Jim’s day started off hard and later than he’d wanted.
A little too much to drink the night before made the alarm in the morning a klaxon he didn’t really want to deal with, but he couldn’t ignore it for long.
The bills had to be paid, after all, and sleeping in would not ingratiate him with the boss any better. That particular relationship was already bad enough, with the blame being placed on Jim for the loss of that client two days before.
Of course, that hadn’t been any of Jim’s doing. That bastard Tom was directly responsible, but had shuffled the paperwork enough to cause the evidence to go on Jim’s head, and there wasn’t a thing he could do to change that.
If he thought he could get away with it, he’d take Tom into a dark alley and show him what it meant to be honest.
But, of course, with Jim’s luck lately, it would go terribly and just cause trouble he couldn’t deal with right now.
He slammed his hand down on the clock and cut its clanging off, muttering to himself as he shifted his body to a sitting position and rubbing at his face. His mouth felt like cotton dipped in shit, the tequila drunk late into the night coming back to haunt him. He knew better than to drink it; it never brought him any good. But the stress of the past few days needed some kind of release, and he saw no better way.
He finally managed his feet and went to the bathroom, waves of nausea greening the edges of his face. He held it back, though, swallowing down what threatened to come out.
He stripped and turned on the water as he rubbed his cheeks, trying to get the life energized back into his sallow skin. The warmth of the shower did some better, but his head still ached terribly by the time he was done. He opted not to shave, though there was a definite shadow of hair growing.
Not worth the effort. Who would he be trying to impress, anyhow? He was already in dire straits.
He knew he should get something in his stomach but the nausea was still present, at least a little, so he decided to wait until lunch, or maybe grab a snack from the machine at work once he was there.
Feeling at least somewhat put together, he stepped away from his front door and locked it, taking in the cool morning air.
Being outside made him feel some better. The place he lived in was a bit secluded, about two miles away from the nearest house, and the thick stands of trees around his house gave him a calming effect whenever he needed it. He’d always fancied himself close to nature, even though he had not spent as much time outside as his father did. Still, he enjoyed any time he was able to get from it.
It was why he chose to buy the place to begin with, using up most of his savings to get it in his hands. It wasn’t large, but it was good enough for his bachelor self, and had a room to spare if, in the future, he should start a family.
That wasn’t a temptation, yet, though. He made enough to live comfortably, and the string of relationships he’d had with the ladies of late had turned out rotten. Most saw him as a means to their own ends, and he did not feel inclined to take care of someone, preferring to find someone who was, at the least, self-sufficient enough to take care of themselves before getting involved.
Was that really too much to ask for?
No matter. Someday, maybe, someone would come along, but until then he would be just fine on his own.
By the time he pulled his car into his assigned space, the clock on the dash showed he was ten minutes late. Normally not a problem, but with the heat being focused on him right now, he did not want to give them any excuse to trouble him. Tom would probably make a stink of it, just so there would be that much more pressure on him instead of facing the direction it should be.
Jim was right. When he walked through the front doors, there was Tom, sitting at his desk with his hands behind his head.
“Oh, hey! Look who made it!” Tom’s voice was loud enough to echo through the large room. The others shot their eyes upward at the sound, conversations pausing as they paid attention. “It’s Jim, everybody!”
A crap-eating grin was on his face as Jim’s own reddened.
He hunched his shoulders and made his way to his desk, feeling the stares of the others as they resumed their sales calls or business with each other. Sidelong, whispering. Were they talking about him?
Probably.
He put his briefcase on his desk and slumped into the chair as Tom, still grinning like a cat, shifted his attention away.
Bastard.
The door to the manager’s office opened and Jim felt the withering gaze of Christopher.
“So glad you could make it, Jim,” he said. Jim looked over his desk and saw Christopher’s hand upraise with a come-hither finger.
He sighed and took off his jacket, leaving it behind on the chair as he stood and crossed the room. The talk around him became more hushed and Tom was nearly in laughter as he watched Jim’s slow walk of shame to the office door.
“Have a seat,” Christopher said as Jim closed the wood behind him. “We need to talk.”
Jim could already tell what was coming, and his ire rose in his guts that he was the one facing the fire instead of Tom.
“We’ve got a problem,” the manager said, his large frame plopping into his own chair as Jim took one across from him.
