Turnabout

Raymond rolls over once his brother clicks out of his ear; away and out, uncurled and boneless, he lies on the bed. The longsleeve has been discarded in the corner of the room, the considerable dinner in the rubbish pail, his jeans were undone and hanging off of his hips. He drapes one arm over both eyes and fights back the tears.

Daddy’s dying, wittle piggyyy…Daddy’s dying ickle piggyyyyy…

Slowly, he rolls over to glare at the Bible on the nightstand. Then he paws it over and flips it open. Not hollowed out and full of Valium, or Vicodin. Damnit. Raymond rolls back over, an internal struggle going on. He remembers the number (vaguely aware that if it was called, he’d sound quite foolish inquiring who owned the phone if it was, indeed, a different person). Another glare at the blinded window, then he turns back over, snarling and burying his face into the pillow; making a sound close to that of a squeal of pain. He slams a fist into the headboard. And again, and again, and again; he is starting to pant with the effort of showing this bed his pain.

He reaches over and grabs the cell phone, then throws it into the bathroom as if it transformed into a vile creature. The phone hits the floor, skitters under the sink and hits the wall with a dull thunk. Raymond stands up, a pale ghoul in the semi-light, and stalks into the bathroom; he winds his arms around his own chest to loosen his body, popping the spine a bit, then he stares into the mirror.

And he stares.

And time passes; and he still stares.

What am I looking for? He runs his fingers under his eyes, glares into them, and sneers. WHAT am I looking for? A failure? I see one. A success? I’m still looking for that…his eyes flit towards the door behind him, seeing a rustle in the darkness. Someone there? he turns, squinting, and cocks his head. He steps forward and leans into the bedroom, seeing that the door to the hallway is ajar. With a frown, he plods his way over to the door and leans out into the hallway. He pauses, barely breathing, then calls out, “Mikey?”

No answer.

Raymond steps out into the corridor and starts to tread down the hall, just noticing now that it’s semi-lit, thus giving off an odd, yellowish haze. An unwelcome look to give his home.

“Mikey?” he calls again, this time cupping his hand around his mouth, “Oi, ya’ bugger if’n you’re here and you’re not answerin’ me, I’ma fuckin’ slit yer throat, I will!” and his voice so easily slips and becomes Cockney once again, thick and unintelligible. Step; trudge; step. A creak behind him; he turns to look, seeing nothing but the hall and the floor. Another step backwards, this time keeping his eyes on where he has been rather than where he is going.

“Mikey?” he tries his brother’s name for a third time before rolling his eyes, “Anna? Jules? Andy? Steve?” he labels off the rest of his crew, and various others that are impossible before he pauses, hearing the telltale footfalls behind him (previously in front of him). Heavy thuds; a slight drag in the step; heavy thumping.

Raymond’s head begins to pound; he feels his eardrums keep pace with his heart as he turns toward the stairwell, where he was headed before he switched-back and began to pace backwards. Thud. Thud. Pause. Someone exhales, sounding bored, and steps up again. The stair creaks and finally, Raymond looks up. His heart skips a few beats, stuttering in his chest.

He Who Doesn’t Call. He Who Rapes In The Dark…

The smile that greets Raymond isn’t friendly, and the hands that are lifted are not offered in a sign of friendship, they are full. The right with a bloody, dripping, picture frame; the left with the Arbor Vitate revolver, so talismanic to the Englishman; the calloused finger that had been holding the safety retires to spin the chamber. Clickclickclickclick, “Hallo, liebe. We’re going to play a teeny-tiny little game. Are you ready, baby?” clickclickclickclick.

“…Sascha…”

Sascha smiles again, a knife-sharp grin consuming the lower half of his face; he steps to the top and stares at Raymond, head slightly cocked in a predatory manner. Nothing is said for a very long time; Ray feels his hands become heavy, the cold finger of fear presses against the bottom of his spine and sends a spider-thread-shiver of revulsion up his back as he looks into Sascha’s eyes, then quickly away.

“One shot, two shot.” Sascha’s voice is sardonically cheerful as he twirls the chamber, “Three shot.”

Raymond looks up, eyes going wide as his Sascha lifts the gun; the German aims it directly at Raymond’s chest, his grin broadening. His smile looks fit to shatter.

