Retrograde.
LOOK GUYS, LOOK AT WHAT I HAVE!!!!
&&&
The tension in the room grew and was suddenly shattered when someone knocked on the door. “Is everything okay in there?” a man called from outside. Jon flicked his eyes to the door and back to Stephen. He cautiously moved to the door, cracking it to peer out at the concerned citizen.
“I heard someone screaming. Are you okay in here?”
“Yes, we’re fine, thanks.”
“Are you su-“ Jon closed the door, cutting the man off.
“Jon, that was just rude,” Not-Stephen scolded.
Jon crashed into his bed. “Like you have a lot of room to talk about that,” he countered. “Go to sleep, we’ll have another long day of driving ahead of us.” He rolled over: further conversation was out of the question. But he didn’t relax until he heard even breathing from the other bed.
Stephen felt cold and naked. He could feel his chest rising and falling in sleep, and he dreaded it. As any Stephen King movie will tell you, the nighttime is the worst. He could hear Jon whistling through his nose in the bed beside him, the quiet gurgle of pipes, the sound of a far-off train. Humanity was all around him, but he never had felt so alone, so alien. The beast in his head had made certain of that.
He wimpered when the all too familiar feeling descended on him. His dreams were spiraling out of control, and he didn’t think he could handle them for much longer. He tried to focus on Jon’s breathing, staying in the now. But it was all in vain, his thoughts scattered and morphed into indistinct images.
“Stephen, wake up,” Evie whispered in his ear. His eyelids felt heavy and he lifted them with reluctance. He found himself lying sprawled across their poster bed, blankets tangled around him and pillows on the floor.
He shook his head and kneaded the heel of his hand into his eye. “Evie, is there something you aren’t telling me about last night?”
She laughed softly from over the top of her book. “That was all you, honey. Those must have been some bad nightmares you had.”
“Nightmares?” he moved, tugging blankets aside and repositioned himself, wrapping himself around her. He couldn’t explain it, he just needed to be close to her. “I don’t remember them. But- well, I sort of do.” He started to read over her shoulder, forgetting that he didn’t read. Oh well, the Nation didn’t have to know…
Evie closed the book, using a delicate finger to mark her page. “Are you sure? You were mumbling an awful lot. Something about Jon and the British spy person.”
Stephen shook his head, delicately pulling her auburn hair back from her face. “I don’t remember, honestly.”
She bit her lip, suddenly sober. “You found out about our affair, didn’t you?”
Stephen flopped over. “OH GOD! My life is over! I mean, it’d be bad enough if he was protestant, but a Jew? I’ll never be able to face anyone again!”
She pouted at him. “I’m sorry you had to find out this way. It’s the hair.” She put the book on the bedside table, looking at her husband. “Is there anything I can do to earn your respect again?”
“Yes, there is something,” he said as he pulled her close, kissing her softly. “Say five Hail Mary’s.”
She laughed again. He kissed her hungrily for a few minutes, almost as if he hadn’t seen her in days. She eventually broke contact, licking her lips. “So, who’s the British spy?”
He paused, then shrugged. “Is this some kind of fantasy? I’m the British spy. My teeth are janky, babe. Want to look?”
She tangled her fingers in his hair. “No, who is the spy? The pie hating spy?”
Suspicion stirred in his mind, but he was too preoccupied to notice. “Who, John? What about him?”
“Who is he?” she asked, her other hand moving along his spine softly.
He wasn’t in the mood to discuss his coworkers. “Baby, you know who John Oliver is. Is this really the time to talk about him?”
“John… Oliver… that’s who Jon called in the car?”
Stephen arched an eyebrow at her. “What are you talking about?” Suddenly, everything came rushing back in a wave. He attempted to jump out of bed, but Evie’s fingers were suddenly pulling his hair on his head and chest, making him yell out. He managed to fall out of bed, the blankets and sheets wrapped around his body like chains. He scrambled away, running to the door. It was locked from the outside. A muffled scream from the bed made him turn around reluctantly.
She was sprawled out on the bed, lifeless. “NO!” he screamed, running to her. He pressed his good ear to her chest but heard nothing except the sobs rising in his own chest.
