Brian Kelly Irons

The heat is relentless. There’s no sun due to the cloud coverage but you could fry an egg on the sidewalk. A young girl of 8 years skates up and down the street with her friends. It’s summer vacation and the neighborhood is full of laughter. Backyard barbecues and swimming pools had replaced spelling tests and book reports. Little Brittany Parker, with her bright pink shorts and the Tye-dyed Metallica t-shirt that drove her mother crazy, came to a stop in front of Kim Carbonara’s house. She put her fingers in her mouth and whistled just like Dad taught her when he took her to an Indian’s game last year.
A screen down slams and Kimmy comes bouncing out to join her friends. From across the street, a name is called. It’s Carly’s mom—Carly Wingate; she was new to school this year. Her mother, Rhonda, a single parent with apparently nothing else to wear except for the shortest cut-off shorts in the world, called all the girls over for sandwiches and lemonade. Brittany held back for just a moment as she looked over at her father who was watching from the front yard while planting flowers. With a wink and a nod, Brittany took off across the street and Dad went back to his gardening.
Tires squealed, and voices were raised in terror. Time stood forever still, and Holden Parker stood for nearly half a second before fainted and fell over.

Holden woke with a desperate wail, clutching at himself out of raw fear. He hadn’t meant to fall asleep, yet on most nights when the whiskey or the tequila came knocking on his door, he would answer, in hopes that he would black out and not remember. This cheesy side-show trick never worked. No matter what he tried, sleep always came for him, and usually when he would least expect it. Even after getting hooked on cocaine his body still managed to shut down. Yet it was his mind that he wished he could turn off for good. Because in the dark recesses of his subconscious lurked the most unimaginable evil the world had ever seen. An evil so foul and lecherous that it made Holden not ever want to sleep again.
He stood from the kitchen table where he had fallen asleep, his face looking more lugubrious than usual, and splashed ice-cold water on his face from the tap. His skin was ashen and pale from lack of sunlight. He moved like a sloth in a hurry—washing out the coffee pot that looked decades old. Where most people enjoy a cup of coffee, or two—sometimes three, Holden Parker enjoyed three pots of coffee in a single afternoon. He filled the coffee maker with water and placed the pot, now clean, back on the warmer. His movements were slightly truncated as he stepped back to the table and reached for his cigarettes. He returned to the chair he woke from and lit a cigarette—pulling the smoke deep into his lungs where it held there for as long as he could stand it.
His cell phone rang and he reached across the table. As far as Holden was concerned, there was only one person who would be calling him this early in the morning on a Saturday. He thumbed the green button to receive the call.
“A little early, don’t ya think?”
“I knew you’d be awake.”
“Because I’m always awake.”
“Holden…”
“What do ya want, Julie?”
Julie Parker never shied away from an opportunity to fix something or someone, and usually that someone was her ex-husband, Holden. They had been happily married for fourteen years before the tragedy that took their Brittany away from them. The weeks that followed the accident had been spent holding each other next to their daughter’s hospital bed—praying that she would wake up. They gained strength from each other and kept a positive attitude. They stayed there with their sleeping daughter, while doctors and nurses came and went—taking vital signs, and performing test after test. Julie and Holden searched the faces desperately for a warm smile or a hint of good news. And yet, none came. After four weeks, and as many surgeries, Brittany slipped into a coma and lost any and all brain activity.
After three months, the Parkers gave up on any hope that their daughter was somehow still alive. They slipped into a darkness that no parent should ever have to experience. They entered grief counseling together and attempted to come to grips with what happened. They spent months holding off the inevitable: nothing would ever be the same again. No words from some professional could ever make anything easier.
They spent another six months in couples therapy before they understood that no matter how much they loved each other and cared for one another, they could no longer be together. It had become far too painful to be in the same room together. The divorce was quick and painless, at least as much as it could be. It was never about love, they both knew they would always love each other. It was about the pain, and not wanting to feel that anymore. So they sold the house, boxed up the memories, split whatever money they had, and went their separate ways. This separation lasted all of five days. It was a lonely Christmas Eve when Holden called his ex-wife. She answered and they talked for hours, still unable to be near each other. Since that time, phone calls became a weekly ritual, like a pill that keeps you alive but you wish you didn’t have to take.
“Don’t give me that shit, Holden,” She scolded. “You know what fucking day it is.”
“Has it been another year already?”
