The relief-after

I saw Mom. Briefly. Before she disappeared.

The air is warm. Not suffocating. It is dark but it’s not night time. Shadowed. I look up and see a massive concrete ceiling supported by pillars just as colossal. I turn around: metallic barriers creating two large space surround me. I’m on a highway empty of cars and any source of light; under a bridge. Everything looks deserted. A slight breeze comes through.

Suddenly a loud sound came out from my right. A car just crashed into the pillar. A woman comes out. Uninjured. Rushed from adrenaline. She walks toward me in panic, asking me loads of questions and telling me her lifestory, but i can’t hear her. Not a sound. From her expression, she’s pleading for me to help her, cover for her. But something didn’t seem right. I follow her: her smile tells me that she has a plan to fix the car and make it go away. As if nothing ever happened. We walk on the side of the highway behind the safe guardrail. The road is unmade, raw, free of human interaction. Desolate. We come across three kids sitting in circle on the side. A dog is in the middle, lying down, inert. The older kid, a girl in her low teenage, is petting it:

– “He’s dying.” she says.

The woman sits down in front of her, the dog slightly lifts his head up. I make a fleeding eye contact with him, then with the kid.

– “No, look, he’s just tired.” The woman replies. “He’ll be fine.”

Her smile seems to have the wanted effect on the kids as their eyes lighten up. We carry on our walk, leaving the kids happy from our lie.

The off-road way leads us to a calm neighborhood. Still empty of any human being, but ourselves, we walk in the middle of the street like nothing. Stores are open. Sun is bright. Everything is still. The woman walks to a dark blue 1984-Mercedes. She throws the keys at me and takes the passenger seat. I drive us away. We end up in a small alley where pedestrians and vehicles need to be mindful of each other. I slow down. People dressed in traditional african outfits start to invade the space. They don’t let me go through; I stop the car. I turn to my co-pilot, asking her what is happening. She tells me there is a festival around this time of the year. This must be it. I hear muffled sounds come and go in rhythm. Tambours. People are dancing to it. They’re showing us their pride in their origins. We move slowly again, this time to admire their joy. A car comes straight to us. We stop, let everyone move accordingly. I turn to my co-pilot again wondering whether we can go this way. She confirms my fear: “No.” But I don’t trust her words.

More people fill the already crowded alley. A car appears on my left: its coming out of a private garden. Uncertain of what to do and how to maneuver our way back, I let the car go first. It turns to its left, following the crowd. I have my answer. The woman points the entrance to me, advising me to use it to make a U-turn. I oblige. Carefully, we are within the law now.

We arrive. I don’t know where. As I come out of the car, my brother shows up. I see him walking toward her. They seem close. My spidey sense goes off. Something is not right. We walk together through the city, but we end up underneath another highway bridge. I notice drastic mood swings in my brother’s behaviour. It worries me. The interaction between him and the woman are getting more intense, louder. I still can’t hear anything. I take my brother aside, as they argue again.

– “Something is wrong.” I tell him. “She’s not honest.” He looks at me, confused. “Do you remember where you met her? It was not far from here, under a bridge just like this. She had a car accident right in front of us. What are the odds of that!? Something is not right. I don’t trust her.”

He gets angry. Enraged. The type of rage that you can’t let out otherwise you destroy everything around you. Potentially leading you straight to jail. “Shut up” is what he said to me, his jaw clenched so hard. I step back, letting him cool down and process. The mood becomes suffocating. They keep throwing daggers at each other over every little thing. I make my case again. He stops me. Straight up. He’s now yelling at me, moving his arms widely, pacing in front of me. Suddenly, his anger took over: he throws a water bottle at me. Against everyone’s expectation, I catch it. The surprise swiftly disappears. I open the bottle and try to throw what’s left of water in it to him. Nothing happens. My arm gets stuck in mid-motion. My brother keeps his flow going, he doesn’t stop, not even to breathe. I keep on trying but nothing happens. Suddenly, he throws me some keys. Again, i catch it. Then i realize: not once, i made contact with anyone. I look around, the woman and my brother are staring at me. In their eyes, there’s something but what? I shift my gaze to the grass underneath me, lean over to feel it. I do. Feel it. I turn to my brother again with fear in my eyes. A piece of paper beams in front of me. I lift my hand to touch it.

The light brightens until I’m blind before vanishing with the water bottle and keys. We kept our pace down a hill. Cars are parked, people start to show up, life crawls back in the city. As we are walking, I catch my brother and the woman stealing glances at each other: worries and fear in their eyes. I look down at my hands. That’s when it came to me:

– “I’m the one who have alzheimer.”

For each step, air was stolen away. My lungs emptied. My throat tightened by a ball. I can’t breathe. I closed my fist, trying to get it under control. But tears were coming down. Gradually my entire body began to shake. My vision became fuzzy. I stopped in front of an electric pole; my head down. I cried. Big whale’s tears, like a cartoon character. Overwhelmed, I stood there. It lasted few minutes.

I look up. The sky is blue. The kind of blue that I like. Few clouds. Smoky ones, the ones that are like cotton candy. The sun, slightly behind me, is shining bright, warming us nicely. A bird is flying, free of responsibility but his survival. It’s beautiful. A breeze brushes me. A weight on my shoulder seems to have been lifted. I smile. Relieved.

