by Jon Athan
Stanley licked his lips as he stared at the woman's moist throat. He asked, “What if you miss the jugular?”
“Well, as long as you stab her straight through the throat, I think you'll be fine. Get in there deep, though,” Ed said. He slid the blade down to her damp chest – her body was drenched in a cold sweat. Ed explained, “You can stab her straight through the heart and kill her instantly. This one has to be a bit more accurate and deep, though. You have to use your entire body, you hear me? If you want to be a bit more playful with the thing, you stab her through the spine. You cripple the bitch, then you have all the fun you want.”
The jogger squirmed and wept as she listened to Ed's dastardly advice. Her soft whimpers echoed through the dreary woodland. Ed covered her mouth with his hand, muting her sorrow. The streaming tears could not clean the blood and grime from Ed's fingers. He did not care about his hygiene anyway. He chuckled as he watched her fruitless attempts at escape. She was a source of entertainment – nothing more.
Stanley gazed into the woman's teary eyes. He was staring into unadulterated fear. Yet, he was not concerned with her emotions. He was juggling his options, trying to determine the best course of action. Throat, heart, spine, he thought, or should I try something else? He figured there was another answer to the equation of death – something to impress his teacher.
As Stanley contemplated, Ed said, “When... When it comes to killing, especially early on, I find it's easier if you're 'acquainted' with your victim. It feels better. It feels right.” Ed shoved the woman forward, wrestling with her flailing arms. He said, “Go ahead, boy. You can touch her if you'd like. Touch her anywhere, get to know her. Be one with her spirit.”
Through Ed's hand, the woman said in a muffled tone, “Don't... Don't touch me...”
Stanley disregarded her pleas. He heard the words, but the demand translated into muddled nonsense in his mind. He stared at her perky breasts, hypnotized. Over her whimpering, the teenager groped the woman's chest. He squeezed and massaged her breasts; he even dug under her sports bra and tickled her nipples. He giggled like a child on Christmas, excited by his deviant behavior.
In his hypnotic state, Stanley grabbed his trusty knife. He stared at the blade, then he glanced at the jogger. He thrust the blade into her stomach, stabbing directly through her belly button. The woman writhed in pain on the muddy ground, grunting and moaning. Blood squirted from the wound, streaming across her stomach in every direction.
Stanley blinked erratically as he stared at the knife protruding from the jogger's stomach. His breathing intensified as his mind ran wild with uncontrollable thoughts. He couldn't remember stabbing the woman. The knife belonged to him, her blood was smeared on his hands, but he could not remember stabbing her.
Over the woman's weeping, Ed said, “Well, I'm glad you went off track, boy. It gives you the chance to learn. This isn't something you'll learn in school, either. It's not in your textbooks or your journals.” Ed tapped the protruding knife and said, “Unless you have them chained in a dungeon, you don't want to stab them in the stomach. Not only does it hurt like a motherfucker, but it won't kill them quickly either. Hell, it might not kill them at all. When it comes to stalking on the street, you either kidnap for torture or kill for fun. It's to... It's to get one off before you get home to bust another. You understand?”
Stanley rubbed the nape of his neck and said, “I'm sorry. I don't know what happened. I... I was–”
“Don't apologize. Never apologize. You did what you wanted to do. Just remember what I taught you. Now, finish the job.”
Stanley inhaled deeply, then he yanked the knife from the woman's stomach. Blood gushed from the puncture, spurting like an erupting volcano. The young teenager crawled forward, trembling as he held the knife. The jugular, he thought, anywhere on the throat. He gritted his teeth and thrust the blade into the center of the woman's neck.
He missed the jugulars, but the attack was effective. The jogger squirmed as she vacantly stared at the towering trees above. Her vision blurred with each passing second. Blood streamed down her neck, dripping towards her chest. The blood she gargled poured out of her mouth like a waterfall, plopping on her shirt.
Ed removed his hand and said, “Perfect. You see what I was talking about? She can't scream. She'll be dead in a minute, maybe less.”
