Spanish Moss III

“Gateway to the Crossroads”

The alcohol and amphetamine withdrawals began to peak at the same time. I started to lose grip on reality. The world began to flicker in and out of existence. The shaking and cold sweats weren’t coming in waves anymore. The shitty twin mattress on the floor of my living room had become a torture chamber of my own construction. My brain and spine feels like they’re on fire. My senses are firing on all cylinders. The smallest light is blinding, I can smell the now stale red wine, the bottom of the ash tray, and the lingering oder of a fresh lay. It’s all mixing with the evening rain of a fall thunderstorm. The rain falls on the roof of my apartment and I hear every drop. The years long bender is catching up like a storm on the horizon—and there isn’t a fucking thing I can do about it. There’s no more scripts in sight, they’ve all caught on to the game. Frankly, even if I could get up and make it to a store no-one in their right mind is going to sell me booze in this condition.

…

The apartment is a shitty two bedroom, in the corner of the third floor. The apartment building is ocean themed. Some asshole decided it would be cleaver to have untreated wood slat floors with open catwalks and stairwells—an hour from the nearest water source—which was a river surrounded by swamplands. The wood is a slimy green color and the majority of all their edges have turned rotten and punky. There’s a layer of moisture, pollen, and mold on everything. They have to rebuild it every other year and it’s overdue. The grass beneath the six inches of pine needles and leaves is saturated from a combination of overwatering and daily rain. It’s humid, hot, and muggy. Trash piles up around the lone dumpster because people are too lazy to lift a lid. The old man on the first floor dumps raw meat out there as it goes bad for the hoard of stray cats and raccoons. The oder is thick, heavy, and omnipresent. It’s the sort of smell that lingers in your nose for several hours after you’ve left. If I manage to make it up the three flights of slimy green wood, then my apartment is at the end of the hall. Occasionally, I have to make a couple of trips because I dropped my key or a cigarette at my door and it fell through the floors to the concrete base.

Just inside the door, there’s a small table with a loaded .40 caliber pistol resting on it. Next to it, a small bowl with the essentials—headphones, wallet, keys, etc. Ironically, the gun isn’t the first thing people notice—it’s the basketball sized blood stain in the middle of the entry way on the now flat beige shag carpet. No, I truly have no idea how it got there or how old that carpet is. It has made my imagination run wild on me more than once in a haze of narcotics, alcohol, and oxytocin. More than the blood on the floor, what really disturbs me is the spare bedroom door. It took awhile before I noticed it, but someone had flipped the the handle around so the lock was facing the wrong direction. Large chunks of wood are missing from the frame. Sharp and jagged edges make it look like someone was stabbing into it with a knife backed with quite a bit of passion. The inside of the door has fingernail marks running down the back. The window in the room doesn’t match the rest of the windows in the apartment. It was replaced recently. Every so often I get letters in my mailbox from child protective services that are addressed to, who I assume, was the previous occupant. No one notices the door.

The bathrooms nice enough, I suppose. The ceiling light hangs about an inch down and I can see into the attic—sometimes spiders come in. It’s one of those double bulb numbers with a glass dome over them, the one that looks like a lone breast hanging from the ceiling. Dual sinks with a full length mirror. I never cared much about mirrors, but I can understand why some people don’t like them. The washer and dryer are also in the bathroom behind a pair of the bi-fold double panel shaker style doors. Well sort of, they’re cheap aluminum knock offs and they’re a little warped. Most of my personal possessions are in the master bedroom and its closet. The crawl space is a small entry in the roof of the closet that connects to all the other apartments. I moved the small twin bed into the living room a few nights earlier and laid it in the corner of a large L-shaped couch. We were playing a zombie horror survival game, knocking back bottles of red wine, and smoking joints. She got mad, and left—and I neglected to mention what I was doing. The argument wasn’t one we were going to come back from, no matter how badly I wished we could.

…

It feels like someone is laying a red hot piece of rod iron down the length of my spine. Another’s tip is being pressed into the center of my forehead, and another—square into the center of my heart. Admittedly, that last one is likely more from her than it was the drugs. There’s shock waves running up and down my spinal cord, like a hero’s dose of mushrooms. The next shockwave’s pain is so intense it knocks me out.

