Dragged into Darkness (4 page)

He collapsed to the floor with tears running down his face. 
It’s true
, he thought,
I am
.  His life was over as he knew it.  The penny dropped and he understood the bad joke; he was dead and he was last to know. 
Why couldn’t I have just died
, he thought.  He knew that his life had the prospect of being the Whistler’s, a killer’s life, having to exist off the living during the night.  In this new world he would have to use the power of darkness to succeed.

He moved to the living room and saw the muted light breaking through the curtains.  “You Bastard!” he screamed at the light.  His thoughts were of the world that was on the other side of that window.  He desired the pleasure of basking in the world of light.  He did not want to skulk in the shadows scavenging off of the weak and the unwitting.  His rage turned to the model that glowed on the table.  He snatched up a college award from a shelf and stormed over to it.  He decided he would smash the fucking thing that mocked him.  If he could no longer enjoy the things he made, then they would not exist.  He drew his arm back like a major league pitcher but hesitated and let his arm drop to his side, the award still clutched in it.

He saw again the beauty in his creation and not the spite that he had thought was there. 
This is beautiful work
, he thought, and how he wished he could touch it right now.  He smiled in admiration of his achievement and his mind was awash with a flood of memories of his past accomplishments.  There was good in his work that came from the gift he possessed.  He would be a fool to destroy the memory of his work.  The spoilt child within him grew up into the adult he was and returned the award to its rightful place.

He sat staring at the shadows cast by a descending sun.  He would not see tonight’s sunset and thought about the times he had watched it from here.  He realized that he had never seen the sun rise from the sea like he had seen it descend.  He had one wish, and that was to see the sun rise from the sea to give birth to a new day.  He decided he would be a genie for a day and grant himself his wish.  He flicked through a portfolio of his work and occasionally gazed at his model that changed in color with the sun while the night dropped from the heavens.

When it was dark, a cab drove him to San Francisco International airport.  He paid the cabby a tip that he would never forget and that Thompson would never remember.  He went from ticket booth to ticket booth of the various airlines.  He wanted an overnight flight to the East Coast.  American Airlines Flight AA476 would get him to Miami an hour before sun up.  He purchased a ticket and checked in.  He was asked if he had any luggage and remarked he had everything he needed and tapped the sunglasses in his lapel pocket.

The flight was uncomfortable.  He could not sleep and hunger gnawed at his belly like it was an animal trying to eat its way out.  He refused the food offered by the stewardess, as he only desired the food that sat in the seats around him.  The flight landed on time and he left his fellow passengers at the baggage claim as he exited the deserted airport.  He hailed a cab.

“Where to?” the Cuban asked.

“The beach,” Thompson said.

“Which one?
  There are lots, there’s the-”

“The closest one,” Thompson interrupted.

“Okay.”

The Cuban tried to engage his curious occupant in conversation and wondered what this man would want with the beach at this early hour.  Thompson dismissed the questions; this was not the time for a life story.  The cabby stopped curbside and Thompson gave him the last of his cash.

He had made it just in time—the sun was not far away.  A faint orange glow emanated from the horizon of the Atlantic Ocean.  He walked onto the deserted beach, kicking up sand that crept into his shoes but he ignored the irritation.  The sun had already filled the sky with light beyond the horizon and it would not be long before it did the same on the beach.  He knelt down in the sand.  He put his sunglasses on and hoped they would give him protection against the light as he eagerly waited for the show to begin.

The sun broke the surface of the water.  A brilliant light was cast over the sea and land like a fisherman’s net.  He watched the wondrous sight that blinded him even with the sunglasses.  His smile was as bright as the sun that crept over the sea. 
Beautiful
, he thought.  He had granted himself his wish of the perfect sunrise.  He felt the sun on his skin and it immediately blistered wherever it was exposed.  Tears of joy ran from his eyes even as they formed cataracts and it was not long before he lost sight of his final wish.  His tears bubbled, evaporating into steam on the super-heated flesh of his cheeks.

The sun continued to climb from the depths of the ocean spreading more light.  Paul Thompson’s light-sensitive body burned like a torch on the beach.  His smile disappeared in the flames, as did his undesirable future.

“And finally, the restrooms both need mopping every night,” the cleaning supervisor said.

“I have to clean the ladies’ room?” Terry asked, uncomfortably.

“Of course.
  There’s no one else here who’s going to do it.”

“What if someone’s in there?”

“Don’t be so damn squeamish.  Just call out beforehand and while you’re in there, put the “Cleaning in Progress” sign outside.”

Terry frowned. 

“Security will be in around seven. 
Any questions?”
Before Terry could answer, the supervisor said, “Good, I’ll be off then.”

Alone, Terry got on with his job, dodging the restrooms.  He opted to clean the offices—leaving the ladies’ until last.  It may have been his first night on the job, but he hadn’t come all the way from Boston for this. 

