Chloe knew she was truly alone when she stood in a crowd of people and knew not one face, and she was invisible to all of them. Her rolled-up sketches and oil paintings were tucked under her arm as she traversed the crowded crosswalk and held her head low. How strange it was, to be surrounded by people, yet to still be alone. It was unnatural. Her brain knew it, on some level, and she quickened her pace.
The Chicago skyline loomed in the background, far beyond her apartment, and the image was something Chloe had painted many times. She’d painted four versions in class, but she liked the third one the best. It was on that try, she decided, that her inspiration peaked. She lived on the first floor in a homey, single-bedroom residence. And she didn’t want to go inside, right now. She wanted to stay out here, in the fresh and crisp autumn air, which smelled like chocolate, as it always did in River North as the wind carried the smell of Blommer Chocolate’s factory.
Chloe set her paintings and to-go box by the door and sat on her doorstep. There was a dark alleyway to her back, which made her check over her shoulder every few seconds. She took out her cellphone and scrolled through her contacts until she landed on “Maman” (mother, in French). She called and pressed the phone to her ear. Each ring took away just a bit of her hope. Then, a crinkling sound, and her mother’s voice.
“Hey,” said her mother.
“Bonjour, maman,” said Chloe. “Je –
“C’est Claire. S’il vous plaît –
Voicemail. Chloe sighed and lowered the phone. Hearing her mother’s voice, in that context, almost worsened her lonesomeness. To hear a familiar voice, one that was not addressing her. She stood and searched her pockets for her keys. Then, a shuffling noise. It came from behind her. She nearly broke her neck looking over her shoulder. She scrutinized the shadowy back alley and could make out light movement. At first, she thought it was an alley cat, and that got her excited because then she could have some company. But it wasn’t. The moving shape emerged from the darkness, and it was a man.
The man was average height. He wore a dark red leather jacket and baggy pants and worn shoes. His hands were stuffed in his coat pockets as he lightly shivered. But his most conspicuous feature was his head.
The man’s entire head was wrapped in worn gauze, which was withering and falling apart. The only part of his face which was not wrapped was his left eye, and some of the skin around it, and that skin was red and peeling.
Chloe gasped and dropped her keys. She took a few steps back, reached into her purse, and pulled out the can of bear mace she always carried around the city. She aimed and stood firm. The man proceeded forward, slowly.
“Uh-uh,” Chloe warned. Her eyes were like softballs at the moment.
The man took a few more steps, then stopped. He bent down and picked up Chloe’s keys. He tossed them to her, and she caught them.
“Sorry,” said the man. His voice was low and quiet, timid even. “Didn’t mean to frighten you.”
Chloe was taken aback by his normality. The homeless, whom she often encountered in the city, were usually loopy and strung out. She nodded to the take-out box on her doorstep.
“You can have it, if you want,” she said. “I’m not hungry.”
“Are you sure?” the man asked.
“Yes.”
“Is that a French accent?”
“Yes. I’m an exchange student.”
The man nodded. “Well, welcome to the states.”
Silence, for a moment.
“Thanks,” said Chloe.
The man went to the doorstep and collected the take-out box. He nodded to Chloe with gratitude. “Thank you, very much.”
“Um…” Chloe began.
The man stopped and turned.
“You’re homeless?” she asked. What a stupid question. Of course he’s homeless!
“Just in a pinch,” said the man. He nodded to the to-go box. “Thanks, again.” He disappeared into the alleyway darkness.
***
Chloe locked the door and shut the blinds. She grabbed her cell and dialed 9-1… and stopped. She didn’t know why she stopped. All she could picture was the man, sitting by an alleyway dumpster, eating cold fries from the take-out tray, having his pitiful meal interrupted by Chicago PD. She backed out and selected her mother in her contacts. Then, she thought better of that, too. She’ll call back. She’s busy, don’t bother her. She’ll call me back.
***
American Graffiti played on the TV. Chloe sat on the sofa and munched some popcorn as she watched Harrison Ford sing “Some Enchanted Evening,” his character unaware that his car would be upside down in a ditch, a couple scenes later. Thunder boomed outside and preceded bright flashes of lightning as raindrops rapped the apartment’s exterior.
