Love, Hope, and a Price

The green leaves were a vision in perpetuity in the rainy summer evening. The clouds hid the sun behind her shaded groves. A sliver of light still managed to escape and came down on the leaves like heaven’s grace. It was a sight to behold. Four strangers stood around it in a not-so-random pattern, attention rapt on the sifting sunlight in the weathered vane, set against the backdrop of rain and hail.

           If you were to ask them what they were so caught up in, they would not have been able to answer. Perhaps because it was subconscious, the reason. They did not even know they were not moving, did not remember standing still, face upturned at the sunlit leaf. One of them, a man, looking to be in his early forties, with shaggy dark hair and a trench coat completing the ensemble, had a phone dangling from his hand, forgotten, even as the person on the other side continued his tirade of hello and anybody there? and Chris, love. You there? until finally the line went quiet, before disconnecting. Yet Andrew did not notice. Did not manage to complete the conversation. And how could he? After all, he was in the middle of metamorphosis. His mind was even now adapting, changing, updating and downgrading as needed to maintain the steady stream of information that it was now receiving. In the cerebral lobe, out of his active memory. Making him aware of nothing but an empty nothingness.  

           The person in a rainbow-colored sweatshirt was holding a candy in their loose hands. Their hair was a damp curtain, clothes three shades darker than they originally came in. But what was most extraordinary about this person was the candy hanging from their hand. The candy was a study in depth perception, constituting of at least ten perceivable colors and a true tone depth to match any computer screen in its authenticity. And it was completely dry. In the middle of the rain-soaked world, it stood out like a vision in pink against a virgin white background. And so they stood, holding a dry candy in the thunderstorm, staring up at the tree.

           The girl in the pink shirt had an even brighter pink umbrella (forgotten, now hanging by her side). She had just been returning from her girlfriend’s apartment before her entrapment. Her mind was filled with thoughts of the day. You see, today was the day that they made love for the first time, and so, appropriately, her mind full of the past three hours that she had spent surrounded by love and warmth. But now, surrounded by neither, her eyes, which was a jaded hue swimming in luminescence green, was slowly turning a little pale, a little glassy. As if, viewed though a smudged screen. The thoughts blown away like a rogue paper on a windy evening.

           And then there was the woman. There was a denim jacket and leather gloves the first, to shield herself from the rain as it pelted down in rivulets and the second, to hide the burn marks marring her otherwise flawless skin. Under her jacket, there was the vest – for protection. The reason previously known was now a matter of much intrigue to her otherwise void mind. There was also, lastly, a Glock, tucked under the waistband of her jeans. Again: for protection. Who was this woman to need this much protecting? But now it would seem that none of it mattered.

For now, she was not that woman anymore who needed protection.

Now she was just a hub. A vessel for something other.

Sky to ground, all intrinsically connected was her last conscious thought before being enamored by the silhouetted tree. All of her worries that had plagues her for the past week was now lost to the void of her mind. Maybe if it hadn’t, if she just had not made that wish that day, maybe then . . . she might have been spared from being the perpetrator. Jostled from the side, she barely moved, barely noticed as a knife, quietly and subtly, asserted its position inside her jacket pocket, barely brushing the gun on her back. And it would seem that whosoever the perpetrator of that particular act knew what to look out for.

A movement in the universe, a gloved hand, in out, lost to the crowd. A transaction that would eventually set everything in motion was a matter of mere seconds. Three at the most. Three second . . . and a cosmic (dis)balance.

The Other, finally, had access to all the four people.

But this was then. This was how it all began. For there to be a beginning this was a before, a kind of a prelude to a story no one knew, a song, unsung. And this was that. This was a man, a person, and two women. This was a knife, a gun, a phone, an umbrella, and most importantly, a candy.

This was before the beginning.

And now let us skip over all the boring details: the middle. The intrusion, the confusion, the mishaps, the wanting of getting it out, wanting to be free. Then finally the knowing. The gleaning. A cool summer night. A nondescriptive house where was a murder was being planned, out of prying eyes. On a street bathed in moonlight. The knife, glinting in said moonlight from a broken window. And then the blood. Dark red. Metallic. A crime scene.

But we will skip all that. Because that was the beginning, and the end. And since we have already established the before, the beginning and the end, I think it is more than fair to go directly to the after. An ending after the ending. An epilogue.  

So. Where were we? Oh, right.

There was a knife in a moonlit room, bathed in dark red blood. Much like the furniture, wallpapers, floors, and (almost) everything else in room. It was a palimpsest written in dark red. And amidst, there was a man, a person, and two women. And a body.

