Title: Beyond Alive Status: Complete Characters: Anon, Trish, Reed Rating: SFW Classification: One-Shot Author: alex iorn (lichenstish) Summary: Pack your things. There’s nothing left to do here anymore. [NOTES] A bit inspired by "None In The Chamber" by KarmaChickenBaby. [/NOTES] The lights are on The stars are shining It's so complicated, it's so simple We've gone into outer space There's nothing left to catch in this world Splean – Lifeline Reed : I still kept up with him. For whatever reason. It was years, but I still clanged on to him answering my phone calls. I don't think it was anything, but pity. Trish : Yeah. Pity for someone who caused all of this. Reed : At that time I thought that... well... Anon, he was completely alone. On his own, against the odds. And how he rolled around, he definitely was inexperienced. Trish : I still don't know what made him do anything. Just look at him! That fucking skinnie never had a chance! Reed : And, sometime later, I watched the news with Trish, cause she was at my place that day, and on the line was some kind of a meeting. Trish : A lot of people! Reed : They've discussed violence in schools. How, why, what for – they talked about everything. And I shit you not... Trish : ...Anon was there. Present. Reed : He was at the back, but his bald head was a cue. Trish : When I saw him over there, I was... well... stunned. He had enough balls to come around and attend a meeting about school violence – as someone who was one of many reasons for that to happen in the first place! Reed : The camera panned over him, slowly, it gave us enough time to look at him. He looked devastated, but... confident?... Trish : He looked broken and fine at the same time. Strangely enough. Reed : He was completely static, as if he was nothing more than a mannequin. Trish : We barely recognized him. Nothing left under that face. Literally nothing. Reed : Soon, he got called out to the scene. He made his way and, catching everyone's gaze, began talking. Trish : Oh boy... Reed : His talk was something like everyone else did. It was plain, scientific. But at the same time it felt personalized. I mean, it was years before that meeting! He definitely used his time to think. Trish : After his speech, he left the scene and returned to his seat. Reed : No, Trish, he didn't. Trish : He didn't? Reed : Nope. When you were on your piss break, I kept on watching. And after the camera panned around the listeners again, I didn't see him there. I'm not joking right now. Trish : Oh fuck… Reed : No one said anything. He appeared and disappeared, like an apparition or something. Like, what?... After that, I still clanged onto his phone number. He always answered whenever I called him. He always sounded broken, on the verge. After a third call I stopped giving a fuck. Trish, even when she was around, she never talked to him on the phone. Or, at least, I didn't ask if she wanted to. Fang... I kept up with Fang as much as I remember myself. She gave birth to a daughter, named Amber. His daughter. That was... a sight to behold. And everything went fine until... until May. That time, Trish and Fang were around, and I decided to call him this time. When he answered, I asked him: How are you? Simple question, to which I expected a simple answer. But this time he said he was fine. Not devastated, not broken, not sad. Fine. It was surprising. And maybe the surprise on my face caught their, Fang's and Trish's, attention. We began talking out, as usual. He didn't mutter, didn't swallow any words – he was loud and clear this time around. We talked about many things, about the past, the present, the future... Then Fang told me to ask him about that meeting, and so I did, really cautiously. I remember his answer. He said: “I looked like that because the light was too blinding. I didn't like it. I told them to dim it a bit, they didn't listen.” After that we continued. Then Trish asked me for the phone. I was surprised, but gave it to her. She began talking to him, normally. He sounded normal too, not disgusted, angry or afraid. They chatted for a fair bit. Then she joked about the meeting. He laughed, sighed and said: "They were completely right." It sounded out of place, so we skipped it. Soon, we gave the phone to Fang. She sounded fragile, afraid, cautious with her phrasing. He didn't even change the tone. He talked to her like she was me. Like she was Reed, someone who he had talked to for so long. They chatted twice as long as I or Trish did chat with him. Then she hung up. She gave the phone back, telling that she have arranged a meeting with him, on Sunday. We all rolled around. He didn't. He never did. In fact, that was the last time I've ever heard of him. Fang was devastated, to say the least. She's afraid, she needs him, but he's nothing more than a voice she heard on the other side of the phonecall. Jesus... Give me a break, amigo, I need my five minutes... Okay, I'm done. Okay. Two months have passed, and we didn't hear anything from him. And, suddenly, Fang received a package. Nothing out of place, everything is the same. But when she opened it... There were things, not much. A clock, some souvenirs, other things... Not even a note. It was Anon. I was fucking sure of it. I called him a lot over the past couple of days, I texted him