Monday, November 26, 2007

The CATALYST, CHAPTER 13: HAND OF KAMI
Hey.
Are any of you all familiar with Paranoia! Academy? As in, the brilliance-epitomizing, therapeutic-enough-to-be-Heaven-sent rock band made up of Ritzka Alichino (lyricist/backing vocalist/guitarist), Brennon Urith (vocalist/guitarist/pianist), Sebastian “Seby” Spence (drummer/percussionist/backing vocalist), and John Ross (bassist/backing vocalist)? Yeah, you know, the guys who were discovered and had their first C.D., “I Write Musicals, Not Soap Opera’s,” produced by Jason Wenterz? The guys that originally had the current guitarist of Dashi & The Attention Whores, Vashoutoh Malluste, as their bassist? The guys that were eventually forced to kick Vashou out for slacking off on the job and distancing himself from the rest of the group? The guys who the very same Vashoutoh Malluste is now allegedly plotting to devastate for exiling him to “the dark, hopeless, unbearably unglamorous void of obscurity?”
Sound familiar…?
.... No? Wow, you guys are pathetic. Well, whatever.
My point is, they’ve get this one song, called “Wake Me Up When The Anesthesia Wears Off,” that goes: “This is the momentum of the/pounding in your head/ as your pulse stutters and sputters/unto the dead skin of your chest./ This is the desperation with/ which you throw attempts/at avoidance of consciousness./ And this,/ oh, this/ is the impact of the fall that got you here, darling./ But the good news, is, they say torn and tattered is the new black./ So, honey, congrats./ Because that makes him the new cancer/ and you the new heart attack/…”

People, NEVER in my life have I ever been able to relate to those lyrics more than this second. Seriously. I’m about to rip the damn skin off my hand and drink my own blood, I’m so ---–-ing dehydrated.
So I lazily climb down from my loft bed and exit the room, in search and in serious need of a Coke. Or a Mountain Dew. Or a diet Pepsi. Or, preferably, all three. Or more preferably, all three and a Hershey bar.
Because not only was I feeling completely exhausted and dehydrated, but, for some reason, I also felt like crawling into my misery hole, bursting into a sob-fest of blood, and sawing away at my wrists with a butter knife. (The misery probably had a lot to do with the exhaustion and dehydration though.)

As I descended the steps to the down-stairs kitchen, where all the worth-while food and drink was, I began to detect unfamiliar voices half-negotiating, half-quarreling from somewhere very near the steps. (“From somewhere very near the steps,” probably meaning the gigantic, wooden kitchen table…) Now, if I were in a more prudent and less careless mood, I might’ve grown cautious at the sound of unidentified people in my home. However, at that moment, I felt so defeated and dreary that I honestly didn’t give a damn. Hell, I didn’t have the energy to give a damn even if I wanted to. So, I immediately proceeded to the entrance of the oh-so-immaculate haven of food and drink to find an absolutely HEAVEN-SENT can of Mountain Dew on the aforementioned kitchen table. However, it probably would’ve seemed more Heaven-sent if it hadn’t so blatantly belonged to the stout police officer seated across from my mother and beside his slim female “partner in (fighting) crime.” It probably also would’ve been so much better if my mother hadn’t just then noticed me dazedly loitering a few feet away from the coppers and not only called attention to me, but made a complete spectacle of herself.
“BELINDA…!!” she instantaneously gasped the second her gaze fell on me. She looked as if I had just awoken from a 19-year-long coma. And as if this wasn’t dramatic enough, as she said this, she automatically sprang from her seat, with about as much hesitance as a bullet bursting out of the barrel of a semi-automatic rifle, rushed over to me, and half gathered, half forced me into a spine-crushing embrace which, under normal circumstances, probably would’ve passed as a hug.

