Thunder In Her Body

by C. B. Stanton

  Later that night, Blaze rolled over and held Lynette very tightly but he didn’t say anything. Lynette wasn’t naïve. She’d been a social worker. She’d worked with chemically addicted people long before crack cocaine and methamphetamine became an epidemic; when morphine and heroine were the common scourges. But she’d read and heard enough about it to know how crazy those addicts could be. So she didn’t have to ask why they should be cautious. When Blaze finally spoke, he said, “If they contact me, I’ll just give them whatever money they want like I’ve done before, and they’ll be out of our lives for another couple of years,” he said matter-of-factly.

  It was a restless night for Blaze, and Lynette roused each time he left the bedroom. When he did lie back down, she wrapped her arm around him for comfort, but even that was not enough. He was clearly tormented. Enraged might have been a better description. She could sense his anger, and it made her afraid.

  “You told me you know how to use a hand gun?” Blaze asked Lynette in the darkness of the room.

  “Sure,” she replied. “I used to out shoot my husband, so he got angry and stopped taking me to the firing range. Robert and I used to shoot at rats with a BB gun. I do pretty well,” she said with a tinge of pride.

  Blaze got out of bed, walked down the hall to his office and returned with an automatic pistol. He showed it to Lynette, took the safety off of it, and placed it in the drawer of the night stand next to the bed.

  “If the time ever comes that you have to pull it out, use it – don’t hesitate,” he said. “Shoot first; ask questions later.”

  They rolled over on their pillows, but Blaze slept only fitfully.

  Two mornings later, the phone rang in the house. Before Lynette could reach for it, Blaze appeared in the kitchen and snatched the phone off its wall-hung cradle.

  “I know who the hell you are, what the hell do you want?” he snapped into the phone.

  There was a silence. He listened to whatever the caller was saying. His face grew red and his breathing shallow.

  “Let me make this clear, you crack whore bitch, I told you how much I’d give you all to take your nasty asses away from here. Not a fuckin’ penny more, and if you even dare to set foot on one blade of grass out here, I will kill your motherfuckin’ asses where you stand. I’ll bury you somewhere out on this ranch where they won’t find your worthless bones for a hundred years, and I’ll be long dead by then, so I won’t give a fuck. Do you hear me you worthless piece of shit?” he screamed into the phone. “Five-thousand dollars is all you get, now take it or leave it!” He slammed the phone back into its cradle. Blaze stood there looking at the phone, trying to compose himself. He turned slowly and looked at the dismay in Lynette’s eyes. She had never seen him this angry. He had never cursed like that in front of her. His face spoke the apology his lips could not form. She knew who the caller was. Neither of them spoke. Blaze walked out onto the back deck, leaving the Spanish door agape. She could see him standing there gripping the railing, with his breath blowing into the cold air in puffs as he breathed heavily. Rusty came and sat by his leg, as if he, too, knew Blaze was angry and needed someone to sit with him.

  Around seven that night, Blaze told Lynette and Aaron that he was going into town. They both knew why.

  “Aaron, I’ll be back in a couple of hours,” he said, with the understanding that he would be there with Lynette and she would be safe.

  “Not to worry,” Aaron replied.

  Blaze kissed Lynette on the forehead and squeezed her like he always did. She didn’t want Blaze to go, but this was something he was evidentally used to dealing with, and she trusted his judgment, knowing he had to do what he thought best for them.

  She put the gate up at the laundry room door so the puppies couldn’t get out and make messes while she took a bath. Aaron tried to make a joke about the difference between having children, and having puppies, but it didn’t ease the tension much. Lynette excused herself, and left Aaron reclining on one of the couches watching TV.

  She closed the door to the bedroom, started removing her clothes by the bedside, then wandered into the brightly lit bathroom to run her bath water. Looking in the mirror, she piled her hair on top of her head and held it there with two bobby pins. She checked to see if the grey hair at her forehead was getting out of hand, and if she needed a quick root touch up. It can wait, she thought. Not too bad right now. She pulled the big towel she’d used that morning from the towel bar and laid it on the counter. She searched in the lower drawer of the vanity cabinet for a different fragrance than she’d used last night. Selecting one that they’d brought back from Alaska, she poured about a tablespoon full into the bath tub and turned on the water full force. She did not, she could not, hear the knock at the front door of the house.

