The Cursed Man (8 page)

Inside the kitchen, he found his uncle on his knees. He was pounding his fists against the floor, and his knuckles were covered in blood. The telephone was off the hook, and it beeped incessantly.

Alister hung up the phone and knelt beside his uncle. He placed a hand on his back and asked, “What is it?”

Bob turned his red, tear-soaked eyes toward Alister, and his lips quivered without making a sound. He reached for Alister and hugged him.

 Will you listen now?

Alister didn't hug his uncle back. He was battling something that stirred within. It was volatile and unpredictable.

“Uncle Bob, tell me what happened!”

His uncle broke away from the hug and looked into Alister's eyes. “It's your mother. She has died. I'm sorry.”

His thoughts moved fast and carried plenty of anger. “First Grandma, then my father and now Mom!” His body trembled and his throat filled with a growl that built up to a roar. “No!”

Bob paused in his grief and looked at Alister with both surprise and apprehension.

“How dare you take her from me!” Alister started to hit something but stopped himself. He stomped out of the room and headed anywhere. He balled his fists and took a jab at the wall. His fist sunk into the sheetrock, and when he withdrew it, a big chunk of the wall broke apart. He turned to his uncle. “Don't you see how much God listens and cares about the things that matter most? We're all fools for believing in such a fairytale!”

Alister started down the hallway, his anger so intense it had become impossible for him to cry. Hate was all he was capable of feeling.

“Hey!” his uncle said from within the kitchen. He came into the hallway with a face bright red with anger. “I understand you're upset and I'm sorry for what you're going through, but don't you dare blaspheme the Lord in my house.”

Alister fought the compulsion to charge him and take a hold of his neck. The anger that raged within wouldn't allow him to let go and he knew it.

“What good is this God you, Grandmother, Mother and Father so passionately preach about and push on everyone when He can't answer one simple prayer?”

His uncle remained quiet. If his eyes had had a voice, they would have spat something awful in return.

“One fucking prayer,” Alister said, holding his pointer finger up. “One. You go on and worship what you want, but don't be surprised if when you need Him most, He doesn't answer.”

Bob gave Alister with a hardened stare that quickly turned soft. “Remember Alister, your arms aren't long enough to box with God. Maybe one day you'll realize that.” He turned away. “I'll give you your space. When you calm down, we can talk about this. Right now you're understandably upset and not thinking clearly.”

Alister laughed. “Things have never been so clear to me. There is nothing for us to talk about anymore. You're as confused now as you were when you were spending your nights with men.”

Bob looked at Alister. “I forgive you for saying that. Now go and clear your head.”

Alister exited the house and slammed the front door behind him. He wandered the streets without direction, the voice inside growing louder.

Now will you listen?

“No.”

 

 

Alister sat in the corner of the room, and he tried to keep himself separated from the meaningless hugs and soft voices that told him how sorry they were for his losses. He watched the people kneel over his mother and father and bow their heads in meaningless prayers. He scrutinized the religious relics that were placed strategically around the room and above the caskets.

“Ridiculous,” he said. “Go on and be herded like cattle. Your salvation awaits.”

He stood and kept his eyes on the floor to avoid the painted looks of sympathy and exited the funeral home.

“OK, I am ready to listen,” he said. “I want to know what you have to say.”

A laugh that was distant and resonant bellowed all around him.

At last.

 

 

ATTEMPTED SUICIDE

 

 

Alister dropped an empty bottle of Jack Daniels between his feet, and it clattered across the floor and shattered. He stumbled and fell on the edge of the bed in a sitting position.

“Completely useless—that's what you are.”

He licked his lips with a pasty tongue and tried to steady the room, which spun around him. Jagged pieces of broken glass spread across the floor encouraged him to chuckle. “You're dangerous to the careless, just like me.”

Though tired and numb, he couldn't escape the idea that he was alone now. It had been over a month since he had discovered his wife and daughter dead. And every moment of every day he thought about them.

“I miss you both.”

His speech was slurred, and every time he closed his eyes, the reproachful gaze from Sharon forced his eyes open again.

“You'll offer me no reprieve for a couple hours of rest, will you?”

Alister stood and tried to balance himself.

“But if it is not you, it will be someone else. I see no other way to escape this.”

He stumbled to his bureau and shards of glass that dug into the bottom of his feet gave him pause. The floor behind him had footprints that increasingly darkened with his blood, and a small puddle formed where he stood.

“I deserve so much worse.”

He opened the top drawer and removed a gun hidden beneath his folded clothes. He collided with the walls as he made his way into the bathroom.

“You,” he said to the man in the mirror, no longer recognizing the person that looked back at him. The shape of his skull was long and narrow, and his cheekbones protruded. The skin that covered his face glowed bright white and appeared to be stretched tight. The eyes sat deep in their sockets and were surrounded by deep purple rings, devoid of life and emotion.

“You monster,” Alister said. He slapped his reflection. He spat on it and a long string of saliva that rolled down the mirror distorted what he saw.

A heavy breath behind him quickly turned him around, but no one was there.

Four weeks earlier, Alister had stepped around the lifeless body of a man that had tried to help him when he decided to lie in the path of his vehicle.

“I can't get the sound of your last gasp out of my mind.”

His intention was suicide, but he was left unharmed, and the other man was left dead.

“Please stop,” he said as he covered his ears. The sound repeated itself over and over like the lips it had come from were pressed against his ears.

“I should've stayed in the house and dealt with my sorrow alone. I didn't mean for that to happen to you.”

He looked at the gun, verified it had bullets and looked back at his reflection.

“Look at what you've done.”

He pulled back the hammer.

“You deserve your pain and misery, but you look to take the coward's way out.”

