Day 9: Entry two

Day eight isn’t lost; I couldn’t write. The sensation was so cold. I spoke to Harvest-woman April, who focused more on telling me she isn’t that kind of doctor. I slipped up stating that I could’ve been, and on occasions, was for emphasis, which sucked her in until she asked me what I thought of the nature of my illness. Her terms carried something I wasn’t expecting but understood. A certain defeated curiosity; ‘I mean, if I don’t have to get up, I’ll look into it as a kind of help.' Started with my past, which she’s getting none of, whether she knows or not, and switched effortlessly into second opinions for which I had loads of examples. Before Wolfman Patrick stole me away, she said she’ll get back to me and my case. Her smile said a hint of hypocritical oath might still flicker, but the concealing of her horror of the topics said patience wasn’t sharp enough for the private practice bedside manner. Coldman Jason needed a word.

“Here, here—the frequencies matched. In that instance of varied validity, the spoken words, no dare I say, scoffed into what the swamp had set to happen. For the kid in you, the power would’ve continued providing to the ecosystem--grabbed a gator or something except you diverted it,” Coldman Jason said.

“Killed….”

“That can’t be understated—”

“Then maybe try opening with that. Avoids mixed messages. Like the idea, sure, I could do that,” I said.

“Did you care about the snitch or not?” Bluemoon June said.

“Not remotely the point. How about what the fuck have I been shitting in the past week?” I asked.

Coldman Jason, a pretty-cozy library hermit with ample space overhead, for a cave, a decent over-shaded lamp’s bulb-caused orange glow, the Halloween is out of the room, for a jagged cave with a sizable table surrounded by folding chairs. Cornman Max was shooed out by Growing-woman Gwen, who shut the heavy wooden door behind him. After Blue Moon June locked the second door, she seemed to be guarding it—”

“Tell us, Iceman Nealson—”

“We are really hammering those names in—”

“—How do you feel?”

“What is this? Good freaking Luna’s Ghost, is this a Dedist Moone Inquisition?”

“You didn’t run. You slept soundly, I hear. However, I get why you make a big deal about sleeping alone,” Wolfman Patrick said.

“How about you—”

“God damn noble of you, I’d say,” Bluemoon Jude said.

“Great, it does sarcasm. Double check that door again—did she get that top lock?—”

“Can’t overlook the daily night screams and where that dream took one of our boats,” Growing woman Gwen said.

Now I’m missing the plot. Why would I know what the doctors didn’t for the last 23 years? Still... don’t have the faintest idea. What you got, background as a College Professor #4?" Bluemoon June said.

“You already heard—” I started.

“Where’s your guts? For the record,” Bluemoon June asked.

“Our readers convey a response from the instant you started improvising and faded as you stopped speaking—nothing before you, and you hearing that sound is their activity, the only one who heard the sound of its activity. You did the deed, if not your desired outcome,” Coldman Jason said.

As a stunned room readjusted their tactics, I double checked the page in my pocket. “Sure, that can be discussed as long as a further injustice joins the docket.”

It was the first time I heard of Bluemoon June’s deep, breathy façade drop in the single most beautiful, “Oh, You Fuck!” I’ve ever heard.

“Which one of you wants to go get Snow-woman Shawna? Anyone want to retreat into an aside?” I asked. "So, I'm supposed to run?"

“Blue Moon June, what is this? He was leaving?” the Wolfman started.

She couldn’t answer. She walked over and kidney shot me. I managed to get a push before keeling over completely. That head start was wasted on my part. A pretty impressive front kick broke my nose, this prevented Growing-woman Gwen from getting her footing as she pinned me. I fought back a bit, guarding more than anything, letting a few slip by, but damn, she didn’t have the worst aim. I’m pretty sure that’s why I dropped the charade of level-headed snark.

“Why are you here? Say it!”

“Because you kept missing my fucking temples, bitch? Why do you even carry those knuckles—I mean, wow. Is this where the rest of jump in, right?" Mouth full of blood and snot, eye swelling, I laughed where I lay.

