Migraine
A strong wind blew through the open window, and toppled the dead potted plant. The rolling terra cotta pot knocked over a half empty bottle of beer. And the two went over the edge of the kitchen table with a crash. A lightning bolt tore through his brain without remorse or forgiveness. The rough cloth of his flannel shirt caught on the stubble of his cheek as his face hid in the sleeve. The feeble attempt to escape was met with another wave of pain. Still, hiding in the crook of his arm was better than facing the harsh judgment of daylight. Another migraine to start the day? End the day? What time was it exactly? His head rose from the table. His eyelids fought to rise against the gum sealing them shut. He would hope it was a hangover, and not a migraine.
Had there been a party last night? Incomplete memories, like pieces of a yard sale jigsaw puzzle, fell into place. The smell of stale beer, damp cigarettes, and day old salsa enter his nose. The toxic mixture stirs his stomach, and he lurches forward. A dry heave pumps his stomach and compresses his lungs. His eyes close tight, resisting the inevitable explosion of cerebral fire. Maybe a bit of both migraine and hangover. When would he learn how much he could handle? He had to stand up and shake this feeling.
The wooden chair felt wet under his hand. As he stood, steadying himself against a wave of nausea, his palm spread open like a bright red flower. More salsa? Ketchup? Lifting the hand close to his face there was no mistake. The smell was blood. Had he been bleeding? The jigsaw box shook, but nothing fell out. With a shrug he went to the sink to rinse his hands, and begin cleaning up his mess. There was an awful lot to clean up. The bottle of soap stood empty beside the hot water knob. More dish soap sat on the shelf under the basement stairs.
Turning away from the sink, he took inventory of the kitchen, and knew the destruction wouldn’t end there. The rattle of balsa wood chips filled his head for a moment, and one piece fell out. His soirées put Bacchus to shame, and made Caligula look like a kindergarten teacher. It would be nice to recall more of his own memories. Instead, he was left with black outs. And had to rely on his friend’s rose colored tales to learn what took place at his own parties. He always went too hard, for too long, and wound up with little more than a headache and a trashed house.
His arms spun in giant windmills as his feet slid through layers of trash a foot deep. The clank of empty bottles set off sparks of white fire at his temples. He would have to ask for help cleaning up next time. Across the room, the basement door stood ajar, which felt odd to him. A new jigsaw segment locked into the previous one. The basement door was always shut with the lock set. The basement was strictly ‘by invitation only.’ So why was it ajar now? Maybe he went for the dish soap last night, to get a jump on the cleaning. That had to be it.
A small, red puzzle piece slid from the open box in his mind. A corner of his mouth went high on one cheek, as teeth shone through parting lips. His belly grew warm, and his jeans grew tight as he thought of his after-party rituals. The sensual pleasures of both strangers and friends. It was rare to have a party guest visit the basement more than once. But when they did it was an occasion to relish and remember. From time to time a guest fled early, and missed out on the fun. But he always made sure he was satisfied. Several close friends were fond of teasing that his idea of satisfaction was rare. Quite rare. And quite raw.
Pulling back the heavy door, he almost fell backward from the thick cloud of stench that wafted up the stairs. Just as thick was the sense that three more puzzle pieces were clicking together. There were times he drove by the raw sewage plant on his way home and it was never this bad. The putrid odor of feces rising from the basement formed the image of an overflowing pipe in his mind. Add it to the list of things he would have to clean up. With the flip of a switch, his head turned away from the light sparking to life.
The stench grew thicker with each step down. A mixture of sweat and body odor swam with the cloud of fecal spores. A small piece of the puzzle shook loose, and fell into place. The basement was the final stop of the night for a few of his special guests. Guests fell away as the party wore on, leaving only the die-hard partiers. Like himself, they sought more than mere companionship and idle conversation. He was eager to oblige. Recollection filled his mind, as the cloud of waste filled his lungs. The basement was home to many scents, of many guests, over many nights. But never had the play room smelled this grotesque. With a single step off the bottom landing, he knew why.
One nude bulb hung from a fraying cord to the right side of the basement. The light cast four long shadows across the thick shag carpet. The central shadow was the dark echo of one metal pillar holding up support beams. He drew a sharp breath, forgetting the foul air, and covered his face with crimson hands. Of the three shorter shadows, one was swaying while the other two were still as statues. If there were any more pieces in the beat up puzzle box, he could use one now.
He went to one knee beside the swaying woman tied to his support pillar. Her body was held up with ratchet straps, but the anchors were nowhere to be seen. She was breathing, and she was beaten. A moan rose from deep within her and built to a shaking cry. Her back went rigid, her face shot toward the ceiling, and a pool of liquid began to flow past her bound legs. He could feel the warmth of the liquid rising around them, and one whiff told him that it was urine. Had he frightened this woman so much that she pissed herself? The hair covering her face was wet, dark, and stank. His hand drew near her quaking body with the timid progress of a child experienced with a hot stove top. Dare he touch her? He had to know who she was. He had to know how she got here.
His fingers went rigid and flew forward like darts. He drew a swath of hair away like a curtain revealing the player of a one act play. Her one good eye expanded with terror. The other swollen orb shook like a bird caught between the paws of a seasoned mouser. She withdrew as far as the pillar would permit. And tried for more. Without his awareness, several pieces of the puzzle were in play and knitting themselves together. He knew this woman. She was famous. Not Hollywood starlet famous. But he knew her face from the news well enough to guess at her name with the certainty he was right.
“Marianne Lawson,” he said. “In my basement.”
