My wife Gloria and I recently moved to a small town in the mountains after living in the city for over a decade. I was the typical “trophy” house husband/father, complete with a dad bod and exquisite sense of humor.
She had been a dutiful police officer for nine years until the accident. All those years I worried about her safety. Every morning I woke up hoping that she’d come home, knowing of the dangers she faced on the streets just by doing her job — the patrolling, the confrontations, the uncertainty. A bad thought or scenario would surface and I’d have to push it back down. If I hadn’t heard from her because she was on the clock? Forget it, I was a mess. I couldn’t stand to face it. I had to be optimistic and upbeat for our daughter. I’d settle back into our routines, and the whole world would go ‘round once again.
You go on like this mechanically. Every mile is promised when the ride is smooth. You’re lulled into comfort, unaware that the engine or tire could blow out at any second. Then one day, you get the call — the call you’ve been dreading. Just, it was her day off. She was bringing our daughter home from dance class. All those years — all of that love and trust and hope was taken away by a drunk driver at 3:39 PM on a fuckin’ Sunday.
Gloria survived, barely, but our daughter didn’t. I wish the asshole who killed her survived so I could murder him myself. Alas, the world is a fucked up place with little justice. The rehab was intense but we got through it. Gloria was able to regain her strength and after months of therapy she walked again. It was the third best moment of my life, right behind the birth of our daughter and our wedding. The elation dropped as soon as I was reminded of our past amidst the current reality. Even the triumphs were rooted in tragedy.
You might as well have killed both of us because now our purpose to live was dead. We both sunk into a pretty deep depression. Anger surfaced, then contempt and bitterness. We came to a head where neither of us were happy anymore. We both decided it would be best to get a fresh start and try to live again. We could create our own second chance.
So we packed up a couple of suitcases and took off in the middle of the night, looking for our new home. It was a hell of a road trip. We drove all over the state looking for the right place. And we finally found it after 543 miles of roaming. A little town named Hunter took our hearts away.
It was one of those rustic old destinations where people said hello to you when they passed you on the street. They even waved while driving by, even if they didn’t know you. Being from the city, it was a little unsettling at first — the smiles and pleasant nature of people was suspicious. We were naturally untrusting, so it took a while to get used to.
We were planning on renting a small place while we looked for a home to anchor, but on that same fateful trip we passed by a small house on the edge of town with a FOR SALE sign hanging on the lawn. It was a perfect two story cottage at the end of a cul-de-sac. We called the number and the mousy guy on the other end answered on the first ring as if he were sitting by the phone waiting for us to call.
A pudgy middle aged man showed up not fifteen minutes later with screeching tires. Everything about him was loose — his clothes, his movements. He hurriedly hopped out of the car and fumbled with the keys. He passed us with a simple nod and a hum, then fiddled with the lock. His eyes were crossed and he had a gentle nature. He spoke with a tremendous stutter accompanied by a twitch of the eyes. Maybe he had Tourette’s. Either way I liked the guy. In hindsight, I think he knew what we were getting into. That’s why he was so willing to get rid of the place.
After inspecting the spot we convened in the spare bedroom. I watched Gloria as she looked underneath the window where a crib could be. The sun cast a ray on my imagination. She turned to me and nodded. We made an offer right then and there. It was a very generous price tag. We felt like we got away with a steal. I’m sure the seller laughed about it as he drove away.
It wasn’t until we were hustling boxes off a Uhaul when we saw our neighbors for the first time. You heard ‘em before you saw ‘em. Like thunder rumbling on the horizon, they were cussing up a storm. Barking at each other like dogs. One look at them and a single word came to mind: trashy.
The woman was short and oval like Penguin in Batman Forever, her roots were muddy and her tips were an orangish yellow from too many dollar store dye jobs. She walked with a hobble and a fake diamond twinkled above her upper lip. The guy looked kinda like Mohawk, the gremlin, complete with his own faux hawk. Scrawny but hardened by a lifetime of endless shit, surely. It was only right that he always wore a wife beater. They passed by with tall boy Coors Light cans dangling from their finger tips and cigarettes hanging from their lips.
The fat one spit at Gloria, “What you lookin’ at bitch?”
Gloria gasped. Maybe they’re just passing by— They crossed the street and my heart sunk. They were on their way to the house directly across from us. The one with the overgrown weeds in the lawn and bed sheet curtains. 227. Great. This was going to be just great.
