Timothy screamed and ran to the kitchen, pouring a cup of just-boiled water over his hand. It was hotter than he expected. His skin was hot and tight for days.
Aaron seemed sorry for starting it. He told Timothy he worried too much.
So Timothy sat in his backyard, away from the water, and tried not to worry. The short grass poked his soft round legs and the sun baked his pale freckled arms. It felt good, soothing. Summer was solace from oral reports and being called on in class. Freedom from having to talk. Most days, Timothy wished he didn’t have to speak at all. He’d rather sit in his room with his model planes.
He must have frowned.
“Cheer up, Freckles,” said Aaron. “It’s summer.”
Timothy squinted at Aaron, standing a few feet away. “Sorry,” he said, scratching behind his head.
Aaron snorted. “You say you’re sorry too much, Freckles.”
Timothy did his best to smile.
“Kick ass,” said Aaron, smiling and taking a drag from his cigarette.
Cassie, Aaron’s girlfriend, giggled from off to one side. “I can’t believe they let you smoke.”
Aaron’s gaze went hard. He popped his knuckles and glared at the house. “I’d like to see them do anything about it. They aren’t my parents.”
Timothy’s parents let Aaron get away with a lot. He smoked like the world was ending. He got tattoos of barbed wire and swear words. Yet he was just three years older than Timothy. Timothy’s parents said to give Aaron a wide berth. They said Aaron had been through enough, with his mom long dead and his dad recently dying.
Aaron had laughed at the funeral.
Cassie giggled again and pressed her large breasts into Aaron’s back. She cooed and ran her fingers through his blond hair. Aaron’s gaze softened and he turned to face her.
“Kick ass,” he said, and they kissed.
Cassie was a slut. Timothy knew it. He was pretty sure Aaron knew it. But for the moment she made Aaron happy. Timothy figured Aaron could use some happiness.
It is four years ago and Timothy is about to discover that Aaron's father beats him. Timothy doesn't like Uncle Mike’s house. Everything smells of dust and beer. But every so often his parents dress him up and send him over.
Aaron and Timothy are sitting cross-legged on the floor, playing an old video game on Uncle Mike’s dingy television. Uncle Mike comes in from the yard. He sways and scratches at his stubble.
He looks at Aaron. “Get up.”
Aaron’s face goes blank. “What is it, Dad?”
Uncle Mike grumbles. “Just get up.”
Aaron puts his controller down and lets Uncle Mike lead him from the room. Timothy tries to focus on the game. He feels pressure in his bladder and tries to ignore it. Finally he stands and heads for the bathroom.
Just outside the bathroom, he hears a yelp from a closed door to his right. Then a whack. Then many violent whacks in a row, punctuated by grunting.
Finally the whacking stops. “Aren’t you gonna cry?” comes Uncle Mike’s voice. “You a big boy now?”
Timothy stands there the entire time, unable to move. He jumps when the door to his right opens.
Uncle Mike comes out, a dingy belt in his hand. Aaron sits on a chair behind him, covered in welts. His face is tight, somewhere between tears and rage.
Uncle Mike frowns at Timothy.
“Sorry,” Timothy says, scratching the back of his neck. “Just going to the bathroom.” He rushes into the bathroom and shuts the door.
From inside, he hears Uncle Mike say, “Now don’t make me do that again.”
Timothy watched Aaron and Cassie kiss. Then he realized the garden hose was only a foot or so away.
He looked over and saw it, drops of water inching from the sprayer. Dad had been using it to water the bushes. No one had said anything about boiling water for bushes, he had said. Dad was very logical. But Timothy wished he would turn the hose off.
Timothy stood. He hiked his shorts over his wide waist and stepped away from the hose.
Aaron noticed, pulling back from Cassie. “What’s up?”
“Dad left the hose on,” Timothy muttered.
“Did he?” said Aaron, grinning. He ran over and snatched up the hose. “Oh no!”
Timothy scratched behind his head and stepped back further.
“Aaron,” said Cassie in her do-something-for-me whine. “Stop it.”
“Stop what?” said Aaron. He squirted the ground next to her.
“Stop it, fucker,” said Cassie, laughing. “I don’t wanna get sick.”
“Aw, come on, baby,” said Aaron. “We can stay in the hospital together.”
“I mean it.” Cassie flashed her serious pout. “Stop it.”
Aaron smiled, paused, then shifted to a frown. “Well, you both are a couple of pussies, aren’t you?” He turned the sprayer around and shot a big blast of water into his mouth.
“Aaron!” yelped Cassie.
Aaron made a big show of swallowing. He dropped the hose and spread out his arms. “I am the bravest kid in the world!”
“Sheesh, Aaron,” said Timothy. “There’s something wrong with the water.”
Aaron shrugged. “Big deal. So maybe I get the shits or whatever.”
Cassie shook her head and moved up to him. She put a hand on his chest. “Don’t do things like that, baby.”
Aaron moved to speak, then stopped. His eyes went wide and his neck clenched. He opened his mouth and water spilled out. Timothy wished he wouldn’t joke like that.
