Dichotomy 7
N48 42’ 24.5602” W113 38’28.3374
I give in—occasionally. It’s always there, the nagging itch to wonder (let’s be honest: fantasize). So I grant myself brief moments in time and allow my thoughts to drift—untethered—and explore the question of “what if”.
The backdrops of these “what ifs” always start exactly as it was that night. They feature the same pulsating music (I remember the exact beat), the humid, dank smell of raw humans and the oscillating darkness mixed with strobe lights that are present in every club on planet earth. But in these versions (ok, fantasies) the moment in which I—the resident DJ, who is contemplating the merits of getting fired over having to finish the set—look into the abyss of drunk club rats and obnoxious bachelorettes and see them: two eyes locked in position. That exact position being me.
This is where the “what if” comes into play. I forget what I know now: that those eyes and the accompanying look were actually laced with recognition, history and a strategy still undetermined. In these “what if” scenarios, that moment is just a basic human connection and the recognition of a mutual interest, with a stare that feels like a grip. The resulting fantasies that unfold in my mind (which can get embarrassingly graphic) last until an involuntary feeling of regret starts to set in. That’s when I cut it off and remember that these moments aren’t worth my energy or my time.
It is becoming increasingly apparent that I have never lived far from the reality that now consumes me, and I can’t reconstruct what actually happened. Regrets are simply a wish—a wish that a reality, a history or even a person can change. I could ask myself if I am happier now, with the feeling of incompleteness gone. Would I take it all back? The truth—not the fantasy—is that it doesn’t matter.
This is my life now.
CHAPTER 1
When I was little, I called them the “Creeps”. When the creeps invaded, the feelings and the accompanying noise inside my head seemed to wrap their way throughout every cell. The sensation would begin at the back of my neck, and then move from the edges of my fingers and toes. It would crawl its way up my limbs, sometimes a flutter, sometimes a twitch, and if ignored, it could overpower me for days. Once I spent a week in near catatonic shock. So, eventually dealing with the creeps became commonplace and typically started with:
Me: “The creeps are back.”
My brother, Elgar, who I called “El”: “Ok let’s get started.”
From there, we would work our way through El’s patented “Creeps Remedies”.
Sometimes the remedy was as simple as reciting the digits of Pi. I can still picture him patiently saying, “The numbers don’t change, Luna. They stay constant regardless. If you can remember 15 digits, there’s no reason you can’t remember 16. So let’s do it again. 3.14159...” If this didn’t work, we would move on to more exercises—sometimes mental, other times physical. He would work with me until I felt balanced again. Now I know that these were just common tools for dealing with anxiety, OCD, and other run-of-the-mill social disorders. But when I was little, they were a refuge for problems that seemed to only affect me, with causes unknown.
On this particular night, it was easier to pretend that my current problem was Wes, the manager of a club where I had a regular DJ gig. There was something instinctive about the way that we clashed. Although I tried to ignore him as much as possible, every interaction with him left a visceral and negative footprint.
So, it was easy to transfer my growing anxiety to Wes and his mere existence. I felt comfort in cataloging and plotting all the mock ways I could kill him. I started my list while I deftly tugged and pulled my hair into miniature buns across my whole head. My ideas were simple but, I reasoned, effective:
1. Make him shower more than once a week
2. Force sobriety for more than 12 hours
3. Donate just one cent of his earnings to charity
My problem solving was interrupted by a familiar voice. “It’s not your hair’s fault you agreed to this gig rather than celebrate your birthday,” he said. “Don’t you think that spray-in dye you use is punishment enough?”
Shifting my eyes, I saw my brother’s reflection on the left hand side of my mirror. He was leaning slightly against the doorway of my room. I knew he wouldn’t come any further. He was always considerate of my space. Since I was ten years old it had just been the two of us and we had a near perfect waltz after sharing a house together for eleven years.
I tried to meet his eyes in the mirror with a hard stare, but as usual, El’s mere presence diffused any tension I felt, sardonic or not. So instead, I let out a very ungraceful snort and made sure to spray the newest bun with even more blue hair dye.
“You know I always go incognito when I play.” I said with mock offense. “I don’t want any of my so-called fans to recognize me on the street.”
As I rolled the final bun, one of about 10 that now haloed my head, I glanced back at him. His smirk was gone, replaced with a disapproving frown that showed all of the tension he was trying so hard to hide.
“You don’t have to agree to this gig just to avoid me, Luna. No need to make up an excuse. I know we typically see her on your birthday...” he began.
As I continued to gather my things, he took my silence as an invitation to continue. “If it’s too much—I get that. I was really hoping to hang out, you know, after we got a little work in?”
I groaned. All joking was lost. I was so caught up in myself I forgot that I was dropping the ball on him. He cut me off before I could roll out a flimsy excuse.
