Charliemagne
07/28 2020
There was still a hint of flickering in the corner of his eyes. A purple, warm wave, slowly undulating out of sight - but not out of mind. Oliver found himself reaching for it, wanting to ride along with it. But it went, as it always did. And as always, the distinct taste of metal found his mouth, accompanied with a migraine only to be found after a Deluge bender. Oliver sat up on the couch and brushed back his hair while he looked for some water in any of the numerous cups that strayed the dirty table - brushing aside any residual powder from it down to the floor. Oliver found that even the illusion of a clean room helped him to stay relatively sane between the binges. An enormous relief brought to his throat by a plain white cup filled with what smelled like stale coffee. He noticed that the hangovers had started to get a lot worse, which brought to mind the stories he had heard about people never waking up. This did not help with his anxiety. He took another sip of the coffee, savoring the fluid - trying to ignore the flavor.
Once, the walls in Oliver's apartments had been clad by memories; memories made, like the picture from when he and Ella had built a childish tree-house - like a fable - in the redwood forests where she had grown up. The last time he had checked, they had, as seemingly everything these days, sunk underwater. He forced himself to look at the darkened spot at the wall where it had hung and stared until he felt nothing. Wash away like the forest, like the sunny days of old.
The window had been washed over by the layer of soot, and due the negligence had tinted it a permanent, sticky yellow. But that wasn't anything new, although the small particles of dust that Oliver saw pushing through the small gap in the window were, now dancing before him in a ray in what appeared to be a setting sun. He sighed and took another sip of coffee; however, this sip was filled with lumps, causing him to instantly spit it out over the table. He sat the cup down and covered it with some stained letters from the bank - avoiding finding out what the lumps actually were. The memory of that realization would only find their way into his visions.
In an attempt to get away from the association with the lumps he walked towards the window and looked out for anything to distract himself with. His eyes opened wide at the sight of an unfamiliar skyline filled with low-rise brownstones, instead of the gray skyscrapers. He made the mistake of trying to brush away the yellow soot on the window, staining his flannel shirt, causing him to curse himself under his breath. He was transfixed as he stared at the unfamiliar skyline of brownstones. They had an uncanny similarity to the neighborhood where he had grown up, but that was a long time ago - far away from here. The house on the opposite street looked the same as it had ever done: depressing, gray and plain. Windows spaced evenly, flat from the top to the bottom. Oliver looked down towards the street, and while the angle should have been too awkward from his window on the 10th floor he was able to see both sidewalks on the street. They looked the same, but they appeared closer. A taxi drove by but it otherwise looked quiet. He grabbed his wallet and keys and ran out of the door - if what he thought was happening, was happening, he did not have much time.
Halfway down the first flight of stairs he stopped and realized that he didn't recognize the carpet. The usual plain brown had been replaced by an intricate pattern of florals and geometric shapes in different shades of red - together with golden carpet runners. Something that he hadn't seen since he was at a hotel the last time, which must have been 10 years ago now. Although his sense of time had probably been permanently warped. Still, one trip usually only lasted 48 hours, he had heard of people stuck more than a week - the world couldn't have changed that much, could it?
He ran out on the street and instantly coughed. He was surprised at the amount of dust flying around, which pooled in such quantities that you could see where the wind changed as the dust grouped around in swirls. Otherwise everything looked the same down here: a wide boulevard with trees planted in the median, cars parked too close to the bicycle lane - some on it. Everything looked the same, except for the thick layer of dust universally applied. Oliver walked over to the closest car and swiped his hand across the windshield, rubbing his thumb against his fingers. It gave the impression of being static, which he tested by touching the car at the same time as he rubbed it between his fingers - but to no such result; yet, the impression remained. A TV-show came to mind where the host had used magnetic powder for art. Maybe it was an art installation? No, that was stupid - what would the art be in making it rain over the streets? But then again, he had never really understood art. Instinctively he started his walk towards the bridge.
It was a pleasant day outside, undisturbed by the common smog. Like thick vapor trails, a few thin strands of white stretched over the sky in a grid like pattern, or at least, he thought it was a pattern. If there was a pattern it would indicate that he was much farther gone than he felt. He told himself that it was only a coincidence, the grid was not perfect, which obviously meant that it was natural. Because if there was, that would indicate a break in reality - and there was only one cure for that: more Deluge. It was how they got you, for you to maintain any grip over reality you had to come back. Stop using and you let go of reality. The sun peeked out of the pattern in the sky in regular intervals. He tried to ignore the compulsion to count the seconds between.
He crossed the boulevard still devoid of any movement and people, leaving foot prints that reminded him of the photo of the Apollo 11 footprint he had that hung on his wall. He stopped in the middle of the street and took an over-exaggerated, slow step forward. One small step for... A blaring horn interrupted his theatrical display, he looked and saw a taxi, breaking so that smoke erupted from its tires. Shocked, he remained still - the taxi eventually coming to a stop about a feet in front of him.
A balding middle-aged man poked his head out of his window. "Are you crazy!? Get out of the way, idiot!" he shouted, promptly making Oliver jump to the greens in the median. The driver cursed as he rolled up his window. Oliver stared at the car when it started moving, to him it appeared to be floating above the layer of dust. On second glance, the taxi was untouched by it - not a speck of dust clad it's entire body. It floated away, eventually turning the corner behind the door to his building. Oliver continued to cross the street, this time uninterrupted. He walked down towards the familiar, small cobblestone alley, which crisscrossed all the way down to the bridge that passed over to the mainland.
The familiar stones - uneven in shape - was usually a comfort to Oliver even on the most rainy of days. But today something felt off, the familiar pot holes were in different places and he stumbled over something that he could have sworn that always had been towards the end of the slope, not in the beginning. Even the facade of the houses in the narrow alley were different. Usually, it was bustling with life - reminiscent of his idea of a rural, but still dense, Italian city; clothing lines hanging between windows, people yelling from a window on the third floor with a language that he was not proficient in - yet, today, it was as silent as the boulevard. The layer of dust was thicker down here.
His eyes started to hurt as soon as he emerged from the dark alley into the promenade that went along the waterside. The sun was blaring - reflecting into a hot, white, blinding light. He went and leaned over the stone wall, looking over at the piers where numerous boats, some rusted, some fancy laid still in the water. He noticed that the water was unusually quiet, without any ripples striding across it. A few men at the pier walked back and forth to a small freighter, carrying wooden crates. Oliver shut his eyes as he felt a small breeze, breathing in a deep breath through his nose. The breeze grew in size and he opened his eyes. The water was still calm. Oliver moved on in the direction to the alley beneath the bridge.
The waterway stretched all around the island, in one continuing stretch of concrete. Like most infrastructure ventures on the island, it had been an effort to draw more tourists in - and like all the others, it had failed. Most of the time the waterway was only occupied by people the likes of Oliver.
The waterway sloped downwards closer to water level as the bridge grew closer. At night, the alley below the bridge was a hot spot for 'less-than legal' activity, as those places usually were - but at day the sun had no issues finding it's way down there, perhaps scaring those people away. As he was getting closer he inspected the bridge, built entirely out of metal a long time ago, enveloped in rust but sworn by city officials to be 100% safe. Oliver had always doubted that, but he drove over it nonetheless every day - at least when there was still any work left. He was enveloped in the soft light of the underbridge, and turned towards the narrow alley created between the bridge supports and building to it's right. He knocked on the red door which laid on the middle of the brick wall of the building. A pair of eyes peeked out of the eye slits.
"Oliver! Great to see you again. I was suspecting you would never come back."
"How long has it been this time?"
"A week or so. I forget."
"Sure."
"The usual?"
Oliver brushed his hair back, "You know me Simon."
The eye slit closed, several locks unlocked and finally the door opened, but it only opened an inch, blocked by a latch.
"Damn it, I always forget that one. One second..."
He closed the door, undid the latch and opened it.
"Open sesame!" He said to Oliver, back turned, walking down the dark hallway. Oliver followed.
The den had always crept Oliver out, making him feel like someone who he is not; yet he was, he was here, was he not? The darkened hallway with it's even darker rooms was soothing to his headache and his parched mouth seemed to dissipate. The den had been an old motel, a long hallway with rows of small rooms. Oliver glanced into an open door and saw soiled mattresses and blankets hanging over the small windows at the top of the walls. An open gap in the blanket let in a ray of light, and he could just barely see the concrete on the street. No one was in there.
Simon peeked over both his shoulders before taking out a key he had strapped around his neck. He unlocked and went inside what had once been a reception, now filled with shelves lined with labeled boxes, from floor to roof. He locked the door where he had entered and unlocked the plexi-glass window, sliding it open.
"So, what will it... Right the usual. I have the memory of a neglected geriatric department." He jumped back and grabbed a box from the shelf, and grabbing a scale from under the counter. He opened the box and pulled out a bag of pink crystals. It was nearly empty, so it was mostly powder left. But Oliver was past the point of even remotely caring.
