What was I supposed to do now? There was no canned milk. What the hell was I going to do?? I rummaged around one last time behind the canned green beans and peas, hoping against hope, but no. There was nothing I wanted there. I dreaded what I knew had to come now. I had been thinking about it, building myself up for the terrible act that I would have to commit if this situation were to arise. And it had. So I had to do it.
I walked slowly towards to refridgerated aisle, making sure to keep my breathing regular and steady. I paused before turning the corner onto that dreaded aisle, took and exceptionally deep breath, and stepped onto the aisle. There were several people there, including a striking woman in red, but my mind immediately drifted towards the shelves. Oh those terrible shelves. The cartons and jugs glared at me from row upon row of cold metal shelves. Those shelves and their contents often haunted my dreams, and I would wake up, afraid to even breathe. I was going to die. "Hush, Maria," I murmered to myself, glancing around me to see if anyone noticed my somewhat odd behavior. A red basket hung on an arm, filled with shiny glass bottles brimming with various liquids. How I approved of her choices. So neat and clean and contained and safe. I wished that everything came packaged like that.
But the woman with the basket continued to stare at the shelves, assessing which poison she would take home with her. And the people around me eyed the jugs and cartons like pieces of dripping meat straight from the slaughter, picking and choosing as though each one were different, as those the eyes alone could decide which would be best. I was so afraid of making my choice. What if I chose the wrong one? "This is all they have, Maria, so just suck it up. Think of the kitten. Deep breaths, Maria, deep breaths." The woman looked at me questioningly, but I wouldn't meet her eyes. I looked up and down the rows of plastic, thinking how easy it would be to slip something into one, how simple it would be to slide that needle gently through the side above the liquid line and then back out again, unnoticed. I shuddered. Poisons, diseases, other liquids, and then everything would be tainted, destroyed and terrible.
Movement next to me brought me back to my current situation. The woman was stepping back from the shelves and walking away, leaving the cartons and jugs untouched. She must be an intelligent woman to have grasped the truth about them, I thought. I wonder if she always looks at them and then walks away, or does she sometimes take something with her? Does she realize what danger she is in everytime she stands so close to them? "Close, too close," I muttered, and took a quick step back myself. "But I need it." Breathe in, breathe out, breathe in, breathe out. "I need it." Breathe in. "Yes, I do." Breathe out.
I stepped forward and picked up the jug of milk closest to my reaching fingers. One percent. Expiration date still nine days away. The jug looked alright, nothing strange and white and floating in it, no discolorations, no dents in the jug. "You can do this, Maria," I said quitely. I moved the jug to where it hung suspended above my own little basket and took one more breath. I began to lower it into the basket. That was when I saw it, a tiny hole, a pinprick, a needle incision, on the cap.
I tried to tell myself that it wasn't really there, but before I had even gotten through saying the first word of reassurance outloud, I had dropped the jug on the floor, not caring that it split down the middle and milk started to run across the floor. I let my basket slip from my arm, hearing the bottle of olive oil break and the tomato smash. I wrapped my arms around me as tightly as I could and ran. I ran down the aisle and through an open checkout line. I ran out of the store and down the street, jumping the sidewalk and landing in a giant puddle where water was rushing into a drain. I ran even though the rain was pelting down and my umbrella was still neatly packed away in my purse. My scarf slipped from my shoulders, landing in the street like a stray red thread would on a grey carpet, but I didn't stop to pick it up, I just kept running. I ran until I had reached my apartment building, dashed up nine flights of stairs, and run to my very own door.
The nine that I had super glued there this morning (to protect it from certain theft) stared cheerfully out at me, but I would have none of its good humor. I turned my back on the door and slid down the wall until i sat, a dripping mass, in my very own doorway. I shrieked when I looked down at my hands and thought of milk. Ripping open my purse I tossed things out until I found that little bottle of hand sanitizer I had purchased from the conveniant store. I poured the entire contents onto my wet hands and rubbed and rubbed and rubbed and rubbed and rubbed until there was no more. Then I sighed, leaning back against the door, all the while tears streaming down my face.
A dim shadow flickered over my knees as a figure slipped out of apartment 981. I wondered for a moment at the oddity of it, but then ignored it, another mystery for another time. The weary face looked surprised to see me, but not at all amazed that someone would be sitting on the floor in the dirty hallway, purse contents lying haphazardly around them, crying their eyes out. Kevin came and sat down next to me, back against the wall. He looked across the hallway at his closed door. "So," he said eventually, "Are you going to be alright?"
