Train of Thought
Brian’s hand itched. The back of it. The kind of itch that made you feel like a spider was slowly crawling across the hairs. A tingle that made him absent-mindedly scratch it with his other hand. His nose twitched and he furrowed his brow.
What had he been imagining? Something blissful. A memory. Or an idea? He couldn’t remember. It had been warm. A wisp of hair on his lip. Summer sun. A laugh and a splash. A knock came on his door and he jumped.
Food Service! A womanly voice called out. Her voice was ugly. Ugly to him. It made him forget the memory.
The door slid open. Brian felt his teeth grind together. Leave me alone. No food. No contact. You fuckin' item- turn and run. The woman grunted, shoved a metal cart in front of him, and gave a smile. Her hair, like black licorice -but curly- draped around her ears. Hair on his lip. The memory.
Any food for you sir?
No. I don’t want your food. You… you thing. Go show your slut legs to another passenger.
No. I’m alright.
The woman smiled brightly and left, slamming the sliding door shut. Her teeth were like tombstones. Brian’s nose twitched again and he began scratching his hand once more. The memory. A little switch clicked in his mind. He had been at a public pool. Light on the water flickered near the bushes where he had stood. There was a woman in the water. Her laugh was like a bell. Clear and crisp. He didn’t like it. She didn’t deserve to laugh. It was such an ugly laugh.
A child’s cries rang out from some other compartment. The shitty cud had to shut up. He couldn’t remember where it was. Where the memory was… The cries grew louder and Brian stood up. The noise was from the other side of the wall he faced. He tapped the wall with his finger. Shut up. The cry continued. A voice. A parent trying to calm the baby. Shut up, shut up. His finger tapped faster and soon he was tapping his entire hand on the wall. It made the skin itch. The baby continued, not hearing him. Shut up, SHUT THE FUCK UP!!! He slammed his hand on wall, close-fisted over and over. In his mind, the baby’s skull burst into a million bloodied shards. The parents vomited their own insides. Kill the noise, kill the noise! And as if by his Godly command, the noise ceased. The parent scared by the racket, the child puzzled. The filthy items.
Brian sat back down and began scratching again. The pool, ah yes, the pool. The woman was alone, her friends had left for some reason. It didn’t matter. Angel skin, wet by the chlorine, pale. Her skin, full of life. He stepped out of the bushes. She was floating with her gaze the other way. She lifted herself out of the water and sat on the pool’s edge. Brian walked forward with a purpose –but meticulously- he didn’t wanna slip on the wet cement. No running near the pool after all. He reached out and grabbed her hair. A violent tug. With a twist and twirl, he wrapped it around her neck. One hand over her mouth, the other behind, tugging the hair. Choke, siren, choke. Stop making that blare. Kinda sounded like a sheep. She hardly made a noise. Perfect. But she did struggle. Ripping into the skin of his hand with her long nails. Some of her hair was tearing out. Good ol’ fashion scalping like them damn red-skin Indians.
Hey!
Another voice along with his door slamming open fiercely.
Hey! Where the cart huh?
A drunk faggot in a suit. Expensive. New York stuff. Brian scratched his hand furiously. He felt warm wetness on his fingers. Sticky. He scratched harder. The man’s gaze locked on Brian.
You! You Tommy’s boy? You got any booze?
The man shoved Brian’s shoulder. Brian’s finger twitched and he accidentally dug too deep, scratching bone.
I’m talkin’ to ya. Hey! I know ya?
Fuckin’ faggot. Rich prick. I’ma tear you in half. Get out. I’m trying to think! Get out! The woman’s hair… His mind raced. What had it done? It was on his lip.. It had tasted strange. The chlorine…
Kyle! What are you doing in there? Another voice. Get out! Leave the guy be!
Too loud… These people had no consideration. Just ugly voices. Brian’s nose seemed to spaz out. A second man appeared. Blond long hair. Another suit. He grabbed the drunk by the shoulders. The drunk tried to wiggle free.
Waid a momen’. I know him! He was at… at the place, yeah! Hey you!
Brian scratched faster… The woman had dug her fingers in right here… Right on this spot… Her hair was tearing at the forehead but wrapped sooo tightly around her neck... Brian had a good grip…
Kyle, come on! Get out! Sorry mister, he’s had too much you see… I’ll get him out you see…
He let the woman fall back into the pool. She floated facedown. There was a quote… He wanted to say it. Uh… Lawrence Durrell, writer. The book was Justine. “Does not everything depend on our interpretation of the silence around us?”
The one suit dragged the other out. The door closed again. You see… you see… shut the fuck up. You see nothing. You hear nothing. You… you… item. He’d show them. That baby too. And the cart lady. Brian scratched deeper. Tendons tore, veins opened to sing praises of halleluiah. Gloriah! Gloriah! The memory! The idea! Remembered! Found! Blood ran in lines down his arm. He couldn’t live without it. Like an empty stomach being fed, he was clicking the frames of thought together again! I found it! Eurika! I struck gold! He stopped scratching and stood up. Near his foot was a duffel bag. He pulled out the teeth- the quiet teeth. It was a strand of barbed wire.