a bunch. I wanted to know the answers. But he didn't answer. He left us, thinking that would be the best. I don't think it was a suicide – what would he get out of it? What would we get out of it? I'm not saying that killing himself is unrealistic, but I think he didn't do that. I think he just left. I don't know where he is, where he went, or he could go. Only a bit of him remains. If he did kill himself, then God bless his wicked soul. And if he did not... God... *** All there’s done for. Not much left to do, so I got my belongings, closed the door and got outside this little shithole of an apartment. The sun shined brighter than ever, as if this was some kind of a special day. Well, it certainly is one, so that brightness is somewhat reasonable. The sky, even if there was no sun, could shine on its own – that’s how clear it was. That summer baby blue is definitely something to see. This light, – the radiant sun, the clear sky, – this light was somewhat alien to everything near me. Like those devastated buildings. Like those devastated roads and sidewalks. Like those devastated homeless – junkies, alcoholics, murderers, nomads or simply unlucky men or women, squeezed out of their only places of safe existence. Why existence? Because Skin Row was never a place to live. You can’t stretch your wings wide here. What was the last time I spoke properly to the friendly men on the phone? Probably two months ago. How are they now? I hope they are fine. With their own lines of life, flourishing like never before. All the doors opened, as if some kind of a prize for their sacrifices of mental stability or even close faces. I hope that they don’t remember anything about the disaster. And I for sure hope that they don’t remember shit about me. Hoping is the only thing I can do in the end – hope that they forgot the outcome and its reason. As one sad man said: there's nothing left to catch in this world. Before I knew it, I already made it outside Skin Row. The districts are much more civil, much more modern. The people here are happier. A stranger from the ruins, a skinnie from the shittiest part of town – taking only a singular step forward already feels strange. The lightness of my belongings – my only things that I considered taking, all inside my bag – makes it a bit easier to manage. Without thinking, I continue going forward, flying past shops, bars, cafés, other bullshit, and all the people. Until I get to the park, strangely known to me. I wander around, looking here and everywhere. The low grass is clean, the metallic tables shine with their dark paint, the pavement is looking new, although something tells me it was here for centuries with no changes. Something tells me I know this place, there is some kind of an anchor in this little place, but too bad I forgot almost everything. Constantly drinking in self-righteous isolation can and will bring interesting results. Still, leaving this without at least walking around would be too akin to blasphemy, and it’s not like I’m rushing to my destination, so I decide to take my five minutes and walk around this place. This park is rather empty. No men or women, except for me, wandering around like an idiot. There’s the distant building of the toilet, reeking of sweet nicotine. There are those distant trees, hiding the streets. There are some other things, barely recognizable. Strangely enough, I feel a bit lighter in this place, and every step here felt like a feather landing on the concrete of these pavements. I thought I would be walking here with my head heavy, my legs weak and my hands drooping like a pair of sausages attached to my body. But no. Wicked. After walking in and out, to capture this final place in the last bit of my memory reel, I take a seat at the randomly picked empty table. The metal roof is hot, almost burnt through my bald head, but I manage to take a seat. It is relatively warm here. I still felt strange, as if my entire organism knew this place – only my mind was skipping the briefing. And then it clicked. A distant peach scent. I don’t know why, but that cue helped me to envision what was before. Me, Naser, Naomi and Fang, sitting down at this table after a prolonged walk all around town in hopes of finding a venue. Unlike any other thought, this was… unbound? Free? Without some kind of a chain of guilt? There is no word that could describe what I’ve felt at this moment. Naser left, and so did Fang, leaving me and that living sugar rush all alone. She asked me something, but I didn’t catch what she said – her voice was nothing more than a distant echo, taken out from the endless void of things that I’ve forgotten. I felt pity for her death. Even though she pushed me and Fang together, even though she wanted to squeeze into our lives. She didn’t deserve anything. Naser didn’t do shit too, he only wanted to help. But they’re gone now. And I’m here, packing things and leaving. At least I won’t desecrate their ghostly existence with my physical existence. I leave the park and continue going forward, through all the streets. My legs are already tired. I’ve spent two hours moving as far away as I could. I think I’m far away enough now, so I reach for my phone and call a cab. It rolls in really quickly, almost catching me off guard. I open the door and notice a familiar