A Life of Death: Episodes 1 - 4

by Weston Kincade

  Stepping into the old cemetery was like old times. I was met by the wind as it shuffled through the large oaks that lined the sidewalk. Their limbs rustled in the breeze, giving off a faint hiss of greeting. With the sun still shining above, the place was calm and the polished trunk of my old pine glinted in a wandering ray of sunlight, as though beckoning me onward. I walked over and took the proffered seat at the foot of my father. I sat staring at his headstone for an indeterminable amount of time. It felt right to sit in silence, listening for a whisper of salutation. He greeted me in the usual fashion, saying nothing, but I knew he was there. I always hoped he would speak to me from beyond, but knew it wasn’t possible. If it were, he would have already done so.

  When I knew he was listening, I told him about the odd turn of events with the golden boy. Somehow, speaking it aloud was almost more real than having lived it. I would have to let the events play out and see what happened. However, another problem tickled the back of my tongue, anxious to play across my lips and see what my father thought. It was the sole reason I came and the only thing I would allow to tear me from my brotherly obligations. I leaned forward and broached the topic in a whisper.

  “Dad, I don’t know what to do about the drunk.”

  I told him about my visions and Father Gilbert’s advice. I even told him about Helen’s murder and how it was affecting Abigail and Gloria. They couldn’t live their lives in fear like that, but how could I help them? I had no evidence, but I had to do something. My voice grew stronger as the tale drew on, motivated by anger, pity, and my own helplessness. Leaning back against the tree, I took a deep breath and sorted through my options like they were manila folders, their contents locked until I made my choice. Once chosen, the folder would open up and show me its secrets and the consequences that lay ahead of me. If only it were that easy. Many people would have to live with those consequences.

  The sun roved overhead and I cast out all options, save one. Without evidence, I was at his mercy. Paige said I should wait it out and watch for a mistake, but in all the years I’d known him, the drunk had hardly mentioned the girls’ mother. All proof of her existence had been wiped from their lives. If not for her children, the only person who would know she had even lived was the man who killed her. That man, Steve McCullin, a.k.a. The Drunk, was the only one who could set the record straight, and no sane person would implicate himself. That would be like a drowning man refusing a life-preserver.

  My choice was clear. I had to make him confess, and the one thing that allowed him to perform the dastardly deed might be my greatest advantage. The thought became infectious. My mind whirled with ideas of how to make him talk, but I would have to remain watchful until the opportunity presented itself. As I came out of my mental turmoil, I found the light fading as the sun slid behind the tree line. I wished my father well, my hand lingering on his tombstone for a moment of thanks. With newfound solutions in mind, I strode back toward the rickety trailer, determined to make the drunk pay. A weight had lifted from my shoulders. I had a goal, a destination in life and others to worry about. There was the future of my family to consider, and hope was a glimmer on the horizon.

  I didn’t notice much as I made my way across the train tracks and through the abandoned lots of waist-high grass. My thoughts soared through the clouds in the hope that I might change Abigail and Glory’s fate. Frank might benefit, but I certainly couldn’t think how. He was older than me and so much like his father that it was frightening. I had to try, though. If I could help him learn from his father’s mistakes, then maybe he’d change.

  Simple Mistakes - 14

  I walked up the decrepit steps and stepped into a familiar scene. The drunk and his son were again watching television, canned beverages in hand. The girls were nowhere to be seen. I could feel the blood pulsing through my veins, but I remained composed. I padded through the living room and ignored the drunk’s slurred greeting. As I stepped into the bedroom, I slid the door closed and set my backpack next to the dresser. The man’s muted, intoxicated roars echoed through the thin walls in his normal fashion.

  “Damn kid! Don’t know where his butter’s breaded,” he slurred.

  I chuckled at his mangling of the common phrase. For him to acquire any sense of sobriety that evening would be impossible.