Concussion aside, I could’ve got a pretty good nap in that silence. Adrenaline dying down, what hurts? Not much to do there. Then, as I was about to say, these self-absorbed lunatics wouldn’t blink once in my general direction, Gwen was helping me up and shouting. Wolfman Patrick changed his mind at the last second and made it clear she was to bring Harvest-woman April and come right back. And everyone else just waited quietly. Even the Mad Dog. Carries a gun but chose the brutal teeth. Respectable, sure, but don’t consider me enlightened by a sucker punching two-face with Slag hair. The ringing muffled a lot of ambient noises, so I believe the Harvest-woman’s words were, “Oh my God, who fucked his face up?”

“It’s okay, no rape kit required.” Laughing hurt, but I couldn’t stop even after I stopped looking at the look on Blue Moon June’s face. I take it was a 20-second trail off, but I distinctly remember hearing it well into Harvest-woman April’s argument about needing bed rest and a shit ton of ice before heading to sleep in four hours. Concoction: 3 parts Vicodin, 2 parts expired Oxycodone. And the equivalent of 25 epinephrine shots. 1 bottle of water. Bluemoon June cleaned her knuckles, or Gwen would walk out. Keeping me alive was Harvest-woman April’s concern; otherwise, she wouldn’t have left immediately for more med supplies. Bluemoon June missed a bit of the bloody saliva under her chin, the Harvest-woman and I refused to mention, and in seeing that I was chuckling, the Wolfman took order of the room.

“When did the nightmares begin?” Harvest-woman April asked for the record. A good question, nonetheless, but I had been so far down on the Inquisition’s docket, everyone else pre-accepted their missed opportunity. I had hoped this would get a feverish objection.

“No pinpoint start, just always. Maybe started retaining when I was 10 or 11—”

“And what details are we dealing with in these night terrors? From every last one or a good collection,” Wolfman Patrick asked.

“For most of the time, it’s an 11 out of 10, on every one they merge into one over time, but for weeks, they linger in a constant rotation with minor variations, all of them with some kind of monstrous mutilation. No cure, treatment, dull, pacifier—during my last surgery, I was ripped awake by my tongue being ripped out of my throat for the canvas’ sake, after the painting was done. With no fingers, I applauded. Yeah—yeah, I’m deranged and unhinged.”

“Can you tell me how you came here—what’s your goal?” The Harvest-woman asked. Admittedly, I felt silly knowing how this would go. It took Harvest-woman April’s genuine surrounding sincerity with a grain of salt.

“Well, I thought I’d be Ron by now. You move too quickly with these sacrifices.”

“How fucking dare you?” Growing-woman Gwen asked.

“Oh, really; your blinders are still holding strong? Look, an investigative journalist doesn’t venture this far into a morass for a puff piece with no heading,” I said.

“Why not a gun?” Bluemoon June asked.

“Sa—Satan, is that you? I guess I wanted to see some more of your work, my lord.”

“You son of a—”

“Either you die of it, watch and seethe hoping it's not you, or—”

“—Participate. See what it’s like,” Growing-woman Gwen said solemnly. "So, just quit?"

“I got 'lucky' Ron came off so suspicious. Thought my gun-hoe gumshoe attitude would have made me obviously more spy beyond my open minded whimsey.”

“That’s enlightening, Iceman Nielson. Now, Bluemoon June, what have you done to the former Snowman?” the Wolfman asked.

“You’re not as acclimated as—”

"Please, consider what’s already on the docket and in my head. Want to get through this, don’t you?” I asked. Felt odd saying it, but I applied all the same.

Bluemoon June festered in her stance behind where I sat mid-operation at the end of the table. The look she gave me on her slow walk to Wolfman Patrick’s side carried a snarled degree of animosity; the Harvest-woman’s bedside manor increased significantly. “Kieth wasn’t going to bring Dr. Nealson back; he and our Snow-woman were abandoning the cause at his lead.”

“And that’s your killer’s motive?” the Harvest woman asked in disgust.

“I never said I killed him. But he planned to have us found out for the Water Front debacle if we didn’t calm them down. Don't know why he came back, honestly. Can’t tell you who fed his body to the island though,” she responded.

“Question for the Wolfman,” I said.

“Granted,” he laughed politely.

“You told me to call it experiment 17; how many in the past have died because you communed with the world’s fauna, the lands of devour, and who was the other Snowman?”

