Skip to main content

Emmanuel - Thomas Huntington

 

AUGUST 4, 2023

Since he was able to again, after such a long time, he just walked. He went anywhere, not concerned where he ended up. Of course, he had wound up there. It was impossible he could be anywhere else.

He scaled the wall. Now, it took him just mere moments.

He pushed his elbows between the planks of wood. Inside they were hollow, he expected beetles. Inside, the tan bark was nothing but uniform. He could see small chips of wood that resembled the trees they came from. His big boots crunched as he walked.

Somewhere in the courtyard children were gathering. He continued slowly across the brickwork. The buzzing of voices long ago had lost all association for him. Ripples from another world.

 

Since he was born, there was a stone in his stomach, one that hardened as he grew.

 

The old brick should have been coated with dust, it wasn't. Back then, he had always felt more comfortable inside the hallway, where he was alone. The carpet was a deep red; the strings pushing out the end. The others preferred to take the other exit. This one was closer, yet they didn't pass through it. On the way towards the playground they would just run, run the way they always did without pause and without intention.

With older eyes, he preferred to see glass perforating and slicing the air, an unmovable wall between him and the outside. He had always hoped that if he were to return it would be there, able to be felt and touched.

 

He remembered the taste. He was too young to expect what he would taste like, but his lips were soft, his face had melted into his so quietly, he had known immediately just what to do. The pounding of footsteps had been all around, but they knew they were safe. They had tried it many times, in many ways, just to check they were alone.

 

When he returned to the space, he found it just as it was. He imagined the familiar smells, the size of the art-room and the patterns in the red brick would strike him. Yet, he found it was the same, as though time had not passed through him. He felt himself drifting towards the dark corners again.

 

Emmanuel. He had called him that. The full name. That was the joke, but every time he heard it it seemed to slip on the edges of scented smoke. He could feel it, the grip of his fingers beneath the creaking wood. The light bleeding through the stained glass. He remembered.

 

You're not supposed to be here.

An old voice. 

I could phone the police.

 

He wouldn't. He knew that he wouldn't. There would be no point, they would not come. It was clear from the way he had been walking, drifting from outside, that he wasn't the type. He was walking too slowly, uncarefully. He was only here to look around. It was clear he belonged to this place, whether he liked it or not.

 

I used to go to school here

 

I know

 

The smell of detergent reached him. He gagged on it. The smell of the bleach. He watched it sink into the red of the carpet, he watched it wriggle into the fabric. 

 

I'm not surprised you don't remember me... You people never do - but me, I remember you. I saw your face in the newspapers

 

He wondered how deep the bleach could run.

 

His family comes here still, from time to time, they like to come here just like you, just to have a look around. I don't know why. It doesn't seem to make them feel any better

 

He remembered the touch of his hands, the rough fingertips slipping between his.

 

You need to leave, before the kids get back. You don't want the teachers to catch you. They'll call the cops, for sure, you can count on it.

 

When he spoke his face seemed to swell and raise. In his eyes he could sense a gloom swelling behind his tired eyes. Coals.

 

He remembered his hands, his dark black hairs and the sweat. Inside of him there was something warm, that when they would combine would spread and expand into lighting hot feather frills.

 

I don't care how long its been, I saw the photos, what you did to that boy, I don't care how long it's been... I had to clean it all up, all by myself, you didn't. I told them they should make you do it, but of course they didn't. They never do - But I remember, I'm not ever going to be able to forget a thing like that.

 

He looked out at old stone. The old stone. It would always be there. Long after he was gone. The red bricks would be there.

 

I remember. We all remember him, Emmanuel.

 


 

 Written by Thomas Huntington


Comments

Popular posts from this blog

The Cement Mixer - Jon Doughboy

 It’s 2002 and 2008 and 2012 and 2023 and the Millennials collectively, the entire generation,  have rented a cement mixer the size of a global recession from Jean Twenge’s cousin who works  in the building trade making a buttload of dough renovating subprime mold-farm homes and  turning them into hot commodities with some fresh sheetrock and gentrification gray paint and a  sheet or two of brightly-colored metal siding for “curb appeal.” On one side of the mixer is emblazoned the word “Time” in Vantablack spray paint. On the other, smeared in feces and blood, is the word “Culture.” The Millennials excitedly crowd around this two-named mixer like it’s churning out unviable yet  charming third-party candidates. And this is no ordinary mixer. It’s state-of-the-art and the art  consists of taking in hopes, fads, fears, archetypes, myths, and generation-defining themes and  mixing them all up into something sturdy for future generations to crawl then ...

Going to Hell - Alex Kudera

The years raced by until I found myself standing on a street corner in China. I was in Xi’an, and I was in my wife’s old neighborhood. We lived in her tiny studio—a few narrow rooms, linoleum floors, hot pot and range, no oven or fridge. A plastic seat on the toilet so frangible, I broke it twice by sitting down. Twenty-first century living in yesterday’s mainland. An authentic experience in the world.                But I was out for a stroll. This is what I loved to do—walk and look around. It was hot, but the neighborhood was out and about. A crowd stood alone or congregated on every corner. Laolao and Yeye claimed every spot on rusty metal benches shaded by trees. Many more people walked in the sun. They had umbrellas; I did not.                In ten minutes, I strode around the corner and up the block. The sun’s bright rays seared my retinas. The heat beat against the pavement and splashed ...

Without Baggage - Sloan James

      There is something to be said for peace. Harmony; always such an evasive little bastard. Too big for one person. It sticks in the throat or backs up your bowels. In some manner you are constipated by the efficiency of worldly connectivity. Things are cheap or things are old and stale. The airport felt like they usually do. The feeling of getting away, of going away, seeps into the skin and the blood and the mind goes wild. Before you know it, you’ve downed a full and non-repressed Xanax brick and a three quarter tab of buprenorphine before reaching security. The paranoia of sniffer dogs at your bags and pockets. The ques. The time. Always the time. The gate number. The flight number. The baggage, to check or not check? Oh, the bag’s too big? check it in at $70 like a fool. Legs sway you through security swipings and beepings. Adult sized x-rays like idiotic toys and stupid serious morons in funny uniforms who are this country’s last line of defence against TERR...