Shatter Point

by Jeff Altabef

  She reached the front door, opened it, blinked her eyes against the bright summer sun, and eyed her mailbox as if she could determine what was hidden within the dark metal box by staring hard at it. When her x-ray vision failed, she reached across the doorway and opened it. The thin white envelope felt familiar to her touch, a fine cotton linen—the same as the other letters. The familiar neat handwriting jumped out, and as always, there was no return address.

  Dazed, she went back inside, leaving the front door slightly ajar.

  Something odd about the envelope caught her attention. It was thinner than past letters. She opened it and unfolded the single sheet of paper held within.

  ~~~

  Dear Maggs,

  I’ve given up trying to replace you. There will be no other women.

  Your Special Friend,

  Cooper

  ~~~

  The handwriting was exactly the same as it had been thirty years earlier, the signature with the same flourish, as if frozen in time.

  ***

  Cooper stared at Maggie through the glass windowpanes of the back door. He breathed heavily and butterflies fluttered in his stomach. He had last seen her in person over twenty years ago. She was older now, but the person he knew thirty years ago was still there. Freckles dotted her cheeks like stars, and she kept her hair pulled back in a ponytail with a pink ribbon. She wore a pink shirt and beige pants, but if he squinted just a little, he could visualize her in pigtails and pink shorts, just like the ones she wore that first summer he met her.

  She let the paper flutter to the ground. Fresh tears moistened her face.

  The letter deeply moved her, he thought. She must be upset with herself.

  She probably misunderstood the letter’s meaning. She probably assumed that he wouldn’t contact her anymore or that she had lost her chance to be with him.

  She must have been afraid she wasn’t good enough for him—a perfectly reasonable fear. Any outsider would have reached the same conclusion, but she had qualities that defied description and logic.

  Today, everything would change.

  ***

  The letter fluttered to the ground as if in slow motion. Her thoughts whirled in circles, creating a small tornado in her mind. Relief washed over her. There were no new pictures, no new victims to mourn or screams to imagine.

  Is it possible that I’m freed from this hell?

  The words kept spinning around in her mind, gathering speed. She would never be free. ‘There will be no other women.’ What did that mean?

  A noise at the front door startled her, and she suppressed a scream. She spun and found a mountain-sized man in the doorway who filled the entire space. A black t-shirt stretched tightly across his broad chest and an automatic pistol hung holstered at his hip. The words “Private Security” were written in white on his baseball cap. His dark skin blended in with his black clothes, short black beard, and dead eyes.

  With a scream still frozen in her throat, she spun toward the back door, hoping to make a run for it.

  Two more men had entered through the kitchen door. Another granite-sized security man who looked eerily similar to the man at the front door blocked her retreat out back. Her eyes focused on the second man, and ice-cold fingers wrapped their way around her heart and squeezed.

  He stood a good deal taller than her, tanned with straight, short, coffee-colored hair feathered to the side. He looked comfortable in a silk buttoned-down pink shirt, crisp gray slacks, and highly polished black shoes.

  She froze before his electric blue eyes and broad smile. It could have been a hundred years since she’d last seen him, but she would always recognize those eyes and that smile.

  Cooper casually strolled into the kitchen and examined her pad. “I like your sketch. You’ve got so much talent. I recognized it when we first met.”

  She regained her composure. She had dreaded this day her whole life, but she’d always known she would have to confront him again. Now that he stood before her, an odd sense of relief washed through her. Perhaps her nightmare would finally end.

  Her face twisted into a scowl. “Put that down!” She marched toward him and snatched the sketchpad from his outstretched hand.

  He seemed amused as his fingertips ripped the edges of the paper. “I’ve come to take you away from all this.” He laughed as he waved his arms around the kitchen. “I’m sure you won’t miss it.”

  “Leave me alone! Stop bothering me. Just go!”

