Zeke Hill
Empty Thing
I’m leaning against the kitchen counter, adjusting the knob on the old radio until I find the right station. Goddamn, it takes an hour to get the stupid thing working. Half the time it doesn’t even register that I’m turning the damned knobs. I close my eyes and shake off the frustration. The weather is fine, it’s warm, the food is almost ready, there’s no reason to be stressed. I take a deep breath, and get back to preparations for dinner. I turn up the radio volume so it’s audible outside the kitchen, and then go set two plates on the table. I hear the faucet begin to run in the bathroom, and the door being pushed open. “Did you turn off the faucet?” I yell. She stands there, eyes glossing over as she tries to recall the last 15 seconds.
“No.” she says, slowly turning to head back into the bathroom. The running water stops a moment later as I finish setting the table. I go to retrieve the spaghetti I’ve been boiling on the piece of crap stove. She shuffles over to the dining table, grey hair spiraling down her back in a tangled mess. I should comb her hair out later, I decide, as I attempt to strain out the spaghetti, and mix it with some tomato soup. I dish out our too small portions onto the plates. “Mmm, smells nice. Thank you for doing this.”
“It’s no worry. I mean, you’re letting me eat too.”
“Never eat alone, that’s what I say.”
“What’re you talking about? If you keep sharing with me, you’ll start to lose your big muscles,” I say, flexing. She smiles, and begins to curl the spaghetti around her fork. It’s throwback Thursday, so the radio is running through all the classics. We eat with, “I can’t get no…satisfaction…and I try, and I try…” in the background. I check the clock hanging on the wall behind her. It reads 8:30. “About 10 minutes until, Ellen.” I inform her. She nods. We finish eating. I wash the plates, and the pot. Then we stand face to face in the small space between the table and the kitchen doorway. My right hand grasps her left, and I place my other hand on her hip. Her other hand finds its way to my back.
The radio host comes on, “All right folks! It’s about time for the last song on our Throwback Thursday special. Here we go!” The song begins, “I don’t want to set the world on fire…” and so does our mock dance. One, two, three. Step. One, two, three. Step. We move with the music, slowly, surely. Her face twists in pain. Her back must be killing her, but she works to stand up straight. She tries to regain some of the strength that has fled all too quickly from her over this last year. She succeeds though, even if it’s just for the duration of the single song. Her eyes are fuller, and her hair seems to change from grey to the raven black of the pictures she sometimes smiles at on the wall. A grin adorns her face, warm and full like a summer moon. But too soon, the song ends, and before my eyes whatever power restored her youth fades. The smile falls from her lips, her hair is a drab grey again, and her back curls into its normal hunch. I don’t want it to though. I want her to stay as she was. I want her to stay happy. I embrace her. I run my hands through the hair tangled down her back, and press my face into the top her head. “I love you, Mom.” Fuck. Why did I call her that? I sigh. “I’m sorry… I…you know…it’s just…you’re like her before she…damn, really sorry.” She takes a step back, and takes my hand up to her lips and kisses it.
“I love you too, son.” She says with a wink, and a gentle smile. She turns from me then, and shuffles through the doorway beside the kitchen into the only bedroom. I quickly follow and try to help lift her onto the bed. “No, no…I’m fine.” She mutters. I let her try to pull herself up for a few seconds, and then help her anyway. “Thanks…” The window by the bed is open to the alley. It’s freezing outside, so I move to close it.
“No. I want to feel the cool air tonight.” I nod, and leave the room. I close the bedroom door behind me, and whisper “Good night.” She says something in reply, but I can’t make her out. I shake my head, that woman I was whispering and she still heard me, woman has hearing like a bat. I leave the apartment
I’ve come to Ellen’s for nearly a year now. I met her when she could still walk the streets normally, but now she only goes out for the vital shopping. I’ve offered to do it for her, but she just brushes me off, so I’ve settled for escorting her to and from the store. I understand wanting to get outside sometimes, but she can barely get into bed; I don’t know how she can manage to go out for extended periods. The stairwell is deserted. My footsteps boom as I descend. I finally reach the exit and push my way out into the freezing night.
