Focusing on his voice leads me to memories of the night he was killed by V.
Gothic, Colorado disappears and I find myself standing in James’s penthouse apartment facing the wall of mirrors in his bedroom; subsequently, an unknown sensation waves over me from James: admiration and jealousy.
“I almost think you look better in Armani than I did. It would be a shame to let my wardrobe just collect dust; even though you’re a loser, you’re better than nothing.” James’s backhanded compliments were about as annoying as a fly buzzing; at first they were like listening to fingernails down a chalkboard, but with time and desensitization, I simply stopped noticing.
When another sensation drifted into the room, emptiness and frigid hatred, I heard the sound of James’s voice again, “What can we do for you, Sir?”
V’s presence always brought about fear and regret in James. Luckily for us, V’s ego kept him from acknowledging James’s outpouring of emotions as a form of lie detector. If V actually had cared to look closely at the unintentional feelings that James forced into the air, all of our withheld information would have been obvious in a moment. To tell the truth, I think V’s only reason for keeping James around was to feed on the emotions that oozed, so freely, out of every one of his pores.
When V spoke, he left the impression that the words were being sucked in, like a whispered whistle that was inhaled instead of blown out. Dry and aged, his voice alone made me feel like I was standing in the middle of an empty, lifeless desert. I imagined the heat evaporating every fluid in my body, and taking away all of my prized memories in the vapors. My brain seemed to reshape into a comatose position, rocking back and forth in my skull, completely withdrawn, while I tried to ignore V's impact.
I felt more than heard his command to call James’s mob father, “It’s time we met the man that helped create our dear friend here.” V's whisper had as much force as a tornado.
Still looking in the mirror, and only seeing my own reflection, I answered the command with a slight nod in what I thought was V’s general direction. Walking over to my cell phone and picking it up, I waited patiently for James to tell me the number for his father’s direct line. I imagined the drain placed on James, as if a movie was playing in the back of my head, where I could pretend I wasn’t watching what was happening. His weak, pained voice, forced the numbers out between clenched teeth. Releasing James momentarily, to focus on me, V drained everything from my emotional banks … everything but anger.
When all your mind feels is anger, your vision becomes red around the edges, and the rush of blood makes your ears pound. Rage is irrational, deadly, and intoxicating … the strength is primal, and when it's under the slightest bit of control, you feel … immortal. I punched in the numbers, and when the old man answered, I growled out my request for an audience with him.
“Christopher, I presume. I’ve been waiting for this call. Of course, you will come to me. I am not stupid enough to expose myself to you, on your terms.” While under V’s influence, my senses become stronger tenfold: I listened, pulling information through the satellite connection between our two phones. Or, more accurately, I honed in on the man's location, and became inhumanly perceptive to the traces of hidden thoughts inside the man's voice.
“Alright, you name the place.” I answered, still growling, tentatively holding on to my fury. The more I allowed him to talk the more thoughts passed through his head. Thoughts that included recruiting me, and ones that argued I should be killed right away, “The boy is too powerful to be brought into the inner circle … kill him now, before he can do any more damage to the company.” His thoughts only fueled my temper.
Trying to hide the fear from his voice, he crushed a quaver with forced coolness. “I think you should come here to my office … top floor, just up the strip from James’s apartment. I believe you already know the place, since you’ve been seen watching me here.” A laugh escaped from me that sounded more like bark, holding no mirth. Inside the snide tone behind ‘watching me’, the old man’s slick persona fell away to genuine fear. His mind was screaming orders as we spoke: a sniper was to take me down, long before I entered the elevator of his lobby.
“I’ll be there in two hours.” I could feel a taunting smirk, cut viciously across my face.
“Midnight?”
“Yes; what’s the matter? Has hanging around with ‘gifted’ people made you afraid of the witching hour?” From the tone of my own voice, I could imagine the sneer without looking in the mirror.
“No; midnight is fine.”
“Good.” Some part of my psyche knew the voice that left my mouth wasn’t my own … but I no longer cared.
