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Addiction To Darkness  -FOX

A thundering storm approaches amidst the night sky. The dark clouds conceal the few twinkling stars in the sky as if to silence them, and the streets of Chicago never seemed so desolate. In a third story apartment a well-dressed man lights another cigarette as he leans back in his armchair listening to the cries of the raindrops attacking his window. A single ray of light penetrated the window to highlight one of his saddened blue eyes. The nameplate on his mahogany office desk read “Oliver Wood” in thin dark lettering. Not once in his life had he felt this much contempt. All evidence pointed to him leading a happy life with his late wife Rose until, someday long after today, they’d die old together in each other’s arms. To him, he was the victim of a tragic betrayal and would never understand why something like this would happen. He had always loved Rose. He was always faithful and saw no flaws in her. He gave her everything she ever wanted and more, and still she rests in a morgue with undeviating track marks in both arms. He constantly wondered how he never noticed before. Lately, he had been invested in the novel he’d been writing, but the scars suggest that she’d be using for well over a year. Something about this didn’t feel right. Wood always had a slight anger problem but he kept it controlled, and certainly never inflicted any injuries on Rose. He was always a peaceful man who always thought that diplomacy should come before violence. Now he sits in the darkness ignoring every sympathetic phone call and every piece of mail that now clutters his countertop. Putting out the cigarette after taking one final drag, Wood rises from this throne and moves across the modernly designed apartment to the bedroom to mend his tired eyes. He hadn’t had a single full nights rest in a week since the day it happened. Tonight was no exception. The nightmares continue to curse him as he replays the scene in which he walked in on his wife lying face down on the floor with a needle still in her arm. The thought of the last conversation he and Rose had raced through his clouded mind. They had an argument about his whereabouts the night before. She claimed he would always disappear for hours at a time and not tell her. The most recent incident left Wood with a large and painful bruise on his left arm. The thought grew and grew as he continued to type. The last thing he said to his wife before he slammed the door and left the apartment that night was “I can’t do this anymore.”  As he lay in his bed staring at the ceiling, he begged for the answers. Why is she gone? Why didn’t she tell him that she had a problem? Why was he so addicted to the pain? Who did this to her?  

The next morning he sat at his typewriter, sleepless, hoping to release some of his emotions onto the blank page. With all of the curtains in the apartment drawn and no lights on, with the exception of one ill-light candle, it appeared to still be night. With every word he typed the more rage recycled through his system as if the words were injecting anger into him. A pounding in his head fought him with every letter he typed. He typed three or four letters then ripped the paper out of the machine and put a naked one in its place. He continued this process until one by one the ruined papers overflowed the garbage basket. Typing the final line of a perfectly written page, he pressed the wrong key and he plunged his fist into the desk and cleared off his desk with one strong wave-like swing. The fury was boiling inside of him as he stood up and began pacing, lighting a new Lucky Strike. The thoughts of his wife danced through his head and the sudden urge to react came over him. The taunting thought of his wife lying on the apartment floor and wondering who was responsible for her death. He knew his wife, and he knew that she was meticulous about everything she did. If Rose truly was an addict, there was no doubt in his mind that her death was not without complications. A knock on the door interrupted his thoughts. He ignored it. “She didn’t do this to herself.” He thought. “She couldn’t have.” He continued. The knock on the door continued, but he ignored it for a third time. “This was not her fault. Why didn’t she tell him? He could have helped!” Now the rage had taken over his mind and the knock on the door triggered a sudden desire to rip open the door, grab whoever it was, and beat them until they left. He half-ran to the door, undid the two locks and pulled the handle as hard he could, ready to silence the incessant knocking. “I have a package here for a Mr. Wood.” A small, bearded delivery man stood in front of Wood. Still furious, he ripped the package away from the delivery man, signed the paper, and then slammed the door as he reentered his dark apartment. Casting the brown package aside, he punched the brick wall that lined his apartment. A pain struck his knuckles and warm blood dripped down his hands. The pain seemed to mask the anger for the time being. He grabbed a bottle of whiskey and walked toward is bathroom and entered the shower, thinking about how he could relieve himself of his thoughts.  

A man slowly pulls the hood of his sweatshirt over his head. The room was dark and he pulled on his leather gloves as he lit a cigarette. He stood at 6’1” and wore a black pullover hooded sweatshirt and black, glossy shoes. The shadows of the room seemed to encase the figure that stood within them. It was as if he was nonexistent. The outline of a small handgun pressed against the back of his sweatshirt. Grabbing a small backpack from the bed, the man slung it over both shoulders and left the third floor apartment locking the door behind him, walking only in the shadows that the night sky provided.  

