CHAPTER 1
On a bitterly cold morning, I lay half awake, cognizant to the sound of the crying
wind as it wiggled through the small cracks in the circular bay window above my
head. Countless attempts to seal the tiny crevices where the stained glass joined the
wooden panes with fresh layers of white silicone only seemed to worsen the
situation. The decayed old particles cracked and flaked, leaving minuscule
passageways for the outside world to gain entrance in the two story sanctuary.
The frozen incubus had a devilish mind of its own and toyed with the house as if
it were nothing but a Rubex Cube. It twisted about the Victorian hovel with deft
nimble paws, caressing its repulsive body down the chimney flute, through the holes
in the attic dug by the filed mice that sought refuge, and through the clefts in the
basement that had been slowly succumbed to by the elements of nature. This old
house had survived the past five decades of relentless barrages of snow and rain and
would probably survive another hundred years with a little time and money spent
on maintenance.
The attic, adjacent to the bedroom was dark, but not completely barren of life.
The tangerine light of the full moon sifted through the rotting ventilation eaves in
the end walls revealing cobweb-festooned rafters under a 45 degree peaked roof.
Moist silk aqueducts linked together throughout the entire attic allowing swift
passage for the carnivorous arachnids that patrolled the area like German
Gestapo guards outside Block 11 in Auschwitz
The direct center of the room offered just enough headroom for someone to
stand erect, though closer to the walls, it was necessary to crawl on both hands
and knees over the wood and through the bundles of insulation, neatly
tucked inside the floor support beams like a newborn in the intensive care
nursery. Years ago I had crawled into the attic and laid the insulation by myself,
paying close attention to detail and making sure that each and every bundle
was spaced correctly between horizontal beams. By doing this, it kept the house
warmer in the Winter and much cooler in the Summer months reducing the
electric bill by at least twenty percent.
Though the attic was a tomb, a cold desolate plot that gave temporary
comfort to the insidious vermin and other blood drinking creatures of the
night, it really didn’t bother me much. Seldom was the room disturbed by
the presence of a human, though it housed the most valued possession that
I owned. Only the ravenous spiders dared roam these forlorn corridors of
empty boxes and antiquated relics that were neatly packed away, out of sight
and out of mind. An orange hue funneled its warm rays through the series
of rotted ventilation eaves leaving the far wall, adjoining the attic door in a
soft illumination. Sitting directly in its inviting wake, wedged tightly
between two empty Uhaul boxes stood a white porcelain urn, no larger
than a small coke bottle. Inside the white hourglass rested the cremated
remain of a two people. The crude shrine drank deep the few ours of light
that managed to trickle through the open eaves, holding onto every drop of
warmth that it could.
The sticky orb traps, meticulously spun by hundred of hungry arachnids
protected the urn from curious insects that unknowingly trespassed their
temple. These fanged vampires were the sentinels of the attic, the guardians
of flayed humans. They stood vigil over something that was no longer there,
honoring ways that had long ago ceased to exist except as a distant memory.
Deep inside the attic, these vermin slept sound, for they lived in a dream world
where heroes walked tall during the wee sleeping hours of the night, and
chivalry and justice were synonymous with honor. If one of these vampires
could have donned the brass helmet of Don Quixote or drank deep from the
ancient cup of Erasmus or scaled the walls of Sodom and Gomorrah and crushed
the dregs of society, they would have. With one flair of the almighty fangs, the
spider would have slashed through the iron gates of hell and forced his steel
incisors through the engorged throat of his enemy and drank deep into the night.
I would have given my life to have saved my wife and son from having to go
yet another day hungry, without food and without my love. And to take a bullet
from some ritual drive by shooting in order to save the spinal cord of some
innocent teenager from living the life of a paraplegic in a cold wheel chair,
that and more I would have given without hesitation to end the pain. In the frozen
alcoves deep inside an undisturbed turquoise reservoir of a child’s imagination, a
hero lived the life of a God, though in the real world they withered away locked in
chains inside some dusty old pirates chest.
I jostled about in my king sized sleigh bed, trying to find the perfect fetal
position, strategically placing the pillow between my legs. It would be just another
night of insomnia, something that was only to familiar and routine in my life. I
Knew that I had a new patient scheduled for 10:00 am this morning, perhaps he
would be late and I could catch up on some sleep in the office until he arrived. Who
was I kidding, these sick bastards were never late, if anything they were always
early and made damn sure that they got every moment that they payed for. More
times than not, the patients had to pay my hourly rate out of their own pockets
for fear of alerting their insurance carrier that they were sick in the head and
the possibility of being ostracized by their employers or even their own co-workers.
I usually reduced my rate from $150 per hour to only $80 dollars per hour
depending on weather they filed a claim with their insurance carrier or weather
they chose to pay cash. Sometimes the insurance claims adjuster would dispute
the claim, due to the fact that the patient had no prior authorization to visit a
Psychiatrist that wasn’t part of the PPO plan. Either case, it was a bunch of
bullshit either for me to try and recover my fees, or having to go through the
hassle of contacting the patient and requesting he or she stop by my office and
drop off a check. Thinking about it, it was rather ludicrous to think that a
crazy person might remember to pay the bill that his own insurance company,
claiming to be financially sound and sane, momentarily considered an asinine
profession and therefore were refusing to pay the claim. So, who really is crazy,
the patient or the insurance company. I would have to say it was a little of both; the
naive patient for thinking that his insurance company was going to be there when he
needed them, and the insurance company for believing their own lies.
The fresh morning air viciously stung my eyes and attacked my ear canals,
enhancing my audibility by ten decibels. I could hear the faint muffled scratching
behind the attic door, undoubtedly a few field mice attempting to conserve body
heat among hairy strangers. Perhaps they were busy fornicating, playing hide the
tail or lubricating the whiskers. Whatever they were doing, I envied them and
their idle behavior.
