PEELING PAINT
Chapter VI
THE GODS OF GHOST RIVER
“There is something at work in my soul, which I do not understand.”
- Mary Shelly, Frankenstein
Turning the rust colored fossil in my hand, its smooth sides setting it apart from the grains that make up the myriad of stones of the seemingly endless waste, a way to satiate my nervousness, something to fidget. I’m safe now, everything will be okay. Intellectually, I know it to be true, but somehow it seems unconvincing, a lurking feeling of that canyon composed of eyes still upon me. We approach what I assume is Bobbi’s door, the apartment building in line with Vermillion’s real estate trends, well managed, but likely at least thirty years old. Dull greyish-brown acrylic paint on the exterior wall peels, not from neglect, but from the harsh wear and tear of the high desert. Bobbi’s keys jingle against a tarnished brass lock, a key ring with an adorable cartoon hamster dangling at its end, prances with animate delight. Unabashedly himself, Bobbi always marched to the beat of his own drum, it takes bravery that often feels so lost to me.
“Welcome home,” Bobbi swings open the metal door, “Put your boots there, keeps the sand and dirt out,” he laughs a little to himself, “Feels like a constant battle keeping all the crud away.”
••••
Ambient light, the last fractures of the sun’s rays stretching between the fingers of high rocks, it’ll be dark soon. The Old Town isn’t far, I’ve walked these lonely roads many times, familiar, competent, just part of my routine. Marta even calls me scrappy, I like it when she calls me that, she knows me just about better than anybody. As a pair, we’re a force to be reckoned with. But, alone, something feels different, a foreboding tickling the tip of my spine, some people’s hair stands on end, but I feel it at the base of my neck where the bone protrudes, a sixth sense, maybe passed from the ancestors. At least, that’s what Mi Ma says. Mi Ma says a lot of weird stuff, but you kinda just flow with it. I’m extra alert, my trailer key held as a shiv, primed for whatever might await.
••••
Strange thoughts from a foreign place, who’s Mi Ma? As I ponder this, the wafting aroma of green chili and chicken hits me, nostalgia, it smells like the best of my childhood, a sweet reminder of easier times. The question of Mi Ma drifts from my mind as I bow my head and unlace my boots, my feet tingling with pain as pressure relieves itself, the leather clinging tightly. Three days in hell, my shoes remained adhered, they may as well have been an extension of my body. I unwrap the footwear, revealing socks, sickeningly peach with dried plasma, almost crispy to the touch. Taking a defeated seat in his entryway, I resign myself to the daunting task of gently attempting to pry the gruesome things from my toes. Rolling the top of my right sock down to the ankle, I meet resistance, I tug, but there’s no give. Frustration takes control, enough is enough, I yank the ruined fabric, awareness slices into me, an acute ripping sensation. Involuntarily, I yelp, the sock finally free of my foot, but covered in torn skin. Open blisters and wounds sting as tears well up in my eyes. Gritting my teeth, I draw blood from the inside of my cheek, a hiss of distress escaping my mouth. Bobbi watches me intently, disbelief flickers across his expression as the damage becomes apparent, the saturation leaves his face. Hurrying from the room, his departure joined by a choir of cabinets opening and closing, soon accompanied by a symphony of clinking glass emanating from some unseen place. He’s searching for something.
“Hey, hey, I got something for you,” Bobbi rushes back into the room with gauze, paper towels, and a bottle of clear liquid, “Ouch, that fucking sucks. This’ll hurt, but it’ll help in the long run.”
“Thankssss,” I wheeze, taking the medical offerings from him. Dabbing my feet in the freshly saturated paper product, a stabbing sensation hits my injuries, as I manage to exhale a veiled, “motherfucker…”
“Man, what happened to you? This seems so much worse than just getting ‘Lost in the Desert’ for a day. I mean dang boy! I’m glad mom is coming by, cuz holy shit, she will definitely need to stitch you back together.”
I wrestle with the question, again, should I tell him anything, about Nico, the murder, or the demon in the night? No. No way, I’d sound insane. I endeavor to silence myself with busyness, treating and wrapping both of my feet in gauze, I feel slightly better, but not great. Hobbling to my feet using Bobbi’s textured wall as a support, I notice a small narrow kitchen sits around the corner to my left. But, the crown jewel of his apartment is a small oak table, able to seat six if you squeeze two people onto the ends, set like a show home, always ready for hosting. Through the gloom behind the table is a simple living room with a single TV, a battered futon with earthy brown cushions leans against the far wall, a hand-me-down from a bygone post war age. Despite the modest space, like the Nautilus, Bobbi’s home is immaculately tidy, not a spec of dust or clutter. Had previous tenants been as attentive, the apartment would likely have aged better.
