by Tia Lewis
The man shook his head. “Hmm,” he said, and then left.
I watched the closed door for a few minutes, wondering. But whoever the man was, he could've killed me a hundred times during the past couple of weeks. I had been more vulnerable than at any other point in my life. There was no way this man—a man of medicine, which meant I was a man of poison, too—couldn't have figured out a way to dispose of me.
After about five minutes, Tess walked into the room.
She was wearing a long pink floral dress which hugged her waist and pushed up her small and perky tits. She munched on an apple as she walked to the bed and sat down on the stool.
“Hey, bodyguard. You look so much better,” she said, apple juice dribbling down her chin.
I leaned forward, ignoring the minute pains in my body, and wiped the juice away and planted a kiss on her lips.
“I feel better,” I said. “I feel a damn lot better. I feel like a new man.”
“Hmm.”
“Don't do that,” I said. “The doctor was humming over me just now. That guy is fucking weird, too. You see that creepy rabbit mask? Do you have any idea who he is?”
Tess tilted her head at me, owl-like.
“You really don't know?” she said, grinning like a teenager. “You really have no idea?”
“No, should I? Remember, most of the people I know are dead now. Who is he?”
Tess was about to reply, her mouth half-open, when the door swung ajar, and rabbit mask wearing doctor walked in. He wasn't wearing his lab coat anymore, though, and I saw that his skin was Black, and he wore a yellow tank top and baggy green cargo shorts. He reached up and removed the rabbit mask, and Tommy smiled ear-to-ear at me.
“Pretty good, man. Pretty good! You got me!”
Tommy simply laughed.
“It was Tommy all along. I mean they don’t call him the Fixer for nothing. Isn’t that right, Tommy?” Tess smiled, placing the apple core on the bedside table and holding my hand.
“Dat a right. Mi a di Fixa. Mi a man of many talents.”
“Thank you, Tommy.” I reached my hand out and shook his hand.
“Tommy has been working on you without saying a word.”
“Why the rabbit mask then?”
“Liam, I’m pretty sure you wouldn’t let Tommy or just anyone give you stitches and medicine as stubborn you are. And we both know how stubborn you can be.” All three of us laughed. “So, he had to wear the mask to save you, and to save you and make you better again.”
“Wow,” I said. “I can’t thank you enough, Tommy.”
“Nuh problem, Liam. Mi a guh gi yuh two sum room, now dat mi big reveal ova an dun wid! Ha-ha-ha! An nuh tink mi figet bout mi fifty grand bonus, mon! Ha-ha-ha!”
“Make that one hundred.” I replied.
“One hundred thousand dollars!” Tess eyes widen.
“He deserves it. Hell, he deserves every last penny.”
“Tank yuh, Tank yuh. Di funds wi guh a mi fambly back inna Jamrock.”
“That’s wonderful, Tommy.” Tess smiled.
“Mi gaan! Liam!”
Chuckling, Tommy left the room, closing the door behind him.
I sat back on the pillows and sighed and Tess squeezed my hand and bit her lip.
“You wanna tell me somethin',” I said.
“You can read my mind now?”
“Yeah, a little.” I shrugged. “I’m getting better at reading your body language.”
Tess blushed. “Okay, then, Mr. Mind Reader. In your sleep, you were muttering, 'Kevin, Kevin.' I was just wondering if...”
“If I would split my chest open and let you look at the mess inside my heart?”
“Something like that.” Tess looked deep into my eyes. “You know what made me the way I am—my father killing my mother. What made you the way you are, Liam? What happened with your brother?”
I sighed, because even though I had decided to tell her, it would be much harder than I thought it would be. It turned out baring your soul was only easy in love songs.
“Tell me,” Tess said, squeezing my hand harder. “I love you. Tell me, Liam. Whatever it is, it won't change how I see you.”
I laughed darkly. “Don't speak too soon, Tess. Don't speak too soon. Do you really wanna know the story of the hitman known as The Animal?”
Tess nodded her head. She leaned across and kissed me on the forehead.
“I’m ready, Liam.”
