Samsara
by Sug
( It wouldn't -BE- Bayliss. )
Augustus: When you have an itch, you wanna scratch it. It's only natural, man. It fuckin' itches, it's annoyin' you, you just wanna reach over and use whatever kinda' nails you got and scratch away at it. 'Cause that'll relieve it. It'll feel good.
Frank: I never told him to scratch it. I showed him other ways. This, this ... I didn't do this. Augustus: Mmmhmm. Right. You wasn't no calamine lotion either, though. They'll tell you not to scratch it. Cause that's no good, it doesn't help. So you'll try not to, you'll sit on your hands for a while, try an' forget about that itch. But the more you try and forget about it, the more it starts gnawing away. Fuckin' eating away at you, slowly, it drives you crazy. And you use your self control, think you can beat it, maybe it'll stop. But it doesn't. It just keeps itching away, burning, aggravating, and you know, you just fuckin' know, one little scratch can end it. So you do it. You scratch it.
The end of May, days are warm, but the nights still carry a crisp chill.
This is his choice. It's not happening to him. He's doing it. Nothing was ever like that before. He was always being acted upon, reacting to things done. Trying to make order out of the chaos. Trying to clean up messes. Trying to forgive and heal.
Swirling memories all around him: a flash of red from a little girl's raincoat, water running in a small bathroom sink, a sharp pop and flash of light from the barrel of a gun. He didn't choose those things. He dealt with them, though. They flit by, chasing out of his peripheral vision as he turns to see them more clearly, but they're always moving, always out of reach.
His heart thumps nervously in his throat, in his ears. A sickening surge sweeps over him, threatening to pull him down along with all the things he never quite fixed or made order of. Sweaty brows and clammy palms, breath shallow and uneven, he stands in the middle of the street. From behind, a phone bleats.
Don't pick it up. Just... don't... pick it up. Pick it up. Whispering to him, bleating again, he turns quickly to find it, he's got to pick it up, it's his choice. If he knew what was on the other line... Would he have? He wanted to, he craved it.
His cheeks are flushed, collar hot and damp. His rapid pulse wards off the slight chill, internal fever and coursing adrenalin keeping him warm all through.
He's done it once, but he was a victim then. He was forced into it, reacting again. One homeless man, stripping him of a year's hard work. Let go of the craving.
He thought it helped, he thought he found answers. They taught him what they knew, the noble truths. Suffering, that it's real. He suffering is real. But it has a cause, and that cause can be eradicated. Remove the craving. He craved to ease the suffering. Remove the CRAVING. Why? Why will that help?
STOP IT. THAT'S your craving. You have to know the why. You have to make order of it all, reconcile it, finish it. Let-it-go. Close the cases, forgive the old man, but don't ask why.
He thought he had. But then he was a victim again, this time on the other side of the gun, and he had to know the why, and again he craved. And again he suffered.
Dukkha.
He has to take control now. A flash on either side of him, two loud BANGS in each ear. One took him down physically, the other emotionally. Confusion again. He doesn't know which way to turn, which one to follow.
Dammit, he's reacting again. Ears chasing the noise, eyes tracing shadows, ten different directions all at once. It's all around him now, swiftly moving, a little girl's laughter, an uncle's bigger hand. Two shots, two men bleeding out, one will live, one will not. This is chaos, madness. A sudden hush falls, two small objects fall before his eyes, and he hears two small clinks on the pavement at his feet. A penny and a dime.
He turns again, he's sure a vegetable cart was passing behind him, but now it's gone, and the little girl laughs again, then falls silent. His heart thumps in his ears, inside, outside, there's no escaping the noise. Running water, he can hear it, just like in the bathroom, running water and Uncle George.
He turns around again, everything still swirling, making him dizzy, gunshots and laughter, water and blood. He steps in a puddle. It's coming from that faucet, running over the sink, falling at his feet, soaking his left foot now. Cold and wet, seeping through his shoe, sending a shiver up his spine, then slowly rising, to his ankle now. Washing up against his leg, it's suddenly warmer, and thicker. He gapes down at the now viscous liquid, purple and red, up to his knee.
Drawing his Glock, he closes one eye, taking one deep breath. Both hands holding it steady, he stares over the barrel, positioned directly on his target.
