Damaged

by McCombs, Troy

  I'm killing for you, Erin; no, because of you.

  Adam suddenly felt like killing Chris and Amy. Bashing their heads together until they exploded—

  Christ, what are you thinking?! He's your best friend. She never did a thing to you.

  But they could have! They have each other. I got nobody.

  Adam stopped himself, but the flame kept burning. He realized at that instant that he was starting to really lose his sanity. Murder suddenly didn't need a reason or a motive. It just needed a victim. An aggressor.

  “Hey, man, I got to split," Chris said to Adam.

  "Huh?" Adam said, brushing away his evil thoughts.

  "Gotta go. Hey, you want to spend the night at my house tonight?"

  "How about you stay here?"

  Chris thought about it. "Okay, but next time you stay at mine."

  "Okay."

  Chris pocketed his cell phone and glanced at the television. "They saying any more?"

  "Just—no, not really. Nothing you haven't heard already."

  “All right, I'll be back later," Chris said, then left.

  Adam lie back on his bed, tortured by his own, unwanted thoughts. He could not accept it: he had just contemplated taking the lives of innocent people who cared about him and had never done him any harm.

  Why did I think it?

  No time for that. I have to—

  ***

  Adam made sure Chris was gone and the front door was locked before he entered the basement and turned on the lights. The place reeked of bleach. He had used a bottle and a half of Clorox to clean every inch of blood and meat off every contaminated surface. It looked immaculate, but the smell was too much.

  He walked over to the secret door and put his ear against it, listening. He didn’t hear anything. Was David still behind it? Or was his body gone? Just whom was that second victim?

  With a hand, Adam pushed the door open, eyes squinted shut. It opened with a loud rumble. Dust flew into the air. A sound entered his ears, but it wasn't the voices of policemen and investigators, it was the squealing sound of many rats eating a meal.

  Adam opened his eyes. His dad's body was still there, being devoured by hungry vermin of different sizes. The garbage bags and saran wrap were now shriveled and scattered like confetti. Hardly a drop of blood stained the surface of the ground. They had chewed through the skin, the tissue, the muscles, and were now gnawing at the hard bone. The evidence was gone, all stuffed within the stomachs of the filthy gray monsters.

  He laughed. He could not believe his eyes. An immense problem had been solved by the lowest creatures on the food chain. They looked at him as they ate, their beady little eyes glowing through the darkness like flickering red flames. Their teeth scraped marrow off the skeleton one by one, and Adam knew that, by the end of the day, all that would remain would be some pieces of plastic.

  He watched television. Full House. Except today he didn't like the theme of the family show. It was too peachy, too preachy, too fantasized. A perfect representation of what the typical American family should have been, but never was and never would be.

  He turned it to Channel 11 News. A picture of an ugly man flashed up on screen.

  "The victim, Ronald Lostone, was found on the riverbank soon after dawn. It's apparent that he was not a victim of the recent lash of homicides. The other victim, Bain Wells, was. What authorities are unsure of is—"

  Adam shut off the television and began to rewrite the story he had just begun days ago: Damaged. He deleted the original concept. Now it was an autobiography about a young man who goes nuts and kills his schoolmates.

  And I can think up more ways and more plans to do it again. And again … until none of them are left.

  His hands poked at the keys quickly and efficiently. Words crowded the empty pages. Sentences, paragraphs, pages. No writer's block on this one.

  “Hello, Adam."—an instant message from Roseybabe1234, the heartbreaker, popped up onto the computer just after he hit the period button. His mind went blank, his hands comatose, his heart cold. He wondered if it was an optical illusion, another break in reality.

  "Adam? You there?" she typed.

  He felt like throwing up. Never did he think he would see her or hear from her again.

  "??" she typed.

  Adam typed something, although he didn't know he was doing so: "Hi, Erin. How are you?"

  "I'm doing ok. How are you?"

  "Hanging in there."—that's a bold-faced lie and you know it!

  "How's everything with you?" she wrote.

