by Amy Fecteau
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To my Mom and Dad, for giving me life, my twisted sense of humor, and constant love and support no matter what.
Somehow, Matheus expected the night he died to be fraught with weather straight out of the Old Testament: thunderstorms and hurricane winds and floods with arks. He didn’t understand why, in the grand timeline of human affairs, he didn’t even merit a blip, but dying still annoyed him, and the universe should have the good manners to offer up some kind of acknowledgement. A full moon, or a particularly ominous-looking cloud; anything, really. No, the night he died had to be a standard issue, East Coast September evening, city lights tinting the sky orange, and a handful of wispy clouds hovering near the skyline. Sometimes, the universe didn’t appreciate proper atmosphere.
Of course, he didn’t realize this until later.
At the time, Matheus thought, God, I hope I don’t get mugged. He never visited this part of the city; no one did, unless condemned to live there or serve jury duty. Matheus wondered if convenience or coincidence located the courts in the section with the highest crime rate. The subway didn’t run out here; he’d had to take the bus, feeling more and more awkward the longer the trip lasted. At the end, Matheus was the only one in khakis and definitely the only one who even owned a sweater vest, let alone wore it in public. Seeing a bum eying him from a doorway, Matheus closed his coat over the argyle pattern. He ducked his head as he hurried past the bum, shoving down the reflexive guilt. He’d been raised Catholic, so repressing guilt came naturally..
A group of teenagers occupied the street corner, shoving at each other, laughing, shouting insults in foreign slang. A boy, dodging a smack from one of his friends, bumped into Matheus as he passed. Matheus muttered an apology, walking faster. He listened for footsteps, but heard only laughter. Strains of music mixed in, displacing the laughter as he passed a row of bars, sidewalk thick with exiled smokers feeding their addiction. Matheus thought about stopping for a drink; alcohol had always been a friend in times of need, although the kind of friend that borrowed credit cards without asking and used them to pay its rent for six months, but who was forgiven because it was alcohol! It’d been a friend since middle school. That kind of bond couldn’t just be thrown away, even if it meant living in a box behind Amato’s while his credit score recovered. Matheus had explained all this to his therapist once. His therapist had not been amused.
The reunion had to be postponed, however. The note had been very specific as to location and time, as well as what would happen if he ignored either. Matheus shivered, reaching down to touch the small box crammed into his pocket. He’d already started looking for a new job. Only eight people had access to the vault, and only Matheus had shown any recent interest in the piece. He didn’t leave evidence for an arrest, but he read up on shiv-making, just in case.
Everything started a few weeks ago. Matheus dismissed the creeping sensation of being watched as ordinary paranoia. Then came the phone calls, with that voice, a voice made to be obeyed. The vocal chords had threat built straight into them; not some subtle, creeping evil, but direct as a razorblade to the throat. Matheus hung up, ignored the calls, disconnected his phone. Nothing made a difference. Yesterday morning, he woke up to find a note on his pillow, his name in spiky black writing across the front. After throwing up for a bit, Matheus planned his involuntary robbery, the result of which banged against his leg as he walked.
A streetwalker old enough to be his mother, and possessing fewer teeth than Matheus had fingers, called out to him as he passed.
Matheus ignored her, turning away from the commercial area toward the block housing.
“Cocksucker!” she yelled after him.
“Syphilitic trollop!” Matheus shouted back.
The whore scratched her head. “What?”
Matheus didn’t stop to explain. He worried about the state of public education sometimes. He made up a little rant in his head, distracting himself from his dismal surroundings. The music dwindled away, leaving an empty chill in the air. The buildings here were dark and shuttered, bars on the windows, bricks decorated by layers of spray paint. Matheus sidestepped a pile of broken glass and turned down a narrow alley.
