Been a quiet blog week for me, and in the interest of full disclosure, I'll admit the reason for that is that I haven't written a damn thing worth reading all week. Sadly, that also includes fiction. So, instead of continuing the story I had going on, I'm going to post a short story I co-wrote with a good friend of mine and a very talented writer* named Ami. I say co-wrote, which is true for the first half of the story, but after the POV switch halfway through, the rest, and admittedly better part, is all her doing. It might be a little long for a blog post, five pages in total, but still. Read it, enjoy it, make with the feedback.
*I say both of those things about her very, very grudgingly.
My
only defense was to write down every word they said. I knew they were lying.
More importantly, they knew they were lying.
But they knew I had no proof, that it was my word against theirs, and with them
being a them and me being a me, I was in a bad way. So I had to write it all
down, every filthy lie, and hopefully I'd be able to trip them up, catch them
contradicting each other. So far, though, it wasn't working. It was like they
had rehearsed it all, every word.
"If you
d-d-don't take chances," said the man in striped pajamas, "you
m-m-m-might as well not be alive."
The
man in striped pajamas was my cell mate. I didn't know his real name, and by
this time, he might have forgotten...
so he was just the man in striped pajamas.
But striped
pajamas or not, he had a point. By now I had collected so many of their words I
could spit them back verbatim. But what could I do with them? "What do you
do with words?" I asked my striped cell mate.
"S-S-S-Say
em'. You could m-m-make a living d-doing that kind of thing," he answered,
and I supposed I could, but I had never thought about it til then. That's what
the man in striped pajamas was good at; sure, he was freeze-dried, batshit
crazy, but it was the kind of crazy that was seriously wise if you thought
about it. A lot of people made a whole lot of money selling their words, and
God knows they didn't have half the story to tell that I did.
And it's not like
I didn't have the fucking time on my hands.
Everyone's
story's different. Everyone's story is one person's lie and another person's
truth. They keep telling me I was blind to the truth. It wasn't so much that I
had been blind to it. It was just that I had seen the truth differently, and
obviously, so did they.
I rapped on the
cell door. There were no bars, only a solid metal door with two windows that
slid open; one at face height and the other down low, where they slid in the
chemical waste they called chow.
But now, I had
something. What, I didn't actually know. It didn't make much sense, but it was
something. Something I could shove down their throat like they'd been doing to
me for the past however fuck long. Don't ever let anyone tell you that revenge
isn't sweet.
As images of my
sugary revenge danced in my head, I could hear the sounds of footsteps coming
down the hall. In the brief seconds before the door slowly creaked open, panic
set in. Were they coming for me, or the man in the striped pajamas? The idea
that it could be me had me shaking in my government issued socks, but being him
wasn't any better. The crazy bastard was the only friend I had, and I wasn't
sure how many more "sessions" with the doc he could take.
Light spilled
into the room. It spread from the crack under the door and kept coming. My
friend cowered in the corner and soiled his striped pajamas. I knew because the
unmistakable smell of urine and shit drifted over to me. I didn't pay too much
attention. After spending, fuck knows how long we'd been here, in a six foot by
six foot room you get used to certain things. Not to mention I was trapped by
the silhouette that appeared in the light.
The
"doctor" strode the rest of the way in and wrinkled his nose.
"You, in the striped pajamas. To the showers." He turned to me as my
friend struggled against the hands of the burly guards that dragged him to his
feet. "You. Come with me." He smiled; his perfect white teeth
reminded me of my mother's pearls.
I didn't want to
go with him. I didn't want to get hooked up to his chair again, to listen to
him tell me what a horrible person I was for the "lies" I told. What
I wanted to do was ram those perfect pearls down his throat til he choked. But
I also didn't want to give him the satisfaction of having me dragged... so I
got up and walked like a man, knowing that when I denied his lies like I always
did, the pain would intensify... and I would cry like a lost puppy in the
middle of fucking winter. Yeah, some man.
I followed him
down the long corridor, the white of his lab coat gleaming against the dingy
walls. We walked past other doors like ours, mine and the man with the striped
pajamas. I could hear nothing but the sharp click of his heels on the concrete.
I had never seen anyone else here, just them and us. As far as I could tell
that's all there ever had been.
