KALLUM: NOW
If you gaze long enough into an abyss, the abyss will gaze back into you.
The infamous verse cited by a mad philosopher has been pondered over by scholars for more than a century. Just what is the meaning behind Friedrich Nietzsche’s yawning abyss?
Is it our unavoidable death? Fear of the unknown? Paralyzing recognition of our own insignificance?
To one cocky, egocentric grad student, the meaning was all too clear:
The abyss was the pit of failure for the weak-minded.
My vanity knew no bounds once upon a time. I admit, while studying Nietzsche’s doctrines, I wrinkled my nose at the stench of his fear that practically fumed from the pages. I lampooned his duality dichotomy as nothing more than a desperate grasp from a defeated scholar to pad his bloated yet fragile ego.
In his last days, the philosopher penned such notes as: “It hurts me frightfully that in these fifteen years not one single person has ‘discovered’ me, has needed me, has loved me.”
How fucking pathetic.
I found him to be the worst fraud. Isolation was transcendent, he had preached, yet he was a hypocrite of his own principles.
The closer one gets to their own death, the more they’re willing to compromise their convictions. Thus creating their very own abyss, where their weak minds go to perish.
My belief system, my convictions, were never in any danger of being compromised.
Until her.
My beautiful muse.
Oh, how easily we falter when confronted with the veracity of our solitary existence.
I can confess now how mistaken I was in my first interpretation of Nietzsche.
No one wants to exist in solitude.
At the height of my achievements, I was an academic god. Envied by colleagues, worshiped by aficionado sluts. I had it all, and I wanted for nothing.
And therein lies the dilemma.
The sky was dulled gray, and flavors had lost their taste. Art was bland. There was nothing left to create. Sex was only marginally satisfactory, and only once I pushed to deviant extremes, when I was looked at with fear instead of desire.
The lust for life dried into a dusty wasteland and sat bitter and grainy on my tongue. I was ill with envy over anyone who demonstrated even a meager sampling of passion.
Want—pure, unadulterated hunger—will drive us to the brink to possess, by any means, that which we cannot live without.
The person who wants with a ravenous appetite, who cannot be satiated, will stop at nothing to realize their aspiration.
All of which I starved for.
As the desolate stretch of highway passes in a dreary blur outside the tinted SUV window, I recline my head against the headrest in the backseat, letting the cheap bourbon I downed at Pal’s Tavern pound my veins in relentless fury on its way out of my system.
I deserve far worse.
Pensively, I rub my thumb over the blood-stained bandage wrapping my left palm. My silver thumb ring snags on the edge of the adhesive. The distinct feel of the raised cuts beneath the coarse cotton brings her to the forefront of my thoughts.
Today, for the very first time since my little dreamy muse crashed my life, I told a lie to Halen.
With the trickle of the stream washing over rocks beneath the rickety bridge, her scent still infused in my pores from the night before, and the lingering taste of her sweetness testing my control, I gazed into her wide, hazel eyes and told Halen I’d never thought of taking a life before her.
Men have a bad habit of placing blame on others for our weaknesses. Especially those who have the power to wound us. I’d like to say it’s a simple defense mechanism, but really, we’re all just privileged bastards.
Her rejection sliced deeper than any blade to my skin. I weaponized my anger, letting the lie fall from my mouth. All the while, admonishing her for refusing to accept the truth, for refusing to accept us—when my own past is far more horrifying than anything my little sexy sprite could conjure.
In some cultures, the taking of one’s own life is judged harsher than murder.
Before my muse tore into my mind and soul and fucking body with a monstrous, decimating force, I was on the verge of my own self-sacrifice.
But it wasn’t my violence that summoned my moon goddess from the cosmos.
It was hers.
My tastebuds came alive. The dull hue of the world illuminated into blinding colors I’d never witnessed before. I had no idea how dead I was until she showed me what it felt like to be alive.
Now, even breathing without her arousing scent is a torturous struggle, the air stale and insipid.