“Shut the fuck up,” Fauxhawk said.
“The bitch is starin’ at me,” the egg whined.
“Give me the fuckin’ keys.”
“Fuck you,” her bark echoed, “This is my house. I ain’t giving you shit you junkie bitch.”
“Fuck you,” he croaked.
“No fuck you!” she bellowed. “You’re lucky I don’t…”
Their voices quieted slightly when they entered the house and the door shut behind them — but their quarrel boomed out of the window. Their apartment acted like empty chambers that inadvertently created loud speakers for their mutual abuse.
“…kick your ass out. Better yet, lemme call the cops on your ass right now.”
“I’ll fuckin’ kill you.”
“Try it. I’ll call the fuckin’ cops and send your junkie ass back to jail.”
“You wanna fuckin’ die today bitch?”
I looked over to Gloria and she instinctively reached for her hip. I shook my head, no. She realized what she was doing and pulled her hand away like she had touched a burning briquette. I felt it then. A tightness somewhere deep inside me. It squeezed my soul. Something was going to happen. Someone was going to say the wrong thing at some point and some shit was gonna go down.
“Heyyo!”
I startled and swung around to the source of the sound. Striding across our lawn was a goofy looking white man with khaki shorts that hung well above his pale knees. His bald, sweaty head glistened and the sun reflected off his thick glasses. He extended his hand, “You must be the new neighbors.”
I shook his wet noodle and his smile comforted me a little after our introduction to the couple across the street. If you were to judge him by his smile, he’d be a fond friend.
“I’m Brian,” I said. “This is my wife…”
“Gloria,” she said, shaking his hand. “It’s nice to meet you.”
“Pleasure is all mine, the name’s Charlie Sullivan — I live right next door. If you need anything, and I mean anything, please don’t be afraid to ask.”
“Say,” I lowered my voice, “What’s up with them?”
I nudged my head to the house across the street. Their shouts were still amplified to the neighborhood.
“Oh,” his smile dropped to a frown, “they’re the worst.”
“Do we have to worry about them?” Gloria asked.
“I wouldn’t go leavin’ the doors unlocked at night,” he said with a nervous chuckle, “if I were you.”
“Are they dangerous?” I asked.
There was an awkward silence and he just stared at me, his unsettling smile was unwavering. I extended my hand again, “Well, it was nice to meet you, but we gotta get this truck back before 5.”
He looked down at my hand and took a step back, “Yes. That would be a good idea.”
He turned and went rushed inside. The house sat motionless through time like it had been abandoned long ago. Something told me that he was watching us from the shadows of those large open windows.
We finished unloading the truck and then returned it to the Uhaul depot. When we got back, the house across the street was blaring music. Gloria was clearly bothered by this. I figured that it was still a decent hour, they had every right to play music in their own house. I carried Gloria across the threshold of our new home and gingerly put her down in the middle our new living room. We were surrounded by meticulously labelled boxes. I leaned in for a passionate kiss. She pecked me and limped over to a stack of boxes.
She’d check a box, lift it, cut open the next one, shuffle around inside, then repeat.
“We can unpack tomorrow,” I said soothingly, “how about we christen the place first?”
My Isaac Hayes impression did nothing to dissuade her. Her search became more frantic.
“What are you looking for?”
Her elbows were pumping as she sifted through a box, then she abruptly stopped and the tenseness in her shoulders slackened with relief.
“What could be so impor—”
She lifted something carefully out of the box and turned around — her Glock 17.
“What are you doing with that?”
She limped by me and hobbled over to the dining room window. She pulled the blinds down and looked out at the house across the street.
“Gloria, what are you doing?”
“I don’t trust them.”
“Neither do I but I highly doubt we have to worry about it.”
She looked at me, completely bewildered like didn’t recognize me. I calmly walked over and placed one hand on her hip, the other on the gun. As I pulled her in for a hug I slipped the gun out of her grasp. She rested her cheek on my chest and the sweet lavender scent of her hair closed my eyes with ease. We rocked back and forth. Home again.
The slow dance became a grinding of our hips. I tightened my grip on her waist and placed the gun on a box in order to slide my other hand underneath her hair and around the back of her neck. We crashed to the floor, me as her mat cushioning the blow, and we made love for the first time in our new home on our dining room floor. I’ll be sure to remember that when we have guests over for Thanksgiving.
