Infinite Doom

by Brian Bowyer

  His good mood didn’t last, however. As he drove deeper into the city, a profound sadness began to creep over him. He saw signs of society’s decline everywhere he looked. Vulgar graffiti defaced many of the buildings and the storefronts. Homeless people pushed shopping carts full of pathetic possessions, like lost souls trudging through the aisles of a supermarket in Hell. At a stoplight, four young men with shorn heads glared at him malevolently and shouted obscenities. He passed a theater advertising movies that were nothing more than extravaganzas of violence and sex.

  Suddenly, his perception of the encounter with the woman who was taking care of her sick mother began to darken. He remembered what she had said about her fantasy, and how she often thought about killing her mother and then killing herself. This made Mitchell sad. She was a nice lady, and she didn’t deserve to be forced to harbor such morbid fantasies. She deserved better.

  Mitchell decided that it was time to light a candle, to push the darkness back a little more with an act of kindness, an act of compassion, an act of mercy.

  He always kept a gun in his center console, but he went home and got another one that had a silencer attached to the barrel. Then he drove back to the house that the woman shared with her sick mother.

  He had not locked the door when he left, and it was still unlocked when he returned. As soon as he stepped into the living room, he heard someone moving around and whistling tunelessly in the kitchen. He followed the noise and found an old white-haired woman (undoubtedly the kind woman’s sick mother) standing at the kitchen sink with her back to him. He announced himself by saying: “Hello there, dear lady.”

  She stopped whistling and turned off the running water. Then she turned around and faced him. She did not look at all surprised to see him.

  Mitchell raised the gun and shot her between the eyes, blowing her brains out the back of her head. The silencer reduced the gunfire to only a soft popping sound. She dropped to the floor and lay motionless on her side. Her eyes were open. Wearing a fresh pair of disposable gloves, Mitchell closed them.

  The kind woman was still passed out in her bedroom.

  Mitchell put a bullet through her brain, giving her a graceful escape by killing her instantly. Her death had been as quick and as painless as the death of her mother. “I hope you have some peace now,” he said, “whatever the hell your name was.”

  Before he left, Mitchell took the thousand dollars from her nightstand and put it back in his wallet. If Marla was feeling well enough to work tomorrow night, he would put it in her tip jar.

  • • •

  “Hi Mitchell,” Marla said, when he sat down at the bar. “Gin martini?”

  The lounge had only opened about ten minutes ago. It was just past noon and he didn’t see anyone else inside.

  Mitchell nodded. “Make it strong. And I’m glad you’re back. I missed seeing you here last night.”

  She put a cocktail napkin on the bar. Then she mixed his drink and set it down atop the napkin.

  Mitchell gave her a hundred-dollar bill. “Keep the change.”

  Marla didn’t bother opening the cash register; she simply put the money in her pocket. “You’re hitting the booze early today.”

  Mitchell sipped his drink. “Yes. Had a ten a.m. audition. Nothing else to do, now. So I figured I’d go ahead and start drinking.”

  “How’d the audition go?” She kept sniffing like she had a cold or something, but then he saw some powder on her nose.

  He shrugged. “Went well enough, I suppose. You have something on your nose.”

  She turned around and examined her face in the mirror that spanned the wall of bottles behind the bar. She wiped her nose with a cocktail napkin and threw the napkin in the trash.

  Mitchell sipped his drink. “Are you feeling better?”

  She turned back around and faced him. “Feeling better?”

  “Someone told me you called off sick last night.”

  “I wasn’t sick. I just didn’t want to be here. I hate this fucking place.”

  “You do?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then why do you work here?”

  “Because of you, now. Mostly.”

  Mitchell suddenly began feeling warm and fuzzy inside. “I love you. I’ve been trying to work up the courage to tell you that I’m in love with you.”

  Marla rolled her eyes. “I’m serious. The only reason I haven’t quit is because of the way you tip me like a madman every night. I hate my life. I hate my brother and his wife. I’m trying to save enough money to move out of their apartment, but it isn’t working. I’m thinking about robbing an armored truck.”

