by Jon Athan
In a muffled tone, Mason asked, “Is your wife home?”
“My... My wife? Why does that matter to you, kid? What do you want from me?”
“Just answer the question. Is she home?”
Hicks erratically blinked, as if he were trying to awaken from a dream. He was awed by the teenager's audacious behavior. He opened his mouth to speak, but he could only utter the croak of a word – ah.
Mason took his first step into the room and repeated, “Is she home?”
“No. No, she's not home. She's out of town for the week. That's none of your damn business, though. Now, what do you want?”
Mason's chuckle was muffled by his mask. However, the laughter, distorted and wicked, still caused Hicks to shudder. The chuckle was just oddly inappropriate. Only an unhinged person would laugh in an instant while invading someone's home. Hicks shook his head as he stepped towards the nightstand, keeping his eyes locked on the intruder.
He said, “Okay, I know what you want. Yeah, I've got it. I warned you about this. I'm calling the cops.”
As Hicks reached for his phone, Mason strolled into the room. The teacher staggered until he hit the wall, caught off guard by the boy's gall.
He stuttered, “Wha–What are you doing? Didn't you hear me? I–I said I was calling the cops. They're going to–”
He stopped upon spotting the weapon in the boy's hand. Fear caused him to freeze, fear caused time to slow to a crawl. Unfortunately, it did not slow for everyone else. He could only watch as the sharp point of the blade punctured his stomach above his belly button. His white button-up shirt and matching wife beater were immediately soaked in blood.
Mason placed his left hand on Hicks' chest, then he pushed him to the wall – pinning him to the drywall like a picture frame. He pulled the knife out of his stomach, then he stabbed him again. Blood gushed from both of the wounds, seeping past the thin fabric of his clothing. The blood dripped down to his pants and belt, too.
Plop, plop – the sound of blood dripping on the hardwood floor was louder than Hicks' hoarse wheezing. The man tried to scream, but he could only breathe throatily. His lungs were vacuumed with the stabbing.
Mason pulled the knife out, blood dripping from the tip of the blade. He stared into his teacher's eyes and his teacher stared back. He refused to blink. He wanted to memorize the dread clinging to his pupils – the human fear of death.
Without breaking eye contact, Mason stabbed him again. The blade penetrated the left side of his stomach. He gritted his teeth as he twisted the knife. Blood squirted onto his hands and wrists. His eyes widened as he felt some resistance from his teacher. He tried to push back, but to no avail.
Hicks used his entire body to push Mason, falling limp into his arms. To his dismay, Mason was able to stay on his feet while Hicks landed face-first on the floor.
As Hicks coughed and grunted, Mason placed his knee on his upper back. He placed his hand over his teacher's mouth, then he lifted his head. He stabbed the man's neck with all of his might, penetrating his jugular. He wiggled the knife in his throat, but he wasn't purposely trying to cause more pain. No, the knife was jammed in his thick flesh.
Hicks' eyelids flickered and his legs violently trembled. He went into shock due to the severe loss of blood. If it weren't for the blood spewing from his mouth, his lips would have been paler than the lips on a corpse. His cheeks turned blue due to the loss of oxygen, too.
Mason sighed in relief as Hicks' head fell limp. He couldn't feel his panicked breath on his hand, either. The man was dead. He gritted his teeth as he carefully pulled the knife out of his throat. He reached for his bandana, but he stopped before he could pull it out. He removed his mask and glared at Hicks' lifeless body, furious.
He asked, “What did you just call me?” Obviously, Hicks did not respond. The teenager sneered in disgust and said, “Fuck you. Let's see if math can help you with this, asshole.”
He crawled in reverse, then he knelt over the man's legs. He held the bloodied knife over his head, then he stabbed down at the small of Hicks' back. He was blinded by his lust for blood – and he got more than he ever expected.
Blood oozed from the cuts like lava from a volcano with each puncture. The blood splattered on Mason's arms and it even formed a puddle under the teacher's corpse. He stabbed him 27, maybe 29 times – only a fool would think it was self-defense.
