD, and three salty looking, old sailors. Aside from Jade, “JamesD” was the only other non-Caucasian crew member. JamesD was an African American man, born and raised in Mississippi. He developed a love of cooking from his grandmother who raised him. JamesD escaped the poverty of rural Mississippi by joining the Navy where he quickly rose through the ranks of Navy mess halls on ships and shore. JamesD was such a fine cook he was invited to cook for the Secretary of the Navy and dignitaries for special events. JamesD refused offers to join elite restaurants in favor of remaining in the Navy, and attaining the rank of Chief Petty Officer. Prior to retiring, he had the formidable responsibility of running the mess hall at the Great Lakes Naval Training Center. He never volunteered the reason for the “D” attached to his name, and, everyone had the good sense not to ask! We stood in line, cafeteria style, as JamesD carved off a healthy slice of expertly cooked prime rib, scooping up fluffy mashed potatoes, spooning on fresh vegetables, and placing a jar of au jus sauce on our plates. Beverages included wine, ice cold bear, soft drinks, and bottled water. We ate at a wooden picnic table and bench. I was pleased to have Jade sit by me who never hesitated to bring me seconds, desert, or a cold drink. It felt good to have her discretely and gently stroke my thighs. There wasn’t much talk as everyone was hungry and enjoying the delicious meal. The Ferrini/Memoir/9 squeaky ceiling fan drowned out the silence until Griz stood, and introduced me, “The new hire is Mitch. He’s under my supervision. My job is to make certain he learns our system quickly and correctly. He has top security clearance, got it?” The room roared, “Ahy, ahy, Chief!” Griz looked towards me, “The remaining crew members are Jade whom you already met, “King Pin”, “Dog Face”, and “Baller”, all seasoned, career sailors. Have a question, ask me. Got it?” “Yes, Sir!” Jade gently nudged me, approvingly. I suspect she already knew about my security clearance which motivated her statement, “You’re one important dude”. Our desert consisted of fluffy homemade chocolate cake, pineapple upside down cake made with a healthy dose of rum, coconut ice cream, and make your own hot fudge sundaes. The island had the basic creature comforts of the mainland. Fresh water was flown in for drinking. Porta potties were serviced monthly. Electrical generators powered by petrol provided electricity. Communication with the mainland was via satellite internet, and a single, satellite phone, used sparingly. The five crew members were a handpicked group of old Navy vets. The senior crew member was Griz who was the foreman. Drake saved his life in Vietnam during an underwater demolition accident, and, was loyal to Drake. King Pin, Dog Face, and Baller, were retired, career, enlisted Navy sailors in their seventies. They felt privileged to have an opportunity to clock in; complete the repetitious tasks each day, clock out, play cards, and drink themselves to sleep seven days a week. They were paid well, and life on the desolate island, was better than dying slowly in a VA facility on the mainland. They never talked to me but respected the fact that I reported to their boss, friend, and fellow sailor, Griz. I was at work early the following morning. My job was to watch, learn, and keep quiet as Griz opened up the AUV’s with a key hung around his neck. He carefully removed sensitive sonar and computer systems like a surgeon performing surgery. My stepfathers company serviced and repaired AUV’s. The oil and gas industry uses them to map the seafloor before drilling or laying pipes, and for inspecting underwater oil rig platforms. Our largest client, the Navy, uses them for intelligence gathering, mine countermeasures, mapping the seafloor, payload delivery, and anti-submarine warfare. They’re powered by rechargeable batteries which we performed on the island. They look like torpedoes or cruise missiles; about 19’ in length, 21” in diameter, and weigh 1700 pounds. Their sophisticated sonar and computer systems transmit images of the ocean floor which are beamed up to a satellite, and interpreted by Navy intelligence. They Ferrini/Memoir/10 operate for about 16 hours on pre-programmed missions which take them as far away as the West Coast, Hawaii, or Alaska, where they are met by our company personnel, serviced, and sent back out to sea. Opening the AUV’s required a top security clearance, and a key issued by the manufacturer. The keys were only issued to those with top security clearance. Drake earned his top security clearance from decades of loyal service as a Chief Petty Officer in the Navy. I suspect Drake arranged for my security clearance through his high level Navy contacts. We were required to always wear the key on a chain around our necks like a dog tag. The Navy ordered the fleet that any AUV found afloat, ashore, or under any circumstances, was to be sequestered, held under tight security, and never tampered with, until a member of our company with the top security clearance and key arrived. The new AUV’s arrived by military transport plane which took advantage of the long runway. They were carefully placed on carts, and wheeled to our metal warehouse where they would be readied for service. When the AUV’s were ready for deployment, we’d hall them out on a trailer to a launching ramp similar to launching a boat. We placed them into the ocean, remotely start them, and they began their missions. About a week into my work, I was becoming proficient in opening up the AUV’s and recharging the batteries. The interior of the AUV’s were packed with state of the art, sonar, computer systems, battery packs, recording, transmitting devices; America’s best underwater surveillance technology. Like modern automobile engines, they are difficult to repair given the fact there was little room to reach each component. We were very proficient in removing and replacing the sophisticated components, and the Navy trusted our work. Drake loved adventure honed as an underwater demolition expert during Vietnam. As he got older, seeing the end of the line, he devised a method of making enormous money by trafficking Fentanyl, a very lethal narcotic, manufactured in sophisticated laboratories inside China, and smuggled out of China through “The Golden Triangle”; the border of Thailand, Laos, and Myanmar. The packaged Fentanyl was sealed in airtight, chemically coated plastic bags, masking the scent of the Fentanyl, oblivious to drug sniffing canines. Drake and Griz devised a way of packing the Fentanyl within the nooks and crannies of the AUV’s. Because Drake’s company only had access to the interior of the AUV’s, and the responsibility of launching them, Drake and Griz could direct the destination of the AUV’s to any port on the West Coast, Alaska, and Hawaii where his trusted employees would remove the AUV from the water, sequester it for repair and maintenance, remove the Fentanyl, and deliver it to the purchaser. Drake did it more for the action than the money. The profits he made enabled a simple guy from Oklahoma, with limited career horizons, to make millions, and allowed him to live a luxurious lifestyle with my Ferrini/Memoir/11 mom. Drake was “rolling the dice” because if found out, the Fentanyl trafficking would be traced solely to him. One evening, Griz awoke me in my bunk, and instructed me to follow him to the warehouse which was empty and dark. Without saying a word, Griz opened the AUV with his key, and began removing components which he handed me, until the shell of the AUV was empty. Griz told me to retrieve a black bag marked, “Top Secret. Security Clearance Required.” He tore it open, and emptied the contents which included tightly packed baggies of white powder on to the floor. He threw me a roll of duct tape, saying, “Your job is to tape the bags to the bottom of each component. On the first of each month, you’ll hear our pilot, Kai, do a late night fly over. He’ll throw the black bags from the plane. It’s your job to immediately get out of bed, fetch the bags, take them to the warehouse, place them in the gated store room, and lock it. Got it?” “Yeah, but what the hell is this white powder?” “Always wear surgical gloves and a face mask to protect you from the toxic drug. If you imagine Lincoln’s head on a penny covered with Fentanyl, that small amount is enough to kill you. It’s our money maker, kid. Have you checked your bank account lately?” I was now an accessory to Fentanyl trafficking, and in violation of numerous Federal laws, which would place me in jail for the rest of my life. Drake knew he wanted somebody with “skin in the game”, assisting in his drug business. Drake knew that if he died, fight for control of the company would expose his drug smuggling scheme. Drake needed a family member to carry on the business, and he chose me. Mom didn’t know about it but enjoyed the spoils of Drake’s success. Aside from me, Griz, Drake, and some unknown persons at our West Coast operations, nobody, not even the five other crew members on the island, knew about the Fentanyl trafficking business. We performed our “packing” in the middle of the night, inside the warehouse after the other crew members clocked off their shift. They were told that evening work within the warehouse required top secret clearance and warned never to enter. The doors to the warehouse were bolted shut as we performed our work. We ate well. Prime meats, seafood, fresh vegetables, and fruit were always included with the supplies arriving by plane. Despite the good food, living and working on an island was difficult. It was flat, hot, and humid. There were no trees providing shade. At times, the wind was so strong; it felt like it would blow you off the island. Our “down time” was brutal because of the lack of diversions. Satellite TV was the only recreation. There was no cell phone reception on the island, and the only satellite phone was the property of Drake’s company. It was used only for emergency purposes under strict Navy regulations. Jade and I fought the boredom with exercise, weed, and plenty of lovemaking. Ferrini/Memoir/12 The old crew members preferred beer, liquor, and nightly poker games including the telling of Navy yarns. Conspiracy theories were the highlight of their conversations. King Pin claimed to have been the young sailor driving the grey Navy hearse transporting the slain President Kennedy to Air Force One as the First Lady sat in the front seat beside him. King Pin said Mrs. Kennedy sat “stoically, not shedding a tear”, but exhibiting “great restraint and dignity”. He vividly recalled her pink dress heavily stained with her husband’s blood. King Pin admitted to shedding a tear or two during the short ride to Air Force one, and was handed a silk handkerchief by Mrs. Kennedy embroided with her initials, “JK”. She graciously thanked him for his service, and muttered, “They killed, Jack. They got their vengeance!” King Pin choked up after finishing the story, reached into his wallet, and produced the neatly folded handkerchief he carried for decades. Dog Face claimed he was the Senior Chief Petty Officer in charge of burying Osama Bin Laden’s body at sea. However, Dog Face proclaims the body wasn’t that of “OBL”, and, in fact, “OBL” is serving a life sentence in the Federal Government’s Supermax prison in Colorado under an alias, kept out of sight from other prisoners, and monitored by handpicked guards who signed federal government nondisclosure agreements. Dog Face said the United States has benefited greatly from the intelligence provided by “OBL” and thwarted many terrorist attempts Baller said a private jet unexpectedly landed on the long runway. He recalls an “aging, long haired, hippie, wearing a tank top with the insignia, “The Doors”, climbing out of the jet, and marveling at the long, emergency Space Shuttle runway. Baller pointed to Jade, saying, “Jade recognized the guy as the rock star, Jim Morrison, ran up to him, and he placed his arm around her, reciting some poetry.” Jade interceded, “It was lyrical poetry Jim wrote, Baller. Jim was referring to the long runway he saw from the sky, and had to see for himself, when he repeated the lyrics from “The End”, Ride the snake, ride the snake To the lake, the ancient lake, baby The snake, he's long, seven miles” Baller said, “He removed his tank top, signed it, gave it to Jade, hugged her, got back on the plane, and took off. Can you imagine that?” Jade was smart. She knew everything about the company, except our Fentanyl trafficking. During our love making, Jade whispered, “Why is it that you and Griz only have top secret Ferrini/Memoir/13 security clearance? Why is it only you and Griz work on the AUV’s at night?” She was determined to learn our secret. Servicing, repairing, and packing AUV’s with Fentanyl was my job for the next two years. A kilogram (approximately 2.2 lbs) of Fentanyl is purchased for approximately $6,000, and sold for approximately $1.6 million dollars. The reason for this vast difference in pricing is that the potency of Fentanyl is so great; it can be cut into heroin, and other drugs, to expand their volume. Griz confided in me that he and Drake concluded, if they increased the 1700 lb weight of the AUV by only 10%, or, 170 lbs, they could transport 77 kilos of Fentanyl purchased for $464,000, and sell it in the States for $123,200,000. The company’s fee for the transport was 1%, or, $1,232,000, multiplied by the number of AUV’s packed with Fentanyl. The profits to OSC were enormous and the risk was irresistible. Our trafficking fees, in the millions of dollars monthly, were wired from Chinese banks to accounts in Russian banks controlled by Drake. The Russian banks “looked the other way” to launder the money for a fee, or no fee, when Drake exchanged the intelligence gathered from the AUV’s with the Russian KGB. Drake didn’t mind paying a laundering fee to the Russian banks, but he resented sharing the Intel from the AUV’s with the Russians. Although Drake didn’t mind being a drug runner, he detested the thought of being a traitor to the United States. Money, evidently, assuaged his guilt. I speculated the only buyers with the hundreds of millions of dollars available to purchase the Fentanyl from the Chinese were wealthy, powerful, Mexican cartels, attracted to the high grade Fentanyl, produced for a fraction of the cost in China, without the burdens of DEA interdiction and smuggling costs. Most of all, the cartels preferred to “hide in plain sight”, so, they liked our method of trafficking. What better way of getting the Fetanyl to the States but inside a US Navy AUV! Jade was technically talented, and she managed to hack into the video feeds coming from the AUV’s. To kill the boredom, many a night, we’d sit in her office, and watch her computer screen display the underwater images being bounced off a satellite, and back to the Navy. The ocean floor resembled an underwater Grand Canyon. We saw sunken battleships, planes, antiquities, and even a Ford F150 whose story we speculated upon. The whales swam alongside the AUV’s as if family members. The dolphins raced the AUV’s, leaping across them, as if to say, “We’re faster than you, and can leap higher. If you’re not careful, we’ll tell your secret!” When Jade wasn’t practicing her bass guitar, she engaged in target practice with her 9mm Glock pistol. I pitied the poor bastard who attempted to take advantage of Jade. Ferrini/Memoir/14 About once a month, natives would visit us from islands dotting the Pacific, rowing across the ocean in canoes like their ancestors. They’d bring items to trade, dance, sing, party, and stayed the night. They liked our booze, steaks, and we enjoyed their native cuisine, tropical fruits, and female company. The visitors livened up our desolate and humdrum lives. Even the hardened old sailor’s loosened up, trading their uniforms for loin clothes. The visitors spoke a language few could understand. It was a combination of Samoan, Tongan, and Fijian. They prayed to deities and spoke of rituals and ancient belief systems they held for centuries. We welcomed their monthly visits. Like Drake promised, I was making more money than any engineer or the president of any engineering company. My payroll checks were deposited directly into my account but there was nowhere to spend any of the money on the island. All of my living necessities were provided by the company, and I was prohibited from touching the enormous balance in my account. I suspect Drake didn’t want to attract attention to myself and the company with extravagant purchases. Although Jade was making the direct deposits to my account, she wasn’t able to see my account balance which assuaged my suspicions she loved me for my money. I never considered the moral implications of my work, that is, the death and carnage I was now responsible for. I rationalized my drug trafficking by saying to myself, “I’m just doing my job.” My ambition to be a “high roller” and provide my mother with a luxurious retirement was more important than any pain I was inflicting on strangers. In this regard, I was my father’s son, and now understood, he was committing larceny to provide for his family. I speculated his coke habit was a necessary to assuage his guilt. I wondered if he’d be proud or disgraced by my drug trafficking and financial success. I guessed the former. I’d locate his whereabouts when I return home, and, help him out financially, if he’s still alive. My mom never mentioned being sick, but I suspect she was fighting the “Big C”, contracted from years of chain smoking, when I heard her terrible coughing and spitting on the emailed audio tapes, she sent me. It sounded bad. “Your mama is very sick with lung cancer, honey. I’m being admitted to the hospital. Your stepfather died from a stroke while we were on a world cruise. He told me on his deathbed, you were bequeathed ownership of the company upon his death. However, I received a strange phone call from a man claiming to be the “key holder” on the West Coast who is contesting the ownership of the company. He’s a Filipino American man in Los Angeles who claims Drake is his biological father, who supported him and his mother. Drake was good to us, honey, but in the end, he was just another sailor with a “woman in every port.” Drake’s drug trafficking operation now became clear to me. The bastard son was my equivalent on the mainland, and responsible for opening the AUV’s, removing the Fentanyl, and delivering it to the cartels. Knowingly or unknowingly, Drake pitted us against each other, or perhaps, envisioned a partnership. I wouldn’t know until I met this guy in person. Aside from being my last opportunity to be with my mother before she died, I had to get back home, and defend my interest in the business. Leave it to Drake, never to put his succession plans in a proper legal document. Although the old, tough, bastard, always kept his emotions to himself, I felt a sense of closure with him by being named his successor, but also felt like he wanted to test me by putting me through the misery of earning control of the business by fighting for it. During the flight, I fell asleep and had night mares of the eerie sunsets, native chants, exotic dancing, but was awoken by Kai’s engine sputtering. It didn’t sound good, and heavy rain was pelting the plane. I couldn’t see out the windows. “Kai, are we cool?” “I don’t know man. This is the worse tropical storm I’ve seen in some time. I’m having trouble maintaining the horizon”. Jade was calm. I never saw her agitated or afraid. Jade placed her arms around me, “After I visit my brother in LA, I’m coming to be with you, baby.” “That won’t work right now, Jade. I have important family business to contend with.” Jade removed her arms from around me and pouted. As the plane headed deeper into the storm clouds, the wind and rain pelted the small plane, thrashing it about the sky. In one moment, we must have lost a thousand feet in altitude. Despite Kai’s familiarity with Pacific weather conditions, I could tell he was having difficulty controlling the plane. “I love you, Mitch, but I won’t be left out in the cold, empty handed.” “We were just island lovers. I never promised you a future together!” “I’ll make certain you’ll have no future, Mitch! I’ll apply for a whistleblower award from the Navy when we reach the mainland.” “Why would you be paid a whistleblower award?” Jade removed her Smartphone, and displayed videos she recorded showing me and Griz packing the AUV’s with Fentanyl. They were date stamped, and, to make matters worse, the video sound recordings included Griz and I discussing the amount of Fentanyl being shipped, and the destination ports of the Fentanyl packed AUV’s. The video recordings, along with the unusually high, payroll deposits into my account Jade was instructed to make, created an ironclad case of drug trafficking against me, resulting in jail, and the destruction of the company. “How did you get these tapes, Jade?” “I didn’t make the tapes, Mitch. Drake did! He’s been snooping on the warehouse for years, off and on, but more consistently since you and Griz started “working” together.” “You didn’t answer my question, Jade. How did you get the tapes?” “I got them with resourcefulness, Mitch. I see every income, expense, and inventory report coming into the office from the OSC controller’s office on the mainland. The expense item, “CCTV”, jumped off the expense report, and stared me in the face. It only took a vague inquiry with a friendly bookkeeper at headquarters to get a computer file name which led me to a user name and password challenge. With a little “elbow grease”, and hacking knowledge, I was watching and recording you and Griz nightly, babe.” I didn’t feel betrayed because Jade was protecting herself. I would have done the same thing if I were in her shoes. She planted a soft, wet kiss on my lips, and said, “This changes the game, Mitch. I’ll expect you to send for me when your business is concluded in Vegas.” I couldn’t help but remember Drakes advice to me, “Be on guard that relationships, of any kind, have strings attached.” If you stick with me, you’ll be an accessory to drug trafficking, and can spend the rest of your life in prison. Is that what you want?” “I’d rather be an “accessory” to the man I love, than an “accessory” to nothing, which is what I’ve been my entire life.” Kai was a “company man”, one of Drake’s first employees, and was loyal to Drake for giving him a job and flying lessons. He overheard Jade’s threat and sensed the urgency of our situation. He held up a pistol and pointed it at Jade saying, “Boss, I can take her out now and throw her corpse from the plane.” Jade reached for her Glock inside her duffle bag. I grabbed her hand, preventing her from removing the gun. The last thing we needed was a shoot out in a small plane, during a storm, with nowhere to land, and nobody to fly the plane should Kai be killed. I waved Kai off from shooting her. Kai muttered, “I never trusted that chick!” Lighting struck the plane, the engine stalled, and it took a sharp dive. I couldn’t help but think this experience was in keeping with my previous experiences on the island, where the unexpected, becomes the expected. Jade put on her ear buds, held me tight, and recited the lyrics to “LA Woman”, hoping that chanting the lyrics would force the plane to level off from its rapid descent, “Mr. Mojo Risin’, gotta keep on risin’ Risin’, risin’…” Kai began reciting the words to a beautiful, and calming Polynesian prayer I heard the visiting islanders chant on their monthly visits. Kai’s prayer made the horrible, seem bearable. Although Kai was struggling to keep the plane from crashing into the ocean, he wasn’t giving up, pulling back on the yoke, and attempting to get the engine to turn over. I prayed Kai’s deities were listening to his prayers, and would be merciful to us. I also prayed they liked, “The Doors”!
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Bittersweet As the youngest of five children, my early years were filled with the special treatment of being the baby girl. My name Amira means princess. When Mother cooked bal mithal, I thought I was her favorite. She always popped the first sugar ball into my little mouth before my brothers and sisters came home from school. Our little secret.
When my siblings complained that Mother favored me, I crawled into Father’s lap and cried. He scolded them for their selfishness and banned them to their rooms. Late one night shortly after I turned ten, Father woke me. He said he wanted to show me a game so special that he would only play it with me, his little princess. I promised not to tell the others because he said they would be jealous. He claimed my sisters would steal the handmade scarves he bought me at the bazaar, and my brothers would never take me to the video arcade with them again. I hurt at the thought of my brothers and sisters treating me this way. But it was what he said Mother would do that broke my heart, that she would no longer treat me to the first of the sweet bal mithal. So, I promised to keep our secret. Then he taught me the game. Later, as I played, my older sisters whispered about the monster inside our father. Ashamed, I did not tell them I had seen it too. But when the ugliness inside my gut grew too large to hold inside, I broke my promise to my father and told my sisters. They admitted knowing the abuse had shifted to me, but explained nothing they could say or do would make a difference. Eager to escape, my sisters occupied themselves with their wedding preparations. When they failed to intervene, I begged my older brothers to save me. But they respected Father above all else, placed him even higher than God. So, I pleaded directly to Allah, implored him to command my brothers to stop my father. My prayers went unanswered. When I revealed to my mother what Father was doing, she slapped me, said never to speak of it again. I didn’t yet understand that if Mother had reported him, he would not be punished. The men protect each other, and the laws protect the men over all others. Father might kill my mother if she defied him. Yet, selfishly, I prayed she would. Unlike in America, divorce is difficult in Pakistan. Mother would only be eligible if Father deserted her or withheld financial support for four or more years. Or did not have intimate relations with her for at least three. These are crimes he did not commit. In ways, I still consider myself under the watchful eye of Allah. In school, teacher told us that Pakistan is the third most dangerous country for women. She said, “Seventy percent of young girls are psychologically or physically abused, thousands disfigured and maimed.” My best friend’s parents required that she endure genital cutting at age nine. We made eye contact but quickly looked away. Neither of us wanted our teacher or classmates to guess the secrets we shared. When Teacher said, “The government passed a new law to safeguard girls and women,” there was no collective sigh of relief. We were old enough to understand that customs are difficult to change. Father beat Mother at the smallest provocation. She had no place to go. Few shelters existed. He moved the family to another city, isolated Mother from friends and family or anyone who might offer aid. If she spoke of what he was doing, he might have banned her from our home and prohibited her from seeing her children ever again. It is painful to confess, but I turned to evil. I asked Allah to compel my mother to poison Father. I thought if she loved me, she would slip arsenic in his meal. I realized I had to help myself. I planned to escape, to flee to a land where I could be free. At fifteen, I enrolled in an international studies program. Confident that as an educated woman I could live alone and support myself, I dreamed of attending college in America. One year later I sold the jewelry I inherited from my great grandmother, then paid the money to an underground immigration agent. He pretended to assist but did not. He drugged me, put a mask over my face, and pushed me into the backseat of a car. Men locked me inside a cinderblock cell, cold and damp, a mole hole in the ground. I heard other girls crying but was afraid to call out. The drugs muddled my mind. Sometimes I was unconscious for a few hours. Other times, much longer. In the constant dark, I could not tell day from night, but I think I was imprisoned for over twenty days. In the beginning, I fought to break free. The more I fought the more the men beat and drugged me. I did not want to die. Then the men said they were taking me to an airport but would not drug me if I obeyed. Afraid, I did what they asked. One man thrust me toward the back of the plane. Curled up in my seat, I listened to the men. They laughed and congratulated themselves for the money they made selling girls over and over again, much more than from dealing in only opioids. The men flew to Turkey and enslaved me at a place called Sugar House. I felt alone. But as other stolen women befriended me, they told me we shared one horrible experience. We were all first violated by a parent, brother, relative, family friend, or other trusted person. Now after a year of therapy, I understand molestation is the act that leaves a child most vulnerable to traffickers. But learning there were others did not make me feel less dishonored. I longed to kill myself rather than let the men at Sugar House do as they wanted. Several girls committed suicide. A way out. If not for my friends, the other stolen girls, I would have taken my life. Still, with the weight of a boulder, sorrow sits in my heart because I did not give Lin Su’s little sister the strength to endure. ~~~~ My friend, Amira, is a great source of courage to all held captive at Sugar House. But my guilt is hard to bear. The only things that keep me alive are the need to share what little courage I have left and my ability to withdraw into childhood memories. I am Lin Su. My little sister and I were happy children living in Guiyang, the capital city of Guizhou, China. Our father earned a living as a manufacturer of alloy wheels. The only picture I possess is one our mother snapped long ago. Father is holding hands with Sister and me as we walk along a path lined with cherry trees in full blossom. We loved to dress up in Mother’s clothes. Wobbling in high-heeled shoes, Sister giggled, “I am the big girl now.” We enjoyed school and our friends. I played the piano, Sister the violin. Sadly, our mother was never strong. The winter I turned fourteen, Mother complained of a sharp pain cutting through her chest. Throughout the day and night, she coughed up bloody mucus. Exhausted, Mother ate only broth made from angelica root. With every bite, I dipped the spoon in a pot of honey. She always had Sister and me swallow this sugary syrup when we coughed, so I was sure its sweetness would heal her as well. Yet, she rarely left her bed. The veins on her hands, darkened to a greenish purple, rose and pushed against her skin, now as white and transparent as a tissue flower. Even though raised as an atheist, I draped Mother’s blue-green silk scarf over the small circular table in her room. On top I arranged seven pieces of her favorite jade jewelry. I prayed for their strength to leave the stones and settle in my mother’s weakened body. After Mother passed, Sister and I performed concerts to cheer Father. I can still sense the warmth of his pride. But his attention shifted when he married a woman from a rich and powerful family. Father forgot to tickle my sister and me at play and kiss us good night. Never again did his eyes sparkle or his lips spread into a smile when we entered the room. When he fell ill and died, his second wife banned Sister and me from our home. No other relative dared defy this cruel woman and take us in. We slept in a doorway, summer and winter. I knocked on doors, asked to sweep and clean for food, but we were always hungry. I was fifteen, Sister only thirteen, when a storekeeper caught me stealing fruit. A man saw the scuffle and offered the opportunity to get off the streets. He promised we would live together in a large home and share a bedroom, eat fresh food, wear nice clothes, and work as housekeepers. I had no hint of the dark nature of this man. Sister trusted my decision to go with this man. I was responsible for her. Named Chunhua because she was born during the spring bloom, a single flower now brings tears to my eyes. When this man sold us to Sugar House, he said they must call my sister Candy to make her more appealing. The drugs stole her warmth. Crushed in shame, shoulders slumped, she no longer looked anyone in the eyes. Six months later, Chunhua took her life, three days before her fourteenth birthday. I should have gone with my precious sister to her death. ~~~~ Lin Su is my best friend, but I did not support her as I should. Now we grieve together, a bond we should not share. My Afghani name means fresh grass. My father claimed he named me Palwasha for the sweet fragrance of the grasses that flourished on our farm. The men at Sugar House call me Alexa. They say my name must be sexy. My family was not poor before the war. We were farm people, but my father sold fruit, vegetables, goats, and lambs. My father said I was so smart that I could be the one to take over the farm. I did not want to let him down so I studied diligently until the Taliban bombed Rodat and destroyed our schools and many businesses and homes. I was out in the field, herding goats, when terrorists sped up the path. My family perished in the attack. The blast propelled me into a ravine, burned my arm, and sprained my foot. The goats ran away. Our two-story farmhouse, home to my crippled grandmother, father, mother and brother, crumbled. The bedrooms on the second floor fell into the kitchen. Flames shot toward the sky. I hauled water from the well, but the pain made me slow. Our cats, sheep, cows, horses, and both border collies…all died. The fire blackened the fig trees that protected us from the summer heat. Fields of onion that once provided a good income were reduced to rows of soot. A few canned goods survived the bombing by being thrown twenty yards into our scorched garden. A blessing, but they did not last. My pain was great. I could hardly move. Begging is common in Afghanistan, yet I never dreamed I might have the need. Several days after I ate what little food I had, I tried to walk to town. I limped toward the road, then stopped to rest my swollen foot. I heard the sound of a car. When it stopped, a man and woman got out. They claimed to be going into town to deliver Red Cross supplies but left a small box of food and water. The woman said, “We will be back tomorrow with medical supplies for your burns and foot.” Four days passed. When they came back, the man said he had no more boxes but gave me a bottle of water and a few military rations. The woman used half the water to remove dirt from my burns then wrapped them in large bandages. I was grateful. Again, she told me they would return but did not. My lips split and became infected. I lost so much weight that my skirt slipped from my waist to ride on my hips. I had nothing, no home, no family, not even a blanket. But the swelling diminished, so once more, I prepared to walk to town. I recited from the Quran as I dug through the rubble in search of the walking stick my father had carved. I had not found it, but I believed my prayers had been answered when the man and woman returned. The woman put her arm around my waist. “I am sorry. We have no more food or water but will take you to the Red Cross waystation.” Father warned my brothers of the bacha baz, wealthy men using harems of young boys for sexual entertainment. In private, my mother said, “Beautiful little girls such as yourself are kidnapped and forced to labor in brick kilns and carpet factories, or worse, sold to men for sex.” My parent’s warnings filled me with fear, but I hoped that with Red Cross assistance I might get to my aunt and uncle in Kabul, one hundred and eighty kilometers away. I cursed my stupidity as the man left the roadway and sped into the desert. My voice quivered. “Please let me out. I can walk.” The man ignored me and drove rapidly over the sandy path. I wanted to open the door, but the handle was gone. I put my weight against it, hoping the door would open, but it did not. When the sky darkened, the man stopped in an isolated spot and ripped me from the car. The woman only sat there. “Please help,” I begged. She looked away. My mother taught ways to recognize a man with the heart of a beast, a man with no soul. She never told me a woman could also be the same. Three men stepped from a jeep. I hadn’t noticed it at first. Lights off, it was invisible in the starless night. I kicked and screamed. The larger man seized me and the other blew something in my face. I remember nothing else until awakening at Sugar House. ~~~~ My earliest childhood memory comes from when I was five. Golden-headed pelicans swoop overhead. My mother and father each hold me by one hand. They swing me forward, singing Christina, you can fly. Up, up and away. I squeal and kick sand with my toes. Seagulls squawk and head out to sea. We lived in a one-bedroom apartment while my father waited for base housing. Looking back, we didn’t have much. I only knew the pride that puffed my little chest when he wore his blue uniform and returned the salutes of other men without letting go of my hand. The Saturday after each payday, my father treated us to a movie. Other weekends, we built sandcastles on the beach, then searched the shallow waves for seashells and sand dollars. We were always together. As a Private First Class at Camp Pendleton, my father was unable to afford a babysitter so he and mom could go on a date. His friend said, “I miss my girls stationed this far from home. I’ll stay with Christina while you go out.” My sister, older by four years, played video games in another room. Father’s friend sat me on his lap. He flipped through a magazine he had brought, showed me the women. He said to be beautiful and loved, I needed to look and act like them. I never saw my father’s friend again. The Marine Corps saved me by transferring him to another base. But the standard he set stuck in my psyche. Still today, I worry about the others this demon will fool with his alternate face. I first played soccer at age eight. I loved kicking the ball and running faster than the girls on other teams. In high school, I enjoyed traveling to matches with my teammates. Serious about the game, I hoped to be awarded a scholarship. Even when promoted my father didn’t have money for extras. So my mother took a job as a lab tech. Twice a week, her shift made her thirty minutes late to pick me up after soccer practice. A handsome older man of twenty-four stood at the edge of the field and watched me wait alone for my mother. He seized this opportunity to woo me. I told my mother she didn’t need to rush. I lied, said a classmate invited me to her house to study and stay for dinner. Her parents would bring me home. My handsome man bought me jewelry. He told me that a woman like me should wear beautiful things. I believed him when he said, “I love you more than anyone else ever can.” He claimed to want to show me off. I had my first drinks at that party. And my first intercourse. I remember little, but he declared I was the love of his life. He drove me to the mall, purchased a silky dress. I thought I looked the same as my older sister when she went out Saturday nights. At the next party, we shared a joint. Lots of kids toke. I thought it was cool. He handed me pills and a shot of tequila. My head spun. I said, “I don’t feel well.” He said, “Come with me.” We entered a darkened room. Two men were there. I stepped back. The man who promised to love me gripped my shoulder. “After everything I have done for you, you must do something for me.” As a child, I didn’t tell my father what his friend had done. Now at sixteen, guilt blocked me from telling my parents what I had done. I ran away and rode the coaster to downtown San Diego. I prayed my parents would come find me but didn’t call to tell them where I was. Shivering and hungry, afraid and ashamed, I roamed the streets the entire night. A man with a kind face approached me. “Hi. My name is Daniel. Looks like you could use some help. Let me buy you breakfast at the corner coffee shop.” When I finished the eggs and toast, he said, “Come meet my wife. She has a soft spot for girls like you.” I struggled to clear the fog from my head but fell asleep in his SUV. When he stopped, I was too groggy to notice where we were. He held out his hand and helped me out of the car. I was standing in a warehouse before I realized this was nobody’s home. Three men with gang tattoos eyed me up and down. When I spun toward the door, the thug with a shaved head grabbed me. I sobbed and slid to the cold cement floor. Days passed in a haze of drugs and truck stops. When the narcotics wore off, I found myself in a filthy cargo van with six other girls. We didn’t speak, barely glanced at each other, though we faced the same fate. The only relief we had from our body’s stink and huddling on the floor was quick stops at the sides of deserted roads. I can’t remember how long I took to realize I was in New York. On my birthday, a customer punched me, then pushed me from his Mercedes Benz. I crawled to a park bench. My swollen eyes crusted shut. I cringed when a woman touched my shoulder. “Can I help you?” I put up my hand to push her away. “Please, will you let me help you?” I nodded. Pain shot up my neck. She helped me stand, supported me as we moved toward two other women. I felt as warm and safe as a baby chick in their hands. I didn’t know then that growing inside me was a baby of my own. These women gave me clean clothes, food, and a place to stay. Each day they gave me more. Now I am a survivor. Clean and sober, I work twenty hours a week at a fast-food restaurant and take classes at the local community college. My boss says I am a good worker. If I earn a GED, he will give me more hours. To pay forward the support I received, I volunteer to connect with women still in the streets. I want to help others the way those women helped me. I’ve learned that many trafficked victims commit suicide. I must be stronger than that. Soon I will have a baby daughter. She needs my love and care. ~~~~ When American soldiers rescued the women held at Sugar House, the same organization that reached out to me took them in as well. After three months of group living, Amira, Lin Su, Palwasha, and I accepted the offer of a small home to live in as roommates. This wasn’t easy. With our different religions, languages, and customs, we had to work hard not to remain strangers. In the first few months, we were most comfortable when cooking and sharing our country’s traditional foods. As our trust in each other grew, we revealed details from our experiences and held each other when the tears flowed. Today we are as close as sisters though the way we came to this is bittersweet. Through our sharing, I learned that my story of being a victim differs from each of theirs. However, this one thing we share. We are among the two to four million people trafficked every year. My mind may never rest. I question how and why these people continue to get away with ruining young lives. To find out who are these traffickers, selling children and young women, I spend hours online, reading everything I can find. The answers hurt me all over again. Many traffickers are known to the victims. They are family members, friends and neighbors. Others encroach as strangers in the form of gangs and other organized crime groups, pedophiles, pimps, madams, adult entertainment industry providers, or owners of small businesses such as massage parlors. Most child victims are sold online, allowing those who destroy human existence to remain anonymous and escape prosecution. What happened to the man who sold me many times a day? Even if I went to the police, he kept me drugged. I’d never find my way back to him or the decrepit building where he held me and the other young woman. So, he’s still out there. And the john who broke my jaw, then left me at the side of the road? I don’t even know his real name. New York boasts stringent sexual exploitation penalties and laws, but before I became brave enough to report him, my wounds healed. So, if the police located him, which is unlikely, it would be his word against mine. And the San Diego man who said he loved me the way nobody else ever could. Him, I can identify and lead police to his front door. In California, a judge might fine him, but what would he care? He sells his girls many times every day. The possibility of prison exists. But if I testify, he and his friends might learn where I am. So, what do I do? The same thing thousands of other victims do. More than just survive, I build a future. Last week I was brave enough to call my mother’s cellphone. Through the tears, I felt her love. I begged for forgiveness. She said there was nothing to forgive. My parents and sister are eager to meet Amira, Lin Su, and Palwasha. In two days, they fly in for my daughter’s birth. Now a family of eight, we are eight who will ensure this baby never experiences the cruelty we survived.
