Saturday's Storyteller: "Eight down, one to go."
by Belinda Roddie
Eight down, one to go. That was the end of it. No second chances, no other options, no way to restart or redo or undo or unwind from any consequences. This was it. The last life he could ever live.
Stretching his arms out in front of him and arching his back, Benny Hamilton let his joints pop and swivel until they may as well have sighed in relief. The stitches in his neck itched badly, but he wasn't going to scratch. He wasn't angry about losing eight of his lives, not even the slightest bit upset. A cat didn't regret the way it lived its nine lives, and neither did he. He indulged in the simple pleasures and this life would be no exception. Benny didn't bother with pseudo-enlightenment or epiphanies.
He stole a cigarette from the pack on the nightstand and stuck it beneath his two front teeth, sucking away at the tobacco until it felt thin and wispy in his mouth. Out the window, he could see two young boys playing with a soccer ball on the pavement. The oldest of the two was sporting a new haircut, with a blue streak down the front like a racing stripe. Like a punk skunk, all rhyming intended.
Benny had been a soccer player in his third life, playing for the English team across the pond. He had scored over six consecutive goals in one game, praised as a hero and even made CBE by the queen. Of course, that was back in 1987, when everyone still used dirty needles for heroin and snorted raw cocaine off of cutting boards in the compact kitchens of their flats. Benny had died of AIDS, with his partner Adam beside him holding his hand. Imagine that.
He rubbed a hand across the back of his head and winced. The incision was still tender. He still literally had to get used to his new skin. It was darker than his last incarnation - he had been practically albino, with big red hair and an even redder nose, drinking away and playing music in San Francisco. He had never cut a record as Freddy Enuck, instead resorting to pub crawling every night in order to revel in his new Irish blood. Then he had been stabbed by a motorcycle man over a girl, and down he went. Back to the operating room and waking up riddled with stitches.
It was ten thirty in the morning in Tustin, California, the bare-boned streets of the apartment complex awaiting Benny's footsteps. He stripped the covers from his barreled chest and strode to the bathroom in the nude, looking himself up and down one last time for good measure. He had to admit, he did like his eyebrows more than before. They weren't as thick as his fifth persona had, though - that was the Greek in the complexion. He let his hand drift across the black fuzz around his jaw and smiled.
Benny decided he would walk to the café and drink a cup of coffee, black, with a cheese danish on the side. Good old standard breakfast. He thought about wearing a tie.
***
Benny Hamilton had not simply been known as Benny Hamilton, that was certain enough. Whenever he met a fan of Doctor Who, he tended to click his tongue and shake his head. The idea of regeneration for the main character - assuming a new form every time he was near death - felt stale to him. After all, he had been granted nine lives, like a feline, since the beginning. His "regeneration" was more "operation," being worked on by the same medical family every time.
Freddy Enuck had been the most recent of the casualties and one of the bloodiest; Derek Girard, the life before that, had been much blander in comparison. In contrast to his other existences, the man had resorted to fats and sweets as his addiction rather than the usual drugs and alcohol. He had died of a heart attack one night while making deep-fried oreos, a recipe he had always wanted to try.
"You better keep your new heart in check," was what his doctor had warned him, after sewing it into his brand new chest.
The shapeshifting was necessary, of course, to avoid confusion with the government or the authorities. When someone was dead, he was dead, and nothing could change that. He couldn't afford simply marching out of the operation chamber with new vigor but the same face. It just upset the balance of things. And he certainly didn't want a face like Omar Bentley, his sixth life, after it had been smashed up by a car while he was joyriding from a Vegas casino.
He had lived the high and the low lives. Evan Sycamore had run a small business while playing lady's man on the side, before he had gotten a shot to the chest from an angry ex-lover. Bruce Kavinoff, well, he had cracked his head against the edge of the swimming pool beside his six-million dollar mansion; once you made a food product cook-able by toaster, you were set. Then there had been Nicholas Southerland, the AIDS-ridden soccer player, and then Barney Rivera, the curb-stomped gang leader who had called himself "B. Rivers." Since then, he had always hated rubbing his teeth against something hard.
But as Benny Hamilton, ninth and final shape, waltzed out of the café with a brown stain on his jacket but a grin on his face, walked to the doctor's office for a follow-up on his condition, he knew one thing despite the roller coasters he had been on. His first life - his original life - was merely a blip on the radar blinking red in his mind. He barely remembered it at all.
But enough of the past. Who would Benny Hamilton be? A fashion designer? He did seem pretty fabulous, and as he had had his way with men and women, he didn't mind being a bit more flamboyant. Perhaps he would be the professor type, teaching philosophy or literature and then smoking a joint in a student's car after class had finished up. Or maybe he'd travel again, go to Ireland or France or China, and try to become some sort of super spy.
It was his final life. He just wanted to live it.
