What We Kill

by Howard Odentz

  Myers will be next. He’ll try to fight, but by his own admission, he doesn’t fight, and the monster that the Grandfather Tree has become will get him, too.

  Finally, I’ll be the only one left, and the tree will scoop me up like one of those talking trees in the old Wizard of Oz movie—the ones that grew apple bombs to fling at trespassers. It will take its time, doing horrible, unspeakable things to me. After all, it lives in Prince Richard’s Maze and that’s what happens in a place like this and a town like this, where everything is supposed to be all sunshine and roses when it’s really darkness and thorns.

  Such morbid thoughts are the only ones that keep me company as Marcy reaches inside one of those dark holes—a mouth, an eye, I don’t know—and pulls back Anders’ bloodied wad of clothes. She throws them on the ground and begins shaking the bottle of lighter fluid.

  “Not here,” I tell her and open my arms. “There are dead leaves everywhere. We’ll set this part of town on fire.”

  “Is that such a bad thing?” murmurs Myers.

  “Yeah, well, Meadowfield has already had one tragedy today.” I say “Let’s try and not make it two.”

  “Then where?” Anders snaps. “I can’t look at the blood anymore.”

  “None of us can.” I say. After a moment an idea comes to me that seems a little too convenient. “Let’s burn them by Turner Pond.”

  “Sure. Fine,” Ander says. “I want this over with.”

  There’s no need to respond. We all want ‘this’ over with, too.

  62

  THE REFLECTION of the moon rippling across the water of Turner Pond is beautiful. We’ve never been in Prince Richard’s Maze at night before except for last night, and none of us fully remember last night other than the horrific snippets that should be burned along with Anders’ clothing.

  Off in the distance I can hear cars going back and forth on the highway. More likely than not, those cars are filled with autumn leaf peepers, coming back home from Vermont after a day of gazing at amazing vistas of burnt oranges and yellows. They are blissfully unaware that the highway they are driving down, heading to Connecticut and beyond, is cutting right alongside the infamous town of Meadowfield, Massachusetts.

  The people in those cars are probably listening to the radio while their kids are asleep in the backseat. They don’t even realize that, for a brief time, they are skirting the edge of our town. They’ll never feel the specter of death tickling the base of their necks or whispering horrible things into their ears about how so many people died on Covington Circle.

  Even if they do feel the darkness, they won’t know what it is. They’ll chalk it up to a momentary gloomy patch in their otherwise glorious day, and be thankful when they cross over the border to Connecticut, leaving Meadowfield behind forever.

  The people in those cars have no idea that four high school students are in the dark woods to the left of them—the ones that loom over the highway. They have no idea that we are standing on the edge of Turner Pond, or that a beautiful girl is spilling out the contents of a bottle of lighter fluid onto a pile of bloody clothing.

  The fluid streams out of the bottle like piss. Marcy waves the liquid back and forth over Anders’ shirt and his pants. She soaks his socks and his underwear, probably using more of the flammable chemicals than she needs to use. I hear the plastic sucking in and out, in and out, as she squeezes the bottle.

  A foul odor fills the air.

  “Do it,” whispers Anders.

  Marcy keeps squeezing the bottle until it’s empty. Meanwhile, Myers grabs a long stick, dead leaves still clinging to it, and pokes at one of Anders’ bloody socks until the cloth catches in a little fork between two branches. He lifts the sock up and holds it in front of Marcy.

  “Helping,” he shrugs.

  Marcy nods her head, steps back, and lights a match. The sock bursts into flames quickly, and Myers yelps. He drops the stick with the burning sock to the ground and Anders shakes his head.

  “Damnit,” Myers says.

  “It’s fine,” I tell him as I reach down, grab the end of the stick that isn’t burning, and thrust it at the rest of the liquid soaked clothing.

  Minutes later, all that is left are ashes and the taste of smoke in our mouths. Without saying a word to each other, we all kick the ashes to the edge of the pond and let the water suck them in. Whatever is left of Anders’ bloody clothing sinks away to mix with the mud and the slime down below.

