The Accursed

by J G Koratzanis

  He pushed through and noticed that fucking Baz sitting at the dinette table, his face peppered with gore and knuckles split with bloodied gashes. His black shirt faded into beige splotches as the stench of Clorox overcame Chase’s senses.

  “What the fuck, Baz,” he said as he entered.

  Baz smiled for what Chase believed was the first time. His yellowed, tombstone teeth absorbed the light from the sun and dulled the natural brilliance of the room.

  “Sorry about the door. You know how it is,” he said.

  “What the fuck are you doing here? What is all this?”

  Bazzi arose from his seat and arched backward. His gut threatened the decaying button threads of his dress shirt.

  “There was this guy, you see, that was, how should I say, uncooperative.”

  He sounded as disingenuous as the night they met. Bowels clenched to contain its contents.

  “And let’s just say that after I drove him down to Fist City, he ain’t coming back,” he finished with a wink.

  Chase gawked as the subtlety brightened into blinding light.

  “I needed a place to clean up, and you, my little pal, were the closest one in my time of need. Hence, here I am. And, no, in case you were wondering, you don’t have anything that’ll fit me. Believe me, I checked.”

  “You came here. Wrecked my door. After you kill—”

  Baz scowled and poked a thick finger towards Chase. “Shut the fuck up, kid. I didn’t say that, did I? I said the guy went to Fist City.”

  “Then what’s with the bleach? And all over my shit!”

  Baz sat back down. “I told you, I needed to clean up. Just be happy you didn’t have to do this job in the middle of the day. Speaking of which, aren’t you supposed to be working?”

  “I got fired,” Chase whispered.

  The mechanical, maniacal laughter burst forward.

  “What a fucking loser! Can’t you even hold a job at a liquor store? Holy shit!”

  Chase slumped back to the door and ran his fingers down the busted edge before he shoved it closed with his rump.

  I’m not a fucking loser.

  Yes, you are.

  “I’m not a fucking loser!” he yelled. Chase yanked the door open and slammed it against the closet door behind.

  “Get out, Baz. Get the fuck out! And don’t come back here again! I’m not going to jail for you!”

  Baz tittered. “Fuck yourself, kid. My game. My rules. And you will always lose,” he said as he arose. He stepped over to Chase and put his sausage finger into his chest.

  “Because you are a loser. You have always been a loser. And you will always be a loser.”

  Chase shoved Baz. His massive girth held its ground.

  “Fuck this. I’m outta here. Fix the door on your way out, asshole,” he said and stomped down the hallway.

  “If you’re not a loser,” Baz called out from the apartment, “then where’s the internet in this place? I was hoping I could’ve jerked off on that picture of your ex-girlfriend or something!”

  The ha-ha-ha of laughter echoed through the hall and stairwell as Chase descended.

  BETRAYAL

  I

  “One ninety-eight, one ninety-nine, two hundred,” Jessica counted off and put the stethoscope to Chase’s chest.

  “What do we have?” Robert said as he squeezed the ventilation bag.

  She considered Robert, shook her head and counted again.

  "Let’s go, Jess. You got this.”

  “One, two, three, four…”

  The ambulance rocked side to side as they turned onto Seventh Avenue between cars, vans and craterous potholes. The escort vehicle raced ahead.

  Robert turned towards the crash cart and powered it up. "Where the hell’s the gel?"

  She shook her head wildly. “Not now, we’re almost there. He’ll make it. How much longer, Pete,” she said.

  “Best guess, three minutes to the door,” he answered.

  “Make it two,” Jessica said. Peter shook his head.

  "No. I’m staying on the cop’s ass until Seventh. No more risks. I’m not getting us suspended.”

  “What about the accident at Twenty-third,” Robert said.

  “The cop called it in. Truck Eight-Oh-Three’s already there.”

  “Fifty-two, fifty-three,” Jessica continued. Sweat dripped from her forehead and patted against the dark green ventilator balloon.

  “Fifty-nine. Come on, you son of a bitch! Sixty-two. Don’t you fucking die on me! Sixty-six. Six—”

  II

  “Dude, what’s going on with you?”