22
I knew something was wrong, but something was always wrong in our house. It hadn't always been that way, but since my mother died—when she gave birth to my brother Kevin—my father had become even worse. I knew when he started screaming and throwing empty liquor bottles against the wall, that there would be Hell to pay. I thought about going to Miss Jones' house next door, but Miss Jones was a sweet lady, and my father might hurt her if he saw her protecting my brother and me.
I sat up in bed and looked around the room for Kevin. He usually slept on the other end of the room, under the posters of the solar system, the sun, and different planets. There was also a picture of a book hanging on the wall with the words: The pen is mightier than the sword written across it. I wasn't the smart one, I knew that, but I was one the who jumped into action when my father had his many angry outbursts.
“Kevin? Where are you?” I panicked.
Kevin was gone. My job was to find him.
My heart started pounding, and I leaped from the bed, the floor cool on my feet bare feet. The air pricked my skin and goosebumps rose on my arms. I ran to my bedroom door and threw it open. The hallway was covered with boxes and boxes of empty whiskey bottles and envelopes, and though I was scared and angry, I walked carefully around the boxes. I knew whatever mood my father was in would get way worse if I happened to knock one of the boxes over. And ever since I had seen him kill that Gunner’s father without a care… I knew what he was capable of.
The racket was coming from the kitchen. Pots banged, plates smashed, and cupboards were opened. My father started to furiously kick holes in the wall, the impact reverberating throughout the house, shaking the walls.
“Kevin? Where are you, buddy?” I whispered, standing at the top of the stairs.
Kevin was too young for this. He was just a scared little boy. I was twelve. I could handle myself. But Kevin was too skinny, too short, and just an overall sweet kid who wouldn’t hurt a fly.
“Kevin,” I called again, desperate for a reply.
I went to the bathroom, and was about to open the door when I heard Kevin scream from downstairs: “Dad, no! I'm sorry! I'm sorry!”
I didn't think. I just ran.
My body was pumping, and rushing with blood.
“Kevin!” I shouted.
My head was spinning, my heart pounding so hard it crept up my throat. One day, I would walk into bloodbaths without flinching, without panicking in the least. But now, I was shit-scared. Piss rushed down my leg, staining my plaid boxer shorts, but I didn't care. I would've walked through fire to get to Kevin.
But even as I ran, a deep part of my mind screamed at me: Don’t touch the boxes! Be careful not to touch the boxes, Liam! It was the part of a child’s mind which is reserved for pain, the part which warns him not to touch the oven when it’s turned on, not to reach into a fireplace; it was the part of a child’s mind which wards off danger.
I leaped down the stairs, braced myself against the wall, and then carefully spun around a leaning tower of envelopes. Then I sprang down the remaining steps and landed in a ball on the floor. To my right, the hallway stretched, a battlefield of boxes upon boxes. To my right was the kitchen door, swinging back and forth on its hinges like a hurricane had rushed into it.
I clenched my fists and charged at the kitchen door. I smacked the door and sprinted into the kitchen. My vision honed in on one detail like a laser sight.
A leaning tower of envelopes was no longer leaning; nor was it a tower.
The stack of envelopes had crashed
to the floor, the boxes spilling open, the clean, crisp envelopes and empty whiskey bottles splattered out on the dirty kitchen floor.
Then my eyes moved up, and I saw Kevin, backed against the kitchen counter, his eyes turned upward to our father.
“I’m sorry, Dad! I didn’t mean to knock it over.” he gasped, his hands covering his face.
Our father stood over him, his sloppy, liquor-filled body shaking, his shirt stained as it always was and his body reeking of whiskey, cigarettes, and stale, old clothes. Kevin’s gazed flew from him to me, who stood a few feet behind him.
“I didn’t mean it, brother!” Kevin cried, locking eyes with me. “I didn’t mean it! I... I came downstairs to get a glass of water, and it was dark and I accidentially knocked over dad’s box. I know the rule—no touching dad’s boxes. I didn’t mean it, brother. I swear!”
“I know,” I muttered. “I know, Kevin. I know.”
Our father held a half-empty whiskey bottle in one hand, gripping it by the spout. In the other, he held a five-pound steel drilling hammer, a hammer typically used in family outings to hammer the tent pegs into the soft, lush earth before a memorable holiday occurs. Now he wielded it as a weapon, as something to destroy a family.
