Nothing - Short Story

Nothing

Marcello, I lied to you. I can’t handle anything. I can’t handle this. I’m just not strong enough, and I’m sorry. I wish I could stay with you while you do whatever it is you need to do, become whoever it is that you think you need to become, but I can’t. The man I married made living the way we do worth it, and gave me something to fight for. I can’t do any of this without him and that man didn’t come back from Alaska. I don’t have enough ties on this island to keep me on it so, I’ve spoken to Lil and put in my resignation at Dion. I’m going to Puerto Rico and will be back as the International Aid Organization needs me. I hope, someday, you, you will need me again. Mari World Government. That’s what happened in the years leading up to the Awakening. Fear consumed freedom and good men did nothing. The World Management Team emerged after the devastation of World War III, replacing the United Nations and combining the North American Union, European Union, and African Union into one ruling body. The planet became divided by nations that supported the WMT, those that opposed it, and the few countries who decided to attempt isolationism. The illusion of democracy grew thinner by the day. Their slogan was easy; being safe was better than being free. The night of December 21st, 2012 didn’t make the WMT disappear. But it did signal the end of life as “They” wanted humanity to know it. At the stroke of twelve the world was given a gift. An omnipresent crying was heard worldwide. When it ended, what followed was surreal. The human DNA strand miraculously repaired itself. Coma

patients woke up. Common ailments like allergies and asthma ceased to exist. Some people remembered past lives. Others discovered they now had incredible extrasensory powers. Telekinesis, Technopathy, Kinetic Absorption, it read like an episode of Heroes, but it was the real thing. The next day the WMT responded with the Pope on their side. Religion and fear, the most powerful manipulators of humankind, worked their magic. A miracle was turned into a witch hunt. People were told these powers were demonic, and if they had them they could be cured. The past life memories? Hallucinations. God was testing his people, testing their faith. Some believed it, some didn’t. For those that couldn’t fight back, it was better to go with the status quo. On the Alcyone Islands, a small chain in the South Pacific, what happened the night of the awakening had been accepted. An independent nation, the island was run by the notorious Terenzio’s. Formerly an organized crime family, now fighting against the WMT was priority one. Marcello Terenzio was the head of the family, and President of the Dion Corporation, the family-run International conglomerate. Like his father, Marcello compared fighting the WMT to a grand game of chess. Pieces came and went, a step backward returned two forward on the next turn. The goal was simple; neatly manipulate the pieces to where he wanted them in the first place. Then call mate. This game, however, was draining and dangerous, and it was played in a new world where suddenly anything was possible. Marcello and his family used their past life memories and their gifts as another tool in their fight. But not Marcello’s memories of his soul’s past journeys, or his newfound gift could have prepared him for what happened in Fairbanks, Alaska. He had been home

nearly two months and it hadn’t gotten any better. The images of what he’d done--what he hadn’t done-continued to eat away at him, robbing him of sleep, invading his waking hours with the smell of sweat, blood, and vomit. The haunting echo of her agonized scream tainted moments of silence. He came home late, as he usually did now. It did not surprise him that a note was taped to the front door. A days worth of shadow marked his jaw, and the expensive tailormade suit was wrinkled. He was freezing. Even in the tropical heat the cold sat constantly under his skin, clinging to his bones. He remained sitting in the car, staring up at the dark, empty house he and his wife had made a home in. Every now and then, he’d glance down at his hands expecting to see blood. Eventually he turned off the BMW and climbed out. When he reached the front door he saw his name scrawled on the front of the envelope in delicate, familiar handwriting. He pulled it down and his eyes drifted shut for just a moment, memories of a different nature assaulting him. "I can't do this Marilyn. Don't make me fight you. I can't lose you. Not like that. I've got to get a handle on this." "Yes, you can. Please, Marcello…Please... They've taken everything else. I've given up everything else, for you. Don't let them take you away, too. Don't make me give you up, too." "I'm not going anywhere, Marilyn, and I'm not asking you to give me up. I'm asking you to accept that I have things I need to do. I'm no good to you this way. I'm no good to anyone this way and that's unacceptable. It's time we dealt with that. I hope you can handle it."

