Monochrome (26 page)

Her black-blue eyes sparkled as she patted Abigail on the back and led her to the door. Abigail stopped and spun towards her. “Wait! I have something for you.”

Lily seemed ready to argue, so Abigail seized her hand and brought up a memory:

She was too sick to even move. Her muscles complained when she switched sleeping positions, and she wasn’t able to keep down food for two days. She felt another spell of sickness come on her before she reached the bucket.

She cried as she realized she’d vomited all over Lee’s favorite blanket. Her step-father usually didn’t even let the blanket out of his room but he lent it to her because she’d already sicked all over her own. Lee came into her room when he heard her crying, and shushed her as she sputtered an apology.

“Don’t worry. It’s just a blanket. Let’s go get you cleaned up.” And with all the gentleness she’d always wanted from a father, he made her a warm bath and washed vomit out of her hair. Her seven-year-old heart was full to bursting with love for him as he helped her get into his bed so he could clean hers.

Her mother was always the one who helped her before, but she was starting to see how good it was to have a father around. She smiled as Lee kissed her on the head and whispered, “Don’t you worry about anything but getting better, Abby. I love you.”

Abby was not reluctant this time when she whispered back, “I love you too, Dad.”

The yellow memory left her hand and seeped into Lily, whose hand she grasped tightly. She loved that memory, but she contained hundreds of memories of dependable, loving Lee. She thought Lily could use a good memory of a man. She probably didn’t meet many good men in her line of work. Lily’s eyes filled with tears as her knees buckled.

Abigail caught the small woman, and walked her to her bed. Before the memory knocked her out, Lily whispered a fervent, “Thank you.”

Like the memory she gave Geoff, this memory, though a dear one, didn’t leave her feeling drained. On the contrary, she felt a deep sense of joy wash over her. The small woman breathed deeply, a grin stuck to her face as she slept.

Abigail hurried out of Lily’s borrowed clothes, and dug under the bed to retrieve her scarf, jacket and clothing. She held them in her hands and felt all but her scarf disappear, as she thought of another memory with which to replace them. When she opened her eyes, she was wearing thick brown leggings, a long sleeved V-neck olive jersey dress, knee-high boots with faux fur on the top, and a short camel-colored jacket. She wrapped her scarf around her neck, and decided to keep the blonde hair.

She was almost the spitting image of her older sister, Julie, now, who was nice enough to let her borrow this outfit for a date years ago. She frowned when she realized how much she missed Julie and how much more she’d miss her if she stayed in this awful place.
What would Julie think if I never came back?

Pushing other thoughts aside, Abigail raced down the steps of the shop. At the bottom of the steps, she peeked around cautiously, and, not seeing John, made her way to the front door. But just before she pushed the door open, a large hand grabbed her arm. She pulled her arm out of John’s grasp with ferocity, and surprised him by smacking him solidly across the face.

He rubbed his cheek, tears in his eyes. “Shit! Oh! Damn it, that hurt!” He stood in front of the door, staring at her in astonishment and pain.

“If you don’t get out of my way, I’ll do worse.”

She tried to push past him, but he didn’t move. He still rubbed his cheek as he spoke. “I deserve it, I know. I’m not trying to stop you. I just wanted to explain.”

She crossed her arms. “You’re holding me up. If you’re standing there to give me some sob story about how you had no choice but betray a good man, a man who did nothing but help you, then you can save it. Nothing justifies treating someone as expendable.”

“It doesn’t matter, anyway. They wanted you, and they didn’t get you, so I got what I deserved, which is nothin’. They took all my best memories of Darla, and a man I considered my friend.”

Abigail uncrossed her arms. “Well, you don’t have to worry about the second. I’ll find Ishmael, and I doubt you’ll have to worry about his friendship afterwards, either.”

He shook his head and grabbed her by the arm. “Go home. You won’t do him no good gettin’ caught. He’d want you to finish your journey.”

She shrugged out of his grasp. “Yes, he would. He’s a
good
man. I wouldn’t have had to worry about it if not for you. Thanks so much for the
free
hospitality.”

