Harrison Kim – Page 2 – Pen of the Damned

Checking the palm of my hand, all those lines leading where? If I stretch back the skin, I can open things up, peer between the cracks. I perceive nothing but a white screen. There’s pros and cons with every addiction. Mine keeps me alive. I need new parasites every seven days. I’m weak and shaky now, and if I don’t find and absorb more, I’ll fade and die. I need to shock and rejuvenate my body. Sure, it’s in exchange for absolute dependency, but I make my own choices.

I close my palm line opening, drop my hand to my lap, then fiddle with my computer as my first client enters, a tiny wrinkled up woman wearing several layers of ragged clothing, pulling a cart filled with garbage bags. She leans to one side as she limps into the room, lowering herself to the chair using an intricately cut wood cane. I can only hope she’s infected.

“I was pushed into the road by a crazy woman. She spat my face, and I hurt my hip and back,” her voice quavers.

I look up from the computer screen.

“Ms. Bonella, tell me about the pusher.”

“She came running and screaming towards me. A blur. She spat in my face. I know I was her target.”

I nod and write something on a piece of paper. The clients always like that.

She adjusts the various kerchiefs draped round her neck and head, multicoloured cloths of blue and white. “The bank echelons sent her. It was a warning.”

“Yes, she’s their agent,” I reassure. “She was carrying infective parasite cells in her body like so many maggots and passed them on to you with her spittle.”

I take a kleenex and wipe drool off my mouth. I smell the high already, but I’ve got to play the counsellor game. Ms. Bonella wipes off the edges of her own mouth too, using a filthy brown tissue and eyes me up and down. “Are you a witch?”

“No, Ms. Bonella. Like my card and website say, I’m a palm reader who helps individuals with their difficulties.”

“I am an old woman,” she continues. “What am I going to do?”

“You are already infected,” I tell her. “From that pusher sent by the bank echelons. You must obtain treatment.”
Mrs. Bonella pulls her topcoat layer around her, then leans forward some more. She pauses before speaking. “Mistress Cindy, the infections are rolling around inside me. Giving me random electric shocks.” She rubs her side “Those evil bankers are stealing from me. I am a good person. In my will, I want to give everything to my grand nieces, for their university education.”

“That is very generous of you,” I say, and I mean it.

“Hold up the palms of your hands,” I tell Ms. Bonella.

I walk round my desk and kneel before the client.

“Look at the ceiling,” I tell her.

I trace along one palm and proceed to open a riverline of skin with thumb and forefinger. As I suspected, one milky blue eye shows in the line gap. It passes by slowly. Then I see another. Mrs. Bonella winces. I wipe my mouth off again, for I’m drooling with want. The echelons are in her system, those so-called electric shocks are their liquid forms pulsing through her veins. They’re keeping her decrepit body alive by circulating, but she doesn’t know that.

She holds her side tighter. “They’re prodding me right now, Mistress Cindy.”

“It’ll be okay,” I reassure her again. “I want you to place your palms in my palms.”

She sits and I kneel, and her tiny hands push into mine. I close my eyes and feel the bulbs of the parasites through her skin. I move my knuckles along Ms. Bonella’s fingertips, making note of every whorl and line.

“Don’t be alarmed, Ms. Bonella,” I say. “I’m going to suck out these invaders.”

I put my lips on her left palm and prise open the central palm line with my teeth and jaws.

My tongue slips between that line. I stick the tip, then the rest of it into Mrs. Bonella’s palm, deep and deeper. As they parasite eyeballs go by, I grab them, lick them up into my mouth and swallow. It’s a warm, satisfying drink.

“What are you doing?” asks Ms. Bonella, “I feel so weak.”

“You are being drained of the echelon energy,” I tell her. “It’s natural to feel that way.”

I go back in with my teeth and jaw, this time for the other palm, prising it open and sticking my tongue in the opening.

Ms. Bonella slumps back in her chair.
“You can move your fingers now,” I say as I devour the last of the parasites.

Ms. Bonella tries to stand. She holds onto the chair for a moment

“That was very strange treatment, Mistress Cindy.”

“Go home and rest,” I say. “Tomorrow you’ll throw away that cane.”

“I feel so weak.”

“No charge for the treatment,” I say, as I experience a few seconds of guilt.

