A Procession of the Damned: [Jesse Fforde]

[Courtney]

You've realized you're in a city inhabited by the living dead.

Some options? Problems follow.

Call the police: Yeah, because they would believe you.

Call Coast to Coast AM: Sound like one of those conspiracy theory freaks raving about aliens and time tunnels in Cleveland.

Courtney shoved a mouthful of waffle into his mouth, followed it up with a mouthful of egg, and chewed the intense, non-linear chew of the phased mind, of a phased reality.

It wasn't necessarily fear that gripped or seized him, or he wouldn't quite call it that. There was an overlay of emotional numbness to block empathetic impulse. He chewed, more, and then aggressively scraped his fork across his plate, so it squelched.

The cat mewled.

He fed it bacon.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Problem: Your car stalls on the way to work and you end up in a traffic jam the size of Dallas, your orchid hasn't been watered in a week, and it's basically dead.

You spend five days in a museum, staring at pictures of people you don't know, who will never know you, who you can't comprehend, not really, because people are a mysterious territory, in some aspects, completely see-through, in others. Intricate.

You spend another five days in a museum, staring at sculptures and wondering how long it took to craft them. Somebody's bare hands.

You should be staring at post-mortem pictures, in an office, but **** it all, if the files aren't stacked up to the side of your desk, and **** it all, if they don't keep pouring in.

So, here's you, trapped in traffic, completely numb to your work as a forensic psychologist, wondering how many 'bad guys' are residents of the city's more parasitic population. But, let's face it, we're all parasites.

Courtney slammed his fist into his horn and pushed. His pacer complained, pitifully, at the bumper in front of it.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Everything is making you angry. It wasn't like that, yesterday. You were numb, yesterday, but something snapped.

Maybe you're grieving the loss of reality, as you knew it.

Grief is, after all, a natural, human process. ["A procession of the damned: The ultra-respectable, but the damned, anyway."]

Courtney's brain droned montages of audiobooks as he ripped through files. Rape cases. Murder cases. He flung them across his work space. Paper scattered everywhere.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

You've gained four pounds. You keep shoving pancakes down your throat until you feel like you'll vomit, because the sensation of wanting to vomit makes the sensation of wanting to scream and cry easier to deal with.

Maybe you're grieving the loss of reality, as you knew it.

You woke up and found monsters.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

You look up, 'Constructive ways to express rage,' on your phone.

You get a bunch of crap about painting pictures, and you spend another five days in a museum.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

It's been a month and a half, since you saw some girl die in the arms of some man who sucked her dry.

All you saw was Scarlet.

[Jesse Fforde]

The steady thrum and hum of the tattoo machine is soothing. It’s like home. It is hypnotic, in a way. As soon as the machine begins to buzz, like an oversized mosquito, Jesse knows that it’s time to work. As if a switch is flicked in his brain and the person in front of him is no longer a person who lives and breathes and thinks and who might have something to say. Instead, the thing on the chair becomes nothing but a canvas. The skin is either flawless or it is pockmarked and greasy. Sometimes the quality of the canvas is better than at other times. Sometimes it squirms and twitches and Jesse has to sigh, has to break the silence that he values so highly, and tell them to sit still. Sometimes they tell him that they can’t, that they can’t stand the pain That they have to stop.

Jesse doesn’t particularly respect those people. There are those who are quite good at accepting the thoughts and emotions of others; there are those who can easily step into the shoes of another. Those who are understanding. Jesse is not one of those people, and he does not like his time to be wasted.

Most of the time, these nights, he works only on regulars. On people he knows well, on canvases that he’s worked on before. He can add to his artwork. That’s what he likes best. He likes it when people sit still and don’t complain. When they don’t talk. When they don’t remind him that they are, in fact, people. He preferred it when he couldn’t speak, because at least then he had an excuse for not responding to their mindless prattling.

His current customer is a prattler. A girl, who won’t shut up. Maybe she’s high, but her voice is like a high-pitched whine that disrupts the peace of the trance that Jesse likes to put himself in when working. There are questions that she asks that he does not answer; he hopes to dissuade her from further talk, but it does not matter. She answers her own questions. She continues on and on and on like some broken record. Maybe she’s lonely. Maybe she has no one else to talk to. Or maybe this is just how she is. Jesse works fast. The sooner she’s out of the shop, the better.

