Fallen Between the Quarks III

It was noon. George found himself asleep on someone else’s couch, blood splattered across the walls, someone’s throat slashed beyond repair, and with a severe craving for food. Thus, George rose from the couch and grabbed from the pantry some cereal, which he swiftly devoured. With a sigh, George rinsed off his shoes in the sink, careful to use his elbows — bloodstained — to lift the lever that turned on the faucet. He didn’t put his shoes on until he left the apartment; he walked down the stairs, waved good morning to the front desk and those working there, stepped outside, hesitated a moment, donned his blue cap, yawned, walked down the street, ordered a fresh coffee from the stand, drank it as he meandered further down the road, took a left, and unlocked his way into his home.

The effort it had taken to murder Annabel Lewis was minimal; she was frail, easily broken — her ribs and left clavicle would agree — and silenced. Her blood was slightly metallic, possibly a result of her high iron diet. George didn’t really care about that. He preferred to ponder the time it would take for her body to be found in the state that it was, the state in which he had left it. His fingers flicked on the television as his mind meandered through memories best left forgotten. His heart rate increased; a woman on the screen looked exactly as Annie had, before she died. Or was murdered. No one really knew, any more. No one really cared. The universe was designed that way; George hoped to change that.

George often wondered what had gone wrong with the last construction job he was a part of, pondered why the company had pulled from the site. There had been no slip ups from the builders with whom he was working, nor any hint as to a need to gain more financial aid regarding the site, but there it was, an empty, incomplete site. He had been out of work ever since; no one would hire any worker from that company. It wasn’t until this morning that George understood the dissolution of that site and the company with which he had worked. There had been a bankruptcy covered up by the main players within the company. George chuckled to himself. “What a pathetic world,” he said, sipping on his coffee and changing the channel to a film about dinosaurs.

It was about two in the afternoon when he — George, that is — realized that he was sad. The memories had come back again, the ponderings and wanderings that occurred within mind and soul were, for him, much graver than they should be for one of the living. Mr Castriani, however, the last of his name, no longer considered himself one of the living. He was too well-acquainted with the dead. George Castriani found himself not seeing the television screen, nor the girl upon it singing to the heavens about the love of hers that was across the sea, but viewing the tragedy that was his daughter a week before her death. George realized, in that moment, that he had stumbled upon the corpses of his beloved family every time they had been slain; he pushed away the car attached to that train of thought. His eyes found those of his daughter, a girl of seven, blonde, with curly locks of hair that grazed the nape of her neck at its longest, a clever girl at times, well-versed in the art of volleyball, oft seen wearing dresses coloured blue or t-shirts coloured periwinkle.

In that moment, George’s daughter — Lucy, the youngest — was utterly pitiful, her deep green eyes shedding tears like a glass of chilled water, blubbering in her voice that was too much her mother’s to make sense, asking over and over again, to the point where George could still remember every punctuated syllable and every sniff that interrupted the question, “Daddy, why isn’t Mommy coming home? Why isn’t Mommy coming home? Daddy… why isn’t Mommy coming home? Daddy...!” Meanwhile, Jezebel and Tommy — fifteen and thirteen, respectively — were, too, bawling their eyes out at the news, Jezebel in her room, shivering beneath the covers, and Tommy with his head against the wall, attempting to hide what secret his shoulders and sobs revealed. The elder children knew, and understood, the meaning of their mother’s inability to return — that’s how George described it to his children, as an “inability to return” — and it scared them, for they knew the what that was coming next, but not the when, never the when. In Jezebel’s diary it could be found — had it not burned in a fire an hour before its owner’s death — that the children thought, “Father preferred it that way, having us [the children] so uncertain of our futures.”

George’s thoughts returned to the present, and he found himself craving retribution.

Greetings!

[typical introductory paragraph] END

We still haven’t birds in Pan’s Door, unfortunately. I guess none of the other scientists have the same pleasurable effect I get from hearing the songs and chirps of those avian denizens of the world. Of our world, anyway. I was trying to find the appropriate sound for a scream, oddly enough, last evening, so that we could test the frequency of the ray and its compatibility with the conversion equation we’ve set up to transform sound into light. I couldn’t find it, but I found an interesting reference to the god Pan in doing so, a mentioning of a Pan’s scream that could arouse in all those who heard it a fear so abysmal, so grand, that they would have their mind shattered and soul shred away. What if, then, by working at Pan’s Door, and creating what we have, we scientists have shattered minds and shredded souls to oblivion, in some other universe? END

