Children of Paranoia

  “Maria, it’s me,” I spoke into the intercom—whispered, really—unable to fill my lungs with air. You didn’t say anything. You simply hit the button to let me in. I heard the lock on the door click and I went inside. I started up the stairs. Everything I had done in the past month, everything I had gone through, all rushed back to me as I walked up the first flight. I felt dizzy and light-headed. I told myself that there was no future after this moment. There was no past before it. This moment was life. You, standing behind the door waiting for me. Me, climbing the stairs toward you. It was all worth it for this moment. I tried to forget my promise to tell you everything. That didn’t matter right now. I simply tried to remember your face, your lips. Once up the three flights of stairs, I lifted my knuckles to knock on your door. You pulled it open before my fist could reach the surface. You must have been waiting there, listening to my footsteps.

  You opened the door. You were wearing a skirt and a black sweater. I had never seen you wear a skirt before. You looked so feminine. I tried to drink in your image. My eyes traveled down your body, lingering on your legs. I couldn’t help but linger there, on your bare skin. I stepped inside the doorway. I lifted my head and finally looked at your face. You had tried to pull your wild hair back into a ponytail but strands of curly hair had escaped and hung down, framing your face. You looked anxious. “Hello, Maria,” I said. I had yet to really catch my breath. I could barely make the words escape my lips. You grabbed my shirt collar and pulled my face toward yours. We kissed. You kissed me with your eyes open. I followed your lead and stared into your eyes as we kissed. They were bottomless.

  “Hello, Joe,” you said as we parted lips for a moment. Then, I closed my eyes, pulled you back toward me, and kissed you even more deeply. I could feel the edges of your lips curl up as I pushed my lips into yours. Then you put one hand on my chest and pushed me away from you, but only a few inches away, creating just enough space between us so that you could bend down. You began to unbuckle my belt. I swung my hand back and pushed the door closed behind me. Then, suddenly, you dropped down in front of me, squatting, your knees spread open just enough for me to catch a glimpse of your sheer black underwear as your skirt rode slightly up your thighs. You pulled my shirt up and began to kiss my stomach. You ran your tongue gently over my skin. Then you began to unbutton my pants.

  “Your roommate?” I whispered, hating myself for the words as I spoke them.

  “She’s gone.” You looked up at me, your blue eyes full of mischief. Thank God, I thought, believing in God again for the first time since I was a child. You tossed my belt over your shoulder, flinging it aimlessly across the room. Then you pulled down the zipper of my pants and pulled them down, along with my boxers, with one firm tug. I looked down again. I glanced past the darkness between your spread legs again and watched your lips as you took me, already hard, into your mouth. I didn’t have the will to stop you. I felt guilty. I thought I should have stopped you and told you that everything about my life was a lie, but I was powerless as you moved your lips over me. You began stroking me with your tongue. I know now what you were doing. You were claiming me. You were making sure that I would never leave again. You were using every tool at your disposal for that purpose. It was all unnecessary. I was already yours. I had been from the first moment I saw you. Nothing would change that. I had already promised myself that I would never leave you again. I would never put you through that again. I would never put myself through that again.

  “Stop,” I pleaded, barely believing the words that were coming out of my mouth. If I hadn’t stopped you, it would have all been over way too soon.

  “I don’t have to,” you replied, looking up at me. I felt guilty. I didn’t deserve this. After what I’d done, I didn’t deserve this.

  “I want you,” I said, pulling you up toward me and kissing your moist lips. Then I placed one arm behind your shoulders and reached down, sliding my other arm behind your knees and pulling you up into my arms, cradling you and carrying you into the bedroom. I was determined to regain some control but you were even more determined to conquer me. We fell onto the bed. I tried to climb on top of you. I tried to slide between your legs. You outmaneuvered me. You climbed on top of me, straddling me, moving. In the rush you had left your underwear on, simply tugging it to the side once it got in the way. You placed your hands on my chest, your arms pushing your nipples closer to my mouth. I took your breasts in my hands. I ran my lips and my tongue over your nipples. You gasped. Then you pushed my head back down to the bed. You moved up and down on top of me, staring into my eyes as your pace quickened. My eyes wandered over your body. I tried to look you in the eyes but I couldn’t help letting my eyes drift over your skin. Your skin was pale but flawless. Your breathing quickened. You leaned back, arching your back, placing a hand behind you for balance. There you were, all of you, naked before me. If your plan was to claim ownership of me, if your plan was to forever brand me as yours, it would have worked, if I hadn’t already been branded. Then it ended, my own spasm sending you into yours, our bodies clenched together. You collapsed on top of me, both of our bodies glistening with sweat.

  We didn’t speak. I pulled you closer to me, holding your naked body against mine and wondering if this would be it, if this would be the last time you wanted me. With every passing moment I grew more and more certain that I would tell you my secrets and you’d run. All the while, you were lying there, afraid that once you told me your secret I would run from you. In the end, our secrets didn’t push us apart. They bound us together.

  For that one night, neither of us had the courage to talk. We pretended everything was normal. We got out of bed only to eat. Eventually, we wore each other out. You fell asleep first. I could feel your heartbeat on my skin as you slept. Lying next to you, feeling the heat of your body against mine, I closed my eyes and slept too.