  Next spring, when algae covers the pond, no one but us will know that the green slick is blood-fed.

  No one will think on it for a second.

  “What’s that?” says Myers and cocks his head.

  “What’s what?”

  He’s quiet for a moment. “That,” he says again, and this time I hear it, too.

  “Is that a phone?” asks Marcy. “That sounds like my ring tone.” Without waiting for us to respond, she starts jogging down Little Loop.

  “Wait,” Anders shouts out. “Marcy, wait.” He races after her. Myers and I follow.

  A few hundred feet into the dark, maybe more, Marcy stops.

  We all do.

  The woods are silent.

  “That was a phone, wasn’t it?” She says in a whisper. I don’t know why she’s whispering. There’s nobody around.

  “I don’t know,” says Anders, but his voice sounds strange, as though a bony hand has reached around his throat and squeezed. “I . . . I . . . ”

  The ringtone starts again. This time it’s close. It’s off to our right, straight through the foliage, and we all turn our heads.

  “It is a phone,” she yelps and takes a step toward the dark woods. Only then does Anders shoot his arm out and grab her hand.

  “Marcy, don’t,” he says to her, but he doesn’t say it like I would or Myers would. He says it as though there is something unimaginable inside the woods, and if Marcy goes into them, she may never come back out again.

  Myers and I are transfixed as Anders holds onto Marcy’s hand with such strength and such tenderness that I feel like I’m watching something miraculous take shape before my eyes.

  “Anders, please,” she whispers, but doesn’t pull away from him. “Let me go. I think that’s my phone.”

  Anders doesn’t let her go. Instead he grabs hold of her with his other hand and falls to his knees, right there in the dark, right in the middle of Prince Richard’s Maze. He holds onto her hands tightly like he never wants to let her go.

  “Oh God, Marcy” he cries with real tears, in such a mournful way that I can feel his pain right in the middle of my chest.

  “Anders,” she whispers. “What’s wrong? What’s happening?”

  Anders Stephenson, my best friend, our protector, with the basketball frame and GQ face, takes in a deep glut of air and begins shaking, like he started shaking this morning when we all woke up in the woods and he was covered in blood.

  “Oh God,” he sobs again as he gently pulls Marcy to her knees so they are close enough to touch foreheads. “I remember. I remember what happened last night.”

  63

  MYERS AND I DON’T say anything as we watch Marcy and Anders crouch on the ground, their heads inches away and their arms clutching on to one other. They’re having a moment, or they’re having ‘the’ moment that will define them from now on.

  “I remember. I remember,” he keeps saying over and over again, and Marcy nods her head like she understands.

  “Shhhh,” she tells him as he keeps saying the same words, like if he says them longer or louder, they might mean something different.

  Suddenly Marcy stiffens and pulls away from him, but not too far. They’re still close enough that if they leaned forward their lips could touch. Who cares? It wouldn’t be such a bad thing. Maybe it would be a great thing for Anders and Marcy and a
ll of us.

  “I screamed, didn’t I?” she says to Anders, totally ignoring the fact that her ring tone starts going off again in the woods. It rings six or seven times before stopping. Seconds later it starts ringing again. “I did,” Marcy whispers and lets out a quiet gasp. “There were hands. I remember hands, and they were grabbing at me. Someone pulled my shoes off and then fingers were on my waist, pulling at . . . pulling at my pants. I remember hearing laughing and me trying to make the fingers stop and . . . no matter what I said . . . no matter what I did, it wasn’t enough, and I screamed.”

  “You did,” Anders nods, holding on to her. “You screamed, and I couldn’t do anything. I remember I couldn’t do anything to help you, and I felt like the worst kind of person in the world.”

