Fiction from the Day: Transfer

I found this copy of the story, rejection letter still clipped to it, in storage a few weeks back.  I scanned it in and worked on re-formatting it.  I thought it lost, along with the other stories- lost in a shuffle of papers when I was thrown out back in 2013.  There are two others still out there, lost: Nov. 1, and Promises of Heaven, which was my longest work before writing my book (and PhD work).  Maybe someday they'll turn up someday- I'm not holding my breath.

I wrote this story for an advanced fiction writing class in fall of 1987.  The instructor was professor Philip Klass, better known as sci-fi author William Tenn.  Under his watchful eye (and sarcastic pen), this story completely changed from something really stupid to what it is now- with a FAR better ending.  This piece was rejected by a noted science fiction magazine with a terse form letter in 1990.  re-reading it now, I see why.  It's extremely violent and dehumanizing among other issues.

It started roughly as a story about why I transferred from Drexel University to Penn State, and that people joined Greek houses for parties, and such, but also for protection- people to walk with so one wouldn't be mugged.  This morphed into an improbable sci-fi story of urban hell.  Still, if you buy the premise, it has some very good points.  Professor Klass wrote on the final version he saw "You have an ear for dialogue, and that's a rare gift."

After graduation, I edited it a bit for grammar and a couple of bits of stroy that didn't make sense, and copyrighted it (and three other stories) in 1991.  One of those four, Disorganized Light, can be found in this blog.  

Thirty five years later, it's easy for me to poke holes in the story.  It name drops a lot of my fraternity brothers both at Drexel and PSU.  The antagonists- the Musloids- are broad stereotypes whose name should be evidence enough of that fact.  I wrote them as almost sub-human in a way of "othering" them and therefore justifying all the killing.  I recognize now, it was my own racism that caused me to do that, especially given that I assume whiteness when writing about the protagonists.  Also, the lead character, loosely based on me, was very flawed in several ways doing things I actually did (cheat on someone) and didn't (cheat on an exam.)  Also, I never thought through what society would be like for graduates of Sentinel.  What would life be like for these former street warriors?  PTSD?  Or even just a transfer student from such a violent place to the "veritable paradise" that I describe as "State?"  

In any case, here it is, unedited since 1991.  I'd be very interested in your thoughts.   

Trigger warning: Alcoholism, violence, guns

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The Original, printed from my Apple MacIntosh

His head exploded. Blood and bone rained all over my battered body. The other attacker froze. His eyes were real wide. He dropped his weapon.

"It's cool, man. I'll leave. Please, man! We can deal!'

The right side of his chest was instantly torn away, and pasted to the wall. The last thing I remember before passing out is seeing six people wearing black jackets coming toward me.

I woke up in the hospital. I had a broken left arm, a concussion, and several broken ribs. What a way to start my freshman year. That was the fourth time I was mugged since I came to Sentinel University. 

“Sentinel University: guarding the gateway to the future." What a laugh. Sentinel is located in a bad neighborhood in the city. It’s been years, maybe since the turn of the century, since this area has been safe.  They don't tell you that in the brochure. They have a highly respected  engineering program, and that's why I went there. I came from a small farming town, full of crazy ideas about college life with its parties and stuff. I had no idea that it didn't exist anymore. Me? I'm Darren Hoffman, Sentinel class of 2071, and a first-class idiot for being there.

I was in the hospital for two days while they fixed my ribs. The Bone mender wouldn't work on my arm because of some allergy I have. It has something to do with bong elasticity, or something. My roommate and my parents visited. They gave me the usual 'you should be more careful' speech. Then, ten minutes before the end of visiting hours, in walked six guys. They were wearing black jackets with dull yellow trim and yellow greek letters. Fraternity brothers.

I froze.

Fraternity brothers have the well-deserved reputation of being rough.  They're just like the other street gangs, except that brothers go to college, and usually don't come from the city. My grandpa told me that when he went to college, fraternities were all social: all parties and stuff. Not anymore.

Anyway, they came in. They looked only a little older than me, except for their eyes. Their eyes looked real old, like my dad's or something. One guy held up my wallet.

“You lost this." He tossed it on the bed. I found out later that everything was still in it, though I didn't dare check it at the time.

“Yer lucky we came along, dude. You was in a bad way. Anyway, Zonk here was comin' in to get some new teeth, so we thought we'd return yer wallet. Why did you do such a dumb ass thing? Never walk around at night with less than six people."

Six heavily armed people." said Zonk with a grin. He had only three teeth. Ugly. Real ugly.

They asked me to join them. I found out why later: four brothers had been killed by the Musloids, a gang of locals that roam the city, led by Skeletron. Skeletron isn't his real name, but it's name enough. He is mean.  The Musloids declared war on all fraternities, because he thought they were on his turf. The scariest thing is that they're everywhere. You see Musloids on the streets mugging people, and you see them working at places like food stops. You can tell who they are by the 'M' they have carved on the back of their left hands. If they have a left hand.

I accepted the brothers' offer. I was tired of being a victim.

Pledging was rough. I pledged with ten other guys, and three died during the process. It was a street survival course, kinda like a military boot camp. They told us that we had to be as tough as the locals, and then some. My big brother in the fraternity, 'Xenon,' really helped me through, you know, with moral support. He and his fiancée, Blair, they were always there for me. They did everything together. She knew a lot of things about the fraternity that she shouldn't have.

I was initiated into the fraternity on May 4, 2068, a year and a half ago. That's when they gave us our weapons. I chose an antique: a semi-automatic .357 magnum, with infra-red sight. It’s over thirty-five years old, but it still works. It works too well. Since initiation, I’ve killed nine people, and maimed three, and I've been hospitalized five times.  The worst part about the hospital is that they take away everyone's weapons, but it seems safe so I don't worry. The police were never told about any of these things. They wouldn't care anyway. Killing bothers me, but every time it was self-defense. Yeah, self-defense.

Anyway, some brother from another chapter is visiting. He has business in the city for a few days, so he's staying with us. We're taking turns putting him up. He says his name is Rob, and he goes to some big, rural university, where he's a member of the fraternity.

“So you guys, like, carry guns. Is it that bad here?”

“Yeah, it is." I look him over. He looks spoiled. He's got nice clothes, sunglasses, and even a gold nose ring. I haven't seen gold in a few years, and nose rings have been out since 2050.

“Is that why the windows have steel plates with gun ports? I mean, like, this place is like a fortress. Why bother?”

“Well, if we had glass windows, someone'd be bound to throw a grenade in, or worse.”

"Like who?'