  I set my CD player on the dresser next to my only photo of my father and his purple heart. Aside from the dog tags, his other possessions had either been placed in storage or thrown away. In the photo, his arm was anchored around my throat in a signature wrestling move, but we both turned smiling faces toward the camera. His grizzled, five o’clock shadow stood out in the noonday sun, almost matching the length of his crew cut hair. It was a good day. I remembered it well. It was the day we left on that decisive vacation. The last day of his life.

  The photo was a reminder of how life could be and the task I had ahead. Vivian still wasn’t home and with the drunk in such a state, something might have happened. I turned to check on the girls but had barely taken a step when the drunk’s shouts started again. They were followed by his uncoordinated footsteps jostling the floors. The walls and pictures trembled. I hesitated, then reached for the doorknob. But before I touched it, the door flew open to reveal his wavering form.

  He snarled through clenched teeth. “So you thinks you’s better than me do ya? Too goods to ssssay hey, or even a thank you now and thens.”

  “Nah, I d-didn’t say that,” I stammered. My confidence fled at the unexpected encounter. His gaze wavered as though he had misplaced his focus. I had never seen him this ripped before, not even when he last came after me.

  “The hells you didn’t!” he shouted, shoving me into the room with outthrust hands. The force of his assault threw me into the bed frame.

  “I’m tired of yous comin’ in here oh so la-di-da, as though you owns the place. This ain’t your house. You ain’t paid a cent for it. You and your moms just freeloadin’ on my dimes,” he cried, throwing a fist at my half-healed eye.

  I slapped it away, but more blows followed. His unsteady stance made them unpredictable and savage. I tried to fend him off, but with each strike I inched further beneath him until I had slumped to the floor. My arms suffered the initial onslaught. They felt like tender slabs of meat. As they fell away and revealed my face, he began hammering at anything visible. I shifted away, twisting under him as memories of Helen’s murder flashed through my mind. My eyes eventually settled on the memory of Glory’s innocent face. Anger and frustration stoked the embers burning inside me. Its flames grew and my swollen eyelids parted. I stared at the picture I’d admired only seconds before, sitting on the old dresser. If my father were here, he would never have allowed such a man to do this. He always said, “Treat others as you would have them treat you.” This murderer deserved every bit of what he was dishing out, and more. I willed my hands and fingers to work, clenching fists against my sides. Thoughts of past beatings and the lives he’d destroyed played through my mind. My newfound confidence returned an ounce at a time, and I no longer felt the pain. My body was infused with fury, more potent than any anesthetic.

  I threw my arm wide, and my fist met his sweaty chin with bone crunching rage. The impact startled him. He staggered backward but caught himself on the doorframe. A wide-eyed stare greeted me as realization of what I had done set in. The look turned to a scowl. Then he leapt at me, crushing my chest in his bear-like grip. I reached over the railing and grabbed at the bedspread, clutching for the edge of the mattress, but he held fast. I stretched across the bed, clawing for the bat only inches away, but it might as well have been miles. The drunk locked his hands behind my back and squeezed like a grizzly. My ribs creaked under the pressure and the sound echoed in my ears. The pain was tremendous and diluted my adrenaline rush. I beat his shoulders with my off hand, but it did nothing to deter his wrath.

  I forced myself onto my toes, straining to close the distance. Grabbing a handful of mattress, I pulled closer to the edge. Air was scarce an
d my lungs collapsed under the pressure when my fingers found the ragged edge of a pillowcase. I pulled it closer. My hand closed around the handle. The cold chill of metal drifted through the thin sheet. Lifting it over my head, I brought it down on the drunk’s back with all my might. It landed with a thud. He screamed in pain but only gripped me tighter. My ribs cracked. I shrieked in agony as piercing pain erupted in my chest. Unable to think or breathe, and with stars clouding my vision, I brought the bat up once more and slammed it down. This time, he let out a deep wheeze and moaned into my shirt. He stumbled to his knees. His grip loosened and I seized the opportunity. Pushing him back, I brought my knee up to his chin. He fell backward to the floor like a felled oak and lay gasping for air. He gulped like a fish out of water.

