Suicide Diving

By Michelle Mary Davila 
 

Chapter Sixteen - Verses of Angel: The sun that will not rise

▫◙▫

      “You have to do it.”

      “No. I won’t.”

      “It’s part of the deal.”

      “I won’t.”

○٭۝٭○

      Eggshells and feathers delicately strewn about the red rug of Persian wool and the monochrome floors of Italian and Irish marble. The morning light from above poured into the library, illuminating dusty books of dark leather and gold letters. The broken bits of wood from the ceiling were perhaps incinerated upon impact. They left no trace of their existence aside from some stark white ash.

      She lay there upon the concentration of it all—ash, feathers, eggshell. Uncomfortable, but altogether unconscious. For the whole house was empty of activity.

▫◙▫

      “Dean, leave him alone.” I just stared at him, exhaling loudly. “He’s going to make a mess. You try drinking from a vessel you’re not holding.”

      “He’s being difficult on purpose!”

      “Maybe you need to be nicer.”

      “He’s a cat.” He looked at me dully, energy spent.

      “So you think he’s being unreasonably spiteful. Just because he’s a caracal.”

      “I never said caracal. And I’ve always been nice to him.” Dean readjusted his glasses and stood next to a thin armchair, signaling for Albert to begin vacuuming the milk and wiping off Obsidian’s face.

      Obsidian crawled upon the marble flooring, his padded little paws making not a sound. 
 

      I’d just finished chopping up pieces of ostrich meat for him to try. But he wasn’t at all interested. He lay very still. Crouched. And flicking his tail, mouth chattering for a slight moment, he jumped into the air to attack Dean’s tie. He held it, clasped between his paws. Until he slid and fell, the tie slightly shredded and frayed. Dean merely glared, perhaps unsure of what to say.

      “I guess he really doesn’t like you.” I was almost amused. But long ago. I’d seen caracals take more than just ties.

      I had unfastened my parachute and crashed into the ground. Face in the sand, I sheltered my left eye. With my right I caught sight of a great red cat, ears tipped black. Eyes of an unnatural gold glowed harshly from the silhouette of its body. Lunging, the cat hung eleven feet in the air. And clasped an eagle.

      When I had gotten to my feet, I saw what was left of the once honorable bird. It could not have been any more than nine feet away. Wings outstretched, its gleaming talons lay upon the disheartened sand. The wings were not a surprise. The talons were. I looked up to the sky. And there stood the tower.

      As I knelt to examine, the great cat stood before me. Picking up the right wing with his mouth, almost as a threat. But then the tower came down with loud clashes and bangs. So as to scatter them over the whole face of the earth. The red cat, somewhat satisfied, left me with the wings. And the talons.

▪◘▪

      “I’m not letting you go this time. You’re staying here.”

      “Dean… I can’t. I just need some time to myself. Surely you must understand this.” Her eyes looked at me with such vulnerability before darting away to examine the walls, the windows, the curtains—anything but me. It was a weakness I’d only seen in her eyes at our first meeting.

      I was there to buy the house. Mansfield didn’t know the history between the mansion and I, so I went so as to feign disassociation. There was a hole in the ceiling as well, brought by some crash into the upstairs library, which I had to see. What I saw was the golden glow of her eyes under the piano, unearthly but soft. I saw her stir at my presence, my words. Just as I was about to leave, she stood—abandoning the velvet curtain, any weakness in her eyes departed. The golden glow changed—almost bright yellow. 
 

      This vulnerability, this softness, was different in its use. This weakness, I could tell, was purely for manipulation, purely an attempt to get her way. It was all just pretend.

      “Please. Just stay here with me,” I asked her one last time, looking into the eyes I’d seen evolve.

      The Delilah seen through the thickness of glasses had dark brown eyes that looked up at me. Light from the windows, unobstructed by black velvet at rest, soaked into her eyes, which became bright amber.

      “Just for a few more days,” she answered quietly.

▫◙▫

      “Come on. You’ve done it before. You can pretend to be all high and righteous, but we both know it’ll happen sooner or later,” she said, brushing the hair from my face. Her unnatural golden eyes of an unnatural golden wheat shut. The room actually seemed to get darker.

      “If you’re so sure, why don’t you just leave. me. alone!” I stormed off, a long string flowing around and behind me. The end rested in her hands. But I would never be hers. I could never allow it.

