Dwell

By Miik YS

A strong urge compels Cyn to dance a waltz in the precinct parking garage. The same compulsion at the same time forces Ali to waltz in her apartment. The impulses tailor themselves to the women. Cyn faces the overwhelming desire to torture a homicide suspect and shoot a homeless man, while Ali grapples with a yearning to shoplift and steal from a cash register. The women morph into passengers in their own bodies, aware of everything around them but incapable of manipulating events, like passengers on a bus watching the world pass by beyond the windows, while the influence nobbles them toward maiming, mayhem, and murder.
The duo subsist like most people, never questioning why they act as they do, never scrutinizing who or what sways them until an unknown influence threatens to swallow their lives. What about you? Who or what shapes your dealings? Do you even know? Does your will control you, or have you acquiesced to some other force without even realizing it?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Miik YS
• Release date: Nov 9, 2020
• ISBN: 9781005085933

Miik YS

The story is important, not me. I craft stories that are enjoyable at a surface level. The works include other levels of imagery, symbolism, and meaning should the reader want to delve deeper into the stories.

Book preview

Chapter One

I Have Such a Strong Urge

The detective pulled her unmarked police issued SUV into the parking garage underneath the precinct where she glided into a parking spot. As she reached for the power button on the FM radio, she paused a moment with her fingers on the knob.

The person on the radio chattered. …because she dwelled on it for so long, she just couldn’t get past it. You know how it is. Anyway, it’s going to be another hot one this sunny Tuesday, July ninth. It’s ten o’clock, and here is your latest news. The man arrested last month for the attempted murder of a judge made a statement in court yesterday. He said that he didn’t realize until too late that the so-called news outlet was in essence a propaganda ministry for the current administration. So when that outlet so incensed him with a story, he naturally wanted to defend his country. The undue influence wielded over him essentially brainwashed him. The—

She switched off the radio. With a deep breath, she felt for her service weapon in the holster on her belt and exited the vehicle. Two steps from her SUV, a searing pain ripped into her brain. The detective clutched her head and sank to her knees, mustering only a shriek and a long groan.

Such a pain might be from a bullet to the head, so she dragged her fingers through her hair, checking for an entrance wound on her scalp. She even examined her hands for any blood, but they were clean.

Detective Kaipahua, are you okay? A uniformed police officer jogged over to her. What happened?

She struggled to speak. Don’t… know. She bowed her head and cradled it in her arms while sinking to a squat. Her straight black hair and bangs cascaded over her arms. A minute seemingly longer than an eternity crawled by. Detective Kaipahua raised her head. Hey, it’s gone. The pain is gone. It came on all at once, and just like that it’s gone. Huh. It felt like a bomb exploded inside my head.

The officer helped her to her feet. Do you feel okay now?

I don’t know. I feel strange. I’ve never experienced a feeling like this before. I don’t think there are any words to describe it. I feel crowded if that makes any sense. I don’t feel alone… or isolated even though I didn’t feel alone before this occurred. That’s crazy.

An urge swelled inside her. Dance. Dance. Dance. Waltz. Twirl. Spin. Dance. Go with flow. Flow with dance. Dance. Waltz.

Were you on your way in or out? The officer held her arm to steady her.

Uh, I was coming… into the precinct. I… I’m working… a case… I just—

What’s wrong?

It’s hard… to focus.

Dance. Dance now. Dance. Dance or die. Dance or die. Dance now.

Maybe you should see a doctor or something. The brain is nothing to screw around with.

Yeah… I… I… I can’t. Detective Kaipahua shook her head to clear it. I have… such a strong… urge. I don’t know… what to do.

The officer glanced around for help. What do you mean? Should I go get help? An urge to do what? Do you need to use the facilities?

Dance now. Dance waltz. Waltz now. Twirl. Spin. Da-da-da-da-de, dum-dum, dum-dum. Dance. Waltz.

It’s… it’s an… to dance. Detective Kaipahua yanked her arm free of the officer. She waltzed there on level three of the parking garage, without music, holding an invisible partner. The detective twirled and spun, sometimes wrapping her arms around her invisible partner, pulling it close to her body, and other times spreading her arms and twirling. A smile spread across her face as she hummed and mumbled her own music. Da-da-da-da-de, dum-dum, dum-dum. Da-da-da-da-de, dum-dum, dum-dum.

