Someday

He'll be here someday. I know he will. I just have to be patient.

*

It's the waiting that's so difficult. I know he'll be here, but I -

Well, it's hard to wait. It's so lonely here.

*

Mother visited me today. She worries that I do not eat, do not care for my appearance. She says that I grow thin and haggard.

I should eat. I should look nice, for him, when he comes.

He will come.

*

Mother is pleased with me. She says my face is less haggard, and that my hair seems healthy and lustrous again. She spent hours combing it. I complain when she tugs, and it hurts my scalp, but she pays me no mind. Sometimes, I think she cares more for my hair, than for me. It's down to the floor now.

I wonder if he'll think it pretty? Mother says it is.

*

Although I am still young, sometimes I worry that I shall grow old, waiting for him. Old and grey and unloved, wasting all my years of beauty and health. Why does he not come?

He will come, someday. I just need to be patient.

*

I can see for miles, from the window. This tower is so high. Yet, in all these miles of scenery, I never see another living person - except mother, of course.

Sometimes, I wonder how she manages to enter this room, and if, perhaps, I could escape by the same route. There is no door - I have never seen a door, that I recall, but I have read of them, and so have some idea of what they are like. Mother brings me books. She says she does not wish me to be ignorant. Except of certain things, although she does not say that. I merely presume that there are secrets kept from me.

I wonder how much longer it will be?

*

Mother hasn't visited me in a while. She doesn't usually leave me alone for this long.

I wonder if she is dead? I wonder what will happen to me if she is? I do not want for food, or water - all my needs are provided for. I think I shall grow old and die here, waiting for him.

*

Some days, I must confess, I don't believe he will come. I doubt him.

Other days, I wonder if this doubting is, itself, what keeps him away.

Sometimes, I think of watching mother more closely, figuring out her magic, and using it to escape. But what could I possibly do by myself, alone in a world I have only read of? I will be helpless alone. Far better to wait, for him. He wouldn't know how to find me if I left here.

Someday, he'll come.

*

The endless days stretch before me. I wonder how much it would hurt to throw myself from the window?

The speculation is useless anyway. When I step onto the windowsill, the wind blows me backwards. I cannot escape that way.

I remind myself that I must not escape, that I have a destiny waiting for me. I must wait, for him.

How much longer?

*

Sometimes, I don't believe that the world extends any further than these walls. I believe I imagined mother; I have not seen her in so long. Perhaps I imagine everything.

I can do nothing for myself. My only hope is to wait for him.

*

It had been so long since I heard another voice that my own came as quite a surprise to me. Normally, I am silent. There is no one to hear me, and I speak to myself just as well from within the confines of my own head. But, today, I decided to use my voice.

It was rusty through lack of use, at first. It gurgled like a rusty pipe, until I found the use of it. I didn't speak in sentences, or even form words. I made vowel sounds, carrying them for as long as possible, tuning the note in almost forgotten ways until it sounded pleasing to me.

Is this singing? I have read of it, but never heard it. Whatever it is, I enjoy it.

It passes the time while I wait for him.

For My Lover

There's a difference between having sex and making love. It's the same difference as between watching a movie with someone and watching a sunset with them.

It takes longer. You take the time to appreciate every single inch of your lover; all the little things you didn't notice, or didn't take the time to care about before now. You stroke your hands over inch, memorise every contour, every movement, every sound. You use your entire body to memorise theirs.

That's the point of this, you see. To make an experience so intense that it saturates your memory, in vivid 3D, with colours, scents, sounds, and anything else you can possibly take.

It is about taking.

And it's about giving.

It's a way of saying I cared about you, I don't regret you, I want to keep at least this moment.

It's filled with regrets; what has not happened, and what will not. And what has, but shouldn't.

You say things that you haven't said before - things that let them know how you feel about them, what they do to you. It's a gift, for them to keep, long after you're gone.

The orgasm that is final torn from me is almost painful in its intensity.

This is how I say goodbye.

Ink

There are so many of these groups that I don’t suppose it really matters what this one is called. Call them the Ummagumma Clan.

They are virtually identical to any of the costumed vigilante groups who sprang up in the fifties, sixties, and even the seventies and eighties. You may call them superheros if you wish, though none have super powers. The media never cared to make that distinction.

