Nanowrimo 6

Forgot to update... derp. That's what turkey does, I suppose. I'll just make a little longer.

Quentin woke with a start as soon as I do. He was lying on the otherwise unoccupied bench, an enormous indentation where his right cheek had slipped through the wooden planks. He checked his watch. Ten o’clock. He bolted upright and sprinted to the apartment. Around this time Samuel would be finishing up a few poems for publication. Samuel had clearly not minded Quentin’s presence. He certainly would not mind the lack thereof.

Quentin got to the apartment to find it as empty as it had always been, though Samuel was not there either. He opened the fridge. There was enough eggs and milk and bok choy to feed Samuel for weeks. There was a huge pile of freshly made paper. But there was no charcoal. There were no poems. And on Samuel’s floor was a ballpoint pen. Quentin picked it up. He didn’t even know Samuel used ballpoint pens. He had seen him bring them to his house by the handful each day, stealing them from random department offices, but he never used them.

Quentin dragged the nub across his thumb. He had used this one. He hurried back to the office.  If he could find charcoal he could find Samuel.

I can’t stop thinking about Froid. I check the bathroom, the kitchen, and within ten seconds it’s clear that she’s not in the apartment. Her phone is still in the bedroom, fully charged and on. I check the screen. No messages. No threats. The phone is as placid as I wish I were. I sit on the bed and rub my temples. I close my eyes. Hopefully I can see where Froid is.

Running. She’s running through a forest. Where? There aren’t any forests around here. The trees are bare and there is heavy snow on ground. She must be on a mountain. But how? How did she get up there so quickly?

Her running dissolves into trudging as the snow grows thicker. It is then that I notice what she’s wearing: a ball gown, a bright coral, full-length hoop skirt and a stiff corset. She breathes heavily. Her hair is done up in a loose bun. She marches dutifully up the side of the mountain, the trees thinning out as the sun shines brighter.

At the top of the hill is the outline of a man dressed in a tuxedo. His hair is brown, but his build is not of a Coldridge. Callahan. He is slouching, his hands over his face. Agony.

Froid runs faster until she comes up to him. He removes his hands from his face and watches her approach.

“Callahan,” she whispers as she reaches for his shoulder.

He jerks it back. His eyes show too much anguish to warrant comfort, especially hers. He hisses at her.

Froid is determined though. She reaches for him again and touches his face. For a moment there is silence. He looks at her in shock, the shock diluting his anger towards her. She looks at his face softening.

But then he begins to scream. Steam escapes through her fingers. She tries to pull her hand away, but it has welded itself to Callahan’s skin.

Callahan screams more, his face turning red, then his neck, then his entire body. Froid finally releases her hand but he bursts into flames. There. In the middle of the forest.

Froid staggers backwards. Callahan writhes against the wind, the little left of him fluttering out from behind his clothing. Froid cannot look away. Her eyes do not stray as Callahan disintegrates into ash.

A dream. Is Froid sleeping somewhere? Or is she projecting a dream so I can’t see where she is? Clever girl. I get dressed and fed and head over to the office. She can’t stay away from me for long. Without me she has nothing. I reassure myself as I drive to the office.

The rest of the day passes slowly. I try switching between Quentin and Froid. Quentin is sitting in Samuel’s empty office, wondering if Samuel went elsewhere, or if he just missed him and he was back at the apartment. Quentin slowly got up and crawled to the door, hesitating briefly before turning the knob and jogging out.

Froid on the other hand is unreadable. All day I get dreams, every dream I’ve seen, playing out as they had before I invaded them. Samuel is everywhere and Froid is destroyed in so many ways that I can’t bear to watch.

By this time Quentin returned to the apartment. Still empty, the ballpoint pen exactly where he left it. Strange. Samuel was nowhere to be found. Quentin ran back to the office as if Samuel were hiding there like a lost watch.

Suddenly in Froid’s mind I see a familiar scene: my apartment. I smile. She did find her way back, no matter where she went. I leave my office and begin my commute home, looking into Froid every now and then. She’s seated on the ottoman and rubbing her feet. Blisters dot her sole. She winces as she pulls her socks off and picks at the loose skin.

That is when the doorknob turned. But it’s not me. I’m still ten blocks from home. I can’t see who it is. Froid’s sight vanishes from my mind.

I check in again on Quentin, who is driving his Prius in neurotic circles between the office and Samuel’s apartment, praying to catch a glimpse of Samuel. But he won’t. It all adds up in my mind like lightning. I step on the gas and run through every red light. I know exactly where Samuel is.

I swing the door wide open and storm into the apartment. Froid is still sitting on the Ottoman, but her blisters are all picked off and she’s bleeding profusely. She’s shaking back and forth, constantly wriggling out of my grasp as I try to sedate her. She hyperventilates until her face goes gray and she slumps over. I set her unconscious body down on the sofa.

The fridge door is open, and I can see someone behind it.

“WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING HERE?” I yell.

He closes the door, a gallon of milk in his hand. My brother.

Quentin the publisher is sitting in the middle of the parking lot in his Prius, gripping the steering wheel and twitching. He’s lost Samuel. He had one task to do and he brazenly failed. He unbuckles his seat belt and unlocks his door. But it won’t budge. He leans on it harder, putting all of his scrawny weight into it. He’s no match for this door. He relocks and unlocks it again and toggles the handle. Nothing. Quentin the publisher blubbers into hysteria. He will have a lifelong phobia of doors now.

That is, if he were to have much more of a life.

The Prius spontaneously combusts in the parking lot. The body of the car flings into every corner of the parking lot as the flames leap passionately into the sky.

This is how Quentin the publisher dies.

Samuel sees the preoccupation in my eyes and catches them drifting towards the door. Once Quentin the publisher is incinerated beyond recognition I turn to look at Froid.

“Am I down a publisher?” he asks me, not a glimmer of intonation in his voice. This is my brother. No accent. Complete monotone. His diction sounds like reading text in one’s head.

I growl at him. “How dare you come here!”

Samuel shrugs his shoulders and sets the gallon down on the table and opens my fridge up again.

“For God’s sake, you just came into my apartment to take my food?”

Samuel says nothing as he takes out a carton of eggs.

I grab his hand and twist it backwards, taking his shoulder with it. He collapses onto the floor but his face betrays no pain. This is my brother. I could stab him in the gut and he wouldn’t react because I’m not stabbing his poetry. I’m just stabbing his body.

“I cannot decline free food,” he finally replies.

“Who says it was free? Get out of here before Froid wakes up.”

He stands up and looks at Froid, a bright white against the ottoman, her arms folded up around her neck. His expression doesn’t change as he turns back to me. As if he didn’t hear me at all he turns back to the fridge to grab some spinach.

