Illinoir

He once thought he had nothing left to lose, that there was nothing left to find, and there is nothing left to sort, and there is nothing left to organize and there is nothing left to fall apart. And yet, there still were. Even when he thought he had hid the bottom, he managed to sink a little more, to fall a little farther. That was the most tragic part of all. To think he had seen the worse, and then he would see something more. Then he would learn another thing, forget another thing, find another thing, lose another thing. Just when he thought it couldn’t get any worse, it did. It does. It always does.

When there’s nothing left to lose, there’s nothing left to do, but until then, he just keeps on struggling, just keeps on trying, keeps on clawing at the floor, keeps on clawing at the earth, feeling dirt replace the splinters in his fingernails, feeling rain replace the tears on his face. Feeling the dry air of his library replaced by the damp air of a devastated field, a field that has not been tended to in years, a field that has been ravaged by wind and by time and by the travesty that is Dui’s mind, by the travesty that is.

He curls up, he curls up into himself, curls up into a ball, on the floor, no, on the ground. Dirt replaces floorboard, dirt replaces everything, dirt replaces all. He feels it, dry, crumbling, moving with him as he moves, slowly sinking into the ground, he wonders if even the worms are gone, if they have survived, if there is anything at all left to find, and when he opens his eyes, it is all still there. Or rather, it is all still not there. His eyes open, lying on his side, he blinks at his surroundings, at his black and white world, he blinks in wonder and a wide-eyed amazement, thinking Perhaps I have escaped and perhaps I have finally broken free. He stretches out his index finger, and digs a little in the soil, finds it dry, finds it yielding, finds it barren, and finds nothing else at all.

Alone, again, Decimal nowhere to be found, Dot wants to stop walking but can’t. Wants to cry but can’t. Wants to remember more but can’t. Wants to sleep but can’t. Wants to want something that he can have. But can’t.

Alone, again, still walking, still, only memories of leaves rustling, a wind chime jingling in a breeze, a chill in the air, images from paintings, feelings from images, everything false, everything real, never anything realer than this memory that he is having. Everything fragmented, broken into pieces. Dot is broken into pieces. He wants to know how it all happened but can’t.

He is angry now, so angry he is raging inside. The frustration boils over, he looks about wildly, searching for something to destroy, something to bear the brunt of his hatred, his disgust. But it is too late; everything has already been destroyed. What anguish! What pain! His heart is nearly bursting, pumping his ire-filled blood through his veins, beating faster than it ever has, his rage fueled with every beat, and there is nothing to let it loose upon, and he has never felt so useless, so impotent, so defeated.

Hunched over, cursing, gasping for breath, he screams to noone and nothing at all, to everything, to God, he screams, unintelligible, incoherent. He screams to release it, it can never be released, never leave him, this rage. His breathing becomes shallower, calmer, measured. The voices audible, he finally recognizes them. Finally picks one out from the others. His mother. Annie. Cutter. Decimal. He has conversations with them, in his head, talks, yells, screams, rages at them.

And Decimal is the only one that answers.

The two returned to the office after Dui had finished eating. Dui was keen to go over the notes that Decimal had made that day but they were nowhere to be found. Even at her worst, Estelle had never completely removed documents that were laying around, nor had she ever made the mistake of discarding them.

“Perhaps you put them in the safe?” Dui wondered. Decimal didn’t think that was the case but agreed that it was possible he had done so and forgotten. Dui went to the far wall of the room, pushed aside an elaborate replica of a DaVinci sketch which hung, framed and hinged on the wall, obscuring the safe in which they kept all sensitive documents. He opened the safe and pulled their working file from inside. Together, they flipped through each page in the file but could find no trace of the documents which Decimal had worked on that day.

“This is curious indeed,” Decimal said. “I’m certain that I did not leave the building with them.”

“I wonder if we have been robbed,” Dui said with sudden alarm. “Could someone have broken in while we were away, looking for some insight into the system, found only these documents laying out and absconded with them?”

“I suppose it’s possible,” Decimal allowed. “But did you notice any signs of forced entry when you returned this afternoon?”

“I did not. But, I will admit that I was exhausted, likely weak with hunger, and so jubilant about the success of my meeting with Cutter that it is possible that I overlooked any such signs.” Dui sighed, slumped into a chair. “This is terrible. A whole day’s work gone.” Suddenly hopeful, he gazed up at Decimal, a pleading look on his face. “But wait — did you not make a back up copy of the pages? You are always so good about making backups.”

Decimal frowned. “I’m sorry to say that I did not make any copies. I don’t know why I failed to do so today, as you are correct in observing that I am most particular about creating archives of our work in case such an event were to occur. Today, I have failed.”

“What a disaster,” Dui lamented.

“But, fear not, aside from the graver implications that such a robbery holds — and I am still not certain that Miss Cabot did not simply relocate or misplace the papers — I am certain that we can recreate the work I did with minimal effort or loss of time. I shall work deep into the night if I have to.”

“I admire and appreciate your dedication to this work, Jonathan,” Dui said, the melancholy breaking, if just for that moment. “Really, I do. I know I don’t say that often enough, but I wanted to be sure that you knew that.”

“Thank you, Melvil,” Decimal said gratefully. “It is good to hear that.”

“Absolutely, Jonathan. I would still be refining bottled juice if it weren’t for you.”

“I’m sure that’s not true,” Decimal chuckled. “But thank you.”

“Indeed,” Dui replied. “Now, let’s get to work.”