Amidst a Devil's Beauty

Short Story: How far will someone go to relieve themselves of their past?

Photo by Nina Luong on Unsplash

“Get up.”

“I don’t want to.”

“Get up and grab the gun out of your nightstand drawer.”

“No.”

“Do it now! Grab the gun and put it in your mouth.”

“Go the fuck away.”

“You really think you can bully me bitch? Grab the gun and put it in your mouth like good a little boy.”

“No.”

“Put it in your mouth, put your index finger on the trigger, and squeeze it like you did your sisters hips,” growled the disembodied voice, the sound of which was like a rock tumbler that had smoked two packs a day for fifty years.

Tears started flowing down a red, snot-streaked face, damp hair striped against his forehead, sleep hanging in his eyes, grabbing the revolver from his nightstand, “I can’t help who I love.”

“Because you can’t control yourself, but we can. Pull the trigger.”

The barrel wriggled like a sinewave in his mouth, his underwear wet with piss, “I can’t pull it.”

“You don’t have a choice.”

* * *

Copal pooled into crystal ponds and plumes of thick smoke on top of the smoldering charcoal inside the canvas tent. The flaps of which, chunked in the gale force winds of the Dali Desert, Arizona. Outside, on the warbling horizon, a nuclear reactor burst with the energy of a million semi-trucks, scratching three irregular stripes into the sky, of Mediterranean shores, Tyrian tunics, and Florida Oranges: the gray-silver ball of a waning gibbous moon, cut in half, creeped overhead. A giant hairy scorpion scuttled across the sand; a mouse hung limp, drugged in its claw. The saguaro, hand raised with an eternal greeting, the friend that’ll always be or a laconic dickhead in a never-ending flipping of the bird. Whichever, works.

The Curandera, an ancient woman, face lined like the salt flats in Nevada, blew on the coal, ensuring it kept stoked, banishing the spirits that lurked around the outside of the tent, waiting for the man sitting on the loamy ground to leave. The man that sat in her tent, dirty, disheveled, white drenched underwear tinted a pastel yellow from years of use and pissing oneself too many times while drunk. His name was Hank, Hank Blackwell to be exact, the sorriest son-of-a-bitch in the desert. He had sought out the Curandera—who happened to be a family friend, knowing his Uncle Lucas—to protect him from the devils that plagued him. When he first got to the tent, the Curandera met him at the opening, wind fluttering her dress, with a burning smudge stick of white sage, to cleanse him before he entered the patch covered tent in the middle of the desert. The thick smoke from the smudge burned his nostrils and eye’s, so, he figured it must’ve been working. Inside, jars filled with chamomile, rue, white sage, lavender, and rosemary lined the fabric wall behind a little mahogany stool, on which the ancient Curandera sat; a small pot of boiling water sat over the fire on the wire grating, natural rock ringing the outside of the pit, a generous helping of chamomile roiled in the murky water, a grassy sweet steam rose, enfolding the tent; a raw egg no one touched lolled on the ground.

“Yes, he does ‘shine’ indeed,” said the Curandera in a trance.

“What does that mean?”

“He is sensitive to the spirits that plague our world.”

“Yes, yes, I’m tormented with sleepless nights.”

“Shadow people? Yes, shadow people. Ancestors that despise what you have done.”

A frown played upon the sweaty lips of Hank Blackwell—having come to the Curandera for this exact reason—it still wasn’t an easy task to come to grips with. Starting to rise, the rheumy eyes of the Curandera fell upon him, a brittle iolite finger signaling him to sit back down.

“What have I done that is so bad?”

“He mixed the same genetic blood, yes.”

“Couldn’t stop the urge—love.”

“Yes, he has a spirit around him for that as well.”

“Can’t you protect me from them?”

The Curandera, breaking the trance, looked him in the eye, with a morose look, “We can try a lampia but you’ve invited nasty spirits into your life.”

“Anything, please, if it gets these demons to leave me be.”

Slowly she stood up from her mahogany stool, grabbing a bundle of rue and lavender from a sagging three legged table, oscillating it through the air towards the sweating Blackwell saying, “For the protection and cleansing of Hank Blackwell’s mind, body, and soul, from the spirits that cause him anguish, leave this man’s side, he only asks for sleep, we ask the spirits in white for guidance.”

