The Lurking Man (6 page)

“Take a moment and allow it to run its course,” the harsh voice from the unlit space said. “Those are merely residual feelings you've taken back with you and they will pass.”

She couldn't resist the pain any longer and collapsed to a knee.

“I don't know how I used to do this to myself every day,” she said, and clamped her eyes shut. The deep, gut-wrenching ache forced tears from her eyes. “I feel like hell.”

“When someone is hurting they will do desperate things to try and escape the pain.”

The tone of his voice and the way it penetrated her being made her body ache worse. Certainly having to argue with Wilson or fight with Emerson was so much more appealing than this. She'd even prefer to bask in her misery over Beau and what she did to him.

“I know that now,” she said and dry heaved. She spit and wiped her mouth with her wet, stretched out sleeve. “I don't know all of the details yet, but I know I did something unthinkable to my son. I mistreated Wilson and used Emerson along the way and didn't care about their feelings. I know my childhood was bad, but whatever it is that happened, these big events we keep dancing around, they obviously turned me into this self-destructive, intolerable person.”

The wind responded with a strong gust that nearly pushed her over. It was powerful and it reminded her of
the shoves she had received from ill-intentioned kids that would surround her in grade school. They would volley her
back and forth and tease her about her father, calling him a jailbird. She would argue back, stating that he was in prison and there was a big difference between the two.
 

“Hold on,” she said, and tried to focus on the memory. “I think I just remembered something about my father. I was teased as a kid because he was in prison for some reason.”

“Yes,” he said. “You did many horrible things in your life. But the big event you speak of didn't define you. It only managed to exacerbate your personality flaws and push you further into addiction. Your actions have cost the people closest to you great emotional torment. You deserve nothing less.”

Those words remained out there undisputed and they seeped into the wet snow at her feet. She wanted to pick them up and throw them back at him, but she couldn't. She had nothing to say.

“I can't do this anymore,” she said. She wanted to drop to the floor and curl into the fetal position. Maybe she would find some respite from Sariel's reproachful gaze and his gritty, frightening voice. And most of all, she wanted to escape the scrutiny of the light and the unforgiving elements that continued to work on her fortitude.

“Oh, but you must,” he said. “Even though there is only pain left for you.”

“I just want to escape this madness.”

“This madness is your life.”

She rubbed her eyes and nodded her head in acceptance.

“It's ironic how you spent most of your life trying to forget who you were, and now, here you are, desperate for the smallest hint of your past.”

Her inability to remember anything beyond what she was shown was like being an animal chained to a wall and starved for many days: She stands ready at the sound of her master's approach, tail wagging and saliva building in anticipation of the coming meal. But when the bowl of food is placed down, it is positioned just out of reach and she
struggles for it. The chain is thick and strong; it pulls tightly and is unforgiving.
 

“Damn,” she said, and wanted to scream.

The bowl of food was the answers of her past and the chain was the light that bound her. And the master?

She shuddered.

“Get a chair,” he said. “I want you to position it at the edge of the light and have a seat.”

Cailean did as instructed, and when she sat, something within the darkness flickered and revealed Sariel in a strange way. Black on black with a slice of dull gray between the two exposed his form in much greater detail. And what she saw was undeniably tragic and yet somehow beautiful.

Unable to comprehend what stood before her, she looked at something that resembled a man. It was constructed of dark light and was tall and thin. He had a severe hunch to his back and crooked limbs. A tremble throughout his entire body was obvious and generated a quiet rattle she hadn't noticed until now. A wheeze accompanied each labored breath, and with it, absolute peace touched her delicately and consumed her completely.

In an instant, all the burdensome wonder of who she was and what horrendous things she might have done no longer existed.

“Do you feel that?” he said.

Unable to speak a word, she nodded.

“That is what I have to offer the dead. Do you wish to know that peace?”

“Yes.”

“Then tell me, what do you see standing before you?”

“The image of a man,” she said and studied what she saw. “You are very tall and skinny and you're . . .”

Her bliss was torn away as quick as it came and was replaced by a profound sadness she couldn't understand.

“I'm what?” Sariel said.

She struggled to speak the words. “You're crippled.”

“Your inflection suggests you're disgusted by my condition.”

“No,” she said, certain about it. “I'm just overwhelmed with sadness for some reason. I find it terrible that your service to the dead has caused you this.”

“I have traveled an enormous, never-ending road. The daunting, interminable task that started so long ago has ravaged my body and I have grown tired.”

“I'm so sorry,” she said and shielded her eyes from the overhead light with her hands to try to see his face but the glare was insistent and blocked out any of the fine details.

“Why?” he said. “Why does my deformity affect you so?”

“I . . .” she fell silent and tried to identify the reason. “I'm not sure.”

“I understand and I've brought you the reason.”

A black box slid into the circle of light. Curiosity brought Cailean to her feet and she inspected the box with caution.

“What's inside it?” she said.

“It holds the answer to one of the many questions of what happened to Beau.”

Chapter 6

 

 

DYSFUNCTION

 

 

The past.

 

Cailean leaned against her bedroom wall and took a deep breath. The room quivered and the feeling of nausea intensified and consumed her completely. She held a bottle of wine in one hand and reached the other hand out and tried to take hold of a nearby dresser. Swaying, she fell into the dresser and swept trinkets away sending them crashing to the floor as she tried to grab onto something that would keep her upright. She managed to secure her grip on the beveled corner of the dresser.

“I've got this,” she mumbled and struggled to maintain her balance.

A rolling cramp filled her stomach. Without warning the pain raced up her throat and came out as a forceful belch. Bile coated her tongue and her eyes were bright with tears.