  “I don’t think you understand. You don’t have to worry that you’re not good enough for me. To me, you’re the same girl I met thirty years ago. Nothing else matters. No substitutes will do. I must have you.” His perfectly tanned face turned up in a wide smile. “I’ve wasted enough time as it is.”

  “No, I don’t want to go!” Tears returned to her face as she crept her way to the kitchen counter, inching away from him. The small kitchen shrunk further as the two giant-sized security men edged toward her.

  A butcher block with a set of knives sat on the white plastic countertop. Jack had given her the set as a gift last Christmas.

  Cooper stood his ground, but his left eye twitched and his smile turned tight and forced. “We can come back later and retrieve anything you’re attached to, but we must go now. I have an extremely busy day planned. I’m sure you understand.”

  She snatched the eight-inch carving knife from the butcher block with her right hand, while still clutching the sketchpad close to her chest in her left. She was scared, but she wasn’t a little girl any longer.

  “You’re just in shock. Put down the knife, Maggs.” Cooper raised his hands in the air with his palms outward. The cuffs on his sleeves dropped down towards his elbows and revealed a platinum wristwatch on his left wrist. One of the security guards slid silently and gracefully behind her.

  “We can talk about this. I’m going to give you everything you deserve.” His silky smooth tone showed no worry or concern.

  She slashed the knife toward him in a long, violent arch. The knife missed by two feet, but the swipe gave one of the security guards the time he needed to grab her arm and twist her wrist. The knife clanged against the tile floor.

  As the guard held her still, Cooper stepped forward and snatched the sketchpad. “I look forward to you drawing me.”

  She staggered backward against the security man’s broad chest. “Never! You’re a monster!”

  The smile disappeared from Cooper’s face. Quick as a snake, he slapped her hard across the cheek with an open palm. The guard let her go and she sprawled backward, twisting to her knees.

  “You’ll do as I say.” Cooper spit out the words, the volcano still active after all these years.

  Pain seared her cheek and she spit blood. “You can’t make me.”

  Cooper laughed and examined the drawing of Jack for a long moment. “You have nice looking boys, Maggs.” He ripped the drawing from the sketchpad, crumpled it into a ball, and dropped it to the ground.

  Nausea washed through her body.

  “There is no limit to the things I can make you do.” He sneered, his handsome face twisting with malice.

  Darian floated about his small studio apartment like driftwood along a shoreline, aimlessly bumping into his bed and wandering past his tiny living space toward an alcove kitchen. His bare feet left faint footprints behind on the tightly woven carpet.

  He had been watching Vanessa sleep. The darkness covered her naked body, but not completely, so he glimpsed the outline of her lovely curves from different angles. He had found her sleeping in the nude, a bottle of champagne chilling alongside a small spread of chilled caviar and artisan crackers, and a handwritten note to wake her. He had no idea how she’d entered his apartment. She certainly didn’t have a key, but he complied with her wishes to the best of his ability.

  He smiled despite his champagne-induced headache. She was no ordinary lab assistant. She was special and nothing like her father. Even though he warned himself that they could never
have a future, he still found himself falling for her.

  The Great Romantic Fool. She will never truly understand me.

  Her world embodied privilege and luxury compared to the place where he’d started—a dark place full of despair.

  He turned from her, leaned against the wall of his apartment and peered through rain-streaked windows. Purple and white spotlights lit the stone arch at the entrance to Washington Square Park. Sometimes, when weary, his mind roamed back to his childhood. He usually tried to keep that door shut, but exhaustion and his subconscious desire to punish himself for his role in Jack’s plight overcame his defenses. The door to the past creaked open... painfully.

  ***

  Born in the Upper Manhattan Ghetto, he had never known his father. His mother probably didn’t know who he was, either. Whenever Darian asked about him, his mother smiled, shrugged her thin shoulders, and told him that his father must have been an angel. He didn’t believe in immaculate conceptions, nor did he see any sign of divinity at work, so he ruled out angels or God. At times, he created his own version of his father, alternating between hero and villain, knowing neither probably fit, and that he would never discover the truth.