Her movements were slothful as she bent down to pick up the egg from the ground, a desiccated hand signaling him to stand up. Hank was in front of her directly, sweating from the chamomile steam slithering into his pores, the Curandera proceeding to wave the egg around his head, chanting intentions of protection. As the Curandera waved the egg over his hairy chest, peering down his nose, the egg itself looked as if it were starting to crack, the rifts burning black, smiles of jagged yellow teeth creeping from their abyss. Eyes. He saw cloudy red eyes looking back at him, horns floating round the sclera, a head-on collision formed in the pupil on a dusty country road, crumpled carcasses of carbon fiber smoldering, as fire crews attempted to cut a woman from the vehicle, slumped over the steering wheel; overcast skies tinged purple and blue swiftly moving across her face, which he recognized as his sister—Melissa, her raspy breath, throat gasping, blood curdling in the mouth from internal lacerations—tears coming down in sheets on Hank’s cheeks, further staining his underwear with dark splotches, the jagged yellow teeth, mouth without any lips whispering, “We crawl inside our host until he dies. We’ll crawl inside our host until he dies,” ad infinitum, an inaudible laugh distinguished within the teeth; fear played across Hank’s furrowed brows, shivers coursing down his back, frozen in place as the spirit roiled in his troubled mind; the candles and fire pit in the tent flickering as the wind moved inward.

“Are you not seeing this?” Hank said, in a hoarse, cracking voice; eyes bulging.

“See what, dear?”

“The egg? Black cracks like an abyss, voices, the past...the past.”

“Oh dear, oh no,” said the ancient Curandera, slipping seamlessly back into a trance. “Yes, yes, worse than we thought.”

“What do you mean worse than you thought?”

“He’ll have to come back again; we’ll have ready, the amulet, two days from now.”

The candles flickered out, leaving only the fire pit to light the tent, flames licking the two faces inside as the Curandera told Hank about his wait, his face growing long. Standing up Hank gave a curt ‘thank you,’ starting to riffle through his pile of clothes, putting on the white t-shirt, blue jeans (pint of whiskey, half full in the back pocket), black low top converse—no socks—before flicking away the front flap of the tent and trundling down the dusty sand road towards his shack.

The desert was cool that night. Waning gibbous moon, coy, hiding behind shadows. As he walked, he waved to a saguaro cactus as he sipped on his half pint of whiskey, after the debacle that was the Curandera’s tent. The whiskey went down as smooth as shards of glass, his throat like an open sore. He couldn’t help but think about what he saw, “How did these ‘spirits’ know about his sister dying in a car accident?” Reminiscences that brought tears to his eyes or was it the dust devils blown by the wind? No, it was her, the memory of her, that brought the tears. The hardships they endured together at their father’s house before they were both sent to their uncles’ house. A messy divorce, his old man couldn’t handle the extra burden, on top of a broken heart, turning to drink, proceeding to beat Hank black and blue. With a shudder he remembered the beatings, a wooden dowel rod the size of his fathers’ thumb crashing down upon his naked body—having been stripped of his clothing especially for the beating—cowering in the bathtub as the blood spilled from his fractured skull, and the inevitable hospital visit that kept him away for three weeks. Hank also remembered the day when the tables turned on his beatings, before his fourteenth birthday—six months before he and Melissa were sent to live with their uncle—his sister, at the time just twelve, wearing a summer dress with beautiful powder blue trim and pastel yellow flowers, baking bread in mid-June; finding his father drunk, half-way inside her, a bundle of red hair in his hand bending her neck backwards, as if rearing to tear her head off. Thrown into a rage, Hank grabbed the dowel from next to the refrigerator and struck his father once, twice, three times, blood pouring from his head, putting him in the hospital for several weeks. After that, their father never laid a hand on him or his sister again, abandoning his two kids; but in the interim, a love and unshakeable bond had formed. The wind in the desert battered his face, drying the forming tears.