      What on earth was I thinking? “Maybe if I would just cooperate.” There’s probably more of a chance of Dean having multiple dragon heads hidden about his body, ready to shoot out and attack at a moment’s notice. He’d work with a dog man whose torso rested atop and faded into the body of a deer.

Even they would not cooperate. I don’t know how to cooperate. Not with anyone. I refuse.

      And yet, I decided I would get his painting. A parting gift, perhaps. My “pretend” house was about to become real. Though the apartment, the shell of a home, was a farce, a ploy to create a gap in our relationship when seen from the outside. That house. Across the street made of wood and water based paints, that house had potential. He couldn’t continue to stop me from using it. I can’t say that I felt bad for the stupid jackass, for abandoning and leaving him on his own. He was nearly independent at sixteen. You’d think passed thirty he would be independent enough.

      Clothed in black, crawling through a window, creeping in the dark, I finally stumbled upon it. I looked at the map to be sure. I looked again and again, as if it could not be right. But that was it. It was. The painting he had wanted so much. I could only stare. 
 

▪◘▪

      Dinah used to say to me, “I love you. I’ll never leave you. Even when we’re apart, I’ll be with you. Even when we’re apart, you’ll be here.” She would close my hand into a fist and place it over her heart.

      She used to say this to me. But she left me just the same. One of her shows toured and went to Paris, went to Munich, went to Salzburg, went to Rosenberg—she abandoned me in London, as she had fallen for one of the other actors. The minute I let her begin to drift away from me was the minute I had let her go, let go of her hand, let go of her heart.

      “I’m sorry, darling.” Her deep blue eyes had filled with tears.

      I held her hands in mine, looking up into those benevolent pools. “Please… Just stay.”

      “I can’t, darling. I’m sorry.” She had left me. Just like that.

      I could see that Delilah too was fading, evading and slipping from me. I was losing whatever holds on her I had. It was becoming quite apparent to me that her heart was elsewhere, even if that boy had left her. She’d seen the outside and she wanted so desperately to be there. She didn’t want to settle for this life or the next. She wanted nothing less than what she once had. Even I could see this, in the way she looked at Sammy, Obsidian and Albert’s garden—the ocean. Above all, I knew she loved the ocean. I sometimes wondered if she’d once been a sailor or perhaps some marine mammal in a past life.

      I recall once asking her why she never cared for the animals of the water, why all of her focus was on deserts and grasslands, for I already knew she had a secret place for the waters in her heart. So she’d told me, without a hint of a smile, “I’ve had enough of them.”

      “You know, they used to tame caracals,” she once said, arms in turbid water and hair dotted with bubbles and foam—attempting to rinse Obsidian off. “Princes mostly. They would train them to catch birds. A caracal can jump ten feet into the air and just snatch birds out of the sky. Just like that.”

      Obsidian squirmed, displeased with his aquatic setting and irate over Delilah’s determination. Delilah continued to lather and rinse him, despite any scratches she may have had to endure. She remained very gentle, talking to him calmly in an attempt to soothe, sometimes even singing to him. 
 

      She used to tell me all kinds of things as she worked, almost as if she just liked to hear her own voice. She would talk about caracals and cheetahs, sand cats and pampas cats. But then she got into pumas and jungle cats, which she swore to me were real and not just some generic “thing” she had created.

      “I have no idea why they’re called jungle cats, though,” she had said, waving her left hand and cooking. “They don’t live in the jungle! They live near the water. I suppose that’s why they can also be called reed cats or swamp cats, but why also jungle cats? Fishing cats like the water too, but at least their name actually reflects their lifestyle.”

      Slowly, as though by accident, she began to get closer and closer to the water. Once in awhile she would veer back, to lizards and snakes that could only be found in the most arid of areas. But once she’d reached the ocean, she stayed. She spoke of all things imaginable—funny hydrozoas, plankton, mollusks and crustaceans; sea snakes, sea turtles, sea worms and sea stars; cartilaginous fish, skeletal fish, jawless fish and marine mammals. Once in a while she would mention sea faring birds, as well as the millions of photosynthesizing organisms in and alongside the sea. The way she spoke, it was as if she knew it all first hand. It made me think that all she wanted was to wander the ocean, playing with and watching everything around her. Once upon a time I dared ask her of this. She froze. With precise movements and a deliberate stare, she said nothing, only stared. Then walked away, Obsidian clutched quite close to her.

