Consumption R.

Alexander Robertson

One

The night before had been ecstasy; the world came back as a grinding headache.

Vox's last, fleeting, quasi-lucid-dream-thought was a small fear of opening his eyes.

Would the pressure push his eyes from his skull? But, as he sat up with his eyes tightly

closed, that thought vanished to the place occupied by so many of his late-nights, places

of drowned and forgotten memories. It could be said that those memories are painful, but

that would defeat the purpose of drowning them, would it not? Besides, this was the

morning of new beginnings bright with hope, far removed from the dark and cold late-

nights.

The refreshing coolness of the morning air energized him as he pulled up his

eyebrows, forcing his eyes to open just a slit, just enough to navigate the room. The

early-morning light, softened by the thin curtains, was merciful. Vox stood up, stretched

burped and farted. The pain in his temples made him feel alive as he slowly, cautiously in

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Consumption R. Alexander Robertson

this unfamiliar flat, plodded to the bathroom. He relieved himself, with more intimate

exhalations, and began the cleansing ritual. He grabbed the nearest toothbrush, adorned it

with a generous portion of toothpaste and began a shower. Once he had washed the

smoke from his hair and the sex from his body – and dried the toothbrush thoroughly,

because what people do not know usually does not hurt them – he emerged, nude, steam

rolling off his body into the chilly flat, and finally took stock of where he was.

He dressed quickly and quietly as he tried to remember the girl's name. Serena,

Sabrina, Seraina? She was Swiss; they had used German to communicate. The rest was

fuzzy. Just the way he liked it. He could see that she was cute, small with short dark hair.

Not beautiful, but cute. He remembered that he liked the way she laughed; that's what

had done it for him.

He should go back to Jan's but it was too early. He would wake him if he went

now. He slid into his neon blue riding leathers; they accentuated his tall and lean figure.

His face, never much to look at, except for the expressions he used while telling stories or

jokes, needed a shave. He had stopped himself before desecrating the girl's razor with his

coarse blond growth.

He tied his boots with his eyes closed. He was still tired. Maybe he would have

time for a nap this afternoon. But he knew that would never happen. He would not allow

himself to sleep during the day, sober and unprotected. He did not want the dreams to

come; he did not want to feel them. He did not want that to happen. No way. Not a

chance. Not now. Not today. He needed coffee.

He left a note in German:

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Consumption R. Alexander Robertson

Ｓ．

ＨＡＶＥ　Ａ　ＧＯＯＤ　ＲＥＳＴ，　ＬＯＶＥ．　　Ｉ　ＣＯＵＬＤＮ＇Ｔ　ＳＬＥＥＰ．　　

ＧＯＮＥ　ＲＩＤＩＮＧ．　　ＭＡＹＢＥ　Ｉ＇ＬＬ　ＣＡＴＣＨ　ＵＰ　ＷＩＴＨ　ＹＯＵ　ＡＧＡＩＮ．

Ｖ．

Pulling his thick, chemically damaged hair out of his face with one hand, he slipped on

his riding goggles with the other. He powered up his bike. The engine needed some

tweaking; that he could do at Jan's place. The behemoth motorcycle, heavier than some

small cars, ran smoothly, even in the morning's cold. The power plant produced more

power than most cars on the road and burned very efficiently. He had some changes in

mind that might improve it.

He rode past the cafe in front of Ser... the girl's flat and searched for cafe a safe

distance from any possible awkward, morning-after meetings. He was still learning his

way around Amsterdam. He loved it though. It seemed to have been made for him.

(Why does it seem Amsterdam was made for him?) He would have to learn Dutch, he

thought, as he pulled up to a cafe across from a park.

He sat in the morning sunshine eating some cheese, a croissant and drinking

coffee, watching the junkies in the park. The sunshine felt good, the junkies looked

horrid. Was that him in a few years? He finished and headed to Jan's. Damn Jan's sleep.

He could go back to bed if he wanted to. His mind was working on gear ratios now. He

knew he was getting ahead of himself, but he wanted to get these ideas down before he

lost them. That was not very likely to happen, he did not lose much. He took a breath

and let it go. His mind was starting to race; off he went.

While he rode, he dictated to the on-board computer. If he had stopped at traffic

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Consumption R. Alexander Robertson

lights, he would have got some strange looks from talking to his over-sized motorcycle.

