Journalstone's 2010 Warped Words for Twisted Minds

by Compiled by Christopher C. Payne

  Mom thought she was being gracious by unpacking everything and setting it up for me. She told Connie she wanted to help out in any way she could. Sure…as long as it didn’t involve actually being in the same room with me, or talking to me, or writing me a letter, or sending anything, or e-mail. Any other way she could. Who could blame her though? I’d put her through so much already.

  Connie offered to ride with me. I told her she didn’t have to. Connie had a way of looking at me. It was the way you’d look at a lost dog or a crying baby you didn’t know. Part pity, part annoyance. I wished she didn’t have to be confronted with the fact that stories like mine exist in the world. She didn’t deserve such misery foisted on her. She said it was all in a day’s work. She suffered; I knew she did.

  I’d never been in a taxi before. Taxies were for the wealthy and the drunk, so far as I knew. It was clean, air-conditioned, and smelled strongly of pine. I counted 14 “No Smoking” signs while the driver listened to some maddening radio drone. It played nothing but terrible news spoken in a complete monotone. How could anyone keep their voice so level and calm talking about bombings and explosions and bloody coups? Why would anyone would make that the background noise of their workday? I really wanted to get the hell out of this cab, but I didn’t feel ready to go “home.” It didn’t even occur to me that I had a choice.

  The house looked exactly like I pictured from the outside. Sunshine yellow siding, plants in little window boxes, blue curtains over the white-paned double-hungs. They say blue fades faster than any other color. I like blue, though. If I actually lived long enough to need new blue curtains, I could certainly afford them now.

  A yellow post-it note was fixed to my new front door with a piece of Scotch tape, sort of invalidating the purpose of post-it notes. “Claude is the Neighborhood Watch Leader. Will be by to visit. –Connie

  PS. Happiness is finding joy in the unexpected!”

  Jesus, Connie. Joy in the Unexpected. That’s a laugh. Wait, Claude? That sounded vaguely familiar. But there must be a million Claude’s in the world. I peeled the tape off the front door and tucked the note into my pocket. Sometimes Connie’s flaky advice turned out to be damn useful.

  Connie told me over and over that I should get a cat or two. No way. I eventually told her I couldn’t because my new furniture was too nice. She agreed with that logic, not realizing I got leather furniture just so she’d stop bugging me about the Goddamn cat. There was no telling what kind of horrible thing could befall an animal unlucky enough to be under my care.

  I opened the door and clapped my hands twice, activating the stupid clapper Mom insisted on installing for me. The wave of the future, she called it. My ass. Three matching orbs illuminated the room, propped up on stylish brushed metal poles. There were a few of what could only be described as “tasteful knick-knacks” here and there. It could have been much worse. Knowing Mom, this place could have been loaded with a bunch of Chia Pets or Hummels.

  The curtains were wide open; exactly the way Mom liked them. She’s always had some sick obsession with letting the light in. How smart is it to tie back the only protection your home has against the cancer-causing heat lamp known as The Sun? Not very. I pulled them shut for privacy and because the cool darkness felt good on my skin. Take that, potential cancer!

  The room was pretty much as I’d imagined. Thick blue carpeting under black leather couches, tasteful glass end tables, and a fish bowl that, upon closer inspection, housed a little plastic manta ray. It was funny, its motorized little tail propelling it in a tiny circle. Other than that desperate bit of whimsy, the room looked like it belonged in a magazine.

  I carried my only suitcase to the bedroom. The door opened with a pronounced creak that was oddly satisfying, almost comforting. This looked like a bedroom in a doll’s house: bed with that fluffy cloud mattress from TV, ridiculous flowered comforter on top, and one big pillow, right in the middle. I made double sure that my bed would never look like it had two distinct sides. I made Connie tell Mom about that over and over. I honestly believed for a time that if I took away the reminders of my girl that her face would stop plaguing me--that I wouldn’t see her absolutely everywhere. She was always there, a million times an hour, every hour of every day. I knew she would never go away. She wanted to remind me, torment me, never let me forget what I did to her. She was right to do it.