The small town of Dali Desert, Arizona slowly came into Hank Blackwell’s hazy view; with the half pint of whiskey finished, he tossed it in a fizzing arc, shattering on a rock. Rounding the bend, he came upon the house, the familiar sights of broken-down cars, perfectly preserved by the desert air despite the sandstorms; other ephemera like packs of cigarettes, crushed beer cans, empty bottles of spirits, junk mail, a lone, used condom; about what you’d expect in a yard in the southwest. Uncle Lucas’ house was a lopsided mess of a thing; Hank’s shack, was a small 10’X8’ space, recycled pieces of wood his uncle had found decades ago, with a corrugated metal roof; one window to the left of the door and this is what he had to call home. Grabbing the key for the padlock out of his pocket, he inserted and twisted, the lock obligingly popping open. The musty smell of his shack hit him as the door swung open. Carrying the lock in with him, replaced on the latch inside, locking himself in for the night. Clothes and empty whiskey bottles strewn around the room, the apple not falling too far from the tree. His toilet was a five-gallon bucket, crusted with excrement, that he would bring out into the desert, digging a hole and dumping the contents of the bucket in. The shower was a garden hose that he Macgyvered to the side of the shack—mostly duct tape—a sulfur smell would rise from the water that splashed his body. Setting the alarm on his clock, he turned the fan onto its highest setting to drown out the silence. Hank stripped to his skivvies and laid in bed.

Not too long after he had closed his eyes, he heard a rustling outside of his shack. Unnerving sounds of fingernails came scraping across the wood hitting his eardrums and causing waves of goose bumps to appear down his arms. Outside, under the orange auxiliary light, came the silhouettes dancing across his window; sharp smiles stabbing his inner being, a trickle of sweat beating down the ramparts of his brows, sliding, and stinging his eyes. Barely audible whispers, heard through the walls as they danced their blasphemous steps, he could not decipher any individual words, questioning what heinous language was spoke. Hank wondered what these things could be saying, nothing good, no doubt. The scraping on the wood transitioned to soft taps at the window causing it to bend and bow, inwards and outwards, breathing its sulfurous fumes into the room, the raps gradually becoming louder until a crack, like a spiderweb, played across its surface. With the blanket up to his lower lip, chewing the fabric, sweat coming down in sheets now, came a thunderous blow to the door, almost knocking it off the hinges. Jumping out of bed he tore open the nightstand drawer, the .45 ACP gleaming, as if it were about to jump out at him, taking it in his hand, and pointing it at the door.

With bulging wide eyes, through a half-crazed croak, he attempted to yell, “Go the fuck away!” A loud pounding came again at the door, the grizzly thing baring down on the shed. With his index finger trembling on the trigger, a loud bang came from within the shack, a thin, wispy column of smoke rose from the end of the guns barrel. Raspy breath escaped his throat, chest pumping with adrenaline. Silence fell upon the shack and the raucous noises, the scraping and beating of his shack subsided, left with only the low thrumming of the fan. Letting out a deep breath, relaxing his shoulders. the gun falling to his side, he fell against the edge of his bed, wiping the sweat from his forehead. ‘I don’t know what I did to deserve this,’ he thought to himself, feeling around for the nightstand drawer, putting the gun away. Gripping the top of the mattress he pulled himself back into bed and dozed off.

Sympathy for the Devil was playing loudly on the alarm clock—blaring at 6a.m.— as he woke the next morning, which in some ways was apt. When the song finished, the disc jockey came over the radio saying, “Good morning! folks of the greater Luscon area, quality Saturday morning tunes are coming at you all day here on LSC 98.1, time to get the weekend rolling.” “Kiss my ass,” Hank said, rolling towards the alarm clock. He wiped the fog from his eyes as he set his bare feet to the dirt floor of the shack, resetting his alarm. With hands on his knees, he stood up and looked around for clothes that smelled clean enough to wear to work. Hank worked down at the old machine shop as a CNC operator. An easy job that allowed him to work with a hangover, despite not having one in years. Sighing, Hank walked over to his five-gallon bucket, a stream of urine arcing across. ‘Not wanting to go work and not having a choice was hell on a man,’ he thought. Finally, he found a stack of clothes that weren’t rank, throwing on a pair of ripped blue jeans with strange stains—checking his back pocket for his wallet—a forest green t-shirt, and his black, low top converse. Popping open the lock, he thrust himself into the clear blue sky.

Hank walked to work most mornings, even enjoyed it at times, but today felt like he was wading waist deep in a pool; it was a crisp, clear morning; the sun shone brightly on the wavering horizon. He waved to his water polo teammate the cactus, who sagged a little this morning, the right arm looking out of socket. Looking down at his thundering feet, he saw a scorpion scuttle across the concrete, alarmed at the giant intruder. At the stop sign, he cut across a line of boulders, over a sand dune, into the parking lot of Dali Screwed.

