Unexpected Aspects of Fatigue

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By Stephen Myer

 

 

      The concierge stands, her stark contours sculpted by the surgical knives of moonlight. She extends an arm and draws me back into the rapture where I long to be immured. Amid my cruel obsession, she retreats, suspending my pleasure, leaving me to the odious tasks she will assuredly assign. Despite the constant fatigue of servitude and the sorrow of discontent, my senses remain keen.

      “Wake up!”

      “I need to rest.”

      “Your illness is intolerable. Let me help.”

       Kneeling, she unfurls her tongue and slides it down my throat.

       “Remember, I am both the prescription and the cure. Perhaps you need an extra dose. I’m concerned you don’t grasp the gravity of your situation.”

       “It’s just fatigue. I’ll be fine in a while.”

       “You don’t have a while. A flick of kindness is all I can spare for a madman.”

        Flick of kindness—madman; metaphors and threats forged into weapons and stored in her arsenal of abusive love. The concierge vanishes. Her absence unsettles me, but she returns and pries my lips apart. Instead of slipping her tongue in, she pours sour broth down my throat, a harsh reminder of her pitiless expectations.

      “This place has a foul smell.”

      “It’s probably the bones with bits of flesh still on them.”

       “I won’t have my apartment building reeking like a charnel house.”

       “I didn’t realize that was a problem until you brought it up.”

       “I’ll forgive you this time, my sweet. Here is a list of tenants I want removed—tonight.”

        “Again? Can’t it wait … I’m so tired?”

        “Now is the time for action. The men must be dealt with promptly.”

        “What have they done? After all, murder is a grueling enterprise. How long do you expect me to last at this rate?”

       “You’re aware of the options: do as I say, or we’re finished, like that,” she snaps her fingers. “Look out the window. There’s a long line of Fatigues waiting to take your place.”

       The concierge draws the curtains apart to make her point. One cannot argue reasonably in the throes of fatigue. My heavy head falls onto the soft pillow.

      I don’t recognize the tenants’ names, even though I’ve lived here longer than any of them. Tonight, I’ll use a rope—minimal cleanup, not for lack of motivation. Less fatigue means more time with the concierge. I search for my trousers and shirt. How did they end up in the kitchen? One shoe on the stove, the other hidden in the icebox. The concierge enjoys romantic games. I’m running late—no time to wonder why she finds them amusing.

       Sleeping tenants offer little resistance as the rope tightens around their necks. They shouldn’t have irritated the concierge. Their porcine grunts and the bloodstained sheets they expire on aren’t my problem. In fact, the concierge could have shown some compassion and handled this herself. She knows I’m unwell. I shouldn’t have agreed to our arrangement in the first place. Why must it be my job to evict tenants, let alone dispose of them? My grievances grow with each task, but the concierge stifles my complaints with her tourniquets of scorching thighs. I pack the bodies into several sacks and drag them down to the basement furnace.

         Ashes don’t burn, which is a problem. The furnace needs cleaning, but I feel more exhausted than usual. I stir the debris clogging the grates, only to soil my clothes. Frustrated, I leave my unfinished work and, weak but able, hobble up the stairs to the concierge’s apartment. The door is open. She stands loose-hipped in the doorway—tall, slender, one eyebrow slightly raised, wearing a tight red dress as if she were born in the devil’s skin. Cigarette smoke curls around her long fingers.

         “Well, well. I’ve been expecting you—and your tired smile.”

         In the hanging garden of green fluorescence, I sink my teeth into her cinnamon breasts and swallow her double heart. The concierge inhales deeply, then ponders my unexpected behavior. The tip of her cigarette glows like a crimson snake recoiling toward hell. She holds her breath, then exhales a blast that nearly incinerates me, a warning not to test authority. That is no way to treat a devoted man, but what can I do? Desire is a delicate balance—a study in options. At the entrance to her labyrinth of halfhearted apologies, her pointed tongue darts and retracts like a cold-blooded lizard. She flicks her cigarette into the heavy air of disappointment as we head down to the basement to assess the situation.

        “You’re damaging my furnace. Who do you think will pay for the repairs—God?”

          She denies responsibility for all misfortune. I’m too exhausted to argue, yet strong enough to embrace her ravishing hips. She pulls away, adjusts her red skin, and hands me the shovel leaning against the furnace. I scoop up the ashes to dispose of them, but where? Trash leads to more trash. It’s too much for my fragile state. I turn to the concierge, but she's gone. Upset and drained, I return to my room and collapse onto the mattress. The vacancy sign beyond my window stops flashing, signaling that a new tenant has arrived. I lie quietly, recognizing the soft footsteps of Hope. Fumbling through desperate thoughts, I crawl out of bed, determined to stop her before she meets the concierge. I’ll confess my crimes to the savior and convince her to acquit me of my sins. But fatigue is a heavy burden, and I fail in my quest. The choice made, the opportunity lost, suffering foils a better end to the day.

