Day Seven, a future that isn’t yet written
By Noah Maranto
Jeffery sits slumped in the back of a limo, his head resting on the lap of teenage girl, blonde hair tied back in blue ribbon and torn leather jacket. Jeffery gently fingers one of several gaping wounds in his chest. Jeffery winces in pain. Jeffery doesn’t do that again.
He closes his eyes, imagining the tendons, muscles, organs knitting themselves back into a state of completeness. Jeffery has a moment of zen where he’s seeing it all time-lapse and his stomach stitches itself closed and swells out, scar tissue vanishing; his stomach muscles snake out, reforming and crawling across his abdomen, twining into tissue, and skin melting over the whole mess. In his head he’s smiling.
Jeffery opens his eyes and is not smiling. It’s doubtful he could smile anymore, even if he had cause.
Jeffery is in the back seat of a limo, his head in the lap of his dearest, oldest, youngest friend Carrie. Next to Carrie, stroking her head in a motherly fashion, is Claire, a concerned look etched into her face from recent events. Jeffery’s eyes skim over the rest of the motley characters lounging in the back of the car, their faces going by in a swish pan and stopping on Rhal.
Sound cuts out, as Jeffery doesn’t want to hear anything. Slow motion kicks in, as Jeffery lets hate wash over him in crashing wave after crashing wave. Rhal. Rhal. Rhal.
He chats silently, lips moving slowly as he talks to the driver, and Jeffery just lets that hate build. It roars in his ears now.
Rhal turns his head towards the back and looks at Jeffery, flashing a cruel grin. His lips move, still in slow-mo, "------."
Jeffery hears, "KILL THAT MOTHER FUCKING ARABIAN PRICK, TEAR HIS FUCKING BALLS OFF AND LIGHT HIS OIL SOAKED BODY ON FIRE, THEN STAKE HIS SORRY ASS AND PUT IT OUT IN THE SUN, HE HASN’T GOT A RIGHT TO LIVE, WHAT RIGHT HAS HE FUCKING GOT TO FUCK WITH MY GODDAMN FUCKING LIFE, I HAVE A FAMILY NOW, A WIFE, AND ALL HE WANTS TO DO IS TOY WITH ME LIKE SOME GODDAMN FUCKING CAT WHILE I SIT HERE WISHING I COULD DIE BUT HE WON’T EVEN GIVE ME THAT FUCKING SATISFATION WILL HE, WHAT THE FUCK DOES HE WANT WITH ME ANYWAY, I JUST WANT OUT NOW. I JUST WANT THE FUCK OUT!"
Jeffery glares at Rhal, who flashes another grin, killer menace behind white teeth and turns to the driver, talking again. Jeffery turns his thoughts away before he’s consumed by the voice screaming at him to scream at Rhal, to grab the nearest sword and—
Jeffery reaches on the floor, shifting slightly in Carrie’s lap, grabbing the handgun and relishing the inflated feeling of the self that always came with holding a handgun. This little pee-shooter couldn’t for a second protect Jeffery from anything that wanted to hurt him, and he knew it. Still, he holds the gun, clicks the safety off, and holds the gun in shaky hands. He presses it against his thigh, gripping as tightly as he can, imagining:
Sonic booms of projectiles spiraling from the barrel and Rhal’s head shattering under the impact, skull, black, oily blood and brain decorating the white expanse of Jeffery’s imagination, making a fractal of bullet wound shrapnel. Beauty greater than any Jeffery had ever witnessed.
And thinking back, Jeffery always had it easy.
There was always money, sex, respect, enough power to suit him, but never too much responsibility.
There was never danger.
And now it’s like it never stops. Jeffery’s not safe a moment. He’s become the world’s punching bag in the blink of an eye in vampire time.
And the sad thing is, Jeffery is learning to enjoy it.
He began developing his little philosophy after the flames bloomed and snuffed themselves out on the Garou’s chest and shoulders. The beast roared and stood up straight, and before Jeffery was hit he had some time to think.
After having it easy for so many years, wasn’t it about time for some suffering? Don’t these things go in cycles? And if Jeffery suffers, that means there’s a little more happiness for someone else out there. Even if he can’t see the exact reason for his suffering, Jeffery has to trust there’s some reason behind it.
"Fuck, maybe I should just become a Christian."
And the claws tore down, through flesh, muscle, and bone, throwing Jeffery off the Limo roof.
Jeffery can pinpoint the exact moment he stopped caring about himself. He was flying through the air, watching the individual droplets of blood fly from his body with a look of childlike wonder on his face. He saw his fluids, freeing themselves of the cage that his body had made for them and he silently wondered, "Is self destruction the only way to true and lasting freedom?"
So here Jeffery is, healing in the back of the Limo, in the lap of one love, having her hair stroked by his other love. That’s more love than Rhal will ever experience. He’ll never know what he’s missing though, so he can’t be envious.
Jeffery tries to put together his thoughts in the logical fashion that everything has ever been taught to him. He orders his feelings and thoughts on everything, ranking, ordering, classifying and then evaluating everything.
He grits his teeth, and grabs the gun more tightly, his finger gently pressing against the trigger.
He opens his eyes, then closes them, tightly.
Jeffery looks at his mind, his life, his feelings, his love, all ordered and filed away inside his head.
Like a million, billion drawers in filing cabinets that stretch from eternity on one side, to eternity on the other side, to eternity straight up. Jeffery holds the gun in his hand still. He’s sure Freud would have something to say about this whole thing. He throws the gun aside, focusing hard. NO, LOSE FOCUS YOU FUCKING FOOL. FOCUS IS YOUR WHOLE LIFE, JUST PISS IT ALL AWAY—and it won’t stop yelling for anything. Jeffery listens quietly to the ranting, absorbing it, wave after wave after wave crashing down upon his bruised and battered identity. He closes his eyes, a brain twitch, and the file cabinets fly open, a thousand memories falling from eternity above, eternity to every side. Heart, lungs, liver, spleen. Blood, upon blood, upon blood. Bitter black blood spilling down a gagging throat. Tears. Tears. Tears. Blood. Fire. A virus, plague, running through the brain, mind, psyche. Slave. Keeper. Slave. A perfect stone sphere, glowing like the moon under the water. Skinless Fred. Damien. Vincent. Betrayal. Closed doors. Sewers. Humans. Rats. Food. Prey. Delighting in the hunt. The seminar of the self begins with Day Two, how to rationalize every evil, twisted fucked up thing you’ve ever done in your life in order to save yourself from a complete mental breakdown. Day Three, how to suffer a complete mental breakdown in order to save yourself from every twisted, fucked up thing you’ve ever done in your life. Sex. Repression. Rational. Bondage. Slavery. Blades. Blood. Hair. Fire. Pain. Pain. Pain. Death. Embrace. Choices. Knives. Blades. Home. Prison. Day Three, how to start your life completely over after you had that complete mental breakdown to save it. Day Four, how to not let anyone know you’re a completely new person. Day Five, the merits of complete self-destruction.
And Jeffery opens his eyes and his eyes are wide open, seeing perfectly for the first time ever. He laughs.
Rhal turns at the sound, a predatory grin and a question: "What’s funny Jeffery?"
Jeffery looks him straight in the eye and smiles. "Day Six, what not to do to someone stronger, faster, better, more in control, and in all ways superior to yourself."
Rhal looks puzzled and turns away from Jeffery.
A moment later, the front windshield is painted with a fractal of Rhal’s blood and brains. Jeffery holds the smoking pistol out in front of him, still smiling.
Jeffery admires the most beautiful things he’s ever created.
Day Seven, a future that isn’t yet written.
E-mail Noah at noahism@hotmail.com