Parabola

by Christopher J. Dwyer

Each blood red digit on the clock flips with uncertainty. We don't know if the justification of her heavy breathing is going to drive the mass of us mad. The panels of the wood floor have not ripped themselves off their foundation yet, a relief in itself.

The blood on my hands has surely stained the skin by now. If I sit quietly, each thought is muffled by the air of loss, the stench of death. I do nothing but sit and stare out the window.

None of us have said a word in what feels like hours. Maybe days. The clock isn't our friend.

Murphy drags his boots across the floor. He's been doing this ever since he slipped. Ever since the panic of a million souls graced the edge of his blade.

I take a deep breath, in tune with hers. Looking at her is not a possibility. It won't happen.

For every time I thought my essence of self was pure, I should have stabbed myself in the heart.

Deacon is still tapping his pen against the side of the rocking chair. I try my best to fixate the workings of my brain on its sound. The innocence radiating from its every strike.

The reminder of our actions is caught in the window's reflection. I'm sure it isn't the moonlight. Then again, I'm not so sure of anything at this point. Half of her ghost is scratching away at the parabola of the afterlife, finding a way to burst through the window.

It'll find its way soon. It's hungry. And we're alive.

Outside, the winter wind is carousing the cabin. It's making its way around us, making sure not to grace the iniquity within.

Deacon coughs and gets up from his seat. The chair is still rocking, leaving his spirit behind.

I take my eyes off the world outside. There's nothing out there, anyways. Just cheating, lying, stealing and the rash thrust of a billion lost soldiers. There's not much better inside.

Murphy whispers something, but it is lost in the tight air of the cabin. Deacon is sitting against the wall, his face in his hands. Whatever he is muttering will be tattooed on the palms of his hands forever.

I finger the engravings in the kitchen table. Worn down from the years of use, the thoughts are now just muffled memories.

Her chest heaves in and out. The eyes are still closed. I imagine she can see right through the darkness. Right through the thrush of obsidian.

Deacon pulls his hands from his eyes. Murphy still drags his boots across the floor, as if to find an escape through the wooden panels to a world much deeper than the one he's caught in now.

She's starting to gurgle again. I'm not sure I can handle this.

Four quick thoughts flash into my vision and I'm down on the ground, next to her. My hand on her chest, it moves with each breath she takes. Each one on the latter end of the last.

I've drowned out her gush with the faint reverberation of silence in my head. Her fear ever present without a single movement.

Deacon continues to mumble the same phrase under his breath. His lips curl around the words, their wetness louder than anything else in the room.

The green tint of her body glows in my eyes, my pupils dancing with its serenity. Fireflies in my mind, another naïve display of affection for the nearly departed.

Two stray rays of moonlight strike her torso, centered around the knife dug deep into her chest. It could be the only thing keeping her alive. And the only thing keeping us dead inside.

Knelt beside her, my hands glide gently across her body. Jeans with crimson streaks below me, I let my palm feel her stillborn pain. My eyes closed and fingers pressed, there's nothing more to be wanted than a brash swinging of luck.

Finally releasing a breath, I stand up and turn my back to the dead.

Murphy will not look me directly in the eyes. Neither will Deacon. They're both vanished in their own bodies, left to be forever searching for the lost time before today.

The kitchen feels like a trek away. The rusty knobs creak when I turn them, and the cold water flows like a cleansing river, washing away the tarnished bits of my body. The light red water falls into the drain, sure to greet me again someday.

I won't dare let the chill touch my beaten face.

My arms dangling from the sides of the sink and eyes beginning to water, I take three steps back and then turn back into the living room.

Deacon is straddled over her, careful enough that their bodies are not touching. I wonder what the conversation is like in his mind. I wonder if he's talking to her without words.

Wondering won't bring back the dead.

The strife of the evening is too clear in our heads. The mental barricade won't allow us to leave this cabin. There's something pushing us further and further away from ourselves.

There's something else outside. And it's hungry.

© Christopher J. Dwyer 2006

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Christopher J. Dwyer hails from Boston, Massachusetts, where he was born and raised. His debut novel, Shape The Black Sky, was released in early 2005. He is currently working on a black noir/alternative fiction novel entitled Sixteen Olive: A Novel, tentatively set for release in 2007.