Year 24: The two brothers made the usual journey every five years to visit the mother country and stay with Uncle Fitzroy, a viscount. Uncle Fitzroy was actually their fourth cousin through a great-great-grandaunt who remarried into the main family. The two enjoyed seeing him, but his son Thomas was always an annoying brat. They could never find a more polite term for him. When the formal introductions were out of the way, Michael announced his two illegitimate daughters and, as he expected, was summoned by Uncle Fitzroy.
Michael steeled himself for the upcoming discussion and knocked at his superior's study door. When Uncle Fitzroy answered, he warmly greeted him and was ushered to a comfortable chair and given a cigar and a snifter of brandy. Michael placed the cigar aside and rolled the snifter in his hands. “You wished to speak with me, Uncle Fitzroy?”
Fitzroy, who was thirteen years Michael's senior, smiled tolerantly. “Straight to business, eh? Just as American as your father. Business before ceremony or pleasure. Deplorable.”
Michael managed a smile in return. “And the profits for family and Crown, are they just as deplorable, Uncle? Our line was bred for business and my blood runs as black as it does blue.”
“If that's the way you are then, it's time to consider marriage, especially Morgan.”
Michael swallowed the contents of his snifter as he let the gravity of the situation roll over him. “First, let's discuss Morgan. Father left him the title, but I... the line will not continue through him, as desperately as we may hope otherwise.”
“Michael, I don't see the problem. He only need perform enough to produce one son.”
Michael sighed. He half-turned to face his cousin directly. “Morgan can't perform. Therein lies the problem. Any wife he takes, I'd have to bed to see her bear issue.”
“Is your brother incompetent or impotent? Or is it something else?”
Michael shook his head with quiet exasperation. “No, it's...”
Fitzroy stared at Michael while Michael pulled together the next sentence. Michael spoke slowly, punctuating each word, “He has no interest in sex.”
“Really? Are you sure he's not afraid of us judging him?”
“Of course, he's afraid of that. I am, too. But, it doesn't change the truth, he has no sex drive. He's asexual.”
“Is this a can't or a won't situation?”
“Can't,” Michael stressed. “The requisite parts never developed. Can't.”
Fitzroy looked astonished. “Never developed?!”
“No, they look the same as when he was ten.”
“How would you know?”
Michael stared at his relative. “I still help take care of him bodily. That includes changing his diaper when he has one on. It gives me a far better gist of his condition than to just hoping his doctors, nurses, and retainers tell me everything.”
Fitzroy looked unsure of whether to laugh or be horrified, but, in actuality, he was impressed. “He wears adult nappies?”
“Yes, because he still wets his bed. The doctors think this is yet another psychosomatic symptom of an overbearing mother. He doesn't feel in control of his life, so he doesn't develop basic adult mannerisms or bodily functions.”
“Are you referring to his bedwetting or his sexual impotence?”
“Not impot-... both.” Michael pressed a palm to his forehead. “He's already been committed once to a state institution and they declared him insane. Mother actually went to visit him there and gloat. He still hasn't recovered from that period.”
“This hardly seems befitting a baron.”
“Befitting? Have you noticed some of the kings of Europe? Let him keep the title, I'll handle the responsibilities.”
“And your brother?”
Michael vigorously nodded. “Yes, and my brother.”
“Are you sure it isn't just the love that dare not...”
“Quite sure. He seems utterly innocent of any sexual desire.”
“Unfortunate, then. He should probably marry, anyway.”
“But, I think it more immediate that I produce a legitimate son. And, unlike my father, I will vet my choices through you. My wife needs to be intelligent, broadminded, and charismatic.”
Fitzroy beamed. “I hope my son turns out like you. You run a multinational company. You run a barony. You're a wonderful father and a dutiful brother. May the genes of the family Wallace distill on this branch as well as they have in you.”
January 03, 2009
January 02, 2009
Wisdom Michael has taught his children:
1.Shatter should not be used to crack nuts.
2.Practicing levitation indoors can lead to concussions.
3.Breaking the fourth wall should be a result of ironic writing, not speed enhancements.
4.Using essence to heal a paper cut is just asking for karmic retribution.
5.“I couldn't find the key” is not a good reason to upheave a building from its foundation.
6.10,000 lumen light spells tend to result in brain bleeding and too many questions.
7.Yes, there is an arcanum for lie detection.
