Direct from the Cellar of Know

Title

Heroes

of the Cartesian Plane

 

a novel by

Matthew McCready     Karel Češpiva     Sarah Schreck

Copyright © 2012

Chapter 1

Chapter 1

‘Tick, tick, tick’.

A ceramic plate wall clock adorned with a gaudy painting of a flamboyant French noble hangs disconcertingly on a shoddily hammered plywood nail; it is obviously the work of an apathetic amateur. The French nobleperson rhythmically contorts its arms clockwise; bones popping loudly with every segment of the endless rotations. In the next room over, a brass bed (obviously discontented with the wall it has been placed against) rams itself repeatedly against the plaster fiend.

Not to be outdone by the melodramatic bed and its invidious antics, the flaming aristocrat now snaps its arms with purpose; emphasising every crack and pop of every joint and bone in its arms. The bed notices the disgruntled ticking of the French clock and becomes agitated; it pounds the wall harder, its legs screeching across the distressed tile floor.  It begins to moan as a mezzo-soprano and grunt as a tenor.  The bed hurls itself into the wall, determined to burst a hole in the plaster motherfucker

The wall begins to shake, and as the nail begins to shimmy in its frayed hole, the aristocratic clock becomes concerned. The clock snaps its arms sporadically, contorting itself in the hopes of alerting the brass bed of the impending consequences of its actions.

But the bed cannot be bothered by the trivial worries of a frog; a vendetta must be resolved. The moans of the bed are becoming increasingly intense, as is the force with which the bed is colliding with the wall. Its rails are glowing red with rage; the sight of the abhorred slab of repugnant plaster stirs up feelings of pure, concentrated hate unseen since the late Germanic 1930s.  Every collision against the wall shakes the building with the force of a magnitude seven earthquake.

Panic strikes the Aristocrat, who is now dangling on the end of the nail. In one last desperate attempt of self-preservation, the Aristocrat ceases to contort its arms; but after a few moments it is clear that all hope is lost. As the bed’s moaning climaxes, the nail frees itself from its plaster confines, and the French aristocratic clock hurtles towards its tiled demise. With the sound of shattered ceramics filling the air, the brass bed feels a sense of accomplishment and overwhelming relief, and decides to make amends with the wall and call a truce.

‘What the fuck was that?’

‘What?’

‘You didn’t hear that? I think there’s someone in the kitchen...’

Leslie struggles to sit up; strained back joints crack and pop in relief.

‘I heard a sound, like something was smashed in the kitchen.’

Leslie reluctantly swings hir feet off the smug brass bed and lazily shuffles out of the bedroom. As s/he begrudgingly makes hir way towards the kitchen in question, s/he examines the irony of the situation; the stranger s/he invited into hir house is worried about the possibility of a stranger being in the house. Leslie crosses the threshold of the kitchen and places hir hand on the wall to hir right. As hir hand searches for the light switch, s/he thinks about how cool to the touch the wall is at night; s/he decides s/he enjoys this sensation. Hir fingers locate the light-switch and they flip it on; light quickly chases away the darkness and claims the kitchen for itself. Leslie walks through the light’s newly claimed territory, hir eyes searching for any potential source of a smashing noise; it doesn’t take hir long to notice the ceramic clock that now lays on the floor, defeated and in a thousand pieces. S/he releases a sigh of exasperation, not of disappointment; s/he never liked that clock. Hir eyes now search for the dustbin; s/he spots it leaning beside the table and quickly sweeps up the French shards, dumping them in the wastebasket.

With a quick flip of the light switch, darkness reclaims the kitchen with a vengeance. Leslie walks back through the kitchen and digs hir hand into the left pocket of hir jacket which hangs on the back of a chair, pulling out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. With a sudden slight tingle of happiness and excitement, s/he sits on the kitchen table; hir fingers swiftly open the pack and pull out a cigarette. With a subtle grind and a flicker of light, s/he burns the tip of hir cigarette; its contents now glow ember red. S/he inhales slowly, allowing the smoke to collect in the back of hir throat. S/he lies back on the table and sprawls out; as s/he exhales the smoke, s/he thinks about the warmth s/he feels in hir throat in contrast to the cold sensation of the table on hir bare skin.

S/he allows neuself to indulge in a few more drags before sitting up and hopping off the table; cigarette in hand, s/he walks out of the kitchen. S/he takes a few drags from hir cigarette while walking down the hallway towards the bedroom; hir bare feet slapping the cold floor with each step. S/he enters the bedroom with an apathetic swiftness.

‘You were gone a long time, is everything okay?’

Leslie walks past the brass bed and flicks hir cigarette at the stranger; it lands on hir bare stomach.

‘What the fuck!’ the stranger frantically slaps at the cigarette, subsequently pushing the embers deeper into hir flesh. ‘What the fuck’s wrong with you?’

Leslie picks up the stranger’s clothing and walks out of the bedroom, stopping at the apartment door.  ‘Get out!’

