What a lovely intermission to life.
Arriving at her destination, Neve sneaks a glance into the dimly-lit gallery. Squinting, she brackets her eyes with her hands in order to block out the glare from street lamps and headlights.
WHAT!?
Bolting towards the entry, she winds up slipping on a chunk of ice. She grabs the door handle just in time, and dangles from it like a banana peel.
Sexy.
She pulls herself up and escapes into the gallery.
Oh, no no no, her eyes feverishly scan the vicinity. The place looks like a hurricane aftermath. Tools and supplies are splayed haphazardly, and there’s a thick layer of sawdust on everything.
A loud CLINK from the back space startles her. It sounded like someone just dropped a tool.
Ready to unleash hell, Neve marches towards the source of the noise, ducks under a hanging sheet of semi-transparent plastic, and enters the significantly dimmer staging area.
There is a young man up on the ladder before her, wearing a white tank-top and washed-out jeans. And he’s about to hammer a nail into a wooden beam.
Neve looks to the light switch on the wall next to her, shakes her head microscopically, and flicks it on.
A 400-watt bulb turns on an inch from the young carpenter’s head. Startled by it, he loses his footing and falls off the ladder onto his back.
“Oh my God!” Neve dives to his aid. “I’m so sorry! Are you okay!?”
Groaning, “the hell’s your problem!?” he rolls onto his side and starts rubbing his back.
“I am so, so sorry! Your head was blocking it,” she indicates the light bulb.
“Oh—so it’s my fault now?” he blows his hair off his face and struggles to his feet.
“Yes. Yes it is,” she jokes to lighten the mood, but instead of taking the bait, the young man walks back out into the main space.
Okay. I deserved that.
Neve follows him out of the staging area, bracing herself to grovel. But it’s proving harder and harder as time drags on, especially with his back to her.
Waiting for a window of opportunity, she watches him comb through his wavy hair with his fingers, his honey roots contrasting the platinum locks they fade into. With his bare forearm, he wipes the sweat from his temple, and then starts to brush off the sawdust clinging to the back of his jeans.
He finally turns to face her, and the moment their eyes meet, she’s thirteen again. His eyes are like the clear blues of the Maldives, and as deep as Mariana Trench.
He’s the kind of guy who walks into a room, and everyone takes notice. The kind who has a never-ending string of girls pining after him.
But much to her surprise, he is reciprocating her shameless stare. She can’t quite tell what’s behind it, but it doesn’t feel flirtatious. If anything, it’s making her a bit nervous.
“So, how much longer do you think it’ll be?”
He continues to stare as if he didn’t even hear her question.
“A rough estimate would be fine,” Neve nudges.
“What’s your name?” he squints.
“Oh—” she extends her hand. “I’m Neve.”
And a faint, knowing smile softens his expression. But instead of taking Neve’s hand, he pulls an elastic band from his wrist, and starts to tie his hair back into a half-pony.
Neve retracts her hand as he walks away from her again. She’d be offended, but with his hair no longer framing his face, he’s starting to look really familiar.
“I’m sorry, do I know you?” she asks.
“You seriously need to expand your vocabulary,” he drags a block of timber onto the table, and slides it to the middle.
Neve’s eyes dart to the corner of the room as she tries to figure out what the hell he’s talking about.
“Or you could stop apologizing every five seconds. Both’ll do.”
Or I could switch to bitch-mode and start raining sass on your ass.
She crosses her arms. “What happened to the guy that was taking off the shelves a few days ago?”
“Filling in for him,” he measures the timber and makes a small mark with his pencil.
Neve looks about, trying to gauge the progress.
It looks like the previous exhibition has been fully taken down, so that’s good. But none of the dozens of easels she needs for her paintings seem to have been assembled yet.
“Um—how much longer is it going to be, again?”
“Couldn’t tell ya.”
“Cause I’m opening tomorrow evening and—”
“Yeah, not going to happen,” he laughs.
