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Pizza Time

By: Horatio_Scot



Chapter One

 - Paths - 

The wind gusted strongly through the small town. Fat flakes of snow fell, whipped into a frosty froth by the powerfully gusting wind, from slate gray skies gradually turning black at the unhurried approach of evening. 

I like snow, I always have. I could dimly remember cheerful childhood memories of running around through knee-deep snow, gazing in childish awe as a colorful world slowly changed into a rainbow of delicate shades of gray liberally sprinkled with think blankets of stark white snow. Childhood delight aside, as I looked out the large bay window facing the street, I realized that as much as I may like it, I still have to walk home through it. I smiled vaguely at the few brave souls out running from shop to shop, bundled tightly against the chilling wind and the thickly falling snow. 

The weatherman had predicted a light dusting of snow this morning, and unsurprisingly, he had changed his mind and was extorting people to stay inside and stay warm as the winter storm lashed the countryside. A meter of snow, an amazing new record, had fallen in the outlying towns in the past hour, and the snow was coming down thicker with every passing hour. There has been no mention of the dreaded "B" word, but even a blizzard un-named is still a blizzard.

I looked upwards, pressing my palm against the cold glass, trying to recapture some, any wonder from my childhood as I studied the dull lumpy clouds lying over the sky like a wet blanket. Nothing. My palm was growing cold from the glass, and I worried about the walk home. I guess the child within is an adult now. Not that I had much of a childhood to begin with... 

"Darren! Can't we just close up and go home? No one's ordered for an hour and a half!" I whined plaintively. I yelped and stuck my suddenly freezing hand under my arm to warm as a sudden gust of wind threw a near opaque sheet of near solid snow against the window. "And it looks like a zombie movie out there!" I said as the gust stopped, revealing two colorfully dressed people, enshrouded tightly in thick layers of cheerfully colored parkas, sweaters, and scarves, briskly trundling past the window, holding an animated conversation; as the two glanced in my direction as they passed, and I heroically suppressed the temptation to stick my tongue out at them.

While their clothing certainly veiled them from the cold, it also concealed their face from my gaze. Unbidden, my mind conjured up images in the swirling whiteness, images of the manikins from the Gap coming to life and parading in front of the store, mocking my lack of thick designer clothing in my wardrobe. They may mock me because of my clothing, I thought sourly, mentally gave them a rude salute, but I still have a kick-ass computer; and it runs even better when it's cold. I tell myself this often when I shiver at night, when my small apartment is freezing, and when my blankets are fighting a losing battle against the arctic temperatures. I hold the thought out like an ancient idol to distract me from the truth; I simply cannot afford the heating bill. Well, I could, and then I'd have to take a radical diet of no food intake, but that's too depressing to think of.

Darren sat, perched like a vulture on one of the stools in front of the phone bank, his eyes locked on the phones with intense attentiveness, as he had been since the last call, silent, unmoving, unblinking. He was probably trying to use the power of his mind to get someone, anyone, to call and order. Not that he was telepathic, or not that I knew of. 

My eyes crossed as the thought of Darren with telepathy ricocheted around in my mind. It did not bring either warmth or joy to my heart, I decided. Darren with telepathy was like giving the television remote control to a hyperactive kid. Unless you like looking into a strobe light, it's not a good idea. I tapped the synthetic, fireproof faux-wood table with a knuckle, which brought him out of his absorbed contemplation with a start, exhaling noisily. "Sean, it's bound to pick up. Once all the other places close, then we'll get all the business. Simple, no?"

I turned away from the fast frosting window. I didn't want to go home, really. Papa Mezito's Pizza & Tacos was well heated from the oven and well lit from the heating lamps. Both of which, my apartment was not. Plus, there were people here to talk to; people here I wanted to talk to. Another thing my apartment didn't have. I tapped the glass pensively, trying to draw his attention away from the phone bank and towards what was happening outside the heated burrow of the store. "Darren, they're probably closed for a reason, ya think?"

Darren smiled briefly, not looking at me. His gaze was firmly on the phones, and I doubted a small matter like a mere blizzard would ever wrest his eyes away from them. At least, I thought he smiled. It was difficult to tell through his thick, old world mustache. Often, I would idly wonder if there was an alternate universe in his mustache, safe from my world, living among his hair follicle trees. Then I would wonder if they liked pizza; or tacos, for that matter. My mind, when bored, often ran in fixated circles. 

Darren wiped the beads of sweat off his brow with a smooth flick of his wrist, and said, chuckling heartily, "Of course they are! They don't see opportunity in as many places as I do. Now come away from the window and help me clean, okay?"

I sighed. My legs ached from standing on them too long, my feet ached from too many times spent outside maintaining balance on snowy ground, treacherous at best for my Nike sneakers as I tried futilely to clean the sidewalk outside of snow every thirty minutes before Darren finally (mercifully) gave up on the idea. Darren is a nice guy, but he can bit anal at times, like right now; what he actually means by "help me clean" is "you're bothering me, and you need busy work, however pointless it may seem to you". 

My wet shoes squeaked quietly as I walked into the back and started washing dishes like a man possessed. I have to admit, Nike makes a good sneaker, and the tread is great for a basketball court, but in my experience, the treads clog with wet snow very quickly, turning them into fantastically frictionless shoes. I guess that wouldn't be so bad -- if I could skate, or had any kind coordination at all. The idea of falling on freezing concrete, and perhaps breaking something, was not something I was entirely too eager to experience.

Time passed. At this point, I no longer bothered to keep track, I only focused on the job at hand until it was done. I am highly regarded for my cleaning skills, if that meant anything, and Josh, who works days, said that was a sure sign of a psychological disorder. Unfortunately, he didn't know which one; he hadn't gotten that far in his class at The University, some twenty minutes away by car -- through a howling snowstorm now. This was the same Josh whom called in earlier today, leaving me the sole other worker on this shift.

As much as I would grumble (and I do) about everyone dropping the ball and calling in, leaving me to pick up all of the slack, their claim of being snowed in, however much it was an outrageous falsehood, did contain a kernel of truth within it. Fortunately, I had it easier. My commute to work was a brisk fifteen-minute walk, which saved me a fortune in gas, as well as simple wear and tear on the car that was increasingly surviving on my reverent hopes, prayers, dreams, and liberal amounts of Wal-Mart brand duct tape. Correction, I thought as I glanced outside, fifteen minutes of walking on a nice day. I'd probably take thirty minutes to walk home now, if I was lucky. 

I remember when I was the new guy, now I'm the oldest crewmember. How did that happen? Doubtless when I wasn't looking I'm sure, I mused somberly.

"Sean! I'm going out on a run!" Darren yelled back to me as he shrugged on his L.L. Bean parka, shaking me out of my reverie. Wow, I had cleaned just about every flat surface in the store to damn near a mirror shine. I glanced at my watch as I logged Darren's run almost purely by reflex; two hours had passed in a twinkle.

My eyes flicked over the lobby, checking the empty tables for the customers by ingrained habit as the door slammed shut behind Darren, who looked for all the world like a walrus in a parka, mercifully cutting off the gust of bitter wind across the room, only partially rebuffed by the ovens and the heater lamps. I shivered slightly as the wind raised goose bumps on my arms and neck, virtually the only parts of my body not covered in the uniform. I wondered, as I rubbed my arms, if I could bum a ride from Darren as the walk back to the apartment loomed ever closer. The more I thought about it, the more I didn't like it at all. I would owe Darren, and Darren would invariably collect, sooner rather than later. The hike back was going to really suck super hard, there was no two--. 

A delicate cough shattered my brooding reverie as a soft soprano politely asked, "Ah, excuse me?"

Startled, I had fully turned around before the last syllable escaped her lips. Her perfect lips, her absolutely, perfectly shaped lips, and the rest of her was just as perfect as her lips, even down to her perfectly ruddy cheeks. She stood around five feet, three inches, and the little figure that I could see from under her thick sweater was divine. She looked like a goddess, pure and simple. Or at least, that's what my hormones were telling me, pure and simple. Down boy, follow the logic: customer brings money, money that lines my pocket -- eventually. I'll make a date with my hand later, okay? I thought caustically as I said aloud, "Hello, how may I help you?"

"Do you have an order for 'Kat', perchance?"

Her voice fell like raindrops onto the parched desert of my ears. Instead of the usual slow twang of Midwestern American English, her speech was a refined British accent with hints of an upper class education. She was a goddess, and she had a British accent too? Is this too good to be true?! Are you dating? Do you have a sister?!? Outwardly calm, with a calculated amount of boredom, I checked the computer log. One order had been logged a little bit ago, and the food was in the oven, about half way through. "It'll be a few minutes, madam." I said professionally, trying not to stare. Or drool.

"That is not a problem. I shall wait here." She said, tapping her wet, snow flecked umbrella on the tile flooring to emphasize. I nodded, and began pulling boxes to fill with the scalding hot foodstuffs that would be done in a few minutes. 

"Nice night, isn't it?" She said looking out the frosted window, and absently drumming her perfect fingers with their perfect glossy nails on the countertop.

"I'm sorry, madam?" I said, as I finished pulling the boxes and glanced outside. It was getting worse. The exterior floodlights, which pointed at the sidewalk, were making it look more precarious as the last dregs of sunlight gradually died outside. With the unfathomable darkness shrouded by a swirling cloak of snow, the night seemed a little more sinister, perhaps even ill-omened, than while the last of twilight was falling, just a scant handful of minutes ago.

If I was in a horror/monster movie, the ominous, low-key music would start playing right about now, and in a minute, some horrible thing would jump though the window, and go for me. The girl, of course, would be screaming ineffectually, and I'd get eaten in three small bites. Then it'd carry her off to do horrible things to her, but the square jawed hero, in the -- ta-daa -- nick of time, would rescue her. I know I'm not the hero. I certainly don't have a square jaw, but I don't have a weak chin, I think. Fat chance of that happening in any case; I'd like to think that the average monster would be at home sipping hot cocoa by a warm fire, plotting to take over the world when it warmed up a bit more, or at least stopped snowing enough to drown the world in frozen water.

She smiled, breaking my concentration, as she said, "I said, nice night, isn't it?"

"Umm, I'm not certain that that would be my first thought," I said dryly, "but I guess if you look at it from a certain way, then yes, it is a wonderful night."

Her perfect eyes crinkled perfectly around their perfect corners. "A certain way?"

"When I was young--ger. Younger. When I was younger, I always loved the first snow. I loved the way the world slowly changed into shades of gray, while a blanket of pure white delicately laid over everything. What once was a lush forest of greens and browns becomes a frozen skeletal jungle of browns, grays, and white. I thought it was pretty, at least."

