Scarleton Series I : Before the Cult (5 page)

Macxermillio
was the agent of its fortification, his hands tightly grasping on
the wheel. His breathing laborious the more discomfited he became.
With the same discomfiture, Macfearson played the clip in a loop
desperately hoping he had overlooked something or, even more
desperate, that we had not filmed well. The more he watched the
more irrefutable the conclusion became. We had failed.

Macfearson
sighed and wearily dropped his hands into his lap, his mouth gaping
and eyes staring into nothingness. “No,” he mouthed. Seeing defeat
on his face was a scary sight because it was rare.

“Maybe we just
have to lay low a little or move,” Macxermillio said putting up
defences, or maybe he was attempting to convince himself of a
different truth. “Avoid being caught, of course.”

Deep into his
being he sensed how foul the whole practice was. Not because it was
repulsive and malevolent but because it was not solving our
problem. The practice was never just a means to an end, it was also
an end in itself because it facilitated much needed pleasure. The
kind of pleasure that easily becomes the centre of all our pursuits
and aspiration. The malice of it (the sampling) is the merciless
drive to erode conscience and rob all the affection the heart has
to offer and channel it onto itself. Often by establishing blind
loyalty and an incorruptible ignorant will to feed its bottomless
desire. A pastime pleasure evolves into a need and then an endpoint
in itself. The tragic part is that the practice was also
instrumental because so often the line is easily blurred. The line
between doing the sampling for the crop or sampling because we just
enjoy it. The latter is unhelpful but not easy to give up, so the
sampling had to show some validity and results in order for us to
feel like we are actually doing something. The lack of any results
was disturbing and threatened not only our self-image but could
spoil our pleasure as well, because then we would be no different
to a
lifeling
killer. So defending validity of the sampling
was important to maintain an unsparing appetite and an image. And
learning that we had no reason to continue sampling was
unacceptable and indigestible. We were unwilling to accept at the
heart not in the mind.

In moments of
emotional tension my mind would spontaneously play songs in clips
as if my subconscious is trying to communicate something to me in a
language I can easily comprehend. After all dreams and
psychosomatic symptoms are never clear and to the point. Not to say
the songs were helpful either but it was a point to begin. The
effort to follow the leads and interpret the clips seldom came and
I just appreciated this peculiar trend. It was incredibly
distracting and sometimes soothing because there was no place like
music where I found sanctuary, meaning and felt understood to a
degree. And in the car they began rolling:

“
If I could
find the time to speak…”
Evans Blue’s Painted, the vocalist’s
voice embedded in profound hurt and despair.
“…they never said
I’d end up like this…”
Marilyn Manson’s Unkillable Monster.
“…We finish and wish we can start again…”
Hurt’s Fall Apart,
the song carries on to say “
So woe is me when all falls
apart…”.
And then a desperate scream portraying a futile
protest for peace in a storm of melody, “
No…No More
” from
Hurt’s Overdose. Then an almost crooning voice in a state of
numbness and mental decay , “ …
if you were me what would you do?
Probably nothing…”
from Korn’s Faget. And another one from
Korn’s Make Me Bad
“ I am watching the rise and fall of my
salvation…”.
Then with…

Impulsively I
uttered, “We gonna end up like Calvin.”

Macxermillio
gave me one of his hard to read looks from the driver’s seat. Then
he shifted his attention to the road as if nothing had been said,
or perhaps he did not even have the energy to react. In the
meantime my words awkwardly hung in the air, troubling me.

After a few
moments of silence Macfearson gave a weary snorted laugh, his eyes
fixed on the dashboard. “You never knew him?” he murmured.

“What?”

“Calvin.” He
said. “You never knew him.”

“Yes.” I
reluctantly agreed, not getting his point. I wanted to say “so
what?” But I suspected that would agitate him.

