It was past four a.m. and he hadn’t slept. He needed to be up in a couple hours if he was going to make the meeting with his editor. He couldn’t postpone a fifth time. The storm had been raging since he’d gone to bed. The curtains were thick enough to block the lightning, but coastal storms always unsettled him. He could never sleep through the wind. He turned over, shoving a pillow over his head, but he could still hear it.
His mother had called him a night owl since he was a child—better suited for the stars. They’d traveled with him between towns when she’d changed jobs, telling him to pack up on a Friday after school when she’d come home with a cigarette between faded red lips and another termination notice. He used to stay up late waiting for her, a clumsy (and later, not so clumsy) dinner going cold on the table, watching the slice of sky he could make out from the apartment window. She’d saved up to buy him a telescope for his birthday that year. He’d put it in his window and never told her that he didn’t watch the stars because he loved them, but because they were the only other things awake. Someone had taken the telescope in a robbery. He’d found it broken in the street outside waiting for the bus and thrown out the pieces.
He checked his phone. Four thirteen. Might as well get up and try to work. He crossed the hall to his office and flicked on the desk light. Opening his aging laptop, he squinted at the last sentence he’d written down.
I must have been mistaken.
He stared at it for a few breaths, then closed the laptop again, drawing a foot to perch on the edge of the chair and leaned his chin against his knee. Give it a year, his mom had said, and he’d be able to see her as just his sister-in-law. But three summers had passed since then and he couldn’t stomach the wedding photos. Jo was on him about drinks again. When was the last time he’d been out of the house for anything other than groceries—Christmas at Simon’s place? No, he’d needed stronger contacts just after the new year. His eyes had gotten worse every year past twenty-five.
From down the hall, he heard the sound of breaking glass and held his breath. This neighborhood hadn’t had a break-in since he’d moved here. Gliding out of the chair, he slipped across the hall, feeling for the metal bat he kept behind the bedroom door. Old habit. Simon had given it to him, hoping he’d join the adult league he was starting. Ray hadn’t played since high school, but his hands found their places on the grip. Dad had been the one who’d insisted he learn. Ray had lived at their house for a couple years after his mom burned down the apartment. He’d never been interested in sports, but Dad thought he spent too much time indoors. When Ray had pitched the winning game at regionals, it was the first time he’d seen him look proud. He’d quit right after. But knowing someone was in the house, for the first time he was glad he knew how to swing.
He crept down the dark hallway, choking the grip. Maybe he should’ve called the police, but the burglar could be gone before they arrived or find him first. The things in this house were ones he’d chosen for himself. Cheap but his. She’d never been here. He’d thrown out everything that reminded him of her.
He could hear someone moving around in the front room and his hands shook. He wasn’t sure what he should do once he found the intruder. He’d never killed anyone. Was it self defense if it was in his own home? They might have a weapon. He read about shootings every other day online. If this were a book, he’d catch the intruder by surprise (plot twist: the main character is ex-Marines) but Ray preferred ballet to fighting. His death might be the one everyone talked about for a day. She might even cry—no. He didn’t want that anymore.
He took the final step into the living room and raised the bat.
The storm had knocked a branch through the window beside the couch. Rain was streaming in with each gust of wind that billowed the curtains, and when the lightning flashed, it reflected on the galaxy of shards on the floor.
Ray let the bat fall.
He found the dust pan and swept up the glass, shoved the branch into the yard and taped a garbage bag over the broken window. The plastic flapped in the wind, but it would hold until morning. The curtains had stopped moving. He pushed them wide and sank onto the couch to greet the night sky, watching the stars fade as the sun crawled up.
Notes: This was an experiment in structure but was the origin of Raymond Fisher from In Flight. It takes place about 15 years earlier.
Photo by Ihor Malytskyi on Unsplash