Life Rage

by L. L. Soares

  Croix shrugged, not sure what to say.

  “You’re making remarkable progress.”

  “Thanks,” Croix said, softly.

  There was a noticeable change. This man used to be a ball of angry energy. His hands were always clenching and unclenching, always on the verge of becoming fists. His muscles were always tight. His jaw tight. His eyes glared. He had trouble speaking, expressing what he felt.

  Now, he was noticeably calmer. He hesitated when he spoke and wasn’t so quick to lose his temper. He was tamed.

  Sam had done it so many times now; he just took it for granted. And it was taking less and less time.

  I’m a bronco buster, Sam thought with hidden glee. I tame wild horses for a living.

  Sam asked Croix about the past few days, and they had a quiet, calm conversation, until the session was over and it was time for Croix to go.

  Sam leaned forward and shook the man’s big hand. “You’re making incredible progress, Richard. We’ll beat this yet. Keep up the good work.”

  Croix smiled, pleased with himself.

  He thinks he’s doing it himself, Sam thought. He thinks I’m giving him the tools and he’s doing all the work. He doesn’t realize he is just clay for me to mold. A wild horse for me to tame.

  The two men stood and Croix left the room. Sam closed the door and sat down in his leather chair.

  “Remarkable,” he muttered to himself.

  * * *

  They were out on the street. There had been more than just one drink. There were many drinks. They weren’t walking very steadily. Early on, she’d explained about her need for space, her wanting him to move out. He seemed amiable enough about the whole thing, and suggested they enjoy one last bash before they parted. He even had money for a few rounds.

  They had talked about high school, about how he’d always had a crush on her when they were kids, how surprised he was that she let him stay at her place. He really didn’t try to change her mind, though. He seemed okay with her decision. It was just that the drinks brought up this wave of nostalgia and sentimentality. In both of them.

  At first they were walking arm in arm, then they drifted apart, walking back toward the apartment. Colleen had agreed to let him sleep it off there, and he had sworn to move on come morning.

  They didn’t notice the man until they were upon him. At first, Colleen just saw him in her peripheral vision, and thought he was going to bump into Turney, but instead he grabbed Turney by the arm, held him, looked right into his eyes. Turney had a horrified look on his face. It was almost as if they knew each other.

  The man’s face was bright red with rage, and he was sneering. As he stood there, and Colleen stared at him, she got a sharp image in her head of two rattlesnakes biting each other over and over again. And something else, just out of sight, that she knew was even worse. It didn’t last long, but the vision was so strong that it almost made her fall over, and it left her with a sharp pain in her head.

  Turney struggled to get away but could not. Colleen couldn’t really grasp what was going on, what with the pain and the alcohol and the shock.

  The man squeezed tightly, and Colleen could hear the snap of bones breaking, and suddenly the man ripped one of Turney’s arms free and threw it into the street. At first, everything seemed to happen in silence and then Colleen realized Turney was screaming. She was frozen, watching, her back pressed up against a wall.

  The man grimaced as he gripped Turney around the throat and proceeded to crush his windpipe. The bones of his throat and spine were crunching beneath the man’s fingers like an empty aluminum can, and then the hands ripped Turney’s head free and the man raised it up, above his own. It was all so unreal. There was no way it could be happening. Turney, despite his lifestyle, was still young and strong. He was not easy prey. But here he was, helpless as this man tore him to pieces. Human bodies just didn’t come apart that easily. Turney’s blood gushed onto the sidewalk.

  The man threw Turney’s head at the wall beside Colleen, and she jerked away. It rolled near her feet. She imagined it spasming down there, the eyes blinking repeatedly, the mouth open as if gasping for breath, but she couldn’t be sure if that was really happening. When she really stared at it, the head was very still.

  Colleen tried to contain her fear. She looked right at the man who had done this thing. Who had killed Turney. She could see his face clearly.

  Despite his rage, he seemed confused now, as if he were blind. Like he could sense someone else was there, but couldn’t see her.

  She felt a tickle in the back of her throat. The beginning of a cough. If she coughed now, he’d find her for sure.

  She ran.

  When she was a good distance away, she turned back, to see the man standing in the same spot. He was sort of looking in her direction, as if listening to the sound of her shoes hitting the street, but did not pursue her. Whatever the reason, Colleen considered herself lucky and continued to run as fast as her legs would carry her.

  PART TWO

  THIS GROWING RAGE

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  BRUTAL MURDER SPREE CLAIMS FIVE, the headline read.

  Sam had woken early enough to go down the block to the twenty-four hour convenience store to get a coffee and a newspaper. He even had enough time to read some of it. He felt awake and refreshed and better than he had in weeks.

  The headline caught his eye. He read further.

  The bodies were all found within the same six block radius. All had been brutally dismembered. The victims, two men and three woman were all found with their arms and legs ripped out. They were all decapitated. Several of the victims had been sexually violated.

  Sam felt a shiver of revulsion go through him. Horrible stuff, he thought.

