Monochrome (23 page)

He was too good. Jason was the kind of person who only existed in sappy movies. He was honest, caring, loving, patient and unreservedly loyal. Thinking of him made her stomach ache. She was growing even more homesick, if that was at all possible.

They walked for hours. Their walk was quiet at times, but not uncomfortably so. They talked on and off about classes they took, books they loved, good memories they wanted to keep. Abigail pointed out a lot of Ishmael’s were sex related, but he just shrugged and said, “Sex is great.”

She agreed, but switched the topic because it was too dangerous to think about Ishmael and sex at the same time. She didn’t have to feel embarrassed or insecure about her passion for Romantic poetry, medieval texts and otherwise nerdy pursuits.

On the contrary, they shared many interests. They both wrote fiction and poetry, and they both liked to discuss theory and philosophy. It was an uncomfortable realization that Ishmael was just the type of person she always thought did not exist, and despaired of finding.

But they were a little
too
alike, she thought, for them to do well together for long. They both liked to drink, argue and binge-read, which, barring the reading, meant they also shared an unhealthy capacity for self-destruction.

Jason, on the other hand, was a great compliment to her emotionality. Where she was a loose cannon, impatient and sometimes reckless, Jason was a patient, organized mind. Where she tended towards romantic excess, he was grounded and logical. He calmed her storms and never yelled back. He was temperate when she was wild, which she treasured even more now Ruby was in the picture.

Before her depression, they rarely fought or let small stresses define them. While they shared common interests, they were more dissimilar than alike. He read manuals and she read novels. He thought many of her interests endearing, but didn’t share them, and vice versa.

But she knew her memories with him were the best of her life. They stayed together so long she didn’t realize they stopped working to maintain the spark of interest. She thought apathy was a normal thing for long-lasting couples.

Talking with Ishmael and experiencing an immediate connection, she wondered whether she and Jason, while very much in love, were destined to be forever unalike, and if that was a bad thing. She wasn’t sure it was, but she often longed for a few more shared pursuits.

Ishmael and she ignited a passionate spark instantly, but where did passion end and volatility begin? Mutual instability wasn’t more promising than apathy. Abigail sighed. She didn’t know why she was thinking like this. It was counterproductive.

She needed to go home and be a present wife and mom. She believed in loyalty. So did Jason. She didn’t think Ishmael believed in much outside of what was happening in the moment, which could be a disastrous way to live, or a selfish one.

Ishmael cleared his throat, and she roused from her long reverie, embarrassed even though he couldn’t know what she was thinking.

“I’m sorry. Did you say something?” she asked, blushing,

“Yeah, I was just saying we’re about two hours from Steamtown. There’s a smallish place up the way with food and drinks. It should be safe.”

She nodded in consent. She needed rest. They’d walked through the morning and into late day. She was starving and tired, and wanted very much to rest her tired body. What she wanted more, though, was to rest her tired mind.

*

Ishmael showed Abigail to a table at the edge of a very small building serving as an outpost, bar and restaurant. There were a few other people at the bar, but no one Ishmael recognized. He went to the bar and ordered their food and drink, paying with a memory she chose not to witness. He insisted.

They ate and drank in silence, both consumed with thoughts they didn’t want to share. She was worried about making it out of this place alive, and about her growing feelings for the gloomy man seated across from her.

She was concerned for her family, and wondered whether Jason and Ruby were doing well without her. She bit her lip and stirred her whiskey and ice. She drank sips from her glass of water to keep her mind sharp and her body hydrated. The eggy, thick water made her gag once or twice, but she forced it down.

Ishmael didn’t seem to care for hydration. He drank his usual whiskey and coke. He toyed with a glass of water, but drank very little of it. She knew how to be a productive drunk, and water was essential in that aspect.

Finally, he cleared his throat. “We should go soon. But we need to talk about concealing ourselves when we get there. It’s a big place, but if Eric is working for my boss and is under assignment, he’ll have plenty of eyes paid to watch for us. I’m not sure what we can do, though, except be alert.”