He reached the street corner where the tiny, nonchalant office sat and pushed the door open.
He was greeted by his doctor's son, Wayne.
Who promptly dug a scalpel into Benny Hamilton's left ear, deafening him.
***
When Benny Hamilton bled to death, he could have remembered a lot of things. He could have remembered Wayne's crazed explanations, the row of photographs he had kept of Hamilton's operations, his faces, his fingerprints. He had kept it all. He had wanted to make a display, a brand new scientific discovery. Become filthy rich. Start a new life. Marry a bitching blond and lick brandy off of her bare behind.
He could have remembered all the things he couldn't have been in his last and definitely shortest life. Benny Hamilton, the missed opportunity. He had never worried about losing a life too quickly. He never had lost a life too quickly. It had all felt so worth it. Hadn't it?
But when Benny Hamilton was dying, he wasn't Benny Hamilton anymore. Nor was he Freddy Enuck, Derek Girard, Omar Bentley, Evan Sycamore, Bruce Kavinoff, Nicholas Southerland, or Barney Rivera. They were all gone, dancing like dust particles beneath the rays of the sun before they dissipated into nothing.
He was Carl Matthau. His first life. His real life.
He had never known he could live again and again. Whether it had been a chemical imbalance, or a spell, he didn't know. He didn't even remember how the doctor had even deduced that he could only live nine lives. Or had he even asked? Did it matter? Not to Carl, who thought he could only live once. And he hated it. From the minute he was seven years old, listening to his priest in church rant about death and brimstone and Hell versus Heaven, he had never wished to die.
But Carl had had a cat. A Russian Blue named Parry, green-eyed and his head always a little lopsided, like he was always tilting or cocking it. Carl loved that cat. He admired the way he jumped, danced for a string, or slept so majestically on the window sill of his bedroom. While Carl was in school debating whether or not he wanted to be an astronaut or a painter, Parry simply lived life, not worrying about the consequences.
"I wish I had nine lives," Carl had whispered to Parry as he pet him. "Just like you."
That cat disappeared one night, seven years later, at the age of twenty-four. Carl never knew if he had died. But maybe Parry never had. Maybe, as he was dying in a ninth body, the damn cat had outlived him. And the strangest part was that Parry probably only had one life after all. And he had lived it.
Carl Matthau had lived nine times. He had also died nine deaths. And the thing that bothered him, as he finally faded like a feline in the night, was that he couldn't exactly recall whether or not he had become a painter after all.
This week's prompt was provided by Lyz Reblin.
Eight down, one to go. That was the end of it. No second chances, no other options, no way to restart or redo or undo or unwind from any consequences. This was it. The last life he could ever live.
Stretching his arms out in front of him and arching his back, Benny Hamilton let his joints pop and swivel until they may as well have sighed in relief. The stitches in his neck itched badly, but he wasn't going to scratch. He wasn't angry about losing eight of his lives, not even the slightest bit upset. A cat didn't regret the way it lived its nine lives, and neither did he. He indulged in the simple pleasures and this life would be no exception. Benny didn't bother with pseudo-enlightenment or epiphanies.
He stole a cigarette from the pack on the nightstand and stuck it beneath his two front teeth, sucking away at the tobacco until it felt thin and wispy in his mouth. Out the window, he could see two young boys playing with a soccer ball on the pavement. The oldest of the two was sporting a new haircut, with a blue streak down the front like a racing stripe. Like a punk skunk, all rhyming intended.
Benny had been a soccer player in his third life, playing for the English team across the pond. He had scored over six consecutive goals in one game, praised as a hero and even made CBE by the queen. Of course, that was back in 1987, when everyone still used dirty needles for heroin and snorted raw cocaine off of cutting boards in the compact kitchens of their flats. Benny had died of AIDS, with his partner Adam beside him holding his hand. Imagine that.
He rubbed a hand across the back of his head and winced. The incision was still tender. He still literally had to get used to his new skin. It was darker than his last incarnation - he had been practically albino, with big red hair and an even redder nose, drinking away and playing music in San Francisco. He had never cut a record as Freddy Enuck, instead resorting to pub crawling every night in order to revel in his new Irish blood. Then he had been stabbed by a motorcycle man over a girl, and down he went. Back to the operating room and waking up riddled with stitches.
It was ten thirty in the morning in Tustin, California, the bare-boned streets of the apartment complex awaiting Benny's footsteps. He stripped the covers from his barreled chest and strode to the bathroom in the nude, looking himself up and down one last time for good measure. He had to admit, he did like his eyebrows more than before. They weren't as thick as his fifth persona had, though - that was the Greek in the complexion. He let his hand drift across the black fuzz around his jaw and smiled.
Benny decided he would walk to the café and drink a cup of coffee, black, with a cheese danish on the side. Good old standard breakfast. He thought about wearing a tie.