The stranger gets out of the bed and hesitantly walks towards the now open door. Still naked, Leslie walks out of the apartment and towards the elevators on the far end of the hallway. The stranger follows closely behind hir, muttering agitatedly whilst trying to hide hir exposed body. Leslie however, walks down the hallway with an apparent swagger; s/he doesn’t seem to be concerned by hir nudity whatsoever.

Leslie stops in front of a set of buttons and presses the one bearing a “down” arrow. Seconds pass and the elevator dings; the doors open and reveal an elderly person with a quad cane. Leslie tosses the nude stranger’s clothing in front of the wide-eyed senior, who is now shaking despite the thick shawl draped across hir pointy shoulders and hunched back.

The stranger lunges after hir clothing, colliding with the decrepit senior. The senior yelps as s/he is tackled onto hir back, the stark-naked stranger unintentionally pinning hir to the elevator floor.

The elevator dings as Leslie walks away, the doors closing behind hir, encasing the naked stranger and the elder in a sinking box. Leslie heads back towards hir apartment, the carpet muffling every bare-footed step.

*********************************

Its orange scales shimmer like brilliant carnelian in the blaring light of the afternoon sun. Surrounded by aqua s/he hovers, idly courting the deep sea diver; bubbles playfully escaping from hir pursed lips. Suddenly a shadow is cased over the blue gravel that lays beneath hir, followed by a sudden turbulence. Without warning s/he is jetting through the water, shooting up above hir beloved deep sea diver. Suddenly s/he cannot breathe; s/he gasps for air, but the air is too dry. S/he begins to spasm, flipping and flopping around in what seems to be a canvas bag. S/he looks around; s/he can see large flat stones beneath hir, nothing like the blue gravel s/he has become accustomed to, and nostalgic for. S/he can see a large disc on the wall with a painted-on ambig. S/he tries to cry out for help, but hir pleas are met with a rhythmic ticking.

The canvas bag begins to cave in; s/he topples out of it and onto a sticky piece of plastic. S/he looks around, gasping for air, hir body begging for moisture. Hir eyes meet with those of a giant scaleless creature standing beside hir. S/he begs the creature for water, but after seeing a disconcerting glint in the giant’s eyes, s/he soon realises that hir pleas are futile. S/he struggles to ask the creature why it’s doing what it is doing; s/he asks what s/he has done to deserve the torture s/he is being subjected to. The creature reaches over hir and retrieves a second sheet of plastic, draping it over hir and subsequently cutting off what little oxygen s/he was receiving.  The creature picks hir up and crumples the plastic around hir. The creature then walks towards the bowl of water from which s/he was kidnapped and drops hir into it. S/he lands with a splash; the impact is absorbed by the plastic, unfortunately for hir, the water is not. S/he slowly sinks towards the bottom of the bowl, the plastic traps in the cool temperature of the water surrounding hir. Hir eyes meet with those of the beloved deep sea diver and as hir body nestles into the blue gravel, s/he says goodbye.

*********************************

Leslie’s eyes snap open and s/he props neuself up quickly and begins gasping for air. S/he is covered in sweat and there is a dark damp spot on the mattress where hir back was laying. When hir breathing begins to return to normal s/he glances at hir alarm clock; the time is 2.47 AM. After deciding that s/he’s gotten all the sleep s/he is going to be getting, Leslie exhaustedly swings hir feet out from under the blankets and steps out of bed. Still recovering from sleep, s/he clumsily makes hir way out of the bedroom and into the dark hallway. S/he walks towards the kitchen but enters a door to the left nearly adjacent to the kitchen, and reaches out in front of hir, pulling on a string and subsequently filling the room with light. The room is wallpapered with photographs and an intricate web of red yarn.

Leslie walks across the room, which is slightly bigger than hir bedroom, and sits down at a dark brown desk. S/he pulls open the top left drawer of the desk and retrieves a half-empty bottle of scotch as well as a pack of unfiltered Kools. S/he removes the cap from the scotch and sits it on the desk. Digging through the drawer, s/he finds a pack of matches and proceeds to light a cigarette that s/he retrieved from the pack. S/he takes a long drag of the cigarette and inhales, letting the nicotine-rich smoke fill hir lungs. S/he holds it in, leans back in the chair and exhales, letting the smoke escape from hir nostrils. S/he leans her head back and looks around the room, following the intricate crimson trails running along the walls, stopping at photographs like destinations along a railway.

With a thud Leslie sets the front two legs of the chair back on the ground and stands up; taking the bottle of scotch in hir free hand, s/he slowly paces around the room. Leslie studies the trail of photographs as s/he has done in the past. S/he takes swigs of the scotch in between purposeful drags of hir cigarette, letting the ash fall where it may. S/he’s studied these photographs hir entire life; they were taken and arranged by hir parents when s/he was very young.