  “What in the world is wrong with you?” I shouted. “What did we ever do to you? What did Glory, Abigail, or even Helen do to deserve this?”

  His eyes were slow to focus, but at some point they found me. I stood over him, demanding answers, the bat hanging from my limp hand. He rolled onto his side and tried to rise but instead fell back to the floor.

  “You ungrateful pansy,” he muttered from his prostrate form. Finding firm enough footing, he lifted himself onto one knee and stared me in the eyes. His were bloodshot and aggravated from the alcohol and rage. “Yous would raise a hand… against me?” he bellowed with rage.

  “Hell yeah, I would!” I shouted, wincing at the pain in my side. Ignoring it, I hefted the bat over my head, prepared for another assault. “Why’d you do it? Why’d you kill her?” His memory of that night came at the mention of her. His eyes seemed to darken and look inward. A tear emerged for an instant.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he retorted, reverting back to his usual self.

  He bounded up from the floor like a cat and lunged at me. I sidestepped him on instinct and brought the bat down. It let out a metallic clang as it glanced off his head and an earthquake rocked the cramped house as he crashed into the dresser. My last framed memory toppled to the floor. My blood found its boiling point that instant. I wanted to swing again, to swing for the stars and hope it was enough to finish him, but I couldn’t. It became hard to breathe and my father sat flat on the carpet, smiling at me. His gaze reminded me of the girls, my responsibilities, and the ultimate price I would pay. I couldn’t do that, no matter what he had done. Besides, my last blow might have killed him. I held back and waited for him to make a move. He did neither. Instead, his intoxicated, muffled voice rose up as though even death had turned a blind eye.

  “I didn’t mean to,” he sobbed. Then his words firmed. “She had it coming, though.”

  Lifting himself from the floor, he turned to me with conflicted eyes. Tears streamed down his maniacal features. He rose in anger, his body trembling, but his eyes were infused with pain and guilt. As he took an aggressive step toward me, I brought the bat down without thinking. He caught the bat in midair. I was stunned, unable to move. With his other hand, he grabbed a handful of my shirt. Jerking the bat away, he threw me across the room. I hit the wall and landed in a crumpled heap. He chuckled as though all sanity had vanished.

  “You’re gonna get what you deserve, you little brat,” he rasped.

  Hefting the bat over his head, he approached me with slow, methodical steps. He relished the moment. What felt like minutes later, the bat swung down on my shoulder. Fire shot through my arm and coursed down my body. Looking into his eyes, hatred greeted me from its nestled resting place. It would linger within him for all eternity, but it was misdirected. It wasn’t a hatred for me that I saw, but contempt for himself and what he had become. It was something inescapable and rooted in his very existence.

  He dropped the bat with two muttered words, “Too easy.”

  Across from me, my father smiled at the ceiling. He wouldn’t have gone down without a fight, I thought. Pushing aside the pain, I forced myself up and stood toe to toe with the large man. My dislodged shoulder refused to move and instead hung limp at my side. He raised his large hands to my neck and encircled my pale throat. Hatred hungered on his face as his lips turned up into a malicious grin. Memories of his attack on Helen flashed before my eyes.

  See you soon, Dad, came my solemn hope as I conceded to the whims of this mad man.

  “Go ahead. Do it,” I commanded. “You know you want to.”

  His smile widened, and his fingers tightened around my throat. His bulbous thumbs massaged my jugular in covetous anticipation.

  “You little leech. You’s gonna get it,” he whispered, engulfing me in his rancid breath.

  The pressure increased. It was much like my earlier visions. The struggle for air became futile and I closed my eyes, succumbing to the gloomy darkness that pervaded my mind. As the flow of black encircling me grew, his fingers began trembling. To my surprise the pressure let up. A second later, it was gone and the man’s doomsday shadow fell away. I sucked in as much air as I could, and found it pleasant. His alcoholic stench had vanished.

