I Scream, You Scream

 I Scream, You Scream

 Sarah heard the screams coming from several blocks away, attached the dog to his lead, and grabbed the cat, locking her in the house.  She checked to make sure the latches on the gates were secure, and then stepped into the house to ensure that the front door and windows were locked.  She pulled the loaded .38 from the closet, grabbed a beer, a pack of cigarettes, and settled in a chair in the yard. 

The screams were growing closer, blending with the sirens, and with the always-present sound of the ice cream truck on its route.  She was new to the neighborhood, having only moved in the house she inherited from her grandmother the previous summer, but she was familiar with the weekly, and sometimes daily, occurrence.  Only once during the passing of the ice cream man did anyone threaten her or her animals or her property, but once was enough to keep her on her toes. 

She popped the tab of the beer, took a sip, and lit a cigarette … waiting.  The dog barked and then she heard someone rattle the gate. “Sarah, let me in.”

She slid the gun in the back pocket of her jeans and set the bottle on the ground.  “How much have you had to drink, Wes?”  Alcohol lowered inhibitions and lowered inhibitions were a scary thing when the ice cream man passed.  A drink or two lessened the physical effects, but more than that left you open.

“Nothing, I promise.”

“I’m armed, Wes,” she said, rising slowly.

“I know.”

She walked to the gate, nearly hidden behind old-fashioned climbing rose bushes, and looked at him through the bars.  His eyes were clear, his clothes wrinkled but clean.  “Okay,” she said, quickly pulling some keys from her pocket, as he looked over his shoulder.  “Calm down, it’s still two blocks away.”

“Says the girl in the fortress,” he muttered, and sighed deeply when he stepped into the overgrown yard.

“You could stay home,” she said, locking the gate behind him.

“I’m a wimp, I don’t like to be home alone when it happens, plus I don’t have a gun.”

“Did you lock up?”  She turned back to her chair.

“Of course.”

“Well, go get a beer and a chair, it’s almost here.  And for God’s sake, don’t let the cat out.”

“That cat is smarter than both of us, she’s hiding.”

Sarah settled back in the chair, listening to the chaos grow closer.  Two blocks away she heard gunfire as the dog beside her, nearly as big as she, curled up under her feet as though she was a barrier against bullets.  “You’re okay, Einstein,” she soothed, and reached down to rub his oversized back. 

Wes pulled a chair from the shed and settled beside her, opening a beer and draining it.  He popped the top of another and took a sip.  “You got a cigarette?”

She handed him the pack as she heard Mr. Edmond from the next street bellow at his wife.  Mrs. Edmonds could never be considered a weak woman and yelled even louder, “Fuck you, dipshit!”  The Edmonds had been married, happily, for well over thirty years and they doted on each other, at least they did until the ice cream man passed. 

“It’s happening,” Wes whispered and downed the beer.

She nodded and listened to Mary Ann Whitmire wail in agony.  Mary Ann was disabled and had been confined to a wheelchair since birth, typically she was a pillar of strength and optimism, except when the ice cream man passed, and then she fell helplessly into the pain and despair of her condition.  The house across from Mary Ann’s had been empty for a month since the murder suicide that took the whole family, Sarah had heard the shots several minutes after the ice cream man had passed. 

Einstein shivered, whimpering under her feet, and Wes reached out for her hand.  She allowed him to take it, took a deep swallow of beer, and closed her eyes.  The tinkling music of the truck, repeating a song she could never remember, washed over her, first exciting her with memories of warm summer days, imagination, and endless time to explore, but then the underlying wave came, and she felt the rage slam her.  She squeezed Wes’ hand and took a slow breath as the images of torturous violence and degrading sex flashed before her mental eyes, and then she heard the words bellowing in her mind.  “Mary Ann is just a whining, pathetic bitch, someone should put her out of her misery.  Mr. Edmonds is a child molester; remember how he’s always so nice to kids?  Wes just wants free beer and a piece of ass.  That little teenage shit across the street hit your car; you know it’s true!  Do something!  Are you going to let them get away with that?”

Sarah tried to slow her heart with her breathing and reached down to pet the dog when he whimpered.  Wes’ hand tightened on hers and she sat back.  “Breathe,” she said softly, still trying to calm her racing heart.  She could hear the sirens and yells and abuse to her right, but by the time the truck had set off to its next destination, the entire neighborhood would be in chaos.  The worst experiences were when the truck sat at the stop sign on the corner a little longer than necessary, and she held her breath involuntarily waiting for the truck to pass.  She expelled the air in her lungs roughly when it began moving again.  “Thank God,” she said on a sigh.  Wes lessened his grip on her hand a few seconds later. 

“Now we wait,” he said, sprawling out in the chair, and lighting a cigarette.

She took the pack and lit a cigarette, wondering where the last one had gone, and relaxed into the chair.  Her heart began to slow and her ears grew sharper.  “Now we wait.” 

Einstein pushed his broad head between her calves and lifted his nose to the air. 

The next block over she heard Elizabeth Marconi screaming at her stair step hoard of children, and she took another drag.  She exhaled as she heard three gunshots from three doors down.  Einstein whined and she heard the siren from a fire truck.  Soon all the dogs in the neighborhood, except hers, were howling with the sirens and several turned into aggressive barks and fights.  Einstein shivered and she rubbed his neck and shoulders with her foot.  “You’re okay,” she whispered. 

The screams, anger, violence, and sirens were now in stereo, coming from her left and right, from behind and before her.  She shuddered. 

“Five minutes, that’s all it takes,” Wes said.  “Probably not even five, it feels like a good hour when it’s happening, but I think it’s only like two and a half or three.” 

“Yeah,” she said, but her word disappeared under the screeching of cats fighting in the street outside of the gate.  Einstein jumped to his feet and was caught short at the end of his lead, even though the yard was fenced, Sarah always chained him when the ice cream man came.  Smoke spiraled over the trees a couple blocks away and the smell of wood smoke filled the air.  “What is that?  The third or fourth house since Christmas?” 

“The third, I think, but I could be wrong.”

She nodded, luckily they didn’t see the ice cream truck very often in the winter.  Her heart regained its steady beat and she sat up straighter in the chair turning her head like an animal as she listened to the sudden eruption of noise in the neighborhood.  She glanced over at the birdbath and feeders and saw that they were empty of life and then gazed into the trees and saw no movement.  Suddenly the limb of a dogwood bent nearly to the ground and the chatter of a gang of squirrels split the air.  Einstein ran to the other end of his lead barking as the squirrels chased another through the trees.  The squirrel in the lead darted into a small hole on the side of her roof, just under the shingles she’d been planning to fix, and the other five squirrels darted through the trees looking for it.  She chuckled. “Snoz made it again.”

“Right on,” Wes whispered, getting to his feet to watch the squirrels search for their missing target. 

