Criminal Option

by Robert Rand

  “And was it all you thought it would be?” she asked

  “Yeah,” Sullivan paused, a single tear rolled down each unshaven cheek, “but I had broke the trust that April had put in me. After that, everything got worse. I haven’t made love to my wife since then. She walked in on me while I was jacking off to some porno mags. Hell, I even let another man suck me off outside a bar in Santa Monica. Anything to take me away from April.” Sullivan turned and looked at Cricket for the first time since beginning his narration.

  She placed a gentle hand against his grizzled cheek, wiped his tears with her thumb and smiled a crooked little smile. “Go to rehab, don’t tell her about the other sex partners – including me – and go back to your wife and kid,” Cricked tenderly admonished.

  “Too late,” Sullivan said as he got up.

  “You can stay here,” she offered as he opened the front door.

  He didn’t bother to turn around when he said, “Thanks Cricket, but I gotta go.”

  Sullivan drove slowly down the street. As soon as he could see that April’s Jeep wasn’t in the driveway, he spun the wheel to the right and headed home. His intention was to grab a quick change of clothes and take off again.

  The moment he opened the front door, he knew something was different. The furniture was still arranged in the same way as when he was last home. The pictures were still on the walls, but the house felt empty. That’s what it was. It felt abandoned. He quickly went to his daughters’ room and opened the door. Empty, except for an envelope lying on the floor with his name written in April’s flowery script. He picked it up and removed the letter within. Sullivan cried as he read the same beautiful handwriting.

  “Dearest Sullivan,” the letter began, “I’ve taken Lisa and moved. We can’t live the way you are living. We can’t watch you continue to slowly kill yourself. I love you too much for that. We love you. You need help, Sullivan. Professional help. Until you are ready to get that help, please don’t expect us to be part of your life. If you do get help, then we can work on being a family again.

  “Please don’t try to find us. I’ll make sure Lisa always knows that you loved her. But you can’t have the dope and us, too. Please, PLEASE! Get help.”

  The letter ended “Love, April and Lisa.”

  Sullivan’s tears splashed next to the dried tear stains that April had left on the letter when she wrote it. He carefully folded the single sheet of paper and put it back in the envelope. He then folded the envelope and placed it into his wallet.

  Chapter 33

  The days began to blur. Sullivan pulled the Vette into the garage and refused to answer the door or phone. The only time he left the house was to go get more dope or to pick up one of the local hookers. Coming back from one of those trips with a homely little whore calling herself ‘Star’, he was surprised to find Spanky sitting in his living room.

  “Spanky!” Star yelled enthusiastically, and moved on wobbly legs in stiletto heels to give the big man an affectionate hug and kiss. “Is this gonna be a threesome?” she asked excitedly.

  “No,” Spanky replied before addressing Sullivan. “Yer fuckin’ up, Sullivan.”

  “Fucking up, fucked up, plain ol’ fucked, that’s me.” Sullivan retorted, not wanting to get into any kind of discussion with his brother-in-law.

  Star sensed the animosity and quickly announced that she was going to go powder her nose, before moving down the hallway in search of a place to cut up a line of crank.

  “Lisa misses you, Bro.” Spanky was speaking with as much compassion as he could muster in his rugged, gruff manner. “So does April.”

  “They need to get a life, my friend” Sullivan shot back.

  No sooner than the words passed his lips, Spanky’s huge right fist smashed into his left cheek, opening a two inch gash, just below the eye and sending him to his knees. He stared at the floor, momentarily dazed as blood dripped from his face onto the carpet. When the mist cleared, he charged Spanky, hitting him in the stomach with his head and left shoulder, sending the big biker backward. Both men crashed through the closed sliding glass door. Shards of glass covered the patio beneath them as they wrestled for an advantage.

  Spanky was much bigger and considerably stronger than Sullivan Rourk, but it still took a lot of effort to get him pinned beneath him. “I promised Sis that I wouldn’t hurt ya, now we’re both covered in blood and Granny’s probably havin’ a friggin’ stroke after all the noise over here. Get some help, Sully.” With that said, Spanky got up and walked through the back yard, hopped the fence and was gone.