The Other was gone, returned to the tree. Its purpose accomplished. And so there they were left, alone. In the middle of a very grisly crime scene. They looked at each other. Slowly, cautiously, waking from a trance. Known strangers, was an electrical impulse in their brain-under-duress. The first thing their new brain registered. Second, was the smell. It was all over them. In them. The smell of death. A subconscious thought made them look down. And around.

‘What the actual fuck?!’ slipped form two chapped lips, destination unknown, source not-quite-important. But that was enough. Enough to break the trance. They, all of them, jolted. As if they were running through an electric wire, their entire body waking up after being dormant for so long.

The Other had assumed command of their entire limbic system, leaving nothing to chance. And now that it was gone, there was a void left behind. A feeling of something that should have been there, but wasn’t. And all that was left were eight eyes, eight ears, four mouths, four pair of limbs, two pair of brains. Oh, and, let’s not forget, a human body with a knife buried to the hilt inside chest cavity of said body.

The scene would have been quite comical, four grown people in a state of perpetual what the fuck? who the fuck? if it weren’t so artfully malformed.

The sound of a siren cut through the dim like a steel blade through cheese cake.

They looked at one other, eyes wide, but before long, it narrowed in quiet understanding. Honor amongst thieves.

Later. They’d deal with it later. For now, they had to get out of there.

The snow was three layers deep when it was ruefully broken by the boots of a cop getting out of a car.

           ‘This the house?’ asked the partner. She was five-two, hair braded back into a tight ponytail, and posture assuring her capability in handling any untoward situation quite effectively.

           ‘House number 221. Yes, Audrey, this is it.’ Said the other cop, leaning over the car door.

           It was a quite neighborhood. The call had come in half an hour before when one of the neighbors called in a scuffling from this house. Audrey and Mel were in not-so-active duty at the time. They were having quite a night, what with the snow falling in lazy withdrawal, and them sequestered within the cozy car seats, balancing a cup of hot cocoa and hot wings on their lap. The conversation was warm and flowing, their voices lulling the other to a state of wishful drowsiness. The air between their heads a lush river both trying hard not to disturb. Trying being the key word.

But now.

           Now they were here, looking at the other, both clearly wishing to return to that moment. Both knowing it was impossible. Audrey was the first one to look away. ‘Let’s get it over with.’ Mel nodded but Audrey was already moving towards the house.

           The porchlight was off, the door closed shut. Audrey knocked twice. Then thrice. By the fourth time, Mel was beside her. By the fifth, no answer from within, she called out, ‘Hello. Anyone in there? This is the police. Open up.’ No answer. They waited. The snow was a passive scroll now, the drift near invisible.

           ‘What do you think? Breaking and entering?’ Audrey asked. ‘Perp broke in, took something and then got out. Made some kind of sound in the process, which nosy neighbor picked up?’ It was not exactly a question, Mel knew. But. ‘Maybe,’ she said, ‘or maybe it’s nothing like that. Maybe it was empty from the beginning and she just heard something else, thought it was from this house, and trying to get some drama called it in.’

           Turned her head. Looked in Audrey’s eyes. They were chipped ice crashed in a blue lagoon. ‘Or maybe,’ her breath was an autumn’s sigh on Audrey’s lips, ‘they are still inside.’

If Mel had not paused, if they had not looked at each other over the car, and not missed that few seconds, then maybe the four people would have been caught. Then maybe it would have been over. Case solved, without an answer. But they did look. They did pause. And so, by the time Mel and Audrey tried the door and found it open, by the time they caught the smell, withdrew their gun, and called it in, all that was left was red against the multicolored canvas, a sigh of wind from one of the study windows on the back of the house the glorified witness.

They convened two days later upon a pre-designated spot in an old warehouse district. The place was empty except for a bunch of boxes and other bric-a-brac no one really cares about. As it was, a man, a person, and two women met in the middle of a sea of questions.

           For a time, no one spoke, no one breathed too loud, the past a mutual crime amongst thieves. The person was the first to break the silence.

           ‘What. The. Fuck.’

           ‘Well, that’s one way of putting it.’ Said the girl (still) in the pink shirt. Looking at the others, she added, ‘The other way would be: were we abducted by aliens? And if yes, then why us? Also, hi, my name is Alina. Not-so-nice to meet you. Oh, and also that’s my girlfriend there on the rafter,’ she pointed towards one of the rafters connecting all the juncture holding the ceiling in place. An almost indiscernible hand waved in a hello motion. The other three waved back. ‘She’s got a gun.’ Heads turned around so quicky, they tilted on an axis. They jumped back, alarmed.

