Light Falls On Her Wet Skin

I am angry. I feel betrayed. I feel no inclination to go back to my lab. Keep walking.

I'm not dressed for rebellion; my lab coat drags my shoulders downward, hunching me over like a wage slave. Losing track of time. I try to maintain an even gait, but it is too late to count paces.

Grey begins to feel stuffy. I imagine mothballs, lint, fuzz making up the hallway. My throat moves around a lump, but my mouth does not feel dry.

Time, or none, passes.

Finally, relief shapes another doorway. There is no handle, just a smooth, black surface. I press my hand against it and the door moves like water. Passing through, I feel as though I've dropped into a pool, water the same temperature as my skin.

A grey city.

[Chicago. The. Windy. City.]

Or San Francisco. Or Venice, later.

I stand alone on an empty, grey street. A bench and bins to my left. Buildings beyond and around, and blowing rubbish. All monochrome, greyscale, concrete, as though this place were made before colour television.

I am utterly happy for a moment and then that goes with the wind. Shoulders drop. Keep walking.

In its varied way, the grey city is as endless as the hallway from which I came. There are shops, restaurants, a fountain filling with droplets of water like grey coins. No inhabitants until a bundle of ragged ends moves in a distinctly human way. The bundle separates into two masses: her's and a small pushcart's.

"Hello?" The old woman looks at me through the creases of her age. "I'm looking for a way out. Can you tell me where to go?"

She roots in her pushcart for a moment. With a flourish, she hands me a brown paper bag. It smells of cigars. It is empty.

I maintain civility. "What is this?"

"Morbid obesity."

Blinking. "Ah, I'm not sure I understand what you mean."

She holds out her palm. On it rests a small feather. She closes her fist quickly, before the wind takes its chance.

"Dementia."

In a soothing voice, "No. I want to know how to leave this place."

The old woman makes a sweeping, dramatic gesture that encompasses the street, the store fronts, and the grey buildings beyond.

"Morbid obesity."

"Excuse me? I don't understand."

She points to the rubbish that flits and drags in the wind.

"Dementia."

"I'm sorry to have disturbed you. Could you at least tell me the name of this place?"

"Morbid obesity."

"I'm sorry, but do you mean that this place is called 'morbid obesity'?"

Atropos plucks at the grey remains of her hair.

"Dementia."

I begin to feel desperate.

"Look. I'm sorry to bother you, but no one else is around. Please help me."

She looks at me with what I might imagine to be sympathy.

"Morbid obesity."

I crumple inside. I picture Jesse alone, lost, without me. I realise I don't want to go back.

"Please, I have a son. I have to get back."

"Morbid obesity."

Hissing. "Stop saying that...isn't dementia supposed to come next?"

The old woman blinks.

In a small voice, "I don't want to go back. I want to be something else."

She looks at me for a long moment. I wait for her to say be careful what you wish for. Instead, she drops her gaze and mutters something that sounds like 'shit.' She sidles away and I do not stop her.

A light from the shop window across the street catches my eye. I cross hurriedly, even as I feel ridiculous for doing so: there are no cars in this grey city, only what I imagine is the aftermath of their chemical engines.

Pressing up against the glass front, I see that the light comes from an old fashioned television surrounded by wires and plastic casings. On the screen, a handsome bald man in a tight fitting jump-suit gestures to his similarly dressed companions. The angle of his hand reminds me of the old woman's earlier pose, but he points to the carpeted room and the window containing an endless starfield. From the movement of his lips and the rapt expression of companions, I presume him to be in the middle of a speech.

Suddenly, I notice a business card propped against the television. It is in colour. My hands flutter with excitement as I reach for the shop's door. It is locked. Frantic, I rattle the handle. Locked and inexplicable. I give up on the door and go back to the window. The card seems to wink at me.

Squinting, I make out a red 'B', but nothing more. I begin to consider how very close the card and the television are to me. I bend down and pick up a piece of newspaper huddling against the doorway. I wrap it around my left fist. Calling up my desperation, I punch the window. My knuckles roll on impact with the glass, but the window remains whole.

I think of Jesse.

The glass breaks.

My left hand stings and aches from hundreds of thin cuts. I note with detached horror that several large pieces of glass are lodged in my fingers. My right hand finds the business card. I note that my blood matches the colour of the Bold Industries logo.

Jenna Manley, 27/08/01

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