The Accursed_A Dark Psychological Thriller Novel

by J. Koratzanis

Chase breathed. “Associates? Preliminaries? How did Heather—”

  Saul pushed up from the table and heaved his bag. “Who’s Heather?”

  “Heather,” Chase repeated. “My girlfriend.”

  Klemmy stepped towards the door and hammered it.

  “Bazzi. Leonard Bazzi called me. Said he was a colleague of yours.”

  The door creaked open as Lynch leaned against the wall. Saul turned back to Chase.

  “See? This is what I mean. No fucking privacy around here.” He turned back to Lynch. “If only you were as honest as you bullshit my clients.”

  “If only you weren’t a sleazy mob blowjob of an attorney,” Lynch said.

  “Ha-ha, asshole. Very funny. Now get the cuffs off my client. Hey, kid. Did they read you your rights?”

  Chase shook his head. Klemmy grinned. Chubby cheeks strained to lift away.

  “Come on, Lynch. We’ve been to this dance before. Let him go.”

  Lynch snapped his gum and jingled his keys. Chase’s eyes grew wide as Lynch inserted it.

  “Don’t go too far, Mr. Romano. We might need to have another chat, you and I, real soon.”

  “Don’t listen to this bullying shit-bag of a cop, Chase,” Klemmy said. “You tell that hack of a D.A. if she requires something from my client, she calls me. Got it?”

  XIII

  Lethargy stirred in the gloom of the morning downpour. Whoever claimed that life isn’t about waiting for the storm to pass, but learning to dance in the rain, deserved a punch in the fucking throat. He’d rather stay up until four in the morning with a pizza, some beer and the love of his life, fuck you very much. Whether you’re sunny, cloudy, snowy or shitting on everything on God’s green earth, mornings sucked.

  Mucus crusted eyelids struggled to fixate on the ugly gray skies through the white plastic slats of the blinds. The pitter-pat of rain against the window sounded as unrhythmic and staccato as an eighties Hair-Metal drummer chewing on his own tongue in the middle of a heroin overdose. The distant roar of thunder that vibrated throughout the west side Brooklyn apartment, rumbled like a gaseous freight train farting down Third Avenue. The percussionist’s encore finished with a continuous pounding, thump at the door

  He shuffled through the studio, tucked his morning hard-on down the leg of his jeans he forgot to take off the night before, and belched. The cobwebs of his stupor were thick as steel netting.

  “Hold on, I’m coming,” he said. The pounding didn’t stop.

  “Alright, alright, I’m coming, for fuck’s sake!”

  BOOM BOOM BOOM

  “I’ll jam that fucking fist in your ass if you don’t—”

  He swung the door open and teetered back. His mind declined to acknowledge to whom the delicate, but menacing fist belonged.

  She shoved past him and halted in the kitchen.

  “What the fuck, Chase? Where the hell have you been since Friday night? You didn’t answer my calls, my texts!”

  A hand drifted towards his head as eyes closed, and disjointed thoughts filled his tongue. “Heather, I’m sorry. What’s going on?”

  She flung her purse on the couch and slipped her wet jacket to the floor.

  “What’s going on? What’s going on with you, Chase? Where the hell have you been,” she said.

  “Could you not fucking yell at me, please. I was…”

  Where? He shook his head and hoped the pounding would ease just a little to think. He was out. He had a project to work on, had a couple of drinks when he finished and—

  “Here. I was home last night,” he said.

  Fireflies burst into his vision as Heather slapped him. Chase reeled back and slammed into the round dinette.

  “No, you weren’t. Not last night. Not Friday night,” she howled.

  “Yes, I was!”

  She stomped towards him and jabbed her finger into his face.

  “I was here Friday and Saturday night. Your lights were off, and you didn’t answer the door.”

  “Maybe I was sleeping. Ever think of that?”

  Deceit shot its pungent taste into the back of his throat as he regarded her rage. He should have called, he should have answered, he should tell her the truth. He watched her emotion fall from her eyes.

  “Are you cheating on me?”

  He reached for her hand. She accepted as she looked away. “No. I promise.”