So John Oliver is the man who will be meeting us.
He choked on his tears. “Leave me alone.”
Why he would be the one, I wonder…
The room was disappearing around him. He crossed himself, raining tears on his wife’s still face.
…Who is he? Is he someone important? Tell me.
He noticed -too late- that she was becoming less real. He held her tight, sobs wracking his whole body.
Tell me.
“No, you can’t have her. You can’t.”
Tell me.
He was plunged into darkness. “GIVE HER BACK TO ME!”
She wasn’t ever really there. Pain erupted in his mind, filling everything. Who is John Oliver?!
“No! You can’t- you won’t-“
Okay, fine. Be that way. I’ll just rip it out of you.
He braced himself as well as he could.
Jon stirred at the sound of Stephen’s labored breathing. “Stephen?” he asked groggily.
Images filled his mind, beautiful, crisp, and painful. His wife’s face. His children. The last time he saw his father alive. Jon. His writers on the show. His wedding day. His mother baking cookies when he was a child. Jon and Steve at the Emmy’s. Arguing with Steve during Even Stevphen. Watching Lewis Black rant.
Jon watched his friend tensely as he started to groan.
Lewis Black. Important things with Demitri Martin. Mac v. PC. Aasif Mandvi talking about helium balloons. Wyatt Cenac. Jon talking about evil Republicans. Team Evil. Team Stupid.
Stephen gave a strangled cry, making Jon sit up in bed.
Team Stupid. John Oliver. British. Dark hair. Immigrant. Came to the Daily show after The Report began. Stereotypical bad teeth. Senor British Correspondent. Glasses. Great legs.
So… he’s the one who is going to save the day, huh? Well, we’ll see.
The images left his mind. He scrambled, trying to hold onto any of them. “Can’t I just see her one last time?” he wept brokenly.
None of those people are real anymore. That life is gone. And soon enough nothing will exist.
“Please, I can’t even bring her face to my mind. You have to at least let me remember she is real.”
Silence. Then a half remembered sound, the sound of her laughing. It was enough to undo him.
Jon was halfway to the bed when Stephen’s body launched itself forward, screaming at the top of his lungs. Immediately the knocking on the walls began again. “What the hell?” could be heard from the room to their right.
Jon knelt on the bed, trying to grab his friend, who was flailing about, a crazed animal. Jon tried to cover his mouth, but was bitten for his efforts. Stephen continued screaming. He attempted to pin the possessed pundit to the bed, wondering what the tabloids would think if they could see it, and tried to calm him down, but failed.
Someone was pounding on the door. “We’ve called the front desk!” The door handle jiggled. “What’s going on in there?”
He did his best to ignore them. “Stephen! Calm down, I’m here. Stephen, for fuck’s sake, calm down!” He shook the man roughly, pushing him back with slightly too much force; the younger man’s head connected with the headboard and he gasped, stunned. The silence wasn’t complete; the small crowd was still outside the door, talking loudly.
Stephen kept drawing in shuddering breaths, starring at some middle distance and threatening to fly apart once more. Jon leapt off the bed, rushing over to the window and peaking out the gap of the curtain. Four or five men stood outside, another was talking excitedly on his cellphone at a distance. This was a lot of excitement for small town Midwest. He ducked quickly when he saw one look in his direction.
“How are we going to escape?” he worried, chewing his lip. “We can’t just climb out of the bathroom window like we were children or something. And I certainly can’t explain the truth, not like this.” He ran his hands through his hair. “Shit, Stephen! Why the hell did you have to go and do that for?”
Stephen groaned, holding his stomach and crying, repeating one word over and over under his breath. “Evie. Evie.”
The pounding on the door became louder suddenly. “Fucking open already!” He considered screaming back when the sound of far-off sirens made his blood run cold.
“They seriously called the cops?! We’re being treated on the same level as drug dealers?” He shot to Stephen’s side, checking his friend over. “Stephen, have you got any ideas on how to get out of here?” The younger man answered him by shakily pulling on the shirt that was lying on the floor.
