Sound of Madness
and
High Octane Damnation
Brett Williams
This edition copyright 2013 by Brett Williams
BrettWilliamsFiction.com
[email protected]
Published by Zoe Books
This story is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to persons, places, or events is purely coincidental.
Sound of Madness
He inhaled deeply, filling his lungs with glorious smoke. The scent of the recently spent match lingered in the air. A cigarette, Carl Stanton thought, really hit the spot after another back-breaking day of construction work. But not nearly as good as the beer he had drank at Tressa Gilford's place on his way home. Ice cold and dripping wet right out of the cooler. So wet the can seemed to perspire. Nearly as wet as Tressa herself. Wet, willing, ready.
She wasn't anything special. But it didn't matter. A nice diversion, nonetheless. Anything but go home.
So he stood there, just outside his house, looking through the trees at the surface of the lake, eyes unconsciously focused on the cool waves rippling in the moonlight. All around cicadas buzzed. A dulcet tone rode their thrum, a feminine octave that reminded him of the opera, with its sorrowful melodies and eerie crescendos. Not that he had ever been to the opera. Hell no. However, he knew those fat bitches could belt out a tune if need be. It wasn't his thing; he preferred Waylon Jennings. Yet he found himself soothed by the sound.
Carl didn't remember when he had started listening. Most nights after work, though. A few weeks ago perhaps? He probably hadn't even noticed the song (a song?) at first. He had just delayed going inside, most likely. Now he could pick it out from the plethora of insect noise. Perhaps the sound had grown louder. Or gotten closer.
Not until Carl finished his smoke did the racket inside the house break him out of his daze. The racket being his wife yelling at their son.
Carl flicked the smoldering butt to the ground. He mashed it flat with a boot, heading inside. He gnashed his teeth and reflexively formed fists as he stormed through the front door.
The chaos of a blaring TV, spent soda cans (generic black cherry cola), an empty potato chip bag laying crumpled on the coffee table, crumbs sprinkling the carpet, and a lazy-ass kid sprawled out on the couch greeted him when he entered. Unfinished homework littered the room.
“What the hell is this?” Carl shouted at the teen. “I bust my ass all day, and then I have to come home to this shit?” His son's shocked expression raised his hackles. How could the boy be so surprised by this reaction? A split second later, the boy merely shrugged. “I asked you a goddamn question. Turn down that TV.”
In from the kitchen scurried Annabelle Stanton, the missus. Worry riddled her face. “Now Carl, Billy was just fixing to straighten up. Weren't you, Billy?”
“Yes, ma—”
“The hell you were! You don't do shit unless someone tells you to. Then you just ignore what you've been told until it's been repeated.”
“Honest, dad...”
“Honest, dad,” Carl mocked. “Get moving, then, boy.”
But before the kid could pry himself off the couch, his mother began gathering up soda cans. “I've got it, dear. You just relax. I'm sure you've ... had a long day...” The look she gave Carl implied she knew better. Well, he thought, if he didn't have to come home to this shit, he wouldn't be off gallivanting around dipping his wick. “There's beer in the fridge,” she said. ”Want me to get you one?”
Maybe she wasn't completely worthless. “Just clean this place up. Goddamn. I'll get it myself.”
“Dinner will be ready soon.”
Yeah, he could smell it: beans and cornbread. Not his favorite.
The boy started collecting his homework papers as Carl stomped into the kitchen. She must have made a trip into town earlier today, he mused, noticing a new case of beer waiting in the fridge. The beer was plenty cold. Not as cold as the beer at Tressa's, but it would do. It would have to.
He sat down at the kitchen table, relieving his weary legs. The beer seemed bitter—cheap, of course—much like his life. How had it come to this? Annabelle had been a looker in high school. Fun in the sack. Now she cooked shitty food and doted on that worthless kid of hers. She was a fat bitch and a lazy fuck. She would suck his dick if he made her. But without her enthusiasm, he rarely saw the point. Not when Tressa was available.
He took another gulp to wash away his disappointment, ran fingers through his oily hair, and tried tuning out the clatter from the front room.