“Keith painted or sketched—Shawna draws, sings…” Coldman Jason said. “We did know he was unhappy with us before we sent them after Dr. Neilson.”

“Oooh, I was targeted?” I asked.

“That surprises you,” Wolfman Patrick said. “Fascinating.”

“Shocks the shit out of me,” the Growing-woman started. “Who killed Keith, and for the record, how long have our Snowman and woman been living on their own with this plane? You know it’s not their expertise, and open door policy.”

I could tell by who faced Wolfman Patrick or Bluemoon June where the perceptions of the ‘leadership’ that controlled the room lay. Far more telling than they realized. Everyone but the Harvest-woman looked to the Wolfman. A second later, and the jig would’ve been up.

"None of our experiments are meant to hurt, maim, kill, exact revenge. I wouldn’t enlist the help of such talented people to die—how mortifying the thought—and those grotesque acts—”

“Do you know what’s in the Atrium? What murders, cataclysms, depravities are depicted in those pictures and the symbols they speak of?” Coldman Jason asked.

“We had a clue from the Brochure—”

“What clue, Bluemoon June?”

“You know everyone’s experience with it is different,” she responded.

“Then, given your love of transparency, why does everyone ever mention the Detective of it all? At first, I glossed over it and threw it away, but then I really went over—I mean, zero details to explain how this keeps working. And in the atrium, it’s the same thing. Parts of a hundred stories, nothing to construct a plot around. Too concrete in images in my head to not connect....”

“Go on, Iceman Neilson,” the Coldman said.

“That Day six nightmare—I was invited to witness absolute closure. Who I avatar-ed as was said to have saved a planet or a species from extinction. The place was burned to the ground. What if it were a Detective’s case that wrapped up on that night?”

“We’re given clues, never spells, and we’re reading into a Brochure and seeing it more than what we’re looking for,” the Coldman said. “Powerful clues from beyond understanding, yet speaks to us individually. That would mean we’re—”

“Already communing with the beyond,” The Wolfman said. "It hears us."

“The fucking murderers, June?” the Harvest-woman yelled.

“Iceman Nealson, when did this particular kind of dream start, specifically of a detective?”

I remembered, but the oblivious follow-up was putrid. Unstoppable images find death a silly nuisance, and the reaction proves equally as troublesome. Interrupted an entire street of traffic. My slowed, cogs turned to my first encounter with Ripely. I never should’ve called Keith an O.C.D. freak, joking or not. Shawna pushed the cult; he detailed why I changed my mind. “On the bridge I was jumping from, a blink came with a wind shift, pushing against my wishes.”

“What did you say stopped you?” Bluemoon June asked, to everyone’s bewilderment.

“How did it feel? Closure to the meaning of life kind of thing, whispering entrails stretched from the top all the way down for an impossible bass note. Screamed in all three of the discarded pieces by the 18-wheeler slamming on its brakes to grind the meat into the pavement for one long, burned red skid. Eyes open, I was back at the top thinking, nice to be a prophet for a second. Suddenly, it was about the journey—”

“To the end of your line. Alright. Plenty to discuss. Since we have plenty to do, we get to it. We’ll reopen this tomorrow when we have more of the pieces,” Bluemoon June said and opened the door and left.

Thus, today, day 9:

Other things happened after that meeting, but I prefer a shorter word counts, so they will be peppered for rereads when necessary. Wolfman Patrick and Blue Moon June deliberated before sunrise on what they could tell each other to, presumably, call us back to session, now realizing they should’ve had Snowwoman Shawna hear this all along. My wounds were healing well enough for the rulings, and next, my first stratagem for the next experiment. 3 months if Wolfman Patrick gets what he wants. Of course, Harvest-woman April is blaming me for the massive inconvenience. I believe she feels she deserves this swampy hell the least; if only the reclusiveness didn't matter the most. Out of respect, I will not add to the number of times her tale is to be in written form. I will, however, say if we get a new doctor down here, I’m switching over. Coldman Jason and Growing-woman Gwen combed over readings. Since all of their reader, detectors, scratchy do-dads were custom jobs of blended seismograph, hygrometer, spectrometer, in a configuration to measure and download on a single computer, my snooping was, for now, useless. I could’ve sworn I heard a Geiger counter click, but I’ve never knowingly heard it in person. A voltmeter connected to a small monitor, along with an anemometer. Not knowing this behemoth’s set-up did prove a few things. How little effort I put into learning this, and why the Cornmen and women look at me as if I were the spoiled prick at my tenth birthday. (agreed in a way.)