Waking up abruptly to the sound of a tea kettle whistling, Wood sat up in his bed sweating excessively. He had no recollection of falling asleep or of putting the kettle on. What happened last night? Moving quickly to the kitchen he turned off the stove and moved the boiling water to another burner. He cursed aloud, rubbing his head. This happened often. Wood would frequently wake up in a coffee shop and not know how he got there, or once he even woke up in the fetal position in his bathtub crying. He never told Rose about this, of course. What wife would want to know that her husband was going crazy? Or so he thought. He poured himself a cup of tea and lit a cigarette. He knew he had to work on his story, but how could he? Every attempt he made was interrupted by a pounding in his head. He made his way over to the bookshelf to find some inspiration. The last book he read was suggested by Rose which was a ridiculous story about a man who let his life be controlled by his dreams. He had only just finished it when he realized he had wasted his time. Now he decided to choose something from his own collection that he inherited from his father. Growing up in wealth, wood never spent much time in the colossal library that his father spent most of his time in. He found it foolish to read when all the information one could need was right in front of them. As time went on, Wood began to read more and more and slowly developed a habit of writing his own stories. He chose a leather-bound book and sat in his armchair hoping to find some motivation to continue his own novel. After reading the preface about a man who was the last man earth, Wood dozed back off to sleep, a burning cigarette still resting between two fingers.

The man in the hooded sweatshirt made a sharp right down a dark alley off of 93rd street. A figure stood at the opposite side of the alley as the man in the hooded sweatshirt halted and took final drag off his cigarette. The figure began walked towards the man but he didn’t move. As the moonlight shined into the alley, the figure was given an identity. She was a beautiful woman in her early 30’s with dark, short hair. “I need it now.” Her shaky voice rang. The man stayed within the shadows as he withdrew a small black box from his sweatshirt pocket and opened it. “A full gram as you requested.” His deep raspy voice growled. A full box of a powdered substance was exposed. As she reached to grab it he closed the box and pulled it away. “My payment.” He said. She pulled out two folded hundred dollar bills from her pocket and handed them to the man. “This is the last time.” The woman said. A thin smile crept on the man’s lips as he dropped a business card reading “Mr. Stone”. “Yes. It is Rose.” He replied. The woman picked it up and looked up to where the man was standing. The ominous Mr. Stone had already turned the corner and walked in the darkness down 93rd street.  

Hours seemed to pass for Oliver Wood while he sat in his dark apartment and typed. Candles both used and new littered his apartment floor. If you didn’t know better, one would think he didn’t have electricity. But he thrived in the darkness. Wood was going throw his first writing spree since Rose had died. The thought was constantly playing through his head. After typing a few full pages of his novel, he moved to the kitchen for a new cup of tea. He suddenly remembered the night he found rose. He left the apartment in a rage and—where did he go? The only things he remembered were him leaving the fight and coming home to find her dead. Where did the time go?  The thought sent a numbing sensation to his body and he collapsed in a kitchen chair. All of these hours of his life just disappear. Slowly, he got up from the chair and made his way into the bedroom. He lit several candles and began searching the room hoping to find some clue, something that might shed some light on Roses death. He lit a cigarette as he pulled every drawer out from their resting places within the dresser. He tore apart the entirety of the walk in closet that they had regularly used. He found nothing. In his frustration, Wood picked up a lamp and threw it across the room and then grabbed the mattress that lay dormant on his bed and flipped it over. The moving of the mattress revealed a small tear at the bottom of the mattress. Curiously, he walked over and put his hand inside and navigated the mattress until his hand bumped into something. Withdrawing his find, he examined the small black book that rested in his hand. A small leather journal with a black elastic strap was the first mysterious thing he’d found. Bewildered, he dropped his cigarette on the ground and stepped on it to extinguish its glow. He moved to the kitchen where he cleared off the dark brown table and sat down. He opened the book and found a small name printed in smooth cursive letters, “Mr. Stone”. His heart raced as one, intoxicating question wrestled through his mind: Who was Mr. Stone?  

Walking conspicuously out of a dark alleyway, the woman with short dark hair was of the few inhabitants of the Chicago streets. Irritation was transparent on her twisted face as she made her way to her 3rd story apartment. As she turned the door handle to her apartment she was decidedly upset with herself. “Why wouldn’t Oliver just tell me he was cheating?” she thought. A woman with a medical degree only had so much time to spend at home. She blamed herself for Oliver’s loneliness. She pulled off her coat and threw it on the ground as she moved to the windows which she ripped open exposing the nights wind and dark clouds in the sky and lit a couple of candles to dimly light the room. She pulled open a drawer next to the bookcase, grabbing a spoon and a lighter to begin her night of painful desolation.  

Mr. Stone walked down 93rd street and walked into a small convenience store and demanded a pack of Lucky Strikes throwing a few small bills onto the counter. He snatched the pack from the cashier and walked out, opening the fresh pack. A pounding in his head, Mr. Stone felt the world tilt and spin like the carnival rides he rode as a kid. How long ago was that? Who was this man who lived in the shadows? Even he didn’t have any answers. The mysterious lifestyle and his strict refusal to show his face made it impossible to decipher his history. He continued down the street tripping over everything in his way. The disorientation caused him to fall to the wet sidewalk. The shadow of the building just barely covered his face as he lay on the cold concrete, vertigo wrapping his mind.  

