1 Step Forward, 12 Steps Back

Good evening, guys and ghouls, and welcome to the Witching Hour with me, Lou Siffer here on KDVL. That’s easy listening at 666 on your FM dial.

Tonight, we’ve got a special show lined up and ready for you. So, grab a chalice of warm, vintage blood or whatever you’re in the mood for, sit back in your most comfortable seat, and get ready to have your minds blown. You dig?

First up, we’re diving deep in the archives to play a classic. All about self-image, self-perception, and embracing our true selves, this one’s set in a clever sci-fi frame that’s the cat’s meow, y’all. So sit back and vibe with me as we enjoy a bangn’ little ditty by the artist known as l0lita

The New You

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Smooth, right?

Next up, we're going to play somethin' a little different for you little devils, but somethin' I think you'll dig.

This one's a fun little bopper called Troop 67

Sit back and enjoy...

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Welcome back to the Witching Hour, guys and ghouls. I'm your host, Lou Siffer and this is KDVL, that's 666 on your FM Dial.

Coming to you next, we dipped back into the archives and dusted off a groovy old classic. This one's all about the unexpected price of vengeance.

Refill your glasses, cool cats, and vibe on, Ecco

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Dig that one, cool cats? I knew you would.

I'm Lou Siffer and this is the Witching Hour on KDVL, easy listening at 666 on your FM dial.

Next up, we've got a little bopper for you to groove with. Put your ears on and give a listen to, Banner Year

* * * * *

All right, welcome back. You dig that one, guys and ghouls?

It's almost time for ol' Lou Siffer to bug on out and make room for the morning crew, so I'm going to wrap up this session of the Witching Hour with a special dedication.

This one goes out to the dearly departed--my favorite kind, you dig?

Thanks for listening to tonight's Witching Hour, you little devils. Be sure to tune in tomorrow night because I've got somethin' especially fiendish for you to enjoy.

Until then, though, sit back and vibe with The Eulogy

Goodnight from me, Lou Siffer and the Witching Hour, here on KDVL. That's easy listening at 666 on your FM dial. See you tomorrow and until then, keep it evil and be devilish...

It wasn’t your fault. You’ve been cleared. Time to get back on the horse, Colby. I expect to see you Monday morning bright and early. Don’t be late.

I was cleared. It’s not my fault. Easier to say than to accept. Harder still when I see her wandering the market. The living manifestation of my failure. My guilt. She shuffles along like a ghost, barely aware of the world around her. She’s pale, her expression vacant. She just looks… lost. I mean, it’s understandable, given what happened.

The moment I spot her, my brain screams at me to leave. To get the hell out of there. But my body rebels and forces me to stand there. To remember what happened. And I do, in agonizing detail. I can feel the sun on my skin. Smell the salt of the ocean in the air. Hear the screaming.

I want to run but my body betrays me. It forces me to stand there and to truly see her.

For some, lifeguarding is a way of life. For me, it was a way to spend all day at the beach, make some money, and get laid in the process. It was hanging out with friends, partying at the bonfires at night, and just making as many memories as I could. It was my last summer before I went off to college, and I was determined to live it to the fullest.

It was the best summer of my life. Until it wasn’t.

Unable to turn and flee, our eyes meet, and the breath is driven from my lungs. I try to force myself to move but I’m frozen in place. Like I’m stuck in concrete. She stares at me across the produce section like I’m the first solid thing she’s seen in days.

Maybe I am.

“Fuck,” I mutter as she shambles over to me.

“Y—you’re the one,” she says. “Y—you—you tried…”

Her voice trails off but her eyes implore me to speak. My tongue feels too large for my mouth, and I can’t meet her eyes. Unable to produce a sound, let alone a word, all I can do is I lower my head and nod.

“Wh—what happened?” she asked.

Officially? Officially, her husband and five-year-old son ignored the warnings and got caught in a strong riptide. Officially, because of their reckless and careless actions, I couldn’t get to them before they’d swallowed too much of the ocean. Their fault, not mine.

But she’s not asking me for the official report.

“Please tell me.”

I know what she wants. She wants me to tell her why I failed to save her son. I open my mouth, but no words come out. Instead, my gaze falls to my hand. To the faint traces of blue ink that still tattoo my skin. Daphne’s phone number.

I close my eyes and can still see the way the sun set her red hair ablaze. Smell the coconut lotion on her supple, golden skin. See the way her bikini barely contained her breasts and the way she leaned forward, giving me a better view with the whispered promise of more upon her full, cherry red lips.

I was so caught up thinking about the coming night’s conquest, I didn’t hear the shrieking in the water. Not at first. Not for a full minute. Maybe two. By the time I heard it and got to the kid, it was too late. He was gone. So was his father.

Two lives swept away by a riptide they never should have been trying to swim in. If they’d obeyed the warnings, they’d both still be there. If I hadn’t been so caught up with Daphne, trying to ensure I’d get laid later that night, maybe I would have reacted faster.

I push that thought aside. I was cleared. I did nothing wrong. Despite that though, this woman, a new widow who’d just lost her only child is standing in front of me wanting to know why I failed them when it was my job to save them.

“Please,” she said. “What happened?”

I absently rub at the blue ink that’s seared into my skin, burning like an accusation. Trying to wipe away the evidence. The woman wants to know everything I’ve swallowed down. Continue to swallow down. But admitting it would only compound her grief. Push her even further down into the dark hole she’s already in. Or maybe that’s just what I’m telling myself.

I’m drowning in my silence.

“Please,” she repeats.

I allowed myself to be distracted. One minute. And as a result, lives have been shattered. Forever altered. I was cleared. It wasn’t my fault.

But… it was.

“I’m sorry,” I say.

It was the best summer of my life. Until it wasn’t.

Marvin closed the door behind him and stared at the narrow, twin-sized bed—the only piece of furniture in the room. The entire space was aggressively white. The fluorescent lights gleamed off the white paneled walls and white tiled floor, making Marvin feel like his retinas were melting. With a sigh, he perched on the edge of the narrow bed, instantly noting how stiff and uncomfortable the thin mattress was.

Everything in the room made him feel uneasy. The environment was completely alien. Sterile. It made his skin prickle and raised the hair on the back of his neck. He pulled the photograph of Emily out of his shirt pocket and stared into her warm, mocha-colored eyes, a wan smile touching his lips. He missed her. And though he reached out with his heart and emotions, he couldn’t feel her.

Ever since she’d passed, he had been able to feel her warmth. Her the echo of her laughter or see her smile in his mind’s eye. But in that glaringly white chamber, he felt… nothing. There was no trace of his beloved to be found. She was waiting for him on the other side, that much he believed with all his heart. But she wasn’t there with him. It left his heart feeling cold and empty.

“I’ll be with you again soon, Em.”

The door opened with a pneumatic hiss and a stout, matronly woman stepped in. Her iron-gray hair was up in a bun as tight and severe as her pinched face. She wore slacks and a blouse so glaringly white, it made the room around him look dull. Her blood red lips curled upward in the pale imitation of a smile. It was ghastly. He tucked the picture of his beloved back in his pocket as if protecting her from the cold, reptilian gaze of the woman before him.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Watkins,” she said. “How are we today?”

“This bed isn’t very comfortable.”

“Well, it’s not like we’re going to be using it all that long, are we?”

Her laughter was as horrifying as her smile and her continued use of the word “we,” grated on Marvin’s nerves. There was no we here. It was only him. He twirled the gold band around on his finger, trying to tamp down his irritation, reminding himself that she was there to help him. And anyway, he wouldn’t have to deal with her smug condescension for long.

“I suppose that’s true,” Marvin said. “So, can we get on with this?”

Her smile this time, looked malicious. “Got somewhere else you need to be?”

Marvin stared at her with a deadpan expression.

“Sorry, just a little humor to lighten the mood,” she said then looked at the tablet in her hand. “Okay, then, let me… oh, dear.”

“What is it?” Marvin asked.

“Well, your form is filled out with black ink when it clearly states all official documents must be filled out in blue ink.”

“You’re kidding me.”

She grimaced. “I’m afraid I’m not,” she said. “The Bureau of Self-Deletion does not kid, Mr. Watkins. We are deathly serious.”

He arched an eyebrow. “Is that a little more humor to lighten the mood?”

She cocked her head then guffawed, her loud braying reminding Marvin of a donkey. “Oh, I didn’t think of that. That’s very good, Mr. Watkins. I’m going to have to steal that.”

“You can have it for free if you just push my paperwork through so I can get on with it.”

“I’m afraid I can’t do that. Choosing to end one’s existence is a very serious procedure and our protocols are very clear—”

“So, I have to fill out all fifty-five pages of this form again—”

“In blue ink.”

“In blue ink.”

Marvin sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. He muttered darkly to himself as he slipped off the table, still alive, and exited the room without another word.

* * * * *

A week later, Marvin found himself in the same blindingly white room, perched on the edge of the same, narrow, lumpy bed. The door opened and the same woman walked in. The door closed behind her as she gave him an aggressively chipper smile.

“And how are we today, Mr. Watkins?”

“We are ready to get on with this.”

That aggressively chipper smile still on her face, the woman looked over her tablet. And as she did, the corners of her mouth turned downward.

“Oh, dear.”

Marvin sighed. “What now?”

“Well, on page thirty-seven, when asked for the reason you have decided to self-delete, you checked the box for ‘other’ but failed to include what that ‘other’ thing was.”

Marvin felt his face grow red as he balled his hands into fists.

“My wife died. I have no friends. I have no family. I hate my job. I hate this world. And I hate you. I literally have nothing to live for, and I don’t want to be here anymore. That's your other.”

