Hi! Chapter 7 is up and as promised, this one is longer!
I must confess that in parts, this chapter actually makes me feel a lil bit guilty, you know, for having killed Alan. That was a bit mean actually, wasn't it? :p
Anyway, hope you enjoy this one! Not too long for the conclusion now …
Warnings: contains some graphic descriptions of a gory nature …
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Chapter 7
Frivolously overlooking the 99c fast food joint that was Jack-in-the-Box, Mission Road revealed a nostalgic reminder of bygone idealism and neo-classical artistry. One had to stop and admire the wide flight of stairs, the temple style façade and the white selection of keystones and engaged ancones that elegantly adorned its red, harmonious form. But with the implacable wheel of time turning around its axis again, the historical building that once served as a keeper of life now held a rather more sinister purpose. At 1104 North Mission Road, Death was that which lurked inside its grand walls. And although a bright Californian sun habitually clad the bricks and stones that shaped it, chills penetrated all its visitors, often in more ways than one.
The small autopsy room was unnervingly cold and claustrophobic. The ventilation units were busy humming away the inextinguishable scent of fatality.
There was a corpse lying on a table, the sheet that once guarded the silent patient from pernicious eyes had already been removed.
Charlie felt noticeably queasy and was barely hanging on. He appeared too still and too grey. How considerate of him to mirror the object of his scrutiny.
"Eppes, are you sure your brother is up to this?" pointed a worried Dr Reynolds.
"He's been through worst," replied a cold Don Eppes.
"Look Don, I understand why you are here; I really do, believe me but, to tell you the truth, I'm not so sure this is such a good idea," said Karl.
"Oh, yeah? So what is it that you're saying, Reynolds? That if we were heading to his death chamber and his attorney was present and nicely suited up for the occasion, that would make it alright? Well, I don't have that luxury, do I? But I have this so I might as well go ahead and take it.
"Hey Eppes, I'm not trying to judge you here but look! Look at your brother!"
"Whoa now, why don't we cut the crap, huh? 'Cause I certainly don't like your tone or whatever it is you're implying!" retorted Don, taking a step forward. "Now look, we had an agreement here Reynolds, so let's just stick to it, okay? Just, do what you have to do and let me worry about Charlie."
Dr Reynolds felt a deep shudder go down his spine. He's known Don Eppes long enough to understand the man wasn't one to piss off, especially when he took things personal. And who could blame the guy anyway? Of the two vics, Alan got the worst of it, by far. 'I mean, is this sick?' thought Reynolds. 'But he might be right. What about the electric chair, gas chamber or lethal injection? Isn't that even worst? Or is that fair justice disguised as a private show on a modern day roman circus?' And he wondered if the idea of looking for and yearning for and finally snatching something that at least minimally resembled closure was really so sick. Whatever that closure might entail …
Granted, he was not a philosopher or a lawyer or a priest; he was just a damn pathologist. He wasn't the one to come up with all the answers instead, he was simply the one to open up the corpse. After all, that's what they paid him for. The fact that the Eppes were in the room shouldn't really make any difference, and yet, somehow it did …
"Okay …" Reynolds said, shaking his head, gloving his hands and solemnly trailing toward the autopsy table.
"What about the diener?" asked Don. The agent might not have cared about the consequences of what they were about to do but neither had he gone stupid in the space of hours.
Reynolds looked up and cracked a sly grin, "We are scheduled for fourteen of these today," he said, "so after my attendant performed the external examination I sent him away to, should we say, assist less experienced staff. This guy," he continued, "he takes money from funeral homes in exchange for tips; and I wouldn't be surprised to find that he welcomes cash from other sources too. This is L.A. after all, and a lot of famous individuals end up on our tables. In any case, I can assure you he'll sign whatever I tell him to and won't say a word about it."
Shooting Don and Charlie a last hesitant glance, the pathologist reached for a large scalpel and started severing Gene Hammond's trunk.
After a short while, the sticky flapping noise made Charlie lose most of his sight. And when the peeling noise started, he found his faded vision confined to a wall at the far end of the room. The injured wolf leaned against it, Charlie noticed the intense agony surrounding the beast and felt it must have not been much unlike his own. Cornered animals, they were all cornered animals. At that moment, Lea's soft velvety voice filled Charlie's head, 'he was the one, Charlie. He was the one.'
"Was he the one who hurt him?" whispered Charlie; a lonely tear streamed down his pale boyish face, barely missing a stray lock.