But, what did these rodents know of life? Did they have mundane jobs? Did
they worry about providing for or protecting their offspring, or for that matter, did
they even know the importance of a family? The proliferation of this
particular species would indicate that the family took a back seat to the raging
libido of Dear Old Dad. If self gratification were a paying job, these ground
dwelling cheese varmints would all be politicians.
Perhaps, just perhaps, these vermin had rules that they abided by, the most
important of which was the sanctity of life. It’s possible that Ricky the Rodent
got up every morning, stroked back his horned whiskers as to look more
conservative, picked up his attache case, and headed off to his private hell hole
inside the pantry. There, snuggled tightly between a bottle of Windex and a
carton of light bulbs, he would tend to the affairs at hand. During his hectic day
filled with scheduled meetings upon meetings to discuss further meetings down the
road, and his fourteen trips to the water fountain to wet his whistle and check out
the new secretary in the plaid miniskirt, he would conceive of new ways to move up
the corporate ladder, impress the Senior Vice President of Operations, and fantasize
about sleeping with the new intern in the miniskirt. All in all, it was a very
productive and busy day!
What about the rat’s wife? What was her innocuous role in society? Did she
stand watch over the children and dream about devouring the little bastards, or
did her fury thighs quiver at the thought of seeing her cheating husband
snared in a mousetrap, head split wide open? What wold happen to the family?
Would they be evicted from the broom closet and tossed into the cold basement,
or would some laboratory reject come knocking on the door with cheese in one
paw, and thoughts of torture and acts of perversion in the other?
Although I was a Psychiatrist, and a damn good one at that, I often wondered
where my mind was leading me. One moment I would be sitting in my office
listening somewhat attentively to my patient blubbering about something that
happened in his or her life that forever changed them, and the next moment I was
wondering if divorce and empathy were common in the rat world. Was
monogamy an overrated characteristic that only priests and little boys pretended
to practice behind the alter, or did society wean itself from moral issues and
traditions over time? This new suitor that came knocking on the door with a
wedge of cheese in one hand and a flask of Jesus Juice in the other, was he the
savior or just a wolf in sheep’s clothing. These and other mysteries
preoccupied much of my leisure time and in a perverse sense, made life more
enjoyable. Keeping myself busy late at night pondering over the animal
kingdom was my way to cope with reality, but more than that, it was the escape
route for my subconscious. By derailing my train of thought, I could unload
the infectious cargo that traveled the midnight tracks of my mind. If I could
find sense in a world that existed beyond my own, then by observing nature I
might be able to understand why Humans reacted so irrationally; Why skin color
or border difference caused mass hatred between seemingly ordinary groups. An
ant colony had more inner meaning and genuine order than that of the Homo
Sapiens. Homicide was nothing but a three syllable word that wasn’t tolerated
in this purified realm beneath the ground. The perverse need for adolescents
to measure antennas by comparing lengths and girths was something only
prevalent in bipedal males.
The whole of any civilization was far more important than the needs of the
one. If Marxism had roots, if some balding Historian from Dartmouth College
could have climbed inside his head during the early developmental stages of his
life, Marxism and the whole theory behind it might have originated with a
pubescent lad, a magnifying glass, and an ant colony. Though possessed at
first with the feverish quest of utter annihilation by burning their tender skulls
as they emerged from their mounds, Marx later grew to understand and
to appreciate these insects. Awed by their ability to overcome, their ability to work
together, and their flagrant disregard for their own well being, he came to respect
and admire these red colonies. They gave their life without remorse, without
a second thought to insure the survival of their species. Ants were the perfect
soldiers in a perfect utopia. If life were nothing but a chess game, these workers
were expendable pawns whose sole function was to protect the Queen.
The theory behind Communism probably grew and blossomed as the young
British lad passed the cool Summer days playing in the fields. The chimney red
clay roads wound effortlessly throughout the countryside up and over the green
hills and through the spacious meadows filled with potato farms and struggling
sheep ranchers. Wild blueberry patches and lavender flowers graced the green
pastors with Spring time vitality and beauty that only a God could create and only
a woman could appreciate and understand. Each river beckoned with hungry
trout just begging for a fresh worm and a metal hook, almost daring Huck Finn
enthusiasts to skip school and cast their bamboo lines into the mystical glacial
lakes and roaring tributaries that surrounded the Island. It was the perfect
moment in life without interference from the outside world, without the threat
of war hanging overhead like some ominous black cloud, a life pure of racial hatred
and utter contempt for limp politicians and ambivalent Governments.
Although bitten numerous times and hospitalized on at least four different
occasions, Karl Marx continued to delve more and more into this unknown world.
Often branded an oddity by all his fellow peers and ridiculed by his own family,
he drifted off into his new world of insects. Here he found solace from the cruel
world, protected in the knowledge that he had millions of new red friends that were
willing to serve and if needed, willing to die to protect Karl. It was the perfect
Communistic society thus convincing him that all civilizations, and all structured
Government hierarchy were destined to follow natures course and embrace the
words and ideology of Marxism.
If Prozac had only been around one hundred years ago and the field of
psychiatry a more acceptable form of treatment, the geographic boundaries of the
countries, world figures , famous speeches, wars, and even evil tyrants would not
have come to fruition. Rest assured, had I been alive back then, Hitler and Marx
would have been doped up on Prozac, hospitalized and then dragged outside one
night in their straight jackets and shot in the head. I never said that I was a great
Psychiatrist or claimed to have all the answers, I believe that some people just
can’t be cured by therapy and medication.
Some of my colleagues would argue that ethics governed people and the universe
and as long as we all adhered to moral principals and abided by the laws sent down
from Heaven, the Human race would survive for millennium to come. I don’t
slightly disagree with their opinions, I think it’s a crock of shit! The agonizing
truth was out there to be found, but was hard to swallow for a society that based
itself upon high moral standards and brotherly love. The easy choice for
dysfunctional society bordering upon the verge of extinction would be to totally
block out the past and to forget the torturous machinery and weaponry that man
created in order to eliminate his fellow neighbors. I never actually condemned
the military, but, I seriously wondered if the inhabitants of the North American
Continent actually fathomed the motivation behind the development of Nuclear
weapons. If bombs weren’t developed and dropped for ethical decisions, then why?
