Brightside (33 page)

Carrie Cressy

Lisa Lindsay
Tooley

Paul White

Mat Santos

Diane Farmer Watzek

Dana Schneider

Ryan Couture

Michael
Polvere

Motu
Ili

Bruce
Boyington

Dave Curtis

Terri Riker

Jason Gallagher

Florante
Ortaliza

Daniel Teach

Nena
LB

Rob
Cipriano

Andy Law

Velma St. Pierre

Andy Hillcoat

Joe Chavez

Vic Torres

Ru
-Yi
Yalich

Ademo
Freeman

I’m a father and a husband, a brother and a son. I’m an Ivy League grad who worked in a warehouse, an MMA fighter with too many defeats. I’m the bouncer and bodyguard, the drunk guy in the fight. The jailer and the jailed, the guilty and innocent.

I’m a writer shaped by influences, too many to count. I grew up on King and Koontz while force-fed the Bible. I narrate Dr. Seuss and Disney nearly every night. Like you, I've seen things I wished I hadn’t, heard some truths I won’t forget.

Writing is my heavy bag, the sparring partner that doesn’t punch back. It’s where I shed my armor and cast off the blindfold, take a look at myself and the world around me. The writing takes me wherever it wants. Dark alley or dinner table, classroom or morgue. I go along for the ride and try to capture the moment, show life like it is.

25 Perfect Days

A totalitarian state doesn’t just happen overnight. It’s a slow, dangerous slide.
25 Perfect Days
chronicles the path into a hellish future of food shortages, contaminated water, sweeping incarceration, an ultra-radical religion, and the extreme measures taken to reduce the population. Through twenty-five interlinked stories, each written from a different character’s point of view,
25 Perfect Days
captures the sacrifice, courage, and love needed to survive and eventually overcome this dystopian nightmare.
Sc
heduled for release early 2013
.

Ain't No Messiah

"Most my life, I've been saying I ain't no Messiah. All my life, Father's been swearing to God that I am. And now I'm here on this couch, not knowing what to think, figuring it probably don't ma
tter either way." Look for it in
2013, the first in a five novel series.

Unlocking the Cage

Mark’s first nonfiction project scheduled for release in 2014. As a former fighter, Mark could never answer why he stepped in the cage. Through an extensive survey and interviews of hundreds of MMA fighters from across North America, Mark hopes to answer who fighters are and what they have in common.

Repackaged Presents

Five short horror stories sure to disturb you.
Out now.

www.marktullius.com

Five Minutes Alone

How much damage could Michael really do in five minutes? It’s not like he was launching a nuclear attack or sitting behind the wheel of a semi, plowing into pedestrians. He just had to stand in a room. An 8x10 concrete cell. It’d be over in a blink. Conference calls at his office allotted more time for being on hold. There was nothing to worry about. If this meant closure, it was worth every second. That’s all Sarah wanted, after all, for the twins, for the family. They needed to move on.

Sarah’s voice came barreling up the stairs saying breakfast was ready. Michael couldn’t remember the last time he’d heard that, couldn’t remember the last time he hadn’t woken up to her staring at the wall, lying there until the day was long over.

Michael threw off the covers. He smelled bacon and coffee. Bypassing his work suits, Michael slipped on a pair of jeans and a Polo and headed downstairs.

Sarah was behind the stove in an apron, her hair pulled back in a ponytail. The way Michael remembered her. Looking like a mom.

“It smells great,” he said.

Sarah scooped sizzling strips onto a plate, blotted them with a paper towel to soak up the grease.  “You talked to your boss, right?” Sarah set the plate onto the kitchen table.

“Yeah.”

“I just really don’t want anyone calling today.”

Michael took his seat and poured a glass of orange juice. “They won’t. And I talked to the boys’ principal too. It won’t even count as a sick day.”

“Good.” Sarah wiped her hands on her apron. “Boys! Come on, we’re going to be late!”

Like they were waiting outside the door, the twins walked in and took their places, Justin to his father’s left, Jeremy to the right. Black pants, black shirts, no words.

Michael started to think they might not be ready for this, but as if she was reading his mind, Sarah pointed at his shirt. “You’re not really wearing that, are you?”

Michael realized he was the only one in white, not exactly an appropriate color for the occasion. “I’ll, uh, change after we eat.”

Sarah pulled off her apron, took a seat. She was wearing the black dress she wore for Jenny’s eighth grade graduation. The dress Michael teased her about because she was just like the other parents acting like it was some big deal. Sarah asked the boys if they liked their eggs. They gave little nods. Sarah didn’t respond, didn’t touch her food, she just sat there, staring at her empty juice glass. Michael told himself it’d get easier.

After breakfast, the two-hour ride to San Angeles was quiet. Only Sarah spoke, and only once. She said, “This is good, this is going to be good.”

When they got to New Parker Center, Michael kept the doors locked.

“There’s something I have to say.”

Sarah pulled on the handle. “We’ve already discussed this. Open it.”

“Yeah, Dad.” Jeremy sat up and glared in the rear view, his eyes the size of golf balls. “You promised.”

Michael didn’t know if that was true. He couldn’t remember promising, but he couldn’t remember not promising either. It had been like that lately, Michael’s recent memory had become a thick fog and as always, he was too exhausted to try and cut through it. Instead, he just wondered what kind of father would promise his children something like this and unlocked everyone’s door.

The cop at the desk signed them in, told them to be sure to keep track of the time. Five minutes each, not a second more.

