The potent smell of unbathed bodies filled the rowdy tavern, covering the sweet scent of mead that lingered in Dennis's empty mug. Once more, the persistent nudge urged him to look over his shoulder, and once more he ignored it. They wouldn't come looking for him in a place like this.

Drunks at the surrounding tables whistled as barmaids refilled their drinks. The sound was mildly distracting, but more distracting was their constant laughter and crude jesting.

Rubbing the pad of his thumb in small, deliberate circles over one of his worn cards, Dennis eyed the five other players calmly. Maybe even slightly arrogantly. With a smooth smirk, he tossed in a couple denarii. A round of slight gasps came from their onlookers, and the other players eyed him with disdain.

"There's more where that came from, gents." Dennis's delicate accent contradicted his sly, and slightly, wicked smirk.

More denarii tinkled as a large man with a red beard tossed in more denarii. "We know," he growled. His dark eyes pierced Dennis, and his thick fingers seemed to tighten around his cards. Hands like those could squeeze the life out of someone. Someone like Dennis.

As the game wore on, Dennis had earned himself several more glowers, and the urge to flee rose within him. But he was no coward. If he was going to win the game, he would. If he was going to get pummeled for it afterward, he would do that too.

*Outside the Tavern after the Game was Won*

"Fair and square!" Dennis insisted for the tenth time. "I won, fair and square!"

Without warning, the red-haired brute from the game slammed Dennis against the grimy wall and punched him in the gut. Several other losers snickered in delight, taking pleasure in the wheeze the punch pulled from Dennis.

"Come on," Dennis moaned. "It was a fair game." Sweat caused from the blistering, afternoon sun burned his eyes and soaked his finely woven tunic. It would have to be washed. Or completely replaced depending on how the next few minutes went. "There is no need for this. I won fairly."

Another punch to the gut. It took all of Dennis's self-control not to vomit. The last thing he needed to do was humiliate himself further. If it hadn't been for the hand pinning him to the wall, he'd have collapsed.

The brute's lip twitched with despise and his eyes bore deeply into Dennis's with cold bitterness. "You don't belong here, boy."

Dennis's heart hardened. He'd never hated his surname more in that moment. "I'm not like them. I belong here."

The man didn't look believing. "If you fall into debt, you call on your petty father to come to your rescue. Likely, the money you used tonight wasn't even yours. When none of what I said is true, then tell me you aren't like your family, rich boy." With a harsh shove, he backed away.

Dennis gave the man a dull look. "I'm not like my family," he stated blandly. "Besides, it's not the money used in the game, it's the player, pal. And you're just a really bad player."

Getting pummeled wasn't fun unless one deserved it. Insulting this idiot seemed to be the only way to make things more enjoyable.

Before the predicted fist could come flying for his face, someone cleared their throat. "What goes on here?"

Not him. Dennis cringed. Anyone but him.

"Ah, another rich boy," the brute sneered. "Here to rescue your pathetic brother, are you?"

Pathetic? Not charming or very likeable? Crud. Arrogant would've also worked.

Dennis turned slightly, getting a glimpse of his exalted eldest brother. "What are you doing here, Sam?"

Samuel ignored Dennis and leaned his muscled shoulder against the crumbling wall. His serious face rarely smiled, but a faint smile pulled at his mouth. "Go ahead and finish here, I'll carry him home when you're done."

Dennis turned back to the brute with a nervous chuckle. "He's jesting."

Popping his knuckles, the red-haired nightmare grinned. "We'll be done momentarily."

Wonderful. This would be quick, and his dashing features would likely be marred.

An ugly fist came flying for his nose and Dennis braced for impact. Why did it always have to be the nose?

*Back Home*

"You didn't have to do that," Dennis muttered. Wincing, he pinched a towel to his nose.

Samuel was lounging on the sofa in the common room, while Dennis limped before the furnace in an attempt at pacing. "I didn't lie to him, Dennis. You were in the city testifying what you believe." He was gazing into the flickering flames and their shadowless fingers danced light across his stern features.

"Testifying what I believe?" The words were muttered as he tossed them around in his head, but he wasn't focusing on them. What the bearded man had said sparked something inside Dennis. He didn't want to be lumped with his father everywhere he went. He wanted more than what was offered here. The pleasures of the world called to him. What would it be like to gamble without worrying he was doing wrong? He supposed it was freedom he wanted.

The thick, wooden doors opened silently, and five young men bombarded the room like a pack of hyenas.

"Good, you're alive."

"Dennis! What happened?"

"What did you do to yourself?"

"Goodness me! You've got to know to use your words, kid!"

"Tell me you didn't start another fight."

Dennis waited patiently for his elder brothers to all get a word in. He tossed the towel down and faced them. Each one visibly winced as they got a look at the blackened eye and crooked nose.

"You started another fight," Remus, the second eldest, said dully. His weathered hands were placed on his hips, and he stood as though he thought himself in charge.

Anger spiked through Dennis at his brother's quick assumptions, and he glared, then winced as the motion shifted the bruised muscles. "I didn't start that blasted fight!" he roared. "I won that-" His clamped his lips and cringed. It wasn't the first time he'd slipped, but he knew he wouldn't be able to cover this one with a lie. Not one that was believable, that is.

Silence overtook the room as it dawned on each of the room's occupants.

"You were gambling," they said in sync. Their faces were crestfallen. Horror, sorrow and something else shone in their eyes.

As usual, Samuel said nothing to confirm even though he knew exactly what Dennis had been doing for the past few months. Letting Dennis sort out his own problems seemed to be a hobby of his. Even if it meant letting the baby of the family get his nose broken and his eye blackened.

Dennis could take it no more. His glare turned hateful, and he wanted to smack the looks of shame off their faces. "Like you all are so perfect! I just want a life! A normal life. This place does nothing but drag me down! You all do nothing but drag me down." His last words came out in a near snarl. His bitterness stunned him slightly. It stunned his brothers too, from the looks on their faces. They stood in shock, as if Dennis had slapped them in the face. Even Sam looked hurt.

Remus swallowed, opened his mouth. "Dennis," he said softly, as if approaching an injured fawn.

But he wasn't an injured fawn. He was a young man yearning for a freedom outside of his father's walls and rules.

Before Remus could say another word, Dennis stalked out of the room. It was time he started living his life. When he reached his chambers, he started packing his bags. He didn't take much. Just denarii, a bar of soap and a change of clothes.

He was out the window before anyone knew to look for him.

As he tore down the road to the city and away from his father's land, Dennis didn't look back.

*Two Days Later*

The high sun beat against the city like an angry overseer. But the heat didn't bother Dennis, because he no longer had to work in it.

A beautiful servant girl came to him and refilled his wine goblet. Most men in the quiet tavern let their eyes linger on her. The first day Dennis had done the very thing, had maybe even been looking forward to playing with the dame's hair. Now, the very thought made him so sick he thought he'd vomit up his wine. Though he was away from his father's home, everything he'd learned from a young age still clung to him like a briar.

The tavern door swung open, and Dennis squirmed in his seat. Oh dear. The brute who'd given him the lashing stepped in.

Brutish scanned the room and his hard eyes instantly landed on Dennis. His lip lifted in a sneer. Dennis contemplated on running for his life, but he refused. He wasn't a coward. If the man wanted to give him another lashing, he'd take it like a man. A man who was terrible at defending himself.

The brute moved toward Dennis in sturdy steps. No swagger, no intimidating saunter, just solid footfalls that managed to scare the living daylights out of Dennis.

"What are you doing here, boy?" the man asked gruffly. "You aren't looking for another fight, are you?" He took a seat without asking.