California hadn’t been the golden state for Terry.  The biotech researcher’s job had fallen through the day he had arrived and finding something else in the same field had proved impossible.  The best he had come up with after two months of job hunting was this—office cleaning.

Terry stood in front of the ladies’ room and eased the door open.  He heard voices.  Just what he hoped wouldn’t happen.

“Did you know a man was killed in here?” a woman said.

“No.  Really?” another responded.

Terry thought the building was empty except for him and this was what he feared most doing this crappy job—walking in on a woman with her panties around her ankles.

“Hello,” he
called,
his voice cracking.  He cleared his throat and tried again. 
“Janitorial services.
 
Anybody in here?”

No one answered.

Terry edged his bucket forward into the restroom with his mop, like it was on point duty.  The bucket was on castors and easily followed orders.  No one took a potshot at his GI so he hooked his head around the privacy wall.  He didn’t see anyone.

“Hello.  Is anybody in here?” he asked.

No one answered, again.

Terry swallowed and ventured into the restroom.  No one stood at the sinks and the stalls looked empty but he knocked on all the doors to make sure no one was inside.  Who the hell had been talking and more importantly, who had been killed?

Terry cursed.  His nerves were getting the better of him.  The best thing was to mop this place as quickly as he could and get the hell out.  He left the ladies’ room, moved the “Cleaning in Progress” sign from the men’s to the ladies’ and re-entered.

Terry started to mop.  He didn’t like being in the ladies’ room.  He felt like a pervert sifting through women’s dirty underwear.  Men were just not meant to be in the ladies’ room—it was for women and it felt sacrilegious to be in there.  Being the night-cleaner might give him license to break the rules but his guilt was making him sweat.

He had washed in-between the stalls and was mopping the edge of the sink units, when what he saw in the mirrors stopped him in his tracks.

Blood bubbled up from the grout like it was coming from an underground spring.  He knew it was blood.  It had to be.  The color, texture, everything told him it was, but how and why it was happening, was a mystery.  How could the floor bleed?

The blood broke the law of gravity.  The ladies’ room floor was sloped from its walls to a central drain.  From its source, close to the drain, a single crimson bead ran in the grout.  It traveled between the tiles and along the floor, uphill, against the gently sloping floor.  Transfixed, Terry could only watch.

The blood’s redness was in stark opposition to the cream tiles.  The contrast drained the tiles of their color and bleached the floor whiter than the sterile fluorescent lighting did.  The unappetizing slick made Terry dry-heave.

The trail continued in a straight line for four feet before bloody branches split off at ninety degrees, making a geometric skeletal tree.  It continued to bubble from its implausible spring.  The blood stopped branching out at the top of the tree and began to pool.  And the pool grew.

Fearing that if he didn’t do something, his Burger King
lunch
was going to make a surprise reappearance, Terry charged the gruesome mess with his dripping mop.  He slapped the mop onto the blood spring and frantically tried to staunch its wound.  Terry’s mopping didn’t erase the bloody trail; he only assisted in spreading the diluted fluid across the width of the floor.  The bathroom looked like a butcher’s countertop after a side of beef had been chopped into pieces. 

The blood spring continued to flow.

Terry slopped more water onto the blood to dispose of the mess, but the tainted water expanded across the floor and under the stalls.  In a final attempt to overcome the blood, Terry kicked the bucket on its side and the water washed over the floor, cutting a furrow through the red sea.  Terry followed through with the mop and guided the blood down the inadequately sized floor drain that was meant for the occasional spillage, not the contents of an abattoir.  His toes wrinkled in his sneakers as the blood soaked through and his feet squelched inside.

“Jesus, stop bleeding,” he pleaded with the hemorrhaging floor.

The blood spring ignored him and continued to flow unabated.

The bathroom door burst open and a security guard stormed in.

“What the Sam Hill is going on in here?” he boomed.  The security guard immediately looked confused, obviously expecting to find something other than Terry standing awash in a bathroom of blood. 

Terry stammered for an explanation but came up with nothing.

“Who are you?” the guard asked, after a minute of Terry’s babbling.

“I’m Terry, the new night cleaner,” he managed.

“Well, you’re not a very good one with all this water everywhere,” he added.

Terry stared down at his feet.  The blood had disappeared and his feet were awash in soapy water.  It was gurgling down the drain.  There was no trace the blood had ever existed, but where had it gone? 

He started stammering again before he said something tangible.  “I kicked the bucket over.  I’m sorry.”

The security guard snorted. 
“Sounded like World War III had started.”

“Yeah, I’m sorry.”

“Okay.  Let me know when you’re going,” the security guard said, then hoisted his pants over his ample gut and saw
himself
out.

Terry stood pathetically, with his mop in hand, alone in the ladies’ room.  I hate this room, he thought, I hate this job.  The quicker he got finished, the quicker he could get out of there.  He righted the bucket and started soaking up the water.