She is the Apollo to my Dionysus.
My other half.
And although the force of the Apollonian and Dionysian coming into conjunction may clash in the most destructive storm, their union is what fosters creative genius and harmony.
Her calm surrender to logic quiets the raging storm of fury and madness which plagues my mind. By the same design, my chaotic frenzy awakens her heartsick soul with maddening vigor.
One cannot exist without the other.
I cannot exist without her.
And whether she admits the truth or not, she cannot exist without me.
To have tasted divinity—to have knelt before my goddess and indulged like a feral glutton, to have buried myself so deep inside her, only to have lost her…
That is my great, yawning abyss.
That is staring into the void of indifference and apathy and feeling your soul wither into a hollow husk. That torment stirs a wicked desperation in a man to which he will forge to the darkest, most depraved bounds of hell to recapture.
There are no limits.
For her, I will kill without remorse. I will lap blood and mutilate in a haze of ecstasy until I’m gorged, and then I will demand more.
And as these soul-rending thoughts mangle my head, I’m hyper-fixated on only one course:
Making Halen St. James realize our inevitability.
Her awakening is just the beginning.
I turn away from the bland scenery of highway and give my attention to the federal agent driving us toward Briar Correctional Institute for the Criminally Insane. He turns the dial to increase the volume on the radio. Through my mounting hangover, I focus on the news update.
Misfortune has once again struck the quaint town of Hollow’s Row, where a mutilated body was discovered earlier this morning in a nearby marshland. The male victim, reported to be a town resident, was identified and confirmed to be one of thirty-three disappeared locals that mysteriously went missing over five years ago. A case which baffled local law enforcement and government officials.
This newest development has occurred amid an active investigation of dismembered body parts found in the same vicinity. Officials report the prime suspect to be the media’s infamous Harbinger killer, who stages victims in the likeness of the death’s-head hawkmoth before amputating the head. An iconic symbolism foreshadowing a future doomsday.
A cryptic letter was also found at the newest scene which detailed a challenge to the Hollow’s Row Mangler, addressed to the “Overman”. Authorities are now further investigating whether the deceased Landry was in fact the actual perpetrator of these heinous crimes.
At this time, there are still no leads on the whereabouts of the remaining missing thirty-two residents.
As the details of the report seep past the murky fog swathing my head, a red layer of fury covers my vision. I can feel Halen’s staccato heartbeat flare in my veins.
Leroy Landry—the horned man who attacked Halen and I at the killing fields ritual ground—was not the Overman. Which means, the actual suspect is still roaming the town. And now it seems the Harbinger killer has descended on Hollow’s Row to tear an apocalyptic-sized seam right down the center.
The connections sync faster than my dulled brain can process.
Halen’s in danger.
“Fucking psychos.” The agent behind the steering wheel mutters to himself as he lowers the volume on the SUV stereo. He scans radio stations until he settles on a poppy 80s song.
The bass-filled music grates abrasively against my senses, scraping my already worn patience thin. The dull ache at my temples increases as my mind races.
“Why don’t you call your superior to get an update on the psychos?” I tell him, jaw tensed around each word.
Flicking his gaze to the rearview mirror, Special Agent Hernandez regards me like I’m one of said psychos and sputters an annoyed breath. “Not any of your business anymore, is it?”
As he leisurely refocuses on the drive to the institute, I fist my bandaged hands in an attempt to curb the impulse to reach over the seat back and strangle him with my handcuffs.
A bad idea, for one: wrecking the vehicle would not get me back to Halen any quicker.
And two: the only person in a position to validate my return to the case happens to reside at Briar.
Impulse control. I have a dire issue there. But the dark fury simmering beneath my skin is all but cooking me alive.
I imagine Halen listening to the same report while she flees the town and her fears of us. My pretty little liar led me to believe she was resuming her place on the task force, when really, she’d been dismissed from her position within her company. I got that much out of the agent aboard the flight.
