Gordon stares into his old friend’s eyes. Is this true? Could it be?
“We got the hell out of there and we never spoke of it again,” Harry tells him. “You were suffering, still battling your demons from the war, and you’d met Katy by then and wanted her desperately. You were in love, and you were terrified of losing her. You’d found someone, for the first time in your life you’d found someone who made you truly happy, someone who made you feel…normal. Within weeks, you and Katy were together and happy, there was no need to revisit that night. It didn’t matter. Not then, not now.”
Come unto me…
Gordon turns, takes a few steps away. He is so tired, so confused and weak, so cold and wet. “I…I only wanted Katy, I…”
“Gordo, listen to me. Katy was the best thing that ever happened to you. You had something with her most of us can only dream about, and you had it a long time. When she got sick, you fell apart, and I understand, I—I would’ve too. But a part of you has never forgiven her. It was her choice, Gordon. It was her choice.”
“She used my gun,” he says softly.
You lied to me.
“She didn’t want to suffer, to waste away. She didn’t want you to have to see her suffer and go on and on until she died. Katy never meant for you to find her. It was the middle of the day. I’m sure she thought someone would hear the shot and call the police.”
Of course…
“I sold my soul, Harry. I sold my soul to the Devil to have her.”
“Listen to yourself. There was no woman, Gordon. And there is no Devil. All there is are two lonely and broken-down old men in the rain.”
“I…I miss her, Harry, I…” Gordon feels the emotion welling up in him again, but stronger this time, the strongest it’s ever been, and he can no longer control it. The wall implodes, taking the cold with it, ripping it all away to raw bone.
Finally unleashed, the tears refuse to stop.
“I miss her so much.”
Harry puts a hand on his shoulder. “I know, mate. But it’s going to be all right. We’re going to get you some help and it’ll be all right.”
“I don’t want to live without her, I—what the fuck am I still doing here? I’m a ridiculous old man just marking time and—I never deserved her, Harry, I never deserved her and—I drew her into this mess, into me and my fucked-up life, and she paid for it, and now I can’t—I can’t forgive myself, Harry, I can’t, I—”
“It’ll be all right.” Harry draws him closer, hugging him from behind. “It’ll be all right. Just hang on, Gordo, you have to hang on and get your head straight.”
Gordon cries for a very long time, the tears hitting in waves of wailing sobs that wrack his entire body. When it finally softens, Harry slowly lets him go, and Gordon turns and faces him, able to look him in the eye again. “Something horrible happened tonight,” he tells him. “Those boys who attacked the homeless man. I…”
Harry says nothing, waits for him to finish.
Instead, Gordon pulls the revolver from his coat pocket and shows it to him.
“What have you done?” he asks.
“There are two bullets left.”
“One for each of us, eh?” Harry’s face hints at a sad smile. There seem to be no other kind on this night.
Something distracts him. They’re back. He can hear them just above the din of rainfall. “The angels,” Gordon mumbles, “they…they’re singing again. Can you hear them, Harry? Can you hear them too, if you listen very hard?”
“Let’s go home, Gordon. Let’s get out of here and go home.”
“Home to what?”
Gordon wipes his eyes with the back of his hand, and holding the revolver down by his side, wanders over to the curb and slowly sinks down until he’s sitting on the edge of it. After a moment, Harry joins him.
They sit there for some time, neither saying a word.
The icy rain gradually turns to snow, and quiet returns to the city, as big fat soundless flakes swirl and tumble about, coating the street and buildings quickly. Even here, even on this night, there is beauty.
Harry pulls a flask from his coat pocket, takes a pull, then offers it to Gordon.
The angels’ voices fade.
Gordon takes a long drink. The whiskey burns his throat, warms him as it travels down. He hands the flask back, watches the light in the window.
“You deserved to be loved,” Harry tells him. “We all deserve to be loved. And you had it for a very long time. But nothing lasts forever, Gordo. Nothing. No one.”
“Do I, Harry? Did I?” The gun is cold in his hand. “I’m a bad man.”
“You’re just a man,” Harry corrects him. “Nothing more, nothing less.”
“I don’t want to live anymore. But I’m afraid to die.”
“We’re all afraid to die. It’s why we fight so hard to live. Who knows what’s on the other side?”
Gordon wipes snow, or perhaps more tears, from his eyes. “I do.”
Harry takes another drink. “Maybe those angels you hear…maybe they’re singing for you.”
“Lucifer was an angel. Some say the most beautiful of all the angels.”
“Why not? There’s a fine line between beauty and horror, and nothing at all between light and dark.”
“There’s us,” Gordon says. “We’re between the light and the dark.”
Snow continues to fall across the city.
Harry offers him the flask again. “Another pop?”
“Go home, Harry. You should go home.”
“I’m not going anywhere.”
Gordon takes the flask, drinks. “Did you call the police before you came looking for me?”
Harry nods.
“Did you tell them where I was?”
“I gave them a couple options. This was one.”
“Then they’ll be here soon.”
“Yes.”
“Do they know what I’ve done?”
Harry takes the flask back and tucks it into his coat, but never answers.
The light in the apartment window goes out. Shadows on the street shift and conform. At the corner, the snow dances in the only surviving light, a pool of it cast from a street lamp. The flakes look as if they’re alive. In a way, they are.
“Two bullets left,” Gordon reminds him.
“Why don’t you give me the gun?”
