“I may be a fucking drunk, but I know what I saw,” I say with a slight slur to
the bartender, sipping on my fourth or fifth double vodka soda at the bar.
“Mick, we talked about this. It would’ve been in the news and more people
would be asking questions. Especially, if you’re saying you saw Father Wayne kill
that boy. You’re just drunk and seeing shit. Next one’s your last.” The bartender
responded in his deep raspy voice, walking to the new couple at the bar.
“Listen, Kevin, that boy is dead. I’m telling you, Father Wayne had blood
on his hands and that boy’s head was like a rotten Jack-O-Lantern in Novem-“
“Mick! Enough! You’re scaring these nice people out of my bar. What can I
get for you tonight?” Kevin asked tossing his red brown hair, scrunching his
crooked nose and flashing his winning smile. His tattooed biceps flexing as he
stretched his arms across the bar, leaning into them for their order.
“What was that lady saying about a boy and a priest?” The woman’s
furrowed brows, scrunched up forehead, and wide eyes made Kevin side glance
towards my side of the bar and start shaking his head. He leaned in closer and
spoke softly. probably explaining my brain is finally drowning in vodka. Maybe
Kevin is right. Maybe my brain has been drowning in vodka and now its sinking
into a mushy pile of shit before I die. I take a sip of my drink, looking at my
cigarette stained fingertips and dirty fingernails. I take a large gulp almost
finishing my drink feeling the stares as the ice falls to the bottom of my glass. I
don’t need to look up or guess whose eyes are burning a hole through my body. I
feel the panic raise from deep within my body. Maybe they are staring because
they are going to kill me for ratting out the priest. I’ve had this gut turning feeling
that I’m being watched since that night in the park. I glance up and the man with
a high bun with shaved sides doesn’t look away with his blonde blue-eyed
companion. Fuck. He’s here to kill me. I need another drink.
I tap it twice giving Kevin my signal to fill ‘er up. He makes his way across,
reluctantly grabbing the Tito’s as he reaches my glass and pours a heavy
freehand. I stare at the brown bar top that’s sticky and shiny with the familiar
scent of alcohol and cleaner. Kevin doesn’t bother with talk. I’m on my last glass,
and he knows I’ll give him his tip and pay the tab on payday, which is part of the
agreement we have after several unpaid bills and me passing out at the bar. He
knows I don’t need conversation to sit in that corner of the L-shaped bar asking
to fill ‘er up repeatedly. The juice from the lime spraying my face and down my
fingers as I clumsily squeeze over the glass. Pulling out his cash tip from my thin
wallet and throwing it onto the bar top, I watch the bills dampen with a mix of
condensation and split liquor, and I gulp down that drink like I was defending the
championship. Go head and kill me. I think as I stand causing the vodka to rush
up and down my body. I welcome the buzzed feeling when it hits quickly, taking a
moment savoring the whole body numbness cascading through my veins before I
walk past the couple with the laser eyes melting my ice faster.
I stumble across the bar watching Kevin’s smirking face and shaking his
head in protest. I feel like messing around with that perfect couple that need to
judge the drunk all night. “Starin’ iz roode, ya knoh,” I exaggerate the slurs just to
get under their skin watching as the prep, or hipster, as they are called now, man
hold onto the woman and she clutches her purse. “I’m a fucking drunk not a thief!
You assholes,” I say normally with my eyes squinted and march for the door
walking perfectly. Kevin shakes his head apologizing for my behavior and giving
them a round on the house. I take out a Newport 100 and light it taking long
drag, making it glow bright orange as it burns the paper with grey smoke dancing
into the air. I hold in that minty smoke in my lungs, relishing the nicotine high and
the heightened buzz feeling from the combination of alcohol and nicotine.
Exhaling an elongated cloud, flicking the ash that formed and taking another
drag, I begin to walk towards my house. The bar is only a block away, but on nice
nights paired with feisty moods, I take the long way in case anyone wants to fight
or fuck.
Tonight, I feel reckless and energized, as if I can party until the sun wakes
up. The rest of the city sleeping, as I lay lifeless on a park bench. Taking a right
instead of left, I decide the long way home tonight. I get halfway down the street
from the bar, watching cars whiz pass as I take a drag from my second cigarette,
when shadows behind me stretch taller; approaching me. Peaking over my right
shoulder with hurried feet, I see a hooded figure closing the gap between us. My
heart jackhammering through my breastbone as the bubbling vodka induced
buzz extinguishes with ice. My gut screaming to run, but before I can give the
approval, my feet slam into the pavement creating some needed distance. The
hooded figure crosses the street, walking into that dreadful park. My heart still
banging and blood thudding in my ears. I need a fucking drink. The red and white
Budweiser neon sign a flickering lighthouse beacon slows my heart rate and
allows whatever buzz left to bubble again. I grab the golden handle of the green,
single square, windowed door and allow the smell of booze and decades-old
stale cigarettes to engulf my nostrils as it opens, which instantly calms my wired
nerves. I take a step into the hallway and everything goes black. A thick fabric
covers my face and is sucked into my open, gasping mouth.
