The evening sun, setting over the desert, hurt Charlie's eyes. Light bounced off of the hoods of cars and caught him square in the face, blinding him temporarily to the world beyond the front porch. Some children on a nearby street howled with laughter at something that must have been the funniest thing on the planet at that particular moment. Whatever the cause of their laughter, it was enough to get them to start shouting the strange words children are sometimes taken to in moments of incomprehensible bliss, weird yelps and off-kilter screeches with no discernible parallel in written or spoken language. All at once the tranquility of the evening was sold, set in stone, immortalized as "one for the books." The sky had gone pinkish purple, and the cloudless sky seemed boundless.
The front door opened, and out stepped an old man holding a mug of coffee and a newspaper. Charlie's dad hobbled over to his deck chair and set the mug down on the low-set porch table, unfolding the newspaper and poring over it carefully. The children's voices rose once again, and Charlie hoped his dad wouldn't stand up and yell at them to be quiet. He picked up the coffee mug and took a sip, then scrunched his face up in disgust.
"Needs more cream."
Charlie said nothing. His dad didn't do anything, either. He'd put up with the shitty coffee until the mug was all the way to the bottom. That was the way his father was. Self-inflicted denial of happiness. Charlie knew it in the eyes of his siblings. The not-dead ones, that was. Arthur didn't have that going on. He seemed to genuinely enjoy himself most of the time, and when he wasn't enjoying himself, it wasn't because he was keeping himself from doing so. A grunt rose from Charlie's dad's throat, and Charlie wondered if it'd be okay to look over and ask if there was something interesting in the paper, but knew it'd be pointless. Charlie already knew what was in it. That was his newspaper, from the morning.
He didn't know what it was that he liked so much about newspapers. He didn't write for one, though for a brief time he dearly wanted to. Maybe it was the fact that they couldn't change. So much changed, nowadays, that Charlie sought refuge in the perpetually out of date. That couldn't surprise him. He could catch up to the newspaper, at least for a little while, before the new thing came out right on time and didn't leave him scrambling without a clue until he found out for himself what was going on. Thirty years. Was that really old enough to start thinking like some kind of jaded baby boomer? His own father wasn't even a jaded baby boomer. It was sort of pathetic.
Something buzzed. Charlie checked his pocket for his phone, and found the notification screen come up empty. With a glance to his left, he saw his Dad staring his phone down like it owed him money.
"What's up?" Charlie asked.
His Dad was silent for a moment. No, silent wasn't right, because his breathing was noisy enough. Heavy. He was speechless.
"I'm going to head out," he said, standing up and putting his newspaper down, "I need—urgh, I'm going to go stay with Tina for a bit. Have you met Tina? I get the feeling you two would get along, Charlie, and I want to introduce you someti—"
"I met her when you two started dating three years ago, Dad."
Charlie's dad's face sunk.
"Oh," he said, "that's, ha, that's funny. I don't remember telling you."
"You okay? Want me to drive you there?" Charlie offered.
"No, I'm okay," the response came, "I'm okay."
It was then that Charlie's own buzz came. He pulled out his phone and almost dropped it on the upswing—it shook with so many vibrations that it was hard to hold. So many flooding by that it was hard to read. He saw one from his sister and swiped on it, flicked his thumb over the print reader, and found himself looking at death for the third time in his life.
Only this time, its back was turned to him, and his family.
"Yeah," his Dad said as he descended the steps, "I can't be around this house right now. I just can't, you see?"
Charlie nodded and watched as his dad walked down the porch steps, got in the front seat of his minivan, and started off down the street. Charlie couldn't tell if he was going too slow or too fast before the car disappeared, rounding the corner off of their street. The children had stopped shouting, called inside for dinner or to be shielded from the night, or the world, or everything. Charlie looked up, and it seemed like in an instant purple had faded to chilly, colorless black. Picking up his glass of lemonade and stepping inside, Charlie reread the message Marie had sent him in his head and frowned.
"It's started again," was all it read, and all it needed to.
Colorless II
A Different Stranger [Ongoing] [MSMU]
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MethodicalSlacker
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MethodicalSlacker
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Of course, they knew in advance.
In the past couple of years, Marie Bernstein had grown up. She graduated near the top of her class, kept her hair short and blue, got into American University in Washington D.C, grew distant from the place she grew up, and traced further and further circles around her hometown until she hit the sea. Charlie had moved back home for what was seemingly good when their dad's health took a turn for the worse a year ago. He wasn't leaving much behind. James still hadn't formally re-entered the family, but he was talking to Marie. Charlie didn't particularly want to speak to him, and they all figured their dad didn't want to either.
When the bus from Chattanooga went missing, Marie was on summer break, lounging around the house and not doing much of anything. Days of disappearance turned into a week, one week into two, and Marie felt comfortable saying that she knew what it was. Charlie, for his part, was worried about how this happening again would affect his family. His father didn't watch the news, and probably wouldn't know that it was back until the streams themselves went up; he had a girlfriend now, so caring on him wouldn't fall on the shoulders of the hospital or the family exclusively, but they still needed to be there for him, and each other.
Marie had different ideas.
"I want," she said to Charlie over breakfast one morning, "to go to Chattanooga."
Charlie almost gagged on his toaster waffles.
"Excuse me?" he asked.
"Actually, I don't just want to go, I'm already going. It's been decided on."
"Wh—huh? What's gotten into you? Slow down for a second, I don't think I understand—"
"You need to tell Dad," Marie instructed, leaning in closer and keeping her voice low, "that I'm going back to D.C. to visit some friends. James and I are flying down to Chattanooga. He paid for my plane tickets, there and back. We have an Airbnb booked, we're going to volunteer in the community for a little while, I'm going to wr—"
"Slow the hell down, I said!" Charlie yelled.
Marie looked at him quizzically. "I'm keeping you informed," she mumbled, "it's only polite to do."
"You could have done that while you were making these plans because I almost absolutely would have told you not to do this! Bad idea!"
"Told me?" Marie asked unflinchingly, "I mean, I can do what I want. I'm nineteen. You could tell me that it's a bad idea, and I can say, okay, fine, and still do it. It's what I want to do."
Charlie was flabbergasted. It wasn't like Marie to have an attitude like this, nor was it like her to go totally under his nose. Of course he didn't believe that he had any actual control over what she did, but he liked to think that his opinions had some kind of sway with her, that they informed her judgement somehow. He had a whole lot more experience than she did, and he had lived through the whole Survival of the Fittest thing more consciously than she had. He knew what it could do to cities—just look at Denton, though Denton was already in a bad way before, well, it got famous. Chattanooga was probably not a good place to be, at the moment. It didn't matter if her intentions were noble or if she was engaging in some twisted disaster tourism to sate her own curiosity. It just wasn't sound judgement, and there wasn't anything Charlie could do.
"So," Marie finished, "now you're in the know."
He sighed and crossed his arm, gaze cast downward into the newly unappetizing toaster waffles.
"How long are you staying?" he asked.
"About a week towards the start of July," she said, "it's the soonest that James could get off from work. If it starts while we're there, and not before, we're going to look into extending our stay."
Charlie nodded glumly. Shortly after, he heard his father open the door to his room and half-awake-walk to the bathroom, and knew that the time to challenge Marie on her conviction was long gone.
In the past couple of years, Marie Bernstein had grown up. She graduated near the top of her class, kept her hair short and blue, got into American University in Washington D.C, grew distant from the place she grew up, and traced further and further circles around her hometown until she hit the sea. Charlie had moved back home for what was seemingly good when their dad's health took a turn for the worse a year ago. He wasn't leaving much behind. James still hadn't formally re-entered the family, but he was talking to Marie. Charlie didn't particularly want to speak to him, and they all figured their dad didn't want to either.
When the bus from Chattanooga went missing, Marie was on summer break, lounging around the house and not doing much of anything. Days of disappearance turned into a week, one week into two, and Marie felt comfortable saying that she knew what it was. Charlie, for his part, was worried about how this happening again would affect his family. His father didn't watch the news, and probably wouldn't know that it was back until the streams themselves went up; he had a girlfriend now, so caring on him wouldn't fall on the shoulders of the hospital or the family exclusively, but they still needed to be there for him, and each other.
Marie had different ideas.
"I want," she said to Charlie over breakfast one morning, "to go to Chattanooga."
Charlie almost gagged on his toaster waffles.
"Excuse me?" he asked.
"Actually, I don't just want to go, I'm already going. It's been decided on."
"Wh—huh? What's gotten into you? Slow down for a second, I don't think I understand—"
"You need to tell Dad," Marie instructed, leaning in closer and keeping her voice low, "that I'm going back to D.C. to visit some friends. James and I are flying down to Chattanooga. He paid for my plane tickets, there and back. We have an Airbnb booked, we're going to volunteer in the community for a little while, I'm going to wr—"
"Slow the hell down, I said!" Charlie yelled.
Marie looked at him quizzically. "I'm keeping you informed," she mumbled, "it's only polite to do."
"You could have done that while you were making these plans because I almost absolutely would have told you not to do this! Bad idea!"
"Told me?" Marie asked unflinchingly, "I mean, I can do what I want. I'm nineteen. You could tell me that it's a bad idea, and I can say, okay, fine, and still do it. It's what I want to do."
Charlie was flabbergasted. It wasn't like Marie to have an attitude like this, nor was it like her to go totally under his nose. Of course he didn't believe that he had any actual control over what she did, but he liked to think that his opinions had some kind of sway with her, that they informed her judgement somehow. He had a whole lot more experience than she did, and he had lived through the whole Survival of the Fittest thing more consciously than she had. He knew what it could do to cities—just look at Denton, though Denton was already in a bad way before, well, it got famous. Chattanooga was probably not a good place to be, at the moment. It didn't matter if her intentions were noble or if she was engaging in some twisted disaster tourism to sate her own curiosity. It just wasn't sound judgement, and there wasn't anything Charlie could do.
"So," Marie finished, "now you're in the know."
He sighed and crossed his arm, gaze cast downward into the newly unappetizing toaster waffles.
"How long are you staying?" he asked.