Many of them began with secret identities, but those didn’t last long. Walking through the base, it is, perhaps, obvious as to why.

As the ‘secret entrance’, which is, in fact, surrounded by paparazzi, closes, there is no one in view. “Superheros don’t hang around in lobbies”, the Maiden Margarita had once sniffed, disapprovingly. This is an entrance, not a lobby, but the theory is the same.

Speaking of Maiden Margarita, she comes into sight as soon as one enters the main part of the secret base. Lounging on a sofa, she seems to be in her ‘full’ costume (which consists of very little actual fabric), although one would wager that she has no plans to work today. She’s sipping a glass of what one would guess to be her namesake, although I merely recognise it since she is never pictured without it. I don’t drink myself. Clouds the thinking, not that she seems to mind.

Speaking of names, Margarita is hardly a maiden either, and her skimpy costume doesn’t indicate that she’s unhappy with that state of affairs. Of course, it is possible to wear skimpy costumes and be completely innocent, but Margarita’s manner betrays the benefit of that doubt. She calls something to me as I walk past, some crude remark about ripping my costume off, finally unmasking me and seeing what kind of man I am. I ignore her.

I am the only one who has never been seen out of costume. The only one not to be dramatically unmasked, not to sell pictures of my home and life to the media. The only one to wear a costume which covers every inch of skin, if it comes to that, which doesn’t cling to every curve. The others favour more skimpy outfits, and flimsy masks which are easily removed. Mine covers my entire face.

I pass Echo Man in the entrance to the next room, as I leave Maiden Margarita. He raises his eyebrows at me in a look of scorn, which soon leaves his expression when he walks towards her. He doesn’t like my style, the fact that I prefer to avoid fighting, and find sneakier ways of doing things. They need someone like me in the group, to keep from being petty thugs, but they don’t like me for it. For my part, I don’t like the way his muscles are obvious under his latex costume; the veins crawl along them like worms under the skin, an image which has always disturbed me.

Bonzo, Eclipse and Foxey are arguing as I enter what we refer to as the control room. Bonzo starts when he catches a glimpse of me. He bothers me perhaps the least out of everyone here, but I scare him the most. He is the only one who has never worn a mask, preferring to use clown make-up to cloud his features. His costume wasn’t too tight either, at least not at first. Over the years it has changed, to become more in line with those of Echo Man, Eclipse or even Captain Kashmir, who is away from the base at this point. He’s probably the least arrogant of the four, although that’s hardly difficult.

Bonzo isn’t in costume at the moment, instead dressed in jeans and a T-shirt. He is strong, but one could easily pass him on the street without a second glance, which he prefers, I believe. Although he enjoys the attention of heroics, he also likes to be able to switch it on and off.

I scare him because, although I don’t go in for the cartoony violence that the boys prefer, I am not afraid to break someone’s fingers for information. I have no problem with chaining a multiple rapist to a pipe in a burning building, although I will offer him a hacksaw to at least give him a fighting chance of escape. I’ll even be nice enough to point out that he’ll only waste time if he tries to cut through the cuffs, and that he’ll need to try something else.

Surprisingly few of them ever take me up on that offer, and those who do walk straight into the arms of an angry mob. For some reason, this scares the poor little clown.

Eclipse doesn’t like to show that he’s afraid of me, though I believe that I do worry him a little. Whatever he feels, he hides it under bravado and insults.

“Well, well, it’s the blot!” he cries jovially, with half an eye on Foxey for her reaction. “Been skulking in the shadows again?”

I ignore him, walking past him to the computer. I wonder why he has so much trouble pronouncing a simple three letter word.

“Hey, blot!” he says, annoyed now. “I asked you a question.”

He steps closer to me. I turn around and look up at him, my face blank, as it always is in this mask. Staring into the darkness seems to unnerve people, although to his credit he keeps the act of bravado up a little longer. Behind him, Foxey giggles into her hand. I can read her like a book – one of those little ones about bunnies. She adores the feeling of what she perceives as two men fighting for her attention. She’s always been a bit like that.

