Red Line, Blue Line

  Opening his eyes the darkness failed to cease. So absolute it was that he began to doubt whether or not his eyes were in fact open. His near-naked body is pressed into the stone beneath him like north-facing moss, shivering as the cold, damp floor radiates deep into his bones. He can feel the chains on his wrists and ankles, his body is all scraped up, an acute pain radiates from his jaw. The chains clatter on the stone work as he shifts, echoing in the room. The air is heavy with an earthy moldy smell, the pungent coppery smell of blood lingers in his nose.

  Well, at least they left you in your boxers.

  “I'm f-f-freezing.”

  No. It's chilly, but not that cold. You're in shock, you're afraid of what is to come. You can lie to the world, but you can't lie to me. You need me. I still need to hear you say it.

  “I-I-I don't...”

  But you do, more so than ever. He will be here soon, you need to tell me you need me, that is all I need to hear. I will always be here for you—even if I'm not.

  “I need you Ryan.”

  Yes, of course you do. But I'm not pleased, you didn't speak to me for close to 7 years. I thought we were so close. Remember when you first met me?

  It was a sunny, early spring day, the lawn soft and spongy, the edges of the lawn with a pie crust of snow. It was the first time he coughed up blood after father beat him—he coughed and spit, standing there looking at the dark crimson glob on the sun bleached deck board. He sees a boy on the lawn running suicides between imaginary lines.

  “Hey, what are you doing on my lawn?” He challenges. The boy has red curly hair and freckles, stops and looks at him.

  “This isn't your lawn, this is your fathers lawn.” The boy yells back.

  He marches over to the boy, “Well I don't think father would like some stranger running on his lawn.” The boy looks at him, puzzled.

  He holds out his hand, “I'm Ryan.” Bucket looks at him defiantly, balled up fists on his hips. He's an odd one, but he seems harmless. Bucket loosens up, and holds out his hand, shaking Ryan's hand firmly. “Whoa, ease up der b'y, you be crush'n me hand.” Ryan says, falling to his knees with a comical grimace. Bucket smiles and laughs.

  “I'm Blake. Ryan, you're not right in the head, are you?” He says, shaking his head.

  “Maybe, but I'm also no stranger now so it just be a friend running ere. I have 4 more suicides to run. This is the only lawn around that ain't all covered fully in snow. Mind if I run?”

  “Where are the lines?” Bucket says, looking around he sees no lines or markers. This kid must be crazy, who randomly runs in other people's yards?

  “Look close, I put rocks out there. I guessed the distance, I put a puck on each of the two blue lines.”

  Bucket looks around, shaking his head, “But hockey season is over. Why are you running suicides?” He's still trying to figure Ryan out. Most of the kids avoid Bucket in school, warned by their parents to stay away from his father.

  “'Cause, I like to run. I'm the fastest runner in the valley.”

  “Bull shit,” Bucket scoffs, “At best second fastest.” He says with a grin.

  “Is dat so?” Ryan replies with a grin, “Prove it.” The boys line up, “Now just because there is no line don't be cheating and going back early.”

  “Ha! Only someone thinking of cheating would think of such a thing. I'll start when you do, from the looks of your scrawny legs it looks like you could use a head-start of a couple of strides.” Ryan looks at Bucket, nods his head then takes off, bolting across the lawn, Bucket on his heels.

  There is a loud click, the door swings open and lights are turned on, Bucket is blinded at first. His eyes adjust; he sees Flea standing by a table with some crud button panel, hooked up to four electric winches, each of the four chains bound to one of his limbs is hooked to its own motor. The ancient table also has knives and other medical instruments Bucket does not recognize. Bucket's leg starts shaking, Flea is silently standing there, arms crossed, looking at Bucket.

  Bucket sees Ryan standing beside Flea, he looks like he did when he was 15, not as scrawny as he was when Bucket first met him but stronger. Ryan and Bucket got into lifting at the same time when they started grade 9 at the big school. Ryan's looking at Flea like he's nothing.

  Get a load of this guy, what a fucking wiener.

  Bucket laughs, his leg stops shaking.

  “What are you laughing about?” Flea asks. He hits some of the buttons on the control unit, the motors whirl to life, the chains jerk Bucket up into the air, his chest feels as though it's on fire as he's strung up in the air, hanging by his wrists from the ceiling.

  Oh, your shoulder looks in rough shape. Think back to the lawn.

  Flea has his hands tapped, he sighs, “Look at you, hanging there like a slab of meat. You have nothing,” he punches Bucket's right shoulder, he feels the ribs shift, the flesh tear. “You are nothing.” He continues to punch chest where he's already black and blue.