"Because of the way it was monochrome?"

"I guess so." I chuckled slightly at myself, "I guess I'm kind of odd at times."

"Well, I would hope so, there is one of you, correct?"

It took me a startled second to decipher what she said. I know I'm not stupid, but I was so unused to humor on that level for so long that my head whipped around, and I stared at her for one long second, my head canted at an angle as I furiously deciphered the message.

Her eyes fell as I looked at her. "I'm sorry, I did not mean any offense."

"No. No! I'm sorry, I'm just not used to such humor. It's been forever since I heard things like that."

"But what of your co-workers?"

A slight smile crept across my lips. "I would not exactly call that 'stimulating conversation'. While amusing, at times, I would not put it in the same region, let alone the same category, as that joke."

She laughed politely behind a gloved hand. Her laugh sounded like the ringing of delicate silver bells. My hormones, if made flesh, would have done something by now, that I am sure of. What it would do, I was too afraid to contemplate.

"But you go to The University, correct?"

"Eh?"

She gestured gracefully behind me. "The calculus book over on the wall over there."

"Wha-? Oh! No, nononono. Please do not be mistaken; I'm self-studying that. The University is so expensive, and my grades aren't good enough to get a scholarship."

"Ah, that sounds very much like a Catch-22 if I ever heard one."

"Indeed." I said, saying my universal non-committal grunt. The University was a sore spot if there ever was one. I'd like to think I was learning a lot from the books, but I knew I needed the other side I wasn't getting, namely, the lecture. A sore spot, a wound that refused to heal, but instead festers slowly, away from prying eyes of everyone, except my own.

She was staring at me, her gazed fixed somewhere between my eyes. She was waiting patiently for something.

Blinking, I asked politely, "I'm sorry, what?"

She smiled warmly, "My name is Ekataren, what is yours?"

"Mine? Um, Sean."

"Well, um, Sean, then why does your name tag say 'Listerine'?"

I looked down, and sure enough, my nametag had changed from a simple 'Sean' to 'Listerine'. Darren. Darren must have done it. Fruity bastard, I thought warmly.

"Umm, well, it's not quite that that way. F'shure." Hoo boy, how embarrassing. I stammered a bit, my cheeks warming slightly. Quick, Sean, think of something! "It's my nickname here. I get things so clean it's like they were soaked in--"

"Listerine?" she said dryly, "How very poetic."

I smiled weakly, "It's something I came up with, after being saddled with the name. Couldn't convince them to drop it, might as well wear it as a badge of honor, of sorts." Good fast thinking Sean, it's not like you sounded like a total drooling idiot. 

"Sound thinking, it seems."

My smile quirked a little, "Well, I'm not completely broken -- I think."

"Indeed?" She said, imitating my inflection nearly perfectly.

"Indeed." I glanced back at the oven, and my heart fell a little. Her order was done. Damn. With swift, practiced movements, I slid everything into their respective boxes, and put them on the counter. She had already paid for it, so she grabbed the bulky packages, and smiling, she thanked me, gave a dazzling smile, and walked out the store.

When the door clicked shut, the wind seemed a little colder, and the room seemed a little less cheerful when she left. Ah well--dammit! I could have gotten her address from the order. No, that would be waaay to freaky. I could show up one night, smelling, no reeking of pizzas and tacos, and I could just imagine the conversation:

Me: hey, I saw your address on the pizza order, and I just wanted to get to know you better. 

Her: Eeek! Stalker! Pervert! Butch, kill!

Me: Is that a Doberman? 

Me: (runs, gets tackled by the dog) 

Me: (screams) 

Dog: (bites my head off)

Newspaper headline: Stalker pervert pizza boy was killed by rabid Doberman; Doberman to receive medal for role in attack. Pizza boy to be turned into dog food for heroic dog.

It could happen. It probably would happen. Besides, logically, I'm only attracted to her because she is female, and of a suitable age, and displays no obvious genetic flaws. No flaws at all. Not one. Perfection thou art thee. If I could just sit and listen to her voice, I would roll over and purr, if I didn't drool all over myself, giggling idiotically. I shook myself mentally; this is not productive, Sean, logically, she would be involved with someone. Unattached females are so rare around her as to be a fanciful myth, as you well know. Damn university students poaching the local pool, I groused. 

Sighing, I wiped the counter down, for lack of anything else to do. A few minutes later, Darren trundled through the door, and slammed it close behind him in one fluid move. A small blizzard of flakes shot through while it was open, dancing wildly on the wind before the door slammed shut. 

The flakes settled gently to the floor as Darren stamped his feet and shouted, "Sean, muck this! We're closed! Go home and keep warm!"

"Woot." I said, forcing joviality into my voice. Just glancing outside, I knew the walk would be a forty-minute long, freezing forced march through a bitterly arctic hell. Well, stuff like this supposedly builds character; that is, if nothing falls off. Well, I reflected sardonically, hopefully nothing that I use anyway.

Closing the store took the better part of an hour, and not a single call. Darren looked worriedly at the phone for a time before he gave up and helped me finish the last part. With everything shut off, and a few lights left on, the warm, cheery atmosphere of the store somehow slipped into the night, stolen by the snow. Perhaps, more correctly, it slipped into the night to sleep. Sheltered by snow and darkness, it would doze contentedly, and await the coming of the morning.

I waved goodbye to Darren as he drove off in his big four-wheel drive, metallic blue Land Rover. The big SUV skidded only slightly as it picked its way out of the parking lot and onto the deserted main road, it's motor burbling cheerily as a muffled Beach Boys song slipped across the hushed expanse of snow-swathed asphalt and the partially hidden gaunt skeletons of sleeping trees as he vanished into the silently falling snow. I remembered the song dimly from my childhood, and standing in the dim shadow of the store, I almost wished I were at Kokomo; it seemed like a much warmer place than here, at least. Bundling my Wal-Mart special sweaters closer to my body, and slipping my chilled hands into my pockets, I carefully walked the opposite direction, leery of shiny patches on the sidewalk. 

Diamond bright halogen floodlights lit the street for the short distance that I had to walk along it, before my course veered deeper into a few poorly lit neighborhoods that I had to cross to reach my apartment building. The narrow beam of the small, red lensed mag-light I habitually kept in my pocket, turned the virginal white snow sanguine to my night adjusted eyes as my footsteps made a soft crunch as each foot sank ankle deep into the lightly packed snow. I kept an even, wary pace, carefully keeping my head up, and looking around, while simultaneously looking at the ground and planning where to put my next step. During my walk, I could feel my ears, nose, feet, and hands go numb, followed by parts of my arms, and legs. Since there was nothing I could do about it right now, I tried to ignore it hoping feverently that frostbite took longer to blacken my fingers and toes than a half hour long trek thought wet snow. I wouldn't know. I've never lost any body part, ever. Except my wisdom teeth, but I do know where they went, so they're technically not lost.


Pizza Time



Teeth chattering, I passed a small house warmly radiating good cheer, and brilliantly lit by what seemed like several miles of Christmas lights. Ah, yes. Christmas. It was only a few hours away. The atmosphere seemed inviting with the softly glowing plastic Santa, and a handful of plastic reindeer swathed with an ever-thickening coat of snow. I slowed as I walked just outside their Christmas tree light studded picket fence, and breathed in the aroma of good cheer, and a happy family. They were cooking pecan and pumpkin pies in there somewhere, and I could dimly hear the soft rumble of an apparent party which might have started recently from the number of expensive cars parked haphazardly out in front of the house, and scattered a ways up and down the street. Some of the cars must have arrived very recently, judging from the thin glaze of snow on the hoods of some of the cars. With a bark of laughter, the front door popped open, and two children ran out into the snow squealing in delight. I decided to hurry on, in case anyone might come out to check on them, and think I'm some sort of child molester.

The walk took longer than I thought, taking me nearly an hour to slog through the snow and slush before I fetched up at my door, breathing hard, and fumbling for the keys with numb fingers gone stiff from the cold. I slid the key home, and using both hands, turned it the full rotation necessary to unlock the bolt. Sounding like a muffled gunshot, the bolt snapped back, and I stumbled into my darkened apartment.

Fumbling around, I stripped nearly naked right there in the entryway after locking the door. I gathered the clothes up in a bundle, and made my way across the apartment with only my fuzzy memory to guide my path. I barked my shins only twice. Slipping the bathroom door open, decided to forgo with the light, and dropped the wet clothes on the tile floor, then turned and carefully tip toed my way directly to the bathtub. Spinning the knob of the hot water with both hands, I drew myself a bath in the freezing darkness of my apartment.

Slipping my the last of my clothing off, and tossing it in the direction I thought was the clothes hamper, or my room, whichever came first, I sank into the water and clenched my teeth. This was not the first time I had been so cold for so long, I knew what was to come next would hurt a lot, ostensibly for a long time. I was not to be disappointed. I sat in the cramped tub, my breath hissing though my teeth, as my body throbbed in time with my heart. A wave of pain crested over me slowly as I lay there. Each of the following, smaller waves threatened to drag me under, as time seemed to trickle by in a crippled rhythm to the stuttering beat of my heart. After a small eternity passed, I stood slowly as tepid water sluiced off my body in dripping sheets. I decided I might as well get a bath since I was already wet. A short time later, I grabbed a towel that didn't smell very moldy, and dried myself off carefully. 

After I pulled the plug, the tub croaked a mournful gurgle as the dirty, sudsy water fell down the drain in modest measures as I pushed the door open with a blind hand. Picking my way across the hall, I stepped lightly into my room until my foot buried itself in a pile of clothing. Swiping something off the top, I gave it a quick sniff to confirm which pile it was. It smelled like the clean clothes. Hopefully, this wasn't something clean that wandered into the dirty pile by mistake. By feel, I found a clean sweater, some sweat pants, a pair of warm socks, underwear, and a shirt. The front felt stiff, so it must be one of my printed ones, whichever one it was, I did not care. Hopping with alacrity into my clothing as the cold air prodded in sensitive places, I made my way into the living room, and toed on my computer, then as the machine chirped and squeaked, I walked into the miniscule kitchen to find the fridge.

The monitor came on slowly, bathing the room in an eerie ethereal light. The cheap speakers chirped tinnily at the same time I found the fridge. I opened the fridge, half expecting it to be warmer than the air outside. I was only a little disappointed when it seemed colder. I pulled out a jug of apple cider, and by fridge light, located a clean mason jar to pour it into.