"Damn you, Marcello, Goddamn you. I can handle anything. I guess it's you who can't." Dark gray eyes snapped open. A deeply weary sigh parted his lips as he slid the key card into the lock and walked inside. He didn’t bother with a light; he knew the details of his house as well as his wife did. He had always noticed when she moved something, changed something, added something. His mistake had been that he didn’t always remember to comment on it. Walking through the shadows, he went over to the bar and poured himself a drink. The light next to the table was turned on by a flick of his eyes in its direction. Telekinesis was the manipulation of energy with one’s mind. Marcello’s gift, compliments of the awakening. He drank deeply from his glass before flipping open the lip of the envelope and pulling out the folded letter. The crystal rim was brought to his mouth again, the amber liquid sliding smoothly down his throat, settling in his stomach, failing to warm him. He unfolded the piece of paper and began to read. His veiled eyes passed over the words once. They burned a permanent brand on his memory. With an eerie calmness, Marcello folded the letter back up, and removed his phone from his pocket. He pressed the speed dial for the family attorney and a groggy voice answered after four rings “Tony, what’s the value on my house, ballpark?” Marcello asked as he refilled the tumbler. “Un huh, thank you. I want divorce papers drawn up…for myself Tony…no, I want them by the morning. Irreconcilable differences….what each party entered the marriage with, whatever she wants, I don’t care. Email them to me.” He snapped the phone closed before Tony could say anything further, then set it down on top of the letter.

The weight of the glass was cradled in one palm as he picked up the bottle in his other. Carrying both, he made his way through the house, up the stairs, and into their bedroom. He could smell her in this space. The faint traces of her perfume, the scent of her soap clung to the air. He stared at the bed, the sound of her voice coming back to haunt him. “I can’t do this. I can’t sleep another night with this nothing beside me.” Jaw setting, he drained another glass and refilled it before he set both it and the bottle down. Then he removed his suit jacket, and rolled up his sleeves. He left the bedroom, going downstairs into the garage to find boxes. And then, Marcello methodically, mechanically, packed up their entire house. His and hers were marked and separated. When he ran out of packing supplies, he went to get more. When Mr. President needed something, he got it, never mind the hour. By six a.m. he was finished. Like his marriage, nothing was left. Not her swords in the training room, nor the sheets on the bed. Not the pictures on the walls, not the knick knacks, nothing. As the sun crested the horizon, Marcello went into the home office where his computer, a small printer, his checkbook, a notepad and a pen sat. His weight sank into the executive chair and he used the faint rays of sunlight streaming through the windows to read the letter he’d retrieved from the bar again. Years ago, before he’d asked her to marry him, he’d wondered if what they felt for each other was perfect timing, or too soon. Obviously the latter had been true, if even that. He dropped her goodbye letter and turned to the computer to check his email. Tony had sent the divorce papers. Marcello hit the print button, pulled the warm sheets

into his cold hands and signed where he was supposed to without bothering to read the details. The harsh steel of his gray eyes shifted back down to her letter. He knew every word by heart; he didn’t have to read it again. He did it anyway. Then he picked up his pen and set it against faint blue lines. Mari, The man you married died, November 1st, 2013. He was killed in Fairbanks Alaska, at the hands of the WMT. This lifetime, it simply was not meant to be. When you remember him, remember this; he loved you. You were everything he ever wanted, whether deserved or not. The necessary papers are enclosed, sign and return them at your leisure. I have included a check for your share of the house which will be put up for sale. The rest of your belongings are packed and will be put in the Dion Corp Warehouse. You may call shipping and receiving directly to have them sent to any address when you are ready for them. If you ever need anything, anything at all, this family will be yours to come to. For the pain, the grief I caused you, I am deeply sorry. The last thing I ever wanted was to hurt you. -MST He put the check inside the letter, folded it up and paper clipped it to the front of the divorce papers. They were dropped into the envelope. He made two phone calls, and an hour later a Dion Corp marked semi pulled up in front of his home. Marcello was standing in the door way waiting for them.