Walking around the dilapidated, yet rust free vehicles, spotting Bartham—a midnight sky in the country during the day—smoking a cigarette, straggling behind everyone else as usual. Before Hank even got into the building the ribbing began, as was usual at these types of jobs, the only way for the men inside to stay sane and feel that this hell was worth it; a lot of whom hid behind supposed obligations of family and despised anyone who wasn’t as miserable as they were.

“Morning Hank,” said Ty Bartham, taking a double look at the ghoul passing by. “Jesus Christ, could you look any sorrier?”

“Well good mornin’ to you too Bartham, and yes, I could.”

“You’ll be lucky if old Devil Bill doesn’t have your hide for lookin’ like that this morning.”

“He’ll have to catch me first.”

“Yeah, off-guard, with a whack upside the head taboot.”

“If he can anyways.”

“Damn Hank, you know how Bill is, just shows up out of nowhere.”

“Out of thin air usually, but today I aim to get in and out.”

“Right there with ya, Hank.”

“See you inside, Ty.”

Walking through the metal double doors of the employee entrance, the smell of coolant and lubricants hit his nose—a slight tang to them—the familiarity that had bred contempt. The machines, bolted to the ground, whirred all around him, drowning out any thought he could’ve had about the night prior, which had been going on for three weeks. Strolling along the rows, waving his indifferent hellos, stood in front of the punch-in clock directly, and by God did he want to punch this clock today. A cruel mistress. Being able to get some quality sleep meant a bit more to Hank than being employed, today. The time on the clock was never quite right, always off by five or six minutes, despite all the technicians that had been out to try and fix it, she never quite got the hang of her job. Grabbing the cream-colored rectangle piece of cardstock, he jammed it down the slot with a loud kerchunk. Hank was officially on the clock.

Back down the rows of CNC machines, heading to station seven, the six day a week hell—there’s a joke in there somewhere—Hank’s shoulder drooping slightly, the prospect of working today being grim. Upon entering the station, he saw the clutter that the night shift left, as was their wont to do. He cleaned up the empty and soggy paper cups off the metal table, and the napkins. He thought to himself, ‘Must be nice to eat at the station,’ picking up a few pieces of paper that had been crumpled and left. He looked down at the waste basket that was sitting right next to the table and couldn’t help but wonder how someone could be so lazy as to not throw these things away. He figured he could bring it up to his boss, Bill, later at lunch. Ty walked by his station, giving him a three-finger wave; late as always.

Devil Bill—as the machinists and temporary employees from the agency called him—was a curmudgeon of a man, who had a knack for not giving anyone clear instructions and blowing up when something went wrong. Essentially, Devil Bill, blamed everyone but himself. But things ran smoothly around the shop, mostly anyway. Occasionally, someone would try and adjust the tolerances on a part, being off by just a thousandth of an inch; snapping a tool; ceasing production. Which made old Bill angry. One thing you didn’t want to do around the shop was make Bill angry, not only did it ruin the day for everyone else, but it would also usually make for a longer day. Something about too much work and not enough done about it. Or so they said. Hank never fully believed it but went along with it anyway. Speak of the devil.

“Hank, you look like shit.”

“Well thanks Bill, appreciate it.”

“Wasn’t a compliment. What the hell is wrong you anyway?”

“Other than not getting any sleep, nothing.”

“Sure as hell doesn’t look like ‘nothing.’”

“I don’t know what to tell you then Bill.”

“Why don’t you go Hank, go get some rest.”

“Can’t afford to and you know that, plus I have to deburr this part,” said Hank, opening the door of the CNC machine, and grabbing the part out.

“I’ll do this one time for you Hank, but that’s it, don’t go expecting it all the time now. But leave, you’ll get your pay for the day.”

“I don’t believe that for the life of me.”

“Just get your sorry ass out of my shop Hank.”

Ripping off his gloves and throwing them down onto the workbench Hank said, “Fine Bill, have it your way then.”

“Appreciate it Hank, and one more thing. You hear about this revival going on outside of town this evening?”

“No I haven’t heard about some damn revival,” Hank said, rather befuddled at this conversation.

“Well, maybe you ought to go down there.”

“Maybe. I’ll look into it.”

“Alright, Hank, we’ll see you on Monday.”

“See you, Bill.”

Hank stood there, irritated, watching while his portly boss, Devil Bill, ambled away toward his office. “Guess I came here to just clean up then,” he said, setting the deburred part down on the egg carton. Letting the machine run, he walked back to the unreliable clock, punching out, and heading back out of the metal double doors into the bright mid-morning sun.

