“I run blindly through the madhouse ... And I cannot even pray ... For I have no God."
John walked back into his house at two in the morning.
He called out to Abigail, but she did not answer.
The thoughts in his head were swimming, and the black scribbles close to his eyes had only worsened. Even more alarming than that was he was having difficulty remembering how he had made it home.
John called out again for his wife, but there was no answer.
In the kitchen, Marston sat at the marbled island nursing a glass of scotch.
"Welcome home, John."
"Marston? ...what are you doing here?"
"Oh, just cleaning up a mess."
John put a hand on the wall, tried to get the room to slow down.
"What ... mess would that be?"
"Your mess, John. The one I'm always cleaning up."
"I don't ... I don't understand."
"Course you don't," Marston said and finished off his drink. "You're always in your head and sometimes you're unable to see the big picture right in front of you. But you will now. You've been putting in some long hours. Alienating yourself from your friends. Some have remarked on how obsessive you've been lately. There's been some trouble at home, Abby got tired of all the late nights, maybe she saw some pictures of you at a bar with some twenty-something. You got in a fight, blows were exchanged, and maybe you hit her a little too hard, John."
John put a hand to his face, could feel the sweat there. "Where's my wife?"
"Upstairs. Though I warn you, it's not pretty. I guess you really fell into a rage or something. Everyone will say what a disappointment this all is."
"Why are you doing this?"
"I warned you not to go tonight, didn't I? But you couldn't listen -- wouldn't listen. I was trying to save you. Save my friend. These people ... well, let's say you don't want to be on their bad side."
"You're not my friend."
"Just wanted to save you..."
"What do they have on you, Marston?"
"Nothing. I chose to work for them. I could have brought you in, got you set up. They pay more than any goddamn pension will."
John went for the familiar location in his holster for his gun, but it wasn't there. He had left it upstairs when he departed earlier that evening. The .38 had no rounds left in it. He fled, leaving the kitchen and Marston behind.
He caught the railing to the stairs in the outer hall to bring him to his bedroom...
And John screamed.
He screamed so loudly that it pushed the black scribbles away from his vision.
Abigail was on her back, her eyes open, gaze searching the ceiling. He dropped to his knees and vomited until his chest burned and his stomach was stripped. He kissed his wife on both cheeks, and on her forehead and closed her eyes as he ignored the gore surrounding her body.
He caressed her shoulders and he kissed her again.
He kissed her many times.
Marston was dead.
Or was he?
John couldn’t remember if he had killed him. How long ago had it been since he had left his home? A week maybe. No, it was longer than that.
John looked around the room. It was bare. There was a desk over by the window, that just had an alarm clock on it. If he counted the minutes, he could think better. He could focus. If he didn’t, well then everything went gray.
Who was Marston?
He tried counting the minutes.
His heart rate slowed. Then he remembered something.
They’d be coming soon. Coming to find him. To take him away.
Time was running out.
He went over to the desk where he had kept a legal pad in the drawer.
On the yellow paper he had written: Important facts to remember.
One was circled a few times, it was an address and a name.
Gideon Friar. Fourteen Dearborn Drive. There was a newspaper clipping attached to the paper. A headline read: “Beloved Senator Battles Cancer” in the picture for the article was a man missing the lower half of his face. The scalp on his head was thick with red welts...
John took a seat at the desk. He counted fourteen whole minutes and took a deep breath. On a new slip of paper he wrote:
“Your wife is dead.”
John's eyes are wide open.
Big eyes. Big smile. He smiles wide out the window of the car at the crowd of neighbors who have gathered on the lawn. An EMT team wheels a body out on a stretcher through the front door of the home.
This is clearly somebody important as the onlookers have started to panic, and one of them screams.
John keeps the smile on his face as the car pulls away from the crowd and starts down the long driveway that has bushes on both sides cut into shapes of different animals.
John stares out the back window, trying to keep his eyes on the concerned onlookers. The car is swallowed into traffic, and John looks down at his hands in his lap. The metal cuffs hurt his wrist, but he is far too happy to mind.
The car hits a pothole and John catches himself in the rearview mirror. His face is the perfect picture of calm. He has to grin at that.
Through the divider, he sees the clock on the console.
And he counts the minutes.
After some fidgeting around, he digs into his pocket and gets a pen loose.
On his left hand, right between the thumb and the index he writes a series of numbers.
5140514
A girl left the restroom and resumed her seat across the booth from her friend. Well, not quite a friend yet. They had just met a few days ago, and somehow had fallen into a conversation about Wiccan.
The girl across the booth smiled as she pushed a strand of blue hair back behind her ear. “So,” she asked. “Did you find it?”
“Yeah. This is kind of spooky.”
“Trust me, you’re going to love it. It’s a big get together, lot of people into witchcraft.”
“Wiccan isn’t witchcraft.”
“Oh, I know. I’m just saying they’ll be some likeminded people attending.”
The Girl thought on it for a moment. “What do I have to do?” she asked.
“It’s easy, for an invite you just have to call the number.”
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