Between The Cracks and Burning Doors
Book 2 of The Extraction List Series
Renee N. Meland
QUANDARY HILL PUBLISHING
All rights reserved.
Copyright © 2014 by Renee N. Meland
Cover Art by Nathalia Suellen
Edited by Andrew Wetzel of Stumptown Editorial
Formatting by Polgarus Studio
First Ebook Edition: July 2014
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance of characters to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. No part of this work may be reproduced in any form without the express consent of the author.
For more information: http://www.reneenmeland.wordpress.com
Between the Cracks and Burning Doors
Book 2 of The Extraction List Series
ISBN 978-0-9960029-6-7 (print)
ISBN 978-0-9960029-7-4 (ebook)
For all the authors who inspire me every day, through their work and their sense of community
“There are certain events in your life that are markers, and when they arrive, there are no longer days, weeks, or even years: only the before, and the after.”
-Cain Foley
CHAPTER ONE
The first time I killed someone, it was an accident. Though I guess it was the kind of accident that happens when you squeeze your hands around someone’s neck for too long, or when you shove someone standing too close to the edge of a building. For my first kill, I accidentally killed my father when I beat him to death with a pipe.
He had set me up that night, I’m sure of it. I was always careful to leave the TV volume down so I wouldn’t be caught. But when I flipped the power on that night, the news roared. The woman I wanted to see was there, giving a speech like always, but her voice came out with the force of thunder.
Sweat drenched my body when I heard the door from my parents’ upstairs bedroom fly open and hit the wall. The foundation shook and so did my limbs. I sat frozen in a seated position as I heard his footsteps. All I could focus on was his shiny patent leather shoes coming toward me. Even in the middle of the night, he took the time to slip them on.
I could smell him before I even saw his feet. He constantly stunk of mouthwash and old cologne; it was some putrid mix of sandalwood and beach vacations that we would never take. He cackled as he stepped toward me, so the minty air from his breath reached me before his hand did.
I felt my head hit the floor before I felt the familiar sting in my cheek. “You’re so stupid. You really think you’ll ever leave here? Where do you think you’re going to go, huh? You need me. She hasn’t come for you and she never will!” He kicked me in the side with his foot. My stomach clenched from the impact.
I usually kept quiet when he hit me. At most, I would agree with whatever he was saying to stop him before he did real damage.
It never worked.
No matter what I said, or didn’t say, the blows would keep coming. My mother was always conveniently upstairs, but no one can tell me she couldn’t hear the snap of his belt or the furniture rattle as he shoved me into it.
That night was different. Maybe it was watching the woman from the television, or maybe it was the way his smile stretched across his face as he struck me, I don’t know. But when he was finished and heading back upstairs, I spat towards him.
My cheeks burned as I did it. In fact, my whole body felt like it was on fire. But I’d be lying if I said I wished I could take it back. Even when he turned, eyes wide when he noticed the wad of saliva glistening on the concrete floor, I didn’t regret it one bit.
I may have even cracked a smile.
He charged toward me, and I could see the brand name on the scuffed shoe sole as it slammed down against my rib cage. Over and over again, a foot almost as big as my torso stomped into me. I could feel some ribs start to snap in two, like an oak being torn apart by an earthquake. Then the blows came down on my head.
When stars started to fill my eyes, I realized one thing: if I didn’t stop him, he was going to kill me. The last thing I would see before my eyes shut forever would be the cold gray of the basement floor.
That’s when I noticed the pipe on the basement floor, the silver of it gleaming dully in the dim overhead light, waiting for me to notice it. There seemed to be no other reason for this object to be within my grasp at that moment.
Fueled only by adrenalin and the will to live, I reached for it.
I only managed to hit his knee at first, but it was a clean hit. He wailed as he went down, landing hard and clutching the injured knee to his chest. “I’m going to kill you, you little shit. I’ll kill you for this.”
Now, he was the one dripping with sweat. Now, his cheeks flushed red with mortal fear.
I lifted myself off the ground. I can’t be sure the grin that he had on his face every time he beat me didn’t slip across my own. I hovered over his broken body. I swung the pipe down on his other knee and could hear the cartilage shatter.
The sound of it rang through my ears with the sweetness of a long-forgotten lullaby.
His voice seemed to echo from a distant place as I struck him again, this time in the ribs. I didn’t wait to gauge the impact. It could have been two more strikes or a thousand; I’ll never know.
I didn’t hear his next words—which may have just been screams, I can’t be sure—because as he started to crawl away, I caved his head in with one final blow to the temple.
He didn’t rise again. I was alone with the silence and the blood dripping from the pipe down to my fingertips.
Then I was the one that started screaming.
There used to be this blonde woman on television. She would later change the world, but for now, let’s start with her changing my life. When I was still living with my parents in a suburb of Washington, D.C., she would come on the television and talk about the state of our country. While staring out through the television with a look of strength and sympathy, she’d tell us about gangs roaming the streets and how the gang members were getting younger and younger.
