Darker Places
Not the pit, anything but the pit. They could kill him, they could torture him all they wanted. He could accept this. And he did. He had no choice but to accept it. Sure. The lashings hurt.
Bamboo slivers.
They looked like toothpicks in the hands of the squinty-eyed bastard who seemed to be running the show. As he nodded in and out, he wondered to himself, “I’m a prisoner of war, why are they offering me toothpicks?”
Squint-eyed bastard number one just stood there surveying him, as squint-eyed bastards two and three moved forward, jerking his head back by his neck. He had no hair to speak of and this seemed to aggravate his captors beyond relief. One reached up and began to slice apart the twine that held his arms above him. They conversed in their sickly, sweet sing-song voices that might as well have been spoken by lost survivors from another time. Fucking animals. Filthy fucking animals. They jabbed him hard in the stomach with the butt of a rifle, an AK-47, and he doubled over. Not so much in pain, because although his body ached it had toughened to the point where their blows really didn’t hurt any more. No. He doubled over just to give them the satisfaction of thinking they were inflicting harm and causing pain. They grabbed his arm, his left arm, the good one, and Squinty-Eyed Bastard, the boss, walked forward with one of the toothpicks. It should have hurt. It did hurt. It was a light pinch at first, not unlike that of a doctor’s shot. Blood immediately began to seep out around the small puncture wound. The pain became more intense as the splinter dug deeper and deeper into the flesh underneath his fingernail. He writhed in agony as he saw the skin above his knuckles pop out stiff. He could see the flesh above his middle knuckle tighten as the sliver slid forward. It scraped gently across the bones of his finger as it slid in, severing nerves, he was sure. When the sliver was so far in, that it jammed under his skin against his big knuckle, the fist knuckle, he almost passed out from the pain. How long had he been here? How long had he been at their mercy? Where was his unit? He knew they were out there, somewhere in the jungle, watching and waiting, he was sure. He was sure he’d heard the faintest of radio chatter coming from the periphery of the camp late last night. Or had it been early that morning? He didn’t know. He’d lost track of days. After he’d been taken, at first, he marked the passing of the days with small strikes in the dirt floor of his hooch, where they kept him tied up. But on or near his twelfth day of captivity, they put him in the pit and there. There, he lost track of everything. He lost track of days in the pit. He lost track of all time in the pit.
In the pit he lost track of himself.
There were dead things in the pit. Most of them were nothing but bones now, some of them were not fully decomposed yet, and their uniforms hung limply on their wasted frames. Their uniforms slick and moldy became one with their rotting flesh. There were a lot of dead things in the pit. And when he lost track of himself he talked to them. He laughed with them, hysterically at times. Other times he cried with them. Other times he just screamed in terror but their faces were always silent. Usually. Sometimes, he was sure, they wept with him and laughed with him. Sometimes, he was sure, they told him how they came to be dead inside this rotting, stinking, filthy fucking pit. In another life, the dead things inside the pit with him could have been his friends. Yes. There were lots of dead things in the pit with him. There were live things too. Lots of pretty live things. Beautiful live things. Terrible live things like leeches that embedded themselves into him, snuggled deep in his flesh, snug as bugs in a rug.
