She doesn’t listen. Instead, she goes back to work. I push my heels hard into the floor. I fight against the restraints around my ankles, wrists, but I won’t win this battle, not now, not ever. I can’t escape the chair, or the pain. Instead, I try to hide from the pain in the deep hole I dug in my mind many, many visitors ago.
“Open your mouth,” Grandma says.
“Fuck off!” Because of the physical alterations I did on my so-called “victims,” most of the L2s eventually go in this direction after assaulting the tissue around my eyes. My tongue is badly scarred.
I once got a small taste of revenge with an L2. The memory of the screaming man who had been stupid enough to reach for my tongue will serve me well the rest of my God-forsaken life. They restrained my body, but not my mouth, not my teeth. I would’ve swallowed the visitor’s severed finger had my keeper not hit me with the Zap-stick.
Grandma wipes the blood from her blade onto my pants. “I said open your mouth.”
I shake my head.
She looks at the zookeeper. “He won’t open his mouth.”
My keeper moves to me, his Zap-stick aimed at my head. “One-Zero-One-Three, I believe you were told to open your mouth.” He pushes the probed end against my neck.
I move my head back as far as I can, not wanting to feel the shock of that fucking thing again. My heart pounds and my entire body trembles.
I have no idea how long I’ve been enduring this kind of torture. All I know is that every day brings more pain. Because of the media’s comparison of my work to the cartoon figures of three Goddamned monkeys—“See no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil”—I’m a main attraction at the Zoo. The ridiculous nickname “Three Monkeys Killer” has even been uttered. Words do no justice to my hatred of that name.
I have been stabbed multiple times by the small Zoo-issued pocketknives; my face has been carved on again and again; my tongue has been punctured and sliced, and much of the tissue around my ears has been cut off. After each visitor leaves, I am restrained on a gurney and taken to the Repair Shack. It is a series of rooms—each room having enough space for three beds on wheels—complete with a sink, locking cabinets fastened to the walls, and a strong antiseptic smell. Needles, surgical thread, medicines, syringes, bandages, splints, braces, and medical tools are locked in the cabinets. I dream of one day grabbing a scalpel from the cabinet and exacting revenge on my keeper.
During my first few visits to the Repair Shack, I screamed as loud as I could, making my pain obvious to anyone within hearing distance. But I quickly learned that all I accomplished, besides giving myself a horrendous headache, was giving satisfaction to the zookeepers. That’s when I dug my “mind hole.” I dug it deep—deep enough to hide in.
If my wounds are bad enough, they push a button in the control room and a plastic cover slides across my viewing wall. A sign is painted on the face of the cover, stating that the exhibit is temporarily closed for recovery. I am allowed time in the Repair Shack to heal and then returned to my enclosure. Afterward, the visits begin again.
Now, the keeper pushes his Zap-stick harder into my neck. “Open wide.”
I open my mouth.
Grandma moves closer. A little more and perhaps I can headbutt her.
I keep my mouth open only because a Zap-stick blast to the soft flesh of the neck hurts more than anywhere else, except maybe the balls. One of my keepers told me how a young exhibit went into violent seizures due to a direct shock to the neck. He bit off his own tongue.
The kid was a fifteen-year-old boy who had murdered his baby sister while his parents were in the other room. He’d killed the girl with the claw end of a hammer. According to my keeper, the kid said he did it because his parents weren’t paying attention to him anymore. Because of the viciousness of the attack, the kid was tried as an adult and ended up in Colorado.
Grandma pushes the knife toward my jaw. My mouth snaps shut. The keeper’s fist slams into the side of my head. Bright pins of light explode across my field of vision. Pain shoots through my temples.
“Keep your mouth open!” the keeper screams.
Dazed, I open my mouth. Grandma stabs the knife into my tongue. I scream and snap my head back, hitting the backrest of the chair. The blade rips into my tongue. My mouth fills with blood. I try to scream again, but I inhale blood and cough violently.
“Time’s up,” the keeper finally declares. He steps in, pulls Grandma back.
