The needle pinched.
The razor in Adele’s translucent hand spun and spun. She would take a victim before the day was over. Arthur wanted to warn the three men, but words failed. Adele’s presence was strong and he felt disconnected. He could almost remember the last time. Each ghost sapped him, scrambled him up, especially before the kill. Life became fragmented, a series of hazy episodes.
Arthur tried to fight the drugs.
Useless effort.
His thoughts swam: too much sleep, too much, too—
8. EVER BURNING
The flunitrazepam whisked Connor away to the land of oblivion. Nearly eight hours passed in the span of a second and he woke from dreamless unconsciousness disorientated, but oddly refreshed. It was the most sleep he had gotten in his entire life. The dull ache that continually throbbed behind his eyeballs was gone, which was weird because Connor had always just assumed that the ache was supposed to be there.
As consciousness reestablished, vision and pain swarmed in simultaneously. The flood of stimuli was overwhelming. Connor felt as if he was going crazy, as if he was flying, as if his arms were being wrenched out of their sockets. By the time cognition aligned he discovered that he was mostly right. His feet were swinging three feet above the ground, his body suspended by his arms, strung up by lashed wrists on a metal hook that jutted down from a stone ceiling.
Realizations detonated in his head, but nothing stuck. An idea formed, took root, but before the light bulb could actually go off and fill him with a semblance of understanding, it exploded into white, indecipherable light and the process began again. While his brain struggled with the simple logic of thinking his eyes darted about and took everything in. He didn’t even figure out that he was completely naked until he happened to notice his clothes and his beloved hand grenade resting on a metal folding table across the room (chamber?). Cold immediately raised goose pimples on his flesh and his mind finally kicked into functional gear.
First the pain.
His entire frame ached, but the hurt blazed wildest in his shoulders.
His hands were bouquets of tingles, his wrists strained beyond pain, his arms force-locked at the elbows.
His sockets were demons of agony.
The floor wavered beneath him and Connor held his body as still as possible (minus the minimal degree of shaking which couldn’t be helped) for fear one good twitch would rip his arms loose and leave him dangling by nothing but skin and shredded muscle.
The motherfucking bastards, whoever they were, whoever that bitch Melanie had turned him over to, stripped him down and hung him from a hook like a side of beef.
Fuckers!
A shiver broke out and shook a little more pain from his throbbing joints.
He wasn’t the least bit comfortable naked. Ever. Even alone. He was the kind to rush through showers and struggle with clothes blindly, always quick to dress and cover exposed flesh. The birth defects that robbed him of height and jangled his nerves also did a number on his overall aesthetic. Scars peppered his discolored skin (some self inflicted, some burned into being by his mom and her crackhead cronies). His legs were slightly bowed—not jarringly so, and most people wouldn’t even notice much more than a miniscule curving, but to Connor they were abnormal monstrosities. His torso was too short, the placement of his little dark nipples and outtie belly button asymmetrically odd. His penis was a measly piece of scarred flesh, pube-less and pathetic.
He tried not to dwell on his nudity. Being naked was horrible, but there were worse things to consider.
Like where he was and why.
It had to be a torture chamber. Stone walls, stone floor, stone ceiling. Connor thought of the castle-themed miniature golf course his last foster family took their multi-cultural clan to one cloudy Saturday afternoon. The video arcade was walled with the same type of stone, dark grey, menacing, like haunted mansion bricks, except this looked like the real thing whereas the fun park was surely built from veneers and paint.
The room was an even square, about the size of the classrooms at his high school but with a higher ceiling. It was weakly lit by a light emanating from the back wall behind him. The wall to his left was bare save for the metal folding table containing his personal affects pushed up against it. Connor wished for his clothes, he wished for the grenade, its knobby surface reassurance, salvation. What he wouldn’t give to pull the pin and jam the hunk of metal down Melanie’s throat. He pictured her pretty head exploding into a million and one soft, pink pieces. “Fucking bitch,” he seethed in a broken whisper. He couldn’t believe he almost fell for her.
