Is Tonight The Night?

Episode 1 "Monsters exist!   Charles sat back in his faded brown leather chair. Taking an unlit cigar that had gone out from time he put it to his lip. Charles struck a match lighting the end. Deeply inhaling, he savored the smoke. Charles had just finished writing his novel. The monster we fear are not those that hide but those that hide in plain sight. Charles hit the glowing blue button on his screen turning it off. A silhouette loomed in the reflection of the now turned off screen. Charles turned around in an instant. The reflection was an illusion. Charles rubbed his eyes. Taking a puff, he the cigar taste in his mouth he blew out. “Oh man. I’ve been researching too much about Ryan Jacks.” Charles rubbed his eyes, the black and blue sleepless baggage told a greater story.   His desk lay littered with newspaper clippings of Jacks. Crime scene photos and autopsy reports lay in messy piles. His desk, like his life, had become so cluttered. His family pictures are buried behind the paperwork for his latest project. He rocked back in his chair. Scanning the walls of his private office, he smiled. “So, this is my life? One room.” He bit the cigar, mixing his saliva with the sweet taste.   Charles got up and paced the room. Looking at every award he had ever won. Nobel prize for his journalistic writing on Jeffery Ward. The Silver Dagger award for his true crime book on Amanda Bourne. Edgar Award for his book. To Catch a Soulless Killer; The Life of James Barnes. This was his collection. Much like some killers collected the trophies of their victims, he collected awards. His reflection looked at him from the framed newspaper articles. Charles Montgomery Magnum. Famous author and journalist.   His bookshelf was lined with psychology books, medical journals, and his own writing. Diagrams from medical books of skeletons hung on the walls. The 1950’s coat rack was adorned with his overcoat. He exhaled. A sigh of relief. The fires' dying embers are growing cold. Charles walked towards his desk. He sat down. It was finished. Five years of clues, deaths, and games. The murder spree of Ryan was a new one for the record book. Termed by the media as the day killer, he killed one person a day for 2 years. The most prolific killer ever. Charles's book saw to it that Jack would be memorialized even in these pages.   Noticeably missing from his studies were the familiar pieces of family life. The carpet bore the expression of wear and tear. The sole memory of the family lay in a single picture frame that was even now ignored if not neglected by time. This sole picture was the reason Charles had become so prolific a writer. The files that covered the picture fell lazily to the floor. Charles, hearing the rustling, looked back into the six sets of eyes. Their eyes met.   Tears started to well then subside in his eyes. His hand fell limply to his side. He took a deep breath. Revenge floated through his mind like a timeless river of sorrow and remembrance. His sense of loss is magnified by his remorse. He thought deep down inside. “What if I had been there? What if I were a better husband or father?” These thoughts seemed to beg for an answer that he knew would almost certainly never be forthcoming. Charles put his hands in his head.   The things we miss when those we love are no more. The joys and sorrows mixed together in forgetful thoughts. Charles could recall the days, times, and events that inflated and built his ego and empire. Charles could remember his first kiss with Brianna, but not how the soft lips felt on his. Charles could recall the music, background noise, and festive events that played during those important events; forever fixed in his timeless memories.   The things we forget are those that are most important. The voices, tones, pitch, and sound. We can remember the smile, the words, or the vagueness of the face that resides within the echo chambers of our brain. We can recall the sense of holding a hand but almost always forget or overwrite the event when it is too painful to live in.   The days of the past created the drive for Charles to become the writer he is. His strive for justice to prevail became his greatest ally. Charles's endeavors came from the infinite happiness he once had and the sorrow that now consumed his soul.   Charles could recall every birthday, anniversary, and holiday. He could recall every missed dinner or late work-loaded night. Charles could remember the choice of his cold hard keyboard and white computer screen over the soft warm body of his wife. Charles could recall the choice of board meetings with sharply dressed businessmen over the missed baseball games that his son played in. He chose dancing margin spreadsheets over the ballet recitals of his daughter.   Charles's mind had many doors that he totally locked, shutting out the inevitable arguments he had had with his wife. Closing out the bad and opening only to the good. These fights never got physical. He was a good husband. His family never had a want. They never suffered. The only one that suffered was Charles.   