I nudged the door shut with my foot absently as I turned and walked back to the ghostly-lit living room sipping my ice-cold apple cider. My one indulgence, besides the cider, is my Internet connection. I don't have a telephone, per se, and I don't have a TV, but I do have decently fast access times to the Internet. My instant messenger came up with a toot, as did IRC. A few handfuls of messages popped up, tiling over each other, and I dutifully answered each one. I checked my e-mail with a soft sigh, as an mp3 stretched the speakers to the edge of their narrow limits. 

A few messages, all from my family, almost all of them the same form letter I had been getting every Christmas for the past five years. I stopped responding to them two years ago, when I gave up. Perhaps, they did love me, in their own crazy way. But I was not willing to accept their feelings on their terms, and they were unwilling to accept my terms either. An impasse, no matter how you look at it. I trashed the letters after skimming through them to see if they actually had any content worth reading. Unsurprisingly, they didn't. I heaved a heavy sigh as I thought sadly, oh well…

A certain analytical part of me figured they'd be dead and buried in a few years anyway, and then my problem would solve itself. I ran my atomic clock program, and reset my computer's clock back by a few minutes. Opening the clock properties, I watched the second hand sweep around the face of the clock until all three arms met at twelve.

"Merry Christmas, Sean." I said to my darkened apartment, half expecting an answer from the bare walls or the three pieces of furniture in the otherwise bare apartment; my scrounged bed, the scrounged shallow table the monitor sat on, or the scrounged beanbag I slouched sullenly on. 

With no talking furniture to disturb me, I finished swotting up on a few financial housekeeping chores and plugged a few pages in my personal journal before I shut the computer down and stumbled off to bed.

Merry Christmas.

Indeed.

Chapter Two

- Beginnings -

The alarm clock buzzed with a teeth-grinding wail, fit to wake the dead. Which is why I bought it. It would even wake me up. With a snort, I exploded into action, slapping the alarm clock off, jumping to my feet, yanking my shirt off and slipping on the uniform shirt while pulling on my ratty sneakers. With a final tug to straighten the uniform, and a last slap on the shoes to tighten the laces, I placed my palm against the door, and stood, confused, as I read my hastily scrawled, almost illegible schedule taped neatly to the door at eye level. I didn't have to go into work today? I stood warily, groggily reading the schedule again, with my hand on the doorknob, rubbing my eyes with the other hand as I tried to blearily remember what day today was, and/or why I wasn't supposed to go to work. 

I swear I have an abacus for a brain. Most people have expensive digital calculators, and some even have those graphing calculators deep in their skulls, but me? I have no problem doing math, err... sort of, but trying to remember anything else? Problematical, at best. My brain felt like the squirrel cage powering my thoughts needed oiling; it squeaked too loudly. Oh yeah. I have a day off this week. Christmas. Right. It felt naughty to have a day off, like I was supposed to be doing something, and wasn't, and I certainly couldn't recall the last day I had off. 

It had to be at least several months ago, I thought distractedly as I ran a hand through my hair and yawned, double-checking the lock out of habit, before I stumbled leisurely to my computer, toeing it on by the watery light weakly shining through the gaps in the closed blinds. With a grimace, I left my tinny speakers off to spare me from its startup chirps, clicks, and bleats of low decibel, high frequency noise. 

As I settled into my seat, my thoughts ran in a familiar, and well-worn rut. I should get a cat or something like that, I thought idly, something to share my existence with, y'know? While on the other hand, I do have my computer -- my seven hundred dollar, one hundred pound memo keeper, among a few handy other things. While being a virtual Swiss Army Knife of things to me, I can't really pet the computer. Well, I can, and then I'd think I'd need to get some serious help. And it's not like I'm lonely, really. I talk to plenty of people on-line, and at work. But to find something to share my existence, something to care for, and something to make me feel less... ephemeral was rather attractive idea right now. 

But I'm not lonely, I snorted in derisive amusement, and brought up my instant messaging service, followed a split second later by my IRC interface. A few messages popped up, then a dozen more filled the screen as a half dozen of my on-line friends noticed me and struck up a conversation all at once. Amid my replies typed at a frenzied pace, I checked my e-mail inbox, fully expecting it to be empty. I was surprised by a lone, single, email from some address I didn't remember seeing before. My curiosity piqued, I idly wondered who it was since my private e-mail address, while not exactly a secret, was not something that I talked about very much. Certainly, I had a public e-mail address to sign up for things on-line, but I only cleaned the box every few weeks or so to keep address active and to conserve the meager amount of space that fills up with junk mail at such a dismally brisk speed, it seems almost uncanny. I hesitated for a minute, torn evenly between reading it, and trashing it out of spite. There was no subject header, so it probably was junk mail, but it was in my private e-mail address, which means it has to be someone I know, or someone who knows someone I know. Shrugging my shoulders, I opened it with a stab from my light pen.

The message text was...odd. The writing style didn't coincide with anyone that I knew that knew my address, and to add to my exasperation, the message was also scandalously short and dismally vague on top of that. For a moment, I toyed with the idea of trashing it and dismissing it as a prank, but something within it caught my eye. More precisely, it wasn't what the message said on paper that caught my attention, but rather, what it didn't say. I could almost palpably feel something amiss as I read it. I love mysteries. I love reading a well-written mystery, and I love picking apart real life mysteries. This was the closest thing to entertainment I had scheduled for today, other than seeing if icicles would grow from the dripping water faucet in the kitchenette. Kitchenette, such a long word for such a miniscule area. I stretched, trying to keep the blood flowing to my feet. Stomach grumbling, I sighed as I stood, and shuffled to the kitchen to feed it cold water. With any luck, I'd fool it into thinking it was full of something. Other than water, I mean.

Wiping my mouth with the back of hand, I frowned at the thin beams of runny sunlight on the stain-camouflaging brown carpet. Did I just spend hours talking on line? It didn't feel like it... I glanced at the computer clock, and shook my head. Sean, I chided myself gently, you're losing track of time. Again. Isn't that the first step to getting old? No, I thought that was balding. Well, the gut would be the first step, I think, but I hardly eat enough as is. 

I chortled and imagined myself at a classy restraint speaking to a finely dressed waiter, and surrounded by expensively dressed men in women in the best of formal wear. I could hear him say, as I leaned against my freezing living room wall, "Sir, which flavor of ramen do you want? I hear the shrimp is good this time of year." Of course, I'd hum and cluck my tongue at the small selection of foods, then agree to the shrimp ramen, with the white wine. My order would arrive in a silver bow, I decided suddenly, with a platinum fork, and I would feast on the shrimp flavored ramen, and in a crystal goblet, with a gold ring around the rim, and it would be the best water -- I mean white wine -- that I've ever tasted. 

Shaking my head warmly as I reemerged into reality, I jumped at the quiet knock at my door. My heart racing, I sprinted into the bedroom, and dove into the clean clothes pile in one fluid move. I scrambled for a second before my hands came to rest on the one gift from my family I haven't sold or thrown in the dumpster. My Uncle Barry's gift to me -- my own Glock. I slipped the magazine into the butt of the pistol, and then thumped it to make certain it was seated correctly. With deft fingers, I ratcheted the slide back as I sprinted to the door. The slide rammed home with a sharp metal on metal clack before I thumbed off the safety. 

Breathing hard, I withdrew the bolt on the door silently, and stepped away. I had heard of a rash of violent robberies at about this time last year in the neighborhood happening with the same start: A soft knock, then once the door was opened, the intruder would shoot the person that answered that door, then steal anything that wasn't nailed down before the police arrived. When Uncle Barry had heard of this, he showed up one night on my doorstep with a gun, and a plan. He gave me one of his custom Glocks, and over the next two weeks, taught everything I needed to know about how to use it. 

I trust Uncle Barry; he's one of the few of my family that I trust, and it doesn't hurt that he was an ex- Navy SEAL. As I backed away from the door, and stood the way Uncle Barry taught me, I kept on thinking that never in my entire life would I ever think I would ever use his dubious 'gift'. I also kept on telling myself that I didn't have anything to hide behind, but I trusted my reflexes honed from thousands of hours playing hundreds of games.

I shouted, "It's open!" as I sighted a little right of center on the closed door, saving myself the split second it would take to shift my aim when the door was opening. The doorknob rattled for a second before the door sighed open, letting the wind into the apartment. Ignoring the rapidly rising goose bumps on my neck from the wind, my finger pulled the slack out of the trigger when a slim hand grasped the edge and pushed against the rarely greased hinges of the door. Time seemed to crawl by to my fear heightened senses as the door squeaked open. The door opened fully, and I automatically centered the brilliantly gleaming emerald sights precisely one and one half inch above the bridge of my sisters' small, wind-chapped nose. Her eyes met mine for a frozen moment, before she closed her eyes, shrieked, and dropped to the ground next to a small suitcase, her hands reflexively covering her head. 

After a hazy second, I realized that it wasn't a robbery; it was a genial visit by my sister. And then I wanted to use the gun on myself, instead, and spare myself the visit. Instead, I released the trigger slowly, and took a brace of deep, calming breaths. Thumbing the safety on, I shoved the gun in the bib of my sweater, and started apologizing for nearly killing her. Not too hard though, she was family, and family was generally not welcomed in my neighborhood. I went to some painful extremes trying to make that abundantly clear to every one of them. I think it was when I had the police escort my mother out of my apartment when it finally sank in. I was surprised it took that long. No, I was hoping it wouldn't take that long, but I secretly feared it would. 

Closing the door with my off hand, "I'm sorry," I said briskly as I pulled my sister to her feet with a tug, "What are you doing here?"

"You nearly shot my head off!" She screeched as she frantically shook her arm free.

I let go abruptly, folding my arms stoically as I felt a sour smile tug wistfully at my lips, all the while watching her trying to recoil away from me without actually recoiling away from me. Staring at her unsympathetically, I almost-growled, "Look, I already apologized for that. Now state why you are here, or please leave my home."

She spat angrily, "Or what? What are you going to do, shoot me?"

I thought about it for a second before nodding coolly, "Yes, I think I might."

Her breath caught, and she stared at me in terror before her eyes dropped to the floor. With her short hair flung forward, hiding her face from my less than amused gaze. 

"Well? Why are you here?" I demanded harshly.

She stood silently, unmoving.

With a barely silenced snarl, my patience for this foolishness had ended, and I grabbed her shoulder roughly to expedite the process of her leaving. I opened the door explosively behind her, and she shuddered as I readied to roughly shove her through open doorway. As I started pivoting my weight, she looked up into my eyes, and asked me in a small, broken voice, as tears streamed from her bloodshot eyes, leaving visible streaks down her ruddy cheeks, "Please, brother, can I stay with you?"

One part of me wanted to push her away, and ignore her and any pissant problem she might have. Instead of pushing, I inexplicably found my grip tightening on her shoulder until her breath hissed between her teeth in pain, as I found myself asked her in a quiet, deadly voice, "What happened." Her wretched smile broke my heart. 

