The Darkness We Never See

John took a step to the left, moving away from the water filled pothole. He lowered his umbrella and avoided eye contact with a passing couple. It rained a lot in the greater northwest, it was one of the reasons why he chose to live there. It brought him a type of happiness that was otherwise elusive. It also meant the Others weren’t out. That’s what he called people with other skin. The Others never operated in the rain, it irritated their skin, and half of them couldn’t afford clothing to deal with it.

           John enjoyed his walk along the mostly abandoned small city streets. It was peaceful. The rain never bothered him; he’d grown accustomed to it. It had been years since he walked the streets on a sunny day and in an odd way, he missed it. That was before the Others came. Before they ruined it for him.

After his fix fulfilled, John worked his way over two blocks. His favorite store nearly empty, the way he liked it.

He never considered himself a loner. Not even with his own skin, but people were weird, they didn’t make sense. That was his conclusion after several failed first dates. The guys from work were no better. Once a month he’d join them for beers, but it was always the same. Never saying much. Their words never had meaning, nothing was accomplished, no progress made. The conversations revolved around whose dating who, who won the big game, and who was in line for a raise. Always who, never how.

           Whenever John brought up a conversation about the Others, how to get rid of them, how to deal with them, or how to make life go back to the way it was, his coworkers stepped in. Putting a stop to the rhetoric before he gained traction. They feared someone in the bar would hear, more specifically an Other. Then they’d be dubbed a racist and it’d all be downhill from there. That was the problem. His own skin cared what the Others thought. His kind didn’t understand, no one really did.

John walked cautiously to the back of the store. He didn’t know who or what was around. After a quick sweep, the area seemed to be clear and he placed himself in front of the perfect coat. It was brown, a tough leather. It felt real like it came straight off the back of a beast. He checked the price $400 dollars. Perfect. The Others couldn’t afford it.

Walking the aisle, the brown leather coat fit tight. Like a second layer, it was natural. As he turned the corner towards the cash register, he felt his soul leave his body. His heart pumped, beating so fast it felt as if it would break through the skin and flop onto the floor. Blood leaked from his mouth from biting too hard on his tongue. He fought the urge to scream, forced the voice back down his throat. He never made a public scene, no matter how badly he wanted to. He saw the ‘crazies’ as the news portrayed them on the television. The ones who walked into a mall and shot the place up. He never wanted to be thought of like that. He couldn’t do what they did either, or rather, he wouldn’t.

           The woman, only a few steps in front of John noticed the pale fragile twig he was. Heavy air raced from his mouth and it wouldn’t have been a surprise if a heart attack followed. She shifted her body to face John and extended a helping hand. Her hand was darker than his, rougher, and somehow hideous. John forced himself against better judgment to meet her eyes. They were darker than any darkness he’d ever seen. Sweat sept through the brown leather jacket.

           “Sir are you okay,” the woman asked? “You don’t look so good; would you like me to call for help?”

           Of course, you’re going to help me, John thought. That’s how they trick you, that’s how they get you to fall for them. Make you believe they’re good people. It’s all a lie.

           John shook his head no. Afraid if he tried to speak it would be a scream. Carefully and without causing too much of a scene, he slid his twisted body around her. Making sure not to touch. He couldn’t touch an Other. God forbid some disease jumped from their skin to his. What if his skin touched theirs? He nearly threw up thinking about it. Once an arm’s length away he hurried to the cashier, not making any eye contact with anyone else. He couldn’t afford to see who else was in the store. One was enough, two was suicidal. He wasn’t prepared to deal with them today. Maybe if he wore his gloves, he could handle it. But not when it rains. Who wears gloves when it rains?

John paid for the coat and walked into the rain. He was safe in the rain, always safe there.

