Read The Peacock Angel: Rise of the Decarchs Page 12
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Lucky Melendez was having trouble with his knees once again. Patiently he dumped the brown water out of his bucket and into the utility sink. Then, by flipping the bucket, he created a seat for himself. He eased his body down until his bony ass was comfortably nested in.
From where he sat, just outside of the utility closet and near the wall phone, his dark skin and chocolate uniform blended well with the shadows in the hall. Ahead, stepping into the lights, the young deputy appeared.
The man looked boyish to Lucky. That saddened him because he knew what must unfold here tonight. Youth was something that Lucky treasured. He had been young once, and strong, but that had been many, many, years ago. Now he was a pawn, and kept alive purely for malicious reasons.
He hated it. He hated the things that he had done. He longed to be released from his servitude, but he was powerless against the forces that bound him. His life was forfeit. There would be no happy ending for Lucky.
Stupid old man. Look what you've become . . . a monster.
Methodically, he rolled up the pants legs of his uniform and reached into a much worn carpenters tool belt that hung loosely from his hips. In it he kept items that were essential for him to complete his daily tasks around the hospital—screwdrivers, pliers, and such. The most important item of all was a tube of generic ointment that offered him some relief for his hobbled old legs. He grabbed for it and squeezed a king size dollop into his palm. As he rested on the bucket, he saturated both of his legs with the slimy gel. Lucky couldn't imagine life without the greasy mess. The relief was almost immediate. So was the odor.
I smell like a goddamn Christmas tree.
It was a land mine that had caused all the damage. Lucky had been in his prime then. The year was 1943. He had been a leader of men. He couldn't remember where in France he caught all the shrapnel in his leg, but it really didn't matter. The damage was done. Besides, it was a useless thought to ponder.
Nobody gives a horse shit about such things nowadays.
A shell of his former self, that was Lucky. He was tainted and that sometimes made it hard for him to cope. His job was the only thing left in his life that he cared about. There was no glory in being a hospital custodian, but it soon became his sole focus. He attacked his employ with as much vigor as he could muster because it gave him a reason to exist that was his own. And no matter how trivial that reason might be, it offered Lucky a little solace.
More so however, Lucky used the job to help purge his conscious. He could never atone for all that he had done, but he continued to battle with the unclean portion of his soul. Sometimes he even turned to God for help . . . whispering prayers in the darkness of the utility closet . . . begging for forgiveness . . . asking Him to make it all stop. But God never answered. And they would always interrupt.
They mocked him.
They cursed him.
They reminded him of the choice he had made.
They told him he would never see paradise.
They were right. He would burn just as soon as they were through with him. He was too much of a coward to take his own life and end the evil that he had become. He feared the flames. He knew they were real.
So he continued to do their bidding. Hopeless and tortured, he continued to do their bidding.
A monster . . . a goddamn monster that is going to burn.
Slowly he twisted the tiny white cap back on the tube. He placed it back in its proper place and reached into the opposite side of his handy belt. Here, resting next to a half used roll of duct tape, laid a fairly new utility knife. Lucky grabbed the knife and brought it out of the leather pouch. Using his thumb, he pushed the blade out and stared at its sharpness. The little light that was in the hall reflected off of the razor edge.
Lucky began to feel a familiar stirring in his groin, and he realized that his time to play host was at hand. Soon, the stirring spread throughout his entire self, and he was no longer alone inside his decrepit shell of a body. Regretfully, he made a last conscious thought, and then he relinquished control of his flesh to a separate entity.