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Authors: Nelou Keramati

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BOOK: The Fray Theory: Resonance
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Chapter 5
The Kinetic

Romer
enters his workshop and shuts the door behind him. Without
bothering with the lights, he grabs a padlock off a rusty nail and secures the
entry. The smell of burnt walnut reminds him of a commission, but in light of
his amassing fatigue, he couldn’t care less.

It’s way past midnight, and he’s
exhausted. But at least the exhibition setup is done.

One less thing to worry about.

Making his way towards the back of
the shop, he looks out the murky windows. And for what feels like
the thousandth time, he marvels at the stunning panorama stretching
beyond.

To anybody else, it’s just an
industrial harbor—a blue inlet adorned with gigantic cranes and colorful cargo
containers.

But to him, it’s much more than
that.

There is just something about the
soft breeze and the careless ruckus of seagulls that gets him every time. It’s
a quality he can’t quite put into words, but in simplest terms… it’s freedom.

He arrives at the far end of the
shop and begins to strip down to his boxers. He throws his clothes onto a pile
already burdening a flimsy chair, and collapses onto his dingy mattress.

The stiff, squeaky springs push up
against him like iron fists. He yanks his leaf-thin pillow from under his head
and flings it away, then rolls onto his side and nestles his head into his
folded arm.

Despite promising himself to kick
the habit, his fingers seek the scars on his torso. Scars which have long healed.
Faded into tight, silver engravings. Scars that should no longer hurt, but ache
whenever he is reminded of what they represent. Scars that pulsate every time
his veins flood with rage.

A loud screech makes him jump out
of his skin.

He grabs the flashlight by his
mattress and shines it towards the source of the noise. His wide eyes stare
with sheer terror as the indented blade of his table-saw gains momentum into a
blurred disk.

At the onset of another power-tool,
he leaps out of bed and bolts towards the front of the workshop. He flicks on
the overhead lights and turns to find the sandblaster, drill, and other power
machinery follow the initiative of the table-saw.

A choked sound escapes his throat.

Let me go
.

σ

~Three Years Ago~

 

A patchy field
of green fortified with walls, weapons, and prying eyes. A cage reeking of
bitterness, regret, and resentment. This will be home for the next one thousand
and ninety-five days: a place where threats are locked in, instead of out.

Hiding in plain sight, Romer sits on
a bench in the prison yard, watching the flow of orange specs in the distance.
Black, white, yellow and brown: all reduced to the color of hazard.

“Hey fish!” a coarse voice snaps
him to attention, and he swings his head towards a forty-something year-old felon
boasting more ink than the first draft of a manuscript.

Isaac
: the only convict amongst them with a triple life-sentence.
The only man within the establishment who has pled guilty to all counts of
murder. A killer so proud of his own brutality that he has a string of skull
tattoos running down the length of his spine.

And Romer can’t help wondering whether
in due time, he too shall be reduced to ink on Isaac’s flesh.

“Heard you turned down my offer,” Isaac
lingers a few feet shy of Romer, brandishing a sly grin. “Guess you ain’t got a
taste of how dangerous things can get around here.”

“I don’t need protection,” Romer says.
A flagrant lie, but what Isaac is offering comes at a price he is not willing
to pay.

Isaac takes another step forward,
his playfulness dimmed down considerably. He leans in and puts his hand on
Romer’s shoulder like a father giving his son a pep talk. “Listen, kid—you obviously
got some shit luck getting tossed in here with the real thugs. So it’s a good
thing you’re pretty enough to secure yourself a spot in my corner,” he licks
his lips, “you feel me?”

Before Romer can come up with a
safe response, Isaac takes a lock of his hair and leans in to smell it.
Cringing, Romer slips away, sliding to the opposite end of the bench.

“You gonna make me work for it?”

“I said I’m not interested,” Romer
asserts slightly louder, desperately hoping Isaac can’t hear the fear in his
voice.

“Do I look like I give a shit?” he
crosses his arms as his crew closes in.

Romer’s gaze darts up to the
watch
towers, but the blinding glare from the overcast sky is making it impossible to
find peace of mind.