Something to share my life, indeed...

* * * * *

I sat with my back against the icy wall, sipping near scalding tap water. My sister, on the other hand, sat trembling a little in my beanbag chair a few feet away, her cold hands shook only slightly as she tightly clutched a half full glass of piping hot apple cider, occasionally bringing it to her lips and sipping gratefully as she told me the story. I found her tale a bleakly familiar one: she had gotten into an argument over something seemingly trivial, and our father's elegantly persuasive counterargument was to backhand her. For the last time, apparently. So she packed a suitcase, our mother called her a whore, and my sister walked out. My story was not much different. 

Well, it was slightly different in a very important way: I decided to leave before I killed our father in cold blood. I admit fully that I was a feral child back then, and I'd like to think that I've mellowed out since then. In the dim light of my living room, my monitor cast soft edged shadows, which only seemed to emphasize the bruises on her cheek and lip, and my rage simmered, powerless. Perhaps I was not as mellow as I thought.

Elizabeth took another sip and scrubbed her moist eyes with the back of her sleeve before finishing, "So I left. I hitchhiked across the state to get over here. Then I asked a few policemen how to get here when I was in the area, and one thankfully dropped me off just outside, and that's how I got here." 

Alone, in the truest sense of the word, and nearly broke, she made her way to the dimly remembered, the loathed, yet still loved, lost son, the only human on the face of the earth she thought she could trust: Me. Indeed.

"So. Well. Indeed." I said, as painful memories from when I left/was kicked out mocked me from a safe distance in my mind. 

The Glock weighed heavily in the bib of my sweatshirt as I mulled over my few, crippled, options. Option A: I could keep her here, but I barely had enough money for food for the rest of the month for myself, let alone another hungry mouth. Option B: I could throw her out. As much as I don't like family, blood is still thicker than water, no matter how frozen it was. I wouldn't throw her out, as long as she didn't actively oppose/fuck with me. Option C: I could tell our parents. I snorted contemptuously. Fat chance of that happening. I would sooner slit my wrists than tell them anything. Crap, I thought feelingly, every choice sucked. It wasn't that I really expected something different, but I do like to be surprised, once and a great while.




Pizza Time



"I'm sorry Sean, I didn't know what to do. It all happened so fast..." She apologized. She was always apologizing for something to someone, I vaguely remembered.

"It's okay." I said, actually meaning it for once. "Come, you must be tired and half-frozen. I'll draw you a bath and get some hot something prepared." I said standing slowly. My butt had gone numb halfway through her story, and I expected it to painfully check in any minute now.

She smiled gratefully as I helped her to her feet. Starved, she must be, if crumbs seem like a feast to her, I thought as I drew her a warm bath. With a promise of food, closed the door behind me to allow her to disrobe in privacy. 

Opening the pantry, I started looking around to see if I still had the oatmeal I was saving for a special occasion. Lucky! I did have some! It was even flavored! Double Lucky! I have to admit, you tend to get creative about things when the budget is often non-existent, and while cooking oatmeal in a wok wasn't the most conventional of ways, I would doubtlessly counter that the wok is the basic cooking pot in China -- and it was on sale when I got it, so bugger off. As the intoxicating fragrance of apples and cinnamon wafted from the diminutive oven, my stomach rumbled at me as the speakers on my computer screeched in alarm. Turing the stove off with a flick of my wrist, I wiped my hands on an old shirt I used as a dish towel, and padded into the living room to have a look.

The screen flashed as a priority e-mail scrolled on the screen. A priority E-mail? From whom? Not that I really couldn't guess who it was from, I thought sardonically. Alas, I was right, unfortunately. It was from our parents, surprise surprise. Unfortunately, it was a mass e-mail to all the family to keep a look out for my sister who ran away from home last night after she "antagonized and threatened" the two of them. Well, I knew I didn't have to answer it, since I had a long and rather accomplished record of not answering anything that they had sent in my direction. In any case, the rest of the family has been notified. A simple check would find that only I have not responded, which narrows the search for her greatly. Shit. There has to be a way to wiggle out from under this guillotine while it's still falling. 

The bathroom door opened, and I glanced up. Liz was wearing some sweats and thick t-shirt. With a sharp eye, I noticed her small breasts as she slipped on her sweater. Smiling slightly, a plan started to form slowly in the dim recesses of my mind. "Quick Liz, exactly how old are you?" I shot out as she ran a hand through her damp hair.

She smirked at me, struck a pose straight out of an adult magazine, and said sensually, "Old enough." In a heartbeat she had changed dramatically from my little kid sister to a full-grown woman a decade older. How in the world did she do that?

I nearly snarled at her, "Sister, I have little patience for bullshit when I'm not on the clock. Now, I'll repeat the question. Exactly. How. Old. Are. You?"

Taken aback by my sudden change in demeanor, she dropped the pose and transformed back into my little sister as she stammered, "Eighteen. I'm eighteen years old today."

And the truth shall set you free. "Good, that solves that problem." I said, and closed the e-mail program with a satisfied flourish.

"What problem?"

"Our dearest parents have just started asking around the family where you are. To protect myself, and you, I needed to make certain that you were at least eighteen."

Liz hugged herself protectively before asking quietly, "Why?"

I sighed grimly. "Because, if I know our father, he might say you were kidnapped, and then immediately set the police after you, which in turn would lead them here. Then we would have been in deep shit. But with you over eighteen, if the police come, you can tell them to fuck off, politely, and they, being the police, pretty much will. Okay? I have some oatmeal prepared in the wok; eat up. Mi hovel es su hovel." I said, spreading my arms to include my apartment in its cramped lavishness; I even had running water. "Oh yeah, sorry for barking at you. Please accept my apologizes." I said, slouching insouciant in the beanbag chair.

She smiled weakly and nodded before she disappeared into the kitchen. I could hear the faint sound of metal clicking against metal as she ate straight from the wok. At least she used the spoon I used to stir it instead of her bare hands. She came out a few minutes later, looking less ghastly and more human, for a change. "Where did you get the gun?" she asked cautiously. I wonder what they told her about me, and how much were outright lies?

I shrugged, "Uncle Barry. It's a gift, of sorts."

She sat down, indian-style, on the floor next to me, and looked at me almost eagerly when she asked, "May I see it?"

I reached into the bib and pulled it out carefully, checking to make certain the safety was on before handing the heavy weapon to her, grip first. She carefully took the weapon away from me with both hands, treating it like it was made of spun glass. I sighed and sent my hands flying across the keyboard to reply.

"Why did Uncle Barry give you a gun? He barely talks to the rest of us." She asked, looking into the barrel.

I carefully took the gun away from her before she did anything else with it. "Uncle Barry was concerned with my safety, so he taught me a little of what he knew about firearms and gave me this as a present. It's a Barry special." I said and put the gun back in the bib.

"Cool!" She chirped, before sniffing her gun-oil moistened fingers. 

A finished replying to another message on IRC before it hit me. For the past five years, I never had any contact with any part of my family, let alone my sister. When I left, she was just becoming a teenager: naive, inexperienced, headstrong, stubborn, and determined to win. Five years was at least several lifetimes to a teenager. I hardly knew her when she left. Who was she now? A cold wind seemed to shriek through the apartment, a cutting wind that seemed to chill not the flesh, but the soul itself with a chilling grasp.

"What?" She asked, yawning, as I found staring.

"Ah, nothing serious." I said as I stood. I offered her a hand, "You look tired, I'll show you the bed."

She nodded, and yawned mightily as I pulled her to her feet. "I'm sorry, I --" She started.

"Please, the more I hear 'I'm sorry' the more I think I actually did something wrong." I said as I tugged her into the bedroom and pulled the covers back. "This is the bed. You sleep in it. You should know what to do next." I gently mocked, to cover my unease. This was the first time I've had a woman in this apartment, the first time I've had a woman in this room, and certainly the first time a woman has slept in my bed. However related we are.

"What about you?" She asked as she stretched out on the bed for one long minute, before quickly burying herself deeply under the covers, with only her head sticking out of the pile.

I grinned, "Don't worry, before the bed and the covers, I would sleep on the floor, and I got used to hard floors. It's no problem. Besides, my bedtime isn't for a while. Now before you go, I have some base rules. One, no smoking of any kind; Two, the heater must remain off, I can't afford it; Three, Keep your light use to a minimum, I can barely afford the electric bills as is; Four, The computer is yours for the using. Type your own name and password when it starts up. Otherwise, if you're not using it, leave it off; Five, All the food in this house has to stretch for the rest of this month, okay? So keep it to a minimum. I'm going to do something about it tomorrow, but don't eat too much, okay?"

"Okay. I'll remember. Merry Christmas."

"Good night."

"Guu niiite." She slurred before she pulled the covers over her head and disappeared underneath the pile.

I left the room and shut the door behind me quietly. Dear God in heaven, what am I going to do? I can't take anymore hours, and I can't get another job unless I cut my hours. Shit. Shitshitshitshit. Dear God, why? Why me? Why not someone with a heart, and a fat wallet? At least I'm not in debt. Of course I'm not in debt, I can't afford it! Ah, yes, I sighed feeling a comfortable weight settle on my shoulders, cynicism, apathy, and sarcasm, the three demons on my shoulder that kept me moving.

The computer warbled again, and I quickly ran to answer it. It was from Darren. The fruity bastard wanted to open the pizza place now, and get the pizza Christmas rush, and he wanted me there to help him get the place open. Fruity bastard. It's money in my pocket, but still... Well, I might as well get the last uniform I'll ever wear on and slog through a winter wonderland.

Fucking fruity bastard.

* * * * *

The walk was anti-climatic, and freezing. The store was warm, and cheery. I hate to use clichéd phrases like black and white, night and day, and the like, but after grinding my way through three miles of wet snow, the warmth and lack of snow in the store seemed like is was heaven sent. And just to mock me further, it started snowing heavily when I walked into the store, as if someone flipped a switch outside.

I refused to think about the walk back.

Darren, and looking even more like an irritated walrus than usual, blinked owlishly as I tromped in shaking snow, shedding sweaters, "Sean, pappy, what are doing covered in snow?"

"Walked. Figured it'll wake me up. Worked like a charm. Got my heart rate up and everything."

"Pappy, you walk to work? What about your car?"

"Virtually no treads on the wheels, and no heater in it, anyway. You know, most people pay fantastic prices at health spas for the exercise I get every single day?" I said loudly as the last sweater came off.

Darren looked at me uneasily, but politely dropped the subject, as I hoped.

