Journalstone's 2010 Warped Words for Twisted Minds (18 page)

I watched her for some time. I'd never actually seen a deer in person before, and she was the most beautiful, graceful creature I'd ever laid eyes on.

Then something slammed against the window right in my face, causing me to fall backwards onto the floor, almost soiling my pants.

It was a raccoon, masked face pressed against the window, looking inside, holding onto the wall with its paws while it played peeping tom. It was a cute little bugger, I thought, when my heart finally stopped hammering and my breathing slowed to something approximating normal.

The raccoon glanced around, quickly, and then let go, dropping to the ground. I could hear the deer running away through the forest, and I imagined the raccoon was doing the same.

I resumed my former position, shotgun held across my lap, deciding not to move until dawn no matter what I heard outside or how curious I became.

*   *   *

“I think Becca is cheating on me.”

Clarke had agreed to meet me at Kelly's, and we sat across from each other in a booth, a beer in front of me, a Scotch-and-soda in front of him, and a big bowl of salted peanuts in the middle of the table between us.

“Really?” Clarke asked. He had a handful of nuts almost to his mouth and paused when he said that, looking at me. “How sure are you?”

“I just got that feeling,” I said. “I can't describe it, but she's been acting . . . really squirrely. Plus, there have been other things.”

“Like?” he asked, tossing a peanut into his mouth.

“Little things. The toilet seat being up when she's been the only one in the house all day. The smell of a strange man's cologne. And I found a condom wrapper in the trash.”

“Bruce, I don't think--”

“We don't use condoms, Clarke,” I heard my voice rising in volume.

“Maybe it got there some other way. You know, some kids on the street, doing it in their car, and just tossing the wrapper into the bin outside the house. Because you know if they just tossed it onto the street the Nazi Neighborhood Watch would write down the license plate and report them for littering.”

“Sure. That's entirely possible except this was in a trash can in the house,” I continued

“Oh,” Clarke said, chewing absently. “Uh, do you have any ideas who it could be?”

“No,” my voice was now losing a little control. “Nothing concrete. I have my suspicions, but nothing I can really put my finger on.”

“I see,” Clarke said. His eyes seemed to grow distant then for a while, and I knew he was thinking. “What will you do if she is and you find out who she's been cheating with?”

“I'll kill him,” I said, and my voice didn’t waiver on that note, as I stared straight into his eyes.

Clarke was in the act of eating a peanut, and he choked on it, coughing. Finally, he took a sip of his drink to wash it down. He continued coughing and gasping for a while after that.

“You okay?” I asked, and he just waved me off.

“Kill him?” he gasped. “That's crazy, Bruce!”

“Crazy?” I heard my voice going up again. “What's crazy is her cheating on me, after everything I've done for her. After all the indignities I've endured, all the things I've done to put food on our table. Now she's bedding down with some other guy and pretending that nothing's happening. That's what galls me more than anything else, Clarke--she's shameless. She looks me right in the eye and lies.”

“If you did find something out, how would you kill the guy?” Clarke asked. “I'm just curious.”

“I bought a gun today. A 9 millimeter Beretta. Of course, I have to wait three days before I can pick it up, but that's no big deal to me. I've waited this long, I can wait a couple more days.”

“What do you mean you've waited this long? You think this has been going on a while?” Clarke looked pale and sweaty, I'm guessing because of the painful and recent experience with the peanut.

“I think it's been going on for quite a while,” I said. “I just have that gut feeling. That it's been going on for years, maybe.”

“Look,” Clarke muttered, leaning forward. “I have an idea. Let's get away for a few days. I've got the key to a cabin in the hills. Nick's cabin. We can all head up there, do a little fly fishing, sing a few camping songs, get away from it all for a while. What do you say? You, me, Sandy, Becca, all of us. For a couple days.”

“I don't know, Clarke. Nick probably won't be happy with my going up there. And, I mean, me being cooped up with her on the trip there, then being with her in the cabin, nowhere to go . . .”

“We, you and me, will be fishing most of the time. And what Nick doesn't know won't hurt him. Come on. It'll be good. Maybe you can get a better idea of what's going on with her. Observe her, up close. It'll help you make some decisions, won't it? Really, you don't want to do anything rash, something that you'll regret for years and years and can't ever undo.”

I thought about it, eating a couple of peanuts, washing them down with my warming beer. “Sure,” I finally responded.

“It'll be like the old days,” he said, brightening a bit, like he was looking forward to it. To be honest I was too--Clarke was right, it had been too long since we'd taken a trip together. He held up his fist, and I bumped it with mine.

