Published by Scout Media
Copyright 2017
ISBN: 978-0-9979485-1-6
Cover: Sydney Blackburn
Interior graphics: Amy Hunter
CONTENTS
Anesthetize (or A Dream Played in Reverse on Piano Keys)
Rowdy
Widower's Choice
The Blue Amberol Turns Again
If It's Not Okay, It's Not The End
Only The Dead Go Free
The Unimportance of Being Oscar
Knock, Knock
Gunpowder & Wool
Thief
Pepe
Outlook Supplies
The Last
A Wacky, Fantastical Misadventure in New Haven
Coal Run Road
I’m Not Sure What It Means
Fighting Sleep
Objects in motion
Plastic Boy
Home
Joe
Worm
The Rub
Storm House
Salted Ground
Groceries Every Day
Jimmy’s Shadow
The Jonathan of Bracken Manor
Black Butterfly
Fragments
Nightfall
Mark Crowley fumbled with the medication bottle’s childproof cap as another gust of wind ripped open the front of his unzipped jacket. Using the large tree branches’ shadows as cover, he tossed back his head and swallowed an uncounted number of white pills. He punched his chest once to help the tranquilizers slide down his esophagus.
Mark found a nice-size rock—one not big enough to break her window but large enough to get her attention—and juggled it haphazardly in his hand. He aimed at Samantha’s second-story window and let the rock fly. Its trajectory was right on the money, clinking loudly against the pane. He waited a few moments to see if the sound would summon her to open the window. Seconds passed; nothing.
He surveyed the ground for something larger. Maybe she was in her bathroom and couldn’t hear the plink. He needed something that made a thud! Hell, at this point, maybe she deserved to have her window fucking broken.
Mark noticed a baseball half hidden underneath a bush beside the front steps. He nonchalantly strolled toward the bush, sifted the ball from the dirt, and placed it under his armpit. Illuminated by the motion-detector spotlights secured to the corner of the first-story roof, he reached into his pocket and removed a different pill bottle. He unscrewed the cap and tapped a handful of pills into his palm. He shrugged, chomped on the medication loudly until it was just dust clinging to the roof of his dry mouth, and then whipped the baseball through her window.
Bitch, he thought.
The front door opened, and Mark sprinted toward the tree line, using the shadows to hide from the moonlight.
Mark could have found his special spot deep in the woods even if the moon hadn’t flooded the trees with light. Hell, he could find his way with his eyes closed. He stutter-stepped over the decrepit and rotting railroad ties and maneuvered around the overgrowth consuming the rusted double rails. He placed his hand on the caboose of a passenger train, half off the tracks and leaning like the famous Tower of Pisa. Standing on his tiptoes, he placed his other hand on the yellow-tinted window to the train car and raised the glass just enough to slip his hand through.
His fingertips found the corner of the Ziploc bag, and he slid the stash through the slit of the windowpane. Planting his feet level on the ground, he separated the pills, through the plastic, with his thumb and index finger. Content they were all accounted for, he turned his back on the long-forgotten derailed train and stared at the back fender of his mother’s car, camouflaged under a thicket of small trees and shrubbery.
“How many have you taken already?”
“Fuck, man. Don’t do that,” Mark said.
“Sorry, thought you knew I was here,” Dawson replied.
“I never know when you’re here.”
Dawson laughed. “I’m always here. You should know that better than anyone.”
Mark sat down next to his best friend. “These are the only things that help me through the day.”
“How many prescriptions do you actually have?”
“Legally?” Mark asked, reaching into his coat pocket for the two bottles.
“Whichever.”
“These two”—he handed Dawson the bottles—“and these are the ones I bought from Neil at the mall.”
Mark handed over the Ziploc bag, a smorgasbord of different-colored pills of various sizes.
Dawson looked at the labels on the two bottles. “Mogadon?”
“Yeah, it’s a tranquilizer. And this one is my antidepressants.”
Dawson returned the two bottles and the baggie to Mark. “Are they helping?”
“Well, they curb the desires and urges. I also pretty much stopped caring about anything. So, yeah, I’d say they’re doing their job just fine.”
Mark opened the bag, pinched three different pills—none of them similar—and sent them down the hatch.
“Did you go to school today?”
Mark shook his head. “Nah, I don’t concentrate when I’m there. I can’t seem to focus. Plus next week is prom and then graduation. What’s the point?” He unscrewed the bottle of Mogadon tranquilizers and flicked one into his mouth.
“Dude, fucking slow down. You’re gonna kill yourself the way you’re eating those like candy. I’m the one who wanted to die, remember?”
“You’re a little neater and more concise with stuff like that than I am. Plus I can just blame the genes. As the son of two pill-heads, there was never any real hope for me anyway. I inherited their problems,” Mark replied. “Oh, I went to Samantha’s tonight. Broke her fucking bedroom window with a baseball.”
“Jesus, you have zero regard for that restraining order, don’t you?”
“It’s just a stupid piece of paper.”
Dawson stood up. “A piece of paper that will get you arrested if you go within one hundred yards of her house or work.”
“I don’t think it says anything about staying away from Baldock & Ashford.”
“Go get it. I’m sure the order includes her work. Doesn’t matter if she only works there on weekends. I can’t imagine her parents not including it, after what you did.”
Mark rose to his feet and headed toward his mother’s car tucked in the woods. “Doesn’t matter anyway. I won’t lie. The sex was kind of fun, but really it was just one more way to kill the boredom. And, if she made me fucking listen to Radiohead one more time, I was gonna hurt someone.”
