Post by pinstrike on Sept 22, 2007 0:02:06 GMT -5
The Suicide of Manny Thate
There were four things that Emmanuel “Manny” Thate hated. Frank Sinatra, kitchen knives, the kind with two silver dots on the black handle, his cousin Alex, and balloons. Not necessarily in that order, but namely among them balloons. And, granted that Manny Thate went without any of these things, he was an overall agreeable person. Maybe not the kind of man you would invite to a dinner party or ask to watch your kids for the weekend, but a pretty decent guy nonetheless.
However, having awoken again in a freezing sweat from a dream that forced him to face all four of said detestables, he was anything but an agreeable person. Anything but decent. He turned over in his sweat to face the window. The blinds were closed, but that didn’t stop the dark from creeping in.
Still dark.
Still dark like always. There hadn’t been a day in nearly two years—Jesus, had it been that long on the meds?—that he had opened his eyes on daylight. Always, the dream came, and stole sleep from him like a tax-collector, making him wonder what he owed to the Fates. Always when it was dark, in the times when the clock says AM but your mind knows its not morning until it can see sun. That very clock now drew his eyes with its soft green luminescence.
4:33. The little green dot in the top left corner indicating AM.
Right. A fucking M.
He sat himself up on the bed, feeling the goose-bumps rise as the air cooled the sweat on his back and chest and beneath his chin. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, feeling the weight of his bladder, momentarily contemplating the energy it would take to actually stand and walk to the bathroom. Christ, if only the dream would take the fatigue as well, maybe he and it could get along. But he doubted it.
He finally mustered the strength to stand.
Too fast.
The white curtains of dizziness fell over his eyes and the little white dots exploded in his brain.
Too fast.
Sit back down. Try again. Dammit! How hard can standing up be? He refused to give in and remained standing until the curtains were drawn and the white dots disappeared.
Ha. See, Dream? See how strong I am, you senseless, miserable subconscious concoction? I can still stand. I win.
He walked into the bathroom, flicking the light on instinctively, forgetting to prepare his eyes.
Damn that’s bright.
He covered his eyes with sweat-stained hands, slowly parting his fingers to allow his pupils to adjust to the light. Finally, he was able to walk in and relieve himself. He grumbled as he did so, thinking of the day ahead of him. He needed to fill up the car, and with gas prices and lines that should be a whole fucking barrel of laughs, then to work. No. Coffee first.
Maybe a bagel. Small gratification, but gratification nonetheless. Then work. A flood of papers and demands, all rushing at a slow, deliberated pace to five o’clock. Then the doctor—
He twitched with excitement. It was Wednesday! It was doctor day. He would go in and tell her all the things he could so as to stay longer. He would tell her of the dream and the waking up, and the darkness and the balloons and the knives and play the same old songs, all the while merely asking in long, roundabout ways for a way out. He did it every Wednesday, but it was all he had to look forward to in the whole world. She was something of a saint in his life. Dr. Alexandra Nuncer. With more counseling, he may be able to forgive her first name.
He was at the mirror, now, staring at the strained face. The dream was taking its toll. Mentally. Physically. What next? What other part of him would a series of blended subconscious images conquer?
Fuck it. Get yourself dressed.
* * *
“Hey, Manny. You look like crap”.
Thanks, Jack. Thanks. How’d you sleep, asshole?
But the words came out different.
“Yeah, didn’t sleep well last night.”
The short exchanges of what could be called greetings were the first human words he had heard. Save the meaningless hip-hop lyrics on the radio. He could have changed it. But it was a variety station. Where was the variety? He kept waiting to hear a guitar, but it never came. Always the synthesizer and the bass. Why didn’t he change the station? On some other list, Manny could not stand hip-hop, rap, whatever they were calling music these days.
He reached his cubicle, discernable from the others only by the bent plastic on the top edge. He never knew how it got bent, but never really cared.
He took off his jacket and sat down in his cheap swivel chair, and spun it around, stopping himself by grapping the edge of the desk on which a black-screened computer rested. A morning ritual. This time, he inadvertently grabbed hold of the keyboard as well, knocking it off the desk. It hung by the wire. He stared at it and compared it to his state of mind and came pretty close to a giggle. Then realized he forgot his coffee and bagel on the way to work.
Well, I’ll just have to go down to the lounge and get something there.