…

It’s a blue porch covered by a high angle roof. There’s a three foot privacy wall that wraps around it. A mixture of southern pines and poplar trees surrounds the view with only a couple of feet to spare on either side. There’s a couple of chairs, the soccer mom foldable kind, resting a few inches from the sliding glass door. Between them sits a small aluminum folding table with a large grey ashtray in the center. It’s over-flowing with the butts of more than a hundred cigarettes and the smell is not one that I notice but I imagine it's probably pretty terrible. All I can smell is her.

Leaning over the railing, with a cigarette held ever so delicately between her index, thumb, and middle finger. What is that? Sandlewood? Lavender? Something citrus maybe? I can’t pin it down, and I struggle to focus on anything else. The warm summer air blows across us pushing her long scarlet curls away from her shoulder that refuses to let them go. She turns her head towards me, into the opening created by the wind. Her eyes are a vibrant green, each with a couple of tiny hazel triangles. The sort of thing you wouldn’t even notice unless you were really looking. But I am.

She smiles and asks, “What? What are smiling at?”

I just shake my head, saying, “Nothing.” I realize for once in my wasted life, I am actually happy. I had nothing and yet I had everything. This garbage blood stained carpet, moldy walls and floors, minimal possessions. Hell, most of the time I didn’t even know how I was going to afford to eat. When I look at her though, none of that matters. At all. I take a deep breath and say, “I love you, that’s all.”

She smiles from ear to ear, creeping towards me. A wildcat prowling towards prey is the first metaphor I can conjure. Placing a gentle palm on my chest she says, “I love you too.”

…

I wake to a dead phone and my charger’s not working. I don’t have a watch. The playstation has been cycling the menu screen for some time judging by the heat coming off the console. The Internet modem is flashing, and the stove clock is flashing. The only thing in arms reach is a crystal lowball glass half full of three day old wine. I try to slam it and wretch into a small grey plastic trash bin next to the bed. One of those bathroom bins, the tiny ones. They are a waste of money, just hang a used grocery bag on the handle of the vanity. Vomit…vomit is the only true purpose of a bathroom trashcan. The culture of the bathroom trashcan belongs solely to heavy drinkers, maximalists, drug addicts, adventurous eaters, and partakers of vanity. She’s gone, I’m angry again, and my mind is reeling on meaningless rants.

My body is entirely exhausted, mentally, physically, and emotionally. And I am in an amount of pain that I simply cannot put into words. The simple act of lifting my head is excruciating. I’m still sweating, still shaking, and still dealing with shockwaves. I’m alone, it’s dark out, and there’s more than a fair chance I might die doing this dumb shit on my own. legitimately. I’m jonesing for a smoke.

I force myself to sit up on the soaked sheets, pulling my knees to my chest. Every joint and muscle feels what I imagine two velcro pieces feel when you squeeze and pull them apart from the wrong direction. The air conditioner hits my sweat soaked body and I'm freezing. The aches, smell of vomit, and old alcohol were enough. I force myself to my feet grabbing a ratty old hoodie from the couch. It isn’t clean, but it doesn’t smell bad. I pull it over and walk into the kitchen. I grab my cigarettes and lighter off the counter sitting next to a bag of coffee. I don’t drink coffee.

It’s from some local hipster joint in town. It says, ‘COLOMBIA: NOTES OF MARMALADE & TOFFEE’ on the bag. She love’s that sort of stuff. Anything hippie. Crystals, horoscopes, reclaimed clothing stores. She’s always wearing an assortment of tiny little talismans. Some deflect negative energy, while others trap it. Some bring good energy, and others send messages. One she wears gets hot when there’s too much EMR around her. Like a little Geiger counter. Or so she says anyway. She tried to show me once but I couldn’t tell if it was hot or just her body temperature. I grab the bag and throw it in the trash.

For some reason I feel threatened. The withdrawals, it must be. I grab the loaded pistol from the table. It’s top heavy. The slide and barrel are a blued steel, with rough scalloped ridges on the back. The lower half is a composite polymer. Lightening the receiver is suppose to give advantages in handling and performance. In my experience, it just makes the thing lighter to tote around. The surface is rough, with a half-moon pitted back-strap. The magazine release is dimpled, so you can find it without looking. There’s no safety. The serial number reads, DMZ-1996. I place the pistol in my waist band and walk to the sliding glass door.