“Sometimes I don’t get you, man. I mean, you’re my best friend, but you certainly go out of your way to be disliked.”
Mark reached the passenger side door and yanked on the handle to get it open. The doorjamb was crusted with dried mud and sticks. He opened the glovebox and removed the folded yellow paper. When he slammed the door, startled birds took flight across the large lake in front of the abandoned car.
Mark scanned the glasslike water and tried to focus on the shoreline across the lake. A tightening in his stomach took him by surprise. He wasn’t ready to become sentimental or nostalgic of times past. Not now. Not ever again. He forced himself to look away from the clearing across the water, grabbed a large stone, and tossed it into the lake, shattering the calmness of its serenity.
Need to lay off the tranquilizers and load up on those antidepressants instead, he thought as he shook the memories and emotional response from his brain.
“Let me see,” Dawson said.
Mark handed him the paper, and Dawson unfolded it. Scanning with the tip of his finger, Dawson’s lips fluttered slightly as he silently speed-read the provisions of the restraining order.
“See, right here. It states you are prohibited from going within one hundred feet of her house or her place of employment.”
“No worries. I’ll just stay away from Baldock & Ashford whenever I hang at the mall. I hate that store anyway.”
“Now there’s the right attitude. Don’t be accountable or sorry for what you did. Just find a way to cut it out of your life altogether. You’re a piece of work sometimes. Do your parents even know about this?”
“Give me that,” Mark said and snatched the restraining order from Dawson’s hand. “And I didn’t tell my parents. They don’t care about anything anyway.”
He crumpled it and hurled the balled-up paper, like an outfielder, through the trees.
“And, for the record, your band sucks,” Mark added.
“You only heard that one song.”
“Well, you guys sound like a crappy version of Pearl Jam.”
“Hey, don’t knock Pearl Jam,” Dawson defended.
“I’m not knocking Pearl Jam. I fucking love Pearl Jam. I’m knocking your shitty band’s attempt at being Pearl Jam. And what’s with all the black clothes? Jesus, could you guys be more cliché? Fucking goth-looking band sounding like early nineties grunge. And you tell me that I’m the one who’s confused?”
“Are you done?”
After a moment of silence, Mark answered. “Yes.”
“Thank you.”
“But your music’s still crap.”
“For fuck’s sake, man. Why do I even still hang out with you?”
Mark snickered. “Because you have to.”
“I made a decision. It wasn’t an easy one, but I made one.”
“You mean the curse. The curse of ‘there must be more,’” Mark said and peered over Dawson’s shoulder, making sure Dawson knew where he was looking.
Dawson turned and looked at the silhouette of his own hanging body, swinging in the breeze from a thick branch, still undiscovered by any of the search parties.
“Yes, the thought—not curse—of there being more than this shitty life,” Dawson answered.
“Have you tried to leave Jupiter Island?”
“Not yet. Something about going too far away from my body until they find it bothers me. Jupiter Island was always the happiest place of my childhood. My family would camp in these woods, and we’d fish in the lake. I’d have laser tag tournaments with the other kids who were also camping. I learned to swim in that lake as a kid.” Dawson looked across the water just beyond the top of Mrs. Crowley’s car. “I’ll stay here until someone cuts me down.”
“I’ll cut you down.”
“I already told you, Mark. I want them to find me. I want them to be so sorry for the way they treated me. I want them to find their dead son, decomposing on the rope. I want to drive the message home. That will be their penance.”
Mark snickered. “And you think I’m fucked in the head?”
“I never said that. Are the pills helping at all?”
“I’m not really sure. I keep having these thoughts. I own all this stuff, material shit, but so what?”
“Hey man, in the end you can’t take it with you. I’m a case in point.” Dawson waved his hand down the front of his body like he was Vanna White on Wheel of Fortune. “But you need to get your shit together. I made one decision that changed everything, and I can’t take it back. Not that I want to right now, but, if I ever did, it’s a no-go. I think I damned my soul, if you believe in that kind of thing.”
“Are you trying to save my soul? Okay, so tell me. What happens now? I want to hear it with conviction.”
“I don’t follow.”
“I could be on a plane, and someone could have a bomb in their suitcase. And boom! The plane rips apart, and my body disintegrates across the sky and through the clouds, and my ashes fall over some park in Wales.”
“Why are you going to Wales?”
“I hate you sometimes, you know. I mean, what happens now? What is the difference between what you did to yourself and some horrific natural disaster? Does it affect what happens to us afterward?”
“Are you talking about whether it’s the difference between being a ghost trapped here, like me, or being whisked away into the heavens? Dude, I don’t fucking know. I haven’t left Jupiter Island since I cannonballed off that branch last month.”
Mark shook a few more unmarked pills from the Ziploc into his mouth, like they were a handful of sunflower seeds. “What good are you then?”
“You know what? You just keep popping those pills. Let me know how that works out for ya.”
Dawson slowly faded until Mark stood next to the train tracks alone; the rope holding Dawson’s body creaked as it swung in the distance.
Mark walked toward his mother’s car and leaned backward on the hood. He inserted his earbuds and closed his eyes as he pressed Play on the iPod in his pocket, inhaling the welcoming smells of Jupiter Island’s lake. A rush of happy memories swarmed his head, then were stifled by the medications—doing their job by regulating both happy and sad into a flat emotionless line.
