Mason's Television

by Jon Athan

  “I know, I know. How much time do you think I have?”

  “A week. You have one week before they gather all of the DNA, recreate the crime, talk to some witnesses, and link it back to you.”

  A week – the short time did not sit well with him. Death wasn't guaranteed at the end of the timer, but he felt as if his body were stamped with an expiration date. He regretted asking the question. If he was going to go out, killed or imprisoned for his crime, he preferred a spontaneous event. He wasn't the type to plan ahead – unless he was planning something big.

  Mason said, “I think a week is enough. If I do everything right, I think I can finish what I started. I can... I can be famous, you know? That's what I want. Not like those assholes on TV, though. No, I want real fame. I want to be remembered when people are awake and when they're asleep.”

  The TV chuckled, then it said, “In that case, you want notoriety – infamy. I think you can achieve that in a week, too. You're already close, you just need a little more.”

  “I'm going to do a lot more if–”

  Mason was interrupted by loud knocking downstairs. Someone was banging on the wall in the staircase.

  From the bottom of the stairs, Isabel Williams, his mother, shouted, “Mason, you're going to be late for school! Come eat your breakfast!”

  Mason sneered in disgust upon hearing his mom's voice. He climbed out of bed. He grabbed a fresh black t-shirt, then he tossed it over his head. He slipped out of his pajama bottoms, then he slipped into his jeans. He placed his black baseball cap over his dome. He sat on his bed and tied his shoes. In less than two minutes, he was ready for school.

  Mason stared at his television and asked, “I should try to stay out of trouble, right? I don't want to put any more attention on me, right?”

  The TV responded, “It's your choice, Masey. A little bit of trouble never hurt anyone. Besides, you're always in trouble, aren't you? If you don't get detention today, you might make people suspicious. Just act normal and everything will be cool. Trust me.”

  Mason smiled and nodded, encouraged. He grabbed his black backpack and tossed it over his shoulder, then he said, “Thanks for everything. I'll see you after school.”

  As the boy departed, the TV said, “I'll be waiting for you, kiddo...”

  ***

  Mason glanced down the hall to his right. He didn't hear his parents in the master bedroom down the hall. He walked down the stairs to his left, then he stopped at the bottom of the steps. As if he had awoken in a different house, the young teenager carefully examined the home with a pair of inquisitive eyes.

  The expression on his face read: where the hell am I?

  The spacious living room with a high ceiling waited to his left. The clean pool, filled with sparkling water, could be seen through the glass sliding doors. The succulent scent of crispy bacon, scrambled eggs, and coffee blew through the archway to his right. The kitchen, which also served as a dining room, was bustling with activity.

  He stood in the archway and glanced around.

  His father, Bradley Williams, sat at the kitchen table. The austere man flicked his finger across his tablet computer, cycling through work emails and local news articles. Without taking his eyes off of the screen, he would take a sip of his coffee and shove a mouthful of scrambled eggs into his mouth. Crumbs from his toast would fall on the screen with each bite, but it didn't bother him. He was solely focused on himself.

  Bradley Williams wore a heavy black coat over a white polo shirt. Dirt was ingrained into his jeans. His work boots did not fare any better, muddy and scuffed. His stubble was trimmed three times a week, but he always appeared hardened. Like Mason, the man had short, wavy black hair. He had the appearance of a working man.

  From the stove, Isabel snapped her fingers and said, “Sit down. I made eggs and bacon.”

  Mason shook his head as he stared at his father, slowly snapping out of his trance. He glanced at his mother. The raven-haired woman, petite and fragile, wore a blue robe over her nightgown. Her hair was tied in a tousled bun, strands protruding every which way.

  To Mason, it didn't seem fair. He had to go to school, his father had to work, and his mother stayed at home. He didn't understand the life of a housewife.

  Mason said, “I don't want eggs or bacon. I'll just eat some cereal.”

  He grabbed a box of cereal and a bowl from the cupboard, then he grabbed a gallon of milk from the refrigerator. He dropped his backpack on the floor, then he took his seat across from his dad. He couldn't help but smile. He felt as if he were challenging his father – two kings sitting at the table, waiting for the first word.

