Love and Lies and Masks and God

Gosh, where to start.

I like to think of myself as a good person. I mean, I go to church, I try to be kind to everyone, I have lot's of really great friends... I'm doing good. People see me as a good person.

But it's fake. It all is.

I lie awake at night, and the only thing I can think about is how maybe I'm not a good person after all. My empathy and sympathy? What if it's just a subconscious manipulation of others? Am I a sociopath? Come to think about it, I don't care about anyone. When I'm alone, at least.

Maybe I've been wearing the Mask so long I've become it. I've faked being a gentleman, and so I became one. I hope to God that's true. I don't want to be a scoundrel. I don't want my friends to leave me. I don't want to be just another stereotypical, attitude-driven, lying, cussing, body-obsessed boy. I am more than a bloody boy. Or, at least, the mask is.

Girls have been attracted to me, I know that. But were they attracted to me? Or the mask? There was this one girl. I wore the mask for her. I danced the tune, I walked the walk, I talked the talk, because honestly, she was just too good for me, and there was no other way I would've convinced her I actually cared about her. She was beautiful. She was kind. She was... Amazing.

Except that the Mask left me. Be it God or luck or fate, I lost the Mask and all of it's perfect attributes. The girl and I fought and argued, because our personalities were no longer compatible. I was a fraud. I was a liar, and there was no way this amazing girl would want to spend time with someone who she found she no longer enjoyed the company of. When the Mask had made me interesting and kind and almost mysterious, I became abrasive, awkward, and really just not great. So she did what was best; she said a relationship wasn't best, and we parted ways.

The Mask never came back. God showed me that I would have to become the Mask I had once worn, and leave this life of lies and deceit and lust and evil. I had to become the gentleman, or I knew without doubt that holy fire or heavenly holiness would strike me down immediately. So, out of fear or desire or a strange combination of the two, I did.

As I look back, I realize that the girl will always have a place in my heart. If we ever meet again, I think I could show that this is my true self and that I've grown up. I think that maybe, just maybe, she might feel something for me, too. Love, or whatever it was then, never leaves the heart. It merely weighs it down until someone else can help you hold it up.

Lovely 42, Please

The night air drifted in through the archway on the balcony, into the green-lit club of Samskeyti’s. On the balcony, a young man and woman looked out over Midnight City, at the bustling traffic hundreds of stories below and the hazy lights of neon signs everywhere else. At the bar, a middle-aged man sat on a stool, staring into the depths of his warped cup filled with a opaque red substance. In a booth in the balcony-side corner, a young woman sat with her arms around two younger men, with both her hands holding tipping glasses of wine. She turned to both, laughing and chatting about the goings-on of the world, as the two men stared back and smiled, laughing at the appropriate times.

The double doors on the street-side entrance were pushed open by a pair of giggling teenagers, male and female. Arms around each other, they stumbled over to the bar, falling into a pair of green-seated stools. The bartender, an old Dweller, set down the glass he was drying and walked quickly across the bar to the couple. His rubbery ears and long nose bobbed with his gait.

“Now, my friends, what can I get you?” said the Dweller in an oddly deep voice. He peered at them through violet eyes. The boy’s laughter died down to a small chuckle as he searched the menu displayed on the wall behind the bar.

“I think I’ll have... A 23, please.” The boy lapsed back into a fit of giggles. “I’m sorry, we just came from the Red Lights down the street and had a few 16’s. Just... Just ignore us.” The laughter increased.

The bartender smiled and giggled a bit himself, an odd gurgling in his rubbery throat. “Well, a 23 for the gentleman... And what about you, m’lady?”

The girl ceased her laughter, leaving only a smile. “I’ll have the Lovely 42, please.”

The boy’s giggles lowered to only a few sporadic hacks. “Wha.. What, Delilah?” The girl turned to the boy and let out a few chuckles.

“The Lovely 42. Didn’t you hear me?” The boy stopped laughing, though the smile was still there.

“You can’t, though. Lovely 42’s are for age twenty-ones. You can’t-”

“Hell, bars are for age eighteens, but here we are, aren’t we?” There was no more laughter between the couple, only strange artificial smiles. The girl turned towards the bartender again. “The Lovely 42, please.”

