Through triplopic vision, James saw the brute backhand his girl. She stumbled back, and her knees hit the muck. Overwhelmed with anger, James burst out, screaming above it all, “Enough! You fucking bastard! Enough!”
Nick turned, dank, dark blonde hair matted to his forehead, matching eyebrows furrowed, eyes straining against the rain. Lightning lit the scene. James hopelessly tried to stand straight, his clothes heavy with rain, the outburst costing him more of his second wind than he had to give. He wished he’d hit the weights as much as Nick always had. But then, if the Department hadn’t prepared him for this, he figured nothing could have.
Nick strutted over, poked at his enemy’s weakened chest. “Don’t even act like you even have a spine, Jimmy,” he taunted, roaring.
James Kent tried to persevere.
“I’m a cop now, you idiot,” he called out, sputtering blood with each syllable.
The words were agony to speak, let alone at such a high volume. He tried to look his aggressor in the face, but he was still striving just to keep himself standing. He kept telling himself not to black out. He didn’t know how he could handle another thrashing from Nick. He’d never witnessed such calculated ferocity. Worse than his fight with the perp on PCP, it occurred to him.
Calm, sadistic declarations flowed from Nick’s thin lips as he came near to James’ ears, “I don’t care, Jimmy. I’m going to murder you tonight. You are going to fucking die.”
James believed him. This was what fourteen years of friendship had amounted to.
Dear God, send help! Do something!
A scream tore through the air. Blood and water sprayed into James’ face. Nick’s eyes went wide. More gore, diluted by water, hit James, something else a little more substantial along with it as well. Bloody bits of flesh. Incoming projectiles from the backside of Nick’s now swerving head. His face went as pale as the moon, his eyes rolled. He fell to the ground all at once.
What the fuck, God! Not like this!
Hallie stood there, her whole body shaking, raising a bloody tire iron she clasped with both hands. She slowly brought it down to waist level, held it there in shock. She and James looked at each other in utter disbelief, then at Nick lying between them, a crumpled, muddy mess of limbs. James knelt down – such painful action. He felt for a pulse and he prayed. He didn’t know why, but he couldn’t stop praying. He pleaded for his fingers to feel something.
He poked against the flesh of Nick’s neck. Pressed harder. Felt nothing. He pushed deeper, harder still. James felt his own body begin to quiver and perspire, felt it even through the deluge of rain hammering his back. Hallie wasn't even a hundred pounds; she couldn’t possibly have killed him, not with just one blow. There had to be something. The cold, heavy sweat swept over every inch of him as he kept prodding, even though he feared he’d find nothing.
Then the wild roar of water.
James and Hallie looked down towards the ocean. The cracking of snapping wood and trees overcame the thunder – the sound of an enormous cannibal devouring everything in sight. The water was ripping apart the park on the beach, blasting through the tree line. They were nearly a mile inland and the water looked like it was going to reach them any second.
“We need to go!”
“What!?” Hallie screamed in shock, not comprehending.
James’ eyes went to her left hand; it was still holding the tire iron. His imagination played tricks on him. He could have sworn, even with the torrential downpour, that the thing was dripping with Nick’s blood and bits of flesh, of brain.
A surge of adrenaline amped Kent’s survival instincts. His survival, her’s. Startled by this acute stress response, he stood and swatted the cold weapon from her hand. Mascara ran, marring her face as she wiped at it repeatedly. Fighting back tears of his own, he took one last sorrowful look into her eyes. They weren’t the same anymore. He pulled her close to him.
“Go!” Blood accidentally spit into her face. He was falling apart, fast. They both needed to vacate the area post haste. “Go, and don’t ever think about this thing again. Forget it ever happened.” He pushed her as hard as his wracked self could muster. “Go!”
She turned her face from him, broke free from his hold without another word, ran to her car. James looked at Nick one last time. James pried himself away from the sight as he heard the Bug leave the lot.
