Gone is Gone, and Six Other Fables for your Eventual Annihilation

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The short stories of Gone is Gone are works of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2018 by E. Stuart Marlowe

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

COVER ART BY AERON ALFREY

WARNING

The following collection contains stories and imagery that many will find extremely disturbing. Caution is advised to those who wish to proceed.

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Fables

Take Two and Kill Me in the Morning

Siniy Kit (Blue Whale)

Jackson

Moribundus Infiniata

Gone is Gone

To Warm Countries Far from Hence

Faith and Praise

Take Two and Kill Me in the Morning

After three days in the blistering heat and humidity, the infant had begun to reek. In one week's time, the crawlspace was insufferable. Edmond succumbed. He had no choice but to abandon the ramshackle house and the bloated baby lodged between two fat pieces of lumber, as it cracked open like a pig on a spit. He was forlorn over leaving the child. He had grown attached to it, fond of it, though frankly, could not remember why.

Edmond spent the next day in the shadows, his brain sloshing around in his skull. All the streets were unfamiliar, unchartered. Any memory of this town was vague. He had enough sense to stay hidden from view. As such, he slept most of the day and roamed cautiously by night. When he woke the following evening, he had forgotten about the deteriorating and gated-off house out near the quarry, and with it, all recollection of that rotting infant.

Edmond Edmond Edmond.

He knew his first name. He knew it because it was printed in faded blue ink on a white strip of tape over his breast pocket. There was a wallet, too, in his back pocket, but that thing was empty except for two singles and a ten, and a photo of a young girl with red hair. Something about that photograph made Edmond's insides squirm and brought a longing to his shuddering heart.

That face.

In the moonlight, he sat leaning against a cemetery wall and stared at it.

He felt a stirring in his pants as he gazed at her pale, freckled skin. It frustrated him. When he could do nothing more than stare, when he could not will this girl to rise from the glossy, grease-smudged paper, all he could do was ball his hands into fists and unleash them on the cemetery wall. Naturally, he found the wall unyielding.

Weeping blood, his fists cramped, and then Edmond wept as well. He wept until he slept, the blood-soaked photo still clenched tightly, the photo of a girl with freckled skin and a bemused smile, with a white cotton top, offering to the person holding this photo an unmistakable glint of surprise in her eyes.

Edmond's dreams were loud and brash, so tortured that they threatened to burst apart at the seams.

Running, speeding past people. The sounds of his feet slapping and his panicked breathing.

On a building's roof beneath a thick gray sky, bolting, perhaps impervious to the oncoming ledge. It was a long way down to the street below, where people strolled and cars honked. He knew he needed to keep hurtling, to leap from the roof, and so he did, but before he did, a friendly voice let him know that dying from a fall can be painful. Very, very painful. And perhaps you should consider this pistol on your way down. A bullet to the brain – nice and quick. But you have to decide fast (the friendly voice was already fading). It was actually a pleasant man with a ruddy face who had spoken, teetering at the roof's edge. He wore a beige raincoat from which he withdrew the black gun. He watched Edmond fast approach.

Edmond dove from the building. He felt the wind rush past him, and he knew the man was right. No time to spare, he brought the gun to his temple, squeezed. There was no pain. A clap, but no pain. The man was right.

That's when Edmond woke. It was still night. There was no pistol in his grip, only the photograph, now slick from blood and sweat.

Angrily, he rammed it back into his wallet.

Coward, Edmond groused in a dozy fog. He shoved the worn wallet into his back pocket. He was hungry.

When he looked up at the sign that read Lilac Drive, drizzle speckled his face. Within minutes, this sprinkle coalesced into rain which pelted Edmond's shoulders and the back of his downturned head. It was a good thing, the rain, because it loosened the clots in his black hair until they slid free, diluted the crimson stains on his shirt and pants, removed any incrimination. It was also a welcomed reprieve from the day's heat.

Through the rainfall, he saw a cross ahead, bright white against the dark sky. Before the church was another sign, lit by a streetlamp overhead, and this one was far more alluring to Edmond.

The door to Barney's Tavern was open in spite of the wind that blew in cold, damp air. He swayed at the entrance, his eyes adjusting to the bar's interior. Pool balls clattered to his left. It smelled like spilt beer. Edmond rubbed his hands together, let a grin crack his face, and entered.

As he sat in a red vinyl booth, the click-clacking of balls stopped, likewise the chatter at the bar. Eyes were on him. He thought nothing of it as his hand wiped rain from his forehead.