I take the carton of eggs and slam it on his head.

“GET OUT! NOW!”

The eggshells float on his black hair as albumen and yolk trickle down his cheeks, his chin, his collarbone. My brother has never done a sport in his life. I rowed crew as an undergrad. Physically I could break every bone in his body, but since I’m not his poetry and nor are his bones, what can I do?

Samuel stands up and faces me. He looks bored. I grab his shoulders and calibrate his gaze so that he looks right into my eyes. He knows what I’m doing and looks over to Froid.

“What is she doing here?”

“None of your business.”

Samuel doesn’t even care that I’m withholding information. He looks back at the milk.

“No. Don’t you dare take it.” I grit my teeth. “Get out. For the last time. Just, leave.”

Samuel stands in front of me until I release my grip on his shoulders. He turns around and grabs the spinach and walks out of my apartment. I’m on the verge of chasing after him and taking back my spinach but I hear Froid let out of a cough.

She wakes up moments later, clutching her throat and scratching the sides of her neck. She won’t slow her breathing, even when I wrap a blanket around her and surround her with my arms.

I try to hush her, telling her that Samuel can’t hurt her, that as long as I’m around he won’t ever bother her. He may be around for whatever reason, but he’ll be gone again as soon as he came—I promise her that I’ll get rid of him—and she has no reason to be afraid of him.

She doesn’t quiet though. She doesn’t speak. She bites her tongue accidentally, and blood colors her front teeth. There’s no blood in her head though. She looks like a corpse. I fear that if she sleeps again she won’t wake up.

I bring her over a glass of water but she won’t drink, and when I force it into her mouth she aspirates it, coughing all over the ottoman and me. She doesn’t apologize. She doesn’t look at me. Her eyes are wide open but she sees nothing. I try to look at her through her point of view but I see nothing. It’s like earlier when Samuel first came.

I’ve lost her. Everything I’ve worked so hard for, everything I’ve done to make her attached, gone. I’m a stranger to her.

“Ambrosia.” I try saying her name again. It feels even more hollow than last time. “It’s okay. I’m here. You don’t need to be afraid. Everything is going to be alright.”

“Luke,” she finally says, her voice harsh and hoarse. “Who exactly is it you think I’m afraid of?”

After Froid goes to bed I survey the damage. In a fit of pique I’ve killed Quentin the publisher. Samuel is in Seattle for whatever reason, and I have no idea when or how he will appear next. I can’t see into Froid’s mind at all anymore. Even when I see her moving her lips as she dreams, gripping her pillow as she sweats, I don’t know which nightmare. I smooth her hair but she doesn’t improve.

I stand at my fridge and take out the guava juice. It’s nearly empty. I assume Froid has been drinking it. I’ll pick some up tomorrow on my way home from work.             After a few hours Froid stops moving. She’s stopped dreaming I suppose. She is so still I think she’s dead until I hear her breath ruffling up the pillowcase. I touch her cheek. Cold. The coldest they’ve ever felt. Colder than my windowpane that has been assaulted with freezing rain for the past couple of hours.

I work a bit in my chair, looking up sparingly to check on Froid. She hasn’t even changed her hand position. Her lips are in the same position as they were the last time I checked on her.

Before long I fall asleep in my chair, an article in my lap. The two of us stay perfectly still for the night. I don’t dream, and as far as I know nor does Froid.

Callahan had marginally finished his finals, so he immediately got into his car and drove up to Maine again. He had heard nothing of Froid; in fact, he had hardly thought about her in between calculus and Camus and trying to write a poem about frogs. None of these endeavors were successful, but he had no time to care about his shortcomings. Right now the only thing that drove him to leave his dorm, eat regularly, and sleep decently was looking at Froid again, the satisfaction in retrieving her from whatever darkness she had immersed herself into.

I wouldn’t classify myself as darkness, though I must admit I am in a sour mood thanks to Samuel’s unwelcome appearance and the subsequent stealing of my groceries. Froid is also void of energy, spending the day alternating between sitting on a bar stool, my chair, and the bed. She doesn’t look up at me. She stares at an invisible wound on her arms. I put my arms around her but she doesn’t see my arms. She only sees her own.

I’m not going to help Callahan on his way up to Maine. If he runs out of gas and remains stranded in a township with a name from the eighteenth century, then so be it. I don’t need another player to lose to Samuel.

Or do I?

With Callahan close to me, I could even the playing field very easily. Callahan would naturally maximize his time with Froid and unwittingly bring her back to me. I don’t care about Callahan going to Samuel. Whoever has Froid wins it all. And at this point Callahan is the best means.

I pick up Froid’s phone. Her contact list is minimal: only me and her home phone. I frown. I wanted to be subtle about this, but I guess it can’t be helped.

Callahan glanced at his phone. He had a text from a number he didn’t recognize.

“This is Froid. I’m in Seattle.”

He nearly crashed his car when he dropped his phone on the mats under his seat. He tried to steer and accelerate on the windy highway and grope for his phone by his feet.

I lead a deer to the road.

Callahan slammed his breaks, thrusting himself into the steering wheel and accidentally honking. The deer scampered away as Callahan looked down and finally grabbed his phone.

“This is Froid. I’m in Seattle.” The message was still there. He pulled over and forwarded the message to Caracolle. She didn’t see the message right away, but Callahan was very aware when she had.

“U better be on ur way!”

“omg get here plz”

“wtf is she doing there?”

“Y R U DRIVING SOOOOO SLOW? :(g“

Callahan tried to reply and drive at the same time. It was not successful to the point of being almost fatal. I lead opossums, more deer, and for the finale a bull moose to the road. Callahan felt like he was decimating the wildlife of New Hampshire as he evaded almost each animal. He did hit an opossum. His wheels reeked of opossum entrails for weeks.

That was the first thing Caracolle complained about when Callahan finally rolled into the Starbucks. She then complained at length about her sister and how she was getting fat from all of the mochas she had been drinking on her shifts.

With a hyper-caffeinated Caracolle in the car, Callahan sped to the Froid house. Caracolle was talking and texting simultaneously, and her monologue melded into an indeterminable combination of the two. Callahan drowned her out as he hurried along.

Mallory Froid hadn’t anticipated Callahan’s arrival, but she was more than happy to heat up some seaweed puree to celebrate the assumingly happy occasion. Callahan tried declining, much more out of comfort than politeness, but Mallory insisted. She told him that if he liked the yeast cakes he’d love this.

“They’re not quite as bad as the cakes,” Caracolle whispered to Callahan when her mother skipped off to the kitchen. “Just pretend you’re eating spinach.”

