Staring blankly at the roof, watching the cracks, as the pressure of my bloodshot eyes feels like a slight, never-ending zoom into the cracks, into the patterns, into the slight, barely noticeable dots.
Is it mold?
Is it dried droplets?
Is it...
The TV breaks the static noise. I don't look at it, but I do notice the change...the hushing white noise shifting into an audible, distorted mix of voices or songs. I notice that I don't care to separate it or identify it. I let the either voices or singers or instruments shape the first seconds as they flow through my room.
And after... I notice it.
♪♪-shape, slowly at night, at the moooooonliiiight.♪♪
I can barely hear it coming from the walls. I can't be sure if it's her...the woman next to this slim wall, with whatever name she has...or if it comes from some form of machine or audio player.
It sounds like an ad. The white noise in the TV slowly dissolves for moments and reveals a colored shape in motion. It shifts around and abruptly changes to other shapes, hardly making sense of what is being transmitted.
Inside those oscillating waves of interference, I can slightly make out some words: "...our ninety nine. Now in stor..."
And the white noise comes back, controlled, however. Steady.
As a jockey controls his horse. Taking slight bumps, slight clearance, but flowing slowly.
An energetic jazzy saxophone takes out the silence for a few seconds until more instruments complete the motif. And they repeat.
The static clears its noise first, and later, slowly, the image shows, revealing the forehead first of a Black man, later zooming out enough for the un-noisy section to showcase his full face blowing on a golden instrument. Soon enough, in an instant, the static levels down. Just as the orchestra fades out. Just to perfectly hear...
Good night, good soldiers.
Just before even completing the first syllable, my eyes turned right fast and forced. As any cat would shake into its iconic, curved, scared pose. But my body wasn't scared. My head hadn't even moved an inch, and I could already perfectly line up the silhouette of the man in my rear view.
A strong ovation applauds and welcomes the man as he walks in from an upper, lifting orange curtain.
It has my attention. My devoted attention.
As that man.
As I see that man.
The man makes a gesture to lower the audience's commotion and makes a reference as a title card with text fades in front of him.
I turn my body directly toward the TV to see the text. I get closer to read it.
Roy Giddens.
The suited man with groomed hair and patterned tie smiles briefly as he finishes his greeting and shifts into a focused look for half a second as he recollects the next words. He raises his head and lets out a brief, soft laugh.
"Good night, dear audience. Oh, such a jolly time to have all of you another time. Today with big news, late news. But remember, all ears up all the time make our time all the more spiced."
And I can't get close enough to the screen. I urge to hear his words.
I drop out of the chair and focus my hearing and my attention. The glass screen centimeters in front of my eyes as I desperately hover my hands brusquely to find the control knobs without separating my sight from this man.
"We have a fine program for you folks. All of you seem to be in a wonderful mood tonight. Certainly appreciate it. I sure do. And guess what? Not only tonight, but every night, of every year, ever since we started here, on our program.
I myself find comfort being with all the good people, men and women around here, on the team, on the crowd, and, of course, all of you watching from your TVs.
"As you know, we usually get letters from the audience, and let me tell you all about how we read them. Me and the team are flattered with all your gratefulness and all your suggestions. Oh, what a jolly we get from them.
"One of them last night did touch my heart a bit, sent by a recent veteran who has served his country last year. And, as you all know, I am a veteran as well. Been one aroun..."
The audience cheers, interrupting him. Until he calms them down with hand gestures.
"Yes, yes. And not only myself. This letter actually was sent from a dear viewer who detailed how, in these hard times this country is facing lately, this show and all of us have been helping him in between these desolate and lonely nights. He added, and I quote."
As the man pulls out a folded paper from his pocket, unfolds it, and reads.
"Roy, these last months, and these last changes our government has done, have been worrying me lately. I depend very much on your charismatic late talks to cheer me up after hearing the case of Roscherie V. Adams. Cheers to all of you for this amazing program, to keep me from sleeping."
"And thanks to you, dear friend of mine."
The man hugs the letter to his chest.
"And all of you who have felt the same way. Especially on these last days. You have no idea, no idea, how the upper folks and all the men at the courthouse have been treating our own citizens badly...and not only our real, patriotic heroes.
"If you don't know..."
I found the knob. I pull it left instinctively. But as soon as his voice disappears, I rush, turning right as fast as I can.
"Last weekend, some big news broke out at a press conference for the unjust trial that is being held right now against Dr. David Adams Chandler, a renowned professional in the psychosurgery field and an ex-battle medic. Who is now being accused, unfairly! By a distinct group of pitiful, self-calling press agents, who have taken this innocent man into a harsh custody with exactly no evidence."
The audience lets out a noise...a mix of gasps and growls.