The wall to the right was lined with floor to ceiling cabinets. One hung open and Connor thought he could see something shiny inside, something metal, something sharp, but the shadows were too deep to tell. His imagination got the best of him and started to run over scenarios involving his delicate flesh and ridiculously exaggerated cutting instruments.
There was another table, this one wooden and heavy, pushed up against the front wall. Several folding chairs were scattered about. A large, wooden door, Connor’s goal, an exit, stood to the left of the table and to the left of the door a large water hose coiled around a metal mount. Beside the hose, some sort of crank-thing jutted from the wall. There were several drains imbedded in the floor, one directly beneath him and two others spaced beneath additional ceiling hooks, one to his left and one to his right. Empty shackles hung from them, open, waiting for fresh wrists to strangle and bind.
What could anyone possibly want with him?
Why would anyone go through the trouble of hanging him here?
There was nothing to torture out of him, and given his stature he didn’t think he would be very much fun to torment. He was a meager victim, malformed, already broken. Unless his captors were the type to get off on harming midgets or molesting small children. Which, given this sick fucking world, was more than likely.
Connor tensed and relaxed his shoulders. Tightening, releasing, tightening, releasing. It helped to break the burn, the constricting muscles driving off the pain for a merciful second at a time.
Could somebody have known about his plan?
Was this a revenge thing?
And where were Arthur and Melanie?
Perhaps they had nothing to do with it. Perhaps Arthur was dead. Perhaps Melanie was in just as much trouble as he was.
Connor pictured the grenade, whole, the pin re-secured, and Melanie’s lovely head reassembling, exploding in reverse until she was as beautiful and as put together as ever. Those hateful feelings swimming in his heart shifted and suddenly all he wanted to do was protect.
Motherfuckers! he thought again, but this time in defense of the beauty who was kind to him, who got him, who could finish his sentences and possibly get past his looks.
He had to get down!
He had to get free!
He wanted to will The Flame but it was powerless against the constrictive bonds that imprisoned his wrists.
And what of Arthur?
What of his confidant, his roommate, his friend?
Connor didn’t mean to light him up. The Flame was just too strong to fight. It wanted Arthur dead, not Connor. It wanted to kill them all and obliterate everything to ash, not Connor (well, maybe a little). The Flame didn’t consider things like discernment and compassion. It was indiscriminate and hungry. Not that anyone would understand if he was ever forced to explain.
But if the other two were in danger wouldn’t they be hanging from the hooks alongside him?
Was it possible that they were both conspiring against him?
Perhaps Arthur discovered Connor’s secret stash and had convinced Melanie to invite him along as a means of getting him out of the house. Perhaps Arthur was going to rat, but never had the chance because things took an unexpected turn when Connor unleashed The Flame.
Conspiracy theories went round and round. Hanging in the half-lit room his mind had nothing better to do then obsess and freak.
&nbs
p; The Destroyer was in on it.
Marvin.
Gabe.
Santos.
Dead Leon.
The pain in his shoulders brought tears to his eyes.
Alberto was in on it.
Johara.
Mr. Cash, his English teacher.
The entire world waved and rolled in paranoid schemes, an ever burning holocaust of suspect suspicion.
They put mind control serums in the drinking water.
Meat is “enhanced” with engineered hormones.
Wheat causes autism.
Connor had to raze it all. An entire planet fit for burning. Cottonwood was just the beginning. If he got himself out of this mess he had a serious mission to mastermind and execute.
* * *
The hooded figures arrived anywhere from one to a million hours later (the soreness obfuscated any conception of time). They entered through the wooden door, heads bowed, a pair of black masses chanting strains of guttural evil. Marching toward him, the shapes moved forward with deliberate steps. Connor felt like he should be scared, but the emotions congealing within had reached an even keel, thick, muted, the propensity for ball shrinking fear dying beneath strain and desperation hours ago. Their ominous presence actually had the opposite effect upon his psyche—it provoked hope from the quagmire of death-thoughts bombarding his brain.
Would they take him down from the hook (please, please, please)?
