Zero Sight (11 page)

Could I…hurt someone by accident?

I kicked the asphalt in frustration. I felt naked. Exposed.

As I was mulling over options, the LCN Line’s departure announcement sounded. I sagged. I would have to deal with this mess later, the stragglers where already putting out their cigarettes and queuing to get on board. I walked over and got in the line. Once onboard, I couldn’t bear to make eye contact with the girl next to me. She had given me the Raised Eyebrow. That was the girl-sign for excommunication. I pretended to show interest in the television show in front of me. It was a documentary about a man trying to etch his name into the side of a mountain with dynamite.

I clenched my teeth. Tonight was going to be a challenge.

+

The bus kicked into gear and lumbered off down the road.

Only a few minutes passed before the TV screen gave me a splitting headache.

How can they do it? I wondered. How can they keep watching this thing?

Maybe I needed TV specific glasses or something.

I glanced over to find my seatmate rooting through her backpack. She pulled out two large silver juice pouches and frowned.

I swallowed. Even her frown was cute. The proximity of the attractive female was making me nervous. I wasn’t accustomed to encountering mysterious members of the opposite sex, especially ones with lips…I shook my head. Like a repenting priest, I retreated to ritual. Grabbed my thermos, I poured out some piping hot coffee and stared into its manly darkness. The smell alone made me feel better.

Meanwhile, my new neighbor found the Chapstick she was searching for and tossed the rest of her stuff back into her bag. I raised an eyebrow. What is it with girls and Chapstick, anyway? They’d slaughter the whole world for one cylinder of lip balm.

I fought the mighty urge to watch her put it on. My libido had just burst out of the closet and was tripping over the furniture yelling, “Who? What? Where?” (Please excuse him. He doesn’t get out much.) I was just getting my loins back under control when she upped the ante. With a yawn, she stretched her arms above her head. Despite the baggy clothing’s best efforts, the maneuver revealed enough to wreck me. I spilled my cup of coffee straight onto my crotch. Superior heat retention has its drawbacks. I grimaced as the scalding liquid reached ground zero, but as I did my best to angle my jeans away from the Resnick family’s last hope, my seatmate decided to dispose of her hoodie.

I juggled two pressing needs:

1) Protect the nethers.

2) Leer.

I had to commend my libido’s rampant disregard for its own survival. Like a kamikaze pilot, it was dead set on going out in a blaze of glory. And what a blaze it was: the hoodie caught on the girl’s head, and she struggled to pull it off. Underneath, she was only wearing a simple black tank top. Her flat belly contrasted sharply with two very strong arguments for the superiority of the B-cup.

No bra, either…

My mouth gaped. Riding the bus was amazing.

While I was engaged in less than gentlemanly thoughts, the battle of head vs. hoodie entering its final, desperate stage. With a grunt, my seatmate popped her head free—and delivered a well-deserved elbow to my forehead.

An ocean of stars filled my vision as my head cracked back. The chick had packed a wallop. I would have landed in the aisle if my spine didn’t catch the armrest first. Regaining my balance, I held onto my wobbly head with my hands. I was afraid it my fall off. “Wow,” I slurred. “You’ve got skills.”

The girl was staring at me wide-eyed with her sweater still balled in her hands. “Oh, splint—I mean, apologies, did I strike your head?” Her voice was a dulcet purr.

Pretty.
I smiled back stupidly.

“
Can you hear me?” She waved her hands in front of my eyes. “Are you broken?”

“
Huh?” I asked, wobbling back and forth. “Yea. Fine. Groovy. Don’t worry about it.” (At least that’s what I think I said. I wasn’t sure my mouth was cooperating with my brain just yet.)

The girl frowned. I don’t think she believed me.