Walking back through the parking lot Hank was more than just a bit angry about what happened at the machine shop. Being forced to go home early wasn’t a good look, and he couldn’t possibly look that bad. Passing by a beat-up Pinto he glanced in the window as he passed by and saw a ghoul glide by the window, pretending to be him. ‘So alright, I look like shit, but so would anyone who hasn’t had much sleep in three weeks,’ he said to himself. ‘To hell with it,’ he thought. Putting his foot down on one of the boulders, hoisting himself up, he looked out at the horizon rising in gentle waves. Along the horizon, on the other side of town, he saw a set of tents being set up. ‘Must be where they’re having that revival Bill was talking about.’ Stepping down from the boulder he walked the short distance back to his shack, indecisive about going to the revival.

He had fallen asleep for what he thought was twenty minutes, turning out to be the better part of the day. Through the curtains on his window the saw the great sunny-d orange ball descending, saying goodbye until tomorrow. Thinking about the revival he thought, ‘To hell with it, I guess I’ll go.” He got up and put on the same clothing he had on for work. Heading out of the shack, making sure he locked it up, he made his trek towards the revival tent.

Walking along the side of the road, he was a deer in the headlights from the cars that whizzed past. It was disconcerting to walk along the road of a busy highway when every car looked like it was about to hit you, at least at nighttime. But he kept on, watching the horizon bruise. As he was getting closer to the tent, the devotional music became louder and louder. A cacophony could be heard from the perishers, making wild animalistic noises. Coming up to the tent, the soft crunch of the sand underneath his converse, he stood in front of the tent directly. Taking a deep breath, he entered the small foyer of the tent, a woman with a beaming smile said, “Welcome to the revival, come on in,” as she held the flap for him to enter, reminding him of a sideshow at a carnival.

What Hank was expecting, he didn’t quite know, but he definitely didn’t expect to enter the tent and immediately see venomous snakes being passed around. Perisher to perisher. Sweat on people’s faces glistening. Brows mopped with kerchiefs. There were people lying on the floor limbs flailing as if possessed, hair whirling around entangling itself, strands sticking to foreheads. Folks were standing with arms raised, running in place, knees to chest. The pastor, running around with his arms sweeping in wide arcs, sweat like blood, pouring down his face exclaimed, “Give your-a life to-a Christ-a, and he will-a protect you-a. Satan’s minions cannot hurt you-a here!” Hank wheeled around trying to find his equilibrium in the roiling madness. He saw inflamed hands, purple and black flesh, with the look of melting off the bone; orchid-white flesh hung in strips; two crimson points in the middle making a double sighted bullseye.

He tried searching for Devil Bill, but he was nowhere in the crowd. Go figure his boss would send him into this throng, more than likely as some kind of joke. Only, this wasn’t funny. The lights dimmed, strobe lights flicked on, leaving the room in a strange pulsating red glow, blurred faces passing by as they circled around. A tuna amidst a swarm of sharks.

Strobe lights flashing, people careening around him in a sick orgy, a thrum started to sound, hypnotizing Hank. And he remembered a time when he was seventeen. It was late autumn; his sister was lounging in his shack with him, reading a book. A morose, disturbing book about car crashes and sexuality. Or how people and society always had to have more and would stop at nothing to satiate their hunger. They had been joking with each other all morning as they were wont to do, especially about the way Uncle Lucas would lecture them with his abundant platitudes. The laughing and joking would eventually turn serious as they talked about their future; their plans and how they wanted their lives to look.

Hank lightly touched her foot, which made it spring back, before she realized that it was just Hank, and not a scorpion. He saw her glance down at his hand and gave him a salacious look while setting down her book. Slowly his hand moved up her warm, smooth leg, shivering underneath his palm. Not out of fear or anxiety, but adrenaline that coursed through her veins. The coming together of lips, sealing each other together in the hot shack called home. He could hear her heart pumping in her chest. His fingers now rested at the edges of her night shorts and underwear, slowly taking them off, revealing a vineyard on a full moon’s night, shadows dancing along the rows of grapes still on the vine. Hank’s young heart was thumping in his throat; it was like he was choking, but there was nothing he could do to stop. Then, with his heart still in his throat, it stopped beating, time itself stood still. He took out his world and put it in hers, two planets, colliding into one. A resplendent view of colors abounded his sight; a rainbow of songs in major tones, sung from gondolas, fingered from patios to women on balconies, in ball-room steps around their ears. In a moment of ecstasy, he accidentally set his hand down, in a waterfall of red hair. She yelped, but it didn’t take away the magic from the moment. And as they reached the crescendo of their sojourns, they became one entity.

