The first thing he noticed was a steady beeping noise surrounding him. The second thing: the gradual tremors he told himself time and time again were all in his head. Addiction was mind over matter. That’s what Rebecca told him when he was kicking the habit in her house. It was all mind over matter, and if he told himself he didn’t need it, well…
And it was all easy to say when you put it like that but in practice it was hell. He stopped sniffing blow and drinking whatever had the strongest proof two years ago. It should be over. The need should be done.
As he seeped seamlessly into consciousness, his other senses kicked in, namely his sense of pain. Aches ranging from dull pounds to sharp stabs here and there ever changing and intermixing. He felt like he was literally hit by a sixteen-wheeler and thrown off other edge of a cliff into the spiky rocks below and God did not have the mercy to let him slip away.
His vision made it all worse. He was dizzy. Again and again he reached at wires and cables, confused, more confused than afraid. The lights were bright, and he was plugged in. He was a computer. They were pumping his mind for knowledge only he had. They were stealing his life force. Soon Allyson would come and spirit him away from this world and into the next with her dark, dark mind and her dark, dark monsters.
He blinked hard, then reopened wide. Repeat. Each time the world got a little clearer. Wires and cables were no more than tubes and needles. Same thing but different implication. He wasn’t a computer. That was the main thing. Clear bags hung above his bed filled with God only knew what. Screens with lines and numbers he didn’t understand. Antiseptic and infection scents wafted through the stale air.
Little by little, the whys and hows came back to him.
Rienford walked Allyson back to her place. He remembered feeling a little more than discouraged but wasn’t ready to give up yet. He remembered she was different from what he imagined. He remembered that he almost liked her, or at very least a piece of her. He remembered that he understood why Rebecca was so reluctant to partake once she knew who she was, and he planned to call her just as soon as he got to the park bench he was considering calling home for the next few days. Rebecca gave him a nice wad of cash to get him a room and food, not that she had the means necessarily to afford it, but she wouldn’t take no for an answer. He wanted to hold onto the bills a little longer. Just in case of an emergency. Just in case the need arose where he was in a dark alley and was threatened at gunpoint to empty his pockets.
There was no use lying to himself.
He kept the money because he liked the option of stopping by the convenience store for a bottle of liquor or in the dark ally to score packets of powder. He told himself he’d be strong and he wouldn’t do it, but he liked the option in case he changed his mind.
When he left Allyson’s apartment, it was the middle of the afternoon. The sun should have been shining in the sky. The forecast said a high of seventy and clear, so there was no reason for it to get as dark as it did. Rienford shrugged his shoulders and chalked it up to the weatherman once again not knowing what he was talking about. He thought he could do the job better, just like every other person in passing, meaningless small talk.
He happened upon not a dark alley, but a lamp post on a street corner. A stocky man with skin the shade ofo caramel left over an open flame for a second too long leaned against it wearing a jacket too heavy for the weather and a cigarette in his mouth. They eyed each other, both recognizing the other for what they were.
“You look like you could use a pick-me-up, amigo.”
Oh, did he ever.
But instead, he shook his head and walked on, hesitating only in intervals.
“Alright. But when you change your mind, you know where to find me.”
He ignored him, almost, only checking over his shoulder occasionally, watching this golden opportunity pass him by. He’d been solicited drugs before, even before he started using them, but never in someplace as open as a busy street corner in broad daylight. Either the man was incredibly stupid, or more likely, felt safe enough to do business this way. Was there some sort of dealer/police buy off going on? He didn’t know. He didn’t care to know (another lie). He told himself he didn’t need anything the guy was selling, and that he wouldn’t consider it an option unless absolutely necessary. He didn’t need anything right now, but if he bought some for later, he’d use it before he needed it for sure.
He needed to call Rebecca and get his head on straight.
The wind didn’t pick up until he was at least two miles away from her home. A slight breeze changed to gusts so hard he stumbled along with it. He thought of his plans with the park bench and changed his mind. As he walked, he tried to remember where he had seen the cheapest looking motel and decided south.
When the rain poured down, he concluded he didn’t care where he stayed anymore. It could be a couple hundred a night and that would be fine by him so long as he could find shelter from the rain coming down like needles. Heavy and parallel, it nearly knocked him off his feet.
Quickening his pace, he sought refuge from the oncoming storm at the side of a building. He didn’t bother trying to pen the doors to what looked to be a little tourist trap namely because he didn’t think he’d be able to get them pried open against the wind, but also because he needed a chance to catch his breath.
