Twisted Reunion

by Tullius, Mark

  Beth’s feet slapped off the wooden hallway. He was going to scare the hell out of her, make her sorry for ever teasing him.

  Derrick ran his thumb across the beam directly above his head. He felt the nine razor-thin nicks carved in it. The beam above his chest had dozens more.

  The footsteps stopped at the doorway. Beth said, “Derrick? You back?”

  Derrick felt further along the beam until he touched the leather mask folded on top of it. He rubbed the mask on his cheek, slipped it over his head. He carefully gripped the razor blade that had been beside it.

  She called Derrick’s name once more, but he didn’t answer. He took the razor and ran it across the wood next to last year’s cut: Jasmine. When Beth walked over to the bed, Derrick quietly eased the blade back where it belonged.

  Beth sat down, her stubby ankles not far from his shoes. Derrick rolled onto his side, his shoulder pressed into the beam. He could grab both her legs and send her screaming, but that’d be pointless. He needed her. She had to tell him he wasn’t a monster. Ronnie was wrong.

  Derrick rolled onto his back when Beth brought both feet up and moved toward the middle of the bed, bringing the beams a little bit lower. He ran his thumb across the ten little lines, and his mind returned to the night before they’d existed.

  Ronnie had been acting a little weird all that day, had called Derrick back to his room, said he’d wanted to show him something. It was ten o’clock, Dad was blacked out on the couch, Mom dazed in front of the blaring television. Derrick stopped in the doorway, asked Ronnie what was happening.

  Ronnie stood at the dresser, kept his back to Derrick and the bed. “I got something to show you.” Ronnie sounded strange, almost like slow motion. “Want to see it?”

  Derrick was suddenly afraid to say yes. “What is it?”

  Ronnie turned around nearly as slowly as he’d talked, kept a hand on the dresser to hold himself up. He opened his left hand, revealed the orange pill bottle.

  “What are you doing with those? Are those Mom’s?”

  It took Ronnie a few seconds to swallow. He nodded yes.

  “Ronnie. Did you take any?”

  The bed creaked and Beth shouted Derrick’s name, yanked him out of the memory. “Where are you?”

  She was getting too antsy too soon. Maybe she knew Ronnie had been right. Derrick brought his hand to the beam with the scratches, all the nights he’d spent under the bed. He ran his finger across the top of the beam until he touched the bottle of nasal spray that was wedged there.

  “Come on, man,” Beth said under her breath. The bed shifted to the right, the wine glass clicking on the table. “I tell him I want to fuck and he goes and does chores,” she said to herself.

  Derrick brought the Fentanyl spray under his nose, the scent intoxicating. With his other hand, he undid his belt buckle.

  “Eww,” Beth said. The glass clinked on the table and the bed shifted, Beth’s weight directly above him, the wooden beams low enough to lick.

  There was no way to know how much of the wine she’d had. Maybe he’d added too much of the powder. Derrick prepared to slip out from the left side of the bed in case Beth ran. She didn’t move so Derrick waited, his mind flying back ten years ago.

  Ronnie was swaying at the dresser, the orange bottle in his hand.

  Derrick had hoped Ronnie was acting, just trying to get attention. “Did you …” he trailed off. “How many?”

  Ronnie tossed the bottle and it bounced under the bed. “She hadn’t opened it.”

  Derrick dove under the mattress, shook the empty bottle, read the label: 30 pills.

  Ronnie collapsed, his face smooshed into the floor a foot from Derrick. Talking through half his mouth, he said, “I know it was you. You’re the monster.”

  The bed creaked to the right, ripped Derrick back to reality. The lamp clicked to the high setting, lighting the other side of the ruffle. “Last chance, Derrick! I’m not waiting all night!”

  She sounded a little scared, but not at all sleepy. If Beth had drunk the whole glass, she’d be passed out.

  The house sat on fifteen acres and was surrounded by trees. Derrick wasn’t worried about Beth’s screams. He rubbed the tip of the inhaler along the bottom of his nose. He stroked himself and let out the softest, “Mmmmhhhhh.”