The alley reeked of rotting garbage cut only by the sharp sting of cat piss. A squelching noise accompanied each of his steps. Don’t think about it, he thought, then moaned as something splashed up his pants leg. He pulled the sticky fabric away from his skin, cursing whatever had died in this alley, himself for not opting for that hazmat suit he’d seen online, but mostly, the owner of the razorblade voice. Matheus wiggled, trying to reach his phone with his free hand. He fumbled with the buttons until the flashlight app switched on, the glow illuminating the end of the alley with terrifying, blue-white accuracy.
Matheus gagged, dropping his phone as he spun around, desperate for clean air. He managed two steps before the bile rose hard and fast, nearly choking him. His body jerked, forcing him to bend at the waist as vomit splattered on the foul ground.
At least I missed my shoes, Matheus thought wildly, anxious to fixate on anything but the bloody tableau behind him.
“Charming,” a voice drawled near Matheus’ ear. He jumped, landing in the fresh mess. Matheus gagged again. He was definitely burning these shoes. Then he imagined walking home, step after squishy step. On second thought, he’d just leave them here.
“What…what the hell is that?” he asked. His stomach jumped around in his gut, dividing his attention. Matheus struggled to ignore the jittering. The voice came from in front of him, but the tall buildings blocked out any light. The streetlamp on the main street gave a valiant but unsuccessful effort. The dark crushed the light’s yellow glow into oblivion by the third step in. Matheus had only the sensation of another’s presence, a vague shifting of shadows, and the voice.
“That is what happens to people who annoy me,” said the voice. “Did you bring it?”
“What happened to his head?” The shadow of a shriek filled Matheus’ voice. He wiped his face on his sleeve. The taste of vomit burned in his mouth. Whatever—whoever—that had been, Matheus decided he didn’t want to know details.
“That is for me to know,” said the voice, closer this time. “Unless you want a demonstration?”
“No!”
“Ah, well,” the voice sighed. “No sense of adventure.”
“I’m going to be sick again.” Matheus felt a pair of hands grasp his shoulders and turn him around. They pressed hard enough to leave a bruised feeling in his shoulders.
“That direction, please. I like this suit.”
Matheus heaved, but he’d already emptied his stomach of everything except watery acid. He hadn’t eaten that day. Hadn’t done much of anything really, except snap at his co-workers and steal an ancient artifact. Being caught between thoughts of prison showers and extremely specific threats of maiming did not aid the appetite. Maybe he could market a new diet plan. The Lose-Weight-Or-We’ll-Come-To-Your-House-And-Remove-Your-Shinbones-With-A-Pair-Of-Pliers Plan. Not the best name, but effective, nonetheless. Matheus choked back a laugh.
“You wore a suit?” he asked and spat to clear his mouth. “Here?”
“I do have other things to do,” said the voice.
Matheus didn’t miss the warning. Shaking, he turned around, pulling the small box out of his pocket. He thrust his hand in the direction of the voice.
“Right,” he said. “Here.” He shuddered at the brief brush of skin over his palm. Shoving his hands deep into his jacket pockets, he looked longingly at the entrance of the al
ley. His skin felt sticky, as though the stench and blood had sunk straight through his clothes. He needed a jet ride home, a scorching shower, and about a gallon of gin. Possibly two gallons.
“Excellent,” said the voice. The box closed with a sharp click, making Matheus jump. The voice laughed.
“Twitchy, aren’t you?” it asked, in a tone that might be considered jovial if not for the bloody mess splattered over the brick.
“Can I go?” Matheus asked.
“Don’t you want your reward?”
Matheus began backing away, tiny silent steps. “I don’t want anything,” he said, shaking his head. “Except to forget the last twenty minutes.”
“Unfortunately, that isn’t possible.”
Matheus felt something brush over his cheek. He shifted away, stumbled over his own squishy feet, then slammed into a wall. He bounced off, found his footing, squeaked as a pair of arms wrapped around his waist.
“What are you doing?” Matheus asked in a desperate, hysterical voice. Pre-teen girls sounded more masculine. The arms were solid, holding him in place against a hard chest. So, this is what a heart attack feels like, Matheus thought. His whole rib cage vibrated in quick, double thumps.