The lingering burn of her spicy curry imbues an ache in my chest. Even at this distance apart, if I block out everything but her, I can feel the churning vortex of her emotions, the distress tearing at her mind.
Her obsession with the Harbinger killer will find a way to return her to that town. I have no doubt she’s already aware of the newest murder, and that she’s also already angling to prove I did it.
I can’t help the smile that steals across my face. This gives me a thrilling satisfaction, knowing she can’t rid me from her thoughts so easily.
She called me a sociopath, a leech who fed off her emotions. I don’t deny her claim. I’ve burrowed in deep. I may be the bloodsucking parasite greedy to glut myself on her—but there is now something far more sinister out there vying to feed off her.
Dividing us was the wrong choice.
“We’re here,” Hernandez announces, as if I’m a five-year-old who needs mollifying.
“My anticipation is killer.”
His faded-brown eyes find mine in the mirror. “That hot little criminologist you worked with…the one you kissed…” he says, and suddenly he has my full fucking attention.
“Dr. St. James,” I say, helping him along. Jaw tensed, I throttle the urge to further correct him in the most furious reprimand.
Since my last moments with her, my fuse has been cut to the wick.
“Right.” He pulls alongside the curb beneath the covered drop-off area of the facility. “Did she really strip herself naked and let you put your bloody hands all over her?”
The vision of Halen adorned in bones and my blood stirs a visceral heat beneath my skin.
Hernandez is dangerously close to losing his tongue.
The FBI rumor mill is likely buzzing. An unwanted flash of Agent Alister makes it past the dulled haze. He has an unhealthy interest in Halen, and I can only speculate as to what he’s said to her behind closed doors. I’m not sure my threat to him was made clear enough.
I lock eyes with the agent in the rearview mirror, letting my facial features harden in their natural state. He visibly recoils. “What’s your point?” I demand.
“She’s back on the case,” he says. “Thought you might like to know.” He unbuckles his seatbelt and pulls the handle to open the door.
A roar fills my ears, and I momentarily forget I’m handcuffed as I move to prevent him from leaving the car. The chain linked to my cuffed ankles snaps taut, holding me back. The agent notices.
“How do you know for sure Dr. St. James is working the case?” I demand.
He slides his holstered gun forward on his chest, reminding me that he’s armed. “Agent Alister,” he says, confirming my suspicions. “The locals hired her on as a consultant to the task force.”
A twisted smirk pulls at the corner of my mouth. I know exactly what local made that happen. I also know that Halen owes her a number of favors, so there was little chance Halen would turn down a request from Devyn Childs to stay on as a consultant.
“Lead the way,” I tell the agent.
Once he has me escorted to processing, I go through the tedious protocol to be readmitted into the hospital.
“Don’t go far,” I tell Agent Hernandez as he removes my shackles.
He huffs a humorous breath, discounting that I will be right back in his SUV and on my way to Halen shortly.
I’m only given a moment of freedom before a hospital psych tech has my ankles and wrists cuffed once again. Ironically, I’ve never laid a hand on anyone in this facility, but the stench of fear permeates the air just the same.
The anticipation for the strike is always more fear-inducing than the strike itself.
I’m led to the office of Dr. Torres, and proof of that fearful suspense is etched into the doctor’s worn features. Seated behind his cluttered desk, Dr. Torres regards me with equal parts disdain and trepidation.
His office is in worse condition than before I left. “I love what you’ve done here,” I say, flicking my gaze to a moldy sandwich displayed on his bookcase. Fittingly, positioned right between Freud and Jung. I cock an eyebrow. “An offering to your gods?”
“Don’t get comfortable, Professor Locke,” Torres says, and I’m pleased he still has the mental capacity to address me professionally. “This session is just a pitstop before you’re transferred to California.”
I gift him my brilliant, devilish smile. “Then I’d say an induction evaluation really isn’t necessary.”
