Twisted Indulgence

The holidays always brought out the worst in people. In the previous shift, some festive do-gooder had put seasonal bunting on each of the desks. His crumpled orange and black bunting was round-filed before he sat down. Jackson wasn’t the only officer offended by the reminder that the precinct was open 24/7, holidays included.

The station was subdued, almost gloomy. Something had shifted in the last few months, an unspoken tension that lingered beneath the surface. Internal Affairs was still sniffing around. Several officers, usually the ones with rug rats, weaseled out of Thanksgiving by taking comp days. Lieutenant Kuryakin had been a sucker, especially if a few bills got stuck in the holiday request forms. Their leave was still honored even with Lieutenant Kuryakin on “unpaid leave” pending inquiry. Jackson didn’t blame him. Nobody deserves the pain he went through with his ex-wife. Jackson hoped the lieutenant was enjoying the holiday, despite the insurance fraud. Unpaid leave was never a good sign, even in this corner of Atlanta.

Jackson had no kids, no hen-pecking, no ill relatives mooching on him—even though he got leaned on to pick up extra shifts—he felt like he skipped a bullet. Still, he, like most of the other officers, would rather be home on the holiday. The orange and black decor had already been marred by drunks. People do odd things around this time of year. Too much pressure dealing with relatives.

He missed the camaraderie. Jackson’s reputation as the officer who thwarted a robbery with only his radio was both a source of pride and of friendly teasing among his colleagues. But today, with the lingering tension haunting Station 3, eyes were down, no one teased him.

The coffee machine remained untouched. The sickly sour stench meant it was left by the night shift. On his way out, he skipped his usual morning thermos, as much a minor concession to his irritable bowel syndrome as to pure laziness. He didn’t want to make a new pot. Jackson would rather get moving.

The weight of recent events pressed upon him, and the absence of the morning caffeine left him slightly off-kilter. Holidays were often like this.

The duty officer noted the car’s mileage against Jackson’s trip sheet, copied the number, and waved him through the barrier. Frost glazed the pumpkins on local porches, sentinels indifferent to Jackson’s darkening mood. With a headache pulsing like a forgotten drumbeat, Jackson sneered at the ramshackle decorations. Some were left over from Halloween. Many were smashed or rotten.

He had no motivation to work today, so he put a few miles on his cruiser circling the zoo.

A local coffee shop beckoned, its inviting aroma wafting—now heated—through the car’s vents. His finger twitched enough to trigger the turn signal. But the call of temptation whispered a different direction, leading him away from caffeine comfort and toward the familiar streets around Mechanicsville.

The neighborhood was dull, almost cheerless. A waft of barbecue hit him from the local rib shop. They had one of those fake smoker kits set on the corner, just burning enough mesquite to flavor the air. It was nice, made him hungry. Any other year, he’d skip breakfast intentionally, saving room for thanksgiving dinner. This year, he didn’t feel like eating when he got up. His dinner was a BLT. It was the best he could manage from the scraps in his fridge. He looked at his soggy BLT with little enthusiasm. It was turkey bacon, so…on message.

Six months ago, he’d bust up a trap house a block north of Jenny’s house. The lot should be vacant, but he noticed a new board nailed over a broken window. Wispy, thread-bare curtains and fly-marked windows showed a lack of care typical of such places.

He parked his cruiser and looked through the window. He could shove his fingers through the rotten cracks on the windowsills. The place seemed empty. The house smelled of cat piss and rotten eggs. Likely someone cooking meth, an escalation for the trap house. Usually, local junkies would come here for a fix, but one way or another—he thought gravely—they rarely left on their feet.

Why Jenny chose this neighborhood, he couldn’t fathom. There were better neighborhoods around her school. As long as she was working in the inner-city, the government would pay her student loans, so he assumed she could afford a better place. He teased her about liking the road’s red bricks. “Follow the red brick road,” he said with his best munchkin impression.

Jackson looked away from the broken building, down the row of houses.

He wanted to stretch his legs.

His cruiser, a silent sentinel, would serve as a subtle alert for any newcomers or prospective visitors to the trap house. Perhaps he’d see Jenny. Maybe even share a casual wave signaling his continued presence—his enduring commitment to her safety. A brief stroll seemed harmless. Yet, in the broader context, this neighborhood was a priority for his precinct—showing his face an integral part of his professional responsibility.

Jackson’s footsteps echoed in the muted morning, the rhythmic tapping of his polished boots accompanying his journey. His headache persisted. His gaze fixed on Jenny’s house. Driving past it had become a part of his end-of-shift routine, a frequent detour to keep his mileage up, otherwise his Sargent would start asking questions.

Jenny’s absence from work and sporadic evenings away from home had fueled a curiosity that Jackson couldn’t shake. She had a new beau—he was sure of it. Regardless, watching Jenny’s house was an innocent rebellion against routine, an act of resistance against work’s tedium. Others had done worse. It was just an indulgence, prodded by still-raw emotions.

He could be here. He had an obligation to keep the peace.

True, he had hoped she’d realize she made a mistake leaving him—though was it a mistake? He was an ass to her.