Keeping his eyes shut, he dreamed of an escape. Arriving somewhere but not here. Maybe fleeing on the derailed train behind him. Maybe the train tracks could be his proverbial yellow brick road. There must be something better than this.
Mark hadn’t realized how long he had been draped over the hood of his mother’s car until the last track on Jimi Hendrix’s Are You Experienced? gave way to The Beatles’ Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band. Mark opened his eyes, disregarded the fantasy of ever escaping the industrial cityscape of Golders Green or the throes of the pills, and headed home.
Mark awoke to the sound of a chromatic scale played on the piano outside his bedroom door. His shutters were closed, and his curtains were drawn; just a peek of sunlight pierced through the haze of his room. He rubbed the sleepies from the corners of his eyes and heard it again. The banging of the notes sounded like untrained fingers randomly running down the keys.
He crawled from bed and found his way, using the small bit of morning sunlight and the flicker of his television to guide his path. He opened his bedroom door and grunted when he saw the family cat, prancing back and forth over the piano keys.
“Bonnie, you shithead, you woke me up. Get in here.”
He stepped aside while the cat jumped off the piano and scurried into his darkened room. He stopped in front of his television as some actress screamed. Stupid horror movies. He grabbed his earbuds from the floor and looked at his iPod’s display screen. Radiohead’s The Bends had been set on Repeat at some point during the night, replaying in a vicious cycle on his floor.
Mark clicked the input button on the television remote and switched the movie to his Xbox. He coughed, shook a few tranquilizers into his mouth, and searched for the controller somewhere within his unmade bed. He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror and didn’t recognize the guy there. He glanced at the bottle of Mogadon and then back to his reflection. He stood and approached the mirror slowly. He opened his mouth wide and scraped his fingernails along his stretched cheeks. He half expected to claw his skin from his bones, like the idiot had done after seeing a maggot-filled steak on a kitchen counter in the movie Mark had just switched off.
Mark flicked his cheek hard, just to make sure he could feel pain. He looked at the pill bottles on his nightstand and shook the cobwebs from his brain. Bonnie curled herself into a fuzzy ball on his pillow and purred. Mark nodded, content this was reality and that the pills hadn’t tie-dyed the fabric of life just yet.
He sat on the floor, his back pressed against the foot of his bedframe, and loaded Halo. As his finger flicked the switch, slaying the Covenant, Bonnie relocated from his pillow to his lap. He patted her absentmindedly as he continued to battle with the alien enemy on-screen.
Just as he gritted his teeth and pivoted his torso downward and to the right—as if body language ever helped anyone move their game character faster—his mother burst into the room without knocking. Bonnie whimpered and scooted underneath the bed. Mark didn’t even look up from the game.
“Where’s my car?”
Mark’s trigger finger worked overtime as he proceeded though the level. His left eye twitched, concentrating on the impending enemy assault.
“Mark. Did you hear me? Turn that shit off. Where’s my car?”
Mark raised his left hand in a not now signal.
“Don’t you ignore me, young man,” she said and stepped farther into the room. “Where … is … my … car?”
Mark shrugged and glanced at the Ziploc bag of treats. Those were what he wanted right now. Not the shitty prescription tranquilizers and antidepressants. The Matrix-looking shit that rendered his body void of a person.
Mrs. Crowley noticed her son’s distraction and stormed across the room. She snatched the plastic bag and sighed. “Turn the game off.”
Mark stoically continued to blast the threat on the screen.
“Mark, please,” she pleaded and stared at him and stared at him and stared at him and stared at him and stared at him … while he shot and killed, shot and killed, shot and killed, shot and killed, shot and killed; … and she stared at him and stared at him and stared—
“All right. Christ! I can’t take the staring or your silent sympathy,” he blurted out.
“How do you feel?”
“I hate that question,” he answered, returning to shooting and killing.
“How’s it going in school?”
“Mom, school is a fucking joke. You know I can’t concentrate.”
Mrs. Crowley sighed. “Do you wanna talk about it?”
Mark dropped the controller and glared at her. “You are such a bitch! Your mouth should be boarded up. You talk all day long, and you don’t say anything relevant to anything. Even when you try to act smart with your drinking floozies, your points are all based on misinformation. And Dad should get a fucking medal for trying to talk to me. That man just won’t let up!”
Mrs. Crowley threw down the bag of pills and balled her hands into fists. “You should just shut up and be happy. Stop fucking whining. Please. And where the hell is my goddamn car?”
“I don’t know. Maybe it’s been stolen, repo’d, sold to a chop shop. How the hell should I know?”
“Because you were the last one to have it!”
Bonnie peeked from underneath the bed and scampered through Mark’s open door into the living room.
“Samantha issued a restraining order on me.”
“What? Why? What did you do to her?”
“She’s a bitch, Mom. She wouldn’t leave me alone about having sex with her. I think it was just spiteful revenge because I wouldn’t sleep with her again. And I’m paying for it.”
“Are you crazy, Mark? You and Samantha have been like two peas in a pod since elementary school. A restraining order? A judge must have believed something was happening to issue that. And why didn’t you tell us? Do we need to adjust your meds?”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake, Mom. Me and Samantha are … complicated.”
“Well, you get points for being a cliché.”
“You know what? Go fuck yourself, Mom.”
Mrs. Crowley headed for the door. “Nice. Great language. I want my car back in the garage before you go to bed tonight.”