8.Attempting to pickpocket with telekinesis without practice is like playing fetch with an elephant indoors, only the elephant will do less damage.
9.Animal magnetism does require judicious application.
10.Using kinesthetic touch while riding a bicycle blindfolded does not simulate being Uncle Morgan.
11.Dungeons and Dragons is a neat roleplaying game, not a beginners guide to requisite spells.
12.Ditto for Magic: the Gathering
13.Don't even mention Ars Magica
14.Dad does not like being compared to Merlin.
15.Ditto for Gandalf.
16.Dad smacking us on the head to train us to concentrate while casting is not equivelent to sucker punching him in the groin to see if he continues incanting. (Side note: he does.)
17.Don't use the dog's water bowl for divinations.
18.David Copperfield is a stage illusionist, not a mage that could kick Dad's butt.
19.There's a reason we're not allowed to summon anything larger than our fist.
20.Uncle Morgan will not manifest mind knives just to slice fruit, nor will Dad use divination to figure out who's going to win the ball game.
21.No casting any spell that requires human body parts without Dad's permission,
22.Just because Dad can bend time and space to maintain someone's sanity, does not mean we're allowed to do it for the book report we forgot about.
23.Interrupting an hour-long cantation at the fifty-ninth minute is not funny.
24.Casting stone flesh on overhead creatures is inherently dangerous.
25.No matter how good we may get; don't challenge Dad to a mage duel. He can use swords.
2.Practicing levitation indoors can lead to concussions.
3.Breaking the fourth wall should be a result of ironic writing, not speed enhancements.
4.Using essence to heal a paper cut is just asking for karmic retribution.
5.“I couldn't find the key” is not a good reason to upheave a building from its foundation.
6.10,000 lumen light spells tend to result in brain bleeding and too many questions.
7.Yes, there is an arcanum for lie detection.
8.Attempting to pickpocket with telekinesis without practice is like playing fetch with an elephant indoors, only the elephant will do less damage.
9.Animal magnetism does require judicious application.
10.Using kinesthetic touch while riding a bicycle blindfolded does not simulate being Uncle Morgan.
11.Dungeons and Dragons is a neat roleplaying game, not a beginners guide to requisite spells.
12.Ditto for Magic: the Gathering
13.Don't even mention Ars Magica
14.Dad does not like being compared to Merlin.
15.Ditto for Gandalf.
16.Dad smacking us on the head to train us to concentrate while casting is not equivelent to sucker punching him in the groin to see if he continues incanting. (Side note: he does.)
17.Don't use the dog's water bowl for divinations.
18.David Copperfield is a stage illusionist, not a mage that could kick Dad's butt.
19.There's a reason we're not allowed to summon anything larger than our fist.
20.Uncle Morgan will not manifest mind knives just to slice fruit, nor will Dad use divination to figure out who's going to win the ball game.
21.No casting any spell that requires human body parts without Dad's permission,
22.Just because Dad can bend time and space to maintain someone's sanity, does not mean we're allowed to do it for the book report we forgot about.
23.Interrupting an hour-long cantation at the fifty-ninth minute is not funny.
24.Casting stone flesh on overhead creatures is inherently dangerous.
25.No matter how good we may get; don't challenge Dad to a mage duel. He can use swords.
January 01, 2009
When the Call Comes, Let the Answering Machine Get It
After the wedding and coronation, the two brothers came forward to pay respects. Valerie cracked a smile finally as they approached. Michael made a nod to Georg and he joined them. As they stopped close enough for Michael and George to shake her hand, Morgan took a distinct step away and quarter-turned.
Michael and George said simultaneously, “Welcome to the Apexis Council.”
Valerie looked at one, then the other. “Apexis Council?”
Michael nodded. “The council consists of the spiritual leaders of each major race. And you have just reached that moment for the Magir.”
Georg added, “It's not a formal organization, but a preternatural assignation. A sort of 'chosen one' club.”
“And how am I a chosen one?”
Michael shook his head. “We don't know how we qualified, either. We just know when a new member is added. Which is not often.”
Georg said, “This probably portends something profound is going to happen in the near future.”
Valerie looked unimpressed. “You mean, like how you told me I was the harbinger of the apocolypse.”
Georg looked at Michael. Michael looked down a moment before meeting her eyes again. “The Court made that declaration. I just read it to you. The Magir aren't know for their taste for divination, so I question how they knew.”