Hir parents were private investigators; they were investigating the death of a twenty-one year old. The death was declared a suicide, but the family was convinced otherwise, claiming their deceased relative was murdered, more specifically; assassinated. Leslie’s parents were very close to solving the case when the trail became cold. Seven of their leads went missing, six of which turned up dead; all were recorded as suicides by the authorities.

Leslie spent over two years tracking down the last missing lead. S/he revisited each location hir parents recorded in the files, and spoke to every living lead on the wall. After nearly three years Leslie finally had an idea of where the missing lead may be found. It turned out that the victim being investigated was in talks with a close college acquaintance about providing some financial aid in the purchase of an old theatre; this fact seemed quite irrelevant, until Leslie noticed that the theatre was at one point in time owned by a moderately successful producer, whose child inherited it after hir death. The child was an arrogant gambler and one day ended up putting the theatre down as collateral after taking out a loan with a few notorious sharks. The child couldn’t pay the loan, and the theatre was sold multiple times afterwards. The child ended up paying the loan back through services to the mafia; after the loan and interest was paid back s/he became a mole for the authorities; this particular mole was one of the ‘missing leads’ who turned up dead, not only that, s/he was the second cousin of the last lead.

Leslie takes a swig of the scotch and goes to put the cigarette to hir lips, only to notice that s/he has smoked it down to a nub. S/he flicks it away and retrieves a fresh one from hir pack, lights it up, and carries on hir ritual smoke-drink pattern.

S/he looks at the mantle clock ticking away on the desk; it’s 2.59.

‘Time is passing by slowly tonight’ s/he mutters to neuself.

S/he puts the cigarette between hir lips and uses hir free hand to pick up the chair and place it in front of the photograph of the prophetical theatre. S/he stares at the theatre; the second hand of the clock ticking away behind hir, the sound emanating through hir ear canal, gradually making its way into hir frontal lobe.

The clock strikes three.

A chime dings thrice, and a jolt surges through Leslie’s spinal cord. S/he quickly gets to hir feet and walks out of the office, ripping the photograph of the theatre off the wall as s/he exits. S/he enters the bedroom and pulls open a chest of drawers. S/he retrieves a black pair of denim pants and a tight black vest; s/he puts them both on. S/he then pulls on a pair of socks and walks to the front door of hir apartment. Leslie slides on a pair of black leather ankle boots and puts on hir jacket; as s/he opens the front door to leave, s/he shoves the photograph of the theatre into the pocket of the grey trench-coat.

Chapter 2: Xela Monet and the Thought Explosion

Chapter 2

Xela Monet and the Thought Explosion

Curtain call. Naaaaaaaaaaa. Nananana Naaaaaaaaa. Nananana Naaaaaaaaaa. Applause (muted). Curtain.  ‘The Phantom! S/he’s here!. Anxious whispers. ‘Poor fool, don’t make me laugh.’ ‘Croak’. More muted applause. Curtain.

Such was the routine, at the Theatre de Sewer Entrance B, every night for fourteen years. And while, to many, the thought of such tedious happenings repeatedly occurring for over a decade seems incredibly depressing, Xela Monet lived and breathed it. The once-Shakespearean actor cringed at every heartbreaking scene, laughed at every joke, and was utterly obsessed with the production and with hir role in it, the titular character. To hrim, the crudely-done bastardisation of French Literature (not to mention blatant musical plagiarism off of Pink Floyd’s fourth album) was ‘the greatest thing since sliced ketchup’.

Unfortunately, seemingly everyone else believed it to be a tedious, overused plotline ridden with clichés and unoriginal musical scores. Combined with the less-than-ideal location of the spectacle (Sewer Entrance B really is as bad as it sounds), the troupe was left in an irksome financial position. Of course, Xela maintained that it had nothing whatsoever to do with the material; it was the lack of education and broadmindedness that the typical modern clientele possessed.

‘Of course,’ s/he could be heard to say on any given Tuesday. ‘You can tell by looking at what the general populace is actually going to see. What were the most popular theatrical productions last year in the city? The Ambig of Forty Crowns by Voltaire and a theatrical adaptation of Kierkegaard’s Journals! It shows you what people are like these days. Bloody comfort zones, ambig. And of course those productions were at venues in the CBD, in nice comfy elderly theatres, in respectable neighbourhoods, devoid of nuclear waste. And we’re stuck out here in the DMZ. I tell you, it’s a societal conspiracy against inane operetta.’

S/he also personally felt, although s/he would never dare say it aloud, that part of the reason the public had little interest in hir play was the forced evolution of humanity to rid it of gender roles. Societal gender neutralisation, while it had seemed a good idea at the time, now to Xela seemed to have abolished the idea of romance. Although there were government pamphlets and fridge magnets circulating which concerned the proper etiquette of wooing members of the only sex, Xela felt that proper, old fashioned, Heathcliffe and Jane romance was beginning to decompose.

