by Anne Frasier
She tried to move, tried to shift the person away, but all she managed was a little twitch and a moan that was not much more than an exhalation. With her hand, she tried to bop whoever it was on the head, but there was all this crap on her arm, which was attached to a board.
The movement was enough to get his attention, though. He stirred and looked up at her. Ronny Ramirez.
Ramirez?
She felt a sweetness blossom somewhere deep inside her, and managed to croak out a single word, spoken with tender affection. "Asshole."
He turned his head to look at her, and the joy in his face was remarkable to behold.
Ethan hadn't been able to listen to music since the night the Madonna Murderer had coaxed him into his car and Ethan had fallen for it so easily.
Piece of candy, little boy?
The psycho had taken away Ethan's soul by using something he loved to trick him, trap him, draw him into his sick, macabre world.
A knock sounded on his bedroom door. Ethan quickly wiped the tears away and propped himself up on his elbows. "It's unlocked."
The door opened far enough for Heather to peek in. Today her hair was red. "Can I come in?"
He sat up, wondering if she could tell he'd been crying. "Yeah. Sure."
So far, none of his other friends had been over, and even though that didn't surprise him, it still hurt.
She held up a CD jewel case, her bracelets jingling.
His stomach took a dive.
"You won't believe what I found. An outtake of Velvet Underground's 'Ocean.' I remembered how you were looking for it once. Did you ever find it?"
"No," he said numbly. "Look, I don't feel like listening to music, okay?"
"Just one song," she pleaded. "You have to hear this."
She slipped the CD in the player. Without waiting for an invitation, she plopped down on the bed beside him so they were sitting side by side, feet on the floor. When the music started, she fell back, eyes closed.
At first Ethan tried not to listen, tried to block it out, but the song was so compelling, so haunting, that it kept coming to him and coming to him, and he couldn't push it away.
Wow.
Oh, wow.
He fell back against a mattress that had not so many years ago been covered with Winnie-the-Pooh sheets, next to Heather, and closed his eyes. He was deep within the song when he felt her strong fingers against the back of his hand, wrapping around, latching on.
Ivy picked up the red cloth journal Max had left on the table beside her bed. The title? Death as the Reward, a Manifesto by Grant Ruby.
The book contained pages of notes Ruby had put together over the years. But it was the final entry that solidified her decision to move to Chicago as nothing else could have. Max knew her so well.
It was written with intricate precision, in small, neatly printed letters of black ink. The lines were as straight and exact as if the paper had been ruled.
Medication is always the suggestion. Medication? I don't need medication. Why do I need medication to keep me from seeing the truth? To paint my eyes with false hope and false reality? People dressing nicely, talking nicely, saying good morning, saying excuse me. A lie! A lie! People are stupid. They create false worlds, false realities, in order to deny the purposelessness of their lives. They construct houses and have children in order to control the chaos, to fool themselves into thinking life has meaning. They are able to say, Look! I'm mowing the yard! Look, I'm feeding the dog! Look, my kids have a happy childhood! See, life is more than suffering and pain. People are stupid. They don't understand that death is the prize! They don't understand that I'm simply a creature of the world who is able to see things the way they really are. If I want to kill, there's nothing wrong with that. I'm just more advanced than you, a few generations ahead of you. So when you are alone in your house, when you are alone in your car, when you are traveling, when you are running out for a gallon of milk, BE AWARE. BE VERY AWARE. I'm out there. I'm not alone.