Pain-induced nausea overwhelms me. The keeper is prepared for it, already moving back as I retch.
Grandma scoots to the side, a predatory look in her eyes. She clenches her jaw and closes her hands into fists. “Just a few more minutes, okay?”
“No, ma’am,” the keeper says. “I need you to make your way to the door.”
“Come on, just one more minute. Please.” Without warning, Grandma arcs the knife across the bridge of my nose, opening a deep gash.
The pain is excruciating. I’m now searching desperately for my mind hole, the only place I can escape the pain.
The keeper grabs Grandma by her wrists. The knife drops from her hand. “That’s it, ma’am! Your time is up!”
“No!” Grandma fights the keeper, but is no match. “Let me go!”
“Ma’am, please!” the keeper yells. He moves her away, pushes her against the viewing wall, pins her arms against her sides. “You must control yourself.”
Eyes grow wide among the L1s gathered outside. Everyone pushes forward, wanting a better look.
She stops fighting and a look of panic flashes across her face. She begins to cry. “Oh my God, oh my God…” She shakes her head. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
“It’s okay, ma’am, it happens. You’re not the first to lose it in here and you won’t be the last.”
“Okay,” she says. “I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t worry about it. You’re going to be just fine.” The keeper turns from her, moves to me, and slaps me hard across the face before I can disappear into my hole. “Stay with us, exhibit! You looked like you were drifting there for a second.”
Grandma looks at the keeper. “Can I have the knife? I paid the extra thirty dollars for it. I have my receipt.”
The keeper bends down, retrieves the knife, and then reaches into his pocket. He pulls out a small vial. He unscrews the lid, dips the knife blade into the liquid, and swirls it around. He wipes the blade and handle clean with a small piece of cloth from his breast pocket, folds the knife closed, and hands the keepsake to Grandma. “Now, if you’ll please follow me,” he says as he replaces the vial and cloth in his pocket. He moves to the door in the viewing wall.
The blackness is coming for me and I welcome its arrival. It will take me away, if only for a little while.
Frisbee Football
Long before L2s cut into my skin, before the darkness became my only friend, I spent my days with Terry. That kid’s ruthless nature flat-out fascinated me. Whether we were shooting baskets in his driveway or shooting gophers in the field, he made life almost bearable.
When we were kids, all things were possible. Whether it was high school prom king, football captain, or heroes hoisting shiny trophies won in the heat of battle, only time would tell what we’d become. The football thing was probably a bit of a stretch, since neither of us knew how to play. And the trophies were still up in the air, our battlefield still undecided—hadn’t gotten that far yet, but by God we were going to win something.
Unfortunately, the only thing time told us was our athletic abilities would never blossom. Neither would our popularity. Trophies and proms were the last things we’d ever have to worry about.
We never did go out for any team sports. We didn’t know a thing about cars, weren’t invited to stoner parties, so that left us in the only remaining group: geeks. And even geeks were required to go out for PE.
Our sophomore year had just begun and Au
gust heat bore down with a vengeance. We were in the middle of fourth period PE, enduring a game of Frisbee football, shirts versus skins. I hated being skins. Apparently, I was on the delayed-development plan. I was the last kid in my class to have a noticeable chest or anything resembling shoulders. Actually, I still don’t have a noticeable chest or anything resembling shoulders, but at least I’m a little bigger than I was back then. I was the last kid to develop pubic hair; consequently, the last kid to drop his towel for a shower at the end of PE class. I was the last kid to start shaving—that didn’t happen until I was in my twenties. Many of the other boys had biceps bigger than my legs. Even Terry was bigger than me, just barely. But one early August day, with our high school experience freshly blooming, he wasn’t big enough.
Terry had been sprinting for the Frisbee, eyes locked on the bright orange disc. He had no way of seeing the blindside hit. One of the biggest kids in our class, Billy Spurlock—fullback for the varsity football team—teed off on him. Terry flew through the air and hit the ground hard. The blow knocked the wind out of him; he couldn’t breathe. He lay on the field, his back arched skyward, and his feet kicking against the grass.
