Damaged (24 page)

"Why not? You're going to kill me anyways. There's nothing I can do to stop you. But remember this. My funeral is going to be overflowing with people, family, friends—everyone in this whole tristate area. But you, when you die, you'll probably have just your mommy and daddy there. You'd be—"

"
My mom is dead!"

"She's lucky. Doesn't have to deal with your grief anymore, you sorry waste of a life."

Adam turned on the saw. The blade spun, squealing loud. Bain watched it with large, glassy eyes.

Smirking, Adam turned it off. "Y'see? Even tough guys like you get scared. You're human, too, if there's such a thing as that anymore."

"At least I'm not a
freak.
"

I can't take this anymore.

Adam powered it back up and wedged a small piece of paper in the trigger to keep it running. Bain looked up at the steel-toothed death-maker, trying to think of something pleasant—
the beach? Erica? Football? Partying?

Nothing stuck.

Adam lowered the saw with a piece of twine wrapped over a hanging pipe. It came down, screaming, roaring, being used for a brand new purpose other than cutting wood. Bain's eyes gleamed with tears. With one yank, Adam tore off Bain's shirt. It was in his way.

"See how you like it, you fucker! Death to jocks!"

"Shiiiiit!
" Bain screamed.
"Heeeeelp me! Somebody heeeelp me!"

"They ain't going to hear you. These walls are all cement. This is how you die! Oh, yes—die. Where are you going to go when
you
die?"

The saw came lower, lower still. Adam grabbed another piece of twine and tugged at it. The Black and Decker swayed back and forth, from side to side. The swirling blade was closing in on Bain's stomach. He looked down as far as he could. His eyes looked like they were going to roll out of view. Adam laughed. And laughed. His hands orchestrated the pulleys like a puppet master. Bain sucked in his gut as far as he could and screamed. And screamed. The blade was only inches away, moving across, across, and across.

"Please! Stop! You're right! You're right! I'm the freak. I'm a freak. I treated you like garbage, and I'm sorry. Okay, Adam!"

Adam didn't look crazy, he looked inhuman. "It's too late for all that nonsense now, Bain. You've had your chance. Die like the tough man you thought you were!"

Bain could feel the air from the raging saw blade. He sucked in his gut even farther. His screams almost drowned out the whine of the motor. Swing, swing, and—

The first cut was small, a mere scratch. Then it swung right and cut a little deeper. Adam tilted his head back and laughed. Bain tried to suck in his stomach even more but couldn't. The saw cut him again, right above his belly button. The pain was sharp. Piercing.

"Don't, don't, don't, don't, don't—"

Adam kept grinning strangely. His hand gave more slack. The blade cut a little deeper each time. A little blood oozed and ran down Bain’s sides. He did not stop screaming. The blade did not, either. Its teeth ate at his flesh like a great white. He tilted his head up more to see how bad he was bleeding. Not too.

Adam gave three whole inches of slack with the twine. The saw chewed through the victim’s flesh and into his intestines. Blood now flew. The pain was suddenly overwhelming—a sickening, gastric agony that outdid the pain of the stomach tumor he had had removed as a child. It hurt unlike everything else. Nerves, veins, arteries, and tissue ripped open with ease. Adam could smell his shit, could see it rupturing from his gaping wound. The blood squirted, spurted and sprayed. A few drops landed on an old rocking chair ten feet away. Bain coughed and choked violently. His stomach tensed, eased, tensed, and eased. His whole body began jerking. His eyes rolled back. Trauma was kicking in. Adam couldn't believe the amount of blood a typical human body contained. It
poured
out. The floor was covered, as was the ceiling. As was him.

He stepped back and watched as the disemboweled faggot jock struggled to cling to life. A moment later, Bain was no more.

Adam looked at the mess he'd made.
Lots of cleaning tonight
, he told himself.

I think this fatality was my favorite.

Adam went upstairs, grabbed four old towels from the bathroom, wetted them, and went back down into the basement.

Five minutes later, while Adam was in the process of scrubbing the floor on his hands and knees:

"Adam, you home? Hello? Adam?"

Oh my God, it's my dad.

He came in through the front door, holding a bag of McDonalds in his left hand. Adam's brain went kaput.

I can go upstairs and just make sure he doesn't come down here
. Then he looked at himself. A dead giveaway. He was covered from head to toe in jock’s blood.

"Adam, you upstairs?" his father said, looking upstairs. But no lights were on up there. The basement door, he noticed, was ajar. And a light was shining from within.

Adam heard the footfalls close in.

"Adam? Hey, I got you some food. What are you doing down there?"

Oh fucking shit.

"Yeah, I'll be up in a minute. Don't come down here."

His father giggled. "You got a girl down there? You getting laid?"

Not exactly.

"No. I'll be right up. Hold on."

A footstep on the top step. Another on the second.

“I said I'd be right up."

"What the hell are you doing down here?"

His father walked halfway downstairs and turned. He almost laughed at first. He thought it was some sort of elaborate joke, except it looked too real.

"Adam," he said, mouth ajar, "what is going on here?" Suddenly, the harsh reality kicked in:
my son is the one I heard about on the news—the one who killed the—

"Oh, Jesus!" his father said.

"Dad, I know how this must look. But I can explain. It's uh—I think that—I don't know how—Maybe I just—"

Now I have to kill my own father.

Adam didn't want to even consider it. And his father did not want to consider his son a brutal serial murderer.

Extremely brutal. Look what he did!

"Dad, what are you thinking? Do you hate me now? You really shouldn't have come here—"

"Adam," his father stopped him, "you're him… the one who killed them?" He could not believe it. He thought his eyes were fooling him.

