The Brand Ch. 12

Again Victria paused, wiped her face with her shirt, and then kissed Melody's palm.

"Well," she resumed, "I'm going to get you out. I swear; I'm going to take you back. You're mine Melody. I love you; here in the world, I love you, and I'm going to take you back, even if it kills me."

Vance, Powers and Dr. Peebles looked on as Victria began to sob. It was the detective that spotted Patrice re-entering the solarium, toting a basket of flowers. Powers tapped her shoulder. The young girl turned to see the woman beckon her closer. She mouthed the word "wait. Patrice turned to look toward Victria and Melody and stared for a moment. The girl turned then, understanding in her eyes, and then set the basket of flowers down by her side. The doctor's cell phone buzzed. He read the text, and then excused himself from the room. Vance moved closer to Powers, filling the space the doctor had left. Sadly, he regarded her. Looking back, her own expression tempered with concern, Cassie said:

"Am I to assume that the good doctor Peebles deems it okay to let your sister just cry like that?"

Vance studied the handsome woman's eyes, sighed and then looked back toward his tortured sister.

"Well technically; she's not his patient." He said; folding his arms across his chest, "She's okay. Let her be. Believe me; she's fine. She needs it."

Again, Vance met the detective's gaze; her continued presence essentially against protocol, but quite welcome by both himself as well as Victria.

"Trust me." He continued, "She needs it."

So Victria continued to weep as she held Melody's hand, fighting the drowsing effects of her pain meds, watching mind field explosions of image behind her closed eyes, kissing her lover's warm limp hand and breathing in the faint scent of lily nectar nestled in her palm. That had been more than an hour ago; before she finally dried her eyes, turned to see Patrice with the flowers, and then beckoned her to bring them over. The young girl had done so, and then dutifully removed the food trays, fetched the necessary combs, a brush, scissors and a hand mirror, and then assisted Victria in choosing the most perfect flowers.

Patrice had helped turn Melody around, and then sat silently beside them and patiently observed as Victria went about decorating the other's hair. She combed her tresses out, cut each flower's stem to the desired length, bound Melody's golden brown locks back up again and anchored their coils with the choicest, most fragrant, blossoms. Patrice, smiling, had given Victria excited, brief, applause. Then, after she'd rearranged the contents of the basket, removed it and the tools, and, after she'd cleaned off any stray petal that remained on the table, Patrice returned to find that Victria had fallen fast asleep.

She woke again, a matter of moments later, to see that she was still sitting knee to knee with Melody. A gentle hand touched her shoulder. Victria turned to see her brother's kind face.

"You okay Vic?" asked Vance; stepping around her left and then kneeling to face her, "Looks like you drifted off there for a bit."

"Oh I drifted off alright." She answered, her face flushed, still wiping the drool from her chin, "I can't stand these drugs. They knock me right out."

"Just let them take you."

"Later; I'll let them take me later. I want to just stay with her a little longer; kay?"

Vance paused, searched his sister's eyes, gave her a slight nod, rose to his feet, and then stepped away. Victria turned back to face Melody. She peered upward, admiring the halo she'd constructed for her lovely slave. A glimmer suddenly caught her eye, a subtle movement, a flash of green life. Victria met Melody's blank stare. She gazed, unblinking, waiting, hoping. No, she thought. It might have been there, but it's gone now. She let the gaze fall to Melody's naked throat. Closing her eyes, Victria drew a deep breath, imagined Peebles in doll form, coming together, her hands folding patches of dark cloth, sewing stitches, gluing; and then quickly opened her eyes again and released her breath.

"I stopped by your house this morning

." said Vance as he wheeled his sister toward the 11th floor elevators.

Victria had remained with Melody until Psych visiting hours were over. Vance had let her doze in and out as she held Melody's warm, lifeless, hands. Finally, when the announcement was made, she hadn't resisted nor had she the strength to do anything but let him guide the chair.

"Did you get my phone and the charger?" she asked, "And my tablet?"

"Yes Vic. I brought them up to your room while you were visiting."

"How about the clean up?"

They entered the elevator Vance had summoned.

"They did a great job, actually. I mean, you wouldn't know anything happened; I mean, other than the pellet pits in the floors and the bullet holes in the walls. I still don't believe it Vic: hand guns, really?"

