Rescue pt. 3

(This may be the last installment for a while; it needs a lot of work from here on out)

Inside was a mess. Staffers were racing everywhere, shouting into white headsets. I didn’t even have time to slip mine on before my supervisor rushed up to me. “Dump your duffel and get your ass into the West offices. I’ll be right there.” It took me a moment to mentally locate the West offices – other times, without all the higher-ups buzzing around creating an air of formality, we called them Sears.

He came into the West office main room soon after I did, followed by two of his supervisors. Both were high-ranking military officers, but the complex was a civilian-run operation for legal reasons, so they were referred to as supervisors. This annoyed them. The four of us sat around the round table I had eaten a microwave dinner at the night before and countless nights preceding.

One of the two military supervisors spoke. “We just need to ask you some questions about your shift last night. Something has happened that must be investigated immediately.”

I assumed an appropriate expression of confusion and concern.

“One of our inhabitants has been abducted by a radical cell of DC sympathizers. We have reason to believe she was closely involved with the group claiming responsibility for the incident.” He had his military stripes pinned to the sleeve of his white Department uniform, ironically against regulations.

I fought the urge to laugh at the inanely bureaucratic secrecy. I was to know no details, even though I had worked closely on that case prior to the incident. Very closely, as evidenced by her black eyes complementing the lighter tinge in my knuckles. I took a deep breath and waited for an invitation to speak.

Shakespeare In Bed

(A quick scene sketch, that's why there's no beginning/ending. Inspired "cute" by  a discussion "smart" about Ayn Rand.)

Charles Dickens would be a boring lover, I decide. I’ve only ever read David Copperfield, but I remember incredible dullness and traditional gender roles, both of which equal lights-off missionary.

“Really?” He hasn’t read any Dickens, so he takes my word for it. “Okay, Sylvia Plath.”

“Totally neurotic, but probably wild too.”

He agrees. “Switch in a moment from on the floor with ten cans of whipped cream to you want to put what where?”

I laugh, but I feel somewhat guilty gossiping this way about someone I see as a kindred spirit, so I change authors again. “Joseph Conrad. I bet he was really smooth.” He hasn’t read Conrad either, and we’re both still a little stuck on Plath’s virgin/whore dichotomy, so I throw in Mary Shelley. “She had to have been crazy.”

“Oh, definitely. Shakespeare.”

“Thought he was way better than he was.”

“Seriously? The guy could get you off by whispering!”

“I don’t know about that. I’m sure he was great at pillow talk, but high expectations almost always disappoint.” I know it’s blasphemy to see Shakespeare as anything less than a stud, but he had to have an ego, and a guy with self-confidence and the linguistic ability to express it has almost no chance to live up to the anticipation he talks up.

“Fine.” There’s a pause while we envision more authors between the sheets. This all started with his observation that Ayn Rand seems preoccupied with hands and violence. He comes up with one before me. “John.”

I’m confused. He quickly clarifies. “Really gentle and attentive. Definitely, because those are the aspects of Jesus he focuses on the most.”

He’s right, but I’m not about to delve into a discussion of the sexual personalities of Biblical figures. My imagination is bizarre and distracting enough in church already. I exhale softly, a substitute for ignoring him, and roll over. The phone, hot with power from the charge cord, burns into my ear. I’ve got one. “O’Henry. Good the first time, but the same thing every time afterwards.”

“Good? Had to be boring and preachy.”

“How much O’Henry have you read? You know he had to have had that one signature move that was great, but overused.”

He describes one, “you mean like that?”

I blush, grinning. “Yeah. But even that would get old after a while. Poe.”

“Oh man. Master of kink.”

“You sure? He seems like the shy type.”

“Those are the ones you’ve got to watch out for.”

“But he married his cousin.”

“Um, case in point.”

“I dunno, he still seems like the type who might want it but wouldn’t have the guts to ask.”

“I’ll give you that, but once things got going…”

My mental image is a modified cask of amontillado. I need a quick subject change. I curse my school for not assigning the Classics – all I can come up with are contemporary authors he hasn’t read, and the conversation lulls into quiet.

Red City

(Inspired by this picture: 

which I think I found in Found Magazine but now can't find in their archives.)

