The House of Dust

By Leo Marcorin

Imagine you're isolated in the desert, the least inhabited place on earth, and your guilty past keeps hunting you, following you endlessly like a Shadow. Now, imagine that you wake up from this never-ending nightmare, only to realize it was never a dream and that the idle desert was very much alive! Sort of...

 

The dying wish f

• Language: English
• Publisher: Da Dusty Door
• Release date: Feb 12, 2023
• ISBN: 9783982499918

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Copyright © 2023 De Dusty Door – Leonardo Marcorin de Oliveira

All rights reserved.

The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living, dead, living-dead, or locked in the House of Dust, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

No part of this book may be reproduced or used in any manner without the prior written permission of the copyright owner, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

To request permissions, contact the publisher: [e-mail]

The House of Dust – 1st Edition, February 2023

Paperback: ISBN 978-3-9824999-0-1

eBook: ISBN 978-3-9824999-1-8

Edited by Payton Ressen

Cover art by Alejandro Baigorri

To her.

The First loop

THE ROAD TRIP

Mark

Something was after Mark, and he knew what: Doom!

That’s why he pressed on the accelerator, roared the engine, slightly curving the wheels and letting the road nib the blackness of his tires.

The highway was desolated in the night, but Mark knew that the Shadow was right behind him. He knew it on his bones!

There were pine trees all around—Mark never knew they could bend on each other, like a tunnel, yet his claustrophobia never lied. His father’s truck headlight shone like a stage light, pointing to the center of the tunnel, the end.

Another brake, a skid. This time, Mark had some trouble taking back the control, but he did, for his life depended upon it.

Suddenly he saw it!

The Shadow was right after the curve.

Vrooom;

Mark braked;

Squeeak.

The pick-up skated...

Mark lost grip of the wheel.

Plump!

... and flipped.

It turned once;

Twice;

Forever.

Bash!

Silence

More silence.

The sound of fire cracking and bending the car metal brought Mark back to reality.

Mark didn’t know where he was, for the ceiling was the floor, and the seat was a wall.

It hurt everywhere; blood was all over the broken glass.

The smell of rubber and the fire burning the escaping diesel was nauseating.

What a... Mark thought, trying to move without pressing his palms against the glass.

"One last shot!" the Shadow whispered; its voice felt like needles.

Mark tried to sit, but his leg was stuck. He looked through the bashed windshield, expecting to see the road or the Shadow watching him. Instead, he saw himself lying in his bedroom, holding his stash zip-lock. The car was no longer on the highway but in the middle of his old flat.

What a...

Mark watched himself through the broken glass, about to chase the dragon, to cook a shot of heroin. That was a memory. That had happened before many times.

Stop this, you moron! Mark screamed to himself, his old self, ready to get high.

Suddenly, someone shouted, "Mark, where are you?"

Dad? Mark whispered and tried to move again, to no use. His foot was smashed against the fuselage. So, he screamed with a cracked, flaccid voice, "Dad, get out of here! The Shadow will..."

"Mark, where are you?" another voice screamed. It was Samantha, Mark’s younger sister.

Not again! Get out of here, both of you!

Yet Mark could only see through the broken windshield. Instead of seeing his father and sister, he watched himself lying in bed, about to get high, like any other night. As Mark used to, his old self lingered, rolling the needle between his index and thumb, trying to find a reason not to use it.

Why are you rubbing this needle when I need you? Mark screamed to his old self, but the memory couldn’t hear him.

"There you are! Paul, Mark’s father, screamed as his face appeared upside down in the window. We’ll get you out of there, buddy."

Mark was back on the highway.

No, Dad. Not again! Mark whispered and noticed another headlight coming from the road. It was a truck, an enormous fuel truck. The driver couldn’t conceive the overturned pick-up after the bend.

Mark watched his father trying to reach him from the window, but it was too far; their fingers couldn’t even touch. 

Paul was stuck in the window, trying to get rid of the bent metal in his way. When he noticed the truck’s light reaching from the road, Paul realized that there was nothing he could do to save himself or his son. Samantha, Mark’s younger sister, watched the scene paralyzed in the middle of the road, unaware of the coming vehicle.