I ran to him, knelt beside him, watched him flop like a carp thrown to the bank. My seventh-grade health class had confirmed two things: asthma was real and my dad was an idiot.
The other kids gathered around Terry, eyes wide. The PE teacher ran over. “Give him some room, fellas.”
Terry grabbed at his sweaty T-shirt, his throat, his hair, anything he could latch onto. He looked at me, fear exploding from his eyes.
“Terry, calm down,” I said, not knowing how bad the situation was. “You just got the wind knocked out of you, okay?”
The other boys watched. Their expressions seemed to show not so much concern for Terry, but excited fascination, like maybe they were going to see something they could tell their friends about later.
Terry reached for me, grabbed me by the collar of my T-shirt, and yanked me to him. He tried to say something but couldn’t. The fear that had been in his eyes now evolved into sheer terror.
“Where’s your inhaler? You just need to take a hit, that’s all.” I didn’t want to panic him further, so I acted as if he was fine. The bluish hue in his lips made me think maybe he wasn’t fine. “Terry, do you have your inhaler?”
He frantically shook his head.
I started to panic a little. The kid thrashing back and forth at my feet was the only kid who would hang out with me. I kind of needed him to stay around. I looked up at the PE teacher, Mr. Braxton. He just stood there. He didn’t look like the high school football hero he always bragged about being; he looked scared. Suddenly the situation seemed a lot more serious. “Mr. Braxton, do something! He needs his inhaler!”
“Where is it?” the teacher asked.
“It’s probably in his locker. He needs it now!”
Mr. Braxton turned from Terry and scanned the kids around him. “Do any of you guys know which locker is his?”
No one said anything.
I looked at Terry, grabbed his hand. “Hang in there, Terry! I’m going to get your inhaler. I’ll be right back, okay?”
For a split second, I thought I saw understanding in his eyes. But maybe not. Maybe I was just imagining it, because the look went right back to really scared.
I jumped to my feet and sprinted toward the school. I reached the building, ripped open the doors to the locker room, and ran to Terry’s locker. I tore through his clothes, throwing them to the floor, and stared into an empty locker. “No!” I dropped to my knees and grabbed his pants, shooting my hand into a front pocket. Nothing.
I felt inside the opposite pocket. There! I snatched the inhaler and raced back outside. I looked out to the field where everyone was standing, gathered around my buddy.
I ran, not like Terry’s life depended on it, but like mine did. I didn’t want to go through high school alone. I knew why he didn’t have his inhaler. He was tired of everyone giving him shit, calling him weak because he was dependent on the inhaler. He was trying to make a point: he was tough enough to go without it. Stupid, Terry. Really stupid.
I pumped my arms, my legs, ran against the clock. I would save Terry. I would be a hero. Only fifty yards to go. Faster. Run faster. “I’m coming Terry! Hang—”
Something caught my foot and I was now headed nose down, straight into the ground. Seemed like it was happening in slow motion, but I couldn’t stop any of my movement. I tried to shield my face by putting my hands in front of me, trying to stop the Earth speeding up at me. I hit the ground hands first, my face following. My legs, now in the air above my head, kept going. I planted face first into the ground and scorpioned hard. I screamed as I flipped onto my back.
I lay face up, wondering what had just grabbed my foot. Satan was my first thought. I rolled onto my stomach and pushed myself up onto my hands and knees, frantically searching for Terry’s inhaler. It was right there in front of me, lying on the ground. Broken into pieces. “No!” I scooped up the pieces, jumped to my feet, and looked at the crowd around Terry. Everyone was now looking at me.
I ran to the group. They stared at me, shaking their heads. Mr. Braxton was bent over Terry, administering CPR. I was suddenly taken back to a day at the apartments when two guys administered poolside CPR to a funny-looking little kid who’d had a light blue hue to his lips. Just like Terry had now.
And then the hue deepened and began spreading across Terry’s whole face. His eyes were closed, his body still. I stared, my hands dropping to my side. The pieces of the inhaler fell to the ground.
