Dead Broken - Psychological Thriller / Horror

by Gerard Gray

For a second I eased my grasp – my fingers going into cramp – but on doing so the boy bucked all the harder. I re-attached my grip to his throat and squeezed with all my might. In the background I could hear gun shots, and I remember thinking to myself that my onscreen character had probably died again. I would get that little fucker later.

  I returned my attention to the job at hand.

  “Not so fucking tough now, are you, Rambo?”

  I fought through the pain, my hands going into cramp once more.

  *

  I released my grip from around the neck of the dark haired boy. My heart was still racing, but the boy wasn’t moving. Was he dead?

  You’ve killed him.

  I listened for a breath: nothing. I felt his chest: not a murmur. All I could hear was my own heart, hammering around the room.

  I looked at my hand. It was still bleeding. I hesitated. The weird sensation in my gut was back, sickening and unwholesome. This felt wrong. Why?

  For some reason I found myself looking down at Rambo’s mutilated groin. I emitted a nervous grunt of laughter. What’s this? His penis had gone, and in its place was a pair of girl’s white panties. I stared at his face, and for a second he actually looked like a girl. I stared at the panties again and then at the face. He was a girl. Rambo was gone, and in his place was a young girl. And not only that, she was good looking. How old was she? Eighteen? Fourteen? On thinking this, that unbelievable tingling sensation began to rise in me once more. She had a pretty freckled face. I could feel the lust pumping into my loins, thick and black. And in a flash I knew what I had to do.

  Don’t you dare?

  Oh I have to. I must. I must cum, cum all over that freckled face.

  Leave her alone!

  I whipped out my cock and stood over her dead body. I started the masturbate as hard as I could, pulling back my foreskin to the point where it hurt, and then with an unbelievable shudder I shot my load all over her freckled features. I massaged my hand slowly back and forth trying in vain to maintain that unbelievable sensation. But it was no use. The rush was gone.

  Let me go. I can’t take anymore of this. Please let me go.

  Chapter 12

  The Wraith

  “Help me. Please God, help me.”

  My eyes were swimming in darkness. In the distance I could hear muted cries. Where was I? I couldn’t see a thing. And then I remembered.

  In a flash I threw myself out of bed and staggered over to where I thought the door to be. I scrambled for the handle, fear and indignation rushing through me. For some odd reason I still had the notion in my head that she was milking this just a little bit.

  That all ended the moment I got to her bedroom.

  I stood in the corner of the room just staring at my mum. I felt completely helpless. There was nothing I could do here. This was one problem I wasn’t going to be able to fix.

  “Where were you?” she hissed, uncharacteristically. “I’ve been calling you for hours. I need the toilet.”

  “Hours? I’m sorry. I didn’t hear you.”

  I shook myself out of my shocked stupor and assumed the position, still half asleep. “Are you ready?” I said, less than sympathetic, the old doubt raising its head once more. She nodded painfully.

  “OK. Up we go then.”

  Seething white pain hit my mother’s face as we pushed and pulled her into a sitting position, deep inhalations of breath.

  And then it was over.

  “OK, that’s OK. I’ll be OK now. Just get me my stick, please, and you can go back to bed.”

  I nodded.

  Looking at her, struggling to exist like this, I wondered how the hell the doctors had ever let her out of the hospital in the first place. She had been in the hospital for about a month while they tried to figure out what was wrong with her. Three weeks ago they had decided to let her out, despite my protestations that she wasn’t fit enough to look after herself.

  I lay back in my bed and listened to my mum.

  Is this how all old people end up in the end, I thought to myself? Was it normal to have this much pain? Was it a torn muscle? It had happened right after her picking up a large plant pot, so it could have been a torn muscle. It could be a kidney stone. I froze; my mum was passing the door on her way to the toilet. It was a ghastly sound: a slow shuffling accompanied by repetitive stabs of pained breath.

  Black dots on the bones.

  I shuddered.

