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?Mind if I sit here??
Colin Stamper turns the page of his book. He can't imagine the question is directed at him. No one ever wants his company. And the feeling is mutual, he tells himself.
?Ohmygod! There's a spider on your shoulder,? says the voice. He decides to engage, just in case. The only thing worse than smalltalk, is spiders. He glances at his shoulders, thankful they are both spider-free, then raises his eyes to the person beside his table, irritated.
?I thought that might get your attention,? the grinning woman says. ?May I sit?? She scrapes out a chair and plops down, not waiting for his response. Colin's intestines writhe with menace ? the unfortunate side effect of any human interaction. It is exacerbated by the fact that she is striking. Her mahogany eyes are pressed into a milky face, above her plum-painted, smiling mouth.
He curses not having taken his latte to go. Sitting in public places can be an invitation to socialize. But it is a lesson learned too late, and now the exit door seems to be retreating towards the horizon.
?Whatcha reading?? she asks. Her eyes seem to point to the book that trembles in his hands, before they bore back into him.
He dog-ears his page, then turns the cover in her direction. This is better than trying to speak the title, which would likely have been unintelligible, should he have attempted it.
She coos. ?Ooh, I haven't read that one yet.? A jet black curtain of hair spills before her left eye as she leans forward to examine the cover art. ?What do you think??
I think you're exquisite, Colin muses, but he knows she's talking about the book. ?It ? It's a real page-turner.?
She tosses her head back in laughter. ?That's perfect!? Collecting herself, she adds, ?That's my name: Paige. I guess that book would really turn me, eh?? She takes a pull from the straw in her iced coffee, and gives him an expectant raise of her eyebrows.
Colin descends into analysis. Great, I guess now it's my turn to speak. Think, Colin. What would be a clever thing to say right now? I can't think of anything! God, why did I stay in here? She's going to think I'm an idiot.
?I won't think that,? she says. ?Whatever you're thinking I'd be thinking, you're wrong. Yeah, I can see the wheels turning in there,? she taps her temple. ?Look, um ? Sorry, what is your name??
Colin swallows in a futile attempt to wet his vocal cords, then croaks, ?Colin.?
?Well, Colin,? she says, mimicking his strained pronunciation, ?I have a proposition for you. I can see that this,? she gestures between them, ?is all a bit ? awkward for you So what would you say if I told you I can make it easier??
?Are you saying that??
Paige rummages in the large satchel slung across her body. ?Ah, here we are.? She extracts a small bottle of semi-opaque brown glass, and sets it on the table between them. Inside it are what appear to be small, white pills. ?Take one,? she says.
Colin twists the cork from the bottle and looks inside. Three pills rattle in the bottom as he turns it in his hand. ?Right. Take a strange pill from a stranger. This is a joke, right??
?Colin,? she says, ?I promise it isn't anything nefarious. It's not drugs. Just take one, and you'll see.?
He shakes a pill out of the bottle into his hand and rolls it around. The squat, cylindrical pill ? the size and shape of a pencil eraser ? has no markings. The surface is chalky and irregular. ?What does it do??
?It's a gesture more than anything,? says Paige. ?You won't regret it.? She watches him with wide eyes as he raises his hand towards his mouth. She nods and leans forward in her seat.
Colin doesn't want to appear cowardly. What's the worst that could happen? He pops his palm against his lips, and the bitter pill tumbles into his throat. After he washes it down with a swig of his caramel latte, he sits back in his seat to await the punchline of what must certainly be a prank. Why else would a beautiful woman want anything to do with him?
Paige, however, looks only relieved.
?Now what?? he asks. And his voice echoes in his skull. Now what? Now what? Now what? And as his words careen through his thoughts, his vision's periphery collapses. The woman before him begins to dissolve into transparency as the whole world dims. His pulse quickens. He tenses. ?What's happening?? What's happening? What's happening? What's happening?
Then there is nothing but blackness.
***
?Closing up in ten,? says a voice, jolting Colin awake. There is a sullen teenage boy dragging a mop across the floor behind the counter. It is dark out, and Colin taps his phone to discover that it is close to midnight. He's been sitting here for nine hours ? evidently asleep. To his surprise, all his belongings are right where he'd left them. He must have dreamt that whole nonsense with the woman and the pill. But the half-empty large latte in front of him has become his more pressing concern.
?Bathroom?? he says, rising.
The teen groans through gritted teeth. ?I just cleaned it.? Nevertheless, he points to the back of the coffee shop, and Colin hobbles towards it on hasty feet. It feels like it's going to be a photo finish.