Outside, the cicadas thrummed. Oh so faintly the elusive song tickled his ear. Never before had he listened from inside the house. Always there was too much noise—the family. Not that he sought out the sound; typically he tuned out the outdoorsy white noise. However, not tonight.
Tonight the song mourned for him with weeping passages, tempting timbre, and a cadence that urged him to action. Carl finished his beer then grabbed another from the fridge, stopping only to remove his denim jacket, as if finally deciding to stay. He draped it over the chair back. Halfway through the can Annabelle hurried in, disrupting the soothing melody.
“Heavens, dear, I hope the cornbread didn't burn. I'm so sorry about Billy. We had a talk. It won't happen again. He's going to do better...” she trailed off, opening the oven, pulling out cornbread. It hadn't burned, but a dark brown crust covered its top. It would be hard and dry. Usually, Carl's apathy would reign, however, tonight her disruption of the melody—her intrusion—stoked the fury in his belly. An ulcerous fire flared, fueled by alcohol, unhappiness, and perhaps a splash of hate, the most dangerous type of accelerant.
“I don't want to hear it,” Carl barked. “Just get the food on the table so I can put something in my stomach. I haven't ate since noon.”
“Well, if you hadn't—a” Annabelle stopped herself mid-sentence.
“If I hadn't what?” Carl growled.
“If you hadn't...” her voice cracked, “had to work so late.”
“That's how construction goes sometimes,” Carl lied. A lie she obviously saw straight through. If she called him on the deception... well, she best watch her tongue. That kid had set him on edge; he wasn't in the mood. Every day, it seemed, putting up with the family sapped more of his soul. If that kid didn't stop freeloading and start carrying his own weight...
Damn it, just walking away, never coming home again grew more tempting every single day. Then again, why should he be the one to have to leave? After all, they were the ones who sucked away life's little pleasures. Perhaps not all pleasures—he still had beer, still had Tressa. Lord, he just wanted to relax. Going to bed early tonight might not be such a bad idea. Just lie there listening to the night sounds, drift off to sleep... Dream of a better life. He could stop by Tressa's again tomorrow. This time he would stay longer, not rush straight home after sex. Maybe even tell Annabelle they were working in Poplar Bluff. She would never know. The construction crew Carl worked for did jobs not only in Stoddard county but the surrounding counties as well. Lately, construction work in southeast Missouri was hard to come by. The crew took what jobs they could to keep busy. Luckily, the son-of-a-bitch managing the place knew his business. Not that it made him any less of a cocksucker, but it kept Carl working and food on the table.
“Pass the taters,” Billy said, snapping Carl back to attention.
“Don't let them get cold,” Annabelle said.
After spooning a healthy dollop onto his plate, Carl passed Billy the bowl. Carl had opened another can of beer for supper. The comfortable numbness of the alcohol felt good.
They ate in relative silence, Billy eating plenty and fast before asking to be excused. Carl didn't care. Good riddance. The boy's mother had to remi
nd the kid to clear his dishes from the table, which severely irked him, which, in turn, infuriated Carl.
Finally the boy left.
“That kid's gone as soon as he hits eighteen—maybe sooner.”
“You don't really mean that, Carl. It's just the beer talking.”
“No, it's not the beer talking. Goddamn. Why do you have to start with me each and every night?”
For a moment Annabelle hesitated. Then, unable to restrain herself, his wife said, “Why can't you come home to me, instead of her?”
“Her?”
“Don't lie to me, Carl. I don't know who she is, but I know what she is—”
“Bullshit. I don't have to listen to this.”
“I can see it in your eyes, Carl. I know the signs. Good heavens. I can smell her perfume. I...” Annabelle, head hung low, placed her utensils on her plate. She rose to clear the table.
For a long moment silence infringed. Carl turned to gaze out the window, longing to be far, far away, but the interior light reflecting back against the glass blocked his escape. Instead, the siren song found him.
You don't have to live this way. You create your own destiny. Be free, be happy. I want you to, it seemed to say.
