Die Already

by Speicher, Kipp Poe

  Copyright © 2010 by Kipp Poe Speicher

  Kindle Edition

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  Die Already

  There seems to be a lot more darkness than there is light anymore. My life has become very grim. Where do I even start without sounding like a lunatic? It was the summer of my 8th year of life that I discovered I have what some may call a gift; but to me it is a curse.

  I went fishing—or what we thought was considered fishing—with my best friend Rudy. My grandpa had given me a tackle box full of bobbers, weights, and lures. The quiet creek we fished in had little silver fish that we later learned is what you use as bait to catch real fish.

  Needless to say we tried to catch those little fish with lures 2 times bigger than them. What I caught on an 8 hook lure was a frog who got entangled in the hooks. He looked so helpless. Every movement he made to break free dug deeper into his entanglement. By the time I got close enough to help, his underbelly was ripped open with his insides were falling out. We totally freaked out. How was this thing still alive? We cut the line and ran home.

  The following day we returned. To our amazement, the frog was half eaten away with its upper torso speared with the hooks, and it was still looking up at us blinking its eyes. Why would it not die?

  Later on in life I found more of these weird things happening. Every fly that I killed would be smashed and mangled but would not die. One day on my way to school I hit a dog with my car and messed it up really bad. He was all over the road, a smear of crimson, fur, and guts. I picked up what was left of him sweltering in the morning sun. As I scraped his head up, his eyes looked up at me. His tongue tried to lick me as his teeth and blood oozed from his mouth. There was no reason in the world he would still be alive.

  Later that night I went into the basement and emptied out an old toy box I had as a child, discarding the old matchbox cars into a few shoeboxes. Then I placed the remains of the dog into the toy box. Dragging the toy box out to the field, I buried it in a shallow grave.

  I should have put more effort into digging it deeper because even till this day I can hear on soft and quiet summer days that damn dog whimpering in that grave with years of growth over it.

  This curse became more noticeable to me, so I have shut myself away from the world when I can. What if I am out in public and someone is torn to shreds in a car accident that I’m there? Would they, too, not die?

  It’s been almost three years since I met Samantha. I was delivering cleaning supplies to the local high school in town, and I had to report to the office. After signing in I went to take the supplies to the warehouse when the fire drill went off.

  I was totally freaking out with everyone filling the halls and pushing their way through. A young lady ahead of me was pushed back into me; I raised my hand and placed it into the small of her back. I felt the warmth and softness of her through her faded The Counting Crows concert shirt. She turned her head to look up at me, and I was left breathless. Her sky blues eyes had me floating in them.

  She reached around and took my hand into hers, and from that very moment, she changed my life forever.

  She never really understood why I still feared crowds. I just could not tell her what a freak I was, so I gave her freedom to do what she wanted, and thankfully she came around to visit.

  Last evening brought violet skies as she came stumbling into my house. That was when I heard the most horrid sound that will forever haunt my waking moments and twilight. Samantha’s delicate body slapped against the steps, falling viciously down into the dark and cold cellar. There she laid at the bottom of my steps in the dark.

  I flew down the steps knowing no matter what I did, I could never end what she is experiencing. Her neck was broken and the skin was already starting to turn shades of purple. Her head was facing up while her body was broken and mangled, facing downward.

  Her eyes flickered open and looked at me with confusion painted across her face. She tried to speak, but all she could do was make a gasping noise as her words looked for breath to form.

  Taking her into my arms, I could smell the alcohol on her. Maybe that is what was keeping her from feeling the pain. Blood was now leaving her body, muting her gasp as it painted her lips with a dark crimson.

  While giving her a hug, she was able to form words with the last bit of air I pushed through her body. “Why am I still alive? Let me Die…,” her voice nothing more than a gasp of whispers. Those words were my love’s last request that I cannot fulfill.

  Tears welled up in our eyes. Those eyes that I cherished—every moment that I could look into and see them glow with a feeling of belonging and connecting—now are filled with pain. No matter what I do, the smile has forever left her eyes.

  The morning comes and sunlight slowly creeps its way down the cellar steps. She is still lying in the pool of blood, looking up at me grinding her teeth, pleading with me to end the suffering.

  What can be done? The heart was not beating, so even ripping open her now-cold body would not solve the problem. She still lay there staring up at me, wondering why I’m so fucking cruel.

  Calling the authorities would not help the matter. They would put me away either way. They will come looking for her. My only hope is that maybe my own death will bring peace to the ones I have left in this tortured state of in-between.

  Climbing the steps, the warmth of the sunlight caresses my skin. In the kitchen I take a bottle of wine off the rack. The dark lavender color of the glass creates flashes of illumination across the walls as the rays filter through the liquid.

