Lit Read online

  Lit

  Contents

  1. Well, shit

  2. Voir Dire

  3. Missing Persons

  4. Know your Variables

  5. Blood from the fallen

  6. First Watch

  7. My friend Onyx

  8. Tracy

  9. You’ll feel me in the fall

  10. Paranoia

  11. Ruby Blue

  12. On A Scale

  13. Murder, Murder, Murder

  14. Living Breathing Opponent

  15. Daddy's Girl

  16. Why

  17. White Door

  18. Gritty Mess

  19. Forest

  20. Two thousand eleven

  21. Our History

  22. Blank Sheet

  23. How’s the weather?

  24. Don’t cry over spilled paint

  25. Sponsor

  26. Couple

  27. It didn’t have to be this way

  28. Take a shot

  29. Run

  30. Here

  31. At the kitchen table.

  32. Home-defense

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Lit

  I was living a half-life until Hudson Thomas found me.

  He roared worn-out precautions of danger. He was savage in his pursuit for answers. He chased me in the moonlight. He couldn’t let me go.

  I burned him.

  I blazed, scorching his reason with feeling.

  Until I discovered the admission price to the Arena. Our rapture had a sundown. The trees barred the sound in…

  You’re already late. Be there before...

  Now I’m in the Arena.

  And when the rules are revealed, will there be reason enough to keep me?

  Copyright © 2020 by C. B. Wiant

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Created with Vellum

  Dedicated to those who have given enough fucks to know when to stop fucking around.

  There is no hunting like the hunting of man,

  and those who have hunted armed men long enough and liked it, never care for anything else there after.

  –Ernest Hemingway

  1

  Well, shit

  A voice from above hollers, “Yo”.

  There’s movement up there. Feet shuffle like an impatient centaur.

  Beep. A garbled voice speaks through a radio. The voice is different, new, but also from above.

  A muffled, “Unresponsive," follows from the first hollering voice.

  More movement.

  The deep baritone of the first voice grunts, heaves their breath and asks, “Seriously?”

  I’m scarcely breathing.

  I’m tripping hard, a lot harder than I’ve ever tripped in everdom from a single dose of blotter. A shred of a stem sticks between my teeth like a lodged popcorn kernel. My tongue fiddles with it like a horse does a bit.

  The voice above me yells again, much, much louder this time, “YO!”

  ping.

  Ding.

  BAng.

  CRASH.

  “Ow," gurgles out between my chapped lips. A rock the size of my fist hits my shoulder. I seize it before it drops. My mind signals to throw the rock back at my attacker. Instead, my fingers loosen like ribbon off a spool.

  The rock drops.

  Water splashes and slaps cold against my skin. Waves ripple. The wet touch licks my bare toes. Where the fuck am I? Moisture stays. The word, moisture, sticks to my tongue like film slicked on unbrushed teeth. Where the fuck am I?

  Dark murky water laps alongside my chilled skin. I’m naked and shivering against a dingy stone wall. My brain registers the light above my head as the shit-hole from the barn. I’m sitting in the dark limbo corner. Yet it smells dank, like an unfinished basement during an active flood. The air is clammy—soggy with a rusty scent.

  The picture is only half complete. The path that should lead to the electric bars doesn’t exist. Where the path should lead to Hudson is a stone wall.

  I’m encircled by stone. My comfort is the light from above.

  Maybe the light from above me is the proverbial light at the end of the tunnel? Maybe this is an alien abduction and my body will levitate out of the stone encirclement? Maybe I’m not dead.

  The baritone voice shouts down at me, as if through a megaphone, his tone echoes, “YOoooo.”

  “O,” I respond. My vowel spins up the wall yo-yoing back to sender.

  The individual from above, from the light, unwinds their first string of words, “You’re late. Move.”

  My hand splashes down onto a smooth foreign object. My fingers slip into the eye sockets of a skull. I scream, or try to, except my voice-box is scratching like a record player. Squawking. Harping. Dying. I sound like I’m dying.

  The individual above me peers over the stone ledge during my horrified ‘Come to Jesus’ moment. Their shadow kills my light as I lose my ever-loving mind in a stew of cartilage and bones.

  My body temperature escalates. I’m sweating and clawing with hysterical strength up the stone wall. When I break the surface, I look like Samara from The Ring. I contort and thrust myself over the stone edge.

  I spill out hard onto the ground like a fowl plopping forth from their mother’s womb still attached to the placenta. Curled in a fetal position, I wipe the grime, sweat, and human fragments away from my eyes.

  The individual with the baritone voice from above is underwhelmingly not Jesus from the acclaimed near-death encounters. They are just human. A black radio is in their hand, heavy as a brick.

  “You’re late.” The individual says before radioing in with a one-word response, “Alive.”

  “You’re late. Very late... You almost missed the First Watch. There is no time. Move. Move. Hop to it. You’re late.”

  Adrenaline leaks out of my pores. I roll onto my stomach and shift onto all fours. I’m aware of my legs and their inability to stand. My balance is poor, clumsy. There’s no pregnant pause for me to adapt to my newfound life.