As she closed the door, Bonnie squeaked back into the room and jumped into his lap. He used the input function on the remote to switch his Xbox to cable. He flipped through the channels until he came to MTV2. He tilted his head as he watched a video from a band he had never heard of before. They reminded him of a more melodic Tool, and the vocalist sang about stripping someone’s soul. He pressed Input again, switching to the DVD signal. Without further manipulation, he heard the DVD player whirl to life, and images appeared on-screen.
He flexed his hip to knock Bonnie from his lap and then unzipped his pants. As the woman moaned in pleasure, he grabbed himself in an attempt to feel any sort of arousal. Nothing. Lifeless. When the actors were done with their melodramatic scenario, they returned to a fake dinner party, where it appeared other characters in this fabricated orgy were about to get their turn at some fun. Mark stopped touching his limp self and chuckled embarrassingly at the losers forced to recite this god-awful dialogue.
Bored with the calculated sex on his television, he stood and walked toward his desk. Mark’s foot kicked a shoebox sticking out from underneath his bed. The box skidded across his floor and stopped just shy of his stereo. Bonnie lifted her head, whimpered, and nuzzled down for a nap on his pillow.
Mark bent and picked up the shoebox. A layer of soot decorated the cover. He brushed away the ashes and rubbed the residue on his jeans before opening the box. He was forced to sit on his bed as he studied the first few layers of photographs.
Not yet. Just not ready yet. He reached for the Mogadon, the antidepressants, and the Ziploc bag of candy pills. He siphoned through each bottle and the bag, collecting a conglomerate of varieties before swallowing them in multiple gulps. Now I’m ready.
Mark pinched a photo of himself as a boy and brought it to eye level. He rode his first bicycle, his maiden voyage without training wheels. And he looked miserable. No smile. No excitement. No joy of accomplishment. Void of emotion, even then.
His hand covered his closed mouth in lightning speed as he picked the next photo to inspect. The image displayed him and Samantha as toddlers on the shoreline of the Jupiter Island lake, frozen in a sloppy kiss forever. Mark could see the Novaks in the foreground, laughing as their two-year-old daughter planted a big juicy one on the Crowleys’ son. How adorable. But that’s how they had met. That kiss, fifteen years ago, was the start of their friendship … and the trouble.
Mark sifted deeper into the offset pile of photographs until he found one that injected a little bit of life into his heart. The picture portrayed Samantha, the summer between eighth grade and high school, holding her hat as the wind tried to pry it from her hands. Mark had taken that photo, and it was the pinnacle moment of his love for her. He studied the bottom of the photo where the water lapped the shore and counted the waves. One. Two. Three. Three ripples broke on the shoreline at Samantha’s ankles as she tightly held her hat, and her hair was like a flag in the wind. Her mouth was captured in midspeech. She was saying something to Mark when he had snapped the photo, but he couldn’t hear her. Even in the picture it was obvious she was trying to convey something. Was it a mouthed I love you?
In the next photo he commandeered from the box, Samantha had turned away from him. He studied the top corner of the picture as Bonnie slithered into his lap, hoping for a petting. He ran his finger across the photographed sun. The picture seemed to depict noontime, but the sun was black in the photo.
He subconsciously petted Bonnie, and, when he leaned his face closer to study the black sun, the cat arched her back and hissed at the shoebox. The sound snapped him from his trance, and he placed the box in his lap.
Rummaging urgently through the rest of the photos, he noticed they all contained images of happier times, of more innocent times. The pictures of him and Samantha growing up together through the years showed a happy, smiling Mark. The other, strictly family photos showed otherwise.
He flipped the shoebox onto the floor, spilling the contents. He frantically separated the pictures into two piles: one having anything to do with Samantha and one being just family photographs of him and his parents.
Mark leaned over and opened his nightstand drawer. He located a pair of scissors and a lighter. Focusing on the Samantha pile, he cut out her face from every photo she was in. Picture by picture, he discarded photos with almost perfect circular holes where her face had been. Next to him was a rounded pile, like poker chips, of Samantha donning every emotion possible throughout the years.
Mark only stopped to chomp on a handful of mystery pills from the Ziploc before continuing to desecrate his childhood memories of the only girl he had ever loved.
“I will forget you eventually,” he said, maneuvering the scissors around her head in yet another happy photo. “I know that I will. It might take a thousand years. It might take one week. I’ll even forget the sound of your name …”
Mark wiped the first glimmer of a tear in a long, long while from the corner of his eye as he mutilated the last of the photos containing Samantha’s image.
“… or the way you look when you’re sleeping and dreaming of something more.”
Mark collected all the discarded yet intact photos, the desecrated photos, and the circular cutouts of Samantha’s face, and returned them to the shoebox. He reached for his lighter and lit the corner of the cardboard. Dropping the box onto the hardwood floor, he watched the shoebox and the memories inside burn; the heat from the flames stabbed his cheeks, as if begging and pleading to be saved.
He stomped out the last of the flickering flames, ash ballooning upward into his face and clinging to the curtains. After he was satisfied the fire was extinguished, he tossed the remnants of the shoebox into the trashcan next to his Xbox and crawled under his bedcovers to drown in his torpor.
Bonnie snuggled under the sheets as Mark wrapped an arm around the fuzzy cat. His last thought before he drifted to sleep was, I wish I was a little bit more sentimental.
Mark awoke to the sound of diminishing piano notes again. He glanced at the digital clock atop his television and pressed his palm against his temple to ease the throbbing inside his brain. He hadn’t been asleep long, but the sun had begun its descent on Golders Green. The piano notes reversed and climbed up the scale.