"About a week towards the start of July," she said, "it's the soonest that James could get off from work. If it starts while we're there, and not before, we're going to look into extending our stay."
Charlie nodded glumly. Shortly after, he heard his father open the door to his room and half-awake-walk to the bathroom, and knew that the time to challenge Marie on her conviction was long gone.
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MethodicalSlacker
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To say that Marie had changed since that fateful 2015 summer would be an understatement.
There were the immediate reactions to the whole traumatic affair in the weeks and months that followed, the seeds of future shifts that Charlie had been around to watch germinate. The increasingly long walks she took around town, often late night. The more reclusive habits she took on, staying inside for days at a time, playing video games or reading some book from Arthur's bookshelf or simply not doing much of anything at all. The dyed hair, the haircut, the whole appearance change thing. Any of these things on their own would have been inconspicuous. Of course, even together they were fairly tame as far as responses to grief went. He saw her cry exactly once.
Then, the stranger things that only revealed themselves in time. She had been doing research on the terrorists, for one, digging deep into their previous history and who they had taken and killed because yes, it was the terrorists doing the killing, it was them who took responsibility, he would not, absolutely not, blame the children for this—and occasionally re-watching what Arthur had gone through. Then, branching out into others that had been taken, watching what they went through. Charlie had lived through when the attacks were briefly considered standard television fare, and even then he had been grossed out by it. Even then it looked far too real to him, and he was right. He was seventeen when it happened, of course he remembered. And his friends tried to guilt him into watching, tried to effect a version of FOMO before FOMO was a term that existed, but he held out for the most part.
Marie grew more pessimistic, cynical, and sarcastic, too. That didn't change. That wasn't a part of her grieving process, to defend against the outside world through negative dismissal or anything like that. That was just who she was, now. She spent more time at home not just because she was reclusive, but because she was actively shutting out some of her old friends, denying opportunities to spend time with them because she decided that they were boring and not worth her time. She said so herself, to him, over the phone one night. Marie decided that she didn't have time for average people. Think of how stupid the average person is, she said through the static, and then realize that for that to be how stupid the average person is, then there has to be many, many people that dumb or god forbid even worse. Of course, Charlie had an edgy phase too, and he was fairly sure that every teenager did. But this was a bit too much, and it went on, and it got worse, and by the time Marie graduated high school she was almost totally friendless.
It was then that Charlie found out that, no, she wasn't reclusive, she was just shutting the door to her room, locking it, and then sneaking out the window to do other things in the middle of the night. They found out because Marie told them, when she turned eighteen, and started just using the front door instead. How this went under his father's nose for so long Charlie had no legitimate material clue but definitely several guesses, chief among them that he had noticed and simply decided to give up. Marie told Charlie about the parties she had been to. Sometimes in different cities. Sometimes with people she didn't know. She was sarcastic, bitter, cynical, and she loved observing people, she confessed, because on the rare occasion that she met somebody who wasn't boring or average or other epithets for lacking in intelligence that Charlie was surprised Marie was comfortable even using then she felt a connection that made the other 90% worthwhile. Just the sifting. It was then that Charlie knew he knew nothing at all.
And for all of this to have happened while he was away made him feel partially responsible. Even though he knew that even with the presence of others, this would have happened anyways. The people that tried to intervene were just pushed away. Dad caught her with a cigarette once. An actual, real cigarette. Not a vape pen, or a joint, a real honest to god cigarette. Charlie didn't know many people who bothered with those anymore. It was then that Charlie decided that he absolutely had to move back home, to keep an eye on things. Dad was losing it by the day, his new girlfriend honestly was not helping, Marie was spinning closer and and closer to the edge, he could feel it, and he was the only one who cared. James fucking encouraged Marie's new habits, for all he was worth. Told her that it was good to live free while one was still young. That if she wanted to smoke, to do so responsibly. If she wanted to party, to do so safely. Make the dumb choices now, but do them well. Loosen up, give some slack to the rope tying you to life, but only in a controlled way, only methodically. Charlie grew to despise him.
Yet he was the only one she really paid attention to anymore. The only one with any influence over what she said, or did. Everyone else could go suck it. Even the interesting people she got tired of. The masks they put forward at parties and functions and gatherings and concerts broke easily and revealed the same doughy grey interior everyone else had. Like the inside of a fetal pig specimen she'd dissected in biology she said. Grey and soupy, was how most people were. A bunch of strange strings and mushy organs that had no business next to each other. Colorless, on the inside.
When Marie touched down in Tennessee, Charlie decided he didn't care anymore. He'd stop trying. Marie thought everyone to be bland and boring? She was inviting that response from others by acting cold and callous. She wanted to ruin her life? Fine. James didn't want to stop her? Maybe he shouldn't either. They were only family, after all. It's not like they chose one another.
There were the immediate reactions to the whole traumatic affair in the weeks and months that followed, the seeds of future shifts that Charlie had been around to watch germinate. The increasingly long walks she took around town, often late night. The more reclusive habits she took on, staying inside for days at a time, playing video games or reading some book from Arthur's bookshelf or simply not doing much of anything at all. The dyed hair, the haircut, the whole appearance change thing. Any of these things on their own would have been inconspicuous. Of course, even together they were fairly tame as far as responses to grief went. He saw her cry exactly once.
Then, the stranger things that only revealed themselves in time. She had been doing research on the terrorists, for one, digging deep into their previous history and who they had taken and killed because yes, it was the terrorists doing the killing, it was them who took responsibility, he would not, absolutely not, blame the children for this—and occasionally re-watching what Arthur had gone through. Then, branching out into others that had been taken, watching what they went through. Charlie had lived through when the attacks were briefly considered standard television fare, and even then he had been grossed out by it. Even then it looked far too real to him, and he was right. He was seventeen when it happened, of course he remembered. And his friends tried to guilt him into watching, tried to effect a version of FOMO before FOMO was a term that existed, but he held out for the most part.
Marie grew more pessimistic, cynical, and sarcastic, too. That didn't change. That wasn't a part of her grieving process, to defend against the outside world through negative dismissal or anything like that. That was just who she was, now. She spent more time at home not just because she was reclusive, but because she was actively shutting out some of her old friends, denying opportunities to spend time with them because she decided that they were boring and not worth her time. She said so herself, to him, over the phone one night. Marie decided that she didn't have time for average people. Think of how stupid the average person is, she said through the static, and then realize that for that to be how stupid the average person is, then there has to be many, many people that dumb or god forbid even worse. Of course, Charlie had an edgy phase too, and he was fairly sure that every teenager did. But this was a bit too much, and it went on, and it got worse, and by the time Marie graduated high school she was almost totally friendless.
It was then that Charlie found out that, no, she wasn't reclusive, she was just shutting the door to her room, locking it, and then sneaking out the window to do other things in the middle of the night. They found out because Marie told them, when she turned eighteen, and started just using the front door instead. How this went under his father's nose for so long Charlie had no legitimate material clue but definitely several guesses, chief among them that he had noticed and simply decided to give up. Marie told Charlie about the parties she had been to. Sometimes in different cities. Sometimes with people she didn't know. She was sarcastic, bitter, cynical, and she loved observing people, she confessed, because on the rare occasion that she met somebody who wasn't boring or average or other epithets for lacking in intelligence that Charlie was surprised Marie was comfortable even using then she felt a connection that made the other 90% worthwhile. Just the sifting. It was then that Charlie knew he knew nothing at all.
And for all of this to have happened while he was away made him feel partially responsible. Even though he knew that even with the presence of others, this would have happened anyways. The people that tried to intervene were just pushed away. Dad caught her with a cigarette once. An actual, real cigarette. Not a vape pen, or a joint, a real honest to god cigarette. Charlie didn't know many people who bothered with those anymore. It was then that Charlie decided that he absolutely had to move back home, to keep an eye on things. Dad was losing it by the day, his new girlfriend honestly was not helping, Marie was spinning closer and and closer to the edge, he could feel it, and he was the only one who cared. James fucking encouraged Marie's new habits, for all he was worth. Told her that it was good to live free while one was still young. That if she wanted to smoke, to do so responsibly. If she wanted to party, to do so safely. Make the dumb choices now, but do them well. Loosen up, give some slack to the rope tying you to life, but only in a controlled way, only methodically. Charlie grew to despise him.
Yet he was the only one she really paid attention to anymore. The only one with any influence over what she said, or did. Everyone else could go suck it. Even the interesting people she got tired of. The masks they put forward at parties and functions and gatherings and concerts broke easily and revealed the same doughy grey interior everyone else had. Like the inside of a fetal pig specimen she'd dissected in biology she said. Grey and soupy, was how most people were. A bunch of strange strings and mushy organs that had no business next to each other. Colorless, on the inside.
When Marie touched down in Tennessee, Charlie decided he didn't care anymore. He'd stop trying. Marie thought everyone to be bland and boring? She was inviting that response from others by acting cold and callous. She wanted to ruin her life? Fine. James didn't want to stop her? Maybe he shouldn't either. They were only family, after all. It's not like they chose one another.
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MethodicalSlacker
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Charlie woke up at 7:30 in the morning. He spent the next thirty minutes in bed, tossing and turning, wishing he didn't have to wake up that morning. It was hot outside, and the AC hadn't quite been doing the work that it was supposed to do, so he brought a fan into his bedroom last night which shut off for some reason in the middle of the witching hour. A little blip on the electric grid, he surmised. He flipped around in his phone. The game had been going on for a day. Technically speaking, it had been over for a while. Charlie was not going to watch it. Marie and James and whoever else they were with could do that. Charlie turned away from that nonsense. It was never going to end. It'd be like this every few years until the government got their shit together. It didn't look like they would do that. Charlie voted for Canon. He wasn't proud of it, but he felt like he had no other choice. He saw it as the lesser of two evils, and now he wasn't so sure that he was right, in 2016. Plenty had happened to make him feel like maybe he should have stayed home that day.
