axos-abyss

[axos-abyss]

Perdition 1.4

< >

I hung up. I stared at the phone in my hand, its screen showing an old rotary telephone slamming into its receiver.

Numbly, I watched it repeat several times before it faded away into the black of the dead screen. Why had I done that?

What am I doing?

I broke into a sprint down the road, running as fast as I could to the woods. 

*****

The woods of Old Hill were untouched. Serene, tranquil, and still easing itself awake from the dusty silence of early morning. I tore through the trees at a sprint, thin vines and branches tearing at my coat as I sped over the cold packed dirt and gnarled forest roots. 

I was following a creek, and I was relatively sure it was the same one that Noel meant. I’d seen the maps of the land in the museums, but those had never held much truth when it came to small details like a small creek in the heavy western woods. Noel's parent's mansion had been built only a few decades ago, so I was guessing at a ghost.

I slowed as I approached a large fallen basswood tree, leaning on it as I caught my breath. I really wasn’t made for running, and my lungs screamed with the icy air pulling and pushing out of them. As I sat on the cool bark, I faced the way I’d come, and recognized it.

I’d been here before, with Noel, when she needed a break from her homework, or life in general. This was near the right spot.

“Noel!” I shouted, turning around on the tree to search for her. The quiet, yet alive chatter of the woods slowed as my voice rung out, then returned as it died.

A woodpecker stabbed a rhythm into a far away tree, and the forest all together went on uncaring. I swore under my breath, and moved my legs to straddle the cold dead tree like a horse.

The felled basswood spanned the creek, and I stared down its length as I caught my breath. Moving my gloved hand down the trunk, I found my glove was sticking to something.

It was a carved heart. The injured wood was green and fresh, sap building up and out at the edges of the cut.

The letters in the heart read N + J, then a date. 2-3-23. Very fresh. I stared at the ‘N’, brushing the older sap aside with my thick gloved digits.

Natalie.

The name still burned painfully in my heart, incorrect and shameful in the memories it wrought. One word from a well meaning stranger, one reminder of the date of the accident, that’s all it took. 

February 15th, 2020. The night was alive in my mind again, without my asking. I turned my head up, to face the woods. 

The woods, as many dark and cold nights on the road had taught me, could be very dangerous. Refusing to drive or even be driven after the accident, I had backpacked my way down from New York.

I’d thought the trip would be quick; Google Maps said ten days, and I thought I'd be in Old Hill in nine, maybe eight days, easy.

After the money for inns and motels had run out, I had realized that walking worked on the same kind of time that hospitals and classes right before lunch did: Slow time. 

Time that stretches on until you're sunburnt and dehydrated, until you want to turn back, but that would make things even worse, and everyone back home doesn’t want you there anyway, so just keep on heading down I-81 counting the mile markers. 

Slow time traps you in this until your eyes roll into the back of your skull, and you’re willing to sleep on a pile of rusty nails because at least they don’t fucking honk at you for having the gall to walk on the shoulder instead of in the gluttonous mud trench that sucks your falling-apart-shoes down its shit-coated-throat.

So, after a long day of trudging, the sun would go down, sometimes obligingly slow, sometimes slipping right out of slow time and into blink-and-you’ll-miss-it time, diving below the horizon and leaving you soaking wet, struggling with two damp sticks to make a fire.

This, however, was preferable to the perils of the interstate’s shoulder and its many bored, cloying cops and just-like-me vagrants.

If I had to choose, though, it’d be the vagrants. I’d shared a few kind fires with a number of them, sometimes learning their names and their stories, sometimes sitting in uneasy silence until we wandered off to sleep in private.

As the weeks wore on, I had been moving into a cold front, and not sleeping in front of the fire had become impossible. 

More often than not, I’d made camp in a thin layer of trees that lined a highway-side property. Sometimes you’d need to hop a fence, which started out hard, but by the second week was routine.

This was technically and legally trespassing, but a camo sleeping bag and a good spot usually got you through the night without disturbance. Usually.

More than once, I’d been woken by something rummaging through my belongings, sometimes even the coat I’d been sleeping in. Sometimes it’d be curious and annoyed animals, but most times it had been people. The cops had always been the worst. 

“What you’re doing is illegal,” they’d say, then look at me confused and finish either with “Sir,” or, more often, “Ma’am.” Always with disapproval in their voice and always using more force than needed.

Sometimes they’d let me move on, or I’d get a ride to their office, where they called my father, confirmed he knew where I was, then bewilderedly let me go, usually with a stern warning. 

Most cops, when they understood, had offered food and drink for my trip. Some had even offered rides, which I graciously denied. Some offered neither, and just let me go.

One, the worst, had left me locked up in the little town’s singular cell for three days and three nights. It was just outside of West Virginia, right after I’d crossed the Kentucky border. 

Jessup, as the nothing little two-road town was called, apparently had trouble keeping folk around. Or so I was told by Jessup’s top boozer, who said his name was Jesse. He’d already been in the cell when I was thrown in.

The officer who’d found me on the side of the road, a mean mugging ugly woman, had given Jesse her meanest mug as she walked away with a clipboard securely tucked beneath one arm.

Jesse of Jessup played harmonica, and drank like a fish. In the morning he was always set free, but at night, he was brought to the cell, what he lovingly and drunkenly called ��Jesse’s Little Corner of Jessup’. 

On my last night in his town, he’d snuck in a small bottle of Fireball, a deck of cards, and his dirty harmonica, still wet from its play in the bar. After the mean-mugger had left for the night, Jesse showed me how to play Hearts, Bullshit, Garbage, and the 'ca.

He was good, and I told him as much. In his jovial way, he corrected me: “I’m not good,” I remembered him slurring, “I’m mean. ‘Jesse,’ you should say. ‘You play a meaaaaan har-moan-i-cah,’ you should be saying.”

So I did, and he cheered. We shared no campfire, but did huddle and did dance around the rattling radiator, him blowing sharply into the ‘cah and me stomping my boots and clapping my hands.

He’d thanked me for my company, and kissed me gently on the cheek. He’d reeked of alcohol and worse, but I thanked him for his good humor, and let him sleep. 

