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Payment
Author: Random    Date: 09/30/2008 16:22:14

Some weeks ago i posted one of my stories. Since then I've wanted to post my favorite short story, if i could ever find it. I finally did, so...here it is...Payment.




Donald Granger leaned back against the seat of his year-old Buick. Pain throbbed across his forehead, he shut his eyes to push it back. He reached over and ran his fingers across the top of the briefcase on the seat next to him.

His fingers slid to the latches having done so many times. He flipped them up and the briefcase opened. His hand then slipped inside, to feel for the swirling design on the side of his grandfather’s flask. With urgency he pulled out the flask. With his hand he twisted off the cap and pressed the opening to his lips, downing Johnnie Walker. He slid the flask from his mouth, sighing.

Finally, he re-opened his eyes and looked at the flask, how the silver caught the soft lighting of the street lamp outside. He twisted back-on the cap, and looked out his car window to the night sky above.

Donald’s attention wandered to the rearview mirror. He could see his dark blue eyes, salt and pepper hair. A slow smile grew across his reflection. Abruptly, he slammed the flask into the mirror, shattering it. His breath quick shallow, he stared at the black exposed in the broken mirror.

His thoughts ran in circles as he tried to moderate his breathing. Calm down…Just calm down…

He sighed and tossed the flask into the briefcase, to grab a pill bottle. It rattled almost empty. He dumped all the contents into his palm and pushed them into his mouth. Briefly, thinking of grabbing for the whiskey, he decided against it and swallowed the pills dry.

He dropped the now-empty bottle back into the briefcase before shutting it. He opened the car door, slid his feet across crunching glass and stepped out. He reached back in to grab the briefcase.

Donald Granger walked around the small parking lot to a two-story hotel. Twin wooden doors stood before him. His hand ran over the wood, his mind roaming, Why am I here… He unconsciously adjusted his tailored business jacket.

Finally, he pushed the doors open.

The lobby was empty guests. A deep tear cut into the sofa that sat against one wall. A coffee table only carried magazines that looked a decade old. He stepped forward, his eyes now drawn to the counter that guarded a small room to the rear. Below the counter hung a plaque. Hotel Dusk…

A rack of keys hung to his left, behind the counter. Nearby sat a clock, Ten-fifteen, and a desk calendar, March fourth. Beside them sat a bell. Donald brought his briefcase to rest on the counter. He adjusted the sleeves of his jacket before tapping the bell.

The door opened and from small room he could hear a radio talking about Senator Joseph McCarthy. The manager looked annoyed and muttered, “Damn Commies…” He stopped and looked at Donald. “Yeah?”

“I want a room,” Donald said, watching the manager. Does he recognize me? “How much?”

“Fifteen,” the manager looked Donald over. “You some big shot?”

“You could say that,” Donald said, watching him carefully. No…He doesn’t. “How many rooms you got?”

“Twenty-two.” He said, his eyes narrowing, unsure of what to think of Donald. “What’s a big shot doing in this piece of shit place?”

“I’m eccentric,” Donald said, not really paying attention to the man. He opened the case, keeping the contents from the sight of the manager. He pulled out a money clip and pulled off several bills. “That’s seven hundred. You’re no longer Vacant.”

The manager picked up the bills, counting them. “Alright,” he said and grabbed a key from the board. He tossed it down on the counter. The sleeve of his shirt slid up, revealing a number inked into his skin, one-nine-eight-six-two…

Donald looked from the arm to the manager. His stomach churned and he shut his briefcase with a snap. He grabbed the key, his mind already wandering. Calm…Calm…

He headed down the hall to his left. Water stains lined the ceiling, creating a pattern along the top of the wall. He could hear moans coming from a room he passed. He shut his eyes, trying to block the noise from his mind, and what it meant.

He stopped to look at the key ring in his hand. One-oh-eight. He looked up to be standing in front of that very room.

Unlocking the door, he entered the room. Immediately to his left was the closed door to the bathroom. Passed the entrance, in the room itself stood an old dresser, and next to it a vanity mirror. The bed looked just as old and warn, and he dropped the suitcase on the foot of it. Beside the bed stood a nightstand, a clock on it, counting away the time.