The woman tapped the surface of her tablet, her face pinched. Marvin forced his hands open and laid them flat on his thighs as he tried to bring his blood pressure down. The last thing he wanted was to have a stroke before he deleted himself.

“What?” he asked with forced patience.

“Well, you seem very emotionally agitated.”

“Because I am.”

“Well, our protocols are very clear on that point,” she said. “Clients cannot be allowed to self-delete when they are emotionally agitated as they are often unable to make a rational and judicious choice like this if their mind is not clear and emotion-free.”

“I was perfectly calm when I filled out your forms. Again.”

“But you aren’t now. What if you regret your decision?”

“How am I going to regret my decision? I’ll be dead.”

“We simply cannot afford to run the risk. Not in this litigious society we live in,” she said. “Why don’t you go home, have a think about it, then we’ll make an appointment for you when you are of sound mind and emotionally stable.”

Feeling more defeated than he’d ever felt in his entire miserable existence, Marvin slipped off the table and still alive, walked out of the Bureau of Self-Deletion.

Again.

* * * * *

“And how are we doing today, Mr. Watkins?”

“I am wonderful, thank you for asking,” Marvin replied with forced jocularity. “Say, that is a lovely shade of lipstick you’re wearing. And your hair looks absolutely fantastic. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a better bun.”

The woman eyed him closely. Marvin shrank back and giggled to himself. The woman pulled out a penlight and flashed it into his eyes.

“Mr. Watkins, have you taken drugs?”

“I took a Xanax before—”

“Oh dear.”

“What now?”

“Well, our protocols dictate that a client may not self-delete if they are under the influence of drugs or alcohol—”

“I took a Xanax to keep myself from being emotionally agitated—”

“Which I feel like you’re becoming again.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

“Mr. Watkins, are you sure you truly want to self-delete?” she asked. “You seem to be in a circular pattern of self-sabotage, what with the wrong colored ink, the agitation, the drugs—”

“I’m positive I want to do this.”

“It doesn’t seem like it.”

“I do!”

“Tell you what, why don’t you go home, have a think on it, and when you’re absolutely, positively certain this is what you want, come on back and we’ll get you started.”

“I’m absolutely, positively certain this is what I want.”

Her smile was patient. “Come back when you’re not under the influence, Mr. Watkins.”

“For fuck’s sake.”

Marvin slipped off the table and walked out of the building. Still alive.

Again.

* * * * *

A week later, Marvin stood in the center of the room, hip leaning against the single bed in the irritatingly white room, arms folded over his chest as he waited for her to come in. After an interminably long wait, she finally did.

“And how are we today, Mr. Watkins?”

“We are doing just fine,” he replied evenly. “I have not taken any drugs, I have filled out my forms in the correct colored ink, and I am completely calm and rational.”

“That’s very good to hear.”

“I’m of sound mind and have perfect emotional clarity,” he said. “And I am ready to begin the self-deletion procedure.”

“Very well,” she said.

As she worked on her tablet, finalizing the plans and putting the procedure into motion, Marvin thought, he drew in a deep breath and let it out. He climbed onto the hard, lumpy mattress and laid back, waiting for her to bring in the machines that would being the self-deletion procedure. A mechanical arm lowered from a panel in the ceiling and scanned him from head to toe. It was happening.

Finally.

And for the first time in a very long while, Marvin allowed himself a smile.

He touched his pocket where he had the photo of Emily and closed his eyes, silently telling her he would be with her soon. The thought brough Marvin comfort but he reached out with his emotions again and still could not feel her with him. He’d wanted her to be there with him as he made the transition. But he comforted himself with the knowledge that he would see her again soon.

“Oh dear.”

Marvin opened his eyes and sat up. “What. Now?”

“Well, according to the bioscan we just ran, you had coffee before coming in today?”

“I stopped at the coffee house Emily and I used to frequent, yes.”

“Well, it very clearly states on page forty-seven of the paperwork you filled out that you are prohibited from ingesting stimulants prior to your appointment, given their mood and mind altering properties,” she clucked.

“What?”

“I’m very sorry, but it is all right there in black and white, Mr. Watkins.”

“Lady, look, I’m—”

“I’m very sorry, but our protocols are clear on this matter. We cannot proceed with the self-deletion procedure until you are free of stimulants,” she said. “Why don’t you forgo the coffee, drugs, and anything else that might alter your mood, and we can make an appointment—”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

Marvin slid off the table, muttering darkly to himself. Without another word or backward glance, he walked out of the Bureau of Self-Deletion.

Still.

Alive.

How hard was it to delete yourself?

* * * * *

After a morning spent visiting all the coffee houses and cafes he and Emily used to frequent, Marvin settled back in the bed they used to share. As their favorite music played, he let his hand stray to the side of her bed and felt it warm. Marvin smiled. He closed his eyes and didn’t even have to stretch out with his emotions. Emily was with him. He could see her smile. Could hear her laughter. Could feel the softness of her long, golden locks.

She was with him. Yes, this felt right. Very right.

He sat up and uncapped the bottle of pills then poured them into his mouth and swallowed them down behind a glass of the very expensive scotch Emily had gotten him for their anniversary some years back. Scotch he’d been saving for a special occasion. This seemed like that occasion.

With a wry chuckle, he drained the glass and lay back on the pillows he’d sprayed with her favorite perfume, wrapped in her favorite comforter. Enveloped by her warmth and scent, Marvin closed his eyes and drifted away on the currents of her memory, descending through the darkness of the layers of maddening bureaucracy and into her warm, waiting embrace.

He knew self-deletion was illegal, but what were they going to do? Arrest him?

“Are you serious?” Milton asked.

“I am afraid so,” the lawyer responded with a shrug. “These were the conditions set forth in your uncle’s will.”

Milton sighed but allowed the lawyer to attach the device to him. Once he was hooked up, he was allowed into the hall where his uncle lay in a coffin on a dais at the front. A hundred people milled about, but Milton noticed only the family members had the same devices attached to them that was currently around his chest.

The air was heavy. It was thick with emotion with people dabbing their eyes and speaking in low, reverent tones about the deceased. Milton doubted much of it was authentic. Nobody in the family could stand his Uncle Harold. Hell, nobody in general liked him much. He was a cantankerous, miserly old man who said the most inappropriate things at the most inappropriate times. That was one of the things Milton liked most about him. His Uncle Harold did not give a fuck. And Milton respected him for that. At least he was honest.

Their relationship had its ups and downs, and he did not always like the old man, but they got along for the most part. He appalled most everybody else, but the old man made him laugh. Milton thought Uncle Harold would be disgusted by the display of false emotion in the room.

“You always did like being the center of attention, you old coot,” Milton muttered.

“How are you holding up, Milty?”

He turned to see his aunt Caroline sidle over. Her eyes were red and her cheeks wet with tears. It was all Milton could do to keep from rolling his eyes. Caroline hated her brother more than most and everybody knew it. She always used to say, to Uncle Harold’s face, that she couldn’t wait for the day he died so she could piss on his grave.

“I’m fine, Aunt Caroline,” Milton said. “And how are you holding up?”

She dabbed her eyes with a tissue and shook her head. “It’s all just so sad. I loved Harry. I just… I can’t believe he’s gone.”

“Well, he’s in a better place now,” Milton said gamely.

“Yes. Yes, he is.”

She turned and melted into the crowd, making sure everyone got a good look at her tear-stained face and overwrought emotional condition. If Milton rolled his eyes any harder, they’d be stuck in the back of his head.

“Can you believe her?”

Milton startled and turned to find his cousin Tobin standing beside him, as if appearing from thin air. Tobin was the most likeable of his cousins, which wasn’t saying much. But they got on well enough. Unlike Milton, Tobin had no ambition. His dream in life was to smoke a joint in every country on the planet. It wasn’t for Milton, but hey, more power to him.

“What’s with your mom anyway?” Milton asked. “Everybody knows she hated Uncle Harold’s guts.”

Tobin chuckled and tapped the device strapped to Milton’s chest.
“Don’t you know?”

“Know what?”

“These little doohickies monitor your heart rate, tear output—basically, everything you’ve been thinking and feeling since you stepped into this room.”

Milton cocked his head. “What? Why?”

He shrugged. “Uncle Harold wants to know who’s really grieving him, man.”

“Okay, but why?”

“I guess it has something to do with how his estate’s going to be divvied up or something.”

Milton laughed to himself. Of course. That explained the sudden emotions that were gripping his family. Uncle Harold was worth billions. Like hundreds of billions. Milton had never really given it much thought, but clearly his family had. And if Uncle Harold was running a contest with his estate going to the one who showed the most emotion about his passing, it made sense that everybody had developed a sudden, abiding love for the old man.

“Jesus,” Milton said. “That sounds like Uncle Harold.”

“Right? I’m just hoping for enough to fund my trip around the world. That pot ain’t going to smoke itself,” Tobin said. “What about you?”

“I’m not hoping for anything.”

“Then what are you doing here?”

“I’m saying goodbye to the old man.”

“Wow. Good on you, bro. Selfless. It’s a good act.”

“It’s not an act.”

“Whatever, man. Your secret is safe with me.”

Milton rolled his eyes and took his seat as the service began. It was a long, drawn out affair with long winded speeches being made by people he knew didn’t give a damn about his uncle. All the while though, Milton’s eyes kept drifting to the monitors attached to everybody’s chests as one question floated through his mind: who was monitoring the monitors.

* * * * *

“Thank you all for your patience, I know what a trying day this has been for all of you,” the lawyer intoned. “Now, you, Harold Whittaker’s immediate family have been assembled for the reading of his will, as per his instructions.”