“Yeah, that we do,” Jim replied raising his voice a little. He hated being on the defensive with this crap, and didn’t want to make things worse by getting irate with Christopher, but his anger at the smug look Tom bore as he came in was hard to handle.
“We really needed that client, Jim,” Christopher began, as he shifted some papers around on his metal desk.
“I know, and you should be talking to Tom about this,” he snapped.
“Tom has nothing to do with this,” Christopher said, his own anger written across his face. “Looking at these numbers, I’ve got no choice here. You’ve been with us for three years, Jim, and you’ve done a good job until now. Why steal from the client?”
What? Steal? Jim thought he was only being blamed for muffing the numbers. Tom stole money, too?
“Now, wait a minute, Christopher,” Jim spat out. “I didn’t do a damn thing, and definitely never stole anything…”
Christopher cut him off. “The paperwork says otherwise. You hid it well, but we can see how it was taken out.”
“This is ridiculous,” Jim shouted, the rage inside of him burning through what was remaining of his hangover. “You can’t just accuse me of something like this without evidence. It wasn’t me, I’m telling you, Tom did it.”
“Shifting the blame is not going to help with this,” Christopher said. “We’re opening an investigation, and the police have already been called about it.”
“Good!” Jim screamed, standing and slamming his hand on the metal desk. The thing rattled beneath his palm and a few of the little knick-knacks the boss kept on the desk jerked. “Call them. Bring in the fuggin army if that’s what it takes. I didn’t do it!”
Christopher slid back in his chair, the casters shrieking across the floor as he moved. “You’re done here,” he said as he stood, himself. He was bigger than Jim, though his mass was more fat than muscle. “Get out. They’ll be contacting you today, I am sure.”
He was done, he knew that. Even if he was proved innocent, the way he acted here would likely not be forgiven.
He wanted to rail at Christopher, to take out all of his ire on the man standing in front of him, but it would do him no good, and would likely end up with him in jail. The guy should know him better, though; Jim had worked there for years.
He jerked the door of the office open and stomped out, walking to his desk with fury in his veins.
“Aww, what’s wrong?” a snide voice asked, and Jim tore his gaze from his coat in the chair to the visage of Tom.
“You son of a bitch!” Jim screamed as he lost control of his rage and pounced at him.
His fist connected with Tom’s nose, the teeth beneath causing a spark of pain to shoot through his arm as one of them scraped his knuckle open.
Tom’s head jerked and he tumbled backward, the kinetic energy carrying him a few feet. Blood instantly began to spout down from the break in the nose Jim created, and he sputtered as he groaned with agony.
Jim’s fists were still balled up but he didn’t step forward, barely keeping himself in check, but the way Tom’s face looked gave him a satisfaction he could not describe.
Oh, God, that felt good to do.
He felt hands on his arms as a couple of the other guys grabbed him to pull him away, but there was no need. Jim had done what he’s wanted to do for ages, and he laughed at the way Tom held his hand to his nose, streaming tears tumbling down from his eyes.
He pulled his arms away from the grips and said, “Get off me.”
“Victoria, call the police,” Christopher said from the office door, while Jim grabbed the coat from the chair and stalked toward the exit.
He left the office with a raucous din going on behind him, pissed off yet satisfied with what he had done.
He didn’t go home right away, taking the time to stop at a small diner for a bite to eat and a little time to calm his nerves. It wasn’t all that great, but he did feel some better after getting some food inside of him, countering the after-effects of the hangover that still remained. It sat heavier than he’d have liked, though, as he drove back home, concern over what he was going to do from here preying on his mind.
He would probably be blacklisted at this point, his sales career likely not able to recover from the way he walked out, let alone the things he was being accused of. Nothing would come from it. Nothing could come from it, he was sure, but the fact he was even accused would blot him in ways he couldn’t fathom, and Christopher was probably already on the phone to his cronies to discuss the situation.
That meant he was probably done. Their town wasn’t big to begin with, and the pool of businesses that handled the things he was experienced in was difficult enough to get into. It was all he knew, and the last thing he wanted to do was to be stuck working in some podunk job at a burger joint or something, because of what Tom had done.
What was he going to do?
