––––––––
I hate when politicians interrupt television shows. President Thomas popping up in the middle of Cops made me want to drink. Actually, that didn't sound like a bad idea. Thomas was already blathering on about the evils of Iran. No surprise there; he'd been instigating them for years. I really didn't want to stare at his smug face, so I decided a beer was in order. I'd been pretty good about drinking lately, and my thoughts were clear – and more importantly, almost entirely my own.
As I jumped off the recliner and headed for the fridge, I couldn't help but feel a little pride for getting myself headed in the right direction. The last five years of my life had been pure hell. It's hard for someone who hasn't suffered a traumatic brain injury to relate to those of us who have. My doctors were concerned that I would have permanent physical, emotional, and cognitive side effects. They had no idea just how bad it would get.
Remaining conscious had been difficult for the first few days, but when I was awake the headaches were devastating. My motor skills were fine, but my ability to think clearly and concisely was practically gone. The biggest problem I had were the echoes. They often overwhelmed me. Anytime someone stepped into the same room as me I couldn't focus. Voices and emotions pinged around in my head like echoes in a canyon, but instead of repeating, they always changed.
Voices like the ones I felt coming from my neighbor's apartment right now. Though it's been so many years, I still have trouble grasping what it's like to not only hear voices, but to feel them. Even now, when I've learned to control my mind, an emotionally charged thought is able to slip through my defenses. Like the one poking around now.
You stupid bitch, you don't tell me to leave!
Apparently my neighbor had a poor excuse of a man in her home, again. Her name was Samantha and she happened to be the primary reason I decided to get off the sauce. We met in passing in the hallway or stairwell occasionally, where she would always tell me a bit about herself. She had no way of knowing I already knew everything.
She was an athletic trainer for the local pro football team, dated assholes, was very pretty, and had gigantic boobs. And she was fairly dumb. That probably explained why she always went out with assholes. Typically, I can't handle being with women who are allergic to books but she had been so kind to me, especially during my drunk days, that I couldn't help being attracted to her. The boobs helped too. If I hadn't been so messed up for the last half decade I would have been hitting on her instead of just drooling from across the hall.
Deciding to probe a little deeper into the douche-bag-next-door's intentions, I began to focus on the voice in my head. My eyes narrowed as I concentrated on him. The sounds of bustling traffic coming from the street gained a hollow, muted quality, as if I listened to them inside a tin can. My peripheral vision began to blur. I could feel my mind's eye reaching out to him, grabbing onto the threads of his consciousness.
His thoughts were less than honorable. My plans for a peaceful night of pizza and a movie evaporated. I released my mental grip and decided to put a stop to this when the sounds of shattering glass and Sammy's muffled cry came from the other side of the wall.
I was out of my chair and through the front door before I had time to think about what I was doing. My hand pounded on her door within seconds.
"Sammy? Are you ok?"
"He won't leave!"
"Piss off, unless you want some of this too," Douche Bag said in a deep voice.
"Open the door!"
He was begging for me to wipe the floor with his ass. I decided to oblige him. The doors in our building aren't the best, but they have three locks on them so it took me two solid kicks to knock it open.
I'm 6'1" and run about 200, so compared to most people I'm pretty big, but this guy made me look like Justin Bieber. He had to be at least 6'7" and maybe more than that. He was an absolute monster; his arms were as big as my legs, and he had a head the size of a silverback gorilla. If he didn't weigh three hundred pounds then he was only a cheeseburger or two short of that. His size gave him a false sense of security; I could hear the arrogance bouncing around in his head when he saw me. His black overcoat and slacks were made of the same amount of material as a circus tent. The gaudy gold watch he wore cost more than my rent for the year.
Against the wall behind him, with large fearful eyes, stood Samantha. The black dress she wore made my mouth water.
"The hell you think you is coming in here?" he said.
His sheer size worried me. If he got his hands on me, he'd rip my arms off and beat me to death with them. I tried not to let my concerns seep into my voice.
"I'm Jack the Giant Killer, and I'm going to stooge slap your dumb ass all over this apartment," I said as I strode across the living room.
My abilities make fighting untrained people fairly easy. Their thoughts betray their actions, so I know what's coming before they attack. Douche Bag had no actual skill; he merely relied on his size. I could see the sloppy overhand right he was about to throw from down the street. I dodged it with ease and kicked him square in the balls. All the air whooshed out of him. As he bent over, holding his groin, I gave him a hard left hook to the liver.
