“Is this him?” Abby says.
“It’s him,” Cicely says.
Abby approaches me and holds out her hand.
I take it. She’s either very cold, or I’m very hot.
It doesn’t matter.
“I’m Abby,” she says. “It’s not short for Abigail or anything. It’s my real name.”
“Oh,” I say. “I’m Nicholas. It’s not short for anything either.”
“What would Nicholas be short for?”
“Never mind.”
“Shall we sit?” Cicely says.
We sit.
And Abby takes my usual spot next to Cicely.
I want this girl gone already.
“Could you tell him what you told me?” Cicely says.
Abby nods.
“Are you ready?” Cicely says, to me.
I can’t think of anything else to say but, “Yeah.”
Abby picks at a scab on her arm. She doesn’t look at me when she says, “I woke up one morning, and my family was gone.”
“I’m sorry,” I say.
“I tore up the house looking for any sign of them, but I couldn’t find anything. Not anything.”
Cicely holds her close.
“Isn’t this a case for the police?” I say, fast and easy, because I’m:
1. Jealous.
2. Stupid.
“They wouldn’t believe me,” Abby says.
“Show him the photograph,” Cicely says.
Abby pulls a photo out of her jeans pocket, and hands it over.
There’s Abby, standing in a luscious garden, nowhere close to a moment of pure joy, judging by her face.
“They’re all like that,” Abby says, and tugs at her scab with two fingers. “I’m always alone, you know? And I called everyone I know, and they don’t remember anything about my family at all. They said I live alone in that house. And there’s no records of my family anywhere or anything.”
“Oh,” I say, handing the photo back.
“The worst part is, I don’t remember anything about my family either. I know they’re missing, because they’re like holes inside me, you know? I have a mom and a dad and a brother, and we were all living together, and that’s all the family I have, but I don’t know anything else. I don’t know what to do. I don’t know why this happened to me.”
Her cut’s bleeding now.
And Cicely looks like she did when I first came in. I imagine her squeezing the tennis ball so hard, it pops.
“Guess when this all started,” Cicely says.
“19 days ago,” I say.
Abby nods.
Cicely whispers in her ear.
I’m sitting on the chair to the side of the couch, and I can see the creature in the swirling darkness, staring at Abby and Cicely from behind.
And maybe someone did:
1. Sneak into our rooms in the dead of night.
2. Put a tennis ball in Cicely’s hand.
3. Kiss my cheek wearing unholy ChapStick.
4. Zap Abby’s family out of her life. Or out of existence altogether.
Maybe this has:
1. Nothing to do with the Universe or God or my road to redemption.
2. Everything to do with a sick bastard who gets off on fucking with people’s lives.
But I don’t tell Cicely or Abby any of this.
“You’re bleeding,” Cicely says, touching Abby’s arm. “I’ll get you a Band-Aid.” She heads for the bathroom.
I look at Abby.
I don’t say, “What happened to your thumb?”
I don’t say, “I wish you would leave.”
What I do say is, “I’m sorry about your family.”
“Thanks,” Abby says, staring at the happy face on my knee.
It doesn’t make her:
1. Smile.
2. Laugh.
3. Feel any better, I’m sure.
So I lick my finger, and wash the smile away.
Cicely’s her old smiling self when she places a heart-shaped plate on the middle of the table.
“I hope you all like komodo dragon sandwiches,” she says.
And the world’s right in the kitchen again.
Abby stares at the sandwiches with wide eyes.
“I’m kidding, hon,” Cicely says.
I want to tell her not to call Abby hon, ever.
Instead, I swallow my bite, and say, “These are even better than the woolly mammoth burgers we had last time.”
“I think I seasoned those with too much ground tusk,” Cicely says.
Abby makes a strange sort of yelping sound. She folds her arms on the table, and sets her head on top. She cries.
And I:
1. Stop eating.
2. Study the mole on my left wrist, but only because it’s difficult for me to look at Cicely’s face as she’s saying, “We’ll find the one who did this to you.” Her old smiling self’s consumed by fury and grim passion once again.
3. Wish Abby never came here.
“If he can bring your family back, we’ll make him do it,” Cicely says.
“I’m just so pathetic,” Abby says.
I look up from my mole.
Abby’s staring across the table, with her chin resting on her arm.
“Don’t say that, hon,” Cicely says.
Abby sniffs in some snot. “All I do is feel sorry for myself all the time,” she says. “I never cry for my family at all. I don’t know who they are or anything. I’m always crying for myself.”
“That’s OK.” Cicely makes her way around the table. She rubs Abby’s back, soft.
And of course I know exactly how Abby can get to know her family, even without the memories or the documents, but I don’t tell her.
Because I’m:
1. Jealous.
2. Stupid.
3. Way more pathetic than she is.
“I want to do something besides cry,” Abby says. “Something useful, you know? But I don’t know what to do.”
“Nicholas,” Cicely says. “Did you bring that little notebook of yours?”
“Yeah,” I say.