How he missed Brianna’s warm touch, her soft moist kisses, or the inevitable good morning smile he would receive from her each morning as he took his cup of coffee and toast to his bright shiny yellow Porsche. The sign of his successful nature. The car was always in perfect condition. No scratches, no dents.   Every morning was the same routine. Charles would wake up at 5:45 a.m. and exercise on his stationary bike. He would shower as Brianna woke up to start her day. He would exit the shower at 6:45 a.m. to the sweet smell of coffee infiltrating every poor in his olfactory system.   Charles would dress and descend the stairs in his fresh suit. The best wool suit money could buy. Charles' movie star has perfect physics and a perfect jaw. Down the stairs into the perfectly designed kitchen. He would walk over to Brianna, kiss her and grab his cup of coffee. He scanned the table to see a buffet of sorts. His two teenage children are eating.   Those memories stayed locked in the halls and echo chambers of his brain. He could recall the clothes they wore. Scott’s braces were shining and glowing from the sunlight. Angela, with her bubbly personality, laughed at Scott. He could recall deep down when he tried from memory his wife's perfume.   A single tear slid down his cheek as he pushed that painful memory away. Never again would their voices sing the chorus throughout the house. Never again would Scott or Angela argue over the mundane things that teenagers argue over.   Charles would never have to worry about his kids engaging in bad behavior, such as drugs, drinking, or gangs. That was never ever a problem in this part of the country. Charles would never know what it would be like to be a grandpa. Charles would never know what it would be like to nervously and shyly talk to his children about s*x.   Charles would never see his son become a man. Follow in his dad’s footsteps. Charles would never stand and applaud as his son walked down the graduation stage for high school. Charles would not see his son play sports or accrue trophies any longer.   Charles stood up, walked to the fireplace, and prodded the dying embers. He slowly pulled the fire poker out. He put the holder in the back, not wiping it off. He slowly closed the iron curtain, trapping the dying embers struggling for their last breath of life before they finally succumbed to suffocation. Charles walked to the desk, turning off the lamp.   Charles walked to the door of his study the way an inmate on death row walks their final tour towards death's door. The brave hesitation of a coward that knew his timely death was about to arrive. Those chosen few knew when their time was up and the reaper was paid his dues. Every person braved that reaper in their own way. Some sweetly embraced each precious second; others wasted time knowing they would cease to live.   His hand reached out to touch the door handle. The lock clicked open; its simple sound breaking the eerie silence of a dead house. The echo breaks the silence. Charles realized that he would never again need to lock his study for privacy.   The dark halls were empty and sad with gloom. Pictures on the walls are a remembrance of those who used to run the length. The darkness weirdly embraced Charles like a long-lost lover. The embrace touched him; soothing the lonely heart. The dark revolt hung over him.   Each step was a realization of the lonely life he now unwillingly embraced with a painful, overwhelming, painful sorrow. Joy and pleasure mixed with heartbreaking regret swirled into a party of mind-running, ego-ruining practices. Those semi-sweet memories we create stabilize our unwilling thoughts to control, grapple with, and understand our regret. Those thoughts we direct into the visible darkness of dread.   Charles passed by the closed doors of the rooms of his children. The anxiety in his ego and the sense of fear in his stomach turned over like the sensation of sour milk did to one’s stomach as he passed each door. On Scott's door hung posters of baseball teams and a Michael Jordan slam dunk poster. The sad and depressed poster barely clinging to the door; the scotch tape degraded with time. One corner of the poster was folded. The bottom half is torn by age. Another tear ran down his cheek.   Reaching Angela’s door, he instinctively reached out to cradle the door handle. The cold touch lit his memories up like a lightning flash across a dark sky. The door slid slowly open, the room dark and foreboding. A small amount of happiness mixed with trepidation. The memory came and with it, the forgotten lost pitch of his daughter’s voice. This particular memory was a happy one. Angela was hosting a sleepover with a group of her friends. Charles held Brianna as they playfully chided the teens for being too loud. Angela nervously smiled, her cheeks red. “Dad! Stop you’re embarrassing me. Mom make him stop!” They closed the door to a chorus of boos and popcorn being thrown. The girls giggling could still be heard from behind the closed door. The memory faded.   