He couldn’t sit in his damn gray cubicle and do practically nothing all day on an empty stomach and decaffeinated heart-rate.
First, he thought, do something, or make it look like you are, then go down there. He picked up the keyboard, placed it on the desk, and turned on his monitor, welcoming the dull white light with a smile peppered with sarcasm.
Hello, computer. What nothing are to help me with today? I did a lot of nothing yesterday. How much nothing is left in you?
A stupid thought. Damn I need that coffee.
Then he typed in his username and password and set to what passed for work.
By the time he got down to the lounge, his head was splitting and his eyelids were heavy enough to require serious effort to keep lifted. He was met by Jack. Again.
“Hey, Manny. What is up? Busy day?”
Oh yeah, Manny. Always. Because there’s a whole lot of nothing and it all needs doing.
Again, the words came out differently.
“Yeah.”
Jack reached for the coffee pot and saw it was empty.
“Christ, whatever happened to ‘you kill it you fill it’?”
I don’t know, Jack, and I don’t care.
“So, you gonna make some or not, Jack?”
Jack shot him a sideways glance that recognized the hostility.
“Sounds like you need that sleep, Manny,” he said after a long moment as he hit the button labeled “brew”. He stood close by the machine and crossed his arms, like a child next to an oven full of cookies. The first one is mine.
Whatever, Jackie boy. Whatever.
They stood there, in silence. Neither of them spoke much at work, at all, but when they did, Jack got the impression that Manny was an uptight dick-wad, and Manny the impression that Jack was either a closeted homosexual or just annoying as hell.
After an awkwardly silent moment, Jack decided he was going to risk his first-for-fresh-coffee-spot in order to cut a bagel. Reaching into the drawer, Jack pulled out a kitchen knife. It had a black handle, and two silver steel circles set into it.
Manny caught sight of it.
Every part of him seemed to freeze.
His heart slowed, he could feel it.
His eyes met the unblinking glare of those two stainless steel circles. A heat that had centered in his gut soon replaced the freezing feeling. It happened every time. He kept staring at the knife even when Jack began to saw at the stale bagel. He followed them, his eyes like pendulums, swinging back and forth, propelled by loathing. The heat in his gut was getting hotter. It was as if water were boiling in his intestines and, any moment, he would began to whistle like a giant tea pot—
I’m a little tea pot short and stout, Life is killing me, let me out.
Huh. He giggled inside. He’d have to write that down.
The minor mental digression did little, however, to cool the anger he felt towards the knife— especially those two circles on the handle. The knife’s soul swam in those dull silver circles, just like the souls of a man are in his eyes.
Jack was done cutting his bagel. He set the knife down on the counter, the flickering light of the fluorescent bulb dancing on the blade. Manny forced himself to tear his eyes away. It was difficult, and, in the end, he had help from the coffee pot, which had announced its readiness with three steady beeps.
He plucked the pot from its place before Jack could reach it, poured himself a coffee, and then started to the bagel basket. Then, he saw the knife, resting inches away from the wicker basket. He turned sharply, and left the lounge.
Forget the bagels.
They’re stale anyway.
A few hours later, as Manny was cracking his knuckles simply for something to distract him from a moment more of nothingness, the sound of singing resounded throughout the room. It was not in unison, and he could barely make out the words.
“—Birthday to you, Happy Birthday— ”.
Manny stood to peer over the walls of his cubicle, thanking whatever god there wasn’t for the distraction.
Then he saw it.
He wondered how he could have been so stupid. A birthday at an office. Of course. Why wouldn’t there be…
Balloons?
He felt a frenzied pounding in his chest as the lights played on the elastic surfaces of the inflated horrors.
His breathing had become rapid, and he became aware he was sweating only when he felt it trickle through his sideburns. He couldn’t tear his gaze off of them. The singing and cheering died into a cacophonous hum in the back of his mind. His whole consciousness was devoted to hating the balloons.
And, in that moment, the memory came back. Sometimes he wondered if the memory was worse than the dream, or which one was which one’s parent.
It was his mother’s birthday.
“Darling, I’ll be running to the store now. Listen to Alex, he’s in charge,” came his mother’s call from the front door, temporarily drowning out Frank Sinatra’s love of New York as it poured out of the stereo.
“OK mommy!” He called back, but the door shutting was his only response.
He was in his room, playing with his knights and dragons, god of war, single valkerie sweeping over stained carpeting and stealing plastic souls.
