Mason's Television

by Jon Athan

The television said, “That's because she was weak, Masey. She couldn't handle the pain. You probably even cracked her skull and damaged her brain. She went into shock, she lost too much blood... It was a shitty job to begin with. What were you thinking? If you wanted to scalp her, you should have used a knife.”

  “I know, I know. But, everyone uses knives. I thought the hammer would work. I mean, it almost did. I got like... a quarter of it, I think. Should I do the rest?”

  “What would be the point of that, kiddo? Do you even know what time it is? Your parents will be home any minute now. You have to start cleaning up.”

  Mason glanced over at his computer and frowned. His television was correct, his clock was ticking. Fun time is over, he thought.

  Mason asked, “What do I do? How do I get rid of her?”

  A huff emerged from the speakers. The TV said, “First, wrap a sheet around her head so she doesn't spill more blood. Then, shove her body under your bed. You don't have time to ditch her anywhere else. When you're done with that, clean the floor, then take a shower and change. It's that simple.”

  Mason took a deep breath and nodded – simple. He pulled his white pillowcase off of his pillow. He shoved Terri's mutilated head into the pillowcase, then he pushed her under the bed. He ran his fingers through his hair as he stared at the puddle of blood on the floor. The cleaning process was boring, but he couldn't risk getting caught. He ran off to grab towels from the bathroom, ready to clean the crime scene and return to his regularly-scheduled program.

  Chapter Ten

  Dinner

  Mason sat at the dinner table, prodding his meal with his fork – freshly baked macaroni and cheese. He took a bite, then he sipped his soda. He acted normal around his parents. He appeared normal, too. After murdering his classmate, he showered and changed into a fresh set of clothes – a t-shirt and black mesh shorts.

  The boy glanced over at his mother, who sat to his right. He smirked upon spotting the bruises on her wrists and under her eyes. The woman was beaten for interfering in his beating. The cycle of abuse – a clusterfuck of abuse, really – was amusing to the youngster. He didn't feel any sympathy for his mother. He didn't appreciate her sacrifice, either.

  Mason turned his attention to the man sitting at the other end of the table, directly across from him – his father.

  Bradley chewed loudly as he flicked his finger across his tablet computer. His wife, who slaved in the kitchen to prepare their meal, and his son were battered and bruised. Yet, the stern man was not bothered. He peacefully ate his macaroni and cheese while reading work emails and watching irrelevant videos.

  Isabel coughed, then she asked, “Bradley, is there anything you want to say?”

  Mouth full of food, Bradley glanced up at his wife, then at Mason. He grunted and nodded as he wiped his mouth with a napkin. He wasn't bothered by their bruises, but he still sought to be the man of the house. To stay at the top of his tower, he needed to keep control of his family. He was willing to appease them to do so.

  Bradley said, “Well, first of all, I'd like to apologize to you, Isabel. We had an argument, it got heated, and we did some regrettable things. Let's, um... Let's forget about that and move on.” He glanced at Mason and said, “Secondly, I want to apologize to you, kiddo. I hit you and I know that was wrong. Just like you, I need to learn to control myself. I hope you'll forgive me.”

  Mason gazed into his father's eyes. Although his father seemed sincere, he didn't care for his apology. He didn't ask for it so he didn't want it. He took another bite of his meal.

  Isabel asked, “Is there anything you want to say, Mason?”

  Mason sighed, irked by his mother's persistence. He said, “I forgive you.”

  “Anything else?”

  “I forgive you and I'm sorry for getting suspended. Okay?”

  Mason shook his head and shoved another forkful of macaroni into his mouth. Apologizing was weak and distasteful in his mind, but at least the food was delicious. Regardless, Bradley didn't really care about the sincerity behind Mason's forgiveness or apology. His own apology wasn't sincere so he didn't expect the same from his son.

  Isabel sighed and placed her fork down. She said, “Well, I'm glad we've... reconciled. Yes, I think that's correct. We're all on good terms, but I think I should apologize, too. I go out during the day, buy the groceries and spend time with the girls, but I should be at home. I'm absent when I should be taking care of everything here. I think... I think I'm partly responsible for Mason's behavior. And, I apologize for that. I should be helping you open doors for your future, I shouldn't be watching you close them.”