“Why don’t you go get cleaned up. I’ve got some extra basketball shorts that should fit you and since the shirt is pretty much new, that should be fine. Bathroom is around the corner on the right. There’s soap and there should be a spare towel under the sink.”
Bobbi hurries past me, down the hall towards the bathroom. I limp after him, for once thanking my stride for getting me to my destination with expediency. He turns unexpectedly as we reach the open door to the bathroom, at my new vantage point across the hall nestles a small bedroom. A boombox leans against the wall, it seems to play CD’s, but it’s built to resemble a time decades passed, tacked to the walls posters of standup comedians. Pinned directly above his bed is the most important of these, the image of a balding white man holding an array of goofy, but artistically crafted puppets. His mattress sits on the floor with no frame, simplicity itself, the navy blue sheets neatly made, almost with as much care as a hotel suite, had the sheets not been so well used. I squint, taking in more of the room, a worn stuffed arctic fox with matted fur sits against his pillows, an heirloom that just might share his age. The animal’s plush fabric isn’t quite white anymore. A beautiful folded wool blanket is set at the foot of his bed with colorful indigenous geometric patterns, yes, another reminder of home.
Bobbi keeps a shabby oak desk in the corner, likely yet another hand-me-down, a terracotta lamp guards the flat top with stationary arranged to spatial perfection, revealing that need for order that he seems to compulsively crave. Matching the desk, a small oak dresser stands opposite to his modest sleeping space. Resolutely, a sculpture of a vintage video game character wearing an army green jumpsuit rules the top of the wardrobe. She clutches a comically large flame-thrower, her furrowed brow shows she really means business, about to kick some alien ass… violent eyes. I study her fierce expression as Bobbi rummages around in the middle drawer.
“Aha! Here we are,” he calls proudly, giving me a pair of navy blue gym shorts.
Ugh, color, I wish they’d be black, but under these circumstances, beggars can’t be choosers. I run my hands over the nylon, refamiliarizing myself with the sensation of synthetic material, the bandages of the corpse of my cotton tank feeling more comfortable than the zinging bite of the new fibers. Bobbi strides over to me, handing me a fresh set of gauze, and the rubbing alcohol, that expression of concern molded into a permanent fixture of his face.
“You will prolly need to redress that after your shower,” he points to my feet and hands, unpaid extras that just got off of the set for a horror movie involving a mummy.
“Yeah, thanks.”
“Leave the dirty clothes in front of the bathroom door and I can start washing them. I don’t have any extra PJ’s but mom might have something in her car. She always has donations and stuff like that for the clinic.”
“Look at you being a regular housewife,” I go in for a play punch, wince at the raw burning flesh that was once my hands, and drop it.
“It’s called being an adult dumbass, you should try it sometime!” he laughs at my expense, my failed attempt at toxic masculinity falling as hard as I did into Ghost River. With a cackle of delight akin to my corvid companion in the gorge, Bobbi bounces off to check on his stew’s progress.
Seeking stability, I lean my head against the doorframe of the bathroom and shuffle inside. Three points of contact, that’s what climbers say right, to keep one from tumbling? The washroom is tiny, but squeaky clean, you could build computer chips in here. But, my skull hovers, maybe, only a few inches below the popcorn ceiling… with certainty this was not built to code. Intentionally, I avoid the single light hanging in the center of the room, don’t need anything else broken, not today. Cracked porcelain adorns the basin of the budget two-in-one shower tub, had Bobbi had the means, he likely would have refinished it, with or without his land lord’s approval. A light oak cabinet holds the off-putting vintage ochre sink up, tones of sick. Yet once again, it’s spotless. Searching the cabinet for this spare towel Bobbi prophesized, I find a dull brown one, the same color as his worn couch, but the terrycloth is fluffy and well cared for. Hunching over the tasteless basin, I have to lean my entire frame over it to gaze into the cheap single pane mirror. I avoid looking at my ugly mug in the eerie amber glow of the halogen light, a cell of my own making in a dingy asylum.