It was organized in the form of a timeline on dot-matrix paper, spread lengthwise down the table. Marked to hell with time stamps written along the multiple squiggly lines. They laid this out and waited for the rest of us to cut it out with the sly remarks and jive jabs. With the Wolfman’s help, he added a few notes to sure-up the audio that goes with them. Funny as I thought it would be, while this was coming, Bluemoon June would open with a brief period of humility. Not an apology, but what she doesn’t put in her very thin journal as standing her ground.

“We didn’t tell you about Keith to prevent delays since his participation would cease after finding the Iceman anyway.”

“You—”

“Shawna as well. You know our reactions have been more vivacious with words,” Bluemoon June said.

“You tell Snow-woman Shawna who killed Keith, and she’ll choose whether she wants to stay,” the Wolfman proclaimed.

“You—”

“She’s not wrong.” Coldman Jason stood, scraping his head on the low ceiling. Other than Bluemoon, his was the only one that did. “His rhythm hit the right frequencies at exact moments that the ambient surroundings filled effortlessly, some cricket or fish tail kick-up. Words be damned if we can focus in on that cadence. Nothing strange to him by the way.”

“So does Shawna want this goal as much as the rest of you?” I asked.

“We will respect her—”

“Of course she doesn’t, Snow-woman, please—oh that’s right; she wasn’t invited—is it a rank thing?” Harvest-woman April said.

“We’re telling the truth, alright? Pressing matter up front; Iceman Neilson’s change to our Stratagem.” Bluemoon June said.

“I don’t think he is of sound mind, although I expect his protest will be all the more proof of the opposite,” the Harvest-woman said, jutting in not a second after Blue Moon finished her statement.

“He’s fine—” Blue Moone June said.

“No, he’s not. Truth to the Moon, a depressed psychotic driving himself insane on purpose—that’s not a state of mind, we’re his psychological self-destruct button. But fine, I’ll cut the dramatics—from his symptoms so far, there’s going to be further disturbance that will worsen with the stressors on him. 'Keep' Shawna. Although she’s going wanna break out of here from your cabin fever alone.” The Harvest-woman April said.

“That’s for them—”

“Can he?” the Harvest-woman began, “I’ve seen what he means, and he doesn’t forget—not a detail. I believe he is suffering greatly, immensely, and that does not include the influence he has—given what’s been done. Since he’s half dead to the world anyway, you’d need anti-psychotics and sedatives, passive and active dosage types, therapies, especially with your high-octane shit show on repeat.”

“Yes. Thus, make them an accomplice, right Bluemoon,” the Growing-woman said.

“Scapegoat in some circles. Given your weekly body count, I didn’t think I’d become a believer or—” I abruptly remembered something that was said and became that weird itch. You know the ones you get when you’re writing or reading fluidly and become trapped in a line break until you realize the grammatical error, then suddenly you’re back on track with a perception shift. Just a new word you missed or misunderstood, and the sentence is replaced before your eyes. Coincidentally, Wolfman Patrick perked up at the same time and blew my mind, asking—

“Harvest-woman April, have you been seeing visions, strange nightmares of the like?”

“I never—”

“Iceman Neilson,” the Wolfman said to my fucking bewilderment. The vibe felt so—hell, feeling a vibe was front page material all of a sudden, the rewriting of my thoughts of this overly optimistic host. It would depend on why. Believing that my mental illness is a toxic aroma rising off my shoulders would be equal to believing the Brochure changed my genre of nightmare.

With a sigh, I said, “You said, ‘I’ve seen what he means,’ not, ‘I’ve read what he means,’” I said to the Harvest-woman. "I'm not contagious, I whispered to myself.