A low murmur rippled through the twenty-five people gathered in Uncle Harold’s study. The lawyer sat at the oversized desk Uncle Harold used to sit at when he held court in this very room. It sat on a foot-tall dais, Milton thought, so he could always literally look down on everybody who entered his study. If there was one thing Uncle Milton loved, it was feeling superior.

“As you are all very aware, Mr. Whittaker has a sizeable estate, and he has made his wishes for the division of his estate in this will I am holding.”

“Can you get to it? Some of us have places to be.”

Milton thought that was his cousin Steve, which was very on brand. Steve was a materialistic weasel who didn’t care for anybody but himself. The lawyer looked over his glasses at Steve, a small frown flickering across his lips.

“As you are all aware, Mr. Whittaker asked that you all wear a monitor to the funeral. He wished to track your emotional state throughout the event,” the lawyer went on. “In short, he wished to know who was and wasn’t sincerely mourning him.”

“And what, if we didn’t really cry, we’re cut out of the will?” Steve shouted again.

The lawyer looked over his glasses at Steve again. “Precisely.”
Another ripple of shocked murmurs passed through the crowd. Milton smiled to himself and shook his head. That was very much on brand for Uncle Harold. Aunt Caroline got to her feet and planted her hands on her hips.

“I genuinely mourned my brother’s death,” she called, using a tissue to dab the tears in her eyes. “And I’m sure my monitor will prove that.”

“Oh, yes, you shed many tears, Caroline,” the lawyer said. “But we also have you on camera in the bathroom macing yourself.”
The crowd gasped as one as all heads swiveled to her. Caroline’s face turned bright red and she pointed a menacing finger at the lawyer.

“I will not stand for these lies—”

Her words were cut off as a video began to play of Caroline standing alone in the bathroom where she was, in fact, macing herself. Her face turned red and she cried immediately.

“Caroline!” Steve stood up and shouted, pointing an accusing finger at her. “Shame on you. That is a truly disgusting display—”
“And Steve,” the lawyer went on. “We have you on video in the kitchen rubbing habanero pepper juice on… your testicles.”

Steve blanched and immediately decried the lies until he too, was shown on video, in the kitchen, rubbing habanero pepper juice on his testicles. The effect was about the same as Caroline macing herself—he turned beet red and began to cry.

The meeting devolved into shouts and accusations as everybody jumped to their feet, wagged their fingers at each other and made their case why they deserved Uncle Harold’s estate and nobody else did. Milton sat in his chair near the back of the room laughing to himself as he enjoyed the spectacle. He was suddenly very glad he’d come. He hadn’t laughed that hard in years. And he had a feeling his Uncle Harold, wherever he was, was enjoying the chaos he’d created.

A loud, sharp alarm bell cut through the din and the room fell silent as everybody turned this way and that, searching for the source. In the quiet of the room, the creaking of the study doors opening was louder than a gunshot. Milton watched in perplexed amazement as Uncle Harold walked down the aisle between the rows of chairs, chuckling to himself. The old man stepped upon the dais and turned to the astonished crowd.

“Surprise, assholes,” Harold crowed.

“You’re supposed to be dead,” Caroline shouted.

“What the fuck?” Steve called.

“Sorry to disappoint you all,” Uncle Harold said with a laugh. “Actually, no I’m not.”

“What the hell is going on?” somebody else yelled out.

“My family,” Harold said. “Look at you all.”

“Why aren’t you dead?” Steve asked.

“So eager to get your hands on my money that you’d resort to macing yourself and rubbing habaneros on your balls. That, my dear family, is a truly pathetic display.”

“Harold—”

“Quiet, Caroline. This is my funeral and as such, it pains me to say—although I’m not really all that surprised—that you all have failed my test,” he said. “And because of that, none of you will be receiving one red cent from my estate when I really do kick the bucket. Which, my doctors tell me won’t be for some time yet.”

The room was silent as everybody gaped at him, confusion spreading like wildfire.

“There are two whom I will be dividing my estate between. Two who were genuine throughout. And although they didn’t maybe, shed as many tears as I would have liked at the thought of my demise, at least they were honest from the start,” Harold said and turned to look Milton in the eyes. “Milton, you and me, we’re buddies. We’re honest with each other. I respect that. And so, you’re getting three quarters of my estate.”

Milton rocked back in his chair, stunned. The back of his neck soon prickled though as all eyes turned to him. He felt the anger radiating from everybody in attendance.

“And Tobin, I may think you’re a shiftless, unambitious, burnout turd, but you’ve got a good heart,” he said. “And when I keel over, you’ll get a quarter of my estate to fund your travel around the world. After all, I can appreciate a good doobie now and then.”
“Righteous, dude,” Tobin said. “Thanks, Uncle Harold.”

The words had no sooner left Tobin’s lips than sheer chaos erupted in the study. Milton, the lawyer, and Tobin slipped out of the room as the melee grew heated and barricaded themselves in another room until the police arrived. And when it was all sorted out, Uncle Harold was dead—really dead this time. The family tore him apart in the frenzy. And because they all played a part in the vicious attack, the rest of the family was hauled away to stand trial for his murder since they all literally had Harold’s blood on their hands.

* * * * *

“Well, good luck on your trip, Tobin,” Milton said. “I hope you reach your goal.”

“Thanks bro,” he said. “What are you going to do with your inheritance?”

“Honestly? I don’t know,” Milton said. “I haven’t given much thought to it.”

“Why don’t you meet me in Bali in a couple of weeks,” Tobin said. “Let’s smoke one up in honor of Uncle Harold.”

Milton smiled wide. “You know what? Let’s do that. For Uncle Harold.”

“For Uncle Harold, bro.”

Milton smiled. Uncle Harold had been an asshole in life and being an asshole led to his death, but Milton knew somewhere, wherever he was, Uncle Harold was smiling too.

The old man appreciated a good doobie now and then, after all.

My stomach growls as I eat my allotted portion of two-day old macaroni and cheese. I finish my paltry meal, all three bites of it, and put everything away. I have no idea when I’m going to get more food so I have choice but to make my meager supplies last.

“What I wouldn’t give for a fucking cheeseburger.”

Reaching into my bag, the plastic crinkles as I pull out the bottle of water. Holding it up, I sigh. Less than half full. I uncap it, take a short swallow, and savor the cool liquid as it slips down my throat. Though tempted to drink more, I cap the bottle and put it away. Conserving my water is perhaps even more important than rationing my food.

As I put the bottle away, my eyes land on the sink in the galley-style kitchen. The faucet gleams dully in the dim ambient light, beckoning me, the promise of all the water I can drink like a siren’s song. Before I even realize what’s happened, I come out of the fog and realize I’m standing before the sink, gazing at the stream of cool, glorious water flowing from the faucet. My throat—no, my entire body—aches with need.

Just one drink. Just one small, little sip. What could it hurt? I’m immune to it. Right? As if being pulled by gravity itself, I lean down, my lips hovering mere inches from having what my body so desperately needs.

“No!” I shout.

I take a stumbling step back and come back to myself. My eyes cut toward the door, my ears straining for the slightest sound. Hearing nothing, I let out the breath I’ve been holding and turn the faucet off then quickly shamble out of the kitchen. I stare at the sink from across the room with accusing eyes, angry I’d nearly let it seduce me with the promise of refreshment. Angry that I’d almost let myself be so weak.

Forcing myself to sit down, back to the corner, Glock by my side, I pull the blanket around me tighter. I shiver, though it’s not from the cold. I’d come so close to giving into temptation. I’m thirsty as hell but I know drinking from the city’s water supply is a guaranteed death sentence. Or if not death, then something far, far worse. I've seen supposedly immune people turn much later.

I absently twist the platinum band around my finger and see her face float through my mind. I hear her laugh and feel her touch. I see her warm green eyes, remembering the way they’d sparkle when she smiled. Her voice echoes through my head, whispering promises of forever.

Would death be so bad, really? If it meant I got to be with her again, why not just give up this life? It’s not like I’m really living anyway. Still turning the ring around my finger, my gaze falls to the Glock beside me. It’s not death I’m afraid of it. It’s the other thing. And the Glock would guarantee I didn’t suffer that fate.

I tear my gaze away from the gun and sigh as tears stream down my face. No, this isn’t living. But she would be so disappointed in me if I took the coward’s way out. She always believed that better things were on the horizon if you fought your way through the bad.

“I miss you, Shan. I miss you so fucking much,” I whisper.

I need rest. The sound of chattering gunfire echoes through the night. It’s closer than it was last night. Which means I have to leave this place tomorrow. I’ve been here too long as it is. It’s only a matter of time before they find me.

I close my eyes and let myself drift into dreams of her. Of our life before.

* * * * *

I wait until near dusk to slip out of the old, abandoned apartment building I’ve been sheltering in. Moving from shadow to shadow, I keep my eyes moving. The arrival of the government’s soldiers is heralded with the throaty growl of their armored transports, so I can usually hear them coming. It’s the others I’m worried about.

The Smilers.

Smilers are fast and quiet. They’re stealthy and smart. Typically, you don’t know they’re even around until they’re right on top of you. But they sometimes give themselves away with this eerie fucking giggle. Just the sound of it chills me to the bone. And usually, if you hear it, you’re usually pretty well fucked. I’ve had more than my share of close calls.

Slipping out of the alley, I dash down the street, my eyes moving left and right, trying to see everywhere at once. Shadows move among the shadows, making my heart leap into my throat. I duck behind the burned out husk of an old Camaro and wait as a pair of Smilers crosses the street up ahead. They’re no doubt doing what I’m doing—looking for food. But our culinary tastes differ wildly, and I have no desire to end up on their menu.

