Mayhem: A Collection of Stories

by R Thomas Brown

He moved his hands to cover the pain, but Douglas moved and pounded into his back. Keith tried to scream, but breaths were too hard.

  The blows continued. Front and Back. Over and over.

  Far away he heard laughing. Then they stopped.

  As everything faded to black.

  He heard a voice. “Great, now I have to call maintenance.” Then he heard nothing. Saw nothing. He wasn’t in the office. He was nowhere. He smiled.

  Dock of the Bay

  The waves lost ground to the ebbing tide, revealing stones and shells dredged up from the creek to replenish the beach. The recent hurricane left houses intact, but left boats stranded, took away the beach, boats and a few lives. It didn’t take James Hawkins’ life away. He tossed that as soon as he moved to Long Island.

  Hawkins gazed out at the Peconic Bay, feet hanging over the boat dock at the end of Freeport Street. His cottage was just down the road, across the street. Couldn’t afford bayside property, even when he was flush. Now, he couldn’t afford the year-round across the street either. Next month, they’d foreclose.

  They.

  Used to be we. He’d foreclosed on thousands of homes over the past three years. Economy turned down, payments stopped coming in and the bank tightened policies. A job developing a new personal line of credit from a corner office vanished and became a challenge to find ways to process foreclosures quickly with minimal staff while squeezed into a postage stamp cubicle.

  He played with the knife in his hands, smoothing the side with his gloved fingers, as he thought about what used to be. He’d left Texas, and a pleasant job at a small bank, after a trip out to the bay. He loved the view. The mild summer. All of it. Took the first job he could find that would get him out there. Them out there. He and Pam.

  Pam.

  They’d met in college. Didn’t get along well. She’d set fire to his kitchen while cooking for some other guy. But, time passed, they met again and hit it off. Married after three dates and together ten years when they moved out. She was all for it.

  The tip of the knife pricked his finger when he heard voice behind him. Too soon. Can’t be him. He turned around to see two men getting ready to launch a small boat. Unexpected, but could be useful. He slipped the knife back into his pocket and shuffled over.

  “Hey guys.”

  “Hey, how are ya?”

  “Good. Just watchin’ the boats.” Hawkins shifted his weight.

  “Yeah? You live down the street, right?”

  “Yep.” Recognition would help later. “Just wondered down here.”

  The two men finished their work and started the engine. “Well, take it easy. You wanna go out for a ride one day, just let me know.”

  Hawkins nodded and smiled and the two men were off.

  A fake smile. Like all his smiles for the past two months. His boss, Gary, pressed them hard. Get the paperwork done. But it was never enough. He started to cut corners. Hawkins did all his work, but he was falling behind. When the bank was caught not reviewing all the work, Hawkins took the fall.

  His file said it all. Poor performance. Not meeting quotas. Disciplinary action for poor productivity and anger in the office. Everyone believed he had started cutting the corners to get his volumes up. And, like magic, his numbers for that month looked great. Not that he had done the work.

  He was fired. And sued by the bank. When he got home, Pam was gone. A note said she needed some time and that he should pick up his stuff over the weekend before she got back. He didn’t blame her, he’d been tough to live with. He’d felt he was caught in a slow death and it wore on them both.

  That day, it felt like the reaper was in a rush to get job done. That’s when he’d bought the knife. He’d have to wait for a gun, but he got the knife the same day. He wanted to end it all. Take his own life. But he couldn’t do it.

  It seemed senseless. And he couldn’t do that to Pam. Couldn’t cause her the pain. She may have left, but he still held out hope that he could turn it around. So he struggled on. Little jobs here and there to make the mortgage. And the cottage payments. That’s why he brought them out there. He couldn’t let it go.

  It meant more to him than the house. The one Pam picked out. The one on the cul de sac. The one with the new floors. The one with the professional kitchen. The one he couldn’t really afford. The one where he found Pam and Gary naked when he came back to pick up his stuff.

