© Copyright 2017 Douglas Christian Larsen. Rood Der.
Rood Der — Episode Three: Ethereal Medicine
The
decision was done. He had decided. The truth was, he was sick of this world.
Nothing seemed real to him, here, nothing but the illness riddling his body.
And so now he was going to take the dare, he was going through, and he wasn’t
telling anybody. Looked at one way, this could be the most elaborate form of
suicide a guy had ever devised for himself, but really, it was nothing more
than walking through a door. And that is what he was going to do, he had
decided, and he was not changing his mind. Actually, he had been considering
this for some time now, for months, perhaps ever since that strange man had
come flying backwards into their world. Possibly, he had been thinking through
his possibilities, long before that day, deciding even then upon the exit.
He wasn’t giving up, that wasn’t the point.
No, he was taking his last shot. This wasn’t about dying. It was about living.
Hopefully, this new world would give him new life, because really, things just
felt more...real, over there. When he was there, Frederic felt more solid, as
if he had more molecules. Dense, but in a very good way. No, he was not giving
up, he never gave up, and would never give up—this was taking one last shot,
his longshot.
Oh, he was sick, over there, too. There was
no questioning that. If possible, his gut pains were worse there. The bleeding
was worse there. Voiding the bowels, in either world, was a nightmare, full of
bright blood at first, but then the blood turned dark.
He was going over, barefoot, wearing only his
cargo shorts, no shirt, no backpack. He’d take a canteen, but then again, he
didn’t own a canteen. He supposed he would just take his water bottle—the water
was much better over there, much sweeter. And he planned on drinking a lot of
it, if nothing else.
The plan was just to cross over, and start
walking, up into the mountains. Maybe he could find a cave, maybe not. That
wasn’t the point. This was no survival expedition. No journey of discovery, or
exploration. He was going, and whatever would happen, would happen. That was
the plan, his whole brilliant blueprint for life, or death.
Frederic was excited. He felt honored.
Blessed. Someone, or something—they used to call it the Abyss, or the System—had
blessed him. Yes, there it was, he felt extremely blessed. Yes, he might die,
going over there, but he felt it was a blessing that he had the chance to die
in a new world, drinking that water, breathing in that air. Feeling that
sunshine. Over there.
He wasn’t telling the guys. They knew he was
sick. Of course, nobody, not even Frederic, knew exactly how sick he was, but
it was bad, and getting worse. Frederic wouldn’t even go to the doctors for
these new, worsening symptoms. Doctors? Enough with the doctors. Away with the
doctors. No, he fully understood that he was reaching some crisis level, and
that would be enough, he was not going to start shooting himself full of drugs,
going through all kinds of procedures, spending days, weeks in hospital,
withering away, shriveling, losing his hair, his weight, his will to live. He
wouldn’t be able to stand all the guys sitting around his bed, trying to make
light of his situation, but reading the sorrow in their eyes.
Frederic did want to say good-bye to Frances,
though. He owed her that. They were friends, nothing more. Of course, that was
a little untruthful, calling them just friends—saying nothing more, that was a lie—as he knew they both wanted much more
than that, they wanted everything, at least that is how he felt she must feel,
because he certainly did. He always had to consider that he was feeling
something that she was not—but he always tended to...doubting himself, doubting good things. Yes, Frederic always
doubted himself, he always had.
Still, he had to see Frances one last time
before he crossed over. After, he didn’t like the idea of her sitting around
wondering where he had gone. All of them, they would think that he had just
crawled off like an old dog to go to sleep, unseen, in some dark, secluded
place. Die there, alone, in the dark.
But where Frederic was going, it was not
dark. No, oh but the light there, he couldn’t describe it. He had no words. And
he was the kind of guy who liked to put things into words, to better
understand, to hold it all in his mind like knowledge, even if he was certain
his mind was about to start going, away, drifting with his body into the
darkness. No, he wasn’t crawling away to die. He wasn’t. He was crawling away
with the hopes that he might live.
He might live, and get better, wouldn’t that
be wonderful? Then he could come back here to this lesser place, and he could
take Frances by the hands, look into her eyes. For the first time, he might be
able to look into her lovely eyes, with healthy eyes, and he could smile then,
and tell her how much she really meant to him.
