Caligatha

Chapter 2 - Fugue

Jericho pushes two tablets across his desk.

Back and forth. Into each other. Away from each other.

There's every reason not to put the tablets in his mouth, not to take it one step further and chew them.

It's been a good day.

He sloshes a gulp of water around his bitter mouth, stares at the glass.

There are no good days.

He closes his eyes and waits. Half an hour until he leaves Blue Coral Inn.

Soon he feels it. The walls sink below his weightless body, his blood warms, thoughts fall into a languid mist--and in walks Maggie.

Had it already been thirty minutes? Just as time had begun to dissipate, the open door is like a violent injection of black ink in water. All serenity spins toward the open hole.

Her mouth moves in slow-motion. Drifting through the breaking waves of bliss and saying something he can't hear.

She settles into a chair.

Jericho stares at her lips, at the ballpoint pen digging into the corner of her mouth. His desk radio rolls in soft grey waves, a purring, frothing alien water.

"What?"

He realizes the radio's lost reception, fumbles with the volume dial. The waves recede. Everything fluid is gone from the room.

Solid edges, broken silences.

He studies her face, but can't really see it.

Here we go.

She smirks, the pen inching in, and he envisions black ink being sucked down her throat, encasing her skull, twisting from her eyes like blind snakes.

Tempt the ghosts and they will come.

With enough focus, the snakes disappear. He knows they're not real.

She leans in, laughing now, and he forces himself to stare at the details. The real details. Creamy skin, pearly teeth.

"You are so spacey," her eyes say, green wildfires scanning him over. The thin feathery lines above them narrow into a squint. Then, throatily, "Let's go to Paseka's tonight."

How long had she been talking?

Feel something.

"Yeah." He drags the dull ends of his chewed up nails across the desk, embracing the uneven texture, the wooden veins. They rise like roots under his fingertips. The walls begin to slant.

Shit. Pull it together.

He pushes his chair back and reaches to turn the radio fully off, but hits the volume dial and static ether rushes back over the room.

"No. Exhausted. Didn't get very good sleep...sleep last night. Tomorrow." It all rolls out fast, sloppy, disjointed.

She says nothing, exhaling loudly. Right away he remembers-she won't be here tomorrow night.

That level of focus takes too much effort. He's high, and the ghosts are seizing on this weakened state, banging on his mind's peripheral windowpanes.

He swallows hard to prepare for a full sentence. "To be honest I might just stay in one of the vacant rooms."

"Okay," you fuck up, "nothing new." Just the same bastard you were yesterday. "But you know I'll be out of town the next few days." And I know you don't care.