"Thanks for coming to Tar...get."
The employee at the entrance reached for his walkie-talkie, ready to alert his team that a burglar entered the store.
Maksim ignored him. He walked to the electronics section. No employee offered help, mothers clutched their children, and cameras zoomed in on him. This was a typical Tuesday for him.
He scanned the rows of televisions. Their prices ranged wildly, but were all in the hundreds of dollars.
He reached for his back pocket, where his wallet was stored safely. He picked up extra shifts throughout the week just so he could afford this luxury. It wasn't for him, but for Rae.
There were all sorts of men in the world. Some could live quietly, and others were arrogant assholes that spat on silence. Maksim was the latter. He couldn't stand the thought of not being able to take care of his girl. It messed with his ego; soured his already nasty demeanor.
He spent twenty years surrounded by wealth and prestige and then fell from grace and crash-landed onto Rae's feet. The materialistic loss was great, but he ended up winning something priceless.
Raelynn.
He picked out a Samsung TV worth $329. The box was light in his hands, but his wallet felt heavier. This would have to do. He didn't want to risk buying another refurbished TV only for it to break down.
He walked to the cashier and made sure his hands were visible to avoid alarming more employees. He didn't care about the profiling. He knew what he looked like, and he signed away his invisibility when he tatted his arms to hell.
"Hey there. Is this all?" the old cashier lady asked. She was either sweet or a great actress.
"Yes." He pulled out his credit card, swiped it, and picked up the pen to sign.
MAKSIM K.
He refused to sign his full surname. It didn't belong to him anymore. He gave up that part of him long ago.
"Sir?"
He picked up the box, pocketed his wallet, and was out the door.
The drive home was faster than usual. When he parked outside, he saw that the apartment kitchen light was out. That was odd. It was nearly midnight, so Rae should be home from school.
Did the lightbulb burn out again?
He picked up the TV box and walked up the steps. He unlocked the door and scanned the apartment. Everything was in place, except for the empty couch. Usually, Rae was sitting on it, a smile on her face and her arms wide open for him.
"Rae?"
Something sinister took root in his gut. He could tell something was off. The bikers had nothing to do with it. He made sure they understood that he would burn them to the ground if they crossed Rae's path again.
He checked their bedroom, flicking lights on as he passed by. He checked the bathroom next. The girly decorations, flowers, and pumpkin spice freshener were there, but their owner wasn't. Rae's presence had been erased. Her toothbrush, tampon basket, makeup, hair ties, and robe were gone. All that remained were Maksim's body wash and razor.
This whole place was male, unfruitful.
With his heart at his throat, he tore through their closet. It was less than half its size. Most of Raelynn had gone with the wind.
"Raelynn!" he boomed, voice unrecognizable from the emotion that was strangling it.
He found the letter next. He knew it was Raelynn's without even opening it because it was perfectly folded and placed on the very corner. Although Raelynn tended to ramble on messily, she was a ridiculously organized person.
He flicked the letter open and recognized the neat handwriting.
You can't take care of me.
But he always tried his damned hardest.
You have no stable job, no talent, no education.
Did love not count?
I'm moving on. Forget about me.
How could you forget your murderer?
He gripped his stomach, because it felt like he got shot. Every word in that letter was a fucking bullet.
For the first time in a long time, he fell to his knees. The nearest chair toppled over and broke a leg. He stared at the splintered wood.
Was this real? Was he dead? Were the four scruffy walls that surrounded him actually a coffin?
He stumbled to his feet and ran through the letter one more time. One time became twelve, and the decay in his gut spread. Twelve times became twenty, and denial became fury.
He didn't know what would come after fury. What would remain of him when all the energy burned, and all that remained were ashes, ghosts, and cold?
He hoped he never found out.
With a howl of anger, he tore through the apartment. The television he bought was in tatters with two swings of his fists, the ugly couch he sat on with Raelynn on his lap as they talked about their day was flipped, the matching bracelet on his wrist was ripped into a million pieces, the radio they listened to as they cleaned and cooked no longer sung, the magazine of engagement rings he hid on a shelf Rae couldn't reach was shredded, the bed they made love in collapsed.
Even as he stood among the glass, wood, and plastic, the most destroyed artifact in the apartment was the aching thing in his chest.
