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In the mornings, his typing was one of the chorus of things that would bring her out of sleep, along with the rising sun and bird song. It often made her smile, knowing that he had been up since before dawn, working on his obsessions.
The sound of his typing sometimes went like a freight train, a fast and rhythmic clatter that would change in intensity as it took a long corner or climbed a difficult hill. Other times, it was like an excited commuter in morning traffic, rushing from one point to the next, coming to sudden, ponderous stops, only to accelerate again at some hidden signal. Even others, it reminded her of an old pet chicken on her parents’ farm in Pueblo, quick to skitter, stopping to peck, peck, peck, searching for the worm of the perfect word.
The disappearance of the sound was one of the first things she noticed, its absence a hole in the simple pleasures of a morning routine. Even his beloved cat, Sam, had noticed, no longer satisfied to sleepily watch him work, but instead waking her by pawing her face. One morning, so rudely awakened, knowing that he disliked being interrupted, but not hearing any sound issuing forth, she tip-toed to his study to find him bathed in the morning light of the eastern window. She smiled to see him so at peace until she noticed that his hands weren’t posed above the keyboard, but hung slack at his sides. She watched him for a long moment before abandoning any pretense of stealth and walked in to say his name gently, like a question. “Husni?”
The golden light of the morning couldn’t wash the gray out of his skin as he turned to her. His eyes swam in rheumy waters she had never seen before as his jaw worked, uttering nothing. At this sight, a fear weld up inside her until she spoke to him as if he had been struck blind instead of dumb. “It’s Litsa.”
That brought him back to her and he snapped to awareness to hug her tight. He didn’t cry then, and she had been too shocked to, but they both did after the diagnosis.
The beast that the doctor’s named was like something from her grandmother’s stories, an invisible creature that stalked her Husni, slowly sapping away his essence, stealing him bit by bit. It was small at first, moments like the first, but as the shroud over his mind expanded, the stain it left grew in time, each moment of his absence becoming longer.
Litsa heard horror stories from loose-lipped nurses and tearful support group members, of parents and spouses that became unstuck in time, forgetting where they were or becoming obsessed with events or objects from long ago. In a way that made her feel terribly guilty, she was grateful her and Husni were spared this, the predation by his own beast only stealing him away for longer and longer periods of time. When it struck, she would guide him to sitting and then sit with him, holding his hand, hoping that it would help him find his way home.
Even with oblivion knocking on the door, she would sometimes find herself waking to the sound of his old keyboard clacking away. Sometimes this made her jealous, knowing that the morning was when he was most cognizant, most himself, and she wished that he would take these moments to be with her. But then the sun would rise through the window and the birds would begin to sing.
Rising, she’d find he had tidied the kitchen from the night before, fed their animals, and performed a dozen small chores that she had never noticed he had always done, clearing her path for the morning while the beast was yet unable to rob him of it.
She would put on coffee. She would resist the urge to look at her phone, instead watching the sun rise, listening to him beat out his heart into words.
Around the time when the light began to warm the kitchen, he would emerge to drink coffee with her. They would speak of any dreams they had the night before, plan their coming day around the growing holes in his brain and, eventually, he would rise to make them breakfast. While it the midst of his culinary fussing, knowing enough time had passed between his imaginary world and the entrance into the kitchen, she would ask him how his morning had been. It was then that he would humbly ask her to read his ever diminishing words. She would smile and say, “Of course.”
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For a very long moment I waited to see if the young Corsican was going to stick to our hastily agreed upon plan or if he was going to go for his pistol. I breathed slowly and held his foot while he made up his mind, hoping I could jerk him off the bucket fast enough if he decided to start shooting. Through gritted teeth, though, he nodded.
I found the pack of Marlboros and offered him one. He took it and began to search through his pockets until Max flicked a disposable lighter to life. Lanzo stuck the tip of the cigarette into the flame and inhaled deeply, nodding more emphatically as he did. I let him get whatever enjoyment he could out of that then asked, “So what are you going to say to her?”
