"Last Chapter" Short Story By Greg Hernandez

Gregory Hernandez

Fiction

Last Chapter

O God, it was addicting. Every sentence pleasured him. Each turn of the page was a predictable award for his dopamine. It gave him the motivation to read voraciously. The quietness aided his concentration. Everything was tranquil, like when you bow your head during a moment of silence: at a eulogy or sporting event. The calming effect was interminable. He could not hear any foot-steps in the hallway. Life in either adjacent room seemed non-existent. How could a hotel be this dead? He sat in a chair near the window with the curtains drawn. Feet were propped up on the table. The end of his long magniloquent journey was near. All was perfect, until a noise disturbed him.

It was a slow, barely-audible turn of the knob. The door bolt being forced out of its locked position made his body tense. He reeled at the faint push of the door. It creaked open a few inches. A circular object speared through the void. It bounced several times and rolled in front of the bed. Dark red liquid oozed from the bottom. He shot up from his seat. It was a head! The face was deformed-nose, ears, eyes, lips, and hair were all missing-the mouth was open and some of the front teeth had been smashed out.

The door closed. A stranger locked it nonchalantly. He waved a bent gift card, “It’s easier to break into a room, when you have one of these, less noise and it’s cheap too.” He pointed to the maimed head with a sneer and said, “Don’t recognize him? Well, the way he looks now, I can’t either. That was the rude hotel clerk.” He spat on the head and set a small plastic bag down, containing a pair of latex gloves, the kind you see in a physician’s office. He took out a pistol and dangled it by his thigh. “This is a Type 67 silenced pistol. Silenced, is the operative word,” he said with a smirk. “My name is Harry. Frank told you all about me I’m sure…No need to grab your chest. I don’t want you having a heart attack now. Just, tell me, where’s the money?”

Dan could only hear the loud thumping in his chest. His eyes went from the gun to Harry’s face. No words would form. Harry scowled, “Dan, tell me where the money is.” The timbre of his voice sounded like the backfiring of a colt 45 magnum, hitting your eardrum. It lingered.

Dan was shouting in his head. ”WHY NOW? WHY NOT AN HOUR LATER? WHY DID HE HAVE TO ARRIVE NOW? I NEEDED MORE TIME!”

Dan's eyes darted toward the window briefly, but he knew it was futile. The hotel room was located on the twenty-third floor. He grimaced. Everything in the room seemed to tremble. It took him a moment to realize it was his body shaking.

Harry lifted his silencer and took aim. With only a modicum of control over his body, Dan elevated his chin and blurted out, “Give me fifteen minutes to live.” He gabbled like an innocent man in hand cuffs. He waved the book with his left hand and declared, “Th-this book is brilliant! I’m so close. Hey! You can keep the gun pointed at me while I read.” He flipped the pages quickly and counted. “Not much left to go!” Tears streamed down his cheeks. “Don’t kill me yet.” He sucked in a breath. “A-A few more pages then you can end me.” He forced a smile. “You can wait that long can’t you? I’m on the last chapter.”

Harry was surprised by Dan's defiance, yet remained inexorable.  On the outside his narrowed eyes showcased the lack of amusement. However, thoughts of a reprieve briefly entered his mind. Perhaps he could sit down and let this idiot finish his book. Yeah, rest in this chair, cross his legs, and watch this nervous son of a bitch blaze through the last few pages. He would have to keep the gun on him. No! This was a ploy- some diversion for escape. Besides, even if he were telling the truth, it was insanity. It was like Dan had just forged a contract on the spot. This was his shield! Some novel…bullshit! You screw with Frank Bruno, you have to go. He took a step forward and cocked the gun.

Harry pulled the trigger as Dan uttered the last word of his life, a small pitiful “No.” The blood spattered from his head and onto the book. He slouched in his chair while the book landed perfectly closed on the floor with a red ribbon still intact on the correct page. Dan's eyes remained open. Blood leaked out of the large bullet hole in the center of the forehead; it went down the bridge of his nose and into his left eye.

Harry picked up the novel and looked it over. Dan's final word echoed in his mind. He chuckled at the title of the novel, “Well, ‘Last Will’ eh, must have been one hell of a read, huh Dan?” He sucked his teeth when there was no response. He shoved the book in his coat pocket. After twenty minutes of searching for the money, he called Frank B. on his cell phone and told him the bad news.