“You have always been such a good friend to me, Clarke,” I said, choking back tears. “I don't deserve you. I don't know what I'd do without you.”

“I can say the same thing, buddy,” he grabbed me, giving me a hug.

He, then, coughed and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “I can say the same thing.”

*   *   *

I finally worked up the courage to go through my own baggage, finding this little tape recorder I always carry with me. I'm guessing if you're listening to this you found it, too. The battery seems to be fresh. I hope I'm talking loud enough for the mic to pick me up.

I can hear something moving around outside. I would call out to see if it's Clarke or maybe even Becca, but something’s stopping me. Fear, maybe. Whatever it is, it isn't making much noise – only the occasional stick breaking or leaves rustling. If I listen very intently I think I can hear something that sounds like sniffing and snorting. Or maybe that's just my imagination.

So I sit here on the floor, the shotgun pointed at the door, cocked and ready. I can hear something just outside, something on the porch, something turning the knob. When that door opens, I'm going to pull the trigger. It's the only way – this thing, whatever it may be, it’s just too fast for me to do this any other way. Whatever comes through that door is going to get itself shot before I can even decide what or who it is. Whatever is out there will not stand a chance.

I hope like hell it's Clarke.

Part One: The Arrival

Things were looking up for me at the time of “the incident.” I hadn’t had an episode in months. The job was going well. I had a great girl, one I wanted to marry. Mom was even starting to trust me again. I almost felt, dare I say it, normal. Then, it all went to hell. It got away from me so fast, and I couldn’t remember how I got to where I was. The only thing I remember for certain is that I loved my girl.

The lawyers got me all that lawsuit money while I was still in the hospital. I used my share to buy this house. It meant nothing without my girl. Without her it was only a monument to what I did not have, what was taken from me—not intentionally, but taken all the same. I hadn’t set foot inside my house yet, and I loathed every inch of it.

That doctor said I’ve got to trust myself, to get on with things. She didn’t really explain how, just ordered me to do it. All of them suggested things that could never happen: going back to work, finding a new girl, calling Mom to see how she was. I didn’t see the point of making a life outside the hospital. I couldn’t imagine I would ever know how. Anyway, it was just a matter of time before something happened, and they sent me back.

It wasn’t my fault. I’m supposed to tell that to myself no less than four times an hour. It’s what they call an affirmation. I call it a ridiculous waste of time. I do it just to spite them, to prove that this crap doesn’t actually work. There’s nothing that can make my life happy again. I don’t even know what I’m still doing here. Most people would be relieved to know that I was gone.

Connie said I might as well go and see the house I worked so hard to fill with furniture. I wasn’t actually convicted of anything, so they let me use a computer in the hospital. I suddenly had all that money, so I bought a washer and dryer, couches, a big TV, even a refrigerator. It never really occurred to me that I might buy things like that new. Fridges just came with the apartment, washer/dryers were down the hall, TV’s got handed down friend-to-friend. This was all totally surreal.

Mom thought she was being gracious by unpacking everything and setting it up for me. She told Connie she wanted to help out in any way she could. Sure…as long as it didn’t involve actually being in the same room with me, or talking to me, or writing me a letter, or sending anything, or e-mail. Any other way she could. Who could blame her though? I’d put her through so much already.

Connie offered to ride with me. I told her she didn’t have to. Connie had a way of looking at me. It was the way you’d look at a lost dog or a crying baby you didn’t know. Part pity, part annoyance. I wished she didn’t have to be confronted with the fact that stories like mine exist in the world. She didn’t deserve such misery foisted on her. She said it was all in a day’s work. She suffered; I knew she did.

I’d never been in a taxi before. Taxies were for the wealthy and the drunk, so far as I knew. It was clean, air-conditioned, and smelled strongly of pine. I counted 14 “No Smoking” signs while the driver listened to some maddening radio drone. It played nothing but terrible news spoken in a complete monotone. How could anyone keep their voice so level and calm talking about bombings and explosions and bloody coups? Why would anyone would make that the background noise of their workday? I really wanted to get the hell out of this cab, but I didn’t feel ready to go “home.” It didn’t even occur to me that I had a choice.

The house looked exactly like I pictured from the outside. Sunshine yellow siding, plants in little window boxes, blue curtains over the white-paned double-hungs. They say blue fades faster than any other color. I like blue, though. If I actually lived long enough to need new blue curtains, I could certainly afford them now.