Lune, who learned to ignore what was happening with a certain amount of false aloofness, growled from his usual spot on the bed. When I turned my burning gaze on him, he put his head down on his paws and looked at me with disgust. He never left my side, always continuing on as my trusted companion … but our friendship no longer ran as deep as it once had. He left me with the impression that he was preparing himself for the moment I turned my anger on him. His preparation didn’t include cowering, just an unwavering devotion that showed his absolute loyalty to me … even if that meant, I was going to be the one who brought about his death.
Sadness seeped into my thoughts while I was looking at my friend; and I knew V had released me long enough to torment James once again. I didn’t know what V was doing to James, but from the sound of his stifled sobs … I could only guess it had to be horrible. Walking over to the bed, and trying to ignore the obvious air of agony now filling the room, I kneeled down in front of Lune and placing my chin on the edge of the bed. I looked into his eyes, and wished he could read my thoughts.
Whispering as to not attract V's attention, I pleaded with Lune, “Please, please … help me.”
Exhaustion is the most immediate side effect to the rage. Adrenalin pumped through my body, reacting to primal emotions. My brain tried to make sense of the intensity, and reading it as a ‘fight or flight’ stimulus, it just turned up my survival instinct to the extreme. I had yet to break the hold V had put on me, and when he let go, my body felt like it had run a marathon. Lactic acid seeps into my stomach, always making me sick, and without the energy to lift my knees up off the floor … I leaned over and vomited next to the bed. Using every ounce of my remaining strength, I crawled up onto the bed, passing out, fully clothed, and smelling of puke; I curled up next to Lune.
Dreaming within my dream, I return to my beloved spot in Gothic. Praying to see Ellie, hoping she can save me from my memories … but I only find Michael’s voice.
“Bathing in blood? That can’t be right … what am I thinking, of course it's right, histories full of stories of homicidal freaks doing weird stuff like that. Psychologically though, it would take a real psychopath to enjoy the violence of killing and draining that many people, of that much blood. Even in his time, he had to be excessive … and we’re talking about a time, and culture, where they cut out the still beating heart of humans as a normal sacrifice.” Michael’s voice has the monotone droning sound of someone talking to themselves. I have to snicker at the fact that he’s so analytical, even when he is asleep.
The smile brings me further out of my painful memories of James and V, and as I look around the aspen trees again, the wind picks up. I know immediately that I will find Ellie standing by the stream this time. She smiles as the wind whips her hair, and she brings me home again. Home, the only place where Ellie still exists for me … in this broken record, skipping over and over again … and not in the waking world where I pretend she could still love a coward like me. While I gawk at the only remaining memories of my soul mate … the voices of the internal monsters, who reside in my dream forest, whisper arrogantly, “Finally, he sees his own lies."
Chapter 6
Artemis
When I wake, the haze of my dream world still hangs thick around my head. Stepping out of bed, I walk right into my normal, daily routine. It d
oesn’t hit me that Lune and Ursa haven’t slept on me, until I am already outside with a cord of wood in my arms. Listening to the crunch of my boots on the hard-crusted surface of the March snow, a cold breeze whips me completely into the waking world. Suddenly, I remember, becoming as excited as a child on Christmas morning: Ursa had her pups last night. Looking out to the tree line and seeing the fresh mound of dark dirt marring the surrounding snow … my heart sinks as I remember the pups we lost.
“We still have one … one survived.”
“Yes … she is special, and we have to protect her.” Ellie's voice is a shadow, similar to her dream image, just a poor reflection of the real thing. I miss the touch of real electricity that would be a spark of heat compared to the strikingly bitter breeze.
“Good morning Ell. We had an unusual night last night, didn’t we? I haven’t dreamt like that since my first month here, back in September.” I imagine her ironic grin, as she slowly nods her head.
“When will you let me go? You don't need this illusion; you do need to understand you’re becoming whole again, without me. When will you realize, you don’t need me any longer?” I don’t have an answer for her; the weight of those simple questions is crushing my windpipe.