Georg noted, “You could always check it yourself, Michael. You're a diviner.”
Michael said with distaste, “Let's not abuse the notion. There's a reason why my race prefers it as a means of awakening.” Turning back to Valerie, “Divination can be, um, traumatizing to the diviner.”
Valerie pressed her lips together. “I think this would be one of those things I should know.”
Michael resigningly shrugged while nodding agreement. “I need sunlight, clean water, a bowl, and your blood... I don't know which I fear more, the prophesy being true or the mages being wrong.”
Michael and George said simultaneously, “Welcome to the Apexis Council.”
Valerie looked at one, then the other. “Apexis Council?”
Michael nodded. “The council consists of the spiritual leaders of each major race. And you have just reached that moment for the Magir.”
Georg added, “It's not a formal organization, but a preternatural assignation. A sort of 'chosen one' club.”
“And how am I a chosen one?”
Michael shook his head. “We don't know how we qualified, either. We just know when a new member is added. Which is not often.”
Georg said, “This probably portends something profound is going to happen in the near future.”
Valerie looked unimpressed. “You mean, like how you told me I was the harbinger of the apocolypse.”
Georg looked at Michael. Michael looked down a moment before meeting her eyes again. “The Court made that declaration. I just read it to you. The Magir aren't know for their taste for divination, so I question how they knew.”
Georg noted, “You could always check it yourself, Michael. You're a diviner.”
Michael said with distaste, “Let's not abuse the notion. There's a reason why my race prefers it as a means of awakening.” Turning back to Valerie, “Divination can be, um, traumatizing to the diviner.”
Valerie pressed her lips together. “I think this would be one of those things I should know.”
Michael resigningly shrugged while nodding agreement. “I need sunlight, clean water, a bowl, and your blood... I don't know which I fear more, the prophesy being true or the mages being wrong.”
December 31, 2008
Finger of Life
“How dare you defile my daughter!”
Morganth stared back, impassive in the face of impending doom. Gods are hard to intimidate. Dracula was not all that impressed. He desired deific rank himself and Morganth might be an easy step towards achieving it. Easy being relative, of course. Morganth achieved his own divinity by eating the essence of two lesser deities while being manipulated by Panic and Chaos. Dracula had reached his status as a vampire patriarch by a similar route, minus the defeat of two deities. Maleficience patroned the vampiric champion.
Dracula's 'child,' which Morganth first thought to be a homuncula, was supposed to be his first worshipper. She had become Morganth's first believer and acolyte. The potential they saw in her, however, diverged widely.
“I did not defile her,” Morganth proposed. “I have made her a progenitor of an empire. One that will see the end of the likes of you and your ilk. If the next incarnation of man is to be monsters, then let them be protectors of humanity, not engines of destruction and entropy, feeding upon all life until it is snuffed out. My children shall be like you, but not of you. Not mindless minions that serve without purpose, but chosen guardians that will follow a code of honor...”
“Or be destroyed? Is that so different from my way?”
“If you see any correlation to my ends and your means, you are myopic.”
Rarely does one see a several-centuries-old being give a look of utter confusion. “Myopic?”
“Shortsighted...” Morganth knew his Romanian was anachronistic; he didn't care.
“Do you think your progeny through her will not hunger for blood? The mother is a vampire. The father is a soul drinker. I think their desire to drink life will be insatiable.”
“Then, they will learn to deal with it.”
Morganth turned and started to walk away. Dracula charged his back. Two heartbeats later, a sword curved from Morganth's hand through Dracula's sternum. Twisting the blade and yanking it back out made a crunching sound that would have indicated excruciating pain had the target been alive. Morganth then took two steps back toward the undead lord and touched a fingertip to his forehead granting him the gift of active nerve endings once more. “Because I can,” he simply stated, and walked away again.
Morganth stared back, impassive in the face of impending doom. Gods are hard to intimidate. Dracula was not all that impressed. He desired deific rank himself and Morganth might be an easy step towards achieving it. Easy being relative, of course. Morganth achieved his own divinity by eating the essence of two lesser deities while being manipulated by Panic and Chaos. Dracula had reached his status as a vampire patriarch by a similar route, minus the defeat of two deities. Maleficience patroned the vampiric champion.
