Housebroken

by The Behrg

  “Help!” Adam screamed. “We need help!”

  7

  Milton felt the chains wrapped around his body, preventing him from rising. The bullet had severed the carotid artery in his neck, and he could feel himself slipping away. It was more dreamlike than he would have thought, the pain someone else’s. The clear blue sky shimmered like puddles on a paved road in the dead of summer. Only a mirage.

  Joje appeared over him. The gurgle of blood was the only curse Milton could utter.

  “I wowee . . . you don’t know who I am,” Joje said.

  And suddenly he did know. If Milton had had any color left in his cheeks, it’d be gone now.

  How had he not seen it before? How had he not been prepared? But who could prepare for this—for him?

  The corner of Joje’s face drew down, his left eye drooping. “I wanted you to know. So you didn’t think this was . . . random.”

  The boy began screaming in the background but noise was already fading . . . fading . . . playing in another room, over the radio in a busy diner where, no matter how hard you tried, you could never recognize the song, playing not to be heard but to fill the gaps between dishes clanging and forks scraping and uncomfortable lulls in conversation that always accompanied those who ate at diners.

  The shakily drawn version of Joje lifted a gun, his form going jagged like scribbles where staying in the lines no longer mattered—had it ever mattered? He pointed it, shakily, gun splitting into two, three distorted versions of itself, in his direction, his colors darkening . . . darkening . . . and of all the regrets that could have flashed through Milton’s mind, only one burrowed its way out.

  He had known this day was coming. They all had known. He just never would’ve suspected it’d be Joje.

  8

  Jing Jong, Jing Jong, Jing Jong.

  The doorbell resonated through Blake’s mind, replacing thought with instinct, instinct with dread. He knew he was losing all rationality.

  He also knew the doorbell wasn’t ringing.

  Jing Jong, sing along, in a cell forever long.

  The forbidden corners of his mind had melded into a giant hole as large as the squares between the gridded bars around him. He could no longer lose himself in something as simple as memory.

  He thought of his son. He thought of Jenna.

  He thought of all the ways he could kill himself.

  Suffocating wasn’t possible, no matter his willpower, he was unable to keep his nose and mouth pressed into the crook of his arm past a certain point—lungs burning, eyes watering, head both sinking and floating away at the same time. There wasn’t enough leverage or enough force for him to break his own neck. His back and spine may have felt like they were at the brittle point of bursting, but there wasn’t room to push them any farther. Wiggling or flexing muscles proved almost impossible, drawing enough movement to break or even cut into his own skin, also out of the question. He had even tried to keep his eyes open when sneezing—an old child’s maxim he had never believed but was at least willing to try. Conrad’s hair and dandruff in the cage had gotten to him over time, his nose now a dribbling mess.

  At some point he had let himself urinate, the urge far stronger than sensibility.

  Humpty Dumpty sat on the wall, Humpty Dumpty had a great fall . . .

  At times he was falling. Like a dream where the air whips around you and there’s never a floor or end to graciously splat across. An eternity of flailing limbs and rushing air, eyes so dried from the wind they begin to crack like egg shells.

  Help me, he thought. Helllp meeeeee!

  All the king’s horses and all the king’s men . . .

  Tick, tick, tick. The clock’s one-syllable laugh. Flies feasted on his skin, buzzing down the tubes of his ears, using ropes and pick axes to ascend through his nostrils until they reached the command center where, much like the movie Being John Malkovich, they were able to see through his eyes, only now his eyes saw through theirs in strange gridded fashion where every image was distorted through a hundred segmented views.

  Humpty Dumpty murdered his wife, Humpty Dumpty took his son’s life.

  A plague of shadows transformed into scuttling demons, their centipede claws clicking and clacking against the hardwood floor and marble counters. Each time they came forward, they became a little bolder, like seagulls at a beach picnic, darting closer, inch by inch, until the bravest one would eventually reach its talons out, snatching a chunk of flesh off Blake’s exposed arms or legs.

  Jing Jong, Jing Jong.

  Who issss iiiitttttt?

  In the maddening silence, Blake came to what might amount to the greatest epiphany of his life—Humpty Dumpty hadn’t fallen. He had jumped.

  Jing—

  Jong.

  The doorbell continued to chime.

  Chapter Ten

  Day Six Continued

  1

  “There’s no need to worry.”

  Adam looked down at his fingers, nails bitten to the point he was now chewing skin. He set his palms down on his legs and watched the other people in the restaurant. An older couple, both massively overweight, mopping up their plates; a young girl, maybe two or three, climbing over the back of a cushioned booth, her mother lifting her back over and setting her down without breaking from her conversation; a young black waitress moving toward them then into the kitchen, pretty face, her gold dangling earrings bouncing with every step.

  Even prettier legs.

  It felt strange to be surrounded by people who were just living their lives, eating meals on their way to the next item on their things-to-do list. People who weren’t wondering if they would be alive tomorrow.

  “She’s going to be fine. Drew will take care of her,” Joje said.

  Adam sipped his Mountain Dew, avoiding Joje’s gaze. It was almost surprising how easily he could understand Joje now, despite his speech impediment. Adam suspected that with time, even the most grotesque of horrors could become commonplace.

