Monochrome (31 page)

She wasted no time. She trotted over to him and put his good arm over her neck. With her help, he stood but he winced with every movement. She bit her lip nervously. They didn’t have a lot of time.

She practically dragged him to the heavy cell door. He kept trying to ask her questions, but his words were jumbled. She patted his hand. “Shush for now, Sweetie. Okay? We have to get out of here before the guards come looking for me.”

He seemed perplexed but he tried to slog faster. They’d made their way out of the cell and up the stairs when they heard footsteps running towards the door. She pushed Ishmael against the wall with her body, and flattened herself against him. The door in front of them sprang open. She caught it and pulled it against her.

Three recruits ran down the stairs towards the cells. She held her breath as they ran past. It was dark in the stairwell, and they must not have guessed Ishmael capable of movement. They hadn’t thought to check any other cell cameras, either, it seemed. She rolled her eyes. Good help was hard to get. She put Ishmael’s arm around her again and urged him through the door.

Abigail dragged him through a long marble hall, and felt panic hit her. Ishmael was slowing and she didn’t know which way to turn. From ahead she heard the sound of another recruit running towards them.

She swung around and realized there was nowhere to go. She had no time to move Ishmael or hide. A black-haired man ran around the corner and stopped in his tracks when he saw them. She almost cried in relief. She wasn’t sure he’d help, but she knew he wasn’t there to stop her.

Geoff walked towards them and gawked. He shook himself and rushed towards her. “Oh, thank God. I passed by the observation area and saw Eric in your cell. Down the hall, take a left. You’ll see a small wood door on your right at the end of the hall. That’s the door to the kitchen. Take the door, walk down the stairs and take another left. There’s a blue door to the outside. Take it and don’t come back. Go home. Be with your baby.”

He held his hand out to her and she took it. In his palm, a piece of paper was crumpled. He met her eyes, imploring, “This is for when you get home. The last address of my ex-wife and baby.
Please.
” He didn’t have to tell her what he was asking.

She put the piece of paper in her bra for safe keeping, and lay her hand on his arm. “I will check up on them. Thank you.”

Geoff appeared tired but relieved. “Go. I’ll tell them you headed for the main entrance.” She nodded and urged the heavy Ishmael forward.

They found the first door without running into anyone else. Obviously, the boss needed new recruits. His halls were not well-manned. Abigail winced and held her breath as she helped Ishmael stumble down the stairs to the kitchen.

It pained him to use his injured leg, but he kept going. At the end of the stairs, they came face-to-face with a young woman with dark brown, wavy hair. She wore a soot-dirty apron and had coal-black eyes to match. Abigail readied herself for a confrontation, but the woman just appeared momentarily frightened then moved her head to the side, pointing towards the kitchen exit.

Abigail was shocked by the kindness of a stranger in this unkind place, but was even more stunned when the woman reached her hand out and patted Ishmael on the head. “Take care of him,” she whispered in a deep voice.

Ishmael mumbled, “Yasmin.”

The woman smiled and mouthed, “Go now” to Abigail. She didn’t know who Yasmin was, but she could’ve kissed her. Geoff wasn’t the only employee willing to betray the boss. Fear and blackmail did not buy loyalty.

She stuck to side streets and alleys to stay hidden while she gauged their whereabouts. She headed towards the outskirts of town. When residents passed them they simply ignored the struggling pair.

It was as if the people of Steamtown saw half-conscious, bleeding men and frantic women every day.
Perhaps they have
. They walked until Ishmael’s feet gave out from under him. He hung his head, slumped against the brick of a shabby bar, and closed his eyes, defeated and worn out.

Abigail noticed two doors down, a cheap hotel. It would have to do. She knelt in front of him. “Ishmael, you have to try to walk over there, okay? Just a couple feet more. Then we can rest.” He nodded and reached for her.

She grabbed his arm and grunted as she hauled him up. “Okay, just a little farther,” she encouraged him as they walked up the steps to the Hotel.

She made a quick payment of a purple memory, her first dance with a boy she liked in Jr. High. He ended up being annoying, but the dance was a nice memory. The loss made her feel the exhaustion that was already there, at the corner of her consciousness all day.

Really, she was
already
worn out from the terrible morning and the long trek glancing over her shoulders for Eric or some other recruit. They didn’t come, but, then, they might’ve been honest about letting them go today. She wasn’t about to bet their lives on Eric’s honesty, though.

They stumbled down the hall to their room on the first floor. She insisted on not taking stairs, and the helpful, burly attendant understood her predicament. He gave her a room just down the hall. She clumsily opened the door to their room, while balancing Ishmael’s weight on her shoulder and flicked on a dim light.

