The Lightning House

Dear Son,

I hope this finds you well. It’s been a long time. I’m on an anthropological dig in Palenque, Mexico. There are rebels in the area, and we have been hearing gunshots from the forest at night. I'm afraid I might not be able to contact you for a while, but I love you and hope to see you again. You can find me in Quintana Roo. It’s a small town and I have no address. I live at Casa Relámpagos.

All my love,

Dad

“Señor, los rebeldes están cerca!” Miguel yelled into Ron’s tent.

“Vámonos! Rápido!” Ron yelled back, folding the letter into the addressed envelope, shoving it into the inner pocket of his brown bomber jacket, and slinging his bag over his shoulder before tossing a carbine to Miguel, picking up his revolver and running into the night. CRACK! CRACK! Flashes of light erupted from the forest darkness. Silhouettes of security personnel ran across the flood lamp lit site, returning fire, repelling shadowy forms who dropped, yelling, huddling for cover. Ron and Miguel kept their heads low, sprinting to the black Jeep. As Ron opened the driver’s side door and threw his bag in, Miguel covered with shots from his rifle. BANG! CLICK-CLACK BANG! CLICK-CLACK BANG!

“Get in!” Ron yelled. A spray of blood coated his face. Miguel spun and fell to the ground dropping the rifle. Ron kneeled firing his pistol. “BASTARDOS!” He shot four rounds, dropping shadows to the dirt. Turning to Miguel, Ron saw that the right side of his face had been ripped off, his eye loose and dangling, his brains leaking, but that he was gasping and still alive. Miguel reached up to him. “Via con Dios, compadre,” Ron said as he stood, cocked the hammer back and fired a shot into Miguel’s forehead. A bullet zipped past Ron’s head hitting the Jeep as he jumped in and closed the door. Two hollow clanks rang out as bullets struck. He turned the ignition and hit the gas, barreling forward toward a line of rebels at the exit to the main road. All but one scattered. Firing a final shot, cracking the Jeep’s windshield, he was flattened as Ron ran him down. The remaining fired at the taillights, which swerved left and right as Ron took evasive turns, raising clouds of red illuminated dust, growing smaller with distance.

The dirt road reached a paved one. The paved road reached a highway. Miles of distance grew between Ron and the massacre as he drove white knuckled for three stagnant hours that didn’t register until he was parked in front of his home, rain spilling through the hole in his windshield, the engine running still. Ron pulled the key, shouldered his bag, exited, shut the door and walked on shaky legs across the wet gravel to his mailbox. He lowered the flag, removed his mail and placed his letter to John in the box, shutting it. He walked to the front door of the dark one-story white adobe house, clutching the dampened magazines and bills to his chest, the wind sending a chill across his neck and a shiver down his back as he unlocked it and hurried in. Lightning burst as he entered and shut the door, sending a white flash through the living room windows. He held himself up against the door with his left hand, his right clutching the mail.

“Dad?”

Thunder cracked. Ron whipped around, dropping an issue of Guitar Player magazine and his bills, reaching for his pistol. The lamp by the sofa lit up.

“John?” Ron gasped.

“Oh shit!” said John, holding up his hands. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.” He raised his hands from the cushioned wooden arms of Ron’s red lounger and stood. “I got here this morning. I was waiting outside, but it got dark and the storm came, and I was cold, so I broke the window.” John pointed at the window to the left of the door which he had covered with a taped black garbage bag. Ron saw the broken glass on the floor. “I’m sorry,” John repeated.

“How did you find me?”

John lowered his hands. He wore a camouflage jacket, a black t-shirt, dirty black jeans and faded black Converse. “I looked you up in the Balfour alumni directory. I flew from California. It said you were living in this town. It’s pretty small, so I just asked people if they saw a man who looked like you and showed them your picture.” John reached into his left outer jacket pocket and unfolded a printed picture of Ron he had sent to his high school alumni department. “I told them I was your son. I tried to wait outside. I’m really sorry.”

“It’s ok,” Ron said lowering his hand from the gun in his jacket. He stepped closer. “It’s ok.”

John nodded his head and walked forward, opening his arms. They hugged for the first time in ten years. John grabbed him tightly. Ron’s arms closed behind his shoulders, momentarily speechless. He patted John on the back with his right hand. John realized his father’s discomfort and stepped back. The wind rippled the trash bag in the silence that followed.

Ron broke the tension. “Do you... have you seen the place?”

John let out a nervous laugh from his chest. “Yes, I’ve been here awhile.”

“Of course,” said Ron, putting his hands on his waist.

