by Gregor Xane
His footsteps echoed as he walked into the kitchen. The refrigerator hummed. The counter tops were bright in the early morning sun. The glasses in the drying rack sparkled. He unfastened the wire tie from a loaf of rye bread and set it gently on the counter, taking special note of exactly where he placed it. He buttered his bread, slid it onto the rack in the toaster oven, and closed the door. He drank a glass of orange juice and two glasses of water while he waited. He took the loaf of bread and spun it closed, twisting it shut again, and retied it.
The oven's lever popped.
Frank crunched his toast and washed it down with two more glasses of orange juice.
He washed his hands and then the glass and returned it to the rack. He dried his hands and walked to his front door. He shouldered his clubs, tucked the shoe box under his arm, and stepped out into the light.
Frank locked the door behind him, set his clubs aside, and sat on a simple wooden bench. He removed the lid from the shoe box, pulled his socks up, and slipped on a pair of white golf shoes.
Steve's car pulled into the driveway. Frank's cleats scraped across the cement porch and crunched on his gravel walkway.
He saw Steve waving at him through his windshield and pretended like he didn't notice. The trunk popped open as Frank approached. He walked around to the back of the car and tossed his clubs on top of two golf bags overflowing with gear. Both belonged to Steve. Frank closed the trunk and walked around to the passenger door. The window rolled down and Steve said, "Good morning."
Frank opened the door and plopped down into the bucket seat next to Steve. He raided the glove compartment, grabbed a pack of mints he knew would be there, and popped one in his mouth.
"Mint Chews?" Frank asked. "Why'd you switch brands?"
Steve reached over and slapped the glove compartment shut. "They stopped making MiNiMiNts about two or three months ago. I lived for a while on stockpiles."
"They're not bad." Frank chewed. "But no MiNiMiNts."
"You're right about that."
Not much else was said for the remainder of the drive to Steve's country club. Frank hadn't found the need to talk much since he'd been released. It seemed that he was expected not to say much.
But Frank didn't keep quiet because he didn't have anything to say. He had something that he truly wished he could say to his brother, but knew that he never would. He wished he could tell him that he'd stopped seeing his own reflection the morning after he woke up in the institution. He'd never even told the doctors about that. He'd wanted to leave the place one day. He knew that telling people you can no longer see your reflection sounds crazy. But it was true. He hadn't seen his own face in nearly two years.
He wasn't like a vampire. Frank did cast a reflection. He did see a face reflected in the mirror—just not his face.
• • • • • •
The golf cart hummed and jostled and landed Steve and Frank at the eleventh tee. Steve was on his third beer and Frank had played so poorly so far that he'd stopped keeping score on the fifth hole. Steve stumbled out of the cart, crushed his beer can and stuffed it in a plastic grocery bag he'd been using for empties. He belched and shook out his arms, chose his club, and stepped up to the tee. He squinted down the fairway, shifted his grip on the earth, and swung beautifully. The ball arced high and sailed straight, landing on the green with three gleeful bounces.
Steve turned back to Frank, smiling, obviously searching for a compliment.
"Nice one," Frank said, his back turned, climbing out of the cart. He lugged his bag over to the tee. "It's too bad you're playing against yourself."
Steve laughed. "That's kind of the point in golf."
Frank shrugged his bag off his shoulder and onto the ground. It clanked loudly as it fell to the grass. He unsheathed his wood, planted the little white ball at his feet, and swung without even taking a single glance down the fairway. The ball flew up, almost perfectly vertical, and Steve and Frank took a step back to avoid it coming down on their heads.
"Whoa," Steve said as he watched the ball land next to a monster divot Frank had unearthed with his swing.
Frank held the head of his club before his face to inspect it, as if blaming it for his bad swing, and saw a dripping orifice reflected in its metal label. The hole puckered and an eye spat forth. It stared back at him, gleaming like a black pearl. Frank turned the club so that its label no longer faced him and slammed it down hard against the ground. And, shaking with rage, he took another swing.
More dirt flew to the wind.
Steve laughed again. "You forgot the ball, Frank. It's easier to hit if you have it in front of you."
Frank pounded the dirt until his club snapped.
"Frank." Steve cracked open another beer. "Take it easy. I was just kidding."
Frank ignored his brother and reached down for his bag.
"Hey," Steve said, and took a serious swallow of beer, "don't make me stand here and watch you smash all your clubs. We'll just go home."
Frank plucked his driver and his putter from his bag and tossed them into the grass. He reached his arm deep inside and removed a bundle wrapped in a grease-stained rag.
Frank looked up at his brother and, with tears welling in his eyes, said, "Better run," and then unwrapped the AG-9 submachine gun.
"Is that my gun?" Steve asked.
"Yeah."
"How'd you get that?"
"While you were sleeping. Like I said, better run."
Steve didn't say anything else. He didn't ask Frank what he was doing. He didn't try to talk him out of doing something stupid. Steve looked at the gun and ran. Fast. He was over a hill and beyond a row of trees before Frank could find a magazine and load his weapon.
Frank took aim first at the golf cart. He held the AG-9 with both hands and squeezed the trigger. The plastic cart puckered and spat, smoked and sparked. It shuddered and rolled backwards as if it were consciously trying to escape. Frank emptied his magazine into the thing, reloaded, and continued to shoot at the cart until it was just scraps of torn fiber glass and no longer fun to shoot at.
Frank turned the flashing barrel to the fairway and sprayed the ground. The hammer-like bang of his weapon muffled his senses, blocked out all other sounds. Its vibrations dominated. It became all that he felt. A deep sense of satisfaction overcame him as he watched clumps of turf jumping to the air in scores.
Frank stopped firing to catch his breath and heard the screams of approaching sirens.
Frank had a vision of the future. He saw the police arrive. He saw himself firing his gun over their heads to provoke them. He heard their return fire. He looked down and saw three tiny gunshot wounds perfectly spaced down the center of his torso, and, as if he were standing outside himself, the much larger exit wounds down his spine.
He smiled, nodded his approval, and opened fire on the fairway again. The police would be there soon, and they would do exactly what he wanted them to do. They would put holes in him, unleashing the demon nested in his flesh.
About the Author
Gregor Xane lives and writes in Ohio.
Connect with Gregor Xane online:
blog: gregorxane.blogspot.com
twitter: @GregorXane
goodreads: goodreads.com/GregorXane
e-mail: [email protected]
