In the Nick of Time

by Laveen, Tiana

  “Some son of a bitch has a three year old boy on top of his building on Livonia and is threatening to jump with him.”

  Nick jerked like a lightning bolt tied to a tether pole. He tried and tried to gain full control over his damn watered down muscles, but couldn’t get his body to cut him a break. Forcing the issue to the point of physical strain and pain, he grabbed his remote control with stretched fingers, turning on the news. There it was, right there, the breaking story. His chest caved and throbbed with mounting unease as sweat rivulets ran zigzag relays down his face. Through tense eyes he desperately tried to focus…see the screen…clearly comprehend and take in the words from the reporter.

  Oh God…Oh no…

  Even through tainted vision, his senses weren’t playing tricks on him, but he prayed to whoever would listen that they were…

  “Who is it? Who the hell is that?” he questioned as slightly fuzzy footage of a man dressed in blue moved about atop a roof.

  …Don’t you say his name, don’t you dare say who I think it is, Tomas!

  Bricks

  F

  A

  L

  L

  I

  N

  G

  From the sky…

  “Well you know that they haven’t released that information to the press yet but the guy’s name is Eric Leech—and that’s his son.”

  Eric Leech… Oh God…it IS him!

  He knew Eric. The guy was a stoner, a poet, and a fucking mental case. One of the few white guys flipping about in Brownsville, Brooklyn and didn’t seem to really give a shit about that fact. Regardless, he’d appeared harmless enough. Nick attempted to get to his heavy feet, but could barely stand as he saw double, then triple and sparks of blinding white. Finally up, he fell against the wall, taking items from his nightstand with him and causing a mighty crash of all things pretty, fragile and delicate.

  Barely holding onto his phone, Officer Tomas kept talking, rattling off the play by play, and the news reporter stated that some walking disaster was coming down there to try and tell Eric how sweet and beautiful life was. Nothing was beautiful about surviving another day in Hell, and nothing could make a guy like Eric see the glittering promise of hope, especially while barreling down on psychosis. The headlights of Doomsday shone so bright, they undermined all else. No one took Eric seriously; he was like a mere broken window inside an abandoned building but, people were definitely taking a peek, now…

  Yes… he was the broken window.

  …I know that feeling.

  No one cared how it happened, how long it had been there, or where all the glass spread once the thing was smashed and destroyed. All that flying debris comprised that man’s entire life; his guts, the shit that mattered most, but no one gave a damn about bygone blood, tormented tears, or dilapidated dreams. He was a laughing stock and those not taken seriously would at times force the issue, bring it to the forefront in a brand new, extreme way.

  You will look at me, you will see me, you will remember me, goddamn it!

  And even after all of that, there would always be that group of people to ask, ‘What the hell went wrong?’

  “I know him! I gotta get down there…I gotta talk to him!” Nick blurted, pulling himself out of the odd thoughts streamed with cantankerous things called memories. No matter his effort, his heavy eyelids wouldn’t cooperate, denying him the gift of clear sight. He struggled to rub his raw, itching nose, missing several times. Worse yet, his right nostril streamed blood, crucified by his actions. He patted his cupid’s bow and looked at his fingertips—wet, crimson, and cocaine laced.

  “Nah, don’t do that. He’s high on some stuff and others are involved now. It’s out of our hands,” Tomas explained. “They’re going to shoot Eric dead as soon as they get the chance though. Can’t have him doing that and then…what was that?! What the fuck was that?! Shit!” Tomas yelled. His police radio buzzed in the background. “Goddamn it!” The man screamed so loudly, his eardrums rang like church bells.

  Nick turned back toward the television, crawling to it like a baby in pain, begging for its mother’s love. He gripped his cell phone in one hand, clutching it like a lifeline as he continued to hobble about. When he got in front of the damn thing, the news’ live coverage feed was long gone and the studio reporter was back on the air, a glum look on her sullen face…

  No…Noooo…Noooo!

  “Noooooo! Not again! It’s happening AGAIN!!! No!!!!”

