CHAPTER EIGHT

Water droplets darkened the faded stairs with their irregular percussion as they dripped from Abigail’s trailing scarf. Marcus watched each drop form a shape as it crashed against the worn wood—each one unique, each one the same. As the soft drum of each drop and the hush of shuffling feet echoed in the cement vault, Abigail looked over her shoulder. Hunched within the soaked layers meant to shield her, she met Marcus’s eyes with an open stare. It was one of disbelief that he was still there, following her damp trail, mixed with a quiet relief that he was.

Mid-flight, her bundled frame grew oddly rigid. Her steps slowed and came to a complete stop at the top of the stairs. From a slight distance behind, Marcus, too, paused. Could it be she no longer wanted him there? he wondered. He would have asked if anything was wrong had he not then closed the distance between them and heard the explosion of shattered glass. Images from nights before filtered through his thoughts as another crash resonated. The drunken man and battered woman were at it again.

Abigail turned, her lower lip tucked between her teeth as she fiddled with the zipper of her coat, avoiding Marcus’s gaze.

“You should wait here. I’ll go inside and change. It’ll only take a minute. Then maybe we can go to the deli from yesterday? Or there’s one down the street from here. The coffee there isn’t great, but it’s raining and it’s much closer than walking all the way back to the one by the record store.” Her voice cracked and faded, while fearful anticipation brimmed in her eyes. Marcus looked down at her hands. Her fingers were now still, white with tension, as she pressed down on the zipper severely.

The chorus of voices inside the apartment rose. They roared atrocities at one another above the constant tempo of exploding glass and tumbled furniture.

Marcus walked around Abigail, a blockade between her and the short hall at whose end was the dreaded apartment. “You don’t mean to go in there.”

Another scream...

Abigail shrugged and plucked sheepishly at her drenched pants. “I have to. Besides, this isn’t the first time. They’ll quiet down soon enough, and Randy will go back to watching TV while Nancy cleans up their mess. Then tomorrow, they’ll do it all over again, like some twisted version of Groundhog Day.” She took then to twisting the tassels of her shawl, wrapping one around her finger until the tip grew white. “I’m normally not home around this time so I miss most of this. I just get to come home to broken furniture. I guess it’s actually better this way—them fighting right now. They won’t notice me coming in or going back out.”

“And when you’re home?” Marcus asked readily. “You said you miss most of it. What of the other part?”

Another crash...

Abigail attempted a smile that faded before her lips arched. She dropped her gaze and made to walk around Marcus without answering. He didn’t move.

She exhaled. “Mr. Death, please—”

“Marcus.”

Abigail blinked. “I’m sorry?”

Marcus let out an uneasy breath. “I told you I wasn’t Death. My name is Marcus.”

She was quiet for a moment while Marcus’s heart pounded in his chest with violent pangs.

Finally, she lowered her eyes. “Thank you, Marcus.”

Another slap...

She took to the paint chipped zipper again. “I know it sounds bad in there, but please, they’re far too busy with each other to notice me come in.”

“Then I’ll escort you—”

She flinched. “No! If you come inside you’ll only make it worse. I’ll get what I need and come right out.”

Another shrill...

“Abigail—”

“Please, Marcus.”

The fragile sound of his name on her lips gave him pause and flamed a fire within him. Still, he didn’t move. Not when, with every passing second, there was another scream, another curse, another slam, another shatter. Abigail meant to appear calm, but her tight breaths betrayed her. Drinking in each of her shuddering breaths, Marcus remained planted, a firm barrier between safety and hell.

Her voice pulled him from turmoil. “I need to go now. I’ll be quick then we’ll talk. Wait here.” It wasn’t a question. Words being of little use, and being physically unable to reach and prevent her from going, Marcus could only watch her slip away between him and the wall.

“Why?”

Abigail slid her key into the lock. “Why what?”

Another curse.

He walked to her. “Why do you stay here? Isn’t there someplace else you can go? Anywhere seems better than here. Surely you can see that. I can’t fathom why you willingly choose to stay in a place where you’re obviously not safe, where you’re scared.” He moved closer to her, closer than what was wise. “You don’t need to go in there. Why not leave them to their hell and find somewhere else? It isn’t that hard.”

