The Stream of Conscious

Chapter 6

CHAPTER 6

I am as fragile as smoke.

As desperately as he physically did not want to finish his cigarette, Youman’s subconscious mind downed all of the smoke as if it was rice and he was a starving child from Africa. Snake was impressed; Youman had finished before Snake was halfway.

As soon as Youman stepped on the small butt, his body disconnected again – he felt the wires short and spark inside him. He felt his stomach gurgle and swirl with gyres, and then a knife pierced through his side. Snake, with concern, took another hit of his cigarette and stared as Youman struggled with himself.

“That happens sometimes,” Snake said, as he ever so eloquently explained it to Youman one day, taking the piss out of him.

Youman tried to hide his embarrassment from being in pain by holding in his coughs, which only made the anticipation between coughs that much more severe.

As Youman held his breath and felt a cough try to force its way through his throat and out of his mouth, working its way up the walls of his esophagus, he reminded himself of a time where he felt a similar experience. 371 days ago, Youman was strolling through the empty cemetery (well, of course it was quite full, but Youman was the only living being there) across the street from his home. He was glancing at the names upon the tombstones, not pretending to know who they were but pretending to know why they died. It interested him that each person whose name was in his face was actually a mere six feet from him, buried underground well before he arrived and remained well after he left. And it interested him that each person had a family, friends, and entire life-worth of stories – something Youman never liked to admit he had, but was forced to admit, as he knew deep down it was true; he had the dead to thank and therefore respected them greatly.

He came across two stones in the ground with names and dates, as the others did, close enough to assume the two were related. The left stone read:

ABIGAIL FLORENTINE

Mar 14, 1892 – Apr 23, 1893 

The right stone read: 

MARGARET FLORENTINE

Jul 21, 1870 – Apr 30, 1893 

Youman stopped. Dances of thoughts rushed into his mind, imagining what had caused this peculiar case. It is safe to assume Abigail was Margaret’s child, but why were their deaths so soon apart? Where was the father? Certainly not buried here, these are the only two in this vicinity. He searched for other tombstones with the name Florentine, but there were none. The nearest grave was dated 1952 and had a much different name. (Is Ahmed Kazzoun Arabic? Or Egyptian? I don’t know any Arabs, and I would never go to Egypt…)

This begat a headache. Never had any particular stones struck Youman so gravely (pardon the pun). Youman sat down in front of the two undersized, withering stones and sat his head in his palm, completely mesmerized at what was in front of him and below him. For twenty-six minutes, his body was still and his mind was traveling to places far and wide, beyond what was normal for even Youman (but far enough away from Egypt). He came up with the following story behind the deaths of Margaret Florentine, and her daughter Abigail…

June 10, 1891, on a warm Friday night, Margaret was summoned to the town church to help prepare the chapel for a funeral the next day. Father Joseph Lynas had often asked for Margaret’s help with such petty matters, being she had been a member of his church her entire life. Margaret was young and flowering with innocence, her eyes radiating in the natural light that seemed to be drawn to her. Her hair was naturally brunette and curly, and was often disciplined in a tight bow. This night however, it flowed down past her shoulder and to her blossomed breasts, accentuating her wooden rosary that her mother had given to her when she was a child. Her mother, at home, trusted Father Lynas to keep her in good hands this night.