by Genevieve Mather

 

        Take away a person’s right to turn a blind eye and you’ll be left with a quivering mass of flesh. I didn’t realize this before today. It feels as if a helicopter has just landed in my head, blowing away the miasmic fog of bliss in its wake. The blow was strong enough to knock my violently trembling knees from underneath me.  Ever since the beginning of this damned appointment I’ve been a fidgety twat poorly covered by a cool visage.

     “I’m sorry about this, there is no known cure. I’ll be back in 15 minutes to discuss treatment options.” The room seemed to be pulsating as the words escaped my impassive doctor’s mouth.

   “Sure, sure,“ Was all I could manage. I spoke the words to the closing, heavy door. The sound of the slam echoed up each vertebra of my spine. Disinfectant was pungent in the pastel room. Hospital smells gave my stomach an unpleasant swirling sensation for the first time in my life.  I was drowning in reality, fearing and knowing that I was never to resurface for the last eight or so years of my life. It pissed me off that I was such a coward.

 

 

     How in the hell did I get here? Where did my bed go, I thought I was lying in it. Maybe I forgot to take my pills. I’ll just take more. Maybe I’ll just sit in this chair and think about where I put my pills. I tell myself not to worry, I tell myself that I can sleep it off later. After all, living off of Medicare offers a life of nothing. I mean sleep. And “broadening my horizons.” Angeline tells me not to be too pessimistic, and to look at the bright side. Now that I don’t have to go to work, I can go out and see the world, she tells me. Broaden my horizons and spread my wings, she tells me. I must be depressing her.

     “Zephyr? What are you doing up so late?” She articulated between yawns.

     “Oh you know, doing the polka and sashaying about. The usual.”

     “What?”

      “Nothing. Listen, go back to sleep. Let dying dogs die.”

       “I think you mean let sleeping dogs lie, and don’t worry about me. I have to go to work in two hours.’

       She didn’t notice me flinch at the word ‘work’ through the thick darkness of the living room.  That’s right, I stopped having a purpose in life. “Don’t have too much fun at the office, kid. I hear corners on those cubicles can be rather sharp.”

     “Uh-huh. You are like what, 24? 25? I’ve got two years on you, kid.”

      “Go get your coffee already.”

       “And you need to get some more rest, now off to bed with you.” Her back turned to me as she walked into the kitchen and began to pour the coffee beans into the machine. I creaked off the overstuffed chair to follow her. A bad habit, I repeated to myself. When we were younger, I was used to following her around, like a pet. She used to get very upset with me when I followed her to such things as play dates with her friends. She told me I embarrassed her. The feeling of being useful to her never lost its original polish.

     I placed a small kiss on her forehead, and she flashed me an apologetic smile. I went back into my bedroom to stare at the ceiling for the next few hours.

 

         I was told that in order to acquire Familial Alzheimer’s, one must have, “Two first degree relatives with a history of Alzheimer’s Disease.” If this were true, would not my dear Angeline be at risk as well? My sister, whose heart was so big it could fill my empty one, at any moment, her existence could be at risk. And I will not be able to protect her forever. Soon, the one being protected will be me. I will be providing her with an inordinate amount of mental strain. Bit by bit, my mind will deteriorate. Proper grammar will become so difficult to vocalize that I will want to take a bite out of a bar of soap. I will become someone so weak, someone I consider worth avoiding. Someone I will never want to know.

    I turn on the television in order to distract my train of thought, as Angeline tells me I must do whenever I begin to feel too down.

  “-Victim’s name was Rachel Thomas. She was found brutally murdered with what authorities believe to be a chainsaw. Her family and friends are devastated and will be holding her funeral next Saturday. We now take you to an exclusive on the grieving family and friends.”

    “I just, can’t believe it ya’ know? She was here and happy and all that. And now she is like, gone. Words can’t express, honestly, how it feels now that my best friend was gone.” That is probably because your vapid mind is too full of air to be able to comprehend true emotion, dear. I no longer dabble in the trivial; I pay only attention enough to catch where the body was found and muse on possible suspects. Perhaps someone close to her, someone she trusted dearly. A man with a whiskery face and a stained wife beater reiterates the tragic loss of his girlfriend. I catch his name. Tommy. Simply place yourself in his shoes, I tell myself, and the pieces will come together.