There was a police car in the driveway when he pulled in, the two officers it contained stepping out when they saw him coming. He glanced nervously at himself, hoping his appearance wouldn’t give them a bad impression, but he knew it was not a social call they had in mind.
The interview lasted more than an hour, one question after another coming from them about his dealing with the client they claimed he had stolen from, and about his activities of late.
Of course he defended himself, and, in the end, demanded they look into his own bank accounts to see money had not been transferred to him from the client, signing paperwork that would help facilitate a warrant for it. There would be nothing, he was sure, but then they mentioned the punch on Tom…
He admitted that was real. How could he deny it?
For some reason, though, Tom was not pressing charges. That shocked him, expecting that he would be taken away for a night or three in the lockup for letting his anger get the best of him.
But when they left, telling him not to leave the state for now, he considered things. Tom might have been letting things go because he wanted to keep the heat off of himself. The more involved he was, the more chance there would be of the police focusing on him, and that would lead to disaster for the man.
It made sense, though Jim almost wished they would have taken him in, just to let that kind of ball start rolling.
In the end, they would realize he was not guilty and any investigation of him would have to be dropped, but he would have to play things carefully until then.
By the time evening came, Jim was a wreck, nerves on edge at the constant preying of his own mind against itself. Tom was guilty, he knew that, but his memories spun all around looking for any possibility the police would find something they could use against him.
For all the fretting, though, nothing overt came to his mind. He’d never done anything to cause real trouble, at least not since he was a kid and didn’t know any better.
No, there should be no reason for the police to suspect he had been involved in any wrongdoing. Everything that way should blow over without any consequences.
Still, though, his mind nagged at him, eating away his surety, and by the time evening came on fully, the light fading away from the huge glass double sided doors that led to his back porch, he had a drink in his hand, the fourth one downed.
His brain was heady, fuzzing from the alcohol, but he sat in his chair and felt he could relax for the first time that day. It sucked that it took a buzz to do it, but his options were limited and the last thing he really wanted to do was to go out somewhere.
He clicked on the TV and watched numbly the images on the screen, the volume barely turned up. Just enough to add a background din, but his mind was on so many other things it didn’t matter.
Why the hell was all of this happening? What did he ever do to Tom that would make him even want to wreck his life? Piss in his Cheerios or something? The man was a dick, to be sure, and the two had never gotten along very well, but to ruin his life, to take so many steps to crash everything down on top of Jim’s head just made no sense.
He thought back to the many snide remarks they’d shared between themselves, the rumor mill that churned around him as people gossiped about the latest incident they would have. Just words. Nothing more than that.
He glanced down at his knuckle, the bandage he put on it reflecting the subtle light coming from the kitchen and sighed. He balled his hand into a fist and remembered the sensation of his skin striking the man in the face.
That was the only good moment of the long, drawn out and horrible day.
A sound began outside and his eyes flicked to the patio doors. A bright flash of light made him wince and blink repeatedly as the lightning struck something, probably miles away. What had been an unnoticeable light sprinkle grew in earnest into a heavy rain.
He shook his head, fascinated at how quickly it had come up, but that wasn’t necessarily strange in these parts. They were not far from the mountains, and sometimes the storms that rolled through were massive, leaving the ground wet for days.
He got up and went to the kitchen, pulling the bottle of wine from the refrigerator. He refilled the glass and sipped at it instead of downing it as he had the last. He smacked his lips a couple of times as it slid down his throat.
A pattering on the patio distracted him, pulling his eyes that way. He could see it reasonably clearly from the kitchen, the openness of the living room adding to the way the light would pour in during the daylight hours. It always added a nice effect to the space.
In the darkness outside, he could see nothing, but the rain pelting the windows reflected from the lights coming from inside of the house.
Must have been the rain, or maybe a branch fell from a tree outside.
He took the wine to the living room and sat on his couch again, sighing once more as the fabric embraced him. The wine was having the lulling effect he hoped it would and he stared dully into the flashing images on the set, trying to not think of anything at all.
The rain falling outside dulled his senses, as well, and he drifted into a semi-sleep, his eyes barely open as his mind shut down. So much energy expended through the day after a long night of drinking got the best of him.
His eyes opened in a flash and he sat up straight as the pat-pat-pat sound entered his ears.
He glanced around, trying to throw off the haze his brain was inundated with, the wine fully kicking in a buzz.
