Broken Shadows

by Tim Waggoner

  “But I didn’t—”

  Donald’s right hand became a blur as he pulled something from one of the pockets in his coveralls, flicked it open, and pressed it to Tom’s throat. It was cold and thin and sharp, and though Tom couldn’t see it—didn’t dare to breathe, let alone pull his head back to take a look—he knew what it was. A straight razor: Donald’s favorite toy.

  “We’re going to take a little trip, Tommy, just the two of us. I got my old Nova parked just down the street. You remember, that puke-green one I used to have back in high school? You’re going to come with me, get in the car, and listen to what I have to say. And if you don’t, I’m going to carve you a second smile, Tommy-boy. A real red beauty.” Donald grinned, but there was no mirth in his smile. It was the kind of smile a shark might make as it opened its maw to feed. “So…what do you say? Feel like going for a ride? Blink once for yes, twice for no.”

  Tom blinked once.

  “Good man!” He held the razor against Tom’s throat a moment longer before finally pulling it away. Tom released the breath he’d been holding and took in a fresh gulp of air. Donald shut the razor with a flick of his wrist and tucked it back in his pocket. Then without another word, he turned and began walking down the street. Tom followed, suspended snowflakes melting as they came in contact with his body. Together, he and Donald plowed a tunnel through the air as they walked.

  As the Nova came into view—parked just like Donald had said, and still the ugly shade of green that Tom remembered so well—he finally found his voice again.

  “Where are we going?”

  Donald didn’t look back as he answered. “It’s not so much a question of where, Tommy, as it is when.”

  And Tom knew right then, knew exactly where Donald planned to take him, and he wanted to turn around and run in the opposite direction, even if by doing so it meant that’d he’d feel the sharp cold kiss of Donald’s razor. But his feet kept moving him along behind his dead friend, one calm measured step after another, as if they’d been waiting for this moment for the last twenty years, as if there was an appointment that, no matter how much he might wish otherwise, he was destined to keep.

  And who knows? Perhaps there was.

  * * *

  He caresses an exposed kidney, licks a staring eyeball, inserts his fingers into a slit on the man’s chest and scratches the ribs with his fingernails. He wonders if his nails are hard enough to engrave his initials in the bone, decides they’re not. But then, he has the razor, doesn’t he? Grinning, crimson-smeared lips pulling back from blood-flecked teeth, he withdraws his hand, wipes it clean—at least as clean as he can get it—on his pants. Then he pulls the straight razor out of his pocket, grips the handle, inserts the razor into the slit and begins to carve delicate furrows into rib-bone.

  * * *

  “Where are we?”

  “From now on, it’s probably best if you don’t ask any questions that you really don’t want answered, Tommy. And believe me, you don’t want me to answer that one.”

  Donald sat behind the wheel of his puke-green Nova, the engine rattling as if it was going to throw a rod any second, just the way Tom remembered it. A few moments ago, they’d been on the snowy street not far from Tom’s condo where he’d rear-ended the Grand Torino. But after climbing into the Nova’s passenger seat and fastening the belt—an action that had elicited a sneer from Donald—they had pulled into the parking lot of a nearby gas station, turned into an alley behind it, and suddenly found themselves here, wherever the hell that was.

  The sky was slug-skin gray, and dark hazy objects that seemed only to be crude mockeries of clouds floated above. The road was smooth and black as obsidian and unmarked by dividing lines, and there were no signals or signs of any sort to provide directions for travelers. The ground on either side of the road resembled a patchwork of insectine carapace and lizard scale. Tom couldn’t be certain because they were moving too fast for him to get a good look, but it appeared that the ground was gently rising and falling, almost as if it were breathing. Treelike structures protruded from the grotesque landscape, but instead of wood, their trunks and branches were formed from wet bone with ragged shreds of meat still clinging to it. Instead of leaves, misshapen, lopsided heads hung from the branches, glaring at the Nova with hungry, baleful intelligence as it passed.

  Tom tore his gaze away from the freakhead trees and stared straight ahead. “You’re right, I don’t want to know.”