Dracula's 'child,' which Morganth first thought to be a homuncula, was supposed to be his first worshipper. She had become Morganth's first believer and acolyte. The potential they saw in her, however, diverged widely.
“I did not defile her,” Morganth proposed. “I have made her a progenitor of an empire. One that will see the end of the likes of you and your ilk. If the next incarnation of man is to be monsters, then let them be protectors of humanity, not engines of destruction and entropy, feeding upon all life until it is snuffed out. My children shall be like you, but not of you. Not mindless minions that serve without purpose, but chosen guardians that will follow a code of honor...”
“Or be destroyed? Is that so different from my way?”
“If you see any correlation to my ends and your means, you are myopic.”
Rarely does one see a several-centuries-old being give a look of utter confusion. “Myopic?”
“Shortsighted...” Morganth knew his Romanian was anachronistic; he didn't care.
“Do you think your progeny through her will not hunger for blood? The mother is a vampire. The father is a soul drinker. I think their desire to drink life will be insatiable.”
“Then, they will learn to deal with it.”
Morganth turned and started to walk away. Dracula charged his back. Two heartbeats later, a sword curved from Morganth's hand through Dracula's sternum. Twisting the blade and yanking it back out made a crunching sound that would have indicated excruciating pain had the target been alive. Morganth then took two steps back toward the undead lord and touched a fingertip to his forehead granting him the gift of active nerve endings once more. “Because I can,” he simply stated, and walked away again.
December 30, 2008
A Pebble in Still Water
Year 15: The morning sun invades the motel room and enhances the tawdry thin carpet and grey bedsheets. The young man, barely more than a boy, puts his hand over his eyes. The glare is bad; the room smells worse. The smell of a thousand cheap cigarettes and of unwashed, sweaty bodies doing things best left unmentioned cling to the fabric surfaces. Turning away from the piercing rays of the sun, he is confronted with a sleeping bed partner. She is young, more young than beautiful, but attractive nonetheless. He himself still has the gangly, disproportionate physique of a teenager that hasn't quite grown into his new height. He runs his hand along her bare breast and gives it a soft squeeze. Still half out of it, she takes a fisted swing at him. Startled, he backs away from it as it swooshes by. As she awakens fully, she apologizes, explaining that she thought he was her pervert of a brother. A look of confusion crosses his face. She dismisses what she just said and asks why he stayed. He admits to dozing off after sex. She laughs. She tells him his polite, British accent is damn sexy. He suggests that that is probably a good indicator that he use his New Jersey accent so he can actually get through the next five years of college. She laughs again, grabbing a cigarette out of a pack and lighting it.
In the shoebox of a bathroom, he finds standing while urinating not a good idea. She stands and watches and smirks at his errant aim. He blushes uncomfortably. She asks what he means about college since he's obviously still in high school, does he go to Prep? No, he answers. He's accelerated and has been accepted into Yale as an accounting major with a business minor. He's smart? He nods. He offhandedly remarks about it only being book smarts and grandfathering that got him in. He offers to take her to breakfast. She turns him down because she has to go to work. He nods and starts to get dressed. As she's about to leave, he asks her name.
~~~~~
Two years have passed and he had no reason to come back to this greasy spoon. Having his own car is liberating and would take him to better venues, but for some reason, he just decides to walk the few blocks. He flips through the book list for the current year. He looks up as the waitress stops with a coffee pot in hand. His face registers surprise, then delight. She's filled out in all the right places. He, as well, looks broad-shouldered and more adult. His face has filled out. And he's tall. He's past the six-foot mark. Her look of exasperation turns to an infatuated stare. They both try to talk, but their words fall all over and entangle each other. After several false starts, she refers to him as Prince Charming. He calls her by name. The next morning, he awakes in the motel room alone.
~~~~~
Another three years, and the bright, sunny weather of late May greeted the young man as he stepped out to the sidewalk. The look of disdain on his face was hardly what one would expect of a graduate. He barely looked up when he heard a car door shut. His affect changed radically when he saw who it was. “Dad?”
He gave his father an exuberant hug. “You made it! I honestly thought you were going to stay in Europe.”
“Son, I wouldn't miss your graduation day if the Queen requested my presence. So, where's your brother?”
He ran his hand through his hair nervously. “He's still upstairs, Dad. He's ... they're not giving him the degree. Therefore, he's not going to the ceremonies. Personally, I may not either.”