Callahan hated spinach. And he hated the yeast cakes. Mallory returned with a gravy boat full of puree that she poured over some flatbread. She smiled at Callahan expectantly, and Callahan just smiled at Caracolle. Caracolle was texting five people at the same time.

Callahan’s phone buzzed as he put a flatbread-ful of puree in his mouth. He looked at the screen.

“just said it wasn’t AS bad… still tastes like @$$. sry lol”

Callahan agreed. He almost gagged but played it off as a cough. Mallory stood up to get him a glass of water. Callahan spit the rest of the puree out and wrapped it in a napkin. With no wastebasket in the room he had no choice but to put it into his jacket pocket.

            “So you have heard from Ambrosia after all?” Mallory asked as she clamped her palms together. “Ah, good, good! We miss her so very much, don’t we, Hamline?”

            “Of course we do!” Hamline called from the kitchen. Callahan hadn’t even heard him. He came out with a tray of kale ginseng juice.

            “How do you do, Mr. Froid?” Callahan said politely as he stood up to greet him.

            “Please, it’s Hamline. Don’t fuss with titles. We’re all humans here.”

With no warning, Hamline grabbed Callahan and hugged him tightly. Hamline felt the napkin squish into his skin and the puree crawl through his jacket and later his t-shirt.

“I’m glad she’s in Seattle. If she were anywhere else, we’d be worried sick!” Piped up Mallory.

Hamline nodded in accord. “Imagine if she had gone to some barbarian city in the south. Like Nashville or Atlanta or Salt Lake City…” Hamline shuddered. “She’d probably forget that women have the right to vote!”

“Oh, Hamline, don’t say such wretched things. Be grateful for Seattle. Such a center of civilization and culture! Ambrosia sure has good tastes in freedoms. I’m sure she’s thriving in utopia, making her life for herself, calling the shots in her life, becoming a beacon of linguistic evolution like Samuel!”

I assume Froid is exactly as I left her: sitting idly on my bed. I had left for work and told her to stay in the apartment. As a precaution I locked the doors so that Samuel couldn’t walk in again. She acted as though the doors were locked from the inside as well.

Callahan couldn’t imagine Froid having any joy, regardless of where she went. All he could picture was her lying on a bench and practicing making smoke rings. For all he knew, her parents probably knew and just didn’t care about her lifestyle. They just wanted their child to be the greatest artist in the world so they had something to talk about with their other yuppie friends.

But of course, he just felt like making sure. “Has Ambrosia always been… on the sullen side?”

Mallory laughed. “Oh, she was such a serious little child! I remember when she was very little and she had a picture book of artists throughout the ages. All of them geniuses: Poe, Picasso, Van Gogh, Da Vinci… All of them just totally off their rocker. But that’s what gave them inspiration. And if that’s what it means to be an artist, then so be it! It’s done wonders for our little Ambrosia. She won poetry awards all throughout grade school and middle school and high school! We’ve framed all of her poems. Would you like to see?”

Callahan got up with them and examined shadowboxes on the walls that led up the stairs. Each contained a poem of Froid’s from basically toddlerhood to her last months at Murkvein. Each of them was signed by her parents with the age of when Froid created them. They even had her first poem that she had done when she was so young she hardly knew how to write. It looked more like an abstract painting or a finger painting project. There were even craft feathers stuck bluntly on the corners. It was nearly illegible.

“After she made this,” Mallory began, “We told her she had to become a poet. We were just blown away by the genius. The simplicity, organic text that resembles a pictograph. It’s a poem almost without words! It's the bridge between the visual and literary arts. That’s when we got her the picture book about artists.”

They all sat down in the living room again. Mallory and Hamline were beaming with excitement. Callahan didn’t know how to react, but he turned to Caracolle for guidance. She had stayed sitting on the couch and texted relentlessly until she looked up at Callahan. Her expression was so conflicted that Callahan stopped analyzing it after picking out her envy, despair, and smug complacency. Caracolle was much smarter than anyone gave her credit for.

“So, I was planning on going out to Seattle just to visit Ambrosia and make sure everything’s alright. I mean, you do agree with me that her decision was impulsive, and that you were worried when she didn’t come home, right?”

Hamline guffawed, and Callahan was disgusted with how ugly it sounded. “Of course we were worried when we didn’t know where she was, and that was mostly that we didn’t want her to fall prey to those horrible Republicans in the south that think that God wants them to have five wives and that gay people have the same rights as chimpanzees!”

Callahan held his tongue. He was a Republican, as a matter of fact. He was becoming slowly more liberal in college, but these two had effectively killed his desire to become any more so.

Mallory continued, “We’ve gotta hand it to her. She’s being very proactive in seeking a Bohemian lifestyle! But if that’s what it takes for her to become an artist, then so be it. For her to create is of the utmost importance to us.”

“No matter the cost?” Callahan asked pointedly.

They nodded simultaneously. “There is no nobler a deed than to make art. It advances civilization. Every piece of art created moves humanity forward. Our daughter is on the frontier, and so is our dear Samuel!”

“You know that the two broke up, don’t you?”

They nodded again, though they look offended. “Of course we do!” Mallory retorted. “What do you take us for, neglectful parents? She was so torn up about it. She didn’t write for months, but once she started writing again in secret we knew she was okay. What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, right? What an experience for her to write about. It will only make her a better artist!”

That was when Callahan stood up, took his coat, and walked out the door without saying a word. Caracolle watched him eagerly before running out to meet him at his car.

“See what I have to deal with?!” she nearly shrieked, tossing her hands in the air multiple times. “No one believes me. Everyone thinks my parents are so cool and hip and understanding, but they’ve got their head stuck up their own asses so much that they don’t know shit!”

“Get in,” Callahan said.

“Why?”

“Aren’t you coming with me? I’m going to the airport.”

Caracolle shook her head. “Unlike you, I’ve got to go to school and stuff. Besides, I’m only 16. Wouldn’t that be illegal?”

Callahan sighed. “Whatever. Do you not care about her either?”

Caracolle’s face for the first time since he met her showed grief. “I told you before. I hate her guts, and I hate how much my parents love her more than me. I hate poetry because it doesn’t make sense, I hate Samuel because he thinks he’s not human even though he totally is, and I hate that I’m just thought of as the ditzy version of my sister.”

She was tearing up and had to stop. Callahan didn’t know whether or not to comfort her and tried putting an arm around her. She pushed it away.

“But still… You know how you should totally hate someone but you just can’t? It goes against everything you think, and you have so many reasons to want them to just disappear but at the end of it all you just can’t bring yourself to?”

Callahan nodded. He felt the exact same way about Samuel. Pity I don’t.

Callahan put his arm again around Caracolle. She pushed it away again.

