Soul Bonded, #1

by Lori Titus

  “Did she threaten you?”

  “Natasha, she’s seeing people that aren’t there. I know you don’t want to hear this but it has to be said. It’s not safe for you to keep her at home anymore.”

  AFTER THE STORE CLOSED, Ronnie came by the house, and I told him the whole story about my mother.

  “Let me guess, you fired Indira.”

  “Damn right. I’m not putting mama in a home. And if I did what would I need a caregiver for?”

  “You sure she doesn’t have the right idea? I mean you know I love Auntie Kat...”

  “All these declarations of love now that people want her put away,” I said. “It’s convenient.”

  “Come on Cuz, don’t get pissy; you know I’m on your side. I’m just saying the lady might not be entirely wrong.”

  WE WERE SITTING IN my living room. I had my feet up, and Ronnie sat beside me. I usually didn’t like to smoke inside the house, but this day was just bad enough that I didn’t care. I was halfway through a blunt before my cousin arrived. He was always up for one, and he joined me.

  “You ever find the other knife?”

  “I will,” I said. “I went through her room and it wasn’t there. I think she only had the one in the first place.”

  “Well one is enough to cut somebody’s throat.”

  “I know. She won’t hurt anybody that doesn’t deserve it.”

  “What’s the plan then, Tasha?”

  “I’ll find her a new caregiver.”

  “You sure? It’s hella expensive.”

  “And so is a nursing home, a decent one anyway.”

  “You got me there,” he sighed. “You know I got you covered at the store, right?”

  I reached out and hugged him. “Thanks, Ronnie. What would I do without you? I’m thinking it will take a week, maybe two for me to find somebody else for Mama.”

  “We’re good. I just hope Auntie doesn’t cut you in the meantime.”

  “Stop,” I was laughing by then, but my eyes were tearing up.

  “Seriously though. Aside from taking care of her, you’re going to have to get a life of your own one day.”

  “With all the responsibilities I have, how is that not a life?”

  “Come on, you know what I mean. When was the last time you had a date? Or went out and did something fun with your girlfriends, even?”

  “We’ve all got busy lives,” I replied.

  “Okay, so what about a man then?”

  “I don’t have the time or the patience right now.” I could have added that I barely put up with his self-righteous ass but I decided that might be pushing things too far. Ronnie is like the brother I never had, but sometimes he irritates me.

  “Alright, if you say so.” Ronnie shook his head. I know he thought I was a lost cause. He wasn’t telling me anything other people hadn’t said in different ways. I just didn’t have the luxury of caring about anyone else’s opinion.

  Chapter Two

  Christopher Stuckey

  I heard a pounding noise. I pulled the pillow over my head, and the covers too. My feet were sticking out of the edge of the bed and felt cold. The pounding became louder.

  “The fuck...?” I said. I sat up and the walls spun. I felt queasy, but I realized the pounding noise wasn’t in my head.

  Grayish sunlight filtered through the blinds I hadn’t bothered to close the night before. I got up and almost tripped over an empty bottle of cheap vodka. I somehow managed to avoid the other bottles that littered the floor as I made my way to the door. The litter was a permanent fixture, like furniture I had learned to navigate around.

  Once I managed to make it down the hall and open the door, the cool air felt like an assault on my pounding head and lurching stomach.

  “It’s too early for this shit, Ethan,” I said.

  “I could say the same thing. Morning to you too, Chris,” he brushed past me in the doorway. A wave of dizziness made me sway on my feet. I closed the door and stood with my hand against it to steady myself.

  “Well, I see why you weren’t at the meeting last night.”

  “Look, don’t even start with that.”

  “No one likes a drunk who’s sorry for himself.”

  “No one likes a drunk, period.”

  I took a chance and walked into the kitchen. I was already taking a mental inventory about how many bottles I might have left there, which bottles were full and which ones were half gone.

  “You were doing good, man. What happened? Why’d you go on a bender again? Why didn’t you call me?”

