Shatter Point

by Jeff Altabef

  I never expected to be a killer.

  Who does?

  I don’t hate myself. Not really. It’s not as if I don’t recognize the face in the mirror every morning; I just don’t always recognize the man to whom it belongs.

  Mitchell Norton, the man responsible for making me who I am, will skip out of his final court hearing today—a mere formality according to the news. They’re set to release him from the psychiatric prison after seventeen years, the thought of which has spun my mind into a whirlwind of memories I’ve long struggled to bury.

  I killed my first man in 1975, at the age of fifteen.

  Norton’s actions three years later would push me deeper into my transformation, and aim me toward this place. The life I now lead. The me who isn’t me.

  Some things I’ve lost forever. Other things... well, other things I’d like to lose, but can’t.

  The memory refuses to drift into the eternal ether. If only I could erase the sound and the image, press a button and—poof—it’s gone. Yet it forever haunts me, the first of far too many ghosts....

  August 16, 1975

  Crash!

  The distinctive crushing of metal assaulted our Saturday afternoon, as Alex and I watched television and waited for Mom to return from the store. I jumped from the chair and looked out the living room window, but couldn’t see enough of the street. I darted into the kitchen for a better angle.

  Dear God, no!

  I yelled to Alex while bolting to the back door. “Stay put, Hoopster! You hear me? Do not come outside!”

  Mom was back. Almost. Our Chevy Bel Air sat right in front of our house, crushed into an impossibly condensed version of itself. A half-ton pick-up truck, its front end curled forward in a crescent moon, loomed over the windshield of our car.

  I ran through the glass and the debris to the twisted wreckage, tripping over a chunk of something unknown. I fell to my knees and banged my head against the side of the car.

  Shit! Oh God. Mom!

  I snapped up and peered through the envelope-sized gap where the driver-side window had once been. The back of Mom’s head sagged at a bizarre angle, barely visible above the crushed compartment.

  “Mom, are you okay? Mom!”

  I pulled my head back, reached through the gap with my left hand, and walked my fingers along the wreckage to reach her. I found her wet, sticky hair, and stretched out... farther... farther. Unable to turn her face toward me, I moved my fingers from her chin and up the far side of her face, and—

  I snatched my hand back and bolted upright.

  I stared at my left hand even as I used my right one to wipe away the blood and the gray matter. Everything began to spin and close in. My chest hammered with every breath, as though God had reached down and clutched the air from the world. I leaned against the car, and my hands painted two red streaks down the metal as my legs folded beneath me.

  I collapsed against the jagged wreck in a dark heap—blank—and vanished for untold moments.

  Life resumed when a man fell from the pick-up truck, coughed and spat on the street. He looked at me, inched forward on his hands and knees, and vomited. It took him a moment to recover, but he....

  What in hell is he doing?

  The rotten sonuvabitch laughed and whooped it up, as though he’d perpetrated some ingenious practical joke. His bloodshot eyes looked as if they would burst at any moment. He spewed a garbled, incoherent mush that I struggled to translate.

  “Shit! I think I fucked up my truck, buddy. Can you give a fella a hand?”

  He faded in and out as my last image of Mom—what was left of her—overpowered me. Everything grayed again, but as the spinning stopped and my breath returned, the full tragedy came into focus. The wicked bastard who’d crushed my mom... was drunk.

  My legs had deserted me, turned to dust. I could only look around in a daze at our neighbors, who’d emerged from their houses to investigate. What should I—

  The asshole’s staccato bursts of drunken laughter again pulled me back. The very air I breathed stifled me—gas, oil, burnt rubber and a vague metallic tinge, all mingled with the sour contents of the killer’s stomach poured onto the street. I raised my hands, bathed in crimson and wafting copper, before my face.

  A disembodied voice spoke from the void—my voice. “Where did the blood come from? Did I cut myself?”

  “What’s that, buddy?” The murderous drunk laughed again. “Shit! You think you got it bad? Look at my fucking truck!”

  I floated still, adrift in an endless gray ocean of broken thought, struggling to make sense of the fluid that drenched my hands.

