“What?”
“Y-Y-You kn-kn-know, that l-l-little kid, y-you, I w-w-wish it w-w-was me.”
Arthur didn’t know how to process this.
All of his peers were cold and tough and always trying to act so hard. He couldn’t imagine any of them admitting to wishing that they were some little kid in some cheesy picture. He didn’t know why it was embarrassing, but it was, and Connor’s admission seemed like something he should get his ass kicked over.
Once the weird words were out and Arthur did nothing but stand by confused, Connor took the awkward silence as acquiescence and returned to the picture. Again, Arthur felt like he should be pummeling the crap out of this little shaky, stuttering freak, but he didn’t know how to react.
While Connor stared at the content little three-year-old at the picture’s center a visible change washed over him. His face softened, aping that warm feeling, his body stilled, peace and calm gathering in eyes that were otherwise firing with continual, hyperactive malevolence. It was a remarkable thing to behold.
Arthur rolled over and opened his eyes. He looked across the room at fitfully sleeping Connor and hoped that Kingsley Prescott Scott, Esquire would make it out alive.
* * *
Somehow he managed to drift back to sleep. And it was the perfect, dreamless, black, hardcore restorative sleep that he really needed. No Adele or Giuseppe or Fred. No fears. So when Connor shook him awake, screaming that he was going to be late for school, Arthur rolled away and shrugged him off.
“Fuck it,” he slurred.
“D-D-Didn’t you h-h-hear the al-al-alarm?”
“I’m sick man. Tell George.” Arthur played it up and refused to let go of that ideal dream state.
“G-G-George is g-g-gonna f-freak.” Connor gave him another good shake.
“I’m sick.”
“W-W-What ab-ab-about-t-t.” Connor had to take a breath and slow his flow. “T-Tomorrow?”
“I’m sick,” he reiterated.
Connor threw up his hands and rushed from the room.
Loads of chaos ensued. First Leon came in and felt his forehead.
Then there was a little silence and the deep-sleep pull reclaimed Arthur for a few minutes.
Then Connor came back and fucked with him a little more, “W-W-What ab-ab-about y-y-your d-d-date?”
Then Leon came back and asked the exact same question, “If you can’t make it to school little man I’m not sure what we can do about tomorrow night?”
On his way downstairs, Gabe stuck his head in the room and whispered, “Pussy.”
Finally the big man himself, all two-hundred and fifty pounds of him entered the room for the final decision. George the Destroyer leaned over him, breathing heavy from taking the stairs. “Sick huh?”
Arthur opened his eyes to slits and nodded weakly.
“Leon says you feel clammy.” George put his humungous hand on Arthur’s forehead. “You sure you can’t make it?”
Arthur nodded even weaker.
George took his hand off and sighed. “No movie tomorrow?” He asked it like a threat.
Arthur shook his head no.
The big man sighed again and nodded his head a few times. “All right Art. You want some breakfast?”
Another shake no.
“Sleep then. Marvin will bring you some lunch when he comes on shift.”
* * *
Dead sleep. Nothing hours. The illusion of time travel.
Melanie was giving him shit. “I need you Arthur.” Her beautiful eyes were suns, her hair the universe.
“I need you.” Arthur was nothing, a speck.
“Then why are you leaving?”
* * *
When he finally woke that evening (Marvin’s lunchtime rousing ignored) Giuseppe was standing over him. Arthur’s body shook, muscles tightening with fear. A lump rose in his throat and his eyes watered at the corners. The humongous, hulking figure flickered a few times, his dead, black eyes, his wrinkled Armani suit, his slick, dark, greasy hair, his stubbly double chin, his .45 Magnum, attaining near physicality before dematerializing and then fading away.
Arthur swallowed the lump and took a few deep calming breaths.
For a split second there his brain had convinced the rest of his body that the apparition was real.
