"From A Dark Place"

It was Christmas Eve.  The meaning of the holiday was lost and obliterated inside him.  Larry sat in the basement on his favorite recliner as the snow changed over to sleet, pelting the thin rectangular windows.  The chill leached through the cinderblock walls.  He shook off the cold draft and drew a puff from his cigar—blew the smoke into circles that rose to the ceiling.  A powerful wind thrust against the house— then another— as he listened to the outside walls taking a beating in the night.  On the floor next to his chair sat a pad and paper with an envelope beside it.  He was done with it for now.   
Despite the chilly room temperature sweat glistened on his forehead.  He hadn’t parted with the blanket that covered him.  It warmed his lanky frame, protected his flesh for hours from the rising chill that seeped in from the outside.  ‘Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas’ crawled out from the speakers of the first floor television.  The harmony bled through the walls and down to the basement.  Bing Crosby’s voice sickened him to death.  A bottle of cherry brandy sat on the tray next to him.  He spiked his tea with the liquor and another sip went down the hatch to warm his innards.  He glanced over at his work-bench and stared at the family photo on the top shelf.  Knots formed in his stomach.
            His wife was once beautiful.  In the photo she had a rose petal buried in her blonde curly hair.  Her smile was broad and sincere then with her arms draped around their two children.   It was all anybody could ever want.  It was the perfect family back in the day.  But life was all about cruel changes, he thought.  Silently, he began asking questions which harbored unclear answers.  What was the point to any of this?  Life will go on, right?  I just have to get rid of the dead wood and it’ll all get better? 
  A circle of gifts was displayed under the Christmas tree upstairs.  Not a single one for him.  For the neighbors and his wife’s friends there was a bounty.  His son Eric had his own stack piled high at the back of the tree tied with twirling ribbons, wrapped with glossy paper where the finish shimmered under the blinking tree lights.  He noticed there were only a couple for Stephanie.  What a surprise.  Larry worked hard at the plant putting in overtime and Christine wanted to handle the gifts.   Of course, given the chance she could finally stick it to him and his daughter.   Larry knew it would come down to pettiness.  That wife of his had a special way of knifing him in the back when she wanted to.  Now the awful memories sawed away at his heart.  He sat— stared— permitted his thoughts to drift away.
He studied the room and marveled at his handy work in the cellar.   It was a distraction from the anger that was festering inside, that wanted to break free.  He smiled at the bench he had constructed with his own two hands from scrap-wood.  He had pride in the way he concealed the cement walls behind a layer of sheet rock and immaculate tan paneling.   He hung them during a long weekend all by himself and savored every minute of silence without nagging from his wife. The floor was coated with a carpet remnant that never faded or frayed through the years. He never spilled a thing on it, nor had anyone else because it was the only place in the house where Larry felt the rewards of pleasure and sanctuary.   It was practically off limits to everyone, unless he had given permission.
 Larry rolled a fine cigar between his index finger and thumb.  And for a brief period his mind faded into a deep painful place.   More questions slapped him.  How did my life turn out to be this pathetic?  What did I do so terrible to them?   
He closed his eyes, fell into a trance. 
His lips moved as he whispered to himself:   
We raised two children and that’s all she wanted at the start.  But … Christine pushed and pushed again for another, no matter how much I stood my ground.  The two were already a strain.  I did my part.  She wanted rug rats, not me.  I wanted a boat on the lake and she fought me to no end on that one.  That fuckin’ bitch.  I fixed her ass.  I bought that boat and put it on the lake.   Why did she care anyway?  I paid for it with my own sweat and blood.  It’s the only place where I can really unwind.  I can just be myself.   She got her wish for crying out loud!  I helped create two children— an ingrate son and a daughter.  The years were a mind- numbing blur, and before I knew what was happening, the shit came at me from angles I had never dreamed of.  My son became cold and distant under his mother’s guidance, and my daughter grew silent, although we did have our moments together.  She was a victim of bad circumstances, that poor thing.
