Absolute Value (clean)                        main


0

    I got home late from the gym.
    I hastily removed my sweat soaked shirt the moment I hit the front door. To my surprise Amy and her boyfriend sleeping in the living room. Eric on the sofa; Amy on the love seat.
    I could tell Amy's neck was going to be screwed up when she woke in the morning.
    I decided to do the gentlemanly thing. I picked her up and carried her to her bedroom. Her shoes smelled bad. I recognized the odor and knew she wouldn't want the source to get into her blankets. The neighbors should learn to clean up after that dog.
    I lay her down, with her legs hanging from the foot of her bed.
    I pulled off her sullied shoes. Her bows were not double knots like mine, the knots came out easily. The shoe smelled awful.
    I looked up at her face, I felt a bit odd. I chuckled, trying to ignore the smell.
    A black tank top and tattered jeans. It was her favorite concert outfit.
    My roommate lay before me.
    I carried her shoes to the apartment door.
    I walked to the washer and tossed in my shirt.
    I leaned against the machine.
    I knew I had to slide her the rest of the way, or I wouldn't have done her any good.
    I reentered her room, looking only at her face. I walked to the head of the bed, and reached, grabbing her under her arms and pulling her up the bed until her head had pillows under it.
    I looked at Amy's lips in a way I'd never looked at them before.
    I let go of her, and began to lean back, bringing my arms to me. It was then she quietly said, “Eric.”
    I was startled, my arms trembled. I feared she might wake with me over her.
    Amy stirred, her left hand came to her stomach.
    “Eric kiss me.”
    I didn't know what to say, she grabbed my right hand with her own and pulled me to her.
    I gave in.
    I leaned down and kissed her; I kissed her on the lips and passed out.
   
-2

    The rain had stopped halfway through our drive. I pressed the gas a bit harder.
    I looked to the clock.
    I'd wanted to see both of the opening acts, but Amy just wanted to see the headline band.
    She said she'd be fine going for the whole thing.
    Then she dragged her feet getting dressed.
    It doesn't matter that she always wears the same thing to these shows.
    We weren't more than five minutes away now.
    I shook my head and turned to her.
    I watched with awe as her face was lit in 15 second bursts as we drove under street lights.
    My eyes traced her silhouette, down to her shirt. They followed the contrast between the black top and her skin, down to the first buttoned button.
    My eyes there settled.
    Her chest jaggedly raised, and the words tumbled out of Amy's mouth, “Ooh, we should stop and get some food.”
    Tension shot down my arms, my eyes returned to the road. My hands gripped the wheel tightly.
    “We've already missed the first band.”
    “Come on, Eric, it'll just be ten minutes, we can eat at that Mexican place right next to the show.”
    I couldn't come up with anything. I just parked. Amy sprang from the car and dashed into the Mexican restaurant.
    I consoled myself that set changes take forever at the place we were going.
    I entered the restaurant and sat next to her.
    I scooted close to her, my knee brushed hers.
    “I have to use the restroom.”
    I stood, let her pass and reseated.
    She'd been doing that constantly, pulling away from my touch.
    I put my face on the table.
    She was going to sit across from me in the booth.
    “What can I get you sir?”
    I rolled my head to face the server.
    “My girlfriend is the one eating. I could go for a root beer.”
    “Which one?” “I leave that to you.”
    One root beer later Amy returned and sat across from me, catty-corner.
    I put my hand near her, hoping she might close the distance.
    She didn't.
    Food was ordered, as was a second root beer for me and a third for her.
    My foot explored for hers and instead found her purse.
    When Amy's food and our drinks arrived, I was curious, I leaned over and looked under our table.
    She'd sat her purse right in front of her feet.
    I sat straight.
    Three weeks of this was too much.
    Amy once needed so much from me.
    She needed to be held.
    To be touched.
    Again the thought crept in, but this time it was spoken aloud.
    “You've been with someone else.”
    She looked like she'd been shot.
    She put down her fish taco, finished her most recent bite.
    “No. Never.”
    I turned my palm up, the gesture went unnoticed.
    “Then what?”
    She looked over her shoulder, to the door.
    “I don't know.”
    I recognized the tone, she was lying.
    “Come on Amy. I need to know.”
    Her eyes went down, then to me.
    She shook her head.
    “I love you Eric.”
    I reached out.
    The moment I touched her hand, it retreated to her hair, pushing it behind her ear.
    I pointed to her hand, “Then why do you do that.”
    She again looked to the door, “Let's go.”
    I bit my lip, summoned the check and settled up.
    Silence fell upon us.
    We walked over to the venue. The second act was mostly done.
    We drank heavily.
    I stewed.
    The second band finished.
    “Your roommate,” I blurted.
    She shook her head, “You're crazy. There is no one, especially not him.”
    I had to shut my brain down.
    Our argument again led nowhere.
    I wondered why I was still putting up with the distance.
    But I knew why, so I drank more.
    I can't really remember anything after the second song of the headline act.

