Rituals: Horse Trader in the Morning
Snapping his eyes open, the Horse Trader got up from the chair as if he hadn't been sleeping, and went around the small cleared room on reflex, concentrating on checking the small view slits between the boards on the windows, pausing to listen.
Small settling sounds; creak of board and groan of unused plumbing. Faint empty sound of air, moving through the hall outside. Distance and rustling paper, in the devastated street outside. Delicate whisper of a light rain. Muffled uneven music of metal, somewhere below; Mary making breakfast.
He went to the small table and counted his bullets, checked his guns, counted how many times he clicked the safety on and off, until all the last droplets of his dreams had dripped from his brow and dissolved into the carpet.
The Horse Trader hated dreaming, but he would never allow himself to remember why.
Unlocking the door, he moved into the hotel hallway, padding along the mangy carpet, and occasionally pausing to refresh his memory with the various clipboards hanging from several doors.
Collecting things was a way to distract himself, and he'd begun to make a living out of it, a memory of his name. He was the Horse Trader, therefore, he lived by trade.
Sometimes, he walked through the halls of his (his?) hotel, and something black with hot breath and thunder for muscles, razors for wings, would come running for him like an earthquake in the air, and he'd flee for what seemed like hours. Sometimes he would open his eyes and realize it never happened; other times it pounded into his neck and broke open his skull, trying to fit inside, and the world was filled with red fog.
But the counting and the pleasant rustle of the clipboards kept the monster quiet this morning, if it was morning.
Trotting down the stairs, to his office
(smell of the bacon he'd gotten recently, Mary didn't burn it... there's a good Mary, then)
(faint draft of cooler air; front door was opened?)
(blocking of sounds from the lobby; someone just moved towards the stairs...)
the Horse Trader came across his current Mary, standing with breakfast on a tray.
It was unexpected; Marys were to set the table, and that was all. He didn't like people coming upstairs to find him, even a Mary. Especially in the morning.
But this morning, he was amused by her gesture, so he remembered to smile
(baring his teeth, snake-cold)
and he ruffled her hair
(neck tight to remember how it felt locked between his fingers)
and nodded towards the lobby.
"Put the tray out there, Mary. I'll get to it."
She moved quickly away.
He watched her go, and it was her running down a hallway of split tiles, with light stuttering in from smashed holes and broken eaves. She left dark footprints, and he could hear her rapid breathing as if his heart were gasping air in and out in thick red clots. He was running after her, boots hollow in the hallway.
But that was another Mary.
His Mary went to the kitchen. He wasn't running, he was just standing there.
For a moment, the beast stirred upstairs, but he gritted his mental teeth, and concentrated on the lobby. Coffee, cigarettes, cocoa, flour, rice, sterno, liquor, batteries.... his mantra of commodities made the memories slide back, and it lulled the monster to sleep again.
It was not, however, a good morning, and it took only one glance out the lobby door to the street beyond, and he could hear the bombs again. He had a brief thought that the dreams must have been very bad the night before, before, before there was a name and he traded that name to another man, and all the sins that went with it, and the man went away, behind the screaming metal door
where it was he, that should have gone
He ran through the rain, then, iron thunder and fire made lightning crumpling buildings in the distance, and he had been fool enough to think once that it looked like Hell, and he wished for a single stray bullet, a knife, a shell to fall and erase him, but none came except from his own mind.
The crater was his heart.
Miles of scorched earth later he forced forgetfulness on himself, a rape of his own memory
the Horse Trader snapped his eyes open as if he had never been asleep, sitting up from his chair, and went through the room as if on reflex, checking the windows, peering out through the slats carefully. Moving through the small room, he stopped, caught for a moment by Mary, sprawled on the floor, the back of her head broken open.
He realized he still had his gun in his hand.
The Horse Trader went to count his bullets; thinking about finding a new Mary was something that needed to wait until later.
He needed to count the bullets a few times.
Small settling sounds; creak of board and groan of unused plumbing. Faint empty sound of air, moving through the hall outside. Distance and rustling paper, in the devastated street outside. Delicate whisper of a light rain. Muffled uneven music of metal, somewhere below; Mary making breakfast.
He went to the small table and counted his bullets, checked his guns, counted how many times he clicked the safety on and off, until all the last droplets of his dreams had dripped from his brow and dissolved into the carpet.
The Horse Trader hated dreaming, but he would never allow himself to remember why.
Unlocking the door, he moved into the hotel hallway, padding along the mangy carpet, and occasionally pausing to refresh his memory with the various clipboards hanging from several doors.
Collecting things was a way to distract himself, and he'd begun to make a living out of it, a memory of his name. He was the Horse Trader, therefore, he lived by trade.
Sometimes, he walked through the halls of his (his?) hotel, and something black with hot breath and thunder for muscles, razors for wings, would come running for him like an earthquake in the air, and he'd flee for what seemed like hours. Sometimes he would open his eyes and realize it never happened; other times it pounded into his neck and broke open his skull, trying to fit inside, and the world was filled with red fog.
But the counting and the pleasant rustle of the clipboards kept the monster quiet this morning, if it was morning.
Trotting down the stairs, to his office
(smell of the bacon he'd gotten recently, Mary didn't burn it... there's a good Mary, then)
(faint draft of cooler air; front door was opened?)
(blocking of sounds from the lobby; someone just moved towards the stairs...)
the Horse Trader came across his current Mary, standing with breakfast on a tray.
It was unexpected; Marys were to set the table, and that was all. He didn't like people coming upstairs to find him, even a Mary. Especially in the morning.
But this morning, he was amused by her gesture, so he remembered to smile
(baring his teeth, snake-cold)
and he ruffled her hair
(neck tight to remember how it felt locked between his fingers)
and nodded towards the lobby.
"Put the tray out there, Mary. I'll get to it."
She moved quickly away.
He watched her go, and it was her running down a hallway of split tiles, with light stuttering in from smashed holes and broken eaves. She left dark footprints, and he could hear her rapid breathing as if his heart were gasping air in and out in thick red clots. He was running after her, boots hollow in the hallway.
But that was another Mary.
His Mary went to the kitchen. He wasn't running, he was just standing there.
For a moment, the beast stirred upstairs, but he gritted his mental teeth, and concentrated on the lobby. Coffee, cigarettes, cocoa, flour, rice, sterno, liquor, batteries.... his mantra of commodities made the memories slide back, and it lulled the monster to sleep again.
It was not, however, a good morning, and it took only one glance out the lobby door to the street beyond, and he could hear the bombs again. He had a brief thought that the dreams must have been very bad the night before, before, before there was a name and he traded that name to another man, and all the sins that went with it, and the man went away, behind the screaming metal door
where it was he, that should have gone
He ran through the rain, then, iron thunder and fire made lightning crumpling buildings in the distance, and he had been fool enough to think once that it looked like Hell, and he wished for a single stray bullet, a knife, a shell to fall and erase him, but none came except from his own mind.
The crater was his heart.
Miles of scorched earth later he forced forgetfulness on himself, a rape of his own memory
the Horse Trader snapped his eyes open as if he had never been asleep, sitting up from his chair, and went through the room as if on reflex, checking the windows, peering out through the slats carefully. Moving through the small room, he stopped, caught for a moment by Mary, sprawled on the floor, the back of her head broken open.
He realized he still had his gun in his hand.
The Horse Trader went to count his bullets; thinking about finding a new Mary was something that needed to wait until later.
He needed to count the bullets a few times.