“I’m fine, really. Just go find her. You want to make me feel better? Make sure she’s still the same super artsy weird friendless girl that she’s always been.”

Callahan smiled and got in his car as Caracolle went back inside. He turned the key in the ignition. I kill his engine.

Callahan panicked. He kept twisting the key to no avail, so engrossed in his failure that he failed to see the taxi parked behind him.

The cabby got out of his car and walked over to Callahan’s. He tapped on the window so briskly that Callahan nearly jumped out of his seatbelt. Callahan got out of his car.

“Taxi cab for Callahan Grossherz?” He asked.

“I… didn’t order a taxi.”

“Well, somebody did, to Bangor International Airport. And paid for it too already.”

As Callahan stepped into the taxi I order his plane ticket as well. He got an email on his phone that gives him a confirmation for his flight from Bangor International Airport to Seattle. His reaction was priceless. He dropped his phone on the floor of the taxi and spent a good five minutes trying to look for it.

Within an hour, Callahan went from the Froid’s driveway to sitting on a plane in Economy Plus on the way to Seattle. He was suspicious, obviously, but he had no idea who would do this for him.

In a little stroke of pride I text him directly.

“Hello, Callahan Grossherz. My name is Luke Coldridge. I’m looking forward to meeting you."

All of Murkvein was in mourning because of Quentin the publisher’s untimely death. Callahan kept getting emails from his phone thanks to campus-wide announcements of support groups for those traumatized, and the entire English department promising to cancel the grades people got on the final exam and round everyone’s grade up almost a letter. For Callahan, this meant he was going to get at least an A- in two of his classes. He didn’t care about his grade at all.

I see an article on Google talking about the sudden death of Samuel’s publisher. Apparently his name was Quentin Hoakes. The article also mentions that Samuel is here in Seattle at the University of Washington to do a poetry recital this afternoon. That’s odd. This is the first time he’s ever recited his poetry in person.

I drive on my way home, and public radio has a small article raving about how excited people are to attend this sudden and rare appearance of the poet, and the entire ten minute recital will be broadcast live once it begins.

A few minutes away from my apartment the broadcast starts.

I open the door to my apartment.

“Ambrosia, I’m hungry! Let’s go out to eat, your choice!”

No response. Though I wasn’t expecting anything different. I open the door to my room.

Froid is sleeping in my bed, completely engulfed by covers. I walk over to her and put my hand in the middle of the lump.

Warm. And soft.

I rip off the covers. There’s nothing else there.

Froid is gone, again. I close my eyes, but I can’t see her anywhere.

Could she? No, she couldn’t have. I walk over to her phone, shattered on the tile of the kitchen, the battery leaking and seeping into the porous cement.

Froid. We had a promise, didn’t we? Didn’t I make you promise? I guess I never told you.

Nanowrimo 5

More literary action!

