Nanowrimo 13

Chapter 9

Froid and Samuel disappear through the glass doors of the hospital. I walk across the street to the Starbucks to brainstorm. I’ll be back a few minutes later to check on them. I know they made me promise I wouldn’t, but sometimes you can’t be too careful.

I take out my notebook and begin to think about how to kill Callahan. The easiest way would be for Froid or Samuel to kill him, and probably use Froid. Froid has been full of hatred towards Callahan of late, thanks to her thwarted suicide attempt, and maybe after she kills him and feels profound guilt she could come running back to me for comfort. I’d soothe her and tell her she did the right thing. Callahan is a big enough nuisance to me, but maybe he can be of one last use in this after all.

The problem with that is that Froid would go back into the mental hospital. But that wouldn’t matter. She could just spend her time there and I can visit her and Samuel. And if she gets too miserable, I can always just yank her out. I am the protagonist of this story, after all. I can do whatever I want.

But I can’t help but think that Samuel would be suspicious. Samuel may be in some sort of mental collapse, but I think he knows Froid well enough. But the unwitting result of Callahan trying to be a hero is that he’s set himself up for death. Samuel may know Froid as a poet, but I know Froid as a suicidal girl.

With my resolve strengthened and my decision clear-cut and fast, I walk back to the hospital. To my lack of surprise, Froid and Samuel are there, in the room together, reading North of Boston. I smile at them and hand them each a croissant. Samuel wolfs it down like he had been restraining himself for years with his bok choy, and Froid mildly nibbles on it as she smiles at me.

“Thank you,” they both say.

“I’ll let you guys ne now,” I tell them as I go for the door.

“No! Don’t go!” Froid cries.

“Please brother, stay some more,” says Samuel.

I smile. I’ve gained their trust. With two croissants.

The three of us spend our time talking about whatever I want to talk about. Froid is fascinated by my talks of neurosurgery the kinds of lasers I use. I don’t understand why, but maybe it has to do with physics. Samuel, to my amazement, is able to recite a slew of prefix and suffixes that are used in varying medical conditions and acts as a translator when I slip into medical speak that Froid doesn’t understand. It’s a comfortable dynamic. Samuel is acting like a bridge. He’s connecting Froid to me even more. I wish it could stay like this forever.

At night I return to my empty apartment, but I’ve never felt so much company. I drink my newly bought guava juice with ease. I don’t aspirate it like I did last time. It all goes down and replenishes me. Lucas Coldridge, the neurosurgeon. Alive again.

Chapter 10

            Samuel sat alone at the desk in the hotel room. Callahan went off in search of a more satisfying dinner, and Froid was sleeping on the couch. He smiled at her. She slept better here than she did at Luke’s lavish apartment. Froid was a minimalist, after all. She loved Samuel’s apartment almost as much as he had. She found beauty in the sparse necessity like she had found beauty in him.

            Samuel was thinking of starting to write the story of him and Froid in the poetry class, but he stopped. Now was not the time. It was the most important part of the story, and it could not be told now.

            That was when Callahan arrived with a belch. He blushed, but once he saw Froid was asleep and Samuel was the only one around, he relaxed.

            “I was going to apologize for my entrance, but I don’t think you care enough.”

            “Athlete, there is something I must tell you.”

            “Oh, sure. Like how great it was to wake up to Ambrosia every morning for a school year? Like what it’s like to be the greatest poet of our generation? Like how you can just eat goddamn bok choy every day of your life and not care either way?”

            “Athlete, you think me to boast. I do not. If you wanted a Coldridge to flaunt what they had or thought they had, befriend my brother.”

            Callahan snarled at him. “Don’t patronize me. You’re not that high and mighty.”

            “Athlete, I do not apologize, and I do not exert with superfluity. We have an important matter to discuss.”

            “Is it about her?”

            “Yes.”

            “Forget it, Coldridge. I’m going to beat you to the punch. Have her. It was you all along, wasn’t it? After all you did to her she still will come back to you.”

            “Athlete.”

            “Don’t Athlete me. If you’re gonna talk to me, call me by my name.”

            Samuel faltered. He did not want to submit to Callahan like this. He had no reason to give him what he wanted. Even though Samuel’s concern was genuine, it was muted by Callahan’s tenacity.

            “Athlete,” he said one more time.

            Callahan did not hesitate. He stormed out of the room and slammed the door wide open.

            “She will try to kill you!” Samuel yelled.

            Froid twitched in her sleep. Callahan froze. The door came back and hit him in the face, knocking him out of the room and locking him out. Samuel opened the door and let him back in.

            “What did you say?” Callahan murmured.

            “She will try to kill you. This is my brother’s plan. He wants to kill you off because you are a liability to him.”

            “That’s absurd! How could she try to kill me? And why through him?”

            Samuel frowned. “If he killed you off in a random event, she and I would be suspicious. I think he wants to use the hatred that Ambrosia has shown to you to give him valid cause. Killing may be against her character, but in light of recent events it may not be.”

            “So it will seem like she does want to kill me.”

            “To him, yes. And he shall use that.”

            “Will she try?”

            “Not on her own. We must be careful. If Luke gets into her head for a moment, he might attack you through her. He cannot read or change her thoughts, but he can command. He may even act.”

            “So, what can we do until then?”

            “Wait, though I think he wants to do it soon. To him the conflict has been resolved: she is in love with him, and I have cracked. Now for him all that is left are the loose ends. You.”

            “But the conflict is not over,” said Callahan.

            Samuel nodded. “That is why we are here.”

            A few hours later Froid awoke. Callahan was sleeping, but Samuel was not. He was pacing. She knew how stressful it was for him to be writing but not doing poetry. She also knew that this was his first collaboration with anyone. She thought about how he would never read the poetry submitted in the poetry class she was in.

            “Please, let me do all of that memory.”

            Froid stopped writing. “What?”

            “That detail you just wrote is important in mine.”

            “Well, I won’t spoil anything or-”

            “This is my one request.”

            Froid knew that was a lie. Much of her and Samuel’s relationship was based on him doing what he wanted and her following along.