  He wanted to beat Gary to a pulp right there. He didn’t. Wanted to barge in and curse Pam for the betrayal. He didn’t. He always avoided conflict. But he was angry.

  He thought about the knife. He wanted to end it, but that would do noting now to quell the rage. He had a plan to solve all his problems. He started revealing embarrassing things about Pam. Past arrests. Pictures. Videos. The kinds of things you learn and have after a decade of marital bliss. He’d left them at the office, along with images of Gary and Pam together.

  They called. Made threats. Hawkins ignored them. He had a plan. He stopped paying his mortgage on the cottage. He knew Gary wouldn’t be able to resist the temptation. He signed the papers himself. Hawkins kept a copy. Kept it with the recordings of all the threatening phone calls.

  He glanced at his watch. Six. He noticed the sky getting dark. Heard a car door slam. Gary couldn’t resist the chance to stop all the madness. Hawkins knew he’d be there. He felt the knife. Took a breath. He was ready. Heard the boat coming back to the dock. An added bonus.

  Gary appeared on the dock. Angry. “What the fuck do you want?”

  Hawkins gripped the knife while staring out at the bay. “Thought we’d end all this once and for all.”

  “Fine with me. As long as that means you’ll leave us the hell alone.”

  The boat docked. Gary looked over, but turned back to Hawkins.

  Hawkins grinned, squeezing the knife handle and positioning it under his shirt before turning around. “You think you can come out here and threaten me?” He made sure the two men still on the boat could hear.

  “I’ve had enough of the pictures. The videos. The late night calls. It ends now.”

  Hawkins noticed the two men walking toward them . He stepped up right in front of Gary. “Yes, it’s all over, Gary,” he whispered.

  He took the knife. Ran it into his stomach and carved across. Feeling weak he shoved the knife into Gary’s hand, spitting blood as he struggled to stay on his feet.

  “What the fuck?”

  Hawkins couldn’t tell if that was the neighbors or Gary. It didn’t matter. The world grew hazy. Unreal. Shapes twisted and warped like a Dali painting. He saw the knife fall, and Gary being knocked to the ground. Faces hovered over his, but they seemed alternately angelic and monstrous.

  He looked away. At the end of the dock, he saw the boat. Sounds faded, and his vision narrowed. All he could see what the name. In blood red letters.

  Bittersweet.

  Hurt

  Cami pulled the blade back and touched the slick, warm blood that coated the surface. She closed her eyes and soaked up the contrast between cold metal and warm blood. Her thoughts passed to her own cold hands and hot blood pounding through her body. She felt alive. Alive in a way she couldn’t have imagined only a week ago. She opened her eyes and looked down at the dying man who had made this all possible.

  Last week, Cami was happy. At least, she felt happy, but she came to understand that was all just an illusion. She moved through her life like a robot. Up at five, half hour of Pilates, toaster waffles for breakfast with natural peanut butter, drive to work, meetings, conference calls, skip lunch, documentation, drive home, salad and chicken for dinner, television, book in a bath, lather, rinse, repeat, bed, repeat.

  The routine was like a metronome, creating a beat that felt comforting, but over time just beat her into a sameness from which there was no escape. Until he came along. They met on her way up the stairs to her apartment.

  She was turning the lock when he grabbed her arm and placed a knife to her throat. She remembered fee
ling nothing. She was scared, but she didn’t run, didn’t scream, just did what he said.

  “Don’t feel bad,” he said as he pushed her into the apartment, pressing the knife just enough to draw a trickle of blood. “It’s just shock. Happens to everyone.”

  He shoved her down onto the floor. And smiled. “Now, we have some work to do.”

  Cami sat still while he taped her mouth, wrists and ankles. She thought about his words in all the days since. She remembered wanting to do something, but being stuck. Her mind unable to force her body to act.

  “Now,” he said with a voice that ebbed from his mouth, both calming and sinister. “We need to make you better.”

  He cut her arm. A long, shallow cut that left a curtain of blood closing down her limb.

  It hurt.

  She did nothing.

  He frowned.

