We made a promise eons ago, and I did not lie when I said forever. Each and every lifetime I will be right next to you, helping you to find all your pieces, arranging them, gathering them until you are whole. Even if.... I look down at the space that can no longer hold any new promises. I vigorously shake my head, rattling away thoughts that shouldn't linger too long and follow the crescendo of my heart, mild burn of my skin to...him. How have I beard a life of silence? I wonder as I break off into a sprint guiding me to my new adventure, shocking life back into to me.
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The nothingness that consumes me, congeal into darkness, gathering ridged shape with no end reaching past the traffic of wings. Smells of long, forgotten life burned into my lungs like tepid water over a block of ice. A crooked smile, stitched across my skull, each sensation, a step of excitement: fresh manicured patches of grass, a child's sticky fingers, streaks of all-purpose cleaner staining windows, suffocating ammonia littered with feline dominance, and chalky paint preparing for the next tenant to drown on borrowed time. Everything was so painstakingly beautiful. The scenery blurred like burning film blinding into luxury clover lawn, powdered decay of its former occupancy that no longer aligned with the aesthetic of unattainable and top notes of overuse chlorine lined my esophagus that if my skin was fully formed it would match the soles of my toes.
The neighbors between homes grew in strides, returning ownership to nature with an enthusiastic vigor. I step into a slow, open-mouth-breathing, bouncing halt, twirling in a full circle, knowing unconditionally there isn’t a single bipedal lifeform for miles.
No – my breathing quickens, gasping for more than the teases my toddler of a shut-off valve discovering buttons would allow. 'NO!' My legs gave out. ‘I know I felt it. I know the rest of me is out there.’ I look down at the hands that braced my fall in the cracked, 90-degree pavement, glancing to the hollow remains of my third finger. ‘How will I find you?’ I whisper in between choked coughs. I need to remember how to exist … and breathe. I lay down on my side, clutching my knees, focusing on my heartbeat. ‘One, two, three, and four’, I count. One and two, three, four, and breath. I slow down. One, I grab a small strand of hair at the nape and follow the natural loops and curves, aiding in self-soothing.
The sun wanned over the barren road. My finger lingered at the end of the curl and just as I was about to resign myself to spend the rest of his life, overlooked in the center of a lane I felt it. I felt warmth well up inside of me like a blanket by a campfire. My heart tugged me forward as if inhaling its first breath from the brink of death. My eyes followed the invisible thread - a vehicle with no exhaust was approaching. My heart leaped through the air, a prima donna - center stage. The silhouette of person, shoulders towering over the steering wheel. 'Is that them?' I thought; eyes wide, tongue drying out from overexcitement at the possibilities. 'It has to be them.' I asserted, jumping to my feet, flagging them down in a jumping jack fashion. Today, I will be seen. I moistened my stretched smile, waiting for the vehicle to slow. waiting for a hint of hesitation at the sight of a person in the middle of the road.
It did not. It sped up. I could make out a tall women cradling a device between her ear and shoulder, a shot gun leaning against the dash board she occasionally tapped her manicured nails on like a metronome, and tarp taped across the last four flatten seat, along with things that rattled. This was not my soulmate, but if I concentrate, maybe I can hear words that could lead me to them. It was all garbled sounds at first like I was one frequency away from the station I needed then a whisper before sporadic words became coherent sentences.
"I know baby" she cooed. "I'll be right back." her tapping paused, squeezing the gun instead. "I'll stay on the line as -" It cuts off as she zooms out of earshot.
She must be connected to the one that keeps me moving. as if to answer my heart caught in my chest like a quick slam on the brakes, hurling me forward, stumbling until I caught my bearings and began to once again sprint towards them. 'Wait for me' I thought.
Soon structures popped up one by one as if spawning into existence sporadically begging to be useful again or added to the rubble that was sandwich between one's that resembled the memory a home. my mind began to wonder, looking left to right if he was hidden underneath the spiraling vines suffocating a rocking horse's mausoleum or behind the oven whose rusted screws aids in maintaining its dignity of purpose. Best case scenario they were hiding in the weathered tenth round house of Janga due to its functional quarter roof they would have a small space to bare the weather and daylight hours. I continued to follow my heart, no longer unsure of the direction as the thread guiding my way thickened, multiplying braiding itself secure. They were close.
