The cold winter air that once numbed Henry felt oddly still. It was perhaps the fact that he had bolted out of the mansion in a hurry that was unbecoming of him. He panted and wheezed as he laid back, feeling the leather seats of his Rolls Royce cradle his nerves.

It was a short and stormy ride from Geber Laboratories to the White's residence on Commonwealth Avenue, in the heart of Back Bay. Living there, Henry liked to think, was having a finger in the pulse of the city. It made him feel, being a Florida native, that he belonged to a greater lineage than his own -- a place with a proud history.

With the best decor of the decadent '20s, it was filled to the brim with ostentatious furniture. The stained linoleum floor of the living room was pieced together by a soft beige carpet, filled with crumbs, dust, and a few questionable-looking stains. On top of it, a zebrawood table with a broken yellow vase surrounded by ash stood like a sore thumb among the black and white scheme of the walls, sitting squarely in the middle of the room atop the remnants of a once-pristine Persian rug.

On the farthest recess of the room was the piece de resistance: a painting of a man, made entirely out of ink; a gift from Zizi, given to him for Christmas. The man was covered in a jet-black jacket, with the sliver of a white cravat on his neck fading the coat and the background. Henry had loved it at first, hence its position as the centerpiece of the room; however, the more Henry looked at it, the more he began to notice some peculiar and disturbing details.

Instead of a head, a tower of smoke whirled from his neck, scattering and coiling around the rest of the painting. It all felt hazy and unfocused, yet oddly entrancing.

That night, however, he could see his own sadness reflected in the smoke. He felt a million eyes pin on him from every direction. Judging him. Taunting him.

The eyes knew. The smoke had told them.

Suddenly, all that pressure came over him, pounding his head like a hammer on a nail. Henry's eyes were dilating, his chest tightening with every breath.

Staggering slowly to the divan, Henry placed a hand on the headrest for support. He took deep gulps of air, clutching his chest.

In.

Out.

In.

Out.

After a few minutes, just as soon as it came, it went away, as if that simple act brought him balance yet again, both physically and mentally.

"Look at you. You are a useless husk of a man. Pathetic."

The sudden whisper took him by surprise. On the same divan Henry was leaning on, the small frame of Zinet "Zizi" Geber laid gently wrapped in a gray woolen blanket, blending in perfectly with the peach-gold tapestry of the furniture. Her eyes were filled to the brim with hate and loathing, pitch black like the night.

The word that most defined her was "dreadful". Even though she was pushing past her mid-forties, her skin had become awash with wrinkles and liver spots. Scars ran down her face, making a patchwork pattern on her skin. She was white as snow and somber like winter.

Her attitude was too, a mirror of her devilish looks, but crocked enough to give an unnatural allure to all her erratic movements. All in all, her existence was a mix between an old crone and a half-rotten zombie.

Recognizing the bundle of fabric to be his lovely wife, Henry took a seat on the ottoman sitting nearby.

"Yeah. Sorry, bear. Just a long day, is all."

One of his most beloved activities was to stroke his wife's hair, a gesture of protection she always seemed to love. Not today though, as she batted his hand as soon as he tried to approach.

"Did you take your medication today?" asked Henry.

"You mindless oaf. You actually think you can get away with this? Ignoring me won't make me more complacent. This will only increase your suffering. I am not your plaything. I know you, because I am you."

Zizi shrugged at her own answer, seemingly satisfied with not being sure. She was right at least; her medications often clouded her logic.

Henry was not a fan of her drug-fueled rambles, but he knew that she would come down from it eventually. Looking at a watch perched on the wall; Henry saw it was a quarter to six. Soon, their guests would be arriving, and he needed to get ready, same for Zizi.

"Come on," said Henry, trying to touch Zizi, but failing miserably. "Mur and Clara will be here in a couple of hours. You look like you need a bath, too. Where is Jen supposed to be?"

Zizi moved to a sitting position on the divan, casting the blanket away. She stood up, looking down at Henry with raven eyes. "This will not end well for you. Let go. Don't force my hand, hon. Your guilt will be the end of you."

Putting a hand on her shoulder, Henry gently but surely pushed her back down. Zizi usually forgot that the servants were there to take care of her, not the other way around. Henry called for Jacob, the steward, and deftly instructed him to fetch the maid.

Quickly, and with a slightly disgruntled face, Zizi introduced a new subject.

"Okay, you wanna play this song and dance? I assure you, it will only be harder for you to move on."

"What do you mean 'hard'? What was hard"?

"Hon, you are wasting away to nothing. Your assets are gone. Your wife is gone. You have nothing. You are nothing. And you have no-one to blame but yourself."

