Cursed Page 9

2. Looks at his hand, with those I-don’t-know-what-got-into-me eyes.

  3. Says, “Christ, Nickels. I just fucking regressed because of you. Fuck.”

  4. Walks away.

  And I let him go.

  I don’t want to, really. I want to run after him and apologize for every moment of pain I caused, even if it takes all night, so that I can forgive myself a little more.

  But I can’t.

  I recognize the cowboy’s:

  1. Voice

  2. Face.

  I don’t remember:

  1. His name.

  2. How I know him.

  3. Anything else.

  If Gordon’s right, and I’ve subconsciously constructed my own personal road to redemption, I don’t think I’ll ever make it home again.

  #25

  Today, i wake up to a nightmare.

  On the answering machine:

  1. Greg says, “I don’t know what you were on last night, but if you ever speak to my wife that way again, I’m going to kill you. I’m not kidding around. Stay away from my family.”

  2. Sol says, “You shouldn’t have said what you said, Nicholas. Brienda listened to the message before I did. I wish she never had to hear you that way. I told her that you’re a different person when you drink, but she’s afraid of you. And if I’m going to be honest with you, Nicholas, I’m afraid too. The things you said. I’ve never heard you say such terrible things. I hope you understand that Brienda and I don’t want you in our home until you get help. I love you, son.”

  3. I say, “Hey Gordon. I feel bad about what happened between us yesterday. You called me crazy, which I find ironic, considering that you’re a fucking cripple who jacks off every night thinking about serial killers. Now let me give you a little perspective. The reason you can’t get a date isn’t because you’re blind and people don’t like that. You’re just so fucking ugly, no one in their right mind would—”

  I delete the message.

  Gordon steps into the living room. “Did you say something, Nick?”

  “Did you listen to the messages yet?” I say, fast.

  “No. I just woke up. Hence the pajamas.”

  “Do you remember what I did here last night?”

  “You worked on some plush art. Then you went to sleep.”

  “You don’t remember anything else?”

  He rubs his eyes. “Well, I remember you avoiding me, but I’m guessing that’s not what you’re worrying about.”

  “Gordon, I’m—”

  The theme song from CSI interrupts me.

  “Is that my phone in your room?” Gordon says.

  “I don’t know,” I say.

  “Did you borrow it?”

  “I don’t know.”

  We head into the room, but the music stops before we can pinpoint the location.

  “I’ll call from the house phone,” Gordon says.

  I stare at my mole until the music starts up again. The sound seems to be coming from:

  1. Under my bed.

  And more specifically:

  2. The sumo wrestler under my bed.

  And even more specifically:

  3. The sumo wrester’s stomach.

  “Did you find it?” Gordon says.

  “I think so,” I say.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I need some scissors.”

  I:

  1. Make my way to my workstation on the living room floor.

  2. Cut open the crude stitches on the sumo’s stomach.

  3. Stick my shaking hand into his polyfil guts.

  4. Pull out the phone.

  5. Check the dialed calls from last night.

  Starting at about 1AM, someone called:

  1. Sol.

  2. Karl.

  3. Nadia.

  4. The house phone here.

  I don’t see Cicely’s number listed, so a small wave of relief ripples in my gut.

  “Here,” I say, crackle, and hand over the phone. “Sorry about that.”

  “Are you alright?” Gordon says.

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Do you want to talk about it?”

  I don’t say, “Not with you.”

  Instead, I say, “I’m sorry about avoiding you. I know you only wanted to help.”

  “Jesus fuck, Nick,” Gordon says. “How many times are you gonna apologize after I disrespect you? I have no right to force advice on anybody. Sometimes I can be such an asshole.”

  “That’s true. You’re a nice asshole though.”

  “Thanks. Anyway, I’m sorry about giving you my opinions without your consent.”

  “It’s alright. And for the record, I think you might be right about me. I may be going nuts.”

  “I never said nuts.”

  “Well, that’s what you meant.”

  “OK, maybe I did. But there’s nothing wrong with going nuts. It just means you’re a human being in a fucked up world.”

  “I guess so.”

  “I’m always here for you, Nick, if you ever need to shoot the shit. Or the breeze. I’m versatile.”

  “Thanks.”

  “You wanna join me for breakfast?”

  “Actually, I think I’m gonna go for a while. I need to figure some stuff out.”

  “Alright. Good luck.” And his words came out soft and serious, as if he knows how unlucky I feel. Maybe he does.

  Then I:

  1. Pinch myself before I go, just in case.

  2. Don’t wake up.

  I ring the doorbell and I’m afraid Cicely’s going to:

  1. Release her fury and grim passion.

  2. Slap me.

  3. Punish me.

  Instead, she opens the door, and smiles. She says, “Hi hon.”

  Inside, I see an ant with a cybernetic thorax, serenading a piece of burnt toast in a kilt. And I see a Cyclops and an Eskimo on a trampoline tickling each other in mid air.

  In other words:

  1. Cicely hasn’t stopped painting.

  2. The world is right in the living room again.

  It’s my world that’s wrong.

  “I hope I didn’t wake you,” I say, because Cicely’s wearing duck pirate pajamas.

