Treatment #2

Mac stared at the ceiling and blinked. A bird chirped outside. He did not look.

The light was off. Mac never recalled turning it on. Quite a few lights were burned out in this motel. A hard layer of dust protected the lampshade from outside influences.

Something creaked when Mac shifted his weight to one side. A mattress spring poked into his ribs. He grunted and rolled out of bed. The alarm clock went off and Mac grunted again as his chest slammed into the box.

He picked up the box. It was small and plain and made of unfinished yellow wood. Inside was a gun. It too was small and plain and had rounds in all six chambers. The bullets smelled funny.

Next to the gun was a sealed envelope. The paper was blank outside. He sat motionless, staring wide-eyed at the envelope. He opened his mouth a few times. No words came. The crisp white paper stared back in silence.

Mac returned the objects to the box and lay back on the bed. He stared at the ceiling for a while and then his eyes lost focus. He did not fall asleep.

Mac made several gagging noises and ran into the bathroom. He vomited into the sink, and stood there a while leaning against the counter shaking. Then he rinsed and washed his face.

The alarm clock was still going. Mac did not recognize the song, but it was as though he heard it a thousand times before. He turned it off.

"So how was your night?" Mac poked a hole in his egg. The yolk ran down and pooled around the crisp brown edges.

"Terrible. He couldn't last ten minutes. Fuck, I might've been drunk but at least give me some credit!" Grace sat down beside him with French toast and milk.

Mac sopped up the yolk with his hash browns. "You don't seem hung over."

"Looks like it rubbed off on you. You look even more like complete shit than usual." She grinned and nudged him with her foot under the table.

"It's an art." Mac took a sip of the coffee. It was black and had some kind of grease on top. He stared into the swirls for a while.

"You miss them, don't you?" Grace busied herself cutting the French toast into fine squares. Her bra was plainly visible under the unbuttoned red blouse.

Mac gulped down the hash browns and began on the bacon. "You wouldn't understand." Steam from the coffee swirled red in the sunlight.

"Oh?" She took the fork in two fingers in her right hand. Her pinkie remained extended. She picked up a square of toast and ate it. She twirled the fork in her fingers and smirked at him.

"It's one of those you-had-to-be-there things. I don't talk about it much." There was another bite of egg left on his plate.

"You don't talk much at all." She leaned forward. "Tell me why."

He looked up at her. He looked back to his food and finished it. "I'll explain later. Meanwhile, this is not a licensed establishment." He got up and left.

Grace finished her meal alone. Mac had taken his coffee with him.

"Honestly, Connor, you're here every other morning. Do you even go home, or do they let you sleep here?"

"This is my home. Down in the dank, with the ghost of Dionysus and all the other dead gods. Gloria doesn't mind, I've asked."

"Silence doesn't mean assent, Connor. Do you lie to Allan too?"

"So how's Grace?"

"Oh, you know, the usual. Less morbid than you, at least."

"Hence your daring escape just now."

"If only she would drop that facade already. Speaking of which, the envelope. I don't want to read it. You know how I am with envelopes."

"That's your problem. You've got until midnight, you know that. And no, I can't remind you what it was last time because I don't get to know either."

"I wish it could be simple again. Like old times."

"Like old times."

"Those were good times."

"They always are."

"Fuck, Connor, I don't think I can stand it anymore. Do you remember back when we had lives, things that we could go back to, things that we... that..."

"Do you?"

Mac finished his beer. He noticed the "Closed" sign on the pub entrance.

She sat on the bleachers, bookbag by her feet. The football team was practicing below. Most everyone else had gone home already.

He sat down beside her. She stared straight ahead. Her breath swirled red against the setting sun. The ball died on the 20-yard line.

He watched the team practice. A play went awry and a running back faltered. There were some discussions and things were set right the next attempt.

Her bare hand dropped into the space between them. Someone intercepted a forward pass. He leaned forward and glanced down the empty rows of bleachers.