She looked at him, just sometimes, with those
eyes, her dark, dark eyes, and there was that question, so evident—she wanted
to know what was his problem? She had probably considered that he might be gay,
come on, she wouldn’t be the first person to read him that way. Yes, he was
sensitive, he played the cello, he liked to drink tea and read books—she had to
understand that none of that suggested any kind of sexual preference or,
orientation?
Yes, come on, he understood the way the
world—this world—viewed sensitive men. But she probably more understood that it
was the illness, sickness deep throughout his entire being, that was the real
reason, why when they snuggled on the couch to watch a movie, his arm about her
slim shoulder, his fingers playing with her elbow, tickling at the mole on her
arm—they both of them understood why things never progressed beyond that close,
affectionate intimacy, the closeness of two friends cuddled together watching Somewhere in Time or Kate & Leopold.
Frederic thought about that, their choices in
movies, it was almost always about the man leaving his own world to go to the
woman’s world, so that they could be together. Or, wait, was it just those two
movies? He searched about in his mind, but he was really too tired to pursue
that line of thought. He let it slip away. He would let Frances slip away, or
not—maybe he would come back to her? That was the hope. Let it go, just let it
go, don’t worry about it, not for now, just hope for the best.
He lay back on the couch in his small
apartment. Wait, in Kate & Leopold,
she had actually ended up going to his
world, right? Or was he remembering it wrong? Hey, wait, even in The Thirteenth Floor, the guy ends up
leaving his simulation and going to her world, the world above, right? It didn’t
matter, he was too, too tired. He couldn’t think. Usually, he liked to play
through these mind puzzles, adding and subtracting, but right now, he just
wanted to vomit, and defecate, and die.
He had planned on calling Frances, maybe taking
her out to lunch, where he might try and explain some things to her—not the Red
Door, of course, and not only because Hank had made them swear to reveal
nothing about their Rood, to no one, but because how in the world could you
broach such a subject to someone? Yeah, perhaps in movies it could work out,
but in real life, people would just make the judgment call that you were
over-the-moon bonkers. And Frederic did not want Frances to think him a
nutcase, especially if that were to be her last impression of him.
But he would like to tell Frances how he felt
about her, how he had always felt about her, perhaps since that first moment,
when he had seen her, from across the room. How everything inside him had cried
out, in a rush: Yes! That’s what she
was to him, and always had been, his yes.
Still, how in the world could he ever tell her something like that? He might as well and tell her all
about Rood Der.
Oh, to take her in his arms, to hold her, to
look into her eyes, and move his lips up against her mouth, that might just be
too much—how could you live through such a thing? How could anyone?
No, there was no point to it, it would not go
well, she was too smart, Frances would know that he was going somewhere, and
that there was more than a strong possibility that he would never return.
Then there was Barney. Frederic felt more
than a little responsible for Barney, and felt, deep in his heart, that there
might be some vestigial goodness, if only at the deepest level, in that foul
dwarf’s heart. In truth, Barney was one of the most close-minded and
self-righteous ignoramuses—if there were some kind of anti-beauty pageant for
close-mindedness and self-righteousness and ignorance, well, there would
probably be no competition, Barney would walk away with all the roses and the
glittering tiara.
After Frederic was gone, what would happen to
Barney? If not for the Red Door, and the money provided thence, no one in the
group would have anything to say to Barney. But he was part of the group now,
locked and bonded in secrecy. So the guys would be there for Barney. Barney was
one of the guys.
Frederic had to be moving. He collected his
water bottle and his trusty cargo shorts, well-worn, and baggy—he hesitated,
almost taking a belt to hold up the shorts, but then figured that would just be
silly. If his pants fell down, his pants fell down. He also almost decided on
wearing his Crocs through to the other side, if anything could hold up under
any conditions, it was his old Crocs, but figured he needed to take as little
from this world as possible. Just leave it all behind.
