Silly Putty
Why so serious? The world is laffy taffy. We ride on bubblegum balloons. Our air is but helium. Our sickness, scattered marbles. Our speech and tone long laugh tracks. We bloat our heads with rubber mallets to fit the latest fashions, of bigger hats and bigger robes. Our foes are armies of gingerbread men. We stay within the line, cookie cutter cuts make us fall in a deep sleep and we rest with dust over our eyes.
Ace of Spades
I've helped her more than a few times in the last couple months, stowing groceries into the gigantic trunk of her Ford Galaxy. "Thank you, young man. It gets a little harder every trip to get all these bags up and into the trunk." Mrs. Webbe said jovially. I smiled quietly as she hobbles to the driver door. "If you don't mind me asking, why do you get so many groceries?" She froze for a moment, nearly going unnoticed. Her eyes were closed and she had a somber smile under them. "I spent 68 years making dinner for two with my Herb, and I forget every night that he isn't there in the living room in his chair, waiting for my kiss on his cheek and a steak on the table. There's just some things you can never not do, especially after so long."
If I had a choice...
If I had a choice
Where would I be?
If I had a choice
Would you love me?
If I had a choice to go far away
If I had a choice could I stay?
If I had a choice
To dream and dream
If I had a choice
Would you let me be?
If I had a choice
To walk in the rain
If I had a choice
Could I do it all day?
If I had a choice
To scream and shout
If I had a choice
Could I let it all out?
If I had a choice
To walk naked and bare
If I had a choice
I wouldn’t care
If I had a choice
To cry tears of blood
If I had a choice
Would you clean it up?
If I had a choice
To be hurt inside
If I had a choice
Would you let me cry?
If I had a choice
To be happy and live
If I had a choice
To smile and grin
If I had a choice
To skip around
If I had a choice
To sing out loud
If I had a choice
To be left alone
If I had a choice
To moan and groan
If I had a choice
Wail and cry
If I had a choice
Would you let me die?
If I had a choice
To choose one of these things
If I had a choice…….
What would it be?
The Flip of a Coin
“Tell you what, I'll flip you for it.”
“Flip me for it? It is not like it’s the last french fry. I just want to go out with my friends.”
He raised his eyebrow at me incredulously as his hand was already slipping into his pocket. It was a look I had grown accustomed to over the years; it was soothing even. When my dad left and my mom died, my grandmother moved in to take care of me. I know she is doing the best she can, but with dialysis and her checkups, there was a lot left to be wanting.
That is where Jeff came in. Jeff moved to the neighborhood about the time my dad left. I was ready to hate all men and started out our relationship by punching the kid in the nose, but he just wiped the blood from his lip and smiled.
“Friends? Remind me again where your friends were last weekend?”
“That was different, Jeff.”
“Sarah, I really don’t see how that is even close to different. What if he had been there, hmm? They let you get drunk and left you in a bar. You are lucky John was working that night.”
“Yeah, I know, but Kat is coming this time and she is going to be the DD.”
Jeff proceeded to ignore me and place the infamous quarter on his thumb “Head you go out tonight, tails you hang out at my place and we watch a movie. Tell you what; you can even pick the movie.”
“Ah, come on, Jeff. That’s not even close to fair. That thing is, like, possessed or something. It always goes your way.”
He shrugged limply. “Tails never fails,” he offered before tossing the coin tumbling in the air.
I didn’t even have to look down. I could tell by his smile what face was up.
“Fine, but later,” I growled. “I have some homework I have to get done, alright?”
“Alright, how about six?”
“Six? Seven, at least”
“Nine it is. See you then.”
We turned from each other and went our respective ways down the sidewalk. I hadn’t made it very far when Kat’s blue Buick Skylark rolled up to the curb. I kept walking so she would have to keep moving. We delighted in being mean to each other.
“Hey, Sarah. We going out tonight?”
“Can’t Kat. I’ve got homework.”
“Oh yeah? What in?”
“Biology,” I retorted.
“Riiiight. Homework right before the midterm. I don’t buy it.”
“Fine, then I’ve got to study.”
“Pff. You needing to study. That is hilarious. What time should I pick you up?”
