Immune

Chapter 1

It’s 6 am; some noise scratches the inside of my skull letting me know I have rested too long. The room is still; the sky is a melancholy mix of purple and blue, I am not shaking and the path to my bedroom door is straight. In my head I am petrified, I am sober on the brink of sanity. The three digital letters were staring straight through me, except that I knew they weren’t. This morning I can see clearly, I can think clearly, I can feel everything, the heat from radiator let faint amount of sweat escape, its chilled linger resting uncomfortably on my crooked spine.

Ever since I was five I could never stand for too long or sit comfortably, I always had to shift and bend and move just to have five minutes of peace. It wouldn’t be until a decade and a half later that I had my first painkiller. The doctor prescribed me a low dosage, with the surmounting addiction and dependency celebrities and men alike have acquired he did not wish for me to fall into that mold too. At first the pain subsided, the numbness was so soothing and refreshing, and then a point came, where the low dosage wasn’t enough. A pill would leave me in consciousness, which highlighted my pain. Two, became three became four became a bottle; the more I swallowed the more I needed. There came a point where I forgot why I needed the pills in the first place, only remembering their purpose this morning and a year ago. My doctor doesn’t write me prescriptions anymore, my new doctor, pharmacist, and therapist is a guy named Sean, his office is in an alley, or any side street for that matter, the trunk of his car is pretty mobile. Maybe I was taking Oxycontin, maybe some Vicodin but in the realm of addicts, beggars can’t be choosers, I give him some money and he gives me an unmarked bottle with indecipherable pills. I met him after my last trip to Dr. Cohen. Apparently I exhibited a thousand forms of drugs seeking behavior, he recommended I try and go in for some rehab, he even tried to contact my family for some intervention, fortunately for me my parents never really cared, and my brother was dead, maybe if the dog could have talked there would have been some support, the diversity between the tone in his barks and the comfort of silence evoked more human emotion than I could ever hope to experience in a lifetime. Sean was in the waiting room, gelled blonde hair, and a suit worth more than my car and a modest old watch framed his entire character. He followed me all the way to the car, there was no alarm in his steps, no caution, and he came to me with confidence and spoke to me as if I were his cousin. He never once looked down at his watch, it seemed the appointment was inconsequential to him, the entire conversation I surveyed the parking lot, as a bailiff at the town court I had seen the fate of most addicts and dealers.

In the brevity of our first meeting I already admired him, being late was a fate worse than death for me, I had always ran on others time, he lived by his own watch, when his head told him to be there, he was there. Sean never gave me a time to meet him, just a location. I would always get there at 7 am, I could wait a minute or a day; the length never mattered, I would wait patiently. I wondered where he got these drugs, and how he ever attained the means to do so, but my lust for euphoria usually diminished any questions I had.

The clock still wont look at me but it is 6:20, I am in my bathroom and I know exactly how I got there, scattered on my sink are plain white bottles on top of a blue sink, and in the middle of it all a mammoth sink that suffers the fate of far too many overdoses, it can taste the shame I should feel and chokes up every regrettable night. The steadiness of my hand tells me I need something, I grab a bottle and its hollow insides shock every nerve in my body, the weight becomes to much and my hand releases it, upon its impact I hear an earthquake but the tile floor doesn’t even crack. My hands move nervously through the layers of my unwashed hair, I pace about in front of the mirror, I look into it, I don’t see Sean at all, I barely see myself, and then it comes so silently, the real pain, the pain a child used to endure but now a grown man can’t stand. My hands clench the sides of the sink, I can hear each breathe as they move faster and faster, I need to sit down but instead I start the shower. The water begins to pound the surface of the tub, I don’t wait for the steam, I just get in. I can barely breathe under the cold water, I was awake before I ever stepped behind the curtain, and my pale tall body is quivering underneath each drop. I got back into my room, it is 6: 45 and I have to leave.

I pull down the old abandoned road where trees flock and dirt replaces pavement. Even in the car I can see my breath. I would turn on the heat but the discomfort usually makes the time go by quicker, gives me something to focus on besides my agonizing spine and numb fingers. In the reverse, I would be in heaven. Sitting in this car I am incredibly useless, but as soon as Sean arrives I will transform into a customer and a friend, sitting in this leather seat I am no longer a bailiff putting scum in cuffs, I am useless. I could sit here all day.

Out of the morning mist that never subsides here comes a glistening black Escalade, made of hollow bottles and addiction. Everywhere Sean goes he carries our addictions and problems. He is like god except he answers our pathetic prayers; this is probably why he isn’t in heaven. The sun is not quite above my world but has made itself apparent, the shards of its rays ease my discomfort as I open my car door to meet him. I edge closer to the car and I can see his face in the rearview mirror, his eyes hidden by sunglasses. Before I get to close the car door opens, First an arm and a leg, covered in expensive cloth, black pants stuffed with the bottoms of a blue silk button down shirt with sleeves closed off by silver cufflinks. Everything about Sean is professional, everything but the business he is in. “All dolled up on my account?” I might have said this to him a thousand times over, but I am not very original and even worse at conversation. On his face I could see a faint smirk, it was as dissatisfying as a faked orgasm, and as painful as standing sober for more than 20 minutes. “What do you have for me today?” My curiosity wasn’t really there, but once again what else did I have to say. His neck weakened and his head slung down and then abruptly back up, his sunglasses stayed on through the movements. “Something you may never have tried before, I don’t know what it will do to you, but I am sure the side effects couldn’t be any worse than the reason you are here.” He said this and I felt for a second a sense of mourning in his voice, maybe he cared. He tossed me a tiny bottle, a 10-pound dumbbell in my palm. I studied it with awe for a minute before scuffling through my pockets for some money. Panic overcame me, my pockets were empty, where was my wallet? “Hey Sean give me one second, I left my wallet in the car.” There was nothing to push aside on the floor, or the front seat, the car was so baron. On the floor mat found salvation, my leather wallet sat so still waiting for its neglectful owner. I ran it back to him, as a child trying to please his parents I held it up with great reverence and pride. Here is the fall. His arms crossed around his marble framed chest, the tug on the sleeve revealing that old watch that goes against everything he puts on his body, I feel the ticks forcing me to open it up. I am not sure where his eyes were but I could not feel them on me. There was no money left in my wallet, as hollow as the bottle on my bathroom floor, how could I put this in an eloquent fashion that might make him understand? Say something human. “Fuck.” The tilt in his neck, the far off feel of his eyes, and anxious rubbing of his head with the liberated palm tell me everything. This is about the time three guys get out of the car and make me pay. This is where he takes out a gun and slowly walks me into the middle of some forest. This is where… “It’s okay. I know you’re good for it. Listen…” From his pocket he took a notebook and pen, he wrote down an address. “In two weeks, meet me there, you can pay me back then.” I said, “thank you so much Sean, I have the money, I am sorry for the hassle.” He smirked again, this time I could see all of his white teeth; this is what a real orgasm felt like. “I know you are. Just be there and the World will spin again.” Then he was back in the car and drove away from the situation he was grossly overdressed for. In my palm I shook the bottle and trembled, a great fear was in me. The arbitrary rattling signified I would deal with the pain for at least three days in these next two weeks with no sure sign of relief.

