Dying Light

Chapter 2

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Photo by Bhushan Sadani on Unsplash

1

What breaks into your sleep? What images turn your dreams? Wake you before you’re ready. Wake you.

It was buzzing again. He had set it down at an angle on the last snooze and now the phone was dancing across the dark wood of the tabletop, vibrating the headboard, the floor. The whole damn apartment was shaking. His hand flew out, hitting around on the tiny square of the wooden makeshift nightstand, searching for the off button. 

He was too late. The phone crashed onto the ground and continued buzzing. In the pauses he could feel himself start to drift back into his dream. Just as his heart slowed, the thing would be going again. Raging.

He groaned, finally turning his head towards the sound. His arm dropped off the side, but the phone was just out of reach. He stretched his index and middle finger, toggled them back and forth like tiny legs running in mid-air, but they hovered just above the vibrating black case. He was laying on his stomach, his chest slicked in sweat. Drops were gathering at his temples. It was a side effect. One of many listed on the label of his new sleep medication.

It buzzed again, and he sat up. He leaned over the bed, his belly folding four or five times over, and grabbed it, pressing the volume button, turning the alarm off. The phone rested, dead in his hand. He laid back against the pillow, examining the spiderweb across the screen. It was isolated, contained to the top corner. He rubbed his finger against it, felt the edge of glass there. 

“Shit,” he said, sitting up with effort. 

A line cut across the pad of his finger. He watched as the white edge of it filled with gathering blood. It thickened slowly, the almost invisible line now a deep red in the yellow morning light. A droplet formed in the corner, gathering round and heavy. When it was just about to drop, he shoved his finger into his mouth and held it there. 

It didn’t hurt any worse than a paper cut. But he kept it on his tongue to avoid the inevitable sting of air when he took it out. Waking up was the worst part of his medicine. That and the night sweats. His sheets were damp, a near perfect circle around the perimeter of his body, and that in spite of the cold.

The apartment was a small corner unit. Which meant windows on two walls. The light was good. But when it got hot or cold, the utilities couldn’t keep up. He had run caulk around the seals, bought curtains to block light. It didn’t matter. 

His head felt too heavy to get up, but a weak pinpoint ache was growing in his temples. If he didn’t get some coffee it would be a migraine within the hour. He shifted, hung his legs over the bed, and leaned his head into his hands. They were large, his fingers round and full, warm against his face. 

The skin was shiny underneath, the folds around his neck pocked in what could be mistaken for acne scars. They had faded, grown silver in the years since Bill’s bath. 

“Can’t even see ‘em,” Bill had said two Christmases before, one of the last times he saw him alive. 

Mama had nodded. Daddy hadn’t looked up, his nose invisible behind the hard cover of a book. He had to lean in close to see the words on the page. Blood had rushed into his face, stained it pink and hot when Bill mentioned the scars there. So light, like he was talking about a high school game or a girl they went to school with. Nothing more than a memory. Which it was. For him.

No one noticed his red face, the sweat around his hairline, and he was glad for that. For the invisibility cloak that had shrouded him from childhood on. It had taken time for him to accept, as it does any youngest child who is never really seen. Only tolerated. But that had all worked out to his advantage, hadn’t it.

He stood at last, sleep dragging at his limbs, and walked into the kitchenette, fifteen or so feet from the edge of his bed. The place was a studio, the only thing he could afford. His coffee pot sat in the right corner of the countertop, snug against the fridge. 

Around it were dark circles, stains left in the laminate, formed by days and weeks of coffee that had dribbled down the sides of his mugs and collected at the bottom edge of ceramic. Aside from that, his place was clean. 

He didn’t own much. Never had. His life stood in sharp contrast to Bill’s, who had two acres, a five bedroom, a wife and a handful of kids. The garage spilled out onto the driveway when you opened it. Basketballs and old bikes, an ATV and a couple of motorcycles. The walls were shelved, covered in hanging tools and a kayak. Just the thought of it made Skye shiver.

Skye was his legal name now. He had changed it as soon as he’d turned 18. His family were the last to get on board. 

“What the fuck would you wanna be called that for?” Bill had sneered. 

He was already 24 and married, had changed and become respectable in a lot of ways. But not enough to respect James.

“It’s my middle name Bill.”

“Yeah, and a lousy one.”

And he had stuck to calling him James after that. Mama and daddy kept on too. Only Hank called him by his chosen name, but he did so when they were alone. Never on Sundays at family dinner. And never in front of Bill.

The pot beeped, let him know the coffee was ready. He poured a cup and scrolled through Reddit, reading headlines and looking at pictures. Nothing caught his attention enough to read. 

His phone alarm went off again, this time with a different tone. A reminder popped up on his screen, spelling out EAT in big black letters against white background. He swiped it away. He would. After he finished his coffee. 

