Affliction

by Jenika Snow

  I knew I wouldn’t have known him anyway, but I wanted to look into the face of the man who’d saved me.

  Saved me?

  Yes, he’d saved me from a very dark hole, pulled me out so I could breathe again. But I now had this feeling, this sensation like honey on my skin, thick, almost suffocating me again, that this man was far more dangerous than anything I’d ever come across.

  He said nothing, and the only sound that penetrated my foggy brain was of the man struggling, of his wheezes and gasps as he tried to claw at the hand holding him, keeping him up. I felt nothing, no sympathy for him, nothing but the need to see him hurt the way he’d hurt me.

  And then, my lungs clenching painfully with every inhalation I made, I watched the man push away his partner and take his place in front of my attacker. Instinct, survival told me to run, to get the hell out of here because this was going straight into hell, where the flames licked at me, threatening to burn me alive.

  The man had his head turned in my direction, the fucking shadows making him seem almost unreal, like maybe this was all a hallucination. He was so big, taller, thicker, and more muscular than the man pressed to the wall in front of him. Still he stayed silent; still he watched me. And then he lifted his hand, placed the barrel of the gun against my attacker’s forehead, right in the damn center, and everything seemed to stand still.

  I knew enough about guns, had seen plenty of movies, to know the silencer attached would make this clean, would have no one panicking and rushing away at the sound of a gunshot.

  I took a step forward, not sure why I’d do that. It was the equivalent of trying to touch a chained, starved dog, wanting to run my hands over it even though I knew it would attack me, tear me from limb to limb.

  “No,” I said. He might have been about to attack me, rape me, God, who knew what else, but I didn’t want him to die. I couldn’t stand here and watch some man shoot him. I couldn’t live with myself with that hanging over me, even if he deserved that and more. “No. Wait,” I whispered. A long moment passed, maybe a second, maybe an hour. It seemed like ages where my body was stiff, my heart thundering, the man with the gun staring at me. He didn’t pull the trigger, even though maybe he should have. I felt dizzy, my head swimming, the feeling of falling having nothing to do with the drinks I’d had or the situation that had transpired up until right now. “It’s not worth it. He’s not worth it,” I whispered again, but even though I didn’t know this man, I knew that he wasn’t the type to give a shit about what was worth it or not. He did what he did because he wanted to.

  I knew that as well as I knew the man with the gun pointed to his head could be shot dead at any second.

  I was very aware of the blood rushing through my veins, drowning everything else out. The frat guy was saying something, but I couldn’t hear it, couldn’t focus on anything but the man in front of me who held so much power it could have brought me to my knees.

  After a tense second he took a step back, the gun still in his hand, his focus now on the asshole who’d had me in a choke hold. He still hadn’t said one word, not when he cocked the weapon, and not when he had his thug slam the frat-guy up against the building. And he didn’t say anything when he lifted his arm and rammed the butt of the gun at the asshole’s temple. The guy slid to the ground, maybe knocked out, maybe trying to make himself smaller, less noticeable.

  And then there was nothing but him and me, staring at each other, the air thick, the world washing away. He turned and left me standing there, his hand at his side, the gun still in his grasp. The flash of a ring caught my attention, a thick one wrapped around his pinky, seeming much more ominous than it should.

  He got back in the car and drove off. I followed the car with my gaze, watching it disappear down the road, knowing he was staring at me the same as I was him.

  I had no idea what in the hell had happened.

  I didn’t know if I’d ever be the same.

  Chapter 3

  I wiped the sleep from my eyes, my dreams from last night consisting of a big, dark man. Even though I couldn’t see his face, I knew he was more dangerous than anything I could have come up against. He’d had ropes around me, laughing in this deep, sick, and twisted way that had made my humanity run and bury itself deep inside of me.

  I’d slept for shit because of it. The dreams coupled with what I’d witnessed last night had been enough to keep me up, a warm glass of tea in my hand…the only thing stable enough to tie me to reality in that moment.

