Face Down

The pelting rain bounces from his hat, drowning out the gurgling runoff funneling into the sewer at his feet. The streetlights wait a moment after each rumble of thunder before flickering. The warm glow fractures across the scene, matching the intensity of the crackling lightning.

Another bolt flashes.

Thunder rolls.

A pause.

Flicker.

Rain.

The expanse of the desert sky reflects the unoccupied street. He is lost looking up into the mirror ceiling, wondering whether he's looking up or down. The flooding street mirrors the painted sky. Or is it the other way around?

He splashes through puddles. The street floods. The curb drowns.

Rippling sky washes out.

It softens.

Melts.

The storm eases—distant rumbles, escaping flashes.

The rain trickles into the flood. The waters swirl over pavement.

Blurs fade to solids.

The world forms anew, and he sees once more. The mirror holds only stars. The street only himself. Streetlights buzz. Cars pass. He wonders. Blinks... realizes?

He reassembles his memories. His knees tremble. His stomach churns. The pavement rushes up.

Vomit. Crash.

A thousand moments flash. White light warms. Too warm. Flames rise. A soul engulfed.

Clear!

His chest leaps. Back arches.

Paramedics scramble.

Who can hear the angelic chorus?

A thousand voices praise he.

They bring him to.

Monitors ring out. Beeping overpowers the mind. His focus stumbles over then and now.

A landing on the stretcher. A clenching of consciousness.

Life clung.

For now.

It was a cold evening. His face had yet to wear the weather of so many bad decisions. They were all looking at him. The same dumbfounded faces on his closest friends and families. What had he done? Or had he not done?

Their confusion mixed with ire as the truth set in.

He'd bled them dry. Accounts empty. With nothing to show. That was the top of the slope he's sliding down now.

The faces surrounding him now show pity. Concern. Disbelief.

Murmurs sneak through the room as the track marks are discovered.

Each mark, a record of another slip.

Delirious and incoherent, one question hangs—

Should he have stayed dead?

Their good deed restarted a heart. Heroic.

A black heart beats again.

Tragic.

He pulls away from care, rolling back onto the pavement. Its cold embrace has become too familiar.

A shove. A stumble. Scraped knees in ripped jeans.

Damn it!

Just leave me to rot!

I'm not worth the ink on the bill.

Jaws drop harder than he does.

Some thanks...

"Sir, you need treatment." The words are true but empty.

"You don't know what I need." As weak as his knees.

"You need to get a thorough examination." She's doing her job.

"Give it a rest." He finds his feet.

Dumbstruck.

I'm fine. Conviction finds his first step. The other foot follows.

Second chance.

"Sir?"

Little more than a snarl answers.

The streetlights beam down, casting his shadow into the flood. His mind swims with the litter of the street. Trudging from aid. Toward nothing.

The last rumble rolls beyond the distance. Static releases its hold on the atmosphere.

The night air stiffens and stills.

Clarity.

His reflection glares up at him. Scowling from the puddle.

Judging.

It isn't over. It still isn't over.

The reflection is interrupted by a loose playing card. Face down—like he should be. Time stops while it replaces his face.

What's beneath?

An ace in the hole?

Blackjack?

Or bust?

He swipes it away. The water ripples with rage, replacing the card with something worse. His face.

Weathered. Worn.

Worse.

Its hollow eyes. Narrow cheeks. Sharp jaw. Gray peaks.

Sick and sickening.

He raises his head and another question.

Why?

Why me?

Why did they find me?

Why won't peace just come?

Splash.

The tire sprays.

You son of a...

He wipes his brow with his dirty coat. Waste. Wasted life smearing his face.

Black smudges on gray peaks, marking a man. Or what's left of one.

What's left?

What's left is a vagabond.

What's left is an addict.

What's left is unwanted.

Behind him, before him? What's left?

Another step forward. Trudging into the night. The flood drains from the street. The pavement firming beneath his torn sneakers.

The squishing offends the ear.

To walk in wet shoes.

Try walking in these shoes.

A mile in my shoes.

He grumbles to no one. Only the street listens.

The street.

It was supposed to be theirs. The whole street, and they'd thrive. A haven blessed by his parish where they could spread the word and the light.

One bad bet.

The money disappeared. The deals fell through. The lots stayed empty.

The children never saw their playground. The church never expanded. The priest lost his way. A shepherd in the dark.

He chased the bottom of the bottle all the way to the needle.

Hanging, dangling above. A pair of old sneakers over the wire.

A pigeon chirps on the wire, announcing his passage.

He should have known. It was too good to be true.

Now he knows.

The truth is no good.

It once was.

It stings.

He saw the truth in everything. There was always the truth in his faith. His faith could see every truth no matter how hidden.

God was everywhere. He was in the church. He was in the children's eyes. He was in the blossom and the wilt.

He was in him.

Now, the truth he knew lies.

God is gone.

He's left.

A shepherd lost his way.

The alley grows darker, colder.

The streetlight dims. The eyelids fall.