A yellow post-it note was fixed to my new front door with a piece of Scotch tape, sort of invalidating the purpose of post-it notes. “Claude is the Neighborhood Watch Leader. Will be by to visit. –Connie

PS. Happiness is finding joy in the unexpected!”

Jesus, Connie. Joy in the Unexpected. That’s a laugh. Wait, Claude? That sounded vaguely familiar. But there must be a million Claude’s in the world. I peeled the tape off the front door and tucked the note into my pocket. Sometimes Connie’s flaky advice turned out to be damn useful.

Connie told me over and over that I should get a cat or two. No way. I eventually told her I couldn’t because my new furniture was too nice. She agreed with that logic, not realizing I got leather furniture just so she’d stop bugging me about the Goddamn cat. There was no telling what kind of horrible thing could befall an animal unlucky enough to be under my care.

I opened the door and clapped my hands twice, activating the stupid clapper Mom insisted on installing for me. The wave of the future, she called it. My ass. Three matching orbs illuminated the room, propped up on stylish brushed metal poles. There were a few of what could only be described as “tasteful knick-knacks” here and there. It could have been much worse. Knowing Mom, this place could have been loaded with a bunch of Chia Pets or Hummels.

The curtains were wide open; exactly the way Mom liked them. She’s always had some sick obsession with letting the light in. How smart is it to tie back the only protection your home has against the cancer-causing heat lamp known as The Sun? Not very. I pulled them shut for privacy and because the cool darkness felt good on my skin. Take that, potential cancer!

The room was pretty much as I’d imagined. Thick blue carpeting under black leather couches, tasteful glass end tables, and a fish bowl that, upon closer inspection, housed a little plastic manta ray. It was funny, its motorized little tail propelling it in a tiny circle. Other than that desperate bit of whimsy, the room looked like it belonged in a magazine.

I carried my only suitcase to the bedroom. The door opened with a pronounced creak that was oddly satisfying, almost comforting. This looked like a bedroom in a doll’s house: bed with that fluffy cloud mattress from TV, ridiculous flowered comforter on top, and one big pillow, right in the middle. I made double sure that my bed would never look like it had two distinct sides. I made Connie tell Mom about that over and over. I honestly believed for a time that if I took away the reminders of my girl that her face would stop plaguing me--that I wouldn’t see her absolutely everywhere. She was always there, a million times an hour, every hour of every day. I knew she would never go away. She wanted to remind me, torment me, never let me forget what I did to her. She was right to do it.

I clapped my hands again, and two lamps identical to the ones in the living room came on at once. All my breath left me instantly. Purest horror confronted me, throttled and assaulted me. I tried to scream. The terror gagged me into silence.

I shut my eyes tight, knowing the scene would be different when I opened them. Dr. Rand told me that many times. It’s part of the illness, and you’re smarter than it is. Close your eyes, count to 10, open them up again. Everything will be fine. I started counting fast. One, two, three…I slowed myself down. It might not work if I counted too fast. Four…five…six…I really wanted to look now. I can’t. Listen to the doctor, that’s what you paid her for. Seven…eight…nine, I don’t want to look. What if it’s not gone?

I opened my eyes again. Shock. Panic. Fear. Disbelief. It was happening all over again. I would never escape it.

Dr. Rand’s voice came back again, louder. You KNOW the difference between reality and fantasy. You CAN talk your way through a delusion. It just takes practice. Clearly, I had not practiced enough. She kept saying it was normal to see things, part of the illness that eventually fades. I didn’t believe her. I still don’t.

It was torture to stare at it, but I could not move. It was HER. But…not her. My girl in that same blue dress she died in. She was lying still in my bed, her blood darkening a wide swath on the blanket. Dead. Beaten. Limp blonde hair covered her face. I was glad I couldn’t see her eyes. Her expression must have been horrible. I was sick, sweating, dizzy. Was it happening again? I couldn’t stand it if it were. No…please, please no.

I touched her, still warm. She looked like she might get up and walk away any second. My poor girl. Something far away told me I should do something, call someone. I couldn’t. Blinded by stinging tears, paralyzed by panic and horror. I wept like a child, vaguely glad there was no one alive here to see me.

A bloodied baseball bat was propped on an open drawer in the nightstand. My God! Her. The bat. The knowing. It flooded back so clearly. That feeling of being absolutely sure she wasn’t her anymore. She was a demon. I saw it in my girl’s face…no, not HER face, the other face. The terrible one. Like in a dream, a nightmare. I did what I had to then, to help her. I really thought I was saving her. Hitting and hitting—killing it so it couldn’t take her. Now I wasn’t sure of anything. I never should have left the hospital. More tears. Run. A voice gave me the most obvious answer. Just leave here, and never come back. You have all that money, just run for it. It was the only thing that made sense. *clap clap* Lights off. Run.