Detective? Detective? The officer shuffled from one foot to the other. He peered at the entrance to the building. Get hold of yourself. What are you doing?

After a moment, Detective Kaipahua ceased dancing, now a number of paces from the officer. I, uh, I don’t know. I just had such an urge to dance. It’s weird because I don’t really like dancing, certainly not waltzing. I haven’t danced since I was younger. If I’d done something like that during my military days, I probably would’ve faced an Article 15 hearing or maybe worse… what they used to call a Section 8 discharge for being crazy. I don’t know— The same pain shot through her skull. Again she clawed at her head and squatted to avoid toppling over. She roared in pain.

The officer ran to her. He squatted beside her, draping an arm over her shoulders. I’ve got you. Hang on. Should I call an ambulance?

She struggled to speak even the single word. No.

He held his tongue a moment. I think I should. You aren’t right. Something’s wrong with you. What if you’re having a stroke or something?

Detective Kaipahua released her head after a moment. There. The pain’s gone. She shook her head to test for any pain. Yup. I’m okay. I feel fine now.

Yeah, but you felt fine before, and then you started acting weird. Strokes can cause behavioral changes.

Are you a doctor in your spare time?

No, I saw it with my father before he passed away.

She rose to her feet. Oh, sorry.

He stood with her. Forget it. I’m just trying to help.

I appreciate that, but I’m fine now.

That’s what you said before, but then you started dancing.

It’s different now. I don’t feel crowded anymore. That oddball sensation is gone. I feel alone now.

I’m here for you.

That’s not what I mean. I’m back to myself. Uh, were you coming or going? She adjusted her hair.

I’m leaving. I’m supposed to be on patrol, but I don’t want to leave you alone like this. Let me help you inside. I don’t mind.

"I do mind. Thanks for your concern and for staying by me. I’m fine now. I’m going inside. If you’d keep this little incident to yourself, I’d appreciate it. It’s embarrassing enough. I don’t need everyone treating me like I’m some delicate porcelain doll."

Whatever you say, detective. Duty calls. He nodded and strode away.

***

A mom used her forearm to push her blond hair from her face as she dried the hands of her sixteen month-old boy in the kitchen.

Mommy, come play with me. Her three year-old daughter offered a crayon from the dining room table. Can you make me another crown? The one you made before ripped.

In the background, a radio played. It’s ten o’clock this sunny July ninth, and that means it’s the start of our all request work day here in the house where rock dwells. That means we only play what you tell us to. We’ll start this hour with a request from Ali Sekutu.

The daughter’s jaw dropped. Mommy, he said your name. Are you famous? The man on the radio said your name.

Ali strolled into the dining room with her hand outstretched to take the crayon her daughter proffered. I heard, Lugu. He’ll play the song I— The mother of two screamed and dropped to her knees. With her arms wrapped around her head, she curled into a fetal position. Ahh. Ow.

Mommy, what’s wrong? Her daughter dropped her crayons and stood.

Head… hurts.

Her toddler son ran to her side and squatted beside her. He rubbed her bicep. It’s okay. You’re fine. You’re fine. He blew on her head. Better?

Ali rolled on the floor, consumed by the pain, unaware of anything else. She knocked over her son beside her.

Considering whether to cry or laugh, his eyes bounced from his mother on the floor to his sister standing over their mother. His sister grinned, so he giggled.

Mommy, are you defective? Her daughter leaned over her.

Fective. Her brother parroted her.

Not fective, Masum, defective.

Fective. He spoke more firmly.

Mommy, Grandma said you’re defective. She said you don’t show it in front of us, but when you’re with Daddy, you make him sad. She said your steaks come out when we sleep. Are you making a steak now? Should I call Grandma?

Ali winced with the pain another moment until it vanished. She opened her eyes and drew deep breaths. Whoa, I’ve never suffered anything like that before. What was that? Slowly standing and noticing her son on the floor, she lifted him to his feet while her daughter resumed drawing.

An urge blossomed inside her. Dance. Dance. Dance. Waltz. Twirl. Spin. Dance. Go with flow. Flow with dance. Dance. Waltz.

Are you, Mommy?

Am I what?

Fective. Her son climbed onto a dining room chair and pawed the crayons.

Ali blinked rapidly. What?

Was that a steak? Did you make a steak?

Steak? You mean a mistake?

Yeah, a mistake, when you rolled on the floor?

