You'll Never Leave Granby Alive
Mar 27, 2023 16:28:02 GMT
Jonathan Bacchus, Alice Gemini, and 2 more like this
Post by Grace Leary on Mar 27, 2023 16:28:02 GMT
Click.
A hand trembles, its owner's breath hitching as she pulls it away from the REC button. Beside her, a cigarette burns idly in a black plastic ashtray, the smell of cheap tobacco radiating throughout the cramped motel room.
"Maybe I should say it all for the record," the woman says, her voice a low whisper with a distinct twang. "You can call me Grace Leary — you always have, after all."
2/28/23
Casanova English was a deeply unpleasant man. This was hardly a revelation — she'd gleaned as much from one meeting in Quebec and the testimony of her associate. Still, as she slipped out of his control room and back into the arena's narrow hallways, she couldn't help but feel as though she'd kept her distance, she still needed to wash his sleaze off of her.
In the dim fluorescent glow of the overhead bulbs, Grace kept her eyes peeled for overzealous event staff or fellow, less-than-friendly intruders. Though, as she considered the surely-still propped open employees only door she'd entered the building through, her scrutiny towards the former began to wane. All it took was a half-finished cigarette and a panicked self-inspection to convince the venue employee who so graciously let her in that she'd simply misplaced her ID before going on a smoke break. He was even kind enough not to comment on her accent.
Still, there was little comfort in the belly of the beast. Grace shot her eyes towards the ground and made her way towards the exit with haste. She'd caught enough of the camera feeds in the control room — the weight of the panopticon's million eyes found a place on her shoulders, warm breath grazed the back of her neck. From the corner of her eye, she caught a blur of motion. A figure in black approaching, its footsteps falling on her deaf ear.
A blistering wave of tinnitus stung her right ear and she stumbled, teeth sinking into the sides of her tongue. The acrid, coppery taste of blood filled the back of her mouth as she doubled over, dropping to a crouch.
She heard no footsteps approach, felt no arm reach out for comfort or support, and allowed herself to breathe freely as she shot a glance over her shoulder towards the empty hall behind her. Shaking her head, she muttered profanity at herself for the overreaction. She fished her cell phone out of her pants pocket and tapped a message to her compatriot.
Package delivered.
She received no reply as she made her way to the exit and into the night, free from the weight of a million and two eyes.
"There's an old story, I can't remember where I heard it. Outside a zoo in some city whose name I don't remember, was a toll parking booth. The booth's operator was a nice old man who was devoted to his work — always early, never took a day off, and dutiful in his customer service. One day, however, he stopped showing up. Presuming him to have retired, the zoo gets in contact with the city and tells them they need a new operator. The city replies that they'd always assumed the man worked for the zoo. And by the time anyone had clued in on his scheme, he was in the wind.
"The easiest way to infiltrate anything is to behave as if you're supposed to be there, and from there you can take whatever you want. It's a lesson that's been rattling around my head from the second I was thrust into the industry that led us all to meet in the first place. I smiled, played coy, and before anyone could feel the noose tighten around their throat, it was already too late. Professional wrestlers are an easy group to blend into; after all, most of them can't see past their own bulbous, swollen noses."
A bitter chuckle escapes the woman's lips.
"And yet, that belies the question: what are we doing here? Why here? Why now? And what do I hope to gain from this excursion into Casanova English's funhouse of nihilistic violence? I wonder if the esteemed panel of participants I'm soon to meet are asking themselves that last question, too.
"Okay, I'm lying. I don't wonder about that. I don't think much about my colleagues in this business at all, in fact. And yet saying that much aloud feels like bitter almonds to my tongue. A younger, hungrier version of me would hate them all. Would chart them up and put them on display, every rotten organ and emotional malady. But now, I'm unmoved.
"Kallie Reznik's desire for glitter and gore, Junko Souma's quest for self-actualization, or even a dear old acquaintance like Max's desperate attempt to exorcize his d(a)emons in a way that trimming the fat of his previous hanger-ons couldn't quite accomplishment don't fill me with bile and venom the way such things would have even a year ago.
"Because I can see it clearly now: they're missing the forest for the trees. They look at this ritual bloodletting: the agonizing process and the promise at the end of the tunnel, and see it as the symbol of the world that ought to be."
3/2/23
The flight back to NYC was agonizing. Seven hours over the Atlantic was rough enough on its own, but the altitude played hell on Grace's wounded ear, bringing an all-too-familiar throbbing ache that scrambled her perception. Beside her, Olive Adler mumbled gibberish through the veil of sleep, and Grace's eyes wandered to the dark waters below.
