Saturday, March 24, 2018

Boy With a Bear Tattoo: Part 1

My sincerest apologies for entirely neglecting my last post. I meant to give you two blog posts in one week, and didn't post anything Saturday like I said I would Thursday. Life happens sometimes, and while I try to keep my promises, that one fell through the cracks of wedding planning and preparations. I'm sorry. The next time I promise to post more than once in a week, I will do it.

This week and in the weeks to follow, I will endeavor to post a section of a seven-part short story (that is quickly becoming a novelette). It's the rough draft and likely wrought with inconsistencies, so I beg you to plead with me, but over the last couple months, I've entertained the idea of retelling a fairy tale as a writing exercise. I hope having the deadline of frequent blog posts will prove encouragement and pressure enough to finish something for a change. I'll let you try to figure out what fairy tale I'm attempting to retell. I hope you enjoy the first installment of Boy With a Bear Tattoo! And if you don't, please comment why below. I'm always open to hearing constructive criticism.





Boy With a Bear Tattoo: Part One

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Colin strolled the vacant streets of the city, buildings looming overhead, spires jutting into the obsidian sky.
No stars, he thought grimly, and his stomach tightened, the familiar sensation of anxiety pushing through his unconscious. The street lights spaced every so often and the faint glow from all-night coffee houses, the occasional club, and from apartments high above him drowned out the soft, heavenly lights. Colin stuffed his hands in his jacket pockets and continued walking. He missed the stars.
In North Africa they had freckled the night, marking where desert ended and sky began, billions of them in white glory that guarded and protected the men sleeping or patrolling the camp below on the cooling sand.
“Maybe that’s the problem,” he said, withdrawing his hands and grinding the heels of his palms against his closed eyelids until pink and orange sparks shot across his vision, “no stars, no sleep.”
Two months ago, no stars graced the heavens with their presence, and an attack startled Colin and his unit awake, catching them by surprise in the dark hours of the morning. Whatever angelic protection the stars provided failed, and friends and brothers around Colin fell in the lethal hellfire of bullets and shrapnel that rained upon them and tore their flesh to shreds. Shuddering with the memory, he glanced at the black ink bear tattoo on his forearm, the design faint on his brown skin. The light from a street lamp caught the jagged scar splitting the design and it gleamed white and pale.
He would never forget.
His roommates, his brothers, didn’t understand the change and instead complained about how he never accompanied them to the clubs they loved to frequent, those buildings clouded with smoke, the throbbing pulse of bass drums, the people in the shadows lurking and dancing. Colin wondered which one he might find them at tonight if he bothered to search. Nothing from his past brought him joy.
“Losing people changes you,” he tried telling them earlier that evening when he refused their invitation to join them on their cavaliering and weekend revelry.
Jordan had taken a swig of beer and shook his head. “That was months ago, Colin. C’mon, relax. Come with us. Once you’re there, it will all come back to you and you’ll remember how to have fun and enjoy yourself.”
Colin refused again, and waited until Jordan and Allen left their shared apartment before throwing on his coat and venturing out into the night to clear his head and fill his lungs with fresh air, or as fresh as air tainted with the exhaust from cars and the grease from fast food could be. It smelled and tasted different, a faint yet constant reminder that although he walked the familiar streets of his youth, he was a foreigner, an outsider.
He no longer belonged, he realized with a mild sense of trepidation that chilled his flesh. Not now, not ever. Regardless of how many times he walked the streets to rediscover the old Colin, that person would always elude him. He died in Afghanistan, with the other members of his unit.
Even so, he kept walking, his mind void of a specific destination, and allowed his feet to carry him wherever they wished. Down a curb, across the street, up another curb, along the sidewalk past an alley. Tilting his head at one moment, he glanced at the sky once more as though expecting the angelic lights to suddenly appear, signaling him to return home, to sleep, to rest, but the artificial, orange lights from the city swallowed all traces of the host in the blackened sky.
Colin sighed, and an overwhelming sense of loneliness crept into his heart and tainted his blood, seeping out and coursing through his body.