There were live things like rats that had chewed at his face and who got eaten alive for their troubles. Oh yes. There wasn’t a whole lot of food in the pit. No food at all in fact. Just the rats. “You ate rats, you ate rats,” he would hear voices, from another life, another time, on his childhood playground, teasing him, taunting him. He remembered how wildly the first one he caught had squirmed, biting at his fingers as he squeezed its neck. It stank, like piss and shit and wetness as he first put his lips to its squealing, shrieking fur. And then nothing, as the blood, hot and sickly-sweet gushed into his mouth. He peeled the fur away from the sinewy body. “You ate rats, you ate rats,” the voices taunted, only to be replaced by a more familiar voice that chided him on, “Survive, persevere, survive, persevere.’ There were lots of live things and dead things in the pit. And there were children, little boys and girls, who pissed and shit into the pit through a small hole carved out above. Sometimes they threw rocks at him. Other times they just shit and pissed. And sometimes they just laughed at him. He came to, with his senses on fire and the pain in his finger spreading throughout his entire body, down to his groin. It felt like he was going to explode from the inside out. But anything was better than the pit. He could take the pain because there came a point, there always came a point, where the pain didn’t matter and where it receded into his being, snug as a bug in the rug. He could not take the pit though. He would dig his own eyeballs out of his own skull first and eat them with salt and pepper before he would go back to the pit. Death was welcome. Death was inevitable. The pit was hell though. The pit was hell on earth. With a sudden jerk, the boss squinty-eyed bastard yanked the bamboo splinter out from underneath his index finger and he gasped in pain. And then there were noises. What, he wasn’t sure. Squinty-eyed bastard, the boss, turned around to face the door of the hooch and his eyes suddenly grew wide with fear and he grasped for his sidearm. He grabbed squinty-eyed bastard as he tried to draw his firearm, but he was too weak, squinty-eyed bastards two and three jerked him of their commander and tossed him backwards, but it was too late. The noises grew louder and suddenly shapes, in familiar greens and camos, began to fill up the hooch. One of them immediately came to him, the others quickly dispatched all three squinty-eyed bastards. The boss was impaled by a bayonet strapped to the end of an M-16 by a web-belt. The soldier, whose eyes were dark and deeply set, pulled the bayonet out and plunged it into the boss’s abdomen again and again laughing hysterically as he did. “Woo hoo look at that silly fucking bastard,” he giggled manically. “You’re lucky we got here when we did.” He felt himself being lifted, tossed over someone’s shoulder. And then there was the darkness of the night, all still and all quiet, except by slight interruptions, quick rifle bursts and a mortar round or two. He’d done it. He was alive. They’d thrown their worst at him and he still lived. He was sure, at that moment, that nothing, really, could ever conquer him. He was sure, he thought as he began to lose consciousness that he would live forever. The monotonous din of Rolling Stones singing Paint it Black faded into the recesses of Steven’s dimmed awareness. He tried to regain his vision, to absorb the familiar sights and sounds of his living room but he was nauseous and sick and his world seemed to spin around him. He quit struggling. He quit trying and he let his eyes close and he let the darkness take him. The Rolling Stones were replaced by something else, another song, a song, a memory he couldn’t quite put a finger on.
The melody was haunting, and it seemed like he heard a voice singing, or possibly humming over the sound of the music. The dashboard lights lowly illuminated the man and woman in the front seat of the car. And the sound of the music came more and more into focus. I’m leaving on a jet plane, don’t know when I’ll be back again. That was it. And that was his father grasping the steering wheel in his hands, humming to the sound of the music. His dad had always loved that song and Steven remembered how the song had always filled him with deep sadness. For his father, it was always a prelude to a business trip. His father always sang the song before he would leave town on business. It became, in Steven’s mind, almost a victory song of sorts sung by a father who could not wait to get on the next plane out, leaving his family, his only son behind. His father would almost get giddy with delight as he sang it and he never understood why Steven would cry every time the song came on. But there was something else going on here as well. His father continued to sing with the music, but his mother was talking. Steven couldn’t hear her voice, though. It sounded like she was far away, like he was under water trying to hear the voices on the land above him. But slowly her voice, too, began to come into focus until it was shrill and piercing. She was stifling a sob, maybe at least. He couldn’t be sure. And his father kept humming that damned song. “Listen to me dammit,” his mother cried out to his father, their faces illuminated bluish-green from the dashboard lights. “You’re talking nonsense,” said his father, finally taking a break from the song. “I love this song honey.” “I fucked him,” his mother cried. “Yes, you heard me. I fucked him. I’ve been fucking him now for months. Months dammit, do you hear me?” But his father didn’t seem to be phased. “Shh honey, I’m trying to hear this song,” his father replied, as if her confession were only a minute irritation. “I’ve been fucking him and I’m going to keep fucking him,” she screamed, louder this time. “He’s a good doctor. He takes care of me. He fucks me right. Not like you. You just roll over and go to sleep. The doctor fucks me all night long. He fucks me hard. He fucks me good. He makes my pussy scream. Do you hear me? He makes my fucking pussy scream.’ But his father ignored her, and began singing to the sound of the music, louder. “I’m leaving on a jet plane,” he sang loudly. “Don’t know when I’ll be back again.” “I like it when he puts it in me,” she said. “I’m leaving on a jet plane,” he sang. “He makes me feel like a woman when he fucks me like that,” she said. “Don’t know when I’ll be back again.” “I suck his dick. Right in our bed when you’re out of town.” “Leaving on a jet plane.” “He spreads my legs and he slams it into me, my God, I’ve never felt anything like it before in my life, not from you at least.” “Don’t know when I’ll be back again.” “Listen to me,” she screamed, her voice rising into a terrible crescendo, as she began to repeatedly bang the car radio. The song was abruptly cut off, but Steven’s father continued to sing. She began to slap at his father, but he merely moved his head to the side, avoiding her blows and he continued to sing incessantly. “You rotten son of a bitch,” she screamed. “I hate you. I fucking hate you. Are you hearing this? The doctor fucks me good. He fucks me like an animal. Like a fucking animal. Do you get that? Can you comprehend that?” Finally, the words seemed to get through and his father paused thoughtfully and turned his head slightly as he glanced at his wife. “Have you switched meds again honey?” he finally asked her. “You know how I feel about that. We talked about it, remember?” Exasperated, Steven’s mother screamed and flew into a fit of violent rage. She began swinging her small, tightly-clenched fists at Steven’s father connecting with his jaw. “I hate you,” she screamed. “Hate you, hate you, hate you, hate you,” she screamed at the top of her lungs.
