Monochrome (8 page)

For the first time, Abigail felt like someone liked her for who she was—chubby, frizzy hair and all. She didn’t pay much attention to the movie, trying, instead, to remember the feel of her first time holding a boy’s hand.

“Goodbye, Toby,” she whispered as she extended her finger towards the purple bottle in a dazed motion. This was the only good memory of him she recalled. The next week he broke her heart by making out with her best friend at a football game she couldn’t go to. He apologized, blaming it on being high, but she didn’t forgive him. Now, he would be all asshole and no redemption; it seemed a pity. He really was an okay guy.

Her memory flowed into the purple tinted jar, backwards. The last thing she lost was the smell of the Opera House. She exhaled as she opened her eyes. The tangy smell of brass from the smoldering lobby fireplace confused her senses. Her nose held a memory of something more comforting, but she couldn’t place it. She took a step towards Ishmael, her head swimming, and she stumbled. Her knees went weak, and she would’ve fallen if not for her Guide’s steady arm.

Ishmael quickly put her arm around his shoulders and his strong arm around her waist. The flex of his muscles against the small of her back comforted her. But she felt silly for needing the help and worked to steady herself.

“I’m fine. Just tired. You can let me go,” she protested.

“Don’t be a martyr, Abby. We’ve been on our feet for hours, and you’ve given up two memories, which is a real energy drainer.”

He tightened his grip on her waist and snapped at the clerk with his free hand. “You have the payment, where’s the key?”

The clerk returned the jar to his cabinet and locked it before handing Ishmael a worn key. “Thanks for the memory. It’s a sweet one. Room 202.”

Abigail meant to come up with something snarky to say to the clerk, but was having a hard time focusing. She felt a little drunk and very self-conscious, though it was difficult to remember exactly why. She allowed Ishmael to help her down the hall, where the clerk indicated a staircase would be.

They passed a tiny bar in the middle of the long hall. It was dimly lit and smoky. Tinted memory bottles were all that stood out in the haze. They stood proudly behind the old woman tending the bar, mocking those seated there, drinking their memories or currency away. One middle-aged man, with greasy grey hair and a tangled beard, nodded at them as they passed.

He grunted to Ishmael. “Need me to take a load off your hands, boy? I’ll make it worth ya’ while. Got some black memories’ll keep ya’ just as warm.” The man’s sick laughter sent chills down her back, and she was suddenly glad she wasn’t going to be alone tonight.

She felt the garments she wore shift and change under her mustard jacket and grey scarf. She touched the loose fibers of a high collared, long, black, loose fitting wool dress, modest enough for a convent. It was the dress she’d worn to her dad’s funeral. Ishmael ignored the man, but gritted his teeth.

She heard him whisper in disgust, “Keep your black memories, filth.”

As Ishmael led the dazed Abigail up the staircase towards their room, she regained her wits enough to ask, “What’s a black memory?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

At the top of the staircase, she removed her arm from around his neck, feeling able to stand on her own. “Whether it matters or not, please just answer my question,” she shot at him.

He ignored her, and put his hand on her back while they walked. She was too tired to fight him over her ability to stand upright on her own.

“Our room is the one on the left,” he motioned to a Prussian-blue wood door. He put the key in, fighting with the lock a few times before the door swung open. Once inside, he closed the door, locked the deadbolt and used the chain on the door. She studied the cramped room and her spirits fell even further.

The room appeared like something from a nasty movie, the kind that people rented by the hour. The wallpaper was a sickly green color, peeling, and water-stained. The only bed took up most of the room and was covered in a tattered brown comforter.
Brown hides stains
, thought Abigail. Ishmael, on the other hand, seemed to barely notice the general grossness of the room.

He sat on the edge of the bed. “Feel free to sit. You’re dead on your feet.” He patted the bed beside him.

She obliged his request, but didn’t sit on the bed. Instead, she sat on an old, yellowing seat next to the only window in the room, which, she sighed to see, was barred.