"And if I hadn't had them, where the fuck would Melody and I be now? Don't give me shit Vance."

Vance looked away from his sister's scornful stare.

"Kay," he said, "Fine."

The elevator door opened. Vance wheeled Victria out, and then down the hall toward her room.

"Get a contractor in there to patch the walls and replace the flooring. I don't plan on us staying there long after we get out of here."

"Yes Vic."

"What's Mom's current status?"

"Still snowed in, but the phone works. You should give her a call."

"She's the one who should give me a call."

"Right Vic. She should give you a call."

"Stop patronizing me Vance."

"Sorry."

It was then their attention was drawn by the sounds of casual revelry; the staff gathered around the nurse's station, around the nurse that Victria had bitten. She was seated before a very delicious looking birthday cake while they quietly sang and waited for her to blow out its candles. Smiling, Vance stopped and joined in their song. Then, the blonde nurse blew out her twenty-six candles and the crowd applauded. Raising her smiling, flushed, face, the nurse caught sight of Victria, and then excused herself from the group.

"Hey Ms. Charpentier!" she said as she jogged from around the counter and then hunkered down by Victria's feet.

"Hey Tammy."

"Thank you oh so much for doing this for me!" said Tammy, brushing her thin hair back from her eyes, "You really didn't have to go through the trouble."

"Yes I did." Answered Victria, looking at the nurse squarely, "You've been totally great and I've been a complete shit. It was the least I could do."

"Well it was really very nice of you. The food was awesome. So; how was your visit with your friend?"

"It was fine." Said Victria; looking away, "I mean; it was okay."

Carefully, Nurse Tammy reached for Victria's hand, and then gave it a gentle squeeze.

"It'll be okay," said the nurse, "Really; it'll all be okay. You're recovering nicely. Pretty soon, you'll be able to focus all your attention on her, and then she'll be okay too."

Victria nodded, and then stared down at her lap.

"You guys want some cake?"

Victria shook her head.

"I'm fine." She said, "No thanks. Vance? Have some cake."

"Okay," he said, "I'll have some cake."

Victria wheeled herself into her room then, while her brother partook of a slice. Searching the drawers by her bed, she found her phone and immediately plugged it in. Next, Victria withdrew her tablet, but then thought better of it, and so stuffed it back into the bag. In doing so, she watched as a sealed envelope fell to the floor. Was it a copy of the police report, a bill from the bio-cleaners? Puzzled, she stared for a moment, until Vance's feet came into view just beyond the letter. She looked up to see that he was holding a particularly large slice of cake aloft. His expression warm yet pensive, he reached down, retrieved the envelope, and then handed it to his sister.

"What's this?" asked Victria, turning the letter over inhere hands.

"I found it under your Christmas tree." Vance answered between swallows of cake, "Dude, this is awesome cake. Sure you don't want some?"

"No." she said while reading the words "To Victria," written in a neat, feminine script on the address side of the envelope.

She peered up at Vance. Still enjoying his cake, Vance shrugged, and then turned to set his evening snack by the window. Returning to Victria, he put the brake on her chair, gently lifted her from it, and then placed her on the bed. Then, once he'd covered his sister up, Vance took his seat in the blue chair by the window.

Victria tore the envelope open, unfolded the letter inside, and then proceeded to read it. Vance watched. At first, his sister's face was smooth stone. Then, half a moment more, tears began to race down her cheeks as she pursed her trembling lips. It couldn't be from anyone else but Melody. Cassie had pointed out the day she'd brought him to see the inside of the house; the condition, the damage, the blood, seeming gallons of it. Vance went to pick it up, saw the script, and understood instantly that it could only be a message of hope, from a woman who had nothing to give but the truth in her heart.

Still weeping, though her eyes alert, as if the emotion that fueled her tears was far too great to get her head around, Victria gently set the letter down upon her lap. She didn't look at her brother. Rather, Victria stared unblinkingly at the wall across from her.

"Thank you Vance." She whispered, "For everything."

Suddenly feeling quite full, he set his remaining cake on the ledge beside him. Solemnly, he regarded his sister as he wiped a napkin along his mouth. Why life must break people so, he asked himself. Why must life create broken children that have the hardest time keeping from growing up into broken people? Is it the same reason why stars are born only out of cosmic chaos?

