Fade to Black - Proof

by Jeffrey Wilson

  “Daddy!” she announced as he picked her up from her crib.

  “Hey, big girl,” Jack said as he laid her on the footrest of the rocker and pulled off her damp pull-up. He dressed her in his favorite outfit, big girl Levi’s and a pink Polo pullover. He loved how much she looked like Pam dressed like that. Then, he swept her up and carried her downstairs.

  He walked into the kitchen with his baby in his arms, tugging on his “Air,” and was greeted by the smell of fresh coffee and frying bacon. He came up behind Pam and playfully reached under the oversized T-shirt, squeezing her gently.

  “Jack!” Pam laughed. “My lord, man of mine, are you never satisfied?”

  “I am ALWAYS satisfied,” he answered, kissing her neck and then turning to put Claire in her high chair. “Each and every time. That’s what keeps me coming back.” He winked at her and she blushed. Jack poured himself a cup of coffee, aware in a detached way that he added nothing to it, and then sat at the table beside Claire.

  “What’s with the big breakfast, honey?” He glanced at his watch. “I don’t think I really have time. I’m running a little late already.”

  Pam slid a bowl of cereal with milk and a baby spoon in front of him.

  “Not anymore, baby,” she said, turning back to her stove and carefully flipping the sizzling slice of bacon. “Stuart Anderson called and asked how you were feeling. I said fine, but he said to tell you to take one more day, that they already had a sub.”

  Jack felt his face flush red with embarrassment and guilt. He waited for the inevitable question, but it didn’t come. He turned to look at Pam, fully anticipating an expectant stare, but instead she was happily whipping eggs and milk together in a bowl. When she turned to him, she looked content.

  “You want cheese in your eggs?”

  “Sure,” he answered. He was about to say something, anything about what happened at school, and then another thought occurred to him. “I didn’t hear the phone ring,” he said instead.

  “Huh?” Pam turned to him, her face confused, then smoothed out with realization. “Oh, the call. Yeah, I was on the phone with Bev when he called, and I clicked over.” She sprinkled grated cheese over the cooking eggs.

  Jack sat quietly for a moment, feeding spoonfuls of cereal into his daughter’s mouth with little thought.

  “Those nightmares really had me spooked at school,” he started. He had to say something, right? Pam said nothing, but still seemed all right, folding his omelet over on itself. “I couldn’t stop thinking about them. Anyway, Chad and Stuart both noticed, and I guess I told them I was sick. I didn’t know what else to say.” He looked up at Pam now, milk dripping from the little spoon onto the table. Claire strained to reach the bite but failed. Pam slid the omelet onto a plate, cut it in half and slid one half onto a second plate. Then she added strips of bacon and toast to both. She slid one in front of him and sat down beside him in front of the other.

  “Bev was going to watch Claire at her house for a while, so I could go shopping.” She poured some juice into an empty glass in front of Jack. “Since you’re home today, do you want to watch Claire, or go to the store with me?” Apparently his wife was unconcerned by his in-school breakdown. Or maybe Anderson had not told her much. Either way, Jack felt relieved.

  Jack decided to go shopping with Pam. Rarely did they get much time just the two of them these days, and Jack thought it might be fun to hang out together like old times—maybe grab lunch out somewhere nice. Pam was delighted by that idea, and started planning their morning outing while he fed Claire and nibbled at his breakfast, still distracted by the lack of reaction his wife had to the news he had left school “sick” yesterday. In the end he decided he was married to the greatest woman in the universe (a fact he’d long suspected) and let it go from his mind, instead getting excited by the thought of an adult day together.

  They spent the early morning playing with their daughter, sitting together in a circle on the living room floor and going through a picture book learning the names of animals. Claire fussed a little at being dropped off at Pam’s friend’s house, but the novelty of the attention from Beverly’s two older girls distracted her enough to keep her from crying. Then they headed to the mall, where Pam told Jack they were going to find him some new slacks and shirts.