After the mean-mugger had exhausted all of her attempts to find me guilty of various crimes, she’d let me go. She had demanded I shower first, staring me down with a disappointed grandmotherly glare. So, thanks to her, I walked out of Jessup and up the highway on-ramp cleaner than I’d been in weeks.

The memory of the mean-faced officer set a worry ablaze in my stomach as I stared down the creek. Again, the stab of the woodpecker cut through the wood’s idle chatter. Why was I out here?

Why in the world had I ignored direct orders from an officer of the law, when they knew my name and phone number? It gnawed at me. I’d never done anything like this.

I finally crossed the log, and stepped off of it onto the other side of the creek. “Noel!” I shouted out again, this time more of a bark. A quick check of the woods revealed nothing but the quiet apathy that suffused the trees. Wasting my time, when she could be in danger. What the fuck am I do-

“Hands up,” a thin, scared voice said from behind me. I recognized the slight southern accent.

“Noel,” I said, half turning my head. “I-”

“I said hands up!” She was shouting now, and I turned to face her with my hands up.

Noel, almost thirteen and dressed in stained Hello Kitty pijamas, held a rifle aimed at my chest. The lever action rifle was almost comically large in her arms, and I laughed nervously, falling, then stepping backwards as she approached me slowly, gun held level against her shoulder. She was trying not to cry.

“Where is my father,” she asked in a broken voice, screwing up her face in a grimace.

“I-I don’t know, Noel, what are you doing? I came here to help you,” I blurted out, still holding my hands in the air carefully. “Please, put the gun down.”

She shook her head. “Answer me,” she said, waving it in the air. She stood on the basswood I had crossed the creek on, and faced me, searching my face for a clue.

“I don’t know,” I repeated, feeling the cold press of a tree against my back. The creek babbled quietly next to us, and I stared at her. We both stood, unmoving.

Carefully, she stared at me, then raised the gun to point at my head. “Stop fucking lying!” she barked at me. I flinched, closing my eyes.

“I’m not! The cops said you were missing, nothing about your dad! I don’t know what the hell is going on, I just want you to stop pointing that thing at me,” I said, breathing heavily. 

“Bullshit,” she spat, the curse sounding foreign in her light voice. “Don’t move,” she said, and braced the rifle against her with one arm as she dug in her pocket for something. Then she threw it at me, and adjusted her grip on the gun. 

Her phone landed next to me in the leaves, the screen lighting up to show a picture of Noel and her mother, smiling happily in a selfie. I looked up at her, facing the glare of the rifle’s blackened metal barrel. She stared at me, raw anger in her eyes.

“You know the passcode,” she growled. “Open it. Watch the video.” I blinked, then nodded, crouching slowly and taking my right hand down to put in the numbers. 9-2-1-2. Her birthday.

The phone opened, showing a paused recording of a computer monitor. The woodpecker stabbed his staccato into a nearby tree. I tapped on the screen, then pressed play.

The video was a recording of the security system in the house I’d lived in until yesterday, portrayed in black and white. It was a view from the top of the grand staircase, watching the front door and most of the upstairs balcony, and the time in the bottom left corner read 2:03 A.M..

Noel, holding the camera in the video, was quietly and carefully breathing, the view slowly moving with her breath. The time in security footage flipped to 2:04 A.M.. The real Noel’s breathing suddenly broke out in a gentle shaking wheeze, I wasn’t sure if she was sobbing, or laughing. “Keep watching,” she choked, seeing I was looking up at her.

Car headlights streamed through the front door’s windows, casting shadows on the wall of the balcony floor. The balustrade’s shadows fled quickly across the wall, then slowly melted away as the headlights died. A moment passed, and then the door opened. Noel’s father walked in. 

Kyle Montgomery was a tall man, ambiguously young but mature and well kept. Grey was seeping in at the top of his scalp, peppering his blond, jaw length hair. Carefully hanging his keys on a hook near the door, he stared at himself in the full length mirror next to the door, straightening out his thin mustache and checking his jawline. 

He mussed up his hair, then turned his head back and forth to check if it was correctly incorrect. Nodding in approval, he shrugged off his heavy business coat, and let it drop to the floor as he walked up the stairs. He shed his suit and loosened his tie, leaving him with just a tailored pinstripe button up tucked into perfect black slacks. 

As he rose to the top of the stairs, he stopped and carefully undid the highest button of his shirt, the tie hanging loosely about his chest like an ascot. 

Then, he paused, staring down at the mess of his coat on the ground, the stairs, then the hall the opposite way, where his wife and child were asleep. He looked small in the video, and suddenly very tired. Still facing his bedroom, he raised his hand gently to his mouth, and bit down softly on it. 

He turned to face my bedroom, biting down on his own flesh hard enough to draw a bead of blood. He walked to my door, then knocked on it, drawing his wounded hand to his side, near his hip. He looked as if he were going to draw a sword, though nothing was there, just his right hand hovering a few inches away from his left hip.

The door opened, and I was standing in the crack. I was dressed in pijamas, and looked at him confused. He said something, the recording silent. In the past, I nodded, widening the door.

My brain felt like it was dropped in a bath of ice water, pure confusion washing over me. “What the fuck?” I said aloud, watching myself open the door further, letting him step in. I walked away, disappearing into the room as he slipped through the doorway, then closed it. 

I stared at my door in the video, nauseated. “Noel,” I said, staring up at her from the floor of the forest. “I don’t remember this.” My voice was cracking, confusion and fear seeping into my words from my core.

“Bullshit,” she croaked. She readjusted the grip on the rifle. “I’ve literally seen you do it. I watched you open that door for him! I don’t know what you’re doing in there, but it’s got to be why he’s gone. Where is he?”

“Noel,” I pleaded, “That’s not me. There’s no way, I’m not lying. I wouldn’t do that to you, or your mom,” I said. “Beli-”

“I don’t believe you,” she shouted, almost sobbing now. “You’re a liar. You stole my dad, or killed him, or something, ‘cause you knew it wasn’t right. Almost every night at two A.M., since you got here. Look!” She gestured towards her phone with the rifle. 

I looked down carefully, cringing away from the gun as it came back up to point at me. Noel in the video was shaking, watching as her father left my room, five minutes after he had entered it.

He looked the same as when he’d entered, save for the blood and bite mark on his hand. They were gone. He walked calmly down the stairs, grabbed his coat, and left the house. The car’s headlights cast the familliar shadows in reverse.