“Well, the local gangs usually. Or maybe an enemy house. There's seven fraternities and four sororities on this campus, so it's not unusual for one house to fight another."

"God! We don't have nothin' like that out at State.'

“Really?"

“Yeah. We carry knives sometimes, y' know, for, like, the locals n' stuff, but you guys are, like, carrying artillery pieces!"

“Uh, yeah. What else is different?”

“Well, there's, like, not as many cops, and hardly any anti-grav vehicles, armed or otherwise. We just basically have, like, a good time, and y'know, like, get high like usual, get laid, and shit like that.”

“Sounds like fun."

“Fuckin' A it is, man. Like, it's great when we, like, have parties...'

“You have parties?'

“Sure. Don't you?"

“No. We don't let anyone near the door. Anyway, sorry to interrupt.”

“Oh yeah. Where was I?"

“Parties."

“Oh yeah. Anyway, Darren, when we have parties, all these girls come out...'

"You still call them 'girls'?"

“Yeah..."

“To their faces?"

“Yeah. Why? Don't you?"

“They'd shoot our nuts off if we did. We call 'em women, or ladies, or by their first names.”

"Oh."

“Sorry to interrupt. You were sayin'?"

"Oh yeah, uh, well, the gir...women come out, and we, like, have a wild time. Y' know, playin' drinking games, dancing, gettin' laid...”

"ls that all you think about?'

“What?"

"Gettin' laid.”

“Well, no. I, like, go to classes n'stuff. Why?"

“You keep bringing it up”

“Oh.  Sorry.  Anyway, dude, you should like, come out, and visit us sometime.”

"Yeah. I'll try.'

Last year, one of the pledges, a city kid, chose me as his big brother.  We call him 'Dusty.' It wasn't my idea: I wanted to call him Pee Wee.  Anyway, we hang out a tot together. In fact, he's my roommate this year.  After Rob leaves, Dusty comes back from class.

“So, Dusty, who're you goin' out with tonight?"

"Tonight it's, uh, Faye's turn. Think I should bring her flowers or somthin'?'

“Uhhh, nah. Who's Faye?"

“God, Darren, you goin' senile? You met her last week. She's the blond with the huge...uh, gazongas.”

“Oh yeah! I remember now! I thought you had her already. A second date is bad for your image as a playboy."

“Well, she's worth a second shot.”

“Who's goin' with you?"

“Deke, Skorny, Lella, Hackster, and...oh shit! I need one more. You wanna come?"

Fraternity regulations require that no one leaves the house at night without a minimum of five other brothers along with him.

“I don't have a date.”

“I could call Donna for ya!" Donna was the person he laid Monday night.

Dusty said she likes me, too. I hate having to be fixed up on dates, and I tell him so.

“Well, dude, if you could get your own women, I wouldn't have to do it

for ya.”

I throw my calculus book at him. He laughs, and unplugs his jacket from the armor charger.

An hour later, Donna is nibbling on my ear as we ride in a fraternity cruiser. We have four of them. They look like eight-foot-high, street-gray, trapezoidal solids with a small turret. Like every other house, we buy used police cruisers. They remove the main gun, then sell them real cheap. We buy them because they have a lot thicker armor than a regular family cruiser. Of course, we put our own guns in the turret. The cruisers we have are relatively weak: only twelve inches of armor, a 120-mm. cannon, and three fifty-caliber machine guns. The Thetas claim their cruisers fire tactical nukes. Anyway, the other brothers are manning the weapons while I drive. The anti-grav units that power the thing aren’t working too well, so the ride's a bit rough.

We pull into the night club parking lot. 'The Sensational Strobe' is the best nightspot in town. After shutting down and locking the systems, we open the door, and take our weapons off safety. There are plenty of parking-lot security men, so we reach the club without incident. Donna runs her hand over my chest as I pay the cover. Anyone can get into these places since the drinking age was lowered to ten. We check our guns at the door, and feel thankful that we carry knives.

The club is crowded. I see some familiar faces from school. There are a few Beta Kappas here, and a few Sigma women. We're on good terms with both. Midterms ended last week, so I guess everyone's just blowing off steam. I know I am. My last exam was astro-physics 512. I cheated off the geek next to me, and I think I barely passed. It was rough, especially since they use cameras to check for cheating. Fortunately, one of my brothers was working the camera room, and, of course, didn't report me.

“Will the owner of cruiser license number PKS-189 please return to your vehicle. Your lights are on. Repeating: PKS-189, your lights are on.”

“What the hell, Darren! Forget to turn off the lights, you dipshit?"

I sigh and get up. "l'll be right back." I pick up my gun and record my retina code so I can get back in.

The night has gotten cooler, and a mist is coming in from the river.  The only sounds I hear are the hum of anti-gravs being charged, and the whirr of the atmosphere purifiers. I don't see any parking-lot security, so I pull my gun, and activate the sight. I reach our cruiser. The lights are off. Something catches my eye behind the next cruiser, so I slowly go over.

It's a parking-lot security man. His armor has a hole burned into it. But only police carry lasers that powerful...The air burns past my ear. I flatten on the ground, and crawl behind a cruiser. A thin line of red light flashes by: a laser. You can't hear them, and they're deadly. Who's shooting at me? And where did they get a laser? A shadow behind me. I turn and fire. A Musloid's stomach explodes like a bloody fireworks display. My arm burns. I’ve been hit. I roll to put out the fire. I need help. Pain. Help. Pain. I fight back the panic. Look up. Another Musloid with a police rifle.  He's smiling.

“Drop it or I'll fry yer fuckin' nuts off."

I drop my gun. Pain. I'm dead. He's smiling. Pain. I think I pissed myself. He looks up. A rain of bullets tear him apart. My brothers are here. I roll over, and grope for my gun. I think about that school where I wouldn't need it. Dusty picks up the police laser. Godl My arm hurts! I hear somebody running away, and the Musloid I shot groaning behind me.  Deke walks over to him.

“Dar-man, yer losin' yer touch. He's still alive." He puts his shot gun to the Musloidrs crotch, and pulls the trigger. The Musloid screams for about thirty seconds, then Deke shoots him in the head.

Deke smiles like a kid at Christmas. Dusty helps me up, and comments on how I won't get laid tonight. They take me back to the house, without our dates.

I sit in my room with a bandage on my arm to cover the insta-skin graft on the burn hole. I'm coming off the high from the drugs that the house medic gave me. Rob, the visiting dude, is sitting with me.

“So, Darren is it?" "Yeah.”  “Okay. Darren, man, like, you guys don't , like, fool around. Hey, why don't you have a bunch of severed hands with M's carved on 'em like whatsizname does?"