The beginning of it all

The night has come. It is the fortieth night of the quarantine. I find it funny. I’ve been staring at my screen for the past hour, blanking like i used to before. Music is playing: the sweet rhythm of Ben Howard on loop. The mood is set but the inspiration doesn’t fire up. I look at the time: 12:21. My cells were barely in full-function that my brain already want to sleep. ‘Conditioning is a bi…’ Aaargh! A groaning from outside. I put away my computer, slightly stood up over D’s shoulders and watched the street closely. Empty. Not a single soul around. Until… I stepped down of my couch, crouched at the window and kept staring. I squinted and saw bleak eyes. I stepped back. The curtain waved. Quickly, i hid behind the wall, knocking down the drone off of the cajon i made twelve years earlier. I caught it in extremis, preventing any noise to reveal my position. A quick glance at D, then toward the window and back at D, my heart pounding hard in my rib cage. A swift smile appeared on our faces as we shared the same thought: I just saved the world. I waited a minute then looked at the street again. The sole human daring to walk outside was still marching, forward, slowly and unaware. I put down the drone gently on the floor and went back on my couch. As i kept a close eye on the strange subject, i made a search on internet for news all around the world regarding the current situation. The virus that everyone was so afraid of three months ago has finally plateaued. Governments were continually reassuring the rest of us through endless speeches. Hope, community, stronger, humanity, love and positive were overused to a point where they became meaningless. Astronomical numbers are thrown here and there with nothing to back them up. Not one scientist seemed objective enough and reliable. I scroll through the pages, articles after articles, until a word caught my attention: ‘Living dea…’ Another groaning. I looked aside: the strange subject has left my visual periphery. I stood up and went close to the window again. Down the street, i could still see it shuffle behind the arcades. As soon as i lost sight of it, i turned the light off and looked out. Nothing happened. Everything came back to its stillness. I made eye contact with D then returned to my researches when a third groaning interrupted me. I turned off the music, grabbed my phone and walked to the door, followed by D. My ear against it, i listened closely. Someone was coming up the stairs. I looked back: D seemed nervous. Behind the door, they seemed to struggle. I clenched on my phone. When they arrived at my door, i stepped back, bumping into D. He grabbed my arm as i grabbed his shirt. We stood still in silent. The footsteps hung around my door before moving to the second floor. I stepped away and took my laptop to my bed as silently as i could. My back against the wall, i refreshed my research. A new article appeared, attached to a youtube video. I clicked on it. ‘Sound’, D said. On mute, troubling images came one after another: recordings of people gathering in the streets, head down, arms swinging and shuffling their feet. Suddenly, a row of trucks took the street by storm. One of them parked beneath my windows. The main door shattered. Boots rushed in, knocking down one, then two entrances. Until mine. Two men came in. I stood up on my bed, trembling as adrenaline and fear flooded in. One of them appeared in front of me, a rifle pointed at my chest. He stared at me. Then his partner came back. ‘Clear.’ he said. They both looked at me. I looked back at them. They were wearing heavy gears: rifle, side guns, ammo, grenades, bullet proof vest, knives, helmet, night vision glasses and a mask. Soldiers. ‘Are you sick?’, the man aiming at me asked. I slowly shook my head as i put my phone in my pocket. The soldier let go of his weapon, grabbed my arm and dragged me down the stairs as the second man led the way. ‘Wait! Shoes…!’ A hand quickly covered my mouth, i stumbled, pulling the soldier down with me. They froze a moment when the leading soldier tapped on the shoulder of the second one. The latter pointed at my shoes. I took them before i got lift up then brought to the back of a black truck. Forced inside, i took a seat. Around me, two couples were holding each other, scared to death. Sitting in a corner, another soldier scanned us. As i put my vans on, the soldier that brought me hopped in and sat in front of me. The door closed. Darkness prevailed. I felt a vibration on my thigh. The engine started and the vehicle moved. A minute later, a light appeared. The soldier pointed successively at each of us. We drove for too long moment. The driver wasn’t a good driver. My stomach was upside down, my eyes ached and my brain beat strongly within my skull. Argh, imma puke. D’s hand on my knee brought me balance again. We stopped. The doors opened loudly, a soldier pulled me out and took me to a well-guarded fence where a woman in a full hazmat suit showed me the way. I followed without hesitation, D closely behind. We entered a first tent where a medical team was awaiting our arrival. A doctor came up to me, mask and gloves on, took me to his rudimentary desk, sat me down and began to take a nasopharyngeal sample. ‘Full name and age, please’, he said then proceeded to write them down. Once done, he gave me a mask and left me to take one of my neighbors. I stood up, thinking it was my cue to leave and walked through another tent. The second one was smaller, used as a safe passage, i guessed. The third tent was the last one. It was huge and crowded. I walked through, assessed the situation and picked up bits and pieces of conversations:

‘I saw my neighbor when they put me in the van. They shot him straight in the head…’

‘…blood coming out of his mouth…’

‘I don’t understand what happened… He was fine then…’

‘What the hell is going on?’

‘He fell on the ground then suddenly stood back up. He tried to jump us. I had to knock him down. But then the army showed up…’

I rested in a corner, near an exit, and scanned the room. Some people cried. Some people laughed. Most people were silent. I remembered receiving a message earlier. I pulled my phone out. One message on Whatsapp.

From R.S:

You’re ok? If there are soldiers coming at your door, follow them. Don’t resist. They’ll take you to safety

To R.S:

I’m in a tent with a lot of other people. They took a sample from me. Now i guess we’re waiting for results

From R.S:

Ok. Cool. Yeah, they did the same to us. Did they give you a mask?

To R.S:

Yes, they did

From R.S:

Ok. Ok. Do as they say for now. We’ll see later if we can meet

To R.S:

OK

From R.S:

We stay in touch

 

I looked up at D, amused. ‘This is how it all begin, huh?’

‘It looks like it.’

‘Zombie attack’, we said in unison.

‘We need to find a bat or a sword.’ I whispered.

‘Or guns and a bag full of ammo. That’s not ideal but it looks like that the only option available for now.’

‘Yeah. It seems like it. And food.’

‘Water.’

‘Water too.’

‘Then..’

‘…Paris.’

Life (24)

The room was quiet. Alone in the living-room, John Smith was sitting on the couch. Still, silent and unaware, he was lost in his thoughts. Facing him, the television displayed images of the disaster discovered by the authorities, two days earlier. The headline reported a tragic crash caused by an electrical storm. The camera showed the multiple impacts made by lightning, then the large hole in the ground. John was pulled out of his world when he noticed three body-bags reflecting on the coffee table. He looked up, turned the sound on and stared at the screen. As scientists transported them into a van, the field reporter announced that the FBI was still investigating the events that occurred in the Valley of Toma City. ‘It seems that the FBI is tying this event to another inexplicable phenomenon that happened six years ago. Where, we recall you, hundreds of people were found dea…’ John didn’t take his eyes off of the darkness of the screen. On his left, a man appeared in his field of vision. He looked away. A heavy silence settled between them.

