Finishing Last

When Tom called me on the phone his voice quivered. His voice never quivered. I’ve never heard him that scared before and it’s the only reason I rushed to his apartment at two in the morning. I called Tom before heading up to the door. The fear from his voice was noticeably missing. It was an uneasy calm before some unknown storm and it wrenched my insides. Tom was very calculated and usually prepared for anything, and I mean anything.

I wondered what could have possible event could have put a quiver in his voice, and shuddered at what dark part of his psyche would so quickly take that quiver away. Did this have to do with Eric? Tom had an idea that would propel any company to the forefront of their field (and all Eric had to do was take full credit for it before Tom could). Tom took it a lot harder than I thought he would.

Eric was a onetime mutual friend of ours. He and Tom had a friendly, ongoing rivalry that went awry six months ago when Eric got the new job that both had their eye on. The rivalry started in college. But it never got personal until Eric got that job. Even when the fighting got bitter over who would win the hand of the lovely Cindy, it never got personal. Tom ultimately won, but rumors persisted that Cindy’s heart was a fickle one that never exclusively belonged to either man. But they were nothing but rumors.

I approached the door to his apartment and upon knocking on the door, it slowly opened. My head peeked inside, my eyes darting about the room, and my ears waiting for an invitation to come in, which never came. As I stepped in, I closed the door effectively dimming what little light managed to sneak inside through the door. The smell of rust and something else familiar hung desperately in the stale air, but I couldn’t place it just then. Looking back, I would guess it was gunpowder.

I walked over to the stool by the kitchen counter and sat on it. The kitchen, usually a pristine white, was gray with the shadows that infested the apartment. Peeking over my shoulder, I spotted something unusual in the kitchen sink. It was speckled with pink spots and a thin streak of red marbled its way towards the drain. My heart started to pound in my chest.

“Good, you’re here!” Tom exclaimed, “I really need your help. You can’t tell anybody anything.”

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

“Just come on,” he motioned me to follow him to the bathroom, “Did you bring that shovel like I asked you.” I could only hear my footsteps reluctantly following him and the blood rushing through my head.

“It’s in my car,” I finally answered, hoping my presumptions as to why he needed them were premature. Tom’s hair was soaking wet; from sweat or water, I couldn’t tell. He had been wringing his hands with a small, faintly rose colored hand towel. I knew he only had white towels in the apartment. I prayed to God that it wasn’t blood. God didn’t hear me in time.

In the tub was a mass of something that took the shape of a human form. It was sloppily contained in black, plastic garbage bags and bound methodically at certain sections with silver duct tape. The way it collapsed in the porcelain tub, I could not make out the exact size, shape or form of who it once was, but I had my suspicions. In a situation like this, it doesn’t matter who it is anyway. I knew that if I didn’t want to end up in that tub next, I had to do exactly as Tom would instruct. My breathing became shallow and my skin clammy with sweat. I could almost feel my skin grow paler with each passing second.

“We’re going to get rid of it,” Tom directed. He took the keys out of my hand.

“What the hell happened?” I wasn’t sure if it sounded as eloquently out of my mouth as it did in my head. Nothing was processing in my brain other than the blood in the kitchen sink and the pink streaks of blood along the sides of the bathtub. Tom took advantage of my state of shock. He told me what he needed done and I complied without question.

My hands were shaking. I splashed my face with cold water, but that was just a failed attempt to wake up from this nightmare. I couldn’t think, let alone breathe. Tom came back to the bathroom and if he hadn’t loaded it in front of me, I wouldn’t have even known he had a gun. Now, I was really stuck.

“Get that side,” he grunted while motioning to what I assumed was the head of Eric’s lifeless corpse. I reached around and lifted with all my might. There was no way to anticipate how heavy a soulless shell of a body would be unless you’ve had the unfortunate opportunity to do so firsthand.

I curled my fingers under the skinny and sickeningly limp neck of Tom’s victim and could feel the head fall away from me. Tom thoughtlessly grabbed the two bound feet and lifted them over the side of the tub. As Tom stepped a single foot into the tub for added leverage in lifting the body at the hips, my hands nervously clutched around the neck.

I used my torso to support the head and quickly realized the cause of death. The skull no longer held any discernible attributes to traditionally define it as a skull. Whether it was a blunt force trauma or a point blank shot to the head, I could not tell nor did my curiosity spurn me to investigate further.