“It ain’t like me to give second
chances,” Isaac starts, “but you look like a smart kid. You’re
not
, but
you look like one.”

The men burst into a roaring
laughter.

“So, what do you say?”

The darkness framing Romer’s
vision is closing in. Is he about to faint? He can’t. They prey on the weak.

“TODAY!” Isaac startles him, and
then his laughter weaves into the uproar.

Beyond the hollering fence of
felons, Romer takes notice of a C.O. in the near distance and leaps off the
bench towards him. But a few steps in, Isaac’s small army drapes off his only
glimmer of hope. And when he feels a firm grip on his shoulder, he swings back,
unwittingly elbowing Isaac in the face.

The thunderous roar of the crowd
wanes into awe and anticipation. But instead of unleashing hell Isaac grins
from ear to ear, flashing his blood-glazed teeth. “I misjudged you,” he wipes
his mouth on his sleeve. “You got more balls than half of
these
fuckers.”

Romer stares, having no clue
whether his blunder has made things better for him, or worse.

“Now, get outta here,” Isaac
dismisses Romer like a toy he’s done playing with. “AIGHT! SHOW’S OVER! Get
back to your nine to fives!”

Romer slowly backs out of his
cage, adamant not to re-label himself as prey. He almost can’t believe it. With
Isaac on his side, he just might be able to—

The thought flees from his head as
multiple hands grab him from behind, and throw him to the ground.

He reaches up to his aching head,
but Isaac’s crew grab his limbs and firmly pin him down. He looks up just as
Isaac leaps onto him like a wild cat, and he instantly knows his seconds are
numbered.

“HELP—” Romer begins to shout, but
Isaac’s hook against his jaw knocks his consciousness elsewhere.


Bludgeoned to death
’, Romer
hears the voice of a news reporter in his head. He braces himself, but no
second swing comes his way. Instead his focus closes in on a small, rusty blade
in Isaac’s hand—a weapon made from scraps gathered from the crevices of the
establishment.

“Help—” Romer’s second outcry is
barely louder than a thought. And not a moment later, his ears are ringing from
a scream he doesn’t initially recognize as his own.

Isaac twists the blade he plunged
into his victim’s shoulder, savoring his anguish. He yanks it out like a
savage, and marvels at Romer’s blood gushing from the slit in his flesh.

At the sight of the spectacle, the
convicts explode into a roaring cheer, and all Romer can see are their
silhouettes against the silver sky.
I don’t deserve this
. He chokes on
the pain as Isaac stabs him in the ribs.

Not this
.

Another stab in the gut, and
Romer’s cries weave into the uproar. Liquid warmth creeps up inside his chest,
and overflows from the corner of his mouth.

“Slice his throat!” someone screams.

“No, cut out his heart!” shouts
another.

Isaac’s grin keeps shifting in and
out of focus. He leans in and dangles his blade over Romer’s eyes.

“How about I add a little red to
your baby blues?”

Pain. Just dirty, debilitating pain.

A drop of blood drips from the tip
of Isaac’s blade. It splats onto Romer’s cheek, flooding his mind with images
of his mutilated face.

Terrifying, dying without a face.

And suddenly, the clamor starts to
sound distant, and Isaac’s speech becomes slurred as if he’s saying multiple
things at once. And then, all Romer can hear is his own voice, filling the void
in his mind.

 

Help
.

 

With the prospect of his imminent end,
Romer’s pupils constrict to a pin-prick. The gold flecks in his eyes flicker
and his blue irises radiate a silver glow. Suddenly, an invisible force rips Isaac’s
weapon from his grasp and flings it up towards his head.

The rusty blade punctures his
throat and vanishes into his skull, leaving nothing but a slit from which blood
fountains all over Romer.

Did I do
this?
How
?

Choking on his own blood, Romer
stares at Isaac’s convulsing body as it rains crimson, drenching him. It runs
down Romer’s face and pools in his ears, but he can still detect the muffled
shouts of the C.O.s flooding the grounds.

As Isaac’s listless body topples
over, his startled crew release Romer and begin to disperse.

Drowning in warm crimson, Romer shudders
next to Isaac’s corpse.