Snoz was a squirrel she fed and his name came from the white spot on his nose, while the other squirrels were purely gray, Snoz stood out because of the white splotch and she briefly wondered if that was why all the other squirrels chased him.  She stood up and listened to Sam McGuire, across the street, scream at his teenage son and felt guilt for the thought that the boy had scratched her car, even if he had, he had enough to deal with and she wouldn’t in her right and regular mind to make an issue of a small ding on her old vehicle.  

A slap and then a scuffle sounded and Einstein lost interest in the squirrels and ran to the other side of the fence, again stopped abruptly by his chain.  Pounding feet let her know that the boy, Eli, had run from his father. 

Thankfully, she couldn’t see into the street from the yard, which meant she couldn’t be seen and she felt safe in that knowledge.  Before moving into her grandmother’s house she’d rented a house far out in the country where her nearest neighbor was nearly a mile away, she liked the quiet, but she also liked the idea of a rent-free house so she moved into the city.  Perhaps living isolated for so long made her aware of the tactics of the ice cream man, although that didn’t occur to her until after she lost her boyfriend.  The ice cream man came by five times that week, and after the fourth she and Elliot had officially broken up.  It wasn’t long after that when she figured it out. 

“I’m getting another beer, stay here,” she said.

Wes nodded, stretched his arms over his head, and took a deep breath going into some yoga pose.

Two car alarms went off simultaneously and a girl screamed.  She paused and listened.  One alarm and the girl’s scream came from the south end of the street; the other alarm came from the north.  It’s moving away, she thought, at least the initial intensity.  “Now we wait,” she muttered, dropping the half burnt cigarette in a bucket of sand beside the back door.  She stepped through the door, and knowing the cat wouldn’t be seen again for the next hour or two, she left it open.  She walked through the house quickly, making sure all was as it should be, and grabbed a beer from the fridge.  She stepped out, pulling the door shut, and heard a fight on the street. 

She walked to the front of the shed and leaned against it, listening. 

“You told me ten bucks an hour fucker!” 

“I’m sorry, dude, but if boss man doesn’t pay me, I can’t pay you!”

The punch rang out with the crack of bones.

“Fuck,” Wes whispered, stepping toward the shed.  He leaned on the wall behind her facing the east end of the neighborhood.  “Was that a wrist or a neck?” he asked softly.

Sarah shrugged.  They couldn’t see the street at all, behind all the shrubs and climbing vines her grandmother had planted over the years, was a six-foot, reinforced, iron fence.  Sarah remembered her parents talking about it when it was installed some thirty years ago, about how ridiculous it was to spend so much money on a fence, and as soon as it was erected her grandmother began planting.  From the street or in the yard, the overly dense metal could no longer be seen; it was simply an eight foot green wall of blooms, scents, butterflies and birds.

“You killed him!” an unknown woman screeched. 

“Daddy!” a child cried, under the thumping sounds of cheap rubber flip-flops on concrete.

“Fuck!” Wes muttered.

“Yeah. Are you clean?” Sarah asked in a whisper.

“Yes.”

“You swear?  Nothing, not a pill, a joint?”

“Nothing, got my ID and ten bucks in my wallet.  I don’t even have a condom.”

“Put the chairs away and throw away the bottles, I’ll get Einstein.”  She swallowed half the beer and handed it to him. 

They moved quickly and quietly through the yard, Einstein sat at the end of his lead, quiet, and facing the back door.  She unlatched the dog and took his collar, as Wes grabbed the chairs, closing them softly, and trotted off to set them by the shed.  She ran toward the back door with the dog at her side, as Wes grabbed the empties from the yard, setting them gently and softly into the recycle bin without a sound.  She opened the door silently, pushing the dog inside, and waited for Wes.

She heard leather against pavement, the boom of a shotgun, and Einstein barking from the living room.  Wes met her at the back door and they stepped inside just as a man yelled, “You killed my fucking brother!”

She shut the door and engaged the locks.  “Must have been an extra dose tonight.  Are you sure you’re clean?”

“Nothing, Sarah, I swear.  But what about the gun?”

“I have a license.”

“I know, but there’s been a shooting on the street.  We got a 50/50 chance that we’re going to get a knock on the door tonight.”

“I know.”  She sighed.  “I’ll start dinner, you go turn on the TV.” 

She walked into the bedroom, reached in the closet for the metal case that came with the gun, and pulled the weapon from her back pocket.  She thought about unloading it, but it simply wasn’t worth the risk with a gunfight on the street.  She opened the box, set the gun inside, and carried it into the kitchen, placing it on the counter without engaging the lock.  She walked into the living room, grabbed Einstein’s collar, pulling him away from the window and urging him to quiet down.  Giving one more vocal lament, he followed her to the crate in the corner and went inside without complaint.  She double-checked that the locks were secure as she closed the gate of his enclosure and heard another gunshot from the street.

“Turn on the stereo, too, Wes, and I’ll grab a bottle of wine out of the kitchen,” she said, moving quickly.  She ran to the kitchen, opened the pantry door, and grabbed a bottle of screw-top merlot.  She pulled off the cap as she skipped to the sink, listening to Einstein howl as more sirens were heard on the street.  She poured a third of the bottle down the sink, and then dropped in some fragrant dish washing liquid and turned on the hot water, reaching for some wine glasses.   She poured two glasses, turning off the waste of water in the sink.  “Come on!”

Wes appeared at her side and lifted his glass, taking a big sip and holding it in his mouth with a smile. 

“Swish it around,” she said with a smile and then took a large drink, holding it in her mouth. 

She swallowed and laughed.  “I must be hysterical.”  She shook her head.  “Okay, drink more.”  She took a large swallow of wine.  “Okay, this is the story, we were drinking, watching TV, listening to music, and making out.”  She pushed her t-shirt over her shoulder exposing her bra strap.  “We didn’t hear a thing.  Got it?”

“Yep,” he said, taking a swallow and wiping his mouth. 

She followed him into the living room, glass and bottle in hand.  They settled on the couch and she picked up the remote as another gunshot rang out, she turned up the volume. 

“Is it going to be another murder suicide?  Another family gone?”  Wes asked, taking another sip of wine.

“Probably,” she said.  “I think they want us out, this is valuable land.  Hell, back in the day when this neighborhood was built it was valuable, but suddenly folks have discovered its value again, it only took them forty years of decay to figure it out.  You saw the proposed plans for the new mall, condos, and freeway; I showed you articles about the new private security company patrolling.”

“But what does all that have to do with the ice cream man?” 

She leaned her head on his shoulder.  “I don’t know, but I know what I feel when it passes and you know, too.  Is the two one thing?  The corporation wanting to buy our land and the ice cream man; or are they two different things?  Now, I’ve only lived here nine months, you know more than I do.  When did the ice cream man come?” she asked as the sirens grew louder and Einstein whimpered, his back to the gate of his crate. 

