Pongo #37

Pila

Waking up was a gradual process, which took place over two days. My brain, like a kitten climbing the stairs, would struggle to get itself over each hurdle and occasionally bump back a few before trying again.

When I had finally woken, I felt like that same kitten, after an untreated spell at the hands of countless fleas, my limbs soft like sausages, my blood as clear as the Ontrayner Lake. I lay there in the white disco of the hospital, feeling content never to move again. As I waxed horizontal, Danver and Fembs seemed to float above me, knives in hand. My blood was on the knives and indeed it was clear. They might as well have lanced a spot.

On the third day, a man was shown into my room, and in my grogginess, I mistook him for a doctor, smiling weakly. His black suit registered at last, and I began to tune into his babble as it focused itself into language.

"Gol Parjet. It's been a while, Ms Quene. I won't ask you to talk, as you've been through a lot, but there are some changes you ought to be aware of. I must apologise that the men who attacked you were able to trace your whereabouts. Please rest assured that our databases have since been reinforced and surrounded by firewalls so thick an A-bomb couldn't penetrate them.

He smiles like a closer. I blink at him. The smile melts and he continues.

"Currently, we have specialist marshals all over the city on the trail of the culprits. Subjects Fembs and Danver will not escape punishment and retention. My estimate is that within 24 hours they will be in a secure institution not dissimilar to the one from which they escaped in the first place. You have nothing more to worry about. Now, formalities aside, can I get you anything? Tea? Coffee?

A buzzsaw, blender and prospecting sieve, I think. I want to liquidize my brain then see if there's actually anything of value left in the mesh.

"I deserved it, I croak out, my clotting throat resenting each syllable.

"That'll be the painkillers. Parjet rolls his eyes as he speaks, like a mother who's just found their child soaked to the skin after a hundred warnings about playing near the pond. "Listen, Ms Quene, this was not your fault. It's very common for victims of targeted hate attacks to shoulder the guilt of the -

"But it WAS my fault, I manage with difficulty. "Mr Parjet, those men did not look the way I expected them to. They looked like normal adult males, just under forty. The fact that I could have known that they would come, that I was expecting two very different faces and bodies, and that I was afraid of those bodies ' well that seems to suggest guilt to me. Listen to me. You're not listening. I knew they were bound to get to me eventually. I knew, because those with the keenest sense of paranoia are usually those with good reason to be worried.

I cough and a blizzard of arrows fly down my throat.

"Excuse me, I believe I need to sleep. Feel like I've just had a memory enema on top of a slit throat.

He stands, smiling again, gathers his briefcase and coat. The smile goes on a little too long. It's amazing the ripple effect tiny imperfections, not-quite-rights and quirks can have. We pick up on so much, hardly acknowledging our sources, barely recognising the processes. It is a failure to recognize the unsaid and the semi-conscious signals that leads to people being diagnosed with mental illness. It is a failure and we hate seeing that in a creature so close to ourselves. It makes us sick.

"Just don't, I yawn, "shoot them on sight. Don't use any unnecessary force.
"Ms Quene, we must do whatever is necessary to bring these men in. We are looking at attempted murder here. You could quite easily have died unless we had been alerted. Now relax and try not to move, and the staff will make sure nobody enters this building without ID up to here.

I glance at the clock as he slides out of the door. Late afternoon. I shouldn't allow myself a sleep now. It'll give me bed-lag, and besides, I need to be awake and thinking with every update on the whereabouts of those men. And updates on me. Something feels different, and though I haven't asked about it, I need to know everything as it rolls out. Need to be sharp. Sharp.Yet my eyes are closing. They're closing without my consent, and as they do, a little girl dances into frame, stretching and distorting against the concave backdrop of my skull.

Martaro

I can honestly say that I have never felt better. Well maybe 'never' is too rash. Perhaps in those two hours between Saral and me passing into the world, I experienced a sense of euphoria comparable to this, but that's about it. Feels like the shackles have not only been pinced off me, but hammered, scorched and danced upon. At the same time I feel sick, as though I am about to leap out of an aeroplane with a suspect parachute, but it's good sick, the kind I used to induce with salt water for a distraction from her. Now it seems that she was probably cause on her own to vomit, because as she left, a last flicker of lash and then slam, I felt a tide of puke rise in my throat to wave her off, the way iron filings follow a magnet.

I rang Miffy three hours ago and left a message. She doesn't know much about Saral, but I want to rectify that. This could be dressed up as honesty, but since she would gain very little from hearing my confession, it's more accurate to call it selfish. I just know that nobody would understand like Miffy. If there's anything she hasn't seen, done and yawned at, it's a niche goldmine waiting to be filmed. Besides, nobody drinks a celebratory toast quite like her.

She hasn't rung back, the lazy minx, so I bought a bunch of daffs just now from the vendor on Farraway Road and am on my way to surprise her. Je suis überthoughtful.
So überthoughtful, even, that I wonder if she'd like some hot chocolate, or a Danish pastry from the corner shop. I dash in, snag a bar of high cocoa chocolate and practically bound out. When I round the corner to her block of flats, I am all but glowing. I beat her, Mif, I beat her and something about me, I beat that too, and here's how.

I take the lift, fearful of wasting my jubilant energy, and rap at her door, smiling derangedly.

No answer.

"Miffy! It's Marty!

I can hear sobbing inside. After a couple more shouts, I shoulder the door, which is harder that it looks for an out-of-condition porn director. Eventually it caves, and curled up in a corner is Miffy, crying all over her legs.

"Just left, she says. "You just missed them.

"Who? I ask, grabbing a towel to wrap around her.

"The only people that could tell me about my past. And they were fuck all good. I need a fag.