Page 10 of Creeping Lily

TITAN

H alf of me is dead.

It’s the half that once carried my heart — the part built for feeling, for love, for the ache that makes you human.

Now that side is hollow. A cavern inside my chest where the wind howls but nothing answers.

I don’t feel anymore. Not joy, not rage, not sorrow. Just the numbing chill that’s spread like frost through my veins, sealing off anything alive in me. A shield, maybe. Or a curse.

I strip off my shirt and face the mirror.

The scar starts at my breastbone, slicing across my ribs before curling around to my back — a warped brand of thick, leathery skin. It’s ugly. It’s permanent. It’s mine.

My fingertips skim it, and the nerves scream — a thousand phantom needles dancing under the surface. Heat flares, sharp and cruel, yet still I feel… nothing real. No pain. No relief.

I grunt and drag a black T-shirt over my head. It falls loose to my waist, brushing the top of my fatigues.

The man in the glass doesn’t feel familiar. Hollow eyes. Skin weathered by too many nights staring into darkness. A jaw set like stone. I smooth a hand over my scalp — hair cropped short, bristling against my palm. Feels like touching a stranger.

Contacts go in. A blink. Then another. The world sharpens into focus, but the reflection doesn’t change.

Everything is different. Yet somehow, nothing has changed.

The stranger in the mirror fits into my life too well — like an unwelcome guest who’s decided to stay.

I grab my phone and keys from the hall table, sling a small overnight bag across my shoulder. The strap bites, but the weight is nothing compared to the lead inside me.

Out in the hallway, the air feels heavy, like the world’s holding its breath. Colors are muted. Sound muffled. My boots scrape the floor, every step sluggish, as if the air itself resists me.

I try — just for a second — to summon a spark of feeling. Anger. Anticipation. Anything.

Nothing answers. Just the same cold void in my chest.

At the door, I pause and take a breath. It feels thick, suffocating. I push through it and step into the daylight.

The street below hums with life — cars passing, strangers brushing shoulders — but I’m a ghost among them. No one looks at me. No one sees me. I move down the metal stairs, cross the lot to where my Pontiac waits, and it’s like I never existed.

Still, the man in the mirror walks with me. A shadow draped over every move I make.

I turn the key. The Pontiac’s engine growls, deep and alive in a way I’m not. Tires bite into asphalt, and I hit the interstate.

This job’s different. Not routine. Not another box to tick off for the sake of a paycheck. For weeks, I’ve been drowning in cut-and-dry assignments that leave me emptier than when I started. But today… today’s work has bite.

Depot. That’s where I’m headed .

A little town with no tourists, no outsiders, and no reason to exist except habit. The smart ones left years ago. The rest are too old, too stubborn, or too tied to the land to run.

Once, Depot had gold in its hills. Now it’s just rust, dust, and three thousand souls clinging to the bones of something that died long ago. They call it their slice of heaven. I see hell — the slow kind, the one that seeps under your skin and degrades you from the inside out.

I pull up in front of the tavern, one of maybe half a dozen storefronts lining the strip. Two men sit on a bench out front, eyes tracking me like they’ve been expecting me. One tips his cowboy hat. Doesn’t speak. I’m not here long enough to make friends, but long enough to make an impression.

Inside, the tavern smells faintly of beer and old wood. Modern touches try to hide the bones of a saloon, but the place still hums with the kind of silence that makes people turn to look when a stranger walks in.

The bartender glances up from his paper, his gaze lingering on me before flicking toward a man at the far end of the bar.

Late forties. Heavyset. Built like a bull who’s been left to graze too long. His face is broad, skin ruddy and sun-weathered, with deep lines carved around his mouth and eyes. Jowls hang heavy, the weight of them deepening his scowl every time he drinks.

His eyes — small, dark, and sharp — move over the room like searchlights, pausing just long enough on each person to remind them they’ve been seen. His neck bulges against the collar of his shirt, like the fabric’s one wrong breath from tearing.

I walk in slow, boots creaking over the boards. Conversations die. The air tightens, heavier with each step I take. They don’t know who I am, but they know why I’m here.

The man at the bar feels it too. He turns, and when his gaze locks onto mine, a slow, humorless smile spreads across his face. It doesn’t touch his eyes. Those stay cold.

He thinks I’m his next meal.

I see a dead man who hasn’t realized it yet.

“You new in town?”

