by David Jobe
Behind Daniel, his mother's eyes were wet with tears. "It's okay, Julian. A good wife takes care of her husband."
"Fuck that noise,” Julian growled, and blinked as he heard the words that came out of his mouth.
"What da fuck did you just say?" Daniel loomed closer, the hand gripping the beer becoming white knuckled.
"I said it's game over tonight. No way am I letting you hurt my mother. Not tonight. Not ever again." Julian could hear the blood thumping like a drum through his entire body. Each pulse shook his body as fear started to make his legs wobble.
"Julian!" his mother yelled, trying to stand up from the chair, but she couldn't. She sat back down, defeated, with utter sadness in her eyes.
The sight of his fragile mom trying so hard broke Julian's heart. It also took his attention at the wrong time. The fist that held the bottle caught him square in the side of the face. In the movies, people fly across rooms after being hit by weaker punches. Julian didn't fly, but he might as well have. He stumbled on legs gone numb until he slammed into the back of the couch and flipped, catching his fall with the coffee table. Glass shattered under him, and the world turned into white hot pain.
"You think you can talk to me like that?" Daniel snarled, stomping around the couch.
"Daniel!" Julian's mother shouted.
Daniel stopped and glared at her. With one thick finger he pointed at her. "You shut up, bitch. You and me got business after this. You shut up right now. You still got another boy. Don't make it worse for him."
Julian's mother shook with rage, her eyes filled with what Julian suspected was maybe regret, shame or some form of self-loathing. "You don't touch him!" She tried to rise, but only managed to struggle.
Julian tried to smile at her, but he had blood in his eye. He doubted that it conveyed the message he tried to send. "It's okay, Mom,” he said through blood. "My fault." He cast a glance to James, who huddled in the corner. He gestured for his bother to go to his mother.
"Damn right it is your fault,” Daniel became a train of human rage coming for him again. He tossed aside the wooden remnants of the coffee table to get closer to Julian. "Time to meet your maker, Christian boy."
Julian nodded, pushing back and staggering to his feet to get some distance between him and Daniel. God help me.
Daniel closed the distance in seconds. A few steps and he had Julian by the collar.
Julian expected Daniel to go all classic villain on him, and ask if he had any last words, but it didn't happen that way. Daniel slammed Julian into the wall with enough force to crack the plaster around Julian's head. As Daniel reared back to slam him again, he faltered. Dropping Julian, he staggered back away from him, his eyes wide with shock.
I'm going to die. This is how I meet my maker. Oh, I shouldn't have cussed like that. I am so sorry, Jesus. It wasn’t until then that Julian noticed the circle of red expanding from Daniel's stomach. There appeared to be a hole in Daniel's shirt just over the center of the blood circle. Julian looked to his mother, who starred with open shock at Julian. No, not Julian, but his hand. Looking down, Julian discovered that he held a shard of glass from the broken coffee table. The jagged tip of the glass was coated in a thin film of blood. He could also feel the edge of the shard slicing into his hand from the effort to hold it. Shocked and disgusted, he tossed the makeshift weapon away.
"I'm,” he found himself at a loss for words. "I'm so sorry." And he meant it. This wasn't who he was. He didn't solve issues with violence.
Daniel glared at him, one hand holding the wound in his stomach, the other pointing at Julian. "You’re dead. I mean, really dead." With that, the mountain that was his step-father came at him with such force that Julian said a silent prayer to Jesus, fully expecting to see him in moments.
The hit was horrendous, and it felt just like what Julian suspected getting hit by a freight train might feel like, all pain and power compressing in on him.
Soft music played all around him, reverberating through his bones. It held no words, but it was beautiful. A church hymn, and one that touched at his memory. His whole body was in pain, but Julian could feel the cold of the stone beneath him oozing its chill into him. He tried to open his eyes, but one had started to swell shut. The other eye blinked and spasmed at the assault of light that rushed in to greet him. He groaned and tried to move.
"Hold still, my son,” a kind old voice instructed him. "Help is on the way. Just be still."
"It hurts,” Julian admitted.
"From the looks of you, I have no doubt on that." There was amusement mixed with concern in the old man's voice.
"I'm not dead,” Julian stated.
"Oh, what a relief,” the old man mused, mirth in his voice. "Talking corpses on my floor would have been a bad day indeed. Though, maybe I could sell the rights to the story. Become rich and famous. Hmmm."
Julian laughed and it hurt. "I meant, I thought I was going to die. But since I still hurt, that means I must still be alive." He began to be able to see. The light had faded back to shadows, and above him loomed darkness touched by a slant of light. Something glimmered just beyond the edge of darkness. Something metallic.
"Not sure that theory holds much water. The souls in the lake of fire probably aren't feeling to keen."
That startled Julian. "Where am I?" He tried to turn his head toward the voice, but his neck wouldn't move.
"Earth,” chuckled the old man. "Don't know how you crash landed here without tearing up my roof, but I am thankful for that. Though there will be some need of some serious elbow grease to get your blood out of the floor."
"I’m not an alien,” Julian chuckled.
"You don't say?" Another amused chuckle.