  I can see why they call him Flea, he can't punch for shit,

  Bucket laughs again.

  Flea stops, grabbing Bucket by the mouth, squeezing his cheeks and looking into his eyes, “Oh, your mind isn't really here, is it? Well we can't have that.” He slides over a lightweight table in front of Bucket, hitting some buttons on the machinery Bucket is slammed face down on the table with his arms stretched out. Flea picks up a pair of pliers, marked with a stain most would assume is rust. He holds Bucket's hand with his free hand.

  Oh, this is new. Remember when you ran suicides on the lawn with me?

  There is a pulling feeling on one of Bucket's fingers, like a pin prick.

  On the lawn, running suicides between imaginary lines. Blue line...

  A prick on another finger,

  Red line...

  Another finger,

  Blue line...

  Flea stops. “You barely flinched.” Buckets looks on the table beside him with the tools all lined up, three finger nails are lined up on the edge. The pain hits him, his hand starts to tense up and shake.

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  He's but a Flea. Relax, we've seen worse.

  Bucket stops shaking. Flea looks at Bucket with a look of confusion, then slams the buttons on the control panel, flipping him over onto his back. With a thump he plunks a small vice on the table above his head, then shoves the metal jaws on either side of his skull.

  Remember that day we caught the 21 inch brown in the river? Father would always eat it all...

  He feels the metal edges on either side of his head, there is a pressure on his head as the vice clamps tighten.

  ... so we made a fire on the river bank, got a nice bed of coals...

  Flea stands over him, an angry look on his face. With one final push on the vice there is a loud pop, his left eyes not right, blurry.

  ... and we cooked the trout.

  “Was... the best... trout...”

  “Are you talking about fish? You have a fractured skull, look, here's your eye.” He dangles his left eye in front of him.

  “Fishing... is... fun...”

  It sure is buddy, it sure is.

  “Who's... tapping on... chest...?”

  Boy that Flea guy is maaad, he's really hitting your chest where it's purple. It's a good thing it doesn't hurt.

  “It... tickles...”

  Flea stops, he's winded and tired. Bucket takes a deep breath and coughs up blood, his right chest feels crinkly.

  “You are... What is with you? I guess I need to do more to shock you out of it.” Flea says, looking at Bucket in disbelief. He lashes a leather strap around his Bucket's right wrist.

  Hmm, well this could make fishing difficult.

  “But we... can still... run...”

  “You're making me accelerate this, you know, you're going to run out of body parts before we even get to the questions.” Flea says, tightening up the leather strap he injects Bucket with a syringe. “Can't have you dying too fast.”

  Flea starts up a battery powered circular saw. He holds the trigger, the motor whine is almost deafening in the enclosed room.

  Remember how loud the lawn mower was? How you ran around the yard...

  The saw bogs down, there is a tearing, pulling feeling on his wrist, then freed from the cut it whines up again. The blade slows to a stop.

  ... the faster you cut the grass the more time you would have to yourself.

  “This is pointless, I...” Fleas says, throwing the saw across the room. He furiously paces back and forth, “How? You aren't even flinching!” He screams. There is a knock at the door. Flea storms over to the door and starts speaking with someone in a rapid tone, he leaves the room, slamming the door.

  Well, we may get through this yet. I like Jodi, I know you've been ignoring me but I'm not mad anymore. She told you quite a bit last night eh? Perhaps they can help you with the... you know, the this and that.

  “The... what?”

  I don't want to freak you out der but that arse hole kind of removed a couple of tings. Have a glance at the table, just a bit of a look, you are in shock, don't want to make it worse.

  “Oh, well those aren't mine, I... I have two eyes and two hands... right???”

  Hey, I told ya not to think it over much. At least that's all. Now you need to focus. Flea left the room mad, you may have a chance. Him being mad is good for you.

  “Breathing... is hard... lungs messed up...”

  Yeah, he kind of pulverized your ribs with a hammer in your upper chest. But, he hit's like a Flea, so there's that.

  The door flies open, three men walk in with a canvas tarp. “Orders from the Princess, you're free.” One of the men says. They untie Bucket and roll him into the tarp, tossing his gun, hand and eye in with him. He's lugged away and he can hear them take him to the lower docks. They dump him there, he sees his severed hand plunked down beside him. The men leave. The harbour light is off so it's night time. He lays there on the lower dock in the shadows, he can barely move.

  You need to get up.

  “I kind of can't breathe.”

  Well you can't just lay here, you're in shock. Remember when you ran from father in that snow storm after Alice forgot to lock the barn and the horse got out? You took the blame, father came at you with the branding iron, you ran.

