Rage

by Ryan, Paul W.

  She shuttered to think she had also killed a man. She had handpicked him from the hundreds of other potential Playdates from that nightclub. It had been her that lured him away from his wife and child to the letting house Jason was keeping vacant all those months. It had been her that hit him first.

  She drained the rest of her drink in one gulp.

  The phone started ringing but she was in no mood to answer so instead she let it go straight to voicemail. Jonathan’s voice began at once.

  “Hey, Alice, it’s me. Listen, I’m really sorry about the other night, the wedding ring and well, everything that I’ve put you through. I know I can be an ass at times. Pete’s been leaving me these weird messages the past hour, and well, it’s spooking me out. Shit, Alice, with all that’s been going on lately: Tony, Marcus . . . I don’t know . . . It’s got me thinking and well . . . I can’t stand the thought of not being without you anymore—”

  She wanted to get up and disconnect the answering machine, but she just felt too tired. Instead, she popped another pill and washed it down with more gin.

  “—all I can think about is your smile . . . your hair . . . God, it makes me so angry sometimes that you don’t feel this connection we have, this deep spiritual connection. It’s love, Alice, I know it is and I need to know once and for all, yes or no, do you—”

  The message cut short as the tape ran out. The phone rang again for a second before going straight to voicemail. Another message started to play as Alice took another pill and tonic.

  “—I just want you to be happy and safe, Alice. That’s all I ever wanted for you. For us. But if I can’t have you, then I don’t know what to do. My life and everything else is meaningless. I’m here with a noose around my neck and a broken heart. I don’t know if I should cut it loose or let myself hang. I love you, Alice, I—”

  The message cut off again.

  Jonathan. He was a monster true, a narcissistic, self-obsessed monster, but compared to Peter, he seemed like an angel. He’ll keep me safe, she decided. All he’s ever wanted to do is to keep me safe. If there really are people coming to kill me, then he’ll keep them away. He wouldn’t hesitate to kill Jason or Peter, or anyone if they threatened me. He’d do anything for my love.

  She crawled towards the phone but she just felt so tired. She was always tired these days. Ever since Marcus had died, she had grown more and more tired every day. The carpet beneath her felt like a thousand caressing hands, massaging her aching body and lulling her to sleep. She was just so tired. Gin mixed with pills always made her feel that way.

  Just for one minute, she promised herself. Slowly, she closed her eyes and let herself fall into a deep, wakeless sleep.

  FROM THE DIARY OF PETER CLAYTON

  We as humans are social animals. Allow me to elaborate further—we are bred by evolution for group murder. Natural selection has awarded you with a brain that discriminates, segregates, and makes you a follower. You follow your team, love everything they do and hate the other team, regardless of what it just so happens to be. You are right, your team is right and the other team is wrong, always wrong.

  Unity triumphs logic, morality, and everything else.

  You can learn so much about a society by looking at their monsters. The really popular stories will always feature monsters that are as different from us as possible. The humans always take on animal forms, or seem so detached from their actions that it may as well have been someone else.

  Some people say that life operates on a constant grind of good versus evil, with free will turning the wheels.

  Like I’ve mentioned before, free will is little more than an illusion at the best of times. We just side with whomever is the strongest or most aggressive, for we believe that if they are that angry and motivated, then surely they must have a grand plan for us all.

  Can you imagine a scientist developing some technology for chemical weapons and openly thinking of what he does as 'dark science' or evil? Can you image a real world leader naming his headquarters: 'The Death Star' or 'Mount Doom’? The headquarters of this villain is Apartment 6, Crest Grove—a squat, shithole studio apartment barely large enough to lay down comfortably anywhere. Prison cells get more luxury than I do. The architect of this wave of terror spreading across the city is called Peter Clayton.

  Sounds like a monster, right?

  Of course not. But we need to believe that evil people know they're evil, or else that would open the door to the fact that everyone might be evil without knowing it. That nice old lady who always brings you cookies for your birthday every year? A monster because she refuses to give money to charity. Your husband or wife? Caused several homeless people to starve to death because they couldn’t open their pockets to spare a few cents.

  We've all bought clothes that were made by child slaves, driven cars that poison the air or done something that deep down we knew was wrong, but we didn't do it to be evil—we just simply did whatever we felt like and thought fuck the consequences. Not like the real monsters that wake up every day intentionally dreaming up new evils, right? You could be one of those monsters that you know the world is full of. But don’t worry. You have your moral code to prevent you from turning at any point, right? You're right and they're wrong, surely, because otherwise you . . . are the monster.

  We had awoken the slumbering beast which sleeps in the heart of every man; we had stirred the monsters that lurk within society; the suppressed and hungry demons in every man and woman. Redemption they called for. This was the only way to save our souls. Like the early Christians trying to save the souls of Pagans and others before them.

  Misguided and over-zealous.

  Heroes have always been just as misunderstood as the villains have.

  However, people saw me, it didn’t matter.

  I had my audience.

  It was time the world watched Peter Clayton slay a monster.