  Myers stands next to me, the long sleeves of Marcy’s dad’s shirt wrapped around himself again. His breathing is shallow and ragged. “I tried to fight,” he whispers. “I did. I tried to fight, but it was like I was fighting in a dream. Then I couldn’t breathe.” He turns to me. “West, I was punched in the stomach and the wind was knocked out of me so hard. I remember not being able to breath and thinking that I was going to die.”

  I start shaking my head. I don’t want to hear this. I don’t want to hear any more of this. I throw my hands up to my ears and close my eyes, praying for everything to stop, but it won’t stop. The memories come flooding in—the final ones, the crucial ones, and God help me, I don’t want to know.

  I don’t. I don’t. I don’t.

  The phone starts ringing again in the woods and I take off running away from Marcy and Anders, and away from Myers toward the sound of that phone. I go right through the brush, the branches scraping at my face and my arms, clawing at me, tearing at my skin.

  And as I run, I remember everything as though it is happening all over again. This time I remember it all, and my lips curl up to expose my teeth.

  We were with the greasy guy. His friend with the afro and Calista Diamond weren’t with us anymore. Either we had left them back at The Stumps, or they had left us. I don’t know which. All I know is that we were in the car again, in the back seat, and then we were in The Maze.

  “No wonder Tate hates you so much,” I heard the greasy guy say. He was talking to Marcy and she was sitting on the ground, her head lolling around on her neck as though she couldn’t hold it up even if she tried. “You’re way prettier than he is. That must really piss him off.”

  Anders was on the ground, too. He was trying to stand, but he couldn’t quite get his legs to hold his body. “Leave her alone,” he bellowed, but the guy only laughed and pushed him over with one hand.

  “Fucking you up like Tate wants is going to be so much fun,” the guy said. “Too bad none of you will remember any of it.” There was a whoosh in the air. It was the sound of him pulling his belt out of his jeans.

  “Stop,” I cried, but I was probably mumbling because I could barely focus on what was going on. All I remember was thinking that I had to save Marcy. Whatever I did, I had to protect my friend.

  “Not a chance,” said the guy, and this time he was wearing his awful sunglasses. Who wears sunglasses at night? What kind of person does something like that? He turned to Marcy and said, “You ready for me, Sweetness?” and Anders growled something that was equal parts incoherent and insane.

  “Leave her alone,” Myers cried from out of nowhere and charged the greasy guy, but Myers was so small that whatever he thought he was trying to do was almost comical. The greasy guy grabbed him by his hair and punched him really hard. Myers immediately fell to the ground, and I think I fell to the ground, too, because I was at the very edge of passing out from whatever was coursing through my system.

  Still, Myers got back up and ran at the greasy guy again. He was met by two hands wrapped tightly around his face. Myers started screaming as fingers pressed into his eyes until his glass one popped out.

  “Holy shit,” cried the guy as he bent down and scooped up Myers’ eye off the ground. Then he pushed Myers really hard. Myers lost his footing and fell. This time he didn’t get back up. Meanwhile, the greasy guy pulled his sunglasses off and stared at the funny shaped piece of plastic in his hand, because glass eyes aren’t really glass, they’re resin. “Would you look at that,” he whistled. “I got me a third eye.” Then he laughed in that sinister laugh that I had been hearing in my head.

  “Stop it,” Anders howled again, still unable to stand. His words were totally ignored. The guy barely even flinched. He turned back to Marcy and crouched down in front of her.

  “We don’t need these, now do we?” he said and pulled her shoes off of her feet. Marcy was still floating and barely understanding anything. I wanted to cry out for him to stop what he was doing but I couldn’t. I didn’t think I had enough energy to push the words out of my mouth. “And I don’t think we need these either,” the greasy guy said.

  That’s when Marcy screamed. I didn’t know what he was doing to her, but I could imagine his disgusting, dirty fingers pulling at the waistband of her jeans, dragging them down until they weren’t covering anything anymore.

  “Noooo,” I heard Anders again, but it sounded as though he was far away on the other side of the world.

