Monochrome (3 page)

Ishmael thought about her question. “Well, I guess I’ve just walked the path long enough. It’s like a sixth sense.” He took a drag from his cigarette and smoke slid from his mouth as he continued. “You’re right, though. This place is intentionally dull and unvarying. But, make no mistake, there
are
living beings out there, though it’s better we don’t come across them. I haven’t noticed many animals. Probably not the best place to live. But the things that stalk the dark are real enough to kill a person. Sticking to the path is always the best policy.”

The hair on the back of Abigail’s neck rose, but she tried to keep an appearance of composure.
“Who
is out there?”

Ishmael walked more slowly as he answered. “The living dead.” He raised his hands to fend off her disbelief.

“Not literally, of course, but they might as well be. The Roamers of Monochrome are empty inside. They are like the living dead, only they don’t want your flesh. Just your memories. No one stays in the forest here unless they’d run out of options. Only the most desperate people live out there. You don’t want to trust a Roamer. They steal your memories, pretending they’re trading you for them: your life for your memories.”

He rubbed his face tiredly. “And they’re not even the worst thing out there. Hunters have told me about wild bears, boars and the like, but I’ve yet to see anything. I suppose it helps when I walk loudly and smoke. But it’s not the living creatures we should fear.”

His eyes took on a contemplative aspect. “I’m not sure frightening you will help us with our end goal, however, so I think I’ll just let it go there. Just know people are desperate here.” Ishmael’s face clouded. “They’ll do anything to hold on a little bit longer.”

Abigail
was
afraid but she balked. “Nothing you say or do will keep me from getting to my baby and husband.” She was struggling to understand what he said about “Roamers” taking memories. It made no sense to her and, though she wasn’t sure she wanted to know how they did such a thing, she also liked to be prepared for the worst.

But, before she asked more, Ishmael stopped, flicked his cigarette away and lifted his eyes to hers. She felt like backing away, but stood her ground and met his gaze.

She noticed his eyes weren’t completely dead of emotion. At the moment, they appeared…

“Hopeful.” Abigail spoke the word aloud and grinned at the confusion that crossed Ishmael’s face. “Your eyes. They aren’t
all
gone. They’re
hopeful
.”

“There’s little room for hope in Monochrome, but, yes. You make me feel like I might be able to accomplish something to help me regain a little of my humanity.”

She raised an eyebrow. “What’s that?”

“I think, for once, I might be able to actually lead someone out of this place.”

THE BAR
ISHMAEL MENTIONED
was huddled among a few stone buildings, dark on the inside. Abigail wondered if it was closed. The bar itself was coal black stone. It was short, with a roof of metallic blue shingles. The door was frosted glass, which gave the impression the place was forever stuck in winter. Looking at it, she felt cold, even though the air was as unvarying in temperature as it had been when she arrived. The lack added to her unease. Ishmael pushed on the frosted door to enter the bar. He stepped aside to let Abigail inside. She muttered a thanks and he shrugged in reply.

The interior of the bar was dim, lit by iron oil lanterns placed along the wall. The air in the bar was a heavy cloud of cigarette, lantern and cigar smoke. There were only eight patrons present, but at least six of them were surrounded in a still fog. Abigail avoided studying the faces of the patrons, whose eyes resembled black holes. Their bodies were frozen in gloomy mid-sip, hands stuck to beer and shot glasses.

She noticed Ishmael stopped for a moment and stared at two patrons huddled in a corner of the bar, the only two not smoking. One sported jet black hair and eyes to match. He was wearing a black leather trench and long knee-high boots, giving the impression of an evil captain on an otherworldly airship.

The other had light brown hair, tan skin and those same dead eyes. He was dressed in torn jeans, a black t-shirt and tan jacket. Ishmael didn’t scan the table for long, and the men didn’t appear to notice they were being watched. They were deep in conversation.

Ishmael motioned for Abigail to sit at the bar. She sat on a tall wood stool, the same color as the trees outside. It was slick and cool to the touch. The bar was painted a brassy color and it reflected the dull light of the oil lanterns hanging above. There were several shelves behind the counter holding various unlabeled liquors, and there was an old-fashioned ice box containing several large bottles of what she guessed was home brewed beer.

She faced Ishmael. “Where do the food and drink supplies come from? I mean, is this place self-sufficient? How big is it? Is there no electricity?”

He furrowed his brows. “I don’t think anyone has ever asked me.”

“They’re logical questions, aren’t they?”

“Yeah. That’s sort of the point. Most people I meet are too desperate and sad to care about the functional details of Monochrome.”

“So, can you not answer me?” She asked him, still curious.

He bit his bottom lip. “I get paid and get my orders from Steamtown. I know other people who work for Monochrome get most of their supplies from there as well, from the main storehouse, so I guess it’s the same for bartenders. It’s an industrial place. Merchants come from Steamtown and sell to places all over Monochrome.”