Instinctively I drove home, I drove home because I had nowhere else to go. My breakfast was in a white bottle, all of my friends were in a white bottle, all of the girls I would ever touch were in a white bottle, all of my family, well they are in the ground. The clock said it was 9:45 but my head and my back were still stuck around 6 am. I should’ve been mulling over the odd way Sean insinuated I would pay him back, or the lavish car he drove down a desolate road, I should have wondered why he wore such a nice suit or why I still had my fix on lay away. There are a lot of things in this life I should have done, I’m not lazy or bitter, just unmotivated. I turned on the radio and it began talking to me “You say it's money that we need

As if we're only mouths to feed I know no matter what you say, there are some debts you'll never pay” I wonder if Arcade had me in mind when they wrote this or if the radio station some miles down the state knew exactly what I was doing, I just ignored the coincidence and let the song play.

When I got back to the apartment complex I saw the line of the familiar unfamiliar. An old couple, a wife carting around the sad remains of her shriveled husband, she did this everyday and there was always a light smile extending from the wrinkled edges of her lips. That old kind of true love, that love where even when you wake up next to an immobile, helpless prune your heart still races. The kind of love where you never tire of the annoying shit you have put up with for eighty years, 90 percent of me wouldn’t believe they were real, in two years I might be right. Venturing out of the parking lot, and over to the unstable stairwell I find myself behind the uncoordinated hung-over version of this girl who some call Vickie. Her dress is wrinkled and bunched up, the glitter falls off the black cloth with each graceful step she takes. Her brown hair was a mess and I could only assume whatever makeup she chose to hide her face had been smudged and erased. In Vickie’s world this was typical, but to all the other worlds outside of hers it was pathetic. I probably put 10 of her boyfriends in handcuffs, and maybe a handful of would be dads, maybe it was nature that made her act this way, maybe it was nurture, I never really found either to be a great excuse.

“Hey, do you need any help?” I said this as she gripped the rail, her knees buckling beneath the small weight of her torso and the immense weight of plastic implants. Her head hung low, a loud sigh escaped her, she didn’t look at me but I could feel the disdain in her eyes. “I am a big girl, I can handle a few steps.” The parting of her lips allowed vulgar scents of alcohol and other drugs I might know of. “Vick let me help you.” Only after she stumbled on the cusp of the fourth to last step, sending a bright red heel spiraling down the plastic steps did I motion any further aid. Addicts are allowed to have compassion. I wrapped her arm around my shoulder and lightly carried her to the top, I knew exactly where her room was but to refrain from seeming creepy I asked her the unnecessary question. “What apartment number are you?” A trembling finger attached to a limp arm pointed to a door down the way, third to my right to be exact. I had often wondered if I would sleep with this woman given the chance, she may not be much to look at but she knows what she is doing. In certain lights I am sure she was a gorgeous vixen, with a face that could turn a thousand heads and crush nine hundred and ninety nine hearts, just not in the light of day. “Thank you… uh…” the snap of her fingers and roll of her arm, along with the blank and far off stare so present in her eyes only exacerbated the awkwardness. “It was no problem; I kind of do it for a living. It’s Ryan.” I did in fact, putting people in cuffs, carrying them at their moment of greatest desperation, getting them to that cell whether they wanted to or not. I questioned giving her my name; I figured it wouldn’t hurt too badly if she forgot again.

After the door slammed I began to walk, I tried quickening my steps as the contents of my pocket grew heavier and heavier. My feet sunk into the ground, I had lasted so long but the latter recoil is merciless. The world is spinning, only now, I realize it. I can feel it underneath me, the sweat on my forehead says run, my body isn’t so sure. I swallow and listen to the saliva creep down my throat, it baritone crawl makes me self-conscious, my eyes wander and examine every direction, I can’t remember where I live. Through the confusion and head spinning someone I know appears, my neighbor, Ray Bingham. He was average height, almost six foot, with a beard that seemed to be the residual affect of running out of shaving cream, blue eyes that had a glacial shimmer, abs and biceps that could cut most rocks, and a smile that diminished the intimidation ensued with all of that. He grabbed my shoulder; at this point I was a lifeless rag doll. His words flew over me, I could only pray that he might be returning home, but the white shirt and paint covered jeans said otherwise. “You doing okay buddy?” Ray was more than a friend because he was almost all I had. With each quasi- violent shake it seemed as though he were trying to wake me up, or at least extract a few cogent words out of me. “I’m fine Roy, just trying to get back to bed.” In what could have been perceived as annoyance I split apart my thumb and index finger and pressed down harshly on my eye lids. “Alright man I will let you go, you want to grab some drinks later?” He was walking away at this point with his arm outstretched to me in question and in goodbye. “Sure, Murphy’s?” “Where else?” Then he was gone, whether it was a courtesy or a sincere invitation I have no idea. I couldn’t recall ever getting drinks with him before but I could vaguely remember seeing him in my inebriated states. Better not think about it though, gives me reason to live for a few more hours.

