JOHN FINNIE

'Hindsight, the most beautifully non-existent thing a person could wish for.' John rattled the tub and tipped four Vicodin into the palm of his hand. The ice had almost melted in his whiskey, which he reached for with a trembling hand. 'Hindsight,' he spat the word out in the empty room. The tablets were in his mouth, and he swallowed them down with the whiskey in one well practised movement.

'Hindsight,' he grumbled as he wheeled his chair over to the bed. A glimpse in the mirror stole his attention. The reflection of a tired older man stared back at him. 'Who are you? Who are you with your crippled body and old face, John? He sat staring. 'I hate you!' he growled, bursting into a blur of movement. The whiskey glass hit the mirror hard, spider-webbing its full length. Several warped reflections stared back at him, to which he spoke. 'Used to have hindsight, but it was taken from me.' He lifted a gnarled left hand up to the reflections. 'You took everything from me, you bastard.'

The sweet release of the painkillers doing their work saturated John's weary bones, and his head lolled forward. For the umpteenth time, he remembered 'that day', when all this had started and wished he could change it. Seventeen years of dreams, and each one had the murderer in it. Was he the only one who ever saw him?

The clarity of the dream never wavered. The murderer pulled over and opened the car door. He talked for a few seconds and beckoned her in. The little girl hesitated and then got in the car. The car sped away into a blurred horizon.

Seventeen years he dreamed the dream. Seventeen years he stood and watched. A tear streaked down his cheek, and his chest ached with sorrow. 'I'm sorry...'

SAMANTHA GRIMES

'It doesn't matter...It doesn't matter...It doesn't matter...It doesn't matter...It doesn't matter...It doesn't matter...It doesn't matter...'

The words had been pouring from John's lips for over two hours now, and Sam--sat at the end of his bed--held her head as tears streamed down her face. The makeup she wore hadn't fooled John, the bruising underneath was too severe, and her right eye was almost swollen shut. Why hadn't he asked what had happened to her? And why did he keep say "it doesn't matter"? A sob escaped her.

Then there was silence. Samantha watched as John, with eyes shut, tilted his head to the ceiling. His jaw moved, but no words came out, then even that stopped. Studying his face, Samantha thought he looked stronger. Since Martin had taken John out, is seemed his lust for life had returned.

'Samantha,' he said with a strong voice. 'I'm sorry for any hurt I have caused you these last few months, but I need to ask some things of you. Firstly, two Vicodin, my leg is killing me. Secondly, I want photographs. Go to a local paper and buy every photo or digital image from just before Charlie died right up to present day. Money is no object. Thirdly, I want the cameras switched off in here. Can you do that for me?'

Samantha nodded, even though John had his closed.

'Good,' he said. 'You've been good to me all these years, and I have been a dick since I've woken up. Things are going to change Sam, things are going to change and you won't even know. I'm going to make this right; I'm going to save them all. My legs, are they stronger now?'

'Yeah,' she said, 'strongest they've been since you woke up.'

John smiled. 'Okay Sam, go get me the pictures. Tell Mam and Dad to turn off the cameras. I want four meals a day brought up, left next to the door. I may not eat them, but tell Mam and Dad to keep them coming. High protein meals if you can, oh yeah and water, lots of water. Something tells me I'm going to sweat a lot in the next few weeks.

'I can help John, let me help you,' she pleaded.

John opened his eyes, Samantha could see the clear deep blue of them. No hint of red, only steel blue determination. He took her hand. 'No Sam, this is something only I can do. All I'm asking for is a couple of weeks okay? I promise after that I will try to tell you everything. But right now I need to be on my own.' He smiled. 'Trust me.'

'What about Marty's funeral? You have to go.'

John shook his head. 'It doesn't matter. Marty would have understood, I promise.'

Unbelieving, Samantha got up and walked out of the room. Had he said Marty's funeral doesn't matter? She had hoped he was getting better, but then it seemed he cared less than ever for the ones he should have loved the most.

After a couple of minutes, the red light on the cameras in John's room died as they drifted, lens down, to the floor.

'Thanks Sam,' John said, then burst out crying.

#

That night Samantha returned and trolleyed in two big boxes. 'The photos,' she said pointing at the boxes. 'Almost every day accounted for.' She sighed. 'Eighteen years' worth.'

The surprise on John's face made Samantha even more anxious. She took a deep breath.