She didn’t answer for a while. Then, “You speak from experience?”

Remembering the nights he spent as a boy looking out into the night sky as screams and thrown property resounded from inside his home, Marcus swallowed. Regardless of how spacious the house might have been, his mother’s screams were unmistakable, as were the bruises in the morning.

He raked a hand through his hair as the symphony inside climaxed. His throat dried. “I do, and I stayed only to find that nothing ever changed. Things might get better for a few days before something sets him off, and then it all starts again. It’s almost as if the reprieve was just fate winding the hours back to start the nightmare once more. Waiting or hoping they’ll change somehow—it isn’t worth it. Whatever demented world they’ve locked themselves in, you don’t have to stay.”

Her hand fell away from the inserted key and she exhaled. “You don’t get it, do you? This has nothing to do with them. Call me cold or heartless, but I could care less if they change. They’re not the reason I stay. I’ve lived here all my life. There are too many memories, from before, when…when things were different, better. It wasn’t always like this. Randy and Nancy weren’t always here. Nancy was my mother’s best friend so who better to care for me after—” Abigail cut herself off with a shake of her head. “I stay because when I’m in there, in my room, it doesn’t feel so lonely. When they’re gone, and I can walk around the apartment, it feels like home. I stay because all my memories are here and I can’t bear to leave them all behind.”

“You stay for memories? Well, that’s just ridiculous,” he snapped, unable to rid the edge from his voice as the noise inside wound itself tighter around him. “You’re letting memories, petty recollections, tie you to a miserable existence. You’re putting yourself in danger, all because you want to remember? Memories can’t protect you if that bastard lays a hand on you. Memories can’t protect you from this, from them. Really, memories? That is as foolish a thing as—” Marcus stopped himself when tears glimmered in Abigail’s eyes, reflecting the dim light in the hall. She looked down, and Marcus fought to keep from reaching for her. He couldn’t, and it hurt.

Once silence finally seeped from the seams of the door, Abigail’s hand rose to the key.

“Yes, memories,” she said, meeting his eyes with a cold, cutting glare. “Don’t you have anything or anyone that keeps your mind tied to one place? Well sadly, all of mine are here, in this apartment. Regardless of how bad things get, I will at least have that, my memories, my petty recollections. Perhaps they’re foolish to you, but may I remind you that, thanks to you, my only friend is dead, and now those pathetic memories are all I have left.”

Abigail turned the key with determination and pushed the door open. She glanced at Marcus one last time and then closed the door behind her.

Marcus squeezed his eyes and groaned. He’d said the wrong thing again. Casting his anger aside, he willed himself unseen and slipped in behind her. There was no way she was going in there alone.

Walking into the same scene as nights before, Marcus shook his head. Nancy sat huddled in her usual corner by the kitchen. Spilled liquor dripped from the granite counter-tops as torn fabric hung loosely from the windows, all the downed chairs and tumbled tables a testament to their quarrel. Randy was the only variance.

“What the hell are you doing back here? Didn’t you just leave?” he slurred from his beaten recliner as opposed to the table from the previous time.

Abigail stopped sharply. As if draping an invisibility cloak over her head, she lowered her face into the scarf and shrunk into her coat. No number of layers could ever achieve what she wanted, but she tugged her scarf tighter, and Marcus watched the bits of her that had just emerged outside in the hall sink to the misery and invisibility he’d always wondered about.

“You think you can just come strolling back in here when you want now?” Randy spat. “This isn’t your house no more. Ain’t your mama’s house either. She’s dead, remember?”

His odious laugh rippled in even rows through the room and fixed a paling Abigail to the door. Marcus drew up close behind her, watching every ounce of color drain from her face.

Recovering, she locked the door with rusted movements, Randy’s words seeming to erode her joints. She headed to the stairs without looking back at the man, whose face twisted in anger.

“Don’t you hear me talking to you? Come on over here,” he said, patting the armrest on his recliner. His voice lowered to a dangerous lure that pricked Marcus sourly. He hated the brandied insinuations and black look in the man’s eyes.

Abigail shook her head and continued toward the stairs.

“You ignoring me now? I’ll teach you to ignore—” Randy tried to stand, but stumbled back with a slew of curses.