We unpacked a speaker and played The Dead Tongues from our phone while we drank wine and ate pizza on the floor. It was great. We were laughing and carrying on like we had when we first moved in together, back when we were rambling twenty-somethings searching for meaning in the city’s art scene.
It felt like we made the right decision coming all the way out here. We dropped the mattress on the floor and settled in for the night. I was dead tired but couldn’t sleep. The music from across the street was loud enough to wake the dead. The bass kicks were line with an organ. The cocking of a gun. Bang, bang. I’ll probably be punished for hard living, blind to the facts. Cars kept pulling up and groups of people got out and piled into the house. Every time the door opened, shouts and commotion would rise with the music. Thugs is convicts in God’s prison, hands on the strap. It was some party going on over there. You’d think they’d invite their new neighbors. Praying so father please forgive me! Police be rushing when they see me.
I rolled over to throw my arm around Gloria but my hand landed on an empty mattress. I flaunt it, America’s most wanted, live on TV. I sat up in bed and looked over to the window. Gloria was watching the cars come and go from the corner of the curtains. Life, pleasure and pain, stuck in this game, holler my name!
“Gloria.”
She didn’t hear me, she was too busy watching the people being shuttled in. Some were tweaking, other were having withdrawals. All of them hurried inside as soon as the cars pulled up. They desperately wanted whatever was in there. We all gon’ die, we bleed through similar veins.
I got out of bed and hugged Gloria from behind. She sighed.
“C’mon,” I whispered tiredly in her ear, “let’s get back to bed.”
She was biting her nails again. I thought she had ditched that nasty habit. I dragged her back to bed and she lied there, facing away from me so she could keep watch of the window. I big spooned her and caressed her hair until I fell asleep. My dreams were laced with the beats of our neighbor’s music. A restless and sweaty sleep.
I entered the house across the street and the place was dark and quiet until an electrical saw cut through the silence. Wake up. It was coming from the other room, the only light in the place. I tip toed closer and stuck an eye out from around the corner. Wake up. A beastly man with long ratty hair dangling below his shoulders was hunched over a stainless steel table. Wake up. The saw was cranking through grisly bone. Blood spun out, caking the ceiling and walls with chunky crimson. Wake up. The man was naked underneath a plastic see-through apron and welding helmet. Wake up. Blood pooled around his ragged bare feet. Wake up. The visitors were lined up down the hallway — livestock to be slaughtered and sold. Glass shattered behind me and I spun around. The shards clattered off the tile floor.
“Wake up!”
I leapt out of my dream with a rush of fear, my breath unable to escape my seized chest. I sat up, staring at Gloria. She shook me frantically.
“There’s someone in the house,” she growled.
“What?”
“There’s someone in the—”
Downstairs, a chair scraped against the hardwood floor like someone was sitting down at our damned table. I heard a light chatter but couldn’t make out what they were saying. Two distinct voices. A young girl, no older than four — and an old man. I leapt out of bed naked, ready for combat. Gloria was right behind me, retrieving her gun from the box beside the bed. I marched down the stairs and hurried into the kitchen, flipping on the lights. I rounded the corner like a Celtic warrior on a battle field, roaring naked.
I ran into an empty room. A lone chair was pulled out from under the table with enough room to fit a body — but there was nobody there. The glass pane on the kitchen door was broken and the glass was littered about the floor.
Feet clucked against the hardwood above us. We were under the spare bedroom. We looked at each other. The baby. I know we both thought it. I don’t know why. Our baby was dead. Gloria rushed upstairs anyways.
“Anabel?”
“Baby,” I cried, “be careful with your leg.”
She didn’t listen, and hobbled up the stairs with her gun still pointed at the threat points. I raced after her. We slowed on the landing. A thud came from the spare bedroom. Shhh, they’re coming. Gloria rounded the corner with her gun drawn and I flipped on the light. She stepped into the center of the room and turned to me, completely flabbergasted. I stood in the doorway out of breath. I leaned against the door frame.
“There was someone in here,” she said. “I heard ih— Huhn.”
Her chest caved in from a violent shove of air and she tripped over a stack of boxes, slamming into the wall. I felt a punch to my gut and was thrown to the ground. I felt an invisible hand grip my ankle and pull me down the hallway. Gloria cried out as the door to the spare room slammed shut.
