RAGE (14 page)

By the time the sun burst through my window Monday morning, causing me to squint even before my eyes were open, the angry me had subsided, and I had found my way back.

When I opened my eyes, I realized I was on the floor. In those few brief seconds of bliss that falls between the dream world and the real world, I had no idea why I was on the floor because I couldn’t remember anything about anything. I didn’t remember the fight with Dominic and his friends, the fight with Travis, none of it. But then, before I could give it much more thought, it all came rushing back to me. And I remembered that I’d wet the bed, which was surely why I was lying on the floor now.

Though it brought me much pain and took all my effort, I stood. My back and neck ached from sleeping on the wood floor.

Rubbing my eyes, I made my way to the door. As I reached out to turn the knob, I noticed a funny thing. Not joke funny, but weird funny. A chair, one of the four that usually sat at our kitchen table, was lodged under the doorknob, preventing it from being opened inward. Staring at it, I wondered how it had gotten there. And more curiously, why was it there?

I pulled the chair away from the door, and set it aside. With my hand on the knob, my heart began to pound. I listened, but heard nothing other than the sound of blood whooshing through my ears. I turned the knob and opened the door, pulling it toward me slowly.

The first thing I noticed was the smell. It reminded me of metal. Other odors mingled with the metallic scent, creating a smell that was altogether new to me.

Crinkling my nose, I stepped into the hallway. The silence that met me there was louder than it had been in my room. It wasn’t just quiet now. No, it was weirdly quiet. I looked down the hall to the right, toward the living room, wondering if Travis was in there. But I had this feeling, nagging at me.

I looked left down the hall, toward my mother’s bedroom. For some reason, I wanted to go in there. I had to, but I wasn’t sure why. She was at work. If I opened that door and Travis saw me, well, nothing good would come of that. Of that much, I was certain. But yet I had this feeling.

Unable to ignore the nagging feeling that gnawed at the back of my mind, I crept toward the end of the hall, careful to not make a sound. When I opened the door, the smell grew stronger. My stomach rolled, the spit in my mouth turned sour, and I was positive that I was going to puke. I turned my head toward the hall behind me and took a deep breath, breathing only through my mouth to avoid smelling the stink. I then peeked around the open door, and found myself face-to-face with the source of the odor.

At first, I thought I was dreaming. I had to be. I sure couldn’t be seeing what I was seeing. There’s no way my mother, half-sitting with her back against the wall, could have a hole in her chest with a dried trail of blood leading to the pool in her lap. And there’s no way Travis, lying on his side, facing away from me, had a matching hole in the back of his head.

Neither of them moved, and it was no wonder why. They were dead. Both of them.

I turned and ran back to my room, slamming the door behind me, and quickly shoved the kitchen chair back under the handle as it had been when I’d woke up. I ran across my room, fell to my knees, and shimmied under my bed.

Trying to control my breathing and my furiously pounding heart, I cupped my hand over my mouth and listened for the sounds of someone in the house. Surely, that’s what happened. Someone broke into the house while we slept, and had killed my mom and Travis. They probably robbed us, which I thought was odd because we had nothing to steal. Anything we’d had that was worth selling, Travis had already sold. But whoever had done this might still be here, and I didn’t want to die.

Funny that I should think such a thing, when just earlier, I’d been trying to force myself to die.

Thinking of that, I began to remember things. I remembered Travis coming into my room, raping me once again. I also remembered planning to tell on him today. I was going to tell my mom everything he’d ever done to me, which reminded that my mother had come home early and saw it for herself, and that she also had walked away from me.

I dropped my head to the floor, remembering now I’d felt then. Crushed. Betrayed. Hurt. Angry.

As the first tears seeped from my puffy eyes and splattered on the floor, I turned my head toward the door. That’s when I saw the pistol lying on the floor, next to where I’d slept. I don’t remember putting it there. In fact, I really didn’t remember much after watching my mother walk away.

As I struggled to remember, bits and pieces of the night began to come back. I could remember stripping my bed of the covers because I’d peed, struggling with the sheet, and finding the gun. I didn’t remember much past that, though I tried hard.

Flat on my belly, I stayed under the bed for what felt like ever. I heard nothing at all anywhere in the house, and knowing that there were dead bodies in the bedroom at the end of the hall was starting to scare me. Everything I knew about zombies sprang into my mind, giving me the creeps. Having stood it as long as I could, I crawled out from under the bed and stood, still reeking of urine.

I suppose the first thing I should do is call the cops. I wasn’t sure what to say to them. After all, I had no idea what had happened. What I did know was there were two dead people in my house, and a gun in my room.