“Deke. Why don't l? Guess I have taste. Those show how many Musloids you kill."

“Well, how come no one never, like, hears about this shit outside the city?"

“Uhh, restrictive information act, I think it was called. City mayors are allowed to, uhh, declare a press blackout in times of crisis. It’s been around for four or five years. No press allowed. Not even the governors.  Gets in the way of business.” 

“Isn't that, like, unconstitutional?”

“I guess so. Congress passed it though. President signed it. Nobody knows why. Probably pay-offs.”

“I never even, like, heard of it.”

“Press blackout, all the way."

Xenon stumbles in, drunk.

“So, 'lil' bro, yerrr ffucked up uh-gin.' He leans against the post of my bunk bed, and belches.

“Not as fucked up as you. Where's Blair?"

“Don't know. Probably.ggettin' sssick. She had, uh, more'n me.” He takes a large gulp from his bottle, and grimaces.

“Why in hell do to drink that pisswater, dude?”

“Pputs hair 'n m' chest.”  He smiles and slumps to the floor. He's out cold. Deke walks in, swinging some freshly severed hands on a string.

“Xenon! Lookin' good pledge-bro!” He picks up the bottle, and pockets it.

“Well, Dar-man, guess what I heard?"

“You're pregnant!"

“Ha ha.”

“You got your mom pregnant?"

"Fuck off! Seriously, it turns out that the dude you shot tonight was Skeletron's brother or something. One of his boys called a threat in on you individual-like."

'That's like the fourth or fifth brother of his we hit. Must be quite a litter. Anyway, how many threats is that on me now? Five?"

"Six. Puts you in the lead in this house. Borowski over in Theta has you beat by two for campus lead, though. Congrats anyway!”

“How'd he say he's gonna do it this time? The usual slow death by bad breath?”

“Nah. Said he'd peel ya like an apple. Hope ya don't have worms.”

We laugh until Xenon begins to puke. Rob and Deke carry him off to the

bathroom.

Next day is my history class. I took national history, 'cause it sounded better than ethnic history. Sentinel is one of the few schools left that teach any kind of liberal arts, just like they're one of the few with all human instructors: no computers. They're real proud of it too. They put in the brochure real big: 'the total education for a total you.' Those are the main reasons I came to this hole. There's more to life than crunchin' numbers. Most colleges dropped liberal arts, since the end of the tech-revolution. All the big brains were too busy getting high to further technology. Progress stopped. Colleges panicked, especially after the Russians built Moonbase. So to turn out engineers and scientists quicker, most colleges dropped everything but the tech courses. Anyway, today Dr. Goldstein is covering the Federal Drug Regulation Act of 1996.

“...So, are there any more questions about the exam? Going once, twice, gone. Okay, class, what can you tell me about the D.R.A. from your reading? Ms. Sigman?"

“It generated lots of money for the government. The federal deficit was wiped out in a matter of months."

"Ah! So all is peachy? Who signed it, and what happened as a result? Mr. Raymond.”

“President Hibowitz. She was called a hero, and then impeached on embezzlement charges."

“And her replacement, Mr. Raymond?'

"President Cappeletti.”

“What about her?"

“She was Italian? I don't know."

“Mr. Daugherty.”

“Her replacement was like a puppet of the military. Street violence in the cities went out of control, as addicts would kill anyone for drug money."

"Right. Then, the police took the operation under federal regulation. The government recruited the former crime families to be the sole manufacturers of the drugs, to be sold only by police, for a hefty profit. The black market drugs are considered too unsafe to use, due to federal poisoning. Was the transition to a profit-hungry police force smooth? Mrs. Cliff.”

“No. Since then, murder, rape, and arson are no longer important: kinda like jaywalking. The police are only worried about turning a profit. Anyone not payin' the police protection tax, or late on their drug money, gets real dead real quick. It’s their way of curbing the population explosion."

Some muffled laughter. “That's right, class. Real funny. Do you know what it really was? The end of civilization. Millions became addicts. Then, with the press supplying phony news to the suburbs, no one questioned what was happening on the city streets. I mean, you need a goddamn permit to enter the city! ln the suburbs, people are always too stoned to worry about it. Doesn't that make you think? Even a little?”

Silence.

“And what about the Soviets? What did they think about our new policy? Ms. Wu?”

“They were more than happy to watch us self-destruct. Then they instituted a prohibition law.”

“Which led to?”

'”No more Stoly's vodka.”

He stifles his taugh. "Yes, that and the Murmansk riots of 2011. 4000 rumored dead. Still, what were the sociological effects here? What about the cuIture? The children?"

A muffled cough.

“Oh, why do I bother? Next time, we'll cover the U.S. role in the Franco-Spanish War of 2002. Have a safe day.”

Rob's descriptions keep bugging me. People actually have fun at his college? No weapons and no police? I didn't think places like that existed anymore. The next day, I go down to the Sentinel registrar's office, and get information about transferring. I leave it out on my desk, and Dusty sees it.

“What's this bullshit?"

“What's it look like? I want out. I'm tired of this killing, and shit. I came to college to learn engineering, not to blow people away."

"That's bullshit! You can't leave! Yer needed here! After Xenon and Deke, you n' Cheever are the oldest brothers in the house. You're a goddamn former president! People look up to you, man. You can't back out now, you fuckin' country hick. What are you gonna do if someone crosses ya at State? Here, you fuckin' blow 'em away! That's power, man. No one fucks

with you here. You can't leave.”

"Yeah? Watch me. Dusty, I heard about a college where you don't even need a gun! They even have parties! That sounds a hell of a lot better than getting blown away by some stupid asshole for no reason.”

“Shit” And here I thought my big bro was a real man. Guess I had it wrong. Fuckin' hick.”  He slams the door as he leaves. I think it's Lisa's turn tonight.

That night is the bi-weekly chapter meeting. It’s dull as usual, until new business. Cheever, the house president, brings it up.

"It has come to my attention that Darren might be transferring out of here. ls this true?"

I sit up, and clear my throat. "Uh, well, uh, I've been, uh, thinking about it, yeah.”

“Well, we were talkin' about this at the officers' meeting. We can’t allow you to leave. I mean, if you leave, one of us could get killed.'

“Yeah, and if I stay, it could be me. And besides, there's nothin' you can do to stop me. If I wanna leave, I'll leave."

“Look, pledge bro, don't try to bullshit me. I’m ready for you."

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. It turns out that brother Devinney has a copy of some interesting fitm he swiped from the camera room after your 512 midterm. If we chose to send it to the admissions office at State, you wouldn't have a prayer of gettin' in. Not to mention you'd be kicked out of this school.”

