I S S U E # 4
I S S U E # 4 A L L T I M E L O W
A L L T I M E L O W
P A R T F O U R
P A R T F O U R
The next room is an office, bookcases covering all the walls. In the center of the room is a mahogany desk with two chairs placed in front of it. A man that I vaguely recognize is seated behind the desk while my younger self and my father sit in the chairs in front of it.
"Tell me more about this, uh, Jake," the man says, not to me but to my father.
"Jake is a new development," my father begins, crinkling his nose a bit.
"We'll go weeks where it's him or Steven, then it's Marc again for a while, and then back to Steven or Jake. Marc doesn't seem to remember things from when he's one of the other two. He's been failing all of his classes, if he's even going to school in the first place.""Is this your first time taking him to see a psychiatrist?""Yes. We were hoping it was just some kind of phase, or that he was just playing a prank on us, but his behavior has been erratic and we weren't sure what to do any more."The psychiatrist turns to look at Marc.
"Marc? Can you go sit outside for a moment? I need to speak to your father privately."My younger self nods and stands from his chair, heading for the door. He steps outside and closes it and in the blink of an eye the three of us are outside of the office with him. Rather than taking a seat in one of the chairs, Marc kneels next to the door and presses an ear to it. He can hear the voices faintly, so quiet it's almost like they're not there.
"Marc is suffering from what's called Dissociative Identity Disorder. It used to be known as Multiple Personality Disorder.""Is there anything we can do for him? Medications he can take or therapy he can go through?"I know when this is. I look to Steven and Jake, watching our younger self contently. They don't seem to know what's about to happen.
Then it does happen.
Wʜᴀᴛ ᴀʀᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ᴅᴏɪɴɢ, ʏᴏᴜɴɢ ᴍᴀɴ?Khonshu.
"Listening to my dad talking to the doctor," Marc says, not even looking at the voice.
Tʜᴀᴛ ᴍᴀɴ ɪꜱ ɴᴏᴛ ʏᴏᴜʀ ꜰᴀᴛʜᴇʀ.He looks to the source of the voice and sees the old god looming over him.
I AM.
The door opens then, my father stepping out. My younger self, face still stricken with fear, looks up at his father with wide eyes. Elias Spector kneels down to be at eye level with Marc and places his hands on the boy's shoulders.
"Marc, listen to me. The doctor has told me that you're sick. Very sick. There's nothing that your mother or I can do for you at home.""What are we going to do, then?" Marc asks.
"The doctor told me about a hospital out in the country. It's called Putnam Psychiatric Hospital. It's a place where people get better. You can stay there for as long as you need to.""But I want to stay at home, dad. With you and mom and Randall.""I know, son. But you can't. I'm sorry." Elias pulls Marc into a tight hug, holding him close like it's the last time he'll ever see him, like if he lets go the boy will disappear. Marc looks over his father's shoulder. Khonshu is standing there, watching the embrace.
I'ʟʟ ʙᴇ ᴡᴀɪᴛɪɴɢ ꜰᴏʀ ʏᴏᴜ, Mᴀʀᴄ.The walls fall away and pull themselves back together, this time taking the form of my room at Putnam. The room is barren, a bed and a desk with a stack of books and nothing else. A barred window looks out into an open field. Myself, a young man now, sits on his bed with a duffel bag in his lap as he stares out the window. There's a knock on the door.
"Come in," Marc says, and the door opens.
Dr. Emmet steps through with an orderly.
"Are you all ready for your trip, Marc?" she asks, smiling at him.
Marc stands with the duffel bag in hand.
"Yeah, all ready now." He opens the bag and shows her the contents: a few changes of clothes and some toiletries.
"You don't want to bring a book or anything? You'll be sitting shiva for a week."He shakes his head.
"This is all I need.""If you say so. Come on, Jeff's got the van ready."They leave the hospital, passing through the wards and heading to the front entrance. A white van is parked outside, the driver waiting in the front seat. The orderly opens the sliding door and lets Marc step inside. He takes a seat and the door closes, the van setting off. The countryside is tranquil, open plains with trees dotting it every once in a while. Eventually the plains give way to city streets as they arrive in Hub City.
Marc steps out of the van. His mother,
our mother, is waiting for him in front of their old home with Randall. They're both dressed in black. She embraces Marc who lets his arms rest at his side as she does so. As the embrace breaks, Randall steps forward and places a hand on Marc's shoulder and smiles sadly. Marc is more enthusiastic to see Randall, pulling his younger brother into a hug.