His shoulders
slumped and his facial expression became softer and contemplative.
He sighed. “You are right. A noose around a neck would do it right
now. Perhaps the best thing.” He paused, as if he expected a
scolding. After prolonged silence he continued, “ I see why he
might have gave up. Why he might have felt so alone and in pain
that he delivered himself to the unknown.” He paused again to take
a deep breath. “Is that not the best thing? The only escape?”

“Out of this
mess?”

Macfearson
stayed silent for a little while. “The calling has a way of
convincing us that suicide is the way that makes complete sense. It
distorts reason and instinct. I still hold that to go off to a
beautiful lie, if the calling can’t be trusted, is the most
peaceful death.”

Apart from
dealing with the possibility that the calling might have deceived
us about suicide as a transition tool (one of the things the
calling whispered in ours ears) to home there was the possibility
that we were doing something faulty methodically. The other
possibility, which intuitively felt unlikely, was the possibility
that we had not discovered one more mode of suicide; it started to
feel like digging against a rock. Nothing was coming out of it.
Something had to be wrong. We were back at doubting that the voices
in our head (the calling communicates with feelings and our
respective mental voices) truly spun from place of wisdom and
goodwill. We also began to question our perspective on the
situation of being stranded in a world we don’t belong and the
means of transportation.

We were
meticulous at carrying out the sampling. Even with that record on
our side, we couldn’t carry on making people disappear. With every
sampling there was a shred of evidence and clues that were left
behind, at this was point the accumulation of evidence was becoming
really substantial. The town being a small town, suspects were easy
to make, connections were easily drawn and the authorities had too
much time in their hands. Not too much time, just sufficient and
effective. We had given all our best to Jay’s sampling. Twenty
experiments and no results. In our most logical of places we knew
that either we needed to expand our cognizance on the issue or
implement different approaches. Although we despised it, maybe the
sampling was not the solution and maybe the calling was never going
to help with anything. The pragmatics and engendering a will to
change was the overwhelmingly hard part, because we had no one
else, but mostly because the weight of this world on our lives’
essence was becoming alarmingly depowering. Pushing us closer to
annihilation, leaving no room for sanity and well-being.

With it our
minds were becoming leisurely. A leisurely mind has no drive or
will. A mind orientated towards leisure alone is a dead mind. Very
close to nothingness and death. And soon a dead mind bores
itself…and when that happens we end up as Calvin with a noose the
only medal and reward for our quest. The scummy smelly butt print
on the sofa the only mark you leave behind. A leisurely mind is a
given up mind.

Macfearson
spoke in a controlled voice with his bellicose frustration
shimmering underneath, “You ever had good coffee?With no
sugar?”

“Yes?”

“Bitter. And
when you’re done you have this tart aftertaste just sitting there
in your mouth. Delicate and lasting, enticing you to have another.
Calvin was like that,” he paused. Then sternly he continued, “He
might have gone the way he did but he never tried to drag anyone
down with him. He knew it was over for him but that is no
indication that he did not believe in what we were doing. He was
bitter with integrity. Failure is not what tore him up but the
weight of this world twisting and gnawing at his core.”

I nervously
nodded, uncertain of what kind of response he expected. His eyes
were not on me but I could feel his mind’s eye burning me with a
concentrated and an indignant gaze. Belligerent energy exuded from
his frigid and deceptively disinterested posture. It was enough to
turn my insides pale. The conviction that if I uttered a sound I
would trigger an explosive quarrel moved me to silence. Inside, a
tempest of desolation drowned my thoughts and spirit.

There was bump
and then the rattling ceased as the truck turned right into the tar
road towards the town. On the horizon lay wealthy outer suburbs
where roads where guarded by pine trees and life was tranquil.

With his eyes
still fixed on the road, and perhaps tuned into my affliction,
Macxermilllio uttered, “We
need
help!” The unwilling words a
weight on his tongue. Because, put simply, we were in too deep.

