A Five-Minute Life

Mr. Perello stopped struggling and the duty nurse swooped in with the syringe.

“There you go, Mr. P,” Joaquin said, easing the man on his bed. “You’re going to take a nap now and feel much better when you wake up.”

Mr. Perello went limp and we let him go.

“You okay, boss?” Joaquin asked.

“I’m okay.” Alonzo wiped a trickle of blood from his lip. “Getting too old for this.”

Joaquin slapped my shoulder as we exited the room. “Well, holy shit, rookie. I was beginning to think you didn’t talk at all, but you knew just what to say to Mr. P.”

I shrugged. “I told him the truth.”

Alonzo nodded. “Indeed. You did good, Jim. Real good.”

“Thanks.”

I coasted on that real good the rest of the day, Joaquin’s shoulder sl

ap boosting me along. Fate kept Thea out of my sight and work kept her easily out of my thoughts. My job felt solid in my hands.

Late in the afternoon, I took the mop and bucket into the rec room, just as Thea left with Rita. She had a small smile on her face.

Because she’s happy enough. Keep doing your job. Just like you did with Mr. Perello.

I hummed a little “Sweet Child O’ Mine” as I moved to clean up Thea’s table. Rita had left Thea’s markers and a few sheets of paper behind. I gathered them and the markers to take to her shelf.

I stopped in mid-stride.

I’d seen Thea’s drawings before, but I hadn’t really looked. I was looking now.

The word chain I’d asked Rita about had been one of hundreds. Thousands. This drawing of a pyramid under an Egyptian sun was crawling with them. Tiny, precise penmanship as small as typeset. Every detail of the drawing crafted from words, with the marker colors over them.

Are they all made out of word chains? Impossible.

I grabbed the stack of drawings on Thea’s shelf. The first showed another pyramid in the Egyptian desert. So did the one beneath that. And the one beneath that. The entire stack was drawings of ancient Egypt, some with Cleopatra wearing her blue and gold-striped headdress and gold bracelets circling her upper arms. Some showed Marc Antony at the head of a fleet of warships, his sword held high and glinting in the sun.

Every single image was crafted out of words. Chains of words. Pointillism paintings made of letters instead of dots.

Tomb loom soon moon moan groan grown sown lone lost lost lost

I turned one page at an angle to read the tiny script that created a black cat basking in the sun.

Cat sat sang sting wing wasp was wasn’t mustn’t must trust lust last gasp gone gone gone

Shadows cast across the desert sand were a sea of words in black ink and shaded over in gray. One line jumped out at me.

Dark mark lark lap trap trapped tripped ripped rope hope soak sing screen scream scream scream

“Holy shit.”

These weren’t just word chains. These were strings of pain. And at the end of every one, the theme. The period at the end of Thea’s sentence. A repetition, like the echo of a voice calling out from somewhere deep and dark.

Lost. Gone. Scream.

My hands were shaking now. There were weeks of drawings, and I shuffled through them, picking out more word chains at random, my breath coming short. One that terrified me more than any other. A short coil of words that made up a little shadow under Cleopatra’s throne.

Love live life knife near tear seer fear wear where? here here here