Balancing the wood in the crook of one arm, I open the door of the cabin, where I am greeted by the soft squeals of the pup rooting around for milk. After restarting the fire in the stove, I turned to check on Ursa and Lune resting in the whelping pen. Then taking the food and water dishes out, I refilled them and added another food bowl for Lune. He isn’t going to leave his new family long enough to even walk into the kitchen and eat. I don’t think this is normal behavior for a dog … then again Lune is anything but a normal dog.
When I hear the squeaking springs of the bed up in the loft, it dawns on me that Michael is still here. As the tea pot whistles, I turn to make coffee and Michael mumbles something about the racket and needing caffeine. From the kitchen, I watch him walk down the stairs, wearing a pair of flannel pants and an exhausted expression. His appearance reminds me of how hard his brain was twisting and turning in his sleep. Now I know why he always looks like he is one more sleepless night away from collapsing.
I never really think about Michael’s size, and considering his unassuming nature, I am surprised by how big he is across his chest and shoulders. Even though he’s never without a sidearm, and although his intense scrutiny with wide-set eyes that are always squinting, studying everyone and everything … I, in no way, ever think of him as intimidating. Now looking at his stature, despite the fact that he is a head shorter than me, I can see that the lack of intimidation comes from his consciously choosing to not be a bully. Although, I’ve never actually watched him interrogate anyone, only listened, I can see why when he needs to take command of a situation … no one can stop him. He is a force of nature; it would be like stopping a Grizzly bear from attacking, with your bare hands.
Dark, blond hair is kept cropped short to his scalp, and his steel-blue and moss-green, hazel eyes give hints of horrors once witnessed, but never spoken. Usually reserved and intellectual, his twenty-seven years of age is the mask that hides a very old soul. He is made up of contradictions, an eccentric personality that is easy to make laugh, but almost impossible to stereotype.
Thinking back on the past six months, I should have seen his potential for brutality; especially after watching him pick up a deer carcass, easily 300 pounds, and carrying it over to effortlessly toss it in the back of his truck.
Even with my talents, I still shouldn’t underestimate the possibilities for people to surprise me … I can never presume to know everything about someone just because I can hear their thoughts. Maybe, that’s why Michael can read people so well; he never underestimates anyone, always calculating, instinctively trying to figure out their next move.
He eyes me suspiciously when I hand him his coffee, and mumbles, “Thank you”.
Carrying the mug over to the whelping pen, he breathes out a low whistle, “I’m glad to see the little family doing so well … mostly I’m just glad that we didn’t lose all the pups.”
Nodding, I step over the gate, scratch Lune and Ursa’s heads, pick up the pup and hand it to Michael, then turning I tell the adults to go outside. Letting them out of the pen, then out the front door, their drive to sprint has almost completely vanished. No howling to run free, no crazed running around then sliding out of the door. They just walk outside, do their business, and come back inside.
I set the pup back down near Ursa, forcing the little one to stretch her new muscles in search of her mom. Ursa, understanding what I am doing, lies down out of the pup’s reach. Squatting down next to her, I scratch her head while we watch the determined, tiny body blindly search back and forth, shakily testing each step. Ursa gives me images, and I nod, knowing that when the pup is weaned, this thought, these pictures are the only gifts the wolf will be leaving behind for her offspring.
Speaking up toward Michael’s curious face, I tell him, “She gave me pictures, as a name, to pass on to the baby; the constellation Ursa Major with the crescent moon hanging as a pendant from the bear’s neck. She once watched a human, female hunter, when she lived with the pack … this woman drew back a bow that was as long as she was tall; her strength and courage was obvious as she brought down a full-grown bull elk. I think they are symbols; Ursa’s way of combining our worlds.”
Now looking into his expectant expression I ask, “Can you think of a name that would include all those images. I mean … I can show the pup the images and she’ll answer to them as her name; but I think something spoken is probably going to be necessary for the rest of the world.” Internally I smirk at how different and alone I have become … a freak in Michael’s sideshow.