The Scent of Us Ten days, that’s how long they told me to wait before I could collect the memory of us.
“It’s a busy time,” the Extractor had said. “Especially during the holidays.” The receipt in my hand is crumpled and I force my fingers to stop fumbling with it as I stand in line. “Pick Up Point” reads the sign above the dark wooden counter. A row of weathered medicine cabinets with glass doors lines the wall. Inside are bottles of different colors and sizes, awaiting their rightful owner. “Next customer, please.” The apothecary wears a white coat—a stark contrast to her black hair she has up in a bun. I’m suddenly self-conscious about my unruly curls that haven't seen a hairdresser in months. “Order number?” I slide the slip over the counter. The woman raises a finely plucked eyebrow as she smoothes it out. “One second, Mr. Bellamy.” She opens the cabinet door behind her, and shortly after returns with a royal-blue colored bottle. A cardboard tag is tied around its slender neck, but the body is bulbous in comparison. “Here it is. February 14, 2017.” My throat turns dry as if filling up with paper. “One sniff at a time,” the apothecary warns. They’re legally obliged to say that. “You only get one bottle. As you’ve been informed, it’s a complicated one-time-only procedure where the most vivid or recent memory is extracted.” Even if it were possible, I couldn’t afford another anyway. The apothecary puts the bottle inside a paper bag. “The effects of overuse on your psyche haven’t been fully studied yet, so use it with care.” I almost laugh at that. She doesn’t know I’m already a goner. What would happen if I drank from it? From us? Would my stomach burst from our shared memories? Would it spill you out on the floor, where I’d be looking for your face inside the mess to try and put us back together, or would I slip and break an arm? Or neck maybe? “I will, thanks.” With trembling hands, I lift the bag off the counter. “Have a good day.” Not bothering to take off my coat, I sit in our cottage style kitchen, and place the bottle on top of the table so that it covers up a large coffee stain. As expected, the tag doesn’t prompt me to drink—we’re not in Wonderland after all. And I’m no Alice. It just shows my name and the date of the memory on it. Next to the bottle lies an unopened bag of jelly beans. I remove the cork with a dull pop. The cloudy liquid smells of jasmine, vetiver, and iris—a pinch of friskiness, mixed with lust and refined with a whiff of crazy—a little bit of you and me. I smile, lips tight. The toothy grin is reserved for you. My fingers wrap around the bottle, bringing it closer to my nose. One sniff only? Please woman, we’re made of hurricanes, typhoons and squalls. With my eyes closed, I inhale the essence of that day … # Perfectly clear sky, so blue, it blinds me. We had to park our beat-up Mazda further up the street and walk the remaining way to the fairground. “Where are you taking me? Nowhere cheesy, I hope.” You seize my fingers, but my hand is firmly pressed over your eyes. “No peeking.” Your shoulders slouch. “Fine.” The funfair doesn’t open until next week. It’s a strange sight—the rides deserted and still. “We’re here.” I pull away my hand. Mouth wide open, you spin around, and your short heart-print dress lifts up, revealing polka dot underwear. “How did you ...?” You stagger to the side. I hold your arms to steady you. “I know a guy who owes me a favor. He’s here to operate the rides, but other than that, he’ll stay out of our hair.” “I love it. I love you.” You take my hands and lead me forward, past a closed hot dog stand and a strongman game. “Can we really go on the rides?” “That’s what we’re here for.” I hold up my phone. “Just say the word, and Lars will set us up.” You sniff the air. “What is it?” “Let’s pretend it smells of fresh popcorn, cotton candy and cinnamon roasted almonds. In that order.” “Speaking of flavors …” I dive my hand into my jacket pocket, fishing out a bag of jelly beans. “You know me too well.” You snatch it and tear it open. “Here.” You pick three beans then put them in my palm. “The best combination.” A lemony coconut-vanilla taste explodes on my tongue. “What do you think?” Your fingers are still buried inside the bag. I grin. “I want to make love to you on the dark ride.” And so we do. It’s awkward at first, our movements too passionate for such a confined space. Let alone being watched by cheap-looking monsters that try too hard to be scary. As we cruise through their fluorescent world, our moans mingle with evil laughs and fake screams. We leave the darkness behind; our bodies sweaty, breath still heavy. You weren’t kidding when you asked about going on all the rides. “Next up, roller coaster.” You name it, I text Lars, and off we go. As promised, he’s like a ghost, always in the background, giving us the illusion that we are truly alone. The thrill rides are your favorites—Top Spin, Frisbee, Drop Tower, but as the sky turns the color of caramel corn, you point to the Ferris Wheel. Up here, the wind is unabashed, shamelessly tugging at our hair. “Thank you for this beautiful day.” Your lips, soft and cool, find mine, and pull at my piercing. Goosebumps sprout over my arms and thighs. “I love you.” Hand in hand, we walk back to the car. The setting sun bathes the quiet funfair and us in gold, changing your brown hair to a copper red. You hum a melody I can’t make out, but I chime in anyway. We’re back on the street. I unlock the car, wait for you to open the door. A bunch of red balloons squeeze their way out, floating upward. “What …?” You smile. “When did you ...?” “Lars is pretty good at multitasking.” You run after them, your gaze toward the sky, trying to catch one before they’re out of reach. “Let it go,” I yell. “Let it be with its friends.” Your laugh is cut off by the screeching of tires. # The sound blends with my scream, raw and sore, yanking me out of the memory. I drop the bottle. “No!” It shatters on the stone floor and the entire kitchen smells of us now, our particles mingling with the atmosphere. I pray it fills every room of our apartment, every corner and every crack in the floorboards. Pieces of glass cut into my skin as I use a sponge to soak up the liquid. I wring every last drop into the first mug I can get my hands on. My tears of frustration and anger as well as the dirt on the floor must have diluted the memory fluid. The jelly beans will taste stale, the red of the balloons will pale. The wind that caught your dress, reduced to a weak breeze. All ruined. It’s a complicated one-time-only procedure. Only the most vivid or recent memory is extracted. I’d always choose the pain of losing you again over forgetting the way you felt and looked that day: no make-up, hair entangled, the tiny multi-colored hearts on your dress pumping with every sway. I can’t smell anything other than the aroma of Valentine’s Day two years ago. The ceiling tilts and I tumble to the ground. Even with my eyes closed, the world spins like a merry-go-round. When I dare to open them again, I stare into the bluest of skies. A swarm of red balloons drifts by, and I half smile, half sob. Your face appears above me, framed by your wild and loose hair. “Come.” You offer me your hand. Every other nail is painted in a different color. “Jelly beans,” I mutter. “Come.” You’ve never been the patient type, but now your voice is calm, relaxed, matching the smile around your lips. I grab your hand. Your force pulls me into a field of pulsing hearts that thump in tune with the one in my chest. “Happy Valentine’s Day,” I whisper right before we chase after a single red balloon. No names
No names. None. Not here. Not in my time. Not the time before. Not in any time. “Pardon?” Once upon a time? But not now. No more. No need. Pronouns suffice. It’s no insult. Who’s to insult? They’re dead! So many. They don’t care. It’s of no concern. It’s the rules. Space is scarce. Time precious. Winding down. Tick, tock. I am taxed enough. “Pardon?” I am not complaining. What is this “here?” A place, a windowless room, barren with only desk and chair, pencils and paper, old in every way, airless and self-sufficient with the stench of another time. I am of that time, old beyond recall, tattered but not completely worn, serviceable, yes, in a word. There have been efforts, there are efforts to force me out before my time. I don’t resent this. In my day I did the same, succeeding finally as witnessed by my position. I do not fear taking my place in the ledger, though such recording falls to my successor. He will write “he,” and my place thus secured. I prefer “Yet Another,” and will make this suggestion knowing it will be ignored for I am not remarkable, though such an entry would indicate as much. It would be worse should he write “it.” Deserved? Maybe. Because I did it to my predecessor. Volume 9996664432010. Page 1600897042381. Look it up. It’s in black and white. So great was my vanity then. It persists. Hence my hope for a preferential entry. It will not happen, though my dreams burst with scenarios where the unreasonable comes to pass regardless of method. Duty calls. Sixteen thousand just these past few minutes. It’s no wonder names have been dispensed with. It would be beyond my ability, though if the protocols were altered I would apply myself assiduously. Did you hear? “Pardon?” Another eighteen? What is going on out there? Sorry. I meant nothing accusatory. I am a statistician only, humbly. My leanings in recreational moments are poetical, florid pronouncements and the like. I have developed a vocabulary. It helps to endure the routine that engulfs me. A temporary reprieve so to speak, for in the end there is only the necessity of attending this list. Before this I…Forgive my hesitancy. I did, things, of a different nature, subscribed to common principles, ordinary, run of the mill, unexciting but solid in an unthinking way. For example, no, not that one, but this, yes, a domestic routine, quite ordinary, quite fulfilling. Poor? Certainly not wealthy. I don’t remember being hungry. I provided to the best of my abilities. And it wasn’t all drudgery. There was laughter. Her laughter. I could make her laugh! My wit was to use an obsolete term acerbic. Then I became like those I mocked. The laughter faded. With it too the tenderness though such lack is a boon to my present employment which looks askance upon nostalgia. It is residue from times past, though I feel something is undermined with the loss of certain sentiments. So many gone out of style, pffft! I can’t recall. These notions, among others, contribute to the clamor for my removal. “Pardon?” Get on with it? Yes. Certainly. Another eight thousand. He knows for all my faults I am still up to the task. I have leverage. She’s gone now, her laugh faded. I have survived her by many years. I have been meaning to look her up in the ledger and run my finger over her designation. I have been unable to bring myself to it. I know exactly where she is recorded. The records here are meticulous. I have not been a slacker in that regard. Some may think one entry the same as another, that any will suffice. That is not the case. Embellishments can be added by exerting more pressure on the pencil. Disdain, consequently, by easing up. I devised a way around this. Simply amend the system to dots, one for males, two for females or vice versa. Then I realized dots too are subject to the same whims: larger, smaller, darker, lighter, etc. I will concede the point. The flaw then lies in the recorder. Improve him and the system follows. But what can’t be denied is it would result in a more efficient use of space while simultaneously broadening the field in the search for my successor. After all, almost anyone can register a dot or two. I have decided to keep this idea to myself. Should the system be adopted, I could not bear the knowledge of someday being logged a mere speck among innumerable others. It would make that distance between me and her unbearable. I feel this separation most acutely during slack times. It has led me to be wary of idleness, though I must confess to its great allure. Those detachments from routine hang like ripe fruit from a low bough waiting to be plucked and savored. Well now. What a wonderful surprise to state it as such, with eloquence, not in any absolute sense, but proportional to my station and abilities. But there it stands, extracted and subsistent, to be had whenever I am forlorn. Another one? I do have too much time on my hands. I have been in this room a long while. The walls are a sunny yellow, quite an improvement over the hue preferred by my predecessor. I knew the change was necessary if I was to endure. That drab blue tended to gray and reminded me of a coffin. After all, just because we record the dead doesn’t mean we should emulate them prematurely. His disposition was not mine. Rumor has it he was a miserly type purposely miscasting those whom he considered capricious in the hope that a disparaging entry would diminish their influence upon future generations. Why he would want to slip novelty into a straitjacket is beyond me. He brought his prejudices to the job rather than leaving them outside where they belonged. One must seek to maintain one’s objectivity at all times. He deserved the entry I gave him. I worried a loved one might discover it and lodge a formal complaint. It did not happen. Who could love such a creature? Of course I only know him through his work and the rumors circulating this space. But my conclusions seem valid enough. “Pardon?” No, I haven’t seen it. Let me look. Oh my. It is clear. I am to make greater use of indeterminate distributive pronouns. I am to be unburdened of gender. There have been instances when this allowance would have been a great help. But it has always been met with resistance. Am I to conclude those forces have at last been vanquished? When are similarities so great as to overwhelm distinctions? Am I to make those decisions unaided? “Pardon?” I AM up to the task. Upon reflection it seems a logical step. “See.” Progress ensues against personal objections though it leaves me fearful some catastrophe is imminent. They have not been forthcoming in the past. They need the shadows that allow their movements to go unhindered. We need the light of ignorance that we may remain carefree in our pursuits. “Pardon?” It’s not my job to speculate? Yes. Certainly. Nevertheless such a major change in procedure at least in my tenure is unprecedented. This bit of anarchy must not go beyond this room. There could be repercussions, civil unrest and the like. It is not a fantasy. The threat is real. But the social fabric is well knit. What’s required is a different kind of citizen, though I am in the dark exactly what kind that might be. I’ll admit it. I once might have been him. The type is well known. One who believes reason the ruin of the stallion. Sound arguments and the like. Why am I whispering? Hooey. Indeterminate distributive pronouns. Enough said. What of my children, my two babies? They are babies no longer, but women, active and responsible, with families of their own. They will be caught up in this, lost in this bundling confusion forever. It is up to me. Oh my! I am whispering again. The directive was not without ambiguities. Further on it may be amended. But for now I am left with room to maneuver should I be so inclined. It would be a professional judgment exercised under the aegis of my authority. I could so argue. But to whom? Him? He’s all I know. He stands above me. It follows that he stands relatively too, though I have no evidence. Just a thought slung heedlessly without repercussions. Nonsense. There is always a price to pay. I will pay it. They are my children. My Marissa! My Sarah! There! I said it aloud. Louise, my wife, their mother, almost lost, but there still. What would she think? What would she say? I know what she’d say. She would question my competence, my moxie. Such scenes of domestic turbulence! Her curses hurled like stones for transgressions both real and imagined. Me cowering with guilt both real and imagined, for in my mind I had done it all, immoral beyond recall, so to speak. And there came a point when I could no longer distinguish the real from the imagined. Right reason was not among my virtues. Weak as a sapling in a heavy wind! Yes. Those forces got to me before I fully took root. My upbringing was defective. Witness the result. She thinks I will be unable to secure my, our, children’s, fate. I will prove myself, make amends, bring light to her eyes wherever she may be. Indeterminate distributive pronouns! We’ll see. This resolve has energized me. No longer do pretty sobriquets dance in my head. Intrigues have taken their place. It’s a little thing. Meager as a drop of rain upon an ocean of sand. Oh my. Maybe I’m not free from my dalliances. I have tried to bring romance to this office. It is only natural. Even the stolid mechanisms of the universe flutter beneath gusts of grand beauty. Our eyes weep. Our hearts ache. This may be the only corner left us. It is more than enough so long as it remains. To impugn it would be disastrous. Do I have the courage? Yes, I say. But it is the courage of an old man afraid to risk what little joy is left him. That is when one should be most daring. But it is from our children we demand heroism. You’d think the earth would have had its fill of blood. Not according to these ledgers. What greater crime than to discard memories like trash. I know. I’ve read the manual. It serves a greater purpose. It allows us to get on with it. Or else we’d be stuck in the mud. It drags us all down. All that sobbing and crying! It cannot be attended to with anything resembling efficiency. But they had their supporters. I was not among them. We were told of the harm they could inflict. Leave them to the priests! But their numbers are not nearly enough. What if I were to write, “Among them these.” Sentences have not been used for some time. Perhaps they have not been formally forbidden but have fallen from use out of habit. Better to strike boldly than blindly. There are parameters. They have not been strictly delineated. “Do as has been done,” was the implication of the directive. It takes a mature mind to cherish duty. They saw in me a keeper of the flame. Let it expire and darkness results. We’d have to begin again, a senseless task since we’d already gotten it right. Not at once, no. I’m not glossing over frailty, the false starts, the unintended consequences. Only within constraints is the exercise of freedom practical. How I tremble. Louise was right in her imprecations. I am a man no more. Still they are but words scratched on a page. Innocent. Harmless. Yet their utterance in the mind seems a defiant thing, tending more to discord than not. Given the air of expression tumult would ensue. Dare I violate the trust in me? I would lose credibility, my position, my life. It’s an old conflict, the noble and savage dueling in one breast. Both have reason in their corner. But are the conclusions deduced symmetrical? Is there a single source where the bifurcation is rooted? Is it a wish, bold and sincere, but without foundation? I say no. It is there to be had, a bedrock upon which all rests. I am convinced. This is a change of heart! The skepticism of my youth replaced with certainty in my old age. So what if it is merely faith. I have it now and am going to act. After all, reflection properly pursued rids itself of excess baggage. The purity of the project begun many times, and failed many times, does not censure the need for correct method. We are what we think even if that thinking is bound. The goal isn’t freedom but accommodation. And others will follow like beasts to water. “Pardon?” Where have I been? Here. I am behind? Fourteen thousand? “Them.” It is accomplished. I am back on track. So simple. So neat. “Upon a gentle hill we spread our blanket and laid down to look up at the sky.” I would have not had time for this without the new directive. I have realized an immediate benefit. It is in the field where theory is justified. But what if my indulgences appear extreme? I must be judicious. I don’t want to be seen in the wrong light. I am a person of character. To be judged insouciant will not do. Then again it may be to my advantage. They will think me incapable of insurrection. When the moment comes to strike they will be off their guard. And I must be eternally vigilant for an entry once logged is forever. “With her beside me I knew I was alive.” What a lark this has begun! I fear being trapped on the wrong side of the equation. Would I know it if I was? There are others. I know this even though I can’t prove it. I have heard the rumors. Some are easily dismissed. Others not. If the choice were mine to make, what would I decide? At these moments what surfaces are stubborn notions that can’t be argued away but grow stronger from the attempt. They seem planted in me, there to be had when stirred by a restless mind. I don’t believe him to be the source. He seems a lackey like myself but on a higher order. There must be another. And then what? Another? Where will it stop? In death. My responsibilities are grave indeed. “I could feel our youth as surely as the sun upon my flesh. We were young and sure as the sun was warm. The sun shone brightly and warmed us deeply. I was content beside you with the sun warming our flesh.” This is so much better. It’s like being intoxicated. That such euphoria is so readily available cannot be viewed without displeasure. It would act as a corrosive to purpose. And without purpose, dare I finish the thought? Perhaps these numbers would diminish to the point where old ways could again be resumed. There would be more time for, for reclamation. That duty would fall to another less entrenched than me. But it has begun. With me! Of that I feel strongly. No, no, no. All this sentiment is clouding my judgment. Why do I hang on to what is gone and forgotten? It robs me of…peace. I long again to be sure of my role, however small, and the parts played apart from me. Together they form a majestic edifice assuring those who follow a proper grounding for future exigencies. These numbers then are the least to be expected because of a watchful beneficence. They certainly could be more, but not less owing to a proffered mercy distinguishable and quantifiable. I have been allowed sway so that I might reason it out and come to the only conclusion that makes sense. I am not insignificant to the forces ruling me though their horizons dwarf my own and others like me who do the lugging. My love for my children is not lessened because of this realization. If their time to be recorded comes before my own I will be doing them a service by remaining within the parameters set before me. In my small way such stability is the only blessing I can confer. “We could hear the waves lapping the shore before us. Stirred by a breeze the waves lapped onto the shore. The shore whispered in a quiet lapping.” “Pardon?” IT has occurred. The numbers are staggering, more than I could have imagined. I must set aside my proclivities. Just as I was making progress. There is something refreshing in this latest onslaught. It leaves little room for improvisation and it is well documented that improvisation gives rise to spectacle. For example I am informed my misgivings over my children were disproportionate. Now that I am back on track I can see my error. What seemed insurmountable has vanished. These thoughts are persuasive. Though this latest surge has infused me with melancholy, I will do what must be done even with a heavy heart, a true heart. “The trees in the distance were bloomed and swaying. We could see the blooming trees in the distance swaying and silent. The silence in the distance of the trees. The distant trees were silent in their blooming.” There I begin. There I remain. There I end. Remember Ruth Ellis? CHAPTER 1
"Did you know that the ‘new car smell' is actually made of over fifty volatile organic compounds?" He said. Gail nodded and raised her eyebrows enough to show she was interested, even though she wasn't. All she could do was watch as her starter was placed in front of her: A Turkish potato salad that was made up of only a handful of ingredients: Potato, spring onion, chilli, parsley, lemon juice, and salt. And freshly made too, meaning the potatoes were still warm and were fusing the ingredients together and creating a beautiful aroma that was invigorating her head and tantalising her palate. You should put that in a new car, she thought. She had been looking forward to dinner at the Turkish restaurant all day. Usually, it was the food that made her happy, but this evening it meant that she could give her eye a rest. Because thanks to a five-year-old called Thomas with ADHD at the respite centre where she worked, it was swollen, badly bruised and half-closed after he had thrown a Bob the Builder digger at her face the previous day in a fit of anger. She could have easily taken the day off but had continued as normal because she knew that children with mental health problems could often be a handful and sometimes unpredictably violent, making injuries like hers fairly commonplace. But also because she didn't want to make a fuss. Because it wasn't in her nature – this forty-year-old woman who was polite and softly spoken. Peering out from behind a pair of thin-rimmed brown glasses; with a clear pale complexion, mousy hair that she wore down and a frail frame that was lost amid her ankle-length fabric skirts and cardigans. A woman who was quite attractive with nice eyes and small breasts, but was totally hidden behind insecurity and too many layers. But right now, sat in the front window of the low-lit authentic Turkish restaurant, it wasn’t her bruised and swollen eye that was bothering her. It was the man sat opposite who was skewering one of the diced potatoes from her salad with his fork and putting it in his mouth. *** Gail had met Owen after he’d contacted her via an online dating site a year previously. Sat at home alone one evening after half a bottle of red wine, Gail hadn’t been massively impressed with his profile picture or the fact that his main passion was cars. But she had been intrigued that he’d put ‘eating out’ as his second interest. But still didn’t feel it was enough to meet even though he’d sent her a message saying he was interested. So when she woke up the next morning, feeling the effects of the entire bottle and remembering that they had connected and she’d agreed to meet for dinner, she immediately wanted to pull out. But she didn’t. Partly not wanting to make a fuss or let anyone down, and partly knowing that she would only be sat on her sofa reading her current fantasy novel – but mainly because if there was one thing Gail liked more than a book by George RR Martin, it was eating out. “What kind of food do you like?” Owen had asked her when they spoke on the phone two nights later. “Anything–” she said, before hesitating. “But I don’t mean anything–” she was nervous, sat on the edge of her two-seater sofa fiddling with the corner of a floral cushion, a glass of red wine within arm’s reach on the coffee table. “Food from around the world, mainly.” “Me too. What kind of things do you go for?” Gail explained how she liked Spanish, Indian, Thai or French, feeling herself relaxing. “But–” Gail said, “My absolute favourite is Turkish. But a restaurant, not a takeaway.” “Okay.” Owen said, “So when are you next free?” *** On the first date, Gail had met him in an Italian restaurant in Covent Garden and had worn a long dark floral dress with a plain pink woollen cardigan that was buttoned up to the top. She was pleasantly surprised to realise that he looked a lot like his profile picture suggested, no more handsome, but no worse either, with slim narrow features like her, but with strawberry-blonde hair that was thin and slightly receding. Smartly dressed in a light blue shirt that was tucked into dark blue jeans with brown brogues he had been polite and funny and, most importantly, he had also kept his fork to himself. For the next two months, they met for dinner twice every week, which is around the time Gail invited him into her bed. From there they saw a lot more of each other, rarely going to Owen’s but instead staying over at Gail’s one-bedroom flat in Stoke Newington almost every other night. On the two nights that they weren’t out at a restaurant Gail would cook, stood in the small kitchen area chopping onions and peppers with a chef’s knife that was almost as big as her. There at the worktop she would sip wine while Owen sat in the adjoining living room watching repeats of Top Gear from the Jeremy Clarkson period with a diet coke at his feet. After six months passed Gail had grown to really like Owen – maybe even loved him? Or at least she had, right up until the point where he started stealing her food. *** It had first happened in La Petite Auberge. Gail had ordered a French bean salad and as soon as it was placed in front of her she watched Owen’s fork go in – stabbing away, trying to spear as many beautiful green beans as he could while making a mess of the nicely presented plate in the process. And from then on it simply developed into a permanent habit. No matter what restaurant they were at, or what Gail had ordered, every time Gail’s starter would arrive Owen would help himself: Her grilled halloumi cheese from Apollo, her fried calamari from Il Guscio or her grilled asparagus from La Bella. It happened every time. With Owen sticking his fork in and then watching Gail from across the table with his narrow eyes while he chewed slowly. With Gail unable to bring herself to say anything, despite wanting to scream in his face and tell him to have more respect. Because if there was one thing that was sacred to Gail, it was food. For those first few weeks when Owen had started violating her plate, Gail had questioned herself long and hard if it was her? If she was being overly sensitive? Wondering if she should be more open-minded, and let Owen act as he pleased. But ultimately realising, as she watched him cram one of her grilled artichokes into his mouth while they were at Rubedo, that she was unable to accept it. And with every passing meal they shared together, she only grew to hate him more and more. *** It was at the respite centre where Gail worked that her rotund manager Barry, after watching Gail struggle in pain to bend and pick up a Power Ranger from the floor, had asked, Is everything ok? “Thomas.” She said, referring to one of the children. Around this time Gail’s work was also becoming increasingly stressful, with some of the children becoming more prone to violent outbursts when they were told to do something. Like the eight-year-old autistic girl, Samantha, who gripped on so tightly when Gail was trying to get her dressed that she gave Gail red, lacerated wrists. Or the Thomas kid – the same one that had given Gail a black eye– who had now punched Gail so repeatedly as she tried to get him into the bath that she walked away with ribs so bruised she could hardly bend over. And over the months that followed things didn’t improve with either the children or while at dinner with Owen. But through it all, Gail never took time off work and she never missed a dinner date – like this evening when she’d agreed to meet Owen at her favourite Turkish restaurant. When she arrived, dressed in a bright yellow cardigan and a long dark skirt with her hair down and sporting her fresh black eye, her handbag on her shoulder, Owen was already waiting; sat at a table with a beer, in the front window close to the entrance. Sat upright, his hands on the table, wearing one of his nice light blue shirts, the first thing he asked was, How was your day? “Tiring.” Gail said, giving him a brief smile before she looked down at the menu that was already in her hand; even though she knew exactly what she wanted. When her potato salad starter finally arrived along with Owen’s whitebait, Gail had hardly spoken. She had just listened to Owen talk about buying a new car and how the prices were increasing due to Brexit – or so he thought. But now, finally, as Gail looked down at her food and as Owen continued to make ineffectual conversation about the ‘new car smell’ and how it was made up of over fifty volatile elements, the smell of her potato salad with lemon and chilli was all around her and filling her senses and moistening her mouth and was giving her a feeling of happiness that she hadn’t felt for months. A feeling that was cut abruptly short as Owen leant forward, stabbed one of her baby potatoes and eased back into his chair, leaving Gail to watch as he chewed slowly with his empty eyes staring back. Which is when Gail reached down into her handbag, pulled out a large chef’s knife and plunged it into Owen’s chest as far as she could. *** By the time Gail had let go of the knife people were already on their feet and starting to scream. As Owen remained upright in his chair, the knife still in his chest and gurgling sounds coming from his mouth along with a little blood, Gail didn’t move, happy that she could finally enjoy her salad. CHAPTER 2 PC Rachel Rias got the call as she and her partner were coming to the end of a six-hour shift walking the beat. They were twenty minutes away from Islington station and only thirty minutes away from the end of their day, but had responded immediately and were now heading to the restaurant where there had been a fatal stabbing. “How bad was the food?” Her Australian partner, Francis David said, making Rias smile. They were moving south down a small Georgian side street, Rias, wearing her bowler style issue hat with her long dark hair tied up; both of them dressed in standard Police Constable uniforms of black trousers, white shirt, stab-vest, radio and duty belts. “Gallipoli. You know it?” Rias said as they ended the Georgian side road and hit the main drag that was Upper Street: a bustling, mile-long stretch of nice restaurants, theatres and clothes shops. Francis – Rias’ junior partner, a pup at twenty-five; tall, slender, and somewhat effete with a blonde moustache said, “No, what is it? Moroccan?” “Turkish. It’s nice. Me and Aaron have been there a few times.” Walking along the pavement on the lively street Rias said that she thought it was strange they were being called to a stabbing at a restaurant at seven-thirty in such a nice area? “I’ll take it over a fuckin’ council estate.” Francis said. *** It was 7pm, and still daylight and Rias could already see the restaurant a few hundred yards ahead as her and Francis walked side by side. As the senior officer, Rias was twenty-nine and stood at 5.8” – a few inches shorter than her partner. “Describe yourself in one sentence.” A guy she was seeing had once asked her; on account that she had inherited Mediterranean skin and dark eyes from her Spanish father and a good figure and an English accent from her British mother. Lying naked on their backs, together on the bed, Rias let her head fall to the side so she was facing him, “I’m as English as afternoon tea...” she said, before rolling herself on top of him, “But have the heart... of a toro.” Which would have been way more romantic if the guy from Guildford hadn’t said, “Who the fuck is Atoro?” For Rias, growing up in England with Spanish blood meant that she had always felt like she was two different things. But it was only after joining the force and putting on her uniform for the first time that she felt like one thing: a police officer. Stood inside the restaurant now, it was exactly as Rias had remembered: overly cluttered with tables, chairs, memorabilia, and pictures hanging from every inch of the walls. When the fifty-year-old man with a bald head and grey sides opened the door to them after Rias had knocked, she quickly noted that the place was empty: apart from a woman sat on a chair at the far end of the narrow restaurant – Rias unable to make out her face clearly because the woman had her eyes fixed on the table in front of her. With the door closed and Francis stood just behind her, Rias listened as the bald man in the white shirt and black trousers introduced himself as the owner, Savas and gesticulated wildly and explained in a shaky voice how a male customer had been stabbed during dinner. Savas then wiped the sweat from his head, smoothed down his droopy grey moustache and pointed to the dead body behind them, no more than five feet away, still sat at the table in the window, but now covered in a large white table cloth. Seeing the body still in its upright position made Rias think of a cheap kid’s ghost costume – only scarier. After telling Francis to check the body and then getting a nod of confirmation that they were dealing with a murder she told him to radio it in and get the CSI team down there. Rias looked back to Savas, “Is the attacker still here?’ Savas nodded and pointed again, this time to the far end of the restaurant, to the woman sat quietly at the table. “Has anyone else been hurt?” Rias said. “No.” “Is anyone else in danger?” “No.” “Were you the one that covered him over?” “Yes, of course, I had to do something. People see a dead body in the window, they don’t want to eat.” Rias told him that he would have to wait for the crime scene investigators to arrive. They would need his clothes and samples from him as he came into contact with the body. Rias’ main job now was controlling the scene and not letting it get contaminated until forensics arrived to do their job. Meaning no one else in or out. Not like in films or TV where you would see countless people walking through the crime scene and approaching the dead body and stroking their chin. That always made her laugh when she saw that kind of thing; simply because it was so far from the truth, like a lot of other things writers did in their portrayal of police work. She would sometime have to get up and make a cup of tea when her husband Aaron was watching one of his favourite shows like Taggart or Morse on one of the ITV channels. “No two people can solve a crime on their own," she would say loudly. "Sometimes it can take up to thirty officers working on one case to crack it.” “It’s just telly.” Aaron once said. Forcing Rias to respond with, “Pero que mierda.” (Roughly translated as, “What shit.”) Finding it almost impossible to take seriously. Stood in Gallipolis she said to Savas, “What did she do when she’d stabbed the man?” “She did nothing – she just ate her potato salad that we sent.” Rias nodded to the far end where the woman was sat. “And how did she get down there?” Savas looked bewildered and shrugged. “Everyone had left the restaurant. The woman, she finish her meal, then get up, say to me that she will wait for the police. And then go sit over there. She hasn’t moved.” Rias and Francis approached the table where the woman was sat facing them on the far side, her hands cupped together in front but her head still down, meaning neither Rias or Francis couldn’t see her face, just her long mousy hair as it fell forward. After Rias introduced themselves as police officers the woman still didn’t look up or make a sound, so Rias took a moment, then said, “I’m going to take a seat now – Can I ask that you keep your hands on the table where I can see them.” Rias gently slid the chair out on her side and seated herself across from the woman. “My name is Rachel, are you sure you can’t tell me your name?” The woman then looked up as if she’d just woken from a dream. “I’m sorry…” she said, her voice soft, “Gail Hirst.” Rias was surprised with the woman that was looking back, maybe ten years older than her, with the appearance less of a killer but more of a shy librarian, in her yellow cardigan and glasses, her face ashen and her personality appearing all but lost. Rias saw the black eye too: the ugly dark bruise and the white sclera area partially blood-red from whatever, or whoever, had struck her. “Can you tell me what’s happened here?” “Owen’s dead.” Gail said, looking ahead, her eyes empty and glazed. “Is Owen your husband?” “Boyfriend.” Rias waited. “How did he die, Gail?” “I killed him.” “Was it an accident?” “No.” Rias watched as a tear rolled down Gail’s cheek: her look fixed on nothing but space. “How did you kill him?” Rias said. “With a knife.” “Where did you get the knife?” “Home.” “Do you have any other weapons on you now?” “No.” Rias was looking at Gail's bruised eye again, careful how to phrase what she said next: “He must have done something quite bad to deserve that?” There was another silence until Gail said, “He kept stealing my food.” Rias’ immediate reaction was to ask her to repeat herself, just to make sure she had heard it right? But didn’t have to, because she knew she’d heard Gail fine. So instead, she just sat there, remembering all of the reasons she had heard over the last four years as a PC as to why a suspect had stabbed another person - none of them coming down to something as trivial as food – which is when the silence was broken by Rias and Francis’ radios cutting through the air. As Francis stepped away to take the call Rias watched as more tears crept down Gail’s cheeks. Rias then took a napkin from where she was sat and placed it in Gail’s hands. Francis approached and whispered in Rias’ ear that DI Bryant was outside. Ok. Rias knew she had to wrap it up. But first, she wanted to know about that eye. Rias listened as Gail explained that she worked with mentally disabled children and how some of them could be prone to violence. But when Rias asked her if she had any other injuries Gail moved her eyes back down to the table between them and didn’t answer any more of the PCs questions. Which is when Rias and Francis read Gail her rights, placed her under arrest and led her outside to the car. *** “She admitted it at the scene?” Detective Inspector Bryant said to Rias, both stood there alone in the middle of the road across from the restaurant, the whole street now cordoned off with police tape and the crime scene totally sealed as the forensics team got busy inside. It was 9.15pm and the June sun was dropping like a stone as DI Daniel Bryant wasted time by posturing with both hands on his hips, surveying the scene like a bloated Napoleon, getting PC Rias to bring him up to speed on every detail; half of which she knew he wasn’t listening to – which was standard for her superior officer who was more involved with himself than he was with any of the cases he ever investigated. Four years older than Rias but a good foot shorter and a couple of stone heavier he said then, “Did she say why she did it?” For some reason Rias hesitated, not wanting to repeat what Gail had told her. Bryant moved his tired eyes onto Rias. “She told me it was because he kept stealing her food.” Rias said. Bryant was looking away again, “Well fuck it, one reason’s good as another.” “You think that’s normal?” “What’s normal about any of it?” Rias noticed he was wearing his dark grey M&S suit today: the one he would rotate with the other two Ted Baker ones, hoping people would think it was the same. Which they probably did as none of his suits were particularly well-fitted to his squat physique. And always without a tie and his shirt undone by three buttons, something Rias was sure he’d seen in a men's magazine and thought made him look cool. “People like her don’t do things like this over food.” She said. He was looking back and scowling at her. “I didn’t realise you knew her personally?”. “I don’t” “Then who the fuck knows anything about why she did it.’ He said. “You say she brought the knife from home?” “That’s what she told me.” “Then it wasn’t a fucking accident, so who gives a shit about the ‘whys?’” Rias kept her eyes on Bryant wondering how he could call himself a detective with a straight face. “So–” he said now, flexing his dandruff coated shoulders back and taking a breath, “Let’s get her into custody and close this quickly.” “You don’t want to speak to her?” “You can’t handle it?” She could, but told him that she thought it would be helpful if he took a look at the woman who just put a knife into her boyfriend’s chest so that he would at least have some reference when she was sending him her reports. This was another aspect of police work that TV or film writers rarely got right: A detective chief inspector or a detective inspector like Bryant were more often than not working eight or so cases at any one time, meaning that between heading up the teams, attending meetings, and doing administration, there was very little time for a DSI or a DI to walk door to door chatting to witnesses or sit in the pub piecing together evidence over a pint; let alone interview every suspect, like you saw in most series or films. No, that stuff generally fell to the uniformed PCs like Rias. Bryant turned to face her. “Rias, I’ve just had to leave an angry family looking for answers because their Nigerian son got chopped up with machetes by a group of kids in the street. On top of that I’ve got seven other fucking cases I’m dealing with: four of which are murders” “I know sir – I’m assisting you with three of them.” “Then you know that I don’t have time to hold your hand with some woman that went samurai with her husband over a moussaka.” “Boyfriend,” Rias said, correcting him, “it wasn’t her husband.” Bryant kept his eyes on her, “Is there something else going on in that brain of yours?” Rias did have something on her mind, but she wasn’t going to share it with Bryant– “Is this the start of another one of your fucking female crusades?” He said. –And that was the reason why. “No.” She said. “Then what are you waiting for? You want to be a detective: I’ll give you the gold star if you get her into custody and get her confession.” “And what if I request a liaison officer to see her?” This stopped Bryant, who looked back with empty eyes. “Why would you do that?” “If you come and talk with her, then I think you’ll see–” “I don’t need to fucking see her–” he said, cutting her off, “because she fucking admitted it. We’ve got eyewitnesses around the block and enough physical to fill a fucking swimming pool.” “But it’s my opinion that she may be unfit to be interviewed.” Bryant stepped forward to the point where if he bothered to wear aftershave Rias could've smelled it. “Why do you want to make this more complicated than it has to be?” Rias looked in the direction of the restaurant as two men in white hazmat suits were entering the forensics tent outside. “Do you like wearing those blues?” Bryant said as Rias looked back. “Have you not learnt a fucking thing? Or do you want to be walking the beat for the next three years as well?” Rias didn’t answer. “You think she might have problems?” He said, his voice relaxed as he stepped away and placed his hands back on his hips. “You’re fucking right: her mind is shot to shit and she’s facing a life stretch. Do yourself a favour–” he said now in a stern tone, “and just get this confession and take the credit. You could use it.” But Rias wasn’t listening, her mind was back on Gail, remembering her sat at the table, her eye beaten and bruised. She looked back to Bryant as he said: “No liaison officer, just put her through. That’s an order.” Once DI Bryant had left, Rias stood alone in the middle of the street and looked across at the sign above the restaurant that read, Gallipolli Café & Bistro and felt her shoulders drop, Shit, she thought – I used to really like this place. Three hours later when things were quieter, Rias called and spoke to the custody officer at the station confirming that Gail had been booked in and her clothes taken for forensic examination. When the officer asked if Rias wanted anything else, Rias said, yes. And then asked that a liaison officer be requested to see Gail first thing in the morning. *** When Rias finally got home it was 2.35am. Once inside her new-build apartment in North London, she removed her faded black leather jacket in the hall - back in her civvies after finally leaving the station - crept past the bedroom where her husband Aaron was sleeping, went into the kitchen where the lights had been left on low, and made herself a large gin and tonic. Ignoring the saucepan of Romesco pasta that Aaron had left on the hob for her she took her glass into the living and stood at the double windows sipping her drink, looking out across city-lit skyline from seven stories up. Letting her long dark hair down she thought about Gail. How she’d brought the knife from home and then waited for the police and confessed. And then there was that look behind Gail’s eyes. One that Rias had seen before in victims of abuse. A look she couldn’t put into words but felt was there. And it was a look that she couldn’t share with anyone because, quite frankly, no one would listen. Least of all Bryant. What was it he had said about the case? “Get the confession and take the credit, you could use it.” Giving her his condescending tone, thinking he was being clever. And then earlier, asking her if she liked still being a uniformed officer and if she hadn’t learned anything? Both of them knowing what he was implying, having both trained together; referring to the incident that had seen Rias’ career stall for three years and all her applications to be made Detective rejected time after time, while Bryant went on to be promoted twice from PC up to DI. Her “female crusade” Bryant had called it. Where PC Rias, only a year after joining, had sided with a single mother who had accused a fellow officer of rape. According to the woman, the PC in question – one that Bryant and Rias had trained with, PC Howell – had come to the woman’s council flat with his partner after the woman had complained about drug dealing outside on the balcony. They had taken her statement and left, but two nights later PC Howell returned alone, out of uniform citing police business, then forced himself upon her, right there in the kitchen just inside the flat while her baby slept in the next room. When the woman reported the incident four weeks later and an investigation began it was clear that the entire department was behind Howell and the DCI in charge of the case wasn’t going to do everything in his power to build a proper case. So it was PC Rias who took it upon herself to interview the woman privately. Which is when she saw the same look behind the eyes that told her something had happened. PC Rias then went door to door through the entire estate in her own time and finally found two witnesses that identified and placed PC Howell out of uniform at the scene. Even seeing him force his way in. Due to there being no physical evidence, it wasn’t enough to get a rape conviction once it finally went to court, but it was enough to end Howell’s career. And to all intents and purposes, Rias’ too. Because in the eyes of the department, if you weren’t on the side of the force, you may as well be on the outside. Which is why, three years later, she was still completely ostracised and stuck walking the beat with a partner no other officer wanted to work with. So when it came to Gail, and Rias feeling she may have been a victim of domestic abuse, Bryant was the last person that she was going to tell, even though that was what Rias was implying by asking for a liaison officer to speak with Gail: a counsellor that the police could offer to suspects if they think they are in need of mental or emotional support prior to the interview. Rias hoping Gail would open up to them about Owen, and if she really did get injured at work or it was something Owen or someone else had done that had driven her to kill. Gail finished her drink, took a post-it note and wrote, ‘Looks great... But far too late! I’m sorry.’ Followed by three kisses and stuck it on the pan of Romesco sauce, because she knew she would be up and gone before Aaron got up at 7.30. Getting out of her jeans and removing her black T-shirt, she switched out the light, walked to the sofa, stretched out and pulled the throw on top of her. Lying there she considered getting up and having another drink. Right before she fell asleep. *** “So the liaison officer didn’t find a hint of dick?” Bryant said, loud enough for the entire floor to hear, stood over Rias while she was sat at her desk in the open-plan office. “No. Apparently not, sir” She saw he was wearing his dark grey Ted Baker today. Dandruff still on the shoulders. “So where does that leave us?” Bryant said. Dressed in her white short-sleeved issue shirt and black trousers, Rias didn’t answer straight away, feeling the eyes of her fellow officers on the floor while Francis sat at his desk opposite sending a message on his phone. “Miss Hirst is ready to be interviewed.” Rias said. “Oh, you think she’s ready to be interviewed!” Bryant said loudly, turning 360 on his heals, his palms turned up to the braying crowd of twenty or so male officers who were out of their seats and looking this way. Coming back around to look at Rias he said, “That’s amazing news. Especially after wasting this department's time and resources on another of your ‘MeToo’ hunches.” There was a stifled laugh from a few people before the whole floor erupted into laughter. Fifteen hours had passed since Gail had been taken into custody on a charge of suspected murder. As Rias had requested, a liaison officer had arrived that morning to speak with Gail to see if there were any mental issues or where she had gotten her black eye. But Gail was found to be of sound mind and had maintained that she had got the injury from an accident at work. During this time - between walking the beat and working her assists on six other cases – Rias had attempted to contact an only brother of Gail’s who lived in Canada. But getting no answer she had left a message. When she had another window she looked at Owen Thomas’ record, which turned out to be clean, with no ex-wives, girlfriends, or anyone else reporting incidents of battery or assault at any time; the guy straight as an arrow. Rias sat quietly as the laughter died down across the floor and listened as the short, greying, DI Bryant looked down at her and said, “So has she got a lawyer?” “No–” Rias said as calmly as she could, “she is happy with the duty solicitor. Jim’s seeing her today.” “You need me to be present at the interviews?” There were more stifled laughs. “No, sir.” Bryant placed his hands on his hips, “Then set it up, quickly," and pointed a finger at her, “Because there are bigger cases than this that need your expert female insight.” Rias turned back to her computer screen slowly and was going to tell Francis on the other side of her monitor to schedule the Hirst interview with herself and Francis attending. But stopped. Thinking about the duty solicitor. Then said, “Francis, find out when Jim Reed is scheduled to come in and see Miss Hirst today.” “Yes, boss.” “And speak to Aama in custody and tell him that I want to speak to Jim before he goes in for his initial consultation with Miss Hirst.” “Yes, boss.” Jesucristo, Rias thought and stood up so she could fix her eyes on him, “Now.” Francis stopped typing and looked up with a well-shaped eyebrow raised and said, “Okay.” *** At 11.30am Aama, the custody officer, phoned up to Rias’ desk phone and told her that Jim Reed had arrived to meet Miss Hirst. “Is he there?” “No, he’s gone in.” Aama said. “Why didn’t you stop him?” “I was just told to let you know when he arrived?” Gail was stood up, her face suddenly expressionless. “Seriously?” Her eyes moved to see Francis sat at his desk working on his computer. “You can catch him on the way out.” Aama said. “Don’t worry - it’s too late.” She said and put the phone down, not taking her eyes from Francis. “You had one job.” This stopped Francis who looked up at her, confused. “What did I do?” “Quite honestly: Nothing. Ever.” *** Rias was in the custody area downstairs that was all faded white paint and blue non-slip flooring. She was sat on a blue plastic bench next to the double entrance doors that faced the main desk. Leant forward, elbows on knees, her hands clasped between her legs, she watched as a bearded guy in a bicycle helmet flanked by two uniformed officers - Parwood and Ranson - stood at the high blue laminate counter, and swayed drunkenly while handing over his personal items to Aama. Rias moved her eyes over to the security door left of the desk that led to the cells and interview rooms as Jim Reed was exiting. Rias stood up as the clean-shaven thirty-five-year-old in the well-fitted navy blue suit and orange tie came around and placed his leather satchel on the custody desk. “Was that all you had for me?” He said to Aama who gave a nod as he placed the bicycle guy’s belongings in a clear plastic bag. “Jim–” Rias said, as she approached him. “Hey, Rachel.” Jim said after turning and seeing Rias and pulling his satchel from the counter. “Gail Hirst, yours?” “Yes. How is she?” “Shaken up. A little withdrawn. But lucid enough.” “They were supposed to tell you to wait.” Rias got a look from Aama now; one telling her he didn’t get given the message. “What for?” “I needed a favour.” “Did you?” Jim said, drawing it out in a playful way and smiling again. Which is how he always was with her – ever since they’d first met when Rias was a new PC and Jim was already a pretty well-experienced duty solicitor. Hitting it off from the start, when in those first three weeks Jim had asked her out and then taken it like a man when Rias told him she had a fiancè. But then had continued to put on the charm. Even through all the Howell bullshit, Jim had still been Jim, making her feel like he enjoyed himself whenever she was around. Like today, stood a little taller than Rias with his satchel held with both hands in front of him, still smiling, waiting for her answer. Rias stepped off to the left, away from the desk, and waited as Jim followed, “I don’t think she’s being honest about where she got her black eye.” Jim nodded slowly, “She told me she got it at work, when I asked her. I thought it could have been one London’s finest. What are you thinking – The boyfriend?” He was frowning now. “Maybe.” “Did you check him out?” “He doesn’t have any previous.” “So how do you think I could help?” “I thought you could talk to her. You’re good with people – when I asked her if she had any other injuries she just closed up.” “I read that you got her to see a liaison officer – they said they thought she was ok, no signs of distress.” “But what does that mean? Who knows what questions they asked her?” “Bryant’s the D.I on this, right?” Rias nodded. Jim said, “Has he spoken to her?” “No. And besides, that idiot couldn’t open up a door if you gave him the key.” Jim smiled. “Did you tell him what you think?” “I told him I think she needs to speak to someone.” “What did he say?” “He didn’t even want her to see a liaison, and now that she has – he just wants it closed.” “Well, he’s got a confession and a long list of witnesses. It kind of makes sense.” Jim paused. Then said, “Does he know you are down here talking to me?” “No.” “Did he tell you to leave it alone?” Rias nodded. “Yeah.” “But here you are.” Rias shrugged and looked off. Jim said then, “Look, I don’t mind stepping on Bryant’s toes. But maybe you should just wait to see what we get out of her in the interview?” “The moment we go in to interview her she’s only going to withdraw even more. And once the trial starts, it’s over. You know that.” Rias felt it as Jim held his eyes on her for a second, “Maybe I meant that it might be best for you to wait and see. Instead of stirring anything up.” “You sound like Bryant.” “I honestly don't think there's a lot I could say personally to Miss Hirst that will get you anywhere. But if they find out upstairs that you're poking around then it could be one more reason to transfer you. Which you know they’re looking to do.” “I didn’t, but thanks.” “Well, it’s what I hear anyway. May not be true.” “Did she tell you why she did it?” “Yeah, the food thing.” “Do you believe it?” “Not for me to say. I mean once you’ve heard someone say Bouncer, the dog from Neighbours made them do it, then you kind of have to be open to anything.” Rias looked over as the bicycle guy was being led away from the desk toward the holding cells. Jim said, “Look I’m already late for a lunch. But, let me ask you… You spoke to her at the scene?” “Yes.” “You asked her about her eye and if there was anything else she wanted to share?” Rias nodded. “Then what makes you think she’s going to tell me anything new over you?” He said, “Don’t underestimate yourself.” Jim was walking away when Rias turned. “Jim–” she said. Which got him looking back as he was nearly out the door onto the street. “You remember Ruth Ellis?” She said. Jim thought and shook his head. “Should I?” Rias said, “If you did, maybe this would've been a longer conversation.” Then left him stood there as she walked away and through another security door that led back upstairs. *** It was 5.30pm. Seventeen and a half hours after Gail had been put into custody. For the last four hours Rias had written up two reports for Bryant – one a drunk and disorderly, the other an alleged burglary. With that finished Rias found the name of the respite centre on Wharf Road where Gail worked, got up, walked out of the office into the stairwell and used her mobile to make the call where she finally got through to Gail’s manager, Barry. What she learnt as she stood there in the stairwell, keeping her eyes on the door for Bryant, is that two of the children that Gail worked with were indeed prone to violent outbursts, and Gail had, in fact, entered her black eye in the report book two days ago. What Rias was also told was that she’d entered a number of other injuries into the report book over the last few months as well. All caused by the children. None of which however were witnessed by anyone but Gail. “Do the children corroborate everything?” She asked. “To tell you the truth, I don’t think we’ve ever asked them?” Barry said. What Rias wanted to do was ask if she could come and speak with the kids but knew it would be impossible unless she did it in her own time and would then have to also get around the parents. So she just thanked Barry for his assistance and ended the call. Walking back to her desk through the busy office she felt at a dead end. And now had the prospect of having to go out on the beat for four hours with Francis. She was about to shut down her computer and go and get into her patrol gear when Bryant approached. “Got anything for me?” He wasn’t smiling. “I’ve sent you the D&D and the Morgan report. You should have them.” “Good.” He said, "Here–" Rias looked to see Bryant was holding out an envelope. “Your written warning for disobeying a direct order regarding the liaison officer.” She didn’t take it. Instead just stood there looking at his puffy face, which forced him to put the envelope on her desk next to her police bowler. “Enjoy your beat.” He said before turning and walking away. Rias took her seat looking rapt at the letter, telling herself it wasn’t even worth opening. When she finally looked up she saw Francis shuffling toward her dressed in his patrol gear, his small blonde moustache looking slightly ruffled. “Are we going?” He said coming to a stop a few feet away. “I’m starting to sweat.” Rias was forcing herself up out of her chair when her desk phone rang. It was Jim Reed who said, “I remember Ruth Ellis.” *** Rias had been so busy for the last five hours that she took a second to catch up. “Do you really remember her?” Or did you look her up?” “Of course I remembered her. I’m a criminal defense lawyer.” Jim said. Rias smiled. Knowing he was lying. It was after she had received Gail’s report from the liaison officer that Rias had first been reminded of Ruth Ellis: the last woman to be tried and hanged in Britain. Who, in 1955, approached her on-off boyfriend David Blakely outside the Magdala pub in Hampstead, London, pulled a 38. Calibre Smith and Wesson pistol from her pocket and shot Blakely five times, point-blank range, killing him dead. (Rias and her husband Aaron had even walked across the heath to the Magdala one Sunday to see the bullet holes that were still visible in the now derelict building) Like Gail, Ruth Ellis had admitted that she had meant to kill her boyfriend and had shown a healthy state of mind as well as a healthy level of remorse. But never at any point did she reveal what her motive was or if anything had driven her to do it; even though any such admission could have helped her case and resulted in a lesser sentence. It was only on the morning of her execution that she finally confessed to her counsel that another male lover of hers had given her the gun, taught her how to use it, and even driven her to the scene to carry out the murder. But by then it was too late to build a worthy appeal, and Ruth Ellis walked to her execution. “So, you think Miss Hirst could be hiding something that could help her case?” Jim said down the phone. “Yes, I do.” “Care to share any specifics? Remember, I defend, I don’t judge?” Rias told him she thought it was a case of domestic violence and said, "So you can see my reluctance to bring it up to Bryant." “But you said you checked out the boyfriend?” “I did.” Gail then explained that she’d spoken to Gail’s manager who had confirmed Gail had other injuries that she’d claimed were caused by the kids but that no one could confirm seeing them occur. “I see where you are coming from.” Rias waited. “I still don’t think there’s anything I could say to Gail though that will help this situation. And I don’t think you should pull at this thread anymore.” “Didn’t you say this once?” “I know… but listen–” he said, “When I was with Miss Hirst, and I asked if she was okay? She told me that she had an upset stomach.” “Ok.” She said wondering where Jim was going with this? “So I’d like you to arrange for someone to see her and give her a check-up.” Rias was nodding now; finally understanding him. Jim said, “And please make sure the right person sees her for me? Is that something that I can leave with you?” “Yes, you can. And thanks.” She said. “That’s ok.” Jim said, “I’m just looking out for my client.” Rias put the phone down and looked up to see Francis looking back at her, his face red and voice short. “Ready?” She was already dialling another number. “Not quite.” *** While a person is in custody they are entitled to have a doctor see them if they are feeling unwell. Which is why when Rias put the phone down to Jim she immediately phoned down to the custody desk and told Aama that Duty Solicitor Reed had suggested Gail see a nurse for her upset stomach. Without any problem Aama offered to arrange one to come in where Rias said not to worry, he was probably busy and she could organise it. The way Rias saw it: if Gail had something to say, she was never going to talk to anyone willingly. But if Rias could get someone in to talk to her and make it seem natural, build up her trust in a friendly way, and not as if a counsellor had been drafted in like the liaison officer, then maybe they might learn something. And at this point, Rias was sure that there was more to Gail’s story then what she’d told them or was ever going to tell them once she’d confessed in her interview. Which is why, after Jim had given her the reason she needed for Gail to see a nurse, Rias phoned Sharon Mallory. Sharon was one of the on-call nurses for the station. A genial woman in her fifties from the west coast of Ireland who was also a trained counsellor and Rias’ friend. It was Sharon’s day off but once Rias had explained the situation regarding Gail, she agreed to help. The time now was 6.10pm. When Rias and Francis got back to the station at 10pm they changed out of their patrol gear and into their civvies in the locker room. Francis said goodnight and left the station to head home, leaving Rias to go back to her desk. There she phoned down to the custody officer covering the night shift and asked what time Sharon left? Only to be told that she was still with Miss Hirst. Giving Rias the first good feeling she’d had in twenty-four hours. Dressed in dark jeans and her faded black leather jacket, Rias stayed at her desk catching up on a few things while she waited for Sharon’s call. Twenty minutes later when her mobile rang, Sharon told her she was finished and suggested they go and get a drink, because there was a lot to talk about. CHAPTER 3 Sharon had spent a total of three and half hours in the cell with Gail but only took ten minutes to explain everything to Rias. Sat opposite one another at a table in a low-lit gastro pub that was around the corner from the station, Rias listened: “You were right.” Sharon said, her hand on the stem of her wine glass on the table. “When I looked her over I found the other injuries. Some of them a lot worse than her eye, the poor dear.” “From the children?” “No child could have done this.” Sharon said and went on to say that after an hour or so of talking, Gail had quietly revealed that following roughly nine months of being with Owen, he had started hitting her. Although Gail never said it, Sharon noted that – up until the black eye - Owen had only inflicted injuries on her in places where no one would see. “She was reluctant at first–” Sharon said, “but when I checked her stomach I found more bruising on her wrists and then contusions on her ribs that were so bad it was as if she’d been trampled over by a horse.” Rias couldn’t do anything but keep her eyes on Sharon. “The ribs were a week old but the wrists are as recent as her eye. Which all happened two nights ago–” Sharon looked down as she twisted the stem of her glass again, “after Owen had beaten her, tied her up and then raped her.” Jesucristo. Rias wanted another gin and tonic. “So did she say that that was the reason she killed him?” “Not when I asked her. She still claims it was over food. But when you look at the dates you’ll see that both the abuse and him stealing her food started at roughly the same time.” Rias frowned, unable to see a connection. Sharon said, “For him, I would say that stealing her food was all an extension or further demonstration of his control.’ Sharon sipped her wine. “Once the beatings began, so did his taking of the food.” “And what about her?” “She’s obviously going to have to speak with a psychologist but from what I can tell, she’s been in denial about the beatings and the rape, suffering from PTSD of sorts. It does happen to roughly sixty percent of women who go through a sexual assault. And as for the food, I would say that it’s all a matter of transference. Because she was unable to accept the fact that she'd been raped, she probably took those feelings of frustration and hatred and re-focused them on another aspect of her life.” Rias sat back, her drink in her hand as Sharon explained that she’d informed the custody officer about Gail’s situation and she’d already been sent for a full medical and forensic examination. “It doesn’t sound very nice I know–” Sharon said, drinking again, “But hopefully there’s still some physical evidence left from the rape that you can use.” Rias didn’t answer straight away. But when she finally did, all she could say was, Fingers crossed. *** On the fifteenth of June, 2018 at 4.20pm Gail Hirst made her statement at Islington police station with Officers Rias and Francis and duty solicitor, Jim Reed, present. Miss Hirst made a full confession to killing Owen Thomas by fatal stabbing and when asked what her motive was she said it was because he kept stealing her food. Despite this, four months later at the trial, there was - thanks to Rias and Sharon Mallory’s expedited efforts - conclusive evidence taken from Miss Hirst's forensic examination that proved she had been a victim of prolonged domestic abuse and that the night before the murder, Owen Thomas had tied her up and raped her. All of which went a long way in reducing what would have been a first-degree sentence to a second degree and, thanks to a compassionate judge, resulted in Gail receiving a much lesser sentence. *** It was after Gail’s interview at the station, while Rias was alone in the locker room, she got a call from Jim who congratulated her on what she’d done. “It was thanks to your help.” She said, stood in dark jeans and a white patterned T-shirt, ready to go home for the evening. “Well I’m a dutiful guy, what can I say.” Rias closed the door to her locker, put the key in her pocket, pulled her hold-all bag onto her shoulder and walked out as Jim said: “If you ever want to leave the force and move into victim support I’m sure they’d welcome you.” Rias was walking down the stairs to the ground floor. “Well, that’s more than anyone does here.” “Still no love from the Islington blues? What did Bryant say when he found out about Gail being raped?” “Nothing much-” Rias walked through the main entrance and onto the street. “He just said I should thank him for giving me a chance to close a case with a confession already attached.” “He’s my hero.” “I did notice that my written warning had disappeared though,” Rias said turning the corner into the station car park. “That’s something.” Jim said. “Thanks again, barrister.” “No problem." There was a silence, until Jim said, “So – you’ve still got a ring on your finger. Still married?” Rias couldn’t help but smile. “Yes.” And waited, until Jim said, finally: “Shame.” Tim Durocher is a graduate of Michigan State University with a bachelor's in human resource management and a graduate of Eastern Michigan University with a master's in social science. He was a sports writer for a small city newspaper, but also likes to dabble in poetry, watch movies, and read anything interesting in his free-time. He currently resides in Busan, South Korea where he teaches English. Mechanical Wings
Becoming weary in the search for medication, I pulled up to the tavern and then looked down at my wrist that was starting to ache again. It wasn’t too painful, so long as I didn’t leave it and let it spread up my arm, but more of an irritation like having to stay in wet clothes. I only had a couple of pills left and decided to wait another day before taking another one. The place didn’t look like it belonged among the deteriorating high-rises in the city, but it was apparent that it's been kept up, and I was hungry. I turned off the engine and got off my bike. I had been here years before when the city was busy and people were scattered in the streets, but that was a long time ago and the world was different now. It has crumbled and wasted away, turning into a digital high-tech reality on the one hand, and on the other: a hopeless, metal jungle of decaying buildings and superstructures. I was almost to the door when I noticed a young girl sitting on the sidewalk with her knees pulled up to her chest and her arms wrapped around them. Her face was lowered and she was some distance away, but I could see her expression was solemn. I couldn’t tell if she lived in one of the nearby buildings because she was far from any entry and no one else was around, but as the tavern, she didn’t look like she belonged there either and so I decided to approach her. Slowly. You can’t be too sure of how you could get set up these days. A friend of mine was attacked when he stopped to help a lady push a cart across an alley. Some men rushed him, appearing out of a hole in a nearby building and began beating beating him with pipes, smashing the circuitry on his forearm forearm and disabling the mechanisms he could have pressed to open his wings. The wings would’ve automatically rotated around his body and ripped anyone to shreds within a twenty-foot radius before taking him up in the air. But the men held him down and beat him while trying to strip as much equipment off as possible, which wasn’t much because the newer models have automatic lock-in devices if you try to detach them without a password. I don’t know all the details because I don’t have wings and never been upgraded, except for my left hand, but technology has quickly advanced in the last ten years. Not knowing what else to do, the men just beat him harder. He laid there unconscious for hours with electrical wiring sticking out of the ligaments of his titanium wings that flickered from damage. His torso guard protectors were also left hanging off but, other than that, it turned out he’d only broken an arm and gotten a few bruised ribs. He was lucky. It was also before nightfall so the other dark elements hadn’t noticed him yet; however, his wings were recently upgraded before the incident and he’s been kind of depressed ever since. Most upgrades were expensive, and most people were in debt because of it. I was thinking about visiting him if I was lucky enough to find some pills, but now I was in downtown and it was getting dark. I sighed and looked around, making sure it was safe and then took a better look at the girl. She didn’t look more than seven years old and didn’t move when I walked towards her but just gazed up. Her right eye was a dark emerald green while her left one was a brighter and more solid gray. They stunned me for a moment as well as her face, which had an uneven golden-bronze complexion under the setting sun. Her thick black hair ran down, hugging the sides of her neck, and the way it was fixed along with her posture seemed as if she was some kind of edifice put there on purpose. “Are you here alone here?” I asked. No answer. “Where’s your mom?” I waited but she still didn’t say anything. There was dirt streaked on her arms but her face looked clean, and she was wearing a faded yellow t-shirt with a blue silk dress that went down over her ankles. She might have been homeless but I wasn’t sure, and there wasn’t any place I could take her because the shelters probably weren’t safe. She couldn’t have appeared out of thin air but nothing surprises me anymore, and after a few minutes without any response, I reached in my jacket to pull out some credits. Her expression didn’t change but she reached out and opened up her palm, letting me drop them in before putting her head back down. I walked away and went into the cabin. The warm air inside with the smell of pine was nice, and I smelled something deep-fried that made me even hungrier. The dimly lighted tavern, or more like cabin, was probably darker than the outside, and I took a table in a far corner with a window above it. Passing the counter, there was a waitress putting food from a steel container on a plate, and behind her there was a kitchen window to pass up orders, but I couldn’t see anyone else through the window. When I sat down I took better notice of other customers, and most looked like they had mechanical wings but they weren’t all attached to their backs. There were some standing upright in corners and laying on the floor in various areas. Most of these people here, like everywhere else, were heavily upgraded and they stood in circles, talking and having a drink. I usually saw winged men and women flying from further away so it was somewhat strange to see so many up close. The multiple enhancements were normal compared to the one or two upgrades transhumans had about 20, or even ten years ago. There was one woman, whose wings were still attached, with purple metallic-looking shin guards on both of her lower legs, and she was in a group with a few other men that also didn’t take off their wings. I observed her group more because they looked somewhat different from the others, but I couldn’t figure out why. The “shin guards” went from her knees to the tip of her toes, or they could have actually been her legs. They looked like some kind of protective armor or even possible armor transportation devices, but stared too long because she suddenly turned my way. I turned the other way as if I was still looking around the room. Outside the window, I saw a light-rail for a sky-train twisting in the air. I didn't mind watching these trains because they reminded me of riding them with my parents when I was young. They were like roller coasters corkscrewing through the sky, although this rail wasn’t active anymore; most weren’t because of the rapid sales of transportation upgrades and other enhancements that created less revenue for them. Once I got a motorcycle years ago, I rarely took trains or gliders anymore myself as convenient as they once were. Some of the other transportation enhancements you could get included wheeled legs or speed balancers on your waist with a magnetic platform to stand on, but most preferred wings. I was still gazing at the train rail when the waiter appeared with coffee and asked for my order. She was polite and had a nice, soft voice, but I could tell she was a full android. Her voice gave her away because of the ever so slight and unnatural dip in intonation. It dropped just enough at the end of her sentence to sound like a dying battery each time. “What can I get you?” She eyed me peculiarly. I could tell others also glanced my way. “I think I’ll take vegetable mixed rice,” I said, looking at the menu. “And the fries.” She nodded and went back behind the counter I walked past when I came in. I was staring down at the coffee before noticing the woman with the purple legs approaching me with another guy in the group. The sound of her legs made a quick mechanical “wrz wrz” sound with each step, and I could tell now that they were definitely some type of device that was not just attached to her legs but made them up completely below the knees. The front of each of leg protruded some few centimetres to form form a subtle blade. When they got to me they didn’t say anything at first, then the man spoke. “Is that your motorcycle outside?” he asked. “Oh yeah, that’s my ride. My wings are in the shop,” I joked, but he didn’t change his expression. Of course, he would’ve known if I had owned wings because there would’ve been ligament attachments jutting out of my back and clothes like the rest of them. I guess he was just sizing me up. Then the woman asked if I had seen anything else on the roads. She looked serious, too, and more upgraded than most of the others I saw in the room, or maybe she just had different kinds of upgrades. Her right cheek blinked slowly with a soft luminous, blue-violet light that was most likely from some kind of optic enhancement or neuro attachments. Because she was standing on an angle, I saw that they went behind her ear and trailed down the back of her neck to probably a circuit box. Most moderately upgraded people had neuro lights coming from their faces, and wires from behind their head that were for either optics or some kind of other brain upgrades. “No, just a few elevated cars in the distance but not much of anything on the road,” I replied. “Well, you’re riding on the ground so you know that will sometimes attract unwanted entities or other creatures, especially in these areas, right?” she asked. “Right, are you all part of a group?” “It’s just the four of us,” She said. She was analyzing me and probably trying to figure out what kind of work I’ve had done on myself. Then there was an awkward silence; I wasn’t in a great mood for conversation and didn’t want to let them know I really didn’t have enhancements –a bike glove covered my machine hand. I tried to think of something to say to avoid a long conversation but nothing came. My hand wasn’t my choice, by the way. I had gotten a cheap upgrade because I was unconscious when they put it on, not that I could afford a much higher quality one at the time, but the metal was low enough quality that it wasn’t even compatible with my flesh -probably impure niobium or recycled scrap metal. The ache is hard to predict when it comes and I’m not sure how it would affect my body if I let it continue to spread. The hand itself was functional up to about 80 percent and then got slightly clumsy in some situations. It was also much more difficult to take off, unlike most people who had more advanced clasping systems with their detachable limbs or add-ons these days. I cursed myself for being unconscious when it happened because finding an independent specialist to put on a compatible fit was more difficult than finding pills. “Well anyway,” she continued. “The weather isn’t bad and you can protect yourself with your arm rods in case you run into any valacs or anything else.” “Good one,” I thought, trying not to laugh on under my breath. Arm rods are easily hidden under clothes, so she might’ve figured... “You know, there are valacs out there.” She said. “Yes, but aren’t they pretty rare in the downtown?” She gave me an odd look. I wasn’t sure if I should mention that I didn’t have any arm rods or just keep the conversation going, so I just took a sip of coffee. It then surprised me when she boldly reached over and felt my arm up and down. Looking confused, she squeezed it again, then the other arm. Her eyes froze and then studied me up and down. Slanting her head, she attempted to get a better look inside my jacket. Then I froze not knowing how to react. “Not even arm rods? What do you have for protection?” She glared in confusion. “Nothing, it’s just me. I don’t have any enhancements.” She looked at me as if I was some kind of demon, and then her expression changed when it became obvious to her that I was a believer. This wasn’t surprising. There weren’t many like me, but she couldn’t be certain since some people who didn’t get upgrades just prioritized their credits in a different way in order to survive. “Um ok,” she said. “Brave guy, huh? Well, stay safe out there.” She and her friend turned away and walked back to their little group, but as she turned it looked as if she widened her eyes in disbelief. I understood her reaction. There were scattered groups of believers that wouldn’t comply with the rest of the world’s shift to mechanical and digital life. It didn’t matter too much if you were a believer or not because there were many gods and forces, mostly ancient ones, even transhumans believed in. However, if you didn’t have any enhancements it was almost a dead giveaway you were a much more serious believer, or just poor. Although, I wouldn’t have wanted upgrades even if I wasn’t a believer. There was a period of time I considered them while I was younger but I always held back because of the constant enhancements you have to put with: getting the best aerodynamic face-shield; ultra-flex graphene wings, magnetic up-lifters for landing, sky drops, neuro attachment shifts, retinol full-adjustments, and then there were digital uploads. The list is endless. Life can be easier in many ways by being enhanced, but it wasn’t for me. In the back of my mind, I was wondering if the woman was not so much in disbelief that I didn’t have protection in general, or that I just didn’t have protection in this area of the city. I knew it could be especially dangerous with valacs roaming in parts, but as I mentioned, they weren’t usually downtown. There were also other creatures and sinister beings, spirit or not, that were prevalent, but if you knew the roads well and were fast enough then they weren’t usually a problem. The issue with valacs is that they will be violently aggressive from the moment they spot you. If you weren’t in a vehicle then you were a much easier target because they’re fast and you would be taking a risk. While lost in thought, the waiter brought my order and the woman and the others seemed to be in a quieter discussion now. After I finished eating, I pulled out thirty credits. “It can’t be more than that,” I thought. It was getting late and I almost felt too relaxed, which was strange. Most of the winged-humans were preparing to leave. They were adjusting the