Brightside, Mark Tullius [philippa perry book .TXT] 📗

I FIND SHARON IN HER office. She’s with this frail Spanish man, one of the new Brightsiders.

I shout at her, “What the hell did you do?”

“Hello, Joe, as you can see I’m with a patient.”

The little Spanish man stares at me with his sad eyes, but mine are locked on Sharon’s. “You can’t do this,” I tell her. “You can’t send Sara—”

“Let’s lower our voices.” Unless you want to go with your girlfriend? That can be arranged, you know?

I realize the Spanish man speaks no English. He says, “Debo ir?”

“No,” Sharon says. “Joe’s leaving.”

“No, no estoy,” I tell her. Then I turn to the man and say, “Salir!”

The man picks up his hat from his lap and scurries out of the room.

Sharon forces a smile and closes the door. “Glad to see those tapes are paying off.”

“You can’t lock her away in—”

Quiet! You want us all to end up in there? Now, just let—

Why did you do this?

Because she was never going to come.

You don’t know that.

Actually, I do. And she knows too much. It’ll get her hurt. She’ll be safe there.

Safe?

Yes.

And Danny?

He’ll be joining her shortly.

Sharon and her perfect plan. I realize I have no idea who this woman is. First she’s spewing New Age bullshit. Now’s she’s the leader of a revolution.

No one’s ever what they seem on the surface.

“You need to go back to work,” Sharon says. “Finish the day.”

I picture my office, Sara’s desk, the one that used to be Rachel’s.

Rachel...crumpled in my closet like some disfigured sex doll.

Sharon’s eyes widen, horrified. She has no idea. It wasn’t part of her plan. Sharon’s not perfect after all. She just made herself believe she could handle things. Just like I made myself believe I could pull this off.

Joe...

But I want nothing to do with Sharon’s thoughts. I walk out, head back to my office.

People pass by my door, which is thankfully closed. I hear Carlos so I click out of solitaire. I can’t tell how many people are with him, but I guess three or four. The high heels either Frances or Gloria. That laugh, all Alex. Poor Alex, thinking his rose is going to win Rachel’s heart. I consider telling him he can have it. It’s just sitting in my closet, inside Rachel’s chest.

Carlos and the others start laughing, wanting everyone to hear how happy they are. I open my sales spreadsheet and customer list so it looks like I’m working. I don’t even know why I’m still pretending, but I’m on automatic. Shock does that to me. It’s keeping me from losing it. I start rearranging pictures of condos into regions. The two-bedroom with the kitchenette is South America. The penthouse with the hammocks on the balcony go in the Australia/New Zealand pile. Everything in its little place. Everything separated like Brightsiders from normals; Sharon’s secret club and those better off in the Cabin. People like Sara and Danny.

Alex speaks way too loud, same as always. “What do you say, Carlos? Oscar’s for dinner?”

Carlos is right outside my door. “I don’t want to make plans yet,” he said. “I have a feeling about today.”

I sit up and wonder if Carlos is one of Sharon’s elite, the chosen few who get to leave. I asked Sharon why not everyone. She said there were too many liabilities, too many who’d already become institutionalized. Part of that was her fault. Her Zen bullshit actually convinced some of these pathetic souls Brightside was for the best, that they’d never want to leave if they just opened themselves up to the possibilities, the wonder of this mountain town. Sadly, that’s exactly what is going to happen to these poor fucks. They’ll never leave, not after today.

Carlos knocks, I put the phone to my ear. He pops his head in, sees me nodding.

“...Yes, right on the beach, where you can rent jet skis,” I say to my imaginary client.

Carlos whispers, “How’s it going?”

I give him the thumbs up.

Carlos winks, closes the door. His shirts are always vertical stripes. Today’s is red, makes him look like a candy cane.

I have to piss, but they’re all still standing there, asking what everyone’s plans are for the weekend. I want to go out and say a few of us will be dead at the bottom of the mountain. Might even get a few bullet holes if we’re up for it. The rest can forget about sleeping in. They’ll be in the Cabin soon enough.

