The Fear & The Actor

Reads: 559  | Likes: 0  | Shelves: 0  | Comments: 0

  • Facebook
  • Twitter
  • Reddit
  • Pinterest
  • Invite

More Details
Status: Finished  |  Genre: Thrillers  |  House: Booksie Classic
Rykin Charelton is a Columnist for the Toronto Star. Who finds himself in his home office writing about a past that he tries to forget but his memory refuses to.
About one man with one special passion which seemed too innocent to be true on what it had spiraled into in his present time.

Submitted: August 24, 2015

A A A | A A A

Submitted: August 24, 2015

A A A

A A A


~~The sun has been imprisoned behind the clouds while they shed their rain. I listen to the drops pounding on my roof, only a bright sign that spring has arrived to wash away winters blanket. Now for me listening to the weather I sit my home office with a single dim florescent light over my head.
The averaged measured watts reflect onto the letters off of my keyboard. On that keyboard is where my fingers are tap dancing to make the words that show in front of you. I, Rykin Charlton, is a man who speaks the language of metaphors.
Like a light must shine in the sea of darkness, a life’s candles are broken, the fear of the beast who feasts on attention, his eye is on the sparrow, or my ideas are the water.
I would speak them only for the certainty of wanting to. Another man I knew had a personal theoretical view, “We are all numbers.” he once told me.  I was much younger at the time, sixth grade. Me and him had conversations which sounded from every word was spoken and each one was sawing our brains out. Even at times found it humorous and adults never understood.
A language only we children spoke to each other. The kid did love numbers, fascinated and reminded me that numbers are infinite. He once asked when we were much younger than sixth graders. Third I believe.
“Do you think there is a wise man a duotrigintillion mile away still creating more numbers?” I remember being confused. His brain has already absorbed adult knowledge, what is duotrigintillion?
Million, billion, trillion, quadrillion, quintillion, sextillion, septillion, a friend and a teacher of large numbers taught me there are thirty-three names for them. I could only remember fewer listed in my previous sentence. Even when I thought that teacher had departed to his galaxy from what escaped his lips. He rumbled about them so much.
The time he told me, “We are all numbers,” would come back to memory as I grew older.
I can visualize the sun was free but wanted to cook us. It was the end of class as we were walking home.
“What do you mean?” I asked curiously. My friend was silent for that moment. He stops walking and turned his whole body to me. I stopped with him.
“Stick out your arms,” he finally said.  
“Why?” I questioned. He said nothing. Without another question I stuck out my arms in a straight line. He pointed to them both.
“How many do you see?” he asked me. I was quick to answer that question. “Two.” I said. He then looked at my fingers. “How many fingers.” I was quick to answer again. “five.” he than quizzed me a third time.
“How many bones do we have?” I was not sure on that one. “Um 200 something.” He guessed. 
“No, 207.” He said to me. “But at birth we had 270.”
I was still had no idea of what he was trying to say between the lines. “Look, what are you saying?” I asked him desperately. He said the same sentence as he did to begin with. “We are all numbers, think about it.” We started to walk along the hot cemented surface of the sidewalk. 
“Think about it? But isn’t our bodies made up of cells?” I asked him. He stopped again. “You’re gargling my fact.” He said sounding annoyed. I was lost. 
“What?”
“A metaphor, you told me there a creative form of words, remember?” he answered. I did teach him the definition of a metaphor when he asked why I enjoyed using them. “Yes, and I liked the one you used. You remembered not to use like or as in your sentence. See it is a creative form of words right? ” My friend only nodded and we continued to walk again.
“But do you understand what I mean?” He waited awhile for me to answer.
“Well?” he wondered. As I was described him as a “teacher of numbers,” I was able to tell he was anxious that he taught me something I now know.
I did open my mouth in that meantime. He seemed to have though I was going to say something as I pinched my nose to stifle a sneeze. He let out a sigh. “I just sneezed, sorry.” I said.
“Do you understand what I mean by, we are all numbers?” he asked again as he rephrased his question.
“Other than you used another metaphor in that description. Yes, I do understand. How is the galaxy up there?”
“Shut up.” he softly chuckled. “How was the trip to your private island?” he asked me. He used that saying whenever I talked about metaphors. It was just inside jokes we made to each other for fun. I never knew what had driven us to, we just did.
“I thought you’d know. You were with me.” I joked. “So were you on my trip lightyears away to the galaxy.” He joked back to me.

I remember correctly, I was still in the sixth grade nearing the end of the year before summer break. I awoke to a few stones hitting on my bedroom window. A few after another few stones hit my window It was like each one was taking turns on attempting to wake me from my sleep. I rubbed my eyes as I forced myself out of bed to open my window. Down below me from my second floor in the backyard was my friend.
“Rykin!” he gestured me to come outside. I was quiet not to wake my parents as went downstairs through the front door and made my way around into the backyard. I was in my pajamas and he was dressed in day-clothes and wearing his school bag.
“What time is it?” I mumbled. The night was still a little cool as I wrapped my shoulders around myself.
My friend looked at his watch, “Its 2:54.” He said. “Six minutes to almost two hours into the 13th of Friday.” As much as he loved numbers, it seemed as he couldn’t even say the date of a week without mentioning its number. It’s March twelfth, or its August the twenty-sixth. Some people talk about it that way. But he answers like that all the time. 
I was angry at him for waking me up and curious is to why we he has his school bag. I didn’t think he loved school in general that much.
Then I recognized his faced. It was not beamish.
“You’re scarred.” He said to him.
“No, no. I am not cut anywhere.” He said to me. I shook my head. “No I mean, you are hurt, emotionally. What’s wrong?” he placed his school bag on the ground between his legs. he unzipped the top. He pulled some extra clothes, a tooth brush and paste, and a few granola bars and on the side in a pouch it carried a water bottle.
“What’s all of this?” I questioned him. He didn’t answer he pulled out of his pocket was a photograph and showed me. It was a picture of his parents. His father was in a grey suit and tie and his mother had on a coffee colored sleeveless vest dress.
It looked to be taken in a photographer’s studio with the pitched black background. His words pained him to speak, which is what thought.
He only pointed to his father on the photograph before he clutched his right hand into a fist. He held out his left palm and pounded it with his right fist. Countless times until he punched the palm of his left hand he tired himself out.
Then he pointed to his mother as he was out of breath. The palm of his hand was red from the punches. In between catching his breath he sobbed. Desperate to cry his tears on my shoulder, even at the youngest age I never saw him weep. He was a strongest person I knew. He hugged me as he cried and refusing himself to let go. I hugged back.
“I thought I was strong.” He sobbed. It was all he could say at the time. I’ve known his parents well. They were both generous folks and had a personality that a house fly won’t be harmed. My response was, “Stronge people cry too. Everyone cries.” I wanted to be the friend to intenerate his pain as I took him inside for the night.

