Children of Chaos

by Greg F. Gifune

  And sometimes I dreamed of fire summoning Martin’s demonic return, his prophecies fulfilled. Prophecies I facilitated by slaughtering him as he’d wanted, and believed it was meant to be.

  But in the light and clarity of day, it was nothing more than a mercy killing. Martin had exhausted his options, taken his bloodbath as far as it could go. Eventually, every cult leader who claimed to be divine had to take steps to prove it, and how better than escaping into death with promises of a better afterlife waiting just beyond the dark curtain? He was tired and looking for a way out, hiding behind what he claimed had been written, relying on a book he knew no one else could decipher. It could’ve said anything between those battered old pages.

  In the end, Martin had used me just as he’d used the others, and like the others, I’d allowed it, giving up yet another piece of my soul to finally put an end to this. If nothing else, Martin would never hurt another living soul, his earthly horrors were over.

  And what of the scarred man and the martyr angel I was now convinced he’d truly been? Its existence proved nothing about Martin, me, Jamie or anyone else. But it did make me realize there was more to our lives and existences than any of us could fully comprehend, and it wasn’t all about fear and death and bloodshed. In fact, very little of it was. Maybe in setting it free I’d found my redemption without even realizing it. What did redemption feel like anyway? Was it an overwhelming rush of power that sent you out into the world professing your spirituality and considering everyone else somehow beneath you and in need of bullying or conversion to feel and believe exactly as you do? Or was it something far deeper, quieter than all that? Something gentle and moving: the laughter of a loved one, the innocent and loving eyes of a child or an animal, or those rare, sudden and intensely personal moments of joyful epiphany when an indefinable presence draws you toward something far greater than yourself.

  I wasn’t there yet, I was still immersed in blood and nightmares. I still carried a gun or knife at all times, always concealed but always there in case I needed it. I hadn’t found the deliverance I’d gone looking for, but I was certain it was within reach.

  After another week of hiding out and delaying the inevitable, I finally admitted there was no way around what had to be done. I was through running. It was time to put it all to bed and finish the job, and that meant presenting Mrs. Doyle with the truth about what had happened to her son.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  “I thought you were dead.”

  Janine spoke without looking at me, her voice riding open space, hollow and quiet. Though sprawling, the living room reminded me of the cave back in the desert. Dark. Joyless. A waiting station for those slowly sliding into oblivion. I immediately suspected her fiancé. Maybe she’d gotten word he wouldn’t be coming home after all. A lot could change in a few months, and if life had taught me anything, it was that sooner or later everything changes. Nothing stays the same.

  I rolled into New Bethany just after nightfall. Summer was over and fall had just arrived. The days were shorter. Seemed fitting. The minute I hit town I dialed her cell. Her reaction was not what I expected. We hadn’t spoken since I’d called her from Tijuana months before, and I’d figured she’d be pleased to hear from me. Instead she sounded strange then as well, uneasy and worn out. There was relief in her voice, but it came with reservations, like her reaction was conditional, watered down by some encumbrance I couldn’t yet understand. It was the kind of relief you might feel having survived a shipwreck, only to realize you were still alone in open water, the danger far from over. No small talk, little emotion, just two simple questions was all she’d given me. Was I all right and where was I? When she had her answers, one a lie and the other the truth, she instructed me to meet her at Mrs. Doyle’s house. She’d leave the front door unlocked and I was to go to the living room, where she’d be waiting for me. Before I snapped shut my cell I’d asked her if she was all right. I never got a response.

  Standing in the doorway to the huge living room, watching her slouched in a plush antique chair that looked like something out of 1700s England, I didn’t feel the need to ask again. Her usual meticulously groomed and well-dressed appearance had been replaced with a tousled and weary look. She wore a wrinkled blouse with no bra and jeans. Her feet were bare, the soles dark, indicating she’d been walking around that way for awhile. Had she told me she’d slept in the outfit I would’ve believed her. Her glasses were in place but the eyes behind them were distant and bore not only dark circles but a look of devastation bordering on shellshock. Her face seemed unnaturally pale and was void of makeup, and her hair was mussed and hung free, like it had been in a ponytail prior then released without being combed out. It looked as if she’d aged years in a matter of months.

  I felt ridiculous in this room that looked like a museum set. It felt like we were onstage acting out some period piece. The only light came from the hallway behind me and a small candle in a pewter holder sitting on a table a few feet from her, which cast a swath of dull yellow haze amidst the darkness. I pictured her wandering around in this indifferent and empty house, with its pretty trinkets and pretensions, caring for Mrs. Doyle, waiting for wars to end in places she’d never see, waiting on death, waiting on me. After what I’d been through I expected her to find me a wreck, not the other way around.

  “Part of me did die,” I told her.

  She nodded without looking at me, like she understood exactly what I meant, her stare transfixed on the shadows along the far wall.

  “It’s been over for awhile,” I explained. “I needed time. You have no idea what was happening out there.”

  “Don’t I?”

  “No, you don’t.” I moved closer, hoping it would make her look at me. It didn’t. “I saw it, lived it, and I’m not even sure I believe it.”

  “Martin’s dead, isn’t he.” It wasn’t a question.