Neve’s heart drops. “Why not?”
“Time. Plain and simple.”
Neve gawks at the block of wood he’s measuring. Is that what the easels are to be made of!? “No. No. I gave you guys a week. I even paid extra to make sure everything would be done on time.”
“Listen, Bev—”
“Neve.”
“Whatever,” he throws his pencil down. “I’ve been working fourteen-hour days for the past five weeks, and if I didn’t need the money, there’s no way in hell I’d be standing here, taking crap from you. So kindly hop off my ass, and let me do my job, okay?”
He turns his attention back to the timber.
Neve’s eyes narrow. There’s just something about his mini-tantrum that makes her certain she knows him from somewhere.
“Do you have a brother by any chance?” she asks. “Named Romer?”
He sighs dispassionately. “You’re looking at him.”
Neve’s brows shoot up.
Although his hair is considerably longer than she remembers, it’s how much older he now looks that made him so difficult to recognize. Compared to the obnoxious boy she remembers, he seems so… worn.
“What?” he looks at her sideways.
“God—you just look so… different,” Neve indicates his hair. “Do you remember me? I’m Dylan’s—um…” Dylan’s what? Ex-girlfriend? Abandonee? “We’ve met a bunch of times, actually. Really brief, though.”
Romer stares at her with as much emotion as you would register on a wall.
“Okay, how about that Halloween party four years ago? I was the white jellyfish with LED lights in my umbrella..? You said I should’ve won first prize..?”
“Wow. Way to cling onto a compliment four years after the fact,” he bends down to grab his saw from under the table.
It takes a moment for Neve to register the blow. “I’m not clinging to anything.”
“Ohokay,” he mocks.
“I’m just reminding you of what you said. It’s kind of how memory works.”
“Actually, memory is selective.”
“What are you even saying?” she grimaces.
Visibly fed up, he rests the saw down on the table and starts to rub his temples. “You want me to finish in time, or not?”
“Okay, I’m sorry—do you have a problem with me or something?”
“Course not. I’m a masochist,” he rubs his back.
“I turned the light on to help you,” she says as he resumes his work. “Who hammers in the dark?”
“Someone who needs to hammer a nail two inches below the bulb, sugar.”
Oh.
“Look, I’m sorry. I’ve already apologized multiple times, as you so graciously pointed out. Can you at least not be a prick about it?”
Romer says nothing. He doesn’t even look up.
Feeling exposed and vulnerable, Neve wraps her cardigan around her frame.
This is really bad. Things are already way behind schedule without him dragging his feet.
If she wants out of this mess, she’s going to have to swallow her pride. “Is there anything I can do to help things along? I can grab you a cup of coffee.”
Romer looks up at her with crinkled brows, and yet there’s a ghost of a smile on his lips.
He seems… offended?
“What, are you allergic to coffee, or something?”
“Y
ou think I don’t know he put you up to this?” He holds Neve’s gaze for a moment, and then turns his attention back to the task at hand.
His wide eyes are unblinking as he saws through the timber, and his strokes become more and more aggressive until the end-piece falls to the floor.
“Okay, what are you talking about?” Neve asks.
“Look—just… don’t,” he frowns. “I know you guys had a thing, but don’t sink to his level.”
With that, a wave of relief washes over Neve, and she suspects that Romer’s abrasiveness may actually have nothing to do with her.
She makes her way around the table and stands in front of him, but once again, he does not look up.
“Were you at UBC today?” she asks.
“Nope.”
“Yeah you were,” she nods. “That’s why he left.”
“How about we don’t play the pronoun game?”
Neve puts her hands on her hips. “Dylan.”
Romer’s pencil hovers over the timber as though he’s forgotten what he was just about to do.
“He was at UBC?” he asks. “Today?”
“Yeah..?”
After a short lull, Romer licks his lips and goes to resume his work. But he seems to have lost his place entirely, so he slides his ruler back and measures the timber again.
