The Sins of Atonement

By Ahren Graham and Michael Tress

Army veteran Marsch Dantes seeks psychological help, but Doc has no clue as to the monster he’s about to face and where Marsch’s madness could lead them both.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu Publishing Services
• Release date: Jan 29, 2015
• ISBN: 9781483425429

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Sunday Afternoon, 3:00 p.m.

Blood hit the rim of the drain and, after a second or two, built enough momentum to roll off the edge and slither down the pipe. Leaning against the kitchen counter, the still drunken man ducked his throbbing head under the sink faucet. The water splashed against the back of the man’s neck, pouring down and off his crown. A screech rang out as his free hand finished tightening the knob, bringing the last bit of water to a trickle. The pain from his bleeding lip was immense, not to mention worrisome. He must have passed out not long ago, smashing his face on the granite counter. At least that’s what he deduced from the red smear on the floor next to the counter cabinets where he woke. Slowly, the man straightened, allowing his head to fall back, regaining his equilibrium. The moan was half a gasp of pain, half a sigh of relief.

The place was hotter than hell; the stifling humidity created a haze that hung heavy in the air. The air conditioning was broken, and the sound of the wobbling ceiling fan created an acoustical state of mental torment. There was junk everywhere, with the countertops covered in dishes that still had remnants of food. Beer cans, empty liquor bottles, and old pizza boxes littered the circular table behind him. All over the floor was garbage and discarded clothes. Even the refrigerator door hung open, the bulb flickering on, then off. Thank God most of the other lights in the house didn’t work. The only saving grace for this shithole was the shadows that masked the room covered in filth.

Looking out the window over the kitchen sink, he became aware of how his lawn emulated the disaster indoors. Waves of tall grass and shrubbery had overtaken the once-beautiful lawn. Patio furniture became ancient ruins amid the wild green jungle. The one-time picture-perfect deck, fit enough to cover Home & Garden magazine, was left with peeling paint and loosened nails. The screened-in porch now hung lazily, falling away from the corner overhangs; the mesh punctured with holes like torn tapestries. In all essence of the meaning, the place truly was a shithole. It disgusted him. The mere presence made him feel filthy and ashamed to his core.

The shaken individual picked up the remaining rocks glass of Black Label and gagged it down in three gulps. The alcohol immediately warmed his senses, suppressing the stench in his nostrils as well as the pain in his body. Even his mind felt a brief reprieve as a rush of lightheadedness came over him. Was this it? His beautiful lawn now lay in shambles. His country home was no longer habitable. He had to rid himself of this. If he stayed, then surely he would rot along with this surrounding ruin. He had waited long enough. He would have to put his ideas in motion.

Looking down to the counter, the man observed a thick manila folder lying next to the bottle of Jack. Attached to the folder was an off-white business card, his ticket to freedom, and the thought of it reminded him of the night before. He pushed himself away from the kitchen counter and now stood looking in the living room doorway. There was a hint of light peeking through each slit of the partially closed blinds, creating a ladder effect across the floor. Immediately his eyes shifted to the television in the corner. The channel that was on all night had lost reception, leaving the picture with sporadic spasms of static. That didn’t bother him, though; he hated television. The only reason the idiot box was on was to create a background noise so that his isolation wouldn’t drive him insane.

Removing his rested shoulder from the doorway frame, the man and his bottle of Jack slowly shuffled towards the cloth recliner in the center of the room. Along the way, he stumbled over several books that impeded his path. After regaining his balance, the man looked down at the obstructions. He wasn’t angered by the mere intrusions, as one might expect after the effects of alcohol took hold. No, the opened treasures that lay before him helped form a smile across the man’s face as he admired the immense amounts of knowledge. Unlike the television, he had always loved to read. Lately, he had been so engulfed with studying that he noticed his bookcase had become barren, as each piece of literature eventually found its way toward his favorite chair. One hardback in particular lay wide open, with its spine resting across the chair arm.

Shuffling his way toward the masterpiece, the intrigued individual looked down at the new project and reread the last highlighted notation. A smirk formed in remembrance of the novel’s worthy text. Nathaniel Hawthorn’s The Scarlet Letter was so revitalizing that he had spent the majority of the night dedicated to mapping out its study. Across the walls were quotations and passages compiled from many sleepless nights; however, last night’s work covered up a good portion of the wall’s previous outlines. He had created a web of thoughts with vast interworking so detailed that focusing on the notes caused his vision to blur. This was either from the knock his face took against the kitchen counter or the fact that he had not slept well in a while. Subconsciously, the man wanted to yawn, but the pain in his head impeded him from doing so. Instead, he closed his eyes, breathing several slow breaths and allowing his mind to push the discomfort aside. Refocused, he followed the diagram’s directional arrows from one point to the next, finally reaching the conclusion; his means to an end.

