Patrick awoke to find himself on Kevin's futon in Apartment 983, Washington Heights, Baltimore. The last few days of his life seemed a blur. Earlier that week, he had awoken from a what had seemed like a long, long sleep full of pleasant dreams to find himself sprawled out stark naked on a stainless steel table in an austere apartment lined with shelves of ominous-looking chemicals.
Kevin had told him everything. He filled in every detail, from the plunge off the bridge to the escape from the morgue, and from his arrival in Washington Heights to the burning of powdered intestines and herbs. It was surreal coming back to life, having departed the dreamlike bliss of heaven.
Patrick sat up, rubbing his eyes. He was wearing Kevin's blue Johns Hopkins sweatshirt and an old pair of Kevin's jeans as he had no clothes of his own. Pushing the blanket aside, Patrick stood up and strode into the kitchen where Kevin had begun to make waffles. Eggo waffles.
"Can we please eat something other than Eggo waffles for breakfast? They're horribly freezer burnt," Patrick pleaded.
"I guess we can go to the bakery, if you insist," Kevin responded.
Patrick waited for Kevin to grab his wallet and then opened the door and stepped into the hallway. Across the corridor, a sign reading "FOR RENT" hung on the door of Apartment 982. Patrick, unaware of the apartment's previous owner, briefly noted the sign, but Kevin didn't seem to notice it at all.
The pair ambled down the corridor to the stairwell, which they descended at a rate much slower than Kevin usually did. Passing through the dingy, cramped lobby, Patrick and Kevin stepped out onto the street. The first thing that caught their eyes was an ambulance across the street in the park, surrounded by an ever-growing throng of Washington Heights residents. They watched as the form of a small boy, drenched in blood and sunlight, was lifted into the back of the ambulance.
Patrick turned to Kevin. He could see the glow of the light bulb that had suddenly switched on in Kevin's head glinting through his eyes.
"I know what you're thinking, and it's a bad idea," Patrick admonished. "You did it once, and once is enough. C'mon. Let's go get some breakfast."
Shoulders hunched in disappointment, Kevin followed Patrick's lead and turned toward the bakery.
Pulling the door open, Kevin stepped inside the bakery, followed by Patrick. Kevin was taken aback to find the hulking form of a seemingly-hostile man behind the counter. Maria was nowhere to be found.
Pushing this thought to the back of his mind, Kevin asked Patrick what he wanted to eat.
"How about a chocolate chip muffin?" Patrick asked.
"Good luck with that," Kevin replied. "How about a bagel? Or a...bagel?"
"A bagel sounds fine," Patrick sighed. "Do they have -"
"No, just plain. Don't even bother trying to find variety here," Kevin interrupted him.
Bagels in hand, they departed the bakery. They noticed that the crowd surrounding the ambulance had dispersed and people were now milling about the streets. As he was covered in scars and stitches, Patrick would've normally stood out walking down the streets of a crowded city, but in Washington Heights, even the most bizarre is commonplace. Nevertheless, he felt self-conscious about the dark lines tracing his limbs and converging at the nape of his neck.
Upon their arrival at Apartment 983, Kevin finally noticed the sign on Maria's door. A pang of sadness gripped his heart as he thought of how he would never see her again. But then, glancing into Patrick's eyes, he was comforted by the presence of his longtime friend. One friend lost, another regained.
The pair of friends entered Apartment 983, each relieved by the prospect of escaping the hellhole that is Washington Heights, and each reflecting on their lives together, past and future.
Thursday, May 8, 2008
Tuesday, April 29, 2008
Ice Cream, Innards, and Incantations
Adrenaline surged through Kevin's bloodstream as he emerged from the SMARTA station. Today would be the day. Today would be the day.
Crossing the street to Washington Heights, he dodged an ice cream truck merrily chiming "Twinkle, Twinkle" from its speakers. Knowing the neighborhood for what it was, Kevin guessed that the truck sold more magic herbs than ice cream - and not the type of magic herbs he had bought from the woman at The Wrath.
As Kevin opened the door to apartment 981, his heart thundered with excitement and the effort of sprinting up nine flights of stairs. Dropping his bag by the door, Kevin got to work immediately.
Patrick's body still lay chained to the steel table in the center of the room, the corpse's pallid skin glowing in the light of the bare bulb overhead.
Kevin lifted the now dried entrails and placed them in a large mortar. Adding the herbs the woman at The Wrath had given him, he began to grind the mixture with a pestle. When he had successfully powdered the herbs and innards, he divided the mortar's contents into four small bowls. Placing one at each corner of the steel table, he lit the powder samples with a lighter from his pocket. As a savory yet revolting aroma filled the room, he picked up the piece of scrap paper the woman had handed him. Her calligraphy itself seemed to evoke the magic in the words, as though no recitation was necessary.
Mors non finis est; mors solus inceptum est; is qui mortatus est rursus vivet
As the last syllable echoed against the barren walls, Kevin felt a change in the atmosphere of the room. The room seemed to have a new life to it. The hairs on Kevin's neck began to stand up. He could feel the incantation working, but Patrick showed no signs of life as of yet. Kevin would have to wait.
Pulling a chair to the table alongside Patrick's head, Kevin sat to wait. He waited for hours. He waited until the flames died down to embers. He waited until the glowing embers began to fade.
As the last burning ember was dying, Kevin turned to leave. His plan had failed. He would never have Patrick back in his life again.