  “Well, I don’t want to lie to you, hon,” Cicely says, and scratches the top of her head with the tennis ball. “I was sleeping. On the plus side, I was just dreaming about talking to you, so thanks to you I get to live the dream. Except now you don’t have spaghetti hair, and you’re not wearing your birthday suit.”

  At this point, molten lava might be pumping through my face instead of blood. “I was naked?”

  “No, it was just a special suit that you wear on your birthdays. It was made of turkey jerky. I thought that was a weird choice for a vegan, but I didn’t say anything. Shall we sit?”

  We sit.

  And maybe I look as broken as I feel.

  Because after a moment, Cicely says, “What happened?”

  “Did I call you last night?” I say.

  “No.”

  “Did I leave a message on your machine? You haven’t checked yet. Could you check? If there’s a message, please don’t listen to it. Just erase it, OK?”

  “OK,” she says, soft.

  “Could you check right now?”

  “OK.”

  When she’s gone, I:

  1. Bite my fingernails.

  2. Notice the origami animals hanging from the ceiling.

  “There weren’t any messages,” Cicely says.

  “Really?” I say, relieved.

  “Really truly. What happened last night?”

  “I don’t know exactly. I can’t remember.”

  “Are you OK?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I shouldn’t have asked that, because I know you’re not OK. Either something really bad happened and you forgot to get dressed this morning, or you’re here for an eleventh hour slumber party. Which is it?”

  I:

  1. Look down at my boxers.
<
br />   2. Consider challenging her to a pillow fight.

  3. Say, “It’s not important. I’d better go.”

  I don’t want to, really. I want to tell her everything.

  But maybe this curse isn’t as simple as I thought.

  Maybe people are given the power to look deep inside me and get a glimpse of:

  1. The things I’ve done.

  2. The secrets I’ve kept.

  3. The real me.

  Maybe that’s why they slap me.

  And maybe this is the same old story about a person’s past, and how there’s nowhere left to hide.

  If I can’t keep my inner self in check anymore, I have to do what I can to protect Cicely from him.

  Even if that means losing her forever.

  Cicely takes my hand. “You can tell me, Nicholas. It’s OK.”

  I can think of many other things to say, but still the words flood out of me. “I called people last night. Friends and family. I don’t remember any of it, but I know I said horrible things. I hurt them all deeply.”

  “How do you know what you said if you can’t remember any of it?”

  “I heard myself on my answering machine, talking to Gordon. I can’t believe I talked to him that way.”

  “Then don’t. Maybe it was someone else.”

  “No. It was me.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “It was my voice. And I referred to a conversation that only Gordon and me knew about. Something’s wrong with me, Cicely. I shouldn’t be here.”

  Cicely squeezes my hand, soft. “It wasn’t you. You’re too kind.”

  “No I’m not,” I almost say. Instead, I say nothing.

  “Look, hon. We know the perpetrator behind our curses is capable of a wide array of dastardly deeds. He could have done this to you.”

  I want to believe her, but I know the man inside me too well. I’m afraid if I talk about him too much, I’ll lose:

  1. Myself again, like last night.

  2. Cicely.

  3. The last remnants of fairy tale feelings in my chest.

  Still, to protect her, I say, “You don’t know what I’m capable of.”

  “I don’t care what you’re capable of,” Cicely says. “I care about how you choose to behave, and I don’t think you would choose what happened last night.”

  “I wish I could believe that.”

  Cicely sighs. “You’re breaking my heart, hon. You keep blaming yourself, but you’re the one who was attacked.” She points her finger at the creature in the swirling darkness on the wall. “He violated you, Nicholas.”

  I can feel his eyes on me, I think. “Maybe you’re right.”

  “I’ll prove it to you. You said you heard the message for Gordon on your answering machine?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Does Gordon have a cell phone?”

  “Yeah. I used his cell phone. I mean, the calls were made from his cell.”

  “Do you have a cell phone?”

  “No.”

  Cicely smiles. “If you were the one who made the calls, why would you call Gordon using his own cell, instead of the house phone?”

  “I don’t know. Because I was drunk, and I decided to steal his phone, maybe.”

  “I think the perpetrator left a message on the machine, because he wanted you to hear it. He wanted you to doubt yourself. Do you usually listen to the messages first thing in the morning?”

  “Yeah, if there are any.”

  “And you usually wake up before Gordon?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Then there wasn’t much of a chance Gordon would have listened to it first and deleted it. And let me guess. You found the cell phone in your room before Gordon took it back.”

  “How did you know that?”

  “Because the perpetrator wanted you to see all the dialed numbers from last night. He thought of everything. Well, except me. I don’t think he knows what I’m capable of.”

  My heart thrashes against my chest.

  I thought I’d feel better if Cicely convinced me the enemy:

  1. Isn’t me.

  2. Is, in fact, a psychopathic and intelligent bastard who can mimic voices, fuck with my life like no one else I’ve ever met, and possibly erase people from existence.

  And maybe I do feel a little better.