  “Nick, let me call ya back. I gotta go!” Tomas blurted.

  The call went dead…

  D e a d…

  Like bricks to skulls…

  Like Mom in her grave…

  Like little babies thrown down from buildings…

  D e a d…

  Like his evil blue eyes…

  Like his nonexistent soul…

  Like the place where a heart beat slow and steady, rather than hard, irregular, and fast from an early evening of premium narcotic abuse chased with expensive Russian Vodka.

  … And don’t forget the pretty Patron…

  Dead.

  You’re dead too, Nick…

  You sorry son of a bitch… You should be dead! It should be YOU!

  Monster!

  He crawled back towards his bed as a thin trail of slobber streamed out from between his rubbery lips. He swiped at it, smearing it across his jaw, and gripped his bed sheets, trying to pull himself up as if they were a rope of mercy. Grunting along the way, he fought and fought, trying to do the simplest of tasks. His legs were giving out, weak, barely able to bend, turn or move. His six foot three body became dead weight. Every fiber of his being worked against him, laughing, calling him names, dipping itself in something dark and sticky, making him loathe every hair on his body and every bone wrapped beneath the surface, too…

  He tried and tried to move past the slush of the drugs running marathons within his cranium, until several attempts later, he was finally lying in the bed, looking up at the ceiling. Meanwhile, the newscaster went on and on about the nightmare that had played out on repeat. The bitch wouldn’t shut the hell up and her mouth—her words—became the soundtrack to his self-imposed death sentence. He almost swallowed his own damn tongue as phlegm and spit pooled in the back of his throat, and more beads of perspiration ran down his sweaty face then collected in his eardrums like tiny cups for communion.

  Be blessed, young man…

  Friendly words from yesteryear, shared from an old priest who’d worn his Bible against his ribcage like a beating heart.

  Blessed? No! I’m cursed!

  I could have…stopped him. Eric listened to me… I knew Eric… Eric did what I said…

  That little boy is gone. He’s dead… No!

  He screamed in his head, pulling at his hair, damn near jerking the strands clean out, leaving behind only bloody stumps. Wallowing in stiff, unyielding guilt and a body coated in his own pore-made fluid, he remained prisoner to his carcass… the same bones the cool air had had their way with earlier in the day. The same bones that moved and maneuvered about in tight alleyways, chasing desperados, and nabbing them more times than not. It was only a matter of time before his addiction caught up with him, but…he’d had a good run. He kept the shit under the glaring radar, his dirty little, fingerprint smudged secrets of boozing it up, snorting it up, fucking it up, fucking it up good, too. He made excuses for it, promised himself he’d seek help. But, he never did. No, that would have been a pussy move, and he’d sworn he was a motherfucking outlaw…

  And what a sad outlaw he was. Intoxicated, high as a fucking Goodyear blimp and stinking with old sweat. He hated himself, inside and out, wished he could disappear right that fucking second.

  I should fuckin’ kill myself… do everyone a favor.

  He looked over at his holster, the damn gun inside of it… It would be easy, a piece of German chocolate cake…

  Pussy move?

  Outlaw move?

  He was told suicide wa
s for pussies. You had to stick this shit out, wait until you got to the last damn chapter, paragraph, sentence, and period. You had to earn your way through like you were paying fucking dues for not just yourself, but a gang load of motherfuckers! You had to accept the cards you were dealt, call bluff and declare yourself a winner and run that shit into the ground like seeds into the awaiting earth.

  He shifted his gaze from side to side, until he released control and let the demons he’d invited party all over his mind, body and soul. They sure had a good time…and he watched from the sidelines. He watched the revolting creatures jump up and down on his chest, gnash their jagged teeth and tear him from limb to limb with their bare hands. He deserved it; he wanted it. He craved it more than pretty Patron, perfect pussy, and choice cocaine…

  “Yeah…”

  He grinned, his world turning black then blacker…

  Yeah, this is who I am. This is what I do…

  …And this is what I get…

  Monster… that’s what you are.