  The following morning, I remember waking up with my eyes still closed. I just lay there for a few minutes. I didn’t want to be awake. I didn’t want the morning to come. With the morning came the payment of debts unpaid, the revealing of truths unspoken. I could hear you next to me. You were awake. I glanced through partially closed eyelids. You were sitting up in bed, the sheets wrapped around under your armpits for warmth. I could see fear in your face—fear and determination. Slowly, I opened my eyes.

  You didn’t waste any time. “We have things to talk about,” you said to me as soon as you saw that I was awake. You looked nervous. I watched your eyes dance between my face and the ceiling.

  “I know,” I answered. “I promised you that I was going to tell you everything.” My words drifted off. I couldn’t think of what to say next so I just stopped talking. There was silence.

  “But?” you prodded.

  “But nothing,” I replied. “If you really want to know, then I’m going to tell you.” I froze again.

  “Of course I want to know,” you replied. “You go off for weeks. You barely call. You don’t tell me what it is that you’re doing. You barely even tell me where you are. When you do call, you call in the middle of the night. I need to know, Joe.” You were on the edge of tears. I could see the need in your eyes. It was tangible. I didn’t know where to start. I thought about all the classes I’d been to. I thought about how the Intel guys would show the kids those slides. First, they showed the kids pictures of their enemies. Then they’d show the pictures of the bodies—bodies on top of bodies. Finally, they showed them pictures of their allies. They had a system. That system worked. But you were different. All these kids in these classes, every one of them, grew up suspicious. The world around them didn’t make sense until someone showed up with slides and explanations. To them, the War actually made everything make more sense. Your world already made sense. The only thing in your world that didn’t make sense was me.

  “What are you afraid of?” you asked, sensing my fear.

  So much, I thought. “I’m afraid that you won’t believe me” is what I settled on.

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nbsp; You wanted to help me. You wanted to believe me. I’ve always heard that monsters are scarier when you don’t see them. That the monster you imagine is usually scarier than the truth. What happens when that’s not the case? What happens when the monster is more horrible than you could possibly imagine? “What if I promise to believe you?” you said, as if such a promise were even possible.

  “I’m afraid that might be worse,” I replied. My mouth was dry. I tried to look at you for courage but it only made things harder. This War had taken a lot from me. I didn’t want it to take you too.

  “You have to tell me,” you demanded, tears beginning to well up in your eyes.

  “I know,” I answered. I had run out of excuses. The rest of my life hinged on that moment. There was nothing left to do but step into the abyss. I leapt. “Everything I’m about to say to you is going to sound absurd.” You opened your mouth to speak, to give me confidence, to make more promises you had no business making. I lifted my hand to stop you before you could start. “Everything I’m about to say to you is going to sound absurd. I believe that by now, you trust me, so I don’t imagine that you’ll think I’m lying. Instead you’ll probably think I’m crazy.” I looked up at you. You were staring at me with incredulous eyes. “First, let me promise you that I am not crazy. Though, by the time I’m finished, you may wish that I was.” I kept watching your face, trying to read your reactions. This was how I would navigate these waters. Lines grew on your forehead. You began to doubt that you even wanted to know the truth, but it was too late for that. There was no going back. Still, that doubt was a good start. Doubt was what those kids that I taught had. They doubted that the world made sense. They doubted almost everything. The strong ones doubted everything but themselves. Break them down. Then build them back up. The whole goddamn thing would have been so much easier with slides.

  Doubt, then death. The next step was the part where the Intel guy would ask all of the kids who’d had close family members murdered to raise their hands. Inevitably more than half the hands in the room would shoot up. With you, I have to tell you about my association with death. “I know this is going to sound weird,” I began, “but I need to tell you a little bit about my family.” First, I told you about my mother; that naive, sweet little woman alone in her home in New Jersey. You smiled when I described my mother. Your smile made it harder, but I trudged on. “She is all of my family. She’s all I have left.” I waited a moment, letting that fact sink in. “Everyone else, my grandparents, my aunt, my uncles, my sister, every single one of them is gone.” Your pale skin suddenly got even whiter. “They were murdered. And it wasn’t in some sort of mass killing. They were murdered separately. They were murdered deliberately.”

  Your fear was quickly being replaced by confusion. “Why?”

  “I’m getting to that,” I answered. Before I could do that, though, I had to sink you deeper into death. I had to give you the how before the why. I had to show you details, like the gruesome slides shown to the kids during their first lesson.

  “My father was killed when I was eight. He didn’t make it home from work one day. They told me that he died in a car accident. I guess that technically that was true. I didn’t learn all the details until after I turned eighteen. The truth was that he was run off the road on purpose by another driver. They waited until he was driving on a winding road that dropped off into a ravine. Then they came up from behind him and rammed him over the edge. To me, he was just there one night and gone the next. That was the start of it. I’d only met one of my grandparents, so my father, he was the start of it for me.” Then I told you about my uncle. I told you the same story that I tell in the classes that I teach. Only, when I told you, I left out the second half of the story, the part about what I did to the man who killed my uncle. That part of the story could wait. Then I told you about my sister.