A woman turned from the bar, reluctantly it seemed, and walked to him.

You? Her voice was like gravel. A heavy smoker. There was nothing welcoming in her gaze. You want something?

Edmond stared blankly at her for a moment, and then his fingers fished the wallet from his pocket to produce the cash.

Beer, he said.

She saw the money, shook her head, and walked back to the bar. She and the bartender leaned face to face, muttering back and forth while never letting their eyes off of Edmond.

The woman brought him his beer. He nodded once and took a sip. It was a taste he had sorely missed.

He needed to piss. The bathroom was easy to find. He crossed the bar, leaving a trail of red-tinged rainwater behind. After he relieved himself, he turned and saw his reflection in the pocked mirror hanging above the sink. This startled him. Not a bad-looking guy. Not bad at all. It was as though he hadn't before laid eyes on his own face. He blinked slowly and examined every nuance, thoroughly impressed.

Are you fuckin' kidding me? came a man's voice.

Edmond glanced at the man who was stepping into the bathroom. He was taller, mustachioed and with dark, deep-set eyes that narrowed to pinholes as he spoke.

You kidding me, coming in here? the man continued. Seriously? You got nerve.

Edmond didn't answer. He walked toward the bathroom exit, but the much bigger man blocked his passage.

I'm talking to you, the man said. Edmond was near enough to register the sour smell of beer on his breath. You're just gonna come in here and have a drink, like we're all good friends, like it's nothin'? Is that it? I oughta give you a good smack in the mouth.

Edmond didn't like the odor of the man's dank breath. He shoved him aside and walked back into the bar. Forgetting his beer and the bill for it, forgetting too his wallet still sitting at the vinyl booth, he continued on to the open exit and into the rain. The patrons watched him leave, none apparently eager to stop him.

Hey, asshole! The man was behind him, calling to him from the doorway, moving toward him. I'm not done talkin' to you.

Edmond's fist was still split and bruised, but he paid that no mind as it planted hard in the other man's nose. There was a crack, a rush of blood through that stupid-looking mustache, and rivulets dripped down his lips and chin, joining the rain that struck his equally stupid-looking face. The man's hands flew up to protect his fractured nose, his eyes wide and scared. Edmond pummeled the man's gut, and the man responded by doubling over with a grunt.

He advanced on the man, took hold of his jacket, threw him to the muddy ground, and dragged him into the darkened alley alongside Barney's Tavern. Edmond remained oddly disconnected from it all, none of his assault preconceived or deliberate. He truthfully didn't really care.

He found himself straddling the man, but couldn't tell how long he stayed there. Edmond's fists made putty out of his face. At some point, the other man stopped resisting. The rain fell into his gaping mouth, with its busted jaw and loosened teeth, puddling there until it overflowed. He seemed to be looking up at Edmond through half-opened lids. It was too dim to see much more, and truthfully, again, he couldn't find the gusto to care.

Finally, Edmond stopped. He had been distracted by a thought. It was the smiling redhead with the freckled skin. That smile was for him, Edmond.

The twitching returned to his pants, but this time he didn't let it rise into frustration. This time, his hips pressed into the motionless heap between his thighs, and this pressure seemed to alleviate the anger.

A woman with a burgundy umbrella was walking her dog on the sidewalk past the alley. When she saw the shapes on the ground rocking back and forth, she tightened her scarf and yanked on the leash, and then hurried off into the storm. She must have thought it was a couple of homeless people, or maybe a prostitute racking up her hours, and wanted no part of the filthy deed.

Several minutes passed. Edmond continued to rub himself into the other man. Faster and faster. Building. Every muscle tightening, now his body one big fist, those smiling eyes beckoning him from below red locks.

Then, the point of no return. Edmond hollered, a deep guttural groan. It was a sound that none inside the bar could hear above the downpour. It lasted seconds, at which point his rocking ceased and his panting slowed.

He stood, wilting inside his jeans, relieved.

The dense encasement housing his memories began to soften like wax, leaving patches exposed. What he could see in these spots was still opaque, puzzle pieces whose edges mismatched and bore no semblance to one another: a sprig of weeds growing from a crack in the asphalt, a window softly lit on an otherwise lightless street, stacks of papers covered with indecipherable chicken scratch. If they served as clues to his past life, Edmond possessed neither the skill nor the inclination to sort them.

These images bounced around his head as he shambled across a grassy field with the sun rising at his back, the weather calm, the sound of the sea looming ahead. A long blare sounded from far off, presumably that of a train.