  Good job, Officer Nick Vitale, you should be so goddamn proud…

  Charles Mingus’, ‘Moanin’’ played as Taryn danced about in her small room, her bare toes sinking and rising in the thick, lime green shag rug. She’d gotten the privilege to decorate her room at Firststone Medical Center in Fresh Meadows, New York—an earned freedom and simple pleasure not bestowed to all. Frieda had winked at her in her sweet, understanding way, handed her a role of tape, and stated, “Don’t go overboard, but have fun.”

  The walls were now covered with framed jazz posters, a couple sketches she’d done and a few of her coveted magazine covers: Cosmopolitan, Glamor, and Elle, just to name a few. She’d also recently taken her two coveted mirrors out of storage. One mirror she hung herself, smack dab in the center of the room. It remained above her television, giving the illusion of depth in a space the size of a single molecule. The music always made it easier, made the capsule of reality go down smoothly. Today, the pointy pill had not been her sought-after pain relief. No. It had been a call from her mother. The woman had the best of intentions, but she remained in denial about the severity of her daughter’s addiction, and at times, Mom’s abjuration was simply too much weight to bear.

  “When are you coming home, honey? We miss you so much.”

  “Mom, I told you, I have to finish treatment longer this time. Those other times I left early, that wasn’t when the actual program ended. I’m not on vacation you know; this is no siesta.”

  “Taryn, that was uncalled for. Don’t speak to me that way. I’m just letting you know that I think about you all the time is all…”

  “I know.” She sighed. “I’m sorry, Mom. It won’t be for a while though. I haven’t finished treatment. I’ve got to do this right. I can’t check out this time. I can’t bail on my own recovery.”

  “But you haven’t done anything in so long! I’ve been so proud of you. I have no idea why you are still there at this point. You’ve proven you’re okay now.”

  “Because the thoughts are still there, Mom. Doesn’t matter that I haven’t relapsed. I still want to use most days and until that changes, then I know I still have a ways to go. I may always want to, I don’t know, but I have to get to the bottom of it this time. I can’t afford to be wrestling with myself like this.”

  “Time waits for no one. Now that you’re in remission, you can take advantage, get back on top!”

  “Mom, I’m not exactly a top commodity right now, okay?”

  “Oh, hogwash! You’ve been so despondent lately. It’s not that bad.”

  “It IS that bad, Mom. Last time I decided to dig into my cookie jar, I didn’t wake up for almost twenty-four hours. Not only that, I have a criminal record now for writing fake prescriptions from my last go round. Thankfully, no one pressed charges…felt sorry for me I guess. Mom, it’s bad, okay? It’s real bad…”

  …And so the conversation went.

  She twirled around and around in circles, her big, shiny gold hoop earrings waving as she spun faster and faster to the beat, but farther and farther away from the pain. Swaying to the left and right, she drifted away from her agony but bounced right back in the center of it as she caught a glimpse of herself in the freshly hung mirror. She slowed to a crawl, her head still spinning at top speed as if she’d been on some crazy revolving merry-go-round. She’d given herself a natural high but was coming down fast and hard. She was certain she’d stood there an hour, unmoving, frozen. She took several steps forward toward the mirror.

  Aren’t you an odd looking bird?

  She smirked.

  She reached upward and slowly removed her black satin scarf, which was tied and knotted to the side with a rhinestone adornment. It slid slowly across her buzzed, newborn tresses and she clutched it loosely amongst her fingers as she inspected herself, going over her body inch by torturous inch…

  My hair is growing out nicely. Hopefully this time it won’t fall out again…

  She ran her fingertips across her scalp, feeling the short, soft strands, relishing the slickness as they burst free, new and screaming for a chance to thrive.

  My eyes are little too close together, but they’ve always been…nothing I can do about that. I still like them though.

  She smiled ever so slightly as she turned to the right, and then to the left, following her pupils like an old haunted painting that watched all passersby…

  My nose is fine I suppose; no obvious issues there…

  She ran her pointer finger down the bridge, pausing at the fleshy bulb. Some suggested she get a nose job, make it a bit keener, but she’d refused.