Eventually, they move on and I’m able to get to the end of the block where I find an old grocery store. I’m sure it’s been picked through already, but I can’t afford to pass anything up. Supplies are getting harder to come by these days and I desperately need food and water.

Moving as quickly and quietly as I can, I slip through the shattered doors and hold my breath. Straining my ears, I listen, my hand on the butt of my Glock, although the last thing I want to do is fire it. Not only will the sound of gunfire draw more Smilers, bullets are getting as hard to come by as water these days.

I don’t hear anything, so I creep through the aisles, careful to avoid stepping on broken glass or anything else that might make noise. Coming around a tipped over display rack of bread that’s so old, it’s petrified, my heart lifts.

“Jackpot,” I whisper.

On a shelf, I find have a dozen gallon jugs of water half-buried under debris. If I’m smart and ration well, that much water will probably last me a couple of weeks. My lips burn and my throat aches, so I give myself permission to sit down for a minute, crack a bottle and take a drink. Closing my eyes, I relish the cool liquid. I drink, but not too much. This is a glorious find, but I still have to be conservative.

My eyes drift to my ring and I’m gripped by a sense of loss so thick and overwhelming, I feel like I’m drowning. It was five years ago I lost her. Shannon was the love of my life. The woman I was going to grow old with. The woman who was my forever.

And five years ago, I had to kill her.

Staring at my hands, I remember how red they’d been after I’d stabbed her. I remember how warm her blood felt upon my skin. The iron and coppery odor to it. I remember staring into those perfect green eyes, wide open but seeing nothing. I see again, that thin scarlet rivulet that spilled from the corner of her mouth and stained her cheek. And I see the hilt of the knife I’d buried in her fucking chest.

But more than anything, the thing I can’t ever forget, the thing that haunts me the most, is that fucking ghastly smile on her face.

Biting the side of my hand, I choke back a sob. My memories recede into the mists of my mind, but they’re never gone completely. They linger. Hovering over me like some malevolent specter. And they always return. I suppose this is my penance. I deserve to be tormented. I killed her, after all. I don’t deserve peace.

“I miss you, Shan. I miss you so fucking much.”

Five years ago, the government, in its infinite wisdom, declared that depression and chronic unhappiness was an epidemic. Shortly thereafter, they launched their “war on depression,” a myriad of programs they said were designed to eradicate the scourge of unhappiness. Their goal was to raise the overall happiness of the country.

Little did we know that one of their programs involved injecting a drug they’d designed in some black lab into the nation’s water supply. That only came out later, after the country collapsed. Apparently, what they put in the water was supposed to be some supercharged form of Prozac. What it turned out to be was something else. Something worse.

The effects of the drug in the water supply were immediate. While it did improve the happiness of a portion of the population, it didn’t affect some of us one way or the other. We are immune. And many millions of people died. But the rest of the country, those not lucky enough to be happy, to have felt nothing, or to have died, their fate is much, much worse.

The drug in the water turned them into monsters. It stripped away their humanity. Their inhibitions. It turned them into animals… animals with a taste for human flesh. It turned them into Smilers. If you can get past the cannibalism, the most horrifying part of what they’ve become is the fucking smile forever frozen on their faces. Wide, ghastly, unnerving as fuck smiles.

The government, of course, denied it all. At first. But as things kept deteriorating, they admitted what they did was for the greater good of the country as a whole. That their goal to improve the overall happiness of its citizens was a noble one. A worthy one. Even if it required that certain sacrifices had to be made.

But of course, those sacrifices, as always, are borne by the lesser people. The have nots. The elite seem to be coming through the crisis completely unscathed while government troops eradicate the Smilers—and everybody else along with them. While the elite reside in their very well protected ivory towers, government troops have been going city to city, state to state, putting bullets into anything and everybody.

I’ve heard that some of us, the immune, are being rounded up and made to serve the elite. We’re the new slave class, apparently. I don’t know how much of that is true and how much is bullshit rumor. It wouldn’t surprise me if that’s really happening, but I have no desire to find out. If there’s one thing I know, it’s this government and its elite cronies can and will fuck over those they believe are beneath them.

A soft giggle echoes through the store, snapping me back to the moment. Heart pounding, I shoot to my feet.

“Oh shit,” I whisper.

The sound of scuffling feet sounds somewhere to my right. The sound of multiple feet… and multiple giggles. Grabbing the bottles of water, I stuff them into my bag as quietly as I can then shoulder my pack. I see movement in my peripheral vision and I turn to see half a dozen figures at the end of the aisle. Their wide, horrific smiles set my heart pounding and my gut churning.

“Fuck.”

Turning, I bolt for the front of the store, the wild and maniacal giggling chasing my every step. I leap over broken displays and crushed boxes and nearly losing my footing in something gooey. I manage to keep my feet, but the pounding footsteps and eerie giggling is closer. I don’t dare risk a look over my shoulder, but I can practically feel their hot, fetid breath on the back of my neck.

Sprinting past the checkout lanes, I leap over the small half-wall and through the ragged hole where the window used to be and stop so suddenly, my momentum sends me crashing to the ground. The Smilers are clambering out of the store, their giggling ringing in my ears. But it’s not the Smilers that have my attention.

In the parking lot before me stand a dozen men in black armor. The dull light of dusk glints off the helmets and tinted shields that cover their faces and the barrels of their weapons yawn like chasms. I see a man in a turret atop the transport, the barrel of the weapon he mans the largest of them all. I raise my hand.

“Wait,” I cry. “I’m immune!”

“Open fire!”

As the chattering shots ring out, Shannon’s face fills my mind, and I smile.

Major Chase Sanders lets out a deep breath as he stares out the window of the transport plane, watching their descent to the snowy runway. Clearing his mind, he stands up and walks to the back where the rest of the team waits.

“Okay, listen up, we’ll be on the ground in five minutes,” Sanders announces.

“And where are we?”

“If I knew that, I’d tell you, Hendricks.”

“So, you finally going to tell us what we’re doing here, sir?”

“If you’d shut up, you’d find out, Cruz,” Sanders replies with a grin.

“Shutting up, sir.”

“What I’m about to tell you is classified above top secret. Only a small handful of people know what I’m about to share,” Sanders begins. “Seven years ago, something crashed out here on this sheet of ice. The government, in all its wisdom, immediately seized the area and set up a research facility—”

“What crashed?”

Sanders shakes his head. “An even smaller handful of people know that and I’m not one of them. All I know is that contact with the research facility was lost two weeks ago. There hasn’t been a peep from them since,” he tells them. “So, this team has been put together to find out what’s going on. We’ve been tasked with locating the facility staff, recovering any data, and if everything has gone to shit, to destroy the facility itself.”

The only sound is the deep rumble of the transport plane’s engines as Sanders’ words sink in. His team exchanges glances with one another and Sanders feels the weight of his words hanging heavy in the air, making the tension of the moment rise.

“Now, I know all of you. I’ve worked with each of you before. But this is the first time you’re all working together, so let me make the introductions,” Sanders says. “Phillips and Dorsett are the tech specialists. Emerson and Avery are demolitions. And Cruz, Hendricks, and Graves are my trigger pullers. Everybody get to know each other quick because we’ll be on the ground soon.”

Sanders gives them a minute to shake hands and introduce themselves. He takes a seat and grabs a nearby handle as the plane touches down with a hard jolt. The engines whine and the walls shudder as the plane decelerates. Once they slow to a taxi speed, Sanders stands up again to make his final address to the team.

“I know each of you. I know you’re all professionals,” he says. “I have no idea what we’re going to find when we get in there, but I expect you to be as professional as I know you to be. Do your jobs and keep your shit tight. We clear?”

“Clear,” they call back in unison.

The plane rolls a stop and the back of it opens up, the ramp descending. Frigid air and snow blast into the compartment but Sanders isn’t feeling it through the warmth of his adrenaline.

“Grab your gear and let’s roll,” he calls.

Everybody grabs their packs and weapons then walk down the ramp, stepping into the biting cold. Sanders leads them from the transport to a building to the right of the runway.

“Lights are still on,” Cruz calls over the howling wind.

“Hopefully that means the heater’s still on too,” Hendricks calls back.

“Stow it,” Sanders shouts. “Eyes up.”

Dorsett throws the door open and they all stream into the building, weapons up and ready. They find themselves standing in a large anteroom. Coats are hung on hooks behind the benches and boots are stowed beneath it, otherwise the room is empty.

The air in the anteroom is thick. Heavy. Across from the door they’d just come through stands another door which ostensibly leads into the facility proper. The back of Sanders’ neck tingles as the hair stands on end and despite the frigid cold, beads of sweat roll down between his shoulder blades. Something feels… off. He swallows down his misgivings though. They’ve got a mission.

“Phillips, door,” Sanders says. “Everybody else, eyes up.”

The troop turns, weapons up as Phillips takes a position to the side of the door. With his fingers, he counts down from three then pulls. The door squeals sharply as he it opens revealing a darkened room beyond but warm air immediately flows into the anteroom.

“What the hell is that smell?” Hendricks says.

The rest of the team is gagging and grumbling to each other as they find themselves awash in a foul odor. Taking short, shallow breaths through his nose, Sanders tries to ignore the stench wafting out of the facility. It smells like rancid, rotten meat. It smells like death. And that only deepens the misgivings that have gripped his heart in an icy fist.

“Stow it. Everybody,” he barks. “Put your breathers on.”

Not knowing what they were going to be dealing with, Sanders had made sure his team prepared for any eventuality, including breathing apparatus for the possibility of a chemical incident. His team strapped on their masks and got themselves situated. Sanders turned on his lights, then the mic and communications in his mask.