At least her skin is clear. Smooth. White. She’s one of those pseudo Goths, with a bunch of industrial piercings and raccoon eyes. Her hair certainly isn’t naturally black and bright pink.

At least the art she wants etched into her skin is something she picked out of Jesse’s own folder; a raven-haired Siren straddling rugged rocks in the middle of a tumultuous ocean. Sailor Jerry Style.

It takes a couple of hours. When Jesse is done, he smothers the image with the healing gel and covers it with the cling wrap. He gives his instructions: leave the cling wrap on for at least two hours. Do not scrub the tattoo. Wash it only with mild soap, if you have to use soap at all. Apply the healing gel twice a day. Do not pick at the scabs when they form. He gives the girl a slip of paper with all of this entailed; he gives her a form to sign, to show that she has read and understood. Insurance purposes.

When he sends her on her way, when she is finally out the door, he collapses in his chair and rubs at his face with an aggravated sigh. He loves his job. He tries to repeat it to himself. I love my job. I love my job. I love my job.

And he does, most days. But tonight he’s struggling to recall why.

[Courtney]

Courtney is like the girl. Courtney is like Jesse.

Everybody is an extension of you. Think of yourself like a single cell in a series of veins all pushing sunlight through a leaf, milling, doing your job, even if you don't realize it.

Everybody is an extension of me. Think of me like a single cell in a series of veins all pushing sunlight through a leaf, standing still, doing his job, completely aware of it.

Courtney is like the rocks and the siren who straddles them. Courtney is like his Pacer and his cat and his plant, Rachel, who will never bloom, who's been neglected, after three years of hard work, who will die, like all animals and plants.

He slams the door to his Pacer and leaves it in the same industrial buzz he left it, a month ago, underneath that glowing, orange light, where the moths commit suicide trying to make their way in.

Courtney is like the moths.

Courtney is like the rabbit he chooses -- a black silhouette, running for cover. He's like the chakra he's going to place it behind--the throat heart chakra, glowing, green.

His brain is numb, as he lights a cigarette, walks the distance where he saw the girl get drained, like he's forcing himself back into some traumatic situation, forcing himself back through where reality was broken.

He's recently re-taken up the habit, and he can smell the pollution following his fingertips, when he moves them through the air, feel the thick residue of tar on his tongue, when he moves it. The cigarette hits the ashtray, and he rolls through the door, with purpose.

He doesn't choose from the book. His mind is already made up, paper crumpled in his thin fist, white knuckles, and, if he can't be helped, here, he'll go somewhere else.

He says, without thinking, without waiting, impatient, maybe irritated or confused. He says it to the silence, or he says it to whoever he sees, first, "Do you do walk-ins?"

[Jesse Fforde]

Jesse half-sits-half-lays, staring at the ceiling as he tries to regroup after his most recent walk-in. That’s all he does. Unless he’s got a specific appointment, he only does walk-ins. He has no specific appointments that night. He has a boss who says he can come and go as he pleases; he can work as little or as much as he wants. But he gets paid the same every week, regardless. It’s an odd set-up, to be sure. Never in his life had Jesse ever had such freedom in his job. Sometimes he works from home, drawing and painting the designs that he will then etch, at some point, into willing canvas.

But he’s taken to coming into work whenever Grey goes to work. Grey goes to work quite often, and so if not romping through the Caverns to collect gems and practice his battle skills, Jesse finds himself at Masterpiece, sketching. And waiting for walk-ins.

As he stares at the ceiling he starts to plan his trip home. He needs to clean up, pack up, disinfect his area, count the cash in the register. Sign off. His bike is parked out back, and Larch Court is on the other side of the city. Would Grey be home yet? And would she be waiting for him at Larch, or at Veil? He pulls his phone from his pocket to check for messages – sometimes she leaves one, to tell him where she is. Sometimes she leaves none, and is sad when he doesn’t immediately come home to greet her.

