The Wilds (Reign and Ruin 1) (2 page)

"The man was in
Vietnam, Mags. Have a little respect," said my uncle one night.

"He was
not
in Vietnam. He's a liar and an old pervert who smells
like an airplane and leeches off of you," I replied with a snort. I
shrugged and pulled up the hood of my sweatshirt. He never turned
the heat on. "I just think you should have friends who don't spend
the night so often. Or steal your money."

Spreading his
hands wide, my uncle smiled wryly and winked. "Eh? What money?"

I ran my
fingers through the coarse, dark mane that pretended to be hair and
felt the red, hot anger course up through my fingers and melt into
cool resignation. So once again, I was spending the night at my
uncle's. My phone buzzed again and I snatched it from my lap.

MAKE SURE HE
EATS. KISSES MOM.

***

The apartment was dark
when I eased the door open. The only light shone from a dingy
overhead fan twirling methodically into the air. The phone began to
ring, its call an incessant buzz from the front room. I counted
seven rings before the caller gave up, as the callers always do
when my uncle fails to notice someone is trying to make human
contact.

Dropping my
jacket and the key on the table by the door, I leaned over to pet a
thin cat that was meowing piteously in greeting. The cat nuzzled
its warm face into my palm to lick off the salt from my hands.

"Hello pussy,
lovely Tidbit," I murmured.

Glancing up
from stroking the cat, I jumped at my own reflection in the hall
mirror: a muddy, dark figure with hair hanging over her face. But
not a vengeful Japanese ghost.

I steadied
myself and studied the stranger in the mirror. In the murky
darkness, the girl staring back at me grimaced. Nothing to write
home about, especially after the miserable plane ride: Dark hair,
slightly wavy and never as shiny as the toothy girls on TV; dark
eyes, to match the dark hair (so far, so boring); freckles sneezed
across my nose and cheeks; and a facial expression that my mother
always said would work wonders for the boys if I only smiled. Too
bad that didn't happen so often . . .

Following the
cat's flagpole tail from the hallway into the sitting room, I found
my uncle painting by the window that looked down at the streets
below. The corner was lit from the neon, fluorescent signs that
shone through the glass and illuminated his face to shades of green
and orange and sometimes violent red.

The walls were
covered with paintings; dozens upon dozens of paintings that
wouldn't find a home in any gallery. They spoke of rage and
loneliness and sometimes bright sparks of happiness that broke up
the dominant reds and grays with splashes of cool blue and deep
green. Sidling up to one of them, I put my face close to a man with
the face of a dog. His tongue lolled happily over his business
suit.

I glanced back
to my uncle, who was immersed in the confused whirlwind of colors
it looked like he had started painting only hours ago. It seemed as
if he had started out with some idea before suddenly giving up to
begin splashing the colors over the pencil outline. His eyes were
lost in the jumbled swirls of blues and purples hovering above a
sandy-looking stretch of barren landscape. The purple swirl he was
working on lingered around the right corner of the painting like an
oncoming whirlwind.

Dumping my bag,
I walked over to stand behind his shoulder. As I watched the
muscles move in his back and the paintbrush sail back and forth
across the canvas, an ache clawed its way into my stomach, gnawing
and chewing at my insides. I punched the pain with a frown and
breathed it out through my mouth.

Something was
different about this picture . . .

Suddenly my
uncle stopped, shoulders heaving upwards as if his body had
suddenly remembered it must breathe. He sat still, the only sound
in the room his long sigh out.

"Hey, you
alright?" I asked, gently touching his shoulder. My uncle turned
sharply around on his stool.

When he saw me
he relaxed and let his paintbrush fall into the empty bucket by his
easel.

"I didn't
notice you come in," he said as he brushed back a strand of
straggly blond hair from his face. His fingertips left a vivid red
smear of paint on his forehead.

"You were
busy," I replied frankly. He nodded and gave a heavy sigh. He
rummaged in his pocket until finding a slightly crushed cigarette
and, after fumbling a bit with the lighter, breathed in deeply.

"Sorry, I know
your mom hates it."