He panted against the wall. His muscles were throbbing with fatigue, but his anger remained unsated.
Beads of liquid fell to the floor. Were they sweat? Or was his anger literally melting him alive?
He touched a stubbled cheek. Tears. He was crying like a boy. Somewhere along the rampage, his vision blurred. Not from anger, but sadness.
He splashed his face clean, picked up his wallet, and found the nearest liquor store. Then, with his bottles beside him, he stared at the shattered television. The thing was tipped on its side, with glass all over the place, and an eternal blackness on its screen.
It was him.
He drank until he joined the television in the darkness. When he woke up at two in the afternoon, he drank some more. The television was still broken. He stared as if an award-winning movie was playing on it, and his vodka was popcorn. His mind was numb from the alcohol, and his stomach empty. The only sign of life was the pounding thing in his chest.
He refused to call it the H-word. The thing was so greedy that it didn't deserve a name, too. It was just 'thing.' The aching, howling, crying thing that kept his organs running but was determined to end his soul.
There was a pounding in his apartment that made him look away from the television.
"Bro, you home?"
Fuck, that was his co-worker. What day was this? Tuesday? Friday?
He stumbled to his feet, knocking over empty bottles. He wasn't sure how he was still alive. He couldn't remember the last time he ate.
"Diablo," his co-worker Luis winced when he opened the door.
(Damn)
"You smell like the prohibition era. What happened?"
"What fucking day is it?" Maksim asked, inching away from the sunlight.
"Saturday. What happened? You haven't shown up to work. I thought you got fucking killed."
He technically did.
Maksim turned around to observe the dumpster that became his home. There was nothing left; only dangerous memories that would lead him to the gun in his bedroom and into permanent darkness.
Where could he go from there? Raelynn was the only reason he got up in the morning and tried to act like a normal citizen. She was gone, and so was his motivation to keep playing house. There was no longer anything to look forward to after a hard day of work.
He wanted to make people hurt, so he wasn't the only one in misery. He couldn't do it without power, though. He gave up his college education for Rae, so that was a dead end. The only way he would get his authority back was by crossing a bridge he burned a long time ago.
"Give me your phone."
Luis frowned.
He was a friend. A good guy that occasionally made Mak chuckle at work. He got his work visa, left Mexico, and worked to support his family across the border.
Luis dug out his phone and passed it over.
Maksim stared at the thing. Even after seven years, he still remembered the digits. He pound in the keys after some hesitation. The line rang, and just as he thought it wouldn't be picked up, there was a click.
"Who is this?" his father asked in Russian.
"Me."
"Maksim? It is you?"
"Yes."
"I... it is good to hear from you." His voice flickered with emotion. A rare occurrence.
"How is business?"
"Are you asking about flesh? I told you I would shut it down if that got you home. I did it."
'The flesh' was his father's codeword for human trafficking. Maksim packed his bags and disowned the family when he discovered the true ugliness of the mafia. He chose to be a broke nobody over a mafia boss that trafficked humans.
Even devils could see the difference between trafficking drugs and souls. Maksim didn't care whose blood pumped through his veins; didn't care who his parents were. He wouldn't traffic people.
"The business has been cold for seven years. Come home."
"Send a car and prepare the jet to fly me to Russia. I am sure you have already traced this call, anyway." Maksim hung up the phone and stared at the distance.
"I didn't understand shit of what you just said. Everything good?" Luis asked.
"The cartel member who raped your daughter," Maksim blurted. "What is his name?"
Luis frowned, disturbed by the change in topic. He admitted months ago that his teenage daughter was raped and the police did nothing about it because they were paid off.
Maksim couldn't do anything at the time but share his fury, but things were different now. The zeroes in his bank account multiplied, and so did his bloodthirst.
"Did you hit your head?" Luis asked.
Maksim ran through the clutter in his living room until he found his wallet. He took out all the cash and his credit card.
"Max the card and get rid of it." He shoved the cash and card into his hands. "I won't need this where I'm going."
"I'm worried about you, man."
"I'll find the cartel, and I'll avenge your daughter. Take care."
Maksim slammed the door shut, picked up a bottle, and stared at the television.
It was plugged in, but it never came back to life.