 Christine whined incessantly about wanting another child.  She must have been out of her mind.  She’s still nuts.  How much more does a guy have to take? I flat out refused.  The damn plant cut my pay and I had little time to enjoy my boat.  Let’s not forget about the two kids draining me financially and emotionally.   Money and patience had run dry.  Then, one night it all crashed down like an avalanche.  Christine fucked up my life for good.  I came home from a double shift and a few cocktails.  It was really late.  She dressed up in her birthday suit and surprised me, for once.  Of course I fell into her little trap.  I’m a guy who has needs.  I was thinking with my dick.  I’m surprised I got it up.  I needed a hole, I guess.

We got down and dirty, and in the heat of the moment I was ready to blow my load.  We didn’t do it often, and when we did do it I was quick to squirt.  It must have been the irregularity of our love-making—if it can be called that.  Christine latched onto me tightly during the act and I couldn’t pull out in time during those final crucial seconds.  Her behavior was unexpected, purposeful.   She had me in a bear hug of sorts and her grip was like a clamp on my tired, limp frame.  I ejaculated inside of her and soon she would get what she wanted— against my will.  I was fuming.  I slapped her across the face and my nail opened a small cut on her cheek.  Part of me wanted to lash out again for pulling a stunt like that.
 The shot across the mouth sent her a message, though, loud and clear.  She cried all night and that’s when our marriage got terribly ugly.   Our lives couldn’t get much worse at that point.  I tried to reason with her, do a little damage control.   I never stopped paying for that mistake.  She turned our friends and our kids against me.  My family has crumbled to pieces.  I think the whole idea of family is a big joke anyway.  It all has to do with that bullshit they feed you on television about family values.  Christine had anybody who would listen on her side and remained steadfastly with her campaign for as long as it took to drive me crazy and push me further away.  She infected the kids with her non-stop barrage of stories of how I struck her for no reason; that I was a brutal asshole who had a temper.  
     She spoke of how disappointed she was that I didn’t want more children.  Spread the rumor that I had a low sperm count and couldn’t ‘get it up’ anymore.  The notion was completely erroneous.  It did manage to humiliate me, though.  I became an outcast.  Then another crushing blow knocked me on my ass.  She discussed our little episode with a shrink— made more shit up too.   The whole thing would not go away.  He had the balls to call the house.  The bastard urged me to come in for evaluation…ME?
     I told him off with a few less than pleasant words and warned Christine to keep her mouth shut.  That was the last time I had ever spoken to her.  It’s hard to understand why she did this to me and why I didn’t walk out on her, or really just beat her senseless.  There was no value in our life.  I’m not sure there was much to begin with.   Our farce of a marriage snowballed way out of hand and I suppressed many violent outbursts.  Christine went ahead and slept with the jerk- off- shrink.  She had spent so much time at his office you’d imagine she got her money’s worth.  Their affair went on for about a month or two and the indiscretion really messed with the kids’ heads.  They must have been confused.  I know I was.  The desire to seek retribution now fills a hollow place within me.  Christmas Eve is here… and rest assured….things are going to change.
                                                            *
   Larry opened his eyes, snapping out of his trance.  He took another drag from his cigar and a small cloud of smoke drifted up into his face. Christine and Eric were eating at the kitchen table while Stephanie sat there with a plate full of food in front of her.  She stared ahead at the wall, her head drooping, her expression gloomy.   “What’s the matter, Stephanie?  You haven’t touched your food and it’s going to get cold.”
   Stephanie ignored her mother and lifted her plate from the table.  She walked innocently to the basement door.  Her mother was beside herself.  “Where do you think your going young lady?”  Little Stephanie’s head turned— a set of soft, baby blues drifted up to her mother and never faltered.  “I am going to see Daddy, don’t try and stop me.”  Christine’s jaw dropped.  She was stunned by her daughter’s comment.
    
      Larry was sitting in his basement rocking in the chair when his little girl came down to see him.  Stephanie was a shy girl with shoulder-length curly ribbons of hair and the sweetest smile. Her eyes were as blue as tropical seawater.  She thumped down the stairs and approached her daddy.  He sat rocking away in a peaceful place far away from where family thorns poked at him.  Stephanie walked up and set her plate of food on the tray next to his tea and brandy concoction, offering it to him.  