  I clapped my hands again, and two lamps identical to the ones in the living room came on at once. All my breath left me instantly. Purest horror confronted me, throttled and assaulted me. I tried to scream. The terror gagged me into silence.

  I shut my eyes tight, knowing the scene would be different when I opened them. Dr. Rand told me that many times. It’s part of the illness, and you’re smarter than it is. Close your eyes, count to 10, open them up again. Everything will be fine. I started counting fast. One, two, three…I slowed myself down. It might not work if I counted too fast. Four…five…six…I really wanted to look now. I can’t. Listen to the doctor, that’s what you paid her for. Seven…eight…nine, I don’t want to look. What if it’s not gone?

  I opened my eyes again. Shock. Panic. Fear. Disbelief. It was happening all over again. I would never escape it.

  Dr. Rand’s voice came back again, louder. You KNOW the difference between reality and fantasy. You CAN talk your way through a delusion. It just takes practice. Clearly, I had not practiced enough. She kept saying it was normal to see things, part of the illness that eventually fades. I didn’t believe her. I still don’t.

  It was torture to stare at it, but I could not move. It was HER. But…not her. My girl in that same blue dress she died in. She was lying still in my bed, her blood darkening a wide swath on the blanket. Dead. Beaten. Limp blonde hair covered her face. I was glad I couldn’t see her eyes. Her expression must have been horrible. I was sick, sweating, dizzy. Was it happening again? I couldn’t stand it if it were. No…please, please no.

  I touched her, still warm. She looked like she might get up and walk away any second. My poor girl. Something far away told me I should do something, call someone. I couldn’t. Blinded by stinging tears, paralyzed by panic and horror. I wept like a child, vaguely glad there was no one alive here to see me.

  A bloodied baseball bat was propped on an open drawer in the nightstand. My God! Her. The bat. The knowing. It flooded back so clearly. That feeling of being absolutely sure she wasn’t her anymore. She was a demon. I saw it in my girl’s face…no, not HER face, the other face. The terrible one. Like in a dream, a nightmare. I did what I had to then, to help her. I really thought I was saving her. Hitting and hitting—killing it so it couldn’t take her. Now I wasn’t sure of anything. I never should have left the hospital. More tears. Run. A voice gave me the most obvious answer. Just leave here, and never come back. You have all that money, just run for it. It was the only thing that made sense. *clap clap* Lights off. Run.

  Part Two: The Diversion

  “Welcome Wagon!”

  A smiling jackass who looked like a linebacker swooped down on me the second I closed the front door. I darted past him, ready to break into a sprint. I was ready. It would be miles before my legs gave out from under me. But the blond behemoth jogged after me, catching up effortlessly.

  “My name is Claude, your friend Connie said I should come over and say hi!”

  He held out his hand for the shaking. Something inside me told me not to take it, not to trust him. It felt so familiar. The fear, the paranoia. It only led to one place. I had to calm down. I had to just shake his hand and walk away. Run. I could go back to the hospital. I could find Connie, and tell her what happened. She’d believe me. She’d help me. She was on my side.

  “Hi, yeah…the uh…neighborhood watch guy,” I watched my own hand nervously as I shook his, terrified that it would be spattered with blood. I could see only one single drop. I could smell it, I was pretty sure. Claude didn’t notice.

  “Nice to meet you,” I told him. “I really have to be—” he l
aughed and shushed me with a waiving hand gesture. I wiped the dot of blood on my jeans, fervently hoping he was too dim to notice.

  “Neighborhood Watch, Welcome Wagon…it’s all the same job really. Making this block a safe and happy place! Oh, you need to come inside for a beer. We just installed a tap.”

  Before I could step backward, Claude swung a burly arm around me and dragged me toward his house. Its outside was pale blue with yellow shutters, but otherwise identical to mine.

  “C’mon, you look beat. Moving in takes a lot out of you, no?” Claude laughed forcefully. I thought for a moment about ducking out from under his over-muscled arm and making a break for it. What was he gonna do? Chase me down? I tried to take a deep breath, but my lungs felt heavy and full of holes.

