Epic and Untitled (WIP)

 Prologue

         Drake Winston stood at the water’s edge of the Pacific Coast, his hands buried deep in the pockets of his worn, ripped Levi’s, his feet buried likewise in the soft grained sand that engulfed them in a surprisingly warm embrace.  All six feet, three inches of his frame was frozen in place, as only those who are lost in their own train of thought and sense of time can be frozen.  The sun struggled to pierce the thick haze that hung over the city of Venice, but was fighting a losing battle against the relentless pollution that spread out like white, sickly fingers from the dirty skies of our kingdom of Los Angeles.  His hair hung in thick, jet black chunks, grazing his shoulder.  The red flannel he was so fond of, the one Rosie had given him as a Welcome-to-the-West-Coast present, was tied loosely around his waist and flapped restlessly in the salty breeze that seemed to gather itself at the horizon before rolling flat across the water.  It cooled his flushed cheeks and puckered his skin into goosebumps.

         His eyes, gray as the skies were at the moment, narrowed in their quiet, intense search of the dark spots beyond the horizon.  Beyond.  That word wasn’t what troubled him; it was the possibilities that the word allowed-- make that endless possibilities-- that scared him right down to his toes that were wiggling beneath the sand’s surface, as if attempting to burrow away from those nasty thoughts of What-Ifs.  Those whirlwind thoughts of What-Ifs that started with a simple idea and mutated into something dark and void of anything good.  Those were the most frightening of all.

         The low murmur of the hustle and bustle of the infamous Venice Boardwalk drifted across the crisp air currents to his neglectful ears, along with a distinct, but indiscernible percussion beat that tinkled and bopped. 

Rosie…

She hovered in the hazy fringe of his mind, a translucent ethereal ball of soft glowing emotion, of red and pink hues that carried something reminiscent of a tropical coconut scent mixed with a touch of smokiness, of unconditional this and unconditional that. 

Rosie…

He shook his head, as if to shake off the unsettling feeling that if he dared to think of her a few minutes more, she’d probably materialize out of the chilled breeze right in front of him.  Thankfully, he knew exactly where she was, and knowing that fact made him as comfortable as he could possibly be, which wasn’t very.  But for a guy like Drake, it was enough.  Still, apprehension had him in a grip.  He hadn’t realized how naively safe and certain he’d felt up until now.  He was about to do what he had never wanted to do, and a man sure as hell didn’t feel like tough shit when stuck in a situation like this.

         Unwittingly, her eyes, huge and a startling vibrant shade of green, flashed in his mind like a blinding streak of verdant lightning, forcing his own to shut tightly against the painful memory of how she had looked the last time he’d seen her.  Her hands, he remembered, her  beautiful hands that used to fly gracefully over the keys on her ever present laptop, were clutching at one another in a desperate attempt to keep it together.

         Broken. . .

         Abruptly, he grabbed his shoes and kicked his feet into gear, throwing a blanket of fine sand into the wind, as he whipped around and began making his way back to the dreaded throng of people that occupied the Boardwalk.  Reggae music blasted through some unseen boombox with its exotic sounds of the steel drum—the indiscernible instrument.  A man dressed in a metallic silver suit with matching sunglasses, his hands and face slathered with more of that thick silver paint, was making realistic robotic noises, much to the delight of a large group of camera-wielding tourists.  Their loud, obnoxious laughter rose above the calls of the vendors who refused to let a single prospective rube walk by without hearing about the finest qualities of their home- and handmade products.

         He untied his flannel shirt from his waist and shrugged into it slowly, making sure his outstretched arms weren’t going to smack any of the hyena-tourists in the face.  The crowd was barely getting itself together.  He had to get out of here before it got any more populated, and therefore, worse.

         Drake slid his bare feet into his beat up Chuck Taylors, having learned the hard way early on that socks were a hindrance, since they prevented direct contact with the earth.  He dodged through the bumper-to-bumper gridlock that jammed up the parking lot entrance and quickly made his way to the car. 

         He reached Blue Belle, his sweetheart of steel, a pristine dark blue ’73 Plymouth Fury III coupe  that sat on fat Firestones and murmured seductively “Oh you can look, baby, but don’t touch." Sometimes he liked to add “I’m all Drake’s.”  He unlocked the driver’s side door and gave the parking lot a quick scan for any of those out-of-place faces he’d been hiding from for the past few months.  He saw none, and jumped in.  He slammed the heavy door shut against the infernal loud noise of the crowd that seemed to have doubled within the last five minutes, and heaved a sigh of relief at the shock silence that greeted him inside.

         He eased himself back, feeling at home in the worn out red, double pillowed leather upholstered bench seat, and closed his eyes for a moment, breathing slowly and deeply.  Belle always made him feel this way, as if she knew that all she had to do was encompass him in her well-worn soft arms and all would be okay—at least for the time being.

         Time.  To Drake, time was one giant tease of a bitch.  She was the Ultimate Unattainable, Untouchable, and Queen of the Most Fickle.  She always ran out on him when he needed her most, and when he finally could catch her, he could never have enough of her.  Yeah, she definitely knew how to play hard to get.  But, fortunately for him, she was feeling a little frisky and favorable today.

         Ready when you are, baby.  He opened his eyes and reached forward, turning the key and igniting the engine.  He grinned as he listened to Belle’s V8, 440 4-barrel motor roar to life.  Man, she was like spitfire on wheels.  And she was his.  He loved the sound of that, but he loved the sound of her peeling out even more, especially with her ear-piercing squeal that instantly dropped to a heavy, rumbling purr.

         With a few flips of his wrists, he exited the parking lot and made a right onto Pacific Avenue.  He moved into the far left lane and came to a stop at the red light.  Two young girls in brightly patterned bikini tops and barely-there shorts crossed the street in front of him, holding their surfboards like 6-foot long, 15-pound purses.  They made no subtle show of craning their necks to check out his car, and when they saw him behind the wheel, they actually winked, whistled and waved their little fingers in blatant flirtation.  He shook his head and looked the other way, marveling at the audacity of today’s young generation of women who didn’t seem to care that he looked old enough to be their father!