He couldn’t see, but he could feel the darkness all the same. Darkness beyond the surface. This wasn’t a normal storm. He didn’t know how it was possible, but he knew deep down that she was to blame for this. Things connected too perfect to be coincidental.
All roads led not to Rome, but to Allyson. Whether she wanted to admit it or not, she was playing a very dangerous game.
The wind howled against the side of the building so loud, he almost didn’t hear the person knocking on the window from the inside. They motioned for him to come around to the front door, and he nodded, clinging to his messenger bag as he braced himself once more to brave the storm in favor of somewhere dry and welcoming. He rushed almost in slow motion against the wind, trying to get to the person at the door as fast as possible. The person on the other side pushed against the door, giving it their all, and he pulled with all his might.
And then it happened.
He couldn’t remember what it was, and he didn’t know if he would have even had the time to make it out when he was there in the moment. He looked toward the sound of something as loud as a gunshot next to his head, and it struck him in the face, something either blisteringly hot or freezing cold, too extreme to tell the difference.
Everything went dark.
Rienford tried to reach for one of the tubes connected to the back of his hand, and the first couple of times he missed. His depth perception was gone. The beeping machines twittered faster as he struggled with the tubing before a team of people appeared from seemingly nowhere. They took hold of his arms and legs, holding him down to the bed, restricting his flailing appendages. Panic rose in the back of his throat, a bitter, almost metallic taste, and he fought them harder.
Little by little, the adrenaline pumping through him lessened, despite the fight or flight mindset still engraved in his desperate bones. His attempts to shake the hands from his body felt heavier, more sluggish. Drugged.
“Sir! Sir! You need to calm down!”
The face above him appeared to be shouting, but her voce sounded far away. Her perfectly groomed eyebrows were furrowed, making worry lines. She almost looked familiar, but he couldn’t place her.
He gave up fighting, favoring how his body felt heavy and light simultaneously. Completely relaxed. Rienford tried to focus again on the woman’s voice, but it was so quiet that he couldn’t make out the words. Sleep welcomed him with open arms, and he fell into them unashamed and unafraid.
Given enough time and circumstance, a person can change drastically. They can live the dream of their upper middle-class lifestyle, and in the blink of an eye—poof! There goes the house and kids. It could be financial difficulties, or emotional withdrawals, or pesky addictions, or a multitude of other situational hardships that leads to going from sleeping in a king-sized bed to finding the most comfortable spot on the curb. Finding their next meal becomes an adventure all on its own, searching the dumpster of the local strip mall parking lot, where discarded pizza slices mix with dirt and glass shards and rodent droppings.
Rienford could remember—he still had that luxury—when he would drive to the grocery store and scoff and scowl at the ones who stood on the corner of the parking lot. He’d honk his horn when they got too close and laugh when they startled and scuttled away like nervous crabs let loose on pavement far away from the shores of their watery habitat.
A year ago, the homeless were the scum of the earth. Today, he stood right along with them.
There was a small part of him, the part of him that still harbored shame in some form or another, that was nervous—frightened, even—as he trudged on their turf armed with nothing but a overnight duffle bag filled with water damaged newspapers and his wife’s urn. Would they remember him from his life before? Would they corner him and mug him for his…his what? He had nothing of value to give, same as them. He walked past them, and they paid him no more than a passing glance. They all stood on their own part of the street, an invisible wall separating each man and woman’s zone, all facing the traffic, holding cardboard signs in their hands and the weight of the world on their shoulders.
He stood near a lamp post until another man stared him down for the same spot, then moved to an area further down toward the grocery store. While the dumpster was tucked away near the side of the building and nowhere near the road, he was close enough to smell the rotting garbage. His stomach ached for food, any food, and for a brief moment he contemplated venturing into the bin to see what was salvageable. But he couldn’t right now. Not in broad daylight. Even if he could handle the stares and silent judgement, he didn’t want cops called. Besides, he hadn’t come for food. There were more pressing matters at hand. No, food could wait until dusk. After they were closed down for the night he could scavenge to his heart’s content.
People came and people left again. Most passed him by without so much as a second glance. He didn’t receive nearly as much attention as the ones with the signs further down, but that was good and well as far as he was concerned. He didn’t want a lot. He only needed a handful of quarters. Walking to the cars that slowed seemed like it would be easier than finding a marker to write with. He didn’t account for the sheer number of nervous single mothers who’d floor it the second he stepped off the curb. At this time of day, that was all he was getting. Bunch of white girls tripping, itching to go home and call their girlfriends or fuck buddies and tell them about the crazy black guy who was this close to robbing them or raping them or just straight up killing them.