Overlooking the fact that he was already sitting down, Henry chose to leave the part about Glocal Pharma out. He was worried enough as it was, and having her fuss about it would be a weight he would rather avoid. Too many stimuli for her would be detrimental in the long run anyways.

She stared at him with disgust on her face. "You can't hide your thoughts from me. I'm the devil that lives inside your head. William is not to blame. He wanted to kill you. You just pushed me in front of a bullet with your name on it."

Henry let up a cracked chuckle. She was a bit too much like Murray in some regards, he thought. "Can't do that, bear. Need to maintain my words and put my foot down when it needs to be put down. Lest they start to get soft on me"

"You can't throw money at this one to make it go away, hon. Time won't heal this wound for you. This is your cross to bear. Your fault. He might go to jail for it, but it was your fault for being such an insufferable asshole to a poor kid. It's a surprise nobody had thought of killing you sooner. "

Yes, just as stubborn--or worse--than Murray, but he could disarm her, with a well-placed shot. "Yeah, but I prefer to be loved by you than have a thousand men fear me." Her deadpanned expression told Henry he had missed the target, just in time too, a million pair of shoes started to rumble all around the house, getting closer and closer by the second.

Zizi seized the chance to slip away, fading into the shadows with a haunting giggle. A pang of guilt crept up on him as the goosebumps on his back slithered down his spine. He knew that a woman like that deserved to have a better person than him, but his selfishness and pride would never let that fact surface. She was his, and that was it.

About an hour later, the table was set, with the aroma of melting cheese on meat sauce engulfing the house. Right on cue, the soft ringing of the doorbell announced the visitors for the evening. As soon as Jacob opened the door to receive them, a blur of blue and brown dashed through the living room, burrowing on Zizi's baggy sundress. The same one she was cremated in.

"Aunty Zizi! Look at that useless piece of crap!"

The kid thrust the doll he was holding upwards, practically shoving it toward Zizi. Henry remembered Murray fussing over how hard it was to find that particular doll. Zizi, now considerably soberer than before, gently grabbed the doll with a surprised motherly smile.

"He is a piece of crap. He won't let go of the past. He won't admit his guilt. He doesn't want to live anymore."

"He thinks Cousin William killed him alone. Hasn't he figured it out yet?" said Zacky.

Henry got lost in the nonsensical babble of the kid, deciding to mentally block it for his own sake. He really did not enjoy having kids near him. Dirty, annoying, spoiled. They were career killers for all he knew.

"Henry is a precious little monkey, living his precious little lie. He chooses fakeness over real life. He doesn't wanna let go of his toy. He gets a thrill from owning Zizi," said Clara with a sharp look that seemed to imply that he should behave, for his own sake. Clara gave her damp coat to Jacob for storage, followed by Murray, who had a bottle of wine in his hands.

"Remember when Jabin humiliated you in front of her? Taunting you. Making you look miserable and worthless. You always said you wanted to beat him, but in fact, you wanted to be him. She was a thing for you to own," sneered Murray.

"Christmas was last week, Mur. Move on."

Murray snorted annoyingly, but it was Clara who piped up to Henry. "Remember when Murray told you he was in love with Zizi back at that office Christmas party? He trusted you, and how did you repay him?"

"Humbug then," mocked Henry, "seems to be snowing outside, by the looks of you. Go get some warmth in you. Jacob, put that bottle on ice."

"You betrayed Murray," chortled Murray, "just as you betrayed Zizi. Have you given a single fuck for Clara, you would have betrayed her as well."

Hurriedly, Jacob went to do as instructed, while Murray and Henry retired to the smoking room. Clara and Zizi remained in the living room, leering at Henry while he walked away.

Henry's smoking room was an ode to indulgence. Rich velvet curtains were discarded on the floor, thrown away in a drunken stupor, combined with the dual sofas flipped upside-down against the walls. A glass coffee table with worn-out books on top-Mostly for aesthetic purposes- lay broken and scattered across the floor. Not even that room was outside of the grasp of Zizi's artistic prowess, sporting at least three different ink paintings, ranging from the bizarre to the macabre. Of course, a fully equipped bar was also at hand, depleted to the last drop, as well as cigars and the occasional empty bag of snacks littering the floor.

An old wooden radio played the first few bars of A Kiss to Build a Dream On on a loop. The smoke of his cigar, mixed with the oaken flavor of the whiskey in his mouth, felt like ash. Everything tasted like ash to him.

Murray was the first one to speak, as always. "You can't run away from this. She watches your every move. We watch your every move."

"Who?"

"We are you. The soul of the departed. The memories of nobody mixed with the feelings of an emotionally stunted fuckface. Wake up."

"I know, I know. Yes, she is fine," said Henry dismissively while flicking the cigar over the ashtray, "the new medicine is making her a bit..."

