Red Rain: Lightning Strikes: Red Rain Series #2

by David Beers

  You asked about my mother in our phone call and I dismissed the question. I shouldn’t have, but I did. And now, here I am, trying to make up for it, but still too chickenshit to pick up the phone and call.

  I’m scared, John.

  I’m scared because of the animal I saw on our trails a few years ago.

  I’m scared because Harry died while you were there.

  I’m scared because I’ve seen what my bloodline is capable of.

  After you burn this letter, you’re not to repeat anything I say in it. Not to your father and not to your sister. Not to your girlfriend. Not to Dr. Vondi. No one. I can’t be more clear about this. What I write here is between us, and neither one of us are going to share it with another soul. As scared as I am for you and this situation, I trust you more than I can put into words. Because I love you.

  My mother killed my father, John. She didn’t kill him as in, wore him down over the course of a lifetime. She put a butcher’s knife in his neck and left it there for me to see when I came home. I’m lucky that I’m not in an insane asylum right now, to be honest. I thank your father for that and my own resiliency.

  She did a lot more though, John.

  Things I haven’t told anyone.

  She would bring men home, presumably for sex, and then they just disappeared. Not from me—but from the world.

  I’m going to tell you one episode, because I want you to understand why I’m so scared. One and only one. Then we have to decide how to move forward.

  I was sixteen years old, and I know that for sure because when I was a kid, I counted the days—literally, the days—until I would legally be an adult.

  * * *

  Nine hundred and seventy two days until Lori turned eighteen.

  She counted the days in a small notebook. She didn’t write anything else in it, she simply flipped the page and then knocked the number down by one—tomorrow would be nine hundred and seventy one.

  She wondered if prisoners did the same thing, except instead of a notebook, they perhaps carved it into a small place on their prison walls. Lori couldn’t do that, of course. Even the notebook she kept might be too risky, if Clara found it. She hid it well, but just couldn’t bear not having it—a tiny ray of light at the end of this horrendous, dark tunnel. She tried to focus only on that light, because things came out of nowhere in this tunnel and hit her all the time. Knocking her over as she walked, and pummeling her face, leaving bruises that wouldn’t fade—but never killing her.

  Her mother wouldn’t murder her.

  On the nine hundredth and seventy second day until Lori’s emancipation, a freight train came down that dark tunnel. She didn’t see it or hear it until it was too late, but that was how these things always went, wasn’t it?

  “Come here, Lori,” her mother called.

  The basement. Lori never went to the basement, was specifically forbidden from going. She didn’t want to, either, because if Clara told her not to do something—it meant something sick was most likely happening. Something like what happened to her (NO DON’T YOU THINK ABOUT THAT DON’T YOU DARE).

  “Why?” she called from the top of the stairs. She could see the illumination cast by the single light hanging from the ceiling.

  “Because I said.”

  No argument existed inside Clara’s words. Just a singular command that Lori had to follow, because whatever existed down there with Clara wasn’t as bad as what would exist upstairs if she didn’t obey. Or so she thought.

  Lori walked down the steps, slowly, carefully, dreading each time her foot hit the next stair.

  But eventually, as all things must, the staircase ended and Lori found herself standing in the basement. She looked at the light, first, trying to avoid her mother, who stood a bit further back, just in the shadows. She saw the drawstring hanging from the bulb, and knew she couldn’t look at it forever.

  “Lori, over here.”

  She slowly turned her eyes to her mother and saw the second most horrifying thing ever.

  A man sat tied to a chair, arms and wrists bound so tight that his skin grew pale towards his feet and hands.

  “Come,” Clara said.

  Lori went, already her mind trying to shut down, trying to turn catatonic—unable to see and unable to know what happened around her.

  “What should I do to him?”

  The man was brutalized. His face a mixture of swelling skin and broken flesh. Deep purple grew across him like a weed. He couldn’t see anything and blood dripped from his ears.

  Lori followed the beating downward, seeing that he was naked, and that …

  “No,” she said. “No, no, no.”

  The man was gelded. Tied off to stop the blood flow, but missing what made him a man.

  “Do you want to know why?” Clara said.

  “No, no, no, no,” Lori repeated without knowing she said the words at all.

  “Because, Lori … sometimes it’s fun to see how far the human body can go. I didn’t think he would make it this far … so what should I do?”

  “Let him go, mom. Please let him go.” Lori wasn’t sobbing, but tears streamed down her face all the same.

  “How would that work? You think he’ll keep quiet about all of this? Won’t turn me into the police, right?”

  Lori shook her head, unable to take her eyes away from the horror and not understanding a word her mother said.

  “You don’t like seeing this, do you?”

  Still shaking her head, but not answering the question.

  Clara smiled. “I didn’t think so. Where’s your little book at, darling? The one with the days in it, the days until you turn eighteen?”

  Lori’s eyes snapped to her mother’s.

  “Oh, there isn’t anything that happens under my roof that I don’t know about, sweetheart. It’s fine. Keep your little book. I just thought you might want to see this … if, I don’t know, you were thinking of leaving before those days reached zero.”

