Death In The Family

Chapter 27

Anders downed the painkillers with a swig straight from the mostly emptied bottle of scotch, not really needing them, but needing a stronger form of intoxication than alcohol could provide. The dogs scattered in a cacophony of claws tapping and scraping on the floor as he stumbled when he tried to walk and a laugh coughed out of him as he grabbed the wall. Maybe his body didn't need the extra kick of narcotics, but his mind certainly did. He wiped the wetness of sweat and tears from his numb face and chuckled between his sobs as he slid along the wall into his living room.

Truth be told, his skull fracture had fully healed by the six-week mark and all the ways he had been sliced and diced had closed into fresh pink grooves of flesh that would harden into the white lines of scar tissue he'd carry for the rest of his life. Physical pain had left him, leaving only the invisible wounds that might never heal on his heart and mind. This day marked two months since Simone had gone from his life.

The first week had been a smear of anguish and self-loathing, but he had held such bright hope that she would come back. His thirtieth birthday had come and gone as a desperate blip along the blur of that second week; a bitter day where his hope burned searing hot until he drowned his senses in drink. Then it had been a full month and he began to truly hate the hope that niggled him like a burr stuck in his sock, its presence made known only by the pain it created. Worse than the hope were the moments and full nights where he lied awake without it.

He knew what everyone else had thought. Pretty girl like that, in the spotlight of murder fanatics and perverted sickos, there were a thousand ways she was raped and killed and locked up in some dingy basement in an unsuspecting suburb somewhere. He'd cussed out every trash reporter and tabloid slimeball who wanted to interview him, not being shy or subtle about how they were the ones who had put her in that spotlight. It felt good to blame someone other than himself, even if he didn't really believe his own screaming accusations. Simone was already declared dead in the eyes of everyone else. Everyone but him and sometimes Vidar, when he would come over and make sure he was still breathing. Like right now, as the dogs heralded his brother's arrival in a chorus of happy yipping and yapping that came blessedly muffled to Anders' ears. Or rather, ear, with the scarred one not hearing as well as it used to.

"Suicide watch!" Vidar announced, carrying the aroma of meat with him. "Anyone call for a professional noose-fitter around here?"

"How much do you charge?" Anders responded, sitting up from his splayed position on the couch.

"Depends. How much you got left in that bottle?" he asked. Anders held up the meager slosh of scotch, earning him a chiding tut from the older man. "Sorry, sonny, looks like you'll have to kill yourself with an unfitted noose today."

Anders managed a laugh that didn't tug the invisible wound inside him. He watched as his brother stepped over the back of the couch, sat down next to him, and placed a pizza box on the coffee table.

"It isn't even noon yet. Aren't you supposed to be at work?" he asked as Vidar shoved a slice of sausage pizza at him.

"I'm playing hooky," he answered, turning on the television. "I figured you'd call in sick today too, so here we are." He gestured to the television with his slice and said through a mouthful of pizza, "Have you been keeping up with the shit happening in the Democratic Republic of the Congo? Those crazy Ouroboros sons of bitches are claiming takeover of the country and demanding it be called Zaïre again. And now China of all places wants to start sending in troops to smoke them out! Maybe I should mind my own business, but isn't China pretty far away from Africa?"

Anders tried to focus his blurring vision on the television, able to discern the hauntingly familiar symbol the Ouroboros terrorist group had adapted as both moniker and flag. He avoided the news just to avoid seeing that serpent circling into itself to devour its own tail, each time only reminded of that same beast Simone had painted on the hotel mirror in Vermont. That was so long ago now. Everything was becoming so long ago. The image on the screen blurred further as tears welled in his eyes and began to spill down his unfeeling face.