Eight

By Décio Gomes

Between the realm of Earth and Heaven are many mysteries. Between Heaven and Hell are countless doors. Between life and death, there are, also, countless connections. The number eight relates to each one of them. Either in a cosmic balance, a circle or square, be in this world or the in-between: everything is represented within the eight, which upside-up indicates quantity, and on its' side incorporates the infinity. 

Eight stories. Eight feelings. Eight forms to say what remains inside. Eight gazes. Eight colors: eight forms to talk about sorrow and love.
 

• Language: English
• Publisher: BadPress
• Release date: Mar 8, 2021
• ISBN: 9781071591512

Book preview

Décio Gomes

EIGHT

Includes the following short-stories:

Marco Polo

The Mask Collector

The Wall of Decades

Dead River

Memories’ Dwelling

401 Street

The Hanged Souls

Eternal

Marco Polo

Welcome to Marco Polo, the exceptional opening of EIGHT. Despite the title, which refers to exploration and adventure, this short-story is a sweet tale about a small animal. Specially written for the anthology Os Animais também Vão para o Céu published by Sinna, it's my first text focused on this theme. Soon it became very dear to me because I always fight against the urge to bring home every kitten and puppies I find on the streets.

*

When Nara opened her eyes, the first thing she saw was the white ceiling of the room. The window was open, bringing in gentle sunlight and scattering a yellow ray across part of the room, brightening the place with the warmth of a new morning. The double bed, covered by sheets and colorful pillows, moaned when she stretched. She looked to the side and found a fragile body of a child partially covered by one of the sheets. His head was completely hidden under the pillow, while his slender body winced in a mix of laziness and a search for a better sleeping position.

Good morning, my dear the woman said, softly stroking the child's right shoulder. It's time to wake up.

No, mommy answered a hoarse voice of a boy, still partially asleep. It's too early yet.

Yan, you need to get ready for school, or you'll be late!

The pillow was removed and the boy, nagging, turned to face his mother. His eyes only slightly opened as it tried to adjust to the light. His face was fair as the ceiling of the room, the lips dry and dark circles indiscreetly contoured his little eyes, as he awakened. His head didn't have even a single hair.

He unwillingly got up, watched closely by the mother at the side of the bed, ready to guide him. Once already up, his pajamas seemed to be twice his size and didn't fit his body. He raised his right hand, and the woman held it with a smile. They crossed the room, leaving behind a pile of shredded papers the boy had played with before sleeping, and soon entered the small suite that was part of the dormitory.

Make it really warm, mommy! the boy demanded, watching the mother prepare the bath.

But it's not cold today. Did you see the sun outside?

It's ok. I like hot baths.

Alright then. Just don't come complaining about the heat once you finish.

The bathtub filled slowly, and when the warm steam blurred the mirror of the bathroom, Nara took off her son's clothes and helped him get in the bath. He sat down, and the water covered his body up to his shoulders. His tiny teeth smiled signaling to the mother that the temperature of the bath was just as he liked.

Can I leave you here for a while to prepare our breakfast? she asked, drying her hands on a fluffy towel. 

Yes, mommy. I can take care of myself!  

Good kid.

Nara got up, stepped away from the bathtub, and walked to the door. She turned around and gave a quick look before leaving. She saw Yan moving one of his hands across the water to create small waves, navigating through the white tub with a rubber duck of vivid yellow color – so bright it blatantly contrasted with the pale skin of the child.

In the kitchen, the sun also shone through the window, creating a radiant atmosphere through which Nara walked from one place to the other, either to get utensils or to pour the coffee powder into the newly bought red coffee pot. She completed the morning tasks while focused on the sound of the water in the bathtub, a sign that everything was alright, and so let herself be taken by the rhythm of the begin of an entirely typical day.  Nara's days, however, were not at all normal: all mornings were grey – even as the sunlight came through the window – for a single mother who raised by herself a son affected by a terrible and dilacerating cancer in an irreversible stage.

Marco? she asked as soon as she noticed the sounds from the bathroom diminish.

Polo! Tan answered a few seconds later, his weak voice straining to reach the kitchen.

It was a sort of code that involuntarily came up between mother and son. To her, it was necessary to know if the boy was still alive; to him, it was the only available resource to show he wasn't going nowhere.

The sound from the daily news caught Nara's attention, but she soon remembered she hadn't turned on the television. Confused, she heard the roaring of the coffee pot, as well as the eggs frying over the fire. The barks of the neighbor's dog, coming from outside, stood out over all the noise, and while she tried to focus, she realized the absence of the water sound.

Marco?

The question once again slid across the room, but this time there was no word of answer. Nara's heart grew distressed and anxious. Leaving the breakfast and barking behind, she silently moved like a shadow towards the bathroom. She pushed the door with one hand, came in, and her puzzled eyes only saw a bathtub filled with water and a yellow duck sailing with no direction.