The Froid household was a modest house with a lavish interior. Froid’s mother was an interior designer, and her father was an architect. The two basically made a challenge out of taking the ugliest house they could possibly find and converting it into a yuppie paradise. Callahan marveled at the posh rugs, the patina on the bronze tiffany lamps, the expertly coordinated furniture and the warm caramel tones of the wall. Callahan looked back at the rug. Mrs. Froid’s favorite phrase was “the rug really ties the room together.” He would hear it five times over the course of the next two hours.
“The rug really ties the room together!” Mrs. Froid called as she walked towards Callahan with arms outstretched. She pulled Callahan down to her level and kissed him on both cheeks. Callahan blushed. He was hoping that another Froid would have kissed him first.
“Mallory Froid,” she said finally. “So good to finally meet you, Callahan!”
“Finally?” Callahan asked.
“Well, we saw at dinner once you texted Ambrosia and of course anyone who texts her is a big enough deal in our book! Come in. I’m making some vegan yeast cakes!”
Mallory Froid’s body was shaped like a squash topped with an androgynous caramel auburn haircut. This was all highlighted by her choice of an eggplant purple shift dress and mud brown boots. On her earrings were bison-shaped turquoise pendants, the only thing almost as ostentatious as the enormous jasper ring that eclipsed her wedding band on the same finger.
Callahan could not stop looking at her haircut, which looked like a cross between Samuel’s and Froid’s. It was obviously blond, but she had been so fixated with matching the rug that…
“It really ties the room together, doesn’t it?” She was fishing for compliments from Callahan. Callahan dutifully nodded and smiled at her. “It’s a beautiful rug.”
“Thank you! I had to basically sneak it out of Nepal when we went there the first time. Customs would have had a cow had they known that we were taking something so valuable out. The kids were really small, and Ambrosia got lost in one of the temples and was almost adopted by a couple nuns. Cara, you probably don’t remember that trip, don’t you?”
Caracolle rolled her eyes. “No. All I remember is falling off that stupid yak and you guys laughing at me for the whole car ride back to the hotel!”
Mallory laughed. “Ah, our Caracolle. What she lacks in brain she makes up for in cuteness!” She tugged at Caracolle’s cheeks and Caracolle yanked her head back, unabashedly repulsed.
Mallory had Callahan sit down on a sofa that was connected to the rest of the décor through the Nepali rug.
Caracolle reluctantly trailed her mom into the kitchen. She did not want to feed Callahan Grossherz vegan yeast cakes. She had lived on them thanks to her parents’ obsession with the organic and the healthy. Ambrosia hadn’t cared enough to balk, but Caracolle made her opinion on their food options almost every mealtime. Mallory and her husband could not wait to ship Caracolle across the country to UCLA and never hear from their reject daughter ever again.
Callahan watched as a tall blond man with thick black glasses walked into the room as well.
“Nice to meet you! My name is Hamline Froid, Ambrosia’s father. You must be the Callahan we are so anxious to meet!”
Callahan smiled meekly and reached out to receive a handshake. He instead got the same greeting as Mallory’s, as Hamline squeezed Callahan’s torso and kissed him on both cheeks.
“You must be starving! I bet an athlete like yourself has a metabolism of a baby squirrel!” He patted Callahan’s stomach with the back of his hand.
Callahan nodded absently. He was always hungry, but he was never burning any of the calories he consumed. And he was certainly not hungry enough to ingest more than a couple polite nibbles of a vegan yeast cake, whatever that was.
Mallory returned into the living room with a pot of rooibos and a silver platter of doughy patties. They were as smooth as river rocks, and Callahan really wondered if they weren’t just uncooked buns or something. He accepted tea and saucer and hesitantly took a yeast cake, pep-talking himself into optimism. He took a bite. Nope. They tasted exactly like he thought. He smiled with effort and set the rest of the cake down on the saucer.
“So tell us about yourself, Callahan,” Hamline said warmly. Callahan took a big swig of rooibos to prolong his response.
Callahan gave them quick and minimal details about him. He was from Iowa and switched from athletics to poetry after encountering Robert Frost’s North of Boston. He had gone against his parents wishes and applied to a liberal arts school, got a minimal scholarship, and happily trotted to Murkvein, optimistic about pursuing what he really wanted for the first time in his life, set on recreating himself as an artist. He wanted to be different and defy expectation for the first time in his life.
The Froids looked at Callahan with uncomfortable euphoria. Hamline passionately interrupted him at the very end of his story and declared that this was what the population had to do: abandon the uncivilized and gravitate towards the arts, that every problem in society was rooted in its preoccupation with the basest of entertainments.
Callahan would have shoved a yeast cake in his mouth had Mallory not interrupted her husband to give an elaborate metaphor about how society was tied together through art like the living room was tied together through the rug. Callahan looked at Caracolle. Caracolle drank a huge gulp of tea every time her mother mentioned the rug. She clearly wished the tea were alcoholic.
Mallory’s speech suddenly stopped and she bombarded Callahan with more questions about Froid at school: what was she like? Who were her other friends? Did she eat enough?
Callahan set the yeast cake down and began.
“Well, I wasn’t all that close with Froid, but I knew her well enough, I guess. You know she was dating-”
Mallory and Hamline sighed as they simultaneously fanned themselves. “Samuel.” They gushed. “What a catch!”
Callahan squeezed the cake in shock. Caracolle got up to go to the bathroom. She had drunk three cups of tea already. She must have been making a drinking game of other idiosyncrasies her parents had.
Mallory leaped up and grabbed an album from under a coffee table. It was labeled “Thanksgiving of Two Thousand and Twelve,” so last year around this time. There were hundreds of photos, many of them the same, chronicling every unforgettable moment of that Thanksgiving, from the arrival of guests to the carving of Turkey, to Caracolle’s countless annoyed expressions and candid shots. Most of Caracolle’s photos were of her eating, as if that were some kind of family inside joke. Callahan watched as Caracolle returned from the bathroom, saw the three of them huddled around the infamous album, and retreated back into the hallway.
Finally, towards the middle-end of the photo album, two familiar faces appeared. Froid and Samuel arrived for dinner together, both wearing dark colors to play off how casually they had dressed for the event. Samuel seldom looked at the camera during a photograph, but somehow each shot favored him. The flash highlighted the contrast of his pale skin against his silver blue eyes, which was surrounded by a coast of nearly jet-black hair. His neck was long and his features were delicate, almost feminine. This is my brother. This is my beautiful, androgynous, son-of-a-bitch brother.
The contrast between Froid and Samuel was striking: blond against dark brown, green against blue, black on gray against black on brown. Samuel looked like a poet, but even more like a poem.
“Oh, having Samuel over was such a treat! We had to basically force him to recite one of his poems for us. We have all of his volumes, don’t we?” Mallory nudged her husband, who agreed enthusiastically.
“We’re real fans of Samuel’s work,” he expanded. “It was so nice that he let us call him Samuel instead of Mr. Samuel Tyler Coldridge. Everyone’s so preoccupied with titles these days… It’s refreshing to see one who doesn’t mind being of the people. You know, just an artist who is first and foremost just a person, just a human being!”
Callahan suppressed a chance to scoff. If there was one thing Samuel did not consider himself, it was human. He was not of the people or a person. He was King Samuel, lord sovereign of his tiny kingdom of poetry. Callahan nearly nodded in passive agreement, though it wouldn’t take long for him to vehemently disagree with them.
The afternoon aged quickly, between the yeast cakes, the rooibos, the hundreds of paparazzi-esque pictures of Samuel reluctantly eating turkey, and later the most unpleasant kelp salad that Mallory insisted on feeding Callahan. Something about cleansing the body of toxins. Callahan almost vomited in his mouth. Caracolle’s conscious disappearance was from personal experience.
Mallory insisted again that Callahan stay for dinner, but Callahan declined, both passionately and politely, saying that he really should go back to campus. They relented, only making Callahan promise that he will come for Thanksgiving the next week. Callahan quickly promised and headed for the door.
Mallory and Hamline hugged and kissed him again as if he were going overseas to fight in a war he couldn’t vote for, while Caracolle was nowhere to be found. Callahan speed walked to his car, and as he approached it he noticed the outline of a human.
It was Caracolle.
“Hey, uh, tell your folks thank you again. That was really nice of-”
“I can’t believe they’re not worried for her! It’s like they’re okay that she just decided to disappear. They’re probably giving her a couple days. Mark my words: when you come back, it’s because they want to know where she is. If you don’t find out where she is, don't bother coming here. They’ll just push you out the door with weird vegan crap and talk about Samuel like he’s their son-in-law.”
“So the point of me coming here today was…”
“For them to see another link to my sister. They want to find out where she is, but they’re too big of hippies to go look for her themselves. Trust me. They’re my parents, and they’re crazy.”
Callahan nodded and got into the car. He began to pull out of the driveway before Caracolle ran up to meet him again.
“One more thing! Even if you have nothing to show my parents, do come up and see me. At Starbucks. We can try to find her together.”
“You’re sure enthused to help now, aren’t you?”
Caracolle smiled sheepishly. “She’s my sister. I hate her to bits, but what can you do? I need to be around someone who doesn’t think the sun shines out of Samuel’s ass.”

Froid slowly begins to move as I wake up from a nap on my chair. I hear the sheets rustling and I immediately walk over to her side. It’s now six o’clock, and we have two hours to go phone shopping.
“Good evening, Ambrosia!” I say her first name awkwardly. Maybe this is why everyone calls her Froid except for that imbecile Callahan.
She looks up at me and smiles faintly. Already the color in her face is looking much healthier, her eyes less bloodshot, her dark circles less pronounced.
“Your phone did a strange thing while you slept,” I tell her.
She walks over to her phone, and sure enough, the screen is shattered and she opens the back to find the circuit board charred in some sort of suicidal arson.
“How did this happen? I got this phone last year for Christmas,” she says quietly, weighing the phone in her hand, watching the cracks reflect the light.
I shrug my shoulders. “It can’t be helped. Phones these days are so unpredictable. Tell you what… Let’s head downtown and get you a new phone. It’s all on me.”
She’s shocked. “Oh, no, I couldn’t! I couldn’t make you spend all that money on me. It’s not right. Let me pay for it.”
“I insist!” I reply. “This is but a small price to pay. Think of this new phone as a new beginning. We can even get you a new phone number. You’ll be so far away from your past you won’t even remember anything.”
She nods slowly, tempted by the prospect of leaving all the connections behind. She would have none of the phone numbers of Murkvein people, people from her high school. And best of all, none of them would pick up the phone to contact her.
“Sounds like a plan. But… why are you doing all of this for me?”
I say nothing as I hand her her coat.