At 8:04 he finally dragged himself out of bed. He was wearing a gray Cochise High Class of Whenever t-shirt and blue boxer briefs, and didn't desire to put more on. Not yet. He dragged himself out of his room and downstairs to the kitchen. It was bagels today. The sink was full of dishes, none of them Charlie's doing. The trash needed to be taken out. Everything seemed vaguely dusty. Dust caught in the morning light coming through the back door window. His bagels popped out of the toaster. He could, in fact, believe that it was not butter, today. He spent the next hour doing the chores he felt should not have been his responsibility. There was nobody around to whom he could passive aggressively suggest that this was what they should be doing instead of him. Their responsibility. Dishes done, trash taken out, Charlie was at a loss for something to do.
So he went back to bed for a couple hours. When he woke back up, it was time for lunch. But that would have to come later. He went to use the bathroom. Washed his hands. Brushed his teeth. Everything was fine. Washed his face, since he showered last night and in all honesty felt as clean as he needed to be. Put some water on a comb and wet his hair down. Didn't need to do that too much, since it was so short. Considered shaving, but saw he didn't have nearly enough anything for that to be nothing more than a way to dull his blade a bit more. 12:26 PM when he left the house. He had a different shirt on, a red polo shirt. Faded green cargo shorts. Socks and sandals. Hot out, of course. Always hot out in Arizona. Just the way it was. Everything was fine. But it was all without color. The sky was supposed to be blue, and Charlie guessed that it was, sort of. It looked that way, but it didn't feel that way. He knew this about every color, now. They had their appearance, but not their essence. And that was what being colorless really meant, to him. He locked the door behind him and went on his way.
It took him twenty minutes to walk from the house to downtown, to find a place to get lunch, to sit down, and to be ready to eat. Trashy garbage food at Diamondback. How many years had it been since he was here, with his friends, the summer after his senior year, what those kids would have had were it not for this tragedy? How did he spend that summer? How he spent all summers. Wasted it. Sat around the house, doing nothing, most of the time. Spent some time with his friends, doing stupid shit. Learned how to ride a scooter for the first time. Met a friend that had moved away and was back in town herself for the weekend. Tried to chase a summer fling with another girl, unsuccessfully. Attended his college orientation. Came back ready for the summer to be open. Got a crummy job at the comic shop. The fries tasted burnt. Took a bad fall on his bike and wore a bruise on his knee for four weeks. Covered it up with a bandage only when he went to work and when he was with that girl. Charlie wondered if she was on Facebook. What she was doing now. If she was doing anything now. His friends were all getting old enough to have kids. Some of them did. He hadn't spoken to most of them in a while. A tomato slice slid out of the back of his burger as he bit down. He discovered that he was pretty natural at Frisbee that summer. Played with one of his friends and that girl in the park a couple times. Once he missed a throw from his friend and it went and bounced off the ground and into someone's food, knocking it over. He tried to apologize, but they only spoke French. They told him to clean it up, he could tell. The only time that anything he learned in school was useful to him. Ever. Carried it by hand to the garbage can and washed his hands in the water fountain. The girl thought him and the other friend were overacting. She wasn't the one that missed the throw or threw it, Charlie said. Now he was down to the fry bits. There were a couple bites left of his sandwich. He had sat in this very establishment then and asked the girl if she was planning on dating in college. Point blank. She said no, even though she was going to a school known for its parties. Nothing until afterwards. Wanted to focus on her degree. Okay, he said. Respectable. He nodded then. He was nodding now. Took a sip of his milkshake. Finished his burger. Returned his tray. Said bye to the cashier. Returned to the register after a few steps and put a coin or two in the tip bowl. Just walked out this time.
He walked around town for an hour or so until he was hungry again. Was Charlie gaining weight he asked himself. He actually lost weight when he went to college. Counter-intuitive but true. He lost fifteen pounds. Stopped eating as much and hit the gym more. Joined the ultimate frisbee team for a little while. Did a lot of stuff. Spread himself thin. He didn't want to think about college. None of those kids would get to go to college. Not even the last one. It wouldn't be them that went if they did. He walked by the park and saw that someone was flying a kite. Older man, middle aged, alone. It was the biggest kite that Charlie had ever seen. Black with colorful trails off the sides of the wings. Charlie's Father tried to teach him how to fly a kite when he was seven or so. Charlie just couldn't get it. Thought it was pretty boring. Nobody really flew kites anymore, he reflected. This was the first one he'd seen in a long, long time. Charlie kept walking.
It was 2:20 PM when he found himself stopped in front of someone's house that he didn't know. He had been walking down a street just a block away from his own when he saw that there was a lemonade stand. It was really just a folding table with a picnic blanket on it, red and white checkers. A tall glass pitcher of lemonade with ice cubes floating in it. Some paper cups. A girl, couldn't have been more than eight, table set up at the front end of the path leading down from her house. A short white house with a blue roof, for some reason. It looked small and squat and strange. There were a couple of chairs on the porch. There were a couple of other people on the porch. Looked like older guys. They didn't look at all like relatives of the girl at the lemonade stand, but they both had the same blue overalls on. Charlie found everything about this strange. The girl told him that lemonade was just a dollar a cup. She was wearing glasses with no lenses in them. Charlie paid in quarters. Needed more sugar, but Charlie didn't say that. Just said thank you and have a nice day and walked away and drank it in one gulp, holding onto the cup until he crossed the street and rounded the corner and made it to his house and threw the paper cup in the trash and opened the door and went back inside and closed the door and flopped on the couch and wished that he had said something, just some passing advice, just a hey maybe add a little more sugar, that he hadn't pretended that everything about it was fine, that that girl was old enough to take some criticism and for things to not be sugar coated no pun intended, and on the couch with his head buried under a couple cushions fell asleep and had an exceedingly gray dream.
At 8:04 he finally dragged himself out of bed. He was wearing a gray Cochise High Class of Whenever t-shirt and blue boxer briefs, and didn't desire to put more on. Not yet. He dragged himself out of his room and downstairs to the kitchen. It was bagels today. The sink was full of dishes, none of them Charlie's doing. The trash needed to be taken out. Everything seemed vaguely dusty. Dust caught in the morning light coming through the back door window. His bagels popped out of the toaster. He could, in fact, believe that it was not butter, today. He spent the next hour doing the chores he felt should not have been his responsibility. There was nobody around to whom he could passive aggressively suggest that this was what they should be doing instead of him. Their responsibility. Dishes done, trash taken out, Charlie was at a loss for something to do.
So he went back to bed for a couple hours. When he woke back up, it was time for lunch. But that would have to come later. He went to use the bathroom. Washed his hands. Brushed his teeth. Everything was fine. Washed his face, since he showered last night and in all honesty felt as clean as he needed to be. Put some water on a comb and wet his hair down. Didn't need to do that too much, since it was so short. Considered shaving, but saw he didn't have nearly enough anything for that to be nothing more than a way to dull his blade a bit more. 12:26 PM when he left the house. He had a different shirt on, a red polo shirt. Faded green cargo shorts. Socks and sandals. Hot out, of course. Always hot out in Arizona. Just the way it was. Everything was fine. But it was all without color. The sky was supposed to be blue, and Charlie guessed that it was, sort of. It looked that way, but it didn't feel that way. He knew this about every color, now. They had their appearance, but not their essence. And that was what being colorless really meant, to him. He locked the door behind him and went on his way.
It took him twenty minutes to walk from the house to downtown, to find a place to get lunch, to sit down, and to be ready to eat. Trashy garbage food at Diamondback. How many years had it been since he was here, with his friends, the summer after his senior year, what those kids would have had were it not for this tragedy? How did he spend that summer? How he spent all summers. Wasted it. Sat around the house, doing nothing, most of the time. Spent some time with his friends, doing stupid shit. Learned how to ride a scooter for the first time. Met a friend that had moved away and was back in town herself for the weekend. Tried to chase a summer fling with another girl, unsuccessfully. Attended his college orientation. Came back ready for the summer to be open. Got a crummy job at the comic shop. The fries tasted burnt. Took a bad fall on his bike and wore a bruise on his knee for four weeks. Covered it up with a bandage only when he went to work and when he was with that girl. Charlie wondered if she was on Facebook. What she was doing now. If she was doing anything now. His friends were all getting old enough to have kids. Some of them did. He hadn't spoken to most of them in a while. A tomato slice slid out of the back of his burger as he bit down. He discovered that he was pretty natural at Frisbee that summer. Played with one of his friends and that girl in the park a couple times. Once he missed a throw from his friend and it went and bounced off the ground and into someone's food, knocking it over. He tried to apologize, but they only spoke French. They told him to clean it up, he could tell. The only time that anything he learned in school was useful to him. Ever. Carried it by hand to the garbage can and washed his hands in the water fountain. The girl thought him and the other friend were overacting. She wasn't the one that missed the throw or threw it, Charlie said. Now he was down to the fry bits. There were a couple bites left of his sandwich. He had sat in this very establishment then and asked the girl if she was planning on dating in college. Point blank. She said no, even though she was going to a school known for its parties. Nothing until afterwards. Wanted to focus on her degree. Okay, he said. Respectable. He nodded then. He was nodding now. Took a sip of his milkshake. Finished his burger. Returned his tray. Said bye to the cashier. Returned to the register after a few steps and put a coin or two in the tip bowl. Just walked out this time.
He walked around town for an hour or so until he was hungry again. Was Charlie gaining weight he asked himself. He actually lost weight when he went to college. Counter-intuitive but true. He lost fifteen pounds. Stopped eating as much and hit the gym more. Joined the ultimate frisbee team for a little while. Did a lot of stuff. Spread himself thin. He didn't want to think about college. None of those kids would get to go to college. Not even the last one. It wouldn't be them that went if they did. He walked by the park and saw that someone was flying a kite. Older man, middle aged, alone. It was the biggest kite that Charlie had ever seen. Black with colorful trails off the sides of the wings. Charlie's Father tried to teach him how to fly a kite when he was seven or so. Charlie just couldn't get it. Thought it was pretty boring. Nobody really flew kites anymore, he reflected. This was the first one he'd seen in a long, long time. Charlie kept walking.
