Forgive Me

The Hammer of White Scars

White. White everywhere. My brain isn't working. It hurts. It hurts. It hurts.

-2/21/1920

"Why did you let McKinley on the case?" I shouted as the door to 48 Lewis shrieked open.

A red, fatigued face blinked. "No hello, then?" David hiccuped.

In the simplest, kindest description I can muster: he looked terrible. His features were not just disheveled, they were a mess. Imprints of tears slithered down his face like bleeding veins, ending in a single, damp center at the bottom of his chin. His charcoal hair dangled over those pink eyes and masked the overgrown shadow curling into his lips. His skin was paper-thin and ghostly pale, like he hadn't touched sunlight since the storm. Its fragile state made his bulbous, glassy eyes pop out of their sockets.

The smell of something foul and alcoholic reached my nostrils and I disguised the urge to vomit with a weak smile. I felt gross, like I was seeing something vulnerable and never meant for human eyes.

"What happened to you?" I whispered, holding my palms to my mouth.

"Nothing!" he slurred, leaning his weight on the door-frame and giggling to himself. "I'm waiting for Becky!"

"Bec-!" My words caught in my throat and I took another breath. "Becky is gone, Detective."

"She'll come, I'm telling ya!"

"Dete-"

"Marcus is waiting for her too! He's been watchin' out for me, so no need to worry!"

"Babysitting is more like it," came a frail voice from behind him.

Marcus-- the skinny, rat-faced reporter I had seen following David around crime scenes-- stepped out from inside the office with a lack of sleep clinging to the bags under his storm-cloud eyes. He drooped under my gaze but still huffed his complaints through his nose.

"C'mon, you never sat on me," David laughed, leaning closer and closer to the doorknob.

The reporter wheezed and furiously scratched at the red blotches on his arms, pulling away with blood caught underneath his fingernails. "What can I do for you alie- I mean . . ." His cheeks flushed and his fingers quickened. "What can I do for you, m-miss?"

"Why has David not gone home?" I snapped. "He should be on leave, not at his office!"

"Well, y-you see . . . " He took a prolonged, cleansing breath and began again. "He refuses to leave, ma'am. Believe me, I've tried getting him home but he'll fight back! Got me pretty bad on the shoulder, too." He rubbed his upper arm and winced.

"Have you at least hidden all the whiskey?" I asked with another whiff of the ill smell out of David's lips.

"I don't even know where he's getting it, ma'am! It's like it's being replenished every second!"

"He'll get alcohol poisoning at this rate," I muttered, turning my attention back to the detective who had his head resting against the brass doorknob. "Detective Holly, you are in a government position of power. You are an enforcer of the law, and you are breaking the 18th Amendment. Failure to comply with the United States Constitution will release you from your position immediately. Is this what you want?"

He gave me a curious look-- examining my face with reading eyes-- as if he was seeing me for the first time. And disliked what he saw. "It's only a couple shots," he belched. "What's the harm?"

"If you refuse to comply, detective, I will alert your chief and the rest of the authorities."

"Stop calling me detective."

"Then sober yourself up."

"Can't do that, miss Italy." He raised his head from the knob and took a step forward. If he smelled terrible before, it was nothing compared to how much my nose suffered with him so close. If you have ever accidentally bitten into an ice pop and felt your nerves chatter, then you will know exactly how he smelled.

"And why not?"

His loopy grin and focused eyes peered into my heart, taking full advantage of the wedge holding it together. The gums gnawing on my skull grew seven-inch fangs and sank them deep inside my brain.

God, this headache hurt

"You might not like me when I'm sober," he murmured. I swear on my life he winked.

In a gesture that sent a ring of needles through my thighs, I placed my hands on his chest and pushed him away. "I can't imagine how you could be any worse than this, Detective," I growled. "Poor Marcus having to take care of your sorry ass like this! Shame on you!"

"Marcus doesn't matter--"

"Hey!"

"--only Becky does."

"And Becky would want to see you in such a state after her death?" I snarled, surprised at my own ferocity. "What are you doing for her by drowning yourself in your sorrow and alcohol?"

He didn't say a word, only shot stare after stare into me. Those marching, alert eyes were dead and white, like a shattered seashell, and dribbling down his collarbone. It was pathetic; he was pathetic!

And yet, whenever he blinked I wanted to wrap my arms around his neck, run my fingers through his hair, and kiss his tear-drenched cheeks until he smiled.

"I have to pick up my child," I sighed, "and I want everything flushed out of your system and an apology to Marcus by the time I get back, yeah? Pick yourself up and talk to me when you manage just that."

* * * * *

"What kind of irresponsible, irrational son of a gun," I grumbled to myself as I, once again, stomped down the sidewalk toward June's appointment. "Can't even enjoy a sunny Spring day without him storming about inside my head!"

The sore bastard, why did he have to get so close? Why did my heart race when he looked at me like that?

Why did he look at me like that?

A scar of white, searing pain cut across my forehead and I winced, rubbing my temples with soft, tentative fingers. There was no longer a worm with circular jaws and rotating fangs but a minuscule dragon wreaking havoc on my forest. It inhaled the confused rotting the roots and expelled it as suffocating gas. The billowing stretches of unlit m******e pumped through my intestines and into my eyes, irritating and stretching them until they tore.

I reached my hand out to graze the passing lampposts and felt nothing; I was numb, unresponsive. Only the gas consumed me, trailing like a road of gunpowder down my spinal chord and out my fingers.

The inner flesh of my throat clenched tight around my vocal chords and I coughed, hacking like a trench of poison. I could feel my lungs collapsing into my ribs with every heave-- every time they brushed up against my liver.

What is wrong with me?

Another hammer clanged against my skull like a gong and it vibrated, sending me crumpling against the door of a nearby shop. A gash of white tore across my vision like a cut in the snow and bled something as thick as honey into my skin.

I can't see. I can't see. I can't . . . see . . . . . .

"Poppies," I whispered, my head dragging down the center of the shop door, not obeying a single scream my mind emitted. "I never asked . . . about . . . poppies . . . . ."

The dragon unhinged its great, puppet mouth over the gas and lit the spark.