  This is the third such incident in the last year and a half. Because of the brutality of the attacks, the killer has been referred to as “The Shredder.” The police have not released any information as to whether they have any leads. The only witness to these horrific events said that he saw a man, but could not give any definite details.

  The Shredder, huh? Sam thought. If this murderer is so full of rage, perhaps he should come to me. I might be able to help him. Who knows, maybe he’s already one of my clients.

  This thought made Sam laugh out loud for some reason. Hell, I should offer the police my services to help calm down violent cases. Not that it would pay as well as private clients.

  But the thought intrigued him. He had been able to prove he had the talent. Even seemingly hopeless cases had bowed before his abilities. People with violent tempers that destroyed their lives. He had been able to change them, take the rage away.

  Maybe what he really needed was a challenge. A real challenge.

  “Sam,” Maggie said, coming up behind him. “You’re up early.”

  “Got lots to do today,” Sam said.

  She stood across from him. She looked so tired. “Are you leaving early today?”

  “Might as well get an early start. I’ve decided to take the car today. I hope that’s okay. I might as well get a jump on the traffic.”

  There was something odd about her this morning. Something he couldn’t put his finger on.

  “You sure you don’t want me to give you a ride to work?” Sam asked.

  “No, I can take the train for a change.”

  “Are you feeling okay, Mag?” he asked.

  “Sure,” Maggie said. “I feel fine.”

  “Well, I’m off,” he said, rolling the paper to take with him. “Have a good day at work.”

  He kissed her briefly, grabbed his briefcase and headed out.

  * * *

  Maggie waited until he had driven away. The minutes seemed to last forever.

  An early start, he had said. That’s what she thought as well. There was a bottle of bourbon in the closet, and the seal hadn’t been broken yet.

  * * *

  Jeremy sat back on the sofa, the leather sticking to his ass. His bathrobe had slipp
ed open, and he resisted the urge to tie it up again. It never stayed tied for very long anyway.

  The big-screen television was playing some inane talk show. People he didn’t recognize were interviewing some pop star he’d never heard of and didn’t care about. But he noticed he had an erection, and it was throbbing. Absent-mindedly, he reached down and grabbed it.

  With his free hand he grabbed the remote control. He kept flipping channels, looking for something good, but it was the usual morning fare. Poorly drawn cartoons, stupid talk shows, infomercials for products he’d never use, reruns of old sitcoms he hadn’t watched the first time they were on, old movies that had already started, more stupid talk shows.

  He hadn’t seen anything interesting by the time he was about to come. He dropped the remote control and grabbed the glass ashtray on the coffee table in front of him and ejaculated into it. His ashes floated in his semen. He squeezed out the last drops and put the ashtray back down on the table. He’d clean it out later. He wiped his dick on his bathrobe.

  Jeremy grabbed the remote again and kept flipping. Nothing worth stopping for. He got up and lit a cigarette, then walked to the bathroom for a shower.

  There was really no reason for a shower, for getting dressed. He had nowhere to go. But it was a ritual as old as time, and he had cultivated it because he wanted to retain at least the semblance of a real life. He remembered a time when he’d be out all night, drinking the best champagne and dancing with supermodels and movie stars. Now, he’d see an old conquest on television and try to remember what it was like fucking her. Wondering if she even knew he was still alive.

  He stood in front of the big bathroom mirror, and looked himself over. Some days were tougher than others. Seventy percent of his body was covered in scars; even with the best plastic surgeons money could buy doing the work on him. But most of them were faint, he convinced himself. Hell, he was lucky to be alive. The plane crash had been a bad one. Everyone else involved had died instantly. But somehow he’d lived through it.

  But was this living?

  The only part of him completely unscathed was his dick. But how often did he get a chance to use it these days? His face was like some kind of mask of his former self. Enough of the handsome features of his past to make it clear who he was. But it was distorted now. A grotesque parody of who he had been. His lips were so thin, they were practically non-existent. Even now, he got accumulations of saliva on the side of his mouth when he spoke, which was distracting and humiliating. His eyes were too large. His nose bent a little to the left and looked misshapen. Skin grafts could only do so much.

  One time he had been rich and appeared in the society pages. Now he was still rich, his one remaining blessing, but he had been absent from the newspapers for years. The crash had been news when it happened, but who really remembered it now? Most people probably thought he was dead or a recluse like Howard Hughes had been. Afraid to touch doorknobs or go outside.

  When, really, it was pride. Pride over who he’d been. And shame over what he had become.

  Look at me, he thought. I’m fucking Frankenstein’s monster.

  He stopped looking at himself. It was getting him depressed first thing in the morning. He turned on the shower and slipped inside.

  * * *

  Colleen got off the bus and started walking. She had been traveling blindly for hours. First, after Turney was killed, running away as fast as she could, then, once she had reached the terminal, she got on the first bus heading out, not caring where it was going as long as it was away from there. She wasn’t out of the state, but she was far enough from the city now to start feeling safe.