This, of course, caused Mister and Mrs. The Man to not only turn around and stare but to exchange weirded out expressions and telepathically discuss the dramatic ways of Mrs. Oscar For Most Dramatic Reaction To Her Daughter’s Entrance into The Basement here. Not that I was paying much attention to the coppers. Not that I could pay much attention to the coppers while being buried alive beneath layers and layers of hysterical “OHMIGAWD, ARE YOU ALRIGHT?!?!!”s and “WHAT HAPPENED?!!? WHAT DID THEY DO YOU?!?!?!?”s by mommy dearest. I endured this for about a minute before finally succumbing to my desperation for caffeine by roughly pulling away from my mothers embrace and running for dear life to the fridge, being the very antonym of hesitant about extracting a half liter bottle of Coke and drinking in adoration of God for the awesometasticalness that is the oh-so-blessed antidote of artificial flavoring, sugar water, and caffeine. Then I realized the significance of cops in my house and wondered what the hell my little brother, Robert, did that was so bad that police officers had to interrogate my mother. Oh well. I guess I’ll just inform them that I had nothing to do with whatever-the- Hell-Robert-did and that I’ve been asleep for the last 7 hours or so. Not that anyone would suspect me of any serious crime anyway, but since The Man is here, I might as well validate my innocence while I have the chance. So I took my place at the table, beside where my mother had been sitting. After I had guzzled down the coke for about a minute and a half, I finally lowered the bottle to the table and, with a satisfied, half-drunken smile on my face, said: “Okay. I feel better now. Now look: I have no idea what my punk little brother did, but I assure you, I had nothing to do with it. But if you have any questions I could answer, I will. So, yeah… You may commence the interrogation.”
Looking mildly amused at receiving the permission to begin questioning some allegedly stoned punk soda addict with an authority complex by the exact same punk, allegedly stoned ,authority-complex-harboring soda addict, the she-cop (A.K.A. Mrs. The Man) was the first to speak. “Belinda, I’m Officer Watkins. This is my partner, Officer Gray.” And she gestured to Sir Justice beside her.
The aforementioned Gray was evidently more accustomed to seemingly inebriated punk soda addicts like me, for instead of mirroring Watkins’ amusement, he politely smiled at me, nodded, and, obviously unfazed, said “Hey, kid.”
I, of course, returned the greeting courteously and took another gigantic gulp of my Coke.
This time, Watkins didn’t wait for me to put the bottle down. “We’re here to ask you about the massacre you were involved in.”
At this, I half-dropped, half-lowered the bottle and gave them both a blank look. I had no freaking clue what they were talking about. As far as I could tell, they either had the wrong Belinda Sacko, or that essay I wrote about Beowulf last Friday was way worse than I thought. Fortunately, before I could commence spewing out explanations about my oh-so-chronic improper use of the semi-colon and why I did not therefore deserve to be locked up for my transgressions against the English language, Gray informed me that: “Oh, you can drop the playing-dumb act, hon. Relax, you’re not in trouble or anything. We just want to know if you could give us any information about the attackers and who this ‘Kami’ character was, and when you first saw them in the school and, you know, stuff like that.” Wait. Something’s not right. Could we rewind back to that first “and,” please?

AND WHO THIS “KAMI” CHARACTER WAS…

At the word “Kami,” something clicks in my brain and a string of strangely meaningful, half-remembered, uncoordinated sentences run through my head. As the words force themselves inside me, I can’t help feeling that I’m not going to like what I’m about hear. That I’m better off not knowing. But it’s too late. I can’t stop it. The show has already started and the curtain’s already opened.

“Alright, I’ll ask you one more time…. Master Kami?.... WHERE. IS. SHE?... We found her…I-I don’t know…. Very good. Bring her in….I…I saw her earlier this morning, but…. So, you’re Jason Wenterz’s favorite groupie, eh?.... We don’t have all the same classes together, so…. Nice scars…. So you have no idea where she is…. The scars. On your legs. They’re cute….. Melinda! …. I like ‘em…. RUN!!!!” And then, there was a bang. A bang, a scream, and a “thud” as an unconscious body hit the floor.
“Bullets…!” I somehow managed to gasp out, through my trance of nostalgia, before being dragged deeper beneath the veil separating the now from the then. Somewhere along the line, I started to shiver. Each and every recovered word was like a blow to my head with a blunt object. A blunt object that froze everything it touched.

