Aristophanes Leaves Home

This is my first posting on Vox.  I intend to use this blog as a forum to refine works of creative fiction that I've been working on recently.  The following piece is an character introduction I recently wrote for Cobalt*Academy on irc.sorcery.net.  It's an experimental piece working with stream of consciousness style commonly associated with Faulkner, though Cormac McCarthy was of far greater inspiration in this particular instance (and in general, actually).  Please feel free to comment and criticize; as I said before this is an experimental piece and any suggestions on improvements would be greatly appreciated.

Devil's Lake 026_2_2

The light that poured from the naked halogen lamp relentlessly beat down from the upper right corner of the room.  Attached to a metal articulated arm the light’s purpose was to illuminate every possible nook and cranny of the body, to banish away the shadows that might hide some festering cause from a physician’s watchful gaze.  The light glared brightly off the metal of the sink across the room, it burned, and it fell flat against the dull plastic like Styrofoam wrapped around every corner and piece of furniture.

I hate doctor offices; the words poured forth like water through a brook haphazardly picking its way past stones in a headlong rush towards oblivion.  The young man shielded his eyes from the glare of the light.  He winced in pain at the intensity; only to have his flinch met with the returned glare from some ill-placed reflective surface.  What’s taking him so long?

He swore the minute hand of the clock, sterile and eggshell mounted upon the sterile and egg shell wall, had frozen in place, even ticked backwards.  It quivered, as though to taunt him, and he busied himself with watching his feet as he absently rubbed the cotton of his socks against each other and delighted in the warmth from the friction.  He impatiently bounced on his seat; he hated doctor offices.

The doctor arrived in what seemed to be an eternity.  The young man forced a smile to his face, one that failed to touch the corner of his eyes.  He smiled through his teeth at the doctor, teeth that glowed balefully under the harsh white light.  Clean bill of health doc?

The doctor seemed nonplussed as he looked over the charts attached to his clipboard.  He did not immediately respond to the charge, his dark eyes somehow lost in the shadows collected under his furrowed brow, a crevice even the light of the damned lamp could not illuminate.  The doctor nervously thumbed to and fro through the pages, the dull crinkle of which counted out the time with the now active minute hand.

Perhaps.

Perhaps what, doctor?

Perhaps you’re healthy.  The doctor looked up from the chart for the first time, and smiled nervously to the young man.  He dragged up a chair, the rubber soles of which scuffed the tiles below leaving two dark furrows in their wake.  I mean, your clear of disease, and it looks like your points of eruption haven’t caused any lasting damage beyond the scars and the lack of sensation.

The eruptions?  The young man frowned, and closely examined the long pale scars the sporadically marred his otherwise tanned forearms.  Without looking he knew those same marks dotted his shoulders, his torso, and his legs.  Each scar was leaden in his mind, towing a host of unpleasant memories that the light of the doctor’s comment brought into unwelcome view. 

So, I’m as healthy as a boy can be who happens to have carbon spurs erupt from random points of his body?  His tone was casual, but sounded tinny within the confines of the room.

Yes.  As healthy as you can be.  You passed the physical, so the academy should have no problem with you arriving.  The physician paused, and fished a pencil from his pocket, which he then tapped on the flat of his thigh.  His brow was always furrowed, always in thought, and his thin lips twisted into a crooked frown as he eyed the young man.  Aristophanes, have things improved?

Improved?  His name humanized him, gave him character that defied his surroundings, and he became more healthful under the light.  I guess.  I still have the nightmares, I still have the random eruptions at night.  I’m eager to get the hell out of here, get some help, I hear the academy has devices that can stop these.  He paused, uncomfortably, suddenly unwilling to put his condition into words.  Stop these things from happening.

Close enough.  The doctor gave a wizened nod and brought the pencil up to lay it across the bridge of his nose.  I actually have something else, something I’d like to run by you.

Of course.

The doctor seemed hesitant, and Aristophanes was concerned.  He leaned forward, his thick neck craned towards the doctor as his eyes urged the man to speak.

I wanted to bring up a concern, a colleague of mine, Doctor Hinkley of the University of Chicago raised it, he specializes in cancer research.  When you first developed your, peculiarity, I ran your case by him.  He studied what I documented, and he’s concerned about a potential danger from cancer in your future.

