Screaming to Get Out & Other Wailings of the Damned

by J. F. Gonzalez

  Jerry turned around, wanting to say, no, you have it wrong, Hannah isn't a bully, why is Amy doing this, what have you been allowing to happen in your own goddamn house? What came out instead was a mumbled, “No.”

  Mrs. White looked at Jerry, a sense of dawning coming over her features. "You didn't know."

  "Didn't know what?" Jerry's heart was racing.

  "About the bullying."

  "What bullying? My daughter isn't—"

  "A bully? I beg to differ, Mr. Enders." Mrs. White might have been drunk, but she had a calm purpose. "I had words with your wife about the way your daughter treated Amy and got nowhere with her. I thought I could at least communicate my concerns to her, mother to mother. The school surely never did shit."

  Jerry's mind was a whirlwind. He couldn't grasp the concept of hearing that his daughter, his Hannah, was a bully. "This...must be some kind of mistake."

  "Amy would come home in tears over your daughter's teasing," Mrs. White continued. She stepped closer and Jerry saw that she was clutching a butcher knife. "She got the other kids in on it, too. She was the ringleader. They made fun of Amy's voice, her hair, the names they called her—"

  Jerry happened to see a school photo of Amy sitting on the bureau on his left. He caught a momentary glimpse of a seven-year old Amy smiling at the camera, all wide-eyed innocent and happy. There was no way that Hannah Enders could be a bully, he would have heard something, besides they never raised Hannah that way!

  "Surprised, aren't you? Guess that's to be expected when you're never home and always working."

  "My daughter..." Jerry began, couldn't have bullied your daughter he wanted to say.

  “Is a bully and her endless torments got to Amy so bad, that nothing I did worked! It got so bad that I caught her cutting herself. Can you imagine that? A ten-year-old cutting herself! Nobody believed me though. I tried the school guidance counselor, I tried talking to your wife; nothing worked! I tried to stop her from doing this but I didn’t reach her in time, it's too far along now for me to stop it!”

  Jerry took an involuntary step back into the room. If he could only get close to Amy and snatch that doll from her hand...

  Mrs. White lurched toward him again and he stepped further into the room. "If you think you're taking Hannah's stuffed animal to break the spell, you can forget it. It'll kill Amy."

  "What?" Surely if he got the doll out of the girl's clutches the spell would be reversed, right?

  "Go ahead," Mrs. White said, nodding toward the lone figure on the bed. "Take a look."

  Jerry looked at Amy and what he saw almost made him faint.

  Hannah's plush doll, kitty, had been sewn into Amy's palm. Nasty looking fish hooks were embedded in the delicate skin of her wrist. They were attached to a weird contraption that was sewn into the little girl's palm. Crusted blood dotted her palm and wrist and pooled in clotted lumps on the floor. Yank the stuffed animal out and the flesh would be ripped off her hand, and the veins in her wrist would open, spilling blood like a faucet.

  "I tried to get to her in time but the spirits she conjured are too strong," Mrs. White said. She was clearly upset and angry, but her hatred of Jerry was clear. She fixed him with a mad rage and raised the knife. "She never would have done this if Hannah hadn't treated her so badly!"

  And then Mrs. White let out a yell and rushed forward in her attack and all Jerry could do was fight for his life and hope he survived to be able to somehow work kitty out of that contraption and break the spell.

  Story Notes

  This one came to mind due to a very nasty flu-bug my daughter caught when she was about six or seven. Right around the same time she had come under the attention of some kids in her class who were bullying her. Thankfully, the bullying wasn't too serious—we'd gone through all the positive reinforcement talks with her and she was smart enough to realize that the problem wasn't with her, it was with the kids who were being pests. In fact, the bullying (what passed for it) passed almost as quickly as it reared its ugly head.

  Reading about childhood bullying and the extreme nature it can take with kids these days got me thinking. A lot of stories that explore the theme of bullying do so from the victim's point of view. I wanted to explore it from another angle, and it was the first of my stories to do that. Another later tale ("Nerd") also explores this theme, but does so from the perspective of an adult survivor of childhood bullying.

