Character Sketch (Rob Browning)

It wasn’t good for him to be alone, but he didn’t want to be with people. He had declined to go with the boys on the bar cruise; they were only out to get laid, and he wasn’t interested in sex these days. Hadn’t been for a while, come to think of it.

He had used the car as his excuse. The rally was on Sunday and he had to get it ready—or so he had said. He actually tinkered under the hood for twenty minutes, trying to get the timing right before the irony overwhelmed him. Getting the timing right had been a lifelong problem. Oh, God—he was slipping into one of his moods, the ones that had once sent him to meetings. He hadn’t been to one for a while, and he couldn’t go now. He didn’t want to talk. He didn’t want to be there.

He didn’t want to be here, either.

Oh, no.

He went indoors and did another line, hoping the rush would knock him out of neutral.

It didn’t. He was left revved up with nowhere to go and faced with the ominous task of trying to sleep later on.

Maybe a hot bath would help.

It didn’t. The water was too hot and started his heart tripping. He got out in a hurry, lost his footing on the tile floor, and almost whacked his head on the sink when he went to his knees.

He wondered if he should call someone.

He got his pulse under control before he got up from the floor. He had to brace himself on the side of the tub for a second, but he got vertical with an effort. He grabbed a towel from the rail and mopped at his chest. Sweat, not bathwater. Shit.

It hadn’t been a problem at the start. It wasn’t really a problem now. His job wasn’t affected, his associates hadn’t a clue, he was still sharp behind the wheel. He didn’t do it every day; he didn’t need it. He just had moments when he wanted it. He didn’t think they were coming more frequently. The moodiness was the problem. If he could get a grip on the depression or the angst or whatever the hell it was, he could get a grip on the drugs.

There was no point in dwelling on it at this hour. No point in dwelling on it at all. Nothing could be done. It wasn’t his life so much as the ghosts that populated it. Dead parents crying for vengeance from a son enslaved by the thing that had killed them.

He called no one. He didn’t want to talk. He wanted to sleep, but he’d messed up his chances with that one line. Most of all, he wanted to stop hurting. He had lived with pain and remorse for so long that they were constant companions: pain on one hand, remorse on the other, and him dead in the middle. Only he wasn’t dead. He only wished he was. Sometimes.

He walked into the living room, pausing at the glassed-in hutch where his knives were kept under lock and key. Quite the collection; everything from a vintage Swiss Army knife to a Turkish scimitar. Every one was honed and polished until you could cut yourself by looking at the blade. He spent hours treating them, almost as many hours as he spent pampering the car.

He pulled out the pearl-handled switchblade and popped the release. The knife shot out like the tongue on a cobra, lethally silent. This one was his favourite. It was easy to carry, easy to conceal, and too quick to allow the other guy a second thought. Not that he used it much. He just liked knowing it was there if he got into trouble.

He carried it to the fireplace. Yet another line of coke called to him from the bedroom but he ignored it, knowing it would not help. He sat down on the rug laid out before the hearth and tucked his legs beneath him. Candles had been lit earlier that evening, emulating a fire in the grate. He rarely burned wood and the candles soothed him, so he had arranged a dozen or so in the mouth of the fireplace. Pillar candles of varying shapes and sizes: tall and stately, short and fat, some with one wick and others with more. They were all beeswax. Sometimes the smell made him nauseous and sometimes he liked it. Tonight was not a good night.

The switchblade glimmered seductively. A bead of light trickled along the razor edge, running like liquid gold to the hilt. Once it hit the pearl, it slipped inside and gave the handle an iridescent glow. Pretty. He lifted it to his lips and pressed the blade flat against them. Its cold against his heat was shocking and delicious—the way Cassie had felt during that one elastic moment before nothing had happened last fall.

He killed the memory before it bloomed. The coke cried at him from the other room. He shouted, “Shut up!”, gripping the knife in a sweating palm. Jesus, this was not good. The tumult swelled like a cancer in his core, hard and relentless. Inoperable. He would never be free of it.

But he could relieve the pressure.

He hadn’t done it for a while. Like the drugs, it wasn’t a driving need. He had believed himself cured of the habit, but, again as with the drugs, one never truly recovered. If he ever got free of the sickness, he might be recovered—but he’d also be dead, and death was not an option.

Training with knives was a great cover for the scars on the inside of his left arm. Not all of them had been self-inflicted. The majority of them, in fact. He tried to reopen old wounds when his resolve wavered; being left-handed, he had learned to handle weapons in his right, not specifically to keep secrets, though it certainly helped. He took the knife in his right hand now, taking the weight of it in his palm. It felt good. Comforting. Dear God, please let it work this time.

He didn’t blink when the blade bit the skin. He watched with clinical interest as his arm opened to release the flow. He would lick it up later, when the cut was breached and blood began running to his elbow. He would taste smoke and salt and the infernal ache of hellish mortality. He wouldn’t feel better; not much, anyway.

But he’d be able to sleep.