The Art of Fear (The Little Things That Kill Series Book 1)

by Pamela Crane

  “It’s Ari’s fault, as usual,” says Mom acidly.

  I fall back on my hands as if hit by a physical blow. As I rise from my dirt-stained knees, the wail of an approaching siren attracts an audience along Pinewood Avenue. Unnoticed, unneeded, I run inside, leaving Mom, Dad, and Carli in the front yard where we play and sing and fight and tumble. Will it now be where my sister dies?

  Entering the living room, on the vacuum-lined gray carpet I see the Barbie we had fought over that morning, the one that Carli had taken scissors to and ruined—the reason I pushed her away from me mere minutes ago in the yard. A doll that was worth more to me than Carli’s life when I had examined its butchered hairdo over Frosted Flakes and Scooby Doo. In a hot moment I had wished Carli had never been born—and I told her that too—but I didn’t mean it … did I?

  I wished it, and it came true.

  Chapter 7

  April 7, 2016

  It shouldn’t be this easy to kill. But even before I did it, I already knew I’d get away with murder.

  Josef Alvarez’s sloping belly overhung his unbuttoned jeans as he sat across from me, a Hispanic Santa whose own naughty list had caught up with him. I was here to collect on his sins, one in particular. One brown-haired, chubby-cheeked sin named Sophia. He didn’t know the reason for the visit as I searched his kitchen cabinets for clean glasses to toast with—no easy task in this pigsty. All I found were two dust-covered shot glasses, but they were perfect for my tequila concoction.

  “Dirty glasses. Roach crap on the counter. And your carpet’s so filthy you might as well have dirt floors. You’re one hell of a housekeeper, Josef,” I observed, softening the comment with a light smile. It was hard to play nice with someone you wanted to murder, but I didn’t want the son of a bitch to suspect something.

  He shrugged a noncommittal answer, his thick shoulders flexing beneath a beer-stained wife-beater. “I don’t have anyone to impress.”

  “It’s not about impressing people, Josef. It’s about dignity and self-respect.”

  “I lost that years ago. Besides, once upon a time I had a wife who took care of me, but when she left me there was no point.”

  “No point to what?”

  “Life.” He chuckled, as if this were a game.

  It was an ironic choice of words, given he was mere minutes from losing the life he didn’t even cherish. Yet I had a feeling he’d be more than willing to fight and beg and cry for this same life he now claimed was pointless.

  So here we sat, him on the tacky faux leather sofa, legs sprawled out like an eager playboy, and me on the matching chair that might have been beige or cream once—impossible to tell under the grime coating it like a contagious rash. The rest of the sparse furnishings looked like Goodwill rejects or roadside finds. Walter Sallman’s Head of Christ peered out from the cracked glass of a cheap frame hanging crookedly over a three-legged end table with a broken broomstick propping up the lame end. On the top of the table were seven or eight candles in tall glass holders decorated with colorful pictures of Jesus and Mary and other biblical figures.

  I snorted and remarked, “I never knew you to be a religious man, Josef.”

  “I’m not, but I figure a man should play it safe. Venerate Jesus and Mary and all that shit. Looks good when the roll is called up yonder, as the shitkickers around here say. May God have mercy on my soul. What a crock of mierda.” He hoisted a fat cheek and farted, as if to underscore his blasphemy. As long as I’d known him, the man never had an ounce of class.

  I had to be careful not to give myself away. “That’s a good idea, Josef. Play it safe, because you never know when you might wake up … dead.”

  I supposed he had chosen to hide out in this hovel in the backwoods of Dunn because neighbors were few and far between. Yet he couldn’t hide from me. Not that he knew he should.

  Josef raised his glass to eye level. “To new beginnings,” he toasted.

  I hoisted mine up, a mockery of his truce. “To new beginnings and endings,” I agreed. “Salud.”

  “Salud,” he echoed.

  Our glasses chinked together, and we downed the spicy liquid in a single gulp. Liquid courage for me, liquid submission for Josef. Sure, life had hardened me plenty, but enough to do this deed? Even I wasn’t that cold-blooded … yet. After today, I suppose I’d be broken in. But at this dithering moment, I needed a boost of liquid courage. The tang of the tequila lingered on my tongue as I poured him another, this time the bottle dosed with my own secret ingredient. It was child’s play to palm the tablets into the buffoon’s drink.

