Morality Blurred

By Erik Setterlind

After being brutally attacked in a dark alley, Mark and Sarah struggle to cope with the aftermath. Their journey with an unorthodox psychiatrist leads Mark down a path that forces him to come to terms with the life-changing decision he made that horrific night.

Morality Blurred is a psycholigical thriller that blurs the line between right and wrong and begs the reader to ask, "What would I do?"

• Language: English
• Publisher: Erik Setterlind
• Release date: Apr 6, 2011
• ISBN: 9781458049902

Erik Setterlind

I'm a writer, reader, husband, and father. I like running, hoops, and vodka. Enough about me. Go check out my novel and blog (please).

Book preview

Morality Blurred

By Erik Setterlind

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2011 Erik Setterlind

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Chapter 1

Mark’s poorly dressed knife wound on his cheek bothered him. Or maybe it was the faint but constant beeping he heard. Or it could have been the-first-day-back-at-work-after-being-brutally-attacked jitters. Mark hesitated outside the door of the commodities trading floor where he worked, flexing his fingers at his side while a single drop of sweat slid under the bandage. Once the droplet reached the wound—a slice that covered the length of his cheekbone—a sting caused his face to stretch with his mouth open and jaw move to the side. The exaggerated contortion pulled the tape on the sensitive skin just underneath his eye, causing a pain less than the sting, but the two back-to-back moments of irritation proved to be too much for his mind and body to handle under the circumstances. Mark’s body temperature elevated, and another drop of sweat formed and slid, taking the same blazed trail to the healing wound.

Mark had been absent from his position as Junior Trader for two weeks nursing the slice on his face and a hole in his abdomen the size of a five-inch blade, and the usual mid-morning chaos that electrifies the floor paused for just a moment as he opened one of the heavy, wooden double doors. Normally, a simple entrance by a simple man would not cause a single person on the floor to stutter a step or attract even a peripheral glance. But there was definitely a pause. Mark had been gone for a couple of weeks, but then again, others have arrived from a lengthier vacation, even a month-long sabbatical without any kind of acknowledgement from any one of the other traders. The bandage was noticeable, large, and embarrassingly obvious that there was now something wrong with his face and could conceivably attract some attention. But the eyes of Mark’s co-workers—some friends, some strangers, others caught between an awkward world of polite small talk and forgetting the names of their children—did not have a look of sympathy or concern. They looked at Mark in a way he had never experienced before and suddenly realized it was something he would have to get used to. It was the look of fear-filled curiosity. How could he do that? Am I safe? What would I have done? What is it like to kill another human being?

Mark looked over their heads to the far wall that showed the changing prices of oil, natural gas, corn, lumber, pork bellies, and other commodities that were bought low and sold high by the employed and bought high and sold low by the soon to be unemployed. He wiped his hand across his forehead, catching a drop and breaking the cycle of sweat and pain.

The pause ended when Mark took his first steps forward, alternating his glances from the far wall to his feet. The faces surrounding him were a blur and the whispers were white noise, a static that went silent when ignored, but deafening when acknowledged. The cavernous room, interrupted only by large, square pillars with flat screen televisions on each of the four sides, buzzed with traders talking loudly over each other on wireless headsets. Depending on the intensity, or more accurately the monetary value of the conversation, traders ranged in stress level from reclining in their faux leather chairs with their expensive leather loafers resting on their desktops to pacing within a five-foot area at their desks, hands flying erratically like a conductor hitting a crescendo.

Mark’s desk was miles away. He could see it like it was a small island sitting on top of the horizon, surrounded by a blurred sea of analysts and traders. His eyes followed the visual buzz of four hundred people working together, an electric charge rising above the cubicles in the open air. Words appeared like a dynamic stock ticker streaming through the air. Conversations floated above heads like Saturday morning cartoons. Flashing green and red numbers seeped out of computer monitors and joined the words in a rotating dance, moving freely and gracefully above the crowded office. It was a sight that Mark never stopped to notice before. Was it there every day? How could he not notice? This was a place of focus and determination, but for the first time he can remember, Mark entered the trading floor not looking at the television monitors for the latest news on Wall Street while he walked briskly to his desk, but rather, Mark simply stopped and looked up. It was beautiful. Mark wanted to lose all notion of gravity and join the letters, numbers and colors in their waltz, and for a moment, he honestly thought he could. He felt his body lose its density and his mind erase, and he smiled.

The smile triggered a quick ping of pain under his left eye that erased his dreamy vision, and everything before him returned to its chaotic normalcy. The weight of his body cemented him to the floor, and his eyes switched over to the headlines scrolling along the bottom of one of the televisions. Mark began the long walk to his desk, taking his usual route that weaved through the basic geometric layout of cubicles, catching the eyes of familiar faces and traded quick nods and forced smiles. The usual greetings were gone. Conversations that once started with ease were swept away with silence. Mark quickened his pace until the pain of his abdomen wound stopped him abruptly. He winced and let an almost inaudible groan slip through his lips.

