Monochrome (9 page)

He lurched and cursed, a grotesque horny Igor. She waited for him to spring again and landed a direct palm into his nose, which spewed blood. He cursed and fell backwards, cradling his broken face.

Abigail stood and jumped incautiously around the bleeding man, trying for her dress. Who knew what kind of other sickos were lurking the halls? He stumbled to his feet, his nose still spurting. To him, pain was lust, the fight foreplay. His injuries only fueled his speed.

“You cunt! I’m going to tear you up for that.”

He wiped his spouting nose with a stained blue t-shirt, his black, hairy stomach muffining over his dirty jeans, and launched himself at her fleeing back. He succeeded in knocking her to the floor, and trapped her under his oppressive mass. Hitting her cheekbone on the rock-hard ground left her disoriented, her muscles mushy. A warm drip of sweat or blood splashed against the skin of her back and she cried out in horror. He righted himself so that she was trapped.

He held her to the ground with one bulbous knee and forced down his pants. She thrashed her legs and screamed so loudly her voice broke. Laughing over her screams, he roughly spread her legs apart with his knees and leaned forward. She thrashed wildly, not able to see the monster on her back to fight him. His face was determined and bloody. He held himself and pushed at her from behind, unable to penetrate as she thrashed. But she felt his disgusting worm writhe against her thighs, and she gagged over the nausea gathering in her throat.

Suddenly, another man, wearing only torn jeans, raced through the bathroom door. The man straddling her was too intent on his sick task to notice. She stopped thrashing and released a throat-rending sob. She was exhausted from the long day and from the struggle. It was impossible to fend off the man behind her
and
the man who had just entered. She was going to die in this horrible place, or wish she had. She rested her bruised cheek against frigid tiles and stared blankly at the black shower curtain draped over an unmoving mass.

But the third man didn’t come at
her.
He grabbed the shoulder of the bleeding man and twisted him around. Abigail was freed from the frozen tiles; she turned in time to see the green light above the sink reflected on the new arrival’s sopping, dark blonde hair. She stood on noddle legs, covering her body with her arms.

Ishmael kneed the brown-haired man in the face, directly into his broken nose. The man fell backwards, just to Abigail’s side. Ishmael shoved the man to the ground and sat on him, thrusting his head onto the cold tile floor, over and over again. His eyes were crazed, the muscles in his arms bulging. Abigail heard a sickening dull crack which must’ve been the sound of the man’s head splitting open. She stumbled dizzily over to Ishmael, attempting to pull him off the now unconscious man.

She was, with a great tug, able to get him off the man but accidentally yanked him backwards onto her. Ishmael’s eyes remained on the two unconscious men on the bathroom floor, intense. She maintained her grip on his arms from behind. His frenzy was so fierce he didn’t seem to notice Abigail wrapped around him, staying his fury.

“Ishmael, it’s okay. I’m alright.” She let go of him when his shoulders slumped. She sat back and rubbed her sore elbow.

His eyes left the men. He pushed himself gently off her. He spun around, ready to ask her something, but stopped short, flushed, stared at her for too long to be decent and turned back towards the unconscious men. She glanced down at her naked body and blushed, knowing he’d seen everything.

He bent over and picked her dress off of the floor, looking at the ceiling as he tossed it towards her.

She wrapped the dress around her like a towel. “Thanks. I’m covered. Not that it matters, now.”

He rushed to her, reaching down to help her stand. “Are you okay? Did they…”

She cut him off. “No. Almost. They didn’t get the chance. You came in just in time. Thank you.” Her voice was barely holding steady, relief was tugging at her throat.

Ishmael let out a breath of relief. “Thank God! Are you hurt? I heard you scream. I thought I was too late. God, I shouldn’t have left the hall. I’m so sorry.”

He grabbed her right elbow and helped her to her feet, his hands shook on her arms, from rage or fear or some other heightened emotion. His eyes were wide and searching.

Abigail winced. “My elbow is bruised, but I think I’m okay.”

He dropped her elbow. “Oh. Sorry.”

He put his hand on her lower back and led her towards the door around the bleeding brown-haired man. She continued to rub her elbow, fending off the tears clustered in her throat. She did what she always did when overwhelmed: she nervously listed what needed to be done. “We should tell the clerk. They’ll want to send people to…take care of this, right? Do you think we should call someone? Cops?”

Ismael didn’t seem to hear her questions. He nodded slowly, staring at the blood on his hands, left over from the broken nose Abigail gave the brown-haired man.

Suddenly, he his face took on an olive hue and he lurched forward, grabbing his stomach. “Ugh!” He moaned.