      Now there is only silence. I could never think of anything that would interest her. She would never be interested in my work, for it was boring and without sentiment—not the sort of thing for such a delicate woman. I knew nothing of other worldly beings or the ways of the stars. My pride and fear prevented me from asking questions, though perhaps if I had stimulated her brain she would have begun again. All I could really do was hope for her to speak once more of the world she’d left.

▫◙▫

      I could only walk on the soles of my feet. But. Even confused, I’d still be able to stand on only two legs. My eyes and ears are so plain. Standing there. Staring at her. Her and her beauty, her and her apathy. I had never felt so inadequate. 
 

      Her hair is much longer than mine, a rich brown with orange and copper undertones. She combs it in a way that I never could. Skin as pale as the moon but with a look of such softness. Her tail curls around to the back of her. Her long, gorgeous tail that I could no more hate than I could be jealous for want of it. And I wonder if that is really how they think we are. And I wonder why she is not at sea.

      With every look, with every glance, with ever slight stare, I could not help but begin to hate her. She sat so plainly and unobtrusively. So freely. Without a care in the world as to who could be watching her, who could be there, what she should be doing or could be doing. The presence of that retched thing, that fusion of wood, cloth and pigment. But I hung it at the center of my new living room all the same.

      The phone rang, nearly causing me to tip and drop the poor retched thing. I was almost worried when a detective called me to his office. I’d always been careful about possible trails, possible leads, possible clues. I hadn’t even realized the phones could be working. I hadn’t even realized that I could have perhaps left clues, clues of any sort and in any place. I almost started to think I should have stayed with Dean, for slight fear that he may have tried to blackmail me. But it was nothing. I was just being paranoid.

      “So you’re Winona Patricia.” The little detective shook my hand firmly, very friendly. Eyes of green sheltered with a coffee bean brown.

      “That’s what they call me.” I sat in front of his desk as he leaned back in his arm chair.

      “Well, I’ve interviewed quite a few ladies going by that name. I had a look at your file and none of them quite fit the bill. We called your place of residence and so, here you are. They don’t seem to have used your social security number, credit cards, or even your name for anything substantial. When we inspected their person, their IDs all had other names. Names of Greek goddesses, actually…” He trailed off a bit, but soon continued. “They seemed to just want to introduce themselves or be referred to by your name. Do you have any idea why this would be?”

      “Not really. It doesn’t seem like they used it to their advantage.” I shrugged.

      “Would you like to press charges, miss?” He adjusted some papers on his desk, some pink, some white, many of them a golden yellow. And he twirled his pen around his fingers. 
 

      I opened my mouth as if to speak. But closed it to continue thinking. Finally saying a simple no, I turned to the left to see Sergeant Steven Regalle, who nodded and stepped in. Expressionless.

      “Ivan, I need you to get to work on a new case. I’ll finish Miss Patricia.” He handed the detective a manila folder, papers nearly spilling out from the sides. But frozen in midair.

      “Yes, sir. I hope to see you again, Miss Patricia.” Ivan tipped his hat to me before leaving.

      Steven didn’t say a word to me. He left shortly after Ivan did. Closing the door behind him.

      Winona Patricia. Delilah Caravelle. Winona Caravelle. Delilah Patricia. Delilah.

      For a moment I’d been surprised. Taken aback by his eyes. Before I’d crawled out from under the piano, he had spoken harshly and irreverently. He seemed to be just as surprised as I was. His expression softened at the sight of me. But I was determined not to be his property. I knew where we stood. I knew who would have the upper hand. I knew he had no control over me. No prize hanging just out of reach. I was not his gazelle on a string. I would not let those eyes get to me. No matter how blue.

      As I stood there he asked me my name, age and where I’d come from. Why I was in his house. I asked him if he caught butterflies, what games he liked best. If he could sing.

      But there was only silence.

      “I’m called Delilah. Delilah Caravelle.” I looked at him with uncertainty.

      His eyes never left mine, a blue that glistened with morning dew. But he answered no questions.

      Winona Patricia, Delilah Caravelle—I hated these names. These meaningless, meaningless names. They are lovely names, beautiful and with their own charm. I chose them myself. It was not as though I did not find names to be important. But I could not become attached to them. I could not be want of them. I could not be free of them.

      When I returned home for my things, Dean Samson wasn’t there. And so all of my things managed to appear within that little house. That little white house with the big backyard. A backyard suitable for bunnies and puppies and ponds and all I could have ever wanted. Plants as tall as I, but without sturdy trunks. Perhaps a garden full of color. 
 

