The Immortal Coil
The Immortal Coil
J. Armand
Copyright © 2014 J. Armand
All rights reserved
This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are solely fictitious expressions of the author's imagination, though reference may be made to actual historical events or existing locations. Any resemblance to actual person, living or dead, is by pure coincidence.
This book is for your personal use only. You may not print, post, or make this book publicly available in any way. You may not copy or reproduce any part of this book in any manner without written permission from the author.
ISBN: 0996119108, 978-0-9961191-0-8
Cover illustration by Greg Opalinski
Table of Contents
“The two most important days in your life are the day you are born and the day you find out why.”
— Mark Twain
Preface
Dorian Benoit is about to learn a history lesson not taught in any textbook.
The blood-soaked reign of man may be a fascinating tale of triumph and tragedy, but hardly an original one. Since the beginning, humanity has been locked in a never-ending cycle of destruction and rebirth. Wars are fought and civilizations crumble only to be reborn and start anew. Names and faces may change with each cycle, but the game remains the same.
Humans are not the only players on the board, however. Sinister forces watch from the sidelines waiting for every opportunity to manipulate the fate of mankind for their own benefit. These immortal beings have purged the knowledge of their existence from our archives and stricken the true past from the record books to shroud the world in ignorance so that they may gain every possible advantage over the hapless cattle they seek to control.
Now, with the modern era coming to a close, it is time for the immortals to make their move once more. And for some, their plans include young Dorian, whether he likes it or not.
“Take your shirt off,” were her first words as I entered the room, leaving behind any semblance of confidence I had at the threshold. There was something to be said about a woman who knew exactly what she wanted. This was already moving faster than my other encounters today and I couldn’t help feeling a bit nervous. “Turn around for me.” Her voice made an almost passable attempt at being sweet, but I could sense there was little to no thrill left in her from doing this anymore.
I complied and glanced around the room, trying to remove myself from the intimacy of the situation. Aside from one small window breaking up the monotony of the stark white walls, there wasn’t much in the way of distraction. The purpose of the sterile decor was most likely to not take attention away from every young piece of meat that walked through her door. My only job right now was to use my bare skin against this backdrop to pique her interest, at least until she was satisfied and ready to move on.
No matter how many times I was told to, stripping down in front of a complete stranger wasn’t getting any easier. I had to admit there was some excitement in the idea of grabbing someone’s attention with just my body, but in practice, I felt vulnerable. There’s nothing wrong with a little modesty, I guess, as long as it doesn’t hold you back from collecting a paycheck.
“You’re in great shape. Very cute, too. I like your look,” she said, as her eyes traced up and down every inch of me with increasing enthusiasm. “I’m loving the eyes. What are they, light blue?”
I don’t know how people do this for a living. I barely had my foot in the door and I was already feeling dirty. This was what I came to New York City for, though, so I had better start getting used to it.
“Oh, um, they’re gray, actually.” That was clearly stated in my portfolio in front of her, but it was probably part of her job to be sure I wasn’t too brain-dead to take directions from a photographer.
“Five foot ten, I see. A couple inches short for the runway. That’s too bad.” The same harsh reality I had heard from the other two castings today, along with the observation that I badly needed a tan. Whoever said size doesn’t matter was clearly over six foot. “We’re doing a shoot on Saturday for our autumn line. I want to see you there. It will begin promptly at 8 AM, but make sure you arrive an hour early to get fitted. Don’t show up any earlier or you’ll just be in the way. Oh, and get a good night’s sleep. We’ll be working straight through to dinner.”
On my way out of the agency, I looked at all the nervous young hopefuls still in the waiting area. Never had I seen so many beautiful people all in one place until today. It reminded me of the popular clique’s table in my high school cafeteria, the table I didn’t sit at. Sure, there were a few girls in my class who thought I was cute, but growing up back in Boston I always managed to fly under the social radar. I kept my grades up, I just barely held my own in gym class, and I avoided extracurricular activities and wild parties like the plague. I was more or less invisible, but not unhappy about it. Once I became a teenager I started to feel like there was something different about me from the other kids, and in high school that is the last thing you want. When I looked in the mirror I didn’t like the boy staring back at me. All I saw were the lies.
