Jack shook his head, his cheek swelling from Emma's punch.
"Which brings me to you."
Jack looked up. "What? What the fuck did I do to you?"
Emma grabbed his chin and planted a wet kiss on his lips. She drew back, licking the saliva from her lips. "You know, in a different time and place, I could have made you a happy man. I regret not having you inside me, fucking me, making me scream. But, you're part of the grand scheme. Nothing can ruin that."
Jack spat in her face. He withdrew a little. "Fuck you."
Emma's eyes glared with rage. "Want to play it like that, huh? Oh my, I'm going to enjoy this." She walked away and flicked a switch on the wall. A long, thin table appeared under the new light. Over it were several black sheets, each raised in the center by objects placed underneath.
Emma leaned on the edge of the surface and smiled. "You want to know the ironic thing? Ironic? Yeah, no, that’s not the word. Coincidental? That might ring truer. You want to know what the funny thing is? Everyone involved in this, the pigs, the lawyer, the driver, they all shared a common trait."
"And what would that be?" Jack spat.
Emma smiled, remaining silent. She walked across to the first sheet and lifted it off. "They shared a common name."
Jack glanced at the unveiled object and screamed.
"Jack, I'd like you to meet Mr Benjamin Jacks. The trucker who killed my parents."
On the table was a decapitated human head.
Jack recoiled. With the waft of the sheet came a putrid, rotten smell. It had no eyes and no tongue. The skin was white and cracked, yellowing in places. The hair was intact but ruffled, greasy. As Jack vomited down his front, he noticed a candle inside the head. Its yellow flame danced and glowed, bouncing around with the introduction of the natural air from the room. Yellow light shone from the eye sockets and the makeshift smile, a smile created by slicing deep, triangular furrows in the cheeks, creating a hideous, evil grin. Jack fell down and from this angle, he could see a hole in the top of the skull, viewed through the eye sockets; which he realized were now slightly larger and alien like.
A human Jack-o'-Lantern.
Jack groaned and backed away.
Emma laughed. "Do you like it? It's not my best work, I'll admit. I'd never used a scalpel or a bone saw until this point, so the edges are a bit rough. Don't think I did a bad job, though." She stepped across to the next black sheet. Her hand gripped the material. "Now, I would like you to meet the cops who couldn’t and wouldn’t. I present Jack Lane and Jacques Benzema."
Below this sheet were two heads, much the same as the previous; engorged eyes, flaking skin and enlarged grotesque smiles. However, these two heads angled inwards, facing one another. The tongues remained in the heads, leering from their dead mouths, touching one another in some grotesque undead kiss. Both were scalped, red raw skin showed above their eyebrows, removed to create a hollow within. Yellow flames flicked and licked within the empty skulls. Emma bent down behind them and grinned.
"Pretty proud of these. Fucking pigs got what they deserved."
Jack placed his arm across his face, half to cover his eyes and block any more vomit. A low, guttural groan resonated through his body. His stomach was performing back flips. He backed into a solid wall, restricted. His eyes wavered between Emma and the desecration on the tables before her.
She stepped sideways again.
Another sheet. Emma stopped smiling and gritted her teeth. "This one…this, I'm proud of. I relished this one. And I took my fucking time. Meet my foster Dad, Jack Phillips."
Emma removed the sheet.
Another head. One thing was clear, this head was more recent and the gouges in the face were precise, straight and streamlined. A lot of work had gone into the appearance. The face was painted with clown makeup. Yellow light burned bright in this one, casting a strange shadow from the mouth. Jack stood up and groaned again. "Oh dear fucking God."
"Yes, that's his penis in his mouth. Look how it catches the light. Cunt stuck it in me enough times, turnabout is fair play, don’t you think?"
Jack buckled, falling to his knees and cried. Vomit splattered the concrete beneath him. "You're…you're fucking…you…urgh."
"That's it, get it out. The best bit is coming up."
"Stop this, stop…"
"It's too late to stop. I've killed people—this is my masterpiece. It's nearly complete."
"You're fucking insane!"