His voice was tense. He didn’t hold much hope in making it through Steamtown without notice. Abigail had been devising a plan she was certain would work, though. She closed her eyes and concentrated on a memory:

For as long as she could remember, her hair was brown. After breaking things off with Josh, though, she felt like a change was needed. The break was a turning point for her. Her relationship defined her for the last year, and, since it wasn’t a very happy one, she wished to create a new definition.

She wanted a change. She knew change came from the inside, but a little spark on the outside did a lot for a woman’s fire. She towel-dried her hair thoroughly as she thought about her new life. She felt hopeful. She felt in control. She took the towel off her head and shook her long hair, watching it fall to her shoulders. She felt like a red-head. The dark burgundy hair was a beautiful contrast to her green eyes. She winked at her naked, daring reflection and felt excited about the future.

Abigail opened her eyes just in time to catch Ishmael’s mouth hanging open. “Did it work, then?”

He closed his mouth and paused before answering. “That color! You look hot.” He shook his head. “It worked. I don’t know how you do it. I think your hair might even be longer.”

She shrugged. “I use my memories. Just like we use them for everything else here, only, I keep the effects. I use them on me.”

He puffed out his cheeks and let out a long breath. “I’m amazed.”

She held up a finger. “I’m not done yet.”

She closed her eyes to Ishmael’s stunned gaze, and concentrated on the rest of her guise. When she was done, she looked like herself, close up, but the disguise should hold up.

She was wearing tight black jeans over her curves, a long black tank top with a metal band logo on it, black boots and a torn leather jacket, held together with safety pins. Except for the grey scarf she tightened around her neck, it was exactly like the Halloween costume she wore three years ago.

Her friend threw a 1980s Halloween party, and Abigail decided to go punk with it, not wanting to go Cyndi Lauper. She thought it was hot, in a late 80s, early 90s way. The transformation was completed by a fake nose ring in her right nostril, dark red lipstick and heavy grey and black eye shadow.

Ishmael shook his head as he led her out of the small outpost. “I can’t stop staring at you.”

She rolled her eyes. “Well, try, and concentrate on yourself. You still look the same.”

“I’m not sure I can do it, Abby.”

Abigail crossed her arms. “You haven’t tried and we’re running out of time. Don’t you ever remember a time when you were different? Can you picture it?”

He cleared his throat, embarrassed. “Yeah, I think I can.” He clenched his eyes shut.

“Just concentrate on the memory. Think of how you felt and the change will come.” His eyes relaxed as a memory came to him.

Suddenly, Ishmael’s jacket and shirt crinkled and shifted. For a second, they were a blur upon a solid body, but were soon replaced by a sleeveless, torn black band t-shirt. His upper arm revealed a smiling skull tattoo, sitting on a “Mom” banner.

His jeans sagged more loosely around his frame and fell apart before her. They were covered in open holes and rips everywhere. One of the holes, on his upper thigh, revealed red boxer shorts. Her mouth dropped open as his hair fell down to his shoulders, splashes of scarlet highlights hiding among the dark blond.

A stud appeared beneath his lip, his short beard became a shadow of what it was, and a ring sat in his eyebrow. When he opened his eyes, they stood out against black eyeliner. He ran a hand through his very long hair, and she noticed his nails were painted red and black.

“Do we match?”

She nodded, grinning like a fool. “And what is this getup from?”

“I’d like to say this was a Halloween costume as well, but I’d be lying. This was my stage look. I was in a band for a while.”

Abigail scrutinized him, her heart thumping so loudly she was sure he heard it. “Let me guess. Metal?”

“Yeah, metal-ish.”

She stood closer and touched the stud under his lip, surprised it was real. “I didn’t notice your piercing here.”

He gazed her at her, eyes intense. “My facial hair covers it.”

She touched the “mom” tattoo on his bicep, and he shivered under her touch. “This was there, too?”

He nodded, not taking his serious eyes from her. “What do you think?”

She ran a strand of his red highlights over her finger. “I like metal.”

She was glad he couldn’t know where her thoughts tended, the vision of a pile of discarded torn clothes mingling on the floor. Thank God he couldn’t know she’d have fallen madly in love with him, if she’d met him when they were younger. She’d never been one for the clean cut boys at her church, much to the dismay of her parents. She was always bored by their cream-colored sameness, even if they were nice boys. But many of them weren’t nice, and they were boring. The combination was not favorable.