  “An armored truck?”

  “Yes. Everyone always talks about robbing banks, but that’s fucking stupid. You almost never get away with it, and even if you do, you only get a few grand. Just whatever’s in the teller drawers. Unless you rob the vault. But if you rob an armored truck, especially after they’ve already picked up all the money from all the vaults in the local banks, you’re going to get a fortune. Probably have to kill the drivers, though. But who gives a fuck?”

  Mitchell finished his drink. “The best time to do it would be on whatever day of the week the local banks are shipping money to the Federal Reserve.”

  “Exactly.” Marla took Mitchell’s empty glass and set it on the counter behind her. “Would you like to try a shot of my moon juice?”

  “Moon juice?”

  “Yes.” She poured out two shots from an old water bottle with no label on it. “I brew it myself.”

  Mitchell said, “You go first.”

  “Very well.” She swallowed hers in one gulp, then grimaced and her eyes filled with tears. “Your turn,” she said, pointing at the other shot glass.

  Mitchell drank his and coughed. He felt his eyes water, too. “What the fuck is that shit?” he said. “Goddamn battery acid?”

  Marla laughed. Then she handed him a cocktail napkin. “Your nose is bleeding.”

  Mitchell dabbed his nose with the napkin and it came away red. Marla took the napkin from him and put it in the trash. Then she poured them shots of moon juice until the water bottle was empty. Whatever the moon juice was, it had a mild hallucinogenic effect, and Mitchell liked the way it made him feel.

  “You actually like this place?” Marla said.

  Mitchell shrugged. “It’s okay.”

  She threw away the empty water bottle. “I don’t mind it in the daytime. Nobody comes here in the daytime.”

  “Would you mix me another gin martini, please?”

  “Sure.”

  She made the drink and handed it to him. He gave her another hundred-dollar bill and she put it in her pocket.

  “I take it you’re rich,” she said.

  He shrugged.

  “And since you’re rich, you probably won’t help me rob an armored truck, will you?”

  He shook his head. “Probably not. But I can help you get your own apartment, if you want. Since you hate living with your brother and his wife.”

  “Wait a second. You said you loved me, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you mean that?”

  “Of course I did, Marla. I love you more than anything.”

  “Are you married?”

  “No.”

  “Any kids?”

  “No.”

  “So you live alone?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then why don’t I just come and live with you?”

  Mitchell started feeling warm and fuzzy again. “You would do that? You would come and live with me?”

  “Yes! Can I quit my job?”

  “Of course you can.”

  “Yay! I’m very easy to take care of. All you’ll have to do is buy me alcohol and cigarettes and feed me once in a while. I’ll be the cheapest pet you’ve ever owned.”

  Mitchell finished his drink. “I’m ready to leave when you are.”

  They left.

  • • •

  “Awesome
apartment!” Marla said, as soon as they stepped into the living room.

  Mitchell locked the door behind them. “If you want to move into a bigger place, just let me know. You and I can live anywhere we want to.”

  “No,” Marla said. “This is perfect. Get us some drinks.”

  Mitchell stopped halfway to the kitchen and turned around. “I have wine, whiskey, vodka, beer—”

  “What are you having?”

  “I think I’ll have some whiskey.”

  “Whiskey’s fine with me.”

  “How do you take it?”

  She shrugged. “Straight from the bottle, usually.”

  Moments later, Mitchell joined her on the sofa with a bottle of Maker’s Mark.

  “Can we have sex first?” Marla said. “That moon juice always makes me horny.”

  “Sure.” He took a drink and set the bottle on the coffee table. Then he took her into his bedroom.

  It was the first time he had made love to a woman without wearing a condom and disposable gloves in quite some time. Afterward, he said, “My oracle bones told me that you and I would end up being together.”

