Shut The Fuck Up And Die! (15 page)

But it never made any difference. For, he
knew now, she’d been trying to teach him a lesson. The pain was
simply a tool, a way to make sure that the wisdom she was trying to
impart was seared into his young, impressionable mind. Without
pain, someone had told him once, there can be no growth. And that
was all Mama ever really wanted. For him to grow into a strong,
fearless man. For him to dam the tears that had welled in his eyes
and keep the snot from bubbling out his nose. To choke back the
shrill screams that, as he’d been so often reminded, sounded like a
little girl throwing a fit because her favorite dolly had been
taken away.

Why had it been so hard for him to realize
all of this? Why had he forced her to shove him into the closet and
endured days in the darkness as he thought about his sins? He
remembered huddling in the corner with the smell of piss and shit
so thick in the confined space that he could taste it with every
breath. Hearing the mice scuttling and scratching within the walls,
feeling their rough, cold tails trail over his bare flesh as he
shivered and tried to pull himself into as tiny of a ball as
possible. Sometimes, when the blood was still fresh and they were
exceptionally hungry, they’d nip at his open wounds and pull away
jagged little pieces of flesh. They’d gnaw on his hair when he was
curled on the floor asleep, would cover his body with tiny
scratches as their feet scrambled over him.

And if it wasn’t the mice, then it was the
roaches. Or the spiders. Or any of the thousand other creatures his
mind imagined to be sharing a space that was as cramped and dark as
a coffin stood on end. And all the while, Mama’s voice would
whisper through the keyhole at random intervals.

“
Worthless little piece of
shit.”

“
Sissy boy . . . .”

“
Can’t even bleed right.”

But all that now seemed like it’d happened to
someone else. As if the real Daryl had been hidden away somewhere
in the back of that frightened little boy’s mind, waiting for the
day he could emerge and lay claim to the bruised and battered body.
And all it would take was one swing of the tire iron for him to
emerge victorious.

The cop had finally managed to slip the cuff
around Earl’s other wrist and Daryl was close enough now to hear
his labored breathing as the man gasped out lines he knew so well
that he probably muttered them in his sleep.

“
You have the right . . . to remain . .
. silent.”

Daryl squeezed the cold metal in his hand and
the solidity of the bar made him feel as strong and invincible as
the giant in his dreams.

“
Anything you say and . . . and will .
. . be used against you in a court of law.”

His shadow fell over the officer’s back like
a death shroud.

“
You have the right to an attorney . .
. .”

So close that he could see the individual
pores on the back of the man’s neck and catch the whiffs of cologne
that wafted in the air. He saw the gold band encircling the man’s
ring finger, the dark arches of dark crud trapped beneath his
fingernails.

“
If you cannot afford one . .
.”

Daryl pulled the tire tool back like a tennis
pro preparing to lob a ball over a net. As he did so, the arm of
his shadow extended over the cop’s shoulder, silhouetting the
raised weapon perfectly against the trampled blanket of white
snow.

Moving so quickly that he was nothing more
than a blur, the cop rolled to the left. At some point, his right
hand dropped to his hip and he sprang into a crouch.

Face to face with the enemy, Daryl stood as
if every muscle in his body had crystallized. He stared into two
eyes that were like shattered chips of ice and, for some reason,
noticed how flakes of snow clung to the stubble on the cop’s square
chin.

“
Drop it!”

Mostly, however, Daryl noticed the dark, wide
bore of the pistol pointed directly at the center of his head.

“
Drop it now!”

And there in the middle of a snow-covered
road with pendulous clouds overhead, the Daryl who’d been
struggling to emerge from the scarred trappings of his childhood
died.

SCENE TWELVE

Matt’s hand shot up like a flesh-covered jack
in the box. His fingers wrapped around Mary’s slender wrist and
squeezed until he could feel the delicate bones grind against one
another; but still the old woman refused to relinquish her grip on
the knife. Instead, she threw herself forward, pressing the entire
weight of her body upon the man’s arms. With teeth clamped in a jaw
tightening display of determination, he pushed back in an attempt
to keep the sharp point from plunging into his chest.

The old woman was stronger than she looked
and the muscles in Matt’s arms quivered beneath the strain of her
ferocity. He twisted and bucked, but she straddled him like a
psychotic lover. Her groin ground against the sickening flares of
pain radiating from his testicles and her tits swayed over him like
two low-hanging condoms that had been partially filled with water.
Not wasting their energy on words, the sounds of battle erupted in
pig-like grunts, low growls that rolled from the back of the
throat, and occasional snorts of expelled air.

With eyes locked upon one another, they vied
for dominance. Each studied the other’s face for the smallest
flicker of doubt or hesitation. For that was what it would truly
take: a fraction of a second where one combatant lowered his or her
guard; or a distraction that passed more quickly than the eye could
blink. One slip up and it would all be over . . . . The only
question remaining was which of the two would falter first.

Even though the logs in the fireplace had
been reduced to nothing more than glowing cinders and ash, the pair
had fallen so close to the stone hearth that radiant heat, combined
with intensity of their grappling, coaxed sweat from their pores.
The air surrounding them was thick with the sharp tang of body odor
and Mary felt the handle of the knife become increasingly slick in
her hand. If it had been wood, or even textured, it would have been
an entirely different story. But she’d had this paring knife since
she was a new bride and it had been constructed to stand the test
of time. Forged from a single piece of steel, the handle warmed
quickly even under the best of circumstances; but, in this current
situation, it felt as hot as if it had been lying on the bed of
coals at their side. The perspiration on her palms was like oil and
it took almost all of her concentration to keep it from slipping
from her moist fingers.

This apparent disadvantage, however, was
offset by the fact that Mary’s wrists also glistened with a sheen
of sweat; it, too, acted as a lubricant and keeping his grip on her
was becoming as difficult as holding onto a freshly caught
fish.

Something had to give . . . within minutes,
the fate of the battle would be decided.

Mary was so focused on Matt’s grimace that it
took a moment for her to realize that the blurry patch of white
that had manifested in front of her face was actually the flesh of
a slender arm. At the end of this out of focus appendage something
glistened as it sped toward her face; at the same time, she felt
hot breath tickle her ear as a voice whispered from behind.

“
Mary Gruber . . . .”

The narrow blade of the Exacto knife sliced
into Mary’s eyeball as if it were nothing more than a peeled grape.
The pulp was left with a jagged, paper-thin fissure as the tip cut
through the wet orb with a squish. Simultaneously, Matt forced the
old woman’s hand backward. At first it felt as though the radius
and ulna were as rubbery as drumsticks that had been soaked in
vinegar. But the hesitation was only brief; it was quickly followed
by a dry snapping noise that was drown out by the screeches that
erupted from the woman’s spindly throat.

The knife clattered from her hand as she
wrenched out of Matt’s grasp. Pressing her palm against her severed
retina, she doubled over as if she were about to throw up. Without
hesitation, Mona slashed again. This time, the blade sliced through
Mary’s eyelid and the old woman twisted like a cat that had just
been plunged in boiling water. Her screams echoed through the house
and her eyelid dangled against her cheek, swinging like a pendulum
with each thrash of her body.

With a giggle, Mona flicked her wrist again
and Mary now pressed both hands against her useless eyes as blood
and viscous fluid oozed through her fingers. Through shrieks so
shrill and loud that they seemed to rip at her vocal chords, Mary
could barely hear Mona’s voice. It was a lilting sing-song that
drifted in and out of the searing pain that burned in her eyes.

“
I spy, with my little eye, something
that is red . . . .”

Mona laid the Exacto knife on the wooