I was once part of this sinking city. A drug-fueled metropolis which ticked like a bomb, ready to explode splinters from the underbelly of hell. I saw people ease themselves into the foundations and stay there rattling, craving the narcotics, spearheading limp revolutions, and dying on the freeway. I was one of them, a man impacted by this life, a life plummeting for all to observe. I sat in piss and rags, committing petty crimes for the underground, the people who wanted to spark a revolt against this decaying city.
My heart feels heavy today. The low winter sun is blinding in the lush boundaries of suburbia. I am wearing my best suit, and my watch shines brightly, its aesthetics pristine. I open my car door and sit calmly at the wheel, looking forward at the life I’ve created. An existence I thought was out of my reach, one which only privileged people should experience. I’ve experienced many downfalls over the years, hardships, and usually those involved the sound of gunfire and whimpering enemies.
Looking forward, I have done for many years. I have built a life from the ashes, guiding myself through many obstacles, abstaining from going back into the dark days. It’s difficult to feel alive when you’ve suffered the cycle, the badly drawn dreams, the despair, the pain of gunshots. Blood has spilled from me and many people, hearts have been pulled from chests, scorched bodies have littered the rooms of unsuspecting families. This hasn’t been a purely white existence, an immaculate continuation, it has been pelted with threats and excuses.
I turn on the ignition and drive on through the quiet street. Nothing is out of place, hearts beat healthy inside peaceful bodies, suburbia doesn’t look grey, and it’s all wrapped up in greenery. The vibrancy heals me every time I look at the flourishing landscape. Through time, I’ve haven’t become desensitized to the pain, but I’ve tried, in this true radiance, to not be inflicted by intrusive memories.
A receive a phone call from a number I don’t recognize. I stop the car at a layby, and I answer. On the other end is a gritty voice.
‘’The sinking city.’’
He hangs up.
I am alarmed and crave to be armed to shoot through the memories of the sinking city. That voice, although I don’t know it, is a piece of the place I despise. The rage grows in me, I become disconnected to all that I’ve worked for. This suit is a fucking disguise, one covering my many scars and cuts. I remember the infirmary, when they removed the two bullets from my abdomen, and those stitches, painful but completely necessary.
I want to live, but not on the line. I want to feature in a love story, not a dark fable, blemished by heinous crimes. My heart feels heavier than heaven. It beats for myself and the countless people I lost in the trappings of the sinking city. This city has corrupted so many upstanding people, it has cut deep, and it has soared through like a cannonball, taking them down one by one. Looking at myself in the mirror in this sports car, I feel lost and empty. Materialistic things now seem worthless. This car, this suit, the watch on my wrist.
I drive off through the suburban glow to the road that leads to the sinking city. I can almost smell the rot, the decomposition. This is a road I drove down many times when my addiction controlled my every waking moment. It’s a harsh past I endured. One many would dislodge from their memory with pills and alcohol. Do I need to go? Will I be trapped in its dark core if I make that decision?
Driving off into the fog, the grey mist brings back memories of those unsettling days. The days under the influence marking my plot to be buried into. Losing it all churned my stomach, a sharp pain often chewed away at the feeling of optimism. Pessimistic in my approach to life, I felt obligated to carry burdens for others.
Driving down this long-abandoned road, where animal skulls lay on the sidelines, I feel rather frightened by my lone thoughts. The thoughts, the feelings, the mind fucks, the snapshots. They all interweave like a puzzle, and I can’t diffuse them even if I try. In front of me is an old barn, probably full to the brim with ghosts, I look closely at it when I drive past.
I am nearly there. A broken city underdeveloped awaits me. An old stomping ground, never fledging, never respected. We call it the sinking city because it is a rat-infested place that leaves an odour on your clothes, a sinking well that purposefully pulls you in and keeps you hostage, a squalor craving your ribcage and entrails.
I receive another phone call from the man with grit in his voice.
‘’Death is on its way for a former lover.’’
He hangs up again. I try to think about former lovers from the sinking city. They’re all caged in a dark place in my mind, shrouded by steel panels.
The only girl I cared for was Sara Forrester. A lynchpin to me when my mind was distorted by loveless drugs. She wore a dress, she had tattoos, and her dreams were ludicrous. Caring for her was difficult, but I fell in love with her, despite her spontaneous ways. She might be in trouble, caught up in the commotion, thrown to the wolves.
The fundamentals of this city are the same. The small stores sell the same old alcohol, the prostitutes still stand on the corners, the neon lights flash red alerts. This city doesn’t deserve a blue sky, it deserves to be blown from memory.
I drive around the city, struck by doubt. She can’t be alive? Or her vitals could crash as I contemplate?
By taking a deep breath, I put memories together. Could she be at the same place I left her all those years ago? That house pinned down my junkies, a place where needles were commonplace, where smoking your brains was fashionable.
