Please Don't Go (31 page)

Rattup.

The son of a bitch.

He pictured himself in the distant future, meandering down a street in a faraway land, passing Charles Rattup by coincidence. What followed in his mental fantasy was a physical thrashing not so different from the brutal anguish his specter had wrought upon him with the manual drill bit. Of all the detestable people he had experienced in his life of work and pleasure, there were none that held such a high standing as Rattup. Something in Zephyr’s gut told him that he would meet the man again, no matter what the resultant cost or trouble was. Revenge was the only suitable course.

She was absent for the first half of the morning, but had made herself known to him once, perhaps to remind him that she was forever ready to club him atop the head and drag him back into her cave of pain and blood-slicked walls.

Good morning. Keep yourself occupied. I have business to attend to.

He said not a word to this, and only pretended that she was not there. If she had expected a response from him to her supposed “business,” then she would not attain one. For that matter, thought Zephyr, what kind of business did ghosts attend to? It seemed absurd and he decided that giving the concept a second thought was a betrayal to his well-spent time, in which he was hopeful to find an escape route from the disastrous life she had built up around him.

Zephyr needed a phone.

No doubt, there was a working phone line- and presumably a telephone- within the house. How else could Rattup have called into Richter’s for his groceries? How did he have
anything
delivered to such a remote location without a working means of communication? All of this, he could also presume, was built into her plans for Zephyr, for managing the remainder of his life as her lover. There was a contingency for any plan that Zephyr had beyond his not-yet-manifested love for her, which she had not yet earned, and which she was very much aware of. It was her intention to break him, to bring him into the gutter and drag him out again, holding him to her throbbing bosom for a suckle of milk.

Stockholm Syndrome.

Zephyr felt that if he was conscious of the concepts behind Stockholm Syndrome, and held fast to that psychological school of thought, that he would not fall victim to it. If he passed the laurels of such a mental deficiency through his head daily, he would ward off her strategies by simple recognition. In that, he could not be broken. It was the reverse of the thesis that if you believed a certain lie that you told (truly,
truly
believed it), that you were in fact not lying at all, that you had bypassed the guilt that made your lie real.

He walked into the kitchen, opening up the door to Rattup’s pantry, surveying the soup and dusty canned vegetables for something that appeared edible. Zephyr couldn’t remember the last proper meal he had taken, and so it all looked suitable to him—mediocre, but suitable. His stomach quaked in triumph as his brain sent precursors to his gut that there was soon to be ample sustenance, that one of his turmoils would end in a moment’s time. He popped open a can of artichoke quarters and sniffed, retrieving a fork from the drawer and deciding to shovel right from the can, to cut out the waiting that came with constructing anything more elaborate than raw artichoke.

Jackie would have a hunt on for him by now, but why had she not tried to find Rattup’s house? It made sense, knowing the short history between he and the old man. She could have easily obtained the address from Richter’s.
Had she involved the police yet? Had she called his mother?
It was absolute madness that there had been no attempt at reaching out yet. He could not find his cell phone, which was vexing in its absence from his person, stowed away in the house out of his sight and reach, possibly right next to the bloody house phone. Jackie would try his phone until she got through, but it was dead for certain now, unless of course the taloned bitch had thought enough to turn the phone off and conserve the battery—though such an action would not serve her intentions at all. “Come on, Jackie,” he whispered to himself, unsure of what his vacant prayer would accomplish for him other than mounting a false sense of hope.

After declaring the artichokes unfit for human consumption, tossing the opened can into the sink, he opened the pantry once again and retrieved a can of minestrone soup, wiping a thick layer of dust away from the top of the can. He gazed past the bevy of soups that Rattup had stockpiled, taking note of something alien poking through from behind. A white envelope had been carefully taped to the knotty oak panel at the back of the pantry. It appeared pristine, as though it hadn’t been there as long as some of the soup cans. Zephyr glanced from side to side, feeling in the air that he was alone... for the moment. He tore the envelope free and ripped it open like a child would a present beneath the tree on Christmas morning.

Dear Boy,

I put this in a place that all men eventually end up. The kitchen is an unavoidable location that you would be rummaging through, without a doubt, as she grows and deepens your hungers. So I placed my letter of apology (if that is what you end up choosing to label this bit of paper and words) in a place readily gazed upon by the human eye. I do not suspect that she will find this... Consider it private.
I write this to you on the evening before I will spring my trap.

Trap? How devious of me. I prefer a euphemism. How about, instead of trap, we call this an “unfortunate detainment”? Yes? That makes me feel much better, doesn’t it do the same for you?
Let it be known from here forward that I did not befall this thing upon you without careful consideration to what it meant for us both. On one hand, I am approaching the end of my livable, happy days and could not take much more of her incessant abuse. On the other hand, I had unearthed this suitable replacement who seemed to have dropped out of the sky like Dorothy Gale on the Wicked Witch’s sister, showing up at my door, an unknowing angel in disguise. You are young (powerful, vibrant, witty) and you will be able to fend her off better than I did. She needed a new companion, as well, so don’t pin this situation solely on my head. It worked out in a grand fashion. For everybody, that is, but YOU. And for that, my morals are eternally scarred. I’ve taken away your freedom in trade for my own. If you knew how long I have waited for such a reprieve, you would pity me at some level, but I don’t expect that realization from you just yet. In time.

My decision was not a light one. If her offer to swap roles had not been presented to me, I would have never thought of it on my own. She is cunning like that, always maneuvering her rook and queen about the board, taking long shots at your king when you least expect such a bold move. Do not underestimate her, my boy, for that will only lead to further hardship for you.