         When the protected left turn signal turned green, he gunned the engine and rolled smoothly along at a few miles under what most would consider neck-breaking speed.  As he drove down Venice Boulevard and eastbound onto the I-10 freeway, thoughts doubting what he was about to do were dying to crowd his mind.  No, not gonna happen, he thought bitterly, knowing full well what the consequence would be if he were to succumb.  He reached over and turned his stereo on, not at all minding the sudden blast of bass that rocked his car inside out.  The Doors' Roadhouse Café bumped through his ears as he flew down the interstate, and the only things allowed to occupy his mind were a pair of green, green eyes.

 

 

Chapter 1

 

         “Make one move, you little bugger, and I swear to God, your ass is grass,” Rosie Anders muttered through clenched teeth as she gripped her weapon tightly in hand.  She had been cursing herself for the past hour, knowing she should have listened to everyone’s Goddamned advice, no matter how silly it sounded:  lock your doors, lock your windows, and lock your doggy doors.  She’d always followed the first two, never imagining that an intruder would take the risk of sneaking in through the dog door.  And now, here she was, standing in the middle of her tiny kitchen, clutching her grandfather’s brass walking cane for support, and berating herself for not buying the biggest shotgun Shooter’s Shack had to offer.

         She inched towards her intruder, who was stuck very securely in the tight space of the doggy door, and by now had stopped struggling.  Rosie didn't know what her next step should be, but figured that making sure he wasn’t going anywhere was probably a good place to start.  She reached the corner of the countertop a foot or so to the right of the door and leaned over to peek through the window.  With her face scrunched up against the cold glass, she could see two stubby legs sticking straight out.  Relieved, she put the cane down and walked back to stand in front of her trapped interloper.  She crossed her arms in front of her and said, “Well, aren’t you just a stuck pig?”

         As if in reply, he let out a pathetic wail, and made another feeble attempt to wiggle out of his confines.  She chuckled to herself, not hearing the knock at the door, and took a step forward.

         Big mistake.

         Her once-calm intruder suddenly lunged towards her viciously, clawing wildly for her bare legs.  He moved so quickly, she almost didn’t get away from his sharp nails in time.  She gave a yelp and jumped back, suddenly thinking she should have put some jeans on this morning; she could only imagine him tearing up her legs to red, meaty ribbons.  His head whipped back and forth with such a dangerous force, she feared he might snap his own neck.  It’d be a lot easier for me if you did just that, you little shit, she thought.  His black eyes were rolling around in his head, with no obvious focus, and his teeth were snapping at the air.  She could see tendrils of saliva hanging from his chin and more glistening in spatters on her brown tiled floor.

         She stood transfixed, watching with growing dread as he continued to struggle.  He pushed his front paws against the door, slowly squeezing himself through, inch by inch.  He paused, panting heavily, black, matted hair sticking to every inch of his skin.  She couldn’t fathom where the hell he’d gotten this extra burst of super strength; her intruder looked to be about three times the size of the opening.  Yet, here he was, splintering the edges of the tiny door frame like a fat woman ripping the seams of a dress that was ridiculously too small for her.  Pieces of wood were haphazardly sticking out of his sides.  For a moment, she was reminded of an episode she’d seen on the National Geographic Channel about acupuncture in Asia.  Clips and images flew through her mind of people that looked half human and half porcupine.  She shuddered visibly.  She couldn’t stop thinking about how it must feel to have your flesh punctured so frighteningly easily.  She was looking at the queer creature with such fascinated rapture, she could have sworn an hour had passed since it had deceptively stopped its efforts to free himself, and yet amazingly, it was a mere seventeen seconds.

         Rosie heard a tiny metal ping! and looked down.  One of the nails that held up the top corner of the rubber flap had been bullied out of its spot and was rolling dejectedly towards her foot.  Eighteen seconds now and the first piece of metal falls; a few more and it’s my turn underneath those gnashing teeth.  She cursed softly and her eyes widened as she thought franticly, What the hell do I do now?

         “Well, standing there isn’t going to do anything,” a deep voice slightly tinged with an indistinct accent came from behind her.  Rosie wondered if she’d said her thought out loud, but knew she hadn’t.  All she’d said was “fuck” and to her confusion, it seemed that whoever this rude person was, they were barely trying to conceal their laughter.

         Laughter?

         Rosie whipped around just in time to get unceremoniously pushed out of the way.  “Who the hell,” she demanded, “do you think you are?”  Her new-comer ignored her and headed straight for the writhing intruder, who was now snapping at the splintered wood poking his hide.  Refusing to be ignored, and especially with the embarrassment of being in the predicament she was in at the moment, Rosie grabbed his arm and swung him around.  Her eyes nearly popped out of her head at the slow, lazy smile that greeted her. 

         It's been a few years now that Rosie was able to sleep without the assistance of a massive collection of antidepressants.  She had experienced the worst kind of depression for a long time, and in the end, she couldn’t even give you three names of the top brands that made up the majority of her impressive collection.  Eventually, one night mid-winter, she came to find herself in the middle of her back yard, wearing nothing but her bra and panties, standing in a foot and a half of freezing snow, clutching her bleeding hands to her chest.  She hadn’t even flinched when she'd taken a box-cutter to her palms, slicing the soft fleshy underside of her fingers repeatedly, until they were two swollen masses that looked like ground meat painted red and shaped into cartoonishly large hands.  They wouldn’t stop bleeding.  A steady stream of warm blood flowed down her chest and stomach, soaking the snow with crimson droplets.  She didn’t know what had snapped her out of her drug induced attempt at suicide, but it didn’t matter.  Something had clicked.

         After that gruesome incident and her complete turn-around, which included the occasional fitful nightmare, she had finally experienced wonderful nights of blissful sleep.  Sleep filled with dreams that didn’t drag her into the depths of her sadness, ultimately driving herself mad. Instead, these dreams carried her away to sunny horizons and warm embraces, tropical scenes of beaches and fresh fruit. 

She was free. 

Until now.  

Until now, she thought she had conquered it.  Seeing that smile again made her realize otherwise.

No more peaceful nights of restful sleep.  And it was that realization that had her frozen in her tracks.

         “You just going to stand there and stare?”  He cocked an eyebrow and tilted his head towards her ravaged kitchen door, “Or you going to introduce me to your new beau?”

         Rosie snapped out of her initial shock and angrily shoved him aside.