I skidded across the carpet and was let go. My skin burned from the friction. I scrambled to my feet and rushed to the spare room door, “Gloria!”
It was locked from inside. I dropped my shoulder into it before the door frame finally splintered and gave in. I collapsed to the floor beside her. She bellowed in pain.
I took her straight to the emergency room. The party across the street was still raging when we left. Gloria’s tibia was rebroken. They had to reset it, cast it, and she was ordered bed rest for two straight weeks. We rented a wheelchair, got some pain pills, and they kicked us out.
The sky was a pale cobalt by the time we got home. I parked in the driveway and helped Gloria with her crutches. The morning birds were chirping, and a calmness had finally settled over our small neighborhood. I could get used to this. Too bad it never lasted long before the trolls activated again.
The moment our heads hit the pillows, the bass began again. Gloria screamed, her rage straining her throat.
“You’re going to have to talk to them.”
“Now?”
She only had to look at me and I knew the answer to that. I reluctantly crawled out of bed and stumbled back into my clothes. So unfair. Gloria was groaning in pain when I left her.
I stumbled across the street and strode up to the door, which shook from the speakers inside. I dropped the butt of my fist onto the wood with a little force to let them know I’m serious and waited — nothing. I knocked again. This time harder. The music only got louder. I banged. Music went up. I booted the door repeatedly until the music cut off.
“Aye mother fucker, what the fuck do you think you’re doing?”
I turned around and the crackhead Fauxhawk guy boxed me onto the porch, fidgeting and surging with readiness. He kept a hand hidden behind his back. I’d have to dive off the porch to have a chance at getting away.
“Are you seriously kicking on my door right now?”
“Listen, it’s been a really long night.”
“You don’t gotta take it out on my door.”
“The music—”
The door creaked open behind me and I heard the familiar pump of a shotgun. The Egg croaked, “What the fuck are you doin’ kicking on my door at five forty-six in the goddamned morning?”
I turned to the Mossberg and shuddered. I scurried to the edge of the porch but the crackhead cut me off and took a step up the stairs. He extended his hand out from behind his back to reveal a kitchen knife.
“Okay, let’s all just—”
“Shut the fuck up,” she barked.
I gulped. She raised the shotgun to my head.
“Let me tell you what’s gonna happen. You’re never gonna bother us again. Ya’ hear me?”
“You’re blasting music at all times of night.”
“Bitch, don’t tell me what I can or cannot do on my property. This is America, you fuckin’ piece of shit. We gotta a lil’ thing called freedom here.”
“There’s gotta be a county or city sound ordinance. People are trying to sleep. If you keep blasting your music, I’ll call the caw—hawps.”
I felt the tip of the knife jab me lightly in the kidney. The crackhead hooked my neck with his elbow and choked me out. I could hear his labored breath hissing through the gaps of his missing teeth.
“You know how much a kidney costs on the black market?” the crackhead said.
He tightened his grip until I dropped to my knees, completely lightheaded and ready to pass out. He loosened up enough for me to breathe but wouldn’t release me.
The pig approached, crouched down, and dropped the barrel to my balls, “If you EVER call the cops on me, I’ll murder you, your cunt wife, and anyone you ever loved. You understand me? Are we on the same fuckin’ page?”
I garbled from beneath the grip of the crackhead’s elbow.
“I said, do you un-der-stand me?”
“Y—” he twisted the tip of the knife and I felt a rivulet of blood crawl down my side and soak into my shorts. “Yes. Yes.”
“Good,” she said. “Stay on your side of the street or I’ll fuckin’ bury you like a dog.”
I was released and nearly fell, but luckily was able to stay up. He kicked me as he passed and they both went inside. I caught a glimpse of inside before the door slammed shut. The place was empty. No furniture, no garbage or appliances, there was nothing inside.
I got up and dejectedly crossed the street. I wiped a tear from my eye and sniffled as I looked up to our bedroom window. The curtain fell back to its resting place. She was watching. She saw everything.
When I got to bed, she had her leg raised up on pillows but her face was turned away from me. The moonlight shined off her cheeks — she had been crying.