‘Have you heard from him?’ The man asked, but John stayed silent. ‘We should go.’ On those words, John stood up and followed his father’s steps. They hopped in matte black Mazda MX-5 from 1990 and drove away. An hour later, they parked behind a line of cars. As he got out, John observed the curtain of black suits and dresses standing around, then looked at his father. The latter gave him a smile, came closer to him and wrapped his arm around his shoulders. In a low voice, he said: ‘He was well-known and well-respected in the community.’ Then let go.

When James and John appeared unannounced in the middle of the entrance, the week before, John’s father stood there in shock assessing the mess his son involved himself in. He scanned his son and his friend from head to toe, then realized what happened. He had a step back, tremors started to show but he refrained them quickly. The following days, John watched his father preparing a funeral and making all the arrangements for Turner’s heritage. Not once, he saw his father shed a tear. Making their way through the crowd to the front line, his father remained impassive, nodding to everyone whom made eye contact with him. John stood next to him. In front of them, a tombstone, empty, facing a freshly mowed lawn. No inscription was engraved. With a confused look on his face, John glanced at his father: his eyes were stuck on the ground, watering slowly, but he didn’t break.

‘We are in some confusing times,’ John’s father spoke, ‘Times where jealousy and hunger for more are disguised behind fake care. And we just lost our moral compass.’ He paused. ‘Miles Turner… Was a leader. Our leader. He knew what was right, true and always put others before himself. More than once, he saved us all by putting himself in danger, in the front line. As great leaders do.’ He looked up, his eyes travelling through the crowd in search on something. ‘He never failed to show us the way, even when he was wrong he’d say: “See? That’s how you’re not supposed to do it.”‘ The crowd broke into a laugh. A smile appeared on his face. ‘You are already missed, man. What an adventure it was to have known you. And don’t worry, your legacy is insured.’

One by one, guests left the cemetery with one last look back at the tombstone. As the area cleared up, John noticed another blank gravestone. ‘Is that… For his mom?’ He asked. His father nodded. Left alone, John gazed at the steles, then decided to stop by the Turner’s house. He knocked a few times but got no answer. As he was about to leave, a sound irrupted from behind the door. Curious, John opened the door, unlocked, and walked in. In the midst of a complete mess, Chris was there, files in his hand, hoodie covering his face. Back to square one, John thought. He walked closer, carefully. ‘Hi.’ Chris didn’t turn around. ‘There was a funeral for you dad, today.’ Non movement. ‘What are you… searching for?’ Chris put the files down, stepped away as his friend came closer, and picked another pile. John scanned the papers around: they were notes, handwritten notes on the whereabouts of Cal Garner and informations of his infrastructure. ‘What is this for?… You’re not going after him, are you?’ Chris looked up: his lips were sealed, a cut crossed his cheek from his nose to his eye, bags marked their territory and a wrinkle started to appear between his eyebrows. His eyes turned pitch black, filled with anger and hatred. John stared: ‘Then i’m coming with you. We all are. Let me call the others. You can’t go on your own. It’s too…’ Chris let go of the file he was holding, a gentle breeze formed around him and his body began to fade. A millisecond later, a strength pulled him into a wall. Chris fell. A second later, he ran, head first, to tackle John. On top of him, he punched him once. John pushed him back, crashing the coffee table. They both stood up. Chris pinned John to the wall, walked to him as he suffocated him. ‘Chris… Stop… It’s me…’ The latter let go of his hold.

‘Don’t follow me.’ Chris groaned.

‘Wait! Stop!’ John yelled between two breaths. ‘Don’t do this on your own… You’re not alone.’ Chris watched him struggling to stay on his feet. They locked eyes. John supported the resentment his childhood friend threw at him. Chris had a tear in his eye when suddenly, his expression changed.

‘Yet, i am.’ then he vanished.

 

 

To be continued.

Life (23)

‘Hé.’, a sweet voice emerged in his mind. A gentle jolt woke his muscles up. Abruptly, Chris opened his eyes, shifting from left to right, looking for bearings. His heart pounded hard in his chest when a warmth on his back reminded him of his present. He looked up: on his left, his father was still breathing, eyes remaining closed, and on his right, a woman with dark hair smiled at him. She looked at him. He dived into her eyes. Shades of brown colored her iris. Sprinkles of green lightened the darkness of her gaze. Despite the lamp reflecting on her sciera, the longer he stared, the more dilated her pupil were. Gently. Slowly. Without pressure. She didn’t look away. Her eyebrows mildly raised, before her corners slightly closed. Her smile widened and her head tilted. ‘Hé.’ Karen repeated. ‘You know there are beds upstairs?’ She laughed as Chris sat straight. ‘Malcolm checked on him five minutes ago. He said he was recovering well.’ Chris stood up, put his hand on his father’s chest and stared into space, matching his breathing with his. Karen reached for Chris’ arm, the latter turned to her. ‘Chris…’, she whispered, then he nodded before stepping away.

‘Wait. You’re here and you said Malcolm. Does that mean…?’ He stopped himself as he walked into the living-room where the rest of the group was chatting and laughing at random things. John turned his head to the kitchen when he felt a presence observing him. Across the room, Chris gave him an intense death stare as Karen pushed him to the stairs. In the middle of their climb, Chris froze. He looked back at the front door. In the same motion, still weak, Miles Turner appeared in the main room. Everyone got quiet.

Silence.

From afar, a roar approached. The atmosphere became heavy. A rush traveled through the barn. Pieces of wood flew in all directions. Fire bursted toward clouds. Smoke tainted the view. Another charge. More fire. More smoke. Another one. Dirt blended in. The ground crumbled. Another one. A rain of rocks fell. One last attack and the barn disappeared behind a black cloud.

Silence.