Dad, get out of here, please!

Hold on tight, champ! Things will get bumpy now.

Those were his last words before the shock.

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No! Mark shouted and woke up in his brother’s Jaguar.

"Finally, beggar! I hope me opening the hood didn’t wake up the Sleeping Beauty." John grunted at the sight of his sweaty young brother. 

Mark panted, not being able to breathe, despite the hundred and fifty-kilometer wind crashing against his face and hair.

It was a dream, just a recurrent nightmare. Yet, as in the days before, Mark woke from one hell to another, only this time he couldn’t pinch himself out of it.

The Rodriguez brothers were on the road, on their holy mission to fulfill their mother’s dying wish. They drove for two days straight, yet they never had an actual conversation. Being together was a very objectified affair; they bore no relationship with one another, just indifference. In short, despite having the same family name or sharing the same womb, they were strangers.

It was the hottest summer Mark had ever witnessed; the days were stupidly warm, and the nights sweat-wet. Nonetheless, the heat wasn’t the most unbearable aspect of the trip but his older brother John.

To make things worse, the brothers were driving through a desert area with such an intense sun that it was inadvisable to keep looking at the bright, infinite sand around. Mark joked that the kilometer counter could only be the thermostat, for when the km’s went up, so did the heat, and John was a vicious driver.

To wake up scared from a nightmare due to the unbearable wind summed up his lousy mood, so Mark was determined to ignore John for the rest of that track. The unstoppable air blew sand to his face, hair, beard, eyes, nose, and ears, making his skin itchy and dry. 

Besides being forced to travel with John and his Jaguar’s convertible hood down, the younger brother felt anxious and nauseated by the detox. His body burnt out, his stomach ached, and his sour skin hurt with the touch. Everything itched so intensely that Mark wanted to scratch himself until he ripped open. His mind couldn’t shake the memory of that syringe resting on his apartment floor.

Since his teenage days, Mark has been fighting against drug addiction due to the trauma of his father and sister’s death. The memory of their death was something Mark dreamed about every time, more frequently in the last week after his mother, Hera, passed away.

Every time he thought about how they died, always the look in his father’s eye the moment before the truck hit them. Mark felt responsible for Paul and Samantha’s death since he created the situation that got them killed. It was the worst mistake of his life, a mistake with an unpayable cost. The memory of that night, the cold, and the dark highway felt like the whole world was falling apart.

Naturally, everything changed after the accident.

Mark became isolated and depressive. At first, he couldn’t eat or sleep, and the drugs his psychiatrist prescribed barely got him through the day. Ironically, the drugs only produced the feeling that everything could be fixed with a pill.

Yet, the drugs were merely a band-aid, and the therapy, and later the rehab jokes. Fifteen years had passed since the accident, and nothing ever cured his pain. Mark got his father and sister killed, and there were no drugs or sweet words that could fix that.

Hera, his mother, had just died of cancer a week before, and that was the event that triggered that uncomfortable road trip. Despite the doctors giving Hera a few months to live, she endured for three years, during which Mark didn’t drink a sip of beer. In fact, he barely smoked during the years he became her caregiver.

But in the end, she died, and Mark couldn’t resist his urges. One single shot brought back all his addiction manias and the chemical need all over again. The clean years were gone, with that syringe lying on the floor by his bed.

The Voice said I would feel like flying, but It lied. The Shadow always lies, Mark thought. 

Mark wanted a cigarette badly, but John made it clear that smoking in the car was prohibited. To hell with that stupid Jaguar! John was more interested in bragging about his shining little convertible toy than talking about their mother’s death.

John was so annoyingly impatient, except when driving. The handsome son, sharp as a Japanese knife, always in tailored suits and imported shoes, wearing fancy accessories like watches, gold rings, and sunglasses. John could be a magazine model, but he chose to be a lawyer instead; a bragging accomplished lawyer. Still, Mark thought of him more like a preacher, noisy and loud, saying buzz words and cliches to sound smart. If only John could listen as much as he talked, he probably wouldn’t be divorcing.