“Did he finish he requisites?”
“Yes, Dad. It's not the usual reasons. He finished his thesis. He was grilled by the board. He passed every test and extra hurdle they threw at him. They waited until yesterday to tell him they're not awarding him the degree. But they want to give him an honorary Ph.D. In lieu of the Masters he earned for his 'fortitude of character.' Pfft. Suddenly, my cum laude doesn't taste so great. Does that make him the first man in this family not to graduate college in five hundred years?”
“Son, he graduated. He has the Bachelor's, correct?”
“He elected to get them simultaneously. He truly believed he would get them.”
“You should attend and accept your Masters.”
“I'll consider it, Dad. Mine was a foregone conclusion. I didn't spend a third of the time he did studying. I didn't have a handicap perception to overcome, either. Right now, I just want to take a walk.”
As he walked away, he noticed a woman frantically waving to him. He walked over to her. She had a toddler in one arm and a little girl at her side, and she looked very familiar...
~~~~~
“Nicole, why are you answering the phone?”
“I was standing next to it. Do we know a call check?”
“Call check?”
“I think that's what she said...”
Michael quickly tore the phone from his daughter's hand. “Wallace residence. Yes, I'll accept the charges. Nadine? ... Okay, where are you? ... I'll be there as soon as I can.”
“Nicole, go get me three or four towels.”
“Who was that?”
“You'll find out soon enough. Get the towels, love.”
Nicole returned with an armful of fluff.
“Thank you, now find your sister and meet me downstairs. We're going out.”
Michael was waiting downstairs wearing a trenchcoat and carrying a sturdy umbrella. He quickly situated the girls in the back seat of his car and they drove off into a gloomy, rainy night. He said, “Nicole, please tell me you haven't forgotten who Nadine Kowalchuk is.”
“I don't know her.”
Michael sighed, but he wasn't surprised. Five years can be a long time to a child. He spent the twenty minute drive unusually quiet. He didn't talk to himself, hum or recite poetry, nor strike up conversation. He pulled into a train station that showed signs of disrepair. Grabbing the umbrella and a towel, he opened the car door and called into the dark, howling rain. She came running to him from under a leaky section of roofing. He quickly went around and helped her into the passenger seat. Once she dried her hair and face off, she didn't look too dissimilar to the waitress from years ago. She was wearing clothes that had seen better days and a wedding ring. Her distended belly jiggled of its own accord. “You can't blame me this time,” he blurted out.
She could still swing a fist. Michael deftly deflected her punch and looked in the back seat. “Nicole, Krystie, say hello to your mother.”
In the shoebox of a bathroom, he finds standing while urinating not a good idea. She stands and watches and smirks at his errant aim. He blushes uncomfortably. She asks what he means about college since he's obviously still in high school, does he go to Prep? No, he answers. He's accelerated and has been accepted into Yale as an accounting major with a business minor. He's smart? He nods. He offhandedly remarks about it only being book smarts and grandfathering that got him in. He offers to take her to breakfast. She turns him down because she has to go to work. He nods and starts to get dressed. As she's about to leave, he asks her name.
~~~~~
Two years have passed and he had no reason to come back to this greasy spoon. Having his own car is liberating and would take him to better venues, but for some reason, he just decides to walk the few blocks. He flips through the book list for the current year. He looks up as the waitress stops with a coffee pot in hand. His face registers surprise, then delight. She's filled out in all the right places. He, as well, looks broad-shouldered and more adult. His face has filled out. And he's tall. He's past the six-foot mark. Her look of exasperation turns to an infatuated stare. They both try to talk, but their words fall all over and entangle each other. After several false starts, she refers to him as Prince Charming. He calls her by name. The next morning, he awakes in the motel room alone.
~~~~~
Another three years, and the bright, sunny weather of late May greeted the young man as he stepped out to the sidewalk. The look of disdain on his face was hardly what one would expect of a graduate. He barely looked up when he heard a car door shut. His affect changed radically when he saw who it was. “Dad?”
He gave his father an exuberant hug. “You made it! I honestly thought you were going to stay in Europe.”
“Son, I wouldn't miss your graduation day if the Queen requested my presence. So, where's your brother?”
He ran his hand through his hair nervously. “He's still upstairs, Dad. He's ... they're not giving him the degree. Therefore, he's not going to the ceremonies. Personally, I may not either.”
