A little more than a month later. He hadn’t heard the voice in a while.

——

The artist had spent the several weeks staying with Isabel, getting himself back together. He had seen Flo only once during that time, and it was a brief and awkward encounter. Neither of them said much. Flo simply hugged him.

Isabel had been gracious in providing for him; but he felt he was beginning to take advantage. He needed money to move out, and so he began his journey to find something. He eventually landed a job with a local printing company. His job was to run the printing and cutting. It was boring as fuck, but it allowed him to put together enough money to move out and into his own place.

He found a guest house that was only a few blocks from the print shop. It was extremely cheap, and was already furnished - making his move in much easier. There was no kitchen, but that was ok since he didn’t really feel like preparing any meals anyway.

The guest house did have a bedroom, a bathroom, and a small “sitting” room where guests could socialize. The bedroom had a window that looked out to an old Poplar tree. In the mornings, he could hear the birds in the tree making their own plans for the day. The bedroom had come with a bed, a dresser, a closet, and a desk and chair. The artist felt overwhelmed by the crowded room. He asked the landlord to remove the dresser and desk and chair, as he wouldn’t need them.

Each morning he would get up, clean up, and go to the print shop. He would help print and cut the orders for the day. He had 45 minutes for lunch, but usually just stayed around the shop. During that time, he would stand on the sidewalk outside smoking cigarettes. He would watch the people go by. He would give them names, but nothing else. He didn’t give them backstories or dramas. He didn’t imagine their parents or their passions. He simply watched them and named them:

“Jason”

“Homer”

“Sybil”

“Virgil”

And when the time was up, he’d extinguish his cigarette and return to printing and cutting.

Several weeks into the print shop job, he happened to notice a newspaper in the landlords driveway. It wasn’t the first time he noticed this. His landlord was an older couple who got their news the “old fashioned” way. This one was like any other, except for one thing - the headline. It read: ”Arson suspects in Sanitarium fire apprehended!”

Below the headline was a picture of 2 asian women in front of a few motorcycles. The familiar motorcycles. The same motorcycles he had seen in the garage, that he had seen leaving the ferry. Although he couldn’t see the tattoo, he instantly recognized one of the asian women.

During his break at work, he read the article.

Local police have arrested two women of asian descent in connection with a suspected arson fire at Reif Stimborne Sanitarium, near Grimeville. The women do not speak any English, but have expressed their innocence through an interpreter.

The fire, which occurred about two months ago, destroyed most of the former Sanitarium and a nearby resident’s house. The unnamed resident was said to be a collector of fine art, all of which was also destroyed in the fire.

Neighbors had reported seeing several motorcycles coming and going from the area on a regular basis. This tip led police to keep a look out for a matching group of motorcycles. Officer Slainte Peter had spotted the group making their way east on what the locals call ‘Devil’s Highway’ (due to the large number of accidents on the strip). After chasing them down, he pulled the group over. As he attempted to interview two of the riders, the other four surprised him by jumping on their motorcycles and escaping into the night. The remaining two were arrested and brought in for interrogation.

The pair of asian women have not been properly identified as of yet. They have no government issued identification and their dental and DNA records have turned up nothing in nationwide searches. What is known is that the two women speak both Mandarin and a dialect of Russian that is heavily influenced by Ukrainian. A Mandarin interpreter has been the main go-between for the accused women and authorities.

Other than the tip from neighbors and the behavior of their colleagues during the stop by Officer Peter, there is no evidence linking the women to the fire. The women have declined to answer most questions, and have disavowed any knowledge of the Sanitarium.

The Reif Stimborne Sanitarium was built in the mid 1920’s and was used to house mentally ill patients who were deemed dangerous to society. Hysterical women, psychopaths, and schizophrenics were all residents at the Sanitarium at various points in its history.

The facility was shuttered in the 1970’s. It sat for several decades before it was purchased by a private investment group. The group had intended to fix it up and make it a hotel for ghost hunters and thrill seekers. But the cost to update the facility must have been more than they expected, and it never reopened.

***

A few weeks later, the artist was working on cutting a print, and got his fingers caught. He slashed through three knuckles on his right hand. They didn’t need to be amputated, but they were put into a cast. The doctors told him he was unlikely to regain flexibility in them.

After that, he would spend the mornings in bed thinking about what he should do. He had two weeks off work to recover. But he found himself unmotivated to return. He would stay in his room and not leave.

When he was hungry, he would order wonton or egg drop soup from a local chinese restaurant. Usually a teenage chinese boy would deliver the order, but occasionally the owner would send her daughter. He would ask her to come in and place the delivery on the floor, then hand her cash and tell her to leave. He would sit alone on the floor, eating the soup.

