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Post by James on Jan 12, 2011 19:55:42 GMT -5
((4,942 words! And remember... I'm English... we spell funny and/or correctly.)) Breaking Tapu [/center] 18/12/1863
To: General Sir Duncan Alexander Cameron GCB
HMS Deal damaged in storm. No chance of repair. Stranded considerably south of Auckland Port. Believed to be in the Waikato region. Supplies for a month salvaged from wreckage. Base camp set up two miles in land from ship near a fresh water lake. Forty six men with me. Weapons and ammunition largely saved.
Awaiting orders.
Major Gibbon Jones
***
The aristocratic elites of Buckinghamshire and Berkshire, with their fields of beautiful gleaming green grass and quaint mixtures of roses and daffodils, took many things for granted. There was the freshly cooked food upon the table each night and the warm beds to huddle away from the horrifying storms that purred up against the ten inch thick walls of their manor homes. However, Charlie Mansfield thought as his feet finally pulled themselves free from the warm mucky water of the swamp, what they most took for granted was the divine feeling of dry feet.
“Jesus, I reckon most of this island is a bloody swamp,” Jonathan Douglas said, pulling up short to lean against a tree.
Charlie watched as his fellow solider untied his boots and poured a litre of dirtied water onto the dry forest ground beneath them, the stench of decay wafting from the leather. Jonathan’s navy blue trousers, much liked his boots, were caked in mud and whatever other filth was hiding beneath the surface of the swamp they had trekked through. His jacket had largely escaped the condition, only the occasional tear visible, the blue material contrasting against the Scotsman’s tangled red hair.
“You look a mess, Johnny,” Charlie said, brushing his black hair from his eyes before rearranging the Enfield Rifle-Musket slung across his right shoulder, the weapon the only thing still gleaming in the meagre light that penetrated the canopy. Major Jones’ first and only rule was to treat your rifle better than you would treat a loved one.
“Aye,” Jonathan agreed, lacing back up his boots. “And you don’t look much better.”
“New Zealand’s a hell hole, alright,” Charlie said, turning to face the other man with them. His skin was coloured much like a penny, a battle between brown and bronze, clothed in nothing but rags with wrists and ankles clapped in iron restraints. Blue eyes though shone in pride and defiance, almost daring the two armed men to offer him combat.
“Don’t bother, the lad doesn’t understand a word of bloody English,” Jonathan offered into the silence, glaring at the Māori before them. “All I managed to get out of him after we captured him was something that I can only think to be his name.”
“Name?” Charlie asked, jabbing a finger at their captive’s direction. “What do we call you?”
“Heketoro,” the man said, the sound slipping gracefully from his mouth.
“There are people in Dundee that wouldn’t even call their kid that,” Jonathan grunted, yanking the man by his arm. “Come on; let’s just get back to the camp and some food and drink.”
Charlie grimaced as he watched Jonathan drag Heketoro across the ground, the Māori stumbling to keep up, before he followed after them. The air was thick within the trees, the perfume of exotic plants mixing with the smell of the swamp behind them. Blisters rubbed and exploded along his feet with every step, the pain now only a dull throbbing sensation across his body.
They had been walking for large parts of the last two day, most of it through the swamp or scrubland of New Zealand. Major Jones had sent them on with a task, and a message, to find the rest of the British army within the region. It hadn’t taken long to find the great rolling juggernaut marching down along the river side, slightly bruised, but still victorious. Charlie had hoped that with their job done, they would be allow to rest at the back of the column, but General Cameron had other ideas. Within five hours, supplies restocked, they were marching once more for the base camp that they had left the day before.
Jonathan had chuckled at Charlie’s anger of being sent on a return mission, pointing out the fact that they were the only ones who knew where Major Jones was. He fell silenced for a while after that, not wanting to embarrass himself further in front of the more experienced solider. Jonathan had served in India and China before arriving to New Zealand, but for Charlie this was his first engagement. He had joined up a year before, a working class boy hoping to find a little bit of quick money to start a family with. He didn’t realise he would be sent to fight on some island on the edge of the map to get the pittance, which was his soldier’s salary.
A branch snapped to their right, an alarm to the soldier’s ears, as Charlie quickly pulled his Rifle-Musket from his shoulder. His green eyes spun in a whirlwind of movement, looking to the trees and beneath the bushes, ready for an ambush.
“Steady, lad,” Jonathan muttered, unmoved in front of him. “I think it’s just one of our watches. It is, I, Lieutenant Jonathan Douglas with a message for Major Gibbon Jones.”
“That took longer than we thought Johnny-boy,” a voice called after a moment of silence, another man garbed in the navy blue soldier’s uniform appearing from behind a tree. “And how did you know I was there?”
“You stood on a branch,” Charlie offered.
“Richard Sensar, master of espionage,” Jonathan said, through the laughter that roared from his throat. “A great watchman you are.”
“Yeah, yeah, just go through and give the Major his message before he blows another gasket. And make sure that your friend here doesn’t get loose,” Richard said, gesturing to Heketoro. The Māori man had not moved since the start of the conversation.