Now here I am, two years and two hundred miles later, taking my shirt off for a modeling agent in the Big Apple. This wasn’t me. In fact, I’m still not sure how I got talked into this.
“How’d it go?” It took me a second to pick out the voice in the crowd. One of the male models I was sitting next to while waiting to be seen waved me over. “Did you get called back?”
“Yeah. I didn’t think I would, but I guess —”
“Hey, nice, so some of us were talking about going out tonight to celebrate. You should come.”
“You got called back too?”
“You must be new around here. I always get the call back once they see me.” He laughed and hit me on the arm. “So, you in?”
“Oh, uh, I actually have plans already. Thanks though.”
“Sure you do. Whatever. It’s all good.”
It was dark when I got back out to the street. I had a text message and two missed calls from my mom. Now I remembered my reason for being here.
“Hi, honey!” For the typical overprotective mother, she was way too enthusiastic about her son taking a break from college to move out of state and pursue a modeling career.
“Way to pick up on the first ring, Ma.” My parents were always supportive of anything I showed an interest in, as long as they double- and triple-checked that it would be safe first. It wasn’t until I was older that I understood why being a parent meant so much to them.
“I can’t help it. I haven’t heard from you all day. How did it go? Did you find the places okay? Were you on time?” Since I got here last month, we have started a tradition of her calling me almost every day. That’s not including the text messages that she learned to send just for me.
“It went fine. I have my first photo shoot this Saturday and one next Tuesday.”
“I knew they’d love you!” I could hear her repeating everything to my father in the background.
I’m an only child, and adopted on top of that. My parents devoted their lives to medicine. My mom is a veterinarian and my father is an emergency room doctor. It wasn’t until they were nearing forty that they realized there was more to life and wanted kids. Unfortunately, they weren’t able to have any of their own.
They adopted me when I was only a few months old. I never knew who my biological parents were and never really cared. I was loved unconditionally and that’s all that mattered to me. My mom stopped working until I was in high school so she could always make me breakfast and take me to school and kiss me goodbye. There wasn’t one day that she didn’t pick me up after school, or a holiday that the entire house wasn’t festively decorated. My father never missed a chance to take off for extended family vacations or school plays and concerts — anything to find a reason to pull out his video camera. They thought the world of me, and the feeling was mutual.
They were always strict about studying to get into a good school, so I was shocked when my mom suddenly changed gears. At first, predictably enough, my father was against the whole idea of leaving college, but somehow my mom convinced him. It was even more surprising that she convinced me. I had my heart set on finishing school to become an architect and sitting in an office the rest of my life sketching blueprints or watching my creations come to life on a construction site.
“Ma, they liked a lot of people. I’m not the only one in the world to have stood in front of a camera. Who’s actually going to want to look at pictures of me anyway? Let alone pay me for them?”
“Come on, Dorian, you have to be at least a little excited! Stop being so resistant to trying new things. How will you ever know who you really are if you hide yourself away?”
Excitement was the real issue here. School was my life until tenth grade, when I got a part-time job at a local gym. The money I saved up went to a car, which only helped with getting to school and work more easily. Once I became an adult, they realized I was going down the same rigid path they had. Mom didn’t want me to be in my forties one day and looking back, regretting that I never took the time to enjoy myself. She was also not too subtle about wanting grandkids before she got too old to know who they were.
Working at the gym hadn’t been completely by choice either. It was one of only two places that would hire you if you were under eighteen. The deli was my other option, but it seemed like half my class was already employed there. The gym job was easy enough. All I had to do was scan membership cards and wash and fold towels.
This left me with a lot of downtime that could have been spent doing homework, but then I’d have no excuse to get out of being smothered by family time after dinner. Instead, I took advantage of the machines to work out. Even after leaving my job to focus on college, I kept up exercising at the campus gym out of habit. The more stressful the courses became, the more time I spent burning off steam in the gym. Nothing helped build stress like calculus and physics. Sometimes it felt like I was making more progress lifting weights than calculating them. That was all it took for my mother to formulate this convoluted plan to start modeling.
“This wasn’t exactly the first step I would have chosen to begin finding myself. I’m excited, but I’m also very tired. It’s been a long day of taking my clothes off for people.”
“Don’t say it like that! It’s only nine. You should be going out and having fun. Have you made any friends there yet?”