Dennis took a sip from his goblet. "Only if you're looking for another game to lose."

Faint amusement flashed through the man's eyes. "I've never seen you here before."

"That's because I've never been here before now." Dennis picked at the smooth table, trying terribly hard to find a splinter that would wake him from this nightmare.

"Do you think this is somewhere you belong?" His tone was demeaning, and implied he knew exactly the kind of standards Dennis grew up with.

"I figured this place is better than the streets." He winced as he found the splinter. Unfortunately, he didn't wake up.

In confusion, the man's eyes narrowed. "Streets?" In shocked Dennis to hear the slight concern lining the man's voice.

Dennis gulped the last of his wine down. "I left home, ruffian. I told you, I don't belong there." He nearly slammed the goblet down in his attempt at setting it down gently.

A short chuckle escaped the man. "It's actually Ren. But you were close, both start with R." He rubbed his jaw in thought. "Didn't think you had it in you, honestly, rich boy. Seeing as how you had the guts to do it, how 'bout I show you a bit of the city someone like yourself has never been."

A smile curled at Dennis's mouth. "You'd be willing to help someone like me?" He waved the barmaid away as she attempted to refill his goblet.

Ren smirked. "You mean someone homeless? Of course." His eyes twinkled. "Come on. We've a lot of places to see."

Dennis didn't move at first. His stomach tightened to think of the places he wasn't about to enter. But this is what he wanted. This is the freedom he'd been seeking. He pushed out of his seat, watching the ground sway beneath his feet. "Lead the way, Ren."

Ren let out a burly laugh. "How much wine did you drink?"

Dennis rubbed his temples. "I've been here two days, and wine is the only thing they serve. What do you think?"

Ren stood and came around, looping his arm under Dennis's arms. "Let's find you some food, then. The only places you know how to find are taverns."

*The Following Night*

After meeting several people Ren knew, Dennis felt he'd made the right decision coming to the city. Surprising enough, it hadn't been his money or his statis that had caused people to dislike him. It had been his cockiness and his unwillingness to take responsibility. Now that they knew he was trying to fend for himself without his father's money, they readily took him in.

Low snores filled the room Dennis was staying in. He wasn't accustomed to sleeping with so much noise surrounding him. But he didn't mind. It was... exhilarating. Living life on the edge was so much more than he could've imagined. There were no rules. Though, his bag of denarii was noticeably lighter than when he first began. He was sure it would all work out. He could find a job. Probably.

A low creak came from the door as it opened. A dark form slipped into the room and the door shut just as quickly. Nimbly, the form stepped over the sleeping lumps scattered across the floor. Dennis squinted his eyes to try to see better, but the room was too dark. Before he could move out of the way, the form stepped on him. With a surprised gasp, they jumped back.

"Hey!" she snapped. "You're in my spot." Her voice was husky and rough. Never before had Dennis encountered a woman who trampled over a man's authority. But from the tone she was using he guessed it was something this one did quite often. He couldn't bring himself to dislike it.

"My apologies," Dennis said smoothly, watching as her form went rigid, likely because she noticed his accent. "There is plenty of room, allow me to find someplace else to lie." He gathered his mat and slid it across the floor near a snoring man with a large belly.

The woman said nothing as she reclaimed her spot. Dennis could feel her eyes digging into him. With hate or curiosity, he couldn't tell.

*The Following Day*

"You sleep a lot."

Dennis slowly opened his eyes, wincing as light seared painfully across his vision. "I'm also awake a lot. I don't like having one without the other." His voice was groggy. He rolled over and sat up, surprised to see the room empty save for a woman standing at his feet. "Who are you?" he asked.

Her hazel eyes scanned him curiously, and he noticed the feint hint of amusement. "Ren's sister. He won't be back until the full moon. I'm to be your guide and protector."

Dennis's eyebrows slowly rose. "Protector?"

She smirked. "Ren said you have the tendency to run your mouth in the wrong areas. Your bruised skin is a testament to that." Again, that amusement filled her eyes. "Let's break our fast and get on with our day. Ren wants me to take you to the heart of our city."

Dennis was on his feet in an instant. "The heart of the city! That sounds exciting." He grinned. Her mouth turned up in a sly manner and suddenly, Dennis grew slightly concerned. "That sounds exciting, right?"

*In The Heart Of The City*

The heart of the city wasn't what Dennis was expecting. It was loud and full of exotic colors. Bright banners hung from every wall, piles of spices filled bins, dried herbs were bound in thick bundles, and laughter bubbled from everyone's lips. But the most exciting part was the two wrestling men in a small dust pit. Those cheering and taking bets surrounded them.

"What..." Dennis's eyes were wide. "What is that they're doing?"

The woman's arms hung loosely like the scarf around her neck. "It's a less bloody version of the Gladiator Games." Her grin was broad. "Ren thinks you'd be good at it."

Dennis's stomach dropped. "He what?"

She chuckled, gazing at the two sweaty men pounding each other's faces. "He says you don't run. And besides, you need a way to make a living if you aren't going to rely on your father."

Dennis suddenly didn't like the heart of the city. "I don't run because I'm a really bad runner," he hissed. "Fighting isn't my forte. Ask Ren."

She laughed. "He didn't say you should do it, Dennis! Goodness no. You'd be dead before the fight was over. He just thought you could eventually be good at it." She winked. "We're here for that." Dennis followed her gaze to a quieter area where several men sat under a canopy around a table.

His stomach churned with greed. That was something he was good at. "I do know how to play a good game," he mused.

The woman nodded. "Ren said as much. If you can watch your mouth, he thinks you could be good at it. I'm here to make sure you do. And if you don't, smooth things out with diplomacy."

Dennis made a face. "Diplomacy is overrated."

"Come on," she said. "We can get in in on the next game."

Dennis grinned. This would be too easy. It wouldn't even be working. No sweat, no muscle aches, but lots of money.

Once the game was over, the next one began, and Dennis was able to get in. He placed his money down and he was given his cards. His fingers tingled as he scanned his cards. He won, of course. And he won every other game after that. His name was spread through the city because of his skill. Dennis liked that.

The more known he became, the more he was invited to certain places that made his stomach churn. Each time he turned down the invitations. People thought it was because he was scared, and that he was still a boy, but it wasn't that. Gambling was one thing, but he couldn't defile himself. The more invitations he turned down, the less games he managed to get into. They didn't want a nonchalant player who didn't "play". Maybe his father had rubbed off on him too much. And for once, he wasn't entirely ashamed of that.

*A Month Later*

Dirty and unfed, Dennis sat in the streets of the city tempted to eat the leather of his sandles. He hadn't eaten but what little scraps people tossed to him. When Ren had returned to find Dennis's reputation "dirtied", he was forced to keep away from him. As was Ren's sister. Which was quite a shame. Dennis happened to like her a lot.

A low growl from his stomach reminded Dennis just how hungry he was. Maybe he'd made a mistake leaving home. What was so bad about having high morals and hard work? Living on his father's land had never been a bad thing. Now surely his father never wanted to see him again. He could imagine how ashamed the man was of his youngest son. Dennis himself was ashamed of how he'd acted. He'd been so ungrateful. His father had given so much, and Dennis had done nothing but throw it all away. He'd practically spat in the man's face.

Such an idiot, Dennis. Stupid, arrogant idiot.

An ache dug into his heart, and it amused Dennis. After all those years thinking he despised them, he missed his brothers. Likely they'd forgotten about him long ago. Probably happy to be rid of him.

"Look mommy, a beggar." A little girl pointed in passing at Dennis. The mother didn't give Dennis a passing glance.

