Three

Three's story continued.

Someone was knocking on the door and speaking in English, which was odd within itself.

Three did his best to rise, but the relentless pounding in his head had not yet ceased; the knocking only making things worse. Noise reverberated around in his skull as if it were an empty cave.

The pain was there, too. Not noticeable at first, but as he sat up, blood pulsed through the wound on his forehead, thumping in tune with his heartbeats. The knocking came again, more forceful, and the voice behind it - more annoyed.

Wake up, you bum.

It was a woman’s voice.

The bed creaked loudly in the stark silence of the room as Three rose from it, rubbing his eyes vigorously. Behind the door, footsteps could be heard moving away and further into the house. With a squeaky turn of the brass knob, the door opened, and Three ventured outside.

Moto, the strange man who had allowed Three aboard his boat, had taken the amnesiac back to his home, much to the surprise of his sister and brother-in-law. Their young daughter seemed rather nonplussed, but otherwise accepting of Three’s presence. They had allowed him to stay in the guest bedroom of their house after Three had pleaded with them that he had no place else to stay. To his surprise, they spoke English to him first. Moto, it seemed, was the odd man out when it came to the language. Moto left to get bread while the sister dutifully explained that her brother was not right in the head. Three tapped his own skull, a piece of pant leg concealing his laceration.

Well, I can’t say that my own hasn’t seen a tussle.

They questioned his accent. It was . . . raw, they said; there was something strange about it indeed. Three couldn’t remember the last time anyone had spoken to him. Maybe it was his head that was making him speak strangely.

 For nearly an entire day, Three had slept. The laceration was just before his hairline; nearly two inches across and a few centimeters wide. Stitches had been installed through the skin, but many had been broken and no longer served a purpose. Three pulled them out, slowly and carefully, watching in the large mirror that was in the bedroom, wincing in pain as the lines pulled on his raw and enflamed skin. It bled a little, but not an alarming amount. The sister had generously lent him a rag to wipe it from his forehead and cheek, and then the desktop when a few drops found their way onto the wood.

The guest room of the house was small, as was the house itself. Only a single bed with musty sheets and the aged mirror upon a desk with only two drawers filled the space. Directly above the backboard of the bed, a window was placed that let in a deceiving light. A thin coat of amber had been applied to the glass, transforming the dark sky into golden rays. The same substance had been applied to the rest of the house, making anything that glistened, do so in gold.

When Three left the room, he was met with the wonderful scent of bacon and the sound of meat sizzling in its own fat. Though he couldn’t remember much of his past, he knew this feeling: the delicious notion of a meal to come.

The kitchen was cramped, even without Three’s gangly frame cluttering it. He moved slowly between the husband and ducked low as the sister brought an enormous pan of something that looked only vaguely like bacon, only in perfectly rectangular shapes and with black stripes flowing down the meat; a discoloration, or a condiment, Three couldn’t tell.

The table they ate at was small and circular. Originally only for chairs ringed it, but Three managed to fit snuggly between Moto and the daughter.

Mesh compriagne, disidi fole, eh . . . adula tola? Moto asked. The sister passed him a small wicker basket full of reddish-colored bread and a ceramic cup full of melted fat.

Please, the sister said, turning to Three. She had very dark hair, almost black, and faded clothes that looked too small for her. Do you remember where it is that you come from? Where you live? Is it somewhere in the city?

Three shook his head, putting on his best expression of confusion. How could he tell these people about where he came from? He wasn’t even sure which one of the worlds was a dream, and which was reality.

Can’t really remember. Must’ve taken a pretty nasty knock to the head.

It’s just that, when my brother told me he had found you floating in the sea, I had my suspicions.

Three nodded gravely. I get it. It probably seems pretty wild, me popping up here, bobbing in the water. Thank you, by the way, for the meal and the room, and everything. He had many questions of his own, too many to ask, perhaps. But he didn’t dare say them aloud. These people were already uneasy.

It was indeed strange, grumbled the husband. I admit my first inclination was that someone had left you out to drown. Maybe caused you that wound on your forehead. It’s quite possible you stirred someone or something up enough to want you dead, or at least wounded.

The conversation went dead at that point. Instead, the silence was filled with chewing and the young daughter rocking in her chair.

Louise, stop that, the wife said.

The daughter, Louise, stopped rocking but stuck her tongue out in annoyance when her mother wasn’t looking. Three stuck his tongue out at her, and she returned the gesture. He flared his nostrils, and so did she. He wiggled his ears and finally stumped her. She pouted and didn’t touch her food afterwards.