  Holding the fork near his mouth, Mason gazed at his mother with a furrowed brow. He huffed and chuckled, then he continued eating. At heart, he knew his mother's apology was also insincere. She was apologizing because his father 'knocked some sense' into her. He didn't ridicule her for her half-assed apology, though. He bit his tongue and let it go.

  Isabel continued, “I know it might sound a little dramatic, but I really think we should talk to a specialist. It's partially my fault that Mason is acting out, but I can't fix everything else. I think we should talk to, you know, some sort of child psychologist. I just want to make sure there's nothing wrong. Catching these sort of things early can save lives.”

  Mason said, “That's very dramatic, mom. There's nothing wrong with me, though. I'm just... experimenting. I'm sorry if I embarrass you, but that's all there is to it. It's no big deal.”

  “I still want you to talk to someone. You don't talk to me or your father, so maybe you'll talk to a psychologist – someone who knows the way kids work.”

  “Whatever. I'll do it. I don't care.”

  Compared to his peers, Mason was a sick young man – he knew that very well. He understood mainstream society's perception of him, too. If he went to a psychologist with his heart on his sleeve, he would be marked as mentally ill.

  He didn't mind that mark, either.

  However, he only appeased his mother to save his plans. Even if his mother convinced his father, she wouldn't be able to set-up an appointment for days. Mason's moves were calculated – cold and intelligent.

  Bradley scoffed, “That sounds like a stupid idea. I mean, there's nothing wrong with the boy. Look at him. He's eating his food like a regular kid. He got suspended, I get it, but that doesn't mean we should start ringing every alarm. It's just... It would be a waste of money.”

  Isabel responded, “I'm just saying: if there is something wrong with him, it will help if we catch it early. I've been reading about–”

  “There's nothing wrong with him, Isabel. Do you understand me? Bad behavior isn't some sort of disease. He's fine. You heard him yourself: he's just experimenting. He's a kid, so he's going to get into some trouble every now and then. Let him be.”

  “I'm not trying to argue. I just read–”

  “I don't care what you read about. As far as I know, you read into some scam. Don't be stupid. We're done talking about this.”

  As usual, Isabel retreated from the argument before it could erupt. With such a sensitive personality, she had to fight to stop herself from crying. She leaned back in her seat and stared at her food with downcast eyes. I do everything for this family, she thought, but I don't get any respect for it.

  Bradley turned his attention to Mason and asked, “Were you 'experimenting' today, Mason? It must have been pretty boring locked up here all day, right?” He took a bite of his macaroni and cheese. With a full mouth, he said, “That's what you get when you break the rules, kiddo. You don't get to go to a 'psychologist' and get out of trouble. No, the real world has consequences and you have to face them. It's for your own good. Otherwise, you'll end up like those bastards who shoot up movie theaters and pretend to be sick.”

  Mason chuckled as he stabbed the remaining food on his plate. I ditched school, I killed a girl, and I hid her body under my bed – he could hear himself confessing in his mind. The gloating made him feel powerful
. Of course, he followed his television's advice and kept a low-profile.

  Noticing his son's laughter, Bradley asked, “Is something funny, young man?”

  “No, no. I was just thinking about something I saw on TV.”

  “Oh, really? Well, maybe I should take your TV away.”

  Wide-eyed, Mason shouted, “No! Please!”

  Bradley furrowed his brow and cocked his head back, baffled by the outburst. He smirked and glanced at his wife, amused. Isabel stared back at him, but she was not laughing. The woman was worried and confused. The parents sought to handle the situation with different methods: mother wanted to 'fix' Mason with a psychologist, father wanted to use his addiction to TV to his advantage.

  Bradley leaned forward on the table and said, “Mason, I think you know your mother and I are tired of the bullshit. We want to see you do good. If you keep going down this path, I'm going to have to take your television away. I need to start seeing better grades. I need you to behave yourself in public.”

  Mason nodded and said, “Okay. I'll... I'll do better. No matter what, I'll do better.”

