Monochrome (5 page)

She held her head up and walked shakily through the smoky bar to the frosted glass door, trying not to let the loss of her memory draw her back to the alcohol. Weekly practice walking away from alcohol had yet to make her good at staying away from it.

ABIGAIL PUSHED
OPEN
the frosted glass door and stepped into gloomy blue outside, vainly searching for the reflective rock path. In front of her sat only dark cerulean trees and shimmering tinny grass. She pivoted to ask Ishmael about the path and realized he wasn’t following. She marched back to the bar, ready to upbraid him for holding her up, but stopped short.

Ishmael was in a heated, quiet discussion with the bartender. She couldn’t see his face because his hat obscured her view, but his hands were tightly clenched fists at his sides. Jim was equally angry, his round face a flushed red. Jim moved in closer to Ishmael, spitting words into his face. She didn’t hear Jim’s words, but she could’ve sworn his lips said, “The girl makes it, you don’t.”
What does that mean?

She didn’t have much time to think about it because Ishmael launched himself at Jim, grabbed him by his stained t-shirt and pulled him over the counter. Abigail’s stomach jumped in surprise as she watched the uncaring, nonchalant Ishmael fling the bartender to the grimy ground. Jim pushed himself off the floor, and punched Ishmael in the face.

To her surprise, Ishmael barely registered the blow from the burly bartender, even though his cheek started to swell with the hit.
Enough is enough.

She rushed in to stop the fight from getting more out of hand, but she was too late. Ishmael reeled back and laid the bartender out cold with a direct, solid punch to his face. Jim’s nose bled as he fell to the ground with a thud. A cloud of dust rose to greet the smoky air.

Abigail hurried to Ishmael and grabbed his arm, pulling him to the door. She waited for loyal customers to stand and defend the fallen bartender, but was shocked when they ignored the ruckus and continued drinking, sipping their way through their last good memories. The only difference in the room came from the two men Ishmael watched so eagerly earlier. The tussle distracted them from their intense conversation. They were staring at Ishmael with cruel eyes.

The tan, brown-haired man peeled his eyes from Ismael long enough to stare at her and lick his lips disgustingly. She glared at him and tugged at Ishmael’s arm, still shocked at the languid atmosphere of the bar after such a scene.

Ishmael was staring down at the unconscious bartender.

“Come on, Ishmael, I want to go home.”

For some reason, her comment seemed to agitate him further. He pushed past her and shoved the door wide open. She noticed, as he did so, his button-up shirt transformed from mute grey to crimson red under his pea-coat.

“What the hell was that?!” she shouted after him, once outside. He was facing the trees, furiously kicking black pebbles at them from the path, which appeared the moment he stepped out of the bar. He didn’t turn around when he answered her, glacial.

“You wanted to get out of here so bad, so let’s go.” He started off down the reflective black path. She was forced to jog to keep up, lifting her velvet blue dress to her knees so she didn’t trip. She sported ridiculous white pantaloons that puffed out unattractively at the knees. She would’ve laughed at herself, if the situation were not so tense.

“Slow down, Ishmael! I want to know what happened back there.”

She caught up to him and grasped his coat sleeve. He shrugged her hand away.

“It doesn’t concern you.”

She stepped in front of him. “I think it does.”

He tried to hide his face from her, but she noticed his cheek was twice its normal size. She reached towards him. “That’s bad. Let me see it.”

He flinched away from her touch and stared off into the trees. “It’s fine. He just went too far. Trying to tell me how to do my job…”

He paced back and forth. “I know how to do my fucking job! I’ve been doing it for…” He paused, glared at the trees, searched them, and then broke out in laughter.

Abigail backed away from him, wondering if the punch he’d endured scrambled his head.

“What’s so funny?”

He swung around, a maniacal gleam in his black eyes. “I don’t
know
how long I’ve been doing this job. But I
do
know how many people I’ve kept here, away from their families, their friends, their chance at happiness…”

He paused and walked closer to her, his fists shaking. She backed away from his intensity. He lowered his voice. “Do you want to know how many people I’ve kept here, chained, to this awful place?”