* * *
Friday night was a good night to disappear. Thankfully, Arthur didn’t even have to come out of his room. Everybody was way too busy with activities and passes and arguments over activities to notice much. There was some buzzing about the movies tomorrow and most of the kids poked their heads in the room to ask about his date. Arthur pretended to sleep and blew them off.
Connor gave him a letter from Melanie. Arthur’s heart dropped and his stomach turned. The moment the letter touched his hand a cold sweat broke over his skin. It smelled like her. The soft fibers of the frilly stationary felt like her. She had written his name on the outside of the folded paper with such exquisitely swirled grace that Arthur couldn’t take his eyes off of the flowery script. Since the wrists yesterday he had been trying to downplay what she meant to him. He knew that no matter how things went down he would be moved from Cottonwood. When three people died over three consecutive days the state was quick to act. There was no chance for them. A long distance relationship, while living in the system was impossible.
Arthur’s core ached, his head swam a little. He raised the letter to his face and inhaled deeply.
“R-R-Read it.” Connor was grinning from ear to ear, dancing in place, shifting his weight from foot to foot.
Arthur nearly forgot he was standing there. The love-love feelings gathering in his physiology cooled. “Not now.” He tucked the letter under his bloody, bloody pillow. “Private stuff man.” A horrendous thought struck. What if it was a break up letter?
Connor jumped a few times, excited, “I-I-I t-t-talked t-t-to h-h-her. S-She’s w-w-worried about-about y-y-you.”
Another stomach somersault. Arthur wasn’t used to people worrying about him. He pretended like he didn’t care and shrugged. “I’m tired Connor. Gotta sleep.”
“Y-Y-Your n-n-not g-g-going t-t-tomorrow?”
Arthur shrugged again and then feigned sleep. Connor hung around for a few more minutes before running off. The moment he left the room Arthur fished the note from under his sopping pillow and unfolded it. Streams of blood ran from his face and soaked the letter into an unreadable mess. He closed his eyes and tried to shake off the pseudo-red.
Flowers decorated the perimeter and hearts with A+M drawn into them littered the page. In more of that lovely, stylish script it read:
Dearest Arthur,
I’ve missed you terribly these past few days. If I did anything to upset you I am deeply sorry. We were meant to be together forever and I never want to lose you. Tomorrow is going to be the best day of our lives. If you’ll have me, I am ready to give myself to you completely. If you don’t want me I understand.
Yours forever,
Melanie
He had to make it tomorrow. This girl was really in love with him. If the way his heart beat and his insides churned didn’t mean he was in love he didn’t know what did.
For the next twenty minutes or so—respite, resplendence, evening dreams of him and Melanie adrift, free, exemplifying love.
Kissing.
Touching.
Holding.
Before he went off shift, Marvin popped in and displaced his reverie. “Yo Art man, you want some dinner? I’m almost outta here and the monkeys are cleaning up.” He was a tall lanky Puerto Rican guy with dark, shiny curls and a wisp of mustache on his upper lip.
Arthur shook his head no.
“Sure?”
“Yeah.”
Marvin snapped his fingers, cocked his head to the side in acknowledgement and then made for the door.
“Hey Marvin?” Arthur called after.
Marvin did an about face. “What’s up?”
“You think George will sti
ll let me go tomorrow?”
“I don’t know man.”
“If I were feeling better?”
Marvin carefully ran his hands over his glistening hair. “Maybe. If you’re feeling better let me know when I get here tomorrow and we’ll see what’s what okay?”
Arthur nodded.
“Okay. I’m out of here.” Marvin winked and then left.
The reveries resumed—he had to go, he had to touch her, he had to be close, he had to—until a blow-up down stairs made its way up to his room. Alberto, a fat Mexican kid with a missing front tooth, came storming in. Leon came close behind.
“Fuck that man!” Alberto pointed at Arthur, “Look he’s fine!”
“George left specific orders Big Al.” Leon was holding a piece of paper.
“No! Fuck no! For why I got do his dishes man?!”