Chloe got up and glanced out the window. The rainfall was heavy, intense, and created puddles that fish could swim in. She looked to the corner and saw her umbrella. She wondered if she was crazy. I just might be, she thought.
She took the umbrella and opened it up and went outside. Her other hand clutched her bear mace, her thumb on the trigger. She approached the shadows of the back alley.
“Psst,” she said. “Sir? Hey, you here?”
“Over here,” a voice returned.
Chloe squinted and saw the man, sitting by a dumpster, beneath a boxed AC generator that barely provided cover from the rain. His bandages were getting wet, too, and that would loosen them.
Can’t believe I’m doing this, she thought.
***
The man sat at Chloe’s kitchen table and dried his hands and bandages with a towel. Chloe was in the kitchen, pouring a can of chicken soup into a bowl with one hand, clutching her bear mace in the other.
“I, uh,” she began, “I have this bear spray, just so you know.”
“I can see that,” said the man.
“I don’t want to use it.”
“I understand. You won’t have to.”
“You can stay ‘till the rain stops.”
“That’s nice of you. Thank you.”
Chloe microwaved the bowl of soup and set it down in front of the man, next to the mug of hot chocolate she’d made for him. She sat down across from him and sipped her own hot chocolate. He ate, slurping little spoonfuls of the warm broth.
“It’s good,” he said. “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome,” said Chloe. “What’s your name?”
“Abel.”
“I’m Chloe.”
“That’s a pretty name. You mentioned you’re an exchange student?”
“Yes. I’m from France.”
“You speak good English.”
“Thanks. I’m over at The American Academy of Art.”
“I saw some of your paintings, earlier, on your doorstep. You’re very good.”
“Thank you.”
All this time, she could not stop staring at Abel’s bandaged face. He noticed, and their sad eyes met through his withering bandages.
“What happened?” Chloe asked.
Abel hesitated.
“Sorry,” said Chloe.
“No, no,” said Abel. “It’s fine.” He slurped another spoonful of soup and chewed a piece of chicken. “Acid attack. Some men… tried to kill me. They burned my face. I had to leave home to get away.”
“That’s horrible. Why?”
“Owed ‘em money. Couldn’t pay it off.” He noticed a framed photo, nearby, which depicted Chloe’s family: her mother, her father, her little brother, and a German Shepherd.
“Beautiful family,” said Abel.
“Thanks,” said Chloe.
“You miss them?”
“Yes. Very much.”
Abel nodded. “I miss my family, too.” He grabbed his mug and raised it. “To home.”
Chloe smiled and raised hers. “To home.”
“So, what kind of art do you study?” Abel asked.
“Expressionism,” said Chloe. “I also take a realism class.”
“What do you like better?”
Chloe thought. “I don’t know. A bit of both, I guess.”
“I used to paint.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. Landscapes, mostly.”
Chloe saw a grand opportunity as she stood up and approached a display stand, which stood a few feet away, in the living room. She left her can of mace on the chair, in the kitchen. She sat down, propped up her sketchpad, and grabbed a pencil.
“Face me,” she said.
It was not visible, but Abel smiled beneath his gauze wrapping as he turned in his seat and faced Chloe as she began to sketch a portrait of him.
***
The stranger was a 60-year-old man with tanned, leathery skin, a gray mustache, and a balding head. He had a nose that’d been through the wringer in its day, and a constant angry underbite. He always walked with closed fists, and right now, he walked up Chloe’s doorstep and knocked on the door. A moment passed and Chloe, alone, answered it.
The stranger smiled. “Evening, ma’am,” he said.
“Hi,” said Chloe. “How can I help you?”
“I hope I didn’t startle you. My name’s Graham.”
“Hi.”
“I was hoping you might be able to help me.”
“Okay?”
“I’m looking for a man,” said Graham. “You can’t miss him. He’s got bandages covering his face. Quite heavily, in fact.”
Chloe gulped.
“Oh,” she said. “I, uh… sorry, I would’ve remembered that. I haven’t seen him, if that’s what you’re asking.”
Graham sighed. “All right, then. Well, have a…”
His voice trailed off as he peered over Chloe’s shoulder and noticed something inside. It was a sketch, propped up in the living room, of a heavily bandaged face, one eye covered. His face sank.
