It wasn’t his fault that he hadn’t quite been there yet, a shame that hadn’t been true three years ago when our neighbor came knocking at our door. I yanked harder at Nik’s braid, glad he seemed to genuinely not remember. It was better for him. He was too good a brother to relive that; amnesia—his best friend.
“Second,” he was saying, “if your friend Marcus is that worried, although I am positive ghosts don’t exist, tell him to throw salt at it. There’s an extremely long history about salt representing purity, protection, and a talisman against the wicked. If you thought the devil was behind you, you’d throw salt over your left shoulder to drive him away. Naturally, like all mythology, you can’t know what’s true or not.” His lips quirked. “So Marcus should take the information with a grain of salt.”
That was Niko humor. I wondered if throwing a condiment like pepper or Tabasco sauce at him would cure that. Having neither one, I tried the wadded-up wrapper of my candy bar.
It didn’t work.
That night I lay in bed with a butcher knife from the kitchen stuffed under the mattress as always, and I thought about it. I had no problems with what I’d done to the invisible man and how much more I’d do. After all, I had those bases covered now. I knew the possible consequences and the cures for them. I turned over, tangled in my blanket. The blinds were down, but they were old and there were gaps.
Usually it was Grendels peering through those gaps in between the slats of the blinds. Tonight, it was Mr. Invisible, back lurking in the window, trying for a look. I didn’t know how he’d known Nik was already asleep and it was safe to show up, but he had. I met the hateful glisten of his eyes and yawned, bored. Let him go scare little girls. He didn’t scare me. I’d stood up to him once. I would again. Yawning again, I pulled the covers over my head while Niko shifted, breathing deeply on the mattress that rested on the floor beside mine. I dropped off in less than three minutes and slept like the dead.
That was as funny as me naming him the invisible man.
Recognize
I didn’t work at it. I let him come to me. To balls up, quit following me like a sheep after the shepherd I’d never be. He’d want me alone, of course. Had to be. He knew my schedule by now as well as I did, especially when I was home alone before Nik’s shift at the dojo ended. And it wasn’t long. He’d been getting closer all the time since my Chester the Molester insult, until several days later when there was his John Doe face staring at me through the glass inset in the front door; no window today. I waited for a knock, but there wasn’t one. I gave him a grin, showing my teeth as lions do, and opened the door for him anyway. “Want in? I’d ask if you want a Coke, but three more days until payday. No luxuries.”
He walked past me to stand by the couch, not far. Ten feet away, I thought. I closed the door and turned back to him. “So, no Coke. No snacks, either. Sorry. What else can I do for you?” I asked, obliging as anyone could hope. “I like to be helpful. Fucking helpful as they come. How can I help you?”
His face darkened and twisted with fury, Foam flecked his lips as his throat convulsed with words he couldn’t seem to push out. No smiles, ponies, or beer this go-round. Rude.
“Whoa.” I shoved my hands in the front pocket of my black hoodie. “I don’t see any pamphlets, but if you’ve come to talk about our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ, I think you need to work on that yourself first. Anger-management shit, maybe?”
He glanced down at his stomach, still supported by his hand after all these days, then back up at me with eyes filled with the blackest of hatred, violence, and rage. He wasn’t so invisible with that rushing out of him. Anyone would see him now…or they wouldn’t. Maybe it was only me that could.
My hand. My knife. My intent.
His hand dropped from his abdomen. I could see through the long slice in his shirt the blood of a gushing artery and the bulge of spilling intestines that I’d last witnessed behind those park bushes. The hand rose to the height of my throat and formed into an accusing hook for choking, strangling, clawing, who knew? Nothing I was interested in, that I did know.
“Yep. I did that.” My grin widened, and if it was pleased, I didn’t mind. I’d done a good job. “Looks nasty, I know. The intestine thing wouldn’t have killed you, but the abdominal artery is a bitch. It gets you every time, or so I’ve heard.” I’d heard right. “You bleed out just like that.” I pulled out a hand to snap my fingers before pushing it back in my pocket. “And you did. I didn’t even have time to open one of your beers.” My grin was Cheshire-quality now, wide, wicked, and taking up most of my face.