 

The court ruled his mother full custody for my friends care. His father served the charge for assault and battery. Despite his father was not going to be a prisoner for life. Hell, he wanted nothing from him.
During the summer after school, I wanted to take him out camping in supporting him to get his mind of that horror night. Our first night out in a provincial park is where I and my friend lied on our backs staring up to the stars in the sky. As usual, my friend needed to bring up a fact about numbers while we cherished the stars like glistening eyes looking down at us. He noticed the half-moon from in the distance.
“348 mega meters,” he said to me. “That’s how fare the moon is. It’s funny how your eyes can see it much closer. Plus if you think about it, a universe is numbers even the planet earth is numbers.”
“Won’t you just say everything is numbers.” I added. My friend turned his head to me.
“Good point Rykin.” He said stared back to the sky for another second and turned his head to me again.
“Can I tell you something?” he asked me. I nodded. “You know about me being in my own galaxy that you like to joke about all the time?” I nodded again. “I find its home to me.” he continued.
“Ever since my parents split up, I’d be sad, mostly scared at night and alone. I’d look up.” I look to the moon as he told me while I listened.
“The fear is on earth when I’m scared. But up there lightyears away,” he said. “Gigameters, one of the largest in measurements can take me to my only escape.Up there, I’m a new me who fears nothing. I’m up there and the fear is below me. I just feel, like I’m that strong person who just can point and laugh with bravery.” I saw the scarred face again from the night when he stood in my backyard. He sat up and wiped a few tears with his arm.

I sat up with him. “Please, don’t cry,” I comfort him as I firmly rub his back.
“Tonight you’re not alone. You have me, a friend.” he looked at me. “Who will take you to his island,” was all he spoke. I just grinned at the same time as he did.

 

An after High-school graduate party I was exiting out the back of a River Rock club for some fresh air by myself. I saw a girl had barged out the same door as I did. She still looked sober unlike me. I saw the mascara has smudged from her tears. I recognized the girl, my childhood friend’s girl. Ever since the two have met, their relationship was connected while it felt like me and my best friends were slowly disconnecting. We never fought or anything. Twenty-four hours, seven days a week they were always happy to be together.
I’m glad that my friend can be happy. Every smile he had defeated the past that pained him. I couldn’t ignore a scarred person. Like my friend I went up to her.
“Hey,” I said to her. She turned her eyes to me without a reply. “What happened?” she took her time to pull herself together.
“My boyfriend is a jackass!” she snapped. “A fucking jackass!” I was about to say something to her. “He doesn’t give a shit about me! Numbers, I’m a whore if I’m not intelligent with numbers!”
“Now how does that make any sense?” I wondered.
“He admitted the only thing he wanted from me is sex! Then he said a part of his job is done when you cry thirteen tears. He says he is sober but I still doubt it.”
I walk closer up to her. “Take me hand.” I tell her. She didn’t care to ask why as she did so.
“I will take you, to my island.” I began. “Where in its paradise your tears will shed no more, where harm is never an existence, the jungles colors reflect your trueness. Your protector, who stands before you, will make those grants a reality. A beauty shell never be defeated by evil.”  It was as soon as I finished my sentence. She kissed me on the lips with no hesitation. Yes, just in a blink she did so. Eyes were closed as I blinked. I couldn’t close my eyes. Guilt already waits to be spotted.

“I’m sorry, you have a unique say of words.” She said as her lips have been realised from mine. Unique, my words were not sober that night. She seemed as if she was desperate to know why she was born. She was broken, sorry guilty conscience.

“Sorry should have never been said.” I told her. Then I gave in, the returned kiss. Eyes are closed as surely hers was too.

“What the fuck!?” I heard in the background. It was from that very voice I was tugged away from the girl as she gasped. The person was a male with his back turned to me that I could hardly see the girl’s appearance no more.

“Dianne what the fuck!” he yelled at her. “Why are you making out with this faggot for?! You have me!

“What the hell do you think?! Like, cry thirteen tears and your sober?! I listen to the girl argue with his boyfriend.
“I have a little booze in me!” he exclaimed. “Listen babe, I was broken on the thirteenth like tonight! Now I find myself broken again!” I turned around to the person as I recognized the voice.
“Your broken because you broke yourself.” I stated to him as his back still faced me. The person turned around to me, it was from the first sight of my face his anger greatly lessened. 
“Rykin, why?” he asked me, I was his only friend who understood him, me and Dianne. Kids didn’t care about one who was just passionate of what the infinite numbers can create to society. Now, I don’t know what he has turned himself into, it made me think, numbers can bring happiness or numbers can bring evil.
“That should be asked to yourself, why?” but my friends anger would increase after I asked him.
“You know why!” he snapped. “You were there to comfort me. I was the little boy that wanted to be safe in the galaxy when I was alone! You remember when I told you that. The galaxy made me feel like I can conquer anything! Laugh at the fear below! Dianne’s thirteen tears would have washed away the reflection of me who surrenders! I need to be okay! Now I’m ruined!” my friend paused to sigh. Again he relaxed his boiling anger, and then he continued to say, “My father broke me. I didn’t break myself. Now my mother is sick.”