Wes sighed and rested his head on the back of the couch.  “I moved back here four years ago when my parents moved to Florida.  I had my wife, Cassie, and we saw it as a great way to save money.  The first year it was ideal.”  He laughed softly under his breath.  “I think the ice cream man started coming around about three years ago.  That’s when we started fighting.  Suddenly after years of marriage we were having these eruptions.  They didn’t last long, except when they did, but they left scars, you know?”

“Yeah,” she said softly.

“One morning I woke up and she was gone, and then I lost my job.”

She nodded.

“And then one night after the ice cream man passed I woke up in jail.  I’d jumped on my neighbor for his dog’s shit in my yard, it was a freaking Chihuahua and I have damned near an acre and I attack a man about tiny turds?  So not like me.  And then you moved in.  My secret summer girlfriend, I remember the summers you used to spend with your grandparents.” He smiled, winked, and wrapped his arm around her shoulders.  “But all I know now to do is move away.  You said there was no ice cream man out in the country.”

“No.” She shook her head.  “But is the ice cream man done by some corporation trying to take our land, or something else?  In the last year I’ve read of technology, out there science fiction Star Trek crap, which can put thoughts and emotions in your head and I’ve also read that corporations can afford them, but I keep thinking, is the ice cream man real or not?  Have you ever seen a kid you know taking a push-up, rocket-pop, or a nutty-buddy?  Have you ever seen the trash on the street?” 

Wes sat up, pulling his arm from her shoulders, and scratching his head.  “No, never.  And I’m always picking up trash.” 

“How do we know it’s even real?”

He stood.  “We hear it, we feel it, we’re affected by it, and so is everyone else.”

She shrugged.  “What if it’s not real?  I’m not saying the chaos that ensues isn’t real, but what if the rest of it is …  I don’t know …” she sighed.  “Not so much in this world as we think?”  She shrugged her shoulders again and picked up her glass. 

He began pacing.  “You’re saying that the emotions are real, the emotions that drive us to wail, kill, attack, defend, and accuse are real, but the thing that causes it is not?”  He stopped pacing and turned to face her.  “Then what is it?”

She stood, seeing her windows fill with red and blue lights and grateful that the sirens had silenced.  “I don’t know.”  She sought out her cigarettes from the kitchen and pulled two free, carrying both and a lighter into the living room.  She reached back behind the hardbacks on a bookcase and retrieved her grandmother’s favorite ashtray, cut in blue glass, and set it on the coffee table.  “It’s gotta be something, we’ve both felt it, we’ve both acted out the energy.  We both hear it and see it.  It’s not a ghost or an aberration.”  She handed him a cigarette.  “It’s real, but it’s not real.”

The room quit spinning in red and blue colors. 

“Trip,” Wes said, lighting the smoke, and looking around the room.  “Are the cops gone?”

“Were they ever there?”

“Of course they were, we heard the shots, the fight, the screaming, and the sirens!  We saw the lights.” 

“Did we?”

“Quit fucking with me, Sarah!  It’s not funny.”

“No, it’s not funny and I’m not fucking with you.  Come on,” she said confidently, but draining the last of the wine from the glass before she led him to the back door.  “Trust me,” she whispered, slowly disengaging the locks and opening the well oiled hinges.  She stepped outside and walked slowly, and softly, toward the small opening of the iron gate and peeked outside.  There was nothing on the street, no blood, no dead bodies, no bullet or shotgun casings, no police cars, and no flip-flops left in despair.  “What if it’s not real?” she asked and then heard screams to her left.  “Fuck, it’s coming back!”

She ran in the house and pulled out a fancy digital camera she’d recently purchased and was grateful she’d actually read the instruction manual and knew how to work the device.  She checked the battery power, smiled when she saw it was full, and ran to the kitchen, shoving the pistol in her back pocket and grabbing the extra battery pack from the drawer.  She met Wes at the gate.  “No chairs this time.” 

He nodded as she held the camera to the street. 

The music grew stronger and she was pulled into the memory of eating a nutty buddy on the curb with her best friend from fifth grade, Veronica, and contemplating exploring the woods that lead to the river.  And then the energy changed.  She took a deep breath and fought the visions, challenging them in her minds eye, when they showed her destruction, she focused on sprouting plants, when they yelled words in her head, she remembered her grandmother talking of inconsequential things about plants or patterns or cooking instructions.  “Wes?  Are you okay?”

“You fucking bitch!”  He hit her in the side of the head.

The blow was a white light in her mind, an explosion of red and yellow in her eyes.  She fell and rolled and wished she had let Einstein out of his crate, but she held onto the camera.  She kicked up her leg, catching him between the legs, and as he fell she pulled the camera to her eye.  She rolled to the gate as her head throbbed to the music and focused her camera on the street.  The music grew louder, the images and words in her mind harsher, and she remembered the gun in her pocket.  She heard Wes groaning behind her, but she kept her camera eye on the street, ensuring that it was recording the non … event? 

The wave washed over her and Wes didn’t attack again.  As she listened to the music fade away, a song she still couldn’t name, she turned her head to see Wes on the ground.  “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, yeah.  I’m sorry,” he breathed.

“Yeah, me too.”  She clicked the button to turn off the recording and then rewound the images to see nothing on the screen. “You want to watch a video?”

“It wasn’t there, was it?” he asked, standing with a groan, and wiping the dirt off his jeans. 

“No, it wasn’t,” she said, standing slowly, and running her hand over the side of her face. 

“What the fuck?” 

Like this post? Buy me a coffee! https://buymeacoffee.com/chrishardyworld 

Walking Dukkha

Walking Dukkha 

I was told not to tell what I know, actually, I was threatened not to speak of it.  For just a brief moment when I woke in the hospital I thought I was on the mother ship and the doctors and nurses were aliens performing tests on me, but then my vision cleared and I realized they were human like me.  They still threatened me, and although I couldn’t see their mouths moving under the masks, I heard their words in my head, I heard them tell me to keep quiet about it or die.

I agreed to their terms for a couple reasons, one, I was scared and couldn’t remember how I came to be at their mercy and two, I was weak and the incision on my chest hurt with every breath.  I didn’t know why my chest had been cracked open, the long thick scar running between my breasts, and I was told that I both had a heart attack and had been in an accident.  When I finally found the strength to sit up in bed I pulled the compact from my purse and saw that my face looked as though I had spent a couple rounds in a boxing ring sparring with the heavyweight champion. 

The last thing I remembered was donning a sundress and walking my dog through the park, it was one of those spring days where the colors are so bright that you begin to wonder if you stepped into a new dimension.  The newly fleshing leaves on the trees in sharp contrast to the clear, dense, blue of the sky and the birds were darting and singing, trumpeting the end of a long, cold winter.  I glanced out the window to see a heavily overcast sky and snow flurries.  I dropped the compact on my lap, leaned against the pillows, nicely plumped by a handsome male nurse, and closed my eyes. 