“Sorry, I’ve got plans.”
“What time?”
“Seven.”
“Perfect! We were going out early tonight. I’ll have you back before then, I swear.”
“Like I believe that.”
“Close enough to. You need to go back to your dorm first?”
“No, not really.”
“Well then get in already.”
I sighed and crossed the grass to the street. Getting into the car was more of a production than necessary as Kat continued to allow her car to roll forward. I slammed the door behind me as Kat accelerated to rejoin traffic.
“So what’s the plan?” I asked.
“Paddy’s, where else?”
“They were there just last night.”
“And every night until we graduate or die.”
We continued to laugh at jokes at each other’s expense as we drove around town picking up our other friends. We packed seven of us in the five passenger car. The poor thing had lost its air conditioning years before Kat got it and soon it had become a sauna. We piled out of the car and assumed our place at out regular table in the corner.
“I wonder is Sarah’s friend is going to be here,” Tiffany teased.
I rolled my eyes as Kat chimed in “Friend?”
“Oh, yeah,” I began as the other girls left to get there drinks and begin their evening festivities. “That’s right. You totally missed it. Yeah, I have a stalker now.”
“What?”
“It started about two weeks ago I guess. Phone calls with no one there, voice-mails with heavy breathing, and now he’s graduated to leaving love notes on my door.”
Boy, sounds like you found yourself a real winner.”
“Right? Last note said he was going to kill me so we could be together forever.”
Kat choked on her water. “Shit. Who is this guy?”
“No idea. He just signs his letters ‘your angel and savior’.”
“Police going to catch this guy?”
“They’re looking into it. They said if I receive another note I’ll probably have to go into protective custody.”
“That is rough. What are you going to do about school?”
I shrugged but before I could answer the bartender John slid into our booth. “Hey Kat. Missed you last night. Who’s your friend?”
“My friend?” she snorted. “You mean Sarah?”
He rolled his eyes. “No, your friend in the corner. A guy, a little bit older I guess, keeps starring this way. Has been all night.”
Kat and I turned and looked wide-eyed at each other. “We have to get out of here.” I gasped.
Kat nodded “I’ll get the girls.”
“I’ll get the stuff.”
She slid from the booth and called back “John, Stay with Sarah.”
“Yeah, sure,” The bartender said. “What’s going on?”
I sipped the purses over one arm and balled the sweatshirts against my body. “I’ll tell you later. Is he still here?”
“Um, let me check. No, he’s gone. Why?”
“He might be trying to kill me.”
“What? For real?”
“Yeah, do you think you can remember his face?”
“No problem.”
“K. I’ll call you later,” I added as I prepared to make a run for the door.
“Wait. Go through the kitchen. I’ll tell Kat to go around back. That way he won’t see you.”
I smiled. “Thanks John, you’re the best.”
I flew through the kitchen with my heart pounding in my ears. I had to get out; I had to get away. But john had seen him. The bastard was unmasked. Soon all of this would be over.
I made my way to the service door and waited at the small window embedded in the door, waiting and watching. The seconds dragged on. What was surely two minutes at most felt like hours. Finally Kat’s Buick appeared in my small outlet to the world. I flung the door wide and made a bolt for the Skylark. The door was opened as I made my approach and I leaped in. I was barely in the vehicle when Kat slammed on the gas and sprayed the gravel of the parking lot into the undercarriage.
Kat sped away as we fidgeted in silence. My eyes drifted down to the clock on the tape deck and radio. Seven-ten. Despite everything happening, I felt a stab of guilt keeping Jeff waiting. I knew he would be worrying.
The car rolled to a stop at an intersection. I felt my feet quicken their beat on the floorboard. Kat smashed her palm on her steering wheel.
“Is this idiot going to go?” she bleated.
I looked up and saw a black Oldsmobile waiting at the parallel stop sign. Even in the low light of dusk, it was easy to see the thing was in rougher shape than Kay’s Skylark. Besides the sizable dents and rust spot, it emitted a low burning growl.
“Just go,” Tiffany urged. “I want to get home. This moron needs to learn to drive.”
