Home alone, part III of III
Miles didn't really recall changing his outfit. He knew he'd done so in an objective sense of the word. And the evidence was there, on him. But the entire experience had been hazy at best. The constant fear and the dreadful feeling that hiding in the mist, Moxxy's eyes were on him… And more eyes. Instinctively he knew there would be more… It kept him from thinking straight.
Unwashed. His hair unkempt. Dried sweat across his face and back. His clothes only haphazerdly fitting onto his body: a simple jeans and a rummaged white short. One white sock and one black… He knew he made a deranged appearance, to whoever might witness. Especially as he clamped the revolver like a madman. His eyes were open wide.
Remnants of the hit of cocaine still clung to his five o' clock shadow. It had been hours since he'd seen her. Or anything in the mist beyond shapeless shadows drifting just outside his vision. And he'd been growing tired. The adrenaline that had guided his feet as he'd rushed back into the house was long gone now. But he couldn't afford to nod off and let the fatigue and horror take over. So he did what he had to. There was no regret on that part as he dusted the remaining powder off of his face. Moxxy, whatever she had turned into now, was a demanding gal. He'd brought plenty of the columbian stuff. He wouldn't run out for a few more days. And he just needed to stay awake, until this thick wall of fog cleared.
He couldn't let the idea that the tires of his car had been slashed cross into his mind, lest he lose all hope. It was impossible to tell from here. But without confirmation, it was a possibility he simply couldn't and wouldn't accept. There had to be a way out. There always was.
He'd always been good at taking care of himself. He would now.
But he was nervous. Outside, the fog showed no sign of dissipating. No matter how much he paced through the house, eyeing it sternly as he did his best to strike an imposing figure to his assailants. And darkness was already starting to fall as well. Up in the hills, near the mountain range, it would be on him soon. All the lights inside the house had already been turned up. It gave some comfort, if only marginally. He would not be caught off guard. None of the outside shadows would creep up on him.
Inside, with each step he took inside his safe haven… his prison, the frustration and anger grew. He snorted a few more lines of coke using a hundred dollar bill, to keep his edge up, a few hours later. But it didn't help him stay calm. By the time darkness had befallen the forest, he'd taken to shouting at the cowards outside. Sometimes when he thought he saw an intangible shade move through the mist. Sometimes when he didn't see a damn thing for the longest time. Sometimes he'd call them to back the fuck off. Other times to reveal themselves already. He yelled ferociously. He screamed frantically. He cried desperately.
So uncontrollably and so frequently that even Rover, hiding upstairs, stopped whimpering and howling and barking along. Perhaps exhaustion had taken the dog at last. Miles didn't feel like checking. Down here, on ground level, he could keep an almost 360° view on his surroundings. And the fear of losing that for even a second, was too much to bare.
He would not be caught off guard. He would not. He never was. He was a planner. He got shit done. He was in control. Always in control. He would fix this. Keep himself safe. Get out of here. Leave this nightmare behind. At all costs. He would.
He'd finally stopped pacing, somewhere just past midnight. With his gun in his right hand and his left hand nervously twitching and patting over his nose and mouth, he felt his body tense and shaking as he sat uneasily on the edge of the sofa. He'd taken to mumbling to himself. Found that his eyes hurt. So dry they were. And indeed a thirst was overcoming him. He couldn't recall the last time he'd eaten or drank something.
Angry mutters and uttering of contempt escaped his lips, hardly recognizable to anyone that might listen. But he knew the meaning of the words. And that was all that mattered to him. Moxxy's name was in there, often.
It took him a while to realize he was biting his nails so hard that tip of his left ringfinger was bleeding. That finally got him to get up again. Shaking the hand in an annoyed and painful manner, he moved to the kitchen. He passed Moxxy's mocking message on his way to the sink. He could feel them still. Looking. Always looking. But despite it, he opened the tap and let the cool water run over his hand and wash the droplets of blood away. It stung, right under his nail. But he grimaced through it.
The sound of running water was, he suddenly realized with an unexpected clarity, the first actual thing he'd heard in hours and hours, that wasn't himself. So it drew his attention. It was a soft clattering. A continuous low rumble of a pattern. He focussed on it now; narrowin his eyes as he did so. It almost sounded like whispering. A hidden, soft voice…
No. He realized it wasn't a voice. It were multiple. All persistently pressing on their own message through the clutter of other wailing voices. He couldn't quite make them out. But he knew them. He knew that he knew them. They were pleas. Pleas for help. He'd heard them before. Pleas to think of their families. To consider their faithful service for all these years. Pleas to consider the damnation he sat upon them. All spiced with plenty of curses, insults, tears and powerless shouting.
And even as he couldn't make out the words. He heard the volume of their voices rise. Unable to speak and in utter disgust of the cascade of desperation and dismay. More hatred than he could ever imagine now washed over him.
