Chapter X
The Buick pulled up to the curb and from the backseat, Floyd looked up at the dark façade of Andromeda Collectibles—the place where his heart had been ripped from his chest. His mother turned to face him and frowned. “You don’t have to do this,” she said. “Your father and I can take care of the store.”
“No,” Floyd mumbled. “I’ll do it.” He opened the door and retrieved his cane from the seat next to him. He’d spent two weeks in painful physical therapy rebuilding the strength he’d lost in his legs while he was in the coma; the doctors assured him that over the coming weeks he would rely on the cane less and less until he no longer needed it at all. He limped to the door and waved to his parents to tell them everything was all right. The Buick pulled away slowly from the curb and Floyd was alone.
He took a deep breath and turned the key in the lock. He opened the door and stepped inside. The building, once so familiar, now looked like a scene from a nightmare. Every shadow concealed a monster waiting to spring from the darkness; every creak and groan signaled the approach of some fiend. Floyd staggered through the aisles to the front counter and collapsed gratefully into his chair.
For the month and a half since his shooting, Andromeda Collectibles had lingered in limbo. The store had been shut down for two weeks during the police investigation, and then reopened sporadically by his parents whenever they found the time. From his mother’s entries in the ledger, Floyd ascertained that business had dried up except for the patronage of the most die-hard regulars. Overdue notices and letters from collection agencies were stuffed in the ledger, waiting to be paid with money that did not exist. One-by-one, Floyd wadded up the notices and pitched them into the trash. Let them try to collect, he thought.
He put his head down on the counter and tried to think of a good reason for doing this. His loyalty to Todd and his own sense of responsibility had brought him here the first time, resulting in nothing but pain and death. In the end, he could think of no other reason than that the store was his curse and he would ask no one else to bear it for him. Better that it destroy him—a man with nothing to live for—than his innocent parents.
The front door opened and Floyd jumped in his seat. It was not the gunman come to finish him off, but rather
“It’s terrible,” Max added. Floyd grunted but said nothing. Still keeping their distance, Gary and Max took their familiar positions at the computer terminals. Floyd didn’t have the will to even tell them not to visit the porno sites; he no longer cared what Todd’s regulars did. What difference did it make? What difference did any of it make?
Gary and Max made no sound save for the clicking of their fingers on the keys. Their usual high spirits were dampened by the bleak, oppressive atmosphere in the store that cast a shadow over everything. After two hours, they could take no more and paid for their time—as well as an armload of comics—before departing without a word. Floyd watched them go, but made no attempt to lift his head from the counter. No one else entered the store that day, as if the entire city of
As night approached, Floyd finally lifted his head and limped to the front door to change the sign to CLOSED. He paused as his hand touched the lock on the door. If only he’d locked the door after Abby had arrived, then she might still be here. In his rush to get to the beach to propose he’d been stupid and careless. As always happened, his stupidity and carelessness hurt others more than it hurt himself.
“You have to be responsible for your actions, and their consequences,” the voice of his second grade teacher hissed into his ear. Once that voice had brought he and Abby together, and later it had set in motion the events that would take her from him. This time, he stared at the floor and shook his head. It didn’t matter.
He knew he hadn’t pulled the trigger, but he’d created the situation by asking her to come to the store, by not locking the door, and by not finding some way to prevent the gunman from raping and killing her. His inaction had led to her death, and yet the knowledge of that gave him no peace. In this case, taking responsibility would do no good; it could not raise the dead.
He found himself standing in the doorway to the storeroom, unsure of how he’d gotten there. In this room he had made love to Abby for the first time, and it was here the woman he loved had been taken away from him. His fingers trembled as he reached for the light switch; he expected the gunman to leap out at him at any moment. The lights flickered on and he saw nothing. Nothing at all.
The police and his parents had so thoroughly cleaned the storeroom that no trace of the struggle remained. He ran his hand along the imprint of the shelf where he and Abby had shared a kiss and where later Abby had been knocked unconscious by her attacker. He knelt down and touched the cold cement floor where he had made love to Abby and where later the gunman rape her in the hope that it would somehow bring back a trace of her presence. Nothing. To his left, he imagined the spot where he’d lain like a coward, feebly struggling to free himself while the gunman raped and murdered Abby. Tears came to his eyes as the horrible scene played over and over in his head.