“Good point,” Jon said, casting about for his own clothes. He had stuffed his socks into the old duffel bag earlier that night, and as he dug through he paused, making Stephen stiffen. He didn’t have to ask what Jon had found, he already knew and was halfway across the room to the bathroom before Jon pulled his hand out. His fingers were firmly curled around the stock of Sweetness, who had been impounded earlier in the week.
Jon looked at his friend in shock. “Why the hell do you have that? Are you trying to get us killed? We’re in the suburbs of Detroit, put that away!”
Not-Stephen smiled, examining it. “She really does talk. You don’t want to know what she thinks about you.”
Jon reached over and snatched it out of his hands, stowing it under his seat. “Can’t you stay out of trouble for five minutes?!” Later he’d pushed it to the bottom of the bag and made a point of not letting it out of his sight.
He’d taken the firearm because he was afraid of what would happen with it in the wrong hands, but now maybe he was just tired or desperate enough that it’s presence seemed like a good idea. He popped the barrel, examining the bullets inside, and smiled up at his friend. “I’ve got a plan.”
The men outside were fumbling with the key the front desk had brought. The idea of a citizen’s arrest rested comfortably on their shoulders, and they longed to make the front page of their hometown newspapers. They were all college aged Ag students who were on a class trip and out in the wide world for the first time. Something like this had never happened to them before, and they reveled in the experience.
At least, they did until the crazed man burst out of the door suddenly. He had another man pressed to his chest, and in his hand a small revolver was against his temple. A particularly observant boy screamed and backed away. Another cracked his knuckles, clearly ready to charge. Jon cocked the gun, making them all pause. “Just let us get out of here, and nobody will be hurt.”
They exchanged glances and backed away reluctantly when he hissed and pressed the gun harder. Together, he and Stephen shuffled backward down the second floor outdoor hallway, edging slowly, carefully toward the stairs. “Dude, is that Jon Stewart?” one asked his friend quietly.
“Nobody is going to believe this,” his friend responded.
Jon carefully glanced backward; only about another half foot before the first step. He changed his grip on Stephen and gingerly put one out behind him. “Ah, don’t move,” he warned as the guys pushed forward. “We don’t want any accidents.”
Halfway down Jon’s foot slipped and he stumbled slightly; before anyone noticed, Stephen reached out and grabbed him, steadying him. Surprise registered on everyone’s faces, even Stephen’s. A moment’s pause before one boy said “Hey, wait a minute…”
“Time to go!” Jon yelled, dropping his arms from around Stephen and leaping down the stairs two at a time. There were only a small handful left, and he quickly rounded the corner of the cement rail, rushing toward the car.
Stephen looked up at his pursuers who had broke into a run, looked at the ground, and suddenly vaulted himself up and over the edge, nearly landing on Jon’s head, five feet below. He crashed into the pile of dead leaves and trash, slamming to the ground and knocking the breath out of him. Jon roughly pulled him to his feet and dragged him along behind him, yelling obscenities.
They slammed into their seats in the car, locked the doors, and sped out of the parking lot and out toward the street. And not a moment too soon; two police cruisers pulled up outside, lights rolling lazily. “Hang on!” Jon yelped and swerved to avoid hitting a cop who had already exited the car. They flew down the street toward the exit and the freeway. One of the cruisers began pursuit but too late as they had already made their escape.
Once he reached the freeway he slowed down to a reasonable speed and lost their humble sedan in the flow of cars. He finally took a breath. “What the hell was that? You aren’t twenty anymore, why did you jump that rail? You could have killed yourself!” He glanced at his friend.
Stephen had his sleeves rolled up past the elbows, starring at the blood welling out of deep cuts on his forearms without making any attempt to stem the flow. “Stephen!” Jon yelled, worried his friend was in shock; a lot had happened in the last few days. “Stephen, snap out of it. Where’s your head? You’ll get blood everywhere, and we’ve got to ditch this car. Please try to be yourself.”
Stephen slowly turned toward him, face devoid of expression. “Did you just hold a gun to my head, Jon Stewart?” Jon felt as though his tongue was glued to the roof of his mouth. Stephen let the blood continue to flow down his fingers and drip on the seat and floorboard. They traveled the rest of the night in silence.