“Testing, one, two,” he says. “Everybody copy?”

His team chimes in one by one, all online and ready. He nods.

“Okay, you all know your jobs—search your grids for survivors.
That’s our primary objective. You find any, you bring them back to this room and have them wait for us. Render aid if necessary and possible,” says, then adds, “And if there are no survivors, we move immediately to our secondary objective. Graves, you go with Phillips and Dorsett to recover the data in the station’s computers. Hendricks, you go with Emerson and Avery and watch their backs as they set the charges. Cruz, you’re on me. Any questions?”

Sanders takes a moment to meet their eyes, giving them a chance to voice any concerns. Nobody has any. He nods.

“Okay, move out and do your jobs,” he says. “And I’ll catch you all on the flip.”

The team breaks into their units and flow through the door like liquid. Sanders and Cruz are the last ones through and step into the darkened chamber. Cruz flips the light switch up and down.

“Lights in here don’t work,” he says. “The lights in that mud room must run on a separate generator or something.”

“Looks that way.”

“What’s our objective, Major?”

“Right now, we’re looking for survivors.”

“Copy that.”

Weapons up and at the ready, Sanders and Cruz move through the darkened ground floor of the facility, going from room to room, Sanders’ heart races and the adrenaline burns white-hot in his veins. With every step they take and every empty, abandoned room they search, the heavier and more oppressive the air around them grows. Something is very, very wrong here.

“Where is everybody, Major?”

“I have no idea.”

The door to a lab is frozen partway open, as if the power in the building had been cut as it was opening. Or closing. Sanders and Cruz work together to push the door open with a sharp screech that echoes through the corridor around them. The twin lights from their masks slice through the nearly impenetrable darkness inside the chamber.

“Looks like a lab,” Cruz says.

“Looks like it.”

There are long tables with computer stations set up all over the large chamber. Scientific equipment and paraphernalia litter toe tops of the tables. Notebooks, torn and shredded, lay scattered about and jagged shards of glass twinkle in the light from their masks. But when Sanders’ eyes fall upon the large, crimson pools and streaks on the far side of the room, the blood in his veins suddenly turns to ice.

“Eyes up,” he says into his comm.

Sanders leads him over to other side of the room and together, they stare down at the congealed, dark pools on the floor. He raises his head and studies the long dark streaks on the wall, his eyes trailing the long rivulets that flow toward the floor. But it’s not the blood that chills him the most. It’s the deep scratches etched into the concrete walls. In one of them, Sanders noticed something. He plucks it out and studies it in the beam of light from his mask.

“Fingernail,” he said with a shudder.

“Christ. What the hell happened here?” Cruz asks.

“That’s not the question,” Sanders replies.

“What’s the question?”

Sanders turns to him, his expression like stone. “Where are the bodies?”

“What in the hell were they doing in his place, Major? What were they experimenting on?”

A thousand thoughts cascaded through his mind, each one darker than the last. Sanders keyed his mic, fingers of dread squeezing him tight.

“Hendricks, Graves, check in,” Sanders says. “What’s your status?”

He waits a beat but doesn’t get a response, so he checks the channel on his comm unit then keys open the mic again.

“Hendricks, Graves, status report.”

Nothing but dead air crackles in his mask. His mouth grows dry and his heart stutters drunkenly in his chest.

“I don’t like this,” Cruz says.

“Come on.”

Moving slowly and silently through the corridors, Sanders keeps trying to contact his team, to no avail. They find no bodies, nor their teammates, but pass pools of blood on the floor. The walls in the corridors are all scored with deep scratch marks and a chill runs through Sanders as he imagines what had compelled the facility crew to dig into concrete with their bare fingers.

“I don’t like this, Major. Something’s off,” Cruz says, a note of panic in his voice. “Where’s the rest of the team. What the fuck is going on?”

“Keep your shit tight, Cruz.”

They have to push another automatic door open and step into a cavernous room that’s pitch black. Not even the beams of light on their masks penetrate very far into the darkness. Beside him, Cruz lets out a choked gasp and Sanders’ grip on his weapon tightens.

“Major—what the fuck is this?”

A low humming fills the chamber, the bass so deep Sanders feels it in his bones. He swallows hard, turning left and right, his weapon held out in front of him as he tries in vain to find the source of the sound. But it’s too dark for him to see anything.

“What is that, Major?”

“Keep your shit tight.”

Hanging in the air high above them, a pale yellow glow flares to life, outlining a massive disc. His heart in his throat, Sanders stares at it, trying to comprehend what he’s seeing.

“Major—”

“Cruz, what the fuck is that?”

“Major—”

“What?” he snaps.

Sanders turns to Cruz to find the man not looking at the disc above them but at something else. He follows the man’s gaze and feels his heart drop into his stomach. The pale glow from the disc illuminates the room in a dim, dirty light and in that murky gloom, Sanders sees the dark silhouettes of the figures standing in front of them. The figures stand silently. Unmoving.

“It’s the station crew,” Cruz whispers, his voice trembling.

“And our team,” Sanders adds.

The figures all raise their heads as one, their eyes glowing the same pale yellow that outlines the disc above them. Moving as one, as if being controlled by a voice Sanders can’t hear, the group of figures takes a step forward…

* * * * *

[Static crackle]… It’s not what we thought… [sound of gunfire]… call in an airstrike… [unintelligible screaming and gunfire]… if you are receiving, call in an airstrike… they can’t get out of here… facility must be destroyed… repeat… facility must be obliterated… leave no trace… [transmission cuts off abruptly]

Colonel Franklin switches off the recording and pulls his headphones out of his ears. The sheer panic in the man’s voice set his heart racing and fills him with a wild sense of dread. He glances out the window at the snowy landscape beyond as the transport plane begins its descent. He turns and walks to the back of the transport where his team awaits.

“Okay, listen up people, we’ll be on the ground in five minutes…”

“Gays didn’t feel the need to rub their lifestyle in our faces for generations and life for everybody was just fine,” I say. “All I’m saying is, for the sake of the country, they should go back to the closet. Don’t ask, don’t tell and all that shit.”

“Why are you so mean?

“Mean? I’m not mean. I’m just telling you the truth,” I say with a dry chuckle. “The question you should be asking yourself is why you’re so goddamn soft? Why you’re so goddamn offended by somebody who’s unafraid to speak the truth.”

“This isn’t truth. This is just homophobia. Hate speech—”

“You’re gay, aren’t you? You like the dick, huh?”

The caller rambles on but frankly, I’m not listening. I never do. My eyes hidden behind my aviator shades, I glance at the monitor in front of me and smirk. The counter in the corner of the screen rises as more people log in to watch the show. I’ve got thousands upon thousands of eyes on me. It’s my biggest audience yet.

Half of them watch my podcast because they agree with what I’m saying. The other half watch because what I say pisses them off. Rage viewing, I believe the kids today call it. And once I have them in a good lather, they run off to talk about what an unrepentant asshole I am on their blogs or their own podcasts.

What these knuckle-draggers don’t seem to understand is that as that view-counter continues to spin like a goddamn slot machine in Vegas, they’re putting money in my pocket. Rage farming, which is my self-proclaimed job title, pays the bills nicely. Other people’s outrage has paid for this nice, state of the art home studio I broadcast from. I’m making a hell of a lot more doing this than I ever did in my first career.

“All right, that’s enough of your whining,” I say, disconnecting the call.

I sit back in my chair and shake my head, conscious of the camera on me and wanting to make sure I give a good performance. I pull the microphone arm toward me.

“See, folks, this is the problem with this country today. People like that guy. Truth is simple truth. It doesn’t have a political agenda, and it isn’t looking to hurt your feelings. It’s just… truth,” I say. “If you take truth personally or call those of us who are unafraid to speak it monsters or big, fat meanieheads, maybe you should look in the mirror and ask what the fuck happened to you? When did you get so soft? And why are your tender little feelers more important than speaking the truth?”

I grab my coffee mug, making sure the large middle finger is facing the camera, and take a swallow, letting my words linger.

“I submit that if you think your feelings are more important than truth, then you’re the problem,” I say. “If you’re really that fucking sensitive, you should probably just remove yourself from the world because let me tell you… this world is a cold fucking place that doesn’t give a shit about your tender little feelers. You’re too fucking soft to survive, so maybe you should go out to the desert and eat a bullet.”

And that is a blunt truth. The world is cold. The world doesn’t give a shit about you. That’s a lesson I’ve learned many times in my life. Straight out of college, I landed a job at my favorite radio station and worked my way up from the mail room to the research room, to on-air talent. And for twenty-five years, I was known as the “King of Yacht Rock.” It was great. I was living the fucking dream, man.

But then the internet and satellite radio destroyed the business and with it, my career. And after a quarter century at the mic, I was tossed out on the street with a pat on the back and a good luck. I didn’t even get the gold fucking watch. What I did get was a future filled with uncertainty and no idea how I was going to pay the bills. And that’s when I found my way to podcasting and began my nightly show.

“Okay,” I say and connect the next call. “Reggie, you’re on the Edge, talk to me.”

“Yeah, last week you said you didn’t believe women and minorities should be allowed to vote,” Reggie says hotly. “That’s the stupidest, most ignorant, and un-American thing you’ve ever said… and you’ve said some really stupid shit over the years.”

“What’s un-American about it?” I ask. “This country was founded by white men. When they drafted the original Constitution and laws that govern this land, women and minorities were not allowed to vote. And this country was better for it.”

