Prey

Prey

Combustion filled hearts pumping hot oil, lubricating the fists of force, feasting on octane, and discharging the excess from the resulting labor. Staring at those machines, I was reminded of my childhood and the toys I used to play with-soldiers, cars, dolls… The figures that used to bend and be positioned to quench my imagination were my favorites. Fights, both physical and verbal, instilled life in the plastic, boosting my visions into a pseudo-reality where heroes fought villains in daily episodes. Off-brand, nameless toys with randomized proportions helped me stir into originality, each participant becoming its own entity. And, like any other kid, I had my favorites. A man donned in white snow-battling gear was the protagonist, though calling him a hero would be a stretch, a get-the-job-done kind of character. That archetype resonated with me all my life. Simply fascinating. A pragmatist. He battled the others, sometimes winning on the first try, other times suffering and struggling just to make a heroic comeback. The ultimate warrior.

Years of fighting had stilled my imagination. We had discussed in school that characters should show development: scars, haircuts, weight differences, and so on, but my toy remained the same. Ignored by the passage of time, it embraced an eternal state, retaining its pure colors. Until one day I stole one of my sister’s nail polishes and branded him blue. That extra layer of paint added something, I couldn’t tell exactly what, propelled the toy on a path. Certain doors closed; fate was written down. He turned into a hero’s hero and making him act in any other fashion would dishonor his new personality, betray who he had become.

These new machines took the same place in our lives as the figures, only more mature. We showed off our cars instead of our toys; they filled a void by switching spots. Blue cars, red cars, yellow cars, sports cars, sedans, and vans puffed smoke into the city, integrating themselves as irreplaceable cogs amid the smog, noise, and the extra dimensions of parking and roads. We lived in their habitat, for they possessed a higher percentage of dominance in the concrete jungles; if the flats were the trees, they were the branches and vines that helped us navigate. Yet amid the toxic cloud cried the smell of wood and flora, mahogany and black violet interlocked, spinning and dancing a bolero. The eleven-meter statue lined with granite peeked above the hill. Memories crawled back; years had passed, and they said that time healed, but what about the scars that ached? I scanned my surroundings for her for this perfume was hers. This city was hers. People, crowds waiting at the bus stop, others rushing for the green traffic light, entering and exiting shops…

“Come on, hurry!” said my colleague. We rushed to cross the river of crushed stone and bitumen. The statue dipped behind the buildings, the machines roared, and the cold insisted on keeping my nose moist.

“I have been in this city before, you know? Twelve years ago,” I said, maintaining distance from my crippled colleague as I trailed behind him.

“This is my fourteenth visit this year alone! If anything, I have grown sick of its busy streets.”

“My first girlfriend. I don’t even know if I can call her that. We were kids.”

“You keep in contact? Invite her over tonight. The play is quite interesting.”

I didn’t have an answer, so I avoided further conversation. We turned left along the edges of the local bank and entered a store. I preferred to shop local, but since I was stuck with him, I decided to follow. The fragrance lingered, piercing the medicinal stink of the place. Despite the lustrous tiles and the vividly lit shops, the center smelled of a doctor’s waiting room, a place where another patient had been doctored into spending green. I had ideas of how a date should look or feel, so I had taken cash, more than anyone my age should have, and intended to spend it on her. Little did I know… She became upset, took offense at the fact, and we ended up with cheap food and cheap drinks from spots only a local would know.

“Look at that!” he exclaimed, showing a red tag on the tomatoes. Discount. He threw a couple into a bag and proceeded to weigh them.

It was also February twelve years ago. Her cheeks had turned red from the chill as we climbed the hill that housed the statue. I remember nothing of the road or the area, except the cool air and her fragrance. I wondered what she had made of herself. I was still swinging from branch to branch, from city to city. She had voiced her negative opinion about change. I had painted her clingy… Perhaps I was too precipitous.

“You bring any notes for tonight?”

“I’ll play it prima vista.” I picked up a water bottle.

“I hope you know what you are doing.”

I hoped so. Opening the app, I checked her phone number; it had been active two hours ago. What would writing now, after all these years, achieve? Would I scratch an itch? Maybe hope to rekindle something? And what could I write about?

Hey, remember me? Scratch. Hey! Nah. Sup. What am I, a teenager?

“How is the weather? I am supposed to be there today,” I texted.

Pondering what to write further boggled my mind and discouraged me. Whatever. We got out of the store and headed for the stage, strolling along the same route, walking back. The tall soldier and the hill he was stationed on were behind me, breathing on my neck. Metal cartridges moved along, honking at each other. Islands drifted on the river. Our feet had connected on the same sidewalk, we had marched on the same streets and breathed the same air. One of those cartridges, whose color or shape I failed to recall, had shrieked at us, challenging us to kiss. My first kiss… Her red lips, eyes of ice, and pouring hair; her tender skin. I fought off the urge to check my phone, scared of the result.

“I will head back to drop off the groceries. Don’t wait on me.” He said. Our paths diverged.

The decor was ready: two sets of curtains, a play within a play. We would explore the life of an actor. A vivid image for the audience, for they were to observe a painting in the decor that would depict them, like a cruel mirror. The actor would walk back and forth, juggling both scenes, playing two characters at once.

Regret surfaced above my fingertips. I broke the stasis, distorted the mirage. What did I stand to gain now from all of this? Nothing. A doll is but a doll as long as you leave it to nest in your memory. Let the fermentation process complete, remove the abhorrent facts, and get drunk on whatever remains. People changed, I kept repeating to myself. Yet the very idea allured me, drew me in to try the fruit again. To play with the doll.

I couldn’t fight the urge. I checked the phone.

“It’s snowy. If you are planning to be outside, pray to be under layers of cloth,” the message read.

I stared at it.

“What brings you here?” she continued.

Before I had a chance to answer, a hand tapped me on the shoulder four times.

“Hey buddy, when did you say the wedding was? I talked with my man, and he offered a discount: lights, him on the mic, and I can set up the audio.”

“First of July. I checked the venue, and we might have to skip the lights.”

He handed me a piece of paper with a number written on it.

“Call him after 1 p.m. Good luck tonight.”

“Don’t need luck with you guiding me behind the booth,” I said.