Tuesday, August 23, 2022

זרימה - סיפור קצרצר

 זה הכל עניין של דופק. כדאי שתהיה התנגדות. שהטרף יהיה מבוהל.

אבל לא יותר מדי מבוהל. לטרף מעולף יש טעם לוואי. איכשהו התוצאה היא מתכתית יותר, אבל בלי מליחות נעימה שמעקצצת על הלשון.

מרדף יכול להוסיף אוממי, אבל יכול גם להיגמר בטרף שחמק. אני אישית מעדיפה שלא להסתכן. אבל זה עניין של טעם. ושל רמת רעב.

חשוב לשמור על שיניים בריאות וחזקות. פצע שטחי מדי יוצר אפקט של קשית חסומה. יצא לי להשתמש בהן לפני הטרנספורמציה שלי, כשחשבתי שאייסקפה זה השיט. ניסיתי גם אחרי, עם מנות בשקית, מהבנק. בעיקר כי התחלתי להתגעגע לטרופיות. לא מומלץ. זה יוצא קצת כמו אורז שהיה במקרר יותר מדי זמן. כמו בסושי. תמיד שנאתי סושי.

אבל הזרימה הכי טובה היא מטרף רווי חיוניות ותקווה. כזה שבאמת יש לו בשביל מה לחיות.

לעולם לא אשכח את הכלה הצעירה, בחדר האחורי הקטן רגע לפני...

אה, רק התקשרת לשאול אם הברז פועל כמו שצריך? כן, זרם סביר ביותר. נראה שהמשאבות פועלות וזה רק אצלכם. תודה על ההתעניינות. ניפגש באסיפת הדיירים מחר בשמונה.

Friday, July 29, 2022

פרח -סיפור קצר

 היא לוקחת את הפרח בלי לחשוב אפילו. באקט אוטומטי של אורח שקוטף גביע שמפניה מהמגש שמוצע לו. היא נושמת בהקלה. זה היה פשוט. עכשיו תגיע המנוחה שהרוויחה ביושר. הקלה.


כשיום טקס הבחירה של לארה התקרב, היא התחילה לחוש חוסר מנוחה קל, בנוסף לציפייה ולהתרגשות שליוו את התקרבות היום אצל חברותיה. בינתיים הספיקו שלוש מהן להגיע לגיל חמישים המיוחל.

שולחן הבראנץ' של יום ראשון בבית הקפה השכונתי שלהן הצטמצם מחגיגה רבת משתתפים של חצי תריסר נשים צוחקות לחבורה קטנה ושקטה של שלוש. מספר גביעי המימוזה לא השתנה. האוויר סביבן היה סמיך מבעבר, הצחקוקים נגועים בנימה של סרקזם מריר. 

הן עדיין חיכו בכיליון עיניים לתורן להגיע לגיל הפרישה, אבל עכשיו התקווה הייתה מהולה בפחד. אף אחת לא רצתה להיות האחרונה שתישאר. והייתה גם שאלת בני ובנות הזוג - איך ידעו לבחור נכון את היעד, כך שיתאחדו איתם שוב? 

עבור אניקה זו לא הייתה בעיה. היא התחתנה מכוח האינרציה עם בחור שהכירה בתכנית שידוכים שהייתה משודרת פעם בערוץ הבידור - לפני שהממשלה הפכה אותו לערוץ שיחות המוטיבציה כדי להגדיל את רמת השמחה של האוכלוסייה. תוכניות ריאליטי לסוגיהן התחלפו בתוכניות דוקומנטריות המתעדות סיפורי הצלחה של אנשים שמצאו את האושר ועכשיו נותר להם רק ליהנות מפירות עבודתם עד לחופשה של גיל חמישים.

אניקה העריכה את בעלה והייתה מרוצה מהבחירה, אבל חברותיה הקרובות ידעו שאהבה אמיתית היא ציפתה למצוא רק בחופשה שאחרי.

ליז ורחל מעולם לא התחתנו, אז כשהן הלכו גם להן הייתה תקווה דומה. הלן הייתה גרושה פעמיים, ולא חשבה יותר מדי על אף אחת משתי נשותיה. כששאלו אותה, לפני שנכנסה לחדר הבחירה הסגור, אם תחפש אישה שלישית בחופשה, היא רק צחקה ועשתה תנועה גסה עם האצבע. לארה חיבקה אותה שוב ונופפה לה עד שהדלתות נסגרו מאחוריה. הדמעות על לחייה היו דמעות של אושר. בעיקר.

כשהחברות שלה עזבו בזו אחר זו, לארה ליוותה אותן בחגיגות היובל המפוארות - שאיפת חייהם של כל תושבי האי. היא עזרה בתכנון האירוע, פינתה ימי חופש יקרים מפז כדי להתרוצץ בין ספקי פרחים, חנויות יין ושירותי קייטרינג, החזיקה ידיים שרעדו מהתרגשות, חיכתה מחוץ לאינספור תאי הלבשה עד שתימצא השמלה המושלמת. והיא עשתה את זה בשמחה, באהבה, ובציפייה מתוקה ליום החג הפרטי שלה. 

אפילו את אחיה ליוותה כשהיא מאושרת בשבילו, למרות הידיעה הכואבת שככל הנראה לא תראה אותו עוד.

אבל כשהגיע היום של טוני שלה, היא פשוט לא יכלה לתפקד. היא לא יכלה להביט בו בלי לטבוע בים של כאב. היא רצתה לייבב כמו חיה פצועה, להסתגר בפני כל העולם ולא לצאת עוד. לסגור אותו יחד איתה.

היא, ששמחה בשביל כל מי שאהבה והכירה, לא יכלה לשמוח בשביל האיש האחד שנשבעה לחלוק איתו את כל שמחתה וצרותיה עד שהדלתות בצידו הרחוק של אולם חגיגות היובל יפרידו ביניהם. ואולי גם אחרי, בתקווה שימצאו זה את זו. "אולי." איזו מילה נוראית, כשמדובר במישהו שהוא כל חייך. נוראית כמעט כמו "תקווה."

"אני אשלח לך רמז," הוא הבטיח לה. "את תדעי באיזה יעד בחרתי. אנחנו עוד נשכב יחד על חוף לבן כמו שלג, בין עצי דקל וערוגות פרחים ענקיות, כאלה שלא ראינו ולא הרחנו מעולם. ואולי נחלוק בקתה בהרים מושלגים, ונזדקן יחד מול האח. חסכנו כל חיינו, נוכל לבחור בכל יעד שנרצה."

"אבל אנחנו לא יודעים אפילו מה הם יציעו." כל מילה גרמה לנפשה לדמם כוחות שלא היו לה. רק בשבילו החזיקה את הייבבות עמוק בפנים. רק בשבילו הסתפקה בדמעות שקטות, מאופקות כל כך שגרונה כאב.

"זה לא משנה. אני אשלח לך סימן."

רק כשהדלתות נסגרו מאחוריו, היא הרשתה לעצמה לצנוח לרצפה בשמלת הערב שלה ולזעוק אל הנברשות על התקרה הגבוהה.

והנה התקרב היום שלה. אחרי חודשים של פלישות ליליות אל מרתף היינות שלהם והירדמויות מאוחרות על כרית לחה, רק כדי לקום למחרת לעוד יום פרודוקטיבי במשרד עם מחשבות שנודדות אל המימוזה השלישית בבראנץ' הקרוב, בא תורה. 

אניקה עזרה לה לבחור שמלה שחורה פשוטה עם מחשוף עמוק ושסע בצד עד לנקודה מעניינת על הירך החטובה שלה. היא הייתה אישה מושכת, אפילו בסטנדרטים של האי, והיום, לראשונה מאז הפרישה של טוני, היא החליטה ליהנות מזה.

האולם התמלא זרי גלדיולות אדומות. הפרח השני הכי אהוב עליה. השולחנות הארוכים כרעו תחת עשרות, אם לא מאות של בקבוקי פינו נואר. מהרמקולים בקעו צליליו הענוגים של סקסופון ממאות שעברו. זה היה הלילה שלה.

הלילה השני שלה. הרי רק מעברו השני של הכביש הסואן נמצא אולם החתונות. רק לפני שלושים שנה עמדה שם, מול טוני, תחת עינו של המחשב הממשלתי. לבושה לבן. חסרת בוטוקס. בלי אף מחשבה סוררת על גיל חמישים.

אניקה החזיקה את ידה כל הדרך עד לדלתות חדר הבחירה.

ראשה סחרחר מהיין, עיניה רטובות תחת קעקועי המסקרה, היא פסעה פנימה.

החדר היה ריק חוץ משולחן נירוסטה יחיד.

"לאנה יוכבד פרנקשטטר. עמלת קשות למען טובת האי ואנשיו במשך שלושים שנה ועשית עבודה מעולה. בזכותך עלתה תפוקת האי ב-0.00056 אחוז. תודה רבה לך על מלאכתך הקשה. כעת הגיע זמנך לפרוש. אנא בחרי חפץ מבין החפצים המוצעים לך."

היא התקרבה לשולחן. על מגש כסוף המתינו לבחירתה פנינה, קליע, קומץ אבני חן שונות, טבעת זהב. ובין כולם, בדיוק באמצע, הפרח האהוב עליה. הראשון שטוני נתן לה. מרגנית.

הוא באמת שלח לה סימן.

שאגת האושר באזניה גרמה לקול במערכת הכריזה להיטשטש.

"בחירה נבונה. החופשה שלך תתחיל בקרוב."

הכל התעמעם. רעש לבן חושך. ובין הזמזומים סביבה:

"הכינו את מחלקת הדשן…"




Saturday, November 14, 2020

אשמה של ילדים

 היום רצחתי בן אדם. ילד קטן, מהמצחיקים האלה שעוד לא הולכים כל כך יציב. חזרזירי ודי חמוד, טיפה יותר גדול מדני, האח התינוק שלי. הוא לא היה יפה כמו דני אבל היה לו פרצוף מצחיק ולחיים עגולות כמו כדורים פורחים. ממש לא רציתי להרוג אותו.

דני עוד לא ממש יכול לשחק עם הילדים האחרים. השארנו אותו בבית עם סבא וסבתא. לילד כנראה אין סבא וסבתא שישמרו עליו, אז ההורים שלו הביאו אותו איתם. הם לא יכלו לדעת שאני לא כמו האחרים. אני רק בת שבע, אבל למפלצות אין גיל.

אפילו את דני שלנו כמעט הרגתי פעם, כשהוא היה רק בן כמה חודשים. הוא היה תולעת שמנמנה שרק שכבה על הבטן. אהבתי אותו מהרגע שהגיע, אבל הוא לא היה מעניין במיוחד. אז ניצלתי את העובדה שיש לנו תולעת חדשה כזאת, שלא זזה הרבה והיא בדיוק בגובה הנכון לקפוץ מעליה. עד שאבא שלי ראה מה אני עושה. שעות אחר כך עוד רעדתי מהצעקות.

הילד שהרגתי כבר ידע להתרוצץ בעצמו, ואם ממש מתאמצים אפשר היה להבין מה הוא אומר. הכירו לי אותו יחד עם שאר הילדים. כולם בנים ובנות של חברים ותיקים של אבא. המבוגרים כולם עבדו או למדו יחד בבלורוס. פעם בשנה, כולנו נפגשים בבית של אחת המשפחות. לחלק מהילדים במפגשים האלה כבר התרגלתי ואני די אוהבת לבוא אליהם.

חוץ מזה תמיד יש עוגת שוקולד גדולה לקינוח. פעם אפילו נתנו לי לראות איך מקשטים את העוגה. באותו יום, שתי הבנות האהובות עלי, שהן בעצם כבר בתיכון ולא ממש ילדות, לקחו אותי בסתר למטבח. יש להן קול נעים של נשים צעירות והשיחות שלהן מסתוריות ונפלאות גם אם אני לא ממש מבינה אותן, ואולי דווקא בגלל זה. הן תמיד מחייכות אלי כמו שאף אחד אחר לא מחייך, חיוכים שגורמים להרגיש שאני די קטנה וחמודה. והן יפות כמו שאני אף פעם לא אהיה. הן מילאו שקיות ניילון משולשות בשני סוגי קצפת, וחיברו מכשירי פלסטיק קטנים בקצה. הקצפת יצאה בצורת פרחים לבנים יפים כמו עננים ופרחי שוקולד חומים ורכים.

אבא אמר לי לזכור בדיוק כל מה שהן עושות, כדי שאוכל אחר כך לגלות גם לו ולאמא את כל הסודות שלהן. ניסיתי לזכור הכל, כדי שגם אבא ואמא ידעו להכין פרחי קצפת נפלאים בשני צבעים. אבל הקצפת כבר הייתה מוכנה מראש, ולא ידעתי מה הכניסו פנימה. וגם אין לנו מכשירי פלסטיק קטנים. או שקיות משולשות.

לפני העוגה תמיד יש המון סלטים, אבל לא מהסוג עם הירקות. אלה סלטים אחרים, עם הרבה מיונז ותירס ומלפפון חמוץ, וטעם של חופש. לפעמים יש גם סנדוויצ'ים קטנטנים עם סרדינים וגבינה צהובה, ונקניקים. מהנקניקים אני לא אוכלת. אבא ואמא אמרו שהם לא כשרים, ואני פוחדת ממה שאלוהים יעשה למשפחה שלי אם אני אוכל מהם. 

פעם ניסיתי לאכול שניצל עם קוטג', ואלוהים לא עשה כלום, אבל הוא בטח היה עסוק בלהעניש מישהו אחר. אני לא אגיד את זה בקול רם גם עוד מיליון שנה, אבל אני די שונאת אותו, את האלוהים הזה.