  Isabel said, “Come on, Masey, the food is ready. Have some eggs and bacon.”

  As he poured milk into his bowl, Mason said, “Don't call me 'Masey.' I hate it when you call me that.”

  “Excuse me? Okay, Mason, please have some eggs and bacon. I made it just for you.”

  “I already told you: I don't want eggs or bacon. I'm having cereal.”

  Isabel placed her hands on her hips, tapped her foot, and sighed. She watched as her defiant son poured more sugar into his bowl – as if the cereal didn't have enough sugar already.

  She glanced at her husband and asked, “Will you tell him something, Brad?” Bradley quickly tapped his tablet as he wrote a message. Isabel asked, “Hey, are you listening to me? Can you tell our son to eat right for once?”

  Eyes glued to the screen, Bradley responded, “Just let him eat the damn cereal. He's not hurting anyone.”

  “It's fine every now and then, but that cereal is full of sugar and he's putting more into it. It's bad for his health. He needs a balanced diet to–”

  “It's fine, okay? They wouldn't sell it in stores if it was going to hurt him. I'd sue them if it did. Let him eat what he wants. Now, I just... I need a minute to write this. Just a minute, okay?”

  Isabel sighed and scratched her brow. She was eager to roar at her negligent husband, a bellow clogged in her throat. She withdrew from the argument before it even began. She wasn't the confrontational type, even when it concerned her son's well-being. She glanced at Mason and nodded, then she turned towards the stove.

  As she turned the knobs on the stove, Isabel asked, “Did you finish your homework this weekend?”

  Mason slurped the milk from his spoon, then he said, “Yup.”

  “Good. That means I won't be getting any calls from your teachers, right?”

  “Right.”

  “You won't be getting into anymore trouble in school, either, right?”

  Mason held the bowl to his mouth and chugged the cold milk. Upon finishing, he placed the bowl on the table and stood from his seat. He treated his mother as a servant so he expected her to clean his mess – she didn't have any options, either.

  As he tossed his backpack over his shoulder, Mason said, “I'm leaving already. Bye.”

  Isabel said, “Mason, if you wait a minute, I can give you a ride.”

  “No. I'll just ride my bike.”

  Mason walked out of the kitchen, disregarding his mother's feelings. He hopped onto his bike in the driveway, then he cruised away. Isabel sighed and frowned, disappointed in her ineffective parenting. She couldn't muster the courage to blame her husband, either. Instead, she turned her back on the man and washed the dishes.

  Bradley tapped the 'send' prompt on the screen, then he said, “Have a nice day, Masey.”

  By then, Mason was long gone. Wide-eyed, Isabel glanced over at her husband. She huffed and rolled her eyes, then she continued washing the dishes. She could not control her son, she refused to argue with her husband, but she could choose to complete her chores. Cleaning was not an 'ideal' job, but the ability to choose brought a semblance of direction to her life.

  He's fine on his own, she thought, Mason can take care of himself.

  Chapter Three

  Before School

  The bike trembled as Mason rode onto the lawn in front of the enclosed school. He sto
od on his bike and peered over the crowded students. Freshmen hugged and kissed their parents in their cars, then they scampered towards the school. Sophomores and juniors poured out of the school buses on the side of the building, relaxed and composed – no hurry. The oldest students parked in the senior parking lot.

  Whether they liked it or not, every person in high school filled a role. Nerds, geeks, thugs, jocks, sluts – they filled the school with cliché cliques, falling in line like weak politicians. Mason's role, however, was the most disturbing.

  “Mason!” a young male voice shouted.

  Mason glanced over his shoulder, then he nodded – hey. A group of freshmen, his closest friends, approached.

  Andrew was the worst of the bunch – excluding Mason's homicidal tendencies. The youngster was a certified troublemaker, in-and-out of detention since junior high school. He regularly wore baggy clothing – plain white t-shirts and sagging jeans. His hair was buzz cut. Although he imagined himself as a thug, he couldn't quite commit to the whole 'shaved head' concept.