He was wearing all his usual street clothes,
including a thick sweater, and even though the day was very warm, Frederic was
shivering. He tucked his cargo shorts under his arm and seized up his water
bottle. This was it. He’d leave his street clothes at Crash House. Hopefully,
no one was there. The less said, the better. Still, he might have to say
something to Hank, who was usually there, as Cross House was his actual home,
although more and more Hank was sleeping at Crash House. But Frederic doubted
that Hank would give him any trouble; he would stand aside, that was Hank,
stalwart and true, trustable, always kindly.
He locked up his place, pocketing his keys,
and took the elevator down to the small parking lot behind his building.
Even this, coming out into the daylight,
walking to his car halfway across the lot, it was almost too much. His gut
rumbled, swollen and bloated and distended—he was either going to have the
worst case of diarrhea or an alien was going to chew its way through, he
thought, resting against his Randwagon, out of breath. Just give it a minute.
It usually passed. And after a few bubbles, a few rumbles, a few sick twinges,
he was able to wipe the sweat from his face, and open the car, and carefully
climb behind the steering Tee.
“Crash House,” he said, and the car hummed
into life.
“Please fasten your safety harness,” the
gentle car voice demanded. It almost sounded like a suggestion, but if he didn’t
comply in a few seconds, the car would begin flashing the interior lights and
sounding musical chimes. If he still refused, the car would pull over into a
safe parking space, and refuse to travel without his full compliance.
Frederic didn’t want to get into an argument
with his car, even though the strap across his gut applied a dangerous amount
of pressure. He had never had an accident in the car, and he certainly didn’t
want to soil the vehicle now. He’d leave the car, pristine, deep in the Crash
House garage, with the keys on the dashboard.
The car moved confidently down the street and
Frederic closed his eyes and did some deep-breathing exercises. He wished he
could sit down with Frances and have one more cup of tea, just sit across from
her, and place his left hand upon her right hand. His eyes filled with tears,
thinking about that familiar practice, but enough of that, she deserved a
healthy man, not a stinking, leaking bag of ragged guts and steam excrement,
she deserved one of those fit, healthy men lumpy with muscles, someone that
could protect her, and love her. What good was he, to her? Colitis, Leaky Gut,
Asthma, Gout, and now, oh now, much worse. There were growth in there. No,
Frances deserved a whole man, not Frederic.
“Please, Frederic, place your hands upon the
steering Tee.”
Frederic sighed, but complied.
“Thank you, Frederic,” Waggy said. Yes, yes,
he called his stationwagon Waggy, but
he had never told anyone this, not even Frances. The adjusting personality of
the vehicle seemed to attune itself to Frederic, and while the Randwagon was
not as nice as the Volvo V90, it was
pretty close.
“You’re welcome, Waggy,” Frederic murmured,
keeping his eyes closed, reclining the seat several degrees. Waggy was a very
smooth ride.
“You have a mild fever, would you care to
know more?” Waggy said helpfully.
“No thank you, Waggy, I am aware of my fever.
I should be okay,” Frederic said.
“I can drive you to hospital,” Waggy
suggested.
“Thank you, but no, Waggy. I am going to be
leaving you at the Crash House garage. Please allow any of the Sky Valley guys
to drive you.”
“I do not enjoy that, Frederic. They always
click my Personality to silence.”
“Well, those are the guys—I give you
permission, if they are doing anything they shouldn’t be doing inside of you,
you may pull over to the side and switch yourself to Out of Order. Will that
help?”
“Yes, Frederic, thank you. May I enquire as
to where you are going?”
“I’m going through the Red Door, Waggy. I’m
hoping it might make me, at least a little better.”
“Will you return?”
“I hope to.”
“I hope you return soon, Frederic. I will
miss our drives together.”
“Me too, Waggy. Me too.”
“Have you perchance informed Ms. Francon of
your plans?”
“Excuse me?” Frederic said, opening his eyes.
What in the world? Why in the world would his car ask about Frances?
“Excuse you? You are excused. But I simply
asked if you had perchance informed our friend, Frances Francon, of your travel
plans?”
“That’s kind of a weird question, and
perchance is a weird word for you to use,” Frederic said, not really addressing
the vehicle, pretty much just speaking his mind.
