The evening she came the air from outside sifted through the old windows, bringing the smell of black ants, wet garbage and stale urine into my room. A storm had been crawling along lazily over the coast, feeding off of the vapors the people released before leaving the Spring break festivities. Long after the hyperbole panic on TV I knew I would be without power, but I didn't give it any thought and went about the day as every other day. The sameness feels safe. When the lights gave off it took with it the fans, the air purifier, the timed scent fresheners and the coolness of my enclosure that keep the festers from outside in their place. This is one of the big reasons I have to fix that window.
My head and back strained and palpitated. Time for another white pill. I had much to do and I needed the sleep. I got a drink from the already lukewarm fridge. Had to be careful not to prop it open again. As I blindly placed the empty bottle of water on the kitchen table I was startled and reached for it thinking it was about to fall. I heard a set of knocks that were out of place. I see below the door there is movement, a shuffle. To the tune of my palpitations another knock breaks the rythmic low hum of my thoughts. I gave an exhasperated sigh as I saw it was too dark to look through the door peephole. I opened every lock and turned the knob and the door was open halfway to reveal a figure soaked wet, clothed in a heavy plastic poncho. I couldn't make out the face but felt the wetness. And that smell.
-Hello. Could you help me with some candles? I'm not done moving yet.
I looked down the hallway after she stepped back and could make out the shapes of luggage placed in disarray about the hall two doors away from mine.
-Won't be long. Promise.
-Okay. But don't stay out here, please come in.
-Mmhm.
Girls these days seem to forget to be polite to other girls, I thought. I know I would regret it when I told her to give me a couple of minutes, I still needed to make sure my appliances weren't plugged. I had heard thunder rolling closer.
-It's fine. That way we talk.
Well, sure, talk away. I began to prepare my synapses for another bout of daydreaming. This I found to be quite effective when dealing with people and their jabber. In general. Nothing like a bit of mental travelling. The numbness of those excellent pills I took would help. I did pick up her self-important tone and her accent while I did my multiple mental chores. She must have been talking still when I began to ask.
-Where are you from? That accent is-
-I asked something first.
I didn't know what to say. There was some movement and she broke the silence.
-From all over.
-Oh.
I absolutely hate that expression.
-Yeah. Been to places. This place is neat. You on't go out much?
Oh a traveller. Noticed I don't get out much, why not rub it in some more? Please. I'm about ready to sink my teeth into the fridge three-way plug and wait for the power to come on. She must have been everywhere, tasted everything, not a care in anything, like gaining a few pounds. She would shake them off in a second, no problem. Not like the fatties counting calories, spending nights on the gym and injecting anabolics. She's slender. I can't see it, but I can tell; I can feel her lightness in the room. She probably works from home or from a huge office where there's no room for failures and socially awkwards.
-Can I ask you something? It's silly.
-Ask.
-Do you have those candles?
-Oh yes. I have got to tell you though, they have been buried here for the longest, so they might not catch a fire.
-Hm.
I feel myself sinking into thought again while I get the hopefully very worn out candles. This time I call on the travel show where I've seen places I'm never meant to be. This time I'm going to the remote and beautiful islands of the Azores. I'm working the land, building my own house, planning the next adventure around the forest, cooking for twenty, pouring wine, fucking a toasted sailor about to leave forever. I'm doing deeds I've watched done only on movies and I take everyone with me to a land where one day in your life does not go without doing something meaningful. I'm helping the lost get lost, I matter.
The thread of my dreaming wears thin and thwangs suddenly when I realize she's still talking.
-The best time I've had so far in my travels, was in the Azores.
How in the fuck. I feel my left eyelid tremble fiercely. My head and back pain soar to unnamed heights.
-Really.
-Was that a question?
-No. Nevermind.
She takes a light breath and continues her anecdote. I find the candles in a box on my kitchen closet but I have to stop her mid-sentence.
-You did what over there?
-I just told you. You don't listen. You're a terrible host. I said I worked the land, built my own house, planned an adventure around the forest, cooked for twenty, poured wine to all, I even fucked a sailor.
I'm doing deeds I've watched done only on movies and I take everyone with me to a land where one day in your life does not go without doing something meaningful. I'm helping the lost get lost, I matter. That's about it... right?
She stands up. I heard a hint of laughter between words. This head of mine isn't getting any better. Where are those pills.
-Listen. You.
-You know my name.
Then I saw, I became aware. Her left hand peeked out of her poncho and it looked familiar. Her hand was all I could see. I look down into my own and it's my hands. Sameness. And her voice. I couldn't perceive it earlier.
-You're really something.
There's a buzzing noise in my ears that just won't stop.
-You stay here in the dark where you think I can't come knocking.
What is it, bees?
-I'm not a construct, and not impossible. I'm happening every time you doze off and fail to move in time before the big train of rational thought comes rushing in.
Sounds like a swarm inside a storm.
-And I want out.
And that thunder?
-See?
A match is struck somewhere to my right and a pale, feeble light comes on. I see her face, and it is impossible. She is impossible. And she can't stay. I grab her by the veil of her face and bring her closer. The swarm buzzes loudly as her face nears my face. I turn her around, so thin and light, grabbing her by the shoulderblades and place both hands around her throat like a locked tourniquet. I feel for her trachea and press. The cartilages shift and pop out of place. I press harder, breathing away from her, catching what's left of the healthy air around my room. She's going limp. First, her head, then her hands, finally her wet feet. All her systems giving in, turning off one by one after transmitting the last silent signals. As the shape plummets to the carpeted floor I hear the drone of electricity coming back, blinking the lightbulbs into existence. She has finally stopped talking. She's left my room.
Written by Lucienne LopezdeVictoria
in reply to "Notes on a life forgotten"