A tide of relief cascades all the way to Colin's extremities as he lets loose at the urinal, and he shivers.
?Thank God. I thought you'd never wake up,? says Paige's voice, making him jump and miss his target. He grimaces. That teen will be out for blood when he finds this mess.
?Paige? This is the men's room, you know.? In his compromising situation, Colin can only crane his neck, looking for where she might be hiding.
?You can say that again,? he hears. ?Very nice.? It sounds as if she's right next to him, but again a scan of his surroundings shows he is alone.
He hunches closer to the porcelain. ?A little privacy would be nice.?
?Well, I would, but ?.?
?But what?? He shakes off and zips up. The sensor on the urinal triggers it to flush.
?How can I explain this?? She hums while he washes his hands. Again it sounds like she's humming right into his ears, but no one is in the mirror besides him. ?Colin, I'm in you.?
Colin chuckles. ?What ? you mean you're into me? Like, you like me??
?Not into. In. I am inside you.?
?Very funny. OK, where are the cameras? I knew this was some kind of prank! You know, I don't appreciate ?.?
?Shut up and listen to me, Colin,? Paige says. Something in her voice compels him to obey. ?I may not have been completely honest with you about that pill,? she says.
?Yeah. No shit. What was that, LSD??
?Didn't I tell you to shut up?? Colin feels his mouth clamp closed. ?Look, here's the deal. I'm possessing you, all right? I'm a ghost, or whatever you want to call it. I died. Years ago. And now I'm in you. Got it??
Colin struggles to open his mouth, but only mumbles.
?Sorry,? Paige says, relaxing his jaw. ?You can talk now.?
Colin decides he is imagining things. That pill must have been some powerful hallucinogenic for the manifestations to extend into his own muscle control. He splashes his face with water. ?Just have to wait for this to wear off,? he whispers. ?Then I'll be OK.?
?I guess you still don't get it, do you?? Paige says. ?That pill was nothing but a piece of chalk. It was symbolic. I can only get in when someone trusts me.?
Colin pinches his fingers over his eyes. ?Snap out of it, Colin.?
Paige groans. ?So you want to do this the hard way, huh? OK.? He feels his hand raise beside his face, and then it slaps his cheek. ?I did that. Still don't believe me??
?What the hell was in that pill?? he says. His hand raises again, and he fights with it, but it's no use. It slaps him again. Hard. ?Cut it out!?
?Need another? Look, I've got all night, but I bet that barista wants to get the hell out of here, and he still has to clean up your piss.?
?OK, let's assume for a minute that I'm not going crazy, and you're ? in me. I guess my first question is, why? What do you want from me??
?What do I want?? Paige laughs. ?That's easy. I want to party!?
***
They hear the thumping bass from two blocks away. The rave is still pounding well into the wee hours of the morning. This is the absolute last destination on Earth that Colin Stamper would ever have been headed towards, but Paige's enthusiasm is like an aggressive infection. He feels his pulse begin to match the techno trance rhythm, and involuntarily syncs his footsteps with the driving beat.
Paige whoops in his ears. ?Now you're getting it!?
?Hey. Can you not? I'm right here, you know. I'll probably go deaf in there anyway, so I don't need your help.?
?Oh phoo. You're going to love it. Trust me. But first we need to do something about this.? His hand grabs a fistful of his polo shirt.
?Hey! Take it easy, this shirt was expensive.?
?Yeah, and if you walk in there wearing it, you're going to look like an idiot. Take it off.?
?Are you crazy? I'm not going into a rave shirtless!?
?Why not? I bet half the people in there are already shirtless. Men and women.?
?I'm just not, OK? I'm putting my foot down.?
?No you're not,? Paige giggles, as he finds himself compelled to lift his feet and kick them in awkward angles, hopping and skipping down the deserted streets of the marina. ?Ministry of Silly Walks? Colin here. I'd like to a government grant to develop my walk, please.?
?Will you stop that?? Colin shouts, struggling to walk normally.
?Take it off, Colin, or I will.?
?Fine ? I'll take off my shirt. Just, let me walk right please.? He feels control of his limbs return. ?Thank you? His face flushes red as he pulls off his shirt on the city sidewalk. ?There. Happy??
?Now the pants.?
?Oh, come on!?
Paige laughs. ?You're too easy. Hurry up! I want to dance!? Colin finds himself jogging, shirtless, towards an overnight rave, while inside he's both petrified and mortified. And yet, the cool nighttime breeze on his bare chest is exhilarating, as is the novelty of the situation. Still, he'd have much preferred to be holed up in his apartment with his latest read.