"5 grams, or you know what." He poured the rest of the powder onto the scale, "6.5grams. For the price of five, just cause I like you so much." He smiled as he took out his cigarette packet from his shirt pocket. He offered Oliver one which he declined, and then promptly lit up - attempting to flick the ash off the top before there was any to flick off.
"You feel a bit off today Oliver" Simon said, taking a drag from his cigarette - the plexi-glass starting to fog up.
"One of those days I guess."
"Everything okay?"
"As much as they will ever be, I guess."
"Don't say that. Come on, we've had this discussion so many times. You can't sit around and mope around until your muscles start rotting. You need to take control, man." He was waving around his hand with the cigarette - using it like a pointer. Perhaps he thought it made him more sophisticated.
"You're the one talking." Oliver nudged his head in the direction of the stacks of boxes.
"I am living on my own terms. I am happy, can you say the same?"
Oliver laughed. "I'm always amazed that you're a drug dealer, you should be in school or something."
"Didn't fit me."
They stood in silence for a short moment as Simon smoked long drags of his cigarette, seemingly uncaring to anything else happening. It looked like that for all he cared, the cigarette was his world. Perhaps that was his secret Oliver thought. Smoke had started to seep out in to the hallway from the gap between the sliding window. Oliver pulled out his wallet and pulled out a fifty dollar bill.
"This should cover it, right?"
"You still owe me another fifty."
Oliver looked into his wallet and only found twenty four dollars, fifty cent and a penny, which he emptied onto the counter.
"That's all I have."
Simon counted it and gave a glance of what Oliver interpreted as disappointment, but he quickly switched it to a smile. "That's alright, man. Compared to most of my other clients, you have something to lose." He dragged the money into his hand and put them in another labeled box behind him. Oliver wondered at the usefulness of labeling a box filled with unsorted money; like labeling the big box of tangled cords with a label that says: Cord & Stuff - perhaps that was projection.
Simon scraped the crystals and powder into a small zip-lock bag and handed it to Oliver.
"Thanks." Oliver said as he turned around and started walking down towards the hallway again.
"Don't get lost!" Simon yelled out after him, Oliver unsure what he meant - uncaring nonetheless.
Oliver glanced into the open door as he passed it. It looked the same, it was the same, but he could swear that the room was slowly moving, and now shone over with a faint purple light. A slow, undulating light. He closed his eyes and shook it, as if it would help it disappear. It didn't. Oliver turned around and quickly exited towards the street, hearing the door lock behind him.
What was once many moments happening in rapid succession had eventually devolved into one, repeating itself in what appeared to be a hellish loop. Every time, Oliver thought that he could perfect it. Solve it. But he never did.
The details changed; the dust changed to rain; one time, Simon turned into a woman - who had flirted with Oliver. First he thought that it was someone taking over for Simon, his girlfriend or something - but the way he/she talked made it pretty obvious.
And so things went for a time; for Oliver unbeknownst of time.
Oliver sat and stared intensely at the cups littering the coffee table in front of him. One green, two with bees on them in teal, and one stone-glazed. Last time it had been all glass cups, which had been particularly bad - seeing as one of them had what appeared to be weeks old milk in it. Oliver did not investigate any further. The weird thing was that he always remembered where he, or Ella, had gotten them. Memories of buying them at a souvenir shop in Baltimore, a small tea shop when they were in London, or merely at IKEA down the street. The apartment always remained the same, which was comforting to his psyche; as well as the road towards the den - or perhaps in better words, stayed as it had been during the first change as he had begun to call them. But his ever changing world had begun to show a pattern in it, which Oliver was sure that he could figure out.
But then, one sunny day started in what felt like autumn, like so many bad days start: with pouring rain. The pattern had shifted. He woke up and brushed his hair back, noticing a beard had started to form. He pushed away the thought of how he couldn't have noticed that before, how time was running away from him. He looked for any water in one of the changing cups, this time he did not find any, just cups filled with dried crusts of what smelled like beer. The sound of rain hitting the glass brought his attention over to the window - which was now crystal clear. He went over there and looked out, but it all looked the same. The distant skyline of brownstones and the height in comparison to the street. The only difference was the weather: rain blowing sideways in the wind which howled through the small gap in the window. Again, the street was empty.
He began descending the stairs, now observing that the carpet had returned to it's normal, drab, brown self. He froze on the third step. A shadow of a child stood in the corner of the landing, which only brought to mind bad memories of horror movies. He gripped the banister and did not move, as did the shadow. After a minute he realized that it was ridiculous, it probably was just the light playing tricks. He took a step down and looked to the corner. The shadow had disappeared.
The trees in the median of the boulevard waved in the wind, the leaves that had not already left for the year was sure to take the opportunity. Oliver tried to fold up the collar on his suede jacket to protect his face from the whipping rain, but to no avail. He realized that he was essentially ruining his favorite suede jacket - but, directly after realizing that he had never had a suede jacket before, had he? Any remains of his shattered psyche was sure to be picked up and blown away in this wind, he thought to himself.
The den looked the same, the banter with Simon went the same. Simon was talking about how the government's supposed plan to control our thoughts, apparently through implanting things in our skin. Oliver nodded and felt the taste of metal increase, radiating throughout his limbs. It didn't even occur to him that limbs were not supposed to taste like metal; taste anything for that matter. The usual courtesies and currency were exchanged, the small ramblings of how much Oliver owed and the usual quip from Simon about how they were friends. No doors were open in the hallway for Oliver to peer in to.
As he opened the door towards the street he stopped dead in his tracks. A kid stood before the red door, someone that he recognized - the shadow.
"Hi!" The boy said with childlike glee.
Oliver stared at him; if it was an hallucination it was the most lucid one he had ever experienced, but it wasn't that. The kid looked to be about twelve, long brown hair that fell to his shoulder, ragged clothing - all soaked in the pouring rain. "Hi" Oliver said back by impulse. There was a memory here, so maybe he was real. Nonetheless, he did not care to find out, he was heading home. He walked past the boy, trying not to meet his gaze.
"What is in there?" The boy asked, as he followed behind him. Oliver did not respond, but the kid continued anyhow, "This mean guy won't let me in to find out."
"Probably for the best." Oliver muttered under his breath, silently praising Simon for at least not being entirely devoid of moral fiber. He kept back towards his apartment, uncaring to whether or not the kid was still following him. At the top of the slope he leaned over the wall and stared down at the water front - empty this time. He glanced over his shoulder and found the kid still standing, watching him. "Why are you following me?"
"I felt like it." He answered.
"Where are your parents? The rain had started to subside, but a sideways gust of wind briefly knocked Oliver off balance, making him parry with his right foot.
"At home, I think."
"You don't know?"
"I used to, I don't anymore."
Oliver was now convinced that he definitely was an illusion, so he picked up a small rock from the ground and threw it at him. To his surprise it hit him, and bounced back towards Oliver.
"Ow! What was that for?"
"I... Sorry. I was just checking if... you were... real." He uttered the last word almost in a whisper, and turned back to his staring at the empty waterway. At least the ripples in the water were there, giving almost an hypnotic quality. He thought he could see patches turn purple, but decided against believing in such an idea. It was too dangerous of one.
"So, you are not okay, are you?" The boy said to him, bending his body over the stone wall to look at Oliver's face.
"Why do you care?"
"I was told that you were supposed to."
Oliver chuckled. "I guess you are supposed to, I just never got around to it."
"You didn't answer my question." The boy said, going behind Oliver's back to the other side, leaning over the wall.
Oliver ignored him. He did not even know the kid, yet for some reason it was difficult to just leave him. Maybe it was a paternal instinct left by his genome, but it did not feel like it. Oliver had some connection to this kid - some part in the back of his head that refused to let him leave. So he stayed. In the rain, effectively ruining his suede jacket.
"What's your name, kid?"
"Charlie-magne." he said, emphasizing the magne.
Oliver laughed and turned around. "That's not really your name, is it?"
The boy looked flustered, having a look of combining holding in a laugh and unrestrained anger. It reminded Oliver of the photos he had been shown of him throwing tantrums when he was little. His expression changed and then the boy started laughing.
"I just learned about him in school."
"It's Charlemagne by the way.
"Huh?"
"It's Charlemagne, not Charliemagne." He turned around to face the kid.
"I see."
Thunder rumbled in the distance. The wind started picking up, bringing with it a coldness that went straight to your spine. The kid shivered.
"Well, Charliemagne, how come you're out here, all alone?"
He hesitated a little while. "Everybody's away for thanksgiving, so all my friends and family went away."
"Your parents went away? They don't seem like very good parents."
"They're okay I guess. Don't beat me up too much, let me do whatever I want."