Mommy’s gone, Alex is watching TV. The significance of these facts reached him with a gasp of excitement.
I can get away with anything.
Creeping downstairs and into the kitchen, Manny headed to the knife block. Pulling out the knives one by one, examining their silver blades, he searched for the longest one in the random assortment until his fingers closed on a black handle with two silver dots on it, staring back at him like eyes of a temptress.
Take me they seemed to say.
Take me, big boy.
He pulled the knife out of the block, his eyes following the 12 inch long blade.
Beautiful, he thought. Now I’m a knight! A real war-god!
With that thought, he swung the knife about like a sword, walking down the hallway, slaying the goblins and dragon-beasts in his path. He heard a soft rummaging in his mother’s bedroom. More accurately, it sounded like the breathing of a great monster. Slow, deep inhalations. He shifted towards the door, his free hand lifting to the handle. No. Tell Alex first. He ran down the hallway, knife at his side through his belt loop, then into the living room.
Alex wasn’t there. The TV was on. But Alex wasn’t there.
Panicky, he ran back to the door. He touched the door-handle lightly, for the sake of childhood wariness, then, breathing heavy, threw the door open, swinging the knife in the air.
Short, sharp sounds tore through his skull, mixed with a yell somewhere behind it.
Popping. It was popping.
The entire room was filled with balloons, nearly reaching the ceiling, anchored by bags of sand. He slashed through the air violently before he realized what he was doing. The balloon scraps were raining down on him like lifeless butterfly wings. He had never been so shocked or frightened in his seven years of living as he had been then. The rush of unexpected sounds, screams, poppings and slashings, leaving him without breath, but still cutting the strings out of fear-born adrenaline.
Then the knife found something else. Flesh.
His cousin Alex dropped the balloon he was about to inflate, falling to the floor bleeding from his side. Blood poured out onto the wood-floor and balloon scraps, the knife Manny held covered in the lukewarm red. Alex’s face was white with fear and pain, and Manny was crying uncontrollable.
Balloons.
Blood.
Screams.
That was the memory.
Yes. The dream was worse. Far worse. He wanted, after remembering, to run and do the same to those balloons, to take them and tear them with his bare hands, squeeze them like hearts until they stopped, until they popped. But instead, he let the boiling blood simmer in his veins and sat back down in his chair, the blood pounding in his ears so loud he had to be shaken by Jack.
“Hey,” he said, holding up a paper plate, “Want some cake?”
***
“So I ate the cake,” he said, sitting in a soft leather chair in a dimly lit room, eyes darting around the room, searching for something to focus on other than the doctor’s eyes. Having completed the story of the day, he waited, routinely, for her to remover her glasses and give him her feedback. It was usually words of encouragement and half-meant phrases about overcoming the past by conquering it.
Yeah. Right now I’m fighting a losing battle. Not much left in me for fighting back.
He never told her that, but always thought it behind bullshit smiles and nods that had no understanding or acceptance to back them. He just sat and accepted as she sat and listened, and neither really cared what the other had to say.
But this time it was different. She handed him a small, dull blue piece of paper with chicken-scratch on it.
“I want to start you on some meds. It will help you with the dreams.” She added as if that would erase the doubtful look on his face.
“You mean,” he said, “Like sleeping pills?”
She laughed. “Call it what you like,”
He glanced down at the paper, trying to make out the name of the medication. He couldn’t. Nor could he think of any questions she hadn’t answered, and let her know it when she asked.
“Well, see you next week, Manny.”
He said good-bye and left the office.
On the way home he had picked up the prescription. He looked at the typed name on the bottle. He still couldn’t read it. He put it back in the bag and set it on his counter, retiring to the living room, turned on the TV.
In twenty minutes, he was asleep, and the dream took him.
He was, again, walking through fields of balloons, as abundant as rows of corn, dense as the thick, blue haze that surrounded him, that he breathed in. (He hated balloons). He could see not a few feet through the balloons of varying heights and colors. Blues, reds, scarlets and greens and yellows and blacks and whites. He knew the colors, though he couldn’t see them clearly through the haze. Dreams are like that. He began walking, and before long he came to a post. Looking up, he saw the remnants of a scarecrow dangling from it, tossed slightly by the soft wind that had begun to send rustles through the balloons; torn by something terrible. He knew it, but didn’t know how. He knew there was a great beast somewhere in the field of balloons that had killed all the scarecrows. He could hear it breathing.
