Inside Paradise - II

Flamboyant and authoritative, a voice said "-then you take the- yes… and you- yes like that… and insert the needle, here" it felt something like a bee sting, something. "…there you go. Now we fill the… wait, something's wrong."

"Did I-!"

"No you're okay, you're doing good… did you see that?"

"No..."

"Holy shit!"

____________________________________________________

Opening his eyes was blinding and painful, and it took about three hours to get his vision back to a semi-functional state. He was in his home with a nurse and a student. When he was able to talk, they told him what they knew; called it a nervous meltdown, caused by a mixture of pills, stress, and well- shit luck. They told him he had been in a coma for two days, not exactly a coma, but a solid unconscious state. But due to William's second-grade medical card, they didn't euthanize him but gave him mild care. The two care workers asked him redundant questions, like how a seventy-three-year-old librarian has granted a class two medical cards, why a man with a class-two medical card live in the fringes of the city, and some other bullshit. William got them to leave after a few hours of interrogation, after which he regretted greatly.

His apartment was vacant and without the company he found himself unable to unlock his gaze from the strange, old interloper, he found in every reflection, whose eyes were deep pools of black into which he stared for hours. In those dilated pupils, he was able to see the thoughts he dared not speak aloud. He knew it would have been useless to ask the nurse or his student for a reference or some kind of test. The healthcare system, no matter how entrenched he was, went against him, and every other weak old man, this place doesn't want men like him around, they cost too much, they can't help rebuild. William understood that he would be given no real tests or treatments.

Whatever parasite eats away at his mind is permanently embedded, whether it be a stroke or dementia, or cancer or a fucking nervous breakdown, he can ask for no help. His parasite will eat what it will, devouring every fundamental process or memory until he sits alone and useless amongst all the other forgotten braindead. Until he or the government finally put a bullet through the back of his head. Finally, he blinked and looked away from his reflection, the interloper's dark eyes had lost their intensity and now stared blankly into nothing. But William's mind was made. And he would not chance an existence without vitality or meaning, he would not become some feeble old man. But there was also another problem; the second-grade med card would raise questions, and people, government people, would be at his door by the end of the week. If he was going to die he was going to be the one to do it.

He walked to a small cabinet, the middle drawer with an intricate lock inlaid at its center. William probed his mind for where the key would be. He went through his pockets finding nothing. This is how it starts, he thought. He quickly gave up on the key and went into his kitchen. He pulled open a drawer and fingered the roof where he found two metal sticks. He went back to the cabinet and slid the two metal twigs into the lock, twisting and probing the metalwork hidden inside. Through muscle memory and a little luck, the lock popped and he was able to slide the drawer open.

Inside was a bottle of bronze liquid, a few pieces of paper, some baubles, three pairs of keys, a knife, a box of ammunition, and a handgun. William grabbed the bottle and fiddled with the box of bullets, before retrieving a few rounds and grabbing the gun. He sat on his chair and watched the light strike the bottle, making the dull bronze, glow a bright amber and sending a sickly parallax through the room. He placed the bottle's slim top against the edge of his tabletop, and quickly struck the bottom of the bottle, snapping the glass lid. He poured a couple of fingers into a stubby glass. And with a shaky hand, drank it in a single gulp. He poured some more and repeated all of this mindlessly until most of the slim bottle was empty.

William reached across the small abyss between his chair and the coffee table to grab the now loaded gun. He didn't remember putting the bullets into it, but he didn't give the rising panic any heed, just embraced the low drunken ubiquitous hum which laid upon everything he saw and felt. He closed his eyes and felt a vibration he had always known but never acknowledged course through him. It was beautiful and enveloping.

There was a loud rap against the door. Before it creaked open.

"William!" It was Jarvis. He was a tall man, undermined by his slouching posture. "Mister William, Hey, it's good to see you up and about after everything… you really scared my boy," his eyes searched the floor as he spoke, "I just wanted to give you this… you had it in your pocket when it happened… it fell out. And I just- I'm not a thief or anything, I just- Oh fuck!" Jarvis's face was pale, and his mouth was hanging open.

"Thanks, Jarvis. Sorry for freaking out the boy..." William said, watching Jarvis's unmoving body. He followed the man's shocked eyes down to the gun and the unlabeled bottle. It took William an embarrassing amount of time to read the situation, "Jarvis… It's okay. You just go home now. You were never here."

