Kill Me Now

by Timmy Reed

  ~

  Last summer I got into this fight with my sisters. It doesn't matter what the fight was about—something stupid—but the point is we got into a fight. As usual, the fight spread like a germ and soon I was fighting with my mother too. We were yelling and screaming at each other. I broke a small television on the kitchen floor. And the television cracked a tile when it fell. My mother called my father for help and he came over.

  After about twenty-four hours, the whole thing blew over and my sisters apologized to me through the door and I said I'm sorry too. I was pretty embarrassed. I can't decide whether it's better to be ashamed of your flaws and mistakes or to just accept them openly. I wonder if it's possible to do both.

  ~

  Mister Reese complains that the movies are fake because no one ever finishes their drink before leaving a restaurant. “Where are you gonna see somebody order and pay for a cocktail and then get up and leave it without finishing?” he says. “Only in Hollywood.”

  I only nod when he says this and store it in my memory for later. I don't spend enough time in bars to know what he is talking about. I'm too young. Although I have been able to figure out that most people are cheap and greedy when they get a chance to be . . . But on the other hand, they're also wasteful . . .

  ~

  One nice thing is that regardless of whether people like me or not when I start school next month, I am pretty sure that Mister Reese will be my friend. Maybe he would be my friend even if I couldn't score him any more reefer for some reason. I would be his friend probably even if I wasn't pinching from the bags . . .

  Another nice thing is peanut butter and jelly sandwiches out of a lunch box.

  One more is pit beef during summer.

  And snowballs.

  ~

  I wake up and hit the pool. Ashley Vidal is there, wearing headphones and lying on her stomach. My sisters are nowhere in sight. I sit down next to her, but she doesn't seem to notice. Maybe she's asleep. With her sunglasses on, I can't tell. I pretend to flip through a comic book, but really I watch her out the corner of my eye.

  And I want to talk to her.

  And nothing happens.

  ~

  The closer it gets to the end of the summer, the more jealous I grow of Thomas Angel the cat. His lifestyle actually. No school, lots of naps, up all night with lots of playtime. Not going to lie to you, house cats really know how to live . . .

  ~

  I was watching a nature program about the life of a moth when my mother came into the room and stood near the couch, watching me. I felt awkward. I looked at her and smiled, then looked back at the TV. She asked me if I wanted a tomato sandwich. I shook my head. She asked me if I wanted to go for a walk. Or maybe get a snowball.

  “Later maybe,” I said. “Probably later.”

  “Okay,” she said. I looked at her and she had this weak little smile on her face. I felt bad.

  “No, really. I'd love to go for a walk, maybe a snowball . . . Or do anything with you, Mom. I really would. But right now I'm just, you know, really into this show about, um . . . moths. I've got to see what happens. But tomorrow we can, uh, go somewhere. I promise.”

  “Okay,” she said. “Great.”

  I tried not to look at her. Dumb gray moths pounded themselves against a floodlight somewhere and I heard my mother sigh.

  ~

  “Live life,” says Mister Reese. “Take it for what it's worth and embrace it. Travel. Do things. Have fun and don't be scared. APPRECIATE life . . . And when you get old and nearly dead like me, don't look back and regret the things you didn't do. Because you won't be able to help regretting some of the things you did. And that's enough for anybody . . .”

  ~

  Oh no. A few minutes ago I was smoking at the molehill with all my little mole friends when I saw from beneath the foliage, two pair of feet go past. One pair wore fuzzy slippers—definitely Mister

  Reese—but the other was wearing sneakers. Familiar sneakers. Donald Diamond–type sneakers. The same sneakers I'd shot with my pellet pistol just last month . . . I peered through the pine needles, squatting. There could be no mistake. Mister Reese and Donald Diamond were going for a walk. TOGETHER.

  I thought about following them to see what they were up to. I almost did, but I was afraid Mister Reese would see me and think

  I was being weird. Jealous or something. So I wussed out.

  ~

  Saw Donald today. He was sitting on the edge of the cul-de-sac, catching up on his summer reading. Something came over me when I saw him. Something always comes over me when I see him, but this time it was worse. A RAGE. It made me feel bad inside. I was jealous. He had been trying to steal my new friend just yesterday, possibly my only real friend, and I had caught him in the act, although he didn't know it yet. When he waved at me this morning with his goofy oversized hands, I couldn't take it. I began skipping stones at him, bouncing them across the pavement. I never even hit him, but he started crying anyway. He ran off and left his books behind in the mulch. I considered stomping them. But I didn't.

  Instead I went over to Mister Reese's. I meant to confront him about Donald. If the two of them were going to be friends, then we most certainly could not be. But what had Donald told the old man about me? What poison had my enemy used? I wanted this info before I started doling out any ultimatums.

  I didn't say anything at first. I tried to ease myself into the conversation . . .

  Mister Reese and I smoked a little reefer and then we went out back so he could teach me a new song on the banjo. “The Old Home Place,” it was called. I liked it very much, even though I had trouble learning it. I have trouble learning every song, but this one was different. It made me sad and happy at the same time. All I wanted was to be a little boy again, living at our old house on Charles Street. Before everything had gone to shit. I could do my whole life over again. Different though. I swear I could've cried if I wanted to. But I didn't.

