Dead Religion

by David Beers

  “At my office, I...” his voice cracked. “He told me He was coming.” Like before, but he didn't let those words outside of his head.

  Brittany went to him, taking the glass from his hand and placing it on the coffee table, then sat on his lap. “Have you been taking your medicine?”

  He nodded.

  “Every day?”

  He nodded.

  “Tell me what happened.” She wrapped her arm around his neck.

  “I was there in the lobby, in the hotel—I couldn't move.” He looked at the glass of liquor but didn't reach for it. “It screamed for me, just wailing my name over and over. The same green water bubbled from the center of the room; it spread everywhere, trying to get to me.

  Brittany leaned in and kissed his cheek, leaving her mouth there, she whispered, “What do you think?”

  “I...” Alex paused for a few seconds, still looking anywhere but at his wife. “I don't know.”

  She nodded, keeping their faces close. “Do you think it was real?”

  “No.” He held his wife, felt her warmth as he spoke, but was he telling the truth? He answered no to her based on years of programming that showed him the dreams were hallucinations and his parents false prophets. Did he actually think about her question, though? Was it real? He took his medicine every day, but he was dreaming again, just as before...

  “It was only a dream, baby, that's all. As long as you know that, we're okay. I'll set up an appointment tomorrow and we'll see Nayek. Just a dream, you understand?”

  Alex nodded, and Brit turned so that her legs straddled him. She pulled his chin up, forcing him to face her.

  “Just a dream, baby.” She kissed him and his hands went to her waist.

  Their tongues met, and even during that small intimacy, Alex wondered if her words were true.

  3

  Days Past

  Brittany

  Brittany turned the key inside the lock and pushed on the door. She looked in for only a second before dropping her keys and purse. The couches were splayed open, the stuffing pulled out and strewn around the living room. The material covering the back of one had been slashed so many times it was little more than ribbons. A black X was smeared across the television screen, the cord that should have been stuck in the wall cut in two.

  Sweat opened up on Brittany’s face and scalp, her heart beat spiking.

  No burglar did this but she didn’t want to enter. She'd rather walk off a goddamn cliff than go inside her house. Brittany had seen things like this—sure—but never this severe. Never seen knives slash. Never seen drawings on their television. Never seen anything this fucked up.

  Are you in danger? The question came unbidden.

  Does it matter?

  She walked in, leaving the keys and purse behind. She moved slowly, trying to come to grips with her house. She could see inside the kitchen from where she stood in the living room—disarray didn’t describe it, neither did devastating. Plates on the floor, broken, with blood smearing some, already beginning to dry in other spots. Pans, knives, and silverware were scattered across the floor. The faucet poured water into the sink, flowing over the basin. All the drawers and cabinets stood open and the chairs to the kitchen table were missing. Someone (your dead husband, darling) had tipped the table on its side carved words underneath it—although she couldn't read all of it from where she stood.

  She could see the word mine. Brittany didn’t care about the rest; she only wanted to find Alex. She glanced around the living room again, seeing something new. The wall held knives in it. Seven butcher knives, all stabbed hilt deep into the white wall. They formed a smiley face, two knives for the eyes, and a semi-circle below with the other five. Blood dripped down the wall from one of the blades; it would reach the carpet soon (and that shit won't rinse out, honey).

  Brittany could see a pile of clothes in front of their bedroom door. He was in their room.

  Brittany moved down the hall, jogging now. She neared the clothes. Blood soaked through most of what she saw. She held her breath—the shirt could have been dipped in a washing bucket that held blood instead of water.

  She stopped. The door to the room stood open and the only light in it came from inside the closet, outlining the closed door.

  “Alex?” she called from the bedroom door.

  A cry came from the closet—maybe from pain, maybe surprise. Brittany stepped inside, seeing the trail of blood from the clothes for the first time. Her husband was inside. Bleeding—and that became all that mattered. She ran to the closet, opening the door and finding Alex—the back of the closet, clothes pulled from hangers and strewn all around him.

  Alex looked down at his left wrist; a knife poked carefully into the flesh and blood forming around the point. Skin stood flayed open on Alex’s chest with blood running down to his bare groin. A deep, dark ‘X’ was carved into his body. The cuts began at his collar bone and traveled down to his ribs on both sides.

  Brittany understood that wasn’t simply blood; it was life leaving her husband—still pumping, trying to find veins to carry it home, but only finding gashes that forced it into the world. Even if she could get the knife away from his wrist, he would still die if they didn't get to a hospital, bleeding to death in this closet.

  “Baby, put it down. Put the knife down.” She walked inside, stepping on more clothes stained with blood. Alex looked up, his face dripping sweat.

  “He’s here, in the house,” Alex whispered. “He’s come for me now.” Animal like fear radiated from him.

  “No, no one's here. It's you, just you and me, sweetie. Put the knife down, put it down and I'll protect you—I swear to fucking God, honey.”

  He looked down at his wrist; his right hand tightened on the handle.