Slow, deep inhalations.
He kept walking, and found other posts, other scarecrows on them. Another sound had reached his ears. Frank Sinatra.
New York New York New York New York New (He hated Frank Sinatra. He hated that song). It was coming from his left. Following the soprano through the balloons, pushing against the wind that had now increased, pressing his shirt against his skin. But he had no shirt. He now realized he was naked, but didn’t care. Dreams are like that. He had walked so far he had reached the end of the balloon forest. What he found at the edge made him scream, as it had a million times before.
He awoke in another sweat. Looking at the clock on the mantle above the television, he saw it was 3:30 in the morning. He had been asleep for nearly seven hours. Silly how time moves slower in the dreaming. Silly. Looking at the window, he saw the darkness outside. Still dark.
Still dark like always.
(The tears didn’t make him do it, but he hadn’t cried since his mother told him not to tell daddy about their little secret or about how he could only learn what love was if he let mommy teach him—)
No. Never again. He ran to the kitchen, grabbing the bottle, blinded by tears of frustration. His past had made the fear. The fear had made the hate, the hate the dream. And the dream had conquered him. He was weak, and bereft of any fortitude that could serve him against his demons.
Balloons.
Blood.
Screams.
That was the memory that was the dream and neither was worse, and he just needed a way out. Just a full night’s sleep. Just one day when he could wake up to the sun.
That was why he had opened the pretty orange bottle full of pretty pink pills. He still didn’t know what they did, but didn’t care. They were pills. Pills help people. Live or die, they help people find a way out.
He threw back his head and the bottle simultaneously, the pills pouring into his throat, the bitter taste making him dizzy. Or was that the medicine? It didn’t matter. He was passed out on the floor, retching himself on the floor. But he had taken too much for his body to reject. He had made sure of that. He fell in a pool of his own vomit and shit and piss and fell asleep.
The dream-time leading up to the edge of the balloons, to the point that always awoke him seemed to be accelerated, in fast-forward, like watching a movie up to the part you haven’t seen.
Until he found what he always found, then time regained its normalcy. There, on a scarecrow post, was Alex. Crucified and hung by the flesh of his back by a hundred tiny fishing hooks that his daddy had carved out of the carp they had caught near the rocks up at the lake house. His eyes were clouded with blood and pus that fell from his forehead, where a thousand knives were protruding, arranged like a head-dress crown.
My Saviour, he thought. My saviour.
Protruding from his side was another kitchen knife. (He hated kitchen knives.). This one had a black handle, and two silver dots on it, staring back at him like eyes of a temptress.
Take me they seemed to say.
Take me, big boy.
You know you want it. You know you want to touch me. Just do it do it babyboy—
Shut up shutupshutup mommy I’m not your toy anymore.
He pulled the knife out from between the cartilage that kept his cousins ribcage together, his eyes following the 12 inch long blade as blood mixed with water and cake icing fell out in torrents.
Beautiful, he thought.
He swung the knife about like a sword, charging into the balloons, slashing them in his path, the popping sounds were multitudinous, filling his ears and the air until both seemed to be ready to pop as well. But he kept slashing at them.
At the strings.
At the colours.
At the haze.
Until there was nothing left. Every balloon was gone. He had reaped them all, like a farmer his crop. And now, there was nothing left. Nothing but him. And Alex, who had been drained of blood and dead long since. Deflated like his mommy’s breasts the last time she made him—
Nonononononono shut up mommy you just go away.
And he stabbed the ground hard and watched the blood and vitreous humour bubble out between his toes.
There was an earthquake and he saw the canyon walls come crashing closed.
A field of balloons balanced on my mother’s eyeball.
All it took
For me to die
Was a bottle of pills and for my mommy to blink.
I’ve done it, he thought. And, in those final, empty moments, whatever light there was faded until all was dark. Dark like always.
Manny Thate was dead. And whether it was pills or dreams, hates or prescriptions, didn’t matter. Nothing mattered as the scraps of tissue and flesh that had splattered on the ceiling fell down on what was left of Emmanuel “Manny” Thate like scraps of popped balloons.
He would be found with a knife clutched in his left hand—the only intact fleshy part of him. It would take the investigators over two and a half years and at least a pharmacy’s amount of suspended disbelief to admit that the mutilations were self-inflicted.
