"In Progress"

This is a short story I wrote for an English class. I recently rediscovered it and decided to share it with you guys. This is "In Progress."

“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 He called every day for the four days, leaving messages on my outdated answering machine, telling me that I need to seek some “social interactions.”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.