I caught a glimpse of [the previous scientist’s name]’s message; I love birds, really. I fear what my compatriots would do to them whilst ensnared, what tests would and could be performed. I don’t know… we are a scary species, we [species’ name]. We kill, we heal, we create, we destroy… so many options may be taken, yet the harmful one is that which we do most, unfortunately. I don’t comprehend why we all cannot merely get along, but… well, ignore me. I’m just the sound technician. At least, that’s what my dear senior officer said to me today. END

I’m the lame sound technician again… salutations. Today was pretty interesting. We didn’t really do much of anything other than discussing the validity of having birds in the office — I would like them flying about, to be honest, but some scientists are too stuck up for the flying songstresses. Songstress, you know, like the “stress” from “mistress.” Most people wouldn’t qualify that as a word, songstress, but it’s a nice word. The sky was pretty today, filled with random streaks of clouds and hues like blue and violet and that gold that the sun can get during certain stretches of the day. I prefer mildly cloudy days to those of pure azure; the clouds further scatter the light the sun gives off, which makes the sky look so much more diverse in its grandeur, so much more eclectic in its beauty, and that is a certainly marvellous characteristic. I wish more could appreciate sounds and sights as I do, but I’ve been called a rare breed, and I know well the loneliness of being nearly extinct. END

Today was one of the most fun days I’ve had in a while. I was able to exert my power over those who sought silly measures like having an aviary in the bounds of our fine facility. It felt good, seeing their faces full of despair at the futility of such a thing as an aviary. One of my juniors snarled at me — the nerve, snarling at someone far superior than they! — during the creation of the suspension field within which we relayed the message throughout the ray that you have received, strange creation. I wonder if you… well, never mind. We shall get to that point, certainly. They don’t matter as much as I do. END

— Pan’s Door, Research and Development Division

August found himself meandering about the park again, before his shift began. It was roughly seven in the evening; August’s shift ran from seven forty-five to two the next morning. The bar ran twenty hours a day. During the day, until noon, no alcoholic beverages were served. From noon to six, one could purchase a mildly intoxicating beverage, and only one, so that one could get through the day or sleep it off with a nap or something of the sort. From six onwards, one could purchase a fully intoxicating drink, and as many as they could hold. The bar was a lucrative business, and Ciaran and Beverly Rose — the couple who owned the Rosy — ran it very well. They provided transportation for those who were too drunk to transport themselves, donated regularly to nearby schools, provided loans for work study programs — the reason Mr Lapin found himself working there, or one of the reasons, depending on whom you asked — and performed various other civic duties. So the Rosy remained the sole bar within the city.

August looked to the sky and found himself contemplating its beauty as he walked through the park, mindlessly wandering towards his rowan tree – not that he noticed; the tree and he were merely grand friends who ran into each other habitually, without trying, without wanting. They just did. The sky adorned itself in blues and violets, and with the clouds and the setting sun, there was the golden light that soothed the eye, that soft, silky gold that only the artists knew.

Lapin sauntered into the Rosy, realizing that his shift was beginning. He rolled up his sleeves and nodded a greeting to Joe, who was just leaving.

“Welcome, Mr Lapin. How are you tonight?”

“Quite well, Jill. Thanks for asking! How are you?”

Jill was Beverly and Ciaran’s daughter, aged seventeen years. She had a small crush on August – it never quite went away. And she wished, though she wouldn’t admit it – especially with her boyfriend, Casey, usually around whenever August was – that Lapin would (as she once phrased it when speaking with her best friend Karla) grace Jill with his permanent companionship, in this case meaning marriage. August promised Jill that, should she ever need anything, she could ask him, and though such phrasing tempted Jill to ask for his hand in marriage as something she needed, Jill preferred the amiable love that August provided to one forced. And so they were comrades, Jill and August.

With a sigh, Jill admitted, “I’m alright. Casey was rather rude to me today.”

August asked, “Should I confront him on your behalf, Ms Jill?”

She shook her head, which sent her wild raven-coloured hair flying with each direction her head turned with the shake; a smile sparkled on her freckled face. Jill replied, “That won’t be necessary, Mr Lapin.”

His voice light and cheery, August reprimanded, “Merely ‘August’ would be fine.”

“Yes, Merely August,” Jill chuckled.

August sniggered as he wiped down the counter and placed out the glasses for pouring whatever drinks were desired. He muttered, “Don’t you have someplace to be, Ms Jill?”