The camera spun, and the mouse on the desktop shakily moved to a new folder, reading 2/13/23. Two days ago. The mouse maneuvered to the video file labeled 200, the second file in the folder, and opened it.

Almost on the dot at 2:03 A.M., Mr. Montgomery stepped into the foyer, shrugged his coat onto the floor, then climbed the stairs.

This time, he didn’t pause on the way to my door to bite his hand, stopping only to knock, clearly hover his hand over his empty hip, then enter my room. 

I hadn’t even looked up at him. I’d just let him in. 

“What the fuck,” I whispered hoarsely. 

The mouse skimmed the video to five minutes later, when Kyle exited punctually, closing the door after him carefully, then taking the stairs two at a time to leave the mansion. 

The video then clicked through random nights at two A.M., watching the same process occur many times over, sped up. 

Sometimes he bit his hand, sometimes he just knocked. Always, his hand reached for the empty space at his left hip. I watched, silently, until the video ended suddenly in the middle of a night.

Noel had been staring at me the entire time, burning with silent rage. “Just tell me.”

I took a deep breath, and sat on the cold, packed dirt. “I don’t know, Noel. That’s not me. There’s no way…” 

I wasn’t one to repress memories. My worst traumatic memories, I could remember in painful detail, burned into the fabric of my being. It could be an actor, but no, I’d been there at two A.M., almost every weeknight for a year. I could very distinctly remember my nights, they were usually taken up with studying and listening to music.

A coldly horrible idea formed in my head. He could have been drugging me to make me forget. Something in a drink, or something in food. He hadn’t been carrying anything in with him… 

But it could’ve been in his pocket. I writhed in disgust, and I drew my knees up to my chest, feeling my breath hitch inside me as I stared emptily at the phone. 

“What the fuck was he doing to me,” I said, hollow, not really there, not really meaning to. What had he done to me? Why couldn’t I remember? If he was drugging me inside of my room, how had I let him in? Would I let that man in my room if he knocked? No. Definitely no. “What the fuck,” I whispered, rocking slightly.

“Parker?” Noel asked softly.

“No,” I stated, almost to myself. “It’s a fake, a fake video or a fake set that he made to set me up. It’s just an actor, just…” Noel was staring at me, shaking her head.

“What do you mean?” She asked, lowering the rifle a little, stepping towards me.

“He was never home, he could’ve been, I don’t know, setting this up? There’s no way I’d let him into my room. I don’t even like your father as a person, let alone,” I stopped, feeling bile rise in my chest. “No. This isn’t real.” I stated firmly, and felt like I was coming back to myself, at least a little.

“No, Parker,” she said, stepping back again and raising the rifle. “I watched you do it. After I recorded this, I stayed up to watch you. He knocked, you let him in.”

“No,” I pleaded.

“Please, don’t lie,” Noel whispered.

“Stop calling me a fucking liar! I don’t remember any of this!” I was shouting now, on my knees in front of her.

"Just tell me the truth!" She cried, matching my intensity.

"I am!" I screamed I picked up the phone, throwing it back to her harder than I needed to. She staggered backward, shocked.

"Liar." Noel almost growled the word, dripping with resentment.

She bent to pick up her phone, momentarily hugging the rifle against her chest, hand still on the trigger guard. It was pointed at me. My eyes darted up to Noel's. She wasn’t looking at me.

< >

What do you do?

[axos-abyss]

Perdition 1.3

<                            >

"I'm a runaway," I said. "Kind of. I ran away from my dad’s home, up in New York." Levi was fussing with a Keurig machine, making me a cup of hot chocolate. He groaned.

“You know you could've just told me you didn't like coffee, right?” Levi said with a smile. He handed me the cup of hot chocolate, relieving me of my half-drunk mug of coffee.

I nodded, grimacing. "I didn't wanna be picky. I wasn't sure if you had some already in a pot." The cup was hot to the touch.

"Dude," he drawled. "It's a k-cup, it's not that deep. Don't sweat it."

"Okay, I guess. I'm just worried your boss will be mad or something." He looked at me confused. "For giving me free stuff," I explained.

"Wasn’t free," he said, pointing at me. "But we discussed that already. You were talking when I interrupted you. You were saying you’re a runaway?"

“Yes, but not exactly,” I said. I gripped my hands tightly, passing thumb over thumbnail in a loop. I stared at my counter top, then at the hot cocoa. “My dad knew some people down here. Old business friends, I guess.”

“Your rich, asshole dad helped you run away?” His eyes narrowed.

“Basically, he said he didn’t want me around anymore. He was willing to help, if I was willing to leave. I was, and he did.” My nails dug sharply into my palm.

“Jesus. Why the hell did he want you gone so bad?” He rubbed at the counter top idly with a dishrag, then suddenly looked at me carefully. “If you don’t mind me asking,” he appended carefully.

“Yeah, it’s no issue.” I took a breath in, forcing myself to loosen my fists. “I’m trans. He had a problem with it.” I looked up at him cautiously.

He was smiling. “Well, aren’t we just two peas in a pod? I swear," he paused to lean in conspiratorially, "Everyone in this town is cis.” He threw the damp dishrag over one shoulder, throwing curls behind his head as he smiled wryly, and leaned back. “Sucks that he kicked you out though. Actually, that's why I had to move out, too.” 

“Really? I’m sorry. I figured,” I paused, realizing. “I don’t know what I figured. For some reason, I thought folks would be a bit more accepting down here. But...”

“Not really how it goes, down here,” Levi finished for me. “My grandma got it, but my parents… Let’s just say they more efficiently colonized. They didn’t even try to understand it. I had to move out to start dressing the way I liked. They burned all my guy clothes when they found out.”

“Shit,” I exclaimed. “I’m sorry, that must have cost you a ton.”

He looked at me oddly, hands laid on the counter. “Thrift store, rich kid. Maybe 50 bucks in all.” He smirked. “Stole most of it anyway.” He leaned towards me with a grin.

“But it still sucked. Had this one denim jacket with a pride flag stitched on the inside, close to the heart. All covert and spy-like." He sighed, smiling upward. "Whoever owned that was a badass.”

I frowned. “Ashes. What a way to go." I sighed. "I’m sorry. Poor coat.”