And so, on the seventh of November 412 A.N. (Après Neuter) the Theatre de Sewer Entrance B closed its doors for the final time. After many a tearful farewell, in the knowledge that half of them would be either living on the street or have plugged a bullet into their own cerebral cortex within a year, the cast departed. Xela, on the other hand, by this point had developed something of an alcohol problem. Not that s/he considered it a problem, but that did not change the fact that whilst hir cast, crew and cleaning staff were outside locking the doors permanently, the depressed prim don was passed out in hir janitor’s closet of a dressing room. Upon awakening, Xela tried each of the doors half-heartedly; s/he had already spiritually resigned to hir fate of staying in the theatre indefinitely. There was ample food; the rats were well fed and plentiful, and multiple cutbacks had taken its toll on the rat catching in the place; they were relatively complacent. Moreover, Xela had first found true love in this glorified auditorium, in the stage, the smell of the grease and intoxicating allure of the paint, in the well-polished exit signs, and most of all in fulfilling the role s/he was born to play: The Phantom. Of course, s/he had originally auditioned for Hamlet, but, alas, it was not to be.

The Phantom was perfect. Brilliant, yet unloved. Soulfully cognitive, yet isolated. Being locked in an abandoned theatre in the demilitarised slum was perfect for Xela: s/he had actualised hir character.

Moons passed. Rumours swirled in the largely immigrant slum-dwelling community of a mysterious watchambig, a spirit who had escaped from the bowels of the decrepit playhouse and would be seen standing on the roof at night, black and hooded, with half a stark white face, surveying hir domain. Attendance at the Church next door, though illegal, rose dramatically. And the Phantom watched each odd ritual, each sacrifice, each bizarre re-enactment of gender neutralisation, not interestedly, nor pityingly, but with weary indifference. As long as they did not trespass on hir holy site, or the moat-like gutter surrounding it, they were alright.

Xela did not break character; s/he adapted the Phantom’s personality to suit hir own needs. S/he, regrettably, did not play the organ other than a rather limp ‘Chopsticks’ routine. So s/he explored intellectuality in other ways, such as raiding the ancient cellars of the theatre. The place was a Mecca for obscure cultural artifacts from an age long past. There were Holy Roman Archives, Gothic sculptures, Ancient Greek plays, Hellenic artwork, vials of Romanesque Italian wine, Shakespearean original manuscripts, Elizabethan death warrants, Enlightenment-era scientific research, Industrial Revolution blueprints and diagrams, emancipation doctrines, a BetaMax player, Wikileaks-owned diplomatic cables, chips of abridged history from the Fourth And Fruitful Indian Empire, revolutionary calls-to-arms from 23^rd Century France, and gender neutralisation documents. It was as if the Censor Board had overlooked the entire catacomb. Xela immersed neuself in the stuff; s/he revelled in it. The Phantom lived, thrived and learned with furious capability.

One day, a rainy February shitshow of a day, about seven years after the theatre had been locked for good, the lock was broken open. It emitted a loud crack, jerking Phantom-Xela from hir slumber. S/he looked at the prop clock. It was 0917. All the good burglars are asleep at this hour, s/he thought. Carefully, s/he extracted a lengthy yet blunt lighting stick from beside hir bed. And s/he crept through the crawlspace, in full costume, like a trick of the light. Surveying the intruders in the mezzanine, s/he analysed them thoroughly. They looked like workambigs. Big, burly chavs in construction hats and sunglasses, clutching hammers and tripods. ‘Prospectors,’ Xela said under hir breath, as if uttering a curse word.

‘What was that?’ one of the workambigs stopped, scratching hir head and staring at the ceiling.

‘What?’ said another, furiously scratching hir other end.

‘Thought I heard summat...’ grunted the first, straining to hear it again.

‘Get back to work, you berk,’ said the workambig who seemed to be in charge. ‘This place is as empty as your skull.’

Xela dropped from the rafters, enveloping the head workambig in hir black cloak. The other workers screamed like small children. The biggest and chaviest of them made to grab hir. S/he struck hrim with the handle of the lighting stick and hir face partially caved in from the force of the strike, leaving hrim bloodied and hemorrhaging on the floor, a barely recognisable blob of arterial blood. Xela moved on to use the machete s/he had procured, originally intended for slicing ropes to get props and sets to fall. S/he wrapped it around the head workambig’s throat.

‘What the fu-‘

‘Why are you here?’ Xela hissed in hir ear.

‘You killed Jo, ‘big, s/he’s fucking dead!’

‘Why are you here?’ Xela repeated, in the same threatening voice s/he had used in the glory days, right at the climax, when The Phantom had kidnapped Christine.

‘Why would you do that, ‘big, why would you kill Jo? Smashed hir fucking face in! That is seriously uncool, sibling!’

‘S/he was part of an invading force,’ replied The Phantom’s voice. ‘As are you. So I’ll ask for a third time, why are you here?’

