Dominion

by Greg F. Gifune

  Daniel waited, breathing slowly and in short, shallow intakes so as to make as little noise as possible, but there were no other sounds in the brownstone, nothing unusual or anything to indicate there might be anyone else in the house. In the distance he could hear the city awakening. Though it was still dark out it was early morning. He ran his hands over his head, rubbed his temples.

  On the floor in its case zippered shut, was his laptop, left there by design, he was certain. He hadn’t even turned it on since he’d lost his job, much less used it. He extended his leg, and with his foot, pushed it away from him.

  He stood, staggered to the bedroom.

  The bed was mussed, the sheets and blankets in disarray. No trace of Lindsay.

  Dazed and on automatic pilot, Daniel dressed in jeans and a heavy sweater then wandered about the brownstone, unsure of what to do or where to go, fearful the madness might return at any moment, darting out at him like a carnival funhouse monster.

  Once in the kitchen, he reached for the phone. Before he’d made contact, it began to ring. Daniel watched it a while, the little red light on the handset blinking with each electronic buzz. Cautiously, he pulled it from the wall cradle, pressed the Talk button and brought the phone to his ear.

  Womb sounds sloshed and gurgled through the line.

  He dropped the handset to the table and ripped the base unit from the wall and fired it into the kitchen sink.

  Impossibly, the sounds continued leaking from the handset.

  Broken and wracked with exhaustion, Daniel shuffled into the living room and collapsed down onto the couch facing the French doors.

  There, in the center of the floor, in its carrying case, was his laptop.

  He knew he’d not brought it with him. In fact he was certain he’d left it in the computer room. Yet there it was. Again. Daniel ignored the compulsion to free it of the case and turn it on, and instead sat quietly, his body sore and throbbing, his mind a shattered mess.

  He waited, though he wasn’t sure for what, his chest slowly rising and falling with each deliberate breath. He closed his eyes, saw visions of a desert. Vultures picked at human bones, tearing the flesh free in long bloody scraps from a body still alive and screeching in agony. Daniel quickly opened his eyes and found himself looking upon the darkness through the French doors, unable to see much beyond the panes of glass.

  Remembering the nightmare he’d had about the man reaching through the doors, Daniel swallowed back the fear but continued staring at the glass, the shrubs and street beyond normally visible but this time swallowed to black. The streetlights, he realized, were off.

  Strangely, he found himself fascinated with the darkness, the way it moved and rolled, consuming everything in its path like a thick fog. But there was more to it, something palpable and definable within that darkness. Narrowing his eyes, he stared harder.

  Yet from those flames no light, but rather darkness visible.

  His vision blurred a moment as he focused on the glass itself, his reflection emerging from the black mirror like a painting slowly taking form.

  The night of Lindsay’s death…

  Somewhere along the line things changed a bit.

  Visions of sitting in this very room waiting for her to come home…

  Sometimes it seemed like I was alone again, single almost. It was…

  He had used his laptop only moments before…

  Lonely?

  What had he been doing?

  Yes.

  Why couldn’t he remember?

  People don’t realize just how lonely a marriage can be sometimes.

  He remembered opening the Chinese food…

  What were you doing the night Lindsay was killed?

  And watching television…

  But you should be ashamed of yourself.

  And then the phone call had come…

  Maybe rebirth isn’t as beautiful as initial birth.

  Before that, he pressed, forcing his mind back. What were you doing before that?

  He doesn’t know yet. Does he.

  His laptop…visions of him at his laptop, typing furiously, his face flushed, his heart racing, his body alive and tingling with excitement.

  It’s the guilt that kills us. It’s the guilt that tears us apart.

  “No,” Daniel whispered. “I—I know who I am, I know where I am.”

  And guilt, like truth, is a nasty motherfucker.

  Hurrying, he was hurrying to finish before Lindsay got home, so he wouldn’t get caught, so she wouldn’t catch him doing what he was doing. What he’d been doing for weeks by then. Fantasizing, feeding needs that had become twisted and dark and dirty while creating others to hide him…

  We’re still chained to fate, Daniel. This is ours.

  And then the phone call…Lindsay—dead and mangled in the street, gone in an instant and using her final words to try to warn him, to help him—and all the while he’d been…

  The guilt strangled him.

  His image in the dark glass shifted, distorted. “Where the hell am I?”

  The darkness, it…sweeps you away.

  “Who the hell am I?”

  Daniel…and yet, not Daniel…

  Do they know who they are?

  Not totally…

  What they are?

  Not completely Daniel but…some part of him…some piece of him…

  Do any of us?

  Brought to life when…where…how?

  Sometimes it’s hard to remember who made who.

  He pushed further back into the couch, captivated by the answers falling like rain. Squirming and trying to escape, visions of Bryce—with the others—peeking at him through the darkness flashed in his mind. Were they monsters or gods, destroyers or creators?

  Only God creates.

  Night swallowed his reflection in the glass, dragging his focus back to whatever was hiding within the darkness. Fear coiled around him like barbed wire.

  Whenever someone we love dies, a part of us dies with them.

  Swirling, coming slowly into being…something there…material…proportionate...