The Dweller gave an ornate bow. “Lovely 42 on it’s way, dearest.” As he walked over to the drink fountain, he added, “Who cares about them age restrictions? You two seem responsible enough.” A few moments later, he came back with a curved cup. A cloudy blue liquid sloshed inside. He set the cup in front of the boy. “There you go, friend.” He pointed at the girl with a stubby, clawed finger. “I’ll have yours in a moment.” The bartender rushed back to the fountains. While he poured the drinks, the couple muttered to each other in low voices.

Reds, blues, greens, and golds poured from the taps into the beaker-like cup, reacting with each other like oil and water: not mixing into one substance, but rather into several individual swirling together. As the liquids reached the top, the bartender flipped the taps off and carried the drink back to the girl. As she set it down on the glass bar, the girl stared at it with excitement and anticipation. The Dweller gave another bow and stepped back, watching the girl with a toothy smile. The girl took a deep breath, picked the beaker up, and poured its contents down her throat.

The reaction was almost instantaneous. The girl’s eyes scrunched shut and she set the beaker onto the bar again, coughing a bit. Breathing heavily, she looked up at the boy next to her. “It’s... It’s so hot. My throat is on fire. My whole... My whole body is on fire.” She slid out of her seat and tottered on the checkerboard-pattern floor. “I need to get out of here.”

The boy jumped out of her seat and grabbed onto her. “Delilah, let’s just go back to the car, and get you home, okay?” The girl shook her head and began tottering towards the balcony.

“Can’t go home, Mark. Not like this... Car isn’t fast enough anyways. Gotta fly home with my wings.” She pushed against the boy’s arms and started again at the balcony. The boy tugged on her arms, but she spun around and slapped him. The middle-aged man looked up from his drink and watched the girl staggering around the bar with mild interest, as did the young party sitting in the booth. The boy fell backwards, holding his red cheek with a pale hand and looking at his breathless friend in shock.

The bartender watched everything with his violet eyes and a small smirk.

The girl stopped tottering for a moment and looked around the room. “Why is everything spinning?” she asked in a dry, raspy voice. She reached out for something to hold onto, then collapsed onto the smooth floor, staring with flickering eyes at the green ceiling. The boy crouched down next to her and grabbed her hand.

“Delilah, I told you not to, I told you...” he whispered next to the girl. Suddenly, he whirled around towards the bartender. “Why’d you give her this? She’s dying! Do something!” Tears marked their passage along his pale face.

The Dweller bartender shrugged and went back to cleaning his glasses. “I’m the bartender. I get people the drinks they want. Ain’t up to me on what they drink; it’s the customer’s choice.” He gestured downwards at girl. “If people like her choose a drink that’s too strong for them, not my problem. She knew the rules of drinking, and she decided to break them.”

“She... She thought she could take it... She handled a Splendid 39 amazingly, so she thought... She thought...” The boy trailed off into a raspy breathing. Suddenly, the middle-aged man slid off his bar stool and walked over to the couple lying on the ground.

“Get me a 13 and a small rag,” said the man as he crouched next to the boy, staring into the girl’s contorted face, “If you have can hold down her arms and legs as well, that’d be nice.” The boy nodded, then looked up expectantly at the bartender. The Dweller pointed at himself, seeming surprised, then nodded and tossed the boy a rag, which was handed to the man. When the boy turned again, the Dweller was filling a twisting glass cup with a fluorescent yellow substance. The man turned around as well to watch the bartender carry the drink around the bar and deposit it into the man’s hands with a low bow. The man nodded, then turned back to the girl. “Hold her arms now,” he said to the boy, who complied and did so. The man grabbed the girls face and squeezed, so her lips were forced open into a thin circle. Once it did, the man tipped the cup into her mouth, and a mouthful of the yellow liquid rushed inside.

