Stirring Diavolo's Pot

Lying Low

Everything was a blur. I was wrapping a body I'd gunned down with my partner, Tom. The deed had been done, but I was not satisfied. Before we tossed the body, I beat the empty meat shell in with my nail bat. Tom did not stop me as I hit the body harder and harder with every swing. Surely, he wouldn't report this to the cartel. Best make him unrecognizable if he were found.

Wait, was any of this even real?

With every strike I cracked, my skin began to boil. The rage from murdering him had returned. I'd fallen into a trance. I didn't say or do anything. What time was it?

My stomach felt like it was a wax candle, dripping away under a hot pressure inside. I was burning! I looked at my stomach. My shirt was stained red. I coughed, blood covering my fingers and prickling my palm. I keeled over and dropped to the ground. Why couldn't I move my body? No, I was moving. I was shaking, nonstop tremors. It hurt. It hurt. It hurt! Fuck, how much pain was I really in? What was going on? God...I'm so fucking sca-

My eyes snapped open and I gasped sharply. I was sweating hard. My throat was burning, my stomach felt painfully empty, and...and, where was I? The apartment layout looked familiar, but it wasn't my living room. I was in a reclining armchair, a gray cotton throwover blanket tucked over and under my lap. Every color in the room was based in white, green, and brown. The space was less empty, furnished with a floral loveseat in front of me and another armchair to my right. The windows were curtained in the greenery of overgrown houseplants, letting some natural lighting in to illuminate the room enough. The carpeted floors were swept well and every counter in sight well dusted. One of the walls had a shoji room divider propped up next to a dinner table for two. It all looked so simple. So clean.

From the corner of my eye, I could see another room. A kitchen with an old, but polished stove. On the counter I could see a jar of incense burning. I sniffed the air. Vanilla Lavender sticks, no doubt about it.

I could also see something black and gnarled next to the jar. It looked torn, warn, and...wait, was that...? It was my mask. I lifted my right hand to feel my face. My heart skipped a beat. My face was breathing in the stale air of the room. I stroked it numbly. The texture made me wince. The sensation of brushing the divots and crinkles amalgamating on the left side of my face.

It was revolting. The thought alone appalled me. Feeling it was just as painful as seeing it in the mirror. It was his fucking fault. I could feel the strokes and pats from my fingers turn into scratching. My chipped nails started to dig at the scars, harder and faster. I was hideous. I couldn't stand it. I couldn't. I couldn't. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck!

"Whoa, whoa! Calm down! Take it easy, Miles."

I stopped scratching to see Tom swept in to get a look at me. He was holding a cup of steaming tea in one hand. He held his empty hand up to my forehead. "Oh, good. Your temperature went down. You were struggling for a bit there. I thought you were going to need a doctor or something." Tom sat down across from me, placing the mug on the coffee table that divided us. He clicked his tongue before turning away with a sigh. "Fuck...this is a first in the two years we've worked together." He turned back to me. "You...have killed a man before today, right?"

"Where are we, your place?" I dodged the question. He didn't need to be in the know-how of my personal business yet.

Tom frowned, nudging the mug toward me. "Well, I try. Just a place I go to when I wish I had a real place to stay. Haven't lived here even a year, but after that stunt you pulled earlier, little luxuries...things like this, might change all of that, Miles."

"What? Why's that?" I asked. "What did I do earlier?"

Tom scoffed before leaning out towards me, elbows on his knees. "Really? Geez...we made the hit, completed it in record time, and disposed of the body. Would've been that simple if you didn't just pull out your bat and start beating the cadaver to a meaty pulp. After that, you proceeded to upchuck your insides in a nearby alleyway and pass out." He huffed, his eyes glaring the fire of annoyance. "Leave all the cleanup to me, why don't you. So, can you tell me what the fuck that was? Why did I have to carry you out of there and dispose of evidence before the morning rush started all by myself?  We're hitmen! Not your ding-dong ditch neighbor boys who run away to a friend's house! I mean, seriously. You really pissed me off this time, goddammit! Why the hell are you..."