I'M NOT DEAD: The Journals of Charles Dudley Vol.1 (6 page)

My brother cried for days when his hamsters died the year before. (I told him hamsters were not equipped to swim, especially not in the toilet when you flushed it. They have small arms.)

“Mommy’s not coming back, Stewart,” I’d sadly remind him, rousing him into a tantrum and panic.

“Momma’s, gon’ wake up, Chawwrlie! You see!” he’d shout, so certain and innocent. He couldn’t accept the reality of our mother’s death at his age and would wait day and night for her to come walking through that front door.

“No, she isn’t coming back this time, Stewart. Not anymore.”

The house became nothing but a soulless and dark tomb since Stewart and I left home —old, decrepit, and miserable, just like my old man.

CARPE DIEM

Monday, January 5
^th
, 2014

My therapist recommended keeping a journal of every little thing that crawled in or out of my head. She said it was like peeling back an onion. Yeah, the more you peeled back, the more it stunk.

I despised writing, and my therapist accused me of making mountains out of molehills, so I got a new therapist who accused me of the same thing.

I made fun of Morgan for keeping a diary in her dresser because I thought diaries were for little girls who liked to write about the boys they liked at school.

If my dad had any idea I had a journal he would hang himself because crying is for pussies and diaries are for girls. I can hear him now: “Are you a faggy sissy boy? Are ya’ writing about your “feeeeeelings?”

I had to keep logs once my memory started to slip after the accident.

I had little yellow sticky notes systematically placed all over the house to remind me to do the simplest tasks: Take my medication, take the laundry out of the dryer while Morgan was at work, and pick Kate up from softball practice on Tuesdays at five…or was it Wednesdays?

It began with a grocery list of self-improvement jargon that evolved into drawing little caricatures of the monumental assholes in my life with little blurbs above their heads and an occasional arrow through their faces.

Morgan bought me this leather bound journal for Christmas last year. She had to prove to me keeping a journal didn’t have to mean you had a vagina, wore pink ribbons in your hair, and talked about boys.

No, this was a man’s journal, a journal to be proud of—a thick black leather-bound book with a silver lock and key, and the words CARPE DIEM etched across the cover in bold letters. This journal is the single most important thing to me now in case I don’t survive this FIRST CIRCLE bullshit.

This is my life story.

I hope someone comes across this book someday and sees what an asshole I have been and that I am sorry. If
THIS
is karma, then she is a bigger bitch than I thought.

Fuck you, karma.

LOVE AND OTHER CALAMITIES

Monday, January 5
^th
, 2014

I made an oath not to have sex with Jane no matter what happened. Somehow, we became bedfellows after a few short nights on the couch. And with my back starting to spasm, she offered to massage it.

Who was I to say no?

No matter how she made me realize how lonely I’ve become, there will be absolutely no sex involved…I guess there’s no crime in cuddling.

Twirling her hair and an innocent kiss goodnight was within the boundaries as we discussed as long as it didn’t go any further than that.

And who was I to say no? Well, no…

All I needed was for Morgan to find out I nailed someone on our bed other than her while the world was ending—and someone who was considerably younger than she was. I would never hear the end of it. Then again, I don’t know if she’s even alive. Oh, Christ, how could I even think that?

The fear of being alone has clouded my judgment and made me vulnerable. Look at me, running into someone else’s arms when the going gets tough; I miss Morgan and Kate so much. God, I miss them so much.

The men in my family had every despicable rationale for fucking the pain away. My uncles were notorious for dipping their “pens” in the “company ink” and squandering money on whores and gambling. A fight with the wife leads to fucking whores from the bar and kids getting on their nerves leads to fucking whores at the office. When the bills piled up, they were off to Atlantic City for the weekend with the whore who does the dry cleaning.

When monsters attack, that leads me to screwing the weirdo dressed in hospital scrubs I just met outside my door in the dead of winter.

DEATH RATTLE

Monday, January 6
^th
, 2014

3:06 a.m.

There’s that sound again.

“Dusty, did you hear that?”

