by Sara Reinke
His voice cut short as Sam slapped him in the face with enough raw, angry force to snap his cheek toward his opposing shoulder, leaving a hot, stinging red patch spanning from his temple to his jaw. He gasped in surprise, drawing his hand to his aching cheek, his eyes wide.
“Get out,” Sam said, her voice trembling angrily.
“What?” Jason stared at her, wounded and confused.
“Get out of my apartment,” Sam said. “I hope to God you don’t believe one word of what you just told me, because if you do, you need some serious help. You’re on drugs or you’ve lost your mind, suffered brain damage, something. Whatever the reason, you’re scaring me. Today was a horrible mistake and I want you to go.”
He didn’t know which hurt him the most, when she said I want you to go or today was a horrible mistake.
She grabbed the leash off a nearby box top and caught Barton by the collar, clipping it into place. “Bear’s going to be getting off work, here in another hour. He can help you find a place, a halfway house maybe or a shelter. I don’t know. I don’t care. But you can’t stay here.”
“Sam, please,” Jason said as she opened the apartment door. “Please don’t do this.”
She stared at him, her expression unreadable, her hand firmly closed about the loop of the leash. Without another word, she turned and left the apartment, jerking the dog in tow and slamming the door behind her.
****
Left alone and to his own devices, Jason polished off the rest of the champagne. It was a large bottle, 1.5 liters, and by the time it was empty, the last drop drained, Jason was staggering, slurring, dizzy drunk.
She doesn’t believe me, he thought in dismay, tripping over boxes and floundering into walls as he stumbled down the corridor to the bedroom. He had to laugh, because if he didn’t, he’d burst into tears like a girl stood up for the prom. Can’t really blame her for that. Shit, I don’t believe it myself.
“Brain damage,” he muttered, Sam’s words echoing in his mind.
You’re on drugs or you’ve lost your mind, suffered brain damage, something.
“That’s it,” he said, although thanks to the alcohol, this came out as Thassss it. “Just like Bear said. My brain’s been turned into hamburger.”
Once across the bedroom threshold, he stumbled headlong into more boxes, sending them crashing to the floor, their contents spilling. Jason fell with them, toppling to his knees, gritting his teeth against a sharp cry as he caught himself on his hands, sending pain spearing through his injured shoulder.
He heard the tinkling of glass breaking as the box hit the floor and, still wincing, he reached for the nearest newspaper-wrapped bundle that had fallen out. He could tell by the feel of the contents that it was a framed photograph. Holding it gingerly, swaying back and forth like some kind of cartoon snake-charming swami, he peeled back the taped edge of newspaper.
There is no us, she’d told him, and here was his proof, plain and irrefutable—a photograph of Sam and Dean. That died five years ago with you.
She was riding on Dean’s back piggyback-style, her arms coiled around his neck, his hands hooked beneath her knees, keeping her perched aloft. Both of them were laughing together on the beach near the surf, with the unmistakable wharf of Holiday Island in the background.
Good old Dean, everything I wasn’t…everything I’m not. Rich, educated, successful, he thought as he stared down at the picture. His thumb settled against a sliver of glass from the splinter frame, pressing hard enough against it to break the skin. He didn’t feel it, but when he swept his thumb against the surface of the picture, as if hoping to clear away some illusion or mistake, he left a discernablediscernible smear of bright red blood.
How long was I gone before you let him take my place, Sam? Was it that easy to forget about me? What happened to crying at least once a week over me? The five years of sleepless nights?
“It sure doesn’t look like you’ve lost any sleep here,” he said and then, with a hoarse, angry, anguished cry, he hurled the photograph across the room. It smashed into the far wall, glass and frame shattering.
Jason grabbed the next paper-bound package and found another picture of Sam and Dean. In it, the two of them stood by a Christmas tree, arm in arm, but to Jason’s heart, it may as well have been a live broadcast of the two of them making love, of Dean pounding away while Sam clawed at his back, writhing as she came.