No, Mommy… got hurt. Mommy’s head… hurt so bad. Even now… Mommy feels… strange. She struggled to focus. What was… Masum… saying? Ali clutched at the dining room table.

Dance. Dance now. Dance. Dance or die. Dance or die. Dance now.

Defective, but he can’t say it right. Lugu giggled.

Fective. Masum spoke louder.

Where did… you two… learn that?

From Grandma. She told us all about how you’re defective. She told us how you’re a steak… a mistake, I mean.

She… said that?

Yeah. She always tells us about how Daddy does everything for us, and how you always mess it up.

That’s… enough. She shook her head and focused on her children.

Dance now. Dance waltz. Waltz now. Twirl. Spin. Da-da-da-da-de, dum-dum, dum-dum. Dance. Waltz.

Grandma said we’d have lots more fun with her and Daddy all the time if only you would go away. Are you going away, Mommy?

Ali hunched over the table with her hands spread to steady herself, but still her hips swayed. No. Wouldn’t you… miss me… if I… went… away?

Dance. Dance now. Dance. Dance. Dance or die. Dance or die. Dance now. Dance. Now dance. Now dance. Dance. Dance.

I don’t want you to go, Mommy.

You… what? I can’t… resist. I don’t… know why. Ali held out her arms like a ballerina. She swayed to the music on the radio, staggering and twirling as if a drunken elephant were learning to dance.

Are you dancing, Mommy? Her daughter left her drawing to accompany her mother. She snagged her mother’s hands and joined in a free-form dance; soon her younger brother joined in as well.

Ali took turns twirling herself and spinning her children. Are you two okay? Do you feel okay?

Masum nodded as he gazed straight up at her face.

Yeah, why? Lugu focused on her own twirling.

Mommy feels different. You don’t feel different?

Nope. Should I call Grandma?

No, why would you call her? Ali ceased dancing although her two children continued.

She told me I should if you had problems. Are you having problems, Mommy?

No, I just— The pain scorched her head again. She staggered into the living room and crashed into an end table, breaking the lamp on it as well as one of the table’s legs. Ali cradled her head, oblivious to the pain in her ribs where she collapsed on the furniture. The pain ripped through her brain for a moment before disappearing. She struggled to her feet, only then wincing at the pain from her ribs.

Her daughter pressed numbers on her mother’s cell phone.

Ali took the phone. Lugu, who are you— Why are you calling Grandma?

I don’t want to, but she said that if Mommy is having problems that I had to call. You’re having problems, Mommy. You are.

"I’m your mother, not her. You do what Daddy and I tell you to do, not her."

But Daddy told me to do what Grandma says.

Maybe when she’s watching you, but not when you’re with me or him. Got it?

Chapter Two

You’re Sick in the Head

The next morning, Ali gazed out a window of her fourth floor apartment. Detective Kaipahua, on the sidewalk below, strolled to her SUV parked on the street. Others went about their business like any other day. She pivoted to face her mother in law. I should only be a couple hours or so.

Oh, don’t worry about it. Make a day of it. I’ll have lots of fun with the two munchkins. Her mother in law stood in the kitchen watching the children visible through the dining room into the living room. She never deigned to waste a gaze on her daughter in law.

I’m sure you will. Ali stepped beside the gray haired woman and placed a hand on her shoulder while whispering. Listen here, old woman. I’m perfectly willing to have a cordial relationship with you. I’m also willing to overlook your unhealthy and unnatural love for your son, but if you say anything to my kids ever again to turn them against me, I’ll fix it so you never see them again. You get me?

She gasped. Where’s this coming from? Her exaggerated voice complimented her flummoxed expression.

Don’t play innocent. I know you’ve been telling my kids that I’m defective, that I’m a mistake. It ends now, understand?

The mother in law’s voice transformed into a growl. You don’t scare me. You think my son would allow you to keep me from my grandchildren? One word from me—

Ali’s whisper morphed into a hiss. "I don’t need his permission. They’re my children. I’m their mother. She raised her blouse to display the bruise on her ribs from yesterday. With a single phone call, I can make it so neither you nor your son ever see my children again. The authorities take a really dim view of domestic violence, you know."

He didn’t do that to you.

Do you keep track of the bruises he gives me? You know damn well what he does. You’ve watched him do it. What I tell people happened to me depends on what you say to my kids. Screw with my family, and I’ll destroy yours. Now that we got that straight, have fun babysitting. I’ll be back in a few hours. Ali hugged and kissed her children then strutted out of the dwelling.