He got them anyway, but he did not not stop, so he did not notice.

Once he was on the expressway, he went fast. He laid down, hugging the chassis,

behind the low windscreen so the air would not push his lips apart and force air into his

mouth. He feared it would force its way into his body and fill him up. The image of

himself riding along looking like a blue leather puffer fish caused him to laugh, confusing

the voice-to-text software until it wrote bleating sheep words a moment later. At one

point he thought that he saw some red and blue lights behind him, but they faded so

quickly it was hard to tell.

He saw a mass of cars stopped ahead. He could have stopped in time, but that

would have raised a white cloud, so he cut between the lanes. In the narrow space

between the cars he hoped nobody would open their door as he continued to decelerate.

There had been an accident – horrible crumpled things on the roadway. Was that him

tomorrow? He got past it and soon after left the expressway.

When he arrived at Jan's, he was so full of energy he rode the doorbell until Jan

jerked the door open, half naked, cursing him in French, “What the fuck is your problem,

Jacob?”

Jan was the only one, besides his family that still called him that, that or Jake.

They had been classmates. Jan had snooped into Vox's things and found his 'real' name

and had not let it go. He had resisted Vox's attempts to get him to use the nickname, but

only with partial success.

He would have called him 'Vox' if he'd known the pain it caused him and Vox

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Consumption R. Alexander Robertson

would have told him if he were able; if he had consciously admitted it to himself. The

name brought back pain from a life before, from the life he pushed aside each day by

working himself like crazy and drowned and buried each night by consuming dangerous

amounts of drugs and alcohol. As it was, it was 'Jacob' this, and 'Jacob' that...

The name his brother had called just before they both slid beneath the freezing

water, only one to survive. Jesper and Jacob had been innocent children then, playing on

the ice of a frozen Danish lake, not far from their home. They had both fallen through the

ice at the same moment. Jesper had tried to push Jacob back onto the ice, but his body,

still years from a manhood that would never be realized, had lost its strength to the

freezing water. They had slid into darkness together. The boy Jacob had only been 5

years old, his body had shut down and protected the brain. It had survived. Jesper then

12, did not make it.

As if that had not been enough, Jacob's grandfather died while Jacob was in a

coma. He'd been a doctor and had worked to revive him, but had not lived to see his

success. The following year, grieving parents sought to look forward to new life rather

than dwell on the loss. Dwell they did, in that year. Jacob's mother died giving birth to

Jacob's sister Pia.

Their father had moved them to America soon after that. Pia remained there,

Jacob had come back to Europe and discarded his old name, but he couldn't discard the

memories.

Vox could still hear his brother's voice clearly as he struggled, sobbing because of

his inability to save him. He could still see the blood drain from his mother's face as she

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Consumption R. Alexander Robertson

died. He could still feel the cold wind and smell the earth as the coffins were lowered

into the ground.

“Sorry,” he spoke in English to irritate Jan, he did not know why, “my mind is

working, I need to get into the shop.”

“Christ! It's not even eight!” Jan had switched to English too. Vox had that effect

on people, they would follow his lead. He hated it sometimes. “There's a message from

Pia for you,” Jan said as he headed back to bed.

A cold feeling, colder than the chill from his ride, spread through him. Pia, his

little sister, precious to him. She always instilled a tremendous fear in him that

something terrible would happen to her, as it had to so many of his other family members.

Vox wanted a drink. Instead, he listened to the message.