When the soup was gone, the artist would contemplate various ways to kill himself. He had tested a belt by wrapping it around the Poplar tree. He had researched what kind of over the counter pills would do it. He kept a healthy amount of acetaminophen on hand, as well as benadryl. And he was rarely without a fair amount of whiskey. A gun seemed like an obvious and fool proof method, but he didn’t have money for a gun. Carbon monoxide poisoning was another popular option, but he didn’t own a car.

This day, he looked out at the Poplar. There was already a chair below the tree. He had stood atop the chair before and measured out his belt. It was a little further than he wanted, but he could make it work.

He also had painkillers for his hand, but there were only a few pills left. In the early days of his hand injury, he had to use them consistently just to be awake without the sharp and throbbing pain.

When his two weeks were up, he returned to work. His anxiety, however, was overwhelming. Every time the cutting machine made its work, he would have a flashback of it scalping his knuckles. Within that first week, he turned in his immediate resignation.

The tree and belt looked especially attractive that night.

The emotional pain and depression of his current situation was frequently too much for him. But why? Certainly there were people who had it way worse than he did. Why didn’t they all just hang themselves? Even a homeless man can find a tree and some makeshift rope.

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Something about his beliefs kept him in this hole he had dug for himself. He believed things were bad, and certain to a get worse, and definitely not better. This had been his life’s direction lately, and it’s what seemed most normal to him. Loss and depression, coupled with a pessimistic outlook rarely leads to positive emotions. The artist viewed himself as little more than an animatronic skeleton being controlled by some unseen daemon. This was part of his belief, that this daemon was the source of his misery, and killing himself would silence he daemon as well.

***

He had heard about a friend of a friend who started a landscaping business. They were always looking for people because most of their employees ended up being fly-by-night workers. Between the manual work, the outside and dirt, and the heat in the summer - most didn’t last more than a month.

The artist’s rent would be due soon, and he didn’t want to have to move out.

——

He didn’t make it out to the club much anymore. Whatever force had driven him there previously was diminished. He had gone recently, though. The bathroom at the club always had informal ads for a variety of “services”, if you know what I mean. One particular one caught his eye: ”I will dominate and humiliate you. And you will like it!”.

Back home, he called the number. A man answered with a kind and sincere voice. The artist explained that he had seen the ad and wanted to know what was involved. The kind man explained how the service worked. He would come to you, or you could come to him. You would define the parameters, and he would stay within them. It was a fetish that many people had, and he saw himself as a purveyor and master of this service.

Two nights later, there was a knock at his door. The artist was nervous, but excited.

He unlocked the door. The man entered. He was wearing a dark, striped, double breasted suit. He had a cigar in his mouth. “What the fuck are you doing here?”, the man demanded.

The artist cowered.

“Where’s my fucking chair?”. The artist pointed towards the only available chair.

“You call this a chair? This thing is for pussies. Next time you better have a proper fucking chair - wood and leather. You got me?”

The artist shrunk more.

The man continued to berate and verbally abuse the artist for half an hour. At the end, the artist’s nerves were so activated, he couldn’t move without shaking. The man apologized and told him that he made a mistake and should have asked for the money up front, because it was always way more awkward at the end.

The artist, looking shyly, pointed to an envelope labeled “big man”. The man grabbed the envelope, peeked inside, then shoved the envelope into his interior suit pocket. Then he left.

——

The next day the artist did nothing. He laid in bed. He didn’t eat. He didn’t do anything.

The day after he considered his options in the morning. He decided to call the landscaping company. He explained his disability. They told him to come out the next day to see how things would go.

He arrived at the job site about 20 minutes late.

***

He had been unemployed for two weeks. Money and food were becoming scarce. Things were low, so low. And that’s when Flo called. She had “the cancer”. It was in her lungs, and the outlook wasn’t good. The cancer was stage four, and she had only gone to the doctor as a last resort.

People like Flo didn’t have normal insurance like you and me. She didn’t go to the doctor; at least, not unless it seemed life threatening.

The news was hard to take. Flo had been a life companion, of sorts. A commiserator. A soft ear. A romantic partner. A steady beacon of light in the darkness that was his life. She couldn’t go away. She couldn’t die.

But she was going to. She told him that the doctors gave her six months, at best. The artist didn’t know what to do. He didn’t know how to console her. She didn’t want consolation. She wanted time. More time. Time to be alive, to explore the world, to explore all the ways she was human. More music. More art. More places to see. More people to meet.

All that was going to be cut short.

They met at Lenny’s later that night. The club was too crowded, and for her, too passe. Clubbing was cool and fun, but meant nothing now that the clock was ticking. Impending death does something to your priorities. You seek out love and lovers. You seek out understanding. You don’t seek loud music, shitty drinks, and an abundance of shitty people.