  CHAPTER 36

  Jonathan stood on the chair in the middle of his art studio. A long coil of hempen rope was looped around his neck, tight, with a hard knot under his ear. The other end hung high above the rafters of his studio. All he needed to do was kick away the chair and it would be over. He would be free of his pain, free of the anger he felt, free of the constant feeling of failed love and failed art.

  He was ready to end it all when the door began knocking.

  “Alice?” he called out, fumbling at the knot behind his ear. His fingers could not undo the knot fast enough and it was too tight to simply raise it up over his head.

  The front door knocked again.

  “Alice! I’m coming. Just wait a second. I knew you’d come, I—”

  The door handle began to turn and a figure walked into the studio, followed by another, and then another. Jonathan watched in confusion as the room began to fill out into a small audience. The people walked between his paintings, admiring some for a moment while others simply walked straight up towards him to pan out into a little semi-circle around him.

  A woman dressed in red parted the crowd to stand before him. Her fiery-red hair was platted and hung over her right shoulder like a rope.

  Her dark eyes glistened red in the overhead lights as she looked up at Jonathan.

  “Who are you people? What the hell do you want?”

  “I thought you would have recognised some of us, Jonathan,” the woman calmly spoke. “We are the Survivors.”

  “The . . . what? I don’t understand.”

  He clawed at the knot but a set of hands suppressed him, tightening the noose with every passing second.

  “I’m sure Peter must have warned you—if he cared for your life that is. We’ve come for you. All of you. This is your redemption, Jonathan, for all the horrible things you’ve done in your life. All the people you’ve hurt.”

  He tried to respond, but the noose was so tight that it cut off his words. The woman in red looked to her side at Jonathan’s latest ‘masterpiece’. She studied it for several long moments.

  “
I know this woman,” one of the other voices said. “That’s the fashion model, Alice Monroe. She’s the monster that killed my husband.”

  “A pretty little thing,” the red woman smiled. “Too bad she is dead now. Just like you.”

  Jonathan opened his mouth to plea, but the noose choked off his words.

  “Shhh, don’t feel so bad.” She pressed a soft finger against his lips. A red tear ran from the corner of her eye.

  “I know you loved her and wanted to save her. But know this: she was a monster just like you are. Monsters cannot be saved. And what do we do with monsters?”

  “We put them down,” answered a voice from the crowd.

  “We put them down,” Phoenix echoed. “Take solace in the fact that she died peacefully. A little pill slipped into her handbag was all it took.”

  Jonathan’s eyes widened and he thrashed around like a madman. His legs kicked feebly underneath him, but fell short.

  “That eager to join her?” Her red lips curved upwards like a dagger. “Well, it would be rude of me to deny you that privilege, wouldn’t it?”

  Without another word, she kicked the chair out from under him. His feet hung in the air, the rope cutting deep into the soft flesh beneath his chin. The rope jerked and groaned underneath his weight, but held firm. The hempen rope was smudged with multi-coloured paint from his fingers. The fake wedding ring shun faintly on his left hand in a rainbow of blurred colours.

  His last thoughts were of Alice as his windpipe tightened and the blood raced to his head. Phoenix and the rest of the Survivors watched as he jerked in the air, twisting and kicking, until finally the last of life left him.

  CHAPTER 37

  I watched the city lights go by in a blurred palette of neon blues and greens all the way up to the ghostly white of the streetlights as I drove alone up to my destination. An old Georgian house just past the market district on the outskirts of the town. Over four months had passed and still no fool had decided to buy it. I couldn’t blame them really. With Jason trying to sell it, it was simply never going to budge. I could never imagine anyone willingly buying a house from that madman without him bullying or threatening them into it first.

  Old habits from an old life, I suppose.

  In a way, it was just one of the cogs that had led me to this moment. One of those strange little twists of faith that had been written out long before we came along; those little hundred word stories I had collected over the past three years—now all merging into one. I watched the city rush past without a care in the world I was ever there. Just a fleeting ghost amongst a city that did not sleep. I reached over and turned the dial to the first station I could find. A sad Spanish song played over the radio. A woman singing about a lost love to a tune I did not know.

  I rolled down the windows and let the cold wind race across my face. Those little moments were important. Those little connections that you feel each day are important, no matter how small. It grounds you. Numbs you of all the negative things in life. Reconnects you to what really matters. Makes you feel human.

  Was I even human anymore? I began to wonder. Had I ever been human?

  The story about Tony’s death had barely even fazed me. I knew it was going to happen sooner or later. I’d practically written the story myself after setting the Survivors on us. I couldn’t help but wonder who was left of our group anymore. So far, I hadn’t seen any other names come up in the news, but I knew it was only a matter of time. I hoped Alice and Jonathan were safe somewhere, yet my gut feeling told me otherwise.

  I drove up a gentle slope as I drew closer. The old Georgian house sat perched on the top of a small hill. I parked the car in the driveway and took a moment to look out over the city. A palette of green, red, and blue lights flickered down in the city, drowning out the stars. Somewhere an ambulance screamed past. Elsewhere, a police car.

