57: The man in the black knit cap pressed his fingers to his temples and squeezed. His thoughts pounded from inside, trying to get out, and it hurt. It hurt so much. He didn’t realize he’d screamed again until the sound trailed off from his lips, a bit of saliva dripping down to the collar of his sweatshirt. He opened his eyes and the light from the window pushed in, sliced at his pupils, his retinas, a new pain on top of the old.
He fumbled with the lid of the prescription bottle in his left hand, the childproof white top slipping under his bloody fingers three times before he finally got the bottle open. He shook out two tablets, placed them in his mouth, and swallowed them dry, the chalky tablets gritty on the way down.
The bottle dropped to the top of his desk, and the remaining pills spilled out across his drawings, some clattering to the floor. He didn’t care.
He looked down at his left hand, at his bloody fingers. He scratched at the incision on his head until he drew blood, yet even that wasn’t enough. The moment he stopped, there was a second of relief, maybe two. Then the itch started again, beginning at his left ear and trailing to the back of his head like a thousand insects on a death march below the surface of his skin, burrowing deep into his head.
The insects ate his thoughts. He knew that now. They fed on his memories. That was why he had so much trouble remembering. They fed and multiplied, and the itch grew with their numbers—only a couple at first but now so many.
He reached for the phone, missing the first time. He grabbed at it and hit the first programmed speed dial, his number. The only number. The line rang once, twice, three times—
The mailbox you have reached has not been set up by the user and cannot accept incoming messages at this time. Please try your call again later.
He hit End Call, then the speed dial again. Three rings—
The mailbox you have reached has not been set up by—
He hung up. He wanted to throw the phone across the room. He wanted to watch the cheap plastic shatter into a million pieces as it hit the wall. He didn’t though. He couldn’t.
He needed another girl.
He needed the man to get him another girl.
Someone who would see. Someone who would see soon.
His vision cleared as the pill began to work, and he looked down at the drawing spread out in front of him. He remembered sketching this particular image, his daughter riding a bike along the sidewalk outside their house. It hadn’t been that long ago, only last fall, about the time the first leaves began to drop. The drawing was wrong though, because the bike should be red. His right hand squeezed around the soft material of his daughter’s sweater. He didn’t remember picking it up, but there it was, bunched up in his hand, his index finger poking through the small collar.
He raised her sweater to his nose and smelled.
Nothing.
He wasn’t quite sure when his sense of smell deserted him but knew it had been recently, probably in the past few days.
She was disappearing along with his senses, with his thoughts, his memories, as the insects feasted.
Shuffling through the contents scattered over the top of the desk, he found the red marker and removed the cap. He carefully lowered the tip to the paper, aiming for the metal frame of the bike. He knew the shakes would come, and he anticipated them, his face hot with blood as the anxiety built beneath his flesh. The tip of the marker found the page, and his hand remained steady as he cautiously moved the felt side to side. Tears came as he colored the image, as his hand moved like it once did, sure and steady. Tears came and fell upon the picture, his daughter on her shiny new bike.
From the basement came a muffled cry, but he ignored it.
He hated that girl for what she had done.
Damaged.
Unable to see.
Useless.
She would suffer for her sins. She would burn.
The bike colored, he moved on to color her sweater, identical to the one he held in his hand. The red sweater, always the red sweater. He colored the garment with the careful strokes he possessed in the time before all this, back when everything was right.
Even the itch had gone. Not entirely, but lessened, and he told himself he wouldn’t scratch at the incision anymore. He wouldn’t risk reopening the wound.
Another groan from the basement, this one louder than the last.
The itch tingled, just for a second. Not enough to require scratching. He wouldn’t scratch at it.
He finished with the sweater and retrieved a blue marker, going to work on the sky. The fall skies in Chicago were usually marked with gray, but this bike ride was a happy time, and happy times called for blue skies.
He was so into his work, he didn’t see the person cross the street through his window, he didn’t see him approach his front door. He didn’t notice him at all until he heard the knock, the heavy-handed knock downstairs.
The incision itched as the insects scattered for cover on tiny little feet.