Break Free & Be Broken (9 page)

My blood goes as stiff as the trees around me. A baby! I immediately become aware of the fact I don't hear any crying. A crying baby is a living baby, and unless her child is a young Rambo, if it's okay, it would be crying. I drop onto all fours and start peering in through the wreckage. Baby, baby... I don't even see a car seat?

I think I see some movement in the back of the car, but the back windows didn't break and it's hard to tell through the tinted glass. I try to open the back door but it's jammed, so I run to the back hatch. Fortunately, it still works. I grab the handle and gently lower it, expecting the worst, and am scared back onto my ass by some dark goblin hopping toward me.

Jesus Christ! Get a hold of yourself! It’s not a hell beast, just a dog... but certainly not a baby. Could this be what she was talking about? I move back toward the front of the car. "When you said baby, did you mean..."

The stranger is standing over the woman. Because her face is pointing my direction, she didn't notice him. Her arms are still sprawled out in front of her, forcing her to lift her head to see me above the bulk. The stranger lifts his foot in time with her head. My eyes connect with his, then the woman's, and his foot comes down.

It crashes on the round part of her dome behind the ear. The dull thud of boot to skull is quickly followed by the sharp crack of skull to asphalt. Her head bounces sickeningly off the ground, and as it reaches the apex of its ascent, the boot comes down a second time. This time the sound of skull hitting ground matches the thud of the boot, and the bounce isn't as sharp when her head pops up again. Her eyes go out of focus, her tongue droops from her mouth, and the boot falls a third time. This time, the thud of the boot is echoed by a crunch as her skull splits and spreads along the asphalt, and this time, there is no bounce. The fourth blow falls (why am I counting?) and now there is no thud, only crunching and squishing. The fifth falls and the top of her skull begins to collapse inward, causing her eyeballs to bulge. Now when the foot rises, it is accompanied by thick globs of goo and blood. When the next blow lands, her skull gives out completely and spreads open like a jack-o-lantern smashed by vandals on Halloween-only this pumpkin is wearing a mask of skin and is filled with gore, and when it opened, it released a soul.

The squashed horror that was once a woman's face now has the appearance of some demented, wrinkled monster you'd only find in the most twisted of graphic novels. The foot continues to rise and fall, spraying blood and flesh across the ground as it works itself deeper and deeper into the cavity her brain once lived happy and alone. I drift outside myself. I'm not even here anymore. I'm somewhere further, observing myself observe the most grotesque thing I will ever see.

After god knows how long, the foot finally stops. All that is left of the woman's head is a pile of steaming jelly and a lower jaw, which is dangling lazily against the ground. I can’t take my eyes off the teeth in that thing. They stand out brilliantly!- proud icebergs who refused to sink under the polluted, oily ocean they once called their home.

Dear Brain,

It's your good buddy Chales here. I know I already ask a lot of you in day to day life. I realize I often push you to your limitations and beyond in search of happiness and truth, but I'm afraid I must ask even more of you now. Please delete all memories of what we just witnessed... for both our sakes.

With love,

Chales.

I sit down in the snow and bury my face in my arms. No way that just happened. How the fuck could that have happened? My head starts to wobble, and I realize it's because I'm shaking like a rag in the wind. I feel sick... no, this is more than sick. This is revulsion in its purest sense. The urge to puke begins its journey from my brain to my stomach.

No, no, no, no, no. I will not be one of those people who vomit after watching extreme violence first hand. I've been desensitizing myself to this type of thing for years: through movies, video games, thoughts, and dreams. Sure, all of them pale in comparison to this, but still... time to show my resolve. I focus on my breathing. Deep breaths, Chales, deep breaths. Inhale, exhale; that's it. Again. Inhale, exhale. It's not too hard to breath, after all. Just take it easy. Think about mountains, think about tits, just don't think about telling yourself what not to think about, because then you'll think about it.

Oops.

A second tide of nausea hits, flushing over me with the warmth of a bath. Oh man. Keep breathing. Concentrate on the cold and how it is clawing at your flesh, but definitely not how it is making steam rise from the blood. Damnit! Did it again. The urge to puke-stuck somewhere in my chest-drops, completing its journey to my stomach.