She shook her head, a little afraid of his tone and demeanor. “Ishmael,
you
didn’t…”

He interrupted her, seething. “You don’t know
anything
about it.
”
He stopped his own train of thought and shook his head slowly, evening his tone. “Twelve. That’s how many. Twelve have stayed here instead of moving on. Stayed here because of me.”

Abigail wanted to ask him to explain to her what he felt she didn’t understand, but she saw this was not the best time for it. Besides, she wasn’t sure she wanted an honest answer. She’d only known him for a couple of hours, and he’d completely turned her idea of him upside down.

She thought, hours ago, he was uncaring, maybe even lazy. She was mistaken. He was clearly erratic and passionate, though he tried to play at apathy. And that meant he was dangerous. She needed to make sure he knew she was dangerous, too.

She moved to stand in front of him and roughly pushed his shoulder, to reel his attention away from the trees. He gazed at her, surprised, but listening.

She put her hands on her hips, the definition of a brick wall. “Luckily, my staying here isn’t up to you. You can’t fail me because I don’t depend on you. It’s my choice, you said. And I’ve chosen to leave.”

She was inches away from him now. His eyes were stuck to his shoes. “Look at me,” she demanded in her best scolding mom voice.

He lifted his head and focused his black eyes on her green. She felt a chill move through her body, but she continued. “I’ve already made the choice to go back to my husband and child, and
nothing
you say or do will change that. Once I make a decision, I follow through. Okay?”

He stalked past her. “Don’t let me hold you back then.” He motioned her ahead with a mocking swoop of his arm. She noticed the shirt under his coat changed to coal black.

She started to walk but paused at his side. “Ishmael, I don’t care what happened before. I’m not them. This time will be different. I
will
get home.”

She noticed his face soften. She walked ahead but shot back. “And don’t fight on my behalf. This place is unvarying enough without you getting punched in the face. Your face was one of the only things not blue here, and now look at it!”

She heard Ishmael snort to himself, and shuffle his feet behind her. “And don’t drag your feet. It’ll take us forever to get to the border if you do, and it’s bad for your shoes.”

She walked backwards, motioning in big circles with her arms for him to hurry.

His grin almost touched his eyes. “You’re a dork. I’m leading a dork,” he muttered. She nodded in agreement, smiling. His face took on an aspect of amused surprise. “Abby, your dress…”

She glanced down and noticed that her velvety dress was replaced with blue jeans, a red scoop-neck t-shirt, a black Gothic style long jacket, and, to her elation, her favorite grey scarf. She breathed in the fibers of the scarf. It smelled like lavender and tea, like home.

She sighed, sad but hopeful. “Looks like I’m dressed for the journey.” She pivoted and skipped down the rock path, the sound of Ishmael’s hesitant, deep laughter following just behind her.

*

The walk was a quiet one, like the walk to the bar, but less uncomfortable. It was apparent Ishmael was thinking about something very seriously, so Abigail let him lead. She had a suspicion ignorance was bliss in a place like this, anyway.

It must’ve been at least a couple hours into their never-ending walk down the pebbly path, when Ishmael stopped suddenly, and walked off the path and through the steely trees, motioning for Abigail to follow him. She frowned, not eager to leave the path, but followed reluctantly, since there was little else she could do.

She followed silently for five minutes, until her discomfort was too much. “You mind telling me why we’re walking off the path?”

He shushed her and continued to trudge ahead.

She lowered her voice and hissed, “Don’t shush me! I’m not a child. And answer my question. I haven’t asked you anything in an hour at least. It was you who said we needed to stay on the path.”

Ishmael stopped and peered nervously into the dark woods surrounding them. His agitation set her on edge, since he didn’t seem the nervous type.

“What are you looking for?” she asked him quietly, straining to listen for the danger Ishmael sensed.

He scanned the forest and answered in a whisper, “I don’t want to alarm you too much, but I think someone or, rather, a couple of someones may have followed us from the bar.”

Those words made her feel like ants crawled across her neck and down her spine. “Why would someone do that?”

He motioned for her to move closer. She moved forward, stepping lightly. It wasn’t until this point she realized he hadn’t lit a cigarette since they left the bar. “You haven’t been smoking because it makes us easier to follow.”

