Through Glass (22 page)

I pulled one of the packets of food out of my hastily repacked backpack, careful not to cause any more damage to my family’s portrait than I had already caused after my frantic fire lighting last night. I ripped the top off the packet and the putrid smell hit my nose like a wave of vomit. My face curled up in disgust and I sat back, my stomach tightening in fear of what I was about to put inside of it.

I hadn’t bothered to eat last night, the jittery nerves had sloshed inside of me and taken away any hope I had of eating, not that the packets of moldy food sounded even the least bit appetizing. I was actually starting to regret thinking about eating right now.

“Well, Lex, here’s to a breakfast of bacon and eggs.”

I knew that no matter how much I tried to get myself to believe that, it simply wasn’t going to work. Besides, I wasn’t sure I remembered what bacon and eggs tasted like anymore. So, either way, it was worth a try. I could be pretending it tasted like sardines for all I knew, it would still have the same effect.

It would taste like vomit.

My lips pressed against the brown paper, pressing the sludge into my mouth just as my eyes lifted to the words that were smeared onto the wall in black ink. My mind replaced the missing letters instinctively.

Do not eat the f…ood

I froze as I stared at the large, jagged letters. My whole body went numb at the words of the instruction manual, the rough edges of the letters cutting through me. It was nothing, it was only words.

I tried to tell myself that, but my brain didn’t want to listen. The words of every warning ran through my head as I stared at the five words in front of me.

They were only words.

Did I believe that? Could I believe that? They didn’t feel like words. They felt like warnings.

Rules.

An instruction manual.

I repeated it to myself, the same thought that I’d had last night rang clear in my mind. I tried to tear my eyes away from the jagged letters, tried to move my fingers to push the food into my mouth. Nothing responded to me; my fingers wouldn’t move.

I tasted the rancid taste in my mouth of what little I had pushed into my mouth from the packet. The bitter taste on my tongue as my stomach worked to reject it. I could feel the churning in my stomach as the bile tried to rise.

Do not eat the food.

Everything in me began to shake, my body and mind revolting against the very idea of swallowing what still sat heavily on my tongue.

I couldn’t do it. I threw the packet across the room and then my hands clawed at my tongue to get what little was left inside of my mouth out. My hands shook as I clawed it out of me.

The taste only seemed to grow the more I battled against it. The bitter flavor growing until I couldn’t control the bile anymore. I threw myself to the side, falling to my hands and knees as I tried to keep the vomit inside of my stomach, the muscles already convulsing in warning.

I fought it with each deep breath I took; the smell of smoke shuddering through me. I focused on the smell of burning wood and the pleasant memories it brought back. I focused as I breathed, my eyes closing as the nausea began to subside.

“Do not eat the food. Then what am I supposed to eat?” I almost laughed at myself, the absurdity of the question irritating.

I fell back to sitting, my eyes opening to the cluttered room around me. I could look through this garbage like I had searched my house so many timed before, but I had a feeling I wouldn’t find anything.

Broken dresser, bits of mattress; my eyes dragged around the trash that towered over me, not really caring, not really seeing until a small circle of silver stopped me.

A can.

I looked at the cylinder from where I sat. The laugh I had so recently restrained was now bursting from my chest.

“Really?” I scoffed, my voice scratchy in the silence, “I ask for food and it magically appears. What kind of a room is this?”

I sat up slowly, moving toward the can as I carefully weaved my way through the piles of trash I was surrounded by.

“I should have asked for a damn gun,” I growled, my legs slipping on some papers as I reached for it. “Or a time machine…”

I reached out and grabbed it, the silver can ridged and familiar in my hand. I looked at the can as I spun it around, looking for some indication as to what would be inside. Even without a label I could see a million possibilities in front of me.

Corn. Green beans. Beef stew.

My mom had barely used canned foods, preferring instead to cook fresh, but even with that I knew what kind of foods people canned. As long as whoever had left it was not some nut job that canned paperclips for fun, I was holding food in my hands.

I wrapped my hands around the can as my eyes went wide. I wasn’t starving anymore, not by any means, but I held real food in my hands. Real food.

Not sludge or molding porridge.

My eyes looked away automatically, darting through the mass of trash in front of me for a can opener.

I almost laughed right out. There was no way I was going to find a can opener here. However, I needed to get the can open.

I waded through the trash back towards the fire, looking for anything I could use to open the shiny silver can, though nothing popped out at me.

I bit my bottom lip, trying to figure it out before I turned on the spot, grabbing the long bed rail from where I had left it on the floor.

“It’s as good of a can opener as any I suppose.”

I let the can fall to the floor. It rolled a bit before it stopped against a shard of dry wall, the silver side glinting in the fire light.

