1992 Mr Creepy5
1992
Every morning I searched for some indication of improvement, some small measure of progress away from oblivion.
This morning was no different. Everything…hurt, as it always did. In some ways, I was more dead than alive. People take for granted that their hair will grow, that their nails will need trimming, and that wounds and broken bones will heal. What happens when these processes cease is medically fascinating but personally painful and debilitating.
My adjustments would astonish anyone who takes ordinary life for granted…the biopolymer faux skin protecting me not only protecting me from microorganisms but maintaining the integrity of what remained of my epidermis…the gloves, protecting my hands from injuries as simple as a paper cut and keeping intact the remnants of my fingernails…the frequent blood transfusions worried me the most. The blood was painstakingly screened and tested, but the risk of catastrophic infection was high.
Most days I would have preferred to stay in my bed and sleep, avoiding the pain of movement, the pain of thinking, the pain of being in the company of people who took for granted so much I struggled to maintain.
I dared not show weakness in front of these people. Some of them –and I could not be sure which ones—I was certain wished me dead. Any display of weakness was an invitation to the rest of the pack to fall upon me and tear me to bloody shreds. I wanted only my doctors to realize how frail I was.
My use of a cane was unavoidable. I didn't care for the image projected but the image of my falling without one was less tolerable, so I depended upon it. I was only thirty years old, but I looked and moved like someone many decades older.
I should have taken the elevator. That would have been safe. But then I would have been packed in with people and they would have…touched me. Worse, I would have been able to smell them. Lately I had developed an acute sense of smell, allowing me sometimes to distinguish humans by scent, if they passed close enough and had not bathed in recent hours. I've never, ever told anyone about that.
Frequently I took the stairs. I had to move slowly and deliberately down and up the stairwells, but they had the attraction of being little-used. Hardly anyone used the stairs, so there was no one to stare at me and wonder…whatever they wondered about me. This practice became yet another way of keep people at a distance.
Taking the stairs was not without risks. I knew that.
When I tripped and fell headlong down the stairs, I discovered also that my hands and arms were strong enough only to break my fall, not stop it. I ceased moving face down on the landing. My cane rattled down to the next level before I heard it come to a stop.
I couldn't turn myself around. My right arm was wedged beneath me and my left was weak. When I heard footsteps from the flight up above I was more than ready for help to stand up again and get on with my day. I listened as the person approached, a man, I believed, by the heaviness of their footfall and the sound of their shoes. I listened as the individual neared me, and stopped.
"I could use a little help here." I tried not to sound as helpless and desperate as I actually was. Pleading with an unseen person was beneath me.
No response. What was happening?
The individual descended another step, then took a long stride over my lower legs and feet…and continued on down the staircase.
Who would do such a thing? Who would do such a thing to me?
Another person approached from below, with a quicker, lighter step, very likely a woman. She ascended rapidly, nearly at a run. She halted several steps below the landing, taking in the spectacle of my ungainly sprawl.
"Please. Help me." The timbre of my voice surprised me.
She climbed the last few steps to the landing, and stood over me, so quietly I could hear her breathing. I could smell her perfume, a complex, subtle blend of volatiles. I would remember that scent forever.
She hesitated for too long to do anything now. When she carefully stepped over me and continued her ascent, I was not surprised.
More came, stared, and hurried on.
I had endeavored to put…distance between all others and me. They were a threat to my health. Even when I was normal, once too often I'd been betrayed, abandoned, abused by people in whom I'd invested trust, loyalty, and affection. I might be physically frail, but never again would I succumb to emotional frailties. But I had not realized the depth of the hatred I inspired.
What would I do if I found Adam in one of these stairwells, immobilized? Would I leave him to rot and molder? No. And he'd likely make me pay for being civilized later.
More footsteps. Two women, by the sound of their voices. I didn't recognize either one of them. I listened to their approach as they reached the landing above me, and turning, stopping as they looked down.
One of them hurried forward.
"What are you doing?" the other asked.
"I have to do something."
"You know that's Mr Creepy," she whispered.
"Of course."
"You're asking for trouble." The other turned and ran back up the stairs, bounding up them two at a time.
Her former companion continued to descend. "Mr Eckhart?"
Perhaps she thought I was dead. Or hoped I was dead. I was beginning to believe I was going to be left here to die.
"I need some help getting back to my feet."
"What do you need me to do?" she asked.
"I need my cane. I heard it drop down to the next level."
"I'll get it."
She sprinted down to the floor below, and returned even faster. "I've got it. Now what?"
"Could you please put it in my hand?"
"Here you go."
I reached out with my left hand and grasped the cane. "Thank you very much. You've been most kind."
I hoped she would leave at that point so I could go about the awkward and ungainly struggle of standing up without a witness observing.
"I'd like to do more. I'm not one of those weaklings who stands back and watches."
But I am one of those weaklings, best described in a book I read once, as "a mere husk of my former self." This was taken from a book of space opera humor, but applied to me the description was apt and fitting.
Much as I admired her generous spirit, I had no desire for any other humans to see how frail and vulnerable I was. I especially did not want to shame myself in front of a woman.
"I appreciate your kind heart, but I must do this myself."
She didn't laugh. She didn't make a comment about the pointlessness of male pride. Instead, she very quietly said, "As I would feel compelled to do also. I won't leave until you are standing. But I will turn around, and not watch."
"You display astonishing insight." I intended the compliment with complete sincerity.
"I'm a proud woman. Pride I understand."
I rose and regained my feet, shaken and sore.
"Nothing broken?" She was facing away from me.
"So far, so good."
"I'm going down five steps. Follow me. If you start going down, I'll turn and break your fall."
"What's your name?" I asked.
"You don't recognize me?"
"I'm sorry. I don't." I really should have recognized her voice.
"That's just as well. The truest kindnesses are performed without thought of reward or favor."
"You're not one of my agents, are you?"
"Definitely not. How are you doing?"
I was descending one step at a time, carefully, awkwardly, determined to avoid further mishap. As I descended a step, so too did she, making no move to turn around. All I could see of her was long, dark brown hair, braided and clipped to the back of her head. A white lab coat covered her clothing.
"Difficult as it may be to believe, each step is easier."
"That's a good sign. I'm disinclined to tell adults what to do, but…the elevators might be a wiser path for you than stairs."
She meant it well. She was not mocking my condition.
"I believe I'll take your advice. Do many people call me 'Mr Creepy'?"
"Quite a few of them, yes. They're afraid of you. Ridicule is one way of dealing with people we fear." She had reached the landing where a steel fire door opened to offices on the second floor.
"But you aren't afraid of me?"
"No." She shook her dark head. "Should I be?"
I didn't know what to make of this puzzling woman, so I answered her truthfully. "No."
"I'm going to open the fire door, you're going through to accounting, and I am going on my way."
"'Thank you' seems inadequate. Several people came and stepped right over me."
"Barbarians. There's a lot of that going around." She opened the steel door and held it for me.
"I do thank you."
"And you are welcome."
"Meeting a fellow human…is a rare experience," I said as I passed her.
"Becoming rarer all the time," she answered.