Darling
DARLING
Brad C. Hodson
Anaheim, California
Digital Edition published by
Evil Jester Press
New York
Darling
© 2012 by Brad C. Hodson
Cover Art © 2012 by Phillip Simpson
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copy Editing by Steve Souza Jamie La Chance
Bad Moon Books Logo Created by Matthew JLD Rice
ISBN-10: 0988447819
ISBN-13: 978-0-9884478-1-3
www.badmoonbooks.com
BAD MOON BOOKS
1854 W. Chateau Ave.
Anaheim, CA 92804
USA
Digital Edition published by
EVIL JESTER PRESS
Ridge, New York
www.eviljesterpress.com
For Shannon
Our 7 is an upside down 2
Acknowledgements
Writing has been called that “dirty thing you do by yourself behind locked doors,” implying a certain amount of mental masturbation. I won’t debate the truth of that (at least not here), but in order to move past that stage and make your work not only readable but publishable requires some intervention. Books are not produced in a vacuum and no matter your opinion of
Darling
’s literary merits (or lack thereof, for those whose cup of tea tends toward a lighter shade and less bitter taste), it would have been far worse without the support, advice, and even intervention of some mighty fine folk.
First and foremost, I’d like to thank the late and amazing Michael Louis Calvillo, a brilliant artist who not only believed in this book but also recommended its new and unknown author to his publisher. I also have to thank Lisa Morton for becoming a kind of unofficial mentor to me. Her talent and keen head for the business side of this bizarre pursuit have learned me gobs of invaluable information. I’d also like to thank all of the members of the
Dark Delicacies
writing group for their ceaseless support and consistent criticism: Del Howison, John Palisano, Joey O’Bryan, Jodi Lester, Maria Alexander, Benjamin Kane Ethridge, Martel Sardina, and all other members, past, present, and otherwise.
I’d be remiss not to thank Thomas F. Monteleone, Elizabeth Monteleone, F. Paul Wilson, Douglas E. Winter, John Douglas, and all of the grunts at the Borderlands Bootcamp. “Bootcamp” is the best name for their program because it’s truly like doing pushups for your writing. Thousands of them. While someone screams at you and someone else beats you with a rattan cane. And you love them for it.
A quick list of other folks I’d like to thank for this particular book: Roy Robbins and Liz Scott, Dan Simmons, Adam Fox, Bryan Shane Best, Currie Adams, Kate O’Toole, James O’Neil, Ross Graham, Irene Lawson, Tim Lawson, Gordon and Linda Neil, and, of course, Shannon. If I missed anyone, you’ll have to excuse me. It’s been a long road and the backseat only fits so many…
Darling
The man in apartment 333 stopped scrubbing. He rinsed the chemicals from his hands and scanned the bathroom. It wasn’t clean enough (it could never be clean enough), but it would do. The cracks separating the tiles were the worst, but the bleach had worked well.
In the kitchen, he rooted around on his hands and knees with an old toothbrush. Confident that the hidden dirt had been exposed, he swept and mopped again. He scrubbed every dish to a shine. He rubbed the silverware down with an expensive metal cleaner. He packed his wife’s remains into a large garbage bag. He cleaned the windows.
He stopped long enough to stare at his hands. White spots scattered across patches of reddened skin, a road map of the cleaning fluids he had used. His fingers were raw and bled around the nails. His palms burned from the bleach and the knot of muscle at the base of his thumbs screamed at him. He supposed he was finished with the apartment.
He sat on the couch and pulled the checkbook from his suit. He wrote a check for the next month’s rent and drew a smiley face next to his signature. The check went into an envelope along with his keys.
He left his apartment, garbage bag in tow, and climbed into the elevator at the end of the hall. He mashed a button with his thumb and the doors rattled shut. The box threatened to break apart as it descended.
The shaking stopped and the doors creaked open. He stepped out, slid the envelope into the superintendent’s mail slot, and left by the back door.
Under the yellow light of the patio he felt disoriented. His head swam. Shadows writhed at the corners of his vision.
It passed and he stared into the night. Ahead of him, past the tacky lawn furniture and broken propane grill, the grass grew wild.
The wind danced through the field and praised him with dry, rustling words. He brushed his hand through the waist-high growth. It was damp and cool.
He removed his jacket, folded it, and placed it on a lawn chair. His shirt followed, then his shoes. Socks. Pants. His boxer shorts were last. He rolled them into a ball that he slid inside one of the shoes. He placed the bag next to his clothes, his wife collapsing to one side.
The breeze came to him, took his hand, and led him in its dance. He smiled and walked naked through the field.
The supermarket rising from the grass was a black void absorbing the moonlight. It wasn’t until he was close that he could make out the cracked and vine-covered facade, could read the faded nonsense spray-painted onto its side.
