Slaves of Nowhere

RICHARD CHRISTIAN MATHESON

‘I am you.

Your jagged dream.

Your child.

Yourself.

I hold you, soothe you.

Suckle and destroy you.

I am no one.

Everyone.

I have been gone so long.’

The entry was handwritten; a delicate pain.

JoJo stared at it. Glanced at the clock, death by fragments circling its void face.

The next one would be here soon.

‘I hear my insides,

Bloodless and swallowed.

I am an eclipse.

A funeral.

An unsoothed blank.’

JoJo sipped cognac, stared at Manhattan as if it were a sad child, watched near buildings where the unloved sat alone; interred in night windows.

The Spanish mirror reflected dark tresses, full lips. Eyes long past dread. Fingers slender, resting in silver rings; elegant, bandaged. Walls, emptied of family; meaning. Too many years ago. Decades . . . centuries.

Always.

‘Please take me away

from me.

Bring the perfect

sorrows

of sleep.

My hand in yours.

For an hour, I would die.

For a minute, I die forever.

Reborn in nowhere.’

Mouths and hands, kissing, licking.

Reaching, tearing JoJo open.

Sperm; pearl graffiti.

Looking into a hundred eyes, a thousand needs.

The pen inched and curved, ink a helpless pathway.

‘My eyes are your shame.

Look in the mirror.

I am there.

I am you.’

The man would be here soon.

The woman.

The couple.

Then, the man who wanted to rape his daughter. And the woman who wanted to be held by herself, allow tracing tongue to wander her own mouth, lick her coral pussy, taste secretions; dead nectars.

And the other man who . . .

‘I am nowhere.

I have no colours.

No sound.

I am tired.

Invisible.

I need to be held.

I need to die.’

JoJo placed down pen, finished the cognac.

Grasped the razor, sat on velvet chair, slid sharp blade over wrist like a stroke of perfume. Listened to the drowsy slippage of blood deserting veins. Rain crawling windows. The clock slowing, dying.

The doorbell; the appointment.

JoJo slowly rose, walked to the door, fingertips a red seepage. Peered through the eyehole. The man was slight, short. Would want to feel big, be within something tight, childlike. Hear his own daughter, screaming for Daddy as he thrust inside her. JoJo saw the little girl’s photograph in his hand: freckled smile, trusting eyes.

JoJo went empty inside, as icy bleach spread and all was a dead nausea. Then, it began: the agonies of detail.

The expression eased, now shy, unsure. Wrists quietly re-sealed. JoJo’s hair slowly became blonde, body pale, young. No longer tall, bearded. Breasts retreated, nipples withdrew to pink simplicity, pubic hair lightened, vanished, revealing vestal softness. Sweet blue eyes looked afraid; a rapist’s ethereal doll.

It would hurt.

Some did.

Others wanted pain.

To be filled; controlled. Bloodied by lust, indifference. Every day, the same hungers; desperate, broken. An hour or two to lose themselves, find themselves, pretend it never happened.

JoJo held pen to the book of ten thousand poems. Aside countless handwriting styles, another page filled, in child’s naive script, trusting letters, dotted with hearts.

‘I am a song

I may have heard.

Such a sad song.

I am you.

Your jagged dream.

I hold you, soothe you.

Suckle and destroy you.

My eyes are your need,

my flesh your shame.

I am lost in elsewhere.

A slave of nowhere.

I have been gone so long.’

It was time to open the door.

* * * *

Richard Christian Matheson is the son of veteran science fiction and fantasy author Richard Matheson. A novelist, short story writer and screenwriter/producer, he has scripted and executive-produced more than five hundred episodes of prime-time network TV and was the youngest writer ever put under contract by Universal Studios. His debut novel Created By was published to great acclaim in 1993, and his short fiction has been collected in Scars and Other Distinguishing Marks and Dystopia. Matheson recently scripted four feature films, at various studios, which he will executive-produce. He has also completed a pilot script for a one-hour series about avarice and mysticism, he will adapt Roger Zelazny’s The Chronicles of Amber as a four hour mini-series, and has just sold a thriller spec screenplay. A horror screenplay R.C. and his father wrote for Ivan Reitman was scheduled to go into production in 2002 and is rumoured to be a huge project for Universal Studios. He has also completed his second novel and is writing a third. Matheson continues to play drums for the blues/rock band Smash-Cut, in which he performs along with Craig Spector and Preston Sturges, Jr. The band is currently at work on its debut album and plays clubs in Los Angeles. ‘For a time, betrayal was the season,’ reveals the author about his story. ‘It seemed many friends had been hurt by some deceit; a falsity perfectly presented, a lie veiled as care. Few saw it coming, wanted to admit they did, could face it. They capsized, bled, retreated; hearts torn, faith poisoned. I also began to note those who refused to adapt to the reasonable needs of others, triumphant in a pretended armour; slain hopes grieving through detachment, wounds guised as autonomy. At either extreme were broken selves. In adapting to life and love, some do better than others, though paradox intrudes. Often those who do it most brilliantly dwell in voids. Somewhere in this elusive algebra of authenticity and adaptation, I considered those who are condemned to it, not by choice but curse.’