But as Kevin reached for the door handle, the last ember died with a puff of smoke. With this final signal came a slight rustling. Upon hearing it, Kevin turned around, searching for the source of the sound. It came from the table. Kevin's heart skipped a beat.
Patrick was moving hypnopompically, as though he was waking from a deep sleep. At last, he opened his eyes. "Kevin?" he inquired in a voice that seemed as if it had not been used for the last three years.
Crossing the street to Washington Heights, he dodged an ice cream truck merrily chiming "Twinkle, Twinkle" from its speakers. Knowing the neighborhood for what it was, Kevin guessed that the truck sold more magic herbs than ice cream - and not the type of magic herbs he had bought from the woman at The Wrath.
As Kevin opened the door to apartment 981, his heart thundered with excitement and the effort of sprinting up nine flights of stairs. Dropping his bag by the door, Kevin got to work immediately.
Patrick's body still lay chained to the steel table in the center of the room, the corpse's pallid skin glowing in the light of the bare bulb overhead.
Kevin lifted the now dried entrails and placed them in a large mortar. Adding the herbs the woman at The Wrath had given him, he began to grind the mixture with a pestle. When he had successfully powdered the herbs and innards, he divided the mortar's contents into four small bowls. Placing one at each corner of the steel table, he lit the powder samples with a lighter from his pocket. As a savory yet revolting aroma filled the room, he picked up the piece of scrap paper the woman had handed him. Her calligraphy itself seemed to evoke the magic in the words, as though no recitation was necessary.
Mors non finis est; mors solus inceptum est; is qui mortatus est rursus vivet
As the last syllable echoed against the barren walls, Kevin felt a change in the atmosphere of the room. The room seemed to have a new life to it. The hairs on Kevin's neck began to stand up. He could feel the incantation working, but Patrick showed no signs of life as of yet. Kevin would have to wait.
Pulling a chair to the table alongside Patrick's head, Kevin sat to wait. He waited for hours. He waited until the flames died down to embers. He waited until the glowing embers began to fade.
As the last burning ember was dying, Kevin turned to leave. His plan had failed. He would never have Patrick back in his life again.
But as Kevin reached for the door handle, the last ember died with a puff of smoke. With this final signal came a slight rustling. Upon hearing it, Kevin turned around, searching for the source of the sound. It came from the table. Kevin's heart skipped a beat.
Patrick was moving hypnopompically, as though he was waking from a deep sleep. At last, he opened his eyes. "Kevin?" he inquired in a voice that seemed as if it had not been used for the last three years.
Train of Thought
It was another rainy afternoon. Luckily, Kevin wouldn't be out much. He had only one class today, an afternoon lecture on the endocrine system.
Kevin sat alone in the car of the SMARTA train, staring blankly through the window across the aisle, watching flashes of orange light the color of macaroni and cheese pass by, interrupting the blackness that was the bowels of the city.
Lulled by the rhythmic clacking of wheel on rail, Kevin was lost amid the sea of thoughts swimming through his head. He reflected on the crazed events of the morning.
Especially noteworthy was his lunch with Maria. She had bumped into him as they were both leaving their apartments in search of decent food, a rare commodity among the residents of Washington Heights, it seemed. They had ambled down the wet pavement together, the both of them skipping the sidewalk in Maria's usual, peculiar manner. Then came the fun. The sandwich Kevin had been eating had a serious onion leakage problem. One piece of onion that fell onto the table seemed to flip a very strange switch in Maria, causing her to fall into a silence only to be broken with shouts of despair and affection, followed by her flight from the diner.
Kevin's thoughts also wandered to an attractive young woman he had seen around Washington Heights. She, too, wore a Johns Hopkins sweatshirt. He wondered what she might be doing around Washington Heights so much. Did she live there, too?
Kevin was aroused from his meditations by the squeal of brakes as the train entered a station. Glancing up, Kevin saw the sign reading Johns Hopkins University. Grabbing his bag, he trod onto the platform and up the stairs, returning to the gray world outside.
Kevin sat alone in the car of the SMARTA train, staring blankly through the window across the aisle, watching flashes of orange light the color of macaroni and cheese pass by, interrupting the blackness that was the bowels of the city.
Lulled by the rhythmic clacking of wheel on rail, Kevin was lost amid the sea of thoughts swimming through his head. He reflected on the crazed events of the morning.
Especially noteworthy was his lunch with Maria. She had bumped into him as they were both leaving their apartments in search of decent food, a rare commodity among the residents of Washington Heights, it seemed. They had ambled down the wet pavement together, the both of them skipping the sidewalk in Maria's usual, peculiar manner. Then came the fun. The sandwich Kevin had been eating had a serious onion leakage problem. One piece of onion that fell onto the table seemed to flip a very strange switch in Maria, causing her to fall into a silence only to be broken with shouts of despair and affection, followed by her flight from the diner.
Kevin's thoughts also wandered to an attractive young woman he had seen around Washington Heights. She, too, wore a Johns Hopkins sweatshirt. He wondered what she might be doing around Washington Heights so much. Did she live there, too?
Kevin was aroused from his meditations by the squeal of brakes as the train entered a station. Glancing up, Kevin saw the sign reading Johns Hopkins University. Grabbing his bag, he trod onto the platform and up the stairs, returning to the gray world outside.