'Every day I took a photo of you, every day since you were knocked over. When Charlie disappeared I wasn't able to get in because of the police, so five days are missing. Apart from that almost every day of your life is accounted for.' She hesitated. 'Well, one other photo is missing. It was one taken two months before you woke up. I couldn't find it anywhere...'

John put his hand up. 'I know where that photo is Sam, don't worry about that one.'

Sam took his hand, frowning. 'How do you know? How could you know? You were in a damn coma; how could you know?'

A twinkle from bygone days appeared in John's eyes. 'Sam, I promise I will tell you everything, but I need to be left alone first. Could you do that for me?'

She did not answer.

'I promise I will tell you everything, even though you won't believe it.'

Tears welled up in her eyes. 'I don't know what's going on with you John, but I hope to God you sort yourself out before your only friend's funeral. Here--' She handed him an iPad thing. '-- take this, if you need anything, phone the only number on speed dial. It's your parents. It's synchronised to you.' She stormed out of the room, leaving John in silence.

JOHN FINNIE

John stared at the photos. Samantha had boxed them up in date order, each with the date scrawled on the back. So John grabbed a photo and random and stared, and stared, and stared, but nothing happened. How had it happened when he was young? 'How did it begin?' he asked the empty room. 'How did I do it?' Lying still, he tried to concentrate, tried to remember the beginning. All he got was silence. The pain in his leg was coming back; it had been a few hours since his last hit. He noticed his hands were trembling.

John picked up the tablet. 'Computer?' he said, feeling foolish.

'Yes John,' came the automated reply.

John smiled. 'This is like being on Star Trek.'

'Searching Star Trek...Star Trek is a television series that follows the adventures of the Starship Enterprise and its crew members. The original series--'

'Stop,' John said, indicating with his hand at the screen. 'I don't want to know about Star Trek.'

'Search deleted.'

John took a deep breath. 'Okay computer, tell me about the side effects of Vicodin please.'

'Searching Vicodin... Vicodin is a strong opiate painkiller. It is an addictive--'

'Side effects please.'

'The side effects of Vicodin are drowsiness, cloudy thinking, lethargy, impaired mental sharpness, anxiety, fear, mood changes, psychological and physical dependence, euphoria followed by a generalized unhappy mood, constipation, inability to urinate, respiratory suppression, and a slow heart rate.'

John put the tablet down. 'Cloudy thinking and impaired mental sharpness.' He sighed. 'Guess I'm going cold turkey then.'

'Searching cold turkey... Cold turkey is a slang word listed in the Online Urban Dictionary which commonly refers to abrupt and total abstinence from a drug or substance of dep--'

'Computer close down,' John said.

'Searching close down... Are you referring to the Ohio line of clothing or the ter--'

'No, stop,' he said. 'No more searches.'

'Search utility deactivated. Permission to power down?'

'Yes, power down,' he said frowning at the screen. The iPad went dark.

He looked at his shaking hands. 'It's going to be a rough few weeks.' Grimacing, he pulled his right knee up towards his chest, then repeated the action with the left.

#

With a start, John woke to a dark room. The bedside alarm flashed a red '02:00am' every second. The sweats were getting worse, John noted as he peeled his wet arm from a tangle of sheets, trembling uncontrollably.

'I wondered when you would arrive,' John said sneering at the corner of his room.

A pale glow of light seeped through his window, and Death walked into it in that floaty way of his. For some reason, he was dressed in a sombrero and poncho and sported a rather long moustache.

John stifled a laugh. 'Why are you dressed like that?'

'Because,' said Death in a Mexican accent. 'Today I am collecting Mexican souls. Hombre.' In a blur of movement, Death pulled out a pistol and held it to John's chin. 'Hey,' Death said, 'you look a little Hispanic to me.' He cocked the gun.

John pushed back into his pillow. 'Hey man, I aint Hispanic. It's me, it's John. For Christ's sake, put the bloody gun down man.'

Death cocked his head to the side and stroked his moustache with his fingers. 'Goodbye amigo,' he said, and fired.

With a start, John woke to a dark room. Beads of sweat ran down his face and his aching stomach threatened to vault its contents across the room. 'For fuck's sake! No more dreams, please!'

'All you had to do was ask John,' a sweet voice from his bedside said. 'All you had to do was ask.' John whipped his head around to find Semila standing there.

'Is this real?' he asked. 'Are you alive? Did I save you this time?'

With a smile, Semila dabbed his head with a sponge. 'Yes, you saved me John, you're a hero to all us angels. A true hero.' she dabbed his head again and stood back.