“I’d rather die at his claws than be helped by you,” she said, her voice hard and bitter.  She pushed the sleeves of her sweater up to her elbows and walked as calmly as she could to her fridge, where a black phone with a five-foot cord hung next to it on the wall.  She turned her back to him and picked up the receiver.

         “Whoever you’re about to call on that thing is going to be of no use,” Drake said.  His voice was muffled and came from somewhere near the floor.  She looked over her shoulder and saw he had already removed his jacket.  It lay in a heap next to a black leather bag that looked oddly like an old fashioned doctor’s bag.  Oh yeah, sure, go ahead, make yourself at home, you careless bastard, she thought furiously.  He was sitting on his heels, balancing himself on the balls of his feet, and leaning over something that could have been a prop from Medieval Times. 

“You don’t even know who I’m going to call," she retorted.

“Neither the police, animal control, nor your boyfriend will be able to help this situation.”

She rolled her eyes at his hunched back and returned her attention to the phone, her brow furrowed.

         “I know I paid it,” Rosie muttered to herself, placing the receiver back on its hook before picking it up again.

         “What was that?” Drake asked.

         “I said, ‘I know I paid it’,” she repeated louder.

         “Paid what?”

         “The bill!”  Rosie burst out, exasperated.  “I’m talking about the phone bill!  There’s no dial tone, and I know I paid the bill!” What the hell do you think you’re doing here, anyways?  She silently fumed.  She hoped one of his fingers would get just a little bit mangled; he never did seem to focus on the subject at hand, and to him, that was A-Okay.

         Drake stopped fiddling with the strange tool and walked over to where Rosie stood.  He took the phone out of her hand, a beguiling smile playing upon his lips, and returned it to its hook.  She narrowed her eyes at him and made a grab for it.  He shook his head and leaned his shoulder against the wall, blocking her from the phone altogether.

         “It’s dead, Rosie,” Drake said.

         “It’s just a fluke,” Rosie argued, making another attempt to reach for the phone, “my phone’s of the oldest kind and this happens once in a while. Damn it, just let me have it!”

         “No,” he said, leaning close, crowding her into the corner between the wall and the side of the fridge.  He smelled of the ocean, salty and warm.

         “Why not?”

         “It won’t work.”

         “Bullshit! How would you know?”

         “Easy,” Drake explained, smoothly, “because I cut your phone lines.”

         Rosie gaped at him in astonishment, “What do you mean ‘cut my phone lines’?”

“Well, I think that’s a little self explanatory.”

She ignored the light sarcasm in his remark.   “Why would you do that?  When could you have had…?”  She trailed off, bewildered, and crossed her arms.  She looked directly into his eyes and voiced her earlier thought, “What the hell do you think you’re doing here, Drake?”

         “That, Rosie girl, will be explained later.  After I get rid of this unpleasant fiend.”

         She pursed her lips and raised a doubtful eyebrow.

         “I promise.”

 

 

Chapter 2

 

         Drake walked over to what he was working on and suggested she make some tea while he took care of it.

Only he would think of having tea after ‘taking care of it’, she thought.  Deciding it was better his fingers get the mangling than her legs, she let him have at it.  She took out her red tea kettle from a bottom cabinet and went to the sink to fill it up with water.

         She gazed out of the window absently, struggling to keep a hold on her self-control and ravenous curiosity.  She thought of the last time he had seen her and grimaced.  Soppy tears and a dripping nose, accompanied by an unanswered litany of Why’s; definitely not one of her finer moments.  Funny how even now it was why, why, why.  Well, she’d be damned if she was going to remake any of those ugly scenes.

         She was so wrapped in herself, Drake decided to break her train of thought and wondered if he could rouse up conversation, “Bitter Rose?” 

         Rosie looked over her left shoulder, and gave him an incredulous glance before shutting off the water.  “Bitter?  Bitter, you ask?”

Drake didn’t reply, but continued his task with the medieval prop. 

You infuriating ass, she couldn’t help but think.

“What could I possibly be bitter about?”  Rosie asked, “You showing up on my doorstep out of the blue? After how long, Drake? Nine, ten years?”  Her voice climbed higher in pitch with each question she spat out, “Or about how things ended?  How you just disappeared? Literally!  Poof!  Oh, I know!  Here’s one, and it’s a doozy!  How about you cutting my Goddamned phone lines?”  She slammed the teakettle down on the stove and ignited the gas, allowing the flames to flare out dramatically before turning it down.

She turned to face him fully and plunked her fists on her hips.  She seemed to have forgotten completely about the problem with her doggy door—or rather what was left of it—and was now stuck in her tangled mess of confused feelings, torn between going  nuclear or being aloof and cold hearted.

Drake looked over his shoulder and grinned, hoping to ease her nerves, “I told you I was going to explain all that later.  I was asking if you had any Bitter Rose flavored tea in the cabinets.”  His grin grew an inch wider (an inch too frustratingly wide, if you asked her) as he watched the angry glare in her eyes sputter and fizzle out. 

“Tea?”  Rosie asked meekly, mentally shaking her head at herself for jumping to the worst possibilities at every sound he made.  She hated the easy way her mouth could grab a  thought before the nerves in her brain could even get their slimy gray fingers wrapped around its proverbial neck.

Drake nodded slowly, his smile never faltering.

“Yeah, I think I’ve still got some somewhere,” she muttered. Blushing angrily, she turned back to the top cabinets, and rummaged through her tin containers.  She found a few Bitter Rose tea bags behind the sugar canister and pulled them out, along with two mugs she had already taken from the top shelf.  She took a deep breath to calm herself and closed her eyes.  Just be patient, she thought, things happen for a reason.  You don’t have to roll with it, but get a grip.

“Alright,” Drake said, “I think I’ve got this thing ready. Rosie girl—” he waited until her gaze locked onto his—“I’m going to have to ask you to kindly stand outside.” 

Rosie narrowed her eyes, the Hairs of Suspicion on the back of her neck rising, “Why?  Shouldn’t you be able to take care of him without me leaving?  Maybe I should—”

“Outside,” he said with finality, the mirth having left his eyes, leaving her no room for argument.  He couldn’t waste too much time; Rosie’s fiend had been raring to go just before he stepped into her house.  She’d understand later, he thought, not knowing just how well she’d understand.