Game over. Prepare for ejection.

I wrench my head off my arms and turn, ready to spew, but to my surprise the dog is sitting right beside me. Surprise suppresses the vomit, and the dog and I just sit and gawk at each other. I guess it's just a puppy, really, with fur so black all I can see clearly are the eyes. It appraises me, decides I'm a friend, and licks me on the nose.

"Looks like you made a new friend." The stranger’s voice stirs me back to what is what. I'd almost forgotten about him. I glance over in his direction. He is casually attempting to wipe blood from himself with snow. Even from here I can tell the effort is futile-all he is doing is making more of a mess. I let my head fall back onto my arms. The dog nuzzles against me. Words can't express how much I appreciate this small comfort.

"I don't think I'm gunna be able to use this vehicle after all." The stranger says. I look back up. Having come to terms with the fact that snow is not a sufficient cleaning agent to rid a pint of blood from pants and boots, he turns and starts heading for my car. "So how about that ride? I'll give you two hundred bucks, straight up."

"Fine." I mumble. I don't want my head crushed, and besides, the experience I just endured wore me to the very core. I don't have the strength to resist anymore. If this sick bastard wants a ride, he can have one. I should have agreed from the beginning, or better yet-I should have jumped when I had the chance.

I get to my feet. The dog does the same. "Come on." I say to it. It just looks at me. "Come on!" I say again. It remains a statue. What am I even doing? Why am I trying to take this dog? "Forget it." I growl, and walk to my car. The dog takes off back toward its former master. I watch it run up, inspect the scene, and start lapping up blood with a gusto.

Good lord...

Stomach: eject.

Chapter the Sixth

"You know where Crunum is?" The stranger asks.

"The mine?"

"Yep."

"Yeah, I think so."

"Head that way."

For a very long while, those are the only words spoken between us. On an average day, I am not one to shy away from silence. I have no problem being alone with only my thoughts, and perhaps if I was having 'thoughts,' that would be the case now. But I'm not having 'thoughts,' I'm having
A
thought, and it is the Chales Anthon remix of the horror I just witnessed. I can't get the fucking sound of that woman's skull cracking off asphalt out of my head. I have been traumatized-of that I am sure-and I'm giving the man responsible a ride.

Chales... ye have no spine.

But what fucking choice did I have? He brutally murdered that woman for no reason at all; I can only imagine what he would have done to me. And what else would I be doing right now anyway? I've got nothing: absolutely nothing. Two hundred bucks is a nice start to something.

I sneak a peek at the stranger. His head is resting against the window: looks like he's asleep. Maybe this is my second chance at suicide, uh? I can crash right now, take two sick fucks with a single swoop!

Ahh but who am I kidding? If I had what it takes to do it, I wouldn't have had to go through any of the things I just went through. Plus, if I'm being honest, the deranged nature of this man has me curious. Even after that freak show, I feel less like dying now than I have all day.

For no reason at all, I picture myself, on hands and knees, crawling over to the dead woman and chewing on her limp jaw. It makes me ill. What in god's name was that? It's this damn silence! Blood is squirting unapologetically over all my thoughts, and I can't take any more of it! I gotta change the topic in my head; get another tape playing in the stereo of my mind.

Desperate for relief, I release the first words I can think of.

"That was wrong." I put as much moral authority as I can into the proclamation. The stranger sighs and slaps a palm to his forehead.

"I know, I know. Ahhh damnit. I was just thinking the same thing. Do you think we should go back for it?"

WTF?

"Go back for what? What are you talking about?"

"What am I talking about? What are you talking about? We shouldn't have left that dog up there. I hope it doesn't get hit by a car... but then again, that would be an easier fate than freezing, starving, or being taken to the pound. We should have brought it, maybe found it a good home. It seemed to like you. You could have kept it."

I'm stunned that that is where his mind is at-almost too stunned to speak-so for a second, I don't. He just pulped a woman's head and all he's worried about is her dog?

Ah, shit. And now I'm worried about her dog! He's right. We probably should've brought that pup along. But why am I thinking about the dog? That is not the issue at hand!