For a few seconds, nothing happened. Then, her tossing and turning began to lessen slightly, and her rolling eyes were slowly covered by mascara-covered eyelids. Finally, the only movements came from her chest, which rose and fell with each gentle breath. Here eyes were still slightly visible, gazing upwards, though they no longer seemed frightened and frantic like before. The man wiped his brow with a dirty palm and sighed. Then he nodded to the boy and the bartender and returned to his stool, where he contented himself with the depths of the red drink again. The bartender wrung his hands and smiled around the room.

“Well, that was exciting. Now, you two had best get home now, and I hope this taught you a thing or two about drinking. Don’t do it til you’re old enough, yes? Now, off you go!” The Dweller made shooing motions with his hands and went back to the cleaning of his glasses. The boy lifted the girl up so that she was in a long slouch onto his shoulder and dragged her out the door. As the two vanished into the night and the tinted glass double doors swung shut behind them, the bartender filled the cubic glass he had been cleaning with more red liquid and set it in front of the man, next to the first drink.

“That one’s on the house, my friend,” said the bartender, then pulled a stool from behind the bar and set it across from the man. As he sat down, he pulled a two-liter glass bottle filled with a clear liquid and set it on the bar. “Where’s that rabbit you always came here with? He seemed like a good man.” The man shook his head and looked out towards the balcony, where the couple was in the midst of a deep kiss. He watched them with mild interest for a few moments before looking back at his drink. He sighed.

“We had a case. He didn’t make it.” The bartender nodded, a sympathetic expression on his trunked face. He took a swig from the bottle and closed his eyes in pleasure as smoke drifted out from the corners of his mouth and nostrils.

“Implementation is certainly a dangerous job,” the Dweller said, smoke pouring out of his rubber-lipped mouth as he spoke, “Tell me about him, though. You guys never said me much about yourselves, other than that you were partners in Implementation and the cases you two worked on. Who was he, my friend?”

The man didn't answer for a few moments. Finally, after drinking the rest of his drink, he slid out of his stool. "Maybe some other time," he said as he pushed open the doors of the pub into the cold night of the city streets.

For Sale: Baby Shoes, Never Worn

The fog covered the cemetery, a dense white blanket for the graves. A hill sat in the center of the cemetery, which hosted a small wooden bench and a dead, skeletal beech tree. On the bench sat a young couple in their early twenties. They sat in silence and stared into the mists, the woman curled under the arm of the man. After a few moments, the man shifted and grimaces.

"He'd be three months now."

The woman closed her eyes and sighed. "Yeah. He'd be starting to teeth."

The couple fell into silence again. After another minute, the man sighed and pulled the woman closer.

"I put the shoes on eBay."

The woman looked up at him. "Why? Nobody'd want them."

"Someone might."

"Who needs baby shoes? They're practically new. Might as well get them from Target or something."

"People with children need them."

Silence again. They watched the fog roll by, hiding the stones and graves that dotted the park, and didn't speak. Finally, the woman scooted out from under the man's arm and stood up. Not looking at him, she said, "I'm gonna go back to the car. We need to stop by the market and get some more apples for the pie." However, the woman made no move to begin walking down the hill.

The man stood up to join her. Slowly, he reached over and took her hand. "Let's go." He began walking down the hill, but the woman stayed standing on the hillside. The man turned and looked up into the woman's eyes, which were staring off into the gray horizon. Tears were forming. "What's wrong?"

She didn't look down at him. "Why do we die? What's the point of life if its all gonna end, just like that? I mean, he didn't even live through five days outside of my womb, and now he's... He's..." She shook her head. "Gone."

The man walked back up the hill and wrapped his arms around her. "I don't know," he whispered, "But we have to get past it. He'll always be a special part of us, but we need to get past the fact he's gone. We have to get past it. Together."

It started to rain.

Justice

The musty jewelry store is empty, save for you and a tiny middle-aged man with glasses sitting behind the counter. You glance around nervously before grabbing a gold chain necklace off a shelf and shoving it into your coat pocket. You turn and immediately make for the glass door. Outside are the wet streets of Detroit. Your hand is on the handle when you hear the stool slide from behind the counter and the tiny man approaching you. You let your hand fall, the other hand holding the chain inside your pocket, and step away from the entrance.