It was 2:20 PM when he found himself stopped in front of someone's house that he didn't know. He had been walking down a street just a block away from his own when he saw that there was a lemonade stand. It was really just a folding table with a picnic blanket on it, red and white checkers. A tall glass pitcher of lemonade with ice cubes floating in it. Some paper cups. A girl, couldn't have been more than eight, table set up at the front end of the path leading down from her house. A short white house with a blue roof, for some reason. It looked small and squat and strange. There were a couple of chairs on the porch. There were a couple of other people on the porch. Looked like older guys. They didn't look at all like relatives of the girl at the lemonade stand, but they both had the same blue overalls on. Charlie found everything about this strange. The girl told him that lemonade was just a dollar a cup. She was wearing glasses with no lenses in them. Charlie paid in quarters. Needed more sugar, but Charlie didn't say that. Just said thank you and have a nice day and walked away and drank it in one gulp, holding onto the cup until he crossed the street and rounded the corner and made it to his house and threw the paper cup in the trash and opened the door and went back inside and closed the door and flopped on the couch and wished that he had said something, just some passing advice, just a hey maybe add a little more sugar, that he hadn't pretended that everything about it was fine, that that girl was old enough to take some criticism and for things to not be sugar coated no pun intended, and on the couch with his head buried under a couple cushions fell asleep and had an exceedingly gray dream.
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MethodicalSlacker
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So.
"It's started again."
This meant many things. Charlie read it over, and over, and over, and knew that he wouldn't know when Marie came back until she did. Day three. Still on the couch. Noon. Charlie hadn't moved in a day. He'd probably see James before he saw her, at this rate. Dust, floating in the air. Always dust, no matter what he did. He bought feather dusters once and decided to give the house a once over. Still, dust. Everywhere. He was glad that he wasn't allergic. Perhaps the fault of the constant presence of dust. Perhaps a direct correlation, perhaps, perhaps. He blinked, slow and hard, his eyes not ready to shutter themselves again until the night, dagger points at the bottom of his pupils. Charlie reached a pale hand out and grabbed the television remote. Turned it on. Watched the static.
It took him a while before he willed himself to stand from the couch. The strength was hard to find. Went over and turned the TV off by the buttons on the side. He was honestly surprised that they still made them that way. Charlie was just old enough to remember having a VCR, a CRT, a VHS, video cassette tapes. Just barely, on the fringes of his memory, before a sudden shift to digital. The TV was relatively new. A flat screen, somewhere under forty inches in size. He had no idea how they measured TV sizes. It was in high definition, too, but that didn't really matter. Charlie's dad didn't have cable. Charlie brought his smart stick, but hadn't actually used it yet. He stretched his arms, one over another, making an elephant trunk with his limbs. One side, then the next.
A shower later and Charlie was dressed in raggedy clothes. A faded, wrinkled gray-blue t-shirt. He didn't know how to do laundry without it getting at least a little wrinkled. Khaki shorts, leaning a little gray. White socks, ankle height. Blue vans. He dressed like he was nineteen, still. He missed those days. He wasn't sure what about them was so good, but he missed it all the same. His younger self would curse the nostalgia. He thought the root of all evil to be a longing for the past. For simpler times, tradition. He'd never understand how much worse it got. If only he knew. Arthur. It was bright outside. Bright, but that was all it was. There was a bucket hat sitting on the small table next to the door, under the bowl of keys. He picked up the bowl and slid the hat from underneath. Reverse Indiana Jones. Put it on his head. Blue.
The McDonald's on the edge of town. Not as memorable, but that only made it more. Less to sift through. Every ghastly specter of yesterday was equally ecto-present, haunting distinctly the creased, cracked seat-backs of the beige booth seating, the always crumbly remnants of french fries on one table or another, the hum of fluorescent lights overhead, the last McDonald's in Arizona not to turn itself silicon, unfriendly in the way only fast food could be. Night-crawlers, high school aged, stumbling in after racing back and forth across the skate park, drooping over seats spent and saved, stuffing their faces with garbage, feeding ketchup to a traffic cone, stealing a broom from the open supply closet and sticking the rod in the trash, taking the head for themselves, stumbling out giddy, chucking the traffic cone over the railroad tracks and screaming, hollering as it bounced into the dust. He saw their ghosts. Himself among them. I'd like to order a Big Mac. No sauce. No drink.
Because he knew where he'd go. For refreshment. Charlie wanted to say what he couldn't manage the day before. He was done not speaking his mind. Leave that in the past. He felt nineteen, but he knew he was old enough that his shyness was no longer boyish. Just creepy. He could change someone's life by giving them the right advice. No teenager could do that, no matter how hard they tried. Especially not in a child, not unless they were siblings. Eight was almost not a child. He remembered being eight, and he didn't want to remember being eight. All four siblings, together. Only one parent with them.
"Want some lemonade, sir?"
He blinked, and he was already there.
She called him sir.
"Yes," he said, "that sounds great, on a hot day like today."
She poured him some from the pitcher. There was just one man with blue overalls sitting on the porch this day. Looking at his phone. The glasses had lenses in them now. No distortion. Just glass. He looked up at the sky for a second as the girl struggled with the weight of the full pitcher. Yesterday, it had been half empty. Perhaps the novelty had worn off. There was only so much lemonade that one person could drink before they—
"Oops!"
Charlie looked down. Lemonade had spilled all over the tablecloth and ice slid off the table. The paper cups had been knocked over, falling in domino patterns in the grass. The pitcher had a chip in its side. So it was glass. His toe shifted in his shoe and felt something wet. He looked down and saw that some of the juice had found its way to his shoes. He took a step backwards into the sidewalk and looked at the little girl's face and saw an expression of distress. She opened her mouth to apologize, but was interrupted by a shout from the man on the porch.
"LILI."
She turned around, and in the brief moment that Charlie could see her face, he saw fear. The man was standing up now, leaning slightly over the edge of the porch, his face caught in the sun. He looked older beyond how old he actually was, as if over a short period of time he experienced a great amount of change. As if he was not dealing with the change very well.
"APOLOGIZE."
She turned around, and Charlie saw tears in her eyes.
"S-sorry."
He swallowed a lump in his throat that he didn't know had formed.
"It's, um, it's okay," Charlie said, "uh, really."
The man's expression did not change, but his voice grew softer.
"Clean up, Lili," he said, "and give this man his dollar back."
She nodded and picked the dollar bill off of the table. It was damp. She handed it over weakly, but Charlie refused.
"Keep it, please," he said, "I'll just, um, I'll just go."
He didn't know how he felt about all of this. He had no idea how to feel. No template. No memory.
The lemonade was yellow.
"It's started again."
This meant many things. Charlie read it over, and over, and over, and knew that he wouldn't know when Marie came back until she did. Day three. Still on the couch. Noon. Charlie hadn't moved in a day. He'd probably see James before he saw her, at this rate. Dust, floating in the air. Always dust, no matter what he did. He bought feather dusters once and decided to give the house a once over. Still, dust. Everywhere. He was glad that he wasn't allergic. Perhaps the fault of the constant presence of dust. Perhaps a direct correlation, perhaps, perhaps. He blinked, slow and hard, his eyes not ready to shutter themselves again until the night, dagger points at the bottom of his pupils. Charlie reached a pale hand out and grabbed the television remote. Turned it on. Watched the static.
It took him a while before he willed himself to stand from the couch. The strength was hard to find. Went over and turned the TV off by the buttons on the side. He was honestly surprised that they still made them that way. Charlie was just old enough to remember having a VCR, a CRT, a VHS, video cassette tapes. Just barely, on the fringes of his memory, before a sudden shift to digital. The TV was relatively new. A flat screen, somewhere under forty inches in size. He had no idea how they measured TV sizes. It was in high definition, too, but that didn't really matter. Charlie's dad didn't have cable. Charlie brought his smart stick, but hadn't actually used it yet. He stretched his arms, one over another, making an elephant trunk with his limbs. One side, then the next.
A shower later and Charlie was dressed in raggedy clothes. A faded, wrinkled gray-blue t-shirt. He didn't know how to do laundry without it getting at least a little wrinkled. Khaki shorts, leaning a little gray. White socks, ankle height. Blue vans. He dressed like he was nineteen, still. He missed those days. He wasn't sure what about them was so good, but he missed it all the same. His younger self would curse the nostalgia. He thought the root of all evil to be a longing for the past. For simpler times, tradition. He'd never understand how much worse it got. If only he knew. Arthur. It was bright outside. Bright, but that was all it was. There was a bucket hat sitting on the small table next to the door, under the bowl of keys. He picked up the bowl and slid the hat from underneath. Reverse Indiana Jones. Put it on his head. Blue.
The McDonald's on the edge of town. Not as memorable, but that only made it more. Less to sift through. Every ghastly specter of yesterday was equally ecto-present, haunting distinctly the creased, cracked seat-backs of the beige booth seating, the always crumbly remnants of french fries on one table or another, the hum of fluorescent lights overhead, the last McDonald's in Arizona not to turn itself silicon, unfriendly in the way only fast food could be. Night-crawlers, high school aged, stumbling in after racing back and forth across the skate park, drooping over seats spent and saved, stuffing their faces with garbage, feeding ketchup to a traffic cone, stealing a broom from the open supply closet and sticking the rod in the trash, taking the head for themselves, stumbling out giddy, chucking the traffic cone over the railroad tracks and screaming, hollering as it bounced into the dust. He saw their ghosts. Himself among them. I'd like to order a Big Mac. No sauce. No drink.
Because he knew where he'd go. For refreshment. Charlie wanted to say what he couldn't manage the day before. He was done not speaking his mind. Leave that in the past. He felt nineteen, but he knew he was old enough that his shyness was no longer boyish. Just creepy. He could change someone's life by giving them the right advice. No teenager could do that, no matter how hard they tried. Especially not in a child, not unless they were siblings. Eight was almost not a child. He remembered being eight, and he didn't want to remember being eight. All four siblings, together. Only one parent with them.
"Want some lemonade, sir?"
He blinked, and he was already there.
She called him sir.
"Yes," he said, "that sounds great, on a hot day like today."
She poured him some from the pitcher. There was just one man with blue overalls sitting on the porch this day. Looking at his phone. The glasses had lenses in them now. No distortion. Just glass. He looked up at the sky for a second as the girl struggled with the weight of the full pitcher. Yesterday, it had been half empty. Perhaps the novelty had worn off. There was only so much lemonade that one person could drink before they—
"Oops!"