Priscilla was a light sleeper. The faintest noises always woke her, so Harry was not surprised when he saw some movement behind the curtains of their bedroom window. The low humming of the garage door’s slow elevation must have broken her slumber. He parked the sedan and entered the house. He flicked the light switch on in the kitchen and immediately checked the fridge. “Club soda in the fridge and vodka in the freezer, not much choice here,” he thought.

Harry sauntered into the dark bedroom, club soda in hand; the curtains were parted, Priscilla’s back was to the window. She was crouching in a track runner’s starting position on the middle of the bed. The moonlight flowed through the room and revealed her nakedness. Her light blonde hair shone in the light, giving her the appearance of a lioness on the prowl, ready to pounce. The feeling in the air was primal. She lay down flat on her stomach and adjusted her hair; it looked like a lion’s mane.

“Trying to be creepy?” Harry joked.

“You’re home early from the city.” Priscilla purred, “A nice surprise.”

“Not much trouble tonight.” he said, draining his glass.

            Harry set the glass down on the nightstand and began to undress. He felt Priscilla’s eyes on him. Something about being watched in the dark by his vivacious girlfriend made him feel liberated. It was like being powerless. The vulnerability was nirvana. If she suddenly attacked him, he would no doubt feel compelled to let her win.

Priscilla could hear him strip off every article of clothing. He hung his fedora up on a hook next to the closet, followed by his trench coat, and suit. He unlaced his shoes and slid them underneath the chair. Finally, he slowly pulled down his underwear and threw it on the lounge chair and approached the bed with an erection. The side show was over. She crawled toward the edge and met his stiff cock. She caressed his large chest slowly and kissed him softly on his lips. Her hands worked back down toward his member. Her intricate work made him moan. She wrapped her arms around him and whispered a soft cogent “Now” in his ear. Harry lifted her up off the bed by the waist. Her petite hands could not lock around his wide back. He laid her down on the middle of the bed and guided himself inside of her.

Harry dreamed of a revolving bobble head. Its face was hideous and bloody. Like Rorschach without his mask. It was suspended in space, drifting without destination. The face bawled. “You didn’t let me finish! You didn’t let me finish! But you got to finish with her tonight! You didn’t let me finish MY BOOK!”

He awoke feeling cold and hot. He was sweating profusely. The crack of his ass was moist. The bedroom window was shut. Sloppy he told himself, plain sloppy. He opened the window and then staggered toward the kitchen for a drink of tap water.

When he stretched out in bed and closed his eyes the face reappeared. A pouty face with red eyes like fire and pulled out hair. The face was angry. “Why were you so impatient? Why? Why didn’t you show mercy and let me finish? I was dead anyway. Just didn’t have enough heart to let me finish, huh? ANSWER ME!”

He jumped out of bed. A startled Priscilla asked him what was wrong. “N-nightmares.” he stammered. He promptly dressed and left the bedroom. He dismissed his girlfriend’s inquiries with a grunt and set off for a walk.

The streets were peaceful. Nobody was around to make a racket. Harry checked his watch. 4:13 Am. He couldn’t believe he was out at this hour. If somebody saw him prowling the streets now, they would think he was committing some illicit act. He looked at his outfit and tipped his hat with two fingers. With his grey fedora on and trench coat pulled up tight, he admitted that he looked suspicious. He eyed several houses, and then set off again at a brisk pace. The cold air soothed him. It allowed him to put his paranoid thoughts aside.

The face in his dream looked like a caricature of the man he killed several hours ago. It was strange because he felt no guilt over that assignment. As a matter of fact he took pleasure in offing the son of a bitch before he could finish his stupid book. It felt like a cartoon show where the elusive main character did not make it out alive at the end of the episode. Everything had slowed down in those final moments: the man frantically asking for more time before his death, the book falling to the ground, the chair squeaking as the body fell back from the impact of the gunshot. This was a big character going down. Harry found it disconcerting to be dwelling on this matter. “Why I am awake?” he thought aloud. He rarely looked back on things like this. Twenty years of committing murder, hardened his spirit.

Harry stopped to think of his murder count. “Nope, too high,” he laughed. Most men never saw it coming. For those that did though, it was always the usual last resort, life clinging, rambling. Many men would bring up the fact that they had families, or made promises. Some offered cash that was hidden in some secret location. Hell, one guy even recited his safe combination without missing a beat. Of course, in the end, a majority of them would break down and cry.