“Ewww,” said Cassie, pulling away and laughing. “You gross-ass.”
Aaron’s eyes rolled back. Water ran from the corner of his eye sockets. He moaned, gurgling as water poured from his mouth.
“Aaron?” muttered Timothy.
“Baby?” said Cassie.
The skin on Aaron’s arms began to ripple. Timothy stared, not believing. Aaron’s arms contorted and bulged, like snakes were under his skin, trying to get out. He groaned through water and raised his arms.
Timothy felt an urge to run.
“Aaron?” said Cassie, then Aaron’s hands closed on her throat.
“Hey!” Timothy said, and ran over to Aaron. Aaron lifted Cassie from the ground. “Knock it off,” said Timothy, grabbing Aaron’s arms. The arms felt impossibly strong. Timothy let go, recoiling from the writhing, rippling skin. Cassie gasped for air and clawed at Aaron’s hands.
“Aaron!” yelled Timothy, grabbing again at Aaron’s arms.
Aaron’s fingers closed. His nails punctured Cassie’s skin. Blood ran down his hands onto the ground. Blood came from Cassie’s mouth.
Aaron screamed. Water poured from his mouth and nose. His hands clenched deeper into Cassie. She kicked, then was still. Timothy heard muscle tear and bone snap. Cassie’s body dropped away from her head.
Timothy screamed and jumped away from Cassie’s headless corpse. Blood poured from her neck onto the ground. Her head rolled off Aaron’s fists and fell.
Aaron turned to Timothy. Water poured from his mouth. Timothy ran.
He raced up the back porch and slammed into the glass door. He saw his dad in the kitchen beyond. Dad looked up at the noise. His early-gray temples bobbed in surprise. Timothy fumbled with the latch. He heard Aaron groaning behind him.
The door opened and Timothy fell in. Dad caught him.
“Hey, hey, hey,” said Dad. “What’s the matter, Timothy?”
“Shut the door,” gasped Timothy. “Aaron…” He leaned forward in Dad’s arms, staring at the floor. The dark pattern of the kitchen tile looked very much like blood.
It is three years ago and Timothy is about to tell his father about Aaron and Uncle Mike. He walks from the kitchen to the living room, where Dad sits with a crossword in his lap. Timothy approaches slowly, each step awkward.
“Dad?” he says.
Dad looks up from his puzzle. “Yes, Timothy?”
And Timothy tells him. But it is halting, incomplete. He mumbles a
hurried outline of what happened. He feels foolish.
He scratches the back of his head and waits. Dad frowns, then clears his throat.
“Now,” he says, “let’s think this through. All you heard were some noises and all you saw was something in Mike’s hand. Right?”
Timothy feels his words dying. He wants to press on, to make Dad understand what he saw and heard. To tell him how Aaron looked sitting in that room. But the words will not move from his mouth.
He looks at the floor. “Right.”
“And it's not very smart to jump to conclusions, right?” Dad continues.
Timothy feels like a coward. “Right.”
“Aaron…” Timothy said, leaning in Dad’s arms and staring at the kitchen tiles.
“Aaron?” asked Dad, helping Timothy to his feet. “Is something wrong with Aaron?”
“Shut the door,” was all Timothy got out.
“Calm down and think things through,” said Dad, and then Aaron was in the room. His lips were blue, with deep wet wrinkles puckering his mouth.
Dad pushed past Timothy to Aaron.
“Dad, no!” said Timothy.
“Aaron?” said Dad.
Aaron gurgled a shriek and grabbed Dad’s chest with both hands.
“Wha…” Dad started, then held the word out into a scream. Aaron’s hands clenched on his chest. Bones cracked. Blood ran past Aaron’s fingers as they went deeper.
“Dad!” yelled Timothy.
Aaron moaned and pulled his pulsating arms apart. Dad’s chest cracked and split open. Two halves of pulp and bone went to each side. Blood and meat poured to the kitchen floor.
“No!” yelled Timothy.
Dad’s open-mouthed head dangled from half of his torso. It bobbed and snapped off, falling into the open valley of gore in his chest.
Aaron grunted and let go. Dad’s remains fell to the floor. Aaron turned and screamed at Timothy, water pouring from his throat.
Timothy ran.
He raced down the hallway, turning a corner before reaching the bathroom. He stopped at the door and looked around. Aaron was not in sight. Timothy heard him moaning from around the corner.
Timothy rushed into the bathroom. He shut the door and locked it. His heart thudded and his flabby legs ached. He staggered to the tub and sat on the edge. He hoped Aaron wouldn’t find him.
It is two years ago and Timothy is about to discover that Uncle Mike is sick. Sick with the stomach cancer that eventually kills him.
Timothy walks into the bathroom at home and finds Uncle Mike retching into the toilet, his back and shoulders clenching with effort. Blood is spattered on the tank.
Uncle Mike turns and sees him. Blood covers his mouth and chin. He quickly wipes and scowls.