“Did he finish he requisites?”
“Yes, Dad. It's not the usual reasons. He finished his thesis. He was grilled by the board. He passed every test and extra hurdle they threw at him. They waited until yesterday to tell him they're not awarding him the degree. But they want to give him an honorary Ph.D. In lieu of the Masters he earned for his 'fortitude of character.' Pfft. Suddenly, my cum laude doesn't taste so great. Does that make him the first man in this family not to graduate college in five hundred years?”
“Son, he graduated. He has the Bachelor's, correct?”
“He elected to get them simultaneously. He truly believed he would get them.”
“You should attend and accept your Masters.”
“I'll consider it, Dad. Mine was a foregone conclusion. I didn't spend a third of the time he did studying. I didn't have a handicap perception to overcome, either. Right now, I just want to take a walk.”
As he walked away, he noticed a woman frantically waving to him. He walked over to her. She had a toddler in one arm and a little girl at her side, and she looked very familiar...
~~~~~
“Nicole, why are you answering the phone?”
“I was standing next to it. Do we know a call check?”
“Call check?”
“I think that's what she said...”
Michael quickly tore the phone from his daughter's hand. “Wallace residence. Yes, I'll accept the charges. Nadine? ... Okay, where are you? ... I'll be there as soon as I can.”
“Nicole, go get me three or four towels.”
“Who was that?”
“You'll find out soon enough. Get the towels, love.”
Nicole returned with an armful of fluff.
“Thank you, now find your sister and meet me downstairs. We're going out.”
Michael was waiting downstairs wearing a trenchcoat and carrying a sturdy umbrella. He quickly situated the girls in the back seat of his car and they drove off into a gloomy, rainy night. He said, “Nicole, please tell me you haven't forgotten who Nadine Kowalchuk is.”
“I don't know her.”
Michael sighed, but he wasn't surprised. Five years can be a long time to a child. He spent the twenty minute drive unusually quiet. He didn't talk to himself, hum or recite poetry, nor strike up conversation. He pulled into a train station that showed signs of disrepair. Grabbing the umbrella and a towel, he opened the car door and called into the dark, howling rain. She came running to him from under a leaky section of roofing. He quickly went around and helped her into the passenger seat. Once she dried her hair and face off, she didn't look too dissimilar to the waitress from years ago. She was wearing clothes that had seen better days and a wedding ring. Her distended belly jiggled of its own accord. “You can't blame me this time,” he blurted out.
She could still swing a fist. Michael deftly deflected her punch and looked in the back seat. “Nicole, Krystie, say hello to your mother.”
December 29, 2008
Reduced to the Absurd
Michael sat watching a movie when Morgan came in and sat across from him. Michael muted the television and looked across at Morgan, who'd obviously cleaned himself up, but had been in some sort of altercation. “What happened to you?”
“I was away on a contract.” Morgan said flatly. Sometimes getting Morgan to elaborate was like waiting for a pig to sing. Michael inventoried his visible injuries.
“You've an eyepatch, two facial scars and a bandage on one wrist.”
“Someone hit me with a car. It didn't end well for the vehicle or its driver.”
Perspective can make big things much smaller. “You survived an hit and run and could walk home?”
“I could walk on a multiple fracture,” Morgan reminded.
“So, how badly hurt are you?”
“I bruised two ribs and am very stiff right now, but the force wall took the brunt of the momentum.”
“Force wall?!”
“I'm getting better at mental projection.”
“Why didn't you ask me to go with you?”
“Because I'd planned on standing in front of a moving vehicle.”
“But you put up a shield.”
Morgan hemmed. “I thought of that at the last second.”
“You were just going to let a vehicle slam into you full force?”
“And while it passed over, snap its brake line. Mentally, if necessary.”
“Morgan... I don't know how to tell you how stupid that sounds.”
“I think you just did. And I did amend the idea at the last moment.”
“And the driver?”
“Got thrown fifty feet clear of the vehicle. This ought to make an interesting police report. Translocation was a challenge on this one. Timing myself in and out and then finding someone to repair me was difficult.”
Michael stared at Morgan in exasperation. Morgan closed his eyes and leaned back. Michael turned back towards the television, then clicked the sound back on to hear about a unusal crash during rush hour in Oregan. Eyewitnesses metioned a 'ghost' appearing before the car. Michael reflexively asked, “Did Mother put you up to this?”
