The Lurking Man by Keith Rommel

details.
    â€œWhy?” he said. “Why does my deformity affect you so?”
    â€œI . . .” she fell silent and tried to identify the reason. “I’m not sure.”
    â€œI understand and I’ve brought you the reason.”
    A black box slid into the circle of light. Curiosity brought Cailean to her feet and she inspected the box with caution.
    â€œWhat’s inside it?” she said.
    â€œIt holds the answer to one of the many questions of what happened to Beau.”

Chapter 6
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    DYSFUNCTION
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    The past.
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    Cailean leaned against her bedroom wall and took a deep breath. The room quivered and the feeling of nausea intensified and consumed her completely. She held a bottle of wine in one hand and reached the other hand out and tried to take hold of a nearby dresser. Swaying, she fell into the dresser and swept trinkets away sending them crashing to the floor as she tried to grab onto something that would keep her upright. She managed to secure her grip on the beveled corner of the dresser.
    â€œI’ve got this,” she mumbled and struggled to maintain her balance.
    A rolling cramp filled her stomach. Without warning the pain raced up her throat and came out as a forceful belch. Bile coated her tongue and her eyes were bright with tears.
    â€œDamn,” she said and spit on the floor. She released her grip on the dresser to wipe her mouth and fell pliant. She hit the floor hard and flopped on her side.
    A maniacal laugh escaped her mouth and filled the room as she howled at how clumsy and outright drunk she was. The sound of her fitful titter mimicked that of the thing that filled her head and helped keep the pang in her soul fresh. But still, within the emptiness that was inside, there was a small part of her that desired something good. She always had a need to keep it quiet and chose to sedate it with heavy doses of alcohol and plenty of confrontation.
    â€œDon’t forget that everything is my fault,” she slurred and laughed some more. “Why wouldn’t it be? I’m an easy target.”
    To her surprise, she’d held onto the bottle of wine she had before she fell and hadn’t spilled a drop.
    â€œLook at me,” she mumbled with a celebratory smile and held it up like a trophy. Laboring to get herself into a sitting position, she licked her lips. Swinging the bottle awkwardly, she brought it to her waiting lips and tilted her head back in anticipation.  
    She lost her balance and pitched backwards. The wine splashed her face and she slapped both hands on the ground to keep herself from falling over.
    â€œOh no,” she said and watched in horror as the bottle rolled away from her, spilling its precious cargo with each departing turn. She gave the wet floor and the bottle a long, indignant stare as if it had cheated her somehow.
    â€œDrunken idiot,” she said, and crawled to the spilled wine. She lapped the small puddle off of the floor and picked up the bottle. Shaking it, she could hear the remaining liquid sloshing around. At least a mouthful or better remained and that encouraged her to finish it, but this time she did so with care.
    When she was done, the anguish within remained unsatisfied by what she provided it and demanded something more.
    You should kill yourself. No one will care and it would do a lot of people a favor.
    Those words and the desire to obey them brought back a memory she would rather forget. Rolling up her sleeves, she looked at the raised scar tissue that started at the center of either wrist and sinuously extended along the entire length of her forearm. They stopped at the antecubital fossas—reminders of how low she had sunk. She avoided looking at them and often opted to wear long sleeve shirts year round.
    The disfigurement twisted her expression into pure disgust. Her suffering had made her desperate—and that made her dangerous.
    She looked away only to discover her