“Bonnie,” Mark whispered with aggravation.
He opened the door and grabbed the cat off the keys.
“Why must you insist on waking me up with your terrible Stevie Wonder impression, huh?”
Bonnie meowed and licked his cheek.
“Mom? Dad?” Mark listened for a reply. Nothing. The house was still. “Mom?” Still nothing.
He placed Bonnie on the floor and looked through the parlor windows. His dad’s car was not in the driveway.
“Looks like it’s just you and me,” he said to the cat.
Mark lifted his mattress and removed the bags of LSD and pre-rolled marijuana. He threw the bags on the bed and released the mattress; it whomped onto the box spring. He picked a joint and an LSD tab, and then retrieved the Ziploc of treats from his pocket. After studying the remaining pills in the baggie, he chose an orange and purple one he hadn’t tried yet. He swallowed the pill dry and sublingually ingested the LSD blotter. Lighting the joint, he sat on his bed and inhaled three quick puffs as Bonnie jumped into his lap. He exhaled in pleasure, as if he had just drunk a large glass of water during a heat wave.
“You wanna go to Alton Towers with me, girl? I can’t deal with all this boredom.”
The cat didn’t look at him.
“Nah, I guess not. I think the mall is pretty fucking lame too.” He took another hit of the joint. “But I wanna see if Samantha is working today.”
Bonnie slid off his lap as he stood. He entered his parents’ bedroom and opened their walk-in closet. Using a stepstool, he opened his dad’s shoe cabinet and pulled down the gun safe.
“Stupid fucker left the key in the lock.”
Mark turned the latch, and the cover popped open. He holstered his dad’s pistol under his belt at the small of his back and returned the safe to its spot in the cabinet.
“I’ll be back, Bonnie. Don’t wait up for me,” he yelled across the living room as he closed the front door behind him.
The LSD trip started the moment Mark grabbed the glass doors of Alton Towers’ main entrance. The people bustling around inside the mall swirled together, and the colors of the storefronts collided and merged with violence. He steadied himself and fought to control his equilibrium. Once the initial phase passed, he stepped inside Alton Towers Mall.
He patted the bulge of his shirt’s backside to make sure the weapon was still there. His shoulder bumped into another shopper.
“Uh, sorry,” he slurred.
The shopper continued walking, seemingly unfazed by the collision or returning any sort of apology.
“Fucker,” Mark whispered and lost his balance.
He entered Metanoia Books and absentmindedly shuffled through the aisles. He stopped and touched the front cover of Bret Easton Ellis’s Lunar Park. Scanning the aisle for any spying employee, he quickly stuffed the paperback into the front of his pants and headed out the door. What’s the point of money anyway? he thought as he adjusted his belt to maintain the weight of both the weapon and the stolen novel.
Mark shambled toward Samantha’s workplace and sat down on a bench directly in front of Baldock & Ashford. He removed Lunar Park from his waistband and surveyed the clothing shop’s interior through the large storefront windows. After flipping through the novel, he hiccupped and tossed the paperback into the trashcan next to the bench. Returning his attention to inventorying which employees were currently working, he unholstered the gun from the back of his pants.
The passersby didn’t seem to notice the black firearm in Mark’s lap. Or, if they did, they didn’t seem alarmed. He counted six female employees but no sign of Samantha. He fondled the trigger guard and noticed his palms had become sweaty. He thought about saving the paperback from the trashcan to have something to read while he killed time waiting.
Mark bent over and reached into the wastebasket just as black spots invaded his peripheral vision and the world shifted on its axis. He closed his eyes and prepared for the inevitable fainting spell.
When he regained consciousness, he realized he had slumped forward in a manner where the gun had been hidden, tucked between his stomach and thighs. He stiffened his body to help exterminate any residual dizziness from passing out.
Still no Samantha.
He sighed in defeat, secured the pistol into his pants again, and exited Alton Towers, leaving the shoplifted novel in the trash.
“Dawson!” Mark almost stumbled over the railroad ties again as he crossed the tracks toward his mother’s car. “Dawson!”
“Calm down. I’m right here,” Dawson answered, materializing.
Mark removed the firearm and tossed it to the ground.
“What the hell is that?”
“My dad’s gun. I just came from Alton Towers.”
“You went to see if Samantha was working, didn’t you?”
“Maybe.”
“You’re such a shithead. You were rejected by her, then she issued a restraining order—a lawful order to stay away from her— and you keep going back for more. Are you trying to ruin your future?”
“I never wanna be old, and I surely don’t want any kids.”
“Why? Because you think all your troubles are the result of bad parenting? You can’t blame your parents anymore, dude.”
“Well, that’s no fun. Who can I blame then? The pills?”
Another dizzy spell overcame Mark as the LSD took full effect; the sky seemed to move sideways, and he tried frantically to stop the moon from touching his shoulder.
“You can blame the fucking drugs you seem to be on right now.”
“Oh, don’t go all Goody-Two-Shoes on me, Dawson, now that you’re all dead and clean. When you were alive, you were a junkie, and you knew it.”
Mark pulled his cell phone from his back pocket and tapped the screen.
“What are you doing?”
“Deleting Samantha from my life—text messages, emails, unfriending her on all my social media accounts. Sucks that a friendship with the history we had ended this way.”
“You did it to yourself, bro.”
“Don’t I always?”