  I’m gasping like a fish out of water. My breaths are irregular and ragged. A weight restrains the alveoli in my lungs against inflation.

  Clear, watery drainage trickles out of my nostrils with each tilt and shift of my head. The liquid is suspiciously similar to spinal cord fluid. It could also be a snot-water combination. At the moment, I can’t tell the difference. I wipe my face across my arm.

  I watch the individual watch me and notice that there is nothing memorable about them. They are the aftereffect of an infamous person—Rose Bundy, Kerri Rawson, Matthew Ridgway, or Michael Kallinger. Like them, this individual will always be in reference to someone else. There is a bigger name that stands before them. They live in the shadow of someone else’s dark acts.

  Beep.“Roger.” Cracks over the radio.

  The responding voice pulls a mental chord, and like a laryngectomized patient, I press my hand to my larynx. Akin to tracheoesophageal speech, or speaking with a voice prosthesis, my lack of airflow and pulmonary support has me releasing a strangled, “You.”

  The individual points to themselves, “Guardian,” then points to me, “Lily.” I shake my head from side to side. No. Not Lily.

  Guardian stomps over to me, tosses me over their shoulder, “If you’re no Lily, you go back.” Wait, what? I kick and thrash. I’m a terror child going through a full-blown tantrum and promptly crash to the ground. Pointing to myself, I jab, jab, jab my sternum. I’m Lily. I’m anyone this individual wants me to be as long as I’m not dumped back into the cesspool we
ll to rot and wither away. I am not D.O.A.

  “Ok, Ok. You’re late. Very late,” Guardian says again. He ignores my crisis of identity.

  Guardian backtracks and grabs a hose attached to the wall. “You killed. You’re here to fight.” He spins an enormous wheel. “I’m Guardian. I watch for wanted people to come through.”

  Guardian forces forward a switch, “Come, Come. You’re late. Very, very late. You almost missed the First Watch. There’s no time. No Time.”

  Water shoots out of the hose’s nozzle with the pressure of a fire hose. I’m thrust backward next to an in-ground drain. Muck and gray water rush and slip through the holes.

  Once I’m sufficiently rinsed off of human decomposition, I’m thrown an ironed white towel and led to a wall of black cube organizers. Each small locker holds an item of black clothing. There are socks, boxers, panties, sports bras, pants, shirts, and slippers. Each level has a size. There are no gender distinctions. However, the folded corners of each article of clothing are precise. I select my appropriate sizes and dress in scrubs under Guardian’s supervision. I leave my wet towel abandoned on the floor. The white of the towel is a strong highlight against the negative darkness of the kid cubbies and clothing. The towel truly looks discarded.

  “Lily,” Guardian snaps from the doorway. His physique is a tight fit through the frame, he’s Chris Farley, fat guy in a little coat. I smile. Guardian smiles. His hands are open at his sides and he’s waiting for me as if we’re in a new relationship and he hasn’t realized my five minutes is twenty minutes. What’s taking me so long?

  I perform a full three-sixty and categorically try to remember this room; a warehouse with a stone well in the center, black wall cubbies, and a water hose fitted against the far wall. There is no purpose for this room other than what Guardian suggests. As outlandish as that possibility is, I can see Guardian sitting and fishing for humans. I wonder if Guardian has a list. Maybe in his pocket? How did he know to expect me? How did he know my legal name?

  I step forward and we both walk out the door. Guardian is quick to lock up behind us. He checks the handle to make sure the key didn’t lie to him; the lock is secure. We’re good to go.

  We walk down an underground tunnel system. Guardian’s heavy boots clomp for ninety-two steps until they stop at three doors.

  We enter the first door into a sizable room. The light from the hallway fans across a set of empty bunks.

  We’ve reached a multi-occupant cell that at first glance appears cheaply assembled to increase maximum tenancy. The rows of beds seem endless. I step into the dormitory and follow closely behind Guardian.

  In the sea of single mattresses on iron grids, there are eleven heaps in the shape of sleeping bodies. Snores slice through the air like the shaking of a wind chime constructed of revving saws, hammers, aluminum pipes, and dog squeaky toys. The sound goes against the natural rhythm of slumber. The sound should wake the dead.

  Guardian leans against an empty bunk. “You sleep here.” With his pointer finger he directs my gaze to a flat mattress. A scratchy airplane blue blanket is tucked in.

  His pointer finger folds inward, his thumb pops out and points backward. I want to say, Cut It Out, but I doubt Guardian would enjoy any Full House humor. And with that thought, I wonder why this house isn’t full. I also wonder whether it’s a good or bad fact that a majority of the bunk beds are empty. Where are the other bodies?

  “Communal,” Guardian whispers. He emphasizes the direction to the communal with a pointed chin towards an inset door. I look at the lit entryway. When I turn back, Guardian has pivoted and is halfway to the door. For such a massive individual, Guardian moves stealthily like a ninja.