The one that killed her kid was younger than I was.
She would point her slender finger at the screen, and look directly at me through the camera. She told anyone who tuned in that since the economy crashed and all the businesses went overseas, parents were never home because they were constantly trying to find ways to make money…and their kids were paying the price. Those kids weren’t getting the love and the guidance they needed from their parents, so they were turning to older gang members for comfort and affection. They would put their arms around these children and promise them a family…if they’d only help out a little. Every night on the news, they showed footage of kids smashing store windows and grabbing whatever was on display, or pointing a gun in a woman’s face as they snatched her purse. The woman on the screen promised that one day, with the help of a bill she was trying to get passed, she would rescue all the children from parents who couldn’t be bothered to look after their children. She would take the children to a magical place, far away from gangs and criminals, where they would be happy and loved. She promised that the children would be healed from their horrible upbringings and go on to be whatever they dreamed they could be.
Sounds stupid now, but in my dreams she arrived at my doorstep in one of those chariots used back in ancient Rome, flanked by men on giant black horses. She would politely knock on our door and inform my parents that she had come for me and that I would be leaving with her forever. And if they tried to stop her? Those men on black horses would do th
e rest.
So I waited. Every night I would sneak downstairs to our basement to watch for the pretty blonde woman on the TV, hoping that when she spoke she would give me some clue as to when she would come to take me away. I wanted my turn to come more than anything.
Sometimes, during dinner, my father would turn on the TV and the pretty blonde woman would be giving a speech on the early news. He used to laugh at her. He used to laugh at the angel who had promised to rescue me someday. As he spoke, I would stare down into my noodles and take my anger out on an unsuspecting piece of broccoli, stabbing it with my fork until it was green pulp. “Who does this woman think she is? Who is she to say who can raise children and who can’t? It’ll never work. This whole Parental Morality Law, it’ll never see the light of day.” Afterwards, he would come over to me and, of all things, ruffle my hair with his hand. Almost like he loved me. “Don’t worry, Cain, you aren’t going anywhere. Look.” He pointed at the screen, which displayed the “criteria” that made a good parent. “I hit every one of those. She’s never coming for you, not ever.” And then he would grin, and his perfect teeth would glisten in the light of our dining room, where I sat speechless. “Now get to your room.”
After he and my mother went to bed, I would make my move, tiptoeing down to the basement where I could watch the woman on the ten o’clock news without interruptions. The basement was ice cold, but I didn’t care. I threw a dusty brown blanket over my shoulders and flipped on the switch.
That night changed everything.
The pipe fell from my trembling hand, but I couldn’t hear it land on the floor over my screams. Dust came up in waves, and I remember it clinging to my lungs as I gasped for air.
No one tells you this, but you know when someone’s dead. There’s no need to check a pulse or watch for an exhalation; just being human means you know. You look into a person’s face and they’re just gone. All that’s left is a dullness in their eyes where their soul used to be. Instead of reflecting a person, it’s just natural moisture gleaming in the light before it’s dried up forever.
I didn’t know that though, so I shook my father as hard as I could. I ignored the fact that his head was caved in and the bones in his legs had ripped through his skin. I begged him to wake up. I even tried to negotiate, telling him I promised to be good and that I’d never watch the woman on the TV again. I’d do whatever he wanted as long as he woke up.
I was still bartering with him when my mother arrived at the bottom of the stairs. “What have you done? Oh my God, Cain, what have you done?” Her tired, cracked hands fell across her face.
She just looked at him, not daring to touch him. I don’t know why but I had expected some sort of sentiment. I had expected her to close his eyes with the tips of her fingers. I had expected her to lay down with him and pretend he could still hold her in his arms.
Instead, she turned to me. “Go. You have to go. You have to get out of here right now.” She glanced over at the pipe. “I’ll take care of this. You have to go. Grab your backpack and take some food from the kitchen. You have to leave and never come back, do you understand?”
I stared at her. I remember trying to force my mouth to open, to let out some brilliant words that would make the whole thing rewind itself so we could go back to the before. But instead, I said nothing at all. There are certain events in your life that are markers, and when they arrive, there are no longer days, weeks, or even years: only the before, and the after.
I felt her hands tighten around my shoulders. She shook me hard, harder than I had been shaking my father’s corpse. “Listen to me, you have to go. They cannot find you. If they find you, they’ll lock you up. Go!” She shoved me toward the stairs. I took them two steps at a time, and I didn’t turn around.
The rain plummeted down in sheets that night. My backpack rested tightly on my shoulder blades, and the weight of it made me feel as though I was sinking into the sidewalk. I had thrown in every can of food I could find. The rain dripped down through my shirt and the cloth rubbed my skin raw as I walked to nowhere.