“Ｈｉ　Ｊａｋｅ．　　Ｉｔ＇ｓ　Ｐｉａ．　　Ｉ＇ｍ　

ｃａｌｌｉｎｇ　ｔｏ ｉｎｖｉｔｅ ｙｏｕ　ｔｏ　ｃｏｍｅ　ｂａｃｋ　

ｔｏ　ｔｈｅ　Ｓｔａｔｅｓ　ｆｏｒ　Ｃｈｒｉｓｔｍａｓ．　Ｗｅ　ｃａｎ　

ｈａｖｅ　ｄｉｎｎｅｒ　ｗｉｔｈ　Ｊｅｎｎｙ＇ｓ　ｆａｍｉｌｙ；　

ｓｈｅ＇ｓ　ｍｙ　ｎｅｗ　ｂｅｓｔ　ｆｒｉｅｎｄ．　Ｓｈｅ＇ｓ　

ｇｒｅａｔ；　ｙｏｕ＇ｌｌ　ｌｏｖｅ　ｈｅｒ！

“Ｉ　ｋｎｏｗ　ｉｔ＇ｓ　ｅａｒｌｙ，　ｂｕｔ　Ｉ　ｗａｎｔｅｄ　

ｔｏ　ｇｉｖｅ　ｙｏｕ　ｓｏｍｅ　ｔｉｍｅ　ｔｏ　ｔｈｉｎｋ　ａｂｏｕｔ　

ｉｔ　ａｎｄ　ｍａｋｅ　ｓｏｍｅ　ｐｌａｎｓ．

“Ｌｅｔ　ｍｅ　ｋｎｏｗ　ｗｈｅｎ　ｙｏｕ　ｄｅｃｉｄｅ．

“Ｌｏｖｅ　ｙｏｕ．　　Ｂｙｅ． ”

Pia's voice was beautiful. It was good to hear Danish. She was fine. The relief

was like ecstasy. Vox breathed a sigh of relief and headed to the shop.

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Consumption R. Alexander Robertson

TWO

Near the end of the day as Vox was working, he started getting glimpses of the

night before. It was Sabrina, that was her name. She had been a very fun, if demanding,

lover and his lack of sleep was beginning to take its toll; sleep was grasping for him.

After he had ruined a cylinder by grinding most of it away on the lathe, he resolved to

stick to the computer for the rest of the day, but now the images on the screen were

beginning to blur. His usual stretches and slaps across his own face were not bringing

him out of it.

He searched in some of Jan's hiding places but didn't find any amphetamines, so

he sat back down to try to finish one more computer rendering before heading out to

score. There wasn't much more to go and, as he worked on it, his thoughts drifted back to

Sabrina. He felt a stirring of desire and adjusted his position to allow for a bit of phallic

expansion. It was twilight outside and he was starting to shift back into night-mode.

He finished the data input and began the rendering. As he waited for the progress

bar to fill in the empty box, he gave a chuckle as his mind turned it into the sexual image

of a slow penetration. The image of Sabrina lowering herself down him, slowly sliding

down him, filled his mind. But then she turned cold as fresh snow and disappeared

altogether. His man's body was replaced by that of a boy as he hurriedly jumped out of

bed and got dressed. He shivered in the cold until finally his five-year-old hands clumsily

tied his boots.

“Jake, come on!” his brother said excitedly prompting him to break into a run as

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Consumption R. Alexander Robertson

he headed out the door. Jesper smiled and took his hand, “Let's go!”

“Wait for Papa!” their father's voice boomed, but they rushed ahead as he looked

for a missing boot.

In a blink, they were on the ice, racing to the tree on the opposite bank of the lake.

Jacob's own laughter filled his ears but at the same time his heart was exploding in his

chest. The image turned from fluffy white to cold blue and it seemed to him the heavy

beats of his own heart broke the ice and sent him and his brother into the icy water.

The image changed again to a bloody red as his sister was born in a shower of

blood, his mother's lifeblood following her out of the womb.

He screamed. He knew he is dreaming finally and he fought to escape it but it

held onto him for a moment more. In that moment he saw the world become a shadowy

gray as he left Denmark with his father and sister. America was cold factory lines, gray

and wet, bleak workers trading their youth and sweat for meager pay. His father lorded

over it all. His father turned his back on him to the money that was rolling in.

This time, his cry was filled with the blue fear as he slid under the icy water,

energized by the red terror at the blood poured out of his mother is launched into the

shadowy-gray anguish as his father withdrew from his remaining family. Finally he

woke.

He turned away from the keyboard and vomited on the floor, bile tears and snot

pouring, falling and oozing from him like fluids of a frog as it is run over. He fell off the

stool and curled up into a fetal position and wept.

He pulled himself into a rigid ball gripping his hair tightly and wished not to die

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Consumption R. Alexander Robertson

but just that he were inanimate, not dead but void of life. That would be nice. A world of

folk music, sunny meadows, picnics, fresh fruit and butterflies would be nice too, but

reality was rock music, rainy streets, smoky cafes, fatty food and flies.