Charles slowly let the door handle go, his hand falling limply at his side. Never would he be there to hold Angela. Never would he cradle her during her first heartbreak. Never would he have to worry about he on prom night.   Charles robotically walked down the long hallway toward his master's bedroom. The oak door was slightly ajar, yet another impressive trophy of his success. The room was cold, empty, and uninviting. It was akin to the loving embrace of an unknown stranger. He knew this new mistress more than he wished. Charles reached the door and gently pushed it open, the brackets squeaking as the door stayed its course and opened. Those memory lights returned.   Brianna lay atop the covers of the king-size bed. She had two glasses of champagne and lingerie. This memory triggered an automatic erection that subsided as the open revealed the gloom and darkness that had now become his successful life. The bed lay there perfectly unspoiled by time. The blankets are preserved flawlessly like those in a museum. Charles slowly walked past the right side of the bed. Brianna’s side is closest to the bathroom.   Charles instinctively reached inside and flipped on the light. The sudden brightness caused lights to dance in his vision as the burst disorientated him. He took a second to adjust his eyes to the light. He felt Brianna’s arm reach around him in a loving embrace. Her smile reflecting back at him from the mirror was one of imperfect perfection. “You look amazing. You have this babe.” Her voice echoed and faded away as fast as it started.   Charles reached out, opening the medicine cabinet, fumbling with the latch, seeing himself as if for the first time in years he looked deeply into his own eyes. “You really look like a pile of s**t pal.” He scolded his reflection as he popped open the door, reaching for the pills he now relied on. Popping the top off, he shook two small green pills into his palm.   He ignored the twin crystal glasses, turning the faucet on. He lapped up water like he was dying of thirst. Lapping up water like a dog, droplets splash on the mirror. Looking up, savoring the cold taste, he saw a dark figure reflected in the bedroom. Fearfully turning around, the figure once again evaded him. He replaced the bottle once again, seeing the person he had become.   Both eyes are heavy with baggage from lack of sleep. His normally soft-shaven face is a maze of gray stubble. His businessman haircut is now unkempt. The days when he was at the top of his game were long gone, like his family. The fear subsiding, he spoke to the reflection. “I really need to relax. Oh, and by the way, you don’t look like s**t. Just total shit.” He turned away from the mirror. His hand automatically flipped the switch off.   He slowly walked the sad length of his bed. Normally, on happier days, he would pull back the covers, slip in and wrap Brianna in a gentle hug. Some nights they would make love. Other nights he would kiss her cheek. Wrapping her in a light embrace, he would drift off to sleep feeling her breathing. Whispering in her ear. “Goodnight.” He could even now picture her smile. He would drift off to sleep until his alarm signaled him to meet the new day.   Now, instead of the routine he loved and desired so much, he lay on top of the comforter. A wedding gift from her parents. The same clothing that his kids had been conceived under. He refused to disturb the covers if it meant that Brianna’s faint scent would escape his senses as her voice was now forgotten. The one thing he did have was her scent. He could not for the life remember how any of them sounded.   He lay flat on his back staring for some time watching the moonlight shadows dance there was across his ceiling. As his eyes started to fall he reached into the nightstand. “Would tonight be the night?” His sole voice whispered into the darkness the stillness of the room. The active memories are now becoming ghosts of the past.   Charles took the gun to his chest. He carefully, like a father holding a baby for the first time, laid the gun on his chest and folded his hands over the cold steel. “Would tonight be the night?” He asked the ghostly shadows that swayed in his vision. Sleeping pills usually take effect quickly. Tonight instead, they took their sweet time. The shadows continued to waltz the length of the ceiling.   After what seemed like hours, Charles's eyes started to slowly close. Peace at last. “Do you still love me?” A voice rattled Charles to consciousness. Charles froze his gut full of dread. “Will you love me forever?” The voice cut through the darkness. His blurred vision, the product of the drug, caused the dark silhouette to be blurred. “Of course, I will.” He automatically responded.   Charles gripped the pistol with fear in his eyes. The fear turned to pure terror. Murderous melancholy music mechanically played in the amygdala of his brain as the devil’s h of his past danced with his sinful soul. The devil delicately danced hypnotically in Charles's eyes like the light of a candle in a child’s room that kept both the darkness and monsters at bay.   