The Nowhere Man

19 Somewhere Much, Much Worse

A hint of cherry blossom laces the air. In other circumstances it might be lovely.

But beneath it is the earthy stink of damp concrete and the coppery tang of blood.

Jack stands stooped, one hand clutching the ball of his shoulder to no avail. Blood sprays through his fingers. His blue flannel shirt saturated. His eyes accusing.

Darkness prevails. There is the spotlight of Jack and nothing else. Evan watches from somewhere in the gloom, spellbound.

They are in Parking Level 3. Or somewhere much, much worse.

Jack’s mouth pulses, his lips locked shut, but Evan can hear his thoughts.

What have you done?

Little boy who I loved as my own, what have you done to me?

Jack’s mouth opens, but instead of words there is only blood, black as oil, loosed as if from a faucet. It sheets over his lower teeth, pours across his chin, streams down his legs. It pools on the floor and spreads and spreads, filling the spotlit circle and oozing outward.

Evan is helpless, trapped in the darkness. He tries to open his own mouth, but he cannot. When he reaches to see why, bristling sutures poke his tender palm.

His lips have been stitched shut.

Jack’s blood seeps through Evan’s shoes, warm and tacky. It waterlogs his socks, claims his ankles, his calves. He tries to cry out, to no avail. He is a mute witness to what he has wrought.

The warmth is at his waist now. His pants sodden. His shirt grows heavy, clings to his flesh. The blood rises past his clavicles, fills the hollow of his neck. And then he is under, his eyes wide and comprehending, the world below vast and empty.

The universe strained through a crimson filter.