We lifted the body to the trunk of my car. Tom insisted on driving. What choice did I have? He had the keys. My heart was pounding and telling me to get the hell out of there, but my brain insisted that that wasn’t a good idea. We drove for a good hour and a half before either of us said anything.

“How could you do this, man?” I finally said. Tears immediately followed, streaming down my face as the taste of bile clawed its way to the back of my throat.

“It was the last straw,” he replied coldly, “You heard the rumors about her. Everybody did. It turns out they were all true, and I found out earlier tonight. So I took care of it.” If this is what he did to Cindy, I would hate to see what he had in store for Eric.

The Nocturnal Awakenings of Mr, Ellis

The tick-tocks become booming explosions in an insomniac’s clock. Mr. Ellis tried to keep his eyes closed, his fatigue demanded it, but his condition would not have any of it. The room grew larger, the space he occupied seemed smaller, and his pupils crept to the corner of his eyes to peek outside the window praying that daylight would soon arrive.

It had been a week since he had kept normal hours of sleep. It had been a week since he last dreamt. His last dream was not so much a dream as it was a memory. The Ellis family had been in a horrific car accident just four months prior to Mr. Ellis’ insomnia began. In those four months, he had been able to sleep with the help of prescription drugs. Under the advisement of his physician, Mr. Ellis began to wane the amount and frequency of which he took the medication. It was just as well. The few times he fell asleep of his own accord only resulted in nightmares.

Reaching over, Mr. Ellis gently tugged on the chain turning on the lamp that sat humbly on his dresser. He carefully lifted his head and saw that it was 2:30 in the morning. His hands balled into fists and rubbed the deep sockets of his eyes tenderly. With a yawn, he pulled the dresser drawer open and pulled out a book and started to read. One hour later, he was still exhausted but his body would not relent. Mr. Ellis took the sheets off his legs and swung them around slowly to the ground, careful not to wake his sleeping wife.

Mr. Ellis found his way through the murky hallways that his dilated eyes could show him. He plopped down onto the sofa in the television room and with a click and a buzz the T.V. turned on and emanated its hauntingly cold blue light. Nothing was on. It didn’t matter. A few minutes passed and he heard the faint sound of footsteps approaching. She stood at the doorway looking at him, worried.

“That would be your wife who stood at the door?” Dr. Howard, the psychiatrist, asked.

“Of course, who else would it be?” Mr. Ellis replied derisively. The doctor did not answer, just scratched notes into the pad of paper on his lap. Finally, Dr. Howard looked up at Mr. Ellis.

“You say that these nocturnal awakenings started once you discontinued use of the medication that your physician gave you.”

“What does this have to do with my wife?”

“Nothing, but you did say that the visions of your daughter began on that first night that you couldn’t sleep.”

“Began and ended on that first day. And I’ve told you before: I know it’s not a dream.”

“I’m not saying that it was. Hallucinations aren’t uncommon symptoms of insomnia.” Dr. Howard placed his notes down and took off his glasses. His eyes began to glint with a look of concern. “How are you doing, Mr. Ellis? You’ve been off painkillers and sleeping pills for a few days and I was wondering if you remembered the accident.”

“How could I forget? Losing a daughter is the worst kind of hell. And for that moment that I saw her, I thought I could just reach over and hold her in my arms again. Now, I just wish and wait for death to reunite us.”

“When you think about that night, how do you feel?”

“Well, my wife doesn’t talk much.”

“I didn’t ask about your wife. I asked how YOU feel about the accident.”

Mr. Ellis didn’t respond for the longest time. He looked at the floor as if looking for something. His eyes darted to the ceiling and then everywhere else that wasn’t Dr. Howard’s eyes.

“I,” Mr. Ellis finally responded, “I can’t help but feel infuriated.”

“Infuriated with whom?”

“Myself. God. The world, in general. I have every right to be angry.”

“That you do,” Dr. Howard took a thoughtful pause, “Time’s up for today.”

“Do you think I’ll ever get to sleep normally again?”

“It’ll take some time, Mr. Ellis. You’ve been through a traumatic event in your life and you’re just going to have to trust the process.”

“Are we headed in the right direction, at least?”

“I assure you, that you’re doing much better than when we first started,” Dr. Howard commented as he led Mr. Ellis to the door, “But we still have a long way to go, so I expect to see you here same time next week.”