"No, I'm normal, I got checks done. Mind you, was a while ago. And I did kill my shrink. So who knows?" Emma chuckled to herself. "Now, are you ready for the finale?"
"There's more? God, just stop this…"
"Not an option."
"Let me go…"
"You seriously think that would work?" Emma turned and pointed at the two kissing heads. "Jacques over there, he busted my knee. I chased him into the cellar and cornered him like the pig he was. He hurt me. You think if I do that to him, I would treat you any different?"
Emma let the question linger. Jack gulped, swiping his face with his arm. Emma stepped behind the final head. "Now, there's a story about this one. The lawyer, well, the lawyer was harder to find. It took a lot of digging and, finally, I found the bent sonofabitch that screwed us over. I was surprised too…not often that happens."
Jack spat on the floor. "I don’t care anymore."
Emma grinned. "Well, you fucking should. You see, this person, well, this is interesting. You know this person. The others, the scum, they're strangers. Nobodies. The lawyer, however, is someone you know well."
Jack looked up, confusion on his face.
Emma lifted the sheet off. "I present to you…Mrs Jacqueline Walker."
The name sent a cold shock through Jack's heart. He felt every inch of his body stiffen and his skin broke out in an immediate sweat. His eyes widened and his scalp tightened. His bladder finally released, sending warn urine streaming down his clenched thigh. The name: he knew that name. His legs locked; a good thing, it meant he didn’t fall back and slam his head on the concrete.
He knew the name well.
Emma threw the sheet down. "Your mother."
Jack howled.
His mother's head, the most recent acquisition to the puzzle, stood proud in front of him. Her brown hair was tied in a high ponytail. A small hole burrowed into the side of her head, just above the ear. Her dead, empty eye sockets and widened mouth sent repulsion through his skin and Jack shivered, then seized and fell back on his rump. Her bright red lips shone and he remembered her kissing him with them just days ago. Her eyebrows still as neat as he remembered. Yellow flames, the brightest of all, danced around inside her hollowed out skull. She looked like a demon, her eye sockets and mouth blazing yellow and orange through the heat.
Jack cried.
Emma stepped over to him. "You mother was the worst of all. She took our money, changed her fucking name and moved to protect the one thing that mattered to her the most; her son. You. And for that, she will never be forgiven."
Jack looked up, his cheeks sodden with tears. He said nothing.
He noticed an axe in Emma's hand, hoisted by her side.
"I can't let there be any witnesses. I need one final Jack-o'-Lantern. Get it? Jack? I'm a laugh riot. See what I did there?"
"Fuck you."
Jack charged Emma, who sidestepped effortlessly. Jack flew by, crashing into the tables. The human Jack-o'-Lanterns toppled onto the floor, bouncing off the concrete with sick, hollow thuds. His mother bounced in his lap and rolled off to the side. Jack fumbled, pushing the heads away. He moaned whilst doing so, slipping on the sheets, losing his balance.
The axe plunged into his neck.
Blood erupted from his mouth. Liquid warmth started sluicing down his front.
As Jack died, he saw Emma laughing behind the axe blade that severed his throat. As the life ebbed from his body, he glanced sideways and saw his mother's head lolling on the floor. The candle had fallen over, setting her hair
on fire. He reached out, trying to protect her.
It was useless.
"My masterpiece is nearly complete." Emma shouted in the background. Distorted, disjointed. Jack felt his ears resigning, the sound disappearing.
He coughed up blood, felt the blade shifting in his trachea.
He thought back to the bookshop, the excitement afterwards, the date.
I met a woman.
If only he hadn't asked for that book.
If only he'd ordered it online, waited a day or two.
He thought of his mother.
Curiosity killed the cat.
His eyes closed, the blood slowed, his arms lowered.
Never a truer word spoken.
In The Closet
Tom pulled the duvet over his head. The musty humidity of the bed stroked his warm skin and tickled his nostrils. He coughed; his skin was slick with sweat. The summer sun was slowly setting outside his window.
One AM.