"Yeah. It's a damn shame," he agreed. "Anyway, it was the same thing. I wasn't told I had to go, but..." He petered out.

"Safer that way," I ventured. "I get it. My dad managed to convince a buddy that I was studying down here, so they let me live in their home if I basically raised his daughter. Both her mom and dad were gone almost all week."

"Rich people are weird. Were they ski lodge rich?” he asked, wringing the dish towel above a sink. "Must have been a nice place, if he was your dad's friend."

"Yeah, it was." I took my first sip of the hot cocoa, whipped cream coating my upper lip. It was still burning hot, but good. I swirled the cocoa, staring down at the cream as it slowly bled the chocolate’s color from rosewood to umber.

"Sore subject?" I looked up, seeing that Levi had leaned back a little, hands in the pocket of his hoodie.

I took a deep breath, and nodded. "Just, doesn't make for much of an interesting story. They kicked me out too, actually." I chuckled, and it sounded forced even to me.

"Jesus, why?" He asked, stepping forward again, empathy clear on his face as he leaned forward towards me on the counter top.

"Bit of a long story," I sighed. "Not the first time I've told it today, either," I added. "They found someone to work for cheaper."

"Shit. Do you have somewhere else to crash?"

I shook my head. "No, not really. I can't exactly afford a hotel room either. Don't know what I'm going to do, but I know I'll figure something out." I looked up at Levi, straightening my back to meet his eye level with a slight, trying smile.

He frowned, looking at me concerned. "That sucks, man. I'm sorry. I really am.” He met my eyes, then looked down the room, and, seeing that the group of business casuals were done and ready to pay, held up a finger towards me, then stepped away.

I sighed, rubbing my eyes. Long day already, and I’ve only been awake for two hours. Idly, I checked my phone, only to be reminded that it was dead.

I unfurled its charger cable from my coat pocket, and bent across the counter to slip it into an unused outlet. The flip phone chirped and vibrated quietly, an animation of a red, empty bar filling to green playing on its front facing screen. It reminded me of long abandoned tamagotchi.

Levi returned, glancing at my phone and charger laying on the counter. "Oh, so now the electricity’s free too?" He scrunched up his face like he was mad, smacking at the cable of my charger as he manually opened the cash register. He slipped in bills, his faux-frown fading as the group of office workers stepped outside, leaving us, the old man, and his lady friend as the only ones in the cafe.

"Is that exact change?" I asked, watching as he slid the ten and two fives under their respective black plastic levers.

"No, dummy," he said, holding the last three singles up with raised eyebrows, still not looking at me. "Tip," he said, tucking it reverently into the otherwise empty glass jar on the cluttered table that held the cash register. "Nobody like that pays with exact change. Anyway!" He turned back to me, pausing as he stared me down.

I raised my eyebrows, spreading my hands in question. "Yeah?"

"I have a proposition." He was silent, holding up a finger to hush me. "I live in a shitty condo. It's a long story, and like yours, I've told it too many goddamn times.” He took a deep breath. “Cliff Notes." 

“My shit eating landlord decides to destroy the house I'm renting to sell it to the condo people. Sucks, but they give me a motel room for free until I find another residence. A few months later, the company buys that piece of shit motel's property, and destroys it."

"Then they build pieces of shit condos that cost twice as much to live in as my old house on both plots of land. Grudgingly, I get another job and move back into where my home used to be."

"Sounds... Shitty," I said.

He half-smiled. "Oorah,” he said, glancing up at the uniforms lining the walls. “Anyway, that was two years ago. They've raised rent twice, and I basically can't afford both that and college, even with one class a semester, plus financial aid." 

He sighed, shaking his head. "Basically, I'm saying that if you need a place to stay, and can contribute in any way to rent..." His eyebrows raised, head cocking to the side with a questioning grin.

"Are you serious?" I asked incredulously.

"Sure," he said, his smile turning sly. It faded, and he added, "You'd have to find a job, though. I really do need the help."

I opened my mouth, then closed it. "Uh, sure, I can definitely do that. Thank you so much," I said, holding my hand out to him.

He stared at it, blinked. I felt a jolt of something pure, sharp, and electric as he wrapped his pinky finger around mine slowly. "Sure, no problem. Got to look out for your siblings, you know?"

I looked down at our hands, and nodded. He tugged on my finger once, and I tugged back, smiling. My phone vibrated noisily on the table, screaming to the world that it had powered on. I broke our touch to muffle the phone, feeling the vibrations pour into my arm as I quieted it. "Seriously, thank you. I was... I had no idea what I was going to do. Thank you, Levi."

He nodded again, smiling a tight grin. "No problem, Parker. I'll be right back." He walked away swiftly, shooting me with a finger gun as he carried away a hot pot of black coffee.

A name for a name. I tasted the names in my mouth. Levi, Lena. Pausing, I sipped on the hot chocolate he'd given me. A story for a story. I was deeply in his favor now, a name and home in his debt. Would he hold that over me?

Would I mind if he did?

There was a subtle churn in my chest as I checked my phone, breathing deeply as I unwound the headphones from their tangle and slipped them into my pocket.

Five missed calls blinked up at me from the home screen, and I blinked back at them in confusion. Three from Noel, my ex-student, and two from unknown numbers. I peered closely at the first three numbers of the unknown callers, and recognized the area code from my home. 

Nine-one-seven. New York City. I groaned in understanding, flipping to the two text notifications. One from Noel, and the other from one of the New York numbers. I didn't open them, glancing up at Levi as he came back from refilling Jones' coffee.

"Howdy roomie, " he grinned.

I smiled up at him from my phone. "Are you totally sure about this?" I asked.

"Totally," he said. "I need the help, you need the place. It works out."

"What if I don't get a job? What if I'm actually a huge asshole?"

He rubbed his chin. "I have a way of knowing people. You’re not an asshole, huge or otherwise. Also, this place is always hiring, so we can make it work. Fair warning, though, I stay up pretty late doing homework and my other job."

"Shouldn't be an issue," I said, nodding. "Thanks again, so much. I really appreciate this."

He smiled, and pulled his phone out of his back pocket. "I'll text you the address, it's like five minutes away from here." He stared at my phone, laughed out loud, then asked, "You sure my number will work on that fossil?"

