"12 Kilos,
The Good One
There was no moment of feeling suddenly tired, no realization that sitting down and leaning back in the old lawn chair was probably a bad idea. One moment Garrett was closing his eyes for a moment to try and focus, clear the cobwebs, remove the old ghosts and the bad thoughts, the next he was laying in a soft down bed.
The walls are a drab brown, a muddy, slightly yellowed wash to be honest, the floor looks to be packed dirt covered in thread bare rugs. The place has a scent to it that is soul aching, desert rose and sage, her scent. Garrett knows this place; he doesn’t need to look down to realize he is dreaming. The bed linens are red, custom made and dyed of course, as are the curtains, drawn closed against a typically murderous sun stroked day. The pillows are more of a pink but that was the best that could be done given the nature of their material. Even the tallboy dresser and the chamber set resting atop it were painted red, red glass, or, delicate pink porcelain with thick veins of blood red running through them besides.
Sang is there nestled in the crook of Garrett’s armpit of course, her blonde hair covering her face. Is this going to be the good dream where they are joined? The one where he finally extinguished the torch for his first love, dead all these years? The one where he set aside his jilted interest in the tribal woman he spent so long putting up on a pedestal? Or is this going to be another one of those false starts before the nightmare comes creeping in?
“Frak me, you’re awake already. Guess that means its time for round three.”
Sang doesn’t shift or move the hair out of her mouth, she speaks just above a whisper and gives Garrett no time to speak up, much less protest her moving away from him. She shifts and is up on her feet with the grace of a barn cat on the hunt, already across the room and around the large bed to pour herself a small cup of water from the pitcher atop the dresser.
“Would you think any less of me if I preferred to have you back where you were and asleep until it gets too hot in here to manage it?”
Sang, dear Sang, she always knew what to say and when to say it. Call it the profession she chose or accept it as the verbiage of a professional talker, either way listening to her talk was always just as pleasant as any other skill she possessed.
“Your mouth can say whatever it wants to but your brain is pitching a one pole tent.”
Garrett hadn’t noticed or felt what Sang chose to point out until she waved a finger and brought it to his attention.
The gun belt, the bowie knife and its sheath, the holster, and its dire contents, even the growing collection of spent shells stuffed into the loops that ran across the right side until they reached the mount for his throwing stick.
Ah yes, the good old days.
Garrett notices his gear hanging over the top of the very, very antique headboard and grimaces until Sang brings him back in line with the issue at hand. He doesn’t hear the cup sitting down on the dresser or her delicate foot falls padding over the rugs. He doesn’t even sense her until her hand slips under the sheet.
Knew.
Was.
Garrett is in a dark theatre, there is nothing to be seen but a giant, white screen and the big, blocky black letters that appear. Knew and Was. Was and Knew. They flash like warnings and cling like questions, they come one after the other and again like playful business partners or malicious lovers. All the while Garrett can smell the subtle hint of hemlock, wild poisonous, skin blistering hemlock, she always smelled just the faintest bit of robust and sour hemlock.
“She’s gone, Garrett. You gotta know that by now.”
Garrett wrenches forward and screams until the seams running along his cheek threaten to tear open."