“Aye,” Jonathan said, once more taking Heketoro by the arm and leading him through two thick, ancient trees. Charlie followed, a blister between two of his toes bursting, and gave a curt nod to Richard as he returned to his duty of watchman.
The sounds of life began to graze their ears, leather smacking against ground, steel pots clattering against each other and the occasional shout or laughter puncturing through the symphony. Before them stood Gibbon’s Camp, as it was so modestly named, the current home for over forty British soldiers. A sea of green and blue tents swayed gently in the wind, perched between trees and the occasional lost rock, gathered from the coastline just out of sight.
“Douglas! Mansfield!” Major Gibbon Jones barked as he caught sight of the pair stepping into the boundary of the camp, high noble cheekbones matching his lean military appearance. “Why have you brought the enemy into camp?”
“A prisoner, sir,” Jonathan explained, Charlie quite content to let the Scotsman do all the talking. “We caught him in the swampland as we were returning from General Cameron’s camp; we thought it was best to return him to you since we know nothing of the geography. Although he doesn’t know much English.”
“Sharp thinking,” Major Jones said, handing out one of his curt and rare compliments. “So you made it through to Sir Duncan? He sent back orders, did he?”
“Aye,” Jonathan answered. “We are to await here until the end of the week and then Charlie and myself are to lead you out past the forest and to the east to rejoin with the rest of the army.”
“A week? Why do we have to wait a week?” Major Jones asked, eyebrows knitting together.
“General Cameron is currently trying to side step an enemy Pa in the…”
“Pa?” Major Jones barked.
“A Māori Fortress,” Charlie explained before his brain could stop his mouth.
“Then call it that, don’t go around using these native words,” Major Jones said, the warning sign of crimson flush rising up his neck.
“Aye, sir,” Jonathan interrupted swiftly. “General Cameron plans to go around the enemy’s fortress at the dead of night and attack their farming heartland, therefore drawing the Māori forces from atop their hill. He fears any movement by us might alert them and lead to a whole breakdown in the plan.”
“Well, it seems like we have a wait on our hands. Perhaps we can use it to get as much information from this native as possible,” Major Jones said, staring down at the Māori man in front of him.
Charlie noticed though that Heketoro was paying no attention to the Major in front of him. His blue eyes, widened in shock and fear, were locked straight upon the lake next to the camp, several men filling pots and canteens with water from it.
“Stop. Must stop,” Heketoro said, his arms flapping madly towards the men at the lake.
“Stop? Nonsense. That’s the cleanest lake I’ve ever laid my eyes on, it’s a perfectly suited resource,” Major Jones boomed.
“Tapu! Tapu! Tapu!” Heketoro yelled, his voice shaking with conviction upon every syllable.
“Henderson,” Major Jones called to his aide. “Take this native and throw him in your tent, we’ll question him later once he calms down.”
“With permission, sir, I’d like to wash off,” Jonathan said as Heketoro was pulled into the tent behind him, still screaming the solitary strange word. “It’s a horrible swampland out there.”
“Permission granted, but you can wash up in the sea. I’m not having our one drinking pool contaminated by your wretched body.”
***
Charlie’s eyes burst open at the sound of his rifle clattering to the floor, his body jerking upwards from the makeshift bed upon the dry, hard ground. The moonlight that filtered through the opening of the tent flooded his retinas, blinding him before the shadow took shape, his breath catching in his throat. It towered above his sleeping form, moving gingerly towards the tent’s exit.
“Don’t put your gun in front of the bloody tent exit,” Jonathan groaned, nursing his shins.
“Jonathan?” Charlie grunted, rubbing his eyes.
“Go back to sleep,” he said, opening the flap of the tent slightly. “I’m just going to grab a drink, because some smartarse decided to drink the last of the water in the tent.”
Charlie gave a non-committed groan, hopeful that it would cover as both an apology and a witty retort as he fell back onto the floor. The moonlight shone upon Charlie’s only prized possession, the black and white photograph of his wife. The alluring paleness of her skin was hidden beneath the grainy print, her smooth features distorted by the blotchiness of the photo and still she looked beautiful. He supposed him camping in the forests for ten days would be far more appealing to his wife than dying in some heroic battle.
The scream came suddenly. It wasn’t a high pitch scream of cowardice fear but rather a gurgle of pain, torment and fright, combined into one horrifying sound. Charlie found himself on his feet within an instant, gun instinctively in his hand, as he tore out of the tent and into the camp. All around heads were appearing from between the fabric of their temporary homes, eyes wide and brows raised as they searched for the scream that had filtered through to them.
“Jonathan!” Charlie yelled into the silence, breathing heavily. Without a second thought Charlie took off towards the lake, barely visible in the moonlight, dressed only in the trousers that he had fallen asleep in. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the Major and several after men racing after him, in varying state of dress and alertness but all of them armed.
Within the darkness Charlie nearly tripped over Jonathan’s outstretched body, the Scotsman lying upon his back, staring blankly into the canopy of the trees above him. Charlie’s heart thumped as he fell to his knees, desperately fumbling for any signs of life upon his friend. His fingers, now clammy with sweat and shaking furiously, searched for a pulse around Jonathan’s neck and wrist before running to his chest, begging for the rise and fall of a beating heart. Nothing moved within his body. Jonathan was still and cold.