So much was running through his mind. It was swelling with ideas, and the beginnings of a hangover pulsated through his skull. The man had lost himself for a moment. He realized this while looking down at the picture in his hand, a picture he didn’t remember picking up. The onlooker wasn’t distressed by this distraction; rather, he was overcome by a warm feeling that surged through his veins. The woman staring back at him was immaculate, a timeless moment that captured her sincere smile, soft blue eyes, and cascading golden hair. Her gaze was warm and loving, one that wouldn’t judge his current state, his worn-down and drunken demeanor. When it was all said and done, everything from the picture, the wall, and the books, they all led back to that business card on the kitchen countertop.

Remembering the solution to his problems, the man returned to the kitchen, ending back at the sink. Looking out the window, he envisioned scenes of happiness from his wonderful past. There was his wife in the front yard, working in the garden. Off in the backfields was the shed, where he and his best friend used to work on vehicles. On the other side of the porch meshing was the patio, where they would all congregate for cookouts. All of this used to be so perfect. Even the inside morphed back to its once-beautiful state prior to his downfall. The sound of the kitchen chair being dragged across the wooden floor echoed in his head. He turned, expecting to see his wife sitting at the table. Instead, he fell back into reality and gazed at his dump of a kitchen with the table still covered in garbage, and his camo sack resting where his wife usually sat. That’s right, he recollected. The bag was already packed and ready to go. Once again he was reminded of last night’s work, the folder with the business card, and why he packed the camo sack in the first place. Right indeed, he thought, my ticket to freedom.

He had contemplated it over and over to the point where reality and ideology became inseparable. His workings from the prior evening had finally shown him what had to be done in order to change things, how to find peace. Life’s only comfort had been a bottle of Jack Daniels, which he now held upside down in the air. After one giant swig, the man removed his lips, turned the bottle away, and poured the remaining contents on the floor. If he were going to go through with this, then there would have to be no more booze. Staring down at the bottle of Black Label, the man felt the sentiment of this harsh realization. Almost as if stricken with pity, he then placed the empty container on the counter, while trembling with the idea of releasing its grasp. If that had to go, then this house would have to be destroyed too, along with that piece of shit yard. The combination of internal angst mixed with alcohol finally reached their boiling point. Suddenly, his frustrations exploded as the man’s arm swung over the counter, sending the empty bottle flying across the kitchen. This resulted in the eruption of glass shattering against the far wall. The broken shards danced across the wooden floor as if a bag of marbles had been emptied. Seconds later, there was silence.

Panting heavily after the sudden attack, the man wiped away sweat and spit from his upper lip. The humidity was suffocating, and that worthless fan constantly hummed in his ears. How he wished he could ease the torment, but everything around him fed the cognitive horrors. He squeezed his eyes as tightly as he could while pressing both hands against his temples, providing a temporary relief from his newly arrived hangover. The tormented man would squeeze out the mental anguish. Then, along with the effects of alcohol, he stumbled and fell against the table. The agony continued to show in his grimacing face when suddenly everything stopped, leaving only static. He opened his eyes, exposing a ravenous stare. The room was still, he was still, and the reminder of his freedom still lay on the counter. Yes, it all made perfect sense. He needed recovery, and that was a several-hours’ drive. God as his witness, he had been patient far too long, and now was the time to put his ideas in motion.

Realizing that time was precious, he hurried to the stove, tilted it forward, and ripped out the gas lines from the wall. Immediately, the smell of gas started to fill the room. Bags and boxes flew in the air as the man rummaged through cabinets, and then he searched through the drawers, finally grasping the roll of aluminum foil. He then turned his ambitious attention to the opened refrigerator, knocking the contents off the shelves until he found what he was looking for.

Taking the foil, he furiously wrapped the concoction until the entire roll had been undone. The aluminum casing was then put in the microwave, the door slammed shut, and the cook button pressed on high. The crazed individual then grabbed the camo sack off the kitchen chair and threw it over his shoulder. A few seconds later, the force of this motion slammed the chair against the floor. It wasn’t until he heard the popping noise that the man realized he only had seconds to escape. The sound of sparks exploded from within the microwave. He then spun around and grabbed his keys and subsequently the folder from the countertop. The sound of his shoes echoed off the porch steps onto the gravel as the delay of the screen door slammed behind. Soon he had thrown the sack into the truck cab, shut the door to the cabin, and started the engine. Once inside, he removed the card from the folder and placed it in his t-shirt pocket. Listening to the purring engine and staring at the revving needle in the dash, the man realized there was no turning back. Things were in motion.

His last act was to light a cigarette. As he flipped his Zippo shut, he put the lever in drive, and simultaneously the two puffed smoke. Several hundred yards down the gravel path, an explosion erupted from behind. The man remained calm, as he looked into his rear-view mirror to witness a ball of fire and smoke engulfing a major piece of his past. Now it was the journey to the city. He had to find this doctor.

Tuesday, 9:16 a.m.

