The Lover's Parable Through A Seven World Journey (4 page)

The warmth of the blood smeared across John’s forearm as he wiped the oozing liquid from his mouth. He did not want to open his eyes… he did not want to look again into the stinging glare of the Monster standing before him. The throbbing of his temples caused the tears to trickle down his cheeks, tinged in crimson as they passed through the cuts and abrasions that painted his face. Winded and panting, a nauseated feeling engulfed his stomach as the saltiness of the tears ended their journeys, filtering through his lips and onto his swollen tongue.

John had found himself in similar positions to this in the past, but something more sinister was bearing down on him this time. Beatings were not an uncommon event. Not for him or for any child of Labor, for that matter. The linoleum floor, cool and lonely, a familiar site from the perspective of which he now existed, was just another reminder of the wastefulness of life within the Corral. But, the pounding of his head, coupled with the reeling of his mind, was much worse than he had ever experienced. He felt as if Death himself was looking over his shoulder. John, for the first time in his life, believed that the Monster’s abuse was clothed with a hatred that could only end in his own
demise.

“Get off the floor,” the Monster growled.

The searing pain in his body made it difficult to move, let alone any thoughts to bearing his own weight. But, he knew the game: if he disobeyed the miserably, sadistic creature standing before him, he would be soon to suffer a worse fate under the further release of the man’s anger.

Forcing himself to roll over in an attempt to push his body up off the floor, John could feel a rib, maybe two, rubbing their cracked edges together. Pulling in a deep breath while splinting his side with his arm, his lungs filled with the stale air of the apartment. He was, at a minimum, thankful that they were not
punctured.

As the lids of eyes drew back, he could make out the immense violence that he had endured: there were streaks and sprays of blood on the wall next to him, and puddles that were scattered across the room, even forming beneath his partially lifted body. But from where it was dripping he could not determine, as his whole essence at the moment was a mass of agony.

“You’re going to the Academy today, John. You’re going to learn how to be a productive citizen of Labor. And you’re going to love it,” the Monster yelled in his ear.

In the pooling, liquid life that was falling from his wounds, John could see the Monster’s distorted reflection staring back at him. Like the reflection from some macabre mirror as described in the old children’s fairy stories of many years gone by, it was a terrifying site to behold. It was as if the Monster’s reflection was his own and he was actually looking at himself. Perhaps it was a sign of why today he
should
die: because that reflection was his future. Maybe this was the end: no more Sophia, no more rooftop adventures, no more light of the Savior to settle upon him. If the Monster was not bluffing, then everything worth living for was gone.

John knew in his heart that, if he were going to the Academy, he would be going to the grave, yet living. The incinerators of Restful Haven seemed so inviting: a flash of light, perhaps even a fraction of a second of pain, and the blackness of death would cover him forever. But he was, unfortunately for this moment in time, not elderly. He was a youth. And he understood that he was about to be sent to a place of which, if he should survive its paces, his return to Labor would be in the state of suspension of all reality. He would continue to exist, not as John, but as the engineer, the worker, the drone, the obedient. Whatever they wanted him to be, that he would be.

Like all the tales of ghosts and goblins and other such stories that children mature out of, the Academy was similarly held in the same mythical status by all the school-aged persons of Labor. It was a common term found in an idiom expressed whenever a child was disobedient:
the Academy walls must have your name written upon
them
.

Although there was always the insubstantial threat of being dragged away to its dungeons, John had never known of any of his classmates, or anybody from the past few graduating classes for that matter, to be so dysfunctional that they needed to be sent there. There were stories of torture and deprivation, various abuses and even death to those that entered its iron doors. It supposedly existed in a cold and sterile, brick and mortar building that was erected somewhere just outside Labor’s Corral. It was not known whether it truly existed or not, but most of the youth believed that there was something out there, something to fear should they ever get too far out of line.

Struggling to pull his knees in closer, there was a sudden tightening of his shirt from around his ribs. Taking in even the shallowest of breaths became next to impossible. The crimson, mirrored image was falling away, and the ugly reflective surface was coagulating into a plastic-like dullness lacking any luster. The Monster’s grunting and panting was a sign of the strain his muscles were enduring as he lifted John to his feet.

“Time to stop playing games now, son. We need to be going,” he said.

The vise-like grip he held upon John’s shirt eased up as the Monster was seemingly satisfied that John was able to maintain his balance without any assistance. As the strain around his torso relaxed, John was finally able to take in that much needed air in order to gather his senses.

From the corner of his eye he noticed a figure standing behind the beastly man. Realizing that it was his mother brought him no comfort whatsoever, as the moment he made eye contact with her, he could see that she was staring at him with that same mask of insanity that the Monster wore.

Strangely, at such a miserable time, there were details of the woman of which John was able to absorb. Her blouse was an impressive sight: a common, gray-white secretary shirt that had the appearance of being sloppily decorated with a can of red spray paint. The underside of her chin and several areas of her skirt exhibited the same splattered pattern. From which wound of his she had ostensibly received this ghastly adornment John could not be certain. Was it from his head, his arms, or his back? It could have been from any one of these… but for now it didn’t really
matter.

Her open hand lifted up high above her head, as if she was about to give a pledge. Without warning, it was brought down upon the side of John’s face with such an intense force that it sent salivated projectiles exiting from his nose and mouth, splashing upon the Monster’s shoes.

