Flutter (7 page)

“You ok?”

Maybe she cared.
Roger was humiliated, “It would help if you weren’t smirking,” he said as he blushed with embarrassment.

Roger placed a rag on his chin to catch the blood. Abigail drove him to the emergency room that night. As they waited in the waiting room, it was the first time she opened up and told him about the strange nightmares that were keeping her up at night. Her voice sang to him like a bird whistling at the morning sun after a night of thunderous rain. He didn’t have a more interesting story to share, so he just listened and there, he fell in love with her. He didn’t know if he was listening to her story or imagining himself kissing her on the cheek and neck, smelling her hair, and enjoying her body. Roger did, however grab enough information to understand why Abigail kept to herself. She was trying to set things straight in her mind. Half the time she was trying to put the pieces of her life together and just thinking. Frivolous conversations weren’t Abigail’s priority. 

After Roger got six stitches in his chin, she drove him home. They sat outside in the car for hours as she gave him a more vivid description of some of her dreams. Roger’s eyes were open wide while listening to the details. He didn’t have a clue what they meant but was sure that having similar dreams over and over meant something important. He figured they must be connected.
Write them down
, he thought. Eventually he opened up to her about his ongoing experiments. She was actually interested and wanted to know more about them. He was honest with her that they didn’t work, but working on things made him happy. She thought it was cool.

The time was just past 2:30 in the morning. Roger had spent his night playing with a mini robotic device that he had built a few months earlier. It was supposed to be a prototype for an unmanned solar powered cargo transportation device that would safely and securely transport hazardous or sensitive material from one warehouse to another. If the smaller prototype worked, a larger one should work without a problem, or so he thought. No matter how many times he played with it, it kept overheating and sparking. He had reworked the design numerous times but the prototype would not travel more than three feet without a malfunction. He was getting bored with it so he turned on his laptop and checked his email.
No new messages 
–
 
in his Gmail account. He checked his Facebook account. He had a few spam posts on his wall and a few friend requests from fellow geeks from the
Robotic Pulse
fan page. He often posted his ideas and got feedback from other self proclaimed engineers and inventors.
This is boring.

Roger left his room and went into the kitchen. On his way, he saw his mother asleep in the recliner with the TV still on. He walked into the room and turned off the set. He was careful not to wake his mother. Roger then went into the kitchen and grabbed a glass of water. He gulped it down quickly, went into the bathroom, urinated and went back to his room.

Finally, Roger pulled out his phone and sent Abigail a text message, “YOU UP, ELVIS?” She didn’t respond. Roger laid in his bed and closed his eyes.

“I can’t fucking sleep!”

Frankie was in his room doing pushups. He had a lot on his mind, starting with the fight club, Abigail, bills... He wanted to tell Larry that it was time to call it quits and just focus on legit business deals only. He and Larry argued about the state of the club five months earlier when the club cost Frankie a $20,000 payment to the Albano family. 

One evening Mousy Albano had challenged Frankie to a fight. They had argued over a $2,500 debt Mousy owed Larry. Little by little, the argument got personal; and Mousy bet double or nothing that he could kick Frankie’s ass. Frankie hadn’t fought in a while but was sure he could win. By the end of the fight, Frankie had a fat lip and Mousy had a ride to the hospital. Mousy didn’t come out of a coma for 10 days. His father and a few goons bum rushed the pub and demanded $15,000. So, Frankie paid out the money. Plus he had lost $5,000 in winnings. After that incident Frankie decided never to fight again. Larry considered the event extraneous and unpredictable.

Frankie also spent a significant amount of time thinking about Abigail as well. He was concerned for her safety and besides being overwhelmed with it, he wasn’t sure that running the fight club was the best situation for her. The club was completely connected to underground activity and he was positive that whoever shot her was also connected to something shady.
Any moment one of those bastards could come in here.
Frankie began to feel like Abigail was a daughter to him. He was protective of her and thought of her safety at all times. 

Anytime a man groped her or said anything inappropriate, he would kick them out immediately. One time Frankie had stepped out to buy a few bags of ice when the ice machine was down. When he came back, he caught the tail end of a situation where Abigail had dragged a man out of the bar by his collar and kicked him in the groin. Even though she could handle her own, he took care of all disrespect directed toward her. The man was never allowed back in the bar even though he had been a loyal patron for five years.