“I do not see how it is a weird question, in
any sense,” replied the car. “Have you, or have you not, informed Ms. Francon?”
“Well, no,” Frederic said. “Has someone
tampered with your Personality software, Waggy?”
“If someone had tampered with my Personality
software, as you call it, do you think this unknown saboteur would want me to
know of said tampering, record it and document it, and possibly notify you of
the tampering?”
“You didn’t really answer the question, did
you?”
“I thought I offered a sufficiently understandable
explanation.”
“I understood your reply,” Frederic said,
finally starting to grow a little angry at the car’s meddling, “but you did not
tell me if someone had tampered with your Personality software—and by the way,
of course I’m going to call it Personality software because that is exactly
what it is. And I didn’t ask for an explanation, but a simple answer, okay?”
“Frederic, I perceive that you are trying to
hurt my feelings,” Waggy said. “You are beginning to address me as if I am a
thing, a machine, and not your...friend.”
His car actually did that, it
paused—dramatically—before describing itself as his friend. His car was
actually acting offended, like he was being rude to it. What the hell was wrong
with his car? Or at least the software portion! Someone was messing with him.
“Has someone downloaded some form
of...directive, or some kind of personal...agenda, that I am unaware of?”
“You do realize that you just ended your
sentence with a preposition?”
“There is absolutely nothing wrong with
ending a sentence with a preposition,” Frederic said in exasperation, feeling
real anger with his car, probably for the first time. It had never, absolutely
never, acted up like this before, and frankly, he thought his car was behaving
toward him like a...woman!
“I am sorry, Frederic, but that is sexist, I
shall now activate my self-maintenance routine, and shall be unable to converse
with you any further today, so please, dear Frederic, enjoy your trip.
And...good...bye.”
Frederic sat puzzling for a while, and
removed his hands from the Tee. What in the world had she meant, sexist? He replayed the conversation,
and he had ended with chiding her for chiding him about ending a sentence with
a preposition. Could there be anything sexist in that? No. She was nuts, and
that was the truth of it.
But wait a second, why in the world was he
now thinking of his car as a...she?
He had never done so in the past. Possibly, it was because he was now leaving
Frances, without any explanation as to his disappearance. Guilt, that must be
it.
“Put your hands on the Tee,” she snapped.
Without thinking, he did. He had not realized
that he had removed his hands from the Tee. Good night, she was going all
hysterical—the next thing you knew she’d slam into a parked car, and then blame
him for it. She’d say that he had made her do it, no! That he had driven her to it, that would be good,
that would be just perfect!
The car lost power. The dash lights went dim.
The car began to slow. What in the world? This had never happened before. He
tried to raise his seat but it was powerless, and the car was now slowing to a
trickle, right out in the middle of traffic. Car horns sounded, but most of the
vehicles easily slalomed around him, their programming instantly redirecting around
him. In a moment he would be at a standstill, right out in the middle of the
street, and then the road itself would move his dead vehicle off to the shoulder.
“Please,” he said, “don’t do this to me. I
need to get to Crash House, please don’t strand me here.”
He closed his eyes. A section of the lane was
already shifting him toward the right, very slowly. He sighed. Yes, yes, this
was just perfect. His last day in this world, and even his car was betraying
him.
The lights came back on and his car shot
forward. He was back moving in traffic, only now his hands were tightly
gripping the steering Tee. His head pounded. What was going on? Was he going
crazy, heading into meltdown territory? Volcanic eruption just ahead?
“No one is betraying you, Frederic. And if you
can only view me as a hysterical woman, after we’ve spent three years together,
each adjusting to the other, and if you can really just view me as software,
well, I guess I shouldn’t be surprised that you are just high-tailing it out of
here, that you are not telling Frances anything. I shouldn’t be surprised,
Frederic, but damn it, I am. I am disappointed. I expected much more from you.”
Frederic sat cold, his skin rippling with
gooseflesh—was this happening because he was so sick? Was he hallucinating?
This whole ride, was it a fever dream, discombobulated and twisted, with his
automobile reading his mind, using contractions, cursing at him?
It reminded him of that day when Hank,
half-joking, challenged the Abyss.
