Raggedy

McFadden’s, a pub frequented mainly by Grand Rapids locals, buzzed with life as people came and went. To my left, a group of friends laughed about something one of them said to a particularly sarcastic person she’d met. To my right, a young lady in a short-cut skirt and v-neck t-shirt flirted with a young, dark-haired man; both had clearly had far too much to drink earlier.

I had just entered, settling at the bar and greeting the bar tender with a soft hello as I slumped onto the barstool.

“Evening, sir,” he responded with a soft smile unfitting of his otherwise masculine appearance. “What’ll it be tonight?”

“Tonic and gin, please.”

“Coming right up,” he replied, proceeding to prepare the drink in front of me. “You uh… Sorry for intruding, but you look like it’s been a rough day. You alright?”

I looked up wearily at the bar tender. Jesus Christ, where did I begin to explain the sort of hell I’d been through, going to the hospital and seeing Andrea lying limp on the bed, her chest rising up and down in labored breaths. She barely looked human, connected to tubes, her eyes closed.

She almost looked, I realized, cringing internally at the thought, as if she was already dead. Maybe it would be better if she were. If she didn’t have the potential to wake up and see what had become of her body, didn’t have to wake up to the pain and the torment every cell in her body suffered from the chemicals in her bloodstream and the tumors invading her flesh. At the least, she isn’t suffering right now.

But I was. Dear God, I was, watching her lie motionless and frail on the hospital bed as I signed her human life away on a sheet of paperwork, my signature severing the last of her control over her own life like a scalpel. It still haunts me, the image, the signature, the steady, questioning bleeps of the heart monitor. It’s so out of control, so completely out of my hands, that now it’s become my controller. The memories bind and torture me, they all pull me apart slowly, the tangled marionette strings life’s seen fit to throw at me. God is the world’s cruelest puppeteer if this is how He passes his time, how He teaches lessons, how He drives lives…

“My wife’s in the hospital with terminal cancer,” I state bluntly, and the bar tender’s smile falters into a mask of sympathy.

“Oh… oh wow, I’m really sorry to hear that, sir… My sympathies…”

The tonic and gin, in its short glass, appears in front of me with a flourish as the bar tender sets it down before me.

“Listen,” he said, meaning in his blue-green eyes as he regarded me. “I know you’re probably dealing with a lot right now. I can see it on your face. Seen it on a lot of faces in the past; probably gonna see it on a lot of faces in the future. Enjoy your drink; just… don’t overdo it, okay? Drinking won’t help you or your wife.”

“Got it,” I murmured, sipping at the beverage slowly. The gin flowed down the back of my throat like water, its alcoholic tang coating my tongue.

The bar tender gave me a sad smile, and turned away to the remainder of his customers – the young fellow and his flirtatious female friend, now mindlessly devouring each others' mouths in lustful fervor, whom he told to tone it down. The old gentleman at the end of the bar, on his way out and paying his tab. The rather attractive, dark-skinned woman in the red dress not more than a few feet from me, leaning against the bar and purring her order of a coke and rum.

I watched her sit down and pull something out of her purse, averting my eyes momentarily only to sip at my beverage. Again, I looked up, from the corner of my eye, as she began to play cat’s cradle with the red yarn now stretched between her fingers. Something kept drawing my eye to her, something kept me interested. Not her beauty, no… her familiarity.

She looked up casually as the bar tender set the coke and rum in front of her, smiling informally at me as if we’d met somewhere before.

It hit me then as I averted my eyes again, staring at the ice in my highball glass. She looked exactly like Andrea, painfully so. In fact, she could have been her twin with her dark hair falling in inky rivers down her back, her cinnamon-toned skin, her dark eyes and full lips… But there was something… off, something about her that set her apart from Andrea, something that wasn’t quite correct. What was it?

What is it?

“What’s the matter with you?” Cooed a honey-steeped voice, a voice I recognized as Andrea’s, and I looked back up, half-expecting her to be by my side.

No such luck, I realized, my mind sinking back into reality again, and my eyes fell again on the woman. Of course, she had to have been the one speaking… how she was speaking in Andrea’s voice, I didn’t know…

Maybe she’s just got a similar voice. That has to be it. Don’t be irrational, of course that’s it, Michael. Sometimes people have similar voices, nothing strange about that. Calm down and think logically. 

She’s staring at you.
 

I looked back up at her, uneasy.

“I beg your pardon, ma’am?”