My bladder’s throbbing, but I wait until the laughter’s gone. I take a peek, see a clear shot to the hallway bathroom, start humming to block everything out. My pace makes me more conspicuous than if I set myself on fire, but I make it to the urinal in the back corner, away from Lenny popping a zit in the mirror. I aim at the drain, counting off random numbers so I can’t think about anything else. Lenny leaves. I stuff myself back in my pants, walk over to the sinks, and do my best not to look at the mirror. Men don’t cry in bathrooms, at least when there’s a chance another dude might come in.

I wash my hands and notice a small dribble of blood where my thumbnail disappears into the skin. I scrub and scrub and scrub, seeing Rachel’s faceless body, my hands swirling around the contents of her head on the floor. When I take my thumb out from under the water, I realize it’s my blood, not Rachel’s, because the blood dribbles out again.

I’m drying my hands when Wendell, top salesman for the past three months, hurries in, all four hundred pounds of him between me and the wall, saying excuse me as he sticks his hands under the faucet, his massive paws splashing water all over the counter.

There are three paper towels left. I wait for Wendell to finish and hand them to him, so he can finally take a piss. Wendell won’t touch his dick unless he washes his hands. I have no idea why, just his thing.

Wendell’s spraying the blue cake, thinking about the weekend, possibly barbecuing a nice burger in the Brightside park.

There’s no way Wendell’s a part of Sharon’s plan. I suddenly feel sorry for him, that big dumb bear. Stuck here with all the rest of the ones Sharon decided are too risky.

Wendell still hates me for what happened at the bar when I let out all my thoughts about everyone, all my judgments.  I give him a smile to apologize, to say goodbye.

He looks at me like I’m hitting on him and quickly exits, not even thinking he should wash after handling himself.

The emergency exit is down the hall on the other side of the bathrooms. I consider heading for it, taking it to the roof so I can perform Paul’s plunge, but with the helicopter still hovering, I won’t even make it to the ledge.

This is the helicopter Sharon says I have to take care of, as if I have any chance. Most likely, I’ll end up in smaller pieces than Rachel. That’s probably what Sharon wants. After barging into her office, I’m proving to be the biggest risk of all. It’s probably just another part of Sharon’s clusterfuck of a plan, to use me as a scapegoat. Everything’s accelerated because of Wayne. Since he broke out, the Boots have been patrolling, searching for anything amiss, for his crazy ass.

Sheriff Melvin has disabled a lot of the cameras, according to Sharon. It’s why they haven’t found Wayne. It’s buying us time, just like all the bleach in my room. But the Boots will eventually fix the cameras so we have to be ready. A big spotlight will be put on every nook and cranny. The whole town won’t be able to sneeze without someone watching. They’ll see us gathering, find the mineshaft. Our one dumb shot at escape will be gone, and anyone in Sharon’s special club will be locked away, some in the Cabin, the others down with the orange jumpsuits.

Sharon and I will end up together, most likely underground. The rest of my days with that fucking lunatic, who truly believes she’s a revolutionary. I can’t deny she’s been impressive. For almost two years she’s integrated, assimilated, wedged her skinny butt into everything Brightside. I can’t imagine trying to pretend for that long. I couldn’t even keep Sara from Rachel, couldn’t tell Rachel I loved her. I’m the fucking coward Dad always warned me about.

“The crazy leads the men to battle, but the coward gets them killed.”

I’m not going to make it if I keep thinking like this. I have to stay positive, get through the day. That’s what Dad also said. “Worry about tomorrow, tomorrow. And if it doesn’t come, then your worries are over.”

I can’t do anything but worry. It doesn’t help being trapped in my office, hearing my coworkers out there bitch about the coffee, the cold weather, the lack of selection in the vending machine. They have no idea what’s happening around them, but it’s probably for the best. It’s the little things that keep us from putting a shotgun in our mouths and blowing out our wonderfully gifted brains.

That’s what I’m thinking as the clock refuses to budge. Rachel ran out of distractions, the inconsequential crap that keeps us from seeing how awful our lives really are. She knew I didn’t love her, that no one ever would, not like she needed. So she took control, found the only foolproof way out of Brightside.

I keep picturing the night