The Sadist's Bible (4 page)

“This? Again?”

“Yes, this. Again. Because you never listen. You’ve
always
wanted him, so why

whine about having to take care of him? I was the one who wanted the abortion. If you’d

listened to me, you could be on a nice trip to Branson right now.”

Her mother glared. “If you came here to torment me, you can leave.”

“You don’t know anything about torment. Not the way I do.”

“Lori, please. Don’t start!”

“You weren’t the one who had to deliver him through a cunt that had already been

burnt hundreds of times!” Lori pointed to a picture on the wall. Gentle Jesus looking

down into a moonlit valley. “Burnt by Him!”

“Lori,
please
! Don’t start!”

“I gave birth to him, I have a right to see him. Even the courts say that.”

“Only when you’re well. Have you been taking your medicine?”

She’d taken the Xanax earlier in the day, so she nodded.

“That’s a lie. I can tell. A mother always knows. You haven’t been taking your

Zyprexa the way you should, have you?”

Silence.

She assumed that tone. Like a prison guard. “
Have
you?”

“It keeps me stoned.”

“Last time I checked your arrest record, that wasn’t exactly something you objected

to.”

“Why do you always throw that up in my face?”

“Because it’s always in our face, Lori! Our house has a reputation in this

neighborhood. All the neighbors talk. We’ll never have a good name is this town again.”

“It’s not my fault!”

“Don’t even say that, young lady. I’ve heard it too often...”

Lori’s voice grew unsteady. “I d-didn’t ask to be raped!”

Her mother rolled her eyes. “We’re back to that now, huh.”

“I thought He would be a kind husband, because He’s God. But that was just the

sweet talk beforehand. Once I agreed to be His concubine, I couldn’t say no to Him. He

took my arms away so I couldn’t fight back!”

“You
have
arms. You’re waving them at me now. How do you think you lit your

cigarette?”

“But I didn’t during the rape, Mom. He takes away body parts and then puts them

back when He’s done, so it looks like nothing happened. God
raped
me. You have to understand! He chose me. That’s why no other man will approach me. He’s marked me

as His chattel.”

“Lori...I think it’s best that you leave.”

“I’ll leave, but I’m taking Josh with me. There’s something he and I need to do

together.”

“Lori...you’re sick. Think about that. Come back another time when you’re not so

upset. I just put him down for a nap an hour ago. You know how hard it is for him to

sleep.” Mom positioned herself in the middle of the hallway. “You can come back later

and visit him. But not now, okay?”

She spoke to Lori in faux-conciliatory, slow, soft words – her now-I’m-talking-to-a-

lunatic voice. Bitch was trying to block the way to Josh’s room, too. That was
begging
for a beat down. Lori took another drag off her cigarette and tipped ashes onto the carpet.

“My Lord!
What are you doing?
” Mom freaked. Acted like Lori had just taken a

dump on the floor. It was just a little ash, but it was enough to throw her off her game.

She bent at the waist to see where the ash had gone so she could clean it from her

precious carpet.

That’s why she didn’t see it coming when Lori jammed the lit end of the cigarette

into her cheek.

There was howling. Hopping. Mom bared her teeth, winced in pain, then let out a

sound somewhere in between a sob and a growl. Smoke trailed from the place below her

left cheekbone where Lori had jabbed the end of her Camel. A small, round black crater

formed where the cigarette had found its mark.

Then came the cries. Raspy, sick baby cries. It woke.

Mom waddled to the freezer and grabbed a handful of ice cubes. Wrapped them up

in a towel and pressed it against her face. “I’m gonna have your father take a picture of this burn. We’ll have you locked up in the loony bin again, for this, little girl!”

That’s when Lori put the cigarette back in her mouth and made a run for the baby.

He was there in the crib. They had his arms in tiny restraints to make certain he didn’t touch the...wound...atop his head. He writhed and seemed to struggle against them like a miniature mental patient.