Suddenly, as if spurned on by the words, the Oldsmobile sprang to life and charged toward us. Kat slammed on her gas, but it was too late. The other car plowed into our opposite corner panel and we were sent spinning.
As I sat there in the back, everything seemed to slow. I looked around and saw the other girls screaming but heard nothing. I saw the world spinning around us as I sat calmly and still. As we came back around, I saw the Oldsmobile spinning in a world itself turning like a giant Tilt-a-Whirl.
We lurched to a stop and time came rushing back. Sound crashed into me in a wave that stirred me from my stupor. The girls were still screaming and Kat was frantically turning her engine over.
“Come on! Come on! Come on!” she coaxed the car to no avail.
I looked up. The Oldsmobile had come to a rest facing away from us. It surged into motion and began to turn around. I had to get out. He was after me and we were sitting ducks. I had to make a run for it. I was putting them all in danger.
I kicked the door open and plunged into the evening air. I ran as fast as I could. The squealing tires and roaring growl forced me to venture glance back. A single head light stared me in the face and filled my vision.
I was struck. I had been expecting in and was prepared to meet the car, but this blow came from the side. It took me of my feet and contorted me in the air. I spun in the air and turned toward the way I had come. The headlight lit up Jeff hovering in air where I had just been for only a moment before the Oldsmobile consumed him.
The car squealed as the brakes were engaged and Jeff was thrown forward into the street in a broken heap. I was stunned. I couldn’t tell if I was on the ground or still in air. I had no feeling. I was paralyzed.
The door open and a man emerged from the car. “Sarah! How could you do this to me? We were going to be together! It’s not too late.”
He reached for me. His eyes were alight with a wild and feral light. And he smiled. It was cruel, unforgiving, and terribly monstrous shadow of a smile. He stooped lower and closer, his hand outstretched for my neck.
The man toppled over from the force of a body. My heart surged with hope. Jeff. It had to be Jeff. He was ok.
I gathered myself to see Kat on top of the man landing blow after blow to his face. Tiffany soon joined the pile as I heard sirens in the distance. I looked up and saw the purple glow as the approached. Police officers quickly surrounded the scene and draw their firearms. The girls piled of and three Police officers took their place to restrain him.
As they stuffed him into the squad car, he stared at me with those soulless beady eyes already swollen from the assault, smiling. That stupid smile from a man I had never seen before. I saw nothing in those eyes and I can only hope he saw my hatred.
“Are you a family member of the deceased?”
The words washed over me. I heard them but failed to comprehend their meaning. I found myself nodding.
“I am sorry for your loss, miss. Brave thing he done.”
I slowly turned toward the voice. He was a tall and lean man in the dark navy of a police officer. My eyes shifted down to a small white cardboard box in his hands.
“It’s a damn shame. Act of pure love if I’d ever seen one. You his sister then?”
I found myself nodding again. I had no words. There was nothing to say.
“It was painless as close as we could figure. Take some comfort in that.”
The officer pushed the box toward me. Thoughtlessly I complied and curled my fingers around the container. It was cold and light.
“Some personal effects on the...he had on him. Not everything. Some had to be taken to evidence. You understand.”
I continued my soulless nodding. I felt numb. The whole world had gone and died and I was left in the void.
The police officer reached out and patted my shoulder as we watched the squad car pull away. “Don’t you worry. We’ll put him away. You’ll never have to see him again.”
I knew he was wrong. I was already seeing his smiling face every time I closed my eyes. The face of the psychopath that I didn’t even know the name of. The soulless eyes of the monster who had taken Jeff from the world.
The officer gave my shoulder a squeeze and departed. The red and blue lights ceased their rhythmic flashing and left me with only the streetlamp overhead. The cars pulled away and everything was gone. It was like nothing had happened at all. All that was left was this box.
I looked down inside and shuffled the few items inside. There was a bag of microwave popcorn, a DVD of ‘Charade’, and a quarter. I fished out the coin and turned it over. Both faces bore the eagle. I suppose sometimes we make our own luck.
Zoey
Growing up, I had a friend and enemy I could never be rid of nor never truly wanted to. She was, in all regards better than me. She was cuter than me, smarter, athletic, charismatic, pious, and more clever than me. She was a nemesis I was eternally proud of.
