Prompt #1 - Jill's!

By the time Carl shucks off the cap and slides the next bottle over, Joe's vision is already starting to blur. He only manages to grab the bottle by digging the fingernails of one hand into the countertop for balance, pressing little half-moons into the soft, rot-riddled wood. When he raises it to his lips, his arm muscles jerk and spasm as though they've forgotten how to work in tandem. Carl watches him out of the corner of his eye, knowing he'll have to cut him off soon, but dreading it all the same.

When Joe surfaces from his swig, the first thing he hears is the blaring of the bar's dusty old TV, perched high in a corner and adorned with a faded old sign admonishing the patrons not to change the channel. Billy's ignored it as usual, browsing through the channels between sips of scotch. Joe doesn't pay much attention to it until Billy settles on the news station and something about the reporter's voice catches his ear.

"-- has decided to use a portion of this grant to increase highway patrol throughout Chickasaw County, concentrating on Highways 8 and 15 in particular. Sergeant Chris Trenton of the Salvage Police Department commented on this decision for us."

The scene shifts to a clean-cut, smiling man standing outside the town police station. "Well, as Chickasaw is one of the few non-dry counties in Mississippi, we feel we need to make an extra effort to combat drunk driving..."

Joe turns away from the TV, his tanned forehead contorting into a scowl. Even though he's working on beer number lucky seven, he still can't bring himself to look at that face.

"Dunno why he thinks there's gonna be much to find here," Billy says. "Ain't nothin' ever happens 'round Salvage."

"Yep, pretty quiet," Sam chimes in, looking up from his one-man game of pool. "'Cept I don't think that Trenton kid would agree, d'you?" He and Billy share a glance. Further down the bar, Joe's hand clenches around number seven, which doesn't feel quite so lucky anymore.

"Well, no, y'got a point there, Sammy." Carl shakes his head in disbelief, chuckling. "Shit, comin' up on twenty years and they still ain't caught nobody?"

"No indeed. Musta been a right awful state of affairs, though, 'cause I remember hearin' when I was a kid they had to have his poor ma in one of them closed caskets, she was so roughed up--"

"You dunno what the hell you're talkin' about," Joe growls. The others are hesitant to look over at him, as though they'd been all too happy to forget he was there. He totters to his feet, pushing back his barstool with a thick groan of metal scraping against wood. "I don't wanna hear one more fuckin' word about none of that Trenton business."

"Take it easy there, Joe," says Carl. "We're just discussin', is all."

Joe takes a few lurching steps forward. "Y'all think you're so fuckin' smart?" he asks, glowering through the low-lit haze. "I ain't gonna sit here and let you carry on your goddamn discussin'."

Billy bristles, stubbing his cigarette into the ashtray more harshly than usual. "Ain't your place to decide that, Joe."

Joe throws his beer bottle to the floor. It shatters, the remainder of its contents fizzing balefully amongst the shards of amber glass. "I think we oughta step outside, Billy."

"I think you oughta step outside, Joe," says Carl, "and not step back in." He concentrates on squashing down even the tiniest bit of fear, knowing Joe will slip into any little weak spot he can see.

With a final "Fuck you!", Joe storms out of the bar and into the street. The sun hasn't even fully gone down yet, enfolding Main Street in long, low shadows that aren't yet strong enough to trigger the streetlights. He curses and raves as he staggers down the street, his eyes struggling under the double influence of the alcohol and the fluctuating levels of light. As he swims out from the shadow that has spilled itself between the hardware store and the coffee shop, he encounters a woman and a young boy. The woman clutches the child's shoulders and steers him behind her, the color draining from her face. "What the fuck you lookin' at?" he bellows before he can stop himself. He ducks between the two buildings, and when he glances back, he sees her frantically pushing buttons on her cell phone. Muttering under his breath, Joe lopes down the alleyway, knowing he'll have to stick to the back roads and woods if he wants to get where he's going without the cops showing up.

He stumbles along through the slippery grass that marks the transition between road and wood, slapping his palm against the scraggly tree trunks to steady himself. Soon he catches himself wishing he was drunker than he is now, so he wouldn't have to think about where he's going. In the back of his mind, though, he knows it wouldn't make a difference, as he could probably find the place blindfolded. No matter how thoroughly he tries to drown himself in drink or fill himself with vitriol until it bubbles over, there's something about this place that he just can't abandon, as though it had buried an anchor in the pit of his stomach long ago and was now carefully, deliberately reeling him in.

