The Leftovers of a Life

by Anna Oney

  It was snowing. The ground beneath her was frozen, stinging her paws. She was chasing a buck, strides ahead of her. The deer took a sharp turn to the right, choosing to run along the edge of the iced over creek.

  Meanwhile, Stella began kicking the man next to her during her sleep. Woken by the pressure in his side, the man shoved her to wake, but she wouldn't budge.

  During the endless pursuit, Stella's paw caught the edge of the frozen water. Losing balance, all four of Stella's legs were swept out from under her. Her form slid effortlessly across the ice, allowing the deer to escape her wrath.

  Lying immobile, Stella heard her master's call. Kneeling on the opposite side of the creek, Emma was reaching for her.

  "Hold on, Stella," she said. "Don't move."

  But no matter how far Emma stretched, there was no retrieving the dog. Locking eyes with her owner, Stella whimpered, but the sound of breaking ice drowned out her cries.

  The buck had reappeared. Together, they watched as the animal balanced himself on his hind legs and then pound his hooves against the iced-over creek, exacting his revenge.

  "Stella!" Emma screamed. "Crawl to me!"

  "Wake up!" the man next to Stella on the couch commanded. "Dog, wake up!"

  The moment Stella chose to move proved to be too late as the ice beneath her opened up. Stella's paws clung to the ice still intact, but she continued to sink as though she was weighed down. The bitterly cold water claimed its victory as it swallowed her whole.

  Through the slits in her eyes, Stella witnessed Emma jumping in after her. In the space between her master's reaching arms, Stella's eyes lingered on a man standing on the hill adjacent to them. Alone, he stood at the top of the hill, until Stella heard the muffled barks of a dog striding toward its master. Reunited at last, the man held out his arms and welcomed his dog home.

  As the man and dog embraced, the remaining ice sank in on Stella and Emma, and they were buried beneath an icy grave. As the two souls seemed to reconnect above, the girls were lost forever, frozen together in total darkness.

  "Stella!" the man screamed, pushing her from the couch. "Scoot over!"

  Stella woke, but was hysterical. Nothing he did could calm her. His efforts only added to Stella's confusion. Using a softer tone, he seemed to try and sooth her, but he still couldn't get through.

  "Be quiet, now," he pleaded, covering his ears. "Shut up! Shut up! Be quiet!"

  As he reached out to touch her, she took his move as a threat and bit his hand. Once he saw the blood, he took on the role of the hysterical one. The man screamed and brought the heel of his boot down on Stella's side. The blow's force knocked Stella to the floor.

  Pulling a pistol from his side, the man fired at the floorboards, only inches away from Stella's snout. Petrified, the pit bull kept her eyes glued to the source of the loud bangs. It wasn't until he'd emptied the chamber and stopped to reload that Stella escaped the exact way the man had welcomed her in.

  Exiting through the living room, Stella sprinted through the kitchen and launched her body through the bottom of the screen door to freedom: the woods.

  Chapter 30:

  Emma

  Emma didn't waste another minute getting back to her journey after falling into the depths of the cool water. The walk was tiresome and long, but she knew there were only a couple more miles left to go. Along the way, she prayed Pete would still be alive—and would be a welcoming host. Remembering he'd once considered Griffin and her as his kin helped Emma keep that hope alive.

  Thinking back on the days he'd accompanied Emma and Doolie on many of their fishing trips brought warmth to her heart. Knowing he had no friends to speak of, the Clerys had invited Pete to every family gathering they held. They'd adopted Pete as one of their own. A friend to be cherished, a friend the Clerys knew had made mistakes with his own family, but as a family, they forgave all of his past errors.

  Stuck on memories of the past, Emma nearly passed the back of his house. Pete's familiar, fully screened back porch came into view as she slowly approached. Emma arrived at the bottom of the steps, and a gaping hole ripped through the bottom of the screen door held her attention.

  From the porch, the house looked abandoned and looted. Shutters were open, and windows blown out. The swing to the right hung from one chain, and its brown cushions had been cast to the side. Looking more closely, Emma noticed white hairs embroidered into the cushions—hairs the length of Stella's. They were the same stubborn hairs she'd never been able to vacuum from the furniture.

