I was supposed to kill the man, and here I am worrying about his well-being. I feel guilty about everything I did to him, but on the other hand, I feel guilty about not killing him. After all, that was what I was sent there to do. I think the gun in my letter box made that perfectly clear.
Maybe he made it to the highway and kept walking.
Maybe he threw himself off the cliff.
I stop myself before I think of every possible scenario. Soon I won't have time to worry. A few more days.
I return one night from playing cards, and the house smells different. There's Doorman's smell, but something else as well. It smells like some kind of pastry. It hits me.
Pies.
I move with hesitance toward the kitchen and notice that the light's on. There's someone sitting in my kitchen eating pies, which they've taken out of my freezer and cooked up. I can smell the processed meat and the sauce. You can always smell the sauce.
With pointless optimism, I look for something to pick up to use as a weapon, but there's nothing in my path except the couch.
When I make it to the kitchen, I see a lone figure.
I'm shocked.
There's a man in a balaclava sitting at the table, eating a meat pie with sauce. Many questions rush through my mind, but none of them stick. It's not every day you come home to something like this.
As I contemplate what to do, I realize with considerable panic that there's another one behind me.
No.
A big slurp wakes me up.
The Doorman.
Thank God you're all right, I tell him. I say it by shutting my eyes with relief.
He slurps again, and his tongue is red from the blood that's cracked down my face. He smiles at me.
"I love you, too," I say, and my voice is like a rumor. I'm not quite sure if it came out or not or if it's true. It makes me realize that I hear nothing outside me. It's all inner and like static.
Move, I tell myself, but I can't. I feel cemented to the kitchen floor. I even make the mistake of trying to remember what happened. This only makes a noise blur across me and the Doorman's face disfigure above. It feels like a kind of precursor to death. A prologue, maybe.
My mind folds itself down.
To sleep.
I fall deep inside me and feel trapped. I fall through several layers of darkness, almost reaching the bottom, when a hand seems to pull me up by the throat and into the pain of reality. Someone is literally dragging me through the kitchen. The fluorescent light knifes me in the eyes, and the smell of pies and sauce makes me want to vomit.
I'm propped up to sit there n
ow, on the floor, barely conscious, holding my head in my hands.
Soon the two figures merge with the haziness, and I can see them under the kitchen-light whiteness.
They're smiling.
They're throwing smiles at me from the insides of two very thick balaclavas. They're slightly bigger than average, and both muscular and strong, especially in comparison to me.
They say:
"Hi, Ed."
"How are you feeling, Ed?"