#004: Pensieve (2)

[David Sanchez]

004: The Pensieve Series
B - Beautiful Birds, Part 2 of 3

---

To build a nest,
we pecked feathers from our chests.
Like a book tearing out every page
We weren't to know that these feathers would grow,
into a beautiful cage.

Michael Rosenberg, (Passenger)

Front Hall
De Sanches Residence
150 Balboa Heights, Newport
Orange County, California, USA.
05/11/2009 - 06:05

How foolish was I? In the whole three days that had flown by between Victor’s death and my arriving back at the metaphorical circus tent I’d come to call home; not once had I bothered to look up from the needle long enough to spare a thought for Samantha or the boy. So caught up was I; in what had felt like my own rebirth that I’d neglected to think how this might be eating away at my rag and bone, patchwork family.

“The English entrepreneur, Victor Saint; one of the richest men in the Western world-- better known to the world as Saint Victor has passed away on Tuesday afternoon at the age of 71. It is thought that the cause of his death is a cancerous brain tumor that was diagnosed just six months ago. The deceased, a long-serving Colonel in the British Special Forces who moved to Chicago, Illinois in 1993 is thought to be outlived by his only daughter, Samantha (21) who has been missing since last November after her public meltdown is said to have cost her father an election that may have seen him become Chicago’s new Mayor…”

The deep, booming voice of Channel 4’s lead newscaster powers out of the surround sound speakers that cover most of the internal walls throughout the lower level of Chateaux Sanchez as I turn my key, prying open the front door. Only to reveal not the stately manor I’d left behind last week, but an unkempt breeding ground for bacteria. Funnily enough; I recalled paying the housekeeper in advance before I’d left for Baltimore to say farewell to my oldest, and dearest of friends.

“Majority control of SaintCorp, a universally revered conglomerate with interests in oil, real estate and third-world development as well as applied sciences has fallen to the deceased’s protege and the man who was arranged to marry Samantha before her meltdown; a twenty-eight year old, South American study by the name of David de Sanches. This arrangement has been put in place until such a time that the only qualifying heir to the Saint empire comes of age. Kayden Saint, the son of Samantha, and grandson of Victor is currently not much more than a year old but he too is currently missing with his mother, presumed to be overseas and being raised under a false identity.”

An infant’s neglected cries pierce through the patter of the news presenter, cutting off the friendly face of Channel 4 in a most unsettling of manners. How exactly a pristine, paid-to-to-be-clean estate finds itself this filthy in the first place is above and beyond my comprehension. Setting down my suitcase against the front door, closing it behind me and locking it to keep out the prying paparazzi that had been following my every move since Victor’s mortality was made public knowledge I exhale sharply then make the stupid mistake of following this up with a large inhalation… yummy-- ammonia and piss.

“Any information regarding the whereabouts of Samantha or Kayden Saint is being sought by authorities both domestic and abroad. For the present though, all things SaintCorp related are running through de Sanches-- a relatively unknown entity in all of this, seeming to have popped up from out of nowhe--”

Finally able to shake the paralyzing, putrid aroma of urine and drug-use I flip the power switch on a plug-socket; shutting the television down completely. Nyx, Samantha’s long-haired and short-lived, feline friend rubs up against my hand as I crouch down to do this; only providing a momentary comfort before the same cries from before spear through my eardrums and ring eternal in my skull. Stepping across a sparse sea of pizza boxes and gram-sized polythene baggies, I make for the stairs and the source of the unnerving noise. First unlocking, opening and re-locking the front door-- letting the cat out for what I guessed to be the first time in days. Muttering some less than flattering things about my wife-to-be.

“You useless cunt… you disgustingly incompetent….”

With each stride up the solid oak staircase, the smell which had served as welcome mat seems to bleed into another; equally off putting aroma-- that of soiled diapers. Turning the handle on the master bedroom door, it doesn’t take me too long to identify the source of this. Sprawled out, face-down on the four-poster bed lies Samantha, looking more like her father than ever before, but even more alarming-- Kayden screams bloody murder from his crib in the corner of the room. Again I navigate clutter, this time a mountain of used nappy sacks that had been carelessly tossed from the changing mat to what I can only imagine my Sleeping Beauty had designated as the dumpster section of the high-gloss mahogany floor.

“I suppose pancakes and bacon are out of the question, then?”

With a handful of her jet-black hair, I lift her head from the bed, making sure she was breathing before letting it loosely flop back into the sheets. That was the thing with Sam, she was so fuckin’ pale to begin with, that it was hard to tell when she was fine and when she was going full Pulp Fiction Thurman; all things considered. This time, she seemed to be okay; either blacked out or sleeping it off-- either way; she was alive, she was here, and so was the burden-child. Given her past tendencies to go wandering off into the night upon receipt of bad news, I had to be thankful for that much at least.