I would be his final words, final eye contact with him since he left us at the River Rock premise which what it seemed like for a while.  Ever since his mother’s been sick I never seen him outside. he never took the time to step outside and breathe the goodness from the earth. This causes me suspicion because he loved the outdoors. It was where he loved to cherish his curiosity in counting again. He wondered how long a period in Anthesis grows. How many stars are in the sky, how many clouds, or wonders of the dendrochronology science in trees age. He did know how fare the moon was from the earth.  I remembers these astrometry facts from him, he estimated that there were over 8,0000 including all various type. 100 billion stars, the Milky Way has 300 billion stars, it is really dependable on what the variable of stars you see in the night. 
He knew the Sun was 150 Giga meters from the earth, it was the closest star as you would feel its heat at high temperature. He could have study astrology. His expenses weren’t limited over to higher graded Universities.
It really were he took a passion in counting, he believed we claimed earth its name. A Universe to this age of 13.8 years of age would have gone unrecognized for eternity. Everything before the birth of Homo sapiens would be.
Prehistory, or known as before the knowledge of investigation. Like for example the Paleozoic era, the birth of the ancient life, when Dinosaurs ruled the Mesozoic era, and glaciation period or known at the ice age period. Dinoflagellates and Benthic Formanifera plankton were claimed as clear evidence for climate change.
The generation of animal life, homo sapiens which we are portrayed in the media as Caveman. He made theories about how even fear was discovered. Were we all once unfamiliar with the earths entire surroundings, what’s so magnificent to us now, could have been viewed as threats to us. Stars grass, dirt, the air, trees, rocks, plants, the sun, the moon, the blue sky and clouds, even the smallest or harmless animals, or even a tiny leaf. It’s like how many of us know how television portrayed our ancestor’s reaction when we discovered fire. Excitement as we could only cry like apes.
There are many things that we fear now, even though all of those early surrounding listed above are no enemy to us. No matter how much we grow, there is many things in life that still remain unknown to us.

I remember this is when my friend shared this knowledge with me, he read the books only again for me to remind you, numbers. For all of  the information above that was collected for what had lived before us, the tiniest digits which the Old wise man made as earth was never named kept climbing. Each counting of the eras, the Middle Ages, the centuries leading into now the present here in 1998. 

“Numbers is our recorded history,” is what he told me. “Everything is, numbers is important source of discovery.” We were only freshmen in High school when he said this. As for me, I came to one conclusion, I realized.  “Numbers are the infinity that was born before everything.”  Is what I though. It had to make sense.
In other thoughts came to me was, “Infinity was spoken by the blankness.” No earth but where was a universe? Blankness in our case in that matter was the only thing that lived before everything. Numbers were the first source to discover the pieces of us. 
Earth is numbers, the universe is numbers, and we are numbers. His theory and quotes still ring in my head today as I write this sentence.

Speaking of it, I better get myself back on topic. Yes, he never called, never knocked, not even peek over my background fence like he did many times as a kid, he had done nothing to contact me.  I assumed he wanted to be alone with his mother.
The infection in her breast was incurable was what I remember my parents telling me. I still went to the funeral, first priorities was to approach the open casket were my friend stood by his mother’s corps.

“Thank You,” was his first words to me since the incident at River Rock. I assumed he saw my from the corner of his eye and was thankful to now I was present. I did expect to hear a hello for a greeting.
“Thank you,” my friend repeated. he still never directed his eye towards me. Both of those thank you’s were spoken to the corps. The second one was turned into a whisper. I bothered to not question as much. “Thank you for life,” I thought. He needed to thank her many times for that. For life, she lived to introduce him into our world. It was his final goodbyes to her after all. I left him by the casket before we were gathered into our seats for the funeral service. I heard another, “Thank you” from him, the whisper turned into a softer mumble as I walked further away from the casket. Well, that was not the last time I hear him.

“Rykin!” he called for me as I just as I exited out the funeral home doors. He swung open the door and caught up to my pace as I stopped. He faced me as he had a grin on his face. I wondered why he is smiling.
“I’ll be fine Rykin,” he said to me. I wasn’t quick to respond. But I did understand what he was telling me. I know he wants to be okay. “I know you will be.” I grinned after I told him.
“I’m knew and strong again, Rykin,” my friend said. His smile never left his face that night. He really to show me that there was sang-froid in his mind.
“You always are,” I told him. I’d never erased my smile neither as we both hugged. Without another say from either of us, he firmly releases his arms from me and enters back inside the funeral home.

I never bothered to question the thank you’s to the corps. He was just thankful for her life. That’s all I thought it was. It seemed to personal to know why. Even at times that are so emotional. It had to be the same date of the death of Gioachino Rossini, an Italian composer. A thirteenth Friday, as I thought about I really do have sympathy for him. He’s lost so much on number. But again, he never heard much from him since he left to live with his grandmother, she lived up in Markham from Oakville, it was only about a forty minute drive. I did receive a call from him. He was excited to leave for school. He wanted to be a Stock Broker. He’s passion for the numbers. He reminded like he did at the funeral service, “I’m okay Rykin.”
The job will serve him well. I was just as thrilled to leave for journalism, I’d hung up the phone and that was it. We didn’t both go to school in Toronto. He was educated in Newmarket.

But I moved on to graduate with honors from Humber. Applied and got the job for the press. The Toronto Star, it was tough with the other 105 applicants for such a finically successful newspaper business. The employer was not a familiar my metaphor skills. He still knew I was the right applicate for the job.  The ship was sailing on a calm ocean. I couldn’t have asked for life to get any better. It was nice to live in Toronto and by only an hour away from Oakville. But I never heard from my good friend since that phone call.

But someone else familiar visited my house one night as I was cutting the vegetables for a mirepoix. My favourite flavouring of diced vegetables and herbs placed on halibut. I heard a knock on the door. I placed the knife on the cutting board with some diced celery and carrots and wandered off to the door. I opened the door to see a women standing. She seemed like she was happy to see me as I revealed myself from the door. I knew she looked familiar but why do I know her?
“Can I help you?” I asked.
“Don’t you remember me? Dianne Sanders, we went to high school together!” she said cheerfully. But she than looked embarrassed when finished. “Well, we also kissed.” Then it came to me.
“Yes, Dianne! You were my best friend girl. But we didn’t talk much until that night. So what are you doing here?” I wondered.
“I saw you leaving in a cab the other day. I just moved here and I’m only a few doors down on 17.” She answered.
“What a coincidence! Hey why don’t you come in. I’m cooking halibut with Mirepoix flavouring. I have enough for another serving.” I invited her. She paused for a bit until she said in response, “Thank you.”