Floyd jumped as a hand touched his shoulder. He found his mother standing behind him with a look of concern on her face. “I’m fine,” he snapped before she could say anything.
“Come on, let’s go,”
#
He awoke later that night with a scream and sat up. Floyd looked around his darkened bedroom; the realization that he’d been dreaming came slowly. He panted and clutched his covers with white knuckles while sweat dripped down his body. As he became acclimated to the time and place, his breathing slowed and his hands loosened their grip on his blankets.
He’d awakened from the nightmare of his coma only to spend each night reliving it. Every night Abby died and then disappeared while he could do nothing; every night he experienced the same panic until he remembered what had happened. In the hospital, nurses or his parents would comfort him at his bedside, but now that he was home there was no one to help him through the madness.
He threw off the covers and rolled out of bed—the bed he’d purchased to accommodate he and Abby. He shuffled into the bathroom and threw cold water on his face. The chill from the water reminded him of Abby’s cold flesh in his dream. He toweled off with trembling hands and looked in the mirror. His eyes had turned bloodshot and were rimmed with dark circles from two weeks without a decent night’s sleep. How much longer can this go on? he wondered. The doctor had said the nightmares would fade over time, but if they didn’t, then he could recommend a psychologist who specialized in Post Traumatic Stress Syndrome.
Floyd returned to bed and turned on the light next to the bed. He grabbed the worn copy of A Farewell to Arms his mother had brought him to read while he recovered in the hospital; he had not penetrated the first page of the novel. Floyd stared at the first page and read the opening line over and over again without a single syllable transmitting to his brain. He threw the book across the room, where it splattered against the closet doors and slipped down to the floor.
As he looked down at where the book had landed, he knew he couldn’t make his mind focus on the novel. What did books matter anyway? Abby had loved books; he remembered the shelves lining the walls of her dorm room and the library of her mother’s house. Their shared love of literature had helped bring them together, and ultimately had brought her to her doom. Books meant nothing; they couldn’t help anyone.
Floyd threw the covers off and stomped out to his computer in the living room. He’d wasted his life on books—reading and writing them. No longer. The computer booted up and he stared at the blank screen of his word processor. One last story, he thought as his hands began to fly across the keyboard. The only story he had left to tell.
Tartarus
By Floyd Jensen
The dream shattered into shadowy fragments and Brandon Gibson’s eyes shot open. A scream—whether his own or someone else’s he couldn’t remember—echoed in his ears. His nose burned with a fetid stench, like the smell of a dead animal that had lain on the side of the road for days. When he tried to swallow, a coppery tang filled his mouth. The way his senses still reeled from the dream,
He rolled over and found the spot next to him on the bed vacated. Still filled with dread from the nightmare, he bolted from his bed and dashed into the bathroom. When he saw that it too was vacant, a cold lump formed in his stomach. He pounded down the stairs and into the living room, where he found only unopened boxes and furniture still wrapped in plastic.
Slipping through the empty dining room, his heart raced as he imagined a host of grim scenarios. The pregnancy had become too much and she’d committed suicide. She’d grown tired of his lengthy business trips and left him. The truth, he discovered as he swung open the door to the kitchen, was more horrible than he could imagine.
Daphne lay on the floor, a pool of blood from the hole in her forehead forming a halo on the white tile floor. Her blue eyes were wide open, unfocused, and when he knelt down beside her, he felt the coldness of her pale skin. He pressed her head against his chest and ran his hands through her sticky red hair. Tears poured down his cheeks as he rocked back and forth and mumbled incoherent syllables. “I’m sorry,” he whispered.
Her eyes continued to stare up at him, pleading with him, but she was long past saving. He gently closed her eyes and eased her back onto the floor. When he saw her belly bulging against the pink maternity gown, he thought of the child Daphne carried within her. If he hurried, maybe the paramedics could arrive in time to save the baby.
As he stood, he heard the back door creak behind him, followed by the echo of footsteps on tile.
The gunman lifted up the ski mask enough for
“I have a job to do,” the gunman replied and squeezed the trigger. The pistol’s silencer wheezed and spat a single shot that drilled into
The dream shattered into shadowy fragments and
His heart thumping in his ears, he rolled over and found the familiar softness of his wife’s plump body next to him. The terror from the nightmare subsided as he stroked the broad expanse of her back. Though it had been six years since
“I had to work,”
“On Christmas Eve?”