Whatever horrible things they planned, would they at least release his wrists and give his arms a break (please, please, please)?
Connor hoped so hard his teeth ground in anticipation (please, please, please).
The Robes stopped about a foot before him. They brought their chant to a close and then knelt. They bowed in tandem and then started another droning hymn, hooded heads pressed to the ground.
Let one of them get close with their idiot theatrics.
Connor envisioned wrapping his bow-legged legs around one of the poor fuckers’ brittle necks. Power. Control. Let one get close enough and it was on. He’d threaten to crush the thrashing bastard’s windpipe if his partner didn’t hop to it and let him down…now! The tool would do as asked (quaking in fear no doubt) and one, two, three, Connor would leap into action and break them both to wet, jagged pieces.
Or not.
He doubted he had enough strength in his short legs to give anymore than a mild bruise. These were grown men kneeling before him and he was just an undersized, powerless teenager. Even if they were to free him and throw him a chainsaw and tie one arm behind each of their backs they’d still probably beat him. But with a Grenade? The Flame danced in his chest at the prospect.
The Robes continued chanting. Connor couldn’t concentrate enough to make out words, but he thought he heard “Satan” in the mix.
Were they praying to Satan?
The thought almost made him giggle (though giggling was impossible given his condition). He was just a dumbass adolescent but even he knew that Satan or God or whatever didn’t exist. Humans were biology, plain and simple, and it was foolish to think that there was a heaven or hell that catered to our selfish, egocentric souls. Ridiculous. If by some miraculous measure it turned out that there was a God or a Devil, why would anyone want to worship Satan? Christians were crazy, but at least they picked the right side. Satanists were crazy, crazy, believing in a farce and then bowing to the dark side.
The Robes finished their prayers and then stood. The one on the left addressed Connor. “In the name of the Lord Father, open your heart to the grace of man. As today bleeds into tomorrow you will give yourself over, a selfless and noble act. The church bestows its blessing upon you. Accept your fate, do so of sound mind, of strong heart, of pure soul, embrace his glory, rejoice, for eternal life awaits you in the kingdom of fire.”
Both Robes gave a bow and chanted, “A soul, a sacrifice, the church bleeds anew.”
Connor wanted to rage. He wanted to demand that these religious freaks get him down. But talking through the pain was impossible. Stuttering hurt too much to try to get any words out. Thankfully, his arm-relief wish was being granted. One Robe moved closer to him, within striking range even (yeah right) and the other jogged to the crank that jutted from the wall opposite the hose mount. The Robe shuffled some, his back obscuring action, and then there was a grinding, creaking sound. The hook above shuddered and started to descend on a thick metal chain. The ground came closer and closer, Connor’s feet tingled in body-quaking anticipation, while the Robe standing by assisted with steadying his descent.
Big, salty tears of release exploded from his eyes and rolled down his cheeks the moment his bare soles came in contact with cold stone. The hook lowered a little more, just enough to ease the tension in his arms and then stopped. Connor’s shoulders stopped screaming and started tingling, billions of pins and needles fired beneath the skin. He wished he could put his arms all the way down, but beggars couldn’t be choosers and the relief was incredible nonetheless.
“T-T-T-Thanks,” he blubbered. Connor looked up at the Robe nearest him. Within the murky depths of the hood he could make out a chin and a mouth and a nose. There was a grin painted across those half-hidden lips. “You are quite welcome young man,” the lips replied. “Now it’s time for some real fun.” They stretched into a wide smile and then turned from view. The Robe skipped over to the cabinets lining the right wall. The second Robe was already opening one of the cabinet doors. Connor failed to notice him abandoning the crank and crossing the room.
There were bad, evil, horrible fucking things in store. Connor felt it in his gut, but was too taken with respite to care (much). He sighed big and put all of his weight on his legs. His arms quivered out their appreciation.
The Robes returned. One of them stood behind Connor. He knelt down and fastened a pair of cold, metal shackles around his ankles. The other Robe stood before him, a circular piece of metal about five inches in diameter in one hand, a sharp-sharp looking knife with a gold blade and a red jeweled hilt in the other. The Robe behind him stood up and reached out a hand. The Robe in front handed him the round metal object and then they both chanted out more nonsense.