  I had to get myself together. I had come over here for a reason.

  “So I heard you had a nice little walk with my old friend Donald yesterday?”

  The old man showed no emotion one way or the other. He just let a stream of smoke spill from his lips and stared off into the trees. “Where did you hear that?” he asked.

  “A little birdy told me,” I said. “Actually it was a mole.”

  “Those moles seem pretty well informed considering the amount of time they spend in the dirt. But yes, Master Diamond approached me as I was taking a late afternoon stroll. Trying to jump-start the old circulatory system. Nice young fellow. We didn't travel very far together.”

  “Oh . . . So . . . What did you guys talk about?”

  “You mostly.”

  “I knew it! What did he say!?”

  “I gathered that he wanted to make friends with you. Or at least be cordial.”

  “Friends! Cordial! That's rich! What did he really say?”

  “That was about it.” Mister Reese adjusted himself in his chair. He picked a single sad string on the banjo before starting up again. “The kid just wanted to know why you hate him is all. I think he looks up to you. You're a little older than he is and he's still fresh from out of town. He's sure there must be something wrong with him if you don't like him. You should be nicer to Donald, if you want my advice. Life's too short to make enemies. You don't have to be blood brothers or anything. But you should at least treat him like you're both human. At least that's my take on the situation.”

  My heart sunk into my stomach and fell out my asshole. All the rage had left me and now I felt worse than before. Mister Reese was right as usual. What kind of person am I? I thought. What kind of person am I becoming? I excused myself with a lie about a French bread pizza I'd left in the oven and rushed back across the cul-de-sac, stoned as a martyr and emotional as hell, picking up Donald's books o
n the way.

  I cleaned the books off and put them in an old Easter basket of mine that had been full of dirty lacrosse balls. I found some construction paper in my sisters' room and made a card that said “I'M SORRY” in big colorful block letters. On the inside I wrote, “For everything. My bad always, not yours. Friends, maybe? Or friendly?”

  I left it on his doorstep and felt a lot better inside. Like I had just taken a huge shit. I wished my mother was at home so I could give her a hug.

  ~

  “In this world of ours, Miles, there are only two ways to go about being rich,” says Mister Reese. “Either work harder. Or need less.” Then he pauses, smiling into the sun, and chuckles. “Marrying rich isn't a bad thing either. All things being equal. It worked all right for me. But I'll be dead and rotten before I admit doing it on purpose. Things just pan out that way sometimes. Magic, possibly. Or luck. Maybe both.”

  ~

  I came home to find my mom sitting in the dark. She was upset because she had to fly to Florida this week for work and she didn't want to go. Her voice sounded like a machine grinding rocks into gravel. It was a sad, tired voice.

  The satellites and jet planes were starting to be visible in the sky. I know she likes to wish on them, so I asked her if she wanted to go for a walk and she said yes. We strolled around the community in circles. Little black birds or bats played in the sky overhead. We didn't really talk about anything in particular, but after a while we were holding hands. She was smiling. And I made wishes on just about every twinkling light my eyes could find.

  ~

  I saw Donald Diamond this afternoon. He was hanging out near the high-voltage box with the rest of the little neighborhood goons. He waved hi to me! And I waved back!! Thumbs up even!!! I feel ABSOLVED!!!! Good, even great!!! I'm becoming a whole new person!!!!! MAYBE!!!!!!

  ~

  My life is over. Late last night, I leave my mom's house to watch a Star Wars marathon on my dad's TV. I race over so I don't miss the “Long ago, in a galaxy far, far away . . .” opening line, which is so important to wrapping me up in the fantasy. I'm out of breath when I pull up to the back of the house. All the lights are on as I push my bike through the basement door. And what do I see before me but those identical little bitches sitting Indian-style on the carpet in front of MTV with you, dear Journal, spread open across their laps. They're giggling like a pair of lunatics, of course.

  My sisters panic when they see me. I drop my bike and dive to snatch the composition book from their shitty claws. They're still cackling like they're under attack from the tickle monster, which pisses me off to no end. I don't want to tickle them but break their fingers instead. They squirm away from me and I try to get up but collapse on my chin, getting a rug burn in the process. Kelly yanks out a handful of crumpled pages and shoves them down her shirt before tossing the book at the floor in front of me. I stare at the cover a moment as the girls charge out of the room. I reach forward to see what pages they took. Mostly stuff about Ashley Vidal, I think. Maybe a few other things . . . When I complain to my father, he's busy on the Internet and my sisters have already gotten to him anyway, told him I was chasing them, so he just grunts at me and tells me to grow up, stop being so angry all the time.

  I scoop up the journal and head back to my mother's. There's a hot breeze. I have a cigarette in my mouth. I shove the notebook behind my waistband as I ride. It sticks to the sweat on my belly. I make a conscious effort to take the long way home.

  I pedal in jags, sprinting all fast and then coasting.

  Pedal, pedal, coast . . . I wonder if keeping a journal is such a good idea. I consider burning you. Making you dead.