By that Monday normalcy resumed in everyone’s life. Callahan prepared for his final exams and began packing things up to head back north to Maine. I went back to the office, leaving Froid at my apartment alone but in the company of countless science journals for her to brush up on her physics. Quentin followed Samuel’s daily route with renewed vigor, convinced that this was somehow the best for Samuel.
With Quentin always in close proximity of Samuel, I knew of everything that Samuel was up to. Quentin accompanied him to from the office to home to the supermarket, and back home. Samuel hardly acknowledged Quentin but would have Quentin carry bags of bread and milk when he was nearby. Quentin was not quite sure how this was for the best but he figured that as long as someone thought so it was not his responsibility.
A long day at the office makes me excited about coming home to Froid. I skip down flights of stairs and listen to big band music on my drive home. The traffic is heavy, but it’s nothing. My empty apartment has a small inkling of life. It has Froid.
I enter the apartment and throw my arms up in the air. Froid gets up off an ottoman and walks over to hug me. I pick her up and twirl her around the room as she latches her thin arms around my neck. The way she smiles at me is so different than how she had a mere two days ago. Her eyes are verdant and fresh. She looks like a twenty-one year old. She sleeps much better now, now that I’ve taken active roles in her nightmares. I kill Samuel before he can bring harm. I save her from impossible decisions. I destroy her regret when she does something wrong or fails a challenge she cannot possibly succeed. Every dream has been rewritten. Now that I’m beside her, nothing, not even the Samuel of her subconscious, can hurt her.
For once it is not raining in Seattle, and I suggest we go on a joy ride. She agrees, since she has seen little of the city since arriving. I tell her about the wonders of the coastline and all the amazing seafood places. Her eyes glisten when I mention lobster. She says she’s never had lobster, even though she’s from Maine. I drop my jaw in cartoonish shock and tell her we have to have lobster and some oysters from an oyster bar. She smiles wider. I’ve never seen anyone so beautiful. She holds my hand as we exit the apartment.

By Tuesday Quentin had begun feeling his lack of sleep. Apparently I had intimidated him so much that he had neglected every biological function possible. He hadn’t eaten, he hadn’t rested, he hadn’t done anything that would distract him even momentarily from Samuel. Samuel had gone about his daily life with complete indifference, every now and then looking at Quentin but with no suspicion whatsoever. No one, especially not Quentin, could bind Samuel to reality.
As I lay in bed I think about Christmas many years ago. I change my statement: nothing could bind Samuel to reality.
At seven in the morning Quentin assumed that Samuel was at his apartment. Samuel slept if and when he felt like it, which made for long periods of consciousness before a couple days of perfect slumber. Unfortunately Quentin was tasked with watching him after a weekend of sleeping. This meant that Samuel was at his most alert, going to the grocery at all hours of night, pacing around his mattress, sitting on every bench on campus and trying to attach himself to his surroundings, and making hundreds of new leafs of paper.
Samuel was not at his apartment, as Quentin saw walking down a sidewalk. Samuel was sitting on a bench, eyes closed, fingers twitching. He was deep in sleep and had been like that for hours. Quentin smiled as he sat down next to him. He closed his eyes as well. If Samuel would permit himself to sleep, then so could Quentin. Within moments of leaning his head on Samuel’s shoulder, he was fast asleep. Even if Samuel were to move infinitesimally, Quentin would notice it. He could sleep safely.
Even if Samuel were to burn another Prius because Quentin drooled on him, Quentin didn’t mind entirely. With the reward I’ve promised him, he correctly assumed he could just buy another one.
The minutes ticked by. Quentin is of little more interest to me at the moment. I roll over in bed and sleep a little longer.
With Froid so close to me, her dream starts playing in my mind. She hasn’t dreamed in a while. I’m looking forward to what’s in store.

A metal box. Lidless. It’s large enough for a human to sit in uncomfortably. It moves closer until Froid is set in it. She touches the wall. Cool. She hugs her knees to her chest, wondering what should happen next.
The metal box is lowered on a pulley and hangs in the maroon-tinged darkness for a brief moment, in the silence. Froid begins shivering.
Suddenly, the surroundings are bright. Froid looks straight up at a round opening and sees the night sky. She starts feeling warm. She stands up in the box and looks down.
She is in a volcano.
The heat begins growing. The metal begins to glow and contract, against all mention of Froid’s abrupt screams. She has had this dream before.
Her skin melts and pools onto the bottom of the box. Her hair singes and catches fire. She reaches outside the box for anyone to help her.
The silhouette of a figure. It approaches her and she stops screaming and moving but keeps burning.
The figure gently pushes her back into the box.
“Stay,” it says.
Froid nods and sits in the box, the heat too much for tears that evaporate before they even leave her eyes.
“Good girl,” the figure says. “Good girl. Good girl. Good girl.”
Froid looks up. I know who it is. I recognize that voice.
Samuel is so close Froid can almost see his face. A flame leaps up between them and alights their eye contact.
But it is not Samuel.
It is me.

I awake so rapidly that I almost throw myself off the bed. I’m tangled in sheets, stuck to my back with cold sweat. I know it was a dream, and not even my dream at that, but the heat, the pain, the suffering was too real to calm me down.
I turn on the light and look over at the other side of the bed. It’s empty. Froid has gone.

Nanowrimo 4

WOOOOOOOOOOO STORY

Froid is starting to eat on her own volition. I knew she couldn’t resist her favorite food for long, and while she may try to emulate Samuel, consciously or not, she does like the things she eats. And she likes my company. I’ve finished my curry and have been finished since before she started, but watching her pick up her fork and shovel bamboo shoots and peppers was worth the wait.

            “You must be very hungry.”

            Froid nods and quickens the pace of her forkfuls.

            “You must also be tired.”

            Froid grunts and drinks some water, the ice splashing her lips and making her grunt again.

            She looks much more relaxed. She’s doing what she wants, when she wants. She hasn’t done this for months, at least not before she met Samuel. I growl at the very mention of his name. He has no context. He does not belong here with us. He doesn’t even exist. I think both of us could live with that assumption.

            We get up and leave as soon as she finishes the final heap of rice and vegetables. Her eating came to halt when she had reached the penultimate bite, and I saw her eye my empty plate longingly. Of course she’s still hungry.

            As soon as we get in the car she thanks me for lunch. I tell her that it’s the least I can do for her and grab her hand. Cold, but warmer than before. For the first time since seeing her she smiles at me. The mechanism is forced and disjointed, but her attempt is as beautiful a smile as I’ve ever seen.