If this scenario were true, then society was not based on ethic decisions, but
rather upon greed and power. Without some sense of organization and group
direction, Humans were inevitably doomed to failure; as evident of the fall of
Communism in Russia. This was indeed a lugubrious situation.
In a strange way, both animal kingdoms were very similar in that both species
lacked the stamina to patiently exhaust all options before implementing an
action. Most so called ethical decisions were based upon fear and anger and more
selfless actions were based on true love. If it were true that a coward dies a
thousand deaths and a hero but once, then Humans would never die out.
Undoubtedly the number one priority of the ant was the colony; the number one
priority of any single person was the individual. Thus, it was safe to conclude
that Humans were not ethical.
I lifted my right arm out of the shelter of my warm igloo to brush the rumpled
hair from my brow. The warm palm felt soothing against the cold flesh as I tried
to waken the muscles in my face. “Razor stubble,” I mumbled out loud.
I was suddenly roused back to reality by the thunderous buzzing at the front
door. “Now, who in the hell could that be. No one in their right mind would be
ringing my doorbell this early Wednesday morning.”
“Buzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz. Buzzz. Buzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.”
“Ok, ok, I head the damn bell”, I hollered. “Let me get some clothes on before
my boner freezes and breaks off like an icicle.” Again his train of thought was
interrupted by the shrill of the doorbell. It was as if the buzzer were being tortured
by some sadistic electrician, and its sonorous cries of pain seemed to reverberate
throughout the entire household.
“Buzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz. Buzzzzzzzzzzzz.”
I grabbed the dirty jeans off the floor and pulled them up my half frozen legs.
Although it was mid April, it still felt like Winter here in Prince Edward Island.
The jeans were rigid, almost stiff as I pulled them up over my waist and pulled up
the zipper. I reached down and picked up a white sweater and proceeded to
simultaneously insert my head and arms into the appropriate openings just as the
front door buzzer went off again.
“Buzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz”
Reaching over the night stand by the far corner of the bed, I flipped the switch to
turn on the lamp. Either the power had been shut off for two hours or it was in
fact 6:30 in the morning; the later being the more probable of the two. “Christ!”
“Buzzzzz. Buzzzzzzzzzzzz. Buzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.”
“Yeah, all right, all right will ya!” I know it sounded crazy to yell at an
inanimate object and expect some sort of sane response back, but I did it anyway.
Maybe that’s the first sign of madness, knowing that you weren’t making any
sense even to yourself, let alone a licensed psychiatrist. I guess it would have been
more asinine to expect a verbal response back from the doorbell, but sometimes
we just do things that don’t make sense. Not only are we unethical, but
it now seems that we are not a lucid society. Boy, this day was going to be a real
winner if I continued with this train of thought!
I noticed the laundry pile on the floor was starting to look more like a homeless
persons shopping cart that he rolled through the streets rummaging through the
trash cans in search of food. There was a towel that looked like it had been washed
a few weeks ago clumped together on the floor with some shirts and another pair
of jeans. Perhaps tomorrow I just might tacked that monster load before it got
any bigger; before some Austrian rock climber came to my door, drooling over
the possibility of climbing the growing mountain. If these garments had any rights,
they would sue for negligence and emotional distress.
Any day now Social Services commonly referred to as CSS would come calling to
remove his dirty attire and place his garments into some sort of a Foster
Laundromat. Ripped apart from their biological purchaser, these pathetic
garments would be just another statistic of the welfare system. They, like the
countless victims were just another non-descriptive folder tucked away in some
file cabinet. And, if the lawyers got a hold of this, all hell would break loose.
Lawsuits, counter lawsuits, back stabbing, defamation of character, vulgarity, and
a whole slew of legal repercussions were soon to follow. Absolutely nothing that
the legal community could scrape from the bottom of the toilet bowl surprised me
much these days. In a society gone haywire, these fast talking parasites thrived
in shit. If the Devil had a paying job, he would be a defense attorney defending
Johnny Cochran on morality issues.
I finished in the bathroom and started descending the oak staircase towards the
front door. The bare steps creaked under my weight and each cold Neanderthal
foot landed squarely upon the polished oak, bringing to life this fatigued home.
Upon reaching the foyer, I hesitated just a moment before reaching for the door
knob and pulled the sleeve of the sweater over my right hand. As a youngster I
was often compelled to challenge the flagpole at New Bloomfield Junior High
School in the dead of Winter. How an ordinary ice pole had some mesmerizing
inner power, baffled the doctors at Summerside Hospital. In a show of courage,
the kids would pit science against future manhood; tongue against frozen object.
I usually lost, partially due to the lack of intelligence, but mostly due to my
excessively large tongue. Some of the kids joked that I could like the back of my
head with my tongue. If this were only true, I would have made many a woman
happy in bed.
Needless to say, the metallic monster boasted the remains of torn tissue, slabs
of lip parts, buckets and buckets of innocent blood, and tiny samples of spongy
ligaments. Each student left enough DNA samples to enable and clever Crime
Scene Investigator the ability to solve any crimes on the Island. These were the
trinkets of war time, worn proudly by the victor, daring anyone to strip him of his
title. Those painstaking images haunted my adolescence and somehow
manifested itself into my manhood.
“Come on ya big ape,” yelled the intruder. “I’m freezing my fucking ass off.
I’ve gotten frostbite on my nuts, now open the door. I can hear you behind the
door!” His voice was relentless as was his determination.
“What the hell do you want, Christian,” I snapped back? “It’s not even 7:00
in the morning if you hadn’t noticed! About time that you bought a real watch that
tells time!” In the seven years that I had lived in Cabot, Prince Edward Island,
Lieutenant Sterling had woken me up at least on four hundred and fifty
occasions.
“The doors frozen solid, asshole,” I said. “Now go home and sleep it off.”
