Broken by Matthew Storm Page A

now I did pick up the vodka. I wasn’t going to
drink it yet. I just wanted to hold it. At least, that was what I told myself.
It turned out not to be true.

 
     
     
     
     
     
     
    Chapter 9
     
     
    I spent
most of the night lingering in that little space between awake and asleep, the
space I got trapped in when I hadn’t had enough to drink to knock me out, but
didn’t have the wherewithal to get up and find more alcohol.
    For a
brief interval I dreamed. It was an old nightmare that I hadn’t had in a long
time. I was on my knees in the Laughing Man’s abattoir, where I’d gone to
confront him and save the two little girls that had been his last victims. I’d
been too late, and now I was on my knees, my right wrist broken from where he’d
smashed it with a crowbar. He’d hit me once in the knee as well, hard enough
that I wouldn’t be standing up for a while, and several times in the torso.
Then he’d gone to work on me with his hands. I didn’t know how much damage he’d
done at the time, but I knew our fight was over.
    In the
end the Laughing Man stood over me, savoring his victory, savoring the end of
our game, the straight razor in his hand poised to end me once and for all. I
watched him through tears of pain and despair, waiting for him to do it. And
then he’d just turned and walked away.
    I knelt
there, covered in my own blood, staring at my hands. My wrist had swelled up to
twice its normal size, cutting the nerves off so I couldn’t move the fingers on
my right hand at all. Blood ran down my arms. I’d failed. I’d lost the game.
The two little girls were dead, posed in his still-life with wide grins carved
into their faces. It was the Laughing Man’s signature mutilation. I stared at
them in horror as physical pain and mental anguish wrestled each other for dominance
over me.
    And then
I started to laugh.
    At first
it was only a giggle, one tiny giggle as my eyes focused on a single rivulet of
blood running toward my elbow. It was followed by another giggle, and then
another. And then I was laughing in earnest, laughing through the pain of my
broken ribs, a high-pitched hysterical shrieking that continued as the goddamn
backup I’d called for too late finally arrived. The other police officers thought
I must have taken a blow to the head, but it was worse than that. I’d somehow
taken a blow inside my head. Something in my brain had snapped and even
then, in the midst of my hysteria, I knew it was something I wouldn’t be able
to put back together again. I was still laughing when the ambulance came,
laughing while they drove me to the hospital, and I kept laughing right up until
they shot me full of Thorazine.
    I
blinked and was back in my bedroom, the sun coming up outside. I looked at the
clock and was surprised to find it was fairly early in the morning. The vodka
I’d brought into the bedroom with me was still on the bedside table. I hadn’t
had nearly enough of it, obviously. Clearly not enough to keep the nightmare
away.
    My legs
felt weak but not shaky as I stood up next to the bed. I picked up the vodka
and looked at it for a moment, then took a small sip. I debated taking another,
but put the bottle down instead. I wanted more, but I had things to do. Later I
could crawl into a hole and die, if that was what I really wanted. But right
now I had a case to solve.
    The outline
of Todd’s body the CSI guys had taped down the night before was still on my
living room carpet. I guess they expected me to clean it up myself. I looked at
it for a moment, and then the strangest damn thing happened. I started to cry.
    It only
lasted for a few seconds, half a dozen heaving sobs, and then it was over. I
rubbed my face clean of the few tears that had fallen. What the hell had that
been about? I didn’t cry. I never cried.
    My
stomach rumbled. That was unusual. I rarely had an appetite in the morning. But
then again, I rarely had an appetite at all. I went into the kitchen to see
what I had,