Rosie inhaled deeply, realizing she ought to choose her battles carefully, and gave in, “Fine.  I’ll be on the porch.”  She left the kettle on the stove, and walked outside, banging the screen door behind her.  She flopped down into a fully cushioned white wicker chair, and propped her bare feet up on the wooden railing.  Gazing out over the expanse of her lawn, she marveled at how her simple, routine morning had been muddled.  As the late morning sun warmed her legs, she let her thoughts drift lazily over Drake.

He had changed.  She couldn’t see any real physical changes, bar a few worry lines here and there, but despite that annoying smile of his, she could sense walls where none had been erected before.  No, not walls.  It was more of a big yard, one with a sharp fence around it.  Maybe it wasn’t so much as solidity and bluntness, as it was a well calculated distance.  She’d done enough tending and pruning of the latter in the past few years with anyone that could stand to be around her that she could just simply tell. 

His movement was different, even.  The way he handled that weird weapon (she was leaning towards that word as the best description of what it looked like, although she’d find out soon enough what it really was) made him look like a professional hit man, who could successfully mantle and dismantle a complex firearm in the dark, with his eyes blindfolded, and under twenty seconds.  And this was a man who had once attempted to build her a bench swing using one of those follow-the-diagram-put-it-together-yourself projects.  She had come home to ten fingers practically hammered to shreds, nails barely hanging on, and chunks of beautifully stained wood everywhere. 

Where had that skill come from? she wondered.  Maybe he had been kidnapped and tortured.  Maybe his captives had brainwashed him into some sort of unfeeling Soldier of Misfortune.  They could’ve forced him, using cruel and unusual methods, in a sick and twisted plan where he was to complete three missions: (1) plant a bomb in every room of the White House, (2) obtain an unmarked private plane with a course routed to an unmapped island, and (3) break little Rosie’s heart.  She pursed her lips, indignantly, Wonder if they gave him extra points for that last one.  Her train of thought screeched to a halt. Wait a minute, now, hold on! Quit it with those What-Ifs! She mentally scolded herself and clapped her thigh, You’re wading too close to the Pity Pool.  Don’t you dare dip your toe in there! 

An ugly noise brought her back from her reverie—a thin squeal that stretched out for a few minutes, rising higher and higher until she physically cringed.  She dropped her feet to the floor and sat upright in her chair, clutching the armrests and dipped her head low between her hunched shoulders.  It sounded like a wood saw that had gotten stuck on a nailhead.  As if something with vocal chords that could hit notes no human could ever reach, and she knew it had to be a living thing with vocal chords because she could hear the undeniable pitch of gut-wrenching pain–

That’s it.  That’s exactly what it sounded like.

Inhuman.

Her stomach was seized in a sudden panic and clenched uncomfortably.  

She remembered the dangerous set of teeth that thing was trying to chew her up with. 

…razor sharp…

Red ribbons flashed before her eyes for one paralyzing minute.  Her palms quickly filled with an unbearable, searing heat and soon felt swollen beyond possibility, like those plastic gloves from health class that the kids would blow up and turn into cow udders.  The only thing holding back her urge to giggle was the sickening sensation of her skin growing more taut by the second.  Right at the last few seconds, something slick and wet coated her palms and she was positive that she was the one doing the coating.  She had no doubt the something was her blood and it was covering her skin because she couldn’t stop bleeding.  She just couldn’t stop. The longest sixty seconds of her life seemed to stretch on and on.

Then it passed.

No more heat; her hands were their old cold temperature again.  They moved and flexed with supple grace and expertise.  No nauseating sense of being literally drained.

The peculiar and haunting squeal became a pained screech and began to hurt her ears enough to cup her hands over them.  The sound seemed to be coming from her kitchen.  Angry from being scared and frightened from the possibility of finding out what was creating that terrible sound, she slammed the screen door open and flew through the door.

Her kitchen looked empty. 

“What the hell is going on in here?”  She couldn’t help the slight waver in her voice.  She didn’t see him at first.  He was behind the kitchen island, kneeling over something that looked like a pile of black fur, his back to her.  The horrific noise had stopped and Rosie was suddenly aware of a strong, heavy odor.  Her nose scrunched up in its reflexive response to get away from whatever that nasty smell was.  The scent was metallic, with a hint of heavy turned soil, the kind found underneath a rotting log, infested with a million different types of insects.  It made her think of a grave, and she shuddered inwardly, not at the morbid thought, but at the knowledge that that was exactly what it smelled like.

“Don’t step any closer, Rosie,” Drake warned.  She stopped in mid-step and held her breath, wondering how he could have heard her leg lifting to do just that, to take one step closer.  She hadn’t set it down yet and she was definitely not moving in slow motion.

She craned her neck forward, keeping her distance by standing at the kitchen entrance.  She could see the top of his head, then it dipped and she could only hear something that sounded horrendously like meat being pulled.  She heard Drake utter a soft grunt, then a curse, followed by a crunchy pop!  Her mind couldn’t even come up with all the possible scenarios that might fit the bill for the strange smell and sounds she was experiencing.  Her heart, on the other hand, was plump with varying emotions and the strongest of those was now fear. 

Not understanding what was going on around you might have you on your toes, and being in the same room with Drake might get your blood flowing, but put the two together and you’ve got the A-Bomb of Nervous Breakdowns.  She just very well might have a heart attack any second now.

“Is it—” The word dead did just that on her lips.  She didn’t think she’d have been able to even whisper it.  Drake didn’t ask her to finish her question; she could hear him murmuring something in a language that sounded nothing like English.  His voice rose and fell in a rhythmic pattern, making it sound like a prayer.  It was slow paced and didn’t match the cadence of a song.  Her ears were trying to categorize the language under Latin or maybe even Spanish, but her mind couldn’t make the connection because it wasn’t either one of those.  She popped up on her tiptoes, and raised her foot to step nearer.

“This isn’t a game I’m playing,” Drake said, pausing in the middle of his strange prayer.

(The theme of today’s class, children, is STRANGE. 

Can everyone say it with me?

S-T-R-A-N-G-E!

Good, children, very good!)