The room was very run-down. It housed a firm bed with a thin comforter and little else. The floor was dusty steel wood. The paint on the wall used to be white, but the blue underneath shown through.

She marched to the bathroom and filled the bottom of the rusting tub with room temperature water, leaving Ishmael slumped against the pedestal sink. “Can you get undressed? I mean, except your underwear? You need to be cleaned up.”

He grimaced, but removed his shirt, and was working on his sweats when the blood soaking through them paled his face.

She put a hand under his chin. “Just look up. I’ll do it.”

He threw his head back, and she finished removing his pants. She put his arm around her again and helped him get into the bathtub. He winced as the water touched his wounded leg.

“Just relax. Put your head against the tub. Don’t watch the water, okay? Just relax,” she instructed.

He swallowed, nauseated, and shivered. His body convulsed a little as he swallowed back nausea.

She removed her cardigan and put it on the sink. She striped off her tank top and submerged it in the water, which was stained red. She tended to the wound on his hand first. She cleaned the wound, and the area surrounding it, shushing Ishmael when he flinched and tried to look. The cut on his hand dissected a tattoo of a black iron lantern. It was very realistic.

She felt as though she could reach out and grab the heavy iron handle. The black of the lantern revealed it to be unlit.
Perfect. Just like the rest of the Monochrome. Cold and useless.

She cleaned the gash on his head and wiped his hair, face and neck clean of blood. Thankfully, the wound was more messy than deep. It wouldn’t have done permanent damage. His disoriented behavior probably stemmed from loss of blood.

She took care of the gouge on his thigh last. It was a mess of dried and fresh blood, so it annoyed her that she actively avoided seeing anything beyond the wound.
Keep it together, Abigail. Keep your mind on the task. He’s stunning, yes, but also hurt. Think nurse, perv.
This wound was deeper than the one on his hand and was still bleeding. She should’ve taken care of it first.

She cursed herself for pushing him so hard. She thoroughly cleaned it, and let the water out of the tub, running clean water over his body as she did so. Ishmael muttered, his eyes flickering.

“Can you stand, Ishmael?” His eyes fluttered open.

“I just need to get you to the other room, so I can bandage your cuts,” she explained.

He put his arms around her neck and stepped from the bathtub. With her help, he was able to make it to the other room. She put her back to him as he removed his wet boxers and covered himself with the thin blanket.

She realized she needed to cover his wounds soon, or he’d wake to his blood. She didn’t have much to use as a bandage. Her tank was bloody and wet, and her cardigan was very thin. She walked to the bathroom and noticed his discarded sweats. They were dirty, but could be rinsed. She made to tear the leg from them until she noticed a bulge in the right cotton pocket.

She reached in and pulled out a long grey scarf. She was elated, at first, but immediately frustrated. He’d found it in her old cell and stuffed it in his pocket.
He should’ve used it on his leg!
She didn’t hesitate before doing so. It would wash.

She went to Ishmael, seated on the bed. She wrapped the scarf twice around his leg, over a hand towel from the bathroom, the only towel in the entire room, and tied it tight. She hoped to stop the flow of blood because she wasn’t sure how much more he could spare.

When Abigail was done, she was warm from the effort of taking care of Ishmael, but he was shivering. She doubled the comforter and covered him with it up to his neck. Helpless and shivering, he appeared as young as he was. She kissed him on the forehead as tenderly as if she were kissing Ruby, and went to the bathroom to clean the blood from her own body.

She showered in glacial water, any warmth having been tapped from taking care of Ishmael’s wounds. She got out and was forced to drip dry. She held her dirty, bloody outfit away from her and closed her eyes. Now,
she
was shivering, so it wasn’t difficult thinking about warm clothing. Her old clothing fell from her hands and vanished.

They were replaced by a thermal long-sleeved black shirt, an extra-large black hoodie, wool socks and long johns. It made for a ridiculous outfit, but it was the outfit she wore when she went camping and it always kept her warm.

When Abigail got to bed, she thought of putting Ishmael’s sweats back on him, but they were dirty and wet from being on the bathroom floor. They were also stained with blood, which he wouldn’t be able to handle when he was conscious enough to process his surroundings. So she rinsed them off, and hung them over the shower curtain rod.

Once back in the room with Ishmael, she removed her black hoodie and sat next to him. He was sleeping sitting up, his mouth open, and his hair dripping with water. She pulled the hoodie over his head carefully, making sure to widen the hole and hold it away from the shallow gash in his head.

He muttered and frowned, but didn’t fully wake. She put his lifeless arms in the sleeves and carefully worked his injured hand through the end of one sleeve. She took off one of her long wool socks and wrapped it around his hand. He mumbled in pain, but didn’t wake.

