Normalcy

Why do bad things happen to good people? I was going to be something. I don’t deserve this, he thought, as he stared at the gun on the table in front of him.

When he was young, just a seedling out of law school, he showed promise. He talked his way into representing some pretty big names starting out, and his smooth, clever arguments rendered verdicts in his favor, starting to get himself recognition from some of the bigger firms. He slowly started gaining clout, earning more and more prestige as the years elapsed, and was now one case away from earning partner at one of the more prestigious firms.

It was a case that could make or break a career – prosecuting the mayor on a litany of white-collar crimes (embezzling, laundering, and bank fraud, to name just a few), as well as thug classics like assault and battery and breaking and entering. And with his star witness, he can connect the mayor with the organized crime bosses in neighboring Boston. The life of recognition and respect he so craved was weeks away.

And the first few weeks went just the way he wanted. The mayor was portrayed as a corrupt, greedy man, selfishly exploiting and abusing others for self gain. The mayor’s defense, an intimidating team paid for, no doubt, by the mob bosses pulling the strings, could only put out the fires that he created by his witnesses and his evidence. The verdict (and everything that came with it) was as good as his.

This was it. Today and tomorrow. Two days. Two short days. Today, he was calling his star witness, the one who would put all the pieces together, and connect that greedy piece of shit to a lot of horrific things. Tomorrow, he made his closing arguments, serenading the crowd in his smooth, silky baritone, eloquently convincing the jury to give no quarter to the man complicit in murder, hundreds of millions of dollars stolen, countless lives ruined, and just being an overall shitty human being that didn’t care about anybody but himself.

He was confident. It didn’t matter that his vision went in and out. He could power through the agony of his pounding head. He was aware that he was slurring his speech, so he would make sure to enunciate. All of this made sense to him; he was tired. He was stressed. He noticed people watching him, casually following him. He received some rather threatening anonymous notes. No matter. He was Melvin FUCKING Garfield, and he was meant for great things.

“Counselor, you may call your witness.”

“Thank you, your honor,” he said, trying his best not to slur, but failing magnificently. “The prosecution calls Gertrude Jones to the stand.”

Gertrude walked to the stand with hesitant confidence. She sat down, put her hand on a Bible, and waited to speak, shifting her gaze between the defendant, and Melvin, who looked out of sorts. She was scared – she was about to upend things for a lot of people extremely close to her, but she was ready to just expose everything, and be done with it. Damn all consequences.

“Will you pleaszhe shtate your name fer the recorded?” Melvin said.

“Uh… Gertrude Jones.”

“Yeag? Okay. Good. That’s fuckin awesome, actually. Sho, tell me… how do youse know the guy I’ve been talking shit about for the the pasht shix weeks?”

“Um, I beg your pardon,” Gertrude replied. “I’m Theodore’s grandmother.”

“I’m sorry, grandma,” Melvin slurringly replied, “but my head fucking hurts, man.”

A confused chuckle from the gallery.

“Counselor, is everything all right?” the judge asked.

“Yesh, yer ‘honor’, the prosecutor replied sarcastically. “This guy shucks, and my beautiful old mammy is gonna tell all the reashonsh why.”

Melvin didn’t know why all the people were laughing at him; in his mind, he should be at the point where the jury is close to giving in to what he has to say. The laughs should be gasps, as the people present learned that the mayor’s family has been in bed with the mob for years, and Theodore has been a culpable cog in the machine for over 30 years. It didn’t make sense. Why were they laughing at him? He was tired and his head hurt. When that happens, you walk and talk funny. Everyone knows that.

“Counselor?” the judge asked, genuine concern in his voice. “Do you need to take a short recess?”

“Fuck off, judge man,” Melvin replied. “Inshomnia and a big bad headaches can’t shtop thee truth from cummin out,” he said, and said goodbye to the world for a while.

It was a stroke.

Twelve years later. 46. His “official” title was consultant, but he was nothing more than a glorified paralegal. He still did good work, though: his research helped win cases, and bring justice. But he was living under the shadow of the day fate decided to be early and cruel. People said they understood, but… they didn’t. The only job he could get was as a “consultant” from a small, hokey firm in his hometown. Old friends and acquaintances in town looked at him differently now; they didn’t see that he was still there, he was just “disabled”. His co-workers broke his heart. He knew that they meant well, but they just made it worse, with their weird, pained smiles, and their clumsy, awkward pity. It all just made him finally realize that this was going to be his life: going to a job that wouldn’t go anywhere, working with people that just felt sorry for him; living in a town that reminded him why he tried so desperately to escape, with people who held him in the same regard as the town drunk, which he was quickly becoming; always having a hard time doing the everyday things people took for granted. This wasn’t a life he wanted to live.