It was hard to tell which man was possessed anymore.
&&&
The tension in the room grew and was suddenly shattered when someone knocked on the door. “Is everything okay in there?” a man called from outside. Jon flicked his eyes to the door and back to Stephen. He cautiously moved to the door, cracking it to peer out at the concerned citizen.
“I heard someone screaming. Are you okay in here?”
“Yes, we’re fine, thanks.”
“Are you su-“ Jon closed the door, cutting the man off.
“Jon, that was just rude,” Not-Stephen scolded.
Jon crashed into his bed. “Like you have a lot of room to talk about that,” he countered. “Go to sleep, we’ll have another long day of driving ahead of us.” He rolled over: further conversation was out of the question. But he didn’t relax until he heard even breathing from the other bed.
Stephen felt cold and naked. He could feel his chest rising and falling in sleep, and he dreaded it. As any Stephen King movie will tell you, the nighttime is the worst. He could hear Jon whistling through his nose in the bed beside him, the quiet gurgle of pipes, the sound of a far-off train. Humanity was all around him, but he never had felt so alone, so alien. The beast in his head had made certain of that.
He wimpered when the all too familiar feeling descended on him. His dreams were spiraling out of control, and he didn’t think he could handle them for much longer. He tried to focus on Jon’s breathing, staying in the now. But it was all in vain, his thoughts scattered and morphed into indistinct images.
“Stephen, wake up,” Evie whispered in his ear. His eyelids felt heavy and he lifted them with reluctance. He found himself lying sprawled across their poster bed, blankets tangled around him and pillows on the floor.
He shook his head and kneaded the heel of his hand into his eye. “Evie, is there something you aren’t telling me about last night?”
She laughed softly from over the top of her book. “That was all you, honey. Those must have been some bad nightmares you had.”
“Nightmares?” he moved, tugging blankets aside and repositioned himself, wrapping himself around her. He couldn’t explain it, he just needed to be close to her. “I don’t remember them. But- well, I sort of do.” He started to read over her shoulder, forgetting that he didn’t read. Oh well, the Nation didn’t have to know…
Evie closed the book, using a delicate finger to mark her page. “Are you sure? You were mumbling an awful lot. Something about Jon and the British spy person.”
Stephen shook his head, delicately pulling her auburn hair back from her face. “I don’t remember, honestly.”
She bit her lip, suddenly sober. “You found out about our affair, didn’t you?”
Stephen flopped over. “OH GOD! My life is over! I mean, it’d be bad enough if he was protestant, but a Jew? I’ll never be able to face anyone again!”
She pouted at him. “I’m sorry you had to find out this way. It’s the hair.” She put the book on the bedside table, looking at her husband. “Is there anything I can do to earn your respect again?”
“Yes, there is something,” he said as he pulled her close, kissing her softly. “Say five Hail Mary’s.”
She laughed again. He kissed her hungrily for a few minutes, almost as if he hadn’t seen her in days. She eventually broke contact, licking her lips. “So, who’s the British spy?”
He paused, then shrugged. “Is this some kind of fantasy? I’m the British spy. My teeth are janky, babe. Want to look?”
She tangled her fingers in his hair. “No, who is the spy? The pie hating spy?”
Suspicion stirred in his mind, but he was too preoccupied to notice. “Who, John? What about him?”
“Who is he?” she asked, her other hand moving along his spine softly.
He wasn’t in the mood to discuss his coworkers. “Baby, you know who John Oliver is. Is this really the time to talk about him?”
“John… Oliver… that’s who Jon called in the car?”
Stephen arched an eyebrow at her. “What are you talking about?” Suddenly, everything came rushing back in a wave. He attempted to jump out of bed, but Evie’s fingers were suddenly pulling his hair on his head and chest, making him yell out. He managed to fall out of bed, the blankets and sheets wrapped around his body like chains. He scrambled away, running to the door. It was locked from the outside. A muffled scream from the bed made him turn around reluctantly.
She was sprawled out on the bed, lifeless. “NO!” he screamed, running to her. He pressed his good ear to her chest but heard nothing except the sobs rising in his own chest.
So John Oliver is the man who will be meeting us.
