Monochrome (11 page)

“Tis midnight, but small thoughts have I of sleep:

Full seldom may my friend such vigils keep!

Visit her, gentle Sleep! with wings of healing,

And may this storm be but a mountain-birth,

May all the stars hang bright above her dwelling,

Silent as though they watched the sleeping Earth!”

Abigail’s spirits rose. She realized that she was walking down the path quickly, almost floating. She hadn’t even told her feet to move. They seemed to be connected to that voice and the beautiful ode. The air took on spring-like warmth, as Abigail followed the deep tones urging her forward.

“With light heart may she rise,

Gay fancy, cheerful eyes,

Joy lift her spirit, joy attune her voice;

To her may all things live, from the pole to pole,

Their life the eddying of her living soul!”

The closer to the voice, the more pleasantly warm the air became. Abigail was surprised to see a white light ahead. She rushed towards the light, wanting to greet the voice that warmed her. She let go of herself, and her body rushed down the path towards the light, which shone brighter.

“O simple spirit, guided from above,

Dear Lady! friend devoutest of my choice,

Thus mayest thou ever, evermore rejoice.”

The ode stopped and Abigail stood behind a man who was sitting near a beautiful pond, which was covered in water lilies. The trees beyond the pond were not a morose, dark blue, like the trees leading here, but an unearthly green, hanging with large white blossoms. The small setting was bathed in a soft, warm light.

Without turning around, the man spoke. “Are you warm?”

Abigail walked until she was right behind the man. “Yes. Thank you.” This close, she saw he was wearing a medieval-style tunic, trousers and boots, which made her smirk until she realized she was wearing a medieval empire dress, lily-white with flowing sleeves.

The knight faced her and she laughed to see who it was. “My Lancelot.”

Ishmael ran his hand through brown-blonde hair and held it out to her. “My Guinevere.”

She put her hand in his and he drew her close to his warm body. He leaned in, his beard tickling her cheek, and whispered in her ear:

“A man had given all other bliss,

And all his worldly worth for this.”

He placed one hand behind her head and one on the small of her back, pulling her against him. His breath touched her mouth as he finished:

“To waste his whole heart in one kiss

Upon her perfect lips.”

Abigail closed her eyes and reveled in the warmth of Ishmael’s body. His hand pressed against the back of her head, pulling her towards his lips. She was confused and anxious, but allowed herself to be pulled towards him. Her mind was a pleasant fog, but as his lips touched hers she shoved her knight away. “I’m married!”

Abigail tumbled off the bed and onto the cold, firm floor of their room.

Ishmael peered his head over the side of the bed. He chuckled groggily. “I realize you’re married, weirdo, but it’s cold on the floor, as you can see, and I was not about to gallantly freeze to death.”

She stood, unsteady from sleep and the unsettling dream, and stretched her back. “Some knight.”

Ishmael just smirked and sat up. “Good morning, Abby. Nice dreams?”

“Three were depressing and one was horrifying.” She didn’t know why she threw in the last hit, since he didn’t know what she meant by it, but her comment served to amuse him.

“Well, at least it was a warmer night near the end. With the two of us in bed, it got pretty hot in here.” He winked.

Abigail didn’t know why, but she maintained an impossible suspicion Ishmael did, in fact, know her dream, that he was responsible for it.
Don’t be silly, Abigail. People can’t give dreams,
she reassured herself.

He stretched his tattooed arms in the air. “Near the end there, I slept very well. I’m sorry your dreams were so upsetting. I don’t remember all of my dreams, but the last one was,” he paused, his brown-green eyes sparkled, no trace of the cloudy black swirls from last night, “beautiful.”

She backed away, stunned but unwilling to let him get to her. “Well, I hope you enjoyed your stolen stay by my side because this is the last time we share a room. You’re lucky I wasn’t surprised into hurting you.” He snickered at her comment, which annoyed her further.

He either didn’t think she was strong enough to hurt him or thought she might and did what he did regardless.
He wouldn’t be laughing if I’d blackened his eye.
She stalked towards the sink, ready to wash her nightmares and her…other nightmare…away from her eyes.