“That’s the stupidest fucking thing I’ve ever heard. Women and minorities have contributed more to this country—”

“They’ve contributed nothing more than division, racism, and a feminization of this country,” I cut him off. “America was truly a great nation when men were allowed to be men and not whatever they decided to identify as on any given day, and when everybody knew their place.”

“You’re a fucking pig—”

“I’ve been called worse by better. You’re going to need to be a little more original if you want to share my airwaves, buddy,” I laugh and disconnect the call. “Time for a break. I’ll be back on the other side of these commercials.”

As the ads play, the view counter on my monitor continues to spin as people continue to tune in and I laugh to myself. People are so fucking gullible. It took me a while to find my footing in the podcasting sphere. In those early days of my show, I was pretty focused on politics—on policy mostly. It was dry and boring. And I never had more than a dozen viewers at any one time. It was awful and I almost gave up.

But one night, as I was sitting on the couch watching one of those political panel programs where everybody just shouts over each other, I had an epiphany. Whoever said sex sells was right. Sex does sell. But hate and division sell far more than sex could ever dream of. It was that night, I scrapped my old shows and rebranded my whole format.

Selling hate is a cottage industry and I’ve made more in these last few years than I ever did as the King of Yacht Rock. My persona is the love child of Howard Stern and Bill O’Reilly—I am the Edge. My persona is aggressive. Brash. I’m raw, unfiltered, and I say the most outrageous things. In fact, the more outlandish and offensive my stance on an issue, the more people engage—some to praise me, others to demonize me.

I steer away from policy, or from anything substantive, frankly, and find the hot button social issues of the day—guns, gays, women, transgendered people—and put my thumb on it. Hard. It drives people out of their ever-loving fucking minds. And when my views begin to dip, all I have to do is say something even more outrageous and that number spins right back up.

I’ve been threatened. People have gotten in my face when I go out in public. People go out of their way to call my show to tell me what a horrible human being I am. They say they’ll never watch my show again. And yet, the number of my monthly subscribers continues to grow. I feel like I tapped into a vein of pure gold. People want to be angry. They want to be offended. I'm just making a living giving them what they want.

“Okay, because I’m a glutton for punishment, we’re going to take one more call tonight,” I say. “Gina, you’re on the Edge. What’s up?”

“I called you a couple of weeks ago—”

“Sorry, sweetheart, I can’t remember every chick I talk to. What did we talk about?”

Her voice is small. Soft. “I told you I was having trouble and that I was in crisis. My wife had just left me, and I had never felt so alone—”

“And you thought calling me would help?” I say mockingly. “Okay, so what did I say?”

“You told me I should kill myself.”

“Well, you obviously didn’t take my advice,” I say with a chuckle. “So, what do you want this time? Do you need some suggestions on the best ways to off yourself?”

“I want—”

“Do you want to go out with a bang? Are you looking to make a statement? Or do you want it to be painless and unremarkable?” I press. “Personally, I think if you’re going to do this because of some chick, you should go out in a blaze of glory this broad will never be able to forget. But tell you what, let’s put it to the crowd. Everybody, call in with your best ideas for how Gina here should shuffle off her mortal coil.”

“I’m not going to kill myself.”

“Well, that makes this call a lot less interesting,” I say. “So, if you’re not going to off yourself, what do you want?”

“I want you to stop being an asshole. I want you to stop spreading hate. I want you to try being kind.”

“I’m a truth teller, sweetheart. If you think I’m being an asshole, that’s on you,” I tell her. “Maybe you should try growing a pair, huh?”

“One of these days, you’re going to piss off the wrong person.”

“Oh, is that a threat, Gina? I’m so scared. Really, I’m shaking. In fact, I might have just pissed myself in fear,” I reply with a laugh. “Let’s be honest here, Gina, because that’s what I am—honest. You’re not going to do shit. You sit on the other end of your phone making threats, but you’ll never do anything because you’re weak. You’re pathetic. So, take your dyke ass off my line and go do something useful with your life. Like ending it.”

“Peddling hate the way you do has consequences.”

“You know what has consequences, sweetheart? Being a soft little snowflake,” I tell her. “This world is obviously too difficult for a fragile little thing like you. Frankly, I don’t blame your wife for leaving. I wouldn’t be able to stand living with somebody as soft as you. You’re pathetic, Gina. A loser. Seriously, do us all a favor and go drive off a bridge, would you?”

I punch the button to disconnect the call and glance at the monitor, watching the view counter continue to spin, counting every dollar as it does, and fight the urge to laugh. People really are gullible as hell. I don’t believe ninety-nine percent of what I’m saying, but the simple act of saying it is profitable as fuck. Like I said, hate and division sell.

Don’t blame me. Blame the people who are thirsty for this shit. It’s a position my husband—ex-husband now—couldn’t get on board with. He thinks my persona is disgusting. That what I’m doing is reprehensible. He called it exploitative. He didn’t understand that this is all just performance art. That this is what sells today. It’s a job and I’m simply playing a role.

“Pathetic,” I say into the microphone. “Let me say this: feel free to threaten me all you want. Just know if you come at me, I’m a proud supporter of our Second Amendment.”

I’m not. I don’t like guns at all. If there’s a blight on our country, it’s the unfettered access to guns people in this country have. But the Edge is a gun lover, so…

“If you come at me, you better have some serious firepower because I sure as shit do. And if you take a shot, you best not miss because I won’t. You feel me?” I say ominously. “Let’s take a break and I’ll come back with my final thoughts for the night.”

I hit the button to play the ads and glance at the monitor as I’m about to pause the camera feed. In the feed, I see the door to my studio opening behind me and feel a white-hot flood of adrenaline shoot through my veins. I spin around in my chair as a woman, short and petite, steps in. Her dark eyes are red and swollen as if she’s been crying but are narrow with a burning rage. But my gaze is fixed on the gun she’s holding at her side. I know who this is without her saying a word.

“G—Gina?”

“Consequences,” she says.

I hold my hand up. “Wait. You don’t understand. This is all an act—”

“Don’t worry,” she says. “I’m not going to miss.”

As I lay on the floor, blood pouring from the wound in my chest, the view counter on my monitor continues to spin. The audience for my final show is at an all-time high.

The amazingly wonderful xeena and I have intersected. She's taking on the Oxytocin Loop while I've got the bat. We hope you enjoy what we put together...


* * * * *

I’m dying. Actually, you’re killing me… and you don’t even realize it.

You stop the car on the bridge and get out, not even bothering to close the door behind you. The cool, night air stirs your hair and makes your cheeks flush. As you step to the edge and stare down into the dark waters far, far below, you blow in your hands, trying to summon some warmth into your skin. Into your soul.

I see through your eyes. Stare into the dark abyss at the bottom of the bridge. I hear through your ears. Listen to the rush of the river so far below. I feel what’s in your heart. It’s consumed by a darkness deeper and vaster than the chasm beneath the bridge we stand upon.

I’ve been with you from the start. From before you drew your first breath. I know you better than you know yourself… because I am you. And you are me. I know you don’t understand it, but I know you feel me. And I know you feel my absence. I know it feels like you’ve had a gaping void inside of you your whole life and you’ve never known why.

You’ve spent your life trying to fill that void—first with alcohol, then with drugs—never knowing what you were doing to me. Never knowing the toll it took on me. You were desperate to fill that void and chase the brief bit of happiness you got from them, you never understood that you were killing me.

But every time you take drink, it’s like a baseball bat to my soul.

THWACK…

Every time you snort something—

THWACK…

Every time you pop a pill—

THWACK…

Every time you smoke something—

THWACK…

Every time you inject something—”

THWACK…

Every time you chased that high and wrapped yourself in the bubble of good feelings, temporary though it was, you diminished me. And now there’s not much of me left.

You take a step closer to the edge of the bridge, your—our—eyes fixed on the depths below us. Your head is pleasantly muzzy from the last handful of pills you swallowed and for a moment, I let myself feel the warmth of their embrace. Lose myself in the hazy glow of the bliss you chase so often.

But I quickly pull myself out of it, returning to the pain that is my life. If I had a body, it would be covered in wounds and bruises from the daily battering the drugs you consume gives me. And in that pain, terrible yet exquisite, I feel your emptiness. Your resignation. And your embrace of something beyond this world. In your mind it seems fitting.

It’s your birthday—our birthday. What better way to bookend a life than by leaving it the same day you entered it? But even though I feel you crave it, crave an end to your pain and your loneliness, I also sense something more. It’s buried so deep inside of you that you can’t even feel it anymore. There’s a spark so small that it’s become insignificant to you. That piece of you wants to live. And so do I.

You take another step closer to the edge, our eyes fixed on the yawning chasm below and our heart races like we’ve just run a marathon. Just another couple of steps and we’ll fall into oblivion. No more pain. No more emptiness. No more loneliness. Just an eternity of… nothing.

Please don’t.

It was merely my thought, but you raise your head as if you heard me. I’ve always wondered if you can hear my voice in your thoughts. If you can somehow feel me here inside of you. I’ve often wondered if you can feel my pain—the pain you cause me.

“Who are you?”

I’m you. And you’re me.

“That makes no fucking sense.”

I think you know who I am. You’ve always known.

You take another faltering step forward and our heart races harder and faster than the time you nearly ODed on coke. You lick your dry, cracked lips and I feel the beads of sweat dribbling down your back.

You don’t want to do this.

“You don’t know what I fucking want.”

I do. We’re the same, you and me. We’re one.

“Shut up. You don’t know anything.”

Another shaky step forward and our toes hang over the emptiness of the void below. I feel the resignation in your soul—our soul. I feel the adrenaline begin to flow and know you’ve almost made up your mind. You’re working up the nerve to let go.

There are better days ahead.

“What do you know?”