Broken pavement bit into his foot. One of the parking lot’s busted lights flickered to life over him. He stood there for a long while, staring into the blackness behind dusty glass doors.
He took a step forward. The doors slid apart along broken mechanical tracks. His view of the shadows was unhindered.
Without looking back, he stepped inside. The doors screeched shut behind him.
The light in the parking lot flickered once and went black.
Across the field, Raynham Place was quiet. His apartment sat, clean and empty, and waited for its next occupant.
PART ONE
JUNE
Do what we can, summer will have its flies.
—Ralph Waldo Emerson
Chapter One
The sword fell, again and again. Ripper72 hacked Mike into pieces and there was nothing he could do about it.
“FUCK.” He threw his half empty Mountain Dew can across the room. It clanged against the wall, spraying an arc of soda across his movie posters. The syrupy odor filled the room.
He logged off, pushed his chair back, and grabbed a T-shirt from the hamper to wipe his wall clean. He had spent all morning playing the online role-playing game, hours spent adventuring and building up his character, and then some asshole comes along, steals his money, and leaves him rotting in a ditch somewhere.
Kind of like real life.
His blood scorched his arteries. He played these games to escape the real world, yet here he was feeling just as helpless and shit upon as usual. He considered logging back on and exacting vengeance, but the clock told him he needed to leave for work. He grabbed his red vest and name tag and ran down the stairs.
His mother lay on the couch, an issue of
People
open in her lap while Fox News played on the television. “Off to work?”
“Yeah.”
“What time will you be home?”
“I get off at six.”
“Pork chops for dinner.”
Pork chops? Maybe he would try to work late and get a burger. “Dad in his office?”
“Mmm-hmm.”
Mike knocked on his father’s door and waited for an answer. After a long silence, he knocked again.
“What?”
He cracked the door and peeked inside.
His father’s fingers drummed against the keyboard.
“I’m busy, Michael.”
“Uh…sorry. I just, uh…”
“What is it?”
“I have to be at work in half an hour.”
His father sighed. “I can’t get out of here for at least an hour. You’ll have to take the bus again. Okay?” He turned back to his computer.
“If I take the bus I’m gonna be late.”
“You should have left earlier.”
“But you said—”
“Goddammit, Michael. Can’t you do anything for yourself?”
He had to fight to keep from slamming the door. He left without saying goodbye to anyone.
The air was thick and hot and he was glad he spent his days inside an air-conditioned theater. He had only walked a block and his collar was damp.
His jaw ached, and he realized it had been clenched tight since leaving the house. Why did his father tell him he was going to take him to work if he had so much to do? He’d never understood the man. Sometimes he thought these situations were manufactured, some twisted method his father used to remind everyone who ran the home.
The neighborhood was quiet. Only a scattering of people were out, namely housewives and retirees. The Vick boys played basketball in their driveway. A large German Shepherd tugged all three hundred pounds of Carolyn Peters down the street. Mrs. Montgomery lay on a blanket in her yard, listening to the radio while the sun worked hard to keep her skin brown and leathery.
“Mike?”
He stopped and turned. A woman stood by a silver Celica. The trunk was open and she pushed a box inside. He stared at her for a moment, trying to place her long brown hair and round cheeks.
“Michael Pritchett?”
“Renee?”
She smiled and closed the trunk. “I thought that was you. How have you been? I haven’t seen you since graduation.”
“Yeah.” His hands went to their usual place in his pockets as he shifted his weight from foot to foot. “I’m good. How about you?”
“Not bad. Just picking up some things I’d left with my parents. I’m living in Nashville now.”
“What are you doing there?”
She laughed. “Just interning. It’s the advertising industry, so it’s a start, I guess. But nothing special. Off to work?” She pointed to the Regal Cinemas name badge on his red vest.
Was she making fun of him? “Yeah. Work.”
“Well…I guess I shouldn’t keep you.”
“Yeah.”
“Good to see you.”
“You too.” Mike turned and hurried off, glad she couldn’t see the red building in his cheeks. He hated running into old classmates, hated that he seemed to be the only one still working his shit high school job and living with his parents. Every time he ran into someone like Renee he could feel them looking down their noses at him, judging him,
pitying
him.
Fucking bitch.
He hurried on to the bus stop, hoping Renee wouldn’t see him waiting on the little green bench as she drove by.
He wished he had a car. He’d talked to his father about it on occasion, but was assured he wasn’t ready. “A car is a big responsibility for a man. Car payments, insurance, registration. Maybe you should wait awhile.” He had wanted to ask how long he would have to wait (he
was
twenty, after all) but kept quiet. It didn’t pay to argue with his father. It never worked in Mike’s favor.
There was only one other person at the bus stop, an elderly black woman in a long brown coat. He wondered how she could wear a coat on such a hot day. She stared at her feet and mumbled something to herself. Mike thought it better to stand.