As he recalls, the evening news told the story of Marianne Lawson, a victim of the most horrific crime in his state’s history. Along with a handful of Epsilon Theta sorority sisters, Marianne went missing for nearly three months. Following a citywide sweep, the victims were found at a dump site set up by the murderer. The sisters each wore a different color dress that stood out like bright strokes of paint against the stark white canvas of their pallid skin. Was the murderer ever found? He couldn’t recall. How was he kneeling here before her now? He shook the water stained cardboard box in his mind, but no more pieces fell out.
Fearing the worst, that he might become another victim of the madman, he pulled at her taunt bindings. As he did, a bloom of purposeful calm grew in his chest. The flower began to swell and open thin petals. Then he froze. He shouldn’t touch anything. He could be the fall guy. The patsy. The murderer may be long gone. Now he was going to take the blame for a crime he didn’t commit. For all he knew, the murderer set the bodies here after the party. The new blossom began to wither.
He stood and took a step around the pillar to check the other two bodies. Both were marble stiff. Their glass eyes reflecting his every movement. His blood felt full of ice as the horror of what he saw took root. Protruding from the mouth of one young woman was the bright yellow end of a cordless drill. “That will teach her to scream at me,” mumbled a small voice inside his head. He shook the chilling voice loose. What to do? Who to call? He shot a glance left, then right. Frantic movement in this fog of death.
A workbench came into view as his eyes adjusted to the dim light. Going to the tools strewn about, he sought something sharp. As his hand fell to the thick wooden handle of a rusty saw, a familiar warmth crept into his loins. The pencil thin smile he wore when recalling his playroom spread across his face again. A perverse chuckle shook his throat as he saw himself in the likeness of Alice’s Cheshire cat. A bead of pearl white teeth catching what little light was cast by the lone bulb. But he and Alice, or Marianne if she was game, enjoy playing together. Why not another round? When did a little play hurt anyone? His hand bore down on the wooden grip so tight the fingernails dug into the old wood.
In the same instant the dim bulb burst into brilliant blinding light. Every limb of his body went rigid. The smirk fled from his face, as if a child was swapping the mouth on a Mr. Potato Head. The teeth gritting grimace there now did little to convey the excruciating pain he felt. Blue bolts of hot electric fire shot through every valley of his brain with this new migraine. A tsunami of nausea threw his body forward onto the workbench, and swept away every trace of ignoble thought he was entertaining.
A bead of spittle on his lip fell to the saw blade still in his hand. What was he doing? How could he generate such thoughts? He hadn’t a clue, and it didn’t matter. What did matter was getting Marianne, and himself, to safety. He shot across the dim room, to the steel pillar, once more. The brilliance of the dim bulb must have been a side effect of the migraine arriving. And yet, he felt fine now, without a single trace of the painful brain malady. He drops to both knees, and takes the woman’s face in his hands.
“I am going to get you out of here. Do you hear me? Nod if you understand.”
Her eyes were full of fear. Her head agreed to his words. She sent her forehead forward, and back again, to indicate she understood. The man set to work on the ratchet strap beside her left arm. The interwoven material fought every stroke of the metal teeth on the workman’s blade. Sweat on his brow drew together and slid into his eyes. His hand lost the wooden grip, which sent the blade careening into the woman’s side and tore her blouse. The red moisture in his palm was slick and gave off an aroma of iron. He threw out the notion that the blood on his hands was his own doing, and took hold of the saw again. Each push and pull of the tool made the strap weaker, until it split and fell to the floor. The woman, limp as a rag doll, melted toward him. He drew her into his arms, and stood. With his arms around her torso, he made haste for the stairs, just as the world tore apart.
Above him, flood lights set the staircase on fire. All around him, the mortar between cinder blocks shone like neon outlines. The bricks began to glow, then swell with light. Each tall fiber of shag carpet gave off search beams of light reaching for the runway lit floorboards above. His skin went tight, his hair stood on end. The napalm pouring through his brain was so complete and searing he was certain no thought could exist. But one did manage to survive.
The girl was safe.
“Inmate JH-05919 has completed the scenario successfully as mandated by the State.” A gaunt, Asian man with a clip board stands in front of him. Straining his eyes to the left he can see bright white sterile tile walls. Far to the right, in black stencil lettering, ‘REDEMPTION WARD’. Another man steps in, and stands to the left of the Asian man reading the treatment schedule. “Awaiting your orders, Doctor.”
A small pen light is held in front of his left eye, shines a moment, and glides to his right eye. “Yes. I believe he is able to proceed. Any objections Warden?”
“Carry on.”
The Asian man rolls the top page over, and pins it to the back of the clipboard with his forefinger. He begins reading at once.
“Inmate JH-05919 for the crime of murder in the first degree of Marianne Lawson you are hereby redeemed. Your actions indicate that you no longer pose a threat to society, or to yourself. Your rehabilitation in the matter concerning the death of Marianne Lawson is complete.” He makes a small mark with a standard number two pencil. Then he continues reading.
“Inmate JH-05919, in the case of the death of Toni Anderson, the State finds you guilty of murder in the first degree. You are sentenced to embedded reconditioning for the maximum number of cycles necessary to restructure your decision making patterns until all threats you pose are neutralized.” He nods to someone out of view, and the pain of a migraine swells at the base of the inmate’s skull.
The couch is soft on his back, but the bright beam of morning light cutting through the split curtain forces him to roll awake. Signs of a serious party cover the room. Small piles of multicolored pills, half empty bottles of top shelf liquor, and a colorful assortment of undergarments litter the floor. He hears the shrill cry of a woman in the distance. He thinks that the screams are coming from below the floor, in his basement. And a wry smile slides onto his face.
THE END