“Douglas?” Major Jones said, appearing at his shoulder.
“D-d-dead,” Charlie stammered, falling back onto the heels of his feet.
“I don’t see a wound,” Major Jones grunted, reaching down to turn Jonathan onto his back and Charlie noticed the lack of any blood upon the fingers that had searched for signs of life. What had made Jonathan fall to the floor dead?
“I don’t see a single wound,” Major Jones repeated, lifting Jonathan’s head to search along his neck.
“A dart? It’s a favoured weapon of the natives of Indonesia,” Henderson said, a cockney sounding voice swiftly disagreeing with him. The argument melded into a single sound within Charlie’s ears, his bottom lip quivering slightly as he watched the unmoving body of his mentor within the army.
“Anderson! Bowden!” Major Jones barked, rolling Jonathan onto his back once more. “Into the forest and keep an eye open for any prints, we could be being surrounded.”
“Yes sir!”
“Henderson, rouse the camp. I want the men in the group of three or four to scout out the ground around us, I don’t want these murderers to escape,” Major Jones continued to order.
“Sir!” Henderson barked, and the sounds of footsteps thudding against the ground skittered away.
“Mansfield, son?” Major Jones said, his tone softening considerably as Charlie felt the warm, living touch of a hand upon his naked shoulder. “On your feet, boy, we’re not going to let Douglas die in vain.”
“Sir?” Charlie croaked, biting back the tears. The days that Jonathan spent in gruelling weather helping him complete training, teaching him where the best food could be found and even holding the bucket as sea sickness struck during the voyage warranted tears. However such an action would break the first piece of advice Jonathan ever gave him, upon their first meeting in the dimly lit barracks of Colchester. Never let your commanding officer see you cry.
“Come now, we have a meeting with that native,” Major Jones said, pulling Charlie to his feet. “It is too much of a coincidence.”
Charlie dragged his feet after the Major, his legs feeling like cement as they struggled to pull themselves away from the ground. Vaguely he thought that Jonathan’s body shouldn’t be left alone by the lake, unprotected and unvalued. A part of him screamed that he should be back by his mentor’s side, but he felt drained. His body followed the Major’s step, one after another, like a wind-up toy unable to stop.
They entered the tent together, a gas lamp already flickering on a crate of boxes, probably the work of Henderson as he awoke from Jonathan’s scream. Huddled in the middle of the tent, tied to the wooden pole, sat Heketoro. His face alert with eyes that spun constantly, watching every corner of the tent. Striding confidently across the ground, Major Jones tore the gag free from the Māori man’s mouth and untied his bindings.
“Tapu!” Heketoro gasped, his nostrils flaring, as if he was trying to catch the scent of an animal.
“Silence yourself!” Major Jones roared, Heketoro falling quiet at just the conviction of the Major’s words. “What is Tapu?”
“Tapu,” Heketoro repeated, his head turning to the roof of the tent as if searching for the answer within the heavens. “Rule.”
“Rule?” Major Jones echoed, before shaking his head. “This is going to be painful. Tell me now. Did you lead others here?”
Heketoro remained silent, his head shaking at the question before turning his eyes onto Charlie. His mind was still firmly fifty yards away and yet he swore he saw a twisted mixture of fear and joy scratched across the Māori man’s face. His brow was damp with sweat and yet the corners of his mouth twisted upwards slightly in a grin.
“Is that a no? Are there more of you?” Major Jones asked, jabbing his finger at Heketoro.
“No. Not Māori. Taniwha,” Heketoro said.
“Taniwha?” Major Jones repeated, looking back to Charlie for an explanation. He could only shrug, completely at a loss by Heketoro’s words.
“Dragon,” Heketoro said, breathing the word like a curse. Major Jones stepped back for a moment, and Charlie sensed the anger in the room crackle like lightning, and then the Major shoved the gag back into the Māori man’s mouth.
“Hopeless,” Major Jones said, tying Heketoro back to the pole within the tent. “Completely hopeless.”
“What now?” Charlie asked, more out of knowing that the question was expected from him rather than curiosity.
“Make sure Jonathan’s body is safe and then join the others on the hunt,” Major Jones answered, slipping from the tent.
Charlie followed the Major steps once more, briskly nearing the lake, when he heard the first echoes of screams reach his ears. His stomach fell beneath him at the sounds; his legs turning to lead at the guttural cries of pain that poured from between branches and leaves. Charlie had never heard the dreadful cries of dying men before and he knew that they would never be forgotten.
“Savages!” Major Jones cried, and for a moment Charlie thought he was talking about the attacks upon his men just out of sight. Then his eyes turned to the ground and he saw Jonathan’s corpse upon the ground, or what was left of it. Chucks of his body had been pulled apart, an unmistakable bite mark where his thigh should have been and his entire left arm missing. Several of his ribs were snapped, the meat torn clean off the bone.
“Mansfield, follow me!” Major Jones ordered, sprinting into the forest and the cries of anguish.
