Chronologically Confused

CW: Violence, strong language (including profanity), and suicide references.

Heirlooms are an interesting thing.

They’re special objects—watches, books, jewelry, you name it—that are passed from generation to generation. They are like the color of your eyes, the shape of your nose, or maybe even the way your nail grows.

But heirlooms are different in a special way.

Patrick was 27 when his dad gave him an heirloom—a golden Rolex with worn brown leather straps. Not long after that, his father took his own life, a tragedy that rippled through the lives of others on that somber, cloudy night.

Patrick wouldn’t say his dad was unhappy. On the surface, he had it all: a healthy body, friends to play cricket with, a lovely family, two beautiful dogs named after the Norse gods—Thor and Loki—and regular trips to the Orioles stadium. That was why it hit so hard when Patrick found him at home, knife in hand, aimed straight at the chest.

The night itself was shocking, but the more Patrick thought about it, the less surprising he found it. Everything just started clicking in his mind, piece by piece. The offhand comments about death his dad used to make—“Don’t say that, George!” his mom would scold whenever his dad joked about killing himself. How he began to gift precious things to everyone, even in the middle of summer. And the stories told from when he was an infant.

A couple of months passed by, and he was gone. Erased from the physical world, only to be transferred to our hearts and minds—or at least that was what the psychologist had said after their first session there. Words didn’t come close to the overwhelming feeling that arose inside Patrick; it was a combination of different emotions.

Guilt. Pain. Terror.

All of that continued to wash over him for some months, as he pictured the face of his father, the blood spilled on the carpet, and the panic of his mother’s scream over and over. Dreams or not dreams. It was there, in his head, and it wouldn’t go away.

Accompanied by that tragic death came a letter. It came with a watch and some strict instructions telling him not to share it with anyone. It wasn’t that special; it even felt quite . . . disappointing. It just told Patrick how he must take care of the heirloom.

It will show you the answers at the end of the road.

It said over and over, like a mantra.

He re-read the entire letter a couple of times to fully grasp its contents, but the message was clear. Very clear. He was to take care of the heirloom at all costs, and for no reason show it to anyone or talk about it.

Yeah . . . Patrick kind of broke the rule by going to the watchmaker and asking him what was so special about that clock. The watchmaker examined it for a while and watched it closely, finally saying that the Rolex wasn’t authentic and was a very well-made replica of the original: a Rolex Datejust.

Patrick shrugged and took it to his home, locked it inside some big safe—even if it was just a cheap replica—and left it there for almost a year, not taking it out, not taking a glance at it, and almost forgetting about its existence. Until one night a goblin came asking for it.

Patrick’s eyes were closed, and his feet were cold. It was December, and the temperature outside was below 30 degrees. His hands were freezing as he tried to take on the night and get some sleep, with a couple of bed quilts covering his body. While his hands were hugging the largest pillow, Patrick tried counting sheep, imagining a world of fantasy, and even getting another quilt for the bed.

He just couldn’t get himself to sleep.

Being from Baltimore, you’d think Patrick was used to the cold. But no, he was from California, San Diego to be specific. And let’s just say cold there isn’t a very common thing.

CRASH

It was coming from downstairs, the sound of metal clanking against itself. A sudden reverb echoed across the house and interrupted his attempts at sleep. Patrick’s first thought was that maybe his mother was making herself some food at . . . two in the morning.

It came again.

CRASH

Not his mom. A burglar, then. And not a careful one.

Patrick rose from his bed, took a jacket, and grabbed the first baseball bat he found lying in the room. It had to be one of his father’s because in his life he had never remembered buying one so perfect. Patrick held it tight in his grasp, opened the door quietly, and began going down the stairs. Tiptoeing. As he heard an incredibly loud rummaging from below.

Whoever was down there was searching for something, and wasn’t finding it.

The light of the kitchen was turned on, and he saw pans, pots, knives, and forks flying around, some of them stuck to the ceiling. He hesitated to take the first step, taking into account the danger he was getting himself into.

What if . . . what if that man decides to throw a knife at me?

He brushed the thought away and continued to walk to the kitchen, his bat raised high. The sound of clicking came first, sharp and deliberate, like someone tapping a claw against metal. Patrick’s stomach churned as he turned toward the noise, only to see a strange small creature standing amidst the disaster in the kitchen.

It turned its little yellow eyes toward Patrick, clicking.

At first glance, he thought it was some sort of strange, ugly dog worthy of the ugliest dog in the world award, but that was when he saw its face. It was green, like the color of a freshly gardened avocado, with a nose sharper than a carrot, some Dumbo-like giant ears, and very thick eyebrows that made the creature appear angry all the time. It wore nothing but some ragged brown robes.