במפגשים האלה אף פעם לא מדברים על אלוהים, ואף אחד אחר לא פוחד ממנו. אני קצת מרחמת על כל האנשים האלה שיקרו להם דברים נוראיים רק בגלל חתיכת נקניק, אבל גם די מקנאת בהם שהם לא יודעים את זה. הלוואי וגם לי לא היו מספרים על אלוהים.

אחרי האוכל המבוגרים נשארים לדבר בגינה, ואנחנו, הילדים, חוזרים לשחק. את החלק הקשה באמת המבוגרים כבר עשו בשבילנו. לי ולשאר הילדים כבר יש משהו במשותף, כך שאני מרגישה כמעט שייכת. אפילו הצעירים יותר, אלה שנולדו בארץ, כולם מדברים בבית את אותה השפה. כנראה לזה המורה בבית ספר מתכוונת כשהיא מדברת על שורשים. 

אבל זה לא רק זה. מה שחשוב עוד יותר זה מה שהילדים האלה לא יודעים. הם לא ראו אותי בבית הספר, בוכה כי קיבלתי 90 במבחן, או בבית, משחקת עם עצמי. הם לא יודעים שילדים בכיתה רבים כדי לא לשבת לידי. הם לא מכירים אותי מספיק כדי להבין כמה אני שונה מהם. כמה שלפעמים הידיים שלי נעשות קרות ודביקות מלחשוב שאולי משהו קרה לאבא ואמא, שם בחוץ בגינה עם שאר המבוגרים. כמה הבטן שלי מתכווצת מבפנים כשאני מנסה לא לחשוב על הדרך חזרה בחושך, כששלושתינו לבד במכונית הקטנה והבודדה על כביש שחור ועצום שלא נמצא באף עיר, אלא איפשהו בין ערים. כאילו מישהו גזר חורים במפה ומילא אותם בשלטים מטושטשים עם שמות של מקומות זרים. הידיים בוררות קוביות לגו, והראש רק חושב על תאונות דרכים, על מחבלים בדרך לירושלים, על דני הקטן שם לבד עם סבא וסבתא, שלא יודעים עברית כל כך טוב ולא יסתדרו בלעדינו. 

אני מתחזה. אני לא באמת ילדה. אני משהו שמנסה להיראות כמו כמו ילדה, אבל לא ממש מצליח. אני לא יודעת איך לעשות שהשיער שלי לא יעמוד לכל הצדדים, שהלחיים והסנטר לא יבלטו כמו אצל דודה זקנה עם נשיקות דביקות, שהעיניים שלי יראו פחות מסכנות ומטופשות. 

אני מנסה להתנהג כמו בן אדם. לענות בהגיון לשאלות של המבוגרים. להישמע פחות מטומטמת. לחייך. לא לבהות בחלל. לא מגיע להורים שלי שיחשבו שהבת שלהם מפגרת. ואולי דווקא כן. אולי אפילו מגיע להם שהבת שלהם רוצחת. אז פחות יפריע להם שאני לא מחייכת.

הילדים האחרים, אלה שלא צריך להזכיר להם לחייך, לא יודעים שיש פולש בחדר. שכתם של חושך בצורת ילדה מרגל אחרי תנועותיהם, מנסה לחקות את ההבעות שלהם. למרות גוש הקרח בבית החזה שלי, אני כמעט מצליחה להינות מהמשחק. עם הילדים הגדולים יותר אפילו די נוח לי.

אני כבר מתחילה לחשוב שהצלחתי לעבוד על כולם. שכנעתי אותם שמאחורי כל הפוני ציפי שביט הזה אני רק עוד ילדה בכיתה ב'. לא איזה טרול מכוער כמו באגדות, כזה שצריך היה להישאר מתחת לגשר. רצוי בתוך המים. שלא יפגע באף אחד. עם קצת מזל הייתי מצליחה לשקוע. אבל אני צריכה לזכור לעצום עיניים כשאני טובעת, שלא אתקע עם המבט הבוהה הדפוק הזה. המורה בבית ספר פעם אמרה להורים שלי שהמבט הזה מאד מטעה, כי אני דווקא ילדה מאד אינטליגנטית, וחבל.

ודווקא ברגע הזה, שבו גם אני כמעט מאמינה לעצמי שאני לא טרול ודי שמחה שלא טבעתי מתחת לגשר, הילד הקטן מחליט להצטרף למשחק. הוא מסתער על הצעצועים, פולט ריר ומלמולים מבין לחיי החזרזיר הנפוחות שלו. הוא כל כך שמן שבקושי רואים שיש לו עיניים. צוואר אין לו בכלל. האצבעות העבות והמגושמות שלו כאילו נועדו לרסק כל דבר שהוא נוגע בו. 

אנחנו מנסים להרחיק אותו, לתת לו כמה צעצועים משלו, אבל היצר ההרסני שלו לא נרגע. הוא רוצה הכל ועכשיו. בעיקר הוא רוצה את חלקי הלגו שאני מנסה לבנות מהם בית. הוא יוצא לא רע בינתיים, עם מדשאה ירוקה ומספיק לבנים אדומות לבסיס ישר ואחיד, וקירות לבנים חלקים. החלל בפנים נראה שקט ובטוח, ועוד מעט אפשר יהיה לחבר את הגג. 

אבל לחזיר הקטן לא אכפת מהבית שלי. הוא רוצה רק דבר אחד. להשמיד. ואז לדרוש את הדבר הבא שמישהו בנה. ולהשמיד גם אותו. עד שלא ישאר שום דבר להשמיד, ואז הוא ישתעמם ויתחיל ליבב. 

הוא לא מתקרב מהר במיוחד, אבל הרגל שלי נרדמה מישיבה, ואני לא יכולה לקום ולהתרחק. 

רק רציתי להזיז אותו הצידה, להסיט את עוצמת ההדף. שכחתי כמה לא יציבים הם יכולים להיות. רגע אחד הוא שועט לעבר בית הפלסטיק הקטן שלי, ורגע אחר כך העולם כולו מתפוצץ.

הוא נפל ישר לתוך ארגז הצעצועים והרעש כל כך חזק שאני בטוחה שבעוד שניה ירוצו לחדר כל המבוגרים ויגרשו אותי לרחוב. או יותר גרוע. אולי יקחו אותי לכלא. אני לא יודעת מה עושים לילדים רוצחים. 

הבלאגן בארגז לא מפסיק לצווח. הרגליים הקטנות מתנופפות באוויר, ואני פוחדת להסתכל פנימה. פוחדת לראות דם. פוחדת לראות בובה מרוסקת במקום שבו היה קודם ילד. 

הוא מטפס החוצה וצורח כל הדרך אל הדלת, ומשם אל הגינה, להורים. עכשיו הם בטוח יבואו. אין דם בארגז, אבל בטוח שברתי אותו. ילדים קטנים הם שבירים. הוא מטומטם מכדי לדעת את זה, אבל הגולגולת שלו מרוסקת. זה רק עניין של זמן עד שהוא ישים לב וימות.

התה מוכן, והילדים רצים החוצה לאכול קינוח. אני רק חושבת איך להשאיר בפנים את הארוחה. מי נותן קינוח לרוצחים, בכל מקרה? 

אני מסתובבת בחדר ומרגישה את גוש המתכת בגרון שלי מתהדק. הבטן שלי מלאה אבנים, אבל אני לא מפסיקה ללכת. סיבוב אחד סביב החדר, וחזרה לארגז. אין דם. הכל בטח מסתתר בין חתיכות הפלסטיק. עוד סיבוב. שוב לארגז. פוחדת להזיז את מטוס הצעצוע. מתחתיו מציץ חלק לגו אדום. אני חושבת שזה לגו. אבל אני לא רוצה לבדוק.

מעבר לחלון אני שומעת קולות שיחה, נקישת מזלגות, שקשוק ספלים וקולות צחוק. הילד כבר לא בוכה. עכשיו הוא בטוח מת. בעוד רגע הם יפרצו לחדר ויגררו אותי החוצה. הם יראו לי את הגופה הקטנה. יזמינו משטרה. אני לעולם לא אראה יותר את ההורים שלי, ואת סבא וסבתא, את דני.

עוד סיבוב. אני צריכה לשירותים אבל לא מעזה להתקרב לדלת. כואבת לי הבטן ואני מנסה לקרר אותה עם הידיים הקפואות שלי. זה לא עוזר. זו לא קוביית לגו בארגז. אני כבר בטוחה בזה.

אני רוצה לבכות, אבל לא מגיע לי. אותי לא זרקו לארגז מלא צעצועים חדים. מה יש לי לבכות? 

יש לי סחרחורת, אבל אני לא מצליחה להפסיק ללכת. החלון פתוח, אבל החדר נעשה מחניק.

לגו לא מגיע בכזה גוון של אדום.

הדלת נפתחת בקול נקישה. הלב קופץ אל הגרון שלי, ואני בולעת אותו חזרה. זה נגמר. אין לאן לברוח. אני מנסה להתחבא מאחורי הארגז, אבל אני יודעת שהם באו לקחת אותי. עכשיו הם יגלו שבנוסף לכל גם הרטבתי את התחתונים.

"מה את עושה פה לבד?" קול רך ומוכר. אמא שלי לא יודעת עדין. היא באה לחפש את הילדה הקטנה שלה. היא לא יודעת מה עשיתי.

"כלום."

"כולם בחוץ. יש עוגה."

כמה הייתי רוצה להתנהג כאילו כלום לא קרה. לבוא עם אמא החוצה. לטעום מהעוגה, למרות הבטן הכואבת. להיות ילדה קטנה, כמו שהיא רוצה שאהיה. אבל אני לא. ובחוץ יש ילד קטן ומת. ואמא שלו תנעץ בי את הציפורניים הורודות הארוכות שלה, ותצעק עלי מבין שפתי האודם המבריקות, הגדולות כמו של ליצן, ואמא שלי לא תוכל להציל אותי. וגם לא תרצה, כי לא מגנים על רוצחים.

"אני… משחקת."

"לבד?"

"לבד."

אני כמעט רוצה שהיא תגרור אותי החוצה בכח. שכל זה יגמר כבר. אבל היא רק אומרת שאני מצחיקה ושאבוא כשארצה. 

כשהדלת נסגרת אני באמת לבד. הייתי צריכה לטבוע מתחת לגשר.



Saturday, November 7, 2020

שפריץ ספלאש - אתה מת

 גשם במחנה קיץ מגדיל את הסיכויים שלך למות ב-60%. 70% אם את בלונדינית. 80% אם דרסת מישהו בדרך. 100% אם שכבת עם דמות אחרת בבקתה.

לא יוצאים הרבה סלאשרים טובים בימינו. או בכלל. עצם הצירוף הוא סוג של אוקסימורון. סלאשר לא אמור להיות טוב. סלאשר אמור להיות מלוכלך, גרוטסקי ופורנוגרפי, עם הרבה השפרצות ומעט הברקות. וקריפ במעיל גשם. תמיד יש קריפ במעיל גשם.

והנה, מתחת לאף של כולנו יצא סלאשר הגון ביותר, והוא אפילו לא סרט. הסלאשר השני הכי מוצלח שיצא לי לראות (ותצטרכו לעבור דרכי אם אתם באים לערער על דירוג 'בקתת הפחד' של ג'וס ווידון במקום הראשון) הוא העונה החדשה של 'אימה אמריקאית.'

אני לא מדברת על 'ראטצ'ד,' פרויקט נטפליקס החדש והנוצץ של אוון רומנסקי וריאן מרפי. הפלא הססגוני הזה, שכולו נופים מרהיבים, תלבושות אלגנטיות ואינטריירים מפוארים כרקע לרציחות מסמרות שיער וטיפולים פסיכיאטריים אכזריים לא פחות, בהחלט יכול היה עונה נוספת של סדרת המופת הקודמת של מרפי. 

אבל אני מדברת על העונה התשיעית של 'אימה אמריקאית,' שיצאה עוד בשנה שעברה. העונה הזאת לא זכתה להייפ שליווה את יציאתן של העונות הקודמות. למעשה, אני עצמי שמעתי על קיומה רק לפני שבוע. כך נמצאה ממלאת מקום ראויה למשבצת הריקה ש'ראצ'ד' השאירה בחיי עם סיומה.

קשה להסביר את השקט שליווה את השקת העונה. חלק מזה כנראה היה חשש מפני קפיצת הכריש המפורסמת. בשביל חלקנו אולי היא כבר קרתה בעונה הקודמת, או בזו שלפניה. ואכן, העונה הנוכחית לא מצמררת כמו עונה 5 עם מופע הקרקס של הארורים, או אפלה כמו המוסד הפסיכיאטרי המקולל בעונה 2. חסר בה הקסם של ג'סיקה לאנג והחן של חיוכה המושלם-מכדי-להיות-ישר של שרה פולסון. אפילו הכוכב העולה והכישרון המרכזי של הסדרה, אוון פיטרס - על ארסנל הדמויות והטיפוסים הרב גוני שלו וזיק הנעורים הנצחי בעיני החיפושית הכהות שלו - נעדר הפעם מסט הצילומים.

אז מה בכל זאת עושה את העונה הזאת מספיק טובה לכתוב עליה, ודאי תשאלו. ראשית, אפוס הזוהר של שנות ה-80. הנרטיב הגלאמי הזה שכולו צבעים בוהקים, גוף חטוב בספנדקס צעקני, צלבים זהובים במחשופים נדיבים, פופ ורוק, ברבי, קן וקוקאין - כל העושר התרבותי הזה קם לתחיה נושם זועק ויפיפה מאי פעם, משמע היה אחת מהדמויות בסדרה.