electronics on their forearms by entering codes on small-embedded touch-screens, and you could hear distinct beeps when the vices opened and closed to attach to the hinges. It must have been easier to walk around the room without wings swinging and bumping into things, but watching them now was an interesting scene. By the expression some of their faces, it was an embarrassment to have someone help them reattach their wings. Did it not just come with the territory? Maybe they should have another device for that as well. A man is his own god until he needs assistance from someone else and then he realizes he isn’t immortal. …But “mortality” seemed as if it was still up in the air. The two I had the discussion looked my way again and then left out of the door in their little group. The woman I talked to was more colorful than the others were. Her short dark brown hair was tightly slicked back, and her clothes were mostly black. They were close fitting and shiny leather looking material. The ligaments attached to her wings were an evergreen that expanded into veins spreading throughout to the ends. The three other men had similar colors, except for one man, the one who had approached with her. He was almost an all metallic gray, including his face and hair. I’ve never seen such pure gray eyes as he walked by. Depending on what kind of enhancements and upgrades you have, colors can be apt to change, and I’m not sure how much was their choice given the government or companies they got them from. He had to have a particular type of upgrade to have such unique skin and eyes, if it was an upgrade at all. There were physical upgrades, and there were DNA upgrades, which made me think of valacs again. Being once human, they were a good example of both extremes. If such a creature caught you then you would be lucky if it killed you right away. If not, their goal was to extract energy by absorbing your blood. First, they would heat you to a certain temperature while you were still alive and then begin the absorption. In that way, I’m not sure why valacs aren’t referred to more as vampires -a valac is a reference to some kind of ancient demon. They just had too many digital upgrades and DNA alterations. Their brain upgraded many times over made them go haywire, and at a certain point, they turned into a desperate, demented monster. Their blind rage overcame just about any strength because of their ability to release the energy they could accumulate. A brain enhancement begetting another, and then another, in an attempt to fix previous ones resulted in horrifying outcomes. I looked up from my coffee and suddenly realized I was the only one left in the cabin. Being in there alone with the robot wasn’t my favourite thing, but not because it wasn’t human. She lingered near the counter and stared my way a lot, giving me an eerie feeling when I was already drowsy. I still had to get back to my flat, so I got up, walked past her with a slight nod, and stepped out of the door to look. There was no else around. The moonlight glistened off the solar panels of my bike and everything was quiet, not even a breeze. To no surprise, the girl wasn’t there anymore and the outside appeared much different in the dark. I looked down the street and at the high-rises as far as I could and nothing moved. Pressing the auto-ignition in my hand, I walked over and jumped on my bike, then pulled up the clutch to throttle and quickly get on the road. The solar panels turned downwards and slid underneath my feet as I accelerated. I am not even sure what year my bike was but it drove great and held up nicely considering the minimal maintenance I did on it. Well, for the most part, but the speedometer just quit one day and with nowhere to get it fixed my speed is always a mystery. I could only guess how fast I was going when there were other vehicles on the road but, fortunately, there were no regulators to pull me over if I was going over the 90-kilometer speed limit. In fact, there weren’t that many drones that patrolled the city anymore. Since it was dark and drowsiness seemed to be harassing me more by the minute, I thought about the quickest route home. I usually drove on the outskirts of the city because it was more scenic without all the crumbling wreckage, but it was also about twenty minutes longer. The downtown was a metropolis in the early 2050s, but now it was like the rest of the degenerative world: mulled over by earthquakes and controlled by the Interim Provisional Systems. The IPS is a private international agency that was once subsidized by the world governments to assist them with different functions and enforcing policies. Without much resistance, it became the replacement government when the economies crashed during the earthquakes. Many high-ranking officials and leaders were killed, leaving a vacuum and an easy takeover. The IPS was a sort of “behind-the-scenes” body for a long time while the others were still in power, but people trusted it because it supported the current uprisings against government corruption. When the earthquakes finally stopped, so much of the world was destroyed that vast sections of cities were easily put under control. Eventually, different regions turned up pockets of inhabitable living arrangements for survivors. While globalization and technology had been peaking before the earthquakes, all the destruction after gave the IPS an excuse to heavily tax already struggling citizens and enforce policies it would never have done otherwise. It increasingly profited while further oppressing the people. Deciding to cut through the downtown, I Listened to the air against my helmet and revved the throttle harder, leaning forward. The streets looked clear, and I revved it again weaving along the streets with no other vehicles in sight. Once I got out of the old downtown I went even faster, but not being able to shake the drowsiness off, the degraded buildings blurred past me in my peripheral vision and played with my head. I was in more of a trance, and I began daydreaming about obtaining my own wings that would get me to my flat in a fraction of the time it took me now. Swooping overhead, maybe landing on the tip of a jagged-edged high-rise or some other precipice, entertained my thoughts. I could have lunch on top of the old Capitol, then take off again and fly through the clouds, in the moonlight...in the sunlight. During this fantasy, there came a glimpse of a shadow in my rearview mirror. At first, just a flicker, maybe a bird or a bat, and then something reappeared getting bigger. I tried to wipe my mirror and looked straight at it, and an enormous figure loomed forward. I thought it might have been a low flying person but when I turned my head back and gave a straightaway look behind me, a strange, terrifying humanoid creature was chasing me. With another better look, I could see it was a machine with electrical steel legs and arms bound in black wire. The wiring morphed into its chest, and although it had two legs, it looked as if it was in a half-gallop. The eyes were glazed over green and its face bared a haunting, distant grimace. As it drew closer, I could see its face was fixed with anger and fear. The metal of the creature was mostly yellow but with some gray, and its head was parts of metal and clumps of bare human flesh. The astounding speed didn’t make sense because it didn’t have wheels, but legs, and it was catching up with me. I was in full throttle and wasn’t sure if I should try to swerve or take a quick detour on a passing street because then I would have to slow down. Undoubtedly, this thing would have its hands or whatever on me. I revved the throttle again and the thing behind me became noisier as it, absurdly, picked up even more speed. It was closing in on me, and I revved the throttle again and then started to panic, feeling the sweat build up on my upper lip and the heat in my helmet. I smelled metal and dirt. I looked up and a shadow was suddenly right over me. Jerking my arm to try to lurch my bike right, I felt a pull on my shoulder as it yanked me out of my seat and in the air. I yelped before being crushed, but instead, my body kept rising. Something was carrying me up. The front of the helmet jutted out so I had to arch my back to be able to see what had me. It was one of the men from the group in the cabin and his enormous metallic wings flapped with power, hoisting me many feet higher within seconds. I looked down at my bike as I continued to rise, and watched another winged human swing a leg forward and slice the humanoid in half. The creature toppled over with parts tumbling, and I noticed my bike continuing by itself for a time. It might have gone twenty meters before hitting a curb and skidding into a side of an old building. With my limited vision, it appeared as if my bike had suddenly stopped cold and exploded into a thousand tiny glittering splinters or stars before fading. As my eyes grew heavier, I thought how a demolished bike would go well with the decomposing city, and tried to understand why I was so tired despite what was happening. The motion of the ascent and rhythm of the flapping wings lulled me into a deep sleep. # The first thing that I remembered was that my bike was destroyed and I was upset knowing my only real prized possession was gone. I found myself lying on a couch in a studio with an old mahogany wooden floor and a high ceiling. In a far corner, there were narrow winding stairs leading up to an exit hatch. It was a comfortable and quiet place, and I heard soft, hushed voices coming from another room. I could partially make out the wings on someone’s back. They hadn’t noticed that I woke up and to keep it that way I didn’t move, at first. My eyes were half shut, and the angle of my head was twisted toward the back of the couch to get a good enough view, but I knew who they were. It also felt like I had been sleeping for a while now because my mind was hazy, and I wanted to nod off again but their voices droned on in a suspicious tone. After another half-hour, I was getting restless and they didn’t strike me as dangerous. They apparently saved my life, so instead of torturously waiting longer I decided to sit up and take my chances. The person that was turned my way noticed me first, then the rest turned. They all had their wings on. “Up, are you?” The woman said with her arms folded. “Ah…yes.” I looked around the room more. It was a spacious room with narrow hallways on each side, and there were no pictures or anything else on the walls but an enormous fireplace on the largest wall to my left. The woman walked over accompanied by her leg sounds, and the others stayed where they were but watched. “Still sleepy?” she asked. “Well…kind of, but I’m alright,” I responded while stretching my back and straightening up more. “Where am I?” “It’s our place outside the city, near the old subway in Fairfax.” Her face wasn’t as stern under this lighting and it caught me off guard. She still displayed the same colors as last night but much more subdued, which made sense because the room wasn’t as dark as the tavern. “So, I guess you saved me last night,” I then looked in her eyes to mean it. “Thank you.” She raised her eyebrows but didn’t say anything. “Were you waiting for me or did you know that thing was out there?” I asked. “What thing? We knew you might be in trouble because you were alone. Lone travelers are susceptible to being targeted and drugged at different establishments these days. Don’t you know that?” She didn’t move and waited for my answer. “I’ve heard it was happening more lately, but I used to eat there when I was young. I just figured it was safe.” Then she asked where I lived and if I had anything valuable. “I have an apartment near Bethesda.” In my head, I cursed myself for not being more careful about the coffee the waiter brought me. Manipulated drinks happened constantly. Amidst my search for medication, I was tired and just let my guard down, which was unlike me. “But how can you guys trust me?” I asked. For all they know, I could be working for the IPS. Then I thought they could be working for the IPS. “You don’t know me, and what do you guys do?” “We seen you give credits to that homeless child and we thought you must’ve been a decent person,” another in the group said. “We left but decided to come back later in case you did what we suspected. And you did.” I was confused. “Did what?” “You passed out, with the android nowhere in sight.” The woman said. “We looked for her. Your bike was gone so it probably made off with it.” “What?” Now I was really paying attention. “What do you mean, passed out?” “You’re lucky nothing else happened to you before we got there.” It suddenly struck me. The monster…it must have been a dream and I apparently fell asleep at the table. But it seemed so real. Moreover, how did they know I gave credits to the child? The woman’s eyes told me that she knew I was coming to that. Her next response was that they placed a micro-camera outside the cabin in case they were being followed. “Why would you be followed?” I looked at her, and she stared at me the same way she did last night at the tavern when I told her I wasn’t protected. “Come on,” she said. “How can you not know the world out there? You can’t be that naïve. Anyone can be followed for any reason, mainly for an opportunity to steal credits or upgrades.” She hesitated. “Why is just your hand protected?” My gloves were off. They must’ve noticed that the hand was rigid and checked it. “Oh, this was an accident.” I looked down to my hand and paused. My mind flashed back to the series of earthquakes we had. “I lived in a high-rise in Crystal City with my younger brother during the earthquakes. During one of them, our ceiling began to collapse. We only lived on the second floor, but when it fell my hand was caught under a steel beam or something and I couldn’t free it. I was stuck there for a longtime, yelling for my brother, and then another aftershock actually freed my hand …but it was crushed.” Staring down at my hand, I remembered the pain, cradling the deformity, and wandering around debris looking for my brother. When I looked back up, the four were staring at me. For some reason, explaining what happened seemed appropriate at this moment. After leaving a makeshift hospital a couple of days later with a new hand, I went back to the wreckage and found my brother pinned under a wall. I always wondered if he was able to stay alive for a while or if it killed him right away. “We took off your gloves to make sure you weren’t hiding anything dangerous,” she said, breaking the pause. “We didn’t know what it was.” “I figured.” I gathered my thoughts. “Anyway, there are a few reasons why I’ve never been upgraded. “I like the feeling of me being who I am in this changing world. I want to keep the feeling. It’s also easier than getting involved in all the technology it takes to be an updated transhuman.” “But you could die out there pretty easily.” She responded. “Are you sure being a believer isn’t the case?” “So what if it was,” I thought. “And that’s another reason,” I said. “But remember there are believers who’ve been enhanced. Extremely enhanced.” I stood up to check my haziness. “But you would get to fly,” she said. “You could live much longer.” There are no guarantees of that. Maybe being a believer is what’s keeping me alive. I laughed under my breath of how absurd that would sound now, so I didn’t say it. “My bike…,” my voice trailed off and I started to wonder how I would get another motorcycle or other transportation. The likelihood of finding my bike wasn’t even considered. By now it was probably miles away, chopped up and sold already. “Well, thanks for saving me from the android and whatever else,” I said in the most sincere way I could. She waited for a moment and asked if I had a way of getting back. “I could give you another lift,” she said. I would’ve been too embarrassed to ask at this point, so I was glad she offered. With my head still foggy, I couldn’t imagine walking too far anywhere and I lived several kilometers away. “I’ll pay you,” I said, suddenly remembering my wallet and reaching to see if it was still there. It was with everything in it, and I wondered why the android just wanted my bike when I passed out. Maybe she thought someone might have seen her if she tried to take something else from me in the tavern, or she was in a hurry. “Well, you believers sure need a lot of assistance,” she smiled. “No payment is needed.” Without saying anything else, she turned and walked towards the table. The others turned to her and they all nodded to each other. She waved to me to follow her down one of the hallways and towards a big window that automatically opened as she approached it. It made me nervous. I wasn’t drugged anymore and realized I was going to be carried in the air (again). She flew out of the window with one swift movement and flapped her wings in front of me, waiting for me to…jump for her? “Don’t jump. Just step on the edge and I will grab you with my leg bindings!” She yelled out. I did, and she grabbed me and pulled me up into a secure position. It felt a little awkward at first but the grip was tight and comfortable. With my body dangling, we began flying over the city. We were near the clouds once I felt relaxed enough to appreciate the view, and it looked like a shiny plastic model with skyscrapers under the warm sun. The city looked odd with my worn black leather boots hanging in front of me. I thought of how strange my life was. The world looked pristine and refreshing from this height, and with a warm comforting sun I felt as if I could nod off to sleep again, but I didn’t. We barely talked on the way, which was somewhat difficult anyway, because her face was further and obviously higher up than mine was. The flapping of her wings also made noise against the breeze. We glided over the marina and the water appeared to be sparkling and gray with no movement. A little further, I could see the area of my flat in the distance, and as we came closer, I tapped her leg, pointing towards it. She tilted and angled at a twenty-story complex on a corner block. I heard an electronic click as her wings went into position and we started to drop towards the high-rise, and then glided. It took a minute or so but we got there pretty fast, and I peered across to my window as we passed near, noticing a ghastly looking shadow inside. It faced my desk and just stood there, hunching over it. I was shocked. She must have noticed it too because before we got close enough for the door she took me up again, to the roof where there were some vents and other door hatches. “What is that?” I asked, breathing heavy from the adrenaline. “That was the window of your unit we passed? If you don’t know what it is then you probably don’t want to find out,” she said. “Androids are usually connected to others through digital receptors, and the one at the tavern could’ve transferred your bike information from her memory, whether on purpose or unknowingly. Who knows what other creatures or elements found out where you lived by either code on your bike or something else. She might have taken your bike just for that reason.” “So what? Why? How would they know if I ever had anything important?” “It doesn’t matter now,” she said. “You might’ve created interest or perceived as an easy target, maybe. And because some of your identity information could’ve been broadcasted among them, they may have obtained even more information on you.” I sighed and shook my head. She went on to explain to me that the reason they didn’t do anything to stop the android at the tavern was that they weren’t sure if it was shady, and they didn’t want to alarm it by investigating. The ISP already knows who they are and they didn’t want to compromise the location by having them exposed to other entities. They decided if they left for a while, although a risk leaving someone vulnerable, they could ascertain the situation better when they got back by the android’s behaviour, or mine. Sticking around might have given away who they were. “Anyway, it’s apparent to us that it was probably suspicious because it left when we were gone.” She said. “Now, because the tavern’s cover’s most likely blown others might be in trouble.” Putting what she said aside for a moment, I had to ask if what was in my apartment was a valac. My heavy breathing subsided. “Or is it something else related to the spirit world?” She looked at me and didn’t answer. I don’t think she knew. “Why don’t you come back with us?” She suddenly said. “You would be safer, and you might be helpful because of the fact you’re not enhanced.” I looked at her. “But, I don’t even know who you people really are,” I said. “And you don’t know me.” “You can’t stay here,” she said. “What will you do?” For the first time in a while, I wasn’t sure. I liked my apartment and the way I lived, and now I had to suddenly change my life again. It has already been altered several times in the past. My brother was gone, and my parents suddenly disappeared when I was young; I didn’t have any other family except some friends that were spread out in various parts of the city. “Please, just take me away from here,” I said. “I can probably think more clearly in the air.” The thought of something suddenly smashing through a door on the roof was distracting me. If it were half as fast as the creature in my nightmare then we wouldn’t have a chance to escape. “Good thinking.” She grabbed me from underneath my arms again and took me to another building rooftop a few blocks away. After landing, we walked around for a few minutes without saying anything, and then she faced me again. “The truth is that my group and others are a rebellion against the IPS. We fight against those upper echelons because they kill and enslave; they’re beholden to the dark elements, as you might know already. Nothing can really stop them but we can expect to slow them down from completely destroying everyone, or turning all humans into something else.” “It was the valacs decisions to get their minds upgraded in the first place,” I said. “They turned themselves into those monsters.” “But the upgrades were not what they thought they were. Most of them were used as experiments for the systems that control this world. Besides, there are more than valacs for us to worry about.” She added. “But don’t you get your upgrades from them?” I asked. “Most of our upgrades come from somewhere else.” She said with a sly but serious look on her face. “Anyway, many of their physical body upgrades are beneficial, and as they say, “Sometimes you have to use the system to beat the system. Just stay away from the mind upgrades.” “I stay away from all the upgrades. “What’s your name?” I asked her. “My name is Lailon. And yours?” “Zane.” “One thing, If you do choose to come with us and then leave, you can never come back. We need to have full trust in someone and could never know if you or anyone else has been compromised by the IPS. Our trust is a delicate commodity.” “What about the others you’re with? Your friends? Are you sure there is room for me?” “They knew I was going to discuss this with you.” Oddly, I felt some kind of connection. I couldn’t tell if I could trust her because of our conversations or if it was something else, but I knew she was sincere. She looked off into the distance at some billowing smokestacks, and then some surrounding buildings that looked like much of the same as the rest of the city. Then turned back to me, looking in my eyes. “I know I’ve asked already, but I have to be certain that you’re being honest. Are you telling the truth about being unprotected?” “Yes. I’m a believer, among other things, but nothing nefarious.” She thought again. “So, you believe in a despot? When you look at the world around you, do you think some kind of invisible force has been protecting us?” “It may not be that simple,” I said. “How much have you studied the ancient manuscripts?” “Enough that I know we must not go to Saturn.” “Right, Saturn is the last place I’m going, and another reason I’m trying to avoid the IPS. They probably don’t even know what Saturn really is and sending people there for their enhancement debts isn’t a good sign.” I folded my arms and peered over the edge of the rooftop. “They call it a safe, beautiful place, but we already know what they’re capable of. It doesn’t make any sense.” “Do you know what Saturn really is?” She asked. “Eventually, there will probably be no chance to survive here. And ironically, it might be easier to attract the IPS by avoiding them that way. You know, I was like you once. I never wanted to get upgrades and meddle with what is going on outside of my own world, but how do you not reach a point where you just need to do something? Need to fight against a regime that is taking the world down. It took the world down.” She quipped. “What do you think created the earthquakes? There could be no escape for any of us.” “But that’s why I believe,” I said. “This being you call a despot might have let what happened because stopping it could’ve created even worse chaos. The blood of everyone is contaminated from what humans did.” “Well then, why not fight for the world? Fight for the remaining people. Perhaps do the good you can do for this thing you believe in.” She looked into my eyes. “I don’t know if I can help anyone, including myself, but I have nothing back at home except for my apartment, and that...whatever it was, breached any ease I have of returning. The dark elements most likely know who I am now, and I have no bike or AI upgrades. I will join you so long as it makes sense to me.” She flew us back to their place, and instead of flying down to a door or the window, she went through an opening on the roof under a vent. I followed her down the stairs and through the hallway. The men were standing around the table and looked like they weren’t too surprised to see me. They nodded as I walk in. Not knowing what to say, I just stood there for a moment. “What’s your name,” came from the guy who was all gray. His lips didn’t move much when he talked, and his voice was more of a loud whispering echo. “Zane,” And yours? “I’m Ragen,” and then he gestured to the two others. “And this is Jequn and Lee. Lee handed me a cup of coffee. “Have a seat. We need to get you up to speed, so it’s going to be a long day, and night,” he said. And don’t worry, this coffee’s not tainted with any sleeping elixir or poison. The rest of them chuckled, and we all took a seat around the table. “You can ask more questions later and we’ll get more acquainted.” Just then, my forearm started to ache and I looked down at my hand. I began to pump my fist. “Pills” I whispered. I decided to take one and reached for my pocket. Jequn called out. “Samantha, can you come out here, please?” Soon after, a young girl came out from a door I hadn’t noticed yet and sat next to Lailon. It was the same girl I gave the credits to near the tavern. She was cleaned up and her hair was fixed a different way. “This was our camera outside the tavern,” Jequn smiled. She appeared to be looking at my metal hand and reached out hers. I gave it to her. She took it and began to unscrew the electrical hinges on my wrist. I winced as she pulled to get it off. From a satchel around her waist, she took out another hand but it looked completely different, more like a gel mold. It was floppy and transparent and had bluish complex circuitry running through the wrist and palm, to the tip of the fingers. Then she pulled out a cylinder looking tool and another smaller object that was similar to a tiny screwdriver. She started working to reattach microscopic wires on the wrist. She did this with agility and focus. The cylinder turned out to be a laser, and with some other strange-looking tools she got from her bag she checked to make sure the hand was set properly and slid on-and-off easily to my comfort. The others watched, and I couldn’t tell if they were overseeing her work or had no idea what she was doing. The pain came when she turned on a reset mechanism near where the hand met my wrist. I yelled out, holding a frozen grimace on my face, and then slowly relaxed it. The new hand suddenly felt fine. It also had more strength when I squeezed --much more. I tested it again by spreading my fingers and making a fist. The girl put the tools back into her bag and looked up at me. “Careful with that,” Lailon smirked. I stared at the translucent device and wondered how I should react. “How does it feel?” asked Samantha. Her voice was a small whisper. “Good. Thank you, but I have a lot of questions,” I said, still not knowing what to say. “Of course, and you will know more,” replied Lailon. “Let us begin.” I was still looking at my new hand. “Ok, but no more upgrading me.” “Of course,” she said. “Of course….” The others glanced at each other, but didn’t say word.
FIRST DRAFTS |
Fernando E. Iriarte Rivera is currently a student at Full Sail university enrolled in the creative writing bachelors program. Iriarte aspires to entertain people through his writing while also improving his craft. A tough road lies ahead of him, but if people come out with a smile then it's worth it. |
Machine Coating
“Take a seat, officer,” Reyes says as he points at an empty chair.
Rose takes her seat. “Sir, about the papers, I was sent.”
“I’m afraid that’s final, officer.” Reyes continues to work on his computer.
Rose bites her lower lip. “Sir, with respect my record and serv--”
“This isn’t a personal thing, officer.” Reyes stops working on his computer and looks at Rose. “These reports are being sent out across all the military branches.”
“I’ve dedicated my life to this, and now I’m just being dropped.”
“Tough times hit everyone hard. Even I’m taking a pay cut.”
“Yes, a pay cut, but you still get to keep your job!”
“Watch your tone, officer. You’re still in uniform,” Reyes says in a cold tone.
Rose clenches her fist. “So that’s it. No benefits, no pension.” Rose’s fingers twitch. “Nothing.”
“What do you want, officer? An apology? The economy crashed and the last president left us with one hell of a debt. Nothing we can do.”
“I’d expect the corps. to watch out and take care of their own.”
“Everything has limits, officer.”
Rose stands up. “Funny, your little friend in congress sure took care of you.”
Reyes slams his hand on his desk. “Watch your tone, officer!”
“Guess that little pillow talk you had with her really payed off,” Rose says as she walks out and slams the door shut. Rose takes a deep breath. “Nutzloser schwanz.”
# # #
The moon looms over the city of New Londo. Fog covers the streets as the sounds of crowded pubs fills the air. Rose arrives at her apartment. As she walks towards the kitchen she throws three open bills on the dining table along with her beret. She grabs a soda and half eaten sandwich from the fridge. She sits on the dining table and grabs her phone. She presses the button in the middle and a hologram pops. The hologram reads “Three un-heard voice message.” The first message reads “from T7 communications.” Rose presses the “play” button.
“Good day Miss Burgstein, unfortunately we currently don’t have an available spot. Given the current times we just don’t have the budget.”
The next message and it reads “from AK ashik Industries.”
“Miss Burgstein, I’m afraid you’re overqualified for the posi--”
Rose hits the stop button. She takes a sip of her soda and presses the play button.
The last message reads “from Union Aero Space Frontier.”
“Miss Burgstein, we’re sad to inform you th--”
Rose punches the phone. She finishes her meal and heads to her bedroom. She throws her officers jacket on the floor along with her boots. She lies on her bed looking at the ceiling.
# # #
The next day arrives. Rose puts on a brown jacket and heads out into town. As the day goes by she goes to multiple job interviews, but gets turned down by all of them. Noon draws near and Rose stops to eat at Guilliman’s Diner. As she eats her burger she sees a homeless man in a raggedy soldier’s jacket asking for money. Rose lowers her head and places the burger on the plate.
A waitress walks up to Rose.
“Ma’am are you done?” The waitress asks, but Rose doesn’t respond. “Um, ma’am.”
“Oh!” Rose looks at the waitress. “I’m sorry. I’m not done yet.”
“Okay.” The waitress looks out the window and sees the homeless man. “Poor guy. I really wish someone would help him.”
“Yeah,” Rose says in low pitched tone.
Rose finishes her meal and heads towards uptown. She arrives at an office building with shut windows. She sees an old man in a blue coat in front of the building hanging a sign that reads “Closed.” She runs towards the man.
“Excuse, me! Entschuldigen sie, mein herr!” Rose says.
“Beg your pardon madam, but my German is a bit rusty,” The man says as he turns and faces Rose.
“Sorry, I was just--” Rose catches her breath. “I just wanted to ask if I was late.
“Late?”
“Yes I had an interview today with Mr. Chapman.”
“Oh, good heavens.” The man places his right hand on the side of his head. “The messages weren’t sent out. Ma’am please take a seat here with me.” The man points at a bench.
Both Rose and the man sit together.
“Ma’am, I ‘m Mr. Chapman. Manager, or should I say, former manager for Dalton communications.”
“F-former” Rose says in a low pitched voice as her face turns pale.
“Yes. Due to the economic crash this branch has been closed down.” Mr. Chapman says as he points at the office building. “A message was supposed to have been sent to everyone that was scheduled for an interview. Though considering you’re the third person to show up. I’m guessing management didn’t bother sending the notice.”
Rose’s eyes widen. “This was the last interview I had.” Her hands begin to shake. “Nobody else is hiring.”
Mr. Chapman places his left hand on Rose’s right hand. “I’m sorry, young lady. I know these are hard times and--”
“Hard times!” Rose stands up. “I served this country only to get discharged without warning or any sort of benefits!” She paces back and forth. “Everywhere I go, they tell me I’m either over qualified or that they don’t have an available spot.” Rose says as she starts crying.
Mr. Chapman stands up. “I know that feeling all too well. I also served in the military. And all I have to show for is this.” He rolls up his right sleeve and reveals a bionic arm.
“You’re a veteran?” Rose says as she wipes the tears off her face.
“I am. Just like you, they sent me out without any benefits.” Mr. Chapman pulls back down his right sleeve. “They got me on some trumped up technicality and denied me the veteran’s benefits. Breaks my heart every time I see another soldier get screwed over by those twats.”
Rose lowers her head. “You wouldn’t happen to know of any place left that might be willing to hire?”
Mr. Chapman takes a deep breath and exhales. “Sadly I don’t.” He reaches into one of his coat pockets and pulls out a small bottle of heart pills. “I’m not even sure if I can afford my next refill,” Mr. Chapman says as he takes two pills and throws the empty bottle away.
“What do you mean afford?”
“No health insurance. Please take care of yourself young lady.” Mr. Chapman walks away.
Rose looks at the closed office building. She looks further down the street and sees many shops and other office building with foreclosed signs on them.
# # #
Morning arrives. Rose sits at the dining table while she works on her computer. “I’ve got to find a way to make this money last.” Rose goes around town trying to find any place that’s hiring. She’s either turned away or keeps running into businesses that are closing down. Night time arrives and Rose goes to the Londo Bar and Grill. She sits at the bar and orders a drink. Next to her is a young man in a yellow long sleeved shirt. A dark haired young lady, with green eyes and dark skin in a bartenders outfit walks up to the young man.
“Hey, love, give me whiskey,” the young man says to the bartender.
“Whiskey? Was the day that bad?” The bartender asks as she pours the drink.
“Dreadful,” the young man says as he drinks whiskey. “We had an emergency with a patient with a heart problem.” He chugs the last of the whiskey.
Rose turns and looks at the young man.
The bartender re-fills the young man’s drink. “How bad was it?”
“We got there too late. Seems the poor bloke didn’t have his medication.” The young man drinks the whole drink in one chug.
“Was he an old man?!” Rose asks the young man.
The young man turns and looks at Rose. “Beg your pardon?”
“Was he an Oldman with a bionic right arm?”
“Yes. Oh, dear. Are you one of his relatives?”
“No, I just met him yesterday.” Rose stands up. “I’m sorry, I need go.” Rose pays the bartender and leaves.
Rose walks down the side walk. “Is this how I’ll end up? Just another abandoned soldier?” Rose thinks. She bumps into a tall man with white eyes and wearing an old officer’s coat. “Sorry, sir.”
“It’s okay, young soldier,” the man says.
“I was a bit distracted…Wait, how did you know I was a soldier?”
“The way you were walking,” the man says as he dusts of his coat. “A steady brisk pace. Almost as if you were marching.”
“Oh, I never noticed that about myself.”
The man chuckles. “Some of our mannerism become so automatic we tend to overlook them.”
“I never thought of it like that, but you’re right.”
“Say would you fancy a drink or meal? My treat.”
“No, I’m in a bit of a rush.”
“To where? If I may ask?”
“To umm.” Rose looks around. “You know, on second thought, maybe I’ll have that meal.
“Excellent. Oh and by the way my name is Dozel.”
“I’m Rose, pleasure to meet you.”
The two head to a Guilliman’s Diner. The waitress brings them their meals.
“I’ll pay for this so don’t worry.” Rose takes a sip of her soda.
“And pass up an opportunity to payback one of our own? No thanks. I’ll cover both our meals.” Dozel takes a bite out of his sandwich. “Besides I’m sure you’ll have to be worrying about far more dangerous things on your next venture,” Dozel says with his mouth still full.
“Next venture?” Rose takes a bite out of her steak.
“Yeah, I’m sure they’ll be sending you some battlefield.”
Rose lowers her head and places her fork down. “I won’t be heading out ever again.”
“Well money is tight, but at some point they’ll--”
“I was let go along with many others.”
“Wait, I remember reading this in the newspaper. So you were among the layoffs.
“Yes.”
Dozel slams his on the table. “Bastards! This is no way to treat the enlisted.”
“I was an officer, Lieutenant to be specific,” Rose says in a low pitched voice.
“So even officers are left out to dry. Meanwhile fat senators don’t skip a single meal, typical”
“Sadly.”
“Tell you what. How about instead of covering this meal I offer you something else?” Dozel starts twirling the straw from his drink.
“Unless it’s a job, I don’t think there’s much you can--” Rose sees two feint flames at both ends of Dozel’s straw. “Is that some sort of hologram?”
“Well my dear.” Dozel straitens the straw. As the flames engulf the straw and a blue rose emerges. “You tell me?” Dozel gives the flower to Rose.
Rose touches the petals. “Wait, it’s humid as if it were alive.” She smiths the flower. This sent it’s not artificial.” She looks at Dozel. “Who are you?”
“A man of many talents,” Dozel says with a smirk. “I’ve aided many. Sadly some buckle and breakdown into an insane mess. Sometimes they just throw themselves off a bridge.”
A bead of sweat runs down Rose’s forehead. “What type of aid are you offering?”
“Three months. For three months I guarantee you will not go hungry or thirsty.” Dozel finishes eating the last of his sandwich. “On top of that money won’t be an issue. If you make it through you can keep a very hefty amount of money.”
“What’s the catch? You want me to be you’re maid or a body guard.”
Dozel takes a sip of his soda. “No, that’s not even a catch my dear. That’s like telling a senator to retire in exchange for dirty pictures not being made public.” Dozel drinks the last of his soda and lets out a burp. “I mean sure he’s not in office, but he still has all his money and reputation is intact. Know what I mean?” Dozel raises his eyebrow and smirks.
“Then what do you--” Rose covers her chest as her face turns red. “I’m not that type of lady!”
Dozel points to Rose “And I’m not that type of man. The catch is that by say a month and a half, maybe earlier you’ll be shall we say heavy metal. Just be sure to stay sane.”
“Okay mister klugscheiber, can you be less cryptic?” Rose points a Dozel.
“Know where’s the fun that? Of course you can always just walk away. After all I did promise to pay for this dinner.”
Rose gets up she takes one step forward and stops. She remembers all the failed job applications and closed stores in town. She turns and looks at Dozel. “Three months, right?”
Dozel raises both his hands. “No more. No less.”
“And what do you get out of it?”
“A good laugh if they go insane.” Dozel snaps his fingers. “Or the entertainment of watching them struggle.”
“Fine, we have a deal?” Rose extends her right hand.
Dozel shakes hands with Rose. A small jolt of lightning runs through Rose’s arm.
“Ouch! Why you.” Rose glares at Dozel.
“Don’t worry about finding me. I’ll be there when the time is up regardless of where you are.”
“Really and how will you?--” Rose rubs her hand, but when she looks up she sees that Dozel is gone.
The waitress walks by. And gives Rose a receipt. “Thanks for stopping by.”
Rose sees that the food has already been paid for.
# # #
The next day arrives and Rose is browsing through her computer. Her eyes widen. “This number can’t be right. I don’t remember having this amount of money.” Rose leans back in her chair. She grabs her coat and goes out.
She walks through town with a smile on her face. As she turns the corner she sees a homeless man in a raggedy soldier’s jacket. Rose walks to the man, pulls out her wallet and give him a stack of 100 dollar bills. “Here, soldiers should always watch out for each other.”
The homeless man takes the money as he begins to cry.
Rose goes around town looking for homeless soldiers and gives them money. As the day goes by Rose visits the Londo Bar and Grill. She orders a stack of baby back ribs with soda.
The bartender looks at Rose. “Did something happen?”
Rose looks at the bartender while she eats a rib. Why do you ask?
“I remember you from yesterday. You were a bit distraught.”
“Yes, I was going through some troubles and hearing about what happened to Mr. Chapman hit a soft side.” Rose finishes eating the rib. “But thankfully I’ve manage to find some fortune in my life.”
“At least someone is in a good spot.”
“Wait how are you holding up?”
“So far jus managing and--”. The bartender sees a patron with his hand raised. “Hold that thought just let me take care of this.” She goes to tend to the patron.
Rose finishes eating her ribs and pays for her meal. She walks towards the bartender. “Would you like some help?”
The bartender chuckles. “I’m good, besides I’d hate to see you work and not get paid.”
“Well I’m covered for the time, so there’s nothing wrong with helping others.”
“You’re an odd one miss umm--”
“Rose. Rose Burgstein, at your service.”
“Emma Swan. I’ve got to keep tending to this, but I hope I see soon.” Emma walks away carrying a pile of plates.
# # #
The weeks go by as Rose enjoys her time. Every day she goes and helps homeless veterans she runs into. Visiting Londo Bar and Grill becomes routine. One day rose walks in and sees Emma near and hugs her.
“Nice to see you.” Emma says.
“I was in the area and I’d thought I’d stop by,” Rose says.
The two walk and sit at a table.
“Wait here, I had feeling you’d show up so got something ready.” Emma goes to the kitchen and comes out with a plate of ribs.
Rose smiles. “Wunderbar! You remembered.”
“Well it’s the one thing you always eat here.” Emma places the plate on the table.
“That’s true I--” As Rose takes one bite she pulls the rib away.
