Author's note:
I expect this to be a longer piece – maybe six or seven chapters. All characters are fictional adults. Your feedback is welcome and gratefully accepted. Thank you for reading.
**
Mac paced the tiny, one-room apartment. The rubber soles of his wet sneakers squealed against the faded linoleum floor in the kitchenette and left soggy tracks on the thin carpet of the bedroom area. The heavy rain had soaked his jeans and t-shirt clear through; they clung to him like a clammy second skin. He barely noticed the chill through the pain of a crushing headache.
He stopped briefly next to the window and pulled the stained curtains aside just enough to peer down at the street three stories below.
No cops. Not yet, anyway.
He resumed his pacing. His skull felt like it was splitting down the centre and he pressed his thumbs into his temples. He had to think. He just needed a few minutes to figure it all out.
He passed the couch. The girl. She was shivering violently. Sobbing. Rainwater plastered her long, black hair and a thin white shift against her skin. Scrapes on her knees and elbows left traces of blood on the linen. She lay curled on her side, eyes closed, whimpering.
"Shh. Be quiet, it's okay," he said, trying to sound soothing and realizing how insane that was. She had every reason to be terrified. Her crying continued unabated.
He crossed to the door of the apartment, checked that the lock was set, the deadbolt secured. Now what to do? Find a weapon, maybe? He hurried back to the window and peeked past the curtain. Still no cops. Rain coming down in sheets.
The pain in his head caused a brief wave of nausea to break over him. He found the plastic pill bottle on the floor and ripped off the cap. Still empty. How had he gone through a hundred Tylenol in just two weeks? He considered making another run to the drugstore but it was past curfew; he didn't want to fuck up his parole. Not after seven years inside. He looked back at the girl and realized his problems were likely bigger than breach of parole.
He staggered back to the girl, dropped to his knees in front of the couch.
"There's blood...are you hurt?" he asked. When she didn't answer he grabbed her right wrist and tried to peel her arm away from her ribcage, doing his best to ignore the way the wet cotton was see-through in places. He was just checking her for injury, after all. Nothing indictable. Her wrist was bone-thin and felt fragile in his hand. He noticed then that his knuckles were cut, throbbing and weeping blood.
She squeaked and pulled her arm back against her chest, curled tighter into a defensive ball, eyes squeezed shut.
"Don't hurt me, please! Just...just let me go. Please." her voice was a teary whisper soaked in desperation.
Let her go? No, no chance of that. Not until he could explain, make her see that this was all just a huge fuck-up. Nothing criminal. Nothing the cops needed to know about, that's for damn sure. He'd find a way to make her understand.
But first, he needed to remember. He started pacing again and tried to fight through the raging agony in his head. Tried to piece things together.
He'd made instant soup and white toast for dinner. Planned for an early night so he could start his job search at the break of dawn the next morning. Got another headache but found he had no pills left. The pain was bad enough that he'd run for the drugstore just at the edge of curfew. He remembered leaving his apartment just as the sky started to dump rain. Then...
Then...
Then nothing. Just a blank space where his memory should be. And then he'd found himself climbing the stairs to his apartment with a semi-conscious young woman slung over his shoulder.
He squeezed his head with his hands. The pressure dulled the pain just a little. Too little. It hurt to think. He swore and kicked a rickety kitchen chair, launching it across the room where it bashed a dinner plate-sized hole in the thin plaster wall. It felt good to hit something. Really good. He turned back to the girl.
"Look, let's go to bed...try to figure this out in the morning," he said, not sure if he was speaking to her or just thinking out loud.
"No...please...I won't tell. Just let me go."
He watched her shiver for a moment, wondering if terror or wet clothes were more responsible. He squeezed his head tighter. What would it take for this shitty evening to be over at last?
"Take that off. I'll get you dry clothes," he said, turning to his battered particle-board dresser.
"No! Please don't..."
"Take it off!" He roared, more forcefully than he intended.
Why was she making this difficult? Change into dry clothes, then sleep. Somehow this would all make sense in the morning. The pain made him want to puke.
She slowly peeled off the sopping shift. Her eyes were wide now, staring past him like he wasn't there. He threw a t-shirt and some track pants onto the couch next to her, then turned away. The sight of a young woman undressing held no allure for him when his pain was so overwhelming.
He walked to the tiny bathroom and ransacked it, looking for any Tylenol he might have forgotten he had. None.
He stripped off his sneakers, socks, shirt and jeans. His briefs were damp from the rain but he decided to leave them on. Didn't want to be totally naked if the cops burst into the apartment and found him with a girl who didn't want to be there. They wouldn't even need a warrant; it was one of the conditions of his parole.
Stepping back into the main room, his eyes were drawn to the naked young woman cringing in front of the couch trying to hide herself behind her skinny arms. The wet shift sat in a lump at her feet. Her terrified eyes stared at the wall just to the left of him. For several moments they both stood in silence.
"What are you doing?" he asked.
"You said...dry clothes..."
They stared at each other for another few seconds. Was she an idiot?
"Right there!" He gestured to the couch. She continued to stare in his direction. He was almost at his limit. He clenched his fists. Tried to remember his anger management. Breathe. Count.
She looked at him uncomprehending for a moment longer, then crouched, uncovered her small breasts and began to tentatively run her hand over the floor to the front and sides of her.
She was blind?
He took a deep breath and pressed his palms into his eyeballs. He didn't care. He just wanted to be unconscious. He'd deal with it – somehow – in the morning.
"On the couch. To your left," he said.