Dusty, Cooper, and I were up late having a midnight snack in the kitchen tonight when I heard what sounded like something dragging their fingernails across the side of the house.

This was no Deviant. It sounded just as big as a rhino, if not bigger. We sat still in the kitchen quietly following it with our eyes—slowly from right to left then left to right—and then BAM!

Its growl was a deep low resounding rumble, rattling and snarling like a bull ready to charge and plow through the walls.

Cooper went berserk, barking, and lunging at the back door.
Whatever it was, reached the end of the driveway and let out a deafening roar that had us scattering around the kitchen and running into the living room for cover.

It was quiet for a minute before the beast returned, slamming into the side of the house while we crawled for cover underneath the furniture. Dusty and I curled up into balls underneath the dining room table holding our knees to our chests. Dusty clasped his hands over his ears and eyes when the colliding bangs came.

There goes the aluminum siding and my truck again. Cooper hid beside the couch with his tail between his legs, not looking so brave anymore. We braced ourselves for impact and waited in silence.

I couldn’t imagine what it was that prowled outside, and I couldn’t bring myself to draw the shades to look.

Jane didn’t hear any of it. She was dead asleep when we made it back upstairs to the bedroom.

Dusty was in pieces when I brought him back into his room. It was my first time seeing the boy cry. I don’t think he’d shed one tear since I brought him home.

I was never good with the emotional gooey stuff, but I patted him on his back and told him he did good as he wiped the tears from his cheeks with his sleeve.

“The monster’s gone now, kiddo. You have nothing to worry about as long as I’m here to protect you, okay? Even if it means hiding underneath a table together.”

I put my hand on his chin and shook his head up and down until he cracked a smile. The boy wasn’t much for words, but he was alright.

I sat beside Dusty on the bed, took a quick look around Kate’s room, and let out a deep sigh. I remember when Kate would run into our bedroom at night and hide underneath our covers because she believed Boogiemen lurked underneath her bed or in her closet.

My father would tell us to shut up and go to sleep if we even made a peep from our bedroom. I can hear him now: “Shaddap the both of yous or I’ll come in there and really give yous guys sumtin’ ta cry about! Do ya want the belt?”

So, I would put on my Super dad cape, hoist Kate over my shoulders, and go charging back into her bedroom to kick the Boogieman’s butt. “Here we come, Boogieman, you ugly stinker!” she’d cry, riding my back into the fray like a brave little warrior. Kate would throw her little fists up, and we’d go in swinging until she believed he was gone. I’d stay with her, praying, until she fell back asleep.

I’d pray. I’d pray over her every night: “God, please don’t let my angel grow up to be a lying, cheating whore, and let no man treat her like one. If I can’t show her the way, please give her the strength to do so herself.”

Boys have to be tough, right? You can’t pamper them and tell them everything’s going to be okay; otherwise, they’ll grow up with no penis. You see, that would be something my old man would say, but I know better now. I pulled Dusty close to me and nuzzled him underneath my arm.

“Listen here, champ,” I said. “It ain’t easy, but we have to be strong just for a little while longer, okay, pal? We’ll get out of here, we’ll go somewhere far away, and safe, where there aren’t any monsters and jack offs. You can make new friends, grow up to do something cool like play ball for the Yanks and marry a pretty girl like your buddy Charles. Do you like baseball? What do you like?”

Dusty’s shoulders slumped and he looked away.

“Oh, come on. Hey, don’t do that. I know what I’ll do, I’ll show you how to throw a ball, how ya’ like that, huh? Fast ones, too. My father and I never threw the ball around. Would you like to know why? He was an asshole and a drunk, but that’s beside the point.I wasn’t so bad a ballplayer when I was younger, you know. I was maybe about your age, a little bigger though. I was out there every day practicing—practicing, practicing, practicing. Morning, noon, night, rain, cold, hot, sick, broken foot, and whatever. Three consecutive championships for the team isn’t something to take lightly either. Yeah, the Bayside Fireflies, that was my team. Center field, MVP, I was one of the best. Your friend Charles was going places. That’s right. The big league, bright lights, and where the big boys play: Yankee Stadium. I was unstoppable, but what can you do, right? Shit happens. You—you’re going to be okay. I won’t let anyone hurt you, do you hear me?”

