|
The sky is the black of funeral crinoline as she slowly stops the Challenger in a desolate field far on the outer reaches of the city. The stars are little pinpricks of unimaginable places watching her carefully, as she gathers leaves, dead grass and scraps of dry wood lying around the old party pit. Slowly the badly corroded metal trash barrel fills up with material. It was troubling to her, how she’d ended up in this state to begin with. She remembered waking up for the first time many years ago, seeing Till up close, slumped in slumber in a chair across the room. His eyelids had fluttered awake at her stirring as she’d sat up and had that young naïve panic attack about where she was. He’d smiled kindly at her, chuckled in amusement, had offered her clothes and a warm cup of coffee. They’d talked about the potential for a new career for her in the brightening hours of the early morning. Once she’d gotten used to the unsettling feeling of looking directly into his eyes full of something she couldn’t then understand, she’d thought the world of him as he’d gently taken her hand and pushed her forward. He’d put her on the plane in Galway, with two grand in her pocket, and a set of directions. She’d trusted him. When he hadn’t met her in America, she had been more worried than angry. And now look what trusting Till had gotten her. The pungent gasoline smell made her nostrils burn as she poured it into the metal bin. It sloshed out the rusted cracks and holes rusted into the side, and she smelled the distinct odour of melting Styrofoam. Wrinkling her nose in distaste, she flicked her cigarette butt into the barrel and stepped back, watching the crud ignite, seeing the crude napalm ingredients leak out the holes on the thin lines of fuel that had seeped out. Small pools of fire and accelerant burned slowly on the grass around the barrel as she gazed contemplatively into the flames, feeling warmth return to her hands and face. She was realizing that what her life had become was some incredible entity now far beyond her control, but as much as it entertained her sometimes, it galled her deeply. “Couldn’t just have it fucking simple now, could I,” she mumbled to herself, grabbing the cat-litter bucket, and pulling Jagger’s grey-skinned head out. His eyes were open, pupils tiny black pin prints obscured by nearly white blue irises. The ragged mess she’d made of his neck was now clotted with black blood, and his mouth was slightly slack, his bottom jaw distended a little, as she swung it lightly into the flames. It made a muffled thump and the flames died for a few minutes, but caught again quickly. “Couldn’t just meet the love of my life,” she whispered, “and be happy. Nooo… Bronwen gets the motherfucking gong-show life. Shoot the monsters. Deal with the demons. Be hunted down in life, death, and even my fucking sleep.” Thick black oily smoke started rolling out of the barrel, and she became aware of the odour of cooking flesh, and gagged slightly, steering clear of the column of ash and smoke that rose high into the night sky. She pushed her hair out of her face and gently touched the base of her skull. Searing stabs of pain had started trickling into a ball of ache that was growing steadily by the minute, pulsating and throbbing angrily. Bronwen turned towards the car, fumbling the keys out of her pocket and lighting a cigarette with her other hand. As she opened the door to the car, the pain in her head surged with a sharp thunderclap, causing her to cry out. Bronwen slumped to the ground, unconscious. “And I find it kind of funny, I find it kind of sad, the dreams in which I’m dying are the best I’ve ever had…” She dreamt, a surreal moviescape unfolding before her eyes, of an invented threat, invented horror story. Apocalypse, conjured from the weapons created by man and as always, something goes wrong. The world is screwed, and the masses, every single one, they know the exact date and time the end will come. She is standing on the edge of a lake watching the mountains grayish blue in the distance under the colors of the sunrise as loudspeakers announce the grave news. “The consolidated effects of an action that we cannot now undo, have now been set into motion. There is no escape. Much of the continents to the East are already gone. Go to your loved ones, and say goodbye. We extend our condolences to you and yours, as we are sure you would to our own.” She is surrounded by everyone she’s ever known that is still alive. Shane stands by her side, as well as several other members of F1X in the throngs of hundreds of other people. Everyone is sobbing and clutching their family members, falling to the ground in shock. “They said it’s just over,” she heard someone say. “Serves us right, our indifference and apathy towards the fucking planet we—“ the person was cut off by screaming from a woman who has suddenly realized the full implications of what has just been broadcasted simultaneously over North America. “The earth has declared a time-out,” another person mused. “How ironic. Only four hours until we are simply wiped off the map. A whole civilization with a deeper reaching impact than any civilization come before us.” Bronwen reached for Shane’s hand, as she quietly thought and listened to the hubbub around her, the situation sinking to the pit of her stomach. It is in the moment that she reaches for Shane’s hand that her gaze settles towards her feet. She can’t see them. Her belly is distended, swollen with child. Shane shrugs off her hand, and she looks up at him with a shocked look on her face. He bares his teeth at her in disgust, and she notices his hand resting gently on the nape of Dominique’s neck. It has started snowing ash and brim, the flakes are settling in minute drops on the lake’s glassy surface. A horrifying darkness has obscured the mountains, once clearly visible. “You’re on your own babe,” he growls, “and it’s the end of the world as you know it. Deal.” Behind him, Annika is staring right at her. “Hello teacher what’s my lesson? Look right through me, look right through me…” She woke up with a jolt, grabbing her neck and coughing, gasping for air it seems. Surprisingly, she was naked under the cool cotton sheets of bed. Not opening her eyes, she instinctively poked a toe over to Shane’s side of the bed. Her toe met with cold and sticky sheets clumped together around a bulky mass. Her eyes flew open and she sat up and stared, horrified. What she could only assume had been a person, now lay wrapped in sheets soaked and crusted in blood. It was a male, once handsome lithe and muscular