John nodded and noticed Ron’s mail on the ground. “Oh! I’ll get it,” John said kneeling to collect it.

“Oh. No, that’s ok,” Ron protested.

John rose back up with the mail in his hands. “Where do you want them?”

Ron looked toward the drawers that the black flat screen perched on, in front of the scratched, green leather couch by the red chair. “The chest is fine.”

“I remember that thing,” John said walking the letters and magazine to the drawers and setting them down. “From the old house?”

“It is,” Ron said with a nod.

“I remember this from when I was little. Where did you get it?”

“It was a gift,” Ron said, his hands still on his hips.

“From your parents?”

“Yeah. Your grandparents gave that to us.”

“Cool,” John nodded, “Mom has one that’s similar.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, it’s a different color though. It’s sandy. What kind of wood is this?”

“That is Chinese Zitan wood. Very expensive.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, that thing is ancient. Dates back to some dynasty. Could be Ming.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, it’s old.”

“Wow. All that time I was playing with my toys on a piece of history.” John looked down at the chest’s thin legs. “Ha! It’s still got the cuts from my trucks.”

“You were a handful.”

“Did you fill them in or something?”

“What?”

“The cuts.”

Ron inhaled and thought. “I had it restained.”

“Oh,” John nodded, “The same color? The whole thing?”

Ron relaxed his lips and raised his head to John, looking into his eyes. “Yeah,” he said with a nod and a small tight grin.

“Crazy,” said John examining the chest.

Ron chuckled. “You were a crazy kid back then.”

John laughed. His smile faded to a look of curiosity. “Who’s that guy?” John nodded toward a small stone-carved paperweight head to the left of the television.

“That guy is the rain god Chaak,” Ron said, “The Maya made sacrifices to him to bring the harvest. They believed if you were struck by lightning and survived, that you had been chosen by Tlaloc to serve him as his priest.”

“Yeah?” asked John, “That’s crazy. Like Storm in X-Men or something?”

“I don’t know.”

“X-Men. The comic? Have you seen the Marvel movies? Halle Berry plays her?”

“I remember the comics. I saw Monster’s Ball.”

“Yeah. She controls the weather.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah, her character from the comic. You read them?”

“No, I just remember them.”

“Oh. I read X-Men in middle school. You got me Batman when I was little, remember?”

“I do remember,” Ron laughed.

“You showed up at my sixth-grade soccer game and gave me a VHS of the original Batman movie. Do you remember that?”

Ron laughed, “I do!”

“Yeah,” John laughed, “You said you got me an early copy. I think it had just hit theaters that week. It hadn’t come out at Blockbuster yet.”

“I remember that!” Ron said.

“I still have it. I still think Jack Nicholson is the best Joker.”

Ron laughed again. “It’s really good to see you, John.”

John faced him. “You too Dad.” They smiled at each other.

Ron reached his hand to John’s shoulder and gave him a firm pat. “This calls for a drink.” He walked around the divider to the kitchen. Two crystal decanters of brown liquor sat on a silver cart by the refrigerator. “I’ve got bourbon or scotch. Pick your poison.”

“I don’t drink.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. I smoke pot, a little, but I had to stop drinking a long time ago.”

“Yeah?” Ron picked up a whiskey glass and poured himself a bourbon. “You go a little hard on the sauce?”

“I have diabetes. I got it when I was twenty-five.”

Ron was about to drink. He looked at his son over the glass’s rim, the flavor and scent of the whiskey almost to his lips, burning his nostrils, his pale blue eyes piercing his son’s green eyes, then focusing out to take in the micro-expressions of sorrow on John’s open face. His outline radiated a golden sheen against the white wall. Ron decided he was being honest and lowered the glass. “No. Oh my God, John. Really?” he said sadly.

“Yeah.”

“How long have you had it?”

“Six years now.”

“My God, Johnny.”

“It’s ok. I’m managing. I take insulin. I got a lot of drinking done before my pancreas gave up.” John smiled.

Ron gave a single laugh and set his glass down. “Well we come from good drinking stock. We’re Irish after all.”

“It’s in our blood?” John smirked.

Ron laughed. “Afraid so.”

John laughed. “I’ll have a water.”

“Of course. You want ice?”

“Yes, thank you.”

Ron went to the refrigerator and poured a tumbler of ice water from the door for John and returned to the living room. John had taken a seat on the couch next to the red chair. A low glass coffee table was before them both, between them and the television. Ron gave John his water, set the whiskey on the table, took his jacket off and hung it on the back of the chair, then took a seat, grabbing his drink. They raised their glasses.

