Bass - An Alt-Experience Presentation

Bass

A Short Story

By Stone Bryson

4:07 PM
Delia Martin was awakened this Saturday as she was every early evening. It was not the noise of a gentle alarm clock, the tussle of blankets from a man sleeping next to her, or the excitement of a new day ahead that wrestled her from her slumber every day. It was the thumping of bass music playing outside her window.

As she forced herself out of bed, she laconically walked over to the only window of her garden-level studio apartment. She had nailed a oversized comforter over that window, to keep out any sunlight that may try to sneak into her existence. She pulled the comforter aside and stared out the window for a while. Her eyes took a moment to adjust to the assault of excessive light; although it was a cloud-enhanced day outside, her pupils took a while to properly focus on the outside world. Delia seldom went outside while the sun was up - she had absolutely no use for cheery things like sunshine.

After her eyes focused on her surroundings, she saw what awoke her. What her vision took in did not surprise her, since it was the same scene she saw nearly every day - so much so, it had became a frequent ritual. In the parking area directly outside her window were three boy-men who vaguely resembled ‘gangstas’ from a

bad television movie. All decked out in oversized clothing and tattoos, they were

doing some unusual gyrations to whatever passed for ‘music’ to these people, all the while pouring oversized cans of beer down their throats. However, they were her neighbors in the run-down apartment building, so she was stuck with doing this ‘ritual’ nearly every day.

One of the ‘thugs’ finally took note of the young woman in the window and the man visibly shuddered, as he always did when seeing her. She did not know what effect her physical appearance could have on a person; furthermore, she didn’t care. Her once petite, curvaceous frame was now so emaciated it appeared as though her skin was stretched tightly across every bone in her body. That skin - once tanned to perfection - had taken on the translucent quality of worn, sallow plastic. Her formerly long and radiant hair now resembled a bird’s nest so disheveled that even the former avian inhabitants had long abandoned it. It did not help the overall picture that the frightening little woman - staring out the window holding a blanket aside to peer out - was stark naked.

But even with all of that, it was the woman’s eyes which caused the worst reaction in the ‘thug’ - there was quite literally nothing there. No life, no desire, no passion - not even the basic emotion of anger. Those eyes were vacant, like starring down the barrel of an oversized shot-gun at point-blank range - all you saw was a bizarre ‘tunnel-vision’ of darkness. After a brief moment, he finally said, “sorry lady,” and walked over to his car to turn the stereo down.

Delia let the blanket fall back into place. She never understood why he apologized for having the bass turned up, when it was obvious that he was not the least bit sorry. She had told him on numerous occasions that since she was on the ground-level the ‘thump-thump, thump-thump’ of his stereo caused the walls of her tiny apartment to shake. She had told him that the sounds rattled her insides to the point of inspiring migraines. She had even threatened to complain to the landlord about the situation. Each time, he would say “sorry, lady,” and each time - within hours of the confrontation - the bass would be thumping once again.

She shook her head to get these thoughts out of her mind; the bass was turned down for now so she could focus on the day ahead. It was the first time in a long while that she made the effort to ‘focus’ on anything besides maintaining her sanity, but today was no ordinary day. Yes indeed, today was a special day for her, at least ‘special’ as Delia Martin would define the word. There were things to do.

Even though it had only been three days since she showered (she seldom did so more than once a week), she took the twelve steps necessary to cross the one-room apartment to reach her minuscule bathing area. In her trip from the window to the bathroom she passed every material object she owned; her filthy twin-sized bed, her recliner positioned in front of her nine-inch combination television/DVD player, her DVD set featuring the entire series of the television show Buffy, the Vampire Slayer, her kitchenette that was never used, and a small closet which housed a few items of hung clothing gathering a yellow-tint. She glanced at the floor of the closet, noticing a pile of forgotten objects that she had haphazardly stacked there when she moved in.

Before she entered her bathroom, she turned back and looked at the sum of her life now. For the first time in months she noticed how dirty everything was, the one exception being what was hanging on the wall. Precariously dangling from a thin nail above the TV, that was one thing she always made sure she cleaned everyday. As far as Delia was concerned, that item was the very epitome of priceless.

Her gaze remained fixed on the decoration for nearly a half-hour, until she remembered she had things to do. As she took the remaining step to enter her bathroom, her mind focused on her ‘special’ day ahead. After all, how often does a woman have the opportunity to acknowledge a one-year anniversary… even if it was to mark the death of the only man who ever loved her.