He stopped and stared at the sky. There were no clouds. Instead the sky was littered with stars. He tried to count them, but could not focus. He sighed and settled his sights on the crescent moon. It was bright and lonely. He took out a pack of cigarettes, lit up, and blew the smoke toward the sky. Then, he remembered the book in his pocket. He pulled it out and looked it over. It was worn out. Harry flipped through the pages to discover the condition was even worse on the inside. The pages were yellow and spotty with what appeared to be coffee and spaghetti stains. It wasn’t a library book, so it only showed how big of a slob Dan was. He shut the book with a loud clap. With his hands at his sides now he let it dangle on the edge of his fingertips. He wanted to drop the book and walk back home. Yet, a thought echoed in his mind.

“What made this murder different from all of the rest?” Harry cogitated. A car whizzed by blaring its loud horn, shattering his thoughts. He realized then that he was standing in the middle of the road.

Harry’s eyes were bloodshot. He spent two hours on the porch smoking an entire pack before crawling back into bed for one hour of uncomfortable tossing, turning, adjusting, pulling the sheets, sighing, and fluffing the pillow. Priscilla managed to sleep through his ordeal. She yawned, scratched his head, said good morning and stretched in front of the bed for ten minutes. Her noisy morning routine had begun. Normally, Harry slept through it, but now wide awake and cranky; he was helpless against her unruly assault.  

Priscilla made her way to the kitchen to make coffee. She came back through the room and entered the bathroom to shower. The curtain flew back and forth, the sound of water pounding the curtains and the bathtub floor coursed through Harry’s ears. When the coffee maker buzzed to announce that it was done brewing, she emerged from the bathroom, body toweled, humming a tune from one of her favorite musicals. The toaster dinged, and the utensils rattled, the refrigerator opened and closed. The noise was constant. She re-entered the room crunching on the toast and asked, "Are you OK?" Harry withheld eye contact and simply nodded his head with an expression on his face that yelled you-loud-clumsy-woman-hurry-the-fuck-up-and-get-out-of-here. She washed out her mug because she had this obsessive compulsive routine of not leaving any dirty dishes in the sink before she left for work.

 The quietest moments were when she got dressed. However, she had a bad habit of walking back and forth to search for one item that she misplaced. She would be out the door and back again because she forgot something, whether it was her lunch or the car keys. When she finally left and didn’t come back, Harry closed his eyes.

The comfort of silence was palpable, yet Harry could not fall asleep. He tossed and turned, and then threw the covers off in frustration.  He stumbled toward the bathroom and banged his knee on the side of the entrance. In a quick 180-degree turn, he grabbed his knee in pain and slammed his shoulder up against the handle of the bathroom cabinet, cutting himself. He winced slightly and stopped his momentum. As the pain began to cease he stared into the mirror and found a bald man with red eyes and a cut on his left shoulder looking at him. The blood flowed down his arm at a steady pace.

Harry lay in bed, shirtless, his shoulder patched up. The afternoon arrived and he still had not slept. Television irritated him, yet he turned it on to drown out the incessant burbling of two plump pigeons outside. Finally, he decided to shut the television off and get dressed. He was feeling hungry and had no desire to cook. He left the house and lumbered down the road a few blocks to a nearby café.

The brilliant autumn sun shone brightly. It warmed his face and hands. Three young children were playing with a miniature football on their front lawn. The two older boys ganged up on the youngest and tackled him hard to the ground. The young boy ran into the house, sobbing. Harry chuckled. “That’ll toughen him up.”

With his mood upbeat again, he wore a small smile. It felt good to be out of the house. He preferred being outside. You’re cut off from everything when inside, but being outside leaves you exposed. You’re deep in the world, whether you like it or not. A house is only necessary for shelter and your belongings. A home is more than a shelter. A home is an abstract idea infused with the owner’s intrinsic values. That is why it’s scary when someone breaks into your home. They have not only invaded your area of peace, your sanctuary, they have invaded you.

The coziness of the cafe kept Harry at ease. He ordered coffee and read the newspaper that he bought on the way. It made him feel slightly old-fashioned reading it there while everyone else had their electronic devices to keep themselves occupied. Young adults looked like bobble heads with their over-the-head ear phones on. They were in their own worlds; head-banging, snapping their fingers, humming and playing air guitar all while they ate.

Harry ordered beef barley soup with a chicken sandwich on rye. When it arrived he ate it with gusto. On page six there was a short article regarding the hotel clerk and Dan. Dan Watts was his full name. He was a producer in the movie business, but more importantly a degenerate gambler with some outstanding debts to pay. According to the article, “Gambling and alcohol caused the inevitable vicissitudes in Dan's life.” Harry chortled, “Ah, way to distort the truth Frank.”  Of course it was obvious that Dan owed a ton of money to Frank B. Dan believed he was on the cusp of some great movie idea. With the successful implementation of said idea, he would then be able to pay off his debt to Frank B. His plan was to adapt a series of books into several full-length movies. Sure, that idea might have floated well with one of his contemporaries, but not with Frank. Frank never liked movies. His reaction toward Dan's so called brilliant proposal was remarkable. He actually laughed. Frank never laughed.