The lost memory was found. The problem had a solution. People needed silencing. The itch in his hand was gone.
What had he been imagining? Something blissful. A memory. Or an idea? He couldn’t remember. It had been warm. A wisp of hair on his lip. Summer sun. A laugh and a splash. A knock came on his door and he jumped.
Food Service! A womanly voice called out. Her voice was ugly. Ugly to him. It made him forget the memory.
The door slid open. Brian felt his teeth grind together. Leave me alone. No food. No contact. You fuckin' item- turn and run. The woman grunted, shoved a metal cart in front of him, and gave a smile. Her hair, like black licorice -but curly- draped around her ears. Hair on his lip. The memory.
Any food for you sir?
No. I don’t want your food. You… you thing. Go show your slut legs to another passenger.
No. I’m alright.
The woman smiled brightly and left, slamming the sliding door shut. Her teeth were like tombstones. Brian’s nose twitched again and he began scratching his hand once more. The memory. A little switch clicked in his mind. He had been at a public pool. Light on the water flickered near the bushes where he had stood. There was a woman in the water. Her laugh was like a bell. Clear and crisp. He didn’t like it. She didn’t deserve to laugh. It was such an ugly laugh.
A child’s cries rang out from some other compartment. The shitty cud had to shut up. He couldn’t remember where it was. Where the memory was… The cries grew louder and Brian stood up. The noise was from the other side of the wall he faced. He tapped the wall with his finger. Shut up. The cry continued. A voice. A parent trying to calm the baby. Shut up, shut up. His finger tapped faster and soon he was tapping his entire hand on the wall. It made the skin itch. The baby continued, not hearing him. Shut up, SHUT THE FUCK UP!!! He slammed his hand on wall, close-fisted over and over. In his mind, the baby’s skull burst into a million bloodied shards. The parents vomited their own insides. Kill the noise, kill the noise! And as if by his Godly command, the noise ceased. The parent scared by the racket, the child puzzled. The filthy items.
Brian sat back down and began scratching again. The pool, ah yes, the pool. The woman was alone, her friends had left for some reason. It didn’t matter. Angel skin, wet by the chlorine, pale. Her skin, full of life. He stepped out of the bushes. She was floating with her gaze the other way. She lifted herself out of the water and sat on the pool’s edge. Brian walked forward with a purpose –but meticulously- he didn’t wanna slip on the wet cement. No running near the pool after all. He reached out and grabbed her hair. A violent tug. With a twist and twirl, he wrapped it around her neck. One hand over her mouth, the other behind, tugging the hair. Choke, siren, choke. Stop making that blare. Kinda sounded like a sheep. She hardly made a noise. Perfect. But she did struggle. Ripping into the skin of his hand with her long nails. Some of her hair was tearing out. Good ol’ fashion scalping like them damn red-skin Indians.
Hey!
Another voice along with his door slamming open fiercely.
Hey! Where the cart huh?
A drunk faggot in a suit. Expensive. New York stuff. Brian scratched his hand furiously. He felt warm wetness on his fingers. Sticky. He scratched harder. The man’s gaze locked on Brian.
You! You Tommy’s boy? You got any booze?
The man shoved Brian’s shoulder. Brian’s finger twitched and he accidentally dug too deep, scratching bone.
I’m talkin’ to ya. Hey! I know ya?
Fuckin’ faggot. Rich prick. I’ma tear you in half. Get out. I’m trying to think! Get out! The woman’s hair… His mind raced. What had it done? It was on his lip.. It had tasted strange. The chlorine…
Kyle! What are you doing in there? Another voice. Get out! Leave the guy be!
Too loud… These people had no consideration. Just ugly voices. Brian’s nose seemed to spaz out. A second man appeared. Blond long hair. Another suit. He grabbed the drunk by the shoulders. The drunk tried to wiggle free.
Waid a momen’. I know him! He was at… at the place, yeah! Hey you!
Brian scratched faster… The woman had dug her fingers in right here… Right on this spot… Her hair was tearing at the forehead but wrapped sooo tightly around her neck... Brian had a good grip…
Kyle, come on! Get out! Sorry mister, he’s had too much you see… I’ll get him out you see…
He let the woman fall back into the pool. She floated facedown. There was a quote… He wanted to say it. Uh… Lawrence Durrell, writer. The book was Justine. “Does not everything depend on our interpretation of the silence around us?”
The one suit dragged the other out. The door closed again. You see… you see… shut the fuck up. You see nothing. You hear nothing. You… you… item. He’d show them. That baby too. And the cart lady. Brian scratched deeper. Tendons tore, veins opened to sing praises of halleluiah. Gloriah! Gloriah! The memory! The idea! Remembered! Found! Blood ran in lines down his arm. He couldn’t live without it. Like an empty stomach being fed, he was clicking the frames of thought together again! I found it! Eurika! I struck gold! He stopped scratching and stood up. Near his foot was a duffel bag. He pulled out the teeth- the quiet teeth. It was a strand of barbed wire.
The lost memory was found. The problem had a solution. People needed silencing. The itch in his hand was gone.
