Life Between Seconds by Douglas Weissman

Author:Douglas Weissman
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fiction & Literature
Publisher: Histria Books
Published: 2022-09-10T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 23

Peter sat on his bed in the box apartment and felt the stamps of the box plaster the walls like wallpaper; the same stamp slapped With Love—a love he couldn’t believe in anymore, one that had disappeared, waved goodbye and sank into the sea.

It was easier when he could shove the memories inside the box and forget about them—his parents, the world that they gave each other, the life they gave him, and the family they took away. His fingers wrapped tight around his head, ready to pull the skin from his face, down—out—off.

Peter forced the corners of an imaginary postcard into his flesh to make sure it wasn’t real. When it dug into his skin, the paper didn’t fold or crumble; his skin didn’t indent. The pressure placed on his body dug deeper into his palm, ready for his blood to burst slow and dark, drip down the card, cover the words and stain his desk. But the thought of the stamps folded to the memory of his watch.

He was young the first time he sat in the tub with Claus and tried to hold onto the last gasp of air that fed his thoughts, the ones where his father was still home, still playful, still present.

The tub was full, up to his neck. He ducked into it, under it. He tried to let the water drip into his ears, to drain the deepest depths of his mind, suck out the thoughts he couldn’t remember until he could soak in the tub, where he could drown in his thoughts. Where he could let his memories sink into his pores and remember. Claus perched on the ledge of the porcelain, stripped down to his tattoo. Peter watched him from below the waterline, the spasmodic surface, while Peter held his breath longer until his chest burned and he expected the room to fill with steam, till Claus dove deep into the water and pulled Peter from the wreck beneath the surface.

Peter wanted to take a breath, let the cool air into his body, but refused the comfort, lungs still heavy. Claus trod water. The water dripped into Peter’s eyes. His cheeks were about to blow. He wrapped his hands around Claus, around his wet fur, his fingers pressed against his tattoo, meant to play a voice Peter had wanted to hear, couldn’t remember, hidden somewhere inside the bear. He gripped Claus harder. If his own memories couldn’t be coaxed out, maybe they could be wrung from Claus.

Peter was ready to twist Claus, to do as his tattoo suggested, Try Me. He was ready to try. He pressed Claus’s chest and heard nothing. He squeezed Claus. Water dripped. Peter heard nothing. Claus silent. He tapped Peter. Encouraged him. Beckoned him. Try again. Press again. Try harder. Peter tried harder. Pressed harder. Compressed harder. Water trickled down.

“Harder!”

Peter twisted Claus. Water dripped from his fur, leaked from his body, from his tattoo, from his stuffing. It smelled like iron and soap. Claus encouraged him until the memories seeped from Claus’s ears like pus.

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