  Breaking Point

  RICK MARTINEZ WAS two blocks from his apartment off Franklin in West Hollywood when the unmistakable red and blue lights of an LAPD squad car pulled up beside him. No matter what innocent activity he was involved in, it seemed that the shaved head and the baggy pants were open invitations to harassment from The Man. Regardless of innocence.

  The microphoned voice came next: “Stop and put your hands above your head.”

  Shit! Rick stopped, assuming the position. He heard the twin doors of the patrol car open and close. A nervous twinge began in the pit of his stomach, worming its way through his extremities. The last time this happened, he had been mistaken as the suspect in a string of convenience store hold-ups. One of the arresting officers had slammed his face to the pavement during the arrest, breaking his nose and mashing three of his teeth into his gums. The impact had shattered his chin. A two-hour surgery had been required to remove tooth splinters from his fragmented jaw. The twenty million dollar lawsuit he had filed through the attorney the ACLU had provided him with had been snared in red tape for three years now. Despite his obvious innocence, he had still been slapped with a resisting arrest and assault on an officer charge. The whole fiasco reeked of pure owldung, which the D.A. had smelled a mile off. Dismissal was inevitable.

  “Hands on top of your head, asshole.” He complied and felt immense pain in his shoulder joints as a massive paw clamped down and pinched the nerve. This sent the left side of his body into a jerking motion and the second officer moved in quickly. Rick caught the flash of a baton rise out of the corner of his eye and his mind flashed back on the prior incident. Instinct and adrenaline took over in supercharged hyper-motion.

  He grabbed the cop holding his shoulder by the wrist and with a forward twist sent him flying over his shoulder. Before the officer hit the ground on his back with a loud woof of exhaled air, Rick had curled up into a fetal ball to avoid the deadly downward descent of the baton. The instrument missed his skull by a mile. The swinging momentum gave him the opportunity to spring up and grab Cop #2’s head between his hands. He brought the cops face down and introduced his kneecap to breaking face bones. Cop #2 went down like a sack of shit. It all went down in less than ten seconds.

  Cop #1 sprung to his feet, a surprised look on his face, when Rick unleashed a straightforward Tae Kwon Do kick that pulverized his nose into mush. The second cop was trying to get up, and Rick bent down and scooped his police issued nine millimeter from his holster. He planted one foot on the cop's chest. He leveled the barrel at the cop's face. A surge of victorious adrenaline flushed through him. “Wrong move.”

  Both cops were conscious, bloody, and heaving with the exertion of defeat. Rick’s heart pounded in his chest. The ten years of martial arts training had paid off finally. He’d never once been mugged, accosted, or been involved in a physical altercation that would require its use. Three years before, when two cops had beaten him up, he’d been too stunned to react; blame that on being away from the wrong side of the law for so long. Cops were supposed to serve and protect. He’d complied with their instructions and had been totally off guard for the beating they administered. Since that incident, he was on prime defense mode at all times now, just like he used to be when he was running around with his old homeboys, Gardena Trese.

  Both officers looked like pulverized school bullies who had just gotten beaten by the scrawny kid they had victimized for years. Cop #1, who was fortyish with graying hair, mustache, and a slight gut, was holding his ruined nose in his hands. Blood poured over his fingers. Cop #2 was young, early
twenties and full of macho jism from the looks of it. He was short, dark skinned, his hair shaved in a crew cut, with a weight lifter's physique. He still had fight in him. He rose to a sitting position and glared at Rick with a burning desire to use his body as a piñata. His baton was lying in a patch of grass five feet away. His eyes darted to it, sizing up the distance.

  Rick was one step ahead of him. He kept the gun pointed at the officers. It had been less than thirty seconds since the fiasco had transpired, and in another minute people would begin coming out of their houses for a look-see, if they hadn’t already. Cop #1 still had his gun. Rick motioned to him. “You. Take out your gun and hold it out so I can see it.”