*

Ismael told Abigail he needed to go downstairs to call his boss. She hadn’t even thought about him having a boss. He seemed to do whatever he wanted, when he wanted to do it.
I guess someone pays him, though.
She thought about the strange rocks he used as currency.
But who?
At her insistence, he’d closed his eyes and tried to bring up a memory in which he was dressed differently. It kind of worked. He was now wearing a tight white t-shirt and black jeans. He looked a little like Keifer Sutherland in
The Lost Boys
, the thought of which made her insides quake pleasurably. His pea coat and hat remained firmly of this world. He put them both on before leaving the room to make his call.

She quickly washed up and glanced out the barred window. The silver light hung in the air again, glazing the shabby wood and brick buildings of the town. A few people milled about aimlessly on the streets, but mostly the town was void of life, though she imagined the buildings were occupied, as much as this one was.

A cold draft still drifted through the window. She closed her eyes and thought of the chill and the long day ahead. Though her sleep was anything but restful, she felt slightly renewed. The cold air held wisps of autumn, which was much better than the nothingness normally blanketing this world. Concentrating, she felt knee-high boots close around her calves. Wool stockings climbed her legs. She traipsed to the mirror, happy to see she was wearing an orange sweater dress with a cowl, grey wool stockings, and brown knee-high boots. One of her favorite fall outfits.

Abigail walked over to the chair holding her mustard coat and grey scarf and put them over her arm.
I could get used to changing this way
, she thought.
But there are a lot of things I could not get used to here.
She surveyed the room to make sure she hadn’t left anything, and shut the door on the cold, musty room. She trudged down the hall to the stairs, her entire body shivering and tense as she avoided looking at the bathrooms behind her, and headed towards the lobby.

In the lobby, she asked the same desk clerk where Ishmael was.
Did the man never sleep?
He raised his sleepy purple-rimmed eyes to her, and responded that the only communication line was in the bar.

She walked into the dark, smoky bar reluctantly. It reminded her of the grey-haired man. Her stomach lurched and tears sat behind her eyes. She swallowed and breathed out brokenly. She told herself she’d done what she had to do, but killing another human, no matter the human, takes its toll on a person’s mind, and she felt like she wore the attack on her person, a heavy, unwanted trophy.

She wearily approached the bar, which had very few open seats, although it was early morning. The older woman from last night was still tending bar.
Does no one sleep here?

She slowly approached Abigail, and raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Heard about last night.” She intoned in a husky, smoker’s voice. “The outcome surprised me. I put my moon on the Traders.” The woman scratched her grey-red hair and sneered. “Can’t judge a book, I guess.” She glared at Abigail as though it was her fault she was down one moon.

Abigail was appalled this woman knew what the Traders planned for her but did nothing—nothing but place a bet on whether or not she’d make it through the attack. Bile stuck in Abigail’s throat and her hands shook at her sides. She pictured punching the awful woman in the face, to show her just what she’d missed out on, but one look at her pitch-black eyes changed Abigail’s mind.

The woman was lifeless. It was a good thing she didn’t believe in kicking someone who was already down. She counted backwards from ten in her head. The older woman started to shrink back at the look in her eyes. Abigail turned her back on the ugly woman and saw Ishmael near a dimly lit, black telephone booth at the back of the bar.

Ishmael stood in the flickering green light of the telephone booth and was angrily talking into a mirror, instead of a receiver. Or at least that’s what he seemed to be doing. She made her way over to the telephone booth. When she was just outside of it, she noticed what at first seemed to be a mirror was more like what she saw yesterday in her whiskey glass, neither solid nor liquid.

She peered over Ishmael’s shoulder into the reflective surface and was shocked to see a man who looked like Ishmael’s sinister twin. The longer she stared, however, the more she deciphered significant differences in the men. The man in the mirror had a larger nose and unkempt, dirty hair. Also, the man in the mirror wore a longer, fuller beard. The most disturbing difference, though, were his eyes, which were black without light or sheen. And they were locked on Ishmael. Abigail moved to open the door of the telephone booth, thinking about dragging Ishmael out, when the man in the mirror shifted his gaze and fixed his empty stare on her.