"C'mon! Let this poor man take a break. They put him all those spotlights, all those accusations and hands pointing at him, after all he's been through!
I don't mean the wartime stuff, though. I mean the pain of working in the social health system."
The audience drops a relaxing laughter as the mood calms.
"We all do stupid pet tricks all the time. Sure, it would be stupid of us if we didn't give our friend and hero a little help, right?"
The man starts to distort. His face shifts and slowly expands horizontally. Behind him, a colored fringe on both of his sides fades in, and his face grows bigger and so...
AGH.
The glass on the TV clanks as I bash my head close to it. I knead my forehead slightly and sob, my eyelids heavy, as I pay attention to the show.
"And you know what, folks? The prosecutor says they will bring a witness tomorrow. But let me tell you, folks, I know he won't have anything to say. Right before his jaw pops out!"
Audience laughs along with the man.
"So go on! Go forth, my good men, and remember to speak out all of what you feel."
I get up. I trip over the TV cable, unplugging it, and fall down, slowly tilting the TV as it shuts down. I crawl my way up to stand on two feet while avoiding losing my momentum. I reach my door to open it, as I frantically reach my arm toward my coat. I open it, and as I step out onto the cold, dirty, red ceramic of the corridor, I feel the uneasy temperature on my bare foot. I step back quickly, trying to find my shoes. I find my left shoe with a sock inside. I take it out and fit my feet as I hover my head, finding the other shoe. I instinctively remember to look inside the kitchen's lower drawer, and so I find the other. I exit the door with a slam to make sure the homemade lock jams the door tight. And head toward the track.
In between the people minding their business, walking down in the broad, cloudy, and gray daylight, a slight, moisturized air keeps the asphalt puddles from evaporating.
Three roads left.
Two roads right.
Walk 39 seconds.
Stop.
Keep walking 27 seconds.
I change to a rapid pace.
The courthouse is far.
Walk to the right after the red billboard.
One street down.
12 seconds.
Three blocks.
The courthouse is middle near.
Walk to the right after the red billboard.
Walk 419 seconds.
Walk to the right after the red billboard.
Walk to the right after the red billboard.
Walk to the right after the red billboard.
Walk to the right after the red billboard.
Walk to the right after the red billboard.
One street left.
Two streets front.
Stare at the red billboard.
Gray.
Bricks.
Window.
What is that?
Where is the billboard?
Where the fuck is the billboard?
Did they move it?
Did they change it?
Am I lost?
I missed a street?
I walked a second too much...
or too little?
Where is the billboard?
WHERE IS IT?
They know.
They know I need the billboard.
Are they watching me?
They are around here.
I know.
This was a trap.
Shit, I have to get out.
Did they know?
How did they know?
I walk.
Imagine the billboard is there.
Left.
Walk left.
Or was it right?
That's why I needed the billboard.
God dammit.
Are they following me?
29 seconds walking.
Or was it 40 already?
I lost it by thinking.
I have to catch them before they catch me.
70 seconds.
Right.
Right direction?
No, I have to turn right.
FOCUS.
They could be chasing you already.
Do they know?
It's that man.
Look at his face. He is making himself innocent.
Blending among the crowd, as we look like little ants in between each other.
He has his hand in his coat.
He will pull a gun.
I know it.
But he is walking toward me.
Will he shoot me?
He will shoot me.
Or stab me.
He will stab me.
Walk closer to the street road.
Trash can.
I pick up an empty bottle.
133 seconds.
Left or right?
Left.
He is moving.
He is moving.
He is closer...he is moving closer to the street road.
He will try to stab me.
Bottle.
138 seconds.
I move far away from the road.
He can't stab me.
He passes. He is gone.
No, he is not gone.
He can turn around.
Shoot me, of course.
I have to run.
182 seconds.
Run.
Run.
Run.
Change street.
Left.
Right...250 seconds.
You are not counting right. Am I counting right?
I see a crowd.
We are in a crowd.
We? Who is we?
It is me.
I'm in a crowd.
I can't be seen.
Act natural.
The crowd holds cards and signs.
What do they read?
Monster, inhuman.
The crowd is yelling...they are loud.
The courthouse. I see it.
The signs...they read, yellow background, black text: "Medicine was not to be betrayed."
I make my way out of the crowd.
I keep following the fence.
Round around the fence. It leads me to the side and back, far away from the noisy people.
The fence follows an alley which conjoins another building. There is no entrance. Two guards.
I crouch my way into the bushes as I keep track of the two of them patrolling.
None of us are inside the courthouse yet. We can't see each other.
I throw the bottle far from me. It smashes, and both guards stop lighting their cigars as they quickly look in the direction of the noise with smooth, serious faces.