Ishmael pursed his lips in consideration. “It’s weird, but I never thought about the ins and outs when I came here. I kinda just went through the motions, I guess, and found out things gradually, which is abnormal. I’m normally inquisitive.”

He stared Abigail in the face for long enough to make her uncomfortable. “How did you end up here, Abby?”

She sighed, throwing up her hands. “Beats me. I mean, I’m not going to lie, I’ve been crazy lately—depressed, moody, extremely angry, even suicidal. But I don’t think I would have killed myself. Not because I couldn’t…”

She shifted uncomfortably, remembering the many times she recently thought about which death might be the least traumatizing for those who found her. She shivered, as an image of her hanging from the rafters of their garage prodded her subconscious. “No, I could do it, but I thought of my baby and my husband, what if he found me? Who puts a person they love through hell? Anyway, I always talked myself out of it. I didn’t want to scar my family.”

Ishmael stared over her shoulder as she spoke, his irises glazing over. The distance he crossed was all in his mind, but she could tell he was picturing something intimate and painful. Something she dredged up with her questions.

“Who knows, though? I’ve had some pretty crazy thoughts lately, and I’ve come pretty close. I might have done it this time if not for the…” She paused, trying to think of what to call the overbearing dread she experienced before passing out.

“I guess I don’t know what it was. It felt like a heart attack or something. My arms were fuzzy, my breathing labored…” She rubbed her arms, remembering the tingling sensation that hit her before being undone by the crippling fear and pain smashing into her chest, crushing her lungs.

Ishmael’s haunted gaze dropped and he returned to the conversation. “Panic attack. Yeah, those are scary.”

She felt stupid. “Of course it was a panic attack. I thought I was having some sort of cardiac arrest. I’d just never felt anything like it before.”

He motioned for the bartender who lazily ambled their way. “Anxiety attacks are a weekly deal for me, so I empathize.”

She was about to ask him to elaborate, when the bartender finally greeted them. He was short, balding and sported a large beer belly. He wore a stained t-shirt, stretched over his girth and an apron over grey sweats. He breathed heavily when he talked.

“Ishmael. What can I get you and your new Lead?” He didn’t take of notice Abigail yet, and she suspected he was fighting the urge to do so. Ishmael got out his pack of cigarettes and placed them on the counter. “Whiskey and coke for me. You’ll have to ask her what she wants.”

The bartender faced her and shook his head. “They get younger and younger.” His reaction made her feel very self-conscious.

Ishmael lit a cigarette. “She’s older than me, Jim. Just doesn’t look it. Just get her what she wants.”

Jim eyed her. “What’ll it be, young lady? Here to drown your sorrows or attempt a try at the border?”

Jim’s question angered Ishmael, who shot him a glare that could freeze boiling water. She noticed, for the first time, Jim’s eyes were a black-brown color, instead of solid black.

She ignored his question, but ordered anyway. “A double shot of whiskey, on the rocks.” The short man nodded, and walked away to get them their drinks.

Ishmael’s leg shook his stool and he fidgeted with the cigarette in his hand. “Jim’s not been here long.” His voice was a quiet growl. “He doesn’t know to keep his opinions to himself yet.”

She shrugged. “I think he was trying to be nice, though a bit nosy.”

“To you, yes, but he was trying to annoy me.”

She frowned, baffled. She must’ve missed something important, but she couldn’t imagine what. “Ishmael, I…”

But he cut her off by standing and placing his cigarette in the over-full tin ashtray in front of him. “Just take my word for it, Abby; he’s trying to get on my nerves. I was friendly with the bartender before him, but Tom offed himself four months ago. Jim took his place and has been a pain in my ass ever since.”

Abigail gaped at the casual mention of the suicide of someone he supposedly liked. “I’m sorry, Ishmael…”

He interrupted her. “Don’t be. Business as usual for this place.”

He faced her, his face a mask of guilt. He placed his hand on her shoulder, an awkward thing to do in such a situation. She almost jumped off her stool as a small electric shock coursed through her. She jumped in surprise, expecting him to be weirded out by the shock. But he either didn’t feel what she had or was aware of it and was nonplussed. He averted his eyes and sighed brokenly.

“I’m going to the bathroom,” he muttered, not even glancing at her as he walked away. His shoulders hung with the slant of defeat. Jim came over when Ishmael went to the bathroom and placed their drinks in front of her.

“There you go, lady.”

She shook off the feeling of Ishmael’s touch. But she still wondered over his strange and aggressive behavior. She usually felt like drinking. The syrupy thickness sliding down her throat was her sweet companion. The iced drink first cooled than warmed her, made her think less, feel less…But today was one of only a handful of moments she
needed
a drink. She stared at the glass in front of her, and almost jumped off her stool. Her whiskey was quaking in tiny ripples.

The liquid shifted and became a glassy mirror. She peered into the liquid mirror, leaning in to make out the images forming a wavy picture. The amber liquid changed a deep black color with every ripple, the color of Ishmael’s eyes. Her hands shook on the counter as the images became clearer.
This is not happening
, she thought as a picture of her husband came together before her. No, not a picture. A memory.