      By night he was still not home. I wondered if he would still be at work, still be pretending to command. Or perhaps he was out. Out with the other fiendish but seemingly harmless men.

      I have no idea what he did at work. I can’t imagine him doing anything. I imagine a decision is seldom important enough for him to have to supersede. I imagine he’s above weekly meetings and above company diplomacy. The way I see it, he should be out all day—making appearances and throwing money around. But that was all in my imagination. He sold arms. Tanks and missiles and submarines. His family used to have indigenous peoples mine for tin and silver in Potosi and Oruro. They’ve taken steel from China. His friends were sons of politicians and world leaders. He was part of the new generation of world conquerors. As soon as I was allowed, I stopped working with him. I just couldn’t stand being there.

○٭۝٭○

      He only saw the slight movement. But that was enough. He stepped into the gloomy little library, where he had hid from his parents so many years ago. Sitting at the piano, he took a small brush made of vicuña hair from a little compartment, dusting off the keys. And he let his glasses fall to his nose as he remembered the song, though the sheet music was resting there. KANON. But then his cell phone rang. And he closed the piano with a sound of falling.

      “What is it?” He dropped his fist on the seat before standing up. “I don’t care how much they’re willing to pay. I am getting this house.” And he hung up. “I know you’re here. This house is mine. And if you stay, you’ll be mine too.” He pushed his fallen glasses up and left the room just as the lights went on.

▪◘▪

      We stood in her basement, which held a glow fostered by her aquarium—a pure blue. She was pacing back and forth, as though not sure of what to do with me. As a silhouette, she looked like a heroine from some fairy tale. You know, she’s that kind of girl. Disheveled hair, not a care in the world—her hair seemed wilder and longer, covering her back and having twice the volume. But somehow the curls were much more organized than usual. She went to the left and she went to the right, pacing quite quickly, arms full. I could only see her waving a large rectangle. The nature of this rectangle, I could not tell. 
 

      “Delilah…”

      “No.” She was avoiding my gaze, continually pacing back and forth.

      “I was just going to ask what’s going on.”

      “What’s going on?” She laughed. A single laugh, a clump made of small trills and breaths. “The thing is. You’re not a good person. You aren’t now. You weren’t when we first met. You weren’t any of the meetings after that. You never were. And as far as these charts show. You won’t ever be.”

      She threw down a manila folder full of papers and clippings and attachments from her mysterious hand. There were stable and unstable graphs—line, bar, pie, even a dual graph. There were newspaper clippings about the company as well as myself—mergers, lawsuits, a London Planning Award I’d won, even a student award. My birth certificate, school papers, notes I’d written to teachers and women and business associates alike—my life was there in a giant mass of paper and ink.

      “I mean. It’s almost as if the potential is there. You’re just not taking any initiative. You’re just falling short, really.” She shrugged and raised her eyebrows, pouting very slightly as her left hand raised. “You sell your soul for the company. Now what were the conditions of that promise, that deal?” She finally turned to look at me. The deep streaks in her irises were black and clearly defined against the gold.

      My eyes, too, had widened and my mouth refused to cooperate. Though, I could not know if I would be understandable. I didn’t know how she could have known. How she possibly could have known.

      My father, in all his wisdom, had given me the company. Me and only me, for he had always privately owned it. But the company was dying, though he couldn’t see it. Life was too peaceful. There was not enough business to be had. So I did pray for the company. But I made no promises of return.

      When Delilah showed up in my library, I didn’t know what to say. Women don’t just fall from the sky every other day. Even if they did, there were incredibly minute chances that she might fall onto an isolated building, much less through it. Before I could even get men there, the roof was patched and good as new. It was as if the whole thing never happened. She left no trace of her descent; though there was a white powder lightly scattered the second day, it was gone on the third. War came that day. 
 

      “You were supposed to be a better human being.” The click of her heels became louder. “You may have never promised us this, but it’s expected. Nothing comes for free. And I gave you all the chances in the world, all the chances in the galaxy, all the chances in the universe. I mean, is this just some big joke upon us all? Is it funny to you? Do you think I enjoy being a thief, a murderer, your little errand girl?”

      I almost began to say something—how I had tried, how I couldn’t be all that bad.

