"Safe"
Surface Evolution #8
Final story, everyone. Thanks for tagging along! Hope you enjoyed at least some of these.
Cheers!
Æ
SAFE
When the sun started melting, no one seemed particularly bothered. No one except Clark.
“Todd, check that shit out,” Clark says, points at the sky.
“What?” Todd says, and looks up. The two are on the sidewalk of a busy street. Cars and bees buzz by. Summertime.
Clark: “What the fuck, eh?”
Todd: “What the fuck what?”
Clark: “Dude, the sun. The sun. Look at it.”
Todd: “What about it? It’s the fucking sun. Big whoop.” Todd bites into the street meat he’d bought from one of the vendors downtown.
Clark stops walking. Todd keeps going. A few steps later, Todd realizes Clark isn’t beside him. Wiping at his mouth with a ketchup-stained napkin, he turns around, says, “Come on, man, we’ll be late. Get your skinny ass in gear. Quit staring at the sun. What are you, retarded? You’ll burn your fucking retinas out or something.”
Todd turns, keeps walking and chewing.
*
Later, they’re on the outdoor patio of a café, sitting with the girl both Clark and Todd want. Neither of them know of the other’s desire.
Todd says, “So Jane, Clark is retarded, tried to burn his eyes out of his stupid head by staring at the sun on the way here.” Todd is nineteen years old.
Clark says nothing, glances into the sky. He is twenty years old. Then, after a moment’s reflection: “I’m actually pretty concerned about the fact that when I look up into the sky, it looks to me as though the sun is melting—it looks like yellow-orange paint that’s been heated and is dripping down a light blue canvas.”
Jane laughs. Clark does not. Jane stops laughing. “You’re serious, aren’t you?”
Todd: “No, he’s not serious. He is retarded, as has previously been mentioned.”
Jane is twenty-four. Unlike Clark and Todd, she is fully aware that they both want her.
Clark lifts his head again skyward. Jane follows his gaze, shielding her eyes from the full force of the sun’s brilliance. A man riding by on his bike wonders what they’re staring at, lifts his head. Sees nothing. Carries on.
“Um, I don’t see anything weird about the sun, Clark,” Jane says. “Honest, I don’t.”
Clark says nothing. He nods his head slightly, blinks rapidly, taps his fingers on the wooden table.
Beers arrive. Todd drains his in four gulps. Clark’s sits untouched. Jane sips.
A breeze stirs, sending the touch of a lavender scent across the table from Jane to Clark. Clark inhales it, smiles. Wonders how the underside of her forearm would feel cupped in his hand.
*
When Clark gets home that night, he posts on his blog: “The sun is melting. Has no one else noticed this?” Only one person responds, a friend of his from high school with whom he has recently lost touch. A girl named Bernice. This is what Bernice writes: “Clark, the sun is not melting. You probably have a brain disease and are dying. Maybe it’s cancer. A horrible way to go. When you’re dead, can I have your cat?”
*
The next day, Clark is supposed to meet with Jane and Todd for dinner, then maybe go to a show. Instead, he calls them and lies, says he’s caught some kind of bug. Needs to stay home and rest up.
After making his calls, he draws back the curtains in the living room of his one-bedroom apartment. The feeble light from the melting sun drizzles in, seems to settle across the hardwood floors grudgingly.
It’s easier to look at the sun today; it’s become hazier, its edges more indistinct.
Clark thinks about what it means, what he can do about it. Wonders why newspapers, TV, and the Internet aren’t buzzing with headlines about The End of the World.
Clark closes the curtains, makes coffee, bacon, and eggs. Dips toast into the runny centres. Waits for nightfall.
Last night, he didn’t look up at the stars because he was afraid of what he might see. Tonight, he braces himself, walks over to the living room window when he sees the dark red and purple light bleed away to black beneath the curtains. Glances at his watch: 8:49 p.m.
Heart fluttering madly, stomach in knots, he reaches out to yank the curtains aside, but stays his hand. Lets it drop to his side.