"I'm not talking about the dog! What was wrong was what you did to that woman!”

The stranger snorts a quick, derisive laugh, as if I am nothing more than a child trying to convince him of the existence of Santa. "Wrong? Which part exactly?"

"Which part?" I get a little hysterical. "WHICH PART!? How about the part where you turned her head into a puddle of mush, huh? How about THAT fucking part!"

"Is it wrong to turn a head to mush?"

“Is it wrong to...?” I should just stop talking. This man is being absurd. No good can come from arguing with a lunatic, but he's got me heated so I continue anyway. "What kind of jackass question is that? Of course it is wrong. IT’S WRONG TO KILL PEOPLE YOU STUPID DUMMY!"

The stranger instantly takes on a very sober expression and tone. "Oh. I see. And are you talking about all the time, or only certain situations?"

"What?"

"Like, would it have been wrong for you to kill me to stop me from killing her?"

I can tell he's trying to pull me into some trap, yet I push forward anyway, curiosity and the conviction that I'm right shoving me along. "Well, no, not if that was the only way I could have stopped you."

"That's strange. So sometimes it's okay to kill... but only in the right circumstances. Is that what you're saying?"

"Pretty much." I don't like where this is going.

"So when is it okay?"

"I dunno, when it's justified. Like, if you have to for self-defense, or to protect other people. Or in war, or if the person is evil: like a murderer or something."

"And what I did was wrong."

"Yes, that's correct. I shouldn't have to explain this to you."

"O contraire, my friend! You just made a claim I do not agree with. I still don't see that what I did was wrong. You are going to have to continue enlightening me if you want me to understand."

I take a deep breath. I thought the statement, 'killing is wrong,' was just universally accepted. I've never really thought how to explain it. "I feel like you’re asking me to explain colors to a blind person. Killing is just wrong, just like blue is just blue."

"That isn't a fair comparison at all! You, yourself, just barely said that in some cases killing is okay, which would be like saying sometimes blue is red. We both know that is never the case. You're starting to confuse me. Please, gather your thoughts before we resume."

Not liking the direction this is taking, I decide to stop the conversation. I shouldn't have to explain why killing is wrong... well, why it sometimes is when other times it isn't.

God damnit. Now I'm getting confused! I think about the lady’s dog, and that makes me think about her family. They'd have no problem explaining why what he did was wrong... Ah ha! "It's wrong because it hurts people. That woman’s family is going to suffer years of pain because of what you did."

"Okay. So since her loved ones will be devastated by her death, that makes it wrong."

"Exactly."

"Huh... but doesn’t that contradict what you said before, about the situations where killing is okay? If killing is wrong because of the pain it causes others, how would you justify killing me to stop me from killing that woman? Despite what I was about to do, killing me would still cause my loved one’s grief, so wouldn't that still make it wrong?"

"Um... not necessarily. If that was the only way I could have stopped you, then-"

"Then what, it becomes okay to hurt those who care for me because of something
I
was about to do? What if torturing one of them was the only way to stop me, would that have been okay?"

I pause, trying to think. The stranger doesn't wait.

"Or what if that woman was a bitch, and her family, and everyone else who knew her for that matter, are elated by her passing? Would it still have been wrong then?"

"That seems a little farfetched."

He shakes his head dismissively. "Maybe it is. The truth is, it doesn't matter. You've gotten off base. If you say that killing is wrong because of the pain it causes others, then essentially what you're saying is that it's wrong to hurt people, and killing just happens to be wrong because it does that. You're moving the wrongness of killing from the victim to those who care about the victim. That's a problem in a number of ways."

"What do you mean?"

"You've basically said that killing is okay so long as there is no pain involved."

"No I didn't! And besides, there's always pain involved."

"That isn't true. What about, I don't know, delivering a point blank shotgun blast to the head of a sleeping bum that no one knows or cares about. No pain there. Are you ready to accept that it's okay to kill outcast bums?"

"No, of course not."

"Then you better take another look at your reasoning. Why would it be wrong to kill a bum in that type of situation? You certainly aren't hurting anyone."