Dawson smirked and shrugged.
A twig snapped behind them.
“Was that meant for me?” Samantha asked, pointing at the discarded gun.
“Sam! What—what are you doing out here?” Mark asked, taking a step forward.
“I was waiting for you to come back so we could talk.”
“Come back? How did you know I was coming back? How long have you been waiting?”
“Dawson told me that you always visit him out here. It was just a matter of time. Again, was that meant for me?”
“Nah, babe. I was just gonna fire some rounds into the trees. Bored. Ya know.”
“Dawson explained everything to me.”
Mark glared at his friend. “Oh, yeah? What did Dawson explain exactly?”
“Follow me. I think you are suffering from short-term memory loss.”
“I’m not going anywhere.”
“Yes, you are.”
“Fuck you, Sam.”
Mark didn’t move. When a few moments passed, and Samantha realized he wasn’t going to do what she had asked, she lunged for the gun.
“Okay, okay! I’ll follow you.”
She turned and headed toward the derailed train. When they reached the locomotive, she slid aside one of the entry doors.
“I know this is where you keep your stash.”
Mark remained silent.
She entered the train’s cabin. “And other things.”
“Sam, don’t. Don’t go in there,” he pleaded.
“I already have, Mark. I want to see your face when you see what they look like now.”
He swallowed hard and stepped into the train. The putrid smell was overpowering. He gasped and placed a hand over his mouth to prevent bile from rising in his throat.
“How can the smell not bother you?”
Samantha slid open the divider door between the two cabins and pointed into the darkness. “There. Look.”
“Sam, I know what’s in there. I put them in there myself.”
She shoved him into the darkened cabin, and he stumbled over his mother’s darkened and decomposing foot.
“Fucking look at them! Those are your parents! You did this— to your parents!”
Mark shook his head. “I didn’t know what I was doing. I didn’t mean it.”
He rummaged through his sweatshirt pocket for the bag of pills. His fingers found the tranquilizers, and he removed the bottle. Samantha slapped the bottle from his hand; it rolled across the train’s floorboards and came to a stop against his dad’s burnt earlobe.
“How long have they been out here?” she asked.
“I don’t remember. Dawson could tell you. Time seems to move differently for me when I’m on the meds.”
“And Bonnie? You had to fucking kill your cat too? Mark, you are some monster.”
He allowed his gaze to move to the pile of lifeless fur by his mother’s torched right arm.
“When did you burn them? Before or after you killed them?”
“After. I killed them at the house and burnt them here. I did a good job covering my tracks. But they don’t seem to know they’re dead. I had a fight with my mother about her car this morning. And Bonnie and I have been snuggling all morning too.”
“Are you sure it’s not just the meds? Or all the drugs? Or your twisted little brain?”
“No. I don’t know. Maybe. How do I know you’re really here? How do I know that any of this”—he fanned his arm across the space above his parents—“isn’t a hallucination?”
“Because I’m here, and I know I’m real.”
“Is that what you think? Are you completely sure about that?”
“Excuse me?” she asked with an attitude, cocking her head.
Mark grabbed Samantha by the forearm and dragged her from the train, closing the door of his parents’ train-tomb. Not releasing his grip, he stopped and grabbed the balled-up restraining order from a pile of leaves and opened it, smoothing the crinkles.
“In the end, this yellow piece of paper did you no good,” he spat.
Samantha tried to take a step backward and free herself from his vise grip. Mark clenched her arm tighter.
“I don’t understand.” She sounded terrified.
He dragged her to the rear of his mother’s car and punched right next to the license plate. The trunk slowly opened.
Samantha gasped. “Oh … my … God.”
She snatched her arm from his grip and placed all ten fingers against the sides of her lips and took a step forward. She reached into the trunk and brushed her hair away from her dead body’s forehead.
Mark laughed. “And you thought some signature on a piece of paper would keep me away.”
She leaned closer to her corpse and touched the ligature marks around her neck.
“You … strangled me?”
“You wouldn’t stop flopping around like a fish.”
Samantha fell to her knees in a heap of sobs and undecipherable screams.
“Now it’s time to say goodbye,” he said.
She collected herself for a moment and looked quizzically at his face.
He closed the trunk, sealing her cadaver inside, and pushed the car toward the waterline. The vehicle gained speed as the downward slope of the ground became steeper. Mark took his hands off the back of the car and watched it careen into the water. Massive ripples crossed Jupiter Island’s lake as the sedan floated and then slowly sank.
He turned to Samantha. She rocked back and forth while trapping her knees with her arms.
Dawson offered her his hand. She accepted, and he helped her to her feet.
Mark started to cough. A deep, guttural cough. He lunged forward, grabbing his chest and heaving. He doubled over and fought with every ounce of energy to inhale. Water projectiled from Samantha’s mouth as she panicked, trying to catch her breath. They both fell on the ground, gasping for any bit of air they could drag into their lungs. Mark convulsed and clawed at his chest. Samantha’s lips were pressed against the dirt; with every breath she easily exhaled, she struggled to draw any new air into her lungs.
Dawson looked at the lake. The car was almost completely submerged. He returned his gaze to the two people flopping on the ground at his feet, drowning in air. He looked back at the car and then again at Mark and Samantha. The farther the car sank, the more frantically they flailed, unable to squeak even the slightest breath into their mouths.
The top of the car completely disappeared, and Mark and Samantha spewed water from their noses and mouths. Samantha started to seize; her body twitched and spasmed, like she was being electrocuted.
