Cabiling / Love Him To Death /

LOVE HIM TO DEATH

By Alaric Cabiling

Racecar driver Brent Wohlers was the toast of Charlottesville, Virginia. Successful, born to a family with ties to the sport he loved and married to a beautiful, compassionate woman, Brent thought he had it all. His friends, family members, and followers would concur.

Brent, like other rival racecar drivers, had bad-boy charisma. His hair was aggressively cropped; he sported a twelve o’clock shadow and maintained a slight but sturdy build. He often wore his baseball cap backward. He wasn’t tall, but women noticed his confident, graceful strut. He often got in scraps after races were over, fighting over who started the pile-on and the multi-car wrecks.

Brent was in Washington DC, visiting family, checking out a place called Busboys & Poets, one evening. Brent joined the crowd of spectators in the banquet room, following their gaze to a man reading a book on stage. Brent didn’t know the writer, and he wasn’t familiar with the writer’s work, but something about the writer intrigued Brent.

Brent liked the young writer’s voice. Brent also liked that the writer’s words flowed beautifully, and the scenes he portrayed were vivid and striking.

The banquet hall was filled to capacity, and Brent stood at the back with his arms crossed, listening. Garish red drapes lined the walls, while tables and chairs were dark cherry in color. Abstract paintings festooned the walls. Waitresses served hors d ‘oeuvres to the crowd in attendance.

“And so would monks with crystal singing bowls gather round and let their bowls sing,” the writer said. “They used steel instruments engraved with symbols, producing a high-pitched wail by sliding the instrument along the rim of each bowl—the sound similar to the cry of a whale. Men and women in villages surrounding the temples heard this sound, and their hearts were gladdened; they felt peace.”

“Then, war erupted, and the surviving monks sought vengeance after the men and women from the surrounding villages defiled their temples. The emperor’s men slew older monks and looted their altars for their gold Buddhas. The monks played bronze singing bowls forged with their slain brothers’ blood, and the high-pitched wailing sounds the new bowls made drove villagers and soldiers mad. The emperor spent a deluge of nights with his head wrapped in pillows. He watched with horror as his queen and crowned prince took their own lives one night after they took off their earplugs. When the emperor heard the sound of a woman crying like she’d lost her only son filtering through the shuttered palace windows, he set fire to the palace, and violence raged in the streets. The dynasty fell, and barbarians would occupy the land. Blood and inferno colored earth, wind, and water as the war escalated. The monks retreated to the foot of mountains, safe from the barbarians and the surviving villagers.”

Brent was so taken by the author’s material that he thought about approaching the author to congratulate him. He decided to stick around and hang out by the bar. He joined the crowd in applause after the reading. The fans in attendance converged on the author after he got down from the stage.

Brent wanted to see whether he could buy a copy of the author’s book. He looked around but couldn’t find the merchandise booth.

The author continued making his way through the crowd, so Brent waited for him. Most audience members stayed behind to speak with the author. After some time passed and Brent was done sipping some chardonnay and waiting for his turn, the author came closer, and Brent spoke.

“That was some great material. Congratulations on the new book,” Brent said to the author.

“Thank you, sir,” the young writer said in reply. “You’re Brent Wohlers, aren’t you? Do you have a copy you’d like me to sign, perhaps?”

“Uh, yes, I am Brent Wohlers. I actually don’t have a copy,” Brent answered. He stiffened, embarrassed.

Brent couldn’t believe that he had missed the merchandise table. The author smiled and handed him a complimentary copy instead. “Don’t worry. Here you go,” the author said. He smiled at Brent and began signing the first page. Then, he handed the book over. Brent read the author’s name.

“Thank you, Evan,” Brent said to him.

* * *

Brent told friends that Evan was the most talented author he’d ever read. Evan’s work was getting noticed, not just in the local Washington, DC scene. His voice offered a chilling effect to his already formidable writing, and Brent was only happy to listen to his friend in places like Busboys & Poets and Kramerbooks in DC. Evan was an emerging literary sensation, and Brent’s presence in his readings offered further testimony to his appeal and far-reaching potential.