Lanzo watched me, one eye closed against the smoke of his cigarette, and I watched Max for any reaction out of the corner of my eye. Now that Lanzo was saying he was onboard, Max seemed to have lost the enthusiasm he had displayed for the kidnapping when we had discussed it in the alley. He sulked behind his friend and I couldn’t tell who he was more disappointed in.
Exhaling smoke, Lanzo said, “We talked about leaving. For Corsica or maybe Italy.” I seriously doubted that would be far enough to get away from Mitnick, but I kept my mouth shut. He flicked ash, perhaps considering his own self-worth, “If I write to her and tell her we should go, she might come out.” As if his reflection didn’t leave a lot of room for the idea that Nika might love him, he added, “She is unhappy where she is.”
As Lanzo gazed at the floor, I glanced up at Max, raising my eyebrows to indicate progress being made. Then I spoke to everyone. “OK. So you tell her you’ve picked up some money, enough to make a run for it. That you have family in Corsica that’s willing to hide you. We get her the note, with a time and a place to meet us close by. And we grab her.” Lanzo shot up a glance at the last words but I squeezed his foot and he kept silent.
I wasn’t done with Lanzo’s wound yet, so I resisted the urge to wipe the blood off my hands. “You write the note.” I watched both men, not specifying which, waiting for either to nod to confirm they were literate. Both did, so I continued, “I’ve been in Mitnick’s house before, so I’ll figure out a way to get it to her.” Even as I said that, I realized I had no idea how I was going to do that.
Whatever consternation that thought might have brought to my face was covered by the exit opening behind me and bright sunlight pouring into the room. Lanzo and Max blinked it away as Fatty and the Algerian stepped in. No one said much while everyone adjusted to the swift changes in light. When we all had, Max had remembered this was his idea and he grinned wickedly at his two standing compatriots. “Lanzo has agreed.”
The other two beamed back, smiles bright enough to dispel the dim, but only causing clouds to gather over Lanzo. To him, this was only confirmation his friends had been in their conspiracy together all along. Before that broiled over I snatched the white plastic box that was dangling from Fatty’s fingertips. He glared at me, but I ignored it, pleased at the red cross on the cover. I didn’t ask for my change, which probably helped keep the peace.
I was impressed at the robust contents of the small first aid kit – there were the adhesive sutures I needed, plus some sterilizing agent, bandaids, and a wrap. I went to work on Lanzo’s wounded foot as Max caught the Idiots up to speed, speaking in quiet, indecipherable French. I spent the time being grateful for the Corps’ basic combat medicine training.
I let them talk as I disinfected Lanzo’s foot, listening to the changes in his breathing for indicators that I was being too rough. When I was satisfied he wouldn’t die of an infection before this whole caper got us killed I closed the wound with the plastic sutures. While Max and the Idiots generally muttered to themselves, I interjected with, “We don’t know how valuable she is to Mitnick so there will be some negotiations.” I stopped my examination to see all of them staring at me dumbly. When no one drew a useful conclusion I added, “It might take awhile.”
Max smiled wide, some pride coming through as if he had thought of that. “Oui. We are thinking ahead, yes? We are, like The Godfather, going to the mattresses?”
Hiding out? That wasn’t a bad plan, but not what I had in mind. “It’s good that you’ve been staying out of sight. But,” I added a long pause, deliberately scanning the room and the trash of its contents. “You’re not going to hide her here, are you?”
This question brought even Lanzo out of the pained hypnosis of his foot. The Idiots followed my gaze around at the dank halls of the hutch, a slow embarrassment sprouting on their faces like algae. Impatience caused me to sigh and state the conclusion they were reluctantly heading towards. “She lives in a mansion, boys. If you try to hide her here, she’ll run back to Mitnick.”