  Chase withdrew into himself and clasped his beer in both hands.

  “What do you mean?” he said as he looked away. He hoped interrogation wasn’t on the menu. All he wanted to do was sit in silence, with a friend, and drink. He didn’t want to talk, he didn’t want to think. And there was no way he could have told his brother what was going on without divulging how far he had fallen down the rabbit hole.

  “I barely recognized you when I walked in.”

  Chase gulped his beer, examined himself and grinned. Lines appeared where there were no lines, dark circles shadowed deeper in the dim lighting of the bar, and the waft of body odor puffed from under his T-shirt sleeve and greeted Chase’s nostrils

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Same clothes, same hair, same me,” Chase scoffed. Rick didn’t accept.

  “You lost weight.”

  “A little,” Chase said. “Need to watch my girlish figure,” he quipped.

  Rick scoffed and leaned onto the bar.

  “Your eyes are as black as marbles. You’re looking sick.”

  “But I’m not. I just haven’t been getting much sleep. Don’t make a thing out of it.”

  “I’m not,” Rick said. “I’m just saying—”

  “Saying I look sick. Sicker than sick? Stephanie sick? I’m not. So, sorry if my appearance bothers you!”

  Rick surrendered. “Hey, I’m sorry. I’m just looking to help if you need it. I wouldn’t know if you did. You haven’t stopped by or called in months.”

  “Neither did you,” Chase muttered.

  He didn’t understand. Chase thought he looked Okay. Cheeks might have sunken in and his belt might have cinched little tighter, but he felt fine. He might have drunk more cheap booze than a teenager at a party, but he felt fine. Chase hit a dozen potholes driving through Fist City, but he felt fine.

  His mind, his heart, his soul not so much. Bruises and scrapes mended. But the spirit did not. His soul was broken.

  “For fuck’s sake, can we change the subject, please?”

  Rick grabbed his beer and sighed.

  “Yeah, whatever.

  “So, what do you want to talk about?”

  Chase drifted away again, and wished, for once, he could put into words how he felt. If he did, maybe he could soothe some of the aches that nestled in him, kept him cold, alone, afraid.

  But if he could compose his thoughts and emotions into something articulate, would the incontrovertible truth sever his last threads of sanity?

  “I don’t know. I just wanted you here with me. I hate being alone.”

  Rick nudged Chase in his side. “What about her? You still with and not with her?”

  Chase picked his head up and looked at the barmaid.

  “T? Nah. We haven’t bothered with each other in what, a year? I don’t even know anymore. Guess she hasn’t said much about me at your dad’s place.”

  Rick signaled for her.

  “Nope. She quit months ago. Decided to go back to school. She’s a good kid,” Rick said.

  Chase watched her stroll up to them. Contempt filled his eyes when she refused to look in his direction.

  “Hey, teddy bear. What can I do you for? Another round?”

  He nodded and looked her up and down. A sly smile crept across her face before she turned away. Chase looked at Rick.

  “Guessing you don’t want to go to sleep
alone tonight,” he said.

  “Huh? Me,” Rick scratched his head. “I don’t know. I didn’t know I did anything.”

  Chase snickered.

  “This is Stacy we’re talking about. She just blew you with her eyes. She did the same to me back then.”

  Rick smiled as Stacy returned with two pints of Trooper.

  “If you say so,” Rick said, staring deeply into Stacy’s eyes. “Guess I don’t want to sleep alone tonight.”

  “Did I miss something?” Stacy said.

  “Probably not,” Chase said. “He wants to fuck you tonight.”

  Daggers flew from her eyes as she glowered at Chase. His grin told her to go fuck herself. Rick slapped Chase on the arm.

  “Dude! Really?”

  Chase stood up and pulled out his wallet. He threw a fifty-dollar bill onto the bar and slipped on his leather jacket.

  “Listen, Rick. I’m sorry I called you tonight. I’m… my mind’s somewhere else. I’ll call you tomorrow. Maybe I can explain.”

  Rick stared, confused and shocked.

  “Are you kidding me? I haven’t seen you in months and you bail after five minutes? What the hell did I do?”

  “Nothing,” Chase said and kissed his friend on the cheek. “It’s all me. Call you tomorrow.”