Josh had been born with a series of deficiencies and deformities, which made

transporting him a major ordeal. He had been born without eyes. His left leg ended at the knee. His brain and skull hadn’t formed completely, resulting in a head that ended

abruptly just above the indentations where his eyes should have been.

The doctors said that, while he would be able to breathe, piss, and shit, he wouldn’t

be able to think or feel – not really. He’d have less awareness than a squirrel or a rat. He would need to be on a feeding tube, they said, because he wouldn’t even possess the

reflexes necessary to swallow.

The nurses tried to cushion the blow as much as possible, but the fact was her baby

had been born a disfigured vegetable. He had no forehead or scalp, just a shallow, fleshy pit sloping down from his eyebrows all the way to the back of his neck. Most troubling of all – and most hobbling, in regard to travel– was the fact that the glob of brain tissue that
had
developed had no bone or skin to protect it. It was exposed for all to lament.

Such babies seldom survive birth. The doctors had braced her for that likelihood, and

she’d accepted it. It would have been nature’s way of doing what an abortion should have done.

But when little Josh emerged alive (and, even more surprisingly,
stayed
that way), the doctors wrapped his exposed brain tissue in a special protective latex coating. It had to be periodically replaced. Visiting nurses came to Mom’s house and did the replacing.

They’d told everyone that, for his own safety, the child should never be moved except in an emergency.

But, of course, this was an emergency.

There were medicines in tiny bottles with tiny droppers on the nightstand next to the

crib, but Lori didn’t grab any of them. Where she was taking the baby, it wouldn’t need

them. It would be better off this way. She tucked him in her arms, held him close to her breasts, and dashed to the hallway.

Mom stood at the end, still holding the ice to her cheek.

“For God’s sake, put him down. You don’t know how to care for him.”

“I know exactly how to care for it. I’m going to do something for it that should’ve

been done a long time ago. Now get out of the way.”

The baby let out a brittle groan and shook its newly-freed arms.

Mom pulled a cell phone out of her pocket. Pushed three buttons. Paused. Caught

her breath. “Yes, my daughter’s mentally ill and she’s going to kidnap her infant son.

Hurry!”

“You
bitch!
” Lori lowered her head and charged. “Move outta the way!”

Mom’s voice broke as she let out a confused wail. She flailed her arms and dropped

her ice, but stood her ground. During the collision Lori heard cracking and crunching

noises, then a sound like a breaking water balloon. The latex brain-covering had been

ripped open, and the baby’s shoulders and neck hung askew.

It screamed in Lori’s arms. She kept running, out of the living room, out the front

door. She had no car seat. This was not an oversight. The thing she’d taken from her

mother’s house wouldn’t need one.

She opened the trunk of her Camry and plopped it inside. That way, its cries weren’t

so loud. When she stopped for gas, she cranked up her radio to drown them out.

After filling her tank, she checked her phone. Ellie was logged in. Was she still at

home? Sitting in front of her laptop? Sometimes she stayed logged in, on her phone. That had to be it. If not, it didn’t bode well. Lori needed to know, so she asked: “Have u left yeet.” She looked down at the message. A typo. Fuck it.

* * *

Ellie stopped for gas and food in Winchester, Kentucky. The sun had started to set.

The previously gray, grim stretch of highway took on a pleasing, soft orange hue. The

sunset leaked through the window of the restaurant, staining her hands orange. It caused a glare on her cell phone screen. She had to shift so she could see the correct buttons to push as she typed her message. “On the road for a little over an hour now. Stopping for

dinner. I know you don’t like me saying this but...I love you.” She smiled. It was as

though there were a million little windows in her brain. Sending a message to Lori made

her feel like all of them had been opened to let in fresh air. She took a long sip of her pop.

She needed a little caffeine.

She heard a loud whirring. A grimy plastic mannequin hand set a plate of fried

chicken, mashed potatoes, and green beans down in front of her. Startled, she flinched

and hid her phone so no one would see the screen. She looked up. The waiter who’d

brought her food wasn’t the same one who’d taken her order.

