1

Abyss

Rumors claimed the soldiers cursed, and truthfully, they were. They saw specters in their bathroom mirrors, even as they brushed their teeth. Doomed bodies and damned souls marched unceasingly to war. Whether asleep or eating, fucking or detached, they were wicked from their dwellings with flame.

It was inhuman, like sin which hung and stared and clung, like thorned roots to Randy’s hearth. Sucking every moisture from his soul, his outward reflection mocked him.

Beset by anxiety, Randy pulled at his heart. Breath caught in his throat. His eyes flickered about the room, searching for his phone. He snatched it from the nightstand and dialed familiar numbers, “1” “870,” for “Amricea” and his home state of Pensylvannia, then paused.

The iguana flicked its tongue at him.

Randy completed the numbers, “466-7320,” and the phone called out to the emptiness.

A heavy silence crowded his mind as he stared blankly forward, over the sink’s rising water, past the faucet’s loud gushing, into his own eyes. The phone rang, and rang, and rang.

Like the devils’ silent laughter, his hands trembled gripping the phone.

The ringing stopped, and a trepidant voice spoke into the darkness of Randy’s bathroom. “Hello?”

“Randy?” Bitcrushed audio poured from Randy’s phone and washed about the bathroom, lapping up sad thoughts like ocean waves. “Oh- hey Randy! What’s the occasion- you never call!”

Randy pinched his nose, pressed the phone to his ear, and sniffled. “Oh, uh.” He paused to pinch his nose some more. “Nothing, really...”

The phone shuffled loudly.

Randy sniffled and pinched his nose. “Just…. What’s up with you?” “How’s the wife?”

“Oh, she’s great!” Pete exclaimed. “Yeah, she’s- you know- doing fiiine.” He sniffled. “Hey, Randy, you…. Are you sure you’re doin’ okay? Cause I-“

Randy interrupted: “Yeah, yeah! It’s just- It’s early, ‘n all. You know?”

“Oh. Yeah, yeah!” Pete laughed. “Not quite myself ‘till my cup uh joe. You too! You were always on the coffee pot, you know. Heh.” “You were just- sounding kinda sick! Kinda ill! Scratchy- throat cold?”

Randy sniffled. “No, no. ‘ll, maybe. Long hours, right?” He laughed. “You know!” He lied.

“So, what theyy got you doin’ these days? Huh?” Pete asked.

“No, nothin’ … well, the usual. Right? Long nights ‘n long hours? The usual.” Randy deflected.

Pete sighed: “Well if you say so!” “Say ‘wait a minute!’ They got you workin’ on a Saturday!?”

“It’s Saturday!?” Randy remarked.

“It’s Saturday.” Pete declared. “Why?” Pete laughed. “You got somethin’ goin on? Little bit uh ‘ah! ahn!’!?” he teased.

“Hahahaha. Haha. Hah! Haha!” Randy squealed with laughter. “Hah-sth," he sucked mirthlessly, "hah! Hah hh hh hh.... Hhh hh hh hh…” Randy’s expression crumpled. His lips curled, jaw quivered and eyes watered. Elbows bent towards his chest, fists shaking with hysteria. “Hah ah ah!” He breathed wildly. “Hah ah ah!” His face hurt from exertion. “Ye-he-he-hyeah...!” He sucked deeply of the air and held it. “Haaaaaaa.”

Pete was silent.

“Thanks,” said Randy, “I needed that.”

“Er- no problem!” Pete exclaimed.

“Yeah,” said Randy. He inhaled deeply. “I’m fine.”

“Sure.” Pete let his statement linger before he continued. “You, uh- still sippin’ on them green beans?”

“Yeah. Haha, yeah." "Nothin’ better to calm the nerves and all.” Randy sniffled. “You?”

Pete laughed: “I- oh." He sucked air through his teeth. "No," he exhaled. "I couldn’t. Gotta- gotta be sharp for the fambam am I right!?”

“Yeah.” Randy smacked his lips. “Yeah.”

“Oh!- Yeah!” Pete exclaimed. “Second on his way.”

“No wuh- yer kiddin’! Already?”

“Yeah! Yeah we uh- Beth ‘n I, we’re doin’ really well with the kid ‘n all 'n- I mean well, first one 's a surprise but… Life! Crazy stuff, so yeah! Second one, on the way.” “Boy! Just found out last week. She was… hey! Sorry, you were- gonna say somethin’? I- I'm kin’a rambling here ‘n-”

“No, no- ramble ahead! I’ll just put you on speakerphone here- just a second.” Randy clicked the ‘speakerphone’ button and laid it into its cradle. “There it’s- can you hear me? It’s in the speaker-stand. Go ahead ‘n talk!”

Pete yelled through the speakers: “There’s- there’s kin’a uh static sound!”

“Ye-yeah, the- it’s the faucet- here let me get it.” Randy conjured the image of a rodent’s dying breath, mumbled a spell and waved his hand over the faucet: becoming mute, the faucet quieted itself. “Better?”

“Yeah, wha’dj you do?” asked Pete, full of old wonder. “More uh your magic tricks or just, signal- or something… ?”

Randy chuckled. “You know, State secret.”

“Sure, sure. Soo anyway!” Pete continued where he left off.

Randy left for a moment. When he came back, he was carrying a leather roll like chefs use for their knives. He unfastened its metal buckle and let the worn leather roll across the countertop, contrasting the stone handsomely and revealing a quality spread of tools and tonics for hygiene while Pete rambled on.

Pete’s familiar voice mingled with the dull scraping sounds of brushing teeth, the feel of toothpaste foaming, and the dust of sleep forming in Randy’s eyes. Their monotony lulled his tired mind to vivid hallucinations of last night where, holding a bloody brush in one hand, he scraped the dust and muck and guts off the doors of a troubled HUMVEE. He was alone in the motorpool while a radio show host drawled comically about the size of different beans. His mind wandered back to hours prior where, like a tableau vivant, time stopped when he shot the cameraman. The room was exploding with light and sound. Like fireworks over black waters, sensation crowded the air when—awash a flood of sensation—an angel appeared.