I watched the emergency medical techs load Terry’s body into the ambulance. My whole body shook. I wanted to lash out, to strike something, anything. Every muscle in my body tightened. Billy had just killed my friend This isn’t fair! I wanted to scream as loud as I could. But my dad’s words, Life’s not supposed to be fair, cut me off. If I’d had my Uncle Henry right then, Billy would’ve seen just how unfair the world could be.
Terry didn’t deserve this. He was only doing as he was told, playing some stupid game with a bunch of fucking assholes hell-bent on hurting someone. I looked up.
“This is bullshit, God!” Why did things always go wrong for me? Was it too much to ask that something in my life went right for once? Life’s not supposed—“Shut up, Dad,” I said, silencing the voice.
I looked down at the pieces of inhaler. If I hadn’t fallen, Terry might still be alive. I knew I was going to get blamed for this. The kids were already pointing and talking.
But it wasn’t me. It was Billy. He stole my only friend in the whole world. Why? What did he have to gain?
And then a thought swept through me. Maybe it wasn’t Billy who had killed Terry. Maybe it was Satan. Could he really have grabbed my foot? Or who knows, it might even have been God.
My eyes turned skyward. “Is this some kind of joke? You think this is funny? Is it funny when you fuck with someone like that?”
I wondered if God was laughing.
Iniquity
Life as I knew it forever changed the day Terry died. Lying in bed that night, knowing sleep would not come, I thought about Terry’s last day. As he threw on his shorts and T-shirt, without knowing it, he had dressed not for gym class, but for the afterlife. And when his time came, did he see the light—maybe his grandpa or grandma standing in it, arms open, beckoning him forward?
Or was it a guy with cloven feet, horns, and razor-sharp teeth who awaited him, the rotting flesh of naughty children dangling from his foul mouth? Had Terry’s soul become dinner for the Devil?
Terry was the only bright spot in my life. He was the only person who ever liked me, accepted me as I was. Everyone else abandoned me. My grandma never looked at me the same after Jeremy died. She issued a distant “Hello, Samuel” each time my dad brought us by her house. There was no more hominy. She expressed no
emotion, no feelings toward me when we were in the same room, which wasn’t often, because she usually left when I entered. I tried to explain to her that it hadn’t been my fault, but she told me to quit talking about it.
Sheila blamed me for Socks dying. She came home in tears after finding his flattened carcass in the parking lot. I knew I should’ve gotten rid of him better. I tried telling her it was Dad’s fault, but she told me to shut up and never talk to her again. She was a serious bitch from then until she left home at seventeen.
My dad got only worse. He acted like we had driven Mom away. He acted like if drowning your children were legal, he’d be filling the bathtub to the rim.
Everyone in my life left me. Including Terry. Thanks to Billy. Or the Devil. Or God. Or whoever the hell took him.
I tossed and turned, visions of demons doing the dance of the dead across my mind. I thought about another time I couldn’t sleep: the night before an encounter in a tree house. That was the day Terry and I had allowed the evil between Angie’s legs to soil our souls. The more I thought about that day, the more it bothered me. I had been warned time and again about the consequences of “knowing a woman” before marriage. My dad, our preacher, the Bible—they all agreed. You’re screwed if you screw. But Terry’s and my lust had gotten the better of us; we had contaminated our spirits and, afterward, never did anything to make it right. Unfortunately for Terry, his chance to cleanse his soul was now gone. He was dead. The preacher’s voice echoed through my head. The eternal tortures of Hell await the souls of fornicators.
If that was true, Terry’s actions guaranteed him a ticket straight to Hell, the guy with the cloven feet awaiting his arrival. I shuddered. Was that what awaited me?
The whole Heaven and Hell thing, and how it worked, suddenly became very important. I felt I had a pretty good grasp on the Devil. But what about God?
While I was a child, my dad beat the story of God and his unforgiving, punishing existence into me. Dad never allowed me to forget the Lord had absolute rule over mankind, along with a nasty habit of seeking revenge against those who transgressed against Him. The preacher’s voice again: Vengeance belongeth to me. So sayeth the Lord.
Criminal Zoo Page 10