Mental Shrillness Page 2

DAY 911: John started crying in the middle of our lovemaking, he never cried before. He loves me so much! This was the most passionate session we've ever had. I relented and gave him oral sex. I spat the blood out.

  DAY 1010: We won the lotto! John decides (or maybe he doesn't have a choice) to stay home now. I take care of him. He can no longer walk without a cane. I laugh and try to make him feel better. We invested smartly so we'll never have to work again. John can't drive either. Flakes of flesh are starting to come off his penis and large red welts have grown on his testicles.

  DAY 1203: Think there is something wrong with John. There is a weird odor when we make love and he bleeds constantly. He cries all the time now. Rarely does he have an orgasm any more. He screamed at me to please stop. I told him a vow is a vow. Can't break one.

  DAY 1446: John can barely talk and slobbers a lot but I can still get him hard enough to ride on him! He pleaded with me to let him go see Dr. Sears but we can't break our vow. He is bedridden now and the raw, pink mess of flesh is hard to decipher...

  DAY 1801: I have a friend at the book store that I now go to for sex. Shhh, don't tell John. A vow is a vow, but if you need to get some real sex then there's no harm! His name is James and wow he can really get me off. John? Yeah, I almost gag when I get near him. He bleeds too much and screams so loud that I had to have the windows boarded up. He hates the light...geez, crybaby. And his penis? Can't get what's left of it hard.

  Dueling Eyes

  Dance with me.

  The glass eye loved downtown Seattle. Down the alley where the drugs and sex flowed freely. The inhabitants would meet the glass eye and nervously avert its gaze.

  The glass eye never blinked.

  "Killroy? Killroy, oh my god!"

  "Madison, my dear." The glass eye steered straight, out of Madison's view. The peppermint smell of Madison's breath and the tasteful aroma of her flesh tickled Killroy's nostrils.

  "I'm so glad I finally found you! Where you been—?"

  She connected with the glass eye and raised a trembling finger to her mouth.

  "Don't be afraid, please."

  "What happened?"

  "I cut it out."

  Madison stepped back once. The alley grew darker.

  Dance with me.

  "It had a mind of its own, Madison. I had to stop it."

  "Your . . . eye?"

  "Yes. It still does."

  The glass eye remained fixed; staring, searching, wanting.

  "Come home with me, Killroy, we'll try to get you help. I promise."

  "You don't understand, Madison. That's why I left. I was the only one who knew what must be done."

  "Why are you down here? Why this-this place?"

  Killroy pointed to the transients and prostitutes and unwitting trespassers. "They live here, it lives here, it must know why."

  "You're a doctor, Killroy. Dr. Gaez! Don't you remember?"

  Killroy pointed to his left eye. "It knows, yes."

  "You've been down here for the last month?"

  "Here and ... " he pointed down an alley which led to blackness, "there."

  "Please come home, Killroy, I love you."

  His left eye battled his right. Dance with me. Why did it always say that? Why did it always tempt the glass eye? The eyes struggled over tender optic nerves, constantly balancing the other's acts. The struggle moved on and on. The dance. There was a craving Killroy felt pulsing in his forehead; a violent struggle of two eyes feasting on eachother's weaknesses.

  "I...can't."

  "Killroy, please." her hands gripped his shoulder and bent his left eye into hers. They connected and he could view the depth of her kindness. Those warm green-blue waters. The Bahamas...a time together sunning and funning, honeymooning. Ah, ten years ago! The memory enveloped him, sealing and delivering his heart to hers.

  A stranger suddenly lurched from the distance and yanked Madison away, holding a menancing blade at her throat. "Give up the dough, Doc. Common knowledge you're loaded."

  "Don't hurt her, please." Killroy turned and the glass eye gripped the scoundrel. The scoundrel watched it for a moment and his hand started to shake. His forehead twitched unnaturally.

  "You see it, my friend... yes...you see it, don't you?" Killroy nodded.

  "Killroy!" Madison screamed.

  "You're a freaking psycho, Doc! Only thing I see is your bankroll. You've been hanging around here looking to get the blade."

