Bottled Abyss (36 page)

Vincent Baker crashed into Janet’s sternum before she could react. It happened like a force of nature. He was on top of her, pinning her right arm under his knee, heavy peppermint breath in her face. She saw his knife-hand dive clumsily for her neck—she twisted away—the blade split through the brown carpeting. She caught a glimpse of the bottle on its side. Its waters rushed out, crawling over the floor like billons of kneading onyx fingers. The gurgling screech that came from within the bottle startled her attacker.

“—the shit is that?”

The naked old man sat up in the bed and this frightened Vincent more; this time he nearly jumped in the air. “Who the fuck are you?”

“Let that woman go, you piece of trash,” said the man, huffing for breath.

Beads of sweat dappled the tanned peak of Vincent’s bald head. He shook his head, reached down and snatched the coin purse. He pointed the knife at Janet. “I’m gonna find out who you are and what your deal is and soon you’ll be less than nothing, bitch.”

The frothing black waters stretched out and Vincent hopped back from it and stumbled for the front room. “Crazy fucking shit!”

Like someone half his age, the old man leapt from the bed. The water receded from his feet and gave him a clear path out of the blackened bedroom.

Janet got to her feet, legs quivering, knots already forming in her lower back. She limped forward and watched the surreal sight of the old man throwing himself headlong into Vincent’s legs. Just at the apartment’s threshold, the coin purse flew out of Vincent’s hand and the impact opened the clasp.

Janet’s stomach dropped at the metallic sound of coins spilling. Interior light from the apartment glanced off some of their bronze surfaces as they fell over the edge. The coin purse lay against the railing in the darkness.

Vincent whirled and stabbed the old man through the shoulder. He wiggled the knife around inside the wound, gritting his large square teeth together, nostrils dilated like
midnight
chasms. The damage to the man’s shoulder didn’t illicit the response Vincent had been looking for—the old man’s hatred had him numb. He grasped Vincent’s hand and held the knife in place. Making a fist with his other hand, the old man slammed his knuckles into the twisted face below him, over and over again. Blood blossomed in Vincent’s face and ran into his brown-gold goatee. He let go of the knife, leaving it in the old man’s shoulder and yelled out as the bottle’s waters surged from the bedroom.

Janet came forward to help him and caught Vincent’s foot to her stomach. Air blew from her lungs, she fell back and landed on her ass, the bottle’s waters hissing around her in avoidance.

She looked up through a haze of cramping pain to see Vincent lurch onto the balcony and once again swipe up the coin purse. She caught her breath and rolled over to stand up. The old man must have finally taken notice of the strange water because he sprung to his feet and went barreling outside.

Holding her ribs, Janet followed. Vincent crossed the sidewalk below with all the confidence of someone who had fled many brutal engagements. He was even looking inside the coin purse as he went, pretending like it was his or something.

Janet glanced down to the planter area below. How many coins had spilled out? A couple? One? All of them? The bushes, flowers and hedge row would make it difficult to find them. It might take a good long while. There was certainly no time for that.

The old man descended the stairs in his bare feet. Janet was about to go down behind him when she saw Vincent abruptly stop walking and stare into his hand.

A trembling laugh consumed Janet then.

FURY

The fuck was this all about—? Try to make out the currency, looks foreign—why in the hell would someone bring this to my place—? Then again, there was living water upstairs so anything strange gets a pass today—weird though, get this feeling like the coin doesn’t belong to me, but I’ve taken it—never experienced ill feelings over theft before, which is beyond funny, especially with how foreign this feels—it really doesn’t belong to me, shouldn’t make it my own, but I have—seems more than a sin, like I’m breaking a law of nature—

Just realized, stopped walking to the truck, need to get a move on, crazy rich man’s going to come and tackle me again—can’t move, want to, can’t—am nauseous, burning up, insides boiling, bones brittle as I stand here—what’s happening to me—? Feel like I just caught cancer in its final stage, or what I’d imagine it would feel like to have your body turn against you—holy shit, this isn’t going to stop, is it—?

Coin throbs and bubbles in my palm—it could just melt into water at any moment—it doesn’t seem to be made of a metal at all—the woman brought this dark magic to my place, hear her coming down the stairs—now, getting my legs to work, moving so slow though—worthless to move on—scrub at the drying blood on my chin, a bunch of hairs in my chin beard come away—

A blood soaked monster lunges around the corner, dragging a dragon’s tail behind it—slithering red trail on the sidewalk leads from the shadows to where it stands—the thing has an evil fucking face, like a great white shark with armored scales, but there’s only one eye in its head, the other seems to have rotted out long ago—it staggers forward with a snarl and a voice comes from behind the rows of serrated teeth—

Too much—fall to my knees, head whirling, blood feels poisoned, can’t hardly breathe—think the magic woman from my apartment is standing behind me, watching, will the monster come after her too, after it’s done with me—? Hope so—

“What were three are now one, and I am Fury—”

The desire to curse at the monster passes over me, but save my energy—

“You have a chance to stay my vengeance,” says the Fury—the voice pleads— “Do you know the song—? The song my heart wants so badly to hear—?”

Remember a song from one of Mrs. Horrace’s old mythology books—it was about the Three Furies—or maybe my mind is withering with the rest of my body—

Fuck it—give it a shot— that thing wants to chew me up with those teeth—

“The River has no surface, has no bottom.

     
An Abyss is never bound,