Hank rolled over on the bed next to her, lighting a cigarette—who didn’t use to smoke? His sister, Melissa, cuddled up next to him laying her hand on the sparse grass perched upon his chest. “We can’t have a life like this,” she had said. Hank could only respond with an, “I know,” and a sigh. Taking another drag on his cigarette, the careening faces, the throbbing strobe lights came back and a man he didn’t know, pulling the sleeve of his t-shirt.

“You alright man?”

“What,” Hank said, befuddled.

“It looks like you were in a daze there. Just seeing if you’re alright?”

“Oh, yeah, I’m alright. Appreciate it.”

“Any time brother.”

Hank then realized where he was at, the crazy snake dancers twirling before his eyes, the pastor now speaking gibberish, or in tongues as he believed they called it. He saw a man in a corner, facing a woman, her skirt, hiked up to the waist from her convulsions, the man clearly beating off. Hank turned to the man that brought him out of his reverie and asked, “I thought Christians were against that sort of thing,” pointing to the man in the corner.

“Oh, that’s just Rocket Fucker.”

Hank looked at the man, “Come again?”

“Rocket Fucker?”

“I’m scared to ask but why do you call him Rocket Fucker?”

“Old Rocket Fucker was rushed to the ER, oh, about ten years ago now. Tried shoving a rocket up his ass, the nose cone got stuck.”

Hank, wide-eyed, just nodded. Decidedly, he had enough and started to make his way towards the exit when the preacher shouted, “You!”

Hank wheeled around caught in the gaze of the preacher, pointing at himself. The preacher acknowledging with a nod that, yes, in fact, he was talking to him. “Shit,” hank thought.

“What do you-a think you-a are doing in my congregation?”

“Just checking it out.”

“We don’t allow demons in our congregation.”

“Well, I assure you, I’m not demon.”

“Then why do you stink to the high heavens of sulfur, the building blocks of hell?”

Hank looked at the mass of bodies now staring at him, drenched in sweat, remembering the scene of convulsing bodies writhing on the floor, people speaking in tongues, and tried to suppress a laugh at the thought of himself being a demon in this midst.

“You see folks,” said the preacher. “He comes here to mock us. Join in with me brothers and sisters.” The congregation riled up, voices loud, said in unison. “We rebuke you, in the name of the Son, The Father, and The Holy Ghost; get out of our congregation, we do not welcome your kind.”

All around Hank the perishers were saying this phrase in conjunction with the preacher. He turned towards the exit to leave, the crowd beginning to encircle him, the chanting of the rebuking statement continuing. “Run! Run away you cowardly hell spawn!” the preacher yelled somewhere in the crowd behind him. Finally making it to the tents flap, he flung it away, the woman standing in the foyer holding a crucifix towards him as he walked past.

As he stepped out into the night air, he looked up at the stars overhead, noticing the waning crescent moon. He stared up at the sky in wonderment, looking at those stars, wondering if anyone out there was looking back. Heading towards his shack, getting about halfway, he stopped and decided to head towards the cave that he visited as a teenager. But first things first, he needed to head to the liquor store.

Standing in front of the neon, liquor store sign in the window, he grabbed the handle, opening the door, and stepping into the familiar sight of the abrasive fluorescent light. Rows upon rows of liquor sat on the shelves, a drunkard’s paradise. Hank knew exactly what he wanted, and went to aisle three, where they kept the fifths of Jim Beam. Picking one up off the shelf, he brought it up to the register, Mel, who knew him well, rang up his bottle.

“Damn Hank, how many times have you been here this week?”

“Don’t know, maybe three or four.”

“No, you’ve been here twelve times man, why don’t you just get a bigger bottle?”

“Just the pint Mel.”

“It may be time to ease yourself. Going to end up in an early grave.”

“Thanks Mel, already have.” Grabbing the bottle, stuffed into a brown paper bag, and fifteen-dollars lighter, he walked out into the cool desert air, finally heading to the cave.

