Junkie, Junkie
Jeremiah, the youngest Fleet brother, turned from his back to his side. The trunk was small and dark, and he groaned as the vehicle went over another bump and a metal hook in the trunk jabbed into his side. Jeremiah swore at the city for its poor road maintenance. He swore at the car manufacturer for the vehicle’s poor shocks. And he swore at Daniel for his bad driving. To say he was uncomfortable was an understatement. Every few seconds, the car would jerk up sharply, and the metal hook welded at the center of the trunk would stab into his side again.
“Aw, shit,” Jeremiah groaned. His distaste was not only at the hook stabbing into him. He hated the cramped trunk and the darkness. Besides the sharp pain in his side, his legs were pushed up on his chest so he was able to fit into the trunk, and after only five minutes in this position, he wished for nothing more than the car to stop and for him to be able to get out of it. Eventually, the car did stop and Jeremiah heard voices, but it only stopped for a few seconds before it went bouncing down the road and he continued to bounce within it.
The car stopped three more times, and each time, Jeremiah’s body sagged and he sighed in satisfaction. Though he did not get relief from his cramped position, at least he had relief from the stabbing in his side. The first time the car stopped, Daniel did not even turn off the vehicle. The second time, the car door slammed and was left empty, but the car was not vacate long enough for Jeremiah to release the latch and escape. Daniel left for only a few minutes at most. After those few minutes, the car door opened again. A voice joined Daniel’s in the car. This second voice was small. It said a few words. The second door shut. The car started, and Jeremiah was jostled and stabbed and tenderized once again. On the third stop, Jeremiah at first sighed and sat. He expected Daniel to return to the car in a few short moments, and after Daniel had been gone some time, Jeremiah began to fiddle with the latch of the trunk. But by the time Jeremiah was able to release the latch, it was too late. Daniel was returning to the car. He was muttering to himself. Jeremiah tried to keep the trunk ajar as Daniel sped off, but Daniel’s driving was even more wild than before, and the trunk almost slammed on Jeremiah’s fingers.
And after this fourth time, Jeremiah cursed his own mind that had come up with the idea of climbing into this trunk in the first place. Stupid. Stupid. But of course, he would do the first stupid thing that came to his mind.
Jeremiah sighed. Why had he done it? Why had he been so stupid? He had thought he would sneak into the trunk. He had thought Daniel would do something related to their father. Daniel was on the warpath, wasn’t he? That is what he had thought, but he had been wrong. He was just realizing that now. Daniel was not seeking out their father’s shooter. Daniel was doing business. He was going about his normal day, and Jeremiah decided that when the car stopped again, he would get out. Daniel was all talk and no fight. He was not going to do anything about their father, so Jeremiah would leave the trunk and go back home.
When the car stopped the final time, Jeremiah began to work on the latch as soon as he heard the car door slam. After few minutes of fiddling with the latch, the trunk popped open. Jeremiah sat up, and he looked around.
He was in a neighborhood. It was a broken neighborhood, a neighborhood like a beat up person, all black-eyed, busted lip, broken legs. If this neighborhood was a person, it would have been one who had wandered into the gang’s territory and insulted a warlord. It had broken windows, peeling paint, sagging foundations. It had smudged lipstick, smeared mascara, and tears streaming down its face.
A ghetto. A real ghetto. Dead grass: dead grass, decomposing homes, rippled concrete, and everything.
“And why the Hell is Daniel in a ghetto?” Jeremiah muttered to himself.
Jeremiah swore. He swore twice. And then he laughed. It was a long, thick chuckle. He had thought Daniel had been all talk. He had thought Daniel was a liar, and Jeremiah was glad to be wrong. He was glad he had made the decision to climb into that trunk. The uncomfortable, bumpy ride had been hell, but it had been worth it.