  The Power of Regret - 15

  I opened my eyes a slit and was startled by pinpricks of light. A moment later, the room came into focus. Huddled in the corner, between the dresser and my bed, sat a shivering child of a man. The drunk had been reduced to a whimpering baby. I’m not sure how long I stood staring, but it could have been ages. Years passed in a moment, but from the looks of the man before me, I wondered if time had moved forward or back.

  “Why’d you stop?” Pain erupted in my throat, and it hurt to breath. I grimaced as the words left my lips.

  “I c-c-can’t,” he stuttered.

  “You can’t what,” I probed, massaging my inflamed neck.

  “I c-c-can’t do it.”

  Irritated, I ignored the pain and shouted back, “But you did it to Helen! Why’d you kill her?”

  “I didn’t mean to,” he whimpered with a sniffle.

  His words infuriated me further. “You did it though! You killed her!”

  Relenting, he rose from his cradled position and stood at his full height. However, he seemed to have shrunk. His shoulders slumped in abject shame. His gaze met mine, but the rage that filled them before had fled. In its place sat guilt. Years of horror plagued him. The haunting memory sobered him and his slurred speech became almost imperceptible.

  “I can’t escape what I did. It was like waking up from an awful dream, only to find out that it was real. I try to forget it every day, but the beer is never enough. It just hides it enough that I can get through the night.”

  He drifted past me with downcast eyes and disappeared into the hallway. I followed him out and past Frank with his vacant stare. It was as though he’d seen a ghost. By the time I reached the living room, the drunk had taken his seat and popped open another can of beer. His eyes were again glued to the television as though nothing had happened.

  “Why’d you do it?” I repeated.

  After a long swig, he muttered, “Just leave me alone.”

  I slipped back into the shadow-filled hallway, never taking my eyes from the man. He spoke over the roaring silence that had swallowed the hazy room, his murmured words carrying over the television broadcast. “We couldn’t afford her. We just couldn’t afford her.” His words trailed off into the nothingness his life had become.

  Satisfied that that was all he would say, I turned to Frank. He hadn’t moved. I ignored him and stepped past the memories adorning the walls, returning to my room. I reached down to pick up my father’s fallen memorial, but a sudden sharp twinge pierced my shoulder. The hand refused to operate, no matter how much I willed it. I’d once thrown my shoulder out before and knew the familiar pain. Switching hands, I set the portrait back in its rightful place with an affectionate pat. At least it hadn’t been broken in the scuffle.

  I could have gone to the emergency room, but without a car it would have been impossible; not to mention that their past attempts to help had proven futile, especially with Vivian covering for the drunk. I improvised like the
nurse at school had shown me the year before. I stepped up to the oak bed frame, gritted my teeth, and slammed the shoulder against it. The bed lifted off the ground and an explosion of white lights burst into my vision as bones flexed, shifted, and then realigned. The lancing pain lasted only a moment. A swift tingling sensation mingled with the ache before becoming a dull throb. I wiggled my fingers and flexed my arm.

  Feeling somewhat better, I retrieved a few aspirin from the bathroom before rolling back into the top bunk. I waited for the front door to announce Vivian. The drunk had obviously fallen asleep in the living room, his feet likely propped in the comfortable lounge chair. His solitary snores echoed through the trailer’s walls. Frank was nowhere to be seen and was probably still watching television in the living room, as usual.

  After the better part of an hour, the creak of dry, aging hinges alerted me to Vivian’s entrance. She drifted through the home like a shadow so as not to wake anyone. I watched as she slipped past my door and down the hall. I slid out of bed and dropped noisily to the floor. Vivian’s footsteps halted in the hallway. A moment later, moonlight lit her face as she peered around my door, chewing a half eaten turkey sandwich.

  She held up her finger while she swallowed. When she could, she asked, “What are you doing up?”

  Seeing her there made me second-guess whether to tell her. She never believed me, but I had to try. “Well, I was waiting for you.” Her eyebrows peaked with skepticism, or astonishment. I wasn’t sure which. Since she’d married the drunk, I tried my best to avoid her. “Could you come in and shut the door? I want to talk… privately.”