Mark was an obvious counterpoint: long black hair and beard, curled and messy, packed in a slim starving-like body. Mark never cared about fancy clothes, for nothing actually matched his pale skin, so he always dressed in black, with jeans or flannel. Due to his appearance and fashion, John annoyingly called him a beggar. The only thing Mark admired about himself was his low, hoarse voice, which he barely used.

"You look annoyed, little brother," John shouted, smiling sarcastically.

Mark wanted to close the hood, stop that fucking wind on his face, and have a bit of peace. Yet, he remained in silence.

John turned his attention back to the road, laughing.

Ah, well. I better try to enjoy this situation, Mark thought and tried to look around, searching for something to occupy his mind, but the wind and the sun’s reflection on the sand hurt his bare eyes. He tried covering the light with his hand, but it was hard to look straight at anything.

The scenery was as incredible as a western movie: a clear blue sky with cluttered, thin white clouds, barely transparent, strolling lazily on the horizon, moving slowly with the wind like a painter delicately brushing a canvas. The blood-stained colored sand was everywhere, on the wind, rocks, and the flat ground. Like giant hands, the enormous rock mountains fisted the air, trying to touch the clouds above. The wind blew the rare bushes like children do with dandelions. 

The humble road was barely visible, like a thin silver thread over a large ochre garment; wearied, polished by the sand and wind, slightly elliptical. The sand covered the edges, making it impossible to tell the road from the desert. Luckily, there was no traffic, so John kept the Jaguar in the middle to not fall into the sand trap. 

The air was dry and tasteless, making Mark’s tongue feel like a furry animal.

Inevitably, John reduced the speed and closed the hood, probably tired of the turbulence. Still, the wind hit the windshield like a waterfall.

Later, the sun got stuck in the middle of the horizon, reflecting like water on the road. Soon it would be evening, and they were nowhere near civilization.

It’s getting late, John said.

I have water if you want, Mark said mechanically.

John shook his head.

Are you sure? I have enough for both of us, maybe more, Mark said.

John was no longer paying attention. Mark drank and wondered why his older brother never accepted anything he offered like his things were somehow impure.

They’ve been driving for more than three hours since the last stop, and all they found so far were rocks. There was no doubt they got lost at the previous intersection two hours before.

Can you check your phone? The NAVI doesn’t seem to work, John asked.

I don’t have a phone, Mark answered.

You what? How can you not have a phone? Are you a hermit or something? Fucking beggar. Here, try to make this shit work. John threw his Blackberry on Mark’s lap, repeating shallowly, I don’t have a phone! Such a moron!

The phone didn’t work.

Well then, we’ll keep driving forward, hoping for the best.

After a long silence, John turned on the radio, looking for a distraction, but there was only static. After some buttons here and there, John changed to his CD player, and ridiculous music started to play.

Maroon 5? Seriously? Mark said.

"You don’t like This Love? Everyone’s singing this one. Oh, I forgot. You’re a rock boy. Sorry, but I think I have only some Audioslave or Creed."

Creed sucks! 

Mark wouldn’t listen anyway, for he couldn’t stop thinking about his dreams, drug urge, and the fuel tank mark reaching a quarter. 

John seemed anxious, mumbling out loud. 

Can I help with something? Do you want to rest? I can drive if you want, Mark said.

You’ll never drive this baby. I was just wondering why I agreed… You know what? Never mind, John said.

Mark knew what John was about to say, for he thought about it repeatedly: WHY ARE WE MAKING THIS TRIP?

The answer was plain: guilt. 

John was guilty of not giving a shit about his mother’s death.

Mark was guilty of killing his mother’s husband, Paul.

It was dark when John stopped, jumping out of the car to the desert, stretching his eyes around, but there was no sign of civilization. It would be a long way back to the last stop, Saint Cafasso, at least four hours. Up to that point, they were gambling with the fuel tank.

Do you have a map? Mark said.

No! Why would I have a map when I have the NAVI?

Is the NAVI working? Mark asked, and by John’s lack of response, he understood his younger brother’s point.

