Darkside

Thirty-Two

Power surges through me as fists fly. Finally everything I've locked away comes free, all the pain in my life explodes as my hands connect with the skin in front of me. This is what it's all about. I need a human punching bag or the stress will kill me.

Cash.

Orson.

The faces interchange. It doesn't matter who I'm smacking, as long as it someone who's caused me pain. I need them to feel what they've done to me in their own individual ways.

"Cash, you lied to me. You fed me a dream, you gave me a nightmare. You hurt me in so many ways." I huff and puff in between each punch. "You left me helpless. Now you're helpless. You killed me, you asshole. You forced me to die. Look what you did to me."

Cash switches to Orson.

"You could've left me alone. You didn't need to follow me, to make me fall for you, to...to turn me into this."

I love Orson, yet I hate him.

Just like I loved and hated Cash in equal measures.

The same for my father, and my mother too. Because she left me.

"She didn't leave," I scream as I punch a face that's now unrecognizable, mostly just blood. "She didn't run off. She didn't disappear. It's too hard. She couldn't do this..."

So, what happened to her? I need to see her, to know. A person can't live without closure, they can't move on. It isn't right. People always need that answer. She fucked me up more than anyone else, she damaged me more than other people, it was all her.

I fall back, defeated and sobbing, knowing nothing can fill the hole she left behind. If it wasn't for her, I wouldn't have found my way on Darkside, I wouldn't have grown attached to Cash, I wouldn't have been killed by him.

She did this to me, she ruined me. There's no way of me being fixed.

I'm hopeless, life is hopeless, it might be time to give up, to give in, to forget all of it...

"Stop," Orson begs loudly. "Please. I'm not her. I'm not your mother. Don't."

His voice gargles, like he's choking on his own blood. It's a satisfying sound, I want more of it. The hitting is working, it's allowing the red mist to slide off me, I'm slowly returning to me. The violence soothes me, it lets me feel everything. And nothing.

"You'll kill me. I'll die this time. Don't do this, Phoenix. Let's get help."

Fucking help.

"Fuck your help, Orson." I'm growling like a tiger. "No help works for me. Only this. This is everything. This is all I need..."

I won't stop, I can't stop, I'll never stop.

This is my medicine, my way of existing, my way of taking out those who've wronged me, and that list includes so many people. I can deal with all of them right here, right now.

One hit after another. Each one curing me.

***

The tears follow me into the waking world. It's just good I've woken up alone. I don't need Orson offering his sympathy because it only makes me worse. He's back where he was when this all started...behind the motel reception desk, working where he's happy and comfortable. The guy likes it here, which is good. I just haven't found that comfort for myself yet.

This is Orson's world, his job, his friends, his life. I just have to slot into it.

"You didn't start again for that," I remind myself, rubbing my eyes hard. "You didn't become Phoenix to slot in around other people. You should be you."

But I have to rely on Orson, don't I? I don't have any choice now. I've been relying on him for too long and now I don't have anything of my own anymore. No money, no place to live, no food of my own.

I want to start over, to do this again, to run off and this time to do it right.

The red trickles off me in the shower, covering my toes, my feet, the off-yellow used to paint these old-fashioned bathtubs.

The red relaxes me, I love looking at it, I feel the power it gives me surging through me once more. If every shower could include this red, my life would be a hundred times better. I wouldn't ever be left with the hopeless sensation everything's falling apart.

"What am I going to do? Where do I go from here? How do I survive?"

The reception desk doesn't appeal. I'm sure by now Orson's dreadful friend, Archie, will be with him, whispering sweet bullshit in his ears. Archie influences him too, I've seen it, he has the sort of effect no friend should.

One day, Archie will tell Orson to get rid of me.

One day, Orson will listen.

I fucking hate Archie. He should've been the one getting it in the face in my dreams. I wouldn't mind my rage grabbing him while I sleep

I've done running away all wrong, but I'm dead. I can't go back. Dead people can't return. I don't think anyone who's been Missing: Presumed Dead can return to normal life. Not without a brilliant story for why they vanished in the first place...

Hang on a minute.

Could I do that?

Is it possible?

Can I go back without having to face everything I left behind? Without risking it all? I left for a reason, and that reason isn't going anywhere. If I'm ever going to make it back so my dad has closure for at least one of his mysterious cases, then it'll need to be one hell of a story. The best anyone's ever created.

One which doesn't implicate the man who lost two women at all. That's the last thing my poor father deserves.

Can I?

Will I?

Should I?

I have to admit, it's the first time I've been excited about anything in a very long time.