SE #7

 

Today brings two first pages of two short stories, both involving criminality and guilt, but from drastically different perspectives. Last week's news leaned this direction, but I've also been working on a potential project involving True Crime. 

I'll have updates on that soon! 

For now, enjoy the fiction, and let me know which of the two introductions you prefer in the comments or on X (@chadfiction) or at NSE@chadfiction.com!

As Annette stood in the studio she’d built, she felt overwhelmed by its impending loss. She had come for something in particular, had driven here first thing, interrupting all other plans, just for that one thing—but now she couldn’t have remembered it if she tried. And she didn’t try. She indulged in the sense of loss, then indulged in where it came from: the pride in her music that she’d earned only recently.

She placed her hand gently on the mixer, pushing sliders and turning knobs with a nostalgic longing. She started up a laptop only to turn it off immediately, her sense of futility overcoming her desire to repeat the work of last week. She scanned the room for other reminders, the speakers, sound-proofing, the microphones, the ashtray full of—

Annette darted towards the table and emptied the ashtray into a wastebasket, then ripped out the plastic bag and tied it closed. She’d forgotten what was in it, had cleaned up the bottles and cans and baggies, but not that. Was that what she came here for? she speculated. 

She shook her head to herself and allowed the nervous energy to refocus her. She had come for something expensive, something precious, a gift from her producer. She tried not to think of him, but her eyes wandered to the window, its blinds and curtains still pulled aside from the cleaning she had done a few nights ago. She felt herself hoping he’d be out there, hoping she’d see his confident stride contrasting with the dilapidated buildings and scattered trash. A ray of sunlight silhouetted the figure of a man at the end of the alley, then he bent over to pick up a golden can and lifted it to his mouth, fruitlessly. 

Not him, she thought. Of course it’s not him. But that gold metal… glowing…

Annette dropped down to her knees and opened a cabinet below the mixer. There it was, the golden mic her producer had given her. Not aluminum, like the can, but solid gold. This was the one piece of the studio she had decided to take with her. The one piece she wouldn’t let them take. She pulled it to her breast, cupping it possessively, protectively, like a mother—

She remembered her two small children in the car. She’d gotten what she’d came for and she was back to reality, rushing to her children who sat all alone in that dangerous alley. 

She sprinted out of the room, out of the building, shoved the door open. The sunlight hit her in the face, blinding her, her only useful sense her hearing. She heard a dog barking wildly. Then she snapped back to reality even further, realizing that the dog was her own. Then she looked to her car, to the source of the sound, and she could see her children giggling, their arms hugging the dog. 

She looked around, checking for other people, but even the male figure and his can were absent. It didn’t help her nerves, she still felt unsafe. She looked back to the car, calmed momentarily by the smiles on her children’s faces—until she saw them pointing at her and asking about the yellow thing in her hand.

She really didn’t want to have to tell them about the yellow thing in their hand.

The burnt yellow of the motel room and the hazy yellow of its lights fit Ivy’s mood. He closed the door behind him. He took off his white jacket and his white fedora then tossed them on the bed to his left. He pulled his gun from its holster and released the clip and set both down on the console to his right. He didn’t bother with the mirror above the console; he’d already spent too much time in the mirror this morning.

The room had a hollow warmth to it, but that didn’t fit Ivy’s body. For some reason, he felt cold. A deep, lingering cold. He sat down on the edge of the bed, out of sight of the mirror. He felt his forehead. Despite the chill inside of himself, he felt a hint of perspiration on his skin, like the first film of condensation on a freshly poured glass of ice water. He told himself it was the balmy Miami night, but he knew it was more than that. Or something other than that completely.

He let his hand rub down the side of his face and felt the beard he’d glued on earlier in the day. He began gently peeling it off. Then he tossed it, without looking, straight into a waste bin over his shoulder. In the brief moment as soon as he entered, he’d already surveyed every aspect of the room. Automatically, without thinking about anything—except the shower; he needed to shower.

He pulled off his boat shoes and his socks, then his pants. He walked into bathroom. The chill in his bones had increased. The shower would help. He turned the handle halfway between the red H and the blue C and he waited. As the water splashed on the white base of the shower, he saw the boy. The wet, putrefied boy. 

He stuck his hand in the water and it stung his hand. But there was no steam. He turned the knob a little more toward the H. As the steam spread throughout the little bathroom, he held his hand under the water until the stinging stopped. But the sight of the boy didn’t stop. Instead, it became compounded by other sights: of the woman, in a room much like this one, crying; of the three couples around a table, choking; of the man in his mansion, pleading.

In the middle of them, no matter what he saw, no matter the memories of the dozens of men in white clothes, white beards, white hats, just like himself, just a few hours earlier, even in the middle of all of them—he saw the boy on the pier, dying. And he felt cold.

Ivy, his name an abbreviation for his first nickname, Icicle Veins, stepped into the shower to warm up. In a lighter mood, he would have laughed at himself. Instead, he sighed in relief when the water didn’t sting. Or maybe it did, he thought. Maybe he just didn’t notice anymore. Because of his failure today. Or because of his success today. Or because he couldn’t tell the difference. 

Because he just didn’t care anymore.