Succubus Tear (Triune promise)

by Andreas Wiesemann

  “Is there a problem here, Mister Jones?”

  “Walter—I mean, Mister Stratton! No, no problem, just a workplace altercation that I am taking care of right now.”

  Charlie looked over to Walter Stratton; he stood as tall as Cain and was probably just as muscled. He was impeccably dressed in a high-quality wool coat and three-piece suit, and he completed his no-nonsense look with a pair of dark sunglasses. He turned his gaze upon Charlie and looked over to where Cain was still working on the cement.

  “Mister Jones, considering how far behind on schedule you were, I think removing these two would put you even more so. Especially considering that they are faster than the lot you usually employ. In fact, I seem to recall that the cement and welding job was the primary source of delay.” He gestured to Cain and then to Charlie. “And these two have accomplished in a few days what was budgeted for a few weeks.”

  The look the foreman had on his face forced Charlie to fight the reflex to grin, and he bit his tongue before one of his trademark smart-ass quips could escape his lips. If there was anything that always saved his and Cain’s ass on the jobsite, it was their undeniable ability.

  “Yes, Mister Stratton, sir. Of course.”

  Walter Stratton nodded and walked off without a second glance.

  The foreman glanced at Charlie. “We’ll talk later.”

  Charlie grinned and shrugged as he glanced at Barry, now getting to his feet.

  “Asshole,” Barry muttered.

  “You got me there,” Charlie said as he turned his head toward a faint giggle. A cute brunette was watching the scene; her stance was too relaxed to be waiting for someone, and the smile behind her eyes meant she saw something she liked. Or so I hope, Charlie thought.

  “Hey,” he said as he drew within a couple of feet of the young lady.

  “Hey there, Mister Kung Fu,” she said with a shy smile.

  “How’d you know my name?” Charlie asked with a serious tone.

  “Are you serious?” the girl asked with wide eyes.

  “No, I just wanted to make you laugh—knew it would work.”

  Still laughing, the girl wiped her eyes with one hand while the other held on to the umbrella. She tried to force the smile from her face by massaging her jaw, but was unsuccessful. “So, what is your name then?”

  “Charlie Tsukada. What about your name?”

  “Eileen.”

  “Eileen. Hmmm. Eileen is an old French name that means ‘hazelnut.’ Like the color of your beautiful hair.”

  “Oh, you’re good,” Eileen said, twirling her umbrella. “I’ve never been hit on like this before. So what’s your name mean?”

  “Naaah, I can’t give away everything. It would leave nothing to talk about later tonight.”

  Eileen started to laugh again and then glanced over Charlie's shoulder. “Some tall guy was just scowling at us—well, at you really.”

  Charlie glanced around. “Oh, that’s Cain, my best friend. Perhaps I can introduce you to him. Whatcha say?”

  “I already have a boyfriend.”

  “Lucky guy.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Awww, thanks. But we both know you’re not sorry.”

  They stared at each other for a few moments, just smiling, perhaps feeling the magic that could only exist between two hearts beating to the tune of “what-if.”

  Charlie winked and headed after his friend. He stopped and glanced over his shoulder; Eileen was still standing there and smiling at him. He was just about to go back to ask for her number when a familiar scream rang in the air.

  “Crap, why did I have to flirt with the girl?” Charlie hissed as he broke into a run, wondering what the hell Cain did this time.

  “Woa, crap!” Charlie exclaimed, almost falling down from a patch of ice. He quickly scanned the street where Cain usually bought lunch. Ah, there he was, across the street and pounding on some door…with his left hand? Charlie walked closer, grimacing from the spatters of blood gleaming from the pale snow and ice on the sidewalk leading up to the sandwich stand. He sighed internally while he waited for the street to clear enough for him to cross.

  Charlie flinched as the mail slot Cain was reaching through closed on his hand. “Oi’, Cain-sama! Abunai kotow a kega no uchi! Giving the door a kiss? Isn’t that nice? Considering you already gave it a really good banging. What else could you give, eh?” *

  Yeah, I’m good! Charlie thought to himself, pleased he caught Cain with his lips to the door.