“Goddamn it,” he yelled, sending this picture crashing into the wall too. Then the next one, and the next, and now he staggered to his feet and began digging through the boxes, finding more and more pictures, sending all of them in rapid-fire and furious succession careening across the room. “You stole my life,” he screamed at Dean’s photos. “You stole my goddamn life!”
He crumpled to his knees. “You son of a bitch,” he whispered, clapping his hand over his face, mindless of the dozens of thin, shallow cuts along his fingers and palm. He shuddered, then began to cry. “You stole my life.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Jason felt hands pawing lightly against him, patting his pockets, traveling from his chest to his hips and from there to his ass, drawing him from a deep, dreamless sleep.
“Get back.” He reached for the gun tucked at the small of his back, hidden beneath the overlapping edges of shirt, sweater and coat he’d stolen from Dean’s closet. His voice was a croak, his breath frosted and luminescent in the moonlight as he jerked the Beretta loose and leveled it at whoever was trying to pick his pockets.
“Take it easy.” Soft footsteps skittered in the damp sand and loose gravel as the person scrambled back. Shortly after smashing Sam’s photographs, Jason had left the apartment. He’d taken a small duffel bag with him, stuffed with Dean’s clothes, the box of doughnuts from Sam’s kitchen, and a bottle of chardonnay he’d found in Sam’s refrigerator. He’d wandered the streets restlessly, aimlessly, until long after nightfall, and then he’d taken refuge beneath one of the north piers along the waterfront. The roar of the surf was loud, the cold, metallic stink of the saltwater omnipresent, and the chill in the air was amplified a thousandfold along the lip of the sea. Here, beneath the towering latticework of lumber and steel, flanked by barnacle-encrusted pilings, he’d found a place where the water had receded for the night and he could hunker down, swallow about half the bottle of wine, then sleep.
Others had sought sanctuary here too. Dozens of the city’s derelict population stood gathered together in loose-knit clusters. Some passed pipes, needles or bottles around, others huddled in close quarters for warmth, while others still had built small lean-tos or other shelters out of blankets and cardboard boxes. A select few had built fires out of driftwood or trash, and against this dim and somewhat distant backdrop of glow, the person who had approached him was little more than silhouette. Between the slim build, the soft touch and the sound of the voice, he judged it to be a girl.
“I thought you were dead,” she said. “I was just checking to be sure.”
“Well, I’m not,” he growled, not lowering the gun. He was still mostly drunk and besides that, he was cold, and his aim wavered clumsily, along with his vision. Struggling to draw aim on what now appeared to be a quartet of shadows, he said, “Go on. Get out of here.”
“Man,” said the girl with a laugh. “You’re pretty fucked up, aren’t you? You got any more?”
“More what?”
She stepped closer to him, then folded her legs beneath her, squatting into his line of sight. In the fluttering orange glow of the nearest campfire, he saw her face swim murkily in and out of focus. She was young, of Asian descent, with the left side of her hair dyed a pale shade of blond and the right left its natural, dark hue.
“Whatever you’re on,” she said. “Come on. Can you help me or not?”
“No.” He shook his head, lowering the gun, because there was no point in trying to keep it pointed at the three or four mirror images of her that kept fading in and out of his view.
“Maybe”—the tip
of her tongue cut a coquettish swipe along her bottom lip—“we could work out a trade or something.”
“No, thanks.” He lay down again, drawing his knees toward his chest and curling into a ball on his side. Resting his cheek against his elbow, folding one arm beneath his head, he kept the gun in his other hand and within plain sight, immediately in front of his face. He closed his eyes and waited for her to leave him alone.
“Suit yourself.” He heard her clothes rustle as she stood. “But you know, you should be careful camping out on your own.” The sand crunched softly beneath her feet as she walked away. “People disappear from around here all the time.”
“Yeah, right.”
“I’m serious. See that fire right over there?”
He opened one eye, followed the guiding line of her outstretched arm, making out a blurry but discernablediscernible smear of yellow light farther along down the wharf.
