by Brian Keene
Which was a defining statement about how exhilarating our lives were.
Randy pulled me aside two days later at school.
“We’ve got to do something about Ricky’s dad.”
I stared at him. What did he think we should do? We were just a bunch of kids.
“I’m serious.” He glanced around to make sure no one could hear. “We’ve got to do something or his dad’s going to kill him one day. I’ve relived men like his dad before. I know how they think. I know how it ends.”
“I thought all of your reliving was about sex?”
He frowned. “I just say that. I’ve never actually relived sex before.” When he saw my surprise he added, “I mean I’ve had it, but not someone else’s.”
“Then what’d you relive?”
“Death. Murder. I’ve been killed several times and twice,” he held up two fingers, “I killed someone else.”
“You relived that? Who was it?”
“Remember that old man we did last month. Him. He shot a guy in an alley and stole his wallet when he was young.”
“That old guy? I relived his seventy-seventh birthday party. He didn’t seem the type.” Even as I said it, I questioned by ability at fifteen to know what the murdering type was. “Who else?”
“That girl with the rhyming name.”
“Mary Carey.”
“Yeah, that was her. She shook her child to death then pretended it died of SIDS.”
“No wonder she committed suicide. You know, I think I was at a party with her too. How is it that I do parties and you do death?”
He shook his head. “Maybe it has something to do with who we are.”
I thought about that for a moment. It sounded like maybe we should be more careful with the ash. I finally asked, “So what’s it like to kill a guy?”
He grinned mournfully. “Scary. Exhilarating. Powerful.”
Four days later we had a plan in place and were waiting down the street from Ricky’s dad’s favorite bar. Pouring rain slammed against the Saturn’s windshield creating a constant background static to our nervous conversation. I sat in the backseat beside Ricky. He wore a bruise across the left side of his face and walked funny. He’d been speechless when we’d told him our plan. Then he’d cried. At first, I thought it was out of sadness, but it turned out to be grateful tears. We were about to do what he couldn’t get the courage to do himself. Lamont sat in the passenger seat checking his email on his phone. Randy sat behind the wheel, his fretful fingers drumming against the dashboard.
I checked my phone. It was 11:00 PM. My mom wouldn’t miss me, but being out this late made me nervous.
“When’s he going to be done?”
Ricky spoke in a low voice. “He stays there and drinks until he can barely stand, then he staggers home.”
“Why doesn’t he drink at home?” Lamont asked.
“He says only alcoholics drink at home alone.”
Randy laughed. “Yeah, right.”
Ricky rubbed the side of his face. “It was after we did ash the other night that he gave me this. He came home early already drunk. But he was in a different mood, you know? Wasn’t angry … he acted like a real dad, wanting to know how my day was, what I did at school, you know, like dads do on TV.”
Randy had stopped rattling his fingers.
Lamont wasn’t looking at his phone.
“We talked for like five minutes. An actual conversation where he didn’t yell or … Then I asked him about fishing. I thought maybe I could possibly have a moment like that boy had with his dad. Remember that, Brandon?”
I nodded. “Sure. I remember that.”
“That’s when he changed. All I said was maybe we could go fishing sometime and it was as if I’d flipped a switch. I could see his face turn red, then his hands start to tremble.”
“Did you run?” Lamont asked softly.
“I don’t run anymore. It just makes him madder.”
I saw Randy’s eyes in the rearview mirror as he said, “So you sit there and take it.” They were angry eyes.
“I sit there and get it over with.”
In firm and even words Randy said, “You’ll never have to do that again, Ricky.”
We were all silent for the next twenty minutes until Lamont pointed out the window. “There he is.”
The rain was still hammering down. A lone hunched figure exited the bar. A red and green neon sign with the image of a crashing wave with the words The Cove beneath it bathed him in a pool of pale light. Through the rain shrouded window the scene reminded me of one of those French painters we’d learned about in art. He started down the street.