He rushed from her side to the sink and frantically rinsed his hands and chest. He stood for a moment with his hands resting on the sink, as if he were steadying himself. He bent over the porcelain sink, coughing wetly and trying to keep himself from heaving.

Worried, Abigail stood up and walked over to him. “Ishmael, what’s wrong? Are you okay? Are you hurt?” She put her hand on his damp back.

He shook his head, facing her. “No. Fine. Sorry…it’s…” he straightened and blushed, “the blood. I’m not…fond of blood. It’s stupid. Don’t worry about it.”

She stared at him, shocked. She knew a lot of people who were squeamish. He just seemed so tough, the thought of him being grossed out by something so natural surprised her. Now thoroughly rinsed, Ishmael stumbled towards the grey-haired man and bent down.

“Ishmael, what are you doing? Let’s go downstairs. Let the staff deal with them. I don’t want to be here when he wakes up. I’m just…I just want to go to the room, please.”

He ignored her plea, lifting the black curtain off the grey-haired man, bending down to examine him. He reached down and felt the man’s neck, raising his eyebrows as he stood.

“No need to worry. I don’t know what you did to him, but he’s dead.” There was no regret in Ishmael’s voice. Instead, he sounded deeply satisfied.

Abigail, on the other hand, fell apart inside.

He bent down to check the pulse of the second man. “He, unfortunately, is not.” His face an angry contortion, he kicked the fallen man, with force, in the groin.

ABIGAIL PEERED
DOWN THE HALL
from the door of their room, staring as two men in black jumpsuits hauled the grey-haired man away in plastic body bag. The other man was wheeled behind him on a gurney, suffering from a broken nose and, probably, a severe concussion.

Ishmael spoke from behind her. “We don’t have medics in Monochrome. Those guys are called Cleaners. They won’t give medical care to the man on the gurney. They’ll just dispose of him properly if he doesn’t wake up. Hopefully he doesn’t.”

She slammed the door shut and turned on him. “How can you say that? Don’t you know it’ll be our fault if he never breathes again?”

He lit a cigarette and took a drag. “It’s your fault those perverts attacked you? That they meant to rape you, and then sell the memory of it for drugs or alcohol? It’s my fault I wanted to end attacks like this one for you and others? That’s their job. They planned it the moment they saw you, and you feel bad he’s not alive to hurt anyone else?”

He walked past Abigail and locked the door. “Fuck those guys! Those men are the worst kind of shit this place has to offer. They
were
,” his face looked almost pleased, “Traders.”

“You have an awful sense of humor if you think death is funny.”

He threw his hands in the air. “I don’t fucking get you, Abby. Those men attack women, have killed and raped countless women, and sell the memory to anyone sick enough to buy them.
That’s
what a black memory is. And you feel
bad
they’re leaving us forever? I mean, I saw him. He almost…”

He stopped mid-sentence, unable to finish from disgust or anger. His jaw was clenched, his eyes distant and stony.

Abigail shook her head. “If you saw what they did then you know my stake in this is higher than yours. But I still care that what I did led to a death, even if he
was
a sack of shit. I’m not incapable of hate. It’s just…I
killed
someone today. Whatever his disgusting intentions, I never wanted to be responsible for someone else’s death, never wanted to be forced to choose between myself and someone else!”

Her eyes were running and her voice cracked as she screamed nonsense at the one man she trusted in this sick world. “It’s this place! It’s this terrible place! I feel like it gives people little choice but to be inhumane. And I never wanted to make that choice. It’s not about whose life I took, don’t you get it? It’s about what this world makes of me. I don’t want to become what I’m not, and I’m not a killer.”

Ishmael threw himself down on the bed. “You’re going to have to get used to it. That’s just how it is here. It’s you or them. In their case, these guys were sick bastards to start off with and got off on being in a place like this, I’m sure.”

Abigail sat on a corner of the bed and put her head in her hands. “No. I don’t have to get used to it. I’m not staying here.”

She felt the weight of the day on her body and mind, starting with being taken from her baby to the recent attack. Before she knew it, her body was racked with sobs. She was bloody, battered, scared and…she longing for the life she’d almost ended. Ishmael scooted over to her, placing his hand on her back and gently patted her.

“I’m sorry, Abby. I can’t even imagine how awful it was for you in there, how afraid you must’ve been. God, you’re so brave, so tough. I’m just being an asshole. I told you that I can’t help myself sometimes, but I should try harder, especially at a time like this. I get mean when I’m scared, and seeing you like that scared the shit out of me. I thought I was too late.”

His touch was maternal, soft and soothing. Abigail’s sobs subsided, but she kept her face buried in the bed, embarrassed by her vulnerability.