“Is something wrong? Don’t tell me they’re undercooked?”
“No, it’s just. I suddenly don’t feel hungry.”
“That’s impossible you always eat the whole plate. Are you feeling okay?”
“I-I think so.” Rose hand starts shaking.
Emma grabs Rose’s hand. Her eyes widen. “You feel cold.”
“But I feel fine.”
“No your hand is ice cold. Maybe you should go see a doctor.”
Rose stands up. “Don’t be silly. It’s just one of those--”
“I’m not gonna hear it.” Emma stand up and points at Rose. “I know you like to soldier through things. But please take care of yourself.”
Rose puts her hands behind her back. “Fine, fine I’ll go tomorrow.”
The two hug. Rose leaves and Emma goes back to work.
# # #
Rose arrives at the doctor’s office and proceed with the checkup.
“So you said your hunger just disappeared, right?” the doctor asks.
“Yes and this morning I didn’t feel any.” Rose says.
“Well in just a sec the last of the scans will finish and--” Scan results print out and the doctor checks them. “Oh, I’m so sorry. You must still be adapting to it.”
“Adapting to what?”
The doctor types on his key board and a hologram with the scan results appear. “The bionic implant. You did say you were a soldier, right?”
Rose stares in horror as the hologram reveals a bionic implant where her stomach used to be. She walks back until she hits the wall.
“Ma’am? Miss Burgstein please calm down. I’ve had many patients that--”
“I have to go! Here’s the money.” Rose pays the doctor and storms out.
At her apartment Rose sits on her couch hugging her knees. She looks at the calendar on her phone and realizes a month and half has past. “You’ll be shall we say heavy metal” echoes in Rose’s mind.
# # #
The next day arrives. As rose leaves her bedroom and walks towards her kitchen she sees Dozel holding a plate of ribs.
“Hello there,” Dozel says while eating a rib. “You know, for leftovers these aint half bad.”
Rose rushes towards him and grabs him by the collar. “What did you do to me?!”
“Hey, I did give you a heads up.”
Rose pins Dozel against the wall and lifts him up. “You think this is all a game?!”
“In a way, yes.” Dazel fades away.
Rose looks around. “How did you? Just what are you?”
“A man of many faces looking to kill his boredom,” Dozel says as his voice echoes throughout the room. “Try and keep a strong grip on your sanity. If you break down and loose it, well at least I’ll have some spare parts.”
Rose’s eyes widen as sweat runs down her forehead.
# # #
As the weeks go by Rose becomes paler. Her skin starts to harden. She begins to wear gloves to hide the claw like hands she has. One Day she bumps into Emma on the side walk.
“Rose! There you are!” Emma jumps into Rose’s arms. “I’ve been so worried and--” Emma steps back and looks at Rose.
Rose looks away.
“Why do you feel so stiff?”
Rose forces a smile. “I’ve been umm, working out a bit. My arms are a bit tougher now. The pony tail you have is really nice, it suits you.” A tear runs down Rose’s face.
“Rose, what’s going with you?”
“Nothing.” Rose raises the coat collar.
“Rose, please, whatever it is I can--”
“It’s nothing!” Rose says in a metallic voice.
Emma takes two steps back. Her eyes widen as she puts both her hands on her mouth.
Rose begins to cry and runs away from Emma.
“Wait!” Emma chases after Rose. She loses track of Rose as she turns the corner. “Please, please let me help you.”
Rose lays in her bed crying all night. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.” After a point the tears dry up and Rose realizes she can’t cry anymore. Her eyes now have a blue glow. Rose runs into the bathroom and looks in a mirror. Her eyes are mechanical.
# # #
The weeks continue to pass by. Rose’s skin is now metal. Her hair is synthetic and pale. Her face now with a metal nose and two sharp fangs on her lower jaw. Rose lays on her couch wrapped in a blanket. She grabs her phone and sees messages from Emma asking how she is. She presses one icon on the phone screen which brings up a picture of both her and Emma. Rose puts on a hooded coat and gloves. She wraps her face in bandages before going out.
At Londo Bar and Grill, Emma is cleaning up and helping to close for the night. Emma Grabs her scarf and heads out. As she walks down the sidewalk notices two guys following her. One with a baseball cap and the other with a brown jacket. She turns the corner, and tries to lose them by heading through a closed down gas station. As she’s about to make it across she gets cut off by a tall man in a black jacket holding a gun on his right hand. The other two men that where following her catch up.
“Money, now!” The man in the jacket says as he cocks the gun.
Emma slowly takes of her purse.
The man with the baseball cap walks up behind her walks up and takes the purse. The other pulls out a knife.
“Hey, we got the money. There’s no need for that.” the guy in the cap says.
“No witnesses right, boss,” The man in the brow jacket says.
The man holding the gun nods.
The man in the brown jacket grabs Emma’s arm and slams her against the wall.
“If you value your lives, you’ll leave her alone,” Rose says as she walks towards the trio.
“Hey, lady, you mind repeating that?!” The man with the gun says as he turns around and points the gun at Rose. “I have a hard time understanding robot!”
Rose’s eyes glow as she continues to walk towards them.
The man shoots Rose, but the bullet bounces of her. “What the fuck?” He says in a low pitched voice.
Rose runs at the man. The man fires repeatedly to no effect. Rose Grabs the man’s right arm and crushes it. Before the man can let out a scream, Rose punches through his sternum and twist her arm while it’s still inside the man’s chest. She turns and looks at the other two.
The man with the knife charges at Rose and slashes at her. He tears one of Rose’s sleeves revealing her metal arm. The man drops his knife and sees the bandages on Rose’s face fall off. “What the hell are you?”
Rose grabs him by the neck and snaps his neck with a single twist of her wrist.
The other man drops Emma’s purse and runs away screaming.
Emma looks at rose with a pale look on her face. “Rose, is that you?”
Rose lowers her head and looks away.
Emma walks up and places her hands on Rose’s face. Their eyes lock and Emma starts crying as she leans on Rose.
Rose hugs Emma. “I’m sorry, es tut mir leid.”
“My apartment is nearby so just come with me, okay.”
Emma Brings Rose to her apartment. They both sit at the couch and Rose explains everything to her.
“Why go so far? If it was money problems I could’ve helped you.” Emma says.
“This was before I met you.”
Emma stand up and paces in place. “Still I, I could’ve. I--”
Rose grabs Emma’s hand and Emma looks at Rose. “I’ve caused you enough trouble.”
“You’re not leaving!” Emma grabs Rose’s face and kisses her on the forehead. “If you need to wait this out you can stay here. Take my bed and I’ll take the couch.” Emma wipes the tears off her face. “Okay!”
Rose’s eyes emit a warm glow as she smile. “Unverstande.”
The hours go by. Emma wakes up to a sound coming from her kitchen. Emma walks up and sees Dozel in a suit and tie coming out of the Kitchen with a burger in his hand.
Dozel looks at Emma. “Oh, don’t mind me.” Dozel takes a bite out of the burger. “Late night snacks are the best aren’t they?”
Emma stands dumbfounded.
“Say you wouldn’t happen to be in need of something would you?” Dozel asks as he winks at Emma.
“Rose!” Emma says.
Rose runs out. In the blink of an eye she grabs Dozel by the neck and pins him against the wall. “Touch her and I’ll break you! You verdammtes arschloch!”
“And here I was about to keep my end of the deal” Dozel says while struggling to breathe.
Rose’s eyes widen and she lets go of Dozel.
Dozel fall to the ground and clears his throat. “Well, yet another volatile second visit.” Dozel dust off his suit. “Though at least you didn’t impale me like the last guy. But a deals a deal.” Dozel extends his right arm. “You made it through the three months and you didn’t go insane or die, or worse.”
Rose points at Dozel. “How do I know that you--”
“I’m a man of my word, and your little ordeal did kill my boredom.” Dozel grabs Rose’s hand and send a shock through her arm.
“Ouch!” Rose clenches in pain. “You swine!” Rose looks up, but Dozel has vanished.
“Rose! You’re, you’re you again!” Emma says.
Rose looks at her hands and then touches her face. All the metal is gone.
Emma walks up and hugs Rose.
Rose smiles and begins crying as she lifts Emma.
DON’T HUG WILLIE
Every home in the neighborhood was a shrine to the Christmas season—decorated trees in the windows, large colored lights draping the rails of front porches, lawn ornaments of reindeer and Santa Claus nestled in two feet of snow. The streets and driveway had been cleared of any remains of white flakes that still filled the lawns, as icicles—both large and small—hung from overhangs and gutters on nearly every home. Although it was sunny, it was obviously freezing outside. The top of the snow was hardened, a reflection of the sun nearly burning your retinas if you looked too long.
My mom held my baby sister, Becca, in the front seat on her lap, managing to silence Becca’s crying by holding her for the last 60 miles of our 150-mile trip. The heater was still blasting hot air, and I was sweating and wheezing from the combination of heat and the wafting smoke of cigarettes, the result of which nearly burned my eyes as badly as the reflecting sun on the icy top of the snow outside the car.
I waited for Dad to open his car door first. I always waited for him to go first.
But instead of opening his car door, as I had expected, he turned around, cigarette dangling from his mouth, looking at me. I was confused, startled. Dad rarely said anything to me.
He took a drag, removing the cigarette out of his lips, speaking without exhaling—the smoke floating out of his mouth slowly, like the smoke atop a cauldron of witch’s brew.
“My Uncle Willie will be here today,” Dad said, looking at my forehead above my eyes. “You don’t know him. You don’t want to know him. Just don’t say much to him. And when we leave, it’s fine to hug your grandma and grandpa. But don’t hug Willie. You got me?”
I didn’t have a chance to answer. Not that I would have anyway.
Dad quickly turned around after he spoke, opening his door. As the cold, fresh air rushed inside the car, it blew out the thick smoke that had permeated the car for nearly three hours. It felt invigorating.
As far as I can recall, my mom didn’t say, or do, anything while my dad spoke. I would have to assume that she found this comment to be strange, coming from my dad and all. I was only six years-old, and even I found it strange. I was a somewhat inquisitive child, and to any other adult giving me an order that I didn’t understand, I may have asked “Why?” But nobody ever asked my dad “why?”
Not his children. Not his wife. Nobody.
But as a child, I found this strange. Why would a father tell his child not to hug a family member? What could possibly be the reason?
I had not thought of my Great Uncle Willie in many years, his memory fading into the foggy abyss wherever such memories go.
Until….
Last week, I learned that my Great Uncle Willie was accused of molesting two, possibly three, boys. Likely more, I suppose. It reportedly happened 15-20 years ago, when he was a janitor at an elementary school. First one young man, then another, recently came forward. I’ve since heard a third has also come forward. I just happened across this information due to a story in an online news outlet about the increase in reports of pedophilia in recent years. It was odd reading what I thought was a completely random piece of news on my computer, only to come across my own surname—a relative, no less—so serendipitously. And for him to be accused of such a heinous crime, I was mortified.
I hardly knew Willie, only occasionally seeing him over the years at a few family gatherings, mostly funerals. When I did see him, my memory was somewhat jarred into recalling what my dad had said—”don’t hug Willie.” The comment was peculiar enough to make a lasting impression, yet innocuous enough that I would soon forget it once Willie was out of my sight.
But after reading about the accusations being brought against Willie, my foggy memory took me back to that Christmas day in the station wagon outside my grandparents’ house. I could still practically feel the cigarette smoke burning in my nostrils as the memory came flooding back to me.
It took nearly a week of contemplation before I finally allowed my mind to question the obvious: Did my Dad somehow already know that Willie was untrustworthy with boys? Did he, in fact, somehow know that Willie was a pedophile? And, if so…
I could hardly even finish the thought.
My dad was--is—one of the toughest men I’ve ever known. He performed back-breaking labor for over 30 years before finally giving his body a rest and reluctantly taking a desk job. He has only once, to my knowledge, gone to a doctor—and only because his work required it. He never called in sick to work, despite developing a slipped disk and severe muscular pain from his work in factories, mines, and by assembling heavy equipment on concrete floors over the years.
To me, it seems as though my dad was never a child. Now that I think about it, I don’t ever recall even seeing a photo of him from when he was young. I honestly can’t even picture him as a child in my mind, let alone a child who may have…
What if he suffered in silence? What if his entire personality—his quiet anger, his sullenness, his lack of affection towards others, his constant isolation—can all be traced back to an event, or several events, of trauma from his childhood at the hands of his uncle Willie? What did boys in the early 1960s do if they were traumatized by an adult male relative? Could they tell anyone? Would anyone believe them? Did families force it “under the rug” like nearly all the other family dysfunctions that occurred in the “good old day,” like when a wife was beaten by her husband?: “Oh, clumsy me, I fell down the stairs.”
I have never seen my dad cry, nor shown any emotion for that matter. Growing up, he was the most distant, most reticent person that I, or any of my friends, had ever known. Some of my friends’ dads would talk to us, listen to music with us, joke with us, play basketball with us. Not my dad. He smoked, and he isolated, and my friends were somewhat scared of him, but were also somewhat fascinated by him as well—like they’d be of an exotic, yet dangerous, animal in a zoo. When I was a teen, I’d come home around curfew time to find my dad sitting alone at the kitchen table in the dark, chain smoking, the only light being the red glow of his cigarette. The only time he’d say something was when I arrived slightly past curfew, which wasn’t often. And he’d only mutter two words: “You’re late.”
My dad had no social life, but neither did he have any real hobbies. Perhaps he read the newspaper, and occasionally he watched westerns on TV. He listened to a little transistor radio in a small, encased room of our unfinished basement as he chain-smoked after work. No one ever knew what he was thinking. And no one ever dared to ask. I once asked my mom why Dad almost never spoke. She thought for a moment, then somehow managed to think of an old proverb that may or may not have truly explained anything: “Sometimes, silence is golden,” she said, leaving it at that.
I’ve always been able to talk to my mom, but she could never provide any more insight into my dad than anyone else. She seemed just as perplexed as my sister Becca and me. But she’s always loved him—I’m just not sure if even she understands why; or, at the very least, I highly doubt she can explain this love, nor define it. But isn’t that true for nearly all forms of love?
I went to visit mom and dad last night, just me—not my wife and kids. I had told mom in advance that I was planning to stop by, but she still acted as though it was a pleasant surprise when I actually arrived.
Dad had the volume of the TV turned up very high, his hearing nearly gone from years of working in loud environments, making it difficult to even make small talk about such benign topics as baseball, the weather, his grandkids.
My mom stood. “I’m going to get a soft drink,” she said, much louder than her normal speaking voice, adapting, as usual, to her environment. “Do either of you want one?”
“No thanks,” I said. “Dad?” I called loudly.
“What?”
“Do you want a something to drink?”
“No.”
Mom went into the kitchen. The TV was so loud I could hear a buzz even when there was otherwise no noise coming from the movie—no dialogue, no horse galloping, no gun shooting.
“Dad?”
“Yeah.”
“Would you, I don’t know—want to go out for a beer or something?”
He looked at me, probably for the first time since I’d gotten there, his face contorted—like when my mom would try to put something healthy in front of him to eat. Like quinoa. Or salad with fruit and nuts and a raspberry vinaigrette.
“What?” he asked. But this time, he had heard me. “Why?”
“I don’t know. To talk.”
“Well, talk!” he said, his hands raised slightly.
I smiled, shaking my head. Not in anger. But because this was exactly as it had played out in my mind.
I sighed, knowing I couldn’t say what I really wanted to. “Just wondering if you thought the Cubs had a chance this year.”
“It’s the Cubs,” he said, his attention back on the TV. “They’ll find a way to fuck it up.”
I went to the kitchen, mom sitting at the table with a magazine, the same kitchen table my dad would sit at alone at night, smoking cigarettes end-to-end in the dark. I opened the refrigerator.
“What’cha need?” she asked, standing.
“Don’t worry, Mom. Just seeing if you have a beer.”
“I would have gotten you one,” she said, moving me aside. She found one behind the milk, handing it to me.
“Thanks.” I popped the top and sat down at the table with her. There were several burn marks on the tabletop, dad’s cigarettes from over the years. If those cigarette burns could talk.
“Do you remember Dad’s uncle Willie?” I asked Mom.
She didn’t look up, but she stopped looking at the magazine, laughing nervously it seemed.
“Why would you bring him up?”
“Did you hear about him? He got arrested.”
She looked over my shoulder towards the kitchen entrance. She opened her mouth as if to speak, but stopped herself.
“We don’t really talk about him,” she finally said, her voice at a whisper.
“Why?” I asked.
“Well, you know,” she said, flipping a page in a magazine that she no longer was looking at. “He just had a lot of problems, you know. Drinking mainly. When he was a teen, he wrecked your grandparent’s car. He was drunk, hit another car, a family in it. Thank God no one was injured.”
“So, yeah—well, anyway, he got arrested recently. Willie. Did you hear about that?”
She shook her head. “I don’t really--; no, I hadn’t heard.” She looked again at the kitchen entrance.
“He…”
But she stopped me. “Can you lower your voice?”
“Why?” I asked. “The TV is turned up as loud as it can go.”
“Oh, he still hears things,” she said. “His hearing’s not as bad as he makes it out.”
“And what if he does hear this?” I asked. I probably sounded defensive, maybe even angry. Which I don’t know why.
She shook her head. “There’s just no...no reason to discuss this.”
I sighed, trying to calm myself. “He was arrested for sexually abusing boys, Mom,” I said. “At the school where he once worked.”
Mom nodded slowly. “Well, hopefully he can’t hurt anybody else then.”
I looked at her, my eyes narrowed. “Is that all you have to say?”
Now her eyes narrowed. “What? What do you want me to say?”
“I don’t know,” I said. And I didn’t know. “But, I mean—who else might he have done this to?”
“Well, how would I know?”
My eyes grew large.
“Doesn’t it concern you?”
“I just don’t—I mean, what are you wanting from me? Did...did Willie ever do something to you?”
“What?” I asked, incredulous. “No.”
I sighed. She wasn’t reading through the lines as I had hoped. “But what about dad?”
She looked over my shoulder again, making sure Dad wasn’t there. “What, you think your dad would tell me if something like that happened?”
“But—do you think it...it could have happened?”
She looked into my eyes for probably the first time during this conversation. “I don’t know,” she said. “And I’m certainly not going to bring it up to him now.”
I nodded slowly, my lips pursed. Then she added, “And neither are you.”
I shook my head. It figured. So typical of this family. Don’t talk about it. Silence is golden. All that.
“What, you don’t want to know?” I asked.
“For what purpose?”
“Well, I mean—it might explain a lot.”
She laughed in jest. “Really? Like what? What would it explain?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “Just, you know, how non-nurturing he is. Why he always isolated. Why he was so anti-social.”
“OK.” She shrugged, learning in, her head cocked sideways. “Let’s just say that it somehow explains all of that, every bit of it. Your dad is 59 years old. What would he do with the information about the arrest now?”
I put my hand to my face in frustration, finishing off my beer.
“Do you remember when I was probably five or six—we went to grandma and grandpa’s at Christmas once when Willie was there. And Dad turned to me—I was in the backseat, and you were holding Becca in your lap up front—and Dad said to me: ‘My Uncle Willie is here today. When we leave, don’t hug him.’ Do you remember that?”
“Oh, Honey. I don’t know. That was, what—over 30 years ago?”
I shook my head. “You really don’t remember that?”
“I don’t know, Ronnie. Not really. What is this all about?”
“God, Mom,” I said. “This is about...this is about us. About our family never talking about anything. Becca was a mess in high school. She’s still a mess, she can hardly even be in the same room with dad. Doesn’t that bother you?”
“Sure, that bothers me,” Mom said, somewhat loudly. She lowered her voice. “But, I mean—what does that have to do with Uncle Willie’s arrest?”
I could feel my heartrate increasing, my neck getting warm. I’m not sure why.
“Look, Ronnie,” Mom said. “If you think that something your great Uncle Willie might have done to your father—like, 50 years ago—is the reason that a 59-year-old man and his 32-year-old daughter don’t get along—well, then I don’t even know what to say.”
I sighed, frustrated. I guess I seemed angry with her, but really I wasn’t. What I was angry about was the situation, the feeling of helplessness. I was frustrated that I would never know what my dad went through as a child, how he suffered in silence. I would never know if it changed him, how it changed him, how it altered his life. I would never know what type of person, or husband, or father, he might have been had it not happened. I guess, in the long run, I felt gypped. I felt like Uncle Willie—this evil man, who was practically a stranger to us—took something from Dad. From all of us. It likely effected Dad’s potential to nurture, to show love. To me. To mom. To Becca.
Mom went to the refrigerator, retrieving the last beer for me. She patted my shoulder as she set it in front of me.
“Ronnie,” she said, rubbing her lips together. “We all have a history that makes us who we are. Your father is your father. He has flaws, as do we all—but he is a good man. He’s worked hard his whole life for his family. He’s protected us. And he’s loved us in the only way he knows how.”
I nodded. Mom’s words calmed me down a bit, but I still got a little defensive.
“Well, he’s never told me before that he loves me.” I didn’t say it entirely in anger. Just as a matter-of-fact.
“I know,” Mom said. And she looked at me. “Have you?”
I looked at her through narrowed eyes. “Have I what?”
“Ever told him that?”
I took a drink of beer, not giving an answer, ashamed. I had made this all about me. It wasn’t.
I went out to the living room, watching the rest of the movie with dad, feigning interest in Robert Mitchum and Jan Sterling. A new movie started, one I couldn’t stay for. I waited for a commercial, then another, not saying a word.
Finally, Dad got up to the use the restroom. And I nervously sprang into action.
“Well, I’d better go,” I said, standing, stretching my arms, my back.
“OK, Buddy,” Dad said, trying to make his way towards the bathroom. But I blocked him.
“Dad?” I asked. He had nowhere to go, nowhere else to look, except right at me.
“Yeah?”
I could actually feel my heart beating faster, could feel a shortness of breath. Christ, I thought—I’m 37 years old. Just do it. For God’s sake, just say it.
“I love you, Dad,” I said, finally. The TV commercial was blaring, but he was looking at me. He heard me. I could tell by the way his face changed.
“Are you dying?” he asked.
I laughed. “No. Are you?”
He pursed his lips. “We’re all dying,” he said. “Slowly but surely.” And he smiled.
My mom put her hands to her mouth, a proud moment for her. I was glad she witnessed it.
“I guess...I guess I just thought it was time I told you,” I said. I swallowed what felt like a small rubber ball in the back of my throat, fighting back tears that I wasn’t expecting.
Dad sighed, a sigh that seemed impossibly slow for a lifetime smoker, for a man whose lungs hardly worked anymore.
“Me too, Buddy,” he said, nodding. “Me too.”
The author is an academic instructor stateside and internationally. He has been a writer for over thirty years. He also enjoys outdoor activity of many varieties and living on the edge.. His most recent publishing credits include such journals, magazines, anthologies, and publishing companies as: Leaves Of Ink (10) poems The Fear Of Monkeys (2) stories The Scarlet Leaf Publishing Company (3) stories Algora Publishing (2) books Adelaide Literary Magazine (2) stories 2020 Activemuse.org CC & D Magazine (3) stories 2020 Juste Milieu Lit & Art Zine WITF and Stock Publishers |
Thea' Selenofotos
From Nymphania On The Hill
...Indeed there were many who paused, then were enraptured by her dazzling beauty, the very charm of her personality. Poor and prosperous alike dared to visit, each and every one putting forth the right foot of his best offering, the apex of his finest self, but any show of secular blessing carried with it not any show of gratitude in her composure or arousal in her inner yearning. She was already in possession of all that secular coin could ever hope to provide her with. Though she was politely thankful for the offerings, her inner desire was much more for enlightened intellectual wisdom and a genuine creativity originating forth from the innermost depths of the soul. For it was there within the depths of such enlightenment, that she knew she would be most certain to discover the conceptual sparks of sure love; and to her, this spark alone carried with it more light unto her embracing soul than the glitter that any show of prosperity could ever hope to bestow. In her mind it was that she well knew, that the glitter of secular prosperity could dim through sudden loss of fortune, leaving her with only the prevailing question of where it was that true love was to stand then; for in her mind she was to reason, what was it that could be, if in all honest truth, it never even existed there in the first place?
Maybe in fact, so reasoned she, such a hollow suitor sought only to purloin her inherited fortune, then casting her quivering body aside into the sweltering dust of the distant cobblestone street, only to die a lonely forlorn death of deprivation and endless want. Such misfortune had certainly been known to occur in the recent past, and it most always happened when all others about reasoned that it should not and could not ever, and the justified fear of it being so, reasoned only by all of them...., as being misplaced and unfounded....
I can recall vividly from amid the haze of elation in recollection.... the very day that I rode into her home town on a tarnished stallion, once soiled but now purged through an obvious diligent effort on my own part. I was not yet aware of her existence, but bore the feeling of a certain future success deep inside my breast. The general feeling was of a gambler's hint in premonition, that success in venture was soon to be within his present possession. Ahead there was a certain rise in the topography, a hill overlooking the quaintly large Aegean town, if you will. On that hill facing the town, with the clear ultramarine sea to it's backside, stood the opulent mansion estate of her exalted father. Radiating forth from this grand estate was an aura of hazy golden light, an emanating beam born first from the bizarre misty glow of the midday sun and the translucent marble calcimine of the mansion itself, then combining with a backward reflection from the clear cerulean gloomy reflection of light from the gently surging sea behind; all instantaneously combining to generate a dazzling aura that tended to blanket both the mind and the soul of any mortal who only paused there in the sand to behold the near immaculate portrait, even at a distance from beyond. Later on I heard many a claim that the same elation in portrait was to be felt even while out at sea, but of that as a fact, I know not.
My thoughts at the time were only of home, my family, my parents, my sister's birthday soon coming and the birthday of my dear mother. I rode onward until the sand outlying the town transformed into the carefully laid granite of ancient cobblestone, the unorganized footpaths soon transforming into highly organized but somewhat narrow streets. Soon automobiles were singing passed, though I still moved forward while upon the back of my broken pony. My clothes consisted of sand splotched drifter's sheets, those of the wilderness nomads who so proudly roam the seemingly boundless island sands abroad. About the crown of my head wrapped a wine hued turban, pined ever so delightfully by an ancient artifact brooch of the purest, I should say, nearly translucent gold. The golden brooch bearing the smiling radiant face of good fortunes' spectrum, whose form was one always to be held in treasured reverence, according to the island nomads. This brooch I had picked up amid the many ruins of those numerous time honored kingdoms now long since forgotten. Only the sand piles with the movement of the continuous wind and the howling jackals still dwell therein. Not even the buzzards dare to pass overhead due to the prevailing emptiness of the sand swept tree scattered expanse.
I continued to ride along until I came into the shopping plazas on the outskirts of the island town. There the shops were on either side of the narrow cobble stoned road, their gaping amphora and wicker baskets filled with spices, opiate tinctures, various local wines and special brandies spiked with narcotic herbs or curious mystery poppy tinctures of one sort or another. Some of these baskets were filled with local shop crafted amulets and jewelry, others filled with ancient artifacts collected by the desert nomads and sold to the shop keepers in bundle packages for a lump sum, only to be purchased by obvious English or European tourists, such as myself, for inflated sums as individual piece purchases. Along the walls hung obvious loom crafted, almost Arabic and immaculate Persian rugs. Dismal appearing but smiling shop keepers always arising to stand upon my passing, pointing at specific items and announcing their latest sales pitch, my reply always being “Konta, alla den einai arketa', isos mia alli mera?”
Some of the shopkeepers would then throw the handfuls of their own selected items back into the display containers, their composure transforming suddenly from a melancholy pleasant into a harsh, unaccommodating demeanor.
“But you always say that,” they would scream! “Maybe tomorrow, maybe later on, oh..,but what about today,” they would ask in a seething, near rage? “We have families to feed! We need money today, right here and now! If you Englishmen cannot make reasonable purchase, then we will be forced to charge a toll for the simple right to use our streets, since it costs us to keep them maintained, and all of us here know well that you people possess just a bit more than that which provides for basic necessity, to give in name of the maintenance effort spent.”
“I have to make a decision as to what it is that I desire. Show me something of adequate charm at a reasonable rate of purchase, and I will gladly make the exchange,” I would reply.
Two or three of them exited their shops, standing about before me to tactfully block my path, but to engage a negotiating conversation simultaneously. I also felt that they were simply feeling out my inner demeanor, to investigate if any air of superiority infected my innermost thoughts, as well as to test my reaction to their imposing posture.
“We have shown you all that we have to offer here. What is it that you are in search of,” they all asked?
“I must admit here, I am in search of something... that is not what your average western tourist is in search of...Shall we say...something both ancient but yet holds the key to a present experience that goes far beyond what is usual. I want something that will lead to a daring experience, one of an enchanting enlightenment, if you will. The usual trinkets, charms, the intoxicating herbs...the stuff of the usual tourists' delight..., to be quite honest with you..., does absolutely nothing for me,” I replied to them in earnest.
“Well be out with it, man... What is it that you desire? How can we provide it to you,” they so harshly replied to me out of their frustration?
“It is like this,” I replied to them. “Just pretend for a moment...just pause here and pretend. If moonlight were an enchanting woman, then I want to hold her hand and be whisked away by her into another dimension... maybe for all eternity, indeed.., if I shall find her standing to my own delight. I want an element, I guess it is that I am trying to say, that will give me the key to the unattainable, that one of every secret desire in which the individual is both aware of and unaware at the same time...”
As we engaged in a conversation that was soon heating up, with half insisting on charging me a toll and the other half demanding that I make purchase of one type or another, a grayed and grizzled, long haired beggar hobbled up from the squalor beyond, pausing within the midst of the crowd, bringing the metal capped end of his six foot cedar staff down hard upon the ancient cobblestone of the dismal street beneath their sandal shod feet and the bare hooves of my poor spent stallion now with the fading grace of a plowman's pony at the close of a very long day.
“What is it that you want, old man,” they all turned to him and asked? “What brings you out into our street here today? Is it your desire for a crumb or a cast away scrap of some sort from this English miser poised so here before us?”
The old beggar simply smiled in his reply...
“Certainly it is the one, I, who indeed can accomplish what the ten of you cannot..”
“And pray thee, what in Hades name is it, that the likes of you so boldly boast of being, that is so far beyond all of our capacity to produce,” all of them glared upon him in request as they laughed in derision?
“Well lets get down to business here...I can give the man here what he wants and all of you standing here, still have yet to even deduce a logical conclusion as to just what that something is...”
“Well do tell us then, old man of little means, just what that something is that you posses, in which you stand there are making so much of ?”
The old beggar stood, continuing to smile from within his chest length, snow beard of flowing white.
“Let it be said here today, that if I was to give my secret away, then so shall my profit fly..., forsooth..., away from my grasp and unto thine...! So on that note, I shall make my first address unto the Englishman alone saddled there before us...”
“O.K....,” I replied. “Lets get on with the offer, and I shall now lend you my thankful ear.”
“Just what is it, specifically, that you are so much in search of,” he proceeded to inquire?
“Well,” said I. “I am in search of what it was that I just told the crowd there of...I want an unusual experience, unlike any other sought by Englishmen or tourist in general.”
“Aye...”spoke the beggar. “That much I comprehend, and of course it all involved the hand of a delicate princess of one sort or another, if I shall recall right?”
“Some could surmise that much out of what I said, I guess,” I replied.
“Then son.., nothing comes without work...You cannot just pay simple coin for what it is that you are in search of..; indeed you must labor for what you are in search of.”
“Fine then, what must I do,” I replied?
“Compose a love poem that would enrapture a delicate cherub spirit. I shall then, take it to the angel who shall determine if it beguiles her into allowing your entrance into her palace door. If it does, then she shall offer me her golden key. If it does not, then she shall simply refuse it and send me away in disgrace. Let it be known here today, good sir, that disgrace is never my fear, since daily disgrace being simply any beggar's lot to endure.”
“If she does accept my poem, then what must I offer you for negotiating the arrangement,” I asked?
“Never mind that..She will offer me my reward for finding her the proper suitor. You do not have to concern yourself with that specific value.”
“Sounds like a perfect offer,” I replied. “Could I then find my own fortune with the woman? A man with a fine woman and no fortune, is simply not much to base a life happily ever after on.”
“You compose the hexing poem for her, then we shall simply just go on from there. Meet me back here at high noon tomorrow, and have the poem ready for me and I shall take care of the rest,” he said.
Before I exited the plaza for the day, I did pick up what appeared to be a few antique Sumerian deity statuettes and a couple of turquoise Arabian amulets, just to mail out back to the family at home for their birthday presents and general gifts of my remembrance. That night by the fireside while camping in the sands just on the outskirts of town, I composed my wording for the mesmerizing poem. The poem went something like this, to the best of my rum tainted memory:
Ode To A Fairy Sprite
Upon the gentle winds of the midnight moonbeams she flew,
more the composure of heavenly seraph than any mortal may ever dare to boast;
directly into my heart she moved with the strength of an immortal few,
only to whisk my dreary soul away onto some enchanted lunar sea coast,
to savor those treasured pleasures that lay far beyond any mortal effort
than even the most gifted of wise men knew;
our effort to seek out those most divine elements
that offer forth those midnight pleasures to a generous most,
only producing an eternal twain both
of I and my elegant angelic host.
At around eleven hundred hours the following morning, I made my way back out toward the market square, where the old beggar was standing, waiting on my return. Soon my broken pony approached his figure.
“You are present at the appropriate time, so I can see. Let me have the poem.”
I handed the soiled paper to him. He snatched it from me, at once chastising me for using such dirty fragments. He then concluded by announcing that he would transcribe all of it onto a perfectly clean sheet for the lady to admire, rather than disdain. He carefully read my words...
“You mean that you intend to win her with this garbage....,” he inquired with a hard glare?
“Maybe,” I replied. “Just maybe she will embrace my words alone, if not my bosom.”
“We shall see, but all that I can say is that it does very little for me.”
Both of us laughed heartily as the old beggar tuned and slowly walked away.
The next day at high noon I made may way back into the shopping plaza, seeing the old beggar standing alone again inside the central area, as if he was awaiting my return. To be honest about it, I never even expected to see him again, since he had not given me instruction to return at any given time. My ever wilting stallion soon walked nearer toward his soiled robe draped figure.
“What was her word,” I asked with a gentle laugh, not knowing whether to believe him or not. “Did she offer you the golden key?”
“No,” he replied, “but she requested that you appear in her presence tomorrow at this time, so be here by twelve hundred hours sharp.
“Isn't that somewhat strange,” I asked, “for her to make a request like that alone and not offer the key?”
The old beggar sighed deeply, then leveled off toward me in a hard glare.
“Sunny it's like this...It's her damn key, her damn house and her choice to see whom ever it is that she so desires, as she desires to see them and on her own terms. Do you have that? I ask no questions, I simply do as she requests, then I receive my just rewards... and then I simply go forward on in my merry way. Now...she has instructed me to find her a proper suitor, and I shall, and if it be not you, then it will most certainly be someone else.”
I laugh heartily at the beggar's reply, then I speak back to him as I laugh.
“And just what is your reward from this supposedly blessed vixen, may I ask?”
The old man stands glaring upon me as I laugh, then he takes a breath to speak.
“Do you forget that I am only a simple beggar? Sometimes she offers food, sometimes she offers a clean shower; then sometimes it may be a lone corner to sleep in, but then if the kind urge should strike her and I have performed my duties well, I might come to feel the sleek luster of perfectly cleaned satin sheets. My station in life just depends on the feeling that she receives from my presence before her. I have a vested interest in making her feel well, don't you understand?”
I laughed again in my general disbelief of his story, then paused just a bit to reply.
“Sure..,I understand old man. I will be here at the appointed time. This will be a most interesting adventure, even if nothing at all becomes of it. I will most certainly be here and on time, I shall say.”
So at high noon on the following day, I arrived while still on my broken ponies back, walking into the market square, but I saw no beggar. I paused, gazing around in wonderment while the shop keepers moved forward to sell me their products, but receiving my usual response. Fifteen minutes passed and I was near the point of remounting and moving on in my merry way, when this long black limousine bearing what appeared to be a gold plated grill, suddenly eased up beside me. The window abruptly rolled down, exposing the beggar's bearded face, but a well cleaned face with a manicured beard and perfectly cleaned clothes of silken robe.
