Sixteen Small Deaths (24 page)

“Trent,” she said, and stood up to greet me. The hug stopped time, aroused a static shockwave through my fingers and toes. “How are you feeling?”

My mind was already on the truth before the words could catch up. “I feel…great. For a change, at least.” I could tell I was smiling.

“That’s so good to hear. Come on, let’s get a drink.”

We sat at a table towards the back of the bar section of Harrison’s. It was unusually quiet for a Friday evening, the loudest sounds of the night spun from a jukebox in the corner of the room. U2’s “Angel of Harlem” radiated throughout the dewy bar.

We shared a pitcher of beer, talking about everything from my childhood (I grew up in Salem, not too far from the site of the original Witch Trials) to her upbringing in New York City (she was adopted and didn’t know her biological parents). Coralee told me she had a degree in art history but spent the last year or so volunteering at animal shelters while she interviewed for professor gigs in and around the Boston area.

I was on my last glass when she eventually asked me a question I hoped she wouldn’t.

“Will you ever use again?”

I couldn’t face her, only peered into the bottom of my glass until the liquid was far into my body. “I don’t know, Coralee. I don’t.”

She placed her hand over mine and there it was again. The
warmth, the comfort, the familiar, like I had known her for twenty years instead of only a day or two. “Tell me that you won’t.”

I bit the inside of my cheek and metallic tinges of blood slowly trickled down to my tongue. “I…won’t.”

Two rows of perfect white teeth and a crinkle of her freckled nose. She leaned in for a kiss and when her blood red lips touched mine a shiver of fire crisped the edges of my heart.

#

Coralee lay by my side, nestled within the gap between my arm and chest. She smelled like lilac blossoms and winter morning snow. She kissed the edge of my chin, nuzzled her nose against the brownish red stubble on my face. I drifted in and out, watched the walls of my bedroom collapse and reveal the endless black of space and nighttime stars. I could feel the bed floating, as if we were somewhere beyond the reaches of time.

Coralee slid to the edge of the bed and stood up, the arch of onyx wings outstretched to the sky. Glints of broken moonlight danced in the forefront and I reached for her. Her wings shuttered like a blurry comet and within moments she was gone.

#

A slow fade to white. The strike of Saturday morning forced open my eyelids. I was alone in the bedroom, bedsheets unwrinkled except for those covering my body. It took me a full minute or two before I realized that Coralee was missing. My frantic search resulted in not a trace of her presence in my apartment. I had no way to reach her, no phone number or address.

Not even a last name.

The clock on my nightstand indicated that was nearing eleven
a.m. If I didn’t hop on a train to Mass General within the next fifteen minutes, I would miss my dialysis appointment.

#

“Hmm.”

I tilted my head in confusion. “What’s wrong?”

Betty, one of the many nurses that routinely attended to my visits, read a series of numbers to herself on a monitor beyond the dialysis machine. “This isn’t normal.”

“What is it?”

Betty left me alone for a moment and returned with Dr. O’Connell. He didn’t acknowledge me.

“Doc, what’s going on? Am I okay?”

He tapped a few keys on the computer attached to the machine and shook his head. “This can’t be right, Betty. Is something wrong with this device?”

“Doctor, it was serviced just a few days ago.” Betty flipped through a shuffling of papers next to the monitor.

“Doc!”

He finally turned around to face. “Trent, this…sorry. Let me ask you: how do you feel?”

I told him the truth. “Fine. No pain. Feeling pretty good.”

“Trent, have you taken anything? Any meds that we haven’t prescribed?” His face was as inquisitive as a child’s.

I shook my head. “Nope.”

“Well,” he began, “your values are clean. It’s almost as if there’s nothing wrong with your kidneys, Trent. This is unbelievable.”

And all I could think of was Coralee. She disappeared in my dreams and I didn’t know where to find her. Dr. O’Connell unhooked me and informed that I should come back later in the day for some tests. I jogged to the cafeteria, hoping that, just maybe, she’d be here.