  I grab the corkscrew off the counter top and head back down to the darkness of the cellar. Popping the cork brings attention to my arrival. Samantha’s teeth start grinding, and she struggles to open her mouth with her bloated purple tongue that flops out.

  As I splash droplets of wine on her tongue, she laps it up, given only a moment of satisfaction. Taking a swig myself, I let the flavor coat my taste buds with the fruits and nectars that gave their life to live on in a taste for us to enjoy.

  The corkscrew enters my vein as I twist and shove it deeper into my arm. It probes deeper looking like something alive under my skin, creating ripples as it dives deeper in.

  Looking down, her eyes start to flicker and look inquisitive at me. I bend over, kiss her forehead, grab the corkscrew, and rip it from my flesh. Blood sprays from the open gape in my arm.

  The sound of the blood drips on the floor mixing with her pool of blood start to become a hollow sound and more distant as my vision begins to blur with the colors separating and creating a halo around the objects that are bathed in sunlight. My body stiffens and a bitter cold sets in and I black out…

  Fuck! It did not work! I am still here, and as I lay stiff on her chest, unable to move, I hear her grinding away at her teeth, pleading and wishing to die already.

  Entire story can be viewed at author's blog: http://talkaboutafterhours.blogspot.com/2010/10/something-quite-perverse.html

  Years later, grown from playing make-believe to playing games of sport, Jeff moved into the nice neighborhood of Maple Sap with his mother and father. Weary and very bored with the grueling task of carrying boxes and furniture into the new home, Jeff was later expected to assist his father in bringing items down into the crawlspace. Not terribly damp, th
e storage area had the smell of dirty, wet rocks that crunched when crawled through. The unflattering light of exposed bulbs that hung from the 4-foot ceiling revealed that the crawlspace reached through the entire area of the home. And in the orderly, meticulous habits of Father, Jeff was required to neatly store the items and boxes at the far wall.

  Upon returning from storing the last box, Jeff crawled over a 6 foot region of rocks that felt softer and produced the sound as if hollow. In Jeff's imagination, he believed that a hole had been dug in the ground, something was buried, and the rocks now covered whatever that mysterious object was. But why tell Father? What if it was something unique and valuable? Perhaps it was a treasure that Jeff could enjoy all to himself. He waited in a longing fantasy for a time when Mother and Father were gone so that he could return to the hollow region and uncover the mystery.

  It would be nearly the entire summer before Jeff found himself alone. Although Father worked throughout the week, Mother was temporarily laid off from her job as the company was experiencing a lag in growth. This enabled her to settle in the new home and get acquainted with the neighborhood.

  Finally, one Sunday afternoon, Mother and Father announced that they would go to the store and return in a couple of hours. They felt confident that Jeff could be left alone. Besides that, he would need to become accustomed to spending time alone as Mother would soon return to work.

  Every child knows in their stalking of parents that an occasional, quick return home for forgotten money or coupons is possible. Jeff sat in the living room chair, motionless for several minutes, until he could intuit that the embarking of Mother and Father was in solid motion. Then he excitedly ran into the garage where a shovel was obtained, then brought it into the kitchen closet where the crawlspace entry was located.

  Unflattering lights were flashed on. The boy crawled through the damp smell of crunchy rocks as he pulled the shovel along his journey until reaching the area of hollow ground. And after a few minutes of digging rocks, he uncovered something that was both intriguing and disappointing. It was an old, wooden trunk which definitely peaked his interest. But it was sealed with a padlock; what could he do now? Jeff pulled at the rusty lock and hit it with a shovel, but did not have the strength to break it open. What in the world could have been locked and buried beneath the floor of a crawlspace? Was there treasure? Was there a sack full of money hiding from a bank robbery?

  Father once lost the key to the tool shed back at the old house. And as Jeff recalled, a large cutting tool that Father called "bolt cutters" had been used to snap the padlock open. Yes, of course; the very bolt cutters that now hung on the wall of the garage could be used. It was a decision paying no mind to consequence as only he knew of the buried trunk.

  Jeff returned to the treasure chest with ever-growing sense of excitement. The padlock was snapped open just as easily as father had done back at the old tool shed. The lid of the old chest creaked when opened and revealed nothing more than salt! Why in the world would someone bury a locked up collection of salt? As Jeff pondered on his treasure hunt that seemed to be in vain, he suddenly heard the sound of the garage door opening outside! Mother and Father were home!

  Quickly slamming the trunk shut and throwing the tools down the hole, Jeff barely had enough time to crawl out of the storage area, up into the kitchen where he would replace the panel on the closet floor.

  "Jeff, the knees of your pants are dirty! And those are your good pants! I told you to wear old clothes when going outside to play."

  Like all mothers, Jeff's was unhappy to see her son's clothing soiled and stained, possibly ruined from the careless play in dirty areas. But little did she know he was on all fours, in the crawlspace, on a treasure hunt while she was gone. She sighed, "Well wash up for dinner."