And that wasn't all. There were mind-bending chemicals of all makes. Choose an

orifice, any orifice, and you can put something in it to make you high. And not just high,

you could get spun, low, touchy-feely, baked and more. But most importantly, you could

avoid the pain. You could avoid the conscious pain by forgetting and you could avoid the

painful dreams by not sleeping in such a vulnerable state as natural sleep. God bless the

chemists. With that in mind, Vox rose from the floor, a man on a mission.

He quickly cleaned up his mess, alienating Jan was not in his plan, and cleaned

up. He was still shaking from the shock of his dream. Was he the only one that dreamed

this way? Why the fuck was that? But moved with purpose. He showered, shaved,

gooped up his hair, freshened his smile and was out the door in 15 minutes.

He arrived at one of his Euro-trash hangouts and realized he was up to seeing the

new party-friends he'd made, so he rode on to a backup club. One where the mood was

just a bit more desperate than his usual haunts.

He pulled up near the door and could feel the beat before he shut down his bike.

Yes, this is the correct place for tonight. A poor start deserved a poor ending and this

promised just that. He bobbed his head to the beat and grinned as the walked into the

neon lights of this dangerous dive.

He powered down three shots of gin on his way to the dance floor then observed

the room while he grooved his lanky body to the thumping beats. This is when he looked

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Consumption R. Alexander Robertson

his best. The lights and shadows favored him by hiding the flaws in his face and he knew

how to move to the music. It wasn't long before he had several favorable looks, some

from guys but those he just laughed off and shook his head. The more attractive girls he

favored with subtle nods, not too eager but not too cool.

His real quarry tonight, however took him a bit longer to find, but after a couple

hours he was sure he had the right man. He noticed a group at a table to which more than

a few people were paying their respects. Some just in and out. Some pushed away by

obvious muscle. Many drugs were legal here in Amsterdam, he wanted some that

weren't.

Vox walked up to the table and spoke to the leader, one he'd seen the others turn

to. He wasn't holding money or drugs but the others had deferred to him. “What are you

selling?” he asked boldly.

“Fuck you, I don't know you,” the man said.

Now Vox saw the man more clearly. He was well muscled and clearly a brutal

man. His brown eyes were cold and his face was scarred from a tough life on the streets.

Is this a mistake? “I'm not police, if I were, I could arrest you right now. I've watched

you conduct business for two hours. I just want to get high. Please tell me what you

have.” He heard a bit of desperation in his voice and winced, “I'm called Vox.” Please let

him have heard of me!

The man just waved his hand and Vox was flung onto the dance floor. He bumped

into another tall man who frowned at him but let it go when Vox put his hands up in

supplication. Defeated, he headed for the exit.

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Consumption R. Alexander Robertson

The night air felt good but the ground under his feet still felt unstable. He sat on a

stone bench to clear his head and started his bike by remote, shocking a few people

chatting and smoking nearby. They looked at him and he nodded and they nodded back,

obviously impressed by his bike. Another man came out. One of the gang from inside

and walked to Vox. He wasn't afraid, he knew if they wanted to hurt him they'd act as a

gang and not send just one.

“What do you want, Stupidfuck? I can help you.”

* * *

Five days later Vox woke from a binge that rivaled any he had had before. He

spent the morning eating and drinking, trying to regain his strength, forcing it down in the

dining room of a nice hotel. It had worked, he would check out of the hotel and get back

to work ...and he'd make sure he didn't drift off to sleep again. He had a good sized stash

that should last him at least a week.

When he arrived at Jan's, it was already 3 o'clock in the afternoon. He was ready

to get to work, but Jan let him in and caught his attention with a serious look of concern.

“What? My phone battery was dead. Do I need to check in with you lovey?” he quipped.

Without a word, Jan pointed to the answering machine and poured two glasses of

whiskey.

NO! NO! FUCK!

Vox felt the world spin and all the heat in his body drained out his feet. He was horrified

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but as much as he didn't want to know why, he had to know so he pushed the button.

“Ｊａｋｅ.”

Pia was in tears, but at least she was alive.

“Daddy's dead.

“There was some kind of accident at the factory. It sounds

all fucked up...

“I'm all alone, please, come as soon as you can!

“And call me when you get this message! Fuck!”

That was it.

Vox took the glass Jan held out for him and downed it.

“I've got you on a flight across the pond in seven hours, Jacob.” Jan was good to

have around.