They met for dinner one rainy night in Washington, DC, after Evan was done with a book reading.

Evan looked youthful. He had light, frosty hair and boyish features. He wore the same plaid coat he wore for appearances and wore a white oxford shirt, a blue tie, and denim to complete the look.

“I don’t understand why you’re an indie author,” Brent began by saying. “You’re too good an author to stay obscure.”

“It was a personal choice,” Evan said, then smiled. “I like to have a hand in everything.”

“But think of how many more people you’ll reach. Traditional publishers can help your books reach their target audience, am I right? I’ve met authors who’ve made the big leagues.”

Evan smiled, then laughed.

“Then you’ll know that being on a traditional publisher doesn’t guarantee success...”

Evan was a professor of English at Georgetown University. His books, he confessed, were largely for the sake of advocacy—he loved writing, and he loved maintaining creative control.

Brent chuckled. “Really, I don’t understand. You’d still have a bigger shot at making it big. The money might be nice. You could even quit your job at Georgetown someday. I mean, don’t you want people to find your work?”

“Of course, I do,” Evan replied.

“Sure. You wouldn’t be doing this if otherwise.”

Evan ate heartily.

“I always viewed my work as an escape—a rabbit hole or portal or tear in the fabric of time and space—writing allowed me to process things by laying out all the details in front of me. It was always rather personal,” Evan said.

He continued.

“Besides, I market my stories the way I want to. I don’t want to quit my teaching post at Georgetown and I don’t think landing a big publisher contract means long-term viability.”

Evan looked out the window and watched the raindrops falling. In the company of close contacts, he wore glasses. He wore contact lenses during readings.

“Of course. I understand,” Brent remarked.

Evan smiled sheepishly.

Brent did the same.

“Give me some lines. Come up with some…,” Brent proposed.

Evan smiled but hesitated.

“Come on. Lay it on the line. Just for me.”

Evan judged Brent’s prodding to be sincere. He relented.

“If you want me to,” he said.

Brent smiled, waited.

“Here it goes...”

* * *

“A man—we’ll call him Brent—arrived at his friend’s place. He parked his car behind another car on the street—he recognized the car; it looked like his friend’s. He got down, carrying a bouquet of roses. Brent was a romantic; his friend, the same...” Evan briefly stopped to stymie a chuckle. Brent rolled his eyes and smiled.

“They liked sampling wine, eating at rooftop restaurants, and walking in parks or boulevards. Brent smiled as he sniffed at the flowers. Then, he made his way up the steps of his friend’s townhouse...”

“Brent knocked on the door and waited for a response. He fixed his tie and adjusted his coat. He stared into the peephole and imagined something—an eyeball—staring back. Then, he tried to imagine what the man’s face looked like. He was surprised to know that the face was not his friend’s—the man wore the cueball look and was thusly bald, with skin that shimmered like a dolphin’s. His lips were dark instead of pink or crimson, like a withered rose, like light-colored resin. In contrast, his friend’s face had soft, puffy cheeks, light, frosty hair, and hazelnut eyes. He was a very youthful thirty-ish and didn’t look frightening like the bald man’s face did.

Brent grew frustrated, but the longer he stared into the peephole, the longer the bald man just stared back. The white sclera grew red zigzagging lines in his eyes, and the black pupils dilated wide—opening like deep tracts leading into impenetrable darkness—like a microscope aimed at outer space. Brent was gripped by fear. The red zigzagging lines grew clearer—the capillaries or minute blood vessels bulged like they were about to burst. He stopped staring into the peephole and took a step back...

A second, later, his friend answered the door. Brent was relieved. He looked at his friend’s familiar face and smiled as he handed the flowers over.

Brent’s friend took the flowers. Then, his friend’s eyes turned glassy, like a shadow swept over the pupils, and his friend was no longer who he used to be.