"She smokes," I
said. So did I, when she wasn't looking.

"Yeah." He
tossed the empty pack in with the paintbrush. "I get too caught up
in what I'm doing sometimes. I would have greeted you at the door
if your mother told me you were coming."

I felt my
shoulders shrug again. Typical of my mother to have assumed it was
ok and not even ask my uncle if I could stay over. And not even
consider what I might be walking into or give her brother a chance
to clean up or sober up.

"How long have
you been here?" he asked.

"About three
minutes," I said. "It's really not a big deal." My uncle opened the
mini fridge by the door. He turned back around with a sandwich and
threw his cigarette into the sink.

"Do you like my
new painting?" he asked, sitting down next to a coffee table that
also served as the dining room table that also served as his desk
that on occasion served as an ironing board.

I smiled and
shook my head. "Honesty is a virtue, Uncle Dearest. It's absolutely
terrible." He laughed and rubbed his hands together in pleasure.
Small flakes of paint that had accumulated over the days came off
like snow that settled upon the white bread of his dinner.

"I was going
for something like ‘forlorn' or ‘tragic,' but I never dared hoped
it would be ‘terrible.'"

"Why would you
paint something like that?"

"It came to me
one night in one of those dreams you have between waking and
sleep." He looked back at me and took a sip of his water.

Yeah
right
, I thought.
Try between being sober and high as a
fucking kite.

"I tossed and
turned all night," he continued. You know when you shut your eyes
so tight colors erupt in fireworks behind the lids of your eyes?
Whenever I closed my eyes all I could see was that swirl of purple
threatening to sweep me away or tear me apart." He scratched his
wrists absentmindedly. "I held on so tight to the sides of the
mattress but I felt like the wave was pushing me over." He
scratched harder and I noticed the tell-tale twitch in his neck. "I
guess I thought if I painted it that it would leave me somehow and
I would finally be able to fall asleep. But it only made it more
real." He looked at me sitting in the bean bag chair. His face was
flashing orange and green. It seemed a really important moment. "It
feels like the first time in days that I've eaten."

"It probably
is," I pointed out.

We had a few
moments of sitting quietly, imagining what it would be like to be
swept up in his dream, to be flown and tossed across a sky of
desolation by an angry cloud. Until it got uncomfortable and I
started to rummage in my carry-on for my phone.

"I think we
should burn it," I said loudly.

No
messages.

I sighed and
sensed my uncle rise from his position and move above me. When I
glanced up he was staring out of the window in deep thought. He
looked old and wise and worn, like a cliff face softened with years
of oncoming waves.

"No, Maggie,"
my uncle said softly, his smile fading. "It's not yet finished."
With that he pulled the curtains shut.

Chapter
2

There's something about that time of night when the
clock strikes 3:45; it's too early for people to be up for work and
most night owls have since retired to bed by either succumbing to
exhaustion, alcohol or finally finding victory over insomnia. The
most grim and devious acts are made at this time and the most
fantastical, too. It's a magical, evil part of the night where
dreams are waking.

It was funny to
think about how often my uncle dreamt from the heroine and the
loneliness. I, on the other hand, had only the space in my mind
where existence was forgotten in one black moment that lasted until
waking, and remembering life was feeling. I had only darkness until
the night Marty forced his way into the apartment.

And it was that
night, as the serene and bottomless blackness was split violently
apart by the incessant sound of a car alarm, that I heard my uncle
stumble back through the door.

My eyes saw red
as I jerked myself awake out of sleep and into the bright, flashing
neon world of the apartment. The curtains were pulled back and a
slight breeze was blowing in from the open window. I blearily
picked up my digital wrist watch and stared at the flashing time on
the small screen: 3:43 a.m.

I had fallen
asleep waiting for my uncle, so my limbs felt stiff and hot
underneath my leather jacket and tight jeans. I breathed in a sign
of relief when I saw he had collapsed on his mattress. It was
always a toss-up if he'd come back to sleep or come back with
friends. Luckily, this time Marty wasn't here to leer at me.