Tuesday, April 22, 2008
Pancakes and a Pancreas
Despite cold air and intermittent sleet, Kevin was in a cheerful mood. All he had left to do was to burn some rat entrails. Not wanting Patrick's first day of resurrection to be sleety and gray, Kevin was taking his time in obtaining the entrails. He even allowed himself a normal meal in the diner down the street.
Taking the last seat at the diner's counter, he waited to be served. He didn't understand why "waiters" referred to the servers instead of the customers because it always seemed to him that he was waiting on the waitress.
At last, a young waitress approached. The small placard pinned to her shirt read "Mandi Mac." Kevin found her name to be a bit rustic, perhaps even redneck, but this was a diner, after all.
Kevin placed his order for a stack of chocolate chip pancakes. Mandi Mac turned and headed back behind the counter. Kevin began to stare off into space, lost in thoughts about the day soon to come. He needed those entrails first, though.
A few minutes later, Mandi Mac placed a plate full of steaming chocolate chip pancakes in front of Kevin. Dousing them in syrup and butter, Kevin ravenously dug into the pancakes.
After a little while, the bell on the diner door rang, letting in the street noise of sirens and squealing brakes. Kevin, however, was too engrossed in his food to look up. But before he knew it, Maria, his neighbor from across the hall, sat next to him. Kevin smiled. Maria blushed.
Half an hour later, Kevin emerged from the diner. He strolled down the street, noticing a black van whizzing around the block. Merrily whistling the overture from the Marriage of Figaro, Kevin took a shortcut through the empty lot behind Washington Heights to the lonely taxidermy stand. He approached the small, dark-haired woman behind the stand. Here goes nothing, he thought.
"Can I help you?" the young woman asked.
"Uh, this might sound like an odd request, but, uh, do you have any extra entrails I could have? Preferably of a rat?" Kevin responded.
"You're in luck. I just finished a rat moments ago. I was going to give the entrails to the bu- never mind. Sure. You can have them."
She fished around in a bucket behind the stand and withdrew a gloppy-looking mess of rat organs. Wrapping the innards in a sheet of newspaper, she handed the newly-formed, slightly leaking package to Kevin.
"Thanks," Kevin muttered as he turned to head back to Washington Heights.
After his daily sprint back up the stairs to the ninth floor, Kevin proceeded to Apartment 981. Sneaking in and shutting the door quietly behind him, he unwrapped the package of entrails. Based on his studies as a premed student, he guessed that he had been given the intestines, gall bladder, and a pancreas. It would suffice. Spreading the innards out under a lamp, now all he had to do was wait for them to dry.
Taking the last seat at the diner's counter, he waited to be served. He didn't understand why "waiters" referred to the servers instead of the customers because it always seemed to him that he was waiting on the waitress.
At last, a young waitress approached. The small placard pinned to her shirt read "Mandi Mac." Kevin found her name to be a bit rustic, perhaps even redneck, but this was a diner, after all.
Kevin placed his order for a stack of chocolate chip pancakes. Mandi Mac turned and headed back behind the counter. Kevin began to stare off into space, lost in thoughts about the day soon to come. He needed those entrails first, though.
A few minutes later, Mandi Mac placed a plate full of steaming chocolate chip pancakes in front of Kevin. Dousing them in syrup and butter, Kevin ravenously dug into the pancakes.
After a little while, the bell on the diner door rang, letting in the street noise of sirens and squealing brakes. Kevin, however, was too engrossed in his food to look up. But before he knew it, Maria, his neighbor from across the hall, sat next to him. Kevin smiled. Maria blushed.
Half an hour later, Kevin emerged from the diner. He strolled down the street, noticing a black van whizzing around the block. Merrily whistling the overture from the Marriage of Figaro, Kevin took a shortcut through the empty lot behind Washington Heights to the lonely taxidermy stand. He approached the small, dark-haired woman behind the stand. Here goes nothing, he thought.
"Can I help you?" the young woman asked.
"Uh, this might sound like an odd request, but, uh, do you have any extra entrails I could have? Preferably of a rat?" Kevin responded.
"You're in luck. I just finished a rat moments ago. I was going to give the entrails to the bu- never mind. Sure. You can have them."
She fished around in a bucket behind the stand and withdrew a gloppy-looking mess of rat organs. Wrapping the innards in a sheet of newspaper, she handed the newly-formed, slightly leaking package to Kevin.
"Thanks," Kevin muttered as he turned to head back to Washington Heights.
After his daily sprint back up the stairs to the ninth floor, Kevin proceeded to Apartment 981. Sneaking in and shutting the door quietly behind him, he unwrapped the package of entrails. Based on his studies as a premed student, he guessed that he had been given the intestines, gall bladder, and a pancreas. It would suffice. Spreading the innards out under a lamp, now all he had to do was wait for them to dry.
Tuesday, April 15, 2008
Magic Herbs
The sun was setting as Kevin finished threading the second wire through Patrick's vertebrae. It had been a blustery day. Dark, ominous clouds had barely let any sunshine through. Once again, Kevin had returned to room 981, Chinese takeout in hand, to work on his labor of love.
Now that this step was complete, Kevin knew what he had to do. He would have to face the wind again, though.
Stepping out onto the street, Kevin trundled down the sidewalk to a small store right next to the empty lot surrounding Washington Heights. He entered the store, which was named The Wrath.
Sitting behind the counter was a woman. Kevin approached her.
"I need some magic herbs," he said.
"I don't cater to the wants of those wishing to consume controlled substances," the woman responded.
"I'm not looking for drugs," Kevin rebutted. "I need something that actually has magical properties."