                “You’re a sweet little girl,” he mumbled, as his eyes widened with surprise.”
     Larry smiled and reached over, lifting her face with his shaking hand.  “I have things I have to do, love, things you’ll never understand.  But remember, I’ll always love you the most, until the day I die.”
     Stephanie was unsure what scared her more— his disturbing revelation, the quivering hands, or his pale skin with the veins bulging on his forehead.  Coldness filled the room.  Stephanie’s bony frame shivered.   Her lips quivered as she nervously licked them.  Larry pulled her close, hugged her, and a tear slid down his jaw.  “Do me a favor, pumpkin?” He spoke so low she barely heard him.  
     “Yes Daddy.  Whatever you want.  I don’t want to see you so sad anymore.  You always look so angry and sad.”
     He backed away from the embrace and stared her in the eyes at arm’s length.  “I want you to leave the house and go see your grandmother down the street.  Sneak out through that trap door over there.”  Stephanie’s eyes widened.
     “But, Daddy I…”
  Larry pinched her lips with his fingers.  “Look doll, give her this envelope.  Tell her daddy said for you to stay there a while.”
  Little Stephanie nodded and followed his instructions.
“When you come back, I’ll be all better, like I used to be, angel face.”
Stephanie snuck through the door and out into the cold wrath of the winter.  She ran to the end of the street.  Larry bent over and slid his right hand underneath the rocker and pulled out a hatchet.  He clenched it in his grip and enjoyed the feeling of its girth.  It was two feet long with a red handle and the blade’s fine edge was razor sharp.  He stood, and the blanket fell to the floor in a bundle around his ankles.  He drank the rest of the brandy and threw the bottle across the floor smashing it to pieces.   He twirled the hatchet in his hand and looked up to the exposed ceiling beams, clenching his teeth.
The wind whistled outside.  Larry walked over to the trap door and opened it. He ascended the steps to the top where the storm’s fury swooped down on him with a scathing claw.  The air was frigid and numbing.  The snow was falling rapidly and everything was covered as far as he could see.  He saw Stephanie’s footprints in the snow from the reflection of the driveway lights and he traced them down the street.  She did what she was told— what she had to do.  She was the only one who still expressed any love for him anymore.  She never gave him any grief, even though she had to watch her parents’ ice cold exchanges and knew they harbored hostility for each other.
 

Her brother, on the other hand, was an ungrateful little shit who always whined and got what he wanted.  His mother was afraid to discipline him so she showered the little brat with whatever his heart desired.  He bribed her for affection and it worked, but not with his dad.  Larry wholly resented his wife and son.  He reentered the basement— closed the trap door behind him— and secured it with a chain and lock.  He strolled over to the work bench, one of his proudest creations, and grabbed a file from the hook.  Stroke after stroke he sharpened the fine edge until he saw the jagged edge gleaming brightly in the overhead recessed lights.
            He tucked the hatchet handle into his crotch behind the belt buckle and calmly climbed the staircase.  His work boots scuffed the wooden planks one by one.  When he opened the door to the first floor the kitchen was empty.  Plates were scattered on the table and a pot of food remained at the center.  He moved along, passed the foyer, and peeked into the living room where he saw his son Eric playing a video game called ‘Death Trap’.  His son cheered while he killed off the characters and monsters.
Larry stood tall and erect in the doorway.  He took a few deep breaths and wiped away the sweat dripping from his forehead.  He glanced over to the tree on his left and received that same kick in the nuts feeling again.  It was tough for him to swallow that he was irrelevant to the family and that his daughter was sucked into their game.  He moved in closer behind Eric listening to him shouting into a headset.
“You cheat so bad dude,” he yelled at his competitor.  Larry crept up a few more feet—six feet behind him now.
  He massaged the blade with his finger, admired the feeling of its bite— the swath of superbly filed steel ready for a test.  Eric continued his trash- talking with the other player into the headphones.  “Dude man, like I don’t know who’s more nuts, you or my dad?”