      “No, no, no. Not any of your condescension or hollow flattery. We’re looking for sincerity.” She paced faster, thinking quite hard. “But really. What’s up with all the fucking paintings?” She put her hand on her forehead and pushed her hair back. “Do you really think its funny? Taunting me with these fucking paintings!” She lifted the rectangle up and cracked it onto the vacant aquarium, letting the water drain.

      “That’s a Waterhouse!”

      “No.” Her eyes shut and what was left of the painting pointed at me. “The original is in a fucking museum. This. This is an Imation. The bitch was lying. You didn’t even check?” She threw it to the floor.

      The mermaid’s chest and torso cracked from the top right corner down.

      “There are copies in at least three different countries. What was the point of getting it from that woman?” She tilted her head to the right, a crazed look in her golden eyes.

      “You like mermaids…”

      “Like fuck. I’m a woman, but that doesn’t mean I like women. You want to get me a fucking wife, too? I like the ocean. I like swimming. I like animals. Screw the rest.” She lit a cigarette and let the smoke out in a long stream. “Kumeti. You disgust me. You’re worse than barnacles. You’re a parasite.”

      “What are you talking about! Haven’t I given you everything you wanted?” I was nearly pleading. I would have clasped my hands together as if in prayer, but they were locked and bound behind me.

      “You can’t trick me into seeing a hand as freedom. I don’t need you anymore. In fact, she says to kill you.” She raised her gun, nostrils flared for but a moment. And her eyes narrowed.

      “Delilah, don’t do this. You don’t have to. Delilah, just…”

      “Stop it. Stop calling me that!” 
 

      “Wino—”

      “No. Just. Stop talking. I mean, it is what you’re good at, yeah?” Her grip tightened. “You didn’t say anything.” And her grip softened. She was looking down now, hands trembling and slowly falling. “About the active sonar. You could have at least tried. You could have said something. Anything.”

      “They wouldn’t have listened.” I could see there was no way I could have her understand.

      “You could have tried. How do you expect to be a good court justice when you can’t speak for anything? There’s a reason they’re appointed for life. There’s a reason why the company was yours and only yours. You could have changed things. You could have changed. I like rebels. Not yuppies.”

▫◙▫

      I’d been told to destroy it. That ridiculous tower. That stupidly tall tower. I was reluctant. I tell myself to think of the destruction. If they were capable of anything. Who knows what they would have done. We all saw how they had turned to the right, turned to left—went any which way they pleased. Veered. The way they had let themselves be led astray by mere indulgences. How they lacked restraint. It was my duty to give it to them. I could not help it if it was I who was to scatter them.

      Closing my right eye, I aimed the gun for his left. The eye of that disgusting, disgusting man. The man who had forced wars upon countries that could clearly not afford or even need it. The man who had forced the assassination of prestigious men and lowly men. The man who was too stubborn and had to get what he wanted, whether that meant stealing or not. I told myself he was repulsive and he was horrible. That if I didn’t do it there would be hell to pay for everyone, not only for me. But they just had to be blue.

○٭۝٭○

      Delilah fired into the ceiling and dropped her gun to the floor. Water streamed from the hole before it began to crack. Thirteen tons of salt water came down in a torrent of blue. A rainbow of fish and coral crashed and scratched at the floors. Delilah remained standing, unaffected though thoroughly wet. Sloshing through the globs of flesh, stone and calcium concentrated together, the water about three feet high. She lifted Dean’s chin with the tip of her index finger. And said to him. 
 

       “The sun does not rise, on the other side of the night. Shining on no one. It quietly burned.”

      Among all the debris lay a clump of light gold. Mixed with pale brown. Circles of blue. Delilah came across this being, which clung to her bare ankle in confusion. And as she treaded upon one of his many legs, he bit her. But Delilah could not be bothered by this mollusk, kicking it back. This little lump, this little blob of tissue, hit Dean’s back and crawled up it, attempting to hide behind and around his ear. Dean flinched and flailed, shaking his head, as he was unable to get at the little sucker with his restrained hands. So the now bright yellow blue ringed octopus clamped his beak onto Dean’s ear. And Dean began to feel nauseous before his vision blurred and faded, before he lost his hearing, before he was numbed to the world. Losing his senses and falling in place.

      The last witness was a great black cat, ears tipped black. He had lunged into the air, clasping a terrified fish as it flew through the air. Pulling the fish apart, he ate its still beating heart. He slaughtered the sacrificial body, leaving the gills aside. Eating the tail last, almost as a complete after thought. And he walked calmly away. Satisfied. Ignoring both human and water. Above it all.