The Scars of Qulin Moore

Chapter 8

Another morning roared in to ruin the silence. Qulin awoke face down in the kitchen. Beams of light pressing against his face. A sharp pain traveled across his neck. It was not unusual to wake in the kitchen or any part of the floor for that matter. Many suicide attempts had resulted in waking in this manner. Death was not his to own. Death was not his to choose. In some sense, to be on the floor was to be equal with the lowest forms. It was where he belonged—lower than a snake and as useless as the skin it shed. A pile of left over from the day previous. Death came for so many before him. Sympathy for the perished left him, now only envy remained.

He moaned, and sat up. Crammed under his fingernails were shreds of white orchid petals—evidence of the latest failed elixir. He touched the new scar which had already hardened under his right eye. The rigid tissue nearly obstructing his sight. He staggered to his feet. His head swirled as if it was dangling from his shoulders. He stumbled over to the sink and vomited yellow bile which splashed against the cruddy sink. Old pipes shuddered from within in the walls as he turned the water on. The faucet sputtered out a weak stream, then abruptly stopped. He condemned the faulty faucet. This was the consequence of his own refusal to fix the plumbing. He knew this but it didn't matter. His hands curled into fists and smashed the brass faucet.

Cabinet doors rattled as he roared out in pain. His middle-finger burst open in a fit of blood and bone, fractured just below the knuckle. He held his hand up, agonized while bolts of pain coursed through the finger that dangled loosely by a single strand of flesh. Every fixture, object, force, and neighbor conspired against him. Everything was strictly out to obstruct him in one way or another. Why couldn't the damned faucet just give him water?

A moment passed. The flapping broken finger started to tingle and promptly began repairing itself. Little tendrils of flesh and ligament grasped the hanging finger like lassos, realigned the protruding bone with the loose end till it was fully mended as if the injury had never happened.

He eyed the faucet once more. And as if taunting him, a strong and steady stream rushed out. He splashed the cold water across his ruined face. He felt hidden, even if just momentarily, behind this ephemeral mask of water before it came splashing down into the sink disappearing into the drain. The morning sickness passed and he entered the living room pulled aside the torn window drape—the new neighbors remained. Disgusted, he yanked the curtain closed and hurried back into the kitchen. He collected Cora's diary from the floor. Another wave of dizziness struck him but was replaced by a vision of Potter's Bluff. Flashes of heavy breathing, running uphill through thick shrubbery, out of breath. Fire then darkness. The visions clamored for attention. They wanted to be acknowledged. But for what reason? Why now had all these vision of Potter's Bluff returned. He shook his head. He loathed that bluff. He'd never return. Terror and shame was all that bluff possessed. He struggled to the kitchen table and fell into a chair. There was a certain pull, an insistence to put aside selfish disregard, move above painful memories as though these persistent recollection would never cease till he conceded to their call. A fellow farm hand had once told him that the mind gets fixated on a single idea because, outside any conscious understanding, something or someone is plowing the garden clear of the overgrowth and you must water the new roots. He didn't make much of it then. Now, it struck him as salient. Was returning to the bluff worthwhile? What would he find. Perhaps a clue to the elixir? He staggered to the back porch, appalled at the consideration. Across the yard, radiant blue halos floated in neat lines like ghoulish apparitions, he rubbed his eyes till they hurt. Where they real? He knew they weren't real. Another cruel mind trick. When he opened his eyes, the halos had gone. In desperation to avoid the compulsion of returning to Potter's Bluff, he began to rationalize that perhaps something outside in the yard triggered the halos? Something in the air? Something in the ground? He'd inspect every inch of the backyard, as he'd done innumerable times before. Turn over every stone, examine every shard of grass, gut the entire yard. Satisfied with his evasion he called out to Som.