by Ira Robinson
No way.
So, whatever might be going on, it was not the drug. Heroin didn't make lines and symbols of scars along the body. The only ones he carried from it were the places he'd injected himself with. Those were gone now, their familiarity replaced by skin he no longer recognized as his own.
Carver stepped over the passed out body of a man, the deep breathing unheard through the music playing somewhere else in the house, but he could see the chest uplifting slowly. Shabby clothes matched his own, old remnants of things found on the streets, perhaps, junkies paradise affording all kinds of luxuries, if one knew where to look. He left the man to lie in his own pools of sweat, the tailings of what he had injected himself with picked up by someone else or well-hidden before his mind went too far.
The bathroom was decrepit, the toilet no longer even there, broken to pieces at some point in the past. A few bits of it remained on the floor, slicked with an ebony slime Carver couldn't, and didn't want to, identify. The sink, however, was relatively intact, though coated with its own patina of shiny black goo, but the mirror above it was surprisingly serviceable.
He flicked the light on, averting his eyes for a moment while the bulb above the mirror flickered on, barely useful. He stepped fully in, breathing through his mouth to avoid some malodorous oozes exuding from the coated floor. The tiling had, perhaps, once been the pride of some mistress of the house before it became the flop it was today. Had she spent time on her hands and knees scrubbing it to a shine that she could be proud of, only to have it now be so filled with the remnants of so much feces and piss that it would never glow again?
He pried his eyes away from that mess and let them drift to the mirror, standing before it without touching anything.
His eyes reflected some of the light above, their golden brown something he had always been told was striking in their lightness, surrounded by the shadowed gauntness of his sunken cheeks. The pale pallor of his skin was worse than the last time he dared look at himself, a product of his inattention to eating and the steady intake of as much caffeine and heroin as he could manage to get hold of.
The scars, too, were new, though he was glad they did not seem to extend to his face. He twisted his head to each side, catching as much of a view of the lines of them as he could in the bad lighting. They were light in color, thankfully; one would have to be near to see them well, but they also were raised slightly off of the rest of his skin. They seemed to make patterns, but what those might be, he could not tell.
He lifted his shirt, exposing the skin on his belly. He winced as he recognized his thinness, but the scoring on his skin was there, too, larger than those on his neck.
Not caring if someone would bother to come past and see, he undid his jeans and pulled them down a little way. There, too, running up and down his thighs, were the marks.
He sighed as he put the button back together after hiking up the pants to his hips.
What did they mean? That they were symbols was obvious, signifying something, but he could not fathom it.
At least they did not ache, like some scars might. He barely noticed their presence outside of spotting them.
Biel had done something to him, shifting his body into an object he did not understand, and he wished he could take it back, to negate, somehow, the agreement that was made between the two of them.
What had he done? What was he becoming? Each minute that passed he could feel things inside of him drifting, warping still, whatever process begun in the basement continuing, if subtly, to transform him into what Biel wanted him to be.
The Hallow, he called it. As Carver stared at himself in the mirror, transfixed by the endless lines and edges of the scars, he mulled the meaning of the concept. Hallow. It seemed so different, such a strange word, reminding him of Halloween. Was it similar? Was it a part of it?
Halloween, dedicated the dark, spirits and rituals going back to the beginnings of human history. Biel said he was to be the Hallow. Did that make him connected, somehow, to things like that?
Was he destined to become something horrible, frightening? Or was it all part of some elaborate prank like kids would play when they didn't get their candy?
Carver didn't know, but he didn't care for the prospects of it all, either.
Minutes passed while he stood in front of the mirror, staring at the way his body now looked and dark thoughts in his mind causing his brows to furrow in a glower that scared him, a deep tremble skittering his heartbeat out of control. He tried to breathe deeply, to bring himself a calm he knew he needed, but each breath he took came with an effort.
When he finally turned his head and retched into the corner of the filthy bathroom, the liquid splashing from the floor to the wall, there was little difference made to the decay of the room. It was only one more thing piled atop the rest and was lost to his sight as he closed his eyes and swooned.
No. Stay on your feet, damn you. He commanded himself with more authority than he thought he contained, and kept himself upright despite the twisting of the world around him.
He stepped backward from the bathroom, his teeth bared and breaths heaving through his open mouth. He had to get out, to make his way from this place as quickly as he could. The music pounding, the sounds of sex in one of the distant rooms, the odor of death and decay all vied for his full attention as waves of nausea continued to batter him. Echoes of voices, weeping and, perhaps, as terrified of what they had become as he, himself, assailed him from every wall, covering him with an oppression he could not cast away.