While Fatty and his tall friend began to come to this understanding, Max attempted to dismiss it with a, “A princess can hide in the swamp for a time.”
Lanzo finally spoke beyond the grunting and monosyllables that he had employed thus far. Perhaps finding an outlet for his anger, he swiveled on the bucket to glare at Max. “Do you want this to work or not, idiot? If we bring her here she’ll murder us in our sleep.” His tone in the last statement sounded as if she’d be justified in that. Perhaps he’d help.
Whether it was from his guilt or simple recognition of the truth, Max held up his hands and acquiesced to the anger in his friend. “We will find someplace to take her.”
Lanzo returned to facing me and I handed him his boot back. “Get up, test your weight on it.” Lanzo rose from the bucket and moved his weight from one foot to the next. He seemed pleased at the results, even giving a tiny hop back and forth, demonstrating the quality of my work.
I stood, my head nearly brushing the ceiling of the tiny hutch. “OK, that’s great. But now that business is settled you need to get to a real doctor.” I took out a note that I had prepared before, scribbled with the mobile’s phone number. I handed it to Max. “If you need to get ahold of me, call that number.” Max took it, the other two Idiots crowding behind him, trying to peek at its contents as if it were a note I had snuck him in class. I waited for them to finish staring and when they didn’t, in a weird echo of Rotella, I asked, “And how do I get ahold of you?”
Max leapt at the question and produced his own mobile, a burner that was about as smart as its owner. I stared at the phone, unsure if he was expecting me to somehow psychically link with it. Again, I let a few moments pass, then asked, “What’s the number?”
If it weren’t for the dim of the room I would have thought Max blushed with embarrassment. He slapped Fatty’s shoulder and the other two Idiots jumped and began rummaging around. As if to protect himself from this stupidity, Lanzo floated behind me, moving closer to the door. I could feel him watch his compatriots scramble around the room, poisoning his corner with a contempt I could sense growing there.
The Algerian was the one to come up with a scrap of paper and a capless ballpoint pen. I took both and scribbled down the number Max gave me. Finished, still in between the Idiots and Lanzo, I glanced at the Algerian as if seeing him for the first time. “What’s your name?”
There was a hesitation on his part, which showed maybe he was smarter than I supposed, but when the silence in the room stretched on, he answered, “Jamal.”
“Jamal,” I repeated, then added, “means handsome.” I took a moment to study his aquiline nose and thin features. “It’s a good name for you.” He blinked, the translation working its way through his brain, changing his features as it did, his face moving from confusion to doubt, then resolving to an uncertain chuckle as he decided I wasn’t ridiculing him.
I turned to the rest, all equally confused by the exchange. I used that silence to make sure everyone understood their roles going forward. To Max, I said, “You figure out where we’re going to hide the princess.” To Lanzo, “Get that letter written. Make it short,” I smiled, feeling like a shark rather than a Romeo, “but sweet.”
I moved to leave. “I’ll be in touch.” I was surprised to hear Lanzo move to follow.
I stopped at the door, though, when I heard Max hold Lanzo up. “You want to head to The Factory? We could get cleaned up, find some fun, celebrate?”
Lanzo pulled his arm away from Max. “I must see a doctor, yes? Then there is work to be done.”
Max nodded, the dim of the room nearly hiding his disappointment. I exited before the awkwardness of that situation developed its own inertia, still mildly surprised when Lanzo pulled up behind me.
I trundled up the hill, wishing I had one of Simon’s espressos or some better idea of where I was going. After we had gotten away from the hut by a few switchbacks I heard Lanzo ask, “What do we do now?”
I didn’t look back to answer him. “We do what we said we’d do – we get Nika out, and you two get the Hell out of town.”
There was a long silence that I found an inexplicable desire to fill, perhaps wanting to supplant the disappointment, fear, and betrayal that Lanzo was practically sweating out as we continued our climb. The only thing he said, though, was, “Do I truly need to go to hospital?”