Friday morning
we reconvened at my place. Each of us had retired to our homes on
Thursday evening, still in awe. We would also have elected to rid
ourselves of the thoughts that pervaded our minds. Through the
night I stared into the darkness, until it was no longer dark
anymore. I tossed and turned devoid of sleep and restless. My neck
stiffened and baked with tension making it impossible to rest my
head. They made being awake intolerable, constantly petrified by
premonitions and an elevated state of alertness. My sheets soaked
in sweat. Around 2am I jumped out of bed to take a hot shower
hoping it would calm me down. However, my shoulders remained as
firm as steel, the anxiety worsened and the sweat found new pyjamas
to soak. Cutting was not an option since it had the effect of
making me alert, I couldn’t also bet on the low possibility of
adverse effects. As I jumped to my desk scratching,
hyperventilating, fidgeting and trembling, my thoughts grew darker
and the night seemed to be stretched to infinity just to torment
me. I rushed to my window, climbed on the windowsill so my feet
dangle outwards. My right-hand hand grabbing the frame, I looked
down, so eager to jump and end it because I felt like I would
implode if I endured a second of the confusion, the anxiety and the
hurt. Tears blurred my sight, a teardrop fell from my left eye and
I watched it drop into the darkness and out of my sight where a bed
of daffodils and tulips waited.
Tonight they will be drinking
blood
, I remember thinking. There was no fear or hesitation
only the delight in having found the answer. Even if this was a
temporary problem of sorts, all my mind knew and could think was
that I wanted the feeling gone, and I wanted that now.

“Okay, I should
count to three!” I whispered to myself.

“One, two - “
Then an idea shot through my brain,
I should go out to a
song...I should play a song.

I gazed at the
computer sizing the effort it would take for me to get there and if
it was worth the trouble at all. Then something shinny caught my
eye past the computer on the bookshelf. It was the glass of beer I
had never touched, then I remembered I still had three bottles of
beer to myself packed away in the common fridge.

I should drink,
that will help.

Then it dawned
on me how stupid I almost became. The solution was right there and
I had almost walked past it into death. The beer would at least
carry me through to the morning and then I could be alive for the
meeting I have with Macxermillio and Macfearson. I knew how useless
they would be if I tried contacting them at this time and after
what had just happened. As far as I knew they were soldiering
through the night also, they wouldn’t be any help but daunting with
their benighted states. Alcohol makes a duly friend.

We could figure
something out. Macxermillio knows a ton of shit when he is
better.

I journeyed
through the silent corridors and passages to the ground floor and
retrieved the three 750ml bottles of beer. They were extremely cold
and I was surprised that no one had not helped themselves to them
as people stealing stuff from the fridge was not a foreign story
around here. When the first bottle went down I started to feel
better. With a fat grin and a tipsy head I started with the next
bottle which went down smoothly and uplifted my mood. Suddenly I
was in the mood of listening to some old tunes on my computer,
something sombre and touching. Then I started craving some company
which led to opening a few tabs on my internet browser logging on
into multiple social networks. At that time there was barely anyone
worth talking to online. It got me wishing I had more international
friends on a different time zone because the ones I had where no
longer as active. Then I resorted to Chatroulettte which was filled
with perverts after perverts until I stumbled onto a kitchen view
on my screen. First it appeared no one was in the kitchen and the
laptop was left online. Then a brunette in her forties or so
appeared into view, as if unaware of the display on the laptop. She
wore a blue jean with navy blue vest. Curvy hips, petite breasts
and lean torso. Daylight came in through the kitchen window. She
went to the zinc poured herself a glass of water and turned to the
laptop. At first she just watched, then approached and pressed a
few buttons.

She smiled,
leaning over the table into the screen and her tantalizing cleavage
showing. “Hi there!” she said. “What you doin?”

“Hi, I’m just
chillin’ having a couple of beers. Needed some company. You have a
bottle of wine with you?”

“No. Why?”

“So we can
drink.” I giggled.

“How old are
you?” She squinted.

I shrugged.
“I’m twenty.”