Some say twins have a special bound. I don't know anything about that, but maybe it is just spending and sharing every experience with them that looks extraordinary to someone who hasn't experienced the same. Her firsts were my first and I would like to say mine were hers, but I was always a step behind.
Even when we got sick, she was the first to cough and for her blisters to open. It was Gods will. We were being tested so we stayed at home. We prayed five times a day for our deliverance.
I remember waking up that morning. The morning I woke up before her. I rolled over and shook her. I teased her. I sang in a mocking tone that I had beat her.
And I had. I had finally bested her. I survived.
It was all I had ever wanted for as long as I could remember. To be better than her. But the chase was over and I was hollow. I continued to improve in health and as I did, my parents grew more distant.
I had always known she was their favorite and if I am honest, she was mine. The wrong twin had survived. Their scorn grew and I became nothing more than tolerated. I was a reminder of what should have been. I was the inadequate replacement. I was the damaged goods. There was no option but to cast me out.
They say time heals all wounds. That in time the pain with subside. But I don't want it to. That pain is all I have of her. I would rather let it fester than to lose the last connection I had with her.
She would know what to do to make this all go away. She would be able to mend the bridges. She would know the right words to make everything better. But all we are left with is the wrong twin.
Ãrtè Mödernē
The canvas was beaten and bruised. Acrylic swung into amorphous globs, tracing a trajectory only a demolitionist could enjoy.
A clown orgy, covered in vomit and cotton candy, taking place on an uneven carousel.
The artist, a schlump, dead eyed, malnourished husk of a being, hovered next to the display. "It's a reflection in reality carved into a self-portrait. Munch and Picasso would be astonished." He sneered from behind uselessly large glasses.
A spattering of applause echoed in the small studio. The blood percolated in my face. This bowel movement from a deceased animal rested on the wall, and everyone wanted to fuck it voraciously. Their sexes throbbed just at being in proximity to the piece and its originator.
I turned and shuffled away, with a single thought bursting from the folds of my grey matter.
What the hell happened to art?
BOUND
Maurice Haynes suffered heart failure in the Food Lion parking lot off of highway 82. It was an uncharacteristic 68 degrees in the heart of January in Virginia. Coincidentally, he had turned 86 that November, but he could easily pass for 70. Still, seated in his candy apple red pickup, his heart unexpectedly gave out on him.
He had set out from his modest home early that morning with plans to visit a friend in the neighboring county. His wife Ernestine said goodbye with her trademark wave that could easily be mistaken as shooing away a fly. She hadn’t bothered to change out of her polyester nightgown; she’d probably go right back to bed after he left.
He wore a Haynes Family Reunion t-shirt and his working pants, as he called them. His tennis shoes were a fancy new set that his son had shipped out from New York. So was the red pickup. He had no use for its multiple CD changer or any of the other features afforded by the array of knobs and buttons on the dashboard, but driving it was like broadcasting to everyone in town how proud he was of his son. And when he missed his boy the most, the picture clipped to the sun visor of the pair at his son’s college graduation warmed his heart. He took a minute to look at it every time he pitched himself up into the cab.
As he rumbled up the dirt road, puffs of dust kicked up from his tires, obscuring his home and the woman he’d loved for the last 52 years. He would have looked back in his rearview mirror a bit longer if he knew that would be the last time he’d see her.
He cruised through town at a comfortable 25 miles per hour, being sure to tip his New York Giants baseball cap at the townsfolk as he passed through. The women smiled back at him and the men tipped their hats in return. Most of those faces were the same ones he’d seen since he was a boy, they’d just sagged and wrinkled from years of hard work raising crops in the fields or raising children at home. Nestorville had always been home.
But once he merged onto the highway, the feeling struck him in his chest. You couldn’t really call it a pain; it was more like a shudder that started in his heart and rattled its way through his bones. He hunched forward but was sure to keep his eyes on the road. Then he straightened himself up again and expanded his chest. He’d shaken off worse than this, he told himself. If this had taken place back during the war, it wouldn’t have even registered. He’d have just pushed through and shoved the pain into the back of his mind. The shudder returned, stronger this time. And instead of subsiding, it kept washing over him like waves running up over the beach. And with each wave, he could feel his energy draining.