וישנה, כמובן הציניות הרגילה של 'אימה אמריקאית.' כמו בכל אחת מהעונות הקודמות, גם כאן אנחנו מקבלים פארודיה מוקצנת ומודעת על עוד קלישאת אימה. וגם כאן הם עושים את זה עם טוויסט. ועוד טוויסט. ואז חצי טוויסט חזרה, עד שלא נשארו שום ציפיות לשבור ושום גבולות לרסק. כל הפרות הקדושות של האמריקנה נשחטות מול עיני הצופה כמו חבורת נערים שטופי הורמונים בבקתה ביער.

מובן שיש בקתות ביער ונערים שטופי הורמונים. הרי הבטחנו לכם סלאשר. והכל מתרחש במחנה קיץ ליד נהר ציורי עם סוד אפל, שמאחוריו מסתתרים עוד אינספור סודות אפלים שמסתבכים ומשתלבים עם הסודות האפלים של הדמויות והמסתורין נחשף בהדרגה עד שנדמה לך שכל הקלפים כבר גלויים. אבל לעולם יהיה עוד סוד אפל אחרון בתחתית הערימה. כי במחנה רדווד תמיד יש מקום לקבור עוד גופה.

אמה רוברטס נהדרת בתפקיד הבתולה התמימה לכאורה ובילי לורד מדהימה לא פחות בתפקיד הבארבי הפתיינית עם הליבידו העצום והמניעים הנסתרים. שלא לדבר על לסלי גרוסמן, האתנחתא הלא כל כך קומית, בדמות בעלת המחנה הצדקנית האקסצנטרית.

הקטשופ זורם כמים בין שוטים אינסופיים של שריר מעורטל והכל מלווה במיטב קלאסיקות הרוק של התקופה. תוסיפו לכל העסק רוצח סדרתי אמיתי מהתקופה, קצת שטניזם בריא לתיבול והרבה צללית סגולה עם נצנצים, וקיבלתם את AHS1984. 

אה, ויש גם קריפ במעיל גשם. תמיד יש קריפ במעיל גשם.


Sunday, October 25, 2020

הנרות הללו

פחדתי מהרבה דברים בחיים שלי- הגיוניים והגיוניים פחות. בעיקר פחות.

הייתה תקופה שפחדתי שהאוטובוס לא יגיע. שאתעלף באמצע הרחוב ואף אחד לא יבוא לעזור לי. שאתעוור פתאום בשכונה זרה ולא אמצא עוד את הדרך הביתה.
פחדתי, ועודני פוחדת, מכל סוגי הסרטן. פחדתי מאיידס. בגיל צעיר יותר פחדתי מהחולירע ומהשחפת ועוד אינספור מחלות שכבר מאה שנים שאף אחד לא חושב לפחד מהן.
פחדתי ממתקפה גרעינית, וכימית, וביולוגית גם. ולאבד את אבא ואת אמא. ואת הדודה מרים (סתם, אין לי דודה כזאת. אבל אם הייתה, בחיי שהייתי פוחדת עליה).
פחדתי מעקרבים, עכבישים ונחשים. אני פוחדת פחד מוות ממים עכורים שהשד יודע מה שוכן בהם. תנינים, כרישים ואפילו קרפדות- הארסיות שבהן.
וכל הבייסיק שיט של מי שגדל בשנות התשעים: אוטובוסים מתפוצצים, דקירות, אבנים (משני הצדדים. גדלתי בירושלים ושמעתי שאבנים כשרות לא פחות כואבות).
ואלוהים. שיט כמה שפחדתי מאלוהים. הבן זונה רואה הכל, שומע מה שאני חושבת, רואה מה שאני מדמיינת. סטאלין מי, ביץ?

אבל הנה אחד שלא ציפיתם למצוא ברשימה הזאת: נרות שבת.
מי מפחד מפאקינג נרות שבת? תשאלו. פאקינג ג'ני בת 14, אני אענה.
ולא, זה לא היה פחד משריפה, או מכוויות, או משאיפת עשן.
זה היה מי שעומד מאחורי הנרות. אותו אלוהים מכמה פסקאות קודם. אותו אחד שרואה הכל ושומע הכל ומחפש על מה להעניש ונהנה מזה כמו שהמרקיז דה סאד לא נהנה מאף אחת מהזונות שהרג.
קרה מקרה ואחת הנשים הדתיות שאמא עבדה איתן (ירושלים, זוכרים?) רצתה לעשות מעשה טוב (הדרך לגיהנום, זוכרים?) ולדווח לאמא שמשאלות שמביעים כשמביטים בנרות שבת מתגשמות.
הכל טוב ויפה, אבל אלוהים הוא לא סנטה קלאוס. אם הרודן הסאדיסט הזה מגשים משאלות, הרי שעלינו לצפות לדג'ין מרושע נוסח הבחור ב-Wishmaster. מהסוג שהופך נשים לבובות חלון ראווה והורג את עורך הדין שלך באמצעות פעלולים אקרובטיים בלתי אפשריים כשאתה מאחל לו "to go fuck himself."
אז הראש הקטן והחולה שלי הלך ישירות אל הפחד הכי גדול מכל הפחדים: הפחד לאבד את אמא. והפחד הזה הפך למחשבה רפטטיבית-אובססיבית שצצה בכל פעם שהגפרור נוגע בפתיל נר של שבת. "שאמא תמות."

טקס הדלקת הנרות הפך לגיהנום פרטי עבורי. ההורים, שפחדו מזעמו של האל לא פחות ממני, לא הסכימו בשום פנים לוותר על שלהבות השאול האלה. דיני נגזר. נאלצתי לסבול את נוכחות מנורות הדג'ין הארורות שבוע אחר שבוע, גם אם נמלטתי מטקס ההדלקה.

היום דיברנו על אותם נרות ארורים עם הפסיכולוגית.
"את יודעת," אמרתי לפתע. "השילוב הזה של ישות אלוהית מפלצתית, אש וילדים... את יודעת על מה זה גורם לי לחשוב פתאום?"
"עמדתי להגיד את זה בעצמי," היא עונה. "חששתי שתגידי שאני דוחפת את האנלוגיה רחוק מדי."
אבל לא. גיא בן הינום לא רחוק בכלל מהמקום בו גדלתי. באותה העיר עצמה, עשרים דקות נסיעה בלי פקקים.

"איך את מרגישה עכשיו?" היא שאלה בסוף הפגישה.
"אני צריכה בירה."

שתיתי שלוש.



Saturday, October 3, 2020

הכל חרא

לפני שבועיים התחלתי לכתוב במחברת חדשה. לא יומן- סתם מחברת. אני קוראת לה מחברת "הכל חרא". כי זו נקודת המוצא שלי בחודשים האחרונים ואני מעדיפה להודות בכך. אז אפשר למנות כל מה שאינו חרא כהישג.

בפאב האהוב עלי לא הייתי כבר מעל ארבעה חודשים. את אמא לא ראיתי מאז תחילת אוגוסט. חברים- מתחילת ספטמבר, וגם אז בקושי פעם בשבועיים.

שלא כמו לסגר הראשון, לשני נכנסתי אופטימית - בהרגשה שסוף סוף עושים משהו. שיש סיכוי לשינוי.

בינתיים, כל מה שאני רואה זה אפי חלאות מבצבצים ממסכות, טישים המוניים וקווים אדומים חדשים שמחליפים את אלה שטבעו כבר מזמן בתחתית הגרף. אני רואה מנהיגות לחיצה יותר מבקבוק אטשופ בדיינר - חי זאוס, כמה שאני מתגעגעת לדיינרים - ומומחים נואשים שזעקתם מתרסקת על חומת האגו הבלתי חדירה. המוני אחראים ואפס אחריות.

מה שאני לא רואה זה קו סיום באופק.

אז בינתיים יש לי את המחברת השחורה הקטנה שלי להראות לי את הנקודות שבהן החרא פחות עמוק. לא נשאר לי אמון, תקווה או כוחות להמשיך. רק כמה נקודות הפוגה בחרא. מעבר להן, הכל חרא. 

אין פואנטה.

Friday, September 4, 2020

Feeding Them- Chapter IX

 Devin meets me with a tense smile and a nod.

“Ready?” He tries not to sound tense. He fails.

“No.”

“Good, neither am I. Let’s go.”

We cross the road separately, in case one of the adult Coopers decides to join their offspring by the window. The building’s glass door is ajar. I leave it this way for Devin as I enter a lobby almost entirely identical to ours. 

Their potted palm tree is slightly smaller and the floor tiles are a darker shade of faux marble, but other than that I could have well just walked right back into my own building. Visually speaking, at least.

The emotional aura generated by the place, however, is something else altogether. By the time I get out of the elevator I’m so groggy I can barely stand. The air upstairs is thicker than Texas chili and about as pleasant to breathe. 

I don’t even need to look up the apartment number. Its plain white door is practically screaming with virulence. The atmospheric pressure in its vicinity is fit to crush a sherman tank.

I regret having left Devin behind. Without him, everything rocklike seems lightyears away. Here it’s all vague, soupy and menacing.

And yet, all is not lost. The walls are grey. They are even somewhat granite-like in texture. It’s almost like a sign from some divine benefactor.

I tap into this greyness even as it swims before my eyes, holding my breath and squinting at the nearby wall. It grows increasingly solid. A small object materializes between the fingers of my right hand. Chill to the touch and roughly rounded, it is reassuring in its concreteness and, this time around, its familiarity.

Somewhere inside my head, I’m pretty sure I can hear the word “attagirl!” 

If - when! - we make it out of here,  I’m taking him out for a celebratory beer. After all, one needs to get to know one’s friends, as well as one's enemies. I give the rock a little squeeze. It holds. Grows bigger.

The elevator goes back down. I wait for it to rise again, making sure it stops on the floor above the Coopers’ place. Only then do I walk over to the door.

Grey rock.

I ring the doorbell, repeating the words with every echoing toll. Grey. Rock.

Raised voices drift from inside- somewhat agitated, if not outrightly quarrelling. A TV set is on somewhere in the apartment, failing to drown out the argument with obnoxious cartoon music and eerie high-pitched laughter. 

By the time I hear approaching footsteps, the rock feels lighter. Pores are forming under my fingertips. I force them away. Thinking of towering basalt columns, I flatten the surface back into inconspicuous homogeneity. 

Grey. Hard. Cold. I chant inside my head. Smooth. 

The peephole goes dark for a brief moment as a female voice utters a careful “yes?”

For a second I wonder whether Mrs. Cooper is even aware of her own plans for the evening. The two strike me as the type that does a lot of talking at each other with little communication in between.

“Um.. Hi. I’m the babysitter. I spoke to…”

“Edmund! The babysitter is here!” She yells, unlocking the door. I’d think her rude if I weren’t more inclined to write it down to frayed nerves. And if my own nerves were not too taunt to care about manners.

To my relief, Mrs. Cooper is dressed, made-up and perfumed for an outing. Her hair is gathered in a sophisticated high bun and the modest décolleté of her simple black dress is accentuated by a delicate flower-shaped pendant on a thin silver chain. 

She welcomes me with a smile so nervous you’d think she was the one facing a potentially fatal ritual. Then again, living with a soul-sucking Wurdulak can hardly prove beneficial to one’s psyche.

Well, one way or another, her problem is about to be solved. I try to tell her so with my smile, but I doubt she’s in a state to notice. The rock in my hand starts pulsating and I squeeze it again, making an effort to conceal it. Acknowledging its invisibility would damage its realness. 

I start building a second rock in my mind, imbibing it with wary indifference, as Edmund enters the living room. His nondescript bottom down and old fashioned side part help me depersonalize the rock. I wonder if there is a word for the opposite of inspiration. At any rate, I’m grateful for the newly found source of whatever it’s called. 

He’s wearing creased slacks the shade of soot, matching the patent leather shoes showing from beneath them. Accordingly, my mind paints his shirt- originally striped white and navy- a dark mousy hue. Even his smile seems grey in its tense melancholy air.

“Amber!” He offers his right hand for a shake. I put my bag down and awkwardly answer the shake with my rockless left. “What a pleasure to put a face to the voice. I believe you’ve already met Irma- Joy’s mother?”

Not ‘my wife.’ 

Irma forces her own smile a little wider and considerately offers her own left hand. Merely chill at first touch, her long fingers grow numbingly cold within seconds. Her pallor deepens to near irridicience. I don’t need to turn my head to notice the little figure creeping into the living room. 

Instead, I return my gaze to Edmund, or rather to the chunk of granite that has formed around him. Finally, having drawn enough uninspiration from her father, I’m ready to face little Joy.

Or so I thought, before I saw the rage on her little face. She can sense that something is wrong. And she doesn’t like it. 

“So, I brought some stuff… to keep little Joy busy,” I turn back to the non-vampires in the room.

They both look too eager to leave to concern themselves with the contents of my bag. For all they care, I could have filled it with porn and razorblades. A part of me wishes I did- at least about the latter.

At first I chalk it up to paranoia, but soon enough I can tell that neither my ears nor my imagination are at fault. The girl hisses. It’s nothing like Snickerdoodle’s agitated “leave me alone” hiss. This one sounds more like someone is pouring liquid nitrogen into Satan’s butthole. Except I’m the one to end up with a gutful of ice.