“Now, if you’re as fond o’ those gorgeous gams o’ yours as I am, you’ll kindly tiptoe your way out of sight.”  She didn’t think he could even see her, considering the crouched position he was in, but she felt the steel behind his second warning, and obliged.  It was probably a better choice for her stomach.

She swallowed a lump that had seemed to magically appear in her throat. You don’t suppose he—

Drake cut through the ghastly thought, “You just might want to have a Virgie outside for a quick minute”— another grunt followed by a slippery noise— “and I’ll be right out to join you.”

She tightened the leash on her fear, despite the fact that the leash was quickly becoming thinner and thinner by the minute.  “When’re you going to realize smoking kills?”  Rosie asked, as she grabbed her pack of Virginia Slims off the maple coffee table in her living room and headed outside once again.

“Oh, you know,” he said nonchalantly, “when everyone else realizes—”

“That Everything’s Eventual,” she interjected, reciting a well-used aphorism they’d gotten from one of her favorite authors, before letting the screen door slam shut.  She lit her cigarette as she walked to the left corner of her porch.  Leaning her hip against the rail, she took a drag and waited anxiously for Drake to hurry up and finish.  She wanted him to give her an answer to the question she had been repeating over and over for the past hour:  What the hell was going on?

Rose looked down the long stretch of road that was her driveway, which branched off from the large circular expanse of dirt meant for parking and disappeared to a point about half a mile up, where it would meet Old Red Road, the main paved thoroughfare that connected with the other driveways of her neighbors. 

She noticed Drake’s Plymouth Fury for the first time and was struck with the uneasy certainty that she wasn’t the only one taking things in, observing.

Watching.

His car was parked next to her own green Jeep Cherokee, facing the house, both of their shadows stretched behind them.  Rosie looked at the cars and their shadows and felt disoriented.  She couldn’t place it, the sense of looking at a completed puzzle and knowing one of the pieces was throwing off the whole picture, but not being able to pinpoint which one it was. 

Something was off…

Or maybe she was hungry and exhausted and insanely overloaded.  She had forgotten how early she’d been up this morning.  Four a.m. was the only time you could do the best fishing, and it took about an hour of trudging through the thick backwoods that created a border between Rosie’s property line and Red Mountain Lake to get there.  There was the best fishing spot for catching the fattest suckers the lake had to offer.

Martin Woodrow, the owner of Marty’s Super-Store out on Old Red Road, had told her there used to be a hill that, contrary to its name, was nowhere near the size of a mountain, and sat directly across the lake from her property.  It had been made entirely of pure red bedrock.  Then one day, the hill simply disappeared and the entire lakebed was covered with an unknown amount of red rubble.  It had taken geologist experts a few weeks to realize their measurement equipment could only go about twenty-four feet deep before blinking maniacally and dying altogether in panicked chirps.  They went through a few hundred thousand dollars’ worth of machinery and deduced nothing.  So, they flew back to Washington and put a giant question mark on this part of the map, concluding that red rubble was red rubble.  It didn’t change anything in the lake’s ecosystem, but researching it did change the numbers in the state’s pocketbook and not for the positive.  Pack it up boys, she’s not puttin’ out. 

“No one really complained anyways,” Martin had said, “kind o’ hard to with their mouths occupied ‘n’ all dat!”  He had slapped his knee and guffawed.  “The only mystery they got is when all the good fish gon’ disappea’.”  He was right.  That lake had been spitting out almost abnormally large fish for as long as anyone could remember, and there was a good amount of old timers left, Martin Woodrow being one of the oldest.  Every summer, the lake never failed a soul.  Everyone went home happily, with their coolers stuffed to the brim with glistening scales.  She herself had caught a four pounder this morning. 

How long ago that had felt now.

She raised her eyes and squinted into the sun.  It seemed to hang directly over the top of the pine trees that lined the driveway.  The sky had also taken on a heavier blue, although she still didn’t see a single cloud.  Her eyes roved over the wooden shed that sat on the right side of the driveway, about four yards up.  The white paint, which she had applied herself, was already peeling due to years of being exposed to the sun day in and day out.  She paused at the chain used to keep it locked, once shiny, bright silver, now had a dull gleam of gray about it.  Yet it was where it was supposed to be: wrapped securely three times around the door handles.  Her eyes passed over the Regal again and back to its shadow.  Something…  She couldn’t place it, but it was there.  It was something…

She scanned her front yard, concentrating on the shadowy places behind the flower beds, half expecting little ugly trolls to jump out and say Boo!  At least then she’d know.  Shaking her head, she buried the thought amongst all the other roiling questions that seemed to bubble and burn through her skull.  She took another drag, barely noticing half of the cigarette was now a cylinder of white ash.

Rosie shifted her weight to the other leg. And continued to wait.

 

 

Chapter 3

 

         Inside, Drake finished up.  He carefully put away his things in the bag, and stood.  Christ, he thought grimly, the shit’s about to hit the fan.  He used his foot to push the bag against the wall, and went to wash his hands in the sink.  Question was: how long did he have left before it did?  He dried his hands on a green kitchen towel, embroidered with tiny pink flowers; one of a large matching set Rosie’s neighbor, Phyllis, had made in her embroidery class.  The hot water was almost ready.  The teakettle sputtered out the first pitiful puffs of steam before thickening into a solid white column, then whistling louder and louder until it was a few notes lower than a doggie whistle.  He reached over to turn the gas off and moved the teakettle to another burner.  His mind raced, filtering through hundreds of different solutions to find the one answer, the one way he could get this right.

         He dropped a tea bag into each cup, along with sugar and a bit of creamer he’d found in the fridge.  He looked out the kitchen window and suddenly wondered why his vision was slightly blurred.  He had a moment of doubt, thinking for sure that somehow the ugly little fucker must have nipped him, and its poison was already coursing through his body.  Tipping his head to the side, he saw that the blurriness wasn’t moving with him. 

He heaved a sigh of relief.  Good thing.  He wasn’t going blind.  He leaned forward and narrowed his eyes, then almost choked out a laugh.  There was a smudge on the glass that looked like half of a heart, or better yet, a liver, and knew immediately it was the oil from Rosie’s soft cheek that had made that smear. 

