Enigmatic
"A little something for your trouble", that was the last thing that Mr. Vance had said. He had been my client for two years now. His case consumed my life. I still don't know why.
As he left, he tossed the cube my way. I had no idea what it was at the time, but I caught it. I had no idea how it would ruin me.
It was small-ish, slightly larger than a baseball. It had gold engravings and strange symbols on it. I must have been from an Asian Culture. Leonard had said that he had traveled the world for some time before he became a Private Contractor.
He paid in cash, I put the cube down. I flipped through the money, he always pays in cash; always on time. Then the cube catches my attention. It becomes my dominant thought. Haven't I seen these things before. Chinese Puzzle Boxes. Like those Rubik's cubes from my childhood, only harder to solve. Harder for me since I don't read Chinese.
I am no antiquities dealer, but the more I look at this thing, the more exotic it looks, the more pristine. Gold inlay, silver embossing, made from a finely polished red-wood.
It is a puzzle; parts move. It's old, and I have to force them at first. A work of art like this, I am afraid I will break it. Some people believe things like this are to be admired from afar, not played with. But I can feel it. Something rattling. Whatever it is, it's in there tightly; with just enough room to jostle a tiny bit when I shake it. I am curious what it could be.
It's 2am now. I still cannot get it open. I stare at it, as it sets under my desk lamp; my face in my hand, my elbow on the desk. I have ignored all my calls. This is my third pot of joe. All the other folks who rent this building have gone home for the night. Even that lovely blond number that works for the accounting firm next door, and she always stays late. I stare. I know I don't know what the symbols mean. But they have to line up somehow. I will quit for the night. Come back tomorrow. Do my work. Perhaps I will take this thing in and get it appraised. Get it examined. Go to the library. Find out what the symbols mean.
I don't have to eat anymore. My body no longer asks for food. It knows it will not get any. I stare as I have for a little less that a week now. The red light blinking on my phone. I have not left the office. I have not answered my calls. I have not eaten. I am trapped here. I have to figure our it's secrets. I know it has something for me. Something it wants to tell me.
They are all dead. Everyone. Everything dies. Everyone dies alone. That is the secret, that is what it is trying to tell me. This can't be Chinese. This can't be the end. I need to know more. How did I open it? I don't even know? I had it in my hands, and was moving it, and it separated, and I could see inside. The thing rattling. Inside. It is me.
Oh god. Oh god, oh god, oh god; what horrors. Nothing is real. This is all just blood. Everything forged from earth. Like Adam in the garden; we just become food for the plants.
I saw it there. In the middle. It was a city. And hell was defeated. Everyone who had ever lived was there; but it was not happiness and reunions. It was shackles, and punch cards, and lines, and food-stamps. It was the fucking DMV; for the dead. Only someone, somewhere, at sometime decided who was in line, and who was working the counter; and who got coffee breaks, and who got IRAs.
I was in line. I was dead. Everyone is dead. Alone, but in line. And its intimate and personal, and everyone dies a different way. Even in a plane wreck, no two people die -exactly- the same. To sum it up as a plane wreck would be an insult.
Is that how I die? I plane wreck, the fuselage falling from the heavens, my mask strapped to my face, like a party hat on my 5th birthday. Then we hit the ground. And there can be no screaming. No fear. No confusion of what comes next. And the metal groans as it bends, like a pregnant seal pushing forth it's placenta; groaning a prayer to god; for our pitiless souls.
The chair in front of me leaps up as we meet the ground. As I am flung into the air, the wind leave my lungs as the seat enters my chest. I am broken in half. Everything I was severed at once.
They say I killed them. It was no industrial accident like Leonard Vance. No, I killed them in my sleep. I must have, I have no knowledge of it. I had not left my Office for over two weeks. My wife had stopped trying to reach me. One-hundred-and-eight messages on my machine.
In the office next to me they do Accounting for the city, or did. On the other side, they draw up blue prints for zoning. The only thing I remember was coffee, and the box. The cube, the Chinese. The strange symbols.
Their blood will wash off, but the symbols will be in my head forever. Burned into my mind. I now await trial.