I know that you can choose a better path. I know you don’t have to live in this constant pain that’s eating away at our soul. You can choose something more. Something better.

You hesitate but I can hear your thoughts. Can feel your emotions. And I know I have not convinced you. The void in your soul is trying to convince you the emptiness you feel will last forever. That there is no hope for something better. That this is your life and will forever be—an endless cycle of chasing that high, chasing that bit of fleeting happiness you find in a pill or the end of a needle. That this is all there is and there’s nothing more.

That voice in the back of your head, self-loathing and destructive, is winning the fight. Which means that you’re losing. Which also means I am losing. Holding onto the rail, you lean out over the abyss, and we stare into its dark, icy depths.

“I’m just so tired of hurting. I’m tired of this emptiness.”

Tears roll down your cheeks, the bitterly cold gust of wind stinging your skin. The voice in the back of your mind is telling you to let go. To end your suffering. To embrace oblivion. But you cling to the cold steel railing.

You cling to life.

From the car against the curb behind us, a song issues from the speakers. It’s one I know means a great deal to you. A song you cherished in happier times. Long before the pills and needles, long before the bottles and pipes. And long before the emptiness of the void inside of you began to swallow you whole.

It’s a damn cold night… Tryna figure out this life… Won’t you take me by the hand, take me somewhere new?... I don't know who you are, but I’m with you… I’m with you

The song is from a time before you lost hope. It’s from a time when you were happy. Or were at least, something close to it. You close your eyes and listen.

Do you remember? You shared a kiss with him as this song played?

A smile—the first sober smile I’ve seen you wear in more time than I can count, crosses your face. You put your fingertips to your lips as if recalling the feel of his mouth on yours. And the fire inside you grows, thawing and warming pieces of you that haven’t known warmth in a very long time. You squeeze your eyes shut as if it’s painful, almost like you have been living in a cave all this time and are unaccustomed to the fiery light of the sun.

The longer you listen to the song drifting from the car’s speakers, the warmer you grow. The small spark inside of catches and begins to grow into a proper flame. I batter you with as many memories as I can, trying to make you remember the better times. The happier times. The void inside of you doesn’t close, but it grows smaller. I don’t think it will ever disappear completely, but the pain and emptiness lessen.

And most importantly, the voice in the back of your head falls silent.

Live. Live and choose another path. A better path. Choose happiness.

Tears still stream down your cheeks, but these aren’t from the pain that is still ravaging your soul. These are tears of… joy. Of fond remembrance. Tears of happiness as you recollect times when your heart was full and not the empty husk you let it become. But for the first time in I don’t know how long, you let me refill it with joy.

With love.

With hope.

Our foot still dangles over the abyss but this time, when you search its depths with our eyes, I feel the embrace of the cold, dark emptiness ebb. You reach into your pocket and pull out the baggie of pills you keep. You stare at them for a long moment, twin dragons of craving and need warring within you. You reach out and drop the baggie, watching as it flutters into the abyss.

With a lightness in your heart, you take a step back. Then another. And then another. You draw in a long, shuddering breath and let it out again.

“I know who you are,” you whisper. “You’re me. And I’m you.”

You’re my sister who is. I’m your brother who never was. We were two before you became one.

We get back into the car and with Avril Lavigne’s voice still echoing in our ears, you drive away from the bridge, step on the gas and race toward something better.

* * * * *

Our piece is based on a phenomenon known as Vanishing Twin Syndrome

“Toi, toi, toi, I banish all evil,” Liam whispered, his voice quavering. “I banish the monster. I ask for protection.”

Clutching the small stick in a hand shaking as wildly as his voice, he carved the intricate symbol into the soft dirt of the forest floor. Tears blurred his vision, and he wiped them away, sniffing loudly. He leaned back against the thick, wide trunk of the tree behind him and sighed. Every square inch of his body ached, and his breath was shallow and ragged. He felt as if he’d been running for days. And still he was in danger.

Huddled in a bush, Liam hugged his knees to his chest, trying to make himself as small as possible. Between the thick canopy overhead and the clouds that blotted out the moonlight, it was black as pitch in the forest. The trees loomed over him, and a malevolent energy crackled in the air that made the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. His stomach turned over on itself and the acidic tang of bile coated the back of his throat.

Liam gingerly pressed his fingertips to his eye and winced. It was swollen. Thankfully, it hadn’t swollen shut. He could still see. But his throat was dry. Cracked. And he knew there would be deep, dark bruises ringing his throat. It wasn’t the first time he’d tangled with the monster, and the aftermath always left him covered in cuts and bruises. Liam knew one of these days, if he did not escape for good, the monster would kill him.

“Toi, toi, toi. I banish all evil,” he repeated softly.

Deep down, Liam knew the incantation his grandmother—his Nana—had taught him so long ago did no good. It did not banish evil or the monster. No, the monster always came for him. The monster always found him. It always forced him to either run or fight for his life. But his grandmother’s words always brought him some sense of solace. Some bit of peace.

His grandmother had been his port of calm within the storm. She had always managed to ward off evil. She had always kept the monster at bay. Liam never knew how she did it. Never knew what bit of magic she used to protect him. But when he was with her, he never feared the sun going down. Never feared the darkness. He never feared the monster would come.

But ever since she’d died, the brief periods of calm in his life were punctuated by episodes of tremendous and increasing violence. As if it knew his shield and his protection was gone, the monster came for him often. It had grown bolder. More vicious. The beast seemed more determined than ever to put an end to him once and for all.

Liam closed his eyes. “Help me, Nana. It’s out there. It’s coming for me.”

The sharp crack of a branch echoed in the darkness, sending Liam’s heart straight into his throat. He swallowed and tried to quell the churning in his belly. The rustle of a bush and a low, rumbling growl rang in his ears. Grimacing in pain, Liam got to his knees and peered through the branches of the bush, searching the darkness, but couldn’t tell where it was coming from. It sounded as if it was all around him.

The sound of shuffling footsteps rustling the bushes sent a white-hot bolt of lightning crackling up his spine. He couldn’t tell where it was, but it was close. Very close.

Liam squeezed his eyes shut and whispered to himself. “Help me, Grandmother. Banish the evil. Send the monster away.”

Its heavy breath cut through the darkness, and Liam felt the intense weight of its gaze pressed down on him. It was standing on the other side of the bush he was hiding in. He slowly opened his eyes, hoping it was gone. But it wasn’t. It stood there. A malevolent shadow in the darkness standing not two feet in front of him.

“Please don’t,” Liam said.

The shrill roar shook the branches of the bush and sent a wave of goosebumps washing across his body. He jumped to his feet and sprinted as fast as his legs would carry him. Liam ran through the darkness, jumping over exposed tree roots and rocks. He ran headlong into the darkness but was trying to be careful to avoid tripping over something or turning an ankle. If he fell, the monster would be on him before he ever hit the ground. If he fell, he was dead.

Behind him, the beast gave chase. It crashed through the bushes, snapping limbs, and kicking rocks out of the way as it tried to reach him. His heart racing and his lungs burning as hot as his muscles, Liam ran. He could practically feel its breath on his neck. Could feel its hands reaching out, groping in the darkness, mere inches from snagging him. Tears spilled from his eyes. But he lowered his head and ran for his life.

Liam leaped over a fallen log and his stomach dropped. He suddenly felt weightless, like he was going over the precipice and into a steep dive on a roller coaster. He opened his mouth to scream, but he hit the ground with a bone jarring impact. His jaw cracked shut audibly, making him bite his tongue. Pain shot through him, and his mouth filled with the coppery taste of his own blood.

He tumbled and bounced down an embankment, crashing into every stone and log embedded into the earth. He hit the bottom and gasped as the breath was driven from his lungs. Liam lay half in the water of the creek, staring into the sky overhead. He wheezed, his lungs crying out for air as every muscle and bone in his body cried out in a chorus of agony.

Liam’s brain screamed at him to get up. To move. To run. It told him the longer he laid there, the more danger he was in. But his body refused to obey. It would not move. He could not move. All he could do was lay there, gazing at the stars above, wondering how everything had gone so wrong. Wondering when it had gone so wrong. Had it been when his mother died? When his grandmother died? Before either of those things happened?

When had the monster first come for him?

Liam racked his brain, trying to figure it out, and he couldn’t recall. The monster had been with him as long as he could remember. Liam couldn’t remember a time when he didn’t live in fear of it. Of its violence. Of its hatred. He couldn’t remember a life before the pain.

With a groan, he sat up and was unsurprised to find it standing in the creek before him. A massive, dark silhouette in the shadows. Though Liam could not see its face, he could feel its eyes burning holes into him. Could feel the rage and the hate radiating from it and pouring into him. Liam’s skin prickled and his heart pounded in his ears as his skin warmed, and his face grew hot.

The monster took a step forward, one of its massive arms reaching through the darkness toward him. Liam recoiled as fresh tears spilled down his cheeks.

“Please, Dad,” he whispered. “Please don’t.”

“Where did you get this?” Elijah asked.

“I found it in the basement of a property I just bought. I think it used to be a church or a monastery or something like a thousand years ago,” Joel replied. “This painting looks like it’s been down there for decades—”

“At least,” Elijah murmured.

He walked around the triptych, studying it closely. Each panel was roughly eight feet high and fifteen feet long. It was massive. Dirt and grime had rendered the painting largely opaque, but on the center panel, he was able to make out the figure of Christ. A small brass plate was affixed to the wooden frame. Using his thumb, he wiped away enough of the grime to read the inscription.

“Ecco la mia vendetta,” he read. “Behold my vengeance.”

“That’s ominous,” Joel said with a frown.

