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Look, let’s stop going around this. Do what you need to do.
I don’t know what that is anymore. I knew just a few seconds ago but now it’s all messed up. You have me at my wits end. This is no time for philosophy and memories. This is a time for closure and ending and peace.
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I can smell her. That perfume of hers, heavy, feminine, hers. She let go of my hand a minute ago and I know every second of it, I know every second of everything. She shouldn't have held it in the first place, against code, regulations. I mean, we get up in the morning to avoid contact, that's all that gets me out of bed on a cold day. Got. And then she showed up. Wonder if it's supposed to be some sort of flower, maybe a sweat gland from some huge beast, one with an army of females to watch over, one of those that don't avoid cars because they have no natural enemies, no one to watch out for. Like dad. No, they wouldn't bottle dads sweat, that's a crazy thought, only a crazy person would think it, oh, now she'll know, distract her.
"So, old lady Henderson's stopped talking to the wall I noticed"
See, you're alert to the world around you, to the words, just distracted, that's all, just distracted.
"We upped her little blue ones"
That would explain it, the little blue ones pack a punch, made dad very sad that I couldn't give him names just descriptions. And made-up names, names that I've made up, to remind myself, Morning Wonder, Child of the End, Safe Passage, Good Day, Bad Day. Little blue ones. Had my Wonder and then a Good Day and then a Safe Passage so that I could get out the door, no, so that I could tell my mind that it was okay to get out the door, I mean, the door can't hear me, it can't understand. Well. If it can it isn't in a talkative mood. Just like me, to avoid contact. Our hands are swinging in time, shadows pass on them, ground passes beneath them. Nice morning, nice normal morning, she shouldn't be out here, we.
"Jason, do you know where we're going?"
She doesn't have to say my name when she talks to me, I know her, know who she is, know how she works, inside out, guess she does it because I can be sort of distracted sometimes. That's all, just a little beside everything, everything is beside me and there's a veil of pure time, she asked a question back there, didn't she? I have no idea, no, no, okay, plan alpha.
"Uhm"
"Well, I told you about the suburbs, how real life is where real houses aren't?"
This is a test, I can pass this. I can pass this with a nod.
"Towers, Jason, we're going to the towers you and I, just for a little while, I want to show you the world from a tower"
She wants to shock me out from under the veil because she doesn't understand, only thing that chases away the veil is the Child of the End and they don't carry those anymore, not since the filing cabinet. I'm quivering like a leaf. Towers. Real towers that stretch until there's no more stretching to do, glass and stone and steel and people piled on top of one another. A tower will do nicely. Over there a car has found a tree and the people in the car with the flashy lights are unwrapping it.
"Towers, Jason"
I don't know, but I don't think she knew she just repeated that.
She's always been a little off.
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Just a moments safety. It doesn’t matter what I do, it doesn’t matter what I’m selling, where I go, how many sanctions there are. A moments safety. Door closed or open, broken in or unlocked. Heart healed, burning or shattered. They are coming to kill me. Alive or dead, preferably dead. It doesn’t matter. I’ve lived. Behind the scenes, cast and crew commentary.
I wish it would stop raining, window drenched. Rain or shine. It’s not even personal, it’s just something they have to do, every business has red tape, every profession its meaningless tasks. There’s no fire escape, no ventilation shafts, it’ll have to be the front door and even though it’s locked now that doesn’t mean that someone won’t get in here they always get in.
Here. A moments safety. Skin smooth or pierced or bruised or battered. Blue. Crying or comforted. I will die. Here. Whoever kills me will get away to kill again. Drunk or sober, you’re my darling. Slave or twelve-year-old. Police protection. The police enforces the laws set down by those who have power over societies who chose their protectors amongst their own ranks who are then those who set the police upon those who were not chosen. They’re not bodyguards. Should have bodyguards. You don’t give Guernsey cows bodyguards. You chain yourself to a tree to say that the Guernsey cow shouldn’t be suffering. Armed or unarmed, innocent bystander or terrorist mad-man. Mad-person. Whore got to Jefferson. Sleeping or awake. In-between. But I’ve lived, I’ve been born and slapped and cried my terror into the void. I should be writing this down. Waiting or surprised. I could call room service, speed the whole damn thing up a bit. My plane leaves at five in the morning. Inside or outside, same danger, same certainty. Dead or alive, can’t believe they still write that.
Rich or poor, no chance, been both, paid my dues for every state of poverty and wealth they ever made up, not they, the other they, the ones with the police rather than hitmen. Hitpeople. Tall and dark or short and pale, maybe carrying an hourglass and a scythe. Knife, piano wire, silenced whatever. Could face the door, wielding, I have nothing to wield, Swiss army not that intimidating it would seem. Face the door, face it down, known or unknown, there is nothing doing anymore, might as well do it myself, whether or not that would work for whoever does whatever is beside the point, most destructive thing I can do now it seems is to rob some hardworking professional of his or her paycheck. Legacy, forgotten or remembered. Left no one to remember, no observer to mourn, quoting or quoted, remembering or remembered. I will die and it will be alright, accepted, understood, there will be no retaliation, revenge or service. Now or later I will die. You have to have lived to die, no on without off, and vice versa. Every second passing will never pass again. Not for me, not for anyone. Time will slip away and what comes, comes. Should run screaming, buy some time, a chance, to explain, take back, find whatever. Or sit down, and just wait. Like a Guernsey cow. Cold hand or warm embrace. Face the window rather, back to the door, wielding my glass, I’ll look at the world, if it’s my last glance I should make it a good one. The quality of the glance is, hopefully, not connected with that which is being glanced upon, just drenched window, just drops and dew, gathered or spread. Fed or feeding, met or meeting, should be helping me out of this, no, acceptance, must accept. Like a rollercoaster, makes life all the more exhilarating to know that any thought can at any moment be cut not just short but utterly away. I have lived, but never like this. Lived two lives, peaceful or danger-wrought. I did my job, whatever job was given to me, and not as a peon, I worked for myself, followed orders for myself, I have. Protecting my mission, that’s key, it’s always key, told that to all the newcomers autodidact or trained. I guess that if you like what you do then you do what you like. Soft tread on carpeting, hotel carpeting, not a big guy, size eight I’d say, he’s stopped. What’s he listening for, what’s he got to worry about. Confident or envious. I’ve been outside that door, tried to understand what those inside felt, always made sure they felt as little as possible, never let them hear. Maybe they did. Revealing or revealed, maybe they just accepted. Docile species. Come in, come in, come in, come in, come in, come in.
“Vilhelms. This is your severance pay” Answered or ignored. He really isn’t all that intimidating.
Responding. What did I say? Why isn’t he doing anything? What are you waiting for.
