Something Terrible

by Wrath James White

  “Last words?”

  Part of him wanted to stay silent. Die wordlessly. It wouldn’t matter in the end. In such a short time, he acquired vast knowledge and lost great wisdom. He only wanted to sleep a dreamless sleep. “Even if I was who I thought I was, there is nothing I could do to save the people I love. It would be difficult for even the one person who is awake in this sleeping world. We are a ruined kind. And there is nothing we can do about it. I should have known that. I should have just lived my life, caring for the person I loved without obsessing over external circumstance. At least I would have been happy. At least he would have been happy. That is all.”

  Kenneth watched as the tube in his left arm filled with liquid, the sedative. He peered through the glass separating him from the vengeful family members watching his death. Most had stopped crying; it was the first time they’d seen someone die. A temporary fix. The least he could provide. He felt drowsy; his eyelids drooped halfway shut. Before he slipped into his final sleep, he saw one distinct face in the crowd: A massive black man in a pressed suit. He smiled at Kenneth, a silver lamb necklace hanging from his neck, and mouthed the words, It’s not over.

  Kenneth was ripped from his drowsiness. Every muscle in his body tensed and then locked into place. He tried to move but was paralyzed. He focused on turning his head, from tearing his eyes from the man sitting in the crowd, but couldn’t. He couldn’t even force his own eyelids down. That would be his last image, his final reminder never to return to this damned world. Through his unblinking stare, his eyes began to tear up, and Kenneth found it a blessing as it obscured his vision of the man in the suit. But when the tears fell, it left lines of red down his cheeks. Kenneth felt a stinging sensation in his esophagus, his acid reflux. Vomit wretched its way upward to his clenched jaw, a dam blocking the putrid river. He couldn’t open his mouth and gagged on his own fluids, his body beginning to writhe uncontrollably as he drowned. A frothy red dribbled from the corners of his mouth, first slowly, and then it spewed as the pressure pried through his locked jaw.

  “What’s going on?” the doctor screamed. “We need to help him!” He waved his hands before Kenneth’s eyes, searching for a response. “He’s suffering! I don’t know what to do!”

  “Let him squirm.” A cop stood at the one entrance to the room. “Criminals like him deserve the cruelest form of death.” He spit on the floor.

  Twin streams of blood fell from Kenneth’s nose. Bubbles formed at his nostrils in sync with his laboring lungs, his chest rising and falling in great differences. The restraints across his body prevented him from breathing in fully. His earlobes were stained red from the constant dribble from the canals, like wearing ruby earrings. The front of his prison uniform was stained, a red blemish over his crotch, puddles forming at the bottom of his pant legs.

  “Someone’s tampered with the machine!” the doctor cried, checking the fluid pump attaching the tubes to Kenneth’s arms. He rushed to the cop, who smiled at the entire scene. “Wipe that stupid grin off your face and shoot the man. He can’t go out like this. Nobody should.”

  “No.”

  “Fucking shoot him!”

  The officer pulled out his pistol with a sigh, nudging the doctor out of the way with the butt. “Fine, punk.” He closed an eye and peered through the crosshairs, leveling the barrel on Kenneth’s head, and pulled the trigger. The shot went low. It tore through his Adam’s apple without taking out any major arteries. Just another bloody gash, adding to his pain.

  “Are you fucking kidding me?!” The doctor threw his hands in the air. “You’re ten feet away! Who the hell hires these guys?” He pointed at Kenneth’s head. “Shoot him again, now!”

  “I can’t! The gun’s jammed!” The officer held the gun between his legs, fumbling with the metal frame.

  Kenneth focused on the man in the crowd. Leave and never come back. The man exaggerated the motions as he mouthed the words.

  “Christ!” The doctor took a scalpel from off the table and ran up to the bleeding patient. “I’ve never killed. I’m sorry.” Tears built up in his eyes and then fell when he brought the blade down on Kenneth’s head. It cut deep, but he wanted no mistakes. He tore it from his skull and drove it down again, deeper, again, deeper, again, deeper, digging into his brain long after he had died.