You alright, Mark? Mark looked over to his right and saw a short, pudgy man with thinning black hair rise from his chair. It was still early in the trading day, but this man already had the top two buttons of his white dress shirt undone and his red necktie loosened as if he were already having a beer at happy hour.

Dave, Mark remembered. His name was Dave, and though he looked to be in his mid-forties, he was actually just a few years older than Mark.

Yeah, I think so. Just trying to see if I remember where my desk is.

This is your first day back since… Dave looked away, as if the right word he wanted slipped from his mind and floated away out of reach.

Yep, first day back. Just getting settled in. Probably won’t do much actual work, but I thought it would be good to be back in the office. Get back to my routine.

Your face and everything ok? You do realize that you will hear nothing but Scarface references for a long time.

I think I’m prepared for that. I better watch it again to brush up on some of the lines. I just hope you don’t find my face buried in a mound of cocaine on my desk.

Dave let out an awkward chuckle. He lifted his arm to rest it on top of his cubicle wall, exposing an off-white circle of sweat under his arm and a surprisingly strong smell of body odor for ten o’clock in the morning. The office usually didn’t start smelling like a YMCA men’s locker room until well after noon. Well, it’s good to see you back, man. It just hasn’t been the same without you around.

Thanks. Mark knew that to everyone in the office, life has been exactly the same while he was gone.

When he finally reached his desk, he noticed that everything was as he left it two weeks ago. Papers scattered across the L-shaped desk. A half-empty water bottle remained untouched by the phone. The phone was the only item not frozen in time with a couple of dozen red lights blinking. He sat down steadily in his chair, leaned back, and swiveled easily back and forth. He looked at the three walls of his cubicle. There were a few papers tacked up, but no pictures. Most of the other cubicles around him had pictures, a plant, or some other window to the occupant’s personality. Everyone had something that breathed life into their workday—a picture of a child or dog or significant other that helped them escape if only for a second during the stressful, fast-paced day of trading stocks. Mark twisted his wedding ring with his left thumb as he stared at the black screen of his computer monitor. He rubbed the smooth gold ring with his thumb as he watched his fuzzy reflection on the screen twist back and forth. His right hand broke free from the hypnosis and pushed the power button of his monitor. Mark’s breath of life flashed brightly on the screen.

He stared into the deep mocha eyes of his wife, Sarah. She stood on the rocky shore of a beach in Maine last April with the wind lifting her soft brown curls up like a sheet on a clothesline. She smirked, not a full smile. Her eyes squinted in the bright spring sun. It was an expression familiar to Mark. It was a look, or more like a reaction to a smartass comment or lame attempt at a joke, usually at her expense. It was her way of saying, I love you, but you’re an asshole.

Sarah, take a look at this ocean, would ya? Huge! Fucking huge. The waves hit the large rock inches below their dangling feet.

Yes, that is one large body of water, honey. Is this one of those times when you’re going to try using that philosophy minor? Let me know when you’re done and I’ll start listening again. She looked at him waiting for his typically quick comeback.

But he kept staring out at the Atlantic, either oblivious to her jab, or he was simply ignoring her. The sky and the ocean came together and blurred the horizon. The only interruptions were a couple of soaring seagulls and the whitecaps of the rising waves.

Mark continued, still looking straight ahead, Before I met you, feeling like this, sitting in front of something so…so dominant, so vast, would always make me feel insignificant, like no matter what I do, good or bad, just doesn’t really matter in the grand scheme of things.

That’s depressing.

But now with you here by my side as my new wife, he finally turned to look her in the eyes, my life feels important, like it’s actually worth a damn.

Wow, Mark, that’s beautiful. Really? That’s how you feel?

No, but it sounded really good, didn’t it?

Sarah’s expression of warmth and admiration fell off her face. Oh, Sarah, c’mon. I’m just playing with you. I love you! You know that! You know better than to ask ‘Really?’ Haven’t you learned by now? Don’t ever ask that. You know what you’re going to get. Mark leaned over and kissed her cold cheek. Seriously, though, you do make me a better man than I have ever dreamed of, and I will always love you for that.

She looked like she was ready to say something, but stopped herself and smiled.

Picture time, said Mark. I want to remember this moment when you made me feel like the most significant man in the world. Sarah smirked.

Click.

Mark sat back in his office chair, staring at Sarah on the screen, and moving his fingers across the bandage on his face. The smell of garlic appeared under his nose.

Chapter 2

Faint Italian music played in the background, and the smell of garlic and oregano hung in the air as Sarah cradled a glass of red wine between her fingers, swinging it playfully as she often did with her third glass. Angelo’s was a favorite of Sarah and Mark’s, as it was conveniently just a few blocks from their apartment.

Mark looked down at the half-eaten tiramisu that rested in the middle of the table with two forks by its side. That’s all you. I’m stuffed. He rubbed both sides of his face with his right hand. His cheeks were smooth.

No way. You don’t want your new bride to pack on the pounds now that she’s officially off the market. I still haven’t lost the ten pounds I gained from our honeymoon.