It was a goblin, Patrick knew it from the multiple series, TV shows, and games he had seen in his life. And the fact that it was a goblin and not a regular burglar scared him even more. Patrick could feel his heart pumping in his throat.

He stepped back, holding eye contact with the goblin, which clicked its tongue and twisted the knife in its hand. The goblin walked closer to Patrick and turned its head from side to side.

“Ah, a human!” it said in a squeaky little voice, its eyes gleaming bright. “You have Bob’s glimmer-glitter, ain’t it? Give it back!”

The goblin’s arm snapped forward like a whip, the knife spinning end over end in a deadly arc. Judging by how the knife got stuck in the wall Patrick had just been near seconds ago, that throw would’ve definitely killed him. That goblin was dangerous, so he made a run for it.

It threw another knife, missing him by a few inches. Patrick moved swiftly and hid just behind a cupboard, holding the bat tightly in his hands, his breathing shallow and desperate. White smoke formed in the cold air.

“Bob knows you have the golden thingy,” it said, its tongue catching between sentences, its footsteps skittering across the tiles. “Bob wants it back. Bob wants the gleaming thing back!” It kicked a pan that was in its way, coming closer to Patrick’s hiding spot.

He held the bat tighter.

What golden thing was the goblin talking about? And who was Bob? From what Patrick had heard, Bob might just be the little goblin—it did talk all strange in the few sentences he had heard.

“Little-nicky human,” it said, cackling a laugh through its teeth. “Bob really wants to see you. He thinks you’re pretty. Pretty pretty. He could fuck you over!”

Goblins were really strange.

Patrick didn’t want to find out more about them. As soon as the goblin’s ear peeked out, Patrick swung the bat at it, sending the little creature flying over, squeaking like a child.

“Help Bob, Mommy!” it cried as it was sent flying to the opposite room, the living room. “Bob is going to die. He’s not willing to die!”

PHAM!

The goblin crashed against the wall, embedding its figure in the soft concrete. Patrick approached carefully, still clutching hard to his bat. He saw the rolled eyes of the goblin and its mouth mumbling undecipherable words. On its head, a very big goose egg pulsed red, with just a couple of drops of blood trickling down.

Patrick didn’t care.

He dropped the bat to the floor and with both hands grabbed the goblin by the neck, squeezing. The creature was so light that Patrick was able to lift it up as if it were a mere feather, or a just-born toddler. It quickly regained consciousness and began kicking and slapping Patrick’s hands, trying to break free as he put more pressure on it.

Guess who didn’t have his knives now?

It tapped harder and started crying, floods of tears streaming down its face. It babbled like a little baby who had lost a candy. I kept squeezing harder, trying to break something, trying to do something. Its head turned the color of a Purple Emperador butterfly (do a quick Google search, they’re fascinating), and maybe out of pity, maybe not, I dropped it to the floor.

The little goblin immediately grabbed its neck, breathing hard and shallow, quickly scurrying to the far corner of the living room. Its goose egg looked worse. It wiped its tears and turned to me with a hateful expression.

“You humans are all the same. Fuck y’all. Y’all treat Bob bad,” it cried, burying its face between its legs.

So he was really called Bob, huh?

“What do you say about breaking into my house and throwing my knives? That’s not bad?”

He raised his twinkling eyes and spat some saliva on Patrick’s foot. “Fuck you. And technically speaking, it is not your home, it’s your mama’s.”

“Oh yeah?” Patrick said, taking two steps forward, his shadow multiplying over the goblin’s figure. “Maybe you’ll reconsider that if I throw you across the house again.”

“No, no, no. Please, please. Have mercy on Bob!” Bob scurried and buried himself in his legs. His body shook, and so did his lips. He looked so weak, so tiny without the power of those knives.

Patrick sighed and knelt down to the shaky goblin, who tried hard not to meet the caramel eyes of the man who claimed to own the house—when, in reality, he had nothing but a job at the shittiest place in the world. You guessed right, it’s McDonald’s.

“Look, you fucker,” Patrick muttered sweetly, playing with his fingers. “I just want to know why the hell you’re here. Then I can let you play with all the knives you want, okay?”

Bob seemed to consider Patrick’s idea and maybe, just maybe, doubted its veracity. So it was intelligent. That meant something. Still, Bob nodded and fell for the trap, telling Patrick just what he wanted to know.

“I know George Kavinsky,” Bob said, sniffling back snot. You really don’t want to know what the color of snot is. Trust me.

Patrick froze at this. He knew that name—not because it was some distant relative or a high school acquaintance. That was the name of his father. George Kavinsky. The name of his deceased father. And that didn’t make any sense.

What did his father have to do with this stupid little goblin? It just didn’t make sense unless . . . unless his father hadn’t told the truth.