And outside, it was still dark. Still dark like always.
There were four things that Emmanuel “Manny” Thate hated. Frank Sinatra, kitchen knives, the kind with two silver dots on the black handle, his cousin Alex, and balloons. Not necessarily in that order, but namely among them balloons. And, granted that Manny Thate went without any of these things, he was an overall agreeable person. Maybe not the kind of man you would invite to a dinner party or ask to watch your kids for the weekend, but a pretty decent guy nonetheless.
However, having awoken again in a freezing sweat from a dream that forced him to face all four of said detestables, he was anything but an agreeable person. Anything but decent. He turned over in his sweat to face the window. The blinds were closed, but that didn’t stop the dark from creeping in.
Still dark.
Still dark like always. There hadn’t been a day in nearly two years—Jesus, had it been that long on the meds?—that he had opened his eyes on daylight. Always, the dream came, and stole sleep from him like a tax-collector, making him wonder what he owed to the Fates. Always when it was dark, in the times when the clock says AM but your mind knows its not morning until it can see sun. That very clock now drew his eyes with its soft green luminescence.
4:33. The little green dot in the top left corner indicating AM.
Right. A fucking M.
He sat himself up on the bed, feeling the goose-bumps rise as the air cooled the sweat on his back and chest and beneath his chin. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, feeling the weight of his bladder, momentarily contemplating the energy it would take to actually stand and walk to the bathroom. Christ, if only the dream would take the fatigue as well, maybe he and it could get along. But he doubted it.
He finally mustered the strength to stand.
Too fast.
The white curtains of dizziness fell over his eyes and the little white dots exploded in his brain.
Too fast.
Sit back down. Try again. Dammit! How hard can standing up be? He refused to give in and remained standing until the curtains were drawn and the white dots disappeared.
Ha. See, Dream? See how strong I am, you senseless, miserable subconscious concoction? I can still stand. I win.
He walked into the bathroom, flicking the light on instinctively, forgetting to prepare his eyes.
Damn that’s bright.
He covered his eyes with sweat-stained hands, slowly parting his fingers to allow his pupils to adjust to the light. Finally, he was able to walk in and relieve himself. He grumbled as he did so, thinking of the day ahead of him. He needed to fill up the car, and with gas prices and lines that should be a whole fucking barrel of laughs, then to work. No. Coffee first.
Maybe a bagel. Small gratification, but gratification nonetheless. Then work. A flood of papers and demands, all rushing at a slow, deliberated pace to five o’clock. Then the doctor—
He twitched with excitement. It was Wednesday! It was doctor day. He would go in and tell her all the things he could so as to stay longer. He would tell her of the dream and the waking up, and the darkness and the balloons and the knives and play the same old songs, all the while merely asking in long, roundabout ways for a way out. He did it every Wednesday, but it was all he had to look forward to in the whole world. She was something of a saint in his life. Dr. Alexandra Nuncer. With more counseling, he may be able to forgive her first name.
He was at the mirror, now, staring at the strained face. The dream was taking its toll. Mentally. Physically. What next? What other part of him would a series of blended subconscious images conquer?
Fuck it. Get yourself dressed.
* * *
“Hey, Manny. You look like crap”.
Thanks, Jack. Thanks. How’d you sleep, asshole?
But the words came out different.
“Yeah, didn’t sleep well last night.”
The short exchanges of what could be called greetings were the first human words he had heard. Save the meaningless hip-hop lyrics on the radio. He could have changed it. But it was a variety station. Where was the variety? He kept waiting to hear a guitar, but it never came. Always the synthesizer and the bass. Why didn’t he change the station? On some other list, Manny could not stand hip-hop, rap, whatever they were calling music these days.
He reached his cubicle, discernable from the others only by the bent plastic on the top edge. He never knew how it got bent, but never really cared.
He took off his jacket and sat down in his cheap swivel chair, and spun it around, stopping himself by grapping the edge of the desk on which a black-screened computer rested. A morning ritual. This time, he inadvertently grabbed hold of the keyboard as well, knocking it off the desk. It hung by the wire. He stared at it and compared it to his state of mind and came pretty close to a giggle. Then realized he forgot his coffee and bagel on the way to work.
Well, I’ll just have to go down to the lounge and get something there.
He couldn’t sit in his damn gray cubicle and do practically nothing all day on an empty stomach and decaffeinated heart-rate.