  “Derrick! Is that you?!”

  It sounded like she clicked open her purse. Derrick had to assume she pulled out her phone. Playtime was over. It was time to ask Beth the same thing he’d asked his father, all the girls that’d spent the night. But first —

  Derrick pulled the lamp’s plug, cast the room into darkness. Beth screamed, and Derrick slipped out from beneath the bed. She was backed against the headboard, hands out in front of her. Derrick reached for her face and readied the spray. He asked, “Am I a monster?”

  Beth roared as a stream of liquid hit Derrick’s chest, neck, the bottom of his mask. He raised his hand to block his eyes, but the stream kept coming, splashing off his forearm, getting in his mouth.

  Everything burned at once. His lips, his mouth, his eyes all stinging, snot pouring from his nose. Derrick ripped off the mask, screamed when the pepper spray nailed him in both eyes.

  Derrick blindly grabbed where Beth had last been. He couldn’t breathe. From out of nowhere Beth slammed into his chest, sent him reeling into the bookcase. Trophies toppled onto his head and shoulders. Derrick dropped to his knees.

  Beth was still in the room, but he couldn’t tell where, so he just lunged forward and threw out his arm, his hand slapping off her leg. She screamed and kicked, her foot crunching his fingers, knocking the Fentanyl across the room.

  Derrick forced his eyes halfway open, saw Beth scramble to her feet, make it to the door. He couldn’t let her escape.

  Beth was coughing in the hallway, and it sounded like she’d bumped into the wall. Derrick got to his feet, forced one eye open, blew strings of snot down his lips and chin. A doorknob rattled.

  Derrick saw Beth, her right hand feeling for the living room doorway. Derrick said, “You can’t leave.”

  Beth screamed, ran full speed, past the living room, towards Derrick’s old room, the vase of roses smashing on the floor.

  Derrick ran after her. “No! The monster! The monster’s in there.”

  The cheap lock did nothing. Beth stumbled into the room, the door bouncing closed behind her. There was a huge clatter then a crash, Beth grunting like she’d been punched in the gut.

  Derrick pushed open the door, flicked on the light. Jasmine’s still damp bones were scattered all over the floor, no longer laid out where Derrick could easily assemble her. He’d spent all day digging her out of the backyard and scrubbing her clean, but that wasn’t why Derrick stood frozen. He was afraid to make a move for Beth who had crashed on the bed, her shoulder buried in his father’s ribs, her face pressed into the moldy mess on the sheets. Derrick shrieked, “Get off him!”

  Beth pushed up with her free hand, screamed when she saw what she was inside. Her arm ripped out of the bones, cracking a few. The sternum splintered and landed next to Ronnie’s skeleton on the recliner, his ruby red ring pointing right at her.

  “Stop! Stop!” Derrick pled, not sure if the tears were real or from the pepper spray. Through half-opened eyes, he sidestepped between Elise and Paula, who sat cross-legged, their skeletons taped to stakes driven through the floorboard.

  Beth batted at her blouse and side of her face. She looked for an escape; Ronnie and the circle of seven, all forever facing the bed, keeping the monster on top of it. “Help!!!”

  “He has to be on the bed!”

  Beth stopped at the panic in his voice. She closed her eyes and pushed his father’s skull, popped it off the bed.

  Derrick wailed, a sound he’d heard but never made. “You can’t.”

  Beth’s voice trembled with fear. She begged him to let her go.

  He saw what she was going to do, dove to stop her, but was too slow. Beth kicked down on his fat
her’s hips, knocked his lower half off the bed. It crashed in front of Derrick, the brittle bones crumbling on the hardwood. The monster was no more.

  Beth backed off the other side of the bed and ripped off Ronnie’s arm, sent the rest of him to the floor. She held his arm like a club, swore she’d fucking kill Derrick if he took another step.

  It was time to start acting like the man of the house. Derrick laughed at Beth and pointed at the pile of dust and bits of bone by his feet. “You can’t hurt me.”

