The Accursed

by J G Koratzanis

  “You keep him alive. You hear me?”

  The driver shoved the officer’s hand away and scowled.

  “Get the fuck off me, asshole. You do your job, I’ll do mine. I got to go.”

  He rolled the window back up and complained under his breath. A muffled remark, something about an escort, neglected to register in the driver’s mind as he pawed at the keys in the ignition.

  “What’s going on up there?” the female paramedic said from the rear. “We don’t have time.”

  “Yeah, I know, I know. It’s handled. You have him secured yet?”

  “Almost.”

  II

  The dusky skies of Spring had drifted away, and Chase felt the early June sun warm every atom of his being. Unlike most children his age, he forewent the crudely illustrated Saturday morning cartoons for the magnificent, and always changing, masterpiece his true Mother painted.

  He was attuned to nature, and all She offered. And just short of six-years-old, he felt a closer bond to her creatures than his own species.

  The dwarfish garden in front of the O’Connor home had bloomed a few weeks earlier with blood reds and bruised purples. Though Linda’s soul had seemed to wither long before Chase’s arrival, her thumb was green as the waxy leafed trees of late Spring.

  Chase sat below a hydrangea bush and rubbed one hand across the leaves above, and the other through the moist soil below. He closed his eyes and imagined the magic of the ages coursed through his hands, flowed into his chest and poured out through his breath. And camouflaged beneath the foliage, he dissolved away from all the cares and troubles of this transitory existence.

  A rustle of branches and a hiss of a cat whirled Chase around in a huff. The leaves fluttered, and the tabby leaped out. As its eyes fixed on the stunned Chase, it scampered up his chest and over his shoulder. Claws dug deep as its hind legs launched off from his back.

  Chase closed his eyes and breathed through gritted teeth as he held back his cry. He slid a hand under his t-shirt and fingered the raised rows of burning flesh under his tips.

  “You little shit,” he whispered.

  “Chase,” he heard from the front door. He slapped a hand over his mouth and remained still.

  “Chase,” again, Stephanie called.

  What did she want from him? Chores? A verbal punching bag to make herself feel stronger? Cover up for her for sneaking out of the house after Linda passed out?

  Stephanie’s internal Saturday alarm clock never bonged before eleven. Maybe because she wanted to avoid the daylight as much as possible as he wondered if she might secretly be a vampire. Or maybe because she stayed up late at night and would perform a two-minute wrestling match with her stuffies, in which she would always win with her Figure-Four leg-lock. He didn’t know, nor did he care.

  It was after nine o’clock. He thought he had a few hours left of private time. He was wrong.

  The aluminum storm door slammed shut, and Chase breathed again.

  Another flutter of branches sounded from behind him. Quietly, he slithered across the roots to the other side of the bush and sought out the source of the disturbance. Another rustle of branches drew Chase’s eyes upwards.

  “Aw no,” he said and slowly slipped his hands upwards between the twigs.

  “Gotcha!”

  Chase’s forehead slammed into the stump of the bush as his legs yanked out from under him.

  “What the heck,” Chase yelped.

  Stephanie stood over Chase, legs apart, fists balled up at her hips and glowered at him with dominion.

  “What are you doing? Didn’t you hear me calling you,” she said.

  Chase rolled to his belly and crawled back under the bush.

  “Chase? What the fuck? I’m just playing with you!”

  Stems of hydrangea flowers swayed and moved under his waving arms.

  “What are you doing in there,” she said.

  Chase scooted out with his hands cupped together. He held an elbow out for Stephanie to help him to his feet. When he stood, he slowly parted his fingers and showed her.

  “A bird?”

  Chase nodded. “I think Tabitha might’ve gotten to him. He was stuck between his nest and a branch.”

  Stephanie lowered her gaze. “Who’s Tabitha?”

  “The neighborhood cat,” Chase said, nonplussed.

  “Okay… How do you know it’s a boy?”

  “See its belly,” Chase said. “Boys are redder than girls.”

  Stephanie considered his gaze.

  “How do you know all this? You’re only fi—”

  “I’ll be six tomorrow!”

  “Okay, six. Sorry. How the hell do you know these things?”