  "Couldn't be better." He laughed, his eyes twisted on her gentle prose. He wanted to reach through the computer, grab her and—

  "That's nice to hear," she wrote. "Hey, I heard about what happened there. It's all over the news. Some serial killer or something? That's crazy!"

  Not as crazy as what you did to me.

  "Yeah, I know. And I went to school with them all."

  "Really? Did you know them?"

  "Unfortunately, yes."

  "Unfortunately?”

  "They were assholes. I didn't like them."

  "That's not a nice thing to say. I mean, they're dead. You know? You should have compassion for them."

  You should've had compassion for me. Everybody should have.

  "I can't do that," he typed.

  "Why not?"

  "I hated them, Erin. I could honestly care less."

  She didn't type for a long moment; then— "That's sad. It really is. If that was my worst enemy, I would at least go to their funeral, pay their family some respect. Nobody deserves to be killed that way."

  Adam wasn't thinking, but he was coming awfully close to snapping. "I don't agree. I think a lot of people deserve to be. I mean, it's probably a distressed kid from school or something. Someone they teased real bad."

  "That doesn't mean they deserve to die. How could you even think that? High school kids are high school kids."

  "That's not an excuse."

  "That's not an excuse to kill anybody, either. Gee, by the way you're talking, you're the one who did it. You didn't, did you?"

  "No, I'm just looking at it from a different way."

  "That's a weird way to look at it. Maybe you need help."

  Come here and I'll help YOU.

  "I don't think so. I'm not blind. I don't see things from such a cut and dry place as you. People like you don't make any sense to me. Erin, I loved you with all my heart. You know what you did to me?"

  "Adam, I'm only 13. I'm not ready to start a relationship yet. Look at the way you're talking to me. Who would want to be with you if you want people to be murdered? That's so wrong!"

  "I think liars are wrong."

  "What? What are you talking about?"

  "Do you think it's wrong to break a promise? Hurt somebody until there's nothing left?"

  "Is this because of me breaking up with you?"

  "Yeah. You lied to me. You promised you would never leave me. You said you weren't a heartbreaker."

  "God, Adam, I'm 13! I'm not perfect."

  "And neither is this elusive murderer you think is so terrible. Not everybody leads a normal life like all you robotic people."

  "Hey, I gotta go. Please do yourself a favor. Get some serious help."

  Roseybabe1234 signed off.

  Something inside Adam broke. Again. He looked over at his printer, pulled back his arm, and plowed into it with his fist. The poor machine cracked. Two pieces of plastic flew across the room. Blood dripped from three small gashes on Adam's knuckles as he stood, unaware of a one.

  "Fuuuuuuuck!"

  He took the broken printer off its stand and slammed it against the mantel, where it exploded. Ink sprayed everywhere. For a minute, Adam thought it was blood.

  "I loved you, Erin! When I didn't want to go out with you, you cried and I felt bad. So I agreed. But when you did it to me and I cried, you didn't even care! You should have been Erica. You should have been the one who I murdered in th
e shower. At least she was honest to me."

  Adam's knees gave out. He fell to the floor. Soon, he looked down at his hand and realized his minor abrasions. He wanted to see more blood. A lot more. Not his own.

  Chapter 13

  Realizations and Preparations

  Adam took a cab to Lowe's. He got some stuff he needed: a bigger, better flashlight with better, more powerful batteries; another roll of twine; duct tape; needle-nosed pliers… and, as he walked up the last aisle, toward the checkout lane, he stopped and found something overlooked but definitely worthwhile: large iron plumbing pipes. All I have to do is fill them up with gunpowder, and I'll have weapons no law authority can compete with—bombs.

  He grabbed two medium-sized ones and one large one, and placed them in the cart.

  A moment later, he wheeled the buggy toward the last checkout lane. The cashier, a young blond goddess with eyes as clear as Palm Beach water and lips as voluptuous as Angelina Jolie's, was standing behind the register, drinking a cup of coffee. Her hair, straight and thin, was wrapped in a ponytail. But when she turned to see Adam coming her way, she quickly pulled out the band and fixed it nicely.