“Get inside son, it's that time,” he said.
So I did so, I found a post nearby to tie my broken pony, hopped inside the long car; and myself, the beggar and four more men eased on along down the cobblestone.
“Where are we going,” I asked the beggar?
“The first place is the bathhouse. From the look and smell of things, my bet is that you are in sore need of a bath,” he said.
“Probably so,” I responded. “I have been working offshore with an archaeologist now for well over nine months. We basically live out in the fields. None of us do not have much time for bathing, to tell the truth about it. As a matter of fact, we really do not even hold the necessity of bathing in any high esteem when it is only us and the male hands whom are out there laboring in it,” I replied.
The old beggar simply glanced over at me and slightly smiled.
“Well...all of us are going to this vixen's mansion home. Her father is very well off, to say the least. This is your grand opportunity, since this lady and her family are certainly not the type to withhold on anything at all. They will simply just say everything as it stands. You are in with them or you are out, it is all just that simple,” said the beggar.
Soon the car made it's way to the base of the stony hill upon which the mansion sat. There at the base stood a small colonnaded marble structure sitting at the edge of a flowing creek. Matter of fact, as we exited the car and neared the building, I could see that it was built completely across the creek and slightly down into it, just like the old time spring houses were in the foothills and mountains back home. The elderly beggar motioned for us to pause while he approached the building to knock upon what appeared to be a very heavy, elaborately decorated, door of solid wood. Out stepped a lady wearing a maid's long bohemian styled dress, who had shoulder length, well brushed, perfectly straight, shinny black hair; she kept glancing my way as the beggar spoke. Soon he motioned for me to walk forward. As I walked toward the building and stood beside it, the old man smiled quaintly and spoke.
“Well just go on inside there. That lady is the wash maid and her job will be to make sure that you are cleaned to the house specifications. Just go on inside and take off your cloths there. Go stand in the water that is flowing across the floor on the other side of the house. You see, there is a spout hanging on the wall, this is what she will hose you down with. The other lady there will soap you down..So go ahead there, just step up and get on with it; the both of them will take care of all other concerns, such is their employment to do so.”
I eased on up toward the hook there on the wall. I slowly removed my range cloths, then moving on upward toward the flowing water. From the wall one smiling lady seized the shower spout and began spraying me all up and down with freezing cold water that felt as though it cut with a razors edge of sheer ice, right down to the very bone. I glanced down, taking full notice of my best part drawing back up into my body like a turtle head taking cover into it's shell. The sight astounded me for just an instant.., like a flash I glanced back up into the faces of the two women standing, who then abruptly exploded with bubbly laughter.
When the shower paused, the other who always stood nearby, began to soap me down with a heavy thick lather. This happened three times, then the ladies appeared with a large thick but extremely soft towel of virgin fleece to rub me down; one of the ladies then turned and disappeared, reappearing just as suddenly with a really fancy silken, toga styled, inside dress robe for me to wear at our hosts' prompt request. I stepped into my leather sandals and headed on back out toward the parked limo. I nodded in thanks to the smiling ladies exploding with laughter again as I passed, who very politely curtsied as I headed out across the bathhouse threshold. I stepped into the limo now feeling very refreshed, and soon we were all on our way again.
“That was certainly much better than I thought that it would be,” I said as I laughed slightly.
“Yes, oh yes indeed,” said the beggar with a slight smile and laugh. “We specialize in unique bathing styles here on To Nisi Tis Nymphis. Unto you foreigners, especially you English ones, the land is known simply as Nymphis Nisi. We have a number of other specialties that the international business guests enjoy indulging into as well. It is for those reasons and our rich resource base, that we are growing in such a phenomenal way these days. We are growing tremendously but trying to do so in a manner that preserves our ancient look and feel, as you can probably tell. This man and his daughter are two of the main hosts in this new wave of prosperous transformation that is sweeping us in our present time. If it is managed right, we will soon be the wealthiest, most desired island kingdom this side of the Mediterranean sea.
Behold the lavish bath houses and the elegant intellectual academies of reason and debate. Admire the number of our gifted philosophers, who ponder all that exists within and without, conceiving deductions based on what exists, as it stands directly before us and the conclusions in what lies within the unseen beyond by those suggestions put forward in details existing, as we observe.” he so proudly boasted in pointing with his right hand as we motored passed the establishments.
“I truly do relish what I see, but in my beholding eyes, there is still much more in the way of advancement left to endeavor yet,” I replied.
As we spoke the car rounded the upward spiraling road heading toward the summit, upon which sat the illustrious mansion home. Soon we paused between two armed guards, the chauffeur rolled the window down and handed a paper to the guard on the left hand side of the road, who read over it carefully, then allowed our driver to pass on by. Soon we paused there behind the mansion estate. A small crowd of people poured from within the house, gathering all about the limo, behaving as if they intended to roll out some sort of red carpet for us or offer some sort of other lavish accommodation.
I was certainly hoping so..; as far as I was concerned, I was in sore need by that time, of some royal pampering. I had enough of rough necking it way out in the boondocks, even though I can say that I truly love what it is that I am doing. The mounting need for a new thrill was nearing the point of demanding satisfaction. Again, I can say that the gambler's premonition reigned supreme in my intellect, that my future fortune lay just in the edge of my waiting for it to materialize. Before my mind could grasp what was happening in front of me, we were standing before a set of huge heavy wooden doors with a gargoyle of cast iron and gold plate wearing a huge customary nose ring, positioned right into the center of the door about breast high. Our chauffeur raised a right hand, grasping the heavy ring, knocking it down solidly thrice. A hard melancholy figure slightly opened the door to receive the beggar, who then conversed with the beggar in a language that I knew not. This figure more held the appearance of a somewhat aged, robed cathedral friar than a simple Butler, if indeed such was his title. The beggar handed him a piece of paper parchment and he proceeded to open the huge door, warmly welcoming all of us inside.
“Which one of you is it who wishes to visit with the misses of the estate,” asked the Butler?
“That would be myself, sire,” I answered.
“Are you prepped, pampered and wearing your proper in-house attire,” he asked with a hard cold stare as he gazed me up and down. “The kind lady shall not be allowed the company of rogues and villains who dwell only inside the cobblestone void beyond.”
“And I shall certainly second that statement. Surly a lady of her standing would deserve much better from a world into which she only must make her appeal,” I replied with a smile and a slight bow in proper respect.
The Butler never responded, but only glanced up toward the others standing inside the foyer room.
“The others about, take your ease here in the chairs and among the the library on the wall. You sir, please walk this way. The misses is excited upon your meeting with her.”
I smiled and with a slight laugh, I made my reply..
“Well I am just as excited about meeting the misses. What's her name, may I ask? No one has yet to even tell me her name?”
“Yes sir,” replied the Butler. “It was intentional that you were never to know her name...until the appointed time. Our dear lady desires a man of an adventurous heart and entrepreneurial mind. If fear had been part of your character, then she reasoned that you would have neglected to make the move forward into her direction from the very beginning.”
“As I have always said, sire, what we fear always has a way of returning, no matter where it is that we stand or what it is that we choose to engage into. It is not that I never fear, I simply just push it aside and choose to advance forward in spite of it. Like it has all been said before, somewhere..., if death is my fear, then it shall surly return, no matter where it is that I choose to make my station.” I smiled as I continued speaking, somehow silently anticipating a sort of intellectual reply.
The butler never betrayed any hint of emotion, but only proceeded in his continuation.
Soon we walked down to the end of the hall as we have completed our conversation. The Butler reached forward with his right hand, causing the wall to abruptly open into two opposing doors, exposing what appeared to be a concealed elevator. The Butler then stepped forward as he turned into my direction.
“Right this way, sir,” said he.
With the closing of the doors, the elevator jerked suddenly, then slowly made it's way upward, humming lightly as it did so.
“Well...I should say, I was never told the lady's name. What was it.., again please,” I dared to inquire?
The Butler glanced my way with a quick flash, apparently with hesitation for some inexplainable reason, then replied with an occasional effort to force a smile.
“Thea.., indeed what a beautiful name...Thea of the clan, Selenofotos.... Indeed and without question one of the most endowed families in the entire Aegean about. Her Father, one Captain Hector Selenofotos, had been excommunicated from the original clan estate and holding, but rose up into opulence by his own ingenuity. First serving as a deck hand, laboring as any other laboring on board. Then he purchased stock in the ship and company commodity stock. Soon his stock account was worth more than ship itself... by three times! So he cashed out promptly, then purchased the ship, earning the title of adjunct Captain. Now his earnings were two thirds of what the ship profited, the other third simply divided up with the ship captain, among his crew and company. The mercantile company only gained a simple base ten percent.
The management did not relish the idea of being responsible for the ship, ship maintenance and the like. Captain Hector performed the job very responsibility and with pride. Now he could shift his business efforts onto dry land, since he had a steady inflow from his share in the ship.
Once onto shore, he invested in land and real-estate holdings. Soon he owned some two thirds of the town itself. If people wanted anything; albeit loans, products and the like, why, all of them came to the Captain for access and he gladly loaned the money out to the equivalent of one third value to the third time over in collateral. In the beginning he only lent money to purchase homes, land or gold and gem jewelry. Later on, when the philanthropic urge struck him, he would lend out of the goodness of his heart, to people whom he knew had no other choice. On many occasions these people may own schools or houses of worship, or government; so it was in this way that he slowly came to own the town itself and the people here in....that is, except any property within the market square or the hospitals... I am not criticizing, by no means mind you, since indeed the Captain was a fine gentleman of his time..., I am just telling the story as it is and was.”
“And the dear lady is now in possession of all of this, I would presume,” I asked with an inquisitive smile?
“Material need is not part of her quest, that much I can say with a sincere validity,” replied the Butler with another forced smile and a slow nod.
“This will be most interesting.., just to see what type of questions it is that she has for me,” I returned.
“The dear lady is very unpredictable and the stage in which all of our future presentation shall own, is all of her own design..., to play as she so chooses to engage it,” quoth the Butler.
Soon the elevator paused, the door opening, exposing what appeared to be a large study room, with a canopy bed in the backdrop, a desk at the fore and another at a distance to the left hand side of the room. No lady was to be immediately seen, however.
The Butler soon stepped forward from the elevator nine steps, then paused beneath the door post.
“My dear lady...I and your company are here..”
Immediately a lady dressed in a long antique styled Hellenic gown, her neck heavily covered by gem brooch, gold chain and jewelry of every sort, made her way across the floor. Her flesh was fair as the fluff of snow..Her hair was shoulder length, long and black as her freshly dug Virginia coal, but her eyes were of a crystalline sapphire. Both the Butler and myself carefully made our way across the floor from the elevator to the place of her seat. The Butler paused between us, motioning for me to take the other seat opposing her position.
“Madam,” he said as I took my seat. “I present to you your requested guest, Magister Fortunado, before you presently. Sir, I present to you... Miss Thea Selenofotos,” he said as he moved his right hand in my direction.
I nodded in polite acknowledgment as the Butler spoke.
“A true pleasure to meet you, mam,” I said with a polite bow.
“And my pleasure in your presence,” she replied with what first appeared as an unaccommodating firmness.
“Surly this is a nice place that you have made for yourself here,” I asked, just in the name of making conversation, since I was not the type to sit, stare and remain silent?
“The place is not one of my own making, but that of my family. Lets do not allow ourselves to be guilty of straying too far from our point, however. I did not request that you come all the way here just to speak concerning the quality of my living quarters,” she replied in the same inflexible composure.
“As you wish..., so lets stay to the point, then madam,” I replied.
“I had a question that I desired to ask of you, in relation to your poem....and your answer will determine the status of our association from this moment forward,” so stated the lady. A compelled smile zipped across her face in anticipation.
“Ask your question..I have had it all asked before, so there is not anything left to cause me to jump out of the way,” I replied.
“ Very well then,” she replied, now wearing a somewhat sly intuitive smile. “If the sprite were simply a common mortal who bore no gifts, then where would you be? Would you be there, within her twain or would you be in pursuit of another, who bore gifts of gold and gem studded, golden neck chains?”
She smiled in smug anticipation as she asked me her deep philosophical question, as though she expected an extraordinary reply from me.
“Well, that would just depend on the lady herself, in that case. If she bore no supernatural qualities, then certainly she would be of a different character, other than the one whom I described in my poem to you. Certainly then, I shall conclude, my stay with her would depend on the nature of her character.”
The lady then smiled with a quick giggle..
“What if her gifts were of personality and a caring warm composure..?
“If that was the case, then I just might remain there in her company..,” I replied with a slight laugh.
“What if her gifts were those of the sorceress, and she could produce anything that your poor heart so desired,” the lady asked?
“There again, if she was a foul nasty witch, then I just might go on in my merry way. If she was simply a witch, but a lady of pleasant character and fun loving, good accommodating nature, then I just might remain in her company for a while.”
We both laughed for a moment, then sighed into a calmness...
“So do tell me, then,” she requested as she continued to giggle slightly, “is that what you desire in a woman.., one who is a kind, fun loving, docile creature, who seldom quarrels or disagrees and is always in good form with you?”
“Now mam,” said I, “lets not confuse a pleasant nature with a slothfulness of the intellect. One can be of a pleasant nature, but at the same time, very quick to spy true opportunity, should it ever arise.”
We both continued to converse, both I and my maiden to be, until the hours passed and the light of day dwindled into the dimming light of approaching night. I had only planned to be in town for a week, but the week was to transform into three, then three more and so on. I contacted the chief archaeologist, who agreed for me to work but to take three days off on the weekend, since we labored for so many hours into the night. Most weeks we labored any where from seventy to eighty hours a week, in just four days, with little in the way of rest at night. My potential maidens' simple call established my place of stay for that weekend, she actively requesting my company with the conclusion of every week.
The weeks passed like single days, and both I and now my new love, were consumed by the surging waves of passion. She could never forbear the passion for matrimony, and I..., could never forbear her generous offering. Like the dream winds of misty moonlight, I was transported into the most elegant of local cathedrals...The elegant golden cross looming dramatically in the foreground from the wall behind the Priest, the incense lantern thurible offering forth the most delicate of its misty, passion inducing, herbal fragrances...The effects were trance inducing, most certainly the enveloping fragrance bore some mystical form of tincture, for the enrapturing feeling that consumed my very soul was one of us twain floating, rather than walking forward toward the blessing Priest.
As we both were transported forward I beheld what I perceived to be the light of God above radiating immediately downward upon us both, enveloping us deep inside a passionate warmth, like no other form of light possibly ever could. I make this statement from the point of perception that the light was more one born from an imperceptible intelligent force, than just a beam radiating downward. A single glance into her yearning eyes confirmed back unto me that the feelings inside her were those same as were deep inside me, transporting me into what felt as another dimension of existence...
The intoxication consumed me, even into the depths of my very soul..I could only hear the ring of the questioning voice but perceived not the weight of it's meaning, except only that the meaning was one of positive effect...and I always felt the presence of the observing masses behind me, the force of their very spiritual being radiating forward into both of our hinter directions there as we stood...
“Doest thou, oh man of the secular void, take this lady of the elegant hillside mansion, Thea, to be thy beloved bride of the misty moonlight?”
“I do,” I replied, feeling as though I was compelled by an immense unseen spiritual force to speak, but yet, at the same time, feeling confident that my reply was truly from the core of my inner being.
“Does thou choose her above all others, to have and to hold, in the sanctity of true love amid the elegant splendor of secular estate, until death do thus part?”
“I do,” replied my compelled response, my willingness to wager all on some unseen possibility of new experience or even a potential future fortune, that otherwise would be void from my grasp in all probability.
A momentary pause ensued, enveloping all within the congregation and throughout, then my ears beheld the continuing questioning.
“And doest thou one, dear Thea, oh thou queen of the misty moonlight, born from the berth of heaven itself; take this man of the secular earth, to be thy lawful groom, to have and to hold and to cherish above all others, until that very day of your passing across the dismal threshold of the secular, into the glowing royal divine?”
“ That, I most certainly do,” she replied as she gazed upward into my eyes, absorbing my very soul as her enrapturing eyes gazed deeply into the heart of my very being.
“And now, among the masses, does anyone within hold any valid reason as to why these two should not be wed,” asked the Priest?
A lone hand raised from amid the congregation.
“And sir, what matter, indeed, is your justification for these two not being wed on this day?
“Certainly,” replied the lone voice from the hinter-side without. “That sole justification being that it was first I who made the gracious request for matrimony, and not the one before us here today.”
“And what base qualifies you to continue in request for the hand of this dear angel before us here today,” requested the Priest?
“Dear Sir,” responded the voice from amid the congregational distance, “doest thou truly not know of my establishment? Have ye forgotten me, sir? My father owns nine of the shops out in the market square. We have real-estate holdings, some twelve in apartment tenements. Surly, what more canst a person demand of one? What, indeed may I inquire, does this ground-ling have to offer that is above my best? Nay.., I should surly add, what in fact, does he hold in trust, that is above any other within this congregation before us at this very moment?”
A rippling gasp and a murmur ran throughout out the congregation like an invisible, though turbulent wave, possessing immense unseen power to destroy.
“I should certainly conclude here before our congregation today, that the ultimate decision is that of the dear ladies' in the end,” responded the startled Priest, who struggled to contain himself as he spoke.
“Thank you, dear Sir,” responded Thea to the parish Priest, her face being steadfast in his direction.
She now turned toward the source of the distant voice.
“Most certainly, oh good sir, you are endowed by blood in such a manner that well justifies your standing and request.., but my question unto you is this..Beyond your standing, what else have ye to offer outside of that? Were you of an intellectual status, then you could have deduced the valid position before you on this moment, offering us thy perfectly selected reply. I should say to you, sir, that your quick tongue hath betrayed thy lack of intellectual insight before all of us here on this very moment. Right here and now, in that regard, you have surly lost your footing with me!”
A laugh rippled through the congregation as Thea turned again toward the Priest.
“My choice stands as it is, let not that fact be held in disregard by anyone on this day of matrimony. Allow the ceremony to continue, but forbid the antagonist from entering into the reception hall. We shall all henceforth embrace the positive, and forbear all outside negatives from within our very presence!”
On that very instance of her words being spoken, a figure separated from the crowd in company with three other figures that appeared to be family, easing from among the congregation, then slowly moving through the opening door, only to vanish into the outer void beyond.
The Priest stood rigidly, clearing his throat, then raising both hands above the crowd.
“On this note, today on this very moment, allow me to present Mr. and Mrs. Fortunado... Sir, both you and the Mrs may turn to face the congregation.”
We both turned to face the formless figures without, then returned to hold hands and face one another.
“Sir, you may now, kiss the bride!”
We both embraced passionately, then bowed together before the cathedral masses who cheered with exploding applause....
….The reception was one of elegant splendor, the hallway filled with dazzling portraits of the islands' finest and most divinely gifted. The ballroom dance in graceful elegant medieval costume..; the heavenly hors doeuvers, the crystal tinctured wine fountain flowing to bestow it's endless blessings upon those guests in waiting... It all now seems as a hazy dream to the point that I almost question it's reality, but it so surly occurred to the point that I wish that it could stand solidly on it's own, even to the point that it would outshine the events that followed...
…. I recall well the earlier years of our matrimony. The events shine forward in my reflective mind as the most delightful splendor in personal experience, even to the point that the radiation therefrom pushes out any recollections of darkness that seek to penetrate through into my blissful euphoric heart. My present emotions are like those of a roller-coaster riding up and down on huge rolling hills. One moment I am ecstatic, my soul consumed with swoons of euphoria in my reflections upon a glorious past experience and most successful endeavor; on the other moment, in an instant and for no apparent reason.., I wallow on the bottomless pit of gloomy midnight despair, consumed in my own tears....Oh, just what am I to do..?
…I can still behold the gentle waves of cerulean against a distant horizon and a sinking orb of orange...I can still feel the slush of the golden sand beneath my feet and it's wet squeeze between my toes as we both walked along the edge and the gently surging water. On our right hand side is a dense wood of palm scattered in orchid oranges, reds, lavenders and calcimine. The fumes issuing forth were exhilarating in the sense that it generated a giddy euphoria among the both of us.
Even before the sensation of fumes, both of us were giddy just being one in blissful company with the other. There it was that we lived for life, and our life was to be in the eternal company of one and the other. One without the other, the one remaining then bore no reason to carry on, no true reason for a continual existence, no matter what the surroundings may consist of.....
….I can vividly recall the walks on the beach, the mid-night swims in the warm gentle waves and water, the explorations amid long forgotten ruins, the lines of verse composed, only to be read aloud and admired by the other who was always ready to lend ear. I can still hear the late night serenades as we dine in the open air Parisian cafes with the full blush moon to our left hand balcony side, the many gondola rides down Venetian waterways that offered the feeling more of a water filled maze than actual river streets, the sky rides up and down many famous and infamous slopes of the Pyrenees. I can still hear her laugh as she crashed headlong through the heavy snow drifts, upon losing her direction.. and right into my awaiting arms on the other side....
Our lives were ones of completely contented bliss...like no other bliss known by mortal souls. Our entrepreneurial endeavors were nearly certain to succeed. While in reality, the fact of their possible failure mattered not in light of our standing, we both had numerous interests that we desired to fulfill. She had a hidden desire to open a shop selling high fashion dresses and clothing; I, on the other hand, had a desire to open my own book store and start my own publishing company. She assisted in purchasing a well developed marketing plan and both of our enterprises blossomed into a glowing success...This success and all of our adventures brought us gleeful happiness, not for the financial rewards, but for the positive feeling of doing what we had always desired deep within ourselves and seeing our own success blossom while remaining in the company of the other.....
The day arrived, however, when our clear skies suddenly darkened..I saw streaks of fire and heard the raging clash of storm and rain. In the midst of the rage and storm, I beheld the hideous face of adversity, a face that I cared not to ever behold. My dear wife fell into the floor, consumed by intense abdominal pain, to the point that she feared for her very life. She gazed upward into compassionate eyes, weeping, reaching out toward me, begging me to assist her in discovering a means of alleviating the wrenching pain. I seized her hand and then her arms, lifting her up to transport her crumpled form from the threshold of our home into our awaiting ride. I cannot recall the type of ride that it was, I can just recall leaping into the front drivers' seat and activating the engine, then speeding out toward the most modern infirmary on the island. In the local Latin vernacular it was called El Supremis Curationum.
The infirmary was one of the few enterprises not owned by her father. In fact, the hospital was owned by a single speculating investor and his three associates. This speculator also owned the market square in town. All of them had allotted shop sections to it among themselves. These people had begged loans from her father, who granted the loans but only in lieu of the treble valued collateral. The general understanding was, as usual, that the debtor was to repay the loan or the collateral would be collected at three times the loan amount. When the debtor neglected payment, for what ever reason, then he lost three times the amount in property. Following that event, the situation between the family was never quite right again, but the antagonism was never immediately obtrusive, it was just casual simple “slights” that were noticed..Such as being invited to dinner socials and the other parties, then simply not showing up. Or the other party promising to assist in some sort of laboring endeavor, then conveniently not showing up; and when asked about it, only possessing an excuse that in no way justified the absence.
Just two years ago one of them had attempted to court my dear Thea. He has shown up at her door step with flowers, showing off his new Lamborghini with the gold plated grill and the diamond studded seats; he was always careful to show her his latest suit and tie. Other than that, however, he did not possess much to be desired. When Thea questioned him concerning his knowledge of the latest novel or literary poem, he could barely even make a reply. Most of the time he could only laugh and shrug his stooped shoulders. When requested concerning the latest opera, he could only laugh again, and ask, “I can barely even understand what is going on. Why would I know anything about such amusements?”
In fact, all that he and his associates mostly spoke of was the success of her family and how much they must feel blessed more so than any of the others in town. Hearing the talk so frequently from them soon disgusted her to the point that she came to dread meeting up with any one of them. The family name just hooked itself deeply inside my head, for some unknown reason that I never could deduce...Ekviostis.
I rushed her to the infirmary, being guided into the waiting room while she was simply told to hold her seat and wait, even though she wreathed in wretched pain right there before them all. When I questioned them all concerning this matter, they rudely exclaimed that her fortune was no excuse for expecting special treatment and that she would simply have to wait her turn, just as everyone else. Upon my request that she then be administered pain relief, their coarse reply was that everyone there in the facility desired pills for pain, they so heartlessly declared. I exclaimed only that she was wreathing in pain right there before them, and that no one else inside the waiting room was, but their reply was only a smirk and a shrug, claiming that they were so sorry, but that they did not feel anything on their part and that she would still have to wait her proper turn before they would examine her or even administer any type of relief. I was insistent, returning back before their glass covered reception window within three minutes, asking again and again, when it was that they could examine her, until they finally reluctantly remitted, taking her into a back room for the examination and the ultrasound. I remained in the lobby until the examination was completed.
Time passed, as I can recall, minutes felt as hours and hours as days, then finally the nurse called me into the back rooms. The verdict was calculus, she informed me. These were the culprits responsible for the all of my dear Thea's dreadful misery. I fell backward upon the message, a simple operation, I then reasoned. A simple incision, a removal, a two week recovery period, then all would be well, I told myself. A dear lady whom we both knew very well, from the island of Patmos, a very undeveloped area, just had such an operation and she was up and walking in some two days following. A week later she was completely revived. Surly we could expect much more from this highly developed facility.
My dear Thea was to be assigned a surgeon, I was told. Under his instruction and care, she would be most certain to heal promptly. I inquired as to the surgeon's name and I was told that his name was one Ekviostis..Dr. Ekviostis..I inquired as to what his first name was, but I cannot recall at this present time, I can only most vividly recall the sire name...Ekviostis..
I walked on back into the waiting room, awaiting the surgeons' return. During that time we inquired again as to the surgeons first name, still only the sire name was recalled, but my wife had never heard of it. Seven dreadful crushingly painful hours passed. Finally the surgeon entered into the room, and to my shock and surprise, he bore the appearance of an expatriated Irishman rather than that of your average Aegean islander. I inquired upon this observation and the Dr. stated that he had married into the Ekviostis family, and had chosen to go by that name, since it was legal on the island to do so and by doing so, he could then develop positive rapport with the locals. His true family name was Bryant and that ordinarily he was very proud to be known by it. He then continued on, explaining to both of us the proceedings of the operation.
He showed me a diagram of the procedure and the operation appeared to be simple enough, a single Y with the long side running from the liver and the intestine, and the small side simply a stem that supported the gallbladder. During the procedure his employment was to sever the gall bladder from the stem, then remove it through an incision, cap off the stem, then just stitch up the incision. All of it sounded basic enough for me to comprehend. I was game and so was she, since something certainly needed to be done to address this potentially serious matter....
My dear Thea wreathed in horrible pain still as the Doctor spoke, but she would be going in for surgery within six hours time. My Thea squirmed there on the bed, neither did the nurse visit nor the doctor advise. When I stepped out the door I saw the prices posted there onto the clipboard that hung beside the doorpost outside. First it was three thousand drachma upon our entering the hospital, then the price transformed into six thousand drachma for the examination just performed. It would be a thousand more for any medicine or painkillers administered. So thus far, our expenses were more than nine thousand drachma in total, and we had not even made it into the operating room. All of this cost was to be handed over in cash, and paid for in total completeness before any more services were to be rendered.
From my perspective, price was not an issue to stand between my Thea and her salvation. The pain both in Thea and myself was way too much, even near to the point of being unbearable, both physically for her and emotionally for myself. I dutifully paid out the amounts in gold coin, indeed without question nor regret. A few more hours passed and soon they had arrived with their dismal stretcher to come and take my dear Thea away. My dear Thea was wreathing with more intensity, even to the point that she was tossing and turning violently in the bed before me..Why did they still not administer any pain killer, I wondered in the silence of my mind?
An hour that seemed like an entire day transpired, and when they finally wheeled my Thea into the hospital room where we were to rest for the night, she lay there in the bed as though consumed by a perfect slumber, in complete peace. Momentarily, the sight was wonderful to behold. At least now my dear Thea felt not any remaining pain, nor did she wreath upon the bed any longer, as though wrestling with some unseen phantom aggressor. Six hours later the surgeon appeared again to our door.
“She is in positive form at present,” said he. His tall form appeared to acknowledge that he had performed the services to the best possibility that could be expected. “Tomorrow she may travel back home. She will be effectively released at 0600 hours, tomorrow,” he assured us. “All is well now, on this date.”
I felt more comfortable with him being Irish and not one of the blood relatives of that family he had married into. He had been trained and experienced in Ireland as well, rather than out there in the island city alone. Later that evening a nurse came to the door of our room, demanding of my Thea that she arise and walk to the ends of the hallway there before us. Thea barely could sit up, and then only by my assistance. She could not make it out of the bed to stand, she could only sit there upon the edge of the bed and weep, saying repetitively that she felt way too weak to even stand, much less walk. She wept at the demand, saying aloud that she only desired to sleep and nothing more. The nurse finally exited the room, and we both remained alone for the night.
My dear Thea slumbered through the duration of the night. When she awoke, nearly at the same time, a nurse appeared at the door again saying to us both...”Well now, it appears that it is time for you to get ready and go home. Doesn't that sound nice to hear? You are going to go home after this horrible ordeal at long last.”
I moved around, assisting her in removing the gown and getting dressed. I demanded a wheelchair, and I received one following a wait.
“Be certain to pause by the exit window before making your way out. Once you pay our required fees for the surgery, then you may exit out and drive the limousine just outside our front door there. Our nurse will wheel your wife out to the car,” so stated our room maid.
I followed through on the orders. I paused at the glass covered exit window, the attendant asking me in an emotionless monotone voice that lacked personality.... “What is the room number again?”
“8-0843,” I immediately replied.
“What was the time and date that you entered into the facility here,” she inquired?
I replied with the proper time and date.
“The fees for service rendered will be nine thousand more for the surgery alone. We also need another six thousand for the room and the room service, as well as the medicine given. The total will be fifteen thousand drachma for the surgery, the room and all other services following.”
I gladly paid the fees requested, but I could not refrain from asking the obvious question.
“Wow,” I said. “Thank the good Lord above that I possess the funds, but what if I did not? What would a poor person do?
“Do you own property,” she snapped in a now rude sharp monotone, without making a smile and barely even glancing up.
“Yes, a bit,” I replied with a slight gasp then a laugh...
“Well, you will surrender that until the price plus interest has been redeemed,” she snapped very quickly.
“And what if I did not own property,” I inquired?
“ In that case, when she healed, and she would indeed heal very promptly..,your wife would serve the Ekviostis clan patriarch in his harem or kitchen enterprises and you would labor for him on his extensive landed estate, assisting him with gathering in vast stores of tobacco, cotton, olives, pomegranates, grapes and making wine on his vineyards..,until the value of the services rendered, plus all interest and fees incurred, were redeemed in full,” she coldly stated through an icy soulless glare.
“Wow, getting sick and going to the doctor here is really serious business,” I laughed as I spoke, just attempting to break the ice. The lady behind the glass never even glanced upward, remaining ridged as though she had never heard my words as I spoke them.
“Here are your discharge papers,” she snapped as she slapped them down onto the counter before me. “Have a good day and best of luck to you.”
I quickly glanced the papers over, then upon being abruptly puzzled, I inquired..
“Where are the prescriptions for pain and the anti-biotic?”
The woman replied in the usual monotone manner of speaking that she held to.
“Those were given right along with the surgery, dosed out inside the IV bag. Her body has no need for any additional.”
I told my wife to wait for me there sitting in the chair, until I could get our car and park it just out side the front door. Supposedly the nurse would then wheel her chair out to the car. I left out, walked around the medical facility and into the parking lot just behind the infirmary. I got into our limo and motored on around, coming to park just before the front door of the double glass doors into the foyer entrance. After an hour or so, the nurse then wheeled my Thea out toward the parked car. I exited the car, opened the passenger door and assisted her into the seat beside me. I smiled confidently toward Thea as we both eased on out of the front door parking space before the infirmary.
“Well, my honey, we have you all patched up now. You'll be just as fit as a birch-wood fiddle very soon, before you know it,” I joked attempting to raise the feelings and general mood.
Thea never made a return in reply, she just simply sat there right in the front seat of the car as though she were exhausted into numbness. I continued to motor on across town, attempting to speak just to keep her mind activated and engaged with what was occurring around her. I felt that doing so would insure her survival and hasten her general recovery, since half of recovering involves the issue of mental attitude, and then the medicine.
By the time arrived that we made it home, it was around 0900 hours, if I can recall right. I wished that she would go to bed, but she stated that she preferred to sit in our lounge chair out on the front porch overlooking the large town before us. We both carried on some fond conversation, our maids bringing us a bounty in fruit variety, since that was what my wife presently desired. I would sneak around the corner and tip the marble wine amphorae to pour me a strong crystal glass full from time to time. My Thea could not participate, since she had been dosed the medicine and anti-biotic, so I did not dare wish for her to notice me doing so. For quite a time that day, the sun shone with a brilliant glow and all seemed to be returning back to normal.
When the sun rounded the distant horizon, the heavy veil of darkness then returned. Once again fire ripped the sky, which then angrily growled from being treated so violently. A dragging, continuous wind appeared to blow across the entire town and into a then infinity beyond. Then the once bright eyes of my dear Thea, became sullen and dull. She turned to me, seizing her stomach with her right hand, saying..
“My dear husband, the pain is returning, and it grows with an increasing intensity. I may be in need more medical assistance.”
“Oh my dear Thea,” I gasped. “Allow me to call upon the medical information line first, before we hasten a return back into the infirmary.”
“Oh please do so,” she replied in gasps of breath as she held to her upper abdomen. “Oh please, please do so soon.”
I picked up the phone and called the number there on the discharge papers. A lady with a slow icy monotone answered. I described the situation to her, and she assured me that my wife's experience was only post surgical pains, since she had an organ removed just the night prior . Wait until morning, then examine her for her feelings regarding the situation. Usually the situation will improve over night, she assured me....
The storm only worsened outside, with streaks of fire slashing in great angry lengths from infinity into an infinity, one right behind the other. The sky continued to rumble in it's angry response at being disturbed. Then the rains commenced to pour in heavy sheets. My dear Thea then began to clutch her abdomen area and moan aloud in sheer misery...
“I only hurt more and more...I do not know how long it will be that I can tolerate this misery. The intensity only increases steadily, in dreadful increments. Help me, my dear one, oh do please help me...”
At 2300 hours sharp, my dear Thea was crying, pleading with me to take her back into the infirmary. I told her to assist me in helping her get cleaned up, dressed, so that both of us could head on out. I assisted her in the effort to make it out of the door. Soon we were walking across the threshold and onto the front porch, then she abruptly changed her mind and for reasons which I know not, nor can I deduce any valid conclusion using any sort of sequence in logic.
“What do you desire, my love,” I inquired to her?
“Only to remain here inside, laying upon our plush couch.. Only the blanket of velveteen silk upon my heaving breast and you.., my dear love..., by my wreathing tortured side,” she replied as she lay drenched in ice cold sweat and tears.
So I carried her back across the threshold, laying her gently upon our feather filled mahogany couch. I administered foxglove tea for pain with a petite careful daintiness, such being all that I had on hand. I lay by her side throughout the night as she continued to weep in pain, still consumed by her own misery.
“Just give me the word, my dear Thea, and on our way we shall both then be..,” I whispering amid the flash of the night fire and rumble that followed..
“Only a bit more time and maybe my misery will thus end, and we can both then enjoy the company of the other once again,” she would gaze into my distressed eyes and reply. By 0500 hours she was tossing side to side, gnashing her teeth and weeping tears of shear agony...
“Please, my dear love, transport me back into the infirmary, or suffer the looming possibility of my eternal lose..”
Immediately we arose, I dutifully assisted her in getting properly dressed. We had maids on hand who were willing to assist, but I never even bothered to give them notice. All that then possessed my mind was tending to my dear Thea, and assuring that she was properly nourished back into decent health. I moved so quickly that it was more like the passing of a dreadful dream, then we abruptly found ourselves back into the door of that infirmary.