I bent down to pick up the pistol, planning to put it on the chest of drawers until the police arrived. But once I had it in my hand, everything flooded back, knocking the air out of my lungs.

The weight of the pistol, clutched in my hand, was familiar to me now. A flash flickered in my mind of squeezing the trigger, feeling the gun buck in my hand, hearing the thunder it created and smelling the gunpowder.

I gasped.

Another flicker. A scream. Another shot. More thunder, then eerie silence.

Tears rolled down my cheeks as I realized that there had been no intruder, no robber. It was me. I was the one that had killed them. I didn’t remember much, but I certainly remembered the important parts.

I sat on the edge of my bare bed, matching its smell of stale pee, and cried.

Finally, the tears stopped coming, and I knew I had to do something. I couldn’t just sit here in the house with dead parents forever.

Forcing myself to move, I stood and began to tremble, not from anger this time, but from fear. What had I done? More importantly, what was I going to do?

I looked down at the pistol. It was real. It hadn’t been a nightmare. It had all really happened.

Slowly, I moved the chair from under the doorknob and opened the door. I peeked into the hallway but saw no one so I opened the door all the way, and stepped out of the room. I thought of going into the living room first to see if Mom or Travis was in there, but I knew they weren’t. I knew, sadly, that they’d be in their bed where I’d left them.

Unsure of what to do first, I decided to shower and dress. After that, I could decide what to do next.

And I did. After showering, brushing my teeth, and dressing, I decided that the best thing to do was go to school. I could talk to one of the teachers about what had happened and what I’d done. Surely a teacher would know what I should do next. As for me, I had no clue. I thought I should call the cops, but that idea scared me. They didn’t know the story and wouldn’t listen to it. They’d show up, see I killed my parents, and arrest me without ever asking me why I’d done it.

So I walked to the front door, prepared to leave for school, but then thought maybe I should take the gun. If they didn’t believe me, I could show them. And maybe they’d need it. I didn’t know. So I went back to my room and grabbed the pistol. Turning to leave, I caught a glimpse of the sketch pad. Without much thought, I grabbed it too.

Back at the front door with my hand on the knob, I realized I couldn’t just go walking to school carrying a pistol. I needed something to put it in, and I’d thrown away my backpack. I searched the house until I found a brown paper bag. It was what Travis brought home his beer in, and it would have to do. I put the pistol inside and folded down the top, making it look like I was taking my lunch to school. Then, I left the house with the brown bag in one hand and the sketch pad in the other.

Just like every other day, I walked to school, dreading actually getting there. But just like every other day, I couldn’t go back home. I hated what faced me there.

As I walked, I tried to decide what I would say. How do you say something like that? And which teacher should I talk to about this mess? I wasn’t sure who the best choice would be to tell something like this. It was big, and had to be handled properly. And it had to be someone who wouldn’t judge me. I just wanted someone who would tell me what I should do next.

Mrs. Schmitz was out. I hated her accent. I hated the way she wrote the Algebra problems on the board backward too, but mostly I just hated her accent. She wasn’t a friendly teacher, and I wouldn’t trust her to give me sound advice.

Mrs. Wayne was a possibility. She was friendly and had always been nice to me. She seemed to be busy all the time, though. I never saw her sit idly at her desk the way a lot of other teachers did. I made a mental note to make her a maybe.

Then there was Mr. Herbert. He made History even drier than it already was. He spoke in a monotone voice. He did everything by the book. He didn’t seem approachable to me. I dismissed him as a probability, by kept him as a possibility just because he went by the book. He would surely know the steps I should take.

My Woodworking teacher, Mr. Johns, was a young man. He was normal, hardly seeming like a grown-up at all. He knew the words kids our age used, and he got our jokes, unlike most of the other teachers. It was probably because he was so close to our age. Too close. Being so young, he probably wouldn’t know what to do so I skipped him.

Mr. Wilson was a good option. He was a friendly, sensible teacher. He was an older man with white hair, which alone made him seem to be the right choice. He made Biology less of a chore than it was. He seemed to know a lot about most things, so he was high on my list.

Mr. Laughlin was more concerned with sports than anything else. I didn’t feel that he was the one to talk to about anything other than sports.

That only left Mrs. Madison. She’d always been kind to me. She pushed me to open my mind and let the artist in me come out. She wasn’t too young or too old. She seemed smart. She was a good choice.

With no idea of what to do or how to do it, and still unsure of which teacher I would tell, I walked to my locker. I placed the brown paper bag on the top shelf and pushed it to the back. I arranged the books so that they covered the bag. Out of habit, I then grabbed my Algebra book and headed to class, though I had no intention of using it.