"They sound like my parents." Maybe he had gotten sensitized to it through the years he had worked at a trauma center for kids, but Oliver didn't feel any particularly strong empathy for the kid - which it was now getting pretty obvious to him that the kid wanted. When you saw much worse every day, the kids who got to go to school but had terrible environments at home, sort of faded into the background noise of everything else terrible with society - as depressing to his self-worth that thought was to Oliver.
"Have you tried getting any help?" Oliver asked him, crossing his arms.
"Once. They returned me and then they beat me up more."
"That's harsh. That's why you've run away?"
The kid paused. "How'd you know?"
"I guessed."
"I have been out a week now."
"Where did you sleep?"
"Below the bridge, there's a warm vent in a corner. It's not that bad, compared to home. I've seen you come and go through the red door everyday since I found that place, so I thought I would - "
"Follow me around." Oliver interjected.
"I guess." The kid remained silent and stood still, clearly waiting for a response.
Oliver sighed. "Fine. Come with me, I'll take you somewhere safe." He kicked off his foot from the wall and started walking, tightly followed by Charliemagne.
They walked past the entrance to his building, where Oliver had to ignore every impulse to abandon the kid on the sidewalk, go upstairs and disappear into the fog. But he didn't. They walked alongside each other towards the center when the headaches started. A pulsing pain moving between the temples like ping-pong. Oliver remembered the moment where he and Ella had chosen this apartment. Among 20 possible apartments they chose this one, not because it was the best one, but the closest one to his work - only about two miles door-to-door. Which was perfect when he was working, and it was an enormous difference to the two hour commute he had before. Now, that same distance and time seemed vast. Maybe that was because of the rain.
As was now common when he was awake the streets were perpetually empty, only Charliemagne and him besides each other. The dust had formed into a clay like substance that clogged up the drains. It moved in lumps through the streams of rain that hugged the curbs. The architecture had now started to change from the lavish style of his neighborhood, white walls and brick columns; quickly changed from one block to stark, gray concrete buildings. The architects at the time had thought to create a style of the future, of functionality. Oliver had always hated the drab, concrete squares that were put up in rows to each other along the boulevard - destroying any chance for anybody's aesthetic pipe dream. No one had ever attempted to open any shop except for the restaurants aimed at the droning desk-jockey population, effectively dooming the district in to an office nightmare. Now that it was empty, and raining, it only served to further dampen his optimistic spark. But he had given up on that one years ago.
The boulevard eventually led to a crossroads between two large roads, and in the wedge that was created between them used to be a park - but now turned into private property, sold out of necessity during the recession a few years ago. It was a strange sight, in contrast to the busy cityscape. The black, spiked fence lined the edge of the property, encasing it's majestic oak trees that now wavered in the wind, whipped by rain. They took the right fork and followed the fence. As they passed by the boy brushed his hands against branches that stuck out from the fence, grabbing a hold of them until it tensed, then letting go. Oliver thought he heard a car go past, but when he looked they were still alone.
Usually, as Oliver remembered it at least, the plaza where the department of social services was located was a place of energy. Depending on the day, it was either a farmers market, a flea market - even one time, a traveling circus. This meant, however, that every day was like being a kid trapped inside school on a sunny, hot summers day. The last time he had been there though, he didn't mind it; numbness would perhaps be the right word. Now the plaza was empty, and sounded almost hollow against the sound of rain hitting it's stone tiles - echoing against the buildings surrounding it. They took their aim toward one of the gray concrete buildings, the one with a copper clock on it's facade over it's entrance. He looked over to the kid who seemed impervious to the cold that came with the wetness. Oliver was shivering beneath his drenched clothes, but he just walked casually, slumped posture with hands in his jeans while wearing a sweatshirt.
It had not changed much in the months... years? since Oliver had last set foot in it. The square, carpeted reception with Sally sitting behind the counter. The only sound was the ticking clock behind her.
"Oliver!" She waved us over, "... let me call you right back." She hung up the phone,"My god, what has it been - 10 months?"
"I guess."
"You guys are soaked! I don't have any towels to offer you but -"
"We'll be fine." Oliver answered, throwing the conversation into a few seconds of tense silence - clock ticking away the seconds. Oliver was too tired, and in too much pain from his headache to even attempt to drive this conversation forward.
"So how are you?" She asked.
"I'm okay, holding up at least."
"I heard... Such a shame. She was a lovely lady, always asked me how I was with a big smile when she came here."
"Yeah..." Oliver scratched behind his head.
"So, who is this young gentleman?"
"We need to see Robert - like, skip the paperwork and all that."
"You know protocol Oliver..."
"I know, it's just... Just this once." She looked over at him, and Oliver could swear that she wore a look of pity - although that might just have been his imagination.
"I'll try my best. It will probably take a little while, he's in a meeting - so take a seat while you wait. Coffee was just brewed if you like." She looked over to the kid, "Our hot chocolate just ran out - sorry."
"I like coffee." the kid said.
"Really? Well... In that case go ahead" She pointed towards the bench behind reception, where a coffee pot stood on an idle setting.
They both grabbed a paper cup and sat at the fold-up chairs lining the wall. Oliver removed his drenched suede jacket and hung it on an adjacent chair, wringing out the arms of his sweatshirt he was wearing underneath. He slid out the bag half-way from his inner pocket - making sure that Sally wasn't watching - to check that the crystals were dry. They were. He let out a sigh of relief and felt his headache clear up a little bit. Only a little farther to go. He took a sip of his coffee and leaned his head back against the wall - closed his eyes and tried to go to sleep.
Flashing images of the kid getting whipped by a belt. A father towering over him with stinking alcohol breath - mother complicit in the corner, reading. If he looked towards his father he saw blinding rage in his eyes, and if he looked straight at him - his mother was blocked by the purple in the corner of his eye.
A touch on his shoulder woke him up.
"Oliver, he's ready to see you now." Sally held a hand to his shoulder, standing so close that her perfume took over his sense of smell. It smelled like Ella. At the realization he promptly stood up, which in turn made Sally jump back. "Jesus, I didn't mean to scare you."
"No, it's fine. It's fine. I just had a weird... Was I dreaming?" He looked over to his right and saw that the kid was missing. "Where's the kid?"
"I brought him in early to his office, Robert has that arcade machine - I thought it would be more fun for him."
"Right."
"Shall we?"
"Sure."
Robert had always made the attempt to show that he was a hip boss, someone you could grab a beer with after work and - ironically - talk about what a bitch work was sometimes. He did not seem to catch the irony, or perhaps more likely, willingly ignored it. Oliver had never liked that about him, it was so unnecessary - because he was a great guy. As he and Sally got in eyesight through the window of his office Robert was standing next to the kid, seemingly cheering him on - pointing at different missiles at the screen. Oliver found himself smiling at the scene - it reminded him of his childhood. Maybe it was Robert's mustache and balding hair that brought out the nostalgia. Now that he thought about it Robert did look similar to his own father. The only thing that differed was the choice of clothing. His own father would never wear something so utterly bourgeoisie as a short sleeve shirt with a striped tie, dress for what you want to become was his motto.
Sally knocked on the door. "Come on in." Robert called out loud enough so that they were supposed to hear. They walked in and the sounds of Missile Command blasted through the room. Robert turned around, walked over to Oliver and hugged him. "So great to see you. Why didn't you return my calls?"
"I.." Oliver tried to find a reason, but then he realized that he didn't remember getting any calls from Robert. Or, there was a memory of it, somewhere in the back of his head going back and forth - and the more he thought about it, the more it seemed to run away from him. Like a smell suddenly coming to mind without any words to associate it with. A fleeting moment. "I tried to, but you know..." Oliver lied, being purposefully ambiguous - hoping for him to fill the blanks.
"We here at the office were heartbroken when we found out. Heartbroken. I can't even begin to imagine how you handled it."
"I guess you could say that I didn't." Oliver said, surprising himself at his honesty.
Robert chuckled. "I guess we never really do."
Oliver smiled. "Yeah." Thunder roared outside through the large open window behind Robert's desk and he found himself drifting again, the sounds of dripping rain, thunder and 1980's video games was inevitable to bring him to that daydreaming trance-like state and it seemed like Robert realized that, prompting him to going over to his desk and sitting down.
"So, how long have you been using?" Robert said, forcing Oliver out of it. Robert continued, "I've seen many come in recently - you learn to identify it on the faces. Did you know that humans are better to identify faces and facial expression than anything else? You can show a picture of a person for 1/10th of a second and ask that person what race that person was, and they will probably get it right." He leaned back in his chair. Oliver tried to find a response but couldn't, he just felt humiliated. "You don't have to worry Oliver, trust me, I do understand." Robert paused a moment. "So on the topic of Charliemagne, can you tell me a little bit about about him? He hasn't answered a lot of my questions except for his name."
Oliver still felt a bit hesitant, like he was put on display - naked in front of an exhibition. "Uhh... I don't know much else, really. I just saw in his face that he needed someplace safe. His parents - from what he has told me at least - seem like total assholes, no offense." Oliver directed the last part towards Charliemagne.