As we neared the
door at the end of the hall, I started to sweat. Not polite,
I've-been-out-in-the-sun sweat, but rank, heavy, drenching fear sweat. I stank
with it. It poured down my back, my shirt stuck to me; it dripped down my
forehead, into my eyes, stinging them, blinding me momentarily.
The moment was
enough of a delay. The doctor snapped his fingers and two of his mountain-sized
guards grabbed me, one under each elbow, and picked me up. I tried to fight
back, but after months of processed crap from a can, I was weak as a fucking
kitten.
The two behemoths
slammed me into the good doctor's chair and started tightening the leather
straps. By now they were almost like home. First came the legs; they had
learned their lesson the first time, when they started with the arms and one of
them got their jewels kicked into their throat. In fact, it might have been the
one holding me down while his buddy did my legs, I honestly can't tell them
apart anymore.
When they had me
all nice n' cozied in, the doc started flipping on the lights. One at a time,
the large surgery lamps blasted my cornea until all I saw was white so bright I
thought they'd lit a fire inside of my skull. If I hadn't known any better, I
might have thought I was heading straight to heaven. Then the devil himself
stepped into view. I couldn't see him clearly, not against those bright lights,
but it was him. I'd never forget that silhouette. And I knew he was smiling
that fuckin' grin of his, just dying to do whatever it was they were going to
do to me this time.
"Let's
begin, shall we?" His voice was smooth and dark like a fine whiskey, Old
Scratch himself. But it didn't quite cover the sound of him placing his toys on
the tray next to the chair. That tinkle of his metal torture devices dropping
onto the aluminum tray was a whole different brand of hell. If I ever got out
of here I never wanted to hear that sound again for the rest of my life.
"The last
time we spoke, you seemed to have some trouble remembering your name. Have you
had any luck with that?"
I couldn't help
it, I chuckled, “Sure did Doc. I'm Santa fuckin' Claus.”
Something slammed
into my jaw. Jesus, were they hitting me with two-by-fours now? My teeth felt
loose in my gums. After the initial shock I looked into the lights and spit. I
could hear my saliva sizzling on the hot bulbs.
"Now that's
not very nice. I just asked you a question."
I couldn't have
answered the rat bastard even if I wanted to, not with the way my teeth were
still rattling from that shot. I settled for flipping him off. I doubt it
looked as good as I wanted it to with my wrists strapped to the chair.
"How long
have you been here, do you think?"
"You mean
you don't know? And I thought you PHD's were supposed to be educated."
Sure it was ballsy, but at this point ballsy was all I had left and I wasn't
sure how long it would hold out.
He started to
laugh at me. I hated when he did that. I'm sure he said something, but I
couldn't tell past the feeling of something sharp being slammed into my guts.
If I could have, I would have doubled over in pain. As it was, all I could do
was thrash against my straps, gasping for air.
I know I
screamed. I always did. I'm not so proud that I can't admit it. I screamed long
and hard, with tears to boot. But I can say one thing: I never begged.
After what felt
like hours of questions and pain, the doctor dimmed the lights. The hum from
the halogen faded and all I could hear was my own ragged, shallow breathing.
"Well
done." That's all he said. That's it. Just "well done." What the
fuck? I'd been scared before and angry and I'm even sure at some point I had to
have been happy, but never had I been so full of hate and rage as when I heard
those two fucking words, "Well done." I stared at him, one of those
stares that make people say stupid things like, "Man, if looks could kill,
he'd be dead." He just smiled at me.
His henchmen
unhooked me, one of them catching me before I fell on my face. They hauled me
back to my cell, almost carrying me, before dumping me on the floor. As they
locked the door behind them, I dragged myself up onto my bed. The man in the
striped pajamas was back; from the smell he was showered and his pants had been
cleaned.
He was sitting in
the corner of his bed with his knees drawn up to his chest, picking
determinedly at a spot on the wall that had offended him. "I n-n-know it
hurts," he said without looking up. "It hurts sometimes m-m-more than
you can bear. But you're a man. Don't forget that. Don't. I'm not. I shit
m-myself, like a b-b-b-baby... like an animal. But you're a man. Don't let them
take that away."