“Beli-waaaaaaaaa…? ….. Did you do that yourself? ………Where are you, Beli-waaaa?.... Oh. Well, they’re pretty, anyway… You can come out now…. That one there looks kinda like a micro-phone…. Coast’s clear…. But that one there looks a bit plain…..-“FLASH: The sound of a door being unlocked and thrown open, a distorted image of betrayal, and unkind strong arms closing hopelessly around me as I’m dragged away. “Hail Mary, full of grace…. Rather crude, actually… The Lord is with Thee…. How’d you get it?.... Blessed are You, among women….-“FLASH: An image of a shattered heart-shaped scar, with the words “WERE YOU USING THAT?” hovering cynically over it. -“And blessed is the fruit of Thy womb, Jesus…. What’cha lookin’ at, love? .... Holy Mary, mother of God…. Oh, this? That’s nothing! ….. Pray for us sinners…. You should see the one my dad gave for my 16th birthday… Now and at the hour of our death….. Now, this one’s my favorite!...... Amen-” FLASH: A patch of eerie semi-yellow skin distorted only by the stainless, yet soaked-with-sin ivory, gigantic scar manifested in the form of a brutally-carved “BLASHEMER.” At this flash-back, I felt like throwing up.
“Well?... In the name of The Father …. What do you think? ..... And the Son …. –“ FLASH: An overly-mottled mask. A slender, masculine form. A semi-shrouded, predatory, golden eye.- “ And the Holy Spirit…. He didn’t approve of my art, my father…. And the Holy Spirit….. –“ FLASH: Ivory mutilation-lines strewn across ultra fair skin stretched over shamelessly displayed sinew. Another gold eye, this time more intense. More piercing. More predatory.-“ Amen.”
BANG.
This, dear observers, is when the something in my brain that started to click began to throb. And as the pain of the reverie increased, so did the speed and clarity with which it unfolded. This time, there were a lot more images, a lot more flashes.

For the first 10 seconds, there was nothing but a bunch of revelations and questions about why I had appeared in a celebrity gossip magazine with Jason Wenterz and blah, blah, blah, blah. But then it started to get interesting.
“…. But, uhhhhh, just outta curiosity: Why WERE you with Wenterz yesterday?....-“And then, speak of the Devil, out of nowhere, comes the seemingly ancient, yet merely one-day-old words of guess-which-human-Mardi-Gras-decoration: “THEY- as in, Mikey, Brent, and Andy- want you to be the co-lyricist...-” FLASH: a look of disbelief. A compulsive twitch of the arm. And then, the disbelief contorts itself into malicious, condescending delight and the laughing starts. At this, I feel a wave of anger. –“ Good. That was a very good call on your part…. I HAVE BEEN GONE MORE DAYS THAN I HAVE BEEN HOME….. I mean, YOU?! As a CO-LYRICIST?!.....EXCHANGING FRIENDS FOR TRIPS TO THE COAST…. For the HUMAN ---ING SHIELDS?!!..... THIS HOTEL ROOM…. What was Wenterz thinking?!.... FEELS MORE, OH, OH…. I mean, I could understand hiring a co-lyricist…. LIKE…. Even a TEENAGE co-lyricist… A TOMB…. But YOU?!!..... AND IT’S NOT GOSSIP…. No –ing way, man!.... IF IT’S THE TRUTH….-“ FLASH: A surge of fury. A display of indignity. A meditative silence.-“Don’t even know you….? I’M SICK OF ALWAYS WRITING SONGS…. My dear girl, just because you don’t know me…. FOR YOU…. Don’t assume I don’t know you….. TO SLIT… Matter of fact ….YOUR WRISTS TO....I know exactly …. SO WHICH IS IT…?…. who and what you are….. THE BOY WHO WRITES THE SONGS OR THE BOY WHO’S IN THEM?-“ FLASH: More fury, more indignity. But this time, with a touch of sarcasm. “Yeah, re-“ THROB!

This time, the twinge of the reverie was so intense, that it actually caused me to wince out-loud. Somewhere through the veil of time of which I was currently being smothered to death under, I could sort of make out the faded sight of the police-officers alarmed expressions as they tried to ascertain weather or not my apparent potential break down required the assistance of the emergency room. All I could do in reply was groan. No matter. The show must go on. And it did.