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My glance meets the lurid golden brown shade of my eyes, sunken, dark circles, dried plasma, deep blackened yellowing bruises, an unrecognizable visage stares back at me, a shadow of the self that once was. A stranger in my own body, I’m nearly as much of a shell as Dizzy’s corpse, lying alone and forgotten in the cold desert night. Hesitating, it’s time to see what the damage really is, a piece of me hoping there’s a trace of a bullet hole or at least a graze. Stripping down to my boxers, my bruised arms sore to the touch, dehydrated gore crusts my stomach, my waist, and eventually runs down my leg. I must have lost a lot of blood? I look up to the site of the wound, it’s so jarring, I turn away in a moment of blind panic.
Hyperventilating, I return my stare, mystified by the sight, there’s no puncture, no injury, nothing, not a scratch, not a gouge, not a trace. On the tissue on my left shoulder, above the heart, where the bleeding logically came from, lies a bizarre five inch patch of extremely perfect, smooth skin with a healthy sheen to it. Even compared to the small patches of undamaged parts of my dermis, the site is far less blotchy, almost as if it belonged to another human. Worse than any laceration I could envision, another divergence in reality, a stark contrast against the scabs, contusions, and cuts that make up the vast majority of my physique. Just as I thought I’d grasped a tangible thread of my experience in the desert, it all comes unraveling. Am I unraveling? The bloody trail running down my side, evidence of the gunshot, the only evidence of my attempted murder. My heart sinks, and I’m about to wash all of it away too. There’s no way to document it, the strings of my fraying mind unwind, spooling onto the dingy tile. No one would ever believe me, honestly, why should they?
Defeated, I push away from the mirror, lowering myself to the ground, three points of contact, that’s all I’ll ever get from now on. Sitting in the quiet of the flickering halogen, I pull off the last of my soiled clothes. Bobbi saw the gore on my abdomen, he must’ve, and yet he’s still helping me. Or maybe, he was so excited to see a familiar face, he missed it… unlikely. If he turns me in, it could be for the best, if I’m indeed losing my grip, prison might be the best place for me. Free food, no rent, no job, no monster made of shadow and hound… hopefully. Pulling the fossil once again from the pocket of my less than black baggy shorts, I trace the grooves of the shell with my fingertips, at least this one little object is real, without a doubt. I place my prehistoric talisman on the counter, and open the bathroom door a crack, pushing the filthy garments through the gap, hopefully covertly enough to preserve what little privacy I have. The disappointing navy shorts lay in a heap on the floor. Nothing to do now but scrub the grime from me.
Phantoms of water vapor.
Turning to the shower, the curtain matches Bobbi’s keychain, a chubby cartoon hamster printed on it, the rodent greeting me with round cheeks and overly adorable eyes. I brace against the wall and I lean in, grasping the age-stained tap, a burst of cold water pummels me in the face, I lose my footing. Staggering against the discolored tile, I catch myself before I biff it. I survive getting shot, falling off a cliff, bleeding to death, heatstroke, and drowning, only to die from hitting my head in the tub? Ironic… maybe a little poetic? I chuckle to myself, maybe, not such a bad end… better than Nico’s end...
Nico flails against the torrent of sound. His flesh changing…
I gulp, swallowing the torrential sensation of sick. Nico is dead, somehow his death is my fault, I just know it…
Muscle laid bare. Blood pooling from its lips.
Push it down, use the task to distract from those violent images, I don’t have the energy to deal with this, not right now. Unwrapping the gauze on my feet and prying the shirt fragments from my hands, I throw the discolored bandages out onto the floor, then, quickly close the simpering shower curtain behind me. An industrial sized container of generic body wash nearly takes up a corner of the tub. Its companion, a much smaller golden bottle sits in the adjacent spot. Picking it up, I study the tiny luminous label, Slice of Heaven: Shampoo for Dazzling Shine, eureka, the secret to Bobbi’s hair care! I grab a handful of the body wash, which turns ruddy grey as soon at it touches my grimy skin. Ash, umber, and clumpy garnet join the grotesque river rolling off of me, I keep scrubbing, more unending carnage appears, at this rate I’ll never be unsullied again. I doubt even “Dazzling Shine” will do anything for my equally damaged hair. Taking a dollop full of the golden mixture, I lather it into my dark locks, heinous fluid… blood… drips from the roots… but how? I pause. It isn’t my own, it’s Nico’s... I want to barf… but, there’s nothing left in me.