Abigail shoved past John, who continued to sputter apologies for his behavior. She couldn’t forgive his actions, though she knew she should. Who can say what she’d do to keep her memories.

Her heart dropped when she thought about all the good memories of Jason that might be ripped from her: their first kiss, their first date, their wedding, his glowing face when he first held Ruby, and the hundreds of little touches, kisses, words and everyday tenderness so characteristic of her husband. There was no one like Jason, who was uniquely patient and kind no matter how far she dived off the deep end. He was a steady force, tempering her storms.

She suddenly understood two things with wonderful clarity. One, John must’ve loved his wife very much to betray Ishmael, whom he clearly admired. And, two, she loved Jason just as much. She was sure, at that moment she might’ve done the same thing in his position, if she considered Ishmael a nice acquaintance instead of, well, whatever he was to her. A friend, certainly.

The revelation made Abigail feel both very bad about having something in common with John and very good because it meant something invaluable. The numbness she felt for so long was breaking its hold. For the first time in months, she was overwhelmed by an intense love and desire for her husband, her memories of him playing in the back of her mind, a victorious symphony. A win over the fog.

Abigail made it to the grounds of Cognition Manor without much trouble, but she now stood across the street behind a neighboring bar wondering what move to make next. The immense black stone building was surrounded by a tall wrought-iron fence, of which there appeared to be only two entrances—one in the back and one right in front of her. Having surveyed both posts, she was dismayed but not surprised to find them both minded by surly guards.

She watched as men and women, employees of the manor, walked in and out of the front gate. They received entry by lifting the palm of their hands and showing a tattoo to the guard. She wondered if Ishmael wore the tattoo, too, and she just hadn’t noticed it because of all of his other tattoos, or if only certain employees went under the needle. But since recreating the tattoo wasn’t an option, she couldn’t hope for casual entry. Plus, the guards seemed familiar with those who passed through the gates.

Abigail waited across the street for a very long time trying to come up with a better idea than just marching up to the gates and asking entry, but ingenuity failed her. Suddenly, a very reckless idea occurred to her.

Her hair was still blonde. She didn’t match the description any employee or spy for the manor had. With more courage than she thought she possessed, she strode purposefully towards the front gates of the manor. It was stupid, but it was her best chance.

The guards moved closer together when they saw Abigail walking towards them. They held up their hands to stop her as she reached them.

The brown-haired man on the right spoke first. “What’s your business at the manor? Are you scheduled?”

She dipped her head and tried to sound scared and confused, not difficult under the circumstances. “I…uh, I…need work? I was told to apply here?”

She put question marks at the end of her sentences, something young girls in her area always did, much to her irritation. She thought it might make her sound naive.

The man furrowed his brows. “Who told you that?”

She scratched her head. “I don’t remember her name? She was medium height with light brown hair? It might’ve started with a C? I can’t remember. She started off wanting me to pay for her shit, so I bailed. Huh, no thaaanks.”

The man on the left muttered to a guard with a big red beard, “Probably Corky.” The red-head nodded.

“Sounds right. I remember it was a weird name.”

The man called over his shoulder. “Kent, come here.”

A very tall, bulky statue of a man sauntered over. He inclined his head at the guard who spoke to him. “Yeah?”

The guard motioned with his head towards Abigail. “She’s wantin’ a job. You wanna take her to employment?”

Kent motioned with his head for her to follow him. She complied, her shaking hands in her pockets. He led her towards Cognition Manor’s huge front doors. Cognition Manor could be called Cognition Castle, since it was all buttresses and thin windows.

“When did you get into Monochrome?”

She bit her lip. “I don’t know how many days it’s been. Six?”

His eyes narrowed. “Who was your Guide?”

She wracked her brains for a moment, trying to remember the name of Ishmael’s Guide. “Corky, but I didn’t stick with her long? She gave me the creeps.” She shivered for effect. The tall man sniffed but didn’t reply.

She sensed it was this man’s job to pry, and she felt how very foolish her plan was. She put her hands into the pockets of her jacket and felt the cold metal of Eric’s knife. She’d pocketed it for protection since he attacked her and Ishmael, but this was the first time she felt she might need to use it.