“You okay, sir?” Chloe asked.
“Yeah,” said Graham. “Of course. Have a good night.”
“Good night.”
Chloe shut the door and locked it. “Abel,” she whispered.
Abel came out from his hiding place in the bathroom.
“That was them,” said Chloe.
“I know,” said Abel. “I have to go.”
“What? No, don’t. They’ll kill you.”
“That’s why I need to leave.”
“No. Let me call the cops!”
Abel’s eyes widened. “NO!”
“What?” said Chloe. “Why?”
“I have to go, now.”
Abel jogged through the living room and to the backdoor. He opened it. On the other side stood two more strangers, middle-aged men, real mean-looking. They stormed into the house. Abel tried to run, but the two men caught him and grabbed him by his arms.
“No, no, no,” said the first one. “You’re in deep shit, you little weasel.”
“Let him go!” Chloe shouted.
“Stay out of this, little lady,” said the second man.
Graham, accompanied by a third sidekick, barged in through the front door with hellfire in his eyes. Chloe stood in his direct path. He grabbed her by the arm and shoved her toward the kitchen table. He then turned his attention to Abel. Watched him writhe and struggle and grunt with panic. Graham reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a plastic bottle, clear liquid inside. Abel went real still, petrified as stone. He knew exactly what the liquid was.
“Get him on the floor,” said Graham. The two cronies yanked Abel to the ground and pinned him, the first man holding down his arms, and the second holding down his legs.
Chloe wanted to make a dash for the door, but Graham’s third henchman acted as a bouncer. She sat helpless as she watched Graham take a small pair of scissors and snip Abel’s bandages away.
Graham lifted the bandages and revealed Abel’s face to the air. Abel’s face was blotchy and discolored and much of his skin was peeled away. His right eye was gone. His lips were gone, his two front teeth poking out like a rodent’s. Part of his right ear was missing, as well.
“Look at that ugly fuckin’ mug,” said Graham. “I’m gonna burn it all right the fuck away.”
“Please,” said Abel.
“But first…” Graham unscrewed the bottle and then held it right over Abel’s groin area. “…something you had coming.”
Abel yelped and struggled. “No, please! Don’t! Don’t burn me!”
Chloe’s wide and terrified eyes looked on. And then, she remembered. The mace. She saw it was still on the chair, where she’d left it. No time to think. She went for it, grabbed it, and approached Graham and the two men.
“Hey!” she shouted. The three men looked, and she sprayed. A whoosh filled the air as orange liquid jetted out of the canister. The three men all stumbled back, shrieked, and clutched their burning eyes.
“Fuck!” Graham shouted. “You fuckin’ bitch!”
Graham flung the opened bottle of acid into the air, and some of it splashed onto Chloe’s right hand. She screamed and fell to her knees as the skin on her hand burned and peeled away.
The third henchman approached the scene with the intent of grabbing Abel. But Abel crawled to the fallen bottle of acid, which still had a bit left in it. He leapt to his feet and tossed it. The acid splashed Graham’s third crony in the face. The man squealed and clutched his face with both hands. Steam seeped out from between his fingers.
Abel approached Chloe. He scooped her up in his arms and headed for the backdoor as all four assailants lay on the floor, groaning in pain. Graham’s final words that chilled Chloe to her core.
“You pedophile fuck!” Graham shouted. “You’re gonna burn for what you did to my boy! You’ll burn!!!”
***
The night was cold. Mist evaporated off the pavement from the earlier rain, sparkling in the pale light of nearby street lamps.
Abel carried Chloe through a dark alleyway. He stopped between two dumpsters and set her down. She groaned in pain as she kept her hand tucked inside her sleeve. Abel stood over her and she looked up at him with disgust.
“Did you do it?” she asked.
“No,” Abel replied. “But they’ll never believe me.” He paused, half of his charred face—the worst half—illuminated by faraway streetlights. “Do you?”
“I don’t know.”
Abel gave Chloe one last, somber look, before walking off into the darkness.
Chloe sat there and nursed her arm. Her cellphone rang. She pulled it out of her pocket. It was her mother. She answered the phone and pressed it to her ear.
“Mom…”