+1

    The first thing I knew, I was shaking.
    The second, that I was holding a marker
    My breathing was jagged.
    I was sobbing, in the corner of my room.
    My eyes danced around the room, but rested on the marker in my hand.
    Someone stirred in my bed.
    I sat straighter, my sobbing trailed off, and could see the man in my bed. My roommate.
    I could hear something in his breathing. I could tell he was looking at something. I just couldn't tell.
    He looked to me, then at the marker, “What did you do?”
    I honestly didn't know.
    He spoke again, “I'm sorry Amy. I just lost control.”
    My grip tightened on the marker. I pushed myself against the wall and slid up until I stood on my feet.
    I could tell what was done, “Your right bicep has been drawn on. If we can get you to a sink quickly we can get that off, I don't know what those symbols are.” I was lying.
    “My God, Amy why can't I move my arm?”
    “No, I'm sorry.” I shook my head, I just couldn't seem to part with the marker.
    His breathing slowed.
    He seemed to be getting more calm.
    But then the breathing grew more rapidly, my attention was his again.
    He was staring at my bedroom door, “Amy, what are you doing?”
    I couldn't see what he saw as I was leaning against the wall the door was on, and my dresser obstructed my view.
    I stepped out a few steps.
    A thick chain criss-crossed the door, stuck in place by five railroad spikes driven through links, through wood.
    “You have to understand, I didn't do that, or the arm thing. Do you see a hammer anywhere? Do you think I could lift that chain?”
    I felt like a child sitting on the stairs as my parents fought.
    “Amy, did Eric do this?”
    My eyes squeezed shut, a tear escaped.
    My voice shook, “No. We have to get out.”
    I looked to the window, two thick planks on the outside formed a crooked 7. Enough of the window was obstructed that we wouldn't be able to get out easily. My eyes traced the planks, six inches from the window I saw them. Tips of more railroad spikes pointed in at us, securing the planks firmly from the outside.
    “We have to get those out of our way.”
    My roommate clearly was not prepared for this.
    I put the marker down on my computer desk and grabbed the chair.
    I swung it into the window, glass erupted out. The planks remained un-phased.
    I poked my head out.
    I looked down three stories at the beautiful morning light saturated, manicured apartment lawn.
    I could see my car.
    The window was at my chest level.
    “I need to move the bed over if I want to do anything about these hardwood boards. I need you to get up.”
    He did.
    He was crying as his arm fell limply to his side.
    “Amy!” It was a scream from outside the door.
    The chains clattered as the door was hit from the other side.
    I slid the bed.
    Another scream and I knew it was Eric, “Amy!”
    “Eric! You have to get out of here!”
    More screaming, the clatter of chains became constant, rhythmic.
    I stood on the bed and began kicking.
    I kicked as rapidly, as powerfully as I could.
    Eric still screamed for me.
    His voice began to break.
    More kicking, screaming and clattering.
    Eric's voice had entirely broken.
    The board finally seemed to give.
    Then from within the room, “You tell me what's going on, Amy. Now.”
    My kicking stopped.
    He was holding the marker in his left hand, the only one it could do any good.
    He kept the marker pointed at me.
    Intense frustration flashed across his face.
    “Calm down Mike, I have to get us through this window.”
    I resumed my kicking.

