Don't Look Away or You'll Forget Me | Part 2

Want to hear brand new horror stories brought to life? Live? Join me every Sunday at 7pm Eastern Time on the Dr. No Sleep Podcast YouTube channel, where I narrate fresh, never-before-heard stories in real time. Just search Dr. No Sleep Podcast on YouTube, and make sure you're subscribed with notifications on so you don't miss it. Dr. Nicely. Jesus, it really clipped you. Russ looked me over as I lay on my back on top of a long folding table. We called at the Med Center, because it was the table the Brothers Pawn used to patch me up when a job got a little hairy. Like the job I'd just returned from. Hand me the gauze, Richie. Russ leaned his bulk over me as he studied the wound on my side. No, wait, tweezers, there's still shit in there. Richie didn't move. He only glared at me. I thought he was some superhero and shit. Richie's hate for me is evident in his voice. Shouldn't he have dodged the bullet? What's the point of having the kid around if he can't do his job right? He affects memories, Richie. He's not fucking bulletproof. Yeah, well, he should be. I'd love to, asshole, but I'm not. So can you hand your brother the fucking tweezers? My outburst hurt like hell and Russ tisked at me. Shut the fuck up. You're making it worse. He looked at his brother. Gonna hand me the Russ frowned. Russ, look at me. Russ looked down, startled. He took in the scene, then nodded. Right. Kid Doe came back from a mission, patching him up. Got it, got it. Man, who knows how many times he's ripped us off and we can't remember. I've never ripped you off, asshole, except for that first day. Where there's a first, there's a second, and a third, and a fourth, and a... Richie, if you aren't gonna help them leave. Russ reached back and held out his hand. Your choice, brother. After a second's hesitation, Richie snagged the tweezers off a metal tray and slapped them into Russ's palm. I still think we're gonna regret this. Richie walked out of the back room as the buzzer for the pawn shop front door rang. Russ smiled down at me. Don't worry about him. He'll forget all about this and be fine in a minute. No, he won't. The smile on Russ's face faltered. What you mean by that, kid? I mean, I've been living with you guys for what, seven years? Eight? You'd know better than me, kid. Hard to say when there's all these blank spots in my memory. It's been eight, and I've watched the two of you. Yeah, just like with everyone. If I'm not in your line of sight, you forget me faster than an ugly chick's digit. Damn it, kid. Hold still. Sorry. Nah, it's good. But I can't pick all that shit out of the wound if you're squirming. I wasn't squirming. Shut the fuck up and finish what you were saying. Right, yeah. So I may have been testing you guys these past few years. Testing us? You think I'm a fucking guinea pig or something? Yes, Russ. You're a guinea pig. A 300-pound guinea pig. Fuck you. He narrowed his eyes. Almost got it. Hold on. There. He held a belong thread that had been shoved into my flesh when the bullet tore through my shirt. Luckily, it was just a heavy gaze, but the piece of thread could have easily become infected. That's what really gets you with bullet wounds. Not the bullet, but the shit the bullet drags with it. Russ tossed the bloody string on the floor and smiled down at me. Okay. Now tell me what happened. I started in on what had happened that evening. Arriving at the mark's home, slipping in through the back, beating the snot out of the guy who owed the brother's pawn a good chunk of change. Forcing him to open his safe and give me everything inside, shoving the guy in a closet, knowing he'd forget me as soon as the door closed. Then being shot as I walked out the back door. You didn't see who shot you? Russ held up a bottle of iodine. Sorry, kid. Do it. I grit my teeth. Russ poured. I screamed. The back room door burst open and Richie glared in. What the fuck is going on back here? He stared at me for a second and nodded. Oh, right. You... He closed the door and Russ went back to cleaning my wound. He slapped a hunk of gauze against the gouge, then taped it in place. All done. Get up and put a shirt on. I swung my legs slowly off the table, tested my balance, then stood up and grabbed the t-shirt from a random pile of clothes on the counter. It turned out to be an old Hank Williams Jr. tour shirt, and I almost tossed it back. But who cares, right? What's with Richie lately? I pulled the shirt over my head, wincing with every small movement. What the fuck? Russ jumped as he pulled his fist back, his huge body ready to kick my unfamiliar ass. Russ, it's me! It's kid! I threw my hands up, trying not to pose any threat. Russ dead-eyed me, then slowly nodded. Kid... right. Yeah, yeah, sorry. Shit. I almost knocked your block off. You cocked a fist! I'll give you that! What? You don't think I could take you? You'd have to catch me first, and I hate to break it to you, Russ, but I might be a little faster than... His hand was around my throat, squeezing hard. I didn't even see him move. What was that? Were you saying something about being fast? I slapped at his wrist over and over, as spots formed in my vision. Then he let go and knuckled me on the chest. That's why you got shot, kid. He tapped