  Flushing the toilet, she heard the bedroom door open and she called out to Blaze.

  “Did you forget something, Honey?” but there was no answer. Naked, but unabashed, because he had seen her in the buff many times, she started toward the bathroom door. A scrawny, filthy, mangy male figure appeared in the opening, followed by another emaciated looking female. A horrid smell, like a rotting carcass drenched in an unknown acid permeated the moist air.

  “Who are you? What do you want?” she said, half hollering as she grabbed for her towel and pulled it in front of her.

  Then she didn’t need to ask any more. The mangy face in front of her, was Blaze’s face, only thinner, younger and dirty. His hair was coal black. His eyes were blood-shot, but it was Blaze’s face. It was his son. There was no doubt. Of the three children he claimed, this one was probably the only one that had come from his loins, and he was holding a knife in his right hand. Instinctively, Lynette moved back into the bathroom, looking somehow for an escape, but there was none. As she did, the other pitifully thin creature followed the man into the bathroom and leered at her. She had filthy, long blond hair, matted and tangled close to the scalp. Her face had dirt deep in the huge pours. Her green eyes were dark and sunken deep into her face with swelling beneath them that hung in juicy, puffy sacks. Her lips were cracked and dry, sitting in a ghastly cadaverous, sunken face. Her clavicle stuck out like knives under her skin and her arms had only a thin layer of tissue covering the bones. What was left of her breasts hung like puss sacks against her chest. Every rib in her body showed through the flesh and hung off of a sharp breast bone, like that of an overcooked turkey. She looked like an occupant of a Nazi concentration camp. It was clear that they were both stoned out of their minds on something. Meth most likely. The man spoke.

  “Guess we never had a chance to meet, Mrs. Stepmom,” he sneered sarcastically. “We didn’t get an invite to the fancy wedding,” he continued, advancing on Lynette.

  “We hear everybody got presents, so we came to get ours. Better late than never,” the scrawny female snickered, coming full into the bath chamber.

  “Beverly – Patrick, don’t do this,” Lynette pleaded, now backed clear against the cold marble wall.

  “So you know who we are, do you?” Patrick asked. “How do you know?” he snapped, baring his filthy, blackened teeth.

  “You…you…you look so much like your father,” Lynette stammered.

  “Well looks don’t get you what you want. I wanna look like my daddy,” and he said my daddy in a hateful and malicious way. “I wanna look rich, bitch,” he added, placing his knife against Lynette’s throat. “I wanna be rich, you money-grubbing whore,” he hissed.

  “Patrick, please. I have a little money in my purse, you can have that. I won’t tell anybody you were here,” she pleaded.

  Keep your cool, she said to herself. Make it personal. Keep using his name. You’ve had crisis training on this. Stay calm. Stay calm. Stay calm she said over and over in her mind.

  “Shit, you ain’t got near enough money for us,” Beverly sneered. “We want $50,000 now, goddammit. You got $50,000 in your purse, you whore-dog bitch?” she asked.

  Stay cool. Stay calm. Keep it perso
nal, make a personal contact.

  “No, Beverly, but I know where we can get it,” she replied pulling the towel over as much of her naked body as she could.

  “Where, you cock-suckin’ bitch?” Patrick asked, his voice shaky and high-pitched.

  “The check book. I know where Blaze’s check book is. Let me out of here and I’ll give it to you. You can write all the checks you want with it,” she offered.

  “Who the fuck do you think’s gonna cash a check up here by us?” Beverly asked angrily, reeling from side to side, trying to steady herself against the black granite counter.

  Patrick snatched the towel away from Lynette as a trickle of blood stained the beige cloth. The knife he was holding at her throat dug into the skin and blood had begun to flow. The sight of the blood seemed to stimulate him. He dragged the knife down across her collar bone and onto her left breast, leaving a visible slash as he did. The thin scar, too, began to ooze blood.

  Beverly walked up to her with the most acrid breath and slapped her across the face.

  “I’m the real Mrs. Snowdown,” she hissed. “You ain’t shit.”

