She cocks her head and furrows her brows. “What do you mean?”
“Nobody knows me, Analeigh. That’s the way it’s always been and the way it always has to be. I can’t open up to you. It won’t happen. I have trust issues, and not because some chick broke my heart one time. I’ve never given it to someone in order for them to break it. I’m fucked up. I know myself well enough to admit that. I’m not right in the head. Being my friend or being my girlfriend won’t end well for either of us. I promise you that.”
“That’s awfully cryptic and ominous,” she says, sounding morose. I shrug, putting on my boots. “So, you have a mental disorder or something?” she asks cautiously.
“Or something.”
She’s quiet while I move around the room, gathering everything I left on the floor or tables. When I’m fully dressed and ready to go, I face her. She’s not looking at anything in particular, just gazing off into space.
“I’m not judgmental, Donovan. I want you to know that. It doesn’t bother me that something in your head is different than most people. I still want to be your friend, so I hope you get in touch with me again. I won’t bring anything up that you don’t want to talk about. I promise.”
I give her a tight smile and a curt nod. “Okay.”
She smiles a relieved smile. “Okay.”
Before I’m aware of what’s happening, Analeigh steps right up to me, gets on her tip-toes and kisses me on the cheek. With a quick grin and a small shrug of her shoulders, she turns on her heel and leaves the room.
Our first kiss is one I didn’t even participate in.
I CAN FEEL it. The moment it happens, everything in me changes. Describing it is hard, but I’ll try. Imagine somebody was able to fit inside of your body. Their arms were the same length as yours. Their feet are the same size. You’re both the same height. Everything is exactly the same.
Now imagine that person not being a person at all. That thing inside of you is a shadow. Darkness. A silhouette of you, only living on the inside of your body. It doesn’t have a conscious. It doesn’t have a heart. Nothing within that darkness is remotely human. Its only goal is to take over your body.
It fights against your muscles. It tries breaking through the skin. It wants to replace you.
That’s what it feels like when the darkness that lives inside me starts trying to get out. The pressure builds. My skin prickles. And the only thing that tames it, getting it back to resting peacefully inside me, is to unleash it. I have to let it wreak havoc.
What makes this different than split personality disorder is that I’m very aware of when it breaks through. It’s still me, it’s just that I’m unable—maybe even unwilling—to fight it any longer. I know what’s happening. I’m aware that it’s wrong. I just don’t give a fuck.
The monster and I are friends. He’s let me live my life as Donovan James for many years, being okay with only coming to the surface from time to time. However, I enjoy the times when he gets to play. I enjoy relinquishing control, because I can only fight the pressure for so long.
But I think the monster is tired of playing second fiddle to Donovan. He wants to be let out more often.
That’s how I came to be at Ned’s girlfriend’s house on a Saturday night. It’s been too long since the monster has come out to play. If I didn’t make it to Ned, it could’ve been somebody else, and I still have a list I’m trying to stick to.
Initially, I went to Ned’s home, but he wasn’t there. Considering he came to visit this woman before, I gave it a shot and lucked out.
Now, I wait, hoping beyond hope that he leaves. I don’t want to kill him here. I’d much prefer to take him back to my workshop.
I make my way out of the truck, closing the door as quietly as possible. The half a block walk doesn’t take long, and I find my way to the window I stood next to before. The only lights around here are coming from inside the apartments, glowing dimly through the windows.
While I stand near the kitchen window, I strain, trying to hear any voices inside. The only thing I can make out is a TV that’s been left on. I stand out there for twenty minutes, having to run around the back of the building once when I saw headlights approach. I don’t want to risk anyone seeing me leaning up against the building, just in case they know who lives here.
Inside, I hear what sounds like a door closing. A few seconds later, the sink near the window turns on and a cabinet nearby shuts with a creak.
“Well, that was new,” Ned’s voice says.
The female lets out a raspy chuckle. “Yeah.”
“Never knew you could do that,” he says. “Let me get some of that water.”
“I guess an old dog can learn new tricks,” the woman says with a laugh.
I hear the glass slam down on a counter. “What?” Ned’s voice booms. “What do you mean? Someone taught you that? Recently? Who the fuck are you fucking, Kim?”
“What?” she screeches. “Don’t fucking yell at me, Ned!”
“I’ll yell at anyone I goddamn want to. You sleeping around? Some guy taught you that shit and then you come and use it on me? Fuck you, you fucking slut!”
Glass shatters and something cracks. I don’t know if Ned punched something or what, but he’s clearly throwing a fit.
“Ned, you’re out of your fucking mind. Are you high? I’m not fucking anyone. Calm down.”
“Don’t tell me what to do. I’m fucking leaving and I’m taking my drugs with me. Don’t you fucking call me again.”
The commotion starts to die down as they move away from the kitchen. The woman yells something, chasing him into the other room, and I try to think of a plan. I have no doubt that the woman is going to follow him outside when he leaves, either begging him to stay, or cussing him out as he goes to his car. I can’t be anywhere nearby when that happens, so I jog back to my truck and wait for him to leave.
I start up the truck and slowly make my way towards Ned. He storms out, and sure enough the woman follows behind him. She’s shouting words I can’t make out, and her arms flail around in the air as he gets into his car and backs out of the parking spot.
