Chimera

by Stephie Walls

  “Nah, I’m good. I have to drive home. You need to go easy on that shit.”

  Ignoring his comment, I find the vodka first, taking a shot while pouring myself a mixed drink; well, it’s mixed if you consider ice. The first swig stings as it slides down my throat to my empty stomach but quickly warms it’s path through my body. I’ll take it easy. I just need a little something to ease the pain. Anything to take the edge off, numb my senses, and hopefully stop the whirlwind in my mind.

  Nate watches me nurse my drink for over an hour, seemingly satisfied I’m not going to drink myself into oblivion. He is the only person I’ve ever known I could sit in comfortable silence with, no need to fill the void with ramblings.

  “You need me to stay tonight?” He’s cleaning up the shit he has all over my coffee table and throwing it in trash. My mind wanders to how easily we as humans discard things, including lives. “I’ll sleep on the couch if you want me to.”

  “Huh?” It dawns on me he was talking to me but I only half heard what he was saying. “Oh, no. I’ll be fine. Go home.”

  “I really don’t mind. I’m not trying to be all sappy but I’d rather know you’re safe and have a sore back tomorrow from sleeping on your couch.”

  “Bye, Nate.”

  When he leaves, I grab the bottle from the kitchen, in need of The Seraphim’s company. Kissing her on the forehead as if she’s mine to protect. I plop down on the side of the bed laughing at the irony. I couldn’t help the real thing so I’ll preserve the stone likeness.

  Jesus, I’m a fucking moron.

  Real genius there, Bastian.

  Reaching over to the nightstand I fill the room with Sylvie’s voice, listening to her throaty melodies that never get old. Lying back, I take the bottle with me, nursing it, remembering the two women I loved most. With one’s voice in my ear and the other’s face in my sight, I drift.

  The clear liquid ignites my memories in slow motion but I’m unable to distinguish between those with Sylvie versus Sera. I should know, but I don’t. Maybe I don’t want to. If I morph them into one, the despair and heartache won’t multiply but, rather, divide. My mind starts to lay the images of one on top of the other, making it more difficult to differentiate between them, her voice and her hands combined. The best parts of them both fill my mind and for just a moment, I form a smile, albeit a small one. I’m remembering their laughs, their wit, their grace, who they each were but so similar. Being able to hear her and see her, even if it’s a recording and a piece of rock, makes me believe they’re with me, here.

  I push repeat on the CD when the music stops flowing, and I’ve found an uplight for The Seraphim to keep her silhouette lit but the room dark. With no outside distractions, it’s easier to imagine them here with me. The rest of the house is silent. There’s no moonlight streaming through the windows on this cloudy night. It’s just Sylvie, Sera, and me. I feel a little naughty at the thought of my glorious threesome but the intimacy is encased here. I won’t allow anyone violate it.

  I recognize I’m teetering on the edge of reality when I begin talking to the statue, telling her I would have protected her. With slurred words I commit to her, vowing my love, love I never had the courage to share with her. “Did you know?” Her response never comes. “I tried to save you,” I croak through choked sobs. “The water was fucking frigid. It was dark but I kept looking until I found you.”

  She never moves, never answers.

  Stone cold.

  She stares back at me as if she’s waiting for something more profound. I have nothing left to offer as Sylvie sings in the background about a tormented soul ripped apart by the loss of love. Her music used to bring joy to my heart, but now I wonder if I ever actually listened to the lyrics or acknowledged what she was singing about. Each song that comes through the speakers reverberates sadness, one I wasn’t aware she felt. I doubt I ever heard the words, only her voice, it always made me proud. I’m now a blubbering mess, a shell of the man I was seven or eight years ago before cancer came into our lives.

  With sun peeking through the blinds, I see the fatigue in Sera’s face and hear how tired Sylvie is from serenading me all night. I close the blinds, and turn off the light and the CD player, allowing them to rest. Tiptoeing from the room, I close the door softly behind me. Flipping the light on in the bathroom the walls begin to spin as the floor falls out from underneath me. Hitting my head on the counter I almost blackout before heaving into the toilet. The stench is wretched but I can’t decipher if it’s me or the alcohol mixed with stomach acid that’s so putrid—not that it matters. Still naked, vodka bottle on the floor by the loo, my body crashes to the floor. My flaccid penis rests on my leg. “You piece of shit. Stand up!” I yell at it. “Why the fuck are you just lying there?” Grabbing it with my hand, I pull on it, yanking it, attempting to stroke it to attention, but the motherfucker doesn’t even twitch. It’s as limp and lifeless as Sera’s body was on the bank of the river.