  Larry considered sparing his son’s life.  He was a young boy—but spoiled, deceptive, and cruel.  He played up to his mother; however cold and distant she was with him.  Larry slowly raised the hatchet behind his back.  He tried to fight what his conscience was forcing him to do.  He caught Eric’s reflection in the television screen.   He wondered if he was being ignored— or if his son didn’t see him.  Larry believed the former.  It made homicide an acceptable remedy to what eroded him internally.
    The hatchet was poised up over his head.  He watched his son focusing on the game and it burned him more that it had to end this way.  There was no stopping the urge; the psychosis.  He felt that turning point in his mind where you exit all that is sane and ethical and cross over into insanity without a place in between.  His flannel shirt sleeve was rolled up to his elbow exposing his long, engorged vein.  His throbbing pulse sent the blood tunneling through his bloodstream.   The intersecting veins ballooned to life as the blood spread like fire up his forearm culminating at his fist which held the waiting hatchet.  He stepped up closer, swung.
 The hatchet came down with speed and cracked his son’s head in two.  Blood sprayed all over the television set, splashing the furniture too.  Eric never knew what hit him.  It was over quickly.  A geyser of thick blood shot up into Larry’s face.  He enjoyed the taste on his palate as the residue oozed into his mouth.  Larry turned and headed for the stairs where Christine was most likely hiding— or ignoring him as always.  Not any more.
He looked at the wooden clock on the wall hoping that Stephanie had made it over to her grandmother’s.   He climbed the steps to the second floor.  The hall was silent, splashed with weak light from a dirty overhead bulb.  Strands of blood dripped from the blade, staining the carpet as he moved.  The bright red blotches contrasted sharply with the pale gray Berber.  He stalked the hall with his lips clasped, eyes squinting with determination.   Larry’s strides were slow, deliberate.  At the end of the hall he heard Christine rummaging in her night stand. One drawer after another opened— slammed shut.
He fixed an eye through the crack between the door hinge and the wall.  His wife was loading a suitcase with clothes.   He watched her shedding tears— studied her body language— the way she slammed her clothes into the luggage.   He kept staring— saw her meandering to the window— peering out into the blinding storm where Stephanie had escaped earlier.
“You’ll never make it out of this room alive,” he said. 
 Christine spun. Terror marked her face.  Her eyes bulged in their deep, hollowed sockets.   Her mouth gaped.  She noticed the blade in his grasp.  She recoiled in fear.  There was blood smeared all over the once polished hatchet blade.
“No… No,” her voice trembled. “Whose blood is that? What the hell is wrong with you Larry?”
            He refused to answer.  He slid the blade back and forth in his palm, rubbing the mess into his skin like there was a thrill to it, a rush.  He felt the sensation bringing out the darkest corners of his soul.   “You see Christine, my love, you are a home-wrecker in a whole new sense, and that kind of deed can’t go unpunished.”  Larry closed the door gently behind him.  His wife screamed.  Her cries were shrill, fierce.  There was nowhere to backpedal—nowhere to hide.    
            The phone rang on the dresser behind him.  She ripped the lamp from the end table and threw it at him.  He smashed it to bits with his blood- soaked weapon.  Then she lunged forward to sneak around him.  He grabbed her, threw her backwards into the wall, hardly exerting himself.   She hit it hard and fell to her knees.  Christine was shaking, terrified.  She picked herself up off the floor.
“Scream if you’d like.  No one will hear your annoying voice.  The storm is too loud. You’re shit out of luck.  Who is going to make it here in time to save your pathetic life?”
Christine shouted “ERIC! ERIC! COME HELP ME! I’M UP HERE!”
            Larry stood before her and laughed, tormented her.  “Don’t bother.  I split him in two about five minutes ago.  There’s one more to go, and I’d say she’s in a precarious position— life threatening, perhaps.”  Sarcasm and lunacy melted together in his tone.  She began pulling up the window.   He just watched.  Her frantic efforts amused him.  He smirked, shook his head.  In the meantime, he kept his position blocking the way out, twirling the bloody hatchet in his hand.  Christine opened the window and screamed a few times. She began to climb through the window.  The phone rang again. 