I shrugged. “That’s up to you. The sutures will dissolve in a week or so. If you keep it clean, you should be fine by then. Seeing a doctor wouldn’t be a bad idea, though.” I stopped to stare up the slope, unable to see the town from here, not sure what was waiting on the other side of the bollards. “But I could be wrong.”
It was beginning to get dark, the last light of the day cascading down the slope. I don’t know what soft spot caused me to, but I asked, “You got a place to stay?”
He nodded and I took a guess. “Your uncle’s?” He nodded again. “OK. Let’s get you there.”
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The only thing that Jacob saw was the rifle. The black muzzle led the way through the door, perfect in the roundness of its flash suppressor, only echoed by the smaller, darker circle at its center.
Standing in the rainbow interior of the juice shop, its bright florescent lights turning every reflective surface into chrome, Jacob’s tall frame was elongated in the funhouse mirror of the entrance as it swung open. He wouldn’t have even glanced it that direction if he hadn’t been staring at the checkout girl. Prenessa was her name and Jacob had been timing his visits to the shop, more or less successfully, to match her schedule. On first seeing her, he had been enchanted by everything from her braids to the soft cocoa of her skin. He learned quickly, though, that she didn’t backed down from anything, whether it was that screaming middle-aged mom or the asshole with the Confederate flag tattoo. To Jacob, Prenessa was tough, smart enough to be bored with her shit job, and would occasionally grace him with a smile like the sun coming out.
As she brought listless eyes up from the register to the next customer, Jacob hoped she might see him. Instead, she glanced at the opening door next to him and her eyes widened as someone whose worst fears had been confirmed. Jacob ceased admiring her hard beauty at the almost instantaneous change.
After that, everything fell away, and there was only the gun. Jacob didn’t know much about firearms, but he knew that even in Constitutional Carry states like his, you didn’t walk around with your rifle unslung. Now here was one walking in through the mirrored front door, barrel raised, pointing into the shop’s bright and multi-colored interior.
Jacob hadn’t thought much about what he would do in what the news consistently referred to as an ‘active shooter’ situation. What thoughts he’d had mostly revolved around hoping he wouldn’t be in one. Here he was now, though, at the end of a long line of people waiting to get their juice, arranged like so many paper targets, with the tough Prenessa too far away to do anything, too petrified to even duck behind the counter. From somewhere, Jacob heard laughter.
With the door chime still echoing, Jacob reached out and grabbed the barrel behind the front sight, and yanked as hard as he could, pivoting with the weight of all of his body. He pulled the rifle into the store, dragging a scrawny and scruffy white dude with it, still attached to the gun by its sling. The man’s smaller size allowed Jacob to swing around, skittering him across the tile floor.
The rifle was better maintained than its owner, clean and well-fed, not a speck of dirt on it with a sizable magazine. Jacob grabbed its other end by the stock and launched a kick into its owner’s crotch.
The well-aimed blow crunched into the man’s testicles, doubling him over. As he collapsed with a groan, Jacob tore the rifle from him. The moment blurred and yells issued from beyond the adrenaline bubble that Jacob now inhabited.
Then there was an aspirated sound like driving out of a tunnel and Jacob seized. Something slapped into his back, hard and paralyzing like the ice ball a mean-spirited Michigan cousin had hit him with many years ago. He reached for the impact point on his back, but his fingers wouldn’t obey his commands, spasming into pained claws as his shoulders contorted, bending towards each other.
The juice shop lost whatever magic had been holding it in place and tilted, sliding away. The soft landing on the other man was what told Jacob he had fallen, rolling over so his vision was dominated by the firmament of the shop’s water-stained and cratered cardboard ceiling.
That moonscape was breached by another gun, another long rifle coming into view before the portly fellow wielding it followed. Eyes filled with a fear that mirrored Prenessa’s, he stared into Jacob’s still open eyes as he yelled, “What the hell are you doing? I told you to stop!”