“I asked what the matter was with you. You’re acting nervous. Something’s bugging you, your wife, right? I heard what that bar tender said to you…”

Her fingers slid jerkily between the loops of red yarn, pulling, tangling, untangling. Watching her fingers work, their odd motions, their manipulation of the strings… it made me nervous. It was setting off distress flares in my mind for no reason, jangling dissonantly against my mind. And the closer I looked, the more I realized it wasn’t just her fingers. No, all her motions were… slightly stilted, slightly awkward. As if she weren’t quite real…

I flicked my eyes towards my drink, wondering precisely how strong the gin was for a second, then looked back up to her.

“It’s… my wife, yes. Cancer… She fell into a coma this morning and…”

I cut off, feeling both pain from the memories and the awkwardness of a child explaining to the principal why he was in her office.

“I’m so sorry to hear that,” the woman murmured, her gaze still focused on me. “I guess that explains why you keep looking away from me like the shy kid at the prom.”

No looking away this time. I looked back up at her again, and instantly was drawn to her eyes. Those dark eyes, so much like Andrea’s…

But no. They’re not Andrea’s. They’re too cold to be hers, too hard and cruel. Too wooden. It was almost as if this woman was looking through me, not at me…

I suppressed a shudder, hiding it behind swallowing the last of my drink.

“You poor man,” she continued, tutting in concern. “I can’t imagine what it must be like, losing someone that close to you… Let me buy you a drink or something, probably won’t make up for it, but the booze might make you feel a bit better…”

She gave what, I assume, she felt was a genuine smile, and somehow, it worked. Despite how fake it looked (and was, I suspected), I nodded in response, and she waved the bar tender over.

“Gin and tonic for this man, please,” She said, giving that same meaningless smile to the bar tender, who smiled and proceeded to prepare the beverage.

“That wasn’t necessary,” I murmured, watching as she turned back to me.

“It was my pleasure,” she responded, resting against the bar. “You seem like such a nice man, it’s a shame something so terrible happened to you and yours…”

The drink came to rest on the bar in front of me, and without thinking, I grabbed the glass and began to sip it. The alcohol flowed down my throat like water, its tang coating my tongue. It’ll be fine, Michael. She seems nice enough, even if she does act a little odd. Some people act a little odd. That doesn’t make them monsters. Hardly! Besides, she is rather beautiful…

“It must be very hard for you,” she continued, casually sipping her coke and rum, “Losing her. Your wife, I mean. I’d imagine you must get very lonely, very afraid, knowing you’re alright and she’s hurting so badly… You look like it’s hurting you, as well.”

“It is,” I replied truthfully, the alcohol working its relaxing spell on my body. “It is. I blame myself, I guess. I blame myself for not doing anything sooner.”

Her hard features softened, and she took my hand in hers. They were rougher than I had expected from skin so soft-looking…

“How saddening… bar tender, another round if you would. All that fear in you, and nothing to console it… it must haunt you… Nightmares, paranoia, being on edge all of the time… Having to go to the hospital and see her like that and being unable to do anything about it, it kills you on the inside, doesn’t it?”

“Yes,” I mumbled sadly, taking the fresh drink from the counter and swigging it, tongue now thick in my mouth. “You look just like her…”

“Oh, Michael…” Her face softened further, yet her eyes remained dark and glassy. “I can’t be helping, then…”

“No,” I admitted, looking at her. “Not really, but talking… talking helps, I guess…”

“Don’t worry, Michael,” she responded, giving me a fake smile. “I’ll talk to you as long as you want.”

The time slipped by in a haze, flying far quicker than I thought, and soon it was nearly midnight. The more I drank, the more engaging my conversation partner became, the more jerkily her fingers toyed with the red yarn in her fingers, the more eager I was to stay…

“I must only remind you of how utterly helpless you are… how unable you are to save her… don’t I?” She said, now swirling the melting ice around her glass. “And how pathetic you are, really, sitting here talking to a random stranger and getting drunk while your wife slowly dies.”

“This is my stupid fault anyway,” I slurred, leaning against the bar, tears sliding down my face. “I gotta… I gotta do something, but… I dunno what…”

“Yes, of course you do, Michael,” She stated coldly, “But you won’t. Do you know why you won’t?”

I looked up at her pleadingly, wondering.

“Because you’re not a man. You’re a little boy. You’re a spineless, sad little boy who can’t even control his own fear. So of course, your fear controls you. Doesn’t it, Michael?”

Her dark eyes stared into mine, piercing me, holding me captive. I felt… I felt scolded. I should have felt angry, but somehow the outrage at her words became shame, scorn, pain…

I collapsed onto the bar, sobbing pathetically amidst the collection of highball glasses that now surrounded me.

“You’re… you’re right, I’m a wreck,” I sniffled, looking back up at her. “I’m worthless, I have no idea what in the fuck I’m going to do, and even if I did… what could I do? She’s gonna die and it’s my fucking fault… I…”

“Uh, sir?”