Brent stared in horror as his friend’s eyes opened into a portal—a void. Brent felt his soul sucked into a vortex—into that void, into a room in his mind. Music from a child’s music box played, and Brent felt cold in that darkness. Then, he woke up and found himself back in his car, staring at the bald man in the passenger seat. Men and women walking down the street abruptly stopped and stared at Brent, with glassy eyes similar to his friend’s. Brent turned his attention back to the front passenger seat beside him and found it empty—the bald man had disappeared. Seated at the back was his friend, his eyes oscillating. He was shaking wildly like he was convulsing during a seizure. When he suddenly stopped shaking, the capillaries in his eyes started bursting, sending blood pouring down his shirt, his pants, the car seat. His pupils ripped open, and darkness spilled out like time and space were regurgitated from the bowels of the universe to swallow Brent whole.”

Brent stared at his friend for a few seconds, wide-eyed. Evan refrained from judging whether Brent felt the chills from his story.

“I liked that,” Brent finally said. “I thought it was...”

Evan gave him a hard stare, suppressing a laugh.

“Cool,” Brent continued. Brent paused on purpose, teasing Evan for his tendency to deflect praise.

“Cool, then,” Evan said in response. The two shared a laugh. They continued eating.

* * *

Brent and Evan were still eating and trading jabs at the diner. The diner was one of the few eateries still open. Evan didn’t care for any high-calorie food, but he did like the donuts; he’d pair it with black coffee, which the diner typically served during early mornings. They made a fresh brew just for them.

Brent liked to eat heartily, having scrambled eggs, bacon, and hash browns to go with his glass of fresh orange juice. He skipped lunch to accommodate the large intake of calories whenever eating at the diner with Evan.

Brent looked out the window and saw a woman hailing a cab. Evan followed his gaze and watched the woman, and it occurred to him that Brent had never introduced him to his wife.

“What about that story, you told me?”

“What about it? Subliminal, isn’t it?”

Brent smiled at Evan sheepishly.

“Is your wife in town? Where will you spend the night?” Evan asked.

“I have a suite at the Hyatt. My wife’s back in Charlottesville,” Brent replied.

“Oh, okay,” Evan answered, surprised that Brent visited so often without her.

“Would you like to see it?” Brent asked.

They locked eyes. Evan felt reluctant.

“Come on. Stop by and have a drink,” Brent prodded him.

Evan wasn’t used to swanky hotels. Although he toured frequently, he stayed at Inns because it was cheaper.

He thought about it for a moment, looking outside at the mess of street lights and rain—at people leaving late-night movie theaters in the late hour—flocking to diners such as theirs.

He watched one such couple walk in. Then, he watched three college students enter the diner, too.

He turned to face Brent and caught him smiling. Brent attempted to reassure him, gesturing towards the exit to indicate that it was best to hang out elsewhere.

Evan agreed, so the two of them left.

* * *

Hours later, Brent and Evan were no longer just friends. They were lovers. Evan lay in Brent’s arms in Brent’s hotel suite with his eyes closed. Brent repeatedly touched Evan’s soft hair while he got on top of Evan. Evan peered into Brent’s eyes and saw happiness, the soft eyelashes touching like feathers as the pupils of Brent’s eyes dilated wide and took him in, searching him for answers. Brent imagined Evan coming down the steps of his apartment, rushing out to meet him; Brent was divorcing so they would no longer have to hide. Suddenly, the phone rang, but Brent didn’t answer it.

Instead, Brent shrugged it off.

“Probably my wife,” Brent said to Evan.

“I should probably go,” Evan answered. He tried to get up.

Brent only held him tighter and asked him to stay.

“Please don’t leave yet,” he said to Evan. “No one will know.”

“If I stay the night and leave in the morning, the staff might guess,” Evan replied. “I don’t want anyone to say anything.”

“Please stay.”

“Brent…”

“Please?”

Evan lay back down in bed, and Brent held him one more time, kissing Evan on the shoulders and arms.

Brent never felt happier than he did with Evan in bed beside him. He tried to touch Evan to get him in the mood, but Evan resisted. Evan twisted away half-heartedly and then got up, telling Brent that he had to go.