“Last night—” she stopped. No lids could cover her eyes for that brief mountain of a moment spent staring at the floor. Blue Moon June clapped to break her concentration. ‘Truth time,’ she shouted to the Harvest-woman. “I doubt it means any—you can read it in my journal.” That was meant to be a storm-off line, but Wolfman Patrick hadn’t contextualized the Stratagem yet.

“Our next experiment is timed for the second week of September, which leaves us four months to prep, organize the desired result, outcomes, craft the word order, and do our inevitable winter stock up. Bluemoon June will work with Harvest-woman April on needs, on one practical, the other mission-based. Growing-woman Gwen will assist in transcribing his D.C.S. dreams—”

“Nightmares,” I corrected.

“No god damn it, I won’t. No more of those awful things. No offense, your brain fucking hates you.”

“I’m on your side—you see the Q.V.C. informercials?” I answered.

“Your shared work will guide how Coldman Jason and I will put the words to the acts to discover who this living thing, this D.C.S., is,” Wolfman Patrick proclaimed.

“Thus, the answer is plow on through and explain nothing. Nice to see the system works,” I said.

“This system has the same hangups as Congress, same as a trumped labor union, and the corporations stepping on them. Do you know which ones overcome this deficiency?”

“By all means, Wolfman Patrick," I responded.

“They acknowledge their destructive egos and make it work for them unselfishly if they’re intelligent. We have our fair share of Bandits. And you’re wrong about us; only Bluemoon June wants you blind and helpless. None of you are stupid, you open minds are not a crutch here. We take notes diligently for a reason. Any intruding additions?”

A slew of reluctant nods later...

“I have to figure out that not everything here is going public. Where are we drawing the line?”

“And again, I refer to the journals, Growing-woman Gwen,” Wolfman Patrick proclaimed, ending the meeting.

Midday, I was joined by the bar by Cornman Maxwell. His glowing congratulations on my recent promotion came with a handshake in front of two stiff drinks. His introduction included his apprenticeship to Bluemoon June. No pointing doubting that, since he was peacefully handsy like a con artist. In appreciating their fishing expedition, I got a fresh bag of ice to make my eye feel a little better. All these talks don’t quite cover it, so little substance, I refused to waste the time creating a metaphor for everything. They came here to flee some family obligation, hoping a death certificate would slide in place of a body to be free. From what I know about Bluemoon June, she’s just the type to take a man like him, hand him some purpose, security, and compliment him every now and again, and then he'll make magic happen with total impunity. All I saw him accomplish was making me appear approachable. Once Harvestman Jerith called him away and Hare-woman Kath chastised me for the potential contaminants I’m leaking on her bar, the others took a gander at my way.

Corn-woman Cecila stopped by my bunk on Harvest-woman April’s behalf with antibiotics and a quick look at the stitches above my eyebrows. Work completed, her true agenda shone through. She recognized my picture from the back of one of her big sister’s college books. She opened with how pretentious it looked, which is typically the first thing someone comments on when they haven’t read it or don't get it. That used to bother me. I got used to my death talk bumming out a room, the happier I got. Not something I take personally; I know how much it cost me to jump the line. I, of course, tried transparency, curved it to not create another Growing-woman, and included Wolfman Patrick’s thought. This ignited her run-in with the Brochure, despite my never saying it was related.

“…. You don’t think your parents would have such dark secrets, but Mom didn’t kill herself because she was bursting with glee. They couldn’t bear to recognize her room, too busy cursing themselves between trying to squeeze me in the blame there, and there it was, sticking out of her—well, your kind of look. I intended to read the last page she left on, but that tri-folded page just kept—asking, pleading. I thought it was gibberish, but every line meant something I gleamed as fact, no doubts. It’s like it’s not meant to be understood, just nonsensically pleasing, yet the words align just right when you stare—if you get caught staring, I mean. Do you think they want you to find all the messages?”

“I’d say it’s best you circle combinations unbiasedly and see what happens,” I responded.

“Yes. Each paragraph said something, clearly treating the visual spectrum as an afterthought. I found out why Rebecca did what she did. Ten minutes later, I was staring at proof, listening to my sanity plip-plop off my shoulders onto the floor, then I knew what I needed to do. Did it feel that way?”