My home was a dark place with the curtains pulled across the dust-infested windows, and the lights, along with the TV, left unplugged. The life of an addict often comes with the baggage of immense utility conservation. Out of my pocket waltzes the white bottle, filled with blue and red pills. I am not completely sure if they are the same pill, or could be deadly when mixed but acting first never killed anybody, at least no yet. I took about four pills and felt almost nothing. I could lie down but I could also stand up, it was intolerable. I took two more, I didn’t want to wait for the drug to take control, I needed relief now. I quickly lost all consciousness; the darkness of my home turned into more darkness, then numbness, and then finally, sleeps.

Chapter 2

I came too, it was still dark, but this dark could have came without my blinds. I looked at the clock, 6:45 pm. I might have been late for my plans, although once again I was left without a time. I would knock on Roy’s door but I knew he wasn’t home. He painted houses, fucked his girlfriends, went to the bar, and sometime in the bleak hours of my eventual sobriety and the suns awakening he would acquaint himself with a bed. With a sense of urgency I got up and drove to Murphy’s.

Through the wooden doors reeked the sent of warm beer and fresh lit cigars. My footsteps were loud but no one seemed to care. Out of business interest alone the bartender approached me, even in under the neon signs advertising sex, alcohol, OPEN, I could tell how perfect she was. Her long black hair reflected those fluorescent blues and light reds, her pale white skin seemed illuminated in the dimly lit room. I saw her waiting and as I drew closer I came into contact with her royal blue eyes. They were looking at me, for the next minute or so I was her world and her interest.

“What are you drinking?” She asked. Her voice wasn’t angelic or harmonious, if she sang I might fall out of love with her, but it was still somehow beautiful.

“Miller Draft.”

“Bud okay?” She actually cared if it was okay with me. If she had just handed me a coaster with that question we would be married now, a white picket fence around a crappy house with a dog we never trained right and a kid with more stress and problems than we could ever fathom, the “American Dream.”

“That’s fine. But make it a Bud Lite.”

A second later the unwashed mug was placed in front of me, the lips of another lost soul, maybe even five had already touched the damp ends of the cup. Those same lips probably asked the same question I was about to.

“You wouldn’t happen to have a name would you?” It was a dumb question, a typical pick up line, but when trying to attract a bartender, especially one like her, you should never exert too much effort. The desperation already leaks from the pores of a man alone in a bar.

“What?” Maybe she couldn’t hear me, or maybe she was mocking me.

“Do you have a name?”

“Sure I do.”

“Can you tell me?” I asked this and it felt like the whole bar, or at least the guys sitting around me were silently dying, the comedic relief in such a place was refreshing. Some of the men were old and others young, a lot of them had beards, a few still wet behind the ears. Others probably picked up an I.D on the quad from a kid named Chad with too much money from daddy and not enough brains to coast through the class without a twenty dollar bribe coming in with each mid term. These pathetic ass holes were laughing at me. In that moment I remembered why I came her in the first place, where was Roy? Had he forgotten? Most likely, he has shit to do. My thoughts were suddenly interrupted with a rebuttal to an innocent question.

“Jen.” She said it with a tone that evoked the greatest inconvenience. The name didn’t quite suit her, I had met a lot of Jens in my lifetime and none of them could reinvent love in my heart.

After that she was gone, down the far end of the table with some new miserable fuck. We would all tip her way to much for a job that wasn’t that difficult. We thought the more money we threw at her the more she would love us, in the end however, that money only bittered her. The tips belittled whatever integrity she had, she didn’t see her job as important, the extra money slipped under foam drenched glasses ere more of a joke to her.

I sat alone for a few more moments, and then got up and left, my glass was still full, but underneath I left a dead president and a number. Once again I went with the typical, assuming most people shied away from it. She might not even notice it. When I opened that door one more time, this time re-entering the world, I looked back through the oval glass, carved just a little above the middle of the door, she noticed the number.

When I arrived back at the apartment I passed by Vickie, same dress with a slightly different face, the night sky is kind to her. She looks at me and smiles. I was thrown off guard completely unused to such a reaction. My eyebrows wrinkled, my eyes squinting, my mouth still, I just kept walking by her. She looked back once more I assume, I was to scared to check.

At my door I fumble with the keys, as I unlock the door, about to head arm first into more darkness I can see the white bottle, through the walls, and the doors, it holds hands with the alarm clock on my nightstand. The ecstasy, although in this case I guess the adjective isn’t so technically correct, is alluring and alarming. Before I can feel my first step on the worn down carpet I am in my bathroom, two pills in my sweaty palm, the lights are off but I can clearly see myself in the mirror. To be clear, I fucking hate mirrors. The two pills go down easy as I drift away, I was already half asleep before I swallowed either of them, as unnecessary as they were at night the pills are comforting. Through the paper thin walls I could hear Roy arrive home, and then I could hear Roy fucking. Five minutes passed until the room and the walls disappeared, no noise, no sex, and no pain, just dreams.

Chapter 3

Time progressed sluggishly that week, and the week after. My routine didn’t change, a few pills in the morning, and then go to work. I carted away some innocent people, I watched guilty men go free, and each bang that wooden mallet made on the podium seemed to exacerbate the ever-expanding tumor in my head, but at least I couldn’t feel that discomfort in my back. At this point in my life I felt as though I had jumped on the shell of a turtle and asked it to take my far away. It was doing just that at a relative pace. It finally came to be that in just 24 hours I would be meeting Sean, which was good because I was running low on pills while my bank account seemed glutinous. I had a lot of cash wrapped up, probably more than the pills were worth, but if a bartender should receive tips, so should a black market dealer. I was excited to show him I had the money, maybe restore some faith and trust in him, make him like me more.