“Come on. Stay,” Brent said, reaching out for Evan’s arm.

“I can’t,” Evan replied, pulling away. Evan got dressed, and Brent sat up in bed and watched him.

Evan pulled his pants up, then buttoned his shirt. Lastly, Evan put on his plaid coat and headed towards the door.

“When will I see you again?” Brent asked.

Evan turned around and came closer, leaning over to kiss Brent goodbye. Suddenly, Brent pulled Evan back into bed, and the two of them embraced, laughing. The two of them made love one more time.

* * *

Brent was at Charlotte Motor Speedway for a scheduled race, standing beside his car on the track and signing autographs. He looked up at the stands for any sign of Evan but couldn’t find him.

Brent’s wife, Tonette, approached, but he didn’t notice at first. Tonette called his attention, and it startled him. He turned around and smiled at her. It occurred to him that he never had any reason to doubt her faithfulness. He felt somewhat guilty for keeping a secret from her.

Tonette was wildly beautiful, like a supermodel. She had thick, wavy, auburn hair, honed arms, a flat torso, and breasts that matched her frame and proportions. Her hazel eyes narrowed whenever she smiled, and her white teeth glimmered in perfect shape and form.

She loved holding Brent’s hand, especially when Brent acted aloof. She was quiet and reserved when she left Brent to his quiet time, thinking. She spent a lot of time in the kitchen, cooking for him, or reading in the living room. Brent wanted to ask what she thought of Evan’s work.

But Brent thought against it.

Brent’s thoughts snapped back to the race. Tonette told Brent to be careful.

“Have fun. But keep your eyes peeled, okay?” she said to Brent. She leaned forward to kiss him.

The race was about to start, so Tonette returned to the team’s garage. She gave Brent a hug, and even though it was awkward, he went along with it. He felt his heartstrings tug. He still loved her. He had never meant to stop.

He saw men in the stands who looked familiar—bald men in racing varsity jackets, men sporting the shiny cueball look, wearing sunglasses, all appearing identical. He wondered why he noticed them at all.

Meanwhile, Evan was nowhere to be found.

Brent got in his car, and the race began shortly after. He hit the gas when the light turned green, and adrenaline shot throughout his body as his muscles tensed. The pack of cars made the first turn without problems, but two cars at the front of the pack collided along the straight-away shortly after. Like other drivers, Brent did his best to elude the first car involved in the wreck and successfully managed to avoid the second car, as well, but many of the cars that did their best to avoid the collision tallied in the ensuing wreck. Another car upfront drove into Brent’s path, leaving no room for Brent to avoid the collision. Brent immediately slammed his foot on the brake pedal. He steered his car sideways so the passenger side of his vehicle would shield him from the imminent impact. The maneuver was designed to protect him from the worst point of the collision. Brent braced himself.

Evan was at a restaurant in DC, enjoying lunch with a friend. He was happily chatting with his lunch buddy when he saw the news flash on TV.

Scenes from the race flashed on the TV screen, mainly Brent’s car hitting another driver’s car. It was a bad wreck, but emergency crews had rescued Brent from the scene of the accident in time. After some tense moments, commentators announced that Brent was fortunate to be alive and that doctors at the scene ruled him out for significant injuries. The medical providers and crew had transported him to a local hospital for observation.

Evan was relieved, but he was mad at himself for not attending the race. He didn’t forget to attend the race. He avoided Brent at Charlotte because he didn’t feel ready. He felt that it was a little too soon to get together. After they spent the night together in DC, Evan didn’t feel ready to see Brent’s family. He didn’t really want to skip Brent’s race, though.

He decided to catch up with him later.

* * *

Brent was discharged from the hospital after an overnight stay. He received plenty of get-well wishes from friends and family, including one from Evan. Evan sent an animated GIF with a racecar driver theme through Facebook. Brent was pleased to get the greeting, but he preferred seeing Evan. Evan told Brent he’d visit him at the hospital, but Brent decided he’d rather see Evan at DC.