Part Two: The Diversion

“Welcome Wagon!”

A smiling jackass who looked like a linebacker swooped down on me the second I closed the front door. I darted past him, ready to break into a sprint. I was ready. It would be miles before my legs gave out from under me. But the blond behemoth jogged after me, catching up effortlessly.

“My name is Claude, your friend Connie said I should come over and say hi!”

He held out his hand for the shaking. Something inside me told me not to take it, not to trust him. It felt so familiar. The fear, the paranoia. It only led to one place. I had to calm down. I had to just shake his hand and walk away. Run. I could go back to the hospital. I could find Connie, and tell her what happened. She’d believe me. She’d help me. She was on my side.

“Hi, yeah…the uh…neighborhood watch guy,” I watched my own hand nervously as I shook his, terrified that it would be spattered with blood. I could see only one single drop. I could smell it, I was pretty sure. Claude didn’t notice.

“Nice to meet you,” I told him. “I really have to be—” he laughed and shushed me with a waiving hand gesture. I wiped the dot of blood on my jeans, fervently hoping he was too dim to notice.

“Neighborhood Watch, Welcome Wagon…it’s all the same job really. Making this block a safe and happy place! Oh, you need to come inside for a beer. We just installed a tap.”

Before I could step backward, Claude swung a burly arm around me and dragged me toward his house. Its outside was pale blue with yellow shutters, but otherwise identical to mine.

“C’mon, you look beat. Moving in takes a lot out of you, no?” Claude laughed forcefully. I thought for a moment about ducking out from under his over-muscled arm and making a break for it. What was he gonna do? Chase me down? I tried to take a deep breath, but my lungs felt heavy and full of holes.

He hurried past a nondescript living room and kitchen, briefly pointing out a picture of him standing next to a small woman with short brown hair, and two thoroughly average-looking children. A few other photos were tipped over so that the flaps on the backs rose feebly in the air.

The basement was, apparently, our final destination. It was obvious why Claude was anxious to show it off. Instead of the dart-boards, pool tables, drum sets, and mini-fridges that occupied most basements, this one boasted a wet bar beneath a huge aquarium. It stood opposite a fantastic jungle habitat that radiated bright, hot light. The clear blue tank with three circling ocean rays was instantly calming. The aquarium was built right into the bar, and served as its backdrop. Sparse pink coral and the rays were all it contained. If I intended to live, I might have to pick something like this up. It was relaxing in its sheer simplicity.

“Check out THIS beast,” Claude pointed to what was easily the biggest snake I’d ever seen. “This is Boris. He’s a green anaconda. Only the most serious herpers keep these.” I didn’t know what the hell a herper was, but this snake gave me chills. All I could think of was this monster wrapping itself around unsuspecting native people, squeezing them to death in absolute silence.

It was a dark, mottled green that was probably the exact color of its surroundings in the wild. Its girth was enormous. I doubted I could even get both hands around it. It could murder me in an instant—that much was clear. Everything in the world was conspiring to terrify me. The snake had weird, top-set eyes and nostrils, and was covered with black rings. I couldn’t say for sure how long it was, but it looked almost as long as my front yard.

I wanted to ask him why the hell anyone would keep such a gruesome animal right in their home. I didn’t. I didn’t want to get him talking. I just needed to get the hell out so I could think.

“Don’t like to blow my own horn,” Claude gave a laugh that was almost a guffaw, “but he’s pretty cool, huh?”

“Yeah, he really is. Listen--” he responded by holding up one finger, telling me to wait just one second. My host stepped over to a full bar and fiddled underneath it before retrieving two chilled mugs. Wispy tendrils of frozen smoke wafted gently off them. Smiling broadly, Claude expertly filled the mugs with reddish-brown lager.

“Nothing better on a bright, sunny day than a frosty mug, eh?” He handed me a beer, and we both took a drink. It was mellow, but with a bitter finish--obviously some kind of local microbrew.

Claude’s eyes were fixed to the gargantuan snake that was easily as thick as his thigh. He went into a long explanation of how every so often some African villager goes missing, and they find him in the belly of some huge, distended snake. He guffawed again like a half-witted teenager. Claude was disgusting. How could anyone find humor in someone dying?

“You know, as impressive as that animal is, Boris only kills to eat—never for sport, personal gain, never just for the fun of it. The only animal that kills for pleasure is man,” he said, as if trying to deflect from my unspoken comments.