“I don’t care about the work, Lu.” His voice grew softer, “Admittedly I had the ridiculous notion that you and I could actually talk about seeing her today. You know, like normal human beings.” He curled his hands into fists and put them on top of his head to make mock hair buns. “You know, El,” he said in an overly screechy, high pitched voice, “I don't think I'll go with you to see mom this year. I have carefully cataloged and reviewed a list of pros and cons and I think I might take a year off from the mamma-drama.”
Trying not to laugh, I pretended like I wasn’t listening and started cleaning up my hair and makeup supplies. But he knew I wasn’t missing a minute of it.
Dropping his hands and placing them on his hips, chest puffed out, he continued with an overly deep voice that exaggerated every syllable, “Sure Sis, I understand. Thanks for discussing it with me. I already figured that out since you evaded the subject every single time I tried to bring it up this year. But thanks for talking it through.”
I hugged my bag against my chest as I watched his little play unfold. A smiled tugged at my lips even though I wanted nothing more than to escape this conversation.
“It’s obvious that you don’t know any normal human beings,” I said dryly. “I am pretty sure that was a scene from a car or insurance commercial.”
Before he could continue I shook my head and resumed packing. Since this wasn’t a planned gig, my pile of extra clothes and gear were just thrown on my bed. They were as unorganized as my thoughts. “I know it’s not my regular night,” I told him, “but Wes kept talking about ‘capitalizing on my 15 minutes of fame’ although I am pretty sure he doesn’t understand what the word capitalize means. I know for sure he can’t spell it.”
I looked up hoping that this would at least make him smile, but he just stared back at me. His blue eyes, lined with worry, were the only thing that came close to showing his age. His brown thick hair was askew and as usual—much like mine—his clothes hung off his lanky frame. Once someone described us as water reeds, because of our dark mop of hair that topped off our lean, angular bodies. But that’s where the similarities ended. His blue steel eyes and pale skin were in direct contrast to my green eyes and olive skin.
I brushed past him, trying not to make eye contact, and walked down the adjacent hall. “So, according to slimy club manager logic, I should be as visible as possible. And surprise, unadvertised shows are the best way to generate attention.”
The first time Wes set me up to work an impromptu gig, I threatened bodily harm. Now I was using his words as my defense? El wasn’t having it either.
“Since when do you agree with Wes?” El asked. “And since when are you trying to get attention? I thought we had an understanding about what generating attention could lead to...”
“Yes, El. I know, ok?” My voice was starting to shake with emotion that I was trying hard to control. I stopped halfway down the hall and turned around. “Why do you think I go to such lengths to hide behind this look?” I said, waving my hands from top to bottom.
My clothes, much like my hair, were carefully designed to cause a distraction. My custom made outfit cost more than some people’s first car. Tight and cut out in all the right places, it was a one piece and made out of the softest black leather money could buy. Getting into it took some practice, since it had one zipper that started at my right foot and ended at my left collar bone. It definitely generated a lot of attention—preferably away from my face. But it was effective in distracting anyone from really seeing, well...me. I took one last glance in a nearby mirror. I was always surprised at the woman who looked back when I was dressed and ready for a set. My green eyes were exaggerated thanks to the dramatic makeup, which was the final compliment to my overall look. The effect was so far from how I preferred to appear that I might as well have worn a mask.
“You know I need the music and I am always careful,” I continued quickly, “Anyway, I don’t have another gig scheduled for two weeks. I’ll make up for it. We won’t fall behind.”
I turned and started walking again, trying to keep my breath even. I hated what she did to us. She was the only conflict we couldn’t resolve together.
“You know that’s not it, Luna.” El said disapprovingly, following me as I made my way to the door. I could hear him dragging his fingers across both sides of the hallway. I knew if I turned around I would see his arms back and stretched across the hall with his head hung slightly over. It was how he walked when he was working out any problem. “The work is always there. I just…”
His pause spoke more than his words. There wasn’t anything left for him to say. Neither of us wanted to come clean and actually speak the words, but the choice was made: I wasn’t going.
I stopped at the door that lead into our brownstone’s central foyer and typed a code into the keypad, pausing for just for a half second to remember the date. Then with a laugh I shook my head at the idea that I had to remember it—it was my birthday after all. But since the code changed daily and was related to the current date, it was second nature to pause and confirm the number.
“Listen, we’ll celebrate tomorrow, ok? I will be 21 for another 364 days.” I said, passing through the open door as I tied my trench coat belt around my waist. “And I’m sorry about today. I’m sorry you have to go alone.”
“It’s not that, Luna,” El began.
“I know,” I said cutting him off. “I just don’t feel like spending my birthday wondering if my mother is going to try and kill me,”As the door closed I gave him one last look, turned back around and finished with a whisper, ”yet again”.