  Chase shrugged. “I don’t know. I just do. I must’ve seen it on TV or something.”

  “Let me hold him,” she said. Chase turned away from her and frowned.

  “No. I think his wing is broken. You wouldn’t know what to do.”

  “And you do?”

  “Stephanie, please.”

  One side of her mouth wrinkled upwards. “Fine. Can I at least help?”

  “I hope so. I don’t know what to do either,” he said. “Just don’t touch him.”

  Stephanie grinned and cocked her head. “Hey. You’re pretty bossy for a six-year-old.”

  “Almost,” he smiled.

  III

  The following morning, Chase dashed outside and checked on Robbie. The day before, Stephanie rustled up a shoebox from the neighbor’s recycling can, and used it, along with shredded newspaper as a makeshift nest. Knowing the cat would be back, Chase tucked the box above the rafters of the garden shed. There was no way that gosh-darned tabby was getting in there.

  The wooden door groaned open as the sunlight melted lackadaisically into the musky shack. The rush of air bore glittering particles into its streamers. They whirled and drifted throughout the sluggish whiff, unaffected by gravity, and basked in the light like micro-galaxies, unaware of their place in the universe. Aged floorboards creaked under each tiptoe and sent waves of anxiety through Chase’s belly.

  “Hey, Robbie. How are we doing up there,” he said. His hands reached towards the box placed above the low-hanging rafter.

  “Hey?”

  Save for the newspaper, aerosol can top filled with water and dead worms, the box was empty.

  “Robbie,” he called. Rolling his head back and forth, he whistled. A returning chirp answered.

  Chase discovered the bird perched above the doorway. It twitched its head in minute thrusts and considered Chase. He slowly raised his hand, finger outstretched and held his breath. Robbie flapped his wings and drifted to the waiting finger.

  “You’re better now,” Chase whispered. His smile rivaled the sun’s delight.

  “Thank you, God.”

  Robbie flitted his wings once more and flew out of the shed. Chase followed and watched as the bird arose into the air and over the rooftops. Emotion clung to his eyelids.

  “Happy birthday, me.”

  S-N-A-P

  I

  The police officer leaped into the patrol car and flipped on the emergency lights. Sweat beaded on his brow as he fumbled the keyring in his hand.

  “Come on, you fuck! Where are you,” he said.

  He jammed the key into the ignition as the others rattled like Christmas bells. Another officer hopped into the passenger side as the thundering motor blasted alive.

  Jacking the car into gear, tires screeched, and sirens wailed as the officer cut his own route through news correspondents and looky-loos. The six-hundred fifty horsepower Police Interceptor growled to life as he floored the pedal, ripping gravel from the old, pothole-riddled pavement.

  The driver thrust his middle finger to a teenager standing uncomfortably close to the action, too ignorant or too stupid to comprehend the severity of the situation as he pursued the police car with his phone’s camera.

  “What the fuck’s the matter with these kids nowadays? Don’t the
y have any fucking respect?”

  “Take a chill, Davis. It’s not the kid’s fault,” the other officer said.

  “What? Is it mine? What the fuck, Perez,” Officer Davis snapped.

  His mind raced with every infinitesimal detail. The cat scurrying across the alley, the rancid puddles of dumpster milk, the Chocodile wrapper flittering between the police and—

  “It’s Ramos’ fucking fault. How the fuck did he even make Captain? Asshole can’t talk down an acorn let alone a fucking gunman. That wasn’t my fault, man. Not my fucking fault,” Davis said.

  “Just watch where you’re going. We don’t need that fucking kid back there filming us running people down in the cruiser.”

  Davis stomped on the brake. News reporters jerked up and swarmed the police car. Eyes clamped as Davis tried to drown out the thudding fists on the windows.

  “What do you want me to do? Tell me! I don’t know what to fucking do right now!”

  Perez gripped Davis’ shoulder. “One step at a time. We’ll get through this.”

  Davis grasped the steering wheel and stomped on the gas pedal.

  “It’s not my fault. I don’t give a shit what you say. I did what I was supposed to do. Not like the rest of you fucks out there,” Davis said.

