Catharsis (Book 1) Read online

  CATHARSIS

  D. Andrew Campbell

  Novels by D. Andrew Campbell

  Catharsis

  Catalyst

  Catastrophe (Coming 2015)

  Copyright © 2013 David Andrew Broviak

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, copied or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission of the publisher and/or author.

  Catharsis is a work of fiction. The names, characters, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination and are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Cover design and interior layout created by David Broviak

  Published in Indianapolis. MMXIII

  Edition 5.0

  ISBN: 978-0-9897522-2-0

  For my family,

  For my students,

  And for my grandfather.

  None of this is possible without you.

  PROLOGUE (or the before-everything-begins part)

  Since waking up in the alley, my memory has been nearly perfect. I believe it is a side effect of what happened to me. Or whatever that old man did to me before he died...or I killed him...or however it happened. I can remember everything that's happened to me since waking up covered in blood. Whenever I close my eyes, anything I’ve experienced since then comes rushing back to me as if I’m viewing the full-color pages of a book. It's spooky. I don't know if the memories will last forever. I'm still learning the full extent of what I can do.

  It bothers me that I can’t remember the hours before I woke up. Looking back, I suspect I know what might have happened to me, but there's no point in speculating. I’m no longer the same person I was that evening. Actually, I’m not sure I even still count as a person. But I’ll get to that soon enough.

  For now, let's begin with that dark alley. That’s where the nightmare began.

  PART ONE

  -DISCOVERY-

  CHAPTER ONE

  The blood wakes me up. I’m aware of little else as I open my eyes and see the gray bricks and dark pavement around me. The dark scent rising from the pool of blood clashes with the rumblings in my stomach from hunger and a lack of food. The idea that I haven’t eaten in hours surprises me with its urgency, and I try to swat it away as irrelevant. I can’t remember the last time I had any food, and my stomach muscles are kicking like I’m carrying a ten pound infant.

  My hands and face are sticky. There’s dampness on my cheeks and when I try to reach up to wipe it away my fingers won’t immediately respond. To my surprise, they are gummed to the ground with a viscous fluid. Freeing them with some concentrated effort, I touch my face and hair and encounter only more of the slime. It reeks of copper and decay. It is not a pleasant sensation.

  I’m surrounded by weak light that makes discerning what the metallic smell might be rather difficult. My first thought, once those elusive things start filtering into my brain again, is that I’ve stumbled into old battery acid. The metallic smell reminds me of Duracells and Energizers. I know that can’t be true as the slime isn't hurting me at all. Well, it isn’t hurting me - only freaking me out a bit.

  Sitting up, I lean against the metal wall behind me. The "metal” of the wall becoming apparent from the solid CLANG I hear when I bump into it. I notice the metal wall also has an odd, hollow sound to it. As my eyes begin to adjust to the darkness around me, I realize the wall is actually the side of a large green dumpster with REYNOLDS written in yellow letters just behind my head.

  Looking around, my slowly-developing night vision fills in my surroundings. Large dumpster behind me. Tall buildings around me. Off to my right I hear the reverberated echo of cars passing what has to be the end of an alley. I even see the occasional headlights streak past. High above me I see the glowing smog canopy of the city, and just to my left is a large lump of clothes laying in the dark gooey liquid.

  The lump monopolizes my attention once I notice it and quickly arrests the visual tour of my temporary home. Crawling over to the lump, I realize the "lump" is a man. He’s older than me judging from his gray mop of hair and fancy, darkly pin-striped business suit. I can’t make out much more about him aside from that he’s lying in a rather uncomfortable position.

  Leaning forward slightly, my eyes finally adjust enough to let me see that the dark liquid that covers both him and me is blood. A stagnant pool of congealed blood.

  CHAPTER TWO

  The realization startles me, and I jump backwards slamming my head against the dumpster. The loud GONG of the ricochet hurts my ears and rings off down the alley like a bell tolling on a dark night. I have never seen so much blood in my life. I think there might be more blood here in this one spot than I’ve seen in all the fifteen years of my life combined.

  Leaning back against the cool metal dumpster with its yellow letters and looking up at the faintly glowing night sky, I concentrate on not looking at the man lying next to me (Is it called a "corpse" now? Or is it just a body?). It’s creepy sitting next to something like this. Closing my eyes, I work on relaxing. Even though I know freaking out won’t solve anything, it’s an incredibly tempting option. In an attempt to distract myself, I take a moment and relax. I want to analyze what’s happening and not just react to it. "Reacting without thinking" is my sister’s vice, not mine.

  Visualizing some questions, I begin to orient myself.

  Do I remember why I was in the alley?

  Nope. This situation has scored rather high on the ol' what-the-heck-is-happening meter.

  What’s the last thing I remember doing?

  Eating dinner last night at the Chinese restaurant, Great Walls, with my family.

  Anything else register as weird in "memory land"?

  Pausing for a moment, I try to think of all the clichéd things that happen in movies when a character can't remember something (Do I actually have amnesia? I always thought that was fake.).

  My name?

  Check. Catarina Perez. Although I tend to just go by “Cat”.

  My home?

