The store lights blinked. For the fourth time in that minute, he had the vaguest idea of something forgotten. Somehow, he had extra money left over. That never happened. There was candy on the counter. He checked the list, and found nothing unwanted. Garish colors, sticky taste, and sumptuously sweet treats in a big glass jar. Tempting, but not terribly desirable. The line moved forward, the cashier beamed upon him. It might have stuck on his braces, he reasoned.
His change came out be 6 dollars and 4 cents.
The brown bus stop. There had been heavy rain yesterday. The dark clouds were still overcast, and the winds blew strong. The umbrella; he had forgotten to take it. . He waited, and thought of the math test. The TV said it would rain again today. A truck passed by. She didn’t know the results. He shivered in his coat.
A few feet away, under a broken tree, a tiny bird helplessly twitched in a small puddle.
The bus. He climbed the muddy steps and walked onward. There was an old couple on the front row, hands tightly clasping each other. He saw their swollen veins and wrinkled skin, and felt a pang of sadness. Two kids occupied the middle, animatedly arguing over a card they kept snatching from each other. It was from a cartoon show. The bus started moving, and he bought a single ticket to Branis. He watched it too, when mother allowed him, but when the timing changed, and he couldn’t watch it anymore. The conductor took his money and deftly handed his change.
It came out to be five dollars and 11 cents, and a yellowish piece of faded paper.
The rain. The droplets were cool against his skin, and formed beautiful patterns on the window. The ticket man asked them politely to close them all. He opened it a little when they weren’t looking. The rain was comforting. Another stop, and a woman with messy curls and a red handbag embarked.
He gasped involuntarily.
The card. Half of it had landed at his feet. The boys started fighting, and then resumed to sulking after a stern eyeful from the old lady. What was the cartoon’s name? They got down at the next stop, whispering at each other. The lady who had embarked simply smiled. He picked up the card and put it in his pocket.
It read ‘Red Eyes ” but possessed a single red eye. The rest was gone.
Branis. He got off, and so did the lady. They walked side by side each other, and at the turn, she spoke. “Do you know where the MK-11 block is?” He numbly nodded his head. Blocks in Branis only went up to EL. He told her so. She nodded sagely and walked away.
The apartment complex (B-9). The gossiping ladies were in their natural habitat, judging everyone who came in. Mrs. Sol, the most pinkish pink clothed woman, along with Mrs. Wren, who had dumped on the entire makeup box on her face, along with the two newcomers. They eyed him surreptitiously as he passed by, whispering to themselves.
He heard a single word. Sigeh.
Three flights of stairs. The black door, with number 19. The heavy padlock barred the way. The 9 ‘s inner loop had faded, making it 1Ↄ. Mother must have gone out. ‘Ze-bo-na’, that was the cartoon’s name. He put down the groceries, the glass bottles twinkling as he did so. The left pocket, money and the ticket. The right pocket, the torn card. The key?
The shirt pocket. The coffee table had two cups, side by side. He put the groceries where it belonged, taking care of the order. Jellies and jams, followed by oil and tea. Coffee went last. Vegetables went below, safely away from the trash. He paused, the silence of his predicament suddenly growing louder. The school bag lay on the tabletop, exactly where he had left it. She hadn’t gone through it yet. A muffled voice sounded from one of the rooms.
“And we cry that we have come, to this great stage of fools!”
If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.
The locked door. He approached it slowly. The key, he knew was under the soap bar in the bathroom, the scented one. He put his hands in pocket and considered. The smoothness of the card startled him. It was a foil one. Wordlessly, he went to the other room. He didn’t want to talk to him today.
“There is no answer. There never will be an answer. There never has been an answer. That is the answer.”
The cramped room was a mess. Her cheap black dresses lay all over the bed, along with the multitude of the stolen perfumes. The old album, along with two half filled glasses. He stepped over to his treasure chest and opened it. Old toys that he had outgrown and comic books he had not. The math result was hidden underneath it all. They were certainly cheaper. He took one of the older ones. Spiderman #511. He went and slipped it under the other door. That usually made him quiet.
He returned to the room, considering what he could do with the sudden freedom. The money. Four dollars went into his hidden stash. Along with the half foil card. Should he watch TV?
