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.