            “Samuel, why are you so insistent on this part?”

            “It will be the most important thing that I will ever write.”

            “What?”

            Samuel stopped talking. Froid stopped asking. She walked back over to the sofa and tried to sleep again. She could not, though. She was trying to figure out why Samuel was so adamant about this passage.

            Before long Samuel was the only one awake. He wrote but had problems thinking of what to write about. He looked at Froid sleeping in the corner under a blanket, trying to remove herself from Callahan’s snores shattering the ambiance. He knew he had to sleep as well, but he did not want to. He never did things he did not want to do. It had always been that way.

            For all of his childhood and adolescence his parents tolerated it. Samuel would pour his entire existence into writing poetry, and his parents would not mind. Luke would be off earning research grants, graduating from medical school, doing his residency in prestigious hospitals. Luke would be off doing everything right, being a doctor for the selfless reason of pleasing his parents, giving his parents the joy of having a son with so much altruism.

            Samuel knew his brother better than anyone else. He knew why his brother studied hard, dressed well, strove for the greatest success. It was for the most selfish reason he could ever have. Luke wanted to be God. Luke wanted to control everyone around him. Luke wanted everyone below him to feel indebted. He thought everyone below him. Luke wanted to be God with the most disciples in the world. That is why he did such high-risk surgeries. He did it to save a life. As soon as he would complete it he would have another follower. That person would owe Luke his or her life because Luke was the reason they continued to exist.

            Samuel smiled to himself. Luke had it all wrong. That was not what it meant to be God. Samuel knew because he was God. A god does not lead. A god creates. Luke was a mortal moral tyrant. Samuel ruled the world. It was all about what one controls, not how much.

            Froid stirred in her sleep. Samuel thought she was having a nightmare about him. He knew he gave her nightmares. He had never cared about what he did until he walked away from her that afternoon.

            Callahan jumped awake, startled for no reason. He looked at Samuel. Samuel stopped writing to look at him. He began writing again as Callahan sensed the lack of danger and fell back aleep. Froid, however, was awake now. Callahan’s upright bolt had disturbed her somehow.

            “Samuel,” she whispered across the room in the darkness.

            “Yes?”

            “Do you know what happens next?”

            “Yes.”

            “How?”

            “Cannot say.”

            “Why? Because you don’t know, or because I can’t?”

            “You cannot.”

            Samuel wrote an insignificant sentence while Froid fell back asleep.  

            Once she was asleep again he sighed. Luke had striven through his narrative to control all of them. Samuel just wanted to write. Froid could not know that Samuel needed her to try to kill Callahan in order to defeat Luke. If she knew the rest of the plot she would try to stop herself.

           

            Callahan was the first person awake in the morning. Froid was still asleep under a pile of blankets and pillows, and Samuel was asleep sitting up in the desk. Samuel looked much more human when he was not around.

            He then thought about Luke and how Luke might be wondering where he was. But then he figured that if Luke wanted him dead he would not care much about him anyway. Regardless, he made his way back to the apartment, trying to make up an excuse on the way.

            When he knocked on the door Luke was awake and let him in right away.

            “Where have you been, Callahan?” Luke asked, his eyes narrowing.

            Callahan played a flashback as he stared off into space. It showed him wandering around Chinatown, eating a bunch of Peking duck, finding out he did not have enough money, and being forced to wash dishes until his hands were sore and blistered. He then slept at the restaurant because they felt so bad about his hands. The story worked well. The three of them had wrote so much in the past day that Callahan had blisters because he was not used to writing with a pen on paper. After playing the quick flashback Callahan acted nervous.

            “Um, well, you see…”

            Of course Luke saw his vision and no longer suspected. “Just kidding! I’m not your mom or anything. I’m just glad that you’re back home. Are you hungry? Did you eat at all?”

            Callahan shook his head no.

            Luke’s surprise was obvious and another good indicator that he had seen Callahan’s fake memory. “Really?” he asked. Callahan knew he could not believe that he would return from a restaurant empty-handed after working there all night.

            “I’m planning on going to the hospital,” Luke said. “Just want to check on Froid and my brother. I’m sure they’re both fine. Do you want to come?”

            Callahan shook his head no. Luke laughed. Of course he would not.

            “I figured so much. Given the unwelcome response you got from both of them. I’m sure they’ll come around once they feel better.”

            With that Luke skipped out the door, laughing as he went, leaving Callahan alone. He was not sure where Luke would go, but he could not be nervous in the event that he did go to the hospital. His plan was to follow him and see where he went. He prepared himself for the physical strain. If he was to best a car, he would have to travel much faster on foot than he desired to.

            From the window Callahan watched Luke’s car leave the parking garage. Luke turned left as if he were going to the hospital. Callahan sprinted out of the apartment.

            Callahan was not an athlete anymore. He was winded by the time he reached the lobby, refusing to be bogged down by the leisurely elevator. His face was bright red and flushed as if he was the quarterback at the homecoming game like he once was. His syrupy legs faltered as he made his way outside.

        Callahan ran towards the hospital. It was eight blocks, and he overrode his exhaustion by thinking of Luke getting to the hospital to find no trace of Froid or Samuel. He did not know what he would do in the event of it, since Luke would seek out Callahan the second he saw their change of plans and kill him on the spot. Callahan kept running though against his better judgment. He was running towards the one person in the world that wanted, and had the power, to kill him.

        He disregarded the stoplights, running at will like road kill waiting to happen. If Luke did not kill him, a taxi would.

        Callahan made it to the hospital and would need it if he kept running at that rate. He collapsed on the sidewalk, drawing a crowd. When he stood up, he looked over at the Starbucks right across the street. There, in the window, was Luke. He was seated at a high table, alone, with a pen and a notebook in his hand. They made eye contact. Callahan’s were wide, maximizing the capture of the moment. And then Luke indulged in a victorious smile to Callahan. Callahan knew what that meant.

Nanowrimo 12

WOOOO so I just finished my novel. So pumped right now I could probably eat a live cactus. But I won't. So here's a celebratory post! I'll post twice today because why not. So yeah. Enjoy!

