Johnny stared at his reflection in the mirror. The split lip, scrapes and bruises still looked rather spectacular. Should he call in sick today? He could in all honesty say that he had not been able to keep any food down for two days. He made the call.
The word to describe the way he felt was 'crap.' Every part of his body ached and his mouth tasted terrible. The lack of food weakened him and a low-grade fever contributed to his dizziness. Johnny knew he was probably slightly dehydrated, which made everything worse. Long after hanging up the phone, he stood leaning against the back of the sofa, trying to muster the energy to take a shower. Since he never found the aspirin, he would have to use the shower to combat the fever.
When he pulled the shower curtain open, he saw those damned running clothes still wadded up in the corner of the stall. Resolutely ignoring them, he turned on the shower and stayed under a tepid spray for a long time, trying to reduce the fever, opening his mouth from time to time, allowing the water to run in. He managed to swallow some without gagging and when the water finally turned cold, he got out. Exhausted from standing so long, he lay down on the bed and fell back asleep. He spent the rest of the day alternating between taking showers and sleeping.
The sky was red, blood red, and the landscape, a burned-over wasteland. As he ran, an arid wind blew, sucking the moisture and life out of the land, but he didn't mind. In fact, he felt strong. He could feel his pulse with every stride and his blood sang in his ears. A dark shape appeared on the horizon and he increased his speed, closing the distance, until finally he leapt upon his quarry, knocking him onto the searing pavement. He sat astride his prey, grinning ferally as he recognized his victim. A knife appeared in his hand and he plunged it into Barnes, over and over, reveling as the man screamed in horror beneath him. It was music to his ears, and he was sorry when the screaming stopped and Barnes lay still. Barnes' blood spattered his face, his chest, his arms, and dripped, sizzling onto the black asphalt. He stood over his kill, a triumphant roar erupting from his throat. He tried to wipe the blood from his hands, but it was hot like the red sun, hot like acid, burning him wherever it touched. He watched in horror and screamed as it ate holes in his skin, and he dissolved into nothingness next to Barnes' corpse.
Johnny blindly rolled away, falling off the sofa. The impact jolted through his bruised ribs, then as nausea from the nightmare overtook him, he began to retch, which resulted in more pain, trapping him in a cycle he couldn't break. Finally, the heaving subsided, Johnny pushed himself to a seated position on the floor where he sat, panting, for a few long minutes. Then he hauled himself to his feet to get some water to rinse out his mouth.
He spit into the sink several times. He started to shake. Rage boiled up from the depths of his soul. He hated Toby Barnes with hatred blacker than midnight on a moonless night. Wilson was wrong. No forgiveness would make this right. Johnny stared at the glass in his hand, then hurled it across the room where it shattered against the door in a thousand little shards. The teakettle from the stove followed the arc that the glass had made. Nothing else remained on the counter to throw. He kicked first at the rubbish bin, strewing trash over the kitchen floor, then, at the chair that stuck out from under the doorknob, sending it crashing to the ground. He knocked a pile of bills and newspapers from the small stand by the door onto the floor with a sweep of his hand. Next, the stand sailed through the living room and hit the television, cracking the screen. Crossing the room in three long strides, he picked up the stand and smashed it over and over into the television until pieces of glass and bits of wood littered the carpet. He grabbed the standing lamp next to the television, yanking the cord from the wall and flung it away like a javelin. A vicious kick to the coffee table overturned it and sent it skidding halfway across the room. The cushions from the sofa hit the bookshelves with a satisfying thunk, knocking several books as well as his radio to the floor. A trophy from his high school track and field days teetered on the edge of the top shelf and then fell to the ground, breaking in half. How he hated Barnes! But, most of all, he hated himself. What kind of man was he, to let this happen to him? Johnny slowly sank to his knees, holding his ribs, breathless sobs forcing him to double over amidst the shattered wreckage of his life.
Several minutes later, an insistent rapping on the door coincided with a loud voice. "Police!"
Johnny stared at the door in mute shock. The neighbors must have heard him trashing his apartment and called the police. When the knock and the voice sounded again, he called out, "Coming!" Painfully pushing himself up off the floor with a muttered curse, he paused in the act of opening the door. Maybe it wasn't the police after all. Maybe Barnes followed him to the apartment. "Who is it?"
"Police. Would you open the door, sir?"
Unable to decide which was worse, Johnny futilely wiped a hand over his eyes and nose, then reluctantly opened the door just enough to ascertain that the voice at the door did indeed belong to a police officer. "Can I see some ID?"
One of the men flipped open his shield. "We got a complaint of a disturbance from one of your neighbors. Mind if we come in?"
"Uh, yes, actually, I do."
"Got anybody in there with you?"
"No."
"Look. Don't make us get a warrant. Just let us do our job and take a quick look around to make sure everything is okay."