“Traditionally it’s bad luck to toast with water, John, but today is a very lucky day. I’m glad you’re here with me,” Ron smiled.

John laughed. “Man after what I went through to get here, I don’t believe in bad luck. I’m just grateful.”

Ron beamed. “Cheers.”

“To good luck,” said John. They clinked their glasses together and drank. A moment passed. John waited for Ron to speak.

“How is America? I’ve only seen in the news that the President...”

“Mom died,” John said.

Ron’s eyes shot up to his son’s, raising his face. John trembled, his lips tightened and his eyes watered, pain quaking to the surface of his expression as he resisted it up to the top. “Oh my God,” Ron gasped.

“It’s ok,” John said, looking down.

Ron set down his glass on the coffee table, rose from the chair, kneeled in front of John and hugged him. “Oh my God, John,” Ron repeated.

“It’s ok,” John said, raising his arms behind his father and clasping his shoulders. He shook, trying to breathe. Ron listened intently with his whole body, his eyes staring ahead at the black living room windows as rain whipped the glass with waves of wind and pebble-like specks of water. The western-patterned carpet cushioned Ron’s left knee as a stagnant sense of heat filled the air around him. He pulled back.

“How long ago?”

“Recently,” John stammered.

“How... recently?”

“A month ago,” John bleated, sobbing into Ron’s shoulder.

“Oh my God,” Ron said, about to stand, before John grabbed him as hard as he could. He wouldn’t let go and Ron couldn’t stand up. The weight of them both pushed down on Ron’s left knee, where an old Rugby injury ached just below the cap, like pressure on a fault line. Ron felt pain. “I’m sorry Son,” he said. John slackened his arms.

“It’s ok.” John’s breath stabilized, “It’s ok.”

Ron held John another moment, “I’m sorry.”

John relaxed his arms and put his hands on Ron’s shoulders. “It’s not your fault Dad.” Ron leaned back and stood slowly, exhaling the pain he had concealed in his knee. John looked up at Ron, “I wanted to find you after it happened. I’m glad I did,” he smiled with red, heavy eyes.

“Me too, Johnny.”

John stood from the couch and hugged Ron again, “Thank you.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“It’s ok.”

“I wish I could have been there for you.”

“I know.”

“I wish I had been.”

John lowered his hands to Ron’s forearms. “I want you to know something, Dad. We lost touch after I graduated, and our time before then wasn’t great after you and Mom divorced, but I never forgot what you did for me when I was little. You told me something when I was seven that’s always stayed with me.”

Ron blinked. “You can remember back that long?”

John gripped Ron’s arms. “You told me if I was ever in trouble that I could call you and you’d be there for me. The longer time passed, I never wanted to call because I was fighting my pride. I wanted to make it on my own, and after a while I told myself that too much time had gone by, and you probably had a different phone number, and moved, and I couldn’t do it. I always told myself I couldn’t do it for one dumb reason or another. But I always remembered what you said. So, I’m here.”

“Are you in trouble? What do you need?”

John held eye contact a moment then blinked, looking down. Ron concentrated, his brows lowered, trying to see what John was keeping from him. John turned and sat on the couch. “I just need a place to stay for a while. I was living with Mom until she passed. I couldn’t afford to stay where I was on my own. It’s a long story.”

“Of course,” Ron was trying to read John’s sadness, but realized he was standing up still. He retook his seat in the red chair. “How long do you need? You could stay for as long...”

“I don’t know,” John interrupted, “Everything I have is in my backpack. I don’t have a job anymore, or much of anything, but I don’t want to burden you. Is this your permanent address now? Do you still own the old house in Stillwater?”

Ron looked back to his whiskey, inhaling with consideration. “No. Well,” Ron thought, “Yes. I live here for now but... no, I sold the Stillwater house after your grandparents died.”

“Got it,” John said, “What are you up to here? Are you working? You probably don’t have to, right? I always imagined you just did whatever you wanted, you were so rich.”

Ron picked up his whiskey, “I’m on a dig in Palenque.”

“Yeah?” John asked, raising his eyebrows.

Ron swelled. “Yeah, it’s on the grounds by the temple. My team and I have been at this for weeks, but it’s been good, or at least...” Ron saw Miguel’s mutilated face mirrored in an ice cube in his glass, “...it was.”

“You’ve got a team you’re working with?” John asked, “Like Indiana Jones? Mayan Temple of Doom?”

Ron exhaled a sharp silent laugh, “Kinda. Yeah.”