  Brittany looked at his grip and simply swung her fist, connecting with her husband’s temple. As he fell back, she reached for the knife, grabbing it by the blade, feeling the knife slice through her palm, sinking even deeper as she pulled on it. Alex gave the hilt up and Brittany flung the knife behind her.

  She reached for him—both of them bleeding now—and pulled him close anyway.

  Alex fell into her as a doll would, nothing holding him back. He wrapped his arms around her waist and tears blossomed.

  Kneeling in front, Brittany put her lips to his neck and kissed. “I'm here now. It's okay, it's okay, it's okay,” she whispered.

  4

  Present Day

  James & Brandon

  “I'll be fine,” Brandon said, pouring milk into a glass.

  James didn't want to smile, but the surety of a sixteen-year-old could bring humor to almost any situation. He kept from laughing though, only smiled and watched his brother bite into a grilled cheese.

  “Seriously. Think about it. I can drive to school; we only have a few more weeks and I can take the metro whenever I need to go somewhere else. As long as you keep money in my account, I’ll be fine.”

  James hoped that he hadn't fucked up his brother irrevocably yet. Obviously he hadn’t taught table manners, as Brandon spoke through a mouthful of bread and cheese.

  “What about human contact? You going to be okay living here without anyone to talk to?”

  Brandon took another bite. “Don't start thinking you're some kind of great conversationalist. Plus, I have friends at school and I'm sure we'll hang out. You're acting like my life depends on you.”

  James knew Brandon joked. Knew that neither of them would have made it this far without each other’s support.

  “You're a grown ass man, huh?” James asked, still smiling. He rarely cursed in front of his brother but couldn’t stop himself this time.

  “Close to it,” Brandon responded and washed down a bite with milk.

  “What if I'm gone longer than a month? What if I'm gone until deep into summer?” He hoped that wouldn't happen, but he would be down there until told to return—so it needed to be discussed.

  “Then I hang out at the house a little more. Wha
t’s the big deal? Just keep my bank account full and we’re fine.” Brandon smiled back at him.

  “All you need is my money, huh?”

  “Yup,” Brandon said through his grin. “When do you leave?”

  That was the biggest part of the surprise, wasn't it? This is our goodbye, little brother. Does it feel like I sold you out? He had agreed to the job before he even talked with Brandon—his last of kin. All the self-confidence Brandon possessed couldn't discount his age of sixteen—in the middle of puberty along with a host of pressures most adolescents never experience.

  “I leave tonight. My flight takes off at twelve-oh-five.”

  “Really?” Brandon asked, holding his sandwich in his hand, which moments before had been on a trajectory toward his mouth.

  James nodded. “There's nothing I can do about it. If I go, it has to be tonight. Once I get up from here I have to start packing.” He paused, wondering if he should go on. “This will be the last time we see each other for a little while.”

  Brandon's eyes glistened then. “Can we talk? Like on the phone?”

  Don't push him over the edge, goddamnit. Don't make him cry. James had to make him understand, though. He wouldn't lie to him or try and give him false hope. This would be their first separation since Brandon was in elementary school—he needed to understand they would both be alone in a way they hadn't known for a long time. No parents to call, siblings, uncles, aunts—none of that shit. They had each other, and James was taking that away for a while.

  “Of course, we can talk everyday if we need. We just won't see each other. You're a tough fucking kid, but you have to understand that. You'll hear my voice, but that's it for a few weeks.”

  Brandon dropped the sandwich back to the plate and stared at it. “This sounds stupid...” He reached up and wiped at his eyes. “But you'll come back, right?” They both knew where James worked and what that could mean.

  “Oh yeah. There's nothing to worry about; it's basically what I do now, just in another place.”

  Brandon nodded.

  “I'll figure out how we can call each other and all that once I get there, okay?”

  Brandon nodded.

  “What are you thinking?” James asked, and while he wanted to see this response—this gravity—Brandon was feeling things James never wished on him. Abandonment, maybe? Loss? Tortures that should have been long dead, now reborn.

  “I just...I didn't think you'd be leaving tonight, ya know? I guess I just wanted some time to get used to it.”

  James wanted to hug him, to be a mother or father, to make him understand that everything would be fine. Brandon was sixteen though, not seven, and thought himself strong enough to deal with this. To reach for him would only insult him.

  “I can stay if you want me to. It's not too late.” That might be true, but there would be ramifications. Are you going to stay if he asks? Really?

  “No, go. I'll be okay.” Brandon looked up from his plate, his eyes wet, but forcing a smile.

  The smile was bullshit, put on as much for Brandon's pride as James's guilt. There just wasn't time—either he left tonight or he didn't. He looked across the table at his brother, “I have to pack; it should take me an hour or so. If you change your mind, just tell me.”

  “Okay,” Brandon answered. The last bite of his cooled sandwich sat on his plate, forgotten.

  James walked by and squeezed Brandon's shoulder, wishing it was a hug.

  Packing blurred, from underwear to toothpaste, James shoved items into his two suit cases.

  His parents kept returning, between socks and cologne, they came to him.

  They had left too, each in their own way. Was James any different? You're fuckin' coming back. They didn't. That was true; they were gone forever, but he was still leaving and forcing Brandon into something he didn’t deserve. Not even old enough to drive yet, and the only stable person in his life was walking out the door.