"Yes," managed Don hoarsely, uncrossing his arms to set them across his brother's shoulders. "He messed with dad, he messed with you; he messed up bad," he whispered back without taking his eyes off the electric saw that was so skillfully cutting through Hammond's rib cage. "This is different," he said, tightening his possessive grip on Charlie, "he's dead and still messing up with me … this is a hell lot different."
Reynolds lowered the saw back on the table and started pulling the sternum and ribs out from the chest cavity, exposing the heart and lungs. After some more muscle and tissue dissection, Hammond's abdomen was fully open, displaying the rest of his organs. The dry, thick, bloody skin that constituted the chest flap hanged over his face, and the equally repulsive pieces of decomposing flesh that made up the abdominal flaps hanged off his sides in a gruesome exhibit, reminiscent of Victorian medical torture sessions.
The pathologist continued slashing inside the cavity until all organs were removed from the dead body and placed on the dissection table; all but the brain. Back to the scalpel, he began to cut the patient's head, forcefully pulling skin away until the skull was made accessible.
'No … this isn't real, this isn't real,' implored Charlie as he tried to escape the sadistic spectacle tearing his eyes apart.
Despite his best efforts, he was unable to drift away and pass out. Perhaps Don's proximity had something to do with it; his feverish body and strong grip keeping Charlie from falling down. Or perhaps Charlie couldn't disassociate anymore. He couldn't fight and he couldn't flight, so he remained trapped in limbo.
'Why? Why?' he begged. 'God, what do you want?! Please just tell me what is it that you want! How is this helping anyone?!' but Lea remained silent, and so did the injured wolf.
The Stryker saw began to vibrate again with a new set of whirring and grinding, carving from side to side around the cranium. When the pathologist took upon removing the subject's calvarium, he did so amidst a cacophony of sucking and rubbing sounds. Eventually, the brain came out; and the brain went inside a jar.
Like a ritual offering to the God of Justice, the murderer's organs where retrieved one by one, then sliced, weighed and recorded in the annals of shame. He was many times judged in life and was now appropriately being judged in death, not by some exalted power but by those petty humans to whom he caused the most pain.
'Serves him right. God, this serves the bastard right,' thought Don. 'You don't know what you did. You have no idea what you did.' Warm teardrops found themselves free to cascade down his cheeks and the little satisfaction he managed to gain was gradually replaced by sadness and emptiness.
No matter what he'd led himself to believe, this wasn't enough. If Reeves were here, she could tell him that the need for justice and revenge goes back to primitive times. That there is a strong relationship between grief, guilt, shame and revenge. She'd explain that these dominant emotions are often channeled through destructive behavioural responses. Worst of all, she'd point out that there is a strong connection between suicide and revenge, particularly when related to unresolved bereavement, complicated grief or overpowering guilt. Unfulfilled vengeance can easily turn external aggression into internal one.
Thank God Megan wasn't there because Don just ticked all the boxes and deep inside, he started to realise that nothing could ever make up for what happened to his father.
'You have no idea what you did.'
Alan was the only person who's always been truly there for Don. And when the kid behaved like a resentful brat because he couldn't stand being around Charlie, Alan never once held it against him, he understood. No matter how stupid Don might have looked when compared to gifted Charlie, Alan never once thought less of him and remained ever so proud and confident his oldest son would fly as high in life as the younger one. And when Margaret devoted her absolute self to Charlie, even if it meant leaving home and the rest of the family behind to babysit the little geek, Alan stayed put, for Don, knowing and loving the fact that Donny needed some babysitting too.
Alan was the only man on Earth allowed to tell Don the harsh truths and live to laugh it up with a game and a beer; and he was the only man capable of dragging Don's stubborn ass back in place, no matter what, no matter when.
You could say Alan was Don's backup; the man you entrust your life to, and the man you proudly die for. But when the day came and Don wasn't there to prove it, also came the realisation that he had failed him; Don had failed his father so miserably.
"I'm sorry," Charlie said. "It must have been my fault. There's no other explanation; it must have been my fault. I'm so sorry."
Although he couldn't quite remember what happened, it was obvious that he must have had something to do with all this. Yes, he had, undoubtedly, done something wrong, very very wrong; and now he was paying the price. Consequences, face the consequences of your actions.
Charlie was being tormented; he was being blamed as much as the desecrated man in front of them. For what other purpose would have they forced him to endure such a perverse ceremony? Charlie could only concede this was a well deserved punishment.
"Please Charlie, don't. Just don't, buddy," said Don, rubbing his eyes and damped face. "I can't deal with you blaming yourself right now."