  Jack was not generally a shopping kind of guy, but he had to admit he had a great time. They cruised around the mall and Jack chatted comfortably with his wife about everything and nothing. The morning flew by. He particularly enjoyed sitting in the comfortable armchair outside the dressing room at Hecht’s, watching his beautiful wife playfully model outfit after outfit, while he looked her up and down. He delivered the deciding thumbs up or thumbs down to each look, like a Roman emperor deciding the fate of each gladiator. Those outfits condemned to death were piled up on a counter, while Jack got the job of collecting the growing pile of survivors in his lap. He loved the way she flirted with him while she strutted and spun in front of him in each new look.

  They ended up at Bennigan’s for lunch, where Jack ordered a beer and Pam a glass of wine. She expressed a fleeting moment of concern, asking Jack if he was allowed to drink on his medication. Jack assured her Dr. Barton had not said anything about any restrictions.

  “I guess we’ll find out, huh?” he laughed, taking a big slug of cool beer from his frosted Pilsner mug. He didn’t have a seizure and his head didn’t explode, so he guessed he was all right. Together they looked over the menu, planning their meals together so they could share them, like they almost always did.

  “Surf and turf,” Jack announced. And so Pam ordered the skewered shrimp and he the blackened New York strip. They also split a salad and soup and both managed to consume another drink as they ate from each other’s plates. They talked and laughed like they had when they were dating and the time flew by. When the waitress came to clear their plates, Jack felt warm and relaxed, mostly from the company of his one true love (as he liked to remind her, even now) and partly from the two 16‐ounce beers. Jack began to feel a surge of hope that his cynicism towards Dr. Barton’s “magic bullet” had been unfounded. He sure as shit felt great right now, and he had slept through the night hadn’t he? Jack saw that Pam stared at him, trying to read his look.

  “Don’t worry, baby,” Jack said before she could ask. “I was honestly just thinking how great I feel.” He squeezed Pam’s hand, and she responded by putting her hand warmly on his knee.

  “You do seem more your old self, Jack.” She kissed him on the cheek.

  “Yeah, well, I am having a lunch date with my one true love,” he answered.

  “And playing hooky,” Pam laughed.

  “Yeah,” Jack agreed. “That helps too. I guess ol’ quack Barton knows something after all.” He paused for a moment and then looked her deeply in the eyes again. “Thank you for making me go, Pam.”

  Pam looked down. “Hey, I was just trying to get a good night’s sleep.”

  The waitress came back, looking a little uncomfortable at interrupting. “Anything else?”

  “Nothing for me,” Jack answered, “but the lady would like a piece of raspberry cheesecake with two forks, and two coffees with Bailey’s.”

  Pam shook her head in mock embarrassment and wrapped her arms around his.

  “You are a bad man.”

  Jack kissed her full on the mouth, a long and passionate kiss that made Pam look around, her embarrassment more real now.

  “Jack!”

  “You love me because I’m a bad man,” he said playfully.

  They talked about going to a matinee at the mall, but instead headed home. Claire would be in midnap by now and they agreed to spend an hour or two at the house, just hanging out. They wound up lying together, arms wrapped around each other on the couch, one of Pam’s favorite HGTV decorating shows on the television. After only a few minutes of watching total strangers make big changes to their homes on a shoestring budget, Jack’s breathing deepened and he relaxed to the feel of
Pam’s fingers running lightly through his hair. He felt perfectly content.

  Chapter

  9

  Jack had no idea how long he slept, but he awoke still tired and achy from being in one position too long. He was alone on the couch, a blanket across him, and his head at an awkward angle on a thin pillow against the armrest. He stretched his arms and rubbed his stiff neck, then sat up. The light from the kitchen had taken on a reddish hue, and Jack realized it must be close to dusk, his nap having lasted most of the afternoon.

  “Pam?” Jack called out. He heard no movement from the kitchen and the TV was off. Jack rose and headed slowly to the kitchen. His mouth was dry and he became suddenly aware that he needed to pee. “Baby, are you here?”

  No answer. She must have headed out to Beverly’s to pick up Claire. Jack veered off course from the kitchen, the pressure in his bladder outweighing his thirst, and headed for the bathroom a few steps down the hall. He stepped into the dark room and unzipped his fly without turning on the light, his full bladder now calling to him with true urgency. Jack shifted uncomfortably back and forth as he fumbled with his boxers, and then aimed in the general direction of the can, hoping the lid was up. He was immediately gratified by the sound of urine hitting water, and smiled as his urgency dissipated, happy he wouldn’t be cleaning piss off the floor and toilet lid. Relieved, Jack repacked his pants and zipped his fly, then turned to the sink to wash his hands.

