The Key to Everything (25 page)

Abram stepped rhythmically, oblivious to the goings-on around him. He went to his apartment, put the book down on the floor in the middle of the single small room, and didn’t leave for days. He stared at it. He touched it. He smelled it. He rested his ear against the cover. He listened. He didn’t eat or sleep. He couldn’t break away from this thing. It became everything. It started to become Abram himself.

Abram woke one morning with his cheek pressed firmly into the book’s cover, drooling out of the corner of his cracked lips. He realized he needed to get rid of it. He went to the dresser and pulled out an old red ribbon that his mother used to tie her hair with. He tightly wrapped it around the book and tied it. He made a bow and then a knot with the loops. He took the last bus running that night, as far away from the city as it would take him before it turned back. 

He walked for miles. The new construction made houses all look the same. Trees lay in the street, uprooted to make way for this suburban utopia. He found one very old tree still standing by the side of a freshly poured foundation and started digging at the ground covering the roots. He didn’t have a shovel, so he used the heels of his shoes. When the rubber wore down, he used his hands until his fingers bled. A few nails chipped away, but he kept on going. He was so thirsty that his tongue and lips cracked. He couldn’t feel his fingers anymore. He stopped and threw his brother in the hole and covered him up with dirt. When he was finished, he jumped on the spot to push it down some more and screamed at the top of his lungs. He roared to the leaves in the tree and to the black of the night sky. 

He tried to hitch a ride back home but couldn’t blame anyone for passing by, with the way he looked. He didn’t get home until sunset the next day. He turned on the shower and fell into the corner with all his clothes on and cried. The hot water didn’t last long, so by the time the landlord let herself in to find out why the neighbors below were complaining about their leaky ceiling, Abram was all pruned up, sitting in the corner under the falling water, shivering. She called the hospital, and they held him there for three months until he was able to speak again. By the time they released him, it was all a dream.

-47-

Auden: White

Jeremy looks at you with puffy, bloodshot eyes. It takes great effort for him to blink. It causes him significant pain. You wink at your little boy, and he manages to break a smile through the stiff, bloated skin. He’s obviously scared and has been crying quite a bit. 

You want to go over to him. You want to wrap your arms around and hold him. Sing to him. Soothe him and make him feel better. Your body doesn’t respond to your commands anymore. Your limbs are stiff and solid. You can’t feel your hands or feet at all. Your head won’t turn or look down, and your peripheral vision is not wide enough to let you see anything below your cheeks. 

You stop struggling and look back over to Jeremy. You try to signal with your eyes that he should come over to you. He shakes his head and looks downward. That’s when you notice it. There is no blanket covering his legs on the mattress. From head to torso, he looks perfect. The beautiful, happy five-year-old boy you adore. But starting just below his bellybutton, his skin spreads gently out and disappears into the bed. His legs melted away. 

You cry and pull at your arms to reach out for him, but nothing moves. No matter how hard you pull, you can’t jar yourself loose from the wall. You realize why and finally give up. Everything is white. All white. Jeremy is white. The redness flows away from his eyes; the swelling goes down. He blends in with everything behind, in front, above, below. White is everywhere.

-48-

Emily: Resolute

Emily stands. Her shoulders straight, she marches up to this man who makes keys and asks one question. “So if you make keys that open things, can you get me to the place where my family is?”

“I hope so.” Abram takes hold of her hand, and she squeezes it firmly. 

“Me too.”

-49-

Emily: Tidal

The brown horde is no longer scraping around the house. Everything is still and silent. There are no small black droppings on the floor or dark little puddle stains marking the carpet. On the surface, nothing in this house appears strange or out of the ordinary. 

If a realtor were to walk a prospective buyer through the place at this moment, they would almost be assured of a sale. Not a picture hangs askew. Not a speck of dust on the banister or on the mantle. Dishes are all stacked neatly in the cabinets. Trash hidden away in the respective recycle bins, with lids closed. Light bulbs all screwed in tight, ready to burn at the flick of their switches. 

Only when walking into the living room one might notice a disturbing sensation, and the sale would fall apart. A familiar feeling of unease would begin to crawl up the spine into the base of the skull. It would move directly into the fear centers of the brain, releasing endorphins and the proto-human instinct to flee. The need to run, to escape, to get away from this bad place as quickly as possible. 

Sitting in the center of the white couch is a blur in the general shape of a man. It sits in one place but is not still. The black-and-brown tide moves over him in waves. Brown waves of fur ebb and flow where skin should be. Jagged teeth snap and bite the air in the shape of a human forearm, splattering drool onto the fabric of the sofa. A knee becomes a wretched maw searching for something to tear apart, quickly smacking shut as it is sucked back into the sea, swimming downstream to another body part. 

Down the hallway behind the couch, a door opens where, moments earlier, there was no door. 

The ocean stops rolling and freezes in place. Ears twitch and aim backward, but the man-shape does not turn his head.

Abram and Emily creep slowly and quietly out of the door and close it behind them, where it disappears back into the wall.

Sgt. Harmon opens his eyes. Two pure white discs with no irises stare out from between swirling claws and teeth. 

Emily and Abram run toward the kitchen.

Sgt. Harmon stands, and the squirrels flow down from his body to the floor like a waterfall and sweep after them down the hall.

Emily stomps and kicks through the wave to move forward, limping.

Abram jumps, creating soft squishing sounds as he lands.

Sgt. Harmon smiles and turns back, pointing a finger at the male figure.

He opens his mouth and begins to sing, “Open yourself for me and let’s play for a little while….”

