THE ESTRANGED
A VICTIM OF FATE NOVEL
By JG Koratzanis
PREFACE
PART ONE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
PART TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
PART THREE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
A MOMENT OF YOUR TIME
BONUS – SAMPLE OF THE ACCURSED
OTHER BOOKS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
A NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR
COPYRIGHT
Preface
“The hardest part of losing someone isn’t having to say goodbye, but rather learning to live without them.”
— Unknown
“No one ever told me that grief felt so like fear.”
— C.S. Lewis
“Death is not the greatest loss in life. The greatest loss is what dies inside us while we live.”
— Norman Cousins
PART ONE
THE STORM
CHAPTER 1
THE KILLING
I
Heather knew that she would be the one to kill him.
The exposed brick of the Industry City apartment shimmered behind the deluge of remorse that tore at her throat in uncontrolled screams. His blood that did not ramble down her delicate, trembling hands, rushed flittered streamers in absolute finality. Through her fingers, she eyed the blade that didn’t skitter across the hardwood floors as it succeeded in its purpose. She fell to her knees and slapped her hands over her mouth and failed to silence the thick wail that scorched in acidic exhalation. The wet and warmth about her quivering fingers seemed as real as the undeniable truth; death is the beginning of immortality.
Her smile, her laughter, her faith, died long ago. Nothing more than a distant memory, the misery and the heartache had become her dearest friends. A small voice within screamed for mercy, for light, for life. But she allowed his destruction to envelop all that she was. And it imbued her with contempt. It should have been him. If only he would die, she could live. But the cruel, cold blade thirsted for her soul. It cut deep and spilled more than it swallowed. There was no other choice than to yank the blade from her heart and thrust it into his back.
She ambled towards the window of the six-floor loft and scanned the street. Her forehead rested against the cold glass as she peered down and watched the motorcycle falter as it sped away under the Gowanus Expressway. She vowed to love that son of a bitch and held onto that love through the sorrow, the deceit, and the decision to kill him. If only he would die.
II
The monitor hummed as she stepped away from the desk. Finishing the remaining sip from her glass as she waited for her three-year-old Gateway to warm up, her thirst was as voracious as the swirling tempest within. The rumble of a motorcycle froze her in her tracks. She listened as the mechanized roar diminished as fast as it began.
Enchanted by the weave of the crimson liquid as it poured from the mouth of the dark emerald bottle, her pulse quickened and quivered her hand. Another glass should quell the shakes.
Maybe. Considering the Chianti and Rosé stuck behind the less than half a bottle Spiced Rum and almost empty Vodka, she convinced herself that a bottle of Merlot was enough to help her sleep. For now.
Hips swirled in rhythm with the wine as she meandered back towards the desk. Whether it was the Merlot or the fortitude of her erupting resolve, she didn’t know nor care. Heather needed to see it once more, read it, justify it. Then, maybe, he might die.
Would he?
How long would the torment linger, she wondered. It was only hours earlier, hours that seemed to stretch into days, when she slammed the door in his face after she plunged the knife into his back.
And he walked away. That goddamned, son of a bitch walked away. He didn’t return to the door, knock, swear reform, nor plead for her forgiveness.
Was he suspicious? Angry?
Enraged. That was it. Enraged for what she did. Furious, because their time together was a lie. Insane because he had no one left in his life.
Did she really intend on killing him?
No.
Maybe.
Was she to expect a changed man through only a few words in a letter? Perhaps the man she kissed at Sammie’s a handful of years ago? Or maybe the sixteen-year-old boy she wasn’t introduced to, return?
Bullshit.
That was the Chase that wouldn’t, couldn’t die. That was the immortal Chase Romano of Bay Ridge that strangled her sanity. If only the boy, the man she loved would somehow return and destroy the beast within.
The gentle embrace of hope ran its fingers through her hair and parted the clouds as it promised that his gloom, his darkness was finally gone. But the worry of where he would end up shoved its cold finger into her slight respite.
The cursor hovered over the file saved to the desktop. She double-clicked and sipped as the document opened.
Dear Chase,
The words, more than the obnoxiously bright monitor, bore deep. A lump constricted her throat as uncertainty fell from her eyes. She took another sip of her wine.
This is the hardest letter I ever had to write, but I can’t take it anymore. There’s no easy way to say it, so I’m just going to cut to the chase.
I know I promised that I would love you forever, and I will, but what you’ve done to me, to US, over the past year is too much. I need to be alone. I need to be free. I need to find me. You dragged me so far down your self-effacing spiral, I don’t know which way is up anymore. I’ve tried to help, tried to listen, tried to tell you to snap the fuck out of whatever’s going on with you, but you won’t listen. You’d rather fight and drink and fight some more. There are so many times I wish you’d fight for me. And I’m not talking about what happened at Marge’s. You terrified me that night. That was the beginning of the end.
You lied to me too many times. You would disappear for days and I would cry myself to sleep every time thinking you’re lying dead in an alley or something.