"None taken." Charliemagne said.
"And..." Oliver started to say, but ultimately was unsure of how. Robert had casually brought up that he was using; was it that obvious? But he wasn't a junkie, he knew that. Should he mention anything to Robert, or just let it slide.
"I know Oliver. You don't have to say anything; I promise, everything is taken care of." Robert leaned forward over his desk, "And Charliemagne here will go to a fine foster home, I just met this wonderful couple out in -"
"No! I don't want to go to another foster home!" Charliemagne shouted, overpowering the sound of the video game. The room turned silent. "Nobody has never been nice to me there."
"So your parents are foster parents?" Robert asked him in a gentle tone that he usually used on kids when they started getting upset.
"Yes, and they are mean. Like the rest of them."
"But these one's are different, I have met them. Their name's are Lauren and Lorna - they even have a pool, hows that sound? I know that they will love y-"
"No! No! No!" Charliemagne screamed as he ran around the desk, surprising Oliver who just stood there in silence, watching this scene taken straight from a family sitcom unfold.
"I know that it can be scary. Even I am scared som-"
"I said no! I want to go with him." Charliemagne pointed towards Oliver.
Robert sighed. "I'm sorry, but Oliver can't take care of you right now."
"I can take care of myself. I just need a place to stay."
"I know that you have had a tough life where you have had to depend a lot on yourself. This is for your own best, Charliemagne - they will help you."
"I refuse."
He had seen this on television. This was a scene from one of those family sit coms that he had seen when he grew up. It was one of the main characters sad backstory - what was his name... But then how could he remember this smell of concrete after rain and wet carpet?
Robert leaned over towards Oliver. "Back me up here?"
"Huh? Yeah, sure. Charlemagne-"
"It's Charlie-magne."
"Charlie-magne, sometimes we need to do things that we don't want to do. Sometimes those things are for other people, and sometimes they are for ourselves. You need to do this for yourself. You deserve better."
"But I don't want parents. I just want a place to stay."
"How old are you?" Oliver said, ignoring the previous implied proposition.
"Twelve, I think."
"You need parents, kid. Even though you think you don't need them."
"How about you then, we get along alright, don't you think so?"
Oliver was taken a back. "Me? We just met."
"I haven't even met those other guys either."
Oliver frowned his forehead and sighed. "I guess you're right."
"But he can't Charliemagne." Robert said, trying to steer the conversation.
"Why not?"
"Sometimes adults, like your biological parents have troubles, and they need some time to solve those problems. Oliver needs some time to solve his problems.
Charliemagne was silent for a while, after which he suddenly exclaimed "I'll just run away again if you take me there."
A knock on the door followed by Sally entering shortly after. "Sir, terribly sorry but there is someone who wants to talk to you at reception who says that it is urgent. He seems very angry."
"Sure." Robert pushed back himself in his chair from his desk and followed Sally out of the office, leaving Oliver and Charliemagne alone.
For a brief moment they were silent, the only sound in the room was the distant rumbling of thunder through the window open at a glance and a buzzing flourescent light overhead. Charliemagne looked like he was pouting, not that Oliver cared at this point. During the conversation he had begun to feel the bag in his coat pocket start to burn, like it was hot.
"You know why I can't take care of you, right?"
"Why not? I don't care that you have problems, you won't even notice I am there, I just need a place to sleep."
"You're a smart kid and you deserve better, and I can't give you that. At least not right now. End. Of. Story."
They let the conversation ebb out into silence once more. The last part had come out harsher than Oliver would have liked, but it could have been much worse - at least in contrast to his headache. The relation between pain and irratibility had never been his strong side, and Ella came to mind, making fun of him for being in a perpetual state of hangry. Oliver chuckled to himself. A loud bang came from outside, the thunder was growing closer. Every bang overpowered any other sensation at the time, as if the body was put on momentary pause. For Oliver it was freeing, like pinching your arm to relieve throbbing pain in your leg - except for his head, his thoughts. For every flash of light a momentary freeze in existence and in that, bliss. It was such a strange experience for something so mundane, but then again, was that not how fate usually did? He wiped of a tear in the corner of his eye and looked around the room as if he had been gone for a long time, finding that Charliemagne was back to playing missile command, uncaring to Oliver's presence. In that moment of trying to maintain social composure he found that he had entirely let go of that fleeting moment, which left him in a state of wondering: Did I just dream, or is this the dream?
A knock on the door interrupted his train-of-thought, "Oliver, could you come with me?" Robert asked, as he wore a big, albeit, fake smile, "I am sure Charliemagne here will be fine on his own for a little bit."
"Sure." Oliver said, giving Charliemagne a glance before following Robert down the hallway. Oliver felt that something was wrong - or at least not how it should, if everything was going according to plan. He had worked with Robert for ten years and knew most of his mannerisms, and this one - hands clased behind his back, sloped back, quicker steps - was usually not used unless he needed to hide something. What was he hiding? He picked up his pace so that he was walking alongside Robert.
"So, the angry man. Another "parent" disappointed in your decision on custody?" Oliver said.
"Oh, that was Charliemagne's father."
"Really?"
"He was quite upset I might add. Apparently the boy had run away during thanksgiving dinner - just stood up and went outside the door."
"So everything he said was a lie?"
"I think so."
"Kids will be kids."
"Yeah..." Robert said, picking out a handkerchief from his front pocket and wiping his forehead. Oliver looked over and saw that he was sweating, and he only did that when he was lying - at least in those quantities. He had always been very easy to beat in the poker games on the Christmas parties.
"Everything okay Robert?"
Robert wiped his brow and put the handkerchief back in his pocket. "Yeah, I'm fine it's just..." Robert stopped. They were about ten feet away from the swing doors that led into reception. "Oliver, I assume you haven't been paying attention to the news in a while, have you?"
Oliver delayed answering for a moment, trying to guess what he was getting at - but he was drawing blanks. "Might have missed a few days, what are you getting at?"
"Days? I think you've missed more than that my friend." Robert had a sullen expression on his face. "You know the rules that follow when you are employed by the state, the regulations we need to follow?"
"Yeah, big red binder, obligatory in the bookshelf in every office. But it's only filled with useless rules: "Do not microwave fish for more than 30 seconds" - those kinds of things."
"I know, but they updated it."
"In compliance with what?"
"Just know, that I did my best." They began walking again, and just as they walked through the door towards reception Oliver started speaking:
"You can tell me what-" Oliver paused as he looked around the room and saw two police officers, both with their hands on their holsters. "What's going on here?" Oliver said.
"Oliver Russotto, you are under arrest. You have the right to-"
"For what?"
"Possession and consumption of Deluge according to legislation CB-12..." Oliver stopped listening and watched as Robert walked over to the police officer's side to stand behind them, as if he was shielding himself from Oliver. Without a thought Oliver dashed back through the door as he aimed towards Robert's office - hearing the officers stop their speech and yelling "Stop!" as they ran through the door about 10 feet behind him. He burst through the door towards Robert's office, which made Charliemagne jump back.
"Jesus, you scared the hell out-" Charliemagne started - he interrupted himself as he saw that Oliver was not stopping. Oliver opened the window and gazed out, estimating the distance to the branch on the nearest tree - about ten feet to the left and seven feet down he reckoned. Possible? Highly unlikely; Dangerous? Definitely - but he wasn't thinking about that now, only the burning hole in his coat pocket. Oliver looked back and saw the officers coming through the door, yelling "Stop!" Oliver jumped, expending all the muscles in his legs and extended his arms. First it looked like he wasn't going to make it as he missed the branch with his left hand, but just before falling down he managed to get a faint grip on the wet branch with his fingers on his right hand. The pain shot through his arm and he felt a cramp coming up. Instinct was to let go, but he forced his fingers to hold on. Shouts were coming through the window but at this point they were drowned by the loudness of thunder echoing through the plaza. He looked down and estimated it to be about ten feet down, no branches to dampen his fall. At least it was grass below so he prepared himself - trying to think back to any advice on how to ease the pain. The only thing that came to mind was to bend his knees. Oliver took a deep breath and let go. Primal instinct took over and fear took hold. Impact. Pain. But he was okay. He forced himself to stand up and slowly, but steadily picked up the pace, running away. Running towards home. When he was about a hundred feet away he turned his head and saw a small shadow running after him which Oliver quickly identified as Charliemagne. "God damn it." Oliver thought to himself, but he kept running. Nothing was stopping him now. Especially not a kid with a distaste towards one of history's greatest emperors.
Oliver slowly opened his eyes and he felt clear. He stared up at the unfamiliar planked ceiling with crackling white paint; a few specks fell down as if they were brought down by his mere thoughts. He sat up on the edge of the twin sized bed with white sheets and metal bed posts. Looking around the small room - which reminded him of his old college dorm room for some reason - he saw that it was bare except for a crackling fireplace in the corner with a wooden chair in front of it. The fireplace was one of those old models made out of cast iron that had been made with cooking in mind. A cracked window let in smells of the sea and the sound of waves crashing onto shore. Oliver had no idea where he was or how he got here.