She left his other hand inside his sleeve, thinking it might keep him warmer if it were not exposed. She pulled the sweater over his pale, tattooed torso, and shook her head. She felt like she was dressing an overgrown newborn, all heavy arms and sleep-grumpy protests.

Abigail’s stomach growled and she shut her eyes. She tried summoning several memories involving food, wondering why she never attempted it before, but was disappointed to see her clothing trick didn’t work with food. Deep down, she knew that’s why she hadn’t tried, that nothing necessary would come to her. Food was something one needed to survive.

Clothing was something helpful, something people always added to the list of basic needs, but covering your body wasn’t as important as feeding it. You could be naked and still live. Monochrome made people give everything they had for things they
needed,
until they held only fractured memories of the worst of life.

She must leave soon. She tried not to think about her gnawing hunger, even though the pangs in her stomach were stabbing. She could drink tap water to fill it up. Food was a priority for when Ishmael was well.

Exhausted, Abigail got under the covers right next to Ishmael, avoiding his touch, but hoping her warmth transferred to him regardless. His chills shook the space between them, and she longed to still them. Her nearness brought instant relief, just as she hoped. His breathing became deeper and his legs stopped their violent shaking.

It was her intention to stay awake for a while longer, in case someone came searching for them here, but warmth and weariness overcame her. Her dreams were of Eric, his knife and his disgusting hands. No matter how hard she tried to wake, the images didn’t subside. Her final dream was of Jason and her dad. They were talking in a coffee shop and when she called out to them, they didn’t recognize her. They stood, walked past her and left her alone.

ABIGAIL WAS
AWOKEN
by the sensation of warm hands on her back. At first, she thought she was dreaming again and Eric returned to haunt her, but when she forced her eyes open, a much more pleasant sight met her.

Ishmael snuggled his head closer to hers, smiling flirtatiously. His arms were wrapped around her in a light embrace. Abigail made to pull from his grasp, but he tightened his grip around her and hugged her to his chest.

“You saved my life last night. I want to say thank you,” he whispered, his breath tickling her ear.

He kissed her forehead, then her cheek and gazed into her eyes with so much passion she felt she was beyond fighting it, and so much of her did not want to. His closeness made her forget why she fought him in the first place. Her head swam in morning confusion. She didn’t have a memory of her wedding or her first date with Jason. She didn’t remember most of her greatest moments with him, and was only sure she was married because of their everyday life together after their marriage.

She knew she loved him deeply, though. The boss couldn’t take that away from her, even though he took every memory he thought was meaningful. The problem with leaving her only the bad memories of Jason was that she carried no truly bad memories of him.

The fights were mostly about one of them worrying the other was unhappy. Then there were the ones based on mutual stress over wanting to be good parents, but not having the same expectations. Those were hard, but not bad. Really, the open line of communication, no matter how hard was
good.

The neutral to good memories showed her snapshots of Jason staring at her like she was the only person in a crowded room, being on the beach surrounded by beautiful, young women and being surprised his eyes were locked on her body as if it were the first time he’d ever seen it, of nights spent sharing their darkest moments and worst fears, walking along a rocky beach and watching his hair fall over his face in a dark cascade as he leaned to study something in the sand.

She’d been so consumed with the bad it delighted her to recall that she’d married a truly beautiful person. Of course, lately, the difficult moments were more frequent and more intense. But she also knew, if she were able to see past her depression, she’d have noticed her behavior toward Jason and Ruby had been selfish, bordering on mean. The bars had become her family and lover. Drinking helped her forget how many times she thought about hurting herself and Ruby.

The thought of her worthlessness filled her with heavy despair. It made her yearn for a drink, to drown her anxiety and frustration. She shouldn’t be near Ruby. It was no wonder the newer memories of Jason showed a man who would barely look at her, except in frustration. She recalled a memory when he implied she either needed to get help or leave.

If Abigail were the wife and the mother she wanted to be, she knew he’d fall in love with her again. But could she be what they needed after all this? Was there something wrong with her? She wasn’t sure how to fix what was inside of her. It seemed so much more oppressive than a physical wound. How could she fix something wrong with her thinking? Her feeling?

And all memories of Ishmael were intact. She wasn’t sure if her feelings for Ishmael were greater or if she just couldn’t remember how strongly she loved her husband. But she suspected she’d felt something equal if not greater than this before.

Ishmael ran his hands over her back and made her shiver. She took in the muscles in his arms and chest, the way his waist curved in above his hips. He was beautiful. But so was Jason. She could see him now, bronze skin stretched over a long frame, smooth lines and broad shoulders.