A blueberry slice. Nibbling on it, he turned on the TV. The screen was flaky, probably due to the storm. He put away the school books and spread them out in the open. When she returned, he could pretend. Nothing interesting was on. Not even ‘Zer-bo-na’. He gave up and decided to read the comics.
The telephone rang. He let it ring for several seconds, caught in confusion. It never rang. He picked it up.
“Can I speak to Chris?” A girl’s dull voice asked him.
“What number do you want?...No. You have the wrong number.”
He put down the receiver gently, and went back to the room. The album had fallen to the floor, and the photos had all fallen out. She must have re-arranging them again, as she did when there was nothing left. A few playing cards were mixed within them as well. The seven of diamonds, and the king of hearts.
“Referential mania”, the famous doctor had termed it. Apparently, it was a singular case. The patient imagines that everything around him is a veiled reference to personality and existence. Trees sway in the wind, detailing information about him to each other. Pebbles and stones were messages for him to interpret, patterns indecipherable by all but him. Everything is a cipher, a roundabout story where he is the central theme. Windows are the means to his soul, as are mirrors. Doctors are the dark id in the flesh, the remonstrations of his arbitrary sins. His wife, a polar opposite was a torment designed by the subconscious. The child meant innocence. Fish and rice revealed the timing of the Lord’s return. Numbers, repeating themselves in Lovecraftian machinations, heralding the coming abomination. People, the stage players of his drama; stilted, fakers and liars. The hospital fees were too high; they couldn’t keep him there forever. His blood, with corpuscles filled with tiny beings, was meant to be free, free to fly over the great plains of the ultimate truth - himself. He had nearly succeeded, too. After that, they brought him home.
He looked through the photos. Him as a baby, looking surprised and happy at once, as most babies do. A photo of grandparents, along with the fat maid (Mina Kusanawa, he mouthed), in front of the temple. The beach. Osaka. Tokyo. Los Angeles, many years later. She and the sister; the football team. The one who had run away.
The phone rang for the second time.
The same toneless, anxious voice asked for Chris. He repeated his statement and put it down, harder than the first time. He went to the kitchen and got himself another slice of the pie. The cartoon would be on right in a few minutes. He hoped she wouldn’t return home.
Shouting, and glass crashed on the floor above. Mrs. Wen’s husband must have woken up.
“There is naught but the Spider, and without great truth, there can be no great responsibility! Awaken! The web of lies surrounds us all!”
He sighed and knocked on the locked door. The man paused and slid out the earlier comic. It was now covered in illegible scribbles. He slid in another of his older paperbacks. Spiderman #64.
He returned, just in time to watch the opening theme. He liked the show. He watched it for a while, completely engrossed. The other self of the main character had gone berserk, and got the original, kinder self, trapped in the Oricalos Realm. Then it cut to commercials.
He pretended not to hear the high pitched wails that came from above.
The ads flickered through the screen, and he went through the photos again. The rich uncle, (Maren Terinagi) who got them in the country. Because of his hair, they all called him King. He at ten – the year that the left the country. His cousin, the talented shogi player, now making his way in the chess world. Aunt Riki, the laughing, wild-eyed lady, who gave him lemonade every time he came over, and fussed over the cats in the afternoon, until the bomb had obliterated her, along with the felines. A house, slightly out of focus, with a man standing in front of him. The man and the mother, before he went mad. She and her sister, with the football uniform.
The man had started ranting again, in the next room. Spiderman seemed to be his favourite comics. X-Men, on the other hand, he reviled.
The sister. The top football team in America. Markinso-Kellins Elevens, Undefeated Champions for three years. Mother still talked about that Ran away after that, and was never found.
The woman. He realized and studied the photo again. She had asked him directions. She was the sister. The very same, just without the handbag in the photo. What did it mean?
The show came back on. He watched, as the spirit was rescued, and was challenged to a duel to regain his trust. After the second commercial, he put on the water for tea. She would be back soon, he reasoned. The sobbing above grew louder. He ignored it. He listened to the locked door, where the man had gone curiously silent. Faint scribbling noises; that was alright. The spirit finally won the duel. Another commercial. He turned up the volume to drown out the wails. They got back together, and a new villain was revealed. As the ending scrawl went by, he considered about the discovery he made in silence. The sobbing had stopped, but he hadn’t noticed.
Then, as he went to get another slice, the phone rang for the third time.
The end