‘Motherfuc –’ ‘Son of a –’ ‘Are you kidd –’

           ‘But that’s just if someone comes after us. You know, to kill, maim, that sort of things.’ She concluded with a little flourish. The others settled down a bit, but kept their guards up.

           ‘You always this fun to be around?’ they asked. She just smiled. Shaking their head, they said, ‘I’m Skee. Prefer they/them. Twenty-three. Well. Will be. Next month. Anyway. No hidden partner with dangerous skills. And uhm, yeah, what the fuck happened to us?’

           Skee and Alina looked at the other two. The man went first. ‘Chris. Forty-two. Married. And no, my husband is not hiding in the shadows, waiting with a gun. Although now I’m guessing it would have been nice if he possessed that particular skill set. Anyway. That’s me. What about you?’ he finished, nodding towards the woman. All eyes now on her, they waited. And waited. Until: ‘I do not know my name.’ They looked at each other, quizzical. But before they could comment on this, she added, ‘But I know what happened.’

           That shut them up and they looked at her, waiting. She took a breath. Two. Looking at all of them, taking in their profile separately, she took another breath. They got the message: keep quiet until I finish. Having no other option, they nodded. Once she was satisfied that she would not be disturbed, she began.

           ‘Since we don’t have much time, I’ll just say the points most important. It began fifty years ago, when the Other was born amidst the leaves of a fading tree. Yes, that tree. Anyway, at the time, Milo Constructions was looking to renovate parts of the city, make it more ‘modern’. But of course, to them, modern meant tearing down the old, tearing down the green to make way for sleek high-rise and more technologically advanced looking infrastructure. And they needed the entirety of the park to make it. The locals were out of budget and were mostly colored, and at that time a combination like that was lethal. At best, you could hope to scrape by on a decent wage, putting two full meals on the table for your family. At worst, you would be homeless, out of prospects and no friends. And that was a fate worse than a death sentence. Ergo, they were out of options to protect their most loved spot. But . . .

           ‘There were four of them – kids who did do something. When hope was long gone, they found a way. You see, this tree was like a home to them. These four kids: two boys, two girls. Used to go there, to that spot whenever they were happy, sad, depressed. It was kind of their home away from home. Their Safe Haven. And that is what they termed their tree, scratched on one of the higher limbs, set against wood, protected against time. And thus, by naming it, did they give life to this tree. They gave it spirit. And as much as they loved it, so did it too love them very much.

           ‘The plan for development was ten years in the making. And in that time, as their neighborhood was slowly torn down, as their world changed around them, the kids grew. They got jobs. Family. But never did they forget about their Safe Haven. And they worked hard, they strove to get into positions of power, and when they finally succeeded, they shut down the project. Ironclad the deal, so that in the future no one would be able to open it again. Milo Construction suffered a major loss. But they could not retaliate. The four kids-who-were-not-kids-anymore had built an eco-friendly power management system and built it right around the park, so that it not only supported but also enhanced it. Cutting down the park after that was not an idea anymore. And so, with the losses that it took, and with such a low on public ratings, Milo Construction went under.

           ‘And that’s why generation after generation, that family has hated the four people who destroyed them. And that hate, that ignorant, misbegotten rage has been passed down from parent to child, and they have always tried to find a way to bring them – us – down. And now, after almost fifty years, Christopher Milo, who was finally able to restore some of the financial side of the family was planning on coming after us. To wipe us off the face of the earth. Not just financially. But physically.

           ‘And the plan was all but a success. For he had failsafe against any and all failure point. Well, except one. The one thing he had not count on was the soul of a tree born out of sheer love and hope. And that . . . was his downfall.’

           They just stared at her in utter amazement as the truth unfolded in front of them.

           ‘But then,’ Skee said in a parchment like voice, ‘why do you know all this but not your name? And why didn’t we remember any of this?’

           She looked at them. She smiled. ‘My mother told me. And that was why I was always prepared. I took . . . measures to protect myself. And when the Other asked for me to be the vessel in exchange for my name, I accepted.’

           ‘But why? Why would you do that?’ Chris asked, bewildered.

           It was Alina who replied. ‘Because nothing in this world is free, no matter what. There is always a price to pay.’

           The woman just nodded. They looked at each other, their feelings at war with each other. The comprehension of narrowly escaping a disaster was just now settling in. How they felt about that was like a jigsaw puzzle whose pieces did not quite fit together. Yet.

And now it is time for us to leave them here, in this ending-after-the-end. Do not get me wrong. It is not The End. Because after all, no story truly ever ends as long as it is being told. So, no. This is not the end. After all, what comes next . . .  this is not the place for a story like that.