All the while, he
picked at the wall. The whole time I'd been here, I never saw him cry. At that
moment, I wanted to cry. I wanted to sob my fucking eyes out. I wanted to hear
my sad sack of ass echo for a million miles. I wanted to bang on those doors
until more scary mother fuckers came to kick the shit out of me for making too
much noise. I wanted to beg. I wanted to hand them all of the words I had been
saving and tell them that I would say whatever the fuck they wanted if they
would just let him go. I wanted to weep. I wanted to cry. I wanted to cry for
him.
*
* * * *
I could hear
them. The voices behind the wall. They
didn't know it, but I could. The voices floated to me through the crack in the
wall aimed right at my mouth, like they were trying to tell me something.
Trying to fill me with their words.
There are two
different kinds of “they” and “them”. One kind was the voices. They tried to
tell me things, but I could never hear them clearly enough. I don't know what I
would do with their words if I could make them out. I had to keep trying I had
to hear what they said, “If you d-d-don't take
chances," I said to myself, "you m-m-m-might as well not be
alive." Sometimes talking to myself makes ideas clearer.
“What do
you with words?” My second best friend, the big man with the scar on his face
asked. Yeah, what do you do with
words?
"S-S-S-Say
em'. You could m-m-make a living d-doing that kind of thing,"
I said. I was afraid to tell him about the voices in case they got mad at me
and didn't come back, but I didn't mind sharing a little with him, him being my
second best friend and all.
My first best
friend was the ones who talked to me through the wall. There was more than one
of them, but I couldn't understand them so I just counted them as one.
The man with the
scar scared me when they, the bad they, put him here. I thought he was a
spy. That they put him in here to
find out what my first best friend was saying to me. But I knew they wouldn't
talk to them.
But then I saw them take the man with the scar. He was
big and scary and tough. Like the superheroes on TV, but when they brought him
back he couldn't walk and his face was purple and red. So purple and red that
his scar looked like lightning on his cheek. He wasn't a spy. He wasn't one of them. I told the voices in the wall that
he was safe. I knew they worried about me.
The man with the
scar stood up and banged on the metal door of our room. I hated when he did
that. It always brought them. It did
this time too. I could hear them. You can hear a lot through stone if you
listen real hard. I heard the doctor's footsteps. Doctor. He's not a real
doctor. I remember doctors. Doctors are supposed to help you, but he's one of them. He only hurts me. Me and the man
with the scar.
I heard moaning
and it started to smell like a bathroom. It was me. I had shat myself again. I
hated when I did that. But that sound... that clip-cloppy sound of nice shoes
in the hallway...it scares me. Scares me so bad I don't know who I am anymore.
I asked him once to wear slippers. He laughed at me and turned the bright
lights on. I didn't want him to be there for me. I didn't want him to be there
for the man with the scar either. I just didn't want him to be there.
Our big, heavy,
metal door swung open and there he stood. He always looked so big. Like a big
skeleton with a jack-o-lantern smile. He smiled so wide his face looked split
in half. I hated when he smiled.
“You,in the
stripped pajamas. To the showers.” He was pointing at me. I know I smelled.
Shit smells. The two monsters that came to get me, they were mad. They were mad
at me. They grabbed me, an arm each.
I didn't want them to do that. I hated when they did that. I tried to get away.
I shouldn't have done that. It makes them really mad, but I couldn't help it. I
was scared and scared things try to get away.
They picked my
feet up off the floor. I was flying over the stone in their metal hands. They
threw me on the floor of the shower. My nose mashed up against the big drain in
the concrete. I tried once to count all of the little square holes in the
grate, but I kept losing count.
It's a big grate.
The monsters were
back. They yanked off my clothes. I didn't want to be naked. Not around them.
“Jesus
Christ, will you look at him? He's like a fucking baby. He's all curled up like
a god damned baby.” I didn't want to look at his face, but his voice was a
little too high pitched. It didn't go with his metal hands.
The second
monster's voice was deeper. It felt better. “Yeah, some great mind he turned
out to be. Can't even keep from shitting himself.”
They stood me up
and turned on the water... too hot....too hot... too hot. They laughed when I
danced in the burning water, but at least they turned the cold on. I was a
great mind. That's what they said. A great mind. I wonder what I thought about?