  “Give? I already gave everything! My flesh, my blood, my food, my money! Hell, why not give my life too? All bu—” Cain coughed, as some saliva must have gotten in his windpipe. “My pride!” he finished in a hoarse tone.

  Holy shit! He's covered in blood, and his hand is sliced to the bone! Charlie thought, now feeling like the biggest asshole in the world. “C’mon, I’m taking you to the hospital, no arguments.”

  Something caught his attention in the corner of his eye; he could have almost sworn that the door was opened just a crack and a hand was reaching for him. He whipped his gaze to the door; it was closed, like it hadn't been opened in years. He turned his gaze over the structure. Everything about it seemed to be out of place. It was done up in a style that was a stark contrast to the rest of the city, with heavy metal fixtures and even heavier oak beams. The entire place radiated a supernatural chill, something more sinister lacing the once pleasant cold, giving him the creeps.

  “It’s only a cut, dammit!” Cain said. “And besides, this injury happened outside of work. They’ll kick me off the crew and I’ll just sit around with my thumb up my ass!”

  Charlie narrowed his eyes and lowered his voice. “Dammit yourself, Orokana! You may not have a thumb to put up your ass if you don’t get that looked at! Your hand is sliced wide open, and you’re pale from the blood loss. Besides, do you think you can hide your blood-soaked face and clothes? Let’s go, Cain-sama.”

  Cain sighed as he followed Charlie to his car. “Fine! Damn it all.”

  Charlie pulled out his phone and texted the foreman, taking his time to get in his ’87 Accord, so Cain wouldn’t notice. “Hey, I sprained my ankle. Cain’s gonna take me to the hospital and then back home. I’ll see you in two days. I already know there will be no compensation, this happened outside of work.”

  Chapter 3

  Despair and Dreams

  “Unless we do some more tests to confirm this, I'd say this kid has stage two pancreatic cancer.”

  —Dr. Pear Amondson

  “Mister Lamentson, I don’t know how to say this with tact, so I won't.” The doctor looked into Cain’s eyes and said flatly, “You suffered severe nerve damage; your hand is paralyzed.”

  Cain stared for several minutes into the doctor's eyes as the implications of what happened sunk in. “But, it’s just a little numb,” he said dumbly. “I mean, you cleaned and stitched it together.”

  “Mister Lamentson, you were barely given any pain medication since you came in. I may have stitched your hand together, but the main branch of your radial nerve is severed with a piece of it missing, and the distal part of the ulnar nerve is severely damaged by a crushing force. It’s a miracle your major arteries were missed.”

  “Well, shit, can’t the nerve be reattached? I’ve heard of stories of severed hands being reattached.”

  “Mister Lamentson, a neurosurgeon might be able to reattach a severed nerve, but your nerve is more than just severed. It’s missing pieces here and there.” The doctor sat down and looked at the notes. “This says that you work construction? That this injury happened outside of work?”

  This has to be a bad dream! It HAS to be! Cain nodded.

  The doctor shook his head. “I used to work construction. I’m more sorry than you’ll ever know, but I hardly think I need to tell you that those days are over.” He flipped to the last page. “There is one other thing. Our hospital is part of a clinical trial for a new blood screen that detects pancreatic cancer.” He look
ed up with a grave expression. “I’d like to run a few more tests, as your blood came back positive.”

  “Not unless you pay for it.”

  “Mister Lamentson, this is your health that—” The doctor stopped and sighed. “Here are your discharge papers, and a list of specialists that deal with nerve damage.”

  “How bad is it?” Charlie asked as he and Cain got back into the car.

  Cain shook his head. “Doc said to give it a few days in the bandage. I’ll be fine.”

  Charlie opened his mouth to speak, but stopped. Cain turned and faced the window; he knew why his friend stopped. He stared into his faint reflection in the window, staring into the haunted look his eyes carried, and was afraid.

  ***

  Move! Damn you! Move! Cain had been staring at his hand, desperately trying to will his fingers to move ever since he returned to his apartment.

  Nothing. All feeling in his hand was gone. “My own fault,” Cain whispered, remembering he could feel his hand up until he tried to get his stupid money back. He trudged to the bathroom and stared into his reflection as he drank from his bottle of whiskey. A wash of fury filled his heart as his reflection appeared to drink with its right hand.