He lay back on the bed, groaning, shutting his eyes, trying to block out his thoughts, his pain. It didn’t work. Memories of the dream, that plagued him every night for the past year, came to him. A dark alley, a man, laughter. Restitution…Requital… He opened his eyes. Sweat beaded on his forehead from hearing the voice in his head. He groaned and sat back up, accidentally kicking off the briefcase.

There was a crack as the snaps broke and the contents fell across the floor. The pill bottle rolled to his feet. the old flask landed not much further away, a dent in it’s side now. An old newspaper half covered a white envelope. Beside the paper laid the money clip, not containing almost no money. A revolver sat still covered by the now broken briefcase. A box of ammunition had broken, scattering the bullets across the floor.

He leaned forward and picked up the pill bottle and twisted off the cap, turning it over to emptying the contents into his hand. Nothing came out and he cursed. He threw the bottle across the room. “Damn Doctors!” he cried. Millions of dollars…Hundreds of doctors…And the bastards can’t even stop the dreams…

He sighed and grabbed the flask of whiskey on the floor, opening it with a quick motion before downing some more. He closed the top and dropped it onto the bed.

He looked at the floor, seeing the old Newspaper on the floor. The front page story was one he read over and over again. It recounted the trial of a man accused of war crimes during World War II. The man was acquitted only a year ago. He flipped the newspaper over to see the photograph that adorned the front page. He could see himself, holding his hands in front of his face, trying not to be seen by photographers. He dropped the newspaper to the floor, letting the pages splay across the floor.

He leaned forward and picked up the envelope from the floor. He read his name along the front, in a scrawl he recognized as his wife’s, Elizabeth. He had received this letter from her, a week after news came to him of her suicide. It had gotten lost in the mail, they said. He never had the heart to open it, and read what the last thing she would have said to him.

He kicked away the briefcase and picked up the revolver. He picked up bullet after bullet, sliding them into the chamber of the revolver. He knew he needed only one, but a compulsion made him fill the weapon. Finally, he stopped, staring at the revolver, feeling emptiness inside him.

He laid the flask on the nightstand and grabbed the flask and emptied the last of the whiskey into his mouth. His eyes finally fell on the vanity mirror in the room. He saw himself. His reflection seemed to smile at him. “NO!” he cried, grabbing the flask and throwing it across the room. It hit the mirror, causing a loud crash, one that the entire hotel probably heard.

He grabbed the revolver from his side, and looked down the barrel. He felt his hand trembling and a noise came from the entrance to his room. The laughter…

Donald stood, his hands falling to his side. He walked slowly, seeing the door the bathroom, slowly swing open. Time slowed as his feet made their way into the bathroom. He could see the mirror on the wall across from him. His own face stared back at him, smiling softly.

“Go ahead, end it,” his reflection said. The smile grew, distorted in the mirror.

“W-Who are you?” Donald asked, trying to keep the fear from his voice, and failing.

“I am who you are,” the reflection replied. “End…It…”

Donald closed his eyes and held his hands to his temples, feeling the butt of the gun pressing into his left temple. “What do you want from me?” he said, trying not to yell.

“I want, what you want. For you to end it.” The reflection started to laugh softly.

“Leave me alone,” Donald said, stepping forward.

The reflection just laughed and Donald cried out. “LEAVE ME ALONE!” He brought the gun around and slammed the butt into the mirror, shattering it, sending hundreds of laughing faces all around the bathroom.

“Hey, Buddy…” a voice from behind him said.

Donald spun around, and without thought pulled the trigger. No sound came from the gun. He saw the manager fall back against the wall. Slowly he slid down, red blossoming on his shirt as he reached his finally resting position.

NO! He ran to the manager’s side, dropping the gun. He placed one hand to the manager’s neck, the other to the now crimson shirt. No…No… He stood up, backing away, feeling the mirror shards crunch under his feet. He looked down at his hands, seeing them covered in the red liquid.

He spun to the sink turning the nozzle, watching the water splash against the porcelain. He washing his hands, watching the water turns red as it flowed down into the drain. No…No…No… Only after his hands started to sting he pulled them out, seeing the skin rubbed raw.