He straightens his askew tie. “This is your departure evaluation.” He’s way too excited to correct me as he flips open a manila folder. “Have a seat.”
The psych tech removes the taupe rug in front of the leather chair to reveal a manacle bolted into the tiled floor. After I’m seated, he proceeds to latch the chain between my ankles to the locking apparatus.
I test the restraint.
“The case study is almost complete,” Dr. Torres announces. He’s nearly quivering with eagerness. “I just need to evaluate how the case affected your mental state, then you’ll be someone else’s problem.”
See, in the end, the drive for our passions always outweighs our fear and even our commonsense. Dr. Torres has taken great strides toward his accomplishments. He believes my mind is the gateway to his discovery and, ultimately, his acclaim.
Had I been introduced to Dr. Torres before I found my muse, I would have despised him with relentless envy for the simple fact he is so driven by his passion. As we sit here now, I have to actively try not to pity him.
My restraints are checked and doublechecked before Dr. Torres instructs the tech to leave the office. I let my gaze settle on the very driven man behind his messy desk.
Buzzing with anticipation, Torres reaches a trembling hand toward a fountain pen. “Let’s begin with Dr. Verlice’s field report.”
The mention of Stoll triggers an impatient strum across my nerves, and I decide Torres and I do not have time for one last tango.
By shackling me, the doctor is trying to protect himself. But this man knows it’s what cannot be physically bound that is the most dangerous threat.
“Dr. Verlice supplied me with his report—” he glances over the frames of his glasses “—which details your rather insubordinate behavior. Alcohol. Parties. Direct violation of your parameters.”
“Sounds like a good time.” I smirk. “Did he mention wetting himself in his report? I should really send him an apology card.”
Torres narrows his gaze, then flips to another page in the folder. “You worked very closely with Dr. St. James,” he says, his voice taking on a baiting edge. “She gave you a positive review. I find that very interesting.”
My nostrils flare at hearing her name in his condescending tone.
He sets the pen down and steeples his fingers together. “Let’s talk about how it was to work alongside the woman who essentially sabotaged your life.”
“No.” The word is a near growl. I prop my elbows on my thighs, allowing the chain to dangle between my knees. “I’d rather talk about the document you have sitting in your printer tray right now.”
He blinks, then briefly glances at the printer. “I see the taste of freedom hasn’t dulled your keen observational skills.”
“The paperwork, Torres,” I say, my tone hardened around each syllable. “Sign the release and send it to Agent Alister.”
The FBI header on the top document gives me reason to believe Alister has set aside his grievances, because—as he’s now working opposite of a certain clever criminologist—he has need of my services once again.
With a jittery shake of his head, Torres chuckles. “That, professor, will not happen.” He pins me with a manic gleam in his eyes. “See, putting you back on the case would only prolong my pain. The sooner I have you transferred, the sooner I can close the case study, and get you the fuck out of my hospital.”
With disdain, I inhale the foul stench of his rank office, suffering the agonizing loss of Halen’s sweet, addictive scent.
I spin my thumb ring a few times, impatient to get the cuffs removed from my wrists. “You told Dr. St. James that I physically harmed you.”
He raises his chin in stubborn assertion. “I told her what she needed to hear to contain you,” he rebounds.
My gaze tapers on him. “And do you believe she, in fact, contained me?”
He blinks rapidly. Clears his throat. Situates his glasses. The doctor’s tics always surface when he becomes distressed.
“I knew your obsession with Halen would present an interesting outcome,” he says. “I admit, my curiosity won in that regard. However, despite my professional curiosities, I do have my limits. I can’t allow you to hurt her, Kallum. I will not sign the paperwork to put you anywhere near her again.”
Dr. Torres has spent his life delving into the dark recesses of his patients’ minds. In order to understand the psyche of highly disturbed individuals, he’s had to familiarize himself with the most base and violent offenders.
He has gazed into his abyss.
To which, I discovered early on during our very first session, he never resurfaced.