The man jerked like a hunted animal that caught a scent on the wind and raised his eyes back to the crowd. He swung the rifle around as he yelled, “You saw him! That crazy nigger attacked my friend!”
Jacob’s chest felt very cold while his back felt warm and wet. He tilted his head to see the store’s patrons scattered, some hiding behind furniture, others circling to avoid the swaying rifle. “You dumb asshole,” someone screamed, “did you think the Taliban airdropped terrorists inta here?”
The second gunman shouted back, shrieking for the crowd to shut up, and leaned over to look past Jacob to his downed friend. From behind him, a smaller pair of arms appeared to wrap themselves around the man’s neck, locking under his beard to drag him out of Jacob’s narrowing field of vision. There may have been more gunshots, or maybe people banging into furniture, but he could only hear a faint and distant struggle.
It didn’t concern Jacob, though. He felt the warm love of God coursing from him, covering him and the man under him, and he wondered why his chest, pointed towards Heaven, felt so cold.
It wasn’t visible from outside with the bright afternoon sun, but there was a light inside, a single bare bulb that hung in the center of the room. Pushed against the edges of the room’s other three walls were a motley assortment of sleeping bags and blankets. Various food containers, styrofoam coffee cups, and other trash littered much of the rest. It smelled of body odor and marijuana.
The red stripe of his balaclava was the only thing that made Max stand out from the rest of the trash as he stood up from one of the piles. He flicked a cigarette away so it collided with a wall just above the Algerian, showering him with sparks that his mid-afternoon nap allowed him to ignore. Max smiled at Lanzo, glancing at me as he came forward, opening his arms towards the other man for a hug. There was hesitation on both of their parts, a mutual muttering in a language that wasn’t quite French, and eventually an embrace.
As they did this dance, the Algerian and Fatty came to, the latter having been dozing in front of a locked door that faced the embankment and must have led deeper into the facilities. Both of them stood, not saying much, but eyeing me as I still blocked the only exit. Each of them embraced Lanzo in turn, no one’s attention wandering too far from me.
Knowing from our encounter in Simon’s that if things went sideways Fatty would be the most dangerous in the tight space of the hutch, I pointed to him. “There’s a épicerie not far from here.” I pointed up the slope as if we could all see through the walls. “We passed it on the corner. Go see if there’s a first aid kit or something.” From the pocket of the trench coat I pulled out some of the Euros Mitnick had given me, making sure it was obvious to everyone. I peeled bills off of the roll, more than he would ever need for a five-and-dime purchase. I indicated Lanzo’s feet with the cash, “He’s been hurt. I’ll need to stitch him up.”
Fatty glanced between me and the money, greed and an aversion to being ordered around warring on his face. Pretending not to understand what was happening, I added, “What? I didn’t hurt him,” and held out the money.
Perhaps seeking confirmation, he looked to Lanzo who nodded. Fatty snatched the bills from my hand and huffed out. In the same manner, Max nodded to the tall Algerian who followed Fatty out the door.
I moved closer to Max and Lanzo, making sure to catch their eyes before glancing to the other and then back again. I indicated Max and me with a finger back and forth, saying, “We fought, we talked. Now we know each other.” When Max nodded I did the same between me and Lanzo, repeating the words. I noted that Lanzo wasn’t completely committed to the plan we had made in the alley. Or was a terrible poker player. His indecision crawled across his face.
I ignored it, indicating us all in turn with the same finger. “So we’re all friends now, yeah?” Both of the young men glanced at each other, shuffled hesitantly, then nodded with increasing earnestness. I felt like a principal settling a playground brawl.
“Good. So no more bullshit,” that last statement almost always being a preamble to more bullshit. I found an old bucket in one of the trash piles and flipped it over, setting it down next to Lanzo, gesturing from him to it. “Sit down. Take the weight off your foot.” Lanzo shuffled in his doubt, then winced as he placed weight onto the wounded foot. This persuaded him more than I could. He sat on the bucket.