“You're bluffing.”

“You know me, Dar-man. We pledged together. I don't bluff.”

“You're a bastard, Cheever.”

He smiles. “I guess we can consider the matter closed then?”

“For now. But I'll remember this.”

The next day, I go out with Xenon, Blair, Dusty, and some pledge for a little daylight drinking. Rob went home to a paradise I'll never know. It’s a Saturday, so there's a lot more cops out than usual. Saturday is collection day for police tax, so they're pretty busy. We go to the college bar, the “Condom," which is only a couple of blocks away. After a few pitchers of beer, we're all. feeling pretty good. I hear that Dr. Goldstein was dismissed by the University for "health reasons.' Xenon spills beer on Blair, so she wants to go home to change. Xenon doesn't want to leave, so she asks me to escort her there and back. She doesn't live too far away, so why not?

The air is pretty chilly, even for late October. Blair has only a light jacket on, and it's wet, so she's freezing. She asks if we can huddle together to keep warm. Why not?

We arrive at her apartment building, and show our lDs to the guard at the door. The elevators are busted, so we have to take the stairs. The stairs are covered with slime and moss, and they smell like a sewer. Or like Dusty's cooking. The climb to the fourteenth floor is slow: I feel like gagging after the sixth.

We finally get to her room. She disables the security devices, and we go in. I've never been here before. It’s nice, if you like earth-tones. She goes into her room to change. A few minutes later, she calls for me.

“Could you come in here and help me with something?"

The bedroom is dark, so she asks me to turn on the lights. When I do, I see her standing naked in the middle of the room. I never noticed what a beautiful body she had, because she always wears bulky, loose clothes.

She comes over, and slips my jacket off of me.

“I'm tired of being with a drunkard. I want someone who'll satisfy me for a change."

“Well…” I glance toward the .door.

"Did anyone ever tell you that you have the most beautiful blue eyes?"

An hour later, we're walking back to the bar. When we get there, Xenon is passed out on the table. Dusty is drawing things on his face with a light pen. The pledge is getting more beer. We sit and talk for a while, then me, Dusty, and Blair get up to go back to the house. We tell the pledge to help Xenon back. It'll be dark soon.

We get back safely. Blair goes to Xenon's room to wait. Dusty goes to get some food. I do my physics homework. If this were State, I could be at a party now. Unarmed.

After a short nap, I hear arguing down the hall. Xenon and Blair are having a rare fight. I join the several other brothers listening at the door.

"Jordan, I'm tired of your drinking! I can't marry a goddamn lush!” Jordan is Xenon's real name.

“Well, I got nothin' better t' do.”

“Oh, so I'm nothing better, huh. You'd rather get fucked up than be            with me, wouldn't you? I can't take this anymore! I've tried. I really have. I just can't take it anymore." She starts to cry.

"I'm sorry. I love you. Don't wanna hurcha. Please don' leave. I can't help it. 'Sides, I thought you said it was cute or something.”

“It was cute for a while, Jordan. Not anymore. t'm tired ol watching you destroy yourself. I don't want this anymore, Jordan. I...just don't. l'm sorry.”

She runs out of the room, almost knocking over three of us. Xenon looks out the window for a minute, mumbles something, then stumbles out after her. I go back to my room to study. They usually fight it out in the attic. That's probably where they've gone.

A couple of hours later, someone goes up to the attic. No one is there. We search the house, but neither of them are here. We call Blair's apartment. She's there, apd hasn't seen Jordan since she left. The pledges at the door say he left over an hour ago.

Cheever organizes four search parties of ten each. My team searches the area north for three blocks. Beyond that is posted Musloid territory, and is too dangerous to enter, especially at night. We search for an hour, then go back to the house. One of the other groups had found him. He was crucified to the side of a building. His throat and genitals were cut, and a large X was slashed into his chest. We put him in a box, and send him home on one of the cruisers. Everyone else meets in the foyer. Deke is the first to speak.

“The slashes in his chest are Skeletron's personal trademark.  Probably done with that barbed machete he carries. Where didja find him?'

“A couple of blocks east of campus, near the river."

The fraternity decides to send our strongest cruiser into Musloid territory tomorrow. They want to blow people away. I want no part of it.  I call Blair, and tell her what happened. She takes it badly. That surprises me.

That night, I can't sleep. I keep thinking about Jordan. He did so much for me, and in the end, I betrayed him. I screwed his fiancee'. I cant help but think that it was my fauIt that they fought. My fauIt.

Dusty snores. I never noticed that before.

I guess I finally fell asleep, because a ptedge wakes me up. Cheever wants me to go with the cruiser into Musloid territory.

“Fuck off.”

“But Cheever wants you to come. He told me so.”

"l'm not going, so leaye me alone.”

He stands there, staring at me.

“Did I stutter? Get out!"

He runs out of the room. Dusty walks in, carrying the laser he picked up.

“So you're not goin'?"

“No.”

“Well, fuck you then." He leaves.

After a quick shower, I head down to the radio room. The cruiser is a block into Musloid territory. All is quiet. I see a few faces on the cruiser’s inside monitor. The outside monitors show a lot of old, wrecked houses, and some wrecked cars. I wonder how long they've been there- at least fifty years? It’s like a ghost town. I’ve never seen Musloid turf before. There's no one on the streets. It’s too quiet. Three blocks in.

I grab a mike. 'Cheev, your outside monitors show nothing. You thinking trap?"

“Probably. Uh, Darren, could you have a second group ready?' His voice is shaking.

“Rescue?"

“Yeah. I kinda don't think we'll be comin' back.”

“So why did you want me along?"

“Yer my pledge bro, man. Us two, we're the last ones left from our class. I, uh, kinda wanted you here with me when it happened. I don’t wanna die alone.”

At State, he wouldn't have to.

“Okay, Cheev, you've got your second team. You need us, just give the word.”

I spend the next five minutes putting together a rescue team. We wait in the last cruiser, watching the monitors of Cheever's group. Six blocks, still nothing...wait. Up ahead there's a body in the street. It has a red and white jacket: a Theta. His head is lying a few feet away. A pledge throws up.

I hear Cheev say "Let's get the hell out of here."

Guns come out of the windows all around. Suddenly, shooting comes from everywhere. The monitors screens go a little fuzzy, like there's something wrong with their transmission. The other cruiser is immobilized, but its guns open up on everything. One of its outside monitors is hit, and it goes black.

Buildings are falling all around from the cruiser’s big gun. Cheever is yelling something about gas. He orders everyone out.

“Dar-man, get us out of here!"