  “What’s wrong? You can tell me anything, and it stays right here, between you and me.”

  “This isn’t . . . fun anymore,” Adam said. “What you’re doing? You’ve taken it too far. It needs to stop.” He twirled the straw in his drink.

  “So why don’t you stop me?” Joje asked.

  The little girl squealed as her mother once again lifted her over the booth.

  “We’re in a public place, people all around, why don’t you shout out that you’ve been kidnapped or have someone call the police? If things have gone too far, you should ask why you’ve allowed it.”

  “I can’t stop you, I’m just a kid.”

  Joje laughed, his face lighting up with amusement. “Don’t try your games on me. I know you better than you know yourself, better than your own father knows you.”

  Adam glanced out the window to their left. Dusk was settling into night like a blanket, its folds draping lower to the ground. The beat-up station wagon they had taken down the mountain was parked next to a white minivan that had backed into the space, a stick-figure family of four plus a stick dog all waving on the back of their filthy window.

  “Is she going to die? Jenna?” Adam asked.

  “Would that bother you?”

  The question bothered him, had for some time, mainly because Adam didn’t know. He had always thought he wouldn’t care if something happened to her, now he wasn’t so certain. He felt her hand gripping his even now and had to shake it off.

  “Drew will make sure she gets the care she needs,” Joje said.

  “And what if he doesn’t take her to a hospital? What if he just tells us he took her there and instead leaves her in a ditch or, or kills her?”

  Joje shifted in the booth, sitting forward and resting his arms on the table. “Drew’s not like you or me. He’s an idiot, just does what he’s told, so yeah he’ll take her there. But would your life be that different without her in it? Would you be any different? Or would you maybe stop hiding from who you really are, st
art becoming your true self?”

  The black waitress returned, setting their plates of food in front of them. Her name was Shayna, tag hanging from the open V-neck shirt, bringing it down and to the right just enough to see a little of the cleavage beneath. Like the first tear in the wrapping of a birthday gift, letting you see just enough to make you want to see more.

  As soon as she left, Joje asked, “You like her?”

  Adam dropped his head, dipping a fat steak fry in the saucer of ketchup.

  “You don’t have to pretend around me, Adam. Be yourself. Do your parents know?”

  “Know what?”

  “I didn’t think so.”

  “What, that I like girls?” Adam was surprised by the anger in his voice, more so by Joje’s ability to draw it out of him. This was the first they had spent time alone together.

  Joje’s bottom lip twitched, drawing his left eye down; it looked like he was repeatedly winking at Adam. Creepy. He cleared his throat, glancing at his plate of untouched food, then was back, the movement on his face gone. “How old were you when you made your first kill?”

  Adam stopped chewing and swallowed his fry in large chunks that hurt going down.

  “You can always tell by the eyes. That special glint. It doesn’t come cheap. Was it just one? Or have there been others?”

  “Just one,” Adam said. He felt like he was both vomiting out his soul and having a stalled car lifted from his chest at the same time.

  “There’ll be others,” Joje said, picking up his Philly cheesesteak sandwich and taking a large bite. Clumps of greasy beef and melted cheese dropped onto the plate. “I knew we would share a bond—I knew it!”

  “How . . . how many have you killed?” Adam felt an exhilaration rising within him. Here was someone who could actually understand him, maybe even accept him for who he was.

  Joje shook his head, motioning to the waitress approaching. She refilled both of their glasses, asking if everything was okay. They both watched her walk away this time.

  “Got a girlfriend?” Joje asked.

  Adam recognized the change in subject but was okay with the deflection. They could move back to warmer climates when they were no longer in public. “No, I mean—I had a few back home, but not here.”

  “Isn’t this your home?”

  “It’s a house, not a home,” Adam said flatly.

  Joje nodded as if he completely understood. “You prefer blond or brunette? Or ginger?”

  “Brunette,” Adam said.

  “So Jenna’s out,” Joje said with a laugh. Adam couldn’t help but join in. “Dwew told me about your tapes—classic. But you don’t want a girl like that. There are much better rides with a lot less maintenance per mile. In fact”—he snapped, pointing his finger at Adam—“I know the perfect one! Unless you wanna wait till Sha-Nay-Nay gets off work?” He nodded toward the kitchen, where the waitress had disappeared.

  Adam knew he was supposed to speak but found himself unable. He felt spellbound, as if he were being hypnotized. Was this what Adam did with his friends back home? That same effect—them hanging on his every word, wanting to please him—he now felt for Joje. He didn’t understand. He was supposed to be immune to this.

  Despite everything, he felt himself relax. He was in the hands of a master.

  “I didn’t pick your house at random you know?” Joje said.

  “I know.”

  “You do? Of course you do. But you don’t know why I chose you.”

  As Joje told him the reason, Adam found himself relaxing even more, understanding—real understanding—settling in, making itself at home. His life was no longer just a house, four walls with furniture and a family of stick figures, present yet empty of reason, of meaning. He was coming home for the first time in a long time, and his life would never be the same again.

  2

  Blake blinked.

  He swallowed, though there wasn’t enough spit to wet his throat.