She recalled many a memory of just watching him sleep, his face always frowning in slumber. Ruby made the same face when she slept, a grumpy angel. All of these thoughts came to Abigail in a mere minute, tearing her in half. Half of her wanted so much to give into Ishmael and feel his desire in action, but the other half loved her family, despite her feelings of imperfection.

Ishmael was poised to kiss her, his face filled with longing, but Abigail put a finger to his lips. She breathed unevenly and felt very bad for being disappointed to hear herself say, “I know if I kiss you I won’t be able to stop. And I can’t be with you like that, Ishmael. Not ever.”

The eagerness in his eyes faded, but he kissed her finger. “I can’t do much in this condition, anyway. It wasn’t my intention to have sex. I just wanted to” he grinned shyly, “take care of you.” Abigail blushed and flung her head back on her pillow.

She turned his wounded hand over and checked his bandage to collect herself. “I’m sorry. More than you’ll ever know.”

“I know you want me, maybe as much as I want you. I’m patient.” Abigail bit back tears and said nothing. She wouldn’t let him get this close to her again.

He rubbed his hands against his short beard. “It is frustrating, though.”

She frowned, feeling guilty for putting them both in this situation. “I know. I just…can’t. I don’t remember doing so, but I know I’m married, happily married. To a man I don’t deserve.”

He kissed her cheek. “You’re a much stronger person than I. And I am sure he doesn’t deserve you. Then again, neither do I, and, if I could have you, I would take you.”

Abigail patted the back of his hand. “Don’t say that.”

“It’s true.”

She was just frustrated and lonely and he wanted her in a way sweet and passionate and new. She needed to get out of this place. The more she forgot, the easier it was to give in. She’d already allowed herself to get closer than she intended.

She wasn’t certain of much, but she was fairly certain Jason couldn’t forgive her if she cheated on him. Ishmael wanted to be with her, to experience life with her, but she wasn’t sure if that meant he’d cross the border. To be sure, she knew she’d have to give him all of her, and that was something she couldn’t do, even if the memories of her husband were broken and incomplete.

“Just tell me something.” His face grew serious and angry. “Did Eric…I don’t know what I was thinking. Of course you don’t want anyone to touch you.” His voice fell in despair. “I should’ve done more. If he did what I think he came to do, it’s my fault.”

She sat up. “No. He didn’t. It was his intention to…rape me.” Her voice shook and tears filled her eyes. She could say it. She had to. If she kept silent, fear won. “He said he wanted to ‘make me feel good.’ He pretended he was going to do me a favor. He’s a
disgusting
coward.”

She paused and wiped angry tears from her eyes. “But even if he did, it wouldn’t have been your fault. Or mine. The only fault is with the sick piece of shit who commits the act. They want you to blame yourself, but I won’t, and neither should you.”

She composed her breathing before adding, “But I kept two of his memories. I thought, in the least, they’d buy me time, like when I gave Geoff a memory, but they ended up being very potent. They knocked him out cold. I stole his keys and found you hurt and disoriented. You probably suffered more than I did.”

“Just because he didn’t rape you? Abby, don’t be a saint. The shit that piles up, fills our heads until we’re only good for loathing, and distrust is more deadly than any knife and you know it.”

Her mind itched with his words. She felt like she was made of equal parts fear and anger. Already, she was attacked twice. How many more times did she have to defend herself? What would happen when she wasn’t lucky enough to get away? If you could call not getting raped lucky…there was still that remainder: the unwanted touch, the abuse of words that snuck under her skin. No, she didn’t feel lucky.

“Does it happen often here?” she asked, her throat tight.

Ishmael’s voice was a tidal wave. “Yes. Too many lonely people with no concern for life, their own or other’s. So many sick fucking people.”

She patted his hand and he whispered, “Yasmin. The girl in the kitchen. She stays with me sometimes because she’s afraid of being alone. At first, we did nothing. I didn’t want to take advantage of her fear, and she’s such a sad person. But she wants to be with me every once in a while, mostly because I’d never force her. I never even asked. But I’m lonely and she’s lonely, and we both need it sometimes. She’s terrified of Eric. And, though she never said it, I’m guessing it’s because he’s hurt her before.”

“I understand that,” she choked out.

Ishmael kissed her hand, and the ghosts of his lips made her skin tingle. “With you it would be different.”

She said nothing. How was it different? They were two, desperate people, who wanted comfort, who wanted to feel appreciated, and who forgot what it felt like to be loved. Betrayal piled on the top of all this guilt might sink her. She couldn’t hurt Jason anymore.