“It’s just that, when I realized what was going on…when I saw that fucker sitting over you…” His hand tensed on her back. “I wanted to make him suffer and I’m glad he is.”

Abigail wiped her tears away with her palms, realizing just then her hands were still bloody and dirty. She sat up and faced Ishmael, fearful of the burdened sound of his voice, and was surprised to see his black opals were watery.

“Ishmael, you saved me. I don’t know how I’m…” She reached towards him but let her hand fall short.

Even stranger than the tears in his eyes was his next reaction. He examined her face and laughed.

“What are you laughing at, you maniac?”

He tried to answer, but looking at her sent him into gales of laughter. His laughter shook the whole bed. “You’re face,” was all he managed to get out before falling to his side, rocking with laughter.

Abigail raced to the cracked, dirty mirror hanging above the green, ceramic sink in the corner of the room and immediately broke into loud, crazy laughter. She looked like an insane person. Her dark brown hair was tangled and uncombed, her eyes red and puffy and her face was now streaked with blood and dirt.

She probably just wiped the blood on her face when she tried to dry her tears. She was still wearing her dress as a towel and it, too, was smeared with dried blood and dirt. Ishmael was still laughing hysterically on the bed.

“Why didn’t you tell me I look like a caveman butcher, you jerk!”

He shook with broken laughter, rolling on the bed. “You. Do.”

His deep laughter and watery eyes were contagious. She couldn’t control the flood of laughter fountaining from her, and every time Ishmael saw her,
he
chuckled anew. She knew they were laughing because there was nothing else to do except cry, so they laughed like maniacs.

She went over to the bed, picked up a pillow and smacked him with it. “Stop laughing!”

He covered his head and laughed so hard he rolled off the bed onto the floor. She lay on the bed and peered over the side, at the still-chuckling Ishmael, sitting up and rubbing the back of his head, where he hit it against the wall.

His chest was heaving, as he fought laughter. Breathing heavily, he reached up to put a crazy strand of curly brown hair behind her ear. “You’re gonna need to use the sink. Please rinse off. The blood is going to make me vomit.” His face was amused but pale.

She smacked his hand away and went over to the sink, again letting the water run until it was yellow instead of orange. She washed her face, hands and arms and rinsed her hair in the cold water. She turned around and was discomforted to see Ishmael was watching her intently.

He was embarrassed to be caught and focused his eyes on the door.

“I was just going to ask you to step out for a second so I can wash up a little more.”

He searched the stained carpet of their room. “Did you see my shirt?” For the first time since the struggle in the bathroom, Abigail really
saw
Ishmael. His upper body was bare and covered in script-style writing, whole passages of indeterminate scrawl permanently inked into his skin.

He was more tattoo than skin. He was thin but fit. His skin was pale, especially in contrast to the black writing covering his torso. Abigail blushed when her eyes met the patch of hair just above his jeans, on his abdomen.

His skin was damp in spots from the shower and from rinsing off after the fight. His long hair was in tangles from the fight and from being smacked with a pillow. He was gorgeous, in a rough sort of way, which, she thought, was the best kind of gorgeous. Pretty boys never appealed to her.

Ishmael noticed her attentive stare and grinned. “Like what you see?”

Abigail mumbled, “Uh, I just didn’t notice your tattoos before.”

He touched a tattoo on his abdomen. “Oh. Yeah. They’re quotes. Some of my favorite quotes from my favorite literature.”

Abigail bit her thumbnail, trying to keep herself from staring. “That’s a good way to not forget them.”

He ran his fingers through his hair. “Yeah. It’s convenient in a place like this. Not that I was thinking about a place like this when I got them. My brother liked to use me as a guinea pig when he was training to become an artist.” He continued to search the floor around them. “So, did you see my shirt?”

“You didn’t have it on when you came into the bathroom.” For a moment she pictured the damp figure in nothing but jeans, running into the bathroom and the relief she felt when she recognized him. Her heart raced uncomfortably, but she didn’t search herself to find out why.

“Oh, right. It’s in the bathroom. I was washing up when I heard…the commotion. I’ll let you clean up. Just stick your head out of the room when you’re done. Lock the door while you clean up.”

She nodded. “Right.”

Abigail cleaned up as quickly as possible and held the black dress out in front of her. She grimaced at her reflection in the mirror. The dress was torn and filthy from the fight. She closed her eyes, concentrating on how she felt—tired and drained. She pictured a moment, though she wasn’t sure it was a specific, real moment. She imagined herself sitting up from a good night’s sleep, crawling around Jason’s sprawled, dark form, smiling at how he never stayed on his side of the bed, and how his face was always screwed into a grimace when he slept, unlike most people, who slept peacefully.