           “Oh no!  Oh please no!”  Christine choked on the words amidst her panic.  She had one leg out and attempted to angle her head through the small opening.  She couldn’t wedge herself through the hole.  Her body was too big.  Larry chuckled heartily.  He reeled back and measured his target with one eye open and one closed like he was looking through a scope. The hatchet struck Christine in the skull.   Blood showered the glass and the white walls.  The blade tacked her to the wooden window frame.  Freezing pellets of snow and sleet poured in through the gaping window soaking the floor, misting the room.
             Larry walked over and plucked his wife from the frame.  He tucked the weapon in his pants and let out a breath of accomplishment.  He had done what he had set out to do.  The storm intensified.  He heard wind chimes going berserk outside.  There was a thud on the roof, and his eyes shifted toward the ceiling.  He knew a huge branch had finally snapped from that old oak tree and crashed onto the roof.  He shut the window, made his way downstairs and lit another cigar, then placed it between his bloody lips.  He walked to the phone on the wall and picked it up to check on Stephanie.
The grandmother answered. “Hello, Waverly residence.” 
 Larry controlled his voice.  He calmed immediately.  “How’s Stephanie?  It’s me Larry.”
The grandmother was disgusted.  “How could you let her walk here in this kind of weather?  She could’ve frozen to death!  I tried calling you before.  There was no answer.”
He realized she had never read the note.  If she had she would have suffered a stroke and called the police.  Larry covered his tracks smoothly.  “But she didn’t.  Did she?  You’re so dramatic.”
“You need your head examined Larry, I mean it!”
It was as though he played the conversation in his head already.  The lies were at the tip of his tongue.  “Look—Chris and I had to talk with Eric and it was best that she stayed with you, it got pretty ugly.  It’s been a rough night, so back off!” 
There was a pause on both lines.  Larry checked himself in the mirror on the wall, rubbed his hand along his tarnished skin, smearing the blood on his face.
   “What do you mean ugly?” the grandmother asked with tension seesawing in her voice.
  “The two of them walked out on me.  Christine fell apart at the seams and started drinking, and then things escalated.  She grabbed Eric and took off, said they were never coming back, that she couldn’t take it anymore.”
                “Now what do you plan to do?  This is awful Larry!  This poor child is going to suffer.”
     “Hang tight.  I’ll be over in a couple of hours.  I need time to think, to calm down a little.  Cut me some slack damn it!”  He hung up the phone and scrambled to clean up the mess, wiping up blood and any other evidence.  He scrubbed tirelessly and went over the place with a fine-toothed comb.  Larry unlocked the trap door and backed his truck up leaving little room to spare between the tailgate and the wooden door.  The two bodies were loaded into his truck bed and he closed the cap door, also loaded some spare firewood to make it look better for the nosy neighbors in case they were watching.  He knew just the place to dump the bodies— at the icy lake.  His boat would serve a valuable purpose.  He used it less than he wanted to anyway.
     At the bottom of the long street where Stephanie had run earlier was the Martins’ house, about five doors from the grandmother’s.  Cecilia Martin took her dog out front to do its business.  She walked to the end of the driveway and the dog sniffed something strange and followed the scent.  The leash pulled taut in her grip and she slid across the snow behind Maxwell’s powerful tow.  He was a strong Retriever.
     “What is it, Max?  What is it, boy?”
     

She bent over and pulled an envelope out of the dog’s mouth.  It was open and the paper was crumpled inside.  Cecilia took it out and read it…
    I’m sitting in my rocking chair and slowly gearing up for something you will never forgive.  Well let’s just say I had no choice.  They pushed me to the edge and my conscience bears no grief.  My pain will soon subside and I can start over with all that’s left for me, my daughter.  She was the only one that ever cared, that ever showed me respect.  I may do life in prison when they learn of my brutality but at least my only daughter will visit me from time to time, and the rest of the garbage that was my family can rot in Lake Blueston in a sunken boat for all I give a shit.  Sorry for the pain I’ve caused you.  There was no way out.
Cecilia read it and laughed thinking it was some kind of joke.  “Can you believe this Max?  Kids today have some wild imagination, don’t they?”  She ripped up the paper and shoved it into her pocket.

                                                     The End

©2008 David Boyle