By the time I approach the apartment, he’s pulling out into the street, and I brake, waiting for him to drive off. I follow him for about five minutes before I begin flashing my lights at him as I pull up as close as possible.
He flips me off through his open window and gestures for me to go around. I don’t. I keep flashing him with my brights and honking the horn. Eventually, as I figured he would, he pulls off the road and into a parking lot of a market that’s already closed. The location works out better than I could have planned for.
He’s already pissed off, so he’ll come rushing over to me, making this easy. I make sure to park as far from the road as possible, leaving the bed of the truck hidden from view from any passersby.
I climb out, making my way to the back of the truck as I wait. As suspected, he comes stomping towards me, hurling insults like a madman. He’s pointing his fat fucking finger at me, huffing and puffing like he’s been running a marathon. When he gets close, I tighten my grip on the serrated knife I always carry with me. The same one that took Michael Jenson’s life.
“What the fuck is your goddamn problem, you stupid motherfucker,” he yells as he approaches.
My left arm shoots forward with lightning fast speed, gripping onto his sweaty shirt and yanking him closer to me. My right hand holds the blade, and I push the tip into the side of his neck almost as fast.
“Shut the fuck up.”
“Whoa, whoa. Yeah, man. Whatever you say,” he says, quickly losing his tough guy persona.
I grab the duct tape from the bed of my truck with my left hand, holding the blade to his throat with the right. “Put your hands together.”
“Come on, man. You ain’t gotta do this,” he pleads. I press the blade further into his neck, and a drop of blood falls onto the knife. “Okay, okay.”
He obeys, bringing his hands together. “If you try
anything, I will cut your dick off and shove it down your throat. You understand?” He nods, his eyes wide with fear.
I stick the knife in my pocket and tape his wrists together, and to his credit, he doesn’t try anything funny. People always say there’s two ways to react to fear. Fight-or-flight. But they’re forgetting that sometimes people are so frightened, they freeze up. Frozen in fear, unable to think of a plan, people hope that by obeying, they’ll make it out okay.
Ripping off another piece, I cover his mouth, and put a few layers around his ankles. With a few shoves, I get him into the bed of the truck, and under the cover. There’s no way for him to be seen or to get out, so I make my way home.
“Come on, Ned. Let’s go,” I tell him as I pull him from the truck and force him towards the workshop.
He looks at me with frightened yet curious eyes. I’m sure he’s wondering how I know his name. Ned also looks around, trying to figure out where we are, but he’ll never guess, and even if he did, he’ll never be able to tell anybody anything about it.
The walk to the workshop is slow due to the tape around his ankles. He stumbles quite a bit as he shuffles his feet all the way there, but I’m not carrying this fat fuck, so I’m patient.
When we get inside the concrete room, I turn on my lantern and sit him down in the chair, securing him in place with some rope. My toolbox already sits on top of the concrete slab, and the plastic sheeting is in place as well. Time to inform Ned why he’s here.
“So, I’m sure you’re wondering why you’re here and who I am. Am I right?” I ask with a grin that I’m sure puts him on edge. He nods shakily. “Well, I’m assuming you don’t recognize me, and that’s to be expected. It’s been, what, nine years?”
I turn his chair, facing it towards the concrete slab, and I take a seat in front of him, my legs hanging over the edge of the makeshift bench.
“You were a caretaker at a group home, right?” I question. He nods once in response. “So, you probably saw a bunch of kids day in and day out for however long you worked there. I’m sure you don’t remember, Ned, but I was one of those kids,” I state with a faux jovial smile, pointing at myself. “Were you always a professional, Ned? You did your job and took care of those kids, right?”
His response is slow. He lifts his head slightly, turning it to the side just a fraction, watching me with a weary gaze. I see his chin drop faintly, and I’m unsure if that’s a nod or not.
“Did you?” I ask, my voice getting louder. “You did your fucking job. Right, Ned?” He nods and it pisses me off. I jump off the concrete and get right into his face. “Don’t you fucking lie to me, you bastard. Now, I’m gonna rip this tape off of your mouth. If you even think about screaming,” I pause, opening up my toolbox, “I have a whole lot of shit in here that can cause you a shitload of pain. Don’t fuck up.”
Once I pull the tape from his mouth, he starts talking. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, man. I did my job. I did what I was supposed to do.”
“Yeah?” I ask, tilting my head. “Were you supposed to withhold medicine from kids? Were you taking that medicine yourself or just doing it for shits and giggles?” He doesn’t respond. “Were you supposed to beat up on the teenagers? Trying to prove what a big man you were? Because fucking with kids half your age doesn’t make you tough. It makes you a fucking pussy.”
“Those kids were fuck ups. They were always giving me shit, talking back and not listening.”
“Hey!” I snap. “I was one of those kids. I just fucking told you. Watch your mouth.”
“Who are you? I don’t even remember you.”
My menacing smile comes back slowly. “It’s Donovan. Donovan James. Remember me now?”
His face loses all of its coloring. He looks like he’s about to throw up and he and I both know why.
