Inspired by Edgar Allan Poe’s 'The Cask of Amontillado'

Montresor reads the card, “The 9th edition of the Diccionario Castellano Enciclopédico, published in 1891 Paris by Garnier Hermanos, Libreros-Editores reads that Medea is the daughter of Hecate while King Aeëtes, her father, isn’t mentioned at all. Now, it’s 2018, and Wikipedia reads that Medea is the daughter of King Aeëtes of Colchis, and the granddaughter of Helios, the sun god. My, your priorities have changed, haven’t they? By the way, you were right; it’s been great fun traveling the secret passageways of ancient, fortified structures. I’m so glad you enjoyed the wedding banquet. Thank you for the lovely gift. I’ll always cherish it.”
 
Needless to say, Montresor is familiar with the author, but that’s the least of his worries as he begins to doubt whether or not he’s ever been truly respected, admired, beloved. He knows for a fact he suffers from melancholy. Immediately, he senses he’s being observed, which makes him terribly uncomfortable; however, when it occurs to him that Fortunato might be judging him, he’s vexed, “How dare he! Who does he think he is?” Montresor avoids catching a glimpse of his reflection in the kettle as he takes his afternoon tea. Instead, he hides in his bedroom closet with the lights off and the door locked. “If only I could bury myself behind the wall!” he mutters, “I’d find that Fortunato and I’d strangle the life out of him once and for all!” In a flash, he jumps out and heads off with a sledgehammer to the catacomb where he buried alive the object of his envy. Montresor doesn’t feel guilt or remorse. He’s shameless, hence, he’s remains the same. Believe it or not, this invigorates him! So, as he bashes down the wall, brick by brick, he admits that if Fortunato really had insulted him, Montresor would’ve presented his evidence instead of merely mocking him.
 
Montresor is empowered by his irreverence for everything and everyone else. He holds himself in the highest esteem, which is why it pains him to his very core when others refuse to be enchanted by him. Well, imagine Montresor’s shock when he finds Fortunato’s chained skeleton shooting him the bird! Montresor yanks out Fortunato’s remains, throws them on the ground, stomps on them while cursing Fortunato, quickly admitting his sadistic crime for anyone within earshot to hear, including Detective Sherry who’s been surveilling Montresor for this cold case, in addition to other felonies and misdemeanors. Long story short, Montresor promised to appear in court and then absconded.
 

Early this year, Cathy and Mark, a millennial couple from New York finished a grueling several days hike on the ancient Inca Trail visiting the ruins at Machu Picchu in Peru. On completion, they would decide to spend a few days in Cusco, the ancient capital of the Inca civilization. Cusco was conquered by the Spanish Conquistadors who had imported European culture and Christianity in the area. Accordingly, ornate churches and buildings from Spanish-era co-exist with nearby ruins from original Inca-era. In addition, remnants of original Inca culture, for example unique food items and exquisite handicrafts could still be found at different locations of the city.

One evening, the couple was trying out a local delicacy called “cuy” (a whole grilled guinea-pig) in a street-corner restaurant, when the burly owner stopped by to exchange pleasantries. He explained to the pair that the advanced Inca civilization was the culmination of several others previous civilizations. He suggested them to visit the local archeological museum that housed various period-specific artifacts, excavated from different parts of the country.

Next morning, Cathy and Mark headed to the museum, itself built on a reconfigured original ceremonial court from Inca days. Exhibits were displayed covering the period from 1200 BCE to 1500 CE. The pair learned about several pre-Inca time-specific civilizations in the peninsula, for example Nasca, Mochica, Chancay, and Chimu. However, Mark’s biggest surprise came from viewing the paintings from relatively modern Huari period (800 – 1300 CE). It was as if the art form had made a giant leap displaying the first examples of modern-day cubism, popularized by Picasso. The painted human figures were fragmented and twisted, partial faces overlapped, and in the process a kind of complexity appeared.

On return to US, Mark, an arts enthusiast could not shake off those images from early cubism of Huari arts. He would decide to do a literature search on the history of the subject. Interestingly, the first reference popped up on his computer screen was a recent article in the Sunday magazine section of the nation’s leading newspaper. The author, an expert on Huari paintings speculated that with advancement of the civilization with newer inventions, chaos was also engulfing the society breaking apart prevailing normalcy. The artists wanted to capture the emerging fragmentations within the society.

Two days ago, sitting in his living-room, Mark was watching, on his flat-screen TV, the live shot of devastating fire raging in the western part of the country with hundred deaths and thousand missing, already. He shouted to Cathy, busy in preparing evening meal in kitchen, “Fire’s destroying the West.” Cathy, not being able to hear properly shouted back: “What?” Mark raised his voice: “Fire, fire! The West is burning.”