Vox just grimaced and nodded. He thought about the drugs he had. He had the

urge to use them now but knew he needed to pull himself together. Pia was only sixteen

and needed him. He could do just enough on the plane to stay awake...

His call to her was brief. He just told her his flight number and when he would be

arriving. What else could he say? Nothing at that moment, anyway. She started to go on

about what she knew of Father's death but he just hung up on her. He wasn't ready for

that.

Jan helped him pack, he wasn't taking much but he was lethargic with distraction.

Most might call it morning but he didn't know how to feel about his father... Anyway,

this trip wasn't so much about his father as about Pia.

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Consumption R. Alexander Robertson

* * *

The the rest of the day and the trip to the airport were uneventful. In fact, they

were a forgettable haze. As Vox approached the gate, he felt a vague apprehension. He

wasn't afraid of flying, so he found it mildly exciting. It wasn't until he was well over the

Atlantic that he realized the cause of his growing discomfort. He was growing tired and

just as he reached for his bag, he remembered Jan's odd behavior near his bag earlier and

his discomfort shot into near panic. He tore through his bag, but the drugs to tide him

over were gone. Even in his state he understood Jan's reasoning: customs and all that.

But Jan didn't understand the effect his dreams had on him. His physical manifestations

were just a small part. Those dreams pulverized his mind.

He realized he was breathing hard and his heart rate was elevated, so he took a

few deep breaths and forced himself to relax. The flight wasn't that long, surely he could

stay awake with a bit of coffee.

It worked for a while, he kept ordering coffee from the flight attendants and

making trips to the toilet. Until, during a blathering movie about relationships and

infidelity he started nodding off in spite of his best head-slaps and head-shaking efforts.

* * *

He closed his eyes, just for a moment, he promised himself. A bit of turbulence

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woke him, except it wasn't turbulence, but a rough patch of road as his carriage was

jostled. Instantly he knew this was a dream and he was very strangely lucid. He would

have panicked but though he was fully aware of the dream, he couldn't affect anything.

He was a captive audience. Simultaneously trapped on a plane and trapped in a carriage.

He was looking up at other people in such a way that made him realize he was a

child. Suddenly the carriage and people moved so quickly they became a blur and he

found himself attending lectures at what must have been a university. Then a blur and a

funeral, a blur and a library, a blur and a workshop, a blur and trips in more carriages,

more libraries and more lectures.

((Need to change- add details to the dream, make it a bit more coherent.))

Finally he awoke with a start. It had been getting quite chaotic, but nothing like

the dreams he was used to. Not that he was actually used to them, but rather not like the

dreams he came to expect – not at all. Where before his dreams had been taken from

feelings and memories and had been vivid and terrifying, this one had no basis in

memory nor did it elicit any feelings beyond curiosity.

Vox rubbed his eyes and the shock hit him. The dream was a curiosity, but more

importantly it had not been one of his Old Dreams! He chuckled and dared to hope,

could not help himself actually, that he could have more like this new dream!

His whole manner of living was based upon avoiding those terrible dreams. If

that threat were really gone, that changed everything.

The plane was dark. He checked his watch just as the lights came on. He'd slept

soundly for hours! He was excited but suspicious of his chances next time he put his

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head to the pillow.

He changed some money and caught a cab.

* * *

Pia answered the door and they embraced. It had been too long. A wispy thought

flitted through his mind that he had been doing the exact thing he had nominally hated his

father for doing. After his wife's death, just after Pia's birth, their father had started

withdrawing from his family, his children, as if to insulate himself from further pain.

Father had built walls around himself, walls of emotional barriers and of physical

distances. Vox realized, to a lesser extent, he'd done the same thing and with his

realization came the resolve not to let that go any further and, in fact, to reverse the

process.

This new hope was seeping into unexpected facets of his psyche. If those good

dreams continued, he'd really be able to turn his life around in every way.

When they finally pulled away from each other, they stared at each other for a

long time. Pia was nearly a woman now. And he could tell by the way she looked at him,

she wasn't missing the signs of his physically taxing and chemically abusive lifestyle.

Emotions played across her face like like wind over a grassy field. ((like the tells in a

poker game??)) Rather than verbalize her concern, she made tea and the talked about the

details in their lives that mattered less than the sharing of them. ((???))

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