First, he thought, do something, or make it look like you are, then go down there. He picked up the keyboard, placed it on the desk, and turned on his monitor, welcoming the dull white light with a smile peppered with sarcasm.
Hello, computer. What nothing are to help me with today? I did a lot of nothing yesterday. How much nothing is left in you?
A stupid thought. Damn I need that coffee.
Then he typed in his username and password and set to what passed for work.
By the time he got down to the lounge, his head was splitting and his eyelids were heavy enough to require serious effort to keep lifted. He was met by Jack. Again.
“Hey, Manny. What is up? Busy day?”
Oh yeah, Manny. Always. Because there’s a whole lot of nothing and it all needs doing.
Again, the words came out differently.
“Yeah.”
Jack reached for the coffee pot and saw it was empty.
“Christ, whatever happened to ‘you kill it you fill it’?”
I don’t know, Jack, and I don’t care.
“So, you gonna make some or not, Jack?”
Jack shot him a sideways glance that recognized the hostility.
“Sounds like you need that sleep, Manny,” he said after a long moment as he hit the button labeled “brew”. He stood close by the machine and crossed his arms, like a child next to an oven full of cookies. The first one is mine.
Whatever, Jackie boy. Whatever.
They stood there, in silence. Neither of them spoke much at work, at all, but when they did, Jack got the impression that Manny was an uptight dick-wad, and Manny the impression that Jack was either a closeted homosexual or just annoying as hell.
After an awkwardly silent moment, Jack decided he was going to risk his first-for-fresh-coffee-spot in order to cut a bagel. Reaching into the drawer, Jack pulled out a kitchen knife. It had a black handle, and two silver steel circles set into it.
Manny caught sight of it.
Every part of him seemed to freeze.
His heart slowed, he could feel it.
His eyes met the unblinking glare of those two stainless steel circles. A heat that had centered in his gut soon replaced the freezing feeling. It happened every time. He kept staring at the knife even when Jack began to saw at the stale bagel. He followed them, his eyes like pendulums, swinging back and forth, propelled by loathing. The heat in his gut was getting hotter. It was as if water were boiling in his intestines and, any moment, he would began to whistle like a giant tea pot—
I’m a little tea pot short and stout, Life is killing me, let me out.
Huh. He giggled inside. He’d have to write that down.
The minor mental digression did little, however, to cool the anger he felt towards the knife— especially those two circles on the handle. The knife’s soul swam in those dull silver circles, just like the souls of a man are in his eyes.
Jack was done cutting his bagel. He set the knife down on the counter, the flickering light of the fluorescent bulb dancing on the blade. Manny forced himself to tear his eyes away. It was difficult, and, in the end, he had help from the coffee pot, which had announced its readiness with three steady beeps.
He plucked the pot from its place before Jack could reach it, poured himself a coffee, and then started to the bagel basket. Then, he saw the knife, resting inches away from the wicker basket. He turned sharply, and left the lounge.
Forget the bagels.
They’re stale anyway.
A few hours later, as Manny was cracking his knuckles simply for something to distract him from a moment more of nothingness, the sound of singing resounded throughout the room. It was not in unison, and he could barely make out the words.
“—Birthday to you, Happy Birthday— ”.
Manny stood to peer over the walls of his cubicle, thanking whatever god there wasn’t for the distraction.
Then he saw it.
He wondered how he could have been so stupid. A birthday at an office. Of course. Why wouldn’t there be…
Balloons?
He felt a frenzied pounding in his chest as the lights played on the elastic surfaces of the inflated horrors.
His breathing had become rapid, and he became aware he was sweating only when he felt it trickle through his sideburns. He couldn’t tear his gaze off of them. The singing and cheering died into a cacophonous hum in the back of his mind. His whole consciousness was devoted to hating the balloons.
And, in that moment, the memory came back. Sometimes he wondered if the memory was worse than the dream, or which one was which one’s parent.
It was his mother’s birthday.
“Darling, I’ll be running to the store now. Listen to Alex, he’s in charge,” came his mother’s call from the front door, temporarily drowning out Frank Sinatra’s love of New York as it poured out of the stereo.
“OK mommy!” He called back, but the door shutting was his only response.
He was in his room, playing with his knights and dragons, god of war, single valkerie sweeping over stained carpeting and stealing plastic souls.
