Thomas McIlarth and the Guest

This one was written pretty quickly on Christmas Eve in one sitting but it took quite a bit of reworking. I'd like to thank Amy for helping point out it's initial flaws. Hope someone enjoys.

Thomas McIlarth and the Guest

     He had grown used to it by now. Very little of his daily routine seemed to bother him anymore. It was just another normal day just like the rest. He would wake in the morning and rip open the drapes, he had grown accustomed to the bath of warmth that the sun would provide, and start each day fresh, untainted by it's predecessor. He would let the sun soak him right to his cold old bones, and plan his day accordingly.

     One by one he would descend to the first floor on stairs almost as old as he was. They would creek and cry beneath his weight. He was not a large man, quite the opposite really. His wife begged him to fix the stairs, fearing injury or worse. When he reached the bottom of the flight he headed towards the kitchen and turned on the kettle. He would then retreat for a quick brush of his teeth and hair and, as if scheduled, he would return just in time to hear the beginning of the incessant whistling of the kettle.

It never failed to amaze him how the bitter sting of the tea could be transformed into a sweet elixir with just a few drops of milk and a dash or two of sugar. He would sip his tea slowly, enjoying each mouthful more than the last. Then, as it always happened, the bird feeder would catch his eye. He quite liked to listen to their cheerful tunes and they always managed to transfix him with their bright yellows and deep cardinal reds.

     Each day at precisely the same time he would finish his tea and he would hear the stairs creek and hiss again. She would join him at the table, her cup of tea already fixed for her ahead of time and together they would listen to the birds sing their tiny hearts out.

     “Quite a night last night, wouldn't you say?”

     He gave a short little chuckle, “yes quite a night indeed. One for the books if I may be so bold as to say.”

     “I think we could top ourselves tonight, what do you think?” her eyes were twinkling in the sunlight.

     “I think,” he paused “we shall certainly try.”

     He took one last lazy sip of tea from the very bottom of the mug, the bit that is always so much sweeter than the rest, and made for a shower and shave. He then dressed and headed towards the door, kissing his wife on the way out, and properly began his day.

     The streets were flooded with people. Saturdays were his favorite. His business was one of the few that truly boomed on the weekends. The snow had melted the day before and had reformed into ice during the night. He loved the sound of the horses' hooves crushing the ice and landing forcefully on the cobble stones buried beneath. He came close to falling several times during his walk, each time having to stop to readjust his cap. He often wished that he had something similar to the horseshoes to stop him from slipping and sliding about.

     He managed to reach his job in one piece. He stomped off his boots on the sidewalk and entered the building. The bar was dimly lit and stank heavily of cigar smoke. He didn't mind it and neither did the others; it helped to cover up the stench of the vomit and piss collected in the corners. Any man with a brain would walk into the establishment and upon sight and smell turn sharply on their heels to exit. These men (and women) however had replaced what was left of their brain with something the man loved more then anything else, addiction. It was his favorite feature of theirs. It helped keep his wallet fat and his belly plump.

     He continued on inward, tip toeing through the filth. He arrived at his office door, removed the drunk asleep at the base of it and entered. Once inside he immediately opened every window that the room had to offer. The cold air rushed in and exchanged itself for the foul smells that had once held its place. He bided his time for the rest of the afternoon with paper work left over from the previous evening. When he finished the mundane task he gave a quick glance at his watch, it read eleven nineteen. He stood and headed for the bar room. He assumed the same tip toe position as before and headed towards the exit. He was just about to shutter out into the cold night air when, in the corner of his eye, he saw her. She was a very pretty girl, quite striking. She couldn't be a day over nineteen. He gave a wary smile and approached her.

     “Excuse me ma'am, might I ask if everything is to your liking, are you enjoying yourself?” he asked in his smoothest voice.

     “Who the hell are you?” the lady blurted out finishing her sentence with a nice full gutted burp. It took him quite by surprise. For young as she was she was most certainly drunk. Off her rocker drunk, two sheets the the wind drunk, who am I,where am I drunk. This realization caused the smile upon his face to grow even wider, only his ears were able to contain it now.