-CD

Chapter 7

The apartment feels a lot warmer with Froid gone. I wish that could be a positive thing.

In contrast to the draft that Froid cast on me, I have Callahan snoring and snorting in a puddle of sweat. I think it’s disgusting, but it makes me feel that much less bad about killing him off.

Callahan is just a waste of writing at this point. I can’t gain any more from him, seeing that I’ve gotten some dominion over Froid, as well as the even bigger prize. I could just send Callahan back on his way home, assuring him that he’s no longer needed, but his exposure to the two of them is a liability. The more time he spends around them, the less I’m able to control him. I don’t know why, but I blame my brother for it.

And so now I must kill Callahan Grossherz in a way that ties in well with the narrative and minimize the damage to the progress I’ve made with my other two characters.

He awakes with a start as if he knows what I’m thinking about, but he has nothing to fear. I won’t kill him off now. He may be suspicious, but he and I will be going and visiting Froid and Samuel a lot. We’ll have to occupy the same space then, and I know if one day I randomly appear without Callahan that Froid, and Samuel to a lesser extent, will be suspicious.

“Callahan, I’m thinking of going over to the hospital today. You should come too.”

“Do you know if her parents or yours will be coming at all?”

I chuckle. Our parents don’t care. To them they have two genius sons that are geniuses in such different ways. They probably assume Samuel just planned this whole thing out because he can. Froid’s contacted the hospital yesterday after getting called, but only to make sure that she was alive and that this experience was romantic enough to instill a desire to do poetry again. When they found out the Coldridge’s were with her they immediately bequeathed the responsibility of their daughter to me. I wish I could kill them off too, but I’ve never met them. I wouldn’t even know how to.

The two of us get ready slowly as if we have nothing to do today. Callahan may not, but I certainly do. I have to salvage Froid and Samuel, plan how to kill Callahan off, and do it all convincingly. It’s hard though now because I can’t see Callahan at all. He’s as blank as Froid and Samuel except for those crucial moments when they act human.

On our way to the hospital Callahan decides to be obnoxious. He fidgets with everything: the temperature control, the door lock, the window roller. It gravitates towards me eventually as he starts looking for radio stations. He doesn’t even give them a chance. He keeps passing over and over them.

“Callahan, anything you have in mind that you want to listen to?”

Callahan doesn’t answer, too engrossed in fulfilling something beyond my comprehension. But not beyond my annoyance.

“Can you please stop playing with the radio? Let’s just keep it here, on NPR.”

Callahan sits back for a little, but within a minute starts moving the dial around aimlessly.

I go blindly into his mind.

Callahan, why the hell are you doing this? Just to irritate him? What cause?

The faux monologue should at least jar him, make him hesitate, confuse him. But he carries on as if he heard nothing.

He could easily suppress a thought. He can’t suppress so easily a command.

“Callahan stops playing with the dial. As suddenly as he starts he assumes a placid position with his arms folded in his lap.”

Except that doesn’t happen. He keeps going. We arrive at the hospital.

Froid is about the same: hostile towards Callahan and submissive towards me. She relaxes every time Callahan leaves the room, as if he’s the perfect example of a missed opportunity.

This time Callahan has left to use the bathroom. He’s been doing that a lot. I think he just wants the excuse to not look at Froid. Froid smiles at me weakly, but it’s as vibrant a smile as I’ve seen from her.

“Are you feeling better?” I ask her.

“With you around, yes.”

I pat her shoulder. “Want me to get you any food? I know the menu selection here is nothing special, but I think you can make do.”

“I want to leave here, now. With you,” she says immediately. She hardly let me finish. “I want to leave all this behind. Leave Callahan and… Samuel here. Poetry, my parents. Let everyone think I’m dead or crazy. Except you. You can keep a secret can’t you?”

As soon as she finishes Callahan enters the room again with a bag of Cheetos. He deposits the orange film over his fingertips and lips, and the smell wafts over towards us. Froid’s mood drastically changes and she holds him responsible again. With enough animosity to probably just kill him by herself, she backs him into the corner towards the door. Her anger is so strong that I can look a bit into her mind. I can feel the tension in her muscles. I can almost even read her explicit thoughts.
            You. Die. If you’re so much about living why don’t I just kill you myself?

I break the silence. “I’m going to go check on Samuel. Callahan, why don’t you stay here with Froid?”

I will write Froid an entire novel if I come back to a dead Callahan.

Samuel is asleep, as I left him. He looks so awkward when he’s sleeping and always has. However, he seems to subconsciously relax when I enter the room with a knock. He still doesn’t wake, but his face smoothes out. He stops moving around.

“I’m here, Samuel.” I whisper.

I swear that I see him smile in his sleep.

When I arrive back to Froid’s room Callahan is gone. I ask Froid where he went and she shrugs her shoulders. I check around the room just to make sure she really didn’t kill him and toss his body somewhere.

When the room is satisfyingly clear I focus my attention again on Froid. She smiles at me like she was meant to.

The moment is truncated when Samuel suddenly appears in the room.

“RUN!” he yells at her and grabs her hand. She grabs mine as well and we’re suddenly sprinting down the halls, bumping into nurses and patients, a three-person strand of chaos.

The entrance is guarded, but in my abrupt confusion I wish them away. The way is clear and we all end up outside, looking at each other.

“What’s the meaning of this, Samuel?” I ask my brother.

He looks at me blankly before he grabs Froid’s arm.

“Leave us for today.” And then they walk back inside.

Chapter 8

The lobby of the hospital was still empty when Samuel and Froid reentered. The two of them made their way across the hospital before leaving through a door on the other side.

Callahan was waiting for them, as planned.

“Took you long enough.”

Samuel scoffed at him. “Let us see you be an actor for once, Athlete.”

“Guys, as much as I love watching you two get on each other’s nerves, we have a story to write!” Froid interjected as the two cut each other into shreds in their minds.

“Seriously,” she punctuated. Samuel broke focus and almost collapsed to the ground. “Let’s leave before Luke figures out what we’re doing!”

“We need not worry about that,” replied Samuel. “His hubris has blinded him enough to no longer see us. This is the effect of feeding him.”