  Sullivan went inside, stripping out of his torn and bloody clothes as he walked. Star was in the master bedroom dressed in nothing except her high heels. Sullivan took in the pointy breasts. ‘They look like the bullet taillights on a ’56 Caddy’, he thought. The girl was knock-kneed and had yellowed, crooked teeth that were rotting at the gum line – a sign that she had been a long time snorter of speed – her pubic hair was a vast, untamed black bush.

  “Oh, wow!” she exclaimed, then wobbled into the bathroom and turned on the shower.

  Her ass, he saw, had at least a dozen large pimples and a brown streak on the right cheek that he was sure was shit. It made his stomach do back flips.

  Sullivan pushed her aside without a word and climbed into the shower. The water was hot. He turned the knob until the icy cold was all he felt.

  Star opened the shower stall door. Her shoes were off. Before she could put a dirty foot into the water, he told her to go use the guest bath. She turned and left.

  “Be sure and wash your Goddamn ass!” he hollered, hoping she would just get dressed and leave.

  It took him a half hour to pick the glass out of his elbows and hands. The gash on his face should have been stitched. He put a butterfly bandage on it instead.

  When he walked naked from the bathroom, Star was waiting for him – hair still wet from the shower.

  “I didn’t know what you meant until I saw my butt in the mirror!” she said with a giggle. “I mean, how fuckin’ groaty! I musta done that when I wiped my ass after takin’ a shit yesterday!”

  Sullivan was shocked by this disgusting little tramp.

  “Oooh, and to think, I had two customers since then!”

  ‘This is what I deserve’ Sullivan thought.

  “So, anyway,” she kept talking, “I’m all cleaned up fer ya, do ya wanna blow job or ya wanna fuck or what?” She laid back on the king size bed, trying to strike a seductive pose and only managed to look even more disgusting. Her pointy breasts flattened out and became mounds of soft flesh that would have looked no different than her flabby stomach if not for the brown areolas and nipples. She spread her legs and asked, “Wanna taste?”

  Sullivan grabbed an already prepared syringe from his briefcase and quickly injected himself. He became aroused in an instant. He laid down next to Star. “Just take care of it.”

  “Okay!” She quickly put her mouth over his penis.

  He couldn’t see April when he closed his eyes. All her could see was Stars pimply, shit stained ass. His penis shriveled in her mouth. “Go call a cab!” Sullivan said, pushing her away. He grabbed his slacks from the floor, took two twenty-dollar bills from the pocket and threw them at her.

  Star grabbed her clothes and scurried off into the living room.

  Sullivan grabbed a Hustler from the floor, opened it to a seductive brunette and took matters into his own hand.

  Spanky assured Granny Zigan that he was fine, and that Sullivan was still alive and mobile, before heading over to Aprils’. He slipped on his leather jacket and gloves, even though he was driving his old Lincoln. Too lazy to change out of his blood-covered Pendleton, he just covered it up. He didn’t plan on being at Aprils for long.

  April’s hands flew to her mouth and she stepped back after opening the door and seeing her brother. There was blood dried into his long beard and the jacket failed to cover the blood on his chest. “What happened? Are you okay? What about S
ullivan?” she stammered.

  “I’m fine, Sullivan is fine. Fuckin’ idiot.”

  “That’s a bad word!” little Lisa said from the living room.

  “Sorry, sweetheart.” He apologized as the child stood up on the couch, making herself visible.

  “Lisa, do Mommy a favor and go play in your room while I talk to Uncle Spanky.”

  “Kay, Mom,” she sighed as she climbed over the back of the couch and ran down the hall.

  “Look, Sis, we had a little hoo-rah, is all. No one got serious hurt” he tried to reassure April.

  She pulled his jacket back and looked at all the blood. “Are you shot?”

  “That ain’t my blood.”

  “Oh, God! You killed him!” It was a statement, not a question, and she was sure it was true.

  “Nobody kill’t nobody. I tell ya it looks a lot worse than it is.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yeah, I’m sure. Now, I gotta go see about getting a few folks to stop sellin’ Sullivan dope.”