  Just then something caught my eye. It was a book lying on the bedside cabinet. Where did it come from? And then I realised what it was: it was the serial killer’s book. I picked it up and turned it over in my hands, utterly bewildered. How the hell did this end up here? The bookmarker was nearly at the end of the book.

  I stopped dead on remembering the dream. I couldn’t actually remember much of the detail, but I knew it wasn’t good, something to do with… killing someone. I cast the book another glance. I was confused. How did the book end up here? I hadn’t seen it since the night of the cat.

  Or had I? For a second I wasn’t sure. Had I read some of it before going to sleep last night?

  I heard the toilet flush.

  I put the book down, but kept my eyes on it.

  The room suddenly felt creepy. The old woman who had lived in the house before my mum had died in this room. She had died of cancer. I got under the covers and pulled them up to my chin. I moved my head towards the door, the ghoulish spectre shuffling past once more.

  “Mum, are you OK?”

  “I’m fine,” she replied, obviously in a great deal of pain. “I’ll just take my pills and then go back to sleep.”

  I quickly threw the covers back and jumped out of bed.

  “Hang on a second. I’m coming. I’ll get them for you, mum.”

  *

  It had been a rough night to say the least, and the morning after wasn’t much better. It had been yet another struggle getting her out of bed. How she had managed to do this on her own was anyone’s guess. I asked her if she had had any accidents due to not getting out of bed on time. “No,” she had laughed. “I’m not incontinent.”

  My phone beeped. It was Karen again. The text simply read: “Hope everything goes OK. X.” I smiled.

  The appointment with my mum’s doctor wasn’t until ten, so we had plenty of time to get ready. I helped her get out of her nightdress and into some clean clothes, which was yet another gruelling task.

  As I did this I attempted to work out how the hell I was going to get her to the hospital. The seat in my car was quite low down, which was going to present my mother with a serious hurdle. If we couldn’t get her into the car then we might have to call an ambulance. I toyed with the idea of calling for one, but then threw it in the bin.

  We were ready much quicker than I expected. I decided to watch the early morning news while my mum sat quietly in her chair, resting. My night had been tough, but my mother’s had been a thousand times worse.

  The news headlines hadn’t changed much. The breakfast program was plastered with interviews and snippets revolving around the priest. It was clear that the press had already convicted the man, despite the rumour that he was now denying he had done it. All the evidence still pointed to the priest’s guilt, though.

  “Have you been following this, mum?”

  I knew the answer to the question even before I had asked it. The only thing my mum watched these days was the television adaptation of Pride and Prejudice, the one with Colin Firth. She was obsessed with it. She must have watched it well over a hundred times. She raised her dosing head for a second and spied the screen through her glasses. She shook her head. I thought about filling her in, but then quickly switched the channel. My mum was a devout Catholic; it would just upset her.

  We decided to make a move at 9 am. This would give us plenty of time to get to the hospital. I can remember the pastel green jacket she wore, slightly too big for her withered frame. It had kept her warm, though.

  It took my mum quite some time
to get to the car. I opened the passenger’s side door and attempted to manoeuvre her into the seat. The first attempt failed miserably due to the fact she was in so much pain. The second attempt started off more promisingly, and we were just at the crucial make or break moment when my phone began to ring.

  I looked at the number, instantly recognising it. “Bollocks to that,” I said, throwing the phone down onto the driver’s seat.

  “Who is it?” my mum asked, pain hitting her face.

  “No one important.”

  I eased my mum into the car. This time I managed to get her into the seat without too much bother.

  “Are you OK?” I asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Just be a minute.”

  I ran back to lock the front door before rushing to the driver’s side of the car. I was just opening the door when the phone began to ring again. I reached out and grabbed my seat belt with one hand, the phone with the other. I looked at the number. “Hang on a minute, mum. I’ll just answer this.”

  “Hello, Peter Murphy speaking.”

  “Good morning to you. Steven Thomas here. And how are you this fine morning?”

  I sighed deeply. “Not too good, actually. Look could I phone you back?”

  “Not to worry, I’ll only take a moment of your time.”