On the walkway to the street, she met a neighbor approaching the building. Morning, Mr. Santos.

He stopped. Uh-uh. What’s my name?

Ali halted, too. Sorry, it seems disrespectful.

No. That’s how I want to be known. It makes everyone happy.

Have it your way. Good morning, Santa.

Ho, ho, ho. Her neighbor, with flowing white hair and beard, wire rimmed glasses, and even red shorts, held his round belly while he laughed. That’s the spirit. Now you’ll have a pleasant day.

Do you ever wonder if people like you so much for you, or because you really look like Santa, and that influences them toward you?

I don’t really care. Putting them in a good mood makes them more likely to be nice to one another and to help one another. That’s what’s important.

Ali caressed his forearm. You’re a good neighbor. We’re lucky to have you in the building. I heard you consoled that newly widowed woman on the sixth floor. It’s hard to know what to say in a situation like that. Her grown children said in the lobby the other day that they appreciated how you raised her spirits.

Well, her husband was a good guy, so it was easy to reminisce and point out the full life he lived, not to mention all the people who are better off for having known him.

I hope you don’t pass for a long, long time, but when you do, I hope you’ll have ten times as many people consoling your family. I know I’ll be one of them… that’s if I outlive you.

Ho, ho, ho. If you’d asked me yesterday morning, I might’ve said the end was near for me.

Oh? Were you sick?

No, I just felt odd. It passed after a few minutes. It turned out to be nothing. I’m not young anymore, you know. You’re barely out of diapers, but I’ve been kicking around for so many decades.

Don’t say that. You’re like the mayor of our neighborhood. You’re always helping everyone. I don’t know where you get your energy, but I could sure use some. My two kids run me ragged.

He laughed. I know how that is. Luckily, mine are almost grown now, so that’s why I have energy to spare. I didn’t when they were young like yours. Speaking of my kids, I have to go; they’re waiting. See you. He headed inside.

Ali strolled down the street to the corner bus stop. From there, a bus conveyed her to a mall just opening. She bought a coffee and strolled around the center court, basking in her quiet time around other adults.

***

Ali relaxed on a cushioned couch in the mall center court amid the glaring signs designed to entice shoppers into the stores, and the more subtle semaphores impelling the customers to subconsciously crave the shopping experience. She sipped the last mouthful of coffee and glanced around at the few patrons of the mall due to the early hour. Spying a trashcan to dump her coffee cup in, she leaned to stand, but a sharp pain stabbed her head. The pain, lasting a moment like the day before, packed far less intensity than the two episodes from the previous day. She dropped her empty paper cup to focus solely on the pain. It consumed her full attention. Still, it didn’t leave her rolling on the floor cradling her head in her arms and crying out uncontrollably in pain as she had the day before.

She waited for it to pass, unable to do much of anything else. The mother of two bore that same odd sensation after the pain subsided. Although no one else strolled anywhere near her, a feeling of being crowded pervaded her. Ali crushed her empty coffee cup while expecting the urge to dance to swell within her once again. It never materialized. A full ten minutes zipped by with no unusual urges, no further pains, nothing at all out of the ordinary other than that odd sensation of crowdedness.

Ali tossed away her cup in the trash as she strolled from the indoor food court area toward one of the larger department stores anchoring the mall. Inside, she drifted into the children’s department, perusing the girls’ dresses and the boys’ jeans. From there, she browsed the men’s department. Despite the calendar and the rising heat of the day outside insisting the date was July 10, the store already displayed autumn fashions. A sweater might be just the thing for her husband, but she refolded it neatly and put it back in the stack. Maybe if it went on sale, it might be worth the money. Not now.

She roamed to the women’s department, dawdling here and there to admire nice outfits, but ones she didn’t need. The mother of two barely noticed a sheer blouse out of the corner of her eye while approaching a sweater.

Sheer blouse nice. Try on. Look good. An urge overwhelmed her.

Ali fingered the sweater before her. Its white angora wool and classy appearance promised it would remain a favorite in her closet for many autumns and winters to come. The price and the oppressive heat outside forced her to abandon it on its hanger. She strolled by the sheer blouse.

Blouse nice. Feel. Delicate. Need. Need bad. Good on skin.

Ali fingered the material of the blouse. She mumbled. It’s thinner than pantyhose.

