Encrypted~Film noir; Jörn, god of the underworld (JM muse chronicles continue)

“Come, there’s something you need to see,” Jörn says to me biting back his fury as he stands up naked from the bathtub

without concern for dripping all over the floor tiles,

he starts towards the bathroom doorway towards the bedroom

....and as he goes, he waves at me in that way he has— like some underworld god with this assumption of control,

Still

I don’t get out ....

does he really think he can snap his fingers at me like that? Seriously.... yes, so

instead I sit there in the water

I hear him from the next room loudly clear his throat. Like some kind  of warning or command.

But I don’t move

except to flip water with my thumbs in the bath water

because my head feels ready to explode

would you call this anger or defense.... but maybe it is myself I am more angry at

because I remind myself: this is what happens when you lower your guard

Isn’t it so.... messy and tedious ?

getting caught up in the bullshit of

    human contact....

I swear, I think Swift had it right,

I should go off to live with horses or move to Lilliput where I get to be a giant for once

only —my internal reverie is startled to silence when he loudly raps on the doorframe with his knuckles and almost gives me a heart attack

I have to reach for my glasses to look at him

he stands there naked with a menacing look, long wet hair in mad disarray

“Whyyyy????” I ask him still not moving

He sighs,
“Lisa came with her boyfriend.... for your information,” he says flatly and looks straight into my eyes

“Who’s Lisa?” I ask

“My wife....“ he raises one threatening blond brow at me, blue eyes blazing as he says sharply, with a note of mockery, “the woman in the picture —taken by Nigel....  only that’s not what I need to show you,” he says this although calmly but —the pirate gems that burn brightly belie something far from calm and likely much more sinister

“No, wait—why.... ? is she in the Hamptons ....? with your —parents!?” I ask with surprising calm

“Lisa’s boyfriend is a fashion photographer —and— Hanna is in New York doing some modeling for him....” he says this simply as if it is no big deal

“Ohhh.... hmmm.... yes, I see.... Hanna—is—here—too....?”

“Yes, they flew in last week.”

“When were you planning on telling me this!?” I ask him now becoming enraged again

Hmmm —and, yes, that’s when I must have flooded the floor with ....an irrational gesture

Yes, I cause quite the stir

I look up at him then

The warning should have been his nostrils flaring because he just leaps at me

and then hauls me out of the tub,

and slugs me over his shoulder

water poring off me and down onto him and everywhere

He does about three long strides into the room and throws me soaking wet across the bed

then without even pausing he is already walking towards his bureau and looking for something

leaving me in the wet pond of his bed to sort out the mess he’s made of me —my hair caught in my glasses and the sheets stuck to me

but I don’t get very far fixing things before he indecently throws some photographs into my lap falling invasively into  places of me I’d rather they didn’t

“Ahhh!!! What the fuck....!?” I say peeling these off my .... skin

I want to kill him by now.... who knows where these photos have been

because they are old photos....

Old photos....

I stop my concern over decency when I start looking at the pictures.

These are very old photos. Of my father. Both.... fathers.

“This is —“ I look up at him

“Barcelona,” he finishes my thought and watches me with a nod

There are about ten of him among a suspicious group of men in business suits that do not look particularly American. And, actually, they don’t even really look all that European either

and the more I flip through the photos the more dark and interesting the characters become

and then I keep looking at photos to find that the photos of .... the man from the campaign badge are even more interesting .... among his very colorful, and global associations

“I want to show you something else, come sit over here, min lilla duva,” he pulls out a chair from behind the small writing desk that he usually keeps his laptop on which is, right now, open

I make a gesture at him indicating I object as I’m feeling like a wet envelope covered in postal stamps but he seems impatient

“You need to see this, min duva....”

I get up letting the photos drop off me and go to the desk sensing his vibe

“Read this,” he tells me

It’s a screenshot of an email and I instantly recognize the address; it’s Nigel’s

It reads:

After several sessions of putting her under I have reason to believe she has some deeply buried memories not just of early childhood traumas but also I have discovered she has buried codes—secrets—she doesn’t remember these but I am sure with more time I can get them out of her. Can you imagine? After all these years to find all the secrets have been stored away in a child’s buried memory?”