  “Darryl’s got your check in back,” Rita, the assistant manager of this shitty coffee shop, said as she passed me.

  “Thanks,” I mumbled. I had bills stacked against each other back in my shitty apartment, and although I worked overtime, I still wasn’t making it, was still struggling just to survive.

  The story of my life.

  I finished tying on my apron and walked over to Darryl’s office. My pervert of a boss was hunched over his desk, his cell pressed up to his ear as he barked into the receiver.

  “I don’t care what he said. I asked him to be here an hour ago.” A moment of silence passed before he spoke again. “Listen, if he doesn’t show up, then I’ll give his position to someone else.” He disconnected the call and tossed the phone. I stood there for a second before clearing my throat. Darryl turned and looked at me.

  Okay, he’s not in a pervert mood, not when he’s mean mugging me like that.

  I’d take his anger over him slipping in lewd comments any day.

  “Rita said my check was here?”

  He started pushing papers aside until he got to the stack of envelopes. After flipping through them and finally finding mine, he handed it over without looking at me.

  “Can you come in tomorrow an hour early?” he said, still not looking at me. He was such a shitty fucking boss.

  “Yeah.” I needed the extra money, needed another job really. As it was, working at the coffee shop wasn’t cutting it. My electric was going to get cut off any day, and I was barely scraping by enough to pay my rent.

  Cutting out the bar scene is going to have to be a priority.

  I hated myself on some level for going out at all, for spending what little money I had. But if I didn’t get out, I’d kill myself. Maybe not literally, but I’d be stuck in that shitty apartment, no heat or electricity, staring at the wall. I’d be waiting for the world to swallow me up, because that would have been the only thing I had going for me.

  “Actually, I was wondering if you had any overtime?”

  He looked at me then and shook his head. Man, he had a bug up his ass big-time today, but I’d take it over his wandering eyes and his crude comments.

  “Sorry, I’m strapped for hours. What you are scheduled is all you’re getting.” And that was it. He waved at me to leave, and I forced myself not to make an under her breath comment.

  Asshole.

  I got to work because thinking about my problems, about the fact I’d have to find another job, wasn’t what I wanted to dwell on. I had no one to ask for help, no one that really gave a damn about me. I was on my own in every possible way.

  Twenty-two years old and a shell of a woman, an empty vessel that has nothing good going for her.

  I shouldn’t have had to feel alive by clubbing and getting drunk. I should have had some light and happiness in my world. But then I knew that wasn’t how reality worked.

  I sat on the curb at the back of the coffee shop. I had three more hours before my shift was over with, before I’d go back to the crushing realization of where I actually was in this world. It was times like this where the stress was almost too much to handle, where it tightened its hold on my lungs, squeezing me, trying to make me go blue and wither away into nothing, that I wished I had a cigarette.

  They were vile things, but smoking would have given me a small out, a tiny thing to focus on as the world went upside down around me.

  The sound of the back door opening had me glancing over my shoulder. Marshall came through,
a white trash bag in his hand, his ball cap crooked. He looked just as worn-out on the outside as I felt on the inside.

  “Hey,” he said, his smile genuine.

  “Hey.” I focused on the back of the building in front of me. It was an antique shop. Maybe they were hiring? I felt someone close by, watching me, and looked over to see Marshall staring at me. “What’s up?”

  “I heard you talking to Darryl about needing extra hours.”

  I nodded, not sure where this was going. Marshall was lower on the totem pole than I was, and he barely worked as it was.

  He looked around as if he was afraid, as if he didn’t want anyone overhearing. Then he came closer, the smell of coffee beans coming from him in the same strength I assumed it came from me.

  “You’re really hard up for money?” He was sitting beside me on the curb now, and I could see how his eyes were a little bloodshot, his pupils a little dilated. He seemed jumpy, but by the way he acted when he was about to speak, I could assume he was just nervous.