  As the bus groaned and drove away, she realized that she could see the ocean from where she stood. Along the street were large, ornate beach houses, built far apart from one another. The water behind them was so inviting.

  She had no idea how she looked. In her flight, she had been on autopilot, oblivious to everything but the need to get away, to get to safety. Now, in a rare moment of lucidity, she looked down at her torn dress, spattered with tiny droplets of blood. It was obvious she had been up all night. She was surprised no one had tried to stop her or question her. Not that she would have been in any kind of state to answer questions.

  Now, looking around, she was reminded of trips to the beach with her mother and sister, some of the few good times she could remember from her childhood. There was safety in that feeling. She tried not to think about Turney.

  She wandered along the road. Some of it was covered with dirt and loose gravel. Colleen had a sudden impulse to jump into the water and wash herself clean. She cut across the lawn of one house, a lawn devoid of grass and covered with brightly colored tiles, and ran until she reached sand. Until she could see the water in front of her, beckoning.

  She ran toward it. Her arms rose like those of a child, and she was crying out despite herself.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Jeremy was out on the back porch. He’d put on a pair of pants and a silk shirt, but his feet were still bare. There was something about the ocean that distracted him, calmed him. Something very necessary about it. He had to be here, near it.

  He was smoking a cigarette, occasionally drinking from a glass of Scotch. Enjoying the brightness of the day and the brilliance of the water.

  Suddenly, a woman darted out from beside the house, and ran toward the beach.

  She was fully dressed and waving her arms around, shouting at the top of her lungs. Like a playful child. He was quite in awe of her. So much so that he didn’t care that she was trespassing on his property, despite the clearly marked signs out front.

  She ran into the water up to her waist and was jumping around. It looked like she was washing herself, washing her clothes.

  He decided he wanted to know more, and walked down the porch steps to the sand, towards her, even though he had grown reluctant to interact with strangers since his accident.

  When he was at the edge of the water, he called out to her, “Excuse me,” he said. Then again, louder, “Excuse me?”

  Colleen stopped her thrashing and turned to face him. She seemed very confused. He wondered if she was mentally disabled.

  “I don’t know if you noticed the signs,” he told her. “But this is private property.”

  He took a long drag from the cigarette, followed by a gulp of Scotch.

  She stared at him, and he couldn’t be sure if she was trying to determine whether she knew him, or if she was scrutinizing his damaged face in curiosity. Her eyes on him made him feel uncomfortable.

  “Are you okay?” he asked, wanting her to say something, wanting her to get her prying eyes of his face. “Do you need help?”

  Her eyes seemed to become more lucid, as if she hadn’t been aware of who or where she was at first, and then the knowledge slowly came back to her. She saw him staring and pulled her gaze away, looking embarrassed.

  “S-sorry,” she said, looking down into the water. “I didn’t know.”

  She began to move toward shore. He suddenly felt very guilty that he’d intruded upon her private moment. That he’d sounded like the voice of authority, telling her No.

  “No,” he said. “It doesn’t matter. Stay where you are. It’s my property, and I don’t have any problem with you staying in awhile longer. When you’re done, come up to the house. I have some dry things there, and some cognac to warm you up.”

  Then he turned, and moved back toward the porch. The sand was warm against the soles of his feet.

  When he got back up to the porch and looked out, he saw that she was still out there. She hadn’t moved since he turned his back on her. Then, seeing that he was looking out at her, she submerged. She stayed under for several minutes, then broke the surface and emerged. She did that a few more times.

  He watched her with curiosity, wondering how she had gotten here. Why she had chosen his part of the beach to dive into. Who she was, and if she was truly crazy.

  Jeremy went inside and opened the
bottle of cognac and poured her a glass. Then he got one of his clean robes and laid it across a chair. When he turned to go back out on the porch, he saw that she had left the water and was coming in the direction of the house.

  He waited as she ascended the stairs with mild anticipation. She walked across the white planks of the porch and crossed the threshold of the glass sliding doors. He had an odd thought that she had just arisen from the dead and crossed this threshold into his world. The world of the living. Well, the semi-alive.

  “You’re soaking,” he said, taking on a maternal, or rather paternal, tone that was alien to him. He hadn’t heard himself talk that way before.

  “Yes,” she said, taking the robe from him, and putting it on.

  “Take those wet things off first,” he said. “The robe won’t do you any good otherwise.”

  Like a somnambulist, she slipped her clothes off and let them drop to the carpet, then she put the robe back on and tied it. He took her things and went out to the porch and hung them on the rail. The sun would dry them quickly enough.

  When he went back inside, she had found the glass of cognac, and was drinking greedily from it.

  “I wasn’t expecting you,” he said.

  “I know,” she said. She smiled then. It was a good sign. “I want to thank you for your kindness.”

  “What made you go into the water like that?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve been traveling a long time, and when I got here, the urge just overtook me. I’m real sorry. I didn’t mean to trespass.”

  “No big deal,” he said. “Would you like a refill?” He nodded toward her glass.

  She nodded, and he got the bottle.