  “Thank you” she whispered as he left.

  “Can I come out now, Mom?”

  “Yes, honey. Come give Mom a hug.” ‘I really need one’ she thought to herself.

  Sullivan didn’t have any trouble keeping supplied with drugs. His connections all told him about Spanky threatening them, but money always prevailed. He spent money on drugs while letting his household bills go unpaid.

  The first to go was the gas followed by the trash service and then the electric. Sullivan stood the couch and loveseat on end in front of the broken slider to block the cold winter wind.

  He didn’t seek out any more prostitutes after Star. Nor did he frequent the bars where single and willing women had always been easily available to him. When he wanted sexual release – which was several times a day – he masturbated.

  Sullivan lost weight rapidly. He lived on Dr. Pepper and the occasional 2 for 99¢ hot dogs at the AM/PM mini-mart.

  He hadn’t heard from April and Lisa. Granny Zigan had come by several times to try to talk to him. He never answered the door. “Damn kid,” he could hear her curse each time she walked away. Spanky hadn’t been back either. He was cold and alone. His self-esteem had dissipated and he sank into a quagmire of depression and self-loathing. His arms were marred with scars and infection. Veins had collapsed from abuse.

  “Come on, you bastard,” he mumbled to himself as much to the syringe that he was jamming into his arm in desperate search of a vein that would accept the 60cc’s of liquid escape from within.

  A length of black electrical cord, ripped from the hair dryer several days earlier, was tied tightly around Sullivan’s left bicep, cutting down circulation in that arm and causing the abused veins to bulge. Blood ran in red-black rivulets from half a dozen puncture marks in his skin; failed attempts to gain a register with the syringe.

  The needle slid in once more. “Motherfucker!” Sullivan muttered through clenched teeth as a drop of the syringe’s contents escaped the tiny needle and burned in his arm.

  He felt the imperceptible ‘POP’ of the needle pierce the wall of the vein. “Be there, you fucking prick” he whispered in a desperate whimper, as he plead with the syringe and his vein, as if they were his God and this were his most solemn and sacred prayer. He pulled back on the plunger with the edge of his thumb. His heart raced as blood was drawn into the barrel of the U-100; a syringe manufactured for insulin injections, but known to every junkie as well as the diabetics. Momentarily enthralled by the swirl of the blood mixing with the yellow tinged methamphetamine, Sullivan inhaled deeply and exhaled slowly before repositioning his thumb over the top of the plunger. He was shaking. Tremors brought on by desire, physical, psychological and emotional need; if he had taken the time to think about it, he would have been surprised to find that these mental and bodily reactions to this anticipation of the drugs effect were identical to those he felt when he had, in the moments before entering his wife, April, the first time they made love after getting married.

  With a forceful, shaking push, Sullivan shot the dope into his arm. “Ah, shit!” Some of the precious liquid was injected into the muscle causing a painful burn and a small lump rose instantly at the injection point. He withdrew the needle and dropped the syringe on the bathroom counter. Ripping at the cord, pulling it from his arm and restoring full circulation, Sullivan sat down on the closed toilet seat. Heat coursed through his veins, a pleasing warmth in a body that had been assailed by the cold that permeated his house since the gas and electricity had been turned off a week earlier.

  The drug crashed into his brain. The edge of his vision flickered like the flames of the candles that illuminated the bathroom. Sullivan coughed once. Twice. Deep, breathtaking coughs. The room spun lazily for a moment, then stopped.

  His penis bulged within the confines of his Levis as the drugs euphoric effect took on a sexual aspect. Sullivan fumbled with the buttons of his 501’s and released his erection. Pre-seminal fluid dripped from the head. The meth often brought full orgasms without any external stimulation to the genitals. Some of the shot had missed its mark, creating a need to complete the sexual release himself.

  Sullivan closed his eyes as he wrapped his hand around his penis. Instantly, within his minds eye, April was before him, her long red hair cascading around her bare shoulders. The slight dark nipples stood out on the large firm breasts. Sullivan stroked his penis within the tight grip of his hand. In his mind, he watched April’s hand pumping up and down. Now his hand moved with her hand. Faster! Faster! The grip tightened – April’s hand tightened.

