Forgive Me

City of Curiosity

The detective was dangerous and explosive, like the fuse on the end of a bomb.

-1/28/1920

I awoke the following morning with a sudden revelation that I was not in Italy, nor was I on an immigrant boat, but on a pile of quilts beside Lars, June, and three young boys. A sudden shock rippled through me for a brief moment, wondering if I had been found just hours after arriving, but I relaxed when the memories of my night came back to me. Yes, we had celebrated our good fortune, Abigail and I: she because I was there and I because there were worse people I could have ended rooming with.

This occurred for perhaps eight days, me waking without knowing what had left me there, until, finally, the ninth day I came to with no surprise at my surroundings. Comfort instead of alarm surged my heart when my hands caressed the frightfully long locks of the sleeping children and, for the first time in America, I felt safe.

For many nights, Abigail, Lars, and I had discussed our lives in great detail. Lars described his past experiences fighting against the Ottoman Empire almost ten years prior and I the terrorist attack that left me wounded for weeks. Abigail-- who I believe had the most relevant conversation-- told of her seven children, four of which were adults seeking their careers further West. She had no job and had given up long ago attempting to acquire one, instead depending on the checks her four sons sent her every month. They feel obligated, she said, but I'm not certain why.

Tiptoeing around the children scattered about the room, I paused at the window to peer out into the Boston streets. We did not have much of a view in 203 but enough for me to see quite a crowd gathering in the distance. Dozens of early workers accumulated around an entity I could not make out well enough to describe. The interest in me was immediately peaked, for I knew just from walking along the street that the bustle of people could not be stopped for anything. There was too much rhythm in their steps. Nothing could wrench them from their tasks. So why were they flocking like moths to a flame in the center of town?

The idea intrigued me too much not to seek out. My curiosity was inflamed; there was no squabbling the intensity of this fire within me. I bent over and gently laid a kiss on my daughter's head, whispering, "My sweet June, wake up."

She stirred, stretching both of her wrists to the wall, but did not wake. But because I was in absent-minded hurry, I simply took her in my arms, blanket and all, and rushed out the door.

It was not difficult to find the crowd again because, just as I did, many of the morning dozers had come out of bed to discover the meaning of the ruckus. The men stood in their striped nightgowns, holding tight onto the hips of their wives, and displaying furious but puzzled scowls in the direction of the crowd. In the stream of intrusive citizens, my outer appearance was bathed in foreign ignorance, so much there were sideliners who picked me out with their words.

"Hey Betty Crocker!" a particularly flabby man called from his business window. "Are those t**s real or am I just dreaming!"

Or perhaps it was not my foreign ignorance.

I attempted to hide the furious blush rushing to my cheeks with no luck, only succeeding in earning s*x-bitten laughs from the men around me.

Finally, the crowd slowed and I knew we must have reached the center of the commotion. From there, I could hear something roaring across the open street obscenities and backlash and threats. I forced myself through the surge of people, ending not much closer but enough to finally see what had lifted the chains from the ordered city.

The scene was not unfamiliar to me: two men with muscles like cantaloupes, circling and eyeing each other like they were imagining all the blood. Everywhere, people screamed and chanted in scattered excitement, calling out bets and urging someone to throw the punch. They were both already so beaten up, it was impossible to suggest they fight any longer, but they continued like those broken jaws were paper cuts.

A kick was thrown and red spilled as the smaller man fell to the ground, clutching his stomach and coughing up blood. Before he could get up, the other man laid another one to his arm. I flinched every time they landed, imagining those blows coming straight to my face or, worse, hitting June.

The two stood and knocked together, biting and clawing like panthers. The crowd grew louder and louder until my ears were ringing with thousands of different voices.

It is now I must bring to your attention I was not the only one relevant in this sea of men, for there were three others lost in the shadows of the city.

The first was of great resemblance to a tree with branch arms to his sides and a thick trunk torso. His hazel suit matched the light of his bowler hat, sporting that familiar Press note, and were all far too short for his body. His hair was the color and as rapidly distributed as cocoa, though his expression was not as warm. It was intense and focused, directed only to the men and nothing more. His lapels, unlike any sophisticated man, were turned inward while his gorges still stood flat against his chest. Regardless of the trickery it played with my eyes, he looked rather dashing with the iniquity of his suit.