I remembered the sundress, I remembered my dog, I remember looking at the trees and sky in awe and there my memories end.  I reached back in my purse and pulled my wallet free, I flipped it open seeking some hints of why I was here, being threatened, and who I was.  I found my driver’s license and studied the picture; I picked up the compact and compared the two visages.  In the photo I smiled at the camera dressed in pink, in the compact mirror my swollen face, blackened eyes, chopped hair, and lightly patterned blue gown told me that the two were not one.  I read my name off the small document, Emily Justice Monroe, and searched my mind for the familiar feeling you feel when hearing your own name and found nothing.  

I shoved everything back in the black bag, remembering leaving the house with a pink bag to match my dress and sandals.  I set the bag on the bedside table and looked out of the window, the snow was falling harder and clicking against the glass.   I was told not to speak of it, but I don’t know the “it” I’m threatened not to discuss.  The name Emily Justice Monroe means nothing to me, I can’t recall a school picture, a history, or a family, but I do remember the dog, medium-sized, needing some serious grooming, and happy to be walking on the end of a leash instead of staring at the world through a window.  Its tail was up as it pulled me along; its nose was up as well as it smelled the fresh, new growth, and the various droppings of its kin. 

I lifted my hand, pulling at the wound on my chest, to scratch my head and felt bald spots and stitches.  I dropped my hand to my lap and tried to remember the dog’s name.  Happy?  Lucky?  Moose?  Stumpy?  The dog, some strange mix of a Shepherd and a pug, is strong in my memories, but I can’t recall its name and I don’t know if it was male or female.  Pancake?  Vixen?  Pudge?  Dinty?  Dog?  I remember it pulling me along, almost as amazed at the beauty and scents of the day as I was, and I think I would recognize it if I saw it, but that’s where memory stops. 

I looked down at the blue hospital gown, and thought of the pink sundress I vaguely remember buying at a festival under a white tent, it was layers of sheer cotton, and I liked the way it flowed around my legs.  I paid thirty bucks for it after trying it on in a makeshift changing room created by sheets.  I drank too much at the festival, listened to several bands, ate fried food, and I remember laughing with a man that in my memories has a blurry face, but an open, strong smile. 

A nurse stepped into the room with a smile; in her hand she held a clipboard and some garments.  “Are you ready to go home, Justice?”

I nodded, not wanting to tell her I didn’t know where home was, who I was, the name of my dog, or the month.  “Sure,” I said, sitting up and gasping at the pain in my body. 

She set some blue scrubs on the foot of the bed and had me sign beside the X’s on the papers.  “We’ll have a cab waiting by the time you get downstairs, do you need help getting dressed?”

I nodded, feeling waves of pain rush through my body, starting in my head and ending somewhere in my lower back.

“You need to come back in a few days to let the doctors remove the stitches, you’re lucky to be alive.”  She pulled back the covers and helped me slide my feet over the side of the bed.

The wash of pain came again and the next thing I knew was I was on my feet dressed in blue scrubs, disposable slippers on my feet. 

“Shame to send you home in scrubs, but we had to cut your clothes off of you.”  She pulled a blanket off the bed and wrapped it around my shoulders.  “It’s cold out there,” she said, helping me into a wheelchair and placing the purse in my lap.  “I think that’s everything,” she said, looking around the room, and pushed me into the hall.

I wanted to scream, “What happened?  Why am I here?  What is my dog’s name?  Who am I?”  But I didn’t, somehow I knew that if I said anything that challenged them, I’d be back in surgery and waking up months from now in worse shape.  As she pushed me to the elevator I lifted my hand again to feel my head and the ridges of stitches and the fuzz of newly growing hair.  I ran my hand through hair that used to reach my waist, but now ended at my jaw.  I wanted to ask how long I’d been in their care, but again the fear, the knowledge that if I didn’t just agree, and nod, and smile, would leave me waking in worse shape months from now, or never waking again.

She pushed my chair in the elevator, making small talk about the weather.  “Four inches are predicted tonight, and tomorrow they are calling for blizzards, total white-out.  I told my husband not to expect me home, I’m sleeping here for my shifts this week.”

I nodded and smiled in my best empathic smile, like I understood the season and what was going on.  I stared into the metallic, mirrored walls of the box we were descending in and saw her look up to the right and heard a voice in my head.  “Tell and you die.”  I nodded, I understood the rules, but I didn’t know what I was not telling and I didn’t know the name of my dog. 

The elevator doors opened and she pushed me through the lobby and out the glass doors.  She helped me into the back of a cab, tucking the blanket around my shoulders and under my chin.  “Stay warm,” she said and smiled.

“Thanks,” I whispered, feeling weaker than I could remember, but since I couldn’t remember much, not even my dog’s name, I don’t know if that carries much weight. 

She handed the taxi driver a slip of paper with an address and some bills.  “He’ll take care of you, Justice,” she said and patted me on the shoulder.  She smiled, her eyes turning to the right again and I heard the warning repeated in my mind.  “Tell and die.”

She slammed the door of the yellow cab and I felt fear, I felt the need to be an action adventure hero and kick ass and take names, but I was weak, the incision on my chest burned and pulled and made me nauseous with movement.  The cab pulled away from the curb, the windshield wipers working overtime to clear the heavy snowfall, and I lifted my hand again to explore my head and the ridges of stitches. 

The dog, the dog, what was the damned dog’s name?  What happened to spring?  What happened in the time between the spring day and the blizzard, stitches, bruises and the thick scar rope from my clavicle to my belly button?   I glanced into the rearview mirror to see the cab driver staring at me.  I dropped my eyes to my lap and the black bag I didn’t remember.

The driver sighed.  “Are you okay?”

I shook my head slowly, feeling the sweeping weakness and nausea.

He sighed again.  “It’s a mother fucker what we have to do for a living these days, but don’t worry, I’ll take care of you.” 

I glanced back up and saw the snow turn to rain. 

“You’re okay, you’re good.”  He winked at me through the mirror, flipping down the visor to block the sun. 

I moved my hand to block the sun in my eyes noticing that the pull of the stitches in my chest didn’t hurt as much. 

“Just close your eyes and rest for a bit,” he said, turning the radio to smooth jazz. 

I must have dozed and woke up as he was pulling to the curb in front of a brownstone I recognized.  He parked and jumped out, coming around to my door and opening it.  I tried to wake up but the world was still blurry, the bright sun making my eyes water, and I was grateful for the hand to help me to my feet.  I heard a dog bark and felt the beating of a tail against my leg. 

I stood up on the street, using his hand to support me. 