I was watching
the water turn less and less brown as it went past my toes and they threw the
powdered soap on me. It was bright pink, like Bazooka bubble gum. It smelled
kind of like it too, but it didn't taste like it. I tried once. It burned my
mouth and wasn't sweet at all. I bet it wouldn't have blown good bubbles
either.
I cleaned myself.
I could still do that. I could still get myself clean. They gave me dry pajamas.
The only thing I liked about it here. I got stripped pajamas. They're not very
soft, but I like the way the stripes go up and down and not across.
The monsters let
me put the pajamas on by myself. They said they didn't want to play dolls with
a grown-ass man. I think they meant me, but I don't think I'm a doll, but I
don't feel like a man either. The man with the scar on his face. He's a man.
I tried to take a
little extra time putting my clothes back on. I like having the space to spread
my arms, but I had to be careful. If I looked like I was having fun they would
hurt me. They said the needed to remind me that I wasn't here for fun.
I don't remember
why I was there anymore. It all gets so blurry. All I can remember are the
bright white lights and the doctor laughing at me when I screamed for them to
stop hurting me. They strapped me down and hurt me...a lot. I don't like that
chair. The chair with the straps and the buckles. I hate that chair.
The monsters took
me back to our room, but this time they let me walk. I guess I was less scared
after my shower. I saw that they left dinner for us, but the man with the scar
on his face wasn't back yet. I left the food alone and looked at my bed. It
looked different. I don't like it when things look different. I had clean
sheets. I guess my old ones were dirty. These ones were white, just like the
other ones. Well that was something I guess.
My stomach
started to rumble. I looked at the tray they left on the floor again. It's rude
to start dinner if everyone's not at the table. I remember my manners, but I
was so hungry. My second best friend wouldn't mind if I started without him and
I didn't know when he would be back.
They didn't give
us a table, they said that we could make the wood into a weapon. I don't want
to fight. I hate fighting. Everyone gets so mad when you fight, but the man
with the scar on his face might have wanted to fight. He was a man and men
fight. So I guess it's good there's no table.
I took the tray
and sat in the light. We have one light bulb. It's always on. I like how it
makes a perfect circle between our beds. It's like having another room that's
only light. Sometimes I come here to think. Sometimes it's easier to think in
the light.
I used my finger
because it was clean after my shower, and I pushed his half to one side of the
tray and ate mine. I know it's not good food. It's gooey and tastes like paste.
I think I ate paste once. That's how I know what paste tastes like. But it's
all they ever pushed under the door. I wish just once they would give us two
slices of bread. Good bread. Thick bread. The kind I think grandmothers make in
kitchens. Or maybe I just read that somewhere once. I would want my second best
friend to be there when it came though because I would want him to have some,
but I don't think I would be able to share if he wasn't here. That would be
hard.
The one thing I
didn't mind about it was the color. It was such a bright, happy yellow color.
It was pretty to look at, but I was so hungry I didn't look at it as much as I
ate it. I finished my half and drank exactly one half of the water they poured
into the cup. I don't know why they didn't give us two cups. You can't fight
with a cup. A cup holds things. It doesn't hurt them. I put the rest of dinner
on the floor next to the bed that belonged to the man with the scar on his
face. Then I sat in the light room a little longer. Sometimes things weren't so
bad when I sat in the light.
I don't think I
was sitting there very long when I heard my first best friend. The voices were
back! I got up on my bed next to the crack in the wall. I leaned my ear against
it, but I couldn't hear them very well. I started picking at the wall to make
the crack bigger. If I could make the crack bigger, maybe I could hear them better.
I must have been
trying really hard to hear them because I didn't hear them coming. They opened the door and threw my second best friend
into the room. I was afraid that they threw him into this dinner, but they
hadn't. I waited until they closed the door and started trying to get to the
voices again. That rock is really hard and I didn't have very long nails.
I looked at my
friend, the man with the scar on his face. They had hurt him again. His scar
looked like lightning again. "I n-n-know it hurts,"
I said. I was still trying to get to the voices. I wanted them to hear too.
"It hurts sometimes m-m-more than you can bear. But you're a m-man. Don't
forget that. Don't. I'm not. I shit m-myself, like a b-b-b-baby... like an
animal. But you're a man. Don't let them take that away."
I started to
shake then. Really hard. My whole body just shook and jiggled.
I don't know why.