"Why did you bring me here then?" sobbed Charlie, still wary of the man who took pleasure in scolding and yanking him. "This is my punishment, I get it. I am trying to remember what is it that I've done!"
"Charlie stop!" Don raised his voice, causing Reynolds to look up. "Please shut up, just shut up."
The injured wolf stood up with great difficulty and crawled away, leaving the room. Lea turned to Charlie with a cryptic 'we'll be waiting …' and then followed outside too.
The autopsy table was occupied by the empty shell of a human being sleeping on a metallic bed washed in blood. His skin was slit and stretched around him in patches partially attached to his trunk and head. The chest plate and other body parts surrounded the doctor and his victim, along with a few evidence bags, jars, sketches and various bloody instruments.
"I'm ready to close up," said Reynolds. "It took longer than expected so perhaps it'd be wise for you to leave now. Remember that this was officially scheduled for 2pm. I wouldn't want you to accidentally cross paths with any of Walker's men when they come by to pick up the samples we have collected."
"Yeah," said Don, completely drained. "We got what we came for. Thank you, Karl."
"Anytime, Eppes," said Dr Reynolds, anytime meaning 'if someone decides to kill your brother or any other family member, I'll just make sure to find myself as far away from here as possible, and stay away!' though certain things are better left unspoken.
As the Eppes left, Reynolds began the restoration of the cadaver. He placed the calvarium back on the skull, the scalp back over the calvarium, the chest plate inside the main cavity, and diligently started sewing up the open wounds.
As the pathologist was finishing up the job, Don and Charlie sat in the SUV.
Both men were silent, withdrawn into their addictive kingdoms of pain. And why not? Pain felt so strangely good; better than feeling nothing at all.
Don was playing the angry martyr. Doing a good job in convincing himself that it was his fault his father was dead; that he could have done something to save his life, just by driving faster, by stopping earlier for dinner, by saying I love you. But they weren't that sort of family really, the demonstrative type.
Was it not about three or four days ago when he last spoke to Alan? That long? And when did the 'see you later' changed into an inadmissible 'I will never see you again'? When did he become so useless, so worthless?
Charlie had a headache. The rattle of the saw cutting through bone and the scalpel slicing through fat and flesh wouldn't go away. He started having violent flashbacks; intermittent visions of a man being cut up open by a masked figure; rotten skin got ripped into chunks, organs were blunted out to be sliced, blood was dripping down the meat scales where body parts where hanging from. And the smell, that smell …
Then more visions loomed and Charlie's face emerged from them as a snapshot of horror. A living room, a man with a hunting knife. Another man, and this one he knew, this one … he called his name; and he was anxious, frightened, shouting his name time and time again …
Charlie brought his hands up to hold his head; it seemed to weigh a ton, and hurt even worst. His ears were ringing loudly and bile started to rise. Then another flashback punched in; the man, the man he knew, there was a feeling, a sense, a feeling that he cared, that's why he was scared. Then the man with the knife, 'Oh God!' he was the dead one, the one they've just cut up! But on this vision he was still alive, his knife dancing crazily in the air, his eyes possessed. And this man, he was about to jump on … on him! But the older man pushed Charlie away and got on the way. And now the older man was lying on the floor, gurgling and writhing, foaming blood through his mouth and throat as they opened and closed in an almost involuntary motion. His arms were thrashing up and down, hitting the floor hard as they fell, splashing blood all over the place, all over Charlie. The old man's eyes were wide open and locked on Charlie's, begging for something important as he drew his last traces of breath, begging while his whole life flashed in front of him.
Don snapped out of his thoughts at the sound of a slamming door.
"Charlie?" he said, and just then he realised that Charlie had run out of the SUV.
"Charlie!" called Don as he too fled the vehicle in pursuit.
Charlie ran till the end of the parking lot. His whole body was retching so badly he barely made it to the wall in time.
Charlie was still gagging and panting when Don hesitantly approached him from behind. He couldn't master a single word and was afraid of touching him, of scaring him, so he just knelled down beside the younger man. Eventually, Charlie stopped gagging but started coughing, then, he suddenly felt his chest burn. He pulled his t-shirt up and stared at the purple marks imprinted on him. So fiercely had Alan knocked him over the night before that the blow caused Charlie to bruise.
Just before the panic attack took over, Charlie looked at Don and said, "he pushed me! He pushed me away and that man killed him! It should've been me! Me! That's how this is my fault," and he fell unconscious in Don's arms.
Pain gives you purpose. Problem is, what happens when death and purpose are the same thing?