A tall, well-dressed man appeared outside Jenny’s house, carrying flowers and a sizable box.

Jackson’s boots made a grinding noise on the sidewalk.

The stranger’s confident demeanor and the warmth of his smile cut through the chilly morning air. The contrast between his poised figure and Jackson’s obscured vantage prickled the officer’s feeling of intrusion.

He really shouldn’t be spying on his ex.

It was fine. Other officers had done much worse. This was a tough neighborhood.

Jenny greeted the man at her door with a hug, a gesture that stung Jackson like a sudden slap. His jaw tightened as he strained to catch snippets of their conversation. The man’s laughter, a sound of ease and familiarity, mingled with Jenny’s voice. They vanished into the house.

Duty, like a stern officer, reminded Jackson of his responsibilities elsewhere. The drug house, the official reason for his presence, beckoned. The temptation, a magnetic force fueled by jealousy and unresolved emotions, held him in place. He knew he should leave, but an irresistible pull kept him facing her house, a voyeur.

He inched closer to Jenny’s property, not exactly navigating the shadows like a thief in the night, but cautiously. Jackson was a cop—he reasoned—he could be here. It was a normal day, and he was on patrol.

The side gate creaked softly as he slipped inside. Jackson winced at the sound. Freezing in place, a panther caught mid-prowl. His gaze darted around the yard, scanning for any sign that his clandestine dance might be exposed. His breath, measured and deliberate, escaped in almost imperceptible puffs in the crisp air.

He navigated the yard like a phantom, the leaves beneath his boots conspiring to betray his presence. His pulse quickened as the thrill of the forbidden danced with the weight of guilt and self-disgust.

His rational mind pleaded with him to turn away, to focus on his duties as an officer of the law. But jealousy whispered louder than reason. Jackson could hear snippets of conversation, fragments of laughter, and the muffled sounds of movement. The risk heightened the intoxication of the moment. His internal monologue wavered between self-loathing, a perverse curiosity, and self-justification. The allure of seeing Jenny in a vulnerable moment held him captive in the morning sun.

He shouldn’t be here.

He calmed himself by making plans for a quick escape. The gate was still ajar. He checked his ear-piece was firmly in his radio. He didn’t want to be exposed by the regular squawks and reports that he had to listen to all day.

Jackson looked up. The neighbor’s house was vacant. He could just say he was making sure that the house was secure.

He despised himself for stooping to this level, choosing this dance with his own demons. Yet, a gnawing need persisted—the need to ensure Jenny’s safety, to confirm she was being cared for properly. The stranger was an unwelcome interloper, a threat to Jackson’s manhood.

Intrusive thoughts whispered, suggesting drastic measures to eliminate this threat. The consequences loomed—a crime of passion, a descent into a green-tinged abyss. Rationalizing, he toyed with how he would convince a jury that he had heard screams, that his actions were a misguided attempt to protect. His fingers traced the strap of his revolver, the only true power he possessed. But deep down, he knew such actions were irrational, a perilous journey into the realm of irreversible consequences. Other officers had fallen to such spirals.

Jackson pondered if this moment marked the irrevocable end of any chance of reconciliation with Jenny. His anger at himself, at Jenny, and at the stranger inside her home intensified. He’d put so much energy into the relationship, and out of the blue, she had her sister break up with him. Jenny was in the wrong. His finger moved impulsively. The strap securing his revolver was a trifling barrier.

A chill swept over him; a cold sweat of anger beaded his brow. Steam rose from his body in the crisp air. He felt warm, but his fingers and toes were cold and bloodless.

Children’s laughter echoed through the house. The unexpected innocence intruded into Jackson’s twisted obsession. They ran into the yard, directly to the old trampoline. Jackson had caught neighborhood kids using it several times over the past year. They normally let themselves through the gate just ten feet from him. He hadn’t considered being exposed by local children. Jackson’s muscles tensed as he crouched against the brick wall. He was now a shadow behind the shrubby witch hazel—he was not a protector, just a common trespasser. He shouldn’t be here, clinging to the periphery of Jenny’s life like a ghost haunting his own past.

The visitor had kids. Damn it, he wanted kids with Jenny. She had turned him down. Jackson relented out of love.

Jenny, it was all about Jenny.

The kids began playing with a ball on the trampoline.

Jackson assumed Jenny didn’t want kids because she was surrounded by them all day long. He’d teased her that if she were better at her job, he would be redundant. She made him regret that joke. She told him she hated her childhood and saw no reason to inflict the same pain on her own kids.

There was movement in the bedroom just over his head. He pressed himself closer to the wall, hoping the bricks would swallow him whole. Could this interloper be so crass as to send his kids into the garden for a quick tryst? Shame from his curiosity and arousal reclaimed Jackson.

As Jenny’s voice filtered through the chilly air, Jackson’s head swiveled, eyes narrowing in on the bedroom window. His earpiece dangled from his fingers, momentarily forgotten. The laughter of children playing heightened his awareness of his intrusion. Jenny’s sweet voice easily carried through the single-paned glass.

