A Cerberus Jaw
Copyright 2015 Lee A Jackson
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Peyroux stared at the whimpering old man on his knees before him. Peyroux watched the drops of rain explode upon the quivering man’s skin, flattening the greying hairs on his arms. The tiny droplets attacked the man’s fragile skin, just like the knives and shards of glass had done to Peyroux’s very own face. Glaring through the downpour, he felt no pity for the kneeling man before him, even though Peyroux could see and understand the man’s discomfort, the rope cutting harshly into his wrists. He could sense that the old man’s legs were crying out to run, but the decay that time had inflicted, along with fear, had left them weak.
Peyroux turned his back to the man and looked out over Rouen and the domineering sight of the city’s Cathedral, his eyes falling on the staring stone orbs of La Gargouille, sat in its stony silence on the majestic building’s exterior. With shadows being cast over the Gargoyle’s eyes, they were dark, silent caveats to evil spirits.
They had always been there, the voices. Always they had been screaming their thoughts, indirectly and vehemently at Peyroux. Even sitting in solitude, Peyroux had never been alone, for then he could still hear the voices talking at him. However, sequestered away in the dark crawl space in his attic, the voices were at least more sedate. There it was quieter than being out on the streets, the voices less audible for not having to compete for his attention over the din of the outside world. Up in the attic the voices were just a calm chatter, the dark helping to give Peyroux some respite. It offered a chance for sleep to come, along with rare opportunities to listen to snatches of his own thoughts. The more he tried to consciously quiet the masses though, the more a single voice had started to stand out.
Like staring from a high balcony down into a crowded square, there was one person within the multitude of voices that Peyroux’s focus had started to fall upon. Just the average person in the crowd upon whom he had started to fixate, for no other reason than they had mysteriously fought harder than anyone else had ever done for his attention.
It had not been a voice which Peyroux had been able to hear clearly over the most intense walls of noise in his head at first. It was just a singular voice, a conscious stream that Peyroux had felt was speaking directly to him. With concentration he could pinpoint this voice above the rest, making it seem louder. Sensing this stronger voice, Peyroux had felt as if it was actually trying to call to him for a reason. All of the other jumbled voices that formed white noise were always just talking, whether to themselves or to him, Peyroux did not know and could not really distinguish.
Having first mistaken the voice for his own thoughts, Peyroux soon realised that it went beyond himself, because he could hear his own frail thoughts alongside that one stronger voice. The feeling of hearing it louder, more distinctly above the crowd, had initially given Peyroux an uncomfortable feeling. An exposure, a return to buried knowledge of himself, making him feel vulnerable in his own space. The feeling that someone in there could know him, know his memories was unsettling. They were memories which were painful, burning, a constant reminder of who Peyroux was, who he had been and why he had come to be spending his days locked away in an attic. A reminder of why he gazed away hours at the Gargoyle facing him on Rouen Cathedral, trying to emulate its silence. Having been a victim of the chatter, having lost control of his life somewhere along the way, Peyroux had constantly tried close himself off to all the noises in his head, to find silence in solitude. Now there was someone who could potentially see everything.
He named the dominant one, Sebastian.
Sebastian’s presence persisted and as Peyroux tuned in more often to his voice, it came to offer some friendship. Because that one voice was coming through stronger, there was a gradual hope from Peyroux that it would quiet the rest of the voices that he was hearing. It would be easier in the end for Peyroux to silence just one voice, than the multiples. So Sebastian’s arrival had come with some sense of being Peyroux’s saviour and it had shifted Peyroux’s thoughts to the hope that one day things would all be better. It was a glimmer of promise through the little windows of clarity in which Peyroux would cling to his own thoughts, that there was finally the possibility of pulling away from the voices.