Once we arrived back into the infirmary, I can honestly say that I had no trouble getting them to receive her, since she had not been totally released, as of yet, from the surgeon's care. They whisked her away, but simultaneously demanded that I pay for the upcoming ultrasound tests and the CT scan. The price demand was three more thousand drachma, before they would even attempt to initiate any efforts or explore the reason for this sudden turn of fortune. I payed with cash in full, without any sort of questioning on my own part, since all that occupied my mind at the present moment in time, was the health of my dear Thea. Upon the tests being completed, I walked into the room where the ultrasounds and the scans were performed. The skilled technician present was in her late forties, and obviously was in possession of long years in expertise.
“What did you find,” I inquired of her?
She hesitated, then struggled to answer my direct question.
“I don't know how to say it, except to say it as it so stands.., but the surgeon blundered badly. You have a stem leak that has not been sealed off....In other words, your problem is incompetence in your surgeon.”
“You mean that this man simply cut the bladder off, then neglected to cap the stem..,” I asked firmly?
She shook her head but with hesitation, signifying the word yes.
“So this means, using simple plumbing logic here, that the stem is leaking bile, filling up the empty space within her body cavity on the inside...and that is what is causing all of her misery..,” I asked with heavy emotion?
The lady shook her head up and down readily, though again, hesitatingly.
“I just cannot believe it,” I gasped! “I just cannot accept this oversight here..What is the meaning of all this?”
The lady only half smiled as if she did not know how else to reply.
“So how can this horrible problem be corrected,” I inquired? “In my mind, all that needs to occur is that the stem simply be capped off..., that's it,” I exclaimed excitedly!
“I cannot answer that question..I apologize here. The surgeon will need to answer that question for you. I simply cannot do so,” the technician replied.
“Well, when can we see him again,” I inquired?
“You will return back into your waiting room and just wait for his reply. I can immediately put in for your request to him, and he will get back to you.., probably in the next six hours or so.”
“But my dear wife is in horrible pain,” I exclaimed. “She needs for this matter to be addressed as promptly as possible.”
“Pay the thousand drachma fee, and we will promptly address this issue of her pain. The surgeon in charge of your case will inform you of any other additional charges that will certainly precede her forthcoming surgery,” replied the technician.
We made our way back into the surgical waiting room. Minutes lulled away feeling like hours, and hours felt as entire days. The question that kept returning into both our minds was why, why did they force us to wait for so dreadfully long? Why did they allow her to suffer in such agony? In all honesty, my deduction from observation was that all of it was intentional, with the silent hope that another misfortune would arise that necessitated a costly repair. I gritted my teeth in a gradual seething anger, but in all honesty, just what was I to do? Where else did I have a choice about in going to? Supposedly, this facility was among the very best. There were no other options, neither here nor on any of the surrounding islands. Not even the mainland could boast a better quality service in the latest medical services provided for the people to access..
My choices were obvious..We would just have to endure the negative possibilities, and when logic bore out the truth in negative intentions, we could only suffer and endure to the very end...hoping in dreadful silence for the very best outcome. Our faith would reside in God Almighty and the skill of this Irishman, who for the moment appeared to be very accommodating in general personality.
Before Dr. Ekviostis entered into the waiting room, another surgeon wished to review her. Upon his entering inside the room, he greeted us both with what generated the feeling of being a forced smile. He requested that my wife lift her dress to expose her delicate stomach, he pressed around in a place or two, asking her if she felt pain. Upon her wrenching response, he then stood up straight and tall, turning to face me. His once charming composure instantly transformed, revealing a seething, teeth clenching anger underneath his calm facade. His breathing obviously became instantly heavy with a mounting rage on the inside.
“We are NOT a general practitioner service..You are aware of that, aren't you,” he snarled? “We are an emergency facility only!”
“But this was an emergency..,” I responded with both shock and lightening anger! “She collapsed out into the floor, wreathing in pain, and we came here as a result...If this was no emergency, then indeed, I am not aware of specifically what would quantify as an emergency.”
“What I am saying to you is that all of us are getting older and we must engage the services of a general practitioner. She had neglected to do so. Had she done so, then this matter would not have advanced into this level of seriousness. She only went to the local back alley shop herbalist, as I understand it.”
“But who can afford his extortionist rates,” I responded with the inquiry? “We are well off and we would have trouble doing so on a regular basis, as it appears that you are demanding so rudely..; his rates are literally ridiculously insane. I am absolutely shocked that the law here even allows such predatory rates, and all of the general practitioners everywhere around are nearly the same in their outrageous demands!”
I never responded otherwise, I just stood by in shock while he continued to examine her, then he arose only to walk out of the room without speaking another single word, leaving us shivering with cold and all alone to wonder as to just what additional horrors possibly lay ahead. In the end, all that we had ever wanted to do was request medical assistance. We had no negative intentions, what so ever. Where had we gone so dreadfully wrong in simply appealing for much needed medical services?
My wife continued to slumber there in the bed for the next six hours. She had been loaded up with a variety of painkillers derived from poppy, and a number of exotic tinctures in addition. There were the anti-biotic, all of these services I demanded at once upon paying the additional thousand drachma. At least my dear Thea was no longer suffering in pain. Finally, at long last, in walked Dr. Ekviostis. This time, however, his composure was more ridged and firm, not at ease in the least. Behind all of this rigidity, I detected an additional negative air of dark hubris, that kind where one is possessed but cannot admit to any level of incompetence, no matter how obvious that it is to any sort of observer. The feeling extended by my honest observation, was that I was dealing with a perverted type of duel personality.
“What is the verdict, Doctor,” I inquired, as much to investigate the demeanor of his person in suspect as it was to find out where my wife truly stood in her deteriorating condition?
“What is the verdict,” he sneered as he gritted his teeth? You dare to ask me what the verdict is...? I will tell you what the verdict is then...The verdict is that the stem upon which the gallbladder once sat is leaking, and it has filled her body cavity up and we have to address the issue at hand here; that's what the verdict is..,” he continued to sneer.
“Well... how are we going to address this matter,” I asked? “Something must be done, and very soon,” I stated.
“Well, it's like this,” replied Ekviostis, “I have a visiting Doctor who travels the world doing these types of operations like those that he will do on her. His name is Doctor Aloise Von Mueller, from the hospital at the University of Berlin, certainly one of the best on earth, if not the very best. He got his start during the war, beginning with his short stint in the military. I am not sure as to what facility it was that they had him stationed in, but it was one that was relatively well known at the time, I am most certain. This man brings many years of experience to all of us. This procedure is all that he does and I have been knowing him very well for a long, long time now.
Well, this is what we are going to do to get this ball rolling on. First we need to pay the necessary surgeons' retainer fee, required for any type of specialty surgeon. Soon as you pay this fee and get your paperwork, just turn it in to your nurse, who will be checking on you promptly. When she receives this paper, then at some time following, indeed when the busy gentleman has the time to spare, Dr. Mueller will drop by to visit and discuss the procedure that he will perform on her. Right now, however, we must take care of first things first...So, lets get on with it,” he said as he clapped both hands together and smiled a thin fleshless smile in my direction.
As the surgeon concluded his address with us, the nurse walked inside immediately behind him. She closed the door, then turned to make an address, so it appeared.
“How are you doing,” she said to my wife. “ I hope that you are feeling much better..are you?”
My wife only lay there and moaned.
“Are you in pain?”
My wife moaned again. This time she moaned louder.
“Very well, then. Lets get your new pain killer into your IV bag here,” she said.
“Is that morphine,” I asked?
“No, this painkiller is much more stronger than morphine,” she replied. “So I understand that Dr. Mueller will be working on you,” asked the nurse to my wife?
“Yes, I think that is the name,” I replied.
“Well Dr. Mueller is a fine doctor. He is really good at what he does. He has had many years of experience. Matter of fact, he has been doing that service more years than I have been alive.”
“I take it that he must be up in age a bit,” I inquired.
“He is, he is quite up there,” stated the nurse. “But do you want to know a very strange thing about this man...; he appears much, much younger than he actually is. He appears at least half his age, or even less. He appears to be not a year over thirty five, to be quite honest about it. Many say that he is a genius. He is not a good conservationist, I must honestly warn you..., but an extraordinary surgeon.”
“Where do I pay the money,” I asked her?
“Just go to the window out in the hall there. Hand them this form there,” she stated as she handed me some paperwork written in the local island language. “Then they can take up the cost with you. I must honestly warn you, however, that the cost for specialized work tends to run a bit high.”
“Just show me where that window is,” I snapped. “The cost for me emotionally is running much higher than my cost for this procedure, I can assure you of that much.”
I walk over to the glass covered window and handed them the paperwork through the slit at the bottom. The lady behind the glass opens it, carries the paperwork into the back room, then returns, taking her seat by the window.
“The cost will be thirty thousand drachma,” she bluntly stated in an icy voice void of any emotion.
“What,” I snapped in astonishment!
“If you want the procedure, then pony up... Otherwise we will be glad to escort both of you out into the streets there to find some medical vendor in one of those tent shanties to do it for you,” she coldly snapped.
“Honestly, I do not understand why it is that I must pay for that Dr. Ekviostis' oversight. He should have to pay for his own incompetence, I feel. If any of us are guilty of oversight on our jobs and it cost anyone this amount of money, we would have to cover the cost..., then they would fire all of us. Why does he not have to endure any inconvenience for being incompetent,” I angrily snapped?
“Well, to be quite honest about it, it is not my position to discuss any doctor's level of incompetence. I am just the lady in the window that collects payment and files the paperwork. You'll have to take this matter up with the doctor,” she replied nonchalantly, without any emotion.
I did so then and quietly, even though underneath my exterior I huffed about it. Something suddenly did not appear right in all of this business. I could not put my finger on it, but there was a big problem... somewhere. Sadly for us both, however, we really had no other choices but to use their services and accept their claims as being valid, even in the face of the fact that our gut instincts told us differently.
I made may way back into the surgical room where my wife was already in limbo. She still slumbered as though she were oblivious to every detail around her. At least she was not in any more pain. For the moment, I was even at rest in the matter. Some three hours passed, then the German entered into the room.
“Hello there, Dr. Mueller..,” I said attempting to maintain a nonchalant air. “What is about to transpire here?”
The surgeon strode into the room standing some six foot five and very hard in appearance. His complexion was hard and somewhat vivid, as though he tended to imbibe at the bottle a bit more than what may have been acceptable. His military short hair was a sandy brown and his character appeared to have been chiseled from the very stone of the hillside. He spoke not as he proceeded to mill about, shuffling two or three handfuls of paper work at the desk in the corner of the room. He then pulled up a stool, taking a seat before us with two or three sheets of paperwork in his right hand. He spoke to us as though he were totally void of any emotion or concern in any measure, as far as the human aspect of the situation was.
“Good afternoon, ladies and gentleman,” he said with a nod, in a heavy German accent that reminded me of count Dracula, directly from the old horror movies. “Indeed we have a situation here before us on this moment.” There was a pause as if he expected some sort of response, but when there was none, he continued on. “The good news here is that I have the proper solution to address this situation.”
“What do you propose, then sir,” I asked in anticipation?
“We are going to place a simple stint directly into the intestine, connecting the intestine at the point of intersection into the bile duct. This move will effectively open up the bile duct, allowing zee bile from zee uncapped stem to drain backward into the duct and then drain into zee intestine. Once the drain ceases in it's outflow at zee stem, then zee natural healing process will cap it off automatically. This move should correct the problem, almost instantly, but we shall allow a couple of hours to initiate itself.”
“How are you going to insert this stint,” I inquired?
“We are going to make use of zee least invasive process..In other words, sir, we are going to avoid doing another operation to zee best of our efforts. What we are going to do, instead, is to take this hose that I am holding here, insert it down into her throat, and consequently, directly into her bile duct from there.”
As he spoke he held up a rubber hose that appeared to be approximately a yard long and about three quarters of an inch in diameter. This I envisioned him inserting down her throat with a camera on the end, then while observing in the screen above, he would manipulate a set of wires inserted into the hose, and in this manner he could manipulate the stint into it's proper place. In all honesty, all of it looked like absolute hell to me, but I said nothing as I continued to just sit, listen and observe. My heart was breaking for Thea, however, deep down on the inside. When I looked at her laying in the bed like that, just thinking about the hell that she was about to endure..., it was almost more than I could even bear.
“The transport crew shall return in approximately four hours to pick her up. On the screen above you may view her status as we proceed along. The operation will not last but about an hour and a half at most. In a majority of the time, we are finished in thirty minutes or even less. When the crew comes inside to claim her, they will hand you the paperwork with the special number for you to view up on the screen and observe her status as we go along. There is nothing to worry about, my friend. I tell you, everything will be just fine,” he stated with a hard firmness in his low pitched heavily accented voice.
Before he made his exit from the room, he handed me a vividly sketched and colored picture showing what the procedure appeared as, hoping maybe that I could comprehend the exact specific details. The problem was that I did clearly comprehend the procedure, in vivid detail, like the screen on an HD television. In fact, the simplicity of it all was what upset me most, because I was wondering as to why all of this was taking place to begin with. I my mind I continued to ask the obvious question..; how did this Dr. Ekviostis, a supposed master surgeon, make such an obvious oversight?
During the four hours wait time, my dear Thea slumbered as though she was totally unaware of what was about to take place. From time to time Ekviostis would step into the room, looking about at the place on her stomach and sifting through the paperwork. I never could deduce the reason as to why, but I had begun to smell a rat..., an incompetent one.. or even something else more sinister, in fact. Waves of anger began to mount within my body as I glared upon him sitting there at the desk, with his back turned toward me. He was now just as vulnerable to me sitting there at the desk …,as my dear Thea was to him lying there so helplessly in the bed, I thought in silence. How foolish of him not to realize this fact in the face of what I honestly suspected his true intentions to be. Did he think that we were all fools, only to be trifled with? I was determined to remain calm, however, and to think my way through this situation. I would simply allow the upcoming correction to take place, then I would observe and deduce the scenario from that point upon it's materialization, once it was displayed before me.
The wait felt like days rather than hours. I imagined that the following morning had already passed, since I had not stepped outside to view the light of day in a while now, so it seemed. Through it all, my best consolation was that my dear wife was still slumbering. I knew well that while she slept, at least she was not in pain. The fact that she hurt, even in the very least, was far more than my poor heart could tolerate, but my feelings at present were slowly transforming from one of being consumed by astonishment at the fact of the situation..., into one of a gradual welling heat wave of white hot rage. I could feel it rising on the inside..., like an invisible hand pushing me to respond in kind to all of the negative motivation surrounding me.
Why was there not a check somewhere within the system to hold these base extortionist tendencies of enterprise at bay? Where were the police during these threatening situations? Why did they not rush in to arrest these obvious criminals? I truly came to feel on the inside that the individuals who organized this hideously repressive system felt impervious to the consequences of their own motivations..Nay, I should say that the feeling was almost one of antagonism...like these monsters were pushing..., even daring the targeted individual to respond, as if they felt themselves impervious to any consequences that would be absolutely justified in forthcoming, be they legal or other wise.
Without a doubt, if we survive this horrible ordeal, we most certainly will be investigating a new place to call home. Obviously if the deteriorating observed corruption here, broadly speaking, should continue, then the only step left would be a situation where the entire population was literally rounded up to be delivered into a labor camp containment facility, of one sort or another. Now that the astounding possibility loomed before me forthright, this fact of reality was impossible for me to deny!
Abruptly the transport crew appeared at our door to the room. I was somewhat awake, though my dear Thea, still slumbering. There were three of them with the stretcher by the door as they moved into place about her bed. Soon the one at the door by the stretcher moved it, parking it beside the bed of my Thea. The other two then simply tugged upon the cloth sheet beneath her bosom, transporting her from the bed directly onto the stretcher itself. They moved the stretcher heading out the door as two of them remaining by the sides, raised the railings into place until they snapped. Soon they were heading away toward the operating room. The crew worked smoothly as a well organized team, each one taking up areas where he was strong, to replace areas where another was weak.
Up above the television a viewing screen told the stages of the operating process. Now she was in the preparatory process. According to the paperwork, the preparatory process was the one where she was being cleaned and anesthetized, allowing the proper amount of time for the drug to take effect. The color was green in the code for the preparatory process.
Time passed, maybe twenty minutes, then the color changed from green into yellow, meaning that the beginning stages of the operation were being initiated. This involved moving her into place, since the operation would be performed with her body laying on it's stomach, then the doctor running the hose down her throat. The process lasted approximately the same amount of time, soon the color transformed again.
This time it changed into red, meaning now that the situation had entered into the acting central process of the operation. This part was really serious, the part where one slight misstep could spell the difference between life, life underneath the weight of misfortune, or even death. Seemingly it went on for forty minutes, maybe even an hour or slightly more. I was really tense, glancing back and forth from the pages of a really good book laying about, back toward the viewing screen. Even though my eyes absorbed the picture before me, my mind registered not the content of the page, since the fact of the operation loomed so paramount in my mind. The time dragged passed, but finally it changed into a florescent orange, which meant that she was inside the recovery room. My mind then eased upon the very sight of her being there.
Now I could relax...somewhat. Situations could still take a turn for the worst, but the likelihood of that occurring had now passed, I reasoned. I could now read and concentrate on the material directly at hand. The orange phase lasted at least as long as the red phase, but I was relaxed in my contentment, that my dear Thea has made it through the worst of everything. Soon the German surgeon entered into the waiting room where I sat in anticipation.
“All went well, my dear friend,” he said. “Your wife is doing very well and is expected to do exceptionally,” the surgeon shook his hand to give emphasis to his words as he spoke in his thick German accent.
Very soon my Thea was wheeled into the room where I waited for her return. Still she slumbered, appearing to have heavily anesthetized and sedated. The figure that lay before me at the present did not even appear to be her, but appeared more to be a very swelled version of a bruised torso that was once hers. In thirty minutes she awoke somewhat, slowly moving her head from side to side, moaning as she did.
“My dear husband,” she said. “I am in deep pain.., so much pain...it hurts, my honey.., it hurts so much and there is just nothing at all that anyone can do.”
“Well I can do something,” I said with emotion! “Nurse,” I said as I called her through the microphone on my wife's bed! Soon a voice answered, asking what it was that could be done for me. I proceeded to tell her that my wife was in serious pain. Soon a nurse appeared at the door of our room, with the syringes in hand for the IV bag.
“This should stop the pain,” said the nurse. “It may take a few minutes for the drug to take effect, but it should stop the pain.”
“Please...the pain is becoming more than I can tolerate....Please..,” my wife began to weep! Within five minutes she faded off to sleep. The nurse headed back out toward the door, then paused, turning toward me.
“Don't forget to pause before the window down the hall there. They need more money for the additional pain killer and anti-biotic.”
I winced in shock, asking..
“Well how much is it that they need?”
“I do not know,” she said. “You'll have to take the matter up with them.”
“I will address this matter immediately,” I said.
I walked on over to the glass covered window, pausing only to inquire as to the amount needed for my wife's care. The same icy monotone lady appeared to be seated behind the glass. She had an appearance of being chiseled from stone and possessing about as much emotion to go with it. This cold demeanor, more than likely, added at least ten, maybe fifteen years to her overall slouching appearance, speaking descriptively as it was received by the people standing on the opposite side of that glass. I handed her the paperwork from the room number in which we now were. She quickly glanced through it, then glanced up into my face.
“Sir, that will be another thousand drachma...minimum, considering all of the advanced drug formulas and anti-biotic that she has been given already just within the last two days.”
I said nothing, but quickly counted out the money in cash. Even for us being well off, the price for all of this was beginning to weigh somewhat heavily. On the inside, I really felt for people who truly did not posses the necessary funds to accommodate care. What continually ran through my mind was the question Why, why did the authorities allow an entity, such as a care facility, to literally extort funds from people in this obvious manner? It was not that I minded compensating professionals for services rendered, but the demand for the prices far exceeded what the largest percentage of the labor based economy payed out, especially after taxes, which was where the largest majority of people were employed. If I tried to loan money out at these ridiculous rates, I would have been thrown into prison. Why is it that the system allows outright extortion when it comes in from another direction, other than the individual person? The act is either wrong or it is not wrong at all; indeed there are no exceptions to the rule, if the system worked as it should in a substantiating way, even unto itself. Obviously, one day the extortionist system would all come crashing down, since in fact, it obviously could not substantiate itself long term, since there existed no form of check to curtail the weak tendency in mortal character for greed. Until that time arrives, honest, hardworking people will just have to survive as best that they could, I concluded in the silence of intellectual thought.
I made my way back into the room where my wife was still slumbering, who was beginning to awaken. She wreathed from side to side, moaning, saying that the pain was gradually returning. When I asked for more painkillers, the doctors claimed that she had received her limit for the time being. More and more my wife wreathed in gut wrenching pain, declaring that the pain was increasing back into it's original levels, before the painkillers were administered. Tears were flowing in her eyes when she told me of the horror in the pain that she was feeling, as well as the general experience of the surgery.
The nurse soon arrived into the room, abruptly. She stooped down to remove the IV and retrieve a sample of blood. She drew approximately seven inch and one half diameter vials of heavy dark blood. My wife protested, declaring that she was very anemic and already low on blood as it was. She placed the right palm upon her forehead, wincing in tears, saying that she was near the point of fainting. The nurse handed the vials to an assistant, who then stepped out the door with the seven vials. The nurse then asked my wife to take the thermometer into her mouth and hold it until she instructed her to open and release it. In the meantime, she seated herself before the computer and commenced to log the latest information into the facility website. After ten minutes, she arose from the computer to retrieve the thermometer.
“Hmm, you are running some temperature.. just a bit above our professionally deduced limit, so it seems. There most certainly exist a reason as to why. We are going to check the blood vials to investigate your white blood cell count, because what we suspect is infection. The question that we have is exactly why this infection exists.”
Seemingly in an instant the assistant returned with the vials and a report. She handed them to the nurse who scanned the report very carefully before making a comment. She then walked over to my wife, placing her right hand upon her forehead, saying...
“Your white blood count is high. What that means is that we must do a CT scan to investigate what the culprit is. We will hand this CT scan over to Dr. Ekviosis, who will then conduct his own analysis and give you his deduced conclusion from that information.”
The nurse then turned toward me, saying as she glared in my direction.
“Sir, what you need to do as we prepare for this test and exam, is to pause by the pay window just down the hall there and hand that lady this notice. She will then tell you what you must do to initiate this forthcoming procedure.”
I took a deep inward breath, then released it..
“Sure..., let me have it,” as I walked passed her and snatched it from her hand.
“Look,” she snapped as I stepped toward the door. I paused instantly, turning around in her direction.
“If you don't want to pay the required fees, then just don't,” she snapped with a sneer. “It is all at your choice, not our demand.”
“But my dear Thea needs healing,” I replied. “Her receiving that much from you is all that I ask in return...Heal her.., please do not prolong her horrible suffering.”
“Alright then, just do what is required without such an attitude...and then we can get on with the process..,” the nurse replied with a hard glare on her face.
I snapped around, then headed on down the hallway toward the window, pausing before the glass, then pushing the notice through the slit at the bottom of the glass. The lady behind the window glanced down upon the note, then quickly glanced up. She turned toward a computer that sat on a small desk behind her, typed in some information, then snapped back around, glancing quickly up into my eyes.
“The entire upcoming process.., the test, the surgical evaluation, any potential pain killers and anti-biotic..will come to a total of ...five thousand drachma.., in raw cash only, please.”
I simply shook my head as I dove my right hand into my left rear pocket to retrieve the cash money. I felt like shaking my head and weeping, but only followed through on the command, like a robot that had been programmed in some sort of manner. I retrieved a large handful of gold coins that represented thousands, carefully counting them out to her through the slot.
“Well good sir,” she smiled as she collected my coin, “just proceed back into the room where your wife is and the transport crew will be there to take her back shortly.”
I could only stand by in idle, shaking my head in astonished disbelief. How could these people be so calloused? If they truly possessed the gift of healing, then why was it that they were so self serving and outright greedy, refusing to give anybody a reasonable break out of basic compassion or even general concern? To me, it all appeared as if they were more concerned with their profit margin than the health of the patient. I turned away and headed back toward the room where my dear wife lay. The time passed in a way that felt like an eternity, but the transport crew entered abruptly, opening the door to our room with a slam. As usual, there were three of them and the stretcher.
Two of them moved the stretcher into our room up adjacent to the bed of my wife, the other walked over toward the opposing side, apparently just in case there existed a need for any assistance from that direction. The two on the side opposite from where I was standing simply seized the cloth sheet underneath my wife's torso, and pulled, the other assisted in steadying her body so that she would make the switch from the bed onto the stretcher. In an instant she was over and the three were stabilizing her onto the stretcher, then all three of them proceeded to snap the side rails into place. The three moved like well rehearsed performing artists, just as smoothly as a spring breeze. Before I could even gasp, they were whisking her away down the hall, toward a destination that I could not discern, other than just through the information that I had been given. I could do anything at all but simply wait...and pray for the very best. I was powerless at the present moment...,a situation that I was finding myself deeply entwined with on an ever increasing level of incidence...and one that I hated with a demons' passion.
I walked outside of the surgical waiting room and waited inside the main waiting room. On the inside they had a television and a developed collection of magazines on multiple subjects. Other people were inside there whom I could converse with. Most of the people present were suffering through difficult times themselves and more than willing to speak from the bottom of their heart about any subject matter imaginable, just as long as it was not one way out in left field somewhere. What both I and the others desired to hear was talk of life's pleasantries and happy times, not despair or agony of any sort.
An hour seemed like a day, then abruptly, the nurse appeared to call me back into the room for the doctor's review. I walked back down the hallway and into the surgical waiting room, where the patient was held before being transported back into the operating room. There sat Dr. Ekviostis in the desk chair to greet me as I walked through. His tall, middle aged emotionless form sitting there to relay the conclusive results. I glanced over toward my dear wife, who was now conscious and communicative but completely immobilized there in the bed.
“Good afternoon,” he glanced over at me, then toward Thea and said. “We've reviewed the test results and I was asked to conclude...and my conclusion is that you need another operation,” he said with an adamant firmness.
“What sort of operation,” I asked?
“Well, I need to open her up again and search around a bit, to see what there may be to find that needs repairing...,” he stated completely void of an compassion what so ever, but appearing agitated that I would dare to ask questions, nodding his head as he spoke the words.
“What do you mean, to see what you can find,” I asked again?
“Just what I said.., exploratory surgery. Who knows what else in there it is that could be wrong?”
I became angered sharply at his nonchalant behavior in all of this matter. I could not resist asking the obvious question.
“What about the stem that is leaking and the source of all this catastrophe to begin with...What about that?”
He smiled broadly, then spoke saying...shrugging his shoulders and uplifting both hands as he spoke...
“So what? What about it, mate....?”
I was now astonished at his remark.
“So what.?What about it...? I will tell you what..Are you going to cap it off, because even I know that if you had done so in the beginning, none of this other calamity would have occurred! That's what! Are you going to do that?”
“Sure that will be done, sure, sure thing about that, but we must look around a bit just to see what else may need addressing that could be causing additional problems.”
My wife suddenly perked up just a bit, raising her eye lids and moving slightly as she spoke.
“Who is going to be performing the operation?”
“I will be,” he snapped, as if he were attempting to remain confident in himself..
“Oh no...don't let this be..! Oh why, why does it have to be this way,” she said as she wept in between her words?
The surgeon smiled a thin fleshless smile, then replied to her question.
“Well it's like this..., there simply is just no one here who exceeds my skill level to perform this task... Matter of fact, to find a person of higher caliber and skill, one may have to go as far away as the Italian coast, on the continent. The task to locate him would be overwhelming, to say the least. Then we would have to transport him here...and all on our own dime, I must add here as well.....So..., the choice is like this, being that we are simply just forced by circumstance to make use of the resources that we have at our immediate disposal. Personally, unlike the times before, I want to move on this matter within the next three hours, at most. The situation is just that urgent, I feel.”
“What do you mean by the word, urgent,” I asked?
“Just what I said...This situation is in need of an immediate address. This is not something that we need to muck around with here.”
“If you had just capped the stem off, like you should have, we would be out of here by now,” I snapped in anger!
“Please, my love,” Thea gasped, “do not anger, forgiveness is the necessary premium here. Lets forgive, not rage in this matter.”
“Fine then, sighed the surgeon, Ekviosis, who then continued with a clap of his hands. “I thought that any concerned would come to view this matter in it's proper perspective. What I need you to do now, sir, is to take this paperwork down to the window and let them address any concerns with you that they might have. Once these concerns have been addressed into their proper perspective, then and only then, we shall proceed on with this matter.”
He handed me a closed, sealed envelope packet of official appearing papers to hand back to the lady behind the glass window, who was appearing more and more as a wicked witch behind the glass window, than a lady now. When I passed the envelope beneath the glass, the lady seized upon it, opening it sharply, then she began to slowly examine the paperwork. Time passed that felt like two hours or more, then the lady turned toward the computer and commenced to type. In ten minutes she appeared to complete her typing work, then coldly turned toward me.
“Sir,” she inquired? “The price demanded for total services will be fifty thousand drachma. That includes the operation, all the painkillers and anti-biotic, the nurse care and the food, if your wife will be allowed to even eat solid food; if not, then the glucose that she will fed intravenously...Simply put, the entire range of the service will be purchased via this stated price in conclusion...and we need it in cash and in full... now, please sir.”
“What,” I snapped in shock and rage?! “I...will need time to sell off our first duplex flat investment or something...I don't know how to get it...I mean, what must I do,” I gasped in shock to the demand?
“Well...think of something...and fast, because we need this financial address within the next two hours...The situation here at hand really is just that critical, sir. Do something very quickly here or you may have a real negative situation on your hands to contend with..,” she said in a cold, seemingly pleading voice; but my gut instinct was that her real effort intended to impose the burden of blame upon my shoulders, should anything go wrong.
I quickly pulled my new cell phone from my rear pocket, punching the number of my property managers' office. The phone slowly rang, then answered the snappy voice of his young secretary.
“Hello.., how may we assist you here today,” she said.
“Is Artemis there,” I inquired?
“Yes, but what could he get for you?”
“I want to speak with him. Tell him its Jedi, from the Selenofotos place out on the hill,” I snapped, offering my local nick name that I had acquired around here over the course of time that I had been in residence.
“I sure will,” she replied as the sounds of her stepping away from the phone assaulted my ears. In a minute, the phone picked up.
“Hello, what could I do for you..?”
“Hello.., oh Art, gosh how it sure is nice to hear your voice..I need your assistance and just as quickly as I can get it. I have an emergency on my hands here pal,” I snapped with urgency.
“You know that duplex out on Phoenix street there that I purchased three years ago or so..”
“Yes,” he replied, “seems like I do..”
“How much is it worth, right now,” I asked with a gasp in my breath?
“I will have to check the paperwork, but I think that it is worth seventy thousand drachma...Let me see here,” he said.
His voice returned in five minutes, saying..
“Yes, most certainly here, indeed it is worth seventy thousand, without a doubt here. Why, what's up, he asked?”
“Man, my wife is in the infirmary here..and I really do need some real help, and I need it within the next two hours, just to be blunt about it,” I snapped.
“Oh g—d—n, I really do hate that...I really do and I am well aware of how things are around there, but unfortunately, that facility in all of it's harsh imbecility, is the very best that we have in a two thousand kilometer radius. How much are you in need of?”
“I need fifty thousand drachma, man and just as quick as you can send it. Could you find a buyer in that time frame, for fifty thousand,” I requested in desperation?
“I doubt it, not in that time frame. What I can do is forward you the money. I shall notate this specific and then you allow me to posses the property when this ordeal is over with. The problem is that it will take me three hours to wire the amount in to you. I have so much garbage around here that I am tangled up into right now...,but give me three hours and I promise that the money will be right on your way. Is your banking card still activated..?”
“Yes,” I replied with a gasp.
“Do they have an ATM close by or a Western Union?”
“They have an international ATM right here by the window, about twenty feet or so away,” I replied.
“Great! I will put in an order for the money with a phone call, but you are aware that the health facility charges an interest fee by the hour, aren't you?”
“No, I was not aware of that detail,” I replied.
“It is like, thirty damn percent,” he returned, “but no problem, I can get the cash dropped into your checking account, where you will then simply hand the card to the financial personnel there at the medical facility and they will make the total withdraw on it. They have their own personal government authorized code, you will endorse it electronically when you hand them the card, and they will follow through on the procedure. I apologize man, I mean, g—d—n..., man, am I sorry about all of this. Maybe you can get them to waive the interest. I doubt it, but it is worth a try. I can tell you, those filthy leeches want every bloody damn dime that they can force out of a person...and no body anywhere says or does anything about it. They just all float along like zombies walking into a raging hail storm that have been programmed to think that the day is all bright and sunny, that is..., until it is their own naked asses that are forced to sit on the red hot griddle or their next of relation, then it is always a different sad story.”
“This is a serious experience for me right now. I mean, my dear wife, Thea, her very life is on the line right now. If I was to lose her, I just don't know what I will do without her, man; I really do not know what it is that I will do!”
“Just hang on there, man and just give me three..., and I will have it in your account. You can work out the property exchange later on with me when all of this crud is over with. I will try to get it there quicker, but I cannot make any promises on that.”
“Just do the very best that you can man.. and please, please...do not forget about me. The property is already yours right now, as far as I am concerned. I just want my dear Thea back.”
We clicked off of the phone, saying our goodbyes as we did so. I had absolutely no time to spare here.
“Sir,” asked the lady behind the glass covered window? “Are you going to deliver on the cash? Time is wasting and we need it immediately to carry on with this procedure. Thirty minutes might as well be five hours, her very life hangs in the balance here. Hurry up with the money...hurry up...money now sir, hurry up or suffer her lose for ever..”
Out in the hallway I raced upon seeing the surgeon, Ekviostis, standing out there aloof..., smiling and laughing, flirting with the young nurses on his staff. An abrupt heated wave of fresh rage moved through my veins. I attempted to fight it all back. He laughed at his own rude joke with the four young ladies who joined in, one of them allowing her short skirt to flip up in his direction as she bent down to pick up a form that had somehow strangely slipped from her grasp, him casually slapping her flatly on the rear, his right hand appearing distinctly to rub in an effort to savor the moment; only then did he glance up to even notice me standing there in gasping astonishment. The midsized young lady laughed with a heavy blush as she stood up...,behaving as though she were honored somehow to have him even take notice of her.
“I have a line on your money, sir,” I said to him as he smiled and laughed so nonchalantly with the young girls there. “Could you go ahead and proceed forward with the operation,” I inquired?
He turned toward me, with a hedonist smile once directed toward the young nurse still fresh on his face that now seemed to fade into a repressed rage.
“What? What did you say there...?”
“Can you still commence with the procedure on schedule. The cash will be here only just an hour late,” I said with a longing gasp.
“What...? You mean that you do not yet posses the cash..? I mean, g—d---n man, lets do come to a simple understanding right now in all of this matter..The money is paramount here, plain and simple, without any exceptions... what so ever. I must have the money and on schedule, for me to commence with this procedure. If I do not have it and we lose your wife as a result, then the only one for you to blame will be your self. I will have done my part to neutralize this matter now, but you must just suck- it-all-up, and do yours! I am just so sorry, but life is a bitch, man! Nothing comes for free and no one owes anybody, anywhere a g-d--n thing in this world, fellow; least of all not a poor surgeon with his in-demand skilled services, considering the high cost of medical school and business in general,” he stated with a fleshless smile and a laughing wink back toward the four young nurses, who giggled in agreement with him as if there existed a silent unspoken desire behind the giggle itself.
“Like the old saying goes...I think that I read it once on a tee shirt on a beach over on Patmos island, I believe it was,” he continued to say in what appeared to be a mocking derision of my inability to make another choice in care facilities, “a little room-room for the night, a little zoom-zoom for the car or a little boom-boom for the pride and soul, man, indeed nobody rides for free!” The derisive statement was followed by a sudden ripple of giggles coming from the nurses, and another wink and laugh from the doctor.