"Well, what are you trying to do?" the woman questioned.
"Bring back a friend," Kevin said. Then, after a short pause, he continued, "from the dead."
The woman stood still and silent for a few breathless moments. Finally, she turned toward one of the glass cases along the walls. "Follow me," she said.
Stopping at one of the glass cases, she pulled a set of keys from one of her pockets. Slowly turning one of the keys in the lock, she turned toward Kevin.
"I can't provide you with all you need," she said, "but I can get you on the right path."
"What do you mean?" inquired Kevin, confused.
"I have a few herbs that you can use, but what you will need most are the entrails of a rat."
Having selected samples of several of the plants in the case, she began to scrawl a few strange words on a scrap of paper. Finishing the last word with a flick, she handed the paper to Kevin.
"Dry the rat entrails - once you've got them, that is. I suggest you visit that taxidermist around the corner. She might spare a few. Then, add these herbs and powder the mixture. Once you have powdered them, burn the powder in the room with the body, letting the smoke fill the room. After a few minutes, say these words. Then, wait. It may take up to hours, but you will reach your goal. I can feel it."
Thanking the woman, Kevin turned to leave.
It was late. He would have to visit the taxidermist tomorrow. It was sure to be a unique experience.
Now that this step was complete, Kevin knew what he had to do. He would have to face the wind again, though.
Stepping out onto the street, Kevin trundled down the sidewalk to a small store right next to the empty lot surrounding Washington Heights. He entered the store, which was named The Wrath.
Sitting behind the counter was a woman. Kevin approached her.
"I need some magic herbs," he said.
"I don't cater to the wants of those wishing to consume controlled substances," the woman responded.
"I'm not looking for drugs," Kevin rebutted. "I need something that actually has magical properties."
"Well, what are you trying to do?" the woman questioned.
"Bring back a friend," Kevin said. Then, after a short pause, he continued, "from the dead."
The woman stood still and silent for a few breathless moments. Finally, she turned toward one of the glass cases along the walls. "Follow me," she said.
Stopping at one of the glass cases, she pulled a set of keys from one of her pockets. Slowly turning one of the keys in the lock, she turned toward Kevin.
"I can't provide you with all you need," she said, "but I can get you on the right path."
"What do you mean?" inquired Kevin, confused.
"I have a few herbs that you can use, but what you will need most are the entrails of a rat."
Having selected samples of several of the plants in the case, she began to scrawl a few strange words on a scrap of paper. Finishing the last word with a flick, she handed the paper to Kevin.
"Dry the rat entrails - once you've got them, that is. I suggest you visit that taxidermist around the corner. She might spare a few. Then, add these herbs and powder the mixture. Once you have powdered them, burn the powder in the room with the body, letting the smoke fill the room. After a few minutes, say these words. Then, wait. It may take up to hours, but you will reach your goal. I can feel it."
Thanking the woman, Kevin turned to leave.
It was late. He would have to visit the taxidermist tomorrow. It was sure to be a unique experience.
Tuesday, April 1, 2008
Bakery Woes
Kevin wanted something different for breakfast. He was sick of all the Eggo waffles and their freezer burn. He'd had barely anything other than the mass-produced waffles for breakfast since moving into this hellhole. Tossing them aside, he strode out of his apartment, locking it behind him, and descended the stairs.
Stepping out onto the street in the pouring rain, Kevin headed for the bakery, wishing he had thought to grab his raincoat. In the empty lot next to Washington Heights, Kevin noticed a bright yellow stand out of the corner of his eye. Staffing it was a small woman who looked about his age, perhaps a little younger. When it finally dawned on him that the stand was that of a taxidermist, Kevin felt somewhat disgusted. Cutting open animals to fill them with foam or whatever didn't seem like Kevin's idea of a good time. Oh, wait, Kevin realized, my work with Patrick isn't all that different...
Putting the taxidermy stand out of his mind, Kevin crossed the street and entered the bakery. Approaching the counter, he was surprised to see Maria, his neighbor from across the hall, standing behind it. He had no idea that she worked there. Overcoming his surprise, he asked for a croissant, preferably with raspberry and cream cheese filling.
"No croissants. Sorry," came the reply.
"How about a blueberry muffin?"
"Nope."
At this point, Kevin didn't even bother asking for a scone.
"How about a bagel?"
"We do have those. Here you go."
Kevin accepted the bagel from Maria, handing over a few crumpled bills in exchange. Flashing a faint smile to show his thanks, Kevin turned to leave. Sinking his teeth into the bagel, he realized that it was a little stale, but he didn't care at all. Despite it being an ordinary bagel, stale and all, it was still better than freezer burned Eggo waffles.
Stepping out onto the street in the pouring rain, Kevin headed for the bakery, wishing he had thought to grab his raincoat. In the empty lot next to Washington Heights, Kevin noticed a bright yellow stand out of the corner of his eye. Staffing it was a small woman who looked about his age, perhaps a little younger. When it finally dawned on him that the stand was that of a taxidermist, Kevin felt somewhat disgusted. Cutting open animals to fill them with foam or whatever didn't seem like Kevin's idea of a good time. Oh, wait, Kevin realized, my work with Patrick isn't all that different...
Putting the taxidermy stand out of his mind, Kevin crossed the street and entered the bakery. Approaching the counter, he was surprised to see Maria, his neighbor from across the hall, standing behind it. He had no idea that she worked there. Overcoming his surprise, he asked for a croissant, preferably with raspberry and cream cheese filling.