The three walked together along the street, Samuel and Froid still sheathed in hospital gowns. They looked conspicuous enough. If Luke had any desire to find them, all he would have to do would be to look for two enamored poets connected through their hands and lilting along the sidewalk like bed sheets. Callahan’s lumbering figure was also obvious.

By the time they arrived to Samuel’s hotel it was late in the afternoon. None of them had money for cab fare, a tedious snare in their otherwise seamless planning. Callahan was the most exhausted of the three, much to the surprise of everyone.

“Can you guys please enlighten me on this plan?” he begged between breaths. “Other than sneaking out with you guys at the hospital, I have no idea what’s going on.”

Samuel looked at Callahan with strong intent. Froid at first did not know what he was doing, but once Callahan reciprocated with a stronger retort, she saw there was nothing to fear.

“We must write,” Samuel said.

Callahan was still confused. “How is this supposed to…”

“If we write, we’re challenging Luke as the narrator. Once we gain narration of the story, all this can be behind us.”

“Seriously, Samuel,” Callahan began.

“Seriously,” Samuel echoed with a wrinkled brow and nose.

Callahan rolled his eyes and resumed. “You should have just murdered your brother in your sleep or something. Could have saved us a hell of a lot of problems.”

“It does not matter to me what my brother does until it affects my poetry, Athlete,” snapped Samuel.

“Yeah, so then why are you helping us?”

“Do you care?”

“How do we know that you’re not working with him?”

As soon as Callahan said that, its ridiculousness registered in his mind. If there were anyone who would be helping Luke, conscious or not, it would be him.

The spat diffused, and Froid brought in some paper.

“I think we’re going to need more paper,” she faltered.

“As long as our handwritings are not first-grade, we shall be fine.”

Callahan knew the insult was for him, but he let it pass.

“How… do we start?” Callahan asked. “And like… who writes?”

“We all write,” replied Froid. “There are some ground rules, though. Just to keep the narrative consistent. Samuel and I started the list. We can add more as we progress.”

“First: no adverbs ending in –ly.”

“WHAT?!”

“Athlete, that is my one stipulation.”

Callahan groaned.

“Callahan, Luke uses a lot of adverbs in his narrative. We’re going to have to forgo their use.”

Callahan conceded.

“Second,” Samuel began again. “No contractions.”

“This is sure sounding a lot like your style, Coldridge,” observed Callahan.

“Contrast.”

“Finally,” said Froid.

“We will use verse.”

“Hell no, Coldridge!”

“Blank verse.”

“You know how damn hard that’s going to be?”

“Contrast.”

“Coldridge, we don’t have time!”

“Samuel, I’m going to have to agree with Callahan on this one. I don’t think we have time for putting it in verse like that. Even if-”

“We cannot argue. If our emotions are high my brother may find us.”

The three of them looked at each other for a long while.

“And we will do blank verse.”

“NO!”

“Callahan, please lower your-”

“Athlete.”

“How dare you!”

“Adverb.”

            Froid gasped. Samuel had not called someone an adverb is a long time. The last time he called someone one was to her.

“You guys came up with the first two without me. Why can’t I have my own?”

“Very well. Samuel, can we just let him have his way with this one?”

Samuel was the least cooperative person on the planet. He would rather betray them to Luke than compromise.

But then he thought about his poetry. And he thought about Froid.

At last Samuel relented. “But Athlete, bear in mind. I am not doing this for your sake.”

The three began to write. They took turns, with Froid and Samuel writing about their first meeting in Seattle at the Suzzallo Reading Room, meeting again in secret, and their executed plan of getting rid of Luke. Samuel added the Christmas story from when Luke vowed to hate his younger brother. Froid wrote her short first encounter with Samuel. And then together they wrote about when Callahan met Froid.

“Writing,” she replied, still not looking at him but rather arbitrarily organizing a stack of papers in her folder.

Callahan laughed. Small talk did not get him into this college. “Oh, but of course! I love Coldridge’s poetry so much. It’s so… free. I did my senior project in English on ?y(not)ou! Such a great book. I’m so happy he publishes his poetry. I hear he’s a real introvert. But I guess that’s okay, because he’s one of the greatest poets who’s ever lived! I guess he can do whatever he wants, as long as he keeps writing like that. He’s like another e.e. cummings, no, wait, better than e.e. cummings!”

He did not know that Froid had not been listening to anything he had said after “oh.” Samuel had entered the room.

Samuel did not look at her at all while he crossed their sight. His mind was writing a poem. He tapped his leather briefcase with his fingers, coming up with a polyrhythm for a meter, percussing sharper when he broke his rhythm with misplaced orthography, a parenthetical. Everything was at his command. He made his own language through the perversion of another. Word order perversion. Grammatical category perversion. Orthography perversion. A few called it sacrilegious. Everyone else called it genius.

As he passed Froid he stopped and gently tapped her four times on the left shoulder. Tum tum ta-tum. That meant “coffee at-three”.

Callahan did not know this. He didn’t even know that Froid was completely ignoring him. To him the mere vision of Froid’s profile, eyes fixated on something in the distance, her angular features in the foreground, was lovely enough. Silence was lovely enough.

Callahan learned many things that class period. He learned that Froid’s name was Froid when the professor called on her. He learned that Froid wrote minimalistic poetry. He learned that Froid had a nervous twitch whenever Samuel would tap his briefcase as if she were expected to know the meaning of every iteration that came from his relentless percussion.

“So, do you wanna grab a bite to-”

Froid got up and walked over towards Samuel, and the two made their way out of the room together, Samuel grabbing Froid’s needle-like fingers and toting her along.

 Thus, Callahan learned that Froid was dating Samuel.

“That looks good,” Froid said as Callahan wrote the final sentence. He did not like this back-story. He wrote his own observations with Froid and Samuel supplying details that he did not know at the time. The effect was omniscient enough.

            Callahan’s fingers began to hurt. He complained about them at length over his bowl of steamed bok choy. Samuel had ordered them all bowls on his own volition, and while Froid accepted her meal with minimal gratitude, Callahan had done nothing but balk. At one point he smeared some of his bok choy over a passage of a poem of Samuel’s, and Samuel was tempted to seek retribution again for Callahan’s assaults.

