Chapter One - Contract Three

Chapter One

Andrew's cell phone cuts through the thick fog of his sleep. His hand blindly reaches for it on the nightstand, the movement slow and heavy, as if he's carrying the weight of the world. He squints, barely able to open his eyes, and sees the caller ID, Sis. His finger swipes across the screen without thought, rejecting the call. He’s not awake enough for her. Not awake enough for anything. She’ll just yell at him for something else he’s forgotten. He doesn’t care. Not anymore. 

The phone thuds back onto the nightstand, and he sinks into the grimy pillow, pulling the blanket up over his head, but the light slips through the cracks in the basement window, too sharp, too cruel. It hits his face, igniting a burn behind his eyes. He pulls the blanket tighter, but it's no use. He’s trapped, suffocating in this basement. He grabs the phone again, the glass smooth against his fingertips, and clicks it on, watching the time flash on the screen. 3:00 PM. Not that it matters. The clock doesn’t care. Time doesn’t care. 

Andrew slumps back, lifting the half-empty glass of Admiral Nelson’s and cheap Coke from the nightstand, the liquid a sticky, burnt reminder of last night’s haze. Why the hell was Izzy calling me? Did I forget something? I probably did, I can’t seem to remember shit anymore. Andrew thinks to himself. He gulps it down in one swift motion. It burns, but it’s familiar. It’s the only thing that’s been there for him in the mess of his new life. He shakes off the taste, but the numbness it provides is fleeting. 

He pulls himself upright, the ache in his back and limbs a constant reminder of how broken he’s become. He stretches, but his body feels like it’s been hollowed out, like it no longer belongs to him. He shuffles across the cold, concrete floor of the basement, the chill seeping into his skin. The basement smells of mildew, stale air, and that heavy scent of depression. It’s the kind of place where dreams go to die. 

Andrew steps into the corner of the room where the makeshift bathroom waits. The toilet is old, yellowed with age, the water in the bowl a murky yellow reminder of how little water he drinks daily/ The only real liquid Andrew takes in is his least favorite, but affordable, whiskey and the generic coke he mixes with it. He takes a piss, standing there, empty, just waiting for it all to be over. Then, he turns to the sink. The faucet creaks as he twists it, the cold water running for a moment before he cups his hands, splashing the freezing water onto his face. The shock of it burns, but it doesn’t make him feel alive. His eyes snap open, and he meets his reflection. 

Bloodshot eyes. Scraggly beard. The scruff on his chin and the patchy, dirty blonde hair on his head only serve to remind him of how far he’s fallen. He can’t even remember the last time he bothered to shave. His hair is thinning, his skin pale and pockmarked, the scars on his face the only parts of him that feel real anymore. 

The scars are a reminder that the man he used to be is long gone. They were given to him by the ones who wanted him dead—those people, those animals, those “towel heads” as he used to call them. They took his friends. They took his humanity. And now, they’ve left him here to rot. 

He looks down at his camo jacket, the one with “Simmons” stitched over the chest. He used to wear it with pride. Now it’s just a jacket to keep him warm. The basement is colder than the rest of the house, and that’s saying something. He can feel the chill sinking into his bones. This jacket, these stains, the stench of his own sweat—this is all he has left. 

You should probably shave Andy, you look gross. These scars are doing you no good. Maybe a clean shave will help you not look like a hideous monster. Plus shaving is normal, you should appear to be normal, right? He thinks to himself while running his fingertips over the scars surrounding his left eye. He traces the scars down into his scraggly beard. He only grew the beard to help mask the

rest of the scars on his cheek and jaw line. He heads back to the bed. He grabs the rum bottle again, unscrewing the cap with one fluid motion, swallowing another bitter mouthful. It doesn’t help. It doesn’t numb the anger or the emptiness, but it’s the only escape he’s got left. 

He looks around the room, and the walls seem to close in around him. The filth, the disorder, the stench of neglect. This basement, this prison, is all he has now. An old nightstand that’s just a shelf for the empty bottles of rum and coke. An old dresser with broken handles that house very little clothes. None of them folded, just stuffed in there. He also has his bed. A twin mattress and a twin box frame sitting on top of double stacked milk crates. The milk crates were actually functional, in case the basement floods, like it typically does. If anyone ever saw it—saw him—they’d wonder how he had sunk so low. His commanding officer would’ve had him doing push ups until he couldn’t move anymore. His father would’ve been screaming at him to get his shit together. But they’re both gone now, just like everything else that used to mean something. 

Andy, you get your ass down there and you clean up that room. You don’t come out of it until it’s spotless. I raised you better than this. Cleanliness is next to godliness. His father’s firm but sensitive words running through his head. 

God damn it, Simmons. What in the actual fuck is this mess?! You have 1.5 minutes to have this in tip top shape or your ass is all mine the rest of the day. You understand me, boy? His commanding officer’s loud demanding voice pops in his head right after. 

He stands up, the weight of his body pulling him down, dragging him to the stairs. Every step feels like it takes all of his energy. As he reaches the door to the kitchen, he can’t help but think that it’s the last place he wants to be. The kitchen is pristine, a picture of order and normalcy. It

made him sick to his stomach these days. His mother stands at the island, a small woman with too much weight for her frame, too much life in her smile that he no longer believes in. She’s preparing sandwiches, something she’s always done, always hoped for, as if he would be the person he used to be. As if nothing had changed. 

“Andrew, so nice of you to venture out of your dungeon,” she says, her voice light, oblivious. She doesn’t know. She doesn’t understand. 

He can barely look at her. “Hey, Mom.” 

She smiles, oblivious to the darkness that churns inside him. “I made you a sandwich, your favorite. Turkey, ham, Swiss, tomato, pickle, mayo, mustard.” Her voice is so bright, so warm, and it burns him. 

“I’m not hungry,” he mutters, his voice flat, empty. That was a lie—he could hear his stomach grumble. He just didn’t want to eat anything. “Just put it in the fridge. I’ll eat it later.” 

Her smile falters, but she hides it quickly. She knows something’s off. She always does. “Of course, Andy,” she says, setting the sandwich aside with too much care. “By the way, Isabelle called me. She’s walking home with the neighbor girl.” 

The words hit him like a punch in the gut. That’s why Sis had called earlier. He was supposed to pick her up from school. And he had forgotten. Too drunk. Too lost in himself to even remember the most basic of responsibilities. 

Andrew drops his face into his hands, a groan escaping him. “Crap, I’m sorry, Mom,” he mutters. “I overslept.” It’s the excuse that has worked for too long now. The lie that no one believes anymore, but everyone accepts. 

He inches towards the door, trying to avoid any more of this conversation. 

“Everything okay, Andy? You know you can talk to me like you used to, and I wish you would,” Andrew’s mom says as she looks at him in that concerned way. 

“I know, Mom, I know. I’m fine,” Andrew says as he opens the kitchen door that leads to the back porch. He steps out onto the porch and closes the door behind him. Andrew stands there momentarily, looking at the freshly cut grass of the backyard, and looks up at the sky. It’s a beautiful day. Andrew hadn’t thought that in a while. He takes a deep breath and closes his eyes.