Do No Harm

A rat scurried unseen through the mound of unwashed clothes that curled around the base of his twin bed. The bedside lamp, a yellow porcelain number bearing a Motel 6 sticker, had been draped with a thin purple scarf. It provided meager, diffuse light.

His pupils twitched twice to the left. He grunted through his nose and turned back to the work at hand. Pushing the needle into the gray DrainEze bottle, he withdrew the plunger, filling the syringe with the vivid blue liquid. With a jerk of his thumb, he pushed the syringe down, sending a thin spurt of alkali across the tabletop. The liquid pooled in minuscule drops, eating slowly into the tabletop. His wide mouth split in a grin, the corners curving back toward his low-set ears.

Two other DrainEze bottles sat on the table, industrial-sized with juglike handles. Two glasses of cloudy water waited near his right hand, beside a small surgeon's tray that contained syringes, needles, and a scalpel. His right shin nudged an open metal footlocker holding a host of medical tools and devices.

Across the thigh of his scrub bottoms, a series of tiny holes in the fabric revealed glossy spots of scarred skin. Cautiously lowering the needle, Clyde positioned it just past the last hole in the scrubs. He sank the plunger slowly, allowing several drops of liquid to dribble from the needle. The liquid ate quickly through the thin scrubs, and he shrieked and jerked his leg as it began to attack his flesh.

Grabbing the glass of water, he poured it over the wound. The water darkened his scrubs in a flame pattern, with licks reaching down his calf. Holding his leg still with his other hand, he poured the second glass of water over his thigh. Then he placed both hands flat on the table and sat perfectly still, whimpering softly as the last drops of alkali continued to burn in his flesh. His face grew shiny with sweat.

After a while, Clyde stood and headed into the kitchen. He filled a glass with water from the tap and drank it, three times successively, before placing the glass back in the cluttered sink. Opening a can of wet cat food, he dumped the contents on top of the mound of cylinder-shaped servings already overflowing the small bowl. Twitching his fingers, he made a kissing noise, but no cat came.

The skull tattoo on the outside of his flabby biceps caught his attention, and he returned to the footlocker, produced a cotton ball, and doused it with rubbing alcohol. The skull lifted easily from his skin, blackening the moist side of the cotton. Continuing to rub at his biceps, he lumbered to the clothes mound at the base of his bed, unearthed a stained mirror, and propped it against a wall. With a raspy groan, he slid from his scrub bottoms, then stood and stared at his reflection. A series of alkali burns dotted his right thigh, like the marks of small, burrowing insects. Most of them were scarred over, gnarled knots of fire-red flesh. The freshest wound wept a clear, viscous fluid, which caked on the thick black hairs of his leg.

Cupping his limp penis in his hand, Clyde crossed to his bed and pulled the strewn sheets up into rough position. When he climbed in, his bulk took up most of the width of the bed, his shoulders pressing back into the child's headboard. He dug for a pack of cigarettes beneath the sheets and squeezed it until the top popped open. Only two cigarettes remained. Placing them in his mouth side by side, he lit them together and smoked them as one unit.

The blackness outside his window had lightened to a grayish cast. Smoking his cigarettes and plugging his leaking wound with a fat thumb, he waited for morning.

Chapter 5

THE modern Greek-style house peeked out from behind bunches of pampas grass and fan palms, the leaves throwing perfect shadows against the white stucco. Between the home's windows, vines of split-leaf philodendron snaked up the walls, the glossy dark-green leaves flapping in the breeze like atrophied wings. On the front lawn, two large palm trees crisscrossed like necking flamingos. Situated on Marlboro Street in Brentwood, David's house was a few blocks south of Sunset but still close enough that the occasional passing semi ever so slightly vibrated the paintings on the walls. The house seemed almost shy, set back a good twenty yards from the street.

A blaring car horn in the distance awoke David at 5:30. He turned beneath his comforter, removing his earplugs and placing them in a nightstand drawer. He heard the traffic immediately, and wondered if there was a more effective brand of earplug that might rescue him from the all-hour sounds of Sunset Boulevard.