Here came the morning, 6 am, I wasn’t thinking, I wasn’t feeling, was barley even awake. They say you notice something different in the way the clouds move or the birds chirp, or even I the way you walk when the day comes that begins your inevitable demise. If it was there, well then I completely missed it. I ran to the shower and submerged myself under the cold drops, I got out as fast as I could, threw on my clothes and left. This was important, not being there early enough was the end of the world. The clock stared at me blankly and yelled “6: 20”. My fingers shook and then clenched themselves in my hand in search of the note with the address. There it was, crinkled and smudged, in the right light it was Vickie. I ran to my car and drove off. The excitement and anticipation of these last couple weeks saved me from the agony of not being called by Jen, or being blatantly ditched by Roy. A minute after Sean leaves maybe I’ll have to deal with it.

I was shocked, sitting parked in the spot, on a quiet suburban road, was Sean. His black Escalade looked like a diamond caught in a septic tank. He looked at me, still through the black sunglasses, with earnest rage.

“You’re late.” His arms folded across a black V Neck T- Shirt, the old broken watch in the same spot on his wrist.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t know what time to be here, I came as soon as I could.” I was sorry, I don’t know why but it made me feel like a lesser person to have his disapproval.

“It’s fine I guess, you have the money.”

It was in this moment that Sean actually seemed like a dealer, no button down shirt, or polished shoes. Just straight leg jeans and Puma’s. I was freezing underneath morning mist, not one bone in his body shook.

“Yea of course.” With the hopes of approval I grabbed the wad out of my coat pocket and handed it to him. His face showed no joy, no sign of relief. His hands went into his pocket and he looked around at the dew-covered trees, and lightly soaked mini vans.

“The money isn’t enough. Honestly, I don’t need it, and I don’t want it.”

He gripped the wad tight, and then out of his pocket came a pack of matches. He lit just one, as eloquently as you can set the tip aflame, and watched the green burn. My heart sank; my eyes could’ve welled up with tears that very moment, thankfully they didn’t.

“What do you want.” I sounded like a man who had just lost his religion, a man asking God, after he has lost everything, what exactly he had done to deserve such cruelty.

“I have a job for you.” Sean spoke with assurance, and with demand.

“What kind of a job?”

“Extermination. There is a bug out there, I need you to kill it.” I was looking for sarcasm, I was also looking for seriousness, taking this literally might make my life a lot easier.

“Where? What kind of bug?”

“This house, the blue one across the street. I would give you his name but there is a reason we don’t name our steaks or lobsters.” He began to grin, before I could voice an objection he continued to talk.

“I’ll give you the gun, all you have to do is come back here in three days, get in the house, and put a bullet in his head. The bug that is.”

I guess it was my turn to talk. I wasn’t sure how to respond, or what the best way to phrase everything spiraling through my head was. For some reason two syllables summed it all up.

“Okay.” That was it, he didn’t smile, or show approval; he just threw the gun at me, the same black shade as his car, the chill of the handle caused it to stick to the insides of my fingers. Attached at his nose was a long silencer, or at least all of those elementary nights in front of “Golden eye” assured me it was.

There were so many questions I didn’t ask. Why does he need to die? Does he have a family? A girlfriend? What about his parents or a dog? There wasn’t enough time; he had other stuff to attend too. I wasn’t quite shaking with the gun in my hand, but I wasn’t quite calm. I realized standing in the middle of the road staring through a silenced pistol wasn’t the most common or seemingly legal norm in this neighborhood. As fast as I got to the spot, I sped away from it. The entire ride home that handgun stared at me, before ii set it down in the passenger seat, the pistol felt as heavy as the white bottle in my hand.

I lay in bed all day, the alarm clock the bottle and now the gun were a personal audience to my suffering and decay. I was scared at what I might do; I was scared at what I might not do. I grabbed the taunting bystander, placed the frozen steel to my cheek, even in the dark I could invent the rough curves and indentions, I could see the density of the silencer and the miniscule hole that acted as a gateway for death. I held it to my head because I wanted to know what that man might feel. Knowing his life was out of his hands, knowing a stranger who probably wasn’t stable and not so coherent was rattling and shaking with the gun, massaging the fragile and quaint trigger residing just below where the bullet would soon burst. What would he think of before he died, maybe he would pray, maybe he would take a photograph of my face, and give the description to whoever waited at the end of the tunnel.

It’s kind of funny how laying in bed with a gun to your head, waiting to put it to someone else’s, makes everything else feel less important. It used to be a phone call that never came that kept me up at night, and now it’s a fragmented bullet. For unexplainable reasons even to me I let that gun nestle up right in my ear, it was saying a lot of convincing things.

“You need me, his life or back pain?”

“It won’t be your fault, I am the one left smoking in the end, I am the one with all of the heat, I am the one with the bullet.”

“Just move the index finger, five seconds for semi-eternal comfort.”

The gun sounded like Sean but with greater sincerity, I didn’t dare talk back. I could give up the pills, maybe see a doctor or even a surgeon, I had the money and the time. Who was I kidding though; I had to do this. The longer that other the bastard lived the quicker I died. A month ago I wouldn’t be thinking this way, a month ago Sean never talked like a dealer. A month ago I didn’t have conversations with the innocuous audience. If four days passed and no news of a murder surfaced Sean would find me. When he did he would start simple, slowly brutalizing me. Restructuring the formation of my bones, breaking the odd symmetry my face holds. He would crack my ribs with the tongue of his shoes and rip out one of my eyes, Sean would want me to suffer, but he wouldn’t allow me the luxury of not seeing any of it. By the time his limbs were done knowing mine my back pain wouldn’t even seem real, Sean would most likely redefine pain for me. Then he would hold the gun this time, it would be I the same spot it is in now except its eyes would be angry and violent, it would only whisper a subtle halleluiah before head faking me, sinking a bullet into my thigh. Only a flesh wound, that phrase always pissed me off, if a bullet went through you, don’t try to rationalize the agony. Pounds of blood would be on the carpet; whatever fluids in me didn’t take to that carpet would undoubtedly be on my face. I wouldn’t look like myself by the end of this, and when he pointed the gun to my head just one more time he would be looking into the eye of a stranger.

