I Chose to Die (Siren Suicides, Book 1)

Chapter 14. Public Restroom

All I can register of these people is a pattern of blur, one string of masks instead of faces. Atonal, solid, boring. They look like fish, crowded by the glass of a gigantic aquarium, hoping you'll feed them, give them a morsel of something special that will make them forget their misery for a minute. It's like we're passing a wall with moving eyes. Hunter leads and I follow, concentrating on the floor. I mark its square tiles like steps, watching light reflect in them as I skid on wet smears from the dripping shoes of the shoppers. I move through a cloud of that lingering smell of raw fish, and it clings to me, sticky. We reach the stairs and quickly skim down the steel reinforced steps to the market's mezzanine level, deeper into the labyrinth of shops and boutiques and cafes. Here, human traffic gulps us up like a swamp, with a reluctant burp. Right as we reach the floor and are about to turn, Hunter trips and falls.

"Shit! Stupid sneakers." He lowers his head and shakes it, kneeling on all fours on the dirty ground.

"Here, are you okay?" My hand in his, I pull to help him stand. Hunter sways.

Above us, finally out of their trance, the crowd erupts into chaos ready to pour down on our heads. Shoppers on our level measure us with looks reserved for homeless teenage junkies who crawled from under a bridge in a stoned daze, their typical soiled backpacks lost or forgotten. We look like a complete mess. Hunter's face is gray. His hair is matted and bunched up to the side, and his eyes are bloodshot. His hoodie is splattered with mud and his jeans are smeared with it; his sneakers have forgotten their color. I look worse. My left side is clad in shreds of clothing, the naked white skin of my left elbow and left knee looking through. I can't see my face, but I imagine it's very much devoid of color.

Two young couples pass by. I glare at them, defiant. It takes but a second and they turn their heads away, to tune us out. It's safer. We are their future pickpockets. They trot along with eyes averted. How disgusting. I lose my newfound appetite.

"Ignorance is the pinnacle of convenience," I say.

"What?" Hunter says, looking up at the stairs, perhaps waiting for the mob to come and sweep us up. His skin turns ashen.

"Oh, nothing. Can you walk?" I ask.

Suddenly, Hunter's face goes green and he bends over. The after-accident shock must have finally kicked in. I hear his soul waver and then plummet in a crash of noises, most of them sounding like breaking dishes in a kitchen. He no longer feels warm and homey, but rather a disaster brewing, his heart a struggling motor, valves flapping at an irregular pattern. I decide that if he can't walk, I will carry him.

"Hey, you all right? Wanna hide out here somewhere before the freaks get us?" I motion up.

"We need to get rid of your voice," he says quietly, and passes a tremor. Goose pimples rise visibly on his neck as his Adam's apple moves up and down like crazy.

"What?" I say, momentarily stumped. "What do you mean, get rid of my voice?"

I grip his clammy hand for support, although he needs it more than I do right now. I can tell he's on the verge of collapsing. People look at us weird, making a wide circle to bypass, lest we be contagious or something. And our time is up.

I glance up. Two cops make it to the stairs and descend gleefully, a few spectators from our performance right behind them. Their faces are agape with the stench of anticipation, jeering and shouting.

I glance down. From below the market, cutting through the human souls' discord, comes a sound so familiar I can recognize it in my sleep—the grating of expensive tires against asphalt, the last revolutions of the engine, the hand break, and the driver's door opening and closing. It comes from several levels below, from Western Avenue, the other side of the Pike Place Fish Market. Although Papa ditched his old Alfa Romeo and bought a Maserati only this spring, I quickly learned to recognize the sounds of his arrival so I have enough time to dispose of the joint stubs and crushed-can ashtray by throwing them out the bathroom window. As expected, I hear the gentle stepping of his Gucci loafers, lace free for easy slipping on and off, their precious rubber soles grinding into concrete.