A premature celebration of his expected freedom.
He pulls a cigar out of his brief case and lights up.
He’s feeling really good now.
He tries to imagine the joy tomorrow when he gets home from work to find tearful messages from his wife on his answering machine.
She steps on to the elevator.
Caught up in the moment, he swigs the bottle again. He’s on the verge of being drunk.
Did he drink like this towards the end? He was trying to remember. All he could recall was Maxine’s constant bitching.
Her heart begins to race as the elevator travels upward.
Rowland steps out into the hall and walks past the elevators on his way to the bathroom. He stops for a moment, feeling uneasy. He looks around and doesn’t see anyone aside from the evening receptionist. He blows off the feeling and heads to the urinal. As soon as his bladder opens up, he begins to laugh. The sound of his laughter is sinister as it echoes against the tile walls.
The elevator slowly ascends and Maxine recounts her plan in her head.
Rowland heads back to his office and has that uneasy feeling again when he passes the elevator, but his glee at his wife’s impending mental breakdown quiets it. He smiles at the receptionist and goes back into his office. He sits on his desk, grabs the bottle, and snuffs out his cigar. In two big gulps, he drains the bottle dry. He belches, then grins because it would piss off Maxine.
The elevator doors open on the sixteenth floor. A man emerges and approaches the receptionist.
Trying to sound gruff the man says, “I’m here to see Rowland Charley.”
“Who may I tell him is here to see him, sir?”
“Max Sheraton.” It sounded right.
“Have a seat. I’ll let him know you’re here.”
Max takes a seat on the far side of the receptionist’s desk so he could see Rowland if he happens to come out of his office. His hands are sweaty.
“Sir,” the receptionist says, “you can go in now.”
“Thanks,” Max says as he rises out of his chair and crosses the floor.
His hand on the doorknob, Max pauses for a moment then turns the knob and walks into Rowland’s office.
Rowland’s sitting behind his desk attempting to gain his composure. “Max! How’re you doin’, man? I was wondering when I would hear from you!”
Max, thrown off by the familiarity Rowland shows, chuckles and says, “Sorry it took me so long Rowland, you know how bureaucracy works.”
“Yeah, yeah. I know how it is. So is the project a go? Or do I need to call your boss and tell him that you’re not doing your job?”
Panic sets in on Max. He decides it’s now or never.
Max opens the backpack and puts the box on the desk. It makes everything in Rowland’s small office look as though it was bought at a yard sale.
Rowland is instantly fixated on it, he loses track of everything else in the room except the box. His eyes are running over every inch of the box, all of the detail, trying to make assumptions of what’s in it.
Max smiles, taking the moment to savor the serendipitous execution of his plan; he couldn’t have predicted Rowland would be drunk. It was as if the cosmos was behind him, telling him this is right.
“Rowland,” she said in a voice she didn’t recognize at all. It was even different from the faux voice she used with the receptionist. It was more guttural, darker. “Do you wanna see what’s in the box?”
Mesmerized by the painstaking detail on the box, the outside seemed to be moving, slithering. He reached out to touch the box, but then retracted his hand as if something told him if he touched it, he’d go insane.
His eyes wide, he looked up. “Who are you?”
Maxine smiled.
Rowland’s trance broke.
Maxine didn’t notice because she was too busy being satisfied with her ruse and the impending result. Then Rowland noticed the eyes. Those familiar emerald eyes. He started filing through the pictures in his mind, which were blurry at best due to the whiskey earlier. He reached into his drawer and grabbed his gun. By the time he made the connection, Maxine’s hand was on the lid of the box.
Flipping the latch with a single finger, the box pulsates in the palm of her hand. She slides her hands around the side of the box and begins to push the lid with her thumbs to open it when she suddenly feels a burning sensation in her belly.
As she yanks her hands off the box, the lid flings itself open. She clutches at her stomach while a vile green light pours from the box.
Rowland tries to run out of the office, gun now dropped to the floor. Instead, the box draws him back. He tries to fight it, but every effort is countered. Every step he attempts to take is in vain, his eyes are frozen with fear, and his mouth is agape. He grabs the corner of the desk to avert the horrifying situation in which he’s found himself. The box pulls harder.
Maxine lies on the floor, clutching her bleeding belly. Her gaze never breaks from Rowland. Her look is one of horror and defeat. She watches as Rowland inches closer to the box. A wave of satisfaction washes over as she sees he can’t escape. Then panic sets in, she’s bleeding on the floor of that jackass’s office. She has to get to the phone. She starts to drag herself to his desk.
Suddenly, Rowland’s grip on the desk gives way and he’s pulled into the box with nothing more than one shrill shriek. The box jerks and shuts.
Maxine tries to climb up the desk. She flashes to Annabelle, the love of her life. This gives her renewed tenacity to reach the phone. She reaches a hand to the top of the desk and is thwarted by the file Rowland had pretended to be working on. She slides back down to the floor, as blood flows from her abdomen, creating a crimson abstract. Mortality triumphs over resolve. She dies there, helpless. Her last thought is of Annabelle.