“Oh... David. How was your trip to Baltimore? Thank you so much for being by my dead father’s side while I lay here chain-smoking meth and neglecting my baby. I was way too busy for that depressing nonsense. Thanks so much for letting us use your house as a--”

The screaming subsides for what barely seems like a second, Kayden most likely having cried himself into a subdued state. Where silence should be, instead comes a clawing, scratching din from downstairs. Suddenly my mocking her soft spoken voice didn’t seem quite so funny to me anymore. Now, the cat was already pawing at the door-- trying to get back into the house after only being out two or three minutes. Stupid’ fuckin’ cat. Between distressed meows, the shrieks of an infant Kayden Saint and the empty silence of an otherwise dead house, I finally hear Sam starting to come around. But by this time, it’s too late. I’ve already accepted things as they were.

“David, is… is that you?”

At this point, I could’ve probably told her I was Jazzy Jeff and she’d have still believed it if I gave her what she wanted. And make no mistake, what she wanted when she was wallowing this low in self-pity-- it never fuckin’ changed.

“Can I have some more money, please d--”

Trying to come across as sexy and seductive, she pushes herself up on the mattress, so that she’s on all fours. But soon, her legs buckle and again she’s face down in an Egyptian cotton duvet.

“Of course, honey. I’ll leave some whatever’s in my wallet on the dresser.”

Dipping my hand into the leather Armani wallet, making sure not to seem at all interested in her sexual advances. I leave the wad of crisp twenties in my jacket pocket clean out of this equation. Opting instead to give her what I assumed to be around eighty dollars in varied denominations. Making sure she could see it was empty, I tuck it back inside my jeans and shake my head in the direction of the child who had cried mercilessly since my arrival then conveniently fell asleep so we could talk. She picks up on this, and again pushes her partially conscious self up so that we’re almost face to face. I hated when she’d do this, I was uncomfortable with people being so close to me without the added aroma of methamphetamines that was seeping from every pore in her formerly flawless face.

“I don’t suppose I should ask what happened to my housekeeper, or the nanny?”

She looked almost scared for a second before whimpering something under her breath.

“They were all looking at me… I could feel them... judging me. I sent them all… home.”

At least that solved the case of the missing live-in staff. Samantha had gotten paranoid and fired them all. That was a weight off my mind. I mean, it’s a shame and all-- I’d been using the same housekeeper and gardener since the year 2000. But it was one less thing to worry about; she hadn’t like, killed them or whatever. Every cloud has a silver lining, and right now this was the closest thing I could find. Making a mental note to hire some new servants when I got back from the Last Will and Testament reading, I delve into a walk-in wardrobe, retrieving my back-up suitcase.

“Wonderful… I can see you’ve got everything under control. I’m off to find out what all of this fuckin’ aggravation is actually in aid of. Your father’s lawyers are going through the paperwork now. I’ve got to be in New York by tomorrow morning for the official stuff. Think you can survive another couple of days?”

As far as I was aware, Samantha lived off of drugs and cherry-flavoured hard candies. Even when we dined out, it was rare for her to consume more than a starter. I knew she wouldn’t starve, she couldn’t do this because she had never known hunger. The baby however, I could see was clearly in need of some proper care, but who knows? Maybe the kid’ll just die and that’ll be one less thing to worry about in the future. Entertaining these dark thoughts, I lean in, kissing her on the forehead. Her eyes having went completely blank, showcasing almost a static display across her complexion.

“Okay.”

Not exactly reassuring. But no real indication that she was going to do anymore damage than she’d already done. To be honest, the semantics weren’t of any interest to me. All that mattered was that she stay hidden away, and alive. The cat had started to claw harder at the door, now. I could feel Samantha’s body cringing with every tear of talon on wood. Parting, she still seems distant. Hearing more about her father had been an aftershock to her emotional earthquake of his death.

“Please could you let the cat in, before you go?”

Nothing about the kid. Nothing about the late, not-so great Victor Saint. There was no sense in saying goodbye to my wife to-be. Samantha had already left the building. I sigh, breathing out my frustrations towards our combined aversion to talking things through.

“...Okay.”

Making my way back downstairs, my mind stuck on the mess of my house; I drag the suitcase down each step with a thump on the solid wood, before finally flipping off the lightswitch as I unlock the front door. Opening it to find Nyx standing there, proud as punch. A dead garden swallow hanging loosely from her gaping mouth. There was no way this could be the same bird I’d seen in Baltimore, but still. It fills me with the same suppressed sadness and shock.

“Hissssss!...”

She drops the dead bird in front of me. Just as I grab her by the scruff of the neck and toss her into the house. Locking the door behind me, I stand on the step for a few moments, maybe a few moments too long. Just simply staring down at this dead, dead-common creature on the step. My eyes welling up with fluid, my heart breaking into a million pieces, and then suddenly…

 Nothing.
Numbness and need.
We all have habits to feed,
 and now mine was hollering to be heard,
 to be had.



2BConcluded