  But in the end, all you’re really fighting are different parts of yourself.

  He began to scream.

  And nothing dies quietly.

  Emerging from the darkness…a face…

  Not really. Not in the transition.

  A face pressed to the glass…

  His own.

  THIRTY-NINE

  Wesley rummaged through the drawer in the kitchen until he’d finally located the small box of stick matches. With a quick strike, the flame burst through the darkness. He held it to the candlewick until it caught then tossed the matches back into the drawer, pushed the candle down onto the stem of a pewter holder and gingerly maneuvered his way through the house toward the bathroom. He’d come awake moments earlier to find Abigail asleep next to him. The house creaked and moaned as heavy winds and rain pounded against it, and when he’d rolled over to check the alarm clock on the nightstand, he’d found it dark. The storm had evidently knocked the power out, but his bladder was full, so he got out of bed as quietly as possible and felt his way through the darkness to the kitchen.

  As he entered the hallway leading to the bathroom, the candlelight bent along the walls on either side of him, casting shadows. He slowed his pace as he neared Dora’s room, instinctually hesitating a moment to peek through the open door to check on his daughter.

  Bringing the candle round, he held it up a bit so the light fell upon the back wall of the bedroom. Dora’s bed was empty. He stepped through the doorway.

  Dora was sitting at her desk, alone in the dark with her crayons and a pad of paper. She looked up at him, face expressionless.

  “Sweetheart, what are you doing?” Wes moved closer, aiming the flame at the desk. “Are you all right?”

  She nodded.

  “Did the storm wake you?” When she didn’t answer he looked down at the pad of paper. Another drawing, this one of a st
ick figure standing alone, the area around him colored black to signify darkness, and beyond it circles Wesley assumed were meant to be eyes. “Dora, what…” He drew a breath. Patience, he thought, patience. “You shouldn’t be sitting here in the dark drawing, it’s not good for your eyes, and besides, it’s the middle of the night. You should be asleep. There’s nothing to be afraid of, it’s just some wind and rain. The power went out but I’m sure it’ll be back on soon.”

  Dora looked back down at her drawing.

  “You used to draw such happy pictures.” Wesley sighed. “I don’t like these scary ones you’ve been drawing lately. I like it when you draw happy pictures.” He turned the paper over then cupped the back of her head. “Happy thoughts from now on, OK?”

  Lightning blinked, illuminating the room in a bright blue glow for a second or two, long enough to reveal the man just over her father’s shoulder. The one standing in the corner watching them, a murderous sneer on his face and a bloody baseball bat held at his side.

  Dora wrapped her arms around her father’s considerable girth, pressed her head against his stomach and held on tight.

  * * *

  On the outskirts of the city, under cover of night, a ferocious wind and driving rain, a lone figure dressed in a pea coat walked along the side of the road, a duffle bag over one shoulder and a canvas carry case over the other. His dark silhouette barely visible, he moved through the night with a slow but calculated pace, oblivious to the raging storm. Behind him, in the distance, Boston’s cityscape illuminated an otherwise lightless vista, but he did not look back. Instead he strode onward, the heels of his boots clacking against concrete, the tails of the thick, black cloth scarf tied around his head trailing and bouncing about with each gust of wind like renegade strands of hair.

  He turned only when a single pair of headlights appeared, cutting the darkness and creeping closer through the rain. Casually, he put a thumb out.

  The car rolled past him but came to a stop a few feet away.

  He closed the gap with his same casual stride, opened the passenger-side door and watched the interior light bring the driver to life. A man, older salesman type, he thought, probably lonely.

  He leaned in, face dripping with rain. “Howdy.”

  “Evening,” the man said with a jovial yet guarded smile. “Not exactly the best night to be out walking, friend.”

  “Thus, my nifty hitchhiking pose.”

  “Where you headed?”

  “Land of milk and honey,” he said through a wide grin. “I hear it’s a gas.”

  “Sorry,” the man chuckled, “only going as far as New York this trip.”

  “Close enough.”

  The man sized him up a moment longer then nodded. “Hop in.”

  “Sweet.” Bedbug tossed his duffel over the seat into the back but kept the carry case close to his body as he slid inside and pulled the door closed.

  “Name’s Harris, Jim Harris.”

  “I’m the Bug.”

  He smiled again, shook his head then pulled back out onto the road. “I’m in sales, uh, Bug. Frozen foods, work with state institutions, prisons, hospitals, schools, like that.”

  “I’ve worked with a few state institutions myself.”

  “Is that so? What line are you in?”

  Bedbug’s hand gripped the carry case at his side, his fingers pressed against the canvas so he could feel the corner of the laptop inside. “Computers mostly.”

  “With all the competition these days, must be a tough racket.”

  He gripped it harder, as if to be certain it was still there. “Positively brutal, Jimbo.”

  The windshield wipers squeaked back and forth as rain pounded the roof and spattered against the windows. In the sky ahead of them, an enormous vein of lightning crackled through the night.

  “Hell of a storm out there,” Jim said.

  “Sure is.”

  “Maybe if we get lucky we can outrun it.”