  With a smug smile plastered on his face, Bradley shrugged and said, “It's that easy, Isabel. I should quit my job and start writing articles to scam people like you 'cause I'm brilliant. Really, I'm just...”

  Mason stared at his father's flapping lips, but he didn't hear a word. The man spewed a garble of noise – nonsense. His mother responded to him, but he didn't hear it, either. She was speaking a foreign language called 'bullshit.' There was still some tension at the dinner table, but his parents didn't seem to notice it. They had moved on from their fifteen minutes of discussing family problems.

  The youngster continued eating as his parents chatted. He glared at his oblivious father, struggling to control his rage. You can't threaten me, he thought, I'll make you pay for that, you bastard.

  Yet, the boy remained quiet as he ate.

  Chapter Eleven

  Self-exploration

  Bushes and trees rustled with each gust of wind outside. The coughing of an old engine occasionally broke the silence on the street. In the house, floorboards creaked, pipes groaned, and parents snored. The nighttime racket was normal, though – except for the squelching sound coming from Mason's room.

  What could have caused such a peculiar sound?

  Mason sat at his desk, his eyes glued to his monitor and his right hand glued to his dick. While his parents slept, the psychopathic teenager spent the night masturbating – relieving stress after a hard day's work. He wasn't like other people, though. He developed and identified his own set of unique fetishes at a young age. He stopped stroking, scrolled down the page, then he continued tugging.

  Mason browsed through a collection of real gore. He viewed photographs and videos of murders, suicides, terrorist attacks, and fatal accidents. He enjoyed the pictures of poignant accidents – photos of women with half of their faces removed in car collisions. The beheadings were his favorite, though. The sheer brutality of the executions aroused him.

  The teenager leaned back in his seat, tilted his head back, and moaned. He couldn't become erect with Jessica, but he was on the verge of rapidly ejaculating with the photos of violence. He truly enjoyed his deviance.

  Before he could finish, his television said, “Put your cock away, Masey. Shouldn't you be planning something right now?”

  Mason sighed in frustration, then he said, “Damn, I was almost done. You're always cock-blocking me, man. Fuck...” He glanced over at his TV and said, “I'm taking the night off. I think everything is ready anyway. I just... I don't know, I just need to do it. You know? Everything is ready, I just need to finish it.”

  Mason scrolled lower on the page. He stopped upon spotting videos of Syrian soldiers being executed by a terrorist group. Sweat glistening on his brow, he continued to masturbate as he watched the videos.

  While Mason moaned and tugged, the TV said, “There are no nights off for people like you. You should know that by now, kiddo. Oh well, it looks like you're really excited. What the hell can I do to stop you?”

  Mason sneered and shook his head, then he said, “I can't jack off if you keep talking.”

  “You can't masturbate if I'm talking? Don't make me laugh, boy. There's a lot you can't do. You can't go through with your plans, you can't beat your old man to death, you can't fuck girls at parties... Come to think of it, you could be having sex right now, but you're yanking it instead. That's pathetic if you ask me.”

  It is pathetic, Mason thought. He sighed and stopped masturbating. He minimized the window, then he turned towards his television. His TV was around since he was a young boy. The TV practically raised him. So, he felt comfortable talking to his television about his problems. In a sense, his television was his psychologist.

  Mason said, “I couldn't fuck Jessica because I couldn't get hard. I liked her, you know, but I wasn't feeling it. There was something missing. I made some joke about liking girls covered in blood, but... maybe it wasn't a joke. I could have tested it out, but I couldn't beat her at the party. I had to keep a 'low profile,' remember?”

  “Yeah, I remember. That doesn't mean you can't test your theory now.”

  “What? What do you mean?”

  “There's a dead body under your bed, Masey. You can practice with her. I bet you'd relieve your stress faster with her corpse than with your hand.”

  Mason glanced over at his bed, reluctant. He whispered, “Terri?”

  “Yeah, Terri. She's not perfect, she's definitely not my type, but she can lend you a hand. If you're not going to work on your plans, you might as well accomplish something. Go on. Do it.”