The traffic light turned green, allowing the blue Prius in front to enter the intersection. The driver followed, trying to keep a respectable distance while attempting to ignore the chaos surrounding him. There were pedestrians everywhere, cluttered and crowded sidewalks of interweaving people. Some paused at crossways, others just ignored the oncoming vehicles. In each direction, there were three lanes of bumper-to-bumper traffic. Motorists had just enough time to squeeze through one intersection before getting stuck at the next. He almost had to turn the radio up all the way in order to drown out the sounds of acceleration, squealing brakes, and the constant blaring of horns. The hardest challenge in traveling through this new frontier was to block out all of these dangers while struggling to read street signs in conjunction with the directions.

According to the map, there were only two more blocks to go. Naturally, he was stuck at another stoplight and felt the urge to light a cigarette. He looked out the passenger mirror and blew out a cloud of smoke; he saw an endless row of vehicles in the right lane. Anger now pressed against his temples, realizing his turn would most likely be impossible. God, he hated this urban sect of the world. How could people live like this? The light turned green, and at the same time, the man flicked on his turn signal. As expected, nobody even acknowledged his need to merge. The line of cars in the right lane crept past, ignoring the flashing turn signal. His time was running out, and he thought that if he were to survive here, he would have to take matters in his own hands. These Mercedes and Smart cars were much smaller, and damned if they’d be a match against his GMC 2500. Signal or no signal, he was getting over.

The blast of horns rang for a good ten seconds. The driver waved half out of courteously, half as a fuck you. What now, assholes? he thought. A moment later, he spun the wheel to the right and accelerated through the turn. This was his street. He looked at the directions one last time, putting the address to memory. He leaned closer to the windshield to see the building numbers and recognized that he was nearly there. The truck rolled up along building 2406, and right next to it was a blue sign with a white letter P. He turned the vehicle down the driveway and into the subterranean parking garage. He stopped at the lever blocking his entry, hit the button, and took a ticket stub. The lever rose, giving the GMC access down the tightly confined levels of the underworld.

After circling down four levels, he found a spot, having to pull in three separate times to make the not-so-city-friendly vehicle fit. Finally, after hours of being on the road, he brought the truck to a much-needed rest; especially in this weather, the engine could easily overheat. The man squeezed out of the GMC, grabbing the camo sack from the cab, and headed for the elevator. He looked again at his notes. The receptionist, who sounded very attractive, had told him the thirtieth floor, room 3005. He pressed the Up button, and less than a minute later, the entrance to the elevator chimed as the solid steel doors opened. He entered the empty car, decorated by surrounding mirrors, and pressed the number 30. The trip up was rather quick, which demonstrated the financial make-up of the modern building. All in all, the ride was relatively painless, with only three stops to allow other people on and off. When the doors opened at his destination, he excused himself politely and then wedged his way out into the lobby.

The solid steel doors shut, leaving the man all to himself. Immediately facing him was a plaque numbered 3005, hanging next to double French-style doors, one of which was already open. Taking the invitation, he went through the wooden frames into the lavish lounge area. He could see that the dapper décor was obviously meant to make an impression. Directly ahead was an oval desk with dark wood and marble countertops, elevated to a level for resting elbows. Behind the counter sat the stunning receptionist, obviously the one he had to spoke to. He recalled her angelic voice but felt it hardly did justice to her resounding beauty. Throwing her long black hair over her shoulder and pulling her dark square glasses toward her brown eyes, the woman zeroed in. Her attention was so engaging that it gave him a sense of anxiety. She smiled, showing a row of perfectly white teeth that were complimented by the gloss radiating off her lips.

Good afternoon, sir. How can I be of assistance?

I’m the one who called yesterday to confirm my 10 a.m. appointment.

Oh yes, I remember. You were so pleasant to talk to. You are a little early, but please go ahead in through the double doors to the doctor’s office. He is running a tad behind. May I get you anything to drink, perhaps a cappuccino or a bottle of Evian?

The man thought a moment and said with a wide grin, Thank you very much for the offer. However, I drove through the night and had more than my share of coffees. At $150 an hour, I don’t think I want to spend my time wasting toilet water.

The receptionist gave a brief laugh at the joke. Well, if you change your mind, you know who to ask. Oh, and don’t worry about the water bill, we take care of that, she finished with a wink.

Changing to a concerned tone, he asked, The doctor is running late? Is everything all right?

The doctor is quite fine, she answered. His car is another story. Apparently, he found his tire slashed this morning. Welcome to the big city. But don’t you worry. Your chargeable time won’t start till he gets here. You can wait in his office till he arrives. May I take your bag?

I appreciate the offer, but I will just keep it on me. Plus, I have something in it for the doctor.

I understand completely, she said. Please follow me. Her hands motioned to the massive stained oak entryway. I’ll make sure the doctor knows you are waiting. If you need anything at all, please use the intercom. The receptionist then shut the doors, leaving the patient all to himself.

Tuesday, 10:03 a.m.

The office was warm and softly lit. It created an aura of comfort and tranquility, one that could immediately cause a person to doze off. Well, unless you’re like me and recently consumed an exorbitant amount of cigarettes and coffee. That’s not to say that this morning’s need for stimulants was to push my worn-out body into overdrive. I solved that problem yesterday when I stopped early to sleep at some rundown motel. When I say rundown, I mean a place that time