“Where the hell’d you come from?” he says, his voice thick with alcohol.
And there is so much blood in the toilet bowl.
Timothy heard Aaron moan from somewhere near the bathroom door. He pushed himself back, further into the tub. He put his back against the tiled wall.
He heard a plop off to his right. He looked and saw drops of water falling from the faucet. A pool collected around the drain. Timothy pulled away. Aaron’s moans became louder, seeming to come from everywhere.
The moaning stopped. Timothy pulled his knees to his chest. All he could hear were drops of water and his own breathing.
There was a violent crack and Aaron’s arm punched through the wall behind him. Tiles clattered to the tub. Dust went in Timothy’s eyes. Aaron’s swollen, throbbing arm grabbed at him. Timothy screamed and leapt from the tub.
He flew from the bathroom. Aaron gurgled and screamed from the room behind the tub.
Timothy raced across the living room towards the front door. It opened. Timothy had just enough time to register the small, round form of his mother coming in. Then he collided with her.
“Woah,” she said, laughing and righting herself and Timothy. “Be careful, sweetheart. I just had my hair done.”
“Mom, get out,” gasped Timothy. “Aaron is…” he trailed off, panting.
“Aaron is what, Tim?” she said, patting at her dark hair.
It is one year ago and Timothy is about to try one last time to tell an adult about Aaron. Uncle Mike is dying but still mean as ever.
Mom is sitting in her and Dad’s room, in front of a mirror. Timothy creeps in, rubbing the back of his neck.
His mom sees and turns to smile. “Hey, honey. What’s up?”
And Timothy tells her. But he races through the story again, downplaying details without meaning to. He worries he made the whole thing sound trivial.
Mom frowns. “That sounds awful,” she says. “Poor Aaron…” She looks off to one side, biting her lip and smoothing her eyebrows.
“Still,” she says, looking back. “We don’t want to cause a fuss. You can’t go around telling other’s secrets, Tim. Think of how it would look.”
Timothy wants to say more. To make Mom understand that someone has to do something. But the words stick in his chest.
“Okay,” he says.
Mom smiles and pats at her hair.
Timothy's mom looked at Timothy, concern wrinkling her face. Aaron's moans came from behind him.
“Is that Aaron?” she asked, stepping around Timothy.
“Mom, don’t…” said Timothy.
Aaron lumbered into the room. His blond hair undulated as water churned through his scalp. The stench of rotting fish wafted over them. The smell of something horrible decaying in a swamp. He gargled and moaned.
“Aaron?” said Mom, stepping toward him.
“Mom!” yelled Timothy.
Aaron’s hand shout out and grabbed Mom’s hair. He clenched and pulled up.
“Aaron!” Mom screamed.
Aaron yanked his hand downward. Mom’s head snapped forward. A sickening pop filled the room. Mom jerked and blood came from her mouth.
“Mom!” yelled Timothy.
Aaron groaned and jerked his arm to one side. Mom’s head twisted around and snapped off. Her twitching corpse fell. Her blank eyes stared at Timothy. Bloody cords hung from her neck.
“No!” Timothy cried.
Aaron roared and flung Mom’s head against the wall. Then he came for Timothy.
Timothy tore through the front door out into the yard. He’d never been in good shape. His chest hurt from running. His throat burned from screaming. Death filled his mind, blocking out any thought of where he was running. He knew a huge tree was somewhere in the yard. Knew he would have to avoid it. But he couldn’t focus. He careened blindly ahead.
Behind him, he heard Aaron crash through the door and bellow. He turned his neck to look and his head slammed into a low-hanging branch. He tripped on roots and fell forward. He felt his ankle snap. Pain raged up his leg.
Aaron was grunting behind him, getting closer. Timothy sucked in quick breaths and tried to stand. Pain exploded and his ankle gave way. He fell again.
Then Aaron had him.
Aaron grabbed his shoulders and wrenched him up. The pain from the grip was worse than his ankle. Timothy cried out. Aaron spun him around and slammed his back against the tree.
Aaron’s eyes were white. Water seeped from cracks in his twisting face. A swollen gray tongue hung from his mouth. Water ran freely from every opening. A gurgling growl came from his throat.
Aaron released one shoulder. The force of the other hand was enough to keep Timothy pinned. Aaron moaned and shoved his bloated hand into Timothy’s mouth. Thick, writhing fingers closed on his tongue.
Timothy screamed past Aaron’s hand. Aaron pulled. Pain poured down Timothy’s throat. Tears ran down Timothy’s face and water poured from Aaron’s eyes. The water turned gray, then black.
Aaron bucked and jerked. He let go of Timothy and stumbled backwards, black liquid pouring from him. Timothy fell to the ground. Pain raged in his ankle, tongue and throat.
The liquid pouring from Aaron thickened. Timothy sobbed at the gro
und.
“I’m sorry,” Timothy said, his speech broken and obscured by his injured tongue.
Aaron stopped and stared through white, watery eyes. Thick black liquid seeped from his skin.
All Kinds of Things Kill Page 7
