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.
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She brought the glass of red liquid to her lips, reflecting on the events of the
day, pondering over what would happen next. Her legs covered in dark boots crossed, swinging in the air off the stool. She didn’t lean on the bar, as did the gentlemen who had been continuously consuming shots since he got here. She hadn’t seen him before, at least not before she left. He’d looked at her only once and ignored her the rest of the time—she hated him.
Bored of the rather dull atmosphere—no music, no entertainment, no men—she finished her numbing elixir in a soft gulp, head tilted back, long dark hair sweeping her back in fierce strokes. Rising, she grabbed her leather jacket and proceeded to the door. Putting on the jacket, she reached to pull the door open. A wave of shock hit as the blinding white light met her eyes—and he entered. Compared to the atmosphere, he was a God.
“Excuse me,” I managed to purr, as I brushed past, careful to graze his perfect arm as he held the door for me. She’d have to keep special tabs on him.
Her boots echoed as she made her way on the pavement, boots echoing her every step, unable to penetrate the noise of the city traffic. Without a destination in mind, her thoughts crept to the men she’d just met. She envied them. The alcoholic, in all his distasteful existence, seemed to even then have purpose, a reason. Since she got back, the direction of her life seemed elusive. She’d always lacked specific direction in her life, but she had an overwhelming sense that something needed to be dealt with—she just didn’t know what yet. It was like an itch that couldn’t be scratched, no matter how much alcohol she consumed. Wine—she needed more. Interestingly enough, her mind had been one step ahead of her; she had somehow made it to the front of Manny’s Grocery.
She entered the store. Taking a basket, she made her down the aisles to get to wine section. She thought back to the women she hadn’t previously given notice to: the weird woman on the sidewalk and the annoying twit on the elevator; even they had some path that they were drifting along, no matter how insignificant. She stood in the aisle, staring at the glass bottles that would be her sweet aid. Some woman was muttering next to her, she was also staring. She appreciated this woman’s taste, but it was rude to stare, even if it was at Nicole. She left the aisle, and bought her wine. Number one task out of the way, she headed to the coffee shop.
Sun high in the sky, she entered the shop.
Oh dear. Molina was in the convenience store talking to Dillain. The ding of the bell signaled her entrance, and they both looked up. Molina made a smart comment, followed by another. Nicole ignored her and went to the back room. She set her bag down and changed. Dark jeans and red blouse on, she returned to the front. Dillain had left, which only left Molina. How she was not in the mood…
“So?” Molina questioned, hand on hip, impatience in her voice.
“I wasn’t in my apartment, obviously. How can I help you?” Nicole retorted with equal attitude.
“Jus’ wanted to check on ya, hadn’t heard from you in a long time.” Her lack of speaking skills always infuriated her, other than that, Molina wasn’t so bad. Nicole even enjoyed her company some of the time, she’d been a good friend before she left.
“I’ll try to answer my phone next time, or bring my cell phone with me; whichever.” Effectively assured, Molina left.
And so work began.
Dillain entered the shop at 12 a.m., right on time.
“I’ll see you later,” Nicole said as she flew past him in her hurry to leave. She’d bee so eager to leave she’d almost hit him on her way out. She loved and hated Sketch Coffee. Taking ownership from her uncle had been easy enough, but as far as she knew, her uncle got the better end of the deal. Walking back to her building, home, she considered the people who’d come in. A woman, young, pretty brown hair, poor. Taking out change like an imbecile to pay for her coffee, which had been difficult to “make” in and of itself. A man who’d bust in the store, unwashed. She knew that these people stayed in her building, but that didn’t make them any more appealing to talk to, however convenient it might be.
When she stepped off the elevator on the 11th floor, she noticed a strange and eaciated character jiggling the door knob of my apartment.
"What the hell are you doing?"
"Well obviously I am trying to break into your apartment. It's much more difficult than it looks, I usually have someone else do this. Regardless, there is no point in continuing, I shall take my leave."