  “Toldja.” Donald turned on the radio and Blue Oyster Cult’s “Don’t Fear The Reaper” blared out of the tinny speakers. Donald laughed. “Man, that’s way too cliché!” He changed the channel, and BOC gave way to Boston’s “More Than a Feeling.”

  “That’s better,” Donald said, and settled back to drive.

  They continued down the dark road for a time, listening to classic 70’s rock—the only music that the Nova’s radio could pick up, it seemed. Tom was surprised to find himself relaxing and even humming along with the music, as if they were out for a simple night drive instead of traveling through a nightmarish landscape from one of Satan’s wet dreams. After a while, Tom glanced at his dead friend and saw that Donald had changed.

  “You look younger.”

  It was true. Donald Frankel had been in his early forties when they’d gotten into the car. Now he looked as if he were thirty at the most. Fewer lines on his face, no strands of gray in his hair, cheeks less full, less saggy, as if the effects of a decade’s worth of gravity had been erased.

  But Donald ignored the comment about his age. Instead, he said, “I came back one last time because of you, Tommy-boy. Because you’re my friend, and because of the way you’ve wasted your pathetic excuse of a life.”

  Of all the things Donald might’ve said, Tom hadn’t been expecting that. “What the hell are you talking about? You’re the one who ended up with a lifetime prison sentence!”

  “Yeah, but I managed to swing an early parole,” Donald said, grinning. “Not exactly the way I wanted, but at least I’m free of the old Thorazine Hotel. Don’t get me wrong, the drugs they used in the psycho ward were primo, but the place wasn’t exactly an amusement park, you know?”

  Out of the corner of his eye, Tom caught a glimpse of something large and amber-colored as it flew past the passenger window. He wasn’t certain, but he thought it had more than two wings. A lot more. He did his best to ignore it as he continued.

  “I haven’t wasted my life, Donald. I went to college, became a vet, started my own business, bought a home, got married…I may not be a success with a capital S, but I got you beat all to hell.”

  “I’m not disputing the basics of what you say, but let’s go into a bit more detail, shall we?” Donald looked twenty-five now, and his orange coveralls were beginning to change color and shape as well. “You may have become a vet—which I personally find hilarious considering all those ‘specimens’ we dissected when we were kids—but what did you really want to be?”

  Donald’s mention of the word dissecting brought back sudden, vivid memories of Tom’s childhood. Of running through fields with Donald, of exploring woods, of setting traps to catch wild animals—and sometimes not-so-wild ones—and the things they both did to the creatures unfortunate enough to be caught in one of their snares.

  “A doctor,” Tom answered. “A people doctor.”

  Donald nodded. He looked twenty now, and his coveralls had become a brown flannel shirt worn unbuttoned over a T-shirt, along with a pair of ratty jeans that had been decorated with ink-pen words and pictures. AC/DC, Led Zeppelin, the anarchy symbol…

  “But you didn’t even try to get into med school, did you? And you may have gotten married, but it only lasted two years.”

  Tom remembered the last thing that Emily had said to him during their final conversation, the night he’d phoned her before signing the divorce papers.

  Ever heard the phrase “emotionally unavailable,” Tom? Well, that’s you, in spades.

  “And your so-ca
lled house is a cramped condo where you sit and stare at the TV night after night. You don’t have any friends, any lovers, any hobbies, any interests at all beyond your work, and you’re only partially engaged in that. You’re miserable, Tommy, even if you don’t like to admit it to yourself. Do you know why?”

  Donald was in his late teens now, rail thin, face dotted with acne. He was almost done regressing, Tom knew—and that meant they had almost reached their destination.

  “It’s because you’ve never been able to accept yourself for who you are—who you really are.”

  Tom felt an icicle of terror lodge at the base of his spine. He began speaking rapidly. “I know exactly who I am, and I like myself just fine, thank you. I’m not saying there isn’t room for improvement—”

  “You’ve spent your entire life running from who and what you truly are,” Donald interrupted. “And before I shuffle off this mortal coil, as they say, I intend to help you come to terms with your true nature once and for all.”

  The gray sky outside was growing lighter, bluer. The dark hovering shapes were becoming fluffy white clouds, and the strange insectine-lizard hide ground was reforming into fields of corn.