He put on his clothes which laid in a pile on the floor besides the bed. Thankfully at least they were the same as yesterday, although the suede jacket was now dried up into a starchy, ruined mess. He put on his gray sweatshirt and jeans and went over to the window. A beach which showed no signs of having been used as a commercial bathing spot stretched out for what looked to be about 300 feet, curving in a crescent form - finally ebbing out into rock formations that curved out of sight. Judging by the sun it was early morning, or late evening, but Oliver guessed on the former. Seaweed grew happily on the waterline, undisturbed by human activity.
The room led into what appeared to be the living room. Much bigger than where he had awoken but much smaller than most living room. He was greeted by Otis Redding playing softly from a record player on a shelf in the far end of the room. There was a sofa tucked into the corner, bookcase seemingly cut off to fit between the sofa and the TV. A large dinner table made out of driftwood, and of course, a poster of those bloody Keep calm quotes hanging on the wall. It looked like his own version of a design nightmare.
"Hello?" Oliver called out but there was no response.
The living room naturally ebbed out into a tiny kitchen, where a pot stood simmering on the portable gas stove - one of those you bring on camping trips. The kitchen, in contrast with the living room, had a feeling of authenticity: counter tops which peeled at the edges, plastic cups in various strong colors hanging on hooks and several bottles of bourbon on display under spotlights. Lifting the lid he found what looked like vegetable broth, otherwise a failed attempt at soup.
He went back to the living room and sat down in the sofa, trying to let the voice of Otis Redding take him back to reality. Oliver tried to make sense of this whole ordeal, his brain spitting out ideas such as: underground conspiracy where he was the protagonist; kidnapped by the police and brought to a paradise island where he had to fight all the other's on the island. That was ridiculous. What was Occam's razor in this scenario? As quickly as he asked the question the answered popped out, which he tried to deny, to rationalize against, but ultimately lost the fight to - Deluge. He had heard stories before of total loss of reality, but he thought they meant in terms of psychosis or something. Not like this. He instinctively pinched his arm which only made him wince in pain.
"I should've known that wouldn't work." He thought to himself.
Oliver stood up and opened the door towards the beach. As he walked towards the water he noticed a person coming towards him from the rocks on the other side of a beach. He sat down a few feet from the water and stuck his bare feet in the sand as he watched the figure come closer and closer. The sun had risen more at this point, proving his previous hypothesis. Oliver began sweating.
The minutes went by, judging by his internal clock, passed into hours. Oliver felt that he was beginning to doze off in the glaring sun. The person seemingly walking towards him seemed to remain at the same distance since five minutes after Oliver first had noticed. He fell into unconsciousness, head leaned towards his arms crossed over his knees.
As he slowly took himself out of the haze typical of a nap in the sun, and slowly started realizing the pain from the obvious sunburn on his forearms, he found himself quickly shedding his clothing, unconsciously for a swim in the ocean. He ran stark naked and tried jumping past the seaweeds, which he managed to mostly avoid, dipped his head below the water and stayed there for a few seconds. As Oliver rose he brushed his hair back and opened his eyes, feeling the sting of the salt water in his eyes. "At least I know now that I am by the ocean." he thought to himself. He looked back towards the house, which from a distance for some reason reminded him of the cabin from Hansel & Gretel, just painted white instead. As he examined the house a woman came out of the living room door. Ella. Instinctively he ran - as much as you can partially underwater - as fast as he could towards shore. What seemed like minutes only took seconds and without hesitation he ran up to her - she first appearing shocked then instantly bringing up a smile - and embraced her. Oliver hugged her, naked and wet, for so long that she eventually pushed him away.
"Whoa! What's up with you? I was only gone for a couple of hours anyways. And you didn't even watch the stock, it's completely ruined." She paused as she examined him, "Are you okay? Why are you crying?" Ella took hold of his head between her hands in a comforting notion.
"I'm sorry! I'm sorry!" Oliver pleaded, tears streaming down his face, "I tried to make it right and I failed! You told me to be strong and I failed."
"Whoa, whoa. What are you talking about? The stock wasn't that important." She switched out her smile for a stern, worried expression, "Tell me. What's wrong?"
"I have no idea what to say." Oliver paused and wiped the tears with his hands, which in turn stung in his eyes, "It's just... I never thought that I would see you again."
Ella let go of his hands and took one step back, "What are you talking about, I left only a few hours ago."
Oliver looked at her brown hair waving in the slight ocean breeze; her freckles in perfect, unsymmetrical grouping; her eyes that said more than words ever could. Like the need to protect a dog in pain, the need to protect Ella from anything was ingrained in Oliver's body. Part of him wanted to pretend that everything was like she said, but he knew he couldn't do that - not to him, not to Ella, or whoever/whatever this person was.
"When did I arrive last night?" Oliver said, suddenly changing his expression to a more stoic one.
"Last night? Oh, you went out on a walk, I think. Got soaked, so I put you in the guest room."
"Guest room? Why didn't you just dry me off?"
She cleared her throat, "Let's just say that you didn't just "go on a walk". There were some refreshments involved, as you might say."
"Right." Oliver said. It did sound plausible. She was real to the touch, she talked like the real Ella, she felt like the real Ella. Could the last few months: everything that happened with Ella, Deluge, Charliemagne - could it be just something taking place in his head after a bad drunken stupor? It was certainly possible but- No. Occam's razor.
"What is this place?"
"Huh? What do you mean?"
"I mean - where are we right now? I don't remember this place at all."
"Did you lose all your memories last night, or what? Should we go to the hospital or something?"
"No, I feel fine. I just don't remember this place."
"We rented it to get away from all the risks in the trial - remember? It was Robert who offered it to us. To lay low a while."
"Lay low from what?"
She frowned her forehead, and looked at him with concern, "Are you sure that we shouldn't go to the hospital? Are you having one of your episodes again?"
"Episodes? I'm fine, I don't need to go to a hospital." he said.
"It's okay. You can tell me what the delusions are this time, I know it is scary but I know it helps to talk about it."
"Do you mean... This has happened before?"
"Yes, and it's okay. You'll get through this, you only need to talk with me." She brushed his face through his stubble, "Say, what do you think of setting up a campfire out here - now that the sun is setting - and we can grill dinner over an open flame, listening to the sounds of the ocean while you tell me all about it."
Oliver was welling up, "That sounds wonderful."
Ella smiled and started walking inside, "Be back in a minute.", but she was interrupted by Jacob who grabbed her shoulder.
"I just wanted to say... I can't even express how grateful I am to, whoever, whatever, brought you here before me again."
"Every time around the merry-go-round is as fun as the first, wouldn't you say?" She smiled and went inside.
The setting sun had transformed the sky into a kaleidoscope of colors, colors that Oliver was sure he had never seen before - certainly not in a sunset. Pink, purple - sure, those were normal; but when combined with red and green in patterns that undulated in the familiar pattern his belief that something was amiss were only reinforced ever more. Doubts aside, he tried to let go of everything and let the experience take him along for the ride. He wanted to fully taste her laughter when he told her of Charlie-magne and his stubbornness; observing the sincerity in her somber, emotive eyes when he told her of how she had died. That look could pierce even the coldest heart.
A quote came to mind: "Sadness originally meant fullness, to be filled to the brim of the intensity of an experience. It is about awareness, setting the focus to infinity and taking it all in. Joy and grief all at once." And in that definition, Oliver was truly filled with sadness. He put his arm around Ella's shoulder and stared at out the familiar undulating pattern, allowing tears to fall down his face. He was alive.
She fell asleep in the early hours of morning, as the dew began taking hold on the small thickets of grass growing in the sand. He did not want to go to sleep, for this day to end - as if sleeping would eliminate the reality of the experience. Put an end to something that he didn't want to end, which was a juvenile thought. Nonetheless, sleep found him as the first rays of the sun pierced through the sky behind them.
A morning of dancing to Otis Redding by lingering smell of pancakes with syrup occupied, took over both of their minds. To Oliver at least, the experience was as close to divine he had ever knew. Maybe that was why Jesus was resurrected, so that everyone could see how much a person really means to someone, and how much of them we constantly take for granted - and then be able to express that to that person.
Nonetheless, the gaps of memories from his previous life: the rainy days and stained shirt from windows full of soot, slowly but surely began to be replaced by the summery, warm versions of those memories. Like they had never happened. Less and less time was spent wondering what version was real, did it really matter? He was here, Ella was here - thus, reality was here. Perhaps those were just rationalizations. Is man ever to find out the truth of his experience?
As the days grew shorter and temperature colder his mind again drifted into self-doubt, attacks occurring several times per day. She comforted him and would sit with him for hours holding his hands. One time he asked her: "Why are you doing this?", to which she responded:
"You told me a very long time ago, when I was in a very similar, dark place, 'You must do the thing you can't not do.' she said as a smile grew on her face.