"Are ye payin' for that, mister?" His voice carries an accent that sounds Irish. You peek out from the hood that covers your head. He seems like a nice guy; your conscience tells you to give him the necklace and try again elsewhere. However, another part of you steadies itself, forcing your hand into your other coat pocket. The cool feel of the metal handle calms you slightly.

"I don't know what you're talking about," you say quickly. You can feel the sweat run down the back of your neck, past the circle of bruises and onto the smooth skin of your spine. Your eyes flit to the doorway again; the option to merely walk away is overwhelming. The man folds his arms and frowns.

"I watched ye grab that chain," he says, gesturing towards your bulging pocket, "Ye goin’ ter hand it over, or shall I call them coppers on ye?"

You blink rapidly, gulp, then pull the revolver out of the pocket. The storekeeper raises his hands, taking a few steps back. Your tongue flicks out over dry lips, then immediately vanishes back behind your your gritted teeth. You close your eyes for a moment, recalling the scene you had imagined for days now.

"Here's... Here's what's gonna happen," you say, stuttering slightly. You don't look the man in the eyes as you continue: "I'm gonna walk out of here with this, and you're not going to move until I'm gone. Got that?" The store owner stares at the barrel of your gun, terrified, but manages to nod in response. You feel sick to your stomach, but you back towards the door and again put your hand on the metal door knob. "Good," you say, holding the gun in a quivering grip, "Just... Just stay there." You glance around the room one more time before pushing through the door and into the cold October of Detroit.

You can't feel the cold, though. The shock of your robbery - you robbed someone - still pounds through your veins like your last shot of horse. It makes you feel giddy, almost, but still makes you feel nauseous and queasy.

As you walk down the grimy sidewalk, you realize he's probably called the police by now, and you only have a few minutes before you will be completely surrounded by the blue vehicles with sirens mounted on the roofs. You quickly withdraw your hands from your pockets, and pull out your phone. It’s a lousy flip-phone, the kind that don't have a keyboard and made texting annoying and difficult, but you don't have enough money to buy anything newer. Your twitching fingers push seven numbers in and press the call button, then raise the device to your ear. You listen to the ringing of the phone; the repetitive electronic tone is almost soothing to your panicked state of mind. After only a few rings, you hear it click and a young voice answers.

"H... Hello?" Her voice is quivering, as though she's been crying for some time and has only just stopped. Your mouth twitches upwards a bit, but you can feel tears welling up behind your eyes

"Hey, Christine. It's-"

"You!"

"Yeah, uh, I just-"

"Go to hell, you... You creep!"

“No, wait, Christine! I wanted to-”

“What? What the hell do you want?”

“I wanted to say... I’m sorry. There was no excuse for what I did, and I-”

“Yeah. Mm-hmm. No excuses. When a girl says no, you back off, pervert. You don’t pull them into a hotel while they’re drunk and-”

“I’m so, so sorry, Christine. Please-”

“You know what, I’ve had enough of your apologies. That’s all you do. You do something that messes them up forever, and you have the audacity to think they’ll let you off and forgive you if you just say you’re sorry? No. That isn’t how it works.” Her voice is harder, but her crying is still

there.

“Christine-”

“Don’t call me again.”

The line clicks and goes dead. You feel the tears finally come out, and you fall against the side of a warehouse. Sobs wrack your tired body, sending spasms through your skinny torso. The shaking sends waves of pain through the deep tracks along your arm, hidden underneath the thick coat and dirty long-sleeve shirt. You know it's hopeless; she'll never love you.

Sirens emerge from the constant sound of traffic, coming down the street. You wipe your eyes, sniffing the watery mucus that has built up in your nostrils, and quickly rise to your feet. You turn and run, your feet hitting the pavement in a constant thudding rhythm. Three blue cars pull up at the pavement in a semi-circle round you, barely settling into a stop before officers with navy blue uniforms jump out. They rush behind their vehicles, steadying their arms on on the hoods and roofs of the cars. They all stare at you, pathetically standing in front of the large Mackinac Straits Fish Company sign, from behind the iron sights of their guns. You feel your face grow hot, knowing you're terrible deed is about to be repaid in full.