Emily falls to the floor on the edge of the kitchen and is immediately assaulted by layer after layer of snapping jaws ripping at her skin.

Abram reaches down and lifts her up, knocking away as many of the small beasts as he can.

Waves of brown and black build higher and stronger, overwhelming Abram, pulling him down.

Sgt. Harmon stands above the male figure and claps his hands once. 

The wave stops, ready for its master’s next command. 

Sgt. Harmon looks down and speaks quietly. “Where is he? I know you can tell me.”

Abram shakes his head and smiles.

“Open the door for me.” Sgt. Harmon kneels down, grabbing Abram by the wrists.

Abram shakes his head.

“Open… the… god… damned… door.”

Abram shakes his head.

“One last time.” Sgt. Harmon leans down, pressing his nose against Abram’s forehead. “Open the fucking door… please.”

Abram closes his eyes and shakes his head one last time.

Sgt. Harmon breathes in. He sits back on top of Abram’s thighs, and a deep chittering sound rises from deep in his chest. The brown-and-black wave swirls in a circle around the two men. It rises up high, cresting near the ceiling, hundreds of open mouths creating foam at the apex, beginning to crash down.

Sgt. Harmon raises a tightly clenched fist high above his head. He holds it there, vibrating in frustration, summoning strength from some locked-away dark place. He waits to strike until Abram opens his eyes one last time. The fist moves too quickly to be seen. An ear-shattering popping sound fills the room, as the air where the hand used to be slams together to fill the empty space left behind. 

Sgt. Harmon pulls his blood-coated knuckles from the crater deep in the floor. His skin is covered in words and letters, dripping black ink that he smears up his forearm, creating a horrifying mixture of red and black. Edges of torn pages in the shape of his hand stick to the wet sides of his skin as he lifts upward through the crushed face left beneath. Pages slowly flap back down into place, forming the remaining shape of Abram’s face that now contains a blank void in the center. Sgt. Harmon leans forward and blows out a puff of air, ruffling the paper that used to be Abram’s head. 

“No.” The scream comes from behind Sgt. Harmon. He turns too late as the battery-powered carving knife digs deep into the soft flesh on the side of his cheek. The crazed squirrels crash down in a wave onto the remains of Abram’s head. Dust shoots through the air from the tearing pages at the side of Sgt. Harmon’s face. Emily pulls at the buzzing knife and drives it in again, this time into his shoulder. It slides in easily, spreading the pages apart, sending letters, words and phrases out across the hardwood floor. She slices at him over and over. His body crumples to the floor, spreading open in heaps of pages falling away from their binding. 

Emily drops the knife and sprints for the living room. She reaches the mantle over the fireplace and grabs the brown leather book. The clash and clamor of claws and teeth continue the relentless assault on Abram’s lifeless body, sending blood and scraps of paper into the air. Emily holds her breath, running back into the cloud of dust, swinging the book in all directions, connecting with whatever she can hit to clear her way back to the kitchen. 

More angry jaws find their way to her, ripping at her clothes, fighting to get at her body. She knocks away a couple, but most of them get through easily and begin tearing, bringing her down to the floor screaming in pain only a few feet from Abram. Her fingers grip at whatever piece of floor they can find and pull. She is now a mass of motion covered in open holes and blood. The abhorrent waves of brown and black begin shifting away from Abram’s lifeless form, heading to fresher meat, still alive and pumping. 

Through the rising red tide, the small morsel of Emily that remains pulls herself forward, thinking only one thought. Her bloody hand reaches out from the grim sea, missing skin and nails showing bone and muscle that should by all rights have remained hidden from view. The claw-like hand wraps the remnants of its fingers around Abram’s wrist. 

Using all the strength that remains in her body, she pulls the rippling pile rolling and screaming on top of her a few inches forward. A mass of red teeth and fur shoots into the air, slamming into the sliding glass door on the other side of the room, leaving streaks of blood as they slide down, lifeless, to the floor. The book lifts up, held by her ruined hand covered partially in torn, hanging flesh. 

She slams the book into Abram’s pale forearm. Shoving the book down where it dissolves into the deep swirling maze of the tattoo. Somewhere, a gear turns. There is a loud, bright pop of metal on metal as a lock clicks home. 

The wave is gone. 

Silence. 

Flesh is mended. 

There is no blood. 

There is no pain. 

-50-

Emily: Reunited

Emily opens her eyes. 

There is no heat. There is no cold. 

There is white. 

Only white.

She looks at her surroundings. 

Details form. 

Outlines of shapes grow out of the nothingness. 

Walls. 

A desk. 

A bed. 

A man.

A boy.

She calls out.

Silent. 

Auden is just over there… 

in the wall.

Jeremy is on the bed.

They open their eyes and look back at her…

sadness

* * *

Her face hangs in the black.

If they turn their eyes far enough, they can see each other.

Her mouth opens and closes, trying to call out to him.

Nothing.

He cries. 

No tears come.

Jeremy hangs his head down into his chest again.

His tiny hands ball into helpless fists, nails digging into the soft young flesh of his palms.

Other Boy Four

Other Jason walks through the wreckage in the kitchen. He kneels down next to the book of Abram’s face and flips through his brother’s tattered pages. He glances…a word here… a phrase there. Finding nothing remarkable or worth remembering now, he stands upright and heads over to a drawer next to the sink. Opening it, he shuffles items around inside, rattling and clinking. Finding what he is looking for, he pushes the drawer closed and walks back to Abram.