Out of breath, Mason shambled out of the room. He entered the bathroom. With the bandana, he turned the faucet handle, then he carefully washed his hands and arms. He even rinsed the knife. To his surprise, he was not rattled by the savage murder. He was able to look at his reflection on the mirror and smile – nothing out of the ordinary. He returned the mask and knife to his back pockets, then he exited the room.
The boy bolted out of the front door, acting as if he had just got caught pulling a prank. He sprinted towards his surprised friends at the corner of the block.
He shouted, “Go, go, go!” He hopped onto the pegs of his bike and patted Dominick's shoulders. He said, “Go to the park before he comes out and sees all of you, idiots.”
The boys glanced at each other, baffled. They didn't have any options, though. They pedaled away from the block and headed to the closest park in the neighborhood. The boys constantly glanced back, hoping Hicks wasn't following them. Meanwhile, Mason grinned from ear-to-ear as the wind blew through his hair – unperturbed.
As they rolled onto the grass near a sandbox, Zachary squeezed his brakes and turned towards the other boys. He said, “Okay, okay. We've gone far enough. I don't think he's even following us.”
“He's right,” Dominick said. “I didn't see his car the whole way here. What happened in there, Mason?”
As he hopped off of the bike, Mason smirked and said, “I got him. I scared him while he was in the bathroom. The idiot fell into his toilet.”
Andrew said, “No way. Show us.”
“Show you?”
“Yeah. You said you were going to record it and upload it. Let's see it.”
“Yeah, sure...”
Mason pulled his phone out of his pocket. He flicked his finger across the screen, as if he were searching for something. He was buying time, playing stupid in order to fool his gullible friends. He knew they weren't going to question him anyway, but he wanted to keep his facade afloat.
Mason sighed in disappointment, then he said, “Shit, man, it didn't record. I fucked up.”
“Are you kidding me? Shit, Mason, we could have gotten arrested for helping you and you didn't even record it? Damn, man. What a waste of time...”
Mason shrugged and smiled as he ignored Andrew and Zachary. The pair hurled a few playful insults at him, irked by his failure to record the act.
Dominick, on the other hand, remained silent. He kept his eyes glued on Mason's hand. He could see a speck of fresh blood on his wrist. He didn't see any cuts, though. He glanced up and gazed into Mason's eyes. Mason returned the gaze, communicating without uttering a word – it's nothing, forget about it. Dominick could communicate without speaking, too. He nodded at Mason – okay, it's nothing.
Mason said, “I'm tired. Let's start heading home. Zachary, you can follow me until I drop off Dominick, then we'll split up.” He beckoned to Dominick and said, “Get off the bike. I'll pedal. You can stand behind me.”
Dominick followed his orders. With the shift in mood, from playful to grim, the group became silent. Mason hopped onto his bike, Dominick stood on the pegs. The boys pedaled away from the park and headed home. Three of them were unaware of Hicks' murder, one was struggling to contain his excitement.
Chapter Fourteen
Family Issues
Mason pedaled up the street, his hair undulating with the breeze. The pleasant smell of dinner – meatloaf, steak, stew, baked goods, and the gist – meandered through the kitchen windows, carried by the wind. A few kids wandered the neighborhood, heading home for the last meal of the day. The sun fell beyond the horizon, but there wasn't a
sense of urgency in anyone on the streets.
The afternoon was tranquil.
Mason frowned upon spotting the cars parked in the driveway. He planned on meeting his friends, killing Hicks, and returning home before his parents arrived. He lost track of time while he was brutally murdering his teacher, though. He didn't have time to form an excuse, he didn't have the opportunity to plan with his television. He dropped his bike in the driveway, then he trudged towards the front door.
He closed his eyes and took a deep breath as he stood on the porch. He could take a beating from his father – the pain excited him anyway. However, if his parents found the body under his bed, he would surely be beaten by his father and arrested by the police. He was nearing the finish line – he couldn't imagine such a disappointing finale to his plans.