Suddenly aware
of how silent the world was, I slowly drew in a breath and
untwisted the sleeping bag from my feet. I made my way across the
room, stepping carefully over the mattress where my uncle lay, and
stood by the window. I pulled the jacket collar tighter around my
neck and strained my ears. There were so sounds from outside, no
barking dogs or taxi cabs; in fact, the street was strangely devoid
of cars. New York was usually always loud and active, but now it
felt eerily dead. The neon signs flashed unceasingly, as they will
until the earth sparked out from existence.

The breeze
shifted and blew against my hair. It sent a delightful shiver along
my back, down through my feet to the tips of my toes. The neon
signs by the window flickered and the skin on my forearm tingled, a
whisper of premonition that something wasn't right, some piece of
the world had become disjointed. Or even smaller than that: a tiny
sliver of something familiar had changed. The air held a feeling of
expectancy in it, as if waiting for a movie to begin.

Turning around
to face the apartment, nothing seemed amiss. My breath entered the
air in white clouds and the familiar creaks of the old building
stayed silent. There were the leftover Chinese cartons from God
knows when. There was my carry-on bag, opened by the foot of my
mat. And my uncle was sprawled on the mattress with his clothes
still on. His arm lay over his chest and rose and fell with the
breath of . . .

Wait.

I took a
faltering step towards my uncle and then two. And then scrambled
across the room to where he lay.

He wasn't
breathing. His thin rib cage was still and his hands were cold.
Freezing.

"Oh fuck," I
breathed, feeling up his arms to the pocket in his neck. Where was
his pulse? Oh God, is he dead? He is
dead
.

Fuck.

Fuck,
fuck
.

I heard the
elevator jangle down the hall and looked wildly around the room. My
breath caught in my throat and what must have been my heart struck
the inside of my chest like a sparrow flapping frantically against
the cage of my ribs. I was going to vomit, but not before snatching
off my skin which was starting to burn like flaming nettles . .
.

Breathe.
Breathe and cool down.

I forced my
eyes closed and made my fingers clench around the folds of my white
tank top. Swallowing hard, my breath began to slow and the frost of
calm to spread across my body. My fingers relaxed and the fire in
my skin faded. I opened my eyes to the dark room and the dead
corpse of my uncle. But I was calm. I was steady. I can handle this
with composure . . .

BAM BAM
BAM!

"SHIT," I
yelped in surprise. The heavy banging at the door continued. I
heard feet shuffling and the knocking grew frantic. Clutching my
braid like a safety rope, I crept to the front hallway where the
lights of the outside corridor shone across the floor, broken up by
two unmistakable shadows of shoes. The door shook with more banging
and even through the wood I heard the unmistakable wheeze of heavy
breathing.

"Steve? Steve,
come on. Open the door," a voice yelled from outside. It swore
quietly under its breath. "Steve, I'm not playing around. Are you
alright? Let me in!" This plea was followed by a fresh round of
knocking. I took the opportunity to peek through the spy hole.

A man's face,
distorted from the curved glass in the window, was glancing
furtively to his left. Gray stubble played about his chin and his
eyes were wide and bloodshot.

Marty. Ugh.

But what could
I do? I ran through the options in my head. None involved the man
stood outside the door coming into the apartment. I drew back the
chain lock and poked my head out.

"Maggie!" Marty
yelped in surprise, quickly drawing back from the open door. "What
are you doing here?"

"He's not in
any position to buy anything, Marty. Go away," I said as
determinedly as I could. Marty shook his head and tried to see past
me into the hallway.

"No, no, no, I
need . . . I need to see him," Marty stuttered. His fingers wove in
and out of his sleeve holes. His weathered face looked terrified.
"Just, let me in to talk. Just to talk. I need to make sure he's
alright."

"He's not
alright, Marty," I said coldly. But then again, why shouldn't he
see what his needles could do? I wrenched the door open in disgust,
but Marty hardly noticed my expression as he scurried into the
apartment and down the hall. I hurried after him into the front
room, where he was already bending carefully over my uncle's
body.