Part Three
Darkness
The darkness crept up inside him again.
He had never felt it this soon after a change. He had hoped that there were a few months before the overwhelming feeling of emptiness would return. The sadness. The despair. The urge to hide.
Usually, the depression stayed away when he changed venue. He changed his life so many times in the last twenty years attempting to out run his sorrow. He still felt responsible. It was completely untrue, but that didn’t stave off his brain. It was convinced that had Marco kept his date he would be a much happier man.
He hadn’t just loved her. She was his soul-mate, the one who he was meant for. His priorities got out of whack and work over took his life. He worked so many hours that he couldn’t tell when one week began and another ended. It changed him. He had his eye on the prize, but it should have been on Melinda. She was the real prize.
Theirs was a typical love at first sight story. Their gaze met from across the room at one of those boring fundraisers that are just a guise for the upper crust to shut out the world of the impoverished; the very people with whom they’re claiming to empathize.
Marco was hobnobbing with some of the executives from work while sipping his martini. The mindless conversation of work had caused him to tune out while smiling and nodding in the appropriate places.
His dark eyes flashed across the room, surveying the attendees. He saw his accountant, John Schellinger and his wife, Marlene. He smiled and gave the cursory nod that’s customary when one makes eye contact with someone they know. John gave a small wave and smile of his own in return. He thought that it was unusual for those two to attend this type of event, he figured Marlene made him attend. His eyes kept moving, seeing all the same people.
It’s interesting how the same people show up to these fundraisers as if they are the only people in the world who aren’t indigent. He casually wondered why there were never any fresh pockets to try to fleece.
Then he saw her. She was tall with gorgeous, long, red hair and she was idly chatting with a group of powerful looking men that Marco didn’t recognize. The perfect excuse to meet her.
“Excuse me, gentl
emen. I’ll be back in a moment. Don’t finish the merger without me,” he chided as he started to cross the room.
Of course, it couldn’t be easy to get to her, could it? He was stopped my several people who just wanted to say “hello,” but he was so focused on her, he barely noticed them.
After what seemed like an eternity, he was there, standing next to her. He smoothed his hair, adjusted his bow tie, and cleared his throat. He put on his best smile and tried to greet them without interrupting the flow of conversation. He didn’t want it to seem obvious that he was interested in the woman in the green dress.
He stood there awkwardly for a moment, waiting for a break where he could inject himself. The awkwardness was noticed, but not by the red headed stunner, by one of the men she had been conversing with.
The gentleman reached out his hand, “Joseph Carling.”
“Marco Polenzino, Cargas Group,” he said as he reached out to shake Carling’s hand.
The greetings continued all around and lastly, “Melinda Meine. Nice to meet you.”
That was all it took. Marco was smitten. Her velvety tone roused him down to his toes. He spent the rest of the evening chatting with her. They drank, they danced, and they were just together. It was the magical evening Marco had only heard of in fairy tales.
He called for the car and offered her a ride home, but she declined. She had her own car, as most of them did, but she did give him her number. He wasted no time in calling her the next day.
Once they married, his business life got really hectic. He spent more time in the office than he did at home. He was constantly breaking dates because he had to work, but she took it all in stride. She held dinners, gave him dates in when he was home, and took care of him. He didn’t deserve her, he thought. She loved him with all of her heart and he loved her too, but just couldn’t prioritize. He kept working.
They had a movie date. He was running late so he called her and told her to go ahead to the theater and he’d meet her there. It’s a phone call that stayed with him for the rest of his tormented life.
Melinda bought two tickets for the show and went into the theater to find their favorite spot. She settled in sipping her Diet Coke and watching the advertisements flash across the screen. The lights began to dim. She checked her phone to see if Marco had called, but he hadn’t. The previews played and she shifted in her seat. She really thought he was going to make it this time.
As the movie started, she noticed a woman sitting diagonally in front of her. She noticed her at first because she looked nervous, but then got distracted by the movie playing. She looked over after a few minutes and noticed the woman was writing something. She couldn’t figure out how she was doing that because the woman was staring at the movie screen, not looking down at the piece of paper.
The alarm started blaring, the theater began to fill with smoke. Melinda looked up then back at the woman, but she was gone. She began to make her way to the exit, but the theater was full and it was getting difficult to see. She was feeling her way along the row trying to get to the aisle. She was incredibly calm while everyone around her seemed to be panicked. She worked her way to the aisle finally, but it was worse than a rush hour traffic jam. Everyone was moving slowly, yet panicked. That was when she knew this was the end.
She could see flames shooting through the exit doors of the theater and felt the heat of the fire. She tried to dial her phone to call Marco and tell him that she loved him, but when she pulled it out, it was knocked to the floor by another terror-stricken patron.
Marco’s car pulled up to the theater the same time as the fire trucks. He swung the door open so hard that it actually bent the hinges. He leapt out and began running up the sidewalk calling Melinda’s name. He wove in and out of the people exiting the theater looking for her face. He was disappointed at every turn. He kept calling and calling her name, but there was no answer. He looked at the theater and the whole complex was engulfed in flames.