Humiliation burned in Dennis's chest, and he looked away. If his father could see him now. Nothing more than a beggar in a prosperous city.

A pair of leather boots stopped by Dennis. Fancy, well-tailored. The man's garment was expensive.

"It took me awhile to find you."

Dennis froze. That wasn't a snobby noble.

Slowly, as if fearing it was a dream, he looked up. A dream or a nightmare, he wasn't sure. "Father?" Dennis squinted to keep the sun out of his eyes. "What... What are you... What are you doing here?"

His father's kind eyes gazed down on him. "What do you mean by that, son?"

Dennis tried to swallow, but his mouth was too dry to swallow anything. "I've..." He cleared his throat and ended up coughing.

His father bent and offered a canteen of water. "Here, son. Have some water."

Dennis hesitated, feeling so guilty for what he'd done that he let the canteen hang in the air between them. The canteen pressed into his palm and his father uncorked it as well.

"Drink, son." Gentle, full of love and compassion, was his father's voice.

Dennis drank deeply, greedily, until he remembered whose water it was.

"Why did you come here?" Dennis asked, wiping his mouth with his dirty sleeve.

His father's eyes only twinkled, as if he thought it a silly question. "Why wouldn't I?"

Dennis shook his head. "I... I've been so ungrateful. I left home without a word. I've lost all of my savings. And I..." He let his head drop. "Father, I was so ashamed to be associated with you and what you stand for. I just wanted... freedom."

"Hmm. And did you find your freedom, son?"

Dennis looked up. "I could've. But I couldn't..." He clenched his jaw, unable to finish his sentence.

His father nodded in thought. "I understand. And what do you want now?"

Dennis's throat tightened. "Father, would you let me come on as a servant hand? Not even for denarii or a place to sleep, just for food and water."

His father smiled. "A servant hand?" He scoffed with a gentle shake of his head. "Why on earth would I do that?"

Dennis hung his head. He deserved worse. A slap in the face and scorn filled words. "I understand."

"I would never allow my son to work as a servant. You are my son, and though you have your tasks to complete, you won't ever be my servant. You are my heir same as your brothers."

Dennis was confused. "But aren't you ashamed of me? For what I've done?" He dared to look his father in the eye, to search them for truth.

There was no scorn there. Just gentle warmth that radiated his love. "Dennis, even though you ran, you're still my son. You'll always be my son. And though I can't support the life you've chosen for yourself, if you should choice to come home, I'll welcome you with open arms."

Tears pricked Dennis's eyes. "Oh, father. I've been so ungrateful. Can you ever forgive me?"

His father's eyes twinkled. "You were forgiven before you asked." He stood and lent Dennis his hand. "Come, let us go home and feast. Your brothers will be glad to see you again. They've all been worried."

Dennis arched his brow in surprise. "Them, worried?" He scoffed. "I doubt it. I'm sure they're all ready to clobber me."

"True that," his father said. "But they understand you more than you realize."

"How do you mean?" He took his father's hand and stood. Instantly, his father helped support him with his strong arms.

He looked down at Dennis with a strange smile. "They were like you once. Wanting a life outside of the one they were given." He chuckled and led Dennis to two waiting horses. "Why do you think Sam always knew to go to the taverns to find you?"

Dennis's jaw hung open. "You don't mean..."

His father nodded. "I do. I never loved him less because of it. I was just waiting for him to see where he truly belonged." He glanced at Dennis. "Like you, son."

Dennis clasped his father's arm and hugged him tightly. "I don't deserve a father like you. I don't." He sobbed.

Despite the filth that must've been on Dennis, his father hugged him back firmly. "Let's go home, Dennis."

(Author: Hope Robens)

"Paloma. Did you know that's a bird?" He lets out a breath, leaving it hanging in the chilled air between them.

She laughs, the sound forming its own clouds before dissipating. "You think I don't know that?"

He does; everyone knows the meaning and sound of their own name. "Would you fly, if you could?"

She raises her shoulders, her anorak rustling. The wind blows his bangs into his face. "Am I the only one? That can fly?"

He tips his head up and scoffs, boots crunching the snow beneath his feet. The sun is blinding. "You're supposed to say yes. Everyone wants to fly, theoretically."

"What if you're afraid of heights?" She pulls a hand out of her pocket to pull a lock of hair away from her mouth.

"Are you?" Her lips reflect the winter sun, he thinks, in the reflection of her lip gloss.

"Of course I'm not, I'm a bird."

His hand's somewhere near her elbow and she hasn't noticed. She's dipped away from him, further down the road and out of reach. He speeds up and finds her laughing. All the words on his tongue dry up and turn to snowflakes.

She catches one on her tongue.

"Are you going to tell me?" she asks, and his legs freeze up, icicles holding him in place. She stops walking when he does, head cocked to the side.

"Tell you what?" he asks slowly, his breath foggy. She's facing him, and the sun too, and she sparkles in the light.

"If I could fly, would I be the only one? Or could other people do it too?"

Their feet start up in time with each other, slowly pressing their footprints into the road. He glances behind them, just to see the path they've carved in the snow. "No, you're the only one."

She bites her bottom lip, watching the snow fall. He brushes his coat against hers. "Then no, I wouldn't fly."

He shakes his head and laughs. "What? Just because you'd be the only one? But it would be like a superpower!" He wants to knock his arm against hers, or push her playfully, but he burrows his hands into his pockets because the air's too sharp and cold.

"I think--" she looks over at him, and he stops breathing for a second. "--it would be lonely, if I was me and I was the only one up there. I mean, it's probably beautiful and everything, but I'd want to take people with me into the sky, right?"

"Would you take me?" he blurts out, and the cold has gotten to his face, because it's numb. He stops walking, trying to pull warmth from somewhere, staring at her, but being frozen from the inside out. Or outside in.

Snowflakes are in her hair, melty and glittering like stardust, and her cheeks are red from the winter air and her lip glossy mouth keeps outshining the sun and pulling all of his attention.

"Yeah, if you become a bird with me," she laughs, snowflakes on her tongue.

He watches his feet grind into the snow and finds the will to pull them out and make them step forward. They're continuing down the road, hands at their sides, walking, and his hand almost touches hers so many times that the wind knocks them together eventually, knuckle against knuckle and then cold again.

"I'd become a bird with you," he says into the wind. "Paloma." And she smiles.

so that none of you can find me

I walked the snowy roads

of dusty towns

passed by deadbeat drunkards

lizard prostitutes

with tongues so sticky they leave a mark on your soul

I walked barefoot

or wore Chanel boots

took the Louboutins to work

only to realize

I needed a spare key

to the bathroom

I told my lover as we lie in bed

feeling distracted

from the world outside

my fingers tracing his spikes

his spinal cord a mess of broken college sport dreams

and nights spent hugging his dead mother

I'll build a castle

I said

it will be tall

icy

cold

mine

shaped like a busy intern

a horn

not like yours

but something out of a cavernous dream

in the heart of the night

I'll contact J.M. Coetzee

He'll whisper profanity in my ears

I'll laugh and choke on my guitar

spitting beer through the nose

and empty vodka glasses through the thorax

I built a castle

like Elsa

all those Disney girls whose lives were marked by nature

unlike me

I seek nature

but it defies me

resists my charms

I lie in bed at night

alone

or with you

and dream of a boat

where nobody understands the destination

but a ballroom dance

going round and round

like the girl with the broken neck

in the house of Usher

If you spell it backwards

you cast a spell

on your dead lover

to screw him in his sleep

baptism and all

my hands are of your colour,

but I shame to wear a heart so white

- Lady Macbeth, William Shakespeare

Charlie

He stretches slowly, hearing his bones pop with every move, the neck muscles protesting loudly, as he tries to massage the sorest spots. The day was too long and the hour late, nearing ten at night. He was ready to take a break and go to the cafeteria, hoping to fill his stomach, close his eyes for a couple of minutes, and rest, even if just a little - in his profession, even ten minutes of shut-eye were often a blessing. As he heads to get some food, his mind finally lets in all the thoughts that were blocked before, too busy to notice much more than his pilling up responsibilities - furrowing his eyebrows, only now realizing that he had not heard from Nora all day. He thought she would visit, but it was more an assumption than actually being informed about her plans in any way; he just figured that by this time, she would need his help to soothe the voices in her head. He sighs, never in his life expecting to have problems connected to the supernatural, and plans to check his phone after returning from the cafeteria - but in the end never gets there, a strange noise catching his attention instead.