Brent decided that he would spend the weekend in Washington, DC, to enjoy Evan’s company.

Evan didn’t know what was coming over him. He’d seen men in the past, but he refrained from telling friends about his one-night stand with Brent since Brent was married, and Evan was scared of being judged.

Brent called Evan once Brent arrived in DC. Evan answered the call and tried to reassure Brent; he gave him his address and asked him to come. Brent was relieved, but he was also frustrated. He felt sure that he loved Evan, but he didn’t feel like sneaking around. It occurred to him that news of their affair could endanger his career. Brent kicked some trash on the sidewalk after thinking of Tonette back at their place in Virginia all by herself, waiting for him, but he calmed down after forgetting about it and thinking about lying in Evan’s arms.

Brent unpacked his bags at the hotel suite, then called the hotel staff to arrange for a cab to take him to Evan’s apartment.

* * *

Brent and Evan just finished making love.

Evan opened his eyes and stared at Brent. Brent put his arms around him, and for a while, their eyes locked. Brent allowed Evan to get up.

“I’ll get you some orange juice,” Evan told him.

Evan got dressed, and Brent closed his eyes and waited.

Brent’s cell phone rang in the kitchen. Evan didn’t want to look at the caller ID, so he ignored the ringing and went to the fridge to get a glass of orange juice for Brent. The ringing persisted, so Evan finally glanced at the caller ID and realized that Brent’s wife was calling.

Brent opened his eyes and saw that he was alone; he listened for Evan’s footsteps coming from the kitchen. He smiled as Evan walked into the room and handed him the glass of orange juice. He watched as Evan slid out of his pajamas and slipped back into bed. Brent put the glass down on the side table after taking a sip and began mussing Evan’s hair. Evan twisted away, and Brent grabbed him by the waist. The two of them began laughing. Brent held him down, and Evan pretended not to put up a struggle. Brent made Evan look deeply into his eyes—the pitch black in Brent’s pupils locking with Evan’s—probing, unsure of what to find. They kissed and made love one more time.

Brent would leave Washington DC the following Monday, having stayed for just the weekend. He and Evan spent most of his stay in DC together—taking walks in the park, going sightseeing, and alternating between Brent’s hotel suite and Evan’s apartment.

Brent and Evan sat on park benches, talking, feeling the Fall breeze muss their hair. Brent held Evan’s hand often when they were quiet, and Evan occasionally put a hand on Brent’s lap when laughing at Brent’s jokes.

Brent told Evan about driving racecars. “It’s something I do, something I’ve loved since I was a kid.”

Evan noticed Brent’s expression change; his eyes grow sad as his gaze drifted.

“I’m not quite sure it’s what I want anymore,” Brent told Evan. He held Evan’s hand and smiled at him.

Evan aimed for some fountains while standing from a distance, his coins making small splashing sounds as the two guys exclaimed in joy. Brent held Evan while Evan took their selfies. They kept their feelings in check when crowds surrounded them or when park visitors hovered nearby. Brent and Evan laughed along while racing fans begged Brent for autographs. Evan waited from a short distance. He approached Brent when the coast was clear.

“I’m sorry about all that,” Brent said to Evan. Evan shook his head.

“I completely understand.”

Brent looked around and saw no one watching. He held Evan’s hands as they stood in the middle of a promenade leading to the exit. Evan could see through Brent’s smile. The tears of joy masked a deeper sadness. Evan looked into Brent’s eyes and pictured what Brent would look like that evening—when Brent was leaving for Charlottesville, back to Tonette—the word, goodbye, procrastinated for one more evening. Evan wondered just how many daytime excursions and trips to the diner they had left.

Brent felt certain that he wanted to stay with Evan for good. He planned on divorcing his wife, quitting racing, and informing his family that he was coming out of the closet and moving in with Evan.

But when he arrived home in Charlottesville, Tonette was waiting for him at the doorstep, and she was quite upset. “I know that you’re seeing someone,” she told him. Brent didn’t know what to say. He hadn’t planned on betraying her. He looked her in the eye and didn’t smile, beseeching her with his silence.

