BROKEN WINDOWS (DRAFT, EXCERPT) The flood waters had receded, the wet fist that struck New Orleans opened and dripped the tears of the cities people, and I found myself where i said I would never be again. The city lay in ruins, an apocalyptic wasteland that the media covered and the president couldn’t access, yet all of this was lost on me as the ruins of my life found solace in the procession of waterlogged buildings and broken storefronts. I felt as gutted as the houses I walked by, avoiding the suspicious eyes that glared at me, as if wondering if I would, perhaps, break the solitary window that defied the storms fury. They were right to watch. I wanted those windows broken. I wanted to hear the shattering of glass, and to feel the sharp pain of the cut on my hand. I wanted to turn my eyes away from theirs, despising the hurt I saw in their wary looks, the hurt that had become a living, whispering thing, and had escorted me across two states. The hurt that now reproached me with their faces. “Only the insane equate pain with success.” The Cheshire Cat leered. “We live. We are alive.” My defense was as effective as a child clutching a forbidden toy, and he knew i didn’t believe what I said. His grin widened into a delighted caricature of understanding as he arched his back and disappeared. His aristocratic voice seemed to press itself on my thoughts, and, as usual, I wondered where he had fled to. A smile found its way onto my lips, and I knew the madness had returned with its broken nails, and fetid breath. My thoughts swarmed and churned like the water that had inflicted liquid death to the city, and I struggled against its icy depths even as I longed to ease into its gentle suspension, left to float in peaceful repose. My breath came in gasps, and I knew that my flailing would keep me alive. “Just keep swimming, just keep swimming.” Dory’s voice quelled the madness, and I could not suppress the laughter that this is what it had come to;imaginary friends and talking to myself. I walked past the dilapidated houses, and boarded storefronts, up the empty street. I had walked for so long that the only immutable truth known to me was you can’t out walk it, when it lives inside you. Memories have resilience to them, for no matter how you beat them back, they stubbornly refuse to be ignored. The merciless captor, I would cage them, if I could, and starve them while watching them die. Yet, they lingered, growing stronger as I grew weak with the effort, feeding on my strength as I stumbled along. The truth is the undead rising after years of interment, covered in dirt and clay, reminding you it walks. These were my thoughts as I lifted my eyes, aware the the waters of madness had struck again, yet more subtly this time. I stood at the intersection, and saw my destination a block away. Beer cans and discarded clothing littered the streets, and I wondered sarcastically if the rapture had occurred, and all “The Taken” had gotten drunk beforehand. The grin died halfway as a familiar voice confided in my ear. “If they were taken, then you were left behind, as the story goes.” His silence was as merciless as his conversation, and dread formed a cold knot in my throat. This was a battle I was not prepared for, and sweat beaded down my forehead, leaving a snaking trail through the dirt and grime that had taken up residence on my face. “He is much changed.” Dickens and his tale intruded, and I wondered in amazement that he had survived my fall, even as I turned my attention to The Man in the Black Suit. “I’m going across the street.” I declared, hoping that it was, in fact, the truth. “We are all going across the street, at some point.” He seemed amused at his philosophical observation, and his simple calm demeanor horrified me. Rather he was menacing me with a knife, I thought, than this unnaturally plaacid countenance. He leaned in, and I could see the small hairs on the back of his hand, and his perfectly manicured nails as they rested on his forearms. Hit tone was conspiratorial and affectionate. He was the most dangerous man I’d ever known. “We could go up the street, though, you and I, and flee this wasteland of broken people. They are sirens with their pain, luring you in. This is not for you, and has never been Gabriel. What do you hope to find in this repository for the walking dead?” He seemed so sincere that fresh tears streamed out of my eyes, and I knew I would miss him, my beautiful killer. “I want…..I want.” Once so articulate, I stumbled with the simplest expression of desire. What does one want? A house, family, nice job, or maybe a car that parks itself? Impermanent things, says the flood. “I want to go across the street.” From where springs this contrived courage, I mused. His face became, if possible, even smoother, and the most heartbreakingly loving expression suffused his features. I had never witnessed someone or something so beautiful, and I pinched the inside of my arm to keep from falling prey to his glamour. He cast his green eyes disdainfully at the house across the street, and snorted contemptuously at the white columns that jutted to a roof covered in blue tarp. He returned his gaze to me, and I looked away, unable to stare at those emerald hues. “I want to go across the street.” I repeated. A quirk of one eyebrow betrayed his surpise, and for a brief moment I saw the fury that rode his jaw. I knew what this man could do, and I was certain that I would be struck dead. The silence between us whispered the years together, and I felt their flimsy grasping. They were mere spider webs now, easily broken. He smiled, the left side of his mouth lifting slowly, and bowed as if he stood before court. He well could have. He rose up, and stared at me. How long we stood there, silently appraising each other, I do not know, for suddenly the screech of tires and the frantic sound of a horn broke me of my revelry. The car turned suddenly, barely avoiding me as the driver yelled and cursed. I looked around, and found myself standing in the middle of the street. The Man in the Black Suit was nowhere to be seen. The madness only whispered now, not the roaring cacophony of defeat that usually heralded his departure. I looked around, and the only witness was the redlight overlooking the intersection. Did it grieve for the city? Did it flash its anger in bright crimson? “How fine you look when dressed in rage. Your enemies are fortunate your condition is not permanent. You’re lucky, too. Red eyes suit so few.” Cheshire purred in my ear, and I welcomed his return, even as I warded against the call of the madness. “I think you are right.” I said simply. My steps slowed at the front door, beneath the blue tarped roof, and beside the jutting white columns, and I slowly reached for the handle, breathing in the fall air that, for a moment, did not stink of rot and decay, and I gazed at the innocent and corrupt city that spread its silhouette across the darkening skyline. “Come on Cat. Stay for awhile, at least until I’m more me.” I turned around, and walked in the double doors, on more trip to an institution for the chemically insane. Will Laird......
Posted on: Wed, 04 Jun 2014 11:56:22 +0000
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