His stare wasn’t empty; instead it was filled with years and years of what was best left forgotten... Every red vein in the former milky whites of his eyes though, which over those years of abuse had turned a faded yellow, told of a more material ruin, like glazed windows that would never again reveal what lay in the shadows on the inside.
His dried crusty lips quivered. His gaze fell down, catching sight of his own trembling hands. And then the deep familiar hurt welled up in his chest. His mind drifting to the thought of a woman he once knew – who once called herself his friend – and how she’d hung on in those final minutes. He wondered about that; what hanging on to life must feel like. From where he sat, it was all a little sad… a sad quiet; no more talking, no more pleading, because a life had been terminated, swept aside, and there was little fan fair, little commemoration. So anticlimactic...
As if someone had asked him “… may I live?”, and he’d looked down and answered: “No.” But instead of that word, he’d used his hands.
The stare, the coffee table and the R381, ‘Oh yes, that road…’ he remembered it all now – was it the right one? Just like the hurt brimming inside, so came that old guilty feeling, settling like foam. He knew; he saw and he knew what would make it all go away. It came to him like a dream; ‘oh yes, that dream’ he remembered that too now… it sometimes happens that way; you’re thinking of something else and then suddenly fumes of recollection of a different world wafts in…
My Dream:
It was about time running out, and of course, just running away… I suppose it’s always something like that, isn’t it? A gravel, dead stretch of road, somewhere in the Karoo, wait, no, there was grass, so it had to have been further north, closer to where the flowers grow and bloom in spring… or was it south, the R353 maybe, from Leeu Gamka. Only, this time there was no flowers, and it was in the dark, at night. Sometimes I’d pass by a windmill – just the silhouette mind you – funny that, since there was no moonlight. In some of them there’d be two lights heading directly toward me, growing brighter in the darkness. In those ones I’d always wake up just before the light engulfed me; just before impact.
Mm, there were never any stars or moon in the sky… that’s how I knew I was dreaming, even in the clearest night sky: nothing, just blank, every single time.
I knew what it was all about…
The getaway:
One of his greatest fears arising from the unseen depths within him, percolated to the surface every so often. This was all he was good at, and, it was the worst part of him. It was a way of getting in and getting away at the same time – his only escape. It committed those around him to believe they knew him, “his kind” – whatever that means. But the few he trusted believed it was a necessary evil. Once he’d even tried liberating himself with Muti – he didn’t believe in it mind you, but when you scrape bottom, you’ll be willing to try anything once, sometimes, just to get a leg up. When you’re down, you’re really down. Sometimes when your brain is on a ‘go slow’ it can convince you of the strangest things. He knew the lie he was living had matured over years and taken root within a hidden truth – one he kept very secret. A small confession he betrayed only to himself, and only in the darkest, lowest moments – the truth that he actually liked it. Was it really a revelation? No, it’s not like he was alone in this struggle. Be it lines, holes, rocks, pipes, money, smoke; everyone has their fix, governed only by the tick of the everyday clock.
He looked down at his watch… the hands of time ticking away as always. Time. He was beginning to make sense of it again, slowly, the same issues, the same old habits. Time. He’d lost quite a lot of that.
(*continuing from blog entry here*)
My Guilt:
Shooting someone tends to cause a bit of that, if you have a working clear conscience anyway, and especially if that person you removed from this life was someone decent, and even more so when the victim was supposedly your friend. I remember looking down at her, hanging on to that fading spec of life, still glimmering defiantly in her heart and eyes. Then came that sound; that throaty gurgle filling the air as the walls of her throat caved in, slowly. With a shrewd look in her eyes, a cold deathly but brave stare that displayed the truth: the betrayal she could tell no one about… and then I saw as her eyes went grey – not the color mind you, although there is something of a grey air to eyes that are no longer alive.
To this day, I can still feel her neck in my hands; and with that feeling, comes the hunger in my veins. Have you ever felt your body whisper? It quivers you know, asking for more… There is still some fight left in my heart, there must be. I think that’ll never go away. Maybe it’s a dying fight; the one that only stops when I do – when I die. My Pa used to say that I will never die, not anytime soon anyway, because I’m too much of a pain on everyone around me. Come to think of it; that was the last thing he said to me.
