"There comes a time when the cup of endurance runs over, and men are no longer willing to be plunged into the abyss of despair. I hope, sirs, you can understand our legitimate and unavoidable impatience…"
- Martin Luther King Letter from Birmingham Jail
She sits with her arms hugging her chest, knees drawn close under her to trap in any and all warmth. The heater burning close to her is a good two degrees warmer than the rest of the room, but the effort is clearly appreciated. Her eyes flutter up for a brief second before hurriedly rushing down to their rightful gaze on the floor. The radiator hums lightly in tune with the dry whistles of wind from outside. Among the mass of dead candles are a few tenacious ones that carry the light from the ceiling into the hallway. It blends with the white from windows and creates a pattern of soft yellow on the floor and walls. In the not-so-far distance one can still hear the melody of an ancient song.
"We base it on a standard of belief. Respect. Honesty. Trust, is just another connection shared between two people."
Her hands twitch on their own accord; nimble fingers etch characters onto pale skin, flushing her knuckles and wrists red. Breathe in. Breathe out. A tremble rakes her body and causes her to suck in air through her teeth.
"In its simplest form, one can say that it is just the acceptance that another is reliable. I trust you, is saying that I can depend on you. I cannot trust you, or I do not trust you, is to say that I cannot depend on you. You are not reliable. You are not trustworthy."
Perhaps she feels cold because the heater is too far away, so carefully she runs her hand along the dusty floor until she can wrap it around the base of the radiator. She silently scoots it closer and shuffles her body so that her side is almost pressed against its vents. The heat scorches her thighs, but the contrast is just too pleasant for her to give it away. Submitting to the growing pain, she bites her lip and closes her eyes.
"But this, oh no this is something entirely different. This is real trust. A bond stronger than such flimsy connection. Somewhere along the way, our destinies have intertwined, and what is yours has somehow become mine."
"You're wrong about that."
"Am I now?"
Eddie drags the dull blade down the side of his cheek, keeping his arm leveled to avoid any additional pressure while making sure that the small, infrequent nicks are felt. The sight is mesmerizing in the dirtiest of ways, and he feels sick just relinquishing in it, but the power feels too good and he can't just give that away.
He shouldn't feel anything.
They share a breath, and then Trager is smirking. He says, "Because ever since we've met I haven't been able to get rid of you." Their gazes move to the thick chain wrapped around Trager's neck when a small clink resounds from the metal. The knife rests there for a few seconds, wavering silently as Eddie's fist grows white from how tight he's clenching it. When he takes a step back, Trager tries to move forward but is held back by the chain. He grunts but it does nothing to loosen Eddie's grip.
"Chains, so many chains and we are bonded by all them," Trager groans around the metal coiled around his neck, raspy voice a mere whisper of the familiar, confident stride of vocals. "Buddy, can't you see the link between us? From that very day in the hospital...I knew that we were meant to be together."
"You hurt her," Eddie growls, knife coming dangerously close to the corner of Trager's eye. The tip brushes an eyelash but the good doctor refuses to flinch. "And your philosophy is vile, disgusting, vulgar in every aspect and you have no shame for basking in it. I should just kill you now for what you did to her," Eddie jerks the chain to grind a link into Trager's throat, "why shouldn't I kill you?"
Trager's hands flex reflexively into fists, balling and curling into the dark fabric tied around his waist. Trager narrows his eyes at the man before him, and in this moment Eddie can feel the venom boiling within. He can taste the blood on his tongue and hear the rush of adrenaline through his veins. Anger is a fierce thing, and when it is directed it becomes volatile. But the rush only lasts a second before the doctor is calm again, hands relaxed, eyes trained to the bloody blue in front of him, completely ignoring the clear tip of the knife wedged right above his cheek. Eddie tilts the blade and swipes right, cutting into raw flesh and leaving a line of crimson to ooze freely, but even that does not break the man's resolve.
Instead, it makes him chuckle. "You just don't seem to understand, do you?" Trager spits. "I have done nothing wrong!"
"Look at her, Trager!" He shouts and grabs Trager's chin viciously, jerking it far enough to the side for him to see Waylon curled on the floor, head bowed, eyes averted and body shaking. She neither reacts nor flinch when Eddie shouts Her eyes are cast away and Eddie appreciates that. She does not need to see; she does not need to hear. His knees buckle slightly and the feeling makes him stand taller. This pain, it will fade but Trager needs to see first - he needs to see what he did to her. "You took her. You snatched her up like a stray bitch and chained her for display-"
"I saved her for you-"
"You frightened her while she was broken." The chain digs deeper, presses a little harder against fragile bone. Eddie hears something that sounds like a gag but does not stop. He presses further, further, harder. "I should kill you," he says through clenched teeth, "I should kill you and hang you up with the rest of them."
"And w-who are they? Your whores, buddy? The whores that I gave you?" Trager accuses and Eddie looks back at him, hardened features watching as the man's bottom lip quivers and saliva falls from the corner of his mouth. Eddie scuffs before loosening his hold on the chain, allowing Trager a few seconds to gasp. When he's finished, the doctor glares up at him. "I gave you your sanctuary. I showed you how to hunt, how to kill. You were an amateur before me," he says.
"I was there when you were nothing but a name, a figure without a face and a monster for campfire stories. Buddy, we built each other. We were molded from the same block of clay, crafted by different hands but our chains are the same. You can't kill me. Your angel was falling from heaven, she ate from the Tree of Knowledge and tasted the bliss of the forbidden fruit. She wanted freedom. Freedom not from me, but freedom from you." He snarls. "I was just an obstacle in her way."