  “I know they think they’re doing us a favor, giving you to me as a sponsor. The two servicemen,” I said. “I get the idea, but honestly, if I told you what makes me drink, it would probably trigger us both.”

  “Trigger? Are you really one of those assholes who knows just enough therapy speak to use it against me?”

  I didn’t know what to say. I laughed. That was a mistake. It felt like someone had knocked me in the back of the head with a pipe.

  “I guess I am.”

  Ethan shook his head. He walked around the counter. “When was the last time you cleaned in here?”

  I shrugged. I couldn’t recall. My days and nights flowed together, punctuated only by nightmares. Sometimes those blended into each other too. I knew I hadn’t eaten for at least one day but suspected it was longer. I hadn’t showered in recent memory either.

  Ethan grabbed my trash can. He went to my cupboards and located each stash of alcohol: under the sink, behind the cereal on the highest shelf, in the bottom of the dishwasher.

  “How did you know?”

  “I hate to take your ego down a notch, but,” Ethan replied. ““We tell the same lies to ourselves and everybody else, and we store our bottles in all the same places. The weirdest place I ever found one was in a toilet tank. Trust, I haven’t been surprised by anything in a mighty long time. I don’t know what the hell happened to you in Special Ops, and I’m sure it was something worse than most people will ever go through. I’m sorry for that. It takes a strong man to survive it. You know what’s easy? Being a drunk, because it’s easier than getting up and pushing through with life. You keep doing this, and you’ll end up dying of alcohol poisoning or blowing your own brains out.”

  “Fuck you.” I held onto my bravado because it was all I had. On a good day, he might decide not to mess with me. This was not one of those. The man was built like a mountain range, and he had all his wits about him. I was struggling not to fall down.

  Ethan shook his head. His mouth was set in a firm, grim line.

  In that moment, I hated him. I watched as he poured every precious drop of liquor down the kitchen drain.

  I DON’T REMEMBER HOW the conversation around it took place, but I ended up taking a shower. I pulled on a pair of jeans and the cleanest t-shirt I could find. When I came out, the smell of coffee wafted through the air.

  “You’re still here?” I asked.

  “Yeah.”

  I wondered how long I had been in the shower. In the time that had elapsed, there were three more trash bags by the back door, filled with bottles and random shit. I hadn’t seen the wood floor in at least a month.

  “What are you now, my mother? I didn’t ask you for this.”

  “Your mother had a beard, son?”

  Ethan wasn’t exactly old enough to be my parent. More like a surly older brother. He shoved a mug of black coffee my way. I sat down and held it in my hands for a long time, absorbing the warmth of the cup through my fingers. I shivered. The shower had chilled my skin at the end as the hot water waned. He sat down across from me and I avoided the heavy gaze of his dark eyes.

  “Thank you,” I muttered, and took a long drink. It was steaming and bitter, but it hit the spot. My stomach churned, but I knew better than to try to eat food yet. That wouldn’t be safe for a few more hours.

  “How bad are the flashbacks, Chris?”

  I ran a hand through my hair. “I regret ever tellin
g you about that.”

  “The hell, man, I’m not asking you to give me details. That part you can save for your therapist. I want to know how often you’re having them.”

  I considered for a long moment before answering. “Often.”

  I expected him to say something. He didn’t, not for a long time. I was finished with my coffee, staring into the dregs of it, when he finally spoke up.

  “You need help, the kind you can’t get from Group.”

  I stared at him. His expression was as placid as I had ever seen. There was something in his eyes. Resignation? My mind couldn’t grasp exactly what it was at that moment. Some more complicated emotion was working under the surface, or maybe it was something very simple and final and I just couldn’t bring myself to accept it.

  Since I got back home two months earlier, I had attempted to drink away the last seven years of my life.

  When the nightmares first started, my doctor prescribed an antidepressant. Once the nightmares morphed into hallucinations, he took me off of it. He claimed it was a side effect and that would dissipate as the medicine made its way out of my system.

