by Jon Athan
“It didn't sound like it, either. What happened down there, Masey? What did your parents do this time?”
Mason turned over on his bed again, anxious. He shook his head as he sniffled. The boy could barely breathe through his bruised nose. He didn't mind the abuse from his father. He only wished he could hit him back.
As he vacantly stared at the ceiling, Mason said, “It was the same old shit. My dad got pissed, he hit me, then he hit my mom. You know how it is. I hate them – both of them.”
“I hate them, too, Masey. Your enemies are my enemies. Remember that. I'll always be by your side, even when those bastards abandon you. Everywhere you go, I'll be there.”
“I know. Thanks for everything.”
The bedroom became silent. Mason thought about his violent actions. Three murders, he thought, I could have done more. Through the speakers, his television grunted and coughed – as if the inanimate object were trying to break the awkward silence.
The TV said, “You know, Mason, I think you should start thinking about the worst that can happen. You understand me? It's been a few days since you killed that boy near the train tracks. You killed that girl yesterday and now you've killed your teacher. They're going to connect the pieces very soon. You understand that, don't you?”
“I don't care.”
“You should. Three murders... You realize you haven't done enough, right? You'll be on CNN or Fox News for a few minutes, but that's it – a few minutes. No one is going to be calling you in jail for an interview. No one is going to report about your execution or life sentence. No one will join a cult dedicated to your life. They'll care for your fifteen minutes of fame, then they'll forget about you. I mean, let's be honest with ourselves here, Masey. You killed some old teacher, a high school student, and some little Mexican kid.”
“So?”
Surprised, the TV repeated, “So?” The TV explained, “Mexican kids aren't 'in' right now, kiddo. I don't think I've ever seen them 'in.' No one gives a crap about them. I mean, have you ever seen a march or a protest after a Mexican was killed? No. You should have killed a black or white kid. They're hot right now. If you did that, it wouldn't matter if you got caught tonight or tomorrow. The media would have been all over it.”
Mason sighed, then he said, “I know. I get it. I'm just tired. I think I can squeeze a few more days out of this, right? It's not like they'll keep me in jail forever. My mom and dad will bail me out, won't they?”
Again, silence dominated the bedroom. A sinister cackle emerged from the speakers, sonorous and distorted. Mason glanced at the television with a furrowed brow. He huffed and shook his head, realizing the TV was laughing at him.
The television said, “I'm telling you: you're out of time. You're going to have to do something bigger if you want to be heard across the world. If you want to haunt every kid, every parent, you're going to have to make some noise. Fifteen minutes of fame is decent. You should be aiming for fifteen years, though. No, fuck that. You should be aiming for fifteen centuries. Put your name in the history books next to the real monsters. Make them remember your name for eternity.”
Mason nodded, determined. He sat at the edge of his bed, his elbows on his knees and his chin on his fists. He was exhausted after killing three people in less than a week. He was killing faster than the average serial killer after all. However, visions of infamy caught his full attention.
The young killer said, “I told you: I'm working on something big. I wasn't lying.”
“I know you haven't been lying to me. I just don't know if you're ever going to be ready to move forward.”
Confident, Mason said, “I'm ready.”
With a pinch of doubt, the TV asked, “Really? Can you finally step forward and make history?”
Mason clenched his jaw and hesitated. He had been planning a special event for months, but he always pushed it off. He wanted infamy, he wanted to be in the history books, but he also cherished his life. His life would be in danger if he moved forward.
Was fame worth a premature death?
Frustrated by the child's reluctance, the TV angrily said, “You're out of time, Mason. What don't you understand about that? You either do it tomorrow or you forget about the infamy. You hear me?”
Mason grunted and groaned as he shook his head, frustrated. He didn't have many options on the table. A sigh emerged from the speakers.
The TV said, “Come over here, Masey. Sit down in front of me. It'll be just like the good ol' days. Come on, hurry up.”