“Never mind that I just want some damn quarters,” he muttered under his breath.
He gave up walking up to people and resorted to cruising the parking lot for fallen change instead. In hindsight, he didn’t know why he hadn’t tried it sooner. It took him a little under ten minutes to find four dollars-worth—two dollars of that in quarters. He’d wasted an hour on the endeavor. Was two dollars of quarters enough? He wasn’t for certain. When had he last used a payphone? Thirty years or more if his memory was correct, but who was counting? All he knew was this was the one supermarket nearby that still had a working payphone.
Rienford stepped inside the door, ready for armed guards to rush him back to the pavement, but it never happened. In fact, no one seemed to notice he was there at all. Perfect.
He pushed four quarters into the slot. The speaker gurgled in his ear, a metallic static echoing in his head. It rang again, again, again. Would she still be there? Would she have changed her number? Would she even answer if she were on the other end? Or would the dollar he deposited into the slot be for nothing? His stomach cried for the candy bar that could have been.
God, what would he say when she picked up? If she picked up?
A subtle blip, a rustling on the other end of the phone, the other end of the state. He didn’t realize he was holding his breath until his vision wavered on the sides, and when he caught it again, he spotted a familiar form in his peripheral. He forced himself to swallow the lump in his throat, choosing to focus on the worn spots on the number keys. Looking her in the eye would kill him. He was sure of it.
He missed her, but she was dead, and dead she should remain.
At long last, a human voice sounded over the electronic blips:
“Hello?”
“Abbigale.”
A sigh on the other end. “I told you to stop calling me, Timothy.”
He knew he’d be treading on thin ice by calling her, but she was the only one who knew what happened that day. She was the only one who could grasp the extent of what he was going through.
“No, no, no, don’t hang up. Please. Just listen to me, okay? Please?”
“No, you listen. I told you before, I’m not doing it.”
For a second, he didn’t have the faintest idea what she meant by that. Was she reading his mind? Could she read minds? Hell, he was willing to believe anything at this point. He caught himself before delving further down that road, however. Or, rather, the sharp pain in his head caught him. She wasn’t thinking about Death in her sundress. She assumed he needed money again to pay for whatever bullshit he weaved the last time several times she gave in. Of course, every cent he received went to one habit or another, even when he wasn’t planning on it (or especially when he was).
“I’m not asking you to—”
“Get yourself some help, Tim. You won’t get it from me this time.”
“Abbigale, please. Just hear me out. Please?”
Rienford wiped the sweat from his brow and rubbed his hand on the back of his pants. He felt grimy. When was the last time he showered?
The silence on the other end was deafening. He worried she hung up on him, but there was no dial tone or the rapid beeps announcing the call was dropped. Still, he had to check. He had to be sure.
“Abbigale.”
“What, Timothy. I’m listening. What do you want this time.”
Hope swelled through him, mixed with something like desperation. He tried to think past his headache and his thirst and the itch in his nose, and most of all tried to not focus on how good something, anything, would be right about now. Maybe if he had something, his head wouldn’t be splitting down the center and he’d be able to think straight.
“I need help.”
More help than the booze or the drugs could offer. He needed to stay on track. Focus. Death was coming. No amount of uppers or downers or anything would stop her from happening.
“Tim—”
“No, wait. Hear me out on this, okay? It’s not like you think. I’m not asking to get fucked up this time, okay?”
“Yeah, and you didn’t ask for it the other times either but look what you did.”
The insult stung, but just on the surface. Deep down, he couldn’t feel it. Deep down, he didn’t know if he could feel much of anything.
“Abbigale, please. Just keep an open mind and listen to what I have to say.”
Silence on the other end. He took it as confirmation and continued.
“I’ve had a really bad string of luck, and everything is starting to come unraveled. They cut off the electricity. They shut off the water. I’m going to be evicted from my home.”
“Yeah, helps if you go to work and pay your bills, doesn’t it?”
“I’m not looking for a handout or sympathy,” he retorted. “I’m clean. I’m sober.” That was leaps and bounds more optimistic than the reality of the situation that it wasn’t by choice but by lack of funds, true, but she didn’t need to know the dirty details. The less she knew on that, the better it was for the both of them.