I open my eyes wide and drive.
The phone rings again.
‘’Time is of the essence.’’
And when it halts, that voice, I see through these tired eyes the place where all hell broke loose. The den where love burst like an abscess, where hearts couldn’t be mended.
Initially, I feel hesitant, but drive off through the carnage, the rot, the sad state of affairs onto a street famed for a being the most notorious. I open the door and abscond from the car. The smell of putrid drains fills my nostrils. I open the boot of the car and take out a dusty handgun…
I amble on and then wonder to myself why I’m doing this?? She has become a figment of my imagination, someone trapped in the back of my mind, a person who has come to the forefront. Why do I need to sacrifice my life to help her survive? It might be, as I veer closer to the den, the love, the lust, the sexual connection I had with her. The times she tended to the grazes, the cuts, that gun wound. All these memories interlock, intertwine to create a montage in my mind, a mosaic, and pictures showing the true bond I had, a bond I have forgotten about.
The house is brightly lit in an area bound in drugs and murder. Every day someone dies here. Their body probably shot down with a hundred bullets hitting and then breaking through the skin. But I am prepared to wreak havoc, tear it all down.
The phone goes again…
‘’You’ve found the place, but where is the distressed little animal.’’
I dismiss the call and walk over to the door.
The door is unlocked. I open it up, take a few steps in.
There is no one here, only that stale smell that brings it all back.
I shout her name… Again and again….
There are steps that lead down below to the catacombs of this house.
I shout her name… Again and Again…
Through this torment I hear someone laugh, someone who is finding this ordeal amusing. I fear this house is a deathtrap too, and I may meet my end. Truthfully, if I died now, then no one would know. As the laughs fall silent, I walk on through the basement, and see blood splatter on the floor. It is turning into a nightmare scenario, and I’m losing grip on my emotions.
‘’Sara.’’
I wake to a thumping headache. My eyesight is blurry, but through it all I see Sara attached to a device on the wall. It looks like she has been burned by electrical currents. She is unconscious. Over in the corner, someone stands next to the lever. His face shrouded by a mask.
‘’Someone you love is going to die and you’re on the floor bleeding out.’’
‘’Who are you?’’
‘’Someone you left to rot in this sinking city’’
The thoughts in my head can’t conclude. I can’t remember, I can’t force my mind to think about this man before me, a man who has my life on the line. He could shoot the life out of me and burn the life from Sara. She doesn’t deserve to be pulverized, she has her demons, but she doesn’t have the energy to fight off his sinister intentions. He’s dressed in black, he speaks in a gritty tone, he walks with a swagger, he thinks of himself as a monumental figure.
‘’Remember, keep remembering’’
My thoughts and feelings seem rigid. They’re falling into a bundle behind a locked door in my mind.
‘’I don’t remember.’’
‘’Too much drugs, too much alcohol, too much money going to your head. You know, you used to be the king of this city. A wise guy, but one full, bloodied and resolute. Now you’re on borrowed time’’
I am fixated on time. I want to live, but it seems time is running out. Sara is half alive, her skin mutilated, her closed eyes a sign, a sign prompting death to come her way, and I am ready to follow on through to the light with her.
‘’Okay, I’ll tell why you’re here. But let’s play a game first. If you answer this question correctly, then I’ll release Sara from the shackles. If you answer it incorrectly, then she’ll burn brightly’’
‘’Okay.’’
‘’What was the name of the man who saved your life? The man who was by your side through thick and thin, who battled through all the shit this city threw at him?
I think and think until the flashbacks come fast. I can picture the blood pouring from deep wounds. I can see a face, a scarred face, and guns, I can see guns… And that tattoo on his arm, the tattoo of two phoenixes rising from the ashes…
‘’Your time is up.’’
‘’I know who you are. Jimmy, you’re Jimmy’’
‘’Correct, how do remember me?’’
‘’From the massacre 10 years ago, you held me, you kept me from dying.’’
‘’Correct, but you ran away two days after.’’
‘’I had to get away from it all.’’
‘’You signed yourself out of the hospital.’’
‘’I had to.’’
It all comes flooding back.
‘’I never left in spite.’’
‘’You left me with nothing in a sinking city, drugged to the heavens, cut to the bone.’’
‘’I’m sorry.’’
‘’She’s nearly dead anyway, one more spark, and she’s done.’’
‘’No, don’t, I beg you.’’
As he pulls the lever, I find strength to grab him. We both fall to the ground as Sara is electrified, her body being scorched as we fight. I overpower him and hit him with the bat, as he screams in pain, I grab the gun from the table and shoot with no hesitation.
I shut down the electrical device.
It seems to be too late.
Sara’s body has been blackened.
I check her vital signs.
She’s gone and this sinking feeling and city live on….
THE END
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Mark McConville is a freelance music journalist who has written for many online and print publications. He also likes to write dark fiction.