It was a good meal as we just had a conversation about our own lives I would say. “This is good,” she complemented after swallowing a forkful of the halibut.
“My favourite dish,” I said proudly. “My father would always make it to perfection.”
“My mother would always make me a bowl of mash potatoes when I was ill.” She said to me. “I still enjoyed to stuffing myself with every scoop no matter how ill I was”
“So what bring you here to Toronto?” I asked here.
“I got a hiring at armadillos,” Dianne answered me.
“Armadillos, that’s not fare away from the sky dome?” I’ve been to armadillos before, with a few of my colleagues and went to see a Blue Jays game one night.
“It’s not,” she answered after swallowing her last for full. “But I’ve never bothered to walk to the sky dome.” I was a Blue Jays fan, ever since the first year, 1977, I’d can’t describe how the acceleration I felt when they one their first world series against Atlanta. Well that what I rambled on talking about that year in 1993.
“I thought I’d ask you about the sky dome if you ever considered seeing a Blue Jays game. There playing like the 1992 rooster champions. Going for number two this year I hope. It’s a definite ticket purchase for me. Are you a sports person?”

“Not a huge fanatic as you can picture. But I will watch any kind of television,” Dianne answered to me. “Are you?”
“Toronto Blue jays all the way for me.” I said. “I remember my father taking me to an exhibition stadium in 1977. The very first game, it was tough driving in the adverse conditions. I remember hearing complaints about the Government banning beer sales at baseball games. But hey, the won their first ever game that year.” I pause to take the dirty dishes to the dish washer. 
“Anyhow, is a waitress the job you want to be paid for life?” I asked as I place the dishes on the kitchen counter before I opened the dish washer.

“It what I plan to back to college for theatre production, I’m interested in working in the set design. I’ve started to develop interest in art. Edward Craig inspired me, he was a “hermit visionary,” which he had that imaginative power.
Dianne explained. “It showed at a production in 1912 of Hamlet. He had a plan to drape Claudius and Gertrude in a cloak. That cloak was design to flow over the entire stage. Sycophants of the court were design to poke through the fabric, the golden mantles reflected off from the gilt walls. It’s all effort, your mind has drawn the picture. You adapt that picture on a stage. The performers, production crew, and the audience gets to take that journey through your life of Art is how l look at it.  I meant to ask sooner, what brings you here?”

“Ah, I see you’re inspired very much in the art work of the stage,” I said at first on acknowledging her interest. “Well I am enjoying my work as a columnist. It pays a good Wage, work five or six days a week. I never work on Sundays. I’ve had many stories that were a good use of my time to type. I wrote on the new premier for CBC, this hour has 22 minutes. Kim Campbell, the first female prime minister in office as a replacement. You should come down to the Sky Dome sometime. I’ll purchase the tickets and everything. It will be my treat.”

Dianne was flattered by my offer, her words only wanted to reject. “Oh you don’t have to –,” she said but i immediatly interupt her say.
“No please it’s my treat. I mean we are neighbours after all for a time being. So I though you know, a personal invitation I’d recommend you accept.” She only nodded, still flattered.

“But say,” I pause for a moment before I finished my question. “How is C-,”  Wait, I almost said it. The name, I’m sorry I have refused to neither even say or write, nor see his name I know after you read that you wonder why I keep it secreted to all of you. But the ones who know about this man may already do know why I do. It’s a cluster of reasons to explain in a few sentences. So allow your curiosity to continue its reading. Anyhow, I said.

“How is my friend? Have you spoke to him recently?” she was not quick to answer, the silence in her presents brought me to a fraught feeling.  But then she answered, “I have seen him. I assumed I’ve seen him.”

“Why do you assume?” I wonder.

“I was out with friends at a Bar and Grill,” she explained to me. “Someone just walked by our table and gave me a card. It was shaped like a business card. Except it was blank and it had numbers written in blue ink.”

“The man of numbers,” I guessed. “I can see why you assumed.”

“I’ve been hesitant to report it. It just happened in town earlier today. This man was wearing a plaid dress tucked in navy jeans and a causal looking belt. He seemed as if he was speeding up has pace of his walk while he placed it on our table. I have it my purse.”


Instead I offered it use a napkin, and I went to into my office to return with a pen. She takes the pen and writes carefully. I watched carefully as the blue ink made its mark on the napkin’s fabric.
She handed me the napkin when she finished. I read it out loud.

“1,2,3,4,5,6,7,8,9,10,11,12,13,” I said. 13, my mind went bewildered. . “Why is thirteen spaced?” I asked Dianne even when I know she wasn’t going to have an answer. But she did speak. “That’s not all.” She told me. She took the napkin from me again and wrote more numbers on the napkin beneath the digits above.
She handed the napkin back to me and I again read them out loud.
“347-188.” I said. It was obvious to me that it was a phone number.
“I can’t take it, I’m reporting.” Dianne blurted to me. I looked up from the napkin to Dianne. “No,” I then said to her. “I’m calling the man.” Dianne gave me a blank stare. She seemed stunned by my answer.
“Rykin, are you visiting your private island?” she asked me. She knew about my imaginary island when i though of metaphors. That’s just how my friend introduced her to me.

“For what reason, why would I care about metaphors?” I said to her. “I guessed because you seemed desperate to solve this man. Remember, he would talk that way too. You were his teacher.”

“What are you talking about?” I wondered.

“He’s could be using your education for the numbers,” Dianne said to me.

“Let’s not assume its him.” I then told her after a moment from a pause. “I’m calling the number still.” I headed towards the phone ignoring Dianne.

“The call may be dangerous,” she warned. I picked up the phone and dialed the numbers. I heard  a few rings until I heard an answer. Except instantly I was able to tell that was not really the man picking up his phone. It sounded more like an answering machine when i heard a beep. Then I heard a male voice.

“Hello, it said to me?
Was socializing for true love been found?
Are you financially secured?
Do you wake up?
Are you sympathized?
Do you cry to sad fiction?
Drink cold water?
Amazed by flowers?
Are you mobilized in a tamed society?
Are you educated in honors?
Do you laugh?
Do you eat?