  ***

  The doctor dropped the scalpel and then collapsed to his knees in front of Kenneth, kneeling in the blood. He sluggishly looked up at the man he had just killed. Kenneth’s neck had fallen limp, and, drooping forward, he seemed to look down at his savior with lifeless eyes.

  The doctor wiped the tears from his eyes, and gazing up, the blinding industrial hospital light created a radiant corona around the dead man’s head.

  FALLEN APPLE

  Sultan Z. White

  “Open the fucking door.”

  I hesitated, fingers around the knob, as I caught the scent of alcohol on my father’s breath, so strong it seeped through the thick cedar. Father banged on the door with his first row of knuckles, not knocks but punches. I slowly unlocked the door, standing on my toes to reach the top deadbolt and working down, because I knew that if I waited until my father was finally able to fumble the key into the lock it would make the beating worse. I opened the door, demolishing the barrier between us, revealing my father, ripe with the odor of a night of drowned sorrows. The stench of booze hit me hard, with a fist behind it.

  I fell to the floor, my bloody nose dripping down my face, like the putrid fluid that saturated Father’s piss-stained jeans. Father got completely shit-faced that night at the local bar; he had been kicked out by the owner and stumbled home muttering obscenities at mannequins in shop windows. I knew that tonight would be bad. I curled up into a ball, desperately trying to soften the ceaseless blows. Some tiny twisted thought told me to forgive Father, that he’s only doing this because Mom died, that he only became an alcoholic to cope with the longing. But as I caught sight of Father’s bulge, an erection straining against the zipper in his pants, getting harder with every strike to the side of my temple, I knew Dad didn’t actually miss Mom but was pissed off that he hadn’t gotten laid in more than a year. That’s when I knew I’d never forgive him. That’s when I knew I’d never give Father the satisfaction of taking out his sexual frustration through vicious drunken abuse.

  ***

  The bus screeched to a stop, its brakes wailing as it decelerated the metal mass, crying out for the under-funded public transport in this area of town. I stepped onto the sidewalk, endless desert across the street; behind me a flickering neon sign, Master Toddy’s Muay Thai, struggled to stay lit. I was on the outskirts of Las Vegas. I walked toward the gym, less than a quarter-mile, yet had to ignore a drug dealer asking, “Hey, wanna hit?” and a block later a hooker asking almost the same question: “Hey, baby, wanna hit?” this time accompanied with the flash of a loose and overused pussy. I considered heading back home to the nice suburban area of Vegas, but that would be heading back to more nights of helpless assault. By the time I grabbed the door handle to the gym, wet with who-knows-what, I had already made up my mind.

  “Four hundred a month,” the short man said. I wasn’t sure if I heard him correctly, maybe it was the accent. A thick Thai accent, with extraneous syllables and drawn-out vowels.

  “Four hundred?”

  “Yes.”

  I considered. Where could I get that kind of money? I figured I could steal it from Dad; he’d be too wasted most of the time to realize anything was missing. “Deal.”

  “Today’s your first day. Do you have workout clothes?”

  I was taken off guard. The short Thai man was already nudging me toward the mats. “Um, no.”

  “Then buy.” The short man pointed me toward a dinky equipment store in the corner of the gym.

  Looking at a pair of Muay-Thai shorts, the price tag hanging from the waistband displaying its ridiculous amount, I started to fume. This guy’s trying to rip me off because I’m a kid. But as I approa
ched the hanging Muay Thai shorts, gloves, and shin pads, I realized the posters covering the walls. The short man was Master Toddy, just much older than in the pictures. I calmed down and did as he said.

  The going was tough. I (well, Father) would be paying $400 a month for thorough ass-kickings. But unlike the free ones I received at home, I was being trained how to fight back. I’d be exhausted the entire bus ride home, always getting a row to myself as the smell of sweat repulsed any possible seat-partners. Drifting in and out of consciousness I dreamt that my sparring-mates were my father, finally getting a chance to defend myself against the onslaught. I learned the movements of the ancient Thai art. “The deadly art of eight limbs”: two fists, two knees, two elbows, two shins. My bruises came in pairs as well, pouring out my fury on hanging leather bags until the skin on my knuckles thinned, the skin on my shins and my knees and my elbows thinned. No more bruises from Dad, his beatings waned as I gained weight and muscle. I was stronger and more intimidating. No longer was I approached by the whore on the street corner or the drug dealer nearby. For an entire year, everything went smoothly.

