Lithe, pretty hands are on him, raking well-manicured fingernails down his abdomen. Hayden thinks that the rakes are supposed to be pleasurable, but they really only hurt and make his head spin. How did I get here? He feels a warm, wet sensation on him, followed by several languid tugs, and his head snaps down to find a blonde staring back with a mischievous grin. She takes him in her mouth again, bobbing her head up and down and up and down and using her hands to intermittently cup him and rub his belly. The girl—what's her name?—swirls her tongue around the tip and he finds himself threading trembling fingers through her blond locks. He can't deny that this feels nice—sort of, anyway—but hours are missing. How did I get here?
Hayden tries to remember, recall an earlier time in the day when things made a bit more sense. His mind is sluggish, filled with cogs that struggle to turn as if they've rusted from lack of use. But it hasn't been that long, he knows that; he just needs to take one step, two steps, and then another and another to catch what's been lost. How did I get here?
He went to the gym, took Cerberus with him. That's what he did after waking from a fitful sleep. There was a clear smell of air freshener trying to cover up the scent of sweat that had long since saturated into the walls and exercise equipment.
"Excuse me, sir," the check-in girl said, "you can't bring your dog in here."
"First of all, this is a service dog. Second of all, I own the building. He comes in with me."
Wait, was that how it went? No—it feels wrong. Turn back, reverse, return, retrace. Now, how did it go?
"Excuse me, sir, you can't bring your dog in here."
"Really? But he's my service dog and I need him."
No, no, no, that's not right. He's slogging through a thick soup of mud trying to review his steps. It's the drugs. First it was the gym and the incident with the dog, he knows that much. (Now the girl is climbing on top of him. "What are ya waiting for?" he thinks she asks. "Fuck me, already!")
What happened next, then? Concentrating, concentrating, trying to find a figment of a memory. It didn't happen long ago, it couldn't have, and yet the memory eludes him. Nostrils flare—roses. Not overpowering, but there, underneath the smell of newly printed books and overpriced coffee. Roses that conjure up feelings long lost and long buried.
The bookstore. He saw a girl there. Not the one currently rutting against him, but a different girl. The girl. She smelled of roses, but it wasn't perfume; it was her. He looked at her and saw that she was adorned with precious jewelry: a gold circlet crown and bracelets that shined brilliantly against her dark skin. A goddess. She could pardon him, forgive him for his transgressions, or she could destroy him. He wasn't sure which he wanted.
She held her chin up high, and with a regal voice, said, "Hayden, sir, your coffee is ready." And it was ridiculous for her to say those words, because she was a queen, too, and a queen does not serve coffee. But then she was just a girl again, younger than even Zane, his baby brother. Her deep brown eyes looked at him expectantly, and she gave him a small wave as she was leaving—did he wave back? It's so difficult to remember…
(The girl has his chin between her thumb and forefinger. She isn't very strong, but her nails are digging into his skin and leaving red marks on his cheeks and neck. Is she angry? She seems angry. She says something to him, he's not sure what, and now he's on top. He forces her to her knees and takes her from behind. Is she moaning? Does she like this?)
He left the bookstore, started making his way down to the Metro Center. Where would he go next? He wasn't sure. He knew that he didn't want to go back to his apartment just yet. Thunder rumbled in the distance and the sky turned black. It would rain soon.
Hayden came to a stoplight, waited for the crossing sign to come back on. People were standing all around him, brandishing signs and shouting. He remembered when he used to go to protests—when he was young enough and naïve enough to think that such demonstrations had the power to change anything.
Another thunderclap, this time much closer. The smell of rain filled the air, coated everything around it. A lying promise of rebirth; it was already fall.
"This is a sign from God! All you heathens will pay for your sins!" shouted a hoarse voice, a familiar voice. A voice so much like the one that claws at the back of his mind, drags him down in nightmares. Hayden turned to look at the man standing only a few feet away from him. "False gods and false idols and those who worship them shall all perish in His true light!" The man's eyes were cloudy with cataracts, but Hayden had the alarming feeling that he was staring at him, addressing him. I've seen this guy in the news before.
Saint Sebastian, he was called: a street preacher with a rather large and rabid following. Monotheists, though the jury was still out on whether or not theirs was the God of Abraham. Hayden had unknowingly stepped into one of Saint Sebastian's famous sermons; he was one man alone amongst the zealots.