“Cool,” said John.

“Yeah,” Ron considered, “it’s cool sometimes.” Ron finished his whiskey. “You were a big dinosaur buff when you were little. After I started my anthropological work, I always regretted that you couldn’t see your old man in action.”

“Maybe I can now.”

Ron looked down at his empty glass. “Maybe, yeah.” He rose, walked and poured himself another scotch. John drank his water. Ron turned with a smile, walked back to John and raised his whiskey in another toast. “Cheers, Son. To you. I’m proud of you.”

John raised his water, “You too, Dad.” Ron nodded and drank. “Drop’ll get you drunk,” said John.

Ron froze mid-sip, his eyes shot to his son’s, the whiskey glass covering his face. John still had his water raised, the same kind smile. He blinked, holding his expression. Ron wasn’t sure suddenly if John had said anything. He thought he heard it though. He lowered his whiskey. “I’m sorry?”

“What?” said John, with a look of concern.

Ron felt anger beginning to radiate from his forehead. “I asked... what did you just say to me?” Ron’s voice was in his chest.

John sniffed the air, his face perplexed. He sniffed his water, then turned his head and inhaled the air slowly. He shot his eyes toward Ron again, “Do you smell that?”

Ron looked incredulously at John. “Smell what?”

John inhaled deeply, making a repulsed face, “Oh man, it smells like dog shit in here.”

Ron took a step toward John, set his glass down on the coffee table and was about to ask what the hell John was talking about, when he tasted the idea of shit wafting through his living room. Over the notes of oak and single-malt ethanol that had danced rich smoke on his throat came a foul discordant symphony of wet, decayed, light-brown dung on the median of his tongue, spreading across his upper pallet and into his nostrils. Picking his glass up again from the table, he spat into it, looking at the bubbles of saliva soiling the remaining liquor around Miguel’s melting face. He sniffed the air. Shit again. “What the fuck is happening?” Ron accused.

“Did you shit your pants, man?” John asked.

“What the fuck are you...” Ron had taken a step back but stopped. He noticed the unmistakable sensation of stiff sharp shit in his ass and dampness in his underwear. He swiveled his head around, realized he couldn’t see, then sensing a wet trail beginning to run down his inner thigh, he set his glass down and examined the front of his pants. A swelling brown liquid soaked through his khakis.

“Oh man, you did!” said John. Ron looked up at him, bewildered. “Dude, you gotta go to the bathroom and clean that shit off, man!” John pointed with his left finger toward the bathroom door by the broken window.

“What... why are you…” Ron managed.

“Go!” yelled John, “You gotta go now man! There’s SHIT all over you!”

Ron’s feet led him as he undid his woven brown leather belt on the way to the bathroom. He passed the broken glass on the floor, scuttling in and flipping the light switch.

“It’s ok Dad! You’ll be ok!” John called after Ron, who shut the door in a stinging panic.

Inside the bathroom, Ron breathed heavily, trying to steady his blinding anger as he dropped his soiled pants and underwear. He sat on the toilet, slipping slightly on the seat. “Fucking SHIT!” he yelled, readjusting himself.

He removed his boots carefully, avoiding the wet stains, then his socks. He slid the mass of pants and underwear off of his legs and onto the tiled floor, then looked and saw that the roll was empty, the bare cardboard tube hanging. Had he left it that way? “FUCK!” he yelled, as a loud knock came at the door.

“Dad are you ok in there?” Ron said nothing, holding his head, trying to focus. The knocking returned. “Dad are you..?”

“I’m FINE John!” Ron yelled. He saw his monogrammed, navy-blue towels hanging on the door by the sink.

“You’re sure?” John asked.

Ron looked suspiciously at the door. He checked that he had locked it. “I’m FINE, it’s just... I’ll be ok.” Ron insisted as he stood from the toilet, shuffled to the door, grabbed one of the towels and took it to the sink to soak it.

“Dad, are you ok?” John asked.

“I’m alright, son. I’ll be right out.” Ron ran the hot water, then a small turn of cold.

“I’m hungry.”

Ron had dropped the towel into the filling sink. He looked at the door. “What?”

“I said I’m hungry. Can we eat?”

Ron stood perplexed a moment. “Sure. There’s... there’s food in the fridge.” Ron returned to the task and used the wet towel to wipe the shit from in between his legs. “What the fuck is fucking happening?” he asked out loud.

KNOCK! KNOCK! KNOCK! “Dad, Katie’s hurt!”