  I felt strong walking home. My trips home from the gym were swift, eager to rest for the next day of training. I remember when I’d drag my feet the entire walk home from school, unsure of whether or not my father was falling into an oblivion of Bud Light. As I held the doorknob, I noted my firm grip and the veins surging under the skin in my forearms. I opened the door—

  “You’ve been stealing my money.” My father punctuated his sentence with a beer-induced belch.

  And I instantly became the scared child of my past.

  He chucked a bottle at me, which exploded into shards against the wall near my head. Some pieces sliced into my cheek, drawing blood. He ran toward me as I held my palm to my face to stop the bleeding. However, instead of goring me into the wall like he had done before, I took a step back and front-kicked him in the chin. He landed on his back, the glass on the floor digging into his flesh.

  “I’m not taking your shit anymore, Joe.”

  My dad tried standing, propping up onto his elbows, but I kicked him in the forehead and his head snapped back to the floor. I mounted him, my knees touching the floor on each side of his body.

  “Son, I’m so sorry.”

  “No you aren’t. That’s what you’d say whenever Mom threatened to leave you, but you never meant it. You’d beat her again within the next week.” I punched him in the nose, causing the back of his head to smack the floor. It was so satisfying. Master Toddy always taught to stop fighting once you’ve disabled your attacker, but the beating my dad was about to receive was long overdue. And it was way too satisfying to stop.

  I continued striking him, left, right, left, right, left, right long after he had lost consciousness. His loose chin slopped to and fro with each hit. Puke dribbled out of the corner of his mouth. The scent of liquor enraged me even more. I kept punching his limp body until my arms grew tired.

  I rolled over to the hardwood floor, panting hard, and I looked at my still father. I focused on his chest, watching for the up and down oscillation of breath. There was none.

  “Dad?” I crawled to his side. “Dad? Dad, wake up!” I shook him by his shoulders. He did not wake up. I stood up and backed against the wall, feeling the hot sensation of tears behind my eyes. I fought them back, forcing myself not to look at my dead father. For a full minute I was fine, but when I felt the erection pulsating in my jeans, I fell to the ground, ashamed, salty tears pouring from my eyes.

  I was fourteen and there were no witnesses. I claimed I acted in self-defense, yet I always thought back on the pleasure I took from beating my father. The alcohol in his system and testimonies from neighbors helped paint dear old dad as the villain.

  Dad would always try to haunt me. Therapy never worked, so for the next three years I defeated the haunting the same way I had when he was living: with Muay Thai. As the years rolled by, the memory of Dad became less scary and more exhilarating, almost erotic in a way. I looked forward to when he’d make his next appearance—always in the ring—so I could relive the day when I killed him. Nothing was better than a day’s work of beating back the past. I became a local favorite in the amateur kickboxing scene.

  Tonight was my bout for the amateur title. The venue was Master Toddy’s gym, one last match-up at home court before I went professional. The crowd was amped, cheering and clapping. I knew I had to give them a show.

  My opponent stood across from me, baring his teeth and beating his chest with leather-bound hands. The audience yelled louder as they saw him display his masculinity, as they saw the athlete ready to fight, but I grew quiet, with a steady fury thriving within me. Because I saw someone different. I saw Joe, my father, ready to abuse me again. The bell rang and we warriors rushed to the center to battle. The title match was scheduled for five rounds, unlike the three for under-card bouts, but I didn’t expect it to go past one. I always knocked out my competitor before then.

  This guy was a different story. He manhandled me for the first four rounds as if he were a father teaching his son a lesson. And I would stand for none of that. The final round began; I ran across the ring and jump-kneed the roaring kickboxer in the face. The crowd stood up and cheered, louder than ever. I landed on the balls of my feet in front of him, grabbed the back of his headgear, and kneed him in the face again and again and again. This was technically illegal in amateur matches, but the referees usually let it slide because the spectators loved it. However, the fanatic cheers morphed into boos as the members of the crowd realized I wouldn’t stop. I repeatedly kneed him in the face, rearranging his features. The audience started throwing their concessions into the ring, showing their disapproval at the sight of the man with a crimson river flowing from his mouth and nose. But what I saw was my drunkard father and his dislocated chin spilling out alcoholic vomit.