"That was just a quote, you know that right?"
"Does it matter?"
"I guess it doesn't."
His current existence was one of trying to put the puzzle pieces together, where they came together harmoniously and where they didn't fit at all. Some days, usually when it was raining or blowing harsh winds from the sea were those most agreeable - spent alongside Ella in front of the fire with tea, whiskey and books. Days like that had no room for any contemplation, ironically enough. Those with pleasurable conditions, where you were obligated by some unknown force to go out were plagued by crippling self-doubt; was all of this even real? One time during a sunny day with no wind he was staring closely at a grain of sand and swore that he saw a purple mirror hidden in one of it's microscopic sides that would take him to another world. Ella had shuffled him home and tucked him in, trying to hold back tears while avoiding showing it - but Oliver knew her too well for that, and he wasn't proud for making her feel that way. But what was he to do?
One morning Oliver woke to find himself in the guest room again, droplets on the window indicating a day with drizzling rain. The faint noises from the tin roof confirmed it. His mouth was as dry as it had ever been, and along with the splitting headache confirmed his intuitive diagnosis: another night of getting black-out drunk. As he went outside he was greeted by a now familiar sight: Ella standing in the kitchen crying, and as she heard Oliver approach she wiped her tears and turned away from him.
"What's wrong?"
She sobbed, answered between breaths, "What do you do when you try to help someone, and you can't help them?"
"Listen, Ella... I don't really remember what happened last night, but if it was something I did-"
"It's not something you did, it's this whole existence." She turned around to face him, and Oliver stared into her red, swollen eyes, "I want to help you Oliver, I truly do. It's just... I'm starting to doubt if I am the one to help you, maybe we need a professional. Someone-"
"Ella-"
"Let me finish. After your last episode something has changed, it's only taken me a while to recognize it. This is the first time that I've actually considered that your memories are real." She paused, "And that's a scary thought, it really is. How am I to deal with that?"
"Then let's go home."
"What?"
"Fuck it. Maybe it's this place that's the problem, being away from society. I think I need - we need to go back to normal. Or at least try, and see where that takes us." Oliver said.
She paused and looked him in the eye, as if to see if he was honest or not, "I don't need to remind you of what I told you of the foster parents who tried to kill you right?"
"That's not what I got out of the story. What I gather from what you told me he only threatened to kill me, and beat me up once."
"Right. Because that's a huge difference." Ella said, in the tone that reminded Oliver of when you can't help to laugh when you're crying.
"I'm serious. From what I heard it seems like one of those count to ten things, I'll be fine."
"Well... It has been over three months... Maybe."
Oliver went over and hugged Ella in a long, warm hug. They embraced in silence for a long time as the rain gently sounded from the open screen door.
"I love you Ella, and there is nothing that I won't do for you. I hope that you know that." Oliver said.
Ella hugged him harder. The rain intensified on the tin roof above.
The apartment did not look that different from what he remembered from what he now referred to as his fractured memories. Although, the soot was gone from the corners of the window, and the living room table was clean. For some reason the first thing he did when going inside was to look at the variation of cups - all white this time. The clock on the wall had stopped, and Oliver went over to reset it.
A physical record player had always been a comfort to Ella, and Oliver smiled every time that she went through the ritual of playing an LP. Maybe he had unconsciously made an erotic connection to the ritual? The thought somewhat disgusted him, and he tried to push Freud away from the otherwise divine sight, otherwise harmless sight. Ella took out Madman Across The Water from the stack of records, slowly pulling out of it's sleeve. Oliver tried hard not to let his mind transform the blue waves into the all-to intimate purple waves as she laid the album cover on the sofa. She popped the record on the player and let the needle fall on to the groove. As she switched it on, the familiar crackle started - followed by the first tones of Tiny Dancer that soon filled the room. Ella sat down in the sofa besides him and leaned in towards him. In silence they let the song speak for them, Ella closing her eyes while Oliver stared up at the brick ceiling. As the track came to it's close Ella leaned over to Oliver and kissed him.
"For a while, I never thought that we would get here."
Oliver smiled at her, "Me neither."
It was always a chore cooking together in the small kitchen, but always a treat the same. The erotic bumping in to each other to the tones of smooth piano, Italian tomato sauce and glasses of red wine. What eventually led to eating half of the meal standing over the counter-top - spilling some sauce over the sensitive, exclusive type of wood, creating a permanent stain that would be there until the next tenant moved in. That's life.
When he felt all too good, there always seemed to arrive someone to knock him down a peg. Maybe that was the universe balancing stuff out. Maybe it was just in Oliver's head, but then again it wasn't in the best state these days - not to be trusted at least. The days rolled on as they always did; he entered them with a state of hopeful optimism; exited them prematurely out of fear. Two days earlier, when he had gone down to the store to buy something as trivial as bread and stood in line to the cash register someone had tapped on his shoulder, and as he turned around he saw Charliemagne - just as he had remembered him, wet and everything. Oliver had dropped the bread and ran all the way home, ignoring the cashiers pleads to at least put it back where he found it. As he got through the door to his apartment he was hit with an atypical rage, and he went over and grabbed an orange which he hit to a bloodied pulp. Why did it feel like there was somebody pulling the strings, who was always one step ahead?
Two days later a whim he snatched up Ella as she got home, quickly stuffed a toothbrush and a bottle of wine in a rucksack and threw everything in the backseat of their '04 Honda Civic. She laughed all the way down to the car, mistaking it for a romantic getaway. Maybe he could still spin it that way - was he that good an actor? As they thundered down the bridge over to the mainland the sun was setting again, and as he glanced over he swore that the familiar undulating purple waves could be seen just over the white ball of flame. Ella grabbed the wheel and shouted, making Oliver swerve a little bit - apparently he was drifting into a semi truck in the other lane. The feeling was made out of nothing - every moment facing your death, every moment, sullen, unavoidable entropy.
At the next stop Ella realized that something was wrong, and a barrage of questions, ignored. He had pushed the car more than he intended and the last of drops of gas pushed it's way through it's cylinders as they rolled into the station. She was desperately attempting at contact, which he did not have energy for. He had been driving for four hours straight. She grabbed his head between her hands, as he had grown to both hate and love and stared into her eyes. Right now there was nothing there. And all it took was one loaf of bread, he thought to himself. She announced that she needed to use the bathroom. He stayed with the comforting ding of the gas meter that ticked up with a steady rhythm.
In a moment of introspection, ignoring the thud indicating that the tank was full, he stared at two birds flying between branches on two pine trees on opposite sides of the road leaving the gas station; back and forth, back and forth. Swinging between two extremes. They were barely visible in the glow from the nearby street lights. But it was still perfect and he got in beside the wheel - gripping it with both hands. He had been told before that you got more control that way.
He waited in the driver's seat for half a cigarette - a habit he had recently picked up again - when he was interrupted by a knock on his window.
"Put it out for godsake! Do you have a god damn death wish or something, go put a gun in your mouth like the rest of you youth's - at least then you don't blow up me in the process." The old man said, waving in the air with his baseball cap. He walked back to his truck on the opposite pump.
Oliver put it out in the ash tray in the middle console. He stepped outside and stretched as Ella came out from the gas station - wearing that dark expression similar to when your Mom was really disappointed at you.
"Ella, you okay?"
"No."
"Want to talk about it?"
"I have no talking to do."
"What do you mean."
"Oliver, what is this? What are we doing here?"
"We needed to get away?"
"Why?"
"So the kid I've told you about?"
"Yeah?"
"I saw him at the store while standing in the line to the cash register."
"Why didn't you tell me? The last four hours have gone from me wondering if it was nuclear apocalypse, disease or those parents going after us."
"Why didn't you just ask me?"
"I did."
"You did?"
She glanced at some place behind Oliver and put a hand over her eyes. "Yeah, yeah... I did. Listen, everything is going to be okay."
"What are you talking about?"
"I love you, everything is going to be okay."
A powerful voice thundered behind him, "Are you Oliver?" Oliver turned around and saw a big, broad shouldered man with a goatee standing five feet away from him.
Ella answered, "Yes."
"Oliver, can you come with us?"
"Why the hell would I do that?"
"You need to come with us, for your own best. We want to help."
"Help with what?" Oliver said, practically shouting at this point.
"You are experiencing a psychotic episode right now, and neither me or your girlfriend wants to see you accidentally hurting yourself."
"I feel fine."
"Just come with us Oliver."
"Yeah, I don't think so." He looked over at Ella who had backed away slightly from him, crying into her hands, "Do you want me to go with him?" he asked her. She nodded and quietly murmured yeah. He paused slightly, started pulling out a cigarette - but stopped it as he realized where he was. Instinctively he put his hands over his head which made the broad shouldered man laugh.