Irma half-kneels by her child, cooing gently like one would to a much younger infant. The little brat will have none of it. When her mother tries to stroke her hair- a mane as wild and unyielding as its owner- Joy throws off her hand with such force Irma almost loses her balance.

Irma, in turn, refuses Edmunds helping hand just as obstinately, if not as violently. A family dynamic fit to fill whole volumes on behavioral psycho-pathology. 

Joy throws a final series of kicks in the general direction of the rock- now occupying over a quarter of the living room’s space. She probably can’t see it, but she sure as hell can feel its presence. Then she runs off into the hallway and disappears into one of the rooms. The pink and baby blue accents visible through the open door indicate a nursery. 

Irma picks a fitted trench coat from a chair and slips her feet into high heeled pumps the same shade of dark indigo as the coat. She looks determined to leave before I change my mind. 

Edmund isn’t any less eager to leave, but he’s not quite as comfortable with the notion. In fact, he looks guilt-ridden near to the point of self flagellation. As if he knew a lot more than he should.

“As I said, she is a bit peculiar, is she,” he giggles uncomfortably. “But she’s a good kid, she really is. Just a bit nervous, you see? We don’t go out a lot, so she’s not used to being away from both of us at the same time. Give her some time… She’ll open up to you…”

“Hey, I’m sure we’ll get along just fine,” I sneak a look at the rock, to make sure it’s still there. Still solid. “You guys have fun. We sure will, I promise. She’s a precious little girl, I can tell right away.”

I’m grateful for every bit of emotional blocking I can manage. I don’t think I could handle any more self loathing.

Edmund tends to an imaginary piece of lint on his jacket sleeve as he mutters his gratitude. His parting smile brings to mind thoughts of toothache and killer clowns.

Irma nods and promises that they’ll be home by midnight.

“There’s a list of emergency numbers on the refrigerator. Both our numbers are there. Oh, and help yourself to any snacks you find in the cupboard over the sink,” she adds as an afterthought as she opens the door. I’d be happy to take her on her offer if I weren’t so queasy. 

Now it’s Edmund’s turn to nod, finishing off with an awkward wave as he shuts the door behind them.

I don’t follow Joy into her room. I neither want to, nor need to. The familiar sensation of being watched returns before long. I can feel it picking away at the boundaries created by the rock- gnawing away on the mortar, clawing at the bottom in an attempt to tunnel through.

I fix my eyes on the monolith. Adding another layer of gritstone, mixing in some quartz and granite for extra hardness. Basalt veins appear where little cracks have formed. I feel the approaching presence as I even out the surface. Blend in the colors into a single hue of old playdough.

Her frustration is palpable. She circles me like a hungry beast that won’t quite dare approach a lone traveler’s fire. I get a glimpse of her face. Along with perplexed rage, there is something there not unlike curiosity. The way a fox is curious about the contents of a chicken coop.

She looks like she’s about to hiss again. Instead, for the first time since she’s entered my life, the girl speaks.

“You’re different,” her voice is far too hoarse for a girl her age. She obviously doesn’t use it much.

“Yes. yes I am.”

I break out of the tightening circle being charted around me and walk to the door.

“Are you going?” She wheezes at me as I unlock the door. I don’t need to check the peephole to know that Devin is there.

“On the contrary,” the monolith grows a shade more solid as he enters the room. “I brought a friend. And we have a surprise for y…”

If her previous hiss was scary, this one is outright bloodcurdling. The rock shivers as the whole room reverberates with the scream of a thousand pressure cooker valves being yanked open.

My initial instinct begs me to jump into Devin’s arms, Scooby Doo style. Luckily, I hesitate long enough for the voice of reason to hop in. It orders me to focus on protecting the rock at all costs. 

I re-shape it, mending all cracks and faults until it resembles a huge pebble. The next hiss leaves it untouched. Devin squeezes my shoulder in approving encouragement. 

“Come on,” I turn back to Joy, having fished the sticker sheet out of my bag. “Who doesn’t like a surprise?”

I half expect her to fly at me, fists swinging. But her hissing quiets down and her curiosity loses some of its predatory ferocity. 

I make sure to let her get a peek of the glittery side. Possession or not, the little girl is still somewhere in there. And she’s intrigued. 

Devin already has a crayon drawn out at the ready. Within seconds there is a perfect circle adorning the parquet next to my feet. Little Joy is still too fascinated with the stickers to notice either his vandalism or the quick sign he gives me with his free hand as he steps back towards her.

I make the rock melt away at the very second Devin grabs the girl. This time the hiss does not come out of her mouth. Rather, it emanates from a spot about ten inches above her head.

The air in that spot shimmers, momentarily taking on a semi-anthropomorphic shape.

Joy’s scream is lost behind a shattering howl- something between a wuther of Yorkshire wind and a steppe wolf’s dying wail.

I watch Devin push Joy away with as much force as he dares use without causing her any serious damage. Then he takes two giant steps toward the circle, just as I step into it. A second later I step out on the other side, as the air inside it quakes with menacing energy. 

This time I actually yell the words “grey rock,” like some fucking Pokemon master. The monolith snaps into existence so quickly, I can almost hear a woosh of imaginary air leave the space it does not quite occupy. 

The air inside the circle shimmers again, forming a roaring vortex as the entity changes the course of its progression. Too late, motherfucker. 

It almost seems too easy. Everything happens so fast, the entire incident is a blur. The spirit rages as its surroundings reverberate with the dull pop of the sealing circle. One final gush of wind- like a translucent tentacle lashing out- and then the roar grows muffled.

I suppress a little yelp of premature glee, even as I realize that something isn’t quite right. At first it looks like Devin has merely stepped back to avoid the air gush. This changes when I realize that he doesn’t bother to stop. The motion carries him all the way to the nearby wall. He hits it with a loud thud and ends up sprawled at its base in a pile of awkwardly spread limbs. 

The spirit in the circle roars again, invisible walls shivering under the blows of equally solid invisible limbs. It becomes obvious that the improvised cage will not hold for long.

“Devin!” 

For all the response I get, I could be talking to my rock.

Joy, on the other hand, momentarily comes to and starts crying.

I rush towards the wall, making sure to stay as far away from the circle as the room’s size allows.

“Devin!” Whatever magic has knocked him unconscious, it won’t be lifted by sheer vocal force. I grab him by the shoulder, hardly resisting the urge to shake him into consciousness. If it’s a concussion, shaking him could exacerbate the damage. “Wake up, goddammit!” I slap him instead. To no avail.

As I turn away, I find myself staring into a pair of eyes as terrified, as utterly helpless, as I myself feel in my current state. 

Without the spirit inside her, Joy is just another child. A child scared near to death. So scared she reaches towards me across the floor, willing to grab the hand of a complete stranger. She clings to me with her tiny fingers like a drowning man clinging to his very life. I am torn between an impulse to shake her away and an equally powerful infantile urge to cling back to her.

However, having seen my helplessness mirrored in her eyes, another instinct springs into being. The familiar rage at the prospect of being helpless drives me into action. My need to destroy the threat is stronger than fear and self-preservation combined.

Joy lets go of my hand with a little yelp as I jump to my feet. The monolith starts quaking once again- this time tremoring with pent up energy. Before I know it, my hands are raised, pulling it toward me like a huge magnet.

At first it only keeps shaking in one place, without any significant movement in space. Gradually, though, it starts rolling through the air. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, as if it were being pushed uphill. Then it moves a whole inch. Five inches. Ten. With every inch it gains speed, without losing any of its solid weight. 

All of a sudden, it crushes into the cage formed over the circle. It bounces back but immediately returns to its original course. 

At this point it’s a matter of intuition. I push the rock back to the far end of the room and then pull with a single motion, making it rush towards me once again. This time, the crush coincides with another blow from the spirit inside. The cage shatters as I make the rock drop down.

The words. Devin said they don’t matter. It’s all about purpose. About will. About what inspires you…

“Yippee ki-yay, motherfucker!” I yell, crashing the rock to the floor. A final roar shakes the apartment. And then it’s all quiet.

Now all that’s left to do is get Joy to let go of my legs so I can finally wake up Devin. The bastard is starting to get me worried all over again and it gets in the way of my triumphant festivities. Plus, I can’t wait to see his face when he learns that I performed the whole thing on my own, while he was passed out in the corner like some wimpy-assed Lovecraft protagonist. 

“Come on, sleepyhead! It’s over. We won,” I manage to shuffle all the way towards him with the sobbing child still draped around both my legs. “Devin, please… Wake the fuck up!”

Except he doesn’t wake up. 

Not when I slap him again, not when I fill up his wrist. His neck. The pulse must be too weak. But it’s there. I know it is. It must be…

I curse him silently as I dial 911. The room is blurry again. This time it has nothing to do with ghosts.

The paramedics arrive shortly before the Coopers. The latter are utterly distraught. The former- utterly useless.

Two of them hover over Devin’s motionsell form looking for that goddamned pulse, while a third one holds me back lest I run over to them and find it myself. No matter how many times I tell them that he’s alive, they just need to wake the fucker up, they won’t listen. Even their defibrillator is useless. They must be newbies. Why the fuck did they send a bunch of newbie idiots?! 

I don’t remember when, but eventually I realize I’ve stopped screaming. Devin is still out.

I haven’t even bothered to think up a proper excuse for Devin’s presence there. I think I’ve managed to stammer out something about a friend coming over to bring me a wallet I left at his place.

A friend. My only friend, now being carefully placed on a stretcher, as if it would make any difference. They even cover him with a blanket.

They’re no longer looking for a pulse. The time has been proclaimed and noted down.

No, I don’t know anything about next-of-kin. Yes, I will answer a couple of questions. 

I feel like I should insist on joining Devin in the ambulance. A part of me is still expecting him to wake up. He shouldn’t be left alone. I shouldn’t be left alone.

The ride is short and uneventful. So is the stay in the ER. There’s nothing left to do other than confirm the obvious. Sudden stroke. Our condolences. 

I’m almost grateful to the cops for not letting me leave the hospital without giving my testimony. I’d rather face my own lies than acknowledge the simple and irreversible truth.

It doesn’t look like any of the cops I talk to suspect foul play, not to mention otherworldly culprits. All evidence points to natural, with not a hint at super. 

I’m not sure whether it’s something I’m emanating or some form of new suggestion power I have somehow contracted from Devin, but they don’t seem all too eager to talk to me in the first place. Like my very presence makes them feel all types of uneasy.

The same goes for the Coopers, though Edmund does call me the next day to offer his condolences. He doesn’t mention the circle in the living room. I don’t know what Joy has told her parents, but no further investigation ensues.

I am, however, questioned at length by a tall, stately gentleman in a dark suit who presented himself as Reginald Chesterfield. Devin’s supervisor. 

He pens down a detailed account of the evening’s events and complimented me on having performed the ritual in spite of Devin’s unfortunate demise. Fortunately for both of us, his speech is as brief and to the point as his handshake is lengthy. Both prevent me from punching him.

Before he leaves, Chesterfield tells me not to worry about either the legal side of things or funeral arrangements. 

I ask about the funeral. There is none. He was cremated. 

I know I have no right to be this mad for being left out of it. I am, after all, practically a stranger.

Was. I was a stranger. There are no strangers in an exorcism, damn it. So fuck having no right. Fuck not worrying about it and fuck Chesterfield. Fuck The Brotherhood. Fuck Joy and fuck vampire spirits. But most of all, fuck you, Devin. Fuck you for not making it. For turning into a pile of ashes without ever bothering to ask me. Where is your “when” now, you stupid piece of shit?! 

“One last thing,” Chesterfield hands me an envelope, not unlike the one Devin used for his letter. “For your troubles.”   

The sum inside doesn’t begin to cover my troubles, even if it covers three months worth of rent.  

“My visit card is inside, in case you’re considering a career change…”

“Hell to the no!”

“Well, in case you change your mind, The Brotherhood is always happy…”

I shut the door on the rest of the sentence.

Not that it matters much at this point. I wouldn’t have heard him over the ruckus the cats have suddenly risen in the kitchen. 

Ear-busting and spine-chilling doesn’t even begin to describe whatever is going on there. One minute everything was quiet, and the next all hell broke loose.  

As I rush to the kitchen I half expect to find yesterday’s spirit possessing both my cats at the same time. At first I even think this is what has happened. 

Both Hamster and Snickerdoodle are squatting, ready to bounce, hissing and yelling their lungs out at each other from across the kitchen floor. The entire area between them is covered with spilled coffee grounds. 

I was about to make me a cup when Chesterfield interrupted me and left the bag on the counter in my hurry to open the door. One of the assholes must have gotten to it on their way to or away from the other.

Having taken most of my frustration on the wall - luckily, my punch is nowhere near strong enough to break through the plaster - I give my raw knuckles a rest and walk off to fetch the broom.

“... good for nothing pieces of shit,” I keep muttering under my breath, letting out an occasional yell of “fuck!”

The fuckers are still hissing when I’m back, tailes raised so high and ears held so low they themselves can be mistaken for a pair of angry broomsticks. 

“What the fuck has gotten into you, anyway?!”

I’ve already started sweeping, exercising tremendous willpower not to start with the furry monsters, when I detect an unusual gap in the grains. And another one. And a third.

I take a step back, squinting at the gaps. Gradually I realize it’s not just a random pattern. The spaces in the grains begin to form words.

SORRY IT TURNED OUT THIS WAY

My heart makes a little leap, but I can’t quite pinpoint the emotion.

This time I can actually see the grains progress across the floor in a disturbingly insectile crawling fashion. They remind me of old poorly made stop-motion films. I can almost hear eerie calliope music in the background. 

