Body of Immorality

by Brandon Berntson

  Maybe they thought my story wasn’t proof, but some evil omen. I may not have physically killed Mr. Raintree, but I had—for a brief moment—been responsible for his fate.

  The officer suggested I think about moving, too. A grin surfaced on his chinless face, and for a moment, I wished I had killed Raintree and my landlady, because I would kill this sonofabitch right now. Nothing would please me more than to see this short, neatly uniformed man’s throat gushing a scarlet lawn sprinkler.

  I was committed to an education and minding my own business, and if the entire town was convinced I’d killed these people, then they should do something about it, shouldn’t they?

  I smiled and winked, and that did not make him smile. He tipped his hat, nodded, and turned away. He said he’d back, and I believed him.

  I looked over the courtyard. People were looking at me behind their windows. I felt animosity from every glare. They’d come to the same conclusions. They’d made a decision, and they were firm in their beliefs.

  I am a monster, and I must be banished. I must be destroyed!

  They dusted Mrs. Higglesby’s apartment for fingerprints, went the entire movie-show distance, and barricaded the place with yellow police tape. They proceeded to scrutinize every corner and bloodstain, every frolic of hair. I admired their diligence.

  But then, I wondered…Maybe I had done it. Maybe someone had slipped a murder toxicant to me unawares. Maybe I was a sleepwalker. Maybe I was a werewolf!

  You never told me I was a werewolf, Red! You sly dog, you. You’re always full of surprises.

  Confined like a rat.

  I didn’t want to leave my apartment. Maybe I could get away with a few extra months rent now that my landlady was dead. Maybe there’s a silver lining after all. You have to find the good when something goes awry. If someone was framing me, they’d just done me a favor.

  But seriously…

  I didn’t go to school, didn’t go for a walk, get the paper (God forbid, why would I want to after all this?), too scared to go to the grocery store to get a gallon of milk. I was afraid of what was waiting for me in the shadows.

  Thankfully, after several days, a single knock did not come to my door. No one shattered my windows, painted graffiti, or broke in while I was sleeping. It was hard enough trying to sleep, anyway. Every sound, creak, brush of wind against the window, sent me into a cold panic, thinking it was them, Idledale, coming to get me!

  It was on another late November night, when I saw and orange blaze of lights from my window. I’d decided to open the curtains that night, tried to tell myself there was still a compassionate world out there wanting to hug and kiss me. The sky was a rolling, thick tapestry of clouds, threatening snow.

  Fear rose through the cold of my spine. Sweat broke out on my temples. Inside, the cautious watcher of my heart turned frightened, tore into a sprint, and launched from my chest.

  I stood and reluctantly approached the window. What I saw did not surprise me.

  Torches blazed. Angry, upturned faces wished me dead. The sight of the entire community was shocking and a little exciting. Part of me was thrilled I was responsible for this.

  Is this what fame feels like? Something like stardom?

  Where were the pitchforks, the shovels, knives, and baseball bats? Were they going to tear me apart with their bare hands? Were they going to set my apartment on fire? Others lived here, too!

  Feeling an impulse to stand and deliver, to take my shot—one risk—I decided to open the door. I walked outside into the November cold. I put on a winning smile, not an act, but the real deal.

  Loud enough for them to hear, I welcomed whatever they planned:

  “Well, well, well! It must be a special occasion! Look how you’re all dressed up! You really shouldn’t have!”

  I nodded accordingly, walking back and forth across the landing with my hand on the rail.

  My apartment is on the second floor. I looked down and saw them all. At least, being up here, I had an advantage.

  Anyone could’ve pulled out a gun and killed me, pain over, problem solved. I was tired; I felt I hadn’t any options. They’d brought me to this.

  So, I stood on the balcony and said:

  “I am merely a man, made of breakable flesh, richly surrendering my life to this town and its charming brethren! You make me want to cry! I see how special you must treat all strangers like me! I make my own rules! I love the way you gaze at me with winning affection! You startle me with your sway! I wish everyone could be like you! Give yourselves a round of applause! It’s really a stellar performance! Go on! Give yourselves a great big hand!”