And so, here he was… two in the morning, three quarters of a bottle of vodka gone, staring at a gun in his living room. He was ready. He was done mourning his life, what could have been.

Knock, knock, knock.

Melvin ignored it and picked up the gun. He wasn’t used to guns; it felt heavy and clunky in his hand.

Knock. Knock. Knock. Louder.

“I’m not intrested, man,” Melvin drunkenly called out to his late-nite caller. “It’s fuckin late. Go away.”

That was weird, he thought as he put the gun in his mouth. It tasted of sadness.

Pounding on the door.

“Why the are you pounding on my door!?!” Melvin yelled, as he swung open the door, gun pointed towards whoever it was that was disturbing his suicide.

There was no one there. Just a small, unassuming box wrapped in what seemed to be butcher paper and twine, along with an envelope with his name on it.

For you, Melvin. Live the life fate denied you.

“What the Fuck?” he said to the empty hallway, picked up the box, and went back to what he was doing.

He sat back down, gun still in his good hand (which felt awkward, because his “good” hand was not his naturally dominant hand), and stared at the box. He couldn’t think of any reason someone would anonymously drop off something in the middle of the night. Who would do this? Why would they do it?

Oh, well. It didn’t matter. This unexpected delivery was unsolicited, and didn’t hold enough sway over him to change his plans. He stared at the gun, readying himself for what he had to do.

More pounding at the door.

Melvin dejectedly returned to his door. Fine, then. Deal with this rude fucker, then back to the task at hand.

Except as soon as he approached the door, the pounding stopped. He opened it with a start.

Again, no one there. Another note with his name on it:

It’s okay. Open your gift. It’s for you. It will help you be YOU again.

What?

He was back in his chair, gun on the table, and this strange, mysterious box in his hand. He pulled the knot in the twine, and removed the butcher paper. A simple, brown box before him. No writing, no filigree. Just a simple, brown box.

What does it matter? Too little, too late. It’s gone too far, Mel, he thought as his gaze returned to the gun.

A distant chime in his room, alerting him of a text message.

The sender was 123456. The message itself read,

Go on, Melvin. Open your gift. Don’t you want to live the life you were meant for? Don’t you want to he yourself again? Don’t you want to be normal?

That shook him. That was all he wanted, to live the life the stroke had taken from him. “Huh,” he chuckled. He was swayed.

He opened the box.

He was greeted by a gold bracelet, with emerald and ruby inlays. It looked old, a treasure from a forgotten time, a forgotten people.

It felt alive, thrumming with possibilities, pulsing with promise. He was captivated by it, drawn to it. He wanted to put it on.

When he did, the faint power he felt while holding it in his hand was injected into his entire being tenfold. He felt smarter, stronger. His body felt like it used to, before his youth and his future were stolen.

He was overjoyed, laughing and crying at his turn of fortune. “Thank you, oh my god, thank you,” he sobbed into the night. “I don’t know how this happened, or who you are, but thank you. Thank you so much. I have a second chance.”

A dark, otherworldly sigh came from inside Melvin’s head. Ah. Freedom. Thank you.

Upon hearing this voice, the power he felt quickly turned to pain as he felt the bracelet clamp down on his wrist. He tried to take it off, but it was already too late. The bracelet had begun fusing itself to his skin. Melvin could only watch, powerless to the changes overtaking him.

He felt something overpowering him, forcing itself inside him. He was brought down to the floor, oppressing pain filling his body, and something else. He felt like he was being closed in inside himself, becoming a caged prisoner locked inside his body. He lost consciousness.

When he came to, he felt different, not quite himself. He felt like a passenger in a car, with the driver speeding recklessly.

He felt his body getting up while Melvin was still getting his bearings. He was so confused and out of it after the odd events of the night. He vowed that he would drink less from here on out; he didn’t even feel like he was the one making his body move. He needed to go to bed and sleep this night away.

He wasn’t moving towards his bedroom, however. He was walking to the bathroom. Try as he might, his body was working towards a singular purpose.

He was at the bathroom mirror, staring at himself, a knowing, ominous smirk on his lips.

But Melvin was feeling horror and terror at what he was seeing. He was looking at himself, with the dark presence shadowed over his visage, distorting it, giving it unnatural attributes. He watched in disgust as horns began growing from his head. The malevolent force possessing him laughed as the ritual completed. The bracelet had completely fused to the host’s body, and skin began growing over it.

“What is this!?! What are you doing!?!” Melvin cried inside his cell, pleadingly.

“Don’t worry, pet,” the dark voice replied. “Now we have a chance to make things right. We have a second opportunity to rule this world, and destroy anything that opposes us. I’ll rule ashes if I have to, so long as it’s mine”.

The voice laughed as Melvin screamed. “Don’t worry, child. Together we will do great and terrible things”.