He walks to the cordless phone, picks it up from its cradle, dials. His cat brushes up against his legs, meows for food. It’s two hours past its feeding time. When Jane picks up, Clark is scooping food into his cat’s bowl.
Jane: “What’s up? Thought you were sick.”
Clark: “I am. Listen, can you come over? You know, after dinner and your show? Just don’t bring Todd, alright?”
Jane: “What’s that noise?”
Clark: “I’m feeding the cat.”
Jane: “You mean the cat you’re going to leave to Bernice when you die of brain cancer?”
Clark: “You saw that? Crazy bitch. What kind of thing is that to say to someone?”
Clark closes the lid on the plastic food container, walks back into the living room, stands in front of the curtains. Afraid of them. Wanting to be as far away from them as possible.
“So did you hear me about Todd? Don’t bring him, okay?” Clark says.
Jane replies, “Sure, yeah, no problem. Um . . . should I bring something? Like, uh, I’m not sure what you want me to do over there.”
Clark hears something in her voice he’s never heard before.
“No, no, it’s okay. Just bring yourself. I want to show you something. Actually, I want to show myself something, but with you here in the . . . um, in the room, I guess.”
Clark feels a certain distance grow between them just then. “What I mean to say is, Todd can be a bit of a douche sometimes and I think it’d be cool if we just spent a bit of time together without him, you know?”
“Oh, yeah, well . . . okay, cool. Sounds good.” Clark hears her voice warm again. “The show should be done around eleven. I can be there for 11:30. Good with you?”
Clark says, “Good with me, yeah. Thanks, Jane. See you soon.”
Once he’s hung up, Clark goes to his computer, pulls up his blog, types: “Bernice: The sun is melting. I do not have brain cancer. I am not dying. You cannot have my cat. I never really thought of you as a friend.”
*
At 11:37, Clark’s phone rings.
Clark: “Hi, Jane.”
Jane: “I’m right around the corner, fella. Get ready to buzz me in.”
Clark: “Roger that.”
Jane: “Oh, and I know you said not to bother with anything, but I brought wine. You know, in case you want to get me drunk and take advantage.” Jane laughs. Clark does not.
Clark: “I’m ready to buzz you in. Todd’s not with you, is he?”
Jane’s tone changes. She sounds embarrassed, a little hurt. “I was kidding about the take-advantage-of-me thing, you know.”
Clark: “Yeah, I know. Sorry, I’m just a little tense is all. Wine will be great. Red?”
Jane: “Yeah. Red.”
Clark’s apartment buzzer rings. He presses and holds a button on the wall beside the door.
The curtains push on Clark’s back like a firm, cold hand. He cannot turn around to look at them. He walks over to the door, stands there with his hand on the knob, waiting, fiddling with his watch.
Enough time passes that Clark thinks Jane has changed her mind, turned around, gone home. Left him in this cramped apartment, the weight of the curtains pressing on him, crushing the air out of his lungs.
What could possibly be taking so long? Christ. It’s just a few flights of stairs. And if she took the elevator, which she probably did, then she’d be—
Three soft raps on the door.
Clark turns the knob quickly and yanks the door open hard, startling Jane.
“Sorry, sorry,” Clark says, reaches out for the wine, plucks it from her hand. “Come on in, don’t worry about your shoes, lemme take your coat.” He disappears into the kitchen, leaves the wine on the counter, comes back down the hall, opens a closet, puts Jane’s coat on a hanger with shaky hands.
“Clark, calm down. What’s going on? What’s—”
“The, um . . . the sky. Remember the thing about the sun yesterday? When I said it was—”
“Yeah, melting. That was pretty weird, Clark, I have to admit.”
“Look,” Clark says, walks over to the couch—the farthest piece of furniture from the curtains and the window—and plonks himself down. “I know it sounds ridiculous, but . . . it happened again today. The sun looked even hazier, more indistinct. It’s like someone is smearing it across the sky.”
For a moment, Jane says nothing, just stands by the doorway. She looks over her shoulder at the door, and Clark thinks, We’re really not very close at all, are we? She doesn’t trust me. Not one bit.