"What I meant to ask was–” Julian went to ask, but the sound of loud creaking stopped him mid-sentence.
"Ahh!" Mused the old man, "The paramedics have arrived. Good news, boys and girls. He is not a corpse or an alien!"
Somewhere beyond where his head was laying, he could hear a couple people chuckle, perhaps unsure if they were allowed to be amused by the situation.
Julian felt himself smile as well. Then he could smell a woman's perfume flow over him. It mixed with the smell of blood that he knew was his own.
Above him, just beyond his view, a woman said, "We are here to take you to the hospital. Hold tight. Can you tell me your name?"
"Julian."
"Last name please."
"Johnson."
"Is there family we can contact for you?"
"My mom,” his heart dropped. What happened to her? And his brother? The old man had kept him talking and he never had time to process that he did not know if his mother or brother are safe. "Please get police out to their house. Our step-father attacked me, and I think he might go after them next."
A male voice spoke up, stern and full of concern. "Give me their address."
Julian did as well as their phone number.
"That's in Indianapolis,” the woman said, her tone sounding strange to Julian.
"I'm calling it in anyway,” the man said, and he could hear the man move away, talking into something.
"Is your step-father driving there now?" The woman asked.
"What?" Julian's head swam. "No, he was just there."
"Kylie!" The woman shouted, "Tell Central I think we might have some serious head trauma." Then she was back at his ear whispering, "Try not to move your head."
"I can't anyway."
"Where are you taking the boy?" the old man asked.
"To Riverside Methodist Hospital,” the lady replied.
"That's the one across the river in Mississippi?"
"Yes, it's a few minutes more than North, but with the damage to his face and his delusional state, I think Riverside will have the better chance of helping him."
"Wait,” Julian breathed, chest hurting. "You can't drive me all the way to Mississippi. That's too far."
"It's only ten minutes away,” the lady assured. "Not long at all
."
How could he be ten minutes from Mississippi? He was just on the north side of Indianapolis, Indiana. "I don't understand."
"Just relax now. We are going to get you on the gurney and get you somewhere they can help you,” her voice was sweet.
The younger man, the paramedic, returned. "I got a hold of dispatch in Indy. Mom and brother are talking with the police now. They said that there was an altercation between Julian and the step-father. The step-father is on his way to the hospital from a stab wound and they say Julian here just vanished after the fight."
"That's a long way to run with these kinds of injuries,” the woman replied.
"And some skill to break into an old, locked up church,” the old man added.
Julian wasn't listening to anything they were saying. "My mother and brother are okay?"
The male paramedic replied, "Yes, they are with the police now. They are safe."
"Thank God,” Julian breathed.
At that, he heard the old man give a different chuckle. One that felt like it should mean something to him. He tried to wrap his mind around it, but then that ball of ice and fire in his stomach reappeared in his chest with renewed vigor. Pain shot from every inch of him.
"Wait. Why am I in a church?" Julian's head began to hurt worse and worse.
"Where else would you go when you need help?" the old man replied.
God help me. None of this made any sense. The pain from his head spiked outward like a spiderweb of pain, sending rivers of burning pain down his body.
"He's coding!" someone yelled.
And then the world went dark for Julian.
Chapter Eight
Drew sat in silence for hours on end, the endless onslaught of SpongeBob playing before his eyes. The mindless cackle did not touch him, nor did the barrage of bright colors that the television presented. He was lost in his own thoughts as he replayed the violent scenes that had just unfolded before him. His construct, the golem, had returned to a pile of dirt and slumbered in his subconscious for the moment. The deeds it had done at his command remained fresh in his mind. Every detail of the carnage replayed again and again in his mind. Deep down, his stomach growled at the amount of bile it created. He felt exhausted, though he hadn't moved from the chair in close to four hours.
It was the faintest hint of a whimper or a cry, that pulled him from his internal struggle. He knew he would have to revisit his decisions at some point, but he was relieved for the distraction. It occurred to him how strange it was that a whimper could slip past his defenses, where the stupid prattle of a sponge could not. Perhaps it was because it was not a part of the norm.
He rose from the chair, feeling his body tingle at the sensation of departing the soft leather. Good thing he didn't sweat too much or the separation might have been painful. Barefoot, he stumbled across the carpeted floor, his feet tingling in the onset of being woken up from their own slumber. It was a wonder he didn't lose his balance and fall down like he was in a Life Alert commercial. He chuckled at the thought, but stopped when he could feel the bile in his stomach start to rise. His mind knew he had no reason to be amused. Not one bit. He needed to remember that.
He stumbled out into the hallway to find his mother standing with her back to him just where the hallway meets the entry way to the front room and the dining room. His stomach growled, but he knew he couldn't eat. He wondered if he would ever be able to eat again.
"Mom?" he whispered.
She turned to him with tears soaking her cheeks. "Oh, sweet Drew,” she murmured, reaching out for him to indicate that she needed a hug or thought he might.
Drew was sure that she knew. That somehow he had not been careful enough and she knew what he had done. What a monster he was. He eased closer, letting her envelope him in her arms. He could smell her perfume and a hint of something she was cooking. "What's the matter?" he inquired, dreading the answer that might come.