He whirled, avoiding the man laying in the hall as his feet pounded against the once magnificent hard wood floor, carrying him to the front door. He burst through it into the cold January evening, the street lamps lining the thin city road blasting into his vision as he heaved a deep breath and exhaled it rapidly, the vapor from his heat spreading from his mouth like the vomit only moments before had done.
Carver bent down, putting his hands on his knees and sighed over and over, the open street barely better than that of the flop house he exited, but it was sweet, all the same. These streets were freedom, carrying him away from the horror show he had endured for the whole evening. He had escaped, made his way to a better place, and if he could help it, he was not going to go back.
He stood up again, bringing himself as erect as he could, in spite of the coldness of the air pressuring him to compact himself, to evade the breeze that sucked the heat from his skin through the flayed jacket and tee-shirt underneath. It hadn't been enough for the weather, already, let alone being damaged in his flailing on the cement floor, but he was determined to not let it bother him.
He had to get away, to be from this rank area as fast as he could and never look backward.
There was only one place he could think to be; it shamed him to let her look at him in the state he was in. The hospital was not nearby and would take time to walk to, but Lisa was there waiting for him, just as lonely in her death bed as he was on these dying streets and, though she did not deserve him, he desperately wanted to see her face.
He began to trek down the road, the small piles of dirty brown snow scattered around easy to evade for the most part, though he could not miss sloshing through some. His body once more commenced to ache, the depth of the chill pervaded every iota of him, but he felt he deserved it. How could he allow himself comfort when he had done what he had? When he had spent their last dollar on fulfilling a craving he had created for himself, especially when that creation was due to him not wanting to face up to the reality his life had become?
Guilt. So much of it, following in the wake of the strides he plodded toward the ward and the little girl he had left bereft of any sense of love and comfort, herself. His shoulders were bent, beat down by the despair that he couldn't avoid, as thoughts of his damnable sins vied to take him down.
But as those steps were taken, as each moment brought him closer to the hospital, he noticed something else, and he actually had to stop and think about it. As the
breeze pelted his body near the corner store where he halted, it dawned on him he was not craving.
The need had been with him for so long, there with him at every turn, following him even when he was in the deepest trip he could take. Always more, the demand for a score, another nail in the coffin, was there, but as he turned and looked into the glass fronting the building, he realized it was not there.
The memory of it was. He could remember how it felt, how he always felt, but his body quivered only from the cold. His hands trembled only from the edges of his frayed nerves and the chill of the air.
The familiar pressure, so much a part of himself it had become an intimate, a lover in the night embracing him, was no longer present.
How? Was it some kind of trick or a product of the horrors of the night? Was it only suppressed away somewhere inside of him, to come back again later? Or had something happened, had his body been transformed in such a way that his addiction to it had been relieved? Was it a last-minute gift from Biel or a twist of his mind?
Would it linger?
Could it?
That need had been with him for so long, Carver could barely believe the craving was gone. So strong it had been, so potent and ever-present, yet, as he stood there staring at himself anew in the glow of the street lamps and the glass in front of him, there was nothing of the sensation that his body desired it.
He shook his head and continued his steps, the miracles, horrors, and mysteries of the night playing havoc with his senses and reason.
The heightening of his hearing was terrible for him to handle. The cars passing on the road around him were so loud they thundered like a thousand horses stampeding in terror, the music braying forth from their speakers easily caught on the wind. His eyesight, too, wafted in and out of heightened awareness, but that was more easily controlled by concentrating. The sensations of scent, however, was much more than he was accustomed to, and it was rough for him to breathe at times as the yards passed beneath the soles of his shabby shoes.
He heard the hospital before he saw it, the sirens of an ambulance rushing through the buildings around him, echoes reverberating from the glass and steel. As it lifted up in scale, the buildings slightly vibrated; he could almost hear the vibrato as the quartz in the cement resonated with the sound.
So strange and he could do nothing to stop it, to reduce it down, even with concentration.
As loud as it was though, it strangely did not hurt; he was grateful but could not fathom how any of it was happening.
He reached the doors of the hospital and into the warm embrace of the building, the fans blowing heat through the vents so satisfying he had to stand still within the breeze for a moment. He closed his eyes, letting the flow of air cross his skin and a small smile came to his lips as he took a deep breath.
While he had never cared for the scent of antiseptic and subtle rot hospitals always held in their walls, it was better than the dirty streets with the garbage laying around and the smog from the cars pervading everything.
He crossed the barrier of the second set of doors, entering the hospital proper and passed by the security desk waiting nearby. The two guards there were blithely watching the monitors before them and paid little attention to him as he walked through the lobby, though one of them did frown his way, perhaps put off by the shabbiness of his clothing.