At first, he is willing to dismiss it, being used to the most peculiar noises happening randomly in the hospital, usually in those rare moments when it was quiet enough for anything to break through the multicolored cacophony of sounds filling the walls of the enormous building. But now, the low sounds seemed to stick to him, clinging to the eardrums and vibrating in a way that proved to be nearly impossible to ignore.

Slowly, he tilts his head, curious despite the fatigue and the mercilessly outstretching length of the day. There it was again, as if repeated pounding of something heavy, metallic, and then a faint chilling noise coming from inside the walls. In a slightly wary state, he passes the hallway and walks forward until he reaches the door to the staircase; putting an ear against the metal door and flinches when the familiar sound invites itself once more; the same clatter but more distinct. He starts to feel nauseous as his mind tells him what he already knew but didn't want to comprehend or take in, blocking out the potential consequences. His eyes close for a few moments, some childish part of him hoping that he confused the sounds and the sensation creeping in under his skin, causing the hair on the arms to stand up - but now, his muscles strain in a different way, a strong need for action growing even though the more rational aspect of his personality wants to blame the whole thing on exhaustion. Act. Help. Protect. He grabs the handle on the door and jumps slightly as the sound rings out again, his hold tightening automatically. Someone was shouting down there, and the screams were getting louder, muffled yet much clearer - even though he was sure there were many layers of concrete and metal separating him from the dread that seemed to seep from the underground.

He quickly writes the code in a small alarm box placed on the wall and walks down the stairs; there is no way that the screaming came from the floor above. The only possible place where the sounds could be coming from was the basement of the building. The acoustic there always carried the sounds far; people hearing all sorts of unearthly noises and avoiding going there if possible. However, the employees working there, such as the plumbers and the mechanics - just shrugging it off casually, often being the ones responsible for the racket in the first place.

He keeps going down, and with every passing moment, his pulse rushes faster and faster, heart pounding against the ribcage, footsteps echoing as he goes, all the way down to the boiler room. Passing pipes of all shapes and sizes, searching for the source of the unusual sounds, carefully, taking each step. He looks to the sides, steam very visible even in the faint light available there - sweat appearing on his forehead as the temperature increases, the long-sleeved shirt under the scrubs becoming damp and sticking to the shape of his spine. He listens to his shoes scrape against the floor and feels the adrenaline levels rise, blood pounding in his head with fever. Something tumbles down, and something else breaks, ringing out so loudly that he feels it in his teeth. It sounds heavy - quickly, he moves forward, breaking into a run, passing each door, confused more with every fleeting second.

Again, the scream continues, piercing his ears as he finally recognizes it, blood freezing in his veins, body overwhelmed by fear. Of course, it was her voice all along. How could he not realize this before? Well, maybe he chose not to; the denial set in deep, telling him not to believe his own senses, the possible truth too terrifying to let in. He won't let anything bad happen to her.

Are you sure it's not too late already?

He moves the thought away immediately, not letting it stay, tearing it away from him like a beast that wants to claw into the tender meaty flesh, eagerly ripping it apart piece by piece. Forcing himself to focus only on the task at hand, he finally finds the right door, the only one cracked slightly open, a beam of cold blue silver light slipping out and coloring the floor next to it. He stumbles in and gapes at the scenery with growing disbelief.

There she was, lying on the cement floor, in a space with not enough light to spread out all the shadows away, twisted into a little ball of pain, broken and bent old chairs spread on the ground next to her, strange pieces of red metal thrown all over the room. He looks closer, still confused, trying to take the entire scene in, brain pushing to put the picture together, staring at the metal until the shapes become familiar - smaller fragments of pipes from the central heating system. He nods slowly, noticing bolts to match, lying close to his feet, further confirming his suspicions. A new scream causes a jolt of electricity to curse through his muscles, forcing him to jump back to life and run to her.

But then a voice stops him mid-track, somehow, blocking him almost against his will - like shutting off all the lights in the room, a complete blackout of senses - he thinks absentmindedly as the sudden inability to move vanishes as soon as it appears.

And who might you be?

He looks to the right and notices a calm but slightly irritated man standing in the shadows, wearing a long elegant, grey coat and resting his body weight against a solid-looking, tasteful cane. The bottom of it looks like oak, smooth and expensive, and the top with its carved, animal-shaped head appears to be, made out of bronze. He seems to be around fifty and about 6 foot 1 in height. The man takes a few steps forward, stepping more into the light of the lamp above him - one of the few sources of light in the otherwise dark and unwelcoming space. Charlie gazes up and feels almost magnetic energy surround him, broad shoulders, a strong jaw, and a pair of dark steel blue eyes gazing back at him. The stare is alluring and dominating, dangerous. Like watching an earthquake just before the ground swallows you up - you know you should move, but you're stuck in place.

Another cry breaks through his distracted thoughts, grabbing his attention and causing his chest to tighten painfully.

Nora!

Well, look at who we got here. It seems that little miss Eleonore has found herself a friend.

The man says, partly amused and in part restless, as if he was disturbed in a very ill-manner way by this peculiar intruder to his private game, looking displeased by the additional and unplanned actor on the stage.

Who are you, and what is happening here? What did you do to her? Why is she in pain?

The stranger taps his cane casually a few times against the concrete floor before answering as if lost in thought. Charlie looks distracted for a second at Nora and notices that each sound makes her body jump slightly as if low currents of electricity and light were moving under her skin. He wants to go to her so badly, but the man coughs meaningfully, causing Charlie's eyes to drift back.

I have to admit, I am rather surprised by this small intrusion. You see, dear boy, this one here is very unsociable, and has difficulty finding new friends. But then again, I didn't know her a few years back. I hear that she used to be a life of the party once - though I find it hard to believe. Then again, sins and tragedies have a way of changing people. Don't you agree?

The man continues, not seeming to notice the questions, appearing to be more focused on the sound of his voice, almost mesmerized by it, covering himself in it like a warm velvet shawl. Charlie's hands roll tightly into fists, knuckles growing white, blood beginning to boil. He looks back at her and winces, her body seeming to shrink from the pain, his eyes set desperately on her fragile form. He stares, hypnotized as the light above her head and the darkness around them seem to display her agony as if she was on a stage in some grotesque theater. He notices the blood coating her fingers, leaving deep rusty trails all over the floor, and then shifts his stare to the man standing in the small distance - at his immaculate, clean hands. My hands are of your colour, but I shame to wear a heart so white - the memorable words he read a long time ago ring out in his mind, and he feels anger grow inside him, sizzling. He's ready; ready to move and to do anything, just as long as all of this stops. He shifts forward, but the man blocks him, suddenly standing just inches away; the tension builds between the two, the pressure in the room increasing, thickening the air.

