1. Dean
DEAN
H e walks the same. That heavy footed boot hitting the ground sends a chill down my spine. My back tenses against the brick wall as I force my eyes to stay open and watch him walk from his car to grab a pack of cigarettes. The gravel beneath his feet does nothing to remove the memory.
Left. Right. Left. I hear footsteps all over again. His footsteps. Just like it was yesterday. Like I’m in the cot, urine stench and all, listening to him come down in the middle of the night.
The moon is full so there’s plenty of light and I don’t mind that he can see me.
Unlike back then when I wished I could just disappear whenever I heard the thunk of his heavy gait.
A truck pulls into the parking lot of the bar just as I stand up straight and focus on my phone. There’s nothing on the screen but pictures of her but I don’t mind passersby in the night thinking I’m texting someone. Some drunk patron trying to find a ride, maybe.
My heart races and a flash of faces forces adrenaline to course through my veins. The screams are something that’s so hard to silence. Nearly impossible.
I try to remember what she told me. I try to think only of her. It’s all too much sometimes. The memories and the nightmares that linger.
His footsteps echo again and it helps to remind me this is something that has to be done. They can’t get away with what they did. Then it happens.
His footsteps, one after the other, they’re off.
My heart drops and my blood runs cold.
Punishment. That’s a punishment.
As my gaze focuses on him, silence descends. With a cigarette hanging from his mouth, he lights the end of it and takes a puff. All the while walking to the side of the building where cigarette butts litter the gravel.
He’s alone. Just as he is nearly every Tuesday night. And Wednesday and Thursday and nearly every fucking day of every fucking week.
Maybe that’s how he deals with what he’s done… he drinks his sins away.
My throat is tight as I swallow and keep my hands in my pockets, my left holding the basic utility knife, the pad of my thumb running circles around the metal.
He lifts his head back in greeting as I make my way to him.
It’s nearly midnight, the bar is only open for a handful of regulars. I wonder if they’ll even find his body tonight or if he’ll lay in the puddle of ash and blood all night.
Maybe the animals will get to him. After all, he’s close enough to the trash.
The corner of my lip picks up just slightly as I ask him, “Got a light?”
His head lowers as he looks down to his pocket.
I watch his hands and remember them on my shoulders, his fingers digging into my flesh in a bruising grip. ‘Straighter!’ he’d scream in my face and I swear I’d try. I can smell his breath. Cigarettes. ‘Straighter you little shit’ Whack!
I swallow as he looks back up at me and offers the lighter. He has to hold it out a second too long. “You going to take it?” he asks.
“Shit,” I tell him. “Forgot my cigs.”
He pushes off the brick wall, the prick is my height now. For a fraction of a second, I think he might recognize me, but he doesn’t seem to.
“You trying to bum one?” he asks then adds, “ Bum .”
As he takes a step forward, I remember the times we were this close before. When I couldn’t fight back.
“Do you remember me?” I ask and his brow creases as if he’s trying to think of where he can place me. How can he not remember?
I don’t mean to do it so quickly, I wanted to ask him so many haunting questions. The thoughts that keep me up at night… but I suppose they’ll go unanswered.
I strike out with my left hand, blade to his throat, once then twice. With each jab I pull up, slicing the inner cords and making the most of every stab. Wide eyes stare back in shock and then I do it again. His hands reach up, first towards me, but quickly to defense. To try to block another blow. To try to keep the streaming blood from the gashes in his throat.
His knees give out and he falls to his back. Sputtering blood as he tries to scream out for help.
“Let me help you remember, Mr. Jay.” I speak calmly as I lean over his body under the sole light that hangs down the alley. With one foot on either side of him, and the blood spilling from his neck and mouth, I lean closer to make sure he can hear me.
His eyes are full of terror and I think then, maybe he remembers.
“Welcome to hell,” I hiss and stab again and again and again.
It’s over in only minutes. All of it. Including the cleaning of the blade and slipping the jacket inside out after wiping off any evidence from my hands and face. I carry the bundle under my shoulder and the gravel crunches beneath my feet as I head back to my truck around the corner.
After I climb in and turn on the lights I look back to the bar. One person leaves and I watch the car go, none the wiser that there’s a dead body only ten feet from the entrance, hidden only by trash bags.
I nearly leave before I cross his name off, but I remember. Taking the note from my back pocket. I see the one side first, her name and address and then turn it over. A list of names, seven of them, one already crossed off stares back at me. With the pen from the cup holder, I cross off Jay Danning. I’m surprised the mark is so clean compared to the first line I’d drawn through the name above. It’s then I notice my heart pounds harder when I think of her than it does from what just happened.
Soon. It’ll all be over soon.