Mason reluctantly shambled towards the center of his room. He fell to his knees in front of his dresser and stared up at his television. Nostalgia – the sensation warmed his cold heart. Just as his television predicted, he felt like a child eating cereal and watching Saturday morning cartoons. The doubt in his mind was whisked away.
The TV said, “You will do it tomorrow, Mason. I know what you've been planning. I know the way you think. It's a great plan, champ. It's exactly what you need to make history.”
“You–You think so?” Mason stuttered.
“Yes. It's simple but brilliant. It's been done before, but you can do it better. History is on your side. You can learn from the mistakes of the past. Scoot up a little, Mason. Let me tell you the three basic steps to every event like this. You might not like the last one, but they're all important. Are you listening?”
As if he were hypnotized, Mason vacantly stared at the TV and said, “Yes...”
Chapter Sixteen
Step One
Birds chirped, dogs barked, engines purred, and kids chattered outside. A gust of wind carried the scent of breakfast through the window. The early birds were starting the day, getting ready for school and heading to work.
The morning was peaceful.
Mason lay in bed and stared at the ceiling, the warm sunshine caressing his face. He spent the night devising a sinister plan with his television. He tried to sleep, but he was too excited. So, the boy stayed awake all night – waiting for the start of his plan, like a sprinter waiting to hear a starting pistol.
I will be famous, he thought, no, I will be infamous. Stiff and quiet, he sat up on the corner of his bed. He used his senses to examine the house. He couldn't smell breakfast from the kitchen and he could hear his father's snoring in the master bedroom. His parents weren't awake yet.
The TV whispered, “Now's your chance, kiddo. Make us proud.”
Mason took a deep breath and nodded. He tiptoed out of his room. He glanced down the hall to his right – the master bedroom was still closed. Avoiding the creaky steps, he crept down the stairs. As expected, the kitchen and living room were empty. He sighed in relief, then he walked down a hall next to the kitchen. The boy found himself in the garage.
He didn't care about the vehicles – expensive luxury SUVs – stored in the garage. He considered stealing one for the main event, but he didn't want to draw more attention to himself. Instead, he grabbed a key ring from a rack next to the door, then he marched to a large storage cabinet at the other end of the room.
Mason unlocked the cabinet and whispered, “No turning back... This is it.”
He stood on his tiptoes and blindly reached for the top shelf of the cabinet. His eyes widened upon feeling a wide black case. He pulled the case off of the shelf, then he marveled at the container – a pistol case. The single-pistol case did not have a lock, either.
The teenager took another deep breath as he fell to his knees. He opened the case and retrieved the handgun from the container. He wasn't an expert with guns. However, he spent time shooting with his father, he practiced with BB guns, and he researched the weapons on the internet.
He grabbed one of the magazines from the container – it was already loaded with fifteen cartridges. He inserted the magazine into the bottom of the pistol, then he slid it in until he heard a click. So far, so good, he thought, almost done.
He gripped the serrated part of the pistol's slide, then he pulled the slide back until it stopped. H
e released his grip, which caused the slide to move forward. A bullet was loaded into the barrel. The pistol was ready to fire.
Mason nervously chuckled as he twirled his wrist and examined the firearm. He trembled with excitement, unable to contain himself. He took the other loaded magazine from the container and shoved it into his pajama bottom's pocket.
He closed the pistol case, then he returned the container to its rightful place. He closed the cabinet, then he returned the key ring to the rack. He stood in the doorway and took one final glance around. The garage was normal – everything in the right place.
With the pistol hidden behind his back, Mason walked down the hall. The living room and kitchen were still empty. He hurried up the stairs, skipping a step with each lunge, then he slipped into his bedroom. He locked his door and sighed in relief.
As he walked towards the center of the room, Mason said, “I did it.” He smiled as he held the pistol over his shoulder. He said, “I got the gun. It's loaded and everything, man. I did it.”
The TV enthusiastically said, “Attaboy, Masey! You have just initiated the first step in the process. Now, you might be having second thoughts, cold feet or whatnot, but you can't give in. Don't even think about it 'cause it'll just fuck you up. There's no turning back. You understand that, right?”