“Tonight, we will eat like kings,” I whispered, raising the bar high above my head before one quick decent sent it right on top of the can, a loud smack resounding through the dilapidated room.

I jumped at the sound, half expecting the Ulama to come barreling through the door, but I knew better. They wouldn’t come near the light. The instruction manual had affirmed that, if I hadn’t known it already.

I pulled the bar back up into the air, my eyes narrowing at the large dent that had almost folded the can in half. One more time.

I lifted the bar again, sending it back into the can with all the strength I could muster. This time, the loud smack was replaced by the dull thud of liquid.

I let the bed rail clatter to the ground as I dropped to my knees, beef stew spilling over the dusty carpet. I stared at it, disbelieving that it was actually there. Food, real food. I didn’t care that it was two years old, that it was cold, that it was all over the gross flooring, I scooped it up with my hands, bringing it to my face as the smell of spices hit my nose. The smell was warm and comforting like home, like forgotten Thanksgivings and after school snacks.

I breathed it in and let the memories hit me before pressing my fingers to my open mouth, the taste rushing into my blood stream like the heavy hit of a drug. It rushed through me like fire, my nerves prickling in joy as the food hit my tongue; the flavor strong and desirable.

I couldn’t help it, I groaned. I groaned as I licked the heavy broth from my fingers, my hand scooping it up and pressing it into my mouth. I groaned as I gobbled it up, pushing more and more of the food into my mouth. I ate in a panic, my hand not able to move fast enough to get it into my mouth; to experience the next jolt of enjoyment that such simple food was giving me.

I pressed my hand against the carpet, hoping to sop up every last bit. My finger pressed against the indention of the can as I drizzled the last of the dregs into my open mouth as my tongue wagged in the air to rescue it.

I am sure I’d had better food before. I knew I had. Yet, right then, that one can of two-year-old beef stew was the best thing I had ever eaten. I wanted more. I groaned in appreciation as I dropped the can into my lap, savoring the last of the flavors that were trapped inside my mouth.

I turned toward the pile of trash to my side, my eyes scanning over everything once in a desperate need for more.

There had to be something in there.

I moved toward the pile, my hands moving through the garbage, moving forgotten and broken objects aside as I pushed them out of the way.

Papers, pictures of someone else’s family; useless things that only opened more questions than answers and certainly didn’t provide any food. I looked without really seeing them, my eyes unfocused in my search for silver; for anything that might hold food. My hands moved papers, clip boards, diamond rings, only to stop at the blur of red that streaked itself through the carpet below the remains of someone else’s life.

Food was forgotten as my fingers fluttered over the streaks of red. My mind screamed blood—danger—but I couldn’t stop the movement of my hand, the morbid curiosity that was creeping into me. The red was stiff and hard against the carpet fibers, the feeling almost familiar. The texture was a sharp reminder of evenings with Cohen and the feeling of the stains on his work shirts, the smell of acetone and latex, the gentle prickle of a brush.

Paint.

Cohen.

I pushed the papers out of the way, desperate to find more paint; to find where it was coming from. My fingers followed the lines of the red as more and more came into view.

The large, jagged letter stuck out from the dark carpet, the light of the fire igniting it and making it look like it was burning.

I stared at it for a moment, my stress running through me. Another message. Did I want to know?

I looked to all the others that lined the walls, the disjointed messages spelling out the guidelines that someone had lived by. Crazy or not, each one was a rule to them, something that had kept them alive; even if it had been for only a little while longer.

Yes, I wanted to know.

My hands began to move before I was aware of them, pushing away letters and broken pieces of dresser, lifting large chunks of mattress or clothing. With each piece that I moved, more letters began to appear until a word formed.

I gasped as I saw it, panic creeping into me. I felt my hands shake as I read it and tried not to accept everything that it could mean.

The red shimmered in the light, making the word look as if it was alive. The warning cut through me.

I wanted to stop right then, grab my bag and run from the room I had unwillingly trapped myself in, run from the words.

I couldn’t.

My eyes focused on a line that ran beside it, a word beside the first, hidden underneath the piles of trash.

I stared at it, trying to convince myself to run, to leave the messages of a mad man to their buried prison.

I couldn’t.

I leaned forward in a panic, my hand shaking as I moved aside debris and forgotten memories, trailing through the piles desperately. I should have been scouring for something useful, yet I could only focus on the continuing message that was now forming in front of me.

My hands moved faster as the words strung themselves together, the paint thicker in some places than in others. They all ran together in my mind until everything was uncovered. The lines of the letters exposed from their prison and the words set free.

They chilled me right to my core.