Ed grabbed the woman's legs, then he dragged her towards the abandoned house. Stanley followed his mentor as he watched the jogger's suffering. She gazed at Stanley with a vacant stare. She occasionally twitched and jerked. Her involuntary movements only brought her closer to death.
As he dragged the woman, Ed explained, “I've been watching this little lady for a while now. I studied her, you understand? I knew all of her weaknesses, I knew her schedule and her routine. I knew she'd run down that path with her music playing as loud as possible. You? Well, I can't tell you what to do, but I can tell you a few things – a few facts. Your family is stopping you from growing and... you know your family's weaknesses. You can finish the job. You can free yourself. You can do it, boy.”
Stanley stared at the woman's hollow eyes and whispered, “I can finish the job...”
Chapter Twelve
Before The Storm
Stanley hopped over the brick partition. He landed in the backyard of his home. He glanced at the windows overlooking the kempt backyard. The lights were off on both floors. The area was solely illuminated by the lucent stars and luminous moonlight. He did not see any police lights and he didn't hear any wailing emergency sirens. He was surprised, but he accepted the tranquility as a sign of victory.
Stanley whispered, “They're sleeping... They forgot about me, but at least they're sleeping.”
The teenager slowly turned the knob on the back door. He seemed to have hit a lucky streak – the door was left open. He wondered if the door was left unlocked by accident or if it was his mother's doing. Once again, he accepted the unlocked door as a sign of victory – a winning streak. He successfully toppled his powerful father.
Stanley tiptoed into the kitchen, then he carefully shut the door behind him. As he stared at the backyard through the door's window panes, a light illuminated the kitchen. The conniving teenager lowered his head and sighed. It was too good to be true, he thought, it's always too good to be true around here.
With her fingers wrapped around a mug filled with hot chocolate, Julia asked, “Where have you been, Stanley? Where did you go? Why would you leave without telling us anything? I just don't... What has gotten into you, boy?”
Stanley glanced over his shoulder. His mother sat at the kitchen table, sniffling and shuddering. He could tell she had spent the afternoon crying. His father leaned on the archway with his arms crossed, dour. The man seemed calmer than before, though.
Michael said, “Sit down and answer your mother.”
Stanley stared at his father, then he loudly swallowed – the gulp practically echoed through the house. He sat directly across from his mother, staring into her puffy eyes. He was too frightened to explain himself. He wouldn't confess to his sinister deeds. He cycled through his excuses, searching for the perfect fit.
Julia asked, “Why are you acting like this? What's wrong, sweetheart?”
Stanley shrugged and said, “Nothing... I just... I just needed some fresh air. I needed to think about what I did and what I said to you. I was wrong about all of that. I'm sorry about everything. I was just... I was tired of Mark bullying me and I was tired of you ignoring me. I was tired of everything. That's all.”
Julia grimaced from the emotional pain. She said, “I'm so sorry, sweetheart. I would never do that on purpose. You know I'm always here to listen. You know that, don't you?”
“Yeah, but you never do anything about it. None of you do anything about it. You used to ask me about my bruises and my dirty clothes, then you started to ignore everything. You just stopped asking. You cared, but you really didn't...”
Michael said, “We always cared. I guess we
lost track for a moment. We messed up, kiddo. I'm sorry about that. It might be too little, too late, but I'll be heading to the school to talk to them about your bullying problem. I want to get to the bottom of this. I want to understand why you did this and what we can do to prevent it from happening again.”
Stanley could hear the remorse in his father's voice. For the first time in years, he could see his father cared about his well-being. From her sincere tears, he could see his mother was also concerned. The ambiance shifted from dreary to amiable. Yet, the teenager felt patronized. Why does he have to talk to the school? Doesn't he believe me?–he thought.
Stanley said, “I told you why I did it. I was defending myself. Mark and his friend punched and kicked me, so I fought back. Can't you... Can't you see all of my bruises?” Julia and Michael stared at their son, examining his physical and emotional condition. Stanley shook his head and said, “You never take my side anyway. He could have killed me and you'd still blame me.”