Looking back, Morgan was shaking uncontrollably, giving Michael his answer. Then, Michael thought he heard a ghostly “Good Boy.”
Michael cursed her to the ninth circle of hell while running to the staircase and yelling down, “Get the cocktail. Morgan's having a fit.”
Morgan gripped his head, his entire body quivering. Michael took a handkerchief from his pocket, clamped his arms around him, and held him still. Morgan made an ghastly wail. His mouth foamed. Then, he said, in a strained voice, “Rum...”
Michael almost released his tense grip in surprise. “Rum,” Morgan repeated, “I neethe...”
“No,” Michael said sternly, “you can't have it with medicine.”
“No...” A gargle and bloody ooze issued from his lips. “No med...”
Michael worked his hand around to hold the cloth to Morgan's mouth. “Rum won't help, either.”
“Pleathe....”
“Morgan, no...”
“Voithes, no... voithes...”
“Alcohol gets rid of the voices?”
“Yeth.”
“We'll give you an antipsych.”
“No worcth. Her voithe....”
“Her voice? You mean mother's? Alcohol gets rid of mother's voice in your head?”
Morgan cried, “Yeth... yeth.. ack...”
Michael shifted their position and a mouthful of green bile came up. “So, that's why you drink so much. You can always hear her... when you're sober.”
Morgan was no longer coherent, but Michael was no longer in the dark about his brother's constant evasion of medication in favor of the liquor cabinet.
“I was away on a contract.” Morgan said flatly. Sometimes getting Morgan to elaborate was like waiting for a pig to sing. Michael inventoried his visible injuries.
“You've an eyepatch, two facial scars and a bandage on one wrist.”
“Someone hit me with a car. It didn't end well for the vehicle or its driver.”
Perspective can make big things much smaller. “You survived an hit and run and could walk home?”
“I could walk on a multiple fracture,” Morgan reminded.
“So, how badly hurt are you?”
“I bruised two ribs and am very stiff right now, but the force wall took the brunt of the momentum.”
“Force wall?!”
“I'm getting better at mental projection.”
“Why didn't you ask me to go with you?”
“Because I'd planned on standing in front of a moving vehicle.”
“But you put up a shield.”
Morgan hemmed. “I thought of that at the last second.”
“You were just going to let a vehicle slam into you full force?”
“And while it passed over, snap its brake line. Mentally, if necessary.”
“Morgan... I don't know how to tell you how stupid that sounds.”
“I think you just did. And I did amend the idea at the last moment.”
“And the driver?”
“Got thrown fifty feet clear of the vehicle. This ought to make an interesting police report. Translocation was a challenge on this one. Timing myself in and out and then finding someone to repair me was difficult.”
Michael stared at Morgan in exasperation. Morgan closed his eyes and leaned back. Michael turned back towards the television, then clicked the sound back on to hear about a unusal crash during rush hour in Oregan. Eyewitnesses metioned a 'ghost' appearing before the car. Michael reflexively asked, “Did Mother put you up to this?”
Looking back, Morgan was shaking uncontrollably, giving Michael his answer. Then, Michael thought he heard a ghostly “Good Boy.”
Michael cursed her to the ninth circle of hell while running to the staircase and yelling down, “Get the cocktail. Morgan's having a fit.”
Morgan gripped his head, his entire body quivering. Michael took a handkerchief from his pocket, clamped his arms around him, and held him still. Morgan made an ghastly wail. His mouth foamed. Then, he said, in a strained voice, “Rum...”
Michael almost released his tense grip in surprise. “Rum,” Morgan repeated, “I neethe...”
“No,” Michael said sternly, “you can't have it with medicine.”
“No...” A gargle and bloody ooze issued from his lips. “No med...”
Michael worked his hand around to hold the cloth to Morgan's mouth. “Rum won't help, either.”
“Pleathe....”
“Morgan, no...”
“Voithes, no... voithes...”
“Alcohol gets rid of the voices?”
“Yeth.”
“We'll give you an antipsych.”
“No worcth. Her voithe....”
“Her voice? You mean mother's? Alcohol gets rid of mother's voice in your head?”
Morgan cried, “Yeth... yeth.. ack...”
