Grim Judgment

by Jennifer Reinfried

  “Oh, fucking great,” I muttered as I glimpsed myself in the mirror. My eyes looked better than they did before, but they were still noticeably bloodshot. Other than that, though, I thought I looked pretty good. My shaggy brown hair was only slightly tousled. It only took a few passes of my fingers - the knuckles were chapped from being outside in the cold for so long last night - to straighten it into a presentable style.

  I snatched an apple from the kitchen counter and alternated between whistling a nameless tune and biting off chunks of my breakfast as I began my trek to work. Split Rock Drive turned into Allegheny, which intersected with Centennial, where Permanent Records was located. I’d been working there for the last two and a half years. The manager, Chris, was a thin dude with dark greying hair and an impassive face. Regardless of the day, he always seemed to have about three days’ worth of stubble and, although he was only in his mid-thirties, sported stress lines across his face, giving people the impression he hadn’t slept much. Other employees tended to ignore him, as he was their boss, but I thought he was a pretty rad dude. We’d spend hours behind the front counter, discussing the latest bands we’d gone to see, favorite songs that tended to change on a weekly basis, or just random crap we’d think of on the fly.

  The chilly wind that had been blowing as I walked picked up, and I zipped my coat higher, nearly to my neck. Apple consumed, I flung its core into someone’s lawn. My body was still sore, but the stiffness had worn off during the movements of my morning, and I was beginning to feel much better.

  “Shit, dude,” Chris said as the front door of the record store slammed shut behind me. “You look like hell.”

  I grunted and shed my coat, maneuvering past a few customers skimming through countless new and used records.

  “Hungover?” he asked as I settled into my normal spot behind the counter.

  “Nah. I think I’m coming down with something. I’ll be fine.” I hadn’t determined what my excuse would be for looking the way I did, but the lie came easily enough.

  “Huh.” Chris was silent for a moment as he considered two young men hunched over a stand of cassettes, whispering to each other. “You see that Blondie broke up?”

  “What?” I twisted on my stool and looked at him, which sent a dull ache through my shoulders. For a split second I thought he was talking about my crush, Jessica, the girl at the video store, who was currently dating some wanna-be boxer jerk.

  “Yeah,” he continued. “I figure throw a couple of their albums on today, inspire fans to buy ‘em.”

  Of course he’d meant the band. I turned back to face the store and groaned.

  “Seriously, man. You sure you’re all right?” Chris was looking at me with concern, but I waved him off.

  “Fine. We get anything new in today?”

  “Nah. Watch the front, I’m going to go see what those assholes are up to over there.” Chris stood and made his way toward the two young men, still in the same spot, their backs to us.

  A pretty girl with long, silken, jet black hair approached the counter after Chris left. She held an orange sucker between the fingers of one hand, and looked me up and down with her pale green eyes. “You have the new Eagles here?” she asked.

  “Down the third aisle,” I said casually. “Under ‘E.’ If you don’t see one there, we get a new shipment in every couple of weeks.” I watched as she walked away without thanking me, her hips swaying deliciously in tight, high-waisted white pants. She began to flip through records, keeping her movements slow, as if she knew I was watching. Of course, I was. Don’t judge. I was a horny, single, twenty-one-year-old man. What do you expect?

  My attention was torn away from the girl when the bell above the door chimed. I looked up to see Chris walking back toward me. The bored look on his face told me he’d gotten rid of the delinquents without incident. As the two men made their exit, a handful of new customers came into the store, and my manager and I suddenly found ourselves busy with requests and sales. After checking out an elderly couple, I glanced up to find the raven-haired girl had left. Disappointment itched my mind, which worsened tenfold as the next customer in line came forward: my crush’s boyfriend.

  “Yo,” he said. I think his name was Steve. Or Seth. I couldn’t remember, and really didn’t care. “This says it’s fifty percent off.”

  I glanced down at the record he’d tossed on the counter in front of me: Jefferson Starship’s Winds of Change. “This just came out,” I said. I eyed the yellow discount sticker. It was curled, and peeled halfway off the shrink wrap. It was totally obvious he’d taken it off of something else. “No way. It must have gotten on there somehow by accident. This one’s full price.”