Randy put the Saturn in gear and we drove towards him. As we pulled past, I spared a look at his face—swollen, red, angry, drunk. We continued to the corner, then turned left. The road was deserted. We stopped on the other side of an abandoned house.
“Get ready,” Randy said.
We had Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle masks Lamont bought at the Dollar Store two towns over. I didn’t know which one was which. I never did get into that retro bullshit, but I put mine on nonetheless. The others did the same. It wasn’t long before Ricky’s dad passed by our car.
Randy opened his door. “Showtime.”
Lamont and I did the same. Ricky didn’t open his and no one said a thing about it. The three of us held metal baseball bats.
“Hey, Asshole.” Randy stalked towards the man. “Yeah, you drunk ass bitch, I’m talking to you.”
Lamont and I exchanged looks, but with his mask on, his face was unreadable.
Ricky’s dad turned. “Whas theesh. Hallo—Hallo—shit?”
“It’s Halloween, you bastard.” Randy removed his mask. “And I don’t need this for what I’m about to do.”
Shit was getting too serious too fast. I didn’t know what I thought was going to happen. I mean I knew we were there to kill Ricky’s dad, but I think I really thought we were going to scare him, maybe make him join AA or something. Now that Randy had his mask off—
He swung the bat and took out the drunk’s right knee. He fell hard.
Randy swung three more times, hitting the man in the stomach with full swings of the bat. He turned onto his side and puked out an oily mixture of bile and booze.
“He just wanted to go fishing.” He swung again. “Fishing!”
Randy glanced back at where we were rooted into the pavement. His face held a crazy smile. His eyes gleamed. Then he dropped the bat, and pulled out his folding knife. He opened it, kneeled beside Ricky’s dad, and without hesitation pushed the tip straight into the center of his throat.
He stared at his handiwork for a moment, then stood. The water beside Ricky’s dad was already beginning to turn red. He grabbed the bat and said, “Let’s go.”
The next morning the police woke Ricky and told him that his father was dead. They called his grandfather, who got on a plane that afternoon to fly down and settle his son’s things.
Three days later they cremated him.
On the fourth day was the funeral.
On the fifth day we snorted him.
We weren’t going to do it at first, but Randy insisted. He said that it was important that Ricky do it so he could see and remember what his father was thinking and feeling so he’d never become that person. Break the chain, he’d said. But I think he was hoping to relive the man’s final moments and be able to see himself in the starring role of murderer.
Ricky’s grandfather was going to take him away from us the next morning. He was moving to Bemidji, Minnesota, which I knew was just north of Bum Fuck Egypt and about as far away as any human could get from this miserable town. So it was also a celebration of sorts. Because of that, Randy had a six pack of Coors.
We all drank from the same can, passing it around. We talked about our favorite relives. Randy boasted about all the sex he’d had, only glancing my direction once. His secret was safe with me. We didn’t talk about the murder. We didn’t talk about Ricky’s
dad at all. But the more we didn’t talk about it, a bigger deal it became, until finally, we all kind of wanted to get it over with.
Four, then two, then ash, then up our nose and we lay back on the grass and…
Blam! I drift for a moment, then I’m in a boat on a lake in the water. Two fishing poles rest on the bottom of the boat, but they aren’t being used. I’m on my knees and the metal is painful to my skin. But not as painful as what’s going on behind me. Someone, something, was inside me. My hands gripped the side of the boat. Larger hands gripped my shoulders and pulled me backwards. I’m trapped in the reliving of something terrible and I can’t stop it can’t stop it can’t stop it …
When I return to myself, my face is covered in tears. My stomach heaves and I vomit on the grass beside me. I can almost still feel it inside of me. But even that paled to the pain I’d felt in my heart as I realized it was my own daddy—his daddy—doing it to me—him.
Ricky was blubbering.
Lamont stared into the distance.
Randy was angry. When he saw me, he said, “You too, huh?”