When breakfast was finished, Three did his best to help clean up, although the sister, Irena, and the husband, Gregory, had dismissed him. Instead, he left outside with Moto, to get the fishing equipment set up on their tiny steamboat. The bottom of the grey vessel was covered in barnacles. The deck obviously hadn’t been cleaned in a fairly long time, and all of the windows were covered with a thick film of grime. How Moto could see through the windshield, Three would never know.

Although he asked on multiple occasions to help out, Moto would wave a hand and shake his head furiously. The strange man refused to allow Three below deck, where the inner workings of the boat churned loudly, clockwork mechanisms and gears spinning, coal burning. At the top of the single smokestack, a billowing curtain of grey boiled up before dissipating into the thick air, instead teaching him the trade of fishing. The net needed to be carefully unwound, or else the fine thread would tangle, and once that happened, Moto explained shoving a finger into Three’s chest, it would be impossible to unwind.  

Three ended up staying with the family, promising to pull his weight around the house so as not to become a burden.

There wasn’t much else for him to do. Moto did most of the fishing, Three ended up more of the navigator. Irena was a columnist for a newspaper, and Gregory worked for a firm that produced building materials. All of it, as they said, went towards food, which was becoming very scarce - at least, good food was.

There was a high pollution rate in the City of Senses, Gregory explained one day. He pulled a piece of paper out and took a pen to it. On the paper, he drew a shape that looked curiously like a geometric banana. Above that, a circle; to the right of that: a crescent-like shape, and to the left, a set of small shapes.  

Shadowing the edges of the drawing, Gregory traced a wide arc. The City of Senses, and the surrounding landmass, he said, scribbling a dash about halfway through the banana-shaped isle. This is the City of Taste. Well, the left portion is. The right half is actually an entirely separate state, however, the general population simply considers the two part of a whole, considering its lack of border. You had best stay away from the rightmost area. It’s a state of cannibals that our laws can’t even touch. The circle - here - is called The City of Sight. It’s where the universities and schools are. Most of the people who live there are architects, philosophers, scientists, rich eccentrics - those lucky enough to call themselves wealthy. It’s also where the central government is.  He drew a slightly smaller circle inside of the first one. This is where the bureaucrats and aristocrats are. Most people can’t get within three miles of the place. We are here - Gregory pointed to a dot on the northern edge of the crescent-shaped isle -The City of Sound. Though there aren’t many left, there used to be a tribe of intellectuals who could speak any language with only a sentence for reference. They were very helpful when the Governor decreed that everything be converted to English . . . but that was a dark time I don’t wish to recall. Gregory waved his hand, indicating he was moving on and the subject was not to be brought up again. These islands, over here, make up the City of Touch. There not the most popular place to live. It has the highest poverty rate. I know this city. I helped build a large portion of it.

How come you live in this house if you’ve got the money? Three said, hesitating a moment for fear of falling into another unfortunate conversation.

Because, Three, we have money, of course, probably enough to buy a nice estate in the City of Sight. However, Irena and I have been carefully observing the economy of the city. The poverty rate is rising, skyrocketing, really. The number of homes being funded and built is larger than the number being bought.  The aristocrats think they’re brilliant by saving up their money and are under the belief that when the impending recession arrives, their money will be enough to salvage their lives. But this is not the truth. They are money loitering, even if they're too dull to understand it. The economy is an entity, you see. Its blood is currency, and without that sustenance, it will die. That is what’s happening now, and the first thing to run out will be food. So, we are biding our time, saving for future expenses, spending as much, and as little as we can. We have the house, necessities; Louise goes to school in the fall. We even have a few indulgencies. My worry, astonishingly, is that we may have too much to survive.

Three had listened to Gregory speak and envisioned the picture he had painted; a city, dark and on the brink of self destruction. He thought about the world he had come from - the place that, in his mind, he had begun to call the other place. To be honest, the picture of the city frightened him. Not simply the sky that never cleared, or that the people always looked over their shoulders as if there were someone following them, but the tiny drawing Gregory had drawn himself. It looked like a hideous face, even more so when one considered the evil that resided within it.

 

For twelve days, nothing changed. Three developed a near obsessive routine.

 

- 5:00 to 5:20, Wake up and follow Moto down to the docks.

- 5:20 to 5:30, Get on the boat and cast of.

- 5:30 to 6:00, Eat breakfast as Moto pilots the boat.

- 6:00 to 14:00, Follow the fishing route.

- Time depending, Fish.

- 14:00 to 14:30, Eat lunch.