  “Are you quitting on me, too?” Screaming, I’m afraid I might wake up my sleeping girls in the other room. I slap it, repeatedly angered when it comes flying back to the same position, flaccid and unmoving. My soft cock a metaphor for my pathetic life. The reflection of light off my razor catches my eye; I reach for it to cut off the cancer between my legs. Unable to stabilize myself, I stumble back to the tile floor, cold and unyielding. My head jerks back in response slamming against the tile before the blade ever meets my skin.

  The pounding isn’t just in my head; it’s at my front door. Dragging myself off the floor of the bathroom, the smell of vomit and urine overtake my senses. I don’t bother looking in the mirror before I answer.

  “Goddamn it, Bastian. I knew I shouldn’t have fucking left you alone last night. What the hell have you been doing?” His face is beet red and marred with anger.

  Ignoring him, I turn away from the door. “For Christ’s sake put on some fucking clothes. You look and smell like shit. I sure don’t need to see your junk too.”

  Giving him the bird, I grab my robe from the bathroom but it’s not in any better shape than I am. Not caring, I take a seat on the couch next to my lifelong friend, meaning Nate, not the vodka.

  “You’ve gotta pull your shit together. You can’t go down this road again.” I don’t acknowledge anything he says. What’s the point? He’ll never close his eyes and see a dead woman or hear a song on the radio that tortures his spirit. “Who did you hang with last night? Jose, Jim, Jack?”

  Glaring at his sarcastic shit, I say, “A fat Russian.”

  “How much is left of that half you had in the kitchen?”

  “Fuck if I know, Nate. Would you like the bottle? I wasn’t counting shots.”

  “What I would like is for you to get your head out of your ass and realize you have a life worth living, a career people would kill for, and people who care about you.”

  “Reality check, good buddy. You are my only friend. I haven’t talked to my parents in years, both women I loved left me, and Ferry was the only other thing close to a friend but I’m pretty sure jail time is going to sever that tie. Can we not talk quite so loudly?”

  Running his fingers through his hair, he seems to acquiesce. “Head hurt?”

  “Like hell but I don’t want to wake them up.” As soon as it was out I knew what I had done.

  “Who?”

  “Never mind. I misspoke.” Resting my head on the back of the couch, I pray death finds me in the near future or I can get back to my fat Russian friend before Nate finds him. The Russian and Jose don’t mix well but maybe that doesn’t apply to separate days. Hell, I don’t know.

  “Is there someone here?” Before I can answer, he’s throwing my bedroom door open. He flips on the lights, throws the covers around, looks under the bed, in the closet, then the bathroom. “There’s no one here, Bastian.” Fuck! He grabs my Russian friend from the floor in the bathroom, tucking him under his arm. “I’m taking this with me. So help me God, Bastian, if you don’t get your
shit together, I’m going to start hauling your ass with me everywhere I go. I will not fucking lose you again.”

  I flip him off when he stomps by me. I know he’ll be back so there’s no point in asking when. He didn’t think to take my keys, so I’ll just go buy a few more of my favorite drinking buddies and hide them around the house. Deciding I’m too hung over to safely operate a motor vehicle, I walk the few blocks down the street to the package store downtown. I had thrown on jeans and a dirty T-shirt not expecting to see anyone I knew and not caring if I did.

  Not having driven, I’m limited by what I can carry the four or five blocks back to my house. I opt to buy a couple of canvas tote bags for my buddies to make the walk back easier. As I reach the cashier, who fucking walks in but Tara Winford. Goddammit.

  Seeing me instantly, I continue my transaction, hoping the guy behind the counter will hurry up and put the bottles in the bag.

  “Bastian?” With her hand on my arm, she turns me toward her. “Oh, honey, I knew it would be bad.” She pulls me into an awkward embrace. She pushes me back to look me over, to analyze just how bad it is I guess. Fuck if I know why women do anything.