Just think of it like the Freshman Fifteen all over again.

For me, it was more like Freshman Five.

Yeah, right! I’ve seen the pictures. Someone took the all-you-can-eat buffets at the dining halls a little too literally.

Stop! Now you’re just being mean. She forced a frown and took a sip of wine.

I’m sorry, honey. You’re beautiful, and I love you, and you are and always will be perfect in my eyes.

That was actually the nicest thing you’ve said to me in a long time.

Really? Have I been that bad lately?

Yes, you have. I’m not one of the boys at work, you know.

I know. It’s like a big frat house there sometimes, and I forget to turn it off when I get home. I’ll work on that, I promise.

That’s all I ask. Now that I’m your wife, treat me like one.

Yes, dear.

You don’t have to say it like that.

Say it like what? What are you talking about?

You always say things just to stop the conversation, just to shut me up.

Geez. I get in trouble for making fun of you and then I get in trouble for apologizing.

You’re not in trouble.

Good. Because you’re not my mother. Mark’s tone dropped a few notes, making his comment sound much more serious than he wanted it to sound. He released any sign of emotion from his face as he scanned the restaurant, letting the tension the build with every second he avoided eye contact with Sarah. She was silent. If she was sober, she would have started down the road of forgiveness, but she was braver and bolder with a glass in her hand. Mark knew that he would have to be the one to get them out of the situation before it got too ugly.

Alright, alright. Let’s just stop there. I don’t want to do this now, not here, not anywhere really, but definitely not at a restaurant we come to twice a month. He looked around the dining room. Let’s just chill out, finish your wine, and take a walk. Enjoy the fresh city air. He smiled.

You’re right. Let’s go. She threw her head back and finished the rest of her wine in one gulp and stood up confidently, pushing the chair loudly behind her. Impressed, Mark stood up, dropped some cash on the table, and took Sarah’s hand, leading her through the tables and out the door.

A short rain shower had cooled the night air while they ate, and Mark instinctively put his arm around Sarah as they took their time to carefully walk around the scattered puddles on the sidewalk. The air was thick with humidity, but still had a chill that highlighted their exhales, which glowed like bright clouds under the streetlights. As Mark and Sarah turned off the main street where other couples walked arm and arm and a few homeless men sat with almost empty Styrofoam cups shaking in the air, they entered a darkness that was relieved only by a three-quarters moon camouflaged by leafy treetops. The silence was broken by their rhythmic footsteps and the occasional car passing on the main street behind them.

The first block branching out from the main street was occupied by older, big brick block apartment buildings, uncreative and institutional in their design. Air conditioning units stuck out of some of the windows, but it wasn’t warm enough to hear the low hum or feel the occasional drop of condensation of a constantly running unit. Few lights were on, but flickering gray lights of television sets appeared in some of the windows.

The next block’s architecture was a little more personal, but only in the fact that weathered brown brick buildings were now broken apart into thin, three-story town homes stacked next to each other like dominoes. Any personality of the homeowners was reflected in the fifteen-foot long by five-foot wide yards separating the sidewalk where Mark and Sarah were walking and the concrete steps leading to the small concrete porch.

One such personality shone like a star on the dark street. Several rusty gnomes of different sizes, all with the obligatory red hats, stood randomly next to colorful pinwheels. The gnomes seemed to ignore, or maybe have just gotten used to the centerpiece of the miniature yard—a three foot statue of the Virgin Mary encased in half of a bathtub sticking out of the ground. The Bathtub Mary with her palms facing up, collecting two small puddles of rain water, and wearing a faded blue robe, had a look of incredible worry and concern. The expression was magnified by drops of the recent rain settling on her cheeks. It was the kind of scene, had there been no rain to offer a simple explanation, that would attract international media to record a miraculous display of a statue weeping. The inside of the bathtub was also painted blue, but darker than Mary’s robe due to the lack of wear from sunlight. Mary and her background of the inside of an old bathtub were in surprisingly good shape next to the weathered gnomes and neglected yard (assuming dirt with a few patches of grass can be called a yard), as if Mary received the special, regular attention of cleaning. The outside of the tub, however, received no such attention as its weathered white paint chipped away, revealing a dark brown-orange layer of rust. Maybe the gnomes looked away from Mary out of jealousy.

After a block of walking silently, Sarah said, Have you ever seen the woman who lives here? She stopped in front of the gnomes and Mary.

No. Mark slowed his walk, not stopping, hoping that Sarah would follow. After seeing that she wasn’t moving, he walked back and stood next to her. Why? Have you?

No, after all the times I’ve walked past this house, I’ve never seen her.

Then how do you know it’s a woman? Maybe it’s some old married couple or even a widower.

Look at this place. The wind chimes, the pinwheels, the freaky little elves all over the place. This is definitely the work of a woman, Sarah said confidently.

Ok, I’ll give you that. I’ll even give you that she lives by herself, but it wasn’t always that way.

Oh, really? Let’s hear it.

"She was once married, many years ago to her childhood sweetheart. They were happy, in love, all of