“He’s sick homie. George wants you to cover. You know the rules, no sick kids near the dishes or we’ll have a house full of sick motherfuck—um, of you fools.”
“Oh shit! You can’t cuss! Ha! You busted!” Alberto stormed back out of the room and Leon followed after.
Arthur could hear the argument continue below. Words floated upward muffled so he couldn’t be sure, but it sounded like Leon let Alberto off the hook and put Johara on the chores instead.
A few minutes later Connor came running in with confirmation. “Jo-Jo is p-p-pissed! H-H-He s-s-says y-y-you’re g-g-going to m-m-make up a w-w-weeks w-w-worth of his ch-ch-chores!” Before there was any time to comment he fired, “S-S-So d-d-did you r-r-read it!”
Arthur shook his head no.
“Y-Y-You g-g-going t-t-tomorrow?”
Arthur shrugged.
“Y-Y-You f-f-feeling b-b-better?”
Arthur nodded. He lay back in bed and closed his eyes.
Connor stuck around and bugged him anyhow. The little pest flittered around and wouldn’t let up as he reminded Arthur that they usually played cards together on Friday nights and since he slept all day and they didn’t get to play yesterday and he wasn’t looking so sick they could play right now, right now, right now. By the fifty millionth request to play right now, right now, right now, Arthur was ready to scream at the bothersome gnat, but he persevered, held his tongue, kept on feigning sleep and proceeded to ignore the bugger. At long last Connor took the hint and let him be.
Arthur sat up, he was sick of sleeping, and pretended to read a Star Wars novel while thoughts of the coming days began to unfurl.
His brain danced between pleasantries about Melanie, about what color her panties were, about how her hands would feel around his junk and those good old stomach churning fears.
People were going to die.
Maybe this time it would be different.
He wanted to think productively, to go over everything with a fine toothed comb and perhaps make some sense of things this time around, but instead his mind kept eschewing logic for the horrific.
By the time Leon finally poked his head into the room and called “Lights out,” Arthur’s thoughts had become relentless. They marched through his head like an angry procession of gruesome memory, attacking the night, punctuating restless sleep with fits of terror.
He pictured Maria, the manager at Sunrise, his last home, with her head nearly cut from her body. He only saw her for a split second, but it was enough—raw skin, neck worn to nothing, gushy stuff bisected by an invisible rope.
He pictured Adam, a goofy kid from Sunrise that stayed a few rooms over and the fist-size holes that perforated his temples.
He pictured Byron, his favorite staff member at Pacific, the home he stayed in years and years back when he was only ten, arms sliced open from wrist to elbow, tendons and veins and bones laid bare.
In the dark, silence save for Connor’s soft snoring, sweat beaded, nerves shook, and Arthur’s stomach tumbled end over end. He tried to talk himself down, tried to remain calm, tried to shake the horrible imagery and fool himself into believing that things would be different this time around, that no one would die, that him and Melanie would have the chance to get to second base, that he wouldn’t have to move, but like every other time he knew his pleas were fruitless and things were going to get very, very messy.
* * *
Upon first light, Arthur ran to the bathroom. Staring at himself in the mirror, he swallowed hard. His neck was a disgusting mess of raw flesh, seeping blood, milky pus and purple pink muscle tissue. If he angled his head just right he could even see a small section of his spinal column peeking out from the red-pink squishy wreckage.
The metamorphosis was complete.
Tomorrow the massacre would begin.
* * *
Thus began what felt like the longest Saturday in history.
After getting that early morning gander at his mangled neck, Arthur was determined to stay in his room, under the covers, phantom bleeding and waiting out the cycle. He couldn’t go on the date. He couldn’t sneak out after hours. Melanie would take it as a rejection, but it was for the best. Maybe he could contact her when he got settled at his new home. Maybe.
Why did it have to happen now?
Why now, with the pizza, the movie, and Melanie?