In that moment, he thought back to his father and the times he’d sit on his knee and talk with him before bed. His father would field every outrageous or non-sensical question Maurice could come up with until his head started to dip. One night, after a particularly rousing sermon at church, Maurice asked his father about death.
“Why do we have to die?” The symphony of insects outside chirped and called into the night air as if set to a metronome.
“Son, dyin’ makes life worth livin’. What’d be the point of it all if there wasn’t an end to it?” His voice was so raspy that a whisper was impossible.
“But if we didn’t die, we could do so much more. We wouldn’t have to worry about time runnin’ out.”
“But we need a finish line, son. Who wants to run a race without a finish line to cross at the end?”
“I wish I could. Just keep running into the distance. And that’s not the same anyway. In a race, we know where the end is. We don’t know when we are going to die.”
“That’s where you’re wrong.” Maurice loved being alone with his father because that was when he could see the gentle man he knew him to be. He spoke with a softer tone, and he was much more patient with him than any other person he came across. “You know, my father told me that just before we die, we know it’s comin’. And in that moment we’re not scared or sad that it’s endin’. We’re excited because we get to go be with God.”
“That’s not fair.” His father lifted his head and looked out the window. Whenever his father froze his head and neck like a bust, Maurice knew that he was deep in thought, and any interruptions would be followed with discipline. Experience had taught Maurice to be patient in these moments.
“Well, son. Life ain’t fair. It’s just not built up that way.” He lifted his son into his arms and held him close. Maurice had always loved resting his head on that strong stone shoulder. “I’ll tell you a secret. That moment just before we die is the longest moment we’ll ever have. Some say that moment lasts for hours. So when that time comes, you have to remember all of the best times in your life and enjoy them one more time. Then, when you’re all done doing that, pray. You’ll have nothing to be scared of.”
He took comfort in those words that night, and now he was taking comfort in them again. So he pulled off the highway and parked his truck in the Food Lion parking lot. He leaned his head back against the leather headrest, closed his eyes, and relived the moments that made his heart flutter: smelling a freshly cut field of grass; his first kiss; seeing his wife appear at the end of the aisle at his wedding; smelling his wife’s homemade cornbread baking in the oven; watching his son look back at him for the first time; holding his wife in bed just before they fell asleep; listening to his mother sing at his father’s funeral; seeing his son take off on his bike up the road; the back of his wife’s straw hat covered head in their garden; sitting with his family on the porch swing at night, counting fireflies and stars.
And he smiled. And a tear glided down his cheek. And he prayed to his Lord one last time, thanking Him for the opportunity.
Then he opened his eyes. He was still there in the Food Lion parking lot behind the wheel of his pickup. He pulled his hands from the steering wheel and stared at his open palms. The shudders had stopped. And the sense of calm that was now running through his veins soothed his once weary muscles. Was it a fluke? Did death pass over him? He didn’t know what it was, but he immediately decided to head back home to be with his wife. The fishing trip with Philip would have to wait.
He nimbly made his way through the circuit of dirt roads that led him home, anxious to tell his companion about his experience. He was careful not to drive too fast since the tree lined roads afforded little warning for oncoming traffic.
Pulling into his driveway, he eased out of the cab and marched into the house. “Ernestine? Ernestine? It’s me. I decided not to go fishing today. I had the most bizarre experience on the ride over there, and I just wanted to see you.”
There was no answer. And as he moved through the kitchen towards the bedroom, his heart longed even more for her.
“Ernestine? Are you asleep honey? I need to talk to you.”
The bedroom door was ajar, and it squeaked when Maurice pushed it open. There was Ernestine, lying on her right side as she always slept, facing the window. She was still in her nightgown, her hair up in rollers under a nightcap. Maurice suddenly felt like an intruder. He carefully chose his steps over to the other side of the bed, avoiding the creaky floorboards he knew so well, and came close to her face.
“Ernestine?”