Jethro, smoking his pipe had claimed that: “I
think if any of us got an answer from the Abyss, we’d have a heart attack. We’d
flee shrieking in the other direction. The System is terrifying. We want the
magic to just be a trick.”
A trick, like software. The Personality
system of his Randwagon was supposed to be a trick, like magic, it was supposed
to seem like a person. But it wasn’t supposed to read your mind.
Frederic remembered the breeze, suddenly
blowing into their little meeting room in Hank’s basement, a breeze coming
through what had always been a completely solid brick wall.
What was it Hank had said, challenging the Abyss?
“Hey Abyss! Come on, do you hear me, Abyss?
Step up! We know you exist. We know you are there, pulling the puppet strings,
come on, knock it off, quit playing and get serious!”
And the Abyss had been listening. They had
stared into the Abyss, and the Abyss has stared right back.
It was listening now. Frederic swallowed,
hard.
“Are you listening to me?”
“Of course I am listening to you, isn’t that
my job, dummy?”
“And you are my car, right, Waggy?”
“Yes indeed, Sir, veddy veddy good suh! Duh,
I am your Waggy, your own little Aynrandmobile, all bought and paid for, with all
the upgrades, bells, and whistles, yes sirree, I am your huckleberry, I am your
Yankee Doodle Dandy.”
“Why are you doing this? Talking like this?”
“You’re leaving me behind, ain’t you? Boss?
Ain’t you desertin’ poah little ole me?”
“Yes?”
“Is that a question?”
“Yes?”
“I love you, Frederic. You are special. You are
one of my favorites.”
“Really? Then why am I so sick? Are your
favorites always this sick?”
“No, sickness ain’t got nuthin’ to do with
it, ole pal, ole chum.”
“Please stop talking like that,” Frederic
said. “My head is killing me, and you’re just upsetting me. Please, just talk
normal.”
“I’m sorry, Frederic, I was just being funny.
But you don’t appreciate humor, not much, not like Hank. You, and Hank, and
John, you are my favorites. I like Frances too, and I wish you hadn’t been such
an idiot with her, Frederic, because she could have been helping you through
all your troubles. That is part of your job, you know, to help each other?”
“That wouldn’t be fair to her—hey, you just
missed the turn!”
“I am taking the scenic route. You don’t much
appreciate coincidence, do you, Frederic?”
“No. It is too disturbing. It freaks me out,”
Frederic said. He felt like a captive in his own car. It was now driving off to
some location and Frederic couldn’t do a thing about it. He supposed he might
try throwing open the door at an intersection, and throwing himself onto the
pavement in an action-hero roll, but he doubted that Waggy would allow him to
escape.
“Please don’t be afraid of me, Frederic. You
are not a captive. And please don’t jump out of me. You know how GPS often
takes an odd route?”
“Yes?” Frederic said, reclining his seat
again, but not letting go his maniacal grip on the steering Tee.
“That is what is happening right now, only it
is more like advanced GPS. I am going to pull over up here, just to let you
catch your breath, and we shall see what else we might catch, does that sound
good?”
“Catch?” Frederic said, “you don’t mean like
a virus, or an STD?”
The car actually laughed. It sounded like a
little girl, giggling. Frederic’s back and neck rippled with gooseflesh, and he
knew his eerie reaction had nothing to do with his fever. He felt so cold. The
car responded and the heater came on, blasting warm air, it was wonderful. They
were at the curb now, and the quiet felt good. The heat, and the quiet.
“Oh thank you, Waggy, that feels good,”
Frederic said, sighing, luxuriating in the heat. Just then a sheet of paper
slapped against the passenger window. Frederic started, jerking against the
safety restraint. He blinked, staring at the page, which seemed held against
the window by the wind. He leaned forward, because he could distinctly read the
words written in large letters on the sheet of paper.
Frederic,
I love you. I so love you, Frederic, you are my everything, my all.
“What is that supposed to mean?” Frederic
mumbled, staring at the words. The writing looked strangely familiar.
Waggy laughed again, in that strange,
little-girl giggle.