  She yanked away and plodded towards the window.

  “What happened at Dickinson’s? You strike out or something?”

  Fingers danced, and his jaw tightened.

  “Don’t tell me you weren’t there! I saw you!”

  Ladies and gentlemen, we interrupt this program for this special live bulletin. Chase Romano has just been busted lying to his girlfriend. Stay tuned for updates.

  “Yeah, yeah, I was there. Happy? For like ten minutes. My client asked to meet me there to go over some things.”

  Heather smiled. It knotted his stomach and sent another mouthful of savory bile upwards.

  “So much for you sleeping. Then what?” she commanded. He sat at the table and lit a cigarette.

  “I’m sorry. I lied. I just didn’t want you to get upset.”

  Good job, stupid.

  Heather stepped across the room and took the cigarette from Chase’s fingers. She looked at it for a moment before she sucked on it.

  “How did you know I was there?” he said.

  She puffed out a cloud and huffed. “I saw you.”

  “How did you see me if you came here?” Inquisitive doubt wrested his words.

  “I went there after here. Wanted to see if I’d find you there.”

  “Really?”

  No, stupid. Don’t do it.

  “How do I know you’re telling the truth?”

  Shut up, asshole.

  “Maybe you’re cheating on me, and you almost got busted!”

  You’re a fucking idiot. You know she’s not cheating. Loser.

  Chase slammed the sides of his head with his fists and growled.

  Get out of my head!

  Heather stepped back and watched Chase as he battled within.

  “Chase. Look at me.” He did.

  “I’ll never cheat on you. And if you don’t know that by now, then why are we still together?”

  “But it’s Okay for you to accuse me of it,” he pounded his fist on the table. The ashtray tipped over and scattered its overflowing contents. Heather placed it upright and dashed out the cigarette as Chase drifted away towards the sofa.

  “I’m leaving—”

  “No! Don’t leave me! I’m sorry,” he pleaded as he rushed back to her.

  “Chase, I’m going home. Maybe when you figure out which lie you want to tell me and calm the fuck down, this is not like you, come by and we’ll talk. You have a key,” she finished and slammed the door behind her.

  XIV

  Tears fell, scars appeared, and darkness slowly consumed Chase. He didn’t understand why. Was it something he invariably carried? Was this a new seed that sprouted into a bountiful harvest of Nightshade? Was it a mustard tree that had finally blossomed after the last twenty-five years of existence?

  Was it the daily indulgence of beer and scotch? The unwavering self-pity that always stuck its finger in his eye? Was it the dark voices in his head, both his and someone else’s that waged war for his happiness, his peace, his soul? Was this darkness willing to consume all he held dear? Heather?

  No, not Heather. She was the love of his life ever since he laid eyes on her at Sammie’s when he was only sixteen. Something about her world sucked him down with her magnificent gravity he had not the desire to fight. He wanted to be pulled hard into her gravity, to be a part of her world, her life, her spirit.

  Soulmate was the only definition he recognized. Did she?

  Ever since the first crack that slashed across their seemingly unbreakable foundation, he assumed she commenced her journey without him. Although he had made good in returning to her apartment that n
ight, he sensed the divide. She no longer depended on him. And he knew he needed to fix it

  Sorry, buddy. You will need to cut this part out and reinforce the basement walls with rebar and some serious concrete. I don’t think you can afford it.

  Fuck you. I’ll fix it myself.

  Good luck, dear boy. Don’t call me when you fuck it up even more.

  He explained why he lied. Better yet, he lied about why he lied. And she accepted it. He hoped. Surely, she had done things, hid truths from him. Right? After all, who is completely transparent and honest? There’s always something hiding behind people’s masks. Like the little scars on the wrist that screamed suicide, but the words behind it suggested a ridiculous running with scissors accident. At least Rick bought that excuse.

  Chase stood in her doorway and waited. Her key nestled firmly in his pocket, fear kept it deep. He knocked once, she knew it was him at the door. Unless someone else has a key.

  Who?

  “Beatrice. That’s it,” he reassured himself. The door crept open, and he smiled.