The next few hours were dull, routine, and boring; a brisk change of pace from everything else that had happened today, thankfully. I didn't think I could handle any more excitement without keeling over with an aneurysm or something. I took a seat dangerously close to the ovens, and started flipping thought my calculus book as I awaited, as Darren termed it, "A flood of hungry people". Well, Darren could do his Moses act on the flood, but I was not going to hold my breath waiting for that miracle to happen. 

After a few hours of nervous pacing on Darren's part, and no calls or walk-ins, someone did actually walk into the store, and proceeded to order something, which forced me to stop working on calculus, and actually work. Which I regarded as a minor irritation, but since the customer had already paid for it, what did I care? Glancing at the ticket, I couldn't help but think the order looked oddly familiar. Of course, I may have cycled through something like a hundred plus orders in the past week alone, and my memory was fairly good, so, logically, just because it was familiar didn't necessarily mean anything. Still, my curiosity was prodded enough for me to wander forward to the counter and see who ordered.

"Sean? Is that you?"

Oh, wow. She looked even better when her hair wasn't in disarray. "Ekataran? Why are you doing out in this ungodly weather?"

"I'm famished, and this place is the only place open for miles."

I glanced at Darren, who seemed to be imitating a content cat with a mouthful of fresh fish. Fruity bastard. 

"What about you? Why are you working on Christmas day?"

"Oh, I got nothing better to do. Might as well earn some money instead, I thought." I said with a friendly laugh.

She nodded emphatically with a shy smile, "It certainly does spend."

I rolled my eyes dramatically, "Oi, tell me about it!"

We both laughed in mutual amusement, which made me feel good. My hormones, on the other hand, were whispering sweet nothings into my ear, but with a Herculean effort, I ignored them. It wasn't the first time, and it certainly wouldn't be the last time some idiot brain chemical would tug on my ear for some attention. Ekateran and I talked some more, and I was able to make her laugh three more times before the stupid food was finished, and with a wave and a stunning smile, she disappeared into the churning snow as if she never existed.

"Saw something you liked, Sean?" Darren called from the back.

"Yes." I said breathily, as my heart skipped a beat, before I shook myself, and shot back acidly, "No! What a dirty old man you are!" I turned to face Darren's jovial face, and started to flounder, "She's got to be -- umm..."

"Around your age and very attractive?" he suggested. 

"Yes--NO! Besides that!" Damn, this was quickly turning into a mess.

"Ah, to be young again. Pappy, I would try for her, she looks like an excellent morsel." He snickered for a second, "I should know! I have had more than a delicate morsel in my time. Usually a few morsels at once -- a man can starve on one morsel at a time. It's a proven fact." He said, shaking his finger at me teasingly.

I put my hand on my forehead; I could almost feel a migraine building, or my brain tying to burrow its way to freedom. "Darren, I have no idea what the hell you're talking about... and I don't think I want to know, okay?"

"Ah, but Sean, you must strike while the iron is hot!"

"Metaphor after metaphor, and yet nothing to drink." I shot back.

"Ow." He said, rubbing his chin, "Pappy, you wound me."

"Don't tempt me." I said offhandedly as I picked up my book, and took my seat by the oven, picking up exactly where I left off, as if nothing had happened. Nothing like a goddess walked in, ordered food, chatted with me, and then disappeared into the snow. Yup, just as if nothing had happened; nothing at all. Crap. I could have gotten her number from the order now that I think about it. Hindsight. 

No, on second thought, that sounds a little too creepy. Besides, she's just a customer. She gives me money, however indirectly, for my services. That was exactly the wrong word to say to my hormones. After snatching the remark from my logical brain's metaphorical grip, my reptilian brain snapped it's maw shut over it and tangoed around with the word in it's mouth like a rose, taunting me with every single implication and combination it could think of. Not surprisingly, there weren't that many combinations on the whole, but those that it did think up, I have no idea where they came from. Damn hormones. More trouble than they're worth, most of the time.

"I don't think anyone else is going to order." Darren said worriedly an hour later, glancing at the manager's computer screen as something scrolled across the front in a crazed fractal pattern. "Might as well fix yourself something to eat, Sean, it's on the house. And then we're closing."

"Woot!" I said, and put the book down. I made a small pizza dripping with cheese and covered in vegetables. I called it the garden salad pizza, minus what was actually in a garden salad, but I didn't care. I knew it tasted great. About the time the pizza had run though the oven, we had gotten the store clean enough to close. Which was easy, since we didn't make very much of a mess in the first place. I switched the oven off and boxed the pizza up for the walk home. Speaking of the devil... I glanced outside, and shuddered. I could barely see a few feet outside, The flakes were whizzing around out there in trajectories awfully close to horizontal. I had to walk through that?!?

"Ah, hoo boy." I whispered as I pulled on my sweaters. Great. Lovely. Fan-tastic. Well, simple physics dictate that the impact of the snow on me would release a tiny amount of kinetic energy that would waste itself as heat, melting the snowflake, and transferring the leftover energy to me. So I might be really warm walking out there. Yeah, right.

"Hey pappy, I'll give you a ride, all right? This weather seems fit for neither man nor beast." Darren said, his eyes flicking between the window and me.

"I don't think it looks that bad..." I said just as the wind shook the building with a low moan.

Darren rolled his eyes and jingled his car keys at me, "Let's get going. I get to test out my four-wheel drive again. Yay!" He said, and pushed the door open. A nearly solid fist of air clawed my exposed skin with icy, razor sharp fingers as we hustled into the SUV. Suddenly, I was very glad I wasn't walking through it, but instead, was perched safely inside a heated machine that tunneled through it in comfort and safety.

The atmosphere in the car was one of hushed silence. I was luxuriating in the searing, furnace-like warmth of the car's heater, as Darren zealously concentrated on the little of the road ahead. While it was almost whiteout conditions, Darren confidently drove though the storm, trusting the GPS system, and a small, slightly hazy, black and white video projected on the windshield. From what I could see, he could see much further than I was able to, and with the two pieces of technology to help guide our way, he carefully picked a path though the streets at a desultory five miles an hour. An hour later, Darren stopped, and forcefully uncurled his fingers from the steering wheel with a grimace.

"Well, we're here." he said, massaging his meaty hands.

I looked out of the big plate windows and could only see falling snow. I admit I was lost. We could have been six feet from my door and I wouldn't know. "Are you sure?" I asked respectfully.

Darren pointed at the faint black and white image on the windshield. "I see your car right in front of us, this has to be your place."

"How can you possibly see it?"

"Well, if I had the standard package, I wouldn't, but I splurged for the millimeter-wave radar package, standard equipment on the high-end luxury models. Isn't it cool?" he said excitedly, almost caressing the dashboard. 

"Well. Okay. That's cool. I guess." I said distantly as I tried to feel if I was growing a tumor already.

"Don't worry, you'll be fine. It's not that powerful."

"Ah, good. I guess I'll see you tomorrow." I waved and popped open the door open. Carefully closing the car door behind me, and gripping the pizza tightly, I blindly marched into whiteness in the direction I thought my apartment was. It took me longer than I thought, but I finally slipped the key into the door, and banged it open with my hip. Stumbling in, I heard a click, and looked up to see my sister with my gun pointed vaguely in my direction. 

Nonplussed, I asked, "Well, are you going to shoot someone with it or not?" as I closed the door with my hip. I tossed the pizza to the floor, and wiped the fast-melting snow out of my eyes with a free hand. The pizza box landed with a thump on the floor, and the Glock dropped out her suddenly flaccid hands and landed with a thump on the carpet. I smiled at her, and said reassuringly, "Well, good choice. I hate getting shot."

Tears welled at the corner of her eyes as she sniffed wetly while she stood there as I skimmed out of my sweaters. Dropping the damp, heavy bundle to the floor, I barely had any warning before she threw herself at me and gripped my ribcage in a devastating embrace. Grunting in surprise while she squeezed harder, I was astonished to hear my sister sob into my shirt, wailing my name brokenly over and over again.

Merry Christmas.

Indeed.

Chapter Three

 - Actions - 

Crystal clear seawater lapped gently against a pale white beach. It was a gentle, soothing melody that combined with the obscene amount of alcohol already simmering in my blood, slowly lulled me into a drowsy bemusement. The soft sea-borne breeze playfully tugged at the umbrella in the hollowed out coconut cup gently resting on my stomach as I lay flaccidly in the beach chair. Barely able to keep my eyes open, I watched a small crab pick its way along the surf line with languid eyes. Sighing and stretching luxuriously under the warm afternoon sun, a faint breeze tugged at the sleeves of the eye-searing Hawaiian shirt that hung loosely open on my gaunt frame as I lay most untidily on beach chair, my toes wiggling idly in the cool sand. How more perfect could this be? Smiling slightly, I sipped the dregs of the drink and tugged the roughly made straw hat further down over my brow, shading my eyes from the strong Mediterranean sun as I felt the heat quietly leech the last freezing tendrils of winter away. Ahh... life is good. The coconut went flying as a harsh buzzing woke me out of my stupor with a start. Mental gears grinding, I finally recognized the sound; my alarm was going off. Howling at the warm, rapturous sky, "Why does it have to be a dream?" 




Pizza Time



Then the beautiful, pristine beach dissolved into a colored smear as I tried, and failed, to leap to my feet, and slam a hand on my alarm clock. My legs failed to respond, but my hand struck the alarm like a viper, silencing its electronic howl mid-scream. Reacting slowly, I fuzzily realized that something was tangling my legs, but I tried to get up a few more times before finally staring uncomprehendingly my legs as I felt the wheels in my mind slowly spin up to speed with a brassy squeal. 

My sister, in the search for more heat, had apparently slipped into my bed and wrapped herself around me like a limpet sometime during the night. "Mmm...don't turn off the space heater..." Liz said dreamily as I delicately pried myself loose of her grip. She made a sleepy grab for my shirt before burying herself deeper in the blankets with a soft, throaty grunt of disapproval before she started to snore like a banshee into the pillow. At least she only snored; I reflected thoughtfully, if she drooled, I would have kicked her out of the bed in a flash. The merest thought of sleeping a puddle of someone else's fluids is enough to make me violently ill. Blech. I think I'm getting sick just thinking about thinking about it.

Quietly padding into the living room, I glanced at my watch draped over the computer's keyboard. I blinked and rubbed my eyes sleepily; surely, I couldn't have awoken an hour earlier than I thought I set my alarm for? With an almost comic wail of understanding, I realized Liz must have rolled over on the clock and scrambled the settings in her search for heat. Grumbling, I flipped on the computer with a flourish and walked into the kitchen to stare emptily at the fridge, wondering blankly why I was in the kitchen. I woke up an hour early, and I hardly knew what to do with myself. For the past year I always hit the alarm and ran directly to work, fully waking up about halfway there, faster if it was cold out. Looking around the kitchen blankly as my computer whirred and beeped in the living room behind me, I struggled to think of what I should do before I had to leave. 