  Or juiced up on something.

  “I mean, I guess,” I said, my eyebrows pulled down, my confusion over this situation pretty strong.

  He was silent for long seconds, fidgeting with his apron, looking shifty as hell. “I know a guy who can help.”

  “That doesn’t sound ominous at all.”

  He kept looking around, and I felt the hairs on my arms stand on end. “I think I’ll pass on whatever it is you’re offering.”

  “Sorry,” he said and exhaled. “But I do know someone who can help. He helps a lot of people.”

  “Yeah, out of the kindness of his heart I assume.”

  Marshall shrugged. “Here.” He reached in his apron and grabbed a pen and piece of paper. He wrote down an address, then handed it to me.

  I glanced down at it, not sure where this part of the city was. “Thanks?” I said, because this seemed pretty sketchy.

  “But seriously, he can help.” Marshall stood and headed back inside. I should have tossed the address, because no way in hell this sounded legit or even safe. But for some reason I put it in my apron and stood.

  What I knew for sure was nothing was free.

  Chapter 4

  I could barely keep my eyes open as I drove my shitty car back to my shittier apartment. I took the last right onto the street, saw the apartment building looming up ahead, and parked right at the curb.

  For a second I just sat there, listening to the engine cooling, that clicking. I did this every day when I came home, dreading going in there, hating that I’d be alone.

  No real friends.

  No family that gave a shit about me.

  One day a month where I let loose, where I pretended to be someone else.

  That was my life summed up.

  I stopped feeling sorry for myself and headed inside. The elevator was broken, had been for the last month. I doubted it would get fixed anytime soon, not unless a bunch of people complained. Which they wouldn’t, because anyone who lived here didn’t really care about anything.

  The first two flights of stairs were easy, the third and fourth made me realize I was out of shape. Thighs burning, lungs seizing, I adjusted my messenger bag and took the last step. My head was downcast, my focus on the dirty ground with the cracked and peeling linoleum.

  When I lifted my head, the first thing I saw was my apartment door cracked open. My heart stalled. I’d locked it. I knew I had. This was a bad neighborhood, and although I didn’t have shit worth a grain of salt in there, having someone break in was an invasion.

  I should have called the cops, but again this was a bad neighborhood, and even if the cops did come by, it would take forever, and they’d assume I just didn’t lock the door.

  I had my keys in my hand, the metal sticking out between my fingers. I’d use it as a weapon if I had to. Creeping slowly toward the door, I pushed it open with my shoe.

  I could have maybe asked one of my neighbors to come with me, but with them being drunks, junkies, or senile, I didn’t think they would be much help. Besides, everyone here kept to themselves and didn’t worry about others…it was usually safer that way.

  The door swung open, and I saw that my place had been trashed. It hadn’t been a looker to begin with, and I really had nothing of value…expect my coffee can. My heart started beating a static rhythm. I shut the door, my safety not coming into play at this moment as I rushed to the kitchen.

  The cupboards were all open, the few dishes I had crashed to the floor. And there, among the shards of thrift-store ceramic, was my coffee can. It was on its side, the lid a foot away. I knew it would be empty even before I picked it up with a shaking hand.

  I’d been saving any little amount of money from my paychecks, putting a dollar in the can here or there, or a few quarters. It was sometimes my free-for-one-day-a-month fund, what I’d dip into to buy a few drinks if I had any extra. Hell, I used it to put gas in my car when money was really tight.

  I sat on the floor, my legs feeling like they’d give out, my heart in my throat. The sadness was soon replaced with anger. I cried, hating that I couldn’t do better, knowing I deserved better. I tossed that fucking coffee can across the kitchen, the metal slamming against the cupboard.

  Then I put my head in my hands and cried, just bawled because there was nothing else to do. Maybe I didn’t have that much money in the coffee can anyway. Maybe I shouldn’t have even had money around, or hid it better.