“Now to find Daniel,” Jeremiah said to himself as he turned from the car to the curb. As he slammed the trunk, he scanned the houses. Each had peeling paint long faded to gray. Each had shredded screen doors and door frames gone cockeyed. Though one had little to differentiate it from another, Jeremiah knew where Daniel had gone. Jeremiah knew Daniel had gone to the house right in front of him. He was sure of it. Its door still hung wide on its hinges, and the gaping doorway beckoned Jeremiah inside.
Jeremiah laughed again, and he noticed the rain. Prior to getting into the trunk, it had not been raining, but now a light sprinkle was falling from the sky. Now, it hit the top of his head and shoulders as he moved toward the door.
When he entered the house, he grimaced at the smell, but he smiled. “Reminds me of home,” he muttered to himself. “Maybe actors live here.” He laughed at the comment, but he felt a cold acid move through his chest. It was depressing that the best he could do was no better than a drug-den, but he could not help but see the humor in it. “All you losers,” he said as he thought of his roommates. “Even opium-slaves have got you beat, don’t they?”
The first room Jeremiah entered was the kitchen. Dirt crunched under his soft footfalls. Glass popped beneath his soles several times. Water droplets sang as they fell into an almost full sink. The icebox was flung open, and when Jeremiah peered in, he was blasted by the sour stench of rotten meat. “Yep, just like home,” he said as he swung the icebox shut. As he continued through the kitchen, Jeremiah shook his head. The rest of the house did not smell like rotten meat, but it did not smell fresh. It had an ambiguous smell of filth, an unsourced smell, and he did not like it.
As Jeremiah moved from the kitchen to the living room, he looked down and stopped. The carpet was crusty. The whole room was covered in hair (Jeremiah did not know how), and all that hair was matted. Jeremiah gagged at the matted floor and couch more than he had at the rotting meat in the icebox. As he stepped toward the living room, he began to feel dirty. He felt more than dirty. He felt like that hair was alive. The whole floor was writhing. Every little, greasy thread of hair was crawling toward him, and when they got close enough, each would jump up and attack him.
Jeremiah gagged again. He looked up at the ceiling, but he could not get the carpet out of his head. The vomit was rising, and he needed to control his disgust before it overtook him.
Daniel had gone this way. He knew Daniel had gone this way. It was the only way to go unless his older brother was, for some reason, hiding in the pantry. Which would be ridiculous.
Jeremiah took a deep breath in and held it. He needed to go forward. That was absolutely what he needed to do, but it was the last thing he wanted to do. If getting to Daniel meant walking barefoot on hot coals, Jeremiah would have done it. But this? Jeremiah held his breath until his lungs burned. Jeremiah held his breath until his lungs felt like they were going to burst. As he let the breath out, disgust swept through him. This was too much. He knew it was filth. He knew it would not hurt him, but if he took a step onto the carpet, he was sure he would vomit. How could he not vomit?
“Ah, damn it all,” Jeremiah muttered to himself. He turned his eyes from the ceiling back to the disgusting floor. He felt sickness rise in his stomach once again. He wanted to pull his eyes away from the floor, but it was something he needed to confront. If he were to move forward into this house, he would need to walk onto that carpet. If he were to find Daniel, he would need to walk onto that carpet. If he wanted to find justice for his father, he would need to walk onto that carpet
Jeremiah swore again. “Damn, damn, damn,” he said. He thought of holding his breath again, but he quickly shook his head. Then he looked back up at the ceiling, he stepped onto the carpet, and he winced. As he took another step, he looked from the ceiling to his left and looked into the bathroom and he stifled a gag. The kitchen was dirty. The living room was a pig sty. That bathroom was hellish, an oozing boil, an infected pustule. “Hell’s butthole,” Jeremiah muttered to himself as he tasted vomit on the back of his tongue. “Never look that way again. Never, never, never,” he thought. Jeremiah was glad he did not have to go through the bathroom. If it had come to that, he was sure he would have turned around on the spot and walked home. He did not care if he needed to walk home in the rain or through the ghetto. No matter how much he wanted to move forward, he would not have been able to make himself. He knew it was stupid. He knew it was filth. He knew they needed to find justice for his father, but the complete decay and filth that had become the genetic makeup of that bathroom was too much for him. The carpet tested his limits. That bathroom was on a level unimaginable.