I would like to think my own personal sacrifice would poise some favor with the guy upstairs, but most junkies don’t make it to heaven, I knew I was going to Hell. I would be going to Hell with a bad back. I would be going to Hell with a number of guys I manhandled into a cell. I could live in isolation, I could live with murder, and I could live with addiction, but I could never live in fear, or at least fear that I was all too aware of.

The gun finally grew tired of my company and went to sleep in a drawer, I followed suit. With a white cap on the nightstand, I emptied the tablets it hid into my mouth, five pills, darkness, and then more of the same.

I woke up, I think. Everything was spinning, I couldn’t see any of it happening but I knew it was. The countdown in my head read two days until murder. Then again it still could have been three, but that’s wishful thinking. I heard a knocking on my window; the glass was knocked so hard I was sure it would break under the pressure. Walking the crooked line all the way to my door I could faintly see Roy’s outline through the peephole. Same paint covered jeans, different black shirt. When I opened the door the shock of a rising sun bewildered me, and then killed me. The countdown reads two days.

“Hey you okay man?” Again with minor concern he asked the question that should have had an obvious answer. He always asked me that same question to start our conversations. The more he asked, the more I looked critically at my life and well-being. The more he asked, the more unclear the actually answer became.

“Yea, I guess so. Why? How you doing?” I am pretty sure I stuttered one or ten times over the course of those illustrious eight words.

“I am great man, you just seem a little… lost? Or even just completely absent. We have these paper thin walls but usually all I ever hear from you is odd sighs right before dawn.” His hands moved in confident fashion, illustrating everything he was saying, it directed every comment directly at me, I had no way of hiding from the questions.

“Nah Roy, just work and bad dreams.” They were one in the same but I continued with the lie. “But I am at least 60 percent sure I am mostly here. You know we never did end up grabbing that drink.” I tried saying this without sounding too pathetic or needy, no one wants to be that guy.

Roy just stared at me, then the ground, then the wall behind me, each time his eyes changed their direction his mouth would slightly open only to subside once more. Eventually some words wrapped in an excuse came out.

“Yea sorry buddy, I have been so busy with the girlfriend, and painting and the girlfriend and shit. You know, the daily grind, yada yada yada.” He could sense his own uncertainty, it seemed like he actually minded possibly hurting my feelings.

“I hear you man, I have got some shit to do myself. If work isn’t killing me it’s definitely killing someone else.” He laughed at that, Roy didn’t know or realize that I was all too literal with my words. If he knew the truth he would feel like a terrible person, maybe even like me.

“Works had the noose around my neck since the first week, I’m just waiting to win the lottery, my career is more of a part time thing.” We both laughed, not because it was particularly funny or original, but because our roles as men assumed that any ailments of work were comical. He continued “But we can grab that drink in a couple days if you want?” Oh no I can’t my mind said, I have to kill someone, and the time is far to variable for me to try and pencil you in.

“Yea that sounds fine, Murphy’s again? Drinks on you?” My mouth was pretty stubborn and usually ignored all logic and reason.

“Absolutely” a weak laugh entwined with a cough and then “I’ll see you then, later.” There was sincerity in his words again; I was thrice bitten and still open to more wounds.

Later Roy. My head made an upward nod, my hand raised upward and somehow in the complications of a goodbye gesture the door shut and I was back in bed. I should take a shower I should eat. There were thoughts; there was darkness, and then more of the same.

When I woke up this time I woke up a little more sober and a littler more scared. The countdown read less than two days now. I guess when you really need something you are capable of anything. But why would Sean want me to do this? Clearly he could handle it on his own, or find someone a bit more composed to do it, so why me? A pill addicted bailiff who can only handle people if their hands are cuffed behind their back? Then I began to wonder what I was supposed to do with the body. Should I just leave it there? Do I call Sean? Will he show up and help me? I was confused and left in the dark, but I guess that’s my own fault. At that moment I looked at the clock and realized I only had 20 minutes to get to court. I threw on my uniform and sped all the way to the courthouse.

Today some young kid is on trial, assaulted an officer after being caught with a joint. They say the kids don’t stand a chance but I am more and more petrified for my own age group. He stood there in a suit I would never be able to afford with a confidence I would never have. His hands were politely laced behind his back, as if preparing for the worst, and let the false innocence radiate off his body. Unfortunately for him, the joint they found also came packaged with a scale they confiscated from his car after an anonymous tip. Intent to sell can’t be masked with a tie, a new hair cut, and some sparkling green eyes. Days like this were the worst. He was 18, only his mother seemed to be sitting on his side, his father could’ve been anywhere. I know I would have to take him away from the only person who loved him, I would put her baby behind bars and I could not show remorse. I had to remain a statue in this room and hide the fact that under this uniform I wished I were the one being taken away for a lifetime. The judge already knew how she would rule this case. He already had a history, underage drinking, mass speeding tickets, failed drug tests, the perfect subject for any public service worker who saw too many movies. The judge said his first name before delivering a heart felt lecture on how awful this makes her feel, just beyond the small wooden gate I could see his mother’s quivering lip and squinted eyes, the tears tried to retreat but eventually the pressure became too much. For his mother, that lecture lasted a second, and then it was over. He was going away for five years with parole; I doubt he would get that though. Peter, that was his name, was a hard ass. His head didn’t hang low when he was sentenced, Pete wouldn’t look back at his mother either, even when she grabbed him from my hands. I fought to wrestle his stiff arms into position but eventually I did. My dirty hands carried Pete, taking him on the long walk down the short hallway. He was thrown into that police car like a rabid dog that needed to be sedated. The cop he assaulted had a broken nose and symmetrical black eyes. I wanted to laugh, and then when I saw his villainous smirk I wanted to throw up. Maybe that was just the pill. I would never see Pete again, but I would think about for the rest of my life, and imagine the heartache his mother had to endured. Then I realized my bug probably had a mother, maybe even a father, I was about to hurt a lot of people.

