painful-looking spikes along his spine. They shudder as he swallows. When he’s done, he sits on his haunches, rivulets racing down his face, dripping onto his food-stained chest. Animal blood has dried on his tattered shirt many times over, then soaked anew. The others crouch in a crude circle, staring up, up, at some object of fascination. So I follow the path of their obsession. My gaze slides along the networked beams until it catches on something blond and blue. My heart lurches.
Lisa.
Desperation and terror must have pushed her up so high. I can’t see the how , but it doesn’t matter: she made it to relative safety.
My shoulders twitch with need-to-go, need-to-get-to-her. The stranger holds me back, steers me until Lisa disappears from view. He turns us around, walks us back to the village proper.
I clutch at the damp lapels of his jacket. It’s too dark to see here, but I remember it being the drab green of all things military. “You said she was dead.”
“She is dead. Or she will be when I blow that place off the planet.”
Now I see the burden he carries: a backpack filled with secrets.
“It was you at the church, wasn’t it?”
He doesn’t confirm, only grunts.
“You can’t do it. Not with her in there. I won’t let you.”
“You have no choice.”
DATE: THEN
The jar is heavier than it looks, as though its core is filled with sand. Or maybe good intentions. Silence is the only protest as I walk it backwards and lean its top half onto the soft ottoman.
Something shifts inside. There’s a whisper like old, discarded snake skins rubbing together. A chill tiptoes down my spine’s spurred steps.
My knees dig into the beige carpet’s level loop pile as I kneel to follow Dr. Rose’s recommendation. Maybe there’s a clue here about whatlies beneath. I look. Nothing. A whole lot of nothing but more of the same. Smooth, with a hint of chalkiness. It’s left a faint dusting of itself on the carpet, and I can’t help but run my fingertip across the cheap fibers. The residue is soft and silky like cornstarch.
A frustrated sigh rides my breath. I wanted there to be something. Even if it was a Made in China sticker.
This time Dr. Rose doesn’t wait for me to speak. We settle into our respective chairs and roles, or so I think until he sets his notepad aside. Instinctively, my legs cross and I lace my fingers together, clasping them over my top knee. A model of cautious propriety.
He drinks in my defensive pose with his dark gaze, then knocks it aside with his question.
“Do you want me, too?”
“Yes. And no.”
He leans back, flashes a smile that makes me wish we hadn’t met here, in this place where my mental health is a question mark.
“I’ll take that. For now.”
Inside I shiver because for now means there will be a later, and he thinks I’m worth the wait. The pursuit. But part of me flares because I turned him down, and here he is steamrolling over me like my “No, thank you” was a meaningless thing.
For a moment he watches me and I feel naked. Usually it’s just my mind feeling exposed here, but now it’s my body as well. My nipples tighten. I swallow hard.
“Did you have the dream?” he asks.
“What?”
He never goes first. Never prompts me. But here he is changing all the rules. The notebook is back on his lap and he’s sitting there, pen idle in his right hand. That much, at least, is normal.
“The jar.”
“Oh. That.” The jar, the jar, the stinking jar. The tumor in my life. The jar is like having cancer and trying to figure out where you went wrong so its growth was nurtured. Was it the butter? The margarine? Too much beef? Too much watching and waiting on the microwave toding? What had I done that someone felt compelled to enter my home and give me an antediluvian mystery? I pick through the bones of my life looking for clues and find nothing.
“Yes,” I say.
He waits.
“It’s the color of scorched cream.” My hands reach into thin air and
Lisa.
Desperation and terror must have pushed her up so high. I can’t see the how , but it doesn’t matter: she made it to relative safety.
My shoulders twitch with need-to-go, need-to-get-to-her. The stranger holds me back, steers me until Lisa disappears from view. He turns us around, walks us back to the village proper.
I clutch at the damp lapels of his jacket. It’s too dark to see here, but I remember it being the drab green of all things military. “You said she was dead.”
“She is dead. Or she will be when I blow that place off the planet.”
Now I see the burden he carries: a backpack filled with secrets.
“It was you at the church, wasn’t it?”
He doesn’t confirm, only grunts.
“You can’t do it. Not with her in there. I won’t let you.”
“You have no choice.”
DATE: THEN
The jar is heavier than it looks, as though its core is filled with sand. Or maybe good intentions. Silence is the only protest as I walk it backwards and lean its top half onto the soft ottoman.
Something shifts inside. There’s a whisper like old, discarded snake skins rubbing together. A chill tiptoes down my spine’s spurred steps.
My knees dig into the beige carpet’s level loop pile as I kneel to follow Dr. Rose’s recommendation. Maybe there’s a clue here about whatlies beneath. I look. Nothing. A whole lot of nothing but more of the same. Smooth, with a hint of chalkiness. It’s left a faint dusting of itself on the carpet, and I can’t help but run my fingertip across the cheap fibers. The residue is soft and silky like cornstarch.
A frustrated sigh rides my breath. I wanted there to be something. Even if it was a Made in China sticker.
This time Dr. Rose doesn’t wait for me to speak. We settle into our respective chairs and roles, or so I think until he sets his notepad aside. Instinctively, my legs cross and I lace my fingers together, clasping them over my top knee. A model of cautious propriety.
He drinks in my defensive pose with his dark gaze, then knocks it aside with his question.
“Do you want me, too?”
“Yes. And no.”
He leans back, flashes a smile that makes me wish we hadn’t met here, in this place where my mental health is a question mark.
“I’ll take that. For now.”
Inside I shiver because for now means there will be a later, and he thinks I’m worth the wait. The pursuit. But part of me flares because I turned him down, and here he is steamrolling over me like my “No, thank you” was a meaningless thing.
For a moment he watches me and I feel naked. Usually it’s just my mind feeling exposed here, but now it’s my body as well. My nipples tighten. I swallow hard.
“Did you have the dream?” he asks.
“What?”
He never goes first. Never prompts me. But here he is changing all the rules. The notebook is back on his lap and he’s sitting there, pen idle in his right hand. That much, at least, is normal.
“The jar.”
“Oh. That.” The jar, the jar, the stinking jar. The tumor in my life. The jar is like having cancer and trying to figure out where you went wrong so its growth was nurtured. Was it the butter? The margarine? Too much beef? Too much watching and waiting on the microwave toding? What had I done that someone felt compelled to enter my home and give me an antediluvian mystery? I pick through the bones of my life looking for clues and find nothing.
“Yes,” I say.
He waits.
“It’s the color of scorched cream.” My hands reach into thin air and
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