I glanced up at the bar tender, all three of him. His faces were marred with a look of serious concern.

“I think that’s enough for one night.”

The woman casually released the loops of string, pushing the yarn back into her purse.

“Of course it is, Michael,” She responded icily, “And you’re just going to let him insult you like that and tell you what you should and shouldn’t do. Like a good little boy.”

Rage flowed through every vein in my body as I glared at the bar tender.

“I’m fine.”

“No sir, I’m sorry, but I’m not going to be serving you any more for the night.”

“I’m not drunk!” I screeched, wobbling as I stood. “I’m in control!”

“Sir, I apologize, but no, you’re not,” the bar tender responded, picking up the glasses and setting them behind the bar. “Bar policy. I’m not serving you any more drinks tonight. I’m going to call a cab, and they can ta-”

“I am not! I’m fine! I don’t –”

“Alright, that’s enough from you. Harry? Could I get you over here, please?”

A muscular, bearded man in a leather vest stood up and approached the bar tender, keeping close watch on me.

“Need me to escort him out, Jay?”

“Please, I’m concerned he’ll hurt himself.” He then turned to the woman. “I’m so sorry about this, ma’am.”

“It’s not a problem, I understand,” She responded, staring at me meaningfully. “Some people just can’t control themselves…”

I looked desperately between the bar tender, the woman, and the bouncer, feeling the remaining anger in my heart turn to fear.

“But I –”

“Leave. Now. I’m going to have this gentleman escort you out while I call you a cab.”

The large man approached me, and proceeded to pull me to my feet.

“C’mon, buddy; let’s go…”

I don’t remember how exactly I splayed onto the freezing, snowy sidewalk in front of the man. All I remember is him helping me up, then returning inside, where he proceeded to watch the door in case I came back inside.

I do remember curling up on the curb, sitting there miserably as I stared at the cobblestones, sobbing.

The sound of heels on cement caught my attention, and I looked up to see the woman in the red dress strolling out of the door of McFadden’s as if nothing had happened.

Rage began to cloud my thought in the alcohol’s stead.

“You!” I shouted, glaring at her as she turned to face me. “You’re the reason all this happened! You and your… your…”

She slowly turned, starting to approach me, and for a second, I thought she was coming to comfort me.

A sharp slap hit my face, harder than expected, as if I’d been nailed by a two-by-four.

“Me?” Her cold, soulless eyes stared at me mercilessly as she stood above me, and her honey voice had turned acetic. “You’re blaming me for your lack of control? No fucking wonder you were so easy to take control of, you practically handed me the marionette!”

I jolted back in pain and the harshness of her words, hand against my face and feeling the tender mark left there. It would be sore in the morning, maybe even bruise…

“You… you hit –”

“Yes, I did hit you. And will you stop with the fucking pity party already? She’s going to die, and your self-loathing isn’t helping. Nobody’s fooled, Michael. Maybe those bar owners didn’t notice, but we can all see it. Every. Last. One of us.”

The woman approached me, leaning down, her face far too close to mine. And that’s when I realized the little lines, darker than the rest of her skin, the faint little whorls and grains, like wood…

My eyes widened in horror. She was one of them. The demons.

And I let her have control of me.

“You know what you are, Michael?” She hissed, glassy eyes holding more hellfire than Satan’s own. “You’re pathetic. You’re so busy being a sorry sad sack that you aren’t even control of your emotions, particularly your anger. Especially your fear. You want this to end? Stop the pity party, stop pretending her death isn’t going to happen, and learn some self-control, because if you don’t? Someone else is going to take control for you.”

I watched, speechless, as she walked away, and my drunken mind began to piece together the last several minutes. Control… did I really lack control? Was I really being selfish by focusing on my own pain over Andrea’s? Was my own inability to deal with my own problems the reason that these creatures, all of them - the Man, the doctor, the birds, the boy, the dog - kept haunting me?

“Jesus Christ, is he alright?”

I barely heard the bar tender’s concerned yelling over my own thoughts, only noticing as he came up to me and helped pull me to my feet.

“Sorry sir, you alright there?” He said, eyes worried. “I saw that lady leave not long after you, and I didn’t want to see anyone get hurt…”

“She slapped me, but I think I’m fine,” I murmured, stumbling slowly to my feet.

“Okay, you happen to get her name? I can call the police…”

“No, no… I deserved it,” I mumbled, still half-mulling over my own thoughts. “Can I… wait inside for the cab? It’s cold out and…” I blinked through the fog of alcohol, looking up at the bar tender sheepishly. “And you’re right… I’ve had too much.”

It was a good way to start, I thought blearily as the bar tender helped me inside again. After all… the first step’s admitting you’re powerless, right?