“You’re in love with some over-dramatic-enough-to-be-masochistic li’l pretty boy…. WHO’S THE GIRL? ......Who either doesn’t know you exist…. IS THIS TRUE…?.... or doesn’t care… OR IS HE WRITING FICTION?.... But you’re ashamed of it…. HAND OVER MY HEART….. Because the only reason you like him is because…. GUN TO MY HEAD…. he just seems SO mysterious… I SWEAR TO GOD…. And SO beautifully enigmatic…. I’M THROUGH …. But mostly just because…. WITH THIS….. He’s cute…. I AM THE WORST LIAR I KNOW….. This shows that you’re shallow and you hate that…… AND IT’S NOT GOSSIP IF IT’S THE TRUTH…… Which is why you’re never able to admit you love him….. I’M SICK OF ALYWAYS WRITING SONGS…. As for religion….. FOR YOU….. You come from a very pious family and not-so-secretly long for saint-hood…. TO SLIT……. In fact, you’re considering entering a convent when you’re older….. YOUR WRISTS TO….. Because you believe you’re not meant to get married…. SO WHICH IS IT?...... Because almost every guy outside your family always treated you like crap….. SO WHICH IS IT? ……..Or like you don’t exist……. SO WHICH IS IT?...... And that drives you absolutely insane inside…… WHICH IS IT?......... Because you’re secretly starving to death for affection…….. WHICH IS IT, WHICH IS IT?........ Even though you’d never admit it…. –“ FLASH: A black-haired, juvenilely smiling, 13-year-old boy. Eli. FLASH: A stern-faced, spiky-haired punk in blue face-paint. Kai. FLASH: A charisma-oozing blonde hip-hopper with mind-meltingly gorgeous turquoise eyes. Aaron. FLASH: A lithe, college-aged, formally dressed guitarist with hazel brown hair and hot pink pixie bangs. Ritzka. FLASH: An effeminate, tall, semi-full-bodied, hazel-eyed musician stereo-type with wispy, light brown tresses dominating the entire upper half of his face. Bennett. FLASH: And, finally, the sweetest semi-womanizer, semi-poet, semi-best friend, semi-heart breaker 17-year-old you would ever meet. Black scene hair, masculinity-re-defining bone-structure, dull sapphire eyes, mischievously playful lip-piercing, and the charisma that is guaranteed to both mutilate and restore your hope, time and time again. Danny Rossurie.- “SO WHICH IS IT, WHICH IS IT?.... Hell, even if there was a possibility of you not dying alone, miserable, and horny…. THE BOY…. You know you wouldn’t be able to commit to a long-term relationship anyway…. WHO WRITES THE SONGS… You’re too selfish, too narcissistic…. OR THE BOY…. You’re only ever in it for the fun…. WHO’S IN THEM?....... Which is ironic, considering how much you resent men….. WHO’S .... For only caring about the physical shit…. THE GIRL? .... And yet… IS…. You’re almost the exact same way… THIS…. Therefore, you are both a hypocrite and a superficial little bitch…. TRUE…? ….Hence you hating yourself…. OR…. And to everybody who’s ever known you, it appears as if you like your invisibility, as if you flow with it 100% naturally… IS HE….? Almost as if you’re immune to loneliness…. WRITING…. And you lie to them, and say that you do… FICTION?... But you don’t. You hate it…”-FLASH: a vision of half-remembered social exile. Nothing but feigned smiles and utter and complete desperation for attention.-“I HAVE… Even though you’ve learned to tolerate it, even though you’ve already learned that you’re better off alone and invisible…. BEEN….. And even though you claim to be immune to loneliness…. GONE…. You can’t stand it…. MORE DAYS-“FLASH: A thousand memories of conversations in which I was nothing more than a faceless observer. An over-powering feeling of desolation as I’m forced to act as the oh-so-uninvolved audience once again.-“And, every now and then—every oh-so-rare now and then—you get a very powerful urge to defeat that invisibility, that feeling of insignificance, and to be noticed.… THAN…. To stand out… I HAVE…. To feel special… BEEN… To BE special…. HOME-“ TWINGE.

Now this is when the trauma comes completely back into memory and back into full force, and all my feelings of dread and pain that have been building up inside me throughout the maelstrom of flash-backs just bursts. Hence the next thing I feel being the pressure of warm tears searing down my face. I remember every single word now. Every single event, every single conversation, before and after that last line. Only, now I re-live the blasting-spree in much greater detail with almost nothing but flashes.

