Even though he wasn’t in the car with me while I drove over to Pastor Alonso’s home, I knew that I was far from alone. Every time I doubted my sanity, every time I started to question if what had transpired was even real, he was there. Standing on a street corner, waiting at a bus stop, even watching me from the windows of other cars as they passed me by. I realize now that he was keeping an eye on me, making sure I didn’t get cold feet. It came as no surprise to find him already waiting for me on the front steps of the pastor’s massive home when I pulled up.
He placed a hand on my shoulder when I got near and spoke some final words of encouragement to motivate me, “Do it for your children Jacob.”
From the moment I nudged open the pastor’s gaudy, oversized, front door, I could hear he and my wife wailing away from the bedroom upstairs. I drew my gun and followed the moans up the steps.
“Jeez, Jake. It sounds like a couple of pigs getting slaughtered in there. Is that what it was like when you two used to bump uglies?”
I brushed off his inconsiderate quip and leaned against the door. The boy was licking his lips in anticipation. It seemed as if he wanted them dead worse than I did. Doubt began to seep into my mind. I was no killer. The very thought of murdering the mother of my children was beginning to make me feel sick.
Perhaps sensing apprehension, he started whispering in my ear, “Do it Jake. Send them to hell.”
His words were easy to ignore. I was too busy thinking about my kids. Could I really take their mother away from them? Even though I had let the boy manipulate me that evening, I still had my free will. I knew that I had the power to walk out the front door if I wanted to. No one needed to die.
“He who hesitates is lost, Jake.”
How could I even pull the trigger? For God sakes, I still loved the woman. That’s when that dark inexplicable feeling that had been growing inside me started to dwindle. In its place I felt hope. Hope that maybe if I could talk to her, even hear her speak, I would come to my senses. Then, almost on cue, her voice rang out, resonating through the air like a magnificent melody plucked from the fingers of a master harpist.
“Fuck me preacher man!”
I kicked in the door.
**
My gun had six bullets, but it only took me three. It would have been two, but I couldn’t resist the opportunity to relieve the pastor of his holy scepter. It’s strange how draining murder can be. All I did was point my gun and pull a trigger, yet my body felt like I had just ran a marathon.
“I knew you had it in you, Jacob, but holy hell, I didn’t expect you to blast off his pecker too!”
It wasn’t his wisecrack that startled me. His voice had changed. It was deeper than a teenager’s now, more dignified too. Perhaps most alarming, it was a voice I knew very well – one I heard echo off the stained glass windows of my church every Sunday for years. Pastor Alonso’s voice. I whirled around to see the man I just shot smiling at me from the doorway.
“Relax,” he said as he entered the room, “It’s just me, Lucifer, King of The Underworld, Father of Lies, yada yada yada.”
I looked back to the bed. The real pastor’s bullet riddled body still lied motionless next to my wife’s corpse, their cadavers entwined within a set of tacky bloodstained bed sheets. “Wh-why did you make yourself look like Pastor Alonso?” I asked.
“Why does it matter? I do as I please.”
Before I had a chance at a follow up question, the thunderous sound of the pastor’s front door being slammed shut carried through the house and up to the bedroom. My heart began to race as a bevy of heavy footsteps made their way up the stairs.
“What the hell is going on!?” I demanded, but he didn’t answer. The wicked grin painted across his face sent a wave of fright through my body.
“Do you know what they’re going to do to you in prison, Jacob?” he said. Two uniformed police officers strode into the room.
As the policemen made their way towards me, my panic began to intensify. All I could think about was wasting the rest of my life away in an orange jumpsuit and playing housewife at the behest of my cellmate, a tattooed skinhead named Knife Face.
I still had three bullets left and I knew there was one way out of the situation. I raised the revolver to my temple as the cops marched towards me. I don’t know if I really would have pulled the trigger if they attempted to arrest me. Thankfully I didn’t get the chance to find out because instead of drawing their guns on me, they brushed right by without saying a word. I watched in awe as they started wrapping the pastor and my wife’s bodies’ in the soiled silk sheets. To my surprise, they appeared to be cleaning up my mess.
You-Know-Who fell to the floor and began howling. “HA! Now you really do look like you got caught with your dick in the family goat!” He thrust a finger into my bewildered face. “I’m just joshing you, Jake! These fine gentlemen are with me. Them too.” He motioned over to the doorway. Two more men I hadn’t noticed before wearing plain clothes, but still brandishing badges were waiting in the doorway. “Jerry, come over here for a second!”
The older heavyset man sauntered towards us. His somber face and reluctant gait made him look like a kid who just got caught with his hand in the cookie jar. The no-longer-baby-faced-demon patted him on the back, “Do you know who this man is, Jacob?” I shook my head. “Jerry here, is the head of the police department. That means he’s very important.”
“Pleased to meet you,” I said. I really wasn’t, at that point all I wanted to do was distance myself as far away from the pastor’s house as possible and forget the whole night ever happened. The police chief remained silent. The shame and discomfort in his eyes told me the feeling was mutual.