“Long as it’s charged,” I nodded, smiling softly. We swapped phone numbers, and my phone chirped happily with the new text. "Thank you again," I said as I stood.

"Stop it," he said, smiling. "It's okay. I get home at three-ish, usually. Might stay late. I'll let you in whenever, after that."

"Cool," I said, and nodded. I wanted to thank him again, but I refrained. "I have to take a call, but I'll be right back."

He waved a hand dismissively, and said, "Go. I'll be fine."

I smiled at him, and headed out of the White Picket Trench, holding the door open for a couple as they entered.

Outside, I stared down the still mostly empty street at the mountain in the west. The cafe and Main Street as a whole was on a large foothill, allowing me to look out over the sprawling town. Store fronts slowly became the library, police station and city hall, then petered out into regular suburban sprawl. 

Cars were just beginning to drip into the arteries of the town, and as the tinny overhead speakers spilled out a banjo and fiddle trading bluegrass solos, I watched Old Hill wake up. Early workers and bent backed retiree’s alike walked up the street and into gentrified, faux-rustic cafes and burrito shops, and paid too much for shit on a platter. I turned away, wondering if this was the way Jones always saw the world.

Blotting out big gaps of the westward horizon were the condos and apartment buildings, mostly uniform in their plots and street parking, save for a mom ‘n pop shop here, an old ranch in the middle of a small farm there. Stubborn folk, not willing to take the company’s money. Despite the meager skylines’s best efforts, the mountain loomed over the town, lit by the risen sun. 

The mountain. Most just called it the mountain, but some, more romantic types, called it The Mother. Appalachia. The Spine of the Midwest. Names abounded, but all agreed she had once been the lifeblood of Old Hill.

I turned to face the mountain fully, and the warbling bluegrass band ended a song, leaving me to face its enormity in silence. It was too damn big to take it all in, you had to turn your whole body. 

I’d been here for over a year, and I’d still find it catching me by surprise. A genuine, homemade skyscraper, but so much more. Its enormity was staggering, you weren’t able to take it all in even from this distance. It simply was the western horizon, and on a clear day like this one, you could see it spread on for miles.

Its snowy peaks were clear, speckled and dotted with ski-lifts and lodges, but mostly trees. I could see the distant Cassaway river carving out of the rolling forested foothills clearly, cutting through the center of the miles wide woods, poking out between the smaller firs before snaking south to join some tributary of the Mississippi. 

In any other locale, the town would be named for the river. It provided all the water the town needed, and in the early days of the country had allowed trade to flow through Old Hill. The Cassaway river however was made from the runoff of the mountain’s melted snow. Even the river was given life from the ancient rock.

The most noticeable part was how empty the rest of the town felt compared to the mountain. I had been used to living in the big city, never a minute away from a gigantic skyscraper. So much of Old Hill was farmland, so flat and indistinct, that the mountain really had a way of taking up the empty space, even the empty mental space.

In my search for the records for my essay, I’d been to all of the few museums Old Hill kept. They were filled with dusty spreadsheets, but dusty art as well. Almost all of the paintings and sketches the museums had were of the mountain. 

Sure, a farm, horse, or wagon in the foreground, but beyond that, devouring the background and landscape, was The Mother. The residents of Old Hill had been seeing, pondering, and recreating this same mountain for over a hundred years now. 

I tore my eyes away from Old Hill’s sprawl and her gargantuan namesake, and went to read the text messages on my phone. I checked the unknown person from New York first.

From: Unknown 1/2

Hey Natalie! Hope you’re doing okay. I know today’s a rough day for you guys. Hope college is 

Mon, Feb 15, 7:00

I felt a stab of panic, staring at the name. It nearly made my skin crawl. That was not me. I deleted the messages quickly, relieved to see the gray trash icon replace the old, stained name. Whoever it was, however they’d gotten my number, they obviously didn’t know me well enough. And I really didn’t need a reminder of the date.

February 15, 2020. Three years ago, to this day. I could still remember it, perfectly, flipping through it frame by frame. The smell of burnt rubber and the scrape of asphalt grating my face. The cool, comparative calm of a morgue, hours after. I could fucking smell it. I touched my forehead softly, shivering in the weak daylight.

I navigated to the next text message.

From: noel

Please call me back

Mon, Feb 15, 6:34 am

I checked the time. It was 7:08. I flipped to the next message.

From: noel

Pick up. Please pick up. 

Mon, Feb 15, 6:39 am

From: noel 1/2

It’s going straight to voicemail. Are you dropping my calls on purpose or did my d

Mon, Feb 15, 6:40 am

From: noel 2/2

ad block your number somehow??? I need you to pick up asap please Parker

Mon, Feb 15, 6:40 am

I had three missed calls from Noel. Shit. I started to call her back when the screen was replaced with an incoming call notification. It was her. I answered.

“Noel, what’s--”

“Parker,” she cut me off, “I need you to come here right now, but don’t tell anyone where I am! I repeat, you cannot not tell anyone where I am. Okay?” I could hear her breathing heavily while she waited for me to respond.

“O-okay,” I said shakily. “Where are you? Are you okay?”

“I’m in the woods, 10 minute walk west of my back yard, just follow the creek. Come here now!” 

“Noel!” She hung up. Her voice had been harsh, a rushed whisper. Without a moment to even process what she’d said, my phone was ringing again. Through the vibration and the gentle ringtone, I could read the Old Hill area code. Worried, I accepted the call.

“Hello?” I asked into the silence. I stared out over the town, watching as people stepped in and out of shops, biked down sidewalks and drove down roads. “Uh… Hello?” I repeated.

“Yes, hello,” came the crackly voice of a mature woman. “Are you Parker Dempsey?”

“Who is this?” I asked. I turned to face the White Picket Trench’s fogged windows, watching as Levi served the newcomers.

“This is the police, my name is Investigator Horne.” Her voice was curt, final.

“Uh, yes. That’s me,” I stammered. “What’s happening?”

“Where are you, Mr. Dempsey?” 

“A cafe,” I supplied. “What’s wrong?”

“On main street? Stay there for me, okay?”

“Sure, okay. Am I in trouble?” I asked, pacing between the window and the metal patio furniture.

“No sonny,” she said, pausing. “Don’t worry. We need your help. Just stay there. We’re going to give you a ride, ask you some questions. What cafe are you at?”