  Killroy moved closer, his lips folding into a grin. The glass eye stole the warmth from the night air. The scoundrel started to pull the blade away from Madison's neck. Madison bit his hand, and then broke free.

  "You freaks!" The scoundrel shook his bloodied hand and dropped the glinting blade. His legs and the wind carried him into the black hole inside the alley.

  A tear raced down Killroy's left eye. A soft wind feathered his moist cheek. He asked the glass eye, what have I become?

  The glass eye remained unchanged.

  "Come home, Killroy, so many people love you and miss you. Please." Madison hugged him and he could feel her warmth spread through him. Another tear joined the first, another, another, another.

  He slowly nodded, realizing what had broken him. Work, the pressure, the stress. It had driven him into the bowels of Seattle seeking the answer to the war raging beneath his forehead.

  He chose.

  Killroy and Madison started walking away together.

  The glass eye fixed on it. Locking.

  Dance with me!

  The reason he'd left before was lucid. The scoundrel had delivered the brutal reminder. He couldn't help them. Couldn't stop their gushing wounds. They died at his hands and he couldn't —NO NO NO—wash their blood from his naked, weak eye.

  DANCE WITH ME!

  Guilt! Guilt lurked behind his eyes. The war raged over guilt. He'd finally found the answer at the hands of a lowly thief.

  The glass eye beckoned. With a quick bend and swipe Killroy had the scoundrel's blade in his hand. He could make it right, this time. Deeper than the last time.

  "I'm coming, Madison, but not with you."

  DANCE!

  (deeper)

  WITH!

  (deeper)

  ME!

  (deeper)

  * * *

  Killroy awoke in the hospital bed, his bandaged face was a clever facade. He reached into the black, grasping, grasping until they restrained him. Sometimes he screamed. Sometimes he cried. He never spoke anymore.

  And the glass eyes never blinked.

  The Illusion

  It was his quest for the suspension of reality that held Damon Brooks captive.

  He pressed another key on his laptop and wished that he could POOF! Disappear like the magician he'd always wanted to be. Life had become hideously normal. He was happily married, gainfully employed, overstocked with worldly belongings. He had everything but the daughter Linda's doctor said they'd never have without the aid of adoption.

  A sound stirred his daze.

  "Linda, you hear that?"

  Linda snored softly, rhythmically, her half-finished romance novel guarding her breasts. Damon peeled back the blinds and saw the bushes rustling. He heard the guttural sound again.

  His breath caught upon seeing its depthless green-orange eyes. Damon edged his nose closer to the glass. He put a hand against the cool pane.

  "What the hell are you?" he whispered.

  It crept slowly from the bush, half-crawling, half-walking away. The streetlight's faint beam grazed its face and Damon gasped, pulling instinctively away. His nose and breath left a pregnant fog.

  Whatever creature it was its gestures were universally familiar.

  It was wounded.

  Damon turned to Linda who remained shackled by her dream. He pushed past his unfinished paperwork and unclosed briefcase, entering the hallway. Moving quicker, he slipped on his black loafers and moved into the kitchen. He grabbed a flashlight and his gun from the compartment beneath the sink.

>   He checked to see that it was still loaded. Linda was forever the spooked one when it came to prowlers and insisted upon it. Flicking on the flashlight, Damon stepped into the night and turned toward the bush.

  "Nrrro liiight," the voice grated across Damon's brain. He quickly snapped the light off, but kept the queer target centered.

  He started to ask what it was again and it rose what faintly resembled a paw. The paw-thing was wet and gleamed in the faint light. Bloody.

  "Are you a dream?"

  "I am an Illusion."

  "Illusion?" Damon said, stepping closer. The gun wavered in his hand. "You are neither man nor animal, what are you?"

  "No time for further explanation, Damon."

  It knows my name, Damon mouthed but made no sound. His finger twitched on the trigger.

  "Y-you a-are a d-dream."

  "I am dying."

  "What happened?"

  The bloody paw rose again and the Illusion made a loud, strangled throaty sound.

  "I'll call 911," Damon started away.

  "NRRO!"

  Damon froze.

  "Only you can help me. You must take it to Harry. Your turn. Youuu." It raised the paw even higher into the faint beam of the streetlight. Harry moved closer, the gun practically shaking from his hand.

  He moved closer.

  Closer.

  "Nrrrooo tiiiiimmme."

  He saw the bloody paw and his stomach somersaulted. Closer.

  "Harry, youuu."

  Damon reached. Only inches from the mangled paw.

  The Illusion jerked and knocked the gun out of Damon's hand.

  (touch meeeee)

  The neighbor Doberman’s started barking.

  Damon raised the flashlight in defense but almost instantly realized the illusion wasn't fighting. The pungent odor struck his nostrils next. He blinked several times, watching its death spasms.

  Damon lowered himself and re-clicked the flashlight. The light's beam sawed through the flesh of the Illusion, melting it like a candle. He saw its eyes fuse with its long bony nose. Its three red-white teeth outside its face pooled in the hot beam of the light.

  As Damon watched the light rapidly cremate the Illusion, the realization of what was in its mangled paw seized his mind.

  Nothing.

  -2-

  Damon awoke the next morning, showered, shaved and went straight for his jeans. Linda watched, just pulling down her covers.

  "Damon, it's Friday, dear. Not Saturday."

  "Not going to work today, honey."

  Linda reeled from the bed. "Not feeling well?"

  "You could say that," Damon pulled up his jeans and buttoned his shirt. "I've got to find Harry."

  "Harry who?"

  "The carnival in town. He works there. A magician, I think."

  "What....why?"

  Damon slapped his tennis shoes on and kissed Linda. "An unfulfilled dream."

  * * *

  Karper & Sons Carnival inhabited the outskirts of Medina like a storm cloud. Once a year it fell over Medina and sucked money from the townspeople. A week later sunshine reappeared. Damon Brooks penetrated the open gate on its second day of business.

  He passed the carnies and various rip-off midway games. The nearly impossible ring toss, the slightly bent machinegun with red star gag, the dart—

  "Three for five bucks, mister, give it a try." The carnie started lowering the darts and quickly reclaimed them upon catching Damon's odd stare.

  Damon's mind stirred with the picture of the enigmatic Harry. He'd woken with Harry's visage etched in his mind. Damon started to ask where to find Harry when a hand tapped his shoulder.

  "This way," the tattooed-faced man said. His entire face was a jigsaw puzzle.

  Damon followed the short man across the midway and into a huge black tent.

  Inside there were rows of bleachers and a short set of stairs leading up to a vacant stage.

  "Harry will come."

  "Wait. How do you know who I'm here for?"

  "Call me Stag." He rolled up his white sleeve and showed Damon a tattoo of a set of haunting orange-green eyes on his right bicep.

  ONLY YOU CAN HELP ME. YOU MUST TAKE IT TO HARRY. YOUR TURN. YOUUUU.

  Stag started walking away.

  "Wait! What am I doing here? Why am—Stag, please!"

  Damon wanted to run, jet as far away from the carnival but his legs were uncooperative. Instead he turned toward the stage.

  Slowly his legs moved him down the aisle and up the stage. There was a table with a red tablecloth and black magician's cap. He reached, touched, and felt it crawl up his arm and under his skin.

  The scream surfaced in his throat but lodged unspent.

  He picked up the hat and placed it on his head.

  He turned to the crowd and Mom and his stepfather Denny clapped.

  "For my next trick I will pull a rabbit out of this..." He reached into the hat and paused. Staring into the small crowd he caught his mother's mascara-smeared eyes. She looked up but wouldn't lock eyes with him.

  Damon reached into the hat and felt the mousetrap SNAP! his fingers.

  The laughing in his head began. The crowd unwittingly applauded. There was Denny in the front row grinning evilly. The drunk from the abyss. He'd never belonged in either of their lives. He was the crack in the mirror, continuing to ripple and fragment until he—

  "—took her to Satan?"

  Damon turned, startled.

  A tall man with straight black hair and a knobby face nodded slowly.