He could hear her take a deep breath, steadying herself. "Your father has just heard some terrible news." She hugged him tighter, until he had to turn his head to avoid being smothered in her shirt.
He heard the whimper again and turned to meet the sound. His father sat in the dark of the dining room, at the head of the table as he usually did. Before him sat a drinking glass half-filled with an amber liquid. Next to it stood a tall glass of some form of alcohol. Drew didn't know anything about alcohol, but he knew enough to know that his father was drinking, and that did not bode well. More so because it was a weekday. His father's shoulders shuttered again, and another whimper escaped him. He wasn't whimpering, he outright bawled. His father, the toughest man he knew. The guy who went after the meanest criminals in the city and had the record for the most convictions in this state and the three surrounding, crying.
"What happened?" Drew inquired.
"One of your father's best friends was murdered tonight. A policeman he went to law school with,” her tone was so full of hurt that it drove daggers through Drew's heart.
"Who killed him?" Drew knew before he asked it that he didn't want the answer.
"Some monster. Impaled him with a street sign."
It was a handicap parking sign. Oh, God. Drew pulled away from his mother. "I have to–" he started, but his stomach shut his words down.
Bile rose up and Drew had to clamp a hand over his mouth for fear it would spill out all over him and the carpet. He ran for the bathroom, his mother calling after him with concern. He had killed a man. Not only that, but he had killed one of his dad's friends. A good guy. Drew had no doubt that if they were a good friend of his dad, they were one of the good guys. His father and his father's friends all sought out and put people behind bars. They were the heroes of the town. The hallway he streaked by was filled with plaques of the good deeds his father had done for the city. From charities to stopping crazed criminals, the walls were covered with the bronze plates of his father's fight against evil.
And now his son was one of the villains.
That final thought broke Drew's resolve and the contents of his stomach erupted from his mouth and covered part of the wall of the hallway and part of the bathroom door. Breathing heavy, he stared at what his vile vomit had covered and saw that it had landed on a plaque thanking his father for his work in exposing a serial killer. "The Northside Slasher,” Drew sobbed.
In the hallway, before that filth-covered plaque, his legs gave out and he hit the floor on his knees with a loud thump. Hands squished in the leftovers of food and he tried to keep himself from face planting in the gross mess. Tears flooded his eyes as he struggled to find breath.
His mother was there before he could think about the spectacle of what he had done. Though he could hear her talking, he couldn't make out the words. His mind spun or perhaps overloaded. Was he about to die of shame? Of guilt? He was dizzy and the world felt far away. He felt his mother help him up, and knew she lead him to his room. He didn't deserve her help, but he had no energy to fight her off. It took forever in his mind, but finally, he felt himself being eased into his bed. She wiped his mouth, and he opened his eyes to see her smiling down at him, sadness in her eyes.
"Don't worry, my bubbala. I will clean up your mess."
Drew waited until she was gone before he curled up in a ball and began to cry uncontrollably. How he wished that were true.
Chapter Nine
Mac sat back in his favorite chair, watching as Allison moved her way around the spacious living room. He had changed out his outfit for some relaxed jogging pants and a baggy t-shirt that he felt hid the extent of his large stomach. On the wall opposite him, a huge television flared to life, sound emanating through speakers all around the room.
“Your house never fails to amaze me,” Allison said, stopping to admire one of the many photos on the nearest wall. "Is that your father with the president?"
Mac smiled, "It is. The shield I use is a prototype for the one my father built for him. Now, whenever the president is out in public, an additional safe
guard is my father's custom designed shield." Mac intended to drop her at her house and come straight home, but she insisted that he take her by her house and to wait for her. He was happy she did. It was a rare occurrence when she came to his house. It used to be that he would have to bribe her with schoolwork, either pretending he didn't understand the history questions or that he would help her with math.
She returned a few minutes after being dropped off on the roof, dressed in loose-fitting sweat pants and shirt. Mac found the new outfit just as appealing as her superhero one. She had a backpack slung over her shoulder and had scooped up the large metal suitcase that held the broken down parts of the gun they had used that night.
“Take me to your house,” she had told him, her own face flush with excitement.
Mac worked to contain himself as a stupid glimmer of hope told him that tonight might be the night that he was able to walk his way out of the friend zone.
It was now an hour later, and he wasn’t sure if it was the weird signals he was getting or his own fear, but now there was a few feet between them, and Mac felt safer here.
She moved to another picture, leaning in close to peer at the figures within in. "Is that who I think it is?"
Mac laughed. "Only the drummer was missing because he was watching his baby daughter being born."
"It's not photoshopped? Your dad actually knows them?"
"You know that metal monstrosity they use during their act? My father helped design a hydraulics system that wasn't prone to issues with the pyrotechnics. They were having a problem with the heat melting the servos or something."
"That's pretty cool, Mac. I know your dad is a bigshot with Washington, but designing things for bands? Doesn't sound like him, to be honest."
Mac nodded, saying nothing at first. "He liked one of their songs. You know, the one about not coming home because they were too busy. Well, one of their roadies knew a guy who knew a guy, and when the servo issue came up, they went seven stages of Kevin Bacon and got in contact with my father."