  My lips are big and juicy. Just how I like them.

  Her mouth twisted in a satisfied grin. She had the lips songs were written about, and she damn well knew it.

  My chin is well defined, as well as my jawline.

  She traced the thing, looking at the natural contrasts, contours and shadows around the area, studying it as if she would be asked to describe it on an exam.

  My neck is long. I like it, too.

  She’d never given much attention to her neck until someone else would bring it to her attention in a complimentary fashion. As far as she was concerned, it was only pivotal to swallow her drug of choice. All she gave a damn about as of late was what sat inside of it…her throat. Other than that, it didn’t even matter.

  My chest is…

  My chest is…

  My. Chest. Is.

  She couldn’t take it anymore. She placed her hands over the bare, scarred flesh and turned her back on herself, hung her head. She choked back the angry tears, refused to let them fall and shame her any further.

  My chest…is mine. That’s what it is. It’s just…mine.

  The heart of the matter was not the usual suspects and creepy culprits. No. It wasn’t that she no longer possessed breast tissue. It was gone—fine. Done and done. It wasn’t the cut flesh, either, and what it had left behind. It wasn’t that her womanliness could be now called into question and sometimes was. She’d already mourned the way she used to be able to fill out a curve hugging dress, slinking to her long form like a second skin. She’d only been a B cup, you couldn’t miss what you barely had, but regardless, they were hers, and if her memory served her correctly, they’d been perky and cute…but…she’d gotten past that, too. She’d already accepted the vicious cycle her tormented body had put her through. It made her sick. Literally.

  Thus, she lost important opportunities and occasions. Her breasts, those adorable pint-size sprightly things she was just lamenting over, proved no longer so fucking adorable anymore. They’d filled with disease like water in a balloon and made her a victim of chronic pain, misgivings, ridicule and self-persecution. Thus, she took medication to simply get through her day, manage it so she could think straight, tend to the tasks at hand. Uncertain of the date and time, but somewhere between the road of agony management and the delivery from a world she was becoming a stranger to, she became addicted to the me
dication.

  She’d fallen, became twisted and vacant, transformed into someone she no longer recognized. She’d do anything for relief—steal, lie and cheat. Her body lost many battles, and tried to lose the war, too. The same damn body that made her a millionaire was the same physique that now had her scrambling for checks and balances. The same figure men and women coveted was now looked upon with confusion and disgust.

  At various times, it held hardly any weight and purged the bit she could hold onto with a slippery grasp. It charged up a tab that she didn’t order and made her a slave to a debt she couldn’t pay. But it managed to keep one thing and one thing only—her addiction. Oh yes, it was true to that, married at the pointy, bony hip. It drove her forward, made her do and say crazy things to stay afloat, some of which made her sick to relive

  The lies… all those fucking lies…

  Reminiscences, bits of memories, floated to the forefront of her mind.

  What was she all about? Who was she?

  A spy. I’m a spy…

  She’d always been a curious child, and later in life, her subtle prying and data gathering skills proved useful in feeding her drug habit. From mundane tales of shopping adventures to more serious criminal admissions—she’d heard it all. In the process, she’d learned a lesson about the world, life, and her own self, too.

  Trust no one. Or at least, vet the hell out of everybody that crosses your path.

  There were two things in life you could never place a shred of reliance on, under any circumstances—a drug abuser’s word and a desperate man’s plea…for they were often one and the same. Not only that, she knew other things that would make Frieda and everyone else consider her a serious security breech if they could read her sordid mind. When bored, her brain did strange things, and she dove head first into all that was forbidden, scoffed at, and prohibited.

  Curiosity killed the cat. There was yet another reason, one more that served as an excuse but was also wrapped in validity—she refused to not know what was going on around her at all times… She’d never be in that ‘clueless’ position again; it had happened once too often, and cost her both financial and emotional damage. No one would think the super model would play these games; she looked so innocent, and she surely couldn’t be that smart, now could she? She’d keep to herself, not tell a damn soul…