Sarah grabbed the pen, signed her name. They had agreed she could go first. A uniformed officer led Sarah away.

The desk cop pointed Michael and the boys across the hall. “Someone will come for you.”

The waiting room was cold and small, the floor and walls a dull white. The boys were on the little couch. Jeremy sat with his fists pushed together, his steel-toe boot tap, tap, tapping. Michael wondered if Sarah had bought them just for today. Justin sat hunched over too, but different, like there should be a bucket between his feet.

Michael felt he should ask if they were okay, give the boys a chance to back out. But Sarah said they had the right. What if it’d been his sister? Michael didn’t have a sister, but he
understood what she meant.  This would give them a little control, help them move past this.

Michael locked eyes on the clock. Four minutes past nine.

A cop called Michael’s name from the doorway. He got up without saying a word to the boys. The elevator took him down to an unmarked floor and a long hallway, the fluorescent lights and ceramic tiles part of the original building.

They turned right at the next hallway. Sarah was down at the end. An officer led her by the elbow, her face speckled red, the same color dripping from her clenched fists. Sarah didn’t even glance at Michael as they passed, ragged breaths seeping through her plastered smile beneath a vacant gaze.

Michael’s officer nudged him towards the door. “Mr. Adams, you’ve been advised of your rights. Do you have any questions?”

He did have questions. What would he see on the other side? Did he really want to know what his wife was capable of? And what about the boys?

The officer unlocked the door. Red glops covered the floor, fragments of Sarah’s footprints. Michael started to ask if it could be cleaned then realized how ridiculous that would be.

“Mr. Adams, clock’s ticking.”

Michael stepped inside. The dimly lit room smelled of blood and sweat. That’s what he remembered about Jenny’s birth. The complications. All that blood.

It was three days before the doctor took Jenny out of the NICU bed and said they could hold her. Michael was scared because Jenny was so small, but once she was in his arms, he swore he’d never let go. He’d protect her from everything.

But Michael failed.

The monster who raped and murdered his baby girl sat naked, his hands cuffed to the top of the table. Sarah had kept her word, but just barely. Olsen’s eyes were swollen, but he could still open them.

For a second, Michael thought this was the wrong guy. Olsen looked nothing like the family man with five adoring kids. Each of them had written Michael and Sarah at least once a week begging them not to come today. They asked for mercy. They said none of this would bring Jenny back. Sarah burned every letter.

The cell looked like the interrogation room from an old cop show. Three bare metal walls, a fourth with the one-way mirror Sarah said she’d be behind. The only light flickered from the 60-watt bulb hanging over the table, where the naked monster
looked like something out of a horror movie. Olsen’s face oozed blood. His nose flattened and mushed to the left. The whites of his eyes were clouded red. His left ear hung on by a few ropes of skin.

Michael sat across from Olsen and stared at his hands. The top of the right one was a dark purple mass, the cuff smashed into the skin, looking like someone had slammed an anvil on it over and over. Even if Olsen lived, it’d have to be amputated.

But Olsen wasn’t going to live. If he made it past today they’d still fry him tomorrow. That’s what Michael kept telling himself.

An electric timer was mounted on the wall next to the mirror, thirty seconds already gone.

Olsen’s attack on Jenny lasted a minute and fifty-three seconds. Some coward on the third floor caught the whole thing on video.

Below the timer was an iron stand that held a sledgehammer, a fireplace poker, and an aluminum baseball bat, smudged red on the end.

Olsen made a noise. It came out all mumbled through his broken jaw. Two teeth poked through his bottom lip. He was trying to speak, but Michael had heard enough of this prick’s voice. During the trial, Olsen made a full confession and cried the
entire time. He said Jenny had smiled at him. He said he couldn’t help himself. He was sick.

Olsen finally got out his words, clearer this time. “Finish it,” he said. “Please.”

Michael closed his eyes and took a deep breath, tried to remember the last time he’d held Jenny. She was only thirteen.

“Kill me,” Olsen begged.

Michael banged the table and drove it into Olsen’s chest, pinning him against the wall. Michael jumped to his feet. “You don’t get to decide.”

The timer said Michael had three minutes.

He walked over, told himself not to pick up the poker, but there he was, pulling it out of the stand, careful not to cut himself on the razor-sharp hook and pointed tip.

Olsen moaned and Michael watched the seconds tick away. If Michael hit him once, that would be it. There’d be no stopping.

At two-forty-two, Olsen said, “She cried for you.” Olsen cocked his head, raised the pitch in his voice mimicking some ditzy teenage girl. “My daddy, my daddy…”

Michael spun around. Olsen leaned into it. But Michael let go of the handle and the poker flew past Olsen’s face, clanked off the wall.

The timer hit Jenny’s minute fifty-three. The head of the sledgehammer was as wide as Michael’s fist. One hit is all it would take. Finished. The boys wouldn’t have to step foot in this room, lower themselves to this piece of shit. They wouldn’t have to hear Olsen’s goddamn voice.

Michael reached out, picked up the sledgehammer and faced the mirror. The man staring back looked nothing like the man Michael had woken up as.

The mirror thumped. It thumped again, Sarah pounding it over and over until Michael let the sledgehammer fall to the ground.

The timer was down to one-fifteen, the moment Jenny had stopped fighting, and Olsen slammed her head into the concrete.

Each passing second was one less for Olsen, a little closer to the death he deserved.

Michael concentrated on the mirror. He saw the timer in the reflection. The buzzer rang. His boys would get their five minutes alone.