Kent stopped abruptly, taking Abigail off guard. She stopped, too, and the halted movement knocked her hand and Eric’s knife from her shallow jacket pocket.
Damn! I forgot I hate these pockets. Stupid cell phone was always falling out of them.
The knife landed on the black gravel with a thud.

“What’s this? Armed are we?” Kent bent down to pick up the knife.

“Can’t be too careful out there.”

Recognition crossed his features as he studied the knife, Eric’s initials scratched into the handle. Quicker than she thought possible for such a large person, he grabbed her arm. “I know someone who will be
very
happy to see this knife, and I know someone who will be even happier to see you, Abigail Bennet.”

She tried to shrug out of her jacket, since he held nothing but fabric, but he foresaw her plan and adjusted his hold on her arm. He flipped open Eric’s knife and held it out towards her. “Don’t struggle. The boss has been waiting for you ever since we brought Ishmael in.”

Abigail remembered the cold man from the telephone booth and panicked. She stomped on Kent’s foot with a crunch. He cursed, dropped her coat and stumbled from the pain in his foot, but was very quick to regain his balance. He grabbed her dress as she made to run away, and pulled her to him.

She heard the dress rip and felt a draft near her rib cage.

“That wasn’t nice.” He held her to him with one arm. His one gargantuan arm felt like it contained enough power to crush her. He squeezed her until a groan was forced from her mouth. “Let’s not make the boss wait any longer. He’s been eager for your arrival since we brought Ishmael in.” He dragged her, struggling, to the manor’s large black doors.

Kent pushed her through midnight-blue marble halls, and past black columns stretching out on either side. They passed several doors on the right and left, and a winding great staircase, all black stone and blue wood. He pushed through a set of large double doors at the end of the long hall, and they entered what appeared to be a throne room.

Indeed, in the middle of the room there was a large, intricately carved chair, shining the silver gleam of the blue wood of Monochrome’s forests. The walls behind the throne were glowing a blinding gold. Abigail averted her eyes, which were drawn to the figure seated on the throne.

The boss didn’t look like the man in the telephone booth or in her dreams. He was nothing like Ishmael. He was, instead, the replica of a man her mother once dated. He was thin, average height, with black wavy hair and a mustache. He was pale and wiry, just like Ian. The only difference was his deep, endless black eyes. Ian had blue eyes, cold just like this man’s, but icy-blue.

He cleared his throat and his voice came out high, just like in the phone booth. It wasn’t Ian’s voice, but his face and person made her blood boil. She was bigger now. She could defend herself. It took her a moment to realize his voice was speaking to her, so obsessed was she with the fury his person caused her.

“I asked you a question, Abigail.” She glared up at him from her position by Kent’s feet.

The boss clucked his tongue. “I guess I need to repeat it. What brings you to Cognition Manor?” His voice seemed ancient and out of place.

He tried to phrase his sentences in a modern way, but ended up sounding like a character from a modern rendition of a medieval drama. She gritted her teeth. “You know what.”

The man who was Ian’s twin, laughed and her hands shook in rage against the cold black stone floor. Kent nudged her with his boot, a warning to stay down.

“Ishmael, of course. How very loyal of you. He’s alive and safe. Let’s not worry about him right now.” He paused and motioned for a beautiful female to come to him. “Rhonda, here.” He patted his knee, as if calling a dog.

She moved gracefully towards the throne and knelt next to him, her waist-long blonde hair almost touching the floor.

She was tall, with a fit build. “Yes, sir,” she replied in a stout, commanding voice.

He patted the woman’s head. Abigail noticed the woman shiver in revulsion. “Go tell Eric our new guest has arrived. Tell him he is to prepare Ishmael.”

Abigail winced at Ishmael’s name following the word “prepare,” and what it meant for him. Concern almost overcame her rage. Rhonda bowed her head in acquiescence, stood and walked out the large oak doors.

“If Eric hurts Ishmael, you will both be sorry,” she warned from her position on the floor.

Kent took her words as the threat they were and kicked her firmly in the back. She fell forward and hit her forehead on hard ground. Her back throbbed from the kick and her head housed a knot, but she picked herself back up and glared at Kent, refusing to act as hurt as she was.