  “Sir?” The cashier motions for me to swipe my card so he can help other people in line. Distracted from her wandering eyes, I guess she gets her fill.

  “Thanks, man.” I toss out at the guy. Leaving the store, Tara follows me.

  “Bastian, please tell me you’re getting help this time?” I ignore her, setting my sights on home where I can promptly unscrew one of these and hide the rest before Nate returns. She grabs my hand, jerking me back to face her. “Bastian, seriously! You can’t beat yourself up over this. I heard what you did. Everyone in town knows you tried to save her and almost killed yourself in the process. Did you see the story in the newspaper?”

  No, I hadn’t seen it because I had hoped someone would respect my privacy, Sera’s privacy, and hell, for that matter, even Ferry’s. I have no interest in public pity or whatever people dish out.

  “I know it’s only been a couple days but you really need to take a shower, shave, and make an appointment to talk to someone.” She’s sincere in her advice. I know she wants nothing but the best for me but the reality is I’m too far gone to give a shit what the Tara Winfords of the world want from me. She had to have known about Sera and Ferry. She had to, but she did nothing.

  “Did you know?”

  Her face twists up in a perplexed puzzle. “Know what?”

  “About her and Ferry.” I stare into her eyes waiting for the moment the lie reveals itself. You can see it, if you look close enough. Everyone’s eyes change for just a fraction of a second when they lie.

  “I knew they had dated several years ago but nothing since then. Sera was always very private about her romantic life. I think that’s why people speculated so much about her promiscuity. I don’t think she was promiscuous at all. I never did. I always thought she had the spirit of an artist, one that loved one soul completely, but when that love wasn’t returned she wasn’t able to invest in anyone else. I just assumed she wasn’t with anyone because she couldn’t be with the one.” Nothing but honesty. She hesitates before continuing. “Bastian, I know you loved her. You couldn’t stop what you didn’t know existed.” The way she tilts her head and furrows her brow irritates me. I don’t want her sympathy or anyone else’s.

  “That’s just it, Tara. I did know. I just didn’t know who.” Ripping my arm from her grasp I walk away without another word. I hear her call my name in the distance but don’t turn back.

  Back home, I put a bottle of Jack in the freezer since it will be tonight’s dessert, and attempt to find hiding places for the others, but not together so if the Prohibitionist finds one I won’t lose them all. Shuffling around, I realize I suck at hiding shit…in my own damn house. I’m a grown-ass man who’s afraid my best friend is going to raid my liquor stash. Fucking pathetic. I still stash a couple bottles just in case and put the rest in the fridge. When I open the stainless steel doors, it’s empty. There’s nothing filling the shelves or the drawers. What was full of color just days ago is now bleak. Standing there, staring at the empty space, the light goes out—there’s a fucking metaphor if I’ve ever seen one. I line up my buddies neatly in the dark space inside the fridge. “Guys night.” Typical assholes, they offer no response.

  Nate doesn’t come by tonight. Instead, he calls to check on me. He’s at work but will leave if I need him, blah, blah, blah. I’m not some needy bitch for fuck’s sake. I just want to be alone. When I finally pacify him, I go find Jack.

  Several shots in, I’m stumbling around. The liquor’s having a much stronger effect on me with nothing in my stomach, and I land back in my boudoir with my ladies. Convincing them to play drinking games with me isn’t as hard as I thought it would be. I suggest strip poker minus the cards. Sylvie continues to lull my mind with her songs, while Sera taunts my eyes with her beauty. It’s erotic in a stoic way.

  The angel begins to sway, silently begging for me to ask her to dance. I’ve got two left feet but she looks so lovely in her gray dress I can’t help but extend my hand in invitation. Holding her in one hand, Jack in the other, the room spins around us, twirling us for hours, but Sylvie never gets jealous and never tires. Her voice is just as strong as it was hours ago. Time ceases to exist with my girls by my side and Jack pulsing through my veins, filling the fibers of my being. The warmth and comfort he brings is unsurpassed by anything else. It’s the first time since I got out of that water I haven’t felt the cold in my bones or the pain in my heart. I can survive here, happily.