There were no more patrons coming through the doors, just the fire fighters going in. He could hear muffled screams of the people stuck in the theater. He listened for Melinda’s voice while he went through the crowd again.
He was out of breath, he could feel the heat from the dwindling fire. There were no more screams from inside the theater, just looks of grief, fear, and panic on the faces of the people who did make it out. There were people everywhere. None of them were Melinda. He wound back around calling for her for another hour before he sat on the curb with his head in his hands.
He cried.
He hadn’t cried since he was a young boy.
He cried so hard he couldn’t breathe.
That day ended Marco. He could no longer focus on work. He couldn’t socialize. He had a hard time getting out of bed in the morning, much less get dressed and put on a fake smile for the world. His world was gone.
He sold everything that reminded him of Melinda. The only thing he kept was his wedding ring. He sold their apartment, their furniture, all of her clothing, all of the clothing she had picked out for him. He tried to erase every memory hoping to move on.
When that didn’t work, he moved.
He moved thirteen times in twenty years and never twice in the same state. He always managed to keep it together for six or eight months before he fell apart. One time, in New Mexico, he even stayed in the same place for three years. He worked odd jobs, nothing that tied him to a regular schedule and he only worked to keep his mind off of his pain. He didn’t need the money. He was living off of his investments and savings. He had plenty, especially since he was living small.
The most recent move, to Texas, was no different than any other. He set himself up outside of Dallas in a small one bedroom apartment. New furniture, new clothes, new everything.
He had only been there three months when the darkness began again. He had never been one for the bottle. He drank occasionally, usually at parties, but he never over did it. He didn’t like the way being intoxicated made him lose control. It was not something that he allowed himself to feel. It was how Melinda’s death made him feel.
He decided one night that he was going to go to one of the local bars. The kind with the local house band of cowboys who couldn’t actually do the work of cowboys so they sang about it instead. They were almost all drunk most of the time so the music became slurs and the guitar became almost unbearable to anyone who happened to be sober.
He sidled up to the bar, looking completely out of place in his oxford button up and chinos, but he didn’t care. He ordered a beer and the bartender, whose clothing was intentionally two sizes too small, slid it to him. She gave him the typical “Ain’t seen you around these parts before” spiel.
Marco smiled and gave her his best, “No ma’am, I’m new in town.”
She hoisted her ample cleavage in his direction and offered him some advice for a transplant. He didn’t hear any of it, his gaze fixed on an intricate wood box that sat behind the bar in the midst of all the bottles. It was out of place. It didn’t belong in a dive bar in Texas. It looked like it belonged in a museum somewhere.
He smiled at the barmaid and nodded in the right places, included some “Mmmhmms” and “Oh yeah?” so she wouldn’t know he wasn’t paying the slightest bit of attention to her.
He looked down to take a drink of his beer and when he looked up again, the box had changed. The design was different. He didn’t think that was possible, but he was sure it was altered.
The bartender was still talking when he saw the design on the box change right in front of his eyes. He gasped audibly, even over the southwestern styling of Dirty Cowboys.
His eyes darted to her to see if she noticed. He could tell by the look on her face she did. She had already followed his gaze to see what had caught his eye.
Her face went from flirty to flat. She had stopped her Texan hospitality, and he could tell she was trying to keep her composure.
“Never you mind that box, darlin’. Another draft?”
>
He nodded and turned toward the band. He was trying to discern what song they were trying to play, but his education in country music was minimal and the drunken speech of the lead singer wasn’t doing Marco any favors. As his other beer arrived, the bartender was back in her sweet Texas tone. He was sure it was because he immediately turned his attention away from the box. At least, she thought he did.
He was mulling over the box in his head. He didn’t drink often, but one beer was not enough to make things move by any standard. He was trying to justify in his mind how the design changed on the box, seeing really wasn’t believing in this case.
He began to wonder what was in the box. He thought at one point he could see the rim glowing a dim color of green, but he passed that off as the lighting in the bar. He wanted to look again, guardian was doing something else. Until then, he’d just sit there drinking his beer and wondering why the hell he came into the bar in the first place.
Then he started thinking about Melinda. Her shimmering green eyes that could see into his soul. Her alabaster skin that was so soft to the touch that it would rival even the finest silk. That freckle in the small of her back that he ran his fingers over when they were making love.
He threw back the rest of his beer and signaled for another. He was starting to feel a little buzzed. It had been so long since he had even had a swig of booze, he wasn’t surprised.
He chugged the third beer and let out an uncharacteristic belch before he could stop himself. He actually felt a little embarrassment swell up into his cheeks.
He flagged her down for one more beer and while she was pouring, he stared at the box. He kept her in his peripheral so that he could make sure that she didn’t catch him. He felt like a little boy sneaking a look at Mom’s Sears Catalog lingerie section and praying not to get caught. He was excited, confused, and scared simultaneously.
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