“White Picket,” I said. “Is Noel okay? What happened?”

The line went silent save for the crackle of the phone receiver being muffled, and far away talking.

“She’s missing,” the woman, Horne said. “Do you know where she is, Mr. Dempsey?” I felt a sharp lattice of steel freeze in my lungs.

Shit. Shit!

“She texted me, but, uh…” I held my breath, hand on my forehead.

Another muffled pause. Then, “She texted you? What did she say?” Her voice was measured, unemotional.

“Uh,” I ran a hand through my hair. “Something about me needing to pick up asap. She tried to call me, but my phone was dead.”

“When did she call you, Mr. Dempsey?” 

“Ah, like, six forty? A. M.,” I half-lied. “She seemed worried, should I call her?”

“No, no sir.” A twinge of haste, the first emotion I’d heard bleed into her voice. “Wait for us to pick you up. Officer Odom will be pulling up shortly. Stay on the line with me, Parker.”

“Sure,” I said. I pulled my phone away from my ear, the woman’s voice still pouring out of the speaker at a measured, efficient pace. I looked again through the glass at Levi, where he was silently discussing with the customers, smiling calmly. No point in bothering him with this.

I put the phone back to my ear. “Parker?” The woman was asking. 

I closed my eyes, and took a deep breath.

What do you do?

<                            >

[axos-abyss]

Chapter 2 of Perdition comes out on Wednesday, the 22nd at 6:00 PM EST. Get ready to make your next choice... Old Hill awaits.

[axos-abyss]

Hang Out (700ish words)

It’s been five minutes since I knocked to get my friends to let me in. I arrived ten minutes late, which was around fifteen minutes early with these guys. I considered opening a can of soda to pass the time. Right before I opened the container to dig out a can, I heard the door creek open.

With his usual smile, Roy opened the door and let me in. I pushed past him before he got to greet me because I never put down the sodas. I rushed to the kitchen and slammed them on the nearest counter. I heard a quick chuckle behind me as he said “Seems like somebody is in a hurry to watch their fantasy team score no points.”

I really did not give a rats' ass about the fantasy league they ran. It was only in our friend group, no money was wagered, and the scoring was a bastardized version of official scoring systems. Plus, I was more of a soccer guy myself anyway. Whenever it came around to drafting up a team, I just picked what I had to and kept moving on. The league didn’t matter to anyone really, it was just an excuse to hang out whenever we could.

Looking out from the kitchen, I saw that Shawn and Clint had already made themselves comfortable on the couch. They made sure to sit as far away from each other as possible, to minimize awkward contact, and to maximize the amount of time each of them had if the other decided they deserved to be hit. I decided to grab myself a bowl of assorted Chinese food and join them in my usual spot in the corner of the couch.

“Dude, Alex, what the fuck? Not even a hey or a howdy doo?” Roy jested as he walked over to the whiteboard we had set up, trying to be sneaky as he removed a couple of points from Shawn’s team. 

The other two were occupied with the touchdown that just happened, so I had a few seconds to think of a response. Instead of anything witty, I simply admitted, “I was never told to, and when did you ever care about a proper greeting?” 

“Alex, saying hi is not a proper greeting, it’s basic human procedure you machine.” Shawn said, butting in. He had the usual straight face to try and fool me that he was being serious, forgetting to watch his tone. It only lasted a few seconds, because Shawn could not hold that face for more than a few seconds before bursting out laughing.

Right then, everything felt more real than it usually does. The plunge into self awareness always left me a little shocked, but I have gotten used to it over time. I quickly look to my right, and follow the strings that are attached to me. My head always follows them from where they end in my neck, to the hands they come from. I move my head slightly up, and stare myself in the face. 

He is sitting over by the table we usually have our post-game chats at, slightly hunched over. I can see the whiteboard that is supposed to be next to Roy hung up on the wall, with a season's worth of information written on it. I stare at him for a few seconds, waiting for him to check over his shoulders, to notice his strings that led to the doorway. My greatest fears come true, as he never does. My eyes tear up a little bit. 

“Alex buddy, you get burned so bad you lose all your brain cells or something?” asks Clint, as I am snapped back to reality. The exit of those moments is always physically easier, but never mentally.

I simply turn to him and my mouth apologizes, saying that I thought I spotted a fly. I crack a quick joke and say to get back to the game, because I just want to move on and not stay on the subject. I notice out loud that my quarterback, whatever his name is, just made an amazing play. Everyone else nods and makes a couple more remarks as they turn their heads to enjoy the game.

[axos-abyss]

Perdition 1.1

Someone was gently shaking me awake. The room was lit with a soft, early morning sunlight, colored blue by the glass bead curtain that covered the open window.

My eyes fluttered open and closed. The plastered white ceiling of the apartment was unfamiliar. I wasn't in my bed. 

Of course not.

"Hey, Parker. Wake up." A woman's whisper.

"What?" I asked stupidly, smacking my mouth open and closed. God, my tongue was dry.

"It's time to wake up, buddy." A soft breeze drifted past me, bringing the smell of cold morning mist and spent gasoline into the small apartment. The glass beads of the curtain clacked gently.

"Mmph,” I groaned. My breath was horrible, and my ribs ached. I sat up on the couch, moving the scratchy wool blanket off of me. “What time is it?" Sam was crouched in front of me, looking out of the window politely. I replaced the blanket over my chest, shifting to sit up on the couch. 

"Five A.M.," she said, standing and turning to stare out of the window and into the street. A train passed above the road, and with the window open, its horn was near deafening. Sam walked to the window, closing it swiftly.

"Five? Jesus, why?" I exhaled slowly, hooking my binder back in place while she had her back turned to me. My ears rang in the comparative quiet.

A groggy, masculine voice spoke from behind me. "Because we both have work, and you can't just be in our apartment all day." Jack walked past the couch to the dining room table and placed two cups down. “Although, I wish you could.”

Sam turned around to face me, smiling tiredly. "So, sleepyhead. What's the plan?"

"Well, first, I'd like to freshen up,” I said. “Then, I guess, we can talk about a plan." 

"Sounds good," Jack said. Sam nodded, then sat down at the table with Jack.