It all slows down now, everything receding into the background, hushing, the rising wateryblood flow starting to ebb. He stands there, perfectly still, his heart quieting, slowing. Long slim fingers clutch the weapon, perfectly still, concentrated.
Everything eclipses as his sight narrows into tunnel vision. All the chaos fallen away, all the debris no longer visible. Just perfect clarity, down the end of that gun. Deadly, stealthily quiet, no clank of change, no strange voices. Silence as though he's in a vacuum.
Ahhhhh. The target. Strangely, there's no emotion as one incredibly steady and determined finger begins to pull back. The decision is made.
There's no echo from the shot in his ear. Just one solitary long explosion. Perfect.
An end to the suffering.
Peace.
And like a phantom, he's gone.
Replaced now by the other one, his partner. Standing there in his dripping wet pajamas, heart ready to explode out of his chest, tongue-gaping stare of utter disbelief at what he just couldn't have possibly seen.
( It wouldn't BE Bayliss. )
He hears the shot again, loud and clear, and with it all the chaos returns, this time surrounding him. The voices, they're his to carry now, different ones, echoing, chasing around his throbbing head. And the water. Rising, quickly now. Warmer, changing, viscous. Blood. At his feet, ankles, knees. He's trying to run, but he can't move.
Sick and weak, trying to catch his breath, his banging throbbing skull seemingly going to explode at any second. He runs, but it begins to overtake him. He tries to tread, then to swim. But it's too thick, and something's dragging him down. It's got him by the ankle, pulling him under. It's up to his chin, fills his mouth.
Tilting his head back, he screams, a plea, a promise, one single word, "GOD!"
And then he's under. One last thrash, swimming up again, one last gasp for breath, desperate.
"AAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHH!"
He's awake. He sits upright, swiping a hand across his wet face, trying to clear his eyes, get the red that's dripping off him cleared away. He looks at his palm, not red, just wet. Sweat. Drenched in sweat, not blood, it was just a dream.
It was just a dream, he says, and takes a deep breath.
***
In a musky yellow-brick room:
Augustus: So you scratched that itch, and it helped. But then it comes back again. What do you do? You supposed to sit there and suffer all over again, let it eat you away, gnaw at you some more? You know what fixed it before, you can stop it again. Frank: It won't itch again. It's done now. He's, he's at peace now. Augustus: No, you didn't tell him how it works sometimes. Frank: I didn't tell him to do this at all!
"Eh." )
( ...isn't virtue unless it's slammed up against vice... )
Augustus: You made it sound like they could co-fuckin- exist. That one is essential to the other. That there is no black without white. Frank: That, that is how it works. Augustus: But people still have to choose. They're both there, in everyone. But they have to choose which one leads them, you know that. Some people live in grey. Frank: You know what you're going to do? You're going to take your damn color chart and your fly-bitten itches OUT of MY box and go back where you belong. Augustus: Ha ha ha, yeah, motherfucker! We ain't in your BOX no more. This is MY cage.
He lived with it. He accepted it. He chose it.
It turned everything inside out and upside down. He knew who he was. He knew what he stood for and what was important.
He chose to change all that.
But the other half doesn't just give up and go away. One side chose, the other suffered. 'Cause they were still there, those ideals, still breathing and fighting. If he never had those, it might have been easier. That side hears the shot. That side hears the laughing little girl again. That side still washes his hands when a problem comes up. That side pictures the name in red on a white board.
Dukkha.
So the peace is shattered, the suffering returns, harder, faster, confused again. He fights it, but he knows how to quiet it. Make it go away. That side must be destroyed. That side causes the suffering. That side asks why.
That side causes the voices, gets lost in the chaos. That side screams.
But he knows how to shut it up now. He knows how to weaken it some more. And it must be weakened if he's ever going to find lasting peace.
It must be destroyed. Out with the old in with the new.
So he goes to another dark street. And lets that side stand among the rumbling roaring chaos that it never fixed. Mutating pasts, inconceivable presents and clouded futures. A silk-lined coffin, overflowing with water. Half-filled whiskey glasses and day-old butted cigarettes. A blonde colleague and another man shot. He asked the wrong one. He asked the cynic, but a man who was happy. He should have asked the optimist, but a man who was lonely. How it felt. How it still feels. He has to choose.
