Hatchet Man

Hatchet Man

By Andrea Moya

Rob felt the weight of the small axe in his hand and waited. It was a slow afternoon at work. Several reservations came in, the bells above the door jangling each time they were pushed open. Outside it was raining, chilly gusts of air burst through the entrance each time a group arrived. The girls at the front desk greeted guests with smiles and paperwork. He watched from a distance as they went over the rules. The visitors grinned nervously, some overwhelmed by the noise coming from the cages behind him, the incessant thud of metal against wood, like thunder trapped indoors.

Rob supervised the cages at I Got Axed, one of those BYOB axe throwing places mid-30s hipsters love. After checking them in, the girls lead the parties to him, and in under five minutes, he demonstrated proper throwing technique, reviewed safety measures, and wished them luck. Then he became invisible.

Aside from his glasses and being tall, there wasn’t much that set him apart. A plaid shirt covered his tattoos, his faded jeans were ripped by time and wear, and he kept his blonde hair cropped close. The less they noticed him, the better.

Groups of friends or families or couples settled around the tables set in front of each cage. They knocked back beers and threw sharp hatchets against wooden panels painted with a bull’s eye, two per cage. What could possibly go wrong? Well, that was what he was there for. But most of the time, he was just bored. He checked his phone, the glow of the screen reflected off his glasses. He was aware of screams of delight and peals of shrill laughter around him. None of that demanded his attention. His ears were finely tuned to the types of screams he’d need to respond to.

“One of our axes fell behind the board,” said a voice behind him.

He turned, shutting off his phone and pocketing it in one smooth motion. He faced a short girl with shoulder-length black hair, brown eyes, light brown skin. She wore a black tank top and skinny jeans. She looked up at him, her expression half amused, half apologetic. He handed her the axe he’d been idly carrying around.

“Don’t worry, I’m sure there’s more behind there, happens all the time,” he assured her.

She flashed him a sideways smile and walked back to her group. His eyes followed her, something felt oddly familiar about her. It took him a few seconds to register, the scar, above her left eye –

             A scream cut through the noise. His feet were moving, running, before he was even aware of it. In a few strides he was in the cage. A guy, clearly drunk, was clutching a bloody shoulder, and his friend, also drunk, was apologizing over and over and over again. Rob shut it all out as he surveyed the damage. Skin broken, blood oozing out, not too deep. One of the front desk girls appeared behind him with the first aid kit, he slid on the latex gloves, and got to work.

It was a miracle that accidents like this didn’t happen more often, but Rob lived for these moments. When he was cleaning a wound, putting pressure on a compress, giving instructions, that’s when he felt like himself again, fully engaged, not afraid to be seen. It was rarely anything serious, most people couldn’t throw an axe hard enough to do consequential damage. But it was a hit, a reminder of who he’d been in his old life.

“He should be OK,” Rob said, scanning the crowd around him, looking for the most sober among them. “Get him to the ER, he’s going to need stitches.”

As he stood up, Rob noticed people from the other cages were also staring. It reminded him of car crashes, the drivers slowing down, gawking. The human being is addicted to tragedy, both terrified and hopeful of catching just a glimpse of the carnage. Rob walked to the bathroom.

Single stall, unisex, he pressed the door open with his shoulder and let it shut behind him without locking it. The gloves went into the garbage. He washed his hands even though they were clean.

The bathroom door opened and he expected to hear a short, embarrassed gasp when whoever was there realized it was occupied. Instead, he felt a narrow blade placed softly in the middle of his back. The bathroom door snapped shut and this time he heard it lock. He was pinned against the sink, looking at his own reflection in the mirror, but couldn’t see who was standing behind him, holding the hatchet.

“I wasn’t sure if it was you,” said a girl’s voice. “But when you put on the gloves I knew.”

Shit. Rob closed his eyes. The scar. The girl. He remembered her face. Not the apologetic, smiling expression framed by short black hair, the original image of her that lived in the darkest corner of his mind, without the scar, with long hair, her face several years younger, a teenager he guessed, covered in blood, features twisted in fear and pain. That particular snapshot hadn’t come up in a very long time even though that night was with him always, like the scar on her forehead.

“Do you know who I am?” she asked.

He nodded and opened his eyes. He leaned slightly forward, separating his back from the axe just a few centimeters, enough to turn around and face her. His hands were up and now the blade was against his chest. And there she was, this ghost, older and different but unmistakable, her face a mask of anger and hate. He deserved it, all of it, even the hatchet against his sternum.

“Who am I?” she said.

For a few moments Rob couldn’t find the words, the names.

“Edgar’s sister,” he said finally.

She grimaced; tears appeared in the corners of her eyes. The axe stayed in place. “It was your fault,” she said.

He nodded again. This seemed to annoy her, she pressed the blade deeper, indenting the skin. Beneath it his heart raced, but he kept still.

“You don’t even deny it. I bet you’re proud of yourself. Nothing happened to you.”

He took a breath. “How did you know?”

“My aunt works at the hospital where you took him. She saw you that night. She heard the doctors say you were high. You fucked up. Gave him too much of something. They should’ve arrested you, but she told me you just left. They didn’t do anything even though…” Her voice broke and he could see her hands had turned white from gripping the axe.