In the darkness and with encouragement, as Peyroux would try and focus his attention on just Sebastian’s voice, it felt that at the same time, Sebastian was beginning to impress his will over the other voices. But for all of his efforts, Sebastian’s words still wouldn’t fully come through clearly to Peyroux. There was a sinister comfort in hearing the sounds Sebastian made, like words, but unlike words which Peyroux had ever heard. Sebastian couldn’t be understood. The actual noises which Sebastian offered were therefore uncomfortable, but to Peyroux they still offered a sense of relief that there may just be a sane voice inside him, wanting to help. So Peyroux, instead of ignoring Sebastian’s stream, continued to concentrate harder on the sounds and tones of his new companion and settled for the belief that one day, maybe he would understand clearly.
Living alone was the physical life Peyroux had had to succumb to. Nights and entire days were spent alone in a dark attic to hide away from the outside world and its noises. But with the arrival of Sebastian came a new sense of courage within Peyroux. A sense that the world outside of his own dark one in the attic would be less intimidating with a companion to guide him. Loneliness in hiding from the voices for so long had bred a cocoon of reclusive propensities, and with the onset of someone paying him some attention, it did not take long for Peyroux to form an emotional attachment to this assertive voice. Even though there was a lacking in comprehension of Sebastian’s words, there was a compelling need to trust that voice clearly.
This first sensation of automatic bonding had compelled Peyroux to imagine himself striding the streets of Rouen in the height of day, unafraid of the disturbing external noises that would pile on top of the constant voices in his mind. Usually confined to quick forays into the outside world at night when the streets were largely devoid of people, Peyroux felt that with Sebastian on his side, he would be protected enough to show his pallid face to the sun. Peyroux longed to meet the people of the city and attach voices to faces, to hold conversations, but before such things could happen, he always knew that the voices inside him would start to scream louder for attention, and the agonising torture would hit new levels.
But with Sebastian on his side now, and loud in his mind, Peyroux could perhaps focus his attention on his new companion and apply some dampening to the masses. He could imagine an imperious and confident stride into societal acceptance. The confidence of Sebastian being with him was a catalyst to entry into a new world. Peyroux, steeled by his companion had roused himself and climbed down from the attic one day at noon.
The streets had been busier than he had ever remembered from the days as a child when he had last experienced the sunlight falling on the shops around him. As soon as he had taken the first footstep outside, the voices in his mind had started to grow louder and more persistent.
Instead of running back to his darkened room however, Peyroux concentrated on Sebastian’s tones and continued to walk, feelings of both trepidation and excitement driving him.
As Peyroux submerged himself back into this bri
ght world which had long become foreign to him, he tried hard to scan the faces of the people he passed. But the more he became immersed in the centre of the city, and the more the population around him grew, the more he felt the voices inside trying to bring him to ruin. The louder the idle conversations around him and inside of him became and before long, even what the staring eyes of the people he passed were saying, began to drown out Sebastian. The external noises caused only further discomfort for Peyroux. A distressing dissonance of footsteps and traffic among the voices of the people on the street. Peyroux begin to feel like he was drowning in a sea of bedlam, being suffocated by the noise pollution. Too many people making too much noise and Sebastian’s stream could no longer be heard. Where was the peaceful companionship that life was supposed to afford? He just wanted to reach out to other people, so why were they only concerned about pushing him away blindly and without quietude?
Accidentally Peyroux stumbled into a young lady laden with bags and a screaming child. Before Peyroux could find any voice of apology the young lady’s countenance had grown dark and she spewed forth a loud torrent of abuse which had sent Peyroux stumbling, disoriented.
Recoiling from the lady’s outburst, he stopped to lean against a lamppost to support himself, to gather himself. Concentrating, he tried to pick out Sebastian’s voice against the din, but he couldn’t hear him. Peyroux winced in pain as the world of noise infiltrated his senses, and he searched harder to find that friendly, familiar sound of Sebastian.