He had never seen her look so content. Ernestine had always been a practical woman, never at either end of the emotional spectrum. Even kiltered, almost to a fault. But now, tranquility was cast across her face, unfettered by any notions of decency or conservatism. He kissed her on the forehead and left the room.
He sat in a chair at the old wood kitchen dinette set and picked up the telephone receiver. He dialed his son’s number, the whurr of the rotary dial taking it’s time after each turn.
“Bob Haynes speaking,” he answered.
“Bobby, this is your dad.”
“Hey Dad, how’s it going?”
“I just thought that I should give you a call. I was driving up the highway to go fishing with Philip Brownlee, and I had the strangest feeling. It took over my whole body, and I had to pull off of the road for a minute. For a minute there, I thought I was going to die.”
“Don’t talk like that, Dad. You’re scaring me. You’ve got a lot of life left to live.”
“I’m not so sure about that, son.”
“Dad, you’re the healthiest old person I know,” he chuckled. “I still haven’t managed to best you in arm wrestling.”
“This is serious, Bobby. Let me finish my story.”
“Sorry, Dad.”
“When I sat there and I thought about all that I have cared about in my life, all I could think about was you, your mother, and my father. All I could think about was family. And I realized that there was a very important thing I never had the chance to tell you.”
“You’ve got my attention.”
“When I was little, I asked my father about death. I asked him why we had to die. He told me that dying makes life worth living. That life is a race and death is just the finish line. And I want you to always remember that. Live your life like you are trying to win the race, and then you’ll be happy when you finish.”
“I’ll remember. I promise.”
“I love you so much. And I’m so proud of you. You’ve achieved so much more than I could have ever dreamed for you. And I want to make sure that you know that. In my eyes, you’ve already been running a great race. Just keep up the pace and don’t stop running.”
“You’ve always made it clear how proud you are of me. And I love you guys too. Listen, why don’t I come down and visit you guys in a few weeks. We can all talk about this face-to-face. I have to run into a meeting right now, but tell Mom I’ll call her later.”
“Ok. I’ll tell her when I see her.”
Maurice hung up the phone and went back into the bedroom. He took his shoes off and placed them underneath the bed frame where Ernestine had always instructed him to put his shoes, and climbed onto the bed. He matched the shape of his body to her form and rested his left hand on her chest. Her heart was still. He took a deep breath, and he exhaled.
The Mark of Saturn
Lucidity is a stick, my head the drum. It beats me, forcing me to recall my whereabouts of the last two days. Beside the toilet is my two years past due light bill smeared with the residual powder I don’t remember snorting, but know I wouldn’t have just left for later. There are at least six condom wrappers ripped in half, strewn across the floor along with the other contents of my purse, though the condoms themselves aren’t in the trash; it’s been a slow couple of days I assume.
My mouth tastes like iron and the film on my teeth is more like a thick paste of congealed oil. I cough, the usual blood comes out. I wipe it off on the back of my skirt. It’s ripped; I don’t remember that. I look in the unsullied mirror at the reflection I don’t even recognize anymore. Mascara collects in the bags beneath my reddened eyes. The bruise on my cheeks is a more blue than purple now, but the memory of the beating is still very fresh.
My clothes are damp as if I had taken a shower still fully clothed. My hair is matted, tangled around the hair tie that holds only a few strands out of my face. I don’t recognize the tile on the floor; the grout is whiter than most of the places I take Johns to. The toilet seat isn’t chipped and the shower curtain isn’t hung by rusted rings.
I brush my teeth with a new toothbrush wrapped in clear plastic trying to rid the rancidness from my palette. The water soaks into my tongue like a dried sponge giving it life. A bit of toothpaste slips down my throat, activating my gag reflex. Nothing comes out, just a set of dry heaves and small amount of green bile. Sweat collects on my forehead and my eyes have turned four shades redder.
I hear a cough come from just outside the bathroom door and wonder if I’d forgotten to show the John out. It wouldn’t be the first time that’s happened, but ever since that night I’ve tried to be really careful about that sort of thing. I place my hand on the knob and notice that it too is nicer than normal. It’s all one color, no dents or scratches. The door is dark wood, the expensive kind, and the latch doesn’t squeak when I unlock it. Where am I?
