Death

by C. M. Radcliff

  “What’s her problem?” my father asks, nodding toward the hallway.

  My coughing fit subsides, and I shrug slightly. “Something’s wrong with her,” I say quietly. “There’s water or blood all over the floor.”

  My father’s eyes widen, and he jumps out of his chair like it’s on fire. “Fuck,” he huffs, stomping across the room. “You could have said somethin’ sooner, dumbass.”

  Scrambling to my feet, I hurry after him down the hall to the bathroom.

  “Candy, what the fuck’s wrong?” My father’s voice booms as I come up behind him.

  My mother spins toward him, her eyes wild and motions down between her thighs. “What’s wrong, Jack?” she scoffs, as her eyes grow dark. “WHAT’S FUCKING WRONG, JACK?” she screams.

  “Oh, shit,” my father breathes, walking into the bathroom. “We gotta get you to the hospital.” He grabs her robe hanging on the back of the door and drapes it over her.

  “Let’s go,” he urges, grabbing onto her arm.

  I push my back up against the wall when my mother stumbles as my father pulls her out of the bathroom. My little feet move quickly as I follow behind them. My father grabs his keys, leaving his coat and continues to drag my mother along with him.

  Looking around, I grab my coat and my eyes search for the shoes I left by the door earlier.

  “Where the fuck do you think you’re going?” my father questions as he opens the front door.

  “Aren’t I coming with you guys?” My voice quivers, along with my chin.

  “Jack,” my mother groans from beside him.

  “The mess in there better be cleaned up before we get back,” he barks at me, pulling the door open wider, ushering my mother outside.

  “I don’t want this fuckin’ baby,” my mother mumbles. “I never wanted the first one either.”

  My father slams the door in my face as I stand there in tattered pants and socks riddled with holes, clutching my coat in my hands.

  chapter four

  PAST

  Biting down on my lip, I violently wipe the tears from my eyes and set my coat back down on the floor. I do as I’m told, using towels to soak up the watery mess and wipe the floor until it’s dry. The trailer is dark and silent as I shuffle back into my room.

  I feel along the wall inside until I find the light switch and turn it on. The dim overhead light flickers a few times as it illuminates my small room.

  Sifting through a pile of clothes on the floor, I find a long sleeve shirt and pair of pants that look clean enough and don’t smell terrible. It’s still dark outside and the clock reads 3:47 am. I get dressed and pack my things for school before shrugging my coat on and cramming my feet into my tight sneakers.

  I make sure all of the lights are off before stepping outside. The cold winter air blows in my face, stinging my cheeks. Wrapping my coat tightly around myself, I throw my backpack over my shoulder and start my walk in the dark. The frost-covered grass crunches under my feet as I pick up my pace, walking with my head down in the direction of the closest trailer.

  It isn’t a far walk to get there and the front porch light lights up the whole yard. She leaves it on every night, I can always count on her light being on.

  The wooden steps creak as I lumber up to the front door. Her doorbell is broken so I knock hard, making sure it’s loud enough for her to hear. A light flickers on in one of the rooms and I hear her shuffling through the house. A shiver tears through my body as another gust of wind smacks me.

  The curtains in her living room are quickly pulled open and shut before the locks on the door are undone. The door groans loudly as it opens and she pokes her head out.

  “Curt, what’s wrong?” she asks with troubled eyes. “It’s the middle of the night.”

  “Something is wrong with Mommy, so they went to the hospital.” I shrug, wrapping my arms around myself.

  The wrinkles on her face cut deeply as she frowns, slowly shaking her head. “They leave you home alone?”

  Looking up at her, I nod once and drop my gaze to my feet, feeling the sadness in the pit of my stomach.

  “Let’s go,” she says, opening the door wider. “You’ll freeze out there and I can’t have you home alone. Get in here.”

  Stepping inside, into the warmth, she quickly shuts the door behind me, locking every lock. Setting my backpack on the floor, I take off my coat and shoes. Turning around, I find her looking me up and down with a frown. When her gaze meets my eyes, she smiles at me.

  “You hungry or anything?” she asks, cocking her head to the side.

  “No,” I tell her quietly. “Just sleepy.”

  She nods. “Go get ready for bed and I’ll be in to tuck you in.”

  Doing as I’m told, I shuffle through her trailer, making my way to my bedroom here. This isn’t the first time I’ve come in the middle of the night. She lets me sleep here on the weekends too when Mommy and Daddy go out.

  I slip out of my jeans, leaving my shirt on and crawl into the warm bed, pulling the covers up to my chin just as she walks into the room. She sits down on the edge of the bed, gently brushing my hair from my forehead.

  “You get some rest and I’ll find out what’s going on with your mom and dad, okay?” she asks softly.

  “Okay. Thank you, Grandma.” I nod, nuzzling my head into the plush pillow as she stands up.

  “Never thank me, Curtis. I love you and I am your grandma. You can always count on me, no matter what,” she whispers, leaning down and kisses my temple. “Now get some sleep, child.”

