Consumed- The Complete Works

by Kyle M. Scott

  People used to say that this world held too much evil, that it sometimes felt like it wasn’t worth living in, having to see and feel so much pain.

  Until two days ago, for most, that had been little more than a thought. Now, though, that thought had taken hold on one and all, man woman and child alike.

  It had been inevitable.

  Lennon sighed, reaching into the pocket of his denims and pulling out a lighter and a crumpled pack of smokes. He drew one from the pack with numb hands, and placed it between his lips.

  You haven’t smoked in two years, he mused. Now seems like a good to time to relapse.

  He lit the cigarette, drew deeply and savored its taste as best he could. There was no joy in the act. Joy had fled the human soul, but still there was some base pleasure.

  Or was there?

  Maybe you’re just imagining it. Maybe that’s all you have left.

  He thought of Darren, his body cooling and his spirit fled.

  He thought of Kerry and her desire to be back with her mom and dad.

  And Bill, with his godly love burnt up and spat out along with his faith in an almighty, his grace begotten.

  Outside the window, another bird flew by. Lennon marveled at its grace, envied the small creature its bliss, its innocence.

  It soared between two great skyscrapers whose countless windows stared across the cities vista with eyes every bit as dead as his best friend’s, and then it was gone.

  Lennon reached for the window’s latch, turned it, and opened the window wide. He looked down upon that most recognizable of sights – New York - where all life could once be witnessed in its microcosmic purity.

  As he scanned the desolate streets below, he tried to ignore the dead. They peppered the sidewalks and roads – red, broken bodies in their hundreds, other New Yorkers who’d chosen to end the whole mess with one small step over their own window’s threshold.

  They rested, mangled and shapeless among the remaining abandoned cars and taxis, limbs shattered, bodies pulverized by their falls, now resembling little more than black, red puddles, their insides on the outside.

  Seeing his fellow city dwellers down there, spread out like so much garbage, he wondered if it would hurt.

  It couldn’t, could it? The impact would end all things with the lightning speed of a bullet, surely.

  Anyway, Lennon thought, it couldn’t hurt anywhere near as much as life.

  As the unbearable here and now.

  He tossed his now burned down cigarette butt out the window. It caught in the high wind, veering west and was out of sight within seconds.

  Lennon never saw it fall all the way down.

  Probably a good thing.

  With one last look at the proud city, devoid of life for the rest of time, he climbed slowly up onto the sill.

  Lennon stood there for a moment, swaying in the persistence of the breeze, feeling it caress his face and course through his long, blonde mane.

  He looked at his watch. It was 2.35 in the afternoon, and the sky was the most brilliant blue he thought he’d ever seen. The sun burnt bright in the heavens, reflecting dancing fire off the buildings of the city. It shone like the watchful eye of a god, witness to the most heart-breaking of shows.

  Lennon stared directly into it, let it burn his retinas, scorch his sight.

  Then he jumped.

  The great fire in the sky spun on its axis, then disappeared from view as he tumbled ever downwards, bustled by the winds that now seemed to batter at his body, determined to pull him apart, limb by broken limb, before gravity and the tarmac claimed him for its own.

  As he spun wildly, Lennon felt no terror, only an ever growing sense of serenity with this final act, this protest made by all mankind toward the barbarity and smallness of their species.

  The ultimate act of revolution.

  Total annihilation.

  It would be good to finally kiss the street below. It would be a fine thing, in the coming seconds, to feel his skull crack open and his body break. To feel his own tiny little light go out as he joined the rest of mankind in the darkness of forever.

  The street was growing larger now. He could make out the condition of other jumpers in much greater detail as he plummeted down to join them. There wasn’t much left to make out. Gravity was a terrible, beautiful and obliterating force.

  Lennon couldn’t see the sky anymore, though he knew it was still up there. The rapidly approaching street filled his entire visual world now, a wall speeding towards him, to split him open and let the pain pour out.