Mommy’s gone, Alex is watching TV. The significance of these facts reached him with a gasp of excitement.
I can get away with anything.
Creeping downstairs and into the kitchen, Manny headed to the knife block. Pulling out the knives one by one, examining their silver blades, he searched for the longest one in the random assortment until his fingers closed on a black handle with two silver dots on it, staring back at him like eyes of a temptress.
Take me they seemed to say.
Take me, big boy.
He pulled the knife out of the block, his eyes following the 12 inch long blade.
Beautiful, he thought. Now I’m a knight! A real war-god!
With that thought, he swung the knife about like a sword, walking down the hallway, slaying the goblins and dragon-beasts in his path. He heard a soft rummaging in his mother’s bedroom. More accurately, it sounded like the breathing of a great monster. Slow, deep inhalations. He shifted towards the door, his free hand lifting to the handle. No. Tell Alex first. He ran down the hallway, knife at his side through his belt loop, then into the living room.
Alex wasn’t there. The TV was on. But Alex wasn’t there.
Panicky, he ran back to the door. He touched the door-handle lightly, for the sake of childhood wariness, then, breathing heavy, threw the door open, swinging the knife in the air.
Short, sharp sounds tore through his skull, mixed with a yell somewhere behind it.
Popping. It was popping.
The entire room was filled with balloons, nearly reaching the ceiling, anchored by bags of sand. He slashed through the air violently before he realized what he was doing. The balloon scraps were raining down on him like lifeless butterfly wings. He had never been so shocked or frightened in his seven years of living as he had been then. The rush of unexpected sounds, screams, poppings and slashings, leaving him without breath, but still cutting the strings out of fear-born adrenaline.
Then the knife found something else. Flesh.
His cousin Alex dropped the balloon he was about to inflate, falling to the floor bleeding from his side. Blood poured out onto the wood-floor and balloon scraps, the knife Manny held covered in the lukewarm red. Alex’s face was white with fear and pain, and Manny was crying uncontrollable.
Balloons.
Blood.
Screams.
That was the memory.
Yes. The dream was worse. Far worse. He wanted, after remembering, to run and do the same to those balloons, to take them and tear them with his bare hands, squeeze them like hearts until they stopped, until they popped. But instead, he let the boiling blood simmer in his veins and sat back down in his chair, the blood pounding in his ears so loud he had to be shaken by Jack.
“Hey,” he said, holding up a paper plate, “Want some cake?”
***
“So I ate the cake,” he said, sitting in a soft leather chair in a dimly lit room, eyes darting around the room, searching for something to focus on other than the doctor’s eyes. Having completed the story of the day, he waited, routinely, for her to remover her glasses and give him her feedback. It was usually words of encouragement and half-meant phrases about overcoming the past by conquering it.
Yeah. Right now I’m fighting a losing battle. Not much left in me for fighting back.
He never told her that, but always thought it behind bullshit smiles and nods that had no understanding or acceptance to back them. He just sat and accepted as she sat and listened, and neither really cared what the other had to say.
But this time it was different. She handed him a small, dull blue piece of paper with chicken-scratch on it.
“I want to start you on some meds. It will help you with the dreams.” She added as if that would erase the doubtful look on his face.
“You mean,” he said, “Like sleeping pills?”
She laughed. “Call it what you like,”
He glanced down at the paper, trying to make out the name of the medication. He couldn’t. Nor could he think of any questions she hadn’t answered, and let her know it when she asked.
“Well, see you next week, Manny.”
He said good-bye and left the office.
On the way home he had picked up the prescription. He looked at the typed name on the bottle. He still couldn’t read it. He put it back in the bag and set it on his counter, retiring to the living room, turned on the TV.
In twenty minutes, he was asleep, and the dream took him.
He was, again, walking through fields of balloons, as abundant as rows of corn, dense as the thick, blue haze that surrounded him, that he breathed in. (He hated balloons). He could see not a few feet through the balloons of varying heights and colors. Blues, reds, scarlets and greens and yellows and blacks and whites. He knew the colors, though he couldn’t see them clearly through the haze. Dreams are like that. He began walking, and before long he came to a post. Looking up, he saw the remnants of a scarecrow dangling from it, tossed slightly by the soft wind that had begun to send rustles through the balloons; torn by something terrible. He knew it, but didn’t know how. He knew there was a great beast somewhere in the field of balloons that had killed all the scarecrows. He could hear it breathing.