CHAPTER 2
It was the type of day that justified every cheesy movie and platitude associated with autumn in New York, or in this case, Brooklyn. As I closed the outside door behind me, the tangible expressions of fall were everywhere. The chill in the air was perfect; I welcomed its nip on my exposed skin. The noise of tumbling, dried leaves swirling into mini tornadoes at my feet complemented the city’s natural hum. Smoke from fireplaces, being burned for the first time in two seasons, filled the air. The memory of how seasonal pears tasted made my stomach constrict from need. I lifted my trench coat collar, put on my aviator sunglasses and tried to focus on the environment and its sensations instead of the conversation I had just escaped.
Out of habit I involuntarily took in my surroundings and cataloged every person walking by. When I was younger, El used to tell me that the brain was a muscle and if I stopped using it, it would become weak. “Memories can only be made by seeing the whole picture.”
He always emphasized that memories weren’t one-dimensional. ’It’s not just what you see. It’s what’s happening in your mind when you see it.” Walks to the store would conclude with painstaking quizzes, “What color was the collar of the dog being walked by the woman in the red dress?” “What did you smell when we walked next to the man in the bowler hat?” He also quizzed me on what was happening contextually. Weeks after something happened he would quiz me, “Remember when we went to the skate park and that kid broke his leg? What size earthquake hit Indonesia that afternoon?” Whatever his purpose, it worked. I involuntarily take note of everything and, in his defense, I have a pretty phenomenal memory.
While I walked, I pushed away the memory of the exchanges I had with El concerning my mother. Same argument. Same awkward pleadings from El, “When I am with her, alone, she is different and only speaks of you. Of protecting you. Of making sure everything is ok for you..”
My thumb obsessively rubbed against the glasses in my pocket, proving again that they were my adult version of a baby blanket. They were my prized possession. Just thinking about the day I found them in a middle-of-nowhere flea market in Wyoming calms me. It was one of the last days I spent with my grandmother and when I proudly held them up for her to see, she cocked her head slightly, but didn’t question why a nine year old would want used welders glasses. At the time they didn’t fit, the rusty nose guard was meant for a man’s face, not a child’s upturned pug nose. But now they fit perfectly and have been scrubbed clean and framed with small LED chips that light up in the night. I also outfitted them with special lenses that diffuse light, allowing me to see better when in the dark club atmosphere. Functional and (in my opinion) uniquely fashionable. They were the perfect addition to my incognito DJ ensemble and I refused to play without them.
But their bumpy exterior couldn’t calm the feeling of guilt that washed over me from my conversation with El. Apparently, even at twenty-one, I was incapable of handling a mature conversation about our mother. I physically shuddered thinking about how a phone call from Wes, truly the creepiest dil-hole on the planet, had given me a sense of relief.
“Hey Moon-Beam” Of course he started off using a nickname that I have told him will someday force me to destroy him. “I need you tonight. Big crowd coming and I want to give them our little super star!”
Usually my response would have been a verbal assault, but he was giving me the out that I craved.
“I am sure you are busy tonight with nerd-duties” he continued, “but dungeons and dragons can wait.”
I cursed the day that I told him that I did some freelance software and web development with my brother. I was caught off-guard—something that rarely happened and will never happen again. A bartender named “Rick” from the club, whom I later dealt with, followed me home. It had been a long set and I failed to notice him walking behind me. It wasn’t until I was going up the steps to our house that he stopped me and asked if I would invite him in for a drink, or breakfast (it was 6 am). I rebuffed him instantly, which apparently bruised his ego. When I returned to the club the next week, thanks to his big mouth, everyone wanted to know how I was able to live in a brownstone in what was known to be one of the more expensive streets in Brooklyn. In an attempt to explain my address, I told them that in addition to being a professor, my brother had a side business. Together we hacked into companies’ security systems to ensure their reliability (the best lie is close to the truth). Despite his limited vocabulary and brain capacity, this was enough ammunition for Wes to come up with endless “nerdy little rich girl” insults and innuendos.
Since then, I don’t feel compelled to disclose anything about my life. Wes’ endless jokes actually prevented me from having to comment anyway. His version of my life has become my story and I am perfectly happy with that. If it weren’t for the music, I wouldn’t even bother putting up with it. But this club was like all the others. So I focused on my sets and remembered that music was my escape, especially on nights like this one.
As I continued down the street, I tried to distract myself from my real issues by obsessing over how much I hated Wes. It wasn’t working. My mother—or rather the image of her sitting in an institution 25 miles away—kept creeping into my head.
Waiting at a crosswalk, I closed my eyes and tried to focus on the sounds and smells around me, but I could only see dark hallways that reeked of antiseptic and institution. Blazing horns and the sound of wind whipping around city pathways couldn’t distract me from the sound of heels, breaking the silence inside laminate hallways. Whereas most people got cake and candles every year, that sound was the only consistent memory I had from previous birthdays. When I was a child I would spend hours picking out my shoes before visiting my mother. I hated the way hard-soled shoes would sound. While I was still young and still could get away with childish whims, I would stretch each leg from one square to the other, hoping that fewer strides meant less noise. It was a useless attempt, I couldn’t ignore the raw sights and sounds of that horrible place. Which is why this year I gave up and spent my energy getting out of the visit all together.