It is as he’s staring at the screen of the phone that a male voice interrupts his homeward scheming. Jesse arches a brow, deliberating. To say no? Or to say yes? He glances up at the clock hanging on the wall. It’s still early. Grey isn’t going to be done. There’ll be nothing for him at home. And has he really done much work tonight, anyway? No.

“Sure, man,” he says, standing and sauntering over to the counter. Bright-blues assess the customer. Human. But what kind of person is he, really? What kind of fresh hell could this particular person bring to Jesse tonight? Maybe he’ll be a breath of fresh air. Too early to judge.

“What is it you’re wanting?” he asks. So quick and easy. Once upon a time he’d have had to pull out a pad and pen, and would have had to write his questions. Such a tedious process, he now realises. One that he now does quite well without.

[Courtney]

Courtney's hands tremble. Is he obviously nervous? His whole body feels tight. He can feel the cold on his palms. He thinks he's going to take this space back, for himself.

The paper is crumpled, and he knows, somehow, that it's a frustration.

He knows that people don't choose neck tattoos for their first tattoos, he knows that people get dissuaded from that, due to work environment an peer pressure.

He tries to smooth the crumpled rabbit out, on the counter, after he approaches.

Somewhere, in a backpacker's den above a bar, Rachel's leaves are folding in on themselves.

When he looked up healthy expressions of rage, this was one of the results: 'Get a tattoo! Tons of people turn to body modification as a way to express themselves!'

He keeps smoothing, almost mindlessly, before he shoves the paper toward the artist and crams both hands deep, fists them in the pockets of his blue jeans.

When he does, he thinks of blood all over his fingers, the way it turns cloth sticky, and he feels a wave of nausea wash over him. His nostrils flare, he doesn't make eye contact.

[Jesse Fforde]

Warning bells toll in the back of Jesse’s mind.

Not another one.

But, like the professional that he is when ensconced within the walls of the tattoo parlour, he reached out to slide the piece of paper toward himself. By equal measure he looks at the image, as well as at the man who’d given it to him. Jesse can hear the heart beat. It’s erratic. A nervous heartbeat, a steady but fast-paced rhythm that speaks to the thirst constantly clawing at the back of Jesse’s throat. But he reminds himself where he is. At work. There will be no feeding on the premises. None whatsoever. He clears his throat and nods.

“Should be easy enough,” he says. He’ll have to re-draw the image onto the transferable paper. Depending, of course, on where this guy wants this tattoo. Which will, in turn, dictate how big it will be.

“Where do you want it, and how big?” Jesse asks. Pertinent questions, both. Now, he’s looking straight at his customer. He’s unaware, sometimes, of how unnerving his stare can be. How absolutely disconcerting his very presence can be to certain people. Sure, he’s noticed it, but the people who wander into the tattoo parlour are normally far too preoccupied with their own nerves about the tattoo – any misgiving they might have about the artist is probably lost amidst their own anxieties and fears.

A fear of needles is such a weird thing to have. It’s normally those with fears of needles that chicken out and leave the parlour with nothing but a line etched into their skin. Jesse goes easy on the first timers. The virgins. Which he’s beginning to suspect this man might be. But all those questions, all in good time.

[Courtney]

He's already envisioned it, Courtney. He's seen the entire process, in his head. He's taken off his shirt, looped it around the front of his neck, pressed his forehead to pleather.

He's researched how the ink goes in, why it pigments the skin. He's not afraid of the gun. He's not afraid of needles.

The insides of his palms buzz. His pinky fingers dig harder against the over-heated skin, and his chest concaves, for a second.

It's everything attached to the act. Some type of brutal reclamation. This is my body. These are my hands. This is my skin. This is where I exist. This is a stupid, desperate plea.

Trying to find something, somewhere, to remind him that his body was not transient, even though God and all the rabbits and the monsters knew better.

For a man who saw a lot of dead bodies, he'd never seen a hard death actualized, had never seen somebody crumple and wilt, like Rachel, who was his first murder -- by neglect. He'd seen Scarlet pass, but it wasn't murder.

"On the back of my neck, where the collar hits. There's a knot, there, where I want the rabbit's center of balance to sit."