They look at each other, and one of them begins to walk toward the origin. The other looks around briefly before joining him, his hand secure on his baton. I sneak past them. I enter the red building through the window. The dirty and dusty wood, with seemingly no other entrances...a green light tints the room from the dimly lit light on a device on the ground. A low-pitching sound is heard if I get close enough. The radio device changes the pitches into small, understandable segments of a soft, whispering voice as I tune the knob and push the buttons.
Spider.
Eye.
Lamb.
I tune every possible pitch to decode it and remember not to write it down...and not to do it. Here or ever.
S-P
E-Y-E
I-D-ER
Spider.
Eye.
Lamb.
Spider.
Eye.
Lamb.
Lamb.
Spider.
Lamb.
Eye.
Eye.
Eye.
Eye.
Eye.
Spider Eye.
I get it. I GET IT.
I get it. And I exit, with caution, looking for the guards. But now it's easier.
The daylight eases my movement. The gray in the sky has shifted into darker blues. Not sure if it will rain. Not sure if it will wash me away. From the exit, I look into the courthouse, looking at every window, looking at every hole, crevice, or entrance.
A window. An old window marked by the dirt and dry drops of paint, surrounded by wooden planks and plastic sheets. That is my entry point. I climb through the window and wait. Wait, wait, wait. But not much. I have to wait for the thunder. I wait and wait. And as the thunder of cars crashing on the other side of the street fills the whole block, I smash the brittle windows and make my way inside. The darkness fills the room of the newly renovated. The room's door is closed, sealed even. It is a weakness they are trying to hide.
I look the little I can around until I start climbing the scaffolding. I let the darkness guide me. The wood planks crunch and groan with each small and slow step. The metal sustaining me shakes. Until it does no more. I feel my body feel lighter, and vertigo strikes my body as I realize I'm falling down, and as I hear the wood breaking. Without realizing, my body is still. The pain has not caught up with my nerves. Not like it has been known. Not the pain in the way people talk, or the pain of the needle in an accident. No, a different sensation. A strange, oscillating, pressure-like wave in my body, with sharp spikes of heat and cold. I'm used to it now.
As I look from below to above, I manage to recover my sight from the impact. As the dust clears, I can see a silhouette of a person, indistinguishable from man or woman. The silhouette is harshly lit by the yellow wall light, covering its body in darkness. The figure has an exaggerated face. The teeth are visible as some apparatus around the head holds open the eyes and the mouth. The bloodshot eyes look at me. The figure moves steadily, just enough to see the head pop out...the tired eye bags, the wrinkles on dirty or bloodied skin, and the very, slightly glowing corneas. After a second of staring at each other, "Lamb" the figure says in between its closed teeth. The head slowly drifts away from the hole I was inside. And before leaving, an object came from the figure, as it was lightly thrown into the hole.
A small, handheld radio transmitter with warning labels all over it. It presses lightly on my chest. And so I hold it in my pocket while I stuff it, hidden in my coat. I make myself cleaner of the dust, grab myself back up, and feel the walls for any exit. I spot a thin, layered veil of light coming in from the floor, like a long needle. I approach it and feel the doorknob. I wait and listen...for the steps, for the noise, for the ultimate blend.
Slowly opening it, making sure no face is pointing toward me. And successfully, I walk into the light.
I follow the fancy-dressed people, each all going into opening and closing doors in the long, big halls of the building. Every hour of every day of every morning and every night...a building that never sleeps, a building of justices and virtues that deserves every inch of ourselves.
My breath is harder to control. A sporadic smile gets harder to contain. The police men in well-arranged uniforms and serious expressions make them look like gargoyles, awaiting any mistake of mine. But they can't know. I know they don't know. Do they? They wouldn't have let me in if they knew. And as the carnival moves all of us into a single, contained room at the end of it, the trial begins. I see how others sit. I sit. I see how they whisper. I whisper. I see the lawyers talking. I watch.
I just wait. My knees are slightly jumping. I need to see all the guards, but I can't move. If I move, they notice me. I have to focus. And I do. I wait. Hours. No, minutes. Minutes? How many? Two? Fifteen? Sixty? How many? They were seconds. This has to be seconds. I let the darkness guide me.
Spider.
Eye.
Lamb.
Eye is waiting. Eye is somewhere.
The men rise from their desks and talk, and they sit down, and they do so again and again. Like broken toys repeating the same mechanics as an old cuckoo clock. Repeating words I don't understand. My mind races into strange sensations. I feel trapped, watched, imprisoned. The lights, the walls, the people. The lawyers repeating each other, into words of incompetence and meaningless debates. No house of justice takes the form of this trial. I'd like to see the judge smashed with heavy hammers for their unsolicited and uncorresponding position of high power...high power for inauthority. No man decides what rules. Only rules rule. His mouth should be sewn and his tongue cut an...
Eventually, the witness.