Shutting his eyes tightly, in his mind Peyroux could see Sebastian drifting out on the sea to the horizon upon a makeshift raft. He was already too far out. Too far lost to the ocean’s tide for his voice to carry back to shore. Peyroux could see the black shadow of Sebastian’s outline in the distance, gesticulating wildly, but could not hear him. Peyroux wanted to splash into the water’s edge, but the waves of noise from the unwanted voices were now barricading him, holding him back. Peyroux slumped to his knees. The world rushed on around him. Pains were gathering like a maelstrom in his head. Could he hear laughter? Spiteful laughter? Where was Sebastian? Peyroux clutched at his temples, opening his eyes to look at the blank faces passing by who were pretending not to see him and, just for a brief moment he thought that he heard the familiar, resolute voice of Sebastian. But before Peyroux could find salvation and reach out to his saviour, the world around him faded into blackness.
Peyroux remembered nothing of the attention of the paramedics. Nothing of the hurried ambulance journey to the emergency room. He opened his eyes from his deep slumber and took in his new surroundings. The unfamiliar, sterile environment presumed itself upon his senses all at once and afforded no privacy at all. The clinical white walls, bed-sheets, cabinets, machinery and curtains. The smell of decay being suppressed by rigorous cleaning regimens. Footsteps echoing, machines beeping, unceremonious grunts and groans of discomfort from elsewhere on the hospital ward. Remembering nothing, Peyroux felt as if he had been transported there just a few seconds ago, right from his uncomfortable and foolish venture into the world.
Why had Sebastian let him down?
But Peyroux immediately dismissed this critical notion. The voices were many, Sebastian just a lonely guardian. What could he do against them all? Sebastian couldn’t be held responsible for Peyroux’s weakness.
Peyroux rolled his head and gazed out of the window beside his bed. He head a female’s voice, gentle and soothing. A nurse tending to another patient a few beds down.
A single voice.
Peyroux’s mind jerked further into lucidity. A single voice. He listened intently to the nurse who was talking softly. It was distant, but clear. Peyroux tried to sit up but felt too weak to do so. He wanted to walk over to the nurse and listen closely to her words. He wanted to whisper to her that there were no masses of voices crowding his head and that he could hear her clearly. He suddenly felt lighter, yet at the same time uncomfortably lonely. As the first wave of revelation dissipated, Peyroux felt the slow grip of panic creeping around his throat. It was too quiet. He should have been able to hear Sebastian clearly through the new quietude, but he couldn’t seek him out in the void. Still he could only hear the ward nurse and no-one else. Sebastian? What had they done to him? Peyroux tried to lift his left arm to bang his head and try to wake up the lost voice inside him. But instead, his muscles too weak, his travelling eyes followed the trail of tubes running from his arm to a packet of liquid hanging above him. He stared at the liquid with scorn and felt useless, turning his head back to the window beside his bed. He felt weak and the view out of the hospital window, overlooking the rooftops of Rouen towards the Cathedral, became blurred by a steady stream of tears.
Through re-told local legends, Peyroux knew that it had been a condemned man who had captured a monster called Gargouille when everyone else before him had failed to do so. This man had delivered Rouen from the clutches of the creature’s tyranny sometime in the 6th or 7th century. The head and neck of the Gargouille was severed from its body and mounted on the town wall, as its terrifying features were believed to ward off evil spirits. Once reviled and feared, the monster became the town’s protector and subsequently spawned stone kin across the world.
Rouen Cathedral stood prominently in its ancient stone splendour, blocking the view to the horizon. Throughout the hours, Peyroux lay and watched the building swallow the dark of night and thrive in the light of day. But it was the winged Gargoyle hovering over a precipice that Peyroux focused on the most. From his bed, he stared into the eyes of the stone creature, recalling the stories he’d heard in his childhood. He became fixated on the Gargoyle and contemplated its history and its continuing presence after all this time. After sunset, the Gargoyle, the Cathedral’s protector, would hide itself away in the dark and Peyroux imagined it coming to life and sweeping down to patrol the Cathedral grounds. Come the morning, it would be back in its place, dutiful and unquestioning.
Peyroux opened his eyes to the new morning. Before long, his attention was distracted by the sound of approaching footsteps. The hospital bed next to him was unoccupied, and his first thought was that another poor soul was finding their way to this place. Peyroux slowly turned to face the sound of the visitor, only to see something unexpected filling his line of sight. Peyroux looked into the eyes of the approaching doctor.