Jill giggled and slid off the counter, flirting-but-not-flirting as she leaned over the table in a way that, to some, would be provocative. August, however, was all-too-aware of Jill’s mannerisms, and so he turned away for the time required for Jill to snarl and stand away from the counter. Beverly chose that moment to arrive, which ruined Jill’s gambit to change her mind about August confronting Casey.

“Good evening, August! I see that you, unlike Jasmine, Jade, and Will, are quite on time, as always.”

“As usual, if you don’t mind me arguing; I wasn’t on time twice earlier this week.”

“Ah, but those were excused, good sir, by your innumerable days when you appear appropriately. Have you heard from your three co-workers?”

“I haven’t a phone, so I cannot say I have… sorry, Mrs Rose.”

Beverly waved away the apology and shook her head as she took her daughter’s hand in her own. “Nothing to apologise for, August. I bid you a fair shift; my daughter and I have a lovely appointment at the stylist’s.”

August nodded, waving them off. “Until the morrow,” he said, “the two of you, and have a most pleasant time at the…” They were out the door, Beverly and Jill, distracted by a rushing messenger named Kristoff, whose message was quite pertinent to August.

“Will and Jade are coming soon; Jasmine has a broken leg, so she won’t be able to call.”

“Why don’t they ever tell Mrs or Mr Rose about such things? Why do they send you… don’t they have phones, Kristoff?”

Kristoff smiled and winked. “Yeah, but I’m three times cheaper.”

August inwardly sighed. Outwardly, he said, “Go tell them they’ll all probably be fired if they persist with sending you after management has left. Until next time, Kristoff.” August shook his head, marvelling at the inability for the twins and their cousin to be responsible. They shared a last name, the consequence of an unhappy marriage: Candlin.

Kristoff waved his farewell and sprinted back to the apartment complex down the street and to the left. August welcomed in the first visitor as Olivia Carver bid her fellow cellists goodnight. Olivia stepped out the apartment of the third cellist and walked down the hallway into the elevator, down the shaft and exited through the front door and down the sidewalk, across the street, up the sidewalk and into her friend’s flower shop. Delia was the same age as Olivia, but — like her favourite plant — Delia was, admittedly, quite wiser. Though by working in a flower shop, Delia made much less than Olivia, Delia was much happier. She had found that which brought her much joy in life and found a way to live doing it.

“Hello, Olivia. How are you tonight?”

Olivia grinned. “We had a brilliant practice toni–”

Delia tsked and chided Olivia on not actually answering the question. “You do that too much, y’know, neglecting your feelings and the like. That’s not good.”

“I know,” said Olivia, sitting on the stool Delia had placed beside her counter.

Delia was cleaning up for the night, merely polishing her counters at this point as she’d already watered the plants and fed them. Delia was the kind of girl to sing to her flowers rather than have them sit in silence and business-talk the whole day. “You have to make sure they soak in the good things too, not just the necessary,” Delia had spoken in reply to a customer who questioned Delia’s methods of flower-keeping.

“I’ll ask you again, then, Olivia. How are you tonight?”

“I’m quite well! I had a grand day, for the most part, though Annabel wasn’t there today. She didn’t answer her phone, either, when Mrs Silverbell called. We were going to play her favourite piece if she had answered… I do hope she’s alright.”

“Me too,” said Delia as she sat beside Olivia.

Delia preferred sitting on the floor, looking up towards Olivia as she spoke. Olivia had never gotten an explanation out of Delia as to why she would prefer the ground to a seat, but she assumed that a person as connected to the earth as Delia would much rather be with the earth than over it.

She asked, “How is that composition coming? I remember you mentioning it last time.”

Olivia smiled at the question and shook her head. “I don’t know if I should continue… I mean, I’ve so much to work on with the concerts and whatnot that are lined up. I should focus on those rather than on my own…”

“Haven’t you vacation time, Olivia?”

The cellist smirked, knowing immediately where the cleverness of her comrade was going. “Yes, I’ve quite a bit stocked up,” she replied.

“You need to make yourself happy. It’s been awhile since I’ve heard you speak of losing yourself in the music in any way that was pleasurable. Remember when you told me that playing cello and reaching the pinnacle of a piece was even more orgasmic than —"

Olivia interjected, “Oh my god, Delia!”

Delia laughed as loud as Olivia’s panic had gotten, finding pleasure in having made Olivia squeal in such a manner. “I do remember those times, though,” said Olivia as she and Delia calmed down a bit.

“Maybe composing this piece will have you happy again, hm? Maybe playing the music isn’t enough. Mayhap you must create.”