  He cut her leg. Long. Deeper. Blood pooled in the crevice before oozing out to either side.

  It hurt.

  She did nothing.

  He clinched his jaw. “I see.”

  He cut again. The bottom of her foot. Deep.

  Pain burst through her leg, up her spine.

  She jerked back and tried to stand.

  He smiled. “Good, that’s all for now.”

  He left.

  The police came when she called. She didn’t remember much about him. His eyes, his smile, his voice. Not very helpful. She was stitched up quickly and let back home. The last place she wanted to be.

  It felt cold. Not the temperature, but the energy. Every wall seemed to be judging her for doing nothing about her attacker. She left.

  He followed.

  Cami moved in with a friend. She saw those eyes walking a dog through the neighborhood. She saw them in cars alongside hers in traffic. She saw them in the parking lot taking a smoke break and eyeing the window that faced her desk.

  She saw them in the kitchen when she came home.

  “Shit.”

  “Good. You spoke. Progress.”

  “The fuck you want?”

  “To help.”

  “Help? How does this help?”

  He wagged his finger and held it up to his lips. “You need to figure that out yourself.”

  She saw the phone and ran for it.

  He punched her in the stomach and she crumbled to the floor. “Good, good.”

  She heard the garage door open and saw him head for the front. “Wait.”

  He smiled. He left.

  She told her friend, who went ballistic. Police were called. Locks were changed. Cami knew none of it mattered. She went home.

  The walls accused. She flipped them off. She knew what to do. She went to sleep resolute. She awoke ready. That was the morning of the knife and the blood.

  She called work to tell them she was sick. When her boss asked what was wrong, she hung up. She had more important things to do. She dressed without showering and took the butcher’s knife from the kitchen on her way out.

  She stood in the sunlight, unsure if she had ever done such a thing in the time she lived there. She took a deep breath and smelled Spring. She smiled.

  She crossed the street to the park, seeing pets and still too young for school children playing. She couldn’t recall ever seeing them before. She watched them play and then saw the eyes. And the smile.

  She walked, strode over to him, a smile working its way across her face.

  His white teeth emerged in response. “What have we here?”

  She shoved the knife into his stomach. She jerked it across before removing it.

  There, with the blood and the steel, she understood. His work was done. She felt charged. Alive in a way she never imagined. Her head buzzed and she looked at him again.

  His eyes met hers and his waning breath pushed out “Congratulations.”

  Screams and cries slowly became audible as the buzzing subsided. She knew she needed to leave, but something was needed. She bent over, and before the light passed from his eyes, she kissed his forehead and muttered her thanks.

  She ran. Not home, they would all see. She just ran. She had to get away. Had to be free. Had to find others to help.

  Income Property

  Bobby hurried across the newly polished wood floors when the doorbell rang. “Shit, he’s early.” He set the cookies out on the counter and checked on the flowers before taking a moment to compose himself and open the door. “Hello, David?”

  “Yeah, Mr. Gifford?”

  Bobby examined the young man who’d be starting college in a couple of weeks. “Call me, Bobby.”

  “Thanks, Bobby. Is the room still available?”

  “Sure, come on in.”

  David looked around the entry. “Place looks nice.”

  “Thanks. The room’s upstairs.”

  “What’s that noise,” Bobby asked.

  “Noise?”

  “Yeah, sounds like someone crying outside. I heard it when I was waiting.”

  “Oh, probably just a neighborhood cat. Here’s the room. Big enough for a queen bed, closet over there. Bathroom’s through this door.”

  “Looks nice. And how much?”

  “Six hundred a month.”

  “That’s a good price with the private bath from what I’ve seen around campus.”

  “Well, I need a little extra money but wanted to make sure I could pick the right person. We will be sharing a house after all.”

  “Yeah, sure. But..”

  “Yes?”

  “That crying sound is really loud.”

  “Oh, that. I’ll tell the neighbors. It’s not something I’ve noticed before. Maybe you just get used to it.”