Christian’s responded with, “Hey Travis it’s almost at 7:00 am
so open the door, get dressed and lets go get some coffee. Starbucks doesn’t stay
open all day, ya know!
“Yeah they do, you idiot!” Ever since Starbucks opened their first shop on
Main Street last year, Christian had to be there bright and early so he could get a
seat next to the roaring fireplace. Yeah, it was nice and warm and yeah the coffee
was pretty good, but it wasn’t worth the four dollars per cup, that was for sure.
The only reason Christian wanted to go to the coffee shop every morning and
get the seats next to the fireplace was because of the college ladies that came there
in their pajamas. If girl watching were a paying job, Lieutenant Sterling would
be richer than Bill Gates!
I reconciled myself to the fact that I would have to let the freezing bastard in
and flipped on the outside light. Leaning my one hundred and eighty pound body
against the door, I jerked it open.
An atomic blast of wind exploded into the dark room with such a force as to
almost knock me over. Angered by its own ineptness to gain passage, the cold
stalked the premises of 3930 Mallard Way, anxiously awaiting the opportunity to
vent its build up frustrations. When the solid oak door swung open, it wasted no
time in smashing its pure evil body against me, shooting millions of icy bullets
through the bone marrow, crystallizing the red blood cells into one frozen lake.
It then headed upstairs skipping two steps at a time until it had reached the top.
The wind creature knew the route only too well for it too had traveled the
midnight tracks of my mind every night since the horrible accident.
At the top of the staircase it turned towards the two helpless figures standing
by the doorway and in a low throat gurgling voice it pushed words of absolute
hatred down into the frozen foyer. Although I was certain that I was the only one
who could hear the voice, I knew that Christian felt its presence.
You mother fucking bastard! Where were you? Why weren’t you there to help
your family? I’ve come for the urn!” He arched his skull back almost touching
his shoulder blades and snapped the bones in his neck to draw more attention to
his presence. It hesitated for but a second before it disappeared into the bedroom.
Possessed by Lucifer, the incubus wedged its repulsive torso between the cracks
of the attic door and the frame. It was the voice of Satan, a voice that plagued me
every night and rocked my mind into explosions of searing pain. I wasn’t going
to let his arrival bother me, but I knew that a confrontation was inevitable.
“Man, it’s windy out there,” complained Christian. “Shit, you would think that
we could just have one day this year when the weather wasn’t below freezing.”
“Come in and close the door behind you,” I mumbled. “Fix us some coffee. I’m
going upstair to shower. And, don’t be lighting up any cancer sticks in my kitchen!”
I didn’t care to hear his response. For that matter, I didn’t care if Christian
took the time to close the door. Hell, when he got cold enough, he would damn well
slam the fucking door shut behind his fat ass.
I snatched the reindeer skin from the wicker chair in the foyer, wrapped it
tightly around my husky frame and proceeded to waddle back up the staircase.
My feet felt like scuba diving flippers slapping upon frozen marble an I
transcended towards the frozen alcove. It was a scene out of Dr. Zhivago.
Upon entering the room, I knew that I wasn’t alone. The beast lay in wait,
hidden in the shadows of the closet. He felt comfortable there, secure from
ridicule and disgust from the Almighty Creator. Caged in a bacterial infested
brown wool death shroud to hide beneath, he anxiously awaited the arrival of his
intended victim. The ivory nails scraped the walls leaving deep jagged grooves
to prove his presence as the sour stench of his antiquated shroud permeated
through the fibers of the dress shirts and slacks that hung neatly in the closet.
The fanged killer was a composite of hatred and fear, evil and deception that
lived vicariously throughout the centuries, feeding on misery. He was a
rambunctious killer in a hypocritical world filled with vivacious nuns and horny
priests, with vermin politicians and rich lawyers who fed off the Human race like
blood hungry leaches in a Vietnamese swamp. It lived for the gentle moments of
the night when victims were at their weakest, when they were most vulnerable to
pain. It like me because I was a challenge unlike the countless others that fell to his
soiled feet.
I could sense his presence, his starring molten lava eyes burning into the nape
of my skull. They were volcanic pits of burning magma churning about like a pot
of chili on top of a hot burning stove. A million pieces of hot shrapnel tore through
my body in one incredible explosion inflicting searing pain that pulsed through my
mind and soul. Every synaptic nerve burst like fire balls shooting tiny pitchforks
throughout my frame, immobilizing me emotional and physically. Life did not
exist, for if it did, it spit forth the bile of hatred into the face of a lonely child and
mocked my entire existence.
“I’ve been waiting for you, my little one,” whispered the voice. “Who is the
fucking hero downstairs? Here to protect you?” He started to laugh, but cut
himself short.
I walked into the bedroom and turned on the overhead light and turned my
attention toward the closet door. I cold have slammed it shut and ended the
antagonism, But instead I chose to respond. “Go to hell!”
“Been there,” he responded sarcastically. “Oh, saw your wife and kid there.
They told me to tell you that they were scared, and I do emphasize the word, real!”
He hit a nerve and drank deep from the tormented soul that stood helpless outside
the closet door.
The beast watched as the hero sat down on the edge of the bed. At that very
exact moment he knew that all heroes great and small simultaneous fell to their
feet and gazed in horror upon this once great storyteller. They looked in awe and
in fear as they knew only too well his fate, yet they couldn’t stop watching the man
on the bed. In every life and to every child comes the day when he no longer
believes in dreams forever closes his mind and shuts down his imagination.
That day was finally here, as the boy wept. He was defeated.
“What the hell do you want of me you fucking bastard, What is it. Are you an
addict? Do you need me to survive? What, you can’t live if I don’t fell guilty?
Is that it? Well, I do feel the pain, every fucking hour of every fucking day. If I
had enough courage to stick a gun in my mouth and blow my fucking brains
out, I would. I swear I would!”
Oh, the Beast loved it when he discovered someone’s Achilles heel. He was a
vampire, sucking the blood of hope from his prey. His fanged incisors punctured
the victims throat just above the jugular as his parched lips closed over the open
wound, careful not to drop one red morsel of fluid. It was feeding time at the troth.