“Are you feeling better, Justice?” he asked, concern written in the deep lines on his dark face.

“Yeah, Pete, I do feel better.  I don’t know what happened.”  I looked down at the pink sundress, ensuring that it hadn’t risen up to expose my underwear. 

He grabbed the leash as the dog jumped from the cab and handed it too me.  “Don’t forget Dukkha.”

“Thanks, Pete,” I said, looking down at the strange mutt made from a Shepherd and pug.  “What happened?” I asked, pushing my waist length hair over my shoulder.

“You fainted in the park, you should eat more,” he said and handed me the pink bag.  “Are you okay?”

I looked up at my house, took in the fresh green leaves, the tulips blooming, and the intense blue sky.  “I’m good, Pete, thanks for the ride, what do I owe you?”

“It’s on the house, Miss Justice, just don’t tell and you won’t die.”  He lifted my hand and lightly kissed my palm. 

He climbed back in the cab and pulled away.  I stood on the street, staring at my home, and feeling displaced.  I ran my hand through my hair and then over my chest, vaguely recalling some pain, but feeling only smooth skin and a light sunburn.  I slid my bag over my shoulder and grasped the leash tighter.  “Nice day in the park, huh, Dukkha? Lets go get some dinner.” 

Like this post? Buy me a coffee! https://buymeacoffee.com/chrishardyworld 

Randall's Star

Randall's Star

I watched the star twinkling red, blue, and green in the night sky and knew the end was close, if not the world’s end, certainly my own.  The new light, which the media proclaimed had always been, rivaled the glow of the full moon and seemed to pulse and dance.  I remembered the days and years before the shifting orb appeared in the sky, and felt nothing but fear when I pointed out that fact to my friends and co-workers and they insisted it had always been there. 

“Wouldn’t someone notice if the star was new, wouldn’t someone speak up?  What about all the astronomers and scientists?  If it was new wouldn’t the leaders and the media tell us?” they said.  “I remember it from when I was a child.”

Of course, that was back in the days when I had friends and co-workers, before the world had changed.  The changes were gradual at first, little shifts to make society better, then they were fast tracked and no one seemed to notice.  I wondered how everyone had become so numb and blind to the changes, but I suspect it was because at first the only changes for them were that they worked more hours and through sheer exhaustion couldn’t keep up with the news. 

At first was the rationing of kilowatt-hours on our electric meter, and no one could meet or surpass their monthly allotment, so no one seemed to care, most were united in saving the planet and bragging about how few hours they used.  Then burning wood or coal was made illegal, not many complained and if they did or if they staged protests at the capitols across the nation, no news covered it.  And it truly didn’t seem like that much of a sacrifice, after all, we had such a generous allotment of electricity it seemed outrageous that anyone would need the extra energy and according to the media we were united as one under this new plan to save the earth. 

As I said, the changes were gradual and done as a feel good rain of parades and concerts shown on all channels of the television and broadcast on all radio stations.  I have always been a bit rebellious and married a man of my own nature and we worried over the small losses of freedom.  My husband, Earl, owned a welding shop and said it was just a matter of time before gas would be rationed, but before that happened, Earl was killed.  Luckily, for him I believe.  Thankfully, he didn’t live so long to see how bad it became. 

One President became another and then the allotment for electric became less, cash was abandoned for plastic and the price of being caught with cash was prison.  I lost my job around that time, for pointing out to my co-workers that the star in the sky had not always been, and went on assistance.  I lost my friends, because no one who worked in system should be seen with those who weren’t, it was an unspoken rule, a rule whispered and rumored about, but a rule nonetheless.  Those who broke the rule soon found themselves without a job or dead.  So call it coincidence or happenstance, but the knowledge grew and once you were out of the corporate world, you were shunned and invisible.

Earl died in a protest, shot down in the street.  He never even received a funeral; he was just swept like trash from the street and disposed in some manner that could not be shared because it went against national security.  I just knew that he never came home from his trip to the capitol to protest the closing and end of private, independent businesses, because their existence required too much energy.  Several weeks later I received a letter of his death and a check for a hundred dollars. 

The star was smaller back then, shining brighter in the sky than any other, and dancing with color.  I remember sitting out under the night sky with a bottle of wine, crying with the letter in my hand, and knowing that there was nothing I could do.  Earl was gone and I was alone with a rebellious teenage boy and no job to support him. 

Randall, my son, met and exceeded my and Earl’s level of rebellion, we should have known better to bring a child into this world, with our genes, but we wanted to see what we could create.  Where I cried at the loss of Earl, Randall raged.  Randall wanted revenge on a world that declared freedom, but only gave multi-levels of control.  He paced in the yard that night as I sobbed over the letter and drank too much wine.

“We can’t even flush the toilet as needed, Mom,” he said, running his hand through too long hair.  “Our water is rationed.  It was nine flushes a day with three people, now it’s going to be down to six.  What if you or I have diarrhea?  The other is going to have to look at that mess?”

Randall had other concerns than the loss of his father; he had a letter in his hands as well.  At fifteen he’d been called into national service, it was a nine-week program, much like military boot camp, and he was supposed to leave in a week.

“I’m not going, fuck this noise!  This is the land of the free?  Did you see Rufus when he came home?  He wasn’t the same person.”

I nodded.  I had seen Rufus, I had to smile at the Rufus I knew before boot camp, Rufus, the painter, the poet; Rufus came home with an arm illustrated in warmongering tattoos and no longer smiled and joked, the gentle kid had turned into something neither Randall nor I recognized. 

“And what about Amber?” Randall punched the trunk of a tree and I didn’t even try to stop him.  Amber had been Randall’s girlfriend before she was shipped off, a self-described anarchist who wished that all electricity and communication would stop.  “That’s the only way we’ll know who we are,” she’d lament.  She came home with a buzz cut, and a change of personality that was beyond frightening and into bizarre. 

“I’m not going.”

“The law says you have to go, it’s required,” I whispered.

“I know, Mom, but I’m breaking the law.”  

“What are you going to do?”

“I don’t know.”

“You can’t get out, the borders are patrolled, not just the borders into Mexico and Canada, but the borders between the states, there is nowhere to go.”

“Then I’ll die fighting,” he said, sitting on the damp grass and wrapping his arms around my leg.  He rested his head on my thigh and sighed.  “I can’t live like this, Mom.  You and dad were the greatest parents, always teaching me to question and teaching me how to work hard for what I believed in.”  He sniffed and wiped his eyes.  “I can’t do this.”

I brushed his hair from his face and understood, he was just a boy, but a young, strong man who reminded me of his father.  I looked at the star, the star I knew hadn’t always been, and I knew I couldn’t hold on to my son.  “What can I do?”

“I’ll need a bit of food, not much, because I know you have to eat.  You could come with me.”  He lifted his head and looked into my eyes.  “Come with me, Mom.”