         Open trash bags glide across the floor like clumsy skaters on yellow ice. Garbage scatters across the room. I insist this chaos stop, then repack the rotted fruit, broken bottles, and known parts that must remain unknown. I head down to the basement again to load the furnace, then watch hair sparkle as limbs ignite. I laugh—confident I can reclaim the concierge's favor. Then a depressing notion: I’m too exhausted to believe myself.

         Naturally, what had to happen, happened.

        One day, an officer arrives and finds me loading the furnace. I lift the heavy sacks and stuff them into the fire, careful not to reveal their contents. Everything goes smoothly. I smile. He nods and leaves.

        The next day, the officer returns with three more of his kind. They appear in the dim light of the underground room. Where have I seen them before? Their clothes are stained with ash. Banana peels cover their fingers like rubber gloves. Eggshells cling to the whites of their eyes. Around their scarred necks hang cartilaginous jewelry made from dead tenants. They hover above the floor, holding empty bottles and dressed in familiar trash, as if mocking me. I should use the shovel on them, just to be sure their insidious plans don’t succeed. What if I slip while lunging and fall? The shovel might pierce me with its jagged edge, and all my work would be for naught. I step past the men, climb the stairs, and slam my fists against the concierge’s door.

        “Don’t worry. Burn them. No one will be able to tell those men from trash.”

        “The men are large, and I can’t remember where I left the proper tools. Besides, I doubt they’d remain still and watch me dismember their associates one by one.”

           The concierge sighs and shrugs. “I’m growing tired of your complaints. Take my advice and follow the pieces of men into the furnace. Beneath your flesh, you all look the same.”

She slams the door shut. Then a peculiar notion: am I nothing more than what I destroy on her behalf? Heartless comments have been made, but they are often retracted amid the concierge’s diversions. I don’t know whether to take them seriously.

         For some time now, I’ve felt depressed and have questioned whether to go on. Troubles are piling up. I no longer receive favors from the concierge, who has declared a moratorium on her body. The longer she withholds affection, the more aroused I become. If only I could muster enough fortitude, the concierge might consider the benefits of an equitable bond.

        During the mornings, my thoughts remain calm and silent, resting in a small box carved from a tenant’s skull. You should see my feisty ideas squirm with delight when night falls and I lift the lid. These creatures are quite enjoyable to feed. They consume whatever I give them—sorrow, worries, heartaches, regrets—and swallow it all in one gulp, then ask for more. Their favorite is fatigue, which works out well because there’s no risk of it running out. They never finish their meal, always leaving leftovers. The concierge warns that indulging them is wrong, as generosity leads to calamity. One day, they’ll grow too strong and escape, and I’ll be left alone. I’ve taken measures to prevent that. Their box is kept in a locked drawer of a chest, weighted down by a heavy stone. If my thoughts break free of their container, they cannot lift the marble top.

       The concierge might be unkind, but she taught me to consider all options or to recognize that each has consequences, which isn't the same thing. Still, what good is it if I remain faithful to the atrophy of unrequited love?

        I’m making plans, and I’ll be ready when the vacancy light goes off again and Hope makes her unexpected entrance. Until then, I’ll wait. For now, there’s not much else I can do, given my fatigue.

 

The End

 

 

       Stephen Myer is a writer and musician in Southern California. His stories and poetry have been published in The Literary Hatchet, Tales from the Moonlit Path, GossamerWight Lit, Bewildering Stories, JayHenge Publishing Back Forty, Kafka Protocol, Masque & Maelström Anthologies, Adelaide Literary Journal, Close to the Bone, Yellow Mama, Black Petals, Muleskinner Journal, A Thin Slice of Anxiety, Blood Fiction Anthologies Vols. 2-4, Exquisite Death, God’s Cruel Joke, Fiction on the Web, and elsewhere. He has been nominated for the Pushcart Award for Literary Fiction.

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      KJ Hannah Greenberg is eclectic. She’s played oboe, participated in martial arts, learned basket weaving, and studied Middle Eastern dancing. What’s more, she’s a certified herbalist, and an AP College Board-authorized teacher of calculus. 

Her creative efforts have been nominated once for The Best of the Net in poetry, once for The Best of the Net in art, three times for the Pushcart Prize in Literature for poetry, once for the Pushcart Prize in Literature for fiction, once for the Million Writers Award for fiction, and once for the PEN/Diamonstein-Spielvogel Award for the Art of the Essay. To boot, Hannah’s had more than forty-five books published and has served as an editor for several literary journals.

Check out her latest short fiction collection, An Orbit of Chairs:

https://www.amazon.com/Orbit-Chairs-KJ-Hannah-Greenberg/dp/B0CWMMM73T

 Within its pages are two tales originally published at Yellow Mama: "Alive Another Day" and "Light Notes."

Channie's new art book, Life's Colors, https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0FGCTHJ6Z, just launched (hit "read sample" button). It contains images originally published by Yellow Mama.