‘Prospecting!’ 

‘For what?’

‘Well, they want  o turn this place into one of them secret prisons, I guess. But don’t tell them I told you, hey, ‘big? I don’t want to be the first prisoner, do I?!’ and s/he laughed a hyperventilated crazy sort of laugh. There was a pause.

‘Do you know who I am?’ Xela asked, hoping that they did.

‘Well, you’se The Phantom, innit?’

‘Right. And what are you going to tell them? Your bosses?’

The head workambig spluttered and fell silent. The blade was pressing into hir neck sufficient to draw a single drop of blood which ran down the machete, curving around in an arthouse pattern. Luckily, one of the other workambigs piped up.

‘We’ll say the place has no structural integrity. Falling to fucking shambles. That’s how Jo got killed. Cos the entire block is sinking into the sewer. It would be madness to build a prison in a place like this.’

This one was smart.

‘See that you do. I don’t want to have to come after you. Now get out, before I violate the Geneva Convention yet again. And don’t forget your comrade.’

They heaved up Jo, who drooled quite a bit of slimy blood and bile onto the carpet, and struggled to the door. Good, thought Xela. No more trespassers for a while.

Just to be sure, however, s/he thought s/he’d take a few counter-measures. S/he had watched Home Alone; there was a video tape of it in the cellar. However, s/he didn’t feel the situation was yet dire enough to spend the time and energy with such thorough counter-attack measures. S/he had found in the prop department a quantity of fluorescent dye to be used to for actors to see their place markers on stage whilst the audience could not. S/he hauled three barrels of the stuff to the entrances and spread it on the floor in strategic locations. Also on hir list were the many ambigholes and walkways across the moat-like gutter that surrounded the theatre.  This way, only Xela would know if the dye had been disturbed.

The following morning, s/he found a fluorescent flashlight and examined hir traps. To hir utter dismay, a collection of footprints was found leading from one of the ambigholes and across the walkway into the theatre. The door was locked, but must have been locked by the trespassers, as the footprints were seen again in the side hall and the café, up the stairs and into a first floor store room, where they appeared to do something in the nature of a sort of pirouette, and turn right around and out of the theatre, taking the steps two at a time.  Mysterious, thought Xela. This was incredibly odd. Why would someone break into the theatre, take nothing, and rush out? Kids perhaps, doing it for a dare? But whoever they were, they didn’t disturb anything. S/he decided to put it out of hir mind.

After re-applying the dye, Xela went to bed, but did not get any sleep. S/he was agonising fruitlessly about the intruders, and tossed and turned all night as a result. At least the one thing s/he could be sure of was that they did not return. The theatre, though ancient, was deathly silent at night.

Yet, the next morning, footprints of fluorescent dye had been tracked all over the building once again. Though there was still no sign of anything being disturbed, Xela’s own thoughts were disturbed. It was as if some sort of explosion had taken place in hir cerebrum. How did these ambigs get in and out so silently? How did they break open locks and re-lock them without making an audible indication of what they were doing? Worse still, how long had they been doing so without hir knowledge? If those workambigs hadn’t shown up, s/he still wouldn’t know about these midnight burglars.

That night Xela stayed up and ready, patrolling every entrance, careful not to step in hir own dye. There was not a single disturbance. Upon checking the dye periodically around the building throughout the night, there was no evidence of intruders. Either it was a two-time thing, or s/he had scared them off with hir cognitive presence. S/he decided to sleep during the day, as s/he was dreadfully tired and beginning to go a bit mad. Upon awakening and checking the traps however, s/he noticed that they had been disturbed. Footprints were all over the theatre once again. Worse still, they had entered hir dressing room, the place s/he was fast asleep, and they had made a disturbance at last. Sitting on hir makeup table was a bag of raw garlic.

With a cry of un-Phantom-like uncontrollable fury, Xela hurled downstairs and ran full tilt, forgetting not to step in the dye, towards the ambighole cover, threw neuself down, tumbling through a narrow tunnel that surfaced in the gutter, about 5 metres below ground level. Here, the standing water had washed the dye from the perpetrator’s shoes. With a cry of frustration, s/he kicked a pile of charred garbage aside. The tunnels connected to the gutter went across the DMZ; it would be impossible to trace them even s/he could leave the confines of the theatre. With a start, however, s/he realised that s/he had not kicked aside garbage. Upon closer inspection, Xela discovered that it was, in fact, a human corpse, completely devoid of skin and badly charred. There was a huge gash in the pelvic region, as if more than just an ordinary knife had made it. Poor ambig, thought Xela, the first sympathetic thought s/he had had in seven years.

Before s/he could even think of a possible course of action, of vengeance for this terrible crime perpetrated on hir soil by hir invaders, there was a splashing sound directly behind hir.