  I nodded.

  “Did you kill him?”

  “I did him a favor.”

  This time she nodded.

  “He was already gone,” I said, “waiting on somebody to put him down. I had no choice. There was no other way out for either of us.”

  “I used to wonder if what we believe makes any difference at all in the overall scheme of things. Not anymore.”

  “What’s wrong, Janine?” She refused to answer. “Maybe I should speak to Mrs. Doyle.”

  “She died about a week after you left for Mexico.”

  I closed my eyes then slowly reopened them. Nothing had changed. “I’m sorry.”

  “She left everything to her daughter, except for this house, which she left to me.” Janine reached up under her glasses and rubbed one of her eyes. “I never wanted anything from her, that’s not why I worked so hard for her or was as loyal as I was. I loved her. She saved me. Or I thought she had. She thought so too. Neither of us knew.”

  “Knew what?”

  “What was really taking place.”

  “Martin’s dead.” I pulled the creased and worn photograph Martin had given me from my pocket and held it out for her as if in evidence. “And all his bullshit died with him.”

  Janine took the photograph, looked at it briefly then put it aside. “But it’s not bullshit. And no one knows that better than you do.”

  She expected a response, but instead, I waited for her to continue.

  “Within days of your meeting she began to weaken. The doctors warned me her final decline would happen quickly. I’d prepared for it as best I could.” Finally, her eyes found me, but unable to sustain a look in my direction, they slipped away. “What I wasn’t prepared for was how quickly her mind went. The night before she died I got a call from the night nurse that she’d had to sedate her. She had a quiet day, uneventful, but something happened that night that sent her over the edge. The nurse found her in the master bath in front of the mirror. She’d cut almost all her hair off with scissors then taken to her scalp with a disposable razor. She was nude and babbling as if in tongues.”

&n
bsp; Truth fell all around us like rain. Martin’s sick gaze filled my mind, the look of him as I’d buried the blade into his body, a look of satisfaction, of…victory.

  “She was upstairs in bed and heavily sedated by the time I got here. She died the following night. Peacefully, the nurse said. But I was there when she passed. The look on that woman’s face was anything but peaceful. It was filled with torment, unimaginable torment.”

  I wandered away from her, drifting through the mostly dark room, going nowhere, walking in circles but needing to move.

  “Do you believe in coincidence, Phil? Do you believe such things exist?”

  “I don’t know,” I said softly, my back to her.

  “I used to think it was merely a stroke of luck that’d I’d come to Mrs. Doyle, a coincidence that her son fell into chaos and due to that I met you. But it’s not a coincidence at all. There’s no such thing. We might be able to hide behind fairy tales if the world was a level playing field where everyone started off at the same point and with the same rules and advantages. But it’s not, and we don’t. It’s always stacked against or in favor of one or another of us. It’s not fair, it’s brutal and unfair and unfeeling, and it’s all a trick designed to make us believe we’re in control of our lives when we have virtually no control whatsoever. Think of three pivotal moments in your life, Phil, crossroads where you made a wrong decision.”

  I only needed to think of one.

  “People talk of free will and the decisions we all make in life. But do we really make them, or are they made for us, are we directed in certain ways to choose that which we’re meant to choose, destined to choose? And if so, is that really free choice? Is that really a decision at all? Or are we just pawns being directed, pieces being moved who have no idea we’re not making the moves ourselves. Think through your life. Do we ever really have limitless options? Aren’t we instead faced with only a few? In fact, in most cases aren’t there usually only two? Think about it. Those important moments in your life didn’t come with limitless options, did they? And if the options aren’t limitless, is it truly free will? People tell us we can do anything in this life, but we can’t, not really. Not everyone starts on equal footing. Think of a magician. Why do you think he limits the number of choices you can make when doing a card trick? If you only have two or three options, he has a better chance of directing you to the card he wants you to take without you even realizing he’s manipulated you to do so. You move through the trick believing you’ve chosen the card you wanted, believing you’ve been in control the entire time. But in the end, you’ve had no control at all. You’ve been made a fool of, and therein lay the joke, the illusion.”

  I turned back to her.

  “And there’s only one true lord of deception,” she said, “one real master of illusion.”

  If it makes you feel any better, old friend, we never had a choice.

  “Life is a setup, Phil.” Behind glass, her weary eyes filled with tears. “It’s all a goddamn setup.”

  It was all decided long ago, without our knowledge or consent.

  “What’s happened?” I demanded. “Tell me what’s going on.”

  “I’m pregnant.”

  Paralyzed, I stared at her.

  “I’m on the pill,” she said, voice shaking. “It happens, the doctor said. Very rarely, but it happens. When science and higher powers conspire and decide a child is going to be born, he said, nothing can stop it. What’s meant to be will be, he said.”

  When I was finally able to speak I asked, “What are you going to do?”

  “I keep telling myself I’ll get an abortion,” she said flatly. “I’ll just kill it. I’ll end it right here and now. But I know I won’t. I know I can’t.”

  “It’s all right,” I told her. “We’ll get through this.” I crouched down before her and touched her leg. She flinched and moved back, deeper into the chair in an attempt to get away from me.

