Catch Me

Sunlight filters down from on high, bouncing from chrome and steel. It warms the soil and the skin and the blacktop worn grey from tires. Cars roll along, engines roaring discordant challenges, wheels screeching around corners in impromptu races between howling men and women with too much time but too little time left between their now and their destination and somewhere in the middle of it all is You. Ripples wash through the grass in emerald waves, the wind tousling the long blades gently, unrelenting. Detached seedlings rise up and over, weaving from plains to cities, alighting on windows shut tight to hold in the radio and television and the hateful shouts of two people with love that has soured like milk, curdling and separating and retching from the loss of the whole and once I believed that was You. A crow caws. Claws click on overreaching street lights, casting shadows on the pedestrians below. The intermingling texting and tapping, shouting and snapping, smooths out into a flatline of ambience with regular pulses of an abrupt laughter or angry bark or anxious wail of a child reaching out to find something or someone that will listen, will understand, will hold them close and calm them and I remember long ago when that was You. You, who was always there. You, who surrounded me in your glow. You, who caught me before I had a chance to fall. You, who I can't find anymore. You, who found me when I was at my lowest, cut through the radiation of noise of sound of calamity and laid your hands on mine. You blocked out the vehicles and winds of change and taught me how to direct the flow to move in my own direction and together we ruled the world for eighteen months. You found me when I was at my lowest, and after you elevated me to heights I didn't know were possible, you dropped me. I'm falling now. I'm falling and I've been falling for years and I know once you would have caught me but it's been so long I can barely remember the warmth of your glow or the pressure of your hand on my back and I can see the ground and I need you to catch me. I need you to catch me. I need you to catch me. I need

Ready

“Lay them here.” I said, gesturing to the ground at the edge of the clearing. She complied, swinging the bag from her shoulder and unbuckling the strap, rolling it out until it was a short rectangle of fabric, the tools shining dully in their black sheaths.

The moonlight was pale, broken once by the canopy we huddled at the edge of and again by the fog which was slowly building up, wrapping around our shins. The humidity had dampened our clothes, aided by the hard trek here. We would both have gladly removed our jackets, was visibility not such a risk. Even having our faces exposed was dangerous.

I watched my companion as she straightened the fabric, ensuring it had no creases. It was not needed, but it comforted her. When she was done she looked up at me and I noticed she was shaking.

“You don’t have to do this.” I said. “I’ll forgive you if you don’t.”

She looked away and stood up, brushing dirt from her pants. “I know.”

Neither of us said anything for a while. Our job was to wait. After a few minutes she sat at the base of one of the dark trees, leaning her head against the trunk. The fog swirled around her neck, occasionally thick enough to conceal her body and leaver her decapitated on the shifting mist.

The leaves were tousled by the breeze far above, the rustling tumbling down to us and collapsing into the soft fog, into silence. Time passed. Under the vast, endless stars, sitting in a forgotten forest, time passed around us, only our small cocoon left untouched.  Only once before have I felt so insignificant.

Something changed, out in beyond the forest, and then within the clearing. A glance at my companion confirmed that she had felt it too. She sat upright, no longer touching the tree, feeling the change creep over her skin and down her spine, just as it did mine. And then, after long, tense moments, it passed us by. We dared to breathe.

“Quickly.” I moved to the tools and she did the same, each of us taking from opposite sides. We stood and gripped each others’ left arm with our own.

“Last chance.”

In the middle of the clearing, the fog began to drift in a spiral, rising a little in the centre. She watched it for slightly longer than a second. Then she stopped shaking.

She nodded. “Ready.”

The blades slashed down swift and deep, mine opening her unmarked arm and hers reopening my scars. Blood flowed readily, eagerly, and I could see the fear in her eyes so I gripped her arm tighter and we both watched as crimson dripped from our skin and disappeared into the shifting fog that had risen to our waists now and completely obscured the ground below.

The mass of grey flowed into the clearing from every direction, feeding into the spiral, slowly getting faster and faster. Half-formed wisps brushed past our legs, tips breaking the surface for the merest moments, swimming irrevocably inward.

