What Crawls Below

7 § On a Bender

Seeing Tuesday again had calmed the monster in him for the briefest of moments; back out in the cold, and having drained his energy in such a reckless way, quickly had darkness crawling back out of whatever recesses it had retreated to.

Cyrus distracted himself for the first half of the day obsessing over Tuesday's aunt. She was human, Cyrus was sure; he'd been in the company of demons and reapers, and those creatures had a much more oppressive energy about them. But her intuition, or whatever it was, had doubt creeping along his spine. What did he know? The world was looking to be increasingly complex with each passing day. It wasn't far-fetched to assume there were beings Cyrus was not yet aware of out there.

When he had no other suspicions to toss around, the awareness of his demons came rushing back. It wasn't bad, not yet. He'd been dealing with it for a very long time and this was nothing new. However, the little drug-induced massacre was no on Cyrus's mind, and the idea of anything like that happening again had him shaking even harder. He didn't want to test his limits. That's how he ended up outside a liquor store, offering nearly the last of his cash--only a few twenties were left in the wallet--to anyone willing to score him some liquid amnesia.

After just half an hour of begging, someone grabbed the cash from Cyrus's hand and entered the store. Hoping they wouldn't decide to use it all on themself, he turned to the bar next door; the large flatscreen was visible through the window. From his spot on the sidewalk, he could just make out the image of a house on fire, thick plumes of smoke reaching blackish fingers towards the sky. Cyrus couldn't read the reporter's lips, but saw the bold caption: SIX DEAD IN POSSIBLE ELECTRICAL FIRE.

Cyrus turned from the window, stomach churning.

The man who'd taken his money exited the shop then, glancing up and down the street before thrusting a paper sack into Cyrus's hands and hurrying away. That had been easier than expected; oh to live in a land flowing with milk and honey...

This thought brought a half-delirious laugh to Cyrus's lips as he found a deserted alleyway to hide him from the street and huddled down there. It was an era of firsts, but each one made the next come easier. He twisted the top off the bottle without hesitation.

He sputtered over the first sip. By the time the bottle was nearly bone-dry, his throat welcomed it without protest. When it was gone, Cyrus's thoughts had grown sluggish but it hadn't completely numbed the memories forcing their way through the fog. In movements that felt slow and awkward, he flung the bottle away from himself. It crashed into the opposite wall several feet away, shards of glass raining down.

Cyrus's eyes strayed to a particularly large shard, the neck of the bottle still intact, tapering off into sharp little teeth. The sight of it needled him until its significance came to light. It reminded him of the weapon Tuesday had used to kill Pastor Hale.

And it reminded him of something else. Knowing he wouldn't like the truth that was struggling to unveil itself in the haze of his mind, Cyrus thumped his head with his hands and attempted to think of anything else.

He did not have that luxury. The memory was faded and warped and barely there at all; he couldn't picture it, but a label of its events branded itself into Cyrus's thoughts: that was how he had killed his mother. All it had taken was a small suggestion and a jagged piece of glass.

A sob wracked his body with such force Cyrus had no choice but to curl in on himself in an attempt to keep himself together. He hadn't cried before or after that night on the beach, and it wasn't a pleasant feeling.

He couldn't bear being alone with himself much longer, but it would be unwise to attempt revisiting Tuesday's house if that aunt of hers were home--and besides, Cyrus couldn't explain what he was feeling. Not to her. This was yet another secret he wasn't ready to share.