The witness is presented. He comes through a back door hidden with the paper wall, as if the wall had entrances and places no one knew how to find...almost like a fake hidden door in the walls and ceilings and floors. I keep my composure. I hold my back, but not too much. I hold my breath, but only so steady. I keep my leg down, and it itches.
I see him. The eye-witness is a tired man, with a nice suit that is not his, escorted and transported by the bodyguards. He sits in the podium for his chance to speak. He is calm, as much as he tries...because I know he is just spiraling with fear deep inside those well-known eyes. Inside my pocket, I pass my fingers through the device, scanning the structure, feeling the stickers, the wrinkles, and the plastic and metal. I run my thumb into a striped button switch. I feel it and hold it. Instantly, my head starts a pulsating pain, like a strong headache, and I instinctively release the switch. The witness, who was being spoken to by one of the so-called lawyers, lowers his head in a response of nonconformity. He slightly shakes as he tilts his head up. A path of blood runs down from his nose. The judge takes a look at him with strangeness. "What happened to him?" he asked. And so the lawyer, calmly and structured, replies that this is happening regularly to him. "A device we still cannot examine. A technology from the cruel mastermind of the accused...designed by the accused. An unknown machinery that does not see light." A mash-up of words to present shock and disdain to the court and the audience. An easy accusation to disrupt and deconstruct the humanity of the wrongly accused.
I brace myself and push the switch and hold it. I feel a warm sensation in my hand, and it shakes like how it feels to touch a slightly electrified conductor. The witness changes his face into fear. His eyes begin a panicked run across the faces of everyone in the court. My nose starts to bleed, and the warmth in my hand turns into burning. I start to hear a progressively louder, high-pitched sound as the temperature in my hand rises. The witness, frantically skimming through everyone, finally stops at me. We connect both eyes, as I see me in his and him in mine.
The pitch rises louder and louder as my nose bleeds, and a yellow light starts to reveal itself on the outside of my pocket.
He stands up from his chair and, writhing with his bloodshot eyes, raises his arm, pointing hands, and prepares his breath for a heavy scream. But the device is melting hot. The high pitch reaches...and explodes. A loud electronic bang. And a gruesome, fleshy, and gory boom. The witness's face explodes outward through the half vertically, ejecting blood and viscera in a ball of fire, covering the little head left on him.
Everyone stands up in horror. In big screams, and the men covered in drops of blood enter into frantic fight-or-flight instinct.
I rise up as I can feel a piercing sensation in my hand. I look at my pocket and see it full of blood, dripping wet, with a small ember on it.
The people rush into each other like any ocean's current, like a highway of desperate and scared people. I just shove myself into it with ease. The guards try desperately to catch the avalanche that just surprised them, catching every so other man from the creature of amalgamated humans. In a strange way, I feel a little marvel and well-state in the organized chaos. And so near the door, so near the exit. With few guards overwhelmed and trying to block the halls with the little body they have. But a guard in a different-colored uniform stands right at the very end of it. He grabs his gun and shoots upward...one, two, three times. Everyone...or mostly everyone...falls immediately to the ground. In shock, in fear, in collapse.
And not one second less or one second more, I decided not to join them.
I rush myself into the doors, passing next to him. I sprinted like an Olympic runner. The guard pointed at me, and so other guards started to follow me. I run into the crowd, into the streets, into the vendors, and into the rainy night. I made noise and I made distractions. I made rights and lefts. I hid and waited and followed and ran. I began to crumble, as my weak knees gave all they could. I started resorting to the walls supporting me as I took my hand out of the now full bucket of blood in my pocket and held it tight to my chest...the little of it left, with molten plastic and metal scraps conjoined into it. And so, so close I am to my home. I go upstairs. I drag my blood onto the wall as a trail. I try to open the door. I push it. I barge into it. Jump harder. I take space and kick the door to break it open.
It gives way, and I enter, falling.
I get up what I can in this lightly lit room from the lighted-up TV and start searching for bandages or medicine or tonics. But there are none. Where are they? Why are they not in the medical cabinet? Bathroom? Kitchen? I grab a strip of cloth in the kitchen, wrap it as I open the sink to wash my wrapped hand. I secure it tight, and as my lungs slowly reach a breaking point, I decide to just fall down and reach the floor. I can see the TV on.
It's the man. Well-suited with a nice-looking smile.
"And just so you know, fellas, we know a good job when we see it!
I know you did a great job. Remember, you do all the best you can, and that is more than enough, in fact, more than anyone else. No one operates like you.
Rest easy in this eventful night, knowing you did the best for you and your world. You beautiful, precious and perfect.
and always remember, I love you.
Good night, good soldier."
The audience applauds, and the man turns himself to walk slowly out. The static overcomes the TV, and it shuts down.