  Marla sat up on the bed. “You have oracle bones?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s awesome! What do you use? Like, the shoulder blade of an ox? Or a turtle shell, or something?”

  “Hawksbill turtle. A sea creature. I’ve been using the entire skeleton since I was a child.”

  “Where did you get it?”

  “It was a gift from my grandfather.”

  “Can I see it?”

  “Not right now. Maybe some other time. Soon, I’m going to take you to Vegas and make you my wife.”

  She smiled. “Can I pick the date?”

  “Of course you can.”

  “Yay! I’ll choose a good astrological date for us. Maybe there will be a time soon when our ruling planets are aligned.”

  “I’m ready to drink some whiskey,” Mitchell said.

  “Me too.”

  They got up, got dressed, and went back into the living room.

  Marla took a drink of Maker’s Mark. “Do you believe in God?”

  Mitchell shrugged. “Sometimes I do. Sometimes I don’t.”

  “Same here. I do most of the time, though.” She set the bottle on the coffee table beside an ashtray that was shaped like a seashell. “Once upon a time, I was a Catholic, but not anymore. I haven’t considered myself a Catholic for a very long time. I used to fuck the priest in the cathedral my mother took me to when I was a child.”

  Mitchell took a drink. “Is that right?”

  “Yes. It’s a common misconception that Catholic priests only rape little boys. Trust me: they rape little girls, too. Although in my case, it was the other way around. He didn’t molest me. I molested the priest. And then it turned into a love affair that lasted for a couple of years.”

  Mitchell lit a cigarette. “How old were you?”

  “Seven when I met him. He was fifty. I broke up with him when I was nine. That was when I quit being a Catholic. I never went back to the cathedral.”

  “Your mother stopped making you go?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did she find out about your affair with the priest?”

  “No.”

  Mitchell blew a smoke ring. “That’s fascinating.”

  “The priest was a fascinating man. He had these awesome theories about light. He thought that light was the source of all information, that it determines any and all possible outcomes, that it streams at perfect angles to align certain events in space and time. He also said he reflected light with mirrored bowls of holy water to summon aliens from outer space.”

  “So why did you break up with him?”

  “I met another man.” Marla lit a cigarette. “I fell in love with my fourth-grade teacher.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  “Yes. His name was Mister Sammons. His first name was Drexel, but I wasn’t allowed to call him that, in case I messed up and called him by his first name in front of other people. He was an alcoholic and he would give me vodka all the time. He kept it in his desk, his car, his jacket, pretty much everywhere. There was a cloakroom in the back of the classroom. He kept a sleeping bag in a cardboard box in a corner of the cloakroom and covered it with old newspapers and magazines. He would lock the door between classes and pull the sleeping bag out and take naps until the bell rang, always still drunk from the night before and already drinking. Needless to say, he and I had a lot of sex in that cloakroom.”

  Mitchell finished his cigarette and extinguished it in the ashtray. “So why do you hate your brother, anyway?”

  “He used to rape me when we were kids, and then he—”

  “Wait a second. Where was your father at, back when your brother was raping you?”

  “I don’t remember my father. He left when we were young. Told my mother he was going out for cigarettes, and never returned.”

  “My favorite author,” Mitchell said. “Stephen King. Same thing happened to him. His father told his mother that he was going out for smokes, and never came home.”

  Marla took a drink. “I love Stephen King. My favorite is Pet Sematary. What’s yours?”

  Mitchell thought about it. “Probably The Shining.”

  Marla lit a cigarette. “I like that one, too. Anyway, my brother used to rape me when we were kids, but that’s not the reason I hate him. The rape was no big deal. I could just close my eyes and pretend to be someplace else until it was over. The reason I hate my brother is because he killed the only girl I was ever in love with.”

  “You were in love with a girl?”

  “Yes. Her name was Gwyneth.”

  “And your brother killed her?”

  “Yes. I couldn’t prove it, of course. But I know he killed her.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I just do.”

  Mitchell took a drink. “Why did he do it? Was it jealousy?”

