Shattered 2
The water eventually stopped.
It rushed almost violently at first-- then it slowed, spurt, trickled and ran out. The cistern was cracked, and had finally emptied. When it splashed into the tub, it washed the plaster dust and bits of debris to the drain, which clogged and filled the tub to seven or eight inches. Norman remained immobile in its cool unkind embrace, as ragged little bits of paper and plaster floated around him like pieces of the past, in cast off and meaningless fragments.
The showerhead dripped slowly, ticking off the passing minutes like a clock.
He was spent, with all his tears cried out. Curled on his side, Norman leaned against the edge of the tub and stared across the floor. He studied the black hole where the plumbing had been ripped out and carted off, not even moved to wonder why someone would steal a toilet. Little things caught his attention; they kept him from thinking of the bigger things-- the blacker holes he would have to confront when the distractions ran out.
There were crushed bits of tile, scraps of paper, a piece of yellowed advertising, an old leather work glove-- souvenirs of passing time and the people who had come and gone.
Nothing begins, nothing ends. It just 'is'.
His eyes traced the baseboard around the room. The sun streaming through the window made bright splashes of light look awkward against such despair.
What would happen now? He had been declared sane, with no direction on what to do with this new 'condition'. He had tried to forget the unpleasant shadows of his past, tried to love, trust and live what could be called a normal life. Now he was beaten at 'their' game and betrayed.
Sanity was no great gift; it was as much a curse as anything that had gone before.
Survey of the floor revealed more dust, more tiles, and there, in the corner under the sink, a spot of dirty red caught his eye. It was the color of dried blood.
Cold fear gripped him.
He almost saw-- almost recalled a dark unholy thing that was not his doing, but had happened in this very room. He pushed this notion off, but did not look away and instead leaned slightly forward for a better view.
It was not a dry spot of blood-- it was square and regular. Rust? He forced himself to focus.
It was an old razor blade, forgotten and discarded as thoughtlessly as all the other trash.
Can't you do anything right, boy?? The voice was not his own. It was an old woman's voice-- HER voice-- echoing in his head. What will people think? You can't even clean the rooms! All you have to do is make sure every thing is clean, the bed linens are changed, floors swept and mopped-- and you leave something like that lying around in the corner???
He closed eyes with a shake of his head; it was just the recollection of her voice-- she wasn't there. She was dead, and that part of him that had been surrendered for her was dead as well. It was just a memory of the way she used to berate him…..
For once, it isn't my fault.
The idea almost made him smirk. He had nothing to do with the current condition of the place-- that responsibility was over years ago. Still he stared at the blade, seeing it now more as a friend than an accusation. He leaned over the edge of the tub.
The rusted steel beckoned like a key. Why else would it be there? It could end his pain, end the crushing burden of life, and open the door to a place where sanity or lack of it no longer mattered. It could unlock the way to peace.
It was not an object of condemnation-- it was perhaps salvation.
He stood as if in a trance. Water dripped from him with little tinkling sounds he did not notice. One foot, then the other was lifted out and onto the floor. Crossing to the corner, he crouched to fish the blade out of the dust and debris. He lifted it, to examine like a rare jewel. Not much an edge left-- maybe it would clean off on the sink?
When he stood to rub it against the cracked white basin, a shard of broken mirror caught his attention, propped and angled behind the faucet. His reflection looked back at him with wide frightened eyes. He was shocked at the image and what he had become.
The blade fell into the sink with a slight 'tink'.
Nothing. Then a birdsong.
Another distraction, coming from the bedroom window. He listened for a moment, and then he found himself standing in the sunlight. The breeze felt cool against wet, naked flesh, as he looked through the broken window frame.
The countryside was not as green and lush as he remembered it. It was no longer young and new, as it was when seen through the eyes of a little boy. The hills were still there, parched in places, and not as large as they had appeared to the eyes of a ten year old.
He looked closer and watched the landscape grow green. He saw the flower garden in full bloom, saw the willow tree standing tall with its long leafy tendrils flowing gracefully on the air. Then he saw two children-- a little boy and girl running across the open space toward the tree, laughing and chattering as carefree as magpies.
I remember. Yes, I remember.
That name, long forgotten, returned to him, having been buried under troubled years of a haunted life. It had led to this place and time. The same name that came to him earlier in the day for no other reason but perhaps to drag him back, to the one truly innocent and joyful moment before the darkness.
Laney.
Laney what? Kirkpatrick? Kilpatrick?
The children were under the willow now, on the other side and out of sight. The gentle laughter echoed and then faded. The scene changed again, the green of spring dissolved into brown winter, and the willow tree, blasted by lightning unknown years before, lay slumped and rotting against the earth.
Norman braced his hands against the window frame, pressing forward as if willing the happy scene to return-- for the fields and hills to remain bright, and life to be hopeful once more.
Take me with you, for God's sake-- take me, too!
The landscape refused to co-operate, and so it was left to him to fill the blanks.
Laney-- whatever her name was-- came to the motel one summer with her family. Her father, or uncle, or someone, was involved in some property or business around Fairvale-- Norman was surprised he could remember that much even though it was sparse. It was decided that the family should enjoy a little vacation at the same time, and so the Bates Motel became their home for awhile. Granted, it provided few notable amenities and Fairvale was hardly a tourist attraction--- but to two lonely children, and one unforgettable summer, it was magic.
Slowly, a smile crept to the corners of his lips.
He stood there, his skin dotted with wet particles of plaster, looking out from one ruin to another, and suddenly laughing. He was immediately possessed with an urge to revisit that willow, and see if the rest of his memories were reliable.
Norman slid back into his jeans, punching his arms through the sleeves of his shirt as he ran out the cabin door. Shirttails flying in his wake, he hurried around the side of the office to the fallen willow out back, full of expectation.
He pressed his ear to the splintered trunk and closing his eyes, swore he could once more hear the childhood conversation.
"We'll bury it here, like I read about in the papers."
"A time jar?"
"No, a time capsule, silly! Then we'll dig it up a hundred years from now!"
"Why?" Laney's blue eyes blinked in wonder.
"Well…..that's what they do! I don't know why…."
He dug the hole with a garden trowel, safely out of sight of the motel, the house and adult population. She was holding on to the jar like it was gold. Inside were photos, and notes, and a few trinkets, and….what else didn't come to mind right away.
But now he was within inches of finding out.
Norman pushed away from the broken trunk and knelt at the willow's base, where the roots twisted above and below the earth. A quick look around-- lining up the house there, the motel, over there-- the positioning was exact. Then, barefoot and bare-chested, he dug his fingers into the dirt with the childlike eagerness. After a few moments, success.
Ridiculous. It's just an old mayonnaise jar!
More precious than rubies, to a pair of innocents-- and a disillusioned outcast of a man.
NowNormansat with his back against the willow stump, brushing the dirt from the glass. The contents, barely visible through the cloudy surface, rattled and shifted as he examined it. Without thinking, he twisted the cap to loosen it, but it was so corroded with rust that it broke in his grip. Most of the edge stayed screwed around the neck, while the rest crumbled in his hand. After so long a time, what else could one expect?
No matter-- the contents were the important part, and no less than a clear and perfect sign that all was not forever lost.