The road trailed off, tapered at the end up ahead like the end of a story that begs the question, but I keep walking into the soft grass that sooths my growing callous to start my story. Maybe, I fantasize. maybe they are the end of their life, and they chose to live the rest of their days in seclusion. Peacefully letting their days slip away and I can be there next to them as the metronome of our hearts sync then sink to deafening silence. whole notes of rest fill pages upon pages because our story continues in different styles, but there is no more to say. I couldn't ask for anything else.
beats of my drum triple, an unsteady line painted across my face, in the distance a very small house neglected by the world. When it creeks there is no one to hear, but there it stands stronger than anything for miles. nestled between two thick, loving trees on either side. Our connection vibrates like small manicured nails plucked a harp. I knew without words that inside there they would be and there would be four more signals. My jog turned into a disjoint skip (, apparently skipping is not intuitive, but the want to is). As I got closer, I could make out the mosaic of the natural wood layered to tell the life lost for those who will live inside. The shiny screws around door handle, the key still in place with an identical key hanging off its ring accompanied by a smaller too worn for its small size. I grip the key, exhale, relaxing my face as I attempt to exert force. It fails. I do not know I am supposed to apply downward force while simultaneously applying inward force nor do I realize until my heart vibrates like the last cord on a teenagers first arpeggio I am not physical enough to even apply recognizable force. Three more to go, until our eyes meet.
"Please - please," I catch a small voice on the other side. I place my fingertips, followed by the rest of my palm as if I could reach them. I push harder than my second, third, and some of my pinky made it through. Yes! I'm almost there. I keep pushing, nothing more gets through. I cannot fail so close. I bang the barrier forbidding me complete with my other hand not even an inch more gets through. "Let me, through!" I growl and scream desperately, escalating to banging my head and knees until I tumbled through bracing myself, then slipping. Slipping on? I wipe my face moving the hair out of my face to finally see my reflection in a thick, filmy sea of sweetheart cherries innards gone metallic and cold. who looked back was a slightly tilted, large eye woman with no eyebrows with a visible layer, abstract art of ash and dust designing a top diagonal of her forehead and eyes.
"N-no" the voice stuttered. " I can't! I can't look at it. I don't want to -" It trailed off.
The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.
I look up following the trail of blood: a fridge ajar, a leaky faucet, large partial hand prints littered cabinetry in a frantic search. Then a circle to a table for three; tableware corpses not yet buried to make room for a now open duffle bag on top. Its contents strewn out: a notebook, a hand gun, clothes, three passports, toiletries, a box of bullets, and an empty medicine bottle. The contents forming a scattered trail between a divider opening. I crawl to a stand following them to an open space occupied by only five items: a recliner large enough to sleep, a lamp - the only source of light illuminating three quarters of the room, a pillow and less than hand away a shivering pile of blankets. the other side where the 25% did not touch filled with only an open shoe box. A shoe box that commanded my attention, facing a way that I could not decern the shoe size. Resting in shadows where the colors remained hidden. The surrounding area free from blood, pills and dirt like that was the last step made, and wider of those steps made a dimensionally unconventional exit.
A name was called from a space that did not pique my interest. There was the box that made me aware of the moisture in the air and the wind from my nose.
"Iamze wake" the voice behind me answered someone. "Okay. I'll try." It squeaked the air shifting around them as they stood up to complete their task, accompanied by the sound of a heavy zither string. A step echoed after my own as the person shuffled in my direction. I stepped closer to the box, half-step at a time desiring to get closer to the end of a bottle, but unwilling to confirm what the box stands for.
"Not yet", the voice shapes itself into high pitched feminine form.
a child's hand pluck letting the cord fall violently on the membrane of the instrument. warmth on my skin as the calm that was once excitement burns into anger. 'This cannot be' I think. 'What was all this for?' Rivers drain off my face reverberating only for me. Me and the young girl is now side by side face to face with the box.
I close my eyes. I don't want this. This is not what I envisioned. This is not what I wanted. I just wanted to exist, to communicate, to be seen. I fall to the ground, hugging myself from the new found sensation, cold. I will wait until next time. I'll let the darkness between time engulf me once more, happily accepting torture as paradise. Anywhere can be Shangri-La once you grow accustomed to downing, but never drowned.
"I'm sorry I didn't hear that. I had to mute you briefly." The voice on the other end of the phone is crisp like I'm meant to answer. The girl response with an incomprehensible version of never mind. The air around her gave the impression she didn't have much energy for words. Neither do I feel myself getting weaker, a buzz on the hairs on my skin. The beginning stages of disassociating. It won't be long before it becomes too loud to bare. The pop! silence. darkness. emptiness.