I smiled and wiped the tears off my cheeks.  “I can’t.  I couldn’t keep up with you and I don’t want to slow you down.”

“You’ll die here,” he said, pushing my hair behind my ear.

“You’ll probably die out there too, son.”  More tears came; I couldn’t control them.

He smiled, looking so like his father.  “Then we’ll meet on the other side and dad will be there.”

I nodded and he hugged my leg tighter.  We sat outside until the new star set, watching the colors and saying goodbye in silence.  A couple nights later I let him go, his backpack stuffed with clothes and the few cans of food I had. 

I sat in the yard crying, I had no wine or alcohol, as my allotment only covered three bottles a month or twenty-four beers.  I missed my dog, but the new rules said we were only doing harm to domesticated animals by keeping them and they had been gathered and taken away.  Occasionally the neighborhood would adopt a stray that had escaped the round up, but I hadn’t seen a dog in a long time.  A few cats survived the new law and as I sat in the yard, crying over the loss of Earl and Randall, one jumped the fence and settled in my lap, kneading my thighs.  I thanked a God I wasn’t sure still existed. 

The star grew brighter, bigger, and I wondered if my old friends and co-workers still believed it had always been there.  My rations had been reduced to a couple pounds of some sort of meat, a dozen cans of fruits and vegetables and some paper goods a month.  I tried to get a job, but I’d been black balled.  Occasionally I traded some cans of food, or homemade quilts, or some very needed sewing, for some homemade wine and I’d sit in the yard, watching the star grow bigger in the sky and missing my husband and son.

It was a long time since we had an Internet of free exchange, the new President passed a bill and made blogs and forums illegal, so when you logged on the Internet the selection of available sites were much the same as the television.  And it all declared that the star, brighter than the moon and nearly bigger, had always been there and only tinfoil hat wearing nutcases believed differently.

I had to go to a concert the other night to keep my benefits.  I stood in line, hating to be there, but it was an obligation, a way to get paid for the food I received.  There were some beggars, one being the old lady who used to live across the street from me and who rescued so many dogs and cats, back before they were confiscated.  I wished I had something to give her, but money and coins have been made illegal, and I didn’t think to bring any food.  She was emaciated, thin beyond thought, and I remembered the chubby old woman willing to take in any animal.  I sat in the concert, full of patriot messages, and cried, staring at the star that had now grown bigger than the moon. 

I accepted the ride on the bus to bring us back to our now fenced in neighborhood and thinking about Randall.  I thought I was too old to go, I hate that I didn’t go.  I miss him and wonder if he is still alive or if he made it to a place we were told that didn’t exist.  I pulled out the jar in the cabinet, half full of some homemade wine, and I’m drinking it as I write this. 

The ground is trembling under my feet.  It’s been happening since Earl died and Randall went on his journey, the media says it is nothing new that the earth has always trembled.  It’s also repeated on commercials every half hour that anyone who doesn’t remember the trembling of the earth is mentally ill and we should report them, they also conveniently add a number to call in and say extra rations will be given to those who report.  Did I mention that we must also watch the television?  The usage of the television is monitored as much as the electric, water, and cash. 

I feel like Randall did before he left.  I wish I had been strong enough when he was.  He didn’t even grow up when the world was actually free, but he was smart enough to understand what he was taught of how it was, the freedom, didn’t actually exist, and I was too scared to follow the child.  I pray he’s still alive. 

My bag is packed, my boots are on my feet, and as this new star is lighting the yard brighter than any full moon that ever existed, I’m ready to go. 

Like this post? Buy me a coffee! https://buymeacoffee.com/chrishardyworld 

Julian's Surrender

Julian’s Surrender

a short story by Victoria S. Hardy

Joseph punched the wall, cracking the sheetrock, and screamed in frustration.  How dare she?  How dare that stupid bitch call his mother and lie?  He threw himself on the bed and turned up the heavy metal song on his iPod.  Yes, he touched the girl, but she was asking for it, sitting on the bus in a skirt with her legs open.  Stupid slut should have kept her legs closed if she didn’t want someone touching her; it was an invitation.  His mom wouldn’t see it that way, though, she never did.  She never took his side; she just blamed him, always blaming him for everything. 

His heart pounded in his chest and he threw the iPod against the wall, yanking the buds from his ears painfully.  He jumped to his feet when he heard the key in the front door and met his mother as she stepped into the house, overloaded with bags of groceries.  “Joe, get the rest of the groceries out of the car, please,” she said, carrying the load into the kitchen.

“No,” he said and slammed the front door.

Julian set the bags on the counter and sighed, as the television blared to life in the living room.  With her purse still slung over her shoulder she went outside and retrieved the rest of the groceries.  She began putting the goods away and dreaded the weekend - if she could work seven days a week, she’d do it.

She went to her bedroom and changed out of her uniform, leaving her purse and a bottle of Merlot on the bed.  “Could you turn the TV down, Joe?” she asked as she began preparing dinner.

He ignored her. 

She wanted a drink, but she didn’t drink in front of her son.  She saved the wine for bedtime, locked in her room, and it seemed to help her sleep, although she wasn’t sure it was safe to sleep so soundly.  She fashioned hamburger patties and was setting them in a pan when Joseph stepped into the kitchen, she felt her stomach tense as he tore open a bag of chips and jumped up to sit on the counter. 

“I didn’t hurt that girl, Mom,” he said, chewing with his mouth open, despite all the times she had instructed him in the proper and polite manner.

“You sure scared her,” Julian said, her nerves grated by the loud crunching.

“She’s just being a whiny bitch.”

“Watch your language, Joe,” she said softly, turning on the heat under the pan and opening a can of beans.  “Besides, she’s just eleven.  You scared her.” 

“She shouldn’t dress like that, how in the hell did I know she was only eleven?”  He crunched, and she could see the partially chewed food in his mouth. 

“You’re supposed to keep your hands to yourself.”

“I’ll put my hands where I want, it’s a free country.”

“It’s only free when you keep your hands to yourself, I talked her mother into not pressing charges,” she said, wondering why she did.  “But you can’t ride that bus anymore, her mom said if she saw you on the bus again she’s calling the law.” 

“Good, I hate riding that bus anyway, you need to get me a car.”  He crunched and her nerves screamed for a drink.

“I’ve told you before I can’t afford another car, much less the insurance on a teenager.”  She watched the burgers sizzle, but kept him in her peripheral vision. 

“Other kids have a car, why do you want to treat me like a red-headed step kid?”

“Other kids have families with two incomes or have their own job to pay for a car.  You’ll need to get a job, you’re old enough.”

“I’m not working at some fast food joint while some loser barks orders at me all day.  That’s not going to happen!  You could get another job and help me out.” 