Ron’s attention shot to the door. For a moment there was no noise, no temperature, no sensation of any kind in Ron’s body besides sheer attentive panic. “What did you say?”

“She’s hurt daddy! Katie’s hurt!” Loud pounding came from John’s fists. He was hitting the door so hard, it flexed and throbbed with each punch. He looked down to his naked torso and saw that the shit in his pants was gone. The towel, though wet, was clean. Ron whipped around and saw that his pants and underwear were in a heap by his boots, unsoiled.

“What the fuck is this shit?” he asked himself.

BANG! BANG! BANG! “Daddy help!”

Ron faced the door and yelled, “What the FUCK is going on?!”

“Daddy please! She’s bleeding! Help! Please!”

Ron snatched up his underwear and pulled them on, furious. He pulled up his pants and belted them, his eyes ready to burst with anger. He shut off the sink, left his boots and socks, and faced the door where John was still knocking, “DAD! DAD!” Ron readied himself, then walked to the door and flung it open.

“Dad!” called John. He was lying on the couch, facing the bathroom. The rain had stopped. Ron looked and saw that the trash bag lay still over the broken window, swelling slightly. “Dad, are you ok?”

“What the fuck is going on John?”

“I was gonna ask you the same thing. You were in there an hour.”

Ron checked the time on his silver Submariner Rolex. It was 3am. How long had he been in there? When did he come home? “Johnny, what the fuck is going on?”

“Dad, you’re freaking me out,” John said sitting up.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” Ron said taking a step forward. “OW!” he yelled, stepping onto the broken window glass with his bare right foot. “OWWW!” he howled grabbing his foot as he fell against the wall.

“Jesus!” yelled John standing up and running to him.

“Get the FUCK away John! You stay right fucking there! I’m fine!” Ron commanded standing on the heel of his right foot to avoid pushing the glass in further.

John threw his hands up in innocence. “Dad, please.”

“Shut up!” Ron pointed at John’s face before lifting his foot and picking a piece of glass out of it. “Bastard!”

“Dad, you’re bleeding,” John said softer.

“I’m fine,” Ron insisted as he brushed his foot with his palm and found another piece lodged inside.

“Dad, what happened in there? Did you pass out?” John asked, picking up a paper towel from the coffee table and bringing over Ron’s whiskey with the spit in it.

“I don’t... no. No, I didn’t. I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Ron fumed.

“Dad,” John said calmly lifting up his digital watch so Ron could see it. “You were in there a while.” The time read 12:34am.

Ron blinked, not bothering to check his watch again, and scowled at John. “What was I doing?”

“You... I knocked, you said you were ok, so I waited.”

“Give me that!” Ron yelled snatching the paper towel and whiskey from John before tending to his wound with it.

John backed away. “It’s... it’s ok Dad.”

“How the fuck did you get here? How the fuck did you find me? What the FUCK is going on?” Ron threw his whiskey glass to the ground, breaking it by the window shards.

“DAD! Dad! Jesus! Stop!” John yelled, his palms raised as Ron sank to the floor. “It’s ok, Dad! You’re ok,” John said coming closer.

“Don’t FUCKING come near me!” Ron yelled.

“Dad,” John assured as he reached his hands down to Ron’s knees, “It’s alright. It’s me. It’s Johnny.”

“I know who you are!”

“It’s ok. You’re ok,” John reassured. Ron’s breathing was fast, but the longer John looked into his eyes, the steadier it became in the silence. “You’re ok,” he repeated.

“Yeah?” Ron accused.

“Yeah. It’s ok,” John said. Ron blinked looking away at the glass he had broken on the floor then back at John. “It’s ok,” John repeated.

“Ok,” Ron said.

“Ok,” said John. Ron nodded, then looking down at himself on the floor began to shudder, crying. “It’s ok Dad.” John sat on the floor next to him. He hugged him, “You’re ok. It’s ok.”

“Ok,” Ron said hugging John.

“It’s alright,” assured John, “I love you.” Ron felt wet pressure inside his right ear where John had whispered. He realized with revilement that John had stuck his tongue in his ear.

“HEY!” Ron’s arms shot up and shoved him back. John fell to the floor as Ron scrambled to his feet. “What the FUCK is wrong with you?!” he yelled.

“Jesus! What the fuck are you doing?” yelled John from the ground.

Ron hobbled quickly to his jacket, pulled out his pistol and aimed it at John’s face. “Don’t you FUCKING come near me! Don’t you FUCKING touch me! Don’t you EVER fucking do that!” Ron yelled shaking the barrel at John.