  But then I put the thought from my head and decide to make up my mind about it later. My chances with Ashley are ruined, no matter what. Right?

  Fuck a journal.

  Fuck you, Journal.

  You have no power over me.

  ~

  I woke up this morning next to a big bowl of ice cream. It was melted and crawling with tiny ants. Hundreds of them. Thousands. Little black specks that wiggled around and lived off sugar. I was surprised Thomas Angel hadn't gotten them yet. They were lucky.

  I had seen these animals around my mom's house more and more during these last few weeks of summer. One here, one there, maybe a small line or a cluster, but this was unprecedented. This was a regular insect rendezvous! All those little things, presumably with little brains that pulsed, congregating right here in my ice cream. A bowl of ice cream I didn't even remember eating last night. I sat on the edge of the couch and stared down into the bowl, weighing my options as I farted into the cushion.

  Ants are small, but these guys were smaller than small, almost invisible. Their bodies were super delicate. I gently crushed one against the glass rim, then looked at the tip of my finger. He just disappeared. I had only been trying to pet him! Now he was gone. I looked deeper into the sludge at the bottom of the bowl.

  Some of the ants were stuck in the ice cream. Kicking, thrashing. Maybe drowning even. Many others were walking on top of the mess, using the surface tension like Jesus on the Sea of Galilee or a kind of frog I saw the other day on the Discovery Channel. Some ants visited the depths of the bowl, while others milled about the walls or even balanced themselves on the rim like that poor little guy who disappeared in the last paragraph. All were eating.

  I wondered if some ants were eating more ice cream than others. They were all so infinitesimally small. And there was more than enough melted French vanilla to go around. If each ant was eating a similar portion, then why risk venturing down into the deep and getting stuck, almost drowning? Maybe to make room for the other ants, I thought. I liked that thought. The more the merrier. The ant family was having a party.

  Clearly these ants were harmless. In fact I sort of liked them. Even though they would undoubtedly fall into the category of pest if I had to categorize them. Besides, I didn't feel ready to leave the couch just yet. So I left the bowl on the coffee table and let the ants do their thing while I turned on the television.

  We watched a show about water buffalo together before I decided I was ready for breakfast. I picked up the bowl of ants before heading into the kitchen. It was a good thing really, I told myself, to have so many ants together at once, in my bowl. I could really do some serious damage to the local population. Maybe even a final solution to the ant problem. That would be good for my mother.

  I put the bowl in the sink and turned on the faucet. The ants tried to run away, scrambling in every direction, but they were already drowning, rushing down the drain with the flood.

  Then I turned on the garbage disposal. I don't know why I did it because the ants were already done for and their little bodies were too fine to be totally chopped up by the blades. But I did it anyway. I turned on the blades.

  ~

  I wake up beneath the weight of two adolescent girls and a cat. The cat stayed over at my dad's house last night while my mother was out of town. All three of them are jumping on my bed. Katie and Kelly are trying to kill me, I think. Thomas Angel is in on the plot. I put the pillow over my head and squeeze . . .

  I'm still alive. The girls come in peace. Using my mattress and sleeping body as a trampoline is part of their apology. They're sorry for reading my journal.

  “Even though it was funny,” Kelly points out. They want me to walk with them to pick up some donuts. Their treat. I know I should still be angry, but I'm a real softy inside. I can't stay mad at anybody and I'm a sucker for anything free.

  We're walking past the gatehouse, my sisters in little pink flip-flops and me in bare feet because I can't find my sneakers, and I start to ask them about the pages they tore out, whether they showed them to Ashley Vidal yet. But then I get embarrassed and shut my mouth. So I'm delighted when Katie volunteers some info. She tells me that Ashley actually thinks I'm kind of cute, although I'm a little old
for her. But still, “kinda cute” is nice to hear.

  “Ashley's even younger than WE are, Miles,” Kelly chimes in, pointing back and forth between Katie and herself. “It's a little weird to be dating somebody younger than your little sisters. Especially when you're fourteen years old.”

  “I'm almost fifteen,” I remind her.

  “That might make it even weirder. I'm not sure. She's twelve.”

  I kick a stone out into the street with my bandaged toe and it stings. “Whatever,” I sigh. Then, “It was just a little crush.”

  “Ashley and Retard, sitting in a tree,” Kelly sings. “K-I-S-S-I-N-G.”

  “I'm sure she would think it was sweet,” Katie says, putting her arm on my shoulder.

  “WAIT.” I pop out in front of them and stand there like a police blockade. “You didn't show her?”

  “Not yet.” Kelly grins at me like a cat. “But we can always hold it over your head.”

  “Like a giant piano.”

  “Thanks guys. It's wonderful to have you in my life. Wonderful sisters you are.”

  “We try,” they say as a chorus, stopping to curtsey in unison.

  The sun is already burning up the pavement and melting the garbage in the trash cans overflowing along York Road. The sun is in my eyes. The bottom of my foot nearly hits against the pancaked remains of a dead rat. I think a group of boys is following us on the other side of the street. But still, I'm feeling pretty swell. I'm glad to walk for donuts with my sisters.