She sighed.  She’d love to get another job, maybe two or three to avoid her son 24/7, but her son was her second and third job.  “No, I can’t.  I’ll just have to take you to school and pick you up until I can figure out something else.  Or you could walk.”

“Or I could just drop out, problem solved.  I’m not walking a mile and a half twice a day, you need to buy me a car.” 

“You’re seventeen, Joe, it’s time to start acting like it.”

“Oh, and I know you’re so going to kick me out when I turn eighteen.  I just know it.”  

“No, I’m not,” she said.  I might kick myself out, she thought. 

“You think I can’t read the writing on the wall, Mom?  I know you’re sick of me.  Hell, I know you never loved me.”

Here we go, she thought and flipped the burgers.  “Of course I love you, Joe.”  Okay, if the truth were told she was at the end of her rope. 

“No, you don’t.  You haven’t loved me since Dad died.” 

He was probably right, although she’d never admit it to anyone.  She was just beginning to admit it to herself.  He was her son and she loved him for that, but the last ten years had been hard, nearly impossibly hard, and she had no idea how she managed to make it day to day with the constant weight of stress and worry on her back. 

“If you loved me you’d buy me a car.  If you’d loved me you’d buy me the shoes I wanted for Christmas last year.  If you loved me you wouldn’t be such a bitch all the time.”  He dropped the bag of chips and jumped off the counter, crushing them into the floor.

She felt her heartbeat accelerate, took a deep breath, and stepped into the pantry for the broom.  “There’s only so much money, Joe,” she said calmly.  “I can’t afford three hundred dollar shoes.”  She waited until he was done grinding the chips into the linoleum, and had stepped away, before she began cleaning the mess. 

“No, there’s plenty of money, you’re just greedy.”  He leaned against the door jam and watched her sweep the greasy crumbs into the dustpan.

She didn’t even try to explain mortgages, car payments, utilities, insurance and the realities of keeping a roof over their heads.  Not to mention the loan she had to take out to pay the fines when he wrecked her last car.  The car he had stolen, although she didn’t tell the police he had stolen it. 

“You just want to keep me locked up here like a caged animal, no car, damned discount clothes, and no money.” 

“I thought you said I wanted to kick you out,” she said, cautioning herself to stay calm and not talk back.

“You just want to ruin my life, make me as miserable as you are.”

She sighed and put the broom away.  She stirred the beans, keeping her eye on him discretely.  She didn’t know why he behaved the way he did, but he had been a difficult child since he was a toddler.  She had taken him to doctors and they seemed to blame her - she was over-protective, not attentive enough, needed to spend more time with him, needed to be more sympathetic and she was depressed. 

Hell yes, she was depressed!  She felt like a caged animal. 

And yes, she hadn’t really loved him since Jerry died. 

The police ruled it an accident, they said the gun misfired when her husband was cleaning it, but she had her doubts.  Although the police stared into her son’s tear-stained, blue eyes and saw only a little boy who had been traumatized by witnessing his father’s death, she saw something else.  She still remembered the chill she felt when he crawled in bed with her the night of the funeral, hugged her tight, and said happily, “Now it’s just you and me, Mom.”  She chastised herself for seeing such darkness in a seven-year-old boy, but try as she might she couldn’t push the feeling away, anymore than she could push away the fear. 

She lowered the heat under the food and pulled the buns out of the breadbox, all the time aware of his eyes on her.  He didn’t look at her like a son looks at a mother; he looked at her like a man views his possessions. 

“You can’t keep me locked up like this all the time.”  He said and moved from the door jam.

She scooted around him and pulled the condiments from the fridge.  “You’re not locked up, Joe.”  Groundings and restrictions had never worked with him anyway.

“I feel like I am.  I don’t get anything I want.  I’m just trapped all day, every day.”  He sat down at the table.

Yeah, she thought, me too. 

“I’m bored.  I want to have fun, I’m sick of this serious shit all the time.”

She made his plate and set it on the table.

“I want some chips.” 

“We don’t have anymore, I only bought the one bag,” she said and glanced at the trashcan. 

“I can’t eat a burger without chips!” he yelled.

“Well, you shouldn’t have crushed them into the floor,” she said, and instantly regretted it.

His eyes changed and she knew she had done it.

“Fuck you!” he bellowed and flipped the table.

She dodged the table and watched his burger slide into the corner, leaving behind a deep red smear of ketchup on the floor.

“It’s your fault!  It’s always your fault!  You’re supposed to give your kid the things he needs and you should’ve bought more than one bag of chips!  I’m freaking hungry!” 

She was grateful for the upended table between them as he raged, a boundary between them.  “I’ll get you another burger,” she said calmly.

“I said I can’t eat a burger without chips!” he yelled and kicked his chair into the wall. 

She said nothing; anything she said right now would throw him deeper into the blind and terrifying rage.

“I hate you!”  He kicked the chair a few more times until it was in pieces, stalked through the living room and slammed out the front door. 

She sighed and looked around the kitchen, they were down to only one chair now.  She righted the table and picked up the burger, wiping the ketchup off the floor.  She gathered the pieces of the broken chair and dumped them in the trash outside the back door.  She’d been so happy when she’d found the dining table at a thrift store just months earlier and in a few short months they went from five wooden chairs down to one.  She should have known better than to bring anything nice into the house, when would she ever learn?

She ate a burger, put the rest of the food away, and cleaned up the kitchen.  She made a mental note to go back to the thrift store in the morning and buy a couple more chairs; Joseph would take it as another sign that she didn’t love him if there was only one chair.  She dreaded when he returned, his rages didn’t end as quickly as they began, and she knew the rest of weekend would be challenging. 

She pulled the keys from the pocket of her jeans and unlocked her bedroom door.  She slipped inside and reengaged the deadbolt.  She’d had the door replaced with metal after he kicked in the last wooden one, sending her out the window to escape, and had the jam reinforced.  Joseph was big and strong, even stronger when he was angry, and she hoped the new door made it through the weekend.  

Julian settled on the bed and felt weary.  She glanced at the mirror across the room and thought she looked more like sixty, than the forty she was.  Her eyes were dark rimmed and hollow, her face was pale, and her body was too thin and bordering on skeletal.  Ten years of stress and fear had worn her down to something she almost didn’t recognize.   

She stopped taking him to doctors at eleven, somehow he always managed to con them and throw the blame on her.  Of course, she didn’t always tell the doctors the truth, either; terrified of something she couldn’t quite name.  Was she scared they’d call her a bad parent?  Scared that they’d lock him away forever?  She couldn’t identify the one fear out of all the others.  She was afraid and had been since the night of Jerry’s funeral.