  The referee pushed me in the corner; the boos of the crowd filled my ears and mind. I roundhouse kicked the referee in the solar plexus. He fell to the floor gasping for air, making wretched croaking sounds. Silence descended upon the entire gym.

  I hopped over the ropes and trudged through the crowd; every person made sure to get out of my way. No one made a sound. I walked directly to the temporary bar in the corner of the gym and took a forty off the rack. I promised myself I’d never drink, but fuck it. I downed it right in front of the bartender without buying. He didn’t say a word. Then I exited the gym, making sure to slam the door.

  ***

  He stomped his way toward the bus station, until he caught a familiar sight.

  “I’m not even gonna bother, you always ignore me anyways,” the same prostitute from his first visit to the gym said, rolling her eyes and batting her long fake eyelashes.

  But Tony wasn’t the frightened little boy he once was. This time he went directly to her. “No, slut,” he spat through clenched teeth as he took a handful of her weave and directed her to the alley behind the gym.

  Tony scrambled to pull down his pants, one hand holding the struggling hooker against a dark-green dumpster, the other fidgeting with his waistband. He forced her head down so that she was doubled over, her mini-skirt riding up her stomach on its own, exposing her panty-less privates. Tony guided his erect cock inside her, grabbed hold of a bony hip with his right hand, left hand still grasping her weave, and began pounding relentlessly, dulling his anger with each thrust. The top of the prostitute’s head clanged into the metal dumpster at a quickening pace. She gritted her teeth and held in her screams, every once in a while lowly squealing if the tip of her rapist’s dick happened to collide with her cervix. Not even a scream. As if she were used to this kind of treatment. The everyday life of a whore in North Las Vegas.

  Tony fucked faster and faster, a tingling sensation shooting up his spine, and he knew he was close to coming. He tore his eyes from the pimpled back of the whore and tilted his head back to the sky, letting the ecstasy drown away his rage.

  But when he l
ooked back down he saw nothing but horror. He saw his mother. He saw Dad pinning Mom to a filthy dumpster, screwing her until she cried, mascara dripping from her cheeks.

  Tony reeled back on his heels just as he came, wetting the hooker’s thighs with his jizz. A look of terror was plastered across his face as he gazed upon what he had done. His mother lay before him, huddled against the metal in a pile of garbage, shaking, sobbing. Tony reached forward to apologize, but she kicked at him. Tony knew what he was. Tony had become the very man he despised. He had become his father.

  AMBER ALERT

  Wrath James White

  Prologue

  Martin James had never experienced racism before, not until Maria left him, but he’d read about it. He’d studied African American history at Harvard. There he’d learned all about the trans-Atlantic Slave Trade, the Civil Rights Movement, how the “War on Drugs” had become a war on the young black male, and a new term, at least for him, “institutionalized racism.” His black studies professor had even shown him footage of Civil Rights marchers being beaten and attacked with dogs and fire hoses and then compared and contrasted that with footage of Rodney King being beaten by the LAPD. Martin had gotten angry. He’d joined several activist groups on campus and became one of the loudest voices against racial injustice, attacking it wherever he saw it or imagined he’d seen it. But he’d often felt like a fraud.

  Martin’s only experience of African American culture came from what he read in books and saw on campus. He’d grown up in comfort and privilege in a predominantly white upper class neighborhood in Las Vegas. His adopted parents were both white and relatively affluent, each making well over a quarter of a million a year. He’d gone to the best schools. In fact, it was attending Andover Repertory Academy that had gotten him into Harvard. The school had cost his parents $40,000 a year, almost as much as they were spending on Harvard. In contrast, his friends in Men of African Descent (MAD) and The Third World Alliance were mostly scholarship students from the inner city who had experienced racism first hand. He felt like a hypocrite when his white parents came to visit him and so he discouraged their visits and removed all the pictures of them from his dorm room. Then he’d met Maria Scolletta, an Italian-American from South Philly, and his world had changed. He’d fallen in love.