-22

    The stacks were desolate, silent.
    I moved to a corner and dumped out the contents of my bag.
    I sat on the warm tile with my legs tucked under me, my skirt draped over my knees.
    I placed the two red candles a foot away from me on either side and a bit in front of me.
    I picked up the scalpel in my right hand, the shot glass in my left.
    I held them both high.
    I let the shot glass tumble to the tile, I closed my eyes as the glass shards settled.
    My eyes opened.
    I started carving the candle to my right, digging a channel for the wax to stream down toward the broken glass.
    Red wax flakes were scattered amongst the glass as I wiped buildup from my blade.
    After the channel was completed, I did the same to the candle to my left.
    I picked up a white candle laying on its side. I eviscerated it, cutting deep along its length. Down to the wick. Then again at a 90 degree angle. I removed the slender wedge of white wax, the entire wick there lay bare. I returned the white candle to its side on the tile.
    I read over the sheet and placed in it in front of my knees, on top of the white candle with the wick slightly protruding from beneath the white sheet.
    A match was separated from its book, then struck. The red candles were lit. The matchbook remained open.
    I waited. I watched as the wax can down and pooled toward the glass.
    The stacks were warm enough that the wax stayed liquid for quite a distance.
    A smile crossed my face.
    Another match ignited, which lit the end of the white candle's wick. The match book was placed in the middle of the white sheet.
    The flame crawled under the paper, and consumed it.
    The match book popped as ten matches simultaneously lit.
    Small blackened pieces, smoldering at their edges began to float up.
    I watched them dance in the air.
    I looked down to the improbably still-burning matchbook.
    I placed my hand amidst hovering cinders and I spoke.
    “I am yours and yours alone. No other, not God, nor man, nor flame may have me.”
    My hand shook as it neared the fire. Searing heat licked my hand, I closed my eyes, I had trouble trusting it.
    I didn't need to, my part was done.
    I could feel the matchbook in my hand. My fingers clinched.
    My eyes opened, and looked down.
    I turned my closed hand palm up, the fingers unfurled.
    I couldn't help but chuckle as I looked down at the matchbook.
    Ten fresh matches.
    I closed it, placed it in my bag.
    I pressed my hands into the broken glass and swept them together. I cupped my hands, the clasped.
    Again I chuckled, as in my hand was a shot glass.
    Upon inspection my hands revealed no cuts, no burns.
    The shot glass, too was placed in my bag.
    The candles were all blown out.
    A mess of white and red wax remained, but I couldn't bring myself to care.
    With my bag over my shoulder I left the library.

+2

    When I woke I was leaning against the wall, Amy's door actually.
    “Amy,” it didn't come out as more than a whisper.
    My throat was raw.
    My voice was gone.
    It wasn't completely unusual after I go to a concert, but this wasn't one of my bands.
    My gaze swept past my hand, but there returned.
    My palm was stained with chocolate.
    I became aware of a coldness in my hands.
    Upon examination they began to shake, I turned them over and I couldn't understand.
    My knuckles were covered with chocolate.
    I looked closely, trying to grasp what I was seeing.
    My heart rate increased.
    My eyes darted about.
    “Amy,” again only a whisper.
    I stood and turned toward the door and saw what was instantly recognized as chocolatey fist prints.
    A consistent thumping could be heard from the room. It didn't seem to be near the door. My hand went for the knob. It turned. I pressed.
    Resistance.
    The door didn't open even an inch.
    I began swinging the door what little distance it would go.
    I could hear the clattering of chains.
    I pushed with my shoulder and found no more give.
    I stepped back and saw five spikes sticking out around the door.
    I turned to the kitchen, I remembered a hammer in the storage room.
    It was then that I noticed a kindly looking old man.
    I tried to speak, but found no voice.
    He gestured to be quiet, placing his aged index finger in front of his thin smiling lips.
    He was walking to me while maintaining the gesture. He was wearing a blue sweater and a charcoal fedora. Grey hair spilling from under the hat.
    His face now hovered before mine, his hand fell to his side.
    His eyes reminded me of the eyes of my own grandfather.
    He pulled a candy bar from his pocket and pointed it at me.
    I heard a crack from the other side of the door.
    Whatever was being hit had just broken.