And I thought I could fix it. I thought I could make it right; make it like it never was, like it should have been.
A long sleep:
My eyes opened one at a time, like they usually do when I wake up – something about a dry tear duct.
I looked. No movement here; I can see my feet. I didn’t really want to be awake just now, but, there’s something I have to do. I can see my nostrils flaring as I sniff the air, but I don’t recognize any of this; the room or the smell.
“You don’t remember anything do you?” I hear a woman’s voice say through what seems like a morning haze, “I’ll never understand you. Do you even know where you are?”
I don’t.
I look over my shoulder, trying to find the origin of this voice. I can make out something. My neck is starting to ache. Her face is obscured by the light coming in through the dirty window behind her. The same light hurting my eyes.
I try blinking, and then resting my eyes for a second. Neither works. “Doesn’t matter?” my voice sounds strange – flat. “I’m here now. So, tell me why.”
No answer. Did I forget the magic word?
She seems tense, or maybe nervous; hell, maybe she’s just distracted. Anyway, she’s definitely thinking of something.
“I’m tired of this now. I’m always having to clean up after you. Why don’t you look down – maybe you’ll find some of your answers.”
She was right of course. I was losing it a bit in these last few months. I could have handled myself better. Well, she always has something sensible to say… usually blunt advice that presses down on where the truth hurts the most.
So I follow her advice. I look down…
I’m still a bit confused. I try focusing, looking at the rest of my body. My eyes come to rest on something in my hand. It takes a moment for me to register that it’s a knife. How is this helpful? For some weird reason I’m compelled to test the blade – on my finger. Sometimes, those sorts of thoughts seem normal, especially when you’ve been through the dark up the pipe. I’m looking at my scarred thumb print and find a nice small open patch of skin. After a slow clean swipe, I watch the steady stream of red trickle down to my wrist. It is a beautiful color. I rub the blood with my index finger, smearing the redness. In these moments there’s only one thing to do; so I raise my hand to my face to take a long thoughtful sniff of the wetness. That unmistakable smell… something, something strange… a different kind of pain, but I’ve felt this before.
*
She watched as his eyes squeezed shut, his body rigid.
When his eye flickered open a few minutes later, they were pinkish and moist with tears.
He looked about as if seeing things for the first time, before glaring down at his bleeding thumb. He remained still for a while but it was a heavy stillness, weighted down by an old dancing burden.
The woman sat, watching him, patiently, waiting for his disquiet to unravel. She’d seen this too many times.
“I don’t understand you. Why do you keep doing that with your thumb?”
He breathed with distaste, as if the air was unfamiliar to his tongue. It took a few seconds for him to prepare a response. “It’s just a reminder. Its like home, I mean… it’s just to reset things, you know. Been doing it for years now… an old thing.” The pain was slow to come and very distant. He closed his eyes again. For a moment she thought he’d passed out. Then his body shivered and his eyes shot open.
“Hmm yes” he was groaning through a clenched jaw, “Now I remember.”
His manner changed, as if embodying a different man. Speaking in a measured tone, every word was like a carefully formed arrow, being drawn slowly, shot with meticulous precision.
“I, have a message, for you.” He looked about him as if expecting to be overheard, “I’m not ready. You can tell them that. When they come asking.”
She stood up, shaking her head, turning to leave.
“No one cares. I’m talking to you – no one cares about you. That’s what happens when you don’t pick sides…” He didn’t believe all his words, and had he been more lucid, he might have felt bad about saying them – she didn’t quite deserve this... but there was just enough blunt truth in there somewhere to warrant some indulgence.
“Mm. Yah, says you hey. Where you are now – you in the middle, one foot on either side of the line.” She walked to the door, pausing at the wall cabinet to its left. A photo frame was lying face down on top of a stained doily. She smiled to herself, straightening the wrinkles in the doily – she wondered who’d given it to him; sister or mother. “I remember him. He used to be a civil, something like a normal person.” After the quick glance at the old faded image she replaced the photo. The younger generation seldom put up photos like this in their houses anymore. Everything’s just gone digital. “You hardly have any furniture but you keep this.”