The demon gestured over to the other man still standing at the door. “That guy over there just made detective.” He turned his head in the detective’s direction. “Congratulation’s on your new promotion, Bill!” The man looked away to avoid eye contact. Once again he focused his attention on me. “Guess who’s going to be heading up your wife’s murder case?”
“What about the Pastor?” I asked, “Who’s going to be looking into his murder?”
He stretched his arms out and twirled around as if he was showing off a brand new coat. “What are you talking about? Pastor Alonso wasn’t murdered? He and his wife just decided to move away so they could do missionary work in Africa. See? Everything wraps up neat and tidy and you get off scot-free. Now Jacob, before you leave tonight, I wanted to speak to you about that favor.”
“What?”
“You know? We talked about this. I said that maybe one day I might ask you to return the favor I did for you.”
“Yeah,” I said, “I remember. I guess I didn’t expect it to come so soon.”
“Well, life’s funny like that sometimes. Don’t worry though. It’s really nothing you can’t do in your sleep! I’m not going to ask you to pick up and dispose of dead bodies like these guys.”
“What do you want?”
He leaned in close and looked at me with a solemn expression on his face. “Listen to me, Jacob because this is the only favor I will ever ask of you. It is imperative, that you never attempt to contact Darcy Alonso. Do you understand?”
“What?” his request had left me puzzled for numerous reasons, “But Darcy Alonso has cancer. She’s dying.”
His lips curled into a devilish smirk. “Well, let’s just say I did her a little favor.”
“What are you going to do with her?”
“What’s it matter to you? I do as I please.”
I waved my finger in his face, “But you said I’m not obligated to listen to you right? If I wanted to, I could go over to the hospital right now and tell her about everything that happened tonight.”
“Of course you can, Jacob! Like I said, there’s no binding agreement between us. Your soul is yours and you’re free to do what you want with it. As a matter of fact, I stake no claim to any of these men’s souls. They’re just people who were kind enough to repa
y the favor I did for them!
I’ve done favors for a lot of people, Jacob – cops, judges, lawyers, even pedophiles who take pleasure in the rape and murder of children. Do you understand what I’m getting at here?” And when he said that, he looked me right in the eye. It was as if his stare caused my mind to play out a thousand different scenarios, each one more heinous and vile than the last. It was like looking through a window into Hell. “Darcy and I are going away,” he continued. “All you have to do is forget about her. Forget about this entire night if you want! But don’t forget that I’m always watching you, Jacob.”
He didn’t need to say another word. The message was clear. I turned and exited the pastor’s house without looking back. The next few hours were a blur to me. I remember driving back to my home, vomiting in the kitchen sink (that Double Western Bacon Cheeseburger finally did make its escape), and passing out on the couch in my living room.
**
My wife’s body was found 48 hours after I shot her inside of a liquor store dumpster. Just as he said, I was never even considered a suspect. Her murder was pinned on a 19-year-old kid from the barrio. It took no more than a week for the jury to reach a guilty verdict. He was sentenced to death. The kid is currently incarcerated and trying to appeal the jury’s decision, but something tells me he won’t have any luck. I have a feeling that I’m not the only person who has a favor to repay.
Darcy Alonso checked out of the hospital that evening and was gone by morning. Word around the church was that she and “the pastor” had believed her miraculous recovery to be a sign from God, so they set out across the globe to spread his message. Something tells me that story’s a bigger load of bullshit than a politician making a campaign speech while rolling in a pile of fertilizer. Two weeks after they left town, their house was put up for sale.
It was hard for my children to lose their mother at such a young age, but they’ll learn to get along without her. I like to think I’ve been doing a hell of a job as a single parent, cooking, cleaning, and taking care of them. It took a while for things to start to get back to normal for us, but the fact that they’re smiling and laughing again makes me think that they’re going to be ok.
About a year after everything happened, I received a green envelope in the mail. I didn’t think much of it at first. It was the middle of December and I had already collected dozens of Christmas cards. It wasn’t until I tore open the envelope that I realized that dark inexplicable sensation had made its presence known once again in the pit of my stomach. It wasn’t the title on the front of the card that made me feel sick (Merry Christmas, From The Alonsos!), it was what I saw when I opened it.
The message was just one sentence long, but it hit me in the gut like a body blow from Mike Tyson.
The doctor says we’re due to have the best Christmas ever!
Attached to the card was a picture of Darcy and “the pastor” wearing ugly Christmas sweaters and grinning from ear to ear. Darcy’s sweater however, was pulled up past her midsection, exposing her belly. She looked to be about nine months pregnant.
The Looker
S.R. Tooms
I’ve been doing it for as long as I can remember. The habit started way back when I was a boy. This looking. This staring. This observing. I’ve always found myself fascinated by watching. Mother would often find me doing just that -- gazing out our large living room windows, peering across the yard, peeking down the road at those going past.