He choked on his tears. “Leave me alone.”
Why he would be the one, I wonder…
The room was disappearing around him. He crossed himself, raining tears on his wife’s still face.
…Who is he? Is he someone important? Tell me.
He noticed -too late- that she was becoming less real. He held her tight, sobs wracking his whole body.
Tell me.
“No, you can’t have her. You can’t.”
Tell me.
He was plunged into darkness. “GIVE HER BACK TO ME!”
She wasn’t ever really there. Pain erupted in his mind, filling everything. Who is John Oliver?!
“No! You can’t- you won’t-“
Okay, fine. Be that way. I’ll just rip it out of you.
He braced himself as well as he could.
Jon stirred at the sound of Stephen’s labored breathing. “Stephen?” he asked groggily.
Images filled his mind, beautiful, crisp, and painful. His wife’s face. His children. The last time he saw his father alive. Jon. His writers on the show. His wedding day. His mother baking cookies when he was a child. Jon and Steve at the Emmy’s. Arguing with Steve during Even Stevphen. Watching Lewis Black rant.
Jon watched his friend tensely as he started to groan.
Lewis Black. Important things with Demitri Martin. Mac v. PC. Aasif Mandvi talking about helium balloons. Wyatt Cenac. Jon talking about evil Republicans. Team Evil. Team Stupid.
Stephen gave a strangled cry, making Jon sit up in bed.
Team Stupid. John Oliver. British. Dark hair. Immigrant. Came to the Daily show after The Report began. Stereotypical bad teeth. Senor British Correspondent. Glasses. Great legs.
So… he’s the one who is going to save the day, huh? Well, we’ll see.
The images left his mind. He scrambled, trying to hold onto any of them. “Can’t I just see her one last time?” he wept brokenly.
None of those people are real anymore. That life is gone. And soon enough nothing will exist.
“Please, I can’t even bring her face to my mind. You have to at least let me remember she is real.”
Silence. Then a half remembered sound, the sound of her laughing. It was enough to undo him.
Jon was halfway to the bed when Stephen’s body launched itself forward, screaming at the top of his lungs. Immediately the knocking on the walls began again. “What the hell?” could be heard from the room to their right.
Jon knelt on the bed, trying to grab his friend, who was flailing about, a crazed animal. Jon tried to cover his mouth, but was bitten for his efforts. Stephen continued screaming. He attempted to pin the possessed pundit to the bed, wondering what the tabloids would think if they could see it, and tried to calm him down, but failed.
Someone was pounding on the door. “We’ve called the front desk!” The door handle jiggled. “What’s going on in there?”
He did his best to ignore them. “Stephen! Calm down, I’m here. Stephen, for fuck’s sake, calm down!” He shook the man roughly, pushing him back with slightly too much force; the younger man’s head connected with the headboard and he gasped, stunned. The silence wasn’t complete; the small crowd was still outside the door, talking loudly.
Stephen kept drawing in shuddering breaths, starring at some middle distance and threatening to fly apart once more. Jon leapt off the bed, rushing over to the window and peaking out the gap of the curtain. Four or five men stood outside, another was talking excitedly on his cellphone at a distance. This was a lot of excitement for small town Midwest. He ducked quickly when he saw one look in his direction.
“How are we going to escape?” he worried, chewing his lip. “We can’t just climb out of the bathroom window like we were children or something. And I certainly can’t explain the truth, not like this.” He ran his hands through his hair. “Shit, Stephen! Why the hell did you have to go and do that for?”
Stephen groaned, holding his stomach and crying, repeating one word over and over under his breath. “Evie. Evie.”
The pounding on the door became louder suddenly. “Fucking open already!” He considered screaming back when the sound of far-off sirens made his blood run cold.
“They seriously called the cops?! We’re being treated on the same level as drug dealers?” He shot to Stephen’s side, checking his friend over. “Stephen, have you got any ideas on how to get out of here?” The younger man answered him by shakily pulling on the shirt that was lying on the floor.