I can’t smell, hear, see, taste, nor touch.”

The I hear a female’s voice over the phone rambling about leaving a message option. I just carefully hung up the phone. I turn my head to Dianne. She seemed anxious for answers. “He’s trapped himself.” I tell her.

The police were called immediately after. Dianne left to grab the business card and returned by the time the officers showed up. An officer and the chief showed up and the door. We all sat in the living room as officers studied the business card.

“Did you get gleams of the man’s appearance?”  The chief asked Dianne.

“He had on a plaid shirt, jeans, a black belt, and fair skin.” Dianne answered the chief. “My eyes couldn’t catch his facial appearance.” I watched as the officer jotted Dianne’s answer in his booklet. The chief studied more of the card.

“A card with numbers, no business identification,” he described. “Thirteen’s digits are spaced from each other compared to the other numbers.”

“Hold on chief,” the officer cuts in. He faces us with a question. “Did any of you consider counting the spacing between the digits?” I looked at Dianne and we both faced the officer. “No we haven’t actually.” I tell him.
“Hand me the business card, chief.” He requested. The chief did as he requested. My eyes portrayed to be delicate to not miss every move from the officer. The officer marked a line attaching between the 1 to the 3 in thirteen with his pen. “1 , 2, 3,”  he whispered as counted along the line. “He left three spaces.” 

“Why did you do that?” Dianne said.

“Well, a clue may be lying between the numbers.” The officer explained.  I stared at the line he drew.

“Uh, officer this line does um, say something to me,” I then say.

“What does it say?” wondered the officer.

“I once knew a man, a friend. he had fascination in numbers,” I chuckle. “So much when we were kids I remember him asking me if I believed that there was an Old wise man who makes those infinite numbers. Well that friend had to suffer. His father was a convicted prisoner, his mother passed and a true love became a villain to him. These broken moments had been placed on one number for one certain day.”

“13th of Friday.” The chief said.

“Right,” I replied. “Another thing I remember is, we were camping one summer. As we lied on the grass he pointed to the sky and said. 348 gigameters, which was how much is measured from the earth to the moon. He told me many others beliefs. Like the universe is numbers, our earth is numbers, and we are numbers. We were kids when he said this, image hearing this from a kid. He called his passion the galaxy, he felt his mind was free and can cherish his passion. Since the incident of his father, when he was alone, he traveled to his galaxy. When he did, he weakened harm. He’s traveled up 348 gigameters, surely he believes 348 is stronger than thirteen.” I pointed to the spaced thirteen on the card as I finished my last sentence. I notice no one was catching my point.

“What are you trying to get across?” The chief asked me.

“What I’m trying to say chief,” I answer hastily. “He’s an actor, portraying his demon.”

There was more I had to show him. I dial the numbers for the chief to listen to the random questions the messaging system has to offer.

Hello,

Was socializing for true love been found?
Are you financially secured?
Do you wake up?
Are you sympathized?
Do you cry to sad fiction?
Drink cold water?
Amazed by flowers?
Are you mobilized in a tam society?
Are you educated in honors?
Do you laugh?
Do you eat?

I can’t smell, hear, see, taste, nor touch.”

The chief hung up the phone. “You are assuming that this is your friend?” he asked me. “I got to tell you. He’s must be ill to leave such out of the blue questions in an answering machine.”

“I can’t assume for sure that this is the man,” I tell the chief.

“Who is this person’s full name?” the chief then asked. Now is I write his name in opaque lettering, “.” I told the officer from first, middle, to last. The officers could stay much longer. “Will look into his file,” the chief said as the officer wrote the name down. “Will keep you both updated on what we find. But call us immediately if any of you receive any more suspicion from this man.”  Then the officers left us. I advised to Dianne to stay over for the night. She tried to convince me that she could manage.  I refused, I hate to know what other information this man has collected. She eventually gave in.
I allowed her to sleep in the guest room. She called in a radio cab the next morning to take her to work. We had a good breakfast the next day, buttered toast and over-easy eggs. We shared a few conversations, a discussion on Toronto’s ozone, our childhood, and she was interested in accepting my invitation to the baseball game.
We just wanted to cherish a nice morning. As she was about to leave out the door for the radio cab later that day, she said to me. I recognized a little fear in her eyes, “Will I see the man again?” all I did was grin to her and said. “Never,” I was confident in my answer. I was certain that was going to be the case, very certain. 
I called my boss after she departed. I told him about the case. He said he already has a few journalist over at the conference were the chief was making statements. Another caller has reported to the police about the voice message. I watched television as it was currently live while I still spoke to my boss.
This witness was a former colleague of the man. He was a broker like him. It was I when I beginning to convince myself that it was him. My friend and I talked on the phone before college, he was leaving to become a stock broker than. Once a friend who possibly to turn logy in his brain.
My boss requested me to write an article on the case. I don’t normally work on Sundays but today I had to. I started after I hung up the phone with my boss. I kept myself in my home office and allowed my fingers on the keyboard to talk. I was able to catch the bus to Toronto Star headquarters and have it edited and published. In that hassle of time, I thought about Dianne. She said she would back from her shift at five.
I watched the time on my watch, it showed quarter to three. In all the hassle I managed to be back by four. That was my plan of course.
She said to me that the drive was only fifty five minutes depending on traffic. I looked at my kitchen clock, I remember it showed five minutes past six. It’s the traffic. It tends to be a jungle out there on rush hour. I just continued to make dinner and not waiting on her late arrival bother me.
I took the time to make the carrot soup for dinner, I couldn’t resist but to check the time again. 7:00 in showed.
No sign of her existence walking through the front door. Nothing appeared as I finished two bowls of the soup. I held the bowls of soup feeling the heat of the liquid traveling through the glass.
Then I received a call. I placed the bowls on the placements resting on the kitchen tables and picked up the phone.
“Hello,” I answered.

I found myself riding with an officer as I approached an apartment building in downtown Toronto. A few other police cars were parked at the curb by the building. I squinted as their headlights flashed.
But through the flashing red, blue, and transparent lights my vision was able to detect Dianne. Who sat on the road curb scarred like the night at River Rock. I few officers surrounded her, including the chief. I burst out of the passenger door at the cop driver shift the gear stick into park, rushing towards Dianne.