“
Really,” I sputtered, catching some drool on its way to my chin, “don’t worry about it. I’ve had worse.” This was getting embarrassing. I had enough sense to hear myself now, but no matter how hard I tried, my voice kept slurring. I was having trouble forming the words, and what I’d said wasn’t exactly true. Sure, I’d taken a number of beatings, sure, I’d even been knocked out cold a few times, but in all my fights, I had
never
taken a hit like that before. And it wasn’t a temple shot either; she’d hit me dead on the forehead. If Phil Collins had connected with that pipe, it couldn’t have done much worse. But at the moment I wasn’t concerned about brain damage; I was too busy staring at her damn hair. It flowed in silken waves down over her shoulders, a black background that framed her face perfectly. Hiding it under that cap may have been a breach of the Geneva Conventions.

Perturbed, she waved her hand in front of me.

My attention drifted back to her eyes. They had a way of pulling you in. Right now they were fixed on my temple.

“
Traveler, your durability is admirable, but from my perspective, you do not look fine at all.”

“
Really, it’s alright. I’ve—I’ve had worse.”

Through another wave of neato sparkles, I noticed that my seatmate was busy removing her gloves. They were thin forearm-length ones that reminded me of that movie,
Breakfast at Tiffany’s
. Her motions were methodical, and all the while, her eyes stayed trained on my forehead.

“
Very well,” she replied amiably. “I will accept your contention that you have received more severe bludgeonings in the past—however, at present you are bleeding and need tending to.”

At her words, I noticed the warm trickle making its way down my forehead. I went to reach into my snack pack for a napkin when her hand met my brow.

“
Hold still,” she ordered. “Let me treat the wound.”

The inflections in her voice had vanished, and only the soothing monotone remained. I felt dizzy, and I wanted nothing more than to do as she asked, nothing more than sit still and be cared for. It was nice. It was soothing. She was touching my brow lightly with two fingers. They were cold, and as her fingers tracked toward the source of the bleeding, goose bumps rose on the back of my neck. With her other hand, she drew out a black handkerchief from her pants pocket and applied pressure to my forehead. Head wounds are notoriously bloody. Steady pressure would keep the cut from bleeding all over the place. It seemed she knew what she was doing.

“
Good,” she said. “Now lean back and relax.”

She guided my head back to the seat rest all the while holding steady pressure.

“
Sorry about the handkerchief…” I blubbered. “You seem to like black.”

She nodded, not seeming to get the joke. “I do. Black is my second favorite color. It never stands out nor can it be stained.” She spoke of the color with the same professional pride chefs use when describing their knives.

“
I guess that’s true,” I said. “You wear it well, by-the-way. It suits you.”

“
Indeed,” she said absently. Her arm was blocking most of my vision, but I could smell the faint scent of lavender. The gentle touch, the care and concern, it made me feel fuzzy. I didn’t want it to stop. It reminded me of when Dr. Montgomery had taken care of me in the hospital.

“
Just rest here for a while longer.” She suppressed a cough and cleared her throat. “The wound is not a deep one. The dermis remains intact. You will not require stitching.”

I raised an eyebrow. She looked my age—maybe younger—but few if any of my classmates knew that the word ‘dermis’ had anything to do with the skin, let alone how the condition of its connective tissue layer determined whether or not you needed stitches.

Hot
and
smart? They made those?

The girl had my head pressed firmly against the chair with her left hand. Her bloodied right rested on her lap. I couldn’t see her face, but she didn’t seem bothered by the blood. Not many people can tolerate being covered in someone else’s. I wondered if she was like a medical student or something, but before I could offer to go get a napkin, she raised her right hand out of my view and wiped it clean.

Gross.

I’ll admit to rubbing food off on my shirt once-and-a-while, but wasn’t that taking it a bit far? I was considering whether that was a deal breaker when she stood up.

“
Keep this amount of pressure on the wound,” she ordered. “I need to use the lavatory.”

“
Sure,” I said, taking hold of the handkerchief. I started to say thank you when she basically hopped straight into the air. I sat wide-eyed as her hair brushed lightly against me. In one clean leap, she cleared my legs and landed in the aisle with a feather’s touch. She grabbed her backpack and hustled down the aisle to the back of the bus.

I scratched my head. That was odd.