?By the way, I thought all women hated Monty Python,? he says, as he walks in step with the bass that now practically lifts him off the ground with each thump.
?Oh-ho, sounds like someone wants to buy an argument,? Paige says through a laugh, and he plunges through the door.
***
Dawn is breaking when he files out of the marina warehouse with hundreds of exhausted ravers. He has locked arms with two young women, one on either side. On his left, Candy (if that really is her name) is sporting a tie-dye leotard with furry pink boot covers that come up to her knees. On his right is ?Pikachu,? dressed in a neon yellow jumpsuit with bell-bottoms and a tail kinked like a lightning bolt.
?Let's go on an adventure!? says Candy, with a glint in her blue eyes. Pikachu jumps up and down, her bobbed hair bouncing in the dawn.
?Yes, Colin,? says Paige, ?who's up for an adventure?? He knows only he can hear her. He also knows that arguing with her will be pointless. For the last four hours he has done a thousand little things he'd never have dreamt of ? not the least of which was to dance, shirtless, within a writhing mass of flesh. Ravers of every permutation of sex, gender, race, and age, in various stages of undress ? and in various stages of chemical intoxication ? had gyrated and rubbed against him as Paige gesticulated through him, whooping and laughing the whole time. After the initial embarrassment of it all, though, he had to admit it had been quite the thrill ride.
Colin finds himself saying, quite out of his control, ?Let's get ice cream cones and run through the fountain at the park!? He winces from the ensuing stereo squeals ? one in each ear, and one inside his own head.
The trio (foursome?) are now soaked from their fountain romp, where they'd been chased off by a whistle-blowing constable. They make their way to the docks. There are fishmongers there, slinging their catch, and they convince the burly men to give each of them a turn. They laugh as they fumble with the slimy, slippery creatures, fresh from the sea. Finally, they rinse off at the seashore, and collapse onto the sand, holding hands.
?You're so much fun, Colin,? says Pikachu. He feels joy well up in his chest, but then it deflates, because he knows it's not really Colin she's speaking to. He wonders if Paige can hear his thoughts. He's out of his element. Out of his depth. He's an imposter. A false adventurer. Candy and Pikachu, now dozing in the salt-air, warmed by the mid-morning summer sun, deserve someone genuine. Someone like them. He remembers why he doesn't go out and try to socialize like this. It's because he's always faking it the whole time, and he doesn't deserve the contentment he feels right now.
?I bet I know what you're thinking,? says Paige, ?and you're wrong, you know.?
?Paige, I ?? he says.
?Shush. Now listen to me. I may not know you, but I know you better than you think. I was a lot like you. You wear your introversion like a suit of armor, but it doesn't serve you the way you believe it to. Who do you think those people were, in that rave? Who do you think Candy and Pikachu are? Right now you're probably thinking this is their real life, and that you're some intruder ? someone not like them. But that's only because you never bothered to ask. They could both be someone just like you. Someone just like everyone else ? a little lost, a little scared, and not just a little bit starved like you are for some life. Who's to say they both didn't get dragged to that rave kicking and screaming like you did?? She giggles, ?Literally kicking, in your case.?
Colin chuckles.
?Everyone at that rave is just another person, trying to make the best of their brief hour upon the stage. I bet a lot of them are as closed off as you most of the time, but they found a way to open that door a crack once in a while. And you can too. That doesn't make you an imposter. On the contrary, it means you belong. That doesn't mean you have to go lose yourself at a rave in order to live. It just means, live a little ? take off that armor once in a while, and you might just be surprised to find you don't need it.?
Colin stands up and walks to the seashore. He lets the tide wash over his feet, while mole crabs tickle his toes, and seagulls shriek to and fro on thermal currents. ?How did you die,? he asks Paige, ?if you don't mind saying??
Paige is silent for a moment. The sounds of the ocean ebb and flow like breaths. ?Let's just say I'm making up for the life I never lived.? Then before his eyes, in the ocean mist, Paige materializes. Her eyes are wet with tears. She reaches for his hands and holds them tight in hers. He hadn't noticed until now the long scars running lengthwise up her arm. ?I learned too late how precious life is.? She leans in and kisses his cheek, then whispers in his ear, ?But I'm pretty sure you're going to be OK.?
Colin swallows the lump in his throat. ?Is this the last time I'll see you??
?I'll always be up there,? she says, tapping her temple, ?but I'm never going out with you again.? She turns to head up the beach, dissipating like the sea mist. ?You walk too funny.?
Colin Stamper smiles.
Mondays
I wake up with a start, not remembering anything from my dream except a countdown: three hours remaining. My eyes dart around the bedroom, bringing myself into reality. Just a dream.