Today was Brittany’s twelfth birthday. Holden hadn’t forgotten. Frankly, he would never forget her birthday. He simply decided—not too long ago, to no longer acknowledge the day. Birthday parties with pink ribbons hanging from pigtails and ponytails, popcorn and pizza, and late night sleepovers had become some of his fondest memories. Her sixth birthday stuck out in particular. She had asked for a beach theme. The logistics of which had turned into a nightmare. She wanted sand by the pool, and tropical drinks with ‘that funny coconut flavor.’ She wanted inflatable dolphins and blow-up flamingos. The entire house smelled of sun tanning lotion for a week afterward, but it was worth it.
“Don’t be an ass.”
“Was there something you wanted, or is this your usual annoying daily call, because honestly, Julie…I’m not in the mood.”
“Are you getting any sleep?”
“Here and there. I fell asleep at the kitchen table last night; or this morning. It’s all a blur.”
“I’m worried about you.”
“Every day you tell me that you’re worried about me and every day I turn out okay.”
“How’s the book coming along?”
“I’m at about 36,000 words. Look, Julie, I would love to chit chat but I have some stuff I gotta do.”
“I knew you’d be up and I just needed to talk.”
Holden cringed and let out a plume of smoke.
“Is something wrong, Julie?” He held his breath and waited, the cigarette dangling from his lips, ready for the execution. As he usually did when she got nostalgic, he flinched at the sound of the gun.
“I miss you, Holden.” Shots fired! Shots fired! “I miss us.” Man Down!
“I know you do J, but I can’t do this right now. At some point this morning, I have to head to the station. The FBI is closing the case on the missing boy.”
“That poor woman. Can I call you tonight?”
“Do I have a choice?”
“No, you don’t”
“Goodbye, Julie.”
Holden clicked his phone off and rubbed a crease into his forehead. Of course, he missed her as well but there was nothing he could do about it. He was a broken man. In as little as an hour, he would accidentally fall asleep and experience the same nightmare that woke him at the table. The same nightmare he had every time he fell asleep. For a long time, he accepted it, even welcomed it as penance for allowing his child to die. It was his fault and he consigned to forever take the blame. That was the largest crack in the foundation of their marriage. Holden blamed himself and resented Julie for not allowing him to.
After three cigarettes—one after another while staring out the back door window, he stood unceremoniously and walked with little purpose down the hall toward the shower. Cold water would buy him maybe another two hours. Holden paused outside a closed door. His heart hurt at the sight of the worn wood and tarnished knob. Tape residue remained visible where posters and signs stating: Keep Out! Had once been displayed. For the first time in over a year, Holden opened the door and stood just outside the threshold. With his eyes tightly closed, he inhaled the faint smell of apple juice—her favorite, and stale chicken fingers.
He stepped inside a room that time had forgotten. When Julie had finally moved out, Holden chose to never enter the room. It had stopped being a bedroom and became a chamber of nightmares, with monsters and demons lurking in every shadow, and every corner of the room that was once filled with pink. Pink was Brittany’s favorite color, as it was most girls her age. And it was the color of choice for the decor in her room. Pink bedspread and bedsheets; with pillowcases to match. Pink stuffed animals of every type and size. She even had a poster of Pink, the singer. Now the pink had disappeared. Gray was the prominent shade, but Holden could still see the pink through the dust motes and cobwebs. But this was no longer a child’s sanctuary. To Holden, it had become an abattoir. A place of slaughter.
Knowingly breaking his own rule, Holden sat down slowly onto Brittany’s bed; still made from Julie’s last days in the room. Dust exploded from the pink Hello Kitty comforter in a snowstorm of gray haze. To his left, opposite the bed along the wall near the window, was a collage of photographs; mostly of friends from school. Yet one photo stood out, and Holden reached for it and ripped it from its home.
The once glossy snapshot had faded with time and grayed with sorrow. A tree stood like a giant, holding a tire swing from its largest branch. Brittany sat within the tire as Holden pushed her as the tires spun. She couldn’t have been more than five or six, Julie holding the camera while her child beamed with joy. Even now, after all this time, Holden could still hear her voice like an echo trapped within the walls.
“Higher Daddy, higher!”
He brought the dusty photo to his face and held it there as tears threatened to evacuate their hiding place. The smell offers a redolence to the past. Holden inhaled and tasted the bitter tang of sour nostalgia. His anguish was palpable as the image of his sweet little girl grew translucent, like gossamer on an early summer morning.
It was a grief that only a father can know. Sadness, anguish, despair. These were merely words—nouns in the midst of a sentence that had no proper structure.
Holden tossed the photo to the ground where it landed on the carpet in a gray pillow of neglect, and fell upon the child-size bed, instantly closing his eyes. He knew full well the consequences of this action. Ultimately, his body took charge and made him sleep. Soon enough the nightmare would come. It was always there—waiting for the perfect opportunity to sink its teeth into the neck of the hapless victim.