“Dianne!” I cried. I wrap my arms around. She was still wearing her waitress uniform and was wrapped in a blanket. I was able to smell alcohol, and had a stench of vomit.
“Careful,” advised the Chief. “She’s slightly poised from the alcohol.” 

“Dianne, tell me what happened?!” I beg to know.

“She’s slow in response,” the chief said. “An E.M.S is one the way.” Ignoring the chief I ask her. “Who did this to you?” Dianne eyes were slightly opened, her speech was whispered mumbles and her grammar was disarray. “A…man,” she began. “Let...rest…gone…. California.”

I stayed with her as she was transported to the hospital. I watched in anxiety as her stomach was pumped. I was told by doctors that her BAC level was at 0.09 grams percent. I stayed by her hospital bed while she recovered. The police officers had investigated the room of where Dianne was at. A neighbour called the authorities when disturbing noises where heard from the room.
As the room was investigated, they found the place was tidy, everything was tidy. It must be hard to believe that after reading this sentence. Some evidence would have been clear to the naked eye.
Well, there was still evidence. The ones that were found though, seemed too inconclusive to not be planned. The chief had found another business card sitting on the kitchen table beside a bottle of an empty beer. Above those objects was a paper of a pencil sketch that the suspect only used little effort to prefect. On circular drawing, and arrow in between pointing to the right to another circular drawing, the paper was positioned to a turn showing its square appearance from its usual rectangular shape. Below to the bottom of the page there was pencil writing that captioned, “I’m there?” The business card was again blank from employment information.  But still wrote, “1,2,3,4,5,6,7,8,9,10,11,12,1  3”. And a voice recording last thing was found was a portable cassette player and recorder.

Where am I getting all of this information? As I just opened my eyes after resting in a chair by Dianne’s bed. A man appeared into the room. Dianne had awakened too.”

“Good morning, I’m inspector Malcom” he said in a modified toned voice. He turned to Dianne. “Are you Dianne Spencer?” he ask curiously.
“Yes, sir.” She answered. Her speech was much more fluent. “Dianne, we have done investigation on the apartment room.” Inspector Malcom told her. “Do you know that you’re a victim of sexual assault?”
Dianne gasped. “I have no idea what’s happening, please tell me?” I patted her arm stayed close to her bed.
“Pardon me to jump into negative conclusions,” inspector Malcom continued. “But how much can you remember?”

“My brain went black. I was bought into having a lot to drink.” Dianne said to inspector Malcom. “All I can remember was walking into his apartment and finding a packed suitcase by the door. “All he said was, I’m leaving for California, San Jose I believe where it is. Then he ordered me to drink.”
The inspector nodded his head after listening to her answer. “The only thing we could do is contact the authorities on San Jose of this possible Sex offender. But Rykin Charleton and Dianne Spencer I’ve come packed with some evidence on the scene.Some evidence you two would like to consider taking a look from the call you made to use a while back.” Inspector Malcom sets his brief case on the hospital bed. He opens it to take out a few photographs. He hands. The first one he shows was…
“A piece of paper,” he described the paper, “That had a drawing of two circles, and an arrow pointing to the right circle.” I and Dianne both studied the paper. “What fuddles me more is the question stated at the bottom, “I’m there?” I wished I had answers for inspector Malcom to make his job having a little ease. I had none. He gave me the drawing. Then inspector Malcom went into his brief case again and showed us the empty bottle of beer, “All we now it was beer that was full now empty. He may have been desperate for one more drink during his scheme.” He said to us and places it in his brief case. Then the business card with the numbers, “1,2,3,4,5,6,7,8,9,10,11,12,1 3,  does the 1 3 assemble anything to you?”

“The spaces, are there three spaces still?” i wondered. “There are two now, Mr. Charelton, I counted 1 to 2 and counted Mississippi’s in between,” Inspector Malcom exampled. “I beg your pardon?” I ask.
The inspector takes the card and points his index finger nail on the three. “Watch carefully,” he said. With a delicate movement he takes his finger and moves whispers.
“One Mississippi, two Mississippi, three Mississippi,” as his nail reached the in between the one and three, and counted one alone and then continued to count. “One Mississippi, two Mississippi, three Mississippi. As his finger reached the one, he counted “Two,” alone.  He eyes glanced up from the business card as his finger still rested on the one. I was all ears for the inverted pyramid to talk. 

“He’s only spaced the three individually,” he explained. “From three spaces, and his moving it closer again to three spaces. But I must show you one more thing before I just explain.” Inspector Malcom pulled out a Portable cassette player from the case. He allowed the voice in the player to do the explaining.

“Hello,” the recording began.

“Was socializing for true love been found?
Are you financially secured?
Do you wake up?
Are you sympathized?
Do you cry to sad fiction?
Drink cold water?
Amazed by flowers?
Are you mobilized in a tam society?
Are you educated in honors?
Do you laugh?
Do you eat?

I can’t smell, hear, see, taste, nor touch.”

The recording stops as Inspector Malcom places it back in its case. “That’s all the evidence we were able to cover at this moment.” He said.

“That’s the recording I heard the other day,” I tell Inspector Malcom. Inspector didn’t acknowledge my comment right away.
“From analyzing every question, to question, question that can be asked on your daily living. Childhood to adolescents for say. A meaning that he wants to ask us because he wants to compare his living with ours, he has the sense that many of us are at ease.”

“The brain is drowning in the sea,” I tell him. The inspector studied me. “I have a different way of expressing my way of words.”
“Metaphors?” inspector Malcom guessed. “An idol of Shakespeare or somewhat?” I only chuckled a little. “You can call it that.”
“So you say that you heard this message the other day?” Inspector Malcom asked me.
“Me and Dianne have, it was just a little after dinner.” I answered.
“Well tell me Mr. Charleston and Miss. Spencer,” Inspector Malcom said. “Do any of you have a say on the message?”
“Well, this man.” I then begin to explain to Inspector Malcom. “His name was,and I was good friends with since childhood. Our friendship just fell apart in high school. Well, you see the fact, he is has been broken emotionally three times. I know he is trying to find his happiness in a sea of sadness.”