TURNS OUT FOR ME IT WAS AN IF

“You don’t fucking say…”

YOU DID GREAT THOUGH

“Fuck you!”

YOU’RE WELCOME

I won’t say I’m crying, but my eyes are far from dry.

I’M REALLY PROUD OF YOU

“I hate you.”

NO YOU DON’T

Then,

SHOULD I LEAVE?

“The hell you will!”

And the hell he does. 

I was this close to making a friend. I wish I did. For once, I’m not even scared of the word “wish”. But life only listens to wishes when you want it the least. So no friend for me.

It did, however, give me a roommate.


Saturday, August 22, 2020

Feeding Them- Chapter VIII

 There’s something about early afternoon light that always makes one feel shameful and slightly panicky. It’s a setting created by the universe with the sole purpose to illuminate tableaux of remorseful self-loathing.

Little does the newly-awakened semi-functional brain care that its owner is too much of a no-hoper to have any obligations to tend to before noon. Or that the late bed-, and consequently wake up-, times were caused by a lengthy emergency self defense training session, rather than by an alcohol and TV streaming binge.

Having thanked my past self for filling the cats’ food bowls before going to bed, I drag my present self out of bed to provide my future self with the strongest coffee feasible within the limitations posed by my kitchen’s inventory.

Said limitations narrow all possible interpretations of the concept to ‘triple the grounds and cut down on the hot water.’ No matter how fancy the machine, there’s only so much it can do without a proper blend. 

A thick canopy of brutal fumes emanates from the dark concoction. The resulting miasma is pretty much what you’d get if you gave Lucifer a moka pot for his birthday and gathered up the rest of the Fallen for a celebratory cup of joe in your broom closet.

Luckily, I’m too broke to afford delicate taste buds. I even chase the potion down with a handful of crunch-deprived tortilla chips from yesterday’s open bag. Not so much out of hunger but rather to line my stomach against the onslaught of the pungent heart-attack-in-a-mug.

The chips taste like old wool. I don’t care. I remain firm in my conviction that sealing clips are for soccer moms and anal condo-dwelling programmers named Carl. Or Ike. Ikes have always struck me as avid fans of everything plastic, pocket-sized and life-hacky one can feel smug about using around the kitchen. Maybe that’s why they call the source of all such fiddly trinkets ‘IKEA’ in the first place. 

Fuck you, random guy named Ike.

I gulp down the coffee as fast as its temperature allows. Delicate taste buds or not, this is not a flavor to be savored. Once caffeinated I proceed to brush my teeth and wash the night drool and pillow folds off of my face. I keep switching between alternating torrents of ice cold and blistering-hot water, to shock away the unnerving palpitations in my chest. The third scoop of coffee blend may have been an ill-advised move on my part.

To about the same degree that invading Russia in winter is ill-advised. 

So be it. When you have an anti-goblin ammunition gathering quest scheduled before lunch and a babysitting-exorcism combo shitapalooza in the evening, you may as well start the day by having your brain nuked.

I pull an oversized hoodie over my pajama t-shirt, not even bothering with a sports bra. There’s something to be said for both cold weather and chest-flatness, after all.

It’s brighter than yesterday, so I expect no frost bite. I am bitterly reminded that expectations are for corporate managers and idiots, and I’m barely fit to manage my daily meals. I cover my head and reddening ears with my hood, pulling it all the way down to the tips of my sunglasses. It feels like one of these days when the less you see - the better.

I’m not sure where the best place to look for goblin distraction mechanisms would be nowadays. There aren’t any businesses specializing in toys, crafts or school supplies in the area that either I or Google happen to know of. I do, however, tend to run into piles of sharpies and puzzle books whenever I browse the local Target for body lotion and paper towels. Which I use separately and only for legitimate, family-friendly activities of the strictly non-deviant kind.

Another quick check around the internet confirms that it is, indeed, where most procreationally inclined individuals go to unburden themselves of their life-savings, human dignity and parental guilt. The other option is Best Buy, but that would be a good twenty minutes away by bus and a whole lot of headache for a peeing baby doll and a handful of Frozen coloring books. Target, on the other hand, is less than ten blocks away and almost as cost effective. 

I pointedly bypass the stacks of brightly colored plastic miscreants marketed as the year’s “most popular.” Follow me as they might with their nightmare anime eyes, I refuse to be hypnotized by the freaks’ pastel rainbow manes and opulent rhinestones. No amount of glitter can make up for the dolls’ warped proportions, special-ed names and lubelessly sodomizing price tags. 

Joy does not strike me as the type of kid sociable enough to either grasp or appreciate the concept of fashionability. And I’ll be damned if I contribute to ruining the one thing I like about her. Which is a nicer way to say I’m not blowing a hundred bucks on a couple of miserly pocket-sized psychedelic horrors no benevolent God would have suffered to exist in the first place. After all, I was promised change for milk. I’m nobody’s dying millionaire grandmother, for fuck’s sake.

So instead of Y.O.L.O Candyfucklings and Awsome Bossom Poopie Hoes I start piling up on magic markers and playdough (because fuck carpets that aren’t mine), a window art kit (because ditto goes for windows I’ll never be asked to clean) and two different bead jewelry kits. I’m as scrupulous in checking price tags as I am lenient with the age warnings. It should go without saying that aforementioned carpet and window rule applies dubbly to children’s stomachs and respiratory tracts.

It’s not like you can well support a possession if you’re no longer breathing, can you? Damn, I should have suggested it to Devin in the first place!

I take out my cell-phone and dial as fast as my jittery enthusiasm allows. I barely manage to catch the end of the first ring.

“No,” he greets me from across the line.

“But it’s so much easier than…”

“And where do you think the spirit will go once the body is dead? They don’t just materialize and dematerialize spontaneously, you know. Principle of Conservation of Manes, if you like. You know what else disembodied Manes tend to do? They aspire to embody. And it will aim for one of the two bodies still breathing in the room. Does that sound like a good solution to you? Didn’t think so. Now go get some crayons. Crayons are important. And stickers, too. Something sparkly.”

“One last question before I tell you to go fuck yourself…”

“Excitement makes your signal ten times stronger. Add in the instinctive tuning in on me as the recipient of the transmission, and voila! You’ve got my range boosted all the way to about a mile in each direction. Plus, I’m pretty sure pushing Mr. Cooper over the phone has opened up some new para-chakras in my own perception. I’m reading you through the phone with hardly any disturbances now. It’s actually pretty awesome.”

Good. That means I don’t need to feel bad about abruptly hanging up. Let him read my farewells with his newly opened chakras.

I grab a pack of crayons from the clearance section and about eight dollars’ worth of unicorn stickers. The sparkly kind- so the Coopers know I mean business. Nothing says “wholesome, law-abiding, non-exorcism-performing goody-two shoes” like glittery unicorns. 

Taken over by a sudden burst of generosity, I stop in front of the trinket display by the checkouts. So what if the impulse-buy stand is but a guileful trap of flashy wares? Though designed to capture nerve-wracked spawners - bullying them into spending another fiver to assuage their shrieking brood - its allure is just as captivating for the childfree.

Before I know it, my hand closes around some sort of a semi-transparent plastic egg with a random My Little Pony figure inside. Whatever, why not. It’s colorful. Plus it takes time to open, thus keeping the receiver busy for a whole minute. And it’s only two dollars apiece, tax and all. 

Having dropped the pony egg in my basket, I hasten my pace towards the next available cash register. Just in case my hand decides to grab anything else merely because my eyes find it shiny and my brain finds it cheap.

I escape the store with a remainder of just about twenty dollars in change. It gets me a quart of milk plus enough left to splurge on two Salisbury steak frozen dinners and cup noodles for the rest of the week. That’s what I call a job with health benefits.

Now it’s all just a lazy waiting game, a leisurely countdown till show time. At home, I pop one of the frozen dinners into the microwave. As I place the second pack in my otherwise empty freezer, I try not to wonder whether I’ll ever get to eat it.

While the microwave turns the frozen gravy and twin bricklike lumps of ground beef and mashed potatoes into a volcanic steam trap, I try to recall something from yesterday’s lessons. The data is there, but it keeps failing to load properly. The rock is either pixelated or unfocused. When I do get to zoom in on it, the image starts blinking in and out of view. By the time I manage to form a somewhat passable granitoid construction of sorts, Devin calls to tell me I’m giving him a headache. 

“You’re overstraining your brain and overwhelming mine. Pointlessly so. You can’t practice defence mechanisms with nothing to defend yourself against. So chill. You did well last night. Pushing yourself any further at this point will not only be inefficient, it will leave you drained. Which is not an advisable condition to be in when performing, or even assisting in an exorcism. So do me a favor, go eat your nasty pile of processed pseudo-nutrients, watch some cartoons on Nickelodeon or something. I’ll come over at six sharp to go over the action plan. In the meantime, try to keep brain activity to a minimum. I’ve heard you’re pretty good at that.”

I’m about to send him off to commit further acts of unnatural copulation involving a variety of livestock species, a broken broomstick and both his grandmothers. Just as I start contemplating the mechanics of the situation and the best position for each participant to take, the asshole makes it even worse.

“It’s OK to be afraid. Hell, I am. But so long as I’m standing, I’ve got your back. I can promise you this much.”

I disperse the formulating minutiae of the intricate orgy, settling for a simple “fuck you.” There are many kinds of “fuck you,” with probably a hundred different sub-contexts between them. He knows exactly what this one means and what it costs me. He also knows well enough not to say “you’re welcome.”

I hang up with a small beep. The microwave answers with a beep of its own.

I wonder how many death row inmates have opted for a TV dinner as their last meal. Then again, one can hardly expect a bunch of crazy mass murderers to make the most reasonable choices, gastronomic or otherwise. 

Sure, most go for some classic steak, lobster and greasy junk food combo. But there’s got to be that odd cold SpaghettiO guy. And I’m pretty sure I’ve heard somewhere that Aileen Wuornos requested a single cup of coffee. I don’t think she even bothered with sugar and cream.

I bet, however, none of them had their triple-cheese Baconator and chocolate-covered doughnut milkshake while rewatching ‘Die Hard’ for the umpteenth time in a buttugly threadbare zebra onesie. It’s a shame they didn’t: this way it’s much easier not to think of it as a last meal.  

I would have taken a beer but I need my brain at full capacity. Even if it means peeing myself every time I try to use it for anything other than keeping my “yippee ki-yay” exclamations in sync with John McClane’s.

About half a dozen yippee ki-yays into the movie, the mince and gravy start tasting less like a pre-Pentobarbital appetizer and more like a typical cheapskate’s dinner on a plain weekday afternoon. An afternoon to be followed by many others- tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow.

I don’t know about other incantations, but the whole yippee ki-yay business is as real as science and as efficient as penicillin. A fierce little one-spell-panacea for equal parts bravery, hope and general kickassery. Now I have a grey rock. Ho ho ho.

The food also helps. There is a little less room left for anxiety when your stomach is full.

Devin shows up about half a minute into the closing credits. I maintain an appearance of irky indifference, pretending I can hide my gratitude from either of us.We both know the simple truth: I just can’t be alone now that the movie’s over.

“Coffee?” Having nodded our greetings, we don’t bother with further pleasantries. He knows his way from the door to the living room couch.

“A touch of milk, please. No sweetener.”

“Cold milk, or microwave steamed?” Details matter on days like this. They keep you sane. Ish.

“Steamed.” He follows me into the kitchen. I don’t mind. 

He keeps talking while I pour some milk into a tall glass. I don’t mind that, either. Even though he has to yell over the ruckus of the coffee machine.

“So, as I said, you won’t be taking any active part in the ritual itself. Which is good news for you…”

“Bad news is I’m yet to be told what exactly it is that I WILL be doing,” I bang the microwave door shut with just a bit more force than intended. “And the person who does know keeps stalling. And it’s two hours till show time. And…”

“Which is exactly why I’m here. Look, there was no point in getting you all worked up too early. You’d try to practice things that can not be practiced, exhausting yourself to the point where you’re of no use to either of us. So we went over the first part of your job- holding up until I arrive- to the point where you’re decently capable. We’ll have one more rehearsal- just to remind you that you can do it. Anything further will be pure waste of energy.”

Just like arguing with him. I carefully remove the thin layer of film from the milk’s frothy surface and divide the rest of the steaming liquid between the two three-thirds-full coffee mugs. 

“Now, clear your mind,” he offers in exchange for his share of ghetto latte. “Just like we did yesterday.”

We carry the mugs back into the living room, but keep them cradled in our hands as we sit down on opposite ends of the couch- him slightly on the bias, me fully facing him with both feet tucked under my thighs. 

I wonder if he needs the comfort of the hot beverage as much as I do, or merely imitates my mannerisms to make me feel like less of a loser for needing it. Whatever the motive, it does help me feel a little bit better.

“We won’t be practicing all the techniques. Just go for the one that feels most natural. It’s a matter of instinct. The one you summon first is most likely the right one for you.”

Initially I reach for the blanket. Heaven knows I could use the warmth. The engulfing comfort of its cuddliness. 

“You’re useless!”

Not if I pull the comforter high enough over my head. If I make the down filling thick enough and the flannel cover soft enough.

“The operative word being ‘if.’ Hasn’t your whole life been about ‘ifs’? And unlikely ones, at that. When has anyone ever given you a ‘when’? Even a ‘maybe’ would be far more credit than you deserve.”

Polka dots. There’s a polka dot pattern on the cover. Pale mint on pastel yellow. And it smells of baby powder and fabric softener. 