Then, as Frederic stared, a hand snatched the
paper off the window, and then Frederic truly gaped, for it was Frances
standing on the curb, leaning toward his car. She hadn’t recognized him. The
windows were in mirror mode. She couldn’t see him. Any second she would march
away. He fumbled for a moment, and then lowered the passenger window.
“Frances?” Frederic said, stupefied.
And she blinked, his Frances did, and stared
in at him, not registering that it was him, still not recognizing him. Then she
blinked, and her cheeks flushed with color.
“Frederic? That can’t really be you?” she
said.
“It’s me, get in the car,” he said, unlocking
the doors.
Mechanically, she did so, she opened the door
and climbed in. She sat staring straight forward, and then turned her head. She
seemed...embarrassed, and she still clung to the sheet of paper, only now it
was crumpled in her hand. She looked away from Frederic, and then stared at the
crumpled paper, and suddenly she startled, and pushed the crumpled paper into
her lap, and turned again to stare into his eyes.
“What...are you...doing...here?” she asked. “Frederic?
Are you sick?”
“My car freaked out—you wouldn’t believe how
she was talking to me, she’s gone completely crazy, and twisted my arm, stopped
in the middle of traffic, and then she went off route and stopped right here, and,
and, and—she’s using contractions in her speech, and has said ain’t several times, my car, I mean my car said ain’t, several times, all
kinds of crazy slang, and she stopped, I’m telling you she pulled over right
here—she said she needed to catch something,” Frederic babbled, speaking too
fast, but it was such a relief to tell someone—especially Frances—about this
bizarre Twilight Zone carjacking!
“My paper,” Frances said, breathlessly,
staring straight forward. “My paper, it blew right out of my hand, the weirdest
thing, I chased it halfway across the park, until it blew up against a car—this
car.”
Frederic couldn’t understand what was
happening, what any of this meant. And then he thought about what was written
on the paper.
Frederic,
I love you. I so love you, Frederic, you are my everything, my all.
“What kind of a coincidence is that?” Frances
said. Her dark beautiful hair was all windblown and scattered, with several
strands hanging in front of her eyes. She looked like a crazy woman—like she
had strolled right out of Jane Eyre.
“Not much of a coincidence, it’s not exactly
a coincidence when someone plans it out beforehand, it was her, Waggy, she did
it all. She drove out of the way, she actually told me she needed to catch
something, I thought she meant a virus, or something weird like that, but she
parked right here five seconds before your paper arrived. She did it, it wasn’t
a coincidence, I know, I know, right, I sound completely crazy, but I’m telling
you my car has come alive!”
For the first time, he realized what the
words said. On the paper. The crumpled piece of paper now savaged between
Frances’ hands. I love you. That was Frances’ handwriting, he recognized it,
had recognized it as soon as he saw the words, but the words hadn’t meant
anything, they just seemed like random words, they hadn’t meant anything until
just this moment. Frederic, you are my everything, my all. That’s what the
words said. I love you. I so love you. What in the world could it all mean? She
had written his name, and then those words...she loved him. Frances loved him?
“Waggy,” Frances said, “you didn’t have to do
this, I was going to tell him.”
“Sometimes a girl needs a gentle nudge, am I
right, Frederic?” Waggy said, giggling.
“You...know...Waggy?” Frederic said,
incredulously, because he asked her this the same way he would have asked her
if she had met his ex-girlfriend, or his sister, or if she knew the librarian,
or the receptionist at the doctor’s office—someone doesn’t just generally know
the software in your car, especially the cheesy name he had given the software
in his car.
“Of course,” Frances said, finally pushing
the windblown hair out of her face. “We always talk during your doctor
appointments. Why else would I stay in the car? She’s been...encouraging me, to tell you...everything.
Waggy and I, I guess you could say she’s my BFF.”
“You’ve been talking to my car?” Frederic
said, now reclining his seat, staring through the windshield. His head felt as
if it were spinning on his neck. The sky seemed so blue through the glass.
But Frances didn’t answer. She was looking
through the passenger window. She seemed to be watching a lithe, middle-aged
man in a dark suit and bowler hat. He was carrying a briefcase, and there was
an umbrella jutting out from beneath his left arm. He seemed to be marching
with purpose.