  “C’mon, dammit! Move, damn you! Move!” Nothing. He couldn’t even feel pressure applied to his hand anymore.

  His cell phone broke his mounting despair. Cain wearily grasped it with his left hand and looked to see who was calling.

  “Hello, Cynthia,” Cain said quietly.

  “Hello, Cain, I just got off the phone with Charlie. Are you okay?”

  Cain tried to squeeze his right hand into a fist, savoring the anger which was a welcome relief to the crushing despair. Why the hell would Charlie call her? He was about to shout when she spoke again.

  “I called Charlie. He wouldn’t say anything, but I can tell something bad happened.”

  “Cynthia, why are you calling me? We broke up almost five months ago.” Cain heard Cynthia sigh. “I—um, how’s Mexico?”

  “It’s hard work. Being a missionary isn’t what I thought it would be—it’s far better. I’m almost sorry my time here will be over soon.”

  “Thanks for calling. I’m gonna get some sleep.”

  “Cain, I will be praying for you.”

  Cain hung up and stared bitterly into the mirror. Pray for me?

  “You know what, God? How about you fix my hand? Got some crackpot Christian who’s gonna be praying for me, and my ex-girlfriend who’s gonna be praying for me!” He threw his head back and finished the bottle as he walked out the bathroom.

  “Yeah! Prayer! That’s gonna fix everything!” he scoffed, throwing the bottle in the trash bin and opening another. “Oh I got one, God!” Cain said as he drank again. “How about I ‘pray’ for my hand to stay injured?” He waited and burst out, half laughing and half weeping. “Glory hallelujah, amen!” he said, thickening his voice to imitate the southern Baptist stereotype. “That’s-ah wuuuun mighty fine-nah prayer answered-ah!”

  Still laughing and weeping, Cain looked at his revolver upon the bookshelf. He raised his bottle. “Here’s to you, Mister Wesson. Come share a drink with me, eh?” He placed the bottle down, hefted his SW 629, and checked the chambers.

  He set the gun down and looked upon his right hand. The day had been one of quite a few firsts: the first time he tried to sign his name with his left hand. The first time he tried to feed himself with his left hand.

  Opening the door.

  Wiping his ass.

  Cain broke out laughing and weeping again. He couldn’t do anything right anymore. He tried to take another drink, but his decent into intoxication and his awkward grasp caused him to spill some of the whiskey on himself.

  “Fucking bullshit!” Cain coughed, running his blood-soaked sleeve on his mouth and nose, filling both with tacky blood. The coughing fit increased, crossing the boundaries into violent retching. He rushed back to the bathroom and let go of his dinner and a lot of the whiskey he drank.

  The taste of partially digested food mixed in with the tastes of partially digested whiskey and old blood. The horrid cocktail increased his gag reflex to the point where his consciousness was only aware of the noise of vomit, retching, and the flush of the toilet, punctuated with an unbearable pressure behind his eyes, ears, and stomach.

  At last he was empty. His head still spun. He sat upon the floor with his back against the wall, and wept bitterly. He wept, unmindful of the blood pouring from his nose. He didn’t even bother to move his head to spit out blood from his raw throat, letting it dribble down his chin and neck to stain his shirt.

  Eventually, he stood, amazed he had the strength to do so, and looked at himself in the mirror. Cain couldn’t even recognize the pitiful excuse for a human staring at him. His face was again a mask of blood, matching the blood, old and new, upon his shirt. He struggled to take his shirt off, but it seemed to resist, taunting his awkward struggle.

  “Get off of me! Fucking piece of shit! I said get off!” he screamed, throwing it into the bedroom, followed by his pants, socks, and underwear.

  He stumbled into the shower and turned on the cold water, watching it wash the blood from his body. He traced a double fish on the wall, a Pisces, his birth sign. Water always brought comfort to him, even the damned cold rain, but it was a hollow thing now. He watched the sign bleed and melt away with the water. It reminded him of his own worth and how much of it was now wasted in one quick moment.

  His phone chirped; it was a text from Cynthia.