Eclipse stalks away, taking her by the hand as he does so. His black cape swishes behind him as the door closes, an effect I’m sure he’d be pleased by. Bonzo walks out after them, with a half-hearted wave to me. Afraid of me as he is, he doesn’t dislike me, unlike the Eclipse.

The Eclipse usually attempts to taunt me. He has to be able to think of himself as the alpha male, with everyone else competing with him but never quite surpassing him. Except for Foxey and the Maiden, naturally. They are the admiring crowds. Of course, from their point of view, this entire masculine display is for their benefit, so they’re perfectly happy with it, most of the time. There’s nothing wrong with that, of course – sexual politics are always going to be a part of the world. But, I want no part of it, and this is something that they simply cannot grasp.

The Eclipse knows that I achieve more with a little of my ‘skulking’ than he does in hours of fighting criminals. It’s just that, to him, it doesn’t seem like the proper way of doing things, the macho way, the way men are supposed to do it. For my part, I couldn’t care less for the proper way. The effective way is more important.

I spend a few hours on the computer. I have one at home, of course, but I cannot plan missions from there.

Well, okay, I could, but I would rather not reveal that ability. Would rather they didn’t realise that I could control this entire base from the comfort of my own home. I’ve never needed to use that ability, but I always like to be three or four moves ahead of the rest of the world.

Soon, it is time for me to head to the aforementioned home. I log out of my ID, and begin to leave.

Perhaps it is time to describe my costume. A full body layer of shifting black and grey shades, covered in a long grey trench coat. Nothing clinging, nothing skin-tight. My facial features cannot even be made out through the costume.

The only recognisable thing about me is the costume itself. I believe this is why I’ve yet to be unmasked. Everyone else has some detail, some tiny little thing, which links their real identities with their super identities. They don’t really care for secrecy. I do.

As I leave, I overhear Foxey and the Maiden discussing me. They don’t think I’m as manly as the others, and they are also a little afraid of me. But, as Foxey confesses, this strangeness, the way I overturn their expectations, is also a little arousing.

I laugh, all the way home.

Although I live fairly close to the base, it takes me far longer to get home than might be expected. I don’t use the jet, which would signal my presence to everyone within a five mile radius, and nor do I simply walk there through the streets. I use a convoluted path of roofs and cellars to avoid being seen on my way to my home. To ensure that, although I cannot completely break the connection, I at least twist and distort it as much as I possibly can.

Finally, I reach home, sure that no one has followed me. Once there, I remove the trench coat, hanging it by the door, out in full view. A trench coat is not a particularly suspicious item – it would be more suspicious, more revealing, if I attempted to hide it. But then, who could possibly suspect me of being Ink? They’d probably come to the conclusion that I’d been hiding him, rather than that I was him.

The inky dark costume I slide out of, folding it up carefully and hiding it under the floorboards, where I could, conceivably, deny its existence. That, coupled with the sheer disbelief anyone would have of my connection to Ink, should keep my identity safe.

I smile to myself as I prepare for bed. Perhaps I am not so different from the others. After all, I like to be surrounded by attention, and a dramatic kind of mystery. I just like to compartmentalise it, to keep each part of my life separate. And so far, I am sure, I have been successful. Before I sleep, I think over Foxey and the Maiden, and their conclusions about me. I am sure that I am safe.

No one would ever believe that Ink is a woman too.

A Football Match

“On me head, mate!”

Joseph looked round, following the movement of the ball far across the makeshift pitch. It was freezing out here, and the ground was slippery in places. He wasn’t exactly lazy, but he was far from athletic, and he had no intention of running after the ball in this weather. Frost glittered on the few areas of grass that still remained. He shivered.

“Chilly, isn’t it?” Commented a cheerful voice from somewhere nearby. Joseph turned. He had thought himself alone, distanced from the others as he was.

The man beside him was taller than he was by a few inches. He might have been older too, but it was more likely they were of similar ages, and Joseph only saw maturity in the man’s height and bearing. His accent sounded strange to Joseph’s ears, and his clothes showed him to be a member of the other team, although this game was so casual it hardly mattered.

“John Bridges,” said the newcomer, holding out his hand. Joseph shook it hesitantly.

“Joseph Schröder.”