Charlie looked down. Lemonade had spilled all over the tablecloth and ice slid off the table. The paper cups had been knocked over, falling in domino patterns in the grass. The pitcher had a chip in its side. So it was glass. His toe shifted in his shoe and felt something wet. He looked down and saw that some of the juice had found its way to his shoes. He took a step backwards into the sidewalk and looked at the little girl's face and saw an expression of distress. She opened her mouth to apologize, but was interrupted by a shout from the man on the porch.
"LILI."
She turned around, and in the brief moment that Charlie could see her face, he saw fear. The man was standing up now, leaning slightly over the edge of the porch, his face caught in the sun. He looked older beyond how old he actually was, as if over a short period of time he experienced a great amount of change. As if he was not dealing with the change very well.
"APOLOGIZE."
She turned around, and Charlie saw tears in her eyes.
"S-sorry."
He swallowed a lump in his throat that he didn't know had formed.
"It's, um, it's okay," Charlie said, "uh, really."
The man's expression did not change, but his voice grew softer.
"Clean up, Lili," he said, "and give this man his dollar back."
She nodded and picked the dollar bill off of the table. It was damp. She handed it over weakly, but Charlie refused.
"Keep it, please," he said, "I'll just, um, I'll just go."
He didn't know how he felt about all of this. He had no idea how to feel. No template. No memory.
The lemonade was yellow.
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MethodicalSlacker
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Charlie had a lot of trouble sleeping, in those days. The first time that this happened, and he was well and truly aware of it. He was younger than he should have been. Being aware of this. It kept him up, late at night, stricken with fear, bolt upright in the top bunk of his bed he shared with James. If he slept, he'd be taken, and he;d be put on an island, and he'd be forced to hurt the people that he loved. His head almost hit the ceiling. It took a long time for Charlie to recover from that sleep cycle. To bed at eleven, to sleep at three, to wake at seven. Once he shook it off, he found himself unable to leave the bed until the light from the window stung his eyes, but that was not the game's fault.
At times, he wished it upon people. Scorned by someone who said something mean to him in the hallway. Vicious vengeance visited upon those who rejected his approach—friendly, scholarly, romantically—in his daydreams. The worst kind of death. The inversion of all that one had ever known. Friends, universally, turned to enemies. Never an exception. There was nobody you could trust. This was the second time in his life it had happened. He found himself in bad place after bad place after bad place in an unfamiliar place. He couldn't stand others. He couldn't stand himself. He couldn't stand being away from home, or the thought of going back. Charlie felt estranged from himself. Like he was going through a breakup with his life up to that point. He didn't really have a frame of reference for that, though. Charlie hadn't been in a long-term relationship.
The next time it happened, it hit his family. Arthur was gone. Charlie returned. It took Marie, too, in its own way. Charlie felt too jaded for it to really effect him outside of Arthur. This was now a natural disaster. Too grown up to be troubled. It had always been a fixture of his world. Third time's the charm. Tragedies and statistics, sharing the same cramped elevator, one side going up, the other going down, lighting up the buttons like a Christmas tree. It smelled of vomit in that elevator. They didn't hold a funeral, and nobody called them on it. It happened, and then it did not. Charlie returned to his colorless life. Charlie always returned to his colorless life.
And then the next time, he made it an excuse to come back. To console his father, to support him in his attempts to get over it. To help his sister, too. Charlie found himself unneeded, this time. His father had a girlfriend, and his sister went away, and his other surviving brother went with her. Not like he was interested in James. James was pretty terrible. Not terrible enough for Charlie to see red, but terrible nonetheless. And it left Charlie alone, in a house, with nothing to do, perpetually survived by. All of his family, scattered to the winds. Who would be the third? Mother, brother, daughter? Father? Oldest son? Prodigal son? Who would be the one to desensitize Charlie to this tragedy? How long would it take?
Charlie pressed the button on his remote control and switched the channel on the television before placing the hunk of plastic on the coffee table and balling his hand up into a fist which he promptly sent towards his own face.
At times, he wished it upon people. Scorned by someone who said something mean to him in the hallway. Vicious vengeance visited upon those who rejected his approach—friendly, scholarly, romantically—in his daydreams. The worst kind of death. The inversion of all that one had ever known. Friends, universally, turned to enemies. Never an exception. There was nobody you could trust. This was the second time in his life it had happened. He found himself in bad place after bad place after bad place in an unfamiliar place. He couldn't stand others. He couldn't stand himself. He couldn't stand being away from home, or the thought of going back. Charlie felt estranged from himself. Like he was going through a breakup with his life up to that point. He didn't really have a frame of reference for that, though. Charlie hadn't been in a long-term relationship.
The next time it happened, it hit his family. Arthur was gone. Charlie returned. It took Marie, too, in its own way. Charlie felt too jaded for it to really effect him outside of Arthur. This was now a natural disaster. Too grown up to be troubled. It had always been a fixture of his world. Third time's the charm. Tragedies and statistics, sharing the same cramped elevator, one side going up, the other going down, lighting up the buttons like a Christmas tree. It smelled of vomit in that elevator. They didn't hold a funeral, and nobody called them on it. It happened, and then it did not. Charlie returned to his colorless life. Charlie always returned to his colorless life.
And then the next time, he made it an excuse to come back. To console his father, to support him in his attempts to get over it. To help his sister, too. Charlie found himself unneeded, this time. His father had a girlfriend, and his sister went away, and his other surviving brother went with her. Not like he was interested in James. James was pretty terrible. Not terrible enough for Charlie to see red, but terrible nonetheless. And it left Charlie alone, in a house, with nothing to do, perpetually survived by. All of his family, scattered to the winds. Who would be the third? Mother, brother, daughter? Father? Oldest son? Prodigal son? Who would be the one to desensitize Charlie to this tragedy? How long would it take?
Charlie pressed the button on his remote control and switched the channel on the television before placing the hunk of plastic on the coffee table and balling his hand up into a fist which he promptly sent towards his own face.
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MethodicalSlacker
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His father always told him his posture was absolutely fucked. It was hard for him to sit in a chair for a long period of time like a normal human being. Always with his legs up on something, always with his body titled to run parallel against the width of the computer screen, or the television, or the book he was reading. Charlie was always reclining. Always twisting, always curling in on himself. Arthur sat straight as a board, rigid, like a puppet on a single string. Chiropractors would pay to get a look at his perfect spine. James sat weird, but more uniformly, legs crossed no matter what seat he was sitting in. Marie sat normally, though with less consistency. It was a variety of poses all within the standard American repertoire of seated positions. Where did Charlie go wrong? It was not lost on him that the more normal sitters in the family were the younger ones.
But Charlie's father sat normal as well. Age was not, then, the only thing pushing the Bernstein youth to have trouble with posture. It was always sitting, too. None of them had trouble standing up straight except Charlie, who craned his head a little more than he needed to. James stood tall, Arthur stood alright, and Marie grew up standing tall before she started slouching the summer that Arthur died. Maybe it was tragedy that did it. Like flowers they wilted in the heat of the Arizona sun. At this point, Charlie felt less like a flower and more like a tree. Yeah. That was it.
All of this came to his head while he sat at the dining room table browsing the internet on his laptop, nestled into the clutter covering the brown fake wood. From the waist up his body was turned towards the computer screen, perfectly aligned, but his legs were turned almost entirely to the right, his feet up on the chair sitting next to him. He was a botched pretzel. If he grew old he knew he'd be one of those old people that was hard to look at, bent into some inhuman shape by time and their own comfort, head permanently craned towards the ground, shuffling around making too much motion for the minuscule distance each step carried them. Charlie detested the idea of aging, however. It set him on edge to know that he'd already started. At age 25, the human body starts dying.
He'd heard almost nothing from Marie in the last few days, but even if she had reached out he was unsure whether or not it would register with him. These days Charlie lived almost exclusively in his own head, splayed on the couch, stretched in front of a computer, watching his thoughts run in loops and tangles and knots that threatened to trip him when he inevitably stood up to get some water or go to the bathroom. Charlie waited, and waited, and waited. Every day he felt more and more tired. Strange, for how few days it had really been since his family picked up and left. His flight back was in a few days, on the 21st. It was July 17th. He had to wallow around for four days.
Four whole days.
Charlie closed his laptop and buried his head in his hands.
But Charlie's father sat normal as well. Age was not, then, the only thing pushing the Bernstein youth to have trouble with posture. It was always sitting, too. None of them had trouble standing up straight except Charlie, who craned his head a little more than he needed to. James stood tall, Arthur stood alright, and Marie grew up standing tall before she started slouching the summer that Arthur died. Maybe it was tragedy that did it. Like flowers they wilted in the heat of the Arizona sun. At this point, Charlie felt less like a flower and more like a tree. Yeah. That was it.
All of this came to his head while he sat at the dining room table browsing the internet on his laptop, nestled into the clutter covering the brown fake wood. From the waist up his body was turned towards the computer screen, perfectly aligned, but his legs were turned almost entirely to the right, his feet up on the chair sitting next to him. He was a botched pretzel. If he grew old he knew he'd be one of those old people that was hard to look at, bent into some inhuman shape by time and their own comfort, head permanently craned towards the ground, shuffling around making too much motion for the minuscule distance each step carried them. Charlie detested the idea of aging, however. It set him on edge to know that he'd already started. At age 25, the human body starts dying.
He'd heard almost nothing from Marie in the last few days, but even if she had reached out he was unsure whether or not it would register with him. These days Charlie lived almost exclusively in his own head, splayed on the couch, stretched in front of a computer, watching his thoughts run in loops and tangles and knots that threatened to trip him when he inevitably stood up to get some water or go to the bathroom. Charlie waited, and waited, and waited. Every day he felt more and more tired. Strange, for how few days it had really been since his family picked up and left. His flight back was in a few days, on the 21st. It was July 17th. He had to wallow around for four days.
Four whole days.
Charlie closed his laptop and buried his head in his hands.