I nodded.
“Where?”
Not what did you relive, but where did you relive it. “In a fishing boat.”
He nodded, slammed back the beer, then said, “Me too.”
“I was in a fishing shack on a lake,” Lamont said. “It was winter.” He rubbed his knees. “It was so cold. He had me naked while he sat back and …”
I’m glad he didn’t finish the sentence.
We all waited for Ricky to come around. When he was about ready to talk, he held his hand out for a beer. We only had one left. It was all his. He drank it in less than two minutes, taking a lot of small sips as his eyes sought something beyond the grass.
“I know now. My dad, he was abused.”
Randy shook his head. “Doesn’t make it right.”
“My grandfather … now I know the reason we never visited him. My father was trying to keep me away from him.”
I couldn’t help but ask. “Did your dad ever …?”
“Never.” Then he paused. “I used to see him standing at my door at night staring at me. I used to think it was because he was sorry and couldn’t bring himself to tell me. Now I wonder if …” He shook his head. Then he shook it again. He shook his head, his arms, his hands, his whole body, as if he was trying to shake free of his skin. When he next spoke, it was with a raw voice. “You know what I think? I think my dad tried to keep me away from him all this time and now I’m going to live with the bastard who made him like he was.” He laughed. “My dad was probably a kid just like me.”
“Doesn’t make it right,” Randy repeated.
“No, but it makes it real,” Ricky said with as much force and power as I’d ever seen him give.
“We can protect you,” Lamont said. He had a sheen in his eye like the one I’d seen in Randy’s when he talked about killing Ricky’s father.
“Like you protected me before? Look where that left me. The man who abused my father abused me and he wasn’t even here.” He turned to Randy. “Give me your knife.”
Randy’s eyes narrowed. “What are you going to do?”
“Break the chain.”
“I can take care of this for you. Like I did before.”
“I want to do this myself.”
Randy stared for a moment longer, then grinned. “If you say so.” He pulled the knife from his pocket and handed it over.
Ricky stared at the weapon in his hand. Then took two steps back and opened it.
“Careful, Ricky. That’s sharp.”
“There’s some synchronicity here.” He held the blade up to the light. “This is the blade that killed my father.”
“And we just relived him, too.”
“Think we should relive Ricky’s grandfather after we do him too?” Lamont asked.
I shook my head. “I don’t want to be anywhere near that sick guy’s life. Neither giving or receiving. He’s a terrible fucking pervert.”
Just then Ricky gave me a curious look. “But don’t you see, he was once a boy just like me. He wasn’t grown that way. He was made to be that way.”
“But your dad didn’t do that,” I countered.
“Did you ever think that maybe the reason he drank so much was so he couldn’t do it. Like maybe the urge got so bad he felt like he had to drink. Why else wouldn’t he drink at home?” He shook his head. “How sad of a life do you have to live to always be so afraid you might do something terrible that you have to maintain a level of drunkenness so it won’t happen?”
“We don’t know if that’s why he was like that,” Randy said.
“Oh no?” Ricky’s voice raised two full octaves. “Where’d my grandfather fuck you? In the mouth or the butt?”
“Okay, now.” I took a step forward and held out my hands. “It’s easy to say that your dad was being an honorable drunk now that he’s dead, but he wasn’t honorable when he was beating you.”
Randy nodded. “Yeah, beating and fucking, it’s still abuse, Ricky.” He looked around. “Dude,” he said to me, “We need more beer.”
“What the hell you telling me for? I’m fifteen?”
Lamont screamed, “Ricky! No!”
We turned to a scene of gushing blood. Ricky had slit both of his arms from wrist to elbow, slicing through a dozen veins in each arm.
I rushed to him, but he held the knife out with a shaking, bloody fist.
“Leave me. Let me break the chain.”