It was eyes that he had seen before.
Dark eyes, domineering and forceful.
They took him to a cold place of panic.
Peyroux sat in the dark cupboard, kicking a glass bottle at his feet. The chink of the glass against the stone floor was a comforting noise that allowed him to sense that he wasn’t totally lost in an endless void. The echoes of the bottle fell comfortingly close to Peyroux’s ears. On hot days like this one, the stench of old vomit grew stronger. No matter how many times he’d been ordered to clean up his own mess, the smell would never go away. It was no use Peyroux arguing that the headaches, the stomach pains and the vomiting would never go away either, because his protests would always fall upon deaf ears.
The child Peyroux had tried protesting the first time the nausea had overpowered him. At the tender age of six, his father sent him to this dark cupboard under the stairs to put an end to his complaining about feeling ill.
“What do you want from me?” his father had shouted, the whisky on his breath forever a constant reminder of the evil taste in Peyroux’s own throat. “You complain. All you do all day is complain, eat and drink…and remind me of your mother. You want your mother? You want her? So do I, so do I! Maybe if you were never born she would never have died. Died in labour. Do you understand? Can your small little head understand that? Do you know what death means? All the other kids on the streets are holding mama’s hand, because they are quiet and nice and kind and gentle children. But you, no. You had to disturb her in the dark of night, causing her pains and bleeding, and I can still hear the screams every night when I have to go to my empty bed. So what do I have left? My son. My com
plaining son who can’t put up with a little pain in his stomach. Do you ever think of anyone else but yourself? Do you? Bah, you sicken me.” The tall figure of his father had staggered towards him, had taken him up by the scruff of his collar and escorted him harshly to the dark cupboard. “You take this bottle, you go in there and don’t even think about coming out until you’ve drank it all.”
Peyroux had shuddered as the door slammed him into blackness. Evidently the glasses of vile fire-water that had been forced down Peyroux’s throat for as long as he could remember hadn’t been punishment enough. Whenever his father, a shadow of a man that Peyroux wanted for a guardian had desired for Peyroux to be quiet, the child was forced to drink a glass of the brown liquid. The drink burned Peyroux’s throat and eyes and he constantly had pains in his head. Too young to understand what was happening to him, the more he tried to fight the drink, the more it was forced upon him.
The vials of drink quickly escalated to bottles.
Outside of the cupboard he could hear his father stumbling around, cursing. Peyroux vomited before the bottle of whisky could reach his lips.
Peyroux had awoken in a pool of his own dried vomit and urine. The empty glass bottle rattled around at his feet. In the darkness of the cupboard, in the darkness of his mind Peyroux could hear voices whispering to him. The first time that they had come to him. Small, distant voices, chanting, whispering, laughing. Not defined enough to pick out individual voices, but a small gathering all talking a constant hum at him.
The doctor before him was the reincarnation of Peyroux’s father. Peyroux sank back into his bed as the doctor approached him. Everything about this familiar stranger brought memories flooding back into the susceptible mind of Peyroux, a mind which Sebastian was no longer around to stand watch over. Peyroux wanted to scurry away, to bury himself beneath the covers and find darkness, but he couldn’t move. Still the doctor came towards him. Everything about him, his gait, the way his long fringe crashed against his forehead like waves, the unflinching gravity etched upon his face reminded Peyroux of the torture he had suffered through childhood. Through Peyroux’s eyes, everything about the doctor reminded him of his father. An unforgiving man with his own agenda. Whatever he wanted to do to Peyroux, from within his bed, paralyzed with drugs and fear, Peyroux could not fight back. His father was back and coming for Peyroux again. Now in his mind Peyroux felt old enough and strong enough to fight, but his body simply wouldn’t respond. He turned his head to deflect the fear that the approaching doctor instilled upon him. Peyroux looked for escape but physically limited, only his vision could take him away, his eyes falling on a stone Gargoyle outside of the window.