  The moon peeked its flat nose from behind a gathering of dark clouds. Those same clouds with their horrible yellow hue from the endless amount of smog pumped out into the sky above. Those same stars which grew weaker with every passing night, coated in the dust of our city and past lives.

  I sat on my car hood looking out at the city and the stars. My mother, my father, Marcus, Tony . . . they all looked so bright up there in the sky. Would I be one of them or just the darkness surrounding them?

  A sharp wind brought me back to my senses. The hairs rose on the back of my neck as another chill swept over me. I slid off the bonnet and rested my hand on the old girl. My trusty ’87 rust bucket would probably outlive me after all. The thought made me chuckle. It would most likely be scrapped for parts after I was gone. I couldn’t see anyone except for the rats wanting it anyway.

  A deeper part of me wanted it to live on. Locked away in a museum somewhere, like the car Bonnie and Clyde had.

  Immortalised.

  Come and see the monster’s car, a man would proclaim as he twirled his bushy moustache. Come and see the car where he drove out to his Playdates.

  I could picture it now. That’s the car he ran me over with, a drunk would say. It’s all Peter Clayton’s fault I’m the person you see today. I demand compensation for what he done to me.

  A stream of wealth would flow into each of their greedy little hands. A vile creature would play me in a future film, more beast than man; his face a perpetual snarl as he would hiss and bark his every guttural word. Sarah would be that sweet, young innocent girl who had been caught up in it all. The damsel in distress. The Little Red Riding Hood to our sad little story.

  I could see it all now.

  We all want to be remembered somehow. History only remembers the best and the worst of each generation—and forgets all the rest.

  Had I been a worse person I would probably have reached those levels of infamy. I never set out to be an evil person—that just sort of happened I suppose.

  I was a monster, but I had my morals—however grey and fleeting they seemed to most. I was the monster who dreamt of being a hero, the monster who wanted to help, and the monster who taught the world to hate again.

  The big, bad wolf of today. The old, big, bad wolf only taught us about fear.

  If that was how I was to be cast, then so be it. Too many people preach about love and forgiveness these days anyway.

  With a deep breath, I walked up the steps leading to the door. I laid a hand on the cold, brass doorknob. To my surprise, it was not locked. There was no turning back.

  The darkness extended back as far as the eye could see with just faint shimmers of moonlight accenting the emptiness of the house. I walked along, feeling for a light switch yet they all seemed to be disconnected. The smell of freshly-polished flooring and bleach clung behind the fading jasmine aromas. It was rather pleasant and soothing, if not a little artificial. Then another aroma hit me. The one I had been looking for.

  The smell of anger.

  The smell of rage.

  * * *

  I heard the footsteps long before I could see anything—a steady footfall of steps against the polished floor that drew closer and closer until finally Jason burst through the shadows. He didn’t say a single word. His clenched fist came swinging towards my face.

  CHAPTER 38

  My body became a battlefield as the short-handled hammer of his fist beat down again and again. I was too weak and slow to fight back. Jason was faster, better, stronger. A far superior model of a decommissioned make. A mould of a far superior casing.

  Another crimson thread of pain sent me buckling to the floor. I spat out a thick globule of blood and another shattered tooth. I had weaved my own demise. Was I to die here where it all began?

  Jason was like an aberration of nature, a hurricane approaching a batten-down coastal town. His boot cracked down against the side of my face. Blood poured in a steady downpour from my ruptured face and filled my mouth so fast that I thought I would drown in the tide of its outpour.

  The drug-fuelled maniac kept hammering down with relentless fury, stopping only
to howl more guttural curses at me. As his fists rained down upon my face and body, I did little to resist it.

  Most people say that getting beaten to death is a terrible way to die, but to me it strangely felt peaceful, relaxing almost. My body had numbed all sensations and hovered above it. All I could hear now was the beautiful symphony Jason was composing: my epitaph. It had been over three years in the making, rage always pushing him to continue writing. I just kept pushing him and pushing him until forcing him into withdrawal.

  Kill or be killed.

  Paint the picture that is Peter Clayton. My crucifixion, martyrdom—whatever you want to call it. Write the song that is to be my epitaph.

  My influence punctuated every note, every bass-filled hammering of flesh against bone, every treble-filled scream of frustration—it was all me. I was the composer and the creator of it all. All I had to do was lie there and watch this performance until it was finally over.

  My flesh was the canvas for this masterpiece. This was how Peter Clayton was to be painted all along. If only Sarah could see how wrong she had been. Would she grab a paintbrush or run away?

  Jason grabbed me by the collar and pressed his forehead against mine. An interval perhaps, a small reprisal to address the audience before the music began again. Even the greatest painters and composers need a break from time to time.

  “You just kept pushing me and pushing me, Pete,” he said, his voice a guttural growl. “Why? We had a beautiful thing once! You taught me to hate the world, make people angry again—make it a better place.”

  “It doesn't work that way, Jason, and you know it,” I gasped between my broken teeth. “It's bullshit, all of it!”