  “Sure, maybe. Hey I see you’ve got a grill and pool, can I look around out there?”

  “Sure, come on out. Of course, you’d be able to use them, but I don’t like the thought of parties at my house.”

  “Oh, sure.”

  On their way out, the phone rang. “I need to get this, go ahead and look around, but stay away from the shed in the back, got a wasp problem right now,” Bobby said as he walked toward the phone. “Having the exterminator out next week, though.”

  “No problem.”

  David walked around the yard checking out the vanishing edge pool and the six burner grill with smoker. “Nice stuff.”

  “Man, that is a loud fucking cat.” He walked toward the noise, back past the pool until he reached the shed. “If there’s a cat in there, those wasps must be stinging the shit out of it!” He pulled the doors open.

  “Oh, Shit!”

  The old woman lay on the ground face down and mewling. She was skin and bones and wreaked of piss and shit.

  “Ma’am, are you okay?” David could see bugs that had begun to make a home in her exposed legs. “I’m going for help.”

  He turned to see Bobby. “Hey, you need to call an ambulance. There’s a woman in there.”

  “Oh, I see you found mom.”

  “Mom?”

  “Yeah, that used to be her room up there, but I needed some rent money. Pools and grills don’t pay for themselves, if you know what I mean?”

  David took a step back. “What the fuck, man?”

  “You know, I did tell you to avoid the shed.”

  “Yeah, because of wasps.”

  “There are wasps, right up there.”

  David looked before falling to the ground clutching his knee. He rolled over to see Bobby swing the aluminum bat to break the other one. David writhed in pain, and put up little resistance to having his hands bound with duck tape.

  Bobby kicked him into the shed. “You can ask mom all about it if she wakes up. In the meantime, I have another renter to see to.” He shoved a sock into his mouth, and taped around David’s head before shutting the door.

  One Man’s Trash

  Phil lumbered out of his truck and opened the lock he had placed on the storage unit that morning. The orange door slid open, revealing the stacks of boxes that hid the value he saw during the five
minutes of allotted time before bidding commenced. He hoped he’d find treasure in the back, and not just well wrapped junk.

  He’d paid a thousand bucks for this treasure hunt. He needed this one to pay out. He was down a few hundred this month. Same as last month. The summer’s profits were gone, and the thrill went with them. A gnawing desperation took its place.

  Behind the boxes, he could see the furniture encased in plastic. Couch, loveseat, table and chairs. That’s what he needed. If it was nice enough, he could sell it that day. Make up the money. Get the debt collectors to stop calling. If it was junk, he’d disconnect the phone.

  He tossed the boxes aside, papers and photos spilling out on the asphalt.

  “Hey. You need any help there?”

  Phil looked back and saw a man standing behind him. He looked familiar, but Phil couldn’t place him. “Just trying to get these boxes out of the way.”

  “Sure. Let me get some of those for you.” The man picked up a few boxes, carefully stacking them outside the unit.

  Phil figured he must have been at the auction that morning. Guys were often curious what was in the lockers they didn’t win. “You bid on this?”

  “No.” He continued to pull the boxes out carefully and stack them neatly. “Why?”

  “Oh. You looked familiar is all.”

  “I get that a lot.” Boxes in neat stacks. Careful placement.

  Phil examined the nearly six foot man with his average build and short but not cropped hair. He looked like a thousand people he’d run into. “What’s your name?”

  “James Smith.” Neat stacks. Careful placement.

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. I know. Boring parents, I guess.” Neat. Careful.

  “You don’t need to be so careful. The boxes are just crap. I’ll be throwing that…”

  James was on him. Shoved Phil back into the locker, forearm against his throat. “That crap is someone’s life, you piece of shit.”

  Phil shook his head, struggled for a breath. “This your stuff, man?”

  James spit in his face. “No. It’s not. I’m just not a douche.”

  “What do you want?” Phil felt the pressure build. It felt a lot like the last time he’d failed to pay an irregular loan he had to take. Hadn’t had a bank account in years, so he made do.