Hank had a tough time finding his way to the cave, having already drank half his fifth; honey mesquite trees clawing his jeaned leg; swearing, worse than when you stub your toe in the middle of the night, unexpectedly; his anger boiling over. But alas, he finally stumbled over a flat rock, falling a short distance over the edge, the cave appearing as if out of thin air. He grabbed his bottle out of the sand, having landed neck down and sat on a gray rock. Taking a sip of the whiskey, it went down like motor oil; thick and syrupy. He was staring at the moon when, out of the corner of his eye he saw his shadow do something strange, it had taken a sip of whiskey. Looking down at the bottle still laying in the sand he thought this was quite peculiar. “Not tonight, please,” he thought, trying to calm his nerves. “Just let me have one night of peace.” He grabbed the bottle and took a swig himself, his shadow seeming to walk off, horns—or what seemed to be horns—protruded out of the silhouette, the fingers on the hands became points, sharp as razors, swinging towards Hank, the shadow laughing, ghastly. He stood up quickly, grabbing his bottle, the liquid sloshing around as if alive itself tonight. Backing away from the beckoning shadow, which caught the bottom of his t-shirt, slicing right through, smoldering. He began to run, farther into the desert, the liquid sloshing angrily.

Hank didn’t know how far he had run, but he knew it was quite a way, considering the lack of light pollution. Finding a flat rock protruding out of the ground, he climbed atop to see just how far he had gone. The town of Luscon glowed like fireflies in the summertime in the distance, beautifully dancing around each other never knocking into one another, an oasis in this deserted land. “Shit,” he thought. Flopping onto the rock, he took a long swig, draining the rest of the bottle of whiskey. Drunk, the world floating around him, as if he were in a tub of sea water, meandering down life’s lazy sea. He sat up wobbling on his axis, looking around him, yelling at the top of his whiskey-stained lungs, “See? You didn’t follow me here now, did you? Fucking shadow bullshit, spirits trying to kill me, torturing me every night! What did I do to deserve this, huh?! We grew up in a God damn shack! What did you expect? Our father beat us up north in Euphora, and neglected, ignored, thrown out with the trash in the southwest! We were the unwanted children of an ungodly son-of-a-bitch!” Hank was panting, exhausted, sweat starting to soak through his shirt, adding, “And now I’m in the middle of this fucking desert, lost, alone....alone.”

Falling to the ground, writhing in the sand, tearing his shirt, swearing his obscenities, he convulsed in pain. Physical and psychic, like a monster was tearing his insides out, taking a chunk out with its fangs; muscle and sinew stuck between its teeth. It always starts in the chest, a heavy treasure chest laid down upon oneself, screaming to get the thing off, but no one around to help lift it, always left to your own devices; lost in the desert, the sand grinding down your face—caught in places you didn’t know existed—and as you take a look around with a rain drenched face on a clear, cloudless night wondering where everyone went; yelling in agony like a body in the supposed lake of fire, beaten over the head with razor blade chains; supposing the people left because of your sin, your own monstrousness, how could you ever think that it was okay, but the fact of the matter is, is that you never did; and now while the mice of the brain nibble away at the synapses, drunk and lost in the desert; self-flagellation with emotions as the flagellator, ripping the flesh away from the face, that you wished you had never been born with, this face, the one of dead children in mother’s weeping arms as the grave diggers try to lower the casket, the fathers who lost sons in needless wars, the children losing parents in tragic accidents; the shack of the damned coming clearly into view, slitting the proverbial wrists; lost, drunk, and writhing in the sand, the needle from a cactus pricking the skin but realizing, maybe too late, that it wasn’t a cactus and it was just your own psychic needle poking your very being, into the things you needed to learn; a direction in this directionless world. Grasping the sand in his hands, he dragged himself back over to the flat rock. Resting his head on a sand covered arm, he passed out.

Waking up in the morning—Sunday to be exact—the molten sphere overhead baring down its circular hate. Immediately Hank started to dry heave. “Too much whiskey last night,” he said in a weary, trembly voice. It wasn’t long till the black bile started to spew from his mouth, wiping it off with the back of his hands, subsequently wiping it on his pants. He stood up. Struggling to get a foot forward without vomiting, stood there for just a moment, to gain his composure. He put his arm across his face to shield his eyes, damning the sun. Left foot forward. Right foot forward. He began to make the long trek back to his shack, vomit covering the front of his torn t-shirt.

The sand banks that he walked along, sun baked, were as still as a stagnant pond today. No dust devils were blowing, into his already sanded face, he walked over a sand dune towards the road; a Gila Monster scuttled quietly away.