Vainly trying to move his legs, Charlie took two steps after the Major before his body shook. Acid and food alike rose up his throat, stinging the flesh, as his stomach emptied across the floor, splattering against several logs around Jonathan’s body. Eyes watering, Charlie spluttered and coughed as another tsunami of bile escaped his body before he fell to his knees, gun still clutched within his hands.
His other arm came up to wipe the tears, sweat and snot that were leaking from various spots upon his face, desperately trying to pull himself together. The Major was counting on him, he had charged into the forest without support and he had to protect him. The logic seemed sound within Charlie’s mind, but still he did not want to move, drained by the combat that he was not ready for. As he stumbled to his feet, his hand steadied itself upon the log near Jonathan’s missing arm.
Intense pain shot through his body, as if a red hot poker was stabbed through his flesh, his hand jerking away from the log. Blood spurted from a hole where his index finger should have been, jagged teeth marks hiding just above the knuckle. Where the log stood was a lizard, no longer than two feet long, with skin like bristled bark and sharp white teeth snapping at the ground. It stood upon four thick, muscle bound, yet short legs and its eyes glinted in the darkness, shifting colour from the blackest black to the most dazzling of pinks. All around Jonathan’s body, the other logs began to screech into life, hissing dangerously.
If it wasn’t for the burning sensation throughout his throat, the throbbing of his hand and the grief carved wound in his heart, he would have been certain that he was dreaming. Instead Charlie swung his gun into both his hands, the barrel slipping slightly against his scarlet and slippery hand before he pulled the trigger. The musket shot ripped from the gun, roaring through the air like an almighty lion, before embedding itself deep into the lizard that had stole Charlie’s finger in a single bite.
As the first lizard crumpled to the ground, a dark liquid pouring from the bullet wound, Charlie desperately reached for another musket shot. The lizards around him though gave him no chance, legs bending to spring into the air and towards the soldier’s face. Swinging the gun around out of instinct alone, Charlie caught three lizards within the air, flinging them back, while the fourth narrowly missed taking a chunk of his ear.
Legs finally reacting out of fear, Charlie stumbled backwards toward the camp, the sound of snapping teeth never leaving his ears. His mind failed to splutter into life, ideas and plans slipping away before the strands could even begin to form. The first of the tents began to slide past him, the campsite in complete silence except from the sounds of his own frenzied footsteps and the growls and hissing of his pursuers.
Eyes locked onto his own tent in front of him, Charlie missed the overturned food crate, his knees colliding into it with a sickening crunch. Stars spun in front of his eyes, and his leg gave away beneath him, his whole body flattened by the force of his landing. His knee felt as if it had been shattered in a thousand pieces, refusing to stand as he struggled to raise himself to a sitting position, catching sight of the cooking knife that had tumbled from the box beside him.
The knife was short, but sharp, a strand of salted beef still hanging from the notches along the serrated blade. Pulling up the mental reserves needed to let his gun clatter to the ground beside him, Charlie grabbed the handle of the knife within his good hand, swinging it around in front of him. The blade caught the first of the leaping lizards, sinking deep within its chest as blood ruptured from the wound and splattered across Charlie’s face, the soldier holding back a scream at the contact.
Flinging the lizard’s body from the blade, Charlie lent upon his uninjured knee, the lizards circling him with predatory gazes. A horrible feeling began to grow in his mind, his skin paling even further as his fingers grew numb, that the lizards knew exactly how much pain he was in. They had him exactly where they wanted him and were willing to wear him down before going in for the kill.
Moonlight caught the blood-stained barrel of his gun, still discarded on the ground beside him, and Charlie’s sluggish mind slowly began to churn. His body ached, his hand still throbbing in excruciating pain as he felt the blood flowing through his veins in a vain quest to provide the brain with adequate energy as the plan began to form. If the lizards were content to just circle him, there was a possibility that he could reload the Rifle-Musket and get another shot off. Refusing to meet the shape-shifting eyes of the creatures, Charlie inched a hand towards his weapon.
The lizards reacted instantly, leaping at the unprotected parts of his body, maws open wide as their teeth shone ominously in the meagre light. Charlie swung the blade around at the nearest of the creatures, slicing its throat with a lucky strike, before the screams finally came from his mouth. Teeth tore into his skin, the dam breaking as blood rushed from his body, the lizards fastened upon his arms and torso. As the pain intensified beyond a million bee stings, a red mist grew across Charlie’s vision. The blade began to swing of its own accord, cutting through lizard and human flesh alike as the jaws upon his body began to weaken their hold.
“You broke tapu,” a voice said as Charlie slumped to the floor, drenched in blood. The bodies of the lizards laid with him, slashed into several different pieces, colouring the grass beneath them.
“What?” Charlie whispered, his voice raw, his throat still burning.
“You broke tapu,” the voice repeated and Charlie saw Heketoro walking towards him, free of both his restraints and gag. “I said to stop. You did not. You broke tapu.”
“English?” Charlie gurgled, his eyes already drooping, heavy beneath the weight of the pain and tiredness.
“Missionaries,” Heketoro answered simply.
“Taniwha,” Charlie said, remembering the word from the tent. “The lizards… Taniwha?”
