5. The Pot
Chapter five
The Pot
B rad had scarcely reached the front door of the fraternity house, his feet heavy, exhaustion finally taking hold when Spencer appeared from the bushes around the corner of the house startling him.
“The fuck Spencer?” Brad took a step back.
“Where have you been?” Spencer asked accusingly.
“Dinner and a movie, is that a crime?” Brad said sarcastically.
“I think you need to see an assessor.”
Brad gritted his teeth. “No, I don’t. I’m fine.”
Spencer sighed deeply. “Fine. Our next assignment has been moved up, tomorrow night.”
“What?” Brad practically shouted, then lowered his voice and asked. “Why so soon?”
“You know I don’t ask questions.”
Brad inhaled a frustrated breath. “Whatever, I’ll be there. Obviously.”
Spencer grabbed Brad’s arm, too strong, and said sternly. “Get yourself under control, remember the mission.”
Brad clenched his jaw and nodded. Spencer released his arm and stalked off into the night. Brad’s eyes bore into Spencer’s back as he watched him walk away. Spencer’s sudden appearance had Brad shaken and he tried to clear himself of the off-kilter sensation. He couldn’t let Spencer recommend him for assessment, he couldn’t lose Talia. The image of her swam before him, her golden chocolatey eyes, so innocent, so open. The warmth of her, the taste of her. He couldn’t live without it, the feeling that she gave him. Nothing else mattered.
Get the job done, Brad.
The graveyard was eerily quiet. It was dark tonight, the stars and the moon hid, Brad could hardly see his next step. No scuttling, no hooting, or leaves swishing in the trees, the air was still… and stale. Something is wrong. Brad’s determination pushed him forward even though every sense in his body was screaming at him to run the other way. To run straight to Talia’s apartment, confess his true self, and run away with her. Now’s your chance, take it.
Brad took another step forward and saw Spencer waiting for him next to a headstone. This one, like the last, had a statue as well. Instead of an angel, it was a woman with her arms open wide as if welcoming a crowd to her bosom.
Spencer was unmoving, as stoic as the statue he stood next to. His arms were crossed, and face hidden in the depths of the black hood of his heavy cloak.
“Evening.” Brad tried to turn on his charm, but his voice came out croaky and uneven.
“You’re late.” Spencer did not look at him.
“Are you sure? I think you’re early.” Brad quipped and laughed uneasily.
Spencer did not reply.
Brad cleared his throat and dropped his forced smile. Alright, straight to work then. Brad rolled his sleeves back and crouched down. He placed a fist flat against the earth, pulled back, and rammed his arm toward the ground.
“Ahh, fuck!” Brad jumped up clutching his arm against himself. He danced around trying to shake out the throbbing pain in his hand. “I think I broke my fucking hand. What the fuck?”
“You need an assessment.” Spencer stated simply.
Brad’s panic bubbled up at his words. He thought about running, but knew it would be no use. They’d be able to find him anywhere. He stopped moving around and nursed his wounds. Spencer knelt down, placed his fist against the ground, pulled back and rammed his arm back down. Massive amounts of dirt sprayed up around him like a wave, clearing the way to the casket below.
Brad took a step back and blocked his head from the flying debris with his good arm. Spencer stood up straight and Brad could have sworn that he had grown a foot. Brad shook under the towering form of Spencer.
“Do your job, Brad.”
His voice was all wrong, not human. It had a metallic clang hanging on the edges of his words. Brad’s skin crawled and the hairs on the back of his neck rose as he walked past Spencer, he sat on the ground, and lowered himself into the hole. He struggled to lift the lid to the casket and sweat beaded on his forehead from the effort. He finally managed to get a finger under the lip of the lid and eased his good hand in, then used his arm like a lever to lift the top open. Dirt fell away creating a dust cloud around him, which made Brad sneeze and squint his eyes.
When the dust cloud cleared, Brad sifted through the bones until he found the one he was looking for. He opened wide, but couldn’t get his jaw to release. Spencer, from above, reached a too long arm down to Brad and roughly forced his jaw to unhinge. Brad swallowed a scream of pain.
“Take it.” Spencer growled with his metallic words.
Brad reached a shaky hand inside his mouth and fingered his throat pocket open as Spencer held firmly to his face with his thin pointed fingers. Brad deposited the Stapes bone of Amelia Davis. Spencer slammed Brad’s mouth shut and everything went black.
“Amelia!” “Amelia!” “Amelia!” The crowd cried out. Their desperate wails echoed to her ears like nails into her heart, she’d never be able to help them all.
Amelia paced around the large standing room tent; her long dress swished around her ankles creating little puffs of dirt around her feet while she chewed on her nails. She tossed her long blonde braid behind her and put her hands on her hips.
"I can't do this." She gulped. "It'll never be enough."
"It'll be enough for one." Her mother held her tight, rubbing her arms. "And that's all that matters. Just make a difference to one."
Amelia swallowed her uncertainty and marched through the flaps of the tent. The crowd greeted her with their voluminous cheers and idolized sobs, some with their eyes closed clasping their hands tight together in prayer. Amelia took a deep slow breath through her nose. 1… 2… 3… 4… 5… And out through her mouth. 1…2…3…4…5…
She opened her vibrations to the universe before her, as if she were searching the air for emotions, and closed her eyes to focus her mental clarity. She mentally searched for the one most in pain, most desperate and traumatized. When she locked onto a handful of the most hurting people in the crowd, she opened her eyes and searched again for the one that appeared to be the youngest, the one with the most time left to offer the world.
There, him. She pointed a finger toward her target and slowly walked forward as the crowd parted for her like Moses and the sea. A boy, no older than ten, yet as small as a five-year-old being held in the arms of his father. Amelia approached slowly and his father’s body started to shake with racking sobs, but he held tight to his son.
Amelia smiled. “Shh, shh, shh, it’s okay, he’s going to be okay.”
Amelia placed a palm on the boy's forehead. His eyes were closed and his breathing shallow and raspy. His pale and clammy skin was almost ashen. She searched for his individual energy, closing out all the other vibrations around her, until nothing else existed in her mind but him, as though he and her alone were in an expansive black room. In her mind she walked toward the boy curled up in the dark.
She kneeled next to him and whispered with a smile in her voice. “I found you.” She smoothed his hair, and he opened his eyes. “Come toward the light with me, leave your pain behind.”
The boy stood with Amelia and blinked, shielding his eyes as the dark room flooded with light.
“There you are.” Amelia laughed with relief and patted the boy's hand. “Live a good life, only for you, no one else.”
Amelia brought herself back to present consciousness. The crowd was praising God and the boy before her was no longer in the arms of his father. He was standing up right with rosy cheeks and a beautiful grin. The crowd began laying hands on her and before long she was swarmed with desperate cries of people begging for her grace.
So many hands clawed on her she fought her way back to the tent where her guard of loyalists made the crowd disperse. Inside the tent, Amelia took two steps to her mother and collapsed into her waiting arms.