Another roar. James didn’t know if there was a pulse on Nick or not, but in seconds that would be irrelevant. One glance down at the water’s edge as he ran for his car and he could tell it was a flash flood. CSU wouldn’t be able to find anything with the damage. The tsunami-like-storm would wash it all away before anyone even found the body. These were his thoughts as he jumped into his Maxima and hit the gas.
James skidded onto Hylan as a wave hit the side of his car, more water sweeping inland. He fishtailed into the right direction and pedaled the gas, more water splashing behind him. Back up Hylan Boulevard he sped, screaming his lungs out, “Goddammit all to fucking hell!” as crashing water, thunder, and pounding rain drowned it all out.
Tuesday
October 30, 2012
Longest Night
The leather couch had long since worn out, its black faded to dark grey in patches where seats had worn. James didn’t care. He sat alone in the living room. He didn't even know where his father was; they hadn’t crossed paths in days. For all James knew, his dad could be dead too. Things were bleak and James was alone. Everything was falling apart.
Straight to hell. Keep up the good work, God.
Cradling a half bottle of gin in his hand, an empty six pack of beer litter lay about his feet. Cloistered, hunched on the couch, he couldn’t do much more than cry. Cry like a little baby. Forget the night that still waged war on his soul, the night that just wouldn’t seem to end. Lucky he even made it home. Didn’t see Hallie’s car on the way; she must have made it too. But enough of that. Remember something better instead.
Mind hurled backwards, the image of a huge clock conjured on a wall looming above hundreds of men and women in a scuttle. Two teenagers stood still in the madness. They watched the bustling, bundled up crowds move about the Staten Island Ferry terminal, shaking off snow as they arrived. A sixteen year old James Kent took a break from his observation post, turned to his friend.
“Look at ’em, Nick. Runnin’ around like crazy people.”
“You get older, that’s what happens, Jimmy.”
“Not if you don’t let it. Things shouldn’t have to change for the worse just ’cause you get older.”
“Maybe you don’t have much of a choice.”
The gin slipped from James’ hand, clanked against the wood floor, shaking him free of the phantasms. Some of the bottle’s contents leaked out onto his socks. He ignored it. Tears multiplied, ran down his pallid face. He talked to the specter of the past instead.
“You were right, Nick. Maybe choice is fiction.” Bitterness seized his heart, writ itself across his face.
“Eh, you’re not even here anymore,” he said as he took stock of the small puddle at his feet. Slurred words as he spoke, “Heh, it’s been a while since you’ve been anyway, huh?”
He righted the bottle. “Forget you, then. Hallie matters more than you do anyway. Always did. You put yourself in the ground. We didn’t do that shit.”
He tried to stand, gravity defeated his feeble efforts, pulled him straight back down into his seat. He clenched his fists in the air. “But you!? You fucking took her from me!”
This conversation with Nick’s ghost ended abruptly. If James still believed in God, even slightly, this next part was for him.
“Forget you, too, mother-fucker!” he yelled, pointing upwards, the dams burst from his eyes. “You took Mom. You took Stacey. Max is fucking right. You are an asshole.”
Spit propelled from his trembling lips and his voice rose into a scream. “Now you’ve taken Hallie away from me, too, you asshole! You did this! You create these fucking monsters. You create
them and you let them loose on the world, allowed them to wreak havoc wherever they go. The drunk. Those two. Fuckin’ Nick.”
Shaking fists fell to his sides. “You did this,” he said in a quieter tone. His head leaned back against the soft leather. James hoped that it wouldn’t get any worse than it already had.
It couldn't get any worse.
He hoped.
His body finally found rest as exhaustion and inebriation conquered him. His heavy eyelids closed on a night he’d never forget.
