Marcus Jamison, the Rare Poet
Save Me
by Marcus Jamison
Prologue
The picture was in his pocket. He was certain of this. He stood behind the massive trunk of a large oak tree, eyes flickering intently as he stared at the large brick house nestled in the center of the upscale suburban neighborhood. He glanced about nervously. Moonlight cast a soft glow on his partially secluded body, causing him to slide more into the shadow of the tree. He didn’t want to risk being seen. At least not yet.
His eyes traced the houses surrounding him, each one seemingly grander than the next. There was definitely a lot of bravado and keeping up appearances in this neighborhood. A strange mixture of pride and fear had overtaken him when he’d begun walking down these well maintained streets. The pride was complicated at best, since it made little sense gushing over someone you couldn’t say you’d ever met.
But the fear….the fear was easy.
He didn’t belong here. He could feel it as he walked by the houses, glancing at their lavish designs. Multiple cars in most driveways, announcing tax brackets with numbers he could only imagine. He looked down at the tattered camouflaged parka and very dirty jeans. The boots he wore had been given to him, by a kind woman who grew tired of seeing the weathered pair he owned. Suspicion would come to him quickly here, except maybe from an understanding few. This would mean dealing with police. And he was tired of running, as it was.
The man pushed his fear aside. He was here now, closer than he’d ever been to the one thing he’d been chasing his whole life. A few seedy looks weren't going to stop him. Nothing would. He breathed in deeply, trying his best to calm the nervous leaps occurring within the pits of his stomach. What if…? He stopped himself mid-thought, knowing the only way to find out was to act.
He stepped out from behind the tree, exposing his figure fully to the large house before him. It was such a soothing act, because he knew that within those walls was the key to changing his life, forever. A silver Range Rover was parked in the long driveway. Lights were on in a few of the rooms upstairs. The family that lived here was definitely home, and appeared to be in for the night. Family. The word danced around in his head like happy teenagers at prom. It held so much excitement. Filled him with so much promise. Up until this day, his future had seemed so bleak. But now…..
The man smiled, sliding his hand into the parka’s left pocket, tracing his fingers along the creases of the old photograph. He retrieved it, his eyes locking on the faces as a child would on the Disneyland gates. He, at a much younger age, and a beautiful woman stood in the portrait’s background. In front of them, with a smile echoing the sentiments of similar ones flashed by the two adults was a small boy, perhaps around age eight. He and the boy had identical eyes.
Seeing the picture, like always, made the man’s smile grow wider. He rubbed the faces with his finger, feeling tears building as he did.
He breathed deeply again, courage pushing him on, and took a step towards the house. The squeal of tires off to the distance made him hesitate. The man glanced up and down the street, but saw nothing. He brushed the sound off, determined to continue. He took a second step. And then another.
BOOM!!
The explosion was so loud the man’s ears rang. His eyes echoed his inaudible gasp as he watched the gulf of flames thrusting from the center of the house. He hurled himself back towards the tree, landing in the grass next to the sidewalk, with a soft thump. Smoke and debris flew everywhere. The flames were growing, licking their way through metal and wood and glass.
BOOM!!
The second explosion demolished all that was left of the massive home, destroying with it any hopes that the people inside had survived. The man watched in horror as sections from the burning structure collapsed inwards, the house falling down on itself. A thick black smoke towered above the sky, as flames leapt some twenty feet, as if attempting to meet it.
The SUV had been rolled like a giant ball all the way down to the driveway’s entrance, where it rested on its hood in a twisted, shattered wreck. An empty house next door, that the man had noticed was for sale, had caught sparks from the explosion. One side of it had caught fire, as well as some trees on the opposite side of the other home. The home he’d never get to go inside of. The family he’d never get to meet. The man did his best to chock back the onslaught of rising tears.
Neighbors were already flicking on lights, opening doors, and pouring into the streets. The posh little community had been forced awake, in a tragic and unimaginable way.
“Who’s that man?”
The voice came from behind him. An edgy shout that froze his body in fear. He was already expecting the blame to be directed his way. He scurried from the ground, scooping up the treasured photograph that had fallen during his dive. Standing, he didn’t bother to look back. He was sure the people had now turned towards him. He glanced once more at the house, now merely a charred husk of singed brick. He closed his eyes.
Fear can make an innocent man far more nervous than it can a guilty one. He took off running, as fast as he could, back in the direction of the street that initially brought him there. He ran, in spite of the shouts and protests of multiple neighbors. He ran, even though he’d done nothing wrong. He ran, because all of his life had been running. He didn’t know how to stop now.