  Lori said nothing, only stood staring at her mother with wide eyes and fear rippling through her entire body.

  “Go on. Get upstairs. I’ll take care of this.”

  * * *

  I went upstairs. I don’t know how long it was until I left my room, John. All I know is that one morning she came in, turned the lights on—and they shone down like God himself opened up the heavens, because I’d been in the dark for days at that point. I didn’t even get up to use the restroom, though I don’t remember going in bed, either. She told me to get up, that I’d missed enough school, and so that’s what I did. I got up and went to school.

  I don’t tell you all this to scare you, because I doubt there’s much that can scare you, John. I tell you because I want you to see what could happen to you. You’re going to have kids and a family one day. You’re going to have a household. I don’t think what was in my mother is the same as what’s in you, but there’s a part of it. A large and strong part.

  Everyone else can deny it or refuse to see it, but I won’t.

  Because I love you and I have to keep you safe. That’s why you’re over there, but you knew that already, didn’t you? Vondi cared too much. He wanted to understand you, and when he finally did, you’d be jailed. Or killed. I can’t let that happen, not while I’m alive.

  You have to be careful. You can’t let what’s inside you break through. I don’t know what happened with Harry, but … it doesn’t matter. Be safe, John. Be careful.

  I love you more than you know, more than anything in my life.

  -Mom

  24

  A Portrait of a Young Man

  “Wow,” Harry said. He placed the letter on the dorm room desk. “Well, at least you know now, huh?”

  John stood at the door, facing it. He just finished listening to Harry read the whole letter to him without saying a word.

  He remained silent for at least another minute, not turning around either.

  “She knew,” he said. “She knew the whole time.”


  “Didn’t you kind of suspect that, though?”

  “There’s a difference between suspecting and knowing that your grandmother was a lunatic, Harry,” he said, moving from the door to his bed. He sat down and put his head in his hands.

  “So what?”

  “That’s what’s going to happen to me. I’ll be like her. That’s what you are, you’re the beginning of me turning into that fucking bitch.”

  “Come on, man. That’s a bit of a stretch, don’t you think? I mean, we’re talking about an eentsy weentsy murder here. We’re not talking about cutting balls off and making your daughter watch. That’s absurd.”

  John looked up to him. “Eentsy weentsy murder? That’s what this is? No, Harry. It’s all consuming. It’s taking over my life. I’m sitting here talking to someone, a guy that doesn’t exist for Christ’s sake, about killing my girlfriend.” He shook his head, looking back down at his hands. “Jesus, she knew. She knew what was happening and she didn’t help.”

  “Don’t be so hard on her.” Harry stood up from his chair and walked over to the bed. He sat down, his weight causing the balance to shift. “What could she do, John? What could anyone do? Her mother was like this and maybe this thing skips a generation. You drew the short straw. The difference between you and your grandmother, I think at least, is that your parents care about you. You’re … I don’t know, you have a heart of sorts, which is what makes this so difficult. But even so, you can’t change who you are. Your mom couldn’t change it, either. She’s doing all she can by trying to protect you, by arming you with this knowledge and sending you away. But, did she say to quit, John?”

  Tears sat in his eyes like hot pools, blurring everything around him.

  “Did she?”

  He shook his head.

  “Exactly. She didn’t. She knows you can’t. She wants you to be careful, but you’re going to be what you are, John. She sees it; why don’t you?”

  The tears fell, and John’s chest hitched.

  “I know, man. I know,” Harry said, placing his hand on John’s back. “It’s heavy, but she still loves you. Your family still loves you. None of them need to know, ever.”

  John turned and looked at Harry. No smile sat on his face, none of the usual jokes and irreverence. Harry appeared completely serious, even sympathetic.

  “It’s okay,” he said. “We’ll be okay. I’m here, too.”

  John wanted to hug him, and at the same time, felt repulsed at the idea. He had no one else, not in this strange country, who could understand any of this—and here his dead friend sat, telling him they would work through it. They would be okay. No one else sat here trying to help, just Harry.

  “You ain’t gotta hug me, man. But we’re in this together, for better or worse.”

  And John nodded, because he knew the truth in those words. For better or worse, Harry was here to stay.

  “Not Cindy,” John said. “Anyone but her.”

  Harry cocked his head to the side, studying him, and when he reached whatever conclusion he searched for, he straightened it up again. “Let’s not talk about who right now, okay?”

  “Okay,” John said, nodding. “Okay.”

  * * *

  John knew what was coming, knew it and saw no way around it.

  He had thought through the possibilities for the past two days, trying to see if he could do anything else and get the outcome he wanted. In the end, though, the answer was simple and final: no. He had to do it this way, because humiliation was key. Anger was key. Hate was key. If all of those things rolled up inside Cindy, then no chance existed of her ever trying to date John again.

  Because the truth was, John didn’t trust Harry. He hadn’t wanted to talk about it a few days ago, but when John finally calmed down, he understood why. Harry wanted Cindy. He wanted her to be their first and wasn’t done trying to convince John yet.

