Knock Three Times

21. Rabbit Holes

                MARC RICHOT LAY CALMLY subdued in his hospital bed, his remaining eye half open, the IV drip of saline and morphine keeping him in a subdued state between dream and reality. He had lost the other eye the previous night, the brutal memory of the attack still vivid in his mind, the scene flashing over and over again, chased by a heavy dose of painkillers. He raised a handheld mirror, observing the damage with a weary heart of longing, gauze covering the open socket and countless stitches swollen and red like a crude patch on a worn stuffed animal. He was grateful to be alive, but the dark creature posing as Samuel Higgins had taken more than just an eye, but his sense of dignity and self-respect. He had never felt so dethatched from his basic sense of self—so crudely severed from any trust in humanity. Like a youth sulking bitterly post discipline, he wanted to lash out in primal ways, thoughts of revenge plaguing his sense of right and wrong, but it was so much more than that. Marc wanted blood, to see this merciless creature beg for his pathetic existence. Had it not been for the painkillers, he would have lost himself in wrath and anguish.

    Where was justice in the face of such brutality? Had he not given enough to charity—not extended a helpful or generous hand to those in need? He had done so much good in his lifetime. Marc had personally fed the homeless at soup kitchens and food banks through his beloved city, he raised funds and donated to education reform and cancer research; he volunteered every chance he got, so where was the reward when he needed it most? Where was this God so many of his collogues and family had spoken about throughout his lifetime? Where was His divine justice now?

    The decision to reach out to Detective Jenson had cost him half of his vision, but in turn his conscience was much lighter, despite his bitterness. Richot was well aware that betraying the Shadow Man and his sinister schemes was never without punishment, the repercussions permanent in this case. His bitterness resided with the masses, and those too cowardly to fight back.

    "I can't be the only one." Marc was positive.

        "There just had to be others out there, bold enough to stand against this maniac."

            "Is fearful submission truly the only route?"

    The brave man would now be forced to live the rest of his life with only one eye, and publically, he would have to concoct an excuse—a story to relay when people inquired about his disfigurement. He looked like a pirate wearing the eye patch over the thick layers of gauze and medical tape, just testing out the look. Marc hadn't exactly hated the persona, but the means in which it occurred would forever remind him.

    Unhealed skin stretched as he cringed, pulling at the bandages and tucking them under his eye patch. He wasn't supposed to remove them yet, but he had to know how he would look for the rest of his days. Jagged cuts were stitched with precision above and below the eye socket and through his eyebrow, the flesh within deep purple and pink, and dried blood giving the impression of a man mauled by a bear—or perhaps a mountain lion, which was one of the fantasies he was contemplating.

    'It suits you well.' said a familiar but unseen voice, but Marc would have to get used to turning his head in order to see who was addressing him. Upon recognition, his heart pounded within his chest, knowing who she was, and what would happen if the powers that be discovered her presence in his hospital room.

    'You get the hell away from me!' he yelled, but she advanced nonetheless.

    'Calm down, Marc. I'm not here to hurt you.'

    'You don't think I know that? Look what they did to me, Jenson! If they find out I was talking to you, who knows what they might do—what they'll take next?'