Tears burst from Annabelle's eyes.
Carl's nerves went electric, started to ache. Damn it, he didn't need to see this shit. He stood, intending to leave his plate and head upstairs.
Her eyes locked with his. She said in a grating tone, “Ain't I good enough? I can please you. You don't need that bitch—”
Fury flared. Out swung Carl's arm. The back of his hand smashed across Annabelle's face, sending her flying back. Cocking a fist, he followed her as she fell. She skidded across the linoleum floor, banged her head on the cabinet door.
“No, you ain't good enough.” He punctuated the statement with a punch to her face. “I don't need you.” He punched with his left. “Or that goddamn kid.” Connected with the right. “I'll fuck who I want, when I want, and you can't say shit about it.” He kicked her in the gut. “Now leave me the fuck alone.” He grabbed another beer from the fridge. He stomped out of the kitchen, past the boy and the again-blaring TV, down the hallway to their bedroom, his head beginning to throb.
# # #
Carl, showered and head buzzing, lay on the bed thinking to hell with CSI tonight, he didn't feel like fooling with the kid. The damn boy would be glued to the TV set, probably watching gansta rap videos or some shit. Why in the world white boys would want to watch nigger women shaking their big black asses to jungle music was beyond him. He could kick the boy away from the TV, of course, but then he would just have to watch TV with the old lady.
Fuck that.
Instead he stared at the ceiling, moonlight seeping through the windows, listening to chirping crickets.
She asked for it, he thought. Wanted it. She knew what happened when she gave him any sass. Damn her for making him teach her a lesson. Was a little peace and quiet too goddamn much to ask for? Apparently so.
Audibly, he exhaled...
The lullaby easily found him. It caressed his mind. It soothed his soul. Tense muscles loosened. The fog in his head began to clear. He felt the corners of his mouth curl up. Although inside, the song sounded as clearly as it had earlier from outside. Again, its volume must have increased. Or, perhaps, its proximity.
As he listened his eyelids grew heavy. Thoughts of Annabelle and Billy and the room he rested in faded away... Before him knelt Tressa, lips sealed around his member, eyes locked with his, a grin forming on her face. Her fingertips magically teased his scrotum. In the background a voice sang to him, not with words but with undulating melodies.
I kneel before you resigned to your domination. To service you. For your pleasure pleases me.
Yes. Yes, indeed.
She accepted him whole.
You are the provider, the master. To you I succumb. Your will shall I heed.
She sucked him in several times before, suddenly, a vague figure, a woman, someone shadowy and undefined, replaced Tressa. The woman, however, did not kneel before him. Instead she hid in a corner—the corner of a room familiar to him, but one he could not recall. She sat, knees to her breast, head buried in her hands. From her lips poured the song.
When I falter I shall endure your wrath. Only then shall I learn my place. And only then shall I find happiness. For I come to you willful of your needs. Through your wisdom I shall know my station.
Her hands slid away and, Carl could see, great bruises and puffy eyes marked her body. She wept, her tears muting her features such that they could not be distinguished. For some reason Carl had unleashed his wrath upon this stranger.
She smiled up at him. Surreal. Grinning down at her, he flexed his fingers in anticipation of fists. Her smile widened as a ruckus broke out all around him. Fists formed, Carl glanced about for the source of the disturbance. As he searched the noise grew louder. Then something slapped wetly against the wall. It began to beat repeatedly from outside, as if sparing for attention with the mysterious racket inside. Louder yet, the song wailed.
I need direction. I need your violent affection. Give me your guidance. Show me now—!
“—gee, Mom, I know. Why won't you leave me alone!”
Carl shot up in bed. Around him the room spun. How long had he been asleep? Minutes? Hours? Acid burned in his chest. It surged in his throat. Not long. Not nearly fucking long enough. He ran fingers through his shower-damp hair, tempted to pull clumps out in the process.
A loud slap, one just like in the dream, sounded at the window, daring to shatter it. The lullaby screeched to crescendo, then quickly fell away, replaced by:
“Don't you sass me, young man!”