Look on the bright side, I won't be flying.
As he left, he tossed the cube my way. I had no idea what it was at the time, but I caught it. I had no idea how it would ruin me.
It was small-ish, slightly larger than a baseball. It had gold engravings and strange symbols on it. I must have been from an Asian Culture. Leonard had said that he had traveled the world for some time before he became a Private Contractor.
He paid in cash, I put the cube down. I flipped through the money, he always pays in cash; always on time. Then the cube catches my attention. It becomes my dominant thought. Haven't I seen these things before. Chinese Puzzle Boxes. Like those Rubik's cubes from my childhood, only harder to solve. Harder for me since I don't read Chinese.
I am no antiquities dealer, but the more I look at this thing, the more exotic it looks, the more pristine. Gold inlay, silver embossing, made from a finely polished red-wood.
It is a puzzle; parts move. It's old, and I have to force them at first. A work of art like this, I am afraid I will break it. Some people believe things like this are to be admired from afar, not played with. But I can feel it. Something rattling. Whatever it is, it's in there tightly; with just enough room to jostle a tiny bit when I shake it. I am curious what it could be.
It's 2am now. I still cannot get it open. I stare at it, as it sets under my desk lamp; my face in my hand, my elbow on the desk. I have ignored all my calls. This is my third pot of joe. All the other folks who rent this building have gone home for the night. Even that lovely blond number that works for the accounting firm next door, and she always stays late. I stare. I know I don't know what the symbols mean. But they have to line up somehow. I will quit for the night. Come back tomorrow. Do my work. Perhaps I will take this thing in and get it appraised. Get it examined. Go to the library. Find out what the symbols mean.
I don't have to eat anymore. My body no longer asks for food. It knows it will not get any. I stare as I have for a little less that a week now. The red light blinking on my phone. I have not left the office. I have not answered my calls. I have not eaten. I am trapped here. I have to figure our it's secrets. I know it has something for me. Something it wants to tell me.
They are all dead. Everyone. Everything dies. Everyone dies alone. That is the secret, that is what it is trying to tell me. This can't be Chinese. This can't be the end. I need to know more. How did I open it? I don't even know? I had it in my hands, and was moving it, and it separated, and I could see inside. The thing rattling. Inside. It is me.
Oh god. Oh god, oh god, oh god; what horrors. Nothing is real. This is all just blood. Everything forged from earth. Like Adam in the garden; we just become food for the plants.
I saw it there. In the middle. It was a city. And hell was defeated. Everyone who had ever lived was there; but it was not happiness and reunions. It was shackles, and punch cards, and lines, and food-stamps. It was the fucking DMV; for the dead. Only someone, somewhere, at sometime decided who was in line, and who was working the counter; and who got coffee breaks, and who got IRAs.
I was in line. I was dead. Everyone is dead. Alone, but in line. And its intimate and personal, and everyone dies a different way. Even in a plane wreck, no two people die -exactly- the same. To sum it up as a plane wreck would be an insult.
Is that how I die? I plane wreck, the fuselage falling from the heavens, my mask strapped to my face, like a party hat on my 5th birthday. Then we hit the ground. And there can be no screaming. No fear. No confusion of what comes next. And the metal groans as it bends, like a pregnant seal pushing forth it's placenta; groaning a prayer to god; for our pitiless souls.
The chair in front of me leaps up as we meet the ground. As I am flung into the air, the wind leave my lungs as the seat enters my chest. I am broken in half. Everything I was severed at once.
They say I killed them. It was no industrial accident like Leonard Vance. No, I killed them in my sleep. I must have, I have no knowledge of it. I had not left my Office for over two weeks. My wife had stopped trying to reach me. One-hundred-and-eight messages on my machine.
In the office next to me they do Accounting for the city, or did. On the other side, they draw up blue prints for zoning. The only thing I remember was coffee, and the box. The cube, the Chinese. The strange symbols.
Their blood will wash off, but the symbols will be in my head forever. Burned into my mind. I now await trial.
Look on the bright side, I won't be flying.