“Didn’t mean it,” Our father growled, his words slurred. “Didn’t mean it, little boy? Didn’t mean it? Do you know how long it took me to stack them up? Do you have any idea? No, because you’re a stupid little shit, aren’t you?”
“I’m sorry!” Kevin cried.
“You know how long I’ve been saving those envelopes, huh? Since I was teen.”
“Dad, they’re just enveloped.” I butted in.
“Just envelopes?” He let out a drunked laugh. “Well, you ungrateful piece of shit. Those ‘envelopes’ contained money I made working for those Bianchi bastards. Money that I wasted to pay for you and your stupid brother. To put food on the table and shoes on your feet.”
“Dad, I’ll pick them up. It’s okay.” Kevin forced a smile.
“It’s too late, boy.” Our father sneered, taking another gulp of his whiskey bottle. “You know, I’m getting real sick and tired of you always reading and thinking you know it all but never actually looking where you’re fuckin’ going!” Spit flew from his mouth and landed on Kevin’s face.
Kevin began to cry, tears streaming down his cheeks and mixing with the spit.
“I—I didn’t!” he wailed. “I didn’t mean it!”
“You should have died along with that whore you call a mother.”
“Don’t talk about mom like that!” Kevin cried.
“Dad,” I said, my voice sounding calm, even though inside I felt like my heart had dislocated and was lurching up my throat. “Dad, it was me. I did it. I knocked over the box. Kevin’s trying to take the blame for it. If you want to be angry at anyone, be mad at me.”
Kevin’s eyes widened, but I shook my head. Kevin knew what it meant: Don’t you dare put yourself in danger. That’s my job.
“It was me, okay dad? Kevin has nothing to do with this.” I said.
But our father didn’t turn around. His back rose and fell and his arms tensed. He then threw the whiskey bottle against the kitchen wall and the glass shattered in a million pieces. Kevin jumped back, slamming into the fridge. Shards of glass and whiskey fell to the floor, and on the envelopes.
“Look at this fucking mess.” He down on the floor. “Look at what you made me do!”
“I’ll get the broom.” Kevin offered.
“You never stand up for yourself,” our father said, taking a step toward Kevin. “Never. Do you? Always letting Liam take the blame for you. When are you going to be a man, huh? When are you going to step up?”
“It was me, though!” I protested. “It was!”
“You’re a little shit,” He growled and stepped forward again.
“Dad, you’re scaring me.” Kevin held his hands up in defense.
“Man up!” He yelled, towering over Kevin. “Man the fuck up!”
“Dad, stop! I did it! Leave Kevin alone!” I shouted.
I saw it happen and would see it happen for the rest of my life, in slow motion. I saw our father raise the heavy steel drilling hammer, aim, and then quickly bring it down upon Kevin’s head. The steel hamer connected with a brutal and violent thunk.
I leaped forward, arms outstretched, trying to get to my little brother. But time was slowed, and it had already happened. Kevin didn’t try and move, just stood there, stunned, staring up at the man who was supposed to be his father. Suppose to love, care and protect him.
Time sped up. Kevin slid to the ground, into a pile of envelopes, empty whiskey bottles and his body began to spasm.
“What did you do!” I roared, leaping at my father. “What the hell did you do!”
I went to jump on his back, but he turned, laughed drunkenly, and punched me across the jaw with all his might.
“Worthless,” he grunted, as I stumbled to the floor. “That’s what you are, Liam. Worthless.”
Stars danced in my vision, my jaw pulsing, pain clamping down on my face. I heard him walk toward the kitchen door, stomp down the hallway, and marched to the front door. The door slammed, and then the truck chugged into life and screeched off down the street.
“Ahh,” I said in agony, rubbing my face. “My jaw.”
I leaned up from the dirty kitchen floor, and wiped the blood that was dripping my nose and forming in my mouth with hand. I then crawled on all fours to where Kevin lay.
“Kevin,” I said, tears sliding down his cheeks. “Kevin. Brother.”