            “My fingers feel like this bok choy, Coldridge!”

            “Athlete, you flatter my strength.”

            Callahan growled at him. Froid got to work on the Thanksgiving where the two of them met her parents.

            Mallory Froid enjoyed emulating the rug in the living room. She even made her husband match her outfit, so that they could sit on the sofa and “tie the room together.” It was their one source of pride. Even Caracolle could bring something of more value to fruition.

           

            “Callahan, please let me write this alone. You weren’t there.”

            “Sorry. Just want to give Caracolle a little credit…”

            “Please. She doesn’t need any.”           

            “Nor do you, Athlete.”

            “Shut up! I just want a balanced portrayal of Caracolle.”

            “She’s not even central to this story! Just let me do what I do.”

            “But then there’s gonna be some inconsistency.”

            “Callahan, what do you think Luke’s opinion was of Caracolle? Do you think he was gushing over her vapidity? He wasn’t. I’m amazed that you have such a high opinion of her given how he probably described her to you.”

            “Fine, Froid. Whatever. Just don’t write about Caracolle at all in this scene.”

            “I’ll try not to. She might appear, though.”

            “And you do not, Athlete.”

            “And now I have to document this conversation, Callahan.”

            “Sorry.”

            “No, you’re not.”

            Mallory had an incumbent camera that was used for documenting the holiday parties in all of its grandeur or lack thereof. Froid hated pictures, and this was perhaps why. Every guest who walked through the door was condemned to a candid to be forever preserved in a scrapbook of the day. This was why Froid insisted that she and Samuel arrive late. The fewer pictures of the two of them, the better.

            Minutes before dinner was served Froid and Samuel entered. While their exposure to the camera was minimized, the debt was compensated for when they did appear. Scores of photos were taken in rapid succession, not for the sake of preservation of memory but just for quantity of Samuel to be forever under the coffee table in the living room.

            Samuel and Froid staggered over to the table, blinded with annoyance and a little by the camera. Samuel was not fond of eating, nor was he fond of pictures, nor was he fond of those who seemed to live for nothing except to gush about him.

            He pondered Froid’s parents that way. The moment he arrived they ceased all conversation that was irrelevant to him.

            “Mr. Coldridge, please tell us! Have you been writing any more for publication?” Mallory began. She did not wait for his reply. “Ham and I just love all the volumes you’ve done of y(not)ou. Just so beautiful. You have such a unique pride of being an artist. They should publish your work everywhere, make it mandatory to read! If everyone read it there would be so many more artists in the world, and they’d all work to make our society so much more civilized!”

            They had misinterpreted Samuel’s poetry in the most tragic way possible.

            This conversation continued in this route for the rest of the meal. Samuel did not even speak. Froid documented the conversation in her mind, sensing it would be useful in the future for reminding herself why she hated her parents so much. The rest of the guests at the dinner table were either enamored by Samuel’s mere presence or bored because they did not know who he was. Caracolle disappeared somewhere through dinner, and Froid wished she had done the same thing.

            After gratuitous untraditional Thanksgiving fare, of which Samuel only ate the kelp because it looked like bok choy, Mallory and Hamline proceeded with their attempts to woo Samuel. They were too pretentious to realize that by their own grave misunderstanding they had lost him in spectacular fashion. The first thing they started out with was a discussion of poets.           

            “Now, who do you like the most of the postmodern poets, Mr. Coldridge?” asked Hamline. “I’ve read everywhere that you’ve been compared to e.e. cummings, and boy, you could’ve taught him a lesson or two with structure. Wow, Cummings was the best, wasn’t he?”

            Samuel hated e.e. cummings.

            “Or, or maybe,” mused Mallory, “You like someone more structured like Tennyson? Or Wordsworth? I read a very fascinating article the other day by a Rhodes scholar who’s a huge fan of your work, and he made a very convincing argument that you wrote your poem ‘wetrock’ as a reactionary piece to ‘The Daffodils.’ Is that true? Oh, you don’t have to answer that right away, it might just spoil the fun of analysis!”

            Samuel knew which Rhodes scholar wrote the article. It was Quentin Hoakes, Quentin the publisher. He hated Quentin Hoakes. He also hated British poets.

            “Can I ask, Mr. Coldridge, if it’s okay to-”

            “Samuel,” Samuel said. It was the first time he had spoken.

            “Oh, of course! We can drop the silly titles, can’t we Mallory?”

            “Certainly, for your sake!”

            Samuel hated these people.

            “Anyway, Samuel,” Hamline giggled at calling him by his given name for whatever reason, “Which poet… inspired you to do… poetry? Was there a muse? Was there not a muse? You don’t have to answer us if it’s personal.”

            “Gray’s Anatomy. And Robert Frost.”

            The two were shocked. “Gray’s Anatomy as in… the medical book thing? That’s so… different. But more power to you to find poetry even in the most unpoetic of places!”

            They had nothing good to say about Robert Frost. Loving Frostian verse was too mainstream for them. Having such a hackneyed idol for a poet like Samuel was inexcusable in their eyes. Samuel of course did not care. To his relief it ended that topic of conversation.

            Froid tried to sneak Samuel into her room. Neither of them could leave without inciting hundreds of useless pictures and the pathetic blubbering of her parents as they begged them not to go before kumquat pie. She was not quite sure what they would do there, but it would involve sitting in silence or reading Froid’s much-abused copy of North of Boston.

            “Oh, where are you two running off to now? Come back please, I don’t want any grandchildren yet!” called Mallory. They were spotted going up the stairs. Before they even had the chance to make their way back down Mallory sprinted over to them.

            “Samuel, you haven’t seen our collection of Froidian poetry, haven’t you?” She laughed at her own pun. It was funny for the adults. Froid found it insulting.

            “Have I choice?” Samuel whispered to Froid.

            Froid tugged him along behind her mother. “If we behave, maybe they’ll let us go before dessert,” she whispered back.