The first thing I noticed when I came to this part of the city was the stench. I like to call it “the stank.” Besides the crime, terrible living conditions, and “the stank,” there’s really no reason not to live in this part of Detroit.
I live a few blocks away, out behind the local 7/11. I have some clean trash bags and a sleeping bag. The trash bags are good for keeping out the rain, and the sleeping bag is well, a sleeping bag. It’s cold…but survivable. I try to keep myself warm with thoughts of tomorrow’s shopping trip with Ellen, and eventually…I sleep.
I wake up sharply. The sun is just coming up, of course at such an angle to blind m, as always. I remind myself to move the sleeping bag… again. I squint and worm my way out of the sleeping bag. Earlier, I offered to help escort Ellen to the store. Even during the day it’s better to be safe than regret it later.
When you feel something terrible coming, people say you get a sinking feeling. I never liked that description. It always feels to me like my insides are being sucked out. That’s what I felt when I saw the red and blue flashing lights, and the yellow tape lining the alleyway. When I finally see her body, lying in a pool of blood just at the cusp of the alley, it didn’t hurt. I just walked past, and kept walking, invisible, not even there. I hear snippets of conversation as I pass, “drug deal gone wrong…just showed up at the wrong time…” But I know, I know she went there on purpose. She wasn’t stupid, Ellen, she knew something bad was about to happen and tried to intervene. And look it where it got her. Dead in a fucking alley. Brains blown out all over the concrete. What did she accomplish? Nothing. Who’s going to remember her selfless act? Nobody.
Nobody but me.
My face is numb. I rub my cheeks with my hands and they come away wet; I didn’t realize I was crying.
If this is how it’s going to be…should I even go on? If there’s a point to all this god damned suffering, I can’t find it. I’ve wandered into an even worse neighborhood, if that’s possible. Maybe I’ll get gunned down for wearing the wrong color pants. That would be a fitting end, really.
But the streets are empty. There is no light except for the few street lamps that punctuate the night. When did it get so dark? Wasn’t it day but a minute ago?
“Teach you to steal from me you fucker!”
A voice like grating stones resounds from the alleyway I’ve just passed.
I shouldn’t get involved. I’m no fighter. What would I even do? Stab him with my pocketknife? What if he has a gun? This is stupid… but I’m already peering my head around the corner, squinting to see in this darkness. Two figures, both men I’d guess. One is on the ground being kicked and stomped by the other.
I’ve seen all I need to see. It’s time to leave. But my shaking hand pulls the knife from my pocket. What am I doing I’ve seen countless crimes committed, and ignored every one. So why is this man special?
Because it’s what she would’ve done. It’s what she did while she lived. It’s what she did while she died.
She tried to intervene in a drug deal about to turn violent and died for it. Move on! Move on, I scream in my head. Just walk away and forget this.
But my feet will not turn.
I’ll remember.
I’ll want to forget.
I’ll want to forget, but I won’t be able to. It’s her doing, I know it. I never used to be like this. When I first noticed her, she was watching me shiver behind the 7/11. She looked frail, concerned, and kind. I didn’t think anything of it. But the next day she came back, holding a sleeping bag.
“I hope this helps.” She said.
“…Why?” I ask. She raises her eyebrow at that.
“Because you needed it.”
I offered to escort her back home after that. Something in me told me I should stay near her. Either way, two traveling together in this area is always better than one. She refused at first, but I persisted. I learned she would never accept help the first time you asked. We walked in silence, an old woman, and a dirty young man who smelled even worse than he looked.
We crossed paths with another drifter like me, and she stopped walking and began to speak with him. She didn’t even know the man. She just started asking about is health, if he had enough food, was he warm at night. That was the first time I ever remember seeing someone stop and talk to a beggar. She left him her spare change, and moved on. I followed quickly.
“Why’d you stop and talk to him?”
“He looked lonely.” She responded, as though I were a child, tugging at her skirts with yet another silly question.
“Weren’t you afraid?”
“Of what?”
“That he might be dangerous, ya know? Like a druggie, or a drunkard or something.” She shook her head.
“What, would they kill me? There are worse things…”
“Worse than dying or being beaten half to death?”