Tuesday
October 30, 2012
Goodbye
Hanging half off his bed, James strained his head to see the alarm clock a few inches away. Couldn’t remember how he got to bed. He held his head, tried to add pressure, slow the throbbing, but it wouldn’t cease. Eleven-eleven on the clock, less than five hours sleep. Even five thousand hours wouldn’t have been enough. James never wanted to wake up, knew what waited for him when he did. He squeezed his eyes shut, but it was no use, pulsating consciousness had intruded and was not going to back down.
At least he was still burning days; no way he’d have been able to go into work with his head spinning like a manic top. Then there were his bruised arms; even his tattoos had turned purple. Everything hurt. Phones were probably all still out, too. Ha. They couldn’t reach him now even if they did try to call.
He made his way into the bathroom, every step painstaking. His phone was next to the sink. Facebook message alerts lit up its screen.
“No way to call someone, but fucking Facebook works. Fuckin’ figures.”
His voice was rasping. It hurt him to speak, hurt him to hear.
The cell phone battery was on its way out. Multiple messages from Hallie. He begrudgingly skimmed through his phone; a warning flashed, it was going to shut off any second. He ignored it, read through the app’s mailbox. Each message more frantic than the last. Bad, very bad.
He put down the phone, hit the head, and returned to the room, still in the grips of physical agony. He grabbed a hoodie and a fitted knit cap, headed downstairs, out the door - a man on a mission. He ignored the fact that his living room was more swamp than carpet. The world outside was even worse. It looked like a war zone, trees snapped and down, houses caved in and swept away, puddles like miniature lakes. Downed wires lay flung across the streets like crisscrossed mazes. James ignored it all, stepped over and down between the lines and headed to Hallie’s. Pulled his hoodie up over his head, hands in his pockets. He looked down, but walked with determination, as much determination as his broken body would allow.
“Jesus, James!” came the shriek as soon as the door opened. Hallie looked like a disaster all her own. Streams of dried tears and mascara bedizened her face, eyes bloodshot, somehow savage. Lips gnawed to shreds. Teeth ground, gnashed all night, no doubt.
“Yeah,” he said dryly. His throat felt like it was coated in lava.
“You look terrible.”
“Thanks.” He realized he still hadn’t looked in a mirror. Hadn’t wanted to, didn’t want to see the damage.
“Where have you been?! I’ve been freaking out over here!”
“Not so loud, Hallie, okay? I just woke up.”
“Woke. Up!?” Every sentence was being hurled at him like an insult. “What the fuck is wrong with you? You actually slept?”
He backed up against the banister, rubbed his face with both hands, moaning, cursing.
“Okay. What do you want me to say?”
“I don’t know, James. But I’m freaking the fuck out! My dad and mom couldn’t get a flight back. I haven’t heard from them in over twenty-four hours. I’m all alone. And I’m -”
“Freaking out. Yeah. Got that part, Hallie.”
She spit a curse at him and then the crying began, quickly turning to sobbing. James listened without a clue of how to respond. He didn’t know why he felt so numb, but he could barely muster any emotion at all. Barely, but there was just enough room for fear. That pulsed through his veins with ease.
“I think we need…” he paused, almost choking on his words as he continued, “I think we need to lay low for a bit.”
Through the tears, Hallie’s face turned to distorted anger. “Lay. Low?”
Yeah, Hallie, like stop sending incriminating Facebook messages!
“Look. I don’t like it, but we gotta keep to ourselves. Until we find out what’s what with...” He couldn’t muster saying Nick’s name. “Hallie, if the cops connect us. If they put us there.”
James looked around. Neighbors ridding their front lawns of debris paid them no mind. It still sparked a shiver down his spine. “I shouldn’t even be here right now.”
“What are you saying, James?”
“Hallie... it’s for your sake more than mine. I mean… we…”
“Say it, James. Just say what I know you’re about to say.”
He looked at his muddy boots.
“You fucked me!”
“Damn it, Hallie, lower your voice.”
“I let you eat my cunt, you asshole,” she said between sobs. “And now it’s over to you. Isn’t it?”
She stared him down, the love of the previous night turned, spurned, to hatred.