  Then there was a gasp and all the sound in the woods seemed to disappear and be taken up by one single statement that was so obvious to the rest of us but such a revelation to the greasy guy, that he was momentarily shocked.

  “Fuck me,” I heard him bark at Marcy with such cruelty in his voice that I wanted him dead. I wanted him to die over and over again until he couldn’t die anymore. “You’re a dude. You’re a goddamned dude.”

  64

  WAIT, WHAT?

  That’s what I kept thinking in my head. It had been so long since any of us thought of Marcy as a boy that the words stung as badly as if he had flung them at us instead of her. I mean she was born a boy, but Marcy was a girl. Every part of her was a girl except for one last thing that was getting taken care of right after her eighteenth birthday.

  How could anyone say such a hurtful thing to her?

  ‘You’re a dude. You’re a goddamned dude.’

  “Stop it,” I screamed as loud as I could. “Just stop it.”

  Meanwhile, Myers was on the ground. My head rolled to the right and I saw him there. His chest was heaving up and down, and I couldn’t tell if he was crying or passed out.

  I saw Anders, too. He was trying to get to his feet again. The greasy guy with the sunglasses turned to him and I remember being scared.

  “Well this is a pickle,” the greasy guy said in such a sickly, smarmy way that my stomach did a flip-flop. My arms and legs were numb and I could feel my brain slipping away. “But here’s the thing. If I’m going to get my rocks off with a dude, then I want a real dude, not some messed up pre-op tranny.”

  Shut up. Shut up. Shut up. “Shut up,” I managed to squeeze out.

  The greasy guy laughed that weird laugh again and said, “How ‘bout it, pretty boy. I bet you’ll love it.”

  No, No, NO, I thought as I struggled against the veil slowly shrouding me in darkness. Leave Anders alone. Leave my friend alone.

  The next thing I knew there was a huge weight on my chest and hot breath in my face.

  “You know, when I lived on my daddy’s farm we used to screw with the sheep,” a voice said as the pressure pushed me into the dead leaves on the ground. The greasy guy was on top of me, with his hair hanging down and his breath right in my face. “You’ve ever been to a farm, pretty boy?”

  Pretty boy?

  Pretty boy?

  Who . . . who was he calling a pretty boy?

  Spittle fell on my cheeks. “They’re filled with sheep,” the greasy guy hissed. “Fucking stupid sheep.” He laughed some more then started bleating right in my face.

  “Baaaaaa. Baaaaa.
BAAAAA.”

  I didn’t understand. Anders was the jock. Anders was the pretty boy. He’d always been the tall, good looking one with the blond hair and the square jaw. He’d always been the one with people fawning all over him.

  “That’s right, pretty boy,” the greasy guy whispered right in my ear, and I suddenly realized that he wasn’t talking to Anders, or Myers, or even Marcy. He was talking to me and he was calling me a pretty boy.

  Weston Kahn, who used to sit in his bedroom with his hand shoved into a box of Fruit Loops.

  Weston Kahn, whose legs used to rub together when he walked.

  Weston Kahn who passed by a group of girls in the choral room at school while Cleo Collins said, ‘He’s cute now. Who would have ever thought that Weston Kahn would be cute? He was so fat.’

  He was talking to me. I was the pretty boy, and part of me was so confused and maybe even a little happy that I barely heard the greasy guy say, “You do what I tell you to do, right? Because you’re a stupid sheep.”

  I didn’t care that he said I was a sheep.

  I didn’t care that he was holding my arms down.

  I didn’t care that there were big, black sunglasses right in my face.

  I didn’t care, as he bent right down to my ear and said, “Baaaaaa, you goddamned sheep. Say it. Say you’re a sheep.”

  I didn’t even care when he leaned back on his haunches as he straddled my chest, pulled off a ring from his left hand, then flicked a lighter right before my eyes. “Sheep are property. You’re mine now. And you know what we do with our sheep?”

  I didn’t care.

  I didn’t care at all. Someone in this world said I was more than just a hunk of fat and this time it rang true.