Tears fell from his eyes, heavy and burning, but the man did his best to wipe them away. He’d be sad another time. Right now, he needed to disappear. His freedom, perhaps even his life, depended on it.
Chapter One
A single bead of sweat began the nervous procession, as the young man stood from his office chair, and moved towards what he hoped were better things to come. He walked slowly, counting off the steps in his head as he took them.
One. Two. Three.
He passed cubicles alive with the steady sounds of keyboards crunching, staples being snapped into place, and papers busily being shuffled about.
Four. Five. Six.
The soft hum of music wafted from the ears of those staff members who had been titillated to discover last week’s memo posting, stating iPods and similar devices were now office friendly. The young man didn’t own such a device, but did enjoy the change in the environment. One of the blissful owners, Mary Parker, sat with a grin on her face that spoke of an eager music addict getting their daily fix. She rhythmically nodded at the young man as he moved pass her. He did the same, though his rhythm was a bit in question.
Thirteen. Fourteen. Fifteen.
He had reached the water coolers. Not thirsty, the man paused for a drink, scanning the office with his eyes. Desperately he searched for a pair of eyes that possibly matched his own, perhaps even sharing his silent frustrations. Yet as he downed the paper cup full of water, he realized yet again that no one was paying him any attention. They probably didn’t even know his name.
A new determination pulled him back into his journey. He was going to do this. He nearly smiled. But suddenly, as reliable as ever, his lifelong self-doubt began to return to him.
Eighteen….Nineteen….
He stopped.
Noah Jackson could feel his heart racing, the speed of its beats alarming him as he stood and stared ahead. The long narrow corridor, a mere three feet in front of him, seemed as inviting as the top of Mount Everest to someone with a fear of heights. Nicknamed “the Hall” by most who worked there, it was the last place he wanted to go. He rubbed his hands together, both clammy and hot from his sudden rush of apprehension. Noah felt like, at any moment, he was going to pass out. He took short, deep breaths, and began to open and close his hands, exactly as his anxiety specialist had taught him to do. He felt silly just thinking about needing to visit one, earlier during the previous summer.
Slowly, he took a few more steps, having lost track of the count in his mind, currently overwhelmed by the rate at which his heart continued to beat. Noah glanced to his left, into the open door of the first conference room. Kimberly Matthews sat preparing for an upcoming meeting he’d read about in a memo. Different department. Well above his pay level. She was an intelligent, up and coming, junior staff writer, who also happened to be a goddess. At least to Noah. In the six months she’d been working there, he found himself lost in several dazes, envisioning her 5’10 curvy frame pressed against his taller, though less appealing, one. He smiled shyly. She gave him the awkward smile of someone who hopes that you won’t come near them. Suddenly, Noah remembered the anxiety exercises. He must look like a nervous crab.
Dropping his head to escape any further embarrassment, Noah moved on quickly down the Hall, doing his best to return his focus to the task at hand. Three more conference rooms, all currently empty, went by as he walked silently on. One large office sat up ahead on the left, only an elevator door beyond it. The big names worked upstairs. Noah breathed in slowly, moving towards the end of the hallway, feeling himself propelled on despite a growing fear. He was a few steps away from the elevator doors, when he let out a sigh of surrender, darting into the large office instead.
Maggie Chambers sat at her usual spot, in a comfortable looking rolling chair, behind the large oak desk, whose elaborate decorations immediately drew attention. The assortment of contrasting items made most people who entered the office either blink in disbelief or grimace in dislike. But it was all so very Maggie. Dozens of postcards from places she’d never been were posted to the front of the desk. A blue zebra print pair of thong panties had been converted into a disturbing looking lamp shade. Empty containers of the world’s finest tequilas, her favorite drink, lined one corner of the desk.
And then there was Sonny.
By far the creepiest thing in the entire room, the two foot tall Troll Kid doll stood in one corner, facing the doorway. It was dressed in a sparkling white polyester suit and black silk shirt, reminiscent of Travolta in Saturday Night Fever. With its lime green hair gelled back into a well groomed ponytail, the doll looked more like an Italian gigolo than a disco dancer.
“What’s up, Mags?” Noah affectionately called out to one of his few office acquaintances, “How’s your day been so far?”
Barely an inch above five feet tall, the secretary’s personality made up for her small stature. She had the gravitating smile reserved for billboard ads and an equally magnetic demeanor. Witty and humorous, when Maggie opened her mouth, she always appeared immensely tall.