Then the terrain changed beneath his tennis shoes from hard and cold to spongy and soft. He shook himself from his stupor and looked up.
The stone arch marking the entrance to the city park loomed overhead. Ivy embracing the columns fluttered in the breeze, the rough edges of the leaves scraping the stone, a thousand fingernails faintly scratching.
Colin’s feet planted themselves in the grass, and he stood for a while waiting, watching the ivy swing, listening to the rustle of owls in the trees beyond the arch and to their quarry scurrying through the grass
“You’ve walked through this park a hundred times,” he laughed, but the sound was cheerless and failed to lift his spirits. “What are you afraid of? Owls? Mice? Maybe a bat or two?” Summoning his resolve, Colin uprooted his feet and forced them forward.
No stars, no angels. Welcome to hell, chimed the voice in his head as he passed beneath the archway and entered the park.
Trees creaked above him in the dry wind, their bare branches scratching against each other and every now and then sending a flaming leaf fluttering down to the dilapidated sidewalk. They carpeted the cracked concrete, a blanket of crimson, orange, and gold that crunched lightly underfoot. Thorns reached out from the overgrown shrubbery bordering the path, threatening to catch and tear at him.
In the brush, a creature startled and scampered away.
Probably a raccoon or an opossum, Colin thought, quickening his pace. Or, he forced himself to smile, a bunny. Another shape shot through the tree limbs, long and quick as it glided on outstretched wings. An owl, no doubt in pursuit of the creature Colin disturbed.
As he passed by a clearing, in the middle of which sat a broken and waterless fountain and a solitary street lamp emitting a faint, orange glow, Colin noticed a solid shadow slumped over, its back against the curved stone of the basin. He hesitated, and continued walking. Stopped. Took a few steps in the direction away from the man and stopped again. Turning, Colin saw the man as he left him: disheveled and seemingly asleep, a worn and torn jacket pulled tight around his wiry frame, although Colin couldn’t discern the man’s exact build due to the excess of ragged clothes that enveloped him.
With tentative steps, Colin edged toward the man, fearing him dead rather than asleep. His concern deteriorated when he stooped nearer and squinted at the man in the dim light, for the hairs of the man’s grizzled beard quivered with the inhalations and exhalations of his breath, and his chest rose and fell with shallow yet methodical precision.
Should I leave him? Someone else might come along and help him, thought Colin, looking around although he needed no confirmation that he was entirely alone with the stranger and that the odds of someone else walking the path through the park at night and spotting the man were slim.
I’ll wake him. No. he paused. What if he scares, thinks I’m robbing him, and pulls out a knife?
Colin crouched for several moments, his arm half outstretched to rouse the stranger, but an invisible force held him back. Fear. That same pause that overwhelmed him in North Africa during the attack, when instead of darting out, he remained. His friend had not been so cowardly and had run out only to welcome the blast of a grenade. That time, hesitation saved Colin’s life. The scar over the bear tattoo itched.
This isn’t Africa, he decided, and laid a hand on the man’s thin shoulder before fear assumed control again.
Between the grizzled beard and unruly hair, two bright eyes cracked open and fell on Colin. With a shout, the man latched onto the rim of the basin and staggered unevenly to his feet, but as his lungs filled with the cold air, he doubled over and a raspy, heaving cough racked his body.
“Sir,” Colin said calmly, maintaining a safe distance between himself and the stranger. “Sir, are you all right?”
Slowly, the coughs subsided enough for the man to breath. “I shouldn’t be surprised if I lost a lung, but,” he straightened and inhaled deeply, “I’ll manage.”
Colin sighed, relieved, and most of the tension he had harbored seeped out of him. “My apologies to wake you, Sir. I saw you and didn’t know if you were, well—”
“Dead?” the raspy heaves started up anew, and Colin thought another fit overcame the man until he realized that the stranger was laughing. “I should be so lucky. Too sick to work, too sick to travel around like I used to, but not sick enough to die. It’s ironic, really, but then again, what would you know, young man in his prime such as yourself.”
“More than you think,” Colin muttered.
The dark eyes narrowed. “Why are you out so late, and in this park of all the places?”
“Couldn’t sleep. When I can’t sleep, I walk.”
“Soothes the voices,” the man nodded. “Calms the flames.”
“Beg your pardon?” asked Colin, bewildered.
“The guilt, the shame, the loss and anguish,” he bobbed his head, glancing Colin over before remarking, “You’ve seen war.”

