The Incalculable Malice of the Everyday
“Be as quiet as you can.”
“No one’s gonna hear me over the sound of that.” He pointed to their cozy, two-story home, lit up with flames.
“It doesn’t matter. They’re radicals. If they find us, they’ll shoot us in the fucking face. We have to keep moving,” said Brad. He shifted uncomfortably and coughed His dress shoes and socks were soaked with swamp water. Mateo said nothing. The heat from the flames was melting his layers of theatrical makeup- mahogany skin drips and smudged eyeliner. A human candle. Brad reached for his hand. “Mateo. We really need to go. We can only stay hidden for so long.”
…
Brad knew something like this was going to eventually slither its way into his life. His career. His marriage. His conscious. Everyone’s temperament tightened and tightened like a snakeskin that needed to molt.
Brad often felt like an old wad of skin.
No longer needed, only covering up the truth but everyone saw right through it. Especially Mateo, it seemed. Mateo could always plug into what Brad was thinking. But he still made him say the thoughts out loud.
“It’s not healthy to keep all that in,” he’d chide, “you try to fold in on yourself and hide from me.”
“It’s not always about you.”
They had been driving for a little while down the freshly-paved Florida highway, Brad with a white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel. Winds from a nearby storm were picking up, but they stayed the course. They were used to it now, though they didn’t want to be.
“Why are you so nervous?” Mateo glanced over at Brad’s bony hands. “It’s just a holiday party.”
“You’re going to be meeting all of these people for the first time.”
“And you’re afraid I won’t like them?”
“Yes.”
“Since when do you care what I think?” Mateo asked with a smirk. He wiped a stripe of dust off the dashboard.
“Since always,” Brad said quietly.
“It doesn’t matter if I like them. It doesn’t even really matter if you like them.”
“I like them fine.”
“That’s a fucking lie. I’m surprised you’re even going tonight.”
“It’ll be weird if I don’t. Besides, I’m sure you’ll make it fun.”
“Hey, I’m not there to entertain. I’m off the clock,” Mateo pointed at his wrist that had no watch on it. “I’m there to eat food and nod and smile when people talk science-y at me.”
“Damn. I was hoping you’d do your Mickey Mouse impression.”
“That’s for your ears only.”
Brad loosened his grip on the wheel a little. The winds had eased up some too. Mateo cracked his window open.
“They’ll probably think I’m weird. No, not weird. Useless.”
“How are you useless?” Brad asked as he merged over, passing a slower-moving sedan.
“I mean, you’re actually doing something noteworthy. If someone was forced to shoot either an actor or a scientist, they’d probably shoot the actor.”
“That’s… really grim, Mateo.”
“I’m just thinking out loud.”
“Well, I wish you wouldn’t think that way.”
Mateo just shrugged and looked out the window. They pulled into the hotel parking lot. The holiday party was to be held in one of the ballrooms. A large sign by the valet parking read “Welcome, ORLANDO OIL!”
Brad grimaced. “They should really take that down.”
…
The smoke from the last lab fire nearly suffocated him. His ashen face, sunken cheeks, and tired eyes were screened on every news outlet, unfairly exposed.
Brad’s identity and his story became a human rights morsel
, a finger food of all the household conversations. He was the only lab worker that survived. Everyone else perished. Every single person that exchanged Secret Santa gifts and ate peppermint brownies and downed eggnog at the holiday party were ash.
They called it a terrorist attack.
Brad emerged with a permanent chemical burn that emblazoned his chest and the entirety of his left arm and hand.
Mateo took it personally.
“This is bullshit,” he fidgeted with the tubes connected to Brad’s oxygen mask, “We can’t do this.”
“I’m… trying… to do… different things,” Brad managed to say between clogged breaths.
“Well, it doesn’t matter now. You’re not going back.”
Brad stared at him with wet eyes.
“What?” Mateo plopped down on the couch next to him and leaned his head back. His eyes were red-rimmed and bloodshot.
Brad shrugged. He didn’t feel like talking anymore. It hurt too much.
“I’m sorry. I know it seems like I’m mad at you.”
Brad rolled his eyes just a flicker and nodded.
“Ouch, okay. I felt that eye roll in my soul,” he took Brad’s bandaged hand in his, ever so carefully twining their fingers together. “I’m just scared. I don’t think I’ve ever been this scared before.”
…
That was all some time ago. Brad still had a cough now and then but was mostly better. If he had to cough during one of Mateo’s plays, he put a hand over his mouth and held it until his eyes watered.
“Along with me! I’ll see what hole is here and what he is that is now leapt into it-” Mateo’s voice bellowed through the auditorium.
Brad involuntarily spit into his hand. His heart jumped.
Mateo stared down at him from the stage with heavily-inked eyelids. His forehead was sweating underneath the fake crown and bright lights. Brad waved off his gaze and buried his face into the crook of his elbow.
“Say,” Mateo cautiously continued, “Who are thou that lately didst descend into this gaping hollow of the earth?”
…
Now they watched their home burn.
Someone had recognized them and followed their car all the way back, two car distances behind, headlights dimmed. The circle of suspects was getting tighter.
“Our home…” Mateo whispered mournfully over and over again, “Our home…”
“Mateo, we can’t-”
Brad felt the irritation from the smoke rise in his chest and throat. Mateo had forcefully shoved Brad out of the bathroom window first, but he still swallowed too much. Too much for someone already previously exposed. He doubled over and hacked into the swampy grass, hands on his knees. Mateo touched his arm.
“Okay, we’re going. You’re going to get sick again,” he said.
Brad coughed out one more forceful gust of infected air. He looked up at him and nodded, took his hand, and entwined their fingers.