I’m so cold.
Shuddering, I collapse against the old porcelain, drawing my knees to my nose, the now warm water is my cocoon. Languid, I fade into obscurity.
••••
Desert insects sing the joyous songs of night, a swath of stars cut into the inky sky, cosmic dust glittering, ancestral eyes. A lonely road, a familiar street… Bobbi’s home. Its peeling dull ashen paint unmistakable even in the harsh glow of the single amber streetlight, flickering, audibly zinging with manic electrical jolts. Standing solitary, fixed in the center of the pavement, luminosity bouncing off the asphalt, confusion, I’ve no memory of leaving the apartment. That uncomfortable feeling, I’m being observed. I peer into the gloom, something lurks, a form balled low in the shadows, obscured by the lamplight.
“Show yourself!” my patience spent, I stand tall, anger trembling through me, “I am sick of this shit. If you’re going to kill me, just go ahead and fucking kill me.”
Cracking, fracturing, unnatural sounds, a figure rises from the blackness, shifting, snapping like unseen ice. Unfurling its towering body, the entity stands most of the height of the pole, enveloped by shadow.
“Lo’otaku niih’lo o’nhokah… U’tee i’ O’chohca.”
The old tongue, crackling, it speaks the old language, its voice of the elements, not that of a person. It steps into the luminous cone, bathed in synthetic golden rays, a towering human shape, but its head is wide and amorphous. Feathers push unnaturally through the tissue of its collarbone, bursting through the skin. Zygodactl fingers stretch from its wrists, armed with hooked raptorial talons. Brilliant canary orbs open, awful deep sinking pupils, an abyss threatening to swallow you whole, owl’s eyes…
“U’nkah ti’is cho.”
Dropping one shoulder, the being hurtles towards me with furious speed, claws bared. Hooks dig into the sides of my throat as it slams me against the apartment’s deteriorating exterior wall, dragging my limp frame up the wood paneling to meet its gaze. Splinters tearing through my back, I struggle against its grip. Staring at the grotesque avian man-thing, there’s no mouth, just layers of wide radial feathers surrounding its gaping orbits, two chalky triangles line what I assume is its face. Frenzied screams emanate from its eyes united by deafening drum beats. Suspended, the weight of my body pulls excruciatingly on my neck and jaw, its hooked nails leading to human palms with penetrative feather filaments splitting through the dermis.
“Ti’is cho.”
Searing pain, it rips open my abdomen with its free hand, spilling my intestines. The presence releases its clutch on my throat, dropping me several feet to the ground. Shock, I scoop up my innards, struggling to sit upright. Frantic, do I try to shove the mass of organs back inside of my broken torso? Hollering in agony, sweat beads from my brow, those sickening sun-touched eyes pushing towards me, the ornithic entity stretching its keen-edged fingers…
A chilling shriek breaks the melody of mid-summer crickets. Pulling away from me, the wide-eyed demon freezes, looking to the sky... distress visible in the taught sinews of its muscles. Another haunting sound… its orbs dart from side to side.
From out of the night it rises, violent eyes, shadow and form as one, striding towards the owl creature on long limbs. The anthropomorphic monster twists itself into a submissive crouch, and carefully slinks away, quivering. Back to the darkness behind the streetlight… to a world out of sight… it vanishes.
The familiar silhouette of the bat-like specter looms over me, her once lush fur now drips with the consistency of pitch, oozing to the ground.
Lie Weaver
Noxious odor, it makes my stomach churn… stomach, I look down at my damaged body, but I’m whole… the discomfort evaporating. I grip my belly, could all of last few minutes be just an illusion? Lie Weaver. She, the amorphous beast, glowers into the now vacant dark where the owlish being disappeared to, standing stoic, a guardian in the blackness. The storm has passed…
U’nkah Ti’is Cho
We Pay
In Blood
Tui’li’roh
Thief
Of Mind
Voracious
Eater Of Will
Foul
Parasite
Pull
The Feast
From Its Throat
Starve It
She turns slowly to me, those awful moonlit eyes bore into my soul, the oily viscosity of her being reconstituting into animalistic textures. The soft embers of that warm sensation percolate into my chest, a moment of clarity… an ally… maybe, even a friend. Her stare unbroken, lingering, just a single moment taken by stillness.
Awaken
Broken One
••••