So during lunch, I ask Abby about her:
1. Enemies. “There’s nobody I know about,” she says. “But my memories are all messed up.”
“What do you remember about your childhood?” Cicely says.
“Not too much.” Abby picks at the edge of her Band-Aid. “In most of my memories, I’m alone, and I feel really lonely.”
2. Friends. “What about people who knew you when you were a kid, like teachers? Do you remember any of them?” Cicely says.
“I don’t remember any school,” Abby says. “So I think I was home schooled. I remember a few family friends, and a babysitter, but none of them remember me from when I was a kid. They think we met when we were adults.”
3. Family. Then I say, “Sorry,” and move on to the next question.
On and on, and I feel sick adding Abby’s words to my little purple notebook. I want to rip out her pages like a child.
“OK,” Cicely says. “What did we find out?”
I show her the one commonality I circled.
“So we’re looking for someone who despises the color green-lovers,” she says.
“Do you think someone would really hurt us for something like that?” Abby says.
“I’m kidding, hon. Or maybe it’s not so ridiculous a thought. Who knows how this monster thinks?”
Abby bites her fingernails.
My watch beeps.
“I’d better go,” I say.
I don’t want to, really. I want to stay here, wishing Abby away with the power of my mind, until my wish comes true.
“Thanks for the sandwiches,” I say. And maybe I sound as doom and gloomy as I feel.
Because Cicely says, “You haven’t been slapped yet today?”
I shake my head.
“Wouldn’t it be better if it came from somebody who cares about you?” she says.
“I d
on’t know,” I say.
I don’t want her to offer, because I’d probably say yes.
“I could do it,” Abby says. “I mean, if it would help and everything.”
And suddenly, I hate myself for hating this girl.
“It would help,” I say. “Thank you.”
“Do you want me to do it now?” she says.
I nod.
So Abby and me, we approach each other.
“It has to be hard,” I say.
“Alright,” she says. “Are you ready?”
I nod again.
At that, she slaps me hard. But it’s not really me she’s attacking. She’s fighting the creature in the swirling darkness, and that’s what I tell myself when I say, “Thank you.”
She says, “Anytime.”
After the three of us watch The Adventures of Baron Munchausen, I go home and:
1. Sit down.
2. Empty my pockets.
3. Examine the bits and pieces of my life.
When I look at the photo of the smiling couple, all I can really think about is Abby frowning in that luscious garden, all alone.
I start to feel a little bit of Cicely’s fury, maybe.
Someone rings the doorbell.
And maybe there’s still some grim passion in my eyes when I open the door.
Because Karl says, “I’m sorry, man. Am I interrupting something?”
“No, it’s fine,” I say.
I don’t say, “Come in.”
“I’m sorry about the other night,” Karl says. “I was stressed about the whole Heather thing. She left me for an older man. Did you know that?”
“I didn’t,” I say. “That sucks.” As if an older man is worse than a younger man, or a man of the same age.
“And she left this message on my machine, telling me they’re going on vacation to New Zealand, rubbing my face in it. Can you believe that shit?”
“No.”
“Anyway, I brought you a get-well gift.”
“Get-well?”
“You’re such a weakling, I’m sure that slap caused a lot of damage. I’m surprised they let you out of the hospital already.”
“You’re hilarious.”
Karl hands me the plastic bag he’s been holding.
I peek inside.
“It’s beer,” Karl says. “Non-alcoholic, of course.” He grins.
“Thanks,” I say.
“Feel like a drink?”
“I’m actually waking up early tomorrow. I should go to bed soon.”
Karl’s smile contorts. “I come here offering you an olive branch, and you’re still treating me like an asshole. What’s your problem, man?”
I’m silent for a while.
I think about saying, “I don’t have a problem.”
But I’m feeling:
1. Charged, because I can’t get Abby’s photograph out of my head.
2. Safe, because Abby slapped me hard.
So instead, I say, “Do you know how hard it is to keep my life from falling apart? You were sober for a while, so I’m sure you know. You’re a good guy, Karl, but you’re not good for me. I can’t have you in my home. If you decide to get help for yourself, then yeah, I’ll hang out. But not before that.”
Then Karl:
1. Slaps me.
2. Says, “Asshole.”
3. Takes back the beer.
4. Walks away.
In other words:
1. Abby’s full-blown slap didn’t count.
Or:
2. Karl acted on his own.
But right now, it doesn’t really matter.
All that matters is:
1. My watch is beeping.
2. It’s time for bed.
#21
In my dream, Brienda’s my mother. I’m trying to tell her how sorry I am that I couldn’t save her, but she can’t hear me. Or maybe she’s ignoring me.
I notice a creature outside the window. He’s watching us. He’s only two slivers of eye in the swirling darkness, but he’s still uglier than anything I’ve ever seen.
When I look back, my mother’s not there.
And part of me knows she’s more than missing.
She’s gone.
Outside of this nightmare, awake, I escape to the living room.
“That must have been a fuck of a bad dream,” Gordon says.
“How do you know that?” I say.
“I told you before. You make these freaky whimpering sounds. You were louder than normal this time.”