The knife comes down across Trager's forearm and his hiss is muffled under the clank of metal on metal. The chain cuffing his arm rattles gently, and Eddie leaves the knife there to rest in the cut. He has the urge to push it in - stab Trager and twist the knife - but he resists the impulse for now. He resists the impulse...but his arm is unsteady. Hovering in the air to create much needed distance between them. Trager is chained to the wheel in mockery of what he did to Waylon. His throat guarded by a thick link, arms and knees pinned by the cool metal. The music plays behind them, the candles rot beside them, and somewhere to his right the bone shears clatter on to the floor.
Stab him.
Eddie can hear the blood dripping to the floor. Softly, it falls from a gash in Trager's abdomen. So grotesque, it made bile rise in Eddie's throat when it was exposed to him.
Stab him.
How do you make Trager juice? Step 1: squeeze. Trager had laughed at the little note. Had laughed at the sickening commentary of his own supposed death; he had even laughed when Eddie drove the knife into his gut and sliced.
Stab him.
The stitches were fresh and tight. Trager had done them himself. Found a rusted needle and dropped it in a pail of bleach before looping black thread around it. Did it hurt when he pulled his torn flesh together and sewed the cut closed? Did it hurt when he had to throw himself off of a desk to pop his back into place? How had he done it? Eddie couldn't imagine the pain or the sheer determination required to mend oneself after being crushed by an elevator. But somehow, someway, Trager managed to do it. Trager managed to fix himself and come back with vengeance.
Stab him.
Did he follow the gold trail that Waylon left behind? Did he stalk his darling like some sort of demented predator and pounced when he saw an opportunity? Did Waylon fight back? Did she scream, did she cry, did she try to hide like she always does?
Did she call for Eddie?
Eddie doesn't know, so he has to guess. He has to imagine that Trager attacked her - hurt her - or else...or else... Eddie's expression falls, and the brief moment of resignation is enough to spark a light in Trager.
"It is what we are here for, buddy, it is why we were destined to meet," Trager says. "You and I, we trust each other. When the money fails, when God dies, when we're left to crawl out from shit and ashes... we have each other. And I saved your...darling...for just that reason. I saved her for you, Gluskin." He reaches out, gnawed fingers straining to reach beyond the constriction of the chain. His fingers brush against Eddie's arm, and the contact makes his stomach flip in a mixture of disgust and unease; however, he does not reject it. "You won't kill me, because I got her back for you. And you damn well need to remember that."
The Trager before him is a skeleton of the man he once knew, all skin and bones with no meat. Not to say that there was much to begin with, but the difference is clear in how his ribs jut out and his joints aim to pierce through his skin. Postmortem must have done this to him, but Eddie supposes that the effects are only reasonable. Dying is usually permanent.
He sits on the floor beside a bundle of candles with Waylon's head nestled in his lap, one hand stroking her hair soothingly while the other holds him upright. The burn on her side is unsightly, rows of welts lined to resemble the vents on the heater she has been clinging to. Earlier when he tried to take it away from her, she almost broke down in tears and kept reaching for it despite burning her hand. It keeps her warm, she repeated, and when he offered to hold her so that she can stay warm he had to agree not to move the radiator too far. Her antics are almost delusional, but Eddie cannot hold it against her. It would be hypocritical, especially when he's not too sure of reality himself.
"It's just a matter of trust," Trager's voice sounds from across the room. The doctor is pacing in wide ovals, absentmindedly opening and closing his shears as he occasionally glances at Eddie. "You scratch my back, and I'll scratch yours. It's just how the world works."
Eddie eyes the wound in Trager's arm. "And what exactly does this back scratching entail? We are not friends, Trager. I won't agree to anything that will put my darling Waylon at risk again."
"You're killing me here, stop worrying. Drink a martini, enjoy the sunset, this is just the exposition to a great business deal." Trager sighs and spreads his arms before smiling down at him. "Tell me, Mr. Gluskin, what is it that you desire?"
The question catches Eddie off guard. He furrows his eyebrows and Trager's grin widens. "Be realistic now, I can't work miracles. You scratch my back, and I'll scratch yours. What is it that you want, right now, that I will be able to do for you?"
Waylon shifts beside him and nudges her head against Eddie's stomach. Desire? His gut reaction is to wish Trager dead, but the quip would be a waste and the words taste like a lie. It feels like a trap to answer, as if Trager will promise him something and never produce, yet the promise is only a mask for the uncertainty of what the doctor has to ask. The concoction is ripe, ready to enact whenever the go is given. Trager has a scheme, Eddie knows, some sort of manipulation ready to be carried out. Devious, but the question is so tempting. What is it that he wants? What is it that Trager can give him for making him do whatever the hell he has imagined? Eddie doesn't want to answer while simultaneously can feel his lips peeling apart.
His mouth opens, and the words do not feel like his own when he hears himself speak.
"Perform Waylon's surgery, safely, without any schemes or errors or trickery. I've seen you do it before," he says, tone crisp with the intention of a warning. Hurt her, and I will kill you. The unspoken words are unnecessary, for Trager simply nods and clasps his hands behind his back in giddy. Eddie tugs on a strand of Waylon's hair just to see if she is awake, and when she remains still he allows himself to exhale.
Above him, Trager shuffles a few feet closer. "I knew you would ask this, I should have just offered honestly. But no, I won't hurt her. Not at all, not at all. I have...better things to do with my time," he smirks and then erases it when Eddie sits up straighter. "Now remember, an exchange is an exchange. I will gratefully operate on Mrs. Waylon Gluskin if you help me with a tiny problem."
Eddie cups Waylon's cheek. "Which is?"
Step 1: squeeze.
"I need you to help me find and kill someone," the glint in his eye is lethal, and with the baritone of a madman Trager calls the name of his victim.
"A mister Miles Upshur."