“Timothy, you better get to the point or I’m going to hang up.” Her tone was exasperated, but her words quivered, as if she were about to cry.
Best to just get right down to it, then.
“I think she cursed me, but I think I know how to cure myself.”
There was that silence again. It dragged out for an eternity. Then, a heavy sigh on the other end, followed by some mumbled words that Rienford couldn’t make out.
“It’s that girl. The one from the alley. Where I found you.”
“Tim.” Abbigale’s voice was sharp, though hushed, as if she didn’t want anyone else to overhear. “Stop it. You stop it right now.”
But he couldn’t.
“No, listen, it all makes sense, right? The bad luck is all her doing. It’s been her all along. Things didn’t go this way until I saw her. It’s like she’s some sort of witch or Medusa or some other monster, and she puts hexes on people. She either tries to kill them, or she hexes them. Some sort of voodoo bullshit, you know?”
“Tim, we’ve been over this, and I don’t want to have the same conversation again.”
He laughed. He couldn’t help himself.
“What do you mean, the same conversation? This isn’t the same thing at all. This has never been so clear to me before as it is right now. It’s not the same. It’s not what you think.”
“What we saw that night was the product of trauma and an overactive imagination. It wasn’t real. The sooner you accept it, the better off you’ll be.”
“No! You listen!”
While before, people would steal glances from the corner of their eye, they all stopped what they were doing at the booming sound of Rienford’s voice reverberating off the steel ceiling of the grocery store, the slam of his hand against the top the payphone that was less a machine and more a fashion statement. So much for a discreet in and out.
He looked over his shoulder at each person, making eye contact for a second or two before meeting the next. Everyone averted their gaze when he looked at them, but their stare continued the instant he looked away. His heart pounded in his ears. Breath whooshed in and out in shallow gasps. His eyes stung like he had rubbed them with salt.
He wanted more than anything to take the outburst back; if not for his embarrassment in the spotlight, than for his desire to keep his secrets between himself and the only one who would ever understand. Rienford tried to keep his voice steady and low, but with every word, every syllable, it raised of its own accord.
“Listen to me. There’s not a lot of time. I was going to kill myself yesterday. Was it the day before? That part doesn’t matter, I guess. The point is that I was ready to do it for real this time. I asked God for a sign. I wanted to know if there was anything left to live for, or if I should cut my losses and just go to Hell where I belong. So, God knocked on my door. I don’t mean figuratively; I mean he for real knocked on my door. My front door.”
Rienford paused to let that first bit soak in. It was hard to understand if you weren’t there, but he had so much faith in Abbigale. She’d been there before. She knew what happened, even if she was in denial about it. That girl in the alley was real. That monster she had with her was real.
“I open the door, and there’s the newspaper right in front of it on the ground. No paperboy in sight. Just the paper. And on top of that, there’s at least fifty or so other papers in a pile at the corner of the porch. If this weren’t a gift from God, a sign from God, why wasn’t the paper with the rest of the ones in the corner?”
He meant it as a rhetorical question, but Abbigale, in her own true fashion, took it upon herself to answer anyway.
“Well, Tim, I can think of a bunch of reasons why. The paperboy had better aim this time, I’d say. I don’t think this is any sign from God. I think you’re looking for something that isn’t there.”
Just when he thought he was numb to it all, his heart dropped when she spoke.
“Don’t get me wrong,” she continued. “I’m glad you didn’t kill yourself. I think that if believing in God is what it takes, then fine. But I know how this goes. I’ve seen it before. Eventually the hyper fixation will end, and you’ll be back in the same spot. You need help, Tim. Before it comes to that and you either wake up in a hospital bed or don’t wake up at all.”
Rienford’s mouth worked while he forced the lump in his throat back down. He knew this conversation would be hard, but he had no idea she would be so difficult to reason with while most would believe him at his word.
This wasn’t crazy talk. This was the Lord.
“That girl put a hex on me! She tried to kill you, and she cursed me with bad luck. The only reason you don’t have it too is because she thinks you’re dead, but she knows I’m still alive. It makes sense if you think about it. Things were fine before I saw her. Then after that, Tish, the booze, the drugs, my job, my house, everything!”
Each and every word poured out of him before he could stop it. Nothing he could hope to do would stop the frantic pace of the truth rolling out of him like air.