At last, he rounds a curve in the road and knows he has arrived. The driveway is still there. The woods have never managed to completely conquer it; instead, they have filled in a once-severe rectangular tunnel through the shrubbery, creating a rounded, supple curtain that separates what lies beyond from the rest of the world. Through the oldest of the trees, he can see the corner of the roof, pockmarked with missing shingles, and half a boarded-up window. He wants to see the lawn, its graceful slopes once manicured to perfection, now choked and swarming with decades of overgrowth. He knows the truth about where she's buried. Taking a deep breath, he sets off down the old gravel path.

A police siren wails directly behind him, and he shouts and jumps, twisting to face it. Officer Mulborn pulls up and smiles at him as he rolls down the passenger window.

"Evenin', Joe. Heard you were causin' a racket in town just now. I think you oughta come with me."

***

At the station, Joe glares at Officer Mulborn as he's led down the familiar hallway. The portrait of Sergeant Trenton grins at him from above its polished plaque, and he averts his gaze. "You'll have to sober up here," Mulborn says as he ushers Joe into a cell. "We'll let you go in the mornin'." The door clangs shut in front of him, and he sinks down onto the bench, head sagging against the back wall.

It's a slow Monday night at the station, and as far as Joe can tell, he's the only one in there. He's surprised to hear the echo of footsteps down the hallway, and when Sergeant Trenton appears and draws up a chair opposite his cell, it turns to revulsion. He twists sideways on the bench and tilts his head so that his shaggy brown hair will sweep out to his chin, hiding his face.

"Hey, Joe. Had a rough night?" There's still a smile in Chris's voice.

Joe only manages an affirmative grunt in reply; the thought of a conversation with this man makes him want to punch something.

"What's this, your third spin through the drunk tank?"

"Fourth," Joe mutters.

"Ah. Now look, I heard they picked you up over by the old house. What were you doin' over there?" The smile is fading.

"None of your goddamn business."

"I think you know it is my business, Joe. And if you're gonna tell anybody why you're goin' there, it should be me. Remember all those good times we had in that big ol' house? Playin' hide and seek and cops n' robbers and all that?"

Joe shudders and hunches his shoulder up to aid his hair. The alcohol suddenly threatens to make a reappearance, and he doubles over, willing his stomach to stop contracting.
"C'mon," Chris continues, "if the place means that much to you, you really oughta tell me what's goin' on."

Joe whips himself around to face Chris, panting, the muscles in his jaw quivering with the effort to keep his throat under control. "I was out for a walk," he states, with enough finality that even Chris knows it's fruitless to continue.

"Alright then," he says, "I'll come back for you in the mornin'."

Joe waits until the sound of Chris's footsteps has ceased entirely before he lets himself lose control. He folds himself over the cell's toilet seat, choking up the last of the beer.

He remembers his and Chris's games all too well. He remembers the last game of hide-and-seek they ever played. It was a crisp November day, and even though they'd wanted to stay inside and chase each other through the house, Chris's mother had shooed them outside. She and his father were fighting again, Chris had told Joe, it's best to stay out of their way. Joe, however, tired of Chris always winning so easily and frustrated at his lack of ability to find a suitably clever hiding space, had decided to sneak into the house and hide in one of the rooms, knowing Chris would never even think of it. He had chosen the armoire in Chris's mother's bedroom and gleefully crawled inside, not bothered by the sounds of his parents screaming at each other several rooms away.

When the screams got louder and closer, however, he began to worry, and was just about to make a run for it when the door flew open and Chris's mother was shoved through, closely followed by the father. They argued for another minute or so, though Joe can't remember a single word either of them actually said, before the father attacked. He threw his hands around her throat and squeezed, shouting at her all the while; she began gasping and choking, her mouth twisted into a misshapen oval, the lips turning bluer and bluer. Through it all her eyes stayed focused on the father's face; the raw fear and disbelief in them was enough to make Joe's head spin. The sharp snapping noise sent him over the edge, and he shrank back into the armoire, hiding his face in one of her dresses. Finally, when she had stopped moving and lay sprawled on the floor, he summoned his courage and peeked out. Her neck lolled at a grotesque angle and was blooming with purple splotches. His shifting weight must have made a noise, as the father had thrown open the door and stared at him, his face as red as his wife's had turned white.

"You -- get on outta here! You just go!" he had shrieked, pointing at the door.

Joe had gritted his teeth. "I'll tell everybody! You ain't gonna win!"

The father had grabbed him by his shirt collar and pulled him frighteningly close. "You do that, boy, and she won't be the only dead momma 'round here." The father had flung him towards the door, and Joe had started running, not daring to look back.

Joe drags himself back to the bench, curling up on it as best he can and trying to ignore the moonlight streaming in through the window above. He refuses to look at the wall opposite his cell, where Chris had stood only minutes before, as he cannot bear to look at the portrait of Police Chief Christopher Trenton, Sr., hanging next to that of his son.