Twisted: Flash Fiction

Fade to Black

I slam the empty shot glass down on the bar, bottom side up.

The bartender is standing there, dirty rag over his shoulder, vacant eyes staring right through me, waiting for instruction. He's tired of being here. It shows.

"Give me another," I tell him. He moves to oblige.

I'm at a bar in Maine, built around the turn of the century. It's obvious the current owner isn't concerned about its upkeep. The paint is peeling. Lights are burnt out. There's a thick layer of dust over everything. Some say it's haunted. By the looks of it, I'd have to agree.

The bartender fills the shot glass with more amber liquid. I don't ask what it is and he doesn't tell me. I don't care. It doesn't do a damned thing for me anyway. Not any more.

I sip it this time. I've got nowhere to be at the moment. Taking a break from the action as they say.

The bartender looks at me. Dark circles under his eyes and a slump to his shoulders indicate he hasn't slept in a very long time. He opens his mouth. Christ, here it comes. He's going to tell me all about his miserable life.

He must see the look on my face, because he closes his gaping maw and migrates toward the end of the bar. I'm relieved when he disappears around a corner. I'm just about to take another sip when the bell above the door jingles.

I don't turn to look, but whoever came in is watching me. Waiting for my attention. I came here to regroup. Rethink my strategy. I don't need this distraction. Not now. What I need is to figure out how to find the bastard who killed my son.

I down the shot. The glass pounds onto the bar again. This time, it's right side up. I have a sneaking suspicion the bartender will be pouring me another in just a few minutes.

I finally turn. It's a woman. Around my age, about the same height, weight, hair color... what used to be my hair color. She reminds me of what I looked like. Before.

"Ms. Black?" she asks. I don't know why. She already knows who I am. Who else has hair darker than a nightmare and eyes redder than hell?

I don't say anything, just nod. She's probably traveled a long way to get here. Poor souls like her don't usually leave their familiar haunts. There has to be a good reason.

She walks toward me. Hair limp and greasy, her grief emanates from her in waves. It rolls off of her in billowing plumes of sadness, and I realize she's fresh. Just crossed over.

Her reason for being here is in her hand. It's a photograph—a school picture—and when she reaches out to give it to me I notice the deep, red line carved into her wrist.

I take the photo. The air around her starts to bend and distort. I close my eyes and brace myself. It's not necessary, closing my eyes, I'll see what they want me to see whether they're closed or not, but I feel like I should. Out of respect.

She let her take over, instantly seeing the moment her daughter is murdered. Smelling the reeking breath of the pock-faced man strangling the girl. Feeling the moment the razor's edge sliced deep into the woman's flesh.

I welcome the rage. The sorrow. Despair. I take it all in because it gives me strength. Increases my power. Their need for vengeance fuels mine. I am a Mobius strip of revenge fortified by hate.

In other words, I'm a demon you don't want to mess with.

"He's dead, then?" I ask when it's over. She nods. Of course he's dead. We're all dead. She wants me to find her daughter's killer and destroy his soul. It's what everyone who comes to me wants. And it's what I'm going to do to my son's murderer when I find him.