![]() ThreeA Chapter by Tom Cook"What
the hell is this?" Mara said. She looked over a brochure of the Tradition
and Honor Act that I splayed over the top of our wood table. Two years ago, a
long but short time. Long when judged by a calendar, but short when shared by
memories. "It's the Tradition and
Honor program, it--" "I know what it is,
Clarence." "I'm just, ya know,
interested. Seeing what it's all about." "Clarence, it's a program
where people kill themselves so they can pay off their snobby brother's hybrid
or college. Stupid stuff." "I mean, it's a good
cause." "It's a ploy. The
government kills one person off, and pays off someone's bills. They know it'll
save them bucks in the long run." "But they only take healthy
and educated people, dear." "Everyone gets sick, and
just because someone's educated doesn't mean they're smart." She points
her finger at the brochure and then back at me. I smile. "Overpopulation?" I
say. "National debt? Lack of resources? C'mon, Mara, a long time ago
economists said abortion was the reason for low crime rates. Yeah, it helps out
a family member, but it's for the greater good of the nation." "Everyone deserves to live,
Clarence." "Yeah, but everyone
deserves to die." We argued a bit more and I gave
in and lied to her. I threw away the brochure and said that I was just trying
ruffle her feathers. She called me a name, and told me not to do it again. I
didn't listen, I merely researched. Deep down inside I had the feeling she knew
I wasn't kidding as if something rotting and infected was inside her, bugging
her and nagging her. When she kissed me she must've tasted something putrid;
lime? manure? the taste of maggots and worms and mites and earth crushing my
casket? When we held hands she felt a cold compared to steely coroner's table, I'm
sure, and when she looked at me she saw a doll-like complexion. Paranoia. I
could see it in her eyes mounting atop her eyelashes. She knew the inevitable
was coming soon enough and that that brochure was a way to confront it. Out in
the open. Get it off my chest type of thing. She knew. There were always little scenes
like this. I could paint them if I wanted to. A tall and frail man, damaged
goods. Kept a smiling mask on the outside but bled on the in. He didn't know
what caused it all, maybe it was genetics or s****y parents. Something like
that. Maybe unexplained. Then there was the woman painted in vibrant explosions
with gold halos around her head. The angel, the savior. The sour tastes that
keeps soldiers fighting and athletes running. She was the reason. Mara was the reason to stick
around. I felt obliged in a way. She loved me and I swore I loved her. We met
in college during courses and then dropped out halfway through our master's.
Money problems, one of those tonics that drives people to kill themselves.
Limited financial aid, of all the things the government had to cut it was
education. Two years after we dropped out we were living outside a small town
busting tables and lifting boxes from ethanol powered trucks. I wrote short
stories and novellas, and published a few. We worked hard for what we had. We
both got teaching jobs at different schools and moved away. Of course there was a reason for
the big move. The big split or separation. We made fake promises to see each
other again but it wasn't until she heard about my decision to become a lamb
that she reached out to me. I made it awkward I'm sure. * * * I had sliced my wrists into
filets. Long strips of bleeding pink and red running like a crimson river at
dusk snaked down my wrists along the bathtub to the cold tile floor. I looked
at the gashes and thought if I had made them deep enough? Then my attention
hopped to the tile and how I hated the feel of it without a towel draped over
it. The freezing bite it gave my toes and heels of my feet. I thought of the
blood slipping between each square cut piece of linoleum where it would gather
atop the calking and mold. I thought of the squares, and I thought of square
cut pizza and how I wished it had been my last meal instead of a bowl of
noodles and eggs. A crummy way to go. But I wanted out. And I wasn't trying to sneak it
past Mara at all. She sat in the other room, I'm sure, reading a history
article on her holographic E-Pad. I'm sure she was comfortable between the
couch cushions, with her feet nestled between them. She heard the water running
and thought about taking a bath with me, but thought otherwise. Mara didn't
want her hair wet, she wanted to relax I'm sure. But I wasn't sure what made
her stand up and go to the bathroom. She knocked. Tapped lightly as
if she believed I was sleeping. A small pool gathered at the base of the tub as
the blood moved between the tile like city blocks. Warm water lapping against
my chest and legs and crotch. My left arm bobbing in the tub filling it with
blood. I smiled, relaxed a bit. Closed my eyes and tried to mutter the words I'm sorry and Thank you in the same phrase. Louder the knock came and the
water was still running. Slowing edging its way to the edge. It passed along my
thighs and body. Arm bobbing, head heavy, I was close to the end I was sure. "Clarence?" A bit of anxiety
in her words. She paused and listened to the water but I'm sure she heard my
arteries and veins running like a stream. Then a louder knock, a louder yell.
The water rose to the edge and started to leak over. Red water. Red tile. I
felt my body go numb for an instant. I wondered if this was it and if I would
see some sort of light at the end. The door caves in. Mara slips on
my pool of blood. She doesn't scream. Her face horrified but she doesn't make a
noise aside from quick breathing and panting. She calms and we lock eyes and I
utter the only words I can think to say to her. "I'm sorry." "Clarence." © 2012 Tom Cook |
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