I found a milk crate and sat on it facing him, his back to Max. I gestured to his feet and told Lanzo, “Take off your boot. Let me take a look.” As he struggled to pull it off, I spoke to Max. “Lanzo and I have been talking.”
It was Max’s turn to shuffle, eyeing the back of his friend’s head as he did. He blinked and nodded, but I kept an eye on Lanzo.
“We talked about Mitnick and Sartre. Sartre is tired of Mitnick’s bullshit. His connerie.” I took Lanzo’s boot away from him once it was off, indicating the sock with it. “So he likes your idea of getting Nika away from him.” Even gingerly pulling the sock off caused Lanzo to wince, but the mention of her name got his attention. I grabbed the sock from him before he could throw it on the floor.
I made a show of examining the sole of Lanzo’s foot, continued talking. “She’s obviously important to Mitnick. Important enough that he’ll pay money to get her back.” I wiped some of the blood away from the wound, enough to get a better examination. It was less than an inch long, slightly diagonal, but generally going from his toes to his heel in one gash.
Even with the light bulb, the room was still dim, so I leaned closer to the wound as I spoke. “Sartre has given the OK for us to grab the girl. We’ll hold onto her for awhile, let her think we rescued her while Mitnick goes crazy searching for her. Then, eventually, Sartre steps in, negotiates a price, we send her back and we all get rich.” I stopped examining the foot to stare directly at Max. “That’s your plan, right?”
Max nodded, unwilling to say anything out loud. I couldn’t blame – it would be an admission of having lied to Lanzo, rubbishing whatever lies he had told his friend about rescuing the girl. But I wasn’t willing to let him slither away from this, urging him to speak with widening eyes. Max squirmed for a moment, then acquiesced with a, “Oui.”
At that single pronunciation Lanzo’s eyes blazed, his foot forgotten. In that moment, he could no longer deny that I had told him the truth, that his friends were willing to betray him and his girl for nothing more than short-term gain. Possibly a lot of short-term gain, but nothing more. I had warned him to be ready, to consider what he would do when he learned the truth, but I also knew that there wasn’t anything you could do to prepare yourself for that kind of emotional punch. I saw his cheeks begin to redden and his mouth begin to form very angry words.
So that’s when I stuck my thumb into the hole in his foot. I needed to determine how deep it was anyway, but I could have done it a lot more gently. I did the opposite of that, angling my thumb and its nail for maximum penetration. Instead of spitting angry accusation at his friend, Lanzo howled, gripping the side of the bucket as he nearly toppled over. I kept digging around for a few seconds anyway.
Max jumped at the animal sound, frightened as it bounced around the enclosed space. I took my thumb out, but kept ahold of Lanzo. When his cry became cursing between hard, panting breaths, I said, “Don’t be a baby. I’m just cleaning the wound.”
While Lanzo stared at his foot like it was made of hot iron, I kept Max in place with a hard stare. His surprise was quickly transforming into protective anger, and I could see it being fed by the guilt of betraying his friend. I didn’t want that to get out of hand, so I said, “It doesn’t look too bad. You probably won’t need stitches, just some sutures.” I held the sock to the wound to staunch the bleeding while we waited for Fatty.
I gave it a few minutes to let everyone settle, then went on. “There’s no way we’re getting her out of Mitnick’s. His house might as well be a military compound with all of the men he has around the villa. She has to come out to us.” I stared hard at Lanzo, “That’s where you come in.”
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Most days the man rose before dawn, moving in the dark to his small toilet to perform his morning ablutions. During this punctilious ritual, he would decide how he would tend to the grass around his home, checking for weeds and varmints, and make plans for a garden he never seemed to start.
Most days the sun was bright and he happily worked in the lawn. He only tended the cottage’s immediate vicinity, for the grass stretched out around his home in a vast sea of green, unblemished by neighbors, roads, or trees. He was uncertain as to how he had arrived at this state of affairs, for he had no recollection of arriving there. This didn’t concern him, though.