Mark reached for Dawson and gurgled with one last dying effort. “What … have … you … done … to … me?”
Dawson looked at Samantha. She had stopped moving. Her eyes remained open. He kicked her to make sure her phantom body was just as dead and drowned as her physical body in the trunk of the car.
He looked across the lake and noticed even the bubbles had stopped floating to the surface where the car had sunk. Then he kicked Mark’s lifeless body, again to make sure his revenant body was also just as dead and drowned as his corporeal one in the backseat of the car.
“It’s a shame murder victims don’t ever know they’re dead,” Dawson said and kicked the gun into a leaf pile, the muzzle still warm from the shot he had fired moments earlier.
Bonnie jumped into his arms and purred when Dawson lovingly patted her.
Mark released the last batch of air he had kept trapped in his lungs. Water poured from the bullet hole in his forehead, like a faucet. He thought he could hear the creaking of the rope attached to Dawson’s hanging body as it swung in the breeze, but the sound of rushing water as the car landed on the lake floor was too loud for him to be sure.
Then nothingness and silence.
Silence.
Silenc .
Silen .
Sile .
Sil .
Si .
S .
.
Brian Paone was born and raised in the Salem, Massachusetts area. Brian has, thus far, published three novels: a memoir about being friends with a drug-addicted rock star, Dreams are Unfinished Thoughts; a macabre cerebral-horror novel, Welcome to Parkview; and a time-travel romance novel, Yours Truly, 2095, (which was nominated for a Hugo Award, though it did not make the finalists)— all three novels are available in paperback, eBook, and audiobook. Along with his three novels, Brian has published three short stories: “Outside of Heaven,” which is featured in the anthology, A Matter of Words; “The Whaler’s Dues,” which is featured in the anthology, A Journey of Words; and “Anesthetize (or A Dream Played in Reverse on Piano Keys),” which is featured here. Brian is also a vocalist and has released seven albums with his four bands: Yellow #1, Drop Kick Jesus, The Grave Machine, and Transpose. He is married to a US Naval Officer, and they have four children. Brian is also a police officer and has been working in law enforcement since 2002. He is a self-proclaimed roller coaster junkie, a New England Patriots fanatic, and his favorite color is burnt orange.
I was only five when Mom brought home a puppy, and for me it was better than winning the lottery. Snow blew in the front door when she entered, and the pup was such a tiny thing that Mom carried him inside her coat, snuggled warm against her body.
Dad wasn’t as excited. “A puppy? A Labrador? Really, Bev, don’t we have enough going on right now?” He looked at me when he said it, but I was too excited about the puppy to feel the slight.
Mom set him on the floor and he yawned, all squinty eyes and puppy breath. He looked around for a moment, sniffed the carpet, and made a beeline for one of my stuffed animals. When I took it away from him, he blinked at me and peed right there, in the middle of the living room.
I wanted to call him Tinkles because, for the first week or so, that’s almost all he did. But Mom said his name was Rowdy, and he became my very best friend.
That was eleven years ago.
His breath doesn’t smell like puppy anymore. It’s gotten foul over the past few months because his kidneys are failing. He takes a long time to get up now, and it’s painful to watch him stumble after a ball, even if it’s just rolled across the kitchen floor.
I’ve known since he was a puppy that this day would come.
We start with a car ride to the dog park early in the morning so no one else will be there. Rowdy can’t run with the younger dogs, and it breaks Mom’s heart to see him wobble after a happy pack that leaves the old gray-faced Lab behind. We sit under Rowdy’s favorite tree with a view of the pond, the fields just starting to green up for spring.
After the dog park, we go for ice cream, but Rowdy only takes a couple of licks, and anyone can see he only does it because he can tell how much Dad wants him to. He hasn’t really eaten much of anything for a week, and the vet said that’s how we’d know it was time.
Mom cries the whole way from the Dairy Hut to the vet’s office. It breaks my heart to see her cry, but there is nothing I can do to make it better.
The doctor is a kind woman who gets right down on the floor with us.
“Oh, old man,” she says to Rowdy, who is lying on a fuzzy fleece blanket. “What a good boy you’ve been.” She pats his bony head, explains the procedure, and leaves us alone in the exam room while she gets everything ready.
I lean over and whisper into Rowdy’s ear. “It’s just a shot, buddy. You’ll just go to sleep. It won’t hurt or anything.”
His hearing went a long time ago, and I know he can’t hear me, but his tail thumps a little at the nearness of my face to his.
“It never gets easier,” Mom says, and Dad kneels behind her, sniffling into her hair. “I thought I’d do better this time, but …”
Dad squeezes her shoulders. “I know, honey. Just can’t imagine the house with no dogs in it, you know?”
The vet comes back in, and Rowdy doesn’t even move when she pokes his skin with the first shot. In a few minutes his eyelids go slack and his breathing slows.
“Are you ready?” The vet holds a syringe full of bright blue liquid.
Mom and Dad nod.
The liquid flows into Rowdy’s vein, and before it’s all in, his breaths go silent.
Mom collapses over his still form, and Dad wipes his eyes.
“Thanks,” he says to the vet. “We appreciate everything you did.”
The vet nods, her hand resting on Rowdy’s still chest. “Two dogs in two years is too many. Wish we’d had fifteen years, like Ranger. I’m so sorry we didn’t get longer with Rowdy.”