“I want the urn and I want your soul now,” he said demandingly!
I looked straight into his monstrous face and replied, “You can’t have either, not
now, not ever,” and proceeded to slam the door shut. It was over for now, quiet for
the time being, but he would return. He always returned for another fight. The
onslaught of nightmares was sure to chew away at his subconscious later that
night.
The antiquated sour stench of failure to protect his family permeated the very
fibers of his mind, and the click of the almighty 38 assuaged the vein ridden
temples with promises of quick relief from reality. With a simple pull upon the
silver half moon icon, the child within could forever kiss the wings of immortality
and join the illustrious few that had so cowardly proceeded him.
I was not afraid to die, I was just terrified at the prospect of living in a world
that no longer cared for my existence. When a man no longer walks with his
shadow and finds solace in the form of revenge, then it was time to kneel before
the executioner and welcome death in any manner. Of this he was certain. Perhaps
tomorrow Dr. Travis Owen would blow his head off and end the torment, but
tomorrow was many hours away.
Ten minutes later, I emerged into the dimly lit kitchen doorway. Two
distinctive aromas instantly stung my frostbitten nostrils, cigarettes and coffee. I
often pondered the function of nose hair. They had to serve some purpose,
possibly to keep the nasal cavities warm, or maybe it was just a part of the
body filtration system. Whatever they were supposed to do, they didn’t do it! The
air was always cold, and I constantly had to blow my nose in order to breathe.
Now, I loved the fresh scent of strong coffee brewing, but detested what
usually accompanied it, cigarettes. Most of the inhabitants on the Island smoked.
It was a way of life, an hourly ritual that absorbed much of their spare time and
definitely consumed a good portion of their lungs. Marlboro, Camel and the
other tobacco giants controlled these drones like obedient junkies just dying for
their next fix.
“Hey, no smoking in the house, moron,” I snapped!
“Oh, sorry dude,” apologized Christian. He tossed the butt into the sink that
still contained the dishes from tow night ago. Lieutenant Sterling knew that
Travis Owen thought little of people who craved the taste of tobacco and who
selfishly forced others to breathe in the stale burning stench. Hell, Christian knew
it, and he even respected his best friend for not smoking. He smoked inside the
house to see if he could get away with it. Albeit Sterling was nearing thirty six, he
still acted much like the adolescent, Huck Finn. Telling him not to do something
only made him want to do it even more.
If someone dug a big hole in the backyard and packed it with venomous green
vipers from Sough America and emaciated alligators from the Bayous of Southern
Louisiana, dropped a full pack of Marlboros into the pit, Christian would dive in
head first. Simply informing him of the luscious prize floating in snake shit and
alligator spit would be too much for someone with absolutely no will power.
Telling him to leave it would be like telling a politician to refrain from taking bribes
from foreign lobbyist groups in Washington, D.C. And, telling him not to smoke
would be like telling Bill Clinton to keep his pants on in a Texas brothel. It just
couldn’t be done.
Christian Sterling and I were the best of friends, despite the name calling,
practical jokes played on one another, and the occasional scuffling matches. In
fact, Christian was the only friend that I had. He had been there for me through
thick and thin for the past thirty years. It was Christian who helped me pull
through the accident in 2001.
We were the best of friends, and we were the worst of enemies to ourselves. One
could not survive without the other and each of us would have given our life without
a moments hesitation to save each other. To die alone in a cruel world that never
acknowledged or appreciated your existence was unthinkable. If I had one last
good memory, one last reason to live to fight, it was Christian. Because of our
friendship, I survived the accident with most of my sanity.
The clink of a spoon as it hit the cold tile floor brought me back to reality. I
was back in his kitchen, Wednesday morning, April 16, 2005, having to deal with
another day. He took a sip of his coffee and glanced at the big round Seiko on
the wall just above the sink. The time, 10:05, but that’s what it always displayed.
I had never replaced the batteries since the death of Jill and his son, and that was
nearly 5 years ago.
“You put sugar in this, I hate sugar.” I was annoyed, but he expected this
of Christian.
“Oh, sorry dude,” replied Christian, half smiling. He could barely contain his
inner laughter.
“I hate sugar! What time is it?” I took a sip of his coffee and sat down
opposite Christian at the kitchen table. “You know, putting this shit in my coffee
just ruins the whole fucking flavor. It’s not supposed to taste like a Hershey
chocolate bar as if you didn’t already know that!”
Christian ignored the sarcasm. “Well, to answer you question, my watch is
freezing up, but it looks like Mickey’s little hand is on the six and his big hand is
pointing to something between his legs. Now, I would have to conclude that either
it’s 6:30 in the morning, or that Mickey Mouse is having another bout with crabs.
And, by the soured expression upon the little fucking rodent’s face, I would say that
his balls are on fire!”
I gave a short laugh of approval. “Thanks for the rhetoric numb nuts!” I
lifted the cup to his mouth and took a good sip before placing it upon the wooden
table. “Ah, I love coffee.”
“Hey, you might want to open up some of these,” Christian said pointing to the
mail on the table. Might be something important,”
“Yeah, like what. What could be important?”
“Ya never know. Could be that you won some sweepstakes. You want me to pop
these babies open, eh, Travis?”
I pushed the stack of mail across the table. “Help yourself. So, what’s the
bad news today?”
Christian reached down to pick up the spoon off the floor. He proceeded to
unbutton his gray overcoat and withdrew a conspicuous manila from the inside
pocket of his jacket. On the front of the eight by eleven inch envelope, printed in
bold letters read, PRIVATE.
I grabbed the parcel, threw it on the table and shook my head in disbelief.