“Dad, PLEASE don’t! Please don’t shoot!” John begged standing from the ground with his hands raised.

“Get the FUCK out of here!”

“Please don’t kill me!”

“I SAID get the FUCK OUT!”

“Dad please!” John stepped forward.

“GET OUT!” Ron ordered cocking the gun. John began to cry, stretching his arms forward as he took another step.

“Daddy...” BANG! John’s chest burst open. His hands flung to his heart as he crumpled to the floor, his legs retracting into a fetal position. He shook a moment, holding himself, then stopped. Ron lowered the gun and his breathing began to slow. He swallowed, watching his son’s body for movement. There was none. He inhaled deeply and was shuddering air from his nose and mouth when he heard a voice behind him.

“Wow.”

Ron whirled around and aimed the empty pistol at the red chair. John was seated there, alive, with a glass of whiskey. “That took longer than I thought.” John took a sip.

“How... how...” Ron stammered.

John checked the time on the silver Submariner Rolex watch on his left wrist. “Midnight. That’s your cue.” John gestured past Ron’s shoulder with a nod. The front door handle shook. Ron followed the sound and John’s glance as he turned, becoming aware of the rain and the wind in the trash bag, noticing that John’s corpse had vanished from the floor, as he watched himself open the door and come in from the rain.

A sensation of white fluttering static illuminated the inside of Ron’s spine as he inhaled a hollow darkness into his heart and his eyes opened beyond his skull, retreating back and inward. He saw himself silhouetted as the lightning flashed outside. Afraid, he turned away from himself and toward John as the door shut and the house became black.

“Dad.”

The thunder clapped loudly. John lit the lamp by the chair. He was looking directly at Ron, who was cowering, kneeled on the floor, steadying himself with a hand on the couch while his other self dropped the mail and went for his gun by the front door.

“John,” whispered Ron as his other self simultaneously gasped his son’s name in shock.

“Oh shit,” said John, before raising his hands and turning his attention to the second Ron. “I’m sorry. Did I scare you?”

“Johnny,” Ron said from the floor.

“I got here this morning. I was waiting outside but it got dark and the storm came, and I was cold so...”

“JOHNNY!” Ron yelled as loudly as he could.

“...I broke the window.” John pointed to it. Ron felt a weight in the left hemisphere of his brain, pulling away from him, opening a vacuum, as a pinch in his right temple pushed his head around to the left, turning him away from John and toward himself, against his will. “I’m sorry,” apologized John.

Ron turned, still kneeling. He watched himself speak, “How did you find me?” John told the other Ron about looking him up in the Balfour alumni directory and flying from California to find him. Ron watched as the impossibility of John’s statement registered microscopically on his own face. He could tell, looking at himself, that he didn’t believe John then. He thought he had masked it better. In any case, he had accepted what John said at the time, like he had accepted John’s offer to turn his head and see himself now as he reassured John, “It’s ok,” lowering his hand from the gun in his jacket and stepping closer. “It’s ok,” the second Ron repeated.

“No, it’s NOT!” yelled Ron, turning to face John again. John nodded his head and walked forward, opening his arms and hugging the other Ron. “IT’S NOT!” Ron yelled, leaping from his knees to tackle John. Like a ghost, he passed through him, as if John had no mass or temperature. He hit the coffee table, landing on the floor between the couch and the chair. His face hurt as he put his hand to it and yelled, “OW!” He turned toward John who was hugging the other Ron for the first time in ten years. “OWWW!” he screamed at them, “OW! OW! OWWW!” He started to cry with short sharp inhales as his face bent and his lower lip shot out. Enraged, he howled at John and himself, “OWWWWW!” Ron inhaled deeply and tried again, “OWWWWWW!”

“Do you... do you want to see the place?” said the other Ron to John.

“NOOO!” Ron yelled.

“It’s ok. I’ve been here,” said John before turning to face Ron on the floor with the same smile he had given him after they hugged. “I saw,” said John.

“STOP!” howled Ron, but John returned to his conversation. “STOP IT!” Ron yelled.

“Oh yes,” the second Ron said.

“STOP! IT!” Ron yelled again.

“Of course,” said the other Ron.