  “Please, call. There’s something we need to talk about. It’s about—” Chase never heard the end as the jingle of the doorbells signaled his exit.

  III

  The sea of browns and grays seemed as bland and useless as the salesman who hovered in the periphery as Chase wandered through Frankel’s Discount Furniture, where BARGAIN IS OUR MIDDLE NAME, sounded as cheap as the upholstery. He wondered if the vulture circled him more for security than a disinterested sale.

  The truth was, Chase looked for something new. The cigarette burns and stench on the couch, the broken way too long ago coffee table and the sagging press board entertainment center mirrored how Chase felt inside; disgraced, broken and run down. He tried not to let the fifty-something-year-old gentleman, who reeked of desperation and Drakkar, bother him. But he did.

  Chase might have been a lot of things; angry, quick-tempered, beatings-for-hire, and closet alcoholic and even deeper in the closet coke-head, but he wasn’t a thief. Except for that one time at Arnipoor’s.

  Twice if you count the sunglasses. Sorry, nineteen. Those shot bottles don’t go very far nowadays.

  But how the fuck could he steal a couch?

  Every now and again, Chase would gesticulate towards the man. James the Jew, or Mike the Kike, Chase didn’t remember or care, would display his bleach-white Chiclets for teeth as Chase would turn away.

  He enjoyed toying with the divorced salesman’s feelings. The indelible tan line and callous on his ring finger advertised like a billboard in Times Square. Perhaps Chase would indulge him with a purchase that would let the man ring the bell in the backroom, and let the other salespeople know that he made a sale, and invite the Craigslist.org, fifty-dollar prostitute over for a night of ecstasy and syphilis without sacrificing dinner for the next two days.

  “Holy shit, Chase? Is that you?” he heard. He spun on his heels and scanned the store.

  “Beatrice? Holy shit. Hi. How are you?” he said. “What’re you doing here?”

  “Same as you, I’m sure. Chopping wood.” It fell flat in his ears and flew past his funny bone. He grinned and stuffed his hands into his pockets.

  “I’m sorry. I’m an idiot. How are you?” he said.

  “You already asked, but I’m good! I’m good. You?”

  He watched the salesman snap his beak towards another customer and flutter away.

  “Ah, you know, same old, same old. How’s—

  “Casey?” he said.

  “He’s fine, I guess. Getting used to married life after almost two years.”

  “What? You don’t know how your husband’s doing?” Chase said. Beatrice squirmed.

  “No, just thought were about to ask me about someone else for a second,” she said.

  “Who,” he said and coughed into his fist.

  “Really?”

  “So, what’s going on with you? Haven’t seen you in what, two years or so?” Chase said and fumbled through his pockets for nothing.

  “Nothing. Same old, same old, like you I guess. But married.”

  Chase’s forehead creased.

  “That’s not what I meant. I mean, it’s just a big part of my life. No kids yet. We’re waiting ‘til our thirties. No rush, right? Are you seeing anybody?” she said. The knife twisted in his heart.

  “No. I’m between making women miserable right now. Thinking about moving.”

  Beatrice leaned back. “Where? Staten Island? I know some great neighborhoods—”

  “Out of state,” he interrupted. He didn’t hide his coldness. “Haven’t quite figured out where yet. Just wanna get the fuck out of here. Start over again.”

  Excellent recovery, my dear boy. Then why are you shopping for furniture?

  He coughed into his fist again. He had no clue if she bought it. Nor did he care. Within his pocket, he pressed the volume button his phone. The ring increased and pulled it out.

  “Hey, sorry, Bea. I have to take this. It was good seeing you again,” he said and turned away.

  “Uh, Okay. You too.”

  “Say hi to Casey for me, alright,” were his last words before he rushed out of the store.

  He hopped into the cramped Civic and fumbled at his keys in the ignition. They fell to his feet and an endless string of profanity burst from his lips.

  Hands shook, and teeth gnashed as he reached for a cigarette. Match after match burned out as fast as they lit, he growled.

  He depressed the car’s lighter and held it longer than its readiness to ignite. Putting to his smoke, the cigarette cracked in half. An inarticulate wail filled the cabin of the Honda and he spat out the filter.