“I just need your help. I just need somewhere to stay for a night or two and some money to get me to Aksarban. I think that’s where she’s at now. We can look through the papers to be sure, make sure I’m not missing pieces of the puzzle, but I have a hunch she’s there. I swear to God I’ll pay you back double as soon as I get the money. I’ll give you all my bank cards and credit cards as collateral for when it happens. You know I’m good for the money. You know I am. I worked for a lawyer for over ten years, I’m good for the money when I get it. I just need a little pick-me-up.”
How far that pick-me-up went was anyone’s guess. But if he spent a little on some powder on the way, it was all for the greater good. It’d keep him focused. For the greater good. Not to get high, but to help him make a difference. A real difference.
“Just a jumpstart to get me where I need to be. Please, I just need a ride. I went to your house and you weren’t there and I just…”
Had she moved away? Had she moved far away, and was he the reason? Or was he being paranoid?
“I just need help, Abbigale. Please. Help me.”
The silence on the other end crackled as he moved the phone cord aimlessly with his other hand. How many eternities of quiet could fit into one conversation? And then:
“Timothy Rienford. If you call me one more time, I’m calling the police. Lose my number. And get yourself some help.”
A click, and then the dial tone’s oppressive drone. Even though he knew she was gone, she was finished, he couldn’t stop himself from saying her name, over and over, louder and louder, while the sweat ran into his eyes and the tears cut through the dirt on his cheeks. Everyone stared at him, but no one approached. There was at least a ten-foot perimeter around him, lest no one be within reaching distance should he decide to strike. He felt like a caged animal. A circus freak.
He wiped at the tears with the heel of his hand, flinching when the motion pushed more sweat into his already stinging eyes, and felt around his pockets for more change. There was one more phone call to make, one more person who wouldn’t turn him away, no matter what he did.
By the fourth ring, he saw two police officers cut through the crowd, making their way right toward him. He wished Abbigale had stayed on the line just a minute so he could tell her that either her wish was coming true, or if she hadn’t meant it, there was just another piece of evidence of his bad luck. He was about to get arrested and go to jail, all over a misunderstanding and that he wasn’t as clean as the rest of the lot. Rienford knew for a fact that had he shown up in his work suit, he would have been given a pass for his outburst over the phone. The successful were allowed to lose their temper whenever they so pleased. It was a standard that didn’t extend to the less fortunate. If they so much as looked at someone wrong, they were chastised, they were taken away, their mug shot was shared with the world online and everyone got a chance to weigh in their thoughts on the matter. How many would recognize him as the man who lost his wife just the year before?
At last, the sweet sound of a human voice greeted him, but not in the form of a real live person, but a prerecorded message, followed by a notice that the voicemail box was full. Not only would he not be able to get her, but she also wouldn’t even know who called. She’d assume it was from a telemarketer and forget about it, choosing to go to work over investigate who tried to call.
Rienford hung up the phone and turned around to face his two new adversaries. He tried to stay calm, but his body felt jittery and sick, and he couldn’t know for certain if his body was crying for food or booze or cocaine, but he was out of all three, so he supposed it didn’t make much of a difference at this point. He’d be in jail soon anyway. At least he could get on of the three for certain in the big house, and maybe the other two, too, if he played his cards right. Surely someone inside had a connection or two.
“Hey there, buddy. Heard you were having a bit of a disagreement on the phone earlier. Wanna tell me about that?” one of the men asked, moving his thick moustache from side to side with a twitch of his upper lip. His uniform had a stain on the collar, and Rienford couldn’t tell if it was from jelly or coffee or lipstick.
“Just a little spat with the girlfriend, sir.” The lie slid from his lips like slime from his mouth.
The policeman who spoke looked him up and down and back up again. Rienford swayed his weight from one foot to the other so often it looked like he was getting ready to bust a move right in front of everybody in the store. All eyes were on him, watching his every movement. He was on display, and he never felt more naked in his life.
“What are your plans today, buddy?” the cop asked.
“Plans?”
“Yeah. Plans. Where you off to after this?”
“Oh, um.” Rienford didn’t know why the officer wanted a timeline of his day to day, except for maybe he did. If he had to guess, he’d be willing to wager that the cop didn’t care. He was just buying time before he ultimately arrested him for… For what? He didn’t do anything wrong, did he? Granted, he wasn’t supposed to be here, but was the reasoning enough to toss him in jail? Rienford hadn’t formally been banned, and he hadn’t stolen anything this time. All he wanted was to use the damn payphone. There was no law against that. He should know. Even though he didn’t carry the title or make the wages, he still got the cases ready for his former boss. You didn’t have to go to school for ten years to do your own research. “I guess I hadn’t thought that far.”