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MethodicalSlacker
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Charlie was at the convenience store to buy more batteries for the television remote. There'd been no indication that they were on their way out in the days leading up to their failure, no occasional missed inputs or a restriction of the viable range of the transmitter. He didn't know when the dead batteries were first entered into service, but they'd failed just as he'd grown tired of watching Judge Judy and was about to change the channel. Sunken into the couch, Charlie watched as Judge Judy's crusted, reptilian visage hailed down guilty verdicts on what he assumed to be haplessly terrible actors—she wasn't a real judge, was she? His eyes glued themselves to the screen against his will, like a tongue on a metal pole in a snowstorm. When the mail came, Charlie was forced to remove his gaze from the television and point it towards the door. If his eyes were tongues on a pole, he'd have lost his corneas to the cold.
That had nothing to do with the convenience store. The memory flickered in his mind like the last sparks of dying campfire embers, a fading heat that he could wave away from his face. Charlie stared at the shelf, full of different kinds of batteries and other assorted electronics. Did batteries count as electronics? They were more of a power source, the implement from which the electricity was derived. They could be a part of an electronic device, but not an electronic themselves. Their place in the electronics section was because of convenience, not because they were being conflated. Convenience. Convenience store. Charlie looked down at his shoes and saw that his left shoe was untied. He bent down to re-tie them, crossed the laces and pulled them into two bunny ears, a childish habit unweathered by the passage of time.
He looked up without getting up from the ground. At his eye level were some name brand batteries, triple-A's. Did the remote take doubles or triples? He tried to think back to the size of the tiny, pathetic batteries that fell out of the back of the remote. How small they were when he put them in the battery tester, trying to see if there was any last bit of life he could squeeze out of them in a lower voltage piece of tech. They were, unfortunately, almost totally drained, firmly in the red. He was only here because in his search for batteries in the house, he'd found that they only had the wrong kind... but what was the wrong kind? What had been the right kind? Why was it so hard for Charlie to concentrate in the first place? Double-A's seemed like, on a conceptual level, they'd be a bit too big, but triple-A's seemed like they'd be too small.
Someone walked down the aisle behind him, holding a basket full to the brim—he took note as they crossed past him around his back and re-entered his line of sight—with chips, salsa, and soda. With a shameful "meh," Charlie reached forward and grabbed a pack of double-A's and a pack of triple-A's. Whichever one turned out to be wrong, he'd either take it back and exchange it for more of the right kind of batteries (was that allowed?) or he'd just keep them around the house in case they were needed for other things. He shuffled to the cashier, paid for the batteries, refused an offer for a plastic bag and walked out without his receipt, stuffing the batteries in his pockets as he left the air-conditioned building for the sweltering summer heat outside.
The air seemed to hum as he walked home, a soft vibration shimmering above the concrete in the distance. Charlie could hear it, too, low in pitch. It could well have been from the telephone lines above, just as it could have been from the heat. The shadows cast by the poles were short, providing little reprieve from the sun directly overhead. Wiping sweat from his brow, Charlie continued home, weary eyes set on the road. These streets were not meant for pedestrians—the rumble of every passing car on his right reminded him of that fact. Dad took the car, he remembered. Even if he hadn't, it had been Charlie's choice to walk. A choice he would have made, foolishly, even if he had the car. Because he didn't have keys to it. It sounded funny until Charlie remembered that there was no joke.
It didn't take long before Charlie found himself in front of his house. Rather, it didn't feel like it took long. Once he was on the other side of the walk, the time it took to get there seemed short, compressed, neatly wrapped up in a bundle. Every moment of the walk itself was spent languishing in the heat, yes, but now that it was over it was hard for Charlie to complain. He stepped inside and placed the batteries down on the table. It turned out, to Charlie's surprise, that the remote took double-A's. It would not be a stretch to assume that he'd be just as distressed if the remote took triple-A's. It didn't look the right size for either of those. The batteries snapped into place, and he finally managed to change the channel from Judge Judy. Had he left the TV on when he left? He guessed so. It had been hard to notice, because Charlie had it muted. Sometimes it was fun just to watch silently and try to figure out what the people were saying just based on the movements of their lips.
Charlie flipped through several channels before finally deciding to turn the TV off. It was hard to focus with it on, he noted. There wasn't anything to focus on anymore, nothing more than the nonspecific feeling of simply being present. Maybe that's why he took so long at the store. Even when he wasn't sitting in front of the tube, he felt its influence. Its disorienting effect ran through power lines and jumped through the harsh overhead lights in the convenience store, beaming down on him and pushing him into the ground. It took no time at all for Charlie, free of that weight, to find himself so calm that he fell asleep for a few minutes before the buzz of the home phone woke him up. He rose from the couch to answer and looked at the little screen on the receiver to see who was calling. They didn't have a caller-ID. Curious, he slid his finger across the screen to take the call and held it up to his ear.
"Hello?" he asked.
"Hi, is this James Bernstein?" the voice on the other end asked. A woman. She sounded young.
Charlie blinked. "No," he said, "but this is his brother, Charlie."
"Ah, that's fine, can you give me his number real quick? I gotta tell him something."
"Wait, hold on, who are you?"
"I work with him. He had this number written on his locker, here. I dunno why it ain't his. He—"
"This is his father's home," Charlie said, "in Arizona."
"Oh!"
There was a short pause.
"Are you his boss?" Charlie asked.
"No, they have his cell, I was gonna call him and ask if he'd be free to, I dunno, cover my shift or something, I gotta—"
"He's on vacation," Charlie said, and hung up.
The phone rang again a few moments later, but Charlie wasn't in the room to answer it. Instead, he was standing in front of the fridge. He needed something cold to drink. There was soda in the fridge, but he'd been drinking too much of that lately. Charlie needed to cut back on the processed shit like that. He could do the absolutely barbaric thing and take some tap water and put it in a cup and put that cup in the fridge, but he didn't really feel like having water either. Plus, it'd been a while since he'd had the tap water here, avoiding it since he'd come back. He didn't remember just how safe it was to drink. All of a sudden, he found himself craving a specific drink, yet again.
Lemonade.
He was outside in a blink, on his way down the street back to the house. Charlie wanted lemonade. He also wanted to make sure that everything was alright back there. The man who had barked at the girl—Lili, her name was?—looked more like a relative of her than the other people who had been on the porch, but that was still a somewhat cruel way to be to a child. He couldn't remember his own father ever snapping at him like that. Not even in the days after his mother passed. Where was the girl's mother? He had no reason to be suspicious about her, but between the way the girl's he-would-just-say-father-until-proven-otherwise talked to her and the random men on the porch before that, something didn't feel right. The girl looked about how old Charlie was when he lost his mother. Maybe a little bit younger.
By the time he crossed in front of the house and saw that the lemonade stand was gone, he wasn't just walking in search of a cool drink anymore. Charlie wanted answers. Answers to the questions that had guided his most coherent thoughts all day.
And he was just bored enough to do whatever it took to get them.
That had nothing to do with the convenience store. The memory flickered in his mind like the last sparks of dying campfire embers, a fading heat that he could wave away from his face. Charlie stared at the shelf, full of different kinds of batteries and other assorted electronics. Did batteries count as electronics? They were more of a power source, the implement from which the electricity was derived. They could be a part of an electronic device, but not an electronic themselves. Their place in the electronics section was because of convenience, not because they were being conflated. Convenience. Convenience store. Charlie looked down at his shoes and saw that his left shoe was untied. He bent down to re-tie them, crossed the laces and pulled them into two bunny ears, a childish habit unweathered by the passage of time.
He looked up without getting up from the ground. At his eye level were some name brand batteries, triple-A's. Did the remote take doubles or triples? He tried to think back to the size of the tiny, pathetic batteries that fell out of the back of the remote. How small they were when he put them in the battery tester, trying to see if there was any last bit of life he could squeeze out of them in a lower voltage piece of tech. They were, unfortunately, almost totally drained, firmly in the red. He was only here because in his search for batteries in the house, he'd found that they only had the wrong kind... but what was the wrong kind? What had been the right kind? Why was it so hard for Charlie to concentrate in the first place? Double-A's seemed like, on a conceptual level, they'd be a bit too big, but triple-A's seemed like they'd be too small.
Someone walked down the aisle behind him, holding a basket full to the brim—he took note as they crossed past him around his back and re-entered his line of sight—with chips, salsa, and soda. With a shameful "meh," Charlie reached forward and grabbed a pack of double-A's and a pack of triple-A's. Whichever one turned out to be wrong, he'd either take it back and exchange it for more of the right kind of batteries (was that allowed?) or he'd just keep them around the house in case they were needed for other things. He shuffled to the cashier, paid for the batteries, refused an offer for a plastic bag and walked out without his receipt, stuffing the batteries in his pockets as he left the air-conditioned building for the sweltering summer heat outside.
The air seemed to hum as he walked home, a soft vibration shimmering above the concrete in the distance. Charlie could hear it, too, low in pitch. It could well have been from the telephone lines above, just as it could have been from the heat. The shadows cast by the poles were short, providing little reprieve from the sun directly overhead. Wiping sweat from his brow, Charlie continued home, weary eyes set on the road. These streets were not meant for pedestrians—the rumble of every passing car on his right reminded him of that fact. Dad took the car, he remembered. Even if he hadn't, it had been Charlie's choice to walk. A choice he would have made, foolishly, even if he had the car. Because he didn't have keys to it. It sounded funny until Charlie remembered that there was no joke.
It didn't take long before Charlie found himself in front of his house. Rather, it didn't feel like it took long. Once he was on the other side of the walk, the time it took to get there seemed short, compressed, neatly wrapped up in a bundle. Every moment of the walk itself was spent languishing in the heat, yes, but now that it was over it was hard for Charlie to complain. He stepped inside and placed the batteries down on the table. It turned out, to Charlie's surprise, that the remote took double-A's. It would not be a stretch to assume that he'd be just as distressed if the remote took triple-A's. It didn't look the right size for either of those. The batteries snapped into place, and he finally managed to change the channel from Judge Judy. Had he left the TV on when he left? He guessed so. It had been hard to notice, because Charlie had it muted. Sometimes it was fun just to watch silently and try to figure out what the people were saying just based on the movements of their lips.
