The Worst Kind of Monsters

by Elias Witherow

  We had made it. We had survived.

  I write this with hopes that somehow, someway, it will reach Weston.

  I pray that he’s alive somewhere, that he lived through the blast. I hope that whatever reality he may exist in, that these words reach him.

  We owe you everything. No amount of thanks can even come close to what you are deserved, but from the bottom of my heart: Thank you.

  Weston…thank you.

  9

  Blackout

  I pulled into the bar parking lot and stopped the car. I sat there for a moment, letting the engine idle as I thought about what I was doing. I knew my wife and kids were at home waiting for me, but I just couldn’t bear to face them right now. The thought of spending another evening with them while avoiding the elephant in the room made me physically sick. I closed my eyes and cursed myself.

  Everything was going to shit. My wife was pregnant with our fourth child and I simply wasn’t making enough money to support us. Over the past six months our quality of life had slowly declined and it was becoming harder and harder to explain to the kids what was happening. My wife and I loved each other, but the financial difficulties sprouted endless arguments that could last late into the night.

  In truth, I was getting scared. I didn’t know what was going to happen to us. I didn’t know how to pull my family out of this terrifying nosedive. I couldn’t stop thinking about it, couldn’t stop thinking about that day when we’d be kicked out of our house.

  I started having trouble sleeping and my mood worsened. I would find myself snapping at the kids over little things. One night just a few weeks ago, I had smashed a coffee mug in a rage. I’ll never forget the looks on my kids’ faces. I hate myself for that.

  So instead of taking out my fear and frustrations on my family, I started to drink after work. At first it was just a beer or two, something to take the edge off. But after a month I began to stay later and later, drinking more and more. It was time I needed to think. It was a few moments of peace before going home and shamefully explaining to my family why we were eating beans and rice for the third time that week.

  My wife hated my habit and I didn’t blame her. She never argued with me about it, but when I came home reeking of beer and whiskey, she’d get a look in her eye. That look said everything: You’re not the man I married.

  I never really was a drinking man before I fell on hard times. Even in college I never drank much—certainly never to the point of being seriously drunk. I just didn’t see the point. I hated feeling inebriated and usually only sipped on beer at parties so I’d fit in.

  But now that my life was crumbling before my eyes, I found comfort in it. It was a space I could enter and push my thoughts to the edge of my tired mind. It was a momentary breath of air in a smoke-choked sky.

  And tonight, I needed a drink.

  Before leaving work, my boss told me they were conducting layoffs in the coming weeks. He didn’t go into detail, but as I sat in my car, I realized he was unofficially informing me that I would soon be jobless.

  I felt sick.

  What the hell was I going to do? How was I going to provide for my family? Growing up, I never expected this. It wasn’t what we were told. Poverty was something other people suffer through, not me.

  The thought of my kids made me terribly depressed. They depended on me, they looked up to me. How was I supposed to tell them that their father was a failure? How was I supposed to tell them that we were going to have to move because daddy couldn’t pay the bills?

  I pulled my car door open and forced my mind to settle. I licked my lips. I needed a few tonight. I almost ran into the bar.

  Music droned somewhere above me as my eyes roamed around the room. Neon beer signs lined the walls and their colors trailed in the air as I sipped my sixth rum and Coke. My head was floating above my shoulders and the conversation around me slurred and streaked like wet paint. I licked my lips and they felt bloated on my face. I blinked lazily and realized I was breathing heavily.

  I shifted on my barstool and almost fell off. My mind exploded with dizziness and my stomach churned uncomfortably. How many beers had I had before starting the endless rum and Cokes? I couldn’t remember.

  The bar was surprisingly full, but I couldn’t focus on individual faces. They piled around me, trying to get in drink orders, and I felt like a rock sticking out in the middle of a moving stream. I raised my glass to my lips and drained the last of its contents.

  “Hey, Jack, you should go home, buddy,” the bartender said, leaning in toward me out of the pool of mixing colors.