I step out onto the blue porch, lighting a cigarette with one hand and closing the sliding door with the other. I lean against the railing, looking down across the bed of rotting pine needles and leaves but up over the years. A glaring of black cats passes, moving through the trees three floors below. The family of stray’s the old man feeds. Mom and dad up front, with the little ones in tow. The last one, the smallest, is the runt of the litter. I take a pull of smoke watching them walk by and suddenly—I don’t really care about the smell of trash bins any more. They arrive at the edge of the shadows on the far side of the trees and begin to disappear one by one. The last one, the little guy, stops for a second turns upwards and looks right at me. We both freeze for a moment before he turns and disappears into the shadows.

“Those things are fucking pests,” my neighbor says on his balcony.

“They’re alright,” I say without looking away from the shadows. “They’re just kittens.”

I didn’t even notice he was out here, nor did I hear him open his door. Since the day I met him, there’s something about him that just didn’t sit right with me. I still can’t tell if it’s distrust, or if there’s something more sinister at work.

“Yeah, but they get bigger,” he says looking at me.

“Maybe you’re right,” I say looking at him and shrugging my shoulders. I do not want to engage in an argument. I notice his eyes look at my waist band, not realizing at first that the pistol was showing through the hoodie. It was the middle of the night and I honestly didn’t expect to see anyone.

He leans over the balcony, taking a pull from his cigar, and says, “Trigger.”

Officially being done with the conversation, I stand putting my cigarette out, shaking my head and rolling my eyes.

“Have a good night,” I say walking inside.

I make sure the doors and windows are locked. I really don’t like that guy. I put the pistol where I can reach it and pull the sheets off the bed. I toss them in the floor and go to the master bedroom closet. There’s a range bag on top of a few boxes. It’s got some gun cleaning stuff, and precisely 250 rounds of hand loaded ammunition. I move it out of the way and open the box beneath it to grab a fresh set of sheets. They’re clean, but they have that smell that stuff gets if you leave it in the bottom of a closet for too long. I close the door.

I toss the sheets on the bed, and lay back down. Head still pounding and shockwaves still rolling. The shaking has slowed and I'm not jonesing anymore at least. My body still hurts, but the little bit of movement is enough to force some blood back into my joints. Those damn green eyes. My life, until this point has largely been meaningless.

I spent most of it so high, so drunk, so cracked out that until she showed up I had all but waved goodbye to emotional attachment. I couldn’t feel a thing most of the time and that was what I was used to. It became a defense mechanism. You abused me, didn't care. You personally attack me, didn’t care. Emotional manipulation, didn’t care. You Love me, you hate me, I couldn’t care less—until she showed up. She ruined everything. Someone once called me a psycho and I even believed them without hesitation.

She’s gone now though, and my dark world that had found some light—was once again a vast field of darkness. The damn had broken and everything was flooding in. No matter how hard I try push back against the concrete blocks, there was nothing I could do to stop it. Left with no other choice but to lay here and bleed.

There’s a painting on the wall, of a gold heart, I never expected that it would end up as a lowly parting gift. Looking up at it, two choices become overwhelmingly apparent. One, an eternity without her. When it’s true it never fades. You just sort of learn to live with it. Even years later, I know there will be days—more than I will want—were a smell, a taste, or another face will rip that wound open all over again. It’s a life in prison without the possibility of parole sentence. Or, option two, I can check out. Becoming a statistic, ironically becomes a preferable choice. Something I never wanted to be, but was beginning to look more and more likely. The choice alone, forces a tear from my the corner of my eye towards my ear.

Reaching up, I grab the pistol. It happens fast, in a blur. I sprint into my shitty bathroom. Leaning into the big mirror, I press the pistol firmly into my temple. I can feel my brain send the signal to my finger to pull the trigger. I hear what I can only describe as the largest book, falling perfectly flat, from a tall height. My heart begins to race, I can feel it in my ears, realizing what I’ve done. I lower the pistol, hands shaking. Looking around, nothing is different. Everything is exactly as it was. I look back at the pistol in my hand, then back at the mirror. I turn my head to either side, and nothing, just some unkept sweaty black hair. I look down at the pistol, and drop the magazine from the inside. Pulling the slide to the rear, I remove the lone round from the chamber. My skin is on fire, as I grab the magazine and furiously begin to unload it a single round at a time. I count them three times, 15 in total. I’m shaking as I push the pistol away from me. I fall to my knees over the toilet and puke. I can’t hear it, my ears are ringing. I flush the toilet and lean back into the edge of the tub.

