Time & Space (Short Fiction Collection Vol. 2) (13 page)

** COMMIT SUICIDE **

“I’m going to make it!” Simon grinned, then sprinted for the filling tub.

The bathtub was a bit cooler than he’d hoped and wasn’t completely full yet but it was going to have to do. With his razor gripped tightly in his left hand, he used his right to shut off the taps, then started to climb into the tub. Behind him, back out in the living room, the pendulum clock began to rhythmically chime twelve times, signaling the arrival of midnight. Simon’s body went as rigid as a stone. Every chime made him cringe, the sound battering into his brain like a merciless physical blow. Even after the clock went silent, Simon couldn’t move a muscle; could barely even breathe. He couldn’t believe it. He’d failed! Midnight had come, ending the day, and he still hadn’t completed the items on his list. He’d simply ran out of time.

“
Noooooo…!
” he screamed, finally collapsing in a heap to the bathroom floor.

Simon lay face down on the tile floor for at least twenty minutes, having neither the strength nor the inclination to get back up. Eventually, he struggled to a sitting position and rested his forehead on the cool rim of the porcelain toilet bowl, feeling utterly dejected.

“I can’t believe it. I’ve ruined everything. All my carefully laid out plans… my wonderful list… all
ruined
.”

Tears of shame began to stream down his flushed face and dribble down onto his bloated belly. He tried twice to lift the straight razor to his wrist and end his suffering but he just couldn’t do it. Not like this anyway. His suicide was supposed to be the highlight of his day, his crowning achievement to reward himself for completing his list of regrets. His death tonight was going to be a celebration, but now there was nothing to celebrate. Once again Simon had royally screwed up. What else was new? It was just another typical night in his rotten miserable life.

Disgusted with himself and his endless weaknesses, Simon stood up and put his still open straight razor onto the little glass shelf screwed to the wall above his toilet. He was too ashamed to even look at it. Simon let the water out of the tub and stumbled out of the bathroom back to his bed. He was still crying as he crawled into the sack and pulled the dirty covers up to his chin.

“Man, I’m such a loser,” he scolded himself. “I can’t even manage to commit suicide properly. Oh well… maybe tomorrow things will be better. You never know. I can always hope, I guess.”

In less than two minutes Simon was fast asleep.

***

The alarm clock went off like a neutron bomb, ruthlessly assaulting the sleeping man’s nerves, jump starting him instantly awake. It wasn’t exactly good for the old ticker and definitely a bad way to start the day.

Simon Taylor rose out of bed only to fall into a deep black pit of depression upon opening his eyes. His first thought wasn’t a happy one.

I need to kill myself today. I can’t take this anymore. Everything’s the same… nothing has changed. Same old crappy bedroom in the same old crappy apartment.

He scanned the room for a few minutes, then jumped out of bed to gaze at himself in the antique standup dressing mirror. From there Simon headed for the bathroom and ran himself a nice hot bubble bath and got out his straight razor. He lay in the tub thinking about regrets for a while, and then instead of slitting his wrists he jumped back out of the tub and ran back out to his desk to get a pad of paper and a red pen.

“I’ll make a list,” he muttered to himself. “A list of all the things I want to do today. Doesn’t have to be earth-shattering things…just a bunch of
stuff
that I’ve always wanted to try.”

By 9:25 a.m., time-scheduled list and bag of supplies in hand, Simon was out the front door and on his way. Once again he hadn’t bothered to glance at the pile of mail and newspapers lying in a heap by the apartment door. The newest edition to the ever-growing pile had been slid underneath his front door while he’d been lying in the bathtub earlier. In large bold lettering at the top of the front page, the headline on this morning’s early edition of the
Times
read:

RAZOR KILLER STRIKES AGAIN – SIXTH NIGHT IN A ROW

STORY NOTES

Ah yes. Deadlines! You gotta love them. Whether it’s someone else trying to impose their will upon us or as in Simon’s case in this story, self-imposed, Deadlines are a pretty stressful part of all our lives. Sometimes working to a deadline can be a good thing. I know as a writer, I tend to not get my butt in gear and really get down to work until the clock is ticking. It’s human nature to procrastinate, I think, and you can sometimes use that ticking clock to motivate you in a positive way. That said, the stress of a deadline hanging over your head isn’t always a fun thing to deal with. The anxiety is very real and it can sometimes push people past their limits and things don’t turn out pretty.