Still, they saw all kinds of people come through in this busy metropolitan place and were probably told to leave folks be, unless they were obviously there to cause issues.
Carver remained unaccosted by the time he reached the elevator doors and pressed the call button.
Would Lisa be upset to see him? He knew what a sorry sight he had to make, with his clothing tattered and his short hair unkempt. His body was so thin, wasting away with the advent of each injection he made, and his complexion was even paler than it had been before.
The scars now lining his body were something else entirely, and might cause her deep fright.
It was not until he stepped into the elevator that he fully decided to stay, to go to her room and show himself to her, guilt and all. His finger punched the button for the floor she was last on, when he came to visit her the day before.
Had it been a day? Was he sure about that? It could have been a week for all he knew, the state of his stupor while addled on the drugs distending time as much as it did.
Abandoned and alone, left in the hands of a stranger who only cared for her because she was sick and dying, not because of any virtue of family or ties of blood. She might hate him, rail at him for his abuse of her love the moment he showed his face to her, and he would deserve it. He knew that. He would take whatever she wanted to give him and try his best to smile at her, just the same, because he deserved it.
The bloop of the elevator dinging the floor interrupted his thoughts and, as it slid open and he stepped into the well-lit and white painted hall, his stomach dropped and he paused in his movements.
What if she was gone? What if, in the time he had spent from her, stuck in the cycle of abusing his body and bringing himself one step closet to the yawning grave, she had gone there first?
What if he was walking into an emptied room, never having had the chance to tell her how much he loved her or what she meant to him?
Dread flourished, blossoming as he forced another step from the now-closing doors of the elevator, its bloop as it traveled echoing in his sensitive ears.
The door to her room was closed and he hesitated as he put his hand on the handle. One deep breath later, he drove it wide and stepped inside.
Her hair hung limply to the sides of her face, tubes coming from her arms and out of her nose as she lay with her head back on the double set of pillows helping her stay up. Hissing air and a soft series of dings from the machinery connected to her pervaded the room as he pressed the curtain the rest of the way open.
Her eyes fluttered and, for a time, she did not move as she took in the sight of him standing before her. A long, aching moment, perhaps drawn out from her own drug-addled mind while she tried to embrace recognition of who was in front of her.
When her face brightened into a smile, her pale lips opening with the word "Daddy," on them, he came down to his knees and took her small hand into his own. He rested his head against those fingers as they reached out to touch his hair and the waves of sadness and complicated joy ran gamut inside of him.
"Daddy," her voice whispered, so weak, nearly imperceptible, even to his now-heightened hearing. "Missed you."
"I'm so sorry, baby," he managed to squeak out through his tight throat. "So sorry."
He held her, almost too tight, as he lifted his eyes up to her own, and realized, in his hasty fall to his knees, he had not noticed how much color was on her skin.
It was nothing like the last time he had been there, the sickly green tinting she once had faded away to a pink he recognized as healthier.
Her breathing, too, was not shallow as it once had been and the eyes, tearing up as much as his own, were suffused with the darkness that had accompanied her illness for so long.
His mouth widened, his heartbeat rising faster as he stared into her now-healing face, shocked at how much better she looked even the few hours after his encounter in the basement.
Biel was keeping his promise.
She was getting better.
Carver lifted his hand to her face and caressed her cheek, the grin on his own greater than it had been in years.
Chapter 4
"You've got to keep your stance steady. Concentrate."
"I know, dad. Quit pestering."
Carver stepped away from Lisa, keeping his sharpened eyes wide on her every movement as she sighted down the long barrel of the rifle.
She held it tight, her lithe form stronger than it appeared upon first glance. Her fingers wrapped around the proper spots, just as he had shown her so many times before.
The loud snap of the gunpowder flashing inside the casing echoed through the forest and
she was pushed back a bit by the force of the bullet. He stretched his hand out to make sure she didn't fall backward, but it was unnecessary after all; she kept to her feet this time.
Yards away, the dust from the impact of the metal against the target hanging on the tree settled, smaller bits of it drifting away as the smoke from the end of the barrel, itself, did.
He could see she struck it in the right spot and smiled. She was getting better.
She handed the gun over to him and ran to the target, her own vision not nearly as acute as his own. A whoop burst from her and she turned to him, her grin wide.
"Not bad," he called out as he checked the chamber, readying it for another reload. "Not bad at all, girl!"
She crossed the distance again, passing over the large clearing behind their house without effort. She fairly glowed in the light of the sun above, her skin tanning quickly in the time they had been able to spend training after being cooped inside for the winter months.