With a sigh, Johnny opened the door to admit the two officers. Their expressions registered no change as they observed the emotional evidence on his face and surveyed the damage in the apartment. "What happened to you, Mr…?" queried the first officer, pulling out his notepad.
"Gage. John Gage. Uh, I got mugged a couple of days ago."
The officer nodded, writing. The injuries on this man's face did look three or four days old. "Did you report it?"
"No."
"Would you like to file a report?"
"No."
"What happened here?" asked the second officer, gesturing at the destruction.
"Uh… I'm redecorating."
That comment did garner a reaction. "Did you go to the Wrecking Ball Academy for Interior Design?"
Johnny made no reply, but folded his arms in an attempt to hide his embarrassment as the color rose in his cheeks.
"Mind if we check the other rooms?"
"Go ahead," Johnny waved in the direction of the bedroom.
After a cursory examination of the rest of the apartment, the two police officers returned to the doorway where Johnny stood waiting for them. "Mr. Gage, are you sure everything is all right?"
Johnny nodded his head and clamped his jaw shut.
"We advise you to keep your, uh, redecorating attempts a bit more quiet, so you don't disturb your neighbors. And, if you need anything, give us a call."
Johnny nodded again, then closed the door behind the two men, leaning heavily on it for a minute. Turning to survey the havoc he had created, he angrily kicked the fallen books aside and went into the bedroom to lie down. Exhausted, his body unable to fight the fatigue any longer, he drifted back to sleep.
He was sleeping dreamlessly when something jarred him, waking him. Opening his eyes, he saw Toby Barnes standing over him, wearing a stained butcher's apron. "Hello, skinny boy. Thought you could get away, didn't you?" the voice taunted. "Coward. Not man enough. Not man enough." Barnes leaned closer as he leered and laughed, his breath stinking of rotten meat. Putrid flesh fell from his fingers and dripped blood as they reached for Johnny's face.
Johnny jolted awake, heart racing, gasping for air. He rolled to his side, stomach heaving. There was nothing but bile.
Not only was Johnny angry, he was now bored. Having trashed the television, no easy entertainment presented itself. His radio was a casualty as well when it fell from the bookshelf. He put the sofa cushions back, but had no desire to clean up the rest of the mess he had made. Broken glass and bits of wood crunched under his shoes as he paced agitatedly around the apartment. One of the fallen books tripped him, and he angrily kicked it a few feet away. He kicked another one. It skittered half a foot past the first. He kicked a few more, to see which one would go the farthest. Abandoning the activity, he recommenced the interminable passage through his apartment.
Johnny reconstructed the attack. Kicking himself over and over, trying to decide what he could have done differently to change the outcome. What he should have done.
He should never have gone running. He should have gone right over to Roy's house. 'Hi, Roy. Hi, Susan. Let's build a playhouse for you. What color shall we paint it? Pink? I know that's your favorite color, sweetheart. And, then we'll have a tea party with your dolls and I'll read you a story.'
He should never have gone into the bushes. He should have turned around and followed the blonde. 'Hi. My name is Johnny. I've never seen you running here before. Mind if I run with you? Thanks! So, are you a student? Uh huh, what are you studying? Want to go get a cup of coffee?'
He should have kicked Barnes when they were in the bushes. When he was on the ground. Before he got up. He should have just kicked the gun out of Barnes' hand. Barnes probably wouldn't have shot him in a public place, would he? And, would it have mattered if he did?
He shouldn't have driven to the meat factory. He was driving the damned car. How could he have been so stupid as to drive where Barnes told him? Barnes wouldn't have shot him while he was driving, would he? He should have done something, like run a red light, or even hit a parked car. Anything to get the cops to come. Or, he should have driven to a police station. If he had driven to a police station, they could have arrested him right there. Barnes wouldn't have shot him in front of a police station, would he?
He should have fought Barnes harder. Barnes was wide open. How could he have missed so badly? He should have stepped closer before swinging. He could see his fist making contact with Barnes' face. Smashing his nose. Smashing the smug expression from his lips. Smashing into his face over and over and over until it became a bloody, unrecognizable pulp.
He should have run away instead of hiding under the butcher's block. He saw himself rolling away from the kicks. Springing to his feet. Sprinting to the door, with Barnes chasing him. But he could run faster.
He should have gotten the damned gun away. He should have shot Barnes. He saw his hand pulling the trigger. Saw the hole in Barnes' chest. Saw the bloom of blood blossoming crimson across the man's shirt. Saw Barnes pitching forward with a scream, landing dead at his feet.
He shouldn't have let Barnes do those things to him. A real man would have fought him off. He shouldn't have been so afraid. A real man wouldn't have been so afraid. Barnes was right. He wasn't man enough to take him. He should have let Barnes shoot him.