“I know, but it was important.” He kissed her on the lips. “I promise I won’t let anything interfere with our plans today.”
“You better not,” she admonished him and the bed creaked as she sat up. He tried to kiss her again, but the door burst open and a pink object hurdled over the bed to land between them.
“Mommy, Daddy, come on!” the object cried. Little Erin grabbed
She looked up at him and shook her head as though he were an idiot. “Of course.”
He tousled her short brown hair and looked away thoughtfully. “If he’d seen that room of yours, he might have been scared off.”
“Daddy,”
“Well, let’s say we find out,”
“Careful honey,” Daphne cautioned and giggled at the scene of
Only after
“Wait, just one more,” he said with a smile and pulled a flat felt box from under his couch cushion.
She gasped when she opened the box and pulled out the diamond pendant. “It’s beautiful,” she breathed. He stood and draped the pendant around her neck, the gold chain just long enough. She kissed him on the lips and whispered, “Thank you.”
“Merry Christmas,” he replied and kissed her back.
“Gross!”
Daphne’s cheeks reddened and she looked down at the floor. “Honey, why don’t you help me clean up,” she said weakly.
It had snowed overnight, enough to give everything a sparkling white sheen and to make the roads and sidewalks slippery. No road crews would run today, at least not this far from the city, so he would have to undertake the dangerous trek to visit Daphne’s parents out in the country with only the tracks of other cars to guide him. Coming back at night would make things even more difficult and he wondered if they should forget about it altogether.
No, he decided as he finished plowing the driveway. Daphne lived for Christmas dinner; her entire family gathered for the holiday. In traditional fashion, the women would do dishes and trade gossip after the meal while the men went into the den to watch the football game on television. Later they would all assemble to drink eggnog and sing off-key Christmas carols until enough people passed out to signal that it was time to go home.
As much as he enjoyed the company of her family—her parents had practically adopted him once he’d married their daughter—he knew his wife had ulterior motives in showing up at the Christmas dinner each year. Her parents and brothers were all farmers, working-class people, and the family gathering provided her with the opportunity to show off her successful husband, beautiful daughter, and expensive jewelry. She did this not to lord her prosperity over her family, but to show them that while she hadn’t gone into their business, she was still happy and well cared for. No amount of snow would keep her from that.
Once he’d tucked the snow blower away in the garage, he went inside and found order restored to the living room. He followed a delightful mixture of scents through the dining room and into the kitchen, where Daphne supervised four boiling pots on the stove and an oven full of baking pies. “Smells good,” he observed and wiped a smudge of flour from the end of her nose.
She didn’t take the bait, turning her back to stir one of the pots instead of rewarding him with a kiss. “Everything’s almost ready,” she mumbled.
He put his arms around her apron-clad waist and pressed his head to her shoulder. “What’s wrong?” he asked. “Nervous about seeing your folks?”
“No, it’s not that.” She pushed him away and waved a hand along her body. “It’s just what
He smiled and put his arms around her again. “Of course not. In fact, I think you could use to put on a few pounds.”
“Come on, I’m serious.” She brushed tears away from her face. “When you go on those long business trips, I worry that maybe you’ll find someone more attractive…”
He put a finger to her lips to silence her. “There’s no one else for me except you. I love you and nobody is going to come between us.” Brushing hair from her face, he suggested, “How about I mind the store while you get cleaned up?”
She kissed him on the cheek and her smile returned. “Try not to burn anything.” Only after she’d disappeared did he allow himself to heave a sigh of relief. He’d dodged a bullet today, but in time the issue would come back to haunt him again. He might not be so lucky the next time.
Later, after he’d filled the trunk of his silver Mercedes sedan with presents and baked goods,
“Daddy, let’s go,”
As he drove, the number of houses dwindled while the number of barren fields increased. “Look Mommy!”
“I see them, honey,” Daphne replied and, while she smiled,
To try and lighten the mood, he suggested, “It’s so festive-looking out here, how about we sing a song?” When no one answered, he launched into “Jingle Bells”.