“How was he broken emotionally?” Inspector Malcom wondered.

“His father had beaten his mother when he was a child,” I answer. “Dianne was his high school sweetheart. Their love was broken at a party, and his mother died. Thing is, they all happened on one particular day, a thirteenth Friday.”
Inspector Malcom realized something. “Did you say about a father beating his wife? Also this happened on a thirteenth Friday?”
“Yes sir,” I said.
“We may have a file case report on that, it happened in Oakville. I remember a mean convicted of battery was sent here to serve his sentence. I’ll have to contact the Oakville authorities. I as well will keep you both updated on the investigation. Good day.” Inspector Malcom left the hospital room with his brief case.

The last sixteen hours I’ve pondered. I knew I didn’t want to think as much as the authorities needed to. But I forced myself to be involved in such thinking matter. A “Deep thinker” I called it. I continued my living on my job. My new article has been published in the papers on the Blue Jays season.
“October is waiting for the kings,” I wrote in the title of the paragraph.  I remember sitting in the living room reading my article with my single cream of coffee when a knock on my door sounded.
I answered the door and their stood Dianne, looking healthy and beautiful as ever since I took her home from the hospital. I was glad to see she had recovered well. But I noticed a smile was never expressed on her face. I came to an assumption when I saw the packed luggage by her side.
“Are you coming to stay with me?” No answer from Dianne, much silence but only to hear the sound of an idling engine. I noticed the noise was from a taxi cab waiting by the curb in the background.
“Please Dianne, I can help?” I begged in attempt to convince her to cancel her cab ride.
“It will be too much,” Dianne advised me. “I can afford the trip, its only up in Oakville.”
“The police are investigating is in process,” I refuse to accept her decision.
“Please, don’t,” Dianne she said. Without another word she gave me a hug and a kiss on the cheek.

That was it. I thought she was making a better decision for her. I’ve done all I could her. I still think about her and her beauty. But more runs in my brain, a solution to break my friend’s light bulb. San Jose, why has he departed for San Jose? I thought to myself as the cab left my sight. I sit back on my couch and ponder, I’m not an authority of the law. At times I needed to force myself to become a deep thinker. Into deep thoughts until my head will pound the drums. Papers of sketched numbers were scattered on the coffee table from what envisioned in my head. Repeated, “1,2,3,4,5,6,7,8,9,10,11,12,1 3.” Another thought soon entered my brain.
“I’m there?” was also on a paper. I’m there, but why does he ask society in that case? Well first case he only counted to thirteen for the date. He wants to defeat his breakers, us? Then I heard the phone ring on the coffee table. “Hello,” I said into the phone.
“Mr. Charlton,” it was inspector Malcom. “I think I have another conclusion about thirteen.” I listened carefully as he continued.
“He’s a boodle of small digits for the greatest outcome in his estimation.” He said.  “For time, he chose the smallest digits of numbers, to beat the speed of a police car, or even the time it takes for it to park on the curve. He’s was broken by thirteen, it’s a small compared to the infinite digits ahead, right?”
“Yes,” I answered.
“He’s taking advantage of every small digit to his plot, which he’s winning his own battle from what it seems. He’s moved the three one space towards the two.”
“What about the numbers? As well as his question, I’m there?” I wonder.
“Probably a count to where the pain had killed,” inspector Malcom said. “I’m there? I think he is almost there. Just one more push forward for thirteens three digit. That’s what I want to contact you about. We haven’t heard any updates on San Jose. But we have information on another assault case. Tell me if this name sounds familiar, was convicted for assault on June 14, 1979?”
“Shit,” I thought to myself before I answered. “Yes, that my friend’s father.”
“He served one year and thirty days in Scarborough.” Inspector Malcom said. “We don’t have any further records on him. But during the testimony his attorney has stated that he suffered triskaidekaphobia. It’s is a phobia concerning the number thirteen.
“, the suspect of the assault himself stated that he would make himself cry thirteen tears to make wash away fear to become aggrandize in his power. He taught his son that it would make things better if you cry thirteen tears. He’s viewed thirteen as a small but strong number to overpower a fear into your brain. He admitted he’s phobia had gotten out of control one night. He’s wife told the court he just kept screaming, Cry thirteen tears! Cry thirteen tears! While he beat her.”
Then my neurons took my on a quick journey.  The day my friend came crying to me from my backyard, the night of the camp where he expressed his galaxy, the night he day he wanted Dianne was forced to cry thirteen tears, the day of his mother’s funeral of his constant thank yous, to the night of the rape. But I was brought back to the present when inspector told me. 
“But will keep you updated on the case, Mr. Charlton. But how is Miss Spencer?”
“She left this morning to Oakville but she is okay?”
“I do you have her contact information?” Inspector Malcom asked.
“I should have.” I answered.
“No worries. Worries will contact Oakville. That I have the information to the people that are populated.”
“Inspector Malcom, this may be odd to ask a person like you. But can you do me a favor?”
“Of course Mr. Charleston,” Inspector Malcom replied.
“Can you have Dianne call me,” I gave him the number to my home phone. “When you get the chance to contact her, I really need to know that she is doing okay.”
“I will Mr. Charlton?”
I hung up the phone after a thank you to the inspector. This seemed to real to know. But the world is real. Life I think makes it real. There are certain things we can make it real. Thirteen must be too real to be a lone enemy from choice. 
Are you a person who brings goods to others? Are you a person of evil deeds? Do you smile when the sun dries the rain? Or do you cry when the clouds cry? Life questions to some personalities were I thought my friend varied in.
I still continued in life. I’ve continued to work my passion as being columnist. I’ve gotten more headaches than usual. It was almost daily basis where I needed an aspirin. The thoughts were stuck in my neurologically.
The five senses have to be a hidden metaphor. It was time for me to depart for my island as I listened to the voice message. 
Hello,

Was socializing for true love been found?
Are you financially secured?
Do you wake up?
Are you sympathized?
Do you cry to sad fiction?
Drink cold water?
Amazed by flowers?
Are you mobilized in a tam society?
Are you educated in honors?
Do you laugh?
Do you eat?