The voice comes from the far end of the bar — deep, gravelly, with just enough bite to test a stranger.

“Just rolled in,” I answer, casual as a summer breeze. I know exactly what I look like to him: money that doesn’t know better, a soft mark wrapped in casual charm. It’s the bait, and I’m dangling it. I sit two stools down, nursing my drink, keeping my body language loose.

“Who the hell drives all the way out here to Bumfuck?” he snarls, like the town name itself tastes bad.

“Just passing through,” I say, shrugging. “Car overheated. Figured I’d stop, give her a once-over.”

His eyes shift past me, finding what he’s really interested in — my Pontiac gleaming under the midday sun through the tavern’s glass partition. It’s a classic, and she’s immaculate. Cost me more than I care to admit, but worth every cent. I knew she’d turn his head before I even pulled into town.

“That yours?”

The hunger in his stare tells me I’ve already got him halfway hooked.

“Yeah,” I say. “Had her since college.”

“You selling?”

“Nah, she’s not for sale.”

“Everything’s for sale,” he shoots back, leaning in a little, “for a price.”

I don’t answer right away. Just turn back to my glass, tracing a finger along the rim. My silence makes him bristle — I can feel it in the way the air changes, the weight of his glare against my profile. I let him sit with it. Let him think he’s working on me when I’m the one setting the trap.

“You got a place to stay?” he asks.

“You know a place?”

“I got a spare room. You could crash for the night.”

“Appreciate it, man,” I tell him, letting a hint of gratitude creep into my voice. “Happy to make it worth your while.” And oh, will I.

“Don’t mention it,” he says, eyes skating over me from head to toe. My clothes, my watch, my whole look screams money — exactly the impression I want.

“Walt Barnaby,” he offers with a crooked half-smile.

“You sure your missus won’t mind me crashing the party?” I ask.

His grin sharpens into something lewd. “She won’t mind a bit.” He thinks he’s reeling me in. He has no idea I’ve already got the hook in deep.

When I stand and follow him toward the door, I take in the room one last time. Every set of eyes is on me. They know why I’m here. I’ve made no attempt to hide it. In a perfect world, they’d thank me for what’s about to happen. Tomorrow, they won’t even remember my face.

We step out into the street. Walt climbs into his truck, and I fire up the Pontiac, trailing him out of the small strip of shops and onto a winding rural road. The town falls away into overgrown lots and boarded-up windows. Ghost town territory.

His place is a single-story brick-and-tile relic, slouched between two abandoned houses. Weeds choke the yards. Windows are nailed shut. He waves me into the backyard to park — says it’s safer there. More likely he doesn’t want curious eyes seeing his new houseguest .

The back door is a flyscreen hanging on by a prayer, the mesh torn wide in a diagonal slash. Walt steps through into the chaos beyond, and I follow.

The stench hits first — stale grease, rotting food, old beer. Dirty dishes and pizza boxes pile high on every surface.

A woman stands at a makeshift counter, a crying child balanced on her hip while she scrubs at a plate with the kind of mechanical detachment that comes from doing it a thousand times.

She startles when we walk in, her eyes darting from him to me.

There’s fear there, sharp and immediate, though she masks it as best she can.

She’s young — twenty-two at most. Her frame is slight under a worn, threadbare dress that hangs loose to her knees.

Hair the color of dirty straw falls limp around her face, streaked with unnatural gray.

Even under the neglect, I can see traces of beauty.

Maybe she was stunning once, but time with a man like Walt strips that away, piece by piece.

“Deanna,” Walt says, pointing at her like she’s an object, not a person.

He’s even given her a new name.

“Calder,” I offer, lifting a hand in a lazy wave. She nods, cautious, but the fear doesn’t leave her eyes.

“Cal’s taking the spare room tonight,” Walt tells her. His tone has a weight I can’t quite place, but she can — her shoulders tense, breath quickening. “Just for the night, then he’ll be gone.”

She exhales, but I can’t tell if it’s relief or disappointment.

He excuses himself to “take a piss,” disappearing through a door at the back. I take the chair at the small dining table, its position giving me a clear view of both her and the doorway.

The kid on her hip has gone quiet, studying me with wide, unblinking eyes. I don’t speak. I just watch. She moves around the cramped kitchen, avoiding my gaze, the motion of her hands quick and practiced .

This is the woman I came here for.

And looking at her — at the life she’s been caged in — I can’t help thinking the same thing:

The poor woman never stood a chance.