Neve turns her head slightly with her gaze glued to him. But before she can ask what the big deal is, he drops his pencil down and leans onto the edge of the table.
“When was this?”
Chapter 5
The Kinetic
Romer enters his workshop and shuts the door behind him. Without bothering with the lights, he grabs a padlock off a rusty nail and secures the entry. The smell of burnt walnut reminds him of a commission, but in light of his amassing fatigue, he couldn’t care less.
It’s way past midnight, and he’s exhausted. But at least the exhibition setup is done.
One less thing to worry about.
Making his way towards the back of the shop, he looks out the murky windows. And for what feels like the thousandth time, he marvels at the stunning panorama stretching beyond.
To anybody else, it’s just an industrial harbor—a blue inlet adorned with gigantic cranes and colorful cargo containers.
But to him, it’s much more than that.
There is just something about the soft breeze and the careless ruckus of seagulls that gets him every time. It’s a quality he can’t quite put into words, but in simplest terms… it’s freedom.
He arrives at the far end of the shop and begins to strip down to his boxers. He throws his clothes onto a pile already burdening a flimsy chair, and collapses onto his dingy mattress.
The stiff, squeaky springs push up against him like iron fists. He yanks his leaf-thin pillow from under his head and flings it away, then rolls onto his side and nestles his head into his folded arm.
Despite promising himself to kick the habit, his fingers seek the scars on his torso. Scars which have long healed. Faded into tight, silver engravings. Scars that should no longer hurt, but ache whenever he is reminded of what they represent. Scars that pulsate every time his veins flood with rage.
A loud screech makes him jump out of his skin.
He grabs the flashlight by his mattress and shines it towards the source of the noise. His wide eyes stare with sheer terror as the indented blade of his table-saw gains momentum into a blurred disk.
At the onset of another power-tool, he leaps out of bed and bolts towards the front of the workshop. He flicks on the overhead lights and turns to find the sandblaster, drill, and other power machinery follow the initiative of the table-saw.
A choked sound escapes his throat.
Let me go.
σ
~Three Years Ago~
A patchy field of green fortified with walls, weapons, and prying eyes. A cage reeking of bitterness, regret, and resentment. This will be home for the next one thousand and ninety-five days: a place where threats are locked in, instead of out.
Hiding in plain sight, Romer sits on a bench in the prison yard, watching the flow of orange specs in the distance. Black, white, yellow and brown: all reduced to the color of hazard.
“Hey fish!” a coarse voice snaps him to attention, and he swings his head towards a forty-something year-old felon boasting more ink than the first draft of a manuscript.
Isaac: the only convict amongst them with a triple life-sentence. The only man within the establishment who has pled guilty to all counts of murder. A killer so proud of his own brutality that he has a string of skull tattoos running down the length of his spine.
And Romer can’t help wondering whether in due time, he too shall be reduced to ink on Isaac’s flesh.
“Heard you turned down my offer,” Isaac lingers a few feet shy of Romer, brandishing a sly grin. “Guess you ain’t got a taste of how dangerous things can get around here.”
“I don’t need protection,” Romer says. A flagrant lie, but what Isaac is offering comes at a price he is not willing to pay.
Isaac takes another step forward, his playfulness dimmed down considerably. He leans in and puts his hand on Romer’s shoulder like a father giving his son a pep talk. “Listen, kid—you obviously got some shit luck getting tossed in here with the real thugs. So it’s a good thing you’re pretty enough to secure yourself a spot in my corner,” he licks his lips, “you feel me?”
Before Romer can come up with a safe response, Isaac takes a lock of his hair and leans in to smell it. Cringing, Romer slips away, sliding to the opposite end of the bench.
“You gonna make me work for it?”
“I said I’m not interested,” Romer asserts slightly louder, desperately hoping Isaac can’t hear the fear in his voice.
“Do I look like I give a shit?” he crosses his arms as his crew closes in.