His mind wants to shut down. To
stop feeling this excruciating anguish. But he clings onto every breath and
fights the darkness closing in, by counting the precious seconds ticking by.

σ

Stop
… Romer pleads with whatever God there is, but the shop’s
machinery continue to groan, growl, and shriek, demanding to be heard.

Demanding that Romer remembers,
always, who he is, and what he’s done.

“Stop,” he demands, but his voice
is barely audible over the cacophony.
“I said
stop,” he asserts louder, “Stop! STOOOOP!”

 

BLACKOUT.

 

Romer stares into darkness as the
noise from the machinery tapers off. But even after silence has once again befallen
his dwelling, chaos continues to wreak havoc inside him. Because it doesn’t
matter whether he accepts or denies his circumstances.

He’d have to be mad to do either.

Chapter 6
Exhibition

Twilight.
Cool hues of navy and blue drape over the city, complimenting the warmth of
nightlife. And nowhere in Vancouver is livelier than Gastown when the day paves
the way for its darker side.

At the heart of the neighborhood,
a bright gallery lures the curious with the promise of novelty. And inside, friends
and strangers alike weave through one another like colorful fish in an aquarium.

Suffocating in her scarlet dress, Neve
navigates through the crowd with a tray in her hand. A smile, a wider smile, a

heeeeey
, thanks for coming!’ and she crosses the threshold into the dingy
staging area.

She plops onto a wooden crate, cursing
the entire family tree of whoever invented high heels. But then again, she
should’ve known better than to wear five inch stilettos on a night like this.

Stretching out her legs, she pulls
her phone from her waist-belt, and scrolls through a string of texts from
people who won’t be able to make it.

No big deal. The place is already
packed. But what she can’t get over is that—despite being shamelessly
late—Elliot hasn’t even bothered to reach out.

With her lips tightly pressed
together, she shakes her head and dials him.
It’s one thing to leave her hanging when she needed a fake emergency call at
the café… but missing the event she’s been beaming about for
months
?

 

Voicemail.

 

“Elli! You better be stuck in
traffic, you jackass. You were supposed to be here
two hours ago
. I had
to serve everything without crackers.”

Leaning over to sneak a peek at
the refreshments table, her gaze lands onto Romer, looking deliciously dashing with
his hair slicked back, donning a black leather jacket and a powder-blue shirt.

Neve watches him scan the dwindling
selection of edibles, shrug, and then pop a cube of cheese into his mouth. And
it isn’t till someone blocks him from her view that Neve remembers still being on
the phone.

“Elli—I know this is the last
thing you want to do right now. I get it. But it’s just me, and I really
really
need you. So just
come, okay?”

Her hopes of Elliot actually
showing up perish the instant she ends the call. But maybe it’s for the best. He’d
probably be miserable, anyway.

She glances in Romer’s direction,
then with an act of sheer will, rises back onto her throbbing feet. She runs
her fingers through her wavy hair, takes a deep breath, and then ventures back
into the main space.

Where’d he go
? She scans the gallery, but Romer is nowhere to be seen.

Eager to stage a run-in before
it’s too late, Neve heads straight for the entrance. But with her focus misplaced,
she winds up bumping into someone. A very strong and sturdy someone who ends up
saving her from a humiliating tumble.

“Whoa—you alright?” he asks.

“Oh God—I’m so sorry about that,” Neve
forces a laugh to mask her embarrassment. “Thank you.”

“Not a problem,” he dashes a
charming smile.

She takes him in: early thirties, build
of a rugby-player, crew haircut, and thick, expressive brows. In his slick
bomber, white shirt, and dark jeans, he is the ‘everybody’s type’ kind of
handsome.

“Are you a friend of Elliot’s?” Neve
asks to fill the silence, and immediately imagines him responding with: ‘
Yeah,
I use him as a toothbrush
’.

“No, I was just walking by and noticed
the line up. Thought I’d check it out,” he shrugs and looks about the gallery.
“Are these all yours?” he spins his index finger in the air.

Neve’s face lights up. “They sure
are.”

He nods impressively. “Well done.”

“Thanks,” her smile broadens as
she pulls her hair behind her ear. “I’m Neve, by the way,” she extends her hand
for a shake.