  Old, brick house near the canal, downtown. I have my own room. Younger sister has her own room. Both parents at home and happily married.

  School and friends?

  I can remember all of them (Or at least a lot of people I categorize as friends. I don’t know if it’s all my friends, but it’s enough to allow me to check off this category.), so I guess that means there aren't any obvious blanks.

  My memory is consistent up until last night's dinner (I had the Four Seasons plate for the first time. More expensive, but I was betting on dad relenting and being nice to me.). Then it gets blotchy. I remember an argument at dinner, and someone getting mad.

  A small growl tickles the back of my throat. This is frustrating. And stupid.

  To answer my previous question...nothing is out of the ordinary aside from the lack of details after dinner. Maybe I had some bad seafood. I did have scallops for the first time last night (They were delicious. Like eating fish-flavored dice.). Maybe they had gone bad, and I’m experiencing a severe case of food poisoning.

  Yeah, right, I think. Food poisoning so bad it makes a random stranger erupt in blood next to you. I'm sure that's completely common. Speaking of blood...

  ...I check myself to see if there are any new holes in me. It hadn’t occurred to me that the blood could be mine. I had just assumed the old guy was responsible for all of it (That's weird. Why'd I assume he was old? I've barely even looked at him so far.). Then again I also remember what my nana used to say about "assuming" things.

  After a quick, but thorough, inspection, I conclude that the blood didn't come from any holes in my body. I have the correct number and in all the normal places. M
y wrists ache more than they should, but I can’t find anything wrong with them aside from some scrapes and old scars I don't remember. Re-examining my arms I see the scars look old and mostly healed. It makes me wonder. Why, if I remember everything prior to last night, do I not remember ever getting these scars?

  Shrugging, I figure odd scars are the least of my concerns. Glancing down, I turn my attention to the old, white guy lying on the pavement.

  "Old white guy"...my own choice of words makes me pause. How do I know his race? I've barely looked at him. Why did those words pop into my head?

  Crawling the few feet back down the gray alley (Is it getting lighter out? It doesn't seem as dark anymore.), I crouch next to the body. He hasn't moved at in the last few minutes. The details about him are easier to see now that my eyes are adjusting to the dark (Even better than expected considering how dark it should be this time of night.), and my heart is calming down a bit.

  His black suit, red shirt and dark tie are rumpled and no longer orderly or tucked in. Concentrating on his clothes, I work to not look at his face or skin. I don't want to accept his shriveled, pale visage yet.

  Seeing skin will creep me out, I think and then pause. Well, seeing dead skin, at least. Looking at his clothes is making this experience a bit easier.

  The clothes are expensively tailored. Dad wears suits for his job, and I’ve shopped with him a few times. He was kind enough to give me an education on fancy man clothes the last time we were out. This guy's clothes look much higher quality than anything I saw at the Men's Warehouse with my dad. Given I’m not an expert on "spiffy ensembles", but they are nice. Not I'm-in-the-mob nice, but better than buy-one-suit-get-one-free nice.

  Examining the guy's hands (Baby steps. Dead person hands are better than dead person face.), I notice I was correct about him being a white guy, but his hands aren’t old-man hands. The skin is smooth, and there aren't wrinkles anywhere. There are some rings on his pale and hairless fingers. One ring is an intricately-carved wide gold band, and the other is a dull silver with three green stones set into it.

  Glancing at his feet, I buy myself more time before looking at his face. Black leather loafers. No tassels or strings. Dark socks. Several scuffs on the toe of the right one. The scuffs are white and appear to have been made recently.

  Sighing, I close my eyes. I don't want to see his face. I contemplate just standing up and walking away. Maybe I’ll flag down a police officer and just report that I found him here. Remembering the blood on my arms and shirt (and its stickiness), I realize they might be tough to explain. Even being pretty good with words, I might have a difficult time explaining this particular scene. I'm not sure what looking at his face will do to help the situation (Help reinforce my imminent nightmares?), but I also have the fear that not looking will eventually haunt me.

  Blowing air out of my nose, I grunt and open my eyes.

  Looking at his face, all I see is a mass of gray and black greasy hair. The guy's hair had gotten tousled at some point (Is that the right word for this situation? Isn't "tousling" what aunts do to little kids when they see them?), and now it’s draped across his face obscuring everything except the tip of his chin and his nose. There’s no way to see what he looks like without moving that follicular bush, and that means touching him.

  Poop! (Curse my good upbringing. Even in a situation like this my brain can’t drop into a more vulgar mode. I'm staring at my first corpse, and the worst my brain conjures is something a toddler would mumble? This is what happens when you have parents that love you.) I don't want to touch him. It’s not paranoia about corpse cooties or anything; I just don't want to cross the touching-dead-people bridge, yet. Or ever, honestly. I have a decision to make, and I don't like either option. I can leave the old man alone and flag down a cop without ever knowing what the guy looks like, or I can touch a dead body. Both choices are equally appalling but for completely different reasons.

  After sitting and staring at the guy for a few moments (Still no breathing on his part. I had been quietly harboring hopes of him spontaneously re-animating.), I decide to proceed with my previous plan: seeing what he looks like.