Julia said, “Don't talk like that. Please, don't ever say that again. You know it's not true, sweetheart.”
“It is.”
Michael rubbed his eyes with his thumb and index finger. He sniffled and shook his head, downhearted. He was utterly disappointed in himself. He felt his strict and uncompromising parenting facilitated Stanley's pain. Stanley stared at his father with narrowed eyes, perplexed. He felt a strange, inexplicable sensation flowing through his body. He had not experienced genuine sympathy in days. He questioned his emotions, but he did not act on them.
Michael said, “In a sense, I guess you're right. Don't blame your mother, though. It's my fault and I take full responsibility. It was... It was me. I want to spend more time with you from now on, Stanley. You understand? I want to be there for you when you need me. Let's go watch a ball game or go to the park. Let's do something together. Let's get reacquainted. Does that sound good to you?”
Stanley gazed into his father's eyes – he could see his glistening tears. He said, “Yeah, sure. That sounds good.”
“Good, good... I'll do better, champ, I promise. We'll get through this together.”
Julia planted her fingertips on Stanley's hand and said, “We will all get through this, sweetheart. We'll always be there for you. I'm sorry for everything. I'm so sorry.”
As his eyes swelled with tears, Stanley said, “I'm sorry, too. I'm sorry for everything I did and everything I said. It was stupid. I didn't mean it.”
Stanley stood from his seat, then he lurched towards his father. His father was surprised by Stanley's warm hug. He patted his son's shoulder and smiled. Julia joined from behind, embracing her husband and son.
Julia planted a kiss on the back of Stanley's head, then she said, “Please, don't ever run away like that again. You had me so worried, baby. We called all of your classmates and our neighbors. We even called the police. Please, don't do that again. I don't think my heart can take it.”
Stanley stepped out of the hug. He asked, “You called the cops?”
Michael sighed, then he explained, “Yeah. They were here an hour ago. I'll call them and let them know you're back.”
Stanley murmured, “Okay, okay...”
“That reminds me, kiddo. We won't be able to go out tomorrow, at least not right away. You still have to talk to the police about your little friend. I know it's a difficult time right now, but they're going to need your help. You need to stay strong, alright? You need to be there for Richie and his mom.”
Julia stroked Stanley's hair and said, “Don't worry, sweetheart. He's going to be fine. I promise, we're going to find Richie and you'll be able to spend time with him again. I know it.” Stanley clenched his jaw and stared at his mother, trying to contain his rage. Julia said, “You should go up and get some sleep. You've had a busy week. You're going to need some rest. Go on. I love you.”
Michael nodded and said, “Good night, kiddo. I'll see you in the morning.”
Stanley's breathing intensified as he stared at his parents. He was infuriated by their prying actions. He could barely outmaneuver his parents, his chances were slim against the police. Stanley bit his bottom lip and walked out of the kitchen. He strolled towards his bedroom, lost in his dreadful thoughts.
Chapter Thirteen
Blind Bloodshed
Stanley wheezed as he awoke, gasping for air and drenched in sweat. Shocked, he crawled in reverse on his bed and glanced around his room. The moonlight pouring through the slits in the blinds barely illuminated the dark bedroom. The ominous shadows swayed through the room, like mist dancing with the wind.
Stanley whispered, “What's happening? What... What's going on here?”
He swallowed the lump in his throat as he rapidly blinked. He glanced down at his crotch with wide eyes. Through the darkness, he could see the contrasting color on his navy comforter – a blatant dark spot. Like a magician revealing his trick, the teenager pulled the comforter from his body. He was baffled by his discovery.
Stanley muttered, “I didn't do this... No, it wasn't me.”
His navy flannel pajama bottoms and the bed sheets were soaked in urine. His crotch was damp and warm. The tawny piss stained the bed and the garment with a pungent stench. To his utter dismay, the urine was fresh and plentiful. His accident was difficult to deny, but he could not accept it. The humiliation paralyzed him.