  The thought was a comforting one.

  It was his last.

  High in the New York sky, a bird soared.

  It passed over Central Park, letting the winds carry it, caress it, hold it in their embrace. It swooped low as it passed the great park, its wings flapping with less rapidity as it descended in a wide circle towards the brilliant, glorious greens of the trees below. With a majesty completely lost to the bird in its simple existence, it effortlessly folded its proud wings and came to rest amidst the branches of a Maple tree, overlooking the calm, still waters of the lake. The leaves rustled in time with its feathers as the breeze, so much gentler here at ground level, washed over its tiny form.

  From below, came a familiar sound. The bird turned its head toward the commotion. It felt no fear.

  On the green, sun-kissed grass below its branches, a small dog ran in circles, barking joyously as it chased after a harried squirrel. It barked in delight as the tiny critter scuttled towards a Cherry Blossom tree and clawed its way up the trunk and into the rich tapestry of branches above.

  The dog leaped up on its hind legs, staring into the heights of the tree above with its tongue lolling and its tail wagging. It soon lost interest in its toy and bounced off into the park’s great expanse in search of new adventure.

  The bird watched it disappear into the distance, barking happily as it passed out of sight. From afar, the dog barked again. Its voice was met with that of another canine, then another.

  As naturally and without effort as she took to the skies, the bird burst forth with a song for the afternoon to sing. Its trilling melody reached up amidst the higher canopy, down into the grasses and over the lake. It sang beautifully, free of all restraint, its blissful celebration of the summer’s glory a joy without bounds.

  There was no one left alive to hear it.

  No one human.

  The bird sang anyway.

  It cared not for the brittle concerns of the ones who walked and built and destroyed.

  It cared only for its own song.

  The world hadn’t ended at all.

  Bonus

  Consumables

  BROKEN THINGS

  Josh let the small, severed arm roll from his fingertips; let gravity claim it as its own. It dropped to the floor where it landed on the small pile of mutilated bodies.

  With growing horror, he surveyed the devastation wrought on the soft purple carpet of his bedroom.

  The tears came, bitter and stinging, as he began to recognize small parts of his loved ones. A leg here, a head there, a torso – limbless – laid on its chest, discarded like it was nothing more than trash.

  I won’t cry. I won’t cry.

  I won’t.

  That was bullshit, though. He’d cry. He knew it. It was as sure as the sun hanging in the sky on a summer’s morning.

  He always cried.

  It was a power that Gerry had held over him all his years, and it wasn’t going anywhere soon.

  The tears were flowing already. That was a given. It was the childish wailing that fuelled Gerry like it was the air he breathed. It was watching Josh crumble and break into a million little pieces right before his eyes that got him off.

  I hate him. I hate the monster, and I wish he was dead!

  It was wrong to think such thoughts about his older brother. He knew that he should never think such thoughts, even if they were about a person who really, really deserved it.
>
  And Gerry…he deserved it.

  Gerry.

  The golden boy.

  Mum and Dad’s prodigal son, blessed with movie star looks, a sharp, keen mind and a charm way beyond his years.

  Gerry.

  What Mum and Dad didn’t know, could fill a book.

  They saw their first born son through a shining, glacial prism, filled with light and hope and pride so potent it made Josh want to choke. What they didn’t understand, in any way, shape or form, was Gerry’s inherent cruelty.

  He had a mean-streak that ran deep and dark. So dark that often, in times like these when Josh was sat on his floor rummaging among the debris of his dead friends, he truly believed his older brother to be evil.

  Yeah, that was the word…evil.

  Gerry was an evil, twisted guy.

  But he hid it well…

  Their parents didn’t know. His aunties and uncles didn’t know. His friends didn’t know, either.

  In all their eyes, Gerry was Jesus with a better haircut. A saint. A prince. A poster boy for all that was good and right in the world.

