Disintegration (20 page)

The tapes, those stupid fucking tapes. Something about them bothers me, so I go back one more time and I listen. I sit in the dark, my furry friend curled around my feet, waiting for the jackboots at the door, waiting for a red dot to appear on my forehead, the winds whipping around my apartment, snow and sleet chipping at my windows. I'm pouring whatever liquid I can find down my gullet, pushing my mind out into the space between the Antarctica that is my frozen wasteland and that moment years ago when I lost it all. I feel the ether with my many-tentacled mind's eye, bruised gray matter sloshing around inside my skull, a stomach full of beer and bourbon, a handful of pills, a thin layer of sweat coating my body, and I listen. I hear their voices, the screaming, the metal wrenching, my wife's panic, the urgency in her voice. And then there is silence. In the spaces between the static I pray for something, anything, a detail I missed. I sob into the blackness, empty and void, as the tape whirls on, my witness to their death for the hundredth time simply another poke in the eye, a jab in the ribs, a punch to the gut. And the tape whirls on, never ending, spinning out into the void.

I let it unfurl. I let the tape spin and move, unraveling, and it might as well be my intestines slipping through my inept fingers to the floor below. I'm gutted, again, and yet, somehow, I still feel. I still have pain—I'm not immune. What has to happen before I can die inside, finally become the shell that I so eagerly long to be? When can I let it all go, and cease to exist? And what is stopping me from pushing that razor blade just a little bit harder? Why don't I just swallow the barrel of my gun and end it? Empty every pill bottle and guzzle all of my booze, and take an eternal sleep? What is stopping me?

There is a tic, a tingle. Something. It's always been there, at least, since the accident. And it won't let me go. It whispers in my ear at night, this glimmer. It speaks the words of a god, a prophet, and it keeps me alive with one or two words, the weight a massive presence, always forcing me to my knees, bowing down, clinging.

Don't.

It says.

Not yet.

It mumbles.

Wait.

It whispers.

Wait.

Wait.

What was that?

Right before the click, before the tape ends, I hear something. I leap up, dropping my beer, the cat shooting out of the room as if from a cannon, and I rewind it. I play it again. And again. How did I not hear this? Was I simply too far gone, or did I never let it play that far? How much static will a human being listen to before they finally push stop? Ten seconds? Thirty seconds? Two minutes? That seems way too long, unfathomable.

“Hey, baby, I guess you're working late again. Taylor wants Daddy's Special Chicken, and Robbie, well you know twins, they either totally agree, or don't agree at all. He wants macaroni and cheese, so we're going to hit the grocery store real quick. I'll get you some Ben & Jerry's, sweetheart, New York Super Fudge Chunk. I have the cellphone, call me if you get home before we do. I miss you, honey, you've been working too hard lately, and I miss you so much. If you want to meet us at the store, we'll be there for a bit, so come catch up with us. The kids would love to spend a little time with you. Wait, somebody's honking at me, what the hell…

“…oh my God, what happened, where am I, Taylor? Robbie? Oh my God, say something, talk to me, I can't see, I have to get out of here, ugh, the belt, Taylor? Robbie? Answer me! Oh, that smell, I'm wet, what is that, gas?”

…clicking, whirring

…(a whisper)

…a van door slides open, ever so quietly

…a voice

…a man's voice

…I know that voice

…a hush at the end of the tape, in the final seconds

…(get them out)

…(
now
)

…click.

His reach is long, this man I call Vlad. He reached all the way to the banality of the suburbs, and not just once. Many times, I'm sure of it now. Maybe those with the most to lose have the farthest to fall. Maybe the ones with everything, the American dream realized, they become the best soldiers. Because without love, there cannot be hate. Without a fullness, there cannot be a void. To be fractured, you must be solid once, a presence, a rock, complete. Before he could build me up, or at least, build me, create me, mold me, he had to break me down, as far as I could go, just this side of useless.

He succeeded, I think.

You son of a bitch. You motherfucker.