Jane takes two tentative steps into the living room, then a few more, and finally sits down on the arm of the tattered couch. She puts the palms of her hands together, pushes them down between her thighs at the knees. Takes a deep breath. But she doesn’t say the kind of thing Clark thinks she’s going to say. She says, “What do want me to do about it, Clark?”
Clark: “What? What do you mean? I don’t understand.”
Jane: “How can I help you? What do you want me to do?”
Clark hears sympathy in her voice, a genuine need to help, but he also hears condescension, as though she’s speaking to a six-year-old who doesn’t want to sleep with the light off.
“I dunno,” Clark says, after thinking about it for a moment. “I actually just wanted you to . . . well, it sounds crazy, I know, but I wanted you to be here when I looked out the window tonight. At the sky. At the stars.”
“In case of what, Clark? In case the stars are melting, too?”
Silence. Clark casts his eyes down, fiddles some more with his watch. The room is suddenly too hot. The curtains loom over him.
Then: “I guess I shouldn’t have asked you to come.”
“Probably not,” Jane says. “But I’m here now. If you want me to stay, I will.” She glances at the kitchen, cracks a little grin that lifts only one side of her mouth. “Wine or no wine at the Restaurant at the End of the Universe?”
Despite the dread gnawing at his insides, Clark returns the grin, says, “Wine.”
Jane disappears into the kitchen. Clark hears her rooting around in drawers, looking for the corkscrew. I like it that she doesn’t ask me where it is, he thinks, and is unsure why this appeals to him.
Jane returns with two full wine glasses, hands one to Clark—who promptly drops it on the floor. Glass shatters, wine splashes their feet and pant legs.
“Fucking shit,” Clark says, sighs, moves toward the kitchen to get paper towel. He returns, leans down and, with shaking hands, mops up the mess while Jane carefully picks up the bigger chunks of glass, brings them to the kitchen garbage. She returns to the living room. Clark brings the soggy paper towels to the garbage, washes his hands, heads back into the living room—
—and the curtains have been pulled completely aside, exposing the sky.
Clark tries to avert his eyes; he wasn’t even nearly ready for this yet. Christ, at least let me get a glass of wine or two down my fucking gullet before springing it on me, he thinks. But it’s too late; even though he only catches a glimpse, his mind picks up all the information needed.
The stars are melting, too. Blurring. Smeared across the night like wet white paint on a black wall.
“Close it, Jane,” Clark says, his voice low, head turned to one side.
“Oh, come on, Clark, just look, would you? There’s nothing wrong with the sky. The stars are fine.” She turns from where she’s pulling the last section of curtains open, walks toward Clark. She reaches out a hand, puts it gently on his arm, moves her other hand to his cheek, cups it, turns his face toward the window. He shuts his eyes tight, refuses to open them.
After a few moments of her palm on his cheek, warm, her breathing near his ear, steady, he opens his eyes, but does not look out the window; he looks directly at her. “Where’s your wine?”
“I left it in the kitchen. I’ll get you a new glass in a minute, okay?”
Clark nods, swallows hard. In his peripheral vision, he sees the alien sky. Senses it pushing into his skull, trying to pull his eyes toward it.
“I don’t . . .” Clark says. “I don’t want to look, Jane. Okay? I don’t want to see it. I know you don’t see what I see. But I can’t not see it, alright? And it scares the almighty fuck out of me.”
“Okay, Clark. It’s fine. Just relax. Relax.” She strokes his forehead, moves her hand up and down his arm, soothing.
A long time seems to pass, then—Jane soothing his nerves, his breathing coming under control, his hands shaking less and less until they’re almost steady again.
“Clark?”
Clark just concentrates on breathing, eyes still closed.
“I know you like me, Clark.”
Clark makes no effort to deny it. “I’ve liked you for a very long time, Jane.”
“I know. I like you, too. Very much.”
Jane leans forward, kisses Clark gently on the lips. He returns the kiss, moves his hand to cup the underside of her forearm, squeezes the flesh there.
When he finally opens his eyes, Jane’s face is a wet streak across his vision—eyes too big and stretched down her face; lips sagging, dribbling down her chin, her neck; nose a bulbous pool of flesh; forehead running down to cover it all like egg yolk.