“A hallucination,” I tell myself aloud. It had to be. I don’t remember actually pulling the trigger, only the feeling.

“Yeah, a hallucination. The drug and alcohol withdrawals are just messing with my head. I just need to get some sleep,” I say.

My head is leaned across the edge of the tub, sitting on the floor, starring at the ceiling. I take a deep breath, my ears stop ringing, and the adrenaline dies down. I try to get up but I can’t. I can’t move anything. I begin to panic. It feels like ten razor blades spaced out across the length of the sides of my head. I’m ripped backwards—through the tub, through the wall, and out. When I come to stop, I'm hanging suspended and weightless on my back.

Above me, a mountain range of clouds, draped in a glow of purple and golden light. I can’t turn my head to see what’s below me, and all I feel is fear.

“This is it. I’ve done it now. I guess it did go off. Jesus man, what a wasted life,” I say.

Nothing is happening. Nothing is happening for so long that I calm down. I’m not withdrawing anymore. There’s no pain, no shockwaves, no cold. I can think again I’m just stuck here staring at clouds. While they are beautiful, I start to examine my life in its entirety. The only good thing, that I can manage to come up with, is her. Not her specifically. God knows I could have been better, and I'm not claiming to be responsible for her. But I know, without question, I gave every molecule of love that I had within me to her. That was it, my one good thing in 27 years. Suddenly I feel ready. Ready for what exactly, I can’t be certain, I have no earthly idea. The mountains begin to get bigger, I feel myself getting pulled upwards. I am halted.

Something…I can only describe as…the longest tongue…I have ever seen, flicks past my ear. An arm raises over my left shoulder. There’s a bright dark blue hue outlining the form. Inside looks like another universe entirely, a vast sea of stars and galaxies. The hand alone is the size of my chest. It has sharp triangular nails, but no outline of a nail. The hand fall on my chest, other than a downward pressure, I can’t feel anything. Its other arm rises and falls on my stomach. I’m held there with simultaneous pressure upwards and downwards. I’m stuck. It rises its head up next to mine, and fear washes over me. It has no facial features. It looks at me, looks up, and then back at me.

“Anything you want,” is all it says.

Its voice is halfway between feminine and masculine. There’s a hissing in the underside of its voice and suddenly I realize who—exactly—has me. The large tongue whips out violently, and inserts itself deep into my ear. I swear, I can feel it swiping and circling my brain. Images of a spherical world between two opponents. Playing with pieces that resemble chess pieces. Images of entire lives then begin to flash in front of me. Lives of actors, rockstars, presidents, second comings, furniture makers, writers, directors.

“What…do you want?” It says.

I’m breathing heavier now. My hearts beating harder. I can tell it’s struggling to handle the fear. I imagine how nice, any one of those lives may have been. I know it’s likely not as glamorous as it seems, but somehow those problems seem preferable to the ones I have. I close my eyes. All I see, is two vibrant green eyes…with tiny little hazel triangles..sparkling in the sun. Scarlet curls blowing in the wind. That smile in my direction, that gentle hand on my chest.

“Her? You want her? If that’s all you want then I’ll give it to you,” it says hissing.

I hear the word no from somewhere, but I'm not listening.

“I want your guarantee that you will leave her alone, you will not take her. Your forces will stand down.”

“So, peace…and her…and you come with me?” It asks.

“…Yes…” I say.

I don’t know why, somehow it just seemed like my life was actually about to mean something to someone—even if they were never going to know.

“…Deal…” It says.

The sensation of the tongue being ripped out of my head is one that is hard to describe. Wet while dry, cold while hot, all combined with the popping of my ears. It gently begins to raise its hands from, what I assume is, my soul. Tiny diamonds raise to the surface beneath my skin, as my body turns over. I’m hanging there face to face with it. I feel a sinking pit in my chest when It reaches out and places Its hand on my shoulder. Before I can blink, It yanks me forwards pushing me downwards at a speed I didn’t think was possible. There’s fire, I can feel it, but I can’t see it. Only a faint expansive orange glow. I can hear their screams. They’re getting louder. That’s when I see it. A river of black fire. It’s surrounded by billions of solid black silhouettes all reaching out—all writhing in agony. We plunged straight into the river in an explosion of bright orange and black fire. I think I am screaming but I can’t be sure.