Charlie flipped through several channels before finally deciding to turn the TV off. It was hard to focus with it on, he noted. There wasn't anything to focus on anymore, nothing more than the nonspecific feeling of simply being present. Maybe that's why he took so long at the store. Even when he wasn't sitting in front of the tube, he felt its influence. Its disorienting effect ran through power lines and jumped through the harsh overhead lights in the convenience store, beaming down on him and pushing him into the ground. It took no time at all for Charlie, free of that weight, to find himself so calm that he fell asleep for a few minutes before the buzz of the home phone woke him up. He rose from the couch to answer and looked at the little screen on the receiver to see who was calling. They didn't have a caller-ID. Curious, he slid his finger across the screen to take the call and held it up to his ear.
"Hello?" he asked.
"Hi, is this James Bernstein?" the voice on the other end asked. A woman. She sounded young.
Charlie blinked. "No," he said, "but this is his brother, Charlie."
"Ah, that's fine, can you give me his number real quick? I gotta tell him something."
"Wait, hold on, who are you?"
"I work with him. He had this number written on his locker, here. I dunno why it ain't his. He—"
"This is his father's home," Charlie said, "in Arizona."
"Oh!"
There was a short pause.
"Are you his boss?" Charlie asked.
"No, they have his cell, I was gonna call him and ask if he'd be free to, I dunno, cover my shift or something, I gotta—"
"He's on vacation," Charlie said, and hung up.
The phone rang again a few moments later, but Charlie wasn't in the room to answer it. Instead, he was standing in front of the fridge. He needed something cold to drink. There was soda in the fridge, but he'd been drinking too much of that lately. Charlie needed to cut back on the processed shit like that. He could do the absolutely barbaric thing and take some tap water and put it in a cup and put that cup in the fridge, but he didn't really feel like having water either. Plus, it'd been a while since he'd had the tap water here, avoiding it since he'd come back. He didn't remember just how safe it was to drink. All of a sudden, he found himself craving a specific drink, yet again.
Lemonade.
He was outside in a blink, on his way down the street back to the house. Charlie wanted lemonade. He also wanted to make sure that everything was alright back there. The man who had barked at the girl—Lili, her name was?—looked more like a relative of her than the other people who had been on the porch, but that was still a somewhat cruel way to be to a child. He couldn't remember his own father ever snapping at him like that. Not even in the days after his mother passed. Where was the girl's mother? He had no reason to be suspicious about her, but between the way the girl's he-would-just-say-father-until-proven-otherwise talked to her and the random men on the porch before that, something didn't feel right. The girl looked about how old Charlie was when he lost his mother. Maybe a little bit younger.
By the time he crossed in front of the house and saw that the lemonade stand was gone, he wasn't just walking in search of a cool drink anymore. Charlie wanted answers. Answers to the questions that had guided his most coherent thoughts all day.
And he was just bored enough to do whatever it took to get them.
-
MethodicalSlacker
- Posts: 1284
- Joined: Tue Aug 14, 2018 2:18 am
- Location: The Black Lodge
- Contact:
Charlie stepped inside the house.
It was not the first he took.
The window was open over the back porch, so he climbed inside.
No car in the driveway.
He had to be careful about how much time he spent inside the house.
The light was off in the kitchen, and sun rays, catching smoke, crossed the room.
Inside the stove, there was something wrapped in tin-foil on a tray, colorless gray, like it had been there for months.
Linoleum tiles, checkered in alternating black and white, patterned the floor in a seizure beneath his feet.
With haste, Charlie ducked through the kitchen, nearly clipping an ironing board left extended from the wall with his hip.
Soon his feet found carpet.
The walls of the hallway were beige brown, wallpapered in a fleur-de-lis pattern.
...on closer inspection, it was a different kind of flower.
Somewhere along the line he'd got his emblems jumbled up inside his head while he wasn't paying attention.
He was just about to be reminded of Arthur when he heard a sound from another room.
Not the noise of a person, but Charlie pressed himself against the wall the same.
The sound stretched down the corridor, palming around in a manner unfamiliar, though to Charlie's untrained ear it sounded
naught but far.
This was taking too long.
Charlie uncurled from the wall and walked down the hallway; simultaneously he realized that the wall he'd put himself against moments ago was not broad and spanning the length of the hall in full, but merely the side of a staircase.
Now the sound was clearer, so much so that he knew what was inside the living room before he turned the corner.
He stepped across the threshold into a room lit only by the flickering of a television.
There was something wrong with the screen.
The Heaven Panel
The sound was like shuffling, like the two TV people had just started to move toward one another, echoing within a broken frame.
Across from the television was a couch, purple and firm to the touch.
He spotted, underneath the coffee table, an upturned bowl of purple grapes.
Something about the way the man with the tie onscreen was postured made Charlie think he wanted to sell the blue haired girl life insurance.
On the wall behind the television and nine feet to the left, the wall opened upon another room.
Charlie turned and saw that the television remote was tucked between a cushion and the couch, pointed at the ceiling.
He walked over to the couch, pulled the remote out, pointed it to the television and pressed the red power button.
The image remained on screen.
From the stairway, Charlie heard the sound of a door unlatching, and felt his body go still.
Something pinched up inside his knee.
With a thrum and a jolt, he made for the gap in the wall.
Halfway to the threshold, he began to hear a new, static-drenched sound—but he kept moving.
The ground beneath him felt like it stretched with each footfall.
When he was close enough, he reached out a hand and grabbed the side of the doorway to pull himself through.
Inside, he saw the source of the faint noise, a small handheld radio on a windowsill.
He took it as he walked by and pressed it to his ear.
A box full of ghosts—he tossed it to the ground and surveyed the new room.
The floor remained dampened with carpet, but the color had faded from beige to brown.
There was a desk with a desktop computer on one end of the room; above the desk hung framed diplomas and certifications, photographs and documents, fit between shelves and boxes piled to the ceiling.
The boxes came in a variety of shapes and sizes, from cardboard shipping boxes to banker's storage containers, and they filled the legspace beneath the desk just as densely as the rest of the room.
A potted cactus with two arms sat on an end-table next to a water cooler by the window.
In this room, the wallpaper was gray, with muted blue stripes running up and down, from floor to ceiling, spaced a finger width apart.
Behind the desk, there stood yet another door.
Charlie walked to the door, twisted the knob, and swung it open to find a walk-in closet filled with shelves of more boxes.
Something in another room made a dinging noise.
And then somebody coughed.
With widened eyes, Charlie ducked into the closet and slowly closed the door behind him.
He sat in the dark for several moments.
And then several more.
Until something touched his shoulder from behind.
It was not the first he took.
The window was open over the back porch, so he climbed inside.
No car in the driveway.
He had to be careful about how much time he spent inside the house.
The light was off in the kitchen, and sun rays, catching smoke, crossed the room.
Inside the stove, there was something wrapped in tin-foil on a tray, colorless gray, like it had been there for months.
Linoleum tiles, checkered in alternating black and white, patterned the floor in a seizure beneath his feet.
With haste, Charlie ducked through the kitchen, nearly clipping an ironing board left extended from the wall with his hip.
Soon his feet found carpet.
The walls of the hallway were beige brown, wallpapered in a fleur-de-lis pattern.
...on closer inspection, it was a different kind of flower.
Somewhere along the line he'd got his emblems jumbled up inside his head while he wasn't paying attention.
He was just about to be reminded of Arthur when he heard a sound from another room.
Not the noise of a person, but Charlie pressed himself against the wall the same.
The sound stretched down the corridor, palming around in a manner unfamiliar, though to Charlie's untrained ear it sounded
naught but far.
This was taking too long.
Charlie uncurled from the wall and walked down the hallway; simultaneously he realized that the wall he'd put himself against moments ago was not broad and spanning the length of the hall in full, but merely the side of a staircase.
Now the sound was clearer, so much so that he knew what was inside the living room before he turned the corner.
He stepped across the threshold into a room lit only by the flickering of a television.
There was something wrong with the screen.
The Heaven Panel
The sound was like shuffling, like the two TV people had just started to move toward one another, echoing within a broken frame.
Across from the television was a couch, purple and firm to the touch.
He spotted, underneath the coffee table, an upturned bowl of purple grapes.
Something about the way the man with the tie onscreen was postured made Charlie think he wanted to sell the blue haired girl life insurance.
On the wall behind the television and nine feet to the left, the wall opened upon another room.
Charlie turned and saw that the television remote was tucked between a cushion and the couch, pointed at the ceiling.
He walked over to the couch, pulled the remote out, pointed it to the television and pressed the red power button.
The image remained on screen.
From the stairway, Charlie heard the sound of a door unlatching, and felt his body go still.
Something pinched up inside his knee.
With a thrum and a jolt, he made for the gap in the wall.
Halfway to the threshold, he began to hear a new, static-drenched sound—but he kept moving.
The ground beneath him felt like it stretched with each footfall.
When he was close enough, he reached out a hand and grabbed the side of the doorway to pull himself through.
Inside, he saw the source of the faint noise, a small handheld radio on a windowsill.
He took it as he walked by and pressed it to his ear.
A box full of ghosts—he tossed it to the ground and surveyed the new room.
The floor remained dampened with carpet, but the color had faded from beige to brown.
There was a desk with a desktop computer on one end of the room; above the desk hung framed diplomas and certifications, photographs and documents, fit between shelves and boxes piled to the ceiling.
The boxes came in a variety of shapes and sizes, from cardboard shipping boxes to banker's storage containers, and they filled the legspace beneath the desk just as densely as the rest of the room.
A potted cactus with two arms sat on an end-table next to a water cooler by the window.
In this room, the wallpaper was gray, with muted blue stripes running up and down, from floor to ceiling, spaced a finger width apart.
Behind the desk, there stood yet another door.
Charlie walked to the door, twisted the knob, and swung it open to find a walk-in closet filled with shelves of more boxes.
Something in another room made a dinging noise.
And then somebody coughed.
With widened eyes, Charlie ducked into the closet and slowly closed the door behind him.