The next day I stepped out to get some supplies for Gloria. I figured that chocolate might cheer her up. Chocolate makes everything better, she always says. I had to try something in order to make up for the night prior. My mind kept running, making up different ways it could have gone down. None of which involved me being punked out like that. I thought about killing them, and then my mind ran away with it and soon I envisioned myself standing trial and serving time for murder. My prison nickname became Sauce Boss because of my culinary clout.
When I got back I saw Charlie mowing his front lawn. He was wearing an American flag speedo and glasses. That’s it. It— It was truly a sight to behold. I waved and started to walk over to him. When he spotted me, he abruptly shut down the lawn mower and hurried into his house. I stopped on the property line. That’s weird. As I walked back I felt like I was being watched. I looked over to Charlie’s window and caught him standing there staring at me expressionless.
Inside, the house seemed empty. I called out for Gloria and got no response. I went up to the guest bedroom and found her there, hunched over the desk. A camera was set up in the window and the binoculars sat on its fat end. I knew what that meant. A stakeout.
“Hun,” I said, stepping inside her bullpen. She had already set up the printer. Lists and photos were pinned to a cork board that rested against the wall.
“Huhn?” she grunted as she lifted the binoculars and watched the house across the street.
“What are you doing?”
“A little research.”
“On?”
“Our new neighbors.”
“Baby, I don’t think we should go provo—”
“Just listen,” she finished writing a note and dropped the pen. She handed me 8x10 printouts of their mugshots, “Nate Calhoun and Tasha Marrioti. Both have lengthy records. Nate just got out after serving six months for aggravated battery, resisting arrest, and unlawful entry. He was able to avoid the attempted second degree murder charge because he struck up a plea deal. He helped take down his main competitors by snitching on them, allowing his girlfriend, the lovely Tasha, to take over the market with their supply on his behalf. They are far from kingpins, but have done enough damage.
“We’re not talking about weed here. We’re talking about the bad stuff. Mainly pills and heroin. They are suspected of flooding the market with that fentanyl laced shit — really dangerous stuff. Overdoses have skyrocketed since Nate was released from prison.”
I cleared my throat, “You’ve learned all of this in the time it took me to go to the grocery store?”
“I mean,” she shrugged, “the internet.”
“Don’t you think this is taking things a little too far?” I asked.
“Too far? Too far? They held you at gunpoint last night. You were stabbed for Christ’s sake. I should call the—”
“No! Don’t.”
She shook her head in disappointment. She grabbed her crutches and struggled to get up on one leg.
“Let’s not escalate things. Please.”
“Why are you so afraid?”
“Oh, I dunno — maybe because they held me at gunpoint and stabbed me. They’re loose cannons. I don’t trust them.”
“So we get rid of them.”
I couldn’t believe what she was saying. I was disgusted by it. Yet, I found myself nodding. She was right.
“Did you see anything last night? Did you see inside?”
“They have no furniture. I saw nothing.”
“Did you see anyone?”
“Unless they were in a different room or the basement, no. There was no one.”
“Hmph, that’s weird.”
“What’s weird?”
“I’ve been watching them all day. More and more people come, but I haven’t seen anyone leave.”
“Are you sure?”
“Positive. They just keep coming too. There’s no way that house can hold that many people. They go in, but they don’t come out.”
“So, where do they go?”
“I don’t know.”
Around sunset we sat out on the front porch and I admired how the sun basked the earth with golden delight. Gloria was watching the house across the street from the corner of her eyes. She made it seem that she was facing the opposite direction, but I knew the art of detective work at play here. Her leg was propped up on a pillow that lined another chair. This was why we moved here. The perfect, serene—
“You’re a fuckin’ whore!” Nate’s voice rolled over the hill.
“Go fuck yourself,” Tasha spat as she hobbled down the street. “You fuckin’ loser.”
Of course, nothing great lasts. Our peace was shattered by these assholes. They noticed us on the porch and the mongrel stuck up a middle finger. I lowered my gaze and Gloria glared at them with contempt.
“Fuck you slut,” Tasha crooned in our direction. “Keep starin’.”
They lingered at their front door for a minute before finally entering their house. The world returned to sanity for a moment before a window opened and their argument polluted the street.
“Say it one more time bitch,” Tasha shouted, “One more fuckin’ time, see what happens. I’ll fuck you up bro. I don’t give a fuck.”
“Why you mad? Huh? Why you mad?”
“You ain’t shit.”
