by Drew Avera
The sounds in the room reverberated off the walls and I felt as if I was in a tunnel. The chaos was hauntingly fun, but I dared not smile. Smiling would give away my secret.
"Peter, what the hell happened?" the Captain asked. His uniform was disheveled, as was his hair. I could hear the panicked panting of air escaping his lungs with each breath. The bright fluorescent lights shined against his balding head, making him look like a goofy cartoon character.
"I— I don't know, Sir," I said the words with as much mourning as I could manage. When it came to pretending to care, I learned from the best: my mother. She always wanted people to think she cared, but I knew the truth. I knew a lot of things. “William was fine a few minutes ago, but suddenly he just fell over.” The Captain bought it.
"I know how hard it is to watch a good man die. There's nothing you can do here. If you need to take some time to collect yourself, take the rest of your shift off. We can bring someone in to take your post." He genuinely wanted to ease the tragedy as he thought I witnessed it. It was adorable. Enough to make me smile—almost. Instead, I dug my fingers against the armrest of my chair, picking at the leather compulsively. It was what I would do as a child while my parents fought. It was my happy place, but no one could tell by the looks of it.
"Yes, Sir. I do think I need to get away from this. The look in his eyes was horrible. I don't know if I'll ever forget it," I said. I didn’t want to forget. I wanted to take a picture of it, hang it above my bed, and call it “Revenge in a Frame”.
He placed his hand on my shoulder and nodded. "I'll cover for you until someone comes in to take the post. Go ahead and gather your things."
"I will, Sir. Thank you." I grabbed my keys from my desk and paused for a second to watch the paramedics close William’s body in a black body bag. As the zipper closed the bag around him, I watched his face fade into the nothingness without ceremony. A quick death was too good for him, but he was too much of a risk to me for me to risk letting him live.
I turned back to face the Captain and gave him a sympathetic smile. I fought to make the look in my eyes as anguished as possible. It was a challenge I would take pride in as I celebrated with a beer down the street. Enemies were dwindling and I planned to take joy in each victory, no matter how small. William was not a major roadblock to my success, but I did have to consider anyone who could trip me up in my endeavors. I likened it to shooting a squirrel on a deer hunt. Sometimes you kill something just to say you did.
I left the precinct behind as red emergency vehicle lights flashed behind me, bouncing strange shadows off the walls of the nearby buildings. Despite the chilly breeze whipping through the streets, I felt surprisingly warm. I supposed a sense of accomplishment could do such a thing. It was great to finally find something I was good at, and tomorrow would be a new day, and a new victim. But tonight was a time to celebrate, so I kept walking to a little Irish pub down the street. "No one knows how to party like the Irish," my father always said. It was the last thing he said before I never saw him again.
45
CLIVE WILLIAMS
"Initial reports do not tell us whether Sydney Tyler is still alive. The explosion and subsequent fire destroyed her home and that of her neighbors, but a thorough investigation is being conducted by authorities, and they say we should have an idea of what happened in a few days. In the meantime, we should all hope for her safety and that she returns to us. Good night."
The sign off for the evening news was awkward. I never thought I would have to fill in for Sydney like this, but things were looking bleak. She was always outspoken, but what people didn't realize was we have permits from the government allowing us to say such things. I never thought it possible that either of us would ever get wrapped up in something like this. I tried to keep hope alive by focusing on the fact no one had found her body, but the explosion and debris could have burned her to the point that finding her remains would be difficult. I shook the thought out of my head, trying not to dwell on death and instead focusing on what I knew.
My work, my family, and my friends.
The lights went dark in the control room, and the cameramen shut down their equipment, before I noticed I was just sitting there, numb to everything around me. It wasn’t like me to be emotional to such devastating news. Then again, no one I knew was ever the subject of that news. Maybe it’s hitting a bit too close to home, I thought, before the dialogue in my head was interrupted.