Most days this was true until the buzzing started. It would begin somewhere beyond the horizon, then rise like an unseen cloud, moving towards his home. Then he would sigh, and straighten up on creaking knees, and move back into the house. There he’d prepare tea for the strangers he knew would be arriving shortly.
Most days, the visitors were shades that would swirl about his home. They would ask questions about his well-being and his memory, but he didn’t care for their intrusions. He smiled and nodded, their questions becoming an incessant bombination that would only cause him to hope they would leave. Eventually their noise would reach a crescendo and they would finally vanish as quickly as they had arrived. The silence that followed always left behind a bubble in his ears and an empty ache in his bones.
Most days it went on like this, but some days, after washing his hands and scrubbing his face, he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror, a dark face going to gray, with bags under its eyes, hair receding from the temples. He would find himself transfixed by the image of a much younger man interposing itself. The young man who lived in a countryside village, raised by a loving couple, amongst friends and neighbors, who grew up exploring the woods around the town. Under the forest’s canopy of leaves, he planned a future with so many possibilities he could hardly choose between them. Until the buzzing sounded, like no other insect, with lights weaving between the patches of sky, moving as randomly as a child’s sparkler, closer and brighter until he was blinded. Then there, on the forest floor, revealed as the veil of darkness was peeled back, a small house. Like a home of a Victorian doll, it was intricate and detailed, made all the more strange by its appearance of always having been there, its base covered in the same green moss as the forest floor, its perfection only ruined by the buzzing issuing forth.
Those days, he tore his gaze from the mirror by shaking himself so strongly he might have been breaking the hold of an attacker. He turned then, in the dark, reaching for the bathroom’s doorknob, jamming his fingers into the solid wood of the door, grasping his pained fingers as a child might, staring into the dark as if the door had betrayed him. After a time, he tentatively reached out to what he knew was in front of him, a solid wooden door, with a single doorknob on the left, its hinges on the right. He placed the palm of his uninjured hand on the smooth wood of the door, above where he knew the doorknob was, and slid his hand down. On that slow descent, his hand encountered nothing but the long, vertical grain of the wood.
Forgetting the pain of his knuckles, he pawed at the door, searching where he knew the knob should be, hands straying into the dark to search areas the doorknob simply couldn’t be. As his heartbeat began to thunder, his fingers would find the door’s seam, searching along it for some space, some handhold, a place he could pry it open, only ceasing to search for the doorknob again, blindly hoping that it might somehow reappear. When neither wood nor seam of the door yielded anything, he would pull at the hinges until his fingernails were reduced to bloody splinters.
Covered in sweat and panic, he would attack the door, kicking and punching it, only bruising knuckles and cracking bones on its immutable surface. This clatter of this was only broken by the buzzing sound returning, emanating from every corner of the room until he had to stop his assault on the door to press his palms to his temples, falling to his knees. In the piercing clarity of that moment he could hear the questions.
[Identity?]
“Go away.”
[How maintain existence with knowledge of corporeal dissipation?]
“I don’t know what you’re saying.”
[Function of dissolution?]
“I don’t know!”
[With mono view of time/space manifold, selection of future choices?]
“I just want to tend the grass!”
[Measurement of accomplishments within species’ limited confines?]
“Let me go!”
[Is function of regret?]
The questions would continue, like mandibles burrowing into his brain, until a scream boiled out of him, issuing from a space so primal that it banished the mechanical arthropod buzzing and the voices that issued forth. Their sudden withdrawal pulled the bones out of his body and he would collapse on the bathroom floor, slipping into unconsciousness on the cool tiles. When he awoke, the room would be bright with daylight, the doorknob visible in its rightful place. He would grasp it, grateful when it turned in his hands, wanting to get away from the mirror and the buzzing. He didn’t have the answers to their questions.