Rose felt the effects of the intoxicant immediately. She slowly withdrew the needle from her arm. She could feel the drug flow through her bloodstream. She felt every movement in her body amplified a hundred times. She felt like she had no control, and she liked it that way. She did a good job of hiding the track marks on her right arm from Oliver for the past two years. The feeling was exhilarating. She convinced herself that she wasn’t addicted. It was just her way of releasing herself, but she was lying. A few hours pass and she put a clean needle in and injected the substance and the minute she put pressure on the plunger, she felt different. Suddenly, she felt frozen and a dominant pain overwhelmed her body. Reaching for the phone on the table, she loses control of her limbs. She had done this so many times before and this had never happened. It wasn’t the dose. What had she injected into her body? Bad batch? Poison? Suddenly, she remembered Mr. Stones final words to her after she insisted it was the last time that she’d use, he said “Yes. It is, Rose”. What had she done? Dripping with sweat, she couldn’t move. She felt pain, but couldn’t signal for help or remove herself from the grip of the chair. Petrified, she knew what was coming next. As she braced for the end, she forced her mouth open, mouthing the words “I’m sorry”. The apartment remained silent as her body hit the floor with a half-filled syringe still inserted in her right forearm. A gust of wind tore through the window extinguishing the candles in the living room leaving the apartment in total darkness.  

Wood stood in his apartment staring out into the night sky. The thought of Rose was unbearable now. He tipped the bottle of whiskey into a large glass and emptied it quickly. He felt sadness, resentment, and pain. But he felt so much anger. He didn’t know why or who to be mad at, but with every minute passing, Wood was getting closer and closer to snapping. The bruise on his right arm suddenly began throbbing with pain. He walked over to the small journal that belonged to a Mr. Stone that he found. He flipped through the pages finding nothing of value. It was mostly just a diary that spoke about his meetings with clients. It suddenly made sense to Wood. Mr. Stone was Roses dealer. But was it also an affair? Was she part of his operation? Cursing aloud, he screamed and threw his glass of whiskey at the wall. The shards of glass littered the hardwood floor. The black book fell to the ground opening itself to two pages. Wood picked the small collection of notes from the ground and examined the pages. Various notes riddled the left page. Most of it wasn’t legible so he moved to the right. The right page had one phrase scribbled onto it. It read: “I don’t know who I was or who I am. I fear I’m not alone. My body isn’t my own; my name is not Mr. Stone”.

The man in the black sweatshirt was snapped awake suddenly by the honking of a horn from 93rd street. He stood up quickly with a sharp pain in his arm. He walked towards his apartment building and stopped when he stood in front of the large full size windows that neighbored the door to the building. He stared for a long time at his reflection. He had no recollection of who he was or why he was there. He pulled off the dark hood of his sweatshirt to reveal an attractive faced man with skin as white as the moon. Fear flooded his face as a sudden recognition overcame him. The man in the reflection appeared familiar to him. He dug into his pocket to retrieve the keys to his building which he withdrew and turned the lock to the building. He rushed up to the third story apartment and pushed open the apartment door. Everything was the same. An ashtray filled with cigarette butts sat on the table next to an almost empty bottle of whiskey. His head began to spin as he realized everything all at once. He reached for his wallet in his back pocket and revealed his driver’s license with the name “Oliver Wood” typed on the plastic card. Mr. Stone stood in revelation only now realizing one fact that had haunted his persona, his marriage, and his life. He was Oliver Wood. He was the masked man who lurked in the shadows. He was the one who led a married life while dealing secretly at night. He was the one who murdered Rose Wood. Images flooded his mind as he remembered every moment as both Oliver Wood and Mr. Stone. He remembered passing out on 93rd street. He remembered the bruise that it left and the fight that it had caused. He remembered mixing a deadly chemical called Ricin into the heroin that he later gave to Rose. He remembered coming home to find her dead body on the ground of their apartment. Everything became clear. His head still spinning, Wood walked out the open door of the apartment and tripped down the stairs leading to the Chicago streets. He dizzily made his way to the busy street and pulled open the building door. As everything spun, he walked forward and he felt as if he were in a trance. Wood walked straight aimlessly and in a total confusion, crossing 93rd street. The sounds of the city took over his brain. Everything was moving so fast. And as he walked across the city street a local bus flew down the street and Oliver Wood was struck by the power of the vehicle. Everything was over. Mr. Stone, Oliver Wood, and Rose were all gone. The apartment on the third floor of 93rd street now sat empty, the combination of guilt, addiction, shame, and darkness were now the occupants. The night, for once, was peaceful. The moon rose as it did every night before and every night after, but the darkness remained. All was quiet. All was still.  

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