- 14:30 to 15:20, Return home.

- 15:20 to 16:30, Place fish into baskets, stack baskets, and load baskets onto the wagon (automobiles were too expensive for Gregory)

- 16:30 to 20:00, Sell fish at local market.

- Time depending, Clean up and return home.

- Time depending, Store leftover fish in basement freezer.

- 22:00 to 23:30 (usually), Eat dinner.

- 23:30 to 26:00, Free time.

- 26:00 to 5:00, Sleep.

-  Repeat.

 

A day in the City of Senses ran on a twenty nine-hour, twelve-day week schedule. Time was strictly kept track of, seeing as the sun was hardly visible even on a good day. Dawn and dusk ran into each other, cluttering and mixing behind the heavy curtain that draped darkly across the sky, blending them until they were a constant, single twilight.

On the twelfth day, Louise was in a fit of boredom - something most children did at that age, and something her parents often ignored, but it seemed as if even they had grown exhausted of the ceaseless, repetitive lifestyle.

Three hoped that his memory would return, as did all amnesiacs. Little by little, though, he came to realize that it was hopeless. His new memories were beginning to take over, this new world became the real world, and anything from when the ship was destroyed seemed like an ludicrous dream. He even tried to find out what his real name was, though he hadn’t known where to start. Most people asked the same thing: Do you remember anything? Anything at all? No, he didn’t. Even he could figure out Three was not his actual name, but he felt he had grown into it, like a new skin.

They decided they would take a short trip to the carnival during a particularly dark night, which was in town two seasons of the year (there were no months, only seasons, even the governor was unable to change the universal calendar). It was still in the City of Sound and was therefore within walking distance.

Along the streets, lights were strung up between buildings, forming zigzagging arcs of white light. Stores were lit brightly as well, their storefront windows illuminating dew-soaked cobblestones. The crowds grew denser as they approached the carnival square, the sound of conversation rising up from the throng like smoke from a fire. Music was playing as well. A group on the street was playing golden saxophones in a jazzy rhythm that pounded a chord in Three’s chest and rang out clear over the noise that surrounded it. Amongst a few spinning rides, hot blurs of colored lights, and vendors selling sweets, dancers came parading. People joined them, throwing out legs and sticking up arms in a cooperative rumble. An enormous and rustic yellow and red tent concealed a part-petting-zoo-part-freak-show. Some animals were walking around in areas bordered by rickety fences, grey goat-like creatures with ivory horns stretching longer than their bodies, tigers of all different colors and patterns, and some that couldn’t even be related to a normal animal that Three had vague ideas of. In one of the heavily locked cages, a hand-creature stood (or whatever it was that it could do), a round, fist-sized body covered entirely in arms. It rolled like a ball, using its many hands to push along the dirt ground on which it crawled.

They purchased some buttered popcorn and sat on a bench just outside the tent. Three and Louise exchanged popcorn, tossing them into each other’s mouths. Gregory and Irena shared a few loving kisses and everyone seemed to be at peace. The image in Three’s mind of a dank and lifeless city was exchanged for a much brighter view.

Three washed down the saltiness with carbonated water, a beverage that seemed to be more popular than regular water in the city, a bit of popular culture, he guessed. Upon returning to the bench, a passerby bumped into Three, causing him to spill his water down the front of his white shirt, darkening it and freezing his skin. The passerby had run off and Three was in no mood to pursue. He returned to the bench where, for some reason, Irena apologized to him.

Oh, she had said. I’m so sorry, dear. I’ll put that on the line when we get home.

It’s no problem, ma’am, Three said, still uncomfortable with calling her anything but. I’ve got it. He pried off the shirt, stood up and began flapping it in the air away from his body so as to avoid the sprays of water.

It took a few moments before he realized that people were looking at him oddly. It was more of a sense than an obvious deduction. The people hadn’t exactly stopped and gaped at him, but their movements had slowed down and they cast glances at him more frequently, their faces nervous and uneasy. He thought for a moment that he had broken some unspoken custom that you weren’t allowed to go shirtless in public and replaced the shirt back over his head, ignoring the fact that it was still wet. Even when he sat back down with Irena, Gregory, and Louise, he knew something was wrong. They looked just as nervous as the rest of them, avoiding eye contact.

I believe our time here has expired, Gregory said.

Three nodded, confused as to what had gone wrong, but aware that something had. As they maneuvered back through the dark winding labyrinth of streets, Three noticed there were less and less people who responded to him in that strange manner.