  Dinner conversation between Mother and Father revealed that Mother fretted over a box of dishes that may have been accidentally brought into the crawlspace. She had always been this way, senselessly worrying over petty things. And Jeff silently agreed with Father that it was unnecessary to journey down into the crawlspace, in search of a supposed missing box of dishes. The conversation soon evolved into a small argument until Father had no choice but to give in.

  "Alright, I'll go down after dinner and give a look. I mean you would think we had enough plates as it is!"

  Jeff panicked! His father would surely find the hole he uncovered in the crawlspace and the old, wooden chest. "I, I'll go down and look for you, Dad."

  Mother and Father looked at each other in surprise of their remarkable child. Why would he offer to do something like that? Father only roared in pride, "Well, I believe our little Jeff is becoming a big man, now! He wants to help his old man out! Sure you can, Son!" And as always, Mother reminded him to change into his old pants before crawling around in that filthy crawlspace.

  ***

  Mother was striking up a friendship with some woman named Stephanie who lived across the street. In the summer months of living in the new neighborhood, Jeff had often observed the woman who had a way of displaying her legs in what appeared to be runner’s shorts. Children are more observant than we know. Although not bad-looking, Jeff found the woman to be peculiar in her appearing to worship her own legs. The neighbors across the way had a boy Jeff’s own age named Paul. But despite Mother and Father's persuasion, Jeff was the least bit interested in deliberate introductions. Parents just don't understand the code that kids follow. Only a geek would have gone out of his way to introduce himself as the new kid on the block.

  With Mother entering Stephanie's house and Father at work, Jeff saw it the perfect opportunity to, once again, sneak into the crawlspace for a closer examination of the treasure chest. There just had to be something buried beneath that salt! There was no point in locking it up and throwing it down into a hole to be covered by rocks.

  Carefully pulling back a mound of salt with the blade of the shovel, he soon learned that there was something, in fact, hiding underneath. More and more salt pulled back, his heart accelerated in joyful pleasure which would produce the most frightening smile one could ever see a child wear. He always wanted one of his own

  Interview with Tom Raimbault:

  1: What is the most productive time of the day for you to write?

  When I was a boy, I had this fun in which I would tell my mind, before going to sleep, that "we" should arise at 4am. This practice was often done in the summer months when I would gaze out my window with the telescope to observe Venus or the moon in the Eastern horizon, followed by the sunrise.

  But for a boy, the practice could only last two days. The first morning was charged with excitement. The second morning was more of an attempt to enjoy what was experienced on the previous. By the third morning, I was disappointed to have awoken at 8am.

  Another couple of days would go by, and I would resume the practice. And of course this practice went away after school resumed in the fall. But one school morning, my father got up at 3:30 in the morning to use the bathroom. On this particular morning, he would discover his son gazing out the window with a telescope.

  "Damn-it, Tommy; get back to bed! Don't you understand you can't function on 6 hours of sleep while in school?"

  It was a long time before I would enjoy my predawn moments of solitude with nature. But then in 8th grade, I was given a research paper writing assignment. My topic of choice: UFOs and alien abductions. I had much fun doing the research and writing about it. And on one Saturday morning, I awoke at 3:45am, brewed a couple cups of tea, and created an alien abduction survey in the predawn hours. The plan for that Saturday: I would knock on all the neighbors' doors and ask if they believe in extra-terrestrials -- maybe even find out if one of my neighbors had been abducted by aliens.

  By sunrise, my father walked past my bedroom to see his son writing at the desk. "What are you doing, Tommy?"

  "I'm creating a survey for my paper."

  "Survey? About what?"

  "I'm going to ask the neighbors if they've e
ver been abducted by aliens."

  My father was horrified as he called out to my mother. "Tommy's been up all night, writing about spacemen! And he's actually going to the neighbors' houses to ask if they've seen the spacemen!"

  I recall my parents believing that I had taken some sort of LSD the previous night and had yet to come down. I was exhausted-looking and actually laughed as my mother pointed out how ridiculous my Saturday plan was.

  I believe it was that experience which conditioned me to write in the predawn hours. Years later (all grown up and in my 30s) I began writing strange stories about horror and science fiction. I found that I really enjoyed waking up at 3am, doing some writings followed by a workout. To this very day I continue the practice -- that is when I'm not working 3rd shift.

  2: Do you start your projects writing with paper and pen or is it all on the computer?

  Outside of my earlier writings, short stories written as a boy (such as The Knife); everything has always begun in electronic form. Keep in mind that there was a major gap of about 20 years before I would resume my writings after the alien abduction research paper. Sure, I did assignments in high school and college; but none were enjoyed from that unusual frame of mind that I call "the vortex" which enables me to produce some unusual material.