“Randy,” Nancy whispered timidly. “Please don’t. She hasn’t done anything.” As soon as the words left Nancy, she pressed balled her fists against her mouth. Randy glared at her, but pinned his stare back on Abigail through narrowed eyes.

Rigidly, Abigail ascended the rest of the way, her rain soaked path marked by droplets as she took each step with grit. All the while she remained oblivious of the extra set of footprints being cast behind her.

Marcus struggled with every step, unsure of how to keep his anger from slipping into dangerous levels, which he’d only experienced once or twice in his life over trivial things such as brawls over money and liquor. This was different. His body went cold while his blood tingled with a strange heat that made him shiver.

On reaching the second level, he felt the tense hum of violence swirling all around them as Abigail opened her door. It was the rumbling of an approaching storm, the moments of calm where the rod tightened, set to snap upon a wrong word, a wrong movement—so fragile that at any moment chaos would explode upon the slightest of actions.

Abigail closed her door.

A barrage of muffled curses slipped under it, followed by a crash. “You got some nerve walking away from me, little girl!”

She flinched and quickly locked the door. Nancy’s stifled pleas for Randy to leave Abigail alone joined the chaotic symphony commencing. Abigail shuffled back, her eyes focused on the door. It was not a look of fearful anticipation. Deep anger swirled in her eyes as she tore off the scarf and snatched the glasses from her face. She shed her layers as tears streamed down her flushed face. She hated it, and Marcus shared her sentiments. As she suffered, he remained wordless, but stood close, allowing her tears the time to wash away her invisibility.

Dropping her brown coat onto the puddle now circling her, she let out a slow, shaking breath. She clutched at the damp fabric of her dress with the stifled roar of a weary body, a tired soul, and a broken heart. When her lungs emptied, her hands fell at her sides. She stumbled over her coat, managing a short distance before collapsing at the cushioned bench in front of the piano.

Marcus remained by her damp garments and listened as her fingers fell onto the first keys with a sharp pound. She pressed down on the ivories again and set off with her broken song. The random striking of keys in no particular order was chaos, like the fragments of glass scattered downstairs. Marcus stiffened, recognizing the song. It was the same melody she played that first night when he’d come for her. The notes were different, but the desperation was the same.

In between the damaged notes, he heard footsteps down the hall.

Abigail’s song crescendoed and she blinked rapidly to keep away the tears. She sucked her trembling lower lip between her teeth and played on. Closing her eyes, she lost herself in the irregular concerto of highs and lows that clashed together to the tempo of her quiet sobs.

The door rattled. In tune with the music, punches beat against wood, morphing to a twisted metronome. Abigail flinched with a sob, but continued her awkward song, falling deeper into her atonal haven. Randy couldn’t hurt her in there, between the notes.

Anger ebbed and flowed within Marcus in dangerous, even waves. He neared the door, entranced by the wood that hummed with murder. Lifting his hands, he gripped the doorframe with slipping limitation. Nearing his face to the door, he looked right through to the man at the other side and squeezed the doorframe tighter. It would be so easy to end it all—just one touch. But all he could do was listen to the muffled curses between each exploding punch. He could only stand by and do nothing as Abigail’s breathing hitched whenever the door rattled.

Each squeaking hinge unfurled years of memories in Marcus’s mind. Thoughts of wishing he were anywhere else instead of hearing his mother’s constant screams and his father’s incessant cursing. He hadn’t done anything then. He couldn’t have. What could a boy of barely seven do?

Marcus looked out to Randy and then to Nancy beside him. He shook his head. Centuries had passed, and he realized things were exactly the same. History had just mirrored his life with a different set of names, a different set of faces. His mother’s screams were no more, now they were Nancy’s. His father’s curses had vanished, leaving only Randy on the other side of that door.

And then there was Abigail.

Marcus looked back to see she no longer shivered. Her brows joined in deep concentration; she stroked each key with a lingering passion. The deep tones overpowered the door, which sang warningly that it would not hold out for much longer.

Marcus shifted back, waiting. He was no longer a seven year old boy, and the moment that door gave, he would prove it.

Nancy screamed. Randy roared. One violent thump and the door burst open.

Randy’s eyes widened. “Who the hell are you?”