Mercifully my thoughts were broken by a fellow pedestrian who couldn’t spare a half second and bumped into me when the light changed.
As I reached the club’s basement employee entrance, I took in the quiet and sense of calm. Two hours from now the whole infrastructure would pulsate and beat against the music that I would create. I was filled with anticipation knowing that I would soon disrupt this stillness.
With my hand on the door handle I turned my back against the door and muttered under my breath, “Sixty seconds, Luna. You get sixty seconds to feel sorry for yourself and then you have to get over it.”
I set my watch to count down from sixty and immediately a feeling of guilt washed over me as I pictured El walking down those dank, poorly lit hallways alone.
….57 seconds.
The last time I saw her, she was smaller; even more frail than the year before. One year El suggested that we pick another day to see her, allowing me to actually celebrate my birthday. But it was her birthday too.
….49 seconds
I didn’t want to think of the year before. Instead I thought of my favorite picture of her. In the picture, she’s young and unaffected, on her knees bear-hugging El with one arm. I was a toddler, barely walking. Her other arm looks as though it’s about to stretch out to me and take me into a similar bear hug. It looked as though someone just said something funny, because her head is back, with her mouth relaxed and open in a laugh. What’s so profoundly moving about this picture is how unfamiliar that woman is to me now. Her joy was so tangible and seems to spread to every person in the room.
…..35 seconds
But that isn’t the only mystery behind this picture. Upon careful inspection it’s clear that it could have only been taken by someone who really loved her. The intention is clear: She is the only focus of the picture and it’s obvious that she didn’t know or expect a picture to be taken. The purpose—so perfectly achieved—was to capture her in that moment. Although I couldn't remember the day this picture was taken or what it was like to see her that happy, the real mystery was the photographer. Who loved her—at that moment—enough to capture it? Well, thanks to photo software that allowed me to crop, sharpen and examine the figure that was reflected in a nearby mirror, the picture also provides me with the one and only image I have of my father together with my mother.
…..14 seconds
I cringed thinking of El’s pleadings after our last visit. Unlike me, he visited more than once a year and claimed that she only spoke of me whenever he visited her alone.
His pleadings were usually met with a snarky response from me. “Well El, when I am with her, we don’t talk much. Usually I am just trying to unwrap her fingers from their death grip around my neck.”
…..7 seconds
I hated how she made me feel like the bad seed; the selfish child who wouldn’t rise above the pain. That wasn’t entirely true. I wanted to love the woman that I remembered. But, time was separating me from the mother I knew as a child and the growing distance made that woman feel like a figment of my imagination. Meanwhile my throat still felt constricted against her hold and my heart had never defrosted from her tangible hate on that fateful night.
I clenched and unclenched my hands while I shook my head. Why should I feel guilty? I wasn’t the murderer.
She was.
….0 seconds.
Opening the door, I knew temporarily solace awaited on the other side. With music, I could feel everything and nothing at the same time. The unknown could become the absolute and all questions were temporarily answered.
Now that the 60 seconds were over I could finally disengage from the guilt.
Enough. It was time to focus on the music.
------
H. Kroll Smith
Bio
I am a commercial energy consultant. For over 15 years I have worked in the efficiency industry to help design and implement programs that reduce energy. I have a BA in Political Science and live in Florida. I am married with two children and have always been an avid and critical reader.
Title: Dichotomy 7
Genre/Age Range: Sci-Fi/Fantasy/YA; age 14 –
Word Count: + 68,500
Synopsis/Hook
Dichotomy 7 is about a 21 year old woman named Luna. Luna is confident, fiercely independent and brilliant. She has always known her life was extra-ordinary, but believed that its uniqueness began and ended with her small family and the reclusive world they created for themselves. But one night, she meets a woman who looks exactly like her; not just a twin, but an exact carbon copy. She is then abducted, thrust into an unknown world and challenged to reinterpret everything she knows about herself, her family and humanity in general. As she unravels the mysteries of her family’s past, she must fight to regain control of her future without knowing whom or what she can trust.
I envision Dichotomy 7 as one book in an eight book series. Although this would be a massive undertaking, I have outlined a story line that would keep a reader engaged for eight books. I just finished a first draft this spring and would love to work with an editor to see this story through to fruition. I would be happy to share a more detailed synopsis or full draft if the reviewer is curious after reading my initial submission.
Why is it a good fit?
I think we are ready for a female heroine who doesn’t rely on others to unlock her full potential or play the victim, but is still beautifully human.