Slow, deep inhalations.
He kept walking, and found other posts, other scarecrows on them. Another sound had reached his ears. Frank Sinatra.
New York New York New York New York New (He hated Frank Sinatra. He hated that song). It was coming from his left. Following the soprano through the balloons, pushing against the wind that had now increased, pressing his shirt against his skin. But he had no shirt. He now realized he was naked, but didn’t care. Dreams are like that. He had walked so far he had reached the end of the balloon forest. What he found at the edge made him scream, as it had a million times before.
He awoke in another sweat. Looking at the clock on the mantle above the television, he saw it was 3:30 in the morning. He had been asleep for nearly seven hours. Silly how time moves slower in the dreaming. Silly. Looking at the window, he saw the darkness outside. Still dark.
Still dark like always.
(The tears didn’t make him do it, but he hadn’t cried since his mother told him not to tell daddy about their little secret or about how he could only learn what love was if he let mommy teach him—)
No. Never again. He ran to the kitchen, grabbing the bottle, blinded by tears of frustration. His past had made the fear. The fear had made the hate, the hate the dream. And the dream had conquered him. He was weak, and bereft of any fortitude that could serve him against his demons.
Balloons.
Blood.
Screams.
That was the memory that was the dream and neither was worse, and he just needed a way out. Just a full night’s sleep. Just one day when he could wake up to the sun.
That was why he had opened the pretty orange bottle full of pretty pink pills. He still didn’t know what they did, but didn’t care. They were pills. Pills help people. Live or die, they help people find a way out.
He threw back his head and the bottle simultaneously, the pills pouring into his throat, the bitter taste making him dizzy. Or was that the medicine? It didn’t matter. He was passed out on the floor, retching himself on the floor. But he had taken too much for his body to reject. He had made sure of that. He fell in a pool of his own vomit and shit and piss and fell asleep.
The dream-time leading up to the edge of the balloons, to the point that always awoke him seemed to be accelerated, in fast-forward, like watching a movie up to the part you haven’t seen.
Until he found what he always found, then time regained its normalcy. There, on a scarecrow post, was Alex. Crucified and hung by the flesh of his back by a hundred tiny fishing hooks that his daddy had carved out of the carp they had caught near the rocks up at the lake house. His eyes were clouded with blood and pus that fell from his forehead, where a thousand knives were protruding, arranged like a head-dress crown.
My Saviour, he thought. My saviour.
Protruding from his side was another kitchen knife. (He hated kitchen knives.). This one had a black handle, and two silver dots on it, staring back at him like eyes of a temptress.
Take me they seemed to say.
Take me, big boy.
You know you want it. You know you want to touch me. Just do it do it babyboy—
Shut up shutupshutup mommy I’m not your toy anymore.
He pulled the knife out from between the cartilage that kept his cousins ribcage together, his eyes following the 12 inch long blade as blood mixed with water and cake icing fell out in torrents.
Beautiful, he thought.
He swung the knife about like a sword, charging into the balloons, slashing them in his path, the popping sounds were multitudinous, filling his ears and the air until both seemed to be ready to pop as well. But he kept slashing at them.
At the strings.
At the colours.
At the haze.
Until there was nothing left. Every balloon was gone. He had reaped them all, like a farmer his crop. And now, there was nothing left. Nothing but him. And Alex, who had been drained of blood and dead long since. Deflated like his mommy’s breasts the last time she made him—
Nonononononono shut up mommy you just go away.
And he stabbed the ground hard and watched the blood and vitreous humour bubble out between his toes.
There was an earthquake and he saw the canyon walls come crashing closed.
A field of balloons balanced on my mother’s eyeball.
All it took
For me to die
Was a bottle of pills and for my mommy to blink.
I’ve done it, he thought. And, in those final, empty moments, whatever light there was faded until all was dark. Dark like always.
Manny Thate was dead. And whether it was pills or dreams, hates or prescriptions, didn’t matter. Nothing mattered as the scraps of tissue and flesh that had splattered on the ceiling fell down on what was left of Emmanuel “Manny” Thate like scraps of popped balloons.
He would be found with a knife clutched in his left hand—the only intact fleshy part of him. It would take the investigators over two and a half years and at least a pharmacy’s amount of suspended disbelief to admit that the mutilations were self-inflicted.
And outside, it was still dark. Still dark like always.