  Her attraction to him was instantaneous. She noticed his lifeless eyes (maybe I could make him happy), his stiff stature (maybe I could relieve that with a kiss), and his messy hair (you should see MY hair in the morning).There was something about him that made all the other jerks she always dealt with on a regular basis disappear.

  "Hi!" she said, blinking her eyes at him.

  Adam casually unloaded his items onto the counter.

  "Hey, my cousin has one of these flashlights," she said. "They're really bright. You can even focus the beam, I think."

  Adam never looked directly at her. Oh, how beautiful it'll be to blow up the town.

  He's a cutie. Maybe this is a guy I can take home to my mom. Who knows?

  "Is this all for you today?" she asked, wanting him to look at her.

  But he never did. She even accentuated her breasts. Her name tag looked like it was about to pop off her shirt.

  "Okay, that'll be 30.31. Do you have a discount card with us?"

  Adam handed her money from his dead father's wallet. There was actually trace amounts of his blood still on it.

  "Out of fifty," she said, taking the crisp fifty and hitting some buttons.

  Why won't he look at me?

  Why does she have to be so fucking cheery?

  He hasn't looked at me once.

  What's her problem? Shit, maybe she knows. Maybe it's a trap.

  Just look up. It's okay. God, I wish he would at least say something.

  Maybe she needs to die, too.

  Why are all the nice-looking guys never interested?

  I can make you scream in pain, bitch. Don't get close to me. Don't smile. You hate me.

  I like him.

  "Here is your change. Thank you," she said, blinking her eyes at him and parting her mouth.

  Adam took his goods and walked toward the exit, not even giving a first glance to the girl who might have made him happy. She watched him as he went, disappointed and a little hurt.

  Another customer approached. She put her hair back into a pony tail and went back to work.

  Was that dumb slut actually attracted to me? Adam thought as he sat down in the cab and closed the door. Impossible. Cannot happen. I don't believe it. I will not believe it. Thank you, Erin, Erica, and all you Blake High bitches, for ruining my love life.

  Look at what you made me into!

  You created me; now I will destroy you.

  Before he went home, Adam had the cab driver make another stop: Berik's Gun Shop. He knew he was not old enough to buy gunpowder, but he paid the driver a hundred bucks to get him two pounds of top-grade low explosives. And the driver, a lonely, dirty, bald man who kept complaining about George W. Bush the whole way, actually bought it for him. No questions asked.

  ***

  A knock on the McNicols’ front door.

  A cab halting at a red light.

  The door opening and Chris shouting, "Hey, Adam, you home? Hello?"

  The cab still stopped at a red light.

  Chris darting upstairs and entering Adam's room. Nobody’s inside. However, the computer's on and Chris wants to get online.

  Adam looking out the side window at the gloomy sky.

  Chris clicking the mouse. Damaged, Adam's manifesto, comes up.

  The cab stopping at a stop sign.

  The horrible information seeping into Chris’s unbelieving brain as he reads the current what Adam may have done.

  Rain starting to pelt the windshield as the driver complains more about George W.

  Chris freaking out. He doesn't believe it, but he needs proof. He finds it in the basement—the lonely jar of Chloroform.

  The cab pulling up to the curb…

  Adam paid, got out, and walked up the porch steps. He entered, set his stuff down in the hallway, took off his coat, and entered the living room. Chris was sitting on the couch, holding the Chloroform, a floppy disk, and a blood-stained piece of twine. Adam had never seen his best friend look so surprised. Chris had never seen his best friend look so horrified.

  "Don't tell me it was you."

  "Chris, what are you doing here?"

  "I was supposed to stay the night here, remember? We were supposed to hang out. Maybe you were going to fuckin’ kill me or something like that?"

  Adam looked down and shook his head. "You go through my stuff, invade my privacy?"

  "Privacy? Privacy? I stumbled upon it, and I'm glad I did. What were you going to do to me tonight? Burn me? Torture me with a drill? Saw my stomach open with your saw like on this disk?"

  "Fuck no. You're my best friend."