She needs to pay the consequences; a contract has been set in motion, and we have been waiting for more than enough.

What...? No. What in hell are you even talking about? Do you even hear yourself?

She broke the rules, and now the poison is spreading.

The man notices Charlie's eyes widen and enjoys the confusion on his face; all of this was just amusement to him.

Ah, you seem to be surprised by this. I guess she has not told you everything then?

Told me what? What rules, for fuck sake?! What poison?

Ah, manners, dear boy. Temper, temper. It's not polite to curse in front of a lady. Then again, she won't be around for much longer.

Something snaps in him like a rubber band, causing his insides to sting and throb. He plunges for the man and attacks, trying to knock him down and push him out of the way, but the other guy is surprisingly strong - as if he wasn't fighting with one person, but many. He blocks him with just one arm over Charlie's chest, the elbow directed up and pressing beneath his throat, while the other arm leans securely on the cane. The sides of his lips lifting, a crocked razor-sharp smile coloring his face as he towers over him, deeper wrinkles appearing in the corners of his eyes - yet there is a certain tone in his voice that gives him away as it vibrates with growing irritation.

Don't be ridiculous, you fool. You can't stop me or the thing that's happening to her. She knew the consequences, and there's always a price to pay for death. But perhaps this outcome surprised even her.

Charlie's eyes widen, but he doesn't stop - instead, fights with double force, finding a better footing and pushing the man forward - it feels like trying to relocate a bulldozer. But nothing that lunatic had said or done mattered. He only had one focus, and that was her.

You're insane. Get out of the way, old man. Now.

I told you there is no way out for her, no redemption. She took the life of the wrong person, and there was so much more at stake than she could even imagine. Perhaps...

He finally decides to throw Charlie off with a low growl, visibly consternated with the prolonging interference, and then keeps on talking as if there was no battle to begin with, no confrontation. As if this was just for fun, and he was getting rid of a misbehaving child.

Perhaps if she would choose her victim more wisely, this wouldn't even be an issue. Just a life lost, nothing more - but she chose wrong, dealing with powers she could never comprehend or wrap her mind around - too many incompetent people roaming this earth, dear boy, way too many.

He seems so pleased with himself, and it slowly sets Charlie into a state of white, blazing fury that he never suspected himself of. He reaches the man with impressive speed and presses a fist to the side of his perfectly square jaw, the blow sending the guy back with force as he stumbles back and hits the floor with his side; roaring out in rage and spitting-out heavy invectives through his teeth. Yet he doesn't get up at first, instead groans again and pulls out something from underneath his body - a chunk of the red metal from one of the broken pipes - he stays down, the pain and the turmoil recognizable on his face.

There is nothing you can do to stop this, you imbecile. Her faith is already sealed.

He turns his stare from the man and sees her - scraping her nails against the floor, her eyes out of focus, her fingers leaving more bloody trails, strands of hair covered with dust and dirt falling to her face. Too much to see, to bear. He runs to her without thinking, pulling her carefully up to a sitting position, and she screams from the sudden change. He can almost physically feel all of her pain as her body strains. It’s loud, overwhelming, nearly pushing the air out of his lungs. She doesn't look at him, but her body language says it all, shooting a jolt of electricity through his nervous system that terrifies him, blocking out everything else. She is ready to die, here and now, the pain too excruciating to endure - he can feel his throat getting tight, reality blurring out as he experiences something for the very first time in his life - it's unbelievable but true. I feel you, sensing everywhere; in my bloodstream, my bones, under my skin. With all my senses, Nora.

This lasts just a fracture of a second, but it's enough - unexpectedly, without any warning, he knows exactly, what to do, a sense of clarity coming over, his mind made up, something deep in the guts telling him that this would work.

He pulls her up, forcing her to stand up and look at him, waiting until her hazy stare finally meets his, finding something in those weary, lost eyes that makes him lean forward. A strange kind of assurance, growing and bursting in his cells, one by one like multicolored glass; it feels like energy that wants to reach hers, the images of blue and orange light touching filling his mind as he bends down gently. She freezes - the surprise caused by the warm touch; and how close his body is against hers breaking through the chaotic and confused state - his lips pressed against hers, his arms tightening around that bruised, tortured body. Tense at first, her hand pushes against his chest, wanting to pull away, seeming like a wild animal caught in a trap, desperately wanting to break free from the familiar hands that felt like home but now seemed like bars in a too-tight cage.

The energy of the one she lost, nearly tangible and bleeding out of her pores, as he holds her close - things that he cannot explain, happening around them, filling the air and coloring their rushed breaths, constantly shifting, breaking, and flickering.

Once again, she tries to break free from the hold. But after a while, her fingers soften without her wanting or permission, as do his kisses against her lips. Her hands move up, sliding against his neck and grabbing onto his hair, pulling him closer as everything seems to slow down around them. She takes it all in, surprised by how her body reacts to him, how it craves the touch; her senses are on fire, blood sizzling and catching new flames with every breath. It's strong, crumbling, on the verge of overpowering all of her - but for the first time in a very long time, it is not caused by pain. She wraps her other arm around his back, wanting to become one with that blazing white light she feels between them, purifying everything in her that was wounded, broken, and scarred. She feels tears of relief under her eyelids as the strain in her body eases down. Yet her pulse rushes like never before. So many contradicting feelings, like being crushed into dust only to be rebuilt with the softest care.

He separates the kisses now; one, two, free. Softer, kinder, full of... He moves away as she stares at him with wide grey eyes, fearing to take even a single, quivering breath. She lets go of his hair, hand sliding down, fingers barely touching his skin or clothes - as if she might get burned by even the air around them. Slowly, she moves her hands away completely - wrapping her arms tightly around her thin torso. Her mind is stuck now, thoughts going blank, just ringing out silence in her ears. She looks confused. Did that really happen? The question was more than visible on her face.

Are you okay?

Charlie asks gently, focusing only on her state and not what he just did. There was nothing that mattered more at that moment that knowing she was going to be okay. Everything else could wait. She looks around, disoriented as if she did not hear him, moving in different directions, feet dragging against the floor. She stares at the mess everywhere but doesn't really see it, eyes sliding against the fragments of pipes, the ruined chairs, and water leaking from the damaged construction. Did she do that? She moves her hands up and stares at her fingers - they are dirty and covered in blood, filth, and rust. Well, that seems to answer the question. She moves around a couple more times and stumbles on her way. She seems to hear some noise behind her and turns her head that way.

Eleonore?

She looks up at him as if she doesn't recognize who he is, staring at the worried look on his face - the pain visible in his eyes. She blinks, all those emotions running through him, making her snap back into reality, finally regaining some sanity. She stumbles his way and puts her arms around him tightly - then something breaks deep inside of her, and she bursts into tears, pressing the cheek to his chest and burying her face into his clothes, whole body trembling.

I'm so sorry, Charlie.

She croaks out and coughs, her voice hoarse from hours of screaming.

Don't be, please... it's okay.

He murmurs soothingly into her ear, and she trembles again.

What are you even apologizing for?

He asks, whispering the question.

For making you go through this. It's not your battle.

Do you mind if I decide that?

No, no... please don't joke about this. I can't take your light tones, not after... everything.

Nora, I decided this, alright? This was my decision. On the day I met you, I made a conscious choice; to do whatever I can to get you out of this, to help. And I am not backing away now. Are we clear?

He pulls her away from his chest and lifts her chin, making her look up at him. He sees her wet eyes, and something breaks in him as well. He bends down and kisses her softly, just one brief kiss. He looks back at her, watching as her face turns surprised, eyes widening. And somehow, that makes him smile.