  “You always were a lightweight,” Josef commented when he noticed I didn’t pour myself seconds. I couldn’t tell if he was insulted or amused by my abstinence, but it didn’t matter. I knew he’d self-serve until he had both our fill. It was his beloved poison. If only he knew just how poisonous it really was …

  “You know me—can’t hold down more than one. Besides, today isn’t about me. It’s about you.”

  “Me?” His voice rose with skeptical disbelief as he drained another glassful, then refueled.

  “Yes, I want you to enjoy yourself today. You earned it.”

  His laugh possessed an echoing quality, robust at first, then softening like churned cream by the end. Another drink, another refill. His capacity for booze had always been impressive. “And how did I earn it?”

  “You made the ultimate sacrifice.”

  His dark brown eyes narrowed to guileful slits that had witnessed too much misery in his life tethered to loss. I wondered how he could live with himself … but he wouldn’t any longer.

  “What kinda sacrifice you talkin’ abou’?” The slur of his speech meant the pills were working. His bloodshot eyes struggled to focus. His eyelids dropped heavily and sprang comically open again like a cartoon character’s.

  “Your life, of course.” I said it so matter-of-factly that Josef gave vent to a belly laugh that shook his whole body. But my stoic expression must have revealed my absence of humor.

  “He-ey, didya give me something’?” His voice rose an octave in fear and confusion.

  “Yes, and it’s going to knock you out in a minute. Then I’m going to kill you, Josef.”

  He still had his wits about him and jumped up from the couch and shambled toward me. His feet struggled to find solid ground, feeling his way like a tightrope walker. I knew the floor was shifting beneath him by now like trick stairs in a funhouse. I sidestepped him with ease, relishing my advantage.

  “I don’ understan’…”

  “Let me show you.”

  And I knew it was go time.

  He was almost pathetic now, pawing uselessly at double images of me. It felt too effortless pulling the knife out from where it had been tucked into the cushion of the chair, its metallic glimmer hidden from sight. Even easier turning the point of the blade toward him. Then with a swift thrust, I witnessed the knife surging through epidermis, fatty tissue, muscle, and organ, like carving a pumpkin. I felt it all, reveling in the initial pushback as the blade bent in resistance, but once through, I heard the teeth tearing, the suction of wetness as I punctured his insides with ease, leaving only a delicate exterior mark of my handiwork.

  But the blow didn’t take him down, not yet. Wobbly he stood, gasping for life-giving breath, clinging to an eroding consciousness as his eyes closed.

  I wondered what he was seeing, what graphic images flipped across his mental screen. A collage of his many indiscretions? The faces of those he sent to hell?

  I hoped we weren’t done yet.

  I wanted to show Josef the art of fear.

  Luckily for me, the only thing more stubborn than death was Josef’s will to live.

  Chapter 8

  Ari

  Thirteen days until dead

  The seams of my eyes were sewed shut with deep sleep. I woke up that morning in a violent tangle of sheets. They bound my legs, stifled my arms, wrapping around me in a cocoon. I wondered who I kickboxed in my dreams l
ast night to make such a mess of my bed. Typical of me—the fierce sleeper.

  Oddly enough, Carli’s face was the first one that came to mind.

  Don’t get me wrong. I never got physical with Carli. Being sisters, sometimes we’d get so mad at each other our disagreements turned into laughable slap fights, our only contact being the occasional brush of hands mid-swing or a hefty push. The sting was enough to call a truce so we could battle it out with our wits.

  I always won.

  But my anger never lasted long.

  She made a lasting feud impossible.

  Carli Wilburn’s personality was as bouncy as her head of red curls. As far as I was concerned, it was the one redeeming quality that made up for her being a full-time pain in the butt. I could love her—despite her breaking my toys, winning my friends’ attention away from me, playing on Mom and Dad’s affections, and otherwise robbing me of my chance to be their favorite—because Carli was pure charm. Her winsome smile would melt the heart of the crabbiest Sunday school teacher or the most incorrigible neighborhood bully. And those darn cheeks—chubby well past her toddler stage, with pinkie-sized dimples—were the irresistibly pinchable delight of every prune-faced old lady in town. Even I, her most outspoken critic, fell for the act. The kid was adorable, and she knew it.