While the sleepy countryside passed them by, they filled the Mercedes with the sounds of the season. They sang in round, with
While they waited for the deer to gather the courage to complete its journey across the road, Daphne’s scream reminded
“I’m fine,” he snapped. The deer disappeared into a field and
When they stopped at the four-way stop that, along with the old general store, made up the town of
At first he thought it must be an optical illusion—another silver Mercedes sat on the bridge. As he approached, he saw that the other car wasn’t moving; it had positioned itself to prevent anyone from crossing the old bridge. “What’s going on?” Daphne asked, but he had no answer to give her. The Mercedes in their path didn’t have its hazard lights on and he couldn’t make out anyone behind the wheel. Maybe the driver went for help, he thought. Maybe they forgot the hazard lights.
Then he saw a head in a black ski mask pop over the car’s roof. “Get down!”
“Why?” Daphne started, but he shoved her down an instant before the windshield shattered in a spray of gunfire.
He fired a pair of shots to distract his attacker while he threw the car into reverse. The Mercedes struggled in the snow, but slowly backed away from the other car. Erin whimpered and wriggled into her mother’s arms, burying her head in Daphne’s bosom. “Don’t worry, it’s going to be OK,” Daphne whispered.
But it wasn’t,
Before he could think or even scream, he found himself lying on his back in the snow along the road, the Mercedes a burning hulk a short distance away. He stumbled to his feet and brushed fragments of glass and debris from his smoldering clothes. Blood oozed from numerous gashes and dripped into his eyes, but he didn’t notice. He focused solely on staggering to the charred remains of his car.
When he reached the passenger’s side of the Mercedes, he buried his face in the snow and wept. While he’d somehow been thrown clear of the explosion, Daphne and Erin had not been so fortunate. He found their remains—rendered unrecognizable by the flames and shrapnel—still sitting in the passenger’s seat. In death, mother and daughter were forever fused in an embrace.
Footsteps crunched the snow behind him and Brandon looked up to see a man in a black ski mask and dove gray trench coat approaching with a 9mm Beretta pistol in his hand. Brandon had no weapon and no strength to fight back, instead he sobbed and pleaded, “Why?”
The gunman stood over
The dream shattered into shadowy fragments and Brandon Gibson’s eyes shot open. A scream—whether his own or someone else’s he couldn’t remember—echoed in his ears. His nose burned with a fetid stench, like the smell of a dead animal that had lain on the side of the road for days. When he tried to swallow, a coppery tang filled his mouth. The way his senses still reeled from the dream, Brandon sensed it was more than a dream, but when he tried to recall even a single image, the dream slipped out of his grasp like a phantom and would elude him forever. Each day he would experience the futility of Sisyphus, the pain of Prometheus, and the longing of Tantalus as what he loved most was taken from him.
#
The next morning, Floyd woke up at his keyboard and read the last lines he’d typed. He saved the file and turned the computer off. It was done, his final story. From now on, books and writing meant nothing to him—like everything else. He heard his alarm clock from the bedroom and checked the time. His mother would drop by in an hour to take him to the store, but he had an errand he needed to run, alone.
Floyd changed into fresh clothes and then went out to his car. The doctor hadn’t cleared him to drive again yet, but it didn’t matter. His legs began to ache halfway to the university; he pulled over to rest them for a few minutes before he continued. As he drove over the bridge leading to campus, he thought back to the fateful day that had brought he and Abby together. If he hadn’t been ticketed for speeding, he might have never known her.
No doubt she would have been better off if he hadn’t ever run into her in the hallway outside the vending alcove. His love had brought her happiness, but it had also led to her destruction. She’d been destined to become a chemist like her father; perhaps she would have discovered a medicine to cure cancer or found a way to solve world hunger. Instead, she lay forever in a coffin because of his love.
Floyd fought away a tear and parked in a handicapped parking spot. Let them tow his car if they wanted! He hobbled through the immaculate
“Floyd?” Janet, Abby’s former roommate, asked. “What are you doing here?”
“You work here?” Floyd stammered.
“Just for the semester,” she replied. “I’m…I’m really sorry about what happened.”
“I’m the one who should apologize,” Floyd growled. “It was my fault.”
