Nano 2012 Day Five

They stood tightly holding each other for a few seconds then Tina suddenly jumped back. “What? Oh…” Menelaus realized his pants were a little tight. “Oh..I’m..”

“Don’t stress. But control it, seriously. You know, I don’t think of you like..”

“Yes! Yes, I know. No, it was just, I don’t know why this was…”

“Anyway, forget it.” She gave him a curious smile. “You have some crazy timing sometimes.”

Menelaus wasn’t sure what to say. He scratched  his stomach. “Umm…”

Tina turned away, “forget it! Let’s find that hospital.”

“Yeah, let’s go somewhere with doctors.”

“Because you’re sick?”
“exactly.”

--

The leather chaise was extremely comfortable under the mime’s frame as he lay back on it. He heard it creak, felt the hide give slightly under his weight and the ever-present cool of the surface break through his clothes to his skin. But only a slight amount, a pleasurable amount. He leaned back, kicked off his mime slippers and swung his feet onto the chaise, enjoying the feel of the air whooshing past them. He had never quite noticed that feeling before. He leaned into the leather further, letting his head sing onto the raised cushioned part at the top and reached over to grab his cocktail ready made on the side table. He took a sip, relished the fruity flavours of it, and put it back then closed his eyes. Behind his eyelids danced the fire of the mime training ground. He could feel the heat radiating off the building, could smell the burning chemicals of his suitcase mixture, could hear the concussive blasts… and see the shadowy figure running away. Surely no-one could escape that blast? No, he shook the memory out of his head. No-one escaped. A trick of the light post-explosion wasn’t going to diminish his pleasure.

He closed his eyes again, and this time let the flames dance merrily before his eyes, enjoying the glow. He deliberately let the scene stay out of focus and slowly drifted off to sleep. In sleep, his subconscious turned to memories of a past long ago, but not one forgotten or forgiven.

He was six years old and living in a basement apartment that leaked. He lived with two faceless individuals that were most likely his parents though he could barely remember them. He supposed he should have been remembering “the warmth of his mother’s love” or “his father’s strong protective hands” but these things did not come to him. Six really wasn’t so young to forget such things, was it? Nevertheless, they were strangers to him. His dream child self looked at the faceless figures in bemused studiousness. “Wait,” he thought to himself, “I’m dreaming this. How strange. But I remember this happening. Can I change the events of the past?”

Everything went dark. The world seemed to have changed orientation. He could feel heavy blankets on him, smell clean sheets. There was the sound of a table being pushed over in the hallway outside his room. “Guess things stay the same after all…” he thought to himself and the door slammed open and hit the wall. A shadowy figure was framed in the door by the hallway light, it was too bright for the young boy’s eyes to adjust quickly enough. He sat up in bed bolt upright and the shadow figure was there at his bedside in what seemed like an infinitesimally small amount of time, with his hands on either side of him and his face right next to his. He hissed into his ear, “No sound. Your parents are dead. You want to live.” The strong smell of cinnamon and peppermint blew across the boy’s face as the stranger talked. Next they were up and out, one hand holding onto his shoulder tightly and guiding him, the other clamped over his eyes. He was guided down the stairs and towards where he knew the front door would be. He could smell strongly the smell of gasoline. They went out the door and the cold night concrete made the bare skin on the soles of his feet shrink away.

The world smelled the same but different. As if there was an air of menace to the world outside. He remembered the breath of his assailant leading him across the footpath and onto the grassy area before the street. Does he chew two different types of gum? Was it a cake he had eaten? He felt a sharp pain go through his foot and up his leg. "Oww!" he yelled out. The hand came off his shoulder and clamped over his mouth, cutting his complaint short. "Don't forget what we talked about." Came the soft voice above his head and the hand came off his mouth and back onto his shoulder. He was nudged forward by the hand again. He remembered now, he told him his parents were dead. Dead and gone. He wondered how he felt about that as he limped along the grass and then was pushed into what he guessed was a van at the side of the road. His thought was confirmed with the sound of a big heavy door being slid along rails, that was only on a van, right?

The hand came off his eyes just long enough for him to see a black strip of cloth coming towards him and then it was tied around his head blackening his eyesight yet again. He heard the engine of the vehicle start up and then felt them all move. No-one around him was talking. He decided he would risk talking out loud again. "Can I talk now?" he asked.

"Sure."

"Where are you taking me?"

"You'll see."

"Why did you kill my parents?"

There was a long pause.

"It's just how it's done."

"Oh."

He felt a tear run down my cheek. A tear for my faceless, loveless parents. Weird. I waited to be rebuked for it, He felt that the people around me did not like any displays of emotion. There was nothing, just the vague light smell of several guys and their BO. I mean, the van didn't stink of guy sweat but these guys didn't really use much else but roll on. There was no expensive cologne on olfactory display in this group though thankfully it also meant there was no cheap Lynx hanging around either. It probably didn't pay in that line of work to really stick out in any way, even something like a smell could identify you later. Although what kind of work was it? He still had a vague thought of this not being real, a dream of some kind. The more he thought about it though, the more likely he was just in shock. Still, what did he know about shock? He was just nine years old. He must have seen it on a program his parents were watching on TV. In any case, what work involves breaking into a house, killing a couple and then stealing away with their kid? Professional abductors?

"Are you going to be holding me for ransom?"

"Is there someone who would pay a ransom for you"

Hmm. Good point. He had a vague idea of having a grandfather in Paris, though he had never met him or heard much from him. There was some sort of falling out between his grandfather and his father so they never spoke and they never really spoke about him. He got a birthday present from him about three times that he could remember, and it was always something like a little wooden toy that wasn't much fun to play with.

He guessed those wooden toys were probably in the attic still. He remembered the smell of gasoline as they walked out the door. "Are... are you guys going to burn my house down?"

There was no answer. The ride continued in silence. After a few minutes the blindfold started itching. He reached up to itch and the guy sitting next to him grabbed his arm and pulled it back down to his side.

"It's itchy." he said and shifted himself around on his butt uncomfortably. "Do I even need this on? Don't you gys have blacked out windows on the van or something."

"Just be quiet."

"Why should I? You've killed my parents, you're probably going to burn down the house, you're probably going to kill me anyway." This time he started to cry. He could taste the tears as they hit his mouth. That would be right, one tear for his parents but a river for himself. His self-pity tasted very salty, like the ocean. He was swimming in his sorry ocean of sorry thoughts for his sorry thoughts. For a second he felt disconnected from himself and wondering how he even recognised his selfishness, wasn't he too young for that? Why is he even thinking of himself as young?

"Is this a dream?" he said out loud. An unfamiliar voice answered across from him,

"All of life is a dream. A technicolour hallucination that we are merely playing in."

"Does that mean I can control it? Like, the time time I realised I was dreaming in a dream, I was able to fly."

"While it is true we are masters of our own destiny for the most part," the unfamiliar voice continued on, "No. This time you are in our control and if you try to do anything that's not... in the script shall we say... we won't allow you to continue."

"Why should I even care if I continue?"

Once again, silence. Obviously they were daring him to try and put an end to this continuation. He realised that this was three times now that he had challenged them and each time they had just waited for him to naturally shift his thoughts to something else. Could they read his thoughts? Did they know he would become distracted every time he yelled out? Who even were these guys? This time he wouldn't allow himself to be distracted. "I said why should I care? Why won't you answer that question?"

"You want to live."