Tales From the Lake, page 9
John drank until it felt like he was choking, then smashed his foot through the TV, his fist through the wall. It didn’t even hurt. He was fucking invincible. He was a god. Rage leaked out of him like nuclear radiation. It fueled him. He had very good reasons to feel this way. Hell, he’d been feeling this way for as long as he could remember. Nothing had ever gone the way he’d wanted. His family constantly disappointed him. Nobody respected him. Nobody gave two goddamn shits about him. He meant nothing to the world and the world meant nothing to him. He drank more. He would drink the whole goddamn ocean and nobody would stop him. Someone might try, but they’d be unsuccessful. This was his house. This was his body. This was his life. He’d do whatever the hell he pleased. So he drank. So he destroyed.
The night grew darker. Eventually, Lucille returned from Betty’s house. She took one look at the wrecked living room, and her fuming husband, and said, “Where’s Michael?”
“Probably sucking cock, if I had to guess.”
“What did you just say?” Lucille stepped forward and glass crunched beneath her feet.
“You heard me, woman. Your son’s a goddamn queer.” John laughed and hiccupped. “A little faggot boy.”
“What did you do to him?” She moved closer to him.
For once in their marriage, she didn’t appear to be afraid of him. He didn’t like the look in her eyes. It made him feel less in control. “You don’t seem too surprised that your son’s a faggot. You ought to mourn with me. There’s more to drink. More to break.”
“John. Where’s Michael?”
“You gonna tell me you fuckin’ knew about this shit?” He tightened his fists, gritted his teeth.
“I am his mother. Of course I knew.”
His eyes vibrated, scheduled to explode from their sockets. “And what, you’re okay with that?”
“He is my child. I accept him for who he is.”
“Well I sure as hell don’t.”
“There’s a reason I didn’t care to share this information with you.”
“You bitch. I am your husband. You do not keep secrets from me. Especially these kinds of secrets.”
“Tell me where Michael is, John.”
He laughed again. Here he was, trying to have a moment, and she had the gall to bark orders at him. Every day he took endless shit from an incompetent boss just so he could feed this family and keep them under a roof, and this was the thanks he got in return. He was a joke to them. He was nothing.
“John. Goddamn you. Where is—”
John swung the bottle of whiskey and it bashed into his wife’s face. The bottle was strong and did not break, so he smacked her a couple more times. “You think you can tell me what to do? You think you can talk back to me? Huh? You think I’m a bad person? Well, I got news for you, honey, I’m the only good man you’ll ever meet.”
When Lucille didn’t respond, he brought the bottle down on her face again and again and didn’t stop until it shattered.
***
The next morning, they stood in front of Michael’s house, too afraid to continue. Tom had insisted they didn’t need to return here, that anything Michael might own could be replaced during their travels. Michael argued they wouldn’t be traveling anywhere without any money. In his room, he had over two hundred dollars stashed away from various birthdays and Christmases. It was time to finally put it to good use.
“This is a bad idea,” Tom said as they stood on the street, frozen. “A really bad idea.”
“We don’t have any other choice,” Michael said. “Just stick close to me. If he tries anything . . . I don’t know. I don’t want to hurt him. But he isn’t hurting us. Not anymore. I’m done.”
He headed into the house. Tom followed close behind, swearing under his breath. Maybe Mr. Golden had left. The house might’ve been empty. They could just run up to Michael’s room, grab the money, pack a few clothes, then leave before anyone even knew they were there.
But the house wasn’t empty. Mrs. Golden lay on the floor in the living room, covered in blood. Her head didn’t look like a head was supposed to look.
“Oh my God,” Tom said.
Michael screamed and collapsed next to his mother. Tom stood in place, unable to move, unable to help. He’d never seen a dead body before and he didn’t know what to do. Mrs. Golden wasn’t just dead. She was slaughtered.
“Michael, we have to go,” Tom whispered. “Now.”