There will be no drawn-out war here, no secrecy, no finesse. I'm coming for you now, Vlad, in a straight line. And I will burn all my bridges behind me, leaving nothing in my wake. I will erase my life here, this weak pulse and feeble mind. And I'll bring everything I have down on you, Vlad. I'll tear you apart piece by piece, limb from limb. I will inflict on you a slow steady pain until you beg me to end it, beg me to kill you, to set you free. And I will relish every moment, allowing the darkness to wash over me, to wipe out whatever was left, whatever glimmer of hope, or peace, or life is left in me. I will surrender to myself. God help those who come near me or get in my way. I'm losing my last scraps of humanity, and I have no love for life, mine or anyone else's.

Before I leave, I'll warn Paulina, upstairs, while I still have control. And whatever beast lurks in 3F, I will set it free or take it down. I'm clinging to something, a sliver of a conscience, so I'll get the punks out downstairs too, clear this building out before I burn it to the ground. These are my neighbors, strangers, there's no need for them to suffer at the hands of Vlad. The innocent can be spared. I think I can manage that.

I start upstairs with Paulina. I knock on her door expecting it to open with her radiant smile, a tilt of her head, the television on in the background, soap operas maybe, something on the stove. She's making lasagna today, the layers of noodles stacked up on the cheese, the meat sauce rich with the smell of garlic and basil, oregano and thyme. Maybe a loaf of French bread cut in half, butter smeared across it, ready for the oven.

No. That's not what I find.

I knock again, and wait. Silence. I turn the knob. Locked.

Fuck it. I kick the door open, my boot at the lock splintering it open, banging the fractured wood against the far wall.

Jesus Christ.

The room smells of vanilla and plastic, cheap perfume and vomit, sex and blood and despair.

It's the exact same layout as my
apartment—living
room straight ahead, kitchen to the right, and French doors opening to a bedroom. To the left is a wall of old vanities, rummaged from Salvation Army or the Brown Elephant, mismatched in shape and color. Pictures are taped to the edges of the mirrors. I walk over to get a closer look, a cord unplugged from the wall. I plug it in and the room is filled with light. Bulbs ring mirrors, some half-assed attempt at lighting, as if a drunken carpenter had raided an old theater, metal sleeves framing round stage lights that are bolted or clipped to the edges. The pictures are primarily of women and children, some old, dating back twenty, thirty years. Some are recent—down by Buckingham Fountain, or the lakefront, Wrigley Field, and farmers markets. Upturned faces of little boys and girls, standing next to their mothers. In some, parts of the photos have been cut off, or faces snipped out, colored over with marker, or sliced to shreds, the white of the paper peeking through, razor blades removing whatever lurked beneath. I imagine abusive husbands, absent fathers, the men in their lives that let them down. Scattered amongst the family photos are pictures of iconic women, torn from magazines, printed from the
Internet—Marilyn
Monroe, Jennifer Beals, Betty Grable, Angelina Jolie, Anna Nicole Smith, Bettie Page, Dita Von Teese. There is a calendar on the wall of classic Vargas girls. On the vanities are lipsticks, hairbrushes, hair spray, and other makeup. I pick up a couple of tubes of the lipstick, they look
familiar—Raisin
Hell, Tramp, XPose, and Bruise. I hold the last one for a moment. Bruise. That was Holly. Tell me she never worked here.

I turn to the bedroom, where there is a queen-sized mattress on the floor. Directly across from it, at the foot of the bed is a tripod, empty. It's where the video camera must have gone. The sheets are a neutral beige and the wind and snow outside rattle the windows, the room still in shadows. I click on the tall standing lamp that hides in the corner and the room fills with a sickly yellow light. The sheets are dotted with blood, a long red smear up the middle. On the nightstand closest to me is a smattering of lubes and gels—K-Y, Vaseline, baby oil. I pull open the drawer and find an assortment of vibrators and dildos in every shape and size
imaginable—long,
slender, and pink; short and wide, in magenta, riddled with bumps around the base of the shaft; a bent fleshy thing with two heads. I walk over to the other nightstand and there are candles seated on it—Red Currant, Sandalwood, Linen. I open the drawer. It's filled with other rougher
items—handcuffs,
a box of razor blades, ball gags and paddles, spiked collars and nipple clamps, and restraints in silk and leather.