     “Why,” he gestured to the name upon the door, “I am the owner of this fine establishment,” he continued gesturing to the filth about them while pride flooded his heart.

     “Quite a shit hole you've here mister, but the cheapest pint in town, I'll give ya that!” she raised her glass in a mock toast.“Thank you, I suppose,” he replied slightly confused if it were a compliment or an insult. He didn't care either way.

     “You're welcome. Now, let me get on with it,” she tossed back half her pint in three loud gulps.

     “Actually, I was wondering if you might be so kind as to accompany me on my walk home. It can get a bit lonely, and it's always safer to travel in numbers at this time of night.”

     “Look,” she said looking up at him for the first time, “I ain't no hooker ok? She might be able to help you out over there though.” She pointed to a woman who had less teeth than fingers who was preceding to tug at the bartenders tie.

     “Oye!” he shouted towards the bartender, “Back to work ya hear!”

     “Yes sir, sorry sir.”

     He turned back to the woman and carried on with their conversation.

     “I think you may have my intentions wrong my dear. I wish for pleasant company tonight. Nothing more, nothing less.” He was ready to break from the routine if just for tonight. Tonight he just wanted a friend.

     “I'll tell you what,” she said trying her hardest to not to slur her words, “d'yer have a couch?”

     “Yes.”

     “Guarantee that the couch is mine, and mine alone,” she stressed, “ and I'll do my best to walk along side ya.”

     “I think that could work out. Besides,” he added, “ my wife doesn't like to share the bed.” He gave a deep laugh while the woman's face turned a deep shade of crimson.

     They reached his home a short while later. He unlocked the door and let her in. “Now,” he began, “my wife is asleep upstairs, she is a light sleeper so I must ask you to be quiet. The couch is over there, I can offer you a throw and pillow if you'd like.”

     “No thanks. I'm fine.” She fell onto the couch and before he could ask her if she was sure she was out, deep asleep. He looked upon her and gave a quiet chuckle. He entered the adjoining room, the kitchen, and began to finish the dishes made the evening before. He was on the last dish when he heard her talking. “No, please don't.” The woman on the couch was talking in her sleep. He found this quite irritating. He approached her and gave her a gentle shake. She awoke. “Where-Where am I?” she asked. They could never remember, this was the beauty of blacking out.

     “You walked me back here earlier this evening, now,” he insisted, “please keep your voice down, my wife might wake if we are too loud and neither of us want that.”

     “Your wife? We um, we didn't do anything did we? Not if you have a wife right?”

     “No, we didn't do a thing.”

     He reached for the blanket to cover her once more and in doing so placed the knife he was holding onto the arm of the couch. The woman’s eyes grew wide with terror and ran back and forth from the knife to the man's face. It took him a moment to notice her panic and for the reasoning behind it

“Oh dear, I must have given you quite a scare hu?” her face became twisted with confusion, “I was in the kitchen when you began to speak in your sleep. I must have been washing this when I heard.”

Her face loosened up a bit, “oh thank God!”

     “No fear dear. Now rest. Sleep and relax your mind.” He tucked her in and walked back to the sink to finish the last of the dishes. He gave another wheezy laugh at the thought of the exchange that had just happened. “As if I could harm such a youngling,” he thought, “I couldn't bear the screaming.”

He walked from the kitchen to the top of the stairs and then into the bedroom. He lit a fire in the hearth and, upon feeling its warmth, crawled into bed beside his wife. Try as he might though he was not as stealthy as he thought and his movements woke her. She turned on her side to face him.

     “Have we done it? Have we topped ourselves?” she asked groggily.

     “Not tonight dear.”

     “What's the matter, did you not find anyone?”

     “No dear I found someone, but I'm afraid she is a little too young.”

     “Rubbish!” barked his wife, “ when we were wed you promised in sickness and in health, 'til death do we part. Don't you remember?”

     “Of course I do dear but...”

     “There is not but, don't you love me? Don't you want me to get better?”

     “It's all I've wanted for years honey.”

     “Then go downstairs and do as you must!”