He was cold, sodden and very tired. The satisfaction he had felt after the prior night's confrontation, lopsided though it was, had been replaced by the usual vacuous disorientation, long since forgotten. Now, he wanted only to sleep. To sleep and to dry out.

Ahead, a road busy with commuters skirted the bay. Something told him to remain discreet, and when he found a tall redwood, he stopped behind it to peer over his shoulder. School buses passed, three in all over the next few minutes. To the left of the field was a tall thicket, which he entered, pushing past shrubs shoulder high, slogging through sludgy earth, unaware of his destination, guided only by compulsion.

Five minutes later he heard the school bells. The ground hardened and the vegetation became sparser as he moved toward the sound.

When he cast his eyes on the brick buildings and read the sign – A.E. Huddleston High School – it was as if an explosion went off in his brain. Edmond began to tremble furiously. He collapsed to his knees and clutched the grass, unaware that he was kneading the dirt or biting his lip so hard that he broke skin.

He knew the redhead.

Overwhelming as the insight was, and given his current state of exhaustion, his mind could not embrace or conquer it. Edmond instead fainted, sprawling onto the grass.

Cordelia.

He woke to dusk with her name jutting from his mind, a shard.

Cordelia Cordelia.

It resonated.

Edmond watched the school, now empty, and strained to remember more.

A sprig of weeds, a window softly lit, stacks of papers. He wanted to remember.

His fingers felt for the wallet in his back pocket but did not find it. Fearful, he patted himself down, nervously fumbling at his breast pocket, finding nothing there either. He dove into his rear pocket once more, this time retrieving a crumpled piece of yellow lined paper. He studied it. The address written on it was unfamiliar. 1601 Spruce. Disgusted, Edmond shoved it back where he had found it.

Cordelia.

If only he could see her face right now. It was a link, he knew that, but without the photograph, her features had become indistinct.

A sprig of weeds, a window softly lit, stacks of papers.

And circles. Crudely drawn, white on black. And rectangles. They meant nothing to him. Straining. An ache simmering at the base of his head, now blossoming, his vision blurred.

A window softly lit...and a street sign.

Edmond sank back with a sigh. He mouthed the name of the road, though his chapped lips made no sound.

Cody Lane.

The window was not softly lit. It was darkened, like the others. But there was no doubt in Edmond's mind: this was hers.

It appeared as it always had, day or night, set back from the street by a manicured lawn, shaded by pine trees, white lacy curtains drawn. They were always pulled closed. No matter how often Edmond had tried to peer through them, as he knew he had innumerable times, they were inevitably shut.

Still, Edmond watched in the moonlight, unseen and undisturbed. Hours passed. He may have expected to witness some epiphany, to find some sort of reckoning there beyond that obscured bedroom window, but it would not come tonight.

He waited, and he stared, and the window on Cody Lane stared back.

Morning found him crouching in the bushes. The sound of a car door slamming woke him with a start. He caught sight of her, the redhead, turning her engine and speeding away. Edmond jogged after her, but she rounded a corner and then was gone.

And now, he could not recall her name, or her face. She was a notion. A yearning. An itch to be scratched. Edmond found this shallow longing profoundly satisfying. A name and a face could only sully this urge, as if they were impurities.

He wandered.

Cody intersected Elm which ran perpendicular with Taylor. The streets laid out like a grid, and he discovered solace in the lines. When he looked at houses, he saw cubes. Cars became arcs. Rays of sun created geometric textures. Edmond was swimming in circumscribed shapes, assigning order to a world that defied order.

Taylor led to Pine and Pine came to an end at –

Spruce.

He drew out the torn yellow paper and looked at the address again.

Mayfield Clinical Trials, read the sign above the door at 1601 Spruce, where he stood ten minutes later, gazing up. Edmond squinted in thought, reaching for something that never came. He swung open the glass door and stepped in.

The waiting room was plainly furnished but had an air of domestic comfort: wicker baskets full of magazines, an overstuffed navy blue sofa, the steady trickle of a tabletop rock fountain.

He was alone, other than a girl who sat behind a white desk. She seemed no older than sixteen, her black hair in a bun except for a long wisp that danced in front of her face as she peered up from a textbook. Her eyes grew large behind dark boxy frames when they settled on Edmond. He thought he heard a gasp escape those ruby lips.

Mr. Morrison, she said. If she had felt shock or dismay, it was impossible to tell through her smile.