Insomnia is a bitch, he thought.
Tom jolted, a sudden cold sensation snaked up his spine, and dug deeper into his comforting sheets and blankets.
Almost instantly, a drop of perspiration trickled down the side of his face. He didn’t wipe it away. Despite the warmth, he shivered as his teeth chattered against one another. His skin prickled with goose flesh.
Tom didn’t care.
The thought of the closet was too much.
The faded blue door—the paint flaking where his mother hadn't gotten around to applying a new coat—sat in the corner of the room.
Idle, threatening.
For Tom, it kept him awake at night. He looked down at Skeletor and He-Man, who were standing on the carpet before the door, defending the room. Common enemies, united away from their fictional universe, in action figure form, to protect their owner. Collector's items, still in the mint box. One day, Skeletor and He-Man would perish and the devil would get him too.
Tom had no other back up. It only took one error though, one mistake, and his defenses were breached. One lapse in security and the beast would get him.
Listen to yourself. What fifteen-year-old has these thoughts? Would the chicks dig you if they discovered you owned action figures?
They were the last thing Dad gave you; he said they would protect you from harm.
Let's hope he's right.
Tom rolled over and faded into light sleep without even realizing.
The closet door opened slightly. Two red eyes stared at the teenager.
Waiting.
Watching.
"Tom Dumb with the crack whore mom!"
"Fucking prick, look at him, thinks he's all that."
"Tom Cunt more like."
"Where did ya learn that word? I like it!"
"My pop calls my ma it all the time. Dumb cunt, fucking cunt. She doesn’t say anything. It's a mean word, right? I mean, she doesn’t react or…"
"Shut the fuck up, shitheads."
Tom wiped the blood away from his nose, smearing the back of his hand with bright crimson. Tears rolled down his face, his nose throbbed, and his stomach hurt. The wind, so viciously punched out of him, was starting to return to his lungs. His hand scrabbled for his backpack. It lay a few inches away, ransacked and torn.
Bull turned his head and stared at the fallen boy. A smirk crossed his lips. "Where are you going, Tom Cunt?" He stepped over and placed his foot on Tom's hand. The fallen teenager yelped in pain. "Crawling are we? Learn that from your mother, I hear heroin addicts will get on their hands and knees for anything."
"Anything, hee," Jack chortled in the background.
"I don’ get it," replied Blade.
"His mom is a whore…getting on her hands and knees…ya know? To get fucked or suck someone off?"
"Ah yeah, I get it…"
Bull glanced back at his companions. Their silence was immediate. They both watched as Tom squirmed beneath their leader’s beaten Dr. Marten boot. After a moment, he removed his foot. Tom retracted his damaged hand and held it, rubbing with his palm. Blade stepped forward and unsheathed his flick knife, the reason for his nickname. Bull leant down. "If you come empty handed tomorrow, no lunch money, then…well, I'll let Blade go to town on you." Bull gestured over his shoulder with his thumb. "And you don’t want that, capiche?"
Tom nodded, silent. Behind Bull, Blade turned to Jack. "What the hell is capiche?"
"You prick. You never seen a gangster movie?"
Blade said nothing, his silence answer enough.
Jack rolled his eyes. "Look who I'm fuckin' talking to."
Bull kneeled down, grinned, and spat in Tom's face. "Tomorrow, Cunt. Or else." With that, he stood up, slapped his comrades on their leather clad arms, and they left. Tom watched his older, teenage tormentors go, turn and disappear around the corner.
Once alone, and making sure by waiting for another minute, he climbed to his feet and retrieved his rucksack. Only then did he attempt to wipe the sticky, green sputum from his face, terrified of Bull returning and punishing him further. Tom tasted copper on his lips and frowned. He wiped his entire face with his sleeve, leaving a brownish red smear along the forearm. A string of spit spooled from his face for a second before breaking. Tom sighed.
Time to go home.