  I consider pulling my sleeve down over my hand first, but I end up dismissing the thought. I'm not going to leave fingerprints on his hair if that's my worry (It isn't.), and if I'm worried about getting icky-dead-guy germs on me (I am.) then a shirt probably won't do much. At least that’s what I tell myself.

  Reaching out and brushing the hair back behind his ear and neck, I expose his face. The guy has an impressive amount of hair (Or is it had now? I’m not well versed in my deceased-guy verb tense.). My grandfather would be envious of him (Except for the fact that my Papa is alive, and this guy isn't. That might help cull the envy a bit.). As I push it back, I notice it's only chin length, but it had appeared much longer.

  I’m having trouble discerning his age, but I’d estimate him to be in his late forties or early fifties. That’s younger than my dad, but something about him feels older. It makes me think of the Hollywood stars who manage to look young even as they age. His skin isn't wrinkled, but it isn’t young-person skin either. Of course that might just be a side effect of his severe case of death! I have no idea what being dead might do to a person's overall skin condition, so I give up trying to place his age and move on.

  His eyes catch my attention. They are black. Deep black. Scary, horror-movie black. I can barely see any whites in his eyes, and the sliver of blue around his pupils is nearly invisible. Both eyes are open and completely dilated (Is it a side effect of death? Or was he like this before?), and it registers a ping on my creep-o-meter. I suddenly feel it’s better to look anywhere than at those awful eyes.

  Glancing at his grinning mouth, I realize I was wrong. There is a worse place to look than his eyes.

  Seeing the blood-covered teeth barely hidden behind his upper lip, it strikes me that I’ve stumbled upon a much worse place to look at than his eyes.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Quickly deciding it's time for another round of strategic self-distraction, I shut my eyes as tightly as I can and do my best to ignore what I just saw. I think of rainbows. Butterflies. Ponies. Unicorns. Llamacorns (A weird llama/unicorn crossbreed my sister dreamed up.). Anything that isn't what I just saw. Anything that isn't a creepy old man mouth filled with brilliant white teeth spattered with brownish-red blood.

  No good. His demonic visage overwhelms whatever vision I dream up (Do anything aside from mythological demons have dark black eyes, skin that resists aging and mouths full of blood?). Abandoning my avoidance of him, I slowly open my eyes again.

  Still there. Still creepy. Still staring at me. Still grinning at me. Giving in to what I know must eventually happen, I resign myself to bending down for a better look.

  The light in the alley has grown strong enough that I now see him perfectly. Well, as perfectly as you'd want to see something like this. In an empty alley. At night. By yourself.

  His mouth is bathed in red. He either bit somebody or somebody hit him in the mouth. Hard. With like a bowling ball or something. I can't tell which it is with his mouth mostly closed.

  Reaching out a finger, I pry back his upper lip enough for me to see that his teeth are red...well, the teeth are white, but they are caked in red gore. I assume it’s blood (a safe enough bet at this point). His gums are also red. Ok, pink covered in red, but I think the point is understood. Moving his upper lip back and forth and checking out his teeth (I guess I got over that touching-a-dead-guy ickiness quickly enough.), I see nothing unusual aside from the copious amount of blood.

  Moving his bottom lip down, I check his other teeth. Covered in blood, but relatively normal. All his teeth look relatively unscathed. I don't see any obvious reason for the blood in his mouth.

  But what was I expecting to find? An open wound? A large hole in his mouth (aside from the throat, I mean)? Missing teeth? Well...ok. Yeah, that last one would have made sense.

  But his mouth is fine as
far as I can tell. I doubt the blood came from his own mouth. Which means...

  ...the blood came from someone else. That doesn't make me feel much better. I'm guessing he went all crazy-brain-eating-zombie on somebody and got himself beaten down for the effort (just my first guess as to a feasible explanation). It makes sense at least.

  Except the “who did it” part still bothers me? Is a theoretical beating enough to kill a man with no obvious marks on him? More importantly than that, though, is why was I lying next to him?

  Slowly another piece of the puzzle clicks into place for me. A piece that connects the "why" of “why am I here” with the "what" of “what happened to him”. And it's a piece I don't like. One I don't like at all.

  What if I was the person he bit with his monster-movie reject teeth? And what if I'm the person who gave him the life-ending beat down? That would certainly explain why I woke up here in a sticky puddle of blood. And why I can't remember what happened tonight (Or I just don't want to.).

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Calming myself down (Though it’s only after I check my body for bite marks or wounds and find nothing outside the mostly healed scars around my wrists.), I reassess the situation.

  The pool of red liquid hadn't come from me since I don't have any new holes in me that would allow for the creation of that volume of blood. That leaves two possible solutions that I can think of: the blood was from a third person that has since vanished, or it came from the old man.

  No viable method comes to me on how to see if another person has left the blood (How can you examine what isn't there?), so that leaves checking the man for over-sized blood-producing perforations. It’s not the most appealing of tasks, but I also don’t want to approach a police officer and report a crime that I may or may not have been involved in (or even the cause of). Having at least some information seems like a better start, even if the gathering of said information means frisking a dead person.