  Beth took a step toward the doorway, the bone held high, aimed at Derrick’s head. “I’ll kill you.”

  Derrick lunged and Beth swung. The rounded end of Ronnie’s arm clipped the side of Derrick’s skull, shattering both. Derrick lost all feeling and smashed onto the floor. A pool of red spread out before him, the edge flowing farther and farther from his face.

  The Artist

  The artist climbed the final flight of stairs, opened the door, and then locked it behind her. Today would be a busy day, just like every other one, and she couldn’t be bothered while she was at work.

  She climbed onto the swivel stool in the middle of the tiny room and turned toward the north-facing window with the easel directly beneath it. After placing a blank canvas on the easel, she looked out the window, admiring the beautiful nothingness before her.

  With remarkable speed, she painted the T-intersection where Main Street ran into West Oak Avenue. A few moments later, a row of beautiful trees lined the east side of the road. Their shade spread across the blacktop. The artist sat up and looked out the window, pleased. The deserted streets miles below her were exactly as she had rendered them on the canvas.

  Afraid she’d lose her inspiration, the artist brushed a peaceful morning sky, then an elderly couple on Main Street walking hand in hand, appreciating the beautiful sun, each of them aware they only had a limited amount of time left, enjoying every passing moment. On the other side of the street, nearing the intersection, a young mother pushed a bright red stroller and smiled down at her infant daughter staring in wonder at the balloon frozen in the sky.

  Knowing the people were outside the window just as she had drawn them, the artist continued. With a few strokes of her brush, she painted an eighteen-year-old boy on his father’s Harley out for a leisurely ride. One day, God willing, he would have a bike of his own and a loving son he could lend it to. A few strokes later, she’d painted a yellow bus full of the elementary school honor roll students. The PTA had rewarded them with a day of fun at the beach. Laughter floated through the bus as the kids celebrated a Sunday free from homework, chores, church, and other obligations. They worked so hard every day, and now they finally had a chance to just be kids.

  The artist set the painting against the wall and looked out the window. Her creation slowly came to life – the elderly couple sat on the bench, the school bus headed towards the stoplight. Time inched by so she could enjoy every expression, appreciate every emotion of the children pressing their faces to the windows.

  The driver tapped the brakes. The biker held up his hand and waved at the elderly couple who were friends of his grandmother. The mother, now stopped at the corner waiting patiently for the walk signal, bent down and smoothed her daughter’s fine blonde hair.

  Panic didn’t set in on the bus driver’s face until the third time he tried the brakes. He had no way of knowing the cable had snapped after years of use and poor maintenance, but he did know he was just a few feet from the intersection and the motorcycle that had just entered it.

  Even from way up in her tower, the artist heard the blaring horn. The biker brought his hand back to the handlebars and tried to swerve out of the way. It wasn’t due to the lack of skill or slow reaction, but the bus struck the tail end of his bike. He flipped over the front wheel.

  The bus driver jerked the wheel to the right, losing control of the vehicle. Young screams pierced the crisp morning air as the bus rushed toward the row of trees. At the exact moment the biker sailed into the stroller, the bus wrapped its front end around the trunk of a tall oak. The engine slammed back into the main compartment, severing the driver’s legs and pinning him in his seat as tiny bodies flew past him, smashing into and through the windshield.

  The artist studied the smoldering wreckage. She cringed at the pained, confused expression of the biker who broke his back against the light post, completely unaware of the mother screaming at him to get off her baby. She counted the little bodies hanging from the bus windows and smashed against the tall tree. She breathed in the familiar scent of gasoline and watched as sparks ignited the back of the bus, trapping the survivors in an inferno. The elderly woman stood in horror, torn between helping the children or her husband of fifty-two years lying on the sidewalk suffering a massive heart attack.

  Discouraged with her first attempt, the artist turned to the eastern window and contemplated the nothingness, wondering what she should fill it with. After a few moments, she sat back on her stool and designed an elaborate amusement park. What would take others years, she painted in seconds, each calculation precise, every angle exact. The brilliance behind its design was evident as she looked out the window and admired its grandness.