  And Brandi, his utterly gorgeous girlfriend of three months and counting, she’d seen glimpses of it, but even she didn’t know what he truly was.

  What he was, was a monster.

  What kind of brother, with six whole year’s seniority, would do such a thing as what Josh was baring witness to on his bedroom floor?

  I’m only twelve. He’s practically a grown man, and he does this…!

  Josh picked up one of the severed heads, reeling with disgust.

  He studied it in his hands, willing the tears to stop their flow. Willing the heartbreak to be stemmed. Willing those shameful, child-like whimpers to stay tucked away, deep down in his gut where they couldn’t prove his brother right about him…

  That he was a wimp.

  A little girl.

  A sissy.

  A ‘little fucking pussy’.

  He looked into the dead eyes staring back at him from the head, and felt the anguish swell.

  “What did he do to you, Han?” he asked the tiny plastic head.

  The small likeness of Han Solo’s head stared back at him, with jet black, lifeless eyes, made of paint yet judging him all the same.

  He dropped the small head back on the pile of the ruined and the broken toys.

  He didn’t want to look. Didn’t want to study the horror before him, but he couldn’t look away.

  There was Optimus Prime, his shining metal body pulled in half.

  And Gizmo – the Mogwai – with both its arms ripped off its small, plush body. White cotton oozed like candy floss blood from the wound.

  And Lion-O, leader of the mighty Thundercats, his muscular legs bent and stretched completely out of shape.

  There were more, too.

  Many more.

  The violence that Gerry had committed in his room was nothing short of a massacre.

  Here it comes.

  Josh’s vision blurred, making the pile of broken action figures melt into one awful whole.

  I won’t cry.

  I won’t cry.

  I won’t cry.

  From his doorway, came that all-too-familiar voice. How he hated it.

  The mirth…the glee…was unmissable.

  “What do you think of that shit, pussy?” Gerry asked. “Did I hurt your widdle toysies?”

  Rage, hate and misery warred within Josh, as his brother burst into wild roars of laughter.

  I won’t cry.

  It started low, deep in the back of his throat, before rising in pitch to a keen whining, and then…

  Gerry had won.

  He always won.

  Josh couldn’t help it.

  He wept openly, unable to stem the flow of his emotions.

  He cried and he wailed, and the snot ran and his chest heaved, and he was no young man.

  He was no young man at all.

  He was a little boy…a wimp…a pussy.

  Just as Gerry always said he was.

  Josh sat alone in his room, sorting through the pile of broken toys. Some of them could be saved, maybe, but most of them were destroyed forever. The tears had stopped flowing half an hour ago, replaced by a tired numbness that washed over him like a cold wave.

  Why was it always the same with Gerry? Why did he have to do these things? Why were older brothers always such assholes?

  It’s not all of them. Mike’s brother is a great guy. And Tommy’s two brothers are really cool, too.

  He’d always felt a certain jealousy when visiting at his friends’ houses. Their older siblings were their heroes. They looked out for them, protected them, loved them.

  Josh had just been unlucky.

  Born the second in line to the future ‘King of Shits’.

  Often, he’d fantasies about taking a stroll down to the local gym, working out till he was every bit as big and strong as John Rambo, and then…

  Then he’d show Gerry who was boss.

  He pictured himself stood over Gerry, triumphant, while his brother wept and groveled at his feet, cowed before his better. Josh would lay a foot on his chest, staking his claim as a mountaineer would do, having climbed the highest peak of the highest mountain.

  It was a lovely fantasy, but Josh knew it was all bullshit. He was the runt. The weakling. He’d be laughed out of any gym he entered, and would run from the building to a chorus of ridicule from boys stronger and better than him.

  But fantasy was all Josh had.

  And now, the conduits of his fantasies – his precious toys – had been further decimated by the cruel tyrant who lived just down the hall, in the bigger bedroom, with the bigger television and the latest, flashiest ‘Super-Nintendo’ console.

