James and Harper trudged on, reaching James’ neighborhood. The walk had been long, and James was getting tired. This might have been Harper’s idea of a good time, but James was about ready to slug him in the face.

“You’re a real decent guy, James,” Harper exhaled into James’ face. “And you know what?”

Harper stopped, reached into his jacket and pulled out two twenty dollar bills, then slapped them into James’ hand. James looked at the cash, grinned. Okay, Harper was still a cool guy. Just incredibly annoying when drunk.

“Happy birthday,” Harper said. “Spend it on yourself. And don’t tell your mom.”

“Thanks,” James replied as he stuffed the bills in his pants. “You got steady enough feet?”

Harper chuckled, then looked ahead. They were in front of the house. But it was dark. Something was wrong.

“Why aren’t the lights on?” Harper asked, straightening considerably, his drunken slur suddenly under control.

James looked at Harper, who motioned for him to proceed, Harper taking a defensive position behind him, looking around, his hand in his jacket once more. Apparently, he’s a paranoid drunk, too, James laughed to himself. Seriously, there was nothing in the house worth stealing. Not even the TV. It was an old standard definition CRT. No cash, no jewelry...

They reached the house, James knocked. No answer. The TV wasn’t on. No light through the curtains. That was kind of weird.

“Use your key,” Harper cooly instructed after James knocked once more.

~

The door opened. Blackness. An utter, complete void. And it wasn’t really about the lighting. There was something eerily familiar about the unidentifiable feeling that swept over James. Cramped. Tight. Confined. Watched. He didn’t want to enter it, but he knew he must. His mother was in there with it.

As he stepped forward, a hand gripped his shoulder, frightened him. It was Harper. He had forgotten about his cousin. He looked at him, Harper’s finger to his mouth, signaling silence. Harper pulled a tiny flashlight from his jacket… and a gun.

“Whoa,” James whispered. Since when did Harper pack?

Harper took point, led James into the house, slowly. What James could see of his face told him that Harper didn’t really want the boy in the house, but definitely didn’t want him outside, either. And right now, Harper was the safest thing in James’ life. Of course, that suddenly wasn’t saying much.

The flashlight whipped about the room, and there it was, on the floor… Deep, thick, crimson. It trailed across the living room floor, to the couch… And there, on it, rested the brutalized corpse of Harper’s buddy Zach. Harper exhaled with a mixture of expectancy and grief.

“Oh shit,” James slipped. So much blood. Death. It was too much for him. All that mattered now was his mother. Where was she?

“Quiet,” Harper solemnly whispered. His eyes turned to James, and they were foreign. This Harper was as of yet unknown to James. This Harper looked capable of great violence. This Harper had eyes born of the void. All that was jovial and drunk had melted away, almost visibly, like a mask torn from the face of its phantom. And it scared the hell out of James.

Harper passed James, headed for the hallway leading to Avelyn’s room.

~

They entered Avelyn’s room. Moonlight peered in through the blinds, barely illuminating the bed. Harper flashed his light around, focused on the tossed over wheelchair, scanned the room. No blood… but mess everywhere.

As Harper circled the room, James’ eyes held on the sight of his mother’s wheelchair. Who would take a crippled old woman? Why her? What had she done? Was it a home robbery gone wrong, or what?

“Harper,” James started.

Harper turned to James. “We need to go. Now.”

Harper stormed past James, grabbed his arm and pulled him away. James’ eyes held on his mother’s wheelchair until it vanished. As they raced out of the house, he remembered his last thoughts towards her, and was ashamed. He had never lost his father, for he had never known him. But he had just lost his mother, the woman who had raised him, provided for him, and now needed him to care for her.

And he had been so selfish.

James hadn’t had much to drink. The taste of alcohol really didn’t suit him. He had been a sport and downed a glass, but that was it for him. Harper, on the other hand, had enjoyed himself a bit more exuberantly.

Harper strutted down the sidewalk, James supporting his weight as Harper wrapped an arm around James’ neck and laughed coarsely, his breath rank.

“I don’t know,” James said, answering Harper’s question, trying to ignore the smell. “Don’t like how they, uh, make me feel. Kind of numbs me up…”

“You prefer puking to numbness?” Harper chuckled.

“You know what I don’t get?” James continued. “We have the same condition, right?” Harper nodded, his eyes narrowing a bit as James finished with, “So why do her pills look the same but taste different?”