  “Yeah, I ran... so fast...”

  It's just like there, you can't see for shit now either, but you made your way through the storm. And you saved Alice from getting punished.

  “She was never... punished...”

  Now Blake, you know this isn't true. She was never beaten but she WAS punished. You know the truth, even if you blocked it out because you were too young to understand. But it's OK, we need to focus on the now. You need to stand.

  “I know! I'm... trying...”

  “Who is that?” a woman calls.

  “Help me Alice.”

  “I'm not Alice, it's Emmy.”

  “It's Bucket... I might be dying.”

  She rushes down from the upper dock. “Oh. Where are your clothes? And where is your eye? And why is your hand...”

  “Emmy, get help Emmy.”

  “Ok, wait right here.” She runs off. Laying there he hears the seawater gently lap against the cavern walls. It's almost peaceful laying here, he could just lay here, drift off...

  Wake the fuck up!

  “You don't... have to... yell...”

  Emmy is getting you help, she's a good girl. She keeps you in line, you really shouldn't smoke around the others while you wait in line.

  “Now... don't you... start...”

  I've missed you. We need to figure out our next move. The medics will fix you up, then you need to get a hold of Tales, she has a lot of resources.

  The medics show up, rushing to his side. They brace his neck, put him on a stretcher and rush him towards the medbay.

  They burst into the medbay.

  The waiting room is jam-packed, a young boy with scraggly blond hair and a cast on his right arm is sitting on his mothers knee, he stares wide-eyed at Bucket. His mother turns, looking at Bucket she covers the boy's eyes, pulling his head into her as she gently kisses him on the head. The room smells of antiseptic and old cheese. He's rushed into the back room.

  The back room is crammed with a dozen beds with threadbare curtains in various states of being closed. A few patients are there, all attached to a variety of equipment blinking and beeping, indicating the range of life and death. The imprint of the ancient dock timber below the roll vinyl flooring can be seen. The smell of bleach and every imaginable bodily fluid hang in the air. The nurses scurry about, inspecting their data pads.

  “Tracy, he's in bad shape.” The medic says. A woman with very large eyes and long curly hair that frames her face like a lion's mane turns to them.

  “Get him on a bed, Emmy, get your ass back to the boarding house, it's not safe for you to be out right now. Ken, escort Emmy.”

  “No, my place is here right now.” Emmy says, standing there defiantly. Tracy glances at her and just shakes her head.

  “Stay out of the way, Emmy. Jan, bag and refrigerate the hand and eye. You'll have to hand me the gun.” She looks at his face for the first time, “Oh shit. Bucket?” She tries to hide her shock of seeing him in his current state but recognizing him throws her off. “You can't hold the gun, let us have it. We'll keep it for you over here.” She takes his gun which until this moment, he didn't realize he was clutching in his left hand. “We may need it. Things are going bad fast. We have orders from Baroness Tales to 'provide Bucket with whatever help you require as you are the only semblance of law and order in the Cavern.' So, let's get the last jell pack on his chest and get his lungs fixed up.” They go to put a mask on him.

  “Wait, I can't be under.” He says.

  Tracy shakes her head, “It'll be bad, Bucket. We can pump you full of painkillers, but if you thrash about we'll have to administer anesthesia to you.”

  “Just do it.” He says, the words stick in his throat. He saw Motormouth have his kidney rebuilt in the field when his echo-suit was jank and he couldn't be put under. The contorted look on his face and silent scream somehow made it worse then if he did actually scream.

  More time to catch up Buddy...

  He can breath. They drained some fluid from his skull, his head and left eye are bandaged, as well as the end of his right arm. Emmy has been by his side the whole time, her hand on his arm. The staff gave up trying to kick her out, they have too much on their hands—the doctors were recalled to the mainland with the troops.

  “I couldn't have done this without you.” Bucket says, his head swimming.

  I know Buddy, I'll always be here for you.

  “I did what I could, Bucket.” Emmy says. “Is there anything you need?”

  “He needs rest Emmy.” Tracy says.

  “I need on my feet.” He goes to move, it's like he's buried in gravel. Tracy gently starts to help him back, Emmy counters her efforts.

  “That's enough Emmy!” Tracy yells, the stress of the night and Emmy being difficult has pushed her to the breaking point.

  “No. Bucket is all we have to keep order now, you do your job and give him what he needs to be on his feet, like he asked, like the Baroness ordered.”

  “Tracy, lives are at stake.” There is screaming from the other room.

  Then a single gunshot rings out.