When I took my seat, I realized where I was and wondered why I was there. Why hadn’t I just told the principal, and gotten it over with? Why was I sitting here in class as if today were just another day? In answer to my own questions, I was scared, and I felt that whoever I told had to be the right person. If I told the wrong person, it would only make things worse.

Since Mrs. Schmitz wasn’t the right person, I sat through the class without ever opening my book. I felt Mrs. Schmitz look at me a few times and pause, wondering why I wasn’t paying attention. I think I even heard her calling my name. But I wasn’t there. At least my mind wasn’t. It was back at my house reliving the events of the weekend, and wondering if there was something I could’ve or should’ve done differently. I wondered if any of it was my fault. Of course, they were going to say killing my parents was my fault, and technically it was. I did kill them. But I didn’t feel that it was my fault. I hadn’t wanted to kill them. That’s why it was so important to tell this story to the right person. It had to be someone who would hear the whole story and could understand that I wasn’t a bad person. I wasn’t a murderer, even though I’d killed.

When a hand fell upon my shoulder, I snapped back to the present, and realized that everyone had left the classroom. Kids I didn’t recognize were coming in for the next class.

I looked at the hand, and followed it up to the shoulder, and from there to the face. It was Carly. She’d stayed for me.

“Brian, what’s wrong? Come on,” she said, urging me to stand.

I did, grabbing my book even though I’d probably never need it again. I was sure that once I told what I’d done, they’d arrest me. After that, I had no idea what would happen to me, but I was pretty sure it didn’t involve an Algebra book.

As Carly and I walked to our lockers, she asked me again what was wrong, her voice thick with worry.

“Nothing,” I said. I could hear the hoarseness of my voice from the yelling and the screaming, but I was pretty sure that she didn’t notice. She also didn’t seem to notice the flat tone that I easily detected.

She was quiet for a minute, and then she said, “Remember what I said about if you need to talk, Brian. I don’t know what’s going on with you, but I have a feeling it’s horrible. I mean, look at you. You look awful, and I know you didn’t make yourself look that way. I won’t judge you. Ever. But I think you shouldn’t walk around with all that on your mind. It’ll eat you up.”

She was right. It was eating me up and had been for a very long time. As we neared our lockers, I looked at her and actually thought I might tell her. What could it hurt? Maybe if I’d told her before, I wouldn’t be so stuck now because someone else would’ve known what kind of hell I went through in that house.

Stopping in front of my locker, I swallowed hard, forcing the lump in my sore throat down in order to talk.

“It’s bad stuff, Carly,” I said as a warning to her that she may not want to hear it.

She turned to me and stepped closer. “I figured it was, Brian. I’m not one of those girls who think life is all rainbows and roses. I know that the other side of rainbows and roses are storms and thorns. I can handle it. I promise you.”

Sick of going back and forth as to whether I should tell her, I said, “Put your books in your locker and come with me.” If I gave myself time, I’d talk myself out of it. If I just did it now, without thinking, I could do it.

I placed my book on the shelf, shut the locker and waited for her. She ran to her locker, threw her books inside and ran back to me. Dodging the few kids that were left in the hallway, we walked side by side, heading for the safest place I could think of to go.

The gymnasium was empty when we walked in. The kids who had this class this hour were in the locker rooms changing. We went under the bleachers, unseen by anyone, and made our way over and around the bars and poles. We sat on the floor, our backs to the wall. I pulled my knees up to my chest and wrapped my arms around them. Carly stretched her legs out in front of her, crossing them at the ankle.

Even in the midst of such a disaster, I was still human, still a thirteen year old boy. I didn’t fail to notice her bare legs. She wore low-top white canvas shoes and no socks, showing her thin ankles. From there, my eyes made their way up her legs. Her shorts lived up to their name, and showed a wonderful amount of skin. As my eyes slid upward past her knees and toward her thighs, I had to look away. Before anything embarrassing happened, I switched my focus from Carly back to the reason we were skipping class and hiding under the bleachers.

Now that we were here and the moment to talk had arrived, I was scared. I shouldn’t tell her. I shouldn’t tell anyone. I should keep it to myself forever. I really liked her, and it was clear that she liked me back. Once she found out all about me, she wouldn’t like me anymore. How could she?

As I opened my mouth to tell her that I’d changed my mind, I remembered that I had to tell. There were two dead bodies in my house. I had to tell, and I might as well tell Carly first, to hear how the story sounds and see how she reacted. Then, I’d know what to expect when I told a teacher.

I closed my eyes, hoped with all my strength that she’d still like me when this over, and began my horrific story.