The humming of the helicopter echoed in the distance. The wind emanating from the propeller blew the campaign away: smoke joined up with their peers in the sky, dust settled farther, fire died out and rocks finished to land on site. As the view got clearer, Miles Turner could assess the situation: no trace of the safe house, the surface was thirty feet above them and the shield held on. He glanced in front of him at the group of kids, down on the ground and terrified. Quickly, he counted them: six. He looked further beyond and noticed another shelter formed. A smile of relief appeared on his face when suddenly, the sense of danger skyrocketed. He turned around, put his arm up, a shield rose in front of him, while his other arm thrust his son and his friends far away behind. A second attack quickly followed destroying his protection. Unhealed, weak and tired, Miles Turner looked at it: a deformation in the atmosphere, round and clear, sun rays passing through, fast and mighty, wind flying around. Exposed, Miles Turner took the blow.

 

Chris stood up, dazed by the push. As he looked up, he witnessed the kinetic energy pierce through its target. His eyes widened, his heart rushed wildly in its cage. Adrenaline sparkled in his feet. Time slowed down. His father was still standing, his arm falling along his body. For a second, he was suspended in time. Then his legs surrendered. As his knees hit the ground, his shoulders leaned forward. Far, Chris felt a surge of electricity coursing in his veins. No! He ran, reaching for his dad. No! Before it collided with the soil, Chris caught his head. He kneeled next to him and gently lied him down. Without taking his eyes off of his father’s, he started to heal the wound. Don’t… Barely conscious, Miles Turner turned to his son, a smile drew on his face. He mumbled a few words, then reached for Chris’ chest with his fist. His heart was weak and unwilling to beat stronger. He slowly blinked and didn’t opened them again. No… Chris stared at the lifeless body of his remaining family. His last support system. His heart skipped a beat. Sound muted, ground, sky and sun vanished. Only a breeze could be felt. A discomfort formed in his chest, warm and growing. His hand held tight his father’s shirt. The ache spread to all of his cells. Tears appeared. He leaned over the body, closed his eyes and clenched his jaw. Powerful, emotions overwhelmed him. He screamed. Heavily. Loudly. Deeply.

 

 

The sound of engine in motion stopped him. He looked at the assaillants, fear on their faces. Breathing hard, Chris stepped over his father and walked to the chopper, his fists closed. Wind swiftly circled around him, growing bigger and bigger to imprison the machine. Air rarefied and temperature decreased. In their attempt of escape, Chris held his left hand up in their direction. With gravitation, he kept them into the eye of the cyclone. As he slowly closed his fist, sounds of metal bending clinked. A desperate attack aimed at the young man. The latter brushed it away in a single movement. Rage ambushed his heart. His muscles tensed, shaking. His hand closed more and more, shrinking the aircraft on its occupants. Chris hesitated. Water blurred his vision when he felt a second assault coming. Rage turned into hate. In a swipe, the helicopter crashed on the ground, a holler covering the explosion. The wind became uncontrollable, violent and everywhere. Clouds hovered above him, dark and frightening. Chris fell on his knees, sinking in his pain, still yelling. The ground trembled. Pressure dropped. Lightening appeared. His screaming faded into the storm. Empty, he surrendered. Chris stood up, looked up beyond the ceiling of clouds and took off. Wind stopped. Lightening disappeared. Sun rays broke through, revealing the blue sky. The atmosphere warmed up and the ground ceased to shake. The calm returned.

 

 

To be continued.

Life (22)

‘Huff….Huff….Huff….Huff…’ Miles Turner leaned on the wooden wall, his left hand hugging his stomach, blood dripping profusely. He looked behind him and waited. A minute passed. Immobile. Two minutes. His eyes traveled from side to side. Three minutes. Each leaves falling off of their tree were examined. Four minutes. Every shadows analyzed. Once assured he wasn’t tailed, Miles Turner limped along the wall to a door. His hand on the doorknob, he froze one more time, listening carefully to the music of the forest. His vision blurred. He opened the door, stepped in, gave one last look at the outside then locked the door. All blinds were shut. No light was in function. Darkness prevailed. As his eyes adapted, Turner walked to the couch he remembered being in the center of the room. First step. His muscles surrendered to gravity. Second step. His brain blackout for a millisecond. Third step. He stumbled. His head confronted the wood. Before losing consciousness, one thought emerged instinctively. Son.

 

He looked up, suspended in time and space. An unease appeared in his chest, spreading through his blood to his bones. His eyes scanned the room: centered in the living-room, Mike, a telescopic mic between his fingers, Charlotte, playing with a reflector, Sarah, holding a script, and John were discussing life while, in a corner Karen reviewed her notes and shots for the next scene. Noises were reduced to silent. Only the pounding of his heart inside his rib cage echoed louder and louder.

‘Chris…. Chris?!’ a voice from his left pulled him out of his zone. He turned to James, who just appeared from the kitchen, handing him an energy drink. ‘You’re OK?’ he asked as Chris Turner’s glazed over. The latter blinked back to reality then stared at his friend before turning his back. He walked to Karen, whispered a few words then headed out. Everyone remained silent and looked at Karen for explanation.

‘Something came up.’ She said, hoping it would be enough.

 

The air was cold despite the sun shining high and bright above the city. Chris walked in a rush through the crowd. Few steps behind him, John ran to catch up to him. ‘Hey! Ch… Dude! Wait up!’ He yelled when Chris took a right in a deserted alley. John followed the man and found the latter slowing his pace. ‘What’s going on?’ he asked once he was close enough. Chris glanced back and vanished. In the same second, John ran to grab his arm. Barely hanging on, he found himself projected in a dark room, where a shy light drew lines of familiar a coffee table, couches and frames. John recognized the Turner’s living-room. As his eyes went back on Chris, he saw something peculiar. Something he knew wasn’t a good sign. The next moment, he vanished again. His hand still holding Chris’ arm, John traveled through time and space with him. They found themselves in a cave, lit up by the humongous entrance behind them, giving to a beach. Waves crashed gently on the black sand as the moon continued its trip through the dark night. The cave was filled with nothing but two cots and an old military wooden box. The unpleasant feeling grew stronger. They disappeared again. On top of a sandstone, they could see miles and miles around them. The cloudless sky contrasted with the wavy sand below it. A warm wind shaped and reshaped the desert to its will, causing death to most of those whom dared to wander around it. Wow, the scene astonished John. A second later, the orange sea was replaced by a green field surrounding a house, covered by Hedera. The wind was fresher, an old tree shook its newborn leaves. Between his fingers, John felt trembles. He observed his friend: his face was closed, emotionless, his jaw clenched, his lips locked but his eyes traveled from left to right, as quick as a second goes. Chris pivoted on himself looking for something. A clue. John tightened his fist to not lose his grip. They vanished one more time. Shadows of massive trees darkened their sight, humidity elevated and birdsong echoed from all around. John’s patience hit its first limit. ‘What the….’, a hand covered his mouth quickly. He looked around, another house was hidden under leaves, before lying eyes on Chris. The latter signed him to stay silent then moved to the house with stealth. Chris sneaked a peek through a window, then walked to the front door. John followed. When they entered the abandoned house, Chris paced around in circle, scrutinizing each corner.