He shrugged. “We have to share a bathroom with the other residents on this floor. There isn’t one in here. I saw the men’s room down the hall and to the left. The women’s is on the right, I think. We should head there together. The guy in the bar is a sample of the kind of people staying in this place, so it’s probably best we keep in each other’s company.”

“I can go to the bathroom by myself, Ishmael. I’m not a toddler.”

“Suit yourself. I’m going now, though, so come or don’t.” He stood and headed for the door.

Annoyed with his overprotective attitude, she thought to stay stubbornly seated where she was until she realized she really needed to pee and should wash up.

“Fine. Might as well,” she conceded.

Ishmael unlatched the door and gestured for Abigail to go ahead of him. He locked the door behind them and they walked down the hall towards the bathroom. The wallpaper in the hall was rust-brown, peeling like it was in the room. The carpet was a dark green, mottled with red and black stains.
I don’t want to know.
She took her eyes away from the stained carpet.

Ishmael walked by her side, peering suspiciously at the rooms they passed on the way. They split up when they got to the bathrooms.

“I’ll wait for you out here, if I get done first,” he said.

She turned towards him. “Don’t bother. I’m going to wash up and I might be a while. I’ll meet you in the room.”

He shook his head but didn’t argue with her.

The bathroom was more dingy than their room, if that was possible. She wondered when it was last cleaned. Judging from the grime covering every surface, she didn’t actually want an honest answer. After hovering shakily over a disgusting toilet, she observed a lone shower stall in the corner. She hated not having a shower and felt the day’s dust on her skin acutely.

She pulled back the black shower curtain and wasn’t surprised to see cobwebs in the corner of the dirty stall. She twisted the stubborn shower nozzle on, and the showerhead sputtered out orange water. She twisted the showerhead towards the cobwebs and watched as they were washed down the crusty green drain.

The water eventually cleared from orange to a light yellow, which Abigail figured was as good as it was getting. She jammed the knob towards “H,” and was dismayed to find the water didn’t get any warmer than air temperature, which was growing cooler every moment.

“Oh well,” she muttered to herself as she removed her coat and scarf and slipped the long wool dress over her head.

She wasn’t giving up on showering no matter how cool or uncomfortable it was. Once undressed, she stepped hesitantly into the shower, letting one side of her body get used to the chilled water before submerging herself in the cold. She ran her fingers over the faded stretch marks on her belly and thought of her baby. She let her mind wander as she rinsed the day’s dirt from her hair.

She thought of how quickly the body heals itself, though she was still in the process of healing and losing her pregnancy weight. The extreme physical changes her body underwent deepened her already unbearable depression. Her stretch marks and wide hips now marked her a mother. But she also knew she’d do it again. She thought of the night of her labor and how she felt when Ruby was placed in her arms, wet and screaming.

Her little face went from terrified to pacified, like magic, when Abigail said her name and snuggled her to her chest. Ignoring the mess and the crowd, she placed her new baby at her breast. It was the best morning of her life even though she was torn from the inside, empty and emotionally drained. She fell asleep that night with her new baby on her breast, breathing her first tiny breaths of life.

Jason had been great, staying awake while Abigail and Ruby slept, touching them both, by turns, smiling as if he were the happiest person in the world. Yes, the body healed quickly, but her head had been a muddled mess ever since then. She and Jason were strained, too. Ruby refused to nurse, and, hungry, fussed instead of sleeping.

They couldn’t act angrily towards a baby, so they were angry with each other. There was so much happening to Abigail inside she felt physically distant and sick. Warm tears mingled with the cool water from the shower, and she wondered how to make it work. How does a person fix something this intangible? How was she to heal the invisible wounds she inflicted on her child and husband?

Abigail was shocked out of her reverie by the sound of someone entering the bathroom. She hadn’t seen any other residents about, not surprisingly. It wasn’t the sort of place one wandered. She stood under the showerhead, not wanting to mingle with Monochromian residents. She continued to rinse herself, fighting the urge to peek out of the stall and see who entered the bathroom. Even though the water was getting colder by the second, she now had to wait until the other person left before getting out of the stall.