It was typical that my mother would send me away in the middle of the night; she was always a useless coward. I wondered if she’d even bury my father. It wouldn’t have surprised me in the least if after I left she had just walked back upstairs and locked the door, leaving the problem there on the floor and hoping it would just rot away. Or maybe she’d taken off in her car, halfway to another state by now, driving away from the inconvenience of having a son who snapped on her watch. Maybe our house was sitting there empty, every dish, every stick of furniture still in its place, waiting for someone to bring the house to life again. Because if she stayed, she’d have to admit that she could have stopped the situation before it got so far beyond repair.
The streets were barren until I wandered into what my mom called the “bad” part of town. Most people didn’t dare go out at night anymore, but the “bad” neighborhood was lively. There was a bar on every corner, and people who looked like they hadn’t bathed in years were leaning against their walls, smoking cigarettes that they bought in place of food. The sound of the ash escaping their lips hovered in the air. Music boomed against the walls of the bars I ran past, but all I could make out was the bass.
I stood up straight, ignoring the stabbing pain in my ribs. Of course, the few people who saw me were probably wondering what a young boy was doing outside with a backpack in the middle of the night, but I kept my head held high as if I knew exactly where I was going. I marched with purpose, even when I was walking down an alley behind an old building, all the while sweating with the thought that there might be someone in the darkness waiting for me.
I ducked behind some garbage cans and threw my backpack onto the ground. The street was wet of course, but I was already soaked as I sat on the drenched pavement. My stomach growled as I sat staring at the backpack that held the last of my belongings: corn, beans, tomatoes, soup.
Maybe my mother hadn’t taken off, and was handing the pipe over to the police. She did say she’d take care of it, but she didn’t say how. As I sat there in the alley between a brick wall and garbage cans smelling of half-eaten sandwiches and congealing beer-soaked napkins, I realized that I had just left my fate in the hands of a woman who had watched me suffer for years and done nothing.
Tears fell from my eyes. I scolded myself, told myself I was a weak little boy and to shut up before someone discovered me. I kept my mouth shut but my body shook. I clasped my hands together to try and make it stop but I just kept shaking…until I heard voices from the end of the alley.
From what I could tell, they were all men. I could pick out four of them. One didn’t sound very happy. “Look, why don’t you just come inside. There’s food and water, even clothes. I can help you.”
I heard the familiar sound of flesh hitting flesh, then a thud. I didn’t have to look to know that someone had hit the ground. “Just give us the money. Don’t make us do this.”
Flesh hit flesh again. I slowly got up from my position on the ground and peeked around the garbage cans that hid me. When I saw who was lying on the ground, I felt whatever color was left in my cheeks fade away.
The man on the ground was a priest.
Every Sunday, my mother and father would take me to church. For those two hours every Sunday, I lived without fear of being beaten. I listened to the sermon, hanging on every word. And when I looked at the rest of the congregation, I pretended our family was normal, just one of the many. Church was the only time all week that I breathed easy.
I don’t know where it came from, but I screamed aloud. I yelled despite my cracked ribs and bruised body. “Hey, leave him alone! What’s wrong with you?” Before I could stop myself, my feet were carrying me toward the group of full-grown men. Two of them started to retreat, but one stood his ground.
“Come on, Kyle, he’s seen us. It’s not worth it, let’s go.” His partners were halfway out of the alley, but Kyle stayed.
“Guys, it’s just a kid.�
�� Instead of looking at Kyle, I ran straight for the priest.
My back was facing Kyle. “Are you alright, Father?” The priest started to get up. I felt Kyle move toward me, the soft sound of his feet hitting the earth. I glanced behind me in time to see him draw his fist back.
Before he could follow through, I kicked him in the groin. Hard.
Then Kyle was the one on the ground.
He was down. He wasn’t a danger to the priest anymore.
But he had to be punished.
I kept kicking him. I kicked him in the ribs and in the back, my father’s favorite places to kick me. Over and over again, I felt the impact of my heel against his bones.
When the priest managed to get up, he had to pull me away. “Thank you. You may have saved my life.” I nodded at him numbly. Now that it was over and the men had disappeared into the darkness, I could feel my heart pounding in my chest and the shaking returned. “What are you doing out here? Shouldn’t you be home?”
I shook so hard I couldn’t speak. Just looking at my face, he seemed to know that home wasn’t an option. The priest put his hand on my shoulder. “Come with me.”
The priest helped me down the stone path that led to his church. I could hardly keep my eyes open, but through the slits I saw stars hovering above us. As the door shut behind us, I squinted at them one last time.
Images appeared then flickered away as I forced my eyes open, only to have them fall shut once again. There was a spiral staircase at the back of the church. He let me lean on him while we went past the rows of wooden pews. Blood-red bibles lined the back shelf of each pew. There was nothing else in the church but the crisp white walls and a small stained glass window that hovered above the pulpit. As we ascended the next set of stairs, the stained glass Madonna smiled down at me, as if to say, “Don’t worry, Cain, you’re safe now.”
Between the Cracks and Burning Doors: Book 2 of The Extraction List Series Page 1