The spiral roiled, all calm now abandoned, the centre rising like an inverted funnel reaching up for the endless stars. Flashes like lightning with no thunder lit the towering mass, flickering fleeting shadows through the trees, and our blood flowed on and out and down. I could feel her shaking again and began to shake myself, fighting to stay afloat in the always-fear that maybe we were too late, maybe this time won’t work, maybe we’re not strong enough until finally the fog around our waists faded to pink, then red, the greedy spiral sucking up the stain. The blood poured from our increasingly pale arms, speeding through the blushing fog and twining around the pillar, absurdly reminding me of a barber. The weight of the blood sagged the fog slightly and I could feel the clear getting warmer, heat radiating from the writhing centre.

The flashes were casting shadows from within the fog now, showing snapshots of a shape gestating in the column. The crimson stripes pressed down on the shadows, crushing and distorting them, vainly attempting to contain the heat. Her hand slipped from my arm, her eyes glassy and unfocused. Slowly, for I could no longer move fast, I took her in my arms and kneeled down, only our heads remaining atop the sea.

A pressure was building in my skull, the colour of a scream. Something in the fog struck us nearly, making me drop her. I didn’t know what would happen if we went beneath the surface. I didn’t want to find out. Wind roared through the vacuous space behind my eyes and I blinked away tears lest they fall into the fog. There was too much of me in it already, swirling red through the centre of the clearing.

Memories burst unbidden to the forefront of my vision, memories of places I have never seen: buildings rotted and decomposing; the stench of scorched flowers; a howling desert and behind it all a great slumbering giant once sated but now rousing.

The heat in the clearing built until I could feel sweat prickling my skin, despite the steady numbness that was seeping over me. My vision blurred and darkened, lit spasmodically by the increasing lightning and the single full moon. My head thrummed with the increasing pressure, pulsing in time with the light, the tempo getting faster and stronger and louder and somewhere in the fog two enormous hands closed in to crush and conceal us from the explosion rending outwards from the colossal column of blooded fog that tore and dissolved the grass and plants and trees in a perfect circle all around, washing over us in a primordial roar of princely rage and blasting the hands that gripped us almost to obliteration. The expulsion seemed to go on for hours, but I know it must have only been a few seconds because I didn’t lose consciousness until after it had abated, leaving only a blackened clearing.

She awoke before I did. Her hands were on my arm, bandaging what was left of the wound. There was matching white cloth around her arm, concealing her first scar. She was shaking.

“We did it?” Her voice cracked as she forced the words from dry lips.

I nodded. We would not have survived if we had failed.

We didn’t speak until she had finished. I picked up the tools, still shining dully on the charred earth, and put them back in the bag.

“Ready?” I asked, motioning through the forest, back the way we came.

She stopped shaking. She nodded.

“Ready.”

Seamus

Seamus’ lips closed around the flesh, lips smacking as his teeth crunched down, severing fat from meat, his tongue probing and rolling, savouring the salty oil coating it.

The blunt metal knife screeched and scraped on the pristine white plate, drawing looks from around the café. Seamus ignored them, sawing away at the remainder of the bacon. Hey, when you only get one day out, you stop worrying about what everyone else thinks. The last of the bacon disappeared into Seamus’ mouth, leaking juice that trickled down his lips and dripped from his chin. He ignored it, instead drawing his forefinger to his mouth and slurping off some grease that had escaped.

“Stop it.” Will hissed. “People are staring.”

“This is my day out.” Seamus paused. “You gonna take my one chance to enjoy a little food away from me?”

“Just do it quietly. People are judging us.” Will whispered.

Seamus looked around, meeting each of the pairs of eyes in turn, then pulled a pack from his pocket and fished out a cigarette. His lighter scratched and clicked a few times before igniting, the flame weak and sputtering. He brought it to the end of the cigarette and then took a drag, pulling the smoke deep down into himself. He waited for a second. Two. Three. The he leant back, blowing a grey plume toward the fan above him. Disappointingly, it was not turned on.

“Where did you get that?” Will hissed.

Seamus held up a hand to silence him They say absence makes the heart grow fonder and while he may not have a whole lot of relationship experience, this was his first cig in a year and god damn did it feel good.

“Grabbed it while you were at the store yesterday.”

“You weren’t out then!” Will whispered through clenched teeth. “You have to obey the rules!”

“The rules that we ‘agreed’ on? Look, mate, I’m not hurting anyone. You were distracted, I nabbed myself a pack. No harm done, right?”