Conducting a business proposition over the phone with a volatile gangster who you happen to owe a major debt is a huge mistake. Now, there are only three occasions when that strategy has any merit. A) You are in possession of an important hostage. B) You have an ace in the hole. C) Someone else will be delivering the money to said volatile gangster. Dan held the final book of some famous series. Hiding out in a New York City hotel under an alias only prolonged his death. It took Harry three days to find him.

Harry’s thoughts drifted back to the novel still in his possession. Harry was not an avid reader. Newspapers and magazines were one thing, but books? No. This book was thick, too. He turned it over, frowned at the weight, and checked the length. It was just shy of 600 pages. Why he had kept it, he did not know. Keepsakes were meant for psychos. Harry sighed and began to read. As he hit the second page his cell buzzed. Frank B. had called a meeting.

The train doors closed behind him. He found a seat alone near the window and rested his head against the pane. A man walked past his seat. The sight of his underwear disgusted Harry. ”Only in the afternoons do you see that,” Harry thought. “In the mornings the Metro North is packed with SUITS!”

Fourteen stops were plenty of time for a good nap. Harry blinked twice before shutting his eyes. He awoke six stops later and found a youth reading next to him. “The car is mostly empty; why didn’t this kid find another seat? This row has a total of six seats. Why the hell, sit next to me?” The youth was a college-type, draped in University gear from head to toe. Harry cleared his throat, looked the youth up and down, and decided he was not worth telling off. As he turned back over to nap again a sudden panic took hold of him. His eyes burst open and they remained that way as he caught sight of the title of the book he was reading, “Last Will.” What were the fucking odds? He spied the kid’s progress. He was about sixty pages in.

“I once knew a fellow who enjoyed that book in your hands.” Harry spoke as if he were having a conversation with the seat in front of him. “He didn’t get to finish it though.”

 “Really, that sucks…” The kid made no attempt to hide his disinterest.

Harry narrowed his eyes and shook his head, with a really-you-sit-right-next-to-me-on-this-fucking-train-and-blow-me-off-when-I-try-to-make-conversation. He persisted, asking the youth how the book was so far. The kid looked up from his book and glanced at Harry, his face softened. He elaborated on the book.

 “It’s great so far. I mean, I didn’t know what to expect from a fantasy/mystery novel; but it’s written by this very famous Japanese author, who’s renowned for his wonderful prose. I’m already engrossed.” he laughed. “You would think a story about a family of super naturals fighting over the will of their deceased patriarch would be dumb, but no.  They all begin to suspect each other as...” He trailed off. “Hmm…I don’t want to give anything else away. Uh, I just found out the author died two weeks after the book’s release.” The kid smiled sadly, “He was young, only middle-aged. I bet he’ll get a posthumous award.” The kid turned abruptly, understanding his loquaciousness and resumed reading.

The kid got off on the next stop. Harry stared out of the window and watched him walk down the stairs until the train pulled out once again and he was out of view. He purposely missed his stop, and remained in the car until the last stop. His body felt heavy like a dense suitcase. The conductor’s voice boomed over the speaker, commanding all riders to vacate the car. He exited sluggishly and fell down on the bench like a drunkard.

Harry no longer had any intention of meeting with his boss now. He slouched and closed his eyes. A feeling of curiosity and incompletion gnawed at him. The job was not finished. He accepted that fact axiomatically. Dan was dead, but it still left one thing. The book; he needed to read it to understand, not the man he murdered, no, that was an impossible endeavor, however, making an effort to understand the murder itself was plausible. Trying to understand why he died for a book was possible. The face of Dan Watts reappeared in his mind more vividly than before and this time it was not sad, in fact it looked irate. A pistol hovered around the head at a slow pace. It was aimed at the floating head. Dan cursed and wailed and spat at Harry. His veins on his forehead were bulging. His eyes were dark red. His face was purple. He looked worse than dead. The gun fired point blank at his forehead. Harry jumped up clutching his own forehead and chest. His heart was racing, he was sweating, and his ears hurt from the noise of the gunshot. It went off again. Harry stumbled forward. Once more the sound came. He was losing his balance. It came again and again. BANG! BANG! His panic slowly dissipated once he found the source of the noise. It was not a gunshot at all, but the sound of lumber hitting lumber at a construction site down the street.