Dr. Howard went to his desk and reviewed the notes that he had taken in the past hour. He exhaled a frustrated breath as he took of his heavy glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose with his thumb and index finger. The doctor turned on his computer and opened a file named “The Nocturnal Awakenings of Mr. Ellis.” The progress of his last patient was meticulously recorded over the last four months; since the accident. The good doctor added today’s notes.

“The findings of today’s session indicate that Mr. Ellis no longer suffers from delusions about his daughter. It has been a week since he last saw her apparition, which coincides with his recent discontinuation of his medication,” he wrote, “His depression, as was initially suspected, was rooted in his repressed anger, which he acknowledged today. Furthermore, today’s meeting indicated the first time since the tragedy that Mr. Ellis acknowledged the death of his daughter.

“However, it should be noted that Mr. Ellis does not seem to entirely recollect his condition while he was on prescription drugs. The patient does not remember that he was in complete denial over the death of his nine-year-old daughter for the first month after the accident. I may need to contact his primary physician in order to confirm that this side effect is psychological in nature and not a response to any of the medication prescribed.

“A big step was taken today. He still suffers from insomnia, though recognition of his own daughter’s death will help him reach a healthy mental state,” Dr. Howard looked through his notes and again.

“As much progress we had made today,” he continued to type, “today had its setbacks. There is also indication that there is still great work to be done. Mr. Ellis has taken crucial steps in the grieving process as far as his daughter’s death. But it seems that his psyche stubbornly resists the next step. While he has learned to grieve for the loss of his daughter, Mr. Ellis has yet to recognize that he was the only survivor of the accident several times mentioning that his wife is still with him.”

The Answering Machine

Lee was an elderly man whose eccentricities were exceeded only by his congenial disposition. The wrinkles on his face were deeply creviced at the corner of his eyes, which sparkled in the direction of anyone lucky enough to cross his path. He lived in a small apartment just above a diner, the owner of which was named Henry. Lee called him Hank.

Hank was a large man whose large protruding gut falsely advertised a jolliness that one would think to find in his character. He was far from a curmudgeon but his demeanor was stern. Always cordial to his customers, however, Hank was never without a customer. His personality was doubtlessly molded by his family and years of service to the military. Hank’s trust was not easily earned, but is a valuable commodity as this story will illustrate.

“Hank!” Lee yelled as he busted through the front doors of the diner. “Here it is!”

The old man ran from the door to the end of the counter carrying a small answering machine under his arm, the wire dragging behind him. He reeled in the cord and leaned his whole body over the counter plugging it clumsily into some hidden outlet. There was only one other customer in the diner; a young man in a modest suit making a miserable attempt to mind his own business over soup and a cup of coffee. Henry noticed and smiled to himself.

“All right, Hank,” Lee answered, “I hate to tell you I told you so.”

“I never said I didn’t believe you, Lee,” Henry commented, “I just don’t want you getting all worked up over a silly message. It’s not good for the heart at our age.”

“You didn’t have to say you didn’t believe me,” Lee fumbled around with the buttons for a few moments. With one swift click, the machine played.

“You have one message,” the machine said coldly, “Sent today.”

“You see. This one was today; just like I said, Hank.”

“Okay, Lee, I’m listening.”

There was a second or two of magnetic buzzing, and then, faintly, a voice emanated from the machine.

“Hey, Lee, it’s me, Christy. I’ll call back later… If you’re there… I hope you pick up. There’s something I want to talk to you about… Bye.”

“That was, Christy!” Lee shouted with a smile on his face. Henry smirked at his old friend, his eyebrows furrowed as if confused by something.

“Well, it certainly sounded like her. Why are you down here? She might be calling right now.”

“She already called again, Hank,” Lee answered.

“Christy left you three years ago, Lee. What are you talking about?”

“I know, but she said it’s time for us to be together again. I’ve waited so long for this.” Lee smiled and Henry responded in kind and his eyes began to glisten.

“Lee, this is crazy. You can’t be serious.”

“I couldn’t be any more serious. That’s her voice. And you know that that’s her voice.”

“I don’t want you to do anything stupid.”

“I’m not going to do anything stupid, Hank. You knew this would happen sooner or later.”

“Well, tell her I said hello. I’m going to miss you, Lee.”

“I’ll definitely tell her, old friend. It’s been great knowing you.”

Henry walked to the other side of the counter and threw his large arms around Lee. Their calloused hands patted the other on the back. Lee walked out of the door and waved one last time to his friend through the window. The young man in the modest suit finished his coffee and approached Henry with the check.