  The house had been immersed in darkness, a thick, unforgiving black capping every surface like oily snow. At least in the only corner he could see.

  The corners of his mind were equally dark.

  The digital display of an oven clock provided a recessed glow, and whatever moon floated over the waves outside teased a shadow here, beam there.

  Such a tease.

  They aren’t coming back for me.

  3

  The truck idled at the curb of the street in front of a one-story bronze building that had metastasized into a hospital, wings sprouting from every side. Stu refused to drive into the parking lot, said they had cameras in there.

  The stale air pushing through the plastic vents smelled like a squirrel had climbed in to the truck’s engine and died there.

  Jenna was cradled in Drew’s arms, lying across the bench, her feet lifeless in Stu’s lap. From her toes to her calves, she looked like some swamp creature out of a horror movie, the kind his old boss used to make, with more shots of boobs than monsters. Flakes of dead skin as thick as twigs were gathering on Stu’s pants. Drew had almost forgotten he had been the one to do that to her.

  “You could always say she died before we got here,” Stu said. “I’m surprised she didn’t.”

  But that wasn’t the problem. The problem was Joje wanted him to kill her. At least it was the first problem.

  On the drive back down the mountain, Drew had had plenty of time to think, discovering three overreaching problems that, unresolved, would get him caught, killed, or worse.

  The fourth problem, he had realized, was that he had never been good at solving problems.

  “Joje would know. If I was lying to him,” Drew said.

  Stu nodded. They all knew Joje’s uncanny ability to sense a lie, however minute.

  “What if she wakes up?” Stu asked. “You know that’s why he’s not walking in there. Might as well slap cuffs on yourself if you take her in.”

  He was right. It was the second of his problems, one he had yet to work out. Because if she woke, she would talk, and if she talked, there would be no shortage of security and police officers to bring Drew down.

  But he was so close.

  If he thought Jenna might live without a doctor, he’d disappear right now, but to go out alone . . . what would the point of this past week have been?

  “Look, uh, I’ve got more I need to do, so let’s either dump her or I tip my hat ’cause you’re a braver soul than I,” Stu said.

  “I’m going,” Drew said. He leaned forward, lifting his hands from beneath Jenna’s head as if going for the door but bending lower, reaching down to the floor. “Help me with her.”

  “I’m not steppin’ outside,” Stu said, not realizing what Drew was reaching for.

  When he came back up, it required only a movement of a few inches. The hilt that fit so succinctly in Drew’s grip pressed forward, the attached blade sliding into Stu’s chest just below his sternum. Drew twisted the blade, pinning him to the driver’s door. Blood burst from Stu’s mouth, spilling over his chin and into his beard, his eyes wide as if he had one more question for Drew.

  He probably did.

  Drew waited until Stu’s eyes glazed over, his head lolling forward. One of his arms plopped onto Jenna’s leg, and she stirred beneath him. His third problem hadn’t been that difficult after all. With a little luck he’d find a way to manage the others.

  He wiped at the sword’s handle with a scrunched-up napkin he found in the seat. He wouldn’t be taking it with him. The thought was disheartening; that sword had been a part of his transformation, like Adam picking up the Sword of Grayskull and discovering he was He-Man the whole time.

  I have the power, Drew thought, and no one—not even George—can take it away!

  He looked down at the creature stirring in his arms, more beautiful than any of the buxom blonds Welchsetzer had used. And used. Drew had always gotten his turn, but only when it was time to take out the trash, leaving him empty and craving more. But with Jenna it
would be different. A dumpster may still be at the end of their union, but not after their first time. Not after their hundredth.

  With the napkin in hand, he opened the door, taking care to wipe at any edge he may have touched. He lifted Jenna into his arms like a sleeping child and descended the two metal steps down to the sidewalk. A lit-up stone sign read, “USC Verdugo Hills Hospital,” but might as well have read, “This Way to a New Future.”

  Drew took a step forward, then another, his future now within grasp. In his arms Jenna moaned despite being unconscious.

  He could get used to that moan.

  One problem at a time.

  4

  Between the sloppy notes of a Jimi Hendrix guitar solo sped up at four times its normal speed, the prattle of his current mental state discussed on an overhead projector in a classroom the size of Tokyo, and the insane screaming in his head, Blake heard a thump at the back door. Then another.

  No wonder Jimi’s solo was getting increasingly messy. He passed it off as just another piece of sanity dissolving, but the thumping continued.

  Coming, he thought, the laugh in his belly never rising to his chest.

  Someone was trying to break in.

  “Dad! Dad?”

  Adam was back for another haunting jaunt. This time would he repeat, “‘It’s all your fault, all your fault?’”

  The door broke open with a crash, the chill of the night air sweeping in uninvited. Blake felt suddenly naked, serenely so. He was lying on a beach, a sprinkling of stars overhead. Water too warm to be the ocean broke just before his body, retreated, coming back to prod again. His clothes were wet, and he was cold—deathly cold—yet not shivering. Shivering required energy his body simply couldn’t expend.

  “Dad?”

  Adam stood over him. He was no longer lying on a beach; he was at the bottom of a grave, earth opening beneath him as he sank, his son growing more distant above.