Brent had already made up an excuse for the trip, but he couldn’t tell Tonette because he was guilty. He wanted to admit that he’d met somebody—to make plans for the divorce and a generous settlement—but seeing her upset stymied him.

Tonette rushed up the stairs, still crying. Brent stood at the bottom of the staircase, wondering if he’d gone too far, realizing that he’d hurt her by carrying out the affair and not separating first. It just sort of happened, he reflected. He remembered Evan. How could he forget? He was sure that he loved him. He loved him to death, he said to himself. Now back home and wracked with guilt over his wife’s outburst, the certainty he felt for Evan grew distant, small, like watching the pupils in Evan’s eyes fade into the light of early morning, like sensing his smile tense and go blank like a computer screen. Brent remembered the good times he and Tonette shared. Tonette had stood by him during his stay in the hospital. She was the devoted wife—the wife who stayed even after living in his shadow.

Brent could hear her crying upstairs. He slowly walked into the foyer. He didn’t follow her upstairs, not knowing what to say to make things better. He crouched low to pet his dog, who’d come rushing out of the kitchen. Then, he set his eyes on three suitcases that seemed to be waiting for him at the foot of the staircase.

Brent heard the bedroom door burst open.

“Get your stuff and get out!” Tonette cried.

The bedroom door slammed shut.

* * *

Brent and Tonette separated that day. Brent decided to inform Evan that he was coming over. He wanted to share his plans. Brent was going to file for divorce and quit racing. He and Evan would move in together.

Brent visited the floral shop for a bouquet for Evan when a customer stopped him at the counter.

“Hey, are you Brent Wohlers?” the guy said.

“Yes. I am. It’s a nice morning, isn’t it?” Brent answered. He noticed that the man didn’t look friendly. He looked familiar. He was bald and old, with a sagging midsection. He had an American flag patch sewn onto his blue windbreaker.

“Heard your wife kicked you out. Who are those flowers for?”

Brent closed his eyes for a second. He felt blood rush to his temples.

“That’s rude of you to say.”

“Sorry. I know it’s none of my business,” the man said to him sarcastically. The clerk handed Brent the bouquet and his change. Brent glanced at the old man, and the old man looked away, but Brent noticed something about the man’s eyes—the pupils moved, like oil threatened to spill into the whites, like there were little baby snakes in them, slimy, black, and terrifying. Brent checked again and noticed nothing wrong.

He saw the look on the man’s face, and he felt white-hot with anger again.

“You know what? It fucking is none of your business,” Brent said to the customer, spitting hatred, eyes sending daggers.

The customer backed off, frowning. He was scared. He got served.

Outside, Brent looked back into the store, eyes still hot with anger. Brent was used to fans making comments about his personal life. He never liked it, but he usually took it in stride.

Brent set the bouquet on the passenger seat of his rental. He felt weird, like being in a dream state. He did his best to ignore it while driving down small roads to avoid traffic jams close to the interstates.

When Brent arrived at Evan’s apartment, he noticed a car parked by the curb behind Evan’s. Thinking nothing of it, Brent grabbed the bouquet of flowers, got out, and knocked on the door. While standing there, he remembered that he neglected to phone Evan before visiting. He was sad to be ending his marriage but happy that he and Evan had the chance to be together. He had a surprise for Evan. He had flowers for him, but he also had a ring in his coat pocket.

Brent rang the doorbell and adjusted his coat and tie. A stranger opened the door.

Brent tried hard to disguise his shock. The stranger was bald; his lips were dark, and his skin was radiant like he wore moisturizer. “I came to see Evan,” he said slowly, in a low tone.

The stranger turned around and went inside just as Evan came to the door. Brent felt a chill go down his spine. He could have sworn the man was familiar. Brent felt his heart race. His eyes threw daggers at the stranger. Evan shielded the doorway and tried to stop Brent from coming in. He wanted to explain what was happening, but Brent barged in, anyway.

“Brent, it’s not what you think!” Evan cried out, finally finding the words.