At the house, Gregory locked the door and drew the blinds. Even the amber film on the windows had gone dark. Irena immediately put Louise to bed, and Moto, who had taken the day off to sleep, was fully awake and nearly bouncing off the walls with anticipation of finding out what all of the bottled anxiety was all about. Three was horribly confused. He had already dismissed their conjectures with explanations, but now they looked at him as if done something very salacious.

But what?

Tell me, Gregory asked at last. What are you?

Three sighed, his past thrown under spotlight once again. I already told you, I don’t know.

Yes, we’ve heard that before, but how can we be sure you are who you say, or believe you are?

Three looked at Gregory incredulously. Because you know me, I’ve been here for a week, have I even given you one reason to be the least bit suspicious besides losing my memory?

No, but that doesn’t mean much if you can’t remember who you were before the incident.

Three frowned. Why are we talking about this again?

Gregory sighed this time. He removed a tiny slip of paper from his pocket, unfolded it and held it up in the dim light for Three to see.

On the paper was a design of a rough circle with a dot in the middle.

What is this? Three asked.

There are wanted posters all over the city for anyone who bears this symbol on their body.

But, I don’t -

Gregory grabbed Three’s arm, almost forcibly, and put it to the back of his left shoulder. He felt his fingers move over a ridge, tracing the shape of a circle with a mosquito bite-like bump in the center. The whole thing was about the size of Three’s palm.

A marking of sorts seemed to have found its way onto his skin without him knowing, and apparently it was horribly ominous. Gregory gave Three a stern look which Three could only return.

Irena returned. Having missed the conversation, she sat at the kitchen table and looked out the window sullenly. Faint traces of a misty rain fogged up the glass.

In the darkened room, they argued. Three explained over and over again that he had no idea as to the meaning of the marking, but Gregory would have none of it.

Irena had not yet moved from her chair nor made so much as a whispered comment to the conversation. Gregory was near the point of throwing Three out of his house for good when there came a knock on the door. Gregory’s face went flushed of all color.

Walking to the door slowly and quietly, Gregory motioned for everyone to stay where they were. Irena had at last looked up, her face pained with frightened anxiety. Gregory didn’t open the door, instead putting his ear to the wood and closing his eyes to listen. Moto crept upstairs and away from the scene.

Three stood up, moving closer to the door in the same manner as Gregory. Before he even neared it, he could hear the muffled voices of men; their shuffling footsteps and collective breathing.

The knock came again, a heavy, yet slow pounding like a heartbeat. Everyone in the room stiffened simultaneously. Gregory had his ear still pressed to the door, Irena couldn’t bring herself to move, and Three was looking around in the darkness for something he might use to defend himself.

 Crack! Something impaled itself on the door. Gregory backed away, motioning for Irena to go upstairs to Louise.

Crack! Wood splintered, a faint glow could be seen outside through a fault in the door. Gregory went to the kitchen, opened a cupboard, and drew a butcher’s knife.

Crack!  The doorknob came loose, falling with a heavy thud onto the floor. Three clenched his fists and braced himself. More light was coming through now.

Crack! The door came loose from its hinges, crashing to the floor overtop the knob. Men were outside with flashlights. Three stood directly across from the door, frozen, as flashlight beams rolled around the room and settled upon him. His vision seemed to pan into the back of his head, making it seem as if the men were suddenly very far away.

They made no movements to enter the house, only remaining as a thick, sweeping crowd of men in black trench coats, standing in the rain, the drops causing the light to flicker like projection film.

A man stepped forward, as calm as if he were merely asking to borrow a loaf of bread.

Good day, sirs, the man said, eyeing Gregory’s knife with contempt. Now, now. There’s no need for that. I came for the one who bears the mark. Which of you is it?

Three couldn’t help the involuntary twitch in his neck. The man noticed it and looked at Three with interest.

You, he said. It’s you, isn’t it? Come with us, and the . . . family, will be spared. Gregory stiffened, his family had been threatened.

Against his better judgment, Three walked towards the man, his mind so incapacitated by fear, he couldn’t begin to imagine where this decision would take him.

In a blur of movement, so drawn out it seemed to be in slow motion, he was taken. Men rushed at him, grabbing him by the shoulders, arms, and neck; anywhere they could get their hands on, and pulled him into the throng. They shoved him around, disorientating him further. Rain hit his face. He was kneed in the stomach and struck on the nose. There was a crack, and Three felt blood run down his face with the water. He spluttered, kicking out wildly at his attackers, but it was useless, they had him. He managed to punch one in the face, but his arms were immediately locked and more blows impacted on his chest and face. Gregory came out, but was thrown back into the house by a swarm of men. Three’s face sagged as it was hit again. His vision was fading quickly. Dark spots on the edges of his vision invaded, flowing over his eyes like cataracts. The last traces of his consciousness ebbed away as he was struck hard on the back of his head.

