1199 words (4 minute read)

Four

I’m sitting downstairs nursing a bourbon on ice. Something I found in the drinks cabinet. It can’t be Mom’s. She never really drank. She wasn’t a prude or anything. It’s just that she could never get organized enough to get to the liquor store. And she didn’t drive. Which was why I was taking her to the appointment when she got clipped by the bus.

Everything is musty and the sidelights don’t exactly brighten the room, more force back the shadows, leaving the space in a half gloom. She hated bright lights. Said they were bad for the soul. That the light chased away the goodness in people. I never understood what she meant. My place downtown is like Friday night at the football, like a surgery. Probably like the room where they did the autopsy to find out the exact cause of death. I could’ve told them that without having to make a single incision. 30,000 pounds of Detroit steel. A big-assed intercity bus, running late, cutting it too fine in the heavy evening traffic.

I take a sip of the drink. It goes down smooth and warm. When was the last time I was here, the last time anyone was here? I haven’t visited since Christmas, since doing my duty as the only child. Maybe Aunt Linda paid a visit, but it can’t have been recently.

I lean back in the overstuffed chair. The heavy leather tome lies in my lap. I’m tempted to rest the glass on it. But don’t. Because I’m a little afraid. Afraid of what it represents. Afraid of what it contains. The ravings of a madwoman? The story of grief at the loss of a young child? Or something else entirely. The thoughts sit uncomfortably. They tug away at a blank space in my mind. A space shut off since I pulled the trigger. Denial, the professionals told me. Comfort I countered. The professionals won. They always do. I was psych evaled off the force.

I take another sip.

I’d ripped that godawful dummy upstairs apart. To see if it would yield anything else.

And it did.

A slim volume of nonsense. Leather bound like its big brother. Red spined like its big brother. The contents written in the same flowery hand, but making absolutely no fucking sense at all. I reach over to the side table next to me and run my finger across its cover. It feels like the same expensive leather.

I pick up the awl lying next to the volume. The tip is sharp. I run it gently up and down the thin skin of my wrist. Suicide is not on my mind. I’ve never had that level of physical courage – despite what the mental health reports said.

I let the awl clatter to the floor. The thick wooden handle rolls a couple of times and ends up half under the chair I’m seated in. I think of my own place downtown. All harsh angular surfaces and sharp chromatic colors. If it’s not black, then it’s white. If it’s not white, then it’s silver. About as far away from this room as you can get. About as far away as this whole house as you can get. I got myself a high up apartment. Not penthouse high, the disability payout wasn’t that big, but high enough to dull the sounds of the city below.

I guess I’m going to have to get rid of that soon. Dried up disability plus no paying cases equals me on the street. But not anymore.

All to son.

I hack out a laugh. All includes this place. My childhood home. I’m back out in the burbs. Back to where I don’t want to be. I gaze around the room. It’s barely changed since my childhood. All the chairs are the same. The fireplace has the faint smell of smoke and charcoal. Mom loved that fireplace, but she never kept it clean. She never ever got anyone to come in and clean the flue. That’s what I thought would get her. Some kind of carbon dioxide build up would creep down the chimney and through the room, overwhelming her with its silent death. She’d be found one day, bright pink through lack of oxygen. Bright pink but smiling because she loved this room.

I can’t stand it.

Something happened one day, back when I was young. And I can’t recall what it is. But the result was I spent less time in the woods and more time in this room. Especially in the fall, when the leavers were changing. I no longer got to go chase the crayfish. I couldn’t dip my toes in the cool stream water, and I definitely couldn’t play hide-and-go-seek among the old, gnarly trees. So it was inside for me. Me and my books. And me and my music.

This brings a slight smile to my face. Or maybe it’s the bourbon taking charge. Damn that woman could sing. I always imagined angels floating from heaven and hiding outside the window just to listen to her. Angels given the blessing of God to do so.

But God wasn’t around when that bus came a calling. Hell no. That bastard left the building long ago. At least in my life.

I cast my gaze into the furthest corner. It’s still there. This is where the now torn apart mannequin used to display its malevolent self. And now I remember. That dummy hasn’t been in this room for years. It can’t have been. My guitar has been there since I was a teenager. My upstairs room was too tiny for any kind of acoustic pleasure. And Mom always loved it when I accompanied her. And I used to be pretty good. But I haven’t played in years. Not since get the discharge and losing the right to wear the uniform. Besides, it was never really my guitar. Sure I was the only one that played it. But again, like much in the house, it was a family heirloom, an uncles or my grandfathers or something like that. Not that I ever saw them play, it’s just what I was told.

I lift the leather journal from my lap and place it on the floor. I put the cut crystal glass on the table, the ice and liquor tinkle in an echo of the dropped awl and I force myself up. I move through the dim room and grab the neck of the guitar. Now the smile is genuine. I position it over my hip and give an experimental strum.

I frown.

I strum again.

I hold it out in front of my and twist is slightly, trying to catch the light. A thin film of dust covers the body and strings. Diamonds or dust. Mom was never one for housekeeping either. But that’s not what has me curious. I get it in position and strum again.

I shake my head.

Fuck me.

The damned thing is still in tune.


Next Chapter: Five