A rapist and a car thief later I was back home. Before I could even shut the door Vickie stuck her leather heel in the door.

“Hey, just getting back from work?” She was making small talk his wasn’t a good sign.

“Yea, how about you?” I think she knew I didn’t care but she answered excitedly.

“No I had today off thank God, this time of the week we usually get a major rush of the crazies, they get to hand-sy you know?” I didn’t know. I did know Vickie was a stripper though, and some days a librarian, waitress, or even a chipmunk for the kinky loners. It is amazing how unattractive you can be and still get money to dance naked. Her hair, a strange red now, was perfectly straightened silhouetting her imperfect face. Leading me down to her over used body and reflective high boots.

“I could imagine. Well…” She could tell I was finding just the right excuse to kick her out, so she cut me off strippers are clever.

“So do you have any plans later? I was thinking if you wanted we could go grab dinner or a movie or something?” She was nervous; this all came from me helping her up a few steps. I pitied her, and how horribly most guys treated her, if I realized that day this would make her infatuated with me I probably would have let her fall.

Sorry I can’t, still trying to prepare myself to kill this guy, you might know him, but I hope not. “Yea that’d be fine.” Fuck

Her face lit up and she pushed some hair away from her now brown eyes. “Okay just come pick me up at 7.” Fuck

“Can’t Wait.” Fuck.

She finally left, I made her day, and I think I’m a terrible person. There might not be enough pills for tonight, but I’ll take the risk.

Minutes went by and then the sky was pink, on a white chair outside my door I sat as the pills took control. I stared blankly then inquisitively at the marching clouds. Like Vickie they took many shapes and changed themselves for the sun. I saw a rabbit dancing on strings, and an iguana trying to make polite conversation with the passing train. I looked down just for a moment and saw the watch I forgot I had. It told me it was 7 and time to go get her.

I was wearing a blue button down shirt and some jeans. I’m pretty sure I had shoes on too. When opened the door her hair was brown, her eyes now green, and her teeth unnaturally white, all these changes but the same face. Vickie couldn’t erase the abuse and shame that wore her down each day. The dyes and different contact, and those whitening strips endorsed false hope. We are only as beautiful as we believe we are, Vickie had no faith, she was a lot like me.

“You ready to go?” I muttered.

“Yea, let me just get my purse.” She was probably waiting for me to say that she shouldn’t, that I was going to cover her dinner. She didn’t know me all that well.

“Okay.”

We walked to my car in an awkward and uncomfortable silence, by the time I opened the driver side door and unlocked hers it was intolerable. Half way down a strange side road I realized we weren’t going anywhere.

“So where do you want to eat?”

She looked at me puzzled; she probably wasn’t so good with decisions or answers.

“How about Chili’s?”

“I couldn’t believe she just said that, I would eat at Chili’s the day she figured out her natural hair color.” She looked at me with an open mouth. I might have forgotten to keep that to myself.

“Sorry, I, uh, I am not big on Chili’s how about the Grill, smaller, nicer, and a lot less people.” She could sense the shock in my voice, and I could sense the annoyance in her silence.

We eventually made it to the small diner/ restaurant and the rapid clicking of her heels on the pavement grew farther and farther from me, she opened the old wooden door for herself and hoped it wouldn’t shut in my face by the time I reached it. We sat down, I drank water and she had a coke, a far more interesting drink than mine. I got a burger, she got chocolate chip pancakes with onion rings, a far more interesting meal than mine. I smiled at her, the youthful sweet tooth was refreshing, all of the sudden she held me much like the bartender did a couple weeks ago. I just hoped she wouldn’t stand up to go to the bathroom, that would give me enough time to fall out of love with her.

As we ate our gradual interest at each others bland originality sparked conversation. This conversation came in the form of us spewing our life stories to one another. She wasn’t what I expected, no daddy issues, she actually had a wonderful father and a great childhood. Her mom died of Cancer a few years ago and she takes care of her dad a lot, she works the late night shifts so she can spend most of her day with him. That is why she is always so tired, not from the hounds of men, although it does weigh on her, but the compassion to make sure her dad doesn’t live his remaining days alone. If she had offered me a coaster for my water right then, we would be married right now. Vickie’s words and personality were sobering, and intoxicating at the same time. Nothing else existed beyond our booth with a taped up blue bench and a wooden table that spelled out the love of Derrick and his dozen escapades. As the pills faded she entered me. I began to see her in a new light; the one in the diner did her no justice. The crows feet under her eyes and the premature wrinkles were not her ailments, it was not her pain she wore, it was ours. Every time a desperate man gave her a dollar she felt that solitude, each night her father slept alone in the king sized bed, she felt that, each time she watched me walk along in a world that wasn’t quite there, she felt it. Underneath humanities sickness and suffering was her beautiful face. I would never really be able to see it, but I would always know it was there. My fixation was broken with the parting of her lips, her glimmering purple lips.

“So you now know almost everything about me, so in case I die in the next ten minutes, please carry out my legacy. But what about you? You’ve talked a lot but haven’t said anything I couldn’t already figure out on my own.” This felt more like an interrogation now, her clenched fist hid beneath her chin holding her face up, she looked at me as if I had answers.

“I guess I am just an open book.”

“More like a short story tell me something the full water glass next to you plate can’t.” The more she toyed with my head the more I wanted to tell her everything. A sputter of self-indulgence and one more interested glance from her eye and I began to open up.