She’d some times call my name and I’d not even realize it, so immersed in the act of looking I had become. Mother said her voice would be loud as a fire alarm and still I wouldn’t notice her until she violently tugged at my shoulder, stirring me from the fantasy. And then I remember seeing those eyes of hers… filled with anger and rancor at first. She’d rant and rave about my bad behavior and refusal to listen when called – although quite honestly, I simply could not hear a single noise or sound during these moments. Strangely, the bitterness she initially experienced turned to caution and fear as time went along. Her eyes no longer held hatred in them when I was stirred from these trances; instead only a sincere sense of worriment remained and it was I who began to fear for her. Mother would slowly creep up behind me, calling my name gently; when I made no motion to give appearance of noting her arrival, she would walk closer, speaking my name softer and softer, almost whispering it by the time her hand finally rested upon my shoulder. And more often than not even the presence of her warm flesh on my arm would not cause the slightest movement or change in me. Mother was forced to give a little yank or wave her hand across my field of vision before I snapped out of the dreams.
This habit of mine, this looking as she called it, continued on well into my school years. You can imagine the fright of the many teachers I had when they spotted me staring out the windows, unable to catch my attention despite their best efforts. Both verbal and physical. And you can also imagine the disciplinary actions brought against me… Severely disobedient they would say. Unruly heathen! Those were just from the kind instructors. Several of the elderly school teachers (the ones not instructed in modern teaching methods) gave me a swat across the head (this did bring me out of the looking quite rapidly). Mother received countless notes over the years. We spoke of these and what might be done about them. I hadn’t the slightest clue what was wrong. Certainly nothing with me, we both agreed upon this fact. Nothing of worth seemed to spawn forth from our discussions. Although on one particular day mother simply wrote a little letter (one which she informed me never to read), sealed it inside a small orange envelope, and told me to give this package to my teacher. I would do this each time a complaint was raised and immediately afterward the disciplinary actions ceased for good. This was the extent of my school years.
Later on when I was lucky enough to land a job, I ran into a few problems as you might expect. My employers would often accost and scold me for gawking out the windows. A few perhaps even have thought bad things about me. Staring at people and things can get you into a lot of trouble – especially in today’s world of hyper-sensitivity and being so easily offended and suing and calling the police for any little intrusion or nuisance (several had threatened me with this). And despite my best effort of trying to convince them that nothing was amiss, the feeling of uneasiness would forever linger thereafter. Which led to me being nearly let go a good number of times. This I didn’t mind too much. It would have afforded me the chance to land a new job with new places to look at and new things to see. However, just when zero hour approached, right around those times I could tell the manager was about ready to give me the boot… they would receive a letter in the mail. I recognized the orange colored envelope at once. This would be read, followed by a slow lifting of their head in my direction before a weak smile greeted me. Afterward, I never experienced another problem. Not one slap on the wrist or reprimand of any kind.
But I can only tolerate so much of the same place. Boredom sets in and so forth… Mother and I talked about my jobs on a routine basis. I didn’t much care for any of them, and I told her so. What was being a checker or elevator boy or dishwasher jerk to me? All terrible views I must say. We both agreed it was probably for the best that I let them go. Besides, I never got any of the work done. The customer items never got scanned, the elevator buttons never got pushed, and the dishes never got cleaned. Why, a number times I can recall standing there fine one moment, with an elevator full of people, just as the doors slid shut. The man behind me began saying the floor he wished to be on. But right as the metal clanged together, I became fixated on the shiny surface. Not in a goofy oh look something shiny kind of way. I could see the reflections of the people all around me! Only the outlines and colors, the general shapes and sizes, all in a hazy picture. Just what they themselves would be looking at! And I must have been looking for quite a while because all of a sudden I found myself pushed aside by the man who had been saying the number. He grumbled something about useless idiots! and selected the floor himself.
> Given those scenarios, you can probably see why I swapped vocations often. Thinking back on it now… that was probably when the idea first occurred to me. When I stood there staring at the obscured reflections, awestruck as it were – as if I were peering not through my own perspective, but through that of someone else! This is what most appealed to me. Having spent my whole life viewing the world through my own set of eyes… I began to wonder what it was like for other people. More than wonder, really. I became obsessed with the notion. Do you and I see the world identically? If so, why didn’t others look and watch the way I did? Was I missing something? Or was the rest of the world simply not realizing something?
And so these were the thoughts that plagued me as I flitted about from job to job. Each new workplace showcasing a new view with new people and new… perspectives. I tried my hardest, but always in vain to see life from a perspective other than my own. I stared out through the windows – pondering how these people I saw walking hurriedly about took sight of the world. Might I be able to, even for but a moment, experience the world as they knew it? Was this dream possible? How could I even go about accomplishing such a feat? It struck me as a bit silly at first. You might even say I became a somewhat forlorn at the notion of never attaining this unheard of goal. But as time went by, and the brain juices bubbled about… a few ideas came to mind.
Decomposing Head Page 7