  His mother was addicted to a slew of drugs. It didn’t seem to matter which ones—really anything that transported her from everyday reality to somewhere else, anywhere else. The Upper Manhattan Ghetto became the first Free Commercial Zone where recreational drugs could be sold legally, as long as they were taken in the Zone. Major drug companies made a fortune, developing cheap addicting pharmaceuticals like the Sugar Shot, the Orgasm, the Chilly Dipper, the Almighty Aspirin, the Devil’s Downer, and the Afterlife.

  His mom took them all.

  His earliest childhood memories revolved around drugs: his mother’s need to acquire them, to use them, and a few failed attempts to free herself from those shackles. Each time she’d tried to quit, his hopes soared, only to crash hard when she failed. He never blamed her. She’d tried hard, but some chains were too strong to break.

  Most of those early days blurred together, but one day stood out among the misery-filled days. He was nine and the rain fell in torrents while his mom suffered through a particularly bad patch. They lived on the streets, in a cardboard box beneath an overpass, with the rats and other vermin. The weather had been cold and wet, and the concrete felt rough and dirty against his bare feet.

  His mother had been passed out for over a day. All he ate during that time were a few stale pieces of bread he nicked from a bakery. He glanced across the street even though he didn’t want to. He thought someone might have died not more than twenty feet away; the person hadn’t moved in two days. He should check, go through the man’s pockets for anything useful, but death hovered too close. He didn’t want to tempt the Reaper with his mom in such a precarious position.

  A police van pulled up and four officers piled out to do a routine sweep. They tried to rouse his mother, but she lacked the energy or the will to respond. A female officer with a kind face who smelled of lilacs spoke softly to him, and he willingly followed her into the van. Even at the tender age of nine, he knew he was better off in the orphanage, and his mom was better off in jail for vagrancy than under that overpass with death lurking so close across the street.

  At least the orphanage kept him fed and the rain off his head.

  His mom visited at first. She tried to come every week, but long stretches passed when she didn’t show up. Those were the scariest times; he always imagined the worst, until that day when the Warden called for him. He had just turned eleven.

  The bald Warden always wore a poorly fitting gray suit and tie. He spoke with a booming voice and an unfortunate habit of spitting while he spoke. Officially, they called him the “Headmaster” because the orphanage had its own school, but that was a joke. The kids called him Warden because they knew better. The orphans weren’t free to leave, and where would they go if they could?

  Darian’s memory of the Warden’s office remained mostly fuzzy. He recalled a spacious room with many windows and a thick carpet, but he vividly remembered the large oak desk, which came up to his chest. A thin piece of wood pulled out to give the person sitting opposite the desk something to write against.

  As Darian entered the office, the Warden placed a bowl of vanilla ice cream on that thin piece of wood. Darian stared at the ice cream, frozen like a statue. Two small scoops stared back at him.

  The Warden beckoned for him to sit. “Come closer. The ice cream is for you.” He smiled, but no genuine affection lit his face.

  Darian walked with stiff arms and legs and sat on the small metal stool next to the frozen dessert.

  “There’s a spoon next to the bowl. Please eat the ice cream before it melts.” The Warden smiled and nodded at the bowl as if it were the most precious thing in the world.

  Darian glared at it as though it were poison. The other kids had a saying: “Two scoops of vanilla means death’s come to get ya.”

  The ice cream meant.... His throat closed up. He refused to eat it, to even look at it.

  The smile disappeared from the Warden’s face. “I’m sorry to tell you this, son, but your mom won’t be visiting any longer. She passed away.”

  He stared at the Warden for a long moment. His mother was broken, but he’d hoped that one day he’d fix her. Anger flushed to his face, and he turned his little hands into fists. “Can I see her?”

  He didn’t know what else to say or ask, but he wanted to see her one last time. Why, he couldn’t explain. Thinking back, he now realized he desired closure, certainty, but at eleven, he couldn’t put his need into words even if he had tried.

