[All the usual disclaimers apply]
Deep Blue
"There's no ice."
Oh shit. He's back.
"I said: there's no ice."
Bleating and moaning. In my ear, all day, every day.
"Justine?"
Ice, mice, lice, slice.
"Justine!"
He's bawling in my ear. forfuckssake
I'm going to have to look at him.
I hate his eyes. Watchful and brilliant. Like ...
"Have you tried down the hall?"
"Of course I have."
"And?"
"It's broken."
"Well, then there's no ice."
He slumps into a chair. It's a typical motel room chair, cheap materials badly put together. Polyurethane and black leatherette. Split along the side. The foam bulges through the crack like a bloated belly.
I guess I'm awake.
"I could go out."
"Out?"
"For ice. I could go and buy some. The store at the corner ..."
He tails off, realising I don't care about the ice. He's bright enough to figure when he's on a loser. Once he knows he's beaten, he doesn't waste time in more fruitless argument, but merely accepts his fate.
Thank Christ for small mercies.
Discontented, he gets up and roams about the room. After he goes past my head for the third time I shut my eyes again.
Swimming. My eyeballs are swimming about in my head, like puffer fish. If I look I know I'll be in the middle of a dark blood sea, lapping against a brilliant white skull sand. Not the motel room at all.
I look. Fuck, it's bright ...
"Close the curtains!"
His back stiffens. Defiance.
"I wanted to see the sun."
Little cunt.
"Close the damn curtains - now."
"Why?"
"Because I pay for the room. And I like 'em closed. So close them, or hit the road."
He closes them.
"It's always so dark in here. It's like, living in a cell."
Cell, shell, hell.
Darkness closes in, soft and sweet. I stretch my back and feel the slight resistance of the sheets as they flow around me. Somewhere, there's a cool spot I've been saving. I find it with my foot. It feels wet.
"Aren't you ever getting up?"
No, never.
"Justine?"
"I'm thinking."
"What about?
Being alone. A cool, dark space, many miles away. Away from you.
"What I'm going to do next, I suppose."
"Me too"
The bed swells as he sits down on one corner. He's animated now - his face is eager and he twists his fingers together.
"I thought I'd go after the rest of them next. His team. I mean, they're human ... mostly ... but they helped him. I thought I'd ..."
A pause.
His eyes are those of a zealot, but he doesn't yet have the language to express what he wants. I help him out.
"Take them down?"
He shrugs. A normal child would shout and cheer to make himself brave when talking of murder, but he just quietly murmurs.
"Yeah."
"Well, look at you. You certainly are your father's son."
He starts to smile, then flashes me a look, uncertain. Yeah, that's right, honey. You heard me.
He stands up again.
"I thought I might take a walk today."
"Knock yourself out."
"Want to come?"
"No."
Door slams. The room is dark and quiet, with just the faint shoosh-shoosh, shoosh-shoosh of distant traffic. Waves on a remote shore. Now and then, I imagine I hear voices.
But I've found if I ignore them, they go away.
Deep Blue
"There's no ice."
Oh shit. He's back.
"I said: there's no ice."
Bleating and moaning. In my ear, all day, every day.
"Justine?"
Ice, mice, lice, slice.
"Justine!"
He's bawling in my ear. forfuckssake
I'm going to have to look at him.
I hate his eyes. Watchful and brilliant. Like ...
"Have you tried down the hall?"
"Of course I have."
"And?"
"It's broken."
"Well, then there's no ice."
He slumps into a chair. It's a typical motel room chair, cheap materials badly put together. Polyurethane and black leatherette. Split along the side. The foam bulges through the crack like a bloated belly.
I guess I'm awake.
"I could go out."
"Out?"
"For ice. I could go and buy some. The store at the corner ..."
He tails off, realising I don't care about the ice. He's bright enough to figure when he's on a loser. Once he knows he's beaten, he doesn't waste time in more fruitless argument, but merely accepts his fate.
Thank Christ for small mercies.
Discontented, he gets up and roams about the room. After he goes past my head for the third time I shut my eyes again.
Swimming. My eyeballs are swimming about in my head, like puffer fish. If I look I know I'll be in the middle of a dark blood sea, lapping against a brilliant white skull sand. Not the motel room at all.
I look. Fuck, it's bright ...
"Close the curtains!"
His back stiffens. Defiance.
"I wanted to see the sun."
Little cunt.
"Close the damn curtains - now."
"Why?"
"Because I pay for the room. And I like 'em closed. So close them, or hit the road."
He closes them.
"It's always so dark in here. It's like, living in a cell."
Cell, shell, hell.
Darkness closes in, soft and sweet. I stretch my back and feel the slight resistance of the sheets as they flow around me. Somewhere, there's a cool spot I've been saving. I find it with my foot. It feels wet.
"Aren't you ever getting up?"
No, never.
"Justine?"
"I'm thinking."
"What about?
Being alone. A cool, dark space, many miles away. Away from you.
"What I'm going to do next, I suppose."
"Me too"
The bed swells as he sits down on one corner. He's animated now - his face is eager and he twists his fingers together.
"I thought I'd go after the rest of them next. His team. I mean, they're human ... mostly ... but they helped him. I thought I'd ..."
A pause.
His eyes are those of a zealot, but he doesn't yet have the language to express what he wants. I help him out.
"Take them down?"
He shrugs. A normal child would shout and cheer to make himself brave when talking of murder, but he just quietly murmurs.
"Yeah."
"Well, look at you. You certainly are your father's son."
He starts to smile, then flashes me a look, uncertain. Yeah, that's right, honey. You heard me.
He stands up again.
"I thought I might take a walk today."
"Knock yourself out."
"Want to come?"
"No."
Door slams. The room is dark and quiet, with just the faint shoosh-shoosh, shoosh-shoosh of distant traffic. Waves on a remote shore. Now and then, I imagine I hear voices.
But I've found if I ignore them, they go away.