  She pats my head once more and leaves the room, leaving me to fall into a peaceful, dreamless sleep.

  chapter five

  PRESENT

  Christine’s face comes back into focus as I’m pulled back from my memory. Her hands are folded on the table in front of her and she stares at me with a watchful eye. There’s no judgment on her face, only curiosity.

  She’s actually listening to my words; to my story.

  We stare at each other for a moment before her soft voice breaks into the silence. “So,” she says, taking a deep breath. “Was this the night that your brother was born then?”

  Looking down, I pick at the scab that formed on my thumb from my papercut. “Yep,” I respond, avoiding her gaze.

  “I’m sure having a baby in the house probably changed things,” she concurs, baiting me.

  You’re a reporter, stop acting like you don’t know anything.

  I take the bait.

  “My brother was born two months early and suffered from Fetal Alcohol Syndrome which causes him to have a number of disabilities.” I narrow my eyes at her. “This is all public knowledge, you know this already.”

  She stares at me for a moment before giving me a small smile. “You’re right, but people only know what the news and newspaper told them. No one knows what it was actually like, the extent of how your brother was affected.”

  “Is,” I correct her.

  She nods with a hint of sympathy playing in her eyes. I don’t want her sympathy and I sure as hell don’t need it.

  “Tell me what it was like,” she presses. “Tell me what it was truly like for you.”

  A walk down memory lane isn’t necessary for this part of my story. It’s clear cut and dry on how it was.

  “It was different. It changed things, but not in the way you would expect. Candy and Jack were still the same pieces of shit, only now there was a baby.” I close my eyes for a fraction of a second, lightly shaking my head. “Carson, my brother, he had a feeding tube, so there were in-home nurses that came and cared for him. He was always taken care of, no matter what.”

  She nods thoughtfully and scribbles something onto her notepad. “So, there were outside people in your house now too?”

  “Yes,” I confirm. “Some nurses stayed, some left. Most times they got tired of the fighting, the drinking, the drugs. It was a shit environment and they had good instincts for self-preservation.”

  “How long w
as he in the hospital for?” Christine asks, staring down at her notepad.

  “Four months, I think,” I reply, blandly. “I didn’t get to see him until after he was home.”

  Those were the best four solid months of my life.

  Her hand freezes and her eyes fly up to mine. “Where were you the whole time?”

  A smile slowly forms on my face as my mind shows me a glimpse of her. “My grandma took care of me.” The smile falls from my face as my memories replay my reality. “My parents were either in the hospital, playing parents of the year to keep CPS off their backs or else they went on a bender with no way to find them.”

  Christine sets her pen down, with her lips pursed together. Scratching the side of her chin, she gives me a pained look. “So, they had essentially abandoned you?”

  Shrugging, I tilt my head from side to side. “I guess you could say that. Although, they did me a favor by leaving me with my grandma.”

  She quickly picks her pen back up, scratching something down. “When you moved back with them, did the abuse continue?”

  A harsh laugh escapes my lips. “Of course it did. If anything, it got worse after Carson came home.”

  Christine peers up at me over the thick rims of her glasses. “Did you ever have any good days or times with them?”

  Mulling her question over in my head, I run through the memories that dance around in my mind. The reel slows down, coming to a stop on my fondest memory with my father.

  “There weren’t many, but there’s one that I remember as if it were yesterday.” I pause, smiling at her. “It was the best day that I had ever had with my father.”

  chapter six

  PAST

  It was the summer that I had turned thirteen. We had just moved into the city into a row home in the ghetto. I was used to being outside of the city limits, where there were no streetlights and you could see all the stars shining in the sky.

  The city was noisy, it was busy and crowded. I felt out of place, like I didn’t belong. There was something missing.

  My grandma.

  She didn’t move when we did, and I couldn’t drive so I didn’t see her as much as I would have liked. I was still able to spend most weekends with her, though.

  My parents fought even more after we had moved, but as I was getting older, my father was starting to notice me sometimes.

  It was hot, my skin was sticky from the humidity. We had three air conditioners; one in the living room, one in my parents’ room and one in my brother’s room. I didn’t have an air conditioner. I didn’t even have a window.

  My mother was passed out drunk, Carson was at camp with his nurse and I was sitting in my room, tinkering with my Star Wars Legos, listening to the faint coughing coming from my parents’ room.

  “Curt,” my father called out as a door slammed shut. I stopped, dropping my Legos onto my bed and froze. Suddenly, his tall frame filled the doorway and he stared down at me with bloodshot eyes.

  “Hey, Dad,” I responded, giving him a small smile. “What’s up?”

  “You playin’ with your fuckin’ Legos again?” he snarled. “You’re how fuckin’ old now, boy?”

  I dropped my gaze down to my hands, feeling the shame fill me as my face grew flushed.

  “Get up,” he commanded, stepping into my space and grabbed me by my arm. “It’s time you learn about being a real man.”

  I didn’t argue, I didn’t fight as he wasn’t someone whose bad side you wanted to be on. I let him drag me from my room and out of the house into his beat-up pickup truck. I didn’t ask him where we were going or what we were doing. I just sat silently in the passenger seat and rode.

  That’s what you did with him. No questions, no arguments. You did as you were told and followed orders blindly. Self-preservation. That was my reasoning.