Her desire for Ishmael was already eating away at her. She knew giving herself to Ishmael would comfort him. And it was sure to be momentarily wonderful, but that wasn’t enough. It would end up being another regret, to pile to her growing list of regrets. Coming to Monochrome brought one good thing, at least. It brought her certainty. She knew what she wanted.

She wanted life. She wanted her family. She wanted to deserve them. “I have to go home now, Ishmael.”

Ishmael was surprised as Abigail rose, releasing herself from his grasp, crossed to the sink in the bathroom and washed her face. He rose from the bed and watched in silence as she closed her eyes and imagined wearing Fall-yellow corduroys, a warm red and grey-striped cardigan over a white long-sleeved shirt, and comfortable dark brown slip-on shoes. She frowned at him, standing dejectedly by the door of the bathroom.

He stared over her shoulder, at something unseen, beyond this sad Hotel in the outskirts of this depressed city. Maybe he stared at the scene that could’ve been, if she were a slightly different version of herself.

“You know I can’t stay,” she whispered, not eager to disrupt his vision.

He closed his eyes. “I know. We should go. I’ll get ready.”

Getting ready was easier said than done, though. Ishmael was still badly hurt. But they eventually slipped out of the cheap Hotel, and headed towards the surrounding woods, which, after their earlier trek, were fairly close.

Once in the woods, they were able to move less cautiously and spoke above a whisper. Here, they were able to hear if they were being followed. The eerie quiet resounded with their steps.

Abigail was unsure if they were followed. After all, they gave their payments. But she also insulted the boss and Eric. She felt as if she’d teased a rabid hound that carried her scent. No, she would see them again.

What was worse, she felt she was very near her breaking point. Monochrome was winning. Abigail had almost no energy. She was impossibly hungry. And she was so emotionally drained that she felt every step took a will of tremendous proportions.

She said none of this to Ishmael, who was worse off physically, at least. Neither of them carried the energy or desire to exchange words let alone watch for any dangers they might encounter. So they simply leaned into each other, walking in slow progress, towards different goals.

*

They were about a half-hour out of Steamtown, when plumes of colorful smoke rising in the distance caught Abigail’s attention. The steam twisted into the still air, coloring it purple, pink, blue, yellow, and gold in turn. Abigail stopped walking to gaze at the steam.

Her heart raced as she asked, “Is that the Plant?”

Ishmael nodded in the affirmative, and put his hand on her arm. “Let’s go, Abby, we have a long walk if you want to make it to the border today.”

She kept her eyes fixed on the plumes of smoke. “I think I want to take a detour.”

The words left her body without even being processed by her mind. Her heart called out to the colorful plumes, and would not be quieted.

She’d been thinking about what Geoff said about her memories being transferred to a Plant employee, and, try as she might, she couldn’t keep from searching the colorful skies for the precious lost memories of her father and husband.

She strained to recall her father, even little glimpses, and came up empty-handed apart from phone calls and birthday cards, and Jason was a sweet stranger. If her memories were within reach, she must get them and rebuild her life.

But Ishmael shook his head vigorously and stepped into her path. “No. Abby, we can’t go to the Plant. It’s too dangerous, heavily guarded, and there’s nowhere to stay in-between.”

He saw the determination in her black eyes, but he tried again. “Even if we made it in, which we won’t, it will take us the rest of the day to get there. We’ll have to sleep in the open, and Monochrome calls Nightmares to the Plant. They roam freely near the Plant, keeping people from doing just what you want to do. Abby, I cannot take you there.”

She stepped around him. “I’m not telling you to. Tell me how to get there. You can wait close by and I’ll come back afterwards.” She knew it was a weak, crazy plan, but an intense yearning dragged at her body, calling her to the Plant.

Ishmael put his hand in his pocket and pulled out his cigarettes and lighter. He put a cigarette in his mouth and lit it before answering, “They’re pulling at you. I know. I feel it every time I go to the Manor. My best memories sing to me. I know how strong it can be. But it’s not possible to make it out of the Plant with your memories. I can’t let you go.”

Abigail walked around him. “You can’t stop me. Not without hurting me, and you won’t do that.

He cursed, kicking a rock from the path as she left it, and followed her. “Well, I won’t let you go by yourself, so you can drop that idea.”

She twisted away from him. “No. I don’t want you to come.” She was trying to be mean, so he’d be too hurt to follow, but her voice was scared and unconvincing. Besides, he was as stubborn as she.

He rolled his eyes and exhaled smoke. “Yeah right. I’m coming.” He limped ahead of her, leading the way.

She picked up her pace until she was even with him and grabbed his hand. “Thank you.”