"Kevin," Sara begins. "What if... what if it has something to do with your drinking?"
Immediately I am resistant to the idea. My addiction has created a well-maintained resilience to the idea that I may be at error, but I mull it over for a few seconds. It makes sense. My personal timeline does not add up. How long have I been on this medication, a blend of painkillers and this bizarre DCL-36? How long have I been binging and taking these pills, leaving only a blue, powdery residue in the wake of my hangovers.
"I don't know, Sara. I mean, you might be right. But I've had issues long before this bullshit, right?"
She nods.
"Let's... I don't know," I begin. "Let's look around. Get customer reviews and that kind of thing."
Sara plants herself on the couch and begins typing away on her cellphone. I move over half-a-room and power up my computer. I begin searching various phrases involving the drugs on the label.
Substance abuse.
Painkillers.
Over the counters.
Prescription pain relievers.
I find absolutely nothing of value. I keep looking. Eventually, Jerry and Ted both text me, sending similar regards and messages about my well-being. I tell them what Sara and I are doing this afternoon and they promise to lend their productive efforts. I picture Jerry at Millie's house, entertaining her parents and I picture Ted fucking whatever girl he was seeing at the moment. Or his girlfriend. I do not remember what is actually the reality-based standard. But I appreciate their help.
After some more wandering around on the Internet, Sara comes back into the living room, pulling one of my sweatshirts over her head, looking for her car keys. I turn from my desk and peer through the entrance to my office.
"Where are you going?" I ask.
"Do you want to go to Mason's? Just, straight up ask her about it, what she's been giving you?"
It was pragmatic and to the point, features severely lacking from the relationships I fostered. I loved it.
"Sure," I said. "Let me get my shoes."
The drive over is peaceful, yet meaningful. It is still raining, but there is always some precipitation in Deptford. I gently tap in time to the classic rock lightly playing over the radio and even though there is a look of irritated determination in Sara's eyes as she scans the road, busy driving, the atmosphere is nice. We are not arguing. We are working together. The feeling is smothered, soon enough.
"Oh, what the fuck," Sara grits.
We pull into the office complex where the doctor had her practice. It was a rather normal American installation: a few dozen offices, some medical, some tax-based, some vacant and advertised as being open to lease. But it was not any of these, any longer. The handful of acres that made up this lot was razed. There was a lot of black dust, charred chunks of wood and stone, and the detritus of destroyed furniture. There was not any police tape, or caution signs, or anything signaling that this was, merely days ago, a highly functioning facility. It was an act of an angry god, smiting Deptford for its rampant sodomy and tax-evasion, clearly.
"What the... what do you think happened?" I ask her. She puts the car into park and unbuckles her seatbelt. We both get out.
"I have no idea," she looks at the mess, her hands on her head.
"Maybe there was an electrical fire?" I offer.
"Maybe," she says. "But you would have thought it would have made the news or something."
YOU ARE READING
Code Junkie
ParanormalKevin is an unpleasant man who loses his job and finds it difficult to deal with other people. He has those he considers friends, but he mostly prefers to focus on code, alcohol, and cynicism. Then, Kevin begins to experience odd hallucinations. In...