She’ll never throw away that cane, without the energy from the parasites. When she sleeps, she will never wake up.

As she totters out the door, I feel my strength rising. The parasite electric impulses whirl within me, merge into my brain. I lift my palm and pull back the skin. No white space now. An eye stares back, then rolls by, and another one peeps out. I whirl my arms around so fast they blur.

I’m alive again, in full strength and vitality, resurrected by the very parasites that consume my soul, even as they crank my body high.

“I’m sorry Mrs…,”

I pause and then flail my arms again. My legs kick out. I’m wild and high. All I remember of the old woman are the lines on her palms, widening, opening, showing me inside.

∼ Harrison Kim

Albert’s apartment neighbor Karl wore a big ratty grin. He banged on Albert’s walls, just when he knew Albert wanted to nap, or use the backscratcher. The whiskery guy must have his ear to the drywall, Albert thought, to know exactly when he’d be home, or wanted a quiet moment. Karl was intelligent, just like a rat. Albert complained to the landlord, Bald Jose, and Bald Jose said “Karl tells me the only noisy thing he’s done in the past month is drop a few cantaloupes.”

“He’s a liar,” Albert said. “He’s laughing at me, there’s no cantaloupe rinds in his garbage.”

Albert’s apartment was his sanctuary. Everyone out in the world moved too fast, always staring, he saw the craziness in the eyes, the disdain behind their faces. Their rolling tongues held back spit and sarcasm. Now even inside he couldn’t relax, could never find stillness, because of Karl.

All Albert wanted: to lie in peace on his bed, unmoving in beautiful lonesome quiet, and recall the best moments in his life. He craved the emptiness of space, the dropping away of stimuli. No thrashing around tormented by Karl and the hellish other people in the world. Just the thoughts of the girl he almost kissed forty-five years ago back in high school, or the time he sang karaoke at the night clubs and everyone clapped and he got first prize. Albert popped another sedative. Almost out of that prescription.

“Jealous,” said Albert. “All jealous of my singing.”

He would sing in his room, as loud as he could, just to show Karl he wouldn’t be intimidated. He was never happier than when he sang. A simple way to be happy, he thought. But so many people didn’t want him to be that way. They wanted him to suffer.

He checked under his bed. He’d smelled a strange odour the past few days and thought it might be fir cones. He took his broom and tried to pull some cones out. A banging sounded from behind his fridge.

“Damn you, Karl!” Albert yelled, and turned up his T. V.

Mighty Mouse was on. A tiny mouse with the strength of Godzilla. The rodent irritated Albert with his high, squeaky voice.

“There is no way a mouse could lift an entire building,” Albert thought.

He changed to the wildlife channel, but it was way too quiet, something about grasshoppers. He started to sing, as loud as he could. Karl’s wall kicking stopped. Albert sighed with relief.

Time to be still again. He turned off the T. V. and lay back on his tiny, folded cot with the sheets arranged just so. This world might be a mess, but Albert’s sheets were always neat.

He felt his eyes close as the sedatives kicked in. He thought of Connie, the girl he almost kissed. One of the few things of beauty in his miserable life.

He opened his eyes to an overwhelming scent of evergreen, and there on the floor wriggled a giant rodent… rat, beaver, spider, some kind of combination. Eight wiggly paws upturned and the body rolling around on the floor, smelling like a fir tree.

“You have such beautiful splintery hardwood!” cried the creature, in a high pitched, squeaky voice.

Albert watched the critter spin. Perhaps it would go away like a dream and leave him alone. But no, it kept rotating around and yelling. Albert flipped back his curtains. Across the open courtyard Bald Jose’s bathroom window lay open, the landlord rubbing his face with a towel and laughing across at him. Albert shut the curtain fast, his heart pounding with fury, and rolled back to the floor view. The creature was still there, chirping and spinning.

Albert addressed it.

“Are you the one who stuffed pine needles under my bed?”

“Nothing to do with that.”

“Then why are you here in my room? Did Karl send you?”

The creature stopped thrashing. Its white-skinned, triangular shaped muzzle upturned and the red mouth yapped “I’m actually here to help you with your neighbor problems.”

“Why would you help me?”

“Because I don’t like Karl either. He’s got it in for us wall creatures. All that pounding.”