He squinted at the picture frame, unable to really make out anything from where he sat. After blinking a few times he raised his thumb to his lips, dabbing the redness with his tongue. He remembered the first and the last time that he tasted his own blood, willingly – simply satisfying curiosity. He was still a boy then, a strange feeling, and strange taste – makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand up…
“Don’t understand. None of them understands. You go into a room; it’s like a dragons den. You have to let them come. And let them come close… feel the fire travel down your veins, like slow poison. You see,” he said but there was no one in the doorway, she already left. “… If you don’t, they’ll eat you alive.” He was whispering to himself now. “First they’ll take your flesh, very quickly, and it does hurt. Then they cook your bones.” His voice descended further to a mumble, “All of a sudden, there’s nothing. Nothing but ash and a stain on the carpet… humans at their worst… craving.”
“BELIEVE ME! I’VE SEEN IT. I’ve seen it. I’ve seen...” Pointless; shouting at the wall. My throat is sore again, “You don’t understand. No one does. They’ll kill you quick, or you can become one of them. And yah, you’ll die slowly, but from the inside, isn’t that how we’re all supposed to go?”
“Okay. I’m ready…” Jislaaik, since when is rolling over so hard.
He hugged the couch to help himself up. Still on his knees, with every breath a concerted effort, he lay his head down on a flat dirty cushion, closing his eyes to rest awhile as some drool oozed from his lips.
My reoccurring dream:
Somnia… Lights in the rearview mirror this time… I’m driving in an open field. The car’s jerking around, so I must be on a gravel road or something. Dammit, must have blacked out. Never been this far though. What happened back there? I just remember the big flash of lights before impact… now those lights are chasing me.
The call:
It took nearly fifteen minutes for him to crawl to the landline. Somehow his fingers found the right numbers. It was the only number he’d made himself memorize.
‘The one number in my life that counts for something’ he thought. Voicemail. ‘Mm, probably deserve that.’
When the beep came, he spoke into the receiver, saying everything; whatever he felt needed saying.
The promise:
Leila held the phone to her ear, listening to the recorded messages– there were only two.
Her focus switched from the TV when the second one started. It began with a cough, and some heavy breathing, a few indecipherable mumbles later and, “… I know. I know, what I said. Everyone thought. All agreed… sorry, but I did try… No. No I didn’t. I said I would but... It was the war you know. I’ve been carrying it with me. I was clean, but when I saw the white lines again… the fire began to burn, again. I think I wanted it this way. Your boy was just the excuse. I saw him you know? … He looked, well… he looked like he normally looks, just… So. I left a note here, where he’s staying.”
She sat forward listening, and then she played the message again. And then she played it a third time.
He was alive. Her boy was alive. She shook her head fighting the smile. For all his faults, he actually found him. He didn’t say whether he’d called the police or not, but that didn’t matter just now. She wrote the number down and then stared at the little page. He’d always been troubled... First it was the streets of Grassy Park, then Strand, Mitchell’s Plain; then she heard he was staying with a friend in Lavender Hill. Maybe that was why he enlisted in the first place – to clean up. When he came back he was quieter than he was ever before – he was never that talkative mind you, but when he came back after nearly a dozen years… he was just different. It wasn’t a surprise when he volunteered to go after her boy. If there was anyone who could manage it, it was him. On his good days – this was before he left – he’d always been so direct. He’d set his mind to something, and go all out; committed to a fault.
She dialed the number, whispering into the receiver repeatedly: “… pick it up…” her eyes were closed. She was pinching the bridge of her nose, “Pick up the bloody phone…”
The last Walk:
The phone was ringing in his apartment, but he was already stumbling down the bare concrete stairwell. It wasn’t much of a distance, but it felt like forever. His fingers were tingling and he couldn’t feel his feet, along with many other parts of his body. When he eventually got to the doorway, exiting the block, he pulled out his mobile, pressing the speed-dial. They were waiting just a little way down the road, around the corner, probably behind the Seven Eleven; possibly checking their firearms, strapping on their vests.