Clark pulls away fast, knocks over a stereo speaker behind him. Jane stumbles back, too, surprised at Clark’s reaction. “Clark, what’s . . . what’s the matter? I thought—”
The phone rings. Clark cannot convince his legs to take him over to it. He stands, frozen. Rooted to the spot. In his peripheral, the sky continues to melt, more white than black now, but fast becoming grey, the two mixing together. The city lights below snuffing out, the high-rises becoming drenched and sodden with the fallout.
The answering machine clicks on. Clark’s greeting plays, then Todd’s voice erupts from the tiny speaker: “Yeah. Clark. You fuck. I know she’s there. She told me where she was going after the show. Told me you didn’t want me over there. Fucking dick. Fucking traitor. Some friend. Some fucking friend.”
Clark’s head spins. He teeters, falls against the nearest wall. Jane moves closer to him, hands out. Not much left of her face, most of it dribbled onto her blouse now. But no skull beneath the flesh. At least no recognizable human skull. It fazes in and out of familiarity, never settling on any one form.
“I know we never talked about it, Clark,” Todd continues, his voice less manic, more controlled than before. “But you knew, man. You had to have known how I felt.”
I don’t know what you are, Clark thinks, staring at what used to be Jane, his mind grasping for reality, anything that smacks of control. I don’t know what you are. I don’t know what you want and I cannot help you. Whatever you need, whatever it is, it’s not up to me. I do not recognize you.
“Pick the fucking phone up, pig. Pick it up, you fucking dick. Cocksucker.”
Jane comes closer, bends down, hands reaching out, that alien skull hovering like a splintered moon, trying to cohere into something worse than it already is.
Jane’s hands close on Clark’s shoulders; he lashes out with a fist at her skull. Something like blood runs from the middle of her face. A hand comes up to stem the flow. She mutters something, but Clark cannot understand her words anymore. They just sound like mush to his ears.
I don’t understand you. I don’t understand you. I do not recognize your face. You’re not Jane. You’re not Jane.
Clark gains his feet, continues punching the skull, advancing on it, heedless of the rest of the body, focusing entirely on the white shock of bone sprouting from the shoulders. Jane trips over the coffee table backward, falls to the floor. Clark hears a thick crunching sound.
“Consider us finished, man,” Todd says, voice more resigned than angry now. “Consider our fucking joke of a friendship terminated, okay? Don’t call. Don’t email. Don’t even fucking think about me anymore, alright?” A brief pause. “Because I sure as shit won’t be thinking about you.”
There is a soft click. The answering machine beeps once. Red light blinking in the dark. More dark than Clark has ever experienced in his life.
He turns and very deliberately looks out the window. The sky is completely black. Not a speck of light left. Absolute pitch.
Void, Clark thinks. Shudders. Empty.
He looks back down at whatever is cracked and bleeding on his floor. Skull shattered. A pool of liquid spreading out slowly behind it, creeping toward the couch leg.
Clark feels a calmness come over him, then. His heart settles, limbs no longer vibrating with adrenaline. Breathing under control. I’m going to be alright. Whatever happens. I’ll be fine. Whatever is happening to me, it will pass.
Clark walks slowly to the window, opens the sliding glass door that leads onto his balcony. A gentle breeze dries his sweat, pushes hair off his cheeks. He closes his eyes, breathes in deeply. Opens them, head lifted skyward.
Nothing. As though stars never existed. Alone, he thinks. Alone. Hidden.
A memory comes to him, then. Of hiding as a child. In a fort built of furniture. Lights out, only a flashlight gripped in his tiny hand, leading the way through the maze of overturned couches, chairs, end tables.
One word in his mind: Safe.
After what feels like several hours, Clark turns around, steps inside his living room, shuts the sliding door behind him.
He walks to where Todd’s body lies crumpled, one leg up on the coffee table, the rest of him splayed out on the floor. Unnatural.
Bleeding face. Back of his head caved in.
When Clark cries for him, tears come out, but the grief does not.