Page 21 of Seth
Holding his focus on the organ, he bypassed a folding stainless-steel table and came to the tall metal rack filled with chemicals. He grabbed a sterile jar, set it on the table, and lowered the heart in it. Sharp, chemical smell hit his nose as he poured the acetone-based solution into the jar. When the liquid exceeded the heart volume ten times, he screwed the lid on and placed the jar into a chest freezer that stood by the rack. In the next few weeks, acetone would push water out of the tissue, replacing it, therefore making the heart ready for the final stage of plastination3.
Thoughts of Gustavo retreated to the corner of his consciousness as the red and golden lights invaded his mind. He needed to get back to work as soon as possible. He needed to give Justin his final gift.
* * *
The red glowstreamingout of the furnace bounced against the basement’s walls and washed over his naked chest.
At moments like this, Seth felt a kinship with fire. Just like heat melted sand, Seth bent the liquid glass, making it obey his will.
He marveled at the luminous substance. Watching the magma glow in the pot was his favorite part of creation. He could make anything out of it; give it any fanciful form limited only by his imagination. Or create something ugly, depending on his will. But not today. Today, Justin’s blood guided him.
Dipping the far end of a blowpipe into the pot, he picked a lump of molten glass. Orange and white, it trapped his eyes and threw him into the trance of creation.
During the process, Seth didn’t need light other than the one coming from the furnace and the glass itself. His hands didn’t require the guidance of his vision when they twirled the glass, twisting it, molding it into the dozens of small fragments that ought to become a perfect vessel worthy of its priceless content.
* * *
Despite the airconditioners blowing full force, his smartwatch beeped, informing Seth about his body temperature rising. Falling out of the trance, Seth pressed the screen on his smartwatch to see 37,6°C4. Giving a long stare to his glowing, dry skin, he turned the furnace off and fled the basement.
The glass had “sang” in his hands today, bending and twisting into intricate forms coming out of his mind yet, at the same time, it filled his head with fragmentary memories of Justin. Their first meeting, talk, kiss, embrace, and then Justin’s voice telling him how sorry he was when he’d told Seth he’d been sleeping with someone else.
The constant “sorry” knocked against the inner walls of his skull. The word Seth loathed with his whole soul. The word that never fixed anything. The word that had never brought relief to anyone except for the one who said it. The cheat code society created to escape oppressive guilt, to lift responsibility for anything, everything, as long as you said it.
Seth had never wanted to hear this word again. He’d never understood why people did something if they had to apologize for it. He preferred brutal honesty to gentle lies because he never believed them anyway. Yet, he loved Justin; he wanted to believe him. He’d let himself sink into the illusion of happiness hope created instead of facing the brutal truth. Justin had never loved him, but he’d used him alright.
People who said “sorry” lightly couldn’t be trusted. Seth knew it better than anyone, but he hoped Justin had been different. The voice in his head became louder, proving otherwise. So loud, Seth thought his tympanic membrane would burst with pressure.
Without thinking, he grabbed his shirt and bustled out of his villa and into the shadows of his grape garden.
* * *
Summer floodedthe Old City with tourists, turning already overwhelming, heated streets into crowded hell, yet today Seth barely noticed it. For hours, he had been aimlessly wandering, drowning in the white noise of the buzzing city. His chest felt empty yet full at the same time as if memories of Justin drained him, creating a hollow shell that, in a chase for content, stretched out and multiplied the only thing left inside—Justin’s voice.
The air stood paralyzed by the blazing sun. White stone, reflecting light, illuminated every nook and cranny, leaving no place for shadows. Streets melted, soaked in sunlight. It felt as if at any moment birds would start falling from the sky, fatigued with heat.
Staying outside any longer was pointless. Seth knew his body better than anyone not to recognize the alarming colorful dots at the corners of his vision. At any time now, he would collapse from overheating too. He turned around, ready to look for a cab as the clock on the tower behind him boomed midday. His watch echoed with a subtle vibration, informing him that he hadn’t drunk any water in hours and had skipped breakfast again.
Thinking that his routine was off lately, he dragged his gaze over the surrounding buildings, hunting for any shop, when a riot of colors drew his attention. A staircase of the Albertina Museum boasted a terrifying reproduction of a painting printed over its stairs.
Seth blinked, then again. His breathing slowed down, and he tilted his head to the side losing his thoughts. A strange calm, radiating from the vivid image of Hell created by Hieronymus Bosch5, quieted all the noises around and engulfed him in the long-awaited hush.
The image called for him. Surrealistic elements in the art of the fifteenth-century painter held captivating similarities to Salvador Dali’s6style that Seth had always admired. Unable to resist the pull, he strolled toward the museum.
The neoclassical building welcomed him with the scent of old books, printing ink, and coffee. Fishing his wallet out of his back pocket, Seth ran his annual Vienna pass through the turnstile and hasted inside.
Wood and stone, heavily gilded, submerged visitors into antique collections of past centuries that included paintings, furniture, sculptures, and household utensils. Usually, he would find himself lost in these rooms for hours. Today, he skipped them all, strolling past pompous halls and ballrooms filled with permanent exhibitions. Here, where the footfalls rang through space and walls’ decorations grew modest and didn’t draw attention away from the canvas, the foreign exhibition section began.
In the third room, he found himself standing in front of the horrific fantasy of Hieronymus Bosch. On the canvas, Jesus reigned the skies, serene and resigned. Beneath him, people of Earth died in agony, fighting caricatural demons.
Seth caught himself wondering if sinners on these images cried out apologies and pleas, begging their god to listen and help. He clicked his tongue, thinking that the word “sorry” had never saved anyone. Not Justin, anyway.
* * *
The torrid heatswallowing Vienna didn’t boost Gustavo’s motivation to work, quite the opposite, it kept oppressing him, feeding his sluggish need to stay indoors under the cooling protection of air-conditioners.
The new batch of heroin hadn’t arrived yet. Hans had been too busy in his university to entertain him or, maybe, he was still mad and once again played hard to get. Gustavo didn’t know, neither had he cared, but when Diego informed him about Loco entering the museum, Gustavo jumped at the opportunity.
On his way, he ran red lights three times. When he burst into the plain, blue room on the second floor of the Albertina Museum, his breath was short, palms hot and sweaty. As soon as he found a lonely figure standing in front of a security barrier, guarding a large triptych7against visitors, a sigh of relief escaped his chest.