A twisted excitement surfaced. He could hear the person Jenny had dumped him for only two months prior. The abyss of temptation, once a distant threat, now yawned wide open, ready to consume him whole. Jackson gritted his teeth, and fingered that tiny piece of leather, the one piece of animal hide standing between life and death.

The smells of turkey, fresh cornbread, and collard greens wafted through the air, blending with the bittersweet scent of his sweat. He could smell his own blend of fear and anger and lust, and…guilt.

Someone had put on a fresh pot of coffee, Jackson’s guts twinged. He felt pressure, low, grumbling. He may need to relieve himself. Pins and needles were creeping up his legs.

Jackson strained to eavesdrop on the conversation. The stranger’s voice was taut, sad. “Tell me, I’ll find out soon enough, anyway.”

Jenny spoke, not as a lover, but as if channeling a doctor trying to navigate the treacherous waters of medical jargon with emotional detachment. “Pancreatic cancer is one of the most dangerous types. It’s fast-moving, no method of early detection. You caught it late.” Her words, though measured, carried the gravity of a death sentence.

The stranger responded with composure, though, his voice cracked, “So that’s it, it’s over.” Their exchange painted a picture of resilience in the face of impending tragedy, a resilience that Jackson, hidden in the shadows, struggled to comprehend. The interloper was deathly ill, having only months at best to live. Jackson slid through an odd mix of relief and danger. Could Jenny want to ease her new boyfriend’s mind, give him hope and care in his last days? Had she agreed to become a parent to the kids? Had she traded Jackson for this burden? His arousal was unbidden, uncomfortable, shameful, and inappropriate.

A knock on the door interrupted the solemn conversation. The voice that followed sent a shiver down Jackson’s spine. It was Jenny’s sister, Beth. He recognized her voice from the few awkward calls—those calls. Beth entered with a softness in her voice, a gentle authority that Jackson hadn’t expected. Beth’s chiding, a blend of sisterly affection and stern admonishment, pierced the air. “This is a family holiday, don’t get too familiar.” Then she said, “making a move on my sister? Naughty.”

Jenny’s composure wavered as Beth spoke.

“I’ve got the coffee started. When I said put the turkey in…what’s wrong?” Beth’s voice was full of concern. There was silence for a few heartbeats. “You can tell me.”

With each muffled sob, Jackson’s shoulders twitched.

Beth’s husband said, “We’re here for you, Jen. You don’t have to face this alone.” He paused for some time. The bed squeaked. “She’s got pancreatic cancer.”

The carefully constructed walls Jenny had built around her diagnosis crumbled. Jenny, through sobs, said she wanted to fade away quietly, “involving as few people as possible”. Not Jackson, not her mom, not even Beth. The sobs that echoed through the room were a symphony of despair, a heartbreaking melody.

Beth suggested moving in with Jenny, a promise to be a pillar of support. Her husband suggested it would be better for jenny to move into their guest room. The couple went back and forth for a few minutes, accentuated by Jenny’s sobs. The gravity of the moment, the tragedy and the unity of family, blurred the lines of Jackson’s resentment and jealousy.

Jackson grappled with the revelation. The woman he once loved, now facing a battle against time, choosing to weather the burden alone. His heart ached with genuine pain, a new sensation for the young man. He yearned to intervene, to be a presence in the fading days of Jenny’s life. Jackson crouched, his legs numb, stiff. He was frozen between the looming walls of moral ambiguity. The symphony of Jenny’s sobs, Beth’s reassuring words, and the man’s calm resolve—all had Jackson’s head spinning.

Subtle details registered with Jackson. That time Jenny went shopping for wigs—Jackson made a casual joke about his preference for redheads, and how it would suit Jenny’s new pallor. He thought it was to spice things up. Her aversion to intimacy, claiming illness, and the insurance forms…so many forms. Jackson could hit himself, he was on track to become a detective, and he missed so many signs—all the awkward questions about insurance coverage for common-law spouses, hints about getting married. She was so persistent he’d thought she planned to kill him for the insurance money.

The kids played their games. One had moved into the yard and was throwing a basketball at the other-who alternately caught or dodged the ball.

He was trapped. Had she just told him…Well, he couldn’t honestly tell if he’d run off at the time. Now…His heart thumped hard, he felt faint.

“You can’t do this on your own. You need all your family, everyone.” Beth’s voice was masked by the sound of a blowing nose.

Jackson clenched his backside. His guts were in full flight mode. Damn his irritated bowels. She broke up with him to spare his feelings. He stifled a gag, remembering how he had so casually waved off the idea of a quick wedding. “But we’re still having fun. Let’s not get serious. How about some cannoli?”

He turned her down for cannoli.

Jackson’s phone rang in his pocket. He cursed under his breath, realizing that getting to the device while crouched was an impossible feat—and his legs were dead numb.

The melody rang on.

Desperation took hold, and Jackson laid down under the window—an undignified posture. Rocks and debris dug into his palm as he fumbled for his phone. A rough brick scraped skin from his probing fingers.

The window rattled open.