Will’s nostrils flared for a few seconds before he gave up. “Fine. Keep your voice down. People are staring.”

“Takes two to tango.” Seamus retorted, though quieter.

The café sat on the corner of two streets--lanes, really. There was a checkerboard strip of red and white tiles along the top of the walls, and each table had a red tablecloth. Simple colour scheme. It looked nice. One of the other patrons, a woman with a brown handbag, coughed pointedly. The old bag was leathery and wrinkled, matching her purse well. Seamus ignored her, and eventually she stopped, huffing to herself and waddling out of the café. Seamus smiled through the haze of smoke that was beginning to settle around him. It was astounding how many problems can be solved by simply ignoring them.

Seamus enjoyed a few more minutes of post-English Breakfast bliss before a pale congregation of acne in a red uniform shirt and black pants stuttered its way to the table. Seamus sighed, pulled hard on the smoke and looked up. The acne parted, revealing too-white teeth.

"Excuse me s-sir, I'm afraid you can't s-smoke inside."

The voice was as oily as its hair. Seamus glared at the acne for a few seconds before realising his hand had unconsciously clenched around the knife.

Will placed his hand gently over Seamus' and the fingers around the knife gently uncurled.

"So sorry." Seamus smiled. "I must've missed the signs."

He took the cigarette from his lips and pressed the end into the remains of his bacon, smearing ashes along the plate. He pushed the plate forward, slowly, the china screeching across the pristine tabletop until it sat in the centre.

"Give my compliments to the chef." He said, standing and turning to leave the café.

"Uh, s-sir, you haven't paid yet."

Seamus stopped, a stinging pain in his palms letting him know that his hands had clenched again, hard enough for his fingernails to break the skin. He studied the red and white tiles near the ceiling. He breathed deeply.

"Sir?" The acne breathed pubescent oil across Seamus' back.

Will felt him tense up, worriedly whispering, "Seamus..."

"P-pardon, sir?" Seamus could feel the acne gripping its finely-ironed uniform shift.

"I said," Seamus turned, "shame on us."

The acne had the briefest moment to look perplexed before its expression was covered by a fist. Seamus punched it as hard as he could--which, thanks to Will, was still nearly as hard as in his prime. The acne staggered backwards, holding its nose in disbelief as blood began to drench its already red shirt.

"Seamus! We had an agreement!" Will shouted, struggling desperately to restrain Seamus. But Seamus had one day, one day, and he was going to make it count.

He scanned the room, taking in the other patrons. No one under sixty. Easy.

"I don't recall ever actually agreeing." He said, picking the grease coated knife up from the plate. Two brown gaps in the acne that Seamus presumed were eyes widened, realising what was about to happen. Distantly, he heard screams, presumably from some of the other patrons, but his attention was elsewhere. He brought the knife up, easily brushing aside resistance from both the acne and Will, and stabbed at the acne's neck, spurting hot red blood all over his hand. The congregation of acne fell, clutching at the wound, and Seamus fell with him. He brought the knife down again and again, stabbing into the crisp red uniform shirt. Will kept on distracting him, trying to speak, trying to use Seamus' mouth to cry out, to stop him, but this was Seamus' day. He was in control.

He continued to puncture the uniform shirt until his arm tired, then sat back on his heels. Everyone else had fled the café. He was fairly sure the police had been called. Will had given up trying to control their limbs and had receded to some corner of their mind that Seamus usually occupied. He breathed deeply.

"What have you done?" Will murmured.

Seamus stood up, stretching out his back and arms. "Nabbed myself a free meal, for starters." He looked around the café and spotted a plate of uneaten sausages and eggs. "Two free meals, even."

"You've killed us."

Seamus smiled, sitting down and beginning to cut the sausages. "Probably. But you were torturing me anyway. Better to live out my short days in the sun than long days in the shade, eh?"

Will tried, weakly, to make Seamus move, then went quiet.

Seamus ate loudly, enjoying his last free meal; one man alone in a corner café, waiting for the police.

Got a friend to give me a couple of prompts: "Holiday" and "Prison". Thought this would make a neat little twist. Oh, and for anyone who's made the same mistake that I did as a child, 'Seamus' is pronounced "Shame us".