Assuming he was indeed Mr. Morrison, Edmond looked at her but offered no sign of acknowledgment. He moved closer until his hands rested on her desk.

We were expecting you two days ago, the girl told him, to which he again said nothing. I'll let them know you're back. She fingered a button on the phone in front of her. Mr. Morrison is here.

Be right there, said a woman's voice through the telephone's speaker.

Sit for a sec, please, she said, pointing at the sofa. Shouldn't be very long.

Edmond eyed the couch, and then he complied. The couch gave a sigh as he sank into it. He noticed dirt and blood caked under his fingernails and mindlessly dug out the grime.

After a minute, the girl glanced up from her book. I never believed any of those stories were true.

He looked at her blankly.

You were always one of my favorite teachers, she said, lowering her voice. Edmond sensed a glimmer of flirtation behind those eyeglasses. Anyway, she kinda had a reputation for being a drama queen. So not a lot of people actually believed her. Most of us were sorry to hear you were leaving. It was kinda unfair.

Her pale cheeks reddened. Perhaps she had said more than she ought to have. She returned her attention to her studies with the faintest of smiles still lingering. Her meaningless admission deflected off of Edmond. He rubbed his palms dry on his pant legs and waited.

Two minutes later, a woman opened a door to the right of the receptionist's desk and called, Mr. Morrison?

Edmond stood, gave a quick nod to the raven-haired teenager at the desk, and walked toward the waiting woman. She seemed quite the opposite of her coworker: late thirties, full hips, dirty blond curls, tightly drawn lips. She had an earthiness to her. When Edmond approached, her mouth smiled but her eyes did not.

On the other side of the waiting room door was a hall with rooms on either side. His gaze stayed fixed on the carpeted floor as she took him to a far exam room. He noticed her sheer nylons and clunking black high heels. Her feet lacked elegance, were almost beefy, as they pumped in and out of their shoes with a utilitarian stride. He fleetingly wondered what it would feel like if she walked over his body, all over it.

Here we are. She shut the door behind them. Have a seat on the table.

He crept onto the table's padded burgundy surface, crinkling the white paper that stretched its length. The woman sat and studied a file which Edmond surmised was his own.

Your follow-up was Thursday, but that's okay. This is close enough. Her manicured finger ran zigzag along the page before her. She took a pen from her coat, clicked it and readied to write. How have you been overall?

He shrugged.

Any blurred vision, dizziness, headaches?

He shook his head. She wrote something.

And your mood? Better, worse, about the same?

His mouth was dry. He cleared his throat. Same?

Have you had any thoughts of harming yourself since the last appointment?

Again, he shook his head. Dreams didn't count, he figured. She scribbled.

All right, she said after a moment of analysis. Are you ready? We need to draw some blood again, check your vitals. The usual.

She offered a wide simper. He smiled weakly. The woman stood and busied herself at a countertop, taking test tubes and needles from a drawer. Go 'head and lie down, she said to her workspace.

Edmond looked at the exam table he was sitting on, and then with hesitation lay back, staring up at the AC vent. Its grille lines became Roman numerals. You were always one of my favorite teachers. Her words dinged a bell, tiny and distant. Their meaning, at first pointless in the absence of context, was gradually crystallizing like a photo submersed in developer solution. And as these images rose to the top of the murk, blood left his face and sweat poured from his skin.

Glimpses from his memory. He was driving past that quiet window on Cody Lane. He was ripping a page from a school yearbook, preserving a fragment of it in his wallet. He was being talked down to with scorn by the faces of authority.

That yearning returned, and his giddy heart rose, although the rest of him felt leaden. Edmond couldn't see her face anymore, couldn't recall her name or her voice and didn't know her identity. He knew only that she was waiting for him, and that she was the only person who could make him feel happy, free, alive –

Go ahead and make a fist, Mr. Morrison. The woman had strung a band around his upper arm and had wiped the bend of his elbow with a swab dipped in alcohol. He clenched his hand, his eyes still deciphering the lines in the ceiling as if they were equations. She glanced at his face. You feeling okay?

He broke his stare to look at her and nodded once.

A little prick. She was sitting on a stool leaning over his arm. His mind elsewhere, Edmond barely registered the stab. Okay, relax your hand. She loosened the tourniquet. One more vial. Let me know if you need water.

His breathing quickened. Those angry faces were keeping him from her, more so now that he needed her bad as he did.

The woman slid out the needle and set the