           Avoiding the usual route home, the long leisure walk by the water. Instead, he broke into a jog and cut through the alleys. The rain provided a blanket of safety, but his home provided the only absolute safety. Others have walked in the rain before, but not a single Other stepped foot into his apartment. A ten-minute jog damaged his lungs, but it was worth it. Air heaved from his mouth as he dug into his pocket and grabbed his keys. The keys worked its way in the lock, and with a little shimmy and a push against the door, he entered the bottom floor of the building. The stairs squeaked with each step and he prayed he wouldn’t see the Others who lived on the third floor. The Other’s had two kids who always hung out in the stairwell. It was sad, he almost felt bad for them. The Other’s could hardly provide for their own children. Fun was reduced to pushing a broken toy truck along a rusted staircase. Pathetic. The Others were all pathetic. Couldn’t take care of the things they had.

           To his enjoyment, the kids weren’t there. A heavy trot turned into light steps. Doing whatever he could not to alarm them to his presence. Up a few more flights and before he knew it, he was outside his door. Safety. The key worked after the third yank and he all but threw himself inside. The door slammed behind him and he slid against the rotting wood. Sprawled out on the floor. Tension flowed like broken beats from his body and the panic breathing slowed to a halt. He wasn’t in the house long before tiny footsteps danced on the splintered floor. His cat reached his feet and purred, rubbing its head against the shoe. John smiled for the first time since he saw the Other.

           The cat fit well in his wet arms as they proceed to the kitchen. “Mr. Snowball, you’d never believe what happened to me,” John let out another breath of relief. Mr. Snowball was the only one that listened and didn’t judge. Never calling John crazy or the dreaded word, racist. Mr. Snowball heard each word and waited to hear more. Mr. Snowball was the only thing John loved.

           “The Others were out today,” John threw his hands in the air as if the world was falling apart. “It rained today; they aren’t supposed to be out when it rains. I don’t get it. Why don’t they just go back to where they came from. It would make everything better. And life could go back to normal.”

           John pulled his clothes from his body. The new jacket was tossed across the arm of a chair. His soaked dark green beanie followed. Long dark hair flopped out, grease nearly fell off it. He hadn’t showered in a week. Maybe two.

           Running his fingers through his hair, John slithered into the living room. His steps had an odd pause to them. His eyes went wide. The side of his lip hung out. He couldn’t understand why an Other was out today, it gnawed at his sanity. He reached for the remote and turned on the T.V. The same voice he listened to everyday soothed his sanity. The voiced preached the affirmation. The Others were invading the country and they needed to do something about it. Before it was too late.

Unfortunately, it wasn’t that simple. Every time his skin tried to make a difference; they were hated by their own kind. They were deemed racists, called supremacist, titled a killer. John couldn’t understand, why his kind didn’t see the things the way he did.

It wasn’t long before he sat on his couch in stained underwear with a cold bowl of oatmeal in his lap. As the news preached the symphony, it placed him under the spell. Their skin was doomed, the Others invaded across the border every night, the larger cities almost conquered. He couldn’t go out at night, it wasn’t safe. The words dove into his fears, gave rise to purpose, and infused him with another dose of hate. As the first session came to a close and before the next one began, the news anchor struck a chord. A chord that was established in the beginning of the presentation, setting the tone to get the upmost reaction. The chord waited in the back, stalking its audience, reading the emotions, and attacked when he was most vulnerable.

           Blood flowed through John’s hands until they became fists and red lines raced through his eyes. His skinny frame gave life to dozens of veins popping from his distorted muscles. Raw emotion raged from within, searching for an exit. Screams fled his body until his throat bled. Tears of anger rolled down his sunken cheeks. He jumped up from the couch and slammed the oatmeal bowl against the wall. Screaming in hysteria. The television rang. A group of Others killed an innocent child of his skin.

           The news told the truth, it always did. Soon after the guilt took him hostage. He felt responsible. He saw the light when so many others couldn’t. He understood what was at stake, and he was capable of doing something. After rational thought faded, the hysteria returned for a second round. Worst then the first. He slid off the couch and on to his knees pulling at his hair. His mouth opened wide and moans came out choppy. The television broke for commercial and it took a few minutes for the anger to subdue.