Breakfast needed to be big. For the last few days, he hadn’t gotten enough. He popped open the fridge and found it bare. There was milk, a half opened Pillsbury croissant tube, dough bursting at the curved seam. The thought of it made him sick.

Doesn’t matter bucko. You haven’t got much time.

He was big, but not big enough. When he walked into that gym, he needed to turn heads. His head. As it stood, he got glances in the grocery store, but they were short. Mostly from children and their mothers, who would whisk the kids away, pushing carts hurriedly down cereal aisles shushing. 

That was fine and good, an indicator that he was on the right track. But those ladies and their little kids were not his target audience. He needed men to start staring. Look him up and down. Maybe whisper a joke to a friend at a restaurant. When he got there, he would know he was ready. 

He opened up an app on his phone. Yesterday had been okay. 5,600 calories, roughly. But the two days before had been woefully under. 2,900. 3,300. Those numbers made him swell with anger. Self hatred. 

If you’re going to do this you piece of shit, you need to do it right. 

He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and shut the fridge. There was a diner down the street. A greasy little place called Mo’s that served up the usual breakfast all day menu. He would start there before heading in to work. After, he might have time to look for a gym. 

2

It was Marty. She always worked the early shift.  He could see her through the windows, bussing tables in a rush as she smiled at a couple of men sitting at a table. Her hair was graying and thin. She poofed it up, tried to add body with her comb, but it didn’t matter. She was losing it, just like her mother had, and her mother before her. 

The old bell shook overhead as he pushed the door open. It was brassy and rusted, had probably been there since the 50’s when this place opened as a soda shop. There was a booth to his left, an empty hostess station directly in front of him. 

“Sit wherever you want Skye. It’s just me today,” she called from behind the counter.

He nodded at her, and made his way carefully, pressing himself against the wooden back of the booth to keep from knocking the faded podium over. When he made it past without making a scene, he grabbed a menu and headed to the last booth by the window.

There weren’t many people in today. A few regulars sat on bar stools, eyes glued to their phones as they sipped coffee and shoved sausages into their mouths. His stomach turned. He looked down at the menu in his hands, eyes glazing over as he read the list. Pancakes. Corned beef hash. Al’s All American Breakfast.

“How are we doing hun?” 

She was pouring coffee into a mug as she said it. She placed the cup down in front of him and reached into her apron for silverware. 

“Doing fine Marty. How about you?”

“Oh you know,” her lips turned up as she said it, but she wasn’t smiling. She looked tired. “What can I get you?”

She readied her pen. 

“I think I’m going to do one of each.”

“Okay then. The All American. What kinda toast?”

“No. I mean one of each item.”

She stopped and looked at him, clearly confused. He said it again, started to spell out each order to her.

“I’ll take one of each breakfast item. One All American, one Uncle Sam’s Pancake Stack,” he stopped and looked at her, seeing if she got it.

Her eyebrows were raised, but just a little more than usual. He looked up at her, and her gaze dropped to her pad of paper. Her hand flew across and scribbled out a single sentence.

Breakfast - everything.

“What kinda bread do you want with, um—those?”

“White’s fine.”

She smiled and took his menu, walking quickly away from the table and behind the bar. She made small talk with the men sitting there, poured black coffee into a few creamy mugs. Before she disappeared behind the back, she glanced at him, her eyes narrowed, thinking. Was it disgust he saw etched there? 

He sat back against the leather booth and the wooden frame groaned. His back ached, and his head hurt despite the caffeine. He hated this part. The constant eating. The ache in his joints. This was the biggest goal he had set for himself. And like anything worth doing, it was hard. 

When Marty emerged twenty minutes later, the cook followed. He was a squat man, tattooed up and down his arms. His gut jutted out under his apron, and when he saw Skye, he locked eyes with him and smirked. It was quick, unintentional. The same look Bill used to give him. 

“Here are your pancakes,” Marty said as she placed the plate in front of him. 

She named off each item, grabbing them from a tray and placing them on the table. The cook had a few plates of his own. He didn’t name them, just set them down in the empty spaces before giving Skye a big thumbs up. His eyes flitted down for a moment to Skye’s neck, the skin there pulled taught and wrinkled, and the smile wavered, just for a second.

“Enjoy brother!”

He turned and walked back towards the kitchen, nodded his head at a few customers. Skye watched him, waited for the moment. And then, there it was, the cook turned and glanced his way again. They looked each other in the eyes for a moment. The cook tried to smile, but only one side of his mouth went up, sick and stroke like. When he turned and walked past the doorway that separated the kitchen from the dining area, his pace was hurried and nervous. 

Skye smiled, had to fight off a laugh. A chuckle really. He looked at the plates in front of him, ten or twelve, some stacked and leaning with food. His stomach growled and hurt, a deep gnawing pain piercing his middle. The nausea from earlier was gone, his appetite roaring. He unwrapped his silverware, grabbed his fork and knife. He was ready to dig in.