  Instead, they grew progressively worse.

  Most nights I drained a whole bottle just to get to sleep, and even then there were no guarantees.

  “You’re going to have them kick me out of the program?” It sounded crazy to say out loud. I’d never heard of a drunk being kicked out of the steps; usually they just walked off on their own. Occasionally a sponsor got so fed up that they asked for someone else to take over a particularly hard case. Maybe that was what was about to happen.

  “No,” Ethan replied, voice modulated. “I know someone else who may be able to help you. They have, well, innovative methods. I’ve seen it work out for other people before.”

  He reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a black business card. He slid it to me across the table, and I picked it up. The plain white lettering said:

  Ramshead and Pollard

  1535 Century Court

  Century City, CA. 90067

  310-313-9500

  “What is this for?” I asked. “Doctor? Psychiatrist?”

  “Make an appointment to see Ramshead,” Ethan said. “Keep an open mind. They aren’t traditional, but they’re effective.”

  Ethan got up and said his goodbyes. I heard the door close behind him, but didn’t bother to get up and lock it.

  Instead I stared at the black card on the table and bit back a wave of nausea.

  DESPITE ETHAN’S VISIT, the rest of the day went the same way all my days did. I made weekly trips to the liquor store and more infrequent ones to the grocery. Other than those errands, I didn’t leave the house much anymore.

  Ethan had only been gone about an hour when I went to restock my alcohol. I had a list of favorites: Vodka, gin, and Southern Comfort. Really, anything would have done the job for me, but I liked to think that pretending it mattered made a difference. I wasn’t a drunk if I still was picky about the brand. I was just an alcoholic with preferences.

  The plan was to be drunk by 12:30 and oblivious for the rest of the afternoon. I’d probably wake sometime within the night, and I could drink some more and fall back to sleep. Hopefully there wouldn’t be hallucinations or night terrors in between.

  When I got home from the store, I remember fumbling with my keys for a moment before getting the door open.

  The house was dim. I thought for a moment I was imagining what I was seeing: a man sitting in my living room. I blinked, and he wasn’t gone. Though his face was in shadow, I could see the glowing red tip of the cigarette held between his lips. He removed it and casually flicked the ash onto the coffee table. A thin swirl of smoke curled above his head like a trembling wreath.

  “Who are you? What the hell are you doing in my house?”

  He stood. “No need to be unsociable,” the stranger said. “You’ve nothing to fear. Please come inside, Christopher.”

  I had a gun in the nightstand in my bedroom and another in a locked case above my fridge. I took a step over the threshold, determined to grab him by the collar and pull him out.

  “How do you know my name?”

  He waved his left hand, and the door slammed shut behind me.

  That was when I rushed him.

  He took a step forward, and I was finally able to see him.

  He lifted a hand, and I moved backward like I had been pushed, but he was still five feet away. An unseen force shoved me against the wall, and I felt hands pinning me down. My bag dropped to the floor, and I heard the bottles shatter.

  “Dammit!”

  “I hate to start out this way, the man said coolly. “It’s unnecessary.”

  “Who... what are you?”

  “Ah, and there you go. Asking the right questions. Do you think we can speak civilly? If so, I will let you go.”

  I nodded.

  “Good boy,” he said, and chuckled.

  Whatever held me down let me go. I took a careful step forward.

  “Why are you here?”

  “I’ll explain that,” he said.

  I walked slowly, closing the space between us.

  He was an older man, in his early seventies by my guess. His wavy silver hair was brushed back from his forehead. He looked at me with an appraising blue stare. He was thin and tall. He had a long chin, and the planes of his face were narrow and sharp. I had never seen this sonofabitch before. I couldn’t imagine what he was doing in my house, or how he’d slammed me into a wall with a flick of his hand.

  There was no way this man was looking for money, not that he’d find any.

  The stranger indicated I should take a seat on the couch across from him. Not having any better option, I did.