Harry caught himself at the edge of the platform, eyes on the track, thinking of Dan. “Did Dan lead me here?” He felt a cool breeze touch his neck. The whisper of the wind was his answer. “Come and lie down on the tracks with me,” the wind seemed to tease. Harry slowly backed away from the edge. Then suddenly the breeze picked up and pounded his back. He teetered over the edge for a few seconds, until he threw his head back with all his force. He flopped back onto the bench, mouth agape.

A middle-aged man with close-cropped hair and sunglasses sat two seats away. He was dubiously removing lint from his wool sweater. The man stopped what he was doing and peered at a heavily breathing Harry. He asked Harry if he was alright, but received no reply. The man continued to speak. He rambled on about panic attacks, heart disease, strokes, divorces, children, alimony, healthcare, proverbial mid-life crisis, his thoughts in comparison with the quarter life crisis, old age, retirement and the grave.

Harry looked down at the man’s shoes. His socks didn’t match. The banging noise resumed. He gritted his teeth. He could not concentrate on anything now. The man had still not stopped talking. Suddenly he said a phrase that made Harry snap in to attention. Harry asked him to repeat it. So the man did. “I said you look like you’re in the last chapter of your life.” Harry froze. He could not seem to form the words to refute the man’s statement. The banging of the lumber raged on.

Harry clenched his fists and bit his knuckle, and mumbled a “You don’t know what you’re talking about.” The man spoke again, his voice sounding different this time, deranged instead of concerned. “You didn’t let me finish!” Harry looked at the man; his face had contorted into a wicked sneer. A red leaking hole appeared in his forehead. His hair changed colors from grey to dark brown. The wave of hair caused the receding hair line to disappear. Suddenly the man had transformed into Dan. He stared with intensity in his eyes. He cocked his head to the side and said, “Don’t you hate that noise? Damages the ear drums you know.”

Harry shrieked and ran away. Down the stairs he went three at a time. He hit the sidewalk and continued in a sprint; Dan's presence with him all the way. After several blocks he tripped and fell down. He crawled toward a lamp post. His knees ached. He felt dizzy and anxious. Each breath was difficult to take. He heaved up the soup from earlier.  Pedestrians stared with disgust as the vomit flowed down his chin and coat. He crawled on all fours in a frenzied semi-circle. His cell phone fell out of his pocket. He stopped, then hurriedly picked it up and called Priscilla.

Harry arrived home in a taxi. Priscilla met him at the house and paid the fare. She was shaken at the sight of him. She said he looked sick. He collapsed in her arms. The last noise he heard was the screaming of his name. HARRY!

Harry awoke in bed to darkness. His mouth was dry and his head burned. A small trail of light came from the living room. He knew his girlfriend was there. He was thankful to her for not calling an ambulance. A green light flickered on the nightstand next to Dan's book. It was his cell phone. He checked it and found four new voice-mails. Frank had to be furious. He dialed voice-mail and entered his password. The first message came on with a strong whimper. A frantic tone that sounded familiar. The lights in the living room went off. Harry turned on his side away from the door. The voice ceased whimpering and the first message ended. The second one began with a shout of “No, No, No!” The same “No,” that Dan uttered right before the bullet penetrated his skin. The sound of the door creaking forced Harry to turn around to face a small figure in the doorway. Harry gasped as the figure turned the lights on, pistol in hand pointing it at him. The third message came on with a click. He began to shout his girlfriend’s name- as the fourth message ended with a bang-PRISCILLA!

Priscilla had never seen her boyfriend look as frightened and pathetic as he did that night. She found him hunched up in the corner of the bedroom with his head in his knees and his hands covering his ears, shouting vociferously for help.

 For days she worried about his incessant insomnia. He had undergone a grotesque transformation. The bags under his eyes were heavy. His face was dirty and unshaven. The once brawny sculpt of man had shrunk to a scrawnier version of her Harry. His skin had begun to change into the color of curdled milk. Harry’s body odor was unbearable. He refused to bathe or change his clothing. Priscilla begged him to wash and shave his armpits, but he gave her a nasty rejection. Her once charming companion had become a recluse, never leaving the house, and barely leaving their bedroom. He turned off his phone, disconnected the house phone and refused to let any light enter the house. Whenever she checked up on him, he would shout at her about needing every minute of the day to read.