“You’re the same as him, aren’t you?”
“I mean, yeah, of course. But I’m worried about my well-being too.” She slapped me upside the face. It wasn’t very hard, seemed to be more to send a point really.
“If you let fear keep you from helping someone you who needs it, you’re no better than a child.” And that was that.
I didn’t know if I could live up to that kind of expectation, but even if I couldn’t be her, I wanted to stay with her. I loved her for those words. I loved her for that courage. Because it was courage I could never find myself. Perhaps I was simply living vicariously, just another cowardly act on my part. Always wanting to take help, always wanting to stop and reach out your hand to the poor fellow you pass on the street, but never doing it. But I believe the love was real…I have to. She took trash like me and me feel something…human.
And now…she’s gone.
This time I feel the tears tingle down my numb cheeks. “Ellen…Ellen…” I’ll remember you. I’ll remember what you thought was important. I will…I swear I will.
I step out into the alley, crouching low. I try to keep a firm grip on the knife, but my damn palms are so sweaty. I nearly drop it. The man I heard shout is bent over, breathing heavily.
“You really gave me a workout, eh?” The man says. The victim is lying still, but his chest still moves occasionally, pulling in gasping breaths.
I move forward quickly…quietly… invisibly. I can just about reach him now, I can see the blood splattered across his hands and feet.
I pick up the pace, making my footsteps audible. He starts to to turn, but I’m already lunging, screaming madly, the knife held tightly in both hands.
As his eyes widen in fear, the type of fear that only those who know see death approaching and know they’re too late to stop it. As the knife cuts through his stomach, spilling his insides like pink worms crawling from sodden soil after the rain. As the blood comes gushing out of him, showering onto my hands and arms, and face in a seemingly endless torrent. As the battle cry leaves my mouth, straining my vocal chords, clawing at my throat until it burns as though shredded by razor wire. I can’t help but wonder…
Is this what she would’ve wanted?
No, she wouldn’t have wanted it this way. But it’s too late. We fall to the ground, me on top. His arms wrap around my neck, squeezing. I twist the knife, stabbing madly. I can’t breathe. My neck is going to snap. He’s snarling, and gnashing his teeth. Spit and blood fly madly in all directions. Darkness is closing in around my eyes.
But then his grip weakens. I gasp, my starved lungs ravenously eating up air. His eyes begin to glaze. His breathing becomes shallow. His grip becomes softer…softer… until finally it falls away completely, and he lies still. Blood has soaked through my shirt, my pants, stained me down to the bone it seems. Bile touches the back of throat.
I shake off the nausea, and turn my attention to the second man. “You alright?” No response. Ah. He must be scared. A crazed man wielding a knife covered in blood is trying to speak to him. “I must look a bit crazy, but really I’m here to help…” I take a step forward. His eyes are glazed over, and a small stream of blood is flowing out from underneath his head. The realization runs through my like a cold wind. He’s dead too.
I drop the knife and sink to my knees. I put my hands on my face, but get blood in my eyes.
It stings.
I laugh.
It’s so funny! I went against my instincts, risked my life, killed a man, and went against what Ellen would’ve wanted… to save a dead man. It’s too funny, I can’t stop laughing; I’m out of breath. The dead victim’s head turns toward me, a mocking grin plastered to his pale face. “This is where your ideals have brought you, stupid boy,” he seems to say.
“I give up.” I say and drop the knife, still dripping with blood and stomach fluid. And I leave whatever is left of me there too, to fester with the other dead things. My beliefs and dreams, hopes and loves, all of it. I leave it there festering in a pile, just another dead thing to rot away.
The empty thing leaves the alley, still soaked in gore. Heart still beating, lungs still breathing, but not alive, no, not that…never that.
[typography font=”Droid Sans Mono” size=”9″ size_format=”px”]Zeke Hill, known for getting into debates with his math teacher in middle school, sometimes writes things. This is one of those things. He intends to graduate with an AA and high school diploma in Spring 2014. He enjoys reading, philosophy, video games, piano, and writing. He has been home schooled, attended private school, online school, public school, and co-ops! He would like to thank you for reading, and says goodbye.[/typography]