"Are you all right, Clive?" Lucinda asked. She was my closest friend and always wanted to watch the news live as it was broadcast. She was a cute girl, and I knew she wanted things to be something more between us, but she also knew my secret. It was one shared by only one other person, my boyfriend. We didn’t have to try too hard at keeping t a secret, but we didn’t make announcements either. We just were.
"Yes, of course," I lied, hoping she wouldn’t see through it. Even if she did, she was good about not prying too deeply. I suppose it was one of the things I appreciated most. She was content to let you come out of the darkness on your own terms. God knows she had her own to contend with.
"Do you want to go meet Bradley for dinner? He just texted me, saying he's in the mood for Chinese."
I smiled to cover up the fear I felt for Sydney. Syd, as I always called her, was the only friend I had at work. When everyone else was too busy with their own lives, she always seemed to take interest in mine. Maybe that was what I was afraid of losing if she was dead. "He's always in the mood for Chinese!" The words felt stiff as I said them, but they elicited a chuckle from Lucinda, just as I had wanted. She was one of my more lighthearted friends; getting her to smile was easy—when she was your friend. If she didn’t know you, she would stare awkwardly until you looked away. It was her way of messing with people for her own enjoyment, but I never told anyone because it was fun to watch. The first time she did it to Bradley, he fussed about it on the ride home, saying she was prudish about his feminism jokes, that it was the 2100s and people didn’t need to be so caught up in themselves to not laugh at something that was funny. The fact he was so upset by it was ironic gold. Ultimately, the two of them hit it off and acted like competing siblings. Sometimes, I felt like the parent.
"Yeah, grab your stuff and let's go. You know how 'diva' he gets when we keep him waiting!" Her jabs were cuter when she made little parentheses with her fingers. I lost track of how many times she made digs at our lifestyle, but she said them in a way that was more endearing than mean. Some people would be offended, but not me, or Bradley for that matter. Both of us had grown up in homophobic towns with judgmental parents. We’d heard it all from the people who were supposed to love us. Of course, if you can’t take a joke then maybe you’re taking yourself too seriously and deserve a little bit of what you get. At least that was my way of looking at it. We could discern who the haters were with just a glance. Lucinda might say some things to get under our skin, but I thought it had more to do with a bit a jealousy at our happiness than it did with her not accepting who we were as people. I felt better, thinking about it that way. Whether it was true wasn’t something we ever discussed, but I looked at her as a friend and that was enough to make me happy in my blissful ignorance.
“Chinese it is, I guess,” I said as I grabbed my jacket from the back of a chair and followed her out. As we walked down the hallway, I felt a buzzing in my pocket and pulled my cellphone from it. It was a number I didn't recognize. "Hello," I answered.
There was a pause followed by a woman's voice. "Clive, it's Sydney, we need to talk."
Oh, my god, I thought. She's alive!
46
PETER DRAKE
McCarthy's was slightly more than a dive, but it was the most popular dive in this part of Chicago. An Irish pub with an Irish bartender and Celtic music being played by a three-piece band on a tiny stage, it was the kind of place where cops like myself found release after a shift full of stress. I don't mean to insinuate tonight was stressful, in fact, I hadn't been this happy i
n quite a while, but the other cops who monitored the Outliers like shepherds would use this place to blow off some steam.
I came here before I was a cop, and I knew a lot of the regulars like Benny. He was a retired cop and a pool shark, but everyone knew it and played along, leading the new guys to him for some easy money. It was a joke that even the eventual losers would laugh about, just like all the other hazing that took place in our little fraternal order. That old son of a bitch was just as much a staple here and the owner, Mac. Some of the others in populating the stools weren’t, though.
"I'm telling you, Mac, I don't know what these people are doing in an Irish pub. Do they look Irish to you?" I asked. My belligerence was obvious as it dropped out of my mouth. Even I heard it, but I didn’t care. I had something on my mind that I was passionate about, and by god, someone was going to listen to me while the soapbox was available.