And without contemplation, he raised the barrel of the gun and pushed it into his mouth. He pulled the trigger.

Click.

His eyes grew wide.

Click.

He whimpered and gagged on the taste of the barrel.

Click.  Click.  Click.

He dropped the gun and it fell into the sink.

“Damn it.”

He pressed his hands on the edge of the sink and bowed his head.

“This is how my life is going to be forever, isn't it?”

He raised his eyes to the mirror.

“You're weak,” he said, and he fought the desire to submit to the curse. It would be so much easier to close his eyes if the accusations stopped.

“No,” he said. “I remember what you did to my grandmother, father and mother. To Sharon and Becca. You demeaned them, too, but at least you allowed them the luxury of dying.”

He picked up the gun, aimed it at his reflection and fired. The gun kicked in his hands and the mirror exploded. Glass flew through the air and slashed at his skin.

Alister flinched, dropped the gun and staggered backward. He fell into the bathtub and his ears rang. Visions of Becca floating facedown in a pool of bloodstained bathwater sent him out of the tub in a panic.

He retreated to the doorway and looked at the tub. The clear image of Sharon on the floor facedown surrounded by blood and Becca floating facedown in the bathtub turned him away.

“No, you don't,” he said, his alcohol-induced buzz gone. He hurried out of the room and started down the hallway.

“I'm in hell.”

Halfway down the hallway, he stopped and placed his back against the wall. As he sobbed, tears streaked his face. He slid down the wall and sat.

“Five times it misfired.”

He laughed to himself at first, but it soon built up to a laugh hard enough to make his stomach hurt. The idea of it being impossible to die was maddening, and it dared him to test that theory again.

“Yet the moment I aimed it away, it fired.”

Once inside the bathroom, he retrieved the gun, reloaded it with six bullets and squeezed off a test round into the wall.

The gun fired, and the sound hurt his ears. The smell of gunpowder was strong and clouded the air.

He placed the gun into his mouth and squeezed the trigger three times.

Click! Click! Click!

He aimed the gun away and squeezed the trigger and the recoil kicked his hand back. He tested the last bullet in his mouth, and the hammer slammed down with a dull click.

Alister stared at himself in a jagged piece of mirror dangling loosely from the frame. His mind focused on the unpleasant smell that filled his nostrils. The ringing in his ears drowned out the sound of his tongue being sizzled by the hot barrel.

 

 

Alister pulled back the shade and peered out the kitchen window. The paperboy picked up his bicycle and got on it. He had a sack full of newspapers slung over his shoulder, and he looked at Alister's house as he rode away.

He noticed the lawn was as tall as the boy and the mailbox was so full the door was stuck open with letters hanging out.

He flicked the shade closed, and his hand hit a drinking glass off the countertop. It fell to the floor and landed safely on a two-foot pile of trash.

Alister inspected the kitchen. The sink overflowed with dirty dishes, which had migrated across the countertop, and trash on the floor was in high mounds all over the house. Bugs and critters had carved out a slick, narrow path through it.

“What have I become?”

Every cabinet door and drawer had been left open, and the contents had been dumped on the floor. Food scraps, soiled laundry and many other unidentifiable things added to the mound.

Alister turned the faucet. The pipes whined, and no water came out. He looked at the empty pantry closet and refrigerator that had been left ajar.

His stomach growled, but he ignored it. He expected the process of starving to death to be lengthy and painful.

“Good,” he said, and he meant it. “I deserve nothing less.”

No experience could compare with the guilt that consumed his mind and the ache that filled his heart.

The lights in the house flickered and went out.

“That's even better,” he said, encased in complete darkness.

 

 

Alister sat up and found himself battling confusion.

“Something isn't right.”

His body was soaked with sweat, and concern pushed him to his feet. The house was dim, but not dim enough to hide the path routed through the lanes of garbage.

 He belched and tasted something sweet.

“Oh no,” he said. He noticed the bulge of his belly. The hunger pains were gone.

Alister hurried to the kitchen. He slipped and fell on the slick floor before arriving at the closed pantry door. He snatched the door handle and yanked it open. Food stocked the shelves.

“You've got to be kidding me!”

He glanced over his shoulder; the refrigerator door was closed. He had no doubt it was full of food, but it would spoil without power in the house.

“Damn it.”

He kicked the pile of garbage and it exploded, spraying the walls and sticking like glue.

“How many more did it get last night?”

He plopped down on a pile of trash firm enough to support his body weight. He ran taut fingers through his hair and sighed.

Three loud knocks on the front door drew his attention. Maybe death decided to come for him and it was being polite enough to announce its arrival.

“Sheriff's Department,” someone said from behind the door.

Alister lowered his chin and shook his head. “And how many more will it get before this day is done?”

 

 

A TRIP TO THE STORE

 

 

Alister rummaged through the garbage in search of something to write on. He tossed unidentifiable items over his shoulder, which landed somewhere behind him with a wet splat.

When he came across a brown paper bag, he hurried to a wall, flattened out the bag as best he could and pulled the cap off of a Magic Marker he had found moments before.

“Sheriff's Department. We need you to come to the door.”

Alister pulled the marker across the paper bag and it skipped and screeched and barely left any print in its wake. He shook the marker to try to force ink into the tip and tried to write his message again. It still didn't leave any lines on the paper.

The darkness in the room added to his frustration, and the urgency made him whine, “Come on.”

“Sheriff's Department. Open the door or we'll be forced to come inside.”

They pounded on the door again.

Alister slammed the tip of the marker into the wall and flattened it. He raced the marker across the paper bag and it left thick black lines.  He giggled with delight.

“Sheriff's Department. We are coming inside.”

The sound of the front door being breached hurried the marker across the page and chased away his laugh.