  “Fuck you,” Rookie cop spat. “You’re in for it, scumbag. “

  Rick lashed out a kick. It connected with Rookie Cop’s solar plexus. He doubled over, gasping for air as Rick motioned toward his superior. “I know you’re not as stupid as your side-kick.” He placed the muzzle of Rookie’s gun to his temple. “Take out your gun and slide it over here to me. You or he make one false move and I blow his brains out all over the sidewalk.”

  Cop #1 began fumbling for his gun. He pulled it out in offering. “Here. Take it.” He slid it over, then put his hands back over his face to stop the bleeding. His bloody features were set in a pleading gesture. He began a feeble attempt at negotiation. “Listen, let’s just—”

  “Let’s just what?” Rick had picked up the gun and jammed it muzzle first into his jacket pocket. “Be reasonable? Be civilized? Your buddy over there wasn’t being reasonable when he made to belt me one with his baton while I was assuming the position the way I’d been told.”

  Cop #1 opened his mouth to protest, then closed it. Rookie Cop was just finally beginning to catch his breath. Cop #1 glared at his younger partner.

  Rick motioned to Cop #1 again with his gun. “Enough bullshit. You, cuff your partner and then sit down and place your hands over your head.”

  “What?” He acted as if he couldn’t believe what he’d just heard.

  “You heard me. Handcuff your partner and then assume the position. I’m going to turn you in and make a citizen’s arrest.”

  “You’ve gotta be kidding.” A couple of people were now gathering on porches to see what was going on.

  The barrel of the gun kissed Rookie Cop’s temple. Rookie Cop wasn’t so macho anymore; he was trembling. “Now.”

  Cop #1 complied, and when he was finished he sat down on the sidewalk, hands over his head. Rick pointed the gun at his head and knelt down behind him. He took Rookie Cop’s handcuffs out of its sheath and cuffed the older man. Then he hauled him to his feet and motioned for Rookie Cop to get up. He herded them toward the back seat of their squad car.

  One of the onlookers stepped toward the scene, a curious look of amazement on his face. Cop #1 turned toward him as Rick shoved him in the backseat. “Call 911, tell them—”

  “Shut up.” Rick shoved the cop in the car and turned toward the onlooker. He was a thirty-something Hispanic man who stood in gape-mouthed amazement. A moment later he turned tail and ran, probably to summon more men in blue. Rick’s heart was racing. The flight or fight syndrome had passed, and now he was facing the consequences of the fight. He had just disabled two armed LAPD officers who had started out to do bodily damage to him. Now they were the ones who had been taken down, and he had their guns. He was going to turn them in to the police station and say here. These guys tried to beat me up for no reason. They’re bad cops. Take care of them.

  Only he knew it wasn’t going to work that way.

  He almost stopped right there. He was half tempted to just give it up, uncuff the officers, give them back their guns, and let the proper higher authorities handle it. More officers were surely on the way, and it was a sure bet that he would be beaten to shit anyway. So much for leaving gang life behind and trying to be a law-abiding citizen.

  His adrenaline was still on high. His face felt flushed; it felt like he had just done two lines of primo coke. He shut the backdoor of the squad car and climbed in behind the driver’s side. The street was now lined with people pointing and gaping at them. His fear pushed him on.

  When he pulled out of the neighborhood his intention had still been to act within the limits of the law. Citizen’s arrest. Self defense. Only the more he thought about it, the more he knew how he would end up.

  And as his fear mounted, he abandoned all sense and headed for the Hollywood Freeway.

  THEY WERE ON the freeway for a mere three minutes before it hit him that he would have to ditch the patrol car pronto.

  Additional backup had probably arrived at the scene by now. When the responding officers were alerted to the situation by Rick’s neighbors, they would check back with dispatch. Once there, dispatch would most likely nail down which patrol car had been in the area at that time. He hoped these two cops hadn’t informed headquarters as to their surveillance and upcoming arrest. If this was the case, the powers-that-be might not know who was missing for quite awhile yet.

  However, because police officers were involved, their colleagues would scramble to save the day for their brethren. The identities of the cops, the squad car, and Rick, could be all over police bulletins in seconds.

  He debated pulling off and nabbing a civilian car via car-jacking. Too risky. His victim would most likely call for help on the police radio, and without the intermittent squawk of the broadcasts, Rick wouldn’t know when they were coming for him. It would be better to lay low.