But she wasn’t, and I was questioning my reality.

#

I could tell you more, how I walked throughout the city for the rest of the day, from one edge of Boston to the other. I swear that I passed every bar, every goddamn coffee shop, all to no avail. The itch, it was there the entire time, poking at the edges of my mind. It broke me down, syphoned my thoughts at their weakest point.

It didn’t take long to find what I needed. It finds you, it knows what you need and how much you should put inside of you.

And now I’m here, at a motel just outside of the city. She was real and she wasn’t. The first hot injection into my arm told me that. A last connection of warmth, one final link to humanity before it all came to this. She may be overhead, searching for another soul to fix, scanning the darkest corners of the city.

Coralee, you’re gone. And I know why you were here.

Jagged edges of dim moonlight poke through a small slit in the curtain, a frenetic waltz of incandescence and lost hope.

There is perhaps one significant attribute that I’ve learned about myself over the past six years as a writer: there are multiple voices inside of my head and I never know which one is going to speak when I sit down with an empty page in front of me.

The stories in Sixteen Small Deaths span a wide range of voices, from the horror of “Saffron,” the emotional tinges of “December,” to the neo-noir of “Midnight Souls.” I believe this reflects the artistic nature of the modern writer and the poignant avenues that live deep within our souls. Or, as I’ve sometimes explained: I’ve been influenced from a multitude of sources, including Will Christopher Baer, “The Twilight Zone,” Chuck Palahniuk, Craig Clevenger, Stephen King, “Tales from the Darkside,” old-school zombie movies, and slasher flicks. I guess that when all is said and done, all of these influences have some representation in my work.

So, Reader, I hope you’ve enjoyed this collection. These stories are part of my muscle fiber, part of the gray web covering my brain. Some of these stories were written before I really knew what I was doing, and others were penned years after I finally found my voice as a writer. Some are fantastic reinforcements of the neo-noir genre, while others straddle the line between literary and genre fiction.

Readers, thanks for your time. I hope I’ve entertained you.

#

This collection wouldn’t be possible without the tireless love, support and devotion of several key people in my life. First and foremost, I’d like to thank my beautiful wife, Sarah, for being my foundation and believing in me all of these years. I love you and couldn’t be more thankful for your support. (Thanks and hugs go
to my furry children, as well: Cody, Gracie, Phineas, Harper and Atticus.)

A significant chunk of thanks goes to Phil Jourdan, founder of Perfect Edge Books. Phil, thanks for believing in this collection, and thanks for all of your hard work in seeing this thing through.

A round of thanks to my family and friends: Babbo, Angela, Baby Nicky and Lisa (as well as the Gucciardi, Towne and Jacobs families). Extra special thanks to Dr. Ryan Fielding, who was often the first reader for many of these stories and provided invaluable feedback where it was needed.

To my fellow writers, thanks for being who you are: Axel Taiari, Richard Thomas, Nik Korpon, Craig Wallwork, Gordon Highland, Pablo d’Stair, Mark Grover, Andrez Bergen, Jesse Lawrence, Pela Via, Caleb Ross, Anthony Jacques, Michael Gonzalez, Jason Heim, Max Gladstone, Chris Deal, Colin McKay Miller, Craig Clevenger, Stephen Graham Jones, Will Christopher Baer, Chuck Palahniuk, Donald Ray Pollock, Drew McCoy, Edward Rathke, Gabrielle Faust, Max Barry, Chelsea Cain, Monica Drake, Nicholas Karpuk, Paul Eckert, Sean P. Ferguson, everyone at The Velvet and Write Club, as well as the fellas at Booked Podcast (Livius and Robb).

Thanks,

Christopher J. Dwyer

January 2013

“There are many who dare not kill themselves for fear of what the neighbours will say,” Cyril Connolly wrote, and we believe he was right.

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