         Rosie…

         He still couldn’t believe he was here.  And yet here he was.  He stirred both cups and took a deep breath.  Turning, he made his way through her kitchen and living room and took a deep breath before stepping through the doorway.  She had her back to him and was leaning against the railing, her cigarette seemingly forgotten in her right hand.  She hadn’t heard him, he was sure of it.  If she had, she’d have jumped right over the railing, he was definitely sure of that.  He stood where he was, knowing this would be one of those few moments he’d be able to see her in her natural state, where she wasn’t getting flustered and frustrated because of him.

Yep, here he was.

         His eyes drank her in.  She wore her hair loose; he’d never seen her wear it any other way, and didn’t she think she ever would.  Not that he’d want her to.  He loved the way it hung past her shoulders in thick dark curls of sable that looked like a wild tangle of a mess, but if you ran your hands through, it was smooth as silk and didn’t catch once on your fingers.  Her skin looked sun kissed, and he knew without asking that she’d spent most of her days out in her garden.  Her sweater had been discarded and hung on the wicker armchair.  She was wearing a simple white tee-shirt, faded worn jean shorts, and no shoes on her feet.  He thought she was just the most beautiful damned thing he’d seen in a long time.  Ten years, to be exact.  He dropped his eyes to her legs and thought, Lean as ever and they still go on for days.  He was too astounded at the time with being near her again that he didn’t register the thin dark slashes covering the back of her thighs.

         He was too busy calculating.  Although, not too busy to admire.  An idea glimmered in his head.  He wasn’t too sure if it had been manufactured by his normally practical, methodical mind, or his not so honorable intentions.  It could very well have been a nice merging of the two.

         Either way, here he was.

 

 

Chapter 4

 

         “You holdin’ that cigarette to look cool?”

         Rosie gave a startled cry, turning to shoot him a resentful look, “Is sneaking up on people a new habit you picked up over the years?”  She took the cup from his outstretched hand.  “Or do you just do that for fun?”

         “You’d never believe what I do for fun,” Drake said, his voice heavy, a sad weight that seemed to hang in the air.

         She narrowed her eyes and replied with a dubious huff, taking a sip of tea.  She stubbed out what remained of her cigarette in the ashtray she kept on the railing, and pulled out two more, simultaneously lighting them both, conscious to the fact, but not really caring, that she was performing an old habit they’d once had.  You could say she had bigger fish to fry. 

She passed one of the cigarettes over to Drake, who immediately took a generous drag. 

“Thank God I can still have these,” he said.

She blew out a breath of smoke in a smooth white stream and raised a questioning eyebrow, “I’m waiting.”

         “I know.”

         “Then?”

         “I’ve never been a whiz with words, Rosie girl,” Drake murmured, his eyes focusing on an imaginary point in the distance.

         “And I’ve never been one for beating around the bush.”

         “I think with this one, you’ll be glad for a slow pace.”

         Rosie pulled his arm back so he was facing her directly.  “Then at least give me the prologue, Drake.  The prologue, the beginning, an introduction.  That’s all I’m asking for.”  She searched his eyes with earnest and found nothing but cold steel. 

         Drake looked down at her hand touching him, then met her gaze.  He felt a kick in his gut and suddenly wished he’d brought a bottle of Jim Beam.  Never mind that he hadn’t had a drop in ten years and were he to, his liver would shrivel up and crawl out of his throat.  “Before I introduce you to the beginning,” he leaned down and carefully placed his half empty cup on the floor, next to one of the balustrades, “there’s one more thing I need from you.”

         She rolled her eyes and scoffed, “Of course.  Of course there’d be one more thing!  What?  What is it?”

         “Kiss me.”

         Rosie froze.  She stared at Drake in disbelief. 

         “One kiss.”  Drake could hardly believe himself.

         Her cheeks reddened until they were bright, angry circles.  She slammed her cup down on the banister, its contents sloshing around precariously.

         “Rosie girl, I know how you must be feeling, but trust me—” The rest of whatever he was about to say was shoved back down his throat, as his lips were abruptly smothered by Rosie’s.  She crowded him, pushing her body against his until he could no longer retreat; the railing creaked beneath their combined weight, but neither one of them made a move to adjust their positions.  Her tongue clashed with his in sensual, but furious, strokes. 

He didn’t stand a chance. 

His arms clamped around her waist in a viselike grip, nearly cutting off her air.  Rosie slipped her hands up his chest, around his strong neck, and threaded her fingers through his hair, knowing it drove him wild. 

         She couldn’t pass up this chance to teach him a lesson on breaking girls’ hearts and coming back a decade later to try breaking it one more time.  And she had been dying to see if he tasted the same as he did ten years ago.

         Her teeth nipped his bottom lip and she heard him inhale sharply.

         She could tell he wanted her to take them over the edge. 

         Regretfully, she realized she wanted the same thing.

         Frightened enough from the day’s events and the likelihood that her heart and her mind had been fooling themselves all these years, Rosie untangled herself from their embrace and stepped back shakily.

         Drake leaned his full weight against the railing and drew in a ragged breath of air.  He ran a distressed hand over his equally distressed face.

Christ, he thought. 

         She smoothed her shirt down and cleared her throat, gathering as much dignity as she could, considering her shirt had somehow gotten hitched into her bra.  She flicked her lashes up apprehensively and smiled in relief.  He looked as shaken up as she felt. 

Good, she thought.

“If you think that’s funny, girl,” Drake said dryly, “then wait ‘til you hear what I’ve been up to.”

Rosie wondered what he meant by that and would’ve asked, but decided against it, fearing the answer to her one-million-and-tenth question might just be the hair that broke the camel’s back.  Instead she picked up both of their cups and asked a question whose answer she didn’t think would jettison her to insanity, “Shots and brews?”

Drake’s features dropped and he shook his head apologetically.

Rosie looked heavenward and could have screamed right then and there.  She could have just simply opened her mouth wide and, at the top of her lungs, belted out the loudest, angriest scream she could muster, like she had done when she was a little girl and her mother had lost her in a grocery store where no one spoke English and Rosie almost hated her that day.

She sighed and said morosely, “At least some things never change.”

“Such as?” Drake asked, skeptical but curious.

“You taste the same.”

 

 

Chapter 5

 

         Nothing had blown up.