“No, they are the Taniwha’s children. He will kill you for their murders, he is already angry for the breaking of tapu, he will show no mercy,” Heketoro said, wiping the blood away from Charlie’s eyes, his touch almost comforting.
“No… time… I’m… al…ready… dying,” Charlie wheezed, amazed that the thought didn’t scare him as much as it once did, each breath a torturous battle as he felt one of his lungs deflating.
“He is here now, I must leave,” Heketoro said, his rags rustling as he rose to his full height. “I am sorry, I did warn you.”
“I… know.”
“Look into his eyes, pākehā,” Heketoro said over the sound of his own footsteps, his voice growing more distant. “It will be less painful that way.”
Charlie tried to muster a response, his mouth forming for sounds that would not come. His whole body shook as rattling frenzied breaths escaped through the open mouth, Heketoro’s footsteps replaced by a far louder and rumbling sound. Charlie’s fingernails dug into the dampened earth beneath him, mud lodging between nail and skin, as the Taniwha appeared from between the trees.
It was covered in the same bark like substance of its children, except upon the bristled spikes that ran up its massive body, the corpses of Charlie’s fellow soldiers were impaled, bleeding onto the dragon’s skin. A tail swirled behind twenty feet of muscle and flesh, spiked like the deadliest mace a mediaeval painter could imagine. One of its tower-like legs smashed down upon a tent, the fabric giving away completely under the force. The Taniwha’s head sat atop the gentle sloping hill that was its neck, smoke pouring out of two large nostrils. A faint gasp slipped from Charlie’s mouth as he saw beside a forked tongue, the Major’s uniform caught upon one of the many razor sharp teeth.
Lifting his head slightly with the last of his strength, Charlie looked deep into the two orbs of light that sat within the middle of the Taniwha’s face. All at once they were green, red, black and blue. In a single instance they showed anger, disgust, pride and pity. With each second he glanced into the Taniwha’s eyes, Charlie felt his heart slowing to a halt. His brain began to shut down, piece by piece, and he realised that to hold the beast’s stare was to die. It was why Heketoro had told him to do so.
And he was glad for it.
***
“Well, here’s our answer,” Captain Marcus Dover said, stumbling into the remains of the smouldering camp, his aide by his side.
“Oh, the smell is foul,” his aide said, covering his mouth and nose with a handkerchief.
Marcus had to agree, the smell of death and decomposition burned his nostril and filled the inside of his mouth with the most revolting of tastes. All around tents smouldered and smoked, food supplies ransacked and left empty of all contents. Most of the weapons had been plundered too, although the odd knife or musket remained discarded hidden beneath the ruins. The smell though came from the pile of dead British soldiers, ringed by a circle of logs, who had appeared to be singed by the raging fire around them.
“General Cameron won’t be happy,” Marcus said, looking down at the nearest body, a young man covered in bloody wounds, a hint of black hair still remaining upon his head. “Major Jones was one of the best.”
“Sir!” his aide called suddenly, stumbling backwards. “It looks like they’ve being eaten!”
“Yes, it is rumoured amongst the missions that the Māori people practice cannibalism,” Marcus said calmly.
“Barbaric,” the aide barked, moving away from the pile and towards fresher air. “I suppose the colonial government will insist that this is not reported in the newspapers or to the Colonial Office.”
“Perhaps. Perhaps we should learn that sometimes we can be bested,” Marcus replied, following his aide away from the campsite. There was nothing that two men could do for a grave so large. “Past me your canteen, I need to wash the taste from my mouth.”
“There’s a lake over there sir, it didn’t look contaminated by the camp,” his aide said, gesturing to the water near the trees.
“Bradley, my boy, take a look at that pole next to the lake,” Marcus said, pointing to the stick embedded within the ground upon the lake’s shore, a single black feather stuck upon the top of it. “That is a pouwhenua.”
“And?” Bradley asked, following the Captain’s finger.
“It signals that something is considered tapu or sacred. That lake is held in some religious significance for the Māori tribes of this land in much the same way that a church is significant to us,” Marcus explained, like a father to an impatient son. “We would be appalled if during the course of this war, the Māori King ordered his troops to defile a church. We should offer at least the same common courtesy.”
“Or we’ll be attacked by one of their spirits?” Bradley joked.
“Or you’ll be attacked by the same Māori tribe that very likely killed these men for breaking tapu,” Marcus retorted gravely. “It’s a serious offence in Māoridom.”
“Christ, how long did you spend in that mission, sir?”
“Not long enough according to the priests,” Marcus laughed, leading his aide back through the trees and towards the rest of General Cameron’s army. “And too long for me.”
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Post by Sekot on Jan 15, 2011 15:45:54 GMT -5
Ghosts
I ran my fingers slowly through his thick, auburn hair, but he did not feel it. I brushed his lips with mine, but he did not wake. I whispered the words, “I love you” into his ear, but he did not hear me. As I stood there and watched him, I was struck by his beauty once more. I was enamored with him, as I always had.
* * * *
“Hey,” I said. “Any good news today?”