Living in a level fouteen secure facility was a major deal. It took a whole month to get approved and then he had to be extra careful not to rub any of the staff the wrong way to jeopardize the sanctioned outing. He also had to have all of his responsibilities taken care of. As hard as the date was to arrange it was the easiest thing in the world to ruin. It killed him inside but Arthur stayed in bed and purposefully missed his breakfast duties. George wasn’t in until later but Marvin checked in and asked what the deal was.
“Yo Artie?”
Arthur ignored him and burrowed deeper undercover.
“Today’s the day Art man. I thought you were feeling better? Don’t screw it up.” Marvin was nice. He was full of chances and took an interest in their lives. He seemed almost as excited about the date as Arthur was.
More ignoring.
“Come on dude, if you’re not in that kitchen in two minutes doing your thing George isn’t going to let you go no matter what I say.”
Arthur’s stomach groaned with conflict. He didn’t want to miss his date, but he couldn’t go out with Melanie in his condition. “I’ll be there!” he shouted from beneath his blanket cocoon.
“Okay. This is serious man. Don’t let us down.”
Marvin lingered for a moment. Once Arthur heard him leave, he pulled himself from bed and weighed his options. While sitting there trying to decide what to do, every kid at the home (except for Santos and Gabe) came by and expressed their concern.
Connor: “Y-Y-You h-h-have to g-g-go! F-F-Fuck b-b-being s-s-sick!”
Alberto: “It’s pussy ese! Puke it out holmes and man up!”
Johara: “I ain’t doin yo dishes dis morning. You gotta get you some today playa.”
Everybody was depending on him to represent and it seemed as though being sick wasn’t a good enough excuse.
If he ignored the blood he felt pretty good. Too much rest, in bed all day yesterday had made him antsy.
Maybe he could go.
He hit the bathroom and took another look at his blood drenched throat.
There was no way he could go.
There was no way he could make out with her like this.
She wouldn’t know the difference but he couldn’t stop obsessing. There was no way he could cop his first real feel of her glorious breasts while he continuously bled from the inside out.
So Arthur decided to drop the sick act and work at sabotaging himself, but he had to be slick about it, he couldn’t make it seem too obvious. He did his share of the dishes (pseudo-blood covered everything and turned the dishwater a bright crimson) and played along with anyone who ribbed him about his big date. He even sat in the common room and pretended to watch a movie with Connor and Gabe the asshole.
Around eleven-thirty, two hours before the group was to dep
art for the movies, George the Destroyer reported for duty. He was a behemoth of a guy, crew-cut, military-style persona, very, very imposing. Making his rounds through the house kids straightened and curtly nodded hello. In the common room he stopped and stared at the television.
“What are you ladies watching?”
Connor never said anything around George.
Johara blurted, “Indy Jonesy an dis Temp o’ Doom,” like the mealy mouthed suck up he was.
Arthur took a deep breath and fired, “Fuck off.”
That did it.
Date over.
George immediately went off, “What the fuck did you say Artie?”
No answer. Silence. Around the room eyes stared wide and jaws rested on the floor.
“Get up and get to your room you little bitch!”
Without a word Arthur did as he was told.
A short while later, under those covers, trying to sleep but mostly just pseudo leaking, seeping, soaking in a tomb of blood he heard Marvin outside his door arguing with George, going to bat for him.
Marvin: “It’s the kid’s first date man.”
Then some whispering.
Then George the Destroyer at normal level: “Go get the van ready.”
The bedroom door creaked open and George’s voice attempted to penetrate his cocoon. “Artie?”
Arthur kept quite.
“Arthur?”
It was probably better not to ignore him. “Yes.” He groaned more than spoke.
“I don’t know what your deal is man but you just screwed up.”
“I know.”
“You’ve always been a good kid Art, but I can’t back down.”
“I know.”
“I’ll have Connor explain the situation to your girl.”
“Okay.”
And then he left and Arthur felt as if he were drowning in an ocean of blood and tears.
5. HOUSE WARMING
Lambs Page 8