With her nerves in outrage, she returned to the bedroom in search of her son, but he also wasn't on the bed. She returned to the kitchen, searched in the living room, but Yan was nowhere to be found. Marco?, She repeated and received silence in return. Only when hit by a memory, did she decide to search in one last place in the small house. She walked around the other rooms and soon found a white door under the stairs – a door that kept a tiny closet which served as a booking deposit. It was half-open, and her trembling finger reached out to open the door. She signed.

Inside the closet was a sort of hut made out of books. Two piles served as columns to sustain a blanket. The fabric was thick and the threads very well weaved. Nara could barely see through it. There wasn't any movement coming from inside the hut, but she still felt her throat quivering in the same previous call:

Marco?

Polo!, Yan answer at the same time when the alarm rang at eight in the morning and released Nara from what was her most recurrent dream for the past couple of months.

The first thing she saw upon waking up was the white ceiling of the room, but there wasn't any sign of the warm sunlight as in her dream. Through the half-open window, there was only a breeze of cold wind along with a fading light sliding across the grey sky that morning.  There were just sheets and a pillow next to her. Yan wasn't there. 

Yan had died eight weeks ago. His last breath, as well as his last smile, both happened on a bed that wasn't this. In this house, the rubber duck no long sailed in the bathtub. Beneath the stairs, the hut of books remained empty, completely silent. Yan was gone without saying goodbye, in his sleep, during some raining dark hour at dawn. He had left at mere eight years of age, leaving behind a devasted mother who was now a prisoner of grief and loneliness.

The alarm clock was still ringing from Nara's cellphone over the nightstand, and to avoid a bigger annoyance, she grabbed and looked at it. Nine o'clock session, was written in red letters on the screen. She set it on mute and quickly left the bed when she noticed there was less than an hour to get ready. She rushed to the bathroom, washed up fast in the lukewarm water from the shower and, without worrying about breakfast, left the house where she now lived alone.

*

In the therapist's office, Nara sat waiting on an armchair. Her legs crossed, eyes focused on a bookshelf, feeling the scent of cleanness the place exhaled. Sometime later, from one of the corners of the room, a tall woman showed up, with dark skin and hair skillfully braided. She was carrying two teacups, handed one to Nara, and sat in front of her on another armchair. Her gaze was piercing yet reassuring.

Good morning, Nara she started, with a strong accent of someone who hasn't always lived in Brazil. How are we today?

Good morning, Dra. Amira the patient, answered after a sip of tea.

Just Amira, remember? No titles here.

It slipped my mind. Forgive me. My mind is full.

Did you try what we agreed on our last talk?

Yes, I tried. I sought many ways to keep myself occupied during vacant hours. I started pottery classes again, but it hasn't been working.

The tasks will slowly fill your mind. The fact you decided to go back, and do it is already a huge step. Are you still unable to sleep well?

It's been more comfortable to sleep, but the dreams keep coming to me.

Every night?

Every night, with tiny changes.

You wake up next to your son, leaves him in the bathtub, makes coffee, and when you come back, he's not there anymore. 

That's right. He's always in the closet, beneath the stairs. And that's how the dream always ends, even when I don't wake up. Nothing else comes after.

Your mind seems not yet ready to forget the habit you had every morning. It's a reminder of that task you two had every day upon waking up.

I just don't understand the reason he had to run away and hide in the book hut. He only did it when he felt alone while I was still working and left him with the nanny. I'd always come home and find him there, just waiting for me. I never heard if he had the same behavior in the orphanage before I adopted him, but I think now it's too late to know.

The hut was like a refuge from solitude, wasn't it? We know he came from a community household, and maybe there was some fear, some trauma. Now, however, what I can see is this refuge, that was first his, now it seems to be yours. Your dreams seem to convert it to images you recognize.

I don't...I don't know.

Do you think you're not yet ready to undo the hut? Maybe the dream will change. Maybe Yan doesn't need to hide there anymore if your mind knows the place doesn't exist any longer.

Nara brought one hand to her forehead, leaned her head and signed painfully, unsure of how to answer. She sought strengths within herself to remain strong, not to let the structure keeping her from crying in public fall apart, without yelling in anger, without spending hours immersed in deep and dark depression.

I don't know if I'm ready for anything. Everything feels empty and meaningless. The house is hollow without his toys, without the shredded paper on the floor, without him hiding his head beneath the pillow to avoid the light. I'm not complete without him there. I'm nothing without him here with me.

"He might not be with you, Nara, but he's within you. He lives within your heart, your memories, and even the moments you shared together are stronger than the pain you feel right now. He was with you for almost six years, during which you taught him and learned with him, loved and was loved, smiled and cried. You took him from a life without love, gave him a home and everything any child needs. This is Yan's legacy. Brief, but very intense." 

Incapable of holding back her tears, Nara collapsed crying and leaned back on the armchair. The therapist, aware those tears at the