  “Probably. And there was undoubtedly a little bit of spite involved, also.”

  “Spite?”

  “Yes. He and my mother both hated lesbians.”

  “Hated lesbians? In this day and age?”

  “Yes. We’re not from the city. We’re from a small town upstate. Very conservative community. And my mother was more conservative than most. She never found out about Gwyneth, but she would have been more distraught to learn that I was having sex with another girl than she would have been if she had found out about my affairs with the priest and my fourth-grade teacher.”

  Mitchell took a drink. “That is so fucking weird.”

  “Tell me about it. Anyway, I had never been with another girl before, and I had to keep the affair a secret from my mother. I tried to keep it a secret from my brother, too, but he went to the same high school that Gwyneth and I did, so it was impossible.”

  “Is your brother older or younger than you?”

  “Older. One year. Gwyneth was one year older than me, too. She and my brother were seniors that year. I was still a junior. She transferred from another school in the middle of October that year, and whenever I saw her in the hallways, my head spun and my bones felt like liquid mercury flowing inside my body.”

  “That’s how I feel whenever I look at you,” Mitchell said.

  “She stopped me in the hall one day after geometry and asked me for directions to another classroom. After I told her, she put a hand on my arm and thanked me. The touch of her skin on my flesh was like a shock of electricity. It didn’t hurt, but I jumped back on instinct and dropped my textbooks. She apologized. Then she giggled and walked away. Her smile reminded me of orchids in bloom.”

  “Orchids in bloom,” Mitchell said. “That’s beautiful.”

  Marla finished her cigarette. She snubbed it out in the ashtray and drank from the bottle of Maker’s Mark. Then she continued her story.

  “I didn’t know it at the time, but my brother saw us in the hallway. That night, he told me that I was probably infected
now, because the lesbian had touched me, as if her sexual preference were contagious.”

  “How did your brother know that she was a lesbian?”

  “Rumors at school. According to the rumors, Gwyneth had transferred to our school after being taunted by students at the other school because of her sexual preference.”

  Mitchell shook his head. “High-school kids can be so mean.”

  “Yes. The next day, my brother and some of his friends began taunting Gwyneth out in the open, but whenever they thought that no one was looking, they pawed at her like a pack of rabid wolves. I told them to leave her alone, but they ignored me.”

  Mitchell took a drink. “Goddamn hypocrites.”

  “After school, I would go to a little forest at the edge of our neighborhood. Most of the trees had been chopped down to make way for power lines, but a few of them survived. I would sit on the ground and write poetry in my notebook. I would also scribble messages to the elements, and then tear them out and toss them to the wind.”

  “What did the messages say?”

  “Basic stuff, mostly. Where do you come from? Where are you going? I hate it here. Take me with you. Just a bunch of simple stuff like that, mainly.”

  Mitchell was smiling with a faraway look in his eyes. “That’s beautiful. Do you still write?”

  “Occasionally.”

  “Can I read your work sometime?”

  “Sure. It isn’t very good, but I don’t mind. Anyway, that became my favorite thing to do after school, to go sit alone in the forest and write poetry and letters to the elements. One day, when I was sitting by the stream, I looked over and saw Gwyneth sitting beside me. I had not heard her approach, or even sit down beside me on the ground. It was like she had just materialized out of thin air, or something. She told me that she had been following me to the forest for several days in a row after school, ever since I had told my brother and his friends to stop taunting her about her sexual preference.”

  Mitchell took a drink and handed her the bottle. “I’m sure she appreciated that,” he said.

  Marla took a drink and set the bottle on the coffee table. “Yes. She also told me that she had been gathering my letters to the elements and reading them every day after I left. She told me that she hated that town, too. Then she told me that she had left a message for me, but that I had probably been too busy staring at my notebook to notice it. That was when she pointed to the ground, and I looked down. Three simple words, I like you, had been spelled using pebbles on the ground right in front of me by the stream.”