Mason's smile was wiped from his face. He lowered the gun and dug his fingers into his hair, anxious. He had killed before, young and old, but he had never embarked on such a sinister adventure.
The TV said, “Just take a few deep breaths, Mason. Everything is going to be fine. Relax.”
Mason inhaled deeply, then he said, “You're right. I just... I just have to do it. I just have to wait a few minutes, then I... I have to do it.” He sat at the edge of his bed and hid the pistol under his pillow. He asked, “Do you think it'll work?”
“Of course it's going to work. Just remember what we talked about. Focus, kiddo. That's all you need – focus.”
Mason absently stared at the television, hypnotized. The morning racket outside – obnoxious kids, loud dogs, and a garbage truck – became muffled. Time did not slow down, though. In fact, time actually sped up in his bedroom. Minutes felt like seconds. One, two, three... ten minutes – a banging sound disrupted the tranquility.
The murderous teenager glanced over at his door. He could hear a set of lumbering footsteps in the hallway. Dad, he thought. As the stairs creaked and howled, another set of steps emerged in the hall. The steps were slow and calculated. Judging from the feminine moan, he concluded his mother was following his father.
Mason leaned forward and whispered, “Should I go now?”
The TV said, “No. Wait until she calls you for breakfast in five, maybe ten minutes. Wait until then.”
Mason nodded in agreement. He grabbed the pistol from under the pillow. He stared down at the finely-crafted weapon, examining every nook and cranny on the gun. He placed his finger on the trigger. He didn't squeeze the trigger, but he could still hear gunshots and weeping in his head – a premonition of violence.
“Now, Mason, now,” the TV said.
Mason erratically blinked and coughed as he glanced over at the door. Ten minutes passed in the blink of an eye.
“Mason, come get something to eat!” Isabel shouted as she banged on the wall.
Pistol in hand, Mason stood from his bed and glanced over at his TV. He said, “I guess I should... I don't know, I guess we should start saying our goodbyes, right? Just in case?”
The TV responded, “Goodbye, kiddo. You're going to do great. I know it.”
“Goodbye. I... I love you.”
“I love you, too, Masey.”
Mason smiled, encouraged. He walked out of his bedroom, ready to complete the first step in his diabolical plan.
As the boy strolled down the stairs, the TV shouted, “You'll be all over me when this is over, Masey!”
***
Mason breathed deeply as he trudged towards the kitchen, dragging his feet as if he were being walked to his execution. He stood in the archway and examined the room. His mother stood in front of the stove, making scrambled eggs. His father sat at the kitchen table, sipping his coffee and browsing his tablet computer.
Despite the constant fighting throughout the week, the morning felt regular. It was a morning like the day before and the day after.
As his mother glanced over her shoulder, Mason hid the handgun behind the small of his back. He cracked a smile and tried to act normal.
A bruise on her right eye and a cut on her bottom lip, Isabel smiled and asked, “What are you doing over there, Mason? Come on, sit down.” Mason did not move. As she scrambled the eggs, the battered housewife asked, “What will it be today? Huh? You going to have cereal again or will you finally have some eggs and bacon? Hmm?”
Mason swallowed the lump in his throat, then he said, “I'll... I'll have some eggs and bacon this time, mom.”
Isabel glanced back at Mason, surprised by his response. She stared back at her son with a raised brow, carefully examining his condition. Is he sick?–she thought. Despite the doubt, the woman couldn't help but smile. She found a glimmer of hope in her son. She endured beating after beating for Mason and it finally seemed to affect him.
Teary-eyed, Isabel said, “Okay. Just give me a minute, okay? It's almost ready. I'll get some orange juice for you. Go ahead and sit down.” She turned and grabbed a plate from the cupboard, her hands trembling with excitement. She said, “I think we... we really have a chance at fixing this family. We can forgive each other and we can move forward. You were right, Brad. We don't need doctors to be happy. Everything's going to be okay.”
Ignoring his wife's words, Bradley nodded and said, “Yeah...”