“Oh yeah? You liked that filet mignon though, didn’t you bitch? Huh? I got you that filet mignon and your fat trap was shut for once. Huh? Huhhn? Ain’t that right bitch?”
“Fuck youuu.”
Gloria got up and angrily crutched her way inside, “I can’t listen to this shit.”
I finished my whiskey and realized I had enough of it too. I got up and saw Charlie pull into his driveway. He put the car in park and shut off his engine. He placed his hand on the door handle and looked over to me. Concern spread across his face, he shook his head in disapproval, then started his car again. He backed out and drove off with screeching tires. What a fuckin’ weirdo.
As I opened the door I heard a terrible crash from across the street. Then screams. The shouting erupted and more things shattered. It sounded like the place was being torn a part. I don’t see what they could have been throwing — there was nothing inside. Fuck ‘em.
I found Gloria at her desk upstairs (how she got up so fast is besides me).
“I think we should call the cops,” I said.
“Really, why?”
“I think he’s gonna kill her.”
“Good. Let him.”
“What?”
“She’d be dead, he’d be in jail. The world would be a better place.”
The callousness in her voice sent a chill through my veins. This wasn’t the empathic police officer I’d known for the past thirteen years. I was at a loss for words, so I left her there with her new obsession. At least she was focused on something other than her grief.
That night, the music was louder than the night before. It was like they added another sound system to the ruckus. Yelling and screaming was masked by the music. There were times where I thought I heard genuine pain. I was finally nodding off when Gloria threw the blankets off me.
“What? What is it?”
“I can’t sleep. I can’t do this. I have to call the cops.”
“You can’t. They’re crazy.”
“Yeah, well they’re driving me crazy too.”
She grabbed her phone from the nightstand and dialed 911.
“Hello, I’d like to make a noise complaint…”
We lied in bed until red and blue lights filled our room. For a brief moment, I couldn’t move. My chest tightened and despite my best effort, couldn’t move my hands. Then, I broke free from my trance when Gloria pulled me from bed.
We went over to the window and watched as the cop walked up to the house and spoke with Nate and Tasha on the porch. He finished up, shook Nate’s hand, and started walking toward our house.
When we opened the door the officer was already knocking with agitation.
“Good evening,” the officer said. “You’re the ones who called the police?”
“Yessir,” my wife said. “Thank you for coming.”
“We take prank calls really seriously around here. You should only call 911 for emergencies,” the officer said with a monotone voice. “Calls like this are a waste of taxpayer money.”
“No,” my wife said with a huff, “we pay taxes for you to do your job.”
“Yeah? Well why don’t you yuppies go back to wherever the hell you came from?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Exactly what it sounds like. We do things differently around here.”
“What, you hold someone at gunpoint and make threats?”
The officer smiled.
“Noted. Thank you officer. I’m sorry for the false alarm. I promise to never bother you again.”
My wife slammed the door in the officer’s face and locked the door. I’ve seen that look on her face before. She was about to do something brave, stupid, but extremely brave. I hated her for it but also knew that I couldn’t stop her. I had to try. There was no telling what she might do. Years of pent up rage could flare up in a split second decision. I couldn’t allow her the chance. It could be lethal.
She kept her gun on her hip all night until we settled into bed. Then, it sat on the nightstand, close enough to kiss. As we were drifting into the sweetness of undisturbed sleep that can only be achieved by absolute silence, a beat dropped. The music was back, along with the bustle.
Gloria sat on the edge of the bed and cried in defeat. I couldn’t console her. I had accepted the fact that I was a coward. I couldn’t stand up for myself, how could I stand up for her? I don’t do anything when given the chance. I’m too afraid. They called her a bitch and a slut and I said nothing. They threatened my life and I did nothing. Maybe I was nothing.
Strangely, her tears soothed me. I was soon fast asleep. No such luck for her. She thought she might be close to finally crying herself asleep when she heard a little girl’s voice flutter up through the window. It was distinctly familiar. Anabel.
“No,” the little girl cried out, “please, don’t.”
Gloria shot into proper posture and watched as a large man with long hair roughly pulled a little girl out of a car and dragged her across the lawn toward the front door.
“I don’t wanna go. Stop it! No! Plea-hease!”
Gloria had enough, she buckled her holster onto her hip and left the room. I must’ve heard the front screen door screech open and slap shut, because I woke up in a rush of adrenaline. I noticed that Gloria was gone immediately.