"It's been a while, Marc.""Too long, Rand. Too long."I blink and then we're at the funeral, my younger self standing over the open hole as the coffin is lowered in. His expression is unreadable. I follow his gaze into the grave, trying to think of just what I was feeling in that moment. Can't remember no matter how hard I try. Just an empty, yawning pit where that feeling should be. Our mother steps forward and drops some dirt into the grave, followed by Randall. Marc hesitates for a moment, then drops some into the grave as well.
Then we're back at the house. It's the early evening, the sky turning dark. The living room is packed. Jake stands with Marc's mother in the kitchen as she pours him a glass of water. He takes it and sips from it.
"I'm so glad you were able to make it, Marc," she says, smiling at him weakly.
"Dr. Emmet's been telling me about your progress. She says you might be able to leave the hospital in a few more months, maybe a year at most.""Dr. Emmet says a lot of things, Mrs. Spector."She looks taken aback by that.
"Don't call me that Marc, I'm your mother.""It's Jake. Marc can't handle what's going on right now."Her eyes widen in surprise, then narrow in anger.
"Marc. Do not do this right now. We just buried your father for God's sake."Jake pinches the bridge of his nose in embarrassment and takes in a breath, and then Marc looks back at her with a wince.
"I... I'm sorry, mom. I'm sorry." He steps away from her, turning around to walk into the living room.
"I gotta get some air."Marc walks past the crowd of mourners to the front door and steps out into the cool night breeze, taking a seat on the curb. He places his face in his hands and lets out a long sigh, rubbing circles into his eyelids. The sound of a zippo being flicked open to his left makes him look up to the sound.
Yitz Perlman stands there, lighting up a cigarette. He's gotten older of course, in his early thirties now, with a goatee and slicked back hair that's starting to thin out. Marc stands to leave when Yitz speaks,
"Marc. Been a while. How you doin', kid?"The young man falters for a moment, then clears his throat and replies,
"Uh, good. I've been good."Yitz nods.
"Shame about your father. He was a good man. Cancer's a real son of a bitch.""Sure is," Marc says, moving to head back inside. Yitz steps forward and grabs him by the arm, stopping him. Marc's gaze snaps to the hand and he can feel his pulse quickening, his fight or flight instinct screaming at him. Everything fades away, just him and the fingers wrapped around his wrist, the grip tight,
too tight."Look, Marc, I just wanted to say that I'm sor-"Marc slams a fist into Yitz's face and the older man stumbles back, losing his grip. The young man, now with both hands free, lays a series of hooks and haymakers into the older man that sends him to the floor. He keeps laying into Yitz, climbing on top of him to beat on him further. The years of abuse, that yawning pit of hatred Yitz put inside of us, all being let out in a burst of violence.
I look to Steven and Jake who are watching the scene as well. Jake's face is contorted into a wince and after a moment he looks away, having seen enough. Steven's eyes are cold as he watches the scene. He's been with me the longest, gone through the most abuse from Yitz right beside me. He knows how cathartic this beating was.
By the time Marc is finished, Yitz is choking on blood and bits of his own teeth, and Marc's arms and the front of his white dress shirt are splattered with blood. He stands, looking down at his shaking hands. After a moment, he steps into the house, pushing past everyone on his way upstairs. He heads into the bathroom and strips his shirt off, washing the blood off his arms into the sink.
Tossing the shirt into the trash, he leaves the bathroom and steps into our childhood room. He grabs the duffel bag off of his bed and opens it, pulling out a new shirt and sliding it on. With duffel bag in hand, he steps over to the window and opens it, slipping through it and out onto the fire escape. It groans in protest at his weight, clearly hasn't been in use for decades. He climbs down to the street, taking one last glance at his childhood home before disappearing into the night.
We follow after him as he runs, the streets shifting as the asphalt breaks away to reveal thick foliage. The buildings collapse into ruins, and we keep chasing after him, into the jungle. Marc slows down, stops completely, then looks up to the full moon. His clothing, no longer street clothes but now military fatigues, are stripped away and laying in a pile behind him.
Cᴀɴ ʏᴏᴜ ʜᴇᴀʀ ᴍᴇ, Mᴀʀᴄ?
Marc says.
"What the fuck are you doing out here, Spector!?""Huh?" Marc wakes from his fugue state, looking over his shoulder to see two marines about twenty feet behind him, standing behind a knee high fence of barbed wire.