Because of what you did to her, you know Christine will never forgive you, much less return your love. You deserved to die. No crime like that should go unpunished. The tears return, pouring down your face, and you know that this is the end. Nooses hadn't worked; neither had cutting. Your hand goes into your pocket, feeling the metal again, which is warm and covered with sweat. You blink several times, looking at each officer in turn as you do, before pulling the pistol out of your coat and into the chilled October air.

For a brief moment, you wish it was loaded.

Hideaway

Liam pushed open the door with his shoulder, allowing some of the blinding snow from
outside to float in, melting to water droplets before it hit the ground. He quickly slipped in and
pulled the metal door shut with trembling hands. For a few seconds, all he did was stand there,
looking at the metal door. His shoulders heaved in a sigh, then he slipped his coat off and set it
on a coat hook a few inches from the door's hinges. Pulling the scarf that covered his mouth
down to his throat and lifting the goggles that hid his face up to his forehead, he shivered once
more. The cold from the blizzard outside had made it into his house, making it extremely cold.
Brushing his coat off, he walked over to his heater and turned the dial to maximum heat. he'd
turn it down later. He snuggled into a small bed with a large comforter and blanket stuffed in the
corner and looked around his house.

It was a pathetic apartment, but it was also the only one available in the Manhattan RIM
District. It was made of two Reefer shipping containers welded together on the lengthwise sides
and a gigantic hole cut in between, allowing for one to have about 102 square feet of space
inside. A door was also carved in on the side, which opened into a carpeted area that had a desk
and computer to the left, a small bed and dresser with a television to the right, and the large hole
leading to the next shipping container directly in front. Through the hole was a kitchen, with a
sink, oven, microwave and cabinets to the left and a bathroom to the right. The bathroom was
walled off, with a thin cloth partition in a doorway to the far right of the wall. Inside the
bathroom was also a linoleum floor, with a toilet directly to the left of the cloth partition and a
shower occupying the corner next to the toilet. The shower has an opaque plastic partition that
opens up at the corner of the nearly-square shower, and cabinets are built directly next to it.
Inside are towels, washcloths, and extra toilet paper, with a small hamper in an open slot at the
bottom, where some dirty clothing was lying in. A special plaster developed in RIM labs covered
the walls on all sides, creating a gloomy grayish-white layout for the entire apartment. Small
bulbs screwed into the ceiling lit each room with a dim light.

Liam shook his head. His thoughts had gotten so distracted by the bathroom, of which he
was proud of for it's organization, that he'd forgotten to turn the heater down. The apartment had
already grown stiflingly hot, and so he was glad to turn the heater down to a lower setting. He
reached out and twisted the dial, which was right next to his bedside, and he heard the flames
from the gas heater, which was next to the hole in between the rooms, diminish and quiet. He
then slipped out from under the frayed blue covers and white woven blanket, opened his dresser,
and reached inside. After a few seconds of searching, he found what he was looking for: the
DVD for "Toy Story." For him, Pixar movies never got old, and he slid it into a slot in the small
10-inch by 12-inch television set that sat on his dresser. He slid back under the blankets and
pressed play, watching the previews begin.

He missed his old home in L.A., back where it didn't snow and was nice and warm all the
time. He had a picture of him and his parents pinned to a pin board hanging over his desk,
standing outside his first apartment. He had a big smile, and he remembered how happy he had
been to finally be leaving those crazy people. He missed their crazy now. He wished he could
see them again. However, he knew that would never be possible. He was a criminal in the eyes
of RIM, and he could be shot on sight by police if he was found.

So he had moved here, to the area with the densest population in the Manhattan District,
to find his hideaway. No Republic In Manufacturing patrol would ever find him here. He was
safe; safe from the storm, safe from the cold, safe from taxes, safe from RIM.
The previews ended and the movie began. Liam Ashwin smiled, pulled the blankets
covers closer to him, and relaxed.

Introduction

Presenting to the public a collection of the unfinished, not-well-thought-out, pondered but never published, written but ignored, and eccentric works of Leviticus Eli.

Please, enjoy. It took me a bloody long time to find them all.