“Good point,” Jon said, casting about for his own clothes. He had stuffed his socks into the old duffel bag earlier that night, and as he dug through he paused, making Stephen stiffen. He didn’t have to ask what Jon had found, he already knew and was halfway across the room to the bathroom before Jon pulled his hand out. His fingers were firmly curled around the stock of Sweetness, who had been impounded earlier in the week.
Jon looked at his friend in shock. “Why the hell do you have that? Are you trying to get us killed? We’re in the suburbs of Detroit, put that away!”
Not-Stephen smiled, examining it. “She really does talk. You don’t want to know what she thinks about you.”
Jon reached over and snatched it out of his hands, stowing it under his seat. “Can’t you stay out of trouble for five minutes?!” Later he’d pushed it to the bottom of the bag and made a point of not letting it out of his sight.
He’d taken the firearm because he was afraid of what would happen with it in the wrong hands, but now maybe he was just tired or desperate enough that it’s presence seemed like a good idea. He popped the barrel, examining the bullets inside, and smiled up at his friend. “I’ve got a plan.”
The men outside were fumbling with the key the front desk had brought. The idea of a citizen’s arrest rested comfortably on their shoulders, and they longed to make the front page of their hometown newspapers. They were all college aged Ag students who were on a class trip and out in the wide world for the first time. Something like this had never happened to them before, and they reveled in the experience.
At least, they did until the crazed man burst out of the door suddenly. He had another man pressed to his chest, and in his hand a small revolver was against his temple. A particularly observant boy screamed and backed away. Another cracked his knuckles, clearly ready to charge. Jon cocked the gun, making them all pause. “Just let us get out of here, and nobody will be hurt.”
They exchanged glances and backed away reluctantly when he hissed and pressed the gun harder. Together, he and Stephen shuffled backward down the second floor outdoor hallway, edging slowly, carefully toward the stairs. “Dude, is that Jon Stewart?” one asked his friend quietly.
“Nobody is going to believe this,” his friend responded.
Jon carefully glanced backward; only about another half foot before the first step. He changed his grip on Stephen and gingerly put one out behind him. “Ah, don’t move,” he warned as the guys pushed forward. “We don’t want any accidents.”
Halfway down Jon’s foot slipped and he stumbled slightly; before anyone noticed, Stephen reached out and grabbed him, steadying him. Surprise registered on everyone’s faces, even Stephen’s. A moment’s pause before one boy said “Hey, wait a minute…”
“Time to go!” Jon yelled, dropping his arms from around Stephen and leaping down the stairs two at a time. There were only a small handful left, and he quickly rounded the corner of the cement rail, rushing toward the car.
Stephen looked up at his pursuers who had broke into a run, looked at the ground, and suddenly vaulted himself up and over the edge, nearly landing on Jon’s head, five feet below. He crashed into the pile of dead leaves and trash, slamming to the ground and knocking the breath out of him. Jon roughly pulled him to his feet and dragged him along behind him, yelling obscenities.
They slammed into their seats in the car, locked the doors, and sped out of the parking lot and out toward the street. And not a moment too soon; two police cruisers pulled up outside, lights rolling lazily. “Hang on!” Jon yelped and swerved to avoid hitting a cop who had already exited the car. They flew down the street toward the exit and the freeway. One of the cruisers began pursuit but too late as they had already made their escape.
Once he reached the freeway he slowed down to a reasonable speed and lost their humble sedan in the flow of cars. He finally took a breath. “What the hell was that? You aren’t twenty anymore, why did you jump that rail? You could have killed yourself!” He glanced at his friend.
Stephen had his sleeves rolled up past the elbows, starring at the blood welling out of deep cuts on his forearms without making any attempt to stem the flow. “Stephen!” Jon yelled, worried his friend was in shock; a lot had happened in the last few days. “Stephen, snap out of it. Where’s your head? You’ll get blood everywhere, and we’ve got to ditch this car. Please try to be yourself.”
Stephen slowly turned toward him, face devoid of expression. “Did you just hold a gun to my head, Jon Stewart?” Jon felt as though his tongue was glued to the roof of his mouth. Stephen let the blood continue to flow down his fingers and drip on the seat and floorboard. They traveled the rest of the night in silence.
It was hard to tell which man was possessed anymore.