Flo sought him. The artist. He was a grounding strap, a gravity that brought her back to earth. Despite her superficial eccentricities, he always understood the real Flo. The real Florence. He always had. That was the foundation of their relationship.

She had always understood him as well. It was a mutual, unspoken way they related to each other. She never had to say she respected his artistry. He never had to say he respected her courage to be herself. These were things that were so self evident, they never need to be said aloud. Although they never really talked about it, they understood each other’s pain in life.

At Lenny’s, the artist wanted to say something. He wanted to let her know, explicitly, what she meant to him. How he related to her. He tried to begin:

“Flo... listen ...”

She looked at him with her mascara fading down her cheek.

“I don’t know what to say. But...”

She leaned in to listen more carefully, to pull herself further into the moment.

“... but, I want you to know. You are such a love. A love of my life. A love of friendship. A love of people. There aren’t many like you.”

He laughed lightly.

“Hell, there aren’t any like you.”

Flo blushed. She grabbed a tissue from her purse, and wiped the tear beginning to slide down her cheek.

“I wish there were more like you. Or maybe I don’t, I don’t know. There could never be more ‘like’ you. You are one of a kind. Any other would be a bad copy, a fake, a facsimile. An approximation that misses the essential details.”

As he spoke, Flo tried to look at his eyes. But he couldn’t bear to look her in the eye for more than a few seconds. Because he knew. He wanted to provide her peace. And hope. But there was no hope. And he couldn’t lie to those eyes. He couldn’t cover his own emotions enough.

And the tears began in his eyes as well. The dam was broken. The levee was leaking salty tears down his face. She watched this moment, and pulled him in. It was now her turn to console him.

But what could she even say? She chose not to say anything. She just held him. With her tissue, she wiped the tears rolling down his face.

In his mind, he felt the injustice of the world. Why her? Why now? Things were settling into something stable, something good, weren’t they? This was a moment when things should proceed ... into something more. Yet, he couldn’t help but feel the earth below him shifting. Like a giant sinkhole was opening, and he was falling into it.

The voice suddenly came back: “Remember, my son. Look forward. Don’t look back”.

The artist was annoyed by the voice this time. He wanted to reply, but didn’t. He simply ignored it.

He met with Flo every week. Usually at Lenny’s, but occasionally at his place or her place. Sometimes they would have dinner somewhere good. But the experience was always the same. She would arrive, he would feel loss. He would feel less of her each time.

Eventually, she was too sick to go out. And he would visit her at her home. He would sit with her. Hold her hand. Recall and tell stories of their varied adventures, careful to avoid the Dark Machine Market episodes. He knew she felt guilty about that.

——

It was a Friday when she passed. The artist wasn’t there when it happened. She passed in the mid-morning around 9:00am. Flo had been in the hospital for two days. He usually visited in the early afternoon or evening. That Friday he walked in a little before 1:00pm. The nurses on the floor all knew him by now. After he got off the elevator, the artist walked through the large doors which opened to the nurse’s station. One of the nurses immediately approached him. She said something, but he didn’t hear. He knew right away. His breath went away for a moment. Maybe two. His body felt light and numb. His head was dizzy, and he didn’t move. Somewhere in that moment, the nurse had given him a hug. It wasn’t part of protocol to engage visitors in that way, but she couldn’t help but feel for him. Her personal morals were overriding hospital protocol.

Back at his place, the artist collapsed onto his bed. He laid atop the covers, on his side in a fetal position. He gathered a section of a sheet in his hands and held it tight near his face. His body shook severely a few times, like the lightning you hear in the moments before the storm arrives.

Then the storm arrived. His body convulsed as his lung erupted, and a deep howl emerged. His eyes immediately began the waterworks. He laid in that position for some time, not just cyring - but balling. Completely unconsolable. Not that he wanted to be consoled. He wanted to feel the pain, the sadness. He had known it was coming for so long, and now it had arrived as if some kind of terrible Christmas present. There in that bed, the sheet now dripping with tears and snot - physical evidence of this sad moment.

His emotions were scattered and raw. His thoughts were all over the place... he thought about Flo and her suffering, and his losing her. The emotion of loss brought him back to when he lost his brother and his dad. This seemed to be a common motif in his life. It fed his internal belief that those you are close to, eventually go away, and there’s nothing you can do. So, be cautious who you open up to, because they are bound to leave you in the worst way. And you will suffer. You will pay for having such a relationship.

In the morning his sheet would be crusty with remaining dampness. But he would continue to lay there, still holding it close. To let go was to recognize the end of the moment. The moment when next would have to happen. There would be the time before this moment, and the time after this moment. It was a divider that he had no control over. After this, the moment would remain blurry, like one of those moments when you pause a video tape. A moment forever lost to ambiguity, to uncertainty. A moment he would always remember, but never want to relive.