We go full speed. We hear on the scanner that the police are on the way. It'll be a massacre. The other cruiser's monitors go black.

Three minutes later, we see the cruiser on our monitor. Thick, black

smoke is gushing out of it. I see a lot of bodies. I see a few brothers hiding behind things.  Beyond that, I see a lot of people: men, women, and kids, firing at them. The little ones are throwing rocks. We open fire with everything we have.

Our door opens, and I run to the other cruiser, firing as I go. The other brothers are dragging in the dead and wounded. There are four bodies in the other cruiser. Everything is smashed. Cheever is slouched against the wall, coughing. He's badly burned. I help him outside.

“Darren. Thanks, man."

The shooting is heavy. Someone is walking down the street toward us, like he's God or something. He's carrying a machete, and smiling. Skeletron. I take careful aim, and fire my last bullet. It rips his right leg off at the waist. He screams, and falls to the ground. Someone yells from inside the cruiser.

"Cops are almost here!"

My shoulder is hit. I'm soaked in my own blood. My left arm is useless. Pain. I jump into the cruiser. It’s packed. Other people jump in.

"That's all! Go!"

I pass out.

A few hours later, I wake up in the house. They're evacuating us to the hospital. I find out Cheever is dead. There's a total of twenty-two dead, and sixteen wounded. I look over the dead bodies, remembering what each person was like. Dusty.

Dusty is dead, too.

Deke comes over.

“What now, Darren?"

Cheever is dead. Jordan is dead. Now Dusty. Twenty-two kids are dead.

“I don't know.”

I'm to be in the hospital for a week. On the second day, Devinney comes in. He drops a film disc onto my bed.

“How do you feel, Dar-man?"

"Doc says it'll be a few days. What's on the disc?'

“Your 512 midterm film. I figured you'd want it."

“Thanks.”

“A bunch of the guys are thinking of nominating you for president.”

“I can't do it. I'm transferring out to State."

“Can't say I blame you. What about us, though? We need you.”

.           “I can't stand it no more, Devinney. It’s not like this is the 1990s or            something. Christ, then you could walk the streets safe at night. I'm tired of fighting. I don't want it no more.”

“Yeah. Besides, the cost of ammo is higher then the damn drugs.”

“Well, you could always steal weapons from the Musloids.”

Devinney smiles. "Are you sure, Dar-man? About leaving? We'll miss you.”

"I made up my mind. I wanna graduate from college, not be killed by

it.”

"Well, good luck then."

As Devinney leaves, a doctor walks in and closes the door. He looks, kinda shabby, like he's had a long day. As he smiles a green tinged smile at me, I notice the letter carved on his hand. Instinctively, I reach for a weapon that's not there.

 

Unpublished work copyright: Sophie Kandler 1991

 

An Old Story: "Disorganized Light."

I wrote a lot of short stories when I was in college, and right after.  Some of them I did more work than others.  Five of them made to "finished" and were saved on a Macintosh 3.5" disc.  I also printed them out and put them into a folder.  I made a copy of one of the stories in that folder to show a friend maybe 8 years ago.  The folder has since vanished and the Mac no longer works, so, as of now, this is the only one of the early stories to survive in its "final" form.  ( I still have their handwritten first drafts somewhere.)

Chronologically, this was the last of the five.  I started writing it in June 1990.  The girl I was dating ( I'll call her X for the purposes of this entry) at the time was going away to work for the summer, and she insisted that I write three pages a day of whatever so she would have something to read (this was pre-internet, and where she was going there were no TVs.)  I decided to make that the basis of a story.  Simple enough, right?

Unlike the protagonist, I had no issues with that output.  I wrote letters, to her and others, as well as this and another story: "Promises of Heaven," which was by far the longest of the five stories.

The original idea was 'ghost story as metaphor.'

Yes, I was a pretentious little sh*t back then.

The protagonist was... not in his right mind, so I wrote him in passive voice to "create distance."  See: Pretentious little sh*t" above.  I love ghost stories, and I had books about real hauntings that I used for inspiration.

What it became was quite different.  The relationship took a sour turn, and being me, that influenced my writing.  The story became a chronicle of my relationship with X (whom I call "Mary" in the story, obviously not her real name but also a metaphor- 'without sin' and all that.)

After X came home from the summer, she had a new beau... and me.  Obviously, our relationship ended.  Long story short, this was one of the factors leading to my first suicide attempt in 1990.

I finished this story, as you see it here, in May 1991.  I learned that very day that X was marrying the new guy at the end of that month.  She was 20 at the time.

X liked reading my work, as did my coworkers at TGI Fridays.  Two of them, Kim  and Beth, were particularly encouraging.  They both said they really loved this piece.  I sent a copy of to X, as she requested one.

She hated it.

Years later, as mentioned above, I showed it to a friend whom I will refer to as "Prime."  He is a writer of great talent, especially with Noir.  he told me that if I didn't re-write this, he would.  I was reluctant, as for me it was a signpost of a person long since passed.  However, there's no harm in a challenge.

So, Prime- bring it- I'll rewrite it and YOU rewrite it.  I'll post both, giving you full co-writing credit.  Lame or game?


Anyway, here, finally typed in to this computer, is that story: "Disorganized Light."

*************************************************************************

Disorganized Light   (May 1991)

He used a knife.  No one knows why.  Perhaps she had a lover, or he did.  Maybe he was insane.  We’ll never know.  All we know is that she still walks the corridors of the house, arms outstretched as if to capture the love she lost centuries before.

            No, this is garbage.  How am I supposed to write this stuff?  I don’t know what I’m trying to prove here.  Maybe I don’t have what it takes.

            But I must.

            If I am going to get her to return, I must have discipline.  Three pages a day.  That will bring her back to me.

            I’m sorry, I’m babbling.  Let me bring this up to date.  You see, Mary, the girl I love, is away.  I promised that I’d write her three pages a day.  She thinks I could be a great writer someday.  All I need is discipline (the one thing I don’t have.  That’s not true: there’s lots I don’t have.  Mostly Mary.)  Anyway, only through discipline will I get her to return.  She’s on a long trip to someplace where I’ve never been.  The where isn’t important: only her absence. 

            I’m trying to write a ghost story.  I’ve always liked them, and anyway it seems appropriate.  I’m renting a room in a really old house that I can easily imagine as haunted.  Rewrite time.

                        He killed her in 1760, yet her memory has never left the house.

            YUK!

                        Her lonely figure walks the night’s corridors, seeking the love that betrayed her over two hundred years before.

            I don’t know.  Maybe I should sleep on it.