I search my pockets for my knife as I prepare to open the door. I flip it open, trying to steady my shaking hand. I crack open the door slightly, peaking through to search the room first. A John in a dark blue button down shirt and slacks sits in a chair in the corner of the room. He’s clean cut and nothing like my usual. He uncrosses his leg then taps his foot on the floor impatiently glancing at his gold watch then up at me through the slit in the doorway.
He stands quickly, but doesn’t move. He’s broad, handsome, but stern looking. His hair is cut low, military style, but his five o’clock shadow seemed more purposeful than grown out.
“You feeling okay?” he asks; his voice sincere. Though it’s been some time since I’ve heard that tone in a man’s voice, I recognize it like an old friend I haven’t seen in awhile. I don’t answer him, but open the door fully to step out. “Do you remember me?”
Wearily I shake my head no as I step further into the room. What I thought was a motel is actually an apartment, a nice one, simply decorated. I stand in front of a plush looking bed watching him, but secretly wanting to touch the white spread that looks so comforting, so inviting.
“I’m Detective Julian Miles. I worked your case three years ago.” The name is familiar and the more I look at him the more familiar his face becomes as well.
“Where am I?” I ask feeling more at ease, but only slightly.
“My apartment, downtown.”
“How’d I get here?” I cough, swallowing down a bit of bloody mucus from the back of my throat.
“I went looking for you outside the Sterling on fifth. You were in the alley, beaten and bloody. I tried to take you the hospital, but you told me no. You passed out before I got you here. It’s been two days. You locked yourself in the bathroom yesterday.”
“What do you want?” I say harshly. I know I should thank him, but the memory of our previous encounter doesn’t let me.
“Robin, I need your help,” he says, his face covered in worry. “He’s killing again,” my heart sinks, “and this time, he isn’t targeting…”
“Hookers?” I finish his sentence. Tears well in my eyes as the memory of the smell of dried blood and rotted flesh seeps back into my nostrils. He looks down, unable to say the word directly to my face. “He’s going for women that matter now, isn’t he?”
I can still hear the screams, the sound of revving drills and clanging chains scratching along cold, wet slab. “Yeah, he is.”
“I can’t help you detective. I can’t even help myself.” I sit down on the floor instead of the bed knowing that my damp clothes would ruin the sheets. He was good to me then, still is. The drum is beating again; its incessant rhythm makes it hard to focus my eyes.
He drops to one knee, leaning in front of me clasping my chin in his hand pulling it up to look at him. He smells like cedar and vanilla, and his eyes are so gray they look blue. He turns my head and moves the hair from behind my ear where the mark is. “He took a woman last week in front of her twin girls. Three years old, Robin. He marked her with the same cross and crescent that you have. Only she didn’t get away like you did. We found her in pieces over the span of three miles in the woods just outside of town.” It’s the mark of Saturn and in three years all I can do to hide it is keep my hair down and behind my ear. “You’re the only one that has been where he keeps them and lived.”
Warm tears stream down my face. My jaw quivers. My nose starts to run, but I quickly wipe it dry. “I can’t help you.”
“Robin, please!”
“Don’t make me remember.” I close my eyes trying to let the blackness wipe the memories flooding my brain away.
He grips the back of my neck. “Robin look at me,” he pleads forcing my eyes open once again. His thumb skims the skin just below my nape. “You can do this. Help me catch him. Don’t let him keep doing this. Please.”
His eyes move left and right in rapid succession searching mine for an inkling of empathy. There’s hope in them, a twinkling of expectation of good that I can’t see in myself, but that he see’s in me. “Tell me you’ll help me.”
The pounding is even louder now. I can hear it behind my ears and eyes. I begin to shake, but whether it’s from fear or withdrawal, I’m not sure. The nightmares I’ve blocked out for three years with John’s and drugs wash over me like a tsunami, choking me, drowning me. I can’t bring myself to say it out loud because I know my mouth won’t let me. So instead I shake my head.
“You’ll help me?” he asks again, incredulous joy disguising his usual deep, melodious voice. I shake my head yes again, still unable to say the words. “Thank you,” he says gratefully. “Let’s get you cleaned up. We’ve got a lot to cover.”