I knew what sort of repulsive images spackled the five by seven glossy sheets. “I’ll
look at them later.” Working for the Government wasn’t all glimmer and
glory. There were no heroes to speak of, and nobody really seemed to care
anymore. People died every day, animals were beheaded for no apparent reason,
children were molested, and the elderly were shunned and forgotten like used
diapers. The 21st century held so many positive possibilities for Government
reunification, employment opportunities, healthcare reform and a revamping of
welfare issues that it was inconceivable to think change was inevitable.
Working for the Canadian Wildlife Society, Christian had seen thousands of
grotesque pictures; decapitated seals, dolphins with their snouts chopped off, baby
whales gutted, and even giant sea turtles that had cocaine shoved up their rectums
to allude the Coast Guard. No rational explanation for these atrocities were ever
given, at least none that would make any sense to a humane society. For some
strange reason, I just couldn’t stomach it this morning. “I’ll look at them later,
dude. Besides, I’ve got a new patient to see today.
Bad news always seemed to live in his kitchen. Life for myself and my family
were to forever change on December 14, 2001. No matter how many years passed
and how many bottles consumed, I just couldn’t forget the horror of that day. It
always slithered inside my cold bed at night and wrapped its icy bones around my
aging body. It clung to me like a vampire feeding upon a fresh kill after a long day
rest inside his soiled coffin. The strong scent of guano shit and rotting blood filled
the tomb with sickening vapors, pacifying the hungry monster until it could escape
its prison of pine. When it drank from me, it drank from a succulent reservoir
that could only be drilled late at night when the eyelids reluctantly shut themselves
and prepared for a restful slumber.
But, all that I came to expect and longed for in life changed on that fateful day.
I had just gotten off work early and was eager to do some needed Christmas
shopping. It was getting on towards the holiday season and I was excited as a
Jack Rabbit in heat. I loved Christmas, not so much for the presents that I would
receive, but for the joy that it gave to my beautiful wife of ten eight years and to my
5 year old son, Brice. Yes, I truly believed in the old adage that, “it’s better to
give than to receive.” I desired nothing and needed nothing materialistically, but
did crave the frantic frenzy that Christmas created.
I was forced to double wrap all the presents, and then bind them in duck
tape as my inquisitive wife would undoubtedly pilfer a preview of coming
attractions. Jill had no patience and our son, Brice, obviously had gotten this from
her side of the family. As crafty as I thought I was, Jill always seemed to be able
to open the packages and re-wrap them, without showing any evidence of
tampering. A forensic pathologist would have a difficult time linking Jill to
the scene of this crime. God, he loved them!
Come Christmas morning, with a roaring fire to keep them warm, the family
would sit upon the white Lama skin rug that barely covered the den floor, and
proceed to rip open the gifts. Jill would hold a present high over her head, still
sealed in tacky duck tape, vigorously shake the box, and say, “Hmmmmmm, let me
see. Could it be a white bathrobe,” and behold, she was right. Now, I knew
that I hadn’t married a physic, rather a crafty lady who cold outsmart the pants
off David Coperfield.
Brice, on the other hand, was a typical youngster caught up in the Christmas
excitement. He would immediately grab for the largest gift, expecting to find the
most awesome of presents, only to be sadly disappointed. As a practical joke, his
Uncle Christian, who automatically assumed the title of Uncle, would wrap up a
large box with nothing inside. When he came over later on in the morning, as he
had been doing for the past 8 years, Uncle Christian would blame the Tooth Fairy
for stealing all the big presents.
Lieutenant Sterling would explain that difficult times and the slow economy
caused infirm adults to steal and commit hideous crimes of passion. He never went
into much explanation about crimes of passion, it was just thrown in nonchalantly.
Desperate times lead to desperate measures, and to put it bluntly, “the Tooth Fairy
was a pilfering fag.” Dressed in a baby blue tutu with his hairy butt cheeks
protruding out of his mother’s tiger skin panties, the fairy would sneak into homes
at night and steal all the Christmas presents. The Grinch couldn’t hold a candle to
this masochist! He cared little about the boys and girls who would be disappointed
on Christmas day, he cared only about his nicotine addiction and his prized porno
collection. The Tooth Fairy was especially fond of half naked pubescent
African girls posing in maternity undergarments. Fortunately, Brice was far too
little to comprehend Uncle Christian’s bizarre imagination. His story lines verged
on the edge of madness!
“Not to worry, little dude,” he would tell Brice. “Last night while your favorite
Uncle pounded the beat, I came upon the Fairy breaking into Mrs. Kanes Cheese
Shop.” Christian would pound upon his chest and contort his face to look more
fearsome and gallant. Speaking in a rasp voice as he knelt in front of the fireplace,
he would continue his fictional story that even O.J. Simpson’s delusional jury
wouldn’t buy. “I came up to him and gave him a good kick in the ass! Yes, sire,
that’s exactly what I did.” He was proud of himself, gloating in his story telling
prowess.
Brice would giggle like a cackling machine gun and listen attentively to every
word that vomited from Christian’s lips. He just loved the crazy adventures that
seemed to only happen to his favorite Uncle. He often wished that his dad was a
policeman instead of being a boring old doctor who talked to crazy people. When
he grew up he was going to be a policeman, or maybe a cowboy and clean up the
Island of all villains, of this he was certain.
Jill and I would cuddle up to one another, she sitting between my legs and
me leaning against the tan leather sofa, sipping my coffee and playing with her long
straight hair. We listen attentively to Christian and laughed along with Brice as
Uncle Christian recounted his escapades of heroism. Every year his stories seemed
to get longer and wilder and almost verge on the brink of idiocy
“That’s right,” growled Christian.
“What’s crimes of passion,” inquired Brice?
“Never you mind. Now listen, little dude, I gave him a big kick in the ass, like
this.” He proceeded to demonstrate using all is force that he could muster. “Bam. I
kicked him so hard that it would have killed any mortal man, but as we both know,
little dude, the Tooth Fairy ain’t no mortal man. No sir, he ain’t no mortal man.”
Brice jumped up and threw both hands in the air. “Like Superman,”he yelled.
Running around in circle he shouted at the top of his lungs, “look, I’m Superman!”