Five minutes passed and she was getting frigid and impatient. Maybe the other woman left already and she didn’t hear her exit, over the sound of the water. She shut off the now icy water, rubbing warmth into her arms. She pulled back the thin black curtain a crack, in order to check to make sure the bathroom was clear, and was shaken to see she was not, in fact, alone.

The man with the grey hair stood by the sink where she laid her clothing. He winked at her and held the dress up with one hand, pretending to offer it to her.

“Looking for this? We’ve been waiting for you.”

Abigail’s whole body shook from fear and from the cold water sitting on her skin. “We?” She was annoyed her voice was shaky and weak. Another stranger stalked into view.

This man was younger, but just as desperate, as the grey-haired man. His eyes were the same pitch black, his brown hair stringy and unwashed. He bit a chapped lip, staring at her head, peeking out from behind the curtain.

“If the rest is as pretty as her face, we’ve hit the jackpot, Chuck.” He addressed the grey-haired man, but didn’t take his eyes from her. “Where’s the man she was with?”

Chuck shrugged. “He’s not with her. He’s a Guide. I’ve seen him before. I didn’t see him out there, so he must have his own room, right baby?”

The last question was aimed at her. All she knew was these men looked like the type who killed for what they wanted, and she didn’t want Ishmael’s death on her hands.

“He’s sleeping. The room next to mine.” Her voice shook as badly as her frigid body.

The grey-haired man ambled towards her. “You’re cold. Come on out of there, beautiful. We’ll warm you up.”

Her years of self-defense and martial arts hadn’t prepared her for the fear that disabled her right now. It paralyzed her body and mind.

“Give me my dress.”

The brown-haired man snorted. “Come get it.” He laughed the same sick laugh as his friend when she and Ishmael passed him in the bar, and, for some reason, that angered her.

“Don’t laugh at me,” she warned the man.

Her anger amused both the men and they laughed more boisterously. Her body shook even more ferociously, but not from fear. The last six months of stress and tension overcame her, staring at these slimy perverts, waiting to force her, to take away her power and her say.

Too often, she felt like her life was not her own, and she wasn’t about to concede to this violation. If they wanted her, they’d have to fight for it. If there was one thing she was good at, it was hurting other people. She pulled back the black curtain and stepped out of the shower.

The men stopped laughing and both leaned in, their greedy, dead eyes taking in her body. The element of surprise was on her side. With one hand behind her back she gripped the black shower curtain. With the other hand she beckoned the greasy men towards her.

The grey-haired man prowled towards her, his eyes locked on her body, not her hands. In one fluid motion, Abigail ripped the black shower curtain off its plastic rings and tossed it over the head of the grey-haired man. He was a couple inches shorter than her, so it wasn’t difficult to cover him with it. Blinded, he flailed under the curtain.

Abigail took advantage of his momentary blindness and landed a powerful kick to his face. The man groaned and fell backwards, hitting his skull against the hard tile floor of the bathroom. She heard a crack and grimaced, but quickly faced the other man. The brown-haired man dropped the dress he was still clutching, rushed at her and grabbed her around the waist. He was much larger than her but he was clumsy.

He threw her to the ground with ferocity. She smacked her elbow against the tiled floor and yelled out in pain. She crawled away backwards from the brown-haired man, noticing the other man was still immobile next to the shower. The brown-haired man stood over her, a victorious gleam in his sinister black eyes. He was sure he had her. She wanted him to believe it.

He stood over her for a second then sprang down on top of her, using his superior weight to anchor her to the frozen tiles. He sat part way up on her body and leaned over, grasping and holding her hands above her head with one hand, fumbling with his zipper with the other. His dead eyes shone with hunger and delight as they ogled her bare chest. She needed to act now, while he was preoccupied with undoing his pants.

Fear shoved aside, she fed her rage into her hips and made a bucking motion to throw him off balance. “Get off me, you sick fuck!” she bellowed.

It worked, somewhat. He fell to the side of her, grunting, unharmed but furious at the insult to his manhood. How dare a woman best him? She knew his type. She spun in a practiced motion but her feet were unsteady on the wet floor, so the force of her well-aimed round-house lacked muster. Even so, being gently kicked in the groin hurts.