"No croissants. Sorry," came the reply.
"How about a blueberry muffin?"
"Nope."
At this point, Kevin didn't even bother asking for a scone.
"How about a bagel?"
"We do have those. Here you go."
Kevin accepted the bagel from Maria, handing over a few crumpled bills in exchange. Flashing a faint smile to show his thanks, Kevin turned to leave. Sinking his teeth into the bagel, he realized that it was a little stale, but he didn't care at all. Despite it being an ordinary bagel, stale and all, it was still better than freezer burned Eggo waffles.
Tuesday, March 25, 2008
The Task
At the sight of Patrick's body, Kevin's heart was gripped with grief. No, he thought. I must maintain my composure until my task is complete. Kevin paused a moment to collect himself. Finally, he was ready.
Snapping latex gloves onto his hands, Kevin somberly trod to the steel table. Picking up a silver scalpel, he held it up, where it glinted in the light of the bare bulb dangling directly above the center of the table. "So much has been done," he exclaimed, enunciating every word with utmost care. "More, far more, will I achieve; treading in the steps already marked, I will pioneer a new way, explore unknown powers, and unfold to the world the deepest mysteries of creation!"
With that, Kevin bent down to cut the stitches that held together the corpse's chest from his previous incisions. Kevin then pulled apart the sides of the rib cage like the bascules of a drawbridge, the corpse's sternum having been delicately sawed in half. Inside Patrick's chest cavity, a collection of electrical wires intertwined with the blood vessels and sinews, the result of Kevin's three years of labor. Several of the wires originated at either of two points on opposite sides of the heart, corresponding to the places where the two pads of a defibrillator are placed. From there, the wires branched throughout Patrick's body, down his arms and legs to the tips of his fingers and toes. Scars all along his body verified their presence. However, Kevin's greatest task was yet to come: Reinvigorating Patrick's brain. Kevin knew that drowning deprived the brain of oxygen, the real cause of Patrick's death. Cardiac arrest was a secondary effect. His years as a lifeguard had taught him that much. After one final inspection to ensure that the wires were properly secured, Kevin refolded Patrick's rib cage and began to sew up his chest again, delicately lacing the stitches from the corpse's navel to the space between its collarbones.
Now that the corpse's chest had been sewn up, Kevin was ready to start on the spinal cord. But first, he needed coffee. Lots of it. It was going to be a long night.
Doffing the gloves, Kevin cracked open the door of apartment 981, surveying the corridor for signs of human life. Seeing none, he slipped out into the hallway and locked the door behind him. He sprinted down the stairs, out the front door of Washington Heights, and down the street to the coffee/convenience store, not wanting to lose any time that could be directed toward his precious task. He ordered an extra large black coffee with a double shot of espresso from the red blouse-clad cashier, whose stunning looks Kevin was too busy to notice. Upon receiving it, dashed back to room 981 as quickly as he had come.
Kevin gently set the coffee down and locked the door behind him. Turning to face Patrick's body, he was filled with a tingling sensation: he knew the day was drawing near when he would have Patrick back. Taking a sip of the coffee (slightly burnt as usual), he felt his veins surging with caffeine, amplifying the feeling of excitement. Kevin wondered if this is how Patrick would feel once the lifeblood began to flow through his veins again.
But never mind that. He had to get back to work. Kevin gently rotated the corpse so that it lay flat on its chest. Having once again donned a pair of gloves, Kevin cut two slits in Patrick's back, one on either side of the spinal cord. He then began to dexterously thread a wire through Patrick's vertebrae, starting near the pelvis and working his way up toward the base of the skull. It was a long and tedious process. Kevin alternated each vertebra with a sip of coffee.
Several hours passed, and Kevin had only inserted a wire on one side of the spinal cord. He would have to save the other side for the next night. Taking some surgical tape that he had pilfered from the free clinic down the street, he temporarily closed the incisions. Peeling off the gloves, he turned to the door. At the door, he paused to steal one last glance at Patrick for the night and to whisper, "Good night." Then, a glistening tear rolling down his cheek, he slipped into the hallway.
Walking through the corridor to his apartment next door, Kevin was brought back to reality by a faint whimpering. He froze. Maria was sitting in front of her door, sobbing. Kevin panicked. No one was allowed to know that he had been in apartment 981. No one. No one should have the opportunity to come close to suspecting that he was up to something. Kevin hoped that she was too caught up in her tears to notice that the apartment he had come from was not his own. He sat down beside her and waited for her crying to subside.
Snapping latex gloves onto his hands, Kevin somberly trod to the steel table. Picking up a silver scalpel, he held it up, where it glinted in the light of the bare bulb dangling directly above the center of the table. "So much has been done," he exclaimed, enunciating every word with utmost care. "More, far more, will I achieve; treading in the steps already marked, I will pioneer a new way, explore unknown powers, and unfold to the world the deepest mysteries of creation!"