Somehow Joseph managed to avoid most punishment for his actions and she feared that she did protect him too much.  She had lied for him, like when she found the neighbor’s missing cat mutilated and tacked onto a piece of wood in the shed.  She said she hadn’t seen the cat and made sure to bury it when the neighbors weren’t home and wouldn’t have a chance to catch her.  When she asked Joseph why he did it, he denied it at first and then said he just wanted to see what was inside.  “I’m going to be a doctor one day,” he’d said, staring up at her with those big blue eyes.

Yes, Joseph was handsome; sometimes she thought he was unnaturally handsome, although she wasn’t sure what that meant.  He was tall, lean, had a strong jaw, expressive blue eyes and full lips.  He turned heads everywhere he went and when he smiled she could see the effect it had on people.  They saw an angel come to earth, she thought, and shuddered, for all she saw was a demon that she had been battling for ten years.

When he was thirteen she began locking her bedroom door at night, but only after she woke up once to find him standing over her with a knife in his hand.  He declared he must have been sleepwalking and her gasp upon waking was what drew him out of his slumber.  That occurred just weeks after the little girl down the street, Tallie Covington, was found dead by the creek, mutilated and nailed to a tree. 

She searched his room while he was at school looking for any evidence that he may have killed Tallie, she didn’t find anything, but in the back of her mind she was sure he did it.  Then Rusty Brennings from three blocks over was found in the same terrible condition and she searched his room again.  For months she feared the knock on the door, the police arriving to take him away, but it never happened. 

She installed the deadbolt when he was fifteen, after she caught him in her room going through her underwear drawer.  He said he was looking for a pair of missing socks, but she didn’t believe him.  The next day she began locking herself in her room and locking her door when she left, even if she was just going to the bathroom. 

She felt like a failure as a mother, and she supposed that is why she lied to the police and the doctors – what if it was all her fault?  What if she hadn’t breast fed long enough or held him enough as a baby?  What if she had never loved him?  She’d read books on serial killers and it seemed the experts always blamed it on the mother, what if it was her fault?  What if one simple lack of attention or affection in those early years had been enough to set him off course? 

He stole her car when he was sixteen and was gone for a week.  She didn’t report the car missing and when he wrecked it and the police brought him home she said he’d only been gone for a few hours and that he’d had permission.  She had to pay the fines, of course, and the loan still wasn’t paid off. 

While he was gone that week, two prostitutes and one run-a-way in the next town were found dead; their flesh peeled back and tacked on some piece of wood. 

When he came home he was older, harder somehow.  He kicked in her door a couple weeks later.  She went out the window like a kid on a sled and knew whatever met her on the ground outside was not as bad as what was awaiting her inside the house.  She hit the rocks hard, and scraped her arms, belly and legs, but luckily didn’t break any bones.  She’d had a plan and had hid some money behind the shed in a mason jar buried under some debris. 

She ran, dug that jar up, and ran some more. 

She rented a cheap motel room and waited a few days, eating cheap take out food and washing her clothes in the sink.  She’d already stored an extra uniform at work and on Monday afternoon she went home as though nothing had happened.  The house was trashed.  The sentimental things that were left she stored at the corner self-storage unit, she didn’t need a big one, and it only cost ten bucks a month. 

She bought the gun the next week. 

She had to put it on lay-a-way at a pawnshop and fill out all the necessary paperwork, and when she finally paid off her purchase she stepped out of the iron clad store with tears streaming down her cheeks.  She ran into the alley and sobbed. 

She stood up, feeling older than her forty years and stretched.  She wanted a shower, but was afraid to leave her room.  She reached under the bed and pulled out a large bowl, a washcloth, and a gallon of water. She stripped and tried to wash the day’s grease, sweat, and the smell of food from her skin with a cup of water and soap.  She allowed more water to rinse.  She dressed in jeans, boots and a dark shirt and poured the waste out of the window.  She stepped into the closet, grabbed some coffee and a small machine, and while the coffee dripped she brushed her hair. 

The brush slid through her greasy locks and she couldn’t help remembering the Perkins’ Pomeranian, the dog with the beautiful hair, Sunny.  A pampered, sweet dog owned by the elderly couple down the street.  It disappeared on the day Joseph was too sick to go to school.  She tried to get the day off, she’d seen the puke in the toilet, and she’d listened to him groan.  She shook her head and pulled her hair firmly into a ponytail.

She found the dog in Joseph’s closet, cut nearly in two and tacked on a piece of wood, and she lied again. 

She reached under a pile of winter sweaters and pulled the gun free. 

He’ll be back, she thought and sipped black coffee. 

She discovered the piece of thick plywood in the shed Monday morning.  She had just stepped inside to retrieve some birdfeed and nearly wet her pants when the saw it leaning in the corner.  She stood beside it and realized it was a perfect fit.  Her heart pounded, but no tears came.

Julian turned on the TV, muted the sound, and waited. 

She felt him coming before she heard him, the ground under her feet vibrated for several moments and then the ceiling fans rattled. 

The front door opened. 

She sat up straighter and set her coffee down.

“Mom!” he bellowed.

She unlocked the safety.

“We have to talk, Mom!”  He kicked the door. 

She didn’t know what would make him madder, if she spoke or if she didn’t. 

He kicked the door again.

She couldn’t speak.  She tried, but only a squeak came out. 

He hit the door harder, higher, she suspected with his shoulder, and bits of sheetrock fell from the ceiling. He hit it again and the wall splintered outside of the new reinforcement.

She lifted the gun.

With the next hit the door fell open and he stumbled into the room.  “Fuck it, Mom, why do you have to be such a bitch?  I just want to talk to you.”  He pulled a knife from his back pocket. 

She fired and he fell.  She saw the stain on his chest and watched it grow.  She stood slowly, the gun still poised.  “Tallie and Rusty?  Did you do it?” she demanded.

He tried to lean up on his elbow, but couldn’t.  He lay back and smiled.  “Of course.”

She watched his eyes, they seemed to darken, no longer blue but almost purple, and his pupils grew longer. 

“The run-a-way and the prostitutes?”

“Yes,” he laughed, smiled, and coughed up blood. 

“Why?” she screamed, grabbing her hair and sobbing, the gun against her head.

“Because it’s what I do and you let me.”  He laughed again, blood coloring his teeth and cheeks.  “You knew and you let me do it.”  

“No more,” she said softly and pulled the gun away from her head.  “No more,” she whispered and fired. 

She sat with him until she was sure he wasn’t breathing.  And then she waited a little longer. 

I’m just as guilty, she thought, as she picked up the phone.  I’m just as guilty, she thought, as she dialed.  “I killed my son.  I’m on the front porch, my arms are above my head, and I’m unarmed,” she said to the dispatcher and set the phone beside the gun on the kitchen table.  I’m just as guilty, she thought, as she saw the flashing lights pull in front of her house. 

Julian raised her arms in surrender. 

Like this post? Buy me a coffee! https://buymeacoffee.com/chrishardyworld