You can try it on if you like.

Ali spun around. Oh, you startled me.

Sorry, I didn’t mean to sneak up on you. A sales clerk draped the sleeve of the sheer blouse over her bare arm. We just got these in. They’re so nice. I don’t expect they’ll hang around for long. I think people will snap them up fast.

Ali stepped back. No, I don’t think so.

Perfect. Need. Sexy. Get blouse. Get blouse. Take blouse. Take blouse.

It’s practically see through. Ali held the sleeve to the back of her hand. It’s almost exactly the same color as my skin tone. It would look like I’m not wearing anything.

Hot body. Need blouse. Try on. Try on now.

That’s not a bad thing. The sales clerk fondled the blouse. That’s the style in summer. If you pair it with a pretty bra, maybe something lacy in a contrasting color to make it stand out, it would look really elegant while showing off your nice figure.

Try on. Try on. Try on. Need blouse. Need bad. Try on. Try on.

Ali shook her head. I’m a mother of two. I think the days of me pulling off a fashion statement like that are behind me. Thanks anyway.

Is there anything else I can show you? We have new fall fashions in. The clerk trailed her.

No, thanks. I’m just looking.

That’s fine. I’m around if you need anything. She peeled away and tidied a stack of jeans.

Back. Back. Try on. Need blouse. Need bad. Try on now.

Ali stood before a rack of clothing, not paying attention to the styles, the fabrics, or the colors. She drew a deep breath as she waited for the impulse to pass.

Try on. Try on. Try on. Try on. Try on. Need blouse. Need blouse. Need blouse now. Need bad. A fire klaxon sounding in each ear wouldn’t drown out the impulse to get the blouse.

She pawed at the clothes before her, but the urge blossomed so that she failed to focus on anything else.

Try on. No harm. Need bad. Need blouse. Try on blouse. Try on. Try on. Try on blouse.

Ali picked through a few of the sheer blouses to find her size. She carried it to the fitting rooms while the sales clerk busied herself with another customer on the far side of the department. In the fitting room, she removed her shirt and slipped on the sheer blouse.

Need bra. No. No. No bra. Just blouse. Only blouse. Show breasts.

No, this is what a prostitute might wear. She muttered while buttoning the blouse although she never faced a stronger desire to remove her bra.

Blouse yours. Take. Take blouse. Need blouse. Take.

This isn’t for me.

Take. Take blouse. Remove anti-theft. Stuff in purse. Take. Secret. Take. Remove protection. Pull off. Pull off. Pull off.

Ali slipped out of the blouse and pulled her shirt back on. She fingered the anti-theft button clamped onto the tail of the blouse. Wedging her fingers into the gap between the two sides, one on the outside of the blouse, the other on the inside, she tugged but failed to pry apart the device.

Pull. Off now. Off now. Pull. Hurry. Remove. Yank. Pull. Pull now. Hurry.

Growing exasperated, she wrenched the anti-theft device too hard, ripping the sheer blouse.

Hide. Stuff away. Rid. Replace. New blouse. Hurry. Swap.

Ali balled up the blouse and tucked it behind her back as she stepped out of the fitting room. No one loitered nearby, so she stashed it in the center of a circular rack of hanging clothes. With any luck, no one would find it for weeks. She nonchalantly slipped another sheer blouse in her size off its hanger and crammed it in her purse. Wandering around more, rather than making a beeline for the door, she passed the unattended cash register since the sales clerk dealt with customers over by the dresses.

Anti-theft tool. Use. Remove. Use now. Pull. Remove. Use now. Remove.

She slid just the tip of the blouse tail out of her purse and applied the tool to pry apart the two halves of the security button while hovering beside the register.

Shoes beside register. Take. Use bag. Take shoes. Take now. Hurry. Take shoes. Take shoes. Hurry. Take now. Use bag. Take.

Ali tried to focus on the others in the store, but her mind failed to pierce through the clutter of the compulsions flooding her. She bundled the stiletto heeled shoes someone must have returned that lay beside the register into a shopping bag mostly to relieve the urge and clear her mind.

Open register. Take money. Hurry. Take now. Alone. Take. Take money. Take money. Take now. Open register. Take money. Secret. Take money.

Ali pressed the button. The register drawer opened, making noise. She snatched the bills from the various denomination compartments.

Take. Take all. Take it. Get out. Get away. Take it. Run. Run. Run now. Run