“I know you were listening. It’s no big deal,” Henry chuckled.

“So you guys are pretty close?” they young man asked.

“We’re practically brothers. My wife introduced him to his wife. They would have been married 40 years next month.”

“That’s sweet, but did you not like this Christy woman?”

“What? No, I loved her like a sister.”

“Then, what’s with the entire objection to those two getting back together?”

“Because, son, she passed away three years ago.” And with that, Henry shut the register and walked the young man in the modest suit out.

Writer's Block

The dust clung to the air in selfish desperation. As Jake walked into the lab, he noticed that it was a bit more crowded than it usually is. Pete was in the back corner with the blue glow of a laptop reflecting off his glasses. Jake walked toward him and lethargically placed his bag on the table.

“Feeling better?” Jake asked Pete.

“That I am, chief,” Pete replied.

“What are you writing?” Jake inquired.

“I’m not writing,” Pete answered.

“So what are you- Oh, I get it,” Jake commented, “Hey, if it’s the freaky stuff, make sure you got the volume on low.”

“What? No! I mean I’m not writing anything right now. I haven’t been able to think of anything to write about for the past couple of days.”

“Aren’t you worried about the test we have in an hour?”

“No, I’ve been studying for the past week or so. Besides, there’s nothing I can do in an hour that can affect the outcome of that test.”

“So that’s why you have this extra time to get back to writing. You actually studied while you were sick?”

“Yes, my dear Watson.”

“What exactly are you writing? Is it that Batgirl story we talked about?”

“I told you already: That’s never going to be in my repertoire.”

“Aw, why not?”

“My reason is twofold. One: DC doesn’t take unsolicited scripts. Two: Even if they did, I couldn’t think of any motives for Poison Ivy to create a lesbian orgy with Harley Quinn, Renee Montoya, Mercy Graves, Stargirl, three of the Batgirls, and two of the Supergirls.”

“Two?”

“Power Girl.”

“Nice. But who needs a motive?”

“And you wonder why you’re not a good storyteller.”

“What are you doing being all creative? You’re an engineer, remember?”

“It’s not all of who I am. Besides, I need a release.”

There was no response from Jake other than a stifled giggle.

“What time did you get here?” Jake finally asked.

“I think I got here about 10 o’clock this morning.”

“You’ve been here for hours, staring at a blank page?”

“No,” Pete paused, “I’ve been staring at a blinking cursor that happens to be on a blank page.”

“This whole time?”

“No, I went and got something to eat. Then, I drew caricatures of the entire department.” Pete gestured to the cartoons on the board behind him. “And after that, I watched internet videos for about half an hour.”

“Like what?”

“There was this riveting interview of Kurt Vonnegut-”

“Seriously, what’s her name?”

“Molly.”

“Mememolly?”

“Isn’t she adorable?”

“Yes, that’s why I watch the cute blonde talking about video games… because she’s adorable.”

“Well it’s true.” Pete pouted. “And the same goes for Natalie of CommunityChannel, Tessa from Meekakitty, and of course the lovely Miss Nunes.”

“No wonder you can’t get any writing done, you keep getting sucked into these internet memes. It’s a wonder you got any studying done.”

“I just need one idea to get me rolling along.”

“What about that time at work when you met Julie? Or what about last year at Comic-Con? How about that conference?”

“I just don’t see how anyone can be entertained by all that mundane stuff. It was fun to us, sure,” Pete winced, “but if I write about that I might as well be writing about this pointless conversation we’re having.”

“Well, if it comes to that, we’ll all know how desperate for ideas you really are.” Jake took his bag and headed toward the exit.

“Where are you going?” Pete asked. He looked at the clock and saw that they still had roughly an hour left to start worrying about the test.

“I want to get a good seat for the test… Then take a nap until then.” Jake answered.

“Sweet dreams,” Pete waved to Jake. As Jake left, another classmate burst into the room and was surrounded by the other students in the lab. “Hey, what’s all this?”

“Aren’t you worried about the test? I mean, especially since you weren’t here last week.”

“I’m fine. I’ve been studying while I was stuck in bed, sick as a dog.”

“But how did you get the assignment?”

“Assignment?” Pete’s skin turned white and his pupils became pinpoints on his eyeballs.

“It was a take-home assignment. It counts as 30% of our test grade. You’ve got an hour you can still do it if you hurry.”

“FRAK! Dammit, Jake!” And with that, Pete left his writing to be completed at some other point in the future.