'What on earth are you wearing, Sem?'

Semila twirled around. 'A nurse's uniform of course. I'm nursing you, so I need a uniform. Do you like it?'

John blew some cool air onto his forehead with one hand. Damn, "like" wasn't the right word. He wanted to strip right there--was the room getting hotter? 'It's a bit short Sem.' He gulped and tried to suppress his arousal as he looked her up and down. 'And...a bit too much cleavage, I think.'

Semila pouted. 'Marty likes it, don't you Marty?'

'I love it,' said a deep voice from the corner. From out of the darkness walked his friend. He slipped his arms around Sem's waist and started kissing her neck. Semila giggled.

John coughed. 'Err...Guys? Come on guys, what do you think you're doing?'

'Getting it on John, we're getting it on.' Semila lifted her chin for Marty so that he could kiss under her chin and met John's eyes. Shit. John didn't know where to look. 'For Pete's sake,' he said, finally breaking eye-contact with her, feeling dirty and hot all at once.

A muffled cry made him look back. Grimsol stood with a sword as black as night, and as John watched, stiff with fear, Grimsol plunged it through both of his friends. When he withdrew the sword, both Semila and Marty turned to dust on the floor.

John tried to scream, but no voice came out.

'You are missing something John,' he said as he grabbed John's jaw and looked into his eyes. 'You're not quite right, are you? You little shit. You think you got rid of me that easy? Not a fucking chance.' Grimsol grimaced as he broke off his horn and threw it on the bed. Transfixed with horror, John watched as the horn grew teeth and started wriggling its way up towards his body. It gurgled and shat as it squirmed closer and closer, leaving a stench worse than anything John had ever known.

He tried to move his arms, but they wouldn't obey his commands. The side of his face went slack and he started crying.

'That's right you little fuck. You're going back into vegetable mode. You're going to drool, shit, and piss yourself for the rest of your short, pain-filled life. Once my little pet here forces its way down your throat, you're fucked.' Grimsol laughed, threw his head back, and howled.

John closed his eyes and tried to force his head away from the advancing maggot,

Grimsol spoke again. 'Be gone wretch, you have no power here!' he shouted.

John opened his eyes to a long rifle barrel resting a few inches from his face. He followed the barrel down to the trigger, then looked up. Tom stood there, exactly as he had looked all those years ago, pointing the rifle at Grimsol.

'I've got your back son, I won't let the bad people get you,' he said with a nod to John.

The noise was deafening as he fired the shot, straight through Grimsol's heart. The demon fell against the wall, and blood spurted onto the floor, then Grimsol turned to dust that spiralled in the air and settled on the carpet. With his rifle barrel, Tom flicked the maggot onto the floor, and ground it to dust under his boot heel, the maggot screeching as he did.

When he was done, he looked up. 'Keep your head up, John. Remember, God gives his hardest battles to his strongest soldiers.' He stroked John's hair and John shivered. 'Save one, save us all,' he said, his form evaporating into the darkness.

John opened his eyes to bright light. Daylight, he realised while blinking away the blur of sleepiness. There was a drip inserted into the back of his hand, it and a note on the desk by his bed.

'No meds, just fluids. Stay strong John. I believe in you. Sam.'

He looked at the tablet; he had been out for five days.

His hands shook as he pulled the drip from his vein, then stemmed the blood with his thumb. He could hear everyone outside his door.

'I thought I said no visitors.' He grumbled to himself. He swung his legs out of the bed, letting them dangle in mid-air. A Zimmer frame was about a foot away and John looked at it in disgust.

'No. I don't want to use you,' he said to the inanimate object.

He placed his feet on the floor and stood up. If felt high up, as he had only been in his wheelchair or bed since he awoke. Then wobbled. He reached out, only getting the Zimmer for balance.

'Damn it! Just this once,' he said as he pushed himself forward. He got to the door and opened it; a tray of food lay outside. He put his back to the wall and let himself slide down, then grabbed the tray and shut the door. His stomach grumbled as he shovelled the food in. He flicked the bottle top off the water bottle and drew in half the bottle. His head rested against the door frame as everyone outside started talking again, and John sighed.

'Why can't you just let me do this in peace? Do it my way, just this one time.' He almost swore, but since his hurtful outbursts he decided swearing wasn't good for the soul.

He took another drink of water as the voices got louder. It was then that he realised the voices weren't coming from outside. They were coming from inside the boxes Samantha had brought.

© Steve Ford and Joy Cronjé 2018