  There were no sounds of movements except for her steps upon the floorboards. As Emma knocked on the door, nothing. No stirs came from inside. Not even an annoyed "Who is it?" was asked.

  Pressing her ear to the door, she knocked, and whispered, "Pete, it's Emma." Hearing nothing, she began turning the knob. Peeking through the door, she saw that the inside had been completely turned upside down.

  The kitchen was a complete mess and empty of warm bodies. Curtains had been ripped from their bashed windows. Pots and pans lay turned over on the counters and floor. A large sack of flour had been ripped open, showering the linoleum with the white substance. Plates and drinking glasses lay broken over the countertops, and some of the glass shards had spilled onto the floor.

  The most quizzical thing about the scene was the small foldout table that had been left standing in the middle of the kitchen. The white tablecloth was still intact, without a single smudge on it. Whoever had busted up the place, if they had only moved the table, they would have found the entrance to Pete's cellar.

  Believing Pete to be either dead or far gone, Emma flipped the table, failing to see the trap laid before her. She was slow in making a move as a cast-iron skillet, hanging by a rope from the far corner connected to one of the legs of the table, cascaded down upon her skull.

  Emma sat in the middle of a trail leading to Back Wood's barrier. Tall trees stood on either side of her. Faceless people began sprinting past her. They were blurred, but soon the weapons they carried were clearly revealed.

  Screams of terrorized people erupted in the distance, shrieks of pain and anguish. Breathing heavily, Emma felt as though her heart was beating its way from her chest. As she looked to the sky, dark clouds began to form. Emma exhaled just as the first drop of rain landed upon her heated forehead.

  While she savored the sensation of the cool drops, a familiar voice whispered from above, "The key to survivin' in this world is never hesitatin'."

  Emma was jarred awake by someone spitting at her face. Whatever it was, the liquid stung Emma's pores, and with her lightheadedness, the smell was enough to make her gag. It was the scent of Pete and her father's favorite indulgence: whiskey. When Emma opened her eyes, she was discouraged to see the revolver being kicked from her grasp. A blurry mass of an unrecognizable man stood over her, clutching at a bottle in his left hand and her revolver in his right.

  Cocking the weapon, he prepared to shoot when Emma's vision was completely restored.

  "Pete?" Running her fingers along the bump on her head, she asked, "What are you doing?"

  "This place is mine!" he shouted. "Mine! You came to take what belongs to me!"

  "No, no, I haven't. It's me, Emma. I'm your friend."

  The consequences of what she said were not called for and certainly not expected. Pete backhanded her across the face, and her skull banged against the slick surface of the refrigerator.

  "You know me!" she screamed, wincing at the sharp pains forming in her head.

  "I don't! I don't know you!" he shouted. "You're a thief! You're a murderer!" He grabbed Emma up by her shirt. "You killed those people!"

  "No, I'm not. Pete, please. What you're seeing now isn't real. You know me!" Face-to-face with him, Emma could tell Pete's eyes were clouded by a massive amount of confusion.

  Shoving the barrel into her stomach, Pete eased the cool steel of the revolver into her gut. With every inch of her being, Emma sensed his intent to pull the trigger. Pete didn't
see his best friend's daughter standing before him; he saw an enemy.

  "Make your order, Sergeant. Make your order! Go ahead!"

  As soon as he said the words, Emma knew whom he believed her to be. Pete had told them a story of how his sergeant had given an order to take out a Vietnamese village of elderly men and women. Pete had said it didn't faze the man seeing children running around playing. They'd been innocent, but the commander of his platoon had not been. The day the sergeant had given this order, Pete had threatened him just the way he was threatening her now.

  "Get on your knees!"

  Doing as he commanded, Emma slid down and leaned against the refrigerator. Locking eyes with his, she knew Pete was battling with the demons of his past, and they were about to claim their victory.

  "Pete," she pleaded. "Don't do this."

  He blinked wildly, glanced over his shoulder, and said, "You'll just keep killing if I don't."

  It was then that Emma felt the sharp edge of the spear tip digging into her thigh. Pete turned, providing her with the opportune moment to pull the tip from her pocket. She realized then that the outcome of the story he'd told them wasn't true. Pete had never let him go; he'd killed the man.