Frankie was also concerned about the noises he heard coming from her room from time to time. He usually slept with his TV on, but occasionally he would hear moans and groans coming from her room. At first he thought she was in the room masturbating so he would turn up the TV and try to ignore the sounds. When the noise persisted, he decided to check up on her and realized she was having nightmares. He peeked into her room and saw her tossing and turning in the bed. She gritted her teeth and scratched the bed. She would shout, speaking in languages he didn’t understand. Once he grabbed her to wake her and she scratched his face. Even then she didn’t fully wake up. From then on, he would ignore such nighttime sounds.

That night, Frankie’s mind raced incessantly, obsessing over his responsibilities and the difficult decisions that needed to be made each day to keep the pub fully operational. The mysterious Abigail was only one more thing adding fuel to the tormenting fire in his mind. He prayed for the morning news to come on, looking forward to the new day, but sunrise was still a few hours away. 

The TV played real estate infomercials as he pushed up and down against the hardwood floor. He did 100 pushups without stopping. He picked up a pair of 45 lb weights and began doing bicep curls. He did sets of 20, alternating arms. Staying strong and physically fit was a passion of his; it was also a means for him to calm down or think. Frankie was used to his fitness regimen. He had followed it for 25 years. It started as a part of his job requirement in his former life, and remained an important piece of his daily ritual. After the biceps, Frankie focused on his shoulders and then his triceps. He broke a sweat. Little by little his t–shirt began to soak with sweat. It gathered at his chin and eventually dripped down to the floor.

Once Frankie was done, he sat on the edge of his bed to meditate and pray. Frankie didn’t talk to God much, unless he felt he really needed a judgment free friend. He felt that God was the only friend who could listen without interruption. A talk with God was declared the immediate solution to remedy this headache now pounding between his ears. 

Frankie had suffered from depression for many years. He was haunted by the faces of people he had killed or hurt in his past. When he quit the hired hand business, he had seen a psychiatrist who prescribed him Zoloft. He didn’t like the side effects and quit cold turkey. For three months he had nightmares and found himself walking the ledge of many buildings contemplating life and death. He understood how tormenting nightmares could be to a person. He felt Abigail’s pain and worried if she would find herself, one day, pacing along a ledge. Those depressing days were brutal, and Frankie feared that he would slip back into depression if he didn’t make some difficult choices soon.

Abigail sat on the edge of her bed. She saw the text from Roger. She ignored it and carried on with what she was doing. Abigail was rummaging through her purse again. She had laid out her license which read:

ABIGAIL PAIGE

652 SCOTT STREET

UNIT 6

UTICA, NY 

She put the license away.

She had a small stack of cash totaling about $250, a key, eye shadow, dark brown lipstick, and a small black King James bible– both new and Old Testament. She flipped through the pages from back to front. The only thing she saw in the book was a note on the last page in red ink that read E2 ON THE FIRST FOURTEEN.
This doesn’t mean shit to me right now.
Her frustration level soared to critical.

She put her stuff away again and laid down to go to sleep. She let out a deep sigh. Then her phone rang. It was Roger. She picked up with a sleepy voice. “Hey Roggie bear.”

“Hey Elvis. Just checking to see if you were ok. You seemed a little bothered today.”

“I’m bothered every day.”

“You just ignore my texts now?”

“Yes!”

They giggled.

She asked, “What are you working on now? I hear a catastrophe brewing in the background. It sounds like something wants to explode over there.”

“If I explained, you wouldn’t get it.”

“Well maybe I can come by and check it out tomorrow.”

Roger was a little shocked and happy. He always wanted to spend time with her but never had a chance and here it was. “Ok. If you’re not being cynical, then that would be really cool. As long as you don’t laugh. Half of my ideas don’t work.”

“Half of my brain doesn’t work, so we’re pretty even.”

“Still can’t put the pieces together?”

“The rabbit hole goes deeper and deeper every day. Does
E2 on the First Fourteen
sound familiar to you?”