I made Dusty pinky swear, and then he threw his arms around me and buried his head into my chest.

We’re going to be okay.

CLEAN UP IN AISLE STYX

Tuesday, January 7
^th
, 2014

The onslaught of foul bacteria at the market could have driven anyone to puke half a dozen times. Any remnants of meat, dairy, and produce had flesh flies and larvae crawling in and out of it. The produce gave us all diarrhea weeks before, and Dusty didn’t stop shitting his pants for three days after ingesting my salmonella ridden chicken marsala.

Harold’s Super Foods
looked like an earthquake and demolition derby hit it all at once. All cash registers were absent from checkout, flickering neon-light fixtures dangled from frayed cables; showcases, displays, and carts were shoved around or pushed over onto their sides. The aisles were in complete disarray and littered with overturned racks, broken glass jars, and condiment slop.

The hoarders even took off with the damn gumball and sticker machines chained to the spaceship ride in the front of the store. Dusty stood with sad eyes in the immaculately clean circles left in their absence. I let him ride the one working conveyer belt at the registers and snack on some Cherry-Twisty-Sticks
I
found in a compartment underneath a counter. We even bowled and pitched rotted fruit down aisle three for a while.

“Keep your eyes peeled and stay close, kiddo,” I told Dusty. We didn’t have much light as we ventured further back into the market, away from sunlight. Dusty and I had miner lights I found in my garage strapped to our heads to stay hands-free in case we needed to carry stuff back home.

We found some canned goods: Spam, hash, and a pallet partially stacked  with an alcohol infused energy drink called
Mojo-X
(recently banned in New York and tied to three underage deaths) tucked away in the stock room of the supermarket.

I cracked open a can of the Mango-Pineapple flavored Mojo-X and chugged it down despite the bold warning label, and it tasting like warm mango puke. Within minutes I felt lightheaded, my heart raced and skipped, and I wanted to dry hump the shit out of the cardboard bikini girl at the empty beer display. I saw why the kids went crazy for the stuff. It was fruit flavored Viagra disguised as beer, and it made your heart explode.

I tossed a six-pack into the duffle bag I carried over my shoulder and continued through the market.

Dusty was walking funny and holding his crotch. He looked uncomfortable and folded over, but didn’t say anything. “Stop doing that,” I told him. “What is it? Do you have to go to the bathroom?”

He shook his head and crossed his legs. He bunched up his crotch even tighter with his fist as he shuffled down the aisle in a funny dance.

“Didn’t I tell you to go before we left the house?” I said. “So go…go here.” I said pointing to the vacant meat bin. “No one’s looking, come on.”

He refused with a suffering squint on his face.

“Well, what are you gonna’ do? I can’t take you back home now. Can you hold it for ten more minutes?”

He shook his head even faster and with a tighter squint—really bunching his crotch and then he froze in place.

Dusty let out a fearful moan and soaked his jeans. His eyes widened with horror, like the piss stain spreading around his crotch and pant legs as he looked past me. I grabbed his hand and turned slowly, aiming my head-light down the long and narrow aisle-six.

The squealing traveled around us in the dark with quick and wet slippery-slaps against the market tiles and walls.

Aisle Six: Party goods, Pet care, Detergents, and…a human cocoon made of blood red gelatin and veins.

The mucus-veiled coffin was covered in a feeding frenzy of ill-formed tumors tearing away at the body with
teeth and stingers.
This heaving meat was in the shape of a man.

The massive clot jerked from side to side in squirming seizures from the force of these creatures going to work at it. They were on him, inside him, secreting out of pockets in his body, and puncturing him with the lightening speed of a sewing machine.

Chunk-Cha-chunk-Chunk! Squeee! Chunk! With each collective puncture, the clot released thin red lines into the air and onto everything in its vicinity, bleeding like a stuck pig. The blood red amoebas swarmed on the ceiling above us, and slid their way down the market columns to the feast in viscous streams, coalescing over the body.