  “My sister was five years older than me. She’d always been there for me. She’d always protected me. My mother, for all her virtues, was never the toughest woman in the world. So after my father died, that left my sister. She taught me how to be strong. I loved her so much. When I was fourteen, my mother still wouldn’t let me stay home alone at night. I never understood why. It was actually pretty embarrassing. Plenty of the kids I knew at school could stay at home alone. My mother was just paranoid. This life will do that to you. So, one Saturday night she got invited to play bridge with some of her friends. My sister was a sophomore in college at the time at Rutgers. My mother asked her if she would come home and stay with me for the night. Of course my sister said yes. She would have done anything for me. So we ordered pizza and watched a movie.

  “They came for us at around eleven o’clock. I remember. I was looking at the clock when all of a sudden I saw one of their reflections in the glare on the television screen. He was standing outside our screen door, watching us. I wanted to scream but I froze in fear. I didn’t need to scream. Even before my sister saw the men outside, she saw the fear in my eyes. There were three of them but it seemed to me like there were a hundred. They surrounded our house. My sister grabbed my hand and we ran but every door we ran to had another man behind it. Not knowing what else to do, we ran for the back door. My sister opened it. One of the men was waiting outside. I don’t remember what any of them looked like. In my memory they’re just shadowy giants. Jessica leapt at one of them. He caught her. She just started yelling, ‘Run, Joe, run.’ So I ran. I didn’t look back. I could hear Jessica screaming as the man dragged her back into the house but I didn’t look back. I spent that night cowering in the woods. I remember shivering all night but I don’t remember if it was cold or not. I didn’t go home until morning. When I got home, my mother was there. My sister was gone. She died because she agreed to come babysit for me. My mother should have known better. They couldn’t kill me anyway.”

  “Why not?” you asked.

  “Because I wasn’t eighteen.”

  “I don’t understand,” you said.

  “I know.” How could you understand? “I’ll explain.” Slides of the enemy, in every lesson I ever sat through, that was what came next. Talk to them about death and then show them the killers. “There’s a group of people out there and they are trying to kill me, my family, and my friends.” Your face changed again. This time, after the confusion turned to fear, the fear turned to disbelief.

  “Why?” you asked.

  I only had one response, even if I didn’t fully believe it anymore. “Because they’re evil,” I answered. Forget all the other stories. Forget the story about the slave rebellion. Forget the story about the five armies. Forget the broken peace treaties. I had to convince you that my enemy was evil so that you wouldn’t run from me when I told you all the things I’d done.

  You responded with the appropriate disbelief. “So you’re telling me there’s a group of these evil people out there that are murdering your family and your friends and no one notices?”

  “A lot of people notice,” I answered. “But everything is covered up. And it’s not just my family and friends. It’s more than that. It’s a lot more. Do you know how many deaths are attributed to accidents in the United States each year?” You shook your head. “Over a hundred thousand.” I knew the numbers. We all knew the numbers. “People aren’t that accident prone. Most of those deaths aren’t accidents.”

  “What are you telling me?” you asked. You weren’t sure if you believed me.

  “It’s a war,” I answered.

  You understood now. For the first time, you understood. I could see it in your eyes. “So what do you do?”

  “I fight them,” I responded.

  “What do you mean, you fight them?” you asked.

  “I seek them out. I find them and I make sure that they can’t kill people anymore. I make sure they can never again do what they did to my sister.”

  “You kill them?” There was no color left in your face.

  “If I have to,” I responded.

  “How often do you have to?
”

  I didn’t want to answer this question but I had promised. “A lot. It’s a war, Maria.”

  “Are there others?” I chuckled at this question. You would only ask it if you thought that maybe I was crazy, a lone vigilante fighting an imaginary enemy.

  “Thousands of others,” I answered. I had no idea what the actual number was. Hundreds? Thousands? Hundreds of thousands? They never told me. Maybe Jared knew.

  “But what are you fighting for?” you asked. By this point, you were barely able to speak.

  “My sister,” I answered, hoping that, after everything I’d just told you, this would resonate.

  “Okay,” you responded. “That’s why you’re fighting. Why is everyone else fighting?” I had never been asked that question before.

  “Because everyone has a story like that, Maria. My friend Jared watched them strangle his older brother to death. My friend Michael never even knew his parents. He was raised by one of his aunts. Everyone has a reason to fight.”

  “But that doesn’t make any sense, Joe. It had to have started somewhere. People don’t have wars for no reason. You have to be fighting over something. Power? Land? Money? Something.” There was pity in your eyes. Hiding behind the fear was pity. The pity made me angry. It made me feel like a fool.

  I thought about telling you the stories then. I thought about telling you about the slave rebellion and how we fought to keep the rest of the world free. I thought about telling you about the broken peace treaties, but I knew that it wouldn’t make a difference. Even if these stories were true, they weren’t your stories. You can’t understand until you have a reason of your own to fight. We all want to know the history. We all want to know that we’re the good guys. But history only gets you so far. So I answered as best I could. “Survival” was all I could come up with.