  “Phil, don’t,” she said, bottom lip quivering. “Please, just…don’t. Not yet.”

  I took my hand away and stood up.

  “I’ve been having horrible dreams,” she said, her face awash again in the yellow haze of candlelight. “They’re filled with blood and fire, and in the dreams I understand. I know who I am. I know who Martin is. I know because he whispers to me from my dreams, from inside me.”

  “Janine, look at me. Martin is not the antichrist and he has nothing to do with the baby inside you.”

  “Yes,” she said, nodding as fresh tears streamed across her face. “He is. And he’s growing inside me even now.”

  “No.” I moved closer again but didn’t touch her. “Even if he was to be believed, he said himself he’d be reborn through incest. We’re not related.”

  When she didn’t answer immediately, I knew. Like a knife to the gut, I felt everything inside me rip and tear and begin to bleed, to die.

  My mother was an alcoholic and a drug addict.

  “We…” She blurred through my own tears.

  She and my father were never married and she left him while I was still a baby, so I never knew him, never even met him.

  “Do you think it’s a coincidence my mother and I moved around so much? She lived like a nomad long before I was born, and due to her drug addiction and alcoholism she slept with countless men. Coincidence?”

  By the time I started high school she was dead.

  “Do you think it’s a coincidence that for a time she lived in Nevada? That in all the states she could’ve gone to she went there, that of all the people she could’ve met and had a child with, it wasn’t just any man, but the right man, the only man it could’ve been so that all our destinies would be fulfilled?”

  Apparently he’s lived in Nevada for quite some time.

  “Or that when my mother died it was here in Massachusetts? Was it a coincidence that I ended up meeting and coming to work for Mrs. Doyle? Think of all the things that had to happen, all the events that had to take place in order for this to come together. If even one component was removed the entire house of cards would’ve fallen. But it didn’t.”

  I’ve hired a firm to see if they can locate my birth father too.

  “I got the report while you were gone,” she said. “My father died two years ago in Nevada. His name was Louis Moretti. We have the same father.”

  I backed away, moving free of the light, hands to my mouth.

  “I’m your sister, Phil. And I’m pregnant with your child.”

  I stayed in the shadows awhile. Eventually I crossed back over to Janine and stood over the chair. She slowly rose to her feet. “I know what you want to do,” she whispered, her trembling hands gliding slowly up my arms, her breasts rising, pressing against the sheer fabric of her shirt, nipples erect. “But I know you won’t. And so do you.”

  She’d already accepted her fate, but what she didn’t know was that in that moment of epiphany, so had I. The murder of the scarred man and the execution of Martin had all led to this. The violence and madness had prepared me, strengthened and toughened me, the blood had consecrated me, cleansed me for this moment, this destiny, this final mission.

  I knew then whose pawn I really was.

  Cleanse him with blood, the blind old nun had said. He can only be cleansed in blood.

  She hadn’t been referring to Martin.

  Save him. Save us.

  She was praying to God about me.

  The Devil, as they say, is in the details. But sometimes, so is God.

  It may have felt like the end, but it was actually just the start of this story—my story, our story—a story older than time itself. Things were happening. Pieces were moving into place, and like a morphine drip, time was counting down slow and steady. I should’ve known better, should’ve known what was coming. But you never do. Nothing ever turns out like expected, and as many times as you see that train barreling down the track, you never think you’ll be the one it hits. But it’s all a con, misdirection, a trick. Life’s a game not on
ly of survival, but manipulation and dominance, a consolidation of power Martin called it, and he wasn’t that far off. Everybody plays, at least they think they do, even those who pretend they don’t. Problem is, the Devil’s playing too, and he’s the greatest trickster of all.

  I knew I’d burn for this, but I was going to burn anyway. I’d been mistaken all along. The deliverance I thought so close may have still been within reach, but it came with a horrible price. The gods gave us nothing for free. I thought about my baby, my precious Gillian, and hoped she’d be OK. In that dark room, in that sprawling and lonely house, I’d have given anything to hold my daughter one more time, to whisper in her ear how much I loved her, how proud I was of her. She’d still know that, but after this night, would it matter?

  Concealed behind my jacket, the weight of the revolver I was carrying reminded me of its presence.

  As Janine leaned in and kissed me, I wrapped my arms around her and held her close. Our tongues met and I felt her body shake as she cried, giving in to what she could not stop.

  After the kiss I hugged her tight, pulling her against me so she couldn’t see my face. And with a deep breath, I blew out the candle behind her.

  Darkness filled the room like a void, like we were the only two people left in a post apocalyptic universe, or perhaps one on the verge of a new dawn.

  Because there’s only one player in the game better than Lucifer, and He’d been controlling me the whole time. The penance for salvation was my own doom. I was a soldier, as the angel had told me he was, in an ancient war of constant struggle.

  Round and round we go.

  Somewhere far away I saw the rain pouring down. We were all there, Martin, Jamie and me. And the angel, he was there too, his scars coming alive, but this time in me.

  “Sins of the world,” I whispered to my sister, holding her tight with one arm as I reached around behind me for the revolver with the other. “Sins of the world.”