“And your parents, who love you more than you will ever know…..-“ FLASH: A vision of a plump, dark-haired, endearingly smiling woman in loose-fitting jeans and a sweater playing with a laughing child. Mother.
FLASH: A semi-bald, equally plump, ever-so-reliable man in an orange polo-shirt, black dress pants, and glasses wearily making his way down-stairs after an exhausting day of work. Father.-“… Always tell you that you ARE special and that they love you…”-FLASH: A 2-year-old memory of mom confronting me about the suicide note I wrote at school earlier that day. Barriers are broken, tears are shed, truths are exposed, lines are crossed, and the bliss of denial is scourged to death.-“… But it’s not enough for you to be told….-“FLASH: the click of a safety lock on a gun being deactivated. The bang of the bullet exploding out of the barrel. A gasp of pain as the bullet hits its mark. And finally, the whispered good-byes between the shooter and the shot.—“…Especially not by your family…. GLORY BE TO THE FATHER….-“FLASH: A dark blonde 13-year-old boy with a crooked smile and a glinting eye. Robert. A sandy blonde, sapphire-eyed, 11-year-old potential pop star with a slightly disproportionate head. Charlie. A brown-eyed, olive-skinned, blonde-high-lighted, brown haired, 9-year-old glamour girl. Katie. An exotic-looking, olive-complexioned, topaz-eyed, black-haired, mischievous 6-year-old girl with a speech impediment. Emma. An adorable, plump, angelic 3-year-old toddler girl. Valerie. –“AND TO THE SON…. No, you want someone to prove it you…-“FLASH: A blood-soaked, half-starved body bleeding to death on a cross. A perfectly innocent man succumbing to a hell-bound criminal’s execution. A Heaven-sent, self-righteous suicide.—“AND TO THE HOLY SPIRIT…. What you REALLY want is 1 of your precious little pretty boys or crushes or whatever the --- you call them to love you back…--“FLASH: Me, watching pensively in complete frozen misery as they blissfully walk away from me for the millionth time. Nothing left but isolation and this week’s “Sound-track to my unreciprocated affection” playing through my head.—“AS IT WAS IN THE BEGINNING…. But they never will.”—She was dressed to impress, he was dressed to molest. And everyone else just shrugged it off their shoulders and looked for another so-called “fundamental” to slit their wrists against. I mean, it’s not like anyone ever pays attention to the affects anyway.—“Because they don’t know how… IS NOW”—FLASH: Tonight tenants range from a lawyer and a virgin accessorizing with a rosary tucked inside her lingerie. (She’s getting a job at the firm come Monday.) The Mrs. will stay with the cheating attorney. All moonlighting aside, she really needs this money- Oh, what a wonderful caricature of intimacy! Yeah, and not to mention, the constable’s proposition for that virgin—yes, the very same one the lawyer met with on “strictly business,” as he said to the Mrs. And only hours before, after he had left, the Mrs. was fixing her face in a compact. There was a terrible (CRASH!) between her and the bag; she spilled the purse on her bag and held a purse of a different kind. (Along with the people inside.) There are no rain-drops on roses and girls in white dresses. It’s sleeping with roaches and taking best guesses at the shade of the sheets before all the stains, and a few more of your least favorite things.—“AND… Hell, they barely even know you exist…[Hmmm… Yeah, I really don’t have a FLASH-back/lyric excerpt for that one. Sorry] EVER SHALL BE…… And you’re too scared to prove it to yourself. Too scared to do it by yourself—“FLASH: The arrival of a much anticipated letter that was meant to be an invitation to the high-school of my dreams. Instead, however, it was a rejection letter. I didn’t get in. I auditioned, and I only got 45 points out of 100. I didn’t even get half.—“WORLD WITHOUT END…. So, as a result, you have no confidence and very little self-worth… AMEN.” ANNNNNNNNNND- end ultra drawn out, extra long flash-back sequence!

Welcome back to the present, readers.

Kind of wish I would’ve been able to come back with you. Sadly, however, I was too stuck on the forlorn echoes of everything Kami said to me. Everything he said to me that was completely, entirely true. “Yeh see, Beli?” slurred my inner alcoholic, condescendingly. “THIZ iz why beer’s always deh bes’ thin’ fer a head-ache. Yeh dun need to put up wiff all thiz teen drama shiyat when you’re too drunk to care…” There was more, but then she started breaking into a fit of drunken, pointless convulsions/laughter, and I couldn’t understand a single word she said.
“I’m with Giggles,” agreed my inner ho, pausing to cast a derisive look at the practically epileptic with hysteria lush rolling around on the floor. “If you bothered to actually enjoy your youth and live a little instead of locking yourself up in your room all day and trying to be little miss perfect like some kind of ----ing angel, maybe you wouldn’t have to deal with crap like this.”
“Aw, ---- that!” chimed in my inner sniper. “You should’ve just blown up the whole damn school like I told you to! That way, those Reaper ass-holes wouldn’t have had anything to terrorize and Kami would’ve never been able to find you because you’d already be hiding from the cops.”
My inner demon nodded his approval of this plan. “Ahhh, once again explosives and mass murder solves all. Well done, sniper.”
“Thank you, sir. But it’s really nothing compared to your plan of taking advantage of the pre-schoolers back in 4th grade. ‘Twas absolutely genius!”
This conversation continued for about 5 more minutes, but I was too busy desperately clinging to the mental play-back of my all-time favorite comfort song, “I Liked You Better When You Were Medicated” by Paranoia! Academy, to care. (Lyrical sample: “Now,/ did you say you would not/ be running late today/ or that you would not be running?/ Because, if it was the latter:/ Well, at least you’re honest./ You put the apathetic sins where your mouth is,/ I’ll put the chronic head-aches where the theatrical fakes are./ And, well, for someone who rules happy hour, you seem pretty angry./ Are you supposed to be chronically depressed or just chronically addicted?/ Well, welcome to the millionth national church of/ ‘Whatever.’ Since you’re here, we might as well go through a few decades of the ‘God forbid’ and ‘God knows’ and maybe even a few ‘G—DAMMIT, BOY, WHY YA BE SO DAMN SLOW?!’s. You can take the kid out of the fight/ but you can’t take the fight out of the kid.”)