"You're welcome Vic." He said while getting to his feet.

Victria settled her back against her pillows, and then closed her eyes, the letter still on her lap. Vance carried his trash to the pail set under the counter that flanked Victria's bed on its right. After that was the bathroom, which he used before heading back to his chair. Passing by his sister again, Vance saw that she had fallen asleep. He wanted to wipe her tears, but he decided against it. He too had grown quite tired, so he went to his blue chair and converted it to a blue chair bed. It wasn't the most comfortable arrangement, but it would do. That night was a night to stay nearby. Vance slipped off his shoes, took something to read from his small overnight bag, and then settled in. It wasn't long at all before the words on the page blurred into trails of fuzzy little black caterpillars. Seconds more and he'd laid the open book onto himself. Victria glanced over once, to see its gentle rise and fall on her brother's chest. Sighing, she wiped her tears away, and then read the letter again and again and again, until she too succumbed to sleep.

12

"Alright, alright; I'm coming, I'm coming!"

The man's voice echoed from behind the steel door, though it was still somewhat muted by the whine of fans around him. They listened to the jangle of keys as they waited outside, in a dank, low ceilinged, stretch of basement corridor; the smell of bleach, formalin and the vague hint of raw pork in the air. Suddenly, the door swung open. They moved back. The man, short, stocky and double chinned, was alert but red eyed, and seemed to expect them at first, but his look quickly transformed into something more like puzzlement and amused shock.

"You don't look like; funeral home guys." Said the man, somewhat pleasantly dismayed.

Standing before the morgue assistant, at either end of a gurney, topped with a large lustrous white plastic cover, stood two extremely tall, handsome women, dressed in formal black dress suits. The one at the tail end of the gurney was dark haired, and seemed to the assistant primarily of Irish descent. The other, the brunette, the one that had the paper work, was much prettier, though he knew she could likely kick his ass. Still, he thought, I'd take what I could get from that one.

"Good morning." Said the brunette, "We represent Douglas's; the funeral home contracted to take the city's unclaimed deceased. We got the call to come pick up the latest, a John Doe."

"The big guy?"

"We weren't informed as to how big he was sir. We were told to come pick him up. Here's a copy of the requisition."

The brunette handed it to the morgue attendant. He took the neatly folded sheet, his gaze still searching the two very tall women's faces as he opened the document. He took the time to read it, shrugged, and then handed it back to the brunette, making sure to brush his fingers along the back of her hand. The brunette winced slightly as he beckoned them to follow him in.

"Yeah, so they rolled this one in at around three this morning." Said the assistant; walking backwards, switching his gaze from one to the other, "I couldn't fit him into one of the wall drawers, so I put him in our walk-in. Thank God the pathologist didn't need to have him cracked open. I'd a needed a wheel barrow to hold his guts while he did the exam."

The ladies followed the morgue attendant across the forty-five by forty-five foot space, cadaver drawers set in two rows along the east and west walls, guiding their gurney between two empty autopsy tables, a desk and a row of file cabinets. At the far wall were two more doors: the leftmost was open and well lit and full with shelves of medical equipment; the other, obviously the door to a walk-in refrigerator, was padlocked. He turned around to shrug at them again and smile, as if to acknowledge the ridiculousness of keeping a walk-in refrigerator full of the dead under lock and key.

Once inside, they saw the bodies lined up against the walls, two deep. The chill immediately cooled their cheeks and the tips of their noses a rosy shade of pink. The funeral attendants saw their John Doe, a mountain of flesh parked against the back wall; naked, inert, large, pallid, bearded, mossy chest hair, death bloated face, penis and testicles, surrounded by other naked dead; men, women, gossamer white, yellow or flaky grey brown skinned. The two women advanced. The assistant stepped aside, not interested in helping or doing anything beyond what he was required to do for his four hundred and fifty-eight dollars a week.

The black haired attendant removed the gurney's cake cover lid, and then leaned it against the side of one of the other tables. The brunette sidled along Doe's table, toward his great head, as she worked on a pair of rubber gloves. The other put on her own pair of gloves and stepped to the body's great feet. On three, they heaved the body to their gurney. The morgue attendant looked on, leaning against the open door, his arms folded.

"Wait a minute." He yawned as he began to shuffle toward them, "May I see the requisition again?"