  It wasn’t right.

  It was all kinds of wrong.

  He pictured himself stood over his brother once more, this time, his boot was on Gerry’s face.

  And he was crushing him.

  Someone needs to teach him a lesson.

  Someone needs to show him he’s not the biggest and the strongest.

  He’s just a mean bully who likes to terrorize the little brother he should love.

  Again, the thought came, whispering in the back of his mind, insidious in its seduction.

  I hate him.

  I wish he was dead.

  He was drawn from his reverence by the familiar sound of muffled laughter coming from the adjacent room.

  Gerry’s room.

  The deep rumble of his brother’s laughter was accompanied by the soft, lilting giggling of his girlfriend, Brandi.

  Josh shuddered as he sat there, staring at his broken things, while they laughed and joked and enjoyed their positions as the lord and lady of the whole damn town. Prom king and queen. Beautiful yet destitute. Shit wrapped in the finest silk.

  I bet they’re laughing at me.

  They think it’s so funny, don’t they?

  So funny…

  He got to his feet, his muscles aching as he said his final farewell to his beloved action figures, and ended his sorrowful vigil.

  The walls were thin in their house and he didn’t want them to hear him. Slowly, Josh tiptoed to the wall he shared with his brother. He placed an ear against the cold wall and listened.

  “You should have seen the little shit’s face. Fucking snot and tears pissing out of him. It was awesome.”

  Josh’s face burned with shame as he heard Brandi giggle. “You’re so mean to him!”

  “Don’t act like you don’t find it funny. We both know you get off on it.”

  “On what?” she protested, in a mocking, playful tone.

  “You love the bad boys. Don’t deny it.”

  Josh gritted his teeth, seething with rage and humiliation as Brandi confirmed what he’d already suspected. She was every bit as poisonous as Gerry.

  “You should have made a video of it with your dad’s camcorder! We could have shown it to the guys at school.”

  Gerry
groaned. “Fuck…I never thought of that.”

  “And that’s why you love me.”

  There was a pause, then Gerry said. “There’s always tomorrow. If I can be bothered.”

  “So bad…breaking a little boy’s toys…” she purred.

  “Well,” Gerry drawled. “Maybe the little shit will thank me for it one day when he grows up, and gets himself a real toy to play with.”

  Her girlish giggling again, flirtatious and alluring.

  Josh felt sick.

  “Is that what I am?” she asked Gerry. “A toy?”

  There was the sound of movement. The squeaking of a mattress. “You know you are…you’re my sexy little fuck toy. And guess what?”

  “What?” she asked, coyly.

  “My old folks won’t be back for at least another four hours.”

  “Is that right? And what about the pipsqueak next door?”

  “Let him listen. It’s the closest the pathetic little bitch will ever get to a real pussy. I think he enjoys it.”

  “You’re so mean.”

  “Take your skirt off.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Now spread your legs wide.”

  “As you wish.”

  “Play with yourself.”

  “Yes, master.”

  “Now suck on it. Keep doing what you’re doing. Suck on it while you’re doing it.”

  Brandi’s next words were muffled. Josh felt an excitement stir deep in his loins that only deepened his shame.

  “Good girl. Now…bend over and show me that ass. Pull your cheeks apart. That’s it. Nice and wide. I wanna see both holes.”

  “I’m all yours, master. Put it where you like.”

  “Say you’re my fucking sex toy.”

  Brandi panted, “I’m your fucking sex toy.”

  She let out a prolonged whimper.

  “You feel that?” Gerry’s voice was hoarse. “You feel it deep?”

  “I do. Push it all the way in.”

  “Say ‘please’.”

  “Please.”

  “Say ‘please master, fuck your little sex toy’.”

  She was panting now. Lost in carnal rapture. “Please master, fuck your little sex toy. Fuck you’re sex toy in the ass.”

  With that, the talking stopped.

  Josh was glad of it.