That was just to grab your attention. You can relax now and stop digging your nails into my skin... thanks, that's much better. So, are we clear?

She stares at him and feels all the good energy going through her. Like a gold, warm light, slowly filling her up - replacing the freezing, blue one that was there before and that seemed to linger in her since she could remember. She stares at that kind smile of his, and manages, to gradually relax. No longer so awkward and disconnected. She sees him as he really is. Her savior, the protector - and most of all, her friend. A friend that one day started to be a little more.

Yes, clear, even if you're making the wrong choice.

You always need to win the argument, don't you?

He lets go of her and looks at her hands.

We need to clean that up quickly. I don't want you to get an infection...

He starts to say but does not finish, eyes darting somewhere to the background; she stiffens, sensing his tension, and then the realization slowly hits them both. They forgot about something, or more to the point, someone. She turns around. Funny that she could just throw him out of her head like that after everything. They notice him again, standing there, a bewildered expression on his face - no longer on the ground but standing straight, only slightly leaning on his cane. There is no more pain on his face, just curious wonder, and fading anger.

A healer, of course. That explains why you have not visited us yet. I guess Alister failed to tell me some crucial details concerning you, my dear.

He says and stares at them for a few moments. Processing the game changer, which he did not anticipate, with surprising composure and then just leaves, disappearing into the corridor, his cane and the heels of his leather shoes causing surprisingly little sound for such a massive, heavy figure. There was something about his face. It made Charlie think that the strange man was enjoying the new challenge that fell into his lap. He looks down at Nora and finally lets himself breathe out all the tension and weight he had kept on his shoulders until that very moment.

Don't you feel like this day has been long enough?

He asks her in a tired voice.

You have no idea.

___________

When Lady Macbeth returns from Duncan's chamber, she holds out her blood-stained hands and says, “My hands are of your colour, but I shame to wear a heart so white,” claiming that although, she has Duncan's blood on her hands, she feels no guilt.

________

https://theprose.com/post/230936/with-all-my-senses ( the beginning )

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Previous chapters :

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48. https://theprose.com/post/463202/untangling-the-messy-structures-part-2

49. https://theprose.com/post/496088/developing-some-truths

50. https://theprose.com/post/513634/slow-burn

With brightly painted petals, they twist their way through trees. They hang as divine decor against the constant greenery. But be weary; through the passage of time, the trees will wilt. The leaves will perish, and the trunk will be left a grey husk, with only the Wysteria left alive.

They viewed each other surreptitiously from behind their steaming bowls of curry laksa and shared plate of spicy crab rangoons.

She had chosen the sushi place not because it was the hottest new trend in town, not for the ambiance, the lively patrons, or the divine cuisine...none of these attributes interested her. It was the almost nonexistent mood lighting and the inability to hear anything above the constant stream of chatter competing with the amped up volume of Sis and Zero 7 that was the appeal.

With any luck, she and her equally reclusive compadre wouldn't be able to barely see or hear each other all evening.

And after a few rounds of hot sali, they found they were comfortable in the space of each other's silence, and after the last drink shout out, they scrambled dizzily up the fire escape to watch the thunderous sky awash with lightening, and she told him that being with him was just like being alone. He smiled and gripped her tight and agreed to meet again tomorrow night, where they could coexist without having to get to know each other at all.

I have writer's block.

Perhaps I should think in terms of streets, avenues, boulevards, freeways, highways, hyperloops, motherfuckers. Perhaps I should just shut the fuck up and stop thinking. Maybe then my ship will stop sinking. Maybe I shall cease tinkering in the toy factory that is my mind factoring in every plausible fantasy of wordplay. Word?

I just don't know. This petty, puny "kingdom" has been in existence for 8 years, and there's a real chance that desert transforms to oasis. Dinner becomes dessert. The sands of time make us not misplace this misstatement of statehood to transform the hood that is this trunk into something that quite consistently and factually fucks.

But we shall see. Until then, turn the next page of this never-ending story, and taste a bit more glory.

Jack held up the third loaf of bread.

“Did you lose count in your cart?” she smiled. “Sixty is young for your mind to be going.”

“Well, one of them is olive oil and rosemary, and you never know how much toast you’ll want.”

Lindsay studied the kitchen counter.

“We didn’t get the place a toaster yet, did we?” he asked.

Lindsay shook her head, lips pursed in amusement. Jack had known the expression since their first date in college, dinner before Chariots of Fire, though she had smiled that way less often since their daughter and grandchildren had moved across the country. Her look made Jack happy. They had arrived less than four hours ago, but Lindsay had already drawn youth from the lake.

Jack pulled their one skillet from beneath the counter. “Here. We’ll make our toast the old-fashioned way.”

“We? Toaster or not, when was the last time Jack Hamilton made his own toast?”

“I can make toast.” He gestured with the skillet and clanked it down on the burner. “I can rough it.”

“Yes,” Lindsay said, “rough it.” She took his hand like a schoolgirl and led him to Black Dog Landing’s sitting room, where windows ran the length of the cottage. “It’s a hard knock life by the lake.”

From their position on the dividing bluff, Jack and Lindsay could gaze at most of Keuka Lake’s western branch. The first snow had begun falling, large flakes that dissolved in the waves or lay on the wood of their dock. Since the property had become theirs, they had spent just one other night in Black Dog Landing, in October on the closing date. There had been no other time, not until these days between Christmas and the New Year. We should do something, Lindsay had said, after Gina’s family goes home on the 27th. He had asked what, and she had answered, We should go to the lake. He thought the travel would be too much trouble, but the next afternoon, Lindsay had spent hours with photo albums of their old vacations, and Jack relented.

He put his arm around her. “It’s ours,” he said.

“It’s ours.” She squeezed him. “And not just for a week.”

“For good,” he nodded. “For always.”

She chuckled and pointed to the far shore, three-quarters of a mile away. “Remember that house we rented over there, across from the state park? Where the wind picked up the table’s umbrella and shattered the glass.”

“It was further north, but I do. I remember writing an apology and paying the bill, too.”

She leaned in close, putting her head against his chest. “Well, now it’s all ours to break.”

Her reflection in the window appeared young, with her hair dyed its cherished auburn and the light obscuring her gentle wrinkles. Jack looked old beside her. He could no longer call his mustache salted and peppered: it was grey as the thin hair he blamed on office stress. He carried more weight than he should, so that his doctor had begun to mention blood sugar and cholesterol. He could exercise more when he retired next year, or the year after. He would swim from the dock every morning. He and Lindsay would paddle every day from May till October, not just for a stolen week at a rental every half decade or so. He looked to the yard below their second-story deck, where snow whitened the nose of the orange tandem kayak he’d purchased with the house. Long hours and fiscal prudence had yielded rewards: in retirement, the bluff on Keuka Lake would be their home for seven months each year.

“The snow’s really picking up,” Lindsay observed.

“That’s why we have three loaves of bread.”

“It’s a romantic place to be stuck.”

“We won’t be stuck long,” Jack said, “which is why we could come. The temp will hit sixty in two days, and all of it will melt. All eight to ten inches.”

“It’s crazy,” she said, “sixty in December.”

“That’s climate change for you. But it’ll get the road clear.”

“When do they stop maintaining it?”

“The sign says no maintenance November through March. It’s not worth the effort for them to plow the road for these vacation homes on the bluff. Which means you shouldn’t get used to this Christmas getaway.”

“No,” Lindsay said, “but just this once, stuck will be nice.” She pecked his cheek.

“Thank you, Jack.”

