Chapter 1

Knock… knock… knock.

    I startled awake at the sound. Judging by the increasing thud on the door, they had knocked more than once. It was frantic. “Coming” I mumbled as I roused myself from the couch that had been my prison for the last 17 days. The coolness of the hardwood floor under my feet jarring my senses, I staggered to the window. Being careful to not call attention to the curtains, I peered out into the front lawn. By normal standards, it was a beautiful day. The sun was out, the grass was green, and the damn squirrels were knocking walnuts off the tree again. 

Strange. There wasn’t a soul out there. Not any explanation for the pounding on my door, no one hurrying down the sidewalk, not even a car passing down the street. There was however, a package. 

    I opened the door and picked up the package. I sat it on the table by the door and headed to the kitchen. Coffee. The clock on the stove reminded me that it was once again three in the afternoon. “Time isn’t real” I muttered to myself, filling the coffee filter to the brim. Fill the water, press the on button, seven minutes until the bean water is ready.

    The blinking red light on the answering machine caught my attention. It had been screaming at me for longer than I can remember. Beeeeeeeeeep.

    “Hello Adrian, it’s me again, Dr. Watson. I was hoping to catch you this time. You’ve missed your appointment again and I am just  calling to check on you. I know you’re struggling right now and wanted to remind you that keeping your appointments is going to be crucial to healing. Please let me know if you need anything, and I hope to hear from you soon about rescheduling. Thanks, mm-bye.”

    My psychiatrist. Again. I listened to the message once more as I filled my mug, and walked back to the couch. My sister would kill me if she had seen what’s happened to this old thing. The dark green couch that she kept in her living room with tartan blankets and throw pillows; now my safe haven. Beaten down by lack of motivation to get up, down pillows with holes leaking feathers, and the old quilt I picked up at a garage sale after moving and abandoning almost  all of my worldly possessions two months ago.

    I sat down, and lit a cigarette as I watched the steam from the fresh coffee billow over the sides of my mug like volcanic ash. Strike the match, inhale sharply, exhale, and relax. I would say this is the best part of my day, but realistically this is what I do all day. Add in a sprinkle of staring at the typewriter, and a dash of the f bomb, and you've got it. “Be a writer, they said. It will be fun, they said.” I mocked. Yeah, right. 

    Dr. Watson told me 4 weeks ago that after a traumatic event, it may take me some time to find the inspiration to put pen to paper again. Boy was she right. Some things, you just don’t recover from. It’s why I moved, why I abandoned my house, my shop, friends and family, and just left. Tacoma was nice, but I needed change and Washington just wasn’t cutting it anymore. 

Welcome to Corinth, Mississippi. It gets pretty warm down here in the south, but I’m working on my accent and there is a soda fountain, so hey, it will do. The rent is cheap, there are a handful of old bookstores and coffee shops, and I passed some interesting food joints on my way into town. Maybe one day I’ll venture out and see the sights. At least, more than the corner store that keeps coffee, American Spirit cigarettes, and cat food on the shelves. Fuck, i thought to myself. Sadie is out of wet food. 

Nub out cigarette, get dressed, walk to store. It’s not that hard, Adrian. A, B, C. 

I’ve always hated that little bell that hands inside doors of old shops that alerts the clerks to your arrival. “Good afternoon, Adrian!” the woman at the counter says with a smile that says she is way to happy to be here today. She’s maybe in her early 20’s, auburn hair, and toxic green eyes. She reminds me all too much of Samantha, my late wife. She watches me as I grab a basket and head for the coffee isle. Still out of Folgers. Maxwell House is the next best thing, I guess. Two isles over is the cat food. Grabbed a case of that, and headed back towards the register. 

Her name tag reads “Clementine”. Why am I not surprised that a southern girl would have a name like that. “Cigarettes today?” she asks with a flirtatious smile. “You know it.” Glancing at the screen and grabbing my wallet, “It’s going to be $18.43 today.” She says. 

Receipt and bags in hand, almost to the exit when she calls back, “Looks like a wicked storm is rolling in, better make that walk home a fast one.” Sure enough. Lightning is flashing just off in the distance and the sky is turning purple. I made it to the end of the block before it started to sprinkle a cool southern rain, the tiny drops stirring up that earthy smell of pine and dirt. The walk back to the house was only 6 more blocks. Increasing my pace slightly so as to still enjoy the storm rolling in but not be soaked by the time I reached home, I made my way down the street.

Sadie heard the rattle of the keys in the door and came to greet me. She knew I had the good stuff in those bags. I dropped the bags on the counter and grabbed her food bowl as she rubbed against my legs. “It’s supper time.” I said as she looked up and me. I scratched her head as I filled her bowl with Seafood Delight. 

6:07 read the clock on the stove. I poured myself another cup of coffee. It had been on the warmer far too long and was surely burnt by now. I grabbed the one pan I managed to throw into the U-Haul back in Tacoma and filled it up with water to cook the same chicken flavored ramen I have been eating since I arrived. The first week or two, it wasn’t great. Now I’m just used to it. 

With a hot bowl of noodle soup, I sat down at the writing desk that held my typewriter. Maybe if I just type random sentences something will come to me, I thought. 

It was a stormy night. No.

The clouds rolled in like giant waves. No.

There was a knocking on the door. No. That wasn’t it either. But it did remind me of something. 

I glanced over at the package on the table by the door. It was addressed to me, which was weird because I don’t recall ordering anything, and I sure as hell didn’t tell anyone where I was going or how to contact me. I even took on a fake name when I got here, so the simple fact that it had my REAL name scrawled on it was concerning. 

The lights flickered as I picked up the brown box and made my way to find some scissors to cut through the layers of tape wrapped around it. What the fuck is this, who is it from, and why did they wrap it in what seems to be an entire roll of packing tape? Opening the box, and removing the packing peanuts that filled it, a newspaper wrapped object came into sight. The Tacoma Herald printed in old english font sent chills down my spine. Slowly unwrapping the paper, I started to smell it. It was cold to the touch, and the hideous monstrosity of a diamond ring I slid onto her finger on our wedding day glared up at me. The cool gray tone of her skin wasn’t as flattering as the rosy pink tone Samantha once had. I dropped the severed hand on the kitchen floor.

“How did you find me?”