From the look on the silent cop’s face, that was the wrong answer. He tried again. “I didn’t have an agenda for today, officer. Just needed to stop in to use the phone.”
“Good, that’s very good.” His tone was thick and patronizing. “Since you don’t have anything else to do on what I’m sure is normally a very busy schedule, why don’t you come with us.” It wasn’t a question, but Rienford treated it as such.
“I dunno, man. Is there a problem?”
“We just had a couple questions for you.”
“Then why can’t you ask me here?”
His eyes darted from one cop to the other, then stole quick glances from the crowd. They were closing in on him, all of them, and he watched in horror as they closed off every exit. If he needed to run, he’d have to go through someone, and he was terrified that they’d grab onto him and never let him go. He just needed some air. He needed to get outside and get some air.
“Hey, buddy. Hey, buddy! You okay there?”
“Uh, uh, yeah. Yeah. I’m cool.”
“You don’t look it.”
“Yeah. Yeah, I get that a lot.”
“You been taking part in any extracirriculars today, buddy?”
“No. No, why, uh, why do you say, uh, say that?”
“Why do you think?”
The silent cop took a step forward, hand resting on the butt of his handgun. Rienford took a step back.
“Hey, man, I don’t know what you think, and I don’t know what you’re doing, or why you are here getting in my face when I wasn’t doing anything wrong!” His vocal cords stung as he spoke, his voice grittier than normal. He was an animal trapped in a corner, and his teeth were bared.
“I’m going to need you to lower your voice.”
“I’m going to need you to get the hell out of my way!”
“Calm down, buddy.”
“No! There ain’t shit to be calm about right now! This is a free country! I have every right to be angry!”
A voice, light and fleeting in the back of his head, pleaded reason, but it was drowned out by the indignance he felt.
“You can be angry all you want, but you’re going to have to control yourself of we’re going to have a problem.”
“Why do you want me to go with you?!”
“We can talk when we get there. Let’s go to the car and everything will be explained.”
“I know my rights!”
The cop with the moustache held out his hands and took a few more tentative steps toward him, and the silent one mumbled something into the radio on his shoulder. Things were spiraling out of control, and fast. His legs were shaking so bad that they barely held him upright, and the only think that would keep him standing, the only thing to keep him from collapsing where he was, was to move. He just needed air, and the fastest way to the outside was to his right were the sliding glass doors offered freedom with neon letters.
Rienford sidestepped the cop with the moustache and skipped past his partner, rushing to the exit. He was almost to his destination, where he told himself he would stop to let them catch up, he told himself he would stop right at the threshold so they wouldn’t think he was running away, but he didn’t think his legs would listen, or that the adrenaline would quiet. He was almost there when something stuck in his back and pushed him down with a jolt of electricity. Other people laughed while he screamed, pulling out their phones and rolling their eyes back so only the whites showed. Later, he wouldn’t judge them for it, for he knew deep down he would have done the exact same thing a few years prior. But now, it just made him furious, fuming with rage, and that anger was just the push he needed to crawl a few more feet.
He was Moses, and the people were the Red Sea; they parted when he approached and left a trail for the cops to follow. The cops could have tased him again before he reached the threshold, or after he made it all the way across, but instead chose to wait until he was halfway in between the faulty sliding doors, so that they would sometimes close on his jittering form before springing back open and doing the same thing again a few seconds later.
It wasn’t enough to stop him. They had to humiliate him, too. They had to give all the good citizens of Hallstin a show so the one with the best shot could be trending on social media.
What was worse was not the door or the two separate sets of wires from the taser, but the sudden warmth in his pants, and for the life of him, he didn’t know which end it came from. Even if he didn’t just have electricity running through his body he would be trembling from the nervous shame that followed a grown man pissing or shitting himself.
Rienford prayed to God that this was rock bottom. He didn’t think there was anything that could bring him much lower.
Sunlight punched Rienford through the skull. He sat up in the shower, freezing water pouring over him, curtain and door wide open. He had no memory of getting in, but at least he wasn’t covered in vomit anymore. At least his water hadn’t been shut off yet. It was the smallest of things that got him through the day. Give it time, though…
One shaky hand seized the handle and turned until the flow ceased. He stepped out, trying not to glance at his reflection before exiting the bathroom. He failed. Just like everything else, he failed.