I take a breath deeper than I have ever had in the entirety of my life, and I'm on the floor of my shitty bathroom. In a panic I roll to my hands and knees in a blur looking behind me. The walls intact. Behind me, the guns on the counter. I run my arms across my body, around my head. Nothing, I’m fine, I’m back. What the fuck. I rise to my feet sprinting to the counter, counting the bullets again. There’s still 15. I sprint into the bedroom, slamming open the closet door. Panicked, I rip the range bag from the closet opening it. There are three acrylic boxes, each holds 100 rounds in rows of ten, one of the boxes is half full. I begin to run my finger down the rows counting—249. There should be 250.

“Oh, fuck,” I say. “I’m dead.”

I realize, there’s no turning back now. There’s a small part of me that’s grateful, knowing, at least I meant something to someone. Even more, knowing that it was in the name of love. Even if they’ll never know. I’m still staring at the empty square in the box when there’s a knock at the door. I hurriedly packed away the bag and stood to approach the door. I would be lying if I said I didn’t hesitate reaching for that door handle. I conjure the courage to turn the handle and open the door.

Sitting on the wood planks next my door, in pointed leather shoes with metal spikes, was her. I was speechless. Black leather pants, a black v-neck shirt, and a black leather jacket. Those green eyes and scarlet curls. She’s crying, or has been recently, with all the mascara it’s hard to tell.

“Hey,” I say. “What’s going on?”

“I don’t know,” she says. “I just downed a bottle of vodka and—I don’t know—all of the sudden felt like I needed to see you.”

“Wait, you did you drive here?” I ask.

“Yeah.”

“Jesus, alright come on,” I say extending my hand. “Let’s talk inside though, it’s late.”

She pulls another bottle of vodka from her jacket and I take from her saying, “I think you’ve had enough for one night.”

Closing the door behind us, she slides down wall by the door assuming the same position she was in moments ago. I take the bottle to the sink, unscrew the bottle, and pour it down the drain. Tossing the bottle in the trash, I grab the still clean bag of coffee, and make a pot. I walk over to her and hold out my hand. she reaches out to take it, I pull it back.

“No, your car keys give them to me. You're done driving tonight. I can take you home, or call you a cab, you can come back in the morning and get your car.” I say, “Cough ‘em up.”

“Fine,” she says. “Here—but I'm not leaving.”

“You don’t want to be here,” I say. “You made that very clear a few days ago. This is just the booze talking. Seriously, just let me take you home. I’ll even make sure you get your car back in the morning.”

“I was sober when I made the choice to come here,” she says. “I’m not fucking leaving, I need you.”

In that moment, I knew she was serious. There was a rage behind those beautiful eyes that said this is a fight to the death and you aren’t going to win this one. I took a deep breath and felt a compulsive smile. I would be lying if I said I wasn’t happy she was here.

“Alright,” I say. “You can stay tonight.”

“Thank you,” she says with a breath of relief and relaxing into the wall.

“Come on,” I say extending my hand. “Let’s grab you some pajamas and get you into bed.”

She takes my hand, and we move to the couch, “Fuck the pajamas,” she says ripping her boots off. She lays down on the bed and asks, “Why do your sheets smell weird?”

“They were in the closet for awhile,” I say.

“Come,” she says. “Lay down with me.”

“Alright,” I say. “Let me go brush my teeth.”

I go into the bathroom, and turn the water on. I scoop up the 15 rounds, the magazine, the pistol, and take one last look at the wall. It was like nothing had happened. I can’t make heads or tails of it. My withdrawals were over. And she’s here. I go into the bedroom and toss the items in the bag, zipping it up. I pack it away in the closet and go brush my teeth. I go into the living room. She ditched her jacket on the floor and covered herself with the comforter. I pick her jacket up and fold it over the back of the couch. I’m just happy to have that smell around again. I lay down next to her half sitting up. She rolls over and wraps her arms around my waist, digging her head into my stomach. I wrap my arms around her.

She falls asleep almost immediately. My world is a level of calm, I feel I don’t deserve. Looking down over her, I rub the sides of my head and look at my hand searching for blood. Still nothing. My phone clicks on. It’s officially October 14th. I look back at her. Am I in Heaven? Did I find some loop hole? Or is this Hell? Time alone, I suppose is the only thing that will tell, and for now I may as well enjoy the time I get. At least it meant something to one person.