The second and third stood side-by-side. The scrawny, shorter man possessed a face as long as a rat's snout and teeth much like one. His hair was that of a straw man's: loose and spiked as if every single strand had been glued carelessly into place. Freckles shined from underneath his brown bowler hat, one too with a note of Press written in large and sloppy handwriting. His skinny fingers scratched constantly at his red-dotted arms, seeming to dig deeper and deeper into his skin every time. What really stood out in all his pathetic wonders was the smile. That toothy grin seemed to leap out of its cage and grab his partner by the throat-- not to strangle him, but to silently dust off his tie.

Beside him was someone easier to stare at than the others; I found myself not able to look away. His chin stood aloft above a bulging chest and broad shoulders, both covered only by the beige suit; I could tell he wore no undershirt underneath. The Panama, the same color as his coat, sat tipped over his matted, black hair and pulled a shadow as dark as pitch across his face. I couldn't see his eyes or nose, only his thin lips. They twitched uncertainly and an overwhelming urge to touch them overtook me. But the wish had left before I even had time to process it.

While I was deciphering the peculiar nature of the three men, something warm spread through my body as someone passed me and I shivered, not such that I was cold but that the unexpectancy of the sudden bliss was new to my skin. Before me, back turned, was the handsome man with the soft lips gazing coldly into the fight. If silver eyes could exist, this man had them.

He stretched his hands between the two, like a barricade between two rival countries. Neither of them seemed at all interested in what he had to say but hesitated anyways.

"Cut it out," he said, voice flowing like is was foam spilling from a waterfall or a knife cutting into fresh, steaming bread. "This s**t can get you arrested. And if not by the rest of the cops, by me."

The larger man scoffed. "Detective Holly," he sneered. "What're you gonna do, huh?"

With a flash, the stranger's fist collided with the larger man's cheek and sent him skidding. He landed a few feet away, holding his left side and heaving, like he couldn't get enough air.

The crowd, in unison, took a step backward and stood in awe. I, too, had eyes the size of saucers. Death's gnarled fingers gripped my shoulder and knelt above the fallen man's bloody face, idly waiting for the final blow. It was oddly attracted to the handsome man, Detective Holly, as if it wasn't surprised to see him there at all.

There was a pause in the action as the ardor sunk into the atmosphere and the crowd began to quiet. Still there was a hidden explosion of anticipation curled up inside their fists, squirming, and all eyes were glued to the scene. Death was invisible to the eye, but we could all feel its aching fingers reaching toward us and the shiver of its breath wade through our intestines.

Holly rubbed his bloodied fist with his chin and stood to his gentleman height. "I don't care about the politics," he boomed. "What I do care about is you people don't get any ideas about settling s**t by fighting out in the streets. We clear?"

With speeds my eye could not catch, the two were suddenly on the ground.

Holly's left eye was half-closed and swelling while the other man-- whose face was almost unrecognizable-- was covered with broken flesh and blood. He held up his hands in surrender, but that didn't stop the detective. He riled up his knee and dug it into the man's ribs, hitting him until there must not have been any intact bone left. The pinned man recoiled and writhed in the dirt, barely having enough time to shout before another fist collided with his skull.

Everyone was chanting

Someone was screaming

Death was clapping its hands.

But I couldn't see any of it . . .

Mother told me if I had a boy, it would look like THE MONSTER.

And he would grow up to be like THE MONSTER.

Everything he did would please THE MONSTER and what could I do then?

You can't keep it, she said, because it wouldn't be yours anymore. It would belong to THE MONSTER.

I saw THE MONSTER in my dreams, or when I squinted till my eyes were almost shut.

I could see it beckoning from the tree house when we were children and its feet sticking out from underneath the sleeping blanket.

I could see it holding down Father as he cried and stabbing the family dog until its intestines were spilling out onto the road.

It was almost like I was there, watching the blood pool down THE MONSTER's palms over and over again. Kneeing Father in the gut and smiling when his ribs cracked.

I turned away, frightened tears slipping from my eyes, and stood dumbstruck. Where were the police? Why wasn't anyone concerned about these men tearing each other apart? Was the force so corrupt they needlessly tortured convicts before arrest?

I was so lost in thought--holding terrified onto June's sleeping body-- that I did not notice the absence of the other reporter, who had whisked from the scene with a knot in his stomach and a rope in his hand.