“Insurance policy,” said the voice.
“What? What?”
“Shh. No talking during meals.” The voice sounded pleased, amused by itself.
Matheus, less so.
“What!” he yelped. Wiggling did him no good; the arms only gripped tighter. He tasted panic, bitter on his tongue. He shoved at the chest in front of him, fingers sliding over smooth fabric. The bastard had on a suit, didn’t he? He should’ve had a tie. Matheus could’ve strangled him with it. Where the fuck was the goddamned tie?
“Oh, please struggle. It’s so much more entertaining.”
Thoughts of ties and strangulation flew out of Matheus’ head. He flailed, landing one wild blow. Although blow may have been excessive. Tap might have been more appropriate. Or graze. Or gentle caress. Matheus hadn’t been in a fight in ten years. He’d assumed, at this point in his life, his days of punching strangers in the face had ended.
“Don’t worry,” said the voice. “It’s like getting a shot.”
“I hate shots! I’m frightened of needles!” Matheus shouted.
The voice laughed against his throat. “Good thing I won’t be using needles, then.”
Matheus felt pressure against his pulse point, driving the adrenalin level higher. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to fight the sensation of his body folding into itself. An inner darkness closed on his mind as each panting breath tore out of his mouth. The pressure increased, contracting into a single barb.
“Shit,” Matheus said, and fainted.
Dying is not pleasant. Death is disgusting and messy, body fluids leaking all over the place. Of course, being dead, usually the corpse does not have to deal with the sordid details. It is the livings’ problem. Usually. There are always exceptions.
“Oh, god,” Matheus groaned.
“It’s almost over.”
“Oh god, oh god, oh god.”
“I should have brought a mop. Why do I never remember that?”
Matheus awoke with a disorientating suddenness unlike anything he’d ever experienced before. No lazy moments of sleep lingered, no consciousness curled in through a foggy mind. Even while asleep, something existed: a dream, a nightmare, a deep-set feeling of being. Matheus had nothing.
Slowly, he rolled over, the heavy blanket sliding off his shoulder. The air felt chilled and slightly damp against his skin. A closed-in, musty smell said basement. No street lights leaked in through shaded windows, no white glow framed the doorway. Matheus stretched, running his hands over sheets too smooth and soft to be his own. Although, Matheus might have to upgrade, given the sensory thrill ride the linens were giving him. He wiggled down the bed, sighing softly at the feeling.. The sheets whispered over his skin. Every inch of his skin.
Matheus jerked upright, dragging the blanket up to his chest. Memories of last night were beginning to make ahem-ahem noises in the back of his mind. Oh, god, Matheus thought, holding the blanket like a shield. The alleyway, the voice, the pressure against his neck. Frantically, he ran his fingers over his throat, searching for the punctures, but his skin felt smooth and unmarked. A dream, he thought, but that didn’t explain the strange bed, or that feeling of non-existence. Perhaps he’d had a psychotic break. Maybe he’d been taken away by the nice men in white coats and just hallucinated the last thirty-six hours.
Granted, the hallucination appeared disturbingly real. Would Matheus’ mind create the muffled sound of running water in the distance, or the smell of artificial flowers on his pillowcase? The longer Matheus thought, the harder the mental institution theory became to maintain. Matheus really would have preferred being a basket case to the scenario he very deliberately avoided thinking about.
The sound of water stopped. Matheus drew up his knees, then paused, letting the blanket droop. Something didn’t sound right. In fact, nothing sounded right. He slid his feet over the sheets, listening to the gentle scraping of skin over fabric. The noises seemed as though someone had turned up the volume control of the world a few notches. Matheus couldn’t hear anything outside; he barely made out the footsteps of someone moving around. He moved his feet again and shivered.