  “Bullshit. Half off, or I’ll take my business elsewhere.”

  “Fine by me.” I shrugged, and moved to put the record on a shelf below the counter.

  “You fuckin’ serious?” The man turned and glared at Chris, whose eyes faltered as he looked between him and the woman he was helping.

  “Look, it’s full price,” I said again. “We don’t discount new albums.”

  “Don’t give a shit. It says half off, I pay half.” Steve/Seth’s hands were already clenched, and a vein in his neck stood out. He had brown, wicked eyes that flicked this way and that. He bounced slightly on the balls of his feet as he continued the confrontation, eager to get his way or start an altercation.

  Before I could reply to the idiot, Chris, who had finished with his customer, reached across me and ripped off the bright sticker. “Full price,” he said.

  “Oh yeah? So you’re discriminating against me now, huh?” Steve/Seth’s voice rose to an uncommonly loud decibel.

  “Look, man,” I said. I got off my stool and held his gaze. “Calm down, or get out.”

  “Fuck this place.” The guy actually had the balls to swipe his arm across the counter, sending pens, pencils, stacks of paper and our heavy phone to the floor in a loud, jumbled crash. Chris leapt to his feet and made to move around the counter, but Steve/Seth bolted. In his retreat, he reached out and knocked as much merchandise into disarray as possible while cackling and flipping us off over his shoulder. Then he was out the door and gone from my sight.

  —-

  Ten minutes after five that afternoon, I waved my hand over a shoulder at Chris, exiting the store and stepping into the early autumn night.

  My walk home was uneventful and cold, although winter never bothered me. Entering my home, I flipped a switch and soft, yellow light played over the familiar surroundings of the living room and kitchen. After removing my coat and shoes and placing them neatly where they belonged, I hurried to my room. Mom was at work again. I shut the door to my bedroom and twisted the small lock on the round handle, then looked around, suddenly at a loss.

  Was it the book? I thought. I glanced at the novel I’d held before. No, that time it didn’t work. Maybe the guitar? My fingers felt the smooth wood and coarse strings as I trailed them across its surfaces, but no other connection came to me as I touched it. For a moment, I thought maybe I’d have to be sitting on the porch, then dismissed the idea. It was too cold out, plus I had a suspicion none of these things had anything to do with the process itself.

  So, with that in mind, I climbed into bed, fully clothed. I kept my arms above the comforter and let my eyes wander around my room, taking in a few of the posters - Zeppelin, Rush, Def Leppard, The Stones, David Bowie, The Wrath of Khan - then coming to rest on an unsolved Rubik’s cube that rested on one of my two small shelves near the closet. A layer of dust had dulled its bright colors. I gazed at it while thinking about Jessica again. I can’t believe she’s dating that prick.

  My eyes relaxed, and the colors of the Rubik's cube and its immediate surroundings blurred together.

  I liked how Jessica’s straight blonde hair was always teased into perfection. She favored different shades of red lipstick, never pink or brown, and I’d often caught myself wondering what she’d taste like.

  My eyelids drooped
slightly.

  When she had been naked in the mirror the night before, I’d wanted more than anything to gawk at her. Part of me, a huge part, regretted the fact that I didn’t, but my father and mother raised me better than that. I may be shy at times, and hate confrontation, might have been a twenty-one-year-old still living with his mom without a plan for the future, but I’m a gentleman, dammit. Besides, it would have been cheating. I’d much prefer to experience the real thing, if I could even get on her radar.

  A weightlessness took over my body.

  My other senses began to fade.

  Yeah, yeah, I know. It was working.

  Before I realized it was, however, I was in her mind again.

  The excitement and wonder that filled me at my success was cut short by a man yelling in my face. Jessica was currently in the middle of a fight with her father, who glared at her with a mixture of fury and what looked like concern.

  “Bullshit,” he yelled. “Don’t fuckin’ cover up for him!” His weathered face had red splotches above his beard.

  “What the hell, Dad? Why aren’t you listening to me?”

  “Ran into a door, my ass. You better never bring that guy over here again, Jess. I’m serious. Get rid of him.”

  “He didn’t do anything!” She let out a high-pitched screech, turned, and bolted out of the front door. Her father didn’t follow.