Shaking off the thought, I swing myself out of bed, my feet touching the frosty hardwood floors. Maybe the countdown is the amount of time left of this Toronto cold snap. I chuckle, deciding to tackle this holiday Monday morning with the best attitude.
I grab my morning robe and slip it on along with my bunny slippers, a late Christmas gift from my mom five years ago. At least for her, a late Christmas gift is better than no Christmas gift. It has been three years since she's forgotten to wish me a Merry Christmas or even bother to send a gift.
Brushing aside thoughts of my mom, I try to stay cheery while rushing from my room and towards the thermostat. The temperature reads eighteen degrees Celsius. This damn apartment can never heat above twenty degrees in the winter and never cool below twenty degrees in the summer. This is my punishment for moving out of my mom's house when I finished university into an old rundown apartment building where only recluse and cats live. If they haven't all frozen to death yet, that is. I recall how she would never allow me to have dolls or Legos since the clutter would clash with her minimalist Scandinavian styled home.
Scowling over the thoughts of my mom, I shuffle towards the kitchen, thinking that maybe a good old cup of coffee can cheer me up. I grab the carafe and dump last night's coffee into the sink. While filling up the carafe with water, I throw out the old grounds and scoop fresh ones, filling the room with a sweet hazelnut and cream scent. I read the time on the coffee machine as it flashes its blue LED light: two hours and forty-three minutes remaining.
The carafe slips from my hands and crashes to the floor, shattering into a mosaic of cheap crystals.
Shaking my head, I read the time again: 9:35 AM. I must be tired, or too cold to function. I sigh, not even bothering to drop the remains of the carafe handle in the garbage. My mom would lecture me about keeping things tidying if she saw this mess.
Gingerly, I find the least dangerous path out of the kitchen. A nice hot shower is better than coffee any day.
I trapes to the bathroom and start the water for the shower, running it as hot as it will go. In this apartment, that means a lukewarm temperature in both winter and summer. I place my hand under the stream and it feels chillier than usual. Damn cold snap messing with the pipes. The one nice thing about living with my mom was hot water on-demand. I could take hot showers until the bathroom steam started filling the whole upstairs and mom would complain about me peeling her paint from all the humidity. On cold days like today, I almost wished I stayed with her instead of finding my own place. Almost.
I brush my hair but cry out. Two hours and twenty minutes remaining reads the brush handle. I rub the handle and the text returns to its original brand: Wavy Curlz. I must be seeing things.
Sighing, I shrug off my robe and remove my clothes, hopping into the shower before I can change my mind. Though the water was cool, it has decent pressure. A poor trade-off but I can't complain. I grab the shampoo bottle which slips from my hands and bashes onto my big toe.
Swearing, I feel my toe balloon twice its size while still wrapped within its skin. I bend down to grab the bottle and finish this arctic shower as soon as possible, pouring shampoo into my hand and slathering it into my hair. A nickel size glob trails down my forehead and into my eyebrow. I try to swipe it away with a suds-covered hand but only make the glob move faster. I see the same countdown on the shower curtain from the corner of my eye: two hours and eleven minutes remaining. Before I even had time to register, the glob falls straight into my left eye, burning upon impact and clearing my mind.
Upon instinct, I close my eye, sealing the shampoo inside. I try rubbing my eye under the stream of tepid water, but only result in spreading the shampoo and additional suds under the lid and around my eye. The burning becomes more intense, like thousands of needles stabbing my eye.
Reaching out of the shower to grab my towel, I feel around the towel bar and its hard metallic shape, hoping to scrub the chemicals out of my eyes with my last dry towel. I shift my weight to extend me reach when another shampoo globs glides under my left foot, sliding me off balance.
My torso falls on the outside of the tub, crashing over the lip while my legs fly up into the air. I try to steady myself by grasping the closest thing at hand: the shower curtain. I clench onto the fabric and my body slows for half a second before I hear the nails holding the curtain bar to the wall rip out of the drywall. I fall amongst the cloud of curtain, bar, and drywall dust, my head hitting the floor before my vision goes black.
I wake up to cold water puddling on the floor, and my torso tangled in the shower curtain. I sit up, my sight spinning in circles as the back of my head throbs. I peer into the fabric of the curtain but it remains blank. The countdown is gone. At least the shampoo is no longer burning my eye.
Cautiously, I get back into the curtain-less shower and rinse the shampoo from my hair, being careful to avoid the bump at the back of my head. Shivering, I shut off the water and get out, not even bothering to use the soaked towel on the floor. I glance into the mirror. Twenty-nine minutes remaining reads the font in the center of the mirror. I couldn't have been unconscious for more than an hour, could I?