  42

  “Bastian! Bastian!”

  The voice is faint and angry. I’m unwilling to exert the energy for distance and unhappiness. Ignoring the cries, I close my eyes with my fist around Jack’s neck. The bastard tried to make a move on my girls last night when he thought I was too drunk to recognize what he was doing, but I fucking caught the philanderer and I’ve kept close tabs on him since.

  “Oh, for Christ’s sake.” The looming figure in my doorway looks vaguely familiar but without any light it’s hard to say who it might be, although he sounds rather irritated with me. If he’s after Sylvie or Sera I’ll grab him by the balls until he begs for mercy, too. “What the fuck are you doing? Do you realize the police have been trying to reach you all day? They have more questions for you.”

  The light is blinding! Goddammit. “Flip the switch, cocksucker!” I holler not recognizing my voice. The words felt clearly enunciated in my mouth but sounded like a jumbled mess in my ears.

  He grabs Jack in a terribly aggressive manner. My brows crease, unhappy with how this man is treating my guest. Suddenly, his arm is around me, hauling me up, dragging me away. “Hey, man. Where are we going?”

  “Bastian, I can’t understand a word you’re saying but you smell like a brewery that a hundred drunk sailors threw up and pissed all over. Is this what we’re doing this time around? You going to become a worthless alcoholic who vomits all over the place and doesn’t bother to go to the bathroom? You just piss all over yourself?”

  “I’ve been dancing with Sera all night,” I say, completely incoherent.

  “Nope, not one fucking word, Bastian.”

  Nate! It’s Nate. The killjoy.

  I lift my hand to pat him on the face but the crusty stuff caked to my skin stops me from touching him. I hear water. I try talking to him but he doesn’t want to hear what I have to say.

  “I’m afraid to ask how much you’ve had to drink. If this bottle was new—” I nod; I don’t hear the rest of his sentence before he pushes me under the water in the shower. It’s cold fucking water. Ice cold water.

  “Sera!” I scream as I break the surface, gasping for the largest breath I can take before diving back down to search for her. My chest burns with the need for oxygen, the water pricking my skin like needles, thousands of painful needles at a time. “Oh God, Sera!” I plead with her to answer me but there’s nothing but the so
und of the river, then silence, engulfed in blackness. When the lightning fills the sky, I see her bloated, blue face, her body contorted into an unnatural position. The fish have been eating at her skin, pecking for food, pulling bits of her away. Unable to hold my breath any longer, I choke on the water, taking it in by the mouthful. I can’t reach the surface, no matter how hard I kick. There’s gloom all around me…up, down, all sides. Completely disoriented, I panic. My heartbeat erratic, I imagine this must be what it’s like to get the bends. Confined by the water, I quit fighting.

  “I’ve got you. We’ll just sit here until you’re okay. All right, man?” He keeps talking, what I hear cutting in and out like a radio station on the fritz. “You’re not in the water. I’m with you.” God he must want to rid himself of this burden; he didn’t sign on for this.

  We might have sat there for hours. I don’t know. The only time he let me go was to allow me to vomit in the toilet in front of us. Then I went right back against the wall between his legs in a bear hug. Sometime during the episode, he took my filthy clothes off me. No wonder people think we’re gay. I’ve spent an exorbitant amount of time on this floor naked in the last few days, but instead of having the desire to get up, all I want to do is slam my head on the tiles until it cracks open and there’s nothing left.

  I don’t care what’s on the other side anymore. I don’t care if it continues and isn’t the end. I can’t stay on this side of eternity. This pain is never going to stop. This hopeless rambling attempt at life is pathetic. The best of me is lying in two separate coffins in two different cemeteries. I have nothing left to offer. I’ve imagined my own demise; I’ve plotted it out but never had the courage to go through with it for fear there was just more to deal with in the next phase, the unknown scarier than the known. That’s no longer true. The known is a demon I can no longer face.

  When I’m able to stand, Nate relaxes his grip on me, rising behind me. He suggests some bread, which I agree to take, but there’s not enough bread in the house to absorb the liquor in my system. It’s like sawdust in my mouth, sticking to my tongue, so hard to swallow. Little bites are all I can muster with Nate watching me like a hawk.