Jeremiah gagged again as he pushed the final few thoughts of that bathroom out of his mind. After a few more wincing steps, he stood at the foot of the stairs. He glanced down but only for a moment. Jeremiah heard a large thud from above him. He looked up the stairs. Another thud followed, and he breathed a sigh of relief as he stepped from the carpeted living room onto the staircase. A third thud followed the first two. This thud was joined by a rumbling voice. “Are they fighting?” he thought. Was Daniel having trouble convincing Hosea as he had with Ezekiel and Isaiah? Or was it the news about their father that caused the rumbling anger in this voice and the stomping feet? Was Hosea telling Daniel no or was he venting his frustration at this crime ridden city and its broken justice system? Jeremiah heard another loud thud, and he hoped Hosea was not a dead-end.
Jeremiah heard several more thuds. The muffled, rumbling voice continued, and that was a final confirmation for him that they were in a fight. And that was the final confirmation that Daniel had failed to convince Hosea to help him avenge their father.
As Jeremiah climbed the stairs, he forgot about the smell of the house. He forgot about the carpet in the living room. He forgot about that bathroom from Hell. He listened to the voice, and he wondered whether it was Daniel or Hosea speaking. He knew it could have been either one. He also knew that it could have been neither. But this house’s door had been flung open, hadn’t it? And why would Daniel park in front of the wrong place? And it was expected that Hosea would give Daniel some trouble, was it not? The flutter of doubt filled Jeremiah’s mind. “Don’t be stupid,” he told himself as he reached the top of the stairs. It had to be one of his brothers. It was most likely Hosea. It was not coming from the first two rooms at the top of the stairs. He could ascertain that now, so he knew it was coming from the final door at the end of the hall.
“That’s where I’ll find them both,” he whispered so no one would hear him, and he started toward the door.
When Jeremiah reached the door, he stopped and listened. By this time, the voice had stopped, and he heard nothing from the other side. Though he told himself both his brothers were on the other side of that door, the cold doubt was still in the back of his mind, and he searched for something that would confirm what he knew to be true “Talk,” he thought. “Just say something. Say anything,” but whoever was in the room remained silent.
“Stupid, stupid,” Jeremiah told himself as he tried to reach out and hear anything useful. “Just stupid. Just open the door, stupid.”
Jeremiah was careful to not make any sounds as he reached for the door. He grasped the handle firmly. He turned it slowly, and when he knew the door was unlatched, he flung it open as quickly as he was able.
“Shit.” The word from Jeremiah’s mouth was sharp. “Ah, shit,” he amended.
Daniel was not on the other side of the door and neither was Hosea. Jeremiah was greeted by a large man, at least a foot taller and fifty pounds heavier than himself.
“What are you doing here?” the man yelled as he scrambled to his feet. His eyes were wild, more than wild. His eyes had a film of rage over them. They were misty with tears. Jeremiah saw pain and hate, and Jeremiah did not know how to react to this man who looked tired, beaten, broken, but who also looked about to jump out and snap his neck. The only clear thought in Jeremiah’s mind about this man was the best way to portray this type of emotion on the stage. He knew he would not start with anger. Jeremiah knew he would start with the pain, but this knowledge of how to create an entertaining facsimile of this man was not useful as Jeremiah stood before him.
“Well, you little bitch,” the man continued. “Are you going to answer my question?”
Jeremiah swallowed. “I’m looking for my brother,” he answered.
The man’s eyes opened wide like a Maori warrior, and he looked just as ferocious. The only piece of the picture that was missing was war paint and a long, pointed tongue extending out of his mouth.