In the past five minutes, I had managed to tease my libido, scald my crotch, and catch a world-class elbow with my forehead. I needed things to stop moving-burning-throbbing for a moment. I was grateful that my seatmate’s bladder had obliged. Once I thought it was safe, I checked the hanky. The bleeding had stopped. My head was still a bit wobbly—and I knew I was going to have a funny looking bump in a few hours—but that was easy enough to deal with. I wiped up the remaining blood and leaned back in the chair. On the TV, the dynamite guy had just finished the D and the A of DAN. He was jumping up and down with joy.

I was staring off into space, when the girl cleared her throat beside me.

Maintaining my confident, debonair style I jumped in shock.

She’d snuck up on me again. How the heck did she keep doing that?

She did that half eyebrow raise thing again and gestured to her chair.

“
Sorry,” I said. “I didn’t notice you standing there.”

I hopped out of the seat to let her by, but instead of sitting down, she grabbed my head in her still chilly hands and squinted at the wound. I looked around awkwardly. There were people staring. I guess it wasn’t common to see a runway model dressed in black fatigues conducting a first-aid seminar in the middle of an aisle on a moving bus.

The little girl sitting across from us pointed at my forehead and announced, “Booboo, daddy. Snow White is fixing the big booboo.”

I smiled sheepishly. Big booboo was right.

My seatmate was indifferent. She finished her exam and nodded. “It has clotted. Go back and clean the skin gently. I will take care of everything when you return.” She spoke in that same commanding monotone. I tried to pay attention, but a painful sensation was building behind my eyes. I just knew that a headache was coming. My seatmate was trying to give instructions about how I should treat the wound, but the surging pain was too distracting. I was trying to push back against it when she handed me the big black Band-Aid.

I blinked at the Band-Aid. “They make black ones?” I grinned. Sure, she was a bit bossy, but at least she had a sense of humor. Maybe she was military…I mock saluted her. “Orders received, ma’am. I’ll get on it right way.” I extended my hand. “My name’s Dieter Resnick, by the way.”

Her mouth gaped in response. I had just enough time to marvel at the whiteness of her teeth before she clamped her mouth shut. They had to be the whitest teeth I’d ever seen.

I scratched my head. “What’s yours?” This girl was kinda dense. Maybe she
was
a model.

“
You know not my name?” She frowned, and then her eyes widened as if she were remembered something. “Oh, yes! My apologies. My name is Rei Acerba Bathory. It is nice to meet you…Dieter, was it?”

I nodded.

“
An interesting name. Dieter is of German origin, correct?”

I shrugged. “My mother picked it.”

Rei chuckled. “Your mother must have an interesting sense of humor.”

“
Maybe, maybe not. I wouldn’t know. I never knew her.” I tried my best to conceal the discomfort, but I think my voice had an edge to it. “I think I’ll take your advice and go wash up.” I turned and headed to the bathroom, leaving Rei Acerba Bathory in the aisle looking flummoxed.

The “restroom” was mighty cramped. The design was a not-so-subtle attempt to discourage all but the most desperate deuces—but the vertical coffin did have a sink. Using its paltry flow of water I washed out the wound, rubbing so hard I flinched. My mood had darkened. It was Rei’s question about my mother. No one back home ever asked those kinds of questions. My neighborhood was tight-knit. Everyone already knew everyone else’s business, and my story was a crowd favorite. Mom had run off when I was a toddler, never to be seen or heard from again. I was “that poor boy” to everyone I knew. I wasn’t used to fielding questions about my mother, and the one Rei asked had been a good one. Why had my mother chosen such an unusual name? I had to spell it out loud more times than not; and it always looked funny on the page, like it could never quite get itself sorted out.

I stared at my reflection in the mirror. Was my mom German like my dad? Did she look like me? How about my personality? Or the way I held a pen? How about my Sight? Did she have it too? I hadn’t a clue what she looked like. My dad had burned all the photos of her long ago—and bringing the topic up was guaranteed to empty the house of liquor. I’d given up asking long ago. The mystery had nagged at me, but I guess she had better things to do.