  Still though, you're packing your goddamn bag, aren't you?

  Yes, but why? Was an explosion in Mexico so important that he must leave his brother? Another country and another man James had never met were stealing him from the only blood he knew anymore. Except stealing wasn't right, because James packed his room without any gun pressed to him.

  He stopped moving, shirt in hand, his mind finally coming back to the room. “Fuck.” He felt tears come to his eyes as they had Brandon’s. “He's only sixteen, he needs more of this shit?” No: the only answer possible.

  Even so, James placed the shirt into his suitcase.

  5

  Days Past

  Brittany, Alex, & Daniel

  Brittany picked up the phone and dialed as soon as the clock said nine, needing to speak with someone the moment the office opened. Last night, despite her attitude then, had frightened her to her soul.

  “Thank you for calling The Atlanta Psychiatric Group. How may I direct your call?”

  “I need to make an appointment.”

  It had always been that way; her making the arrangements. The scars that would never leave Alex's chest reminded her she didn't always make them fast enough.

  “Yes, ma’am. With who?”

  The Good Doctor. He was a savior to Brittany, not of sorts, but the real thing. He treated the wounds inside her husband's mind as surely as the emergency room doctors had the ones on his chest. She called him again now, and she had to be on time—no new scars or rampages, only a dream—and that needn't amount to anything.

  “Dr. Nayek.”

  “What's your name? He's seen you before, right?” The voice came back.

  Dr. Nayek told Brittany her role during this conversation; she didn’t want to embrace it, but had to. Her job consisted of sitting, supporting, and listening. Anything else and there would have to be other doctors willing to treat her husband, because Nayek wouldn't.

  If the premises had been a house instead of a mental institution—psychiatric hospital, the sign outside corrected—Brittany would be sitting in the living room. Except usually living rooms didn't have multiple people watching different televisions, playing board games, or reading books—all at the same time. Truly, the place was closer to a jail than a house, and being so, she sat in the visiting quarters. Alex held her hand, sitting next to her on a couch. The ward didn't resemble much of the movies: Alex wore his own clothing, no ward garbs. No one ran around slamming themselves into walls or talking to furniture.

  Underneath Alex's t-shirt, stitches held his skin together.

  Alex's job could accept twelve weeks off due to mental distress. After that though, their marriage might be short an extra one hundred and twenty a year. Another reason for needing Dr. Nayek.

  Brittany and Alex sat in silence. Hand holding and silence had come to define their relationship these past few weeks. He believed in It while she didn't, and that belief had built into a wall so high and thick that their love could barely find its way to the other side.

  She leaned over and kissed his cheek. He smiled, even if his eyes didn't, and their lips met briefly.

  Brittany saw the man at the lounge’s entrance. He shook hands with another doctor, said a few more words, and then laid eyes on them. Daniel Nayek's skin was dark, more so even than Alex's Native American ancestry. For some reason, Brittany thought of religion rather than ethnicity: Hinduism or Islam. He walked quickly, his blazer opening a bit.

  A few feet from them, he spoke with unaccented English. “Mr. and Ms. Valdez, I'm Dr. Nayek.”

  The pleasantries were nonexistent; forcing them to choose between silence or confronting why they were here.

  “You know why you're here right? Why you're in this place rather than your home?” Nayek asked Alex.

  Alex nodded.

  “You're not delusional about what you've done, that correct?”

  Alex nodded.

  “It's important we're honest now, that we don't start out on lies. Why are you here, Alex?”

  Brittany squeezed her husband's hand as h
e met Nayek's gaze. Go on. Start here, now, she thought.

  Alex ran a hand across his bald head. “There's something that has followed me my entire life.” He brought his hand down and looked to the door. “It's almost here now. That's why my chest is cut up, why there is a scab on my wrist.” He looked back at Nayek. “It wants me dead.”

  Brittany watched the doctor, her soul pleading that he would stay—not say he couldn't help her husband or simply get up and walk away.

  “Honest enough?” Alex asked, contempt lining the question.

  “Perfect,” Nayek answered. He wrote nothing down nor even held a notebook. “Does your wife believe this?”

  Alex smiled. “I wouldn’t be in here if she did.”

  “Your parents believed though, right?”

  “They did.”

  “They're dead now. How?” Nayek asked immediately.

  “Murder-suicide.”

  “What do you think happened?”

  Alex leaned back on the couch and looked at the ceiling. He moved slowly, his skin stretching against the stitches under his shirt. “The same thing that’s happening to me. It came for them and took them.”

  Nayek nodded. “Good.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a card. “Call me tomorrow. If you don't, you'll be back in here pretty quick. Any questions?”

  “No, although it's been about two years.” Brittany paused, forgetting the other part of the question as she thought about how long two years was.

  “Your name?”

  “Oh, sorry. His name is Alex Valdez.”

  Brittany heard typing over the phone as the woman looked up their information.

  “I have a ten a.m. tomorrow. Will that work?”

  Brittany clenched her teeth—too long. “Nothing available today?”