I head to the kitchen. The refrigerator is filled with bottled Evian water, cheap white wine, and champagne. The freezer holds several bottles of vodka, and that foul clear liquid that Vlad enjoys. I open the cabinet doors and there's no food to be found anywhere, the shelves are empty. In the bathroom there is a box of tampons on the top of the toilet tank, and the medicine cabinet holds Midol, aspirin, Band-Aids, and a smattering of prescriptions. Behind a clear shower curtain are shampoo and conditioner, family size, cucumber and green tea, and bars of Oil of Olay soap. It's the shea butter.

Quite the little setup. Either Paulina was in charge of the whores, the filming, the sex and snuff, or she worked for Vlad too. The place feels abandoned. There's still urine in the toilet, so I flush it. The room reeks. The stove is empty, cobwebs scattered between the burners. There is a fine layer of dust in front of the back door, as if it hasn't been opened in weeks.

I head out into the hall and down to 3F. It's quiet, with the faint smell of curry floating under the door. I knock. The longer I stand there, the more I don't like it. The curry fades away and something bitter and sharp drifts out. I try the knob. Locked.

I kick the door in.

A wave of chemicals hits me in the face and stings my eyes. I cover my mouth with my hand. I'm afraid to touch anything or turn on a light, but I do it anyway. I find a switch to the left and flick it on. Nothing explodes. I squint my eyes to try and see, the fumes making my eyes water. It's the same layout as Guy's apartment but it's much different. Along the wall are white buckets with tubes running out of them. Large brown bottles sit next to them. On a metal table in the middle of the room sit beakers and more tubes, smaller plastic bottles scattered over the counter, empty beer bottles, and a bizarre mixture of chemicals. There is a bag of rock salt leaned against the table, brake cleaner, rubbing alcohol, drain cleaner, a large tank of propane gas, lye, and acetone. It's some sort of lab—meth maybe. It also seems abandoned. I take a step in and lean forward to peek into the kitchen. There are large black trash bags lying on the floor, a small table littered with what looks like marijuana stems and seeds, a thin coating of white powder on everything, a chair tipped over. There's popcorn scattered across the floor, empty liters of Diet Dr Pepper, paper towel rolls, half undone, the back window cracked.

I turn back to the living room and notice the massive fan bolted to the wall. It must be six feet wide and six feet high. It faces out, ventilation, no doubt. There's no window at this spot in my apartment, or Guy's; this must be a custom job. Maybe that was the source of the constant buzz I felt, the humming in the walls and floors, a squadron of bees that never arrived, slowly driving me insane.

I've seen enough. My nose hairs are starting to singe.

It's starting to sound like an elevator ride up the shaft of some futuristic department store: First floor—drug runners, fake IDs, breaking and entering, surveillance. Second
floor—marijuana,
distribution, assault, rape, and murder. Third floor—crystal meth, cocaine, LSD, whores. Watch your step.

I have a feeling the first floor is empty too. My time may already be limited on this earth. If I'm the only tenant left at Casa de Vlad, then that's not a good sign. It's like the animals of the forest fleeing as a wildfire rages over the hills, trees snapping and falling to the ground—the path is cut, inevitable. Before I leave, I tip over whatever liquid is left, spilling the caustic materials, certainly flammable, drenching the floor in clear liquids. I grab a large empty bottle and a long plastic tube on my way out.