"Move closer," the voice gentle ask. I inch closer. "Good. Good," it coos. "Now, I now this next part is going to be difficult but pretend I'm holding your hand." I nod.
"Good. Now I'm going to take your hand."
I know these messages aren't for me, but suddenly it feels like I'm not alone. Like there is a gentle hand caressing mine, molding it into pottery, slowly applying warm pressure to pull me in their desired direction. I'm a willing puppet as my hand reaches out. "Thank you for letting me guide you. Now one hand on the ground."
I let my palm dance on the wooden planks like playing in paint, allowing myself to be grounded in the here. Allowing the buzzing to lower to the volume of harmless static on a tv.
"Now touch the box."
I pause.
No!
"You can do it." The glossy film, rough in some areas like soft sandpaper, makes no sound against my fingertips. " Yes, Good." I'm reassured.
"I would like to the next part together. Can you open your - "
'What, how did this person - ' My head jerks to the actual recipient, their eyes squeezed shut forming rolls in their eye lids. I follow their arms one over mine. If they could feel my flesh, it would've been peeled away. The other, outstretched and quivering holding a face in a little rectangle. my eyes followed what the device would like to see to the ...
Box.
In the box was a still doll not touching the walls of its container, loosely wrapped in a now pink towel. 'This,' I shudder to form a complete thought. 'This is my soul.' Not a man lived a full life only missing me to complete. A boy struggling to solidify its existence, same as I. The back of my hand touches it's check. The hammer slams down on a piano string finalizing our connection. The boy opens its large clear eyes and moves its heavy head in the direction of me before slowly closing them, siphoning out a wheeze and the thread that binds us unravels plink by plink like an angry artist destroying its work.
No! I cradle his head in my palm. I pulled on his chin with the same thumb and gave him my breath. "Your breath is my breath for as long as you shall need it." I promise him.
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Four years has passed, and the child has yet to utter a word or mutter in his sleep. He has grown up in a loving household with a mother and a sister. I’ve followed him to numerous appointments, and they have found nothing mentally nor physically wrong with him, but due to him being young he’s being monitored. He has become independent enough to make his own bowl of cereal and toast and takes great pride in doing so for other’s.
His mother waits for the boy to take one step at a time down the spiraling staircase carefully holding the railing. I follow two steps behind to give him space. I wait as he pulls out a chair adjacent his mother intensely reading the paper about an international case of found body parts. He sets a small plate in front of me, everyone else gets a small plate and a bowl. I don’t need much to sustain me as long as he’s taken care and I usually wait when no one around to quickly eat my portion as to not frighten or confuse anyone.
I watch him waddle with his over sized hallow block pushing the limits of his finger tips from place setting to setting placing silverware, napkins, and cereal. He is thoughtful enough to place the milk in ceramic cups so each person can decide how much milk they want in their cereal. When he’s done, he does a satisfactory clap, places a special piece of chocolate next to his sister’s piece of toast before taking his seat.
He adds milk to his cereal then waits with fork and spoon in hand for all seat to be taken.
The mother turns the page folding it to a headline: “Young Minds Special Project Award Ends in a Tie”, absentmindedly sipping whole milk then swapping it for black coffee. The boy looks from me to his mom to the stairs. His mom folded her newspaper and notice his soggy breakfast, but before she could stand up her daughter come running down the stairs bolting towards the door. “young lady” her mother scolded, motioning to the kitchen table.
“But Mooom,” the girl wines. She struggles to get everything to fit in her tote.
“Let me ask you a question?” The woman’s voice stern; facing her body towards the girl. “Is your inability to make smart choices, your brothers fault?”
The girl looked at the boy fork and spoon in hand looking towards her seat, sighed and took her seat. “Thank you.” She conceded, poured milk in her bowl and buttered her toast. “Delicious!” She always exaggerated the quality the toast knowing it never failed to make him smile. From then on, silence. This was always the best part of my day: stillness without emptiness. I knew what tomorrow held, but did not dread it. Being by his side as he lives his life wouldn’t be so bad. I can pretend its all for me. When our artistic skills are praised. When we get all the pee in the toilet. And especially at night when the nightlight illuminates our bedroom with fanciful creatures that never existed and our mother tucks us in the reminds us if anything happens we can run to her room.
“I Love you, goodbye.” Our sister waves at us on the way out the door. The extension of my soul pulls me to look the other way. He placed a hand on my leg.
“Goodbye.” He says clearly without a childlike stutter.
I didn’t get to see what happened after everyone’s wide eye realization before I was violently yanked through the floor and space.