  It’s... it’s.... Oh, God, it’s Mom’s blood and brains.

  The maddening, driveling voice, like a spear in my gut, stabbed me again. “For Christ’s sake, kid, stop fucking around and give me a hand, will you!”

  Rage burned a red sheath over my eyes.

  I stood and marched to the killer, who looked up with drunken eyes that meant nothing to me. They were evil. I focused instead on his neck, called up all that I’d learned in Master Komura’s martial arts classes over the previous ten years, and struck.

  Though strong for a fifteen-year-old, my success rested on the fragile physiology of that small patch of neck. To crush his trachea required more precision than strength.

  The slobbering murderer collapsed, clutched his ruined throat, and gasped for air that would not come. His eyes blazed in one final, sobering realization. They pleaded for mercy and begged an answer to the simplest question: Why?

  It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered.

  Yet I had to make sure he understood. “You rotten fuck! Did you think you could murder my mom and get away with it?”

  I shook under a roiling tremor, an earthquake of anger. I should have been crying for Mom. Why wasn’t I crying? Never had such fury engulfed me. I wanted to pummel him, again and again and again and again, as he lay helpless on the street.

  “What do you think now, you murdering sonuvabitch? Still feel like laughing it up? How about another drink, you miserable—”

  His empty eyes, free of remorse or guilt, unburdened in death, stared back at me.

  I’d meted out justice—simple, swift, final.

  Now I needed to... to.... I shook off the cobwebs as my neighbors gaped in stunned silence, turned to the right, and—

  Oh God. Oh God.

  My little brother, Alex, knelt at the edge of our driveway with a face painted in tears, confusion and terror. Just seven years old, he wept alone on the worst of all possible days. My feet were as tree stumps sprouting from the bottoms of my legs, as I shuffled over and crouched before him. All the while, his gaze shifted between Mom’s car and me, and he blinked through the tears no dam could contain.

  He choked and sputtered, “I... want my... mommy. Where’s Mommy? I... I... I want my mommy!”

  I could barely whisper, “Me too. I want her too.”

  I wrapped my arms around him, and he hugged my neck as though he would fall to his death if he let go. Together we unleashed a tsunami of sorrow.

  Another thought arrived through the haze: I killed a man. I’d thought nothing of it; I’d merely reacted. After witnessing the devastation of that horrible wreckage, the destruction of flesh and bone and tender love, I didn’t even care. Yet wrapped in my arms was someone for whom I cared deeply, someone who needed me more than ever.

  I stared at my bloodstained hands and clenched my fists to still the shaking.

  Oh shit! I killed a man.

  It occurred to me that jail would likely be my next stop. Where would my little brother be then? What would be left of his family, his life? He’d witnessed—

  Oh God. Hoopster watched me kill a man.

  I clutched him to my chest. “Forgive me, Alex. I’m sorry.”

  Return to June 6, 1995

  Frozen forever in time at the age of thirty-six, Mom had given us light and wisdom, warmth and love, a path to guide our way. Who would be our rock now?
>
  My childhood ended with her. What choice did I have? Was I ready?

  It hardly mattered.

  Law enforcement took rather a cursory glance at me, given both my young age and the circumstances of the event. A state-appointed psychiatrist determined that, in that moment of anguish, and in accordance with strict legal definitions, I was simply insane. Temporary insanity? Sure. Why not?

  The psychiatrist thought so, and that was good enough for the judge. They declared me healthy and normal, and sent me home.

  Ah yes, home.

  Dad floundered and withdrew from Alex and me over the next few months. Our first holiday season without Mom, regrettably, left an indelible scar. The elephant, as they say, was not in the room; only its ghost remained. Mom’s absence nearly suffocated us.

  Alex’s vacant brown eyes and perpetual frown, his continuous soft sigh and the musty smell of sweat and tears on his Scooby-Doo pajamas, the way his chin rested continually on his chest—these left me utterly heartbroken.