face – that cheeky bastard of a velociraptor, sitting behind the steering wheel with his usual smile. I take the shotgun seat and close the door, telling him to get me out of town. His response seemed normal, but I do think he is suspecting something. He was blabbing all the way, asking me questions and continuing without receiving answers. I dialed his voice down, so I could focus on things that I actually care about. It’s not much, but it’s still present, and that little envision, the last envision ever, only made them more saturated on the background of complete nothingness. And it’s better for me to finish those thoughts and leave them behind, to not think about them later, in a new chapter of my life. No, not a chapter – a new act of my life. Completely different from everything to which I bore witness. Soon, the city was gone, becoming a reflection in the mirrors. Everything, from the tallest to the smallest. Everyone, from the strongest to the weakest. All that was this city was nothing more than just an image I saw in the side mirror. And the image was rather beautiful. All the skyscrapers, all the malls and venues, all the people in and out of all the streets, and above it all – a beautiful clean sky and radiant sun. Picturesque. The driver was silent on the last portion of the road. Looking forward onto the road, I saw the sign, telling those who leave this beautiful city to come back – “The city shall welcome you again with open arms!”. Only if that was actually true and not just a couple of words sprayed on a cheap metal plate, cut out to fit the shape of abandoned hope. Just like “Abandon all hope ye who enter here”, just reversed, telling people to fuck off and rot on the other side of this life. The cab pulled to the side and stopped. The road forward was empty, the car, as I took a quick look onto the dashboard, had enough fuel to get me at least to the gas station. The driver was completely silent, his face lost that cheeky smile and was serious like nothing before. I sat in silence too, and I was serious too, but for a different matter. He is thinking about what I do. And I’m thinking about what I should do. The silence is so pressurizing and tense that it could crush a diamond. Then the cab driver sighs, looks at me and asks a really cheeky question. It is simple, but the answer, I felt, will divide me from that image he has inside his head. He is right – something is wrong, but I will not tell him. Although he looks friendly, empathetic and trustworthy, he must not know the story. I am sure he had heard enough on the radio of his cab while getting some old lady or a business man on the other side of this enormous city that I’ve left behind. Instead of replying, I reach inside my coat, take out a pistol and, without looking at him, pull the trigger. The blast was so loud it left a mark – a very long tinnitus. Smell of burnt powder and metallic ozone spread around the salon. The cab driver was dead, looking at me with cold open eyes, questioning not only my action, but my sanity. I don’t think I’m insane. And he must not know the truth. That I’ve literally abandoned everything and everyone I had, in hopes of believing that this is the better way. No, it’s not “the better way”. And it’s not “the right way”. It’s the only way. Even if I consider that they can and will forgive me, it will only be out of pity and longing for a human to push and pull. Even if I consider that I will return to at least something reminiscent of what I was before, it will only be a shadow on a long line of my life. She will forget me, they will forget me, as I will forget her and them. I did my part of this long job, and I think they will understand and follow suit. There is no Anon anymore. Only a memory of someone who came at the wrong time and did the wrong thing. I hope the new life will not make me feel alive, but also beyond alive. I leave the gun in the cab, get outside, leaving the door open, and go around the car, to get to the driver’s seat. As my hand reaches for the handle, I hear a different car speeding on the highway, out of the city. I don’t know who they are and how important they are. I don’t even care about it. I just hope they didn’t spot the crime I’ve committed. The last crime of this life. After they are gone for good, I take out the dead body and drag it away, as far away from the highway as possible. After what seemed a mile in the open field, I left the dead body and made my way back to the car. The salon is dirty, stained with blood. My clothes are stained too. For now, it’s the least of my problems. I open the glovebox, to hide my gun in there, and notice some other things. Some old photos of the cab driver and some girl. Technical documentary. And a driver’s license. The card is relatively new, half a year left until renewal is required. That is half a year in a stolen car, in which I have committed a crime. The raptor’s photo on it is a burden. But after a month or so, I don’t think I would need the card nor the car. I drop the card back into the glovebox and hide it away from my gaze. The smell of burnt gunpowder is slowly going away, thanks to a little freshener hanging from the rearview mirror. I check the fuel and time, take a deep breath and push the pedal, speeding away into the horizon and beyond.