“He’s dead,” Patrick said. “He’s fucking dead!”

Bob started crying again, burying his face between his tiny, crumbly legs. At first, Patrick thought it might be the volume of his voice, but he hadn’t realized he was holding a tight fist just above the goblin’s head, ready to strike.

He opened his hand and told the goblin to calm down. It sniffled more snot as tears dripped to the floor, staining the wooden floorboards.

“What else do you know?” Patrick asked.

“I-I-I-I know B-Bob’s boss wants something,” Bob stuttered, his lips twitching wildly. “He wants a valuable object.”

“What is that? What’s the valuable object?”

Bob met Patrick’s eyes before turning away and muttering into his legs. He wrapped his arms around his legs and buried his face in them, muttering more things Patrick couldn’t understand.

Patrick really did have a level of patience. Having a job where he had to listen to every kind of annoying dude order their burger was a hazardous thing. From crazy Karens who didn’t want onions on their burgers to overly demanding patrons who insisted on speaking to the manager because their fries were one degree below the normal temperature.

That was annoying, but not as annoying as the little goblin called Bob in front of Patrick. He just couldn’t resist it.

He grabbed the goblin by the collar of its robes and raised it from the ground as it started to cry and babble again. Good luck trying to break free, Bob!

“It tells the hours, the thing tells the hours,” Bob squeaked as he tried to bite Patrick’s hand. Its teeth weren’t that sharp. That was a surprise. “That’s all Bob knows. That’s all boss told him.”

Patrick dropped it again to the floor with a loud thump! Bob cursed and scurried to the little corner again, trying to put as much distance as possible between him and Patrick. His little twitchy eyes pulsed.

“Who is your boss?” Patrick asked, holding his fist tighter. This time, he wouldn’t hesitate to land a punch on Bob’s skull. That’d be quite enjoyable, if you may say.

“N-no. No boss. No boss,” it cried loudly. Patrick didn’t know if his mother had heard them by now, but surely her waking up and seeing a disgusting goblin in her living room would cause problems. Her heart wasn’t her main strength.

Patrick shook the goblin wildly, its eyes shaking as it muttered and tried to grab its head. Tears kept flowing from its eyes. “You are going to tell me who your boss is, or I swear I’m going to rip your fucking throat out.”

Bob sobbed louder, his eyes turning the color of grapefruit. “B-Bob is scared,” he said. “Bob doesn’t want to say the name. Bob is scared.”

Trying to get information out of Bob was one thing, but resisting the urge not to kill the creature in front of him was much more complicated. Patrick clenched his fist tight as he threw the goblin to the corner like a sack of sweet potatoes and rushed to the kitchen to grab a pen and paper.

He threw the pen and paper at the goblin. “Write the name,” Patrick snapped, indicating the objects that lay on the floor a couple of feet in front of Bob.

Bob turned to him and began laughing like a little bully, with shallow breaths and a quirky hump on its back. “I’m not going to do anything for you, human.” A huge smirk spread across its face.

Patrick didn’t have time for this. He stepped forward, grabbed the creature by its neck, and began squeezing hard—harder than he had done before. Only this time, it was different. Instead of crying and banging on Patrick’s arms, the goblin held a confident posture followed by a big grin.

Just in time, Patrick saw what was wrong. Beneath its robes, the goblin held a large, pointy knife, aiming directly at Patrick’s stomach. Patrick moved swiftly to the side as the goblin tried to stab him, then grabbed the knife out of Bob’s hand and stabbed it in his little shoulder.

“YOU FUCKER!” Bob cried as Patrick dropped the squirming creature to the floor. Blood oozed sluggishly out of the wound—just a little more deadly than the goose egg on his forehead. “WHY DID YOU DO THAT? ALL HUMANS ARE THE SAME. TRAITORS, FUCKERS, AND TRAITORS.”

It squirmed to a corner and began crying in pain, clutching its little shoulder and wearing an agonized expression. Patrick kicked the pen and paper closer to him.

“Write the name, and maybe I’ll decide to cure you.”

“Maybe?” Bob snapped, looking up at him. But he met Patrick’s serious face. The one the customers at McDonald’s were so terrified of, the one his manager hoped never to see again, and the very same one that scared the goblin into writing the name as if his life depended on it—cursing unintelligibly as he did.

“Here, here,” Bob said, throwing the paper. “You fucker got what you wanted. Now cure Bob. He’s going to die.”

Patrick ignored him and grabbed the piece of paper that lay on the floor, stained with a few drops of blood but otherwise readable through the black ink the goblin had scribbled onto it.

Mordecai.

Oh, no . . .

If what Patrick was thinking was really right, this wasn’t going to be a very happy journey.