The malcontent murderous sights of his tormentor show the same mercy to Charles as those young children playing God with a magnifying glass with burning ants. The sociopathic tendency is when we fanatically fantasize about our deep dark desires.   We love those that cannot or do not love us, which is why the devil dances these dances that tickle our emotions, tease our souls, and tempt us into a life of solitude. The souls of the happy are the souls of the saved that are few. That misbegotten undying forever loved souls. The fear that once gripped Charles now caused him to relax. The voices that played with his emotions now subsided into the darkness. The fear broke like a raging fever. The fear now turned into sadness.   “I’m sorry. I tried.” He screamed into the dark room. He raised the gun to his head. “Fine! I’ll do it. Tonight is the night.” He with the care of an artist painting a masterpiece put the gun to his head. He smiled lovingly, pulling the trigger. The casing hitting the floor, the metallic cling mixed with the splatter sound of his brains coating the wall, and the thump of his body hitting the floor. Peace and happiness are his final thoughts.   The desk light turned on. Charles, as usual, turned on his study computer. “Monsters Exist.” The last line of his book. Finally, his journey was finished. He begrudgingly hit the save. Five years of clues, murders, and deaths. Charles sat down breathing out.   The smile on his lips was satisfaction. A sense of déjà vu echoed through his mind. The thought that somehow, somewhere, he had been here before. He picked up his half-finished cigarette. Putting it to his lips, he flicked the flint of a golden lighter. The symbol that he used to show himself that his journey was complete. His little treat he lusted after.   The small flame lit his face, showing the wrinkles of stress from past struggles. Those lines of age are set in stone; reminders of the endless hours of research. The joyful pain that put him on his path of infinite misery. He looked toward the reason for his pain.   The lighter flame made the picture seem lifelike. The black newsprint eyes stared back blankly at him from the yellowing newspaper. The smile a sad sense of justice that Jack died while Charles was meant to live and suffer the burden of suffering a grieving father and husband.   Charles was noticed by Jack. Something put Charles on Jacks' radar. Prestigious businessman, self-made, handsome family, an amazing house. Charles looked up from the picture. Anger rose and swelled inside him. He balled up his fist and punched the picture frame. His blood left his knuckles. The only thing from his past he had left to give was his blood.   The family seemed to wave at him frozen and happy as they danced in the flames of his fireside chimney. They were bloody and red. The family that was lost to him now. Seemingly miles away from where he should be. They were his happiness, his lifeboat of sanity.   Charles grabbed the yellowish newspaper article and picture. He balled them up into a tight ball and tossed it in the overflowing trash can. He missed. He picked it up and threw it in the fire. Charles smiled; a thought that made a shiver run down his spine. Charles got up and walked to the window. He pushed aside the curtain; months of dust escaped into the air, causing him to sneeze. Pouring a drink, he looked out into the darkness that was his estate. Charles drank the glass empty in seconds. The burning tickling sensation caused him to shake as he poured another drink. He stared into the darkness, the ghosts of his past creeping into his drunken state. The burn was not being felt as much; tickling his throat.   The silent house, a mausoleum dedicated to the unfelt, fully impacted by the tragedy that his heart, full of pride, swallowed like a pain pill. The fireside flames hypnotically sway, causing the family picture to smile back. Jack's files slipped onto the floor. A color photo escapes. Charles looked down in a drunken stupor. “We share scars. Yours will never heal you, son of a b***h; mine I hope will heal someday. I hope you burn in hell.” His mind is lost in the arms of his new mistress' revenge. Lost in the blissful image of Jack frying in the chair.   The eyes of the two met. Predator and prey are forever locked in that internal stalemate. Neither, backing down, both headstrong and determined to make the other twist and bend to one's will. The bridge and bond they created are everlasting.   He picked up a bottle, an unopened bottle of vodka. He sloppily pried the lid off. He turned the bottle upside down and drank from it. The liquor filled his liver. The taste of hot lava of a hundred years of proof slid down his throat. The warmth started in his throat and ended in his chest. He smashed the empty bottle into Jack's picture as a sick sort of cheer. “Cheers motherfucker. Burn in hell."