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
2 comments:
The Task
At the sight of Patrick's body, Kevin's heart was gripped with grief. No, he thought. I must maintain my composure until my task is complete. Kevin paused a moment to collect himself. Finally, he was ready.
Snapping latex gloves onto his hands, Kevin somberly trod to the steel table. Picking up a silver scalpel, he held it up, where it glinted in the light of the bare bulb dangling directly above the center of the table. "So much has been done," he exclaimed, enunciating every word with utmost care. "More, far more, will I achieve; treading in the steps already marked, I will pioneer a new way, explore unknown powers, and unfold to the world the deepest mysteries of creation!"
With that, Kevin bent down to cut the stitches that held together the corpse's chest from his previous incisions. Kevin then pulled apart the sides of the rib cage like the bascules of a drawbridge, the corpse's sternum having been delicately sawed in half. Inside Patrick's chest cavity, a collection of electrical wires intertwined with the blood vessels and sinews, the result of Kevin's three years of labor. Several of the wires originated at either of two points on opposite sides of the heart, corresponding to the places where the two pads of a defibrillator are placed. From there, the wires branched throughout Patrick's body, down his arms and legs to the tips of his fingers and toes. Scars all along his body verified their presence. However, Kevin's greatest task was yet to come: Reinvigorating Patrick's brain. Kevin knew that drowning deprived the brain of oxygen, the real cause of Patrick's death. Cardiac arrest was a secondary effect. His years as a lifeguard had taught him that much. After one final inspection to ensure that the wires were properly secured, Kevin refolded Patrick's rib cage and began to sew up his chest again, delicately lacing the stitches from the corpse's navel to the space between its collarbones.
Now that the corpse's chest had been sewn up, Kevin was ready to start on the spinal cord. But first, he needed coffee. Lots of it. It was going to be a long night.
Doffing the gloves, Kevin cracked open the door of apartment 981, surveying the corridor for signs of human life. Seeing none, he slipped out into the hallway and locked the door behind him. He sprinted down the stairs, out the front door of Washington Heights, and down the street to the coffee/convenience store, not wanting to lose any time that could be directed toward his precious task. He ordered an extra large black coffee with a double shot of espresso from the red tee shirt-clad cashier, and, upon receiving it, dashed back to room 981 as quickly as he had come.
Kevin gently set the coffee down and locked the door behind him. Turning to face Patrick's body, he was filled with a tingling sensation: he knew the day was drawing near when he would have Patrick back. Taking a sip of the coffee (slightly burnt as usual), he felt his veins surging with caffeine, amplifying the feeling of excitement. Kevin wondered if this is how Patrick would feel once the lifeblood began to flow through his veins again.
But never mind that. He had to get back to work. Kevin gently rotated the corpse so that it lay flat on its chest. Having once again donned a pair of gloves, Kevin cut two slits in Patrick's back, one on either side of the spinal cord. He then began to dexterously thread a wire through Patrick's vertebrae, starting near the pelvis and working his way up toward the base of the skull. It was a long and tedious process. Kevin alternated each vertebra with a sip of coffee.
Several hours passed, and Kevin had only inserted a wire on one side of the spinal cord. He would have to save the other side for the next night. Taking some surgical tape that he had pilfered from the free clinic down the street, he temporarily closed the incisions. Peeling off the gloves, he turned to the door. At the door, he paused to steal one last glance at Patrick for the night and to whisper, "Good night." Then, a glistening tear rolling down his cheek, he slipped into the hallway.
Walking through the corridor to his apartment next door, Kevin was brought back to reality by a faint whimpering. He froze. Maria was sitting in front of her door, sobbing. Kevin panicked. No one was allowed to know that he had been in apartment 981. No one. No one should have the opportunity to come close to suspecting that he was up to something. Kevin hoped that she was too caught up in her tears to notice that the apartment he had come from was not his own. He sat down beside her and waited for her crying to subside.
She brought the glass of red liquid to her lips, reflecting on the events of the
day, pondering over what would happen next. Her legs covered in dark boots crossed, swinging in the air off the stool. She didn’t lean on the bar, as did the gentlemen who had been continuously consuming shots since he got here. She hadn’t seen him before, at least not before she left. He’d looked at her only once and ignored her the rest of the time—she hated him.