He sat in the dark for several moments.
And then several more.
Until something touched his shoulder from behind.
-
MethodicalSlacker
- Posts: 1284
- Joined: Tue Aug 14, 2018 2:18 am
- Location: The Black Lodge
- Contact:
Something behind Charlie took a shallow, wheezy breath.
"Cathedral."
Seven fingernails dug into his shoulder.
"Beneath."
His skin cracked and peeled away like a sheet of ice.
"Cottage."
Thin strands of filth-covered hair hung over Charlie's eyes from an unseen source.
"Cave."
Another hand came forward out of the dark and wrapped itself around Charlie's mouth.
"Shore."
Five fingers pressed against his lips. Another two bent inward and up to pull down the lids of his eyes.
"Spiral."
"Spiral."
An incredible light flashed up from beneath the bottom of the door and scorched Charlie's eyes to blindness. Suddenly the low hum of machinery was heard as it slipped backwards through a crack in the ceiling and filled the small closet with an atonal drone. The closet's wares, a neat collection of suit-jackets, ties, and sportscoats, rustled noisily, furtively in an unfelt breeze. The soft strands of carpet under his knees turned to sandpaper. He felt the hand on his shoulder lift and tear a piece of himself away with it as it went. The effortless glide of the nails as they traced their cut on his skin left a throbbing pain like spinning bent blades of a ceiling fan in his right arm. Under the cold and clammy flesh of the seven fingered hand, Charlie tried his best to scream.
The hand over his mouth pulled away and let Charlie howl his soundless cry. He pushed his anger against the inside of his throat, let it bubble up, opened his lips—nothing. The sound of machinery was bearing down, growing closer, and closer, so close that Charlie could almost hear the individual gears and mechanisms churning inside. The thumping of its metal legs as it drew near echoed against the walls of a space far too large to be the closet Charlie once knew. He heard shaky cogs spin on thin axels, the release of steam from hundreds of aligned vents, the rattle of chains and the creaking of steel. It smelled like rust. It smelled like mothballs. It smelled like tears.
The ground beneath Charlie lurched downwards an inch, briefly elicited the nausea of freefall, before it came to an abrupt stop. In a frenzied haze Charlie tried to lift himself from the carpet and run from the mass of metal behind him, he pulled with his arms up from the carpet, and found too late that he had become stuck. The rug fibers had grown up and over his wrists, tangled around his ankles. They were rough and sticky against his skin, gnarled with mud and dirt and grime. Something thin dripped below Charlie's shoulder blade below the cut. He gasped for breath.
"Caught," said the same raspy voice as before, "like a fly in a Venus plant."
Now the floor began to slowly lower at an even, uneasy keel, bringing Charlie lower inch by inch. The machinery continued its forward advance even as Charlie's head dipped below the level of the carpet. He felt around with his hands as much as he could with the short radius allowed by his threadbare bounds, a few inches in either direction, and found the section of the floor descending to be only slightly larger than the space he took up on it. Soon the factory sound was directly overhead and Charlie stuck deep below, caught on the slab as it ground its way into the earth. Charlie's teeth rattled with the sound inside his head. He could feel his skin deaden as he struggled against his tangled restraints. The curve of his spine, unmoved since he found himself stuck, started to ache in his back.
Then, with as sudden of a lurch as it started with, the platform stopped.
Charlie could hear the machinery above slow to halt as well. The last gears spun into the hold of stillness, and a final gust of steam whistled out of a vent.
"You are where you should not be."
Charlie turned his head in the direction of the voice. Was that on his right? His left?
"The wheel turns."
Above, the faint sound of groaning metal resumed, punctuated by sharp rickets and sibilant clicks.
"Would you like to see it?"
Charlie sputtered and coughed. The dripping on his arm shifted and swirled. In one moment it was halfway down his arm—the next, it was coagulated at the source of the wound in a round shape, perfect and smooth. It lifted from him in a blink. In the next, it was on his tongue. The weight brought Charlie's chin to his chest. He tried to spit the marble out but it stayed glued to the white of his tongue. His whole mouth tasted of iron and soot.
"Ask."
A gurgling sound rose from Charlie's throat. Under the weight of the marble his tongue was unable to form words, and though his lips pressed together and air ran between his teeth Charlie could not make an intelligible sound. The rasp chirruped in the air, a goatish laugh that brought pins and needles to both of Charlie's ears.
"A phrase is a binding of the tongue."
Heavy steel slid sideways above the pit as two doors came open at the bottom of the machine as gears ground and cogs spun once more. As he quavered and trembled under the marble's heft Charlie turned his head upward to greet it with open, unseeing eyes, to stare blankly into the torrent of brackish water as it spilled down and swallowed him whole. In seconds it was up to his shoulders—seconds more and Charlie's head was nearly submerged. His lungs filled with Adam's murky ale as it carried mud and spew deep into his body, into every pore, flooding him completely. The marble dissolved at its touch, searing his tongue, melting his teeth, until that too was carried deeper into him by the water. The fibers of the carpet finally tore free from the floor, still wrapped around Charlie's fists as they pounded the walls of the pit and traced shapes in the walls of the perfect square column, barely wider than his arms half-extended, that he was trapped at the bottom of.
He had only enough time to realize this space.
Then, the bottom fell out.
"Cathedral."
Seven fingernails dug into his shoulder.
"Beneath."
His skin cracked and peeled away like a sheet of ice.
"Cottage."
Thin strands of filth-covered hair hung over Charlie's eyes from an unseen source.
"Cave."
Another hand came forward out of the dark and wrapped itself around Charlie's mouth.
"Shore."
Five fingers pressed against his lips. Another two bent inward and up to pull down the lids of his eyes.
"Spiral."
"Spiral."
An incredible light flashed up from beneath the bottom of the door and scorched Charlie's eyes to blindness. Suddenly the low hum of machinery was heard as it slipped backwards through a crack in the ceiling and filled the small closet with an atonal drone. The closet's wares, a neat collection of suit-jackets, ties, and sportscoats, rustled noisily, furtively in an unfelt breeze. The soft strands of carpet under his knees turned to sandpaper. He felt the hand on his shoulder lift and tear a piece of himself away with it as it went. The effortless glide of the nails as they traced their cut on his skin left a throbbing pain like spinning bent blades of a ceiling fan in his right arm. Under the cold and clammy flesh of the seven fingered hand, Charlie tried his best to scream.
The hand over his mouth pulled away and let Charlie howl his soundless cry. He pushed his anger against the inside of his throat, let it bubble up, opened his lips—nothing. The sound of machinery was bearing down, growing closer, and closer, so close that Charlie could almost hear the individual gears and mechanisms churning inside. The thumping of its metal legs as it drew near echoed against the walls of a space far too large to be the closet Charlie once knew. He heard shaky cogs spin on thin axels, the release of steam from hundreds of aligned vents, the rattle of chains and the creaking of steel. It smelled like rust. It smelled like mothballs. It smelled like tears.
The ground beneath Charlie lurched downwards an inch, briefly elicited the nausea of freefall, before it came to an abrupt stop. In a frenzied haze Charlie tried to lift himself from the carpet and run from the mass of metal behind him, he pulled with his arms up from the carpet, and found too late that he had become stuck. The rug fibers had grown up and over his wrists, tangled around his ankles. They were rough and sticky against his skin, gnarled with mud and dirt and grime. Something thin dripped below Charlie's shoulder blade below the cut. He gasped for breath.
"Caught," said the same raspy voice as before, "like a fly in a Venus plant."
Now the floor began to slowly lower at an even, uneasy keel, bringing Charlie lower inch by inch. The machinery continued its forward advance even as Charlie's head dipped below the level of the carpet. He felt around with his hands as much as he could with the short radius allowed by his threadbare bounds, a few inches in either direction, and found the section of the floor descending to be only slightly larger than the space he took up on it. Soon the factory sound was directly overhead and Charlie stuck deep below, caught on the slab as it ground its way into the earth. Charlie's teeth rattled with the sound inside his head. He could feel his skin deaden as he struggled against his tangled restraints. The curve of his spine, unmoved since he found himself stuck, started to ache in his back.
Then, with as sudden of a lurch as it started with, the platform stopped.
Charlie could hear the machinery above slow to halt as well. The last gears spun into the hold of stillness, and a final gust of steam whistled out of a vent.
"You are where you should not be."
Charlie turned his head in the direction of the voice. Was that on his right? His left?
"The wheel turns."
Above, the faint sound of groaning metal resumed, punctuated by sharp rickets and sibilant clicks.
"Would you like to see it?"
Charlie sputtered and coughed. The dripping on his arm shifted and swirled. In one moment it was halfway down his arm—the next, it was coagulated at the source of the wound in a round shape, perfect and smooth. It lifted from him in a blink. In the next, it was on his tongue. The weight brought Charlie's chin to his chest. He tried to spit the marble out but it stayed glued to the white of his tongue. His whole mouth tasted of iron and soot.
"Ask."
A gurgling sound rose from Charlie's throat. Under the weight of the marble his tongue was unable to form words, and though his lips pressed together and air ran between his teeth Charlie could not make an intelligible sound. The rasp chirruped in the air, a goatish laugh that brought pins and needles to both of Charlie's ears.
"A phrase is a binding of the tongue."
Heavy steel slid sideways above the pit as two doors came open at the bottom of the machine as gears ground and cogs spun once more. As he quavered and trembled under the marble's heft Charlie turned his head upward to greet it with open, unseeing eyes, to stare blankly into the torrent of brackish water as it spilled down and swallowed him whole. In seconds it was up to his shoulders—seconds more and Charlie's head was nearly submerged. His lungs filled with Adam's murky ale as it carried mud and spew deep into his body, into every pore, flooding him completely. The marble dissolved at its touch, searing his tongue, melting his teeth, until that too was carried deeper into him by the water. The fibers of the carpet finally tore free from the floor, still wrapped around Charlie's fists as they pounded the walls of the pit and traced shapes in the walls of the perfect square column, barely wider than his arms half-extended, that he was trapped at the bottom of.
He had only enough time to realize this space.
Then, the bottom fell out.