Chapter 3: The Necronomicon of Necrophobia

Chapter 3

The Necronomicon of Necrophobia

In a dim confined bedroom, where the only light source was the reflection of car headlights from outside that bounced off the mirrors and spread across the walls illuminating the room, laid a small child named Jude Frumpington.  S/he tossed and turned desperately craving sleep, but all s/he could hear was the distressing noise of a famished stomach. It was already 2.00 in the morning, but Jude had already decided that the only way s/he could possibly fall asleep was if s/he were to consume some nourishment.

The one problem that was holding hir back from proceeding with hir plan was that the fridge was located in the basement. Jude did not even want to consider venturing down there. Jude closed hir eyes tightly. S/he tried with all hir might to get the dark thoughts that were created from what was within that basement, and had been dominating her mind, out of hir head. There was a loud grumble and s/he looked down. ‘Would you be quiet please, stomach. I know you are hungry, but I can’t go down stairs, you know that! I would rather die.’ Hir stomach made an even louder grumble, as if it were responding to hrim. ‘Fine! What the heck, I’ll go, but I am going to regret this.’

For all of Jude’s life, which has not been very long considering s/he was only eight years old, s/he managed to never set a foot in the basement, for s/he has a great fear of doing so. Jude knew what lay within that room and because of it, s/he would only ever move throughout the house comfortably on the main and first levels. If s/he ever wanted food to eat or anything that was kept in the basement, s/he would beg and plead hir parents to fetch it for hrim.

As long as Jude could remember, hir parents had always owned their undertaking business within their house. Their procedure of dressing, maintaining, and applying cosmetics to dead bodies took place in their basement. Of course hir parents’ job frightened hir and s/he could not deny being somewhat embarrassed of it. The only reason Jude was at ease with the whole scenario was because s/he maintained the idea that if s/he managed to avoid catching a glimpse of a dead body, then everything would be just fine. Although this plan seemed genius to hir, over time, it caused hir to conjure up an extensive amount of fear towards these non-living specimens.

At this hour of the night, hir parents were fast asleep, so Jude did not even attempt to wake them up to ask for food, since they would be furious and tell hir that s/he should have eaten hir dinner. S/he could not resist any longer and gave into hir hunger.

Jude softly tip-toed down the stairs, every floorboard creaking, as the distance between hrim and the basement lessened. As s/he was approaching the basement door, s/he slowed hir pace down even more, until finally, s/he reached the doorknob. Jude grasped the cold knob and, startled by its frigid touch, s/he turned it and the door opened just a crack. Jude peeked hir head in, leaving the remainder of her body behind the door. The fridge was placed at the far end of the room, but s/he was hesitant to move and found neuself incapable of doing so. ‘Come on legs, move. The fridge is only a couple steps away. Do not look to the side, do not look to the side, do not look to the side,’ s/he whispered frantically to neuself. Just then, a book fell off the shelf and created a loud slapping noise as it collided with the floor. Jude swiftly maneuvered hir head in order to look over hir shoulder. ‘Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhnnnnnnnooooooohhhhhhh!!!!’ Jude screamed with a piercing echo. S/he saw it. The cold dead body was lying there on a mettle table. Before another sound could escape hir mouth, s/he fainted.

‘Jude… Jude, why are you ignoring me? Jude Frumpington! Stop daydreaming,’ one of her parents yelled.

Jude then came back to reality. ‘Fuck! You startled me! Oh my god, I’m so sorry. I must have been having another recollection.’

Hir parent seemed worried. ‘Another one, again? I thought your flashbacks were gone. Isn’t therapy helping at all?’

‘Yes, of course it is,” Jude lied. “You can’t expect me to be cured automatically. It takes time, especially when I keep having the same flashback repeatedly.’

‘Which one is it dear?’

Jude sighed. ‘The one where I fainted in the basement.’

‘But that was nearly seventeen years ago?!’

‘Yes, but it obviously left a lasting impression on me, I mean, for god’s sake, I have a fucking fear of dead people! Could you please stop behaving like it is no big deal and that I should be better by now? I can honestly say that I’m trying my best.’

‘Yeah, okay. Anyway hun, you’d better start getting ready to go to your therapy session.’

‘Fine,’ Jude moaned.

*********************************

Jude arrived at hir therapist’s building. Ever since s/he could remember, Jude had been attending these lessons, but the intensity of hir phobia had not lessoned since s/he was a child. Jude walked into hir therapist’s office and sat down. Hir therapist was settled in the chair across from hrim and they began their session.

‘Hello Jude, how are you feeling today?’

‘Well, a little frustrated and confused where all of this is leading. It seems to be going nowhere,’ Jude responded in an unconfident tone.

The therapist seemed alarmed and asked, ‘Why are you having feelings of frustration?’

‘It’s as if my parents don’t understand the extent of my disorder. They can’t comprehend just how serious it is and the complexity of it; they think I am just holding onto this fear for no apparent reason. My parents believe that this problem can be solved easily and that I am just not trying hard enough. I don’t even bother trying to explain to them anymore, they will never understand and their sympathy is wearing thin.’ Jude’s eyes were glossy, but s/he held back hir tears with great effort.

