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"WHAT IS HAPPENING TO ME?" I whispery said. I had a cut, on my hands, on my bare feet, on my face, and on my neck. An overwhelming contrition was taking over me. "So this is what sadness feels likethis is the catch in the throat."
I dearth off, "The ache in the heart," the remiss of the maimed bewailing cant of my pilfering roped limbsI was in lapse, flagellated and bondage in a French gothic and Romanesque styled colluded and arched Byzantine chair, a pax given by a girl with camellia tattoo, who comes, with a tasseled, shade walking.
"Where are my friends!" I said in aberration stricken by the rope on my mouth. "Where are my Wilkinson Brothers?"
"Am I your brother's keeper?" wisecracks as she is, Greta kissed me in witticism. "Why are you not looking for your real family? Your dad, Danny "
I never felt it before, though, and it was so unpleasantly painful, and prorogating that I wanted it to stop. Now!
She snapped her fingers. Nothing happened. She really wasn't in control here, was she? She was lost, I was confused and floundering. The intense pumping of my chest had been replaced by a big stabbing hurt.
And with the hurt came clarity. A sense of wisdom, a horrid sense of apperception head stoned my sense of taunt. A costly annotation, was that in merit?
I thought that I had an answer to my prayers. Now, I didn't want to be with her silence. I thought I knew why she was back in Graceland. Why I'd have to met up again with Greta Saint Claire?
I looked up at the glorious rose in a Delft Ceramic Vase plod on a forgone table by American Designer George Nakashima. A typical of his use of solid wood, the natural profile of a cut lumber, dictates the shape of the piece.
This couldn't be happening, yet clearly it was. Many months ago, I had helped guide Greta into this life. I eased her way, been her only magi nary friend until she'd had to leave me when the Big Ben turned to twelve midnight.
I understood this now, I got it, and this was about human mortality wasn't it?
These feelings, kind of akin to premonitions, had always precededand I was having one now.
The messenger was very clear.
I couldn't remember any of the feelings ever being so frugally odium before, not oncenot ever.
"OH NO!" I SAID IT OUT LOUD. "That couldn't be it."
"Like father, like son." Greta explained why I found her, of course it did, she was the perfect answer. She stared at me, in the bathroom mirror kind of wayas she sat at a tiny throne of Dagobert from eleventh centurya Carolingian seat of honor crafted from bronze; it follows the design of the folding chair used by Roman dignitaries centuries earlier. "Do you want to hear some bedtime stories my dear?"
I wanted to stand, to be seen by her for once in my life, notwithstanding, on a second thoughtmy swimming completion legs could use a little break, "No, not a care."
"I'm going to smoke a cigarette until someone comes and throws a boiling paint on me." Greta said between sips on her apple martini.
Before she had time to light a Marlboro Lights, she looked up. "Welcome to the tombs Anselm."
"Terrance?" I said stiffly. He was not a fun subject, and it was no longer a fun event to see.
"No, he's not." Said by a man standing in the dark, approaching from the back of a denied Terrance. "I'm Terrance, he is Tristan. My kindred, you never got it right between us twins, since seventh gradeto be exact."
To be exact. Huh
That's why she's here in Graceland.
That's why he's here in Graceland.
AS FAR BACK AS I COULD REMEMBER, ALL THE FEELINGS THAT WAS LEFT WITHIN ME FOR GRETA IS HATE.
AM I GOING TO DIE?
NEXT CHAPTEREpisode 44: One Dead Walking.
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