PART ONE
CHAPTER 1
THE BEGINNING OF THE END
So this is how it feels to take a man’s life. Forced to kill for one’s own survival.
I looked down at the puddle of blood by my feet, locking eyes with my own reflection. Fluorescent lights flickered overhead. How’d I get here? I was just a dude who worked at the grocery store.
Now here I was, standing over a man I murdered.
I guess in that moment it was attempted murder. He was still desperately gasping for air. Sucking in his last breaths. But there was no doubt about it—he was dying a violent death and experiencing every moment of it.
In the mornings when I left my apartment for work, sometimes I would hold the elevator door for Mrs. Huffle. She was a sweet woman in her seventies. Say the elevator stopped and some sick game began where only one of us could leave the box alive. Would she kill me to survive? Would she have it in her to pull the trigger and meet her friend Dolores in time for brunch? Man, I think about shit like that all the time, too much, I suppose. The funny part is I always thought of myself as such a good guy, you know? Someone who would do anything to avoid confrontation.
What the fuck happened? This wasn’t me. But none of this was what it seemed to be, quite honestly.
The blood on my hands smelled metallic. It reminded me of when my uncle would work on his truck. I must have been three years old. You know when you smell something and it takes you back in an instant—back to a memory as vivid as the page you’re reading this very moment, even though you haven’t thought about it since your brain shelved it decades ago? I was brought back to reality by the feeling of blood crawling down my forearms.
It dripped onto the floor from my fingertips, like a faucet when a child doesn’t shut it off after brushing their teeth. It was thick like maple syrup but not sticky, more like red coffee creamer.
Planting my knee on the ground, I reached into the pocket of the dying man’s button-down. I took out his pack of cigarettes and silver Zippo. I forced a few cigs from the pack with an upward jolt, snatching one with my lips so I didn’t stain the butt with blood. The man was wheezing now. Inhaling in intervals, like someone heaving during a nightmare. Maybe that’s what this was, just a nightmare. I mean, to be honest, none of it felt real, except for the blinding pain from the open wound on my head.
And that’s when he spoke.
“Flynn, you were doing so well.”
Bubbles popped from his blood-covered lips.
Flicking the lid of the Zippo, I tried to light my cigarette to no avail.
“Mmmm-hmmm,” I muttered as I struck it again, this time igniting the cigarette. I noticed the words Vanilla Sky engraved on the top of the lighter.
I brought my cigarette to the man’s lips.
“There you go,” I said. “Now puff.”
I could hear sirens and fire trucks in the distance.
His lips stained the butt of the cigarette, like the lipstick of a single mom driving an Astro van in the 90s to pick up her fifth-grade son from soccer practice. Poufy hair and shoulder pads, you know the one.
“This is all Lola’s fault, you know,” he said.
“I know,” I said.
He laughed, until the pain in his chest forced out a groan, reminding us both of the whole dying thing happening.
“Flynn, what’s—what’s my—my . . . last na—”
“I don’t know,” I said. “I told you that already.”
“Flynn, did we have fun?” he asked.
“You ruined my life.”
CHAPTER 2
DAYDREAM
I guess the story starts three years ago in a small town in Oregon. I suppose every goddamn town in Oregon is small as far as towns go. Baker City. White as fuck, surprise, surprise. Not far from Idaho. Barely fifty kids in my graduating class. You know what that means. Everyone knew everyone else’s business. Dated the same people, went to the same lame parties, ate at the same broke diner. We had a bank, a post office, a library, a supermarket, and a dirty old movie theater that screened Marvel flicks. No mall, no good restaurants, no hospital. No shit to do, really. The most fun you could have was floating down the river with some whiskey and beers. Most people wouldn’t want to spend more than a day there. I don’t blame them. But it was all right—I didn’t have much of a choice now did I, being born there and everything.
I didn’t exactly excel at school. I was more interested in chasing girls and listening to music. The only class I paid any attention in was English. Reading and writing came naturally. I actually enjoyed it. The rest was a struggle or of zero interest. Most kids were into sports but that wasn’t really my scene. After high school I dicked around, really. I did a year at community college because my mom forced me to do something, but that was a nonstarter. I spent most of my time drinking and smoking. A lotta my friends got out of town, but me, I was stuck.
The days turned into weeks, the weeks into months, the months into years. I don’t know how it happened, but it happened. Time flew. Now here I was, twenty-four, unemployed, depressed from a recent breakup, and living in my childhood room. I know what you’re thinking. Pathetic, right? I don’t disagree. Trust me, it wasn’t where I wanted to be in life.
In a series of fortunate events, I had come across some money. I was about to be fresh out my mother’s house for the first time in my life. My mom never had money, so this was a welcome windfall, however small. It was a nice little amount, enough to help me get my own apartment, but not enough to last me long.
That’s why I was on my way to apply for a job at the supermarket. I needed a gig. Something. Anything. And Baker City wasn’t exactly the land of opportunity. Twenty-four years old and bagging groceries isn’t the most ideal situation, but it was real life, and that’s what I was looking for at that point . . . real life.
It was a beautiful day in April—the time was 12:36 p.m. exactly. I know because I wrote it down in my Moleskine notebook. That thing was beat to hell, but it had become my best friend. Everywhere I went, the Moleskine came with. It had real character. It had lived a life. Black, pocket-size, roughed-up edges, dog-eared pages, with scraps of paper and photos stuffed inside. I wrote everything down in that notebook, recording my thoughts and the world around me. The fir trees swayed that day as the wind caressed each branch, molding their bodies in movement.
I’ll never forget crossing the road in front of the grocery store. I saw this guy in black Nike Air Maxes, blue Levi’s, and a white T-shirt. He seemed to be forcibly talking at people who walked by. And not in a welcoming way. As I got closer, I realized he was kind of weird looking. A little twisted, contorted. Like he was out of an Egon Schiele drawing. Midtwenties. On the tall side, maybe 6'1", slim. He had a long, bent nose, dark eyes, expressive eyebrows, and wrinkles in his forehead like Hugh Laurie. You know, that guy who plays House. I don’t mean like a grown man sitting in front of a plastic tea set talking to a lifeless teddy bear—pretending to be a husband, droning on to his wife about the report his boss demanded be on his desk by Monday, even though when his boss first mentioned it the deadline was Tuesday, and now he would have to work through the weekend. I mean the actor who plays a doctor named House on a television show.