CHAPTER SIX
Kirby Hayes peers over shoulder, making sure he was alone. It is an empty hallway of closed doors. His colleagues have gone to bed, long before, ready for the morning to come. Entering his dorm room, he closes the door behind him. His sore feet slip out of sneakers. He lies prone on his hard bed and stares up at the sterile white ceiling. His knuckles still throb from that vengeful punch. The terrorist deserves it. What a day. Now that Skyden knows Dominic Taylor is alive despite his suicide note and flight ticket, the Internet explodes with conspiracy theories. Reading them still does not explain what he has seen with his complicit brother Viggo. It does not explain why Taylor wanted us to think he was dead. His mind then goes right to Chance Gott, a corrupt cop who hacks phones. Sexy but not a man to trust either.
Secrets and scandals swirl in the starry void. Kirby’s rigid body clench at the reminder that he is on a satellite city drifting in the loftiest sky.
Despite the twist in his gut, Kirby’s stomach surprises him with a rumble. After a long day, he figures it is time for dinner. Scrolling on mobile leads to pizza delivery; vegan, with light cheese. Special instructions? The app asks.
He thumbs in: text me, don’t call.
Six minutes later, his phone rings. Annoyed, Kirby swipes the X and hangs up. Why can’t people follow simple instructions? The phone lights up, ringing again. He ignores it this time, browsing his Facebook. It is overcrowded with worried friends just finding out about his car wreck. There is even a video from street cameras showing Viggo’s car wailing through a spike strip. That must have helped save his life since the brakes were not functional.
Finally, a text. Hear.
Kirby stares frowning for a moment before understanding it is the delivery guy who means “here”. A deaf joke or autocorrect? Either way, he is left in a sour mood. He goes to the door, hesitating, thinking of the sad Spook.
He bravely opens the door, with cash in one hand.
It is indeed the delivery guy: a young, bony man with sleepy eyes shadowed under a black cap and small hands holding a large pizza box. They trade awkwardly in silence. Kirby points to one ear to clarify. Deaf.
The delivery guy thanks him for the payment and the signed receipt.
Kirby soon gets a text: Dude. Can I get your autograph?
He fake-laughs, closing the door.
Quick to enjoy a slice on his bed, it occurs to Kirby that he has not yet locked the room. He dwells on it, starting to dread, before he lets it go. Nah. Dominic Taylor has been arrested. For sure. Kirby is definitely, and most absolutely, safe. Now relaxed, he eats another slice. He stares off glumly at the ticking clock, eleven at night, wondering if he should turn on the antigravity and swim around for fun. He realizes he is too exhausted to do anything else but sleep.
His eyes close. Darkness and silence. His eyes open and glance at the shut door. He should lock it. He thinks this until he remembers the door has never had a lock to begin with. His eyes struggle but eventually close. Then, unconsciousness.
An hour later, midnight, Kirby Hayes posts one depressed status after another. Each states plainly how very badly he wants to die. How he has desired he didn’t walk away from that car crash alive. How miserable he is with hearing impairment. Only few of his friends and supportive fans are awake at the time to notice and respond with bewildered question marks. They insist he is loved.
They try to reach him but are ignored. They cry out his name but he is deaf to their comforting. His parents from the ground quickly join the concerned comments. Evidently confused and helpless, visibly at a loss.
Then the last status on Kirby’s profile is from his brother Viggo, announcing the closing of Kirby’s account. This upsets their parents ultimately until they are promised that their thousand-dollar flights to Skyden are paid for.
An hour before, just as Kirby passes out, he wakes up gasping for air that would not come. His eyes bulge, taking in the sight of the Spook’s wooden mask and weepy black eyes. The corners of the mouth are made to droop in despair.
Kirby gasps fighting to breathe, striving to scream at least once, his fingernails weakly clawing at the legs crossed over his chest and wrapped tightly around his neck. They float off the bed. The Spook has turned on the antigravity. Kirby has no way to fight. His oxygen is cut off. Everything blurs and again, he passes out. With a gloved hand, the Spook pinches his nose and shoves down his throat a handful mix of antidepressant and over-the-counter pills. He gulps them involuntarily.
The Spook cries at this unneeded violence, weeping quietly. Suddenly, still asleep, Kirby vomits back up the pills with the pizza. Acid reflux. The Spook groans with disgust at themselves and their mess in the mirror.
“Why is murder so complicated?”
With an elbow to the mirror, the Spook smashes it to shards. The shards rise too. Plucking a giant jagged one, the weirdly costumed killer rolls back both Kirby’s sleeves revealing smooth forearms.
The Spook shudders at the gore to come and gives pause.
“Just end it,” the Spook whines.
The glass slices an imperfect line vertically down both arms. Not too quickly that it looks like it is done by someone else, but slowly enough to be look self-inflicted. It has to look believable, to everyone, to forensics. It has to look like a suicide. Milky globs of blood trickle out dancing in antigravity.
Satisfied but not quite happy, the Spook swims to the door. Straining with the suction of gravity from the hallway outside, the door opens barely enough for the Spook to exit through. The door slams, sealing shut. Drained and panting from so much effort, the Spook glances down the empty hallway of closed doors.
The Spook’s boots tiptoe away.
An hour later, just as Kirby’s statuses are posted, Iris Frisk is the first person to do something about it. The way the suicide note is written does not sound like the guy at all. She thinks back on several hours ago when the two toured the city together, traveling down an automatic sidewalk. He has repeatedly refused any car ride home out of obvious trauma and fear of death. She frowns. There is no way, no fricking way in hell, that he wanted to die.
Her head looks out her doorway. She trembles, eyeing Kirby’s door. Dead, or not dead? Iris reaches out and grabs the knob, which turns, but the door does not budge. She slams her shoulder and side into it, which opens successfully but slams again. A web of blood horizontally streams across the door. Her breath shakes. The antigravity, she realizes. She bursts into the bloody room, flying. The blood is everywhere on the walls and the ceiling. It is all a horrific splat of red.
She stammers seeing Kirby’s wrists still bleeding out and swims straight for them.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” Her hands stall, unsure what to do. Her eyes water and her teeth clench. Faster, she commands herself, ripping his sleeves and making them into bandages to wrap tautly around the cuts. “Okay, okay.”
She wipes the puke from his quivering lips. His eyes flutter open and shut while she calls for the police and the ambulance. The antigravity does not help either, so she turns that off next. She keeps his arms raised high, putting pressure on them, and feels better his resumed heartbeat. “You’re okay, Kirby. You’re okay.”
But Iris Frisk who finds herself in a blood-soaked room, herself soaked in Kirby's blood shivering from head to toe, is far from okay.
THE SPOOK IS SAD346Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡuUlIkXWEkg
Jack Steele Adams
ns 15.158.61.51da2