Strangling, gurgling, choking the last bit of life from that other half. It WON'T protest anymore. Deafening wails, a little girl crying and an old man laughing. A crowd of people gathers, vaguely familiar. Cheering, clapping, egging him on. All of them dressed in red, their encouragement turns sour. Screels and yelps, catcalls and hisses now. They clap and stomp in unison, a beat for every pulse of his heavy heart. Screaming, he tells them to shut up, and they shove one lone figure forward. Red, a raincoat, with the face of an angel, staring up at him. A maniacal cackle from behind, he turns to see who's unleashing it, then another phone, bleating in his ear. They cheer him again. He can't take it, they're surrounding him, closing in with mob mentality.
Then he picks out a name being chanted, softly at first, but picking up volume. Lambert. Lam-bert. Lam- BERT. LAM-BERT.
I tried, he wants to scream. But they drown him out, and his shouts are in vain. It has to stop. He has to stop this. So he raises his Glock and makes it all subside with one more fatal crushing bang. For Lambert.
Silence again. Cheering stopped. He turns to them, to seek their approval. But the crowd in red has changed. They're murky now, hard to distinguish from the dusky night. All in black, slack-jawed with disappointment, they turn slowly and walk away.
He does too, and falling from his pockets a dime and a penny clink on the pavement unbeknownst to him and are left behind.
***
Augustus: So you scratch that itch really good and hard this time. You dig your nails in and go right at it, even though you know you shouldn't. But it feels so good, it's such relief, and you just keep scratching away at it, man. Banishing that itch. Suddenly, you feel a stickiness under your nails, and you look down and see what you've fuckin' done. They TOLD you not to do it, but you just had to find out. You've scratched so fuckin' hard, you've peeled off the top layers of your skin. And now it's soft and slippery and raw there, starting to well up with droplets of blood. You've exposed naked flesh, man. And it still keeps itching. Frank: Stop this. This, this madness. Stop this now. Augustus: I can't. Frank: Then I will. Augustus: You can't. Frank: I'm leaving, I don't have to watch this. Augustus: You've already seen it, it's too late.
Floppy hair dropped over his sweat-sheened forehead, warm eyes burning hot. Tie loosened around the rumpled collar of his moist blue shirt. And he's in control, but not. Staring, yelling at the man. Sitting across a table from him, leaning forward, asking all the right questions.
Frank's voice comes from behind him, saying the name. "Riiiiisleeey Tuckeeerrrrr. Riseleyyyy Tuckerrrrrr, Bayliss. Leave the araber alone, it's done."
It's not done, Frank!
He leaps from his chair, forcing the old man's face dangerously close to a hot steam pipe, inches from scalding his wrinkled skin.
Frank is staring down at him, shaking him from the bad dream. It's over, Bayliss, let it go.
But he can't. He never put it down. This one is for her, this one is for him.
So he goes to another dark alley in the middle of a humid June night. It's strangely quiet this time, there's no swirling shapes or distracting sounds. Then, suddenly, he hears it, the pitter patter of tiny feet running through the rain. And a tiny giggle.
He wants to reach out to her, to call her back, tell her not to go in the barn. He opens his mouth, but no sound comes out, he knows she's going to go. So he takes off after her. Maybe he can catch her, stop her, stop this. Make this end, make one side give in to the other, he doesn't care right now, virtue or vice, right or wrong. It's too tiring. He doesn't have the strength to run after her quickly enough.
He doesn't know who he is anymore. He thought he did, he accepted it with the first deliberate pull of the trigger, but the old won't die. Perhaps it's just habit, though. Perhaps not. He doesn't know where he is now. But he's still running, following a distant giggle that keeps drifting to his ears. The ground is dry, but he can hear the tiny splish splash of her feet in the rain.
His breath grows heavy, and he rounds a corner. Suddenly his perpective changes, he's looking up. Standing still now, looking up at a man. Not the araber. This is family. His dad. His dad not believing him, and a man behind him, waving him forward. He doesn't want to go, but he has to. There's no reason why. He doesn't know why, but he has to follow him.