  “Easy there,” Perez scowled. “We’re on the same side, remember? Don’t you lump me into—”

  “What did you do out there? Secure the weapon? Big fucking deal. Like a Goddamned armchair quarterback if you ask me.”

  “Listen, coño, I’m the only one on your side right now. I suggest you step back before you get stepped on,” Perez scoffed.

  II

  “Oh, God. Please, no!”

  Panic swallowed Chase in a wave as he rolled himself off from the bed. Groggy eyes strained to focus on the analog alarm clock on Stephanie’s nightstand as his hands pawed aimlessly at his sheets. Linda promised if he continued this behavior, he’d get the wooden spoon. He should have been so lucky.

  It was two minutes to midnight. She should have been dead asleep since when he went to bed, but she remained at the kitchenette and insisted she needed a little more mommy-juice before she would go to sleep when Bruce came home. Did Bruce come home? He was the typical stumbler and door slammer and didn’t stir Chase from his dreams that night.

  The mommy-juice, Linda’s mood-elevator, and sedative sat atop the crumby and stained kitchen table for all to see. It was clear and smelled like rubbing alcohol.

  Gin.

  Chase was proud that he could read it. Between the Sesame Street reruns on PBS and his black-haired and pasty-faced, first-grade teacher Mrs. Schwartz, reading became a snap. S-N-A-P. Snap. Like what minds do when they reach their limit. Or bones when met with blunt objects.

  He peeled off the damp Bugs Bunny comforter and threadbare sheets and rolled them into a ball as the stench of fresh urine wafted to his nose. As he whirled away, the pile of Stephanie’s dirty laundry and matted-fur teddy bears rolled beneath his footfalls and reeled him off kilter.

  As he stumbled, he realized the stuffies, her babies, tossed to the floor with complete disregard, orphaned and unwanted, crunched beneath his foot as if coated with dried milk. Stephanie forewent the falling off into the unconscious world of awe and wonder as she snuggled her Coney Island booth prizes and adopted the new habit of settling with a pillow between her raised knees. Her deep, rhythmic breaths and the sound of something like an electric toothbrush would subdue her after a minute or two, and she would slip sideways into slumber.

  Once Chase asked if she was feeling all right.

  “Stephanie? Are you crying,” he said. She answered with a whimper and rolled to her side.

  Within weeks, the familiar buzzing sound from across the room became a soothing white-noise that would help put Chase fast asleep. But that night, he never noticed it. The extra-innings kickball game at school made it easy for him to pass out before the Swanson’s microwaved TV dinner made it to the table.

  Chase slammed into the closet door as he failed at regaining his balance.

  “What the fuck? Oh, man! Again?” Stephanie stirred.

  “What do I do,” he begged.

  Stephanie huffed and rolled onto her back. Her knees crept upwards. “Throw them in the machine before Linda finds out. I don’t want to hear her bitch about it again.”

  “How? Help me! I don’t know how to use it,” he said.

  The electric toothbrush buzzed to life. “Come on, pissy-pants. Just let me sleep. Figure it out.”

  Bedroll in hand, Chase crept open the bedroom door. He eased it open, hoped, prayed to turn the usual resounded creak into a whispered groan. The glow from the kitchen lighted the nicotine-beige, narrow hallway. He padded out the door towards the stackable washer and dryer at the opposite end.

  “What did you do?” Linda roared.

  Chase dropped the soiled linens and turned around. Tears cascaded down his cheeks as he waited for the slap of her ring-clad hand.

  To his bewilderment, the whoosh of air, the dull thud of palm to face and the supernova of fireflies in his eyes did not come.

  “Why did you do this? Explain this to me,” she demanded. Her voice quivered with the onset of tears. The hallway stretched as he shuddered.

  “I’m going to kill you. Do you hear me? I’m going to fucking kill you, Bruce!”

  Chase’s shoulders dropped, his eyes eased closed and he exhaled every bit of anxiety.

  “What do you mean? You what?”

  A stream of oh my Gods and I can’t believe this is happenings floated through the hallway in quiet drifts.

  “Stephanie! Chase! Get in here,” she screamed. Chase stood frozen. Tension reclaimed his jaw and hands as tight as tow cables.