I wait with my own secret, expectant expression … wait for Ellie to touch me, as always, proving me wrong, and reminding me that I’m never alone.
The electricity doesn’t come, and I decide maybe Ellie is taking a break. ‘Maybe she has gone flying; she has always loved to fly.’ Silently I try to convince myself that my musings are true, upsetting the legion of voices hidden in the back of my skull; they scream, "LIAR!” Flinching, I bring myself back to Michael’s steady deep voice.
“Well, Ursa Major is actually Callisto, another name for the great bear; and I’m assuming the crescent moon would be Lune, since he is named after the moon … and the female hunter, a huntress.” I can almost see the gears turning in his head as he tries to put the images together like a three-dimensional puzzle.
Pacing, and taking gulps of coffee as he speaks to no one in particular, there are gaps in his words that make his thought process all that much harder to understand. Then I hear his clear and deliberate voice from the kitchen.
“Artemis!” He is excited, “Artemis, the goddess of the hunt in Greek mythology. She turned Callisto into a bear, and then Zeus put the bear's image in the heavens as Ursa Major. Artemis is also the goddess of the moon; she rules the sky at night while her twin brother, Apollo, rules over the sun during daytime.”
“Artemis” I whisper in Ursa’s ear. She leans back against my chest, and bringing her muzzle up my neck, she licks my chin. “She likes it, Michael; she says thank you.”
Then once again, picking up the puppy, I whisper, “Welcome to my broken, little family, Artemis.”
She squirms in my fingers, making happy little noises until I pull her close to my chest, where she settles down and falls asleep. Lune, curious about the exchange, comes to my side and places his head in my lap. Breathing slowly, he takes turns licking Ursa’s ear and sniffing his baby in my arms. He is happy; he tells me in his own way that this isn’t broken … this is just as it should be. He may see us as whole, but without Ellie … we’ll always be broken.
As a perfectly normal reaction, I am picturing Ellie in my mind, my favorite image: the one Lune had shared, to pull me back to reality in Vegas. Ellie was surrounded by green light; her favorite color …’the color of life’ a
s she would say. Artemis reacts instantly to the image that Lune and I are sharing.
Squirming again, she presses her little muzzle into the crook of my arm and starts to shake, not trembling with fear of Ellie; she responds to the image itself warmly. She is picturing Ursa, Lune, Michael, along with my own face, with the love of her pack … she is unconsciously asking me if Ellie is part of our family. I don’t understand that she is probing for an answer, until she touches the legion’s voices. The monsters living in my psyche frighten her young, naive mind. No, this isn’t simple fear … this is terror.
Holding her closer to my heart, I whisper a hush in her tiny ear and begin rocking slowly back and forth. My body remembers the nurturing movement it learned with Ellie’s love, not only calming Artemis, but silencing the menacing voices inside my subconscious thoughts.
*Michael*
The scene before me as I walk back over to the whelping pen is … perplexing. Ursa and Lune seem to be in a trance as Christopher rocks back and forth in what looks like a semi-catatonic state. Not sure what to do, when not even the dogs acknowledge my approach, I step over the gate.
“Christopher?” No response, no reaction.
“Christopher, hey man, are you okay?” this time I reach down and feel his pulse at his neck. Stable. His breathing is fine and his color is perfectly normal … he just seems to be in some sort of deep sleep or mediation.
I creep back out of the pen, and tiptoe over to the recliners, where Christopher and I sat and talked last night. I have no idea why I am being so careful; he didn’t flinch when I spoke or touched him … why in the hell am I tiptoeing around?
I watch the kid and the animals; little Artemis is sleeping with soft snores, cradled against Christopher’s chest. After about twenty minutes, my muscles are sore just thinking about sitting on the floor for that long, I decide to make some breakfast.
"Maybe that will wake you up." Nope, still no reaction to my voice.