[piece removed because it was submitted for publication]

Control

State of CI: I've decided that every Monday is essay day and every Thursday is not-essay day! This is to keep me from driving you guys nuts with five consecutive "Things That Annoy Me" posts and it's also a self-experiment for me, because having to come up with something creative every week will push me to actually create and it will also push me to be brave and post things that suck without spending months revising and polishing them. I will not allow myself to make excuses for them or comment on them besides a short introduction. Because there's no better place than the internet to uncomfortably push your personal boundaries! 

(Sketch stemming from the title prompt "discipline"; could be a companion piece to Porcelain)

The kitchen was dark and shining, utensils and white countertops reflecting the dim light. He followed me into the glowing room and our bodies soaked up the light, blotted it up from the darkness, smudges against the sterile shine. The location was mine – my house, my kitchen – but his presence robbed my home of any promise of safety. This was neutral battleground now.

“Just go home.” I wanted him out. Instead he stood in front of the refrigerator, looking at me. I leaned back against the counter, my fingers curling hard around the edge, tips pressed against the rough unfinished marble of the underside. My mind saw him leaving, getting into his car and driving home alone. We would talk later, separated or in the light, somewhere else.

“No. We need to talk about this.” The “we” startled me. There was nothing cohesive about our presences in the kitchen. We were two people very apart from each other. Any needs were individual.

“Get out.” I knew he wouldn’t. I had already anticipated his move towards me, his face momentarily illuminated by the square of light thrown by the streetlight through the small window. The fear was nameless and primal – not a fear of him, but a fear of his closeness, of my situation, of the circumstances. Fearing him was impossible, but my breath caught upon hearing his so close to mine.

“We’re going to talk about this.” He looked down at me, eyes shining with determined emotion.

“There is nothing to talk about. It’s not the time. Please, just go.” My words fell fast and jumbled, my voice quickening with my breaths. His hands pressed on top of mine, the sharp edge of the counter slicing into my palms. I did not push back, refused to acknowledge what was happening by fighting it.

“I’m not leaving.” His knees leaned hard into my thighs. My teeth ground against each other. A strange feeling of double experience overcame me – the certainty that he could not hurt me coupled with the threat that he would. I kicked my heels against the cupboards under the counter, leveraging myself up to sit on it. His hands pulled back from mine and we looked at each other, now at equal heights.

I needed him gone. I found myself tensely caught between fight and flight, without option, desperate. The game had changed and surrender now meant victory. “I’m sorry.” The words were dead, hollow, only a battle strategy, a move to re-establish security. I looked down, trembling, channeling fright and rage into convincing contrition.

It was enough. He turned to leave, flicking the lights on as he left. I lowered myself down onto the tile. Both of us had lost, an inevitability after we crossed the threshold that made a win impossible. I stood in the flatly lit kitchen devastated by the loss, slowly regaining my sense of control. The engine of his car whispered into motion outside my door and I heard him leave.

Rescue

State of CI: I've started labelling my posts to keep everything all organized. So far they're all sorted into "essay", "story", "discussion" or "memory". "Story" is a misnomer though, as most of my writings here won't be coherent pieces on their own but the writer's equivalent of doodles.

The first two paragraphs of a new piece that resulted from a weird dream, currently sucks, and has the working title Rescue, which also sucks.

Afterwards, she lay so still in my bed. She had, of course, lost weight, and the fact that she was dressed in a pair of my boxers and one of my t-shirts made her look even tinier than usual, impossibly so, barely a sliver of flesh and girl. I pulled up the comforter and it devoured the sliver like dark clouds over the thinnest moon. Her eyes, both blackened, were closed, and for that I was grateful. The memory was more than enough. I pulled my gaze from her swollen face down to my hands, those terrible instruments I still could only half believe had done this.

My beeper rang. Work. I was off that day, but I knew they’d call me in once they discovered her missing – what would later be referred to as The Incident - since I had been on duty the night before. My watch read 5:00am. We were expected to immediately answer every call, but I couldn’t look too suspicious. I considered leaving her a note in case she woke up before I got back, but by my calculations, she’d be out at least five more hours, and I had no idea what I would say. I changed into a fresh uniform, rubbed my eyes red, and left.