The One That Stays With You

14

Davis didn't recognize Austin when the news of his death went public. He hadn't thought about his time in the Michigan State Police in twenty years, where faces became blurs when you entered the mental fog. And names? Forget about it. Karen remembered and made sure to rattle his mind jar.

The headline read Beloved Cop Dies in Traffic Accident. There was no way for Davis to be sure if the beloved part was genuine. The little he had remembered was Austin had a stick up his ass. Further recall: he hadn't got a single phone call in all these years. Not a hey, how the hell are you doing? Or a, we went through a fuckin' ringer and made it out, didn't we? Fuck Davis and fuck courtesy. Once he decided to call it quits, he was on his own, and men like Austin made sure he knew it with their noses in the air and silence. It didn't matter that he was right fucking there with them when that insanity overshadowed their lives. He had chosen not to be one of them after. That was all that mattered, and the silence did all the talking. He ingested the same mania, but he was on his own to swallow it.

She sounded as if this news would strike any significance. "Oh, my God. Didn't you serve with him?"

Davis forgot his emotions. "Yeah. I did."

"Tragic."

"Oh, yeah. Tragic."

Davis had been the last casualty. He hadn't lost his mind, but pretty damn close. Killing a man, whether criminally insane or not, affected you. Stack that cherry on top with the rest from those times, and you had yourself one righteous slice of shit cake. Johnson, whom he remembered and was legitimately sad to hear had passed, shook his hand and wished him luck in the future. As well as made Davis promise to seek help or reach out had he ever needed it. And he did. Juggled school and Monday/Thursday therapy sessions putting him into enough debt to keep him buried until retirement. Concrete Engineering wasn't a bad gig. You always had work from the state, where the roads seemed to hate being whole. There were no clowns either, if you didn't count the asshats on your crew who couldn't keep their bad jokes to themselves.

In time he had forgotten. He worked, came home, lived his life with his loving wife, and he enjoyed every minute of it. He was a survivor of an encounter with evil. Twenty years and hadn't thought about it not one time. For that, he was cursing Karen. People died every day. Why was Austin such a special case? Because they worked together in the same building? For fuck's sake, they never shared a moment together until they were shooting down Loony McClown. His day was going pretty well before she brought this to his attention.

She left for work, and he was sitting in the bedroom in front of a mirror. The canister palmed tightly in his hands. It took him a while to find. Sad, he hadn't needed it in all these years before he could let it stagnate. She made him remember, and if he was going to make it through, he needed this. Two light twists to open. Three fingers scooping deep to the first knuckles.

This was his therapy.

The hidden madness trapped in Davis' nexus of bright lights and music internally—eternally distant. Where sweet smells hid the foul beneath, and alien creatures of greasepaint and blood-red smiles roamed.

In the middle of a mundane morning, Davis rubbed his hands together and smeared white grease paint unevenly over his face. He began laughing maniacally at his reflection. Suddenly, his fist began striking his mouth with incredible force until blood flowed he could paint with. A little for the nose and enough to make a smile.

There was a problem. Davis didn't intend to take it off this time. He would see Karen when she got home later. And she would see him.

It stays with you. The madness.

He got his wish in the end.