Them Bones

New standing structures towered over blue glowing grass, already giving the air of an aged and decrepit edifice. Dust settled in cracks and crevices, seeming to reproduce like cells at an accelerated rate. In this secluded town of Luton, shadows were the majority as opposed to clear skies. Towers loomed over spans of abandoned grass, curled edges of the shadows like gnarled fangs.



At the center of this educational city, erected a building that shrank back from the others to envelope in fog, blanketing in the morning mist. Inside of this eerie hall were long passageways with empty classrooms, chairs and tables left to be eaten away by neglect. The lights were already in the habit of flickering, dimming dully as if winking at a private joke with the others. Where there wasn't unreliable light bulbs, there were candles and oil lamps scattered in dark corners; they were set atop tables that served no other purpose. Hardly any of the walls could be seen as they were well hidden behind large standing pictures. What could be seen were gaudy strips of brown paper etched with alien designs.



The peak of this academic monument was a window, curtains draw to maintain privacy. All carbon life forms of the highest point of the intellectual hierarchy pyramid knew that it was the office of the instructor. Professor Ellis was a well respected Anthropologist and well ahead of the others in his department – which were so few – His face was ripe with wrinkles, bags forming under his eyes, treated only by gravity. His fingers bent naturally, the knots for knuckles defined only because the skin was so frail and thin. Blue snakes decorated the very tops of his hands, showing through the translucent skin and pumping faintly to get the blood to the tips of his phalanges. Ellis was well beyond the point of taking leisurely excursions but managed to win unspoken games of hide and seek with his students. If he wasn't sulking over papers in his office, students were more apt to find him fawning over his personal display case down a long winded hallway.



The glass case was held together with metal trimming that surrounded all sides but the bottom of the display case – which was lined with wood. There two main pedestals with red silk draped over them that were different in height and held twin skulls. Labels were scrawled onto yellowing paper, letters giving a title to each ivory skeletal piece. The one to the very right said, “Neanderthal”, whilst the one to the left said, “Pan troglodytes” otherwise known as the common chimpanzee. The case was always immaculately well kept, the glass having never been scathed or abused. Not that no attention was ever paid to it. That wasn't it at all, as several schools of students flocked around the transparent box to be told to move on by dear professor Ellis.



Five years ago – after I had graduated, I was placed in charge of assisting the professor when it was noticed that he was missing appointments with the dean of the university and forgetting material in his lectures. My job has let me work close to Ellis – seeing as I looked up to him as a quasi-mentor. He confided in me things that I kept locked tightly in my brain space and never reported a word to anyone else. We shared a bond that was irreversible and unbreakable the moment it began to shape and take form.



Though, having this history with him and sitting in on the classes, I began to notice a strange pattern after the third year of my unofficial residence in his classroom. At the beginning of the year, the room was bursting at the corners with bright students but as I look around nearing the middle of the second semester, the numbers dwindle until we're only left with the middle to bottom ranking students. Queer as it may have been, never had I thought to bring it up to Ellis until Friday when the students filed out of his room for the weekend.



“Ellis,” I had become familiar with using his last name, dropping the formal habit of inserting the title of professor before it, “Have you ever noticed the decline in the number of your students as of late?” And in reply, I merely received a incoherent grumble with a dismissive wave of his hand. There were flecks of white powder along the creases marking his palms and tucked in the crevices of his knuckles. It was caked there like dried paint, perhaps a paste or clay substance. Over the next week, I attempted to question the number of students again and was met with an increased level of irritation every time. A flash of unexpected rage caught me off guard when inquired about the white dust on his hands. He stopped allowing me to come into his office and I noticed that his meetings were being had in his classroom. More questions arose and refused to let me sleep at night, as I tossed with outlandish theories and possible explanations.