And then suddenly, in a flash, her hand began to slowly reach out. Steven knew what was coming but there was nothing he could do to stop it. He tried to shout, to give warning to his father, but his father had slipped back into the song. His mother’s hand reached for the steering wheel of the car. “No Mom!” Steven yelled, but the words didn’t come out. It was as if he were being smothered by a pillow, like there was an excruciatingly heavy weight on his chest that seemed to fill his limbs. He felt small teeth of a rat gnawing on his face. His mother’s fingers wrapped around the steering wheel. “No Mom, don’t,” he tried to scream again, to no avail. Just as she wrapped her fingers tightly around the steering wheel she paused and looked directly at Steven. “What are you sniveling about, you little bastard?” she asked him. “Stop your fucking whining, I’m sick of it Steven. I’ve put up with it for 35 fucking years of my life. 35 years Steven. 35 years that I can never get back. Just be quiet and watch,” she continued with a playful grin on her face. “This won’t hurt a bit.’ Suddenly, with all her might she jerked the steering wheel from underneath his father’s grasp. Everything went black and all he could hear was his mother grunting and groaning in pleasure. “Yes,” she moaned. “Fuck me, fuck me harder, fuck me harder.” Steven could hear the sound of the tires squealing on the pavement and the slosh of Jack Daniels in a half-full bottle. At least the bottle is half full, came a voice, one Steven couldn’t identify. But his mother’s moans became more incessant. “Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me,” she snarled, her face contorted as the car spun out of control. And then suddenly the car smashed into a road sign, coming to an abrupt halt.
Steven was barefoot, but he stood in the middle of the darkened roadway an the asphalt felt hot under his feet. The car was a smashed up wreck but he walked up to the window anyway and peered in. His parents were their, their limbs twisted in an obscene parody of what every anatomy book says a body should look like. No one’s body should ever be so twisted like that, Steven heard another voice say. The smell of the surrounding bayous, dank and heavy, near the Rigolets filled his nostrils. A light fog had spread over the driver’s door window and Steven wiped it away with his palm. He struggled and after a few tries he opened the door of the car, still looking at the rag-doll tossed bodies of his parents. His mother sat up abruptly. Her neck was still broken, and hung off to the side. One of her eyeballs hung limply, uselessly from its socket. Her tongue hung loosely from her lips and foam had spread over her mouth. “Why don’t you come fuck momma?” she said, as she belched, gagging up a large mouthful of black bile that stunk like the marsh. “Come fuck momma.” And suddenly she leaped at him with her teeth bared, as they tumbled backwards into the night. They reeled backwards but a sudden movement caught Steven’s eye, and a dark, shadowy figure stepped in between them. His mother continued to writhe about on the ground, her voice cracked and nearly broken but still grunting, “Come fuck mommy sweetie, come fuck mommy.” Steven couldn’t make the figure out too well, but saw that it was a man. He leaned against the car and tilted his head back as he took a large wig from the bottle of Jack Daniels. “Good shit,” he said. “Warms you right to your bones it will.”
He took another sip and then tossed the bottle back into the car. Steven’s mother was still wallowing on the ground, trying to gather her strength to come at Steven again. Just as she slowly rose to her feet, the man stepped forward, only now Steven could see he was carrying an M-16 with a bayonet strapped to it by a web belt. The soldier, whose eyes were dark and deeply set, pulled the bayonet out and plunged it into her abdomen again and again laughing hysterically as he did. “Woohoo look at that silly fucking bitch,” he giggled maniacally. “You’re lucky we got here when we did.” And then suddenly, Steven was alone, standing in the middle of the road with no shoes listening to the sounds of the night and to the sounds of an owl in the cypress swamp off to his far left.