She'd of kicked his ass, but she had she more pressing matters to deal with; however, she wouldn't forget this encounter--or this insect. She watched him walk away and push the button of the elevator. She memorized his statue and appearance--she stored it in her memory for later. She entered the apartment. She breathed a huge sigh as she threw herself on the couch. Her dress and drinks were in the bag, but she’d get them later. With nothing to occupy her mind, she considered the problem that lay ahead and behind her. Something needed to be done about something, she just didn’t know what. She raised up and placed her arms on her knees, head in her hands. The unknown task harassed her thoughts until impatience flowed into her limbs. She had to get out.
She switched from jeans to her short, pleated, black skirt. She grabbed boots from her closet—red. The cold wouldn’t bother her after a few drinks, so she left her jacket and left the troubling apartment.
I leaned haphazardly across the sidewalk so that I could reach the door of the bakery. As I knocked urgently, the glass panes in the window rattled and shook. My umbrella was out of my purse this time, attempting to shield me from the torential rains that were currently falling from the sky. The water flowing into a nearby drain was up to my ankles as I stood on the edge of the road, avoiding the dreaded sidewalks. Some things just had to be given up for safety. However, I didn't like how my feet felt as they squished around in my soggy shoes. It reminded me of stepping on slugs in the summer, of stepping on slug after slug after slug after slug. Squishy slugs. Juicy slugs. I shuddered.
A man, the baker, came to the door and opened it. He stood in the doorway for a moment, eyeing me as I stood in the pouring rain before stepping aside. I hurried inside, quickly hopping from the street to the doorstep and into the relative safety of the bakery. The rain followed me, making a puddle on the floor and dripping down the window panes. The man stared at me, seeming perpetually angry. I felt awkward as I realized that he was taking in my darker skin, assuming immediately that I was an immigrant, or worse. "I'm here for the job," I said, skipping all pleasantries, not that he seemed the kind of person accustomed to such niceties. He continued to stare, so I glanced around the little room. It was relatively clean except for a powdering of flour, but what bothered me most, and immediately, was the lack of organization. The loaves of bread were crooked in their racks and the counter had fingerprints all over it. I itched to pull out my hand sanitizer and remove them. I stepped sideways towards the counter while saying, "I saw your sign." I took another step towards those annoying smudges.
"Do you have any German in you?" he asked.
He himself was obviously so, tall, blond, blue eyes. Very Aryan. I shrugged. "Sure, can I have the job?" He didn't answer, so I spoke again. "Your sign fell while I was outside but I didn't pick it up." He continued to glare in my general direction, but I prefered to think that that was his normal expression as opposed to a response to me.
"Damn commies," he muttered.
Not that he would understand, but I felt the need to explain why I hadn't picked up the sign, so I continued, "Your sign was on the sidewalk. I don't like sidewalks." He didn't seem to be listening, so I turned around, took out my hand sanitizer, and began to clean the counter with a spare napkin I had. The fingerprints began to disappear nicely as I worked. I had cleaned my own mirror the same way just this morning. The whole apartment was old and dingy, but at least now the mirror was shiny, well, shiny-er at least.
"Yes, you get the job," he said suddenly. "You start today. There's an apron on the hook behind the counter. I make the dough, you bake it, you sell it, yes?" He waited for me to nod, then turned around and stomped into the back room and out of sight. I stared after him, just another weird fanatic in this crazy upside-down town. I wondered how it was possible for so many oddities to end up in the same place.
I stepped behind the slightly cleaner counter and put on the apron I'd been assigned. I ran my hands down the rough fabric, brushing off the flour, but my hands didn't slide smoothly at all. They were sticky. It was sticky. My breathing began to quicken and I looked around in fright. "I hate sticky," I said aloud, trying to contain myself. I took a deep breath and leaned up against the counter. "Calm down, Maria, you really can't freak out now." The counter was sticky. I looked around and saw the cash register was sticky, the floor was sticky, the walls were sticky. Everything was sticky.
I looked around me hurredly for the freezer. The sticky was beginning to overwhelm me, and I needed that freezer. I stumbled into the back room and spun around, searching. "There," I muttered, as I ran towards it. My fingers were sticky and stuck together. To be sticky forever. Stuck together, no fingers, no toes, no arms, no legs, no eyes, no mouth. Killed by the very food that sustained me. Sticky bread! "Sticky, everything is sticky, sticky," I murmered over and over again. I wrenched the freezer door open and plunged my hands into the icebox, pulling back with a handfull of frozen cubes. I leaned against the wall and cupped the icecubes in my fingers, concentrating on how cold they were.