Suddenly, loud cheering burst out on the other side of the pitch. John craned his neck, trying to see past Joseph.

“I say, was that one of yours or one of ours?”

It was quite hard to tell, to be fair. The area they had to play in was hardly the right shape, and there were a number of holes littering the field. Occasionally, and usually with a loud yell, players disappeared from sight unexpectedly, and they’d lost three footballs so far.

“One of ours” he replied, guessing from the reactions of the players.

“Oh, well done, what does that make it? Two all?”

Joseph nodded. He liked John Bridges already. It was almost impossible not to. The man’s cheerful, brusque manner and easy smile made him effortlessly charming, as did his seemingly endless enthusiasm.

John sat down on a nearby wall, and, pulled out a pouch of tobacco.

“Smoke?” He asked Joseph, offering him the first cigarette he rolled. Joseph took it, and sat down on the wall next to the other man, searching in his pocket for matches. John rolled cigarettes swiftly, and Joseph lit both of them from the same match before blowing it out.

“Been here long?” John asked. “I’ve been here since the beginning.”

“I got here just after the start,”

“It looked quite nice when we first got here,”

Joseph looked over the makeshift football pitch again. John was right; when they’d arrived, the field had been, if not perfect, definitely greener than it was now.

“You’re right,” he replied, and then the two men sat in silence for a little longer. Well, perhaps ‘men’ is not the most accurate description. Joseph only really needed to shave once a week, if that, and for all his height and maturity, John still gave the impression of gawkiness from some angles, of limbs which didn’t fit his body. He’d begun to fill out, but his body wasn’t yet what it would grow to be. Then again, they were treated as men and given the responsibilities of men, so what difference did it make that they were still only boys?

Although John seemed happy enough to sit and watch the football game, Joseph was shyer. He desperately tried to think of something to say, so as not to be thought rude or boring, but for a while, conversation evaded him.

A loud groan reached their ears, and across the field, Joseph watched two players start arguing.

“What was that, a foul?” Asked John, almost as if he thought Joseph could see better than he could.

“Probably something like that,” Joseph replied. Squinting, he recognised one of the players involved. Otto, his name was. Joseph might describe him as a friend, for want of a better word, although they weren’t close. He wasn’t the most even-tempered person, so it was hardly surprising this had happened, not even considering the other circumstances. When Joseph voiced this thought, John frowned.

“That’s Charlie he’s arguing with. He’s always getting into fights. The captain’s always threatening him with something or other.” For a minute, John’s cheerful face clouded. “You’d think they would have had enough of fighting,” he said, so quietly Joseph wondered if he’d been meant to hear it.

They were both silent for a minute, an awkward silence compared to the peace they had felt earlier. The atmosphere between them had changed; they had remembered that they were enemies.

For once, it was Joseph who broke it.

“Did you leave anyone special at home?”

John looked up. “No…” he started. It seemed like he was going to say more. “Just my parents,” he finished, apparently deciding not to reveal whatever he was thinking.

Joseph took a small photograph from his pocket. “Anna,” he said, allowing John to see the picture.

“She’s very beautiful,”

“Thank you. Her father says, when I get back -” Joseph trailed off. “When I get back…”

“We were meant to be back by now,” John says. Neither of them meet the others gaze.

Joseph looks up at the darkening sky.

“Yes, we were. Over by Christmas, they said.”

The sun was close to setting. Across the field, Joseph could see that the fight had broken up, and the football match seemed to be over.

“Who won?” John called out to someone passing, someone wearing a uniform which matched his own.

“Three-two to them,” he called back. John stood up.

“Good game,” he said to Joseph, extending his hand. As Joseph shook it, he said “I don’t suppose I’ll see you again,”

Joseph shook his head. No, they probably wouldn’t meet again.

“Well, a merry Christmas to you. It wasn’t so bad, was it?”

Joseph looked over the field. Now it was no longer covered with the cheerful, noisy scrum of a football match, it seemed lonely and desolate, and the marks and ditches caused by the falling shells of war were now obvious.

“No…it wasn’t so bad.”

“And a happy new year for next week,” John said. Before he turned to walk back over to join the other soldiers, on the other side of no mans land, he added, “and may 1915 bring an end to this ridiculous war.”