‘What is going on?’ John finally asked, but an unnatural breaking sound alerted both of them. They stared at the open door, waiting. John felt that someone was about to go through, a strong pressure embraced his arm. In a blink of an eye, he was transported to an island, water falling harshly from the sky. But as soon as he had a foot on the ground, he went through another trip, finding himself in a desert, in a the middle of a traffic jam, buried in snow, and finally knee deep in a rice field. ‘What the FUCK!!’ He yelled, freeing his arm. ‘What is going on? Use your words, man!!’ Chris looked at him dead in his soul. Not a word came out when suddenly, his eyes diverted to the sky. He scanned their location and whispered: ‘Something’s not right.’ Then he took John and vanished one last time.

The fertile soil changed to a dying grass, overheated and dehydrated. The discomfort John felt grew a bit more when the trembles stopped. Chris stood still as soon as he saw the barn with doors unlocked and swinging gently to the rhythm of the wind. He ran inside, leaving John on his own. The latter analyzed the surroundings, carefully then went in and locked the door behind him. The space was huge, with two floors. The first floor was reserved for common areas: a large living-room took most of the place, an open kitchen was settled in the back, a bathroom on the right, underneath a staircase, and a door in between them. The second floor was cut in half like a mezzanine, shared by three bedrooms. John moved forward slowly, imagining what was Chris’ life while he was on the run. The latter was kneeling next to one of the couches, blood draining all over it. John came closer. A man was lying, inanimate. He leaned over Chris’ shoulder. A beam of light emanated from the latter’s hands. The man’s breathing became stronger, his blood stopped dripping and his wounds slowly closed. Like a prayer, Chris repeated under his breath: ‘Come on, dad. Don’t leave me.’

 

To be continued.

Life (21)

He opened his eyes. Slowly. Heavily. The room was lit by a candle sitting on a nightstand to his right. His gaze got lost in the white ceiling for several minutes before he slipped into Morpheus’ arm one more time. A clinking noise snatched his mind out of the comforting darkness he was soothed in. His heart beat faster, his retina dilated and all of his muscles tensed at once. Sitting straight, he contemplated the sheets before taking a seat at the edge of the bed. His heartbeat slowed down, sweat dried on the his back, the dimmed light became less aggressive and his muscles returned to a relaxing state. He took a deep inspiration, while closing his eyes. Then exhaled.

‘What is it?’ He said in to the night surrounding him. One of his commander approached him: cautious, his pace was soft, head down. Dressed in all black, the man paused a second, then kneeled. His eyes traveled around his feet: the floor was made out of marble, as the rest of the room. Shiny, it revealed no trace of use. He glanced higher at his master clothed in white sweat pants covered by a white kimono. The dancing light revealed some bandages wrapping his neck. As soon as the commander raised his head to have a better look, gravity skyrocketed, smashing him down to the ground. Air became rare and temperature increased. He panted, his hands reaching for his throat ready to cut it wide open. As his lungs emptied, atmosphere returned to its normal pressure. Particules of oxygen multiplied around and in him. The man coughed indiscriminately, inhaling as much air as he could. He kneeled back in tremor with his eyes locked on his feet.

‘Miles Turner is close.’ He said, his voice reaching unnatural notes. A heavy silence settled. The commander remained immobile, his heart pounding loudly. He waited.

‘Eliminate him. At any cost.’ On that order, the man vanished into thin air in a swift sound of wind. The room fell back in a religious silence. Crackling of flames created a background music to the bleak scene. The master stood up, walked a few steps, light following his movements, then froze. He stared. Facing him was a mirror reflecting his condition. With his right hand, he brushed the tissu covering his eye. As memories emerged, he began to tremble. In an excess of rage, he ripped his bandages off, exposing a slash crossing his entire face. The scar was still red, unwilling to heal.

 

A horn rang out. It woke him up in terror. As he got off of his bed, a guard rushed in his room shouting words he couldn’t register. The guard then grabbed him by the arm to drag him into the armory. Wordless and lost, he was getting dressed in his combat suit. A mirror was brought to him revealing his unconfident stature. ‘Cal!’ a deep and familiar voice irrupted from his left, making him jump. ‘Don’t just stay there!’ The voice disappeared into the crowd, abandoning Cal Garner alone with his fears and doubts. In three deep breath, he gathered his energy and thoughts, and ran, head first, in the battle. The enemy was everywhere. They appeared from unthinkable places and disappeared as quickly. Balls of fire, strings of electricity and bodies of all kind flew from right to left, and vice versa. As he made his way to the bal room, Cal reflected on the reason of it all: storms, hurricanes, tsunamis, earthquakes, heatwaves, volcanic eruptions, fires, cyclones, epidemics, a natural disaster after another, Earth tried to restore the balance of his birth. Nature, herself, is rejecting you, thought Cal. Can’t you see? Arrived in the bal room, Cal analyzed the situation. His grandfather and his father faced the rule breakers. All four of them were worn out by the on going war. Exhausted, enraged and wounded, they stared at each other, dead in the soul. Unspoken words crossed the room, hitting their targets right through the flesh. There was no mercy. As he was about to participate in the protection of Humanity, he noticed him, a little behind with jaded and disdain look: the prodigal son, Chris Turner. Their eyes met, and in an instant, they ran to one another, spears of energy blasting, shields were held up until they clashed. Amidst supernatural elements, fists and kick moves hit their marks. The fight went on for several minutes, until their strength, equal, collided pushing each other respectively in a corner. Out of breath, Cal observed his opponent. He seemed hurt. Hurt by the chase. And oblivious to the consequences of his existence. In the next second, his adversary fired a sword of electricity toward him. Cal glanced on the right then deflected the attack. The aberration followed the movement with his eyes and witnessed his worst nightmare: his own power landed in his mother’s heart. Time froze.

