Christopher Conlon - Savaging the Dark

I am not I. This is not me. I havent come to this place, this end, this. Im in a dreama fever dream, vision, hallucination. Or a film, insubstantial figures of shadow and light flickering before me. Unreal. It cant be real. This is not my life.

Connors green eyes watch me. His arms are above him, wrists handcuffed to the bed. Ive had to gag him: one of his white T-shirts rolled up like a rope and tied tightly around his head, between his jaws. It must be terribly uncomfortable. I want to run to him, set him free, stroke his hair, weep on his shoulder, say, Its all right, baby, Im here, and have him put his arms around me as he used to, hold me, whisper into my ear, I love you, Mona, I love you so much. Thats impossible now.

He wears nothing but a pair of old shorts. Theyre stained yellow. The color runs down the crotch of the shorts and onto the bed under him. The stain darkens the sheets, as if it were blood running out of him, not urine at all. Otherwise hes naked, his skinny, hairless white chest quickly rising and falling, his pale legs splayed before him.

The bottoms of his feet are dirty, I notice. I slip the pistol into my belt and move to the bathroom, grab one of the faded old motel washcloths there. I run it under the cold water faucet for a moment, wring it out, and come back to him.

Sweetheart? Let me wash your feet. Theyre not clean.

I crouch down but with an intake of breath he pulls his legs back.

Come on, I say. Dont be shy. Youre dirty.

He studies me, his eyes wide. Sweat glistens on his skin. I reach out a handslowly, gently, as you might to a wounded bird. Finally he allows me to take his left foot in my hand. It smells, I notice, but I dont mind, not really. I move the wet washcloth over the foot carefully, making no sudden moves. I dont wish to frighten him. Ive never wished to frighten him. Not once in my entire life.

I finish cleaning his foot and study it closelythe smooth uncalloused heel, the cute little toes. This little piggy went to market He seems to tense but I look at him tenderly, shake my head, try to let him know that Im not going to hurt him. Instead I lean close to his toes and kiss them, one by one, on their soft undersides, the sides that meet all the disgusting undergrowths of the world. I run my tongue between the toes slowly, watching him watch me. I lick the graceful arch of his foot and the tender heel.

Finally I put the foot down and reach to the other. He allows me to, doesnt resist. I study the foot closely. A small blood streak on his heel. Black smearsdirt? oil?along the arch. Bits of the motels shag carpet clinging, even tiny jagged pieces of plant.

I can tell from watching his eyes that he doesnt trust me anymore, doesnt believe Ill do the right thing, doesnt perceive that everything Ive done has been for him. Id hoped that washing his foot for him would convince him but it hasnt, not yet. But then I realize. Anyone, his mother, a nurse, could hold his foot and wash it with a wet cloth. A stranger could do that! But a stranger would not, could not do what I decide to: taking the still dirty foot in my mouth I extend my tongue to it, lick it slowly, suck it, swallow the grime and the blood and the oilyes, its oiland take them all inside me, take away everything that makes his life unclean and bring it into myself. Bits of carpet, bits of thistle and grass. He watches me, as he always does. He doesnt try to move. Once he flinches slightly and I remember that he can be ticklish. But this is no time for silly games. I keep on cleaning the foot with my tongue and lips until its as clean as the other. Then I put it down gently. Surely he knows now. Knows that I love him, and how much, how dreadfully, how unendurably.

It occurs to me that its been a very long time since Ive seen Connor cry. He cried a lot, once. Now, no. I suspect he doesnt want to give me the satisfaction, doesnt wish to allow me to see him open and vulnerable. Connor is closed to me now. I know that. He doesnt need to tell me. Yet my life is nothing without him, this eleven-year-old soul-stealer, this heart-thief. My life is absolutely nothing without him.

I hear a car pulling up fast in the parking lot outside, tires on gravel, automobile doors slamming, voices. Through a slit in the curtain splinters of light play on the wall opposite us: red-blue, red-blue. There is no siren. Id thought that there would be sirens. Its quiet, really. I can hear their crunching footsteps and the static sounds of their car radios. How like a movie scene this is, a scene from some 30s or 40s crime picture by Fritz Lang or Raoul Walsh. I wonder if Connor realizes it as well.

Will they knock on the door? And if they do, will it be gentle, a meek little tapping like a shy child might make? Will a soft voice say, Excuse us, maam, were very sorry to bother you, but would you mind terribly opening this door? Or will it be like in the movies, all bluster and man-noise, the banging on the door like the sound of a cannon? Open up, police!

Or will they not knock at all? Is that why theyre gathering out there so quietly? Waiting?

Connor hears them too. I can tell. I sidle up next to him on the bed, pull the pistol from my belt again. His eyes widen as I switch off the safety. I want to touch him, caress him, hold him. I want to love him forever. I want to rip him to shreds.

Memory. The exact moment I knew that I wanted to be a teacher. Im in high school, walking home after classes one day, books held close to my underdeveloped chest. Its a cool autumn afternoon, breeze caressing the branches around me, maple leaves tumbling before me in the road. Though Im wearing my favorite blue cardigan Im aware that my checkered skirt is a bit light for the weather: my legs are cold. I walk quickly to try to warm up.

Across the street I habitually take to get home is a soccer field. I rarely take any notice of it, or of the middle-school games that are played there, but that afternoon something strikes me about those shouting pubescent voices and I stop for a moment to watch. Its a boys game: eleven- and twelve-year-olds in blue uniforms and gold ones charging up and down the field, jumping, kicking, falling. They dont strike me as being particularly adeptthere are missed kicks everywhere, balls flying the wrong way, boys skidding on the grass and landing on their bottoms. And yet theyre clearly having a good time, and I find myself enjoying their energy, their happiness. Lithe young limbs, arms skinny or muscular, legs fish-pale but quick. And their faces: I can see in some of them the men theyll become, the growth, the expanding, the hardening of features that will happen. It makes me wistful, somehow. These beautiful boys seem perfect, as if they are in their exact historical and emotional moment, as if someone should figure out a way to hold them there, suspend time, keep the game going forever.

I dont know how long I stand there, but when the referee blows a whistle and the game ends its like being pulled abruptly from a dream. Daily reality slides into me again and I shake my head, move on. I think one of the boys in gold has vaguely noticed me, this tall older girl (all of fifteen!) staring at them from across the field. He seems to watch me for a moment before he turns back to his coach and friends and laughter and Gatorade.

As I make my way home it seems to me that I could enjoy spending time with such children. Certainly not as their coachIm hopelessly maladroit at all sportsbut perhaps as their teacher? I wonder what it would be like. I think about my own teachers: Mr. Arnold, Mr. Vale, Ms. Owen. Its hard to imagine being them, standing in front of a classroom each day, talking, handing out assignments, grading tests. Though I spend five days a week in their company they never seem entirely real, somehow. And yet I know Im smart, maybe as smart as some of them. I remember being shocked the previous school year when Id overheard a student asking our English teacher, Mrs. Rocca, what old black-and-white film had the line I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendshipand she didnt know! I was so embarrassed for Mrs. Rocca that I didnt have the heart to step into the conversation and tell her it was from one of my all-time favorite movies,