I close the door and head down the stairs, my boots echoing on the wooden steps. This feels done already. Out the front door and I turn to the right to peer in the windows of the neighbors downstairs. I press my face against the filthy glass, the snow and wind beating about my head, wiping a ring clear with my bare hand. It's empty inside, newspapers scattered around the floor, cardboard boxes huddled in the corner, empty beer bottles here and there, ashtrays overflowing with butts, wine bottles tipped over on their sides. They're gone too.

The white car sits in front of me, covered in snow. On the driver's side are several yellow sleeves, parking tickets, stuck to the window. They'll tow it soon. I can't get behind the wheel and take the chance that I get pulled over. It's a death trap that car, and it certainly looks like trouble. There would be flashing lights in the rearview mirror in about five minutes if I got behind the wheel, eyes wide, face a mask of violence and insanity, chewing on the steering wheel, talking to myself. No. I'll do this on foot.

I walk around to the driver's side and insert the key. I lean in and pop open the trunk, as well as the lid to the gas tank, and step back out. My hands are turning red already from the cold. I'll need to get a few things from my apartment before I leave, my gloves the least of my worries, but necessary. I insert the tube into the gas tank and suck. I'm rewarded with a mouthful of gasoline, which I spit on the ground. It isn't much worse than the vile liquid that Vlad drinks, and I shove the tube into the large brown bottle. It fills up in no time, my head empty, the cold around me clear and sharp, not a soul in sight. I don't know what day it is, what time it is, but it must be late afternoon. Everything is gray.

When the bottle is full, I pull the tube out, splashing the ground with gas. My hands reek. I walk to the trunk and lift it up, tossing the tube inside. I take a baseball bat out of it, and close it. Back through the snow to the front door. I head up the stairs to the top floor and uncap the gas. I push back into Paulina's apartment and head to the mattress where I start pouring, then walk backward out the apartment, splashing the hardwood floors behind me, down the hall, and up to the door at 3F. I prop it back open, the fumes harsh again. Then down the steps spilling it behind me, I head back to my apartment. I set the bottle down and open the door.

I spend five minutes inside, scrubbing my hands with every soap I own, to try and get the gas smell off of me. I grab my hat and gloves, my gun, and a stinger from the back of a drawer—the long, thin blade of metal unfamiliar to me. Holly? A present from Vlad? Maybe my twin assassin.

I head into the bathroom and grab the remaining pill bottles. I take two of each. I'm not doing this straight, although I probably should. I stand in the kitchen and pause for a moment to drink a beer. Quite possibly my last. The window is open, the snow drifting in. The food bowl is half full of cat food, the water with a thin layer of ice on the top.

When Luscious leaps up into the window, I'm not surprised.

“You need to go,” I say.

She stares at me, her eyes slits. She sits.

“Time to move on.”

Her green eyes sparkle with gold.

“I'm sorry,” I whisper, suddenly weak and liquid. It's not her fault.

“There's nothing left for you here. You need to go.”

I want to hold her, just curl up on the bed and pet her, forget that all of this happened. She is simple, but pure. And she kept coming back.

“Go,” I say, waving my hand.

She doesn't move.

“Please.”

She takes one last look at the kitchen, down to the sawhorse, the dried food, the snow and dirt that I've tracked around, the gray that is fading to black. She gives me a long, low mournful meow. I lower my head, take a breath, and tilting my head back finish my beer. When I look to the window again, she's gone.

The rest happens fast. I pour the remaining gas over the sawhorse, the mattress, the table and chairs, and back out of the apartment. I push open the door to Guy's, and douse the books, emptying the bottle. This is where it will start. I pull out my lighter and hold it to the nearest books. With a small, unimpressive
whoomp
the books start to burn. It'll go up fast, no doubt. I turn and leave the apartment, the building, the flames traveling quickly. At the street, I look back and see a flicker of red and orange in the windows. In my right hand I hold the baseball bat, the knife in my right rear jeans pocket, the gun tucked into my pants, the long wool wrapped around me, hat pulled tight, gloves on, and I stomp my boots and stare.

Time to go see Vlad. Maybe I can just show up on his doorstep. What's to stop me?