  “I know where we’re going,” Tom said in a wooden voice.

  “Of course you know, numb-nuts. Didn’t I tell you I needed to get gas when I picked you up? I hope you got a couple bucks to kick in. I don’t have twenty dollar bills shooting out of my asshole, you know.”

  Tom stared at Donald. He couldn’t have been more than seventeen now, and from the way he talked, it seemed like he’d changed in mind as well as body. He was Donald Frankel, age seventeen, just as he’d been on what Tom had forever after come to think of as That Day.

  It was Saturday, and they’d planned to go fishing at the pond on Tom’s grandfather’s property. But they’d never made it there.

  Tom glanced at his hands, then reached up to angle the rearview mirror so he could check on his reflection. He hadn’t changed at all. He was still a middle-aged veterinarian.

  “Hey, hands off.” Donald slapped Tom’s hand away and readjusted the mirror to suit himself. “Guy’s gotta be able to see what’s behind him when he’s driving, right? It’s a simple rule of road safety, butt-plug.”

  Tom almost laughed. He’d forgotten about the endless stream of profanity and unpleasant nicknames that rolled out of Donald’s mouth as naturally as another person might exhale.

  “Bite me,” Tom whispered.

  Donald cupped a hand to his ear. “What was that, Miss? I couldn’t hear you.”

  “I said, ‘Bite me,’ jack-off!” Though Tom still retained his middle-aged body and persona, it nevertheless felt good to revert to old behavior patterns, no matter how stupid or childish they might be.

  “You wish. Hey, I saw you staring at Sherry Jonas in art class yesterday.”

  Tom knew what his answer was supposed to be—what it had been—and he found the correct reply coming out of his mouth now. “I wasn’t staring at her.”

  “Sure you were, admit it. And why wouldn’t you stare? She’s got great tits. I’m surprised she can stand up straight, they’re so big. Her face is kinda plain, but what the hell, I’d do her. You gonna ask her out?”

  “Idonno. Maybe.” But Tom had never spoken to Sherry Jonas, let alone ever asked her for a date.

  “Man, you are so fuckin’ predictable! You want that girl—want to squeeze her tits, bite her nipples, shoot your load between those humongous boobs—but you can’t bring yourself to even say hi to her.” Donald shook his head. “Fuckin’ pathetic.”

  “Oh yeah? Like you’d talk to her!” But even when he’d said this for the first time, Tom had known better.

  “You bet your bony ass I would! Hell, if I wanted to, I’d wait for her in the park after school—she goes jogging there sometimes. I’d pick a good spot to hide, behind some bushes maybe, and when she came bouncing by, I’d jump out, grab her, pull her into the bushes, and fuck her raw.”

  “Jesus, Donald…you’re a real romantic at heart, you know that?” At the time, Tom had tried to sound disgusted, but the truth was the picture Donald had painted excited him, so much so that he’d begun to get an erection.

  Donald laughed. “Whatever, man. But at least I’m not afraid to say what I think and feel, and I’m not afraid to act on my feelings either. Unlike you. Sometimes I think that’s the real reason you’re my friend. You see in me the one thing you don’t have.”

  Now, as then, Tom felt uncomfortable with how accurate Donald’s insight had been. “And what’s that?”

  Donald flashed his trademark wild grin. “Balls.”

  Tom paused for a moment. “That’s two things, Donald.”

  Both of them burst into laughter.

  Donald slowed the car as they approached the Speed-Thru gas station and convenience mart (open twenty-four hours a day!). The Speed-Thru was located just off Route 71, and though there weren’t all that many houses around, the station received the bulk of its business from folks just passing through this part of Ohio. As Donald pulled into the lot, Tom knew there would be two other cars present—a blue Ford pick-up at a pump, and a Chevy Citation parked in front of the convenience mart. Just exactly as they had been on that day in June over twenty years ago. No…not twenty years ago. Now.

  Donald pulled up to an open pump, put the Nova in park, and cut the engine. The car chuffed and lurched for a couple seconds before the engine finally grew still.

  Donald turned to Tom. “How ‘bout that gas money?”