Psychosis tears at his frayed edges like the worn restraints he uses to confine his patients. Where Torres is concerned, it’s the age-old question of the chicken and the egg. Did the doctor lose his final tether to reality before or after he took me on as a patient.
He believes in the power of the mind, so much so, that he credits me for the disfiguring scars marking his body.
Admittedly, it’s almost insulting how little I had to push him toward his cliff. More like a lazy nudge, really.
When Torres invaded my privacy to find me carving a sigil into my forearm, the weak leash he had on his sanity finally snapped. He saw a demon in place of a man—one he believes is trying to take possession of his body.
He’s been trying to burn me out ever since.
With effort, I roll my sleeve past the manacle cuffed to my wrist to expose the sigil I charged before Halen’s arrival at Briar.
I could almost admire Torres’s determined will toward his ambition, if not for the very fatal flaw he made by deceiving Halen.
And now, his attempt to keep me from her.
“Pick up the pen,” I command him.
His gaze darts to the engraved fountain pen on the desk before returning to my eyes. “You have no power over—”
“Pick up the pen, Laurence.” I stress the use of his first name. “Pick it up now, and don’t even think about reaching for that call button.” I place the inked sigils along my knuckles in his line of sight.
Our will is strongest when we believe. Amid his delusions, this man truly believes I’m a demon sent to torment him.
I have simply never corrected him.
With marked conflict, Torres grasps the pen. The gray hair at his temples is damp with sweat. “You realize all I have to do is make one phone call when you walk out of this room.” He chuckles.
Then I have to make sure that can’t happen.
Inhaling a deep breath, I decide it’s time for Dr. Torres to get the help he so desperately needs.
“Place the FBI document on the desk,” I order.
He makes one last weak attempt to resist the command, the hand not clutching the pen gripped to the edge of the desk, before his defenses shatter. I watch him retrieve the document from the printer tray with anticipation.
“She’ll figure it out,” he warns, a devious glint breaking through the dullness clouding his eyes. “She’s smart. She’ll figure out what you did.”
Fury shatters the last of my restraint. “Put your left hand on the desk.”
He makes a pathetic show of fighting each movement. For all I know, he first majored in the dramatic arts before switching to psychology. His muscles spasm as he flattens his palm to the desk surface. His chest heaves, his glasses slip down the bridge of his sweaty nose.
I hold his gaze, staring into his glazed eyes with the blue-and-green flames of mine. Dr. Torres should thank me in the end. I’m almost tempted to let him continue to destroy his own mind. But since I can’t have him further interfering…
“Drive the pen into your hand.”
“Oh god no…” Dr. Torres impales the pointed nib of the fountain pen into the back of his hand. Blood wells around the gold tip before a thin rivulet trails to the desk.
“Now,” I say, satisfaction rippling beneath my skin, “sign your fucking name.”
Shaking, he pulls the pen free and scribbles his name on the document, inking his authority with his blood.
By the time the psych tech enters to intervene, the document has been faxed to the Hollow’s Row Police Department at the attention of Special Agent Alister.
“You demon—” Torres shouts, as the tech tries to restrain him. “You’re a fucking demon. Hell is all around us.” He grabs the collar of the tech’s white shirt. “Can’t you feel the flames?”
With as much darkness as this man has seen, I’d think he’d conjure a less cliché delusion.
Before I’m escorted out of the doctor’s office by Agent Hernandez, I turn back briefly to send Torres a conspiratorial wink.
He’ll be fine. He might even make a full recovery. Then, he’ll go on to write a compelling memoir of how he battled his mental demons and came out the conquering victor.
He should issue me a royalty check from the proceeds.
After Hernandez has confirmed the transfer with the task force, he places me in the backseat of the black SUV once again. I look through the window and give the Briar institute one last, nostalgic glance.
I won’t be returning.
Poppy 80s music rattles from the speakers to fill the interior as I recline against the leather seat, wondering what little Halen is doing right now.
I’m coming, sweetness.