Except the coffee fumes keep seeping through. I put the mug down, but it’s still all cheap coffee and stale snacks. And the leftover smell from dinner’s gravy. Aftershave I haven’t even noticed Devin was wearing. Dish soap from the kitchen and hand soap form the open bathroom. The cats’ sandboxes. 

“Has your mother ever argued with Deidre? About your pitiful prospects, your mediocre-at-best potential, your complete lack of aspiration and ambition? I bet she wanted to. Probably would, if it weren’t for her sincerity. Oh, and if she’s ever bothered to grow a spine, of course.”

Fresh Linen. That’s the scent mom has always used. Fresh Linen Bounce sheets, with a hint of lavender from the detergent. And it’s so gentle against my face. So soft it’s almost gauzy.

“Soft. That’s the one thing that could be told about her. Barely perceptible, really. Makes you wonder if she was even there in the first place.”

Too light, goddammit. I pull the fibres together with all my might, but the damned thing just won’t hold.

“Losing again, love. Color me shocked.”

I reach into the disintegrating cloud of linen-scented dust. My fingers are going right through. The sweat on my face starts mixing with tears. I’m only marginally aware of either. I reach harder, clench my fists shut. I think I hear myself grunt. Or is it a whimper?

All hope is flushed down the drain with a violent gurgle. My fists return empty. 

Except suddenly, they’re not. Not the right one, at least. There is something hard clutched there. Something cold, yet reassuring at the same time. Undeniably solid.

I extend my fingers around the rough pebble, letting it grow.

“But tell me, do you think your mama ever loved you? Are invertebrates even capable of love?”

Irrelevant. I have a rock now. You’re irrelevant. Nothing is relevant. It’s all rock. And, boy, is it grey, motherfucker. 

Before I know it, it’s too big to hold in one hand. Then too big for both. Vast beyond containing, albeit just as solid.

“Or is it just you that she couldn’t love? Not that I can blame…”

His voice grows faint, a dying whisper behind the ever-spreading slaty monolith. Anything beyond its bulky visage is losing substantiality with the speed of sugar dissolving in hot tea. In fact, the very existence of any objects allegedly positioned on the other side of the batholite wall- animate, inanimate or abstract- is at this point hypothetical at best.

The world is quietude. It’s sterile, thanatoid. And, oh, so reassuring.

I resent being jerked away from my little paradise. It’s a place of completeness, of uncompromised cleanliness- as secure as it is barren. Somewhere in a parallel universe, I semi-sense my shoulder muscles flex in an effort to shrug away the nudging sensation at the edge of my consciousness. 

Gentle at first, the pulling intensifies. It persistently grows in tenacity, culminating in a series of shakes so aggressive they seem to ripple all the way to my fingertips. 

My living room floats into view in a slow fade-in. Once it has regained some of its former solidity, Devin’s voice materializes somewhere within its washed-out boundaries.

“Perfect!” I think I hear a loud round of applause. “You were phenomenal this time!”

When the picture re-syncs with the sound I wonder if he’s been clapping with his butt-cheeks, because his arms are wrapped around me. 

I try to hate it. The tears are just embarrassment, I tell myself. Nonetheless, my arms hug him back. And my brain forms the word “friend.” 

I hate mind readers. 

Having wiped my eyes with the fingers of my right hand behind his back and smeared the resulting moisture into my left palm, I push him away with an air of callous practicality.

As he steps back he makes no effort to hide the excitement shining in his eyes. I don’t think anyone has ever been so proud of me. I’m pretty sure I’ve never made anyone proud, period.

Great, now he looks sad. Which makes me sad.

“OK, moment’s past, bro. Time to spill the beans. What do I do while you exorcise? It can’t be all rocking and blocking, now, can it?”

He sighs.

“That bad, huh? Come on, I know you need me as bait, this has been clear from the get go. I’m over it. Now let’s make it work. The one thing worse than being a bait is being a futile attempt to pose as one. Not to mention a dead one. You said so yourself.”

“And I meant it.” He tries so hard to sound cheerful I almost start crying again.

“Good. So how do I keep baby vamp busy while you de-demonize her?”

“It’s not a demon. Demons don’t possess people. Spirits possess…”

“Fine, de-spiritize it. Whatever. How do I do the baiting bit?”

“Actually, this is the easy part. You just stop fighting. Drop the rock, so to speak.” 

Another sigh.

“OK, what is it? Is depressing me some new tactic of defence against the dark arts?”

“Just…promise me you’ll try not to die.”

Now I am crying. Not because I’m afraid of dying, though I definitely am. It’s him really seeming to care that gets my face all leaky and sticky.

“Oh come on. You’ve barely known me for a couple of days.”

“You see, usually reading minds makes it a lot harder for me to get attached to people. But you- you’re different. You’re raw and abrasive and uncharming. Unbearable, really. But you tend to grow on people.”

“No I don’t,” I rub at my eyes angrily.

“You grew on me. You’re real- I like that. I like you.”

“Well, I hate you,” I stifle a little snuffle behind the most contemptuous frown I can muster. 

I’ve never really had any friends. Never really minded it, either. I guess somewhere deep inside I knew what it must feel like to realize you could lose one. 

Somewhere deep inside, I was wrong. It feels worse.

“Well, so we’ll just have to not get killed, right?” I break the silence, mostly to make him stop mind-reading me refer to him as a friend. 

His smile at the prospect is even more heartbreaking than his sighs.

“What happens once I stop fighting?”

“She resumes the feeding.”

Ask a silly question and you'll get a silly answer.

“Which gives you time to attack.”

“Which gives me time to get a hold of her physical body while you draw out the spirit.”

“Good. And it charges towards me. What do I do?”

“I won’t let it…”

“Got you. Lay back and think of England.”

“No. You think of the grey rock again. You need to block it the moment it’s out. Like you just did, no holding back.”

“So it’s forced to turn back on you.”

“Correct. Which is where, having safely imprisoned it within a psychic circle, I throw my banishing curse. And I pray. Literally.”

“Pray to whom?”

“To whoever listens. It’s the meaning beyond the words that counts. The lifeforce invested in them. That’s what gives every incantation its true power.”

Getting into action mode does wonders to his mood. His newly found enthusiasm is outright contagious, and before long we are both engaged in a high-spirited two-person huddle.

“Wait,” he stops me in mid-sentence as I lay down my plan to enter the room with the unicorn stickers at the ready- immediately to capture Joy’s attention while I summon the rock. “You got the crayons, did you?”

“Sure, but they’re not as exciting as glittery stickers…”

“No, no. For the circle. I’ll need to chart a physical circle as a base for the psychic one. Keep the stickers slightly out of her reach, so I can draw the circle in advance. Then you call the ghost. It will be a matter of seconds- you need to be ready to let go of the rock the moment I grab the child and set the possessing entity free. Think of something painful and lure it into the circle. The moment it’s inside, you step out and I lock it. Once you’re out of the circle, pick up the rock again. Complete emotional shutdown. You will know when to let go. It’s hard not to notice a hungry spirit leaving this world.”

“The timing will need some serious practice, and we don’t have much time. Or extra mojo to spare.”

“As for the mojo, we’ll have to dry practice. And we’ll have to make do with what time we have.”

“You should be writing motivational cards.”

“Might well consider a career change after today. If I make it.”

“Enough with the ifs. Let’s do some actual making it, shall we?”

Before my own if-generator reactivates, I start running around the apartment, carrying various objects into the living room. 

I fetch the crayons from the brown paper bag I’ve left on the floor earlier. Then I walk into the bedroom and grab my biggest stuffed teddy bear from the shelf.

“Joy,” I declare, handing the bear to Devin.

He nods his approval and picks up the crayon box with his free hand.

“No actual circles on my parquet,” I warn him as he takes out the green crayon. He nods again.

On the first run I drop my defences- a tiny mental stone, formed to conserve energy- a moment too late. As a result, the spirit supposedly drawn out of the teddy bear bounces back in. Then I act too soon and said spirit does not leave its host at all. When I do manage to drop the rock on time, I fail to reform it once the spirit is locked within an imaginary circle.

Five deaths and seven possessions between us later, we seem to have made the choreography work. By the end of the practice the teddy bear seems thoroughly traumatized. 

Even the cats are getting quite restless. Strangers with pizza are one thing. A weird football game that turns their habitat into a temporary close quarter battle zone- now that’s a different thing altogether. A cat needs to know where to draw the line.

We do one final round for good measure and then it’s time for the real thing.

“Take a few minutes to relax. I’d suggest a meditation, but whom are we kidding. Maybe take a quick shower- I always find those invigorating. I’ll meet you in the lobby in fifteen minutes.”

“How about a drop of whisk…”

“Don’t mind if I do. But just a tiny bit, we need to stay sharp.”

We sure do, but nowhere near as much as we need the whiskey. I pour us about half a shot each- a health boost for our nerves.

He winces as he swallows.

“If we both make it out in one piece…”

“When!” I knock my empty glass on the counter.

“After this demon moonshine?! Not so sure. Anyway, I’m getting you a bottle of decent stuff.”

“What’s wrong with Jameson?”

He merely shakes his head, gives me a quick pet on the shoulder and starts walking towards the door.

“Fifteen minutes,” he reminds me on his way out.

The shower does help. So does the whiskey- in spite of Devin’s harsh critique. I do, however, need to brush my teeth twice and chew on some coffee grounds to rid my breath of at least some distillery fumes. I hope the mixed punch of coffee and listerine is strong enough to conceal most of the stench. 

I put the crayons back in the bag, keeping them within reach, right next to the stickers. Then I make sure my T-shirt is clean and my sweatshirt is whole. I’ve even dug out my one pair of untorn jeans. 

One last sniff of my breath- 50% coffee, a whiff of mint and one hell of a prayer the rest goes unnoticed- and out I go.

Chapter IX

Friday, August 21, 2020

Feeding Them- Chapter VII

 To my further annoyance, the man in the doorway has managed to remetamorphose back to his painfully apologetic former self.

“You see, I just figured the best way to get you back in action would be getting you angry. And I guess it worked, right? I didn’t mean any of it, though. That is, I did mean the apology, of course. And everything I said about your therapist. But not the whining part. Sorry for that. And I promise that if you’re not comfortable with going back to Dr. Zamanhoff, we’ll help you find a new therapist the minute our work here is done.”

“Slap my ass and call me Sally! You’re that one little boy in the whole of human history who did stop crying over poor little Spot when mommy and daddy promised to get him another dog next Sunday.” 

"What a preposterous assumption! I’d never name my dog Spot."

He patiently awaits a grudging half smirk on my part before letting his own lips curl with some measure of timid relief.

“I bet you called him Asmodeus and forced him to wear a spiked collar. A fate befitting the Pomeranian that he doubtlessly was.”

His tension subsides in unison with my anger. The instantaneousness of his emotional responses is a little unnerving once you become aware of it. At the same time, I can’t help but appreciate how pleasingly harmonious it feels. Not quite the soulmate experience, but rather what you’d expect when collaborating with a highly competent like-minded colleague. 

“Madeleine,” he calls after me as I walk to the kitchen to make a fresh pot of coffee. “Her name was Madeleine. And she was a mixed golden retriever. She…”

I let the coffee maker’s noise cut him short, lest he forget his proper place in this house. A few minutes of good-natured banter do not absolve him from the status of an iscariotic shrink-corrupting mind-violating uninvited cult representative.

“The creamer is two month past the expiration date,” I yell towards the kitchen doorway. “There’s no milk, either. Sugar?”

The sugar is over four months past expiration, but it’s fucking sugar. Who even bothers to give it an expiration date, anyway?

Well-mannered asswipe that he is, Devin doesn’t yell back. Instead, he walks over to the kitchen entrance and politely declines the sugar in his indoor voice. Must have read the best-by date out of my brain. 

I make a point of having him see me add a heaped teaspoonful to my own mug. See? Not trying to poison you, prick.   

As another matter of principle, I pour his coffee into the mug reading “Uninvited Guest,” with a big cartoon fly on the front. Mainly because It’s probably my only chance to ever make use of the dumb joke. I wonder if being the type of person who’d own a mug like this automatically means you probably won’t be entertaining often enough to need it. Life is not a box of chocolates. It’s a big fat fucking paradox.

Devin accepts the mug with a careful Mona Lisa micro-smile. He manages to produce the exact angle signifying a circumspect appreciation of the gag with no risk of showing insolence. Nothing commands diplomatic prowess in one party like sporadic bouts of volcanic temper in the other.

I set my mug on one of yesterday’s stained coasters and clear away the mess of used up plates, napkins and half eaten crusts. 

Carrying the empty pizza box back to the kitchen feels a lot more awkward than it should. It’s not like he would have taken it with him last night, is it? There’s nothing wrong with not letting it go to waste in his absence. Except, of course, for the way I feel about having eaten it.

I do some rummaging around the kitchen and come up with a bag of gummy worms and some cheap-ass store-brand tortilla chips. Not quite the Ina Garten signature canape platter, but not altogether unreasonable as far as war room refreshments go, either.

I find Devin standing at the edge of the living room carpet, as if unsure of its intent to remain solid under his feet. I wonder if he’ll ever dare take off his shoes in a stranger’s house again.

“You’ve stepped on it yesterday, remember? Shoes on and all.”

Just like you’ve stepped all over my fucking life. 

Great, now I can blurt out thoughts without even voicing them.

He sighs. The first step seems to cost him. 

“Your mama used to beat the shit out of you, I bet.” My turn to do some unsolicited mind reading. 

The delay in his smile makes me flinch. I remind myself he’s probably just being manipulative again. And if not, what can I say? Plenty of shrinks out there. He said so himself. Unlike him, I haven’t limited his access to any of them.