“Everything.” He told them. A military jeep pulled up shortly thereafter, bearing the crest of the Alcyone Island Omega Cadre, their elite special forces. Marcello was waiting outside when the uniformed soldier climbed out, walked up to him, and saluted sharply. Marcello simply handed him the envelope. The soldier would travel that day to Larajas, Puerto Rico, where Mari was. Along with the note would be the video equipment necessary to monitor the campsite herself, should she choose to. All connection feeds to Phoenix Island, the Alcyone Island military’s intelligence headquarters, had been severed by his order. The video footage that had already been recorded was there, too. Marcello shoved his hands into his pockets, watching the soldier about face and walk back over to the truck as another memory of how grossly he’d fucked up added itself to the noise in his mind. "...I had cameras installed on your site in Larajas." "Why didn't you tell me? Why don't you talk to me anymore?! After everything I've done for you and this family, all that I've lost, and sacrificed, and given up for YOU, I get a husband who loves this goddamn game more than me, and I get video cameras?!" "Lower your voice. I got caught up in what I was doing and didn't get around to it And I'm getting a little tired, Marilyn, of you throwing everything you've apparently given up for me, in my face. You made your choices. Live with them." A sharp pain started inside his chest as he remembered the flash of fear that had moved through Mari’s eyes when he’d shoved the arm that had meant to deliver a deserving slap up behind her back. It joined the image of a different pair of eyes, locked in agony, begging him to kill her. Marcello ripped his hand from his pocket, pinching the

bridge of his nose as if by sheer force of will he could make his mind stop tormenting him. It took the movers three hours to pack up the house. A suitcase, suit bag, and laptop briefcase were put into his car. When they left, Marcello went back inside and sat down on the floor in the living room. With his knees bent and his arms across them, he stared at nothing. He pulled his wife’s letter out of his pocket, unfolded it and set it down between his legs. “I can’t do this. I can’t sleep another night with this nothing beside me.” He stayed there unmoving. Past noon, past sunset, past dinner time, and well into the evening. He ignored the phone next to him, didn’t even glance at it when it rang. Mr. President was unavailable today. His steely gray eyes set on the empty wall in front of him, occasionally shifting around to the open space, down to read the letter again, towards the front door as if he could will her form to walk back through it and save him from himself. Her presence lingered here, like a ghost. Taunting him with whispers, memories, making him feel more than, nothing. “Then you’re that Italian asshole I thought you’d be. Damn you for proving me right!” “Forsaking all others? So much for that vow. You’ve chosen everything else over me.” A choked sound flew from his lips. It reminded him of the noise Alyssa had made while the WMT tortured her in front of him, when they sliced her tongue in half and she’d started gagging on her own blood. Because of the things he refused to tell them. Because his family came first. Marcello lifted his hands to tunnel them back through his

hair, and squeezed his eyes closed, trying to banish the demons of the past. Trying to warm himself with the memory of his wife’s voice, when it wasn’t raised in anger. When that soft southern twang caressed his ears, making him feel more like himself. “I should hit you, but I don’t want to let you go.” “You should. But you should dance with your husband first.” “I’d love too.” He trembled, snapped his raw eyes open and saw the past, the glow of torches lit on a beach. He heard the sounds of drunken laughter and could see his Mari, the way her eyes darkened with desire. “Just one question Mari. What do you want for breakfast?” “You.” His vision shifted, the windows of his memory revealing their wedding day, performed at an old church in Crenshaw County, packed with mobsters and innocent country folk. It could not have been a more ironic scene, and it had been the best day of his life. “Mari with this ring, I thee wed. This is my promise to you, to have and to hold from this day forward, till death do us part. And even then, I’ll find you.” His heart squeezed like a vise in his chest, robbing him of breath. The pain dragged his memory away from what he had lost to why he had lost it; the moment Alyssa’s pleas for death had finally been granted. He’d used his ability to reach into her chest and stop her heart, so the WMT couldn’t torture her anymore. He didn’t know there were tears on his face until one fell and struck the paper, making the ink bleed. His shoulders shook lightly at first, then harder. Marcello pulled his