  He hurried past a nondescript living room and kitchen, briefly pointing out a picture of him standing next to a small woman with short brown hair, and two thoroughly average-looking children. A few other photos were tipped over so that the flaps on the backs rose feebly in the air.

  The basement was, apparently, our final destination. It was obvious why Claude was anxious to show it off. Instead of the dart-boards, pool tables, drum sets, and mini-fridges that occupied most basements, this one boasted a wet bar beneath a huge aquarium. It stood opposite a fantastic jungle habitat that radiated bright, hot light. The clear blue tank with three circling ocean rays was instantly calming. The aquarium was built right into the bar, and served as its backdrop. Sparse pink coral and the rays were all it contained. If I intended to live, I might have to pick something like this up. It was relaxing in its sheer simplicity.

  “Check out THIS beast,” Claude pointed to what was easily the biggest snake I’d ever seen. “This is Boris. He’s a green anaconda. Only the most serious herpers keep these.” I didn’t know what the hell a herper was, but this snake gave me chills. All I could think of was this monster wrapping itself around unsuspecting native people, squeezing them to death in absolute silence.

  It was a dark, mottled green that was probably the exact color of its surroundings in the wild. Its girth was enormous. I doubted I could even get both hands around it. It could murder me in an instant—that much was clear. Everything in the world was conspiring to terrify me. The snake had weird, top-set eyes and nostrils, and was covered with black rings. I couldn’t say for sure how long it was, but it looked almost as long as my front yard.

  I wanted to ask him why the hell anyone would keep such a gruesome animal right in their home. I didn’t. I didn’t want to get him talking. I just needed to get the hell out so I could think.

  “Don’t like to blow my own horn,” Claude gave a laugh that was almost a guffaw, “but he’s pretty cool, huh?”

  “Yeah, he really is. Listen--” he responded by holding up one finger, telling me to wait just one second. My host stepped over to a full bar and fiddled underneath it before retrieving two chilled mugs. Wispy tendrils of frozen smoke wafted gently off them. Smiling broadly, Claude expertly filled the mugs with reddish-brown lager.

  “Nothing better on a bright, sunny day than a frosty mug, eh?” He handed me a beer, and we both took a drink. It was mellow, but with a bitter finish--obviously some kind of local microbrew.

  Claude’s eyes were fixed to the gargantuan snake that was easily as thick as his thigh. He went into a long explanation of how every so often some African villager goes missing, and they find him in the belly of some huge, distended snake. He guffawed again like a half-witted teenager. Claude was disgusting. How could anyone find humor in someone dying?

  “You know, as impressive as that animal is, Boris only kills to eat—never for sport, personal gain, never just for the fun of it. The only animal that kills for pleasure is man,” he said, as if trying to deflect from my unspoken comments.

  “Uh huh,” I nodded noncommittally. Claude reached up toward a section of hinged glass at the top of the enclosure. The snake’s massive head thumped the opening, wanting out.

  “Only thing worse than a man killing for his own sick, demented needs is that man getting away with it. You know what I mean?” He spoke each word slowly, staring me down. What the hell was this guy’s problem?

  I didn’t speak. I took another swig of lager and watched the hand that could let loose a monster on me at any moment. “Oh hey,” he laughed again, “How ya liking that beer?”

  “Delicious,” I said. Claude was scaring the hell out of me. I was feeling a buzz already. The alcohol content must have been pretty high. ‘Course, it was my first drink after more than a year of water, orange juice, and Sprite.

  “It’s called Detroit and Mackinac,” Mister Neighborhood Watch motioned to my drink. This guy was creepy. I couldn’t believe that such an obvious dumbass would be in charge of keeping the neighborhood safe. He didn’t seem remotely trustworthy. “It’s a local microbrew I’ve been into lately. I get these little mini kegs shipped in.”

  Suddenly I felt so dizzy I almost lost my balance.

  “Whoa there, partner!”

  Claude pounced and grabbed my arm. Instead of guiding me to the nearby chair, he wrapped my hand around the load-bearing basement pole and helped me stand. “You alright? Why don’t I walk you home?”