-15

    I handed the night cashier my lottery ticket, he scanned it, congratulated me and handed me five hundred dollars.
    “Be careful out there, miss.”
    I nodded and headed out.
    I'd needed to start cashing in my tickets in a rough part of town, but there was nothing to worry about. Those with ill will knew to stay away. They didn't know why.
    Even a month prior I would've feared the big dogs chained to a nearby fence, but no more. The animals feared me.
    I climbed into my car, started it up and again felt joy. My gas needle hadn't moved down since my trip to the stacks.
    Only green lights in my way, the drive home took no time.
    I even felt comfortable speeding.
    True freedom.

    I arrived home. Eric was waiting for me, sitting on the stairs. He was reading and listening to his mp3 player. I couldn't tell if he noticed me.
    I leaned over, brushed his face with my hand. I gently kissed his lips, “Hi.”
    He closed his book, pulled his ear buds out and stood.
    An elderly man stood by my door. He moved out of the way, revealing a note on the wall.
    The note read, “No touching.”
    I looked to the man, then back to the note.
    The note was gone.
    “What's the holdup, Amy?”
    He placed his hand on the small of my back.
    The man stopped walking.
    I went for my keys, unlocked the door and I pulled away form Eric.

+3

    The plank gave way, half of it tumbled to the ground, with a dull thud as it hit the soft earth, then a crack as it hit the building.
    I pulled the sheet from my bed.
    “You should put that down Mike.”
    Mike did, the marker again rested on the desk. His face was flush, dripping with sweat.
    “Amy, what can I do?”
    “Nothing yet.”
    I hunched over and tied the sheet around the computer chair, tight.
    “We'll use this like an anchor. We'll climb down the sheet and only fall about fifteen feet.”
    “Can you slide down with your good arm?”
    “Yeah.”
    I moved the chair to the window.
    I threw some pillows and the sheet out, I looked down again to judge the distance to the ground.
    “Oh no!”
    On the ground stood an old man wearing a beige sweater and a black fedora.
    “I'm sorry Mike. We aren't getting out of here.”
    I walked away from the window and heard a rustle behind me.
    The old man from the ground was climbing in.
    His loafers clacked on the hardwood floor.
    “How did he do that Amy? Who are you?”
    The man was looking at me.
    I understood.
    Mike started coughing.
    The coughing worsened. Mike began to descend to the floor.
    His good arm supported him momentarily for a three point stance.
    I watched as he lay himself on the floor.
    Hacking, wretched coughs.
    The old man pointed to Mike, I knew what had to happen.
    I retrieved the marker from its resting place. I knelt by Mike's side. I cradled his head in my lap.
    I whispered to him, “I'm so sorry.”
    I drew the marker wide across his neck. I drew an X where I estimated his throat would be.
    The coughing ceased and Mike's spit streamed coursed down the marker and into my hand. I let go of the marker and pulled my hand away.
    I started to cry as I watched the spit fall from my hand. The saliva beaded instead of spreading.
    I stood.
    I wiped the tears from my face.
    I turned to the old man.
    He walked to the door.
    His fingers deftly removed the lowest spike from the wall, as though it was a nail in butter.
    The spike was moved to a pocket in his slacks. His hands picked up the now loose end of the chain and tucked the end into his sweater's sleeve.
    One by one the spikes came out of the wall, following the chain helplessly drawn into the old man's sleeve.
    The chain now gone, he gestured to the door.

+4

    The man backed away from me.
    I stepped away from the door and looked at the five holes around the frame, where the tips of spikes once were.
    The door opened, Amy stepped out.
    “Amy,” I again whispered.
    I was thrilled, relieved.
    My arms opened wide.
    After my first step forward, the old man's hand was on my chest.
    I noticed a second old man, just like the one with his hand on me. I looked between the two, the only discernible difference was their outfits' coloration.
    The same aged faces.
    Amy's face was red.
    She'd been crying.
    “Eric, I'm sorry for this.”
    I couldn't speak.
    I couldn't move.
    I just watched as the two old men and Amy walked out.
    I never saw Amy again.