            “Ah, here is Ambrosia’s very first poem!” She beamed at the shadowbox. The poem was faded and illegible to begin with. It now looked like a blank piece of paper. Mallory would even think that to be some sort of art.

            “Isn’t it beautiful, Samuel? What genius she had even as a small child!”

            Froid hated that poem. It was not even supposed to be a poem. She had practiced spelling random words while finger painting.

            “And here we have a poem that Ambrosia wrote in middle school. Such a dark time for all of us, isn’t it?”

            Samuel recognized this poem. It was untitled but the first lines were “find out/ why light seeps/ and sleeps.” Froid had submitted it during their workshop. Samuel did not realize it was that old. Froid gave him a sheepish look when he gave her a subtle facial confrontation.

            “I was lazy that week,” she admitted. Samuel smiled at her. That class was as big a waste of time for him as it was for her.

            “And this one, ooh, this one is my personal favorite!” Mallory ushered them over to another poem that was put up a few weeks ago. It was called “perfect still.” Samuel recognized that one the most. That one was also submitted for workshop. He knew that poem the best out of all of them.

            “I shall write for that poem.”

            “But Samuel, I have it all set up!”
            “It is important for me.”

            “But I’m the one that wrote it!”

            “I must write it. I will write about the poetry class too.”

            Froid was too tired of writing to argue with Samuel. She tossed her hands in the air and sat down. Samuel sat down next to her.

            “Aren’t you going to write it now?”

            “Later.”

            “Why?”

            “You shall see.”

            “What are we going to do with all of this narrative?”

            “Put it at the beginning.”

            And then, in the middle of Luke’s narratives, Samuel put the story of when he saw Froid at the poetry reading.

Nanowrimo 11

Chapter 6

            Froid stood at the edge of the bridge and looked down at the water. She knew she was not going to jump, but the sight itself was fearful. She disliked heights. She waited for Callahan to get to the bridge.

            “My brother has a selective sight of what we see and feel,” Samuel had reminded her as they approached the bridge.

            Froid had nodded. “I promise I’ll make it as realistic as possible. I’ve never jumped from a bridge though. But I think I have the idea.”

            Samuel had repressed giving her a small smile. “You know what you must feel before you jump. Project your fake incentive. You want to die. You cannot live without me, even if memory is sordid. You cannot stand me and want to stop existing as long as I exist.”

            “Callahan knows to come here right?”

            “I almost killed him in the cab in Chinatown. Once I enlightened him of our plan he stopped trying to beat me up.”

            The first attempts to get Callahan to listen had been unsuccessful. Samuel had got out of the car to talk to Callahan after clipping him on the corner, but instead of being compliant, the excess adrenaline and complex revolt he felt towards Samuel prompted him to pummel his idol to the ground. It was reminiscent of the day after Samuel had broken up with Froid. Callahan beat up Samuel outside the cafeteria. Samuel did not try to defend himself. Why defend his body when his poetry was in no danger? His apathy disarmed Callahan. Callahan stopped punching him because Samuel kept letting him do it.

            Samuel stopped calling him “Athlete” in hopes of regaining some shred of favor, but Callahan could not shake the notion that Samuel had tried to hurt him on purpose.

            “Why, do you want me out of the picture too?!” he bellowed in the middle of the street, his fists savoring inertia and landing blows wherever Samuel had not been hit yet.

            Last spring, around May, Callahan had found Froid disintegrating in the cafeteria. He had tried to comfort her, to no avail, and to his deep-seeded frustration.

But then an opportunity arose. Samuel walked past the cafeteria outside. Callahan could only look at him. He got up, for a moment completely forgetting about Froid. His fist in preemptive shot-put balls, he was ready to succumb to entropy, beat his idol’s face into a chaos that not even Samuel could write.

As Callahan jabbed Samuel repeatedly in the jaw, in the cheekbone, red ribbons tying knots all over Samuel’s face, Samuel sat there and took the abuse. Callahan could not understand why.

“Aren’t you gonna fight back, you disgusting son of a bitch? Aren’t you gonna try to beat the shit out of the guy who talked to your girlfriend? Come on, you can feel pain. FIGHT BACK!”

When it became more obvious that no matter how great the brutality that Samuel would not return the favor, Callahan felt awkward and stopped. Samuel lay on the ground, semi-conscious in a salty red haze, but smiling in some sort of morbid triumph.

“Athlete, why would I fight you back? It is not like you touched one of my manuscripts or something. If anything, I should be thanking you.”

Callahan lost his anger. “For what?”

“For showing me what I could control and what I could not.”

“How dare you treat her like that!”

“Like what? She is not in my world. She is not my poetry.”

“BUT SHE’S A HUMAN BEING.”

“I was foolish. I held on to her, tried to keep her in my world, but she refused. Trust me, athlete, it was very traumatizing.”

“So this is how you define your ‘world.’ Anything you can control is part of your world; anything you can’t just doesn’t exist.”

“Oh, do not preach my own doctrine to me, Athlete. You are beginning to sound like a faux-litician!”

“For trying to play God, you’re pretty pathetic.”

“I do not care what you think, if I have not already made that apparent.”

“Clearly you do. Otherwise you wouldn’t have done that to her.”

Samuel frowned. He tried to stand but nearly collapsed again.
            “Clearly. An adverb ending in –ly. Such a weak word. It suits you well, Athlete.”

Callahan would have punched him again had Samuel’s nose been any less deformed.

            Just as that May afternoon, Callahan stopped punching Samuel. Samuel was not beat up as much as like last time, but it was still reminiscent. The echo still left Samuel bleeding from his nose and mouth.

            “Grossherz,” he said Callahan’s last name with difficulty, “If you care for Froid, you shall listen to me. She will jump from a bridge, and you must save her. She must not die.”

            Callahan was disoriented. “What?! Why?”

            Samuel entered the cab and dragged Callahan in as well. He gave a random address and the car began moving.

            “She will not jump off of a bridge, but she will pretend she did, and you must pretend that you saved her.”

            Callahan was even more confused. “So is she actually going to jump or not?”