“To be honest, I was in the boat with the Journalist before I got the kind of feeling off the pamphlet in the boat. I still feel things filing in place like a puzzle I’ve never seen finish before. It doesn’t feel as random as it did before. It never looked like gibberish. I was focused on the map, the way it…”

“The way it what?” she asked.

“I saw the you-are-here point on the map, and I haven’t looked at it since, but I think where we sailed, it kept up. Everywhere we ended up on the back panel, we were in the water, in reference to the island. I was so worried about being lost, I hadn’t thought about it until now. I guessed I was losing it by then.”

A little later that day, I took to the back side of the island to catch up on day eight, where I was interrupted by Cornman Doug, who had snuck off for a smoke. Powering behind me, Hay-woman Donna finally overcomes her undefined or categorized illness and is happily done with bed rest orders. Thirty seconds into our head nod/shrug conversation, reaching its bitter-sweet end, she arrived. Stopping to stretch was the end of our separate tranquility as the Hay-woman could be seen just off the water, hollering her way up the slope through the tree line. Only the moist moss could slow down her rampaging, fist clenched, aggressively walk-stomping to Cornman Doug. When it didn’t, I was shocked that she called me out by name despite my having never seen or spoken to her since I’ve been here. She started with…

“You need to catch me up, right now. Where’s Ron?”

Doug looked at me as I did him, and compiled our morality chess pieces with my signal to the forest and the sky being the first move. His exaggerated puff from his ceremonial lunch fag after surviving one of Hare-woman Kath’s rants from her dead ancestors during the comedown from the excitement. I sucked my teeth and offered him the floor, the center of the softened, flattened, mossy intersection. Hitting me with the pointing to the wristwatch on the hand he smoked with, not even acknowledging that it was the wrong one. All in all, bad move. Donna was cooked, so I broke out the shield breaker— “nice to meet you. I’m checking for the comrades of the moonshine island—”

“He’s working for B.M.J.?” the Hay-woman asked.

“—good thing the shine survived the, join me sometime for a drink and a riot,” I said.

“Ron’s—” then she used her finger to cut throat ear to ear, quick and gently.

“Ah shit,” I uttered.

“They blame him,” Cornman Doug continued.

Her eyes could beat out a samba into the back of my head—I didn’t need to turn around, I could feel it. “Experiment 17 was a success. You got the rest,” The Cornman Doug finished.

“And nothing else?”

“Oh, right, the last two days, I have been reliving the god daman strangest feat of grotesque dehumanizing horror with the worst set of daemons no human should ever set eyes on. Island ate Keith. You heard him; you got the rest.”

Not sure why I did—said that. I wasn’t mad before.

Diner; then bed

Nightmare addition:

I kick open the metal case with my knees until the limbs were loosened up, walls on the left, right, front, and center, and a ceiling for the case's chain. Fuck a floor right, just fall into blueness when the grounds slides late underneath. I roll for miles, estimation made during the glassiest part. Running through the streets like a back alley dumpster porcupine. Am I screaming at the people or laughing at them?

Either way, when I look behind me, starting to notice that I have long hair, and—and I’m racing to the tar pit. Don’t ask how I know from here, but if that thing touches me, the universe will end. END, GOD DAMN YOU. Lucidly sprinting in the wind of an F-5 pissing on a hurricane that chumps out of those levees stuck in the flood’s shadow, it's not the regular clouds, I checked. Coming onto the tip of Key West, the sky-high gelatinous black hole had won the land, so I jumped from the rumble that roared closer. It reached for me, but I sheer cleared every level of atmosphere….at least on my terms, I thought….. Then the point of view flips and slows to 1/100th the speed. It takes roughly thirteen seconds to pass out from lack of oxygen around my everything, except now I watch the face swell quadruple the size as a miracle in science, where the blossoming glassy blood crystals leaving my nostrils, deforming my flesh. Must witness the boiling of the blood in the vein first before they all freeze, but at the same shitting time. The eyes explode, no wonder I’m still screaming? I feel the shock waves of organs bursting with an audible pop, but maybe that was for dramatic effect to fit their limbs still flailing as they become like sugar glass. They--I drift away from my stationary corpse's position, and with some unseen push from whatever, I am back drifting into the Creature Void.