  No one said a word.

  I tried leaving a lasting impression. I wanted them to know that if they planned to kill me, I was ready. I would take it. I would not let them dismantle me!

  “How fortunate,” I continued. “Giving me this opportunity! To gaze upon you, the little people! So quick to administer justice! How you’ve survived so long without the pain of invasion is surely a mystery! Ah, the naïve, the simple whim of judgment that keeps you from progressing! It kind of makes me feel sorry for you!”

  I put myself on display as the perfect model of narcissism. I was a proudly built young man of twenty. I was lean and well defined. I let the entire community of Idledale witness me, this modern marvel of a man! I should’ve been a racecar!

  I was sought after, prized, and coveted! I was something every mother wanted for their daughter, streamlined, made to purr, a well-oiled machine, thrust into the imagination of every rare, excitable, teenage girl!

  I held my hands up, turned, letting them observe me from every angle.

  “Look closely!” I cried. “Feel that skin! Young and prime!”

  I flexed my muscles, impressed them with solid biceps of diamond rock. I could’ve shot off into the night like a comet, a Fourth of July firework in jeans and a T-shirt.

  “Who wants a thousand?” I said. “More? Make it two-thousand for you, sweetheart!” I said to a girl standing in the front row. “Who wants to start the bidding?”

  Several people shook their heads, disgusted. They turned, dispersing over the snow-laden courtyard, back into the trees, and nearby streets. No one cracked a smile.

  I was puzzled. If they’d taken the time to assemble as they had, why were they leaving? Had they originally constructed a plan then changed their minds? Were they going back for more pitchforks, knives, and shotguns? Despite my illicit candor, I tried to seem un-mystified.

  What the hell kind of town was this?

  One of them caught my eye, however, one who’d not turned to go. It was the old lady who’d come to my window earlier that week with the waspish black eyes. She was standing near the front of the throng. I hadn’t noticed her until now. She wore the same clothes, a tiny smile. She scared me. I didn’t like that look in her eyes. As much as she unnerved me, I tried not to show it.

  “Wait!” I cried. “I’m not done!”

  The crowd continued to separate, ignoring me.

  I looked at the old lady, a twisted, maniacal promise on her lips, sending shivers down my spine.

  They’d not begun to show me the harm they planned. Despite my performance, I felt a murky, bloody dread across my spine. The woman nodded, gazed at me a minute, then turned, walking away into the cold night.

  Surprised, and a little frightened, I hurried back into the warmth of my apartment, shut the door, locked it, and closed the drapes. I didn’t know what to think, didn’t know what to do. I hugged myself and trembled until I fell asleep.

  The next day, without further developments, Ricky Lee, the turncoat, that Mozart of country western singers, paid me a visit. He had to say his name several times through the door before I let him in.

  I opened the door, ready to add him to the list of the dead and make it three. When he surprised me with concern, telling me he was scared for me, but still on my side, I smiled and asked him if he wanted an Orange Crush. He said no, which should have been
answer enough, and he came in anyway.

  “I’ve been in town all day,” he said, shaking his head. “Man, you should hear what people are saying about you.”

  “I don’t have to know what they’re saying, Ricky,” I told him. “The whole lot of them were here last night. I thought it was the grand finale. What a disappointing audience.”

  “They think you’re gonna slip,” he said, as if he hadn’t heard me. “‘He’ll slip up, and when he does, we’ll be waiting.’ I heard someone say that.”

  Ricky looked at me, putting on a rather convincing face, trying to prove he gave a shit.

  “I think you should pack your things and go, Jeremy,” he said, seriously. “That Raintree incident…that was some strange coincidence, but the landlady…It’s like that was the last straw. You living in the same complex! I’m just worried about you.”

  I looked at Ricky. It pained me to acknowledge the traitor.

  “Rick,” I said, patiently. “I didn’t even do anything!”