The words felt heavy and stupid on his tongue. His job wasn't to talk. His job was to create criminal profiles, or, lately, to look at people, smile, and ask, 'How does that make you feel? What would make Marco happy? You're the expert on you, Marco. Tell me what you think you should do.' The gentility of the life coach, the complete absence of self.

[Jesse Fforde]

One question is answered. The other not so much. How big? Jesse has to guess. The centre of the rabbit over a knot – yeah, okay, he can figure it out. He reaches beneath the counter and retrieves a clipboard with a form attached to it. There are only a few questions listed on the form.

1. Name:
2. Date of Birth:
2. Have you consumed any alcohol in the last 24 hours?
3. Do you have any allergies?
4. Are you anaemic?

Those, at least, are the main questions. There are a couple of other pertaining to addresses and phone numbers, but none of that is strictly required. What Jesse really needs to know is whether this guy is going to bleed all over the place due to some medical condition, or the fact that he’s got too much alcohol in his system. It’s this kind of form he needs for his records, should any customer come back complaining of an infection, calling it Jesse’s fault, when it’s not his fault at all.

“Fill this out, and I’ll go prepare the tattoo,” he says, pushing the clipboard toward the customer. He narrows his eyes, just slightly, as if he’s about to ask another question. But he refrains, and wanders over to his desk. He pulls a piece of the transferrable paper from one of the files in one of the drawers.

With head bowed and his focus intent, he lines up the two pieces of paper. At first he sketches with the pencil; just the outlines, a master copycat. Messy lines that sooner or later replicate the image that has been given to him. Only after he has the outlines in pencil does he retrieve the pen and work more slowly, painstakingly replicating the rabbit, and its chakra. At least it is an interesting image. At least it’s better than half the crap he’s forced to draw; the kind of **** that sucks away all his creative energy. He himself likes rabbits. He himself has a rabbit split between his palms – the rabbit through the rabbit hole. The rabbit through the portal. On one palm, the rabbits head as it leaps through. On the other, his feet, as he disappears.

[Courtney]

Courtney writes in exact letters. He bows over the paper the way Jesse bows over the image. Painstakingly. Courtney, the mirror, who can't help himself.

Things blur, as he writes. He writes his name, first: Courtney Apple.

Date of Birth: August 10, 1980.

Have You Cons... : No.

Allergies? No.

Anemia: No.

His mouth curled in, some. He wasn't sure if he should pace, or if he should stay still. Restless.

He rubbed his hand over his face, then wiped his hand on the hem of his shirt. With the same hand, he edged the paperwork an the pen into what he fathomed was the artist's 'vicinity', his area of work, as dictated by social pre-constructs.

[Jesse Fforde]

The paperwork edges into the corner of Jesse’s vision and for a while, he ignores it. He’s nearly finished – it doesn’t take him long to transfer the outline of the image. This is his job. This, he has had a lot of practice at. When he does glance at the form and the writing on it, he can’t help the steady curl of the corner of his lip. The way the letters are written, so neatly. Like print.

It looks familiar. It looks like his own writing used to look. Well, the way his writing still does look, when he chooses to write. See, it could have deteriorated over time, but writing was his main form of communication. The way he wrote could be compared to how others would speak. If someone speaks in a mumbled drawl, they hardly gain respect from their peers. From anyone. So, it stood to reason that neat penmanship was required if he were to get anywhere in this world. If he were to be taken seriously, if he were taken at all.

Jesse can admire neat penmanship.

Though it doesn’t seem that he would have anything else in common with this guy. This guy, who looks so straight-laced and well… maybe he’s a bit unsteady. Maybe there’s some mental illness there somewhere. Or maybe he’s just the nervous sort, and the idea of prolonged pain is getting to him. Impatience is something that Jesse encounters a lot in his line of work. People wanting to get started so that they have less chance of being able to back out.

Jesse finally stands. He glances over the paperwork.

“Courtney,” he says. He doesn’t comment on how he had previously assumed that ‘Courtney’ is a girl’s name.

“My name’s Jesse. You’re going to need to take your shirt off. Come through to the chair,” he says. He doesn’t think that he has to explain how the guy ought to position himself.

“Am I right in assuming this is your first tattoo?” he asks. It’s not just curiosity. It’s a professional necessity, that he know the answer to that question.