by Bob'n Around
Invisible matters of the mind turned real into the written word.
|In the space of one year, from one Christmas to another, Jimmy Thorne had lost everything. His job, family and ultimately his sanity. He wandered aimlessly in his thoughts and steps, lost and alone in the oblivion of nothingness he had become with empty soup tin can rattling a single coin in the bottom.
“Homeless,” was his mantra. That was the least of his worries. A strange malady, slowly taking his health away was now his cruel companion. Those others shunned by humanity refused to call him one of their own, offer him their meager share of food or shelter.
Jimmy Thorne managed to prick no conscience. All were strangers at best. His continued existence threatened the worst nightmare envisaged in their eyes. It triggered many an insult, curse, physical violence if what had once been a man did not scurry away fast enough like a diseased rat or mouse.
The one comfort in this worthless life was an endless search for drugs. Uppers which used to carry him into surreal heights of bliss no longer worked. A flat gray numb cloud buried him in it at best.
“Fine the juice,” Jimmy Thorne mumbled while nibbling on his scabbed lips. The sound of crunching glass under his feet in the alley drove him on. The smell of spilled hundred proof alcohol disturbed what otherwise might be called air. For Jimmy, breakfast might be close.
The dark shadow huddled against the back brick wall stirred as it was kicked. “Lee me alone,” a frightened whisper said. It was a drunk woman’s voice.
The bottle thrown at him splashed the rich taste of his own blood on his mouth, mixed with its brew. It was the key unlocking the door. Jimmy Thorne, prey, became a maniac hunter. “MIne.”
His claw of a hand found the spinning bottle at his feet, pointing the way. Jimmy Thorne snatched the neck up, strangling it, in search of the blessed relief it contained. He swallowed, gagging, forcing fire down his throat.
“I’ll kill ya,” the high pitched screech vibrated in Jimmy’s ears. The neck of the bottle made a good handle. More blood spattered him. This time not his own. He hammered sickening thuds into the moving darkness.
A slash of broken glass knifed into his thigh from below. He stomped the hand that held it. A tendon gave and he fell. The bitch clung, biting and clawing, issuing a fake lover’s moan hissing a snake like, “Yess,” asking for more, wanting all of him.
The glass hammer shattered against her skull. Still the bitch refused to let him go. “Mine. You are mine, now.”
Fingers like talons dug at his useless eyes. It was too dark to see. An inner flash exploded into harsh fireworks then, that vision, too, was gone, leaving only pulsating, raging, pain. “Stop it.”
She swallowed Jimmy Thorne’s fist, chewing on it. Jimmy offered another, feeling a cheekbone give. The fight became a mindless thing, a rapture of total feeling hunting release. “Got you,” Jimmy said, His slippery hands found her jugular vein, clamped on it and pressed. Blood flowed no longer into the bitch’s mindless brain.
A silent arm raised behind him still very much alive. The naked long silver of glass it held became a carving knife. Over and over again it dove into Jimmy’s back, searching him to his core. Jimmy’s lover’s sigh of release met the escaping gargle of the bitch’s own.
The two lay as silent as the night this Christmas eve became. Rats, with due caution, eased into the scent of death and the holiday feast that awaited. From the entrance of the alley a Salvation Army bell rang. The sound of a coin rattled into the waiting donation pot.
Deep within the alley, the madness that had been Jimmy Thorne and his bitch became the season’s final begrudged meal, an unwilling holiday gift.