Joe Gribble - Darkest Edge

Mark is at his sister’s house. He’s kneeling over her unmoving body, awkwardly laid out on her couch. He shakes her.

“Wake up,” he yells. “Wake up. Wake up.” He continues to yell, shaking her. A hopeless despair flows over him and his appeals to his sister become quieter, and quieter. He finally stops, slumping down to sit on the floor, his hand still resting on her arm. He sobs, silently.

Mark opened his eyes and quickly sat up in bed, covered in sweat. He reached over to a table that served as his night stand and grabbed the clock. The dim glow showed the time: 2:43. He sat up in bed, knocking over a shot glass as he reached for the half-empty bottle of whiskey. He put it to his mouth and took a long swallow. Mark put the bottle between his legs and rested his elbows on his knees. He started to bring the bottle back to his mouth, but thought better. Getting hammered this early in the morning wouldn’t help anything. He put the bottle down on the table and struggled to his feet. Balance momentarily evaded him and he almost fell, but he grabbed the wall to stabilize himself and took a step toward the bathroom door, kicking last night’s pants out of the way.

It wasn’t far to the bathroom in the small, one-bedroom apartment. Mark grimaced as he flipped on the bathroom light. He stood in front of the mirror, facing the worst part of himself. Hollow, bloodshot eyes, stared back at him. They seemed to ask him, “is it worth it?”

He grabbed a washcloth and turned on the cold tap to soak the cloth, then wiped his face as if to clean away the pain he saw there. Mark pulled the mirror to open the medicine cabinet. A razor, toothbrush …. and a pill bottle. He took the bottle and read the inscription — Temazepam, He studied the pill bottle, turned it over and over. He opened it and poured a couple of pills into his hand, stared at them, then emptied the rest of the pills into his hand. He filled a glass with tap water. He started to bring the handful of pills to his mouth when he saw a small, handmade bracelet on top of the toilet back. He froze in place.

Mark closed the hand holding the pills, squeezing them into his fist. With one hand holding the pills, and the other holding the empty bottle, he ground both fists onto the edge of the sink and his head sagged. Tears rolled from his face.

It took a few minutes before he was able to regain his composure. He sobbed one last time. “Quit feeling sorry for yourself, Mark!” Mark poured the pills back into the bottle, put the lid back on, and placed it back into the cabinet. He reached over and picked up the bracelet. Closing the cabinet, Mark looked from the bracelet to his gaunt reflection. “Not today, Mark. Not today.”

Mark sat inside his car, parked on the side of the road. His tie was loose, white shirt wrinkled under his open sport jacket. He hadn’t had time to shave. The suburban houses around him were reminiscent of his own home. Hell, they should — his house was only a couple of miles away. Same neighborhood. He looked at the houses. Cookie cutter copies repeated every seven or eight units. Only the colors varied. Mark watched as a man in a tie left the front door of one of the nearby houses and got into a car. Was he happy? Why didn’t his wife kiss him goodbye on his way out the door? Was everyone as miserable as Mark was, or did they have the idyllic life that he remembered he used to have?

A school bus passed by and it drew Mark’s attention. It pulled in behind several other buses in the drop-off zone ahead of him at Shawnee Elementary — Rachel’s school. Dozens of kids got off the bus. Playful kids, hauling backpacks almost as big as they were. Once off the bus, they headed for the school entrance.

Mark put a small pair of binoculars up to his eyes to get a better look. He was watching for someone in particular. For Rachel. He thought he saw her backpack when…

TAP, TAP, TAP on the window.

Mark startled. He lowered the binoculars and quickly looked to the side at his window.

A police officer stood outside his door. The cop’s massive arms were crossed in front of him, and he looked impatient. Very impatient.

The cop motioned for Mark to roll down the window.

Mark pushed the window switch. Nothing. He hammered at it. Still nothing.

The police officer tapped on his window again.

Mark glanced back up, could hear the policeman’s muffled voice through the window: “Turn the key.”

Mark’s shoulders sagged. “Dumbass,” he said to himself. He turned the ignition key, then thumbed the window switch. As the window rolled down, Mark glanced in his rear-view mirror.

Behind him sat a patrol car, lights flashing. Why hadn’t he noticed that before?

“Driver’s license and registration,” the cop said, holding out his hand.

“What’s the problem?” Mark asked.

“What the hell do you think?” the cop answered. “I’m tempted to haul you in without asking any questions.”

Mark fished out his license and handed it over. “My registration is in the glove box.”

The cop leaned closer to his window, hand dropping to the pistol on his hip. “Anything in that glove box I need to know about?”

Mark stared at the cop. What the hell was this guy’s problem? “No, just papers.”

“Alright,” the cop answered, not taking his hand away from his holster. “Slowly.”

“Yeah. Sure,” Mark said. He reached carefully for the glove box and opened it. He cautiously removed a stack of papers, a few napkins, and some plastic utensils. Mark put the stack on the passenger’s seat and carefully dug through the papers.

The cop examined Mark’s driver’s license, keeping a wary eye on his suspect. “Mark Wilcox… I know that name.” The cop held the license up to compare it to Mark’s face. “Have I busted you before?”

Mark pulled the registration out and unfolded it. He straightened back up and looked at the cop. Mark laughed nervously. “No. I’ve never been arrested.” Mark handed the registration over, then fished a business card out of his wallet and handed it to the cop. “Here.”

The cop took the registration and the business card. He glanced at the card. “Channel Seven. Oh, yeah. I used to see you on the evening news all the time. Investigative stories, right?”

“Yeah,” Mark answered. “I’m on the late news, now.”

The cop stared at Marl. “So, what the hell are you doing out here?” the cop asked. “Some kind of story?”

“I wish,” Mark said. He looked back at the school just as Rachel got close to the front door. That’s my daughter going in now, the blonde. My wife and I…” Mark watched Rachel go into the school, then he looked down, not really wanting to face the officer.

The cop fidgeted with the paperwork. “Yeah. Happens to the best of us. What is she, seven?”

“Six. First grade.”

“Divorced?” the cop asked.

“Not yet,” Mark said. “Just separated. It’s… It’s complicated.” Mark propped his hands on the steering wheel, gesturing with his fingers toward the school entrance. “I don’t get to see her much.”

The cop handed the license and registration back to Mark. “You better work something out with your wife. You can’t sit out here every morning. We got a call about some pervert spying on little kids.”

Mark sighed. He put his license back in his wallet, and tossed the registration back with the other papers in the passenger’s seat. “Yeah, I guess it could look like that.”

“You better move on, Mr. Wilcox,” the cop said. He paused, then got stern: “And don’t let me catch you out here again.”

Mark watched in his side view mirror as the cop headed back to his cruiser. He glanced back at the school as the last school bus drove away. All the kids were inside. He rolled his window up and waited as the cop pulled around him and drove off.