All contenders watched Jean Turner fall on the ground. Blood spurted all around her. Chris Turner turned to Cal, beyond enraged. Without thinking, he gathered all of his remaining energy. Gravity became heavier. Light was absorbed. Cold invaded the room. Wind encircled him. He kept his eyes on Cal: hate was projected. As he threw his last attack, Cal did the same. Half a second later, the entire castle exploded in pieces, projecting everyone away.

Cal laid in the middle of debris, unable to move: his legs numb, his left hand crushed by a boulder, his right hand trembling, his heart gently beat, Cal stared at the blue sky over him. No clouds were in sight. A sweet breeze brushed his hair. As his consciousness slowly drifted away, he noticed a warmth enveloping his face. A bird came in his field of vision. As he followed it, he realized the darkness of his right eye. Horrified, his unconscious took over.

 

Sounds of steps, steady and quiet, pulled Cal out of the past. He stared at his reflection before a movement attracted his eyes, further beyond his shoulder. An old woman appeared behind a pillar. Dressed in a long robe, white, hidden every bit of her body, except for her visage, she looked at Cal. Bleak. Dancing shadows unveiled her traits. Cal recognized the undying priestess. The crackling of the flame, as subtil as it was, weighted the silence between them.

‘What do you want?’ He finally asked.

‘I’m asking you the same thing.’ She said. Cal paused then touched the disfiguring scar. He flinched as pain remained vivid.

‘His death.’

 

To be continued

Life (20)

‘Hé’, a gentle voice irrupted from her right, before a mild kiss swiftly poked her cheeks. Karen Sawyer’s eyes traveled from her notes to meet his. As Chris took a seat next to her, she put down her pen and gave him a smile. The silence between them disappeared when a barista stopped at their table.

‘Hello! What can i get you?’ She laid her look alternatively on the couple.

‘I’m good.’ Karen replied. The barista then turned to him, whom stared back at her, in silence. ‘He’ll have a cappuccino, please. Thank you.’ Once alone again, Karen looked at him, interrogative. He sweetened his face. ‘Did you tell John?’ She finally asked.

‘Yeah, yesterday.’ His voice wasn’t loud, but deep making it hard to understand without paying attention.

‘What did he say?’ Chris took a deep breath, exhaled, crossed his arms on the table and sank his head in them. Karen didn’t avert her eyes.

‘He asked too many questions. How? When? Why? How again? And What’s next?’ He exhaled one more time. ‘What are you working on?’

‘Just a short i’m going to shoot next month. So now what? What’s next?’ Chris turned his head. His death stare quickly vanished before her playfulness. ‘You look tired.’ She noticed.

‘I don’t know yet… I’m not sure…’ He whispered. Falling in a complete silence, Chris dived into her eyes as if the answer he looked for was there. She didn’t blink, her eyes locked on his, knowing his incertitude was justified.

 

A year and a half earlier, on a warm night, their traditional walk led them to a mountain outside of the city. Arrived at the top, both of them stood still amazed by the beauty that nature displayed in front of them. In a religious silence, they remained on their feet, waiting for the latecomer. ‘My mother died by my hand.’ Chris said when the first ray of sun revealed a different scenery. She looked at him, mouth open but speechless. He proceeded to unravel the many facts leading to that conclusion. He explained how his frustration influenced his mother to end the manhunt once and for all, how both of his parents asked him to stay behind for his own protection and how he disobeyed them. He paused a moment then carried on describing how his power was diverted by his nemesis to end up in his mother’s chest. She didn’t instantly died: the last thing she saw was her son taking a blow and bleeding profusely. Incapable of saving him, fear invaded every cell of her body. ‘The last thing i remember is her hand reaching out for mine.’ Chris fell into a silence as if he tried to contain his emotions. Throughout his tale, not once he turned away from the blinding light afar. His voice, broken at times, was steady and monotonous. He then turned to Karen, her eyes blurred by tears. ‘Do you think i became the monster they were so afraid of?’ A south breeze blew leaves off of the ground. She shook her head, a smile forming on her eyes and lips.

 

A cup suddenly appeared on their table. Chris’ eyes shifted from Karen to the cup to the barista whom slid the check beneath his drink before walking away. Karen grabbed her pen and scribbled on a blank page as Chris got sucked in the steam coming out of his mug. After a few sip, the latter snapped out of his world. He turned to Karen and stood up. She paused. ‘Come on, we’re gonna be late.’ He took her bag, the check and headed to the counter. He then joined her at the door and they headed to a secluded neighborhood where most buildings were deserted by humans. Homeless camped on the sidewalk amidst dumpsters and rats. Life here seemed to go by slowly, where problems were too heavy to matter anymore.

‘Where are we going exactly?’ Karen finally asked.

‘Here.’ He pointed at a overly tagged warehouse. He knocked at the door. Instantly, it opened revealing a giant man in a black suit staring down on them.

‘Name?’ The man asked.

‘Turner.’ The man scanned his list, looked a second time at the couple before nodding to them to enter. Once they were inside, the security guard closed the metallic door, sinking them into complete darkness. Karen reached for Chris’ arm. ‘It’s about to start’, he whispered as he squeezed her hand. They walked few steps then froze. Suddenly, lights of blue, yellow and orange painted walls, floor and roof, cadenced by the sound of a piano coming from afar and raising louder and louder. Sau’s artwork formed and moved around the structure, giving the audience a sense of belonging. As they admired the displayed artistry, Karen stopped a second, looked around then at Chris. She froze. Amused. Karen felt a warmth growing when she saw him. He wandered from one corner to another, his head spinning around trying not to miss a thing, his eyes sparkled at each new illustration, and his guilt evaporated, making way to a childish smile. His true self surfaced.