“Here,” I shove the gummies at him as a compensation of sorts. Call it Spot 2.0.

He nods in some sort of general understanding. Good enough.

“So when is my playdate with little Claudia?” I rip the chips bag open. The air momentarily explodes in a yellowish mushroom cloud of MSG.

Devin pauses, head tilted to one side. He narrows his eyes in pained concentration. The rest of him tightens into a single coil of taut nerve and clenched muscle, every fibre straining to hear some subsonic vibe in the distance.

“They don’t seem to be decided on the night,” he says at last. His frown deepens. “I think they’re fighting again. It’s hard to tell. Too much psychic noise from the kid. Goddamned idiots! They’re practically dousing her with gasoline. The poor thing is about as stable as a tub of nitroglycerin, and she’s sucking in their negativity like a freaking black hole on steroids. An emotional Chernobyl waiting to happen. An implosion of such magnitude will suck the whole fucking city dry, and all these damned retards care about is whose unlaws are more of a nuisance and whose fault it is they no longer do family dinners.”

Until this very minute, I’ve barely thought him capable of polite annoyance. In his current state he’s fit to give me a run for my money. He doesn’t even flinch at his own shamefully non-PC use of the R word. I’m impressed to the point of near respect.

“Can’t you give them a little push, though?”

“As I’ve already said, I’m not all that good. Especially when it comes to um… ‘pushing.’ I’m a decent reader, a good enough empath, if you like. But I neither excel in- nor ever want to master- the art of mind control. To put it mildly, this practice makes me rather uncomfortable.”

“Yet you were OK with brain-violating my shrink into doing your bidding.”

“Not my bidding. And it wasn’t my handiwork, either. Plus, I was far from OK with the whole thing. It was necessary, yes. But no amount of necessity could ever make me like it. In fact, even adepts actually specializing in the area do not usually like it. And may the gods save us from the ones who do.”

“Well, this one sounds pretty damn necessary to me, don’t you think? What, with the mini-Armageddon you’ve only just predicted and all. Is there absolutely nothing you can do? A teeny-tiny polite suggestion- say about half a xanax worth of chill, just so they don’t make baby Wurdulac go nuclear kablooey?”

“Easy for you to say. Especially with baby Wurdulac gobbling up every bit of psychic force projected that way. And no, before you even ask, there’s no way I can affect her directly. So long as the Outsider is attached to her, the girl is absolutely off limits. Unless I want my soul devoured with no possibility of reboot. Which, thank you very much, I can do without.” 

“OK, I get it- the fuck with the girl for now. What does it cost you to at least give the parents a try? If you’re as bad as you claim, the potential for any harm coming of it is insubstantial at best. While any amount of success can buy us some more time before the implosion, right?”

“Wrong. On both counts. First of all, the amount of energy required for even the subtlest of suggestions from an unskilled manipulator such as myself is immense. Potentially debilitatingly so. The consequence being, I won’t be able to perform the ritual needed to neutralize the menace in the long run. So to delay the implosion by an hour or two, I’ll need to spend myself to the point where I can no longer prevent it, thus accomplishing absolutely nothing. And then there is the problem of the AZ-5 button, if we stick to the Chernobyl analogy.”

“Are you implying that your control rod is poorly designed and graphite-tipped?”

“Yeah, and tends to cause an initial spike in reactivity upon insertion.”

“And there I thought you were just happy to see me. Well, at least we’ve established you have good taste in TV shows. Now what?”

“Actually, it’s all from a bunch of non-fiction works I’ve been reading about the accident and its aftermath. Never even watched the show. I undertook this little scholastic initiative, trying to investigate possible psychic involvement in the coverup and the overall suicidal compliance with which the authorities’ criminal incompetence and indifference were met. As expected, the amount of available information is negligible. But from the little I did manage to scrape up, reality is much scarier than I suspected. There was nothing supernatural about the Communist regime. Just the plain old unholy trinity of ignorance, cowardice and good intentions.”

“That’s humanity to you. I bet if any of them demons and dibbuks and body-snatchers and the likes had even an inkling of what a witless self-destruction mechanism we are as a species they’d never bother with us in the first place.”

“Unfortunately, many of them don’t have much of a choice. We are the only life form compatible with most of these entities, be they Outsiders or earth-bound. Animal possession is rare, and usually can neither be maintained for long nor enable the possessing agent act beyond the scope of said animal’s mental capacity.”

“So David Berkowitz was bluffing?”

“No, poor old Harvey was genuinely possessed- unquestionably, inexplicably and almost irredeemably so. It was one of the most perplexing and most trying cases in The Brotherhood’s history. The pooch nearly had to be put down. Would be, without a shadow of a doubt, if it weren’t for Reverend Albert Brady. A man of immense strength and equally unparalleled compassion, arguably one the most valuable assets to ever have stood in our ranks. He was a regular Dr. Dolittle of the psychic variety. Not only did he get the lab back on his feet in no time, he sent the parasite all the way to the far end of Oblivion. Bound it there for good, too.”  

“And judging from said virtuoso’s absence here, at the site of an unavoidably looming cataclysm, I assume his expertise is no longer at our disposal?”

“Not unless you have a ouija board. Figuratively speaking, that is. These things are pure charlatanry.”

“Yeah, didn’t think they actually took collect calls out there. Though I for one would have cooperated, if I were a ghost. Just as a prank. Wait! Prank calls! Eureka, motherfucker!”

I’m astounded at my own genius to the point of near suffocating on a cherry flavored red and green striped worm.

“We can’t prank them into leaving…” Devin argues while I finish exhaling chunks of Christmas-colored gummy through my nose. I sneeze enough thought fractures along with the candy to silence him.

“It will only be a partial prank,” I explain once my breathing is somewhat restored. “We buy them movie tickets- actual tickets, to whatever rom-com is showing now. Something saccharinely trashy, the kind couples tend to watch when they want to pretend they’re not on the verge of a breakup. Tomorrow evening. There’s no chance they go out today if the fight is really that bad. But we do call them today, pretending we’re some cable provider or telecom operator or something. Tell them they won this lottery. Give them a reservation number they can check online, so they see the whole thing is legit.”  

He takes a contemplative sip of coffee, slowly nodding his approval.

“I’ll need some help to assuage their suspicion, though. Not so much of a push, but rather a tiny stir in the right direction. Is this something you can do?”

He gives the no-longer-steaming sludge a little swirl around the mug, studying the resulting pattern for some hidden sign from the powers that be.

“I can certainly try,” he says at last. 

After another pause, accompanied by exasperated hand gestures on my part, he finally puts down his mug and deigns to elaborate. 

“Instances of mild suggestion over the phone are not unheard of,” he muses pensively. “In fact, it’s one of the only ways to bypass an emotophage’s vortex. A voice transmitted over telephone lines- by cable or by means of long-distance wireless communication- may have some limited effect on the receiver, but only when physically heard. It doesn’t affect other people in the same room if they can’t hear it.” 

“I guess you should be the one to call, then.” 

“Agreed. It will also be more convincing in the purely natural sense. Sad as it may sound in our day and age, most traditionally-minded individuals still tend to be more inclined to trust male figures. And yeah, other than giving birth to the Antichrist’s little sister, the Coopers are about as progressive as Ann Coulter and Peggy Noonan playing Bingo over Chick-fil-A at a church potluck.”

“Got you. There goes my plan to sign them up for the latest Fifty Shades of Abusive Scum sequel.”

“Have they made a fourth one?”

“Not as far as I know,” I make a mental note to mock his interest in the franchize at some point in the future.

“Well, that answers that, then, doesn’t it?”

He seems somewhat disappointed at the prospect of no new installation in the Fifty Shades series coming out this Valentine’s Day. 

As for me, I’m mostly bummed out at the missed opportunity to send a couple of Fox-watching, casserole-gobbling psalm quoters for a date at a sleazy erotiflick.

We end up picking something heartwarmingly moronic with Jennifer Lopez and Owen Wilson. Let the poor fucks have some dimwitted ignodrama syrup with a large side of vapid schmalz to soften the blow of their crumbling marriage. They can even have one last go at that corny hand sweat exchange thing everyone pretends to like. I heard that stale movie popcorn goes well with suppressed mutual disgust.

I suddenly realize how much better off they may be if we fuck up. All the angry farewell shags they want and no custody battle.

“Not if it’s the really bad kind of fucking up,” Devin spills a bucketful of of dog piss all over my rare little bout of optimism as he reaches for his phone. “Then they still have a screwy little psychobitch for a kid, plus one unanchored and hella pissed off murdergeist. Not to mention two mangled corpses to explain to the authorities.”

“Much obliged, Little Miss fucking Sunshine. Do you also do bar mitzvahs?”

“They never let me in. My humor is too unorthodox for them.”

He dials. I half open my mouth to ask where he got the number, but quickly figure out I’d rather not know. 

“Whitepages.com,” he mouths, covering the phone with his hand.

I’m quite happy to take him at his word. 

I am not, however, happy to see him nervously fidget with an unused coaster. One can almost smell the awkwardness floating across the room like a big malodorous cloud of diseased flatulence. I pretend to need the bathroom, knowing that while Devin wouldn’t buy it, I can no longer withhold the urge to punch him if we stay in the same room.

The man who’s just been sassily bantering with me dissolves into a pathetic blob of self-deprecation. He responds to my discomfort with an apologetic spasm transforming his physiognomy into the most Glasgow-kissable mug to ever have graced God’s earth.

To my surprise, though, just as I reach for the bathroom door he manages to pinch his vocal cords into a deep, authoritative “hello.” Have I not looked into his petrified hare’s stare five seconds earlier, I’d be checking my living room for Jon Hamm. 

No longer in need of a soundproof sanctuary, I can enjoy the audio from behind the corner, protected from his expression by the partial wall. 

Though unintelligibly faint, the voice on the other end sounds exasperated to the point of near violence. I think it’s male, but it’s hard to tell from where I stand. Whoever it is, they seem eager to finish the conversation and go back to a rudely interrupted marital fight.

Nonetheless, Devin doesn’t seem to have much trouble keeping the other party engaged in the conversation. We are, after all, raised in the spirit of polite hypocrisy. Even towards bothersome strangers infringing on our personal time in the sanctity of our homes. Unlike the infringement itself, hanging up on the perpetrator is considered rude. It’s one of these peculiarities of human nature that will always remain a mystery to me. Along with baby showers and office happy hours.

“No sir, I assure you, this is entirely free of charge. Just a small thank you gift for our loyal customers. Exactly! Right you are, sir,” He lets out a hearty power-chuckle. Though bubbling to the brim with synthetic amiability, the sound is bone-chillingly reassuring.  

“And this, my good man, is the very essence of our company policy. When it boils down to it, isn’t it all about family? Truer words have never… Yes, now let me read out the confirmation number for you. No, no. No catch,” another comradely chortle. “Cross my heart.”

He reads out the booking number from the tab still open on my screen.

“And it can, of course, be confirmed on the theatre’s website. Yeah, one would think so. And we did, back in the early 2000s. Huge mistake. See, back then the giveaway was held among new subscribers, and we ran it as a nationwide customer recruitment campaign. Well, guess what. Once word hit national TV, everyone saw themselves entitled to win.”

I’m not sure I like where this is going. Why can’t he just hang up? I hurry back into the room, motioning for him to stop sabotaging our goddamned endeavour. His eyes follow my finger’s slicing motion across my neck, but the mouth below them keeps on running. 

“Sure, you do, and I do, but most people just don’t get the whole concept of a giveaway. Which is why, this time around we drew the winners from among our established client base and let them know in private. No, of course the giveaway itself was announced all over our website. All information was available to the public up to the very point when the names were entered into a random name picking tool. So technically, it was not kept secret. The announcement was only removed after the winners were drawn.”

Shit. Now he’s really pushing our luck. It would take a complete idiot to buy a pile of bullcrap this high. 

Though increasingly pressing, my gesticulated cease and desist pleas remain unheeded. Another ounce of urgency, and the next neck-cutting gesture will end in self-decapitation.

“One hundred tickets in all. Out of…” he makes a few clicks on the keyboard. “One hundred and sixty mollion, sir. Yes, indeed, very lucky.”

I miss the urge to punch him. All I can do at this point is hold my head between my hands and crouch behind the wall, pretending none of this has ever happened. It’s like the worst possible instance of stupid protagonist syndrom, except in real life and with our own goddamned safety at stake. And a possibly lethal exorcism as a best case scenario- a scenario whose likelihood is dwindling by the second in favor of an unknown, but almost definitely lethal, worst case scenario.

And then, all of a sudden it’s “thank you, sir,” and “good night, sir,” and “enjoy your movie date.” It’s over. 

I slowly extract my face from between my knees.

“What has just happened?”

I open one eye at a time. Just a slit at first, as if careful not to blind myself with second hand embarrassment.  

“I think I might have pushed him a little too hard.” He starts blabbering the second the pressure of the call drops. “I’ve never done this by phone... wasn’t sure how much force is needed. It didn’t seem like he’d listen at first, so I had to press some extra buttons. May have somewhat overdone it with the curiosity, tuned his willingness to hear me out to the maximum. He just wouldn’t let go. The bastard wanted to know everything, so I had to improvise. Badly. Good thing I leaned just as hard on his gullibility. And then tickled his serotonin receptors just a tad, as a little finishing touch.”

If I could whistle, this would be a good time to test my prowess. 

“Unskilled my ass, bitch!”