Mark carried on after a long pause, We’ve been lost since the forked path...

"Do you think? Genius!" 

I saw a sign earl—

Yes, it said ‘Esperanza.’ It’s probably a joke.

I checked the map on the hotel, but I don’t remember seeing a city called Esperanza around the coast. We should drive back to Saint Cafasso and try again tomorrow. The fuel may not be enough, but at least you will get some phone signal.

Coward. We move forward. Get your ass inside the car. John spat on the floor and got in.

What if we deviated too far from the coast? Shouldn’t we get back now when the damage is not so big?

"Damage is not so big. Who speaks like that? Get your ass back in the car. We move forward." John slammed the door and turned on the engine.

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The brothers drove past the point of no return. The gauge was about to touch reserve, so going back was no longer a choice. Mark spent the last hour staring at the tank marker, trying to use the power of his mind to push the needle back up; it didn’t work.

The dusk shone red and orange on the horizon, a beautiful sunset.

At last, there was darkness and nothing else.

Come on, fucking desert! Mother was right, for I am adrift in a sea of perdition. A sea of meaningless sand is more like it! John shouted, punching the wheel. 

When did you talk to Mom? Mark said.

"I didn’t. It was from her letter," John said.

What did she write?

Never mind.

One of Mark’s interests was to know what that letter said, but John never escaped one complete sentence at a time.

On the other hand, John’s only interest was to finish the trip ASAP, as he used to say. Mark overheard him talking on the phone about a trial coming in a few days. Trying to make some conversation and perhaps learn more about John’s life, Mark asked, "Are you worried about this trial of yours?"

How do you know about that? John raised his guard.

I heard you speaking on the phone with your partner.

John didn’t answer for a while, ruminating about that answer. In the end, he said after a sigh, "Sneaking bastard. It’s not a trial but my first appearance; Amanda is suing me."

Your ex-wife? If this is part of the divorce, can’t you reschedule?

John seemed to try and swallow a giant ball of dirt, saying shallowly, It’s not just the divorce, and I made a... Forget about it.

John turned up the radio, ending the conversation.

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The evening quickly gave space to a dark night, much like Mark’s nightmare. They were tired and hungry, for that route was long due.

Try my phone again, John said, breaking the silence.

No signal, Mark said.

Maybe we should drive back until we have a signal and call someone to pick us up.

John, you’re not making any sense. We can’t drive much more than fifty kilometers. You should eat something here. 

Mark pulled out of his backpack a sealed bottle of water and two energy bars, and for the first time, John accepted, stopping the car to think and eat. The cold desert wind felt like it was cutting Mark’s skin outside the vehicle.

You’re right; we need to press on. We’ll find this Esperanza city. I know it in my bones. John looked focused.

If you want, I can drive while you rest, Mark said.

No. I will turn on the cruise control. Yeah, that is right! My baby has cruise control. How cool is that? She’s awesome, John said.

She? Mark said.

"Mark, my car is a she. My baby."

They went back to the car. A light beeped in the panel, and the car started to drive by itself. The radio was off for the rest of the way, a shy attempt to save fuel.

The Jaguar’s neon light cut the pitch-black night.

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Mark tried to relax, but his mind kept shuffling his agonizing memory deck. His neurosis seemed to choose the time when he cared for his mother.

After Hera’s diagnosis, Mark put his life on pause. It was a sacrifice he owed her, a debt for his father and sister’s deaths. The renegade son was by her side when she got the bad news, while John never picked up the phone, learning about her leukemia a week later.

John never signaled much concern about her disease. Mark was all she had.

Mark graduated in computer science at the community college and worked full-time in a small software company. He quickly finished his studies without much effort, spending most of his time high or playing underground gigs with his rock band. Mark’s job also came easy since, for whatever reason, his boss Susanne was fond of him. During Hera’s treatment, Susanne gave Mark all the support, allowing him to work from his home office, and he promised to be back at the office as soon as possible.