            Samuel cringed hearing the adverb in the way he had said Callahan’s last name. “No, Athlete. The challenge is that we must make my brother think she did.”

            “Well then why go through all of this trouble at all? Why not just have her jump in a pool and then tell Luke that all this happened?”

            Samuel sighed. There was much about Luke that Callahan did not know. “Luke is in your thoughts. He cannot read them, but he can make you act. He is the narrator, but he is evil. Froid and I plot to destroy him.”

            Callahan could not bring himself to believe Samuel, but he knew, like Froid, that Samuel had no reason to lie about anything.

            “How… do you know this?”

            “You know it too, Grossherz. He willed you to come to Seattle. You did not have to do anything, did you? He paid for everything.”

            Callahan nodded. It was suspicious. As was Luke’s constant insistence that Callahan spend every moment with Froid. As was Luke’s lavish accommodations.

            “Can he get into your mind?”

            Samuel smiled. Callahan had never seen his genuine smile before. “My brother thinks me inhuman and cannot get into my mind except when I want him. He does not treat me like a character. He treats me like a prop that obeys different laws than he. And I do. I am like the weather, but he tries to manipulate me through the people around me.”

            “Like your publisher?”

            Samuel nodded. “I always knew Quentin the publisher was his alter-ego. Quentin the publisher just appeared one day, was given the job as my eternal intern, and followed me around everywhere. Quentin the publisher is dead now too because he failed. My brother does not handle failure well. Nor do I. It is a family trait.”

            “So I’ve met Luke… many times?”

        Samuel nodded. “So many times that he figured out how to get into your mind. You have done impulsive things as of late, have you not? You do not know why you are doing them. They go against your nature. This is my brother breaching your character. You can fight it once noticed, but the best defense is to dehumanize yourself. The easiest way to do this is to forsake emotion. He harnesses emotions to propel you. If you lack emotion, he cannot will you to do anything.”

            All of this seemed absurd to Callahan, but it was validated by the fact that Samuel said it.

            “So… are we going to go save Froid?”

        He nodded. “Except that you are getting off right now. I must go meet with her beforehand. You can walk to the bridge. It is called Ballard Bridge, fifteenth avenue.”

        And with that Samuel reached over across Callahan, opened the door, and pushed him out with surprising ease. Callahan rolled on the asphalt, scraping his knees and elbows and hitting his head.

        Samuel poked his head out of the window and called back to him.

        “Just a bit of amiable revenge, Athlete!”

        Froid arrived at the edge of the promised bridge: Ballard Bridge. Cars honked as they passed her, the sound distorted into a grumbling pitch as it singed by. A cab stopped in front of her and Samuel jumped out. The two walked together towards the middle.
            “I almost killed him in the cab in Chinatown. Once I enlightened him of our plan he stopped trying to beat me up.”

        Froid nodded as they came to the midpoint.

        “He knows I’m not jumping, right?”

        “Of course. Though I beat him up a bit to make it more realistic. Once you project the vision, suppress your emotion and head over to the water’s edge. You and Callahan can get wet and call the paramedics.”

        “Can you keep track of my stuff?” Froid asked, handing Samuel an almost empty book bag. She almost expected him not to take it, but to her relief he did.

            And so the plan was set in motion. Samuel walked off towards Chinatown to fulfill his role, and Froid mustered every suicidal thought she had ever felt. She looked down at the water.

The wind was calm and it was sunny. The weather was beautiful for the time of year in Seattle. Warm. Her hands touched. Cold.

            Her eyes closed, and a single face flashed before them.

            Samuel.

            Eyes opened, and she jumped, the water approaching void of fear. Once submerged the water dragged her down as she does not try to kick, to swim, to live, to anything. In her last moments she sees Callahan’s face, in a contortion unlike anyone had never seen it before, and everything diluted into the dark.

             The vision was finished. If all went well Luke would be hurrying to a hospital. Froid walked to the end of the bridge and approached the waterfront. She saw Callahan there, blood trickling out from under his sleeves from his gashes on the pavement.

            “Samuel really gave you a thrashing.”

            Callahan groaned. “I should’ve known he wouldn’t let me beat him up twice. The bastard. I’ll get back at him some time.”

            “I don’t think you two have time for more violence.” She then turned her back and jumped off into the water. She emerged seconds later and climbed out, shivering and her breathing heavy.

            “It’s cold.”

            Callahan followed suit, shivering even more than Froid when he slumped over on the dock. He wanted to release a thread of obscenities, but it would foil the plan.

            “I look way worse than you do,” he said, looking at her. He looked like the one that jumped off a bridge into glacial water. She looked like she had just taken a shower.

            Froid shrugged. “I’m supposed to be the suicidal one. I think I can convey it well. Call 911.”

            And Callahan did. When they arrived they checked Froid’s vital signs with suspicion, but when she tried to attack Callahan, blaming him for saving her, they sedated her and took the two of them to the hospital.

            Callahan was treated for his wounds, and Froid was checked in to a room. She slept for a while, and during that time Callahan was released and headed back to Luke’s apartment.

           

            Samuel arrived at his hotel room in Chinatown. He had picked this hotel because it was close to the first restaurant he had eaten at and that gave him the best price for a bowl of steamed bok choy. He took a deep breath and started screaming his guts out. He spun around his room, destroying his premade scribbles that looked like poetry, ripped up his paper and broke his charcoal in half. Inside he grimaced at the thought of having to buy all new supplies.

He sat in a crumpled mess of black and paper, paper cuts on his hands from where he writhed too close to corners.

            And then he started screaming words.

            “FROID! FROID! FROID!” He just screamed Froid’s name over and over again. He did not call her Ambrosia like he had before; he called her Froid like everyone else. Then, with his hands black with charcoal, he staggered out of his room.

            After calming himself down in the hallway he texted Callahan.

            “Hospital?”

            Callahan replied.
            “University of Washington Medical Center.”

            Samuel walked over towards the hospital.