“Jax! I was wondering when you’d stumble in here.” she exclaimed, having already told him, back when they met, that his first name sounded boring. Her pearly white smile lit up her face.
“John in?”
“Called in sick today,” she said, shaking her head, “For first time I can remember in five years."
Noah nodded, wondering what could be wrong. She tossed him a Twinkie from one of the drawers, a half-eaten one already sitting on her desk. Maggie swore that they were addictive.
“Want to leave a message?”
“No…it’s not important.”
The two made small talk for a few moments, before saying their goodbyes. On his way out, Noah made sure not to forget to say the same to Don Vito. The small Siamese cat had scurried from its favorite sleeping spot, beneath Maggie’s desk, and started purring against his leg, shortly after his arrival. It also liked Twinkies. No one else in the office had been allowed to have pets at work, but Don Vito had been there for over three years. Eccentricity aside, apparently Maggie was a master negotiator.
Back in “the Hall”, Noah sighed, knowing he couldn't prolong it any more. He moved to the elevator door with a needy determination inside him. He had been employed by Real World Press for over six years. Still in the copy room. Still waiting for his big break. John Scallibrini, the editor of one the company’s newspapers, had brought him on as a favor to Noah’s dying mother. That summer, she left this world immensely proud because her son was on track to fulfilling his dream.
Six and a half summers later, and look at where he was. Absolutely nowhere. Worse than nowhere. The editor’s secretary had more perks than he did. Well that was about to change.
Noah stepped into the elevator as soon as the doors opened, and backpedaled to a spot against the wall. He was confident. He felt good. No longer would his life be just another string of meaningless events. No longer would he live in obscurity.
“To the future” Noah said aloud, pushing the button to the second floor. As the doors closed in front of him, and he felt himself starting to rise, Noah couldn’t help but smile.
Chapter Two
Jakob Lester hid between two very large green dumpsters, down the type of alley where normal people never ventured. It was the kind of place you read about in police reports, the setting of the more horrific crimes and often even death. He had been hiding in this current location for several hours, long enough to sleep, though it had been troubled. Most nights dreams haunted him, but these latest ones were new, and much more unsettling.
Jakob still couldn't shake the images he had seen. The explosions played out constantly in his mind, present almost every time he closed his eyes. He could still see the flames licking through the house, his mind sensing the pain they surely caused. He thought about all he had lost in a life that few would consider accepting in exchange for their own. Six long years had gone into his last search, all of it vanquished in a haze of vicious black smoke. As he sat there, Jakob wanted to cry. But long ago, he’d given up shedding tears. They offered no hope or release, and would never make him more content in the man that he was.
Ironically, Jakob Lester had no idea who he was. All memories of his current chaotic life could be traced back to a single date, a mere ten years ago. February 7. He celebrated it as a birthday of sorts, because before then, he had no memory of being alive. He thought back to that moment, not long enough ago, to when he opened his eyes for the very first time. At least, for the first time that he remembered.
Mercy General Hospital is a small, obscure building, functioning within its daily routines, in a quiet town just north of Toronto. No exceptional medical precedents have ever taken place within its walls. It is neither the birthplace of the historically famous nor the final resting place of the historically vile. At best, Mercy is just a hospital. But once upon a time, it did house a mysterious patient dropped off in the quiet of one night, bleeding to death from suspicious wounds. Jakob Lester had been that man.
The understaffed hospital was brought to full alert on that fateful night, after an orderly rushed into the small lobby carrying Jakob’s body in tow. He had been found, abandoned on the sidewalk, left barely conscious and losing blood at an alarming rate. It was fortunate that they all came together as they did, valiantly fighting to save his life. Unfortunately, Jakob slipped into a coma the very next evening, immediately considered a lost cause by most.
He had heard all of the stories, dozens of times, from nurses, doctors, and the members of the clergy, who had each visited him from time to time. Every day his body struggled, with the aid of machines, fighting to stay alive, while it stubbornly remained unresponsive to the outside world around it. For five and a half months, he lay in bed, moving closer and closer towards death. The staff set up a special room for him, isolated from the other patients, unprepared to deal with his case since Jakob was the first coma victim Mercy had ever had. No visitors came seeking him, and there was no one to call or notify.