But Michael wasn’t listening. He hugged his dead mother and sobbed long and hard, and Tom watched and struggled to breathe. This was not real. This wasn’t happening.
Footsteps behind him. He spun around just in time to see Mr. Golden raising the hammer, followed by pain, so much pain. Tom’s legs disappeared and he felt the floor.
Then: Pain. Screaming. Something wet.
The pain faded. The screaming increased.
The universe darkened.
Michael.
***
Michael heard Tom screaming but refused to accept the sound as reality. Nothing else mattered right now. He was holding his dead mother in his arms and he couldn’t concentrate on anything else. He wasn’t supposed to see his mother dead. Mothers lived forever. Fathers didn’t kill mothers. This was not a horror story. This was real life.
This was real life.
He released his mother and stood. Tom lay on the floor covered in blood. His face was sunken in and sticky with gore. His father sat on top of him, holding a hammer. But this thing wasn’t his father. The thing sitting on Michael’s love was the devil. His father no longer existed. The devil had killed his father years ago and possessed his corpse for sport. It all made sense now. This was the truth he had to accept.
“Dad,” Michael whispered, shaking.
The devil stopped swinging the hammer, noticing Michael for the first time. He snarled at him. “You’ve made me do this. This is all your fault.”
“No.” Michael refused to cry in front of him. He wouldn’t allow him the satisfaction. “All I wanted was to be happy.”
“Happy?” The devil laughed. “Well take a good goddamn look at what happy brought you. You happy now? Are ya?”
He raised the hammer and attempted to swing it down on Tom’s face again.
“STOP.”
Michael screamed.
All fear of becoming a monster vanished. Fear itself no longer existed. Just a burning desire to avenge his love. To make the devil ache the way he ached.
Michael raised his hand. A bolt of lightning shot out of his palm and connected with the devil’s chest, throwing him off Tom and against the wall. He slid to the floor, into a sitting position. He stared at Michael, blood trickling out of his eyes, smoke wafting out of his burnt chest.
“I tried, I really tried,” the devil said, then went still.
Michael dropped to the floor and grabbed Tom, screaming his name, begging for him to wake up. But it wasn’t going to happen. The devil had ended him just as he’d ended Michael’s mother.
“No. Please. No.”
He hugged his love tighter and wished he could take it back, take it all back. If only he could restart the day. They’d leave the quarry and skip town and never give it a second thought. Money wasn’t important. The only thing he cared about was Tom. He was all he needed. He was his oxygen. He was his everything.
Sobbing, Michael gently laid Tom’s body back on the floor. He lay next to him and cuddled, wishing they could trade places, wishing he could make all the pain go away.
Make the pain go away.
Michael closed his eyes and rested his lips against Tom’s lips. He thought about all the beautiful moments they’d shared together, and all the beautiful moments that were still destined to happen. His face warmed and electricity flowed. He drowned himself in memories and plans for the future, plans him and Tom had made together. They would be united forever. They were two halves of a perfect being. Broken, they were nothing.
Together, together, together.
Michael breathed.
Then so did Tom.
THE WITHERING
Bruce Golden
I lay here, as I have lain for so long, like a crumpled fetus, waiting for an end that will not come. I beg for it . . . I pray for it. But even as I wait for a cessation to my terrible existence, I know it is only a seductive fantasy. I imagine release, escape, blissful freedom—for imagination is all I have left. How perversely ironic that the cause of my damnation is now my sole salvation.
The air reeks of disinfectant as it does habitually, and the only sounds I hear are distant murmurings. There’s a chill in the air so I clutch futilely at the lone, coarse sheet that covers me, and open my eyes to the same austere wall, the same mocking shadows that greet me in perpetuity.
This time, though, I see a slight variation. Something is there. Something I can barely discern in the feeble light. A tiny, quivering, wiggle of activity. I strain to focus and see a caterpillar laboriously weaving its cocoon. Somehow it has made the herculean trek to where the wall and ceiling intersect, and has attached itself in the crevice there.