  The Warden shook his head. “That would be impossible. She’s already been... disposed of.” Those were his words—disposed of.

  He pounded his fist into his leg, stood, knocked the bowl of ice cream onto the floor, turned his back on the Warden, and left the office. A nurse waited for him outside, but he ignored her and stalked back to his dormitory.

  Tears never came.

  Over the next few years, he spent most of his time fighting with the other kids, arguing with his teachers, and spending long hours in the orphanage factory weaving bags, processing food for food distribution centers, or assembling basic furniture.

  On his thirteenth birthday, when English class ended, the teacher stood tall and thin and smiled with crooked yellow teeth. “Stay seated, Darian.” The teacher often held him after class for some type of punishment. They enjoyed a mutual distaste for each other.

  The other kids gladly scampered from class. One muttered, “I wonder what he did this time?” just loud enough for Darian to hear.

  He sat stiffly in his chair. His ribs ached, a cut above his left eye hurt, and the scraped knuckles on his right hand burned. The day before, he had fought with three other children. He gave better than he got, but they still got some licks in.

  The English teacher approached with a pamphlet and a sharp number two pencil. He leaned low and slammed the pamphlet on the metal desk. “Take this test. You have an hour, but we both know it’s pointless. Just fill in the bubbles and be on your way.”

  He smiled slyly at the teacher. He didn’t like taking tests, but the teacher’s tone and attitude angered him. He grabbed the pencil and bore down on the exam, determined to take the full hour and answer all the questions correctly just to spite his teacher.

  That was exactly what he did: used the full hour and got every question correct.

  The next day, the principal summoned him and required him to retake the assessment test, explaining that there must have been some mistake with the prior one. Darian finished in half an hour with the same result.

  From then on, his life in the orphanage changed. He still fought with the other kids regularly and argued with the teachers, but now the teachers realized he was often right, and they stopped underestimating him. No longer required to work in the factory, his teachers encouraged him to spend time reading and on his studies.

>   By the time he turned sixteen, his scores on the Preliminary Assessment Test soared through the roof, securing him an educational contract that paid back his debt to the orphanage. Education beyond tenth grade required an educational contract or some other guaranteed means to pay for further schooling. Either a student was rich or they secured a contract. They could also attend vocational school, but it still cost too much for many of the kids.

  He remembered the day he left the state-run facility. He had hardly any possessions: a small knapsack with a few articles of clothing, an e-reader one of his teachers had given him, an old photograph of his mother, and his first pair of sneakers. The shiny white footwear felt tight against his feet, so he yanked them off when he entered the car that brought him to the prep school that would serve as his new home.

  ***

  Through an accelerated and winding path, he’d earned a doctorate in neurobiology and started work for the New York Teaching and Research Hospital. He focused his research on brain function, selling the concept behind EBF-202 as a way to prevent Alzheimer’s and senility, but secretly hoping that it would unlock the key to drug addiction. He remembered what addiction had done to his mom and other addicts in the ghetto, and he hated the disease. He wanted to kill it, to end it, not just for any particular drug, but for all drugs.

  The brain held the key to that puzzle, and EBF-202 was the first step.

  Darian turned from the window, flopped down on his one comfortable chair, donned his virtual entertainment visor, and turned on the television. The picture instantly projected on the visor in perfect three dimensions.

  He switched to a rock music station and groaned. They were replaying the concert Bono had performed for his eighty-first birthday. The epic went on for three hours, fifty-two minutes, and twenty seconds. The aging rocker could only recall parts of three songs, which caused a mash-up of epic proportions. Darian had watched the entire concert last month, unable to shut off the station, as if he were watching a massive pile-up on the freeway.

  He switched off the concert and scrolled through the endless list of choices, unsure what most of them were. Usually too busy with work, biking, or catching up with the latest scientific journals, he rarely watched anything on TV but the rock station. Still, he needed a break from the world of neurobiology, the brain, Lassie, and Jack, so he settled on a twenty-four-hour news station.