She leaves and Dad bends over Mom, whose tears wet the fur on Rowdy’s soft ears.
They don’t see when Rowdy jumps up out of his body. He yawns and blinks at me, just like that very first day they brought him home.
“Go see Ranger,” Mom whispers. “He’s waiting for you on the other side.”
But I’m not on the other side. I’m right here where I’ve always been. With Mom and Dad and my best friend Rowdy.
We sniff a greeting, and Rowdy leaps across the room, free of painful hips and sick stomach. Dad helps Mom out of the hospital, and Rowdy and I bound after them into the warm spring sunshine.
D.W. Vogel is a veterinarian, marathon runner, SCUBA diver, and cancer survivor. She was raised on Cincinnati chili and is a terrible bowler. She lives in Cincinnati with her husband, Andrew, and a houseful of special needs pets. Novels include the #1 bestselling Horizon Alpha: Predators of Eden (Book One of the Horizon series, available from Future House Publishing), and Flamewalker. Her short story, “High Wire,” set in the world of Horizon Alpha, is available in the Future Worlds anthology.
I watch you from the walls, and I see your pretty life playing out like a shadow show. I watch you whenever I can because I have nothing else that I can do. I’m sorry if I scare you, I don’t mean to. If I could, I would be part of your life, and I would learn to love you. I speak this to each of you who have lived in my house, to all those I have tried to love, and lost.
Time doesn’t move the same for me as it does for you, although each moment for me is honey-sweet or bitter with my own mistakes.
I’ve had a long time to think. When I was living in this old house, I knew every creak of each board of the floors that I scrubbed gray, cleaning on my hands and knees. They walk across the floors, and I try to stave off the deep anger that I feel when I see how little they care for the planks that came from living trees, that were carefully milled and installed by my father, still so rough they gave me splinters.
In those days, there were no mops on sticks. Now I see lazy cleaners putting rags on sticks and smearing the filth around, then they say they have cleaned the floor.
Not only have they not cleaned the floor, but by being haphazard in their ways, they show a disrespect for what had once been towering trees that danced in the wind. They had lived and died as summer turned to autumn turned to winter and then, like a miracle, they were reborn each spring with infant buds. The same could not be said for me. I aged and my life turned into the grays of a winter sky, and spring never came to renew me.
My sister and I were only a few years apart: pretty Alice who could do no wrong and me, the elder, the spinster. My name is Elizabeth. The difference between us was that she was sugar that melted away and vanished in death, leaving nothing of herself behind. Meanwhile, I was, and am, a salmon bone that stuck in the throat of death and refused to leave anything behind and move on to wherever those fragrant blossoms who move on go.
Beautiful Alice, who had married Lawrence, the boy two years younger than me, who had thought I was an old lady when I was eighteen and he was sixteen. How I had loved him, his ochre eyes and his curly dark blond hair that fell into those same earth-toned eyes. I thought about the color of ochre his eyes might be; it’s a family of tones and in some lights, they shone like sienna and others—like ferrous ochre. I thought about his colors while scrubbing the floors even after their wedding. Pretty Alice with her smiling children. She never grew old, she only dimmed her light, and I tended her until her light dimmed and then went out. There was no horror of death in her. It wasn’t violent or disgusting anymore than a flower dying for want of water is anything but a sorrow rather than a visceral showing.
I thought Lawrence would marry me after her death. He cried on my shoulder like a little boy, and Alice’s son held my hand while I held her infant daughter in my arms, and they lowered her into the rain-soaked earth. Earth the colors of ochre. Sienna, ochre, umber—the ground was colored like layers of cake as they laid my beloved sister to rest. I envied her ability to rest when I must go ever on, but still I thought of Lawrence and how he needed me and how I needed him.
Alice and Lawrence had moved back to the family home when I was twenty-three. Alice had married Lawrence at the respectable age of seventeen, only a few days after Lawrence had turned eighteen. I was twenty, and after Alice married, everyone whispered behind their hands that I would never marry. They were right, but the ones who said I would never know the embrace of a man were wrong.
My parents’ deaths, sudden and brutal, were the catalyst that had brought Lawrence and Alice back home. It was a big old house that cried out for a family. The gray boards chattered merrily to the sound of the children’s feet. The boards had ceased to be trees a long time ago, they had ceased to feel the wind blowing on their hardened skin or the rain caressing their cheeks. Their leaves caught the raindrops, and the old roots, gray under the earth like worms or the dead boards or my dress, were the only reminder to them that they were alive.
Then, like a girl who realizes all at once that her dreams will never be realized, the trees were cut down and crashed to the earth, their branches broken under their fall and sap leaking from their wounds. They were fed into the board planer and laid out by my father while I watched the wonder of something built where once there had been nothing.
When my mother taught me how to scour the boards with damp sand and then wash the boards, oil and repeat—something I would do for the rest of my life—I had taken to the task with joy. I didn’t notice how the sand roughened my hands, even as it smoothed the boards, or how my dresses slowly merged to a uniform gray that blended with the aging planks.
“I don’t know why you do that every day,” Alice said. She was leaning on the doorjamb, flowers entwined in her blonde hair and pulled back in a crown of braids. Golds and pinks were the colors that surrounded her the way I was shrouded in gray and Lawrence always the colors of the earth.
“To keep it clean. Doesn’t it look lovely?” I answered, my mind thinking cross, petty thoughts I would never speak. Brassy-colored hair, I said internally, instead of Golden tresses, as was only fair, proper, and true.