  “Hi, angel,” he said and eased over the bouquet of Gerbera daisies in his hand. “I also got you a box of Whitman’s.”

  He watched the gentle smile curl up, then pull back.

  “Why didn’t you just use your key?

  “Are you going to let me in?” he said in return.

  Heather slipped her hands over his as he handed over the flowers and chocolates. He felt the coldness of the oncoming season on her fingertips. She turned away and strolled through her flat. Chase followed and scanned the room.

  His heart dropped when she tossed the flowers and Whitman’s to the counter as she continued away. Something felt different. Everything seemed off balance. Nothing looked the same. She hadn’t changed a thing. Same nick-knacks, same framed photographs, same intimate lighting throughout the brick-walled, former factory, apartment.

  Heather stepped behind the bar in the far corner of the room. She craned her head towards the window and watched the twinkling lights of downtown Manhattan before she removed two wineglasses from the rack. She looked over at him as he sat on the sectional. He watched as her hips swayed as she walked towards him, two glasses in one hand, the bottle of red in the other. She never considered his gaze.

  Heather sat on the opposite end of the couch and poured into the goblets. She placed the bottle down and handled her glass. Chase followed every delicate flow of her hands, the smooth way she folded her legs, and the deliberate raise of the glass to her supple lips.

  Chase scooted over and stretched for his glass. She shifted away. The glass teetered in his hand as he lost the battle to dignity. He had to justify. He needed to apologize. Again. And it burned him up.

  Not that apologizing to Heather was cumbersome. He didn’t want to do it anymore. He shouldn’t have to. He loved her more than everything on God’s mother fucking green earth, and she should have known that by now. Loved ones can fuck up, right?

  “Heather… I’m—”

  Her head snapped, and her eyes blazed with the fires of hell as she stifled his words back into his heart.

  “Don’t you dare. Don’t you fucking dare apologize again. What you did was… was—”

  “I’m sorry,” he said.

  Heather flew up from the couch and trudged away. He bounded up and sprinted after her.

  “Heather, please. Let me explain.”

  She grabbed the stereo remote and hit play. Welcome to My Hell rattled the windows with its locomotive-chugging guitars and double bass drums. She dropped the remote on the wide window sill and sat. She hefted her glass and swallowed greedily.

  He waited for her gaze that didn’t return. He sat next to her and grabbed her hands. She pulled away.

  “Did you hear what those guys were saying about you? Why do you think I reacted the way I did?” he said. Words sounded contrived, fake in his voice, despite his veracity. He shunned the blaring stereo and took the remote.

  “Heather.”

  She stood up and walked away. He latched onto her hand and refused to let go.

  “No, Chase. What you did was all kinds of fucked up. They were just words.”

  He stood and twirled her towards him. She continued to look away.

  “You’re right. You’re right. I overreacted. I’ll—”

  “Overreacted? You nearly killed that poor guy!” She yanked her hand free and wandered back towards the bar.

  “Poor guy? What the fuck? He deserved everything he got!”

  “You almost got arrested, Chase. Ever think of that? You’re fucking lucky me and Beatrice know the manager down there or you’d be fucked.”

  Chase’s head cocked. “How do you know the manager of Marge’s?”

  She poured another glass of wine and chugged it down. Her hand swiped across the spillage on the bar and dried it on her sweatpants.

  “College. He was a friend’s fucking roommate, that’s how.”

  “A friend,” he chortled. Her erect finger jabbed at him from across the apartment.

  “Don’t change the subject. Yes, a friend, that’s it. What’s gotten into you, Chase? You were never like this. You were always happy, confident. Not this— this— angry.”

  He tramped across to the bar and placed his glass before her. She obliged.

  “I’ve always been angry. You know that.”

  “Why? Why, Chase?”

  Why, that ugly, never-ending loop question that always made its bitter way into his reasoning. Why, that asphyxiator of purpose, that murderer of pleasure, that god of distress. It was a dispute he never attempted to resolve. After the pain, deceit, lies, failure, there was no purpose to ask anymore.