Laughter started to fill the room. He started to cry out, seeing the many faces, laughing, sprawled along the floor around him. Another sound came to him, this time a siren. No…Not so soon…How could they know… He quickly left the room, looking down the hall for an exit. He saw it, down the hall, away from the lobby.

He flew into the back alley from the hotel into the silence of the night. The sirens were gone. Gone…where…

He decided not to think about it, and went to the street, looking for something, anything that would be helpful. He saw it, a phone booth standing across the street from him.

Donald stood. “Who would I call?” Does it matter? His own head responded, his feet starting to move across the street. “But…” he said, moving faster now. Someone…Anyone… He finally reached the booth and slid inside.

He pulled the phone off the hook. A dial tone came from the earpiece and pushed whatever change he could find. It rang several times before a voice answered.

“Elizabeth! Thank god,” Donald cried, hearing her voice.

“Donald, what do you want?” the voice asked, it was slow and deliberate.

“I…I need your help.”

“I can’t help you.”

“Please…The Dreams…” He said, his breath becoming ragged feeling tears coming down his face. “Elizabeth, I’m sorry. I need you.”

“I’m sorry Donald,” the voice said. An audible click followed shortly.

Donald let go of the receiver, letting it fall. Tears coming down his face he leaned back against the wall of the booth. “No…God…Why…” He sat against the wall, letting the time pass by.

A voice came to him then. “Restitution…Requital…”

He looked up and around, trying to find the source. He looked at the phone as it came again. “Restitution…Requital…” He picked up the phone, listening to it. “Restitution…Requital…” came from the earpiece.

“WHO ARE YOU!” he yelled.

The only reply, “Restitution…Requital…”

He cried out and slammed the phone down.

Donald left the booth, looking down the empty street. He ran down the street, trying to get the voice out of his head. He went into an alley, and leaned back against the wall, trying to catch his breath. He looked down the alley, into the darkness and saw a figure. He felt his blood turn to ice.

No…

The voice came then. “Restitution…Requital…”

Something inside him, kept him from moving. He could feel the darkness of the alley surround him. No…No…No…Why…

He stood in silence, the figure in the shadows. The laughter started to fill the darkness.

A grabbed Donald’s shoulder and he could feel something press against the small of his back. A new voice rang in his ear, “Restitution…Requital…” His eyes went wide, recognizing it as his own. No!

A shot rang out. He felt it tears through him and his legs give out beneath him. His body went numb. He landed on his knees and a hand grabbed his hair, keeping him in that position.

The man behind him walked slowly around, keeping his hand on Donald’s head. Finally he jerked Donald’s head up. Donald could see up the barrel of the gun. His eyes traveled up the gun’s barrel, to the man’s right arm, to finally his face.

Donald's own face stared down at him.

“Why are you doing this?” Donald asked, feeling the tears staining his cheeks now.

Slowly the gun cocked and a distorted smile cam across his lookalike’s face. “This…is retribution.”

A shot rang out in the alley.

* * *


Donald Granger walked through the hotel’s lobby, shifting his briefcase from his left hand to his right. He came to a stop at the counter. Below the counter hung a sign, Hotel Dusk…

On the counter sat a clock, Ten-fifteen, and a desk calendar, March fourth. Beside them sat a bell. Donald brought his briefcase to rest on the counter. He tapped the bell on counter.

The door opened and the manager entered. He nodded to Donald. “Yeah?”

“I want a room,” Donald said, watching the manager. Does it matter? “How much?”

“Fifteen,” the manager looked Donald over. “You some big shot?”

“You could say that. How many rooms you got?”

“Twenty-two.” He said, his eyes narrowing, unsure of what to think of Donald. “What’s a big shot doing in this piece of shit place?”

“I’m eccentric,” Donald said. He opened the case, keeping the contents from the sight of the manager. He pulled out a money clip and pulled off several bills. “That’s seven hundred. You’re no longer Vacant.”

Will it change anything… The manager picked up the bills, counting them. “Alright,” he said and grabbed a key from the board. He tossed it down on the counter. The sleeve of his shirt slid up, revealing a number inked into his skin, one-nine-eight-six-one…

Donald looked up from the manager’s wrist to his face. Maybe…

 

2 comments (Latest Comment: 09/30/2008 19:06:22 by livingonli)
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