  He pulled something in his neck as the sudden thunder of stomping feet jerked his head. Stephanie threw the bedroom door open and plodded down the hall. Bare feet slapped on worn tiles echoed in Chase’s ears. She stopped and turned towards him. Her arm swung, and taut lips mouthed for him to follow. His feet crept under an unconscious propellant. A voice, darker, older, not his, whispered in the back of his mind.

  “Do what thou wilt, for the Morning Star awaits.”

  He halted in his tracks and he shook.

  Who said that? Why? What did it mean?

  Maybe he heard someone say that on the television. Bruce enjoyed his horror movies, the ones where some unkillable man-monster in a hockey mask would chop up young teens at summer camp. And the volume was always loud enough for the upstairs neighbor to stomp their foot in defiance.

  No. That wasn’t it. The man-monster never said a word. He silently stalked his prey and defied physics as he popped up in front of his victim, when just moments before, he trailed off behind them.

  It no longer mattered where he heard it. Whether it came from within or without, it was not as daunting as his terror of entering the kitchen.

  Linda stood in the doorway to the living room at the not-so-far end of the cozy kitchen. Her legs opened, and her bleach stained, terry robe spread with them, and exposed her pink Victoria’s Secret panties and covered her ample bosoms. Though her skin was bronzed from daily applications of Ban de Soleil, her body, and her mind, were as delicate as a porcelain doll plummeting to a concrete patio.

  The receiver of the yellow, corded phone shook at her side as she raged on. Chase imagined she tried to crush it under her grip rather than it trembled in fear. And her eyes, wild, feral, displayed no doubt.

  Chase looked away and considered the black and white cat clock on the wall. Its tail swung to and fro in opposition to its almond-shaped painted eyes. Four minutes past twelve. What were six minutes, felt like six hours in Chase’s pounding chest.

  “What now, Linda,” Stephanie said. Though he had been living with the O’Connor family for almost a year, Chase never got over Stephanie calling her mother by her first name.

  Linda’s blue eyes flared. Her lips snarled back and exposed gleaming white, gritted teeth. She thrust
the receiver at Stephanie and came within an inch of her nose. Stephanie didn’t flinch.

  “Here. I’ll let him tell you,” Linda said.

  Chase heard what sounded like a mewling animal through the earpiece.

  “Just tell me. I want to go back to sleep. You know what that’s going to be like now?”

  Chase knew. That electric toothbrush sound might go for a full ten minutes after this.

  “Fucking take it,” Linda commanded. “Or I swear to fucking Christ I’ll beat you with this goddamned phone!”

  Stephanie rolled her eyes.

  “Fuck this,” she said and turned away. Chase stepped behind her.

  “Where’re you going, you little shit? You wanted to be a part of this family. You have to hear this too.”

  Stephanie stopped in the hallway entrance.

  “Hear what?”

  Stephanie picked her pajama shorts from between her leg and crotch. Chase gave that electric buzz an additional three minutes.

  “Your father was arrested,” Linda enunciated every word with extreme prejudice.

  “So, what? He’s been arrested before. He’s a cop. He always walks. Just pick him up in the morning like you usually do,” Stephanie said.

  “He’s not getting picked up, you stupid bitch! He was arrested for fucking a prostitute. On our fucking, goddamned anniversary!”

  Chase’s eyebrows shifted. Those two words were not in his definable vocabulary. If only Bert and Ernie used it occasionally, maybe he would have understood.

  “Hey, Bert! I heard a lot of noise coming from the window last night. Were you fucking a prostitute behind Oscar’s garbage pail?”

  “Why yes, Ernie. I was fucking a prostitute. Fuck starts with F. And I fucked her with my cock. Cock starts with C.”

  Stephanie turned back and gawked at her mother.

  “Oh, that’s not the best of it,” Linda began. “She was fourteen!”

  Linda returned the phone to her ear. “Did she even have any hair on her cunt, Bruce? Did she?”

  Linda’s screaming brought the stomping foot over their ceiling. Chase thought he heard the man yell to shut the fuck up. He learned the many uses of fuck all in one night.

  Mascara rambled down Linda’s cheeks as Stephanie padded over to her. Arm extended, Linda held Stephanie back.