Behind Marcus, the music warped.

“Marcus,” Abigail breathed. He didn’t look at her.

“What are you doing in my house, boy?” Randy slurred. He stepped forward, but tripped over his feet and stumbled sideways. Nancy reached out to keep him from falling, but Randy jerked his hand away and shoved her aside. Toppling into Abigail’s room, he held onto the door for support. “I asked you a question!”

Marcus didn’t move, didn’t say a word.

Randy colored, and his face splintered into a sinister chuckle that crinkled the corners of his eyes. “So you’re a tough guy, huh? You think you can come in my house and disrespect me? This is my house! And you—” He pointed an unsteady finger over Marcus’s shoulder, at Abigail, who Marcus hadn’t noticed stood close behind him, so close that her chest kissed his back with each breath.

Randy spit and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He fixed his glossy eyes on Abigail. “Now you’re bringing boys into my house without my permission? I shoulda have known you’d turn out just like your Mama. And that’s gonna cost you, little girl.”

Free of her layers, Abigail took a step out of Marcus’s shadow. “This isn’t your house.”

Randy lunged forward, but Nancy yanked him back. “Randy, please! She’s Patricia’s baby!”

Randy ignored this and, with one push, cleared Nancy out of the way and onto the floor. He cursed over her, and then his black gaze turned to Abigail. “Patricia’s dead. Isn’t that right, Abigail? Does your little boyfriend know what you did? How you—”

“Go to hell!” Abigail roared.

Time seemed to stretch indefinitely between them—Abigail beside Marcus, Randy with vile intentions, Nancy crying against the wall, and Marcus barely holding on to the strings of his composure.

Randy chuckled. “Now why don’t you say that again?”

Abigail clutched her fists tightly. “Go to hell.”

Randy charged, his fists intended for Abigail. They never reached her.

Marcus rammed his shoulder into Randy’s stocky stomach and shoved him back, slamming him against a hallway mirror. Enraged, he dug his forearm deeper under Randy’s neck in spite of the yells coming from Nancy beside them, in spite of the glass that dug into Randy’s back.

Randy struggled between laughter and sputters of coughing. “What are you gonna do? Kill me?” he muttered mockingly through a tightened throat.

His vision dim with centuries of repressed memories, Marcus released a fist. “It would be my pleasure,” he said through clenched teeth. He lifted his open hand, a shallow breath away from Randy’s face. The lure of life instantly hooked onto his fingertips with a cold burn. Never did the pain feel so good. Randy’s eyes dilated in response to the direct pull on his soul.

Breaking the life bonds of unlisted souls was much harder since the shackles were more concrete. But rage was an ally to Marcus and he watched the black wisps of Randy’s life evaporate from his body. A cold sweat saturated Marcus. He shivered at the strain of this forbidden reaping, but he focused, relishing in the flame at the center of his palm. It intensified further as the links on Randy’s chain of life snapped one by one.

“How can you live with yourself?” Marcus muttered, pushing his hand closer to Randy. The ghost of his father stared back at him, his frigid blue eyes taunting Marcus, urging him on. All the while Randy’s skin dried under his hands.

It was wrong, Marcus knew this, but to tame the anger flowing through him was impossible. An exorcism wouldn’t rid the century-old fury from his bones.

“Marcus, he isn’t worth it,” Abigail pled from behind him, above Nancy’s screams.

Marcus looked up to the broken mirror behind Randy and met Abigail’s frightened eyes. Their mutual stare deepened until all else fell away and they were the only two standing.

“He isn’t worth it,” she said again.

Marcus’s jaw clenched. He wanted to please her and take her from that hellish place, but how could he when under his hold was everything he hated about his past, about what made him the man he was?

Paralyzed by warring emotions, he looked back at Randy whose glassy eyes dimmed as his life slipped farther into oblivion. Far enough that faint moans and hisses echoed from down the hall as Marcus pushed his forearm farther.

Gradually blackness saturated the walls, detaching from the natural shadows of the world. Vines of darkness curled closer, vibrating and gnawing in anticipation. Their invisible eyes brimmed with pleasure, their murky whispers urging Marcus to end it all. They reminded him of all the times he was held in such a way with no one to help him and they drove the blade in deeper by reminding him that collecting souls was his duty. More, that Randy deserved it. They slithered closer and whispered for Marcus to push a little more, to delight in watching the light dim indefinitely from Randy’s eyes.