  Zachary, a blonde-haired boy, was a different story. His clothing was usually well-fitted – t-shirts, button-ups, khakis, and the gist. He wasn't a natural troublemaker like his peer, but he was susceptible to peer pressure. So, if Andrew wanted to set off fireworks in Chemistry class, Zachary was willing to lend a helping hand.

  Dominick, another teenager with a buzz cut hairdo, rounded out the group. There wasn't much to say about him, though. He blended with the crowds. The youngster was introverted and bashful – a tag-along.

  As they approached, Andrew said, “Mason, man, you missed it this weekend. We went to the movies, right? We were watching, um... Who gives a shit what we were watching, right? Anyway, we were at the theater and we bumped into Karla. Karla from Algebra, man! She was there with her friends. So, I told Zach–”

  “He told me about the 'popcorn trick' and I did it, alright? That's all,” Zachary explained, smiling but embarrassed.

  Mason asked, “What's that?”

  Andrew stared at Mason with a deadpan expression, then he burst into a loud guffaw. Every passing student turned and glanced at him, baffled by his hysterical laughter. He was overjoyed and he couldn't help it.

  As he recomposed himself, Andrew said, “I... I told him to stick his... his dick through the bottom of the popcorn and share it with Karla. And, he did it, man. He cut a hole on the bottom and stuck his dick through it. Then, when... when...” Andrew laughed and slapped Zachary's shoulder, struggling to compose himself. He said, “By the time he got to her seat with the bucket over his dick, all of the popcorn was already gone. The idiot dropped it! He walked up to her with his dick out!”

  Rosy-cheeked, Zachary said, “Yeah, yeah. I told you: she didn't see it. I noticed it and I walked away before I got to her. She saw these idiots laughing, though.”

  “It was fucking hilarious, man. What did you expect me to do? You walked up to her with a butter dick!”

  “Damn, man, keep it down.”

  The group shared a chuckle. Andrew was ecstatic, Zachary found some humor in the situation, and Dominick quietly snickered. Mason huffed and smiled, amused by the story. It was funny, but he really wasn't the laughing-type.

  Mason said, “That's crazy. You'll get her next time, though.” He nodded at Dominick and asked, “What did you think?”

  Dominick shrugged and said, “The movie was good.”

  “He's talking about the butter dick, idiot,” Andrew said, sneering in annoyance.

  Dominick shrugged again and said, “It was funny, I guess.”

  Andrew said, “It was hilarious, trust me. I should have recorded it.” He wiped the tears of joy from his eyes, then he asked, “Anyway, where the hell were you this weekend? You could have seen it yourself if you went with us.”

  Mason smirked and stared down at himself. Carlos – the boy's violent death sprung into his mind. He tapped his pocket as he considered showing the pictures and footage he captured on his cell phone. He wanted to confess about the murder. He didn't feel guilty about his deeds, he just wanted to take credit for the crime. Only a few people on earth could actually call themselves murderers – and he was one of them.

  Yet, he knew he could not gloat about the brutal killing. Such negligence would halt his bigger plans.

  Mason said, “I didn't do anything this weekend. I stayed home and watched some movies. That's it, that's all.”

  “Movies? What? More of that 'extreme' crap?”

  “Crap?”

  Andrew nodded and said, “Yeah, that crap you were showing me the other day. What was it called? Hmm... 'August Underground?' Yeah, that's it. I still can't forget that movie. That nipple scene and all that... crap. Like, actual crap.”

  Chiming-in, Dominick asked, “You still watch that?”

  Mason shrugged. He furrowed his brow and tilted his head. He could see the concern in his friend's eyes.

  Dominick rubbed the nape of his neck and said, “Damn, I don't know how you do it. I remember when you showed me 'Men Behind The Sun' and... I can't forget it, either. It was pretty messed up.”

  Mason said, “August Underground... Men Behind the Sun... That's nothing, man. That's for kids. I've found some new 'crap.' It's more hardcore than anything I've ever shown you. Hell, it might even be real. You wanna see it?”

  Dominick glanced at Andrew, waiting for him to respond. Andrew glanced over at Zachary, but Zachary was already looking at him for leadership.