Janet took a step back from the counter. “I’m sure it wasn’t,” she mumbled. It occurred to Floyd that while he’d visited Abby’s apartment innumerable times, he barely knew Janet. He certainly didn’t know her well enough to vent his personal problems to her.
“I quit,” he said. “I’m never coming back.”
“Are you sure? I know what happened is tough, but…”
“I quit,” he repeated. “Are you going to help me or not?”
She came around the counter and put a hand on his shoulder. “Why don’t we go somewhere to talk about this?”
“I don’t need to talk about it,” he fired back. “I’ve made my decision.”
He said it loud enough that he saw heads turn in their direction. Janet’s face flushed and she leaned forward to whisper, “Look, I don’t want you to do anything rash. Take some time and think about it.”
“I don’t need to think about it,” he hissed.
She straightened up and folded her arms across her chest. “Well, what about your parents? What are you going to tell them?”
“I don’t care,” he replied. His parents had never supported him pursuing a Literature degree anyway; they should be thrilled he wanted to drop out.
“I know it hurts now, but this isn’t the answer. Think about your future…”
“My future is dead,” he snarled and pushed away from the counter. He slammed the door behind him and started for his car. The hell with Janet and Admissions anyway. If she didn’t want to help him, then he would just not come back. The hell with all of them.
A hand touched his shoulder and he turned to see that Janet had followed him. She shifted nervously and said, “I still, um, have some of Abby’s things. Maybe you and I could go back to my place and you could, you know, take something to remember her by.”
“Sure,” he said and began the long trek to her dorm.
Memories of he and Abby floated to the surface of his mind as he walked silently next to Janet. Walking across campus with Abby leaning against him for support, the bag of ice from the cafeteria tied to her foot. Meeting with Abby at the pond on that cold night. Chasing after her to follow her to up to her dorm. Confessing his secret to her and then listening to her own shocking tale.
He stopped at the steps to Abby’s dorm and paused. Like the night he’d run after her and followed her upstairs, he knew he would pay a price if he made the journey up the steps. Janet took his arm. “I’ll help you get up the stairs,” she said, misinterpreting his hesitation. He nodded and let her guide him up the steps. Floyd was winded by the time they reached the top; he leaned against the wall while Janet unlocked the door. Once his strength returned, he followed her inside and stood rooted in the doorway.
The bookshelves were empty. The books Abby had so loved were piled into a series of boxes on the floor. “Her mother took most everything else, but she didn’t want those,” Janet explained. Floyd hobbled over to the boxes and picked up one of the books. He ran his hand along its smooth dust jacket; like in the storeroom of Andromda Collectibles he hoped that by touching something she’d handled he would once again feel her presence. He felt nothing. “I’ll take them to your car,” Janet offered.
He threw down the book in disgust. “I don’t want them. Is there anything else?”
“Just one other thing,” Janet replied and handed him the picture he’d noticed the first time he’d entered the dorm room. It was the picture of Abby—before her mother had taken her to
He ran a finger along Abby’s bespectacled, blemished face. This was the girl he’d always known. This was the sweet, shy girl who—despite Ms. Chapman’s best efforts—had remained underneath the expensive clothes, makeup, and breast implants. This was the woman he’d fallen in love with and who had loved him. This was the woman he’d killed.
Floyd clutched the picture to his chest and couldn’t hold back the tears. Janet put a hand on his shoulder, but he shook it off. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, as much to Abby’s spirit as to her roommate.
#
Like Ridgewood Manors,
Given its brief history, it didn’t take long for Floyd to locate where Abby’s body forever rested. A marble angel towered over the other monuments in the cemetery; the Pedersons had spared no expense. With its delicate frame, well-defined breasts, and long hair falling past the joint on its back where its wings came together, the angel reminded him of Abby. Like the bronzed geese on the pond at
I have you fast in my fortress,
And will not let you depart,
But put you down into the dungeon
In the round-tower of my heart.
And there will I keep you forever,
Yes, forever and a day,
Till the walls shall crumble to ruin,
And moulder in dust away!
Though he didn’t know for certain, Floyd figured the poem was her father’s idea. Ms. Chapman did not seem the type to value flowery, sentimental language. She was more the type who would agree to the angel and poem because it looked more impressive than a simple tombstone.