At the start, Mark drove his mother a few times per week for six weeks due to the chemo. After the treatment was done, Mark still needed to be at his mother’s house all the time, which was on the other side of the city. Finally, when he grew tired of wasting time and money in traffic, he moved into his mother’s house, promising to be by her side until the end.

In the end, he lived with his mother for three years, leaving his apartment to dust. When Mark was not taking care of her, he was behind a black computer screen, typing code after code for hours throughout long nights.

The long three years of caretaking had been a challenge. There was no time for drugs, guilt, pain, parties, band, or friends. There were only his mother and lines of white-font codes over a black tube screen, both to which Mark dedicated himself entirely. 

Still, Hera was a terrible and ungrateful mother. 

When Hera was in a good mood, she plotted the lighthouse trip, the one Mark and John were doing at that moment. 

You must drive, not fly. Remember that! Hera used to say. "And take my ashes to the lighthouse, to rest with Paul."

Hera constantly had talked about happier times before Paul’s death, not minding distorting a few facts here or there. Mark always remembered his childhood, like when he and John used to play with Legos, creating stories, monsters, heroes, and damsels in distress. They used to play on the swing, hide and seek, and John had even taught Mark how to read. 

Those were indeed good times.

But then Samantha was born, and John became distant and cold. 

The truth was that Hera was a terrible mother, except to John, her favorite son.

Mark indulged Hera to keep telling him about the lighthouse trip or their infancy, for the other option was dreadful. When Hera wasn’t in a good mood, she was terribly mean. She irrationally hated Mark deep in her guts for reasons he never understood well. Maybe it was the guilt Mark bore about his father and sister’s death, but there was always something more. Hera mistreated Mark constantly, throwing things at him sometimes, calling him names like "abomination or darkness puppet." 

Still, Mark loved her unconditionally. What more could he do? Hera was his mother. 

John never showed up during the treatment, barely calling to check in. At first, Mark called him every day to report their mother’s status, then every week, and finally once a month. John was always busy, inattentive, rushing to meetings or customers, even after work hours. She understands, right? John used to say guiltless. 

The prodigal son always had something more important than seeing his mother, running from that situation like the devil runs from the cross. But the worst was having no excuses to explain to Hera why John wasn’t there. 

It was selfish to admit, but when she became delusional, Mark had peace. Hera became docile, tired, smiling, and mumbling things about Paul and John, sometimes acting like they were there in the room.

It was a long and dreadful death sentence, and Mark remained clean while it lasted.

Mark was tired of thinking about death, the past, and what he did wrong. The waiting was over; Mark paid his dues with his family. From there on, Mark was determined to think only about the future and be happy. That trip to the lighthouse was the last stop.

No more living in the past! Mark murmured to himself.

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The full, lonely moon shone pale on the desert surface, different shades of gray. Billions of stars, constellations after constellations, blinking infinitely in that clear desert sky. There was no city light, and one could easily see the Milky Way stretching above like a rainbow. The bright spots connected, forming God-like creatures—Cassiopeia, Orion, the eagle, the dog, the lion, and the bear. Mark felt humbly small, for he was just a myriad creature trapped in a pale blue dot in the universe, waiting for his own mortality to bite him with cold fangs. 

It was beautiful but tragic.

The Jaguar, on the other hand, was indifferent to all of that, for it was just a machine. It only knew how to drive ahead at a fixed speed, humming his shiny expansive motor and scratching his large wheel on the pavement. 

The night brought the cold in, cutting through the vehicle’s metal and plastic body like a sharp blade. Still, the brothers endured the cold, for there was not enough fuel for the heater. Inside the car, there was only silence. Silence and that nauseating smell of fresh pine from the air freshener. At first, it was such a pleasant fresh smell, but after enduring it for hours, it tasted like a public bathroom.

John looked clearly tired, but he kept his composure like a good businessman. It was his trademark to always look reliable, even as a child. Hera molded John with her spoils, making him aware that he was exceptional, the center of the universe. The other kids were just ordinary. 

But the worst part was that John was indeed unique: great grades, exceptional swimmer with medals and all, kissing all the pretty girls, and a good Christian like Mother used to say. 

