SR | Vol.-7: Grim Inquiries

Ch.42: The Way It Is

I woke up from a sordid nightmare, drenched in sweat. Unlike many previous, and much like all before those, I did not win against the forces of evil. I'd dreamt, to my terror, that The Heathen himself was upon me in the night, fondling between my legs and groping my chest – slobbering on my face with his wretched, putrid beer-breath. Worse yet, I was completely unable to move a single limb in my body, and could only spectate my own violation. I was lucky he'd decided to stop and laugh at me before he took off his pants, at which point I managed to jolt myself awake. And the sleep felt so heavy upon me I thought I might get dragged back in all over again. It was so vivid and real that I had to check the house three times in the dark to make sure he hadn't stopped by. But perhaps, I think, it's time for a confession: a good portion of my tea from the last year had been boiled from the little yellow caps of gnomes. My shroom usage started when my finger was smashed, as a way to cope with the pain. It followed me home with The Artist, who was more than willing to indulge me every so often for the loss of her brother – though not too often, for risk of harming the child. Both of us were looking for ways to break through the walls of death and tragedy which closed in all around us, and the shrooms provided a bright yellow door... with a funny-looking knob to boot.
"There's always good fun in strange knobs," The Knight used to say.
And for a while, there was... but the glimmer was waning, and my hallucinations were becoming hauntings.