She pictured herself standing up and dressing in the clothes she folded neatly and placed on the dresser every night before bed. She felt the dress fall from her hands, and clothing shift around her body. She opened her eyes and was happy to see herself in her favorite grey sweats, a teal tank top, and her salmon cardigan. She ran her hands through her wet, wavy hair and was satisfied it was less of a disaster.

She unlocked the door and poked her head out. “Alright, Ishmael.”

He was sitting in the hall, his head against the wall, now wearing his black shirt and Abigail’s scarf. He also held a mustard coat on his lap.

She moved towards him, her hands outstretched, “My scarf!”

Ishmael stood and she reached for the scarf, but he dodged her hand. “I braved the lady’s restroom for this thing, which is saying something since the Cleaners didn’t actually clean anything in there.” His face paled.

She held out her hand, “Gimme.” He wrapped the scarf more tightly around his neck and walked back into the room with her jacket over his arm. She followed him in. “Come on, Ishmael, hand it over.”

He smirked at her. “I’ll hand it over if you tell me why it matters so much.”

“It’s very well made.”

“Okay. Yes it is, but that’s not why.”

She walked up to him and ran her fingers over the scarf. “It was the first thing I ever knitted and I’m proud of it. My favorite aunt taught me how to knit, when she was bedridden from cancer.”

He unwrapped the scarf from his neck and handed it to her. “You should be proud. It looks professionally done. She must’ve been a good teacher.”

Abigail wrapped the scarf around her neck. “Thank you. She was.”

Ishmael sat on the bed. “What I want to know is how you do it.”

She raised her eyebrow. “Do what? Knit?”

He rolled his eyes and pointed at her outfit. “How you change your clothing so easily and how you’re able to bring things from Reality here to Monochrome, like you did with the mirror.”

He tugged at the bottom of her shirt. “I’m just guessing, but I bet the outfit you’re wearing is from home.”

She nodded and twirled around. “This elegant piece is my favorite lounging outfit.”

He laughed. “Very nice.”

“These are Jason’s sweats.”

Ishmael’s face darkened. “How do you do it? My outfit very rarely changes, and does so momentarily. Most people just wear the same thing every day, and either clean it or don’t. Don’t worry, I do.” He winked.

Abigail shrugged. “Maybe I’m just not as stuck in my own head. I don’t know what goes and what doesn’t, you know, so I just kinda make my own rules. Plus, I’m not sure this stuff
is
from home. It’s probably just a comforting twin. I don’t know if you can tell, but I like clothes. In life, I couldn’t control how I felt, even how I acted, sometimes, but I
could
control how I appeared on the outside. I know people think it’s shallow to care about those things, but it felt like the only power I had, some days. So I’m making it a priority to wear what I want here, since everything else sucks so badly.”

He smacked his hands on his knees. “Well, that explanation works for me.”

Abigail saw Ishmael’s hat on the yellowing chair and walked over to it, picking it up. “What about this?”

He jumped up and held his hand towards the hat.

“Mmmmhmmm. That’s what I thought. This is special to you. Probably from home?” He just stared at her, not giving in. She closed her eyes, and brought up a short memory:

She opened the mailbox in anticipation. She’d been waiting for this piece of mail to arrive for a week. She took the small manila envelope out of her box and broke the seal, smiling as a small red-black button with white script writing fell into her open hand.

She opened her eyes and was elated to see the button fastened to the side of Ishmael’s hat. She put it into his awaiting hands, and he ran the brim through his fingers.

The button caught his eyes and they grew wide. “How’d you…This is awesome, Abby.”

“I thought you’d like it. Tennyson seems your style.”

He read the button in a loud whisper:

“A man had given all other bliss,

And all his worldly worth for this,

To waste his whole heart in one kiss

Upon her perfect lips.”

He shook his head in awe. “Tennyson’s Sir Lancelot and Queen Guinevere. You’re not going to believe this, but I have those lines on my back.” He touched his back on the lower right side. “Where did you get this?”

Abigail wasn’t sure why, but she felt a tingling warmth crawl up her back. “Online. Dork website.”

Ishmael touched the pin. “Are you giving it to me?”

“Yeah. You were my slow-on-the-draw Lancelot today.” She meant the comment as a joke, but Ishmael didn’t laugh.

Instead, he locked eyes with her in an intense, expectant stare. It made her both light-headed and discomfited. Suddenly, Abigail jumped away from Ishmael. His eyes were no longer black with brown and green specks; they were a beautiful brown-green, clouded in black swirls.