The boy looked up from his newspaper and cereal, his mouth opening and closing as he struggled to form a coherent sentence. His eyes kind of went wide as they looked up at me and then down to the paper and then back up at me. “Umm…uh…yeah…no not really.”
The grin that came after was shy and embarrassed. I smiled back and sat down at his table. He was clearly flustered, but not in a bad way. It was readily apparent he was struggling to figure out how to react to my sudden question and presence. “That sucks. Don’t mind if I sit here do you?”
“Umm..no..no of course not,” he said with another smile.
This time, the smile held more confidence. I returned his smile and felt my heart leap a little within me. This had been a gamble, something I’d certainly never done before. To be honest, I was scared shitless. He had such vibrant blue eyes. To look into them was to see the ocean, to see something powerful behind them. I could sense his apprehension, his awkward shuffling as he looked for something to say. I felt as if he were looking through me, into me. “I saw you at the hall meeting last night, I live on the opposite side of the dorm from you,” I said.
“Andrew, right?” he asked with a smile.
“Yeah, and you’re Ben.”
He nodded as he looked back down at his cereal and stirred it a few times. His smile grew even wider, something I wasn’t sure was possible. It was awkward at first, as such things usually are. We really had met at our hall meeting, and when I saw him I was instantly infatuated. I couldn’t get him out of my head. I asked around my floor if anyone knew who he was. I’m a little ashamed to admit that I stalked him. If only a little.
* * * *
Lights buzzed and flashed in time with the beat of the music. I was surrounded by people, bombarded by the myriad smells of cologne and sweat. There were voices, but they were distant and overpowered by the sheer volume of music that poured from the speakers. I felt that beat within me, my heart escalating to beat with it.
It was these moments that I felt most free, dancing with the music. And he was there, pressed up against me. I could smell his own scent, his own special body odor mixed with his cheap cologne and I was intoxicated. By him and by the copious amounts of alcohol we had consumed at this point. I ran my hand through his hair before pulling back hard, his mouth opening in a mixture of mock ecstasy and a little bit of pain.
We danced together, almost as one being. His back pressed against my chest, our legs intertwined. The music was hardly all that good, but it didn’t matter. My mind was in a million places, most lost to the music, but those remaining bits anchored here with Andrew.
I managed to briefly catch the eye of my best friend, Allison, who smiled at me coyly. I smiled back with a wink, Andrew oblivious to the brief interaction. Andrew was oblivious to a lot of things. He was drunk and on something, I had no idea. It didn’t bother me. He was like this, always partaking in something that he believed would take him to the next level.
* * * *
My favorite moments were when we were in bed together, and he was asleep, and I could just sit and watch him. It had been a year since that first day we met and it had been a wild anniversary. Andrew always knew how to throw a good party and make things interesting. His hair was a ruffled mess, my fault entirely. It was hot in the apartment so the sheets were kicked off of us, his skinny frame exposed to the humid air. My fingers ran up and down his arm, from the rounded shoulder to the delicate fingers. His breaths came in long and deep. He was peaceful.
I reached up and flicked his ear. Startled, he nearly fell off the bed. “What the fuck was that!?” he screeched, his voice ridiculously high in pitch.
I laughed hysterically until he recovered and punched me hard in the arm. “Ass,” he muttered before settling back into his old position.
Still laughing, I cuddled up next to him and reached my arm around him to hold his hand. Our thumbs danced around each other as we embraced, my nose nuzzled itself against the back of his neck. He giggled softly as my breath tickled him. We sat this way for several long minutes, myself enjoying every second of it. “Ben, do you believe in ghosts?”
This wasn’t the first time he had asked me this question. I always evaded it because it was a silly question, but for whatever reason I felt like answering him this time. “I guess. I haven’t really thought much of it.”
There was another long pause. “What do you think will happen when we die?”
“I don’t really know. The atheist within me just says we die and turn to dirt. My religious side hopes for something more.”
“Sometimes,” he began, his tone taking on a wistful quality as if he was dreaming, “I hope to become a ghost when I die. I feel like there is too much to see. Too much to know.”
“Seems like a good enough reason. But all those stories you hear, aren’t all ghosts tormented souls? Don’t they remain because they’re angry or vengeful in some manner?”
Andrew fell quiet. “Possibly. Though…” he trailed off.
“What?” I asked, rising up on my elbow to look directly at him as he rolled onto his back.
“Sometimes I think my mother is with me, still. All these years after her accident, I feel that she will be in my room some nights, just watching over me and keeping me safe.”
I resisted the urge to smile. This conversation was rather silly. “Its…possible,” I managed with great hesitation.
Andrew sensed it and frowned up at me, “You don’t believe it, but I do. She’s there, always has been.”
I looked around the room, “Is she here now? Was she here…before?”
Andrew laughed and pushed me back onto the bed. He positioned himself on top of me and leaned in to give me a kiss. “No, once I found you I think she was content. I haven’t seen her since.”
* * * *
This wasn’t the last conversation we had on the topic of ghosts. Andrew seemed to be obsessed with the topic. Whenever I pressed, it would always turn toward his mother’s death. She had died in a car accident when he was ten. Andrew’s father was an asshole, if one were to be so kind, and his mother was all he had. When she went, I think a part of Andrew died with her.