I could hear my father in the background protesting her idea of me partying it up. He had driven down here three times to check my apartment out and talk to the landlord before we rented it. He was openly paranoid something would happen and I would be out on the street.
“Um, yeah, I’m, uh, some of the guys I met at the open call tonight invited me out. I have to go, Ma. I’m getting on the subway now and I’ll lose service.”
The truth was that my plans for tonight were the same as every other night; curled up in bed studying an architecture book for my inevitable return to Boston University. I hadn’t extended myself to meet anybody here. Most of my time was spent fixing up my place and checking out all the coffee shops. As crazy as it sounded, the only reason I agreed to come to New York and give modeling a shot was because I knew I could blend in. Nobody cared about who you were on the inside when taking your picture. Insecurity was ingrained in my psyche since adolescence, so it would take a lot more than a few mediocre casting calls to reprogram me.
“You’re a terrible liar, Dorian. Call me tomorrow? It would be nice if you’d call me for a change. Oh, and your father and I have a surprise for you when you come back for the Fourth of July.”
“I would if you gave me a chance to call first. I love you. Say goodnight to Dad for me.” I had to tell myself not to feel guilty hanging up on them, but they were one step away from installing cameras in my apartment. On one hand, the freedom was a much-needed breath of fresh air. On the other hand, being so far away from home and all alone, doing something I wasn’t crazy about to begin with was making me homesick.
It wasn’t that I didn’t want to have fun or find myself. The problem was that I didn’t know how to after years of trying to keep a low profile. I was having a difficult time getting back in touch with the real me that I had buried long ago. I could tell that my parents knew something was up. I valued their support and encouragement, but the harder they pushed, the more I wanted to be left alone.
The subway ride to my apartment on the Upper East Side was turning out to be colorful, as always. My favorite part about living here was the people-watching. No matter what store, street, or subway car, there was always such a wide spectrum of different people. You never really knew what to expect from each crowd and there was always something new mixed in.
Among the tired businessmen returning home from the office, the frazzled parents shepherding their children, the hipsters, gangsters, and couples of every shape, size, and color, was a rambling homeless man. Of course, the only available seat was to my right. To look busy, I took out my phone, hoping to be left alone.
“They’re after me, they’re after all of us …” There was a sudden rancid smell of body odor next to me. This was going to be a painfully long ride.
“They’re going to get us. It isn’t safe anywhere. They’re going to get you too.” I could tell the bum was speaking to me by the feeling of his hot, humid breath on the side of my face.
“You can avoid me, but you can’t avoid them. Not forever, you can’t! I see them, I seen them killing people off the street, in the alleys, in the park.” The stench of dog food and fresh vomit on his breath continued to violate my sense of smell.
“Never a body left behind, either. Not a drop of blood or a shoe, not anything left for a big fancy funeral. The police are in on it, too. The whole government is! Why do you think we never hear about it on the news?” The smell was so bad I could taste it in my mouth now.
Against my better judgment, I looked at him. He was dirty and unkempt as expected, but the expression on his face threw me off. He didn’t look nearly as deranged as he sounded. His eyes were filled with concern, not insanity.
“You wanna keep it to yourself, buddy? There are kids here,” said a man standing in front of us alongside his two children.
As we made another stop, the passengers joined in shushing the homeless man, who began ranting more loudly.
“There are monsters out there on those streets. They look just like any one of you and you won’t know until it’s too late!” he shouted, before waddling out onto the platform.
“Don’t you pay him no mind,” said an older woman sitting on my other side. “There are all sorts of crazies that come out every now and again. It’s gotta make you wonder what kind of plan God has cooked up for their sorry souls.”
I smiled politely and kept my head down for the remainder of the trip. At least I could breathe again. As I left the train, I could see blood on the seat where the homeless man had been sitting. For a moment, I toyed with the idea that there was some truth to the man’s ranting. Maybe the conspiracy theory part was farfetched, but considering how scared he looked, he could have been attacked.
The 6 train dropped me off at East 77th Street, so I still had to walk four blocks before I was home. I could hear the sound of police sirens in the distance as I made my way uptown. It wasn’t uncommon to hear sirens at all hours of the night, but I had a funny feeling in my stomach as I turned the corner and saw a line of cop cars in front of my building.