Ishmael scanned her face with his eyes and sent her thoughts tumbling back down. Abigail leaned from him, but he put his hand on the small of her back and kissed her lightly on the mouth, testing the reception, a dainty taste of her lips. Her body grew weak and fluttery, but she backed away from him, shrugged out of his grasp, and averted her eyes.

She walked a few feet from him, touched her mouth as if it were foreign to her, and started towards the path that rumbled up out of the tinny grass when Ishmael led her out of the bar. She heard him walking behind her and she knew she’d not hid her reaction to his outfit well. She felt absurd, light-headed and a little angry, but with him or herself, she wasn’t sure. She walked with a new determination to get home. Ishmael strolled beside her, keeping the pace she set.

*

A few miles outside of Steamtown, Ishmael slowed his step. The air was chilled, the threat of Nightmares stirring in the nip. Abigail felt fear flutter her stomach, but tried not to show it. She knew they were expected, even sought out, and she wasn’t sure whether their makeshift disguises would confuse their trackers, or just draw attention to them. They were, after all, still themselves, though garish versions. She was happy to be leaving the woods before the fog came, but she wasn’t happy to be leaving the danger of the forest for the danger of the city.

Ishmael must’ve been thinking the same thing because he leaned against a metallic tree on the outskirts of Steamtown, and lit a cigarette, his hands shaking. “We might want to decide what we’re going to do now. You know, in case we get split up or whatever.” His hands might’ve been shaking, but his voice and eyes betrayed no other sign of fear.

She didn’t want to think about them being split apart or what “whatever” meant. She could offer little in the way of a plan. She knew they needed to stay somewhere and Steamtown was the best option, but she had no other notion of what to expect or how to prepare.

She hadn’t talked to him during their walk, too confused and upset by his kiss. She was no longer angry, just frustrated. It wasn’t like she hadn’t been drooling over him.
I’m a mess. Why didn’t I just look away from him?
But she knew why.
Why couldn’t he be a little less hot and a lot less easy to get along with?
Fate hated her.

She decided to break her silence, pretending the kiss didn’t happen. It was the only option that felt right at the moment. “Well, I guess we should decide where we’re going to stay for the night and when we’re going to leave.”

He exhaled, smoke circling above him in creeping tendrils. “Yeah. I was thinking about lodging. We’ll want to stay away from Inns, and the like. Eric probably has a number of people stationed throughout town. I know someone in the area. He
might
be willing to let us stay in his shop. I hadn’t mentioned it before now because I was trying to think of something less risky, but I think he’s the best option we have.”

She noted the reluctance in his voice. “Can we trust him?”

He rubbed his face with his free hand. “I think so. I mean, no one really makes close friends around here. It’s the nature of the place.
Everyone
here is desperate and desperate people are untrustworthy. But I feel like he’s a good man, deep down. I frequent his shop and have some positive history with him.”

Abigail raised an eyebrow. “Positive history?”

He held out his hand in a so-so gesture. “He was a Lead of mine.”

“But he stayed here?”

“Yes, but he doesn’t blame me. He was two Leads before you. He chose to stay immediately, so I aided him in finding a position.”

Ishmael took a drag from his cigarette then continued: “He didn’t want to be in my trade, he refused a lot of jobs early on, so we headed to Steamtown to see what kind of positions were available. Steamtown is pretty big, so it’s the best option for people searching for general work. I knew the guy who ran the shop he now runs. I figured he might need help with stocking, buying, or something. We had good timing. Bart took him on right away. Acted like I was a saint to bring him along. John, that’s the guy who runs the shop now, said a week later Bart left and never came back.”

Abigail’s blood ran cold. “Another suicide?”

Ishmael hesitated then tossed his cigarette down and stomped on it. “Don’t know. Bart didn’t seem too bad off. He was a pleasant guy. John asked around and heard from one of the Merchants who supply his store that he saw Bart headed out of town, towards the border. Maybe he changed his mind about life. We’ll never know, though, seeing as there are many ways to disappear in this place and the least likely way is to leave.”