Though all this talk made me think as well. It must be lonely being a wandering spirit. I wonder if they can see each other, have their own little chats to pass the time. Or maybe they are secluded, living only in the presence of those they loved or wish to haunt. What is it like to live as a spirit?
I can only imagine the torment.
* * * *
I hated him. Nothing came out of my mouth but words of anger and spite and pitiful immaturity. “Get the fuck out!” I screamed in his face, my own eyes wide with rage.
“I’m sorry!” he screamed back. “How many times do I have to tell you this?!”
“Get. Out!” I screamed again, my entire body shaking furiously with rage.
Tears were coming from his blue eyes. Such pretty blue eyes that hurt too much to look into. “Please don’t do this, please! I love you! Don’t do this to me! I have nowhere to go…”
“Get out,” I hissed, finally turning my back to him.
I couldn’t look at him. I felt that, if I would, my will would break. My heart was already taken and smashed against the walls of the apartment. Nothing but anger poured into my head, nothing but sorrow followed it like a rolling wave that fed into itself repeatedly. I felt his hand on my shoulder, I felt him come closer to me. But I shrugged him off.
Unable to hold it back, my own tears began to come. I collapsed to the floor, unable to stand any longer under the pressure that had built within me. I felt him as he wrapped his arms around me. I couldn’t stand it, I couldn’t have him touching me. Not now. I immediately threw him back, pushed him away and jolted upward. I turned to face him as he lay back on the floor. I averted my gaze, I was unable to even look at him any more as a person. “Please, get out.”
I left him there and went to our room. My room. I slammed the door shut, harder than I had intended and immediately regretted, and sat on the edge of the bed. I buried my face in the palm of my hands and waited. The door to the apartment opened and then closed. With that final click I couldn’t help myself. I screamed. I opened my mouth and let loose a yell of pure anger and heart break.
I cried for hours. By the end of it, I felt so emotionally torn that if I so much as stared at anything other than the ceiling I would cry again. What is this? What had come over me? He had cheated on me, lied to me, and I had to discover it all. He said he still loved me, but how could I believe him? What was left to believe?
My heart was not in my chest. My mind was off wandering some empty space. All that I was is a shell, a lifeless being laying in a fetal position on my bed. I was unable to turn, to move, to breathe. I sat and feared what to do next.
* * * *
It was quiet in that apartment.
There was no sound from the kitchen. There was no chatter, no laughter.
The TV stayed off. The books stayed on the shelves. And one side of the bed lay empty.
I came home to an empty apartment. I said goodnight to no one.
I never felt more alone in my life.
* * * *
“The news any good today?”
Andrew looked up from his paper. His eyes were sunken with puffy bags surrounding them. The vibrant blue had dulled somewhat. He looked as if he had aged considerably. “Not really,” he responded, he did not smile.
I hesitated, biting my lower lip a little bit before pulling the other chair at his small café table and placing myself there. Andrew didn’t look up from his paper. “So…how have you been?” I asked, my voice quieter than I had wanted it to be.
“Fine,” he muttered.
“You don’t look like it. Where are you staying?” I asked, leaning forward to force myself into his field of vision.
He looked up from his paper, his eyes now beginning to swell. “Umm…been staying with a friend.”
“Which friend?” I asked, though I already knew the answer. The signs were there, he was hiding his arms from me and he looked far too thin.
“Julia…” he said, his own voice barely higher than a whisper.
I sighed and leaned back in my chair. I rubbed my eyes with my hand, biting my lip to keep myself from crying. “So I take it you…” I squeak out.
“Yeah,” he answered before I had to actually speak the words.
I nodded silently and just sat there staring at him. He did not meet my gaze. “Come on, let’s go back to my place and get you some proper food.”
He didn’t say anything, but he did rise from his chair. He stood there awkwardly, hands shoved into his jean pockets. “Where’s your stuff? At Julia’s?”
He didn’t say anything, he only continued to stare at his feet. I don’t know what came over me but I stepped forward and wrapped my arms tightly around him and held him close. He buried his face into my shoulder and cried. Right there in the middle of the shop, he broke into tears. Neither of us cared. I just stared back at those who stared at us until they averted their gaze. I got a few approving nods from some, and I could only smile back. “Come on,” I whispered into his ear, “let’s go home.”
* * * *
I squeezed the sponge, water pouring from it and rushing over Andrew’s head. He took in a deep breath and let out a heavy sigh, the water spraying in all directions away from his mouth. I rubbed the sponge along his neck, across his shoulders, and down his back. He sat there, hunched over in the tub with bubbly water. He was thin, almost emaciated. There were burn marks on his arm and injection marks. Scars upon scars where he had undoubtedly caused bodily harm to himself.
It was painful to look upon him, heart wrenching to see him in this state. I lowered the sponge and just sat there by the tub. Slowly I lifted my own hand and pushed the soaked, auburn hair out of his eyes. He looked at me, a sad smile appearing on his gaunt face. I leaned forward and kissed him on the forehead. “I still love you,” I said to him, the words taking no effort to speak.