  Andrew said, “Nah, man. I think we're good. Let's just–”

  “It's not good. You called it 'crap' and I don't appreciate that. It's not crap. A lot of exploitation films have messages, you know? They have themes and shit just like the old books we have to read for English. The only people who think it's crap are pussies. They're pussies who think they know more than anyone else. Well, they don't. It's not crap.”

  Andrew, Dominick, and Zachary stared at Mason with blank expressions, awed and confused. Their enigmatic friend uttered a rant defending the most vile media as if his religion were under attack – sacrilege.

  “Hey!” a girl eagerly said as she approached the group.

  The group was disrupted by a pair of freshmen girls – Jessica Hernandez and Terri Bell.

  Jessica had long golden-red hair. She grew faster than most of her classmates, so she was sought by many of her male peers. Terri had silky black hair down to her shoulders. The petite girl was not as curvaceous as her friend, but she was attractive. As a matter of fact, Mason would gladly settle for either one. He kept his cool around the girls, though.

  Mason gazed into Jessica's hazel eyes and said, “Hey. What's going on?”

  The pair stopped next to the group.

  Jessica asked, “Did you guys hear about the missing kid?”

  “Missing kid? Someone from our school?” Zachary asked.

  “No, no. Some elementary school kid went missing over the weekend. I heard it on the news this morning with my mom. There's probably going to be a search party and everything. We're probably going to check it out after school – probably.”

  Bashful, Terri stared down at her feet and asked, “Are you going to help, Mason? I mean, I'd go if you go.”

  Mason absently stared at his bike. One thought ran through his mind: my TV was right. Carlos would be found soon and the police would be collecting evidence before midnight. He was forced to expedite his plans.

  Terri asked, “So, are you... are you going or not?”

  Mason sighed, then he said, “No, I think I'm going to be busy. Have fun, though. You should try checking the warehouses over by the mall. You know, the abandoned buildings? Yeah, I've heard a lot of kids get lost around there. Tell the cops, the parents... whoever. Just try to start over there.”

  “O–Okay...”

  The abandoned warehouses were located on the other side of the city – far away from the woodland. A freshman girl likely could not change the search party's route or schedule, but it was worth a try. He wan
ted to buy himself some time – even a day could change everything for his plans. Don't take them into the woods, Mason thought, don't take them to the tracks.

  A bell disrupted the ominous mood.

  Jessica said, “Shit. I really gotta go. I can't be late again.”

  “I'll walk with you,” Andrew said. “You have Hicks first period, right? So do I.”

  Mason sat on his bike as his friends wandered away from him, chattering about their classes. The vicious teenager was lost in his thoughts, calculating his remaining time before his inevitable capture.

  Dominick glanced back at Mason and asked, “Hey, are you coming to class or what?”

  Snapping out of his trance, Mason nodded and said, “Yeah. Let me just lock up my bike.”

  Chapter Four

  Mathematics

  The classroom setting was fairly typical. The rich and inquisitive students sat towards the front, closest to the whiteboard. The less fortunate used mechanical pencils and paper while the yuppies used laptops and tablet computers. The seats towards the center were occupied by the shy and indifferent students – Dominick blended with that crowd. Mason, Andrew, and Zachary sat in the back with the other troublemakers and slackers.

  It was typical.

  The class, Algebra 1, was taught by Roger Hicks. Hicks was a pseudo-intellectual with a pretentious attitude. He was the type of man to laugh at his own jokes while dismissing any criticism of his humor – if someone didn't like his joke, he was just too stupid to understand it. His brown hair was combed over a bald spot at the center of his head. He wore a white button-up shirt – pit-stains and all – brown trousers, and dress shoes.

  As Hicks jotted equations on the board and babbled, Mason leaned forward in his seat and doodled on his worksheet. He drew what he knew: stick figures killing other stick figures. Despite his upper-class status, he was the only student using a number 2 pencil. Why? Well, the number 2 pencil was the finest schoolyard weapon. It was the best stabbing utensil he could bring to school – he read it in a book once.