SOBS: Fiction: Caterpillar

Caterpillar by Jason Anthony Stavropolos

The neon sign flashes on and off as I stare out into the reflection it makes in the oily puddles left behind from the rain. With the humidity almost palpable and the sound of engines and tires passing, an occasional passer-by skitters away, but nothing is really living on the street now at the hour of four in the morning.

I inhale upon my cigarette, listen to the sound of the tobacco crackling and sputtering. The puddle ripples from the tread of a tire, the neon sign now flickers in two locations while never actually moving, and still nothing on the street is really living.

There is a girl lying on the bed. Underneath all the blood and distorted entrails, I notice she was once beautiful. Her skin is like smooth ivory with a tattoo of a leprechaun on her inner thigh.

Her fingernails are too long and painted a gaudy orange color that matched the color of her outfit, if it can be called that. I haven't a clue as to who she is or who killed her.

Her mouth and eyes are both gaping open, showing the shock that death brings. Looking down into her empty glazed-over eyes, I reach for something more and so touch my tongue to them, hoping to get a lingering taste of her memories. The room is unfamiliar and dirty. The wallpaper is yellowed from age and cigarette smoke. The rug, cratered with cigarette burns, clings to my feet. Apart from the little differences, drapes on the window and a Bible in the dresser next to the bed, the room is the same as all the others.

Destined for home, I walk where I know I will not seem that out of the ordinary, a route to which I have grown accustomed. I wander through the endless maze of alleyways, confident of where I am going, kicking aside the occasional rat and pretending not to notice the querying gaze of bums.

Here in the alleys there is no life. A purgatory where the unwanted come to die or to feed off the garbage thrown away by the living. I slumber on to my apartment, anxious to be within the confines of my sanctuary. Clouds converge to cover the sky and form an iron gray blanket against the sluggish rise of the sun. And so falling down upon me and cleansing me of all the blood and inquisitiveness, the rain comes with baptismal undertones. I smile up into the formidable sky, thankful for the interference.

As I walk down the hallway to my apartment, I hear my neighbor's door open and curse myself for not being more quiet.

"So yous back again, ah?" Mrs. Vinnitolli inquires. "I was just about to go down to the store, get some bread, it's only good to eat when it's fresh, you know."

"At five in the morning?" I counter.

"I hafta get there early, 'cause by afternoon my feet are killing me. Ya know ya left your door open all night, better be careful, what with that maniac on the loose killin' all them people." She says as she stabs a finger at me.

The piercing rabid eyes stir rage and confidence within me "Son of a bitch, have you heard about him? Oh, those poor people, what the hells s'matter with people? My God!"

With this exclamation she throws her hands up in the air. She waits for a second to see if a reply will come and then continues the one-sided conversation.

"You'd think the police would have somethin' after all the people that sonofabitch has killed. Do ya know they don't have one suspect? Not one! Can you believe that? Shit." Her lips curl into a snarl of disgust, and the silver streaked head bows in reverence and shakes slowly.

She looks tired and I wonder how early she had risen this morning to catch me as I passed. She probably stayed up all night looking at my open door every ten minutes, wanting so badly to go in. But it was not for her that my insecure doorway flaunted probabilities. It was for the others, the ones who didn't hesitate, saw it as an invitation without consequences. Just as they saw everything in life. This was a cheese not ever intended for her.

"You gotta be careful, working at night and walking home the way you do, he may just get ya. He don't care if you're male or female, ya know. You better keep your door shut from now on. Cause ya never know, ya know. Don't ya ever have any company? Well I gotta get to the store, I'll see ya, Mr. ah ... ?"

"Good night." I cut her off abruptly before she rattles on some more about absolutely nothing and turn quickly away. As she closes the door I could hear her mutter something about the people they let live in this place.

Once within the mute walls of my apartment I approach the chair, the only piece of furniture besides a picture hanging on the wall. It is a black and white photo of an empty park bench looking out into an empty sea. Directly opposite the chair on the back side of the door is a full-length mirror and after peeling off my clothes I approach it. I study my reflection, pleased with my gruff appearance. There is more than a shadow of a stubble on my chin and my shaggy bristled hair shoots out in all directions from my head. The piercing rabid eyes stir rage and confidence within me.

I stretch my lips tight over my porcelain teeth and tilt back my head. Bringing my arms up and straight out from my sides and legs close together, I tense every muscle in my body taught like a guitar string. It stirs emotions inside me that have not been given names yet. It is as if love and hate are two wild animals snapping and growling at each other, carrying out some mating ritual. These feelings come wrapping around me, heaving me to and fro, crushing the breath out of me. They make me realize that my sanity is just a comforting corner in an empty closet that I can turn to during my moments of extreme delirium.

At the moment of revelation the string snaps releasing a deafening roar, throwing me to the ground. I open my eyes to the dirty ceiling of my apartment. The passing car lights give life to the water stains and I feel as if I am dreaming. My mind becomes myriad questions. Why do I not have all the pieces to finish my puzzle? What goes in the place of the gaping holes in my memory? I crawl over to the chair and sit and wait for the night to come.