With a look of great concern, hir therapist said, ‘Don’t worry, I will be sure to talk to your parents and straighten everything out, they will understand.’

‘No, don’t even bother, trust me. They lost faith in me a long time ago. I think perhaps...perhaps the answer is for me to just accept my phobia and move on with my life. Maybe that’s what’s holding me back. I have been trying for so many years to cure it, but maybe there is no cure and I should just learn to live a life with it.’

          ‘I will get back to you on that in a second, because I definitely do not think you are seeing things clearly, but first, has there been anything else lately that has been troubling you?’

‘Actually, yes there has been. Do you remember those flashbacks I was telling you about?’

‘Yes, I do.’

‘Well, they are emerging from my memory more and more now. More specifically, there is this one re-occurring memory that has been overwhelming me. It’s the one when I was eight years old and I saw a dead body for the first time. This flashback keeps occurring at random times during the day and is interfering with my ability to function normally. It even consumes my mind in my sleep. I wake up in the middle of the night, shaking and in a sweat, feeling deeply disturbed. I not only have a phobia of dead people, but now I think I am developing paranoia!’

‘I can definitely prescribe you with a medication for that, to alleviate your stress and any feelings of paranoia.’

Jude thought to neuself, ‘Wow, that is any doctor’s way of solving a problem, isn’t it?’

The therapist continued, ‘To get back to the topic you were previously expressing, of how there is no point in continuing with trying to concur your fear. Well, I don’t think you should just give up on yourself that easily. You may find that these sessions are not helping in any way, and that may be true, but I still think you should try searching, but maybe try a new mechanism. All I can do is try to help you in any way that I can and give you suggestions, but that can only go so far, right? I suggest, that instead of asking me what to do, maybe you should ask yourself what you should do. Some sort of activity may help you. Get yourself more involved and interactive with it, try and face your fear, but you alone have to decide what it should be. Don’t give up though. Anyway, our time is up! I will see you again next week.’

‘Okay, see you later,’ Jude said as s/he trailed off.

Jude was in deep thought and kept pondering in what hir therapist had said. S/he decided to go for a long walk along the trail nearest hir house to help clear hir head. S/he admired the nature that surrounded hir and s/he loved hearing the morning doves as the sun set. The sound of their singing put hir into a sort of trance as s/he thought heavily on hir last therapy session.  Jude thought to neuself, ‘What can I do? What possibly can I do? S/he does have a point though, I mean, if anyone could understand my disorder, it would be me, I know it the best, I am the most familiar with it. I mean, I’m the one who actually has to experience it on a daily basis. S/he told me to get more involved with it, what the hell does that mean? How do I do that?’

Jude arrived back home and as s/he entered through the door, s/he saw that the television was left on, so s/he decided to watch whatever was on.  Jude flopped neuself onto the couch and s/he instantly felt the weight come off hir body. S/he then popped a nitroglycerin pill into hir mouth, the ones that hir therapist had prescribed hir, and washed it back with some water. It felt so satiating for hir to finally relax. Just then, she realised what was on the television, s/he nearly screamed, but instead s/he gasped with fright and could not look away due to the terror. S/he was looking at a dead body on the screen. It was a television show about murder mysteries. Jude hastily removed neuself from the couch and left, but as s/he was frantically walking away, practically running, s/he had an epiphany. ‘That’s it! That is exactly what I’m looking for! Yes!’ s/he exclaimed.

‘Are you okay in there?’ Jude’s parent asked curiously.

‘Yes....yes just fine, actually, more than fine, but never mind.’

Jude thought to neuself, ‘This is the next step, this is getting myself involved, facing my fear, one little step at a time. I mean, it’s not like that dead body is in the room right? I nearly scared myself half to death, but I am not dead and maybe that is exactly what I need. I wouldn’t be human if I never experienced fear; it’s okay to be scared, as long as I can face it. The reason I have this fear is because I never experience it and instead of doing that I always just run away, allowing the fear to build up in me. That is what I am going to do; I am going to watch this show about murders, even if it makes me have nightmares for a month.’

That’s exactly what Jude did; s/he sat neuself back on the couch and began to watch. Throughout the show, s/he couldn’t help covering hir eyes and looking away at some parts. Jude managed to sit through a whole show, which in nearly every shot had multiple dead bodies. ‘Wow, it’s over, I managed to watch the whole thing and I’m still alive. I can’t believe it! It wasn’t that bad I guess, although I may have troubles falling asleep tonight. I cannot wait to tell my therapist!’ Jude whispered to neuself, which s/he often did; s/he had a habit of talking to neuself.

It was the next day and as Jude awoke, s/he was still in awe that s/he was able to do what s/he did last night. That was the first time s/he had ever watched a show related to dead bodies. S/he felt on top of the world and like s/he could concur anything. S/he was so proud of hirself.

