Chapter 4
WAKE UP
I remember the first time I killed a man. Cyrus had me do it. We were in a dark room, one bare bulb hanging from the ceiling, like it was later with Mr. Thornton. There were no windows, and the only objects that sat within were a chair for me to stand on, and a table with flat blue ropes that strapped the man down.
This man was not awake. He was alive, though, and breathing loud. He was a very thin black man with skin a beautifully dark shade and a face with character built into it by way of lines and furrows. He was older and gray, but still had all of his hair, including that which sprouted on his chest and stomach. When I bumped into him by accident, climbing to stand on the chair, his body barely shook, simply sat like a stone, and his skin felt rough like sand. The looks of him made me feel queasy. Sickness was stapled to the air.
The truth is that I did not want to kill him, and so I said to Cyrus, "Why can't you just bring that red box in here this time, too?" For, I had seen the red box many times by then.
"Because you need to learn how to do this," he said. "You need to get used to it. Now look," and he spread before me what appeared to be a metallic fly. "We are going to do this simple."
I felt something in me curl up and die when I saw that needle. But so I would not disturb my own dead body, I watched and listened and obeyed Cyrus, rather than argue.
"This is a butterfly needle," he said, "and it slides into veins to let out blood. You are going to insert this needle into the vein, here." Cyrus pointed to an indigo line in the man's neck. "It'll take you a few tries, but trust me. You can't be worse than many nurses."
And that is what I did. I pressed my feverish fingers upon the thin man's cool neck, and I took the needle just-so in my right hand. The first try, though, I punched a hole straight through the vein, and Cyrus said he knew so by the black spot that instantly covered the area.
But after a while of prodding, I finally found the tunnel through which the fluid of life flows and inserted the needle deep inside. The hot liquid poured out all over me.
I cried as my hands were washed with crimson, and Cyrus grabbed them. "It's alright," he said, and he took out a handkerchief from his pocket and delicately wiped my hands. "The job is done." I barely heard him.
I was, instead, watching the fount as it poured along the man's neck and spread beneath him, splattering before me a cherry mirror in which I could see the glare from the overhanging bulb, and in that glare my face.
Cyrus put my right hand in both of his, and he squeezed it gently. He moved my arm above the man and slid my hand to where my palm rested upon his chest. I could feel the beating of his heart.
"His heart will eventually stop," Cyrus said. "Feel for it." Suddenly, I could not breathe. For, as I pressed my hand upon the man's chest, and the black bruise in his neck began to grow, I felt an inextricable link between myself and the blackening of his face. It was as though he was transforming into a demon and within solely me lay the perversion capable of it. I tried to lift my hand up, but Cyrus placed his own on top, locking mine against the wax of the man's skin. No matter what I tried, Cyrus would not release me.
"Stop," I said, and soon the blood was pouring off the table. The dribbling sounds upon the floor were a heavy bass in my hears. The man's face continued to blacken, and soon I became hysterical, trying to tear myself away from the beating heart buried beneath the bone, as though if I could break contact the horror would stop.
Cyrus held fast to me, though, held me down to the dying body, until I felt clamped to the death itself. The heart quickened, and even though I stood with eyes shut, I could see that heart struggle left and right, pulled as if by a million different wires until it stretched and shrieked in the only way it could - with a hot, flashing pace.
When I did open my eyes, I saw only the blood sliding, spreading its tentacles like a voracious vine across the floor and beneath the man who was both blackening and whitening simultaneously. Despite being unconscious, his hands tried to reach his face, to reach me, but the blue ropes held him fast, and eventually all movement ceased.
At all times I could smell the blood. In every whiff there were millions of pennies in sugar.
The heart slowed. I felt it in my hand like a flower closing its petals to the night. It slowed like rain turned to snow. Then, as though finally electrocuted by my very touch, the man's body began to twitch and draw in like a spider that had just been swatted. I had to close my eyes so as to stand it.
When I could no longer feel the body, I heard my crying, felt a cold stone lying low in my stomach, and I wanted to press my hands to it to rip it out, but Cyrus's own hand was still like a manacle upon mine. When he finally let go and I jerked back, separating the link between me and the dead, I vomited all over the body.
For the longest time, Cyrus tried in vain to comfort me, but every word of his I refused. That is, until he shocked me with the following:
"I have every intention of bringing him back, Jack. There is really nothing to worry about."
Through flooding eyes, I looked up from the floor at him and gazed at this demon who suddenly began to sprout wings. I hungered to hear those words again.
"That would make things easier for you, right? If I were to bring him back."
"Yes," I said, not really believing or disbelieving him, just following my choking desire. "Yes, please. Please bring him back." I clutched the soft cloth of Cyrus's pants. I continued whispering the same words over and over. "Please, Cyrus. Please."
Cyrus took both my arms in his hands, and he gently lifted me to my feet. He wiped the tears from my eyes, just like he had wiped the blood from my hands, and he moved his hands through my hair, held me close, and calmed me.
"His name is Roland James, and tonight he'll be back alive. I swear it to you, Jack. No worries." Cyrus kissed the top of my head, and I relaxed against him. In just a few minutes, I passed out.