“My brother died when I was about 17. It was a car wreck that was mostly considered an accident. He was 22. For about five years he dealt with an identity crisis, he couldn’t exactly figure himself out, let alone anyone else. Then one night, after leaving a bar with this girl, and having drunk five too many, he got behind the wheel. I remember right before he got into that car he tried calling me, but I didn’t pick up. He tried texting me too, but I didn’t bother to look. I wasn’t sleeping, I wasn’t really doing anything, but I guess that’s when I was busiest. His car went off the road that night, the girl survived, mostly. She can’t walk on her own, or chew her own food, she really only looks at you. I think she wishes she was dead. My brother died almost instantly, his seat belt caused a hard whiplash that snapped his neck and the glass pierced the top of his skull. I still have that text message too although I haven’t read it. I always felt his last words were better saved for the random girl at the bar, as is the case for most of us. After the funeral, seeing the devastating looks on apathetic faces, it made my back hurt or it made me need pills. Either way I took about 6. I remember leaving home that day and saying goodbye to my parents. One son in the ground and the other close too it, they cried a lot that day, and even more that night, I knew one day they would stop, I just wonder when. Right before I left I had to explain ot my dog that I was going to be away for a while. I think the emotion overwhelmed him as he rolled over on his stomach, stretched out his arms and legs, quivered and then shut his eyes. I pet his head, and then I was gone. My parents slipped a debit car in my wallet before I got a chance to escape, filled with college tuition money, money for food, money for clothes, money for movies, money for a house, and money for air. I still have myself half convinced they don’t care, mostly because it makes the depression and addiction a lot more relevant and rational.”

I turned my head to the side, inhaled my lower lip, smiled before jerking out a slight laugh then I asked a dire question.

“Did I just say all of that out loud?”

“If you didn’t you sure have a lot of room in your head.” She said this with not pity or sympathy in her voice, she heard the torture and pain and accepted it as my life. She did what I still can’t do.

“Do you ever visit your brother?”

“I am far from heaven.” I said this literally; I guess the thought of him living under a tombstone never crossed my mind.

“You’re close enough to hell. You’ve never even once thought about seeing his grave, or even your parents? What do you even do with all of that money?”

“Maybe I think about it but I forgot how to get home a long time ago. What would I even say when I got there? Should I say I am sorry? That I miss him? I mean I think even the dead have some common sense. What did I do with all of the money? Most of it is still there, I sit on it, invest it when needed. I also used it to become a bailiff, and pretend like my dreams have the valid possibility of coming true.” I said this hoping the retort might silence her but women are harder to stop than a freight train or a white bronco.

“Why are you talking about apologies? Do you feel responsible?”

“No I am just saying…”

“Maybe you should, I mean, you neglected the call and the text and then he died. Why shouldn’t you be sorry? Why shouldn’t he know that? Guilt is a crazy thing; it often causes you to ignore things that are blatantly obvious. You may not think that it screws with you, but you know that’s just ignorance.” All of the sudden the small phone in my pocket gained thirty pounds. Spikes began ot stick out of it, the slender silver digging into my thigh. I held in a whimper and scratched a tear with my thumb. I wiped my nose and then tried to speak.

“Was it my fault he got drunk and drove off the road, no. Was it my fault he was mentally fucked up? No. Would answering his call have changed anything? Maybe, but I’ll never know, I would say either way, I’m screwed. “ I banged the table with entwined closed fists, then looked at the ceiling for only a moment.

“You want to grab the check?” Vickie said this beating me to the punch. Once she started playing the little games again I forgot all about our conversation from before. She went from a pathetic needy tramp, to the love of my life, to a girl who understood me, to a girl I couldn’t stand, and then again back to the love of my life.

“Yea.” I raised my hand and there was the piece of paper. She took out her wallet but knew she would have to put it back immediately. I looked at her and smiled, shaking my head as I looked down at the numbers and digits, I put a 50 on the table for a 30-dollar check, my pathetic attempt at impressing a stripper.

I’m not sure if we spoke at all on the ride home, but there was no void to fill, it was perfect. I walked her back to the apartment; at the door we stood there comfortably awkward. The key was in her door and turned, she could’ve walked in at any second. We weren’t quite lingering, I was stiff, and she was swaying between the first inch of carpet and the last inch of gray wood. Her mouth let me believe our lips would touch, and at the moment I let myself be vulnerable to rejection she touched that second inch of carpet and shut the door. She was nothing that I expected; I think I could sleep tonight. I lay in bed five minutes later, first there was darkness, then more of the same, and then her face, and what I imagined her skin felt like, and what I remembered of her scent. I saw her ever-changing hair and mysterious eyes, and then a gun, all a creation of my mind. The gun, it shot through her projected face, as if it were simply a hologram. There was the gun, then a bullet and smoke, then darkness, and again, more of the same.

Chapter 4

There is a lot of talk about the day we die, at least now I understand how God might feel on that day. I woke up and the clock looked at me sullenly, it said it was 7 o’clock, time to surrender your soul. The Gun lay there innocently, not quite aware of what it was about to do. I walked to the house, 35 minutes at an urgent pace, 35 minutes that felt like a millisecond. The gun was tucked away in my jacket, the street was silent; the doors were shut, the garages closed, and the lights off. The discomforting absence of life and existence stopped me in the middle of the road. Just 300 steps away from the door I would have to open, and roughly 400 from the man I would have to kill. There were a lot of things I should have done in the time between right now and three days ago, maybe scoped out his house, any blind spots, maybe even figure out his schedule or at least find out if he was a gun slinging drug lord. I wasn’t a professional but the minor touches couldn’t have hurt.