 

To be continued.

Life (19)

To: Chris T.

What’s up! Just to remind you, we have lunch in an hour. Be there.

Coldness took up residence in Toya City for months. The Sun granted its citizens a little bit more of its presence each passing day. Clouds traveled through the blue sky quickly, blew by a piercing wind. In his thin duffel vest, John Smith was standing in front of a restaurant, glancing at every passant that walked by. The world was living in shades of black. Faces were muffled in huge scarf, revealing only eyes staring at the pavement. John bounced up and down to warm himself up. His impatience began to show when he appeared at the corner of the street: his hands in his pockets, a black bomber jacket on, his head up, half-way covered by a hoodie, his look far away from this universe, Chris Turner walked slowly as if the weight of the world slowed him down. When arrived closer to him, John couldn’t help but smile.

‘I hope you’re hungry, we ordered for you.’ he said as they passed through the restaurant’s door. Sitting safely away from the entrance, a group of young people greeted the two new comers as they sat at a long table. Time froze for a second: sounds were reduced to the minimum, eyes crossed and met, and smiles were exchanged. Then the world’s cacophony rushed back in. Conversations floated. Laughs irrupted. Food was eaten, water flowed and coffee pots emptied. As time went by, John glanced a few times in Chris’ direction.

 

‘This needs to end.’ John remembered hearing. Those words ran around in his head. He asked the first concerned how he intended to end it all, but the latter didn’t care to reply. A week later, John received an unusual text:

From: Chris T.

Home

The sun passed his highest point when John found himself in Hamilton Street, his pace fast and his eyes locked on the red door. A discomfort grew in his chest as he got closer: never, in the last three years, John received an invitation to his home. He knocked once then stopped himself to pay attention: voices were shouting from within. A memory suddenly surfaced: an habit and agreement they had when one of them was coming to the other’s house, he would walk in, no permission needed. When John opened the door, he immediately noticed that sunlight occupied every corner of the house, giving the place a sense of forgotten warmth. The opposite of last week, he thought. He gently closed the door behind him and two steps in the entrance, a loud deep voice stopped him dead.

‘THE ANSWER IS NO!! YOU’RE STAYING HERE!‘ John looked ahead silently: in the living-room, father and son were both on their feet around the coffee table, facing one another. Their eyes locked on each other, nothing could disturb them. The air was thin and gravity stronger.

‘Why?’

‘We’re not having this conversation again. This has nothing to do with you…’ Miles Turner said.

‘We’re in this situation because of me! How can i move for…’

‘ENOUGH, NOW! You don’t get involved! You stay away from him!’ The father was pacing back and forth.

‘Involved? I’m already involved! I’ve been involved before i was even born! I’m not gonna stay put and do nothing! I can’t…’ Chris’ broken voice was trembling.

‘I SAID NO! This is not your war to fight!! It’s between him and me!! Not you!! So you stay here, safe!’

‘I’M THE ONE WHO KILLED HER!!’ Miles Turner froze half a second then turned to his son, rage invaded his face. ‘ONLY I CAN FIX THIS!’ In one hand motion, the coffee table flew and smashed into the wall. Miles Turner stepped closer to his son, grabbed the back of his neck, pulled him closer to his face, while putting his fist on his son’s chest. Chris didn’t flinch, tears watering his eyes locked on his father’s. John made a step forward, prepared to intervene, but the two men remained still. In his usual soothing voice, Miles Turner said:

‘You didn’t kill her.’ His son’s heart beat faster and stronger, his breathing was loud and panting, his fists tightened each passing second. ‘Remember that.’ Miles Turner pulled his son closer to finally hug him tight, whispering something to his ears. The latter resisted a brief moment before surrendering to the affectionate pressure.

 

After leaving the restaurant, the group headed to the girls’ apartment to chill in warmth. John slowed down his pace to Chris’. Smoothly, they separated themselves to the group, walking a few steps behind, safe from any lost ear.

‘The last lead was a bust.’ John said. No reaction. ‘We’ve been looking everywhere for two years, now, and still, no results.’ He glanced to his right. Still no reaction. ‘Your dad has been all around the globe and said there is no trace of him anywhere.’ Another glance. Nothing. ‘What makes you think we will be luckier?’ A ghost passed.

‘I found him.’ Chris announced. John turned to him, his mouth ready to yell but he restrained himself. Instead, he whispered:

‘What?’ Without another word, Chris pulled his phone out, unlocked the screen, opened a note and handed it to John. The latter took it and analyzed the device. Among all locations and random numbers written between city names, one line was enhanced:

1392 Camilla Rd, TOAI CITY

 

 

To be continued

Life (18)

Intense. Scarlet. Mesmerizing. The front door John Smith faced was red. Blood-red. Each groove were meticulously drawn. No brush stroke appeared on the canvas. It was smooth and consistent. The painter did a great job, he thought. But why red? It looks fresh too. Was it always this color? Did they repaint it recently? Are they trying to hide a mark or a symbol like in Teen Wolf? The more John stared at the colored door, the more he lost his sense of reality. Soon his surroundings turned red to become one with the chroma. His consciousness vanished, leaving his brain inactive. His eyes remained open, drying as a breeze blew. John stared. Further and further, his mind fled. Deeper and deeper, his eyes widened. His body slightly leaned over, called in, sucked into the abyss of the vibrant and daring color. Sensations were left behind: sound, touch, taste and smell. Only vision mattered. He leaned a bit more, his hand lifted to reach the door, when it suddenly opened showing darkness and light brown. The abrupt change of sight pulled John back to the world and his senses. He blinked frantically, reconnecting his brain cells. In front of him, there he was: nipples out, separated by a strange stone, a scar of the size of a baseball bat disrupting his otherwise unscathed body from side to side. Only jeans on, bare foot, Chris Turner stared at his childhood friend while drying his hair. ‘This routine needs to stop.’ John said in his breath. ‘I’m having a heart attack every time.’ Chris’ look pierced him through his bones. He remained silent, his eyes still wide opened. They stared at each other for a minute before Chris turned his back on the outside world to return in his nocturnal habitat. John followed his steps after another second of absence, then closed the red door behind him.