The Suicide Man
is an old, old story of mine. So old, in fact, that I didn’t even have an electronic copy of it so I had to retype it all in from an anthology I found down in the basement called BUMP IN THE NIGHT. It was a hand-stapled, 40 page booklet published by a company called Black Petals but there isn’t a publication date printed for the anthology inside or out. To be honest, I can’t tell you exactly when I wrote it either but it must have been in the early 1990s. Maybe even a touch before that because it was back before there was photo identification on everything. In the story, Simon rents a sports car using a credit card from the wallet he steals on the bus. In my original tale, I had him using the driver’s license and credit card from the wallet but had to drop the license off in this version because nowadays he’d never be able to use someone else’s ID that easily. I left it just with the credit card and hoped you wouldn’t notice – ha!

Anyway, the story still holds up fairly decently after all these years and I wanted it included in this collection because it was my very first published story that appeared in a print magazine. It was my first paying gig too, and if my memory isn’t too damaged I believe I was paid the grand sum of $10.00 for it. Trouble was, I think I ordered four or five copies of the anthology at ten bucks a pop too, so I’m sure I lost money on the deal but what the hell. Writers are used to that sort of thing, and at least it meant me still having a couple of copies lying around today so that I could share an early story of mine with you. That’s worth more than the thirty or forty bucks that I lost.

To me anyway…

BENEATH A TEMPLAR CROSS

There are no mistakes. The events we bring upon ourselves, no matter how unpleasant,

are necessary in order to learn what we need to learn; whatever steps we take,

they’re necessary to reach the places we’ve chosen to go.

– Richard Bach, The Bridge Across Forever

June 17, 1870,

Wittem Castle,

Maastricht, Netherlands.

Underwater, the blood looks black. Dark stains polluting the already murky tank, dispersing slowly down through the gloom. Coagulating tendrils sink in ribbons, dead fingers reaching for the unmoving body chained to the bottom six feet below.

“How long has he been down there, sir?”

The voice startles Arthur De Muur, focusing on the cupful of elk’s blood he’s just poured into the tank. He hasn’t heard Hendrik, his tall, rake thin young assistant, enter the laboratory. Unfazed, De Muur runs fingers through his wide shock of hair, his thick black mane already sprinkled with a smattering of white despite having only recently turned thirty-two years of age.

“Good. You’re back just in time. Coming up on two hours, now. A few minutes shy.”

“
Two hours!
Are you serious? Well, of course he’s dead by now.
Surely!
”

A smile touches the corner of De Muur’s mouth, but there is no humor in it. Obsession, yes, a touch of madness, perhaps, but absolutely no mirth.

“Is he now? The blood, Hendrik. Watch and learn.”

The first twitch of the submerged body makes the young man jump and he struggles to regain his composure.  He backs away from the tank as the body starts to thrash violently in its would-be watery grave, stretching and straining against the silver chains that securely bind it. De Muur leans in for a closer look. Having expected this reaction, he is calm, far more awed by this inhuman display than fearful. It’s the scientist in him.

Hendrik is clearly terrified.

“This is Devil’s work. It’s impossible!”

“Yes… quite, but I was right, wasn’t I?”

“Sir?”

“They can’t be drowned. He was just lying on the bottom, biding his time trying to fool us.
Fascinating!
”

The blood in the water stirs the body into a convulsive frenzy for several minutes, its hunger so great it is willing to shred the skin of its wrists and ankles in its desperate struggle to escape, to feed. The chains hold, though, something about the purity of silver robbing the body of its incredible strength more so than the lack of oxygen has. The submerged body eventually bows to reason and settles back into stillness on the stone bottom of the tank.