  His sight adjusted somewhat to the dim light from the hall. As he turned on the faucet, Jack found his eyes drawn to a peculiar dark pattern in the sink, shadows in the dim light playing tricks on his slowly acclimating vision. He rinsed his hands unconsciously, his mind fascinated by the changing dark pattern, swirling now in the water running off his hands. Suddenly Jack felt growing anxiety rise inside him to compete with his curiosity. Something wasn’t right. His eyes remained locked on the changing patterns in the sink, his right hand groping behind him for the switch on the wall.

  The light clicked on and Jack froze in terror. Swirling in the sink was dark blood, lightening in color as it mixed with the swirling water. The water was pink, backing up slowly in the sink, seeking an exit around the chunks of bone and grey tissue that collected around the drain. A scream stuck in his throat and came out instead as a high‐pitched grunt. Jack became aware, in a detached way, that dark blood was spattered on the walls and mirror as well. He stumbled backwards and heard a nauseating crunch beneath his shoe. He looked down and lifted his foot slowly. Beneath it was a cracked and grimy tooth in a puddle of blood. He saw bloody footprints from his own feet in front of the toilet. Then his eyes were drawn to the toilet itself, his urine pink, mixed with blood; the seat spattered with drying blood and his own still wet piss.

  As Jack backed slowly out of the horror show that was his bathroom, he became aware that his right hand was warm and sticky. The wall beside the light switch was thick with dark blood, and the switch plate had a dark handprint pressed in the gory liquid. As he looked at his hand coated with black blood, he stumbled over his own feet and fell backwards out of the bathroom, landing sharply on his ass in the hallway. The impact unlocked the scream trapped in his throat and he heard his own horrified voice echo throughout the house. Jack’s feet kicked backwards, slipping in the trails of blood which extended out into the hall, and propelled him with a crunch into the wall behind him. Jack scrambled up the wall, his hands leaving more bloody prints on the clean plaster behind him. His shoulder sent a picture from the wall, Jack and Pam smiling behind the blue-eyed infant in front of them, crashing to the floor. The glass broke and exploded out of the frame. He remained in a crouch, his back pinned against the wall, unable to tear his eyes from the bloodied bathroom. Then he spun on one foot. He stumbled as he slipped again on the bloody floor, then caught himself and ran from the hallway to the kitchen, his right hand waving wildly in front of him.

  His knees slammed painfully into the cabinets beneath the kitchen sink as he stuck his bloody hand beneath the faucet. His clean hand spun the handle madly until clear warm water spit out. He held his hand beneath the running water and watched the blood wash away, then swirl pink down the clean kitchen sink. He became aware of his own voice in his ears, a childlike chant escaping from his tightened throat.

  “Nuh…nuh…nuh…” Jack closed his mouth to silence the sound. Then he felt his throat tighten, the vomit and bile trapped low down in his chest. The room started to spin, and he felt incredibly hot. Suddenly another thought gripped him.

  Pam!

  He spun around, frantically searching the room for evidence of his wife, terrified he would see her mangled body slumped against a wall.

  “Pam!” he screamed, his throat still tight and burning. He felt the bile escape his chest and arrive in the back of his throat. He bent over in a spasm of coughing, hands on his knees. His stomach contracted painfully, and he vomited onto the clean linoleum floor. Chunks of blackened steak and skewered shrimp tumbled away from the liquid and slipped beneath the cabinets.

  Large spatters of blood marched a trail across the kitchen floor and out the screen door, which he only now saw was open, and into the backyard. Jack stood up slowly, unaware that he still whimpered softly, puppy‐like, and walked in a haze towards the open door. His eyes remained glued to the sticky droplets of drying blood, afraid to look up beyond the next spatter. The trail led down the brick steps and across the concrete patio. As he followed it slowly, tiptoeing carefully so as not to step on any of the large puddles of half‐dried blood, he noticed something in the middle of one sticky pool. He poked it gently with the toe of one shoe. A bloody tooth stuck to his shoe, causing him to shake his foot back and forth until the tooth flipped free. It pinged against the gas grill and then flipped into a bush along the side of the patio. Jack kept his head down and wiped his toe along the patio, trying to smear the blood from his shoe, his efforts painting a reddish-purple pattern of modern art on the concrete.