He reaches out and takes Neve’s
hand, but his face suddenly goes blank. “I’m—” his pauses, staring at Neve as though
he’s trying to remember something important. “Victor,” he says. “Victor Young.”

His grip is too firm all of a
sudden, and what little emotion is registered on his face feels…
hostile
?

“It’s very nice to meet you,
Victor,” Neve smiles, trying to conceal her unease over his sudden shift in
demeanor. “Well, I’m going to make a round—” she indicates the gallery, then
looks down at her hand.

Realizing he’s still firmly
gripping it, he lets go.

“Right,” he nods, and then wanders
back into the heart of the gallery.

Neve’s brows knit, having no idea
what to think. He seemed so personable at first. What happened?

“Macking on the commoners, I see,”
Romer’s voice by her ear snaps her to attention.

He’s still here
… Neve feels a fluttering in her chest. “Done gorging on
cheese, I see,” she crosses her arms and turns to face him.

“Been watching me, have you?” he sips
from his plastic cup and leans against the column.

His playfulness feels so out of
character. This is, after all, the same guy who just yesterday made Neve feel
as sexy as a dustpan.

“Yeah, well—it’s on me to make
sure everything runs smoothly.”

“Oh
please
… I saw you eyeing
me from your little hideout in the back.”

What
!
When
?
Shit
!

“Well—it’s not my fault you stick
out like a sore thumb. A powder-blue shirt? I mean, we get it, you have blue
eyes.”

She waits for him to retort with a
witty comeback. But instead, he just looks at her, taking in the details of her
face—like the freckle on the rim of her upper lip. “And I wasn’t
macking
.
I was introducing myself.”

“Mmm hmm. And I’m sure ‘bumping
into him’ was totally unintentional,” Romer takes another sip from his drink
with a lingering smirk on his lips.

Is he flirting with her? Was his
hostility yesterday just an isolated incident?

“Don’t tell me you’re jealous,”
she counters.

With a gulp of his drink still in
his mouth, his lips form into an even tighter smirk. He shakes his head and
swallows. “Jealousy’s not my color.”

Blue
, Neve thinks, and realizes she’s staring again. “So, um—thank
you. The setup looks amazing.”

Romer looks down and swirls the
drink in his cup. “Is Dylan coming tonight?”

His question jars her. “I don’t,
um—” she tries to play it cool. “No, I don’t think so.”

“Busy?”

“I didn’t invite him,” she looks
away, scanning the crowd for a boy she knows she will not find.

“How come?”

And Neve finds herself
tongue-tied. She can’t tell whether Romer is trying to put her on the spot, or
if he actually doesn’t know.

“You’re mad at him,” he squints, then
nods with a knowing smile. “It’s all over your face.”

Neve scoffs, tongue in cheek. “What
about you?”

“What
about
me?”

“Why don’t you just call him if
you want to see him so bad?”

“Who says I want to see him?”

“It’s all over your face.”

His smile broadens. He goes to say
something, but instead just glides his tongue over his lower teeth.

Gotcha
. Neve flicks up her brows.

“So..?” she coaxes, but Romer just
shrugs it off and averts his gaze. “What?”

“It’s a long story,” he shakes his
head and downs the remainder of his drink. “Thanks for the brew,” he crushes his
cup and starts looking around at knee-level. He spots the bin next to the
refreshments table and makes his way over.

“Are you taking off?” Neve follows.

“Been a long day,” he throws the
cup into the bin.

“Why don’t you just call him?” she
asks.

“I don’t have his new number.”

“It’s the same number,” Neve says,
knowing damn well his excuse is bullshit.

“I got an early day tomorrow,” he
tries to squeeze past her. “Good luck with everything.”

“Okay, hang on—” she rests her
hand on his arm, and to her surprise, he actually stops—like he wants to be talked
into talking.

“I just…” Neve struggles to
finesse what she really wants to ask him. “I’m just a little confused.”

“About?”

About why you’re acting like
Dylan is a complete stranger
? “Well—aren’t
you guys best friends?”

“No,” he says firmly. Terminally.
“We’re definitely not that.”

 

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