Carl bolted for the door, nearly stumbling in the process. He was dressed only in tight, white skivvies. He could hear Annabelle whacking the kid just outside his bedroom door.
“Now you've done it,” Annabelle cried, undoubtedly hearing Carl's approach.
“Stop, Mom!”
The kid lashed out, as sometimes kids do, Carl witnessed as he flung open the bedroom door. The boy slapped his mother across the face.
“Goddamn it, boy!”
Carl stepped between the pair. He turned his attention to the boy. Without thinking, his fist connected with the boy's face. He knocked him from the hallway into the trash pit the boy called his room. In a flash Carl followed the kid in, following up with another punch. Then another. Blood sprayed from his son's nose while desperate hands shot up to ward off the attack. The boy stumbled, nearly collapsing.
“Stop! You're going to hurt him!”
Hands tugged at Carl’s shoulder, trying feebly to pull him away.
Damn straight he was going to hurt him. He planned to teach that lazy kid to respect his elders.
“Stop it now! Carl!”
“Shut the hell up.” Swinging back an arm, he struck Annabelle in the head, forcing her away.
With his right hand, he grabbed the boy by the hair.
“No, please, don't.”
Carl's heart burned with anger. He could taste it boiling up into his mouth. The acrid taste only registered for a moment before he rammed the kid headfirst into a wall. The wall caved from impact. Carl rammed him again and again until his arm grew tired and Annabelle's screams pierced his ears. When he let go Billy fell to the floor, limp, chest gently rising and falling with waning breath.
“Now look what you've done.” Annabelle, keeping her distance, went to her child's side. She fell to her knees crying. The house grew quiet, save for her uncontrollable sobs. Even the insects outside seemed to hush.
Very faintly Carl could hear the song begin again.
Teach me. The boy is lost, but not me. Don't fail me now.
“What are we going to do?” Annabelle murmured. “We have to take him to a hospital. Oh my Lord. We'll tell them it was an accident. We'll say he fell. We'll... we'll...”
The soothing melody drowned out his wife's voice as he strode dow
n the hall. It led him, with its cadence, marching through the house, out the back door, where the tempo increased to match his thundering heart. Following it to the tool shed, Carl kicked open the door. He barely skipped a beat. Inside he found the axe hanging from a pair of rusty nails. He snatched it from its perch and left the building, back in rhythm with the escalating pace.
Carl accelerated to the house. By the time he realized he was racing down the hall he could barely stop in time.
Annabelle, screaming, jumped clear.
Carl, wielding the handle in both hands, feet firmly planted, swung the axe. It whistled in harmony with the song still playing in his head. His drumming heart accompanied the piece, a progression of anger.
The blade sank deep in the boy's chest with a solid smack. Blood sprayed across the refuse filling the room: video game magazines, dirty clothing, school books, candy wrappers, various Pokemon trading cards, and his mother's cotton-white pajama pants as she stood clear of the vicious weapon. More blood splattered Carl's own bare legs as he stepped on the still spasming body to pull free the weapon. More blood splashed the walls and his body as he swung again and again and again, until the music finally stopped, leaving Carl gasping for breath.
Carl looked up from the boy's bloody remains and snarled at his wife. He raised the axe threateningly. Fear shone in her eyes. Annabelle shivered uncontrollably. Tears poured down her face. Her teeth chattered.
Through gritted teeth, Carl said: “If you ever think of saying anything to anyone about tonight, you'll be next.”
Annabelle shook her head. No, she would never breathe a word.
Suddenly the axe felt heavy. Carl let the weighted end loudly drop to the floor. He grabbed the boy's ankle with his free hand. He then dragged both the body and the tool through the house, out the front door. Several times the body hit a snag, the door frame, a tree root, weeds or a bush. Finally Carl stood beside the lake in the bright moonlight. The insects had quieted, all melodic tones vanished, even the water stood still—until he started to chuck piece after piece of his son's body far out into the lake. The axe further proved its worth in chopping the body into fist-sized portions to feed the fish.
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