As I lay here, I wonder what resplendent form will emerge from that cocoon. But even this vision is eventually muted by the despair that possesses my soul. I struggle not to reason, because there is no reason. Guilt or innocence, fact or fiction—they are concepts that no longer matter. All that matters are the gray ruins of my memories—memories that play out across the desolate fields of my mind. I cling to them the way a madman clings to sanity. In truth, I’m but a single, aberrant thought from slipping into the murky, swirling abyss of madness myself. So I try to remember.
I remember the carefree excursions I took to the ocean as a child—the warm sand, the cool water, the waves lapping at my ankles. I remember the university, in the days before reformation. The camaraderie of my fellow students. The give and take of creative discourse. Soaring over the sea cliffs on a crude hang glider built by a classmate. The girl with the bright red hair for whom I secretly longed. I remember many things, but always there is one tenacious, tumultuous recollection that intrudes.
It’s always the same. The same thunderous sound of cracking wood as my door bursts open. The same flurry of booted feet violating the sanctum of my thoughts. The same rough hands that assault and bind me.
I remember the looks of hatred and repugnance, the shouted threats of violence from unfamiliar voices. The relentless malice focused upon me was like a living thing. Time and space became a rancorous blur as I stood in the center of an imposing room, still bound, surrounded by more strangers. I was on display, the accused in a courtroom where only the degree of my guilt seemed subject to debate.
Much of what occurred that day is lost in a haze of obscurity, but I clearly remember the prosecutor’s embittered summation.
“The facts are incontrovertible, honorable Justice,” I recall him stating with restrained assurance. “A routine scan of the accused’s personal files disclosed numerous writings, both prosaic and poetical in nature, which can only be described as obscene and disturbingly antisocial. Public decorum prevents me from detailing the improprieties here, though the complete volume of these degradations can be found in the articles of evidence.
“In addition to the possession of these heinous works of pornography, the accused fully admits to authoring them. I say he stands guilty of counts both actual and abstract. I request that no leniency be shown by the court, and that he be sentenced under the severest penalties allowed for such crimes.”
I distinctly remember the prosecutor, indifferent but confident, returning to his seat as the presiding justice contemplated the charges.
Turning a stern glance toward me, the justice methodically asked, “Does the accused have any statement to make before judgment is passed?”
I remember standing there, befuddled by the ritual of it all, unable to accept the realization that it was my fate they were discussing. When it seemed I wouldn’t reply, the justice opened his mouth to issue the verdict, and I quickly stammered the only thing I could think of.
“I . . . I admit I wrote things that may be considered inappropriate by some, but they were simply meanderings of a personal nature, never meant for public dissemination. In no sense was I propagating the enforcement of my ideals upon society. They . . . they were simple fantasies, scribblings of an unfettered imagination, nothing more.”
“Surely,” boomed the justice, “throughout the course of this trial, if not previously, you have been made aware that, under our governing jurisprudence, thought is deed.”
When I failed to respond, he went on. “If you have nothing further to say in your defense, I rule, by law, your guilt has been determined within reasonable doubt. I hereby sentence you to the withering.”
I remember the clamor of hushed voices swelling like a balloon about to burst as the words were repeated throughout the courtroom.
“The withering.”
The sound reverberated inside my skull, but terror and denial colored my reality. The withering. It was something spoken of only in whispers. No one I had ever known knew the truth of it. There were only rumors, grisly tales with no substance, yet the power to invoke dismay and horror.
Much of what happened next is a void of innocuous bureaucracy, but I remember the room where it took place. I was still bound, this time by sturdy leather straps that embraced my wrists and ankles. Except for the straps I was naked. Lost in the surreality of the moment, I felt no humiliation at my nakedness, but was overwhelmed by a pervading sense of vulnerability. I remember a chill in the room. There was a draft blowing from somewhere nearby. A single bright light was positioned so that it blinded me with its glare.