  “Maybe one more and then I’ll head out,” I mumbled, raising my head to meet his gaze. His face swam before me and I closed one eye to stop it from moving.

  “I think you’re done, buddy. Come on, go home to your family.”

  I could feel darkness swirling around the edge of my vision.

  I snorted and the bartender shook his head. “Want me to call you a cab, Jack?”

  For some reason, I found this incredibly offensive and I shook my head violently, “Ah, piss off. I’ll be fine.” My head felt like a bloated boulder. I dug into my pocket and pulled out a wad of crumbled cash. I threw it on the bar and stumbled toward the door.

  I felt like I was walking through a movie scene I wasn’t supposed to be in. People turned to stare at me and I heard mutterings and snickers directed at my intoxicated state. I was too drunk to register shame and I shoved some punk kid aside and pushed myself out the front door.

  The world rocked beneath my feet and I felt a sudden urge to vomit. I exhaled slowly and dragged my feet toward my car. I was in no state to drive. I gritted my teeth and checked my watch. It was after ten. Shit. I banged into my car, still looking at my watch, and let out an angry grunt. I ran my hands over the door until I found the handle and pulled it open. I didn’t dare look at my phone to see how many missed calls I had.

  I sighed as I climbed into the driver’s seat. I needed to rest for a moment, settle my head. Then I’d drive home and apologize to my wife. I’d wait to tell her about the inevitable layoffs.

  But first I needed to sleep.

  I closed my eyes and darkness rushed me.

  “Hey there, slick.”

  I pulled my eyes open. Blinding sunlight immediately forced them shut again and I rubbed my face, trying to clear my mind. To my surprise, I felt all right. In fact, I felt fantastic. I opened my eyes again and cheery sunbeams warmed my face.

  I blinked.

  I was sitting in a sprawling green meadow. Birds chirped overhead and green grass rustled beneath me, a pleasant breeze chuckling through the air. I was sitting against a tree in a circular clearing with swaying forest that wrapped around a sparkling pond. Lily pads spotted the crystal surface like green paint on an artist’s palette.

  It was breathtaking.

  For the first time in months, I felt peace settle in around me. The blue sky overhead was cloudless and I closed my eyes as I raised my face to absorb the gentle sunlight.

  “Beautiful, ain’t it?”

  I snapped out of my trance and shot a look over to my left where the sudden voice had come from.

  There was a man sitting against a tree not five feet from where I sat. He was in his mid-forties and was wearing a tan suit. A silver watch glittered on his wrist and his sports jacket wrinkled against the bark. His green eyes sparkled underneath the brim of a blue baseball cap that was pulled low.

  “Where am I?” I finally asked. The last thing I remembered was passing out in my car, drunk off my ass.

  The man smiled to reveal perfect teeth. “Ah, don’t worry about that. Ain’t no use in it. Just relax and enjoy all this.” His slight Southern accent added to the pleasing atmosphere and I unexplainably found myself comfortable around this stranger.

  “My wife, I need to get back to her and my kids,” I said without much conviction. It was just so impossibly gorgeous here. I knew I needed to get home, but the overwhelming calm I felt made it
hard to put action behind my words.

  “They ain’t going nowhere, slick,” the man said, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath through his nose. “Just take a load off, enjoy yourself.”

  Bewildered, I leaned back against my tree and ran my hands through the blades of grass. The woods filled my head with an earthy scent, a combination of dirt and fresh rain on wood. The pond before me glittered like a mirror filled with diamonds and I found myself smiling.

  Whatever this place was, I never wanted to leave.

  All my worries seemed so trivial here. The overbearing stress I had felt earlier was gone, leaving in its place a warm comforting feeling, almost like happy nostalgia.

  “I’m Russ, by the way,” the man said suddenly from his spot. I turned and saw his eyes were still closed, but a small smile lined his lips.

  “I’m Jack,” I answered, watching a silver fish jump from the surface of the pond to snatch a bug.