I can’t smell, hear, see, taste, nor touch.”

I listened several times or maybe more than several. It’s what I vividly remember. Cold water? it’s a good source of liquid to quench the thirst. But why does he ask? Laughing, well it’s apart  of happiness talking.  Everyone talks about a tamed society? It’s only a dream to many. We need our food, you know it’s good sad fiction when the tears shed. But why is it sad? Many of us like flowers. What about the five senses? Then it occurred to me. I grabbed one of the many papers on the coffee table to write in blue pen.

“I am a man, who can’t smell, hear, see, taste, and touch the meaning of myself.”

Slowly a week approaches since the incident. It was now entering the thirteenth of August. I just got off the phone with the inspector. Just hearing about a case announced by an anchor lady on the news. It was on a murder that happened in San Jose.
“A body was found in a neighbourhood home in San Jose. The body was a male which appeared from investigation was caused by brutal injuries. It was discovered around 3:45 that day. The room was almost clean except for a few evidence have been found. Numbers written on the man’s both right and left wrist which appears to stand out as a code and for head saw the words, “I’m almost there.” Police as of now state this is some form of message. But more investigation is still in progress. The victim of the crime has been identified as…”
“His father,” I though after I heard the name, “Can I be surprised?”
“Its new evidence,” says the chief on the news during an interview. “We believe we have our man who is accountable for an action of crime.”
Then I heard the phone ring and immediately.
“Mr. Charleton,” said Inspector Malcom.  “There someone we have for questioning. That you may find familiar.

The inspector had taken me to the interrogation. I already knew as I walked through the doors to look through the glass. There he was, I was eye to him as his eyes wondered around and about. Looking traumatized be his surroundings or could be just a portrayal of innocents. I remember being told he was arrested around 1:35 this afternoon.
From the twitch in his eye and the pace of his walk of the detective, he never turned away.

“Look,” the detective began. “I am a man who only understands honesty. It’s what I expect from you for me to understand when I ask the questions. Am I clear?”
“Yes sir,” the suspect replied. That’s what I’ve decided to refer to him as.  The detective began his questioning.
“Can you describe the numbers written on this card?” as he showed him the business card.
The suspect studied the numbers, “I like numbers,” he answered. “I thought I’d just print out some business cards and count some numbers. I’m a stock broker. Purchasing and selling stocks, to the securities and equaling to satisfy retail and institutional clients.”

“What classes did you take?” the detective asked him.
“We are also called registered Representatives, investments advisors are others names you can call us. I completed the Canadian Security Course, Conduct and Practice Handbook, and the ninety day Advisor Training Program. I’ve done want the requirements ordered me to. I had to do it within 30 months.”

“Where was your work place?”
“Bilingual Client Services, Wealthy business I tell you. You would make the call for a deal and never hang up disappointed.”
“Now, tell me about the business cards?”
“Like I’ve said, I’m passionate for numbers.”
“Then what about the voice mail, when you wrote I’m there, does any of those evidence sounds familiar to you?”
“None of it Detective,” answered the suspect. Then inspector Malcom entered into the room with the cassata player and a file of a criminal record and handed it to the detective.

“Well tell me if you recognize,” in the file they kept the picture of the investigation at his apartment, he shook his head to every picture.
“Someone must of broken in when I was gone.”
“Gone,” said the detective. “Look at the cards again.” As the suspect studied the business cards the detective played the cassette player allowing the suspect to hear his voice in the answering machine. When it was over, the detective questioned again.
“Who are you and why do you count thirteen numbers?”  that was when the suspect looked into my general direction to face me. for the first time since we last saw each other at his mother’s funeral. Then he turned to the detective.
“I have a confession, detective. It’s rested on my chest for fare too long. I surrender my escape.”
“Please talk more,” the detective encouraged. The suspect than looked at a glass of water.

“Here, take a look at this water.”  he ordered to the detective. The detective looked at the water. “It looks to about a third of quarter full. All of the counting’s to fill that glass of water, one cup is born to be a few things before drinking.”

“What the hell are you trying to say?” snapped the detective.
“Please detective, I will define my explanation. You see, water in general was born to be these things. A natural medicine for the thirst, are mirror for reflection, to bath in, swim in, provide a habit for water life.  But what if it was born to feel things, like emotions, Happiness, sadness, or even fearful?  Here is why, look at the cylinder surface. Is it rough or smooth?”
“Smooth,” the detective said.
“Smooth means it’s happy. It knows it can rest freely without harm.”
Then I watch as the suspect takes his index finger and places it into the glass of water and begins to twirl it in a clockwise motion.
“Now as I stink my finger into the water. As I’m twirling it around constantly, listen to the splashes being created. Notice the ripples.
“What the fuck are you doing friend?” I remember muttering to myself. 
“Those splashes my friend, are the helpless calls coming from the ripples which I call them multiple mouths. The water looks scared, doesn’t it?  That water shows is a man with fear.”  The suspect takes his finger out of the glass and raised it to his lips to take a drink.
That shows it was a man with fear,” he said after placing the glass of water on the table. “You see detective, I am an actor of a stronger man.  A giant in the galaxy who is a conquer of earth, it’s what I imagined to be since I was a child. Challenging my demons.
Detective, I was the voice on the machine, I wrote the numbers on the business card, I harmed Dianne, I killed my father, my job was almost finished, I failed to be there at my place. It was for my victory to fix number thirteen. But I will now suffer the consequences.”
“So those spaces are-.” 
 “For the murder and for the rape,” the suspect interrupted.  “There is another thing you must know detective. Some people drink the fountain of knowledge, others just choose to gargle. For those achievements,  I needed an important sample of the fountains liquid, estimation by small digits. for the smaller recorded numbers is greater probability for escape.
In a board game, you want to roll the dice in you favor to win. For that you need theoretical and experimental probability to be on your side. Theoretical is prediction, experimental is making your calculations.  As you see it ta


© Copyright 2020 Just Average 96. All rights reserved.

  • Facebook
  • Twitter
  • Reddit
  • Pinterest
  • Invite

Add Your Comments:

More Thrillers Short Stories