RENAISSANCE

6. Deliverance

A man who had entered earlier approached me and asked for a pack of cigarettes from the shelf behind me.

"Not that one, damn it, the yellow pack next to it," he barked irritably.

His breath carried a distinct smell of drugs, bitter and pervasive, betraying his excessive consumption. His gait was unsteady, and his movements were slightly desynchronized.

I tried to keep my usual calm, plastering my best hypocritical smile to avoid aggravating the already tense situation. For several hours already, a feeling of unease had gripped my guts. A desire to vomit. Blurred vision. A headache not possible. I had to get something to snack on. I didn't want to mess with him. 

"Sorry about that," I replied simply.

But my weak tolerance must have made him feel dominant, as his face took on a defiant expression, his eyebrows furrowed, and his eyes seemed eager to pick a fight with me.

Just when I thought he would leave without causing further trouble, he spat in my face before turning on his heel. It happened so suddenly that I was caught off guard, standing there for a moment, shocked by this barbaric act.

"Bastard," I muttered under my breath, wiping my face with a tissue I pulled from my back pocket.

I couldn't help myself; my patience was worn thin from dealing with the same type of people over and over. It was becoming exasperating.

He spun around, indicating he had caught my words.

"Say that again, kid?" he challenged provocatively.

This junkie seemed entirely devoid of common sense, and it was pointless to waste my breath arguing with him. I might as well talk to a wall. Someone called to him from outside as he was about to continue his rant.

"Frank, what the hell are you doing? Hurry up!"

He shot me a final look, hesitating, before yielding to his friends' impatience.

"We'll meet again," he said simply before disappearing.

I turned away, showing that his words didn't affect me, and grabbed another tissue to wipe off his spit, scrubbing hard as if to erase the insult from my skin.

As I tossed the tissue away, my eyes fell on the business card Anne had given me last time, and it would be a lie to say I hadn't thought about it since.

°°°

I slipped my key into the lock, but something was blocking the door from opening. Strange.

I kept pushing, but it wouldn't budge. Had Isaac put something in front of the door?

I pushed harder this time, and finally, I managed to glimpse something.

Legs.

Don't tell me—

Panic seized me, but I eventually forced the door open. It closed immediately once I let go, the weight of the body behind it preventing it from opening fully.

"Shit, Isaac!"

Is he... dead? I knelt beside him and checked his pulse. His heart was still beating. Relief washed over me, and I let out a sigh. The last thing I needed was to find a corpse in my place.

Looking around, I saw empty whiskey bottles scattered across the floor, along with several half-smoked joints. I turned my attention back to him and noticed blood flowing from his right hand.

He had smashed a bottle with his hand, and shards were embedded in his skin. What the hell got into him?

I tried to lift him onto the couch. I had a sense of déjà vu.