The Sioux flute sounded like the wind blowing across the Yellow River in China. Was it possible to see the young monk in war paint or the brave in robes? What was happening to my mind? The music was heavy and deep, like the river, and it weighed on my soul like the flu.
Had I grown up there, or in a city in Canada? I hear a call to prayer in Michigan, or is it Mecca. It smells like Pakistan. In the dark my memories flow together and mix like Spring rain and road oil. My life is a simile and slippery like an asphalt road in Fall's first rain.
It was on a wet street that I met her. Yes, I can remember something now. It was a job, it paid the bills, and I even started to like her. I was too professional, or too poor, to let her know. Rain falls, my hat drips, the darkness hides everything but the sounds and smells.
I should have told her. My life would have been different, maybe not. She would still be alive, or at least on life support. My soul would be living, not a black death waiting to really find that far away country from where none return.
It was the smell of wet garbage on the street that reminded me of her. She had a sweet smell mingled with sweat, never completely clean and never completely masked by the perfume. Her smell was what started me thinking unclearly, mixing my memories, drawing the wrong conclusions.
I remember the night I first smelled it, smelled her. It was raining. I had made love to her. It was over before it began. What remained I would be surprised to find out many years later: something dear to me.
It doesn't really matter because I have a job to do. I can't let my senses take over my purpose, my focus: a mark, a job to do, a job to do, a job to do… Was I dreaming? No, it's still raining.
I still remember her sad, pathetic voice, gurgling through the blood. It was the second and last time we made love. She was laughing. You have a daughter, she croaked, and you'll never find her.
I raped her then, raped and beat and cut her, even though she was already dead. It felt good. Somehow it took the sting away: the sting of knowing a part of me existed outside of myself. A part of me was lost and I might not get it back. She played me to the end. Her end.
The rain stopped. The night smelled clean. I could move, but I prefer to wait. Waiting is what I am paid to do. Wait until the right moment. The moment of shame, of pain, of darkness: I wonder what my victims feel?
A breeze reminding me of Tibet, or was it Naples. A sad breeze, the gust of remorse, blowing by me: I feel it, like the breeze, but like the breeze it passes.
I can feel the sun creeping up the back of the East. It won't show it's head for an hour, but I can feel it. It feels like when I've forgotten something and I don't know what it is, but it's forgotten. Then I remember, and then I remember.
Take aim, a third eye, a Cyclops in the forehead. Breathe, squeeze, and the job's done. I walk away. Another paycheck. That's all it really means. Life is over-rated.
I take a couple cabs and then walk a few blocks to the bus station. It takes me to the edge of town and my temporary home. I leave the key on the hotel nightstand, take my bags, put them in the trunk of the rental car and drive away, away to the next town and the airport. By the end of the day I'm home. Something is wrong.
There's an unfamiliar envelope in the mail, an unfamiliar name and return address. Who would send me a letter? Who would even know my address, or my name?
I don't touch it. I put on gloves and set it on the desk in the living room, stow my bags, and take a shower. I think about it. This must be what curiosity feels like. Something I remember having when I… When I was…
I change addresses. Move to another city. No letter follows. What was I afraid of? The name, the address, the handwriting, all so familiar, but strange to me...
Another night. More rain. Different smells and sounds. I'm in the Alps in Spring, Kabul in late winter. No, I'm on another job, another nameless city. I see a U.S. Post Box nearby. The name. I can't forget the name. I should have never steamed it open and read the contents. I should have never marked it return to sender. Did I?
I covered my tracks. I tied up lose ends. I'm whole again, but something inside me has come undone. I know I did the wrong thing.
The Sioux flute is calling me back to the Middle Kingdom, back to where I came from. I don't know the address, I don't know the town, but I can feel it crawling up my spine, a cold black sun. It will shine. It will burn me to a black death.