  I nodded impatiently into the phone.

  “Have you read any more of the book?”

  “The book? Yes, yes, I’ve found it.” I said this quickly in an attempt to cut the conversation short. “I’ll get it to you as soon as…”

  “But have you read it?”

  “No… or at least, I don’t think so.”

  Steven laughed heartily down the line. I held the phone away from my ear, the laughter a tad too overbearing for my eardrum.

  “Look, I need to go.”

  “I heard you the first time. I need to ask you a favour. Could you get the book back to me today?”

  “Sorry, I can’t.”

  The line fell silent.

  “I’m sorry, but can I talk to you about this later?”

  “Hmm… this presents me with a slight problem. I need to head back to London tonight, you see.” I cast my mum an apologetic look. “I need you bring the book round to me by nine o’clock tonight.”

  I sighed deeply. I couldn’t be bothered explaining to him why that wasn’t going to happen. But I knew I was going to have to.

  “I’m sorry, but I’m not even in Glasgow. I’m in Dumfries.”

  “Dumfries? I know it well. It’s not too far away if I remember my Scottish geography. You could get back here in just over an hour. I’m sure your mum could manage by herself for an afternoon.”

  I moved the phone away from my ear and stared at it incredulously. I shook my head. “I don’t think I’m explaining myself very well,” I said, curbing my growing anger. “My mum is very ill. I can’t leave her alone. You’re going to have to wait for your book. I’ll send it to you.”

  More silence.

  “I’m Sorry, I need to go.”

  “No, it’s me who’s sorry.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I’m sorry… sorry for what I’m about to do.”

  This time it was me who fell silent.

  “I don’t… understand.”

  “If you don’t have that book back to me, by nine o’clock tonight, I’m going to have to take action.”

  I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. “Sorry?”

  “If you don’t get that book back to me tonight then I’m going to have to inform your neighbour, and your lovely wife, what happened to the cat.”

  “I’m… taking my mum, to the hospital,” I stuttered, slowly. “She’s very ill. Surely you understand?”

  “You have until nine o’clock tonight. I’ll text you the address. I expect you to be there with the…”

  I pressed the cancel button, cutting him off in mid sentence. I was furious.

  “What’s wrong, Pete? Is something the matter?”

  “No. Nothing’s the matter,” I replied, slamming my gear stick into reverse. “Absolutely nothing.”

  *

  The hospital had no parking spaces. I finally decided to park my car on a double yellow line right outside the hospital reception. To hell with them, this was an emergency.

  The task of getting her into the hospital was far from pain free. Finding my mum a wheelchair was a nightmare, but I managed to get one in the end. I think we only sat in the reception for about two minutes, which was a blessing.

  The appointment had been for her kidney stones, but I quickly shifted the conversation to the bone scan. I had to be careful about it, though. I didn’t want my mum to know that I knew the scan was back. The consultant was a nice guy. He quickly turned to his PC to accommodate my concerns.

  “Actually,” he said, examining his files. “The scans are back.”

  I nodded with anticipation.

  The consultant picked up his phone and started to dial. “I’m just going to give them a call to get some more information.” He then proceeded to talk to someone in Carlisle hospital, the doctor responsible for the scan I presumed.

  He put the phone down.

  “OK. Mrs Murphy. It appears that the scans have come back positive for Paget’s.”

  “What’s that?” I asked.

  “It’s a chronic disorder that results in the enlargement of the bones. The scan is showing up a number of patches on the bones that could be down to this. The patches are about the size of two pence pieces. This is what’s been causing all the pain. I see they have been giving you Morphine.”

  “Yes,” I quickly replied. “It hasn’t been helping her that much.”

  “No, it wouldn’t. Morphine has no effect on this disease. If it does indeed prove to be Paget’s then there are drugs we can give your mum to alleviate the pain.”

  “Is it curable?”

  “At this stage in the game, not entirely, but you would be able to live with the symptoms, Mrs Murphy.”