Ron shot up to his bare feet which he stomped as loudly as he could. “STOP! IT! RIGHT! NOW!” He inhaled heavily, staring ahead at John and the other Ron, who had frozen. As he caught his breath, he became aware that the rain had stopped, that all noise had stopped except the sounds of his own body. He saw that the trash bag was paused mid ripple in the broken window. He backed up toward the dark windows behind the couch, facing the two frozen figures, panicking with every silent, pressure-less step. He could feel the hardwood floor’s texture from the displacement of the nerves in his feet. He tasted the tears in his nose and mouth. His breath trembled as he tried to catch it, touching the wall with his hand, not feeling it, though his hand would not pass through. He slapped it, sensing a flat sting in his palm, but not the wall. He made a fist and banged hard twice. The pain in his wrist shot twice across his whole arm. Ron wasn’t sure if he felt the wall that time or if the pain was masking it. He tried a softer slap against the window but heard and felt nothing. His anger peaked. He kicked the window with his bare right foot, which shattered like glass as it made contact. The window remained unbroken as Ron fell to the ground screaming, “AHHHHHH!” He reached to his impossibly sharp and fractured stump to sooth it and found that the jagged remainder of his leg cut his palms and fingers. He bled and recoiled, crying out, “OH MY GOD HELP!”

The rain and wind returned, along with the room’s temperature.

“Oh! I’ll get it,” John said kneeling to pick up the mail.

“Oh. No, that’s ok,” protested the second Ron.

Looking down at his leg again, Ron saw that it was uninjured. He touched it, feeling the fabric of his pants, and his own hand on his foot. The wounds were gone.

“Where do you want them?” John asked.

“The chest is fine,” said the other Ron.

Suddenly Ron felt a great tingling emptiness in his chest. His hand shot fingers-first into the vacuum, touched his scapula, and then flattened as he rubbed his palm on his chest. He moved his hand over his heart in panic. Was it beating? He kept feeling for it, distracted by his heaving breath, which he could not control.

“I remember that old thing,” John said walking the mail over to the drawers. “This is from the old house?”

Ron tried to ignore John and himself as they talked, focusing on the cavernous dripping sensation in his chest. He unbuttoned his shirt. “Where did you and mom get this again?” John asked. “It was a gift,” said the other Ron, as he opened his shirt to discover that his flesh and hair was stretched and flapping like the trash bag, over a cold wind that blew from inside him.

“From your parents?” asked John.

“Yeah. Your grandparents gave that to us,” Ron heard himself say.

“JUNIOR!” Ron heard his father’s voice call from outside. His head shot to the dark window, where he was sure it had come from. A lightning bolt illuminated the blackness, revealing nothing to be out there.

Ron continued to watch the darkness, his right hand on his heart, his left hand on top of his right, trying to calm himself. His racing heartbeat dominated the sound of John’s conversation with the other Ron, then the rain. A white-lined tunnel vision gripped Ron’s sight as he focused through the watery streaks and the blackness. CRACK! His father’s shotgun fired with new lightning. “JUNIOR!” the thunder echoed.

Ron dashed to his right to find John standing by the television while the other Ron stood frozen, mid-lie about the ancient Zitan wood chest. John shot his attention to him suddenly. “Let’s fast forward,” he said.

The television turned on, revealing an infinity of Johns and Rons standing in the living room. “Mom died,” stammered the John in the television as melodramatic soap opera strings soared. The other Ron had disappeared. John walked from the television to the red chair and sat. Ron’s glance darted between the televised scene and John who patted the couch, “Take a seat.”

“Oh my God!” gasped the televised Ron.

“It’s ok,” said the televised John.

“RON!” roared John angrily with Ronald Sr.’s voice. Ron’s head shot toward his son in the red chair. “You’d better take a seat. The floor is hot lava.” As John’s words echoed in his mind, Ron became aware of intense heat in the room. He quickly clambered over the arm of the sofa as he, John and the television on the chest became adrift on a lake of molten fire.

“Oh my God,” repeated the televised Ron, hugging the televised John. The camera angle rotated suddenly behind the televised Ron’s back. On screen, John dropped a small tablet of acid into Ron’s whiskey on the coffee table while they were hugging. “It’s ok,” repeated the televised John with a wink to the camera. The orchestra rose in a tense dissonant crescendo.

“That is fucked up,” said John eating a mouthful of Jiffy Pop that he shook in offering to Ron who was huddled on the couch, sweating and quaking with anger. “Let’s skip to the good stuff,” John said holding up a 1980’s VCR remote and hitting fast-forward. The program shot ahead to John banging on the bathroom door while Ron was inside. “Dad! Katie’s hurt!” John held the remote again, but it wouldn’t fast forward. He hit the remote with his hand, “Stupid piece of cheap shit!” He hurled it at the lava, which became hardwood again as the remote shattered to pieces, the AAA batteries flying apart. Ron watched in horror from the couch as he shot his son in the chest, over and over again, no longer on the TV but in his living room.