Harry’s change shattered Priscilla’s equilibrium. It made her reminisce of their first few encounters. Three years ago on their second date, he told her jokingly, “No kids, no marriage, and no questions, that’s how I operate.” She remembered how upbeat and funny he used to be. How his signature off-the-cuff remarks and dark humor won her over immediately. She realized early on, that it was his way of showing her his honesty. She remembered the first time she found blood on his shirt. The juxtaposition of her fear and his reaction, when she confronted him about it was incomprehensible; Harry switched his tone to a casual, almost child-like-voice, the sort of aw-shucks, voice you see in old cartoons. It was like a playful yeah, you caught me, but I wanted to be caught anyway, “No need to worry babe, I bring the monster to work, never at home.” It was all a job to him. As long as she never brought it up, things would go smoothly. His boisterous attitude always buoyed her mood, but now her morose, snarling boyfriend mopes, curses, cries and scratches the back of the bathroom door when he’s thirsty. She could not fathom the cause behind her lover’s change.

Harry required little nourishment. So, Priscilla bought an assortment of snacks from a delicatessen and placed them in the bathroom. She also, laid out several jars of vitamins on the bathroom counter. It was her desperate attempt to keep some semblance of good health for Harry. He felt content to remain in the bathroom with the lights on while Priscilla slept. She wanted him in bed with her, but the stench was so foul, you could not be within ten feet of him without covering your nose or furiously spraying an air-freshener. Sometimes at night she would listen to his whimpering. It sounded like a dog trapped in a cage with its own urine. He wandered around listlessly in the dark, stating which chapter, page he was on, and how much he had left to go. At times she could make out bits and pieces of a potentially one-sided conversation, which always ended with the repeat of the word “No, no, no, no!” It terrified her. However, when she confronted him about it during the day-time, he fleetingly reassured her that it was all a trial. He promised her that this ordeal would be over soon. She just had to be patient. Once he was finished with this book, everything would be normal again.

One morning, Harry asked Priscilla to spend a weekend with her mother. She thought the request crazy. The idea of driving south to West Virginia, to spend time with her mother instead of taking care of her Harry was out of the question. She pursed her lips and asked him to come with her. Yet, Harry remained obstinate, telling her that he needed time alone to figure things out, and most of all to finish his books. She left Friday morning in tears, with a bruised cheek.

The air was terrible. It was dark and cool. The door kept the light from coming in. Harry was half way through “Last Will,” when he realized his shit had changed form and color. He kneeled over the toilet seat and stared at the unrecognizable excrement with astonishment. He furrowed his brows and turned away, all the while holding his stomach as he thought about the last meal he ate.

The letters D-A-N were carved into the bathroom door. Harry’s long dirty nails were sharp. His dry, bloody lips made him moan for lip balm, but it came out sounding like “Lim-Bo.” Harry’s stomach churned. His head throbbed and his skin burned. His ribs began to show. He intermittently read. The lack of concentration and feeling of disorientation were fueled by shocks of hunger pangs.

Dan seemed to follow Harry everywhere in the house. He hovered over Harry’s back in relentless spite. His persistent mocking of Harry’s slow reading pace was like a vulture’s circling of a dying mammal. Harry missed the quietness and solitude of his home. He somnambulistically opened drawers and cabinets in the kitchen in search for food.

“READ!” commanded Dan. “There is not much time left to finish!”

“Hungry…I’m feeling…hungry.” Harry slurred.

“Quiet…read…I must know…how it ends…” Dan's voice was now low. He placed an emphasis on his (s). Harry thought he had a lisp, but the funny thought was buried when Dan growled at him. It made Harry shudder as he turned the page.

Dan did not let Harry shower. He seldom allowed Harry to drink water either. If Harry did manage to slip by him it was only for a few seconds of bathroom water. Sometimes Dan would disappear but it was only a trick that he played on Harry. Whenever Harry took a break from reading to lie down on the floor and sleep, or crawl to the door to make a quick trip to the kitchen for a snack, Dan would appear with Harry’s gun cocked and ready.