  I could only pray that the dark Christmas of 1975 would slip into history as the worst I would ever experience. Surely, Dad, Alex and I would recover our happiness, our optimism, as our futures unfolded according to a new plan, albeit a motherless one.

  That little executioner’s waltz I’d performed on the street in front of our house in August would no doubt be my last dance.

  Little did I know: more monsters roamed the world than I’d ever imagined.

  They weren’t finished with me.

  Chapter 2 – June 6, 1995: Tony Hooper

  Mitchell Norton, the man I’ve long considered the devil, smiles atop the courthouse steps and waves to the simmering crowd. He tilts his head back to soak in the sunshine and cool breeze of the late spring day, the tranquility of which stands in stark contrast to the circumstances of this event.

  The mere sight of him pushes me to the dark edge of my mind, where sanity hangs like... like... like a balloon in a tornado!

  I stand in shadow across the street, one amongst many in the crowd of curiosity-hounds gathered to watch a monster’s release. As my face blazes, fists clench and teeth grind, I can easily imagine the onset of a stroke, an aneurism, a pulmonary embolism, a raging scream—

  Control yourself, Tony!

  I long to charge across the street to destroy him—no remorse—as if stepping on a cockroach. Only sheer force of will prevents my doing so.

  For seventeen years, I assumed this day would never come. How could they even consider releasing this vile creature, this very personification of evil?

  In 1978, Norton murdered innocent kids who’d barely tasted of life. He tortured two of them beyond the limits of rational imagination, for to imagine such deeds was to summon a devilry that we dared not face. Yet the jury held him not responsible, a victim himself to the ravages of an illness that drove him to insanity beyond our reckoning.

  He thus resides forever in the darkest pit of my psyche, chained to me in perpetuity. Now only two choices remain: I must cast off those chains, or yank them tight around his neck. Yes, I must obtain satisfaction. The idiotic jury seventeen years ago, and today’s flawed court system, has left little recourse. No one else seems willing to deliver him to justice.

  I am willing. After all, this is what I do. It’s who I am. Indeed, the devil himself made me into this hunter of monsters. What a sweet twist of fate this is, that I may still, finally, administer justice.

  He descends the stairs toward his waiting car with an arrogant swagger, watching the small group of protestors, the news reporters, and the police officers here to ensure a peaceful transition, as if to challenge them. His wicked grin never waivers.

  Oh, that grin. For seventeen years it has taunted me, punished me for my indecision, my incompetence. I missed my chance to kill him in 1978, to remove his damned head—simple, as if cutting a sheet of paper. It would have been a fitting end for a monster.

  Why did I let him live?

  Like whispers in a storm, those memories only tease at me now, here at this obscene and maddening event. I’m trying not to relive every moment of 1978. Every time I do, I feel as if swimming in quicksand, anchored by my constant companions—sorrow and guilt. I’m too damned tired; can’t shake the confusion, the dread. I fear surrendering to fear.

  My life teems with just such wretched ironies.

  As Norton vanishes inside a black sedan—looks like standard-issue law enforcement—I dash through the crowds to my van. Despite this call to action, my mind again zeroes-in on memories of 1978. I recall the court proceedings, particularly the devil’s own twisted testimony, as though it were yesterday. I’ve only relived it ten thousand times.

  Then twenty-six, Norton was a man-child who’d never quite grasped the nuance of adulthood. He continued to wash dishes at a restaurant, ten years into the only job he’d ever held. He found it comfortable and unchallenging—perfect. He harbored no great yearnings, nor imagined exciting possibilities, nor sought lucrative rewards.

  Then everything changed. He said that was when his new life emerged, when he became more aware, even more intelligent. He better understood the world around him. He discovered what he called “The Purpose” in the spring of 1978, and it guided his every deed. He claimed he became a man that year.

  I remember it quite clearly as the year he became the devil.

  The words I wrote in my diary at the time return to me, a personal anthem more relevant than ever: Rage flows like lava through my veins. My soul slowly roasts upon the flames. How did I ever let it come to this?