Michael shifted their position and a mouthful of green bile came up. “So, that's why you drink so much. You can always hear her... when you're sober.”
Morgan was no longer coherent, but Michael was no longer in the dark about his brother's constant evasion of medication in favor of the liquor cabinet.
December 28, 2008
Declension
The police arrived within four minutes of several calls to 9-1-1 regarding a loud fight and reported gunfire. There was no answer at the apartment in question, so they broke it down. Inside, the walls were painted with splattered gore. The signs of a violent fight were all over the main room – bullet holes, broken furniture, fingernail and knife scratches, a mix of bodily fluids, strenuously broken drywall. In a tight kitchenette, two bodies were found, one was still moving. The dead one had a broken skull and a gun in his hand. The live one was curled in a corner, rocking. He didn't respond to questions or demands. They searched him and found his wallet and a metal tag marked 'schizophrenia.' His ID states he's legally blind.
The current tenant came home and freaked at the sight of the place. She said she lived there with her son and current boyfriend. She identifies the boyfriend as the dead body. She doesn't recognize the other man. He submissively stands and is led out so the coroner has some room to work. He seemed incapable of speech and gesticulated in response to questions. He would occasionally nod and shake his head, too, but when he tried to speak, only inarticulate noises came from his mouth. EMTs presumed he was disoriented. His forehead was puffy and a silvery haze, presaging a humongous bruise, covered half his face...
Morgan awoke with a cottony feeling in his mouth. He identified the soft beeping of a pulse-ox monitor and recognized the antiseptic smell of a hospital room. Hazily, he tried to reconstruct what had happened to him. His head swam. Pain medication, perhaps? He went to lift his left hand and found it cuffed to the bedrail. He vacantly wondered how long it would take Michael to find him, only to feel grey despair creep in him as he remembered that Michael would never again come looking for him. He was on his own.
Someone was speaking to him. The words didn't all make sense. The person was talking too quickly, too harshly, too flatly. So, he heard words, but no meaning. He tried to tell the person to slow down. The sounds from his own mouth slurred out like limp noodles. The speaker kept talking. Death? Fight? Attack? He started smacking his head with his hand. He just wanted the words to stop, to give him a chance to think first.
The next time he awoke, the world felt more distinct. He was drugged for pain and seizures. The restraints he wore this time were more traditional. He fought the inclination to worm around like he normally did when restrained. “Hello?” he said. It was fairly clear, but it actually hurt his face to talk. There was another string of questions but asked more slowly and softly.
“Do you know where you are?”
“No,” he answered.
“Do you remember what happened to you?”
“No.”
“Do you remember your name?”
He blinked as if it took effort to remember. “Wallace,” he answered slowly. “Morgan Andrew Charles Wallace. You may call me Mr. Wallace.”
“Okay, Mr. Wallace. Your sister-in-law would like to see you. Is that okay?”
“I have a sister-in-law?”
“Yes, you do.”
“What happened to me?”
“You suffered a concussion and a fractured skull. You were hit on the head with a baseball bat.”
“I am tied down.”
“You have been thrashing violently in your sleep.”
All of this seemed familiar and yet incongruous. “It makes no sense.”
“What doesn't make sense, Mr. Wallace?”
“I do not remember.”
Whoever was speaking to him walked away. “He's suffering from amnesia. He may need therapy before he remembers anything.”
He heard someone softly approach with the smell of violets and fresh linen. A cool hand touched his uninjured cheek. “Hello, Morgan. It's Margaret. Do you remember me?”
Morgan's weakly said, “No. I don't remember, Margaret, but I remember that Michael had children.”
“That's good. It would have been very bad if you'd forgotten him. They said you were in a fight, that you might have killed someone.”
“Where am I?”
A voice from somewhere farther away authoritatively stated, “You're in the mental ward at Bellevue in New York City.”
Morgan broke out in a cold sweat.
Margaret's voice tried to reassure him. “You were having terrible fits. I don't know how Michael held you down by himself during cataleptic seizures because it took three large men to keep you from hurting yourself.”
A police detective introduced himself. Morgan's brain didn't hold on to his name. In fact, most of what the detective said just rolled over him and he barely noticed most of the details. He was talking about where they'd found him. Something was mentioned about his condition. Suddenly, the word Greystone was mentioned. The restraints didn't work well enough. He snapped his wrist clean apart.
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