Now that I appeared to be in a less epileptic mood, the clamoring concern of Gray and Watkins had been replaced with an uncomfortable bewilderment at the unexplained tears streaming down my cheeks and the equally mysterious shivers rocking my spine.
Fortunately, my mother, who is used to seeing me cry, due to my many, many “accidents” in middle school, is much more useful in these situations.
She again gathers me into a hug, a much gentler one this time, and says softly into my ear: “Honey... What happened?”
Unfortunately, before I can recover from my reverie-induced convulsions enough to answer this question, my oh-so-strengthened-by-Kami-criticism self-loathing complex beats me to it: “I did, mother. I happened.”
At this her gaze widens in confusion and concern, as she tries to get a glimpse of my blood-shot eyes through all the bedraggled locks of black hair and fake golden streaks. “What?”
I do not pause to clarify. Instead, I brutally rake my mask of fool’s gold and foolish black obscurity from my face and allow my self-hatred to extract a confession from my bruised and battered mentality: “I DID IT, OKAY?!!! It was all me! All my fault!”
“WHAT?” said all 3 members of my poor, perplexed audience in unison.
The tears were coming down in torrents now. “I could’ve called for help. I could’ve s-stopped it before it started! There were SO many people I could’ve told!” A bitter choke and a bitter sob was the next thing that pierced everyone’s oh-so-weary ears. “If I hadn’t gotten my stupid, STUPID cell phone taken away an hour before it started, then….” Then I could’ve called the police the second I spotted that first Reaper. That way, I would’ve never had to be exposed and humiliated. That way, no one would’ve had to die. That way, I would be up in my room right now, contently doing my World Culture home-work and pensively day-dreaming about my pretty-boy neighbor, without a care in the world.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw my mother move her hand towards me, offering more comfort. But Watkins beat her to it. “Belinda.” She said, in a firm voice to invite my confidence and capture my attention, “I understand you’ve had a horrible day and you’re lucky just to be alive and that you’re over-whelmed with guilt and pain right now. But hon, answering our questions is the best way to redeem yourself right now. If you couldn’t keep the bad guys from getting in, then fine; just help us to get them out. Permanently.” This caught both my attention and my gaze. ”Okay?” she smiled.
I nodded. She was right. Everything had already happened. There was nothing I could do about the past. I might as well try to preserve the future. However, before I managed to let it go, my inner masochist snuck in one last blow: “Hell, maybe that way, Danny would’ve never even had to be shot.” Right. Maybe he would still be alive. “Well, maybe he IS still alive, darling,” consoled my inner optimist, who refused to be defeated just yet.

So, I turned to Officer Watkins and asked, just to make sure everything had gone to Hell the way I thought it had.
“Officer,” I murmured, “There was a boy I know named Danny Rossurie who was in the school during the massacre. Do you know if he’s still alive?”
“Hmmmmmmm….. Rossurie, Rossurie, Rossurie…..” She muttered, racking her brain. After about a minute more of thinking, she turned to her partner. “Gray, do you know anything about a Danny Rossurie?”
“Uh, yeah….. “ The look on his face was a combination of mystification, dismalness, and curiosity. “I’m sorry, kid: I’m afraid he’s dead. But….” The mystification deepened into troubled confusion, as he pondered how to ask the question plaguing his mind. As he thought, he reached into his pocket and extracted a small pile of Polaroid photographs, which he then placed on the table, in front of me. “But after they took his body to the morgue, the coroner found these marks all over his body.” At the Polaroid, I looked. I gasped. Eye dilated. There, in the picture, on Danny’s ghastly pale chest were speckles of sinister black “2”’s darkling in the exact same font and manner that the “1” on Nikki Burgham’s wrist had appeared when she died. “Belinda,” Gray asked once he saw my shocked reaction; “Do you know anything about this?”

Comments (2)