“Damn,” she said and spit on the floor. She released her grip on the dresser to wipe her mouth and fell pliant. She hit the floor hard and flopped on her side.

A maniacal laugh escaped her mouth and filled the room as she howled at how clumsy and outright drunk she was. The sound of her fitful titter mimicked that of the thing that filled her head and helped keep the pang in her soul fresh. But still, within the emptiness that was inside, there was a small part of her that desired something good. She always had a need to keep it quiet and chose to sedate it with heavy doses of alcohol and plenty of confrontation.

“Don't forget that everything is my fault,” she slurred and laughed some more. “Why wouldn't it be? I'm an easy target.”

To her surprise, she'd held onto the bottle of wine she had before she fell and hadn't spilled a drop.

“Look at me,” she mumbled with a celebratory smile and held it up like a trophy. Laboring to get herself into a sitting position, she licked her lips. Swinging the bottle
awkwardly, she brought it to her waiting lips and tilted her head back in anticipation.
 

She lost her balance and pitched backwards. The wine splashed her face and she slapped both hands on the ground to keep herself from falling over.

“Oh no,” she said and watched in horror as the bottle rolled away from her, spilling its precious cargo with each departing turn. She gave the wet floor and the bottle a long, indignant stare as if it had cheated her somehow.

“Drunken idiot,” she said, and crawled to the spilled wine. She lapped the small puddle off of the floor and picked up the bottle. Shaking it, she could hear the remaining liquid sloshing around. At least a mouthful or better remained and that encouraged her to finish it, but this time she did so with care.

When she was done, the anguish within remained unsatisfied by what she provided it and demanded something more.

You should kill yourself. No one will care and it would do a lot of people a favor.

Those words and the desire to obey them brought back a memory she would rather forget. Rolling up her sleeves, she looked at the raised scar tissue that started at the center of either wrist and sinuously extended along the entire length of her forearm. They stopped at the antecubital fossas—reminders of how low she had sunk. She avoided looking at them and often opted to wear long sleeve shirts year round.

The disfigurement twisted her expression into pure disgust. Her suffering had made her desperate—and that made her dangerous.

She looked away only to discover her reflection in a mirror that hung on the back of a closet door that had been left ajar. The person that stared back at her had an expression of untainted hate.

She looked away, familiar with and even satisfied by what she saw. The question of whether she ever really intended on dying that day or if it was merely a cry for help was answered by the voice that often called her a coward.

“But what does it matter?” she said. “What does any of it matter?”

Regardless of what she had said to Emerson about quitting drinking alcohol, she would continue to do so. It was the only way she could repress the sorrow. And that voice that tried to guide her—it wasn't nice and yet she couldn't ignore it.

She crawled back to the dresser and used it to pull herself to her feet.

Tell me when it becomes about Beau first in your decision making?

Wilson's question resonated in her head like a penny that bounced around inside of a tin can.

“Shut up,” she said.

When, Cailean?

“Oh, Beau,” she said. “What kind of mother treats her child the way I have treated you?”

She pushed back against the idea of ever having to hear the response to that question.

“No,” she said and held a hand up. “Please, don't answer that. I don't think I could bear ever hearing you tell me what you really think of me. I know I'm a lousy mother, but to actually hear you say it?” She shook her head. “That would be devastating.”

She released her hold on the dresser and stumbled to the bed and fell face down. Emerson's scent trapped within the linens was powerful and the desire to have him near stirred in her groin.

Amused, she chuckled at how often she was repulsed by him and yet desired him when he wasn't around.

Just like the bottle.

He was one of the few that were willing to put up with her crap and she couldn't figure out why.

“Because you're a big fat stupid man that thinks you can get away with telling me you love me.”

She sighed and was overtaken by a sudden burst of anger.

“Damn you, Emerson!”

She slapped the bed and tossed a pillow across the room.

“Why would you stand by my side, especially when you know what I did?”

And then she remembered how he helped her cover it up.

“Because you're a lot like me, aren't you?”

She nodded, certain the memory was true.

“Maybe I should have stayed with Wilson. He understood me the most. I couldn't understand him because he was ordinary.”

But he didn't want you.

“Shut up,” she said and attempted to relax and concentrate on the numbness that consumed her. She offered it her hand and allowed it to lead her far away from her concerns. And there, tethered to an artificial euphoria, the nudge of sleep came quickly and made her body twitch as it pulled her farther away.

“Wilson,” she said half awake.

There was no doubt that he was in love with her and had always treated her well. He treated her much better than she deserved despite the fact she offered nothing but a bag full of dysfunctions and lies in return. His ability to forgive and to see the good in her made her resent him. So she made up a bunch of lies about him and told them to Emerson. How else could she make sure they were at odds with each other so they wouldn't look into her stories?

Brilliant.

And although the love she had for Wilson was there, it was buried deep beneath a pile of perverse thinking and cruel motivations, never to be disclosed.

“Maybe if you supported me the way you should have when I needed you most instead of . . .” she snickered. “Ah, it's like I said, what does it matter? What's done is done and I can't change it.”

And, like someone flipping a switch, she fell asleep and was immediately drawn into the memory of that day.

Chapter 7

 

 

TOO LATE

 

 

The past.

 

Cailean pushed the heavy blanket aside and placed her hand on the floor. She used this tactic often after a night of binge drinking to help keep the room from spinning and reduce the nausea.

“It's after two o'clock,” he said. She felt too lousy to care that Wilson had come to lecture her again and didn't think she could lift her head to give him a dirty look even if she tried.