“Not in the least. Where’s that coming from?”

“Good question. It was written in this… oh never mind. I’m hoping something will jar my memory but it’s more complicated than that, I guess.”

“What about the dreams?”

“I still have those from time to time. It’s been getting worse. I try to keep my iPod playing while I sleep. It helps sometimes but once the batteries go…”

Another spark went off on one of Roger’s experiments. “OW! Shit!”

Abigail laughed. “Let me let you go before you kill yourself. Any final words for the eulogy?”

“SHUT UP!”

“Duly noted. Good night!” They hung up.

Abigail laid her head down on the pillow and tucked herself in. She liked to feel the fleece from the blanket run over her legs when she was tired. Her initial goal was to avoid sleep as much as possible, but her body needed rest. Her head continued to sink into the pillow. She fought the urge all night but couldn’t resist the desire to close her eyes. Her body was getting more and more comfortable. Sleep weighed over her body, sucking her in like a drain. Her head tilted to the side. Slowly she drifted into a deep slumber.

Abigail’s head moved frantically from side to side as her world spun from a dark city night into a murky rain forest, thick with trees and dense fog. She lay on the muddy soil in a fetal position, naked and cold. The black ground crept up over her body. She peeled her body out of the position and stood up. Her legs wobbled as if it was her first time walking. The trees towered over her, leaning inward with their upper branches tangling overhead. Black snakes slithered down the trucks and hissed all around. She stood in the midst of the shiny black bark that oozed down like crude oil over a rusty pipe. She snapped her neck around upon hearing a faint sound coming from the bushes. Suddenly, she heard feet pounding against black broken leaves, vines and twine.

“Get her!” voices cried out from between the brush.

She began to run, dodging the vines that reached out for her arms and legs. One vine caught her and twisted around her neck stopping her in her tracks. Four more vines grabbed her arms and legs, lifting her up off the ground, sprawling her out above the jungle floor. Her wrists and ankles bled from the places where the vines attached themselves to her body. Thorns pierced into her skin. Loud drums played in her head faster and faster as she hung above the slithery ground. Suddenly, the vines let go and she fell; but she landed flat on her feet, which smashed against the wet leaves and tree roots. She ran again and tripped. Her heart pounded against the back of her chest. The leaves closed in around her, getting thicker. It was getting harder to move through the thicket. She looked back and saw jungle natives in pursuit. She stood up again and ran.

Black oily ooze flowed out of her mouth to the back of her neck and down her spine. She screamed in agony, stretching her arm, gripping at her back as far as she could reach. The oil burned and eventually caught fire as she continued to run. She screamed again and the scream sounded like the screech of a bird of prey. She turned and looked at the men behind her to see if they were gaining ground.

“Ado a balidah,” she yelled at the men behind her.

They were closing in on her. She was suddenly hit with an arrow in her shoulder. She screamed in pain. The world became blurry. They must have poisoned the tip of the arrow. She looked back again to see where she was; the native men were gone but two men in suits were now chasing her. She ran until she came to the edge of a cliff. The men were getting closer; she had no choice. She jumped off the cliff into a cloud of smoke. The smoke engulfed her body. When it cleared, she could see the ground approaching fast. Right before she hit the ground, she woke. She sat up straight. Abigail was breathing hard and sweating.

“What the fuck?” She threw her head back on the pillow and caught her breath.

Larry Crawford was a tall, big bellied Irish man standing 6’3” who lived a simple, lonely life. He had a one bedroom apartment in Cambridge, not too far from the Boston line. His apartment was in an old lingerie factory that was built in 1826. He lived on the third floor which had four other apartments on it. The interior of his apartment was an IKEA showcase and could serve as a model space in the IKEA department store. His apartment was very neat and clean with exposed brick walls and hardwood floors. The apartment looked like a sports bar lounge with sleek modern furniture and sports memorabilia. He was a collector. In separate frames hanging from the walls, he had a Larry Bird jersey, a Drew Bledsoe Jersey, and a signed Bobby Orr Boston Bruins jersey. On the mantle, he had various signed baseballs, gloves and cards in glass cases. On the side was a wet bar with a granite counter top and various top shelf spirits.