“You’re finished here,” she grumbled.

John’s underarms burned, as if hot coals were being forced into them, as his two tormentors took hold of him and dragged him to his room. When they released him he dropped to the floor, limp and pale. He could hear the Monster leaving, walking away, his footsteps audibly waning down the hall.

The sounds of someone rummaging through the closet outside echoed throughout the apartment as articles of clothing and stored items were being thrown around, crashing to the floor and walls. The man then returned, panting and enraged. With one final blow, a suitcase was thrown upon John’s abdomen causing him to curl up writhing in pain, coughing and sobbing.

“Pack your things. We’re leaving in 10 minutes,” the Monster spoke before exiting the room once again, followed by his sneering
wife.

As she passed through the doorway, he could hear the steps of his mother pause as she turned back with an evil eye. The blackness of the world was closing in on him as she closed the door, saying, “Whatever you’ve not placed in the luggage will be thrown out.”

The loneliness that had blanketed his being when he awoke on the floor after an unknown period of unconsciousness was now more than he could bear. He wanted to let himself drift off to the long sleep of death. But as strong as his will was to make a final exit from the world, he knew that, just as in birth, it was not his to
command.

As the frigidness of the hard floor began to seep through his shirt, stealing the precious heat of his being, he began the endeavor to move forward, to live, not for his own gain, but for Sophia.

His body could be broken and shattered, but there was something that existed within him that he knew could never be destroyed. With all the strength he could muster he took to his knees, resting his head upon his bed and weeping. He ran his hands across the familiar smoothness of his sheets with the full realization that it would be the last time he would feel the soft warmth of cotton for a very long time, perhaps, ever again.

“There must be someone who could help,” he sobbed. “Anyone. This couldn’t be all there is. There must be something more. Help me please, Great Savior… or You, the Great Unknown beyond my understanding! Please, help me. Please, help Sophia.”

The tension of John’s muscles began to settle. For some odd reason he gained a peculiar feeling of freedom that was suddenly overcoming his entire inner universe.

He was contemplating for a moment about the peace that had entered into his soul, when an acutely strange awakening brought him back into the sensual world. Within his palm he felt a hard, squared object. He had unknowingly moved his hand under his mattress, sliding it above the surface of the box spring. Pulling his arm out, he realized that he had happened upon an old, yellowed, folded letter from Sophia that he had hidden several years ago. Spreading out the note, he lifted it to his eyes and read:

John,

Should our Savior cease to shine, or to the Haven I must go to rest my body and mind, my love for you will never die. You will live with me beyond death itself. You will always be a part of me.

Yours forever,

Sofia

A tickling drizzle fell across his cheeks, as John’s tears dripped from the edge of his jaw line, falling upon his legs. He was joyful and terrified in his heart, neither feeling being more dominant. Folding up the letter he placed it into his pocket. The journey ahead was not going to be easy, but he knew he would survive no matter what was about happen to him.

Fighting to keep the pace that his parents were dictating, John’s limped gait made his escort to the elevator one more torturous event that he had to endure.

Keeping watch from his peephole, Mr. Sanders knew from the fact that John’s parents, having not gone to work this morning, as well the severity of the beatings they had been giving to the boy, would make the Academy the most likely of places where the young man’s journey would end.

“This isn’t good. No, indeed,” he said.

Sofia’s eyes lifted with concern, “What’s not good? What do you see?”

“No good at all,” he repeated.

Attempting to gain Mr. Sanders’ attention seemed a futile task. He continued to stare at the floor, mumbling under his breath. He was too caught up in his thoughts to pay Sofia any mind. He glanced about the room as if searching for something. His eyes appeared wide and frantic as if he were trying to figure out a solution to John’s predicament.

Pacing about the room, the leather of his shoes creaked upon the hard floor with each step. In the still silence the sound was almost deafening. Mr. Sanders walked over to the sink and turned on the faucet. He splashed some water on his face. Picking up a towel and drying himself off, he immediately turned back towards Sofia. With a smile and a snap of his fingers, he said, “Wait here. I’ll be right back.”

As he proceeded out into the hallway, from down the corridor Sofia could hear the elevator door closing and the Monster’s voice, deep and muffled, was cut off in the process. The apartment door was beginning to shut when Mr. Sanders peeked his head back inside saying, “Don’t go anywhere, okay. Just wait here for now.”

He began to close the door once again, but hesitated, saying, “And, um… be ready to move fast when I return.”

And with those words he winked his eye and walked away, shutting Sofia inside his apartment.

Gathering up the black box and all of its belongings, Sofia set it upon her lap, folding her hands over it. She knew that she had to patiently wait for him, to trust the old man.

The threshold leading to the hallway, worn and dreary, reminded her of the horrors of the reality of her situation. She could envision the Labor Security forces crashing through it, weapons drawn, the splintering metal and wood tearing through the space between her and them. Reminding herself that it was only a potential reality did not bring any consolation. It actually only existed in her head. Nowhere else, she thought, trying, to no effect, to assuage her fears.

Alone in the dimly lit apartment, Sofia’s silhouette was a flat, black substance cradled on a piece of old, wooden furniture with a lime green backdrop.