  “Yeah, but don’t you think…Aren’t you worried? You still have a chance to get out of here. Maybe after midnight, Jeremy? You can slip away. I’ll help you. They know you’re every move! They’re not going to forget this!”

  “Are you trying to get rid of me, too, Mozart? Did they put you up to this?”

  A shocked expression crossed his face.

  “No!” he said. “I’m just scared for you. I don’t know what they’re gonna do! I don’t want to see anything bad happen, man! I don’t want to see anything worse, you know?”

  Sure, I knew. Ricky wanted me out of town for his own sake. I was making him look bad. He was starting to get the same treatment because he was my only friend. ‘Please, Jeremy, I love you so much. Don’t make me cry!’

  I thought I was going to throw up.

  “You country-western cow-poker,” I said. “Get out of my house!”

  He almost had me convinced. He looked like he was gonna start crying.

  By this time, I’d lost my job at the Circle K. The irony.

  The final piece of the puzzle slipped into place when they found Ricky’s body behind the Circle K. His throat was slashed from ear to ear.

  I didn’t need the morning’s paper to know about this, of course. What was with these newspaper broadcasts anyway? They were newspapers from the future or something. They ran stories the day the incident happened. It was there on the front page the next day: Local Music Major Found Slain.

  My only friend was dead.

  And with that, I sit. I wait. I can hear the clock ticking above the shelf in the kitchen. The door is locked. I should’ve hammered plywood over the windows.

  Should I have taken Ricky’s advice? Should I have packed a light bag and scurried, like a rat, into the dark? Like a spineless, frightened rat?

  No. I can’t do that. I have to see this through, though. Did I know it would come to this? Have I been waiting for it without knowing?

  The clock continues to tick-tick-tick in the kitchen. My fingers itch.

  Just a young man, trying to see the world, waiting to make his mark in the universe. I came here to get an education. I wrote a stupid story, and some guy got killed because of it, and now the whole, stupid town wants me dead!

  What luck!

  Is that the sound of militiamen, a trumpet sounding?

  Snow crunches to the beat of their prancing tread. Waves of heat from their torches make my face sweat. Shadows of pitchforks, scythes, shotguns, knives, dance with the flames, eager to find me. Every one of them wants a go. Every one will initial a slow, agonizing pain to my misery, the deal they made since last they saw me.

  But it’s America, right? You can hide, or you can stand and fight! Defense is best. You do not charge when it’s one against a thousand. You take your position like a patriot. You smile, letting them know you’re not afraid. You make the best, most dramatic exit you can. You never let them forget who you are!

  My station of defense is the living room closet. The door is closed. In the dark, I hide under coats and snow shoes. Surprise surprise!

  I grabbed the only butcher knife I own and another six-inch cooking knife. Each hand is poised and ready, anxious to pounce. I’ve done this before. It’s lifelong, not a second death, some kind of new beginning. The semi would work. That would’ve been the thing to do! Watch out! HONK! HONK! I’m coming!

  University Place? I thought and giggled. I shake my head. Knowing Raintree never knew a thing when I started the big rig rolling! The collision of two oncoming vehicles! Wheels of the eighteen wheeler against the wheels of that rust-bucket Ford! What chance did he have? You should have seen the impact!

  The semi had been parked along the side of the road. It’s not hard sneaking up on a tired driver. Smash him right along the temple, watch him go limp, and put the truck in drive. My grandfather taught me how to drive the big rigs. We’ve been a fortunate family.

  The screech of Arnold Raintree’s breaking tires, locking against the road as I plowed down on him! Man, what a sound! A shower of metal, huge, spinning, rubber wheels bouncing out in all directions, like a Bugs Bunny cartoon! Splatters of red on the windshield! Pretty thing, really!

  Sometimes you have to create the inspiration to get the story right. You go for truth. Red, like an obedient dog, was my support and confidante. You don’t get friends like that from a box of Cracker-Jacks.

  The thing about murder is commitment to excellence.

