Part 4 (1/2)

No feeling in his head, but something made him stop. He listened and heard the squeal of tires again, then the sound of metal folding in on itself.

No other cars, n.o.body else on the street but him.

He drank from the bottle again and ambled along the sidewalk, remembering more now. Remembering that he liked the taste of Jim Beam and the way it made him feel, even though he couldn't feel it now.

He couldn't feel it, but he knew he needed it, just like he knew he needed the raw meat.

Hunger.

Need.

Demons.

Claire would know how he died.

Claire would tell him.

He was close now.

So close.

He turned at the next corner and knew he was about to go home. He was about to see Claire and Jenny again.

They would accept him for what he was. They wouldn't mind that half his face was gone or that he needed raw meat or that Jim Beam tasted good to him. Those things wouldn't matter when he was home again.

Wouldn't matter at all.

The rain had let up.

The street was thick with silence.

He stopped and stared at the houses on either side. Most were dark. One or two with lights. None of the ones with lights were his.

He recognized a house further down. The front gate swung gently on its hinges in a breeze he hadn't noticed before.

He felt cold. Did that mean he was starting to feel again, and if so, was he going to be all right again?

He approached the gate and turned into the yard.

A white house with a screened porch.

No lights.

He moved slowly along the sidewalk, arms dangling at his sides, the bottle of Jim Beam clutched tightly in his right hand.

He heard more tires squealing, more metal folding in on itself. The noise brought him to his knees at the foot of the steps leading up to the screened porch. The voice of a little girl again, screaming, ”Daddy, nooooo.”

And another voicea”Claire's voicea”screaming, ”Rogerrrrrrr . . .”

His name was Roger.

Roger before he was dead.

Now he was just dead.

Sirens.

He remembered the sound of sirens.

Sirens and flas.h.i.+ng lights.

Still alive, with half of his face gone.

People everywhere, and voices that seemed to come from far away.

Couldn't make out the voices at first.

Something about dying.

He was dying.

Dying . . . but he was here now.

Home.

So dark.

Claire and Jenny were sleeping. It was late, and how were they to know he would be home tonight?

How were they to know he would be born again?

Born again, with half his face gone, raw meat smeared on the part of his face that remained, and the rest of the Jim Beam in his hand.

He looked up at the dark screened porch and tried to see beyond the murky blackness. The front door was there, waiting for him. He didn't have a key. He would knock, then Claire would show up at the door, and she would be so happy to see him.

So happy.

And she would call Jenny and they would all hug.

He stood and climbed the stairs. Each time he lifted one of his legs it was an effort. He paused and drank what was left of the Jim Beam, then he pushed the door to the screened porch open and went inside.

He knocked on the front door. It was unlocked and swung open gently.

He entered the house and tried to remember.

A light switch.