I stood, half dressed in yesterday's wrinkled clothes. I folded and threw the blanket onto the back of the couch, then stretched, groaning. Walking to the bathroom, I could hear Sam and Jack start talking. When I closed the door, their voices became inaudible. 

The mirror greeted me. I looked like a mess, and felt like one too. I cleaned up quickly, splashing my face with cold water, the hand soap stinging at my eyes. I tamed my hair with a quick rinse of tap water, and washed my mouth out, which helped it taste a little less like the pits of hell. I left the bathroom feeling considerably more awake. Sam and Jack quieted, then turned to face me.

Jack was drinking a brown-green sludge from a glass, while Sam was sipping coffee while gripping Jack's hand on the wooden tabletop. The dice and character sheets of last night's D&D session had been messily cleared to one side while I was cleaning up, leaving a clear space for the three of us to discuss. One chair opposite the two was pulled out from the table, a clear invitation.

I held back, standing behind the couch, closer to the front door than to them. The blue sunlight flitted across the couch and the empty bottles on the coffee table just past it, illuminating particles of dust floating in the air. The silence hung heavy in the air. I took a breath in, and slowly blew it out, watching the dust fly in and out of the sun rays. 

"So," Sam said.

"Yeah," I said. "Sorry about last night."

"No!" Jack and Sam said at the same time. They looked at each other sheepishly, and Sam finished the thought. "It's okay. We've all been there. We were glad to help." Jack nodded.

"I really do appreciate it. I'll head out now, if that's okay."

Sam shook her head, standing and finishing her mug, which she held out to Jack. "No. How much do you remember from last night?"

I thought back. "Uh... We finished the session, did our shot... Danny went home, and then... Oh. I talked about my situation." I crossed my arms.

"That's putting it lightly. You were pretty much screaming, honey." She smiled ruefully.

Jack chimed in, taking Sam's mug. "What happened? If you don't mind me asking. I was asleep by then.” 

Sam looked towards me, questioningly. I nodded, still holding my arms to my stomach. "He lost his job and his home in the same day," she said.

"God," I moaned, bending over and into the back of the soft couch, face against the rough wool of the blanket. "It sounds so much worse when you say it like that." The couch muffled my words. I slumped down, knees on the ground with my arms over the back of the couch, chin up, so I could see Jack and Sam.

"That bites," Jack hissed. 

"More than bites,” Sam said. “Absolutely sucks. Did he even say why?" she asked, pushing her chair in.

"He who?" Jack asked, finishing his protein shake and heading to the kitchen to wash the cups. He put his hair into a quick ponytail. 

"My employer," I said, following him with my head and raising my voice, so he could hear over the running water of the sink. "I was a nanny slash tutor to a rich kid going to Somerset." 

His hair bobbed as he turned his head to the side, still focusing on the cups. "Sounds like good money then." He turned back to the sink, sighing. "Fucking Somerset kids. You know we beat them at every-"

"At every sport, yes dear. I'm sure Parker knows about your Ferret pride by now." Sam rolled her eyes, turning to me and sticking out her tongue in a 'isn't-this-guy-crazy' face. "Seriously though, they let you live in the house?" she asked. 

"Yeah," I nodded. "Emphasis on let. Apparently they found a better tutor. All my shit was on the front lawn when I came back from class."

“I bet they just got one of those new condo kids for a cheaper price,” Jack said. “Worst things that we’ve ever built, in terms of effect on the city. I’d rather work on another fucking ski lodge.”

“Probably. It’s all your fault, then,” I said, smiling slightly.

"They didn't even talk to you? No goodbye?" Sam asked.

"No, just a note. The girl I taught, Noel, was there though. She said I wasn't to blame, her parents were more mad at her than me.”

"What for?" Jack shouted.

"The usual reasons. I guess they thought I taught her more than just good ‘school knowledge’."

"Bullshit," Sam said. 

"Fuck that," Jack agreed.

"Yeah," I nodded, standing from the back of the couch, my back quietly cracking. "I just hope her parents come around to respect her as she is." 

Nobody spoke, the small cacophony of rushing water filling the room. Sam looked down, away from me.

"Well," I said awkwardly. "It's not like I get unemployment. All that work was under the table, and now I'm fucked, basically. Nowhere to go."

Jack turned off the water faucet, and disappeared into the kitchen, rooting around in a cupboard. Sam looked at me sheepishly.

"What?" I asked.

"Uh... That's not what you said last night," she said.

"Shit. How much did we drink?"

"A lot. You said that the liquids were the heaviest thing to carry, so you wanted to get rid of as much of it as you could before you left. I obliged." Her eyes flicked across the empty beer and wine bottles strewn across the love seat and coffee table. “Good stuff, too.”

"Sounds like me," I sighed. "Did I... What did I tell you?" 

Her lips made a line, and she blinked, then looked me in the eyes. "About your Dad."

Fuck. 

I crossed my arms again, gripping my elbows firmly. In the kitchen, Jack cracked ice cubes out of an ice tray and placed them in a cup, the clatter filling the silence.

"Ah. Sorry you had to hear all that," I managed.

“Nah,” she said, waving her hand dismissively. "It wasn't all that bad. I get it. You said he might be able to help, but that you'd rather-"

"Shove your hand in a box full of used syringes," Jack finished. "The imagery kinda stuck with us."

"Yeah, well..." I started, then faltered. I took a shuddering breath, looking out the window as I finally spoke. "He's an option. Not one I want to choose." 

"Okay, that’s our backup then," Jack said, quick on the rebound. He walked back into the living room, holding a glass of dark juice with ice in it. He held it out to me, and I took it, sipping it lightly. 

Cranberry juice. "Thank you," I said, grimacing slightly at the sour acidity. It was good. 

He nodded, returning to Sam's side. She sat as he approached, and he began to idly massage her back with his knuckles. "So, alternatives then. No vacancies in this building, sadly, but there's always a few on Main."

“Yeah, condos, condos, and more condos,” Sam said. “Pardon me saying so, but I don’t think our friend here has blue blood.”

I drank the juice carefully as they looked at me, then wiped my lips. "Actually, I have, uh... I don't have any money. No cash. Nothing in my bank account."

"Shit," Sam said. "Neither of our jobs are hiring, right hun?" She looked up and behind her at Jack, who shook his head solemnly.