***
Benny Hamilton had not simply been known as Benny Hamilton, that was certain enough. Whenever he met a fan of Doctor Who, he tended to click his tongue and shake his head. The idea of regeneration for the main character - assuming a new form every time he was near death - felt stale to him. After all, he had been granted nine lives, like a feline, since the beginning. His "regeneration" was more "operation," being worked on by the same medical family every time.
Freddy Enuck had been the most recent of the casualties and one of the bloodiest; Derek Girard, the life before that, had been much blander in comparison. In contrast to his other existences, the man had resorted to fats and sweets as his addiction rather than the usual drugs and alcohol. He had died of a heart attack one night while making deep-fried oreos, a recipe he had always wanted to try.
"You better keep your new heart in check," was what his doctor had warned him, after sewing it into his brand new chest.
The shapeshifting was necessary, of course, to avoid confusion with the government or the authorities. When someone was dead, he was dead, and nothing could change that. He couldn't afford simply marching out of the operation chamber with new vigor but the same face. It just upset the balance of things. And he certainly didn't want a face like Omar Bentley, his sixth life, after it had been smashed up by a car while he was joyriding from a Vegas casino.
He had lived the high and the low lives. Evan Sycamore had run a small business while playing lady's man on the side, before he had gotten a shot to the chest from an angry ex-lover. Bruce Kavinoff, well, he had cracked his head against the edge of the swimming pool beside his six-million dollar mansion; once you made a food product cook-able by toaster, you were set. Then there had been Nicholas Southerland, the AIDS-ridden soccer player, and then Barney Rivera, the curb-stomped gang leader who had called himself "B. Rivers." Since then, he had always hated rubbing his teeth against something hard.
But as Benny Hamilton, ninth and final shape, waltzed out of the café with a brown stain on his jacket but a grin on his face, walked to the doctor's office for a follow-up on his condition, he knew one thing despite the roller coasters he had been on. His first life - his original life - was merely a blip on the radar blinking red in his mind. He barely remembered it at all.
But enough of the past. Who would Benny Hamilton be? A fashion designer? He did seem pretty fabulous, and as he had had his way with men and women, he didn't mind being a bit more flamboyant. Perhaps he would be the professor type, teaching philosophy or literature and then smoking a joint in a student's car after class had finished up. Or maybe he'd travel again, go to Ireland or France or China, and try to become some sort of super spy.
It was his final life. He just wanted to live it.
He reached the street corner where the tiny, nonchalant office sat and pushed the door open.
He was greeted by his doctor's son, Wayne.
Who promptly dug a scalpel into Benny Hamilton's left ear, deafening him.
***
When Benny Hamilton bled to death, he could have remembered a lot of things. He could have remembered Wayne's crazed explanations, the row of photographs he had kept of Hamilton's operations, his faces, his fingerprints. He had kept it all. He had wanted to make a display, a brand new scientific discovery. Become filthy rich. Start a new life. Marry a bitching blond and lick brandy off of her bare behind.
He could have remembered all the things he couldn't have been in his last and definitely shortest life. Benny Hamilton, the missed opportunity. He had never worried about losing a life too quickly. He never had lost a life too quickly. It had all felt so worth it. Hadn't it?
But when Benny Hamilton was dying, he wasn't Benny Hamilton anymore. Nor was he Freddy Enuck, Derek Girard, Omar Bentley, Evan Sycamore, Bruce Kavinoff, Nicholas Southerland, or Barney Rivera. They were all gone, dancing like dust particles beneath the rays of the sun before they dissipated into nothing.
He was Carl Matthau. His first life. His real life.
He had never known he could live again and again. Whether it had been a chemical imbalance, or a spell, he didn't know. He didn't even remember how the doctor had even deduced that he could only live nine lives. Or had he even asked? Did it matter? Not to Carl, who thought he could only live once. And he hated it. From the minute he was seven years old, listening to his priest in church rant about death and brimstone and Hell versus Heaven, he had never wished to die.
But Carl had had a cat. A Russian Blue named Parry, green-eyed and his head always a little lopsided, like he was always tilting or cocking it. Carl loved that cat. He admired the way he jumped, danced for a string, or slept so majestically on the window sill of his bedroom. While Carl was in school debating whether or not he wanted to be an astronaut or a painter, Parry simply lived life, not worrying about the consequences.
"I wish I had nine lives," Carl had whispered to Parry as he pet him. "Just like you."
That cat disappeared one night, seven years later, at the age of twenty-four. Carl never knew if he had died. But maybe Parry never had. Maybe, as he was dying in a ninth body, the damn cat had outlived him. And the strangest part was that Parry probably only had one life after all. And he had lived it.
Carl Matthau had lived nine times. He had also died nine deaths. And the thing that bothered him, as he finally faded like a feline in the night, was that he couldn't exactly recall whether or not he had become a painter after all.
This week's prompt was provided by Lyz Reblin.
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