He smiled at me and then wrapped his arms around me. Before I knew it, he had pulled me over the tub and in. Water went everywhere, soaking me and the walls and the floor. I cried aloud, getting a mouthful of water in the process. I coughed and sputtered, all while he laughed. It was a pleasant sound to hear him laugh, even with all of my discomfort. “You ass,” I spoke once I had regained my breath.
He pulled off my wet shirt and gave me a passionate kiss. I returned it with everything I had, pouring my very soul into the embrace.
* * * *
I remember the flashing lights, the screech of the tires, and the blaring of horns. It was a nightmare made real.
I remember sitting there, unaware of what had really happened until several seconds after it was over.
It was a car accident, we were in a ditch. There was no front of the car and I couldn’t feel my legs. I turned to look at the driver’s seat and saw Andrew there, head resting on the wheel. The airbags had somehow failed to deploy. Piece of shit car. I told him.
I coughed, blood came up and splattered the dashboard. Or what was left of it. I coughed again, struggling to get air into my lungs. “Andrew…” I wheezed, coughing again.
Andrew’s eyes fluttered open and my heart leaped. I managed something resembling a smile as he came to. “You….ok?” I asked, every part of me screaming in agony.
Andrew looked at me, the entire left side of his face coated in blood, and his eyes went wide. “What…what happened?”
He looked around bewildered and then it came to him. “Oh shit.”
He looked back at me and his face just went slack as if he had been struck in the head once more. “Oh…shit,” he whispered.
I was wracked once more with a fit of coughing, more blood spilling out. I couldn’t feel my arms or my chest any longer. “We’re going to be ok,” I said, though I’m not sure if he heard me.
“Oh shit oh shit oh shit,” he said repeatedly as he attempted to unbuckle his seatbelt.
“What’s wrong?” I asked, though I wasn’t sure if I had actually spoken the words.
He leaned over the center console and I felt him his arms as they wrapped themselves around me. “Oh shit oh shit oh shit. Please God please…”
I didn’t quite understand what was wrong with him. I wanted to say that I was ok, that I was fine, but I couldn’t. There was no energy to speak left within me. I felt warmth running down my legs and somehow I knew it to be blood. I couldn’t feel my legs because they were shattered. I couldn’t feel my arms because they were dislocated. I couldn’t feel my chest because my lungs were collapsing.
I struggled for air, to breathe once more, but I felt it leaving me. I couldn’t leave, not now. Not here. Andrew needed me.
I needed Andrew.
I loved him.
With all my heart.
“I love you, please don’t go!” I heard him say.
* * * *
As I run my fingers through his hair, I know that he does not feel them.
As I brush my lips against his, I know he does not feel them.
As I lean in to whisper into his ear, “I love you”, I know he does not hear me.
His clear blue eyes are shut in fitful slumber. My sweet Andrew sleeping in our bed. The moonlight that spills through our window illuminates him angelically. I could sit here forever, just watching him sleep. Watch as his chest rises and falls, as his heavy breath leaves in a loud snore. I remember the many nights I had been kept awake by that very sound. How I missed it now.
“You did well,” a soft voice said from behind me.
I turn to look and see a woman there, standing with her hands held before her. She smiles at me, her eyes filled with sorrow. “I knew I could trust him with you.”
She stepped forward, moving to stand next to the bed I sat upon with Andrew. She leans forward and brushes the hair off of his cheek and places a delicate kiss there. She pulls away and I wonder if she will begin to cry. My own eyes are undoubtedly red as fire with all the crying I’ve been doing lately. “You’re his mother,” I say.
She nods as she turns to look at me. There is a warm smile on her face, but I can still see that unmistakable sadness. “I am. I watched over him for many years until you came along. I knew instantly that you were perfect for him.”
I can’t help myself. I break out into a fit of tears once more. “I….left him…I couldn’t…forgive him.”
I feel her hand as she places it on my head, “But I knew you would come back. And you did. For that I am grateful. For you, I am grateful.”
I look up at her, “I’m so sorry.”
She smiles and leans forward to place a kiss on my forehead, “Come. We must go.”
I look at Andrew as he lays asleep on that bed. His arms clutch tightly around a picture of both of us, something I hadn’t noticed until now. It is a picture of just us in front of a fountain. We’re smiling widely, joy in our eyes. The picture was taken just a few days after we met. I look back at him and place a hand I know he does not feel on his shoulder. “I’m so sorry,” I whisper.
I rise from the bed and turn to leave, his mother already gone. I stop when I hear him move and turn to look back at him. His eyes open slowly, the vibrant blue shining like stars in the meager light. He’s looking at me, and I wonder if he sees me. I smile at him and wish I could hold him once more. “Are you leaving?” he asks, his voice hoarse.
I nod, “I am. But don’t worry, I will always be here for you.”
He smiles and I catch sight of a tear streaking down his cheek.
I turn away from him, no longer able to see him in this state. I feel my presence dissipating. I feel this soul of mine leaving. I wish to stay with him longer, to watch him forever more. But I cannot. I had seen him this one last time. That is all that matters.
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Great job, Agro.