"We're not arresting you, man. Just come have a seat in my car." He pointed toward a white car with a familiar logo on it's door. Morganville Psychiatric Institution.
"Baby, I'll meet you there, okay?" Ella said, now looking straight in his eyes.
He met her eyes in a look of defeat, "Keys are in the ignition." Oliver said. He and the broad shouldered man walked alongside each other to the white car on the other side of the gas station. He looked back a last time before getting in the car but Ella had already gotten in the driver's seat.
As the ignition started old, crackly blues came blasting through the stereo: ... tomorrow night, will you remember what I said tonight? ... As if things weren't depressing enough.
"Hey can you turn that off?"
"Give it a few minutes and you'll come around." He answered as he pulled out on the road, speedometer climbing into the 60s.
Oliver looked back and saw that Ella was following.
"... tomorrow night, will it be just another memory? ..."
He leaned back and felt sleep take him, as the man sang distant through the speakers;
"... and you willingly surrender, tell me darling, will it last? ..."
It was dark when he woke up, and he was upside down. The pain came shortly after, which made him squirm at the pressure from the seatbelt. Instinctively he pushed his hand and legs toward the roof which was now the floor and released the belt. A wave of relief washed away some of the pain. He opened the car door and crawled outside to howling rain. He stood up and tried to figure out where he was, but to no luck as the headlights of the car were off. He briefly checked for any bleeding wounds or broken bones but he seemed to have come out of it relatively unscathed. It came to mind to check on the driver but on closer inspection he was nowhere to be found. He tried to look for the keys in the ignition to turn on the headlights but they were gone as well.
What the hell had happened?
The only thing he could make out in the immediate environment were that they were in a field, no roads seemingly close by, encircled by tall trees that waved in the bitter wind - though even that type of clear contrast were hard to see in the torrent of rain.
Lack of a better option, or perhaps lack of common sense, he picked out a random direction and started walking, aiming toward the trees.
The steps grew heavier for each one, adrenaline from the crash obviously fading. After what felt like an hour that was probably closer to fifteen minutes he sat down and leaned against a tree at the edge to the field - swearing to five minutes of rest. He closed his eyes and drifted to unconsciousness yet again.
The streets were unwelcoming as usual, and the rain unrelenting. Charliemagne was standing there opposite to him, but as he moved he realized that he was staring into a store window. He was Charliemagne. A train thundered past him on the boulevard, digging deep grooves into the asphalt - purple liquid oozing out in it's wake, slowly covering the boulevard into a purple river.
Oliver startled awake, which seemed increasingly more common these days. The dream that had been so vivid only moments ago faded as the purple wavy spot in the corner of his eyes. The rain had stopped, and the rays of the early morning sun glimmered in the reflection of the dew on nearby shrubs of grass; though, most of the ground around him was covered by brown, discarded needles from the spruce tree above. As he sat leaning against the tree the pain returned with a vengeance, which prompted him to investigate once again. Pulling up his shirt he thankfully only saw bruises from the seat-belt in a diagonal to his shoulder. He unzipped his pants and saw a similar stripe over his thighs. Better than broken bones at least. He pulled them back up and stood up, pain shooting through his legs, although thankfully it wasn't unbearable. Slowly but steadily he went back to the car, which was still empty but now smelled like gasoline. Must have been a leak somewhere, he thought.
Looking around there was nothing indicative of anyone passing by, and now that he thought about it, no tire tracks coming from the car either, as if it had appeared from nowhere. He took out his packet of cigarette from his pocket but they were soaked beyond recognition. He needed an idea of where he was so he decided to get going. Unintentionally he walked over to where he had slept, and without any further thought followed the path that seemed to appear before his eyes - similar to when you suddenly notice a pattern in something that's seemingly random. One moment you see nothing, another one you do. It trailed through the dense shrubbery, the bright green from the grass field quickly replaced by brown, dead, brown branches and needles scattering the ground under the spruce trees towering above. Not even a discarded cigarette packet nor beer bottles from experimental teenagers, a truly dead landscape in modern terms.
After an hour he came to a clearing that looked the same as the one where he had entered, about 500 feet across in a circle. The sun had risen and dissipated the dew, making it a breeze to walk through. Oliver walked in a straight line employing the logic that it was inevitable he would bump into something, sometime. He entered the forest again on the opposite side, again finding a path instantly. He looked back at the straight line through the wild grass running in a straight line over the field before continuing onwards.
His stomach was growling at this point but there didn't seem to be anything to do about it. No berries as far as he could see, and he was far to smart to try the mushrooms. His environment stayed the same as it had during the previous hours, dead trees and repeating grass fields. Unavoidable given the circumstances his mind drifted into a deep state of contemplation, trying to fish out any remnants of a memory to explain how he got here, wherever that was. Similarly unavoidable as a consequence was his questioning of the situation in of itself; was this real? Had anything since Charliemagne been real? Had Charliemagne been real? Had he ever been born? He couldn't remember it, so he could never prove it, at least not in this forest. He chuckled at how fucked up his mind could get, drifting into metaphysical contemplation that even Aristotle couldn't solve. What hope did he have, massive pain and wandering aimlessly in an unknown forest?
Without warning he emerged out on a country road, 100 feet from a rural bus station with a rundown bench. Concord Road - that didn't say much. No timetable either. He sat down and closed his eyes taking a few deep breaths. First he felt one drop on his hand, and then as it usually does, it quickly grew in to a full orchestra - partnered with thunder a few minutes after that. He sat and let him get soaked, his cigarettes were already ruined and it wasn't too cold - who would care at that point?
A few minutes passed as he sat with closed eyes and listened to the rain hit against the asphalt. A car passed by, that he noticed first after it whirled past him - eliminating any chance for them to notice him. In a whim he just stood up, and started walking in the direction of the car, in the barrage of rain hitting his neck like daggers.
Not long after that, at least to a mind deprived of any stimuli during an entire day of walking, he came upon a short driveway leading up to a shack. It reminded Oliver of the one that his parents had rented when he was little, way to small for him and his brother who had been forced to share a bed. The light shined through one of the windows so he decided to risk it. If he got shot the one who shot him would at least be likely to call an ambulance. He recognized another weird resemblance as he knocked on the door. On the roofed porch there was a wooden rocking chair, but it was of exactly the same type as the one he remembered from the cabin when he was little, with the carvings of a phoenix running along it's arms. The door opened and Oliver jumped back at the sound.
Oliver couldn't believe it, it was Charliemagne. Sure, he was older - 16 or so, faint hint of facial hair, suspenders with one strap hanging loose, sweaty hair - but it was him, undeniably him.
"Can I help you?" he said as he scratched the back of his head.
"Yeah... Uhm..." He should be saying that he had been in an accident and needed an ambulance, but he needed to figure out what the hell was going on, "I got lost in the forest and I don't have a phone. Could you tell me where I am?"
The kid studied him closer, "You look like shit. You okay? That forest is a nasty piece of work."
"I'm alright."
"You don't look alright to me. Come on in, I'll make you a cup of tea."
"That sounds great."
The kid took a step aside and waved him in, reaching out his hand to shake, "I'm Charlie by the way."
"Oliver."
Charlie guided him to the square table where Oliver sat down on one of the four wooden stools situated around the table.
"Make yourself comfortable and I'll be back with the tea in a minute."
Oliver nodded and Charlie disappeared through the nearest door. It was unusual for the kitchen to be in another room but then again it looked to be an unusual cabin. The room he was in now looked to be the living room, a very small one at that - maybe 10 by 10 feet. The only reason why he thought it to be a living room was the single recliner in front of the fireplace that was situated in the opposite side from where he was, otherwise the room was bare, except for a single picture frame on the wall closest to him. It was Charlie, or Charliemagne, a kid that looked to be about ten, fish in one hand, the other around what appeared to be his Dad's shoulder. Both of them smiled wide.
"Biggest fish I ever caught." Charlie said from behind him.
"Your Dad and you?"
"Yeah." Charlie said as he put down the tray and offered a cup to Oliver.
Oliver picked up the teapot and gestured toward Charlie's cup, "Thanks" Charlie said. He began pouring. "I wish my Dad would've done that stuff with me." Oliver said, "He was only interested in two things: beer, and earning money to get that beer."
"That's a shame."
"Yeah... Mostly though when looking at other people's photos, otherwise it doesn't bother me much."
"We're relative creatures, wouldn't you say?"
"Absolutely right." Oliver said, taking a sip from the piping hot tea. "Delicious."
"Thanks, but it's only the cheapest tea bags from the store, so nothing special."
"When you've been lost in the forest for an entire day everything is divine." Oliver said as he grabbed a shortbread from the tray and wolfed it down, quickly taking in another in identical fashion.
Charlie looked at him curiosly, "You know, you remind me of someone."
Oliver stayed silent, taking another shortbread from the diminishing pile.
"You ever teach English at Rughmont High?"
"No."
