Valence 3-2

Paul?

Valence TOC

Read 3-1

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As soon as I unfocus from my surroundings, their absurdity fades and everything appears soundly constructed in my peripheral vision.

"Paul?"

My voice drifts across the lobby, toward a group of desks and chairs in the back corner, disturbing the dust that has settled on the marble floor. Tiny motes float up, catching the light coming in through the glass ceiling. I get the odd feeling that they are watching me.

"Paul!"

Slow, methodical footsteps echo throughout the building. From between the desks and chairs, Paul emerges. He walks cautiously, hands in the pockets of his brown slacks. His eyes lock onto mine and there is a warning in them that startles me.

In a swift motion, the dust motes hanging in the air rush at me and cling to my dress before disappearing.

Paul is still making his way slowly to me, his face carefully neutral. The sound of his shoes on the floor is too loud and I want to cover my ears to stifle the sharp ringing.

He stops about ten feet from me and continues to stare. Seeing his familiar face fills me with a deep sadness. I've missed him these last weeks. I wish I could tell him that.

Silence.

Then, he tips his head back and laughs without joy, his mouth wide open and body tense. He places his hands on his abdomen as if to stabilize himself between mirthless guffaws. He speaks too loudly, too harshly.

"What are you doing here?!"

His smile does not reach his eyes and his voice is filled with malice. He points to my dress.

"And that thing. That's what you've been up to? Did you rush over right afterward to get a congratulations from me?" He claps his hands and bows dramatically. "Congratulations to the bride and groom."

Crossing his arms over his chest, he throws his head back and continues laughing. The sound is laced with a mechanical undertone.

It's not him. It's the too-real projection again.

My shoulders droop and I cover my face with my hands.

"Goddammit, Paul."

The projection stops and turns to me.

"I'm sorry. Have I UPSET YOU?"

I lower my hands and hold them out in front of me. I try not to look annoyed, but sympathetic instead, in the hopes of winning the projection over to my side.

"No, of course not. I don't know what you're talking about. I didn't marry anyone."

Paul's projection licks his lips and shakes his head. He rolls his eyes and turns his back to me.

"I promise. Look, I just really, really needed to see you," I hesitate, "I've...missed you."

Without replying, the projection spins on his heels and walks briskly toward me, stomping his feet. I don't know what to do, so I freeze. He stops in front of me and leans in close to my face, our noses almost touching.

For one tense moment, we stare into each other's eyes. His are flat, lifeless, but they are the right shade of golden brown. He squints, and I register in his eyes a reflection of my own disappointment.

He jumps backward and holds his hands out as if to protect himself from me.

"You're not her."

"Um..."

"You're. Not. Her." he repeats, on the verge of a terrified scream. His eyes dart around the lobby. His chest heaves as he begins to hyperventilate.

There's no way I can fix this.

"No. I'm not your Valerie."

Eyes wide, mouth hanging open, the projection is trying desperately to understand something he cannot. In the most gentle tone I can muster, in the face of my own desperation, I speak to him again.

"I don't know where your Valerie is. I'm not sure how that part works, but I know she meant a lot to you and I'm sure she wishes she could be here."

Paul's projection shows no sign of hearing me. His mouth is still agape, lips trembling. His hands begin to shake where he holds them out in front of himself. The shaking slowly spreads across his whole body. He is soon engulfed in powerful tremors, while his facial features blur in and out of visibility. One second he looks like Paul, the next, his face is a contorted mass of dough, much like the woman I encountered in the open field.

Like applying a bandaid to a severed arm, I try again.

"It's going to be - "

My words are cut off by a wild animal shriek of pain. The projection reaches its hands up to its face and sinks its fingers in. The tips of its fingers plunge into the fake flesh with ease. I feel sick.

It pauses with all ten fingers submerged up to the first knuckle.

"Who are you?" it demands. The fear in its quavering voice is unlike anything I've ever heard. The question sounds like it is being drawn over hot coals in the projection's throat.

I shake my head. All I can manage is an embarrassed whisper, "I'm not her."

Its cry rings out as it proceeds on with the self-inflicted torture. The monotonous wail plays on repeat at perfectly timed intervals as its fingers rake through the putty-like mask, creating deep gulfs set against the dark brown of its skin. The edges where the limp mess of tissue meets the gulfs are turning gray-orange.

I can't do anything but stare.

Fingers become claws that continue to rend horrible gashes down its neck and chest. The black stripes seem to throb and threaten to spill out over the edges of the mass of pulp the projection is becoming.

It is still screaming.

My stomach turns in on itself. I double over, shut my eyes, and press my palms to my ears.

"Please," I breathe.