     He gave a sigh and crawled back out from under the covers, “as you wish dear. I pray that this may be the last,” he headed towards the stairs.

     She was sound asleep. No talking, not this time. Her breath was slow and steady. He entered the kitchen and grabbed the knife he had cleaned not an hour earlier. He liked it better this way, when they were asleep. It was easier on his heart, easier on his mind. The breath left them slowly, peacefully when they were asleep. He had only taken one for his wife who was awake at the time. The rate at which the life drained from them startled him. It still upset him to think about it. He crept up to her quietly, fearful of waking her. He slowly straddled her on the couch and raised the knife . At the same moment she tried to turn to her side. When her body could not move her mind panicked. She awoke and upon seeing him, knife held high, gave a scream.

     It startled him greatly. He let go of his weapon and it watched as it fell to the floor beside the couch. The woman tried to sit up and in doing so threw the nervous man to the ground. The adrenaline kicked in as she rose to her feet. The man gave a quick uncoordinated lunge for the knife, she replied with a decisive accurate kick to his gut.While he was busy ejecting what he had consumed throughout the day she obtained the knife and strutted over to him.

     He was on all fours when she reached him, he adjusted himself to his knees and began to plead, “Please! You don't understand, my wife she...” She didn't let him finish his thought. She let the knife slide into his belly just above his belt line. She was surprised by how warm the mans blood was. She had done what was needed, she had no remorse. She left the house and spilled out onto the street, blood on her hands and clothes. She ran until her legs burned like she had never felt before. She followed the glow of the street lamps until she reached the police quarters.

     The officer on guard was frightened at the sight of her and drew his weapon on the woman. She did her best to explain before collapsing. The adrenaline had left her body, her brain had taken in all it could handle for one evening.

     The police arrived at the man's home as quickly as they could. They found him lying in a pool of his own blood. He was unconscious but not dead, not quite. They carried him to the closest doctor they could find. There he stayed in the state of a coma for the better part of a month.

     She came to the next morning in the jailhouse house and was greeted by the police captain. He bore news that she could not quite comprehend. They had found the man, he was identified as Thomas McIlarth. He was in fact the owner of McIlarth's, the local bar. That part of her story matched up. Most of her story matched up with what was known about Thomas. But one fact had the police believing her mad. Thomas McIlarth had no wife, or rather his wife had died four years back when she fell down the stairs in their home. Her leg had broken but it was the loss of blood that became the main concern. She had lost too much. She was in dire need of a blood transfusion but by the time they could find anyone it was too late.

     Thomas did what he could to save her but in the end she died. According to the townspeople he never looked at another woman the same way again. He never loved again, in fact he never stopped loving his wife. The entire town was surprised with how well he had taken her loss; they were never seen apart for the duration of their marriage. He told them that it was the little things that helped him through the toughest of times. He even, as proudly stated by himself, always made sure that he set a place for her at the table for morning tea, full cup and all. He had loved with his all.

     The woman was seen unfit for the punishment of death for the stabbing she had committed. She was instead sentence to the padded room. There they used her body to try and further their understandings of the health of the human mind. She died a guinea pig, poked and prodded. The man eventually returned home to live out the rest of his days. Half a decade later he passed and joined his wife. It wasn't until then that they found the blood from the other woman gathered in old dust covered glass milk jugs.

     Unknown to the rest of the town he indeed was the mad one. The loss of his wife wiped his mind blank. He had refused to believe that she was gone. He started seeing her a few months after her death. That was when she started begging him for the blood that would have saved her life. She asked and she received. He hunted for her and did so graciously.They found ten milk jugs labeled with the names of those inside and countless others left blank.

     This When the doctors performed the autopsy they removed the top of his skull;what they saw was in no medical text they had ever read. His brain was spattered here and there with large black patches, it was as if someone had spilled ink onto it, and the walnut like wrinkles of the brain had vanished. His brain was completely smooth, no bumps no groves, like a pebble left in a stream. The findings were published but lost to history, the condition was never seen again and all material regarding it was considered outdated and incorrect. No one would ever know that the world's maddest man had come and gone, only to be forgotten.