  Tom looked at Donald. “What happens if I deviate from the script? What if I refuse to give you any money? What if I got out of the car right now and started running down the street? Or to a payphone and called the cops?”

  For a moment, Donald’s eyes were once more those of a middle-aged man. “Your choice, Tommy. You can play along and see where this leads or not. But if you decide not to play, good luck on finding your way back to your condo and your veterinary practice—not to mention your whole fucking world—on your own.”

  Tom considered for another couple seconds before reaching into his pants pocket and pulling out a few crumpled bills. The money hadn’t been in his pants when he’d left work, but he’d known it would be in there now.

  He handed the money over to Donald, who in turn stuffed the bills into the pocket of his flannel shirt. “I’ll run in and pay, but I gotta take a dump, so I’ll be a few minutes. You can go ahead and pump the gas if you want, or you can just wait for me, either one.”

  At the time, Tom had found Donald’s statement odd, almost as if he’d wanted to make sure that whatever Tom did, he remained outside the Speed-Thru mart.

  Tom continued with his lines. “Just try to hurry, all right? We get to Grandpa’s farm too late, and he might make us stay to help with the afternoon chores.”

  Donald winked. “Gotcha.” He then got out of the Nova—leaving the keys in the ignition—shut the door, and started walking toward the convenience mart. Tom watched him go, marveling at how calm and relaxed he moved, considering what he intended to do inside.

  Donald entered the Speed-Thru, the glass and metal door swinging slowly shut behind him.

  When this had happened the first time, Tom had sat in the car for a while, actually dozing off for a bit. He and Donald had been up late Friday night, exploring the inner workings of the McAllisters’ Russian Blue cat, and Tom had gotten little sleep. After he’d woken—with no clear idea how long he’d slept since the clock on the Nova’s dashboard was broken—he’d gotten out to pump the gas. But when he’d tried to activate the pump, it wouldn’t start. He’d replaced the nozzle and began to head for the Speed-Thru to find out what was wrong, when Donald had come walking out the front door, completely drenched in blood from head to toe.

  But middle-aged Tom wasn’t tired now, and even if he had been exhausted, there was no way he could sleep, knowing what he knew. The choice was his, Donald had said. Should he stay in the car or should he get out?


  He got out.

  His legs trembled as he crossed the parking lot to the convenience mart building. He felt light-headed, nauseated, and he was grateful that Donald had paid his ghostly visit before he’d had dinner. Damn decent of him.

  Assuming that events would play out as they had originally—with the exception of him being his adult self—Tom knew what waited for him inside. He’d never gone in, never seen the results of Donald’s grim handiwork, but he’d read about it in the newspaper, heard about it on TV, had envisioned it in his imagination a thousand times since. The police had thought he’d been an accomplice, of course, since he’d been in the car. But the evidence, in conjunction with Donald’s testimony that Tom had had nothing to do with That Day had cleared him. But Tom hadn’t felt absolved. He’d felt—and still felt—guilty. Guilty of not detecting something different in Donald’s voice or manner that day, guilty of sitting, even napping, while innocent people lost their lives. And though he’d never admitted this to anyone else, could barely bring himself to think it even now, as his fingers closed around the metal handle of the Speed-Thru’s door, he regretted that he hadn’t seen, hadn’t known, hadn’t…

  He squashed that last thought down before it could be fully realized, then he opened the door and stepped into the convenience mart.

  The first thing he noticed was the quiet. No music played over the speakers set into the ceiling, and the cash register was silent. He heard no movement—no footsteps, no cooler doors opening as someone reached in for a cold Coke or maybe a carton of milk, no one picking up a bag of potato chips, the package crinkling as they took hold of it. No voices, no How much is this? Can you break a fifty? That’ll be $8.75, thank you and come again. Complete and total silence, save for the faint, almost inaudible hum of the fluorescent lights overhead.

  He walked up to the front counter, saw stacks of newspapers—both local and national—on wire stands. The big story was the upcoming wedding of Prince Charles and Diana, but Tom didn’t stop to marvel that he was looking at freshly printed papers containing news two decades and change old. He was too intent on what he knew waited for him behind the counter. He put his hands on the counter, stood on tiptoes, leaned over, and looked.