Though they had searched him thoroughly, no form of identification was discovered. In fact, little was found at all. A photograph, without inscription, was taken from his left jacket pocket. The man in it was unmistakably Jakob, several years younger it seemed. A few crumpled bills and some pocket change rested in the opposite side, along with a small index card. The printed phone number on it had been previously disconnected. The nurses had given up hope in their search, when one of them stumbled upon a startling discovery that would somehow change everything.
He was uncertain about what lead her to search his shoe, but what she located turned out to be the key. Methodically placed, beneath the lining of the black boots he’d been wearing when admitted, was a folded sheet of plastic with a pair of papers inside. On one of them, the name ‘Jakob Lester’ was written, above the Latin inscription Cogito ergo sum. The other paper contained a peculiar list of addresses in cities that spanned the globe. Lester sighed from his spot between the dumpsters, thinking about that nurse’s significance in starting his crazy existence. She had come in his room, that very same night, led by nothing more than her own intuition, and whispered the name from the paper into his ear.
Darkness becomes light
He had opened his eyes that day, for the first time in six months, precisely four days before Mercy’s board of directors was scheduled to meet on terminating his life support. The doctors who had taken turns attending him were all perplexed, since his vitals had shown them no signs that he’d ever recover from the coma. Nearly all members of the little hospital’s staff stopped by his room that day. He was their miracle, and they were all amazed. A simple name had awakened him, and he adopted it as his own, mainly because he couldn't remember any other name, but also because it was written in his handwriting. So on that day, Jakob Lester was born.
The next six months of rehabilitation were a blur of slight successes and deeper disappointments. His motor skills and short term memory recuperated at an incredible rate; however the events of his unknown past refused to reveal themselves to him. Jakob watched a lot of television during this time, and skimmed through countless magazines, hoping a small bit of familiarity would be the spark to suddenly bring it all back. But it never came. The addresses on the paper were all busts as well, each of them belonging to obscure banks. No one recognized the name Jakob Lester or the face in photographs faxed over by Mercy General. He was beginning to think that he should give up on knowing who he used to be. And then one night, the first dream came.
Jakob was forcefully pulled from his thoughts by the sudden rattle of voices, talking angrily from just on the other side of the dumpsters. A heated argument was taking place, and from the sound of things, it had just taken a turn for the worse.
“What do you mean you don’t have my fucking money?”
“T-T-Tony, I swear to you….I’ll….I’m going to get it, man. I promise.”
“Guess what? It’s too late!”
The gunshots rang out in a quick burst of three, followed by two more patient ones, which were obviously fired into the already dead man’s body. Jakob clamped a hand over his mouth, in fear that he might scream. He tried to remain as still as possible, hoping that whoever Tony was, he had already fled the scene.
He sat motionless for a few minutes, breathing shallowly through his mouth, and listened to the silence growing around him. His heartbeat was heavy, sending ripples of pain through his chest. It also seemed unusually loud, making his fearful ears certain that they could hear footsteps approaching. But Jakob was alone.
Well, almost alone.
He peered out into the alleyway, releasing a partial whimper as his eyes fell on the dead man’s body. Jakob rushed to grab his things: a small silver music box given to him by the nurse who’d triggered his recovery, a small, dingy backpack that contained the few articles of clothing he owned, as well as all the money he had to his name, and the camouflaged parka that doubled as a pillow, which he hurriedly unrolled and put on.
Running past the dead man, although he promised he wouldn't look, Jakob found his eyes anxiously moving on their own, into the direction of the wounds. Three blood red discs soaked through the man’s t-shirt. But this is not what Jakob stared at, lips trembling in horror. The last two shots had been directed at the man’s face, which meant identifying him would be a difficult task. Jakob’s neck snapped back towards the alley’s exit. He was no longer able to focus on such a gruesome sight. His legs were starting to feel wobbly, but he knew he couldn’t slow down.
Upon reaching the exit, Jakob eased into a nervous gait, his glances bouncing back and forth between the people present on the street. None of them seemed to even notice him, all too busy going about their own lives. Then, Jakob spotted her.
The woman, standing behind a flower stand across the street, had her eyes locked directly on him. It wasn’t the fact that she was looking at him that worried Jakob, but the way that she stared. Alarm, suspicion, and fear were all firmly tucked into her accusing gaze. She turned her attention to a man standing a few feet from her. Jakob gasped. It was a uniformed police officer.
He bolted, trying his best not to drop his things, his heart rate now back to its previously discomforting pace. As he weaved his way through other pedestrians, some of them offering up curses to his recklessness, Jakob Lester couldn’t believe his luck. And as usual, he found himself running again.