I feel a tight grip on my wrists, which are tied together with a thin plastic-
like string, jerks my thrashing body. I hear a car door open as I’m shoved inside,
and the door slams violently shut. I try my best to look through the fibers of the
fabric with no luck. My voice muffled failing to raise any alarm that I’ve been
abducted. My body is pinned and glued to the leather seat. The smell of men’s
cologne and leather breaks through the fabric. Burning rubber and tires
screeching fills my new blackened fabric world with heightened senses. No one
knows where I am. No one will look for me for days. My mind jumps from one
terrifying thought to the next; and, sweat drips from my eyebrows into my blind
eyes stinging with each drop.
“You’ve been talking to everyone all around town about Father Wayne
beating a boy to death. You mind sharing your story with me? I can help you,” a
deep raspy voice says from my right, so I figure I must be behind the driver.
“W-who are you? Where are you taking me?” My voice shaky and
unpredictable high and low stutters the words.
The deep raspy voice sighs, “Listen, we both know if I told you who I was
you wouldn’t need that sack over your head. So, let’s be honest with each other.
You tell me what you saw, and we will let you go. Fair enough for ya?”
I give a quick nod, trying to piece together my drunken memories of that
blackout night. I inhale a deep slow breath the mixture of cologne and leather
filling my lungs, pausing before I exhale through a straw as my therapist, once
upon a time, told me to do before reaching for another drink, but jokes on her
though, those deep breaths turned into gulps. I lean my body against the leather
seat, and get as comfortable as I can, before I recount the events that lead to a
heavy three-day binge followed by two days of being broke and desperate for
booze. I inhale and repeat the process, hoping that Mr. Raspy Voice will get
annoyed and pull the trigger now instead of making me relive it again. Halfway
through my third inhale; I hear the chilling sound of cocking a gun, followed by
the undeniable weight and metallic feel, even with the black barrier, against my
forehead. Fuck. I take back that wish. Don’t shoot me. A war rages on in my mind
whether to let Mr. Raspy Voice kill me now or later, making it impossible for me
to collect my thoughts. Click. I let out a bloodcurdling, ear splitting scream
chased by sobs and urine soaked pants as Mr. Raspy Voice pulls the trigger.
Inaudible pleas in-between gasps and sobs answered with a shift, hit from the
stock of the gun, breaking my nose and erupting a volcano of blood, flooding my
mouth and drenching my sac.
“You have a minute to compose yourself. That was the only empty
chamber,” that deep raspy voice explained calmly, chilling my spine. I did my
very best to calm my self down using the pain from my broken nose as a tool to
snap me back to the task.
“Y-you know I’m a drunk, right? Well I did what I do every night, go drink
alone in the corner at the bar. I can have only a certa-,” a hand grabs my throat
muting me.
“You’re stalling, Mick. And I don’t like it,” that chillingly calm voice was
losing patience.
“N-n-no. I- I’m not stalling. My brain is fucked up from years of booze. My
memory sucks and I-,” the hand squeezed harder, and I try to reach for my
throat, causing that plastic tie to dig into my skin. “Ok ok,” I manage to croak out
through the snake like finger twisting and squeezing my throat for dinner. “I got
thrown out that night for fighting some bitch after she slipped my last drink. I was
flying high and walked through the park looking for someone to drink or sleep
with. I was by those large bushes, ya know? The ones that are always overgrown
and people have sex behind from time to time, ya know? Well I heard a boy
screaming and a man yelling ‘Shut up! Shut the fuck up’ to the boy. The boy was
crying, kicking and clawing at the man’s arm. He had him by the hair and
dragged him along the gravel. I hid behind those bushes and made a little
opening to watch what the hell was happening, ya know. The man went under
the light, and I saw his red-brown hair and that crooked nose. I knew it was
Father Wayne. I just knew it. But he was angry like beyond angry. The boy was
crying, and Father Wayne still had him by the hair. He shouted ‘Stop yellin’. Stop
that cryin’! But that boy was scared. Father Wayne hit him hard with his other
hand, making the boy cry harder. That’s when the cycle started, ya know? Father
Wayne hit harder after every sob until the boy went limp and quiet. Father Wayne
was crying, and he wouldn’t stop punching that boy’s head,” my voice trails and
new tears fill my eyes, pouring silently over my bloodstained cheeks.