  Maybe. Maybe. Maybe.

  There were a lot of things I could have, should have done differently. In the end my life was still the same, still broken, twisted and gnarled, with the light I thought I needed drifting further away. Maybe I wasn’t supposed to have that light. Maybe I only deserved the darkness.

  Maybe that’s what made me stronger.

  I lifted my head, wiped the tears away angrily, and realized what I had in my pocket. I pulled that slip of paper out, the address scribbled across it seeming so damn ominous. Everything in me screamed to throw it away, but the reality of my situation was I was falling deeper into a hole. I just needed to get on my feet, find a second job, and then I could look for something better for myself, something that wasn’t infested with hatred and anger.

  My hand was still shaking when I shoved the paper back into my pocket. I stood, held my keys tighter, and headed out the door. I didn’t bother locking it this time. Because what was the point?

  I pulled my car to a stop, leaned forward, and stared up at the building. It looked abandoned, decay and age written all over it. Glancing at the piece of paper again, I knew this was the right place, but it looked fucked up for sure.

  This is stupid. Get the fuck out of here.

  About to do just that, because I’d rather scrape by than end up dead, I went to pull away. The sound of someone pounding on the hood of my car had a startled cry leaving me. The man in front of the car was wearing a hood and a dark mask that only covered half of his face.

  He took a step back, my headlights illuminating him. He was dressed head to toe in black, his body still in front of my vehicle. I could have mowed him down if I’d really wanted to get the hell out of there, which I did. But the truth was I was scared shitless. And I knew he wasn’t alone.

  The sound of banging at the back of my car had my heart racing so hard it was painful.

  “Turn the car off.” The deep voice beside my car had me jumping. When I didn’t move, he held up a gun, tapping the barrel on the glass of my driver’s side window. “Move it,” he shouted.

  I turned the key, shutting the car off. It felt like I’d unplugged my lifeline.

  “Get out of the fucking car.”

  I was too scared to try and make a run for it, the images of bullets flying through my car and slamming into me playing like a grotesque movie reel in my head.

  I was out of the car faster than I thought I could move, and instantly pushed up against the side of the vehicle, the metal cold, hard, and unforgiving. The guy keeping me flat on the car st
arted patting me down like I was packing a weapon.

  Surely they could see how terrified I was. I was spun around so fast my head swam. This guy was wearing the same mask, his eyes shrewd, dark.

  “What the fuck are you doing here?”

  “I…I…” My mouth wouldn’t work, the words not coming out, not being formed properly.

  “Speak up, you fucking bitch, or I’ll really give you something to stutter about.” He placed the barrel of the gun at my abdomen, pressing it in, showing me who was in charge.

  “Marshall gave me the address, said someone could help me.” The words tumbled out of my mouth, and I was proud and terrified I’d spoken them. I could hear how scared I sounded. I was shaking, my nails digging into my palms. I was surprised there wasn’t blood on my hands, a testament to the violence swirling in the air. I glanced around. Four men, all of them dressed the same.

  Thugs.

  “People need to learn to keep their mouths shut.”

  He’s referring to Marshall. God, I shouldn’t have said anything, shouldn’t have named him. I was so scared.

  Before I knew what was happening, I was being hauled away from the car and toward the building. I tripped over my feet, but the guy holding on to my arm squeezed tighter. I wasn’t foolish enough to think he would care if I fell on my face.

  We entered the building through this rusted-as-hell door. One of the guys hung outside, and the other three all but pushed me further in. The stench of dirt and mold was almost unbearable, and I coughed. Was that why they wore the masks? Or was it to make people like me know how low I was to them, how dangerous they really were?

  I was pushed through a set of doors, then pulled down a long hallway. Another door. Another hallway. I felt like we’d been walking forever, going deeper, the chill in the air becoming more intense. Finally we pushed through a door, and I could see tables all around. Guns and drugs littered the tables.