What the fuck?
What the actual fuck?
Infinite fucks spat from a galaxy of horrified mouths couldn’t convey the scale of my horror. A pit opened in my stomach, and it was so dark and powerful it sucked away my sense of self and whatever shreds of morality I’d clung to. I sat in the office supply shop, scrolling, searching, flitting from page to page, scouring the internet for the slightest reason these three people should have been killed. Instead, I found goodness, generosity, and virtue. All qualities I lack. All of which I’d ignored when I’d needed a reason to kill.
Life stings, Walter’s ghost said. But it makes sweet honey for people like me.
Someone played you for a fool, Farah’s spirit added.
A fool rushes in, Gibson’s specter said. A wise man waits until…
“Shut up!” I yelled before putting my hand over my mouth.
I hadn’t intended to speak the words out loud, but I wasn’t in control of myself. The pit in my gut had formed a vortex and, like the eye of a hurricane, had set my world swirling. I felt lightheaded and sick and wanted to be somewhere else. More accurately, I wanted to be someone else. Someone who hadn’t taken three lives. Someone who had done his homework. Someone who wasn’t such a deadbeat.
Deadbeat, Walter’s ghost said.
Deadbeat, Farah’s spirit agreed.
Deadbeat, Gibson’s specter joined in, and three voices filled my head, chanting the word again and again and again.
It got louder and louder as the pit in my stomach grew denser until, like a black hole, it drew everything into a single point, creating a storm of memory, perception, and emotion that sent my world into chaos. I could hardly think straight, let alone see or hear.
Deadbeat. Deadbeat. Deadbeat.
What would you have done?
You discover the foundations of your new world are built on a sinkhole of lies. You realize as you search the easily manipulated digital world for shreds of your decency, you’re the bad guy.
The villain of the piece.
No vigilante here.
Just a slayer of innocents.
A murderer.
A serial killer.
What would you do?
If you’re sitting there thinking you’d turn yourself in, you’ve probably never served time. You’ve never felt the cruel heel of bad fortune grind into your neck.
I did the only thing I could do. Something that had been drilled into me by months of bad habit. Years, if you include the instructive lessons I’d had from my father.
When I’d caught my breath and recovered my senses enough to stand, I went to Rick’s and got blind drunk.
I mean “vomiting, sick in the mind, closer to hell than earth, teetering on the edge of death” drunk. I didn’t care about Curse or Cutter or Frankie Balls. I didn’t care about the LAPD. I just wanted the memory wipe Rick had given me so many times.
My mom had taught me to run away from problems. We leave the house until they’ve passed out, and when they’re defanged, fists unclenched, and snoring, we creep in and take the sleep train to the clean-slate morning. My dad had taught me different: life is pain, the cure is found at the bottom of a bottle.
And that night I went searching, but no matter how many bottles I emptied, the pain didn’t seem to go away, so I kept searching and searching and searching.
Jim was in good spirits and happy to see me. I’d caught him after just the right number of drinks, so he was pleased to join me on my quest for a cure. We did lines and pills in the restroom, and even later he didn’t become angry, bad Jim. He just grew slurry and maudlin.
I think we talked about family. That’s the only reason that would explain why I came around in his car, heading along Rosencrans Avenue toward Toni’s place.
I remember being there, outside her apartment, the stink of vomit rising off my shoes, the night sky a dull orange, broken by only a couple of starry pimples.
I remember Toni’s fire-red face as she woke the neighbors with her shouting. Skye’s wounded eyes, peering out of the living room window, tears sliding down her cheeks. Jack hauling me away, and him and Jim tussling, but I don’t know how Jim ended up on his ass, or how I wound up behind the wheel of the Lincoln, driving to a place in Carson.
Jim used the hem of his shirt to wipe a bloody gash on his temple and directed me left and right and straight ahead. We didn’t hit anything or anyone, but my attorney says I should remind you this is a work of fiction, so even if your car was parked in the vicinity of Wilmington Avenue and was damaged that night, no bills will be payable because this is all make-believe, right?
Jim’s destination turned out to be a cathouse on Calstock Street. Cathouse was his choice of words, not mine.
I don’t recall much, just that we seemed to be real loud on a dead-quiet street. The home of felines was a bungalow on the corner. Red bricks and red tiles, but no red lights in the windows. If Jim hadn’t slurred his assurances they knew him here, I would have thought we were about to wake fine residents who would run us off their property.
Once inside, I vaguely sensed this was no ordinary home. There were women in a living room that reminded me of my grandma’s place. Jim flashed money around. Maybe.
But my strongest memory that night had to be of me and a woman in her thirties, alone in a sad little bedroom. Felicity, that was her name. She wore the shortest dress I’ve ever seen and matching underwear that covered little, but her eyes were too sad to hide, even beneath my fog of booze and drugs and her many layers of makeup. Her sadness made me feel at home. Something familiar and strangely warming. Like a good rum.
We didn’t have sex. She let me lay my head in her lap and stroked my hair as my eyes fluttered shut. I had thought she’d ditch me the moment I fell asleep.
After all, I deserved no better.