At least Mark wasn’t alone. He had Samantha, and she was always there for him. John ignored them both, mainly her, like he resented Samantha for being born.

That made Mark and Samantha best friends. They did everything together, like eating cereal, watching cartoons, and playing with the other kids. They even shared the same room for many years.

Opposite Hera, Paul was fair, for he spoiled no one. He was Mark’s hero, the perfect father. Paul used to read to Mark and Samantha before sleep, taking them to camp on the lake, talking about Mark’s anxieties and the constant acceptance he urged from his mother. The camping was what Mark missed the most, sleeping in tents and roasting marshmallows. John never cared about camping with them, for he was a boy scout, and he knew it all. 

But that was the past! 

Maybe John and I will get to know each other well on the trip, perhaps even be friends.

Or maybe John would be disgusted about my addiction and back me off, as usual.

Fucking desert! We’re almost on the reserve. Come on! If we don’t find a city in the next twenty minutes…. John sounded agitated, so Mark rechecked the Blackberry, but there was no signal.

The dark and stillness of the desert made Mark’s gears turn again, shuffling more memories—memories about the Voice, the Shadow.

The drugs were not the only thing wrong with Mark after his father’s accident. He always felt something or someone with him, like a spirit. Then, to his surprise, the spirit talked back at him one day. 

It happened two years after Paul’s accident. Mark was on Prozac, so groggy that he could barely hear the shrinks during therapy. One day, his mother broke her ankle in the kitchen and took Vicodin for the pain. That was the first time the Voice spoke.

Take a pill. It will make you fly.

That’s how Mark’s addiction started, occasionally stealing a few pills here and there. 

Mark snapped when his mother stopped taking Vicodin, already hooked on that chemical imbalance. He’d started to steal small items from the house to buy more Vicodin or Oxy, any accessible opioid. 

When he was eighteen, the Voice encouraged him to taste cocaine, and from there on it was a downslope.

Mark could not avoid it. The mixing of antidepressants and other drugs made him hallucinate. That was the only time he got to see his father and sister. Still, the depression took over harder, and every time Mark was high, he wished to die, to end it all.

The only drug that seemed to take his pain away momentarily was heroin. He felt like flying every time, mindless, regretless. But that feeling never lasted, and the next time he always wanted more and more. The Voice was ever so present, talking to him all the time—a high pitched, sadistic sound.

At first, Mark thought he was losing his mind, which was okay; the drugs must have done something to his nervous system.

The Voice used to say, "Just one shot! All your problems will vanish! You will feel like flying… So much lighter." But that was a lie, for the Shadow always lies. After he’d woken up from getting high, he never felt lighter, only more anxious or angry. It was a cycle: more heroin to control the anger after he was high.

In his twenties, Mark overdosed. He’d woken up in a hospital bed, in a cold room, disoriented. John was the only one who came to the hospital, saying, "Die if you want, just don’t fuck with our lives again. Do yourself a favor and do it right next time!" Hera stayed at home and barely spoke to Mark for a month after the overdose. That was about the same time John graduated from law school. Mark was unemployed, doing chores here and there, balancing his mediocre life with his addiction and money problems. It was a moment in his life when only two things made sense: drugs and his rock band. 

But then, a few years before Hera’s diagnosis, Mark met a girl that turned his life around. Mark didn’t use any heavy drugs for a few years, keeping his urges on smoking and drinking. The Voice spoke less those years. He graduated in computer science and got a serious job. One day Mark learned that the girl was cheating on him and, after an ugly split up, Mark started using again, only stopping when Hera got sick.

On a stormy June evening, Hera died in a hospital room, surrounded by beeping machines, a few meters away from Mark’s overdose bed eight years before. The sky was black outside, for a summer storm was forming, and it lightened and thundered like the roar of a lion. 

Hera was a fraction of a woman. The charming redhead was consumed by a hunger disease, becoming just a pale skeleton with cracked skin and white hair. A breathing tube replaced her green-stoned golden neckless, the cameo matching her lovely green eyes.

Her lucidity came and went that day. She’d usually asked for John, but she would sleep the next moment. Mark called John several times, but he never answered the phone. 