            “See?” I chuckle at her. “You really are as beautiful as you let yourself be!”

            Froid laces her fingers in mine so that our hold is impossibly fortified. She’s all mine.

            Quentin the publisher was looking through Samuel’s invitations in Samuel’s office. Universities invited Samuel by the gross to recite at poetry readings or give guest lectures or mentor seniors writing their theses. Samuel of course attended none of them. Quentin the publisher looked at today’s unfortunate schools: Brown, University of Washington, University of California Berkeley, Boston College, Tufts.  Quentin the publisher placed them in a neat pile on top of the scrap paper that Samuel would turn into pulp. More schools to go unnoticed.

Quentin the publisher wondered when they would all realize that this prestige held no interest to Samuel. The only prestige that held true in Samuel’s mind was that he could create anything in his poetry, and in the lines of his language and the charcoal smudges round the perimeter of the page, he was the creator. He was the ultimate and only authority. He was God.

Samuel unexpectedly appeared in the office. Quentin the publisher squawked in surprise before composing himself. I nearly rear-end an Escalade in front of me. Froid jolts awake and turns over to me. She demands to know why I’m so preoccupied. The panang curry has restored Froid’s ability to show her emotions.

I reply that I’m still thinking of the patient’s folder in the office. She tells me if it’s bothering me so much we can just go to the clinic right now. I tell her it’s not a big deal, and she scrutinizes my face for lies. She won’t find any. I know exactly what she’s doing.

Samuel looked at Quentin the publisher and said nothing. He walked around Quentin the publisher and sat down at the desk and starting shredding paper. Quentin the publisher didn’t know whether to help him or to make a run for it.

As Samuel tore the pieces into smooth, thin strips like bok choy, he looked at the schools that he was declining. His expression remained unfazed as he looked at the prestigious, the far away, and the enormous. He was an egalitarian. By the time he had finished the pile not one of the unique embossing patterns on the paper was discernable from another. Quentin the publisher sneaked out as Samuel began tearing the shreds into more haphazard scraps.

This is my brother. This is why my brother will never be a great poet.

Caracolle Froid. Ambrosia’s junior by four years. She so resembled her sister that the two looked like twins, until they opened their mouths. Caracolle was not smart. Caracolle did not care about anything except for dating the quarterback of the football team and making sure her nails were always perfect. She also liked cake-flavored vodka, but her parents didn’t know that. Caracolle hated Froid because she was everything she was not, and their parents never forgave Caracolle for not being as artistic or intellectual or yuppie-ish as the rest of their family.

Caracolle was off her shift now, and the two of them sat at a tiny table with a checkerboard pattern on it.

“So you know Ambrosia. Lucky you.” Her sarcasm cut up Callahan more than it should have.

“Yeah, we met a little over a year ago in a creative writing class.”

“Of course you did.”

Caracolle was not making it easy for Callahan to get any information. She was punishing him for hitting on her earlier, even if he really wasn’t.

“She really hasn’t come home?” Callahan asked.

Caracolle shook her head. “Last we heard she was coming back from campus after packing up the rest of her things. Which is like… three pairs of pants? Anyways she was supposed to come home and get some more things before heading out west.”

“But you haven’t heard… anything?”

“Her phone number’s the same… It just goes straight to voicemail. I wonder if she has it off.”

Of course she has it off. She’s never had it on since landing in Seattle. Froid turns on her phone once she gets to my house. No unheard messages or texts. That’s not entirely true. I just keep deleting the messages she gets as soon as they arrive to her phone.

“How is my phone off?” She mutters to herself. “Has it been off the whole time?”

I shrug my shoulders.

“But… I texted you when I landed, right?”

I nod.

She stares me down as if she knows I’m the culprit, but I know she’s bluffing. Even if she is right.

Caracolle and Callahan texted Froid the exact same message at the exact same time. I can’t let this interfere with Froid’s desperate need to sleep, and I drop the signal on their phones until Froid does fall asleep.

Caracolle and Callahan both looked at their phones in confusion as their signal went from 4G to completely gone, as if they had gone into an underground parking garage and were not still in a Starbucks in the middle of a mobile hotspot.

“That’s weird… Is your signal dropped too?” Callahan asked Caracolle.

Caracolle moaned. “My phone always does this! It’s like, the one time I actually want to reach my sister it doesn’t want me to! Ohmygod, is God, like, punishing me or something?”

I snort a little. The second time in the course of a couple minutes that a Froid is completely right but will never know it.

            Froid begins snoring quietly in my bed. I walk over to her and tuck the covers around her. Her breathing slows even more, and she turns over onto her size and softly grips the covers and the pillowcase.

            I wonder if she’s dreaming. I sit in an armchair next to my bed and watch her face. Small parts of her dream begin to flash before my eyes.

            A huge bonfire. Froid standing in front of it with an empty tank of lighter fuel. The fire leaps up into the night sky hungrily, turning the purple clouds orange with heat. Suddenly, the fire starts dwindling, but the energy seems to be growing. Froid looks at a small pile of ash, and it begins to form into a charred body. Skin begins to solidify on the surface, and pools stretch themselves over a lattice of bones. The face is still beyond recognition, but slowly features begin to make themselves known. Brown hair. Dimples. Pudgy cheeks. Thick lips.

            It’s Callahan.

            And suddenly Callahan starts screaming in pain. He is alive now.

            Froid tries covering her ears, but her hands have left her. More piles of ash become other things. Her parents. Her poetry. Caracolle. They scream as loud as Callahan as she walks towards them. She takes a charred match out of her pocket and it sucks up all the flames. She looks at Callahan as he trembles, knowing what she’s going to do as she holds the empty tank and it sucks up the gasoline. She walks backwards, still facing them, until she turns to her left. There is Samuel. She gives him the full tank.

            “Thank you,” she whispers.

            Samuel hands her back the full tank of gasoline.

            Froid jumps upright on the bed, her breathing hard, cold sweat dotting her hairline. It’s hard to tell whether it is sweat or tears on her cheeks, but either way she begins shivering at their presence.

            I leap out of the chair and wrap my arms her. Cold. Colder than when I saw her at the airport.

            “It’s okay,” I croon as I rub her shoulders with my hands. “It’s okay. It’s okay. It’s only a nightmare.”

            She turns to me, shaking violently and gasping for air.

            “Luke. It feels… so real.”

            She begins to warm up again as I hold her and before long she falls back asleep in my arms. I wipe her hair away from her face. Her expression is calm now. She’s not dreaming. She feels safe.

            I smile as I set her slowly back down on the bed. This is what I live for.