“You know I can’t do that.”
“I only know you won’t.”
“I’m not going back, Harry.”
“I know.”
“I can’t run anymore.”
“That’s because you can’t outrun yourself, Gordo.” Harry’s face, bathed in shadow and snowflakes, creases in pain. “There’s no one else chasing you.”
Who do you cry for?
“There is a devil nipping at your heels, Gordon, but it’s you.”
Who do you fear?
“It’s the devil in you, Gordon. The devil in all of us.”
There are no sirens, only lights. Blue lights that cut the darkness and snow, whirling round and round, illuminating the buildings in quick swathes that glide past at lightning speed, gone then back again. Gordon looks to his old apartment window, waits for the lights to pass.
“There’s…someone there,” he says. “Watching us.”
“Please, Gordon. Put the gun down.”
With great effort, Gordon struggles back to his feet, his eyes locked on the window. Another pass of blue light, and he again sees a silhouette. Someone is watching him from the dark apartment.
“Katy?” he asks, moving into the center of the street. “Katy, is it…is it you?”
Slowly, the black form in the window opens its arms…spreads its black, leathery wings…
Who do you fear?
“No…” Gordon looks away, to the end of the street. The lights, so beautiful in their own way, so alive…moving rhythmically across his face and body now…
Gordon…
The angels, asleep in their house of ra
in, no longer sing for him. Or perhaps he just can’t hear them anymore.
Gordon…
Perhaps he’s no longer meant to.
Who do you cry for?
Perhaps they sing for someone else now.
Gordon…
Perhaps they always have.
The lights…like a prism…the snowflakes…like butterflies burned to ash…and the dead…they’re there too…
“I’m so tired, Katy, I…so tired.” Tears and snow stream across his cold, flushed cheeks. “It’s too late, isn’t it? It’s always been too late.”
“Why don’t you sit here awhile with me?” she says, smiling at him from the curb. “And we’ll see?”
Only it’s not Katy at all, it is just Harry sitting there, sweet and loyal Harry, with that same sad and silly grin on his face.
But it’s all right. It’s all he has on this cold wintery night. And it’s enough. He knows this now. It’s enough.
He drops down onto the curb with a muffled grunt. From the corner of his tear-blurred vision, he sees the lights, so full and bright, so close, and swears there are others within those lights. Waiting. Waiting for him.
“Yes,” he says, looking up once more to the dark apartment window, the gun cold and heavy in his hand. “Let’s just sit here awhile and see.”
(AFTER)
He returned his attention to the street below, the lights and the two men sitting on the curb.
“What’s happening?” his wife asked.
“Bunch of police cars out there, and there are two men down on the curb across the street.” He returned to bed, sat on the edge. “Whatever they’ve done, it must be pretty bad to warrant five cruisers. I’ll be careful, but I need to see what’s happening.”
She nods, coughs.
“I don’t like the sounds of that cough.”
She nods again, rubs her chest.
“What’s wrong, sweetheart?”
“Not feeling well. Just don’t feel right. So tired all the time, and this cough.”
“You’re awfully pale lately,” he said, placing a hand on her shoulder. “You’d better make an appointment with the doctor.”
“Already have. I’m sure it’s nothing serious.”
He put his arms around her, drew her to him and hugged her tight. As he closed his eyes, somewhere out in that dark and snowy night, he could’ve sworn he heard singing…the most beautiful singing he had ever heard in his life.
“I think they’re gone, love.”
Gordon…
He opened his eyes. The lights were no longer sweeping across their bedroom walls. “Yes,” he whispered. Letting her go, he returned to the window. There was nothing out there but a dark night, and a beautiful snowfall slowly covering the city.
We’re just pretending, aren’t we? There’s no way out.
“What is it?” Katy asked. “Gordon, are you all right?”
We’re living on borrowed time. But isn’t everyone?
She joined him at the window, wrapping her arms around his waist and resting her chin on his shoulder. “What’s wrong, sweetheart? You’re trembling.”
Who do you fear?
“Nothing, just a little cold, I guess.”
“Look at it out there.” She hugged him tighter. “It’s just so beautiful, isn’t it?”
He wondered if she could hear what he was hearing. A part of him hoped so.
“Do you think the snow will stop anytime soon?” she asked.
Gordon let himself fall back into her, and the warmth and love of her arms. “Let’s hope not,” he said quietly. “Let’s hope not.”
Author’s Note
The symbol used at the passages in the beginning and end of this novella is a Sanskrit symbol for that which is “sacred.” The four parts of the symbol, or letters, represent the four stages of consciousness: Awake, Asleep, Dreaming, and the final stage, a mysterious transcendental state that can also encompass the other three.
About the Author
Greg F. Gifune is the best-selling author of several acclaimed novels, novellas, and two short story collections. His work has been published by numerous publishers all over the world, translated into several languages, consistently praised by readers and critics alike, and has recently garnered attention from Hollywood. Also a respected editor with years of experience in the field in a variety of positions, Greg is presently Senior Editor at Darkfuse. He lives in Massachusetts with his wife Carol, a bevy of cats and two dogs, Dozer and Bella. He can be reached online via e-mail at [email protected] or on Facebook. For more information on Greg and his work visit his official website at: www.gregfgifune.com.
Table of Contents
Other Books by Author
(BEFORE)
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
(AFTER)
Author’s Note
About the Author
House of Rain Page 8