Three others were in the room. One I designated the “doctor,” and two men who assisted her. They went about their business with systematic efficiency, seeming to ignore my obvious presence.
Then, without really acknowledging me with her eyes, the doctor began explaining the procedure. Paralyzed with fearful anticipation, I failed to absorb much of what she said. I remember only bits and pieces. Something about “hormonal injections” . . . “osteo and rheumatoid mutations” . . . “effects which bypass the brain.”
The technical details of her explanation became a mere backdrop when I spied the row of hypodermics. Its length extended beyond absurdity, and when she reached for the first one I braced for the pain to come. However, after a few minor stings, I felt only a pinching sensation as needles were inserted with care into my thighs, my forearms, my neck . . . and on and on until each violation of my body no longer mattered. I must have passed out at some point, because when I awoke I was in another place.
I have no idea how long I was asleep, but as I weaned myself from unconsciousness I felt a stiffness that convinced me I had been lying there for some time. I tried to move but couldn’t. I saw no restraints holding me down, so I tried again. I was successful, briefly, if you consider inducing a stabbing pain somewhere in my back a success. The pain convinced me to forego any further attempts at movement. So I shook off the vestiges of slumber and tried to recall with more clarity what had happened.
Oh, that it could only have been a horrible dream. But my reality had become a nightmare, one I hadn’t yet grasped in its fullness. I know now nothing could have prepared me for what I was about to learn.
After I lay motionless for some time, a white-coated attendant approached me and bent over to engage in some sort of interaction with my bed.
“Where am I?” I asked, my voice cracking with dryness. “What’s wrong with me? Why can’t I move?”
The attendant made no sign he heard me. Instead he pushed my bed into a corridor that stretched on without end. The wheels churned below me as we passed cubicle after grim cubicle. In the dim light I saw other beds, beds occupied by inert bodies. The shadows and the constant jog of movement prevented me from seeing more until we came to a halt. The attendant departed, leaving me as naked and helpless as the day I was brought into this harsh world.
The alcove where I had been left was much brighter, and it took time for my eyes to adjust. Unable to turn my head without great pain, I could look in only one direction. Facing me was a metallic wall or door of some sort. The metal’s sheen was highly reflective, and in its mirrored surface I saw myself.
Rather, I saw what I had become.
I have no idea how long I screamed before my cacophonous lament attracted a swarm of attendants who quickly sedated me. But I’m sure I wasn’t the first, or the last, to wail in terror inside those somber halls.
I try not to remember what I saw in that hideous reflection. But I can’t forget that my fingers are now gnarled deformities, my arms shrunken and folded against my chest as if my tendons had shriveled. I know the slightest attempt to move my legs will cause indescribable agony that writhes up through my hips and assaults my spinal cord. I can try to forget that my once wavy hair has been shaved to a coarse stubble, but the feeling my lips are dry and cracked is ever-present, and too often my skin is aflame with a devilish itch I cannot scratch.
Warehoused like a spare part that no longer serves any purpose, my days passing into years, I suck sullen gruel through toothless gums and wait for the impersonal touch of an attendant to wipe my body clean. It is a morose whim of fate indeed, that even such routine maintenance is a welcome diversion to an otherwise monotonous subsistence.
Trapped in a useless husk, perched on the precipice of lunacy, I turn inward for deliverance. From a place deep within I rise and soar high above other lands, gliding lazily into other times. They don’t know about my journeys. They think I’m a prisoner of this room. They don’t know I become other people—bold people, curious people, people who commemorate their adventures in rhyme. I don’t tell them about the rhymes or the improper thoughts that creep into my head. I still dare to imagine the unimaginable, but no one knows. They won’t find me in here. In here I don’t allow myself to dwell on past transgressions. I seek no pity nor submit to reproach. And, no matter how seductive its siren call, in here I resist the longing for sweet death.
Instead, like the caterpillar, I wait to emerge from my cocoon, spread my glorious wings, and fly.