With that, Kevin bent down to cut the stitches that held together the corpse's chest from his previous incisions. Kevin then pulled apart the sides of the rib cage like the bascules of a drawbridge, the corpse's sternum having been delicately sawed in half. Inside Patrick's chest cavity, a collection of electrical wires intertwined with the blood vessels and sinews, the result of Kevin's three years of labor. Several of the wires originated at either of two points on opposite sides of the heart, corresponding to the places where the two pads of a defibrillator are placed. From there, the wires branched throughout Patrick's body, down his arms and legs to the tips of his fingers and toes. Scars all along his body verified their presence. However, Kevin's greatest task was yet to come: Reinvigorating Patrick's brain. Kevin knew that drowning deprived the brain of oxygen, the real cause of Patrick's death. Cardiac arrest was a secondary effect. His years as a lifeguard had taught him that much. After one final inspection to ensure that the wires were properly secured, Kevin refolded Patrick's rib cage and began to sew up his chest again, delicately lacing the stitches from the corpse's navel to the space between its collarbones.
Now that the corpse's chest had been sewn up, Kevin was ready to start on the spinal cord. But first, he needed coffee. Lots of it. It was going to be a long night.
Doffing the gloves, Kevin cracked open the door of apartment 981, surveying the corridor for signs of human life. Seeing none, he slipped out into the hallway and locked the door behind him. He sprinted down the stairs, out the front door of Washington Heights, and down the street to the coffee/convenience store, not wanting to lose any time that could be directed toward his precious task. He ordered an extra large black coffee with a double shot of espresso from the red blouse-clad cashier, whose stunning looks Kevin was too busy to notice. Upon receiving it, dashed back to room 981 as quickly as he had come.
Kevin gently set the coffee down and locked the door behind him. Turning to face Patrick's body, he was filled with a tingling sensation: he knew the day was drawing near when he would have Patrick back. Taking a sip of the coffee (slightly burnt as usual), he felt his veins surging with caffeine, amplifying the feeling of excitement. Kevin wondered if this is how Patrick would feel once the lifeblood began to flow through his veins again.
But never mind that. He had to get back to work. Kevin gently rotated the corpse so that it lay flat on its chest. Having once again donned a pair of gloves, Kevin cut two slits in Patrick's back, one on either side of the spinal cord. He then began to dexterously thread a wire through Patrick's vertebrae, starting near the pelvis and working his way up toward the base of the skull. It was a long and tedious process. Kevin alternated each vertebra with a sip of coffee.
Several hours passed, and Kevin had only inserted a wire on one side of the spinal cord. He would have to save the other side for the next night. Taking some surgical tape that he had pilfered from the free clinic down the street, he temporarily closed the incisions. Peeling off the gloves, he turned to the door. At the door, he paused to steal one last glance at Patrick for the night and to whisper, "Good night." Then, a glistening tear rolling down his cheek, he slipped into the hallway.
Walking through the corridor to his apartment next door, Kevin was brought back to reality by a faint whimpering. He froze. Maria was sitting in front of her door, sobbing. Kevin panicked. No one was allowed to know that he had been in apartment 981. No one. No one should have the opportunity to come close to suspecting that he was up to something. Kevin hoped that she was too caught up in her tears to notice that the apartment he had come from was not his own. He sat down beside her and waited for her crying to subside.
Monday, March 24, 2008
A Fatal Evening
It had been the worst day of Kevin's life. EVER.
It started out as a cool, crisp October evening, three years previous. Kevin and Patrick were on their way home from a Halloween party on the other side of the Allegheny. They had enjoyed the party, which had been held at the enormous home of one of Kevin and Patrick's wealthier friends from their soccer league. Once the party wrapped up, Kevin climbed into Patrick's old BMW with his friend at the wheel. The roads, empty at this late hour, were already beginning to glisten with dew. After driving for ten minutes, Patrick merged onto the arching 31st Street Bridge. When they were about halfway across the bridge, a truck - obviously driven by someone who had too much to drink - suddenly veered into the lane in front of the BMW. Patrick swerved - the wrong way. The BMW broke through the roadside barrier and plunged into the Allegheny River below.
One moment, Kevin had been chatting and joking with Patrick. The next, he was trapped, rapidly submerging into the gloomy Allegheny. Kevin panicked. All that he knew was that he had to get out. He unbuckled his seatbelt. He shoved on the door of the BMW, no easy task due to the pressure of all the water. Thrusting himself out of the car against the incoming surge of murky water, Kevin swam in the direction that he thought was up. Finally, he broke the surface and swam toward the nearest shore, that of Washington's Landing, an island in the middle of the Allegheny.
Shivering, Kevin crawled ashore. Turning around, he could see the lights of the BMW slowly fading away as the car sank to the bottom of the muddy river. What he didn't see was Patrick. Frantic, Kevin pulled out his cell phone, dialing 911. Amazingly, the phone worked despite its venture underwater, though Kevin could hardly hear over the static.
"911, what is your problem?" the operator asked.
"My friend...just drove...off a bridge," Kevin gasped.
"What is your location?"
"Washington's Landing, 31st Street Bridge."
"Emergency services are on their way."
"I can't see him anywhere," Kevin shouted.
"Stay calm, stay calm," the operator replied. "Whom can't you see?"
"Patrick, my friend, the one who was driving."
"Once the River Patrol arrives, they'll be able to help you find your friend. Just stay on the line until they get there."
Lights flashing, the police showed up, followed by an ambulance and even a firetruck. Kevin could already see a boat out on the river searching for the sunken BMW. A medic tried to convince Kevin to get into an ambulance to warm up so that he wouldn't get hypothermia, but Kevin refused to cooperate until they had found Patrick.
A little over an hour later, the river patrol was able to pull the car up from the bottom of the river. Patrick was inside, still buckled into his seat, hunched over in pallid death. Kevin was so devastated that he could no longer stand. The medic finally guided him into the back of the ambulance, which drove off to the local hospital.