Cancer?  From my regenerative ability?  He blinked in surprise.  I actually thought about that too.  If my cells replicate as quickly as you told me they do, well, that means they’ll do so hundreds of times faster than a normal person.  If the theory that genetic mistakes appear every time a cell replicates holds water, then the danger of a cancerous mistake should be higher.  Which makes me a high risk.  His tone belied his concern.  Such a response was typical, however, emotions were kept from striking distance as a matter of practice.

I see you paid attention in AP Biology.

I received a four on the exam. 

Not bad.

Not good either.  I wanted that five.  Aristophanes sighed and allowed disappointment to creep in and cloud his concern.  Cancer was deadly, but Aristophanes, despite his candied response, could not appreciate his own mortality.  He toyed with his hands in his lap, and the savaged skin hanging from his cuticles stole his attention.

Still good.  He wants to meet with you.  The doctor cocked his head to the side, and cleared his throat to catch Aristophanes’ attention.  Perhaps when you’re back in town on winter break?

Sure, Doctot Kinkaid, sure.  Aristophanes’ teeth flashed white against the darkened tan of his face as he gave the physician his humanity.

Then you’re on your way.  Doctor Kinkaid returned the smile, and vigorously patted the young man on the leg before he rose from the chair and quickly walked to the door.  Be sure to call my office if you have any problems or concerns.  He then swept himself out of the room, allowing the door to shut and isolating Aristophanes in the whiteout.

I hate doctor offices.

Clean bill of health?

The question greeted Aristophanes as he entered his father’s black Isuzu Trooper.  He gave his dad an annoyed look, and then slammed the door shut before busying himself with the seatbelt.  Clean enough to let me go.

As they drove the silence stretched out uncomfortably, like the glare of the lights through the frost rimmed windshield of the SUV.  They idled below a stoplight, waiting to make a left onto Ogden Avenue due East.

You’re ready for this, right?  His father broke the silence first, his richer timbre brushing aside the silence.  A note of uncertainty clung to the end of the statement, his dad wanted to say more, but couldn’t.

Of course I am.  Aristophanes appreciated the concern, but didn’t let that cloud the annoyance that crept into his tone.  I’ve saved plenty of money, my car is running fine, I’m all packed up.  I’m ready for this.  He ticked off the physical necessities.

That’s not what I’m talking about.  His dad pressed.  Aristophanes squirmed uncomfortably in his seat in reaction.  He flicked the seat warmer to automatic to banish the chill that crept up his back.

I need to get out of here Dad.  If they can help, I need to go there, learn how to get things back to normal.  His voice was strained.  He hated these conversations, and wished he could sink deep into the fake leather of the car seat, into some dark hole and pull a flap over the top to hide from the green light that clicked on above them.

I understand.  His dad pandered to him, gave him the answer that he wanted to hear, the answer that would allow the painful silence to once again distend itself from the roof of the car to blanket the two of them.

He glanced at his father out of the corner of his eye, and caught a glimpse of the pain that lurked behind his dark hazel eyes.  He took note of the worry lines that collected in the corner of his lips, and the expanding desolation between brow and hairline that had only worsened in the past year since his condition had first manifested itself.  A lifetime of concerned conversations lingered behind the tortured eyes, Aristophanes knew it, and he knew they would never be aired by the noxious constraints that tied both their hands.

We love you.

I know.

We will always love you.

I know.

Both of them wished they had spoken those words.

Aristophanes dreamed of pain and darkness again.  His thoughts came to him as though he was submerged in turgid water, and his arms flowed through it with an aching lack of alacrity.  Images and sounds flashed by in his half dazed state, and he gritted his teeth in frustration.

He could distantly tell that it was brick that his hand caught as it slammed against the wall of the narrow corridor.  An alleyway, ahead was a dumpster, it must be an alleyway.  He should have gasped for air, but he was dreaming, his breath came fine.  Below him were puddles reflecting back moonlight, they didn’t make a splash as he fell into them, the disassociation queer in his mind as he failed to link it to the dream.

He could not hear the puddle’s splash, he heard sobbing behind him. 

A great angry crowd, red and demonic with rage, surged down the narrow alley towards him. 

He heard sobbing behind him. 

He forced himself to his feet, and his vision swam as the angry crowd poured forth like a tidal wave of grotesque and contorted faces; a patchwork quilt of incoherent anger from a thousand schoolyard and playing field memories. 

He heard sobbing behind him.

He held his arms out to his sides, and cried out as the spurs erupted from his shoulders, sides, and forearms.  Gore and tattered strips of flesh clung to the sharpened ends, his own, he felt the tremendous pain that vanished a second later, a banished memory.