“That’s mine. Me and some of my friends. There’s safety in numbers. You can come sit with us.”
“I don’t need you. Or your friends. I’ve got a gun.” He raised his head, propping himself somewhat upright on his elbow and wincing as pain shuddered through his injured shoulder. This last, he said loud enough not only for the girl to hear but anyone else who might be within earshot.
She paused, turning around. She’d stuffed her hands into the deep pockets of her quilted parka and although she remained silhouetted, her breath hung in the air around her head in a pale, glowing halo of frost.
“Yeah? How many fingers am I holding up?” Her hand emerged from her pocket…or, from Jason’s viewpoint, three hands emerged. When she held up her fingers, all he saw was her bobbing back and forth erratically, her and the identical triplets sprouting out of her. She laughed when he didn’t answer her, then turned, tromping off again, the cleats of her heavily soled boots digging deep into the sand. “Good luck with that,” she called. “You got a nice face too. What a shame.”
Goddamn it, he thought, hanging his head and shoving his hair back from his brow. He looked around blearily, but all he could see were more silhouettes, all keeping their distances, minding their own business to his admittedly dazed observation. When his gaze settled on a group of shadows nearby, young men talking together in hushed undertones, he squinted, trying to decide if they were watching him, listening to him, targeting him or not.
“Wait,” he said to the girl, and this time, when he sat up, the pain from his shoulder stripped the breath from him. He gasped, doubling momentarily, his hand darting instinctively for the wound. The ibuprofen he’d swallowed earlier had long since worn off, and he’d been too drunk to think to take any more when he’d left the apartment, never mind the prescription narcotics Dean had brought him. All that stood between him and a world of hurt at the moment was a diaphanous layer of alcohol-induced numbness.
The girl turned again, folding her arms across her chest.
“What do you want?” he asked.
He watched as she shrugged. “What’ve you got?”
“Wine,” he said. “Half a bottle.”
“Any food?”
He nodded. “Chocolate doughnuts.”
She walked back to him and leaned down, extending her hand to him. “I’m Mei.”
Wary, he accepted the proffered shake. “Jason.”
Mei smiled, helping him stumble to his feet. “I think this is the start of a beautiful friendship.”
****
As the son of a bar owner who had subsequently owned this same bar, Jason had years of firsthand experience witnessing the effects of alcohol on human behavior. Thus, he seldom if ever drank. Thus, when he woke the next morning, with the incoming tide sending waves burbling close enough to his face to pepper his cheeks and mouth with fine droplets of salt-flavored spray, he squinted against the pale gray glow of dawn and dragged in a sharp, hissing breath as his skull immediately throbbed in nauseating, pulsating protest.
“God,” he groaned. He lay on his belly in the cold, wet sand. The damp chill had seeped through the denim of his jeans, the overlapping layers of shirt, sweater and coat, and he shivered.
What happened to me? he thought, opening his eyes a dazed and cautious half-mast again, watching as a thin, frothy line of water came rolling toward him from the sea, stopping within a few inches of his nose. He pushed his hands into the sand and forced himself to sit up, grimacing again as what felt like a hammer pounded against the inside of his head. Closing his eyes, he waited for the pain to pass, and with it, the wave of vertigo, the urge to vomit.
“How are you feeling?” he heard the girl, Mei, ask.
“Like warmed-over shit,” he croaked in reply.
“I’m not surprised,” she said. “You were seriously fucked up last night.”
Jason opened his eyes and turned his head slightly to find her beside him. Dressed in ankle-high boots and black jeans with a hot-pink long-sleeved T-shirt beneath her parka, she sat with her ass against his duffel bag, her elbows resting comfortably on her knees. A cigarette smoldered between her fingertips. As he watched, she drew it to her rosebud-shaped mouth and took a long drag.