“Gloria?”
I listened and the house groaned. Clack, clack, clack, trickled in through the window. Goddamnit. I jumped outta bed and ran over to the window. Gloria was crossing the street on her crutches, toward the house that towered ominously over her. The music got louder, like my ears were to the speakers — ear drums rattling like broken tweeters.
I stumbled into a pair of boxers and grabbed a fire iron on my way out the door. Racing across the street, the music matched my heartbeat. Their door was open and strobe lights flashed from within. Shit. I used to have epileptic fits growing up. This could send me into a seizure. I took a deep breath and closed my eyes.
I pushed my way through the door and ran into a mass of sweaty bodies. A horde of naked and emaciated humans were squirming and wriggling together like a den of snakes. Their tattoos hung in grotesque fashion from their loose skin. Their body odor was putrid, like they’d been mashing their shit and piss like grapes in the summer heat. They were absent of hair and faced down. All you could see were the back of their stretching necks and their occipital and parietal bones. The inside of their forearms were rotted with needle marks. Some still had needles in them.
I was shoved from behind by a gust of wind and the door slammed shut. I plunged into the bodies like a newborn coming down the canal. They were slimy and I slipped deeper into the mass. I passed by a woman that was hunched over. When I touched her, it seemed to jar her back into awareness. Her eyes lit up, she screamed briefly, and then she sunk back into her stupor.
“Gloria?”
It became harder to breathe as the bodies pressed down on me. More screams and shrieks from around the room. I began using the fire iron to push them back, but they collapsed back onto me with more force. I jabbed and prodded my way through the living room and into the hallway.
“Gloria?!”
I woke them up. Their heads lifted and their attention turned to me. They descended onto me and I swung the iron, connecting with heads and shoulders and necks. They dropped without much of a fight. I could feel them scratching and biting and gouging, but the adrenaline didn’t allow me to register pain. I was doing a decent job of plowing through those zombie, junkie fucks but was being overrun. There were too many of them. They piled on top of me.
One of them, I could clearly make out, was Nate. His eyes were glassy and dead. Spittle trickled from the corner of his mouth. He removed the needle from his arm. It was still full of fentanyl laced heroin. The needle descended toward my skin, it’s sharp point hungry for my blood. My vein throbbed. The tip plunged, his thumb pushed, the heroin dispersed, my pupils dilated.
Bang, bang. His smile exploded into a mist of blood and brains. Gloria collected me but I was unable to move. Those drugs were fast moving agents of splendor. I sank deeper, further from reality. I saw a dozen hands slip from the darkness with needles and stab my wife. She thrashed as the drugs splashed into her bloodstream. Her fight diminished until she was lying next to me, her back threaded with needles like an acupuncture session.
Above us, the room had been cleared with a breeze. We were alone in the white/black space of nothingness and it felt so fuckin’ good. I never wanted to leave.
We woke up in the same position in our bed. Thank god, it was a dream. Just a normal morning. Except for the mosquito bite on the inside of my forearm right above my artery. The wound burned.
Besides that, I felt great all morning until I started to get tired. My mood swung sharply into depression and I was agitated by the light, by the food I was eating, by my wife’s presence — everything. Then came the sweating and the head aches, then the vomiting. I don’t know how I knew what would help, I just did. It was instinct, I guess. Gloria was no better off. She made the suggestion.
That night, I went across the street and knocked gently on the door. Gloria was beside me. Nate answered, a sinister smile spread across his face. Wasn’t he dead? Gloria shot him. Oh wait, I thought, that was but a dream. Was it? It all felt so real. Of course it was a dream — here he was.
We entered the house and removed our clothing, then we took off our wigs. We huddled together in the heat until we were served a dose. Tasha went around administering the drug. She got to me and slid the needle into my vein, pumping me with shit. She just did it and I watched. I let her. Once we got high, everything was fine. The music was bumping. There was nothing to worry about.
At first, my neighbors and I didn’t get along. I thought they were assholes. After getting to know them, I couldn’t imagine how I’d get through life without them. They have what we need. Why bite the hand that feeds you? I’m thankful that they’re so close. It just makes life so much easier.
I think my neighbors are running a trap house across the street, and the worst part is — I love it.
Submitted July 24, 2019 at 09:49PM by ghost_wrider https://ift.tt/32NZsmm
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