Brent didn’t hear him. Instead, Brent eyed down the stranger. Brent’s fear turned into anger, and anger turned into wrath. The unthinkable happened. Brent lost it. He grabbed the first thing he could and attacked the visitor.

“Brent, no!” Evan cried out.

Brent took the candelabra that sat on the hall table in the foyer and swung it with all his might. He felt it hit something. Brent had aimed for the stranger’s shoulders to stun the stranger to protect Evan.

When Brent let go of the candelabra, he smelled blood and rust in the air. Evan had gotten in the way of the candelabra and the stranger (the stranger turned out to be Evan’s friend, Brent would learn later), who was there to discuss business—an independent bookstore in the DC area. Evan was considering the possibility of settling down with Brent should things get serious. The bookstore would have allowed Evan to spend more time with Brent since Evan would have been able to quit teaching.

Brent stared in disbelief at Evan’s body, which was still quivering while lying on the floor, and a pool of blood was seeping out of Evan’s shattered skull. Blood also seeped out of Evan’s eyes. He wondered whether time would stop, whether the pupils in Evan’s eyes would welcome back the light, and his eyes would blink again. He waited for time to roll back as if it were all just a dream (someone’s story, maybe). Evan’s friend tearfully dialed 911 while staring at Brent in horror.

* * *

A few months later, after Evan’s death, Brent was convicted of manslaughter.

Brent was locked away, and no one visited him besides his parents. He sat in his cell and prayed all day, reading books at the penitentiary library when he got a chance. He sent a request for Evan’s books to be loaned to him.

It was a Friday, and visitors were allowed to see the inmates. The guards came for Brent on one such Friday. “You have a guest,” one of the guards said.

The two guards flanked Brent as Brent made his way to the visitor’s room. Brent’s wrists were cuffed, and his ankles were chained. He had to saunter to prevent tripping. His graceful strut was no longer noticeable.

Finally, the guards opened the visitor’s room and let Brent inside. Brent was surprised to see the chairs empty. He half-expected an explanation from the two guards, but they left him inside without offering one. When the door slammed shut behind him, he sat down and stared at the empty seat across the table.

Evan appeared out of thin air. Brent wondered whether he was seeing things. Brent watched Evan smile at him. He relaxed his tense back muscles and tried to get comfortable. He tried to smile at Evan.

“You can’t be doing too well in here,” Evan’s ghost said to Brent. “How are you holding up?”

Brent waited for Evan’s eyes to turn glassy, then opaque, the pupils widening and bursting into the room like they were swallowing him and the whole universe whole. His time in prison would last for eternity—with inmates staring at him with similar eyes—capillaries bursting, blood gushing down the walls of the correctional facility like throngs of inmates were bleeding ceaselessly through their eyes. He thought about yelling for the guards to get him but thought that maybe the guards would have the same eyes too. He imagined the inmates clawing for his arms and legs from either side of the hallways. He looked into Evan’s eyes and prayed like he never prayed all his life.

“Okay, I guess,” Brent answered. The furrowed lines on his forehead and the messy sideburns tucked behind his ears showed tell-tale signs of difficulty living in the correctional facility, although Brent was still new. Since Evan’s death, Brent had been receiving regular psychiatric evaluations.

Still, Brent smiled for the first time since he’d accidentally killed the man he planned on spending the rest of his life with—now sitting across the table as a ghost—or hallucination. He recalled Evan’s stories, featuring ghosts of the past wrestling with tragedy, with men and women pushed beyond the brink of sanity at the cost of inflicting suffering, and he thought that he recognized the irony.

Evan reached out to touch Brent’s hair the way Brent used to when he would playfully pin Evan down. Brent felt the ball and chain fastened to his ankle, and the cuffs on his wrists grip to the bone out of fear. He couldn’t feel the courage to scream. Brent tilted his head back to avoid looking into Evan’s eyes, fearing what could possibly happen next.

“You’ll be fine as long as I’m here,” Evan said to him.

THE END

Next Chapter: Seventh Story: The Somatic Defilement