One morning, the slow enervation had finally taken its toll on Harry. He lashed out at Dan. He jerked awake and reached for his own gun, only to discover that it was his flashlight that he used for reading. When Harry looked up, Dan was gone. Harry slowly retreated to the corner of the bathroom adjacent to the toilet. He pulled the shower curtains over him like a blanket and faded into unconsciousness. He opened his eyes to the sound of numerous joints cracking all at once. He looked up at all the cracks on the ceiling. They were moving. The cracks spread out all over the ceiling. He heard the word “No” ring out a few times. In his bones, he knew it was Dan. As the echo reached a crescendo he saw something liquefy through the cracks. Harry’s jaw slackened. Drops of black liquid exploded on his face. He felt a weird urge to suck in the liquid like a vacuum. His tongue escaped the safety of his mouth and touched the smooth dark fluid. It tasted like a sour cocktail. His face twitched as he sat up. He vomited in the toilet and fell back on the floor weakly. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and began to laugh. He thought about his 20’s when he did coke, had hair, and was slim. Now he was in his 40’s, bald, slimmer, and had swapped coke for the ubiquitous Dan.

Loud thumps echoed from the front door. Harry was unhindered. Then a loud crash came. The front door had collapsed. Harry grabbed the book and held it to his chest. He scurried about the bathroom for his hand gun. It was not in the bathroom. “Dan took it, fucking bastard,” he thought. Three short light knocks touched Harry’s ears like a bucket of ice cold water thrown on a drunk. He held his breath and gaped at the door. The doorknob gently turned. He exhaled. He heard multiple voices and sounds. One was calm and quiet, the other nervous. The sound of a gun being cocked forced Harry back up against the wall. The door swooshed open and a large brute with a black trench coat and black fedora stood ready with a shotgun. He took aim at Harry for a few seconds before casting a disparaging look at him and deeming him no threat. Harry felt a little scared but mostly insulted. His fear was amplified when the brute vacated the room at the behest of his boss.

Frank was a tall lean man with a soft voice. Very few men mistook his tone as lenient. Men who failed to make that distinction did not live long. He sported black shades and a black walking cane. It almost made him look like an old movie star, which of course if you knew Frank, you recognized the irony. He removed his shades and squinted at Harry in disbelief. The sight of a malnourished, bearded homeless looking man wearing a worn out brown stained white collared shirt and faded black pants caused him to do a double-take. He turned slightly to one of his brutes and whispered, “You sure this is the right place?” His brute gave a curt nod. Frank shook his head at the gaunt figure. He made it obvious that the mere sight of the new Harry repulsed him.

            “Pull him out of there,” Frank murmured as he walked out. “Lay him on the bed. I’ll speak to him there.”

            “Good call,” said one of the brutes.  He looked relieved. “The smell is horrible in here.”

            “Plus it’s too crammed,” chimed the other.

They were three. Frank the boss, and his two brutes, Anthony and Freddy. Frank pulled up Priscilla’s lounge chair. Anthony and Freddy stood at opposite sides of the bedroom with their hands at their sides. They looked at everything and nothing. Harry was in bed clutching the book. He felt sick, afraid and most of all vulnerable. He tried to sit up in bed but kept slouching. Frank wore a sad smile. He lit a cigarette and blew the smoke out as he stared at a picture of Harry and Priscilla on the nightstand.

            “Did she leave you?” Frank inquired.

            “Gone for a few days is all.” Harry said in mild tone.

Frank’s smile turned into a frown. His eyes darted toward Harry and then fell to the book in his arms.

            “You’ve abandoned me Harry,” Frank hissed, “My most reliable soldier abandons me for a book. Ten days without contact. You don’t answer your phone. You don’t answer the door. I’m left to assume that you’re either dead or skipped town to start life anew, yet here you are, frittering away your life in the bathroom.”

“You look like shit.” said Anthony with a pinched face.

            “And you smell worse than shit,” added Freddy who stood near the door with his nose wrinkled.     

Harry knew this act all too well. First, the swift accusation, then the lecture, which was chocked full of manufactured rhetorical pain, followed by the physical beating by the two brutes, that ultimately ends with the enforcer strolling in to finish the job. Harry wondered if Frank had found a replacement yet. He looked down at his toes with a solemn disposition. They were dry, cracked, and yellow.    

“Pay attention.” Frank snapped his fingers twice. “Why don’t you answer your phone huh? You’ve gone soft now? Mr. Sentimental, why do you have this book? Huh? Answer me, Harry!”

Harry felt miserable. There was a feeling of doom that surged through his body. Frank seldom raised his voice. If he decided to yell, the person’s chances for survival took a plunge. He could not meet Frank’s eyes. This was more than owning up to tardiness, this was the ultimate confession. Suddenly it felt like church. Frank was the priest and his two brutes were the altar boys. He could not tell them. He placed the book aside and began to sob, “I was so close to finishing. I was so close to understanding why he died.”