“Yeah. A lot of things back then were.”

“What language is that anyway?”

“Italian,” Elijah replied. “Makes me think this triptych is Renaissance-era.”

“Renaissance-era is good. Renassaince-era means big money," he said. "Can you fix it?”

“I’m not sure, man.”

“Come on, Elijah. You’re the best art restorer I know.”

“I’m the only art restorer you know.”

He laughed. “That’s fair. Doesn’t mean you’re not the best though.”

Elijah walked around the panels again. His skin prickled and he shuddered, as if a cold breeze had just blown through. But all the windows in his studio were closed. There was a strange energy in the air. He shook his head and pushed it away.

“What are you going to do with it if I restore it for you?” he asked.

“Sell it,” he replied. “It looks really old. I’m sure somebody will pay top dollar for it.”

“That seems sacrilegious.”

“That’s capitalism at work, baby,” he replied. “So, will you do it?”

Elijah flashed him a grin. “Speaking of capitalism, what are you offering?”

* * * * *

He arrived the next morning and sat on a stool, staring at the triptych as he enjoyed his morning cup of coffee. In his mind’s eye, he was picturing something like Bosch’s, “Garden of Earthly Delights,” or van der Goes’ “Portinari Altarpiece,” or perhaps some undiscovered Renaissance-era masterpiece. The idea that he might be discovering something unseen by human eyes for centuries sent an electric thrill surging through his veins.

He set his coffee cup down then turned on his Bluetooth speaker and scrolled through his playlists. Unable to decide on what he wanted to listen to, he settled on a random classical station. He smiled as Vivaldi began to play.

“That’ll work,” he said.

Elijah walked to painting and gently ran his fingertips across the canvas. As he did, he felt a crackle and pop like static electricity and quickly pulled his hand back, giving it a shake, a frown on his lips. he smiled and silently chastised himself. He wasn’t a man prone to fits of the heebie-jeebies, but he couldn’t deny the strange energy that filled his studio. It was probably having something so old taking up space. Most of his restorations didn’t have that kind of history.

Letting the music fill his ears and his soul, he set to work. It was slow and painstaking, but by mid-afternoon he’d manage to uncover the face of Christ in the center panel of the triptych, just like he’d thought. But it was unlike any image of Christ he’d ever seen before. This version of him looked… angry. It was the eyes though, that captivated Elijah. They looked almost… alive. He took a step back and admired it.

“Exquisite,” he said breathlessly.

Energized, Elijah set to work on another section of the center panel. On the ground beneath him was a figure, broken and torn, a dark pool of blood all around him. The face of the figure was twisted with pain. He had no idea who the artist was, but they were amazing. He was about to move on, but something stopped Elijah short. He leaned forward and studied the face of the bloodied figure he’d uncovered and frowned.

“What the hell?”

Elijah sat back, staring at the face of the bloody figure on the ground. It looked just like Tony, his ex-brother-in-law. He knew it was probably just pareidolia but still… it was uncanny. Shaking his head, Elijah got to his feet and stretched his back. It had been a long day, and he’d done enough. He was beat. Grabbing some sheets, he covered the canvases and cleaned up, done for the day.

* * * * *

After a fitful night’s sleep, Elijah returned to the studio to continue his work. After removing the sheets, he sat on his stool, admiring the work for a moment. The air around him felt heavy and the hair on the back of his neck stood on end. Shaking it off, he scrolled Facebook as he sipped his coffee. He was just about to close out when something caught his eye.

Setting his coffee down, he stood up and read the post a friend had put up last night. His ex-brother-in-law, Tony, had apparently died sometime last night. He read the post once. Then twice. Then a third time. But the words didn’t change. Tony had been driving drunk after a work event and was involved in a fatal car wreck. It made no sense. Tony was maddeningly cautious and didn’t take foolish chances like that.

The man he’d known would have never gotten behind the wheel drunk. And yet, he apparently had. Maybe the man he’d known wasn’t the man he was today. People changed. His ex-wife had certainly taught him that lesson. It wasn’t as if he and Tony had been particularly close. In truth, he couldn’t stand the man. But still… news of his passing was shocking.

He briefly considered calling Miranda to offer his condolences but thought better of it. She didn’t want to hear from him any more than he wanted to talk to her.

Shaking it off, Elijah turned on his music—Wagner today—and got back to work. He spent most of the morning uncovering the work on the lower half of the center panel. Like a lot of Renaissance-era works, this was heavily religious and gruesomely violent. It was exceptional. He just wished he knew how it had come to be in Southern California and not in a museum somewhere in Europe where it belonged.

He’d been at it all day and his back and arms were aching. Elijah was just finishing up a section of the panel, uncovering yet another grisly tableau. This one of a man hanging upside down by his ankles with spears and swords being thrust into his belly. He wiped his hands on a rag and studied the face of the man, that ominous sense of familiarity stealing over him once more.

“No way,” he whispered.

The face of the hanging, impaled man looked like his old boss. The man who’d tormented him for years before finally firing him. Even now, the sight of the man’s face stoked the flames of rage that still burned within Elijah. He shook his head, knowing it had to be a coincidence. But just as before with the face that looked like Tony, the similarity between the face in the painting and Reginald was uncanny.

A dark shudder passed through him and Elijah quickly covered the panels with sheets, cleaned up, and bugged out for the day.

* * * * *

The next morning, he walked into the studio, his heart hammering in his chest and his throat bone dry. With a trembling hand, reached out and tentatively uncovered the panels. His eyes scanned the canvases as if he expected that they’d somehow changed during the night. But everything looked exactly the same as it had when he left last night. It looked the same, but Elijah knew something had changed.

As he was getting ready to come into the studio that morning, he’d received a text from an old co-worker letting him know that Reginald had died during the night—the victim of a home-invasion robbery gone wrong. He’d been shot more than a dozen times. His old co-worker had sent the news along with a thumbs-up emoji, figuring Elijah would be happy to hear the news. And there was a time when he thought he’d be elated to hear of Reginald’s passing too.

But not today. Not now.

He stared at the triptych and felt a heaviness in the air around him. Something dark and foreboding settled around his shoulders, making him shudder. Elijah’s stomach churned and the back of his throat was coated in a thick, greasy bile. He thought he was going to be sick. But he stood rooted to his spot, unable to move, unable to do anything but stare at the painting, his gaze drifting to the small brass plaque.

“Ecco la mia vendetta,” he whispered to himself.

The urge to destroy the triptych swept over him. His mind screamed at him to douse it in paint thinner and set it ablaze. Elijah took a step toward his workbench but paused. As great as the desire to destroy the painting was, the compulsion to continue the work on the canvases was even greater. He felt drawn to it. As if the painting held its own gravitational pull and he was caught in the event horizon. With his mind howling, his body picked up his supplies and got back to work.

Elijah felt like a passenger in his own mind as he worked swiftly but with care, revealing more of the dark, grisly painting. He revealed the body of some poor soul whose body had been subjected to ungodly torments. And when he uncovered the face, he sighed. Looking into those sparkling blue eyes that looked bright and alive, Elijah knew it had been inevitable. Knew all along that this would be coming.

“Miranda,” he whispered, his voice harsh and strained.

* * * * *

Elijah sat on his stool in stunned silence. staring at the panels of the triptych. The news of Miranda’s murder the night before hadn’t surprised him when he’d gotten it that morning. He’d been expecting it. He didn’t have the details, but he didn’t need them. Judging by the torment of the woman he’d uncovered in the painting, it had been gruesome. Painful. A single tear spilled from the corner of his eye and raced down his cheek.

Was this somehow his fault? Had he caused this? Had his work on the painting somehow resulted in these deaths. Ecco la mia vendetta… yes, he harbored dark feelings for these people. Yes, it could be said that he even hated them. But he certainly never would have wished these fates upon them. He never wished for their deaths.

Not consciously.

As the two words passed through his mind, his eyes grew wide. Had the painting somehow picked up on some desire buried so deep within him that Elijah didn’t even recognize it? It was a thought that turned his stomach but one he couldn’t dismiss. He’d known there was something dark, something sinister about this painting the moment he’d laid eyes on it. Was that dark energy somehow causing all this death and misery? And was he responsible for feeding it?

As fresh tears flowed down his face, he got to his feet and stared at the panels of the painting. He was going to destroy it before it killed anybody else. Before… he killed anybody else. Elijah snatched up a nearby boxcutter and advanced on the panels, his jaw clenched, his entire body taut as a bowstring. But as he closed in on it, his vision wavered and he felt lightheaded. Then his stomach dropped as if he was falling from some great height and his mind grew hazy…

* * * * *

… Elijah shook his head and came back to himself. He felt nauseous and his heart was racing, but he was otherwise all right. He looked down at his hands and instead of seeing the boxcutter he’d picked up, he was holding his restoration tools.

“What the fuck?”

He picked himself up off the floor and turned to the painting. A gasp burst from his mouth when he saw that he’d not only failed to destroy it, he’d restored another large section. His entire body trembling, he stepped closer to the canvas and studied the figures he’d uncovered. One, a man dressed in brown robes, like a monk, stared out from the painting as if he was staring straight through Elijah’s soul. In his hand was a parchment with lettering he could read clearly.

“La vendetta non vien mai senza prezzo,” he whispered, his voice trembling as hard as his body. “Vengeance never comes without a price.”

Elijah’s eyes drifted to the broken, bloody man at the monk’s feet. He’d been disemboweled. Dismembered. The man’s face was etched with sheer agony, his mouth hanging open in a silent, eternal scream. A tear raced down his cheek, and he fell to his knees as he recognized the face of the man at the monk’s feet.

It was him.