                        The house isn’t old; it’s a carbon copy of all the others on the block.  Built in the post-war days, it has seen its share of domestic bliss and war.  Why bother with this house?  What makes 234 Beaver Ave. so different?  What sinister forces are at work?  Could I write more clichéd if I tried?

            I must be really tired.  I look out the window onto the street and I remember her.  It’s raining, the kind of soaking rain only a humid summer day could entice. She loves the rain.  I can’t wait for her to come back. 

            Ok.  Reality check.  What do I want to write?  Where should this story go?  I want a good introduction, but not something that will give away the show. 

            He awakens to a sound.  Not a bump or a crash, but an almost imperceptible one, delicate as a whisper.  His clock reads 2:15.  Again the sound.  A rustle of cloth, quiet as a memory.

            ‘What could it be?’ he thinks.  Quietly, he rolls from bed.  The carpet muffles the sound of his bare footsteps.

            He opens the door, ever so slightly.

                       There, in the corridor, he sees her.  Holding her arms out to embrace an invisible love.              Her face is skeletal, and her skirt rustles in a non- existent breeze.  He chokes back a scream              and quickly jumps to bed, covering himself with the blankets.

            Hmm.  I don’t know about the blankets.  Or the face.  I wish I could ask Mary for her opinion.  But she’s away.  On a trip.  But I’ll get her to come back.  Really soon.

She waited for her lover to arrive.  Instead, her fiancée appeared.  He confronted her with what he had learned, and then murdered her.  To this day, she wanders the site of the old house, waiting for her love that was due so long ago.

            This is so difficult.  America just isn’t a good setting for a good story.  England has a lock on them.  Like tea and good comedy, no one does ghosts like the British.  But I don’t know enough about their language to write about it.        

            “Eek it’s a bloody ghost!”

            So much for that idea.  I’ll try again tomorrow night.  I close my notebook, open the window and door for some air, and go to bed.  I have a long day tomorrow. 

            It feels strange being at this wedding.  Makes me feel old, though I’m only twenty four.  I can’t believe I was invited.  After all, she is an ex-girlfriend.

            At the reception, I look over the empty seat next to me.  The place I reserved for her.  Watching the smiling bride, I think of Mary, and I wish for the day when we were to wed.  The happiness: lifelong and total that we were to share.  She promised.  I look over at the empty chair, and I raise my glass to her.  I can almost see her smiling at me.

It’s only a small boat.  A small pleasure boat that silently cruises the bay on moonlit nights endlessly searching for port.  At the wheel, a woman too young for the heart attack that kept her from the arms of her married lover across the bay, and her husband sleeping at home.

            Home drunk.  As I lie in bed and sweat, I think of sweet springs of the past.  Of the sickening clichéd things that we did together.  Picnics in the park.  Walking at dusk around the block.  Little notes under my windshield wiper when I came out of work (hasn’t been one in a while.  I keep checking even though I know she’s far away.)  Making love in the hammock of her parent’s darkened porch, jumping at every headlight to come down the road.  To think of it, for the first two weeks we knew each other, we spent maybe 75% of the time naked.  I was absolutely addicted to the feel of her body.  She said my skin was “soft like magic.”  Although we cooled off a little over time, I never lost the special sensation she gave me.  And I treasured every moment and opportunity.  The thoughts don’t help the temperature of the room in the dark.  So I get up and look out the open window. 

This is the house I had in mind when I wrote this.  It's in Spring City, a couple of blocks from where I grew up

            The nights are the worst.  Especially since it’s summer.  Hazy nights when everybody has somebody.  Everybody but me.  Nights like these make it hard to write.  She left me on a night like this. 

            So I sit watching the room leap from cloud to cloud, and I wish she were here watching it with me.  Maybe she’s watching it from wherever she is now.  God knows that whenever I see the moon, I think of her. 

            However, the moon isn’t much inspiration tonight, so I go downstairs for a beer and go back to my room.  It’s not the biggest room in the house, not even the nicest.  A bed, some other furniture, a window, a hardwood floor.  I haven’t really gotten into the spirit of decorating it.  She used to live here, in this very room, except that it’s been redone since she left.  I stare out the window, like so many nights before, and I miss her.

            On nights like this, with a hazy moon cowering in the sky, I can still smell smoke.

A soft sobbing echoes through the corridors.  Quietly, almost inaudibly, it is heard on sultry summer nights.  The former owner claimed that he saw a figure drifting mournfully down the darkened halls and through a wall.

            Hmm.  Maybe. 

            I’m still looking out the window as the sun rises.  It’s strange how loneliness can make even a sunrise seem trivial.  Almost ugly.  Beauty is meant to be shared.  I close the shade, toss the empty beer bottles into the glass container, and go to sleep.

            She invades my dreams.  As if it isn’t hot enough in this room to sleep already.

            When I wake up, I look in my notebook.  Between throbs of the heartbeat paced hangover headache, I try to read what I wrote the night before.

Our bodies are just sticks and meat.  Sticks and meat.  So vulnerable, yet they have a spirit.  A spirit so strong as to transcend its mortal shortcomings.  Sticks and meat so easily blown over by the eternal wolf of death, verses the eternal brick house of the spirit of the soul.  And yet the soul can be so easily crushed by one so cherished.  Insanity.  There is no reason to it.

            Ugh.  Heavy drinking and writing don’t mix.  I must try not to write while totally slammed.  Try some more.

                        She walks the field where the house used to be.  Ugh.

            She walks the ruins of the old manor, looking like a gentle mist moving about the stone and weeds.

            A little better.  How am I going to get three pages if I can’t finish a paragraph?  No discipline.  It still echoes in my ears.

            We had just finished making love, and were holding each other.  A perfectly blissful moment, the two of us alone, not needing to say a word.  And I ruined it by saying “I love you.”  She stood up and dressed.  We started talking about my writing.

            “You have no discipline!  If you can’t get it done now, you never will.”  She paced around the room, obviously disgusted. 

            “But Mary, I don’t have time to write.  Between work and seeing you, I simply don’t have time.”

            “Oh, so it’s my fault.  You could be really great at this.  God knows that you don’t want to do anything else.  Why don’t you do it and do it right?”

            “It’s not your fault…”

            “I know what to do.  I’m going home.  I’ll see you in a couple of days.  If you haven’t written three pages every day, I’m just going to turn around and go home.”

            “But…”

            “And that’s the way it’s going to be.  Bye!”

            The door closed and I haven’t seen her since.

