Page 14 of Last Breath

We’re out of our element here, Salem especially.

Did we want a home? Did we want love of a family? Yes. Did we get it from our family?Idid, but not Salem. He’d had it rough. It caused a tear in him that was unrepairable. He’s always been broken.

Tress wrecked him. We’ve been alone going on ten years, and since leaving, I’d noticed early on that he needed to vet out retribution.

The first time still haunts me.

His father—if that’s what he could be called, had damaged him beyond repair, and it left him with a need to dole out pain, as if the pain would eradicate the mischief in his mind. Most times, it was Salem causing his own pain. I’d catch him with a pocket knife slicing his leg or arm, just to watch the blood trickle and drip. Finding distractions to stop him from harming himself was hard. Eventually, when we’d found comfort in each other’s arms, I’d learned that sex was a tool for relief as much as the cutting was. As the darkness surrounded him, it took on a deadlier twist as his need for pain increased.

Running from our homes at thirteen, we’d been moving from vacant home to vacant home or sleeping in abandoned cars. At one point we were starved, afraid of the street gangs that had attempted to hire us as runners, and exhausted. We needed somewhere to rest our heads without looking over our shoulders.

The building was dank, dark, and had been ignored for centuries. At some point in its life, it had been a textile factory. There were still bolts of rotted cloth piled in corners, millions of spools tossed around as if the homeless had played a strange game of bocce, and housed there, a ragtag collection of homeless people in varying stages of disrepair. Some had taken over ante rooms, but most huddled around large bins they’d dragged in and set alight for warmth. It had only been a few years after we ran away from home.

Most of the windows were still intact, the sun giving it heat in the day, and drums with fires provided enough by night. When we’d first arrived we were cold, hungry, and in desperate need of sleep. We’d been moving around without comfort and just needed to curl up for twenty-four hours. Snooping around, we’d come across a sweet yellow lab dog. She seemed so out of place, but at ease. Moving from room to room, looking for that perfect place that was guarded and secure enough to sleep, we happened upon Bishop.

The building was vast, hollow, and dark. Through a side door, someone had parked their car in the space. To us it seemed quite weird. The old man who owned it was just as weird and strange.

He’d lost his job when the factory closed up years before. His house had been foreclosed on, his wife had left, and his children were grown. He was alone. The only thing he had left was his car, the Impala, and that dog Trixie. The rest of the rabble that drank or shot up in the building, they called him Gramps. They gave him his space.

Bishop treated us kindly, shared his food, and gave us a bit of peace over the years we hid out there. He made us feel safe. He even made Salem feel safe, and that was saying something. We were two boys on the run and he’d found a connection with Salem, the one person who was there when those by blood never could.

Living in the space with Bishop and Trixie, the other homeless had come to know us as the time passed. The two of us were a part of the community. We came and went freely. We belonged.

This one wintery afternoon, Bishop asked us to venture to the store around the corner for canned tuna. Tuna was the only thing Trixie would eat. We’d only been gone a few minutes, or that’s what it felt like, and upon returning, we found Trixie whining by the door. She wasn’t much for leaving Bishop’s side. A faithful companion. For her to be away from him was totally out of character unless she needed to be relieved.

Patting her on the head, I noticed a wetness. Bringing my hand back, a fear crept into my soul. It was covered in blood.

“Salem?”

“Come on, Trixie,” Salem called, moving ahead. Devoid of emotion, he followed the dog back to her owner.

Traipsing through, we could feel and see a change in the warehouse. The homeless that normally inhabited the space, strewn around barrels, hiding near their makeshift tents or walking around and chatting, were nowhere to be seen. Not Marg the crazy woman who talked to rats, not Mark or Henry, the brothers that sold used car parts for meals, and not Mickey, the runner for Carlo’s restaurant. None of them. Sure, they always gave Gramps his space and gave us space, but one of them was always around. They trusted no one to watch their possessions.

Going forward, moving closer and closer to Bishop’s area, everyone was standing around. Their eyes turned our way, looking at us with pity.

Standing still and stoic, none of them said anything. Trixie ran ahead, rounding the edge of the bumper and lied down, curling into the side of Bishop’s lifeless body, whimpering and whining. She knew that he was gone.

“What happened?” I asked the gathered mass, hoping for an answer.

No one responded.

“Who did this? Someone had to have seen what happened to Bishop.” Salem stated darkly.

Again, no answer. Hanging their heads, staring at the floor, no one had so much as a eulogy to the deceased. Not one word of his demise. Nothing.

Approaching Bishop’s dead body, I felt for a pulse. I knew he was gone but I had to confirm it. Before I rose, softly petting Trixie, I noticed the knife sticking from Bishop’s side. Pulling the steel and bone handled blade free, feeling the crunch as it bypassed his ribs, I watched as it dripped, the blood hitting his tan-colored shirt blotched in odd Rorschach paint marks. Staring at it, additional drips caused a shape to form in my vision. A multi-winged bird. It didn’t make sense to my mind, but neither did Bishop’s death.

Salem yelled out, at the end of his sanity, “Who did this!” Shaking, he stood steady as he railed against the despondent souls that gathered for the makeshift wake.

When none stepped forth to confirm guilt, I knew that this could turn bad. Looking at me, Salem’s face told me as much. He’d seen so much violence in his young life from Tress and an inattentive mother, that seeing someone so sweet murdered had caused a break in his already shattered soul.

Turning, seeing the knife, Salem’s eyes glared menacingly as he held out his hand. “Let me see that.” He said it so calmly, it kind of freaked me out. I’ve never seen the depth of his hatred in anyone, and right now, he hated whoever harmed Bishop.

I knew that handing it over would reveal the culprit, and that the last piece of his sweetness would perish. “No, Sal.”

Stepping over the body of Bishop, placing himself just shy of bumping into me, Salem spoke low and quiet. “I’m not asking. I’m telling you, Malachi.”

Grasping the blade hilt tighter, staring into the deep pools of his darkened eyes, I argued the only way I knew could gather his attention. Touching his scruff-free face, I answered, “Salem, no. Don’t do it.”

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