I was dropped into my dream before I could realize what had happened. Thousands of hands clawed at my skin, ripping me open at the very seams put together by expert hands. Frozen in time, I floated in this black void, my blood the only thing to remind me what color actually was. A light film of sweat surfaced from my pores when I woke up. The scent of clay still hung in my nostrils, leftover from my subconscious horror show. It was when I was fetching myself a glass of water that I recalled the same white dust on Ellis’s hands. Tomorrow was Saturday and Ellis had a house to maintain, so he wouldn’t be sauntering through the building, pining over that display case. Already, the plan blossomed like a devious lotus, unfolding until I knew what I’d do and how I’d do it. I rested more easily, drowning myself with water before I laid down for the night and let sleep come like an old friend.



Saturday, as I got dressed, I went through the map that was highlighted in the lines of my brain. They were intricate patterns, weaving in and out through each other, getting lost in the sea of extraneous lines. The building when I arrived was already long deserted, the hallways echoed with the sound of my breathing – and the beat of my heart – and the thought of being caught continuously rose to kick up the tempo of my pulse. Every writhing shadow was Ellis or some other chess piece of the academic council ready to turn their heads and cry wolf. I undoubtedly resembled some bloke with a degenerative disease, encasing the major chunks of brain that held all reason and logic. It wasn't hard to break into the office, since Ellis was almost always brooding in his office, he felt no need to lock it. Gingerly stepping inside, my eyes scoured the office for anything that seemed out of Ellis's concept of ordinary. The only thing that I could see that caught my attention was in his bottom left drawer. A tightly wrapped bag of clay, kneaded softly with hundreds of warped fingerprints settled at the bottom of the wooden cubbyhole. I saw no reason to examine the gray, dull mush any further than I had. The drawer squeaked when it closed, it was the only sound other than my light breathing.



With everything in its rightful place, I took my leave of the office, closing the door quietly so as not to call attention to my presence in the building. Air yawned through the halls and brushed over my skin, raising goosebumps. One final look down the hall behind me, the sight of the candles flickering light off the display case. The glass held a flaw, a blatant as a mountainous pimple, surrounded by red, irritated skin. I back pedaled and pivoted to look at the blemish that ruined the perfect, clear glass. It was run over by dust that clung to careless fingers, ghostly remains of a caress. My hand came down to act as a cloth, taking up the dust – or so I thought – my palm coming up to show me nothing but unmarked lines in my skin. The dust was on the inside of the case, not the outside.



Hindered with caution, I lifted the glass top up, setting the edge of the it against the wall hands hovering like hawks seeking out prey. I wiped up some of the white dust as my eyes were pulled over to the skulls. I cradled one, taking it from its rightful perch, turning it over and over. I inhaled causing my throat to tickle and my nose to twitch. An uproarious sneeze echoed through the dead hallways, and a cloud of dried clay charged at the wall. Curiosity spiked like the sudden pulse that uplifts the spirits of the family of a flat liner. The backs of my nails swept over the crown of the skull, then dug in to its surface. It was frail and crumbled easily to show a decayed layer of cranium. I scraped off more of the bones around the eye socket, watching it crumbled to dust.



I lifted my fingers to my nose and inhaled sharply. It was not the bone that was breaking off of the skull but flecks of clay that dissipated once it met with the floor. I stood there for what seemed like a century scraping off the skull until all I had to do was wipe it off with my shirt. The patterns and characteristics did not match the category that the label depicted. These skulls were human, the clay moldings were meant to exaggerate and give false markers of a neanderthal. There were light nicks made at the occipital lobe of the skull, scratches that were distinctly human made. I was so engrossed in my discovery that I did not hear the light foot falls down the hall, or hint the scent of chloroform that wafted behind me. I was met with a flash from a quick hand and blacked out after giving a useless flail. The last thing that I heard was the sound of the skull hitting the floor at my feet.



I woke to recognize nothing but the restraints that held me together on the bed I rested upon. I had to repeat my name and my date of birth. Realities melted and became one. I saw the world as it was suppose to be and then a hellish alternate where I tore the flesh from bones, covered in blood. I spent nights at a time trying to scream myself awake; I tried to wake from a nightmare that I created and forgot.