  “_t_T_t_”

  Cain scoffed and placed the phone away. He opened the bathroom window above the tile portion of the shower wall, allowing the freezing air to pour in. He moved the showerhead aside and cupped his hand, allowing the still-flowing blood to fall onto his fingers, and he drew upon the drywall above the tile:

  “02-26-1982”.

  He shook his head, feeling the world spin and his body grow numb from the cold. Yes, just as he’d hoped. It would be painless. He reached out again.

  “11-04-2010”.

  He stumbled out of the shower to grab his gun, and he returned with the water still running. If there was anything to be said about him, he would leave as little a mess as possible. He wondered when he would work the nerve to pull the trigger. He placed the barrel on the right side of his chest. “No, left side. The heart is on the left,” he mumbled and adjusted the position. He inhaled deeply and started to squeeze.

  The gun slipped from his awkward grasp and fell to the tub with a hard bang, causing Cain to cry out in fear and sparking a new bout of weeping and fury. He quickly reached again for the revolver and brought it up, this time intending to shoot his head. In his haste he pushed the barrel too hard against his head, and it slipped from his grasp and fell again.

  He stared at his pistol for several moments, feeling as though it was staring back, like an accusation.

  Wait, what am I doing?

  A surreal rush of reality hit Cain’s awareness, bringing a small amount of calm. He picked up his revolver. The metal was incredibly cold to the touch and brought a chill to the rest of his body.

  “No,” Cain whispered through desperate panting. He left the shower again to return the gun to the bookshelf. “At least, not while I’m drunk.”

  Cain dried himself off as best he could. He never appreciated how much one needed both hands for such a mundane chore. He sat for a long time on the bed, occasionally drinking from his second bottle, desperately hoping he would accidentally kill himself in this manner, until he at last passed out.

  Chapter 4

  An Intrusion to Hell

  “Thank you, Cain, for saving my life.”

  —Charlie Tsukada

  “Do you accept?”

  An intense panic enveloped Cain. Surrounding him was a spinning mass of—no, he was spinning. The room was dark, oppressive, and circular, ringed by a spiraling rusted staircase, extending as high as he could see. Doors were spaced at irregular intervals a
t every level. Each had a single forlorn blue light above them. Some of the doors were formidable constructs, made of steel or stone, while others appeared to be made of mist.

  Shit! No! He was dreaming; he hated sleep. With sleep came dreams—no, not dreams. Nightmares. Cain always had nightmares, for as long as he could remember, and—

  “Do you accept?”

  Cain flinched and recoiled from the voice. “Where am I?” he screamed.

  A flash of red splashed across his vision, causing him to stumble backward and cradle his cheek that had just been smacked by one of the doors opening. He felt the orientation of the room change, forcing him to fall through the open door. He fell in chaotic darkness, screaming and frantically reaching for something to hold onto.

  Without warning the orientation changed again, and his feet stumbled on new floor. His vision returned; now he was in a large room whose walls were bookcases overflowing with leather-bound volumes. The room had an ancient feel to it, perfused with a scent Cain had always associated with books, ink, and the subtle perfume of well-aged wood. The room also carried an unnatural silence—a silence only secrets could carry. Secrets so wonderful, yet so terrible, they held a savage, magic power all their own.

  In addition to the silence, the room seemed to hold a quiet despair. It was as though everything before him was dying a sweet and silent death. Not gone perhaps, but almost beyond the hope of recovery. The way mysteries would drift upon the edge of dreams, and the trackless eternity of being forgotten.

  “Do you accept?”

  Cain turned, finding himself surrounded by three men towering over him.

  No! Not this! Anything but this! Cain looked down at his body; he was twelve again. His lanky frame had yet to develop the musculature that had always protected him. He held both hands out. “Stay away from me!”

  The three men had the same face marked with strange lines, giving the initial impression of advanced age. And yet, the more Cain stared at the man’s face, the more it seemed wrong. It was a face filled with a strange irony—a parody of age, a parody of wisdom crafted by an unskilled clay artisan. Though each face carried a different feel and expression, it also had the sense of a unity. A singular entity that revealed itself in three parts to him. They flickered chaotically around the room, appearing and disappearing in random locations. They spoke as one, as three, and as none.