I take my usual seat beside him. “You could wake me up if it bothers you.”
“I wouldn’t want to deprive you of a nightmare.”
“You’re a great friend.”
“I’m serious. Nightmares have a bad rep, but their sole purpose is to help us and bring us closer to inner peace.”
“I thought you hated the whole peace through war approach.”
“Shut up, Nick. Nightmares aren’t warriors. They’re messengers. People should listen to them instead of shooting at them all the time.”
“And what exactly are the nightmares trying to tell us?”
“It’s like this. If you put your hand in a fire, you’re going to feel pain, right?”
“Right.”
“That pain doesn’t exist to fuck with you. It’s a warning sign, telling you that you need to move your hand, or things are gonna get bad. Same with nightmares. They’re saying that something’s burning inside you, emotionally, and you need to do something about it, or things are gonna get bad.”
Maybe something is burning inside me.
Something precious.
“Alright,” I say. “I’m now officially pro-nightmare. Happy?”
“Happy,” Gordon says.
We pet Meta for a while.
Then Gordon says, “Why is it that you never ask me any blind questions?”
“Blind questions?” I say.
“You know. What’s it like to be blind? Do you have super hearing to comp-ensate? We were talking about nightmares, and you didn’t ask me about my nightmares. Aren’t you curious?”
“I’m curious.”
“Then why don’t you ask me?”
“I don’t know.”
“It’s not like you’re some stranger asking me an intrusive question out of the blue. You’re my best friend. If you want to ask me something, you can ask me.”
“Alright. Do you ever have nightmares?”
“Of course.”
“What are they like?”
“Well.” Gordon spends some time scratching Meta behind the ears. Then he smiles. “Here’s a good one. I’m in a room, feeling the walls, trying to find a way out. There’s something in here with me. Something rotten. I can’t get its stench out of my nose, my mouth. Then a deep, demonic voice tells me I’m going to hell. It sounds like he’s standing right next to me, but I’m too afraid to reach out and check. I keep searching for a door. Then the wall I’m feeling isn’t a wall anymore. It’s a face. Two strong arms wrap around me. I struggle to move, to yell, but I can’t. I’m trapped. The voice growls, louder and louder. Then it’s over.”
“That’s scary.”
“You’re fucking right it’s scary.”
“So what was that nightmare telling you?”
“At the time, I was dating this sighted girl named Pam. One night, after dinner, her mom took me aside and asked if I’d break up with Pam for Pam’s sake. Apparently, she didn’t think Pam could succeed in college and date someone like me at the same time.”
“That’s stupid.”
“Yeah. The problem was, I didn’t tell Pam’s mom that. I’d sort of given up on standing up for myself, because no matter how hard I tried to demand respect, the world wouldn’t change. After that night, I started having the nightmares. And I realized it didn’t matter what the fuck other people did or didn’t do. I needed to stand up for myself, for me. Otherwise, I’d be haunted by unresolved feelings of helplessness.”
�
�Ah.”
“I’m hungry as fuck. Let’s move into the kitchen.”
We do.
After breakfast, my watch beeps.
That means I should:
1. Get out the photo of the happy couple.
2. Draw my stencil of the severed head.
3. Use tailor’s chalk to trace the stencil onto the fabric.
And I should definitely:
4. Stop thinking about Abby and her photograph.
Instead, I join Gordon on the couch again, and say, “What do you know about psychopaths?”
“A lot,” Gordon says. “What do you want to know exactly?”
“I guess I want the basic profile.”
“What kind of psychopath are we talking about here? A killer?”
I think of Abby’s missing family. “I think so.”
“A serial killer?”
“Maybe.”
Gordon massages Meta’s head, as if this helps him think. Maybe it does. “Most serial killers are white males, between the ages of 18 and 32. About 85% of them are American. Most of them work alone. Although work probably isn’t the best word to describe it. Almost all of them suffer some kind of abuse as children, but I’m sure that’s no surprise.”
“Not really.”
“Do you know about the MacDonald Triad?”
I:
1. Shake my head.
2. Feel stupid.
3. Say, “No.”
“The Triad’s made up of three behaviors that show up in many serial killers’ backgrounds, at least based on limited clinical samples. These are arson, animal abuse. Usually bigger animals, like cats and dogs. And bedwetting.”
“Bedwetting? That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.”
“Hey, don’t shoot the messenger here.”
“Sorry.”
“It’s bedwetting beyond the age when kids usually stop. 10 or so, I think. Anyway, like I said, the Triad’s not based on a fuck-load of evidence. It’s still something to think about. If a kid does this stuff, it doesn’t mean he’s necessarily gonna become a killer. But these may be valid warning signs.”
“Fine.”
“What else?” He rubs his forehead. “Most serial killers aren’t psychotics. They don’t hear voices or see things. They’re people who’ve been made to feel powerless, through acts of physical and sexual dominance. So what do they do to feel powerful? They dominate others. Often times their murder rituals directly relate to their own childhood abuses. This is what I find most interesting about the whole serial killer phenomenon.”
Cursed Page 5