"Mister William… How the fuck did you get that?"

"Jarvis, you got a boy next door. You got a job. You got a lot of things you probably gotta get to today. And this ain't one of 'em."

"Aye, I got a boy next door... I got a job… So, when my boy hears the blast go off-" Jarvis wiped his face. "Fuck William! Where did you!- How the- When you do what you do, and you can do whatever the fuck you want, William- but when you do that, and my boy hears that, and I hear that, we gotta call the fucking enforcers out here! They find an old man with a bullet in his head, they gonna come to me and my boy, William! You had a fuckin' shooter in this apartment next to me and my boy! They'll lynch you for that, and me for being your buddy! And is that some fuckin' booze? Fuck!" Jarvis said. He was pacing now.

"Jarvis… it's alright. I had this for a long time. They won't hurt you because of it."

Jarvis laughed, "Are you hearing yourself, William? Have you fuckin' seen me? I'm just another worker to them… and my neighbor had a stash of fuckin' shooters and booze, so what the fuck do you think is gonna happen? No- no! I'll tell you, they're gonna take my boy away, and they'll take me to the square and throw their rocks, until there ain't much of my face left, that's what they'll do. You need to get that shit out of here! William… You have to leave here, Tonight!"

"Jarvis-"

"Where the fuck did you get that shit, William?- No, no don't tell me! I don't care what you do, but you brought this into my life… near my boy. Jesus, William, You had Med-care-workers in your fucking house! If they found that, they would've strung you up for sure! You wouldn't be the first old man up on their fuckin' block."

"I was careful. They couldn't find it, but it'll be gone tonight."

Jarvis was laughing again. "You, huh? What the fuck?" he walked up to William, and placed the crumpled paper into his hand, "You were a good friend, William. I just never expected anything like this… Especially from you."

After Jarvis had gone, William locked his door and waited. His breathing was heavy. But for the first time in days, he was thinking not a perfect stream of thought but in sudden crashing waves; breaking off at his consciousness and leaving a disorganized foam of afterthought, which he was able to pick through. Get rid of the gun and the booze. Where? Not in the city. Outside. How? I'm out of the game. He sat down in his chair and picked through his rushing mind.

He saw the crumpled paper. It had opened up and revealed a scribbling of text. It was a letter. But he hadn't had it before, he had gotten it between his time at the library and his return home. His memory had a large smudge, a void of six long hours, from which this letter materialized. He allowed his mind to project and articulate onto the letter which rested half-open in front of him. What happened? Where was I? What did I do? Am I going crazy… Yes. Oh shit, I have dementia… Of course I do!

He reached for the letter. Words sprawled across the page in long curved, reaching script… familiar script:

Hello William,

I know it has been long since you last heard from me, but I call upon you now in dire need. I am dying, eaten away by father's curses and as you read this, brother, I am most likely dead. I do not reach out for you in search of forgiveness or pity, I do not blame you for what you chose. But I call upon you now for we are the last of a generation, and so when my sodden body finally croaks you'll be the last... We know our place and our importance in the lives we lead and the world we exist in; to this flock, we herd.

I have something underneath the cement of this place we called our own. I'm sorry you felt you had to leave, I know it was under the pressure of my guiding hand… and I will regret that much until my day arrives… but I can only hope he doesn't judge me for that; I can only hope he doesn't judge me too harshly - at least for your sake.

You are the only one I can entrust with this, William. The only thing that matters now, lays under this ground I tread. It may already be too late... I should have listened to your pathetic pleas sooner… I should have listened to you when it mattered. Maybe it doesn't anymore, probably never did. But this does, and it matters now… I did the best I could, I tried to make it better after what happened. I promise I tried and isn't that all any of us can say do... Come back, baby brother... Time is against you.

Charles

He turned the page in his hand. He read the letter again, then again and again. The symbols chained together and made words. The words formed sentences, the sentences formed thought and conveyed meaning, but somewhere along that line something was lost, either by happenstance or Greymatter, and all meaning ceased to be conveyed and consumed.

William put the letter down and walked slowly across his floor to the kitchenette. Poured himself some stale water out of a jug, and drank the entire cup. He thought about the words he had just read and retched into the sink. The fluid was light and watery, easy to get out, a faint aftertaste of booze, and bile layered his mouth and throat.

He felt a little better.