For an instant, Steven seemed to leave himself. It was as if his spirit lifted from his body, still standing on that poorly lit road near the Rigolets, and soared high above the clouds. Yet there was part of his mind, his rational mind, that somehow knew the things he’d been feeling were not possible, could not be possible.
How could he have witnessed his own parents deaths? It didn’t seem possible.
Suddenly he was cold though, freezing in fact. Snow was falling. Steven lifted his hand to his face and found it was slick and wet and when he pulled his hand away it came back bloody. He looked at it shining slick under the moonlight as he shivered uncontrollably. He happened, at that point, to glance down and notice he was barefoot. Where was he? How had he gotten there?
Steven’s vision dimmed and blurred, then came into focus slightly before
dimming out again. His head hurt. He could feel his temples pulsing wrenching agony and could hear his own heartbeat, ragged and fast, as it seemed to explode inside his eardrums.
And then, once again, for what seemed like the millionth time, there was nothing but blackness.
Suddenly hands were on him. He was freezing. The one prevailing thought that swam through the ebb and flow of his consciousness was, “okay, so this must be what it really is to die. Death is cold.”
But he already knew that, didn’t he?
But that really didn’t matter at this point because he was cold. Freezing. But he felt hands on him, rolling him over and talking in hushed whispers. He couldn’t quite make out there voices.
“Get him rolled over,” one said in an urgent whisper.
“Jesus Christ, what happened to him? How did he end up out here?”
That was a good question, Steven felt part of his mind asking the same question. He couldn’t see anything and when he tried to open his eyes it hurt and everything was cold and wet, but peacefully, blissfully white.
Snow, he thought, I’m in the friggin snow.
With that he suddenly felt himself being lurched upwards and his mind reeled back, back to the jungle and the prison camp. He’d been here before. What was the expression, been there, done that?
Steven came to, but not all the way, under bright lights. He was still being carried and he still heard voices which were still speaking in quick, urgent whispers. He was cold, so cold, and he felt wet. He tried to open his eyes, but the lights were too bright, and try as he might, he still couldn’t place the voices and only bits and pieces of what they were actually saying. “Christ he’s fucking heavy, move that magazine rack, I’m going to try to lay him down,” said one voice. “Just don’t drop him, we’ve got to get those wet clothes off him,” replied the other voice, which Steven was able to, at least, identify as a female’s voice. Steven felt himself being lowered to the floor and gain he tried to open his eyes, but he couldn’t. He was too cold and his head felt like it was being splintered in two. He pissed on himself, the liquid only warming him for a second.
Steven heard, or thought he heard, water running. “What are you doing?” hissed the female voice. “Hot water, we need to put him in,” said the male voice. “It’s like the reverse of what you do when someone has a high fever.” “No, exterior heating can cause more harm than good,” the female replied. “We’ve got to get his clothes off, they’re cold and wet.” “Do you think he has hypothermia?” the male voice asked. “I don’t know,’ the female replied. “Maybe. It’s too soon to tell. He wasn’t actually submerged in water, so no, probably not.” Steven felt tugging at his waist. “God, his pant leg is frozen solid, feel this,” the male voice said. “He’s certainly shivering enough.” “We don’t have time,” she said. “Just get him undressed, I’m going to find some blankets. No wait.” There was a pause and Steven could hear drawers being opened and doors opening and being closed shut. “I know he has a humidifier, here somewhere, I bought him one for his birthday a few years ago,” she said. Steven tried to speak, but his words came out jumbled, just grunts. He was shivering uncontrollably. “I