  Patrick was looking all over Lynette’s body. With the knife pressing at her nipple, he took his left hand and pressed it between Lynette’s thighs.

  “Open up bitch. Let’s see what my daddy’s been fuckin,” he demanded.

  Lynette did not move, but she looked Patrick defiantly in his eyes.

  He jammed his hand between her thighs and up into her labia and started shoving it back and forth.

  “Fuck her. Fuck her,” Lorna shouted. “Get some of what your daddy’s been gittin’,” she yelled. “Fuck her up real good,” she demanded, her words garbled and slurred, spit flying from her shriveled lips.

  Beverly grabbed Lynette by the hair and slammed her head hard against the wall. “My boy’s a good fucker. He got it from his daddy. I know ‘cuz I’ve had both of ‘em,” she boasted.

  Lynette was getting sick.

  Stay calm. Survive this. Survive, whatever they do. Survive. Blaze! Blaze! Blaze! I won’t die. I’ll survive this. I won’t let them take me away from you. She was screaming inside her brain. Oh God, Blaze, where are you?

  Beverly pulled a pocket knife from her jacket. She opened it ceremoniously, and laid the five inch blade against Lynette’s other breast.

  “Does he suck it like he used to suck mine?” she asked with a menacing grin. Every other tooth in her mouth was missing and her vile, fetid breath wreaked of something Lynette couldn’t describe.

  Beverly drew the knife quickly across the brown circle on her breast. Lynette screamed; blood squirted out and ran down her stomach and onto the beige, terrazzo tile floor. The tan areola drooped sideways, but stayed attached.

  Whatever they do, I can survive it. I won’t leave you Blaze. Blaze, why this; why this?

  “Fuck her,” she urged Patrick again. “Lemme see how she likes her stepson getting some of his daddy’s pussy,” Beverly insisted.

  Patrick removed his hand from between her legs and fumbled with the front of his nasty jeans. He pulled a flaccid, shriveled piece of meat from them.

  “Cain’t git it up right now,” he said, slurring his words.

  “Fuck her,” Beverly screamed. “Put it in the whore,” she yelled, grabbing his shrunken flesh and snatching him as close to Lynette as it could get. The jerk caused his knife to move from her breast to her upper arm and the knife sank into it with a crunch sound, penetrating all the way through and exiting the back of her arm. There was a scraping sound as the tip of the knife stopped at the wall. Lynette screamed in pain.

  A hand reached under Beverly’s jaw, lifted her completely off the floor, and flung her clear across the huge bathroom like a nasty towel. She was hurled into the triangle-shaped tub. There was a resounding thud, and the sound of an old, dull bell being struck. Blaze grabbed the hand in which Patrick held the knife and pulled the knife out of Lynette’s arm.

  “Get out of here,” he screamed at her, “get out of here,” his voice shaking with anger and fear like she’d never heard.

  Lynette started moving toward the door, as Blaze hit Patrick and knocked him backwards against the wall. She was standing in a puddle of blood which made the marble floor beneath her bloody feet slick as ice. She slipped and fell onto the floor as Blaze yelled at her again. She heard Patrick screaming insults at his father, but she didn’t try to turn around. On her hands and knees she began to crawl, slipping and sliding in her own blood, trying to get herself upright. She was screaming but she couldn’t hear herself. She fell face forward when she couldn’t get traction for her knees. Blood covered her face and the metalic-like taste of her own blood caused her throat to convulse. The pain in her mutilated breast did not slow her. She clawed at the slimy marble, pushing forward with her toes, dragging herself in the blood toward the opening. Clutching at the fibers at the edge of the room, she reached the bathroom door and found traction on the carpet, but she couldn’t get herself fully upright. She was on all fours, like a chimpanzee, falling, stumbling, trying to get away, trying to get to something. There was something coming behind her. She could smell it. It stumbled and staggered. She fell against the bed and Beverly fell toward her, the knife slicing down at her face. With one mighty kick, she sent Beverly falling back toward the bathroom door. Lynette grappled for the handle on the night stand drawer. Beverly pulled herself up into a wobbling, standing position, with the knife still in her hand, and screamed, “I’m the only Mrs. Snowdown,” and lunged again for Lynette.