"I used to work at the Trench. I think it’s hiring. A cafe down on Main Street," he explained, turning to me. 

"Oh, the one Lev works at? Shit, is it Lev?” Sam asked.

"Lena, last I heard," Jack said.

"It's a possibility," I said. "I have something lined up with one of my professors. Supposed to be really good pay, but I'm not sure I'll get it." 

"Wait," said Sam, cautiously holding out a finger. "Is this the same professor who's a vampire in disguise?"

"Huh? Wait, what?”

"That guy," Jack said, "You were saying he only holds office hours at night, classes only after the sun goes down. You've never got a good look at his face,” he said, moving his hands from Sam's back to make fangs with his fingers. “You know-"

"Vampire shit," Sam finished. She raised her arms, quickly replacing Jack's hands on her back without looking away from me.

"I... I guess that constitutes vampire shit," I said, taking another sip of juice and resting my other hand on the back of the couch. "Anyway, yes, that one. He's offering a job as a research assistant, and whoever writes the best historical essay of Old Hill gets the position."

Jack smiled. "I'm sure you'll get it, you big nerd. But if you need a back up, the Trench is always there for you. Not great pay, but Lena's good people."

"She used to be our roommate," Sam explained. "Jack met her working at the Trench." She was smiling too.

Jack's smile faded quickly. "There's a reason she's an ex-roommate, though."

Sam nodded. "She can be very quick to help, to make friends. Definitely a helper."

"Yes," Jack agreed, nodding morosely.

I finished the juice, then nodded once. "Noted. Well, sounds like a plan. Thank you guys, for everything." I stepped past the couch and placed the cup of lightly melted ice cubes down on a coaster, then went about cleaning off the coffee table. Sam stood, Jack and her both helping me collect the myriad bottles into a trash bag. A few moments later, we stood in a somewhat cleaner apartment.

"Okay," Sam said, moving past me to grab her coat and purse. "Let's hear the official game plan then. 'Cause you can't crash here again tonight." 

"Sorry," Jack said, smiling as he slid a heavy wool sweater over his head. 

I shook my head. "It's cool. I appreciate that you let me stay here at all. I know we've only known each other for a little bit, so-"

"Oh, hush," Sam said, shrugging into her pink down jacket. "It's been almost every week for over a year. You're our friend. Don't think we wouldn't let you stay if we could." Jack nodded, head popping out of his sweater.

"Thanks." I smiled. "Okay, plan. If I call my Father, I need quarters for the pay phone."

"Can't use your phone?" Jack asked.

"They've banned my number."

"Wow," Sam sighed.

"Yeah. So, I'd need a few quarters. Sorry," I said sheepishly.

They checked their pockets, jingling loose change. Both of their gloved hands deposited three quarters into mine. A dollar fifty. "Thanks again,” I smiled. “I'll pay you back."

Sam looked at me as if I were crazy. "And with interest," she mused. "I'll expect a whole dime extra!" Jack chuckled as he put earmuffs on, handing Sam her pair.

"Then, I'll talk to Lena. We'll see how it goes. Then later today... Maybe I get the assistant position, maybe I don't. I'll always have the cafe to fall back on."

"That's the attitude," Sam nodded, smiling, and wrapping me in a hug. "You've got this, Park. Just call if you need anything."

"Seriously, do call," Jack said with a smile and a wink. He patted my arm, his heavy glove on my coat sleeve, and stepped out into the hallway as Sam opened the door. 

I nodded, stepping out with them. Jack locked the door, and the two walked down to the nearest staircase entrance. 

“Same time next week?” I asked, still standing awkwardly in front of their door. 

“Always,” Sam said, smiling warmly with a wave. "Good luck!" she yelled, then disappeared behind the door into the staircase, leaving the hallway empty. 

I smiled, a soft warmth in my core as I headed for the elevators. I took a deep breath as I pressed the button for down. 

*****

The sun still hadn’t risen by the time I made it outside, and I was well on my way to Main Street downtown before it decided to peek above the horizon. The sky was fading from the light blue-black of a sunless morning to a bright pink of a full sunrise. It was beautiful, which helped me ignore the sharp wind slicing right through my too-thin parka.

The winter months had been kind to Old Hill so far, only blowing out three truly horrible snowstorms in December and January. Apparently, Father Frost felt it appropriate to fill the void with wind chills just above or just below zero degrees. I breathed deep, lungs swelling as I took in the beauty of the street, and the woods beyond it. Birds twittered on the electrical poles, and every minute or so, a car whizzed by.

Some folks, mostly commuters, felt the wind as a blessing. Others, like Noel, bemoaned the lack of snow days. I didn’t blame her, really. Who wanted to go to school when it was like this outside? It was much preferable to stay warm inside. I had to admit, though, there was a charm to the chill February wind, just as long as you have somewhere to go to leave it behind. 

After about fifteen minutes of walking, I could tell I’d made my way to downtown proper. The grain silos, woods, and strip malls of the cracked suburban roads had slowly been replaced by restaurants, condos, and coffee shops on the freshly paved Main Street of Old Hill. 

The light traffic rolled complacently through the two lane street, a wheel-on-cement hum accompanying the croon of an old man strumming a guitar just outside the White Picket Trench. He was right next to the pay phone I intended to use. A fresh coat of black paint adorned the payphone's metal shell, forgotten and painted over stickers adding a dappled texture to the metal.

Walking closer, I strained to listen to the old man’s song. I couldn’t make out the words he sang, but the harmony with the chords he strummed bled pleasantly into the air. He sat in a flaking white metal patio chair, his guitar case laying open in front of him.

Wrapped in a blanket with a coat and snow pants underneath, his eyes were closed as he leaned back, almost unknowing of the world around him. A slightly damaged cardboard sign was taped to the inside of the case, reading, ‘Homeless and Hungry. Every LITTLE Bit Helps, or Just Listen A LITTLE While.’ The case was empty. 

I stepped up to the payphone, and his eyes opened as I took the receiver off the hook with a metal clatter, the dial tone buzzing in a discordantly. He nodded to me, then closed his eyes again.

His muttering song turned into a hum, strong and throaty, carrying farther. He adjusted the guitar in his lap, playing just a little louder. I looked from the pay phone to the man, squeezing the six cold quarters in my gloved left hand.