The effect of the monument was spoiled for now by the dirt patch where the grass had still not grown back after the burial. Floyd knelt down in the dust and ran his hands over it. Six feet below him, the woman he loved was sealed inside an ornate coffin that despite its best efforts could not stop her body from decomposing. Time took her physical body from the world a day at a time until one day there would only be dust amongst the silk lining. The thought made Floyd sick to his stomach and he tried to block the grim vision from his mind.
“I’m sorry, Abby,” he whispered and traced the letters of her name along the base of the monument with his finger. “I’m so sorry.”
He spread a dozen roses along the ground where she had been buried and wiped away his tears. With his coma and subsequent recovery time in the hospital, he had missed the funeral; this was his first visit to her grave. There was a finality to it that he’d not felt in the storeroom of Andromeda Comics, his apartment, or her dorm. In those places, elements of her—a photo, a hairbrush, a book—remained as they always had, giving the illusion that she might return at any moment. Here, in the shadow of the marble angel bearing her name, he had no choice but to face the truth; the cold, unchanging past stared him squarely in the face. The hope he always carried with him as much as he didn’t want to—the hope that he might wake up with her next to him and find this all a dream—was dashed in the face of such indisputable evidence.
Death was an absolute; it either happened or it didn’t. And as much as he wanted to, he couldn’t deny that it had happened to Abby. “I’m sorry,” he repeated the words like a grim mantra. Yet no matter how many times he said them, the words provided no comfort.
He put his head against the warm marble of the angel and his tears ran along the carved letters to drip to the ground. “It should have been me,” he said, his words muffled by the stone. “It should have been me.”
He heard footsteps behind him and turned his tear-streaked face skyward to find Ms. Chapman’s silhouette looming above him. “How dare you desecrate her grave,” she growled.
“I just came to pay my respects,” Floyd mumbled. He stood up and dried his eyes with the back of his hand.
“I don’t want to see you here again,” Ms. Chapman hissed.
Floyd stared at her for a moment and his fists clenched. “You can’t stop me.”
She wagged a finger at him. “Don’t test me, young man. I can have a restraining order sworn against you so fast…”
Floyd took a step forward. “Yeah, you go right ahead. Get a restraining order. Throw me in jail. Hire some goons to beat the shit out of me.” He motioned to the rectangle of earth under which Abby’s coffin resided. “Nothing you can do can hurt me any more than this.”
“We’ll see about that.”
He wasn’t about to back down in the face of her threats. No one would keep him from visiting Abby. If he had to break out of prison, then so be it. “You can’t stop me. I love Abby and she loved me…”
“She did not,” Ms. Chapman snapped. “My daughter would never love someone like you.”
Floyd took another step forward. “How would you know?” he hissed. “How would you know anything about her? You were too busy making your money and trying to change her.”
“I loved my daughter!” Ms. Chapman shrieked, her face burning red with anger. The emotion drained away quickly and her voice took on its usual icy chill. “You have no idea what it was like to watch her become more and more like her father everyday. A pathetic little nobody with no future.”
“She wasn’t!” Floyd roared. He pointed a finger at Ms. Chapman’s chest. “You made her feel that way. You made her feel worthless. You made her hate you.”
Ms. Chapman took a step backwards as though he’d slapped her. “She didn’t hate me,” she said, her voice small.
“She left home because of you. Because of what you did to her.” Floyd’s eyes narrowed. “She told me everything about what you tried to do to her, about how you wanted to make her into someone else. Someone you could love.”
“What I did was for her own good,” Ms. Chapman protested, her voice quavering. “I tried to help her.”
Floyd tapped his heart with one finger. “You could change everything on the outside, but you could never touch what was on the inside. All your money, doctors, and stylists couldn’t change who she was underneath.” He reached out and put a hand on Ms. Chapman’s shoulder. “I knew her. I knew her inside.” His voice lowered to a whisper. “She never needed you to fix her, she just needed your love.”
Tears broke through Ms. Chapman’s cold façade and for a moment she looked ready to collapse into Floyd’s arms. Then her face flushed, she shook away his hand, and slapped him hard across the face. “You bastard!” she screamed. “How dare you presume to tell me about the daughter I brought into this world! You killed her! You took her away from me and as long as I live, I will never forgive you!”