The man’s lips moved. He was addressing Ishmael who still had yet to notice her, but his eyes were only for her now. She felt her knees go weak and her heart rate slow. Her eyes were involuntarily pulled to the man in the mirror, even though she felt as though he was sucking the life from her body. In the corner of her vision, she saw Ishmael yell at the man in the mirror, but no sound met her ears. The man in the mirror stared coldly, ignoring his pleas.

Abigail’s body was paralyzed in place, held up by that horrible gaze. Terrible memories formed before her, like holograms connected to her brain’s most embarrassing and horrendous moments. All of a sudden, her first grade crush stood in front of her, his wavy blonde hair and robin’s egg-blue eyes beautiful and daunting.

A mean girl from class whispered to Clint that Abby had a crush on him, and he laughed mockingly in Abby’s direction. “That ogre! She’s, like, ten feet tall.” How he laughed, clasping his sides. She felt like she was six-years-old again, broken-hearted, angry and embarrassed.

Her one-time crush faded, and was replaced by a dark-haired, beautiful man walking into the grocery store where she spent most of her time, working. His arm was around her doe-eyed Barbie-like friend Michelle. The man came to her register, buying a coke for himself and a water for Michelle.

“Hey, sweetie,” he said in his caramel voice. “It seems like I’m gonna make it to your prom. Michelle asked me to take her.”

She refused to notice Michelle, who knew she was crazy about Jeromy.

Instead, she told him his total and said, “Save a dance?”

Jeromy shrugged. “Sure thing.” He sauntered off, not realizing he left her collecting pieces of her dignity from the linoleum floor.

Jeromy faded even more quickly than Clint, and was replaced by a hospital room, already occupied by her step-mother, brother and little sister.

“No. Not this one.” She fought the image with all her might, shutting her eyes. “Not this memory. I can’t…”

Ishmael stared helplessly, shifting his desperation between Abigail and the mirror, seeing every memory that played out before her, a sick sideshow. He saw from the way she shut her eyes and thrashed against the boss’ hypnotism, the next memory might break her, and he smacked the side of the phone booth in anger. He must do something, and soon.

She felt the irresistible urge to open her eyes and witness the memory she hadn’t dealt with since it happened. She stored it, for so long, deep in the corner of her being, and closed her mind to it, but that didn’t keep it away.

Any remaining energy to fight fell away from her, and her eyes shot open. The image of the hospital room returned. Her brother walked up to her and grabbed her hand. Robert never showed emotion and was rarely affectionate.

A crushing fear overcame Abigail. Walking into that room would confirm what her terrified body already knew. She stumbled towards her family, who parted, revealing what she tried so hard to forget. Abigail called out one last time, battling the memory with everything in her. “No! I won’t live this again. I won’t!”

Distraught, Ishmael spun to face the man in the mirror, closed his eyes, lifted his hand and grimaced as a yellow strand of color left his finger tips and was eagerly sucked into the reflective surface. The man in the mirror broke his hold on Abigail and nodded at Ishmael. His frightening likeness disappeared. The hospital room burst in front of her, and was gone just in time.

She fell to the floor of the bar and sat, her chest heaving, sucking in smoky air as though she were filling her lungs after being under water. It was then she noticed she’d been holding her breath, waiting to relive the memory that woke her, crying out, some nights, masquerading as a nightmare.

Ishmael burst out of the booth, and knelt beside her, patting her on the back as if trying to keep her from choking.

“Let’s get some air. I’ll help you stand, okay?” He put his arm under hers and lifted her to her feet, supporting most of her weight.

She put a steadying hand on his shoulder and allowed him to lead her outside. Once outside, Abigail put her hands on her knees and breathed in deeply.

“Are you okay, Abby?” Ishmael knelt down to peer at her.

She nodded and stood up, swaying. “That was your boss? He…he looked…like.” Abigail didn’t want to finish the sentence, which might offend Ishmael.

“Me.” He kicked the gravel under his boot. “I know. It’s not his real form. Depends on the person seeing him. When I speak to him, he appears as the person I most despise.” He took off his wool hat and played with the brim.

“
That’s
how you see yourself?” She shook her head in disbelief. “You don’t see yourself correctly.”