"The medicine is making you lose your mind," sneered Murray.

"I was going to say odd," blurted Henry, cutting Murray off, "but yes, I suppose that would be a fair assessment. She stays awake longer, and according to Jennifer and Jacob, sleeping attacks have been drastically reduced. She does seem to suffer some disorientation after waking up."

Murray stood still, placing the same raven-like eyes Zizi had on Henry. He was not breathing. He was not blinking He was not moving. Even when he talked, his mouth seemed disjointed from the other parts of his face. "Let us go. Let us go. Let us go. Face your guilt. Face your guilt. Face your guilt. Precious little lies. Precious little life. Precious little lies. Precious little life."

Murray was not entirely wrong. While it was for her that Geber lab had begun to study a potential cure for narcolepsy, she was one of the few "test" subjects for the drug. Jennifer was a nurse hired not only to take care of her but to also monitor her advancement.

"You do that. Did you bring the revised speech for tomorrow?" Henry was not much for idle chat, all business, and no play.

"Face your guilt. Face your guilt. Face your guilt. Precious little lies. Precious little life. Precious little lies. Precious little life."

While Murray stared at him, a head peeked over the door. Zizi's hair was knotted in a braid that dangled freely to her side, exposing her shoulders. "Face your guilt. Face your guilt. Face your guilt. Precious little lies. Precious little life. Precious little lies. Precious little life."

Henry had enough.

He stood up, taking a hold of Zizi by the neck.

"What is the meaning of this? What do you mean by that? What the hell is going on here?!"

Zizi looked at him with amusement. Her sharp, yellow teeth almost glistened under the dim lights. "You have nothing. Everyone you love is gone. Everything you love is gone. Look at where you are standing! Your palace to debauchery is a monument to your guilt. And I'm the curator of this little freak-show."

"Wa-what do you mean?" Henry staggered. "I still have you. Always. You are mine. Mine alone. Always when I want. And Mur! He is still alive. He is still there."

Henry looked over his shoulders as to confirm that Murray was still in the room, but instead of him, Zizi was sitting on the chair. Staring at him. Judging.

"You can't change reality, hon," she said. "You can't weasel your way out of this one."

"And for the record," said Murray, who had replaced Zizi as the recipient of his choke-hold, "I am dead. Have you not paid any attention to the nice lawyer before you?"

"Mr. White?" said the man sitting across the Zebrawood table. His thick glasses made his eyes look wider and duller than they were. A thin layer of sweat was stuck on his upper lip, like a filth mustache.

Henry couldn't shake his surprise at the sudden apparition. He was sitting at the table too, clutching a glass of bourbon on the rocks. Is this another illusion?

Zizi was leaning against the wall behind the man, looking as dreadful as before. "Nope," she said, baring her teeth, "this one's real. Aren't you going to offer him a drink?"

Henry took a moment to assess the little man. The first thing that came to mind-besides freaking out of course-was his baldness. The man was incredibly and aggressively bald. His head shone like a light bulb, probably due to some lotion. The rest of his features were unremarkable, at best. He seemed like an accountant or something like that, Henry reckoned.

"I told you, he's a lawyer. You have to pay more attention, hon."

The man patiently stared at Henry, waiting for him to move, or react, or anything. When it was clear he wouldn't budge from his trance, the man cleared his throat, making Henry snap his attention back at him.

"I know this is a lot to take. I will answer all your questions when you are ready."

Henry shook his head, hoping that would also shake his fuzziness away. Sadly, it didn't work.

"I'm sorry. Who are you?" Henry asked, taking a sip of his glass. It tasted like sand and felt like gravel.

The man took a handkerchief out of his breast pocket, wiping the sweat out of his lip. "This is not funny, Mr. White. I hope you can take this seriously."

"That's a hoot," said Zizi with a deadpanned expression. "You might as well ask an elephant to jump."

"I am being completely serious. Who are you? What are you doing in my house?"

The man didn't know if Henry was messing with him, or if the news had hit him so hard he was already in denial. He chose to believe the former. "Mr. White, as much as I'd like to stay any longer, I have other matters to attend. I do believe everything is in order, if a little messy. Please clean everything properly before I return."

"Say yes, you oaf," said Zizi.

"Yes," blurted Henry, the word not even processing on his brain before saying it out loud. He felt a nail being driven into the base of his skull.

"Good. I can see myself out." The man reached his hand out, waiting for Henry to shake it. Henry stared at it as if was made of gold. He appreciated the big metal ring on the man's middle finger. It had a strange pattern, almost Middle Eastern.

"Shake his hand!" commanded Zizi, punching the wall for emphasis.