“We should go out to celebrate. Or, I don't know, maybe we should celebrate here. We can bring out a board game, watch a movie, or...”
Like his father, Mason ignored his mother's words. Her voice was muffled, her figure was blurred. The boy solely focused on his dad. His breathing intensified as he glared at him from the archway. All of the beatings he endured flashed in his mind. His barefoot thudded on the tile flooring as he took his first step towards his father.
The killer stopped behind him, then he slowly lifted his right arm. He aimed the handgun at the back of his father's head, the muzzle caressing his stray hairs. His hand was surprisingly steady, his mind was clear.
As Bradley sipped his coffee, Mason pulled the trigger. The sonorous gunshot echoed through the house. The bullet entered the back of his head and exited through his nose. The bullet struck the mug, which caused the cup to shatter. A wave of black coffee and shards from the mug fell to the table, but the man still held the handle. His nose split down the middle, Bradley fell forward and crashed onto the tabletop – dead.
Isabel held her hands over her mouth as she stared at the kitchen table, shocked. A streak of blood covered the entire width of the table. A puddle of blood formed under Bradley's head, blending with the coffee. Bits of brain and flesh floated in the crimson liquid. The hole on the back of his head was smaller than the exit wound, but blood still spewed from the puny crater. The blood soaked his wavy hair.
Struggling to comprehend the situation, Isabel stammered, “Wh–Wh–What... What... What did you...” She held her hand over her brow as her legs wobbled. She whispered, “No... No, no, no. This... This can't be happening.”
Mason lowered the gun and said, “I'm not going to shoot you, mom. It would be too loud. The neighbors, they can't hear this.”
“Wha–What do you mean? What... What's wrong with you? Oh, God, why did you do this, Mason?”
“I had to do it, but I don't have to do the same thing to you. It's... useless. He was too strong for me, but no one is stronger than a bullet. He didn't get the chance to learn that lesson. It's not like it matters. It's–”
“What are you saying, Mason?! What have you done?!” Isabel yelled, frustrated.
She dug her fingers into her hair and le
aned back on the counter, disoriented by the act of violence. She stared at her son with wide, zany eyes. She was mystified by his erratic behavior. She couldn't identify a logical motive for his actions. Was he trying to protect me from him?–she thought.
Isabel grimaced and asked, “Why did you do this? Why?”
Mason said, “I had to shoot him so he wouldn't fight me. I don't need to use a gun on you. You're weak. You're pathetic. Accept it and make it easy for us.”
“Make what easy for you?”
“Your death.”
The boy shoved the handgun into his pocket, then he stepped forward.
***
Shocked, Isabel staggered to her left as Mason marched around the table. She opened her mouth to scream, but she could only croak and moan. The severity of the attack wiped her vocabulary. She slipped on the linoleum flooring and landed near the sink.
Mason stood over Isabel. He leaned down and struck his mother – a backhanded slap to her battered face. He grabbed a fistful of her hair and yanked her head back. He slammed her head on the neighboring cupboard.
The woman yelped as she pulled away from her son's powerful grip. She shuddered upon feeling a tingling sensation on her dome. Blood leaked from her head and streamed across her brow. She turned towards her son and gasped.
Tresses protruding from his clenched fist, Mason had torn a chunk of her hair from her head. He was not bothered by the fact, either. The hair spiraled to the floor as he loosened his grip. He stepped forward, then he punted his mother's stomach.
Isabel coughed and grunted – the kick took the air out of her. She grimaced as another kick landed on her chest, her breasts jiggling like durable water balloons. She dodged the third kick, causing Mason to damage the cupboard door and hurt his own foot.
Isabel shouted, “Stop!”
She staggered to her feet and pushed Mason towards the dinner table. Before she could restrain him, her son hit her with a closed fist. Dazed, she teetered back to the counters near the stove. She glanced at a knife block on the counter. Stab him, she thought, kill him. She shook her head and whimpered. The mere thought of killing her own son caused her to weep.