Dismissing the thought, I stumble into my room, pulling on the first clothes I find: mysteriously stained sweat-pants and a three-day old top that smells like the musty corner of my closet Whatever, its not like I'm going to be seeing anyone today, let along my mom. If she saw the state her gifted designer clothes were in, she would disown her only child.
Though tempted to lay down on my rumbled sheets and sleep the day away, I decide to suffer the pain from my head and go find some breakfast. Fortunately for me, the shattered carafe lays at the far end of the kitchen, not blocking the fridge or stove. Things are looking up.
I open the fridge with high hopes, but they plummet like a high-rise diver at his first competition. I was supposed to go grocery shopping a few days ago, and all that is in my fridge were crusty bottles of condiments, a bag of wilted parsley, some old leftover Chinese food, and a few eggs I got when I thought I could be hip and buy eggs straight from the farms. At least it's a breakfast food.
I pull the bowl of eggs out and hunt for a frying pan only to realize, that it lay, freshly washed, on the other side of the floor of shattered glass. I guess a pot will have to do.
Warming my only pot on the electric stove, I drizzle some oil and crack the first egg, dripping egg whites on the pot's side and onto the stove top to join crumbs and grease from weeks of cooking. As I separate the shell, the same text appears upon the white surface of the egg: seven minutes remaining. My hands tense and crush the egg, splattering both the whites and yolk in a blended ooze. Damn countdown, messing up my breakfast.
I grab the last egg and crack it carefully this time, trying to achieve the perfect fried egg. I press my fingernails into the cracks to break it apart, but nothing flows out. I pull it apart further, cracking the shell into two when a solid mass plops onto the oil and starts sizzling like meat. A lanky mass of flesh lay on the pan, the beginning of a baby chick.
Vomit forces its way to my mouth. Attempting to rush over to the sink results in glass piercing the bottom of my foot. I crash to my knees on the edge of ring of shattered glass and vomit onto the floor.
As I continue to vomit on the floor, the doorbell rings with two sharp presses. I try to answer but end up vomiting up the last of the bile in my stomach. Two minutes and thirty-three seconds remaining, reads the floor.
I stagger to my feet, leaving a small splattering of blood with every step I take. This apartment looks like a crime scene.
The doorbell rings again, but this time, it sounds two long presses. As I limp out of the kitchen I yell, ?I'm coming.?
I reach the long hall to the front door and texts jump off the wall. One minute and forty-nine seconds remaining, reads the right side. One minute and forty-seven seconds remaining, reads the left wall. Trying to ignore the bombardment of my hallucinations, I continue down the hall, one hand pressed up on the drywall for support, the other around my stomach. One minute and thirty seconds remaining.
I reach the door and mutter curses at the genius who thought it would be a good idea to add three additional locks to the front door. Who would even bother breaking in to this dump? I unlock the dead bolt first, then my fingers fumble twice on both the chain locks. I swear under my breath.
Forty-eight seconds remaining. The countdown becomes internal, mocking my own inadept ability to open a front door. Thirty-five seconds remaining. The last lock is an external deadbolt, thank goodness, and it twists easily.
I open the door and there stands my mother, dolled up in her black winter wool dress and timberland winter boots which still have a small dusting of snow. Her tiny body is wrapped in her black trench coat, tied at the waist since belting it would be a crime against Torontonian fashion. As per usual, her makeup is done-up even during the most unprecedented cold snap. Foundation, blush, bronzer, eyeshadow along with the trending cat winged eyeliner and mascara. Her hair is styled straight and spiking in its short pixie cut. She looks the same as she did five years ago.
Nineteen seconds remaining.
Hunched over the doorway, I gawk at my mom. How the hell did she know to pick today out of all days to come over for the first time in five years to see my new place? She must have a sixth sense. I imagine the state of the kitchen with piece of glass, stains of blood, and vomit all over the floor with the remains of an unfortunate breakfast on the stove. I outwardly cringe at the thought of the bathroom and the soaked flooring, broken rod, and ripped out drywall.
Seven seconds remaining.
?Well, I hope you don't always gawk at all your visitors at your doorway,? my mom speaks in her emphasized voice, highlighting everything I did wrong. ?I swear, Shauna, you grow ruder with each passing day you spend in this dump you call an apartment.?
Four seconds remaining.
She pushes past me and struts down the hallway. With my back turned, I hear her gasp and drop her Chanel purse onto the floor as she appraises the mess.
Zero seconds remaining.
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