He heard sobbing behind him.

The wave crashed down upon him, and drowned him in truculent water.  He was suffocating, and struggled to hold back the waters that the faces had become.  He strained mightily against the weight, he felt his spurs pierce the waters and felt the wave part before them.  He knew the water could not reach the sobbing.

He failed.

He heard screaming behind him.

The scream ripped free of his throat, and joined the tortured cries of his bed springs as extended spurs worked themselves through the mattress and into the floorboard below.  The metallic hiss grated against his ears, and his eyes flew open in panic and sought out answers across the cracked plaster of the ceiling, which momentarily resembled the howling visages that haunted his nightmare.

Each desperate twist of his arms tore deeper into his mattress, and blood soaked cotton clung to his body as he rolled free of the mattress.  He whelped as the spurs retracted, and felt his skin tightening around the gaping wounds left in their wake.  Blood pooled on the ground beneath him and the pale rug grew dark with crimson like an oil slick in the silver shafts of moonlight that worked through the blinds of his window.

His arms burned with exhausted fatigue, and he fell to his side before rolling onto his back.  He dully registered the warm orange glow that seeped in from below his bedroom door.  A moment later he was blinded by the light as his door was flung open and his mother, father, and sister stormed into the room.

Jesus Christ!  Are you okay Aris?  What happened?  Nightmares again?  Aristophanes!  Are you okay?

His eyes burned as they searched the inverted halo of shadows that spun around his head like an angry cloud of insects.  His left leg hurt, back in the calf, for a moment he thought he had severed his hamstring.  He could feel the rug stick to his back, his blood acting as the adhesive.  He forced himself to his side, and threw up.

His sister had helped him wash the sheets and scrub the wooden floorboards.  His palms were angry and raw.  There was still a stain to the side of the warped remains of his bed.  The stain formed an irregular circle of permanent crimson, surrounded by the faint pink of previous nights.  His parents waved off his offer of a tarp, perhaps now they would reconsider when he’d visit.

The church was dark, a throw-back to the 13^th century constructed in the 1950’s.  Thin slits for windows, derived from some classic architectural scheme, allowed anemic shafts of light to pierce the otherwise undisturbed gloom of the building.  Five decades of incense had left a permanent cloud clinging to the ceiling.  The cloud was cloyingly sweet and calming.

The service passed as a blur, the harmonic tones of the priest and choir working together to create a beautiful service with the guttural voices of the chanters providing the underlying beat.  Service was ancient, and for a moment the suits of the men morphed into the tunics of yore, five hundred desperate peasants singing praises and waiting for salvation.

His stomach rumbled low, and reminded Aristophanes that he had fasted properly and thereby asserted his right to wait in the long line for communion.  His father went first, bowed his head.  The Servant of God.  Elias.  The Servant of God Elias receives the Body and Blood of Christ for forgiveness of sins and eternal life.  His father graciously accepted the spoon, crossed himself through times and collected his bread.

Aristophanes hesitated, and the priest, Father Theodore, elderly and kind, beckoned him near with a flourish of his withered arm.  Rich robes, lined with gold glittered in the low light of the church. 

The Servant of God.

Aristophanes could not find his voice.

The Servant of God Aristophanes receives the Body and Blood of Christ for forgiveness of sins and eternal life.

Aristophanes accepted the wine clotted with the crumbs of broken bread.  Father Theodore broke with routine, and leaned forward to kiss him on the cheek.  Aristophanes’ eyes watered for a moment.  He did not speak, but bowed his head in thanks.  He’d seen the home video of a younger Father Theodore dunking his plump and naked body into the oil-enriched water of the baptismal fountain.  No words were necessary.

He accepted his bread, and lodged it firmly against his cheek to worry it with his molars.  The crumbs lasted him through the Litany of the Deceased, and quieted the rumble of his stomach.  He felt weight lifted from his shoulders, and calmed visibly beneath the hopeful eyes of his father.

You’ll be sure to call us when you arrive?

Of course.

You’ll drive safely?

Of course

Don’t pick up any hitchhikers.

Didn’t you once hitchhike to New Orleans from Chicago?

That was a different time.

Of course.

Give us a hug.

Aristophanes embraced both of his parents and his younger sister.  He then slipped into the seat of his battered blue Ford Escort, and thrummed the engine to life.  I promise I’ll call.

Talk to you soon.

Goodbye.

He could still taste the wine in the corner of his mouth as he pulled out of the driveway and began his journey to the academy.