#

He woke just before dawn to a strange sound. Several foggy seconds passed before Jack realized it came from Lindsay. She made urgent, speechless groans, and the left side of her face drooped.

#

They had first rented Black Dog Landing 25 years earlier.

“I can’t find the goddamn light switch anywhere,” Jack had said.

“Me neither!” Lindsay laughed.

They had to dine beneath a dark chandelier that first night, until their daughter found the switch. It was on the rail post for the stairs, which they had passed a dozen times.

“Who puts a light switch on a railing?” Gina asked.

“Funny, isn’t it?” Lindsay said. “There are a lot of quirks to these old places.”

“Construction was less standard when these cottages were built,” Jack told their daughter, “and they were only meant for summer homes.”

“What do you mean?”

“Don’t you remember how steep a hill we drove down? A few inches of snow would make it totally impassible. People don’t live here in winter.”

“No, I mean what Mom said, about quirks in old houses. Are there more?”

Lindsay smiled. “We’ll find all the quirks we can, and we’ll know them all when we come back next year.”

But they had not returned the next year because Jack had to prepare for a merger, and then had to train new staff, and then oversee combined departments. Six years elapsed before they returned to Black Dog Landing, so Gina had been 17 instead of 11 and spent much of their vacation on the phone in the kitchen, more interested in calling her boyfriend than exploring.

#

“Lindsay? Lindsay!”

She gripped his wrist and made the same desperate groans. Her left arm dangled uselessly at her side. She was crying.

“Hang on, Linds. Just hang on.” He picked his phone up from the nightstand and dialed 911. It did not ring, and no one picked up. As he hit redial, Jack saw the empty bars and the asterisk showing no signal. He threw off the sheets and dashed to the wifi router in the living room. No lights shined green. Jack groped the dark kitchen wall and picked up the phone, but there was no dial tone, and he left the receiver dangling from its cord to run in his pajamas to the porch.

The snow rose halfway to his shin and buried their Lexus. He could not tell where their yard ended and the road began. He looked left and right for neighbors’ lights but saw none—of course there were none. But two houses over he saw a fallen tree and wires down beneath.

#

Black Dog Landing had not been available during their later vacations on Keuka Lake—he figured a new owner had been less inclined to rent—but five years before their purchase, he and Lindsey had rented a cottage just a few hundred yards down the bluff. Kayaking north, Lindsay chirped, “There it is!”

Jack recognized it immediately. When Lindsay browsed rental property listings along the lake and, less often, when they found the week to stay in one, they still compared the houses to Black Dog Landing.

Lindsay held up her phone. “I’m texting a picture to Gina. I’m asking her if she remembers where the light switch is.”

“It won’t go through, Linds. There’s no signal here.”

“Just sent! We must be out far enough from the bluff.”

They had paddled a while more, until they drifted alongside the beach at Keuka State Park. People of all ages swam. Outside the lifeguarded area, a father and daughter threw a tennis ball into the water for their black lab. Jack and Lindsay drifted and watched for a long time.

“We should come here more often,” Lindsay had said.

#

He wrapped the blanket around his wife’s shoulders and held them. He looked at her nose because he could not bear the fear in her eyes.

“The lines are down, so we have no phone, no wifi and no signal. Even if I dug out the car, we’d never get it up the hill. We have to go on the water.”

Lindsay shook her head.

“We have to, Linds. We have to. When we’re out enough from the bluff we’ll have signal. I can make a call. I can get you to the park. It’s open year-round. Road crews probably already have it clear, and they can have an ambulance waiting. I’ll be back for you as soon as I can.”

She groaned. When he turned back toward her, Lindsay looked at him sadly with her drooping face, as though she expected him to understand. “I’ll be back,” he said, and she did not try again.

The second story deck had sheltered the kayak’s back half. Snow had gotten into the front seat where Lindsay would have to ride, but there was no other choice; the one paddling had to sit in the rear. He gripped the orange plastic and dragged it backward out of the snow. He grunted with the effort of flipping it over, lifted and dropped the nose three times to bang out what snow he could, then flipped the kayak right-side up and pulled out more snow with his hands. He had forgotten gloves inside. With the seat as clear as Jack could make it—he would grab blankets, towels—he hoisted the kayak onto the drifted white and shoved it: the boat slid a couple feet until the nose pushed down into the snow. Jack trudged beside the boat, lifted the front forward, and pushed again.

A few rays of sun emerged from behind the clouds. Flakes drifted lazily from the sky. Lindsay had planned for him to get the fireplace burning while she made coffee, and then they would watch the sunrise together.

He lifted the kayak’s front atop the snow a third time and pushed toward the shore. They could not use the dock: stepping down from it into the boat would be too precarious for Lindsay. He’d help her in on land, then shove the kayak into the water. He’d have to step through the lake to get in, carefully. His feet would be cold but alright because they had to be, but if he dumped Lindsay into the winter water she would never make it.

#

He had never kayaked before college. He had only done it then at Lindsay’s urging.

“It’ll be fun,” she said, “and a trip is a trip,” so he’d ridden in the student activities van with the others to the south end of Keuka Lake. An alumnus who had hauled the kayaks on a trailer gave them lifejackets and brief instructions.

“What if I flip it?” Jack had asked.

“Then you’re wet. Stop worrying,” Lindsay said.

The lake had been calm that day, so after some early wobbles, he avoided overturning. He paddled beside Lindsay for two hours that afternoon. He felt sunburn on the ride back to campus and did not care, and he knew he loved her.

“I haven’t gone for a paddle since camp, when I was a girl,” Lindsay had said. “I forgot how good it feels.”

#

“9-1-1, what’s your emergency?”

“I think my wife’s had a stroke. We need an ambulance.”

“OK, sir. Tell me your name and address.”

“Jack Hamilton, Lindsay is my wife. We’re off West Bluff Drive.”

“Sir, that’s a seasonal road.”

“I know. We got snowed in, but I’m going to get her to Keuka State Park.”

“How are you transporting her?”

“We’re in a kayak.”

“Jesus.”

The snow picked up again and the wind blew it into his face. He looked at Lindsay’s slumping back ahead of him, surrounded by water and gray clouds, bundled in blankets. He had pulled her pink knit cap over her head. “Hello? Are you still there?”

“Yes, sir, I’m here. I’m sending an ambulance to the park. How far away are you?”

He tried to remember. “I think thirty minutes. I’m paddling as fast I can. Maybe less. What about a boat? Is there a rescue?”

“Not at this time of year, but I’ll try, sir. What’s her condition?”

“Lindsay, honey, how you doing?”

He thought he heard a groan. The wind made it impossible to say.

“I don’t know,” he told the operator, “but she can’t speak. I need to keep going. I need my hands.”

“We’ll get you help as soon as we can.”

Jack dropped the phone into his lap. The operator might have said something more but the wind swallowed the sound and it did not matter. He gripped the paddle and resumed churning the water. The kayak was built for two paddlers, but he was not too old to fight. His arms ripped the paddle through the lake, creating little eddies beside the boat. They passed another cottage. He’d had to paddle so far out to find signal that their progress along the shore seemed slow, so making it beyond each building required dozens of hurried strokes. Jack had taken off his coat because its bulk impeded his movement. Each lift of the paddle flung droplets onto his bare arms, freezing pin points atop burning muscles. His feet had burned after he splashed through the water by the shore, but now they had numbed.

“Look at the snow, Linds,” he called. “Look how it falls into the water. If you look close, you might see some of the flakes melt into it.” The burn in his forearms intensified. He did not know how much longer he could sustain the pace. “We only ever came in the summer,” he said, “and not as often as we should have. It’s pretty in winter. You were right about this, Linds. We should have done this all the time. And we will now. We will.”