         Rosie sighed with relief.  She had half expected to see smoldering piles of ash and tile, beautiful tiles she had hand painted herself with bright colors, scattered among the ruins she once called her kitchen.  Instead, she saw nothing out of the ordinary, bar the pathetic remains of her expired dog-door.  Stringy black hairs lay in a small pile next to the door, limp and motionless, devoid of the chaos from which they’d been born.  He had swept, but didn’t throw anything into the trash, which was a large black plastic garbage bag that sat by its lonesome in the corner of her kitchen.  She wondered about it, then wondered when she would stop wondering about anything directly or indirectly related to Drake.  She had a strong suspicion that it wouldn’t be any time soon. 

         She set their cups in the sink, and went over to her fridge for another source of solace; she thought perhaps a shot of anything would put her to sleep and decided on a frosted bottle of Sierra Nevada.  Rosie looked over her shoulder expectantly as she twisted off the cap.

         “Orange juice,” Drake answered.  He took a clean cup out of her cabinet and poured himself a serving from the juice carton she handed him.  He had readied himself to leave when she grabbed his upper arm.

         “We’re sittin’ in here,” she softly demanded and pulled him towards the circular dining table, tucked away into another corner of her seemingly tiny abode.  She motioned for him to sit down in the further of the two thickly cushioned and ornately hand-carved redwood chairs accompanying the table,  and plopped into the seat across his.

         Drake stretched his long legs out and adjusted his posture to a comfortable slump that was reminiscent of the Blue Belle Slouch.  He asked, “What was wrong with out there?”

         Rosie didn’t want to even try explaining what she’d felt outside; she wouldn’t have been able to find the right words to describe the crazy sense that reality was off in some way.  She took a swig and set her beer on the table, leaning back.  She stretched her own legs and crossed them at the feet, finding the words to redirect his willingness to begin from somewhere,  “Nothing’s wrong with out there.  I just want you to start talking.” 

         “I never stopped loving you.” Drake said simply.  He caught her startled gaze before she quickly looked away.  He almost missed the astonishment that flashed through her eyes, but luckily he was able to witness the sudden change of color: emerald to jade, jade to emerald, and a faint but distinct flash of yellow fury that dashed through glimmers of what he could only call recognition and unrequited desire.

         Rosie scoffed and crossed her arms in front of her, “I thought this was going to be a true story, Drake.”

         “And I thought you were going to make this easy on me.”

         “Easy as pie, sweetheart.”

         “Listen, Rosie,” Drake urged, “just listen!  I know this is going to be hard to believe, probably harder than everything else I’m going to tell you, but you just have to put some faith in me.  Please, Rosie,” he reached for her hand, which  she surprisingly let him take, “I understand I’m asking a lot of you, but I have no other choice.  You have no other choice.  You need to put your pride aside if you want closure.  If you really, truly want to be rid of all those feelings that got you tangled up, then you have to believe!”  He looked at her imploringly, watching her lips press themselves into a tight line.  He knew she wasn’t ready to take this leap of faith, let alone acquiesce to what he was truly asking, yet he forged on, insisting that she was capable even as his doubt loomed high and heavily above her shadow, “Will you?”

         Rosie couldn’t.  How could she possibly?  How, when he was all she had ever known, and one day, out of the crisp blue autumn afternoon sun, he just suddenly up and disappeared? Without a word of livelihood or well-being?  How, when it took her two years to stop sleeping with the doors unlocked, just in case he’d changed his mind and decided to sneak back into her life?

No.  It wasn’t fair.  

She couldn’t just simply give in again.  

Could she?

Closure he said.  Oh God, how she ached for it.  Ten years was a long time.  She wanted so desperately to be able to wake up without looking over to see if he had snuck in at night.  She wanted to be rid of those reality-twisting feelings; she wanted to be rid of him.  And if believing what he was about to share with her was the first, and hopefully only, step to doing so, then so be it.

Oh foolish, foolish, fool.

Rosie leaned forward and tightened her grip on his hand, her eyes holding his with an intensity that set fire to his insides. “You’ve yet to prove to me that you deserve this, darlin’.  But for my own sake, yes. I will believe you.”

Drake’s heart pounded painfully in his chest at her acquiescence.  He had weathered thousands of missions, most of which should have left him maimed, missing a leg or two, or even dead, and not once had he been so grateful to be in one piece than he was right now.  He wondered if maybe he’d kept himself alive for the sole purpose of someday hearing those words from her lips.  “Thank you,” he uttered quietly, the sincerity weighing heavily upon his lips and heart.

Rosie nodded, untangling her fingers from his for another swig.  She leaned back again and settled in her seat, waiting expectantly.. 

He began his story and she let him, uttering not  a single word of interrupting, until he arrived at a particularly gruesome and heartbreaking event.  But that wouldn’t be until much later. 

For now—

 

 

Chapter 6

         —it was August of 1998.

         Drake wasn’t going to disappear from Rosie’s life for another two weeks, and right now he was just about melting in the sickening heat that seemed to be attempting to smother all of California. 

God, how he hated this time of year.

It was only during summer where everything looked like it was dancing in such a sensual way that you were pretty damned sure inanimate objects were trying to seduce you.  It was as if you were almost always on the verge of fainting, although quite a few of the elderly were prone to do just that at this time of year.  Trees and buildings that were rooted and molded stolidly to the ground wiggled and swayed before your eyes, yet you were never allowed the satisfaction of actually passing out (unless, of course, you were a member of the aforementioned group) and not having to witness the haunting way the earth shimmied to some weird tune that went unheard.

         He’d just picked up a few things at Bait, Hook and Anchor, Renwick’s only general store for all your fishing and boating needs.  He’d found a new tackle-box for Rosie, one that didn’t creak and whose bottom wouldn’t fall out, thus scattering her glittering flies.  He was forever astounded at the reliability her Bad Luck had when it came to her purchasing a box.  She was of the pickiest breed and once spent a little over an hour debating the pros and cons of two tackle-boxes:  a sleek green Plano with a triple-tiered compartment, versus a plain black Flambeau with chrome edges.  So many possibilities were offered by the former, but the easy simplicity of communal space in the latter was tempting.  She finally decided to go with easy and simple; sometimes you had to cut out the fat. 

         Rosie had ooh’ed and ahh’ed over it as a child would over a shiny new fangled toy.  Unfortunately, she was just as accident-cursed as she was indecisive.