I hope you are adjusting. The bills are paid far in advance. My property taxes are taken care of until the end of the decade. My inheritances have been kind to me, and now they’ll do the same for you.
The few bills that I do receive are automatically pulled from my bloated heifer of a checking account, if you can believe that! It took awhile to set this up, and the fellow from the bank kept insisting on a face-to-face meeting, but after some finagling and a few greased palms, it all fell into place. My home is automated in every way... in my absolute ownership, taken care of for much longer than I will live. I would assume that she has plans for the house beyond my demise, so I’ll leave that between the two of you. I have no next of kin (none worth mentioning), so consider this a donation to your future.
A wedding present, of sorts. You are welcome!

Don’t bother communicating with the mailman. We’ve reached an understanding. He knows what trouble would besmirch his life, were he to offer a helping hand. He may be surprised to see a new guest staying at the Rattup Hotel, but I can assure you he will be of no employ to you. Her and I have put the fear of God into him, as well as a dose of the Devil. Watch him scamper away from the house everyday—it was always my primary form of entertainment!

While we are on the subject...

Don’t bother with fleeing. She won’t allow it. If you escape, she’ll only drag you back home again, no matter how far away you think you are, as I am sure you have already surmised since I took my leave. I had a similar fight in me when she first honed in upon my eternal soul in the 70’s. I thought I was swift, that there was no such thing as an absolute confinement, that freedom was around every corner, like my narrator character in
Breakfast In Galway.

He escaped. YOU, young man, will not.

There is a sense of optimism in that story. Perhaps (in my mind) I was mirroring myself to say that if I could not escape in the physical sense, that I would escape in my stories. I like to think that is true, and I pray that you will find a similar warmth in your written word. You have all the time in the world to hone your craft now, if you want to look at it without such bleak eyes. You’ll become masterful, if you are worthy and diligent.

She can’t read, not in our sense of the word. But she has keen senses. She knows when you’re bullshitting her. Not to mention that she can read your mind. If there is a method of not
thinking
something while
writing
it on the written page, then you may be able to skirt around her. I failed in devising such a method.

So in a sense I was lying about the illiteracy. Given the finality of my agreement with her, she allowed me some communication, forward thinking in nature, that may ease your transition. These thoughts were partly mine, as I wrote my story out for you, but with a bit of her own contribution between the lines. Consider this a safe message from me to you. No need to destroy it when you are finished like they used to do in spy movies.... she is a thing that has no need for human ideals, such as reading and writing.

She is something else altogether. Primordial, dare I say? You’ll find the answer among my books. Don’t look too high, don’t look too low. Use your eyes and find the pages I’ve dog-eared. Oh, isn’t that bordering on a riddle? It sounds like one. What fun you’ll have! I wish I could be a fly on the wall.
The food will be delivered, as always, from Richter’s, but do not attempt contact with them, either. She’ll handle the orders until the time comes that you can be trusted not to run your pitiful mouth. When you’re ready, she’ll know... it may takes years, so deliver patience with your degradation. One day, you’ll wake up and forget that you once had such freedoms, and you’ll accept the ulcer that has become your life. You’ll forget me. You’ll forget this letter. And you know what will happen next, Mr. Zipper? You’ll start to enjoy it. Mark my words, you will start to enjoy it.

There is freedom even in having none at all.

I once read an account from a Holocaust survivor. She had been speaking of Dachau in particular, and the ways in which they survived the ordeal, both mentally and physically. This woman had insisted that it was three parts mental, one part physical, that you could lift yourself from the pain of it all by consuming your mind with any form of entertainment available. They had dumped the actors and writers and musicians in these camps just like anybody else—walking, talking, rotting trash—and so they harvested those skills in keeping some semblance of human spirit alive, sickly stage plays among the shit-houses and burning bodies. I believe in my heart that you can do the same. Consider my expansive collection of books to be your skinny Jewish impressionist. Now, I’m not saying you’re going to endure the kind of torture that the Jews felt at the hands of the Nazis, but at times this correlation may hop into your head for a moment. If she’s begun on you, then let me say that you have only just embarked on that journey. There are pains that you have not yet fathomed.

My boy... she will break you.

She will break you in half, and then tie you back together with bits of twine and barbed wire. Then she’ll break you again, just to see if you break the same way as before, if your being separates in a similar measure and form.

The sooner you let her break you, the sooner you will find peace, in both your mind and your heart. Entertain yourself, steer clear of her vitriol, and never forget that this is a permanent condition, that she controls you no matter how brave and bold you believe yourself to be. You are an ant beneath her foot and she’ll squash you in inevitable repetition, just to show you that she is the usher, bringing you to your seat before the big show begins.

Isn’t she passionate? The first time she took me (to bed), I was brimming with piss and vinegar, fighting back with everything I had. Soon, I came to a place of enjoyment with it. You’ll need to let loose and stop thinking about everything “out there.” For you are eternally “in here.” Well, that may not be wholly true. I escaped... When I saw the opportunity in the form of an agreement with her, I snatched at it.

Delight in your simple new life... men toil all their lives for such an unquestionable path.

Your friend, always and forever,

Charles Rattup

He crumpled the letter in his hand and tossed it to the floor. Once again, he imagined himself killing the wrinkled buzzard with his bare hands, and something in that fictional reenactment made him feel human again. Was this anger? Aggression? All his life, he had fought the good hippie fight, but he felt that pacifism drifting from his mental boundaries. He was a warrior, alone in a battlefield against two enemies, one visible and the other a collection of misty, hateful particles.