There was a pool table in the middle of the room, but he knew there was no cue or chalk to be found. It wasn’t the only deserted artifact of more social times, puzzles with missing pieces, children’s toys from other decades, dusty teacups in the kitchen in the far corner. It was risky coming back here, but it was familiar. At least he had that.
Familiarity is a worn-out concept, he thought, scanning the room for that old guitar with the broken string. He had convinced himself long ago that he wanted the challenge of a guitar short on strings. There was a time when that hadn’t really mattered. Hell, I just needed two, he muttered to himself.
From the corner of his eye, he noticed the guitar, string-side down, just beyond a cluster of chairs leaning against the exposed brick wall. Flying over to his maker, he hoisted the guitar up and started confirming the string count. Four strings. Fine. At least they were together. A chair pulled around, a few strums, and then he got busy tuning each string, bringing a bit of pleasure to his weathered face. As the strumming started to clean up into recognizable sound, he sat back to think through how he might begin with an old familiar classic, then he let a chord ring out, and it wasn’t until he let the silence take hold that he heard the drip. His instinct was to turn his attention to the faucet in the little kitchen, but the drip wasn’t coming from that direction. He looked to just beyond the kitchen area where a shadow on the floor shape-shifted into a puddle. There.
He scanned his memories, tugging at the dusty spots, trying to remember if there was a pail in the room. Why would there be a pail? he asked himself, and gently laid the guitar down as he went in search of something to contain the drips in the cupboards. This reminded him of a time, but he shook out the need to relive anything at all, a well-practiced art, and grabbed a rusty pie pan. It wasn’t big but he wasn’t planning for the long-term. As he headed to where the puddle was, the texture of the puddle rose the heat of his body and churned his stomach. He looked up, to get away from looking down, and saw the ceiling panels buckling from the weight of another trace of a puddle, a lighter shade of blood.
Instantly panicking, he started to work out how to notify someone, while simultaneously playing back how he might look suspicious. A cloud of unnecessary self-shame hustled to gain authority in his mind as he debated who to call and what to say, but what the hell would he say? There are blood drips or something that looks like blood? They are going to ask questions and will want to know what happened… He really had no idea what he’s actually looking at but what if they think he did something? He tried to filter through the scattered memories, like flipping dusty books on a dirty shelf, and he thought to himself, did he do this after all? He had left that life behind him, flying into blinding rages, yelling and throwing things, hitting and harming, causing tears and heartbreaks to those he loved the most. He had walked away from those pains and people years ago- has he done it again?- returned like a moth to the light? No, he thought, he couldn’t have brought himself back to cause that kind of destruction again….
His panic subsided with no logic to fuel it and his attention came back to the drips. Almost like a tune he could play on his sad four string guitar. What a pair we make, he thought, and picked it up, revelling the weight in his hands. He walked over to the stained ceiling and lifted the guitar high. Starting to poke at the mess, bits of soaked tile starting to fall splattering on the floor. The ceiling groans and heaves, and more tiles flutter down.
What the fuck he thought? What the hell is that??
As he strained his eyes in the darkness of the cavernous roof, an outline of a shape started to appear...His eyes widen, a silent scream escapes his mouth, and he drops the guitar with a clatter, breaking it but not caring, clambering and scrambling away to the safety of the wall behind him. Breathe, he says out loud to nobody in particular, not even himself. He reaches frantically for his phone and dials the only number he can remember. Not the police, not the medics, no ambulance is needed this time. Too far gone he decides, all that remains is a job that needs to be done. Things need to get taken care of. He's finally found his out, his ace in the hole. He can walk away if he plays this right.
The phone rings in his ear, a gravelly voice answers. He speaks carefully into the phone.
Smitty- it’s me. I know I haven't checked in for a while. I will explain that later. Listen. I got him. He's here. Yeah I know it’s him. No he can’t talk right now. He's dead. I know it's him. Fuck man, it’s him. That damn ear gives him away every time. I know because I gave him that ear. No that wasn't me. I just found him. Yeah I’ll wait here. No, didn't find a girl, just him. Don't know if she’s here. Fuck yeah I will wait here. We got talking to do and a mess to clean up.
He pockets the phone. His gaze strays from the blood pool to his future. Time to get to work. He picks up the broken guitar and looks up.