“Well, not exactly like Superman, in fact, quite the opposite,” said Christian.
“You might say that he was a super power villain. Do you know who O.J. Simpson
or Bill Clinton is?”
Brice stopped running. “No.”
“Well, it doesn’t really matter. The point is this Fairy was more conniving and
detrimental to the fabric of our society as we know it today. Do you understand me,
little dude,” questioned Sterling?
Brice shrugged his shoulders. “Nope.”
“It doesn’t really matter. Now sit down and listen to the story, ok?” Brice
plopped to the floor beside me.
There he was, dressed in a blue tutu and wearing is mother’s wild panties and his
sisters black arm boots, standing knee deep in the snow. He had stashed clumps of
Sharp Cheddar Cheese in his brazier, and I must say, if I were an ordained
Minister, I might be tempted over to the gay side!”
“The gay side,” asked Brice? “What’s that?”
“Never you mind,” interrupted Jill. “Just get on with your story, Christian!”
“Now, where was I,” muttered Christian? “Oh yeah, so there I was, man to
Fairy. He was the first to grab for his bloodthirsty weapon, the infamous fairy
wand. I knew that I only had a split second to react, or loose my teeth at the hands
of this demigod.”
“So, what did you do,” asked the ever impatient child?
Sterling grabbed the mug from my hand and took a sip to clear his throat
and to stall for time. He needed a second to scramble his thoughts and figure out an
interesting conclusion to his wild story. Fabricating a tale like this took more
energy and imagination than Christian had anticipated. Sterling gave a sour
grimace, “Yuck, no sugar. How can you drink this shit straight?” Not waiting for a
reply he continued, “I grabbed for my police baton and whopped him over the head.
Yeah, that’s what I did.” He starred at Brice waiting for some sort of response. His
credibility was on the line, and he knew it
.
“And,” asked Brice? “Hurry up. What did you do next. Did you punch him in
the nose?”
“He dropped his wand, grasped his skull, and started to cry like a baby with
diaper rash. Not waiting for him to react, I quickly threw my Super villain
handcuffs upon his fatigued wrists and tossed him into the squad car. Well, to make
a long story short, he confessed and told me where he had hidden all your presents.
I’ve got them just outside the door over there; that’s if you still want them.” He
jerked his head in the direction of the door way.
Faster than his little feet could go, he was up from the floor and out the door in
less than three seconds. Lance Armstrong would be awed by his speed and
determination. And, as Uncle Christian had promised, there in a neat pile by the
flower box were his stolen presents.
The following year, to give the charade more credibility, Christian went so far as
to have a fellow officer dress in a blue tutu and come over to the Owen household.
The joke backfired and almost resulted in his dismissal. Jill had taken a picture of
the office in drag, had it enlarged, and proceeded to post it upon the inside wall of
the local post office. Unbeknownst to them, the Captain’s wife had a P.O. box inside
the same location and she saw the pictures. It was no laughing matter; both
Christian and the fellow officer were severely reprimanded and suspended for two
weeks without pay.
This was the typical Christmas day in the Owen’s household. There were plenty
of gifts to open, stories to fabricate, food so delectable it would subdue a finicky
troll, and a bona fide feeling of love and warmth. If love were a transparent coat of
varnish, it had soaked its way into the very foundation of the old Victorian house.
The old two story white house was warm, cozy, well furnished, and most of all, it
symbolized the true meaning and creation of a home; it meant family and safety.
The home was constructed during the turn of the century by local carpenters. It
was a spectacular custom build Victorian situated on a manicured lot surrounded
by hundreds of elderly oaks and seasoned apple trees. These aged monstrosities
bathed the house in a cloud of cool shade during the sweltering Summer months.
The ornate trellises and intricate moldings that softened the appearance of the rigid
structure were virtually undetectable during the bright Summer mornings if not for
the brief reprieve from the sun. The trees served a useful function as well as giving
an aesthetic beauty to the landscape.
Jill was born and raised in this home and her father likewise before her. If she
had anything to do with it, Brice and his children would one day inherit it. After
marrying Jill in January of 1997, I moved into the house.
The cycle of events were forever changed on December 14, 2001. I was driving
home heading down Miller road like I usually did with tons of presents in the back
of the old green Cherokee. A fresh blanket of snow had recently fallen on top of the
four feet that was already there. The road was dark and dangerous to navigate,
especially this late at night, even for an experienced driver. Coming around the
bend in the road, I saw it. It looked like two cars had melted together in one
horrendous accident. I pulled in behind the large Ford Expedition on the
opposite side of the street to see if everyone was alright. It looked like the Ford had
lost control and swerved into oncoming traffic. It sure wasn’t going to be a good
Christmas for anyone involved in this accident, that was for sure. I turned my
ignition off, opened the car door and jumped out into the cold. It was at that very
moment when I saw the other car, that I knew who was inside the yellow Jeep
Wrangler, my family!
To some, pain can be measured in degrees of unpleasant stimuli that can awaken
the most tender and heavily guarded of nerves. These silos, created by our Maker,
were never to be opened, let alone be touched by mortal hands. Scientists have
questions their very existence if their only purpose was to inflict pain and sorrow.
Perhaps this was a flaw in man’s mortality! But, to every good, every front, every
high, every orgasmic pleasure, there awaits its antipode, ready to serve its most
basic of functions.
I stood there dumbfounded, weak at the knees, unable to fathom this brutal
sadistic scene. Time stalled, like a movie scene that focused on a corpse in order to
allow the audience ample time to soak in all the horror and anguish that these two
had been put through. The directors intention, to leave the beguiled audience with
an impression that they could never forget, something that would stalk their
memories, and plague them at a subconscious level had been accomplished. He
couldn’t have wished for a better scene which now transfixed and mesmerized
me.
