Sandy Morrison and the Pack of Pussies

Chapter 11

Todd Morrison was drunk, and it was only 5 PM. His frayed weekend clothing was wrinkled, having been washed in a sink and worn damp that morning. Which was better than stinking of unwashed funk and spilled alcohol. Except his shirt still smelled slightly of ballsack, armpits and spilled beer, and now it also stank very strongly of lavender perfume, which came in the complimentary shampoo bottle. The lavender was cloying because he’d done a lousy job of rinsing his clothes, and the soap residue was making his skin itch. He almost preferred the funk, except it made him itch too. Damned if he did...

His short dark brown hair, littered with strands of grey, stood out in all directions. Todd didn’t help this shaggy non-style by alternating between running his hands over his hair and tugging at fistfuls during moments of despair. When this got old, he rubbed his jaw and noted the scruffy “stubble,” which despite his advanced age had never been thick enough to grow a real beard. After many days of ignoring his reflection, thin patches of wiry hair bristled under his nails. He would need months just to fake mutton chops, but the hollows of his cheeks would remain bare.

His crumpled appearance and inebriated condition should have inspired an inner voice to express shame, but Todd had already drowned that voice out with whiskey days before. He had nothing left to lose, and nothing left to feel but grief and regret. He was working on breaking down these last opponents, and he’d been making great progress today. Halfway into a fifth of Jack Daniels, both grief and regret were reeling just as much as Todd.

He stared down into his glass, not wanting to think of anything. Not his past, his present, nor his bleak future. He’d walked away from his life, away from his private therapy practice, away from everything. And once he was gone, he didn’t want any reminders of where’d he come from.

His brain defied him, coughing up a memory of Velma’s smile. It tried to trace back through the image to other details, and with the effort came the pain of remembering.

Squeezing his eyes shut, Todd picked up the tumbler and tipped it back. If the whiskey had a taste, he didn’t know it. He only felt the alcohol burn him, competing with the pain in his chest before he began to feel numb again.

It wasn’t enough. He reached for the bottle.

He’d raised the whiskey an inch when the bottle became heavy and clinked the bar, resisting his drunk grasp. He swayed his head left, saw a hand with a single fingertip extended to hold down the bottle by the cap. The hand was encased in black leather, but the top half of the dainty extended finger was bare, exposing a bright red fingernail. The creased skin under the middle knuckle was thick with white scar tissue, but the top of the knuckle was unblemished.

Todd could have looked back to see who was behind him, but in his drunk logic, that meant a heightened risk of falling off his stool. He looked toward the mirror, and for a moment, he thought he was seeing a ghost.

But no, these green eyes were alien to him, darker and full of an anger that Velma’s had never possessed. The woman’s red hair was dark and wavy, where Velma’s had been straight and bright as living flames. But very little else was different. The woman in the reflection had Velma’s slim nose, her delicate jaw line and round, full cheeks. She had the same proud, pointed chin, though hers was tight and dimpled in anger.

Todd’s gaze fell from her glaring expression, noting her white peasant top and black skirt. A floppy black bag hung off her hip, suspended by a wide strap that ran across her body and between her breasts.

Todd let go of the bottle, blinking at the reflection as he tried to jog his memory. But this woman was unfamiliar to him. Which of course meant she could only be the one relative from Velma’s family he hadn’t met.