I found out about Baz a long time ago, and kept my mouth shut. I am afraid for you and for me. This is not you. This is not who I know. This is not the man I love.
If there’s any part of you left that loves me, REALLY LOVES ME, you will make this all go away and fix this. I miss the boy from Cromwell that touched me when he showed this girl his heart.
Goodbye.
The final sip glided down her throat and forced the lump into her knotted belly. Closing out of the document, she silenced the questions within. It was a habit she improved more and more over the last several months. Her chin dipped into her chest and she nodded off.
III
“I’ll call you tomorrow. Promise.
“Love you. Bye.”
Heather disconnected the call and tossed the phone to the dinette. There were enough words that penetrated her ears, passed through her lips and reverberated in her mind that could fill a canyon with unending echoes. She swiped the amber bottle atop the kitchen counter and examined it. Reading the familiar name, not her own, gave her pause to smile, although the solitary pill within clattered like a child’s broken rattle. There should have been more. Three, four at least. Unfortunately, the eight-hundred-pound gorilla on her chest thumped his own, and hers, with a merciless ferocity over the last week and she consumed more than she planned. Her appointment with Seabrook still two days away, maybe he would understand the extreme circumstances and grant her an emergency session. Although a prescription for Xanax would have been much appreciated, she wasn’t sure he would obli
ge. Maybe Beatrice would spot her a few more before the weekend was over. Bea would understand.
Her friend and protector, Rick, didn’t argue when she rejected his offer to come over since Beatrice was already on her way. And she couldn’t wait for the annoying buzz of the doorbell because she was too lazy to use the spare key.
Women were always better listeners. Beatrice would assure, hug, and resume silence. Offer tissues and (more) wine, and a shoulder to cry on. Though not Rick, most men were apt to fix problems with their fists or redirect a woman’s sorrow into a need for sexual release.
“It’ll be good for you,” one Sophomore used on Kelsey, Heather’s former college roommate. She had broken up with her high-school sweetheart, a sweet boy who innocently fell victim to the distinctive Turkey Drop before the end of September. Kelsey fell for the ploy and didn’t enjoy the aftertaste of shame and salt the following morning when she awoke to the pre-med student, stumbling out the dormitory door.
“What? You thought I was going to cook you breakfast or something? Why don’t you tell your little boyfriend back home how you fucked like a porn-star in heat to forget him,” he said. Kelsey never regretted having to replace the hotplate after the ceramic coil cracked over the back of his head.
Even if Rick wasn’t as close with Heather, she knew he would never attempt such an undertaking, with her or anyone else. His heart was too big. He respected women and loved Heather like a sister. He said so on many occasions. When things went sour for she and Chase, Rick fought hard to repair their broken hearts as soon as their squabbles erupted into screaming bouts, both public and private. Rick struggled to never relent, never surrender. But eventually threw his hands up in the end.
Each thud of bare heel over the floorboards resounded as she paced back and forth before finally making her way back to the bar. She reached over the top and snatched the plastic bottle closest to her grasp. Water seemed like a promising idea. Wine hangovers were never ones to be reckoned with. The sandpaper tongue, remorseless thunder in the noggin, and trembling fingers that would jam their way into the back of her throat for release, was less infernal than the suffering. The tepid Poland Spring was as welcome as the Xanax that washed down as she chugged.
Heather stared blankly at the three storage cartons, stuffed with empty remnants, pointless materials, and dark reminders. It was easy packing away that life in those boxes. Much easier than she expected. More effortless than she imagined. There was a bitter disconnection that disallowed any hint of emotion as she neatly packed each crate. Every photo, forgotten underwear, love letters he had written, tucked away and regarded as someone else’s memories as if she read the latest Danielle Steel novel. Never in her wildest dreams did she think her own coldness would freeze over the befuddled reasoning within.
No, it wasn’t coldness. It was something else. Maybe she would get through, over, this longest day of her life, raise her face to the welcoming sun and grin.
A hand reached into the open top of the closest box. Glass clinked as it shifted within the delicate brass frame she withdrew. She clutched the frame to her bosom, flopped onto the couch, and wept.
IV
Something thumped against his back, and the tawny liquid sloshed over the rim. Rick considered the splash of Trooper and resolved not to cry over spilled beer. He looked up and fixed on the torn sepia print of the original proprietor, Paul Dickinson. Rick struggled to date the picture to somewhere around the early twentieth-century. It seemed a long time in photographic history before the subject would smile for their pictures. He guessed the technology hadn’t caught up yet to their subjects, and Mr. Dickinson had to remain still for longer than a grin would afford without discomfort. Or maybe he was just that kind of a detached prick.
He continued to wonder how many patrons and drunkards made their way through the ancient wooden doors, hoisted onto the bar and drank their sorrows and concerns away. He mulled over the possibilities of celebrities, dignitaries, and other deceased nobodies that had gathered within these walls and altered others’ lives for the better. Or worse. And how many clumsy, or fermented nogoodniks bumped into each other, and the hundreds of gallons of wasted ale spilled about the bar and floorboards.