  Russ chuckled. “Oh, I know who you are, slick.”

  I cocked my head at him. “Who…who are you? What is this place?”

  Russ adjusted the ball cap on his head before answering, “I just told you, I’m Russ. And this,” he spread his hands, “this is just a little slice of peace, buddy. Ain’t nothing more.”

  “Can I stay here?” I asked after some time.

  Russ snorted, but there was no malice in it. “’Fraid not, partner. That wouldn’t be good. This place isn’t meant for that. Not anymore.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “Not anymore?”

  Before he could answer, a noise echoed in the forest around us. It was distant and low, a single deep note that crawled up the sky and fell upon us.

  It sounded like the beat of a great drum.

  Russ pulled his cap up and sat a little straighter.

  “What was that?” I asked as the sound faded.

  Russ looked at me, his eyes uneasy. “That’s why you can’t stay here for very long.”

  Suddenly, the drum sounded again…and again…and again…a constant beat that filled the woods with a single ominous note.

  And for some reason, it filled me with creeping dread.

  “Not good,” Russ mumbled under his breath.

  “What is it?” I stressed, feeling uneasy.

  Russ stood up, brushing himself off. “It’s the Whistlin’ Man. Oh, he’s bad news, slick. You don’t want to be around if he shows up.”

  I wasn’t following anything he said and it must have shown on my face because he raised his hands.

  “Listen, you need to leave,” he said as the drum slowly began to grow louder.

  “Why? What will happen?” I asked.

  Russ waved me off. “Nothing good, slick, I’ll tell you that much. You can come back, but not when he’s around.”

  “B-but where IS here?!” I sputtered as Russ advanced on me.

  Before he could answer, the forest filled with a piercing cry, a sharp whistle that cut through the sky and echoed all around us. I slammed my hands over my ears as the deafening note danced across the sun rays and exploded across the meadow.

  As the wavering echo faded, another whistle followed, this time lower, a kind of haunting melody that chilled me instantly. The drum was growing louder and I thought I felt the earth shiver slightly beneath my feet.

  Russ turned to me, his eyes wide. “Get out of here! GO!”

  He shoved me backward and I stumbled, tripping over my feet—

  —and woke up gasping in my car.

  I immediately opened the door and vomited into the parking lot, a great gush of hot stomach bile and gurgling rum. Tears leaked from my bloodshot eyes as I sat up and wiped my mouth. My head was splitting and I was desperately thirsty. I looked at my watch and groaned. It was a little after midnight. I took a few seconds to collect myself, thinking back on what I had just experienced.

  What had just happened?

  I could still hear the echoing shrill note of that chilling whistle. Or did I? I ran my hands over my face, the consequences of my nighttime drinking churning my stomach again. How was I going to explain this to my family? What would I tell my wife?

  She was going to be furious.

  I suddenly wished I was back in the meadow. The serene peace it had offered upon arrival was intoxicating. No worries, no stress, no responsibilities. Just warm sun and beautiful, accepting nature.

  As I started my car, I made a decision.

  I would do anything to go back. And now…I thought I knew how to get there.

  The next two days were a waking hell. As expected (and rightly so), my wife was pissed. She wasn’t a woman who yelled or threw things. I almost wished she were. Instead, she turned to ice, barely acknowledging my existence until my due sentence was up…whenever that was. I tried to be extra active with the kids, even taking them out for ice cream, but that wasn’t enough to get my dear wife to warm to me.

  It was the weekend and every minute seemed like a chore. On the outside, I was Super Dad, making sure to always wear a smile and engage my kids in conversation and playful fun. None of this thawed my wife out and I felt the thirst return to me with a vengeance. I still hadn’t told her about the inevitable layoffs and judging by her mood, I wouldn’t until her fury had passed.

  When Sunday night rolled around and she still wasn’t talking to me, I decided that after work the following day, I would return to the bar and get shitfaced again. I needed to see if I could go back to that meadow. I needed it in the worst kind of way. My sanctuary of peace.