Had I grown up there, or in a city in Canada? I hear a call to prayer in Michigan, or is it Mecca. It smells like Pakistan. In the dark my memories flow together and mix like Spring rain and road oil. My life is a simile and slippery like an asphalt road in Fall's first rain.
It was on a wet street that I met her. Yes, I can remember something now. It was a job, it paid the bills, and I even started to like her. I was too professional, or too poor, to let her know. Rain falls, my hat drips, the darkness hides everything but the sounds and smells.
I should have told her. My life would have been different, maybe not. She would still be alive, or at least on life support. My soul would be living, not a black death waiting to really find that far away country from where none return.
It was the smell of wet garbage on the street that reminded me of her. She had a sweet smell mingled with sweat, never completely clean and never completely masked by the perfume. Her smell was what started me thinking unclearly, mixing my memories, drawing the wrong conclusions.
I remember the night I first smelled it, smelled her. It was raining. I had made love to her. It was over before it began. What remained I would be surprised to find out many years later: something dear to me.
It doesn't really matter because I have a job to do. I can't let my senses take over my purpose, my focus: a mark, a job to do, a job to do, a job to do… Was I dreaming? No, it's still raining.
I still remember her sad, pathetic voice, gurgling through the blood. It was the second and last time we made love. She was laughing. You have a daughter, she croaked, and you'll never find her.
I raped her then, raped and beat and cut her, even though she was already dead. It felt good. Somehow it took the sting away: the sting of knowing a part of me existed outside of myself. A part of me was lost and I might not get it back. She played me to the end. Her end.
The rain stopped. The night smelled clean. I could move, but I prefer to wait. Waiting is what I am paid to do. Wait until the right moment. The moment of shame, of pain, of darkness: I wonder what my victims feel?
A breeze reminding me of Tibet, or was it Naples. A sad breeze, the gust of remorse, blowing by me: I feel it, like the breeze, but like the breeze it passes.
I can feel the sun creeping up the back of the East. It won't show it's head for an hour, but I can feel it. It feels like when I've forgotten something and I don't know what it is, but it's forgotten. Then I remember, and then I remember.
Take aim, a third eye, a Cyclops in the forehead. Breathe, squeeze, and the job's done. I walk away. Another paycheck. That's all it really means. Life is over-rated.
I take a couple cabs and then walk a few blocks to the bus station. It takes me to the edge of town and my temporary home. I leave the key on the hotel nightstand, take my bags, put them in the trunk of the rental car and drive away, away to the next town and the airport. By the end of the day I'm home. Something is wrong.
There's an unfamiliar envelope in the mail, an unfamiliar name and return address. Who would send me a letter? Who would even know my address, or my name?
I don't touch it. I put on gloves and set it on the desk in the living room, stow my bags, and take a shower. I think about it. This must be what curiosity feels like. Something I remember having when I… When I was…
I change addresses. Move to another city. No letter follows. What was I afraid of? The name, the address, the handwriting, all so familiar, but strange to me...
Another night. More rain. Different smells and sounds. I'm in the Alps in Spring, Kabul in late winter. No, I'm on another job, another nameless city. I see a U.S. Post Box nearby. The name. I can't forget the name. I should have never steamed it open and read the contents. I should have never marked it return to sender. Did I?
I covered my tracks. I tied up lose ends. I'm whole again, but something inside me has come undone. I know I did the wrong thing.
The Sioux flute is calling me back to the Middle Kingdom, back to where I came from. I don't know the address, I don't know the town, but I can feel it crawling up my spine, a cold black sun. It will shine. It will burn me to a black death.
novel excerpt
K. Scott Forman
copyright 2008 Fear Knocks
K. Scott Forman is the editor of Fear Knocks. He has recently edited work in the soon to appear Flash Fiction FF>> annual journal, and has a flash fiction piece appearing in that collection. He also has had work appear in the agora journal, and hopes to soon become a novelist. He works as a writer and editor for a government agency and teaches part-time at Weber State University. He makes his home in Utah.