Kevin’s head was plastered with blood, his mouth was slack, his tongue lolling. His eyes were rolled back, and convulsions moved through his body, causing his fingers and toes to shake.
“Kevin, say something. Say something!” I cried as I watch my brother have a violent seizure. “I have to call an ambulance!”
“Brother…” Kevin mumured, his words loaded with blood.
“I’m here!” I wept. “I’m right here!”
I gripped Kevin’s hand, trying to stop it from trembling.
“I’m going to get Miss Jones!” I could hardly see for the tears were filling my vision.
Kevin wailed, coughing up blood. A violent spasm took hold of his body, and blood filled his mouth
“Hold on, brother!” I weeped. “I’m getting help!”
I went to stand up, but then I was certain I could hear Kevin wheez: “I love you…”
I rubbed his eyes with the back of my bloody hand. “I love you too, brother! I’m getting help now!”
Just then Kevin didn’t say anything else. A fresh jolt of pain took him; vicious spasms rocked him; and high-pitched, wailing screams exploded from his lips. He screamed louder and louder until the kitchen was filled with them, tears sliding down his face, blood filling his mouth.
“Stop it, please,” I pleaded, helplessly. “Please, stop screaming!”
“Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!”
“Stop it, Kevin! I can’t listen! Please, don’t make me listen!”
“Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!”
“Stop! Stop shaking like that!” I laid my hands on my brother’s head and shoulders, meaning to hold him steady, but then I found my hands had slipped to his mouth. I just wanted the blood gurgling screams to stop. That was all. Just for those wretched screams to stop. I couldn’t think. I couldn’t focus. I was in sheer panic. I was torn between leaving my brother on the kitchen floor or getting help. I’ve never left my brother’s side and I was sure wasn’t going to start now.
“Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!”
“Please,” I begged, as I watched powerlessly as my brother convulsed. “Please, just... please. Stop screaming.”
More blood bubbled out of his mouth and seeped through my fingers as my hand covered his mouth. Unbeknownst to me, my hand was also covering his nose.
“Please,” I repeated, pressing down a little harder on Kevin’s mouth to muffle the screams and stop the blood
from spilling out. I just needed to cover his mouth just enough to stop the screams. I couldn’t take it. Hearing Kevin in this much pain was like feeling the pain myself: worse than feeling the pain myself. If I could’ve swapped places with Kevin, I would’ve done it in a second.
As I pressed down on his mouth harder, not knowing I was covering his nose in the process and Kevin’s screams slowly stopped stopped. The silence was like the aftermath of a battle following the screams. I pressed down a little moree, and Kevin’s started choking and his breathing began to slow, and eventually it stopped, and he laid still on the kitchen floor.
“Kevin?” I asked, slowly removing my hand from his mouth.
Kevin’s mouth was slack and his were eyes vacant. He looked like he was sleeping with his eyes open, but when I listened, I couldn’t hear any breathing.
“Kevin? You can wake up, now.” I cried.
I grabbed his shoulders and shook him. Kevin’s head lolled back and forth limply, but his eyes stayed vacant, and his mouth didn’t move. I sat in shock, unable to comprehend what just happened as I watched blood seep out of his mouth.
“Wake up!” I snapped, shaking Kevin’s limp body.
But he was dead.
“What did I do?” I murmured.
I was twelve years old, and I had killed my first man, but he was not a man at all. He was my little brother.
23
I sat beside Kevin for a few minutes before a rage unlike any I had felt before filled my chest. It was as if a creature had crawled down my throat and now sat in my chest, scratching at my ribcage. My arms pulsed with energy and my chest trembled with it. I clenched my fists, stood up, and paced toward the living room. On my way, I knocked over two leaning towers of envelopes, but I didn’t care. Kevin was dead—I had killed Kevin—and nothing else mattered, not right now.
I had met Boss a couple of years ago, and I had already begun to make a name for myself, but only as a scrapper, a tough kid, hardly an anomaly in our circles. What I was about to do, and what I had already done, would start the legend of The Animal. What I was about to do would make men twice my age shrink back in fear, make tough, seasoned killers look twice at me. What I was about to do would make me the grim, hardened man I would one day become.