She thought about the newspaper she'd left on Casanova English' desk — about the lurid details tucked inside. As the waves rippled and shifted, she was almost certain she'd seen the bloated, mutilated face of Leonard Douglas in the water. Overdose, delirium, psychosis, and a cessation of existence. She wondered if there was a moment where Mr. Douglas realized it was the end, or if his mind was too far gone for such a revelation to sink in.
Her eyes welled up involuntarily. A man like Leonard Douglas was not to be mourned; still, attention needed to be paid. He'd died sputtering, grappling to free himself from the throes of something that had killed him long before he'd drawn his final breath.
So naturally, Grace's thoughts veered from their erstwhile target and back towards
The cabin was dark and still, Grace let tears spill down her cheeks. Then, she wiped them away and steadied her breathing. Even in the abyss, there was no shade in the shadow of the cross. And with the road ahead, she could nary afford to break down now.
A homecoming would be necessary.
"It's funny," Grace whispered to nobody, her gaze reflexively pointed towards the ceiling of the plane. "To think that after everything, I still wound up taking your name."
Her eyes drifted to Olive, whose dreamish yammering had given way to a soft snore, and she smiled.
"I'm no stranger to the impulse. It's why the mention of a town like Granby makes my skin crawl — why I'm not taking the two hour pilgrimage to witness a monument to all our sins. Boulder suits me just fine, thank you very much. I hate towns like this: Granby, Cottonwood Falls, and the ilk. Our own personal Harlans, from which there is no survival.
"I spent my childhood dreaming of how to get away from towns like this, and my adolescence fighting like hell to make that a reality. Because that couldn't be all there was to the world. The world ought to be so much more than that.
"And the punchline is, a town like this is where we meet again. I'm going to throw up."
A beat. A pregnant pause as the woman struggles to keep her composure.
"I wasted twenty-eight years of my life chasing fantasies," she snarls. "Every time, I was convinced that the world would get better if I just kept seeking out the way it should be. I wouldn't feel hands around my throat if I just escaped Cottonwood Falls.
"I wouldn't be so lonely if I could just convince the most goddamned stubborn man I've ever known to swallow his pride and leave with me.
"And I could save the whole world from the rotten indignities of existence if I just kept following the words of a madman telling me that sooner or later I'd have enough blood on my hands to wash myself clean."
Her breathing is ragged. She reaches for the still smoldering cigarette and takes a drag, before snuffing it out entirely.
"So, yeah, I know the hopes and dreams being placed on something like this. And I know just what that hope can drive any of these people to do in service of a goal. Because they want the pat on the head that comes with it. The validation of running the gauntlet, of having something tangible to build themselves around.
"But there's no world that ought to be, here. Only the world that exists — and in that one, the dreamers and those who have hope will throw themselves into the meat grinder to prove how much they deserve the prizes that await.
"In the world that exists, an infiltrator in the skin of a jaded veteran has already made themselves look like they belong. And in doing so, I'll take a shiny accomplishment that so many others would use to fashion their own worlds that ought to be.
3/25/23
It was already night by the time Grace arrived in the town of Cottonwood Falls. A waxing crescent moon hung lazily in the sky above as she blew past the center of town and followed Lake Rd. towards the only destination she had in mind: Prairie Grove Cemetery. She shot a glance at her rearview mirror — all alone.
With a sigh, she veered towards the side of the road and killed the engine. She slid the keys in between her fingers before exiting the car, making a familiar trek through the maze of headstones on stiff legs.
On the approach towards her destination, she dropped to a knee before a weathered slab of stone. The grass had been trimmed recently; she actually read the name.
"Heya, Travis," she murmured.
Her eyes widened as a blinding flash consumed the side of her vision. Headlights. As she turned her head, the could hear the low purr of an engine approaching. Reflexively, she ducked behind the slab of a larger headstone facing the road and squinted through the dark to see the driver as they approached.
The car rolled to a stop, passenger side window lowering as the driver leaned out, aiming a camera into the night. With her face pressed against cool stone, Grace shot a glance towards the camera, hoping she left enough of herself obscured as the camera flashed.
And despite the light provided, she could not believe her eyes.
"This is not a confession, I want that to be clear. I'm not seeking absolution from you, just as I'm sure you're not seeking justice from me. But I'm curious.