  In the backseat both police officers were sullen. Rookie Cop had yelled threatening obscenities, vowing to mash Rick’s wetback face into the cement until his superior had shut him up. Cop #1 had been more nice. He talked in an even, steady tone, trying to convince Rick to give it up. There was no way he could escape; West Hollywood Division knew where they were and it would be only moments before a line of squad cars would be in pursuit with police helicopters following. All three major news stations would send out their own helicopters to record the chase, and it would wind up on the evening news. He’d be a star.

  He dwelled on that for a moment.

  After awhile Cop #1 began to make conversation. Rookie Cop had lapsed into a silent stupor, gazing out the side window, his face a mask of blood. Cop #1 appeared calm beneath his broken, bloody face. “Why are you doing this, son?”

  The expression in his voice wormed into Rick’s conscience. He sighed. “I don’t know," he answered, keeping his eyes on the road. “I don’t know what I’m doing, or where I’m going, or what I’m going to do, or—”

  “Why don’t you just stop?” Cop #1 was sitting back, looking at Rick in the rearview mirror. His features were a mask of street-smart and veteran tact. “Just pull over and—”

  “For what?” Rick's voice rose in a near yell. The fear bubbled to the surface again, setting off a wave of panic. “For you to beat me up like you did last time? No way—”

  It stopped Cop #1 cold. “An officer assaulted you before?”

  Rick snorted. “Assaulted? Yeah, you can say that. Motherfuckin’ pigs thought I had robbed a liquor store. They said I fit the description. They pulled me over, patted me down, and I did everything they told me to do. I complied.” He stopped, his throat going suddenly dry at the memory. “Then they pushed me to the ground and I...it freaked me out. I wasn’t expecting it. One of ‘em hit me with a baton in the back of the knee to bring me to the ground and I fell against his partner. He kicked me in the stomach. When I tried to get up, his partner smashed my face in the sidewalk and they arrested me.” His face was grim as he drove. Anger burned through his veins. “I’ve been straight for over twelve years. I've never even gotten a ticket in that time, and suddenly I’m slapped with a resisting arrest charge, assault on a police officer, and disturbing the peace. Not to mention one hell of a doctor and dental bill.”

  The cops were silent for a moment. Finally, Cop #1 spoke up softly. “I’m sorry that happened to you.”

  Rookie Cop sno
rted in disdain. “Jesus, I don’t believe you—”

  The older cop turned to him. “From now on, you keep your mouth shut. You were the one who tried to hit him.”

  “Yeah, so what?” Rookie Cop had all the annoyance and smugness of a defiant punk. “You heard him. He’s got a record already for assaulting a police officer and resisting arrest and who knows what else. His kind always do.”

  Rick was grim as he drove. He glared at Rookie Cop through the rearview mirror. “It’s your preconceived judgment based on my appearance which got you in the situation you’re in. If I were you, I’d listen to your superior and shut up.”

  Rookie Cop leaned forward, his face pressed against the mesh that separated the front and back seats. “You motherfucking wetback spic piece of shit, I swear to God—”

  “Derrick!” Cop #1 roared. His face was flushed with anger. “I’m telling you to shut the fuck up. I mean it!”

  Rookie Cop shot his superior a grimace. “I don’t believe you. You’re condoning what—”

  “I’m not condoning anything, goddammit, I’m trying to work this out.” Cop #1 was sweating amid the blood on his face. “Now will you kindly shut up and let me talk it out with him?”

  Rookie Cop, now christened Derrick, huffed in defeat and plopped back in the rear seat of the patrol car. The defeat of a pissed off little kid.

  Cop #1 turned toward Rick. “I apologize for my colleague's actions. If he hadn’t tried to assault you we wouldn’t be here now, would we?”

  Rick shook his head. “No, we wouldn’t.” His eyes met Derrick’s in the rearview mirror. Despite the predicament, despite the fact that his mind was screaming at him to just let these guys off and get away, a part of him wanted to leap in the back seat and rip Derrick’s throat out.