The bartender kept wiping the glasses dry as he sneered at me. "It's a free country," he said, as if that made a difference in whether someone was Irish or not.
I scoffed. "Yeah? That’s what my daddy used to say as the hoodlums did what they pleased. It's a free country, so free they can do it all, but if you call them out, then you're a racist!" I yelled the words at the top of my lungs, or at least loud enough to be heard over the jukebox and loud conversations.
He slammed the glass onto the bar and grabbed my collar. "Look, I don't like racist talk in my bar. If you have a problem with people, keep it to yourself. If you keep talking like that, I'm going to put you on your ass. You hear me?" I tried to stand up, but he shoved me back onto my stool, looking disgusted.
I had never had this kind of interaction with him and I couldn’t tell if he was joking or not. Maybe I had too much to drink and couldn’t control what I was saying, but that was no reason to get physical with me. I was a cop, damn it. I was dizzy from the encounter and almost fell from the stool. "Do you know who the fuck you are talking to?"
He stood up straight and glared down at me as he stopped wiping the table. "I have a good idea."
I kicked the stool out from under me and stood up to face him. I didn’t know if I could take him, but I was contemplating trying. Nobody puts their hands on me. "You're going to rue the day you messed with me!"
All eyes were on me. I could feel them like a thousand daggers piercing my flesh. "Get out," he warned. He spat the words with as much hate as I now held for him. I wanted to retaliate, but I didn't think I would fair well in a fight, given my drunken condition. "Now."
I stumbled backward and stared him down. I had as much contempt for him as I held for most imposing men and the cowards flocking the bar I once loved, looking at me as if I was the problem. I wasn’t the fucking problem, they were! People like Mac reminded me of my father, even his cold gaze. I knew what would follow and I couldn’t fight back the feeling of trepidation as I wobbled awkwardly, losing my balance.
"Whatever. I was done anyway," I shot back. No one seemed to mind as I turned for the door and stepped into the dark alley. It was several hours past curfew, but I was a man of the law. I had an entitlement to be out. The fact I was drunk off my ass was another factor. How much have I had to drink? It didn’t matter—I knew I would remember this in the morning.
I turned onto the main sidewalk and headed home. Tomorrow, I have a new mission to plan, and Mac will regret what he did to me, trying to embarrass me in front of those non-Irish fuckers, I thought. His time is almost up.
47
HENRY BURKE
The sound of air being compressed and released around me woke me from a deep sleep. I felt groggy and sore, but I realized almost immediately where I was. The gentle beeping of medical equipment only solidified my assumption before I opened my eyes.
"Welcome back to life, Mr. Burke," a voice said from across the room.
The lights were dim, but I could see it was a doctor when I squinted. I tried to speak through a sharp pain in my throat. I could only choke the words out. "What happened?" I asked. The words themselves felt as if they were cutting their way out of my throat to be heard.
The doctor stood and moved closer to me. The dim light at the head of my bed showed he was an older man with wrinkled cheeks, but there was a youthfulness to his eyes. "It appears you had an accident with your razor while throwing up. The blade stabbed through about two inches of flesh and narrowly missed your carotid artery. I do think it will take time for you to be able to speak without pain, though. All in all, you're a lucky man."
I tried to sit up.. A gentle whirring of the motor accompanied my incline. "Who?" I choked out. I wanted to know who found me.
"Coroner Pike found you when you failed to report to work and could not be reached. Luckily you were still breathing, but barely."
I leaned my head back and exhaled slowly, not wanting to hurt myself worse. I couldn’t remember anything.
"There is some concern about how you were found. It looked eerily like a suicide attempt. Is there any justification for this? Are you having problems at work or at home?" The doctor asked. He picked up a plunger attached to the monitor next to me and spoke again. "This drip will dispense morphine if the pain gets too overwhelming. All you have to do is push this button."