with dark blonde hair, now ripped apart. His ribcage was flayed open, entrails flopping out the side and slithering off the bed in escape, while his mouth was open wide in a silent horrible scream, eyes wide glassy and dead in shock. She pushed herself away and off the bed, landing with a crash on the floor, rummaging around for her clothes, not taking her eyes off the bed. It was a hotel room, and the morning sun was cascading through the white curtains, a gash of blood shining brightly crimson as they rippled gently in the breeze, traffic noises faintly bustling below. Bronwen pulled on her jeans, had them half way up her knees, when she had a sudden realization, yanking them back off and running to the bathroom. Throwing open the toilet, she knelt and vomited for what seemed ages, her stomach rebelling at the trauma. She dragged herself into the large luxurious shower, all glassed in, and morosely watched all the dirt, blood and grime wash off her body as she stood under the steaming hot spray. Water flowed down her face, and she could feel burning tears of frustration pricking her eyes. It wasn’t Shane but it looked exactly like him. What the fuck is the matter with me? A deep chuckle rumbled through her mind, liquid black obsidian, like an insinuating cancer, whispered, “you hurt me. I hurt you five times more. Did you enjoy the fuck? My gift to you—I hope you can remember that, at the very least.” She lost it. The tears came out in a deluge, and she crumpled to the floor of the shower sobbing. “I just wanted to love someone,” her mind screamed at him.”Why can’t you just let me have that one thing? Do you think my life has been a bed of roses or something? I can’t have just that one thing—and you make me off someone that looks just like him?” He chuckled again—“it’s all just a lesson Bronwen, a very valuable lesson. You should not be toying with me, nor the extensions of my wrath.” “You made me fucking betray the one good thing in my life!” She bellowed. “The ONE thing I care about, and I can’t fucking go back to him, never mind now having scooped out the heart of his doppelganger. And for what? Because you’re pissed that I fucked up your flunky permanently?” Till laughed louder, cradling his mirth in his pale ribcage with his monstrous hands, “you value such ridiculously sentimental notions now that you’re married, Bronwen. Honestly, what a joke you have become. I don’t care about Jagger, other than the wasteful expenditure of energy that he proved to be. He was much less formidable in death than he was in life—his age was much more concrete, as well as his mental infirmities. ” “I don’t care,” she whispered, “about any of it. I simply do not. At one point in my life, it never occurred to me that I would have just one thing ever make me happy, but Clemmens came along and now, I can’t stand not knowing any different. He is one of the most complex people I’ve ever met, and his – our-- lives are meant to be lived, lost in each other’s volumes.” She paused, and stared at him as he gazed at her thoughtfully, “and now, I don’t have that. It’s as good as dissipated, unlike the bloody mess I seem to have made of those hotel sheets. I might as well just end it now—go grab that knife and cut my own damn throat. Is that what you want?” Till stared at her, and turned away. After a while, she ran out of steam, and the crying jag ended. Her brain cleared from the cathartic release, she still had immense guilt weighing on her chest, still emotionally standing on the edge of a looming dark precipice as she opened the shower and left the bathroom, padding out into the cold hotel room. Bronwen gasped. She stopped dead and surveyed the room. The bed was neatly made, but for one half that had messily rumpled blankets. The duvet was crystal white, the sheets pristine and crisp. A single dent rested in one of the blue pillows. The room smelled fresh, with only the odour of sleep faintly lingering. She circled the bed and looked between the made side and the window. No blood, no entrails. Bronwen pulled up the bed-skirt and looked underneath. Nothing, just dust and a five dollar bill. She pulled out the bill and jammed it into her pocket as she got back to her feet, frantically pulling on her clothes and combing her fingers through her hair. “A most important lesson. Things will never be the same for you now,” Till rumbled. “The hairs on your arm will stand up. At the terror in each sip and in each sup. For you partake of that last offered cup, Or disappear into the potter's ground. When the man comes around...” The fight is nearing closer, and I’m starting to get that familiar itch in my palms at the thought of the show. You know my favorite feeling about it all? Stepping into the ring with the roar of the crowd seems like the most obvious answer, but I have to tell you, it’s when the lights cut out and I light a smoke. I know in that moment, that when the lights come up, that you will both be making your own entrances, and I will stand there quietly waiting, still, watching you make your way down here to where I already am. It’s an electrifying feeling to know that as soon as you slide into the ring, that you’re free game. I can do any conceivable thing short of killing you in those parameters, and the audience doesn’t bat an eye, only cheering louder. In fact, if you did die, I could laugh my way through any kind of trouble I’d get into. Wins and losses aside, my reputation for brutality has steered many away from a match in the past. It’s not too late to back out and no-show. Oh wait…. Rachel, you most of all, surprise me. Out of most competitors I’ve faced by now, I know you relish the Paperviews the most, having done the most successfully in them in the past compared to many of your female counterparts aside from myself. It’s peak time to shine and spray some blood under some watchful eyes, and I’m sorry you’ve missed it—I was looking forward to facing you again, especially after our last encounter. As for you Becky (gag) Thompson…you’re a dust mote. So much for your grand re-entrance into the living world. Still got some necrosis going on with your limbs or something? Busy taking your darling daughter to the Betty Ford? Fucking pathetic. If I never am matched up with your sorry shit again, I will be all the better for it. You though, I could kill you in the ring, and no one would bat an eye. And trust me, when you die by my hand, you seldom return, no matter what voodoo you believe in—nothing a little kerosene and a match won’t fix. You’re fresh out of matches though, huh? See you cunts at the mall!
|
