Ashes to Ashes

Prologue

  ...stream of maroon liquid puddled beneath the dead man, having rushed from the cluster of gunshot wounds that had torn into his torso. It spread out beneath like red wings, slightly circular, slightly dried. The blood reeked of death and murder, like the smell of thick copper and lingering gun powder.

  Once again the dream woke Scott violently from sleep, causing him to jerk to a sitting position. Looking around his quiet bedroom, at how darkness was taking over the space, he quickly realized that the day was being replaced by a newly formed night. He must have been asleep for a few hours, which was much needed after several nights of restless tossing and turning, always at the edge of sleep only to be jerked back to consciousness by the images of the lying, bleeding, dying man.

  He barely remembered dozing off, having skipped class. He could not focus on any lecture or note taking. Lack of sleep could make reality seem like fiction. As if he could reach out far and long, but never touch anything solid, because everything around him was simply lights and colors. His mind was nothing more than a blob of sleep deprivation and paranoia. And visions of death.

  Sitting fully up, Scott put his feet on the cold wooden floor. Moving his right hand to his head, he ran it through his sandy blonde hair. Pools of moisture broke and dribbled from his armpits and his neck. Rubbing his eyes, he tried to clear his head, wipe away the face of the dead man. The gaping mouth. The speck of dried vomit at the corner of it.

  It was grotesque.

  It was horrid.

  Standing, he went over to the nearby window. Prying upward, Scott opened the window and shivered at the instant breeze of chilled air that brushed against him. Even though the air seemed to hold frost and he normally didn't like the cold, it felt good against his hot skin. Spring had barely begun and the nights were still frigid. Ohio seemed to hang on to winter like a child tries to hang on to its favorite toy, clutching it for as long as possible.

  Staring out the window, Scott watched automobiles as they passed on the street below him. They were students or workers, coming and going. Johnston Street was never overly busy, but the traffic remained steady throughout most of the day and into the early night.

  Scott lived in an apartment complex, King Tower, which sat a little over a mile from Youngstown State University. The complex was in a good location for him. It was close enough to catch the buses, but far enough to be considered off-campus, which held a strange type of prestige, for whatever reason. The apartment building was tall and wide, containing many apartments, from efficiency to two bedrooms. The rent was cheap, which was perfect for Scott, who survived on his basketball scholarship along with whatever part-time jobs he could manage, ranging from McDonald’s to construction work.

  Putting his burning forehead against the cool window glass, he felt his eyelids falling shut.

  A single bullet had penetrated the man's skull, creating a bloody halo beneath his head, an off-circle of blood speckled with gray matter that had been blown out the back of the skull. The brain particles had mixed with the blood, creating pale spots against the maroon, like a twisted abstract painting, titled A Dead Man Thinking.

  Scott jerked from the window. For brief second he thought about putting head through the glass. The images and dreams were torturing him, flashing before him while asleep and awake, like some macabre dance. But it was more than just delusions. Or were they? Scott found himself confused and desperate. Was he going crazy?

  He thought about turning his phone back on and calling his father one more time. But he knew that it was too late for his old man’s help. He didn’t comprehend what was happening or why but whatever power he had been using to fight the urge dripped its last drop. No more will power remained. Something had taken place and he needed to trust it. He gave in. Finally. He closed his eyes one last time and let it flow into him.

  The hand that held the pistol was pale and shaky. A finger flexed and the pistol fired a final bullet, tearing into the flesh of the man, who was already dead. Dropping the gun next to the body, the murderer vomited, disgusted by his own actions. Once his stomach was purged of bile, he fled.

  Opening his eyes, Scott went to his dresser and opened the first drawer. But before he reached into it, he stopped to think. The YPD, led by Oscar Harrison, an old family friend would pursue him. They would be single minded, never giving the truth a chance to come to the surface, because the truth was beyond their understanding. Scott didn't fully understand it himself.

  Not his father, though, he knew. Someway, his father would be involved. And his father always looked in needed directions, wherever the facts and clues led him. Thinking it over, Scott knew that he would have to leave clues for his father, ones that would grab his dad's attention. If his father were the first to get his hands on the clues, he would most likely dictate where they led him, and possibly Oscar Harrison would follow his lead.

  His father would be driven. Scott remembered how his father looked when he was putting a puzzle together. It was scary. He knew that drive all too well. The good and the bad. Quickly, he forced the creeping memory away. It was too painful.

  Taking a few minutes, Scott positioned the clues. Once the clues were placed, he slipped on a pair of sneakers and his YSU leather jacket, and then returned to his dresser and the open top drawer. Reaching back inside he pulled out a silver handgun, one he had bought nearly a week before, a few days after the dead man began to taunt him. It was a small Ruger SP101, .32 H&R Magnum, and it had been only for protection. But that had changed.

  Scott was never one for guns, preferring to setting arguments with a fist instead of a bullet. He was always amazed at the weight of the gun. In movies and on television, the good and bad guys always toted them around with ease, as if they were lighter than air. The real thing was far from dainty or delicate. The weapon was a solid, heavy, dangerous piece of steel, made for only one purpose. Everything after the pull of the trigger was final. And he didn't need to check the chamber. He knew the gun was loaded, he had loaded it himself.

  Turning to his bed, Scott yanked off the thin white sheet. After draping the sheet over his left shoulder, he went over to the bedroom door. It was thick and sturdy and locked by 2 large black sliding locks. They had been assembled recently, locked in place with thick screws that were planted deep into the wood of the door.

  The first lock on the door slid quietly, while the dead bolt made a minor squeak. Scott turned the door handle and pulled cautiously. He was met by a dark hallway, short and narrow. On the other side of the hall was Owen's door, opened a crack. The crack was large enough for Scott to peak through. His roommate's sleeping form could be seen, sprawled half-cocked on his bed, on his stomach, one leg dangling limply over the side.

  Stepping out into the hallway, Scott immediately and swiftly took the following steps that would take him over and into Owen's room. The only light came from the flickers from the television. The only sounds were Owen's snores, Scott's short breaths, and the erotic video playing on the television. The only smell, which lingered thick in the air, was the stink of weed, which resembled skunk piss.

  The hand that held the pistol was pale and shaky.

  Scott's hands were neither pale nor shaky. Using his free hand, he pulled the sheet up and over his head, letting it hang down to cover the front of him. The sheet was thin enough that he could still see, even in the dimly lit room. He could fully make out his roommate. Taking another set of steps, he approached Owen's passed out form. He put the pistol forward, but kept it underneath the sheet. Leaning over Owen, Scott put the barrel of the gun to his roommate's skull.

  A finger flexed and the pistol fired...

  Scott'
s finger didn't flex, it twitched, sending a bullet exploding into the head of Owen. Wet fragments flew up into the air and against the sheet.

  ...murderer vomited...

  Scott didn't vomit. He dropped the sheet. Leaving evidence wouldn't be an issue. Turning from the dead body, he fled the apartment. He felt himself relaxing, even though he had committed a violent crime.

  It was self-defense.

  But who would believe it?

 

 

  PART ONE

  “One cannot properly appreciate the human realities so long as one labors under the adolescent delusion that people get the fates they deserve.”

  --Nicholas Rescher