  From the time I had an opinion about things, April had always been my favorite month—the first taste of outside-all-day weather perfect for tag and hide-and-seek after a suffocating winter spent mostly indoors. No more stifling layers of sweaters and coats. No more frozen cheeks and chapped lips. No more numb fingers that sent us inside to binge watch TV all day. I wanted adventure, and in our house growing up, it was severely lacking. Outside, however, excitement and uninhibited freedom were in endless supply.

  But one fateful Saturday morning many years ago, all innocent pleasures would be stripped from me for all eternity, never to root in my heart again. I knew jealousy had snaked its way through me since Carli first arrived home with Mom from the hospital, a wormy bundle of demanding, persistent screams that I couldn’t compete with. I was only two, but already I knew the torture of envy, the constant need to wrench my parents’ interest away from my baby sister’s effortless cuteness and incessant squalling with crayon-scribbled pictures or an impromptu song and dance. When that didn’t work, wall art and finger painting food on the furniture got their attention, usually in the form of a good scolding, and sometimes a spanking. But despite my best efforts, I stayed invisible, inconvenient.

  The details of that morning remained hazy all through my childhood, still hidden in the fog of my mind throughout adolescence. By adulthood they had been buried so deep and for so long that the bones of the memories were little more than shards and fragments.

  But occasionally a vision would peek in on me, rousing my memory from slumber, as if skulking after me and waiting for the right moment to attack. Of course the anniversary of her death was always an opportunity worth taking. And also on days like today, as I rustled up the courage to recite my suicide story to a roomful of strangers.

  Morning broke into afternoon, and afternoon poured into early evening.

  It was our second meeting, and it had skipped off to a good start when Tristan Cox greeted me from across the fellowship hall with a boyish smile and made a beeline toward me with his unwavering hair and rimmed eyelids. Any chance of something happening between us wilted, though, when I realized he was better dressed and better looking than I was. Men’s—or possibly even women’s—black skinny jeans squeezed his knobby flamingo legs, and a stylish white v-neck clung to his sexy chest like a second skin. He was thinner than me, damn it, but perfectly so. The braided leather cuff on his wrist met a tribal tattoo on his forearm, which snaked up his arms and hid under his shirt. I could only imagine what that tattoo was doing to the rest of his body. At the “garish” sight of him, my prim mother would have been criticizing his choice to mutilate himself. Not that she gave a damn about my falling in with the “wrong crowd”; she just detested tats and piercings. A generation gap thing, I guess.

  Tattoos added an automatic hot quality to any male, in my book. Perhaps in any bad-boy-lover’s book. I had always been drawn to deviants like me, I suppose.

  I eked a wobbly grin back at him, nervous as a girl before prom. Not that I would know anything about prom, since me and the girls in juvie lived vicariously off rumors of such rites of passage. Instead, we “insiders” decorated our hallway with obscene graffiti using a stolen can of spray paint while “outside” girls were dressing up for their dates in silks and sashes, doted on with corsages and limos. At least we didn’t know what we were missing, we’d been there so long.

  “Hey, Ari. How you doin’?” Tristan asked, resting a hand on my shoulder. I willed it to be a protective claim over me, but in all likelihood he was simply touchy-feely. I’d take it, happily.

  When was the last time I had been touched? I couldn’t remember. Oh, right: Tina had hugged me; it had been awkward, but it felt damn good. But the last time I’d been touched by a man? Shit, what year was it?

  “To be honest, I’m too scared to piss,” I blurted, immediately regretting my word choice. “Giving my spiel today.” I nodded toward the circle of chairs as we ambled over.

  “You don’t have to be nervous. Worst you can do is mess up, piss yourself from embarrassment, and never be able to show your face here again,” he said with a sly grin. “Just messing with ya. Come on. I’ll be rooting for you.” His grin felt like a booster shot of euphoria. “Just remember that we’ve all been there with you, in some way or another.”