  “Hey, Sar’n,” a raspy voice said.

  Jack froze, his leg bent, his foot in midsmear. His head stayed down, but his eyes darted back and forth in panic. Then he raised his head and turned towards the sound of the voice.

  Just past the edge of the patio, Simmons sat Indian‐style in the grass (criss-cross apple sauce, Pam would say to Claire). His dirty green T-shirt was spattered with fresh blood, which trickled down his chin and dripped off into his lap. He was bent over, his attention on an open khaki bandana in his lap. He poked at something on it with one finger. Jack walked over, arms hanging limply by his sides. When he got within a few feet, he stopped, and Simmons stopped his prodding at whatever was in his lap. Jack saw that the bandana was bloody and that Simmons’ fingertips glistened with blood as well.

  At first Simmons didn’t look up, but a grin spread across his face, revealing bloody teeth. He turned his head to face Jack, revealing his missing eye and the side of his face missing flesh and bone. The ragged teeth Jack remembered from the hallway at school were gone. The missing cheek and lips left a gory hole which revealed only ragged gums.

  “Jush gettin’ my shish together, Sar’n,” Simmons said. The horrible, gaping hole flapped ragged flesh as he spoke. He held up his bloody bandana, which Jack now saw contained a half‐dozen ragged bloody teeth. “Droppin’ like fly’sh,” he laughed. Then he was wracked with a rattling cough, fresh blood spraying out onto his desert cammie pants and boots. Jack stood motionless, unable to speak or move.

  “Sit down,” Simmons said, gesturing with a dirty hand, his fingertips coated in blood like he had taken a gory pedicure soak (“You know you’re soaking in it,” Madge said from the old TV commercial). With his missing face his words came out “shit down.”

  Jack felt bile rise again in his throat, but instead of barfing he belched a wet acidic burp. He felt himself pale and he began to sway gently, overcome with dizziness. He felt sure he would pass out. Finally he spoke, his voice a harsh whisper.

  “Nightmare…” he said. That felt r
ight. Jack closed his eyes tightly and willed himself to wake up. He opened his eyes, but Simmons still sat there, grinning too widely. He opened the side of his mouth that could close and laughed a choking, raspy laugh, which spilled more dark blood onto his chin. He reached his fingertips into his mouth, pulled out another ragged tooth, and considered it critically for a moment. The left side of his mouth frowned, the right side grinned a ghoulish, jack-o-lantern grin of bloody gums.

  “Shun of a bitsh, eh Sar’n?”

  Jack closed his eyes again, his fists balled up at his sides.

  Wake up, goddamnit! Wake up!

  * * *

  Jack sat up, his eyes wide open and his hands still tight fists. He was in his bed, the room dark and his body soaked in a cool sweat. His eyes darted madly around, but he saw nothing, unable to penetrate the darkness which engulfed him. He was aware of the sleeping figure beside him—heard Pam’s deep rhythmic breathing. Jack had no memory of coming to bed, or any other part of the evening. He remembered falling asleep on the couch, the horrible nightmare about Simmons, and now he was awake in bed in the middle of the night. It was dark and he was in bed with his wife.

  What the fuck!

  Jack felt tears spill down over his cheeks. The image of the bloody bathroom, the horror of Simmons in the yard, and his panicked confusion of waking up here in bed with no intervening memory—all combined to rob him of any remaining hope that his mind was under his own control. He cried out loud and his hand trembled as he searched out the light switch on the wall. But he found nothing. The reading lamp somehow escaped his grasp. He fumbled instead on the end table, found the lamp, and flipped the switch.

  Jack sucked his breath in, making a high‐pitched hissing whistle. He was lying on top of the covers, his naked chest and belly covered in sweat, mixed with dirt and drying blood. He wore dirty, desert cammie pants, bloused at the ankle over filthy tan combat boots. The covers beneath him were covered in sand and dust, which swirled around him in a light breeze. Jack held his breath in, frozen in terror. Then he reached beside him for his wife, but his hand froze in midair, above the shoulder of the sleeping figure.