He drew his hand back frantically. Shouted for the voices to stop. Ordering them to shut up. He aimed the gun and pulled the trigger. Like a clap of thunder, the blast resonated throughout the house. The mangled tap now lay broken upon the floor. Water spewed from it's remains like a fountain, crashing into the upper cupboards and soaking the entire kitchen rapidly.
The blast had seemingly finally awoken Rover, who instantly began wailing again. Miles shouted up towards the upper floor too, now. Angrily ordering the mutt to shut his god-damned yap. He fired another round out of pure frustration, into the roof as he screamed from the top of his lungs some wordless primal cry. Still the dog did not shut up.
“Stop it!” He screamed as he stomped up the stairs blindly. “Stop it you fucking bitch!” He found the hound cowering in the bathroom. Standing in the doorway Miles continued his tirade, his voice barely winning out over Rover's insistent barking. “This is not my doing!” He accused. “You stop! You stop blaming me right now!” When his pet didn't oblige, he aimed the revolver. His arm was shaking now. “Shut up!” He warned one last time. “Shut the fuck up!”
Then, with one more clap of thunder, Miles made him. The whimper that followed as Rover collapsed to the ground removed any momentary, fleeting satisfaction. But he couldn't bring himself to get closer to the animal as it struggled for breath. It's lungs fillijng with blood as it's neck and limbs shook defiantly, yet ultimately fruitlessly.
He couldn't try to stop the bleeding. He couldn't even find it in himself to apologize. Miles was shaking. Crying. And as his dog stopped breathing altogether, the sick came over him. It was bile that made it's way up and sprayed onto the floor: his stomach completely empty. His chest burned with pain. His throat felt like it was on fire. The sour and somewhat bitter taste was in his mouth.
“This is not my fault.” He whimpered weakly, at long last, as he backed away from the corpse. “Not my fault.” He repeated.
He was still shaking by the time he'd made his way half-way back down the stairs. And through the tears in his eyes, he could see the water still relentlessly spewing from the open water-pipe. It seeped into the kitchen and beyond. But he didn't want to focus on the water. He didn't want to. Lest he hear those wails and accusations again. He couldn't handle it.
Feeling utterly defeated, he slumped down on the steps. He even placed the gun down next to him. He bawled his eyes out. Tugged his hair. Scratched his own body and face. But nothing could take away the memories of what he'd done. He voice was a guttural wordless mess, like an inconsolable child.
The light flickered, calling his attention back to the world around him. With a stalked breath he eyed his surroundings. The lights flickered again. Without thinking about it, his eyes darted to the spewing stream of water. As the realization dawned on him, that it was seeping into the electronics, those very electronics failed him.
The beacon of light that had been his abode, turned pitch-dark in an instant. He could see the thick fog clinging to the window-walls of his secret house. But nothing else.
With a purposeless desperation, Miles threw himself to his feet and ran back up the steps. With shaking hands he pulled a strong flashlight from the bedside table and ran to the outer wall. He shone it through the glass, as he overlooked the fog.
He could see them now. Their dark silhouettes. Dozens of them, on this side alone, calmly walking towards the house. He could not make out their features. But somehow he knew who they were. For even if he wouldn't be able to recognize their faces, no more than he was able to recall their exact words, he would never forget their looks of hatred. Like he would never forget the sentiment of their pleas, curses and accusations.
Letting the torch guide his way, he hurried down the stairs. The half-filled gun still in the other hand. He could see their black silhouettes now without the flashlight. Indeed, he dared not shine it upon them, as they stood frozen, surrounding the house, up to the large walls made of glass. He could sense their contempt well enough without seeing their judging faces.
“Please...” He begged as he backed up. He held the gun out in front of him, sheepishly, as he walked backwards to the cellar door. “Please.” He pleaded. “Don't.”
The hand with the flashlight searched for the doorhandle blindly and eventually found it. The silhouettes hadn't moved an inch yet. But he heard the wordless whispers rise again, allong with the roaring crash of water. Pressing the door open, knowing full well there was no way out down there, all he could think was to run away from this particular mess, right here, right now.
Whimpering, he closed the door behind him and descended the final flight of stairs, into the pitch black basement.
He kept whispering to himself. Pleading for it to stop, as he followed the path down that his torch lit. At the bottom of the stairs, he finally dropped his revolver. Where the staircase ended, he could see now as it was lit by the single beam of light, atop his basement floor a row of railroad tracks began. As the snot and tears mingled across his beard and ran into his mouth, tasting their salt, his hands guided the beam of light gently upward, revealing more of the tracks. They came to an abrupt halt against the basement's wall, not nine yards away.
A dead end.
Behind him, atop the stairs, he could hear the doorhandle clacking. The door creaked open.
Miles swallowed meekly and turned off the flashlight.