found it,” she said. “Turn that water back on in the tub, hot water.” “He’s trying to say something,” the male voice said. “That’s a positive sign,” she said. “At least he’s not completely unconscious. Can you hear me Steven? Just try to blink if you can hear me. It’s Ashley. Matt and I found you outside.” Ashley. Steven knew the voice had been familiar. He tried to blink but his eyes just fluttered. “Good,” he heard his sister say. “Don’t try to talk and try not to move, I’m going to try to take your temperature.” “I think he’s shivering too hard,” Matt said. “He’s liable to bite down on the thermometer. Mercury poisoning is the last thing he needs.” “Try to roll him over on his stomach,” Ashley said. “You aren’t,” Matt said. “I don’t have a choice,” Ashley said. Steven felt tugging at his arms now and felt his shirt being pulled slowly up his torso and then over his head. He then felt himself being rolled over onto his stomach. The floor was cold on his naked body. “Jesus Christ what is that?” Matt asked, surprise in his voice. Steven thought he heard Ashley stifle a scream. “I don’t know Matt,” she replied. “It looks like..” “It looks like someone’s has lashed him across the back with a whip,” Matt said. “Holy fucking shit, we should call the police. What the fuck did you get yourself into buddy?” “I just fell,” Steven tried to mutter, but he couldn’t be sure if he actually got the words out. Probably not. “Hold him,” Ashley said. “I can’t watch this,” Matt said. “It’s just a thermometer,” Ashley said. “Don’t be such a pussy.” Steven then felt something cool and slender penetrate him. It didn’t hurt, fortunately, but he was very much aware of the intrusion. Then as quickly as it had slid into him, he felt it slide back out. He thought briefly that it was a good thing that he could feel anything at all. “He’s right under 95 degrees,” Ashley said. “Not as bad as it could be, but not great either.” “What’s normal body temperature, 99 or something?” Matt asked. “98.6 degrees is considered normal,” Ashley replied. “I’ve got to go find blankets.” “What about his back?” Matt asked. “We’ll have to deal with that later,” she said. Steven heard her footsteps recede and heard her voice calling to Matt from distance. He couldn’t make out what she was saying, but suddenly felt Matt lift him again. “For all the working out you do, you sure do weigh a fucking ton, dude,” Matt said. “Can you work with me here a little bit.’ Steven tried, but his legs were rubbery and weak. Again, he felt himself being tossed over Matt’s shoulder. “You’re lucky we found you when we did,” Matt said, grunting under the weight of his friend. “Another couple hours and you would have been frozen solid.” Steven felt himself being lowered once again, this time, it felt like a bed. He was being wrapped up, he was sure of it, and he was thankful for the warmth. But suddenly, his mind flashed back to the pit, where the dead things and the live things were and he remembered the awful feeling of being closed in, being unable to move and he began to panic. “What’s he doing?’ Matt shrieked. “He’s trying to uncover himself. Shit, he’s going fucking crazy.” “Hold him,” Ashley yelled. “We have to keep him covered.” “I’m fucking trying, don’t you have a sedative or something in that nurse bag of yours?” “No,” Ashley yelled back. “They don’t let me truck all that shit around with me. Hello, they’re not called controlled substances for nothing.” “I need a controlled substance about now myself,” Matt exclaimed. “Either that or one of those rhino dart guns they used to use on Wild Kingdom.” Steven continued to thrash. He couldn’t stand it. He was suffocating. He still couldn’t see, but it felt like the life was being squeezed out of him and nothing but sheer panic and reflex had kicked in. He felt a hand, small and warm on his forehead, Ashley’s. “Shh Steven,” she said, her voice now a whispered hush. “You have to do something for me. You have to quit moving. We have to keep these blankets on you. You have to stay covered.” “I’m trying,” he tried to murmur.