“Sa---…”

Click.

Clickclickclickclick, Sascha twirls the chamber again, still grinning maniacally; he begins to speak again in a monotonous singsong, “One shot, two shot, three shot, floor. One shot, two shot, three shot, floor. One shot, two shot. Three shot…” the gun glints into the semi-light, almost blinding (oh but not quite), and Sascha smiles again at Raymond, this time lifting the gun to his own temple.

“Finish it, Watts.”

Raymond stares, unable to comprehend what he’s seeing; his eyes switch towards the clock, where the hands go backwards. His green eyes waver there, then flit towards Sascha’s again.

Sascha starts the song again, “One shot. Two shot. Three shot.” His smirk becomes even more broad, if possible, and the finger tightens around the trigger. Time seems to stop completely; Raymond can distinctly hear the water in the faucet (downstairs and seemingly miles away) pause and reverse-drip upwards back towards the sink-crook; footsteps down the hall march backwards, a voice keens outside his home, and all the while, Sascha smiles.

Finally, Raymond’s weak voice half-sobs, “Floor.”

The hellish smile is once again directed at Raymond, and with a nod Sascha places the barrel of the gun into his mouth. He manages to smile around the gun’s end. Click.

Bang.

All eyes. Raymond is all eyes as he stares. And he kept staring; the air began to steam---or was that rain? Odd, it’s raining inside his home! How funny of the weather to pull a scheme such as that! Rain began to patter down before it hit him. That isn’t rain. That is…

He turns, vomiting, and collapses against the wall; this isn’t real, this isn’t real. Not real…

He forces himself to look, and turns away again. He can’t speak; he cannot think. He can’t help but replay that smile and that singsong little ditty; all the while he’s reaching out in his mind’s eye, and stopping this. He’s reaching up! He takes Sascha’s hand! They run into the sunset and live happily ever after!

Then the top of Sascha’s head cuts away and is no longer existent, and the rain that is left inside is spattering down in red and black dots.

All eyes. He stares. And keeps staring.

It’s possible to survive a shotgun blast. I’ve seen photos. I’ve seen worse. It’s possible to live through that. Sans top of the head. It’s possible to survive temple suicide, his head might look like a fucking roadmap, but it’s possible, it’s possible… Raymond steps closer, looking at the mess. He covers his mouth and squints at it, as if there is a message in the grey and pink musician smarts (or lack thereof). This mess? Not possible to survive. All eyes. He’s all eyes. He continues to be so as he sidesteps the mess and potters downstairs; he has to get out. He needs to get out. The clock runs backwards, the hands go in reverse; the water goes back up to the faucet; the blood drips back up towards the ceiling; the picture frame Sascha had been holding shatters and bounces down the stairs, only to start its journey back up to reassemble itself. Shatter, fall; tumble up, reassemble.

He stops once he reaches the door; there is a guest mirror in the entry way, and Raymond stops to look into it. And he sees himself, and he stares; all eyes. He stares. He leans closer, then the air around him seems to crackle.

I can laugh when this thing begins…

The mirror shatters outward, right into his green eyes; he screams, claws at them, and yowls his way towards the door, pawing and scratching at his face as he goes. He hits the door, shoulder-socket-neck, and falls to the floor.

Thud.

The green eyes snap open to greet the morning sun shining off the ceiling. Raymond sits up, feeling the blankets snake around his chest and legs as he shifts into a more comfortable position. He glances around the room, eyes wide, and stops to stare at the alarm clock. Its second hand has stopped. And has begun to tick in reverse.

He stares, then quickly screams himself into a second waking moment of self-awareness. He was asleep on the leather sofa, curled up slightly; one hand had been playing on the carpet frays, and is still on the floor, though now it is numb.

Without a second’s hesitation he stumbles to the hall closet, where Duncan’s toolbox lies in hibernation; he feels about until he finds what he seeks.

Warning! He runs upstairs, and before he can stare at all, he takes the hammer to the mirror.

Then he takes the hammer to the clocks, and all the other mirrors in the house. And as he makes his own sacrifice, he laughs.

He laughs all the while.

And how he laughs.