           Clear thoughts followed, he had a plan, he had a way to make a difference. John got up and raced to his bed. Dropped to one knee and slid his hand underneath. He felt a box and pulled it out, he opened it with care. A pistol appeared in front of him. Brand new, never fired. He got it a few weeks earlier when a dozen of his skins died from the hands of the Others. That was the first time he wished he owned a gun. Protection. It’s how it started. The handle felt natural in his hand and it gave him a sense of calm that everything was going to be okay. The Others could never touch him, they wouldn’t dare.

           Thoughts followed, and they came in bunches. There were enough examples on the internet and T.V. to inspire any type of action. What a few metal cylinders could do was amazing. He could take out all the Others in his building, but that was thinking small. Why not the whole block, maybe the city. That was getting ahead of himself. He had limits after all, he was a realist. He understood the way the world worked.

***

           There weren’t many of his type out there, he told Mr. Snowball over dinner. The type that understood what was at stake and could do something about it. He was valuable, very valuable. Not like his coworkers, not like the others that shared his skin and would break bread with the Others.

           The pistol laid next to the bowl on the table and every few seconds he’d turn his eyes to it. Making sure it hadn’t moved. Thoughts refined. What, where, how? It was all so enticing. Almost like he had purpose for the first time. When the thoughts formed all the way to the execution of the task, he stopped. He wasn’t a killer, not because he couldn’t do it. Of course, he could do it, he told himself repeatedly. It was the after that he hated. The ones who killed the Others were deemed as monsters, hated by all, even his own skin. And what would his mother think, she’d be shunned by everyone. He couldn’t do that to her.

           It weighed heavily on him as he tossed and turned in bed, with Mr. Snowball by his feet. He needed to do something; he refused to wait idly by. Wait for the Others to get him like the girl on the T.V. The truth was ignored by the ignorant and fools. The world be damned if the opinions of sheep altered his course. He was awake to the truth, and what is the point of knowing the truth if you aren’t going to act on it. He closed his eyes at last, knowing how tomorrow would end.

           The morning came quick and the sun was out in full. For the first time it made him happy. He went through his normal morning routine with the T.V. voice playing the chord.

           It was almost lunch; the Other’s would be out on the streets. There would be so many to choose from, it brought a slanted smile to his face. He padded Mr. Snowball on the head and grabbed the pistol from underneath his bed. He slid it on the small of his back, like they did in the movies.

John took his first steps on the street, it was different. He walked into his future. The sun painted his pasty skin for the first time in years. The warm feeling crept along his body. Was that supposed to happen? He missed the sun. Soon he’d never have to hid from it again.  

           The store, his favorite store appeared in front of him. A layer of sweat formed on his head, it was real, he was going to make a difference. The moment before his big act filled him with more joy than all his life. The feeling reassured him; he was right.

           John approached slowly. He hid it awkward walk and raised his head meeting every wondering eye with a kind smile. They have no idea. The sight of Others didn’t make him want to scream or run the other way. This time he wanted the Others in his presence.

           The entrance to the store was blocked by a door. A barrier from what was and what is. A young Other girl approached; she was heading towards the door John was standing in front of. It was almost too perfect; it would start with a young Other girl. John pressed against the door, it budged slowly. He placed his hand against the glass frame and the door swung open. The Other made eye contact with him and he gave a subtle nod. His fingers slide against the glass, leaving marks. The girl was close. John's fingers left the door and it swung back closed. Nearly hitting the Other in the face.  

           John didn’t turn to see her face; he was afraid he’d break out in a laugh. He would never hold the door open for an Other. He would never treat them with respect. He would never treat them with anything less than what they were. An infestation. No one holds a door open for a cockroach, but cockroaches were in a higher class than Others.

           The store was full today and when John finally turned around the girl was deep within the store. He worked his way to the expensive section, an area the Others never wandered to. This is it. The start, John’s eyes crossed. Pure joy radiated from his broken smile. First the door, maybe a few more. Then, more. This was the start. The gateway.