Adam lowered his head.

“You… no. You're not. You're my son. You would never do something like this. This isn't you—"

"It's always been me, dad. Now it's just come to the surface. The nuke blew up. I can't help it. It's who I am now."

His father teared up. He dropped the McDonald's bag. It fell downstairs.

"What are you thinking?" Adam needed to know. "You think I'm a bad person now?" He began tearing up, too.

"Before or after mom?"

"After. Adam died that day, too. Maybe was born. I'm not sure."

"Why? Jesus, Adam—look at him! He's dead. There's blood—" He looked at the gruesome scene. Blood was dripping from the ceiling rafters. "How could you? Why? Tell me."

Adam could not answer.

"Well? Did this—person—rig the airplane with bombs and blow her up?"

"She has nothing to do with this, dad.”

"I don't believe you. This stuff started right after her passing. It's obviously had something to do with it?"

Tears streamed down Adam's cheeks, and he looked up at his father. "It's a long story. I don't even know all of it yet. I'm afraid of how it's going to end."

"It's going to end here and now. You need serious help, son. I do still love you… care about you."

Adam took a step toward him. His dad took a step upstairs.

"See?" Adam said. "If you cared about me—"

"—you think I would let you go? For doing something this atrocious? Look at the blood! Look at the expression on his—" He covered his mouth.

Adam looked at the carnage as if it was everyday business. "I didn't give a shit about him."

"Obviously not! This can't go on. All kids from your high school?"

"Not kids."

"You need to be stopped. You can't do this anymore." His dad was visibly shaking. He could barely stand.

Adam sighed and wiped blood away from his forehead.

"I'm going upstairs," his dad said, coughing, "to use the phone."

"Why?" Adam said sternly. "Who are you calling? Dad, I can't be locked away for this. You know what they'll do to me? Those morons are going to fuck me up the ass until the day I get fried in the chair. I won't let you!"

Adam took another step forward. He removed Bain's folding knife from his back pocket and opened it.

"But isn't it great?" Adam said as he walked around the carcass. "The blood, the smell, the guts? Don't you think it's beautiful? A God-like work of art?"

"This is Satan, Charles Manson, Hitler type—"

“—No! Don't you fucking compare me to any of them. Satan is make-believe, Manson is crazy, and Hitler was evil. I'm a martyr."

"You're sick!"

"Then go. Go call the cops. I won't be happy about it, but I won't stand in your way. What has to be done has to be done."

His father just stood there, as if he needed Adam's approval. He felt like vomiting, passing out, and killing himself all at once, but when Adam stepped forward again, the man ran upstairs.

Adam had to act fast before his dad got to the phone.

How do I kill him? He's my father! He's never done half the shit Bain did to me. He cared enough to bring me McDonald's when I was hungry.

Jail. Fags. Death sentence.

Adam quietly but quickly ran upstairs.

David jogged into the living room on his bad leg and pulled the phone off the charger. It slipped from his hand and hit the floor. “Dammit!”

Knife grasped firmly, Adam walked through the hallway.

David picked up the phone. His fumbling fingers began to dial—9, 1, 2.

"Shit! C'mon!"

Adam rounded the corner and entered the living room. Turned round, his father quickly turned off the phone and went to re-dial. Adam heard the digits being pressed. He sneaked up behind his own flesh and blood, knife raised.

David turned and looked up. Right when he pressed the last digit—1—the blade came down, plunging into the hollow space above his collarbone. The phone clanked to the floor. Before it rang, Adam's large shoe came down on it, crushing it into pieces.

"Adam, no! Stop! Please, stop! I love you!"

Over and over again, son stabbed father—in the face, in the stomach, in the neck, in the arms. In a futile attempt to stop the aggressor, David held up his hands, only to get his fingers sliced halfway off and both wrists deeply slit.

"Adam, noooo!"

"I'm so sorry, dad. I loved you, too!
Why did you have to go and tell? You'd still be alive!"

"Adam, please. God!" He gagged and choked on his own blood.

Adam broke out crying as he cut and prodded his only father with the knife of his worst enemy. The old man crawled helplessly across the floor, toward the back door, leaving an immense trail of blood behind. Adam followed him, kneeling low, finishing the dirty job. He had to fight off losing his lunch. This was the hardest thing he’d
EVER
to do.

"I'm sorry, dad. I'm so fucking sorry. They abused me. She broke my heart. I can't control it anymore!
It doesn't end
!"

"I'm going to die, Adam. Call an ambulance. Help me!"

When Adam stabbed him in the center of his back, he stopped moving, all except for his wobbling head.

Adam threw the knife aside and sat beside him, bawling like a baby. "Forgive me, dad. I didn't mean to."

“Adam, call someone. Hurry. I think—“ He coughed, and blood flew from his mouth.

Adam covered his face; he could not watch the escapade any longer. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I'm a bad kid. I should burn for this. I never meant for you to die. I really didn't. Just them."

"Adam, I think I—" His face, turned to Adam, and mashed against the carpet, was growing pale fast. "I think I see mom. I think I can hear her."

Adam reached over and held his father's hand. "Really? You can?"

"Yes. She's beautiful. Like the first day I met her… bathed in white light. She's saying something—about you."

"What? What is it? What is it? Dad?"

He took his last breath.

“What is iiiit?!
"

Adam let go of his hand, curled into a ball, and stared at his father's lifeless body. "What did I do? What did I do!" He rocked back and forth, mumbling something under his breath. Blood continued to puddle out from David's sides like cranberry juice. The majority of the carpet was soaked. Adam's dog eventually came into the room and whimpered over to Adam, who petted her.