Kevin awoke the next morning not knowing where he was. Looking around, he realized he was in the hospital. That's when it hit him: Patrick was dead.
Kevin's life was shattered. He had known Patrick for as long as he could remember. The two friends had done everything together, from soccer to orchestra. They were virtually inseparable. Everyone they knew couldn't think of one without thinking of the other.
Kevin was so racked with grief that he didn't show up to school for weeks. His grades began to slip, and he lost weight. Not even an acceptance letter to Johns Hopkins cheered him up. With the death of his closest companion, his life would never be the same again.
It started out as a cool, crisp October evening, three years previous. Kevin and Patrick were on their way home from a Halloween party on the other side of the Allegheny. They had enjoyed the party, which had been held at the enormous home of one of Kevin and Patrick's wealthier friends from their soccer league. Once the party wrapped up, Kevin climbed into Patrick's old BMW with his friend at the wheel. The roads, empty at this late hour, were already beginning to glisten with dew. After driving for ten minutes, Patrick merged onto the arching 31st Street Bridge. When they were about halfway across the bridge, a truck - obviously driven by someone who had too much to drink - suddenly veered into the lane in front of the BMW. Patrick swerved - the wrong way. The BMW broke through the roadside barrier and plunged into the Allegheny River below.
One moment, Kevin had been chatting and joking with Patrick. The next, he was trapped, rapidly submerging into the gloomy Allegheny. Kevin panicked. All that he knew was that he had to get out. He unbuckled his seatbelt. He shoved on the door of the BMW, no easy task due to the pressure of all the water. Thrusting himself out of the car against the incoming surge of murky water, Kevin swam in the direction that he thought was up. Finally, he broke the surface and swam toward the nearest shore, that of Washington's Landing, an island in the middle of the Allegheny.
Shivering, Kevin crawled ashore. Turning around, he could see the lights of the BMW slowly fading away as the car sank to the bottom of the muddy river. What he didn't see was Patrick. Frantic, Kevin pulled out his cell phone, dialing 911. Amazingly, the phone worked despite its venture underwater, though Kevin could hardly hear over the static.
"911, what is your problem?" the operator asked.
"My friend...just drove...off a bridge," Kevin gasped.
"What is your location?"
"Washington's Landing, 31st Street Bridge."
"Emergency services are on their way."
"I can't see him anywhere," Kevin shouted.
"Stay calm, stay calm," the operator replied. "Whom can't you see?"
"Patrick, my friend, the one who was driving."
"Once the River Patrol arrives, they'll be able to help you find your friend. Just stay on the line until they get there."
Lights flashing, the police showed up, followed by an ambulance and even a firetruck. Kevin could already see a boat out on the river searching for the sunken BMW. A medic tried to convince Kevin to get into an ambulance to warm up so that he wouldn't get hypothermia, but Kevin refused to cooperate until they had found Patrick.
A little over an hour later, the river patrol was able to pull the car up from the bottom of the river. Patrick was inside, still buckled into his seat, hunched over in pallid death. Kevin was so devastated that he could no longer stand. The medic finally guided him into the back of the ambulance, which drove off to the local hospital.
Kevin awoke the next morning not knowing where he was. Looking around, he realized he was in the hospital. That's when it hit him: Patrick was dead.
Kevin's life was shattered. He had known Patrick for as long as he could remember. The two friends had done everything together, from soccer to orchestra. They were virtually inseparable. Everyone they knew couldn't think of one without thinking of the other.
Kevin was so racked with grief that he didn't show up to school for weeks. His grades began to slip, and he lost weight. Not even an acceptance letter to Johns Hopkins cheered him up. With the death of his closest companion, his life would never be the same again.
Saturday, March 22, 2008
Upon Returning Home
Kevin emerged from the SMARTA station feeling tired as always but refreshed by the time spent with his friends at school that day. After crossing the street and passing a few dimly lit storefronts, Kevin entered Ming-Ming's. He ordered some sesame chicken and rice to go.
Having received the greasy, white paper to-go box, he sauntered out the front door of the restaurant and headed back to Washington Heights. Kevin entered the cramped lobby and started climbing the stairs. On the landing between the first and second floors, his friend Elizabeth Farraday bumped into him as she darted down the stairs.
Great, thought Kevin. The last thing he needed now was a delay. He had work to get to. After deflecting Elizabeth's question to his neighbor, Maria, Elizabeth offered to take Kevin's bag upstairs for him. Kevin gratefully accepted, watching Elizabeth dash back up the stairs.
Upon reaching the ninth floor, Kevin proceeded to his apartment. He waved at Elizabeth and Maria, picking up his bag which lay by his door. Upon entering, Kevin set down his bag by the door as usual and sat back down in the creaky chair in which he ate breakfast. Stretching back with his feet on the table, Kevin began to shovel the sesame chicken and rice in his mouth.
When he had finished eating, he chucked the to-go box in the trash as he headed for the door again. Peering through the eyehole, he saw that Elizabeth and Maria were no longer in the hallway. He cracked the door open and slipped into the corridor. He tiptoed to the apartment next door, #981, and got out his key ring. Unlocking the door, he stepped inside.
The room was frigid. Kevin's every breath formed a small cloud of steam. All around the walls were makeshift shelves. Some held containers of every chemical imaginable. Others held vials of herbs that presumably had magic powers. Along one wall, the shelves held an assembly of electrical wires and mechanical parts. In the center of the room was an industrial-sized stainless steel table. And in the center of that table, bound with chains bolted to the table, was a corpse.