  Walk me home? What was he? My prom date? I was so dizzy, sick. How could one beer make me feel like this? It must be messing around with my meds. Come to think of it, I hadn’t had any breakfast today either. A strong, mid-afternoon beer on an empty stomach. I felt myself retch involuntarily.

  “No, really, that’s fine. I’m right next door,” I told him as I held my stomach and tried to make my way up the stairs. I stumbled again, grabbing the railing for balance. I could feel nails rip loose from the drywall. I let go of the rail and almost fell backward until Claude pushed me upright. His irritating guffaw sounded again. There was a definite streak of schadenfreude in him.

  “I’m not taking no for an answer, sir. Neighbors gotta watch out for each other, right?”

  He half-carried, half-dragged me home. I no longer felt capable of running anywhere, though I was terrified of going back inside. I just wanted to sleep, to dream of my girl again, alive, happy, everything like it was.

  “Mind if I use your facilities?”

  Claude pointed down the hall that ended in the bathroom, office, and the tainted bedroom. Just get out. Get out, get out, get out of my house… I wasn’t thinking straight. I could barely move. When I didn’t answer, Claude started down the hall, his voice bouncing back toward me. “Oh, is this your office? What kind of work do you do?”

  Was he just trying doors at random? What the—? I groaned and with great effort, pushed myself up from the leather sofa.

  “Hey! Wait a minute—” my panicked cry came too late.

  I threw my hand out uselessly, unable to stop him flinging open the bedroom door. What could I do? I couldn’t even run for it. I could barely stand. He might do any crazy thing in the world when he saw—

  “Oh, my God,” Claude murmured, staring into the bedroom. It must have been ghastly for him. I winced, waiting for the explosion. “Is that a Victrola?”

  For the first time, I noticed my grandmother’s antique phonograph in the corner of my tainted bedroom. No girl. No blood. Just fresh, clean bedclothes and a spotless room with an old Victrola.

  This had to be a joke, a put-on. I squeezed into the bedroom after him. She was gone. No baseball bat, no sad cascade of blonde hair lying in the crimson pool. I could feel the remaining color drain from my face. Could I have imagined it? I don’t see how that’s possible. I was so sure, terrified even. I remember the fear. It was real. Wasn’t it? But I must have made it up. It was shock or post-traumatic whatever they called it. What other explanation was there? Unless it was…the demon. The real demon. But that couldn’t be.

  “You gonna be okay if I leave you here?” Claude’s voice snapped me back into focus, into reality. I gave him a non-committal shrug, having no idea if I was going to be okay or not.

  “You been groc
ery shopping yet? I can have the wife bring you by something to eat, maybe?”

  “No, please, don’t go to any trouble. I’m just gonna lie down.”

  That was a lie. The very idea of lying down in that bed, even going into that room was repulsive. There’s no telling what I might see in there next. What the hell was wrong with me? They told me that none of this was my fault. They told me all that therapy crap was supposed to make this better. I told them they never should have let me out. Why didn’t any of them listen to me?

  Part 3: The Confession

  “Kirk, my God! Are you okay? What happened?”

  Connie looked worried, no, frightened to see me at her door at whatever the hell time this was. I didn’t realize until she answered the door in her pajamas that it was totally dark outside. She didn’t even ask me how I found out where she lived. I was much better with computers than I let on.

  “Tell me what happened.,”

  Her voice was calm, not angry or accusing. She cared about me. She was the only person left in the world who thought I was worth saving. If I were ever going to trust another person again, it would be Connie. I told her all about coming home and finding my girl, bloody and broken in my new bed. How everything was ruined again. I explained how sure I was that she had been there. I touched her. I felt her. The blood all over her arms, her hands, like she fought. I remember her feeling warm, sad, still, and there. My girl was there.

  “We talked about this, remember?”

  I nodded, knowing just where she was going.

  “We discussed how the medication and the EMDR therapy would lessen the hallucinations and the panic attacks. But Dr. Rand did say that either could reoccur.”

  But that wasn’t what it was. I saw her!

  “Kirk, maybe we should go over it again.”