  Now mortality, as it did seventeen years ago, lingers above me like the hangman’s noose. Yet it looms more ominous than ever, as if it will drop down around my neck at any moment. After all, I know the true Mitchell Norton. And whom shall I fear if not the devil, the grim torturer who conquered my aspirations and left me without a recognizable world of my own?

  Or is it me that I fear? The man I’ve become? The man Norton made me?

  Some fancy maneuvering is required to escape the crowds and the police at the courthouse. I manage to keep Norton in sight, zigzagging between lanes and keeping several vehicles between us, hanging back far enough to avoid detection without losing him. Uncertain emotions bubble up, some indecipherable combination of dread and anticipation, fear and excitement, vengeance and sorrow. I must know where he’ll make his home, information that has been difficult to obtain, as the authorities are concerned with Norton’s security.

  Give me a break! They should express their security concerns not for the devil himself, but for his next victims.

  Oh yes, I know Norton too well. He will torture, murder and dismember again. The temptation will be too great to resist.

  I saw him up close in 1978, looked into the soul of the devil, as we waded through the blood and gore he’d spilled. I couldn’t fathom his unrepentant pleasure, the sick thrill, his gleeful anticipation.

  Now he’s out of prison, again free to call up his demons, to torture the innocent, to waltz to what he once called his “symphony of screams.”

  The devil walks the world again.

  What shall I do about it? Aye, what indeed.

  PART 2 – REBIRTH

  Chapter 3 – April 20, 1978: Mitchell Norton

  Where is this strange place? Am I flyin’ over it? What’s he gonna do to that woman? Who is he? Maybe the better question is; what is he? I ain’t no kid anymore, don’t believe in monsters under the bed or demons in the closet, but.... The way he’s lookin’ at me gives me the fuckin’ shivers. I think he... I ain’t sure, but... does he want me to watch?

  The woman is lyin’ on a table—naked. I like that, sure enough, but I don’t think I like the rest of it. Her wide eyes never blink, and her body bounces up and down like she’s havin’ some kinda convulsions. Sweat pours down her face and her ratty hair looks like she ain’t washed it in a month. Somethin’ horrible is goin’ on, but fuck if I know what it is.

  The demon, if that’s what he is, wheels a ca
rt over next to the table. The cart holds a bunch of weapons and tools—knives, saws, drills, scalpels, hammers and clamps.

  Is he gonna perform surgery on her? He ain’t no fuckin’ doctor. His leathery face, his black grin, his eyes like coals from a furnace, all point to.... Fuck! I don’t know, but whatever he’s gonna do, I’m pretty sure he ain’t plannin’ to use anesthesia. He’s droolin’ and lickin’ his chops.

  He grabs a knife the size of my foot, looks up at me, and laughs. The woman screams in a high-pitched wail that pierces my ears like someone stuck a goddamn ice pick in my fuckin’ brain. He moves alongside her and raises the knife like he’s—

  “Wait! What are you doin’?” I yell as loud as I can, but he ignores me.

  He grabs her wrist and lashes down with the knife, and she screams again as blood spurts onto the floor. He turns to me, holdin’ something up in his hands. It’s hard to see, but I think it could be a—

  “My God, why did you do that?”

  He roars with laughter and tosses her finger off to the side like so much trash, and walks around to the other side of the table. His eyes blaze and he smiles, exposin’ long teeth that end in a point like icicles.

  My head feels like someone is crushin’ it in a vice. I can’t believe this is happenin’. What is this place? Why can’t I get out? I gotta get help. I don’t wanna watch this, but I can’t seem to turn away.

  Holy shit, he’s feelin’ up her tits! How can he do that after he—

  Wait, what in hell is he doin’? He’s squeezin’ and pullin’ up with his right hand, and raisin’ the knife with his left hand, like—

  “Hey, what are you doin’? Stop! Stop, damn it! You can’t—”

  This fuckin’ house of horror ruptures in an endless, stabbing scream. Blood flies everywhere like a crimson swarm from hell. The demon’s gaze bores through me again, and drool drips from his dagger-like teeth as he raises his new trophy above his head.