“What?” the man shouted. “Goblin-looking bitch looking for his brother?” the man asked with the same hostility. “You think I am going to help Mr. Paddie find his brother? You think I want you inbred micks living here. I wouldn’t mind stringing you up right here.” The man took a step forward.
Jeremiah took a step back. He did not want to turn his back on the man. The man did not only sound angry; he sounded serious.
The man smiled when he saw Jeremiah take a step back, and he took another step forward.
“Coward,” he said. “Mick coward. Never met a mick who wasn’t one. Potato-vermin. I can’t wait until all of you hang, but I’ll take you for now.”
Anger. No. It was more than anger. Rage bubbled in the man’s eyes. Fear swept through Jeremiah and caught in his throat. Jeremiah could see in this man’s eyes that he would find nothing more pleasurable than hanging him by the neck and looking in his eyes as he gasped his final breaths. This man would laugh as Jeremiah lay in a pool of his own blood with his intestines trailing across the room. This ugly, evil bastard would just sit on a chair, look down at Jeremiah, and smile as he watched the pain. Jeremiah was sure of this. If a person needed any proof of devils, he only needed to point to this man. Perhaps this man was not demon-possessed, but what he said, his rage, his desires, these things were demonic if anything was demonic. But he was a man and Jeremiah was sure that holy water would not do the trick. Holy water would result in a growl from the man. A priest’s blessing would only result in very real threats of dismemberment.
The man took another step. Jeremiah wanted to swing the door shut on the man, but the door had swung inward, and he would have had to get closer to the man to shut it. He wondered if he should turn and run, but he knew he could not do that. He did not know how fast the man could move, and if this man caught up to him, how was he able to defend himself if he had his back turned? But Jeremiah knew he could not simply stand and let this man get any closer either.
“Well, you’ve got to do something,” he told himself through his fear.
Jeremiah had a decision to make. He either needed to prepare for a fight or he needed to run, but the best decision was not obvious. What was this man on? What drugs was he taking? Jeremiah had run-ins with drugs, simple drugs, drugs he saw as mild. He had taken hits on a marijuana cigarette when it had been placed in his hand several times. He had seen other actors take acid (at least he was told it was acid). It did not seem to affect the actor much. But Jeremiah had heard of other drugs that made a man violent, that made a man lash out, that made him unreasonable.
When the man took another step toward Jeremiah, Jeremiah did not do any more thinking. It was not through careful thought and consideration that he moved. Jeremiah did not act because he had logically thought through every possibility. Instead, the man took another step forward, and something leapt inside Jeremiah. Fear. Consciousness-shattering fear. Animalistic instinct leapt within him, and he ran. He needed to get away. The moment before, he was deciding between two choices. In this moment, his fear controlled him, and his fear made him turn. It made him forget to even try to close the door. Fear made him run through the hallway in a haze of red. The hallway split into fractals before his eyes. He felt like he ran at an angle. He slammed into a wall. He bounced off the wall and flung himself toward the stairwell. He tumbled down the stairwell, barely keeping himself upright. He jumped the final few steps and ran as fast as he could as soon as his feet hit the floor.
He did not notice the filth of the living room. He did not care about the matted hair covering the floor. He did not glance into the bathroom, and he barely saw the kitchen as he passed through it. As he passed over the threshold and into the falling rain, his feet lost traction and he slid forward on the slick grass. He thought he could keep himself upright by putting his hands out in front of himself, but he was moving forward too quickly. His hands whipped over his head. His knees hit the ground first. His chest followed. Finally, his face slammed into the ground, and he cried out in pain.
Fear still raced through Jeremiah, and as soon as his face slammed into the wet grass, he scampered and slipped his way from his stomach into a sitting position. Cold rain poured on his head. Hot pain branched through his face. Hot tears poured from his eyes, and warm blood poured from his nose, over his lips and onto his chin.