  “Thanks.”

  The noisy chatter around us had crescendoed and fallen to a few whispers as people took their seats. Somebody’s chair scraping across the vinyl floor made a flatulent sound that fetched a couple of snickers. Then, an expectant hush.

  “I think that’s your cue,” Tristan said.

  “Yep, I guess as the leader I’m supposed to do something.” I chuckled, and he laughed with me.

  “Well, see you after, right?”

  “If I don’t bolt beforehand,” I joked.

  “That’d be a shame. How would I ask you out to dinner?” Before my brain could process his words, he winked and headed toward the chairs. If my heart hadn’t been thudding hard already, I was now officially wading in a sea of palm-soaking anxiety.

  I took my place in the circle and offered a warm greeting, my nerves relaxing as I fixed my eyes on Tristan’s smiley-faced gaze.

  “Thanks for coming back, everyone. I wanted to start off today by sharing a little about myself so that you know where I’ve come from. Just remember this is a safe place. Anything we share stays here. Cool?”

  A roomful of bobbing heads and mumbled affirmations bade me to continue.

  “As you might remember, I’m Ari, and I’m a suicide survivor. My story begins with my sister, who died fourteen years ago when we were kids. After it happened, because of stuff I don’t need to get into, I landed in a string of group homes, foster care, even ended up in a juvenile detention center, tucked away with other so-called bad kids that needed love and understanding, not isolation. Anyways, the police felt I might be a danger to myself and others, so that’s where they put me so society wouldn’t have to deal with me. I became severely depressed and tried hanging myself from a sheet after just two weeks of being there, not realizing how hard it actually is to kill yourself with bedding. Movies are so full of shit.”

  My heart thumped with a dangerous rhythm, like I’d just taken a huge hit of laughing gas. But then I glanced at Tristan, the calm of my anxious storm.

  “Anyways, after that incident they moved me to the Boys & Girls Homes of North Carolina where I could get better treatment. And that’s where I stayed. They tried to help me, but how do you repair a broken child who believes all of the world’s wrongs are her fault? That’s when it happened again …”

  In the pregnant pause I took to collect my words, my visual memoir swept in through
my psychological barrier, rehashing every painful detail.

  They say when you hear the knocking, don’t let the demons in. Well, it was too late for that now.

  **

  Welcome to death. It’s a beautiful sight, the last thing I’ll ever see. One hundred and forty acres of sprawling country and lakeside calm. Pecan trees lining the campus, ripe for the climbing, sunlight dancing on Lake Waccamaw’s lapping waves, butterfly kisses of breathy wind frolicking through burnt orange leaves that bid summer adieu. It’s my home—and yet it isn’t.

  The cottage I share with four other girls is quaint, but it’s not where I should be. I shouldn’t be bunking with Chelsea or borrowing clothes from Lindsey, both girls carrying emotional garbage bags that fall apart during Lindsey’s fist-swinging outbursts or Chelsea’s midnight sobfests. I shouldn’t have been passed along from facility to facility like an unwanted fruitcake. A twenty-something residential counselor named Naomi shouldn’t be raising me. I should be with Mom and Dad, Burt and Winnie Wilburn, who tossed me aside after their love was spent on their dead daughter. Lucky for them, today they’d have two dead girls.

  It takes a lot of self-discipline to get to this point where I can finally win against myself. Harboring a collection of aspirin for weeks in a pair of balled-up socks. Plotting just the right timing when I’d be alone in the house, which felt like a lofty goal on the group home campus.

  But I won.

  So here I stand, gazing out the window of my home away from home, pills in one hand, water glass in the other, at the ready. Then a momentary pang of guilt swats at me for the mess I’m going to leave Naomi to clean up—a bed with a body and comforter covered in puke. Nothing a scoop of laundry soap can’t cure, I suppose.

  I sit with my legs Indian-style on my pink-and-green-striped bedding. The room’s too dark. I want to see the sunlight one last time, so I part the faded yellow curtains just an inch. I toss back the handful of chalky white tablets, swish them down with a cheekful of water, wincing at the bitter taste that follows the pills to the back of my throat and down, down, down where they’ll divide and conquer each cell until the point of surrender.