She turned on her heel and stormed away, leaving Floyd to rub at his cheek where she’d slapped him. Her last words echoed in his ears and he dropped to his knees. He put his head on the ground and sobbed until he had no tears left. Then, spent of all emotion, he fell asleep at the base of the marble angel, his arms wrapped around it as though trying to hold her one last time.
#
A shrill croaking awoke Floyd and he found himself curled up on the ground at the feet of Abby’s marble angel. He heard the sound again and saw a monstrous shadow stretched out on the raw, moonlit dirt before him. A crow flapped its wings and hopped along the shoulders of the angel. Floyd watched the bird’s dance, a chill running down his spine. “Nevermore,” he whispered into the darkness.
He stared up at the angel and thought back to the dream he’d had. The marble angel had come to life; its stone surface took on a white glow that blinded Floyd and caused him to bury his head in his hands. Something warm touched his shoulder and when he looked up, he saw that the angel was Abby. “Oh God, Abby, I’m sorry,” he whispered, in awe of her with her brilliant white robe and wings.
She held out her hand to him and sang, “Come with me.” With a flap of her wings, she rose a few feet in the air; the hem of her robe fluttered at Floyd’s eye level. If he took a hold of her robe, she would take him with her into paradise, where they could be together forever. But to go with her meant leaving everyone else behind. He hesitated; his fingers brushed against the glowing surface of her robe. “Come with me,” she invited again.
He grabbed hold of her with both hands.
They began to ascend into the air; a bright light opened in the sky overhead—Heaven. Where he and Abby would never be separated again. Where they would never have to worry about his deformity, her mother, or the gunman. Where his every fantasy would be fulfilled.
The black bird came out of nowhere just as Floyd and Abby were about to be drawn into the light. The bird’s claws sunk into Floyd’s chest and tore him away from Abby. It drove him down towards the ground, to where only pain and darkness awaited him. He screamed Abby’s name, but she didn’t hear him. She was already gone.
He sighed and leaned his head against the base of the monument. The angel. The black bird. It all made sense now, but Abby’s haunting voice stuck in his mind. “Come with me.” If only he could.
The crow cawed again and Floyd scrambled to his feet. Like Poe’s raven, this solitary black bird mocked his pain and loneliness. Floyd searched the ground for a stone and after finding nothing, he took a quarter from his pocket and hurled it at the vile bird. The crow called once more before shooting away into the night. Floyd waited until it disappeared before he ran his hand along the angel’s robe—hoping it would come to life as in his dream and bear him away to paradise—and kissed the cool stone.
When he got to his car, he half-expected to find the crow or some goons hired by Ms. Chapman waiting for him. Neither his feathered tormentor nor muscle-bound henchmen appeared; Floyd left the cemetery behind. He checked his rearview mirror, but no one followed him.
He slowed as he passed by the country club whose golf course he had befouled in his drunken frenzy. At the time it had been so liberating to shit on the rich people’s property; only later did he understand how futile the gesture was. The same could be said of his argument with Ms. Chapman at Abby’s grave. Getting angry with her had felt right at the time, but now he knew better. What right did he have to accuse her of not loving her daughter when he was responsible for Abby’s death?
The country club faded in his rearview mirror and he came upon the convenience store he’d visited that night. He pulled into the parking lot and rested his head against the steering wheel. When he closed his eyes, he saw Abby calling out to him, pleading for him to rescue her. Her eyes bored into his soul; they hovered there like a raven he could never drive from his mind.
He stumbled into the store—wiping tears from his eyes as he went—and came out with two bottles of whiskey. The temptation to open one and down it right away gnawed at him, but he resisted. He’d caused one death, no sense adding another to his conscience. Instead, he let the whiskey bottles clink together on the long, dark drive back to his apartment. His legs weighed a ton each as he clomped up the stairs and through the door. He panted and leaned against the wall for support while he caught his breath.
A blinking green light called to him from across the room and he limped over to the answering machine. He played the message lurking on the machine and his fists clenched when he heard Dr. Stevens’s nurse say, “Mr. Jensen, this is Dr. Stevens’s office. You missed your appointment last month. The doctor would like to see you as soon as possible. The office is open until four if you want to make an appointment today. Thank you.”