Jeremiah groaned. He reached his hands up to his face to wipe the tears and rain out of his eyes. He spat blood out of his mouth. He felt it pour over his lips, but he did not care. His attention was on the doorway instead. He could clean the blood from everything later, but if he was not prepared for the crazed junkie chasing him right now, he would find himself a pile of pain, groaning and cursing as he sat out in the rain. No. That doorway, that hungry mouth of a doorway, was more important. Fear made him understand this as it pounded in his chest. And fear told him to prepare. So, he braced himself for a fight. He pulled himself from his butt to his feet. He set one foot back for balance. He brought his shaking fits up in front of his face, and he kept his eyes on that door. Soon, that ferocious man would burst through the darkness. Soon, that animal would attack Jeremiah.
Jeremiah gritted his teeth as he waited for the inevitable. His breath came out in hot, heavy inhales and exhales. His heart pounded through his chest and ears. He set himself between Daniel’s car and the house, and he prayed that Daniel would arrive. Daniel’s car was there. Surely, Daniel was somewhere. “But where?” Jeremiah wondered. “Where?” Even as he hoped for Daniel, he doubted his brother would ever arrive. Jeremiah was not destined to have help. Jeremiah was not destined to have a brother who would be at his back when he needed him. No. Jeremiah had no one to help him but himself. Running had been the wrong choice. It had only worn him out. Jeremiah would need to fight, and he would need to fight alone.
And with that same fear he had when he ran, he had raised his fists. He had prepared himself to fight. He had set a foot back for stability, clenched his teeth until his jaw hurt, and let the blood flow off his chin and drop onto the concrete at his feet. He swore. He swore again. Curses ran through his mind in a million combinations, and he stared into the open mouth of the doorway. His shoulders tensed. His fits were so tight they shook. Any moment. Any moment and that man would jump out.
“And Heaven help me be ready,” he muttered to himself. “Mother-of-God, help me be ready,” He crossed himself with a hand still in a fist, and he prayed to every saint he could think of. He prayed for whatever blessing they could spare.
And he waited.
“Jeremiah.”
Jeremiah’s head jerked up toward his name. He saw Daniel. His older brother’s face was full of worry, and he hobbled forward while holding up a limp body. Hosea. Daniel held up Hosea, and he pulled their eldest brother’s slack body toward the car.
Hosea’s eyes were closed. His legs dragged. His head lolled to the side, and his arms swung back and forth like the broken pendulum of a clock. His chest was wet with vomit. Hosea was not asleep. Jeremiah knew Hosea was more than asleep. If Hosea was merely asleep, the jerky movement of Daniel would have awoken him.
“Jeremiah, what the Hell are you doing here?” Daniel asked. The words came out in tired breaths.
Jeremiah did not answer. He instead looked back at the door and thought of that other man. He had not come out yet. Was he coming out?
Daniel shook his head as if he did not care to know the answer to his own question. “Well, no matter,” he continued. “Get over here and help me out.”
Jeremiah glanced back at Daniel. When he saw that Daniel was glaring at him, he darted to the side of Hosea, and together they carried him over to the car.
“What’s going on?” Jeremiah asked as they began to shift Hosea from their shoulders and into the back seat.
Daniel cursed as Hosea’s head bumped the door frame. He answered as he pushed his brother’s head down and through the door. “I’m not sure,” he answered in an annoyed sigh. “An overdose, I think.” Daniel took in a deep breath. “He puked and had a seizure.”
Jeremiah nodded. He wiped some of the vomit that got on his arm onto Hosea’s shirt. He gagged as he did so.
“Is he okay?” Jeremiah asked.
Daniel shrugged. “He isn’t convulsing any more. I think that’s a good sign.” Daniel looked at Jeremiah. Jeremiah’s own eyes wandered back to that open door. The crazed junkie still had not shown himself.
“Why are you here?” Daniel asked.