That combination of blows would have toppled King Kong, which he nearly was. He crashed face first onto the tiled floor, the entire apartment quaking from the impact. Laying there curled in the fetal position, he tried to get a few wisps of air back into his lungs. Reaching down and pulling his wallet out of his back pocket, I flipped it open and looked at his driver's license, even though I already knew his name. He was a defensive lineman for the same pro football team that Samantha worked for.
"OK, Brad Fickett of 403 Pratt Street, I want you to do a favor for me. Do you see the pretty brunette behind me? I want you to tell her that you're very sorry for being so mean to her, scaring her, and for being a turd in general. Promise her that she will never see you outside of the office again."
His teeth were grinding together in pain and he still wasn't able to speak, but I could hear his thoughts.
Wait until I get my teammates and come back here, you son of a bitch!
I knelt down beside him and tapped his wallet on his forehead.
"You don't want to do anything like that, Brad; I'd hate to have to embarrass you in front of all your friends and coworkers. Besides you don't want all of them to know you like to intimidate women, do you? I have a feeling that wouldn't be so great for your career," I whispered, leaning in close to him so Samantha couldn't hear what we were saying.
He rolled his eyes up to look at me with confusion on his face.
I didn't say that out loud, did I?
"No. I'm inside your head, big man. Remember that. Never come back here again, and don't even think about hassling her at work."
The shock in his eyes made me want to laugh. At first he thought that I had just been lucky to knock him down, but now he was genuinely afraid of me. Maybe he’d remember this moment the next time he tried to tune up someone else.
I dropped his wallet in front of his face and stood up. "Brad, I don't like to repeat myself. Now please apologize to the lady."
Looking back at Samantha, I saw that she hadn't moved at all since I kicked the door in. She just stood there with an odd expression on her face. I guess it isn't every day when someone kicks in your door and beats up your guest.
It had been a few weeks since I'd seen her, and I was instantly reminded of her attractiveness. She was very tall for a woman, probably approaching six feet, and had an athletic build. Her long, wavy brown hair fell across her bare shoulders. How someone could be so mean to something so pretty, I would never understand. I wanted to stare at her for another second or fifty, but the look in those frightened eyes got me pissed off all over again.
"Last chance. Apologize or you're going to start drinking out of the toilet," I said as I turned to the man mountain again.
On very shaky legs he started to get up, though he wasn't able to stand fully erect yet. He looked from her to me, and then dropped his eyes to the floor. The look of defeat on his face made me feel like I had just won the lottery.
"I'm sorry for scaring you..." he trailed off as he looked at me.
"For being mean to you and for being a turd."
"For bein' mean to you and for bein' a turd," he mumbled.
"You can leave now, Brad. Drive home safely."
He didn't make eye contact as he turned, still hunched over, and shuffled out of the apartment. Following behind him, I watched him go down the first flight of stairs and out of sight. I walked back into Samantha’s apartment as she started to relax. Putting my hand around one of her arms, I led her over to a stool sitting in front of the island in her kitchen.
Looking around for the first time, it was obvious that she took much more pride in her home than I did. Except for the broken glass on the floor, the place was immaculate. She actually had furniture, something I didn't have much of, and everything was clean and organized.
"Thank you, Ash...for everything. I can't believe he turned mean so fast. The look in his eyes was so scary! Who knows what he would have done if you didn't hear us..."
I knew what he had planned, but decided to keep that to myself. No point in scaring her even more.
She covered her eyes with her hand. "He seemed so sweet at work. When he asked me out, I didn't know he was such a jerk. I'm so stupid about boys! Why can't I find a nice guy, just once? This is so embarrassing."
"You have nothing to be ashamed of. It would be great, though, if the next time you need some help it didn't include having to fight the biggest man I've ever seen in my life," I said with a smile.
Walking over to her door, I inspected the damage from kicking it in. The splintered wood and bent metal didn't give a good prognosis. It wouldn't even close all the way, let alone latch.
"Sorry about your door, Samantha. I'll try and get someone in here to fix it for you tonight."
"Call me Sammy; I like it better. And don't worry about the door. I owe you so much for saving me like that – a door is no biggie. Although I would feel safer if I could go over to your place while we called the landlord?"
Maybe the night was looking up after all.