  The weapon was not mine, but one I found in Mrs. Higglesby’s kitchen drawer. I know. Plastic gloves masking every fingerprint, I entered like a cat, made it into her kitchen, one-two-three. Like the truck. Easy. ‘Back into my chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,’ like it never even happened, you know? Sometimes murder, besides fun, is built from furor. It’s a different kind of smile, a different thrill! As if I were going to forget!

  Pressing her head against the wall, Mrs. Higglesby was still trying to accept what was happening to her. I punched the knife repeatedly into her ribcage. I said softly into her ear, as the life went out of her, “Whispering is for soft assurances. You just tell me when you’ve had enough.”

  Red was a good coach, urging me on, a benefactor with quiet, calm regard, arms folded across his chest, nodding, watching my every move.

  “You’ve learned a lot, sunny-boy,” he said.

  “Red, I didn’t know they let you out. It’s good to see you!”

  “This is a special occasion. Better than your birthday! You think I’d miss it?”

  I hurried through the woods and toward Ricky’s house because I knew he passed the Circle K on his way home. You should’ve seen the look in his eyes! You mean, they were right? his eyes said, talking about the town.

  “You bet your ass they were right,” I told him.

  I didn’t give him a chance to reply. I just wanted him to know. I pulled his hair back and drew the knife—with precision madness—across the length of his throat.

  Red clapped behind me like my number one fan, hopping up and down, absolutely fucking delighted.

  (There you go again, dad! This town. They just make me so goddamn mad!)

  Shadows dance, whisking flames bobbing under the closet door. It must be coming from the window because they haven’t broken the door down yet. Maybe they were having one final meeting as they walked back into the woods that day. Proud, coffee drinking wranglers, making a final decision.

  It’s the lack of understanding that kills me, never questioning the fact, maybe it wasn’t me…

  They’re at the door! The knob clicks back and forth. Who knows what they’re going to do to the place?

  “I hear ya! I hear ya!” I shout. “I’m coming!”

  Shotgun blasts?

  “Say, Red? When they open the door, I’m not gonna waste a second. I’m gonna launch into the air with both knives swinging, giving them everything I got!”

  “Spoken like a true apprentice!”

  The knob on the closet turns. Someone p
ulls the door wide. Light from the torches spreads over me, revealing my eyes buried in coats and winter boots. A smile spreads across my face like a demented clown. Rage fuels my every thought!

  I spring, the coats and boots falling off me. I bury blades into warm, soft flesh, pulling the knives out one by one and back into the sonsabitches as I reel, screaming the whole time. My fists are steel, pin-wheeling blades, drawing blood. I’m feeling proud of myself, ecstatic, excited! Glory rings in my ears! I’m moving at lightening speed, blurring fast through images of people screaming, hollering, shouting at one another as I take a few of them with me!

  “How does that warm metal feel? Didn’t know people bled so much, did ya?”

  Images fade. I hear several shotgun blasts

  Red? Hey? Whoa a second there, cowboy!

  Are you still there?

  Pinwheels stop. Something about the city...

  I sigh with the sadness of it, knowing I’ll miss it. I shake my head. I should’ve never come here.

  I don’t think they ever had a college here to begin with now that I think about it. I mean, it’s a po-dunk town, after all. Why would they have a college?

  Yeah, dad. Yeah. I know…get off my back, will ya. Christ!

  Goddam...I hate these small fucking towns.

  Disfigured Companion

  The longer Reginald McDonald thought about his situation, the more he was going to have to take drastic measures. If Mary couldn’t see what he did, then it was time for change. Leaving her would be too easy. That was part of the problem.

  Reginald hadn’t been married long, only three years, but it was long enough for him to understand it wasn’t going to work. Not anymore. Not with the way things were. All the signs were there. They’d grown apart after three years, whether she believed it or not. That was the other problem. Mary didn’t want to believe they were better off without each other. They’d talked about it, but she still loved him, claimed he had something special inside. It made Reginald sick when she said things like that. If he could get her—in some way—to despise him, she’d have no choice but to agree and leave.