"Cold, cold, cold, cold," I repeated to myself slowly. "Cold and not sticky. Cold and concentrating, cold and breathing, cold and steady, cold and calm." I stood there until the ice had melted in my hands and created yet another puddle on the floor. I sighed. Just another diverted crisis.
Just then the bell on the door jingled as someone entered the bakery. I hurried out to greet the young woman who smiled at me so happy and carefree. She told me that she adored me long luxurious hair, bought a loaf of white bread, commented on how absolutely fresh it seemed, smiled brightly at me once more, and departed. She was soon followed by Kevin, who slipped in asking for a croissant, then a blueberry muffin, then a plain bagel as I denied each of his requests for a lack of anything but bread in the bakery. He smiled his quiet smile as I handed him his slightly stale bagel.
As he walked out of the bakery, wrapping himself in an oversized raincoat, I wondered why such a dark and dreary day suddenly seemed a little bit brighter.
Shawty Wanna Thug
It was about time the rain subsided. It had been raining non-stop for what had felt like an eternity, but now only a slight mist remained. Being cooped up inside watching TV for four days had been no fun. The day job runs slow when the junkies don't want to come out from under the overpass to get wet... both literally and in the way Marcus liked. He knew his get-rich-quick scheme was a long shot... but hey, high risk meant even higher gain. Lacing his coke with flour was hella risky. He wasn't too concerned about the customers getting mad, hell, they would probably never find out. It was his superiors from back home who he would hear the heat from. It was strange how the Bandanistas operated. Marcus always thought their code of honor was bizarre. It didn't really make sense how you could kill a man with a wife and kids, but you were executed if you were found messing with the product. "Respect for the streets my ass," Manuel muttered under his breath as he placed an order for 500 pounds of flour to be delivered at Oscar's. The plan was to have Oscar take the fall... but now that Marcus knew of his connections with Dominic Roberto Machelli, that was gonna be a lot harder. Machelli's standing in the Colombian community was high... much higher than his own.
All Oscar would have to do is keep his mouth shut and they would be alright. Marcus wanted to get out of the apartment and think about how this would, could, ever possibly happen. He went to the ninth floor to collect "insurance" and saw a guy he knew only as Kevin leaving apartment 981 looking over his shoulder. Something was up... but had way too much on his plate to be concerning himself with such trivial pursuits. Plus he had no problem with Kevin... and his Colombian upbringing had taught him to stay out of other people's shit, unless you wanted it as your own. Some chick was crying... seemed like bad news.
Marcus Manuel need to take a drive. He entered the car and slammed the steering wheel in disgust. His usually calm demeanor was interrupted with a flash of fear. If he didn't get the job done, Oscar would have his head... and if he did and his cartel found out... Oscar would be like a sunny day in the park compared to that. He turned on the car and the subs boomed.
The rain began to pick up again. "Fan-fucking-tastic," Marcus muttered to himself as he turned on the windshield wipers and pulled out of the parking lot. This much was clear: the Cadillac Escalade was driving into what was quite the ambiguous future.
Marissa Bancroft - Basement
"Rainy day"
It was a rainy day. Marissa didn't particularly mind the rain, but she wasn't about to go outside dancing and singing in it either. She appreciated the refreshing lull around the neighborhood. What was depressing and distressing to some, she found pleasant and tranquil. It was the perfect day to stay inside and look through the basement window as the rain drops plopped on the muddied puddles.
She stretched out on her futon with an inviting tale from William Faulker. Her recent readings had turned southwards, a direction she had never traveled, and she was fascinated. All her life, she had grown up under the might weight of the New England establishment. Baltimore was about as far south as her family had ever traveled - anything farther might as well have been the depths of hell.