Harper stuck his foot out, awkwardly struck the sidewalk with it and stumbled forward. James lunged after him, steadied him, looked Harper over as his cousin gathered his thoughts. There was something underneath the drunken stupor, turning wheels that Harper was trying to keep repressed.

“What, you took her pills?” Harper asked.

“We’ve got the same condition, right?” James replied.

“Well, that doesn’t mean…” Harper trailed off, his head swinging about as he coughed, then grabbed James’ neck and pulled him in close. “Listen, listen.” He grinned, then tapped James on the chest. “Anything, I mean anybody, tries to mess with you, they gotta answer to me. Unkay?”

“Unkay,” James mockingly mirrored.

“And you know me,” Harper went on, “you know I’m looking out for you. You know I’d never lie to you, right?”

James nodded, shrugged. He hoped that was true.

“So you gotta keep taking your pills,” Harper instructed. “Just for six more months. You… you do it for six months, and you’ll be free and clear of this thing…”

“Yeah,” James sighed, looking ahead. Fat chance. Harper was hiding something. Maybe he wasn’t lying, but omission in this case might still be deception. James felt a knot in his stomach, and not the usual one. Maybe there was nobody he could trust.

And that’s when he saw the homeless man, across the street, in an alley. Again he felt the ping of conscience for his earlier thoughts against the poor soul, and his inability to make up for them. Of course his need was selfish. It was about feeling better about himself. He knew that. But surely there were far worse ways to make oneself feel better.

Like getting drunk off your ass.

“Six more months,” Harper repeated. “And then the nightmares’ll stop. And you’ll stop getting so damn gloomy.”

James looked back at Harper, steadied him again, and stopped walking. “Can we hold up a sec?”

“Wha, wha…” Harper mumbled, confused.

“You got a couple bucks?” James asked, turning his focus back to the man across the street.

Harper followed his line of sight, then grinned and nodded.

~

The homeless man sat, his head hung, his eyes closed, the tin cup at his feet. Half asleep, half meditating. It had been three years since he’d opened his eyes on the side of the road one cold December morning, no recollection of who he was or how he got there. Only the incredible feeling that he had lost something of great value.

Since that day, a great many shadows and dreams percolated his subconscious, teasing him with full revelations, and then returning to undefined obscurities. He would dream of faces, and know them for an instant, and weep over them. Particularly two faces drew tears, a man and woman. They looked nothing like him, but he felt… and then the recognition would dissipate, as would their faces. Only the heartbreak remained.

Eventually he surmised that he had lost his family. Obviously he had, for he did not know who he was, but he had to have come from somewhere. Something simply does not come from nothing. Something caused him to be. Surely he had parents, perhaps he had children of his own, even. He had decided to write the words “Lost Family” on a cardboard sign as a crude means of signaling anybody that might recognize him.

But this much he knew: his faith. He had realized he was a Christian when, one day, he started instinctively praying, talking to Jesus. When he heard the subtle voice within his head respond, he figured either he was in fact conversing with the Almighty, or it was simply the madness that had robbed him of all memory. He chose the former, and clung to the hope that it would rectify the latter.

But if not, he would not lose his faith. It was all he had, now. It gave him purpose, and hope. And he believed that it was Jesus that led people to give him the money necessary to survive, day to day. He had never missed a meal. Incapable of working, but always able to find nourishment.

And, as he pondered all these things, the tin cup tinkled.

The man opened his eyes, and he looked up to see a young man, almost a boy, standing over him. He squinted, saw through the alley’s shadows the boy’s eyes. It was the kind soul from the grocery store.

“Thanks, man,” he said to the boy. “What’s your name?”

“James,” the boy replied.

As the boy’s voice sounded, a great wave overwhelmed the homeless man, goosebumps rising all over his body. He shook with the tingling, and gripped himself, rocking. The voice inside was loud, so loud that the words couldn’t be heard. And the feeling was strong: great sorrow, great compassion. He wept as he rocked.

“Jesus, bless James, Jesus, bless James, Jesus, bless James,” he muttered uncontrollably.

The boy was understandably unsettled, but he couldn’t help the display. Such an overwhelming need to pray for the child. His mouth ran off with his soul, leaving the mind behind, and sputtered incomprehensible gibberish.

James turned back, and left the broken shell of a man in the alley.

“Let him find what he should, let him find what he should,” the man chanted before returning to the spiritual babbling.

What a fool I am. But His fool, I must be.