Something had happened last night. The world had been picked up and put back down in the wrong position. Matheus laid his head against his knees and wrapped his arms around his head. He tried to remember how he got there from the alley, but the memory skittered away when he got too close. Matheus let out a moan of frustration, tired of chasing his own thoughts, and snapped his head back.
“Ow, fucker, shit.” So, his senses had gone demented, in that funhouse-optical illusion way, but at least he still had the familiar sensation of whacking his head against crap. Oh, joy. Matheus rubbed the back of his head while glaring darkly in the direction of the headboard. He blamed the voice. Its owner had done something, then brought Matheus back to this godforsaken room with its stealth headboards and irrational audio levels.
The door opened; grey light silhouetted a lean, male figure. Matheus had only a moment to look before the door closed again. The man didn’t say anything for a long moment, but Matheus could hear the soft thud as he rested against the door. Matheus stared at the spot where he thought the man stood, trying to pick something out of the darkness. A thought nudged at him; after a few seconds, he realized he couldn’t hear any breathing.
“‘Morning, Sunshine,” said the man. “Sleep well?” He spoke with the voice from the alley, no less threatening, but with an additional layer of amusement.
Matheus dug his fingers in the blanket, twisting the fabric into a tight knot. “What did you do to me?” he demanded. “Why does everything sound strange? Where are my clothes? Why am I naked? Oh, you didn’t—”
“Yes, because I love nothing more than molesting the unconscious.”
Matheus didn’t have to see the eye-roll.
“I wouldn’t put it past you,” he said, trying not to flinch as he heard the man straighten up.
“A bit braver now, aren’t you?” The man sounded on the verge of laughter.
Matheus had the distinct feeling of being thirteen again. Bastard, he thought. His hands spasmed around the knot of blanket.
“Where are my clothes?” he asked.
“I destroyed them.”
“What? Why?”
“They were disgusting,” said the man.
“I liked them,” Matheus muttered, coming to the defense of his sweater vest. Many fine men wore sweater vests. Matheus couldn’t think of any, off-hand, but he knew the list was long and varied.
“I wasn’t talking about the style, although it was wretched. Your clothes were ruined beyond the point of repair. It was easier to throw them away.”
“What are you talking about?” Matheus asked.
“Do you know what happens when a person dies?”
Matheus opened his mouth. Closed it again, then bowed to inevitability and opened it again. Occasionally, gaping like a slack-jawed yokel just couldn’t be helped. He groped blindly, pulling and releasing the blanket.
“Work it out yet?” asked the man.
“Oh, god,” said Matheus. He pressed his fingers to his neck, searching for a pulse. He found nothing. He dropped the blanket, pushing his palm against his chest hard enough to feel his ribs creak. His skin, cool and elastic, yielded under his touch. Matheus placed his other hand on top, as though enough force would restart his heart. “I’m dead.”
“More or less.”
“You killed me. You…you…bastard!”
“Is that all? No points for creativity there.”
“You killed me!” Matheus screamed. “Why? I did everything you asked! Everything!”
“Yes, that is why you are only more or less dead.”
“You fucking prick!”
“Sunshine, please. If you are going to insult me, at least use some imagination.”
“You misbegotten piece of excrement!”
“Better. Still, not your best.”
Matheus wondered if anyone had ever exploded from sheer rage. He choked on obscenities, stuttering out malformed threats that spliced and overlapped until they were little more than nonsense syllables. The unspoken entertainment of the man only fueled his tantrum, until the wave of anger crashed hard and swept everything away. Matheus held onto the quiet for a moment, still furious, another wave hovering on the horizon, but calm for now.
“Come here,” Matheus said.
“Why?”
“You killed me. I should at least get to see what you look like.”
“And you can try to rip my throat out?”
“Yes,” hissed Matheus.
“I’ll stay over here, thank you.”
“Scared?”
The man laughed.
Matheus realized he had never known hatred until that very moment. He’d always considered himself a pacifist, but now he knew he had just not found anyone worth the effort of violence. Not anymore.