"Well, because, it uh..."

"Let's make this more simple. Imagine that you are the aforementioned bum. Why would it be wrong for me to blow you away?"

"It... I..." Here I am, being forced to argue for my life less than an hour after I tried to end it. "Cause it's my life, and I have the right to live it."

"Indeed. But don't I also have the right to live mine?"

"Yeah... What does that have to do with anything?"

He takes a deep breath and places his first two fingers against his forehead, as if struggling with some massive thought. "This isn't the place to start..." He starts tapping his head. “Let’s go to the beginning. For killing to be wrong, death would have to be bad, right? So what makes you think that dying is bad?"

I almost laugh. He has no idea who he's asking. "I really don't know that it is."

He gives me a tight lipped grin, the kind of smile one conspirator gives to another. "Me neither, but for the sake of the discussion, we better figure it out. It's safe to say that most of the world considers dying a bad thing, and since 'wrong' and 'bad' are so closely tied, it's easy to make the jump that if someone causes you to die-something that's bad for you-they did something wrong. Imagine you are talking to someone who was terminally ill. What sort of things do you think they'd say to explain why they thought dying was a bad thing?"

"Um... they'd probably talk about places they never got to go, things they never got to do, missing out on the future, leaving their loved ones; things like that."

"Exactly. They'll be sad about all the things they won't get to
experience
. And that makes sense, doesn't it?”

“I guess.”

“What do you mean, you guess? What is life, after all, if not experience upon experience upon experience? Shit, man, if you think about,
experiencing
life is the only thing we really do. There is a reason most don’t consider the brain dead to be living. It’s because they aren’t able to experience their life anymore: they aren’t able to
live
. Would you agree?”

“Yeah...”

“Good. Then we’re getting somewhere. Experience is what gives life value, so the way I see it, if killing is wrong, deprivation of experience must be the reason why. It’s certainly the reason I wouldn’t want you to kill me. If you kill me, you rob me of my ability to
experience
life, and if you take that, you take everything I have, everything I had, and everything I could have had: my hopes, my dreams, my wishes; my past, present, and future-everything. Experience is the ultimate treasure, something to be held on to and pursued.”

I tilt my brow: a slight nod.

The stranger continues. “Well, so now I’ve got to ask you this. What do you think happens when you die?”

"I have no idea."

"Come on boy! How can you say that killing is wrong if you don't even have an opinion on what happens when you're dead? If everyone knew we went to eternal bliss after this life, then dying, and even killing for that matter, would be considered grand things, wouldn't they?"

"Maybe. But we don't know what happens. It could very well be nothing."

"You're right, but wouldn't that be a problem?"

"In what way?"

"If nothing happens when we die, how could killing be wrong? Or anything else, for that matter? If nothing happens, then none of this-not a single god damn thing-has any real significance. If nothing happens, then nothing matters. In fact, nothing would be the only thing that ever happened at all. Nihil ex Nihilo."

I rub my chin. "Well, yeah, but that's only one way to look at it. The other side of the same coin is that if this life is the only thing we get, all our experiences are extremely, extremely important! You were just barely talking about how important experience is, and if everything we experience now is all that we ever get to experience, then it's impossible to overvalue its worth, and you truly just took everything from that woman. That has to be wrong."

"A good point, but what makes her right to experience more important than mine?"

"What?"

"Why is her experiencing a full life more important than me experiencing killing her? Why should she get her wish while I am restricted from mine?"

"Oh, I dunno," sarcasm is heavy in my voice, "maybe because a full life is millions of experiences while killing her is only one."

"Don't be a fool. I get just as many new experiences out of killing her as she would have gotten with a full life. Killing her changed my life completely. From here on out, I experience everything else as her killer. Killing her gave you new experiences as well. You may not have decided to give me a ride if I wouldn't have done it, and boom, just like that, both you and I would be getting a whole different set of experiences right now. It is giving her dog new experiences, her family-everyone who knew her. Any way you look at it, experience explodes in all direction. At worst, her right to experience and mine are at a tie."

"A tie doesn't really settle anything."

"You're right, so let's break it."

"How?"