hands from his hair, covered his face with one, and veiled his pain behind his palm. It engulfed him. They were not tears of healing. They needed to be shed because critical mass had been reached and the veil was shattering. "Marcello, stop." She reached up and lifted his head, forcing him to look at her. She searched his face, bright blue eyes wide and dark with worry. "What are you doing? Why are you hiding?" Don't hide from me, she had told him. Let me in. Want me in. She forced him to look up and meet her gaze. Forced him to really look into the eyes of the woman he couldn't protect, couldn't even defend. He drew in a slow breath, and this time he didn't look away. "I'm not hiding, Mari. I'm growing up." The cold swept over him again, clinging to his skin and pulling him further away from the light. Everything attacked him at once and he was powerless to stop any of it. Love. Pain. Anger. A sense of betrayal, of selfish abandonment. A wave of guilt so intense it brought nausea. A rush of fear so deep it made the hairs on his arms stand on end. He sank back into the wall, and was swallowed whole. Mari was gone. His marriage was over. Check called by the WMT. “No. No. No.” His whisper was harsh, dripping with anguish. He shook his head vehemently back and forth, as if to negate this sudden reality, but instead heard mocking laughter in his ears. The Secretary of Defense’s voice, the mastermind behind his torture. Javairea’s voice, the Secretary’s lap dog, taunting him. Alyssa’s voice, begging him to kill her, so the pain would end as the rats tore into the lining of her stomach. Without warning, Marcello growled. It started out low and quiet, quickly rising in tempo until it was a furious roar. He shot to his feet. His arm jerked to the right and the

wall literally shook. Both palms shot forward and the entire house trembled as if an earthquake threatened. Mari was gone. His marriage was over. Check called by the WMT. Another sound of helpless anguish flew from his mouth. His arms shot out again, thrusting sharply in front of him, and the wall began to split. Plaster dust from the ceiling sprinkled down to the floor. He jerked his arms back and the wall literally came free, exploding in a furious mess, the beams disconnecting from the ceiling and the floor, toppling in front of him, burying the letter and crushing his phone. The rest of the house began to strain, creak, and protest. He welcomed the noise, the sound of destruction. He ripped up floorboards with furious rolling motions. He shattered the windows with the flick of his fingers. The roof caved in, pieces raining down around him without ever touching him. It went on, until he’d destroyed their house, piece by piece. Until nothing was left but rubble. Nothing. Marcello’s head throbbed, and his right ear was bleeding. His shoulders sagged. The wick had burned out, because there was nothing left to destroy. It left the man feeling hollow, and his heart, quite simply, hurt. He dropped to his knees, and looked down at his hands. Mari was gone. Because her husband had died, at the hands of the WMT. Marcello sucked in a shaky breath and pulled the gold wedding band from his finger. He set the tiny symbolic circle in his palm, closed his fist around it, and pressed it against his mouth. His eyes clenched shut, and a tiny agonized sound slipped from his lips. It would be the last.

Slowly, the gray opened. He unclenched his fist and set the gold band gently down on top of the rubble as if marking a grave site. Something had once existed here. Mari was gone. Because Marcello Stefano Terenzio was born November 1st, 2013, made at the hands of the WMT. And he was going to bring his creator’s empire down, piece by piece, until there was nothing left. Men seldom know what they can take until it’s shoved down their throats. You can take it. All of it. Whatever they dish out to try and break you. And once you've taken a moment to actually heal, you get right back in their fucking face and you tell them to try again. Got it? As if on cue, the words his father’s phantom had told him came floating through his mind. He was a Terenzio, after all. Marcello pulled himself from the rubble, his steps slow and just a little wobbly. It wouldn’t be long before the Military Police and Omega Cadre would notice the disturbance, get the call that his house was literally off the grid, and come charging. He was still freezing. His head was splitting. His ears rang with a woman’s grotesque sounds as she choked on her own blood, begging to be killed. Walkers taunts. Jav’s cruel promises. His wife’s angry, pain filled shout. He had not healed, but it didn’t matter. Marcello had seen the devil, up close and personal. Now he was going to take that knowledge, and use it. “Forsaking all others? So much for that vow. You’ve chosen everything else over me.” She was right. He made his choice. To call check.

DCS lives in New Orleans. Nothing is her first short story. Also a self published author, you can get her full length novel, Synarchy Book 1: The Awakening on Amazon. To learn more about the book visit, www.synarchynovel.com. An active blogger, you can keep up to date with author news at www.dcs-svt.com. She is working on the second novel in the Synarchy Series, The Ascension, and several short stories based off the txt based role-play game, Synarchy 2012. Visit, www.synarchy2012.com to learn more.