He takes a small step, and the dark is shattered. He's surrounded with the sickening glow of dead fluorescent lights, his pupils dilate with the rapid change. His heart double clutches, and his stomach churns, flipping once, twice, then quickening and sending a wave of nausea up his throat. Sour bile hanging in his mouth, he swallows hard and turns around. He's not choosing this. He's not going to do this.
A large hand reaches down and clamps on his shoulder, he spins to evade it, but there's no escape. He looks at the sink. That's when he knows it's begun, and when it's over. It bookends the whole thing. First washing, rubbing the soap across his tiny hands, then again, after it's done, to clean them off. Tiny and helpless, no one willing to listen, he's led there and the faucets turn on, warm water running over his fingers. Standing on his tip-toes, he peers down into the basin and sees the Glock sitting there.
Not again. Not again, he won't do it again. So he curls his small shaking fingers around the weapon and lifts it out of the water. Locked and loaded, he turns and grows tall again. The water stops, the man recedes. But he's got him in his sights, and the rest of the room falls away. Once again, there is no sound, there's nothing else. And with utter calm, he fires once again.
Standing in the dirty moldy house he tried to keep clean, he exhales roughly, sending years of frustration and unanswered whys into the stale air to mingle with the pungent remnants of burnt gunpowder. No one believed him, but they'll believe this, and no one will dare ask why. Goodbye George, victim avenged, case closed.
Before he turns to leave, he reaches down and places coins over the corpse's open eyes, one dime and one penny.
***
Augustus: You've really done it now. You scratched until you bled, and that still didn't stop it. It's all raw and bleeding, the sides of the wound are crusting over already, and the gnawing burn is too deep to reach anymore. And it's still fuckin' itching, man. In fact, it's spread. You had a little itch, a tiny rash. But now you damn well scratched it open, dug really deep and got it infected. Now it's gonna fester. Maybe the infection'll even get in your blood, travel to other parts of your body. Rashes and itching EVERYFUCKINWHERE now, brother. Frank: You lousy son of a bitch, leave him ALONE! Augustus: Right, that'll help. 'Cause that's what you did, isn't it? Left him alone.
He doesn't know why. He knows what he's done, though. But he doesn't know why. Whywhywhywhywhy? What was it for? He can't remember. It had to be important. There had to be a reason. He gave up everything he ever knew to do it. It had to be important. He gave up himself to do it.
NO! NO! He didn't. He was taking control. He chose it. He's not the victim anymore. He's not the little boy. He's not the rookie who couldn't close the red ball. He gave up nothing. Nothing. It was his choice. It was his choice.
They're taunting him now. Laughing at that thought. Who is? He asks. Everyone. You couldn't live with it, Timmy. You're getting sloppy. Stray shell casings, and what's the deal with the coins, huh? They're dusting them right now. Then everyone's gonna know.
You won't be a hero. Munch kept it quiet, Kellerman took a fall. And you? You should have known you couldn't live like this. You can't kill the old Bayliss. He's part of you. Just like this part now.
What's Frank going to say? He won't say a thing, he abandoned you long ago.
They all keep taunting, and a little girl in a red raincoat comes to the front of the pack. Tilting her head to one side, she inspects his face.
"You look older," she says.
"I'm sorry."
"Do you want to know who did it?" she taunts.
"Yes."
"You don't know?"
"I think so."
"I can't tell you."
"Why not?"
"That was your job, that's what you were there for."
Hanging his head, he takes a deep breath. She just won't leave him be. Goddammit, he TRIED!
"You have to pick now," she says.
"Pick what? What am I picking?"
"Too late, time's up," her voice lilts in a sing-song.
What a little bitch, he thinks. And they all agree. He doesn't recognize them. They're all around him, pushing into him, dressed in navy blue. They're taunting him, pushing him on. Telling him to do it. Just do it, and they'll shut up. A giant of a black man, waving a machete, and there's a man with a shaved head and a scar on his chin spreading slivered glass all over his pristine floor. He wants to clean it up.
He rises, starts to pick up the tiny shards, and they stick in his fingers, itching and slicing him, making him bleed. A man with dirty-blonde hair and a light-brown beard tromps over the area he just cleaned up, looking down at him with pity. Then, cackling madly, the bearded one rejoins the group. There's something wrong, he doesn't know these people, they don't know her. And they want her dead. Why?