            “Jesus fucking Mary and Joseph,” chuckled Anthony.

Frank leaned back in the chair dumbfounded at this sudden outburst. Freddy moved forward to Frank’s side and whispered in his ear. Harry stopped crying. His eyes got really big. He saw brown hair slowly come into focus, then a forehead with a gunshot wound, and finally a wide grin. Dan hovered over the bed and directed Harry with his nose to the adjacent pillow. Harry blinked in amazement.  He felt for the pillow. Frank whispered to Freddy. Freddy gave a slight bow of his head and left the room. Harry’s eyes were now glued to Anthony. Anthony watched Freddy leave while Harry felt underneath his pillow. He felt something hard and cold.

“I brought someone.” Frank muttered. “In fact,” he said clearing his throat. “She’s the reason why we’re here.”

Harry was not listening. He now understood what his fingers were touching. Dan gave Harry a perfunctory nod and vanished. The pistol was there, but was it loaded? If so, how many bullets? Was the safety on or off? When was the last time he cleaned it? Could it be jammed? All of these questions were haunting him. Immersed in his paranoia, Harry froze when he caught sight of Anthony's gaze. “OH SHIT!” Harry thought. “He’s looking at me weird now. HE KNOWS! I can’t pretend I’m scratching my ass…I gotta do something quick!”

Harry cleared his throat, looked Frank right in the eyes, pointed his right finger at him, and recited a line from the Last Will novel, “Thou must pay for thy impudence!” Frank was taken aback. His eyebrows shot up. He put out his cigarette in the ashtray by the nightstand and glared at Harry. Harry appeared to be hallucinating. His exophthalmic eyes, thin face drenched in sweat, almost made him look demonic.

                        “Is he on crack or something?” Anthony sighed.

            Harry whipped out his pistol with his left hand and pulled the trigger twice. Both shots hit Anthony in the chest. He fell down over a chair and remained motionless. Frank yelled, “JESUS CHRIST, HARRY!” Harry swung his arm around and shot Frank once in the cheek. He fell back in the chair. It looked like he was a taking a nap now. A small trail of blood leaked out of his left cheek. Harry checked his pistol. Empty. He jumped out of the bed and ran to Anthony. He padded him down and took his weapon. A 38 fully loaded. “Wonderful,” Harry thought. He took a few steps toward Frank and fired one shot in his forehead.   

Freddy charged into the house like a college full back. He yelled when Harry pointed the gun at him, howled in pain when he was shot point blank in the stomach twice, and collapsed on the rug. He jerked his head up and groaned and cursed. Harry stood over him and fired one shot into his skull.

Large puddles of blood engulfed the three fresh corpses. Blood flowed to and around Harry’s feet. Blood covered his hands and clothes. The blood reached his toes. It felt warm. All the red filled him with zest. His opponents were dead, their mission to separate him from his book failed. Remembering his book, he jumped on the bed and showed it obeisance by holding it over his head. With his mouth open he gazed at his book and spun around in circles throwing the sheets and pillows off the bed and onto the red pool below.

Priscilla found Harry on the empty bed with the book in his left hand and a small gun in his right. Everything was quiet and still in the room. The tips of his toes touched the red floor. She covered her mouth and held in a gasp. The hallway floor creaked as she backed away. Harry lifted his head and gazed at her. In that brief moment the only thing that moved was her heart. It beat furiously. He flashed a yellow smile. “I’m on the last chapter,” he whispered. She fell to her knees and choked up. “The neighbors, they’ve, called the cops. They’re, coming any minute now.” Harry jumped up from the bed and clumsily tripped over a corpse. He cursed and bawled. He kicked Freddy’s body and shut the door in Priscilla’s face. She heard him lock it. The bathroom door slammed shut. He cried “NO!” repeatedly. “I’m not finished yet!” She heard the breaking of glass. “DAN!” he said in a guttural voice. She heard the approaching sirens. She knew that he could hear them coming too. She yelled his name several times. “Harry…Harry…HARRY!” She beat her fists on the door to no avail. She resumed yelling, “Harry…HARRY…HARRY, PLEASE!” The sounds of the sirens intensified. Cop cars and ambulances were closing in. She could hear the tires of the cars screech. Red flashes immersed the house. Their doors opened and closed in a hurry. Shouts of infiltrating commands surged through her eardrums. Footsteps resonated in her core. They were near. She turned to face the wave of cops. “HOLD UP THOSE HANDS!” they yelled. She sucked in her breath and froze. A gun shot went off. Her hands didn’t move. It was all over.