  I could feel the stress dropping off of me. Relieved, I looked at my mum, but her expression hadn’t changed one bit. She looked like she was in agony.

  “Mum,” I said, casting the doctor a quick look. “I know you don’t want this, but we need to ask the doctor here to keep you in for a while.” I turned to face him.

  “I think that would be best,” he added. “Until we get the pain under control.”

  Not surprisingly my mum was beyond caring. She just wanted the pain to stop.

  My phone beeped. Shit, I had forgotten to switch it off. I fumbled in my pocket, smiling apologetically at the doctor. On switching it off, I noticed the number. It was from Steven Thomas.

  *

  So it’s Paget’s. I don’t really know what Paget’s is but at least it’s not cancer. I closed the door, no Lucy to greet me. Not a good sign. Lucy used to be at the front door the moment you drove up the driveway, but not anymore. I walked into the room to see her lying on the living room rug. She didn’t even raise her head. Her eyes just stared up at me, her jaw resting on her paws, her body huddled in a half moon.

  Poor beast. She didn’t deserve any of this.

  I looked around the sleeping room. Everything was so still, like an old photograph. I returned my gaze to the dog. She was lying on a pink rug, which in turn was lying on a pink carpet right at the foot of a pink settee. Glasgow University graduation photos were hanging on the main wall behind her: one of my dad in the sixties, black and white, and two of me. I cast my eye over all the ornaments; by God she didn’t half have a lot of ornaments: Lladro, Hummel, Pendelphin rabbits, they commandeered every space going. She had too many ornaments. It had gotten to the point where I had simply refused to buy her them anymore. “What would you like for Christmas?” I would ask her.

  “Hmm… Let me see… I could do with another rabbit?”

  “Mum! Haven’t you got enough rabbits? Where’re you going to put another Rabbit?” My mother would give me that sheepish, in
nocent look of hers.

  “Material illusions, all,” I would sarcastically add. “For you do know you can take them with you, when you go; you do know that, don’t you?” A cruel stab at her precious Catholic faith.

  No, I was done with buying her ornaments. I scanned the eclectic collection; eBay fodder, every last one. Well except maybe one. On the mantelpiece sits our guardian angel, the heart of our family. It is a statue of Our Lady with child: the Flower Madonna, duck egg blue, Hummel, just under a foot in height. A work of art, it has been sitting on my parents’ mantle piece all my life. It was given to my mum by my dad’s mum. A thank you for what she was about to do. If nothing else I would keep that.

  My God, what was I thinking? She wasn’t even dead yet and here I was dividing up her goods. I came to a standstill in the middle of the room. What am I going to do without my mum? What am I going to do without my home?

  Stop it. Not an issue anymore. It’s Paget’s.

  I walked over to the telly and switched it on, banishing the thoughts from my head. Lying beside the TV was my XBOX 360. I would feed the dog and then have a couple of games of Call of Duty. I could do nothing more now. My mother was in the best place for her.

  Or was she?

  On leaving the consultant we had gone up to the ward. Thankfully a bed had been available right away. I stayed with her for a couple of hours, but had to leave after almost losing it with one of the nurses. On asking the nurse why they were still giving her Morphine, she had said that they hadn’t seen the bone report yet. This had sent me off on one. They hadn’t seen the bone report yet? I had seen the fucking bone report, three hours previous. It was sitting on the consultant’s desk down stairs? How difficult was it to pick up a report and walk up three flights of fucking stairs, or use the fucking phone for that matter? Morphine did nothing for this disease, that’s why she was in so much pain. And yet, because they hadn’t had the report officially back yet, they were still giving her Morphine. The poor woman was in agony.

  Before leaving her, my mum had convinced me to go back to Glasgow. My family needed me, she had said; and as much as I hated work, I had to write that bloody presentation. My mum’s next-door neighbour was going to look after the dog – a blessed relief. Lucy hated the pound, which was where she had ended up during my mum’s previous lengthy stays in the hospital. The neighbour would come in three times a day, feed Lucy and take her for a walk.