Somehow he made it across the tarred court, past the weeds in the cracks and under the washing lines bopping in the Southeaster. He nodded to the ‘guard’ at the door – he could never remember his name. He smelled of dagga and brandy, but that’s not why he was here. Walking into the gloom, he immediately relaxed. He was where he belonged now; with his people, his kind.
He sat down on the couch, staring at the mess on the coffee table. There was mess everywhere, but it was hard to see because most of the windows were blacked out. An old lamp was on in the corner – one of those energy savers – light bulbs are more endangered than rhino’s and perlemoen in these parts.
*
“Won’t be long now…” I heard myself say. I leaned forward to take a closer look the center of the table.
“What kind?” Someone behind me in the dark. I can smell his stink. But I’m not worried about that.
“Just one more line…” Mm, this feels right, “always knew it would end this way. Has to…”
“Come again?”
“The war nearly had me you know… running around in the Congo – for what? For who?” I move forward a little, studying the white lines on the table. The powder is in the air. I can see the particles dancing in the dim rays of light, whispering to me. Before I know it the plastic straw is in my hand. It feels big, like a sword. I can still feel the last of the pins and needles in my fingertips. Lowering my head, I put the straw to my nose; take a couple of quick sniffs, not to test the straw, but to test my nose.
“HEY, hey. Look don’t touch bra…” Same voice. Same stink.
I tilt my head sideways. Stinky always carries a gun – I must remind myself that this is his den – it’s in his hand now. I’ve come here for the last few months, and I still can’t even remember this guy’s name. Names aren’t really our style. I feel numb now – weird hey, since weapons of any kind usually make you feel more alive. And I’ve seen and felt my fair share. Metal, skin, smell of gunpowder, the trigger, smoke, skin, sweat, dirt, blood and then more powder – burning this time.
I’m now just thinking: ‘He’s probably joking; holding a gun to a loyal client’s head, bad for business. Then again, maybe he isn’t; stinky doesn’t have favorites – there will always be business. Maybe, just maybe, he knows everything’.
I sense that on the other side of this gun, this guy is smiling down at me in the dark; like I’m a hopeless insect under his thumb.
“Shh... You know I’m solid man. Come now, let’s play nice.” Well, let’s see if that works.
Hmm, I think I hear him chuckling. With these guys you can never tell what’s a laugh and what’s a cough. I’m looking at the straw again, and then at the white lines right here under my nose, and I’m thinking ‘… this must be why the war didn’t take me. I saw the lights, went down that road so many times, sidestepped it all… brought me here, between this line and that gun. I wonder if it’s even loaded.’
I’m thinking of his neck now. My hands won’t make it that far. Not sure I’m even up for it; I’m too relaxed, swaying with dancing particles. Besides, who tattoos lizard eyes over their throat? Faded green, wrinkled eyes.
Turning my head a little more I can just about see the barrel in the corner of my eye.
I could have sworn; maybe it’s just my imagination, maybe, or the white lines flirting with my mind, or has my hearing improved by some miracle – not likely, but possible. I must be imagining the sound of the spring in the trigger mechanism being suppressed.
Does that even have a sound? But I thought I heard something, maybe the particles whispering.
Wait, was that footsteps outside? Did I just see a shadow pass by the window? Did I hit the right speed-dial? Is my phone even on?
I think I need more time? But that’s not really in my hands? Ag it’s okay; my nephew’s alive… I came into this; chasing, saving youth – what’s left of it. Maybe this is how it’s supposed to be…
In the army there was a time when a few of us, we used to study death… just because. I think now I finally understand that Latin term Arte moriendi… the art of dying. Maybe it can only be. Maybe. Maybe it can only be understood in these moments, there’s little fan fair, no commemoration.
For some men think that falling on their sword is a good way to go… suppose my sword is a straw then. What does that say about me?
“Tell me, I think I was confused earlier. Can a man be a dragon? I thought I was one? You, you really had me going hey; I almost believed… Mm, I’ll inform you though; you better make sure, I’m the type that doesn’t go down so well – I’ve been swallowed and spat out twice before… Although I will be honest, this is a first, the white line never lies you know. Didn’t you tell me that; that it’ll show you what you really are? Has it ever lied to you? It’s never lied to me… until now. ‘Til today…