Romer’s gaze darts up to the watch towers, but the blinding glare from the overcast sky is making it impossible to find peace of mind.
“It ain’t like me to give second chances,” Isaac starts, “but you look like a smart kid. You’re not, but you look like one.”
The men burst into a roaring laughter.
“So, what do you say?”
The darkness framing Romer’s vision is closing in. Is he about to faint? He can’t. They prey on the weak.
“TODAY!” Isaac startles him, and then his laughter weaves into the uproar.
Beyond the hollering fence of felons, Romer takes notice of a C.O. in the near distance and leaps off the bench towards him. But a few steps in, Isaac’s small army drapes off his only glimmer of hope. And when he feels a firm grip on his shoulder, he swings back, unwittingly elbowing Isaac in the face.
The thunderous roar of the crowd wanes into awe and anticipation. But instead of unleashing hell Isaac grins from ear to ear, flashing his blood-glazed teeth. “I misjudged you,” he wipes his mouth on his sleeve. “You got more balls than half of these fuckers.”
Romer stares, having no clue whether his blunder has made things better for him, or worse.
“Now, get outta here,” Isaac dismisses Romer like a toy he’s done playing with. “AIGHT! SHOW’S OVER! Get back to your nine to fives!”
Romer slowly backs out of his cage, adamant not to re-label himself as prey. He almost can’t believe it. With Isaac on his side, he just might be able to—
The thought flees from his head as multiple hands grab him from behind, and throw him to the ground.
He reaches up to his aching head, but Isaac’s crew grab his limbs and firmly pin him down. He looks up just as Isaac leaps onto him like a wild cat, and he instantly knows his seconds are numbered.
“HELP—” Romer begins to shout, but Isaac’s hook against his jaw knocks his consciousness elsewhere.
‘Bludgeoned to death’, Romer hears the voice of a news reporter in his head. He braces himself, but no second swing comes his way. Instead his focus closes in on a small, rusty blade in Isaac’s hand—a weapon made
from scraps gathered from the crevices of the establishment.
“Help—” Romer’s second outcry is barely louder than a thought. And not a moment later, his ears are ringing from a scream he doesn’t initially recognize as his own.
Isaac twists the blade he plunged into his victim’s shoulder, savoring his anguish. He yanks it out like a savage, and marvels at Romer’s blood gushing from the slit in his flesh.
At the sight of the spectacle, the convicts explode into a roaring cheer, and all Romer can see are their silhouettes against the silver sky. I don’t deserve this. He chokes on the pain as Isaac stabs him in the ribs.
Not this.
Another stab in the gut, and Romer’s cries weave into the uproar. Liquid warmth creeps up inside his chest, and overflows from the corner of his mouth.
“Slice his throat!” someone screams.
“No, cut out his heart!” shouts another.
Isaac’s grin keeps shifting in and out of focus. He leans in and dangles his blade over Romer’s eyes.
“How about I add a little red to your baby blues?”
Pain. Just dirty, debilitating pain.
A drop of blood drips from the tip of Isaac’s blade. It splats onto Romer’s cheek, flooding his mind with images of his mutilated face.
Terrifying, dying without a face.
And suddenly, the clamor starts to sound distant, and Isaac’s speech becomes slurred as if he’s saying multiple things at once. And then, all Romer can hear is his own voice, filling the void in his mind.
Help.
With the prospect of his imminent end, Romer’s pupils constrict to a pin-prick. The gold flecks in his eyes flicker and his blue irises radiate a silver glow. Suddenly, an invisible force rips Isaac’s weapon from his grasp and flings it up towards his head.
The rusty blade punctures his throat and vanishes into his skull, leaving nothing but a slit from which blood fountains all over Romer.
Did I do this? How?
Choking on his own blood, Romer stares at Isaac’s convulsing body as it rains crimson, drenching him. It runs down Romer’s face and pools in his ears, but he can still detect the muffled shouts of the C.O.s flooding the grounds.