Henry stood up in a flash, giving the man a firm handshake. He had not even thought about doing any of it, but his body moved on its own. He felt like a puppet being controlled, dragged around by a child.

"What do we say to guests, hon?"

"Thank you for your visit," said Henry in a monotone voice. "Mister..."

"Ira. Dershowitz," the man said, producing a card from his pocket. "I'll leave this. If you have any questions, please don't hesitate to call. Get some sleep, you look awful."

Ira... Henry had heard that name before. But he couldn't place his finger on where.

Zizi pushed away from the wall, walking alongside Ira as he walked out of the door. "That's the lawyer Murray got for our divorce. Didn't he say his name was Ira too?"

Henry's eyes shoot open. That is the bastard weasel Murray had given Zizi for the divorce.

He tried to run towards Ira, but every step sent pins and needles up his legs. After a couple of steps, he collapsed, hitting the floor face-first. Blood poured from his nose, but he couldn't feel any pain on his now-crooked nose. He stood up on wobbly knees, rubbing his legs with his right hand while holding his nose with his left. He could feel the bones crunch between his fingers, but that was the only thing indicating any damage. He still couldn't feel a thing.

He tried to walk again, slowly this time, placing a hand on the wall for support. Shuffling little by little, he inched his way through the living room into the foyer, where he could see the squat man opening the door on his way out. Something on the back of Henry's mind told him he should run if he were to catch the man. Another part of his mind said it was useless, that he should just sit down and be over with it.

Henry chose to run.

Each step was like a thunder splitting his body apart at the seams. Each step was a fire burning his very core to a smoldering pile of ash. Each step was squeezing his very soul. But he soldiered on. Determined. If he hurried, he could catch Ira in the driveway.

He opened the door. Ira was getting in his yellow Porshe. Henry was in time. He took a step out of the foyer before stopping dead in his tracks.

His forearm was burning up, but no flames were on it; Zizi had a death grip on it, making her knuckles go white with force.

"In. Now," she said from behind Henry. Her voice was commanding, but emotionless. It was somehow more scary than her dark, unrelenting eyes.

Henry's legs moved on their own; with no pain this time. The door closed on its own with a loud thud. He could only watch as his body got dragged around like a doll to the foyer, where Zizi threw him on the floor with disdain.

Henry landed on his butt, thankfully not hurt beyond some soreness. He tried to stand up again, but Zizi placed a bony finger on his forehead.

"Sit," she ordered. "And stay there."

Henry suddenly found himself glued to the ground. He tried moving his arms, his legs, anything. But he was paralyzed.

"How...why?" he asked, pleading with his eyes for an end to his madness.

"You were gonna do something dumb back there," Zizi answered, sitting on the floor in front of him. "I just took your body for a spin. I hope you don't mind."

Henry's mind was a mess. Every time he tried to think about his situation-about her-his eyes went out of focus.

"What do you mean?" he asked, rubbing his eyes. His sight was fading little by little. The only thing he could see was Zizi, smirking at him, and the paintings around the foyer, distorting their mocking eyes, black like a raven's. Judging him.

"You wanted to ask him why I wanted to divorce you."

"What?" Henry said with feigned surprise, "I di-"

"Hon, I'm you. I know what you're thinking," Zizi interrupted. "I know you were very used to lying to me, but you can't lie to yourself."

Henry opened his mouth to retort, but nothing came to mind. Literally nothing. He couldn't even remember what a chair looked like.

"I had to put a stop to that nonsense there, so don't freak out," she said, standing up from the floor. "Rise," she commanded.

Once again, as if pulled by strings, Henry's body moved without his consent. Zizi took him by the arm, the burning sensation taking a hold of his arm yet again. It was the only thing he had felt the whole day.

Leading him into the living room, Henry noticed that on top of the Zebrawood table, a flat-screen had been placed instead of the usual vase. It was turned on, showing a picture of the Geber headquarters lobby.

With her free hand, Zizi pulled a chair from the table, facing the monitor.

"Sit," she commanded. Henry's body complied.

"What is this? What are you trying to do?" asked Henry, his voice painted in worry at his bizarre situation.

Zizi moved behind Henry, grabbing his head with both hands. "You wanted to know why I wanted out of our marriage. I'm simply showing you. Look at the monitor."

"I do not think I-"

"I said," Zizi said, "Look at the monitor!"

Henry's eyes pinned on the monitor, fading everything else around it."

"Can you see it?" asked Zizi, whose face was just beside Henry's.

"I can't-" Henry began to say, but that would have been a lie. Something on the back of his head told him that. It told him to look harder. And so, he did, as a black dot appeared square in the middle of the photo. It was just a dot. Nothing more.

The dot became a hole, swallowing the room whole.

THREE DAYS AFTER THE SECOND DISASTER