  Face awash with eerie electric dashboard glow, Bedbug looked to the side mirror mounted just outside his window. Miles behind them, the lights of Boston blurred then slowly faded to black. “I wouldn’t count on it.”

  FORTY

  Like he had every morning since the tragic death of his wife Lindsay, Daniel Cicero got out of bed after a fitful few hours of sleep, showered, shaved and dressed in silence. He left the brownstone, and drove to the radio station as always, even though he no longer worked there. Later in the day, he would go by his friend Bryce’s store and make plans for the evening. Although socializing was about the furthest thing from his mind, a few hours out at a restaurant or even at his old friend’s apartment helped pass the time. Then he’d walk the city streets for hours. Finally, he’d return home and climb into bed, only a short while away from beginning the routine all over again.

  On this day, after leaving the radio station parking lot, Daniel decided to visit his sister and mother. It was a weekday, so Aimee would be in school and Michelle would be at work, leaving Jeannie alone with their mother. He knew his sister could use the company, and besides, it had been a while since he’d seen her or their mother. In a life where little mattered much to him anymore, it seemed as good a time as any to stop by.

  Jeannie answered the door looking a bit frazzled, but immediately smiled when she saw who it was. “Danny, hey,” she said, welcoming him in, “wasn’t expecting to see you today.”

  “I was out driving,” he said dully.

  “It’s good to see you.” She kissed his cheek. “Mom’s in the sunroom, go ahead in. I’ll put some coffee on.”

  They walked into the kitchen together then went their separate ways as Daniel veered off into the sunroom. Bright and cheery as always, full of plants and wicker furniture, the room was warm and welcoming, and the large windows offered their typical stunning view of the forest beyond the back yard.

  Frances sat in her usual plush chair, her stare fixed on the forest. The desktop computer in the corner was off, as was the portable stereo she normally had on, and enjoyed listening to. Jeannie and Michelle’s cat Ruben was asleep and curled up in her lap. Her frail hands rested gently atop him.

  Daniel lingered a moment. His poor mother, he thought, shrinking away and slowly dying in this otherwise beautiful room, with its false sense of security and bliss, so little of her remained now. “Hi, Mom,” he said. “How’re you feeling today?”

  Frances glanced at him with disinterest, her arthritically gnarled fingers stroking Ruben’s black fur.

  “Mom? It’s Danny.” He stood in front of her. “I’m just here for a quick visit. How are you?”

  Jeannie stepped into the room. “Say hi to Daniel, Mom. You remember your son Daniel. Can you say hello?”

  “That’s not my son,” she said, then addressed Daniel directly. “You’re not my son.”

  He felt a rush of sorrow. “It’s OK, I—”

  “You’re not my son. Not really. Not completely.” Her pale lips twitched into an odd, somewhat disturbing smile. “And you should be grateful for that.”

  Daniel turned and left the room.

  Moments later, Jeannie found him out on the front steps. “Are you OK?”

  “I’m never quite sure how to answer that anymore.”

  “I know it’s heartbreaking when she acts that way, but you know she doesn’t mean it.” Jeannie sat next to him. “Danny, she has no idea what she’s saying.”

  “Maybe she’s right,” he said. “Who knows for sure where one part of us ends and another begins? I’ve been walking around in a haze for months. I spend my days driving nowhere, my nights walking the city, and the times in between fighting off the darkest thoughts you can imagine. I’m not the same anymore, never will be. The person she knew as her son died when Lindsay did. He’s as gone as she is.”

  Jeannie rubbed his back. “I know these last few months have been hell for you, but it’ll get better. I promise you it will.”

  “I’ve got so much guilt, Jeannie.” He sighed. �
��I did things I shouldn’t have, things I’m ashamed of. I got caught up in something, it got away from me and I lost myself in the process.” His hands clutched either side of his skull in an effort to soften the storms in his head. “I don’t know how it all got so out of hand.”

  “Look, I don’t know what you did and I don’t want to know. It’s none of my business. But none of us are flawless, remember that. We all screw up, we all have skeletons in our closets we wish weren’t there. We’ve all got personal demons and ghosts that haunt us. The only thing I know for sure is that the key is forgiveness. Lindsay’s in a better place now, she’s beyond all this. Whatever you did, she’s already forgiven you. Now you have to work on forgiving yourself.”

  “What if I don’t deserve forgiveness?” He grimaced. “I have horrible nightmares. Flashes of demons and violence, horrific things like you’ve never seen. Sometimes it’s so real I even feel it when I’m awake, and I end up wondering if it’s all some bad dream or if I’m dying too. I don’t feel whole anymore. It’s like a part of my soul’s been ripped out.”

  Jeannie put her palm against her brother’s cheek and turned his face to hers. “It has.”

  “I’ve been sleepwalking for months while something else or some other part of me was being played out. And now I have no idea what any of it really was, no true experiences or memories, just these awful flashes of…something…I’m not sure what. It feels like it’s starting to fade, like maybe it’s all finally starting to leave me. But I can’t be sure of anything anymore.”

  “Maybe it’s time to try to wake up and rejoin the living.”

  “How do you do that when all you feel is dead inside?”

  “You’ll always miss her, Danny. Always. You’ll never completely heal.”

  “You think I don’t know that?”