I’m trying sis, but I can’t because I’m being squeezed to death and it feels like the pit. There’s dead things in the pit and I can’t stay with them. Please, please, I can’t go back there. I can’t go back. I can’t. Go. Back…
But it was too late, he was slipping away. Slipping back. To the jungle. Into the night. He was still lying down, but the sound of a gentle rain falling, whack, whack, whack, on a roof of sorts was all he could hear. The smell of humidity was thick and heavy and wet vegetation filled his nostrils. The smell of smoke also filled the air and when he opened his eyes he saw he was surrounded by shadowy figures…baby-faced killers. Silhouetted near the doorway of…Was it a tent? It had to be. But there he stood - the man with the deep set eyes. He felt his body clinch up but another person leaning close to him laid a damp rag over his forehead. “Shh it’s okay Tee,” the voice said. “It’s me bro, Paul. You’re all right.” “Where am I?” “Base camp,” Paul said. “We just pulled you out of a VC prison camp. Congratulations bro, it looks like you’re going to live another day.” “Not if they had his ass down in the pit,” muttered the man with the deep set eyes. “Shut the fuck up Sanders,” Paul muttered under his breath. Sanders. Yes. The man with the deep set eyes was named Sanders. He didn’t know why, but he knew he had to remember that name. Sanders. Sanders. Sanders. He repeated it to himself over and over. “Listen to him, will you,” said the man named Sanders, who had deep set eyes and who liked Jack Daniels. “His fucking mind is snapped. I’m telling you we should leave him for fucking dead. Once you’re in the pit, you ain’t right again.” “But you were in the pit once Sanders,” said another voice. “Yeah but who said I’ve been right since,” Sanders replied with a disgusted laugh. “I got news for you Sanders, you ain’t never been quite right, pit or no pit,” said another voice in the darkness. This brought a round of laughter from everybody. “Would you morons shut the fuck up,” Paul said. “This isn’t helping him one bit.” “Aww ain’t that sweet, Paul’s worried about his little girlfriend,” snickered the man named Sanders. In an abrupt flash of movement Paul was at his feet and rushing Sanders. He swung and hit him and was then on top of him, his fingers tired but steely as they clutched Sanders by the throat. “I’m sick of your shit,” Paul screamed. “Get him off,” somebody, not Sanders, yelled and the men moved in and pried Paul off of Sanders. Sanders rose to his feet, his hand gently pausing at his throat. Although he was still being held back, Paul continued to yell and curse Sanders. “Is that all you got you little fucking pussy?” Sanders asked, seemingly unphased by the sudden attack. “I’ll tell you one thing cap. You ever touch me like that again and you’ll be drawing back not one, but two fucking bloody stumps. You fucking read me.” “Just watch your fucking back mother fucker,” was Paul’s reply. “Everybody in the unit is getting sick of your fucking crap. Your days are numbered.’ “News flash cap,” Sanders replied. “We’re three hundred miles behind enemy lines, no support, totally un-fucking-sanctioned. All of our days are numbered you piece of fucking dog shit. This is mission fucking impossible guys. Kill’em all. Let fucking god sort’em out.” Sanders laughed, took a long swig of whiskey, screwed the cap back on, tossed it to Paul and walked out of the tent. “That mother fucker’s out of control,” Paul said. “Yeah, but what are we gonna do man?” asked another shape in the dark. “Call the fucking MP’s? He’s right. We’re all alone out here. We don’t fucking exist, remember.” “Watch him, he’s shaking again,” someone shouted. “It’s just the chills,” Paul said. “I’ve got to get this blanket on him.” “Give him some fucking water or something man,” said another voice. Paul leaned in and whispered, “Come on Tee, sip this. You need your fluids man. You need to drink. Drink.”
Drink.
“Steven, try to drink this,” Ashley said. “Just a small sip.” He couldn’t open his eyes, but he felt the warm feeling of a cup being gently pressed against his lips. A smell, warm and beefy filled his nostrils and for a second he thought h was going to wretch. But, by God, he was thirsty. He opened his mouth and tried to sip. He swallowed some, he thought, but he felt the rest of it dribbling down his chin, spreading warmly, like rat’s blood, sickly-sweet. “Shh, go slow,” Ashley said. “Just go slow.” He did and when he couldn’t take it any more he laid his head back and tried to smile at her. When he finally came to and was able to actually open his eyes, Steven saw that he was in his own bed. His bedroom windows were wide open and light poured in. It was snowing. Beautiful wisps of snow fell heavy, dancing like faeries outside his window. Ashley was sitting in the chair near the foot of his bed and when he sat up she tossed the magazine aside and rushed to his side. “Easy,” she said, sitting next to him and hugging him lightly. “You all right?” Ashley asked. “Just a little queasy,” he replied. “Christ, it feels like I’ve been run over by a mack truck.” “Looks like it too,” she said. “Jesus Steven, what the hell happened?” “I got a little drunk,” he said. “A little,” she said, the sarcasm in her voice not hidden in the least. “Steven, there were two empty vodka bottles, an empty bottle of rum and an empty bottle of tequila on the coffee table. There was also some white powdery residue on the table that. You know, I’m not sure, but it certainly resembled cocaine. It looked like you had a frat party here.” “What did you tell Sarah?” he asked. “Well, I didn’t tell her you were bombed out on booze and cocaine, if that’s what you’re wondering,” Ashley said. “She’s got enough to worry about.” “Again, thank you,” he replied. “I’ll probably tell her anyway, but not just this second.” “What exactly did happen, Steven?” she asked him. “Bad things,” he murmured.