         Two days after she had purchased the Plano, she’d decided to embark upon an extravagant all-day fishing excursion, or Rosie’s Fishing Extrava-go-nanza, as Drake put it.  This ended up being one of the longest days Drake had experienced until later that year, when shit literally went side-ways.

“FAAAAK!” she cried.  “Just do me a solid and hook your ass to the line!”  Sadly, the 15 pounder did her neither a solid, nor did it hook its ass to the line.  Rather, it fought a good fifteen minutes with more than enough gusto to prove itself worthy of a longer life that Rosie would have given it.  Off it was, with a flourish and a flop; it was gone to the murky blue.  Drake never would’ve let it gone out alive like that, she thought.  Rosie could almost smell the determination he used to sweat on a hot day, his eyes narrowing against the glare of the water, oblivious to where the fish may have been basking in the low warmth of the late summer sun.  Just below the surface, watching the rest of the world go by, knowing it was either the end of its rope with one gasp or the rest of its life with a swift spin of its tail.

The sun began to really drive a sliver of heat through Rosie’s thigh, spurring her on to grab every piece of equipment she could reach and throwing them all into her bucket, haphazardly and with zero ceremony; not once did it dawn on her the endless minutes she poured over each piece of her armory at differing times of the summers throughout that last 5 years; time was of the essence.

---

Drake shook with a ferocity that began deep within his breast before it threatened to break his ribs and all that he could physically hold onto.  The air smelled crisp, almost burnt; like he’d swiped a cheap match in the midst of a backyard party gone sour.  He winced, thinking there should have been at least a filter or gust of air to blow away the heaviest of the scent that accompanied his final stretch of bravery; there was no way this could have been bottled up and sold for less than market value.  And yet here we are, sweetpea, he sang to himself, “just a few more minutes away and our essence shall belong to us no more”

SCENE..

A buck.

Someone's eatin' good tonight, he thought, smiling. Another rustle of the weeds had him reaching to roll the window down once more, ready to congratulate the lucky hunter.

What emerged made him stop. All thoughts of good humor left his head as a sick heaviness formed in the pit of his stomach.

It had been a family of rabbits, six in all. They hopped out into the open and formed a rough line, watching him with their beady eyes. When they all simultaneously cocked their little heads to the side, Drake couldn't help but feel that they were observing him, studying him collectively as one unit, one singular brain. They sat on their hindquarters, relaxed and unnerved. Their fur looked soft and clean, untouched by the dirt. They were all white. Pure white, except for the bright red around their mouths, that matted their otherwise spotless coats. The smallest one had some of it smeared across its tiny chest. 

Drake threw the Jeep into drive and stepped on the gas.  He flew past the morbid fluffy family, down the rest of Old Red Road and didn't let up until he was clear through their own driveway. He cut the ignition and sat back, his heart beating a mile a minute. He let his hands fall into his lap.

"Christ," he whispered. He still couldn't believe it. "They were eating that poor bastard!"

SCENE...

 

.. And they came…

 

         They came with such a force, his eyes weren’t able to adjust to the strange color scheme that accompanied their arrival.  The sky was a filmy dark blue when he stepped out of the house dressed in only his jeans.  Dark grey clouds, thin and anorexic, snaked their way across the murky backdrop.  The first star of the night twinkled by its lonesome, throwing a dreamlike glow to the heavens; the moon had yet to make its appearance and would not do so tonight—at least not to this part of the world.

         Beyond the skeletal clouds, the sky itself had taken on a maroon shade.  The maroon turned into deep purple veins that wound themselves in and out of the clouds, in and out of the navy backdrop, in and out of reality.  Pink and bright red lights seemed to peek through the firmament as if they were stars, new and exotic stars that existed in a different galaxy but had somehow found a tunnel through time and space, and were now resting very comfortably in our atmosphere.  He couldn’t really put a solid name to the different shades of color he was seeing.  He could only associate them as closely as he could to the paint palette he was capable of remembering from art class in high school.  He stopped his mind from trying to comprehend, feeling instinctively that were he to do so, his head could very well implode—figuratively, he hoped.

This must be what it looks like when God bleeds, Drake thought grimly.

He heard something that caused his eyes to shift northeast.  He squinted and inhaled sharply, realizing that reality was just a joke.  He couldn’t believe that something like this could be imagined, let alone actually take place right in front of his eyes.  The noise was another new detail.  His ears were just as incapable of placing a name to the sound they were hearing as his eyes were to what they were seeing.

It started as a low note, reminding him of the tones they’d use to test on children in school for hearing deficiencies.  He noticed that he couldn’t hear anything else around him or the house.  A flock of wild geese had flown by a few minutes earlier, their usual screeches would have been heard long after they were out of sight; the wild roar of the crickets, who were normally rowdy this time of evening; the most heaviest sound of all that weighed down the entire forest which surrounded their home—the solid silence of the trees.  The note rose to a deafening howl that crashed over this brain in black, penetrating waves.

         He suddenly fell to one knee, clutching his head, afraid it might actually rip open in a bloody mess, but more afraid it wouldn’t.  A torrent of flashing white burst behind his eyelids and he was certain, at that very moment, that he was on the brink of death…

** The human experience is primarily felt and secondarily processed. 

** driven around by a little lady, in a pretty summer dress with flowers and butterflies coming out of the exhaust

** artists and birdcages breathe, fly

---

The Letters

“Dearest Drake,

YOU FUCKING COWARD.  But woe is she, the fool who misses the coward so deeply.

Yours Forever, Whether I Like It Or Not,

Rosie.”

“Darling Rosie-girl,

I long for your touch; your soft kisses to soothe me or a hard slap to remind me I’m alive, and a fucking idiot.  I carry you with me through these other worlds and dimensions, not knowing if I’ll ever hold you in my arms again, but not caring really, because I’ve already had the fortune of feeling your body against mine, and breathing in your scent.. This mission could swallow me up in a literal vortex of bad shit, and it wouldn’t matter.. Because I had you once.  And until my soul evaporates into the ether, I shall have you again, in this lifetime or next.   However long I have to wait, no matter the distance I have to crawl, I will find you.. Your eyes carry me through, Rosie; always have, always will.

Eternally Yours,

The Man Who Was Unlucky Enough To Answer The Phone That Day”