  "She was a good woman—my mother—but Denny brought her misery."

  "And that mousetrap thing... that was his idea of a joke?"

  Damon raised his right index and middle fingers. "Broke them in two places."

  "Denny blamed it on you, too. What were you, only ten years old?"

  "Yes, said it was me just craving attention. Nobody ever believed me."

  The man moved closer into the spotlight and took the magician's hat. He held his hand out. "I am Harry, Damon."

  -3-

  Damon shook Harry's hand, managing a smile. He was disturbed that everyone seemed to know him.

  "Your confusion right now is warranted. An Illusion escaped last night."

  "Escaped?"

  "We've known of its insecurities and instabilities around here for some time. It wanted out. For its own, well, complicated reasons. Stag was its guardian and friend. He felt betrayed and despondent. We almost had two tragedies last night."

  "What the hell did it do to me? I feel...not right."

  "Quid pro quo. It took your normal life in exchange for..."

  Damon's eyes raised and then darted around the empty auditorium. "Wait one damn minute I'm not..."

  "You're not what?" Harry replied slowly.

  Damon tried picturing what happened to his real father. He could only focus on his stepfather's wicked scowl. It was one of many first pieces that had eerily vanished from his memory.

  "I...I'm having trouble..."

  "This is how it begins. Soon you will lose all but pertinent pieces of your identity, Damon. Don't fear, we will assist you with the process. You are among us, now."

  Damon fell to one knee and then a sitting position. He stared ahead, falling, falling deeper into the chasm inside his mind while Harry spoke steadily in his ear.

  "You dreamed of being a magician more than anything, remember?"

  "I ... yes, more than anything."

  Harry extended his hand. "Your car keys, wallet and wedding ring, please."

  Damon's hands trembled and his head throbbed. He produced his wallet, car keys and touched his wedding ring. A sharp pain lanced his temple. He saw the inside of an immaculate church flash before him.

  Harry knelt and caught Damon's fall, keeping Damon's head from cracking the hard wooden stage.

  "What is ... happening to me?"

  "Rest, Damon. Stag is here. He's your friend and guardian now. We'll handle the unimportant details."
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  "No...no...I won't...can't s-stay..."

  Suddenly a medium height brunette with entrancing brown eyes stepped from behind the curtain. She wore a tight velvet skirt and her nipples poked curiously through.

  "Ah, it's your number one assistant, Regina. Welcome darling."

  "Damon, my poor baby." She kneeled beside him and laid her smooth hands on his cheeks. "We have a show later, baby, we need to get you in shape."

  She kissed him lightly, then harder, pushing her tongue into his mouth.

  He welcomed her passion, as her hand wandered down his chest, gingerly circling his belly button with the tip of her finger.

  "In...shape," Damon whispered.

  "I want you right here, baby." She said and started undressing. She pushed his hands to her hard breasts and moaned softly.

  "Right...here..." Damon's mind had become a shell, ripe for cracking.

  She pulled down his jeans, running her hand down his pants.

  "Then it is settled, Damon." Harry said, clapping his hands. "Welcome to our family."

  (!FAMILY!)

  Damon feebly pushed away Regina's lips and she slapped him softly and bit the edge of his lip.

  Regina rocked him for the next twenty minutes.

  At some point Stag and Harry gave them privacy.

  She climbed off him, spent, beads of sweat coming off both their foreheads.

  "You were wonderful, Damon."

  He stared into her brown pits and sighed heavily.

  "The show is on in seven hours, Damon. Rehearsal time."

  Regina led Damon behind the curtain to the dressing room. He had a white tuxedo that she helped him get into. He began to see her in his memory. Oddly enough sometimes her hair was blonde. Sometimes her eyes were blue.

  "How long have I known you, Regina?"

  "Baby, you know how I love it when you call me Reg. Ten years."

  Damon saw a silver cross flash in his mind.

  "And you never asked me," Reg said impatiently. "That's why we aren't married."

  "I...keep seeing this church..."

  She slapped his butt and smiled. "So do I, baby."