Beyond her, the beach beneath the pier, which the night before had been crowded with people seeking shelter, was relatively deserted. He saw the blackened remnants of dead campfires, scattered garbage and the occasional huddled form of someone still curled up and sleeping near the pilings.
“You going to puke?” Mei asked.
He shook his head, closing his eyes against another wave of nausea that wanted to contradict this assertion. When she slipped her arm around him, squatting next to him in the sand, he looked up at her. “Come on,” she said, the cigarette butt tucked between her teeth. “Let’s get you on your feet.”
She helped him stumble upright, but as soon as he was standing, his stomach did a lazy little somersault. With a gulp, he jerked away from Mei and staggered to the water’s edge, where upon he promptly doubled over and threw up into the encroaching sea foam.
“God,” he groaned when he was finished, shaking like a leaf caught in the wind, spitting loudly, violently, to dislodge a thin strand of thick, puke-flavored saliva dangling from his bottom lip.
“You finished?” Mei asked.
He nodded. “I…I think so.”
“I’ve got some toothpaste,” she said. “Some soap and stuff. You can clean yourself up.”
He spat another thick bolus of chardonnay-flavored phlegm into the sand. “Thanks.”
She wrapped her arm about his waist again and he leaned heavily against her as they trudged slowly together back up the beach. When they reached the steeply pitched dunes leading up from the waterfront, she stopped at a small series of outbuildings, banks of exterior lockers available for rent, along with restroom facilities for swimmers and surfers.
“Hold on.” Mei led him among the rows of lockers, stopping and squatting in front of one. She reached beneath the collar of her shirt and pulled out a brass key hanging from black yarn. “You can put your bag in here if you want,” she said, sifting through the locker’s contents and producing an oversized ziplock bag. In it, he could see an assortment of small plastic shampoo and lotion bottles, bars and ovals of pink and cream-colored soaps, disposable razors and toothpaste tubes. The bottles were all labeled with hotel insignias and logos, Best Western, Holiday Inn, the Marriott, and as she passed him the bag, Jason looked at her, puzzled and curious.
“They’re all still good,” Mei said, bristling somewhat defensively. “They just throw them away if they’ve been opened. Their Dumpsters are full of them.”
He followed her to one of the restroom buildings. “I’ll stand out here and watch for cops,” she told him. “They’ll be coming around soon now that the sun’s coming up, to chase off any stragglers. Might scare the tourists, you know.” She dropped him a wink.
“Why are you being so nice to me?” he asked, frowning.
She shrugged. “I don’t know. Like I said last night, you’ve got a nice face.”<
br />
He ducked into the bathroom and listened to her humming from the other side of the heavy steel door. She’d pulled an MP3 player out of her coat pocket, slipping earphones in and lighting up another cigarette. He could smell the smoke creeping in beneath the door.
I don’t need this, he thought, limping over to the sink. He’d already made his mind up that he would go to Seattle. If he couldn’t find a way to make the Eidolon bring him there again, like it had yesterday, he’d hitch a ride. Something, he thought. Anything.
He’d been in Seattle when Nemamiah had stabbed him. It stood to reason he’d spent at least part of the last five years there. More importantly, it stood to reason that Nemamiah was still there somewhere. Maybe he can help me fill in some of these blanks in my head, Jason thought, splashing ice-cold water on his face, dousing away some of the hungover cobwebs from his mind. If he doesn’t try to kill me again, that is.
The marks on his face, the bruises and abrasions he’d seen only the day before, evidence of his brawl with Nemamiah, had vanished, just like the dog bites in his arm. But as he stripped off his sweater and T-shirt, gasping at the sudden, shocking pain, he knew that the stab wound was still very much there. In fact, from the feel of things, it had gotten even worse. He stumbled backward into a trash bin. When it crashed to the floor, he tripped and fell with it. Reacting instinctively, he caught himself with his hands, sending crippling new agony searing through the entire right side of his body. Jason cried out hoarsely, clutching at his shoulder, crumpled against the floor.
“Hey.” Mei knocked. “You okay in there?”