  "You won't be hurting anyone else," he said. "You'll just disappear."

  Remembering Tom's teachings—"The femoral artery, Emma, located near the inner thigh"—she stabbed Pete deep in the artery next to his groin. Blood oozed from his wound, staining her fingers. The pain seemed to catch Pete off guard, forcing him to turn his attention toward his wounded leg rather than Emma. As she extracted the tip from his flesh, blood spurted out, spraying the front of her shirt. She watched the gun sway back and forth as he tried covering the gash and then slipped on his own blood wetting the floor. As Pete collapsed to the linoleum, Emma snatched the revolver from his grasp. With Pete flat on his back Emma stood up and aimed at his chest.

  "Em- Emma?" He gurgled.

  Looking at him now, Emma saw the old friend she knew so well had finally returned to her but was still confused. On her knees, Emma slung the bow drill from her shoulder and removed the fabric from the stick. Looping the material above the stab wound, Emma was able to construct a tourniquet.

  "Did . . . did I hurtcha? Sweetheart?"

  As he rested his head upon her thighs, Emma stroked his face, and whispered, "No, you didn't. I'm fine, don't worry."

  "But your face?"

  "This is just the way my face looks sometimes." She shrugged, attempting to keep Pete's thoughts from possibly having harmed someone he loved. "Maybe I can take it back," she said, beginning to cry. "Stitch it up. Maybe there's a way I can save you."

  "Nah," he said, "I . . . I think it's about time I called it quits. Ti . . . time for me to just be gone."

  "But, but," she stammered. "We promised we'd take you home."

  "I'll be going home soon, my dear," he said, squeezing her hand. "Go ahead and let it be."

  "I love you, Pete," she whispered, kissing his forehead.

  "Love you, too."

  Loosening the tourniquet, Emma watched as more of her friend's blood was spilled. Shortly afterward, Pete's eyelids grew heavy and his breathing faltered. Just before his eyes glazed over, Pete whispered, "Is . . . is that my boy at the door?"

  Looking in the direction his trembling hand was pointing, Emma discovered her friend was experiencing yet another hallucination. But who was she to say that what he was seeing wasn't real? So instead of shutting down his dreams, she replied, "Yes, it is. He's come to take you home." Emma's response brought a deeply impacting smile to the edges of his mouth. Pete took his last breath in her arms, dying less than three minutes after she'd attacked him.

  Staring at her bloodstained hands, Emma scooted away from his body and whispered, "I'm sorry." Tears began streaming down her cheeks as a rattled scream of grief escaped from her lips. "I'm sorry! I'm so sorry!"

  Body trembling, tears flowing, Emma covered Pete's body with the white tablecloth. Blood soaked through the material as soon as it was strewn over him. The markings of Stella's paws and the Native's feet imprinted in the blood around his body. Thou shall not kill, Emma thought. Thou shall not kill. Remembering Reed's words—"You can't justify killin' in the Lord's eyes, but you can in your own and ask forgiveness for it later"—kept her spirit positive that maybe one day she could be forgiven.

  A cold bitterness swooshed over her, forcing her from the kitchen into the living room. The stench was unbearable. The funk of body odor and piss had Emma hunched over, gagging. "Damn, Pete." She coughed, striding toward the nearest window. "That's stout."

  As she breathed in the fresh air, a sudden gust of wind whipped through the trees and glided through her hair. Prying the stubborn hairs from her face, Emma turned her attention back to the situation at hand.

  Pete had perished on the entrance to the cellar. If she was going to replenish her supplies, Emma would have to move the corpse. She took a firm grip of his feet, and shoved his remains over the pool of blood and away from the trapdoor. The blood assisted her greatly in the dragging process. During the endeavor, she managed to soak him with the gooey muck. At first, Pete was literally dead weight, but his doused clothes and the slippery floor proved most helpful.

  "Sorry, Pete." She grunted, dragging his body so it wouldn't block the door. With a loud thump, Emma dropped his legs to the black-and-white checkered linoleum.