his head. Yeah, I remember the job and the story you told me. I remember more than you think. That's what I've been trying to tell you, Russ. You and Richie aren't forgetting me like you used to. It's like the more you're around me, the more of me sticks in your head. Yeah, well, okay. So what? I wasn't sure how to tell him. Not then. Not now, even. It's not an easy thing to say. I think Richie wants me dead. I stood still and waited for the blow-up. But it didn't come. Russ only shook his head, keeping his eyes on me the whole time. I don't know about dead, but yeah, he's not a fan, kid. Kinda makes it hard to live with a guy if I have to worry about constantly protecting my back. Russ nodded. I get that. I do, kid. But there's not a lot to be done about it. We all live here above the shop. It's how things are. Maybe things could change. Maybe things should change. I scrunched up my face. Maybe I should move out and get my own place. Are you asking me or telling me? Telling, I guess. Shit, kid. I don't know about that. You just said that being around you makes me and Richie remember who you are easier. But you like me, Russ. Richie? Not so much. I think being around me is just pissing him off. And that anger is building every time he sees me. I wouldn't be surprised if the next time he asks to remember me, he pulls his piece and tries to put one between my eyes. Personally, I'd rather not worry about getting shot when I get up to piss in the middle of the night. What the fuck do you know about pissing at night? You get a prostate as large as mine, and then you'll know. I'm not talking prostate, Russ. I'm talking grudges. Richie has held a grudge against me since that first day I was trapped in the cage. Something has festered over the years, and I swear to God he's going to take that festering whatever and use it as a reason to put me down. I don't know, kid. He started to look away, and I grabbed his arm. Pay attention. I'm being serious. About wanting to move out or about Richie? Both, Russ. I'm genuinely freaked out. He studied me. Was that what distracted you tonight? Did you get shot because you were in your head and not paying attention? Yeah. I could have tried to play it off, but Russ wasn't easy to bullshit. Truth was best with him. I lost my concentration and got dinged for it. Then that's on you, not Richie. He rubbed his face and his jowls shuddered. Okay. Let me think about it. Russ, there's nothing to think about. I'm moving. I said let me think. About what? I'm not a prisoner. I can leave whenever I want to. Something changed in Russ's eyes, and it took a step back. Right, Russ? You aren't going to try to stop me from leaving, are you? Kid, you gotta let me think, okay? Give me a day or two. That's all I ask. You didn't answer the question, Russ. You aren't going to stop me from leaving, right? He batted me on the shoulder and steered me toward the door. Go upstairs and get some rest, kid. We'll talk about this tomorrow. You need some sleep. Russ, come on. I... Go. Get. Some. Sleep. His voice was a low growl, coming up from his belly in a rolling rumble of suppressed rage. Hey, Russ, chill. I'm sorry I upset you. I'll go lie down. You do that, kid. When I left that back room and stepped out onto the main shop, Richie stared me down the whole time I walked over to the side door that led to the stairs up to our shared apartment. For years, I'd lived above the pawn shop, years of dealing with Richie's bullshit and doing Russ's bidding. Yeah, it was time for a move. All of these memories are like little nicks, small cuts slashing away at my thick skin, opening wounds that I thought were long closed. As I walk out of the truck stops facilities, I scan the parking lot for my next ride. But there isn't one. Not a single passenger vehicle in sight. A little surprising since there's always someone in the road, even at night. But tonight, it's just truckers. Need a lift somewhere, friend? A trucker walks toward me on his way to the facility. I might. Give me a few minutes to grab some grub and coffee, use the facilities, and I'll give you a ride. You head east or west. Either one works for me. He raises an eyebrow. That's so. He walks by, patting me on the shoulder. Well, we're all running from something, ain't we? He's inside before I can say anything else. I sigh because he won't remember me when he comes back out. So I walk toward the truck, I think it's his, working out my story. Maybe he'll just be as accommodating the second time he meets me. We'll see. But a story is always good. There's a loud cough and I feel the sting of the bullet scrape along my cheek. I'm instantly running as fast as possible. I don't care which direction I go in, as long as it's toward cover. There's another bang and a chunk of the parking lot kicks up in front of me. I keep running. Ducking around an idling truck, I jump up onto the running board and check the passenger door. Unlocked. I'm in and at the wheel in half a second. I have the truck and gear another half a second after that. The windshield becomes a star of cracked glass. But I don't let that slow me down. My foot hits the accelerator and I lurch out of the parking spot. A man comes running from the building, waving his arms over his head. Must be the truck's