Mason opened the door and walked into the house. He stopped near the kitchen archway and stared into the living room. As expected, his parents waited for him in the living room.
His father was glued to his tablet computer. He planned on punishing his son, but he wasn't going to waste a second of his valuable time waiting for him to arrive. His mother sat at the bottom of the stairs. She used her body as a makeshift barrier, ensuring their son wouldn't try to run from them.
Mason nervously smiled and nodded, sweat spurting from his glands like bullets from a machine gun. They know about Terri, he thought, I'm dead, I'm so fucking dead.
Bradley placed his tablet computer on the coffee table. He stood from his seat and said, “I'm glad you finally showed up, Mason. Your mother had to call me at work to tell me you weren't home. I had to leave early because of you. But, don't worry about us and our schedules. We're just worried about you. Okay? You are the focus of this little conversation.” He leaned on the wall near the stairs, his arms and legs crossed. He asked, “You've been leaving all week, haven't you? That's why you had that stupid smile on your face last night, right? You've been taking advantage of us, right?”
As her son hesitated, Isabel said, “Tell us the truth. Talk to us, Mason.”
Mason glanced at the ceiling, anxious. Like a politician answering questions about misconduct, his statement had to be meticulous if he wanted to stay out of trouble. I do not recall – unfortunately, that defense never worked against parents. He had to confess in order to keep them out of his room – in order to keep his plans in place.
Avoiding eye contact, Mason said, “Yeah. I've been going out. I haven't been getting into any trouble, though. I've just been going to school to hang out with my friends. That's all, I swear.”
Bradley shook his head and said, “You're lying. You and your friends have been messing around, haven't you? Drinking, smoking–”
“No, I didn't–”
“Don't interrupt me, boy, and do not lie to me! You have been hanging out with those damn troublemakers again, haven't you? I warned you about spending time with those dumbass degenerates. I warned you! Get your ass over here, Mason!”
Mason shook his head and sighed in disappointment. He didn't bother to even glance at his mother for help. Bradley indistinctly muttered as he removed his belt. He folded it in half, then he pushed his son to the wall – as if he were about to pat him down. Isabel winced as she watched the beating – helpless.
Bradley whipped him with the belt, hitting his thighs and ass with all of his might. Despite his thick jeans, Mason's legs wobbled as the pain reverberated through his body. He gritted his teeth and endured the pain, though.
While he was pinned to the wall, beaten by his father and watched by his mother, he remembered about the knife in his back pocket. If he doesn't think it hurts, he'll empty my pockets, he thought, he can't find the knife.
Mason whimpered and sniffled, putting on a show for his parents. At heart, he genuinely enjoyed the pain. The thudding sound of the leather belt hitting his jeans aroused him. He couldn't help but crack a smile as he played the role of an abused child. He was a deviant boy – and he couldn't hide it.
Upon noticing the smile on his face, Bradley grabbed the nape of Mason's neck and turned him towards him. He gazed into his son's eyes, baffled and infuriated by the boy's peculiar behavior.
Bradley asked, “Why are you always smiling when I hit you? What the hell is wrong with you?!”
Although his eyes welled with tears, Mason could not wipe the smile from his face. His grin only widened with his father's frustration. Bradley was stunned by his son's challenge. Shuddering like a pup after a bath, he glanced at the front door, then at his wife. Isabel could see the look in his eyes – the look of evil. She had only seen it when the man was drunk and angry.
As she stood from the stairs, Isabel said, “Bradley, don't do–”
It was too late.
Bradley lost control of himself. With a closed fist, he struck Mason with a powerful jab to the face. Mason staggered in reverse, dazed by the unexpected blow. He spat and coughed as blood oozed from his nostrils.
Bradley took one step in reverse, startled by his own attack. He had an out-of-body experience. He felt as if he had just watched himself punch his son. He glanced at the blood on his trembling fist, then he slowly lowered his arm.
The offensive distrust was fine. The vulgar insults were okay. The slaps and shoves were appropriate. The belt was acceptable – a universal symbol of discipline. A closed-fist punch? Isabel could not accept the abuse.