  But part of me wants to sleep:

  1. Under the covers of my childhood bed.

  2. Until the world is safe again.

  In other words:

  3. Forever.

  Partway through The City of Lost Children, Cicely pauses the film and says, “Abby. You said none of your family friends wanted to join us for dinner?”

  Abby nods.

  I knew this confrontation would happen sooner or later, and I’m:

  1. Happy I’m here to see it.

  2. Jealous.

  3. Stupid.

  4. Pathetic.

  “Did they give you any reason?” Cicely says.

  Abby:

  1. Shakes her head.

  2. Looks a little pale.

  “This is important,” Cicely says. “I need to know exactly what they told you.”

  “I don’t remember,” Abby says.

  “Let me guess then. They acted like you did something horrible.”

  Abby and me, our eyes widen. And Abby says, “I was afraid if I told you, you wouldn’t like me anymore.”

  “Well, that’s not going to happen, hon. You can tell us anything.”

  Abby picks at the eye of the stuffed ant on her lap. “They just said things like I should be ashamed for what I did. But I don’t know what I did. My memories are all messed up, you know? What if I’m a bad person and I don’t even know it?”

  “You’re not a bad person. The one who cursed us called all your friends and pretended to be you. The same thing happened to Nicholas.”

  Abby looks at me.

  “It’s true,” I say, and I think I believe it.

  “Why does he keep doing these things to us?” Abby says.

  “I’ll ask him when I see him,” Cicely says, and there’s more than a little fury twisting up her forehead.

  Then I:

  1. Realize the obvious.

  2. Feel sick to my stomach.

  “Cicely,” I say. “If he’s done this to Abby and me, you might be next.”

  This is probably the first time Cicely’s considered this, judging by her:

  1. Expression.

  2. Silence.

  3. Tendency to worry more about other people’s problems than her own, I think.

  Finally, she says, “Maybe he already did it. Not that I have many friends he could call. Well, aside from the imaginary unicorns living under my bed. But I don’t think they can work phones.” And even though she’s talking like this, she’s frowning. “He could’ve called John. My family. My parents.” Her voice trembles. “Oh god.”

  “I’m sorry,” Abby says.

  And I say nothing, like an idiot.

  “I haven’t spoken to my parents for years,” Cicely says. “If he broke that silence…god. I don’t want to think about it.”

  Then Cicely:

  1. Thinks about it, I’m sure.

  2. Stares at the tennis ball.

  3. Looks like she’s fighting back tears.

  There’s no grim passion left in her eyes.

  I realize Cicely:

  1. Isn’t a super hero.

  2. Is a real human being, after all.

  That means I need to be more than a sidekick who spends all day staring at his:

  1. Mole.

  2. Watch.

  3. Pocket contents.

  Just because I feel useless sometimes doesn’t mean that I am.

  I need to help her.

  And right now, I:

  1. Want to paint over the eyes on the wall that are staring at Cicely.

  2. Can’t help thinking about what Gordon told me about psychopaths, and how they get off on other people’s suf
fering.

  Then it hits me. Or it:

  1. Kicks me in the crotch.

  Then:

  2. Smashes me over the head with a baseball bat.

  “Cicely,” I say. “You said before that you felt like someone was watching you, right?”

  “Yes,” Cicely says.

  “I think you were right. I think he spies on us somehow. That’s why our curses have lasting effects. He likes to watch us suffer. It also explains how the creature knew so much about me and Gordon when he left the message on the machine.”

  Cicely doesn’t say, “You’re crazy.”

  Instead, what she says is, “That makes sense.”

  And I say, “I’m guessing it wouldn’t help us to search for hidden cameras or listening devices. He’s probably using something non-mechanical. Something we can’t detect. But we might want to look around for equipment just in case.”

  Abby:

  1. Holds the ant close to her chest.

  2. Glances around.

  3. Says, “Do you think he’s watching right now?”

  “I don’t know,” I say. “Maybe. Oh, and would you mind writing down the addresses of all the family friends you can remember?”

  “Why?”

  “I’d like to visit them. Ask them some questions. I might be able to tell if they’re lying.”

  I don’t tell them I used to be the Batman of Liars.

  “Alright,” Abby says. “I don’t have the addresses memorized or anything, so I’ll write them down for you when I get home.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Maybe there’s something else we can do,” Cicely says. “If you’re right, and he feeds off our pain, maybe we can hide it from him.”

  “How?” Abby says.

  “However we can.”

  So when I get home, I:

  1. Delete the messages on my machine.

  2. Think about my family.

  3. Even think about Karl, who slapped me right outside the apartment and said, “I know you were lying about fucking Heather, but that was a low blow, man.”

  And then I cry:

  1. Into my pillow.

  2. In silence.

  3. In the dark.

  Because I’m not alone.

  #26

  In my dream, Cicely is Cicely. I’m trying to tell her how I won’t let anyone rob her house, and she smiles.

  I notice the window’s boarded up. No one’s watching us. Cicely tells me we can start singing if I stop growling so loud, but I’m not growling.

  Then the creature crawls out of the hole in the floor. He’s already eaten Gordon and Greg and I try to shield Cicely. But it’s much too late to protect her.