"Which are you, rich man?" The crossing sign had since come back on, though Sebastian's followers had cut off his path of escape. Panic surged through him. "Which are you, rich man?" one of the followers asked, grabbing his shoulder.
(The sensations are so far away from him right now. She meets him thrust for thrust. He thinks, hopes, that maybe that's finally doing something, because his body feels like it's being cooked.)
"Don't touch me!" Cerberus started barking and growling. The smell of rain had grown thicker and Hayden's shirt felt sticky and uncomfortable against his skin. The followers had pushed him closer to Saint Sebastian until they were almost face-to-face. Sebastian's knobby fingers grabbed tightly onto the lapels of Hayden's jacket, holding him in place. "You smell like a false god. You smell like a deceiver."
Cloudy eyes, piercing, and he couldn't get away. Thunder roared, and the rain began to come down in sheets. Hayden couldn't breathe. Was this real? He didn't want it to be real. There were too many people, this man was too close—do something! "I'm not any of those things." He tried to keep his voice calm; inside his nerves were screaming.
"You dare think you are above Him, our most gracious and merciful Lord?"
FALSE GOD, FALSE GOD, FALSE GOD! Sebastian's followers chanted. DECIEVER, DECEIVER, DECIEVER!
"I'm just a man," Hayden said. Crushed in a vice, that's what it felt like: surrounded by a mob, and no place to go. "I'm just a man," he repeated.
Lightning flashed and the world became white and blinding.
FALSE GOD, FALSE GOD, FALSE GOD!
(Hayden soon realizes that his body only feels that way because the apartment is melting around him.)
When he opened his eyes again, the crowd was gone. No—they were on the other side of the street, Sebastian and his followers. Were they coming after him? Hayden couldn't tell, and he had no interest in waiting to find out, either. He decided then that he would head home. The day had not gone well.
(There's fire everywhere, and the sky looks like it's about to shatter into a million pieces. It's not real, he tells himself. Concentrate on the girl.
The problem is, he doesn't particularly like the girl.)
With shaking hands, Hayden opened the door to his apartment. The sight of his brother Zane with his hand halfway up a blond woman's shirt is what greeted him. Cerberus began to growl. (How did I get here?)
The girl quickly jumped out of Zane's lap, her pale cheeks turning bright red with shame. Zane stood up, smiled that 100-watt smile of his that makes him paradoxically endearing and incredibly punchable. "There you are, Brother. Mindy and I were beginning to wonder if you'd ever come back. As you can see, we got a little bored waiting for you, haha." Cerberus barked again, doing his best to sound as vicious as a lab can. Zane kept smiling. "Nice dog."
"Cerberus, down. How did you get into my apartment?"
"I kicked the door down." Hayden had a frightened, paranoid moment where he almost looked back to see if what his brother had said was true. Idiot, you just opened the door and walked in. The door is fine. "I'm going to call the cops."
"Will you relax? Jeez, your butler lent me his extra key."
It was coming back: the pounding and chanting, reverberating in his head. FALSE GOD, FALSE GOD, FALSE GOD! He needed to lie down. Pinching the bridge of his nose, Hayden said, "Get out. Both of you. Get out or I call the cops."
(The world is on fire and the girl is gone. How did I get here?)
"I'm not leaving until you tell me what's going on, Hayden. Look at yourself. Your hair's a mess and you're dressed like a street person. You look like shit."
Hayden had a small chuckle at that. It felt good to laugh, if only for a little while. "Well, at least I look better than I feel."
Zane walked over, clapped Hayden on the shoulder. Eyes the color of gray storm clouds gazed up at him. His little brother knew when to be stern, too. Somehow Hayden had forgotten that. With a low voice, Zane asked, "Have you been using again?"
"What? No." Hayden kept an eye on the blond girl. She was sitting with a pair of mint-green headphones in her ears, pretending not to listen.
Zane nodded, pulled out an orange container from his blazer pocket. "I found an old bottle of Zoloft in your trash."
The drums in his head were loud now, nearly impossible to ignore. FALSE GOD, FALSE GOD, FALSE GOD! Cerberus kept barking. Hayden balled his left hand into a fist. "You broke into my apartment and went through my trash. You better get the hell out before I beat your ass, kid."
"It's bad business to threaten a lawyer. You taught me that, remember? Now, explain to me why you had this in your trash, Hayden."