  “Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Victor Ramshead. Ethan Hamilton contacted me. He thought I might be inclined to help you.”

  “With what, and how? What’s that got to do with you breaking into my house?”

  “A man in your condition might not be inclined to come to me,” he replied. “I thought it best to seek you out instead.”

  “What for? I don’t have anything valuable.”

  “This is where you’re wrong,” Ramshead sat down. He looked perfectly comfortable, as if he were invited here and was waiting for a servant to drop by with a platter of refreshments.

  “Hurry up and tell me what this is about.”

  His lips peeled back from his teeth in what was probably supposed to be a grin. To me, it felt more like a snarl. “There’s so much you could tell me. What about that little girl in Kabul? Why don’t we begin with her?”

  It took me a moment to convince myself that I’d heard that right.

  “The little girl, with the bomb strapped to her chest.”

  I began to sweat. “No one...no one knows about that.”

  “You mean because you were the only one in the unit who survived that day? The dead do speak. You wouldn’t be surprised that some are angry about how they ended up.”

  I grabbed the armrest of my chair, gripping it hard enough that my fingers hurt. I must have said something to Ethan while I was drunk, I reasoned. Maybe he heard a similar story from another vet and thought it was about me. There was no other way for this man to know.

  “You can stay in this little house, and drink yourself to death,” Ramshead said. “I mean, let’s be honest; you’re on target for that. You’ve got a government pension that will pay your bills while you do it. No one is left in your life because you cut ties to the people you cared about before you went overseas. Though you weren’t that much of a son or a friend, and we both know you’re not shit for a brother. Then there’s your record with women. It’s not like any of them were giving up so much by letting you go. When you bothered to remember their names, I mean.”

  “Who breaks into a man’s house to talk shit? Get out.”

  Ramshead laughed. “Well I guess I have been a little harsh. I’m here to offer you something.”

  “S
uch as?”

  “A chance at a new life, Mr. Stuckey,” he said. “Something you sorely need.”

  “New life? Listen. I don’t know what Ethan told you, or if this is some kind of weird scared straight bullshit. Why don’t you leave right now before—”

  “Christopher, are you able to stand?”

  I tried. I pushed my hands down on the chair, and found I literally could not move. It was like being suddenly glued down. Worse, I couldn’t feel anything from my waist down. Nothing.

  Ramshead laughed heartily. “It’s reversible, a favorite spell of mine. You were going to tell me about how you were about to blow my brains out or beat me to death, correct? I’m sure you would if I allowed you to. A man like me doesn’t reach this age without knowing a little something about self-preservation.”

  “What?”

  “You’re going to sit here and listen, and then I’ll let you go. Mr. Stuckey. How would you like it if I could take away the pain you’re feeling? Your urge to drink. It would be nice to sleep a full night, without all of the ghosts hovering around you, wouldn’t it?”

  “How’s that possible?”

  “Are you one of these poor fools without imagination?” Ramshead continued. “It’s a bit disappointing if you are. What if I could remove the little thing that keeps you locked into this cycle of depression? Wouldn’t it be nice to care a little less for all the woes of the world? Carrying all the dead in your waking and dreaming hours, aching to join them?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “What if—” Ramshead got up, and circled around the chair, leaning on the back of it as if he were speaking from a podium. I could tell that while this speech wasn’t exactly rehearsed, he had delivered some facsimile of it many times.

  “What if I could take away that part of your essence that causes you so much suffering?”

  “Essence?” I blinked. “Are you talking about my soul?”

  “To put it in the most rudimentary of terms, yes.”

  “I don’t believe in souls.”

  “You don’t? You sure about that, Mr. Stuckey? Because Christopher Alan Stuckey, Sr. was a god-fearing man himself. In fact, he hoped that his son would someday pick up that good book and save some souls himself. Pastor of a little shithole church down in Chrysalis, South Carolina. Raised you up a proper Baptist boy. How sad he must have been to see you lose your faith before you even became a man.”