He went back to watching the players. Her hand was clammy and cold in his grasp. She glanced at him. He returned the gaze and she looked away.

Birds sang as the setting sun continued on its course. The players retreated to the showers. The two continued staring at the empty field for a while. Her hand felt warmer now.

He turned to look at her. She looked down at their hands and blinked. She remained motionless for a while, watching their hands. He leaned closer.

Julie grabbed Mac by the head with both hands, climbed onto him and kissed him on the lips. The kiss was returned.

The shadows of the trees beyond the field fell over them before they untangled from each other. He stood holding her in his arms. She looked up and smiled. They kissed again, and then separated.

When he was gone she sat back down on the bleachers and buried her face in her hands.

He gazed into the envelope's white paper abyss. It gazed back into him.

The streetlamp outside flickered alive and flooded his room with orange. The bulb in the room's ceiling light had a broken filament and the glass was black on top. A dead insect, desiccated and old, rested inside.

He considered the telephone. The receiver was sticky. Odd stains marred the yellowed plastic. It did not gaze back into him. It offered no help.

"Come in, it's open." There was a knock on the door.

The door opened and her backlit form appeared in it. "Just checking in on you before I head to the club."

"Be sure you're back for breakfast."

"What, like you care? I haven't seen you all day!"

"Think of it as our special time together."

She crossed her arms and sighed. "Have you opened that envelope yet?"

"You know how I feel about envelopes." He scribbled something into a sketchpad and closed it. He hesitated with it in his hand for a moment before throwing it onto the bed.

Grace picked up the pad and opened it up to the last used page. She rolled her eyes. "Good night, Mac." She turned away and the door closed. He never saw that pad again.

Mac stared past the closed door for a while. He picked up the envelope again and looked at the seal carefully. His face turned pale and he doubled over and he vomited right onto the envelope. The seal dissolved.

He picked out the enclosed letter and read it.

Lightning struck the pole next to Mac. He ignored it and leapt up onto the next rooftop as the thing gave chase. The storm kept everyone indoors tonight. Neither of them had anything left to hide.

He turned and fired at the thing as it leapt. The thing lost balance but made it to the next roof. His follow-up shot hit a wall.

The shots bought Mac enough time to gain a lead of two buildings. He fired into the thing's mass again and went down an external fire escape.

The building had been condemned years ago. Moss and cracks ate at brick and mortar. Blackened, pitted wood complemented broken glass in the windows. The fire escape was orange and black. Something on it broke with every step that Mac took. A few storeys down he smashed through the boards of one window and went inside.

The thing came down after him. He leaned out and shot twice. It dodged the shots perfectly. They destroyed the top supports of the fire escape.

Everything above Mac's level gave under the thing's twisting and turning. A horrible screech and groan put his teeth on edge. The fire escape above him fell away from the building and the thing crashed into the opposite wall.

It climbed down to his level. They glared at each other through the window, drenched in rain and blood. Mac raised his gun. The thing leapt for him.

Mac's roundhouse kick landed directly in the thing's central nervous system. It fell back out the window, off the walls, tumbling uncontrollably into the alley below. When it stopped moving he aimed at the spot he had kicked and shot.

Mac took another flight of stairs to street level. He emerged from the door and saw what was left of the thing in the lightning. He broke down screaming.

He won.

Mac stared at the ceiling and blinked. A bird chirped outside. He did not look.

The light was off. Mac never recalled turning it on. Quite a few lights were burned out in this run-down motel. A hard layer of dust protected the lampshade from outside influences.

Something creaked when Mac shifted his weight to one side. A mattress spring poked into his ribs. He grunted and rolled out of bed. The alarm clock went off and Mac grunted again as his chest slammed into the box.

He picked up the box. It was long and baroque and made of lead. Inside was a knife. It was long and curved and felt heavy in his hand. The blade sounded funny when he put it to his ear.

Next to the knife was a microfilm.

Mac lay back on the bed. He sighed with relief but did not know why.