Guilt flooded my mind over what I had done; taking that man's life. He was a monster and I felt justified for my actions, but it was wrong too. I looked up and made a gesture with my hand as if I were writing.
"You want to write a statement?" He asked.
I nodded.
He pulled a notepad and pen from the nightstand and set it on a rolling tray, pushing it close to me. "Here you go."
I took the pen and scribbled furiously before handing it over to him. It was short and to the point.
He took it and skimmed over it. "You feel responsible for the death of that murderer? My friend, he cut the flesh from a poor woman's body while she was still breathing and tried to off himself. When I was a child I might have shared in your position of guilt, but this is a new era. We fight fire with fire, and honestly, the bastard deserved it. I wouldn't worry about that at all," he said.
A tear fell from my eye as he ripped the page from the notepad and balled it up. My parents would not agree with this doctor and I knew I was guilty. It was murder, but like most employees of the government, this doctor could overlook it without batting an eye. "No," I winced as I spoke.
He paused. "No nothing, son. You've had a bit too much morphine and are a little loopy. I'd advise against trying to speak if I were you. Go ahead and go back to sleep. You'll feel better in the morning," he said as he turned his back on me and stepped out of the room.
I was alone with the memory of what I had done and I felt discouraged. The guilt did not sit well with me. Another beep from the monitor sounded and I looked down at the plunger near my hand. I picked it up and pressed the button; immediately feeling the cool fluid enter the vein in my arm. Maybe I hadn't intended to commit suicide, but the thought was in my mind now. I pressed the button again for another cool rush filling my arm. I repeated the process over and over until I felt nothing at all.
48
PETER DRAKE
Anger woke me from my stupor, and I groaned as the morning light penetrated through my closed eyelids. The celebration last night was over, and despite the state of drunkenness I was in, I could still remember the encounter with the bartender. Rage coursed through me as memories of how he disrespected me flooded into my mind. I swore to God that he would pay for that. Who was he to dilute the only thing the Irish in Chicago had: the pub? Was it so much to ask for something that was ours alone?
I climbed out of bed and groggily walked to the bathroom to piss. Apparently, I drank so much that my urine was foamy and smelled stale. I had never consumed that much alcohol before and I felt regret pounding behind my eyes as if someone was stabbing me with an icepick.
I suppose I had it coming. Perhaps I was working too swiftly; conquering my enemies in rapid succession. Maybe I was getting a bit c
ocky. That was no excuse for the persecution I experienced last night, though. Those who were not Irish didn't belong in an Irish pub, only the Irish belonged in an Irish pub. That's what my daddy always told me. There was only one way in if you weren’t of Irish descent and that was to marry into it. Even then, my daddy looked down on them, but he kept it to himself.
I stepped back as I flushed the toilet and thought about the words running through my mind. Why was I thinking about my bastard of a father? He never taught me anything other than pain and fear. I was over being afraid. I vowed to cut pain from my life no matter the cost. Now I was angry for a different reason.
McCarthy's was my favorite place to drink. I considered going back to apologize. Besides, I was taking unnecessary risks with my volatile behavior. The most logical thing to do was to not cause a scene and restore my reputation. I needed somewhere to vent, but I could see I had overdone it last night. That was a mistake that could only make things worse as I escalated my plans. Apologizing to Mac would have to wait, though. I had other things in mind that required my attention.
I decided to get dressed, and before heading out I looked in the mirror. My eyes were dark and bloodshot. My skin looked gray. I smiled and looked at my reflection one last time before stepping out the door. "There he is," I said to no one in particular. I winked at myself and it reminded me of the way my father would wink at me before laying his hands on me. I used to shudder because I knew what was coming, but now I just smiled.
49
CALEB FULTON
My wheelchair stalled as the wheels made contact with the rug at the entrance to the dining room. The lights were dim, but I could see my guests were already seated. I paused for a moment and made eye contact with the servant who waited patiently for my arrival. He cleared his throat, bringing everyone's attention to me.