      Upon taking the screeching, trembling instrument in my hands, I felt a rush of adrenaline. A queer sensation of sweetness tickled my tongue and the hairs on the back of my neck pricked up. I think of how a Mexican immigrant working at one of those slaughterhouses probably would jeer if they knew of the emotions than ran through me pre-slaughter. The way she looked up at me with eyes full of fear. Or was it regret…? I am her boyfriend. I am the killer. I am Tommy. No, I shake my head, that is just simply silly. Someone she didn’t know must have gotten to her.

 

    “Angeline? Is that you? Welcome home.” She dumps her briefcase on the floor and pulls off her shoes as I hold what I believe to be a concerned expression.

    “Not now, Ze. I’m tired.” Shrugging me off, she climbs heavy-footed up the stairs. My heart flutters. She takes such good care of me, she deserves to have time alone. I return to the living room.

 

   My eyes are focusing so hard that I see colorful images on the ceiling. They follow wherever the squiggly images float as I contemplate sleep. As usual, sleep is impossible. I reach for the newspaper on the nightstand. Flipping the pages, I try to blank my thoughts out as much as possible. Finally I stumble upon words that read, “Missing High School Boy found murdered on 14^th Street and Mandela. Authorities find reasonable evidence to assume that he was tortured and starved before death.” I continue to skim for a list of possible suspects.

     Among the rust and rubble of the abandoned construction site I feel alive. There are piles and mounds and cliffs of dirt and debris. Each mound is organized, one is simply a mound of dirt, another is a towering mountain of chunky concrete puzzle pieces. Pipes lay rusting in various, non sequitor places. A murky pool of what could be rainwater reflects in the cloudy sky on its surface. The whole area is surrounded by a chain link fence with multiple, “Do Not Enter” signs warding off pedestrians. A car will drive past once in awhile and a piece of trash will blow around in the wind, but otherwise this is a lovely place to isolate and torture someone. A brick complex, each brick slightly multicolored, is peeling away, accumulating graffiti and waiting to be demolished. It is hard to make out in the thick darkness. The smell of burning chocolate fills wafting from the nearby cereal factory my nostrils as I enter the brick complex.

 

      Each piece of cocoa puffs tinked in the bowl delicately as I poured myself breakfast. Focusing was hard for me these days. I decide not to even bother trying since I’ll only frustrate myself in the end. Angeline hardly comes home anymore, and when she does, she doesn’t talk to me other than what is necessary. My days are spent drifting from room to room. Angeline keeps the kitchen stocked full of food and pays the bills, I have nothing to worry about. Still, I have those moments where anxiety gets the best of me. Those are the only moments where I leave my den to feel alive and fresh.

   

   Taking a step inside the brick complex, I click on my industrial flashlight. The smell of the death is rank; I pull out a frilly, ridiculous looking handkerchief and press it against my mouth and nose. They are sincerely like pigs in a cage on anti-biotics. Most of them are dead, they are useless are no longer subject to my experimentation. Yet I lack the utilities to remove them, so here they are to stay until someone other than myself finds them. Once in a while I’ll drag one away to be found in the distance, prompting a new report. A cowering young woman mutters to herself madly amidst the death around her.

    I feel like something quick and painful today. A machete was stored in my pants with the blade running parallel to my right leg. I open the cage door and drag the woman by the hair and throw her to the ground, crumpled. Lack of food has weakened her. Like a logger preparing to chop his logs, I raise the machete high over my head, and bring it down in a swift motion. The blade disappeared into her belly as blood quickly oozed out from the wound it left. Perhaps it wasn’t as swift as I thought, the bone stopped the blade from freeing her from her lower half. She screams and she claws and she begs for her life as I sloppily attempt to hack through the bone again and again.

 

      I pull the covers over my face. Sleeping so hard.