8:41 PM
Delia Martin sat in her recliner, grabbed the remote to her television, and pushed ‘play.’ She had indulged in a flurry of activity the last few hours, so she needed to rest. After taking a extensive hot shower (which included shaving her legs and armpits with a razor that had not seen action in ages), she began the Herculean task of cleaning her filthy dwelling. She started with the kitchenette and proceeded to dust every inch of her apartment. She threw her bedding - and a dingy dress that had not been worn in a year - in the coin-operated washing machine outside her apartment (which caused a couple of stares from two teenagers passing by, since she forgot to put on clothes before venturing out), nearly getting the yellow-tinge out of them. She vacuumed the floors, cleaned the faucets to a dull shine, and replaced the sheets and blankets on her bed. After her tasks were completed, she put on her dress (which hung from her like a oversized sack, due to her severe weight-loss) and sat down in front of the television.

She knew it was past her normal self-appointed time to watch episodes from her Buffy DVD collection, but she did not mind tonight. Today was special, after all. Still, she needed to watch at least one of her DVD’s, since the collection was one of the acts she ritually indulged in to win her daily battle.

That battle? To maintain her sanity.

Delia had indulged in this constant, daily struggle for the last twelve months. Before this date one year prior, she had everything a woman could want; a enormous home in a safe neighborhood, a fulfilling career, and a loving husband whom she adored.
Then, as if hell itself has decided to take a vengeful swipe at her for some unknown
slight, the fire came.

A raging blaze - which began as a tiny spark resulting from faulty electrical wiring - consumed her home while she was away on business. Trapped inside was everything she held dear - including her beloved husband. Everything that ever mattered to her was gone in the time it took that fire to move demonically through her home.

Her husband… the only man who ever loved her and treated her like a equal. The one who encouraged her in her career choice when everyone else tried to dissuade her. The man who could bring her that exulted ecstasy that so few women achieve.

Her husband…gone.

After that, everything tragically changed. After a month of near-hysterical crying, she did the only thing she could think of to maintain her sanity - she shut down. She could not bring herself to go back to work, because doing her job meant remembering the man who was responsible for encouraging her in the first place. The insurance policies - both in the form of life and home - were enough for her to establish a comfortable existence, even without going back to work. If she had done that, however, she would have been maintaining her lifestyle based on her husband’s corpse - something she could not bring herself to do. So she dipped into her own savings, rented her inexpensive studio apartment, and focused all of her efforts on not losing her mind - desperately trying to come to terms with the fact she lost everything.

Well, not everything. She glanced at the TV then up at the wall decoration hanging above the television.

Three things had somehow survived the fire. The collection of Buffy DVD’s were found under a pile of charred remains, remarkably undamaged. She had met her husband at one of those geeky conventions where they celebrate entertainment ventures that have cult followings, and after chatting for about 20 minutes they discovered that Buffy was something they had in common - they both loved the show. Several months later, on the day they got married, her husband joked that if they had not both been such geeks they would have never met. So every night since the afternoon that she had moved into this place, she dropped disc after disc into the DVD player - watching episode after episode.

The second thing that managed to survive the fire was the decoration hanging on the wall. Her husband was quite an amateur artist, and one of the things he loved to do was mirror-etchings. He had done this complex work, accurately portraying one of their wedding pictures, a couple of months after the ceremony. She cherished it while they were married, so when the firefighters managed to pull it from the ashes - still in the metal frame her husband had placed it in - it was like he was reaching out to her with it. So she kept it clean and prominently displayed in her hovel for the past year. Not only was it the only wall decoration, it was also the only mirror in the entire apartment. This was the only one she could stand to view herself in, because the etchings pleasantly distorted the image of what she had become.

She decided to stand up and take a look at the mirror for a moment. As she looked into her own eyes, the vacant expression remained. She did not know exactly what compelled her to clean everything - and herself - on this day, only that she felt she had to. As she looked into those empty eyes, she already knew that she would fall back into her normal routine effective tomorrow - do only what was required to survive.

That included eating infrequently, bathing only when absolutely necessary, moving as little as possible, and watching episodes of Buffy over and over again. She knew that insanity was just a proverbial brain-click away, so she engaged in the one activity that she felt would stave it off - remaining numb. She knew if she could do this long enough, protected by her self-imposed fog, she would eventually be able to move forward. She glanced at the mirror one more time - her facial expression as unchanged as it had been for months - then sat back down in her recliner. She set up another episode of Buffy, pushed her chair into the fully-reclined position, and fell asleep.

