Sliver
by
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He made sure to close the bathroom door behind him.
Looking into the mirror was always a shock the first time in a new life. Being called by a new name had the tendency to throw him off, make him feel as if he’d discarded his true identity like an old pair of pants. This was the hardest part, the part he’d performed only twice before and still had to play by ear. But the face staring back at him from the other side of the mirror was his own; still young, still whole. Even the wrinkles lining his face were few considering his true age, something he might have gloated about under different circumstances.
This counted as cheating, he supposed, but the curiosity was killing him.
“Alright young man, let’s see what you’re up to,” he whispered, and met his reflection’s eyes.
The bathroom was first washed of all color around him, and then disappeared as though being sucked down a drain. In its place grew a floor, walls, a television set to his right and a pretty young woman with dirty blonde hair who was intently staring at him. His vision shifted down to his hands. The pinky finger and the finger beside it were tightly wrapped in far too many layers of bandages. Still, it looked fairly solid. At the very least the broken finger would be protected for a couple of days, but then infection followed by eventual amputation were near- certainties. He flexed his own hand once, making sure all of his fingers were still there. It felt strange to feel five fingers where for so long there had only been three. Sacrifices to the cause. The next time there would be three missing, instead of just two.
Look up, dammit. There was no sound save for that of the kids packing in the other rooms. The woman in the room with Brophy was speaking, but he didn’t know what she was actually saying. Being adept at the art of reading lips was an important thing to be in situations like these, but it was a worthless ability if Brophy was just going to stare down at his hands throughout the entire conversation.
Brophy looked up, but it happened so unexpectedly that he missed half of what the woman across from Brophy was saying to him.
“—take you home,” she said.
His line of sight moved from side to side in a gentle shake of the head. Brophy was saying something. The woman was staring at him and nodding every few seconds. He tried to focus but realized after only a moment that it wouldn’t make any difference. Just as the woman started to speak again, Brophy stood up and turned away from her. Was that it? No, no, it certainly wasn’t, but there was nothing he could do about it. She had said something about taking Brophy home though; that much at least came through loud and clear, and it was perfect. They would be out of here within a half hour. He could hear Lily helping the kids along, trying as hard as she could to keep them calm even though he could hear the barely-restrained panic in her voice all the way in the bathroom. It had a low, electrical hum to it that penetrated the walls and floated into his eardrums, made them vibrate. Directly ahead of him, the woman came into view again, but her back was turned and she was walking out of the room with Brophy following close behind. Slowly, carefully, he lowered his eyes, and the vision disappeared.
(--take you home)
Yes, that would do just fine.
The Other turned and walked to the door, pulled it open and called, “Are you almost ready?”
“A couple more minutes,” Lily called back.
He closed the door without responding, locked it, and then reached into his pocket for Brophy’s cell phone. He found the number he was looking for and dialed. After four rings a young man answered the phone and asked how he may direct the call.
“Detective Tyron, please,” he replied, then added, “Tell him it’s Franklin Brophy.”
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About the Book
A ghost in his own life, Franklin Brophy is a man who goes through each day looking forward only to the end of it. Like most of his co-workers at Uris & Parsons Financial, Franklin long ago grew into the habit of ignoring the human derelicts who occasionally gather enough courage to approach the employees and ask them for any spare change jingling about in their pockets. On a normal day he might ignore this one too, but there is something about this man... maybe it is the two fingers missing from his right hand, or perhaps it is the way he declines accepting Dom's change and instead stares Franklin right in the eye before hissing, "I want yours."
The next day Dom is dead, and Franklin returns home to find that the man who answers the desperate, terrified cries of his wife and children is missing two fingers from his right hand, and seems to take a terrible pleasure from throwing Franklin out of his own home, to the streets.
From there Franklin embarks on a quest to reclaim his family from the clutches of a madman, a thief of lives whose body count stretches back centuries...
About the Author
Josh Voyles is a Milwaukee-based author and visual artist. His works have previously appeared in the Xpressions Journal, a fine madness literary magazine, Enhance Online, Golden Horizons, and Pandora Publishing. When not hunting down and spearing the wild cup of coffee as his ancestors must have once done, he is trying perfect perpetual motion.