The hair on his head and face were greying, long, and out of control. His cheeks were hollow and corpse-like. His green eyes were dull, devoid of life, bugged out from his disintegrating face. If he stared at his reflection, his pupils narrowed until there was almost nothing but iris. Tiny planets in an expanse of angry red electrical storms.
He thought about brushing his teeth before giving in to another booze binge, but the dead bug on his toothbrush changed his mind. Instead, he grasped the cold plastic and chucked both brush and bug out of the bathroom door and into the living room. It joined the clutter of papers and vomit that littered the once shiny wooden floors.
With a sigh, he gave his reflection another once over, too exhausted to put forth the effort necessary to clean himself up more than the ice-cold shower already accomplished. Maybe that carcass was a blessing in disguise. In the past, he’d at least crack a smile at such absurd optimism, but his face was stone set. Timothy Rienford didn’t smile. Not anymore.
He shambled to the living room, searching for something he swore calmed his nerves but really made him more on edge than ever before. Remnants of powder dusted the coffee table, not enough to give him the extra push to true relaxation, absolute nirvana, or at least that’s what he thought, at least it was what he believed. It wasn’t enough to make his head buzz in what he swore was empty clarity, but it was enough to smear into the grime of his forefinger and rub along the inside of his mouth. He couldn’t taste it. He felt like he should be able to, but he guessed that after everything his tongue had been through it was numb to the flavor.
If there was such a thing as spirits, he hoped Tish’s would hang out in the bedroom with her remains. It was the only spot in the house free of clutter and piss and booze and drugs. A shrine. He imagined her as an angel waiting patiently for him to join her in eternity. She would look just the same as she was before the world crumbled.
It was easy to remember her that way while he was awake. Beautiful, smooth, dark skin. Hair sleek and shiny from clockwork beauty shop appointments. Her left eye was just a little bigger than her right. But you’d never notice it. Not unless you’d spent years looking into them for hours at a time. Tish hated it when he stared at her like that. At least, she said she hated it, but she wore a sly smile whenever she brought it up. Timothy never knew if she was joking or not. Now he never would.
Thinking on Tish was a blessing.
Most of the time.
In his dreams, his nightmares, she was only a fragment of the way he remembered her by. Her teeth and nails were long and jagged. She’d chase him through his old office, back when he still had an office to go to, the halls and rooms a maze with dead ends and no exit. She was shrouded in darkness, hiding in shadows, somehow always a few steps ahead of him. Everything sharp gleamed in the dim light, but he preferred the lighting that way. He couldn’t see her face in the dark.
Oh God, her face.
Half the skull crushed in from impact. Patches of hair missing as if she’d ripped them out herself in all her misery. The skin of her lower jaw was torn away, exposing tendons and bone. Cubes of glass hung in what remained of her matted, dirty hair like glitter. Her eyes bulged, one dramatically bigger than the other now, and when he gazed into them, he couldn’t decide if she looked more angry or afraid. Dear God, it was probably a little bit of both.
“God,” he whispered. He’d never been much of a praying man, but…
Desperate times called for desperate measures. Or maybe it wasn’t desperation at all. Something that tasted more sour than bittersweet. Guilt. There was the word.
“I want to come home.”
If there was a heaven, Tish would be in it.
Rienford looked at the back of his hands on the grungy coffee table. His veins bubbled up to the surface, begging him to make the first cut, to really come home, to seal his fate once and for all. But no. He didn’t know if he was a coward or if he feared punishment in the afterlife, but for him, it wasn’t an option. Death from accidental alcohol poisoning wasn’t completely out of the picture. Nor an overdose of a bad batch of nose candy. Nor accidentally slipping and cracking his skull open. Accidentally stepping into the street without looking first for the shiny new supercharged car pushing the rev to red. Accidents were God’s will, but he couldn’t explain away intentionally cutting his life short, literally.
If he killed himself, where would he go?
If they hadn’t fought before her death, would he care?
He had no memory of walking or crawling to the bathroom, but he lifted his right hand all the same, making a fist, drawing it back, ready to kiss the mirror with knuckles and brute force. Inches away, he stopped himself. Why? Why bother? Instead of busting the glass, Timothy Rienford screamed. He screamed until he ran out of air, and then he screamed again. He kept on until his throat was raw and his voice was gone.
Spent, he got on his hands and knees and crawled the short distance from bathroom to bedroom. He stopped at the nightstand to marvel once more at the cream-colored urn. How could such a big personality fit in a pot so small? That body he caressed during heated moments went on and on for an eternity. There was no way it could be reduced to an area no wider than the palms of his hands, no hither than the length of his forearm. After all this time, it still didn’t seem real. His trembling finger traced an engraved curl lovingly. His sobs felt natural.