Her husband was walking slowly through the living room.
She bent closer to her glass and distinctly heard the sound of her baby crying. Abigail got as close to her glass as possible and watched the scene in disbelief.
Her husband was walking towards the sound of her baby, a disturbed fear in his crescent moon eyes.

Abigail’s heart ached to see it. She desperately wanted to know the cause of his grief. Then, the scene switched point of view. She was now her husband, seeing the scene, first hand. Abigail’s heart fell. She remembered this moment.

Through Jason’s eyes, she saw herself sitting hunched forward, staring blankly out of the large double window in their sun room, eyes distant and glazed.
Anger burned through her, quickly replaced by a gaping sadness, so intense it felt empty
. She realized, with a shudder, she was feeling what Jason felt that day.

She/Jason looked down at Abigail’s feet and saw Ruby lying on her play mat, screaming to be picked up. When he saw Ruby, his feelings shifted. His body tingled with an overwhelming fear and a love so passionate it sent shivers over his skin.
Abigail wanted to jump from his body, pick her up, hold her close, and protect her from….from herself.

Jason picked Ruby up, though, and, before leaving the room with her, stared at the
hunched Quasimodo who was his wife, gazing out of the window dumbly.
She wished to leave him and this awful memory before she felt the mixture of revulsion, pity and anger coursing through his system. But she felt it and understood it.

What is wrong with her? Jason thought as he held Ruby close to his warmth. He smelled the powdery sweet tang of her babyness, and couldn’t fathom her perfection. Her screaming stopped, and she beamed, wet hazel eyes glowing. Her tiny fist pumped erratically and slapped weakly against his wet cheek. He didn’t know why he was crying.

A hot tear ran down Abigail’s face and dropped into the whiskey. Experiencing Ruby as her husband did made her see just how ugly her own experience of her baby was. Her own emotions were as hollow as an unused mason jar and just as fragile. The scene in the liquid vanished in the ripples from her tears, but it replayed itself in her head. She felt Jason’s revulsion for her and his aching tenderness for Ruby. His tears burned her cheeks, or were they her own?

“He doesn’t love me.” She meant to think, but whispered the awful revelation.

Ishmael, who, at some point during the scene, returned to his seat next to her, cleared his throat. “I’m sorry. What did you say?”

“I….” She didn’t want to speak the agonizing truth.

“Who doesn’t love you?” he inquired.

Abigail shook her head, and was surprised to feel more tears splatter her cheeks. She hadn’t cried in so long. Her emptiness had been too consuming. Her husband’s steely disdain for her was tearing her apart.

“Jason. He doesn’t love me,” she spit out. She picked up the whiskey in front of her and downed the two shots in one go. It slid down her throat like liquid silk. She motioned to Jim for another. He poured another and started to take the bottle away.

She grabbed the bottle and placed it in front of her.

He shrugged. “It’ll cost ya, lady.”

She nodded and downed the shot. The whiskey was strong, much stronger than anything she drank back home. It suffocated her doubts in numb, fuzzy warmth. But it couldn’t make her forget. And therein lay the problem with whiskey. It could numb you to your worries but it never took them away.

She faced Ishmael and was surprised to see rage settle on his face.

“Why are you glaring at me?” she shot at him, getting angry herself.

Ishmael, caught off guard, shook himself and put on his normal apathetic mask. “Sorry. Just wondering what makes you think something like that,” he replied.

“I felt it. I mean…” She didn’t even know how to explain what she saw in her glass since doing so would make her sound crazy. But she knew what she saw was accurate, somehow. What she saw
really
happened, so what Jason felt must also have happened.

“You saw, then? A memory?”

She gawked at him. “How do you know…”

He shrugged and placed a cigarette between his lips. Speaking over the cigarette, lighting it with trembling fingers, he explained, “You have the appearance of someone who has been tested. I see it in everyone I guide.”

Abigail shook her head. “That was a memory. What I saw,” she paused, wiping a new tear from her cheek, “it happened. I just saw it from Jason’s point of view instead of my own.” She poured another drink, and downed it.

“You should’ve felt how repulsed he was with me…” Unable to finish, she swirled her glass in quiet desperation.

He grabbed the bottle from her right hand, poured a shot into his empty glass, and drank it. “I’ve felt it. I mean, not exactly, but close enough. I’ve
felt
and
seen
the revulsion of someone I cared about plenty, Abby. Believe me.” His voice didn’t change, but his eyes clouded.

He poured himself another shot, grabbed her glass and poured her another. “It was a test. I can’t tell you what to feel or do about it, but I can tell you I know how desperate you feel right now.” He sipped the whiskey in front of him and took a drag from his cigarette.

“So, here’s your choice. We can continue to drink this overpriced whiskey, and you truly don’t know how much it will cost you.” Shame tainted his opal eyes. “Or we can continue to try to get you home. What’ll it be?”