Suddenly, the entire neighborhood got surrounded by siren-screaming fire engines, emergency vehicles, police cars, and ambulances. Ricoh, the couple’s in-house smart-robot, a favorite to the millennial generation, announced from the corner of the room “I heard you shouting ‘fire’, so made all the necessary calls to the emergency authorities.”
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Though the sun blazed as he drove along the winding country lanes that led from the city where he worked, he was oblivious to the beauty and warmth spread before him. Instead, his eyes were drawn to the deep shadows cast by the scuttling clouds, his thoughts mired in the dark landscapes of lost valleys. He was thinking of people. People in conflict or people in anguish; the only people he knew. Yet, her husband had shown a kindness hadn’t he? By phoning with the news.

In the waiting area his tired eyes skimmed his police division’s latest crime reports, brought to occupy his mind; each one unconsciously adding to his personal bag of pain.
A bell rang somewhere. A tea trolley rattled into the ward; a shiny, incongruous machine led by a drab assistant. He reckoned her last thoughts of love were surely aeons ago.
Shown to the room he sat quietly by her bed, his heart keeping pace with the monitor's bleep. At first he could find only sadness in her eyes that tracked his own, but soon a pale, feeble smile appeared.
The ageing detective took her cool, soft hand and squeezed it and held it tightly against his cheek, then pressed his mouth gently on hers and held it there. He rose and walked unsteadily away, left only with a precious, faded photograph of a pretty girl on a distant summer's day who had just been kissed on ruby lips.
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While sitting across from the medical doctor specializing in high risk obstetrics, the married couple tightly clasp hands as they focus on her every word.

“Although, your autoimmune disorder appears to be in remission Vanessa, your attempts to become pregnant may place you and the fetus at an increased risk for obstetrical complications. So I suggest that you and your husband wait until I can conduct some more tests.”

“We have waited long enough,” Vanessa says softly, as she turns towards her husband and tries to interpret his facial expression. “I am forty years old, and after several miscarriages I am willing to take the risk.”

***
Thirty seven weeks later as clouds drift across a dark sky, Michael remains awake. He waits in solitude by his wife’s bedside. His tired eyes fill with unshed tears as a symphony of sounds creep into the room and intrude upon his conflicted emotions.

As he stretches his arm across white hospital sheets, he takes a deep breath and tenderly covers his wife’s cold hand with his. For the first time in his life he says a prayer. He watches his wife’s still form and waits for a response. He is not greedy. Perhaps a flickering movement from eyelashes that brush her pale cheeks, a sudden motion from her fingertips, or a tongue that travels over dry lips.

He steals a glance at her chest and watches as it rises and falls with every breath. He strokes her cheek with the tip of his finger and carefully places a photo of a preemie in the palm of her hand. Leaning over, he gently rests his unshaven face against her soft skin and whispers in her ear.

Suddenly, something wet caresses the side of his face. He sighs as he looks up and watches a tear roll down Vanessa’s cheek. And he starts to her all about their baby girl, Faith.
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The boy looked maybe seven, a young seven. The man held aloft a spit-moist finger before setting off, the wind chasing him. It was their fourth attempt. The result was the same - the red and yellow stripes flapped to deceive before crashing down. The boys’ face turned from glee to glum once more, he bowed his head as the man trudged back to him, kite in hand.
‘One more go Joe, one more. This time it will fly buddy, betcha is does.’
Joe summoned his final reserves of belief and slowly nodded his head. He stood, patient, determined, hands clasped tightly over the plastic reel.
The open field was awash with hungry wasps, darting from scone to cake and weaving their way through furious hands. The hoard of picnickers watched as footballers played and ramblers rambled.
The man ran again, faster this time, almost falling. Joe held tight, feet anchored to the ground. He blinked as the sun caught his lifting gaze. Hope became joy as the beast finally soared. Joe remained rooted to the spot, his wide blue eyes consuming the sky.
‘I knew it! You did it Joe, you did it!’ The man lowered his triumphant arms before returning to the boy.
The line twitched and slackened. The kite began to fall, teasing at first before falling exhausted at the boy’s feet. It was over all too soon, but it didn’t matter to Joe. The man placed a soft hand on Joe’s shoulder.
‘Well done, buddy, well done.’
Joe smiled. It was a smile to lock away and treasure.
They walked away, hand in hand. The kite followed closely behind, bumping along as it brushed the dry grass.
She appeared from within the crowd moments later, her white cotton dress flowing in the soft breeze. She moved slowly at first, glancing around, looking, searching. Her pace quickened as she moved left, then right, forwards, backwards. And then she began to shout, to scream, a guttural sound carrying one word:
‘Joe!’
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