I walked to the driver side window and saw Jill and Brice slumped over in a pool
of blood. They were dead, of that I was certain. A sharp piercing pain like that of
a sharp three pronged trowel dug into my lower spine and ripped its way up t the
nape of my skull. I wanted to cry out in pain, close my stinging eyes, vomit my
bowels through my throat, but I didn’t. I had been taught that men dared not
show grief for fear of losing one’s pride. I remembered my father striking me
across the face with his powerful fist for crying at my mother’s funeral. From that
point on, not a tear did I drop, not a hint of grief crossed my broad Scottish face.
The horror ridden baby eyes told a story of torment and utter fear, the likes of
which nightmares could never compare. Brice and Jill knew the car was about to
hit them. The last few seconds of their lives were spent screaming at the top of their
lungs. If the mouth could move, if life could but for one moment surge through the
tiny veins in his neck, Brice would utter, “Daddy, make them stop hurting me.”
The fingers dialed, 911. A soft voice answered, “Can I help you?”
Like the pounding of a thousand Arabian horses galloping into fierce battle,
sweat beads profusely dripping from their manes, the surge of tears spilled from my
misted green eyes and poured onto the snow. All the bottled up pain that I had
tucked away in my empty stomach was unleashed by this lady’s voice. I was no
longer a man, rather the feeble remains of a shelled cessation, ready to be boiled
alive and eaten.
“Can I help you please,” reverberated throughout the entire night? “Hello, are
you still there,” asked the telephone operator? She placed her hand over the
receiver to call for her superior. “We’re sending out a patrol car.” Those were her
last words.
I didn’t even hear her, didn’t hear the sirens beside my car, and didn’t
notice the officers, pistols drawn, scurrying about in the woods. I was in a
different world, Spring time on a luscious green pasture. The flowers blooming,
bees buzzing and busy sucking the nectar from the ripe buds, and the fresh breeze
filling my lungs as I laid down upon the blanket of green grass. The blueberry
bushes were full of ripe berries and the tart smell that they discharged from their
capacious bulbs attracted the attention of many a hungry insect.
The sun beat down upon my youthful face and naked chest, the warmth
massaging the tension that wormed its way into my muscular frame. I could see
Jill, clad only in a see through white sun dress, walking towards me balancing two
champagne flutes in one hand, and a bottle of chilled German Resling in the other.
Her intentions were clear, as were my own.
The light beat its way through the skimpy fabric and showed man how he could
truly enjoy like and forever be content. Jill’s vain attempt to conceal her nudity was
thwarted by a thousand bursts illuminating her gracious figure hidden inside the
cloth. The sight of her golden brown figure, nipples stimulated by the jostling of the
silky fabric against her skin, was truly the creation of a kind and benevolent God.
God created woman and hell begot man. It was so easy to see the truth of his
statement, but so difficult to accept the consequences. Man was a mushroom, a
filthy fungus that grew best in dark moist caves or in piles of cow shit. It sprang to
life during the wee sleeping hours of the sun, wiggling its poisonous shaft upwards
towards the moon in hopes that some naive virgin would fall in love with its frilly
opened canopy and pluck it to her gentle mouth. If man was indeed begot from the
biliary of hell, then man was nothing but the Devil’s penis.
And, if woman were created by God, she was an extension of his breast plate.
This tender animal was made from the finest droplets of moisture, mixed with the
essences of sun flowers and sprinkled with just a pinch of wind. She grew from the
rays of the sun and gave hope to all blind children of the night so that they would
walk about the thistle patches. Jill came to life to give life, not to take it. That job
fell to man, and it was man who beckoned on his closet door!
Of all the millions of species that had infested the planet, none were born so pure
and innocent as woman. Had man never been created, greed, hatred, and biological
weapons would not exist.
Travis slouched over the kitchen table and was roused from his dream by a
familiar voice.
“Oh my God.” The words were spoken slowly, one by one in slow speed. “Who
could have done such a thing,” moaned Christian. “In all my life, I’ve never seen
such a thing.” He placed his hand to his mouth. “Are you ok,” he asked in a
consoling voice as he tapped me upon the shoulder?
“Noooooooooooooooooooooooooooo.” I was dead emotionally
and physically to the outside world. Nothing seemed to move, the men standing
before him held no solid form; the air molecules snapped like bubbles; and white
objects ceased to reflect any color.
That was the first time that I was to see the apparition hiding in the shadows of
the dimly lit night. Its cranium protruded from the shroud and his eyes burned
with anger as he scanned the car. I was the only one that could see it, of that
I was sure. The beast longed to stay close to the corpses, wanting to run his bony
fingers over the slippery child, but more than anything else, he wanted to lick the
flesh of all its wetness. The feel of spongy muscles cascading ever so gently over his
dry tongue excited the taste buds into a feeding frenzy. Gobs of viral white
leukocytes drained out his jowls and formed a chain link of spit handing from his
lower lip. He looked more like a rabid German Shepherd nearing death, rather
than the cunning calculated killer that God threw from Heaven.
He bore no horns upon his massive bald skull, nor did he sport a lizard’s tail. He
was just a deformity, a freak of nature that belonged in a damp cellar, isolated from
Human tough; locked away in Pandoras Box! He scared me right down to the
bone marrow. Every hair frolic stood erect, every nerve moved cautiously before
sending a signal to the brain, and every muscle in my body tensed as the creature
disappeared back into the night. It was feeding time!
I knew that I had seen something, but what. I felt the coldness, smelled
his decaying body, and sensed his incredible power. Yet, in all the turmoil, I
wasn’t sure if the beast were a figment of my wild imagination, or if in fact, the
Devil himself was coming for the remains of my son and wife.
At first, I thought the spirits of the dead bodies were caught in limbo, pacing
the room in search of escape. Dubious to the surroundings, and lacking the undergo
to find the proper door, these wantonness specters wandered aimlessly throughout
the Jeep. I was to learn that this shadow demon was a cursed spirit, not the souls
of my recently killed family.
The driver of the other vehicle was injured, but he would live. A few days after
the funerals, I learned that the driver had been drinking. He was sentenced to
three and a half years in prison for vehicular manslaughter. I never saw his face,
and for that matter I never wanted to.