  Mason inhaled deeply and nodded in agreement. He stood from his seat and glanced over at his door – it was locked and secured. He knelt down in front of his bed, as if he were about to pray before sleeping, then he reached under the frame. He groaned as he tugged on Terri's corpse. He dragged her towards the center of his room.

  As he stared at her head, which was covered in a bloody pillowcase, Mason stuttered, “Wha–What... What do I do?”

  The television said, “Follow your heart.”

  Mason stared at Terri's bare legs. He pushed her sundress up, revealing her white panties. With trembling hands, he pulled her panties off. He could feel his heart pounding as he stared at her crotch. Yet, he was not fully aroused. He needed more in order to proceed. He examined her body until his eyes stopped at her head.

  He had a unique set of fetishes.

  He pulled the pillowcase off of her head. Her entire face was covered in blood. Her hair was dyed red by the blood, too. Her forehead was horribly mutilated by the powerful strikes. Her bloodied skull could be seen from the gap on her scalp. Her detached scalp dangled back towards the floor, blood dropping from the skin and hair.

  Mason was immediately aroused by the bloody sight. Filled with excitement, he pushed Terri's legs aside and sat on his knees in front of her, then he thrust into her. She was already cold and dry, though. He reached forward with his right hand and touched her exposed skull, drenching his fingers in her blood.

  He rubbed the blood on his penis, then he penetrated her again. He raped the corpse of his classmate in the most deviant fashion – using her blood as lubricant. Humping like a jackrabbit, he finished within forty-five seconds. His body stiffened and he held his breath as he ejaculated. He leaned forward and nuzzled Terri's neck as he caught his breath.

  He glanced over at his television and asked, “Can... Can a dead body get pregnant?”

  The TV asked, “Does it matter?” A devious chuckle emerged from the speakers. The TV said, “Even if she gets pregnant, it wouldn't even become a fetus. You have nothing to worry about, kiddo.”

  “So, can I... can I go again?”

  “Why are you askin' me? I'm just your TV. I can't stop you. Knock yourself out, champ.”

  Mason nervously smiled as he gazed into Terri's hollow eyes. He turned her onto her stomach and stared at her
bare ass. He stroked himself, then he penetrated her again. He couldn't control himself. He embraced his deviance with open arms. As soon as round two ended, he went in for another. He continued to rape the corpse for hours...

  ***

  Mason fell onto his bed and stared at the ceiling, out of breath. He was exhausted due to the seemingly endless sex session. He took off his shirt, then he dabbed the sweat on his chest and neck. He wiped the sweat from his brow, too. He was still trying to make sense of the situation. I lost my virginity to a dead girl – it was a difficult fact to admit in civilized society. His friends surely wouldn't understand. He wasn't friends with Ted Bundy after all.

  The teenager turned over on his bed and stared at his television. The TV was off, but he felt as if he were staring into the eyes of a person – a human.

  The TV asked, “Anything on your mind, kiddo?” Mason remained silent. The TV asked, “Was it the body? Do you feel... dirty?”

  Mason responded, “No, it's not that. I mean, I can't show off about it so that sucks, but it's not that.”

  “What is it, Masey? What's the matter?”

  “I feel... small.”

  The TV joked, “Well, that's nothing to feel glum about. There are pills you can take for that, champ.”

  “No, no. I don't mean small like that. I mean... I don't know how to explain it, really. I just feel small, like a little bug that anyone can crush. I don't want to feel like that. In my dreams, I'm big. That's what I want in real life, too. I want to be big. I want to be huge!”

  “Like a giant? A basketball player? A TV star's fake ass?”

  “No, no, no. You're not listening.”

  He stared at his television and sighed in disappointment. He had trouble conveying his emotions. He was an apathetic teenager who never learned to properly socialize. As a neglected child, television taught him more lessons than his own parents.

  Mason said, “I want to be bigger than any celebrity out there. I don't want millions of followers on Instagram. I don't want thousands of friends on Facebook. I don't want fans or anything like that. I don't want to be someone people like. I want to be the person everyone hates. You understand me? I don't want to be a dream. I want to be the nightmare that never goes away.”