They hadn’t seen each other for almost a year.  He was at sea, but now he is home, waiting in his room.  He hears her carriage pull up, and her footsteps enter the house.  He gets up to greet her.  Her footsteps are closer and hurried: she’s on the stairs and obviously running.  A smile crosses his face.  Suddenly, a scream and a bone chilling series of thumps.  She had tripped and fallen down the stairs.  He runs out of his room to see her broken dead form at the bottom of the grand staircase. 

On still nights for years later, screams and the sound of a body thumping down the stairs could be heard echoing through the moon-lit manor.  He would never marry, and kept a lonely vigil at the top of the stairs whenever home.  Eventually he committed suicide, driven mad by the memory and reminder of his dead love.  To this day, one can hear her footsteps and fall, and the sound of his pacing the hall at the top, waiting for his love to simply climb the stairs and be with him for all eternity.

            Not a bad start.  Maybe I could expand upon this later.  Right now, I have errands to run: the bank, the cemetery, the store, and over to my friend Mike’s.  I’ll work on this later.

            Sometimes I hate life.  All that’s happened.  There can be no such thing as fate.  Yet, how can it be possible that someone can bring about so much sorrow, so much heartbreak upon themselves?

            Is it fate that grants some people blissful happiness in life while others know nothing but pain?  God, I am so sick of pain.  Yet, I can’t seem to escape it.  Or can I?

The mist forms into a woman running across the hill under the hazy summer moon, crying for the love she betrayed so long ago.

            There’s something about a summer twilight at 8:30.  It is still daylight, but the moon is taking command of the sky.  Crickets and locusts provide a light soundtrack.  Children are another day closer to inevitable school; the elderly are one step closer to inevitable death.  I wonder how many versions of the passion play are being planned are acted out on a summer twilight Friday.  How many parties are teens going to where parents aren’t home?  How many people are preparing for a night out dancing and teasing? 

            How many will God bless with the morning?

            The moon rises as the light evaporates.  Three lousy pages.  If only my thoughts could be put on paper.  Coherently.

            Should I expand that one idea?  Nah.  I’ll try some others first. 

            A jet flies overhead in the twilight.  The engine hums in placid peace as it soars.  To its passengers, even cars are too small to be seen.  Civilization is just a pattern of lights: organized lights.  If only lights would stay organized.

No sound.  No footsteps. Yet there it hangs, floating majestically above the ruins of the grand staircase.  A southern belle, her dress flowing white and cascading, like her hair, in an unseen wind.  Slowly she moves, as though showing off at her debut.  Down the stairs.  Arms outstretched, she hugs an admirer whose life ended long ago.  Smiling, she picks up a glass offered to her by unseen hands.  She lifts the glass to unseen lips to quench an eternal thirst.  Hand to throat, she dies.  How can the dead look so young?

It is said her elder sister also haunts these ruins in eternal torment for poisoning good wine to remove her only rival for a man’s attention.

            Hmm.  Not bad.  But what can I do with it?

The large H-shaped building houses a nursing home for nuns: the largest in the world.  Next to that, a building dwarfed by its huge neighbor, is a dormitory for the nuns and nursing staff who care for the elderly sisters.  One hundred yards away, opscured by a grove of pines, is a cemetery for the celibate sorority: nuns buried beneath identical stones.  It is said that at night, in the full moon, or in the mist, ghostly nuns walk from the home to the cemetery, bearing flowers for the sisters who went before them.  And that among the stones, ghostly sisters raise their arms and faces to the sky, but is it to praise their eternal father/husband or condemn him for waster barren lives?

            The answer depends upon if you’re catholic, I guess.  Nah.  Too controversial.

            I think most of us like to think of ourselves as the heroes in our own stories.  We try not to hurt others, not to be bad.  What happens when someone feels like the loser of their own story?  Or possibly the villain? 

            I go to the basement- to the new fuse box.  The fuses are still new to me.  The old ones were friends of mine.  I knew all about this house’s wiring, even before I moved in.  Mary asked me to help put a new outlet in her room, so the electrician and I put it in.  I learned a lot in those couple of days.  We had to re-route a few things in the dining room, which is right below her room.  Which is my room now.

She walks into a family room at the base of the stairs and feels a chill.  Out of the corner of her eye, she notices the closed curtains billow as if the windows were open.  She walks over and finds them closed, and hears a playful giggle behind her. 

Turning suddenly, she sees a child dressed in century-old clothing, with black eyes and her head hanging at a grotesque angle.  The child looks real enough, and she’s giggling as she floats buoyantly above the stereo.  The child giggles again and vanishes.

                        Then she hears the giggle again.

            When her husband comes home, he finds her cowering in the corner of the family room, sucking her thumb.

            Nah.

            There I times I think of death.  I wonder if it is truly the release I hope it would be.  Sometimes all I want for is a reason.  Hah.  Reason.  Reason is the rules constructed by fools who seek to control the uncontrollable; who seek to put a handle on lives that have flown out of control.  With the application of reason comes insanity.  Love is not a reasonable thing.  Love is truth and reason is not.  Those who try to combine the two are destined to repeat heartbreak after heartbreak as their relationships fail and their women leave them. 

            Women always make promises they never keep.  They promise loyalty and eternal love, but they lie and cheat.  Yet are men any better? Am I?  I have lied too.  Is there any hope?  Is there any reason?

            The old cliché warns me to be careful with my wishes.  I wish only for the return of my love: of what was.  I was happy.  Is that such a crime?  Why must I always find sadness?  What harm could there be with her return?  Would I take her back?

She slowly drifts along the highway.  Her expression is confused.  Why does she never reach her destination?  Where is her car or the dawn?  She never saw the truck that hit her from behind.

            God, yes.  In a moment.  I miss her more with each passing moment. 

            I open the window and let in the night.  There are sirens wailing somewhere in town.  As if this street hasn’t heard enough of them. 

The lonely traveler walks along the road.  He curses the fates and his car, which broke down a mile ago.  Ahead, he sees that the light is not a house or car, as he hoped, but simply a light drifting in the trees next to the road.  As he approaches, the light takes form: the form of a woman in colonial dress, holding a bonneted head under her arm.  He runs, but every time he turns the apparition is closer, closer, reaching for him…

            I’d better sleep on this.  I’m getting corny. 

            The night is hot and humid.  I dream of an inferno.  Being caught in a corner with nowhere to go.  I wake up with wet sheets.  I’m sweating like crazy.  No wonder: the window and door are now closed.  No cross draft.  Good God it’s hot in here!  Even the floor seems hot to bare feet.  I open the window, then the door.  The hallway is dark and the light plays tricks.  I almost think I saw a hint of movement near the stairs.  An imperceptible cough.