"I have a script."
"Hahaha, as if that makes a goddamn difference, Bro." Zane tapped the cap of the small orange bottle, tap, tap, tap. The taps boomed through his ears and down his neck. His chest was going to break. "Who's Dr. Montserrat Murphy?"
"My doctor, obviously."
"Obviously. Yeah, yeah, obviously. But what are you seeing her for?"
"I told you before, Zane: it's none of your fucking business. Now get the hell out." He was in a bad place—still is—but he didn't want Zane's help. Zane had done enough already, and Hayden could take care of himself.
"Are you depressed? Just tell me!"
Hayden felt the blood on his knuckles before his brain finally registered what he'd done. His brother placed a hand over his face in an attempt to keep his broken nose from bleeding all over his pristine white shirt, but it was no use—the damage had been done.
"Motherfuck! Y-you, you asshole!"
Hayden was breathing hard, struggling to gain footing in his whirling world. The drums beat, and beat, and beat, and his left hand started to feel sore.
"I want you to leave. Now."
"Fucking asshole," Zane said, pushing him hard against the chest. "I came here to fucking help you." I don't want your help. Another push, even less gentle, that made his head snap back against the wall. For a second, so small, miniscule, the drums stopped, only to come back crashing heavier and harder behind his eyes.
"Get out, Zane."
Zane nodded, blood dribbling down his mouth and chin. "Fine, have it your way." Using his bloody hand, Zane pulled out the Bentley keys and pushed them into Hayden's palm. "I'm done borrowing your shitty car."
With that, Zane started to head for the door.
"Take the girl with you," Hayden said. She was staring at him with mild annoyance and fascination. He didn't like it. "I don't want her here either."
Zane turned around, bloody hand cupping his nose again. His eyes were brooding storm clouds now, siblings to ones Hayden saw earlier in the day. FALSE GOD, FALS GOD, FALSE GOD!
"Nah, Brother. She stays, because I paid her to. I know it's been a long time since you fucked a girl." Without another word, Zane walked out of the apartment, and Hayden felt empty. He went to his bedroom to lie down, and the girl followed him.
"We gonna do this or what?" she asked, taking off her mint-green headphones. With hesitation, he nodded. He needed to feel something, anything, besides the pounding pain in his head that had since turned into a dull throb.
The girl was pretty in the way that models that promote cheap bars are: blond, with light green eyes and full lips. Mindy was her name, he remembered. He found her rather boring, yet he was caught between wanting to ask her to leave and wanting to have her stay so that he wouldn't have to be alone.
When they kissed, he found that she tasted like mint. The taste contrasted with her smell of cigarette smoke, and when she touched him everything hurt, even as it felt good.
How did I get here?
What is wrong with me?
"Hey, Mistah Undahwood?"
She's sitting with her back to him now, lighting a cigarette. The smell makes him nauseous, reminds him of his childhood in the worst ways. He wants to tell her to put it out, but instead he traces his fingers down the line of her spine. This, right here, this is close to what he wants. He doesn't want to ruin it.
"Mistah Undahwood?" she asks again.
"Yes, Mindy?"
"You know you talk to yaself, right?"
"Yes, Mindy."
"Just checking. Ya brotha didn't mention that."
The cigarette smoke wafts past his nose, brings him back down into a dark basement. Don't ruin this, too.
"Anyway," Minday says, pulling her shorts back on. "I ain't no counselor, but I'll leave my number on the kitchen counter." She gives him a quick kiss on the temple. "Best'a luck with whatevah you goin' through, Mistah Undahwood."
He doesn't want her to go, he realizes. Stay, he wants to tell her, but the words stick in his mouth. Because even though he doesn't like her—not very much, not in that way—she's there: a person he can talk to who isn't one of his brothers or his sister or even his psychiatrist. She doesn't know a thing about him beyond what one can google, and he senses that there's safety in her lack of knowledge about him. Being with her has the promise of intimacy without the threat of pain—of giving her pain.
But now she's gone, leaving him with only Cerberus for comfort. The dog hops on the bed and curls up near the edge. "Your owner's a mess, buddy," Hayden says, petting the animal with his foot. Hayden blinks, feels wet drops trickle down his cheeks. When the drums stop beating and the world stops burning, all that's left is desolation. "Your owner's a real goddamn mess."