  So John had to end it with Cindy.

  He couldn’t be around her anymore. Couldn’t see or talk to her.

  And yet, simply telling her it was done over a phone call or face to face wouldn’t be enough, either. He needed to make sure she wouldn’t try to return, that when they broke up, they were done forever. He wouldn’t let Harry, or himself, hurt her.

  Real noble, John, he thought as he watched Cindy walking across the school cafeteria. Let’s talk about how noble you feel once this is over, huh?

  He had ignored her calls for the past two days. In class, he sat on the other side of the room and refused to look at her. After class, he left too quickly for her to say something. All of those actions building up to this, when she forced him to talk to her.

  He saw the anger in her face from twenty feet away, and she walked with a purpose. She didn’t look at anyone else in the lunch room, only at him, and her feet moved too quickly—because he could do nothing to postpone this any longer

  You built it up, John. Now watch as it falls apart.

  “How long are you going to ignore me?” she said as she reached the table, her voice loud enough for anyone sitting by him to hear. She didn’t sit down, didn’t take her backpack off, either. She stared down at him with the righteousness of gods, and John saw hate there. Hate and a whole lot of pain.

  Because you’re hurting her. Because she loves you, even if she hasn’t said it, even if she doesn’t truly understand it. She loves you and you’re tearing her apart.

  But a stronger part of him, perhaps a piece that he only met that one time in a London school cafeteria, spoke up. And you love her. So do this so that she can love another. Because if you don’t, you’ll be the last person she ever falls in love with.

  And in that strength came everything that followed. He blocked out the part of him saying how much he was hurting her. Perhaps he even blacked it out, killing it completely.

  “You haven’t gotten the hint?” he said, his voice matching hers—his American accent slicing through the conversations around him with all the delicacy of a Viking sword. “We’re done.”

  The anger in her eyes faded almost immediately, replaced by tears and hurt.

  “I …,” she paused, her eyes swimming. “What did I do?” Her voice no longer carried the thunderous rage, but was almost a whisper. “What did I do, John? What happened?”

  He stood up, his tray still on the table. He had stood up before like this, except then he took the tray and slammed it against someone’s head. That was when Harry still lived. And he had to hurt someone now, too, but he wouldn’t use the tray.

  “What did you do?” his voice still raised, and the tables across the lunchroom were silent, all of them paying attention to the two people standing, one yelling at the other. “You’re just a cunt, Cindy. I don’t want anything to do with you. You can’t fix cunt.”

  And the tears in her eyes swelled past the point of her holding them in. They fell down her face and she didn’t reach up to wipe them away. She stood looking like her heart wasn’t just breaking, but being crushed, slowly, as it still struggled to keep beating—struggling against something it would never conquer.

  “You’re cruel,” she said, her voice still a whisper.

  The entire lunch room stared at him along with her, and John knew that he just ended any chance of having friends in this country—he would be alone again, an outcast now. Perhaps even bullied. And it would all be worth it if Cindy lived.

  She turned around and walked out of the cafeteria, her feet moving just as fast as they had carried her in. John watched her go, and just before she was out of sight, he watched her hand move to her face and wipe away the tears he caused.

  * * *

  Cindy lay in her bed.

  The tears were done. At least for now. She didn’t have any more to give, not to John and not to herself.

  But that didn’t mean she was finished with this situation. The light in her room was off and when her roommate came knocking, Cindy didn’t get up to answer. She didn’t want to see anyone or talk to them about what happened in the cafeteria.
Without a doubt, her circle of friends knew about it by now. They were gossiping and some of them perhaps even trying to talk to John. Cindy didn’t care about any of that. They could go on about their business however they saw fit, but she wouldn’t get involved.

  Because she had her own ideas of what to do next, and none of them had anything to do with her friends. All of them were inconsequential in this.

  Cindy had never felt what she felt for John. She, of course, had flirted with guys before, but it was all kid games—the same as she thought this one would be when it started. A lot of people at school called her a tease because of how she flirted and then pulled away, which was fine; she probably was one.

  Except with John.

  Because he was special; he made her feel special, and despite his acting job today in the cafeteria, she knew he felt the same.

  That’s what she spent the last two hours thinking about. The first four hours after the spectacle had been her crying uncontrollably.

  John had been acting. Can’t fix cunt? It was like something out of a cheap fraternity comedy, in which the guy saying it always ended up getting kicked out of school for hazing pledges. John became a caricature, which simply wasn’t him.

  So … he had been acting. Almost as if he wanted it to happen there and then, because why wouldn’t he have simply continued what he’d been doing? He could have stood up and walked off, making her look like some kind of possessive ex-girlfriend, but he didn’t. He raised the confrontation to a level of aggressiveness that she didn’t think possible.

  But why?

  And when she found the answer to that question, she felt relief.

  John was hiding something and in such a public humiliation, he thought she would surely back off and he could keep his secret. She felt relief at that answer because she knew it wasn’t over between them. Not yet. He still cared for her.