Chapter eleven

Back to work I went. I couldn’t keep my thoughts under control, as I had been commanded; I believe it was the stacked washer-dryer unit that broke the camel’s back. I had to think of something; I had to give my own answers to my own questions. What the hell are we doing here? Dion asked that question, as I had earlier. It should’ve been so obvious that it’s all a dream, as I am now aware. For the record, the elevator hadn’t changed its form and, praying my love would be within – which she wasn’t – I was a little disappointed to be all alone again.

“What the hell am I doing here?” I imitated Dion’s inquiry, aloud now, asking such of my listening ears. The words bounced off the dull steel. I decided to retrace my steps, which I cannot ever remember having done in a dream before. As I recall it: I started off in Marina del Rey, walking up and down the dock that held the Monmouth in tow. I saw Dion – though I didn’t know him yet – we exchanged the briefest of pleasantries. Then I went onboard the ship.

Why did I board the ship? Curiosity? Surely I ought to have considered why I didn’t think to ask why sooner. I’m sure I could’ve woken up right then: the precise moment when you begin asking “Why?” in a dream is usually same moment that your brain begins to wake up. I’ve heard of a sort of region that exists between sleeping and waking; a nether-place where you can control the environment of your dreams in a lucid state. Though I couldn’t have been in that precise locale, I was in the vicinity of that limbo of sorts; it takes volition to be able to read minds, after all.

Then I remembered finding the point of ingress: the scuttle leading deeper into the bowels of her expanse, the Monmouth. Where did all the doors of that hall lead? Thinking back, the initial passageway had vanished since I had been upon the deck the last couple of times. It had come to my awareness that things could not only appear from nowhere, but these objects could also vanish into thin air.

Perhaps the long, long hall was intended for Dion to find. Yes, that’s it! Now it made sense: that room was set aside for Dion. It was in that room that I ran into Dex, and there I first met my darling Queen. The rooms of the hall were not for me to find, and I didn’t belong there because I was just another rat, though I didn’t care much about that at the time. I knew I wouldn’t have met my eight-legged companion if I hadn’t gone wandering around.

“Ding!” The elevator had arrived in the place of misery, my Trash room. I continued pondering the events of the past day-and-a-half (in dream-time) while I sorted all that junk. Sorting shit with my hands whilst sorting shit with my head. It was much easier to do now; I guess I got the hang of it all.

Next, as I remember, I fell asleep with Queenie. Now that vision felt real; more real than the actual dream did. The later vision – the one in which I was a pirate captain – felt just as real. Perhaps this was the effect of the Spider Queen? I longed for my sweetheart to come out of her shadowy gossamer and light upon my shoulder again, but I said nothing about it out loud. I knew she wasn’t the sort to come when she was called.

Next I remember how the beatings began. The first assaulted my ears, when Dex clanged on a pot to awaken me. Then he slapped me and punched me for every little gibe I produced, as though I were the little kid. I think he considered me to be the child, some kind of windbag full of tantrums, but at least we had a good laugh in our last visit. Maybe he wasn’t so bad after all.

A little later, after he dragged me around in my stupor, we first visited this Trash room. Actually I had been doing a pretty good job with it all; things looked tidy now. Of course I hadn’t considered at the time how little work I had actually labored over, but such is the nature of dreams: imagine a task to be finished and it is finished. I suppose in the back of my consciousness I had always left a little something on my mental to-do list, that way I would always have something to do.

That was precisely when things got ridiculous, as I recall. We went up on deck and there was the sea of trash. Now that I reflect upon it, there was a little bit less trash in the ocean when I went up for my break – that last visit on deck. More things vanishing and appearing. I learned Dexeter’s preposterous name – or his title, I guess – since he never had a name. Also I managed to presage Dion’s name through the magic of song. [The true epiphany of the “Magic of Song,” came much, much later; the fact that it is mentioned here only lends itself further to the idea that I had a great deal of metaphysical potential.] I still didn’t know anything about my ability, but I had accepted my fate as a mind reader nevertheless.

A little later, Queenie joined me for that elevator ride down, dreaming with me about piracy, and when we arrived here again, that was the last I saw of her. So she must still be here, milling about or exploring. We were certainly kindred spirits, she and I. And though I longed for her touch at the time, I let her go; I was eager to bury myself in task, if only to rub it all in the face of that dumb kid when came back to bother me again.

The giant shield was the next thing I remembered. I looked over to the pile of tubs and the place of shields. It was missing! Was it stolen, or was this just another vanishing? Maybe there was another rat onboard just like me. I pictured another fellow sorting the piles that I had stacked into more specific piles and portions. No, I couldn’t believe that: if there was another living creature on the ship, surely Dex would’ve grumbled about him too. Perchance Dex had moved my bathtub somewhere else. That bastard, he would do something like that. Mayhap I could subtly attempt to discover its whereabouts by springing a furtive inquiry upon the acting Captain when next we met.

Well, that was about all there was to remember, save for my last meeting on the deck, meeting black dude finally, and the conversation about surfing in a suit of armor. I looked back at the elevator, and lo, there wasn’t anymore trash left to sort! The entire pile of refuse that hours ago came spilling out of the elevator had already been partitioned into stacks. How could I have missed this dream-like passage of time? No matter: Proud of my accomplishment, and a bit stunned, I decided to go looking around for Queenie.

And as I thought about it, right then exactly, she was revealed to me. I stared down at my boot-flattened darling, lying in a pool of her own blood. I cursed the air, cursed my eagerness to complete my work, cursed my flagrant foolishness and nonchalance in those last few moments. How I had crushed my love like petals under a pestle! I reached down and touched her gently, getting bits of blood on my fingers. I held what was left of her thorax and part of her abdomen to my lips and kissed her – a single kiss of death. How could I have been so lax with my steps? I was just another bloodthirsty giant to her now: her final thoughts probably consisted of equal parts terror and betrayal. How could she have loved me so much, and I – albeit unknowingly – served to destroy our love under-boot?

As I looked down at the perfect bootprint, a couple of my tears fell down to mix with her entrails. Just then I came to a sudden realization: the footprint could not have been my own, since I don’t wear boots at all. Blackness pervaded my purview. Focused now, I determined that there was no need for an investigation to discover the murderer, nor was there a need for a trial at all whatsoever. The lad would pay for this careless crime, as the smallish print could have come only from one individual in particular.

In the final moments of a cruel juxtaposition, Queenie had taught me how to hate my captor.