The group home wasn’t really a home. It was a facility. There were plenty of kids, and most of them had serious problems. Teenagers would leave the campus for days at a time, and nobody cared to find them. There were rumors of rape, but nothing was ever investigated. The kids were trouble makers, sure, but they were troubled kids. They needed help, but nobody seemed to give a shit about any of us.
I was placed there, because there was space, and I had bounced around quite a bit already. My foster parents had told the social workers that I was troubled, angry, violent, hateful, a liar, and whatever other bullshit they could get away with, but I didn’t belong in a level fourteen home. I wasn’t diagnosed with bi-polar disorder or manic depression. Level fourteen is for the extreme cases.
You can only get out of level fourteen if you prove to someone that you can function in a lower level home, or be able to live with a relative or foster home. If you don’t prove yourself, you’re stuck.
“Aww, Ned. You remember me, don’t you?” I ask with a terrifying smile. “Never thought you’d see me again, huh? Well, here I am, and you have a lot of explaining to do.”
I sit back on the slab of concrete, leaning back against the wall with one foot brought up, and the other left to dangle over the edge. Shifting through the toolbox, I find a pair of needle nose pliers. I point them in his direction as I begin to speak. “So, start talking. Why did you want to keep me at the group home? Why did you do everything you could to convince the social workers that I wasn’t capable of living in a lower level home?”
He eyes the pliers in my hand before meeting my gaze. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he lies.
“Now, Ned,” I start, gritting my teeth, “you’re gonna really piss me off if you keep lying to me.” I lean forward, the sharp point on my pliers pointing directly at his face. “Tell me the truth.”
“I don’t remember, man,” he states, his voice quivering with panic. “It’s been so long, and my brain’s all fuzzy when it comes to the details of those days.”
“Lucky for you, I remember everything. Care to listen?” I ask, but without giving him time to answer, I continue. “Great. Back then, I was in a group home for the second time, but in that particular one for the first time. It was awful. You remember, right? Anyway, I stayed out of trouble while I was there. You see, I wasn’t a bad kid, Ned. Regardless of what you thought or what my foster parents said, I wasn’t supposed to be there. Sure, I was like any normal teenage boy. Angry, emotional, a little rebellious, but if you knew how I’d lived up until then, you’d know I was pretty good, considering.
“The other kids there were ruthless. I was bullied for being too quiet. I was pushed around because they thought I was stuck-up. I just didn’t like to be around people, Ned. You’d understand why, if you took the time to find out. Anybody older than me frightened me back then, because I knew I couldn’t trust them.
“All I wanted was to prove to the workers that I was able to function in a lower level home, or even with another foster family. I dreamt that I’d be put with a foster family that actually cared about me. It’s hard getting placed when you’re a teenager. I know. But I could’ve been. You took that chance away, Ned. You said I was just as bad as those other kids. Your evaluation of me painted me to be something I wasn’t. What do you have to say about that?”
“I . . . I don’t remember any of that.”
I let out a puff of air. “You know, Ned, pretending that you don’t remember isn’t going to help you. I want you to know that.”
“I’m not pretending,” he says, his voice squeaking a bit.
“Huh,” I murmur, looking through the toolbox again.
“What’re you doing?” he asks, frantic.
I ignore his question and continue to pull tools out of the toolbox. When I get to the rigger axe, I smile, gripping it firmly in my hand.
“Do you remember walking in on me getting jumped by three older teenagers?” I ask, turning to face him, but still inspecting the tool in my hand.
“N . . . no. I don’t remember that.”
“Really?” I tilt my head, looking straight into his frightened eyes. “You don’t re
member walking in and seeing me on the ground bruised and bloodied . . .”
“No, no!” he screeches, cutting me off.
“I wasn’t finished, Ned,” I spit, pointing the rigger axe at his head. “You don’t remember telling them, wait, let me make sure I get this right,” I pause for a minute, bringing back the memories of that day. “You said, with a chuckle, I might add, ‘Okay, boys. Not too much more, though, maybe just enough to beat the pussy out of him.’ You don’t remember that?”
His non-answer is answer enough, because I know he remembers. He remembers because when another worker saw me later, and I told her that Ned didn’t do anything to stop it, he lied and said he saw me picking fights with people. He said he tried stopping it, and that I started fighting him.
“Not only did your fucking lies get me in trouble, but it made the case against me even worse. Nobody would put me in a different home if I was fighting the other kids and staff. You knew that, didn’t you?”
“Why don’t you go find those boys? Kidnap and torture them?”
“That’s what you think I’m gonna do?” I ask him, a grin on my lips. “You think I’m gonna torture you, Ned?”
“You’re seeking your revenge, right? I got you in trouble. You got beat up and I didn’t do shit. You want to do the same. Well, get it over with then. Fuck. If you ask me, you did belong there. You’re as fucked up as they come.”
I laugh, unnerving him a little. He’s on edge, watching me out of the corner of his eye, because he can’t bring himself to stare for too long.
“Get it over with,” I repeat his words, still laughing. “Do you even know what it is you’re asking for?” He doesn’t answer, choosing to stare into a corner. “I’m not here to beat you up and let you go,” I tell him, amusement in my voice.
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