  “I’m afraid of you, Chase. I’m afraid of what you’re capable of. I mean, you didn’t just hit that man. You went after him like some sort of animal. You wanted to kill—”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “Yes, you did. You said it,” she whispered. He looked away.

  “I didn’t mean it. I was just pissed.”

  “That’s exactly what I mean, baby.”

  Baby. She called him baby. He allowed his sorrow to glisten his eyes and ramble down his cheek.

  “You’re pissed, you’re angry, you’re violent. What does that say about me? About us?”

  He did not get what she meant.

  “We have nothing to do with my anger, as you put it. It’s me. I’ll fix it. I love you, Heather. I always will.”

  Her eyes no longer held back the torment as she looked at him.

  “I’ll love you a day longer. Just, please... Don’t hurt me anymore.”

  He dashed over to her and held her tight. It wasn’t long before she slipped her hands around his waist and settled her head on his chest. He felt the wetness of sorrow dampening his shirt.

  “I’ll try, angel. I promise. I’ll try.”

  XV

  The fetid reek of fried rice and egg rolls permeated the cheap Formica tables and faux marble sheeting on the walls. Chase stared blankly at the oil sheened Maneki Neko Cat next to the cash register and wondered if their superstitions brought about any luck. Though the cooks burned their ceremonial sage and incense every morning before they began the work of the day, it did nothing but add a hint of desperation and nausea over their cultural cuisine.

  He removed his cell phone from his jacket pocket and tossed it to the table. The screen lit up, an automatic feature he never cared for and re-read the message before it faded out again.

  Rick 23m ago

  Half hour. Angry Dragons. Gotta talk.

  Fucking shit. What did I do now?

  He couldn’t keep up with the consistent fuck ups anymore. No matter how hard he tried, no matter how hard he fought to do the right thing, some malevolent drive would take a huge shit in the middle of his possibilities. Whether it was his art, his machinist’s job, his search for honest, gainful employment, the woman he wanted to be with beyond the end of time, peace would not take root in his mind, nor his heart.
>
  The sinister voice in his head became something else. Softer, reassuring, feminine. But it went on to fuel his anger, his hatred, his sorrow. Commandments morphed into suggestions and hoped the delicacy of her silky voice would take hold.

  He knew who owned the voice, and he hated her even more for it. Her lascivious glare, her sensuous curves, he suggestive gesticulations, nearly drove him to the edge of madness. If only she were here, he’d let his anger rip through her like a lion through a gazelle. After he had his way with—

  Fuck you, Grace. Fuck you. I will figure out how you—

  “Hey, buddy,” a soothing voice broke him from his derailing consciousness. He looked up and grinned.

  “Hey, brother.”

  Rick sat opposite of Chase and scanned the menu above the service counter. The light-faded photographs of unsightly plates of Eastern fare pretended to look more delectable than poisonous.

  “Did you eat?” Rick said. Chase shook his head.

  “No. You didn’t seem to want to come up to my place, so, yeah, my gut’s a little twisted right now, waiting to hear what you have to say,” Chase said. He didn’t want to tell Rick his appetite had been absent for the last several weeks. Nor the reasons why. “So. What’s up? And please don’t say—”

  “Sorry, I have to. It’s Heather.”

  “What did I do now?”

  A question he already had answers to. Too many answers. And he hated himself for it.

  “She doesn’t think you’re painting for anybody,” Rick said as he gestured to the young woman behind the counter.

  “What are you talking about—”

  Rick darted his eyes at Chase. It silenced him.

  “She found your art in the dumpster next to the deli downstairs.”

  “Is that why you didn’t want to come over?”

  Rick nodded. “I don’t want to know if she’s right or wrong. I just wanted to talk to you. I’d say it’s none of my business, but you’re my brother, she’s my friend, and I love you both. What’s going on, Chase? And can you take off the sunglasses? It’s almost midnight.”

  Chase obeyed. He hoped his scrutiny would answer and remain silent at the same time. Rick leaned in close.

  “Are you selling drugs? You’re not broke for someone who hasn’t had a job in, how long?”

  Chase scowled. “No. I’m not selling drugs.”