"Hello, Patrick," Kevin said.
Having received the greasy, white paper to-go box, he sauntered out the front door of the restaurant and headed back to Washington Heights. Kevin entered the cramped lobby and started climbing the stairs. On the landing between the first and second floors, his friend Elizabeth Farraday bumped into him as she darted down the stairs.
Great, thought Kevin. The last thing he needed now was a delay. He had work to get to. After deflecting Elizabeth's question to his neighbor, Maria, Elizabeth offered to take Kevin's bag upstairs for him. Kevin gratefully accepted, watching Elizabeth dash back up the stairs.
Upon reaching the ninth floor, Kevin proceeded to his apartment. He waved at Elizabeth and Maria, picking up his bag which lay by his door. Upon entering, Kevin set down his bag by the door as usual and sat back down in the creaky chair in which he ate breakfast. Stretching back with his feet on the table, Kevin began to shovel the sesame chicken and rice in his mouth.
When he had finished eating, he chucked the to-go box in the trash as he headed for the door again. Peering through the eyehole, he saw that Elizabeth and Maria were no longer in the hallway. He cracked the door open and slipped into the corridor. He tiptoed to the apartment next door, #981, and got out his key ring. Unlocking the door, he stepped inside.
The room was frigid. Kevin's every breath formed a small cloud of steam. All around the walls were makeshift shelves. Some held containers of every chemical imaginable. Others held vials of herbs that presumably had magic powers. Along one wall, the shelves held an assembly of electrical wires and mechanical parts. In the center of the room was an industrial-sized stainless steel table. And in the center of that table, bound with chains bolted to the table, was a corpse.
"Hello, Patrick," Kevin said.
Thursday, March 13, 2008
Kevin Lansing
Kevin awoke to the tinny buzzing of his alarm clock. The red LCD lights read 6:00. Kevin groaned. Not another early morning, he thought. He smacked the snooze button, threw back the covers, and sat up. His feet dangling off the edge of the bed, Kevin surveyed his room.
The cramped apartment was run down, but that was to be expected on a student's budget. The window in the corner of the room was cracked and barely transparent. Through his bedroom door, Kevin could see the sparsely furnished main room. He could hear the leaky faucet in the bathroom dripping at regular intervals. It wasn't much, but it satisfied his needs. Beyond that, no one would ever think he was up to anything in this downtrodden corner of Baltimore.
Kevin pushed himself onto his feet and staggered into the bathroom. The tile felt cool beneath his feet. After disrobing, Kevin climbed into the shower. The lukewarm water running across his face really helped to wake him up.
After drying himself off and dressing in a wrinkly tee shirt and jeans, Kevin plodded into the apartment's kitchenette. There, he popped two Eggo waffles - freezer burned as usual - into the toaster and poured himself a glass of juice. Sitting down in a creaky chair at the table, he gulped down the waffles, now drowned in syrup. He washed everything down with the juice.
Glancing at his watch, Kevin trudged into the bathroom to brush his teeth. Glancing in the crusty mirror, he noticed the dark bags under his eyes. They gave Kevin's normally handsome countenance a haggard look. Spitting into the sink, Kevin put down his toothbrush.
Picking up the bag that he had carelessly dumped by the front door the night before, Kevin left his apartment. As he locked the door, he noticed that his neighbor across the hall - Maria was her name, he thought - was muttering something to herself about numbers. Not giving it a second thought, he brushed past her and clambered down the stairs and out the front door of Washington Heights.
Having crossed the street, he plodded down the grimy stairs into the SMARTA station. Finding a seat on the eastbound platform, he waited for the #9 train, which would take him to school. As he sat, he pondered the long day that lay ahead of him.
The cramped apartment was run down, but that was to be expected on a student's budget. The window in the corner of the room was cracked and barely transparent. Through his bedroom door, Kevin could see the sparsely furnished main room. He could hear the leaky faucet in the bathroom dripping at regular intervals. It wasn't much, but it satisfied his needs. Beyond that, no one would ever think he was up to anything in this downtrodden corner of Baltimore.
Kevin pushed himself onto his feet and staggered into the bathroom. The tile felt cool beneath his feet. After disrobing, Kevin climbed into the shower. The lukewarm water running across his face really helped to wake him up.
After drying himself off and dressing in a wrinkly tee shirt and jeans, Kevin plodded into the apartment's kitchenette. There, he popped two Eggo waffles - freezer burned as usual - into the toaster and poured himself a glass of juice. Sitting down in a creaky chair at the table, he gulped down the waffles, now drowned in syrup. He washed everything down with the juice.
Glancing at his watch, Kevin trudged into the bathroom to brush his teeth. Glancing in the crusty mirror, he noticed the dark bags under his eyes. They gave Kevin's normally handsome countenance a haggard look. Spitting into the sink, Kevin put down his toothbrush.
Picking up the bag that he had carelessly dumped by the front door the night before, Kevin left his apartment. As he locked the door, he noticed that his neighbor across the hall - Maria was her name, he thought - was muttering something to herself about numbers. Not giving it a second thought, he brushed past her and clambered down the stairs and out the front door of Washington Heights.
Having crossed the street, he plodded down the grimy stairs into the SMARTA station. Finding a seat on the eastbound platform, he waited for the #9 train, which would take him to school. As he sat, he pondered the long day that lay ahead of him.
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