  An amusement park without visitors to enjoy it was the equivalent of the perfect snowflake melting before anyone could see it. Quickly, she moved the brush across the canvas, leaving thousands of bodies in its wake. Eighth-graders raised their hands and screamed as they rushed down the steep descents of a roller coaster, while their older brothers and sisters became better acquainted on the Ferris wheel. Parents in line for the log flume gave their children their first taste of cotton candy. The lines weren’t too long and the weather was just right. She had just created the perfect day.

  The artist stood at the window and watched parents pull their babies off the carousel and then down beer after beer. She heard the loud crack come from the roller coaster snaking and looping through the entire park.

  The first car, occupied by a five-year-old redhead and his father, had just reached the crest of the ten-story climb, about to race down the decline in order to build enough speed to complete the two corkscrews. The father also heard the crack as the car began its descent, pulling the rest of the train with it. When the final car passed the crest, the train zoomed toward the corkscrews. Every passenger raised their arms and screamed as they plummeted.

  The broken coupling connecting the first car to the second held halfway through the first twist. When it gave, the first car shot off the tracks and headed for the lake fifty yards away. The little boy hadn’t even realized they had left the track until his father’s arms were severed by an electric wire.

  Both father and son died on impact, so they didn’t see the wire fall onto the brown building that housed the fireworks. The father and son didn’t see the building explode into a blazing fire that spread in the wind. They didn’t see the thousands of people caught in the flames, the crowd panicking and trampling those who had fallen. But the artist did.

  She rested her arm on the window ledge and watched the story unfold. She listened to each wail and unanswered prayer and every damning curse. She smelled their fear and the sharp stench of burning flesh. She felt their sadness, their loss. When she couldn’t handle any more, she turned to the southern window.

  The emptiness begged her to fill it, but she was hesitant to try once again to create a perfect picture. Finally, she decided that sometimes the simplest thing was best. She began depicting the core of the human race: one man and one woman who had taken each other in marriage, vowing to love one another till death did they part.

  The artist glanced out the window and watched the disheveled thirty-three-year-old enter their living room and head to the dining room table. Saturday night’s business dinner had turned very unprofessional, and all he wanted to do was close the blinds and crawl into bed. His wife was waiting for him at the table, holding a small, unmarked box behind her back, smiling from ear to ear.

  The artist returned to
her canvas and filled in the details. On the table, a mound of unopened mail that the man hadn’t had the courage to open. The white box held a pregnancy test that had finally read positive after so many failed attempts.

  The artist remained seated and listened as the wife asked her husband how the dinner went and if he made the sale. He grunted something about the same old bullshit and opened the mail. His wife’s next question was drowned out by his curses and the tearing of a letter in two. This was repeated three more times before the artist painted the couple’s deceased son’s Louisville Slugger. They kept it mounted on the wall, just within the husband’s reach.

  After setting the finished piece against the wall, the artist listened as the wife broke the good news that they would once again have a family. The husband, overwhelmed by an unsuccessful career, a demanding mistress, and insurmountable bills, didn’t tell his wife the baby couldn’t be his. He couldn’t admit to her that he had had a vasectomy after their son died. He couldn’t admit that he’d been lying to her every month of the past five years when she cried because she wasn’t pregnant. He also couldn’t contain his rage as he wondered whose baby she was carrying.

  The artist winced at the first thump. She didn’t want to watch what he did with his dead son’s baseball bat. Knowing the doctor had botched the vasectomy didn’t make it any easier for the artist to watch the wife cower on all fours to protect the baby, screaming for God to stop him. God didn’t and the man continued the onslaught until the house was silent except for his heavy breathing, the sound of her blood dripping onto the hardwood floor.

  Sickened by the display, the artist took a blank canvas and set it on the easel below the western window. In a matter of moments she had created a glorious church. She looked out the window and studied the pained expression of Jesus hanging on the colossal crucifix. She counted the abundant gold items, wondering how much money the church had spent on them instead of on the hungry and meek it claimed to serve.