The southern landscape was riveting. As the fall chill descended over Washington heights, enshrouded in a mist of Chesapeake rain, Marissa escaped into a Deep South fantasy. Piney woods, lonely highways, and endless fields of cotton and peanuts. This to her was freedom. Freedom from the stresses of the Mid-Atlantic. Freedom from her poverty and her suffering. Freedom from her cuthroat Yankee background.
Of course, it wasn't all for fun. Marissa would not be caught doing anything at least midly productive. The Faulker was a reading assignment for her American Literature class at Johns Hopkins University. She was an English major - pre-med, of course; she would always be tied to financial ambitions - drudging her way through afternoon and evening classes. She loved reading, writing, and most of all, talking about reading and writing - too bad she didn't exactly have too many Faulker scholars around Washington Heights.
Faulker's stream-of-conciousness, riveting her eager soul, sent Marissa's thoughts into a frenzy. After a a full morning of monotonous grocery-bagging at Manny's, her subconcious finally found an outlet to empty its memories. She gradually drifted into events from earlier that day:
She had left her apartment that morning with her face forward, chest held high, eyes straight ahead. Her posture, however, was overshadowed by the man walking beside her. Kevin Lansing, from near the top floor, exploded down the sidewalk with the fire of a madman. Eyes blodshot, sweating and pale, Kevin shocked Marissa's passive morning mentality. She didn't second guess him, though. She, too, was on a mission. Excitement and frills could wait for later - as in post-college, post-kids, post-career life. That's all that lay ahead of her in her mind.
It was a few moments later when she saw Lola Fontaine. Slightly awkward and spritely, Marissa thought she was sweet, in only a mildly condescending way. She had an alluring attractiveness - kind of skanky, kind of cute - that always perplexed Marissa. She had grown up accustomed to the perfectly-manicured-and-always-well-presented New England bombshells. This sort of blue-collar beauty always fascinated her. Along with the South, she had begun to respect a world beyond the white picket fences and fresh green grass of Connecticut. Or maybe that was just her coping mechanism.
Marissa was in Baltimore, rejected by her family, her friends, and the whole society she once held dear. But it didn't matter to her, at least on the surface. As long as she had Faulker and Kevin and Lola to brighten her rainy day - and she had begun to appreciate the little things in life - she could survive any situation. Back to Faulker, she found the descent of the Compton family strinkingly familiar - but she was too busy to care.
Water dripped from the 13th floor's fire escape onto Clio's head. Droplets rolled down the side of her face as she stared down through the metal at the street below her. As she watched, a young man stuck his head out of a window only a few floors below her. He quinted up at her through the rain; he looked tired. Without even waving, he puled his head back inside his window and shut it. She wasn't sure what his name was. This didn't surprise her. She wasn't actually sure what many of her neighbors were called. They all seemed a bit strange and poor. The only person in her building she associated with was her brother, and he even seemed a bit too much like these people for her taste. She would probably look must saner if she had something to be smoking while sitting out here. It would give her a reason to be sitting in the rain; people understood that smoking inside would make one's apartment smell. Or perhaps just an umbrella would do. Normally at this time of day she would be at work. After the other night, however, she had decided to take a little break from work to catch up on her painting. A gallery had looked at some of her work a few weeks ago and was thinking about having her as part of an exhibit about young artists in the city. The break in had given her the perfect excuse to close down for a week without anyone getting mad at her for falling having to cancel their orders. It was all a lie, of course. Nothing had actually been stolen. The shop had only been ransacked. Everything was torn apart and sifted through, but none of it had taken more than a day to clean up. The police weren't sure why the perpetrator had bothered to break in in the first place. They figured that he or she had probably been interrupted in the middle of the act and had had to leave before taking anything. The thing that had seemed oddest to her, though, was that whoever it was hadn't even touched the cash register, but the contents of her filing cabinet were spread across the shop floor. She dismissed this thought. It was clearly paranoid. The popsicle she was eating tasted like rain. Mm, blue raspberry and water... She sucked the last of the ice off of the wooden stick and dropped it straight down through the metal grille of the fire escape before climbing back into her apartment through the window. She shook water onto her carpet and left wet footprints in the shag fibers as the crossed the room to check on the drying status of her painting.
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