“I couldn’t move. I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t see the boy’s face anymore. It
looked like a smashed pumpkin, and Father Wayne was covered in his blood. I
knew I needed a triple vodka, hold the soda, after witnessing the fucking beloved
priest beat a boy to death. I watched Father Wayne let go of the boy’s hair and
run faster than any horse out the gate runs towards the pond. I walked right up to
that boy’s bloody body. I prayed for him to find peace and knew I needed about
five shots of vodka after that sight. I ran the best I could to the pond and saw
Father Wayne stripped down scrubbing his face and body. His clothes were
thrown in the trash. You know that trash can near the bench on top of that small
hill before you reach the pond. He tossed his clothes in there. Well, I waited a
long time for Father Wayne to get his ass out the water. Took him ten whole
minutes before he came out, dripping wet. Then he rolled in the dirt. The
strangest thing I have ever seen, a grown man rolling in the dirt, after killing a
small child. Then, he walked towards the church. I walked to that bar you
abducted me in front of and got blackout drunk. The bartender made me call the
police, since I was looking like a ghost and shaking as if I was having bad
withdrawals or a seizure. I told them everything. We walked to the park and stood
right at those bushes.
But nothing was there. I walked to where I saw the body. Nothing. Not
even a speck of blood on the gravel. That boy’s head was destroyed and lying in
a pool of blood but there was no body and no pool of blood. I watched as the
police rolled their eyes at me. ‘Cause I’m a drunk and completely wasted already.
I got escorted out of one bar claiming that I must have alcohol brain, and I’m not
reliable or I passed out and dreamt this all. I took them to the pond to show them
the clothes in that trashcan. Just take out containers, water bottles, and several
nips of vodka. They share that same glance again. Oh, by the way, they took
those nips and tested them and apparently, I drank them and tossed them in that
same trash. I told them that I watched the priest roll in the dirt and march off to
church. They brought dogs out no scents. They questioned the priest who
happened to be at a church function with over 100 people. The police said there
weren’t any missing boys in a 50-mile radius. So, I went about my routine telling
everyone I could, because I know what a saw. Now I don’t know who you are Mr.
Raspy Voice, or if you believe me, but something fishy went down that night. I
don’t care if you pull that trigger and I’m dead. I know what I saw. Now, may I
have a drink, please?” My narrative took more of a fuck you approach than I
intended. The last few words dangled in the air as I realized, I might have just
pissed off the stranger that abducted me, pulled a trigger, pistol-whipped me, and
choked me twice.
“Listen, I believe you when you saw you saw all that. Maybe it wasn’t
Father Wayne. Did you think of that? Did you think that there are other people
with red brown hair and crooked nose? Maybe highly connected people that can
get shit cleaned up in the few hours it took your ass to talk, because you slur too
fucking much, right Mick? Maybe you talked in circles that night and they didn’t
believe you, because yeah, you’re a drunk, Mick. A loudmouth drunk who never
should have taken the long way home right, Mick?” Mr. Raspy Voice made every
word demand attention causing hairs all over my body to rise and goose bumps
to form along my arms. A loud thunderous roar emerged from the passenger seat
followed by laughs like a pack of hyenas, cackling and surrounding their pray.
Fuck. I need to get out of here. My urine-soaked jeans cold and stiff become
warm again, and my body goes numb against the seat. The car stops and the
doors pop open. I’m ripped out of the car and dragged onto gravel. I pull my wrist
hard against the plastic tie trying to break free. My voice failing me, again, I am
unable to cry for help or make a noise as my knees are scraped along the
ground. The dragging stops and the blood-drenched fabric is removed. Refusing
to look anywhere, I glue my eyes to the ground. The cold metal presses hard
against my head.
“Look up,” that deep, chilly, raspy voice demands. I unglue my eyes
trailing up his black shiny dress shoes to his black pants. “You want a drink?” I
know that question anywhere now. I know that voice. He asks, and I know this
time it’s my last drink. I shake my head yes, tears filling my eyes finding the
tracks the left before. My eyes see the tattoos and those muscular biceps. He
hands me a nip of vodka and I swallow it down like being trapped in the dessert
for weeks. I see his winning smile and that scrunched up crooked nose, tossing
his red brown hair. He puts the gun to my head. “Yeah you knew what you saw
alright, Mick.” I stare into his dark brown, almost black, lifeless eyes.
“Do I pay my tab now or later?” I smirk before my world turned black.
You must sign up or log in to submit a comment.
2 comments
I liked the bit about the voice. At first I was wondering if it was just a repetitive description but then the ending explained it. Great job. I especially like the end.
Reply
Love this! I happened to be playing some noir jazz as I read this story, so your story had a theme song as I read. Your character's attitude is consistent and engaging. Taking the long way home in hopes of fighting or fucking shows real badass, hard-shelled character. I really like images like this one: "Tonight, I feel reckless and energized, as if I can party until the sun wakes up. The rest of the city sleeping, as I lay lifeless on a park bench." In some cases, I don't get the image at first: "A thick fabric covers my face and is ...
Reply