Edmund Tilt checked his pockets again. Swiss army knife, little round pills, the money he’d taken from little Emma’s piggy bank savings. Yes, it was all there. He pulled his long, pale, fingers out the pocket, then thought better of it and reached back in for the pills, took two. When he could still hear the storm outside the window, could still feel the rough wood of the tabletop fifteen minutes later, his impatience won over. He retrieved more reinforcements from his pocket– the money– and called the bartender over.
“You sure, Tilt?” he asked. “What’s the deal, anyway? I mean-- just look at ya. Sumthin’s off, I know ya well enough ta know that. Sumthin’s missin’.”
“Nothing’s missing, except my drink.” He slid the money farther across the tabletop, then added a few more bills from the pocket. “And make it two, actually.”
The bartender still didn’t take the money. “How’s the wife and kids? Give my love to ‘em all. And that buddy o’ mine still needs a guy for his warehouse, if you still need somethin’. Pays enough.”
“I need my drinks. Now.” Said the man.
The bartender looked his friend in his face one last time. Then he looked down, took up the money, and started getting glasses from the cupboard.
When Edmund got up to get his coat from the rack, his pocket was lighter, and so was the burden of his thoughts. He started making his way out the door, when he heard, you should really take that job, Eddie. He swung his eyes wildly around, finally finding the bartender. “I would rather die than ever take a job so below me.”
The bartender had looked quickly up, and his eyes flashed with anger. “Shut it, Tilt. You know that’s uncalled for, I haven’t even said anythin’ about that since half an hour ago. And my buddy at that warehouse is a better man than you’ve been this past year, so don’t go sayin’ anything about who’s ‘below’ who.”
He’s right, you have no business talking, spending your daughters money at the bar because you’re too proud to clock in for a shift somewhere.
But it was funny, the man had been looking right at the bartender when he heard these words, so instead of lashing out again, he just stood there, wide-eyed.
The bartender’s gaze softened as he stared back at his old friend. “Listen, you look pale, man. Well, more than usual.” The bartender hesitated, then added “...do you wanna talk about sumthin’? Are ya okay?”
Edmund put his hands back into his pockets. Knife, pills, all there. “Yeah, yeah.” he said. Then, looking at no one in particular “I’m fine. Goodnight.”
“Goodnight, Ed.”
It was still raining, but Edmund couldn’t feel it anymore. He had put a lot of effort into trying not to feel most things now, except for feeling sorry for himself. He thought to himself that it would be quite romantic if he couldn’t feel at all anymore, slip further into the coldness of an emptied mind...
I can help you with that.
The voice again! “Where are you!?” The man shouted into the empty street. His voice echoed a little off the old stone buildings around him.
Johnny and Emma need their father. He must protect them from dark things.
“Show yourself, coward! Where are you?!” the man shouted once again.
I’m the coward? Oh, no, you must be mistaken. That whiskey can really do a number on the head, I suppose.
Rainwater dripped down his face, his shoes made a squelchy sound as he started walking again. “Yes, the whiskey.” he said to himself. “That would do it, that explains it all.”
Oh, I am not the product of your recent actions, my friends. Although, my next move may be based on them, depending on what you choose.”
“And what would that be?” the man said into the air, with a slight scowl and a roll of his eyes.
Be a father. Or I will.
“Yeah, and who am I even speaking to, again? Do you even know who I am?”
I know all about you, Edmund Tilt. I’ve watched you grow up. I’ve watched you get married, though you never fell in love. And I’ve watched your children be born, beg for your pride in them every day. But you don’t care. And now, you won’t even try to provide for them anymore.
The man had stopped under a streetlight, listening.
Look down, Edmund Tilt. I’ve run out of patience for you. As my last request for you, face me for the last time from your seat in the sky, for you are but a shadow of a man. Rolling his eyes, the man looked down, determined to be done with this nonsense. He saw nothing but the cracked gray cement beneath his feet. A corner of his mouth lifted and he continued his walk home, thinking of what dinner he’d make for himself. But then he realized. Just cement. No shadow. You are but a shadow of a man. The man was running now, pills and knife bouncing in his pocket. Thump, tap, thump, tap, thump--his foot missed the earth and he was spinning, spinning out of control, until finally... He opened his eyes and looked up to see a pale face smirking down at him, a pale, long-fingered hand waving at him from above. And, to his surprise, he found himself waving back, hand connected by the unbreakable laws of nature that determined the shadow to be beneath the master. He watched his hand turn the doorknob of the house he was suddenly in front of, his house. Edmund Tilt looked down at his shadow one last time that night, winked, and turned the key in the battered bronze lock.