           

            Luke and Callahan came to Froid when she had just awoken. She was grumpy from waking up from her nap, and she was even more irritated to see Luke in front of her. She powered her temper towards Callahan through her dislike for Luke. Luke felt the effects. He felt them even more when Samuel stumbled into the room, ripping his hair out in fake hysteria and crawling over to Froid. Samuel put on quite an act and Froid wanted to start laughing. Her reaction mixed with her anger to give her a look of disgust, and Callahan, unwilling to be left out of the excitement, interacted with Samuel, picking him up before falling down with him when Samuel collapsed onto the ground. Samuel broke character for a moment when he looked at Callahan, his face out of the sight of Luke.

            “Revenge,” he hissed before wriggling on the floor.

            Samuel was lying on a hospital bed when Luke entered the room. He had just talked with Froid, and won her trust again.

            “Sam,” he said as he approached Samuel. Samuel hated being called “Sam.” It reminded him of Christmas many years ago.

            “Sam,” Luke repeated. “How are you doing?” His voice emulated real concern. His brother was covered in miniscule cuts and bruises and looked no more like a poet than Callahan did. Samuel looked like he had been in a mental institution for years.

            “Brother,” Samuel whispered. “Brother, I am done.”

            This confused Luke. “What? Done with what?”

            “Done. Poems. Her. Done. I have nothing. I destroyed it.”

            Luke thought of the vision he had of Samuel ripping up his poetry.

            “Luke,” Samuel said for the first time in years, extending his hand. “Help me.”

            Luke’s eyes filled with tears as he grabbed his Samuel’s hand in his. “What can I do?”

            “I… must… stay here.”

            “Of course, of course! I’ll get you in on a treatment plan too.”

            “Do not tell our parents.”

            “Certainly! Certainly!” Luke realized he had said an adverb twice. Samuel did not seem to care. He looked at the semantics. Reassurance. He smiled at Luke with ease.

            “Help me… take responsibility. For everything.”

            Luke beamed at his brother. “What’s with this change of heart?” He asked, warmth brimming in his heart.

            “She is. I am to blame for everything.”

            “Oh, not everything!” Luke tried to placate him.

            “Everything. Like that Christmas.”

            The Christmas was twelve years ago. Luke was in his first year of medical school, and Samuel was twelve and half of Luke’s age. Christmases prior to this time had not gone very well either. While Luke was in a constant state of refusal of presents from his parents, Samuel seemed to expect presents, but nothing was good enough for him. His parents bought him a laptop, CD’s, new clothes, gift cards to stores, but Samuel would never use any of it. Luke perpetuated a purpose with everything he did. Samuel was plagued with a cynicism that would be fatal for someone so young. He had nothing. He wanted everything, but nothing pleased him.

            That year, in a fit of helplessness, his parents did not give Samuel any presents. He had one present under the tree that year, and it was from Luke. Luke bought his parents lavish gifts like imported china, a new workspace in the garage for his father, trips to faraway places for weeks on end. They never asked him how he could afford such things.

            Samuel was the last to open his presents that year, since he had but one. He opened it after looking at the tiny tag.

            “To Sam, hope this is some inspiration! –Luke”

            It was Gray’s Anatomy, the largest book aside from a dictionary Samuel had ever seen. Samuel opened it up to a random page. “Hydrocephalus” was the first entry.

            “Hydrocephalus,” he said aloud.

            “Oh, I know that one!” piped up Luke. “That’s when there’s excess water in the brain. It’s from the Greek words for ‘water’ and ‘head.’”

            Water in the brain. Two words forming to make another. He looked at the other entries on the page that began with “hydro-”. Water in this, water in the blood. These words were created from other words.

            And then a vision. The murky apathy of his brain evaporated. Create words. Create worlds. He ran upstairs, stopping at the bathroom on the way. Under a few issues of Better Homes and Gardens was a long-forgotten copy of Robert Frost’s North of Boston. Someone had put it in the bathroom years ago, and Samuel found it one day by chance. He had not been fond of poetry, which just reminded him of many arbitrary rules that he deemed unnecessary.

            He opened up to a random page and began reading one of the poems. It all made sense. Why settle for one world when he could make one? Frost created scenes of a world in his poetry. Samuel would do the same thing.

        He turned on his computer and looked up the etymology of random prefixes and suffixes in the book. Then, with a pair of safety scissors, he cut words out into strips, and cut them again at the liminal boundaries of morphemes. By the time he had finished he had hundreds of strips in a pile. Then he started retaping them together into nonsense phrases. But it did not matter. They were not nonsense to him. They were his world.

        Luke came up a few minutes later to check on Samuel.

        “Sam, everything okay? I hope you liked-”

        Luke paused to survey the disemboweled book, Samuel’s fingers tacky from the tape residue.

        “WHAT ARE YOU DOING YOU LITTLE SHIT?!” Luke jumped on Samuel and punched him, ripping the book out of his hand.

        “You think this is funny? You think this is all some kind of joke? Do you think I’m a joke? You don’t take anything seriously, do you? Well, I hope you enjoy being a failure. Because that’s all you’re ever going to be!”

        Luke slammed the door on the way out. Samuel lied on the pile of strips. His nose was bleeding, and it hurt to sniffle. He stood up, paper sticking to him skin. He looked down at the blood on the floor. That did not bother him like the blood that had been absorbed by many of the strips, including the prefix “haemo-.” It was taped to the prefix “cardio.”

        Samuel began to cry.

        Luke watched Samuel sleep in the hospital bed. Samuel was different when he slept. He looked uncomfortable, like he had been disconnected from reality. He was self-conscious and awkward. He wiggled every couple minutes, and Luke kept thinking that he would wake. He never did while Luke was around. Around evening, Luke left the room, saying that he should go to the apartment and check on Callahan. Samuel stood up in his bed when he heard a knock. He said nothing. Luke wanted to check on him one last time. Samuel dropped himself back into sleep.

        But it was Froid who walked through the door.

        “Today went well, don’t you think?” she told him.

        Samuel nodded.

        “But this will just get harder, won’t it? If we think we’re kissing ass now, what do we call what we’re about to do?”

        “I would not like to think about it.”

        Froid smiled. “So, when do we start writing?”

        Samuel smiled back at her. She blushed, not expecting this response.

        “Soon, Ambrosia.”