  In the end, it never mattered.

  Nothing I did would ever make him happy with me and nothing would ever soften the blow or stop it from happening.

  He drove us out of the city and into the countryside down the winding gravel roads. We drove for a few miles before he pulled his truck off the road and parked in the grass by a line of thick bushes.

  We sat in silence as he pulled out a cigarette and lit it. He exhaled harshly, letting the smoke fill the cab of the truck. I waited for him to say something, but he continued to stare out the windshield as his cigarette turned to ash.

  Taking my chances, I turned to look at him. “What are we doing here?”

  Wherever here is…

  “I already told you,” he huffed, keeping his eyes trained out the window. “It’s time you became a man and stop playin’ with your little kid toys.” Holding his cigarette in one hand, he reached behind the seat, feeling around. He smiled at me with a dark glimmer in his eyes as his arm stopped moving and he slowly pulled it back. “This,” he said as he thrust a shotgun into my hands. “This is a man’s toy. And I got more in the back for us to play with.”

  Holding the shotgun with both hands, it felt big and heavy, a foreign feeling in my hands. Before we had moved, I had a B.B. gun that I played around with. That was different though; that wasn’t a real gun.

  I’m too enamored by the weapon in my hands to notice that my father isn’t in the truck anymore. A loud knock on my window startled me, causing me to fumble with the gun.

  “Stop dickin’ around and get the fuck out,” my dad yelled from outside the truck.

  Holding the gun carefully, I climbed out of the truck, slamming the door behind me to find my father walking away from me. In one hand he held two rifles by their barrels and he had a large duffle bag slung over his other shoulder. Jogging after him, I followed him through the thick bushes that opened to an empty field.

  “What are we doing here?” I asked him as he crouched down on the ground and started to unpack his bag.

  He looked up at me and rolled his eyes. “We’re gonna paint each other’s nails and talk about all the cute boys in school,” he mocked. “What the fuck you think we’re doin’ here?”

  Crouched down beside him, I watched him pull out his different sized bullets and load the different clips. He talked to me like I was his equal. He explained the mechanics of each gun to me with great detail.

  After he showed me how to load and unload the guns and how to handle them safely, he set up some targets throughout the field.

  “What next?” I asked him as he walked back to me, handing me a rifle.

  “You shoot,” he replied, lifting the butt of his rifle to his shoulder and peered down the scope. “You aim for exactly where and what you want to hit,” he paused, pointing the barrel at one of the targets and quickly pulled the trigger. “Then you shoot.”

  Squinting my eyes, I looked hard, seeing the hole in the center of the target. I looked back at him and found him smiling at me.

  “Let’s make you a man,” he kept smiling. “It’s your turn now.”

  We spent the rest of the day together at our makeshift shooting range. For once he treated me like I wasn’t a piece of shit and he acted the way I think most fathers do with their sons.

  That was the best day we ever had together. It was the only good memory that I had with my father.

  If only we knew then, what we do now… maybe he would have never put a gun in my hands.

  chapter seven

  PRESENT

  I run my hands over my face, trying to push away the unwanted feelings that consume me as I jump back and forth from the memories of my past. The good days with my parents were few and far between but thinking of those good days makes the guilt cut in deeper.

  They weren’t in the running for any awards for being the best parents when I was growing up, but at the end of the day, they were my parents, my blood. They brought me into the world, but they sure as hell weren’t going to take me out of it.

  Someone should have seen it coming, there had to be warning signs, but no one ever came forward about it. Whenever bad things happen, people are quick to point fi
ngers, to put the blame on everything and anything but themselves. No one ever wants to take responsibility for any part they may have played.

  Self-preservation.

  I knew what I did, and I knew that what I did was wrong. That’s why I had no problem confessing, I admitted I was wrong, I owned up to my indiscretions.

  I took the blame.

  I took the fall.

  I threw in the towel, handed over my self-preservation and accepted the consequences for my actions.

  I didn’t fight my sentencing when they threw the death penalty onto the table. I was proven guilty and I feel every ounce of that guilt. I carry it with me every day, rotting on death row waiting for the needle.

  Opening my eyes, I find Christine watching me again. “You seem uncomfortable,” she declares, her voice soft.

  “What makes you say that?” I question her, raising an eyebrow.

  Clearing her throat, she sits back slightly and moves her hands to her lap. “Your body language, mainly. Your body looks tense and you keep touching your face or your hair.”

  She’s more observant than she lets on. For a reporter, she can read people hopefully as well as she can write them.

  Crossing my arms over my chest, I lean back, meeting her stare head-on, neither confirming nor denying her observations.

  Her mouth twitches subtly as she holds back a smile and she nods thoughtfully. “Your past pains you, it plagues your mind,” she says, hitting the nail on the head.

  It pisses me off instantly. She doesn’t know me, she only knows what the news told the public. This was the first time and only time I agreed to tell my story. Somehow, she sees past the gray jumpsuit and the hardened face of a murderer. She sees the humanity underneath it all.

  “I’ve accepted my past and the things I’ve done, but yes, it haunts me every day and it will until death comes knocking,” I admit, keeping my eyes on hers.