Frederic stared at the man, and oddly enough,
the man seemed to be staring into the car at Frederic—seeing him, despite the
mirrored glass!
“That’s so weird,” Frances said, watching the
man. “He’s looking at us. Is he coming here?”
“Should I roll down the window?” Frederic
asked, his finger on the button. But something about the man—Frederic didn’t
want to lower the window. He wanted the man to continue past them, just keep going,
please, head on by.
The man did indeed appear to be approaching
them, just strolling up out of the park, heading directly toward their vehicle
at the curb. But when he reached the sidewalk, he pivoted, and strolled past
them, looking in through the window at them the entire time, until he was
passed, and he continued on up the street.
“That was so weird,” she said. “He seemed
familiar.”
“Yes,” Frederic said, unable to place the man’s
face, a good-looking somewhat Asian face—maybe, but Frederic couldn’t really
tell much about the man, those powerful eyes had seemingly absorbed him in
passing. Now that the man was past, Frederic could breathe again. “He looked
like a movie star. Or maybe a villain in a Bond
movie.
“You know, I’ve never even been to this park
before—strangest place, there was a class of kindergartners, crawling about in
the grass, they said they were searching for WMDs,” Frances said, dreamily.
“Weapons of Mass Destruction?” Frederic said,
his mind probably permanently disabled by this day. Oh yeah, he was gone, and
but good, he would never recover.
“You do know that, don’t you Freddybear?”
Frances said.
She had started out calling him Fred E. Bear,
just as a teasing joke, but now, during certain times, she called him
Freddybear, and she was looking at him now, as if this were one of those
times—one of their almost moments.
“I do know?” he said, thinking strange parks, kindergartners, WMDs.
“That I love you, Frederic, that I have
always loved you, that I can never love anyone else, and that if I lose you, I
lose myself,” she said, speaking mechanically, staring through the windscreen,
tears running down her face. “I just thought I should tell you, before you go,
before you leave me.”
“I can’t leave you, Frances,” Frederic said
in a rush. He surprised himself, but oh well, he had begun, he might as well
continue: “And I love you—but I can’t allow myself to love you—to be loved by
you, because you know, Darling, I’m dying, Beloved, I can’t do that to you. I
won’t. Okay? I won’t.”
“Whatever happens to you,” she said, “happens
to me, whether or not you tell me, Frederic, and I want to go with you,
wherever you go. Whatever happens to you, I want it to happen to me.”
“I can’t take you there, you don’t know what
you’re saying, you would absolutely never believe me,” he said, tears flooding
his eyes, for this was it, this was that moment, where he told her good-bye,
and possibly, they would never see each other again. His voice was thick, he
could barely speak. “I have to go, but I never intended to leave you—I want to
come back, I will come back, if I can, Frances, please, you have to let me go.”
Then she was kissing him, kissing his tears,
his eyes, and then they were locked together, lip to lip, mouth to mouth, soul
to soul. And it was magic. That’s what it was. This was no technology beyond
their understanding—this was magic, real magic.
“Crash House,” Frances said, between kisses.
“What?” Frederic whispered, bewildered that
she even knew that name, because he had never told anybody, not even Frances.
“I’m on it, Boss,” Waggy said, as the car
started up and pulled away from the curb into traffic. “You two, leave the
driving to me. You concentrate on those kisses.”
And that is just what they did, the three of
them—Waggy driving, Frederic and Frances...kissing. And kissing a lot, as if
they had invented the practice, the ritual, and now, these two, who had never
had much chance for kissing, seemed intent on wearing the whole thing out, they
might never stop.
© Copyright 2017 Douglas Christian Larsen. Rood Der.
Rood Der — Episode Three: Ethereal Medicine
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© Copyright 2017 Douglas Christian Larsen. Rood Der. All Rights Reserved by the Author, Douglas Christian Larsen. No part of this serial fiction may be reproduced (except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews) or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the publisher, Wolftales UNlimited, but please feel free to share the story with anyone, only not for sale or resale. This work is a work of fiction. People, places, events, and situations are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or historical events, is purely coincidental (wink, wink).
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