Stanley sniffled and said, “No, not again... It wasn't me. It... It wasn't me, damn it!”
Stanley's head swayed as he glanced around the bedroom. The shadows were whisked away, like a bank of fog dissipating during a summer morning. The walls seemed to be melting. He could see the blue paint dribbling down the walls in large clumps. Steam billowed from the floor, undulating towards the ceiling. The entire room seemed to be melting before his very eyes. Although the illusion felt tangible, the experience was surreal.
Stanley tightly shut his eyes and whispered, “It's a nightmare, it's a nightmare, it's a nightmare...” As he opened his eyes, he sternly repeated, “It's a nightmare.”
The teenager sighed in relief as the room returned to its normal state. He sat at the edge of his bed and pondered the strange experience. Only one thought ran through his mind: melting, melting, melting. He tried to decipher the uncanny vision, but to no avail. He didn't have the knowledge or experience to fully understand himself.
Stanley staggered to his feet, then he shambled towards a mountain of dirty laundry next to his dresser. The pile emitted a revolting stench, but he had already grown accustomed to it. He yanked his jeans from the mound, causing an avalanche of clothing to fall over. His legs wobbled as he searched through his pockets – a result of exhaustion and disbelief.
Upon finding his trusty knife, Stanley whispered, “I can finish the job. I know their weaknesses. I can do it.”
The impressionable teenager gazed at the knife, examining the serrated blade with a set of deviant eyes. The jagged edge of the knife was hypnotizing, like the serrated teeth of a shark. Blood oozed from the tip of the knife, streaming down the sturdy blade. The blood was unusually tantalizing, like whiskey to an alcoholic. With the blink of an eye, the blood vanished.
Stanley said, “It's time...”
***
Stanley shambled into the hall with slumped shoulders, dragging his feet like a child dragged to the mall. He glanced at the room to his left – Daniel's room – then he stared down the hall to his right. His parents claimed the last room in the hall as their master chamber. His father's snoring could be heard from anywhere in the house.
The teen erratically blinked and sniffled as he planned his strategy. To murder his parents, he required speed and accuracy. If he failed, his brother would awaken and foil his plot. He knew he could not handle his brother in a brawl – with or without a weapon. Kill the asshole first, he thought, then kill the rest.
He stood at the doorway of his brother's bedroom. He glanced around the room, reminiscing about the past. He remembered sitting towards the center of the room and pl
aying video games with his brother. The pair would fight for the first-player controller. Of course, Daniel would win nine times out of ten. The memory was tender, bringing a tear to his eye. He wiped the tear and shrugged off the beautiful memories.
Stanley tiptoed into the room, calculating every step. He carefully walked over the tube socks and food wrappers littered across the floor. His brother's natural habitat was polluted by garbage. Their parents did not seem to care about his bedroom, though. Unlike his younger sibling, Daniel had some privacy in the house. Michael and Julia respected him as a young man.
A nudie poster above Daniel's bed caught Stanley's eye. The image depicted a blonde woman with a large bosom and bushy pubic hair. She seductively licked her index finger while partially covering her crotch with her other hand. Stanley couldn't help but chuckle – he preferred the real thing to simple pornographic imagery.
Stanley stood beside the bed, staring at his slumbering brother. Without a snore or squirm, Daniel slept peacefully. He was blissfully unaware of his brother's psychotic breakdown, sleeping through the madness.
Stanley whispered, “What are you dreaming about? What's more important than me? Huh? Cars? Money? Girls?” Staring at Daniel's bare throat, Stanley placed the tip of the blade on his Adam's apple. Stanley licked his lips, then he whispered, “What are you dreaming about?”
Using all of his body weight, Stanley stabbed the blade into Daniel's throat. Daniel awoke with wide eyes, flopping on the bed like a fish out of water. He flailed his limbs and violently convulsed. Despite his strong urge and his modest attempts, he could not scream. He could only gargle and spit blood. He grabbed Stanley's wrist and gazed into his little brother's eyes, shocked.