  The door shuts with an audible click.

  Instantly, I feel like a trapped pet in a burning house. My heart rate escalates. I want to jump up on a window frame and whimper for the person who left me to come back. Why would he leave me? We shared a moment. We smiled. I’ve been a good girl.

  I’ve always wondered if pet owners thought about how they leave their pets when they go to work. Furry babies remain pent up to secure household belongings from destruction.

  “Kennel up,” they say to keep harsh words like ‘lock’ and ‘cage’ out of their vocabulary. “Go to bed Buddy.”

  The same pet owners sport bumper stickers about their baby having four paws. The sticker may proclaim their dog is a rescue. But who will rescue their dog when they are away for ten hours or more working? Who will save their bladder? What happens if there is a fire? Their dog will burn alive in a metal crate. The word crate sounds just as vulgar as a cage when there is burned dog tissue affixed to metal.

  At least I have a communal to relieve myself.

  It takes me ten steps to get to the communal. Much to be expected in a dormitory, there are stalls for showers and shiting. A whole new slew of unrequested pitches and tones is only ten steps away from my appointed bunk.

  After using the restroom, I wash my hands at the line of sinks. There are four empty sinks to my right, three to my left. The white countertop shines in the fluorescent lighting. Clean, no watermarks, or soap residue.

  There isn’t a switch in sight. The lights never turn off. Beside each faucet there are small ironed hand towels stacked in a metal bin just large enough to fit the corners. Larger laundry sized bins sit at the ends of the countertop. The cubbies have a dedicated wall here too.

  I twist and turn my hands beneath the tepid water pumping through the faucet. For efficiency and sanitary purposes I understand the necessity to control the temperature and flow. But that doesn’t change my desire to feel water pour out as hot as it gets. It’s meditative. Tepid water lacks a certain luxury. It robs me of a small pleasure.

  My gaze stares off at a gray wall. No mirror. The lack of a mirror is off-putting. Standing and staring at a wall that is a mere few inches from your face is awkward. Like a blind date in the dark, I wonder what I look like. I wonder if I’ve changed. I wonder what my hair is doing.

  I figure the mirror’s absence is to avoid narcissistic tendencies, or a play in psychological warfare. Perhaps even an attempt to avoid mirror shanks. I stretch the possibilities like silly putty in my mind.

  The water stops pouring once I pull my hands out of the lukewarm stream. I shake my hands in the sink bin before I move to another motion sensored device to blow my hands dry. But I stop.

  I hear heavy breathing near the cubbies.

  Not the creepy heavy breathing of a pedophile at a little boys’ baseball game.

  Not the aroused heavy breathing of a properly fucked woman.

  No, I hear the heavy breathing of a good workout.

  I hear controlled breath pulls in through the nose and out through the mouth. The powerful breath stems from the core, not in the chest.

  My hands drip next to the automatic hand dryers. My palms are a rain cloud to this small corner of linoleum.

  I stare at the systematic breather, who is a black-haired woman with my same black uniform. She breathes through a set of fifteen pushups. I watch each press. Her body moves as one sinuous unit. Sweat beads on her brow.

  I watch her push through another set and then hold a plank for thirty-seconds. A downward dog, a stretch, and the woman rises. I meet her rich brown eyes. And then she walks to the showers like I’m not even worth a thought.

  2

  Voir Dire

  Fuck me.

  I don’t recall falling asleep as much as falling on my face on top of a too flat pillow.

  I wake up disoriented and lost.

  The feeling doesn’t subside because…

  I am disoriented and lost.

  Legs walk past me in a hush. A set of parallel black lines twist around the inset door. I follow closely behind and enter the bright white of the communal. A white stall door closes, another opens, black pants exit. A monochromatic cycle rises, washes, rinses, and repeats through strangers. I toss myself in their rhythm and am reminded of a psychological experiment I
stumbled upon downtown.

  The few people ‘in’ on the experiment formed a line next to a retractable belt partition on a crowded sidewalk. The line did not form in front of a door, nor was it formed by any sign of propaganda. Throughout the day, the line grew. It intrigued pedestrians. What was the line for? Who were they waiting on? I might as well wait too. And so they did.

  I don’t remember how long people stood in the line, or how long the psychological experiment lasted. I remember watching from The Brewed Bean, a local coffee shop. The barista made me a venti green tea latte with soy. She said she witnessed three people get in line.

  The barista’s eyes continued to go back and forth between the steamer and the window.

  The impression that I was holding her up wafted off of her like too strong perfume. My venti request came at the most inconvenient time. Nothing is better than live. How could I? Honestly.

  The lid snapped shut. “Your drink is ready.” And then she’s gone. The barista’s attention was drawn back to the scene, back to the event, her attention followed the group.

  With my hands warmed by dairy-free milk, I thought of cows. I thought of herd mentality. The barista leaned on her elbows to get a better vantage point. Her chest pressed hard against the countertop. She wanted to get in the growing line outside—that line held more significance than the line she was being financially compensated to attend.