Time ceased to have meaning for a little while. The tears cut through the dirt on his face; he could feel them drying. He sat with his weary head in his hands and let his mind calm, staying that way for several minutes. At last, he looked up at the cobwebbed ceiling and spoke to someone he wasn’t certain could hear him, if they were even there.
“God, please.” Another wave of emotion threatened to take hold, but he swallowed it back. “Give me the strength to—”
A thump at the door.
Absentmindedly, Timothy reached for the dirty towel on the floor next to him and wrapped it around his waist. He wasn’t sure what exactly he was asking for strength for in the first place. To live? To die? The distraction was welcome.
Unless…
What if it was her? Not Rebecca: she stopped coming by months ago. Not Abbigale: she cut him off the year before. Not Tish, of course, because she was in the bedroom. But…her. What if she was finally coming back to finish him off in the worst way possible?
He had wanted to kill himself just a little while earlier. Now, death didn’t seem all that appealing. Not if he was going to be eaten alive by some shadow creature from hell. Rienford stayed rooted to the spot long enough for his fear to lessen to a dull tremor. If it was her, she would have busted the door in by now and taken him away. She would have slid through the gap between the jamb, her bony fingers hooked like claws so as to better rip his throat apart. The imagery sped up his heart rate but calmed his nerves. Of course it wasn’t her. If it was, he’d be dead already.
Be it her or not, he was slow to open the front door. Paranoia kept his hand on the knob even as he took a cautious step over the threshold. It was raining outside. He could have sworn it was daylight just minutes ago. He must have stood inside waiting for longer than he thought. That, or his head was so hazy from the bingeing (and, more importantly, crashing) over the past…how many days had it been? He supposed it didn’t matter.
Rienford took another hesitant step forward, only to jerk back when the bottom of his foot touched something that was not the porch he had built several years earlier. He dashed back inside and slammed the door behind him, cowering by the sofa, certain now that she was here, that the silence after the thump had just been a clever ploy to lure him outside. Death was toying with him. Any minute now, she’d come through the door and attack.
But he wouldn’t go down without a fight. No sir.
Rienford took hold of the closest thing on his left. He was armed, and he’d show that bitch a thing or two about coming into his home.
God, what he would give to have bump right now. Then he’d have just the edge he needed to take her on. He could overpower her before she opened the gateway to hell. Hell, even if she did, maybe if he had double the dose, he could take on the demon she summoned, too. Then he could tell Abbigale all about it and she’d be his friend again.
“Screw this shit, man.”
Waiting around for her to make the first move was bullshit. Why, she probably wanted him to cower in there for an eternity until he was nice and scared, then her demon pet could barge in and swallow him whole. The only way for him to come out ahead is if he charged her before she saw it coming. Then he could find his dealer and have a victory bump. Or he could call in a favor at the liquor store for some free booze. Some of those lowlifes owed him.
But he was getting sidetracked.
Rienford jumped up from the floor and charged the door full speed, fumbled with the knob again, and then dashed to the porch, bringing his weapon down as hard as he could on the monster on the ground. Again and again he beat it, ignoring the cool rain on his buttocks and thighs, not noticing the towel had come unraveled before he made it past the threshold.
When he looked down to see if any life was left in the demon, he stopped mid-hit. There wasn’t a demon on his porch, but a newspaper. He was beating a newspaper to death with an old shoe. A cold pocket of air rushed passed him, making him all too aware of his nudity. Luckily for the weather, no one else was outside to take notice, but even if they did, he doubted they’d be surprised by it. In fact, they probably would have been waiting for this exact moment. Just another thing for them to point their collective finger at and laugh about both behind his back and to his face.
He didn’t step inside to grab the towel again for them, but for him. He was going through a rough patch these last few months, and he’d make it through it, and by God, he still had his dignity. He grabbed the paper he almost beat to death gingerly, almost as if it would shed its skin and come to life if he touched it wrong. Turning heel to go back in for the night, he hesitated. Newspapers littered the porch, all wrapped in cheap plastic. When was the last time he brought the paper in? For the life of him, he couldn’t remember.
Something told him to pick the papers up. All of them. Right now. He needed to set them up in his house. Let them dry.
Timothy Rienford was looking for a sign. God delivered.
Manda Kay Writes 