“In
Progress”
Four.
Four days. Four days since they released me back into the wild among the herds
of humanity. For four days I stayed in the small, sparsely furnished apartment my
therapist helped me find, not quite ready to join the masses on the outside. He
called every day for the four days, leaving messages on my outdated answering
machine, telling me that I need to seek some “social interactions.” Ha, as if.
They’ll be sending me back to the loony bin faster than they can say “potential
threat.” But today has been particularly bad, some of the old, dark thoughts twisting
around my mind like the tendrils of a Virginia Creeper, choking back all I’ve
accomplished over the past few years. As I pace my apartment, my phone rings,
and I let it go to message. It’s my therapist, right on schedule.
“This
is Sherman Dink for Abraham Whitmore. Get back to me as soon as you can.” I
chuckle. Good old Shrinkie Dink. After a pause in the message, “Abe, I know
you’re there listening.” I stop pacing. It continues. “Look, it’s not healthy
for you to stay cooped up like this. You’ve already rescheduled with me three
times. We need to get you around some people, make sure things are good to set
up a job.” He sighs. “Look, no one knows more than me how hard it’s been for
you.” Another pause. I reach for the receiver, my hand dropping just short.
“Come meet me today. There’s a little cafe not too far from your apartment.
This’ll be good for you. I’ll see you around three.” There is silence, and I
release the breath I’d been holding.
I
weigh my options, and as I can no longer be alone with my thoughts, I decide to
take my therapist’s advice. I put on the faded jeans I’ve been wearing for the
last two days and a brown t-shirt. I don’t
want to stand out, now, do I? I stand in the middle of my apartment,
mustering up the will to exit. A faint ticking has started in my mind,
familiar, behind my left eyeball in the deep recesses of my brain. I hit my
temple with the palm of my hand, in an attempt to silence the ticking.
I
exit the building and my mood seems to worsen almost instantly. Small town
living has never really appealed to me, and the “downtown” area of this one was
spattered with backwards people who seem to have no destination in mind. They
mosey along the sidewalks, wave at everyone, drink sodas from glass bottles. How incredibly cliché. The front steps
of my apartment building faces an old general store, as the faded letters
boast. The brick is weathered; what was once probably a deep red brick is now
more akin to brown clay. Hmm, quaint.
In front of the store, two rather large women, seemingly in their forties due
to the weight on them, are yack-yack-yacking away.
Tick.
Tick.
One
of the women raises a chubby arm in my direction. I watch as the flab of her
arms jiggle with the motion, and I feel a strong urge to vomit.
Tick…tick…tick.
I
manage as close to a smile as I can. The woman’s hand drops quickly to her
mouth, though it doesn’t block the “Oh!” that escapes, audible even on this
side of the street. I turn to my left in
a desperate attempt to distance myself from the woman, the regular cracks in
the sidewalk moving swiftly under my feet. I glance up periodically to take in
some landmarks. On either side, little
family-owned stores line the streets. Harper’s Sporting Goods, Jim’s Fishing
Gear, Antiques by Amelia. A few people pass me on the sidewalk. I do my best to
remain invisible, but each nods in my direction with a “Hey now!” or a “Gooday
to ya!” like I’ve been here forever. I’m
uncomfortable. My anxiety is building rapidly and the ticking with it.
Don’t let it go off…don’t let it go
off.
I
pick up my pace, almost at a sprint, sweat beading my brow. I run into
something that knocks me off pace, and I stumble a little. Some brat of no more
than thirteen gives me a mean look and a “Watch it, asshole!” before carrying
on his merry little way. I can feel it rising.
Tickticktickticktick.
I
make a dash into the nearest building. I need out of the open. The door closes
behind me, and I sink to the floor. My head is spinning, and I take a few deep
breaths to settle my heartbeat and building anxiety. One thing Shrinkie Dink got
right: this breathing thing does the trick. I close my eyes, leaning against
the door, the sweat cooling against my skin. I shiver involuntarily. Stupid brat…this whole damn town… I run
my hand across the back of my neck and take another few deep breaths. Easy…easy…
“I
said, do you need any help?”