Despite there being dead bodies in the murder mystery show s/he watched last night, s/he found it quite interesting and was willing to taste some more fear. So Jude thought it was a good idea to download the whole series on hir laptop, keeping in mind that the programme wouldn’t be able to run on the television whenever s/he wanted it to and if s/he wanted to keep up hir progress, then that would be the best solution.

Jude was in hir bedroom and s/he laid down on hir bed placing hir laptop in front of hir. The show was done downloading so Jude decided to watch it, starting from the beginning of the series. S/he played the first episode and s/he began to watch with great fascination accompanied by fear. Many hours had passed and Jude was not paying attention to the time, as she was glued to the screen and did not look away for one second. S/he had just noticed that s/he had been watching the show all day and it was already almost dinner time. S/he didn’t even flinch or cover hir eyes anymore while watching the show. Jude had been watching the show for such a long period of time now that it seemed that s/he had become tolerant to the dead bodies on screen and s/he didn’t seem to mind anymore.

Jude heard a loud whistle coming from downstairs and knew right away that it was hir parents calling hir for dinner. Jude pressed pause on hir laptop since s/he did not want to miss a single moment of the show. Jude made hir way downstairs and sat at the table.

‘Guess what! Guess what! I just watched a full series of a murder mystery show! Well, minus one episode that is,’ Jude said with great excitement.

‘No you didn’t! Are you serious?’ One of hir parents said in a surprised manner.

‘I’m serious, and I actually enjoy the show. At first it frightened me to the extreme, but now I can’t stop watching the damn show. Just yesterday, I came back from a walk and it suddenly occurred to me, that it would be a genius idea to actually try and sit through an episode and I managed to do that. I think it’s great!’

‘Wow! So do we; I honestly cannot believe it.’

‘Good job! Really, I am so proud of you, this is quite the accomplishment,’ hir other parent said with great excitement in hir voice.

‘Yeah, I’m so thrilled, I have never gotten this far before in my life. I am actually making progress and I did it all myself. Anyway, thanks for the dinner it was great!’ Jude said as she quickly dismissed neuself from the table.

‘But you didn’t finish!’

Jude couldn’t hear what hir parent had said; s/he was already half way up the stairs. S/he rushed straight back to hir room and immediately pressed play and continued to watch. Jude did not realise it, but s/he was slowly becoming obsessive. S/he desperately wanted to defeat hir fear.

It had been a week since hir last therapy session and today s/he was to go in for another one. Usually Jude dreaded going, but this time s/he was very excited. S/he could barely wait to tell hir therapist what s/he had been up to. Hir parent dropped hir off outside the building and s/he briskly walked inside and made hir way to hir therapist’s office. S/he sat down and explained all the exciting news that took place in the past week.

‘I am so happy to hear that you came up with an idea, a great idea to help you understand and learn more about your disorder and how to fight it. I knew you could do it, and I knew all along that only you could find the solution and only you could make it happen.’

‘But you gave me all the right suggestions, and you coaxed me. It’s just that now, I don’t know what do next. What is the next step?’

‘Well, I believe you are going in the right direction, and you have made it this far, so I believe that you will figure something out as you search, trust me.’

It had already been an hour and Jude’s parents were waiting for hir in the car. They drove hir home and s/he went straight to hir room. Jude felt like s/he had gotten so far, but now there was a bump in the road.  S/he went back to hir laptop and started doing some research. S/he researched about the show, but as the clock ticked, s/he found hir research lead to more things. Jude was reading about real life murders and was intrigued. Jude noticed that the same words kept popping up in hir research. It consisted of three words which were, ‘Sewer Entrance B.’ It was the name of some sort of sewer. S/he kept reading and s/he was very interested to learn more. It said that it was a slum and that it was demilitarised. Cops never roamed that area and were never to be seen. It had been said that Sewer Entrance B was notorious for having dead bodies lying around.

Just then, a light bulb went off, and Jude had another groundbreaking idea. ‘I know what to do next; I’m going to take it to the next level. I am going to go out and search for these dead bodies, and not only am I going to do that, but I am going to solve the mysteries for these murders....in Sewer Entrance B.’ Despite it being late in the night, Jude was so eager to fulfill hir plan, that s/he decided to set out right away and so s/he quickly printed off a copy of the directions to Sewer Entrance B and began the search.

Jude was getting close to the location. It seemed that every step s/he took, the sky would get darker. S/he saw a large theatre in the distance. At last, Jude arrived at the Sewer. The fear had just kicked in at this point, Jude had not noticed it before since s/he was too focused on finding the destination. Jude was shivering and hir teeth were chattering due to the cold. S/he could barely make out what was in front of hir, it was too dark. As Jude went to make hir next step, s/he paused and squinted hir eyes. In the gutter, not more than twenty feet away, stood a hooded masked figure that was standing over a dead body.