When I awoke next, The Artist was packing. The other night we'd discussed her moving in with the ranch couple, for long-term haven from The Heathen. She jumped so readily on the idea, I thought it would shatter – but when we met them the next day, they couldn't wait to accept. They needed someone else to look after as much as she needed to be looked for.
She was throwing clothes, bits, and baubles into crates, and had several of them already filled.
"You're like a squirrel," I said, "I think The Author figured you wrong as a cat."
She frowned at me, saying nothing. No thorny banter, no request for help. Just silence, and quick-paced breathing for her fast activity. My shoulders sunk, and I realized I shouldn't have mentioned her brother. It was only last night we'd finally read his letter. It said:
'Dear friend, and sister,
I have chosen this week to take my life. I am plagued with horrible visions, which I dare not transcribe to drama – my ink isn't nearly black enough. As well, I suffer terrible pain in my leg, and it's grown too much to bair. Drink numbs it none, and punishes me on the morrow. But, my dear sister, you must know this is not your fault – I am to blame for my own suffering, taking nature's dreams for myself as greedy, gobbling, hungered fame on weedy, hobbling, crippled frame. It was not your hasty doing that led to my demise, but my own – for the reason that big coward attacked you at all is because I gave in to him first. He was the way by which I came to learn myself, and learned to love all man-kind's offerings, which the stubbled side I would later settle upon. That was my choice, my self abuse that would lead to his anger later – only when I grew tired and tried to float along else-beard did I deny him, and make him feel denied. It is for this reason I have always written of a hero for you, a brother who did not resemble myself, nor my foolish, apeish nature. Your claimance of my leg was all-too needed punishment for my sins, the least of which, I believe, was manly loving – what I did was worse. I ignored the needs of my family, the only living piece of it that remained, to satisfy myself. And I let you take the fall, believing that taking a few swings myself would make us equal. But it did not, and oh, how it pains me that it never could – what he did to you was far worse than I've ever known. My embarrassment and laming at your heel was a blessing, that let me feel the humility I so craved.
You are a mighty, uncompromising person who was forged not by your pain, but by your own woven will, like so many fiber strands into ageless wooden trunk – your foliage is the color you leave around our home, on the bodies of others, and on your own. I used to see this as folly, as dressing-up our problems to make them brighter, but I now understand this was your protection from darker days. And it protected me, as well, whether or not I deserved it at all.
And dear friend, strange and true 'Grim' Reaper: how could I have known such a friend existed! An honest and hard-tempered spirit so dark and yet so bright as to shine through the pitchest fog. A hero twice-proven and yet hungry for more victory, doubting their own impact and striving for strength everlasting. When I envisioned the Cat O' Sparks, I could never have guessed that I would meet him in the flesh, nor that they would be so shadowed by death and still able to feel love for all those who truly deserved it. I wish I could have written that story. But my hands shake now, and my mind has grown lazy from sleeping through sunlight. I can no longer bring the Cat to life, nor his friends, nor his enemies. Nor myself, each morn, and soon I fear I'll go insane and become a burden.
So please, miss me as I was, and be brave enough to see me go. And whatever you do, don't repeat my mistakes and make monkeys of yourselves as well. - Sincerely, The Author.'
I read it first, by myself. Then I gave it to her, and she'd long-since run out of tears.
Instead, she actually laughed, and chastised him for being a "damned fool". She said, "It was no wonder he was always cagey... I thought he was being sent away, but I bet he was just looking for escape." She put her fists on her hips. "In a way, he's right. He let it happen, by not being there. Fuckin' 'ell, man. Should've told me, I'd have known to steer clear." She then spent the next hour or so angrily deconstructing every time he seemed 'weird', or avoided a subject, or pretended to have been told to do something more than he'd already been assigned. The only thing he didn't need to fake were the beatings, but that was on The Heathen, not on him.
Now, the next day, there was still anger in the air, and little else. A third of it was mine and for me. I was angry at my friend for leaving me on purpose, while The Artist was angry at me for my face.
Finally, she spoke up. "You must have known him," she shot. "Is he your uncle? Your cousin? Where's he from, ya think? I just can't-" She stared at me, frustrated, clawing the air before her. "It's just bloody UNCANNY, it really is. I can tell there's good in you, even innocence – but all I can SEE is a tanned copy of him. Are you his son? Is he your father??" She was genuinely confused.
I shrugged, leaning against the wall with my head low. "No, he's not my father, I know that for certain. By blood, I was made by a man said to be an illustrative basemet-dweller – The Heathen is too loud and proud. As for my father by home, you've seen me wearing the man, haven't you?"
"Right," she squinted, one side of her lip curled with disgust. "I forgot that's who that was."
"And I've met one uncle, but... I'm as lost about it as you are. I'm sorry you have to leave-"
"Don't be," she said, almost giddy. "It gives me an excuse to get out of town, and get some space for myself... somewhere safe."
A wagon pulled up outside, surrounded by ricketing and Oak's bray.
The Artist delighted, "Oh! That's theeehm!"
She clapped her hands, and stuffed the last of her belongings into an already-stuffed final crate. I picked the heavy load up with ease, but it was massive. I couldn't leave it to The Artist, she was too close to delivery now. Then I followed my increasingly ex-partner outside, to meet The Ranger and The Chopper. They were looking good, and The Artist elbowed me with a wink to let me know she thought so. The Ranger was only a bit less pregnant than her.
"God, they're dashing, aren't they?" she gushed, cheeks red. "I can't believe you never snogged 'em. You must have gone blind, or somethin'."
I rolled my eyes with an embarrassed grin. "Aye, they'll make excellent god-parents."
She jeered, "An' I bet they're like jack-rabbits in bed, too."
I laughed dryly. "You'll really have them over me, huh? Or do you just have little will?"
She cocked her head, annoyed. "First off-" she slapped her belly. "You already had yer shot. Secondly," she pointed in my face, "don't call me loose. I've been wound-up for years, tangled as brambles inside over my so-called 'birthday'. That's a lot for a girl, an' I need a break!" She looked at them again, and smiled. "I'll gladly take a farm vacation with a pair of handsome swingers."
I looked down. "Yeah, I know. It's for the best, and they really will be good for you."
She kissed me on the temple. "You make a fantastic girlfriend, and a piss-poor father. But you'll always be my Angel."
"Of Death, right?"
She shook her head. "No, I don't think so anymore. You're more of an... artistic type, like me. Soulful, actually. Death's just not your thing – haven't I seen you cry at dead mice on the porch?"
"We don't even have a cat..." I mourned, before catching myself, and taking a deep inhale. "Yeah, you're probably right," I sighed.
"Sad makes you strong," she patted me on the cheek, patronically. "Just don't let anyone force you to be that way, aright? Make it your choice."
I smiled, and held her hand. I'd only just realized then how afraid I was to let it go. "With or without me, you'll always be a true Goddess."
"And don't you forget it," she laughed, and went to hug The Ranger and Chopper. They gave each other warm hello's, and big smiles. Then The Chopper tried to kiss The Artist right in front of me.
I yelled, "Can you wait, like, five seconds? I'm still right here!"
The Chopper grinned. "Don't be sore, now, I offered you some sugar and you passed me up."
I furrowed my brow and cracked a facetious grin. "Don't forget she's carrying mine, and treat them both like you'd treat your own – or I'm shadowing you next when I'm done with our fair Heathen."
He rolled his eyes, and threw up his hands. "Oh, so spooky! Don't you worry none, my good buddy." He came over to side-hug me, and rub my back. "I'd never lay a finger on your child, nor my own; I'm not that kind of man. I was just frustrated with you, that's all – loneliness makes men do things, makes 'em scared of themselves. I'm sorry about all that, I didn't mean to hurtcha."
I blushed. "Yeah, alright. I forgive you. Show her love, but mostly care, alright? She needs caring more."
He patted me on the back. "Anything for you, buddy! I'm your guy, okay?"
I nodded, and The Ranger came to hug me next.
"Ooh, we missed you," she groaned. "It's just not the same with only the two of us."
I hugged her back, and smiled. "I missed you too, actually. I dunno if you wanna hear this, but you were like a mother to me, many times."
"Aw," she cooed. "That's so sweet of you, mate! I really do love you, I hope you know that. We both do, right Chopper?"
"Absolutely," he responded. "And I was like a father to you, wasn't I? In my better moments?"
"Uhh..." I groaned. "More like an uncle, really. But hey, you'll get it right, I believe in you."
He groaned, "Motherfu- yeah, alright. Don't you get too sad all by ya'self here, aight? Door's always open for you, baby!"
"We could have an orgy!" The Artist clapped with cheer. I pictured her as a five-foot squirrel, mouth full of nuts. Then my imagination went somewhere else. Embarrassment struck.
"Nope," I called back. "They're all yours, love. Enjoy!" It'd probably remind her too much of that awful day, anyway, to be surrounded by so many.
She pouted. "God, you're dull."
The ranchers finished loading the crate onto Oak's wagon and The Chopper's cart, and waved me goodbye. The Artist gave me one last kiss, and I rubbed her belly to feel our child kick a few more times. Then she followed them down the trail, and they disappeared into the woods. I waved, and watched them go. Back home, I'd always yearned for changes; but the sad thing about them is once they come, things will never be the same. I was going to be horrid and grave without them, but it was better this way – I had a chicken to roast.