  I didn’t know how to get back to my body. Hell, I still didn’t know exactly how it had worked this time but didn’t when I tried to transfer into my mother before. Maybe it only works with certain people. Regardless, I had to practice, and seeing as I couldn’t seem to control Jessica, I didn’t see the harm in practicing on her. So I watched out of her eyes as she stormed down the street, which I recognized as Bristlecone Drive. Together, we ended up near the dead end of Yellowpine, walking up the driveway of a small, light blue house with white shutters.

  The wood of the front door was rough underneath our knuckles as we knocked. We squeezed the fabric of her coat, fingers cold. A few moments later, a redheaded girl our age greeted us and ushered us into the warmth of the home.

  We followed the girl up a flight of stairs without a word, ducking our head so hair blocked our view of an older woman cooking in a small pastel kitchen.

  “What the hell, Jess?” the girl asked as we finally reached a very, very purple room and shut the door behind her. We sat on the bed.

  “I know.”

  “I’m serious. Was it Seth?”

  There was a pause in which our eyes stayed locked on the dark carpeting underneath our sneakers.

  “Jess...”

  “Yeah. It was.” Our vision snapped up as we looked quickly at the girl. “Don’t tell my parents. Please.”

  “Why? He hit you! What are you going to do? Look at you.” Her red eyebrows furrowed.

  “I know, Judy.” Jessica stood up and took me with her. We moved to a mirror and for the first time, as she studied herself, I realized I had felt an ache on the left side of our face. I had been so preoccupied with the transfer, so giddy it had worked again, so focused on maintaining it, that I hadn’t assessed the body I was in. True, my own eyes had been hurting all day, but this was asymmetrical, and I chastised myself for not noticing right away. Inside Jessica, my blood began to churn as I studied her black eye, lid swollen halfway shut.

  “Tell me what happened,” Judy was saying.

  Jessica sighed, our chest heaving, our breath fluttering past our lips. “I don’t know, really,” she said. “We were supposed to go on a date. He was already upset when he picked me up, but didn’t say much.” She turned away from the mirror. “He said he was going to take me to a movie, but he just kept driving. Eventually we got to his friend’s house, and he told me to stay in the car. I got out and demanded to know what was going on, and he just...hit me. Told me to get back inside and stay there. You should have seen his eyes, they were—”

  I jerked as a loud, even pounding accosted my ears. I sat up with a loud gasp, back in my own room. Disorientated, I stared around.

  “Jesus, Mom, enough!” I shouted finally.

  “Open this damn door!”

  My body, stiff again, but not nearly as sore, I shifted and stood. I glanced at the clock and realized I’d only been gone for a little over an hour. Mom pounded again.

  “I’m coming!” I took a deep breath, steeled myself, then twisted the lock and opened the door.

  “The hell?” Her voice was loud, and her eyes held a sheen of anger.

  “I was sleeping!” I shouted back.

  “Bullshit, I knocked forever.”

  “Yeah, well...I think I’m sick. Okay? I’m coming down with something or...something.”

  Mom scoffed but glanced me over with a maternal gaze, which came back to rest on my still bloodshot eyes. She crossed her arms and cocked a hip. “Okay. I’m sorry. I was just worried. You didn’t answer right away like you normally do.”

  “I’m sorry, too. I just really think I need sleep.” Her hand was cool against my forehead. “Mom,” I groaned.

  “Okay, okay, I’m going. Don’t scare me like that again. Do you want any medicine?”

  “No. Just sleep.”

  “Let me know if you do.”

  “I will, Mom. Thanks. And sorry, again.” I gently shut the door as she reluctantly turned away, but this time kept it unlocked.

  As I settled back down on my bed, I considered trying another transfer, then dismissed the idea. My body was already wiped from the short one I’d just done, probably because of the strain it had been through. I made two mental notes as I stripped my clothes off: one, it didn’t seem I could handle too much transferring in a row, and two, loud noise seemed to bring me back. I switched off my lamp and lay on my back, in only my underwear, a dim fury basking in my chest. And three, I need to beat the fuck out of Seth.