He nodded. “I’m going to tell you something but I want you to remain calm, okay?”

“Okay.” She pulled at the bottom of her Gothic coattails, remembering when she found the jacket, a beautiful black treasure that fit like a glove, at a second hand store called Black Rags.

The shop was filled with a bounty of antique, recycled black clothing, some new, some vintage, some worn, and some with the tags hanging limply from them, forlorn that no one had even tried to put them on. Hers was lightly worn, but it slid on like it was made for her. She liked to think the previous owner knew it was meant for someone else. Perhaps it hadn’t hugged other hopeful shoppers like it hugged her. Touching something familiar comforted her now, when Ishmael’s face was so severe and distant.

He took a deep breath and let it go. His voice was just above a whisper. When we walked into the bar, did you notice the men sitting by the bathrooms?”

She nodded. “The ones who were talking. Yeah. You glanced at them when we walked in. Why?”

“We have to keep going, but stay close and I’ll explain as we walk.”

She fell in step beside him, still tugging her coattails. He continued, “I recognized one of them right away, unfortunately. He was one of my Leads.” Ishmael’s voice cracked a bit at the mention of his failed endeavor.

She was so astonished she stopped walking.

“We have to keep moving,” he warned.

She shook herself and apologized. “Right. Sorry, just shocked is all. I guess it makes sense. If they stay, you might see them. We’ve met so few people, I just didn’t think about it. But I guess you all live here…”

Ishmael walked sullenly on, and didn’t answer right away. His silence made her very uncomfortable; she hadn’t meant to upset him, but she seemed to be good at it. His black eyes dimmed, gloom covered his body like fog settling on a low valley.

It seemed like a half hour before he spoke again, but it was probably only minutes. She was about to urge him to tell her more when he abruptly answered.

“I don’t see a lot of them. A lot of them don’t make it very long here.”

He didn’t clarify, but he didn’t have to. His tone told her all she needed to know—they’d killed themselves and Ishmael felt responsible.
That’s
why he got so worked up when Jim was telling him how to do his job, she thought to herself. She immediately felt stupid for assuming the fight was about her.

“Sorry. I didn’t know,” she mumbled.

He waved a dismissive hand. “How could you? Anyway, the man with the black hair and long nose was my third Lead. The brown-haired man sitting next to him was the one who convinced him to stay.”

She remembered the man licking his lips at her and leering. It made her stomach churn to think he was following them. Having spent way too much time at seedy bars, she knew his type. He was a predator, and proud of it. He was just the type of person who snuggled up to lonely, naive women and bought them too many drinks. She’d been unlucky enough, as a young woman, to meet a man like him at a friend’s party. She’d never recover from that unhappy meeting, and she’d been wary and unforgiving of men since. Jason didn’t drink, and he never treated her disrespectfully.

Abigail wondered how anyone could convince someone to stay in such a depressing, frightening place, and she listened intently as Ishmael explained.

“The brown haired man is Eric. He’s a Snake.” Ishmael stopped walking and motioned for her to sit on a large black rock he settled on. “Let’s rest for a second.”

She sat down. “I’ll bet. I mean, who convinces someone to stay here?”

“No. Not a ‘snake’ as in a slimy, sneaky person, though I suppose that’s where it derives.”

He exhaled. “I think we’ve lost them for a little while.” But he continued to scan the metallic trees behind them, and fumble in his pockets anxiously.

He explained further. “A Snake is someone who tries to convince a Lead that Reality doesn’t want them; that they should make a place here instead of trying for the border. A Snake is paid well by Monochrome’s higher ups because they need people to stay in order to keep the place going. Reproduction doesn’t happen here. Monochrome takes life. It doesn’t create it.”

“That’s a horrible job,” she whispered, disgusted.

Ishmael winced at her disgust, which confused her. She wasn’t disgusted with
him
. “Here, it’s just another job. A way to keep the remaining good memories you have, and maybe to collect good memories from others. It’s survival. Plain and simple.”

“No. Don’t make excuses for them, Ishmael. Everyone has a choice to do the right thing.”

His face was dark with bitterness. “And what is the
right
choice? To let your own memories go until you are nothing but a sad, pathetic, empty shell? To kill yourself?”