Though Jeremiah looked back at his brother, he kept his attention toward the gaping door which he saw out of the corner of his eye. “Everyone said no to you. And you lied to me. I just wanted to help.”
Daniel growled, but Jeremiah heard no words of admonishment from Daniel. “Well,” Daniel replied. “You’re going to sit in the back and keep an eye on him then.” Daniel nodded toward Hosea who had flopped across the back seat. “We’ll get him out of here. Make sure he doesn’t die.” Daniel sighed again. He looked up at the decaying houses. He glanced up at the sky, and he wiped the falling rain from his face. “We’ll clean the vomit off him as soon as we can, and we’ll clean the blood off you as well.”
Jeremiah nodded.
“It looks like you have a broken nose,” Daniel continued. His voice was full of accusation as if Jeremiah had gotten into something forbidden. “What happened?”
Jeremiah reached up to wipe his nose. He pulled his hand away and watched as the fat rain droplets washed the blood from his hand. “I slipped in the grass,” he answered.
“How bad does it hurt?” Daniel asked.
“My whole face hurts,” Jeremiah answered, but he did not care about his nose. He knew the blood would coagulate eventually. His body would regenerate. Perhaps he would have a slight bend in his nose that had not been there before, but it would have little effect on his life. Jeremiah was more concerned with the open door, and he was more concerned with getting out of the neighborhood before the angry man appeared in that doorway. Daniel continued with something about how his nose was broken. He said something about how Jeremiah might have trouble breathing in the future, but Jeremiah’s eyes were already past his nose. He was already trying to find something that would move Daniel from being concerned about him and toward the driver’s seat of the car.
“Do you think he is going to die?” Jeremiah asked when he saw Hosea.
Daniel turned his attention from Jeremiah to Hosea and shook his head. Jeremiah saw no worry on his face. “I wouldn’t worry,” Daniel answered. “Do you remember when he first got home a few years ago?” Daniel asked.
“I don’t,” Jeremiah answered. He had hoped when Daniel was reminded of Hosea, he would see the urgency and rush to the car door, but his older brother had not.
Daniel sighed. A smile lit up on his face as he looked at Jeremiah. “This is . . .” Daniel looked up and over as he thought, “. . .something like the seventh time this has happened.”
Jeremiah’s eyebrows rose. “Seventh?” The first lightness of surprise filled his chest.
“Ezekiel and I took care of it. Mostly me though. Don’t worry, Jeremiah, you get used to it pretty quickly. This will not be the last time. I would be surprised if this was the last time.”
Jeremiah nodded back. He did not know what to say. “Get used to it?” Jeremiah thought to himself. He thought of the man in the room who said he wanted to kill him. He thought of the circle of actors puffing on a marijuana cigarette. He wondered what kind of drug user Hosea was. Was he angry? Was he violent? Sleepy? Did he laugh a lot? He was not sure. He did not know, but he hoped it was the latter.
As if in answer to his thoughts, Jeremiah heard a roar from the gaping door. He saw a figure out of the corner of his eye, and when Jeremiah looked over at the man, his heart thumped in his chest.
“Mick shit,” the man yelled from the doorway.
“Mick shit?” Daniel muttered. Jeremiah and Daniel looked at each other. Daniel’s face was full of inquiry.
“I went into the wrong house,” Jeremiah answered slowly.
Daniel nodded slowly. He smiled, and the light of understanding crossed his face. “Well, are you going to let him call you that?” he asked.
“Um,” Jeremiah pursed his lips. “Could we just go?” he asked.
Daniel chuckled. He clicked open the other backseat door and gestured for Jeremiah to get in. “I need you to take care of him while I drive.”
Jeremiah nodded back and moved toward the door.
“And Jeremiah?” Daniel continued.
Jeremiah stopped and looked at his brother.
“Next time, I’m not letting you get out of the fight,” Daniel said.
Jeremiah nodded again.