Well, shit. I might as well feed myself, and see what was happening with the world. Seemed like a good idea at the time, I thought as I bellied up to the sink and drank roughly about half a gallon of water. Ahh, food. I shall have you sometime today, just not now -- and my mewling stomach be damned.

The beanbag squeaked as I flounced to a stop in front of my computer. A few messages popped up from friends on IRC, surprised I was online so early in the morning. Wiping my mouth with a free hand, I brandished the light pen like a rapier as I opened up my e-mail account with a practiced twitch of the 'pen. Flipping out the junk mail that squeezed past my scratch-built filter with an irritated flick of the light pen, I stared, dumbfounded by the last message in the queue. I almost deleted it, thinking it was junk mail, or a prank letter. I mean, why in the hell would my illustrious father could possibly want to send me an e-mail? Moreover, what could he say to me? Several half hoped for possibilities careened around in my head; short tantalizing often hoped for messages, apologizes, explanations, something, anything. A cynical part of me snorted scathingly and wondered if, perhaps, within the same fantasyland you might be wealthy, and have a girlfriend. I flicked it open and started to read carefully, balanced precariously emotionally, half hoping, half dreading. 

After reading a few paragraphs, the balance tipped, and then slid into a gaping maw of growing anger. I read the rest of the message with increasingly brittle patience. When I reached the end, I read it again, just to see if I had missed anything. It was the longest message my father had ever sent to me, and from a man not known for his prose, or his verbosity. Disgusted, I wanted to wash my hands with lye and steel wool after reading it; it was the longest piece of unmatched drivel I'd ever read. 

In an almost Zen-like state of near perfect serenity, I carefully saved the drivel in a file server in Sweden, then closed and erased all evidence of the message having soiled my hard drive with its merest presence on my computer. After I was finished, I stood slowly, calmly, turned, and walked slowly into the bathroom and washed my hands--twice. After I had carefully dried my hands, I gripped the counter lightly as I stared at my reflection in the mirror. I looked calm outwardly, but inwardly, I was so... beyond any feeling that a deep endless silence resonated from within. No feelings, no emotions, no quiet inner voice mocking me from a safe distance. The stillness within terrified me. 

The rattling sound grew louder. Gratefully distracted from my fearful introspection, I looked at my suddenly aching hands with surprise; they were gripping the memory-plastic counter hard enough to shudder violently, shaking the counter on its flimsy moorings in the plastic wall hard enough for it to be in danger of coming free of the wall. Slowly unclasping my hands from the counter took a few minutes, and massaging them took a few more minutes. A few handfuls of minutes I used to collect myself. 

Be a family again? Together? I'd rather die! I thought furiously as a burning ember of anger flared for a moment before it pulsed, glowing malevolently as it hissed and spat sparks. Wow, I hadn't been this angry since... since the day I left, actually, I thought as I carefully massaged my thin hands. Without a second thought, I decided it suddenly seemed like a good idea to take a brisk walk outside to clear my head. Indeed, since I was up and walking around aimlessly, I might as well walk to work, and get some soda to assuage this embryonic caffeine headache. That sounded like a justification, and a weak one at that, but I wanted to get out of the house, now, before I broke something irreplaceable. 

I pulled the last sweater over the handful of other sweaters already hanging from my thin shoulders, pulled the keys from my pocket, and pressed them reassuringly against my palm. The teeth of the keys bit into my palm, giving me some small bit of encouragement before I opened the door and walked outside.

Walking slowly into the parking lot, squinting at the dazzling brightness, awestruck by the beauty of the snow and the gaunt skeletons of a few short trees placed haphazardly around the few green areas scattered around the apartment building. It was beautiful to look at. Unfortunately, I had to walk through it, which marred the delicate beauty with cool pragmatism. Forty-five minutes later, I stamped in through the front door of Papa Mezito's Pizza & Tacos, muttering dire curses under my breath. A sharp, dismal wind had appeared out of the north, easily cutting through my few layers of thin sweaters like a power-saw through warm butter as virtually every part of my skin quickly succumbed to the cold, and grew numb, except my heart, which seemed to only pump molten iron though my veins.

Tran, one of the evening shift drivers, looked up from his barstool perch in front of the bank of computers, the archaic game boy loudly beeping in his hands temporarily forgotten as he stared at me in confusion. "Sean!? What are you doing here?"

I snorted and started shedding sweaters. "Coming in early. Nothing to do at home, so I came here." Almost true--is an almost truth a lie? I wondered suddenly.

"I thought you weren't supposed to work today." Tran said, turning back to his game boy.

"Eh?" I grunted querulously as I vaulted over the counter.

Not looking at me, Tran said suddenly, "Wait, that was John." He shook his head, and continued in a singsong voice, "Ne-ver-mi-nd." 

"The night cook?"

Tran nodded slowly, his fingers working furiously over the buttons, "Uh-huh. Had a baby."

"Wow. Call the press."

He smiled sarcastically at me as shook his head, "No, his wife had the baby." His body tilted in the chair as the game boy emitted a series of chirps and squeaks. It was almost a minute before he continued, "...and they're taking a few days off."

"Congratulations?" I said dubiously, shedding my sweaters.

"Not the one to congratulate, man." Tran said distantly as his fingers blurred on the machine.

"And if you were?" I asked with a smile in my voice.

"I'd think I'd need some serious drugs to get it on with that hag." He said, shuddering dramatically.

"Oh, she can't be that bad." I said reasonably.

"Lister, look, I know you're a nice person deep down." Tran said, paused the game, and looked at me seriously, "But the woman looks like the Bride of Frankenstein after she was run over by a wheel cart. The woman is so far past 'fucking ugly' she's in the land of the 'dear-god-in-heaven-what-is-that-horrid-thing oo-gly'." He shuddered again, and went back to his game boy, muttering, "The thought of having sex with her brings on an itch to wash myself with acid and some sheets of steel wool, after scooping my eyes out with a broken light bulb"

"Ow." I said, vaguely repulsed. 

"She's that fucking oo-gly." he paused, then smiled slightly, "Nice tits though."

The door flew open with a whoosh as a flood of cold air washed into the restaurant. Tran shivered and rubbed his arms, and I barely felt it through the lingering tingling numbness. With a grumble, a tightly bundled man carrying a drivers bag stomped through the door, threw the bag on the counter and started attacking the scarves wrapped around his head like a man possessed. Once the layers of fabric started to peel off like the bandages of the invisible man, Darren's chapped face popped out and shouted out "Sean, pappy! What are you doing so early?"

I shrugged easily, and said calmly, "Coming in, Darren. Need any help?"

His eyebrow rose fractionally, "You walk here?"

I smiled toothily, "Of course. Need help?"

"Uh, sure." He said and started unwrapping the rest of his jackets. "Log in and start cleaning the pans."

"Thanks!" I called back brightly.

"Good luck." Tran said, not looking up from his Game Boy, "You're gonna need it." He called out sweetly as I passed, his silver tattooing shifting as he gave me an almost-smile.

The pans were stacked in a pile head high and six feet wide. I looked at it, and took a careful count before shouting, "HEY! ARE THERE ANY CLEAN PANS?!?!"

Then a response in stereo from both Darren and Tran, "NO!"

"...crap." I grumbled feelingly.

The next few hours were tedious and boring as I put my body on auto-pilot, and let my mind roam free over my memories of my sister over the past two days. Occasionally, and seemingly without rhyme or reason, Her face seemed to assume a neutral mask, stamped out of porcelain and molded to her features with flawless perfection. At the same time, the wary lilting light in her eyes just seemed to die, and they became cold, and lifeless. I almost thought I was talking to a soulless, cleverly designed doll that looked remarkably like my sister, instead of it being a real flesh and blood person. What happened to you in my absence, dearest little sister? I kept asking myself again and again as a sticky, slurry-like tsunami of guilt threatened to drown me in self-doubt, as I hammered myself with a seemingly unanswerable question: Should I have left, or should I have stayed and protected her? But if I stayed, how would I have protected her? And I can see what happened when I chose to leave.

Over and over, the questions mocked me, and over and over, I struggled to answer each of them, each question circling the other in a mind-boggling spiral, where I tried to answer the unanswerable. After a time I would shout into the vaults of my mind; 'Dear god, why does it have to be me?' The only answer that came back from the darkness was a curt and simple, 'because there's no one else.'

Cheerful thought.

After I had shelved the last pan, and well as my own questions and misgivings about Liz, I looked around the room with a kind of peculiar pride. Just about everything was washed within a millimeter of it life, virtually every horizontal surface shone with near-mirror brightness. Unfortunately, my arms from the elbow down resembled a particularly juicy prune, and I didn't think I'd ever stop smelling the tart smell of disinfectant for weeks, at least.

Well, that was 'fun'. And by 'fun', I meant long, tedious, and boring, I groused surly as I looked at my dish-pan hands with a certain measure of revulsion at the alien looking things.

"Sean! Someone to see you!" Darren called back.

Good, more 'fun'. I thought to myself as I dried my hands on a spare towel. Hey, it might be Ekataren wanting to talk to me, I thought happily. Oddly enough, that put a spring in my step, and a smile on my lips as I wandered front fully expecting to see Ekataren's beautifully smiling face. I hardly knew what was coming over me, and I'm not certain that I entirely disliked it, either.

I slid to a stop, my hip bouncing resting on the counter, as I eagerly scanned the few faces sprinkled around the handful of tables scattered around a cramp dining space. Ekataren was not in the room, but someone else I knew was. As my face shuttered close, my stomach flip-flopped, and my blood turned into a thick slurry that my heart struggled to move, my father walked to the counter and smiled at me, looking almost pleasant.

"Good evening, son." He whispered smarmily.

"Good evening, father." I said, nodding politely. Memories flashed behind my eyes, all of them not very pleasant, I secretly quaked with terror. I wanted to run, to hide, to get away from him; from what he could do to me. Even though I was a few inches taller, and a thick oaken counter was between us, I should have felt safe; I felt as vulnerable a newborn kitten.

"Oh, can't you show a little more respect for your father?" He said sardonically. 

Respect? I thought hotly as a hot flash of anger created a frail bulwark against the acidic sea of fear that threatened to overwhelm and dissolve what little courage I had. Instead of cringing, like I wanted to, I heard myself say, "No."

