Knuckles

Knuckles

         Bill often wondered why the interior designer chose this specific color scheme. He had been to this particular motel six times in the past year, and every room had the same Christmas colored floor, pale green walls and orange flowered curtains. Most times he was there he wanted to destroy something, usually the T.V, almost always emitting that high pitched ringing that you could just barely hear even when it was turned off. Bill sat on the double bed and tightly gripped the coarsely woven quilt that abraded his hands. This, he thought, must be what hell is like.          
         Suddenly there was a vicious knock on the door, like someone trying to break it down. Bill didn’t immediately open the door, and the deadbolt rattled three more times before he finally got up to unlock and open it. He was met with Paulie’s crooked grin that disguised his maliciousness, and a fist that was forcefully trying to open the door. Paulie squeezed his wide frame through the door, and Bill stepped back in time to avoid being caught in the face with the worn edge.
         “Evening Billy-boy,” Paulie greeted.
         “Hello Paulie.”
         Bill watched as Paulie pulled the chair out and sat at the small desk, eyeing his knuckles as they rapped on the top to get Bill’s attention. Even from across the room, Bill could see that Paulie was in the mood for danger; the nice clothes and fresh buzz cut he was sporting was a cover to lull people into trusting him, but Bill could tell you things about that man’s knuckles that no one should ever know. He could describe from memory the details of each scar Paulie had from being in this business for too long; knew their exact size and shape, and how they felt when they collided against both fresh skin and old wounds. He could also tell you about their cigarette soaked smell from a pack-a-day habit. Bill could remember the last time vividly, the little orange light dangling and bobbing violently from Paulie’s mouth as those knuckles hit him again and again.
         “Billy-boy,” Paulie called out. He rapped on the desk again, harder this time to show he meant business. Bill frowned.
         You’re early Paulie; Al said not to expect you ‘til 7:00.” They both glanced at the clock that read 6:20, Paulie shrugged.
         “Shipment came early. When I get the stuff, I get the stuff, what do you care? I’m doing you a favor here, but I could always find someone else to help out.” Bill could see Paulie shift his bulk to get up and a rush of desperation surged through his body
         “If you’ve got my money, then I’ve got your stuff.” It was then that Bill noticed the bulge in Paulie’s shirt pocket, as those knuckles moved to pat it reassuringly. Silently, Bill stumbled over to the safe near the open bathroom door, and struggled to remember the combination. The yellow light over the sink stuttered, making it harder to concentrate, and making his gaunt reflection look eerie in the grimy mirror. Bill muttered under his breath as he messed up and had to start all over again.
         “Come on Boy, I’ve got other clients to see,” Paulie growled. Bill could just imagine Paulie’s right hand forming a fist, his knuckles whitening; could hear that crinkling sound skin makes when it rubs together. The bruises on his neck, shoulder and chest from last time suddenly ached, and he could taste bile in the back of his throat. Fingers fumbling and hands shaking, Bill got the money out and placed it in Paulie’s outstretched palm and, sneaking a glance at his other hand; saw those white knuckles showcasing minute scars. Paulie’s fist twitched and he finally reached for his pocket, withdrawing a short yellow envelope and putting the money in its place.
         “Thanks Paulie.” His throat was dry, and he desperately wanted a glass of water, but Paulie still had his stuff, still had his glare on him, and Bill was too scared to move.
         “You know Billy-boy, I’ve been thinking,” Paulie began, moving the envelope back towards his body, and Bill felt a little hope fade. “I’ve been thinking about that night, you know, down at that old bar we used to drink at? When, what was her name? Mary, used to be sweet on you, remember her?” Bill couldn’t talk, couldn’t move. He remembered, though he didn’t want too.
         “What more do you want Paulie?” Paulie’s stare sent a chill down Bill’s spine, and his crooked grin grew wider.
         “Just a small favor.” Paulie placed the envelope on the bed and turned to face Bill fully. “Tell ya what. You agree to it, and outta the kindness of my heart, I’ll give you the stuff now.” He took a step forward; Bill struggled not to take a step back.
         “What kind of favor?”
         “Oh just pay a little visit to Charlie for me, deliver him a message.” Bill froze; he knew exactly what a visit to Charlie meant. He eyed the envelope, the taste of bile in his throat even stronger. His fingers twitched and moved towards his stuff, only to be stopped by Paulie’s rough grip on his wrist. “Uh-uh, Billy-boy. Not until you agree.” His grip tightened as Bill hesitated.
         “O-okay, I’ll do it.” Bill stuttered, stumbling slightly as Paulie released him, slapping him on his back before stepping away.
         “Good man, Billy-boy! I knew you would.” Paulie made to turn away, towards the door, then suddenly turned back, the crooked grin back on his face. “Oh, and just in case you forget,” and Paulie’s fist was flying towards Bill’s face, catching his right cheekbone and pushing Bill to the ground. Paulie then turned and left the room, leaving Bill alone. As the door slammed, Bill struggled to reach the envelope on the bed, smiling despite the pain as he opened it and saw the final 3 Pokémon Cards that had still been missing from his collection.