Hysterical, the woman cried, “No, Bradley! Keep your hands off of him!”
Bradley shook his head and stuttered, “I–I don't... I just lost it. Shit, I... I don't know what happened. He was just–”
“You hit him! You punched him, you bastard!”
Isabel rushed forward and slapped Bradley. She flailed her arms at him, trying her best to land a decent hit – but to no avail. Bradley leaned back and dodged most of her strikes. He could feel her slaps on his burly chest, but he was not harmed. He grabbed Isabel's wrists and pushed her back into the living room.
The couple bumped into an end-table as they grappled. The end-table fell to its side, scuffing the floor. The lamp and the coffee mug on the table plummeted to the floor, shattering upon impact. The sofa and the coffee table screeched as the furniture slid across the hardwood floorboards, too. Yet, the couple continued to wrestle for an advantage.
Bradley pushed Isabel onto the three-seat sofa. He straddled her waist and pinned her wrists to the cushions. She still kicked and cried, though.
Bradley said, “Stop it, Izzy. Just stop. You're going to hurt yourself. I told you: it was an accident.”
Tears streaming down her cheeks, Isabel shouted, “You punched him! You promised you'd never hit us like that! You promised...”
“I'm sorry. It was an accident. Stop screaming. Please, stop all of this. Someone is going to hear you.”
He released her right arm and caressed her cheek with his free hand. He tried to soothe her physical and emotional pain with his gentle touch.
Isabel slapped him and shouted, “You're a sick bastard!”
Furious, Bradley barked, “I apologized, damn it! I want you to stop this! Stop it!”
As usual, Bradley resorted to violence to solve his problems. He struck his wife with a backhanded slap. Bradley was also an excessive man. So, he struck her again and again – and again. He didn't care about the marks he would leave on her face. He would shamelessly ask her to stay home for a week when the dust settled.
Mason watched the fight from the bottom of the stairs. The argument was muffled, though. Blood dripping from the side of her mouth, he could see his mother's lips flapping. He could see his father barking, too. He didn't hear a word, though. He only witnessed the violence. His mother was the victim, his father was the culprit, but none of it bothered him. He marched up the stairs and headed to his bedroom, unperturbed by his mother's cries.
Chapter Fifteen
Once in a Lifetime
Moonlight pouring through his window, Mason lay in bed and stared at the ceiling. A few dogs barked outside
, some engines roared and coughed, but the night was generally peaceful. The home was quiet, too. The fights finally ended. His mother's whimpers could still be heard, but the cries didn't bother him. The weeping was gentle, like a lullaby.
The TV asked, “Are you awake, Masey? Hmm?” The boy did not respond. The TV said, “I know you're awake. Your eyes are wide open and you're not snoring. You're not fooling anyone, kiddo.”
Mason glanced over at his television, then he stared back at the ceiling. After the brawl downstairs, he was not in a chatty mood.
His TV said, “Come on, Masey. Don't be like that. You haven't said a word since you got back.”
“I don't know what to say,” Mason responded. “It's, uh... It's been a very long day for me, man. I don't... Shit, I don't even know where to start.”
“Where to start? Where else? Start from the beginning, kiddo. You got your vengeance, right?”
Mason turned over on his bed and stared at his television. There was a reflection of the room on the wide screen. However, the boy did not see himself. It was dark, but he could see the outline of a human face on the screen. The face was warped with droopy cheeks and a twisted smile. He couldn't see the figure's eyes, though.
As he gazed into the screen, Mason said, “I did it. I killed Hicks. I sneaked into his house, then I... I shanked him over and over until he died. It was weird, though. I cut him real bad, I knew he was dead, but I thought I heard him say something. That didn't happen with that kid at the tracks or Terri. I've never heard a dead person talk.”
The TV said, “That is weird. I wouldn't worry about it, though. There's only one thing that matters now: you killed him. You got your vengeance. You closed your last loose end, right? You should be celebrating.”
“Yeah. It didn't feel like I should be celebrating after I got him, though.”