Anger flashed across his smiling face for a moment, only to disappear as fast as it appeared, swallowed by an easy, oily smile. He was wearing a three piece suit, his nails showed signs of a manicure, his thinning black hair was greased into a badly done comb-over, and he reeked of cheap-ass cologne. Dear god, did he bathe in it? I thought sourly as my eyes started to water from the stench wafting in my direction. I was scared to death of him as staccato memories flashed in my mind, reminding me why. The only thing that kept me from running, or soiling myself, was a small store of courage, and phenomenal bladder control. Both of which were rapidly deteriorating under his gaze. I now knew, with absolute clarity, what a deer saw in the headlights of an oncoming car...

"Come on Sean, I'm your father, and I traveled so far out of my way to see you." he wheedled almost sullenly. 

I had heard that tone before, usually during the apologies. "What do you want." I spat, a little irritated. My courage seemed to bolster a little when I said that. 

With only the tiniest flashes of irritation, he continued smoothly, in the most honeyed of tones, "What I want is to make it up to you."

Internally, I quailed at the tone. His voice seemed as bright and pure as a rainbow. I knew from experience that rainbow was instead an iridescent smear of color seen floating in a puddle of oil, bright with promise, foul with purpose. Indeed, I knew that tone was a warning of an imminent explosion; I had heard it far more times than I wish to think about during my childhood. I gibbered internally as Father's smile brightened a little more, and I couldn't help but think of a pristine white beach, with a sea of foul black oil lapping greasily at the shoreline. Ultimately the beach would succumb to the oil, and be pristine no longer. I somehow managed a smile to direct at him, an imperfect, fixed affair that I didn't think would fool anyone. My father saw the smile and took it as sign of submission. With a slightly more powerful smarmy grin, his presence, along with the stomach-turning stench of his cologne, seemed to double in size. But while his presence doubled in size, it didn't seem to double in power. Dimly, I realized what would have easily cowed me six years ago, only seemed to bolster my courage a little more. Perhaps I have grown calloused to intimidation in those intervening years, father. While that worked with frightening effectiveness five years ago, five years have passed father, and I am not the scared, broken, near-feral child you knew how to manipulate at the merest of your whims. 

As if by magic, I forgot about running, I forgot about hiding. I felt a scale shifting deep within, the memories flashed faster and faster, until they blurred behind my eyes for a sickening moment, before stopping abruptly, leaving only silence behind.

Father smile slipped a fraction, slightly puzzled at my lack of reaction. The stillness reached forward to claim me. Father said something, his mouth moving, his jaw working, expression changing. The stillness touched me, bringing a confusing welter of disjointed sounds. I wanted to scream, I wanted to die. I embraced the silence. Fear burned deep, but hardly noticed in the cacophony of noise. 

"What would that be, father?" I heard myself say, feigning innocence, "What could you possibly want to make up to me?"

A flash of anger appeared again, but he had to almost visibly struggle with it, as his neckline took on the lightest dustings of a reddish hue. "Sean, you know that as well as I." He said, as his smile grew a little fixed, to me his face resembled an ill-fitting mask. 

The masks we wear father. The masks we wear to hide the true person within. And with those masks, we dance an ancient, intricate dance with foul smelling, lung-searing smoke, and gaudy mirrors leprously spotted with age in our own chamber of horrors, built by hand over the years I danced with you, father. No. No longer. We dance to a new beat, or we dance not at all. I smiled vapidly, and asked, "No, I think I may have forgotten. Could you please refresh my memory, father? I have so much trouble remembering anything."

His neck now visibly became red, and his mask of smug civility hardened, but started to crack, the thing I could barely see behind the mask was something I was intimately familiar with. Old ground, new approach, but was I the cobra, or the mongoose? Or was I just the dinner for either of them? He shook his head slightly, not taking his eyes from mind. "That's not open for discussion."

"If I can't remember it, then why won't you remind me? In fact if you do not wish to remind me, you might as well leave, since I cannot remember what I was supposed to remember." I said making shooing motions with my hands.

This time the anger came, and stayed. "Listen I'm your father, and you have to listen to what I say!" he shot out.

I my anger blunted suddenly when the mask nearly tore, and I finally saw what was beneath the mask. I had seen it before, and I would rather die than see it again. The room crackled with an alien energy, and I felt at once excited, and scared beyond reason. Then the dim memory of the last time I saw that came flooding back unbidden; I was seven, and I remembered the mask cracking, I remember my vision blurring and spinning crazily, and I remembered being curled into a small ball on the floor, and I remembered being in the hospital for a month. Above all, I remembered the pain -- the soul-rending torment, the mind-shattering agony. The world seemed to wait for my reply with hushed anticipation. The din from within had paused, and it was deathly quiet from within, as well as from without. I had feebly submitted before, but the world seemed to wonder, would I submit again? 




Pizza Time



I remembered the last time with terrible clarity, but this time seemed different... for once in a long while, I felt... alive. I took a deep breath, and the seconds flowed by with syrupy sluggishness, as everything, including myself, waited for my reply. A manic giggle burbled deep in the vast recesses of my soul, and I heard a mad, crazy voice whisper tantalizingly, "Why not?" I held the breath for a heartbeat, savoring the taste of the air for one seemingly unendingly long moment, and then my mouth moved. My lips shaped themselves to make the first syllable of my reply with exquisite perfection, and my breath flowed out as smooth as silk. My throat vibrated as it made sound, and my mouth moved to shape the sound into words in an elegantly delicate ballet of muscles.

Father's palm cracked on the counter as he shouted, goaded beyond reason, his usually slightly tanned skin mottling dangerously. "NO?!?! GOD DAMN YOU SEAN! YOU WILL OBEY OR I WILL TEACH YOU, GOD HELP ME!"

I stood, and barely noticed the brittle silence that had descended, following his shouted statement. With a single breath, I had severed the ties that bound me to the shore, and I had irrevocably cast myself into an inconceivably deep, glass-smooth sea. Do or die; sink, or swim. 

Darren came forward, and laid a restraining palm on my shoulder as Ekataren walked up to the counter, glancing coolly between Stan, Darren, and myself.

"Sir, I must protest your use of language in this public environment. Please belay your tongue." Darren said politely, trying to defuse the situation.

Father turned on Darren with a feral gleam in his eye. "Oh, you too? Are you in league with this devil-spawned boy?" His face was almost cherry red.

"I'd watch who I called boy, father." I said quietly, my voice sounding so very quiet to my ears. Darren squeezed my shoulder warningly. Father's face went from red to white.

"Uhh, I'd like to pick up an order?" Ekataren said uncertainly.

Father turned and faced her, his face quickly mottling in fury, before he screamed, "Shut up, you whore! A MAN is talking now!"

I could see Ekataren's expression flit from shock, passing consternation, and finally, to rage in the frozen, brittle moment in time we shared. I fought to keep the years of anger bottled for just a little longer. I fought hard, but it was for naught as the bottle exploded in a single explosive scream of rage at the uncaring heavens. I saw, through sanguine-clouded vision, father turn his head in surprise. As he looked over his shoulder, his expression changed from rage, to a smarmy, smug superior smile...and then the smile fell like an avalanche into fear as I took a step forward. Then the frozen brittle moment in time shattered, sundered into more pieces than there were grains of sand on a million worlds in a thousand galaxies. And then, everything happened at once.

Something clamped down tightly over my shoulder, but I slapped it aside and jumped the counter, my feet hitting the floor at the same time with a muffled thud. With a sudden feral hunger, I smiled at him, somewhat friendly, I thought. I could see was his fear fade slightly, replaced by a thin, brittle smile, as he tried to assert his dominance.

"Sean, stop now, or I'll have to hurt you." He said commandingly.

I just kept smiling, and I took another step forward. Something grabbed me from behind, and hands wrapped themselves around my chest and arms. They were strong, stronger than I usually, but my blood burned with a vile fire that lent me strength enough to twist steel like taffy.

Father recoiled back a step, and I tried to take one, but I seemed to be dragging several hundred pounds of deadweight in my wake. Smiling wider, I took a powerful step forward. He was just barely within reach... I heard shouting. I took another step forward. Within reach, but not close enough to do enough damage... not close enough to rip his throat out with my teeth... I took another step. Father stood rooted to the floor watching my slow approach, his expression strange and frightening. My hand reached out, and a rock hard fist crashed into my kidneys as a thick arm wrapped around my neck, cutting off my air. My kidneys tingled, as I held my breath. I took another step forward, and then blows started raining on me like a hard hail. Grunting, I strained against whatever was holding my arms back, my lips pull back from my teeth in a hideous, ghastly rictus grin. Something hit the back of my head with a sickening crack, and my legs went rubbery, my hands clutched ineffectually at his shirt as I fell to the floor, the world blurring around me. 

* * * * *

It was a crazy dream, a fever dream. My father came to see me, and in his arrogance, he thought he could make me come and heel at his feet like a neglected mongrel. What was worse, I almost did. I almost wanted the illusion of the perfect family so much; I almost did heel, in the hopes that this time, it would be different. But he brought back memories of what family meant to me. He didn't want a family, I realized, he wanted a pack of beaten mongrels that would follow his commands, and something smaller than him, and something that wouldn't fight back, to vent his anger upon if there ever was any problem. I savored that thought for a long time. Finally, I had the key to a large door that I had been carefully not to see. That damned door that was always at the corner of my vision, all the while the great chains that bound it tightly shut rattled sharply in the silence of my soul. Try as I could to not see it and hear it, but I could not help but feel its presence as I stood in its shadow for the longest time.

With a sigh, I unlocked the door with a sharp turn of the key, and a grunt of effort as I pushed the door open, and then looked upon the face for one dreadful moment in the since and darkness after the door opened of my greatest fear. The fear that I would become my father. I had been so afraid of it, I had made it flesh and blood, and I had given it enough power to transform a vaporous thing into a near physical thing that impeded my past with a familiar sick smile and an arrogant tilt of head. His eyes softly smoldered a sanguine hue, with a white-hot pupil that seemed to stab through my fragile skin, and seemed to see myself without the layers upon layers of psychological debris that seemed so important when I placed them. He was barely perceptible in the darkness, a figure of too black against a velvety black background.

"So, you finally admitted something to yourself." He said as he stepped though and blocked my path with a supercilious pose. A light flickered in the hand he cupped in front of his face, and for a moment, I saw myself in all my hideous glory, a reflection of myself seen through the vilest of mirrors. It was a sight I never wanted to see again. "Expecting a parade, boy?"

He flicked his hand, extinguishing the flame, as the smoldering end of a thick cigar glowed white hot and the smoke from the cigar floated upwards in slender lucent sapphire silk ribbons and stung my nostrils with an sweet acrid stench, like the smell of burning flesh and rubber. I remember that smell; when I was five, there was a car accident not far from my house where a woman's husband had burned to death in the wreck as she watched, horrified, and unable to do anything to stop it.