  "Oh, am I?"

  “You are and you know it. You know how those fuck-ups treated me."

  "Tell me it isn't you, Adam. Just tell me it's not." Chris swallowed hard, eyes watering. "Cause if it's not—"

  "Then you'll know I'm lying. It was me. I did what I did and it felt good, man."

  "You didn't kill three of our classmates, Adam. You couldn't have. You just made up this weird story just because you hated them, and this bottle of Chloroform… it was always down there in your basement, collecting dust, and this twine—tell me it wasn't you. It's not in your nature. You can't even stand up to Bain at school, let alone cut him in half. And you can't talk to Erica, let alone scald her and make her choke on razor blades?"

  Adam stared at him. His expression verified Chris's questions.

  "It was. Me."

  Chris turned around, ran his hands through his hair, and groaned. He knew the truth but could not accept it.

  "I've seen you punch holes in walls, break windows—hell, I saw you killed your printer, but I've never seen you hurt a living thing. Never. Did someone tell you to do it? Make you do it?"

  "Yes."

  "Well, who?"

  "Erica, Pete, and Bain."

  "Jesus Christ! What's wrong with you, man? Why? How? That's what I wanna know first, is how the hell you did it. No evidence? Nobody at any of the scenes except one, and they couldn't identify you, in—?"

  "In Pete's basement. Pete's dad. I wore a Halloween mask. I dressed differently. I made myself look fat."

  "And what? You were walking the streets late at night, whistling, knocked on their doors and said, ‘hey, you want to die?’ Or you drove to their houses and—how in the fuck did you do this? Somebody had to have seen you. You couldn't have done it alone."

  "That secret passage down in my basement. It leads to everywhere in town."

  Chris was suddenly quiet. It was all starting to make sense to him. Nevertheless, he still did not want to believe it. It was far too crazy. "Why, Adam? Why you? Why now?"

  "I don't know."

  "You don't know? Come on! What did you do? Sleepwalk and—"

  "—No."

  "—And decided that you felt like doing something different for a change, so y
ou stole this Chloroform from the school lab, bored, and—"

  "Nooooo! I did it because I had nothing left. All right? My mom was blowed up in an airplane, my girlfriend ripped my fucking heart out—what do you want me to say? Thanks, God, I appreciate my life? To bow down before Bain and those other two corpses and say: ‘I love what you've done to me when I didn't do jack-fucking-shit to you?’ Why should people treat me like shit when I did nothing wrong? Nothing! If I had a somewhat normal life before that really bad day I had a week ago, I wouldn't have done it. I wouldn't have even thought about it. I wasn’t picked on in school, Chris, I was fucking tortured. I did to them what they did to me. No difference. They are dead because of their actions, not because of mine. All I wanted was to be treated fairly, and since that was never going to happen, I guess I figured that I would make things fair. I'll remove everyone who is unjust. I don't care if it's wrong or against the law. Did they have the right to call me names? Black my eyes? Throw me down and laugh? It happens in every school in America. And you know what? It's not normal! Bullying is not normal. What's normal is people being kind. Nice. Anything but indifferent. You want to know why kids shoot up schools? That's why. It's not because of Marilyn Manson, or heavy metal music, or the Natural Born Killers movie… it's because society doesn't give a shit about people who have nothing! Well, I didn't know what else to do, Chris. My mom and Erin was all I had. I feel like the people I murdered took them both away from me. Those sick mother fuckers." Adam teared up and took a deep breath.

  Chris looked, above all, empathic. He knew life had always been rough for Adam, but had no idea it was this rough. Some of his defending words even made sense… to the point that he would not rat his best friend out. He could not do such a thing. The thought didn't even cross his mind. More than anything, he wanted to help the lost, lonely soul crying across the room from him. He looked up to Adam. Chris thought of him as the brother he had never had.

  ***

  "So what now?" Adam asked him. They were sitting on Adam's bed, back to back, Adam with his arms folded, Chris with his hands clasped together.

  "Are you going to tell on me? Call the police? Have me killed in the electric chair?"