The hospital room was white and cold. There was no wardrobe nor a dresser, only a single hospital bed, and a bunch of medical equipment taking up most of the area, leaving space only for a single uncomfortable chair. There was no TV or radio, so the sound of thunder and the wind crashing water unto the window was all distraction Mark had. He sat for hours holding Hera’s fragile hand in silence while the nurses came and went a handful of times to check her vitals and adjust her morphine.

Before dying, Hera spoke one last time. "Paul, my love, take me to the farm."

Before the machines started to increase the beeping sound, singing the death song, Mark saw the Shadow for the first time. 

What came first, the Shadow or Hera’s death? Mark wasn’t sure.

The creature stood in the darkest corner, bearing no distinctive form but a black pitch, like a hole or a rend on the wall. It moved slightly like a dusty fog but black—the absence of light and life. 

Mark raced up in shock, horrified, and the moment he let her mother’s hand go, she started to convulse. The machines beeped in sync with her fragile body, crashing against the hospital bed like a drum. 

The doctors rushed in, but Mark couldn’t look away from the Shadow.

Hera stopped.

Thunder roared.

And death closed Hera’s eyes at last.

The wind had crashed rain violently on the window, sounding like someone was knocking from the outside. 

Mark finally was able to speak; instead, he screamed in horror.

Confused by grief, the doctors took Mark away from the room. Still, no use, for the Shadow was out there too, in the corridor.

I’m delirious. It can only be a hallucination!

The doctors spoke to him, but Mark couldn’t hear them. He could only hear the Shadow murmuring in the corner, "One last shot."

Mark had shivered, and the cold sweat ran down his spine.

A fat nurse kept dragging Mark around, giving him water, a pill, and even taking him to talk to the hospital psychiatrist. The Shadow was everywhere, constantly repeating, "One last shot."

The nurses and the psychologist didn’t believe him, for there was no speaking Shadow in the corner. Mark was obviously in shock, so they tried to calm him down the best they could. 

When Mark could speak again, a funeral agent approached him to organize the funeral service according to his mother’s will and insurance coverage. 

The Shadow was always there, always in the darkest corner. 

Mark tried calling John one last time, and to his surprise, John had picked up the phone, Who’s this? Oh, you. I am busy now. What do you want?

Mark was terrified, mourning, and angry, so he replied, "Mother’s dead. The funeral service is next week." Click. The phone was off.

"One last shot," the Shadow repeated.

After Mark finished signing the documents, he’d left the hospital, feeling like everything was another nightmare. Mark couldn’t stand being alone at that moment, so he drove straight to a bar. He never ached so much for a shot of heroin and its sweet blackout. 

After drinking a bit too much, Mark’s conscience faded away. The following day he recollected only a few glimpses of that night. He remembered being in a fight, someone driving him home, then sleeping in front of his old apartment because he couldn’t find the keys. 

The manager woke Mark up and let him inside his apartment with the master key.

There was a vague memory of him getting inside his apartment, a dusty and unfamiliar place, like stepping hundred years into a distant past. He remembered the dust rising from the carpet with every step he took and how his supermarket-furnished living room was covered in layers of more dust. 

The Shadow waited for him in the living room, saying, "One last shot."

Mark remembered going straight to his room and falling into his bed, spraying dust up in the air.

The Shadow was there too, repeating, "One last shot."

Mark remembered shutting his eyes but not sleeping. Rolling in the dust left to right, left to right, left to right again. 

The storm struck powerful lightning in the air, lighting up Mark’s room every other minute.

The neighborhood dogs wouldn’t stop barking even after Mark’s groggy shouts. Mark’s head ached so hard that he thought it would explode.

More thunder had come and gone, lighting the dusty wind, flashing blue, making the dark, peaceful moments of silence even darker.

"One last shot."

No! Mark remembered shouting, sinking his head on his dusty bed and closing his eyes. Leave me alone!

But sleep never came.

It was pointless. Mark felt his whole body pushed by an incredible force against the bed. His chest pulsed with ever more accelerating heartbeats.