“Sorry, dude,” a man said with a hiccup. If it weren’t for the knot in Rick’s belly, he might have said something like, “watch it, buddy.” A flick of the wrist, and his hand stole the napkin from under his glass and across the waste. Apprehension tugged at his psyche. It wasn’t the man, nor the beer. He realized if he said something more, the mere clumsiness might have escalated into something he would regret.
Dark awareness roared above the calm seas of his normal repose over the last few weeks. He attempted to reject the whisper in the back of his head for as long as he could. Despite his final intervention, Rick hadn’t heard from either one of them in the last week. Hope diminished after the first days of silence, but his resolve pushed through all hopeless expectations.
An elbow met with ribs and sloshed the beer once more. No spillage, that was good. As much as he enjoyed his libations, he didn’t believe it would make it down his arid gullet.
“What’s with you? You look dumber than usual with that face tonight,” Jackie said.
Rick didn’t want to talk about it. He usually didn’t. Richard, Rick’s dad, instilled in him at an early age to keep quiet when something bothered him. That he was strong and smart enough to figure out the solution to any problem on his own. For the most part, Richard was right. But even dads can occasionally make a mistake.
“Chase,” Rick said and sipped his beer. The cold brew blended with the acid in his throat and burned its way down. He winced.
Jackie used to love Chase as much as Rick. They were once brothers in arms. Rick sensed the change in Jackie over the last several months ever since he helped Chase pay for the repairs on his motorcycle. It wasn’t that helping a friend in need was an issue. Jackie heard that a few days later, Chase went out with some other guy, a biker-looking dude, to Volcanic Eruptions, the all-nude club Jackie and Chase used to frequent together, where Chase supposedly bought lap dances for strangers and funded a few showers. Jackie said it never bothered him, but every time Chase’s name was mentioned, he would drift from the conversation.
Rick watched Jackie turn toward one of the large flat screens that hung over the blue lighted shelves of booze and consider a rerun of I Dream of Genie with reckless intent. Rick nudged back.
“Hey, you asked,” Rick said. Jackie finished his beer and reconsidered Rick.
“Fine. What kind of trouble’s he in now?” Jackie said. Rick tasted the venom in Jackie’s voice.
“Come on, don’t be like that.”
Jackie summoned the barmaid for another round. “I know, I know. But something’s just always falling apart with him. You think he’d be in awe and wonder of my magnificence and heed my warnings.”
“O, Great and powerful, Jackie! We beseech thee thy presence!” Rick hoisted his hands over his head. Jackie closed his eyes and nodded.
“My dear peasant. You may genuflect before my grace,” he said and placed a pudgy hand atop Rick’s head.
“You’re right. What’s going on with Chase? He Okay?” Jackie said.
Okay wasn’t an adjective nor adverb Rick would use to describe Chase. Whether physical or mental, emaciation withered his frame, circles darkened his eyes and hatred clenched his fists. No matter how much Rick, Jackie or Heather intervened, Chase dived deeper into the arms of the dejection and dissonance of his ghosts. The transformation from an optimistic, never-surrender young man into a pessimistic, broken coward ripped at everyone and everything he touched.
The barmaid slid the second round of ales before the duo and swiped a twenty-dollar bill from the bar.
“Would you studs like to start a tab instead?” she said. Both men reached for their wallets. Jackie withdrew his from the inside pocket of his faded denim jacket and slapped it atop the bar.
“Ahem. She was talking to me. Y
ou just keep your little billfold flattened beneath that massive gravity of yours. Brooklyn need not suffer a tectonic shift,” Jackie said.
“Oh? Beg your pardon, slim, but who’s scale yells you’re killing me?” Rick said.
“Never you mind, peasant,” Jackie scoffed and handed over his credit card to the petite brunette. She tossed her hair over her shoulder, chuckled, and stepped away. Rick slowly craned his neck up and fixed on the television as Jackie followed the barmaid’s better side with his gaze.
Static buzzed across the monitors about the establishment. The monochromatic particles accompanied by the harsh din of gravel over steel mesh grated Rick’s attention. It was brief, but he supposed he noticed a flash of familiarity. A face not quite as acquainted, but strikingly comparative. Cheeks sunken, eyes blotted in dark circles and a blackened stain over the forehead that rambled in squirming, meandering paths. Within the dark splotch, a black hole sucked the very light of existence into its abysmal void. Rick remained transfixed on the monitor, the commercial blaring across it, long replaced the Comcast glitch. The not-so-savory, slow-motion drip of oils down the glistening Whopper and steamy fries failed to register any delectability in his knotted belly.
“Well? What’s going on with him?” Jackie began. Rick was flushed. Jackie eased into the chair back.
“Maybe that’s him,” Jackie said.
“Huh?”
“Your phone’s ringing,” Jackie said and pointed at Rick’s hip. Rick shook his head and swiped the cell phone from the holster. He read the name on the screen before he thumbed the green icon. Not hearing from them since their night at the Angry Dragon, he hoped the answer both he and Jackie waited for was at hand.
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