owner. Sorry, buddy. He's almost to me when the top of his head disappears, sending his bright red hat flying high into the air, followed by blood and what little hair the man's bald head held. The driver's side window explodes and I cringe as I turn the wheel and aim for the exit. It has to be more of those goons, or that chick sent to kill me. Or a new player, or two or three, or however many I have on my tail. For a man who has forgotten the second someone looks away, I sure seem to have a lot of people coming for me. It's a weird feeling being the center of attention. I'm out on the rural highway and working the clutch as fast as the truck will let me. I'm up to 60 after I take the on ramp back onto the interstate. Shifting until I'm doing a solid 80. I'm taking the risk since the last thing I need is a cop tagging me for speeding. But I need to put some distance between myself and the truck stop as fast as possible. I'm safe for now in this truck, but I have to ditch it soon. It's too recognizable. I need a Honda or Toyota or Kia or some other generic compact car that looks like every other generic compact car on the road. There's a vibration coming from my backpack and I grab it off the passenger seat. I get it unzipped and dig around for my phone. The screen says unknown caller, but caller is spelled wrong. It's my handler, the guy I use to set up jobs. Nick, you are not going to believe this, but... Is this kiddo? The voice is female. My handler is not female. Who the fuck is this? We met earlier tonight. Don't you remember me? She laughs and I realize she's making a joke at my expense. She knows who I am and what I can do. How are you calling from this number? How do you think I found you? I made your friend a visit first, got a lot of information out of him before I slit his throat, then started tracking you from his phone. Bullshit, I can't be tracked like that. That's what you worry about first? I just said I slit your friend's throat. You assume he was my friend? He was, and I am pissed, but I can't let her know that. Whoever this chick is, she won't get the satisfaction of rattling me no matter how rattled I actually feel. What the fuck do you want? It's not what I want, it's what I've been paid to do. Kill me? Is that what you've been paid to do? Bingo, Ringo. We have a mutual friend who believes you've become a liability. What were his exact words? Oh, right. You're too damn comfortable with who you are, and it's time you went away. What the fuck does that mean? I don't interpret meanings, kid. I just take the money, do the job, and move on. You understand that, right? We're kind of the same that way. We're not even close to the same lady. You have no idea who you are dealing with. Why? Because I'm supposed to forget who you are, since you're not on my line of sight? Yeah, that doesn't work on me. The feeling in me is a mix of shock, panic, and pleasant surprise. This is different. This is a whole new experience. How are you doing this? Doing what? Remembering you? Oh, that's simple, kid. You left a sock behind. A sock? What the fuck do socks have to do with? Be seeing you soon, kid. Looking forward to it. The line goes dead. I throw the phone out of the open window. Everything that's happened tonight rolls around in my head like rocks in a dryer set to high temp. It's nothing but noise and heat and anger and fear and... And I don't know. The sign for a rest area is illuminated by the truck's headlights, and in a mile I pull off the interstate, parking the stolen truck at the far end of the lot. Then I grab my backpack and leave the truck behind, heading to the other side of the rest area where the car is parked. Perfect. There are over a dozen late night travelers having a pit stop. Plenty of vehicles to choose from. I hit the head, scoping the restroom out for my target. Then I see him washing his hands. Salesman. Easy to tell from the slacks and dress shirt with the rolled up sleeves. He has that road worrier look about him. What are you driving? I slide up and start washing my hands in the sink next to his. Excuse me? He asks, frowning at me in the mirror. Huh, sorry. I wasn't trying to be weird. I just noticed a lot of minivans and boring SUVs out there. But you look like you have a better ride. It's just a game I play while traveling. Let me guess, the Acura? He scoffs. Lexus, one of the boring SUVs. The blue one or the tan one? They're the fuck are you? You need to... I punch him in the throat and he drops to his knees. Sorry about this. I rummage through his pockets while he struggles to breathe. I find his keys and pull them out, stuffing them into my own pocket as I frown down at him. Just relax, take small, slow breaths and you'll be fine. I'm out of there and in his Lexus, the blue one, before anyone else enters the men's bathroom. It would give me a little bit of time to get to the next exit. I have my foot to the floor before I've left the rest area, and I'm doing over 90 by the time I merge back onto the interstate. I keep my eyes peeled for the first exit and when it comes up, I take it fast and race down the off-ramp. It's just my luck that a supermarket is tucked next to the row of gas stations. I pull in toward the back where the employees park and hop out. I find a Subaru in good condition