              Colin blinked. “How can you tell?”
              “Experience,” he said, “and it’s still fresh on you. You have that look in your eye, as though you’re here, but you’re not really here, you know? Haunted is how I’ve heard it described. Haunted by the ghosts of people you couldn’t save and people you didn’t save.” He sat on the rim and beckoned Colin follow suit.

“Let me tell you something,” the man said. “It isn’t your fault. And I know it’s hard to admit, but those souls, those people, they were destined to die at their time. Nothing you did or didn’t do made it happen, understand? I’ve spent half a lifetime blaming myself for deaths that weren’t my fault.” He laughed again. “Lost my family, friends, job, and my home because I couldn’t escape my head long enough to live. You’ll never flee from that devil, but you can quiet him.”
They sat in silence for a time, listening to the screeches of distant owls and the faint fluttering of bats as they dove in and out of the orange light, chasing insects and gorging their bellies before hibernating for the oncoming winter.
“Do you have a name?” asked Colin after a while.
“Samael,” the stranger replied, “Sam to my friends.”
“Is that what we are?”
A slow, sly grin crept over Sam’s face, and his dry, cracked lips parted to reveal teeth in remarkable condition for a homeless man. “That depends.”
“Depends?” Colin shifted, the bench growing cold and hard beneath his legs, and he stood. On impulse, he studied the road on either side of him, exploring the shadows with his gaze but noticed nothing to warrant his concern or suspicions. He’s a sick homeless man. What can he do to you? He crossed his arms, making his shoulders as broad as possible and allowing his size to speak for him, hoping to prevent any altercation before it began. Plenty, sang the intruding voice, ever suspicious, ever afraid. “This is terribly cliché,” he said, and laughed at the ridiculousness of it all.
“I thought so,” chuckled Samael, “but what can I say? I couldn’t help myself. Was a theater student in high school, and I guess I never grew out of that flare for the dramatic.” He turned toward Colin and extended his hand. “Call me Sam.”
“Good to meet you,” Colin took his hand and shook it, finding Sam’s grip stronger than he anticipated. When he tried to pull away, Sam’s fingers tightened around his own.
“You got a name?” he inquired, his tone low and his eyebrows arched quizzically.
“Colin. Just Colin.”
“Well Colin,” Sam released him and leaned away, “I may have a solution to your problem.”
“Sleeping pills?”
“No.”
“Therapy?” Colin guessed a second time. “Because I tried that. Helped me work through surviving but didn’t help...everything else.”
“No, not therapy either.”
“What then?” Colin yawned involuntarily, his body warning him to return home to sleep. By this time, it must be after midnight. He patted his pockets for his phone to check the time, but realized he left it at his brothers’ apartment. If Sam had been dead, he realized with a start, I couldn’t have called 911. Or if he stabbed me… with that, he banished his thoughts to the back of his brain.
“Travel the country for, oh, say seven or eight months. However long it takes you, that’s up to you, but you can only use the cash present in your jacket pocket. Nothing more. It’s been my experience that we learn thankfulness by knowing poverty. We learn more than just thankfulness, but I’ll let you figure that out by yourself. Some buddies of mine tried that method too at some point in their lives when they arrived at a crossroads and their ghosts returned.”
“Did it work for them?”
“Yep.”

              “You’re asking me to be homeless by choice?” asked Colin, his jaw slackening as he mulled over the possibility of hitchhiking America for the better part of a year. It seemed impossible. Then again, he could use a road trip and a fresh start. If he used what money he saved away in the bank sparingly and only purchased necessities, he could survive.
              “I agree,” said Colin before the doubt set in and he reconsidered. “If nothing else, a road trip might put my soul at ease,” he grinned halfheartedly.

“When you come back—if you do come back—find me. I can’t travel anymore, but I want to hear about your trip and more importantly, what you learned from it.”
“As soon as I put my things in order—”
“Go.”
“But—”
“Go. No second thoughts,” a wild gleam entered Sam’s eyes, “otherwise the ghosts will drag you down to hell with them.”
“Okay,” Colin quelled the urge to argue. “When the bank opens, I’ll withdraw what money I have and set out afterward.”
Sam caught hold of his arm and forced Colin to meet his stare. “You promise?”
Every muscle in Colin’s body tensed, and he fought against the voices compelling him to fight, or at least shake off the old man. “I promise. Tomorrow morning, I’ll walk to the bank, withdraw every cent I own, stuff it all into my jacket pocket, and then walk to the nearest highway. I’ll hitchhike if I have to. No plans, no maps.”
“Good,” Sam’s vice loosened, and he sighed. “One word of advice, Colin.”
“What’s that?”
“They never leave you, not completely. Those ghosts, those souls you carry with you. They never truly leave. You learn to quiet them, to ignore them, but they’re always there, so don’t expect my method to take them from you.”
Colin nodded, his thoughts pensive. “I understand. When I return, I’ll find you.” He stood and prepared to leave. The wind, bearing the bite of the oncoming winter, rattled the branches of the trees encircling the clearing, sending shadowy leaves raining upon the ground. Glancing at Sam, Colin noted once more the ragged tears in the man’s coat and realized that with harsh weather approaching and nothing to protect him from the elements, Sam might succumb to his illness before Colin returned.
“Here,” he shrugged off his coat and offered it to Sam. “Yours for mine, as payment for your advice.”
              “If I was a younger, prouder man, I might refuse, but seeing as I’m not, I’ll accept your generous offer,” Sam grinned slyly and removed his own tattered jacket, once brown but now streaked black with wear, before taking Colin’s and slipping his arms through the sleeves. It hung somewhat loosely overtop the couple of faded flannel shirts Sam wore, and for the briefest moment, Colin worried that Sam’s would be too small; however, when he tried it on, it fit perfectly. In his younger days, Colin realized, Sam likely was not as thin and wiry as the man who now stood before him. Homelessness and illness had obviously taken their tolls.
              After seven months, how might I be changed? Colin wondered, apprehension gnawing at his gut and twisting his insides.
              “Be gone with you,” Sam urged. “Find me.”
              Shaking Sam’s hand in farewell, Colin asked, “How?”
              “Come back to this park.”
              “That’s it?”
              “That’s it. Goodnight. And good luck.”
              A smile tugged at Colin’s lips. “Another dramatic cliché.”
              Spreading his arms wide to his sides, Sam laughed. “See? It never left. Parts of you never do, no matter how hard you try to hide them. They’re always there, below the surface.”
              “I’ll remember that,” said Colin softly as he began toward the path. “Goodbye.”



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Did you figure out what fairy tale I loosely based this off of? Comment your guesses below!
Thank you for reading, and in two Saturdays, I promise that, unless some tragedy strikes, I will post the next installment of Colin's journey. Happy weekend!

~Abigail

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