Dukkha.
He stands up, putting his body between them and her, trying to protect her small frame.
More of them appear. There's so many now, they're all around, they're calling for her death. He can't fight them off. Throat tight and cotton-dry, he looks at the floor, the glass is gone now, and the water's rising again, swiftly, rapidly climbing up his legs.
It's storming all around him, he's not at home anymore. Howling, swirling winds and pitch-black night. But they're still all there, when the lighting cracks he can see them, menacing toothy spit smiles as they leer and watch him make the choice. They're on a raft, they're safe. The tempest kicks up harder, swirling again, he doesn't know which way to turn. A forceful wave crashes down and forces him under. He's turned around, doesn't know which way to swim to get back up. A frisson of horror jolts up his spine as bubbles escape his mouth. Kicking, surging, he guesses right and breaks through the surface again.
He's flailing in the water, something's pulling him under now. Gagging on the salt, he bobs back and forth, lost, forsaken. More angry waves thrash him about, but it's oddly warm. From the raft they put out their hands and beckon him to join, so he heaves himself up on it. She's clinging to his leg though, trying to pull him back in.
He pulls her up with him, but that overloads them, and they start to go down. They'll all die, he thinks. All because of her. She's dragging them down, she's dragging him down. Swiftly, he picks her up, lifting her as high as he can, slick red raincoat over his head, and then he heaves her out into the waves, watching as the water swallows her up and she's sucked under.
They all dive over too, the lightening stops, the waves subside, and it's peaceful once more.
Lying back, he tries to catch his breath. Then he realizes what he's done, and he starts to scream.
A hand on his chest, a familiar hand, though no longer friendly, shakes him awake. "You were dreaming, Bayliss," Frank says.
Licking his lips, oddly calm, he looks his partner back in the eye and tells him the truth. "No, you're dreaming Frank, this was real."
Then he reaches in his pocket and pulls out a penny and a dime and hands them to his ex-partner.
***
Frank: Let me talk to him. Augustus: No. Frank: Let me talk to him, I want to talk to him. Augustus: Then you talk to me. Frank: What? Why? Augustus: Because I speak for him now. Frank: No, no, you don't. Augustus: Yeah, motherfucker, I do. That's what I do, and it's important. Frank: Don't ... I, I'll speak for him. Augustus: You can't. He's not dead. Frank: Don't say it, don't you say it. I'll speak for him, I can speak for -him- still. Augustus: You speak for those who can no longer speak for themselves, Frank. You speak for the dead. He ain't dead. I speak for him now. I speak for all of them. Frank: Who? Augustus: The ones who made the dead that way. Frank: No. You, you can't have him. YOU-CAN'T- HAVE-*HIM*! Augustus: I already do, motherfucker. He came to me. He-scratched-the-itch. Repeatedly. He's-not-a-victim- anymore. (Turning away from Frank) Ladies and gentlemen ... (tossing a penny and a dime in the air) Frank: NOOOO!! Don't you say it, you son of a bitch!! DON'T SAY IT! SON OF A BITCH!!
"Frank," Mary shakes him awake. He bolts upright, every muscle tensed, pajamas soaking wet. Sweat coursing down his brow, heart pounding, reverberating through his pressured brain, he gasps for a breath. Eyes popped open, mouth ajar, bottom jaw shaking and his clammy hands shaking fiercely.
"It was just a dream, Frank," she whispers, stroking his arm. "It's ok, you're awake now," she reassures.
Tongue-gaping stare, he shakes his head. Not a dream, a nightmare. He wipes his brow with a trembling hand, remembering to breathe again. Thick and cloying, humid with sweat, fear and regret, the air doesn't help. Surveying the room, he looks back to his wife with a pained look. A frisson runs up his spine. "No, Mary, it's not a dream. It's real."
A tall lanky man wearing blue chinos and a faded grey T-shirt steps through the gates of Em City carrying a few towels and a roll of toilet paper.
Augustus: Prisoner number ninety-nine bee, five two one. Timothy. Bayliss. Welcome to Oz, son.