Walking along the road, his skin beyond sun kissed, he saw a dog lying in the road, it looked alive. Walking over to it to see if there was anything he could do to help the animal, the rubber tip of his converse began pecking at the dog’s belly. The stench that reached his nostrils, caused him to gag, and vomited over the dog’s body. It was, in fact, dead. Run over by a car, the ribs all busted, innards oozing out; the tongue flopped on the hot asphalt concrete. Hank looked at the eyes, they swirled into a mass that looked like a runny egg yolk, sizzling on the road. “I’ll be meeting you there pup, I’ll be meeting you there.” He hung his head, continuing his way towards Luscon.

Hank got back to his shack around noon. Flopping on the bed—not bothering to take his clothes or shoes off—another night of restlessness, no peace, and at wits ends. His faith in spiritual institutions, traditional or otherwise, faltered with every breath. He set the alarm clock for five p.m., to get the amulet from the Curandera.

When the alarm awoke him at five, blaring some mindless drivel, he stretched his arms, yawning, the brilliant color of orange and purple greeting him through the window. Getting up he stepped over to his five-gallon bucket and relieved himself. He scratched the side of his face and started to head out the door of the shack.

“Hank.”

“Uncle Lucas.”

“Where ye runnin’ off to?”

“To meet with the Curandera.”

“Oh, to help with your night troubles, huh?”

“Yep.”

“Alright, well, I won’t keep ya then.”

“Thanks.”

Hank thought it was strange that his uncle acknowledged him, normally they’d just greet each other with a nod and be done with it. Disparaging words having ended seven years ago. Despite living on the same property, they hadn’t really talked in years, and he liked it better that way. He didn’t really have much to say to his uncle, for the trouble all these years. Plus, after the death of his sister, he didn’t really have much to say to anyone. He fought back the rare rains of the Arizona desert and moved towards the Curandera’s tent.

About a half mile away he could smell the copal incense burning carried by the breeze, the sweet lemon-like scent, that kept evil at bay. Or at least purported to, “Didn’t help much two nights ago,” he thought. Trying to keep a positive mind he kept walking through the sand, over dunes and rocks. A scorpion scuttled across the sand; a lizard, dead in its claws, being dragged back to the hell of the scorpion’s burrow. He flipped off the cactus this time, the cactus returning it back, with a hint of apathy this time. No longer was the cactus the eternal friend. The brilliant jackfruit orange and purple grapes of the setting sun gave way to the coffee ground sky; a black moon hung in the night sky.

Coming up to the Curandera’s tent the scene was a mess. The tent was disintegrating, patches of flaps hanging off the poles swaying the gentle wind. Hank walked into the tent, the grating that sat over the fire was tipped over; the glass jars—some intact—shards of which were littered along the sand, bits, and pieces of herbs amidst the broken glass. The three-legged mahogany stool—missing a leg now—lay on its side, exhausted from all its years of service; three claw marks carved into the seat. “But where was the Curandera,” Hank thought. She was nowhere to be found, whatever happened here couldn’t have been more than a day or so old. He wondered if it was the same thing he saw at the cave, but she would have known how to deal with that, no. Looking around, he thought about the amulet, what happened with that? He then saw, hanging from an S-hook, in one of the poles. A small Tyrian purple pouch, an earthy grass smell wafting up to his nostrils in the breeze reminding him of home. Grabbing it, he threw it around his neck with great hope, but disappointment washed over him. He didn’t feel any different. There was no calming effect, no feeling of lightness, he almost broke it off his neck, but he let it hang there, wilting around his neck, reminding him of a rose, the signal for autumn’s end. With the amulet around his neck, and the Curandera nowhere to be found, he turned and headed back for the shack. Hopes of peaceful night bouncing around his mind.

Hank awoke that night, sweat pouring down his face, the sound of whispers coming from all four corners of the shack. The whispers were so low that he couldn’t make out any of the words, but he knew they were there. “Not tonight,” he thought. Clutching the amulet pouch around his neck he yelled, “Go away,” but the whispers continued. He put his head back upon the pillow and concentrated in trying to ignore the voices. The whispers stopped and he fell back asleep.

It was about three a.m., Hank tossing and turning in bed, a figure standing in the corner by the window, the burnt-orange glow from the auxiliary lights shining down but illuminating this utterly dark figure. It rapped on the window three times. Hank stirred but did not wake. It rapped on the window three more times, Hank groggily sitting up in bed, the figure with the voice of an active wood file saying:

“Get up.”