  I knew it was the worst thing I could do, but the frustrations of the weekend pushed logic out of my frazzled mind. She didn’t fully understand the stress and worry I was going through. She didn’t know the weight I carried every day. It wasn’t her fault, but I expected her to cut me some slack.

  As I slid into bed that night, my wife silently turning her back to me, I licked my lips and focused on tomorrow. The need was so great I almost got up and left right then and there. What little reason I still possessed forced my eyes closed and I tried to summon the vision of the meadow.

  I could almost feel it, waiting for me right behind my eyes. If I focused hard enough, I thought I could smell the greenery swirling through the swaying forest. If I shut everything out, I thought I could hear the frogs croaking at the edge of the water. Was that Russ? I was sure I had just heard him speaking to me, his Southern accent melting the air like warm butter over steamed corn.

  But it was all just out of reach.

  For whatever reason, I couldn’t quite access that special place. I needed a catalyst.

  I needed a goddamned drink.

  And that’s how I found myself slumped over the bar the following night. The day had seemed like an eternity, the clock indifferent to my desperation. On the way to work that morning I had almost stopped at the liquor store but had managed to hold off.

  My boss didn’t say anything to me, which I took as a good sign, and I diligently plowed through my day’s duties. My wife still wasn’t talking to me, barely looking my way as she prepared the kids for school. I had tried to give her a hug goodbye, but she brushed me off, muttering that she had to finish packing lunches.

  This sparked an anger in me and I wordlessly left the house, clamping my teeth shut so I wouldn’t say anything stupid. I knew getting wasted tonight wasn’t going to repair our teetering marriage, but I had been pushed to my limit. If she wasn’t going to forgive me, then what was the point? Her morning coldness had cemented my resolve to go out tonight and I barely felt any guilt. I justified it in my mind with little effort and as I pulled into the bar parking lot, I felt a cool blanket of relief sweep over me. This was where I could let go a little. This was where I didn’t have to think about my problems. This was my much-needed breath in a life devoid of oxygen.

  I tipped the glass to my lips and sucked the rum off the ice cubes. I hadn’t bothered mixing my drinks tonight. I had a destination in mind and I wanted to get back there as soon as possible. Judging by the way the room swa
m, I was doing a pretty good job of it, too.

  The bar was relatively empty and I was relieved for it. A quiet tune played from the retro jukebox in the corner and I hummed along as I tapped the bar for another refill. The usual bartender, Kenny, was off tonight, and I was grateful for it. He had a tendency to cut me off and I didn’t want that tonight.

  I smiled at the young lady, my drink server for the evening, and muttered my thanks as she placed a fresh rum in front of me. I was trying my best to maintain my composure, and the lack of people helped my cause. I didn’t want to stop drinking until I couldn’t see.

  I downed half the rum in one swig and felt it slam into my stomach like a derailed train. I burped behind my hand and felt my eyelids flutter as if they were suddenly swollen. I smacked the taste from my lips and my tongue burned with alcohol. My thoughts had become hard to control, the booze filling my mind like a sinking ship.

  I had been here for three hours and I felt like if I tried to stand, there was no guarantee my legs would obey.

  I tipped the glass to my lips one last time and that was enough to cloud my vision with a heavy fog. Blackness pressed in on my sloshed brain and I ran a hand over my face. It felt like there was a face over my face. I giggled at the thought but was suddenly overcome with sadness. I blinked a few times and decided it was time.

  I cashed out with a mumbled thanks to the bartender and very carefully walked out to my car. The world rocked beneath my feet and the full moon was so bright I had to shut one eye against it. My head felt thick and every breath tasted like ice and spiced rum.

  I stumbled to my car and managed to get the door open before collapsing into the driver’s seat. I rolled my head back and shut my eyes, a small smile on my lips. I waited for it to happen.

  It didn’t take long.