The inside was dark. All blinds were shut, only a light from the kitchen shelf on the left permitted John to quickly gaze at the area. On the right, the door leading to a vast high library was closed. Facing him, in the living room, bags were lying around, opened with clothes hanging. A shape of a staircase was formed by the wall shared with the kitchen. The first floor was obscur and impossible to distinguish. John took a seat at the counter next to his childhood friend. The heavy silence he thought they had overcome, seemed to have return. He looked around: everything was untouched, not a drop of water in the sink. He then glanced on his right to his mute friend whom gaze was locked into the wall in front of him. After a moment, as discomfort began to invade John’s mind, a clicking sound startled him. He turned around to analyze the darkness of the entrance.

A tall man approached, his pace slow and unsteady: his limp remained. When Miles Turner entered the light, he paused to take a long look at John: he was an older, softer and more like-able version of Chris, the latter thought. A few cuts disfigured the man but the lineage was visible. He then walked up to his son and put a little jar with a washed away label in front of him. Chris snapped out of his world and looked down. The content seemed to be a faded yellow thick cream barely used. He looked up to the man whom grabbed a little spoon, removed the over-plate, dug into the ointment and brought it to Chris’ mouth. The young man backed off, knocking his chair down. He held his towel tight in his hand, distrust in his eyes. The man stepped closer to him, still handing the spoon. The interrogative look on Chris was systematically followed by the spoon getting closer: a step forward for the man made the son step backward. The dance went on for two minutes.

‘Stop being a child and take this.’ The man finally said. ‘Your wound is opening again.’ as he pointed to his son’s body. But the latter didn’t turn away from his father, despite the blood dripping out. ‘It’s good for you, take it.’ Chris frowned and glanced at his father’s own wound. ‘I already had some. Now, it’s your turn.’

‘What is it?’ John asked, disrupting their exchange.

‘Disgusting. It’s disgusting. That’s all you need to know.’ Chris said. John turned to his mute friend, astonished that his voice echoed in the room. He then turned to Mr. Turner who handed the spoon to him, now.

‘Want to try?’ he asked.

‘Don’t!’ warned Chris. John felt confused.

‘So, where have you been the last few weeks?’, he asked. Mr. Turner sighed, limped to the knocked down chair, picked it up and sat.

‘As usual, here and there.’ The father said. Then a second of silent passed before he diverted to another subject.

 

As the sun was about to cross the horizon, passing the reins to the Moon, a swift breeze from the South blew leaves from the ground to the sky. Trees danced to their own chant accompanied by the electric buzzing of lampposts turning on. A stream of cars afar added to the relaxing melody of nature. Beneath the hoop, the young adults contemplated the scene in a complete silence. When the wind ceased to be, Chris stood up, walked a few steps then stopped.

‘This need to end.’ he stated. John laid eyes on him. He understood what this meant. He, in turn, stood up and asked:

‘How?’

Chris turned to him. In his eyes, a fierce feeling rose from deep down of his soul: anger.

 

 

To be continued

Life (14)

His breath was heavy and loud. His steps slowed down as he closed up on destination. He looked around him: dumpsters were filled to the brim, moonlights reflected on the plastic bags lying around against walls creating a path through the darkness of the night. A can rolled behind him. The young man, startled, turned around, his heart ceased to beat. He froze, analyzed the origin of the noise and waited. Suddenly, a furry tailed creature ran out from behind a cardboard box. The young man exhaled of relief, then proceed with his plan. He looked at the fire escape above him, still out of breath. Why did i run? He judged the distance between the first ladder to the ground, took few steps back and ran. His feet left the gound and his hand reached for the stairs. At his apex, his fingers barely brushed past them. ‘Oh, dude!’, he whispered as he stumbled. ‘Shouldn’t have run’. He warmed up his ankle and went again. This time, he had a strong grasp on the ladder. He pulled himself to the first floor where he took a second to get his breath back. ‘Man…I’m heavy.’ He climbed to the second floor and looked through the window facing him. A shy light allowed him to see the empty bedroom. Untouched for days. No one’s home. The young man sighed as he looked down. ‘Damn it! Where are you?’, he whispered to himself before going back to the ground.

‘John!’ The latter froze at the sight of a silhouette at the end of the street. The  voice was deep and strangely calm. The two men approached each other with caution. John squinted his eyes to make sense of lights and shadows on the man’s face. In a second, his eyes widened. Oh shit… John realized he just had an anime reaction: swallowing loudly his saliva. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘I, i was just…’ His sentence was left in suspension. The man in front of him waited. John raised his shoulders, stared at the man, looked behind him then back to the man. He sighed. ‘He’s still not there.’

‘Son.’

‘Father.’

‘Stop searching for him.’ John looked away. ‘You know, i start to find it annoying repeating myself.’ They shared another look. ‘I really do enjoy this bromance that you have with him. What? I can’t use the word bromance?’

‘How do you know the word? That’s the real question.’

‘Saw it on the internet. Do we say ‘the’ internet or just internet?’

‘Internet.’

‘Noted.’ A ghost went by. ‘Garner is back. If they see you lurking around here, they’ll get to you. And that’s not something either one of us want. Miles didn’t just take his son and run away. He left to lead them away from us. To protect us.’ He paused. ‘But if you keep on looking, it will all be for nothing. Now, let’s go home.’

 

Spring came around. Winter slowly left the city to invade the other hemisphere of the planet. John kept on walking by Chris’ house at random hours, in hope of finding signs of change, but everything remained still. On a sunny afternoon, John knocked at a wooden door endlessly for the last five minutes. Out of no where, the door widely opened. John stepped back then froze, his heart pounding against his chest, his eyes widened. There he was, standing, a pair of jeans on, shirtless, leaving his scar in plain view, his face closed and his eyes yelling: WHAT?

‘Hé! It’s been a long time.’ John paused with a huge smile on his face. ‘Where have you been?’

 

To be continued