“What’s a wall creature?”
The mouth that split the muzzle smiled, showing little razor teeth.

“We’re the ones who keep the pipes running, the electricity on, the gas burning. Ever wonder why your bath never runs over? Because we’re there to turn the taps off.”

The creature cackled and abruptly stood up, balancing on a thick tail, like a beaver’s. The strange being seemed about three feet high, with the ears of a mouse, for sure, but eight tiny spider legs and a long white snout ending in a thick black nose similar to a Labrador dog.

“You can get rid of Karl?” asked Albert.

“Sure. He’s always banging, right?”

“Yeah.”

“With your co-operation, we can turn that pounding right back on him, send the negative vibrations up to his heart and stop that heart on a dime. All you have to do is feed me from time to time. And maybe sing a few karaoke songs.”

Albert thought of Karl kicking the wall and dropping dead to the ground. A smile came to his face, though part of him thought there was something wrong with that smile.

“What do you eat?”

“Cantaloupe.”

The beast began cackling again.

“How did a big rodent like you even get in here?”

“I’m not a rodent,” said the creature. “You can call me Arimanius.”

Arimanius flopped onto his stomach and poked at a tiny hole in the floor. As he poked with four of his spindly long legs, that hole became larger and larger. Armianius stuck his snout in there and opened his mouth, until his mouth was as wide as a kitchen table. The hole stretched to show the pipes and wires and two by four studs between Albert’s wall and Karl’s place.

“Come on in,” said Arimanius, wriggling forward into the gap. “Check out the inner apartment sanctum.”

“There’s no way I’m going in there. It’s probably some kind of trap.”

Just as he spoke, a pounding rose from the other side of the wall.

“Looks like Karl’s on the torment trail again,” Arimanius stated. “He’s upping the ante now, because he knows you won’t do a darned thing.”

The pounding increased in volume and tempo,

“Boots from hell!” Albert shouted.

He felt the banging in his own head now. He leaped from his bed, ran past Arimanius and tried to turn on the T. V., but he couldn’t find the switch.

“Look,” said the creature. “Karl’s foot’s almost coming through the gyprock.”

Indeed, Albert could see the wall buckling here and there.

“You want me to start drinking again!” Albert yelled. “That’s not gonna happen, you monster!”

“Just say the word,” Aramanius’ squeaking could be heard even above the pounding and the T. V. “And I’ll send the negative vibes into Karl’s heart!”

“I say the word,” Albert said. “Stop that beating!”

“On your orders,” said Aramanius, “But you have to sing loud while I conjure up those killer vibes.”

Albert opened his mouth. He started with some R. E. M., “Losing My Religion.”

“That’s not loud enough,” said Aramanius.

Albert continued with a number by Celine Dion, for which he’d won first prize at the “Super K”
Karaoke competition in Lubbock, Texas many years before.

“Louder!” said Aramanius, who was yelling himself now. “Let’s hear you do the scream from Led Zeppelin’s “Whole Lotta Love.”

Aramanius waved his eight legs around like a whirlwind, screaming the Zeppelin words along with Albert.

Albert’s head thundered now, even louder than the walls, in time with Karl’s kicking and Aramanius’ yelling. Albert caterwauled at the top of his lungs, and the lights went out. Aramanius vanished, and Albert felt his body falling, back and back and back into his beautiful neat, blanketed bed, falling into a deep and peaceful silence.

He awakened with daylight streaming in his window. He wanted to close the curtain, but his body wouldn’t move. He lay there on his back with all the noise around him. He felt a kicking on his chest. Looking down, he saw Aramanius. The creature was now about the size of a teacup, but the feet felt like sledgehammers. Aramanius bared its teeth, danced and laughed “I was working for Karl, you fool, didn’t you get the clue about the cantaloupe?” He grinned some more. “Karl wasn’t crazy about your singing, but he can keep a beat.”

Albert lay there. Frozen hands, numb feet. His vocal chords couldn’t stir to scream.

“You’ll be still from now on,” Aramanius cackled. “Just like you wanted. Unfortunately, you’ve suffered a massive brain aneurism from all those negative vibes you gave off your whole miserable life.”

Albert lay staring up at the ceiling. Echoes sounded inside his immobile head as the pounding on the wall began again.

∼ Harrison Kim