  As Emma brought her hand to the latch, she was disheartened by the heavy-duty lock in her way. Key, key, where are you, key! she thought. Opening the latch would be easy if she had bullets to spare, but she unfortunately did not. Shit.

  Emma assumed that because of the stormy clouds of Pete's paranoia, he must have hidden the key well. First, she went through his pockets, coming up with a couple of matches, a sliver of wintergreen gum, and a Swiss army knife. All of these were useful, so it wasn't a complete loss.

  Emma remembered the odd places Doolie had hid some of his belongings in the past, and searched the refrigerator next, and found two old bottles of mustard and ketchup. Besides a few crumbs sprinkled here and there, along with some mice droppings, the cabinets were empty.

  Exiting the kitchen, she stepped inside the foul living room. Removing the cushions from the couch, Emma found more of Stella's familiar hairs, but instead of discovering what she was after, she found quarters, nickels, and dimes mixed with lint and accompanied by a few bobbypins undoubtedly once owned by Pete's ex-wife, Emily. Somehow in the past, whenever Emma lost a key, she would end up finding it under the couch cushions, but sadly, that wasn't the case today.

  Sprinting past the family photo and up the adjacent stairs, Emma ran into a large amount of broken glass from a shattered gold-trimmed mirror hanging in the hall. The reflective shards of glass caused her to catch a glimpse of her face as she carefully tiptoed over them. Entering the bathroom, she saw that the mirror above the sink had been busted as well. The stock of a hammer was leaning against one of the handles of the curved silver faucet. As she fetched the hammer, Emma realized why Pete had smashed the mirrors: He couldn't stomach the vision of his own reflection, and at that particular moment, she shared the sentiment.

  A wave of sadness clouded her thoughts as she exited the bathroom.

  "It was self-defense," Emma said, trying to convince herself. "Self-defense."

  Hammer in hand, she cleared the stairs and pushed through the stench of the living room when she heard an animal's soft cries coming from the kitchen.

  Foolishly, Emma had left the revolver and spear tip lying next to Pete's body. Raising the hammer to strike, she entered the kitchen, where a rather large, brown, shaggy dog sat on a pool of blood. The dog had a white patch covering his left eye and a jagged scar adorning his right.

  "Hey, dog," she whispered, taking a cautious step forward. "Where'd you come from, buddy?" In response, the dog titled its head, and whimpered softly. As she knelt beside him, she set down the hammer and scratched behind his massive ears. "You sure are a handsome
feller, ain'tcha, boy?" He began responding to Emma's touch by licking her palms and nudging her hand with his snout. "You see? I knew you'd come around."

  Holding on to the warmth of his body, Emma closed her eyes and ran her fingers through the thickness of his brown coat. As she did, she was reminded of how much she missed Stella. Opening her eyes, Emma saw that the shaggy hair she'd been stroking had transformed into trimmed, white fur. She couldn't fully believe what was happening until a red collar appeared around the animal's neck.

  "Stella!" Emma exclaimed, squeezing her tightly. Gently, Stella brushed her nose against Emma's swollen cheeks and nibbled at her chin. Embracing her, Emma cried, "I know you want to bite me, but you lick me instead! I'm so sorry. I thought you were dead."

  By the grace of God, Stella had been returned to her unharmed.

  "Thank you, Lord!" Emma cried. "Thank you."

  Besides her curiosity with the dead fellow lying next to her, Stella gawked at her master, confused as Emma began pounding on the lock with the hammer. The racket was continuous: bang, ting, tink, bang, bang. A sharp pain shot through Emma's head with every contact that was made.

  Hammering away, Emma was plagued by the violent vision of the spear tip tearing into Pete's flesh replaying itself over and over again in her mind. The alcohol stinging her wounds, her swollen cheek from where Pete had slapped her—everything that had happened didn't matter. To Emma, it came down to one thought: I just killed a person I was supposed to save.

  Impatient, she took the claw of the hammer, jammed it between the loop and the lock itself, and pulled upward, managing to break the stubborn mechanism. After tearing the lock's remains from the latch, she patted Stella's head and rose to meet the soon-to-be massive hole in the floor.

  "Okay," she said, lifting the latch to flip open the trapdoor. "Let's go see what there is to find, shall we?"