“Daddy...” BANG! The scene rewound. “Daddy...” BANG! The scene rewound again. Ron realized that John had vanished from the red chair and leapt over to it. “Daddy...” BANG! The scene rewound itself. Ron stood from the chair, drew his gun from his jacket and aimed it at the back of the other Ron’s head. “Daddy...” BANG! BANG! Both Rons fired. John dropped dead again, clutching his chest. The second Ron, his brain smoking, bloody and dangling, fell next to his son. Ron watched as the two clasped hands, twitching together until they were still.

“Wow,” said John’s voice behind him. Ron turned from the carnage to see that his son was seated in the red chair again. “That took less time than I thought.” Ron stood bewildered. John clapped his hands together. “I’ve got it! This is a dream.” Ron stumbled away from John and the bodies, back toward the television and the chest. “It’s just a big stupid scary dream and all we need to do is wake up.”

John snapped his fingers. Nothing happened. He tried again, looking at his hands as he snapped both of them at the same time, then back and forth from left to right. “Shit,” he sighed, “Well I’m out of ideas. What do you think?” Ron aimed the gun squarely at John’s head. “Violence?” BANG! John’s face exploded. BANG! BANG! His throat and chest opened. BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! Ron kept firing. The bullets never ran out and the chambers were always full. BANG! BANG! BANG! His son’s corpse danced with shots on its way down to the carpet as his wounds poured blood. BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! Ron stopped.

John’s body hung like a mangled rag doll, his exploded flesh blending with the chair such that his clothes and inner tissue were an orange-and-yellow smear shrouded in camouflage fabric against the red upholstery: a smoking pustulant wound in the room. It was at this moment that Ron became aware that the front door handle was making a noise. He pointed the gun at the door. A figure entered dressed as he was.

“HEY!” Ron yelled, aiming his gun at the figure as the lightning flashed. It turned and dropped a stack of 80s Hustler and Playboy magazines as it went for the gun in its own jacket and the thunder crashed. It was John at the door, dressed as Ron.

“John?” asked Ron as a studio audience laugh track erupted with guffaws and applause. Ron looked around to see where the sitcom theme was coming from. John crossed his arms, mugging to an unseen camera as an 80s title card appeared beneath him: “Starring John Devon as Ronald Jr.” it read as a jazz flute riffed a melody line. Ron realized that there was text by his chest when the playful oboe joined the soundtrack. He couldn’t read it easily, reversed as it was from his perspective, but it seemed to say: “Introducing Ron Devon as Johnny Boy.”

The music and applause subsided. John looked anxiously at Ron. “It’s your line” he stage-whispered. Nervous titters came from the studio audience. Ron said nothing, his jaw slack, the gun aimed at John in his Ron costume. John covered, “How did you know I was here?” he said, widening his arms and looking sideways at Ron. Ron looked anxiously up to the risers behind the camera crew that neither he nor John could see. In the stillness, the sound of an audience member’s cough seemed to come from a distance. The set that had been Ron’s home seemed to have no density. “What’s that?” continued John, “You looked me up in the Balfour alumni directory, and you hopped a flight here last night, and it’s a really tiny town so you just asked a bunch of people in the village..?” BANG! John’s left shoulder whipped back with a spray of blood from his collar bone. He began walking toward Ron, “...if they saw a guy who looked like me around here and you found this place...” BANG! John lurched forward, holding the shot to his gut, but sprung back up. “...so, you waited, but it started to rain...” BANG! BANG! BANG! Three shots to the face removed John's eye, the top of his skull and part of his jaw. “...abou an ow ago an you were col...”

Ron put the gun to his own head. “I’m sorry!”

John’s bullet riddled corpse stopped a moment. “Wha?”

“I said, I’m sorry Johnny.”

John looked confused. “I don thing thas yuh line, Ron.”

The studio audience erupted in boos and angry yells. “You SUCK!” “Fuck YOU!” “KILL yourself!” The audience united in a chant, clapping each syllable: “KILL YOUR SELF! KILL YOUR SELF! KILL YOUR SELF! KILL YOUR SELF!” Ron listened to the mob, watching John’s unreadable and mutilated expression.

He cocked back the hammer. “I’m sorry John.” John’s living corpse lurched forward toward the gun as Ron pulled the trigger. POW! The blast elongated from the initial pop into the long and loud cry of a newborn child, exactly as it was in the delivery room when John was born, fresh in Ron’s eardrums, faithfully reproduced and true.

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