The patio doors still revealed nothing but the rain outside, the glint of the wet wood of his porch barely visible with the light from inside of the house.
He stood and crossed the room, his hand swishing his hair around to try to relax the buzz a little, but didn’t do much good. He flicked the switch on the wall to turn the light outside on.
It was one of the bright types, a security lamp that shed quite a lot of illumination across not just the wood of the porch, but extending our toward the woods, too.
He squinted, trying to discern anything out of place, but nothing out of the ordinary to be seen. The tree line was barely in sight, rain falling between his house and there blocking some of it, but the porch was barren of anything that hadn’t been there before.
He flicked the light off and turned around to go back to his seat, shaking his head. Maybe it was something in his sleep.
Pat-pat-pat.
He whirled around, his nerves instantly on edge and a chill running down his spine.
It took a moment for his mind to catch up with his instincts, realizing as he stared into the darkness that it had been the distinct sound of foot falls on the wet wood.
His knees bent, his ears perked for any hint of more sound and he reached his hand for the switch again. His fingers began to tremble as they stretched.
Click.
The light came on, shedding its blow everywhere around. He readied himself for whoever might be there.
There was nothing. Only the rain falling heavily across the red-stained slats and the grass beyond.
What the hell?
He remained at the double-door for a long while, his stomach quivering and his eyes wide, seeking any sign of movement, but there was nothing out there. Certainly nothing big enough to have made the sound he heard, and he had moved so fast to face the window again after turning off the light that he should have seen whatever it was.
Had it been Tom? Was he, somehow, screwing with Jim to make him paranoid or freak him out? To tweak him in some way to get revenge or continue whatever damn plot the guy had in store for him?
Even as those thoughts came to him, Jim rejected them. If it had been Tom, he would have seen the man moving. There had been nothing, even though mere fractions of a second passed between the times he turned around.
If it had been him, he would have to be some kind of superstar jock to move as fast as he had without being spotted, and Tom was no athlete. The guy weighed a ton and breathed heavily just crossing the damn room at work.
No way it could have been him.
Jim shook his head again, confusion and paranoia running rampant through him, but his legs were getting tired, the strain of his stance becoming harder to bear.
Nothing’s there, man, he told himself. You’ve had a bad day and too much to drink.
He moved back to his couch and huffed down into it, picking up the warming glass of wine. He put it back down again, though, without taking a sip. He’d had enough for now.
He kept his eyes on the patio doors, though there was nothing moving but the rain beyond them, sure that there was nothing going on. Still, though, he could not shake the sensation that he was being watched, somehow. That there was something just beyond the doorway staring back at him as he sat.
It was a creepy feeling, and it stayed with him throughout the rest of the night. He waited on the couch, not wanting to move, the light of the porch still shining brightly across the wood and the grass, while the rain continued to fall.
When it finally began to let up, as the first rays of dawn began to cluster in the world outside of his house, he was grateful to see nothing at all was outside beside his grill and the two wooden chairs stored nearby it. He used them rarely but it was nice to have them on hand if he got the gumption up to cook something out there and the weather allowed it.
The feeling of being watched had subsided with the first bits of light passing over the sky, and he was grateful for that, too. He could not fathom where it had been coming from, but suspected the wine and the stress of the day had gotten to him too much.
What he really needed was some sleep. Things would look better after catching a few hours of it, and avoiding drinking for a couple of days wouldn’t hurt, too.
The sunlight outside grew brighter still, as the clouds above began to break apart. This time of morning, it would send a nice splash of color across his glass doors and the inside of the house would match it, another selling point of the house for Jim.
He grabbed the half-full glass of wine and started to stand, intending to take it to the kitchen to dump it down the sink. But when he shifted his body to rise, the wine spilled from his hand to the carpet below his feet and he gasped.
The light outside was beginning to stream into the house through the panes of glass on the patio doors and his mouth gaped open as he saw something was in between, casting a slight shadow into the room.
Two hand prints were on the glass, both larger than his own would be. The palms and fingers had been pressed hard against it, the dirt and oils transferring from the skin of whatever it had been to the pane.
Above and between them, the distinct features of a face, nose, eyes and mouth, were also imprinted into the glass.
Jim’s stomach dropped as he realized something had been there, watching him, after all.