  The gun fired once. Beverly stood still as if thinking. She turned her head to one side. Lynette pulled the trigger again, and the gun fired again, and then again, hitting Beverly first in the neck, then in the side of the face. Something exploded from the top of her head and she lurched backward, crashing against the bedroom wall. Lynette sat there on the carpeted floor, naked, washed in blood from her face down to the bottom of her feet. It was as if someone had painted her with an old brush. She held the gun pointed at the corpse as if somehow it would rise again, and she’d have to shoot it again.

  “Give me that,” Blaze spoke softly as he gently pried the gun from his wife’s hand and pulled the bed sheet and comforter down to cover her. He was shaken and had blood on his hands. On his shirt an enormous ruby stain began to grow, enlarging and moving down his jeans.

  Lynette sat there, bleeding onto the tan carpet as Blaze dialed 911. She heard him say that there were three injured people at Rancho Whitehall, and two dead ones. Lynette just sat there. She couldn’t comprehend what he said. Three hurt, two dead. Who were these people. She was dazed and in shock. Blaze pressed the sheet tightly across her bleeding breast, trying to slow the flow. “I’ll be right back. Oh, God, Lynn, I’ll be right back,” he said in anguish. Blaze left her sitting on the floor stricken and numb, with her back leaning against the night table. Something was wrong in the living room. He had to help Aaron.

  “What’s wrong with Aaron?” somebody said, and the words came from her mouth, but someone else said them.

  Two ambulances, two sheriff’s deputies and a state trooper arrived at the scene. The paramedics split up, one group tending to Aaron, and Blaze demanded that the others see to his wife. They lifted her onto the gurney, covering her face with an oxygen mask and her body with sheets and a blanket. Hurridly, they wheeled her toward the front door, with Blaze walking beside her. Blood from her mutilated breast soaked through the sheet and up into the blanket. Blood ran from his side and soaked one side of his jeans as he kept telling her “everything’s gonna be all right. You’re gonna be all right, Baby. Oh, God, I’m so sorry…”

  The paramedics tried to tend to his wound but he said no as he urged them to hurry and get her into the ambulance.

  The emergency room at the County Medical center was abuzz with staff. There were trails of blood going in three directions. Aaron was taken immediately into surgery. The knife that Patrick plunged into his chest, when he answered the knock at the
door, blew out a lung, but mercifully missed his heart and any major arteries. Aaron was struggling to breathe, but Blaze heard the ER doctor say that he just needed a little patching up. He’d be fine.

  Lynette was a bloody mess. The nurses cleaned away most of the blood on her body to see where all of it was coming from. She’d suffered several wounds to the neck, chest and arm, and the female doctor looked at her almost severed nipple.

  “This is going to require surgery,” she said. “There may be no deep major tissue damage but the wound is going to require some delicate stitches, to preserve nerves. The hanging areola was almost completely detached,” she explained to Blaze, who refused to be sent away from his wife’s side. The knife wound that went through her arm was cleaned, stitched and bandaged. It had not punctured any major vessels, and in time, would heal with only a vertical scar. Her left breast would be sore for a few weeks, but cocoa butter would eventually smooth out most of the scarring down her chest and the puncture on the side of her other breast. The nipple on the right breast would be re-attached with Lynette under local anesthesia. The doctor explained that of course she had to be admitted to the hospital after the surgery because, among other things, her blood pressure was already becoming unstable. The medical team was afraid of a stroke or potential heart attack with this kind of trauma.

  While Lynette was in surgery, Blaze was treated for a deep knife wound to his side. Patrick’s knife had entered between his rib cage and his waist, but his wound was more superficial, as the blade punctured a muscle but mercifully missed any internal organs. His military training had saved his life. Ordinarily, Patrick would have been no match for Blaze, even though he wielded the weapon. Blaze tried to disarm him in the fray but, hopped up on methamphetamines, Patrick had the strength of three men and fought his father like a mad man, with both of them slipping in Lynette’s blood. Blaze had to end it. With one practiced twist, he snapped his son’s neck. Patrick died instantly. He knew he had to get to Lynette. And then there were gun shots.