I
open my eyes to a frail-looking old man with a soft voice. He’s dressed in
mostly grey—grey slacks, grey vest, grey tie, grey hair—all but for a vibrant
blue shirt to match his eyes, eyes lacking no vitality, now full of concern.
Concern for me? I look around to find that I’m in a library, rather small, but
packed with as many shelves as were legal without being a fire hazard. A few reading tables take up the right corner
of the room. A boy, maybe seven or eight years old, stares at me from them.
“Sonny?”
the old man, I suppose the librarian, asks me.
“No.”
It was the first time I’d spoken aloud today and the words came harshly,
sticking to the back of my throat like phlegm. I clear my throat and attempt again
in a more civil tone. “No, thank you.”
“Gave
us all quite a startle.” The grey librarian extends his hand to me. I silently
refuse the gesture and stand on my own.
“Welcome
to our little library,” he continues. “Haven’t seen your face in this neck of
the woods.” His eyes are exploring my face, and I feel violated. “You let me
know if I can do anything for ya.” Without waiting for a reply, he turns and
heads toward a small office near the reading tables. That kid is still watching. I look around
again and see only two other patrons, both unconcerned with my entrance. One is
a teenage boy using the only computer in the room to blare music into his
eardrums. The other is an ancient woman in a chair much too large for her tiny
frame. Her eyelids are so droopy that it’s difficult to discern wither she’s
deeply immersed in the large book in her lap or simply asleep.
Libraries
have never been my place of preference, but now as I take in the silence, the
musky aroma that seems to come from nowhere and everywhere at once, the
afternoon sun streaming in through the windows heating the room slightly, peace
begins to sink in. Except for the kid who has now turned in his chair to watch
me. I turn and walk towards the tight rows of shelves, wide enough to allow only
one person at a time. The library is small, but the collection is vast. I pick
my way through the authors of mystery and horror, stopping in crime fiction to
pick up a copy of Jeffery Deaver’s The Bone
Collector.
Hmm, I wonder if they’ll write one
of these about me. Readers probably won’t sympathize with me…no one sympathizes
with the monster if he’s male. Only the girls get off easy.
I
flip through the pages finding a few illustrations, and I let my mind travel
back to her. Angelica was her name, and she was much more beautiful in death
than in life. Some mother she was to me.
Poisoning her was a simple task, an easy end to a witch of a woman. I touch my
ribcage reflexively, feeling the numerous scars from broken whiskey and wine
bottles and telephone cords stretching around and spreading out over my side
and back. Oh yes, the stomach acid she gargled out was glorious, foamy like the
suds of bubble machines the kids across the street from us back then used to
play with. An eleven-year-old couldn’t have asked for a better birthday
present. Her screams were my symphony that night, like a muted trumpet,
only…wetter. Four glorious minutes. She got exactly what she deserved and I’d
do it again if—
I
look up. The kid from the table is peeking around the row I’m standing in, and
is doing a terrible job of hiding himself. He slinks around the corner, now
caught, and stands at the edge of the row, staring. I hate being watched. I
raise an eyebrow. He’s thin, a little tall for his age. His face is light with
a mass of freckles covering his cheeks. A mess of dark red hair covered his
head, almost amber in the dim light of the library. Yellow shirt with a Pikachu
on it, black shorts, Band-aids on his knees. Spitting image of a youngster
trainer from the Pokémon games.
“Your
shoes are untied,” I say to him.
He
looks down at them, and I take the distraction to snake around the back of the
row into another. I pick up a copy of Ted Dekker’s Black out of curiosity.
“I’ve
never seen you here before.”
I
look around and see no one. Then I realize the kid is staring at me through the
spaces of the shelf.
“Didn’t
your parents ever tell you not to talk to strangers?” I’ve always wanted an
excuse to say that to a kid. Check one off the bucket list.
“There
aren’t too many strangers in this town.”
Weird
little kid. I move further down the row, and he matches me. “Hey, beat it,
kid.” It was starting again.
Tick.
Tick.