The brunette stepped around the table, fished through the inside of her coat, and then handed him the document. Again, he unfolded the paper and read as he positioned himself by the dead man's feet. There, he flipped the toe tag over, compared something in the document to what was written on the tag, and then left the room with the requisition. The two funeral attendants regarded each other before following the morgue assistant back out of the walk-in, their John Doe between them. Once out of the refrigerator, the two saw that the morgue attendant had taken a seat behind the desk and was typing at his computer terminal. Seconds later, he rose from his chair and began to whistle as he made his way to the brunette.

"You're good to go." Said the little man as he handed the document back to the tall woman, "So maybe I'll see you guys again sometime."

"Maybe." The brunette answered coolly as she tucked the requisition back into her coat.

13

"Vance!?! Wake up!"

"Huh? What?"

"Where's Victria?"

"She should be-"

Vance rubbed his eyes, and then looked a second time at the empty bed. Dr. Gupta was on the far side. Peebles was just coming out from the bathroom.

"Empty." He said, "No sign."

It was Cassie beside him as he rose from the chair bed.

"Did you check if Melody is still on the ward? Said Vance.

The detective regarded him, scowled, and then immediately left the room. Gupta followed her, wagging his head. Peebles turned to look at the empty bed. He and Vance saw it at the same time: a note, written in pencil on a sheet of printer paper. Peebles snatched it up, and began to read.

Hi Jeremy,

Like I said: Freedom is a subtle kind of oppression. So what oppresses you? Hmm? You know what? Who cares? Your life is as fatal as anyone else's, and if you want to subvert people into believing that they're not okay until you retire and die, you go right on ahead. Me? I'll be my own book to judge. Taking my cover, pun intended, Melody's collar, was quite unethical of you and professionally irresponsible. Just because your "book" indicates to you that there is no healthful substance to our life style, doesn't give you the right to not consult me first before you destroyed my symbol of commitment to Melody. But, you just couldn't stop yourself, could you? You saw that little lock and it made you angry. Oh high and mighty self-righteous Jeremy is going to make everything better for Melody. You know nothing about us Jeremy, nothing.

Still, you're going to read this letter from a professional stand point, so anything I say will be construed or interpreted as a human being's cry for help. So, if I say this is not a suicide note, you won't believe me. Fuck you then; don't believe me. I have plenty to live for. I have Melody. I'm in love with a wonderful human being who is in love with me, and, in spite of the few mistakes I've made, and in spite of shitty people having done shitty things to us, we were in the middle of fortifying the greatest love I've ever felt.

Because that's what people are free to do, right Jeremy: tear good hearts asunder just for the sake of watching them suffer. That's not me, no matter what you might read in your fucking text books. And, Melody will come out of her withdrawal from the world. She's strong. That's why the universe gave her to me. She's my reciprocal counter-part, my complimentary color, mine, Peebles; star crossed, predestined, fatefully, for better or for worse, in sick and in health, mine all mine and I hers

So that's it. Extend my thanks to Dr. Gupta and his surgical team. For the record: Vance had nothing to do with our escape. Nor did Cassie; believe it or not. Yes, I could have just hired a good lawyer to release us from your clutches, and I could have sued your ass. But, considering my budget, I thought I'd take a little less conventional approach. As for Melody's rights, and my rights as her health proxy, you'll find a notarized documentation of her consent waiting for you on your desk. She's not the kind of person who'll do well with electro-shock therapy; because I fucking said so. We're not into that.

Later Dick,

V

Peebles quickly folded up the letter and tucked it into his front pocket. Vance had read enough for himself from his place behind the doctor's shoulder. Nurse Tammy came in, yawning, reporting her and the rest of staff's confusion as to how they could have fallen asleep so deeply. The same report came from the 11th floor. Cassie had determined that a meal had also been brought up the the psych ward. The occasion was Patrice's Name Day, a French, Roman Catholic tradition, in which one is celebrated because their name is that of the saint that happened to have been martyred on that day. Given Patrice's report, that two young women orderlies, had come into the room in the middle of the night, wrapped Melody up in her blankets before gently pickingher up and placing her into a big laundry cart, the detective did a google search and determined that Saint Patrice's Name Day was not January 15th, but March 17th.