Tom wondered if this was daily routine for other teenagers. He wondered if parents really spent so much money on repairing backpacks and buying new clothes. He wondered if any of them spent hours washing blood out of clothing. His mother didn’t do it; she got her boyfriend to do it. In Tom's experience, the boyfriend would pull a wad of green from his pocket and replace everything instead. No repairs necessary.
He wondered if that made him look rich.
Would other kids pick on me because of that?
Probably.
Of course they would, it puts a bulls eye on your back.
Tom thought about his Walkman at home, battered and broken. The batteries in it were so old; they were rusted and leaking into the mechanism. He'd received it for Christmas once, years ago, from his father. He cherished it. Broken, yes, but it was his. One of the last connections to his real father.
That was one thing he wouldn’t replace. He kept it hidden under the mattress to ensure no one would throw it out.
You're not my father. He remembered saying that to his mum's boyfriend and receiving a slap and a black eye. He never repeated the sentence again.
Tom looked at his seventh backpack of the school term and tossed it to the ground. Nothing of use remained, pilfered by Bull and his goons. He sighed.
The walk home was imminent.
The best part of his day.
Tom was facing away from his bedroom door, beneath the covers once more. A Spiderman comic, tattered and used—his only one—lay on the mattress. Beneath the dim torchlight, he smoothed it out with his hand. Somewhere in the house, he could hear his mother shouting at her boyfriend.
Prick, he thought. Just leave us be.
Tom began to cry. In three hours, it was bedtime. No dinner had been forthcoming. He slipped a Jolly Rancher in his mouth and sucked slowly. Preparing himself for the darkness and the closet.
"Fuck you!"
A door slammed and awoke Tom. Disorientated, he scrabbled around, spilling the torch to the floor and ripping his Spiderman comic. Saying nothing, he sat up and placed the comic on his nightstand. He unraveled the duvet from his legs. As he did so, his eyes settled on Skeletor.
He-Man was gone.
Tom froze. He hadn't moved his guardian. His skin started to prick and he felt his scalp tighten.
Someone had taken He-Man.
The boy felt a rage boil up inside of him.
That prick. If I find out him or Mom were behind this…
His father had bought him that toy.
Tom stepped off the bed and glared down at Skeletor.
His eyes raised to the closet.
There's no way…
A strange feeling coursed through his veins, a warm feeling of
calmness and rage, teetered between the two. Tom had felt this before, to a lesser degree. A darkness surged inside of him. He remembered his day: the beating from Bull and his cronies, his mother slapping him because he'd left the backpack at school, not having any dinner, his stolen He Man figure opened a dark pit of anger within him.
The anger solidified in the boy, pushing him forward. He took a cautious step. Then another. The third step placed him beyond Skeletor and put him directly in front of the closet.
He kept going.
Placing his hand on the door, he breathed in and gripped the handle. "Right, cunt. Enough of your games."
Tom opened the door and screamed, in defiance, at the closet.
Darkness stared back at him. Tom, wide eyed and crazy, scanned every inch of the empty closet. No monster, no beast. No red eyes.
Relief washed over him.
Shit, he thought. I nearly pissed myself.
Tom turned and started towards his dresser, the throb of his bladder resonating through his penis. He grabbed his crotch, delaying his bladder from releasing.
"Hi, Tom."
Tom whirled around, stood on Skeletor, and toppled to the carpet with a soft bump. His eyes went straight to the closet. Urine finally sluiced down his leg.
A man stood in the entrance of the closet.
The first thing he noticed was the man's attire. He wore a black suit with a white shirt and black bow tie. What did his father call it? Dapper? Dapper meant posh or well-dressed or something. The outfit perfectly suited his hair, which was slick, brushed back and neat. His skin was flawless, his physique lithe and muscular. He wore white gloves.
"Hi, Tom." He repeated his greeting.
Tom said nothing.
"You are Tom, right?"
The teenager nodded, slowly.
"Ah good, that could have been embarrassing had I got the wrong house. I've done it before. Calling a girl Steven and putting her in a coma was not the highlight of my career. Never mind. Do you know who I am?"
Tom shook his head. He moved back a few feet.
Whispers - Volume 1: A Collection Page 12