“What now, Sir?”

Hendrik has found the courage to stand close to his employer again, but still won’t approach the tank.

“What else? Drain the tank and try again. Go gather some firewood, lad. Lots of it.”

January 03, 1869,

Letter, Arthur De Muur to Sir Duncan Fenton,

High Commander of the Order of Knights Templar.

Greetings, Duncan.

I trust and pray this letter finds you in good health. Another month has gone by and a new year has begun. I’m happy to report I’m feeling much better. Like a whole knew man, in fact. I’m studying hard during my stay here at the abbey – science, anatomy, mathematics, politics, philosophy, and yes, the good book, as you so rightly recommended. It has been three full years now since my unfortunate breakdown, and with your friendship, guidance and kindness, I’ve seen the folly of my earlier convictions. The preservation and secrecy of the Brotherhood is all that matters to me now and I look forward to the day, with your authority and great wisdom, that I can retake up arms and wear my Templar’s cloak with honor once again. 

Your servant, and friend,

Arthur

May 12, 1869,

Office of Sir Duncan Fenton,

Rosslyn Chapel, Scotland.

Commander Fenton sets De Muur’s letter down on his desk when he hears a quiet knock on his office door. Fenton is a Scotsman by birth, but has spent most of his adult life in France and Belgium, earning his knighthood for a lifetime of foreign diplomacy, representing the crown throughout Europe. Duncan peers at the door for a moment, as if he might be able to see through the sturdy mahogany and discern who stands outside. He takes an educated guess.

“Ferguson?”

“Yes, sir. You asked to see me?”

“Come in William… come in.”

William Ferguson is a tall, stocky Englishman with fiery red hair and matching beard. He proudly wears the white mantle of the Templars emblazoned with the red cross over his heart, a uniform still recognizable to all who see it. But unfortunately, due to the greed and stupidity of King Philip IV of France who disbanded and arrested the Order of Knights Templar back in 1307, forcing them into hiding throughout Europe, must now only be worn in secrecy and shadow. William, Sir Duncan’s second in command here at Rosslyn, is confident that will not always be the case.

Fenton waits until the burly redhead is seated, then pushes De Muur’s letter across the desk.

“I take it you’ve had a chance to read this, yes?”

“Yes sir, at your request.”

“Well… what do you think?”

Ferguson unconsciously rubs his fingers through his thick beard, carefully considering his reply.

“I’m very happy Arthur is doing so well. You know I held him in the highest regard until…”

“As we all did, William,” Fenton cuts him off. “But the past is the past, and as you know, I’ve been considering De Muur’s request for reinstatement in the Order. I’d like your thoughts on that possibility.”

For such a large man, Ferguson is looking smaller by the minute, shrinking down into his chair, deflating, clearly uncomfortable with this conversation.

“May I speak frankly, Sir?”

“Of course. Speak your mind, William.”

“Very well… I’m against it. Arthur De Muur was a great Templar, perhaps the best I’ve ever known. Many people, yourself included I think, always assumed he would one day take your position as commander here. But then he… he changed, Duncan. I thought it was just a result of his wife’s illness that haunted him, but it was more than that. Much more. He scared the hell out of me when he started telling everyone about those… what did he call them again?
Vaspires?
”

“Vampires, William.”

“Yes…
Vampires!
Men and woman who drank human blood! It was crazy talk, sir. De Muur went from being a brilliant scientist and caring physician to a raving lunatic almost overnight. And remember the grail? De Muur even thought these imagined vampires were in possession of the Holy Grail. He had a plan ready to seek each vampire’s master out until the head vampire was revealed. Find him, and we’d find the Grail he told me! He stood in full ceremonial dress in this very room and tried to convince the council that these vampires were spreading all over Europe and Britain and that we needed to track down and eliminate them before it was too late? He wanted to restart the bloody crusades, for God’s sake!”

“I remember all those things, William. How could I not? Despite our age difference, he was my best friend… the son I never had. His descent into madness hurt me more than you know.”