  Chase grasped the brilliant coil in his palm and squeezed. He battled the tear that clung to his lids as he welcomed the searing flesh.

  He tossed it to the floor and punched the steering wheel repeatedly and watched a passerby shift toward the staccato of a car horn.

  Chase knelt, picked up his keys, gingerly inserted it into the ignition and turned. The roar of the cracked exhaust was thick in his thumping ears.

  Fingers gnarled and quelled the tremors his as he reached for another cigarette. Remembering the Zippo in his jacket pocket, he lit it with ease. The sting of sorrow pressed from his eyelids and tumbled down his cheeks as he drove away.

  IV

  Chase didn’t want to be there. The diarrhea churn wrenched his belly, and he didn’t know why. He hadn’t heard from Rick since the last time they were at Dickinson’s, and he sounded urgent.

  “What the hell was so important that I have to meet him in Prospect Park?”

  “After this past winter, it’s one hell of a beautiful night to stay outside?” Rick said. Chase twirled around.

  “Holy shit, you’re fucking prompt. Scared the shit out of me.”

  Rick took Chase in his arms and held him tight. Chase didn’t. A nagging sense deadened his arms.

  “What’s going on,” Chase said.

  “We need to talk. I need to talk,” Rick said.

  “What did I do now?”

  “Nothing. You did nothing. I did. Come. Walk with me.”

  The two padded down the asphalt path through the park in temporary silence. Chase watched Rick formulate the words in his mind.

  Rick pulled out a pack of cigarettes and lit two. Chase took one as they continued.

  “You fucked Stacy,” Chase said, breaking the silence. Rick nodded.

  “Just once. That one time. That’s it,” he said. “I’m sorry. I was lonely. You two weren’t seeing each other anymore and I did what I did.”

  “You fucked her,” Chase repeated through a clot of smoke.

  “That’s not what I came here to talk about, Chase.”

  R
ick halted in his tracks as Chase continued forward.

  “It’s about Heather.”

  Chase froze and glowered into the darkness beyond where the walkway lights failed to illuminate the grass. His fist balled up.

  “I kissed her,” Rick said. It thundered in Chase’s skull. He wanted to cower to kill the echo in his mind.

  “But it’s not what you think. There’s nothing between us.”

  “And there was nothing between you and Stacy either. Just that one time, right?” Chase’s voice quivered.

  Rick stepped close and put his hand on Chase’s shoulder. Chase spun around and hunched over.

  “You can hit me. I’ll accept it. I fucked up, but at least listen to my why.”

  Chase didn’t flinch. He didn’t feel the need to breathe.

  “We were at this party a while ago. Right around the time the two of you split up. There was this guy who was hitting on her. Doug—”

  “D-bag. He’s an asshole. I know him. Fucking weirdo,” Chase mumbled.

  “Yeah, exactly,” Rick exclaimed as hope lightened his face.

  “Well, he was hitting on her all night and wouldn’t take no for an answer. So, I stepped in and pretended to be her boyfriend. That’s it, nothing more. But it’s been eating at me ever since. I made her promise not to tell you.”

  “She didn’t,” Chase groaned. “She’s good at not talking to me.”

  Rick stood tall and held his head high.

  “I’m sorry, little brother. Like I said, you can hit me. I won’t fight back. We’re even then. Promise.”

  Chase’s eyes went dark except for a small glint that caught the park lantern in the distance.

  “You. Fucked. Stacy,” he growled.

  “Yeah, but that’s not what this is about. Did you hear me? I kissed Heather and I didn’t mean it. It meant nothing!”

  Chase heard nothing more as the blood surged behind his eardrums and the strange friend within mocked his manhood.

  He didn’t hear the sickening thud of his fist on Rick’s jaw. Nor the second or third strike into Rick’s nose, eye and forehead.

  Chase watched in disconnected wonder as the behemoth teetered and failed to reach out before Rick’s head slammed to the edge of the asphalt. He didn’t hear his hammer fists repeatedly pound into Rick’s arm and shoulder.

  “You fucked Stacy! Why did you do that to me?”