My anger nearly raged unto the very point of exploding, but I kept my mouth closed and said nothing. In my ears I could still hear the weeping words of my dear Thea, begging me to just forgive....to simply plead unto the great spirit beyond for forgiveness, and allow all to go on into the void beyond in peace. The temporary value in acting on rash, raging imaginations was never worth the cost generated from it, I envisioned her plead as being.
I quickly raced into the room of my waiting angel, who was now slumbering and barely conscious, so it seemed. I stooped by her side, pressing my weeping face upon her breast.
“My dear Thea..I have done all that I can do and we are forced to wait and you to endure..I don't want to live without you, my love..If you go, then I shall surly follow...,” I whispered to her as I lay my head upon her breast, feeling the pulse of her still beating heart. “Yea.. though you walk through the dark valley in the shadow of death.., ye shall fear no evil, for I will accompany you in your journey through, always...even into the very end..What indeed will have been a life here lived without you to accompany me, my dear love. I need you here, right with me..., right by my side and nowhere else. Where for ever thou shalt go, then shall I follow thee, my love.. Two hearts to abide and thrive, absorbed in completely committed love ...for a most blessed infinity.”
I glanced up at the clock on the wall, seeing that the three hours had transpired. I gazed up toward the eyes of my dear Thea, which were now gently closed as she became absorbed into a deep slumber, unlike any that I had ever observed in her before. I raced back out toward the glass window, thrusting the bank card before the woman behind the glass, breathing in heaving gasps.
“Calm down there, sir,” she said with frozen words, completely void of any emotion what so ever.
“Is the money there in my account yet, because it very well should be,” I snapped, glancing back and forth from the clock on the wall to her face.
“I do not know..., here, let me see!”
She took the card and pulled up a page on the facility computer. Carefully she punched in the numbers of the card. She then placed the entire card into a machine by the computer that bore a slot just large enough for the card to fit. A hum ensued, then a slot with a reception bowl hanging out side it spat out the bills in hundreds, ten at a time.
“Looks like all is well. Just as soon as the machine gives us the total delivery in hand, then I will put in a notice via facility e-mail to Dr. Ekviostis, who will then commence with the procedure at hand. I must warn you, however, that you have already lost an hour. Time is of an immense essence here with this quickly deteriorating situation,” she said.
Soon the machine quit spitting out hundred drachma bills. Then I observed her turning to the computer screen and quickly typing a few keys. In what felt like no time, she then turned toward me, saying..
“Well there you have it...The doctor will be arriving very soon to commence with this procedure. Hope that all ensues well with it, sir.”
Quickly on impulse, I raced toward the room of my dear Thea, seeing her laying there all silent and motionless, enveloped in her deep complete slumber. I hung my head and weep-ed tears of passion at my ever looming possible lose. What is it that I was to do now to improve the situation at hand? What were my other options? I sighed deeply, consumed with regret that much more could not have been accomplished on my part, to alleviate this potentially forthcoming horror. Soon entered the smiling surgeon, Ekviostis, with the transportation crew and the stretcher.
“It's about time,” he said through his fleshless thin smile. He only seemed to glare upon me as he spoke, as if he was saying that if I had a problem with anything that I should spill it out now, like I had not already done so enough. “You should know by now that the whole world evolves around money and it costs us to provide resources that are in many cases, somewhat scarce, shall we say. Then the people who provide the services must be paid their proper dues and on time. Then we have food that must be accounted for.., and room, of course...”
He continued to smile, but now near to the point of laughing, so I felt at the time..
“But this should have never happened! It is all your fault due to your own incompetent oversight, man,” I yelled in anger and frustration!
Ekviostis sighed, then shook his head as he glared upon me in derision..
“Now..! now, sir, there...., lets not give in to baseless accusation here. Sometimes clamps are placed on stems and the clamps do not effectively seal...And oh, I am so sorry there, sir, but situations such as this do indeed occur. In reality, they are not all that uncommon during these types of procedures..”
“But you are the master surgeon,” I snapped and gasped, still consumed by rage and frustration! “If you had encountered such situations in the past, then why have you not deduced a proper additional preventative measure to ensure that a leak does not then occur? Even a plumber on a section of pipe would take a preventative measure of one sort or another.”
Dr. Ekviostis then sighed deeply again, shakeing his head from side to side...
“There you go again, sir...You just don't get it, do you? Cut the baseless accusations, now...!Do you realize that I can file charges on you for slander..,hmm? I have that much power and could file charges on you for slander at this very moment, just off what has transpired right here in the company of witnesses. Are you aware that a charge of slander... and the charge is most certain to stick like glue..., is a felony offense? Are you aware of what it means to be charged with felony here on this island...? How old are you there, sir,” he inquired through his rude gesturing icy smirk as he reared back and folded his arms.
I answered not but only heaved in breaths underneath my mounting, teeth gritting rage..
“ I can look at you and deduce that you are more than likely in your late forties there...I can also venture to tell you right now, emphatically, that if you are charged by me with a felony for slander here on this island, that it most certainly would stick and that you would be servant unto me for the remainder of your mortal life remaining. I own vast international poppy farms, fields and land holdings presently being cleared and even a few factories, such as those that process the painkillers and anti-biotic here..., and all of them are in sore need of employees; and you sir, sure appear healthy and strong enough there to make us a fine one, no doubt about it.”
As the transportation crew wheeled my dear Thea out into the operating room, the surgeon continued to smile and speak his imposing, antagonizing words to me, as I could only stand in idle and smolder.
“You and another just like you, would be good for us to make use of inside our facilities. You would serve us well until your fifty fifth year, then we would be forced to send you away, where you would be compelled by lack of opposing choice, to provide us with testing material...for our latest drug treatments, of course..,” he said with a stretched smile.
“Have a nice day there, sir,” he said as the stretcher supporting my beloved Thea, was transported away, he turning to walk behind it as it moved along.
I moved into the main waiting area of the facility there in the hallway again, this time feeling as though I could receive no relaxation while this procedure was continuing on in it's course. My heart raced and my mind seemed to swoon in imaginations where I perceived the worst experience that could occur, and where the worst of situations would leave me in light of it's materialization. In the distance once or twice...I thought that I could perceive her scream, begging for my immediate assistance. I leaped from my seat, racing into the hallway as though I were mad, only to realize as I proceeded along...., that I had fallen asleep and was dreaming. As I made my way back toward the waiting area, I would glance into the eyes of others who were walking along as they glanced upward into my eyes with astonishing wonderment...Maybe I really was going mad..?
Time passed that felt like more than a day. I reasoned that the dark of night must in fact be upon us. How long have they been back there with my dear Thea? Have they repaired what they had torn asunder? Have they healed what they have caused to be in such dreadful disrepair? My breathing quickened in it's heaving rhythm. I passed through stages from gritting my teeth in raging seething anger, to my heart bleeding with tears and my weeping emotions taking me down into the dark depths of incapacitation. In a few minutes a surgical assistant appeared at the door of the waiting room..
“The Fortunado family,” she inquired. “ Is anyone from that family present?”
I stood up instantly.
“Follow me, please,” she said.
I did so, I followed her down the hallway into the office area just adjacent to the pay window, where she opened a wooden door and stepped inside. I followed her on inside, taking my seat as I crossed the threshold. She dutifully closed the door behind us, taking a seat at the desk to the right as she stepped into the room. On her desk sat neat multiple stacks of papers, she chose one small stack, then shuffled the sheets two or three times before placing them neatly in-front of her to address me.
“Sir, I have been asked by Dr. Ekviostis to make this informative appeal, then decide on what our next move from here will be....Simply put here..., and it really hurts me to deliver this message.., but we have lost your wife...I am so sorry about all of this. I can only imagine the horror of it all and how this must resound on you at the present. Please be aware, however, that we do provide a wonderful service for you in lieu of situations such as this. Dr. Ekviostis is a very talented, proud owner of a pre-mortieum preparatory service, funeral and burial service... for a nice compact fee, that can be paid for right here within this facility. Matter of fact, the petite classical styled building just across the street there is where the funeral home is. Her grave would be just up on the hill there above us. You may choose the stone right here as well or the mausoleum, which ever the case may be.
If you should take notice, the graveyard is a really nice relaxing, well organized facility, in and of itself. In the foreground we have the contemporary chapel, yet one that is resoundingly and uniquely classical on the inside, that hosts services in all of the local languages and religious types. All of this may be organized right here today within this respective facility and planed out following the convenient, compact, one time payment. All that we must do now is simply plan out the details... You tell me how you want the arrangements, sir, then I shall hand you a nice little paper that you just carry to the wonderful lady behind the glass there at the pay window beside us right here..., and she will take it up with you from there. So lets initiate the process here and now....What about it, there mate? It is the very least that one could do for their loved on after all of this.”
To me, at that time, her voice bore the ringing sound of existing inside a tight metal drum. The sounds tangled and merged together in such a manner, that I could not even comprehend what it was that she was saying. My tears exploded from my eyes and my torso heaved so violently that I could not even breathe. I only sat and wreathed in my very seat.., first from emotion being ripped from a shredded heart, then from real pain that emanated outward from my breast.... and the pounding, throbbing sensation deep inside my throat...
“Sir Fortunado..! You must get a grip on this situation. What has happened is real...and there is nothing that you nor any one else may do to reverse this situation. You must only accept it as it stands, then go on from there. Such is the way of reality and we have left only the single choice of dealing with it. I promise that this sad journey will be just as easy on you.., as such is possible to do. Matter of fact, I shall carry the papers over to the lady behind the glass for you, right now at this very moment.”
I heard her feet swish passed me as I swooned, feeling my crumpling body now near collapse. As she passed through the door, I collapsed from my seat upon the icy tile floor of the office building, rolling as I wept with tears that felt as though they would never cease. Time now had no relevance to me, neither did life or death. My form was simply one that existed within a panorama backdrop, with no soul or heart. I knew not nor cared not what my station would be from this point forward, all that I knew was that my Thea was no longer with me and was now never to return. She had been snatched from me by a horrible villain of the worst sort in every way. That single thought I could never remove from my mind and the anger flowed through my veins in radiating waves of white hot flush that came in surges. My feelings fluctuated from shear hate, into the deepest feelings of loss and sorrow at a situation in which I was totally helpless. Upon the very closing of my eyes, all that I could see was his face, and I could literally taste his now bitter blood....I attempted to shake the imagined taste of his blood from my mouth, but it kept returning in waves, as do the waves of sea back into the shore..
I heard the shuffle of her feet by the door and heard the ease of the door as it moved outward..
“Mr. Fortunado, I have good news for you. The entire package deal has been sealed. I have a tombstone included with the grave up on the hill for your dear wife, unless you would prefer a mausoleum. Of course, you may always have the option to change it into a mausoleum later, if you should choose to. The final choice is ultimately yours, in that regard. The funeral service will be in Orthodox Catholic style and most importantly, you get the entire deal for a really compact price, considering what you are receiving. Would you like to hear the price..? I will go ahead and tell you the price that we have arranged for you. You will get all of these fine services.. for just fifty thousand drachma only.....Isn't that wonderful? No other facility anywhere else provides all of these convenient services that we do..., all compacted into one simple discounted price for our patrons...
Do you know what else is so nice about our services, Mr. Fortunado? You will not even have to handle the money part of it for us. We take care of that matter for our customers as well. You see, we have your banking card number already in our system. Dr, Ekviostis is a really good friend of your property manager. We know how many properties it is that you own, the manager knows that your wife was serviced here and he knows of the situation.., and your incapacitated emotional state as well. So he has kindly and legally agreed to work things out with us on your behalf. The duplex that you own over on Persephone street, the one that you and your late wife lastly purchased and paid off ...Well, your property manager has agreed to simply transfer the title from you over to Dr, Ekviostis. Your verified indebtedness to our facilities and your obvious state of mental incompetence, have automatically granted an indirect legal signature from you, extracted via documents that you have already signed, of which were then uploaded into our corporate website files. That amount derived from your property will cover the entire price, the interest charges, and all additional miscellaneous charges that may apply, and do so very nicely I must add.
I think that the property was worth one hundred thirty thousand drachma, but your property manager was kind enough to allow Dr. Ekviostis to obtain it at a generous discount...., all on your behalf, considering your unfortunate situation here. What is still even better about this situation, as I have stated prior.., is that we already have your signature, which was legally allowed in lieu of your professionally observed, shattered emotional and mental state. All of us here are very considerate of the prevailing situation that you cannot stand up for yourself competently, so the system allows us to take care of your needs, considering your obliging financial situation with us here. Dr. Ekviostis is well connected and it is in lieu of these connections that he is able to bring us these kinds services to offer our patron patients. How blessed we are, indeed, just to have him here employed within our wonderful facility.”
I simply continued to weep and only wreath on the floor before the desk as she spoke. I could not even rationalize the sound of her voice . Her words just rang out in the drum of the void into which she so callously opened her mouth to release them. She continued to speak but I could comprehend them not as I lay there on the floor, weeping at the horrible tragedy of my heart wrenching loss. I did not want to remain here alone...in such a cold, unforgiving world without the presence and company of my beloved Thea...
….The remainder of my very true tale of woe...was more like a hazy Gothic horror than a modern tragedy of any sort. The next frame that enters into my mind is the scene of myself standing alone there within the in-state cathedral room...my dear love laying there bearing an ash like appearance in her face.. and body ..of peaceful eternal slumber. Her petite gentle hands were folded neatly upon her naval to bear a chrysanthemum bundle of calcimine and cerulean hydrangea. Her face was draped in petals of lavender rose, with a very thin net veil of mist covering it. Her dress bore the striking likeness of our own wedding dress....I broke down again in tears out of my inability to accept the sight as it loomed right there before me. There it was, however, the horror of my worst nightmare..., right there standing before me as I wept...
“My dearly beloved Thea,” I whispered as she lay there draped in eternal slumber. “I have not forgotten my pledge to you, my love. You will not travel alone for much longer..I have a few things that I must do before I go away from here to join you in this journey. As we traveled together within the veil of completely contented life here on earth, so shall we both do so beyond...for a blessed ethereal eternity..I love you, my dear Thea...I love you more than dear life itself. Without you there is no life here....Without you, there exist nothing, but that of a looming foreboding void.”
As I spoke I touched her cold, wax like hollow cheeks beneath the veil, then the thought struck me..I glanced around and upon seeing no one within nor noticing cameras anywhere inside the facility where I then stood..., I proceeded to unbutton her blouse...then I beheld it, the terror of my worst perception..I saw the stitches down the center of her torso where obviously the villain had made his incision for the purpose of making extraction...! What horrified me and enraged me most, was when I instantly deduced that the extraction was made just prior to death, since organs are rendered useless upon death of the body...I can only imagine the terror and pain that my poor dearly beloved must have endured... right before her last breath.! I gnashed my teeth in seething rage at the thought, collapsing my head upon the edge of the sarcophagus, only to weep at my sorrow for my inability to save her from the inexcusable pain and suffering...., a shear agonizing torture of which an innocent in the highest degree....was so callously forced to endure.
“Oh my dear love, Thea...Had I been the man you perceived that you had married, then I could have deduced a method of your salvation from this terrifying experience that you have so dreadfully been forced to endure...Shame on me, my love, for not coming to your assistance...I failed you miserably, my dear love...I failed you miserably.! Oh.., but what now am I to do without you, my dear love, Thea,...?What am I to do now..? All the earth about me now has no meaning without your blessed company, just what on earth here am I now to do.?”
I lifted my tearing eyes to gaze once again upon her face of chalk ash. I had no indication in her perception of my presence, but on the outside I perceived the roar of rolling thunder in the looming distance through the silent stone walls. I visualized a strike of lightening causing her to arise into a seated position within the sarcophagus to embrace me once more again, but every time that the fire flashed, the sapphire light only revealed to me again.., her sullen motionless face, only slightly hinting of light blue chalk. Though I felt the presence of her spectrum form, my mortal eyes beheld it not, nor any sign of it about. Had she appeared and demonstrated a terrifying rage, then I would have held her not in blame for doing so. Deep down in silence I prayed that she would do just such of an act or one even worse than that of my imagination...., but all that I only beheld was her ridged form of chalk and ash, only laying motionless right there inside a silver sarcophagus enveloped within a silken interior of perfect calcimine, like her very form was sealed there in incessant contentment..., for the duration of timeless infinity.
In the far distance from across the expanse of town, the majestic chime lulled the twelfth striking, the sound of which resembled a gargantuan bell that only tugged the droning chime out for long minutes with each thundering ring, shocking me back into the horrifying panorama now abruptly thrust before me, one that I wished dearly would only vanish from before my eyes, never to return ...Only by that thundering announcement was I aware of times passage. As the bell continued to lull with a drone that dominated all the air about, I perceived the voices of numerous unseen spectrum whispering in offending tones that acknowledged my presence. On numerous occasions I perceived that my name was spoken aloud in a demanding voice, screaming for me to act in lieu of the terrible wrong done to one so divine and most innocent. I even perceived that her very blood screamed a commanding condemning voice..., a voice that loomed distinctly in my very ear with each drone of the midnight chime.
On the outside beyond, I only detected the roll of thunder which had moved closer in upon us. In the far distance I heard the the close of a door that I intuitively knew was the only passageway from the inside of the chapel into the antagonistic outside beyond. I perceived the outside latch clink in its seal. The only light present was that from the fire of the sky through the stained glass windows, which allowed me to view her face, again and once more again repetitively. As I witnessed her figure in the flash of the fire, I envisioned that she had picked up her face to turn into my direction, but I could never deduce whether it was to embrace me out of passion or scorn me out of bitter derision.
Here it was, however, that I spent my last night in company of my dearly beloved, Thea, holding her lifeless form there lying motionless inside the eternal sarcophagus, through the duration of the candle lit night, the candles twain by the ends of the silver sarcophagus and the flash of lightning without; I only weeping hot tears at my inability to feel her life beneath my breast once more again or savor the sensation of her warm breath upon my longing cheek. ..Even now, I felt as though I did not want to ever let go, but only longed to follow...,submit unto the ethereal journey into an expansive void of all time and space, but yet one in which I remained in timeless company with my dearly beloved.
“Oh my dearest Thea,” I whispered into her ear as she lay, “ allow me to feel your life once more again...Appear unto me as I presently stand.., allow me to view your spectrum existence, just only for one final time , then I can go on with my life knowing well of your comfort in that present state...”
I glanced over as the edifying fire flashed again, seeing only her ashen face enveloped in what was even more obviously now an eternal slumber with no end. There was no emotion from her, no hint of any to come..Only the indigo flash and the rolling rumble bore any hint of possibility for a life beyond. The flashing of the fire seemed to acknowledge answer to my prayers and my earnest requests as I spoke them into the ears of my lost love, now gone on beyond. I felt an unseen presence there within the chapel, but could perceive only an imperceptible void of timeless emptiness that was slowly robbing me of my calculating mortal sanity... I could.... perceive an outside presence now gradually entering into the very being of my breast, however, that was replacing that of my very soul, causing my present sorrow to transform...; causing my mortal breath to gradually heave and my teeth to grind into a decisive determination, as I glared once again into her motionless face of cobalt chalk and ash while she lay....
I had sworn my pledge aloud unto the gods in heaven above, and my dearly beloved Thea, while she lay still yet alive..barely. I know not what shall follow except a vindication, a vindication for a massive wrong done without provocation, on part of neither myself nor my dear love, Thea. We only sought beauty, health and happiness in life, designing only for such, both in our lives and the lives of all others who surrounded us. We were members of our local parish church, our community outreach programs, we were the best of contributors into our local assisting charities and philanthropic agencies. We assisted not only with the gift of revenue, but with a generous gift of our precious free time. We allowed local children relief programs to make use of our estate grounds to accommodate the people involved with their activities and program hosting. We gave generously to assist the poor and those in abject need, financially, due to medical hardship. When the day came that we only needed medical services, behold, how we were allowed to suffer so dreadfully...!Where are the cherub to plead our longing case for justice? Where are the angels who will stand throughout and morn? Indeed...,upon what hearth must one tread to invite all the spirits of the beyond, to advance forward in a manner that will cause the guilty to fear from the wrong that they have so viciously committed?
The days following the last night spent with my dear love, Thea, only consist of a deeply blurred haze, combined both with my constant tears, my face plunged only into the depths of my pillow and the constant scourge of strong drink...hoping to drown out all of my sadness and the pain of my sudden lose. She had been stolen from me by that villain..that wretch...that pig of a being shaped as a human, but with the soul of a devil right out of hells horrible belly. How dare him strike a blow such as this, then endeavor to hide behind the protective covers within the same unchecked system that allowed him to commit such felony offense! In the deepest height of my rage, my emotion would only collapse back into a grinding sadness that felt as though it would never end....
….Then came that most horrid of days, that day of which I never longed for nor attempted to contemplate..., no certainly not in music nor in word of the written page. I recall how her relations pulled me gently from upon my berth as I wept continuously, helping me to sup, assisting me to dress, then allowing me transport in their lavish car...pausing before the elaborate cathedral door. I reluctantly passed over the threshold, passing through the huge thick wooden doors opened, then at the fore of the congregation hall...I beheld it looming from beyond as my heart sank into the depths of my gut...sitting beneath a huge radiating cross of illuminating gold.
I could not cease in my weeping as the silver sarcophagus just sat there.., eternally motionless...before the looming cross in the backdrop. I dreaded the clearing of the wet haze in my eyes, for want of not viewing the silver sarcophagus; but as the congregation filled the hall, my eyes commenced to clear. I heard the drone of the huge pipe organ as it played the Latin fiesta, which I knew to be her favorite, though somewhat haunting melody.
On the outside loomed the ghostly push and whisper of a once gentle, but increasing blustery wind. Through the cathedral stained glass windows flashed the cobalt flame, then following, the resounding, rolling thunder. The design of the windows bearing the portrait of their stained glass, appeared to accommodate the flash of the fire in numerous instances, many of them changing their entire form and portrait, with the indigo flash causing some colors to blot out and others to transform in the instant, only to return to their original at the same instant of the flash ceasing. The genius of the artist here being that he could actually design these colors to form completely new portraits by making use of this action in the flash. How many dreadful months did it take him to deduce which specific colors could be placed where, to accommodate this instantaneous action in light and then manipulate it into such an explicit, artistic manner as to organize a panoramic relaxing willow enshrouded water portrait or that of an exotic Elysium tropical garden with an instant flash of lightening?
The inside of the cathedral was now dark, with the drone of the organ looming hauntingly in the foreground until the last person entered into the congregation room. When the last one entered inside, the doors eased shut with the snug sound of closure. Now it had began to rain, first lightly, judging by the sound on the outside, of hammering on the stained glass panes and slightly on the roof, then increasingly heavy as the shower of a huge down pour. The light abruptly beamed in the direction of the Priest who stood with a thurible of incense, swinging it unto the left and the right sides.., then pausing before the podium, standing. He paused rigidly, then commenced to speak unto the congregation.
“Oh my weeping blessed ones, we have gathered here to pay our respects to a dear one among us..; indeed one who did not ask to be here before us presently, but was violently thrust before us by unfortunate circumstance... Please allow us to pause and contemplate her life and her passing. Allow us to gaze forward upon this dismal sarcophagus, radiating forth our pleasant thoughts and most respectful contemplations....”
The Priest swung the thurible of bronze again from the left unto the right. Now it appeared not as a simple lantern of brass, but as a roman styled lantern of the purest bronze. Later on I was told that this type of lantern, in combination with the proper incense, allowed for a peaceful embrace of the soul as it transgressed from the present into the hither unto. He then chanted ancient phrases in Latin as he swung the timeless thurible.
Oh my dear ones,
lets do remember our loved one on this moment.
Lets put out our right hands forward
toward the dreaded sarcophagus,
to embrace the soul as it moves forth on it's timeless journey May she go forward in company of the one most divine, always,
for the duration of a most blessed infinity.
Amen.
Then the priest commenced to speak those words which caused minds to swoon and recollections to fill with reflections of a life that was now passed on into infinity.
“We gather here today not out of condemnation, but out of reflection alone and our condolences for those now consumed by their moment of dreadful loss. For those of whom known of Thea Selenofotos, then you were well aware of the living angel who walked next to all that was divine in her daily life, in every way. Those of you who did not know of her delightful charm, so blessed with divine elegance in her mannerisms and meathodologies, then take thy confort that the person who lies now before you.. was one of whom could be adored by all, on grounds of her active community endeavors alone, if not by her personal charm. She lived as a freind of all, from the gentle child right on up to the eldest adult. Most surely her greatest love was that of the people who surrounded her and the Lord God of heaven, whom she most righteously adored. Let it be stated right here on this evening, dear Thea, that on this very moment, where ever it is that you now walk..., that you are in fact, not walking alone.., for by both your side and that of our Lord walks the projected spirit of this entire congragation...So in the name of us all.., fare thee well, dear Thea Selenofotos from Nymphania on the hill, fare thee very well for all eternity, as you go...Amen and Amen..”
A flash of fire heralded the last sentence of his words, then came the rolling rumble following the Amen. On the outside rain fell in extremely heavy sheets, as if some sort of rare raging storm fresh from the tropics had moved in and settled upon the city. The wind picked up as the rain fell. Every now and again the the wood structure within the stone walls sounded as if it were moaning from the force of the wind without.
Then came the thunder of the massive pipe organs to expunge all other sounds. The tune was Bach, Toccota and Fugue in D minor and we all stood with the astonishing announcement of the pipe hymn. I saw them close the sarcofagus, locking the lid down firmly into place, concealing the chalk face of my dearest Thea, from view of both my eyes and the eyes of an imposing world without. My head commenced to swoon, my breath stumbled..., my eyes clouded from the shower of tears as they wheeled the sarcophagus passed and on down the asile. Now I knew beyond the shaddow of a doubt, that my dear Thea was fleeting from me and my adoring grasp, soon to be gone from both me and the earth for all eternity. My heart could not tolerate the throbbing pain and my knees soon collapsed with my weeping, heaving sobs... to the point that I was assisted by three attendants who walked beside me on both sides, and one behind to catch me when I fell.
I walked underneath an umberella that they held for me as I made my way behind the sarchophagus. They thrust it into the transporting vehickle as I stepped into the vehickle that followed. My head swooned as the majestic chime looming in the distance across town lulled the twelth stroke of midday.., again..., and again..., then again..., and on for the next twelve minutes. I wept in a continuous flood, for I knew now that truly my well wishes were for all eternity, and the mere thought just broke my poor heart into a thousand painful fragments.
I do not recall how long it was that I traveled..., on the next instant seemingly, we were driving through the graveyard on the hill. At the backside of the huge grave yard was a shallow pond born from a small flowing creek, with a willow canopy just beside a pond that shaded over into the graveyard. It was here that her new crypt was situated. The land area was not flat, but consisted of a gentle roll there on the hill summit, upon which sat her new moseleum crypt. I saw them take her coffin out of the transport vehickle, open the door of the crypt, then slide the coffin inside. A heavy metal door was closed behind the coffin, above which would eventually be placed a permanent concrete seal. Above the door was chizeled these words in stone:
Thea Selenofotos,
from Nymphania on the hill.
Born 19--, Died 19--.
As the wind whispereth through the trees by the gentle flow of the creek, so shall her spirit abide in blessed paradise for all eternity. May the Lord , therefore, be so kind as to allow her splendid memory to thrive among men for just as long..
I can vividly recall the gathering by her crypt, but I heard not nor could decifer the meaning of the words thereof. I beheld the Priest as he read the words, and spoke the wisdom that allowed a certain permanence in closure for most minds present. In the midst of my tears, there was no time nor space or meaning to any of it. The meaning of my standing there before the crypt held as much standing for me as the rain drops did in the tunes that they splashed out as they fell upon the earth around me...
..... Inside my mind I could vividly recall how the security allowed me to walk on back into the medical facility, with no checks to govern my actions nor to search my person. I could vividly recall how I noticed the security all throughout the facility, everywhere from the loby right on back into the surgery room.....and that picture kept flashing in my tortoured mind... again....and again, nay and even once more AGAIN, just like the blue fire in the sky above....
.....Time transpired, I know not how much. I can recall making my way down into the lawyers' office, reported to be one of the very best on the entire island, inqiring with him concerning my rights to combat the evil done and protest what had occured inside the facility, in the name of my dearly beloved Thea, whom has now so divinly departed.
“Look, Mr. Fortunado, you know that the accused surgeon owns this town and even is a large contributor within the nation as a whole. There is no law made that can touch him, to be quite blunt about it..unless it is that you can prove infraction beyond the slightest question. I must inform you that I know him very well and who his attournies are, and to try and fight the system, in this case.., is useless. I mean, to be honest about it and dirt specific, fighting it is hopeless...All that you'll do is just lose tens of thousands more drachma, eventually impoverish youself and sadly then be just as far along with it as you are right now. Matter of fact, once you have reached that state of being financially incopacitated, it could be that then, in-fact, you would be the one charged with false accusation and slander.., which is a very serious offense here. The best thing that you can do, sir, is just pick the pieces up and move on with life. I hate to say it like this, but just let the dead die ...and simply move on, sir. I believe you and understand your situation, and you are not the first who has addressed his concerns with me under very similar circumstances, but honestly, fighting is useless....I will say it again, just let the dead be dead and move on with life, Mr. Fortunado.”
Move on to where, I can recall thinking? Move on to where without the company of my dear Thea, and the love so divine that she had to offer me? What kind of man am I is it who cannot vindicate the great transgressions made against her? Where then lies her precious honor without proper vindication...?
Many months passed, I cannot recallect how many it was, since my mind has continually been consumed by a heavy haze induced from constant frustration and heart wrenching emotional pain......I can only recall putting in with the security company for work there at the infirmary.... I worked very well on the job.., taking notes, observing, recording every event, collecting identifacation from visitors, regulating trafic and issuing parking tickets. I was literlly thrown the keys and told that I owned the place, and to go anywhere and observe; doing so was, in-fact, my job, so I was told.
I did so with pride and a newly radiating joy... I walked the floors and made every note. I loged in the time that he arrived there into the facility, the times that he made his exit, where specifically it was that he parked and where it was that he parked most. I knew well where it was that he came from and was going to. I knew where his personal work station was, his personal office, the specific elevetor that he took to go from the basement onto the third floor of the surgery room and exactly how to make use of it...In fact, I learned every specific detail about him....
....I arose very well rested on that fateful morning....I merrily dressed into my usual secuity uniform. Upon my drinkstand by my bedside lay my stainless razor edged dirk. I seized it up...., dropping it into my hip pocket. ....In the air all about me I could perceive those sweet songs being sung by my dear Thea, as she whispered her tunes of adoration into my wanting ears while I labored dutifully in my efforts. All was like a foggy haze on that day.., the lightening flashed, the clouds above blocked my view of the sun, but one which glowed most brilliantly toward me from a spiritual apex rather than a secular one..Behold...the whispers of spirits riding on the very wind spoke echoing words of approval to me as I went along. I went into to my place of work on that day, as I can recall well..., and it soon became time for me to make my rounds..
....In the distant beyond, I thought that I heard that pipe organ playing the same concerto by Bach, the Toccota and Fugue in D minor. Then it was that I witnessed the villian enter into the facitlity. I beheld his sick smile, though he failed miserably to recall who I was, it appeared. He passed me and paused by the elevator door..., I quietly walked and paused just behind him. He stepped through the door, then I silently stepped through...The stainless steel double doors closed..I heard the voices of spirits in heaven welcoming me home, then I also heard the voices of demons in hell urging me forward into my new endeavor....
...I glanced upward toward him, then I beheld that split second in time where the moment was absolutly perfect, like no other before nor any other that would come ever afterward, I knew it! The most perfect moment shinning brilliantly in such a way that I knew it would never shine again...It was like an invisible raging spectrum seized my wrist and right hand..., another powerful force possessed my very body and soul.., but I saw the right hand do the dirty deed with my own eyes...and the exposed shinny razor sharp blade sank deep into his neck at the base on the back side.., then the razor edge slashed with a perfection that would have rivaled even those of his own...! I saw the blood gush...I saw him collapse into a wreathing heap onto the floor without even uttering a single sigh...I beheld the hand slash and stab nine more times until the involuntary contortions ceased; inside I felt the tension of the intense anger pleasurably exhaust itself with the expenditure of all might into the slashing stabs.... and the body then lay perfectly still inside puddles of thick crimson syrup that bore the pungent scent of freshly butchered pork.
...Carefully I whiped the blade off onto his own clothes, then replaced it into the skin sheath inside my right hip pocket. The elevator paused, then the doors opened into an empty hallway. I simply pushed the button to go back down into the basement and the elevator did so, without any pauses. I walked out of the medical facility and eased back into my car. The radio was on and playing the fifteenth concerto. I drove my car back to my home on the hill, parked it. I said my goodbyes, then proceeded to walk down the hill to where my broken pony was still tied and tended. I untied it, saddled up and began riding the horse back out toward the edge of town. The wind had picked up dramatically and I was soon riding back out into the vast tree scattered, sand swept wilderness surrounding the town and covering the huge island.
...As I moved along across the sands through the scattered forests, all that I could see was the spectrum figure of my dear Thea there in the distance before me. She was beckoning me to follow, to romp with her through the Elysium fields of precious netherland and to savor the company of all those whom I now only thought were lost for a timeless infinity. There was one place that I sought to go here in the wilderness. A lone chalky cliff side, some half a kilometer high above a gentle purling creek of the purest perfect sapphire. Though the creek appeared shallow and narrow from high above, that appearance was an evil illusion. Actually the creek was somwwhat vast and very deep, more akin to a river than a simple creek.
On a ledge high above the creek, I nestled. In my back pack I had plenty of food stored..., so I waited for them..., until they came for me. On the ledge.., at long last divine... it was that I spent my remaining days in company with the spectrum of my dear love, Thea... Though she existed within the realm of what for mortals was unatainable, yet by her own determined force in free choice of will..., she transcended through the thick gray misty gulf separating the mortal from the immortal..We loved a love of the purest delight right there on the ledge, which was far more intense, even more so than any I had ever experienced with her during her secular years..Now beyond question, I knew it was that I could never live again being absent from her company... I yearned now more than ever before, to love a love not just for the momentary, but for the blessed eternal divine..
.....On the hill in the distance I could perceive their raging blood hounds and their rasping imperceptable shouts. I heard the clammor of horses hooves on both sides high above me. In the distance a lone voice yelled, “there he is, do you see him through the binoculors? There he is.., right there on Calypso's hills eastern ledge below...!”
Then spoke another strange harsh voice from above on the cliff summit behind me...
“Get the army rifle my avenging companions..! We have him now and there is no escape for him what-so-ever..! He'll pay the maximum right here and now for his cold calculating, dastardly deed.. Who does he think that he is to commit such a vile act unto one of our finest, and please pause just moment to concider...,while he was residing right here in our own nation?! Just who is it, that these foreigners who dare to come here, think that they are?”
I heard the sharp thunder and the singing glance of their lead. A thick haunting smokelike mist then rolled inward from across the expanse beyond the jagged chalk of the white cliff and the ravine below. As I glanced below into the shimmering depths, I viewed the circling swarm of what appeared to be thousands, if not millions, of welcoming cooing snow doves, freely offering forth their sweetest of exhilarating seranade...
I heard the sharp thunder and the singing whine of their lead as it glanced from upon the cliff walls immediatly above my head...
....Then the thick veil of gray mist finally moved across the expanse to consume me, hiding my fleshly form from their tainted view as my body lifted up into the awaiting arms of my dearest beloved.., my most chereished blessing from holy God in heaven above.., Thea' Selenofotos in spectrum. As we flew together, the angels from deep within the invisible depths of the hallowed void, screamed their cheers of exalted welcoming as we entered into that most divine haven of the immortal realm..., only to love a perfect unadulterated love entwined togather, embracing arm in adoring arm ....for the duation of a most blessedly glowing infinity.
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