She was jarred awake by the thundering sound of bass rattling the walls and the inside of her head. She had somehow managed to tear her dress off in her sleep, although she did not realize it as she walked over the window. She pulled aside the comforter covering the window and looked outside as she always did. The lights in the parking lot illuminated the three thug-characters gathered around the vehicle from which the bass was thumping.

No wait, there was also a fourth person out there, someone she had never seen before. Probably a friend of theirs visiting, she reasoned. He was the first one of the four to notice the frail, naked woman staring out of her window, and he smiled a nasty grin at her. He then screamed at the window, “fuck you, you nasty-ass crack-whore,” and turned away from the window to his laughing friends.

Well, Delia thought without emotion, they’re really drunk tonight. As she - for what seemed like the millionth time- allowed the comforter to fall back into place, she knew it would be hours before it stopped so she prepared for another struggle with her migraines. She sat back down in the chair and was about to close her eyes when she heard one of four outside her window holler, “crank it.”

The result was deafening. The bass was so loud she imagined it was making her hair hurt. As she started to close her eyes again, she noticed that the etched mirror hanging above the television was actually dancing on the wall from the thumping of the bass. Mesmerized, she did not realize the significance of what she was viewing until the thin nail holding the mirror in place slipped from the force of the bass. Her late-husband’s creation fell to the floor, shattering inside its metal frame.

And - over the thunderous sounds of bass - Delia Martin heard a ‘click’ inside her brain.

11:47 PM
As the fog lifted, she thought to herself what sweet clarity insanity brings.

Delia had heard stories about the moment when someone mentally ‘snaps’ but she had no idea that they actually heard a clicking sound. Remarkable, she thought for a moment. Remarkable - and wonderful. She was in such awe over what she experienced she could not even hear the bass any longer. Wonderful.

She calmly hoisted herself out of her chair and walked purposefully toward the closet. She did not understand why she had been fighting this for so long - she felt better now than she had since the fire. Although she did not realize it, her eyes were filled with a lucidity that only true insanity can evoke. She felt free, alert, and - most importantly - alive. And now she had a mission - something she could do for the betterment of herself and all mankind.

She opened the closet and put on a black dress that was almost four whole inches above her knees. It had been donated to her by a misguided neighbor immediately after the fire and she had never worn it. She noticed it was snug on her, which made her wonder how her old neighbor expected her to fit into it when she was thirty pounds heavier. Once she looked down and saw just how provocative the dress was, she came across a delicious idea; she reached up on the top shelf of the closet and brought down the boots she was wearing while away on business the night of the fire. The boots, also provocative in nature, were in the style of ‘go-go’ boots, black leather that covered the entire calf of her leg and sported a 2 1/2 inch heel. As she placed the boots on her feet and zipped them up, she wondered how she could have let those worthless little bastards she had for neighbors ever see her naked. No matter, for all of that would end tonight. Call me a crack-whore, will you? Oh yes, she had a mission.

She then dug through the mound of stuff on the floor until she found what she was looking for; when her hand touched it, she felt a shudder of an almost sensual thrill. She pulled it from the pile and stared at it. It was the third item that survived the fire from a year ago - her husband’s Browning 12-gauge shotgun.

Before she had met her husband, she had been terrified of guns. After learning about firearms from him then actually going out shooting with him on several occasions, her attitude completely changed. She learned how to care for them, how to clean them, and how to store them correctly. Most importantly, she learned how to load them - and how to shoot them.

She had become so enamored with firearms that - despite her delirium immediately following the tragic fire - she had had the presence of mind to purchase new rounds of ammunition for the shotgun. Lucky for me, she thought with a tinge of delight, for if I hadn’t done so my mission tonight would be impossible.

She methodically filled the ‘tube’ (the real name of it escaped her) under the barrel with those rounds. As she did, she thought about how she was dressed. Silly, really, but somehow appropriate. After all, she wanted to look her best - she would be seeing her husband again very soon.

Four in the tube - one in the chamber. Perfect. One for each of them and one for me. A mission.

Delia Martin, 12-gauge shotgun in hand, walked outside of her apartment and approached the thugs and their ‘music.’ As they turned toward her and saw what she was carrying, she almost felt sorry for them. Their confused - then panicked - expressions told her that they were not only unprepared for such an event, they were also unarmed. She knew she could take her time and relish this incredible moment of pure joy. As she pulled the butt of the shotgun up to her shoulder, aimed at the closest of these pathetic little creatures, and squeezed the trigger, she did something she had not done in a year…

… she smiled.

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