 

The gentleman stared at Him expectantly. When He said nothing, The gentleman began to look somewhat disgruntled. He fiddled with his hair, slicking it back, then he rubbed at his face as if in exhaustion. He simply smiled at him, as if He had received the intended reaction.

“There’s no way he - he -”

“Died? No. he didn’t die. Simply knocked unconscious. He will live on.”

The gentleman sighed, breathing heavily, obviously relieved. “And what of the family?” he asked.

“I’m sorry, my friend. But as you know, it is my policy to stop the story when it comes to an end. You will just have to wait.”

The gentleman’s eyes grew distant. He could tell he was deep in thought.

“That look,” He said. “I’ve seen it countless times before. You truly remind me of him.”

“Of who?”

“I’m not at liberty to discuss that now,” He said with a smart wink. “And anyways, this dock is beginning to stiffen my joints. I believe it is time to leave.” He stood up without making any acknowledgement to the gentleman, but who followed dutifully anyway.

They walked around the enormous warehouses, avoiding the sailors who ran from place to place in a great hurry. Ships were arriving while others were just casting off. All in all, there was a great movement in the yards that night. Hot mist rolled across the gangplanks.

The gentleman walked close to Him, only slightly behind, waiting to be lead to their destination, where the story could continue. He looked at his watch. The hands told him the day was reaching its twenty seventh hour. It was late, of course, and he had things to do the next day, or at least things planned. He would cancel them. This story was turning out to be more than he had ever imagined.

Author's Note

Please, I need to know what you think. This is my world, and need to know if there are any inconsistencies or strange parts. I write off the top of my head, so there's bound to be something wrong with it.
Musical influence for this chapter was primarily Ray Charles.

Reviews

[RosylnPeaches]

Perfect.

[Rapterj]

Finally, I’m getting to give you a proper review of this piece. Another enticing and delicious chapter for me to digest!

Well for starters, like any chapter, you’re gonna need to give it a good clean scrubbing for typos and whatnot – there’s a few like “There” when it should be “Their” and so on. Nothing major – but a little distracting – so clear your head and re-read it, correcting as appropriate.

Also, there’s a bit of confusion with your wording when describe Moto teaching Three about fishing…a little rework here would go a long way in removing confusion from this. Just feels like you left out half of a sentence. Along those same lines, you may want to change something about everyone seeing his small “mark”. It doesn’t exactly seem logical that such a small mark would get so much attention, especially in a crowded and distracting area. Maybe add in a haggardly old woman who sees it and shouts to the rest of the crowd that he bears the mark or a child who points it out or something…

You also, might want to relate on a day spent fishing with Moto, to give a better description for how Three is taking his transition with the world. And maybe give a little more hinting that Moto might just be one of those rare translators…and their frugal nature might also be a way of hiding him from the “authorities” who later come to collect Three….just suggestion…

Maybe a LITTLE more description with the carnival…just seems like I wanted more from it to really counter our up-to-now “dark” view of the city.

I also think a name/description of the group of men who come for Three would add a dark foreshadowing… I’m not sure about how well it fits into the rest of your story, but I think that perhaps you should give them a title: “the collectors”, “the jackals”, “the public safety commission”…something to help the ominous feeling that something sinister is coming to collect Three.

So, plot – 9/10. Damn near flawless. A little bit of stagnation is before the carnival…it almost felt like you were dumping descriptions just to move the plot to the carnival at times… with that said, maybe add another scene or two that might enhance some character’s depth at the beginning.

Diction – 9/10. Excellent descriptions and word choice throughout. There feels like a little repetition with the descriptions of Three’s memory loss, but nothing glaring or too distracting.
Prose – 9/10. The style is expertly crafted, but a few hiccups interrupt the flow, as mentioned above, smooth those out and you’ve got an excellent chapter, my friend

Overall, 9/10 – Three is developing nicely as one of the more interesting characters, especially noting the coming storm within the society and his previous war experience. I think that you are providing an expert performance so far – keep it up!

[HorrorMaster]

Very good book so far. I like it.

[Paradoxical]

I really love the way you chose to describe the cities, very imaginative! The only thing that I felt was weird, was the mark that Three has. To me, it seemed like it wasn't explained as much. But that's all. Another great chapter!!