"One last shot."

A silence.

Thunder.

One last shot.

Fuck it, Mark remembered saying or thinking; he wasn’t sure. But he reached his nightstand with his right arm and grabbed the rusty metallic container inside. 

His fingers worked automatically. Mark pulled out the syringe, a lighter, a metallic spoon, and a small Ziplock. Everything was quick and efficient, and before Mark could notice, he finished burning the heroin on the spoon and sucking the brown liquid into an old syringe. 

That was the moment Mark remembered the most; somehow, he felt clarity. He sat on his bed, still holding the syringe in his skinny fingers.

The Shadow kept whispering, One last shot.

Mark must have waited several minutes, rolling the tiny needle between his thumb and index. That was his ritual, every time, he tried to find a way not to use it. 

Something within his chest seemed to shout, "Stop this, you moron! Why are you rubbing this needle when I need you?"

After wondering a thousand reasons to keep the needle away, Mark felt the sharp pressure against his arm muscle, and the fluid flowed in like a breeze.

The moment before Mark squeezed the plunger, the Shadow in the corner of the room whispered, "One last shot."

"Screw you!" Mark had barked and sunk on his bed into nothingness. He’d looked up, watching the lightning still flashing on the walls, falling into the void that was his mind. Everything turned black, and Mark felt like he was submerging in a pool of dark water, with the gravity pulling him down, deeper and deeper. 

Fighting gravity was pointless, so he let it go. 

The following day Mark saw the needle resting on the floor by his bed and knew what had happened. It took a few days for him to remember all, to pick up the pieces. His chest hurt, but besides that, he felt fine. 

That morning, Mark lingered in bed for hours, weighing his sinful soul against his feather deeds, wondering if he finally deserved to be happy.

The next day or two passed like hours, just like more memories. 

First, he’d met John at Hera’s funeral; three days later, the brothers hit the road, driving toward Hera’s dying wish, the lighthouse. 

The lighthouse was the threshold, the last chapter of an awfully long book. After that enterprise, Mark would be guilt-free, finally ready to live his life.

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What is that? John shook Mark’s thoughts back to the desert.

It’s a tunnel. 

There was a massive mountain at the top of a hill. The road crossed the rocks by a narrow glen. It was hard to see how much the hill extended in the dark, but Mark guessed kilometers long. 

John entered the tunnel, and the darkness became darker. 

Immediately after crossing it, Mark saw a few pale lights deeper in the crater they descended, like stars but dimmer. There was something strange about those lights Mark could feel in his bones. The car leaned down, and the air turned colder as the road descended into the valley. That place, that strange crater with a city at the bottom, looked like hope. Still, Mark shivered when he realized that he couldn’t see the lonely moon anymore.

Esperanza

John

John felt helpless. He’d been driving the entire day, only to reach nowhere. The whole time hearing his mother’s voice echoing in his head. Take your brother’s life as your own, she said, like I could draw any example from this beggar! To be like Mark? What a joke!

Why would John, a sophisticated man, a noble breed, try to be like Mark, someone just... blah?

That trip was perdition, not the life John was living. Well, maybe both... but indeed, that trip was a pointless request from a senile old woman. 

Why did I accept this trip to nowhere land, a pointless cause, with this beggar by my side?

John knew why, even though he never dared to admit it. If only she knew what I was going through, I’m sure Mom would never ask me this. Not like this, driving forever in the desert sun.

They could’ve flown to the coast, but no! "Mom said we must drive there," Mark said. Cheap little bastard, can’t you afford the tickets? I hope this wind on your face is pricy enough! John thought begrudgingly.

Every day away from his hometown was a day John lost not planning his trial. And for what? Cleaning up bugs from the windshield and mourning in silence about his mother’s death, broken marriage, and dying career? Instead, John should have been in his office, working his way out of the charges, as he did with so many people on several other occasions.

Hours passed, and quickly the evening had come, then finally, the black night. John was lost, trying to figure out the road ahead with low beam headlights, barely any fuel, and his nerves under pressure. It was hopeless, so his heart sunk in