  —-

  Now, I know you don’t know me like, at all, so let me get this embarrassing fact out of the way now: I’m a coward. Like I said before, I hate confrontation. Always have, probably always will. I’ve never been in a real fight, and the thought of starting one terrified me. If pushed to it, I will defend myself and others, but only as a last resort. I don’t believe in getting my face bashed in just because I had a witty reply to an insult. That’s why I didn’t go after Seth in the record store. It’s also why I didn’t actually beat the fuck out of him after I’d found out what he did to Jessica. I did, however, get him back my way. At the time I thought I was pretty damn smart, but now I know better.

  We’ll get to that.

  Anyway, my way took four days. I told my mother I was too sick to go to work and spent those four days shut up in my room, practicing the transfer. I learned that the longer I held a transfer, the harder it was for me to recuperate. Also, it would take me longer to be able to transfer again, at least if I wanted to avoid some seriously shitty side effects such as temporary blindness (that wasn’t fun to wait out), hours of uncontrollable shaking, and, for some reason, diarrhea like you wouldn’t believe. Hey, at least it helped me feign my so-called illness while stuck at home with my mom.

  I also learned that some little part of me stayed in my own brain. It wasn’t enough to sense pain, though, and I’d come back more than once to my body toppled onto the floor from the chair I sat in, my face mashed against the worn and dirty carpet of my room, the little fibers tickling my slack tongue. However, that part of me did pick up on loud, obnoxious noises, so I began setting an alarm before each transfer, toying with different time lengths as well as different frequencies. I slept most of the mornings and only practiced after my mom left for work.

  I won’t go through these days of training in detail, don’t worry. Too bad written stories can’t have montages, right? Wait, let me try. Pop on Live Wire by Mötley Crüe quick.

  The first scene is me sitting in a kitchen chair I dragged into my room. My face is determined, my eyes closed. It takes a while, but I transfer into Jessica, who is in her room reading
a book. It’s quite boring. Plus she’s reading a romance novel, which is awful, and I’m stuck reading it with her for twenty minutes until my alarm pulls me back. I look in the mirror. Eat lunch. Go back in my room, sit down. Set my alarm and my second transfer starts. The book again. Okay, I’m going to try someone else next time, screw this. I pop back in later, this one was shorter, but I spend longer after it picking up my room and trying to repair my stereo. Night falls. Cut to me in the chair again, and I successfully transfer into - whoops - a dog. Now that was fun. I laugh. The audience would, too, so cue the laugh track. I have a fun time as a dog for forty minutes, then am pulled back by another alarm. I’m encouraged now. I try the transfer again without checking myself in the mirror. Bad idea, but too late, I’m gone. Next scene is me fallen on the floor, convulsing, unable to stand up. When I’m better, I get up, shower, go to bed. Next day. I try again, and again, and again. You get the idea. On the third day, I look like I’d been half-starved, lost in the woods for a week, doing nothing but snorting drugs. But I keep trying. Pretend I fist-pump here. Also, I’m leaving out the trips to the bathroom and other gross side effects you don’t need to know about. In fact, we’ll take that out in post-production. Last few scenes. I transfer into Ms. McMillen, then back. To Mr. Wood three blocks down, then back. The dog one more time just for the hell of it. Seriously, chasing a stick is the most joyous thing I’ve ever done. Then back. Final scene. I’ve rested the entire night of the third day and the morning and most of the afternoon of the fourth. I’m ready. I’m so ready. Scene ends, soundtrack fades.

  Hey, I should use a montage more often.

  I lay on my bed this time, set my alarm for thirty minutes, then transferred into Seth. My sight snapped into focus and settled on the barrel of a pistol aimed between my eyes.

  Chapter Five

  NOW

  2016

  Jaxon woke with a start from a dreamless, inadequate sleep. His back and neck cried out in random aches as he sat up. He had fallen asleep on the makeshift cot Sarah had brought in for him the day before, next to Shawn, who was still unconscious. Three days had passed since the morning they were brought to the safe house, and his brother still hadn’t awoken. Sarah checked in on her patient continuously, and although she said she wasn’t worried about Shawn’s state, Jaxon had begun to feel an anxiety creep through his veins with each day that passed. He watched his brother for a moment, seconds ticking by, then stood.