He ripped out the cords leading into the answering machine and hurled it across the room, where it sprayed a rain of plastic shrapnel as it shattered. Floyd collapsed onto the couch, his chest heaving from the effort. After all that happened, Stevens still thought he would care about getting a measly shot! As if an injection of testosterone would solve all of his problems.
He didn’t care about curing his Kallmann’s Syndrome anymore. He didn’t care about looking normal or functioning sexually like a normal male. What difference did it make if Abby wasn’t around to see it? Like books, writing, and everything else, it just didn’t matter anymore. Fuck Stevens and his needles! Let him grope someone else’s balls!
Floyd yanked one of the bottles of whiskey from the bag and took a healthy pull from it. The warm flood of alcohol only strengthened his resolve to be rid of Stevens and his injections forever. There was no sense in continuing to treat the illness when he had no hope for the future. As he’d told Janet, his future was dead.
He drained the first bottle of whiskey in short order and passed out on the couch. “Come with me,” Abby’s voice whispered in his ear and he shot bolt upright. He searched the living room for her, but saw only darkness. He lurched to his feet and stumbled to the bathroom.
Floyd flipped on the light and his haggard face looked back at him. His hair—with bits of grass and dust from Abby’s grave embedded in it—stuck out at all angles. After the coma he’d lost a considerable amount of weight so that his clothes hung from him like a scarecrow’s. His skin was pasty and moist from sweat. He looked like a corpse; the undead come back to life to haunt the living. “Come with me,” Abby’s voice hissed.
His eyes fell upon the bottle of painkillers next to the sink.
The doctor had prescribed the medicine after he was released from the hospital; Floyd still had over half the bottle left. And an unopened bottle of whiskey awaited him in the living room. “Come with me,” her voice beckoned.
He understood now.
He took the bottle of pills and walked to the living room without a limp; his legs were driven with purpose now. After scooping up the bottle of whiskey, he marched to the bedroom and threw himself on the bed he had bought for he and Abby to share. This is where it would end. This is where he would die.
He shook out the bottle of painkillers into his hand and stared at the pile of white pills. It was all so simple. He would down the drugs with the bottle of whiskey and wait for darkness to claim him as it already had Abby. He would fall into a blissful sleep and never wake up.
He leaned back against the headboard and took a deep breath; his eyes fell upon the picture of his family taken ten years earlier. His father sat tall and proud next to his mother while Floyd with his unchanging face and Todd with his acne and scruffy beard smiled and put a hand on their parents’ shoulders. A normal, happy American family.
No longer. Now his father was little more than a gray ghost. His brother had fled from the altar and disappeared. And as for him—he sat here in his bed with a handful of pills and bottle of whiskey, ready to end his own life. What of his mother? She’d watched her husband fade to nothing, her eldest son run away, and her youngest son lie in a month-long coma. He remembered her emotional outburst in his hospital room; he felt her tears upon his cheek and her hand running through his hair. She had borne such a terrible burden, how could he add to it?
“You have to be responsible for your actions, and their consequences,” said the voice no longer of his second grade teacher but of Abby.
He closed his hand around the pills and staggered to the bathroom. He shut his eyes and flushed the painkillers down the toilet; he dumped the whiskey down the sink. Then he collapsed on the bathroom floor and stared at his thin, pale hands.
What now? he asked himself. Without Abby he couldn’t live; without hurting his mother he couldn’t die. He was trapped in some grim region between life and death. Nothing to hope for, not even the release suicide would provide.
Tartarus. The word echoed in his mind and he thought of the last story he’d written. At some point, hadn’t Sisyphus realized the boulder would always fall down upon him no matter how hard he pushed? Had the promise of the food and water just out of reach ever lost appeal for Tantalus? Had Prometheus’s flesh ever grown numb to the talons tearing into it? Floyd flexed his hands and let out a breath; he too now lived in a world without hope. The pain of Abby’s death would forever crush him like Sisyphus’s boulder, tear his soul apart like Prometheus’s winged attacker, and taunt him like the branch over Tantalus’s head.
Floyd returned to his bed and watched shadows crawl along the ceiling until it was time to go to work. He threw on his clothes, found his keys, and trudged down the steps to his car. He now knew what those three tortured Greeks did.
He would push the boulder uphill because he had no other choice.
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