           

            Froid’s phone begins to buzz as soon as I return the signal to Caracolle’s and Callahan’s phones. They have texted her three times each, each writing the same messages at the same time. They express worry, understanding, and blunt annoyance, respectively. I delete all six messages. As I hold Froid’s phone the screen cracks, and I hear the circuit board fry. Time for her to get a new phone. We can go shopping as soon as she wakes up.

            Caracolle texted her parents to let her know she’d procure her own ride home. She looked at Callahan and he instantly offered her to give her a lift. She got up before he did and walked out the door as he trailed her, trying to unlock the car before she got to it.

            Callahan was not a neat person, but his car had been so seldom used that it was about as clean as it was when he had it detailed before heading off to school. The cloth seats still smelled like orange oil, the windows were clean and polished, and the compartments were empty of trash that he would inevitably accumulate once he started using this car more regularly.

            Caracolle spent the entire car ride texting random people. Callahan had to drag directions out of her as if he were a dean talking to a student on academic probation. She answered minimally and vaguely, merely telling him to turn up ahead or keep going. In a stroke of annoyance, Callahan pulled over and stopped the car.

            “Look, are you going to help me or not?” He growled at her. “Do you actually want to find you sister or are you just reveling in your detachment like the insufferable bitch you are?”

            Caracolle’s mouth dropped, and so did her phone. Callahan was mad. When he wanted to intimidate someone, it was not hard. He was tall and burly, and the steering wheel constricted under his agitated grasp. His features were boyish but definite, and with his eyes alight with frustration and mouth curled into a snarl, he was more than successful in terrifying Caracolle.

            Caracolle tried to play off her fear with middling success. “You know, you don’t have to use big words like that. Just tell me that you think I don’t want to find my sister. Come on, don't use big words.”

            Callahan bared his teeth. “Fine. Let me use monosyllabic words then. If you’re gonna help me, tell me how to get your house. If not, get the HELL out of my car!”

            This time Caracolle had no place to hide her fright. She picked her phone up and set it down in her purse. She folded her hands in her lap in defeat.

            “I’m sorry. Turn left at the next stoplight.”

            Callahan stomped on the gas and remerged onto the road. He would eventually apologize to Caracolle, but not right now. He could not forgive her for not wanting to find Froid as much as he did.

            Quentin the publisher was bored. This happened at around this part of the day, once he finished sending Samuel’s works to be bound and had already gone to the apartment and back. He checked Samuel’s office, but it was empty. Samuel had probably gone back home. He seldom stayed long in his office, usually just to pick up scrap paper and steal some pens from other desks. Samuel had a lot of money that he never used. He lived on the verge of poverty not out of masochism but out of simplicity. He didn’t care about money. He lived more Spartanly than any other writer in the world, even though his royalties for publication were somewhere in the millions last year.

I have to admit I know because I’ve taken out hundreds of dollars at a time, not out of necessity but rather curiosity. I don’t need his money. I make tenfold more than he does, and at least I show my gratitude by spending. I will show gratitude for my affluence by buying Froid a top-of-the-line smart phone with the most expensive plan. If Froid doesn’t already feel emotionally indebted to me by now, she most certainly will be financially by the end of the day.

Quentin the publisher ate a turkey sandwich with no condiments, cheese, or mayonnaise on the floor of Samuel’s office. He was nearly dying of boredom, but he had rushed out the door so quickly that morning that he only grabbed two pieces of bread and a handful of turkey. Quentin the publisher also lived comfortably. The English department paid him handsomely for being the only person inconspicuous enough to withstand Samuel day in and day out. It was the most backhanded compliment ever.

The only person probably as bored as Quentin the publisher at the moment is me. Froid is asleep, Caracolle and Callahan are silently commuting, and Quentin at his most entertaining is about as exciting as a jar of fancy ketchup. I don’t want to read any of my articles and don’t want to leave Froid unattended. I sit in my armchair and tap my fingers on my thigh. I hate being this overt in my machinations, but Samuel and I have the same mortal flaw: when aren’t controlling our worlds, we are insufferably bored.

The door to Samuel’s office suddenly slammed shut. Quentin the publisher dropped his turkey sandwich on the carpet, the bread crumbling on impact and the turkey flopping over into a processed log. Quentin the publisher squealed as he tried to put his sandwich back together, all the while examining the door with horrified confusion.

He put half of the sandwich pieces in his mouth and stuffed half of it in his pocket and he inched cautiously towards the door. He grabbed the knob and wiggled it. Jammed. He cantilevered himself at the foot of the door and leaned backwards as he pulled on the knob. He flipped backwards, the knob severed and in his hands, the door portentously standing over him.

Quentin the publisher shrieked and covered his mouth, until he realized that no one was around to hear him. The department had been closed for an hour, and not one professor or office assistant would willingly stay longer than their assigned hours. He was trapped, alone, in the office, and he watched the sun dip over the horizon. He scampered to turn on the light switch. It flickered on, but I immediately smash the light bulb. It rained down onto the floor in painful shards as Quentin the publisher sprinted to the corner to evade the precipitation. His bewilderment had flared up into paranoia very quickly. He wailed as he covered his head with his arms and sunk into the corner, quivering at the very clink of the light bulb fragments rocking back and forth on the carpet.

The doorknob began rolling towards him with determination. Quentin the publisher pushed himself farther into the corner as it casually approached him.

I think I’ve done enough.

What are you doing here, eating your dinner after hours off of Samuel’s floor?

Quentin the publisher whimpers before he responds. “I… I… I don’t know. I just wanted to make sure that he was still here.”

And if he were here?

            “I’d… I’d… I don’t know! I’d do something for him!”

            I believe you can do much more to help him. The best way for you to help him is to keep an eye on him. All times. Don’t let him out of your sight.
            “But… wouldn’t he find that annoying?”

            Do you like your current Prius? Or would you like it better if it were incinerated?

            Quentin the publisher cowers at the very mention. “No! No no no no! I like it very much!”

            Then listen to my instructions very carefully. I was done even pretending to be his self-conscious. He wouldn’t know the difference anyway. His self-conscience was already a constant monologue of orders from superiors, hypothetical ones from Samuel, laundry lists of assignments. Quentin the publisher didn’t have a conscience. That’s why I could inhabit him so comfortably.

            Pick up the doorknob. Quentin the publisher does so hastily.

            Replace it on the door. Quentin the publisher pokes the opening and stabs it with the knob.

            Open the door. The door swings open.

            Promise me you will follow Samuel. Night and day. You care about him, don’t you? This is for the best. You will be rewarded handsomely for your inconvenience.

            Quentin the publisher nods as he hyperventilates. He bursts out of the room and makes a run for Samuel’s apartment. Quentin is my eyes and ears. I smile. This is what I live for.