and Jimmy the lock. Once inside, it's easy to hot wire. Subarus have shitty security when it comes to this stuff. I'm back on the interstate in a new ride in less than 10 minutes. The chicks' words rattle about my brain. Mutual friend? I don't have mutual friends with anyone because I don't have friends. It's a little hard to maintain relationships with my condition. So I start going through the short list of everyone I know who could even remotely be called a friend. It takes me less than 5 seconds to cross everyone off the list. What the hell is going on? A memory drags itself up out of the depths. A memory I'd rather leave buried. Come here, kid. Rust lay in the hospital bed. All sorts of wires and tubes and crap connected to his huge bulk. My throat hurts from the tube, they add down in it. And I don't want to have to yell. I moved closer to the hospital bed, even though the last place I ever wanted to be was in a hospital. Juvy and jail are better than hospitals. Being forgotten in jail is a blessing. Being forgotten in a hospital means I am constantly having to explain to people over and over and over who I am and why I'm here. I'm sitting down in the chair next to Rust's bed. When the door opens and a nurse walks in. Mr. Rush, who's your handsome visitor? She didn't really look at me at all. Just started checking readings on the dozen or so machines that Rust was hooked up to. My son. Rust said those two words without hesitation. I jolted at the word son and Rust gave me a weak but warm smile. Wow, you're lucky to have a Mr. Rush. The nurse was still checking readings, still not looking at me. Not everyone has children willing to drop everything and visit their old man in the hospital. Then she fixed me with her gaze and I almost flinched. It's good you're here. You two should talk as much as possible. I was talking, supposed to help this broke down heart of mine. It may not help your heart, but it will help your soul. Her eyes were still on mine. Take the time to connect when you can. Why, you still have that time. She looked away and patted her pockets. Well, that about does it, Mr. Rush. Do you and your son need anything? Are you hungry? I know you're still on liquids right now, but the cafeteria's beef broth isn't that bad. I'm fine, darling. Thanks. Then I'll leave you two alone. She rested her hand on my shoulder as she passed by. Keep him calm and relaxed if you can, okay? Yeah, sure. She left the room and I stood up quickly. I'll be right back. I followed her out into the hall. Nurse, excuse me, nurse. Yes, Mr. Rush. She turned to face me. She sniffed and rubbed at her nose. Is something wrong with your father? The way you were talking in there, it was like you don't think he has much time left. She looked around, then leaned in close. I'm not supposed to say this, but your father is in acute heart failure. The surgery helped, but the reality is that he only has days left, a week at the most. What about more surgery or a transplant? He barely survived the last surgery. His body won't take any more. And as for a transplant, not to sound cruel, but the transplant committee has several other candidates whose lifestyles are a little less or a little more healthy. You're saying he's too fat to save. I'm saying that if the committee has to choose between a 16-year-old girl with the rest of her life ahead of her, or your father, who is in his 70s and has several other serious health concerns to deal with, well, it's not a hard choice. That's pretty cold. Which is why they probably like it when a doctor says these things instead of an exhausted, overworked nurse. She sniffed and rubbed out her nose again. Go in and spend time with your father, Mr. Rush. Take the time while you have it. She sniffed some more and turned away. Then she turned back and smiled at me. And don't worry. I know you're not his actual son. I'll keep it between us since the hospital has a strict immediate family-only policy. I started to protest, to lie through my teeth, but her smile made me think otherwise. Um, okay, yeah, thanks. No problem. I did what she said and went and sat with Rush, talking with him as much as I could in between his naps. And he napped a lot. In the three days I was there, he was asleep for most of it, waking up occasionally to ask about the pawn shop and about business. Then he just didn't wake up. Richie didn't hold a funeral or memorial or anything. Just had Rush cremated and threw his ashes in an urn that had been sitting on the pawn shop shelves since I first walked in that door. No one wants to buy a used urn, no matter how cheap it is. Rush had bequeathed a few things to me in a letter he'd left behind. It wasn't a formal will or anything, but it showed he cared enough to write it down. That night was the last time I saw the pawn shop, the last time I saw Richie. And the way he followed me around the upstairs apartment and glared at me with a hate I'd rarely ever seen come from any human being, it probably wasn't a bad idea we went our separate ways. You killed him, you know? Richie followed me down the stairs. That night, he never left me out of his sight. You broke his fucking heart when you moved out! Go ahead and blame me, Richie, I don't fucking care. Oh, you're gonna fucking care, kid! I will make