Bored of the rather dull atmosphere—no music, no entertainment, no men—she finished her numbing elixir in a soft gulp, head tilted back, long dark hair sweeping her back in fierce strokes. Rising, she grabbed her leather jacket and proceeded to the door. Putting on the jacket, she reached to pull the door open. A wave of shock hit as the blinding white light met her eyes—and he entered. Compared to the atmosphere, he was a God.
“Excuse me,” I managed to purr, as I brushed past, careful to graze his perfect arm as he held the door for me. She’d have to keep special tabs on him.
Her boots echoed as she made her way on the pavement, boots echoing her every step, unable to penetrate the noise of the city traffic. Without a destination in mind, her thoughts crept to the men she’d just met. She envied them. The alcoholic, in all his distasteful existence, seemed to even then have purpose, a reason. Since she got back, the direction of her life seemed elusive. She’d always lacked specific direction in her life, but she had an overwhelming sense that something needed to be dealt with—she just didn’t know what yet. It was like an itch that couldn’t be scratched, no matter how much alcohol she consumed. Wine—she needed more. Interestingly enough, her mind had been one step ahead of her; she had somehow made it to the front of Manny’s Grocery.
She entered the store. Taking a basket, she made her down the aisles to get to wine section. She thought back to the women she hadn’t previously given notice to: the weird woman on the sidewalk and the annoying twit on the elevator; even they had some path that they were drifting along, no matter how insignificant. She stood in the aisle, staring at the glass bottles that would be her sweet aid. Some woman was muttering next to her, she was also staring. She appreciated this woman’s taste, but it was rude to stare, even if it was at Nicole. She left the aisle, and bought her wine. Number one task out of the way, she headed to the coffee shop.
Sun high in the sky, she entered the shop.
Oh dear. Molina was in the convenience store talking to Dillain. The ding of the bell signaled her entrance, and they both looked up. Molina made a smart comment, followed by another. Nicole ignored her and went to the back room. She set her bag down and changed. Dark jeans and red blouse on, she returned to the front. Dillain had left, which only left Molina. How she was not in the mood…
“So?” Molina questioned, hand on hip, impatience in her voice.
“I wasn’t in my apartment, obviously. How can I help you?” Nicole retorted with equal attitude.
“Jus’ wanted to check on ya, hadn’t heard from you in a long time.” Her lack of speaking skills always infuriated her, other than that, Molina wasn’t so bad. Nicole even enjoyed her company some of the time, she’d been a good friend before she left.
“I’ll try to answer my phone next time, or bring my cell phone with me; whichever.” Effectively assured, Molina left.
And so work began.
Dillain entered the shop at 12 a.m., right on time.
“I’ll see you later,” Nicole said as she flew past him in her hurry to leave. She’d bee so eager to leave she’d almost hit him on her way out. She loved and hated Sketch Coffee. Taking ownership from her uncle had been easy enough, but as far as she knew, her uncle got the better end of the deal. Walking back to her building, home, she considered the people who’d come in. A woman, young, pretty brown hair, poor. Taking out change like an imbecile to pay for her coffee, which had been difficult to “make” in and of itself. A man who’d bust in the store, unwashed. She knew that these people stayed in her building, but that didn’t make them any more appealing to talk to, however convenient it might be.
When she stepped off the elevator on the 11th floor, she noticed a strange and eaciated character jiggling the door knob of my apartment.
"What the hell are you doing?"
"Well obviously I am trying to break into your apartment. It's much more difficult than it looks, I usually have someone else do this. Regardless, there is no point in continuing, I shall take my leave."
She'd of kicked his ass, but she had she more pressing matters to deal with; however, she wouldn't forget this encounter--or this insect. She watched him walk away and push the button of the elevator. She memorized his statue and appearance--she stored it in her memory for later. She entered the apartment. She breathed a huge sigh as she threw herself on the couch. Her dress and drinks were in the bag, but she’d get them later. With nothing to occupy her mind, she considered the problem that lay ahead and behind her. Something needed to be done about something, she just didn’t know what. She raised up and placed her arms on her knees, head in her hands. The unknown task harassed her thoughts until impatience flowed into her limbs. She had to get out.
She switched from jeans to her short, pleated, black skirt. She grabbed boots from her closet—red. The cold wouldn’t bother her after a few drinks, so she left her jacket and left the troubling apartment.
Post a Comment