“I know.”

She barked a laugh at him. “Of course, you know. Why wouldn’t a white guy get away with killing a brown kid? That’s just how the world works, right?”

“I’m sorry.” He regretted those words the moment they came out of his mouth but he had no idea what else to say.

“Fuck your sorry.”

It was a routine car crash. Toxicology reports confirmed that the father had been driving drunk. He died at the scene. The mother, in the passenger seat, survived after several weeks in intensive care. Two kids in the back. The girl had cuts on her face and legs and a broken arm. The boy was in critical condition, head wound where his skull broke the glass window he’d been sleeping against.

“I was high,” Rob said. “I’d been driving the ambulance high for a long time. I’d made mistakes before and you’re right, they covered for me. Until he died. Then they got rid of me.”

“Shut up! You’re still alive, we lost everything.”

“You’re right. I should’ve gone to jail. I shouldn’t have been allowed to work as an EMT in the condition I was in. I was an addict.”

Rob remembered seeing them through the fog, the fear and pleading in her eyes, the boy’s eyes rolled back in his head. The adrenaline of the moment allowed him to function but just barely. He couldn’t even remember which drug he was on that night, just the hazy contours of everything as he reached for vials of medicine through sheer muscle memory. The dose makes the poison.

“I’m clean,” Rob said.

“Did I ask you? Do you think I give a shit?”

He remembered when the kid went still. When the machine redlined. When he realized what he’d done. But even then, in the ambulance, he couldn’t feel anything, not until later, much later. When nothing happened to him, even though a kid was dead.

“Adriana.” Her name had been in the newspaper when they sued the ambulance company and the hospital. “I’m sorry. Nothing I can do will bring him back. I live with that every day. I know that’s nothing compared to your pain, to what I put your family through...”

The blade now cut into the epidermis and focused his attention.

“And I can tell you…” he pressed on, “you don’t want to do this.” Rob swallowed. “That night destroyed your life and mine. And if you do this it will continue to take from you.”

“There’s nothing left.”

“There is. I saw it earlier, when you talked to me, before you knew who I was.”

“That’s an act.”

The words felt as sharp as the hatchet. “It’s an act for me, too. Every day. Please tell me what I can do to help you. To make it right. I mean, I know I can’t make it right but…”

The blade cut through the dermis. Blood began to stain is shirt. The pain was sharp and urgent. He closed his eyes, panic starting to bubble up.

Then he relaxed, his frame sagging slightly as he surrendered. His arms came down. In a way, hadn’t he been praying for this? The long overdue reckoning, his violent absolution. His eyes opened and he saw the girl in front of him, full of pain and anger and helplessness.

That night cost him his job, his EMT license, he’d dropped out of medical school, OD’d on heroin, banished to rehab. Luxury problems. Because he was still alive. He knew the company paid off the family, he didn’t know how much. But it wasn’t enough, it never would be.

“OK,” he said. Without thinking he took the hatchet between two fingers and put it against his left breast, where his heart beat as if trying to break through the wall of muscle and skin. “Do what you need to do.”

They stood like that for a long time, eyes locked. He could see her internal struggle and he took a step forward.

Someone knocked on the door.

“Rob, are you OK?” said a muffled voice from the other side.

Adriana tensed, her eyes widening.

“Yeah, I’m fine. I’ll be out soon. Sorry.”

“OK,” said the voice, unconvinced.

Adriana looked back for just a split second, a reflex. Rob moved quickly, he grabbed the handle of the hatchet and put a hand against her mouth, pressing her against the wall next to the door.

The fear was back in her eyes.

“I know you think I walked away untouched but there isn’t a day that goes by that I don’t think about him. I haven’t touched drugs or alcohol in five years and I try to help others to get clean but it doesn’t take away what I did. I don’t want that for you. To be stuck in that night, too. Believe me, it’s so much worse to live with that.”

She let go of the hatchet. Tears drew lines down her face.

“Tell them I tried to hurt you,” he said.

She looked up at him, eyes wide.

“If what you want is justice, tell them I tried to take advantage of you, that you defended yourself. They’ll arrest me. I won’t deny it.”

He let her go. She unlocked the door and ran.

After a few seconds, he stepped out. The girls from the front desk were standing around gaping at him, their expressions running the gamut from shocked to horrified. He waited for them to call 911, to lock him in the office, he waited for the consequences to finally come.

“Are you all right?” asked one of them. “Oh my God, she hurt you!”

He looked down, the bloodstain was spreading, the fabric of his shirt ripped, but he didn’t say anything. The hatchet was in his hand. He set it down on the counter and stepped outside.

It was still raining and Adriana was gone. He waited, sitting on the curve. Waited for the police cars, waited for something, anything to happen. The pain vibrated in his chest, stretching with every breath. Soon he was soaked through, the cold penetrating fabric, skin, muscle, his body shivered. Gradually night fell. New groups arrived, glancing at him before walking in.

Eventually, Rob sighed and stood up, he needed to get back inside. Nothing was going to happen. Because nothing ever did.