"I... I was just going for a walk.""Marc, you're in the minefield," one of the marines replies.
I blink and it's a few nights later, my younger self fully dressed now and sitting at table in a tent. A military psychologist sits across from him, holding a stack of papers and looking them over.
"Private First Class Marc Spector. Joined up with the marines three years ago, about a year from the end of your first tour. From what I've read, you're a good marine, but these... Episodes of yours are worrying.""It won't happen again."She shuffles her papers.
"I've been told these have regularly occurred in the last three months. Every other week you'll be found doing something strange, in a fugue state. PTSD is a very real thing, Marc. You can't just shake it off.""I know, I know... It's just a bit of shellshock. Last bit of combat I saw was hectic." Marc looks down at his hands, fiddling with them.
"That's the thing, Marc. Your PTSD isn't just from this war. Your CO had me do some digging after this latest episode. I know who you are, Marc.""Y-you do?" Marc lifts his head to look at the psychologist only to gasp at the bird skull that's been planted on her head.
Yᴇꜱ. Yᴏᴜ ᴀʀᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ᴏɴᴇ ᴡʜᴏ ᴡᴏᴜʟᴅ ᴅᴏ ᴀɴʏᴛʜɪɴɢ ᴛᴏ ʙᴇ ᴄᴜʀᴇᴅ. Yᴏᴜ ᴀʀᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ᴏɴᴇ ᴡʜᴏ ᴡɪʟʟ ɢɪᴠᴇ ʜɪꜱ ᴍɪɴᴅ ᴀɴᴅ ʙᴏᴅʏ ᴀɴᴅ ꜱᴏᴜʟ ɪɴ ꜱᴇʀᴠɪᴄᴇ ᴛᴏ ᴍᴇ."No!""Calm down, Marc. We know about your time at Putnam Psychiatric Hospital in Illinois. We know you lied to the recruiters. And I'm sorry, but your behavior is unfitting of a marine. Your CO has made the decision to dishonorably discharge you, effective immediately. You'll be driven out to Bao Nhan where you'll be put on a plane back to Hub City, and from there we hope you can find help for your mental health issues."We didn't take that plane. Once we got to Bao Nhan and got dropped off at the airport, we went AWOL and took off into the night, like we did at home. The next year was spent traveling around Asia, moving west. The first anniversary of our discharge, we were in a warehouse in Quetta, Pakistan. Shirtless, sweaty, bit of blood on the face, surrounded by a crowd of lowlife mercenaries and scumbag locals shouting bets.
"FIFTY FOR THE AMERICAN!""ONE HUNDRED AGAINST HIM!"Marc raises an arm to block a hook then retaliates with a jab right into the other man's face. He stumbles back and Marc moves in for the kill. A hook into the gut followed up by a cross punch right into the other man's jaw. The man falls to the ground and my younger self climbs on top of him, slamming his fist into his face once, twice, three times.
He stops, keeping his fist raised.
"Say it.""KILL HIM!""SAY IT!""RIP HIS HEAD OFF!"The man coughs up a glob of blood.
"I... I yield." Marc breathes a sigh of relief and stands, raising a fist in the air. The crowd erupts into a mix of cheers and boos but Marc doesn't pay them any mind. He moves through the crowd into what used to be an old office that now serves as a rest area for the prize fighters. Grabbing a bottle of water and a towel from a locker, he takes a seat in a plastic chair and starts chugging the bottle while wiping the blood off of his face.
A man enters the room, one Marc doesn't recognize. I do, though. Despite myself, I smile. This is a good memory. The mystery man steps forward and addresses Marc,
"That was very impressive. I made good money off of you. Strange that you didn't kill him, though.""Yeah, well, I don't like killing people unless I have to. Life or death, y'know. He didn't deserve it, he's just some dumbass merc that thought he was tough enough to take me.""Ah, a mercenary with a conscience? One could say I am one of those myself. In fact, that is why I am coming to you. I have a proposition.""Yeah? What's that?""Work together, of course. I think we could do great things together, mon ami."Marc raises an eyebrow.
"I think I'd like to know your name before I commit to that, pal.""Ah, but of course." The man takes off his hat, doing a little flourish with it.
"I am Jean-Paul. But you can call me Frenchie. Everyone else in this place does." He smiles.
"Marc Spector, I think you and I are going to become very good friends."
Member
Eddie Brock
Memoria
Anciek
Sep
Supermaxx
King Xerxes
Hound55
Not a Sayan
Omega Man
Neziul