  Sullivan’s breath was labored. Sweat poured from his body. Thunder and lightening exploded behind his eyes! The muscles in his stomach, ass and legs contracted! Sullivan opened his eyes. April was gone. Just as she had been ever since she left with his daughter, leaving behind a letter telling him to get help.

  Semen coated Sullivan’s right hand. Globs of the sticky white fluid, which only moments ago was the desired result to the climactic pleasure sought, now dotted his stomach, scrotum and jeans in an accusation of his shame.

  Tears spilled over his red-rimmed eyes and sobs wracked his emaciated body. He released his limp penis and reached for a towel that was lying in a crumpled heap on the floor. Slowly, Sullivan wiped the incriminating evidence of his depravation off his skin and from his pants. Tucking himself back into his jeans before fastening the buttons, he stood to clean up the paraphernalia of his addiction.

  Sullivan’s haunted reflection stared back at him from the bathroom mirror accusingly. Hollow eyes and several days’ growth of beard. Tears left clean streaks on dirty cheeks. ‘Who is that man staring at me?’ Sullivan wondered.

  A voice within answered, ‘That’s who you’ve become’.

  Horrified and shocked by the reality of his life, Sullivan reached into the backpack that sat on the bathroom counter and withdrew his pistol without being conscious of doing so.

  His eyes were transfixed on the image being reflected in the mirror. A sallow-skinned face above an emaciated body riddled with scars. The puckered flesh across the right shoulder drew his attention. As he narrowed his focus, the scars grew nearer. There were miniature mountain ranges of scar tissue; peaks and valleys of rutted flesh stretching across the continent of the body in the mirror. The barrel of the pistol pressed into one peak, then slid into a valley, traversing the remnants of damage caused by another weapon; another weapon in another life.

  Twelve shots rang out in his mind, the memory causing him to flinch. Sullivan returned his gaze to the eyes in the mirror; eyes that cried.

  He watched, mesmerized by the scene unfolding before him, as the man in the mirror raised the heavy 357 Magnum, Smith and Wesson revolver to his head. The gaunt, crying man pulled the hammer back.

  Sullivan heard the double-click as the weapon went from safe, to half cock, to fully cocked.

  The man in the mirror trembled as the barrel pressed into his temple.

  Sullivan
stared, unable to intervene as the knuckle on the finger that wrapped itself around the trigger whitened. He realized that that finger was exerting pressure on the trigger. The hammer eased a fraction of an inch rearward in response to that pressure. The final action before it would fall forward, force the pin into the primer, detonate the powder and send the lead hollow point bullet through the rifled barrel and on it’s deadly journey.

  “Daddy! Hey Daddy! Are you in there?” The voice of Sullivan’s daughter pierced the horror of the tension filled confines of the bathroom.

  The man in the mirror quickly pulled the gun from his head and slammed his thumb on the hammer before it could drop. He eased it back into a safe position as he lowered the gun.

  Sullivan watched as the gun slid down the mirror. When the man in the mirror had dropped the gun below the mirrors edge, Sullivan saw the gun in another hand. His hand. It was then that he realized that the man in the mirror had been him all along.

  Sullivan gulped in air as this registered in his conscious mind. The room began to spin. His emotions were in turmoil. There was so much love in his heart for his daughter, for his wife. However, he hated as well, hated himself. As he struggled to regain control of himself, Sullivan cried. The tears were brought on by the deep anguish he felt at having devolved the person he saw in the mirror. Suddenly, he realized that he was the one responsible for all that he had done to put himself here.

  There was a pounding at the bathroom door, followed by that sweet little voice, “Daddy, I came to visit you!”

  His daughter, Lisa, was here. His heart soared. Looking at the mess around him, Sullivan said, “Daddy’ll be right out, sweetheart.” while the question “HOW DID I GET HERE?” screamed in his head.

  Chapter 34

  After quickly putting away the gun, drugs and paraphernalia, Sullivan scrubbed his face with a cold wet towel. He looked like Hell, but still, it was better than he looked a few moments earlier.