Cold steel bit into his chest. Connor looked down. The Robe behind him centered the metal circle over his breastbone. He had a hand on each side of the object and was pulling it toward him, pressing the metal disc firmly into Connor’s flesh. The smiling Robe moved to push the tip of the gold knife into the circle.
“Not too deep,” the Robe behind him warned.
“Steady him.”
“I am. The kid’s got the shakes. Not too deep okay?”
“I got it, I got it,” the knife-wielding Robe said and pushed the point home.
The strain in Connor’s joints disappeared and a new fire flared. The knife point pricked—a shock—a split second of confused numbness—and then roared to life a burning firestorm. A scream lodged in Connor’s throat.
The Robe with the knife began to cut along the inside of the circle. Connor realized in horror that the ring shaped hunk of metal was actually a stencil. The horror deepened at the swooping, sweeping intricacies of the pattern—a pentagram within a pentagram. Complicated. Messy. The scream escaped.
Connor kicked his bound legs and wrestled with his wrist restraints. The Robe behind him tightened his grip and held him close. The metal circle pressed deeper, bruising skin, scraping along his breastbone. Connor could feel hot breath on his shoulder. Nausea rose bile into the back of his throat.
The cutting Robe stomped Connor’s bare feet. His heavy booted clomp slammed flesh and bone against stone. A whimper eked between his lips and the fight died away. Connor hung limply while the knife slashed and swiped, carving bloody arcs and jags into his tender skin.
The fire in his chest intensified and his vision waved white. The hurt reached a smoldering plateau. Connor could feel steel altering his skin, shifting cells, like when he went to the dentist and they numbed his gums, but he could still sense the instrumen
ts cutting through desensitized pulp. The knife continued on and on. The cutting Robe was still smiling. Connor mentally dubbed him Mr. Cruelty.
The Robe behind cautioned, “Ease up! You’re only supposed to cut a quarter of an inch deep.” Connor mentally dubbed him Mr. Merciful.
“Relax. I’m just…” Mr. Cruelty angled the knife “…about…” and gave it a quick swipe “…done.”
Mr. Cruelty passed the knife across to Mr. Merciful and Mr. Merciful did the same with the stencil. Mr. Cruelty put his hands on each side of Connor and drove the stencil into his back. The fucker pulled the disc hard and Connor’s face was thrust into the rough fibers of his robe. Mr. Merciful wasted no time and went to work carving the pattern into his back. The savage agony began gathering momentum yet again. Connor’s screams suffocated in the thick folds of Cruelty’s robe.
He couldn’t take another round of slicing and dicing.
No more.
No more.
Connor closed his eyes tightly and willed The Flame. It responded, weakly at first, but after a little more wishing it filled him with blazing light and whisked him away.
* * *
It wasn’t always about fire.
Oh, it was always inside him. His mom passed it on and fueled it with lighters, stoves and searing hot glass pipes. But there were times when the cool filtered in, all blue and calming and deep.
It was at times like these when Connor felt almost normal, like he could get on with a world that couldn’t get on with him. A proud misfit or whatever. He couldn’t remember the last time he felt the serenity of the cool, but while the Robes worked their bloody tattoos into his flesh his brain brought him back to one such moment.
It was a Saturday. He remembered because of the cartoons—Smurfs and Snorks and old, old episodes of The Groovie Ghoulies. They still had their TV and his mom still spent a little time with him (on occasion—the crack hadn’t taken over completely). When she woke up that afternoon she cooked him an egg and brushed his hair and then took him to the beach. She slept on the sand while Connor played tag with the tide. When she woke up she helped him clean the sand off his feet and then took him to the pier where they rode the gigantic Ferris wheel. It stopped at the top and as their basket swung his mom buried her face in his red, wild hair. She whispered I love you over and over again and when they got to the bottom she was wiping tears from her lovely eyes.
Lambs Page 15