“You're over simplifying this, Hallie. Damn it. It’s not about that. It’s about your life, Hallie. You… do you not realize what you did last night?”
“You? Don’t you mean we? Or is that just it? We. As if. There’s only ever been you. You’re not worried about me, James. You’re worried about you. Just like you always do.” Her tears stopped. “Fine.”
“I’m sorry, Hallie, I just... I can’t do this.”
“Then let me make it easy for you.”
She turned and let the door slam behind her. He took a few seconds to compose himself, steady himself for the return walk, for the pain he knew each step would summon, physically and emotionally. It was over. Even if neither of them had said it, they both knew it. There was no coming back from this one. No makeup from something this huge. The bridge had finally burnt to the ground.
As soon as he got back into his bathroom, he finally looked into a mirror. Huge mistake. His face, an admixture of violet, deep purple, mottled black and blue. Dried crimson too. A bloody, bruised mess. James felt his phone slip from his hand, watched the screen shatter in slow motion against the tiled floor.
Speed amped up to fast forward as he turned toward the shower. His stomach lurched, gin and beer puke brutally hurled against the curtain, splattering the walls. Some chicken wrap from dinner was in there too, obscene chunks clinging to the curtain’s timber-wolf grey fabric, liquid oozing towards the floor. Eyes were tearing as he wiped remnants of the evil spew from his lips. His body convulsed as he tried to breathe but couldn’t. More hurl launched across the bathroom, splashed across ceramic tiles.
He tried to stand, but his knees wobbled, brought him down hard to the cold floor. The room was an earthquake, the heaving without cease. He groped at the air in front of him, at last loosed a cry from his torn throat. His hands clutched at grey fabric; unseeing, he felt something hot and slimy, gush between his fingers. His eyes refused to focus, tears streamed down his wretched face. More screaming, yanking on the spew-soaked curtain. It ripped from its place, plastic hooks snapping, sending hard bits across the bathroom that bounced off the walls like shrapnel. The curtain floated down to the vomit-smothered the floor.
He ejected bile, drooling and spitting bitter liquid across the toilet seat, the porcelain, the once shiny handle. Knees affixed to the floor, he slumped forward, falling prostrate, his face, torso and arms splayed and likewise plastered to the pale yellow, white and grey squares of tile. James wept, screamed out once more, gagged, spat regurgitated drool. Mouth open, jaw slack until there was nothing left to vomit, yet he cried until he felt altogether desiccated, a spent shell, a thing, or nothing at all.
He lay in spew and puddles of his stomach’s former contents; it was everywhere. Jesus. His eyes stared blankly at the doorway into his r
oom. Still couldn’t focus much; he just stared, stared until the blackness welcomed, then swallowed him whole once more.
Wednesday
November 14, 2012
Notification
Locke looked down at the tea; it’d been long enough. He pulled at the string, swung the accompanying bag towards the trash pail a few feet away. It bounced off the edge, landed on an errant deli wrapper lying on the blue and white checkerboard floor.
“Silk sachet,” he explained, “Not really bagged tea.” Locke didn’t drink Lipton. Fucking shit was garbage, he said; it’d give you a heart attack with all those fake additives. He had his tea mailed to him from upstate. Millerton, New York. The best stuff in the country, he’d often tell Kent. Told him now, one more time, as they hung out in the precinct lounge. No one else there but them.
Almost three weeks had passed since the night that triumph had turned to torment. Life in Staten Island was slowly returning to normal. Slowly.
Hallie had never called. Not even a text this time. No more Facebook messages, either. James ignored her as usual, as if that night had never happened. No more drop-ins to the Winters’ house, but he did return to his precinct.
He went right back to work the next day, complete with head splitting hangover. That and a bunch of Stacey’s old makeup caked on over his face. Everyone, pulling their sixth straight tour or more, was too tired or too busy to either notice or care. Kent slipped into the mayhem eel-like, unnoticed.
D.O.A. Page 9