“Mediocre at best, really,” he shakes his head dismissively, as disinclined to accept the praise as I am to give it. “I’m very bad at concentrating the energy I emit. Turns out, the phone can serve as a focusing lens. An extremely potent one, as that. Mr. Cooper’s own agitated state also helped. Emotional strain is a well known susceptibility-increasing factor. It acts like a stretch of sorts, pulling and disrupting the proper alignment of one’s mental defenses, thus weakening their resistance to suggestion.”

“Yeah, we all love us a humblebragging motherfucker. Any chance this susceptibility is temporary, though? As in, Cooper just hung up with the thought ‘what the fuck has just happened to my brain and how do I undo this?’”

“The susceptibility better be temporary. Otherwise it would be a sign of severe mental trauma. The conviction, on the other hand, should hold. Though involuntary, the suspension of disbelief was not extreme enough to dissipate once the conversation is over. Plus, there is empirical evidence involved- the tickets are valid. As for the improvised pseudo-legal nonsense, I may have done a little something to make it less… memorable, so to speak. I would have done so even if it weren’t for the risks involved should Cooper start, rightfully, doubting this bunch of baloney. Out of sheer shame for my ignorance.”  

“Understandable.” 

“Oh, come on! As if you would do any better on such short notice with no pause button, a copy of Corporate Law for Dummies and leisure to browse Askalawyer.com.”

“Nope. But I was not the one on the phone, ergo cannot be credited with any of the intellectual gems that emerged during the exchange.” 

“Brilliant. You’re freakin’ welcome.”

“For blitzing me with vicarious embarrassment and topping it off with a near heart attack? I am, indeed, all choked up with gratitude, forcing away tears of elation. Now dare I request that the kind sir extend his generosity even further, and shed some light on my role in tomorrow’s exorcism?”

He bites the head off a gummy worm to keep mine intact.

“Depends. One of us, I would assume, wants you to come back from the mission in one piece, inside your original body and with no uninvited passengers on board. My advice to said individual is to keep direct engagement to the barest necessary minimum.”

“And how, pray tell, does one do that while babysitting?”

“Excellent point. And you’ve got no idea just how tempted I am to let you face this near-impossible conundrum head on, all by yourself, and then mock whichever method you choose to solve it. Except I’d be mocking a dead person. Or worse.”

“I admire your munificence. So what do I do?”

“You get there at the nick of time, so the parents have to rush out the moment you walk in the door. To make up for your tardiness, you show up bearing a bunch of educational puzzles and activity books, mumbling something about how you got delayed because you had such a hard time picking just a few, so you ended up bringing them all so little Joy can choose for herself…”

“Charming. One little caveat, though: A bitch is broke.”

He’s standing up before I’m done talking, reaching in his side pocket to dig out a simple black wallet.

“Courtesy of The Brotherhood,” he clarifies, handing me a crisp one hundred dollar bill. 

Wouldn’t ever dream of taking any of his personal money. A little T&E, compliments of the cultporate finance department, on the other hand- that’s fair game and then some. May even…

“Keep the change. For your troubles and such. Get some milk, maybe. Just make sure to get enough educational crap to make a parent believe themselves when they say they did their best.”

“OK, so I get there late. I piss off the Coopers even further by pretending I care about their kid more than they do. Then what?”

“You keep your emotions contained until I show up. I’ll wait in the hallway, one floor up from their apartment, so you should be able to hold your own for the time it takes me to come down.”

“What do you mean ‘keep my emotions contained’?! Should I maybe put my heartbeat on hold as well, while I’m at…”

My phone interrupts me with its infernally cheerful default ringtone, sparing me the trouble to attempt the latter by doing it for me.

At this rate I may start thinking I’m popular or something. 

“Good evening. Am I talking to Ms. uum…”

“Amber. Just Amber will do.”

Of course. I almost forgot about this tiny detail. Babysitters, just like vampires, need to be invited.

“Amber, right,” Mr. Cooper sounds by far less agitated than his echo did less than ten minutes ago. Even his awkwardness isn’t all that bad. Kind of cheerful, even. Endearing, if awkwardness ever was. “My name is Edmund Cooper. I got your number from a mutual acquaintance. Dr. Robert Zamanhoff. I’m not sure whether he got the chance to talk to you since…”

“Oh sure, Bobbie just had lunch with my old man the other day. You must be that friend of his that Pa told me about. The one looking for a babysitter, right? Was so excited to hear that! Been badgering him with questions ever since, but he never bothers to get any details I care about. And Bobbie’s not answering the phone. Probably got patient appointments back to back all day. So I’m so glad you called, Mr. Cooper! But gosh, am I blabbering! So sorry about that!”

Never thought I was such a natural. Someone give me that naked golden dude all the A listers are after, dammit. 

“Oh, wow. It’s so nice to meet someone this passionate about their job nowadays!” His chuckle sounds a tad more uneasy than he probably intended. For once, I don’t mind the awkwardness, though. I guess some small part of me wanted to creep him out just a little. 

“You’ve got no idea, Mr. Cooper! I love what I do. You’re right, though. So few can say they do, in this day and age…”

“So true. So true. But please, call me Edmund.”

“You got it, Edmund. So tell me about the kid.”

Other than the vampiric possession part, that is.

“Right,” he clears his throat with the air of a surgeon facing the family of his latest professional failure. “Well, Joy... she is… She’s not like other kids. I mean, she needs some getting used to, you know what I mean? She’s very shy, sensitive. But her heart is in the right place. We wouldn’t have her any other way, God bless! Such a precious little girl. She’s just a little different, that’s all.”

“Oh, but aren’t all the little girls and boys different from each other? That’s what makes them the darling little angels that they are. Every child is unique, and beautiful in his or her way.”

I swear I wasn’t born a sadistic bitch. I blame it on a lifetime of disappointments and a low-vitamin diet. I didn’t even mean to torture him when I first picked up the phone. I’m not a bad person, really. I just have a low resistance to the temptations of tragic irony. Gods, do I wish I didn’t find it so comical.

My wish gets granted when poor Ed gets all choked up on me. Should have known better by now. I’m not good with wishes.

“Thank you. Thank you so much, Amber,” he does his best to keep his voice steady. Despite all his efforts, It’s nowhere near steady enough to prevent me from feeling like a total piece of shit. “Thank you and bless you for your kind words. It… You have no idea how much they mean to me.”

I hate him for the guilt his maudlin exclamations force on me. Hate him enough to want to hurt him some more. I solemnly vow I will do no such thing.

“Oh, but I mean it. Every child is a blessing. As you surely knew when you named her Joy. I can hardly wait to see for myself what a perfect bundle of joy she is.”

I’m not very good with solemn vows, either. 

Devin makes a little sound, not unlike Snickerdoodle’s pre-hairball emission cough. I’m not sure whether he’s laughing or cringe-gasping. I’m pretty sure it’s safe to say both. If I had balls I’d kick myself in them. Or Devin would, if he had any himself.

Ed grows silent for a whole minute. That’s better. Now I can pity him without wanting to give myself more reasons to do so. I wonder if that’s what compassion always feels like.

“All right then, when can I start?” I hope he doesn’t take my pretence at cheerful practicality for the indifference that it truly is. 

“I… yes, of course…” he doesn’t quite snap out of it. It’s more like he locates the exit sign and starts crawling in the right direction. He coughs some of the dismay out of his voice and starts afresh. “Actually, for now, I… we thought of a one-time thing. For the time being, that is. To see how you guys get along, you know? Not that I doubt your competence or anything…”

Not very wise of you, Eddie boy. Not wise at all

“Of course, I understand. It only makes sense. No worries whatsoever. So when should I clear my schedule?” 

“Right. Umm… How about tomorrow evening? Can you make it on such short notice?”

“Sure, otherwise parents would have no date nights, would they? No problem. Just say when.”

“Will half past eight be OK?”

“Definitely. I will be there.” Then, realizing how royally I have almost fucked up: “I’ll just need the address.” 

Another act of the farce is complete.

“You’re mean.” Devins' voice carries enough disdain to rekindle my shame, but not to cancel out the savage spark of admiration in his eyes. For a moment there I almost like him.

“I don’t know what came over me. It’s like I was the one being possessed. Wait! What if…”

“Nope. This one is all natural. It’s called assholery.”

“Are you sure? It really felt like…”

“All you. I would have felt a foreign influence.”

I’m somewhat disturbed to sense a mild glow blossom somewhere deep inside me, behind a thin layer of shame. It feels suspiciously reminiscent of pride.

“We do, however, need to make sure she doesn’t get to you tomorrow. You must tune down some of this crazy emotional mega-shitstorm you’re radiating 24/7.”

“OK then, let me just find the Off switch.”

“Ever thought of getting yourself a freaking stand-up show? No? Good. You’d be the flop of the century. What I mean is I will teach you some simple tricks so you can temporarily tune it down. Got any further smartassery regarding my suggestion, or would you rather shut up and get a chance to live past tomorrow evening? Just what I thought.”

Thus, for once, I do the smart thing: I shut my mouth and learn. 

Or at least I try to. The “simple” part turns out to be a lie so blatant it would make a politician blush. The next four hours are a bitter montage of abject failures.

“Nope. I still hear your every thought. Not even muffled. And you wish my mom let you do that to her. She’s way out of your league.”

At this point I’m practically panting with effort, my tee-shirt drenched through with hot, angry sweat.

I exhale another gust of anatomically-themed epithets at my hapless tutor’s ancestral lineage and try to refocus my attention on the cursed image of a nondescript chunk of granite.  

“That’s right, focus on it. Keep your mind on the rock.”

By the hundredth time or so this part becomes almost manageable. I can see every crevice on the lifeless form’s grey surface. Every crater agape with sterile indifference, every protrusion stands monument to nonexistence in a landscape of drab bleakness. 

“Good. Make it even plainer. Let it bore you.”

I make it smoother, its greyness more uniform. I leave nothing to catch the eye. Motionless, shapeless, featureless - yet the sole focus of my attention all the same. There is nothing else to look at.

“Excellent! Your best grey rock so far. Now comes the tricky part.”

I lock my jaw and squeeze my eyes shut twice as hard, adamant not to let the rock slip through.

“Don’t you ever wonder,” he begins slowly, almost gently, “what it would feel like not to be a clusterfuck on steroids? For just a minute?”

Grey rock. Just a grey fucking rock. Nothing to see here, no fun to be had. The epitome of barrenness. Voidness voider than void. The ultimate...

“... nothing to hope for. It’s not even about how you’ve always been an underachiever, you know. It’s not a crime to fail. You’re worse than a mere loser. You don’t even bother to try. You’re a parasite. A leech so odious no foot will touch you long enough to crush you under.”

Still grey. Still lifeless. No leech could ever survive here. Not on my rock.

“Ask Deidre what it’s like to have you as her personal tapeworm.”

I grit my teeth. The rock gives a tiny quiver but remains intact.

“Of course, she does take some pleasure in pushing your buttons. It is in her blood, after all. But can you blame her? She’s just charging a little fee for her services as an emotional invalide’s financial crutch.”

What do you mean in her bl… no! Grey rock. Think of the fucking rock. There is no blood in rock.

Except there is. A barely perceptible dribble, oozing through a microscopic hairline crack. There didn’t used to be any cracks there. I strain my mind to mend it shut. The bleeding stops. The fracture remains.

“That’s right, that’s how you bleed her of her money. With nothing to show for it but ingratitude and petulance. Every effort on her part is met with another load of glorious fuck-uppery.”

Another crack, forking out into a double trickle of brownish-red syrup. 

No! Hold it, dammit! You’re a fucking rock, for fuck’s sake…

One branch of the fissure narrows momentarily, only to grow back to twice its original width and burst into an entire network of fine red lines. 

Grey! Go back to grey! 

We meet halfway, somewhere between washed out salmon-clay and milky puce.  

“Makes one wonder: who’s the vampire now? Didn’t know parasitism could be mutual. I guess that’s what happens when one stupid slut gets knocked up by two pieces of shit. One half-vampire, one half-scumbag, and one whole happy dysfunctional family.”

I hold the violently quaking rock in a pair of mental hands just as shaky, trying to cover the widening cracks with slippery blood-sweaty fingers.

“So it would be a total of four exploitative assholes using and dumping your mom in her lifetime. Guess she’s better off, now that she’s all alone.”

The rock shatters in a violent explosion of dust and gore. 

I can feel the sharp shreds hit my face with a sting that is all too real. Devin recoils with a small involuntary blink. He does his best to conceal his reaction, but by now I know for a fact that the rock, and the resulting debris, is as tangible to him as it is to me. If not more so.

He wipes an invisible splatter just above his left eyebrow and looks at his watch.

“Six minutes. That’s an improvement, I guess,” his expression conveys none of the optimism implied by the statement. 

“You guess?! It took you twice as long to get to me this time! I’ve managed to hold off the attack for six whole minutes, dammit!”

“Which is better than you did an hour ago. But nowhere near good enough. Again.”

It takes me another hour and forty minutes to raise my time all the way to thirteen minutes. And it doesn’t end with the rock either. After the Grey Rock comes the Fuzzy Blanket defence. And don’t even get me started on the Warm Fog and the Steaming Engine. 

By the time we yawn our goodbyes - sometime between Witching-Hour-thirty and stupor-o’clock - I’m ready for my Hogwarts acceptance letter. 

Would have gotten it too, hadn’t the stupid owl kamikazed into a nearby power pole at some point during my exhaustion-induced ten-hour coma. Just as well, I guess. Would be hella awkward to sit in a classroom full of magically enhanced prepubescent pimple-cushions.

I dream of graphite and rubies.