“My
name’s Fit, not kid.” He slinks off, and I pick up another book. This one
smells of old carrots as I thumb through it. What kind of name is Fit? The shock of red hair is in my periphery
again.
“What’s
your name, mister?”
Mister.
This town is just as old-fashioned as I thought. At least he didn’t call me
sir. He hadn’t bothered to tie his shoes.
“Abraham.”
“Like
the president!” He was quite pleased with the connection he’d made. He smiles a
toothless grin. Cute… Real cute….
“Look,
what do you want, kid?”
“Fit.”
He looks at me expectantly. I sigh in exasperation.
“What
do you want, Fit?”
He
smiles, I suppose assuming he’s made a friend out of me. “Whatcha reading?”
I
narrow my eyes at him. “Books about dangerous people.”
“Why?
Are you dangerous?”
“Maybe.”
He
mulls over my response, and I step past him, attempting to hunt down that
librarian. Not in the office or at the front desk. A clock reads 12:17. Probably left for lunch.
Great.
“I
don’t think you’re dangerous.”
I
jump, genuinely startled. “Hey, don’t you have friends to play with or
something?”
“Not
really.” He doesn’t seem fazed by this realization.
“Why
don’t you go make some?”
“Okay.”
He waits a beat. “Want to be pals?”
What
a weird kid. “No.” I drop down to his eye level for effect. “And you’re wrong,
ya know. I’m very dangerous.
His
eyes widen with wonder, and maybe a little fear. “Did you kill someone?” It was
a whisper.
“Oh,
yes. And not just one, but many. And I’ll tell you a secret.” I lean in close
to him, narrowing my eyes to increase the spookiness. “I just might do it
again.”
He
is silent for a second, then laughs, calling my bluff. “Really?” He laughs
again. I smirk, a little annoyed and amused by him at the same time. “If you’ve
killed so many people, tell me about them!”
I
look around. The librarian is still nowhere to be seen. The old woman’s head is
now resting against the back of the chair. Definitely asleep. The teenager must
have left a while ago; an outmoded screensaver of the old windows logo has now
replaced the digital images, bouncing off the edges and corners of the screen.
I look back to Fit. Why not? It’d be good
for a laugh or two.
“Fine,
fine. But first, tell me. What are you doing here anyway? You’re like, seven.
Why aren’t you outside playing or at home?”
For
the first time, Fit’s expression drops, laughter gone from his voice, eyes on
the floor. “My dad’s at home.” He doesn’t say anything else, and I don’t need
him to. My fingers move to my ribcage, dispelling the phantom pain that has
settled there once again.
“Come
on,” I say, leading him to the tables. We sit, and I recount the tales from my
tortures and ritualistic killings, from the butchering of my fifth grade
teacher to the mercy slaying of my first girlfriend, interrupted only by the
occasional “Are you serious?” to which I would reply in my best spooky
imitation, “Oh, yes, little one.” This would get him laughing again, and I
would continue. When I finish my tales, I glance at the clock, 3:38. Huh. I
stand and make my way towards the checkout counter. Fit doesn’t follow.
“Will
you come back tomorrow?”
I
smile. “Maybe.”
I
take my books to the checkout counter, and the little old man in grey is
waiting patiently. I place them on the counter, and he stamps them and hands
them back to me.
“Glad
ya found what you were looking for.”
I
glance back at Fit with a wave. “It’s a start.”
I
step out into the late afternoon sun, books in hand, and make my way farther
down the street to the only café in town. I pass the chubby-armed woman on my
way. She’s carrying a few paper bags of groceries and avoids eye contact with
me. Huh, almost no tick that time. Dink
is sitting at a table under a tacky pink umbrella, furiously tapping a fork on
a saucer. He hasn’t seen me yet, so I amble around behind his distracted form.
“Boo.”
It’s just a word with hardly any volume, yet Dink jumps at least a foot as he
turns to face me. He sees the books under my arm then looks back to me and
smiles.
“Looks
to me like we have some things to discuss,” he says, dabbing his brow with a
napkin.
I
smile and hold up my treasures. “Progress.