His burning forearms pulled, and the kayak moved forward. The nose hit a wave at an awkward angle so the water splashed over the nose. “Sorry, Linds,” he called. “Sorry about the splashing. I know your coat’s warm, but I wish I had more blankets.” He fought the acid forming in his muscles and forced the paddle through the water, left then right then left then right. “I wish we had a motorboat,” he said. “I wish a lot of things.”

#

“We could stay a few days. Come on Jack,” Lindsay said. “Live a little.”

“We don’t even have the furniture here yet,” he had said. “We’re sleeping on an air mattress, for God’s sake. I am too old for an air mattress.”

“It’s not that bad.”

“The sofa set won’t be here for another two weeks.”

“So we get some folding chairs,” Lindsay smiled. “We might not have furniture, but we have a lake house, Jack. For real now. What are a few days on an air mattress? Just look at those leaves.”

Gold and red surrounded Keuka Lake. The little cove by their dock reflected the blazing yellow of the maple shading Black Dog Landing, and when a breeze blew past them on the deck, dozens of the tree’s seeds spun their way to the ground and water.

“We could rent a boat,” she said.

“I bought their kayak, you know.”

“And we’re going out for a paddle this afternoon, but I mean a party boat.”

“Party boat?”

“Like my uncle used to own. A pontoon boat. We should buy one. Can you picture Gina and the kids on it, cruising around the lake with us?”

“We’ll see. Maybe after I retire.”

“I know, I know.” She reached her arms around his neck. “But for now, we could still rent one.”

They had driven back the next morning. Jack had to prepare for a meeting.

#

The boat steered directly toward them, and no other vessel was on the water. He pulled harder, though his forearms begged to slacken.

“That’s help, Linds,” he called. The wind had eased, but if she replied he still could not hear it. “See that boat? That’s them. Hold on, honey.” His paddle shoved the water behind them, and the kayak pushed over the waves. Lindsay sat huddled in the blankets and her knitted hat, framed by the lake. Snow fell gently around her.

Jack pulled the paddle through the water, left then right then left then right, each lift spraying more drops than the last as exhaustion eroded his form, but he pulled the paddle through the water and gritted his teeth against the burn.

“Get her in!” someone shouted as the pontoon boat pulled alongside. Two men lifted Lindsay from beneath her arms. Jack could see the state park a hundred or so yards away. He saw a brown pickup with a plow driving through snow, an ambulance trailing behind.

The two men had laid Lindsay on the pontoon boat’s bench. A woman leaned close to her pink knit cap and face, while the man in the navy coat helped Jack aboard. He stumbled so the man had to catch him. “I’m sorry,” Jack said, “I can’t feel my feet.” He fell onto the bench and watched the woman kneeling by Lindsay hold her wrist. She looked at the man in red beside her with widened eyes and shook her head tightly, then stood to begin chest compressions. The man more slowly shook his head, then restarted the motor. The pontoon boat lumbered toward the park while Jack shivered beneath a blanket and tried to understand what it all meant.

The orange tandem kayak drifted behind them in the falling snow. It rose and fell with the waves as their wake and the current slowly carried it toward Black Dog Landing.

###

It has never been easier than in the current moment of uncritical talk to have for all imitation and false knowing the sound of an opinion. Like so many words today, has that one been made into what it does not mean by hateful misuses and a popular revolt against language. An opinion now is a spiritless vapor, an insipid, washable generality, which keeps none of its prior rotundness; a thing once of mass, now emanates like a foul moisture off the imposter’s tongue, as an infant babbling parental notes, who chews on whatever toyish object he happens to crawl over and stick inside his gummy mouth.

We no longer have opinions; not, at least, in that sense whereby some original and creative force of thought is its source. What we have instead are phrases and sentences; those which makes us into the same voluntary recruits of a fundamental mimicry, happy badge-wearers and conscripts of redundancy, who believe their own promotion and speak in favour of their own subjugation.

What we have is political imitation, everywhere and all at once, imposed upon civilian life for the reason to yield and yoke it, to uptake it in its spread, ever watching and ever threatening; a most wicked germ fertilized by those who accept unquestioningly, and who bend fearfully.

It is an accepted fact in America today, that the selfsame state is the world’s preeminent apparatus of terror. Its ‘neo-paternalism’ appropriates entire nations and la dependencia enslaves them; its ‘military-industrial complex’ wages war for profit, while its real-politic is ‘just pretext’ for oil and expansion; and a misreading of its history ensures every possible misery on the earth can be attributed back to its declaration.

In a time when appearance is the ultimate aim of our race, and the disciplined learning of the mind has no place as private employment, nor especially as recreation, do these smart sounding, off-the-shelf notions increase in value for sore souls desperate to cover their essential ignorance under a seeming surface of strong opinion.

It is not that these sentence-arguments are wrong and I should now drive to correct them—my fuller understanding of them is always left—but that among those who know nothing of which they speak, can they be readily recited almost anywhere and counted on to produce little or no opposition. What makes them so appealing and so ripe on the tongue of the Homo Boobien is that they are in the fashion of things an assumed truth, already professed by enough people to no longer bear any risk when spoken, that he or she need not in their accounts know why any of them are so before they can be enjoyed – particularly as acid in the face of the skeptic, but better, as poison for the thoughts of the innocent.

More than this, to hear them, usually in that manner of outrage best suited for their full persuasive effect, and to then ask for an elucidation of their proper case, is to betray oneself at once as a modern idiot, and for which nothing could be worse, an enemy of progressivism. But none who hold these beliefs do as a matter of consistency possess the size and complexity of that knowledge which permits them to do so in the first. It is why they do not discuss, why they never bother assessing themselves of their own convictions in that long interval of self-directed inquiry.

To talk of ‘cultural appropriation’, as an example, is largely an assertion from faith, taken on trust as that cliché already well produced in the mouths of the vast majority. Its application is endless, as all ideas poorly defined, requiring no great talent from its user, like a gun can be fired more or less without instruction, can its wielder be sure to borrow the authority of that phrase in their mere pronouncing it. No one cares for what it is exactly, or how it’s made, they just want a chance to shoot it.

As far as individuality of thought goes, intellectual life has unsurprisingly become absorbed by one long summation of identical sayings; because we have lost the education wanting of our better nature, and we’ve closed ourselves to those faculties against the pleasure of hatred.

All that remains in this age of outcry and manhunt, are our politicized sentences which carry the implicit threat, those which supervise the ‘freeness’ of a conversation, which at all times test allegiance with violence and take mobbing as their final measure; we have set them loose upon civility to hang their punishment above the whole of us.

The human being is now a singularity, of voice and action, politicized of the mind, and roused to violence as that somnambulant figure whose likeness is as a slave. There are phrases, not opinions, as there are sentences instead of arguments, and everything resembling a unique thought has ceased existing by the once-upon-a-time articles of criticism, public discourse, and free speech…Here we go banging on those pillars which hold the entablature of democracy, the pillars that broken cannot be remade.

If I’m delirious, am I mad?

Questions of sanity arise, the psilocybin kicks in and my angst subsides. Although my pain is physical, psychologically I know there is relief. While the physical pain seems to know no end, my mind continues to expand, leading me to the address of the absurd. Where madness reigns supreme and intellectuals enjoy conversations with shadows of the dead. A place where the rhinoceros walks upon the spider’s thread, monkeys lay eggs and peacocks come with their own batteries. Within this altered state of consciousness I peer through the windows of reality as the chaos of perception consumes life.