Standing now at the side of his house I looked through the clear windows fragmented by wooden poles. I saw his whole life, the minor insignificant details he felt essential. A glass table, and a black T.V stand with surround sound system. A brick fireplace residing just below the mantle decorated with pictures and cards I can’t quite make out. From the back of the house I found a sliding glass door, it wasn’t locked but I broke the glass; maybe to warn him, maybe to slowly prepare myself for destruction, moving from the inanimate to the human. His fine polished wood floors creaked beneath my feet, they were something archaic and admirable. My heels outlined my path; if he were in the house he would know exactly where I was. I couldn’t help but examine every square inch of the home; I wondered how well it represented him. Now in the living room, seeing it for a second time with clarity the pictures glare stabbed me. A mother and father sat on the mantle with proud eyes, a young boy’s glee and a wife’s unconditional love sent bullets through the smoke. Their muskets shot to kill. The gun now shook its’ head dangling at my side. My slumped shoulders and wavering strides embodied my weakness. I left the room; I left the downstairs and wandered upstairs. My observant eyes focused on everything, my ubiquitous vision force-feeding my mind memories that should never have belonged to me. Pictures of parties, of high school and college, of first birthdays and wedding days, in one moment I would makes those decorations the only remaining ashes of this man. I reached the top, I look to my left and I see a closed door, I hear the running of water, hopefully he is the one behind the curtain. To my right a cat sits on a drawer beside a vase, it sit still and watches me, no sound or claws, just a violent stare. That animal might have understood me, my purpose for intrusion. The cat hated me beyond its biological capacity to feel anything. Here comes the lip quiver. I move past the cat and to my left is a child’s bedroom, the bed a mess with toys cluttering the floor, it must have been at school, and a woman must not have had time to clean it up, or a man simply neglected the job to teach it a lesson. I am remembering not to name my food, but the lip still quivers. I leave the room and even greater creaks follow my footsteps now, over the fan and water he still could not hear me. There was but one room left, with blue covered walls, green plants staring lustfully out the window, and a telephone that was frightened from the very moment I made my way through the door. It wanted to call somebody, it was about to lose its voice, I picked the phone up and put it face down; no one should watch their own demise. There was a painting above the queen size bed that was only half unmade. It was of a colorful city caught in darkness, the black sky embellished the ambience of the buildings. Below their foundations lay water, reflecting the vibrancy. When I looked closer I could see myself caught in blackness. There was color all around me but all I could pay attention to was the blackness. There was no water beneath me, just wood. Without a whimper tears began to fall, what was I doing? Then, from out of the blackness stood a man in a towel. He wasn’t scared as the phone was. In the corner of the room was a restless rocking chair kept warm by an afghan, a gift from his mother I could only assume. He sat in it, dripping wet, he should’ve been cold but instead he seemed casual. I was shaking so violently at any given moment I could’ve left my skin. I raised the gun, it shook its head violently still but never averted its aim directly at the half naked man. He smiled and motioned me to sit down with his hand. Without releasing my sullen gaze I reached my free hand behind me and felt for the mattress and sat.

“Why are you here?” The last question I expected to be asked. A chilling confidence came out of his mouth, it was unnatural and physical impossible in this situation, or at least in his. Then I wondered for a moment, my mouth opened several times before anything came out.

“Because, I am. Because I have to be.” There was absolutely no conviction in my tone, I did not sound like a killer, and he knew that, his eyes read me like a book he would read to his child.

“Because you don’t have a choice. You have to open door A without a key, something tells me you’ve never picked a lock before. The worst part being now, you have to kill me. Can you shoot that gun straight? If you miss, if you let me get out of this rocking chair, I will kill you. I will kill you because I can and I have. Whatever is left of you I will tear apart. You’re not a bad person, just a fool. Like most fools you’re the worst piece of garbage on the planet. You look like gold, you feel like gold, you might even taste like gold but it’s all an illusion. Your job, your name, and all the idol conversation you make to compensate for whatever habit you can’t seem to break.”

“You don’t know…” In my head that sentence was finished, but outside the silence trailed on.

“I know everything, I know who sent you and I know why. I know how they pick guys like you and put you in rooms and homes just like this. When I am done talking now, you will have ten seconds left in your life. You are a drafted soldier facing someone you assume might be an enemy. Pull the trigger and you might just have ten more seconds. Don’t, and you’ll die a coward like most heroes do. Shoot, and die a hero like most villains do.” Then it was over, anonymous ticks began to vibrate in my skull. One, two, three, all the sickness inside of me now sat at the bottom of my stomach. Four, five, my bones began to finger the slender trigger. Six, and it was pulled. I clipped his ribs and the profuse bleeding cloaked me in a dense red. I shot again this time sinking a bullet straight into his stomach; I now had a fur coat of blood keeping me warm. The last shot I forced out of the resisting gun landed in his skull, I now owned a red mask. Nine, ten, and it was over. I stood up, the gun fell to the floor, and the intense ringing in my ear could not overshadow the screams of the silenced pistol. Wiping the blood out of my eyes I could barley recognize the naked man. His mutilated flesh should have made me sick. It felt as though I was looking in the toilet after a shit. I could stand the stench and the site because it was mine, I made it, the vile regurgitation of the awful crap I let in my body was gone, and I could flush it away, this time however, a bigger part of me was going away. No one would find his body for hours, I am sure by that point Sean and his henchmen would take care of the clean up and framing, possibly turning it into a suicide. I now wondered if God felt this way after every funeral. Shit happens and then you move on. Many people have said it in different ways before, to me it felt like the simple act of flushing a toilet knowing full well eventually it would get clogged. But we don’t worry about that until the day shit infested water rises above our head. I cried only before this moment, and now I was liberated. The cat looked at me still on the drawer, the pictures now turned to dust, and the mantle now broken, I could walk out the broken glass door. When I made my way to the front of the house, the gun now comfortably tucked in the front of my pants, I saw Sean, overdressed the occasion. He smiled though and extended his hand the moment I was 10 steps away. I met his palm, now both our hands were dirty. But I made him happy, in return he gave me a free bottle, and then he left after patting my shoulder. I was a good dog I needed a drink.