Free Dwellers of the Night: The Complete Collection by Anthony Barnhart

his knees.
    He twists around, back against the wall, and vomits all over his pants.

    She lies in the tub, the soapy water covering everything but the tips of her hands, her knees, and her forehead. The water is a ruby-red color from her blood. Her fingers grip white-knuckled to the edges of the tub, and her knees stick out of the overflowing water like twin islands. Her breasts crest the top of the water, dull and lifeless. He cringes in the corner of the bathroom, staring, unable to breathe, unable to think. He is terrified of moving closer, of looking inside, of pulling her out. No. He can’t believe it. He can’t believe she’s dead. All of this, all of his efforts just to get here to be with her, the driving force of his entire flight of survival. Everything… Gone. Drowned with her.

    He stands in the kitchen. His pants reek of vomit. He has no desire to clean them. He holds the bottle in his hand—Bacardi 151, the killer of beers. Nicknamed the Superman—”When you drink it, you think you can fly like Superman; and when you wake up the next morning, you discover you’re paralyzed like Christopher Reeves.” One of his ancient history professors had told them, “Egyptian beer of antiquity was some of the most potent beer imaginable. Think of 200-proof beer. Even Bacardi 151 doesn’t compare.” He twists off the cap and raises it to his lips. No. Not this. Not now .
    He sets the beer down. He knows what he must do.

    It takes him all his effort. He lifts her out of the tub, soaking his clothes. Her face is clean, for the blood has been washed off by the water. He is at least thankful for that. He carries her out of the bathroom, her body draped lifelessly and stiff between his two arms. He sets her on the bed and sits beside her. He leans over, fights off tears, kisses her gently on the eyelids. “My baby… My precious…
    Anthony Barnhart
    Dwellers of the Night
    41
    My angel…” He covers her with the comforter and rests her head on the pillow. He places the lilies across her chest, on top of the comforter. “These are for you…” The words end it all. He falls down on his knees beside the bed and buries his face into the pillow. He sobs horrendously. She doesn’t move. “I’m sorry…” The words are broken, tainted by his weeping. “I’m so sorry… I’m so sorry… If I would have been here… If only I would not have abandoned you… We’d be together…”

    The afternoon has come. He sits in the living room, on the cheap sofa. Sunlight comes through the closed blinds, casting bars against the far wall. The plasma-screen television sits blanket, catching only his exhausted reflection. She’s sleeping upstairs , he tells himself. He holds the beer now in his hands. A battery-operated stereo sits on the coffee table, splayed atop INTOUCH and GLOBE
    magazines. She loves reading those magazines, staying up-to-date with fashion and the stars. He always made fun of her for it. Kiddingly, of course. He would always tease her. He places a CD into the stereo player. It is a CD she made for him back when they started dating. He pulls the beer to his mouth as the gentle music floats through the living room. He closes his eyes, drinks. The music, the sound of another voice, the melodies and sonnets… It soothes him. He wonders if music isn’t the sound of the gods. It is beautiful. ALL THE SAME—The Sick Puppies. ♫I don’t mind, I don’t care, as long as you’re here…♫ They had ridden in the car, cruising down the 3-lane highways of Cincinnati, and whenever this song came on, Kira would exclaim, “This is our song! It comes on every time we get in the car!”
    SHE TALKS TO ANGELS—The Black Crows. ♫She keeps a lock of hair in her pocket; she wears a cross around her neck; yes, the hair is from a little boy; and the cross is someone she has not met…♫
    She always wore a cross around her neck. An iron cross her father had bought her when she moved to Cincinnati for college at U.C. The