"Huh. You look exactly like him." Charlie said as he scratched his scattered facial hair on his chin, "So, anyway how come you were in the forest?"
"I don't know. I think I was in a car crash - I was in a car crash, but there were no tracks. I mean... Frankly I don't know. One moment I was beaming down the interstate in the back seat and the next I woke up in the middle of a field."
"Huh. That's weird. What is even weirder though, how did you get out?" Charlie said, leaning forward toward Oliver.
"Out? I just followed the path, or I think I did. Some hours I just walked in a trance."
"There's no path through that forest. I've nearly gotten lost in there myself," Charlie began with his regular tone, suddenly coming alive, "funny story actually, like the minotaur in the labyrinth I grabbed a long ball of twine and tied it around my finger - but it came undone without me noticing, so I ran back and after an hour I found the end of it." He leaned back and took a sip.
"Riveting."
"It's why I live here you know, except for these interesting encounters. Sometimes stragglers come out, sometimes animals come out looking as confused as the stragglers. Have you ever seen a drunk moose?"
"Can't say I have. Wait, so there is no path?"
"Not one that I have ever seen."
"So, what did I follow?"
"Beats me."
"But there was a pattern, I saw it." Oliver said, taking the second last shortbread from the tray.
"Was there a pattern or did you want there to be one?" Charlie said before he pushed his chair back and stood up, "I assume that you want to ask for a phone but I don't have one, can give you a ride into town if you like."
Oliver was lost in thought but instinctively blurted out "That would be great." before returning to the last shortbread. He didn't even like shortbread, it was too sweet but he gulped it down anyway before he stood up as well and followed Charlie outside.
Oliver helped with holding up the garage door as Charlie backed out an old pickup truck, the dust on the windshield and front forming into lumps as the rain hit it. The truck had rust along the body above the wheel. Oliver wondered the last time he had used it as he closed up the door to the garage.
As he jumped into the passenger seat, as if reading Oliver's mind Charlie said, "It's been about two years."
"What?"
"Since I last drove it.", Charlie said, "Since the last one came out of the woods." He backed out onto the road and accelerated as truck periodically protested in various sputters and mutters.
They came to the village after about an hour of eleation climbing. Charlie had said that the village was the highest situated in the Western hemisphere, but Oliver seriously doubted that - although he was far to exhausted to care about the factual details of the place. It was such a uninspiring village nonetheless, one of those that automatically unmotivated people that showed any interest in it - people staring at them from half-shuttered windows with one hand probably on a rifle; library closed down in 1964; the only restaurant only sold beer & steak. It reminded Oliver of where he had grown up - the friday's always spent down at Pete's, sitting in the booth with his father who drank three beers in the timespan it took Oliver to eat his dinner. The treacherous car ride home. Terrible memories, but strong one's. Perhaps those weren't so different from happy ones?
Charlie dropped of him at the bus station where he pointed him in the direction of the tourist center which looked to be a payphone with a vandalized phone book from the distance they were standing. Oliver thanked him profusely and gave him his number if he ever needed something which he assured him was unnecessary. As the car disappeared from his field of view down the slope they had climbed Oliver couldn't help but to feel ashamed that he didn't have the courage to ask him about Charliemagne. Was he that much of a neurotic that he somehow believed that he would be offended, attack him or something? He beat himself up in his thoughts as he walked over to the payphone.
His inital intuition had been correct, with an added swastika etched into the reciever. Classy. He lifted it and a signal came through which at least instilled some hope. Oliver put in some quarters that he'd gotten from Charlie and dialed his home number - anxiousness growing for every number pressed. The dial tone came through. What if she wasn't home? He didn't have that many quarters left, and he had refused the hand outs that Charlie offered. Second dial tone. What if she didn't exist? The possibility was horrible to imagine so he pushed it down. Third. What if the number didn't exist? If it was just another figment of his fractured memor-
"Hello?"
"Ella?"
"Oliver?"
"Yeah."
"Where are you? I thought they didn't allow phones in Morganville."
"I'm in Ruthmore."
"Ruthmore? Where the hell is that?" Oliver noticed that her pitch was rising, something she did when she got nervous.
"Me too. I fell asleep in the car and then I woke up in a car in the middle of a damn field."
"But I went with you to your room, we said goodbye and you laid down on your bed, you don't remember any of that?"
Oliver paused. If that was true, what did that mean? Was this reality something imagined or what was?
"Baby?" Ella said.
"Yeah, I'm here. I'm just trying to process it."
"Stay right there, it can't be that far. Ruthmore you said?"
"Yeah. I'm at the bus station, but I don't have enough money for a fare."
"Alright, can you wait for a few hours?"
"Sure."
"See you then. Love you."
She hung up before he had a chance to respond. He resigned to a bench nearby where somebody had etched in *FORIEGEN GO HOME" which brought out a faint smile to his face. Which suddenly transformed into a deep, manic laugh. It was so stupid that it was the funniest thing he had ever seen, something as silly as a xenophobic typo. It could be because he was deathly tired. Maybe. He put his hands over his eyes and laughed alone in the empty waiting hall.
It was an uneventful couple of hours. Through the window in the door Oliver stared as the sun passed behind the clouds, glittered in the intervals between. The rain coming and going but as far as he could see without a rainbow. Suddenly Ella entered that space and he smiled at her, but she didn't smile back. She looked worried and it seemed that she had been crying. They embraced, and for a while that was all that mattered. As they let go she took him by the shoulders and inspected him.
"You don't look so good."
"I haven't eaten anything but shortbread for what I think is one day?"
"Shortbread? You don't even like shortbread."
He laughed, "When you get offered shortbread from a grown up Charliemagne you just have to accept."
"Charliemagne?" She began to look even more worried as she let go of his shoulders, "the kid from your memories?"
"I'm pretty sure it was him."
She just looked at him, not intentively - but as if it was something painful to look at before turning around. "Let's go, car is still running."
He followed her.
They of course had no documents that I had ever been admitted to Morganville, which confused both me and Ella. She demanded to see Neil, the one who had picked him up, but they had never heard of him. Ella tried to get Oliver admitted, describing the situation - but seeing as they had no records... it was a privilege to stay at Morganville. So she gave up and they headed home instead.
He stared intently at the drops as they fell on the left side of the window, making their way to the right, before falling of the edge of the right; taken by the wind. One moment they were there, the next they were not.
He thought that there was something different in the apartment, even though it looked the same. It didn't feel the same. Maybe it was something she had cooked while he was gone, salmon in the microwave? Oliver had always forbidden that, maybe that was it? He shallowly accepted the conclusion although he knew that wasn't it.
In a more unenthusiastic version of their regular spiel they performed their evening ritual. The dinner instead replaced by canned tomato sauce, bag-in-box wine - Otis Redding with Nick Drake. It almost seemed comically absurd, but as Oliver looked over to Ella who sat with her pasta untouched on her sixth glass of wine slightly swaying, his smile quickly disappeared.
As she fell unconscious a few hours later Oliver went out for some air. The sporadic lights in uncommon intervals in the building opposite looked foreboding in the dark - forming a cross if you used your imagination. He took a right and at the fork went in the direction of the water. A longer road than he usually took if he was headed towards the den. Which he wasn't. At any rate he didn't mean to, but he still found himself there half an hour later. He had the strength to resist and retreated up the hill instead, sitting down on the stone wall overlooking the brownstone skyline. At least that hadn't changed through what he only now realized could be call iterations. A faint warm breeze blew on his face. Instinctively he looked back as if he was to find Charliemagne but only darkness remained.
The routine repeated, now suddenly two different people from when he had grabbed her to the "romantic get-away". Ella had changed, he had changed, and it bothered Oliver immensely that he was too much a coward to talk with her. As soon as he tried to get started he froze, and a memory of another time - a distant time where he had done the same thing emerged and took over his mind. Of course, the idea that he was going crazy had been suppressed long ago - that was too painful to think about. They had a good thing, or at least not a bad one. Still he wandered the city at night, staring senselessly at meaningless objects in the distance.
Ella was on the phone most of the time when she was home, with different specialists and doctors and therapists and all that stuff that Oliver had given up on a long time ago. Many times Oliver went into the bathroom to cry because of how much she cared, and how little he reciprocated in return. The feeling of guilt, even when you know that it only exists in your head, is something to topple even the greatest psyches.
One night he began noticing a figure following him. First he thought it to be Charliemagne, but as he tried to get closer to the shadow it disappeared. It appeared larger than a small boy, but then again, he had seen him grown up. It wasn't impossible. Maybe it was a bit foolish not to be scared of a figure following you, but to Oliver, it wasn't normal - but it was familiar.
Another night he returned as usual up the staircase with brown carpet and found the door to the apartment open, muffled screams coming from within. Peeking inside he saw a large man holding his hand over Ella's mouth, standing partly in moonlight from the window. It looked like he was waiting for someone to come through the door. Without even thinking Oliver went inside.