Randy was crying. “I didn’t mean like this. I meant—”
“I know what you meant.” His face was already white. “You were hoping to get permission to kill someone again. Well, you can’t have it.” He staggered a little. “Randy, you need to deal with your own shit and figure out what’s you and what’s not.”
“What do you mean?”
“This whole reliving thing is so we don’t have to be in our own heads. Remember Trey? Remember how he got to feeling sad, the same sadness he’d relived became part of him. It might have been all sex, but what came with it was no wife, no family, no kids, and a lifetime full of regret. I felt it when I was reliving Chaney. Sure there was sex, but dude, the regret was terrifying.”
I don’t know why we were watching him bleed to death. We needed to get help. We needed to save him before it was too late. I glanced over and Lamont held his phone in his hand, I could see the 911 on the screen and barely hear the voice of the operator. But he was so transfixed by the scene, he couldn’t respond.
“Like you. You’ve been reliving murders and death.”
Randy glanced at me.
“He didn’t tell me. I already knew. Something you said once, a slip. The feelings of the killers, being in their minds, it’s not right. It confuses your own memory, your own mind. It makes you like doing things you shouldn’t like doing.” His eyes widened. I need to sit down. He sat down hard. The knife fell to the grass.
“Let me give you a tourniquet,” I begged softly.
“Promise me you’ll stop, Brandon.”
“Why me?”
“Because you’re the only one of us who isn’t ruined.”
That last word hung in the air like an emotional supernova.
Then he turned to Lamont. “Lamont, get help.”
Lamont nodded.
Ricky’s face was white and sagging. He looked a hundred years old and like a wizened old man, he had a special wisdom he’d never had before.
“And Randy?”
Randy hesitated. “Yeah, what is it Ricky?”
But Ricky said no more, his eyes staring to a place far removed from this one.
Randy sobbed hard. He rushed to Ricky and knelt in front of him, grabbing his shoulders. “What was it you were going to say? What was it, Ricky?” He sobbed harder. “Tell me.”
The sound of sirens soon came upon us.
I’ve thought of that night for the last nine years. Randy and I used to talk about it before he joined the Army
. We both thought the same thing. Ricky could have told both Lamont and Randy to get help, but he hadn’t. He’d specifically singled out Lamont for help, like Randy was beyond it. He probably was. Although I never said this to Randy, I think Ricky was going to tell him to break the chain. I think he expected Randy to kill himself before he could kill anyone else. Randy did in his own way. He kept redeploying to Iraq and then Afghanistan enough times that the odds caught up with him. He was guarding a market in Kabul when a kid the age Ricky was back then came up to him and self-detonated. His funeral at Chapel of the Chimes was the first time I’d seen Lamont since we were kids. He’d changed. He was no longer the handsome slim teenager. He was balding and overweight. He had an acne problem. He was going to counseling, he said. He was working on it. There was happiness in his eyes.
That moment changed me too.
I straightened up. I graduated high school, then college. I just got a job teaching high school kids about English and literature. Good thing, too, because my wife and I just had our first baby. It’s a son and we’ve named him Richard—Ricky for short. The others relived terrible things. I’d seen it and felt it that once, but all of my other reliving was about happy times. Family times. Times I’d never had growing up. The others might have wanted to break the chains of their reliving, but not me. With the exception of the very last one, I wanted to be those dads I’d relived. I wanted my son to feel about me the way I’d relived the feelings of those strong, responsible men. Without reliving, I never would have known how to be that man. Without reliving I might have been someone terrible.
Not anymore.
Never going to happen.
Four then two then ash.
CTHYLLA
LUCY A. SNYDER
We move among the volumes until we come to one whose spine reads “Natalya Moroz, Artist and Muse and Misguided Soul.” An incomplete summation of a life that burned short and very bright. But the label does not tell anything close to the whole story of the ashes in this lovely work of ceramic and paint. For that, we need to take a closer look at a young woman named Kamerynne Craigie, whose story we know from diary entries, recovered texts and email …