The stench of the black shadows expanded, but the vapors no longer bothered Marcus. He inhaled deeply and filled his lungs with the sulfuric ash of despair, a fuel to his fury.

A hand took hold of his arm, and Abigail appeared beside him. With fresh tears she looked at him, begging, “Please, don’t do this. I can’t have another death on my conscience.” Her voice fell to a whisper. “Just like you told me that I don’t have to stay here, you don’t have to kill him. It won’t solve anything. You’ll feel guilty and it won’t ever go away.”

Over the constant moaning, Marcus heard her words. They meant something, but no matter how hard he tried, above his anger and the hellish vines, nothing made sense.

“Please.” She gripped him tighter. “You’re not a monster.”

“What makes you so sure?” He flicked his gaze to hers, expecting to find no answer.

Abigail met his eyes unwaveringly. She lifted a finger and brushed a strand of hair away from his face. “Because you’re here.”

Marcus closed his eyes against her touch and struggled to rein in his temper. Desperately, badly, he fought to suppress the monster he’d held within for too long.

Reluctantly, he released Randy, letting the fragments of memory crumble to the ground with the shards of broken glass. The shadows slowly retreated, and their moaning reduced to a hiss before they faded back into the darkness. Randy slid down against the wall to the floor, clawing at his throat while gasping for air. Marcus towered over him as his hands returned to their clenched form.

Without taking his eyes from Randy, Marcus said to Abigail, “Get your things and let’s go.”

Abigail’s breath caught in her chest and her hand fell from his arm. She understood his demand in every sense of the word.

Although Marcus himself had uttered the words, his brain finally realized what he had just asked of her: for her to get her things and leave—with him.

It was insanity, but before cowardice and logic could stake their claim, Marcus met Abigail’s gaze. “Don’t fight me on this, Abigail. Do you want me to take you or not?”

She nodded hastily, tears triggered in her eyes.

“Then get your suitcase and let’s go.”

She hesitated still, and doubt flashed across her face. Noting the way her mouth wound in fragments of words, Marcus understood. He was telling her—demanding that she leave everything she’d ever known, leave behind her dearest memories and go with him, with absolutely no guarantee that he would take her life.

Knowing his words were not enough to sway her, he took two steps closer. “This isn’t all you have. Not anymore.”

Her eyes widened slightly and she drew an unsteady breath. She stepped back, her gaze fastened to his. A moment passed and she turned, disappearing into her room. When she reemerged with her tattered suitcase in hand, Marcus could have fallen to his knees. Her fear was gone, and a new spark gleamed in her eyes. She glared at a slumped Randy and paled Nancy and held their stares, no longer cowering behind a brown coat and tangled scarf.

With a calm and steady voice, she turned to Marcus. “I’m ready to go, wherever.”

Wherever. Marcus swallowed, his throat dry. She was ready to go with him, wherever. With new found purpose, he started down the hall with Abigail in his shadow.

Rain poured heavily and murky puddles spread across the vast streets. Having walked for long distances toward no destination, Marcus looked at Abigail beside him. Her black sweater hung drenched, dripping from the cold rains. Even though swallowed by the fabric, Abigail did not quaver as they waited for the light to turn.

Marcus did. Adrenaline and uncertainty pumped through his veins. He tilted his head back and let the thick droplets crash against his face. What had he done? As the words had left his mouth, he knew it had been a mistake. To demand Abigail leave with him? What could he offer her? Where was he going to take her? Who was he to take her from a home, however bad it was, with no promise of another home or of anything at all?

But straightening, he looked at her and forgot all reason. He relished the satisfaction coursing through his body. For the first time, he had kept his word. Abigail was safe.

He glanced at her black sweater. Though layers remained, there were two less than before. It was a start. Carefully, he took the suitcase from her fingers and slid off his coat. It was no less wet than she was already, but he draped it over her shoulders and added a layer of his own, one of his warmth, of his protection.

He clutched the suitcase and with small and fleeting smiles, they both turned to the facing street in silence.

The light turned red.

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