sure you fucking care! I shook my head, then walked out of his life forever. Or so I thought. As the sun starts to rise, I pull the Subaru off at the most rural exit I can find and drive until I see what I'm looking for. I park next to one of the rundown pumps and turn off the engine. There's a small convenience store which has seen better days and attached to the outside wall of the store as a payphone. Because places like this, out in the sticks, still have people who need a good old-fashioned landline every now and then. Can I get some quarters for the phone? The clerk doesn't even look up from the porno mag he's staring at. Just holds out his hand. I slap a dollar in his palm and instead of opening the register, he reaches under the counter and comes out with four quarters. Must be a frequent request. Back outside, with the sky turning pink to orange, I make the call. It goes straight to voicemail. It's me. I'm at exit 238. I'm over this bullshit. Come and get me. I hang up, knowing the message will get to the chick and whoever else is after me. It was my handler's number and I already know it's being monitored. I go back inside by a cup of horrible black coffee and a stale sticky bun. I've finished both and pissed in the toxic waste dump of a bathroom by the time a white Honda Civic pulls into the lot. Without hurrying, I walk to the Subaru that is still parked at the pumps, grab the hose, flip the switch and act like I'm filling the tank. A second car pulls in behind the Civic. A car I know. The chick gets out of the Civic. You're making my job too easy. Somehow, I'm not surprised it's the nurse from way back when. Something in my subconscious put it all together. How she didn't ever forget me, even when she left Russ's room. How she kept sniffing and rubbing her nose when she was around me. The same exact sniff I heard in the hotel room when all this went to shit. What are you? She walks toward me. She doesn't have a gun in her hand. But odds are there's one tucked into her waistband behind her back. Why are you doing this? The same reason you are. It pays well. She's getting closer. A lot better than what a nurse makes. But why me? I thought we had a connection. That was a long time ago, kid. And only for a few days. You don't know me. You don't know what my life has been like. Never able to forget anyone or anything. My head is filled with faces and names. But mostly smells, right? That's how you don't forget me. You smell me. Like a bloodhound. That voice I'll never forget. And I look toward the second car, knowing the source immediately. Richie! I nodded the chick. What's the deal, man? I told you, kid. I told you that you'd care. Prus died a long time ago, Richie. And you still blame me? It's fucking weird, kid. But the night you left is the night I stopped forgetting you. It's also the night that my fucking nightmare began. You know, I can't think of my fucking brother without memories of you coming back. He slaps his head. Hard. You're attached to every memory of Russ like a fucking parasite. He chucked me years to get her trained so she could track you down and take you out. Now here we are. Well, she accomplished the first part flawlessly, Richie. So fucking kudos to you on that. Then I look at the chick who was now only a few feet away. But the second part? You failed miserably. She goes for her gun. I aim the gas nozzle at her and squeeze the handle, spraying her face with 93 octane. The woman screams and wipes at her face again and again. She rubs her eyes as she gasps for air. I just stand in front of her. When her eyes open, all blurry and red, she frowns. Who the fuck are you? She tries to lift her gun. I step in and slap the flat of my hand against her throat, taking the gun from her grip. Then I put two on her chest and one on her head before aiming the pistol at Richie. Except he's already back in his car and speeding away as fast as he can. Doesn't matter. I know who's fucking with me now. I'll catch up with him later. What the fuck? The clerk is standing at the store's entrance. Eyes huge. What the fuck did you do? I turn and put two in his chest. Then I walk over to him, fish car keys out of his pocket and put a round in his forehead. I head back inside the store, find what I need on the counter, and walk back out to the pumps, flicking the lighter with my thumb. When it catches, I toss it onto the chick's body and step back as a wump fills the air. Then I go and find the clerk's car, a very nondescript Kia, and get the fuck out of there. I'm almost back to the interstate when a fireball erupts in my rearview mirror. Richie must have realized what the nurse could do during those few days at the hospital. He's an idiot and an asshole, but he's not completely stupid. He figured out that the one sense the brain caters to the most, the sense tied directly to memory, is the sense of smell. As long as that chick could smell me, she could remember me. I bet that car back there had some of my clothes in it. Definitely more than just a sock. She must have been huffing kiddo for miles and miles and miles as she tracked me down. Well, it's time I did some tracking down too. And when I find Richie, I'll make sure he never forgets who I am. At least for the few hours he'll have left to remember anything.