            The house is stone, built over a century ago as some kind of retreat for city money.  Over the years, it was sold again and again, until it was eventually converted into apartments.  The floors are wooden and creak with any weight.  Our landlady has some old pictures hanging in the stairwell.  People smiling and posing that are now dead.  Children who are long past innocence.  Narrow halls and small doorways.  For such a big house, it sure is confining.  And at night, the shadows make it smaller. 

They hadn’t seen each other for almost a year.  He was away at war, but now he is home, waiting in his room.  There are rumors that he has heard.  Whispers and looks from his servants.  About a child: her child, but by another man: a sailor.  If this is true, then everything she has been writing, all the love she promised was a lie.  She promised she would wait for him, despite her fickle past.  He hears her carriage pull up, and her footsteps enter the house.  Soon he will know.  By the way she greets him, treats him, looks at him.  He will be able to tell by the look in her beautiful hazel eyes if she has betrayed him.  No matter what, he just wants to embrace the woman he loves.  He gets up to greet her.

            Maybe I should use smaller paper.

            I hate running errands.  Seeing couples together only makes me feel lonelier.  I bump into someone I know from school. 

            “Hey Lance, how are you?” he calls.

            “I’m ok, Dave,” I say to his smiling face. 

            “Sorry to hear about what happened.  Anything I can do?”

“What happened? I’ve been so busy writing and waiting for Mary that I’ve lost touch with events.”

“What happened? The fire! Mary!  Christ, you live there.  How could you forget?”

The fire.  I can’t forget.

“I haven’t forgotten.  I thought you were talking about something else.  I mean, the fire was almost a year ago.  Around when she left.”

He gives me a very strange look.  “Yeah.  Whatever.  Look, I, uh, gotta go.”

He walks away very quickly.

Forget?  How can I?  I remember the pain.  More powerful than anything physical.  No nerve could sing of such agony as another can inflict upon the mind.  The pain of her absence burns me, and leaves me only with the fact that she is gone.

While that burns, the truth freezes me, cold as a January night.  Irrefutable, sometimes impossible to find, other times impossible to avoid.  Sometimes I hide in the warm recesses of imagination, or in the balmy comfort of self-deception.  Neither lasts too long.

And I still can’t wait for her to come home.

Her footsteps are closer and hurried: she’s on the stairs and obviously running.  What will he say to her?  Will he question her? Accept a hug and a warm kiss?  Play coy?  Accuse her?  No.  He will be content now just to hold her.  To see the sparkle in her lovely eyes.  To see the flush in her soft cheeks.  A smile crosses his face.  Suddenly a scream and a bone chilling series of thumps.  Eternal.  Finally, a last thump, then silence.  The silence lasts forever as he opens his door.  He moves, but it seems the room is endless.  She has tripped and fallen down the stairs.  A servant screams.  He runs out of the room to see her broken dead form at the bottom of the grand staircase.

I remember a fight Mary and I once had.  I had just done her a big favor and she blew it off like nothing.  Didn’t even hear her say “thanks.”  I thought she was so ignorant, and was very angry.  Anyway, that night I sat on the porch of the place I was staying, watching the rain, when Jeff, my roommate walked past.

“You OK?”

“Not really.”

“Fight?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, don’t worry.  Things will work out.  There’s always tomorrow.”

But now I know there isn’t always a tomorrow and there might be someone or something waiting to steal away all my dreams.  I’m tired of watching my dreams disappear like smoke on a gloomy day.  Tomorrow is only important if you can make today count, because everything you love may be taken away tomorrow.  Tomorrow is as much a threat as a promise, and hope can be as fleeting as a distant siren in the night.

I wake up to the sound of coughing.  It’s so hot in this room that it seems hazy.  And the window is closed.  Dammit, I propped it open when I went to bed.  The floor almost burns my feet as I walk across it.  Things must be hot in the dining room.  Could it be?  No… I run to the door and fling it open.  The hallway is cool and clear, and the moonlight falls on one of the old dead pictures of a little girl smiling.  And I hear a cough.

I wipe the sweat from my face, and go back into my room to re-open the window.  The wooden floor is cool to my feet. 

The hardest part about losing someone special is the tender memories of happiness they leave behind.  The subtle rhetoric of simple moments. 

Smashed.  Limp.  Broken.  All the dreams he hoped for.  All the plans he made.  Gone in a lifeless instant. 

On still nights for years later, screams and the sound of an invisible body thumping down the stairs could be heard echoing through the moon-lit manor.  The spot where she lay, where he cradled her in his tear-soaked arms, would always be cold, and pets refused to climb the stairs.

“Why didn’t I meet her outside?  Why was I playing games?  Life is too short for games,” he would mutter to himself.

He would never marry, and kept a lonely vigil at the top of the stairs whenever he was home.  True, she did have an affair, he would find out, but nothing came of it, and his anger and the pain of her betrayal were snuffed by the ache of the loss.  Eventually, he committed suicide, driven mad by the memory and reminder of his dead love.  To this day, one can hear the footsteps and fall, and the sound of his pacing the hall at the top, waiting for his love to simply climb the stairs and be with him for all eternity.

Sometimes I cry because it’s so unfair.  Ours was a great relationship: everyone said so.  We seemed made for each other: perfect compliments.  Now she’s away, and I cry into any convenient drink because, try as I might, I can’t seem to get her back.  Three lousy pages.  You’d think that’d be simple, but I’m in such a frame of mind that I can’t even think about anything else but self-pity.  What am I torturing myself?  She’s torturing me already: I shouldn’t be doing it myself. 

That night, I dream of fire.  Hot, bright, crackling, roaring like distant horses.  Fire surrounds me with its disorganized light.  There is smoke, and coughing.  A familiar choking cough.

I wake up to soaked sheets and remember.  She’s away.  It’s so hot in here.  I remember jamming a book in the window frame to keep it open, but there it is on the floor.  The door is closed, and it’s so damn hot and hazy. 

I remember the sirens, wailing through the distant night, calling to me like a fleeting love.

God, it’s so hot I can hardly breathe.

I remember when she left.  A phone call.  “Could you identify…” I fall to my knees on a blazing hot floor and hold my face in my hands.  I remember the fire.

“Could you identify…”

She’s dead!  Mary is dead and she died in this room and it’s my fault because I screwed up the wiring and she’s not coming back because she’s dead and it’s my fault because I killed her!  I cry on my blistering knees as I start to cough uncontrollably.  And I hear more coughing as I look up. 

The door has opened.  There in the doorway, surrounded by thick white smoke, arms outstretched to hold the one she left behind, is Mary.  Coughing, dying again, and looking to me for the salvation that I cannot give, and will never come.