"No."

The woman killed herself three days later, out of her mind with grief. She was the aunt of one of my friends at school. 

He took another pull from the cigar, and then said derisively as thin ribbons of smoke shot from his mouth with every syllable, "So, you can admit things to yourself. Halleluiah and Hail Mary, boy." He tapped the slim finger of ash from the end of his cigar; it fell to the floor and screamed as he ground it out underneath his booted heel.

The scream was familiar. I pushed a boy in fourth grade off a metal merry go round. He landed wrong and broke his arm. He screamed so loudly, so harshly, as tears flowed down his face in thin rivulets, I thought he was going to die. The beating afterwards from my father, I screamed just like the boy, I cried like the boy, and I knew I was going to die that day, but didn't.

"I was wondering when you get around to noticing that our father is a dick," he continued, "but sight is a disadvantage on the path ahead. It will cloud your vision, and fog your thoughts. You will regret what you see, and what you didn't."

"You want to stop me?"

He took another pull from the cigar before replying carefully, "Not stop you. To warn you. Turn back, and life your life blissfully unaware of the horror that lies ahead. Remain ignorant, and you will remain content, perhaps even happy to the end of your days."

"You lie badly." I spat at him.

He shrugged, "Maybe, maybe not. Depends on your point of view. I have nothing to gain from lying to you. I warn you here and now that the path ahead is for the foolish and the mad for I have seen it for myself, and I desire to spare you the pain you will certainly endure."

" 'for the foolish or the mad?' I am both."

"Bullshit. Now who's lying to whom?"

"Trickery and treachery; that is your method."

"No, whatever works in the long term, that is my method. It might also help you to know that many of your friends suffer from your decision as well."

"How do you know these things?"

"Simple. I am you, and you are me. We are together, and inseparable. Wherever you go, I go. I see what you do not want to. We are together, forever."

"No."

"Yes. Listen here, I could try to seduce you with visions of wealth, and fame, and power, but you don't really want those, making the point of tempting you with them rather moot." He took another pull on his cigar, "But I can promise you this: if you give up and go back home, and give your father another chance, he might change for the better. You can all become a family again, like you never were. Everything you want out of the deal, you might be able to get, if you turn away now."

"Will other people get hurt if I stay?"

He shrugged. "Can't say."

"Can't or won't?"
"Look, I'm you -- and you are certainly not all-seeing."

"And if I continue?"

"Pain, suffering, death. The path ahead is paved with razor blades and broken glass, and everyone you care about will walk it with you at one time or another. There is enough sorrow to drown a world, enough horror to strike fear in the strongest man's heart, and enough suffering to break any man."

"And my family?"

"No longer."

"And myself?"

I saw him smile. The first time I saw him smile, and the last time I wanted to see it ever again. His skin pulled back from his teeth; revealing several uncountable rows of barely glowing, inhumanly needle sharp teeth. "Can't say. Too many outcomes. Some of them good, some of them bad. But all of them are... deliciously delightful."

I hesitated. The compulsion to remain was strong. If I remained, the situation would not change, but at least it would be something familiar to deal with, and I would continue to survive just as I was until I was no more. But was I just content to just survive? I mean, it was a living. No. It wasn't a living, it was merely survival. What if I wanted to live? What if I wanted to break out of the never-ending loop I had put myself in to just survive? Could I remain and still do that? If I stepped though, I would walk my own path forward, picking it out as I went along, and with no one to help. Alone again. Still. 

It occurs to me occasionally, that perhaps extending the olive branch of peace might be a good idea occasionally. Get on good terms with my parents; mend the gaps, picket the fences -- or whatever the saying is. But just as I think of it, my memories swallow me briefly, replaying what happened before I voluntarily left. A cavalcade of familiar horrors proceeds past me as I struggle back to the surface, towards the present. At times, I argue with myself that perhaps they love me. Perhaps they are regretful for what happened. Perhaps I can forgive, and we can start anew... Perhaps. However, after a few tries to declare peace, or even a basic truce, have failed utterly and miserably, I no longer actively try. But that still doesn't stop the voice in my head, egging me on to try again. Betting against the impossible, that this time -- this time! -- will be the time. The time when all is forgiven, and forgotten, and we embrace each other as a loving family, where fear and suspicion aren't felt at all times when together, where I don't have to worry if I'll be beaten enough to require a hospital stay this time, like so many other times...

I yearn for a family on one hand. But I fear and loathe the family I have on the other. I curse the mother that bore me, and I damn the man that fathered me. Yet, some small part of me years for the time when I'll be able to embrace my father and my mother as a loved son, and gone will be the bitter hate, fueled by the bottomless, measureless loathing I have for them, like so much smoke. My mother, my father. They brought me into this world, and raised me, and I abhor them with every fiber of my being.

When I was younger. And believed in the Easter Bunny, Saint Nick, and a host of other enchanted fables, I would so desperately wish, no pray, for a normal family. A loving family. Or, failing that, a solution...a magic wand...something...anything. Time passed, and I suffered more and more, until I realized that no matter how hard I tried, I could not fix my problem. No deity or myth had helped me, no matter how hard I prayed, or how much anguish coursed though my body, or how many times my bones were broken. So I left. I left before whatever madness that had taken hold of my parents could take me, and make me like them; before it could twist me into an angry caricature of a human that fed off the pain of others. I sometimes wonder if I was too late, and the madness already inside of me, lying dormant in a quiet part of my mind; perhaps waiting just outside my awareness, silent, sinister, and seething horribly, like a brutal tempest just only just seen on the horizon. Now I knew he was that which what I feared. And that scared me more than I had ever been scared before. I had found the enemy, and he is myself. Can I fight him? Can I keep fighting him, me? Is it worth it? Should I even try?

Then a wild giggle in my ear whispered fiercely, "Why not?"

Maybe I'm not good enough. Maybe I will fail. Maybe I'm not ready for it.

"You never know until you try." I heard another voice say.

A whole chorus of voices in a multitude of tones urged me onward. All of them said, "Why not?"

I stepped forward, and he smiled with a familiar sick smile and arrogantly flicked the last of his cigar into the darkness where it was swallowed, leaving no trace of it behind. "I thought you would. I'm you, after all. I look forward to our next meeting. And in advance: I told you so." He finished, and then walked away, swiftly swallowed by the darkness as if he was never there in the first place.

Only time would tell if he stayed behind me instead of perched ahead of me like some sort of vile gatekeeper. Perhaps this was the last time I would see him, but I doubted it. 

If I have taken the first step into the unknown, why does it feel like I'm in free-fall? I feel... alive?

Alive... it was a new feeling, a good feeling.

Indeed.

Chapter Four

- Reactions -

My eyes fluttered as I leisurely floated towards awareness. Like broaching the surface of a pristine lake, reality slowly settled upon my shoulders and pooled behind my eyes. As the heavy mantle pressing down reassuringly, I groaned softly; my eyes seemed to track independently of each other as sizzling lines of tepid agony pulsed with metronome precision, churning out a painful tempo that threaten to upend my stomach in one lurching rush. 

Biting back the sickly-sour taste of bile, I tried to sit up slowly, but shuddered to a stop at the beginning of the attempt when thin skeins of pins and needles engulfed my arms and legs. I felt like a clay doll, just come to life, and everything felt strange. A cool hand gently caressed my forehead for a moment before Ekataren's upside-down face looked down on me; her hair fell forward, elegantly framing her face with a beautiful, sinuous waterfall, like watery silk.

"I would disincline you toward moving around too much, you have quite a lump growing on the back of your skull." Ekataren said gently. Startled, I reached back and felt my head gently. My eyes widened my fingers traced a lump about the size of Idaho. "I wouldn't squeeze it." She warned me as the corner of her lips quirked slightly.

Rebelliously, I squeezed lightly, more like a caress, really. It wasn't the brightest thing I've ever done. My vision exploded into fireworks as my stomach vibrated hideously for a very long moment. Ekataren's smile turned positively wicked as I fought valiantly to keep my lunch from exploding all over her very pretty face. Feeling queasy, I hiccupped quietly, tasting foulness. "Ooh. I don't feel too good." I moaned. Acid burned the back of my throat as my stomach finally consented to settle down, at least for the moment. 

"That is to be expected. You should be proud; you have a skull made entirely of cement. My hand still stings." She said, shaking her right hand comically, her voice bubbling as the corners of her mouth quirked.

I wondered idly how soft those lips were, they looked inviting from here... I saw myself kissing them, luxuriating in their softness. My hormones surged dangerously as my face heated, part hormones, part embarrassed. Our eyes met as I dragged my gaze higher to something safer, but while her lips were suggestive, her eyes were deep oceans I could easily, and very willingly lose myself forever in. Damn hormones, "What happened?"

Her eyes narrowed slightly making her look more attractive than usual. "What do you remember?"

"I was walking forward, really angry, and then it gets fuzzy." I was going to get so very fired. Assaulting a customer on the job was not a plus for the employment record.

"Um," she said, and delicately nibbled on her lower lip for a second, her eyes slightly unfocused, apparently deep in thought. "Um. Right. Well, you were saying things, and you were not amicable to reason, or just about anything else, so we all tried to hold you back, but I could see it wasn't working, so I hit you. Really hard." She tilted her head to the side slightly, "Do you think a man could really survive with his intestines taken outside his body?"

"I guess so," I replied, surprised by her change in topic. "Why?"

"I was wondering. You said that back then, among other things."

"Oh." I said, chilled.

"I, umm," she paused, gnawing her lip before gushing, "This might sound a little odd, but I have to admit I was surprised at some of the ideas, you really are creative in that vein. I am not entirely certain that many of them were physically possible to do, but you looked and certainly sounded like you would try each of them in term just to find out."

"Thank you?" I think?

Again the smile, "You've been out for a few hours now."

"m' father?"

"Gone. He departed the building a little after he could walk again."

"What did you do?"

"To him? Nothing he won't die from. Unfortunately."

"It could be worse." I said morosely as, with dawning horror, I realized how totally screwed I was. The man was right: some days it really didn't pay to get up in the morning.

Ekataren smiled her sweet smile, "Well, granted anything could be worse, if looked at from a different perspective, but the merest thought of anything that could actually be worse, I must admit, turns my stomach."

"And yet, he is still my father."

"And still, he is your father. Indeed. Here, let me help you up." Ekataren said, and helped me sit up without too much difficulty. As the world swooped and spun, and my stomach rumbled traitorously, the door opened with a soft chime as Liz slipped through the doors looking forlorn and half frozen.