She’d been seated by a ruddy, husky young man in his late twenties named Ray. The

name tag on the new waiter’s chest said his name was René. His left arm was artificial,

but functional. From all the whirring, she presumed there were gears and/or electronics

inside the plastic that gave it the capacity for movement. There was a massive sinkhole in his skull, just over his left eyebrow. He had no bottom lip, but spoke to her anyway.

She didn’t want to tell the poor soul she didn’t understand him. It would have been

useless. He spoke as though afflicted with a mouth full of marbles. No matter how many

times she asked him to repeat himself – three, four, ten, twenty – she wouldn’t have

comprehended a single word escaping his mouth. So, she smiled and nodded instead.

Apparently satisfied, he limped off toward the kitchen.

In the past, she wouldn’t have ordered fried food, but given she had less than a week

to live she decided she’d let herself gain a few pounds. The chicken was hot to the touch and scalded the roof of her mouth when she bit into it. She grabbed a napkin to wipe the grease off her fingers. It was like the chicken leg was
sweating
grease. But the grease tasted good. She dug her teeth in deeper, and found the meat was reluctant to leave the

bone.

She held on tighter with her teeth and jerked her chin to give her bite additional

strength. The poultry yielded. Now the chicken-flesh was simply warm and moist and

tender – no longer did it burn. She let out an involuntary, full-mouthed sigh. The chicken had been well-seasoned and well-fried. She swallowed before she’d fully chewed it up,

and the meat proved too big for her esophagus. She felt a fullness in her throat. She

wasn’t able to swallow. In the interim, she stared at her plate – embarrassed.

René poured a fresh supply of Coke into her glass. She took a sip from it, hoping it

would help. Instead, she just felt the pop fall on top of the chicken, weighing it down

further but not helping it pass through. Now they
both
clogged her esophagus. Now there was
greater
pressure inside of her. She relaxed and took a deep breath. Felt a tightness in her forehead and tension in her nerves. She let herself breathe. Slowly. In. Out.

The food went down. Slipped away down the slide of her innards. Relieved, she

sought to fill herself once again. She tore into the disembodied appendage in front of her, nibbling at tendons and ligaments to get the last bit of meat hidden behind them. When

through, she surveyed the aftermath: the chicken bones and shreds of skin and tiny wisps of mashed potato too small to go after and the juice that had leaked out of the green

beans.

She wanted more, but knew she should get on the road. She looked out the window.

The world was no longer orange-tinted. Twilight had arrived. Fluorescent street lamps

flickered into life by the roadside.

As René passed by her table she raised her hand. “I-I’m ready for my check,” she

said. He stopped, looked at her plate, and seemed to grin with nonsensical approval. Then he limped off toward the cash register.

As she dug into her purse for her wallet, René placed the check on the table. When

she looked up again, he was limping through the kitchen’s swinging double doors,

muttering to himself. As it turned out, two pieces of paper were on the table. One was a computer-generated check informing her she owed Johnny’s Chicken House $11.47; the

other was a note written on lined paper (scrawled in a barely-legible hand).

YOUR PLANS ARE NOT THOSE OF GOD.

THIS IS YOUR ONLY WARNING!!!

TURN BACK.

PROCEED PAST THIS POINT,

AND YOU SHALL BE DAMNED WITH BLESSINGS.

NO PLAN FOR NON-EXISTENCE EVER WORKS.

THE ARC OF THE UNIVERSE IS LONG,

BUT BENDS TOWARDS DEGENERACY.

She trembled.

How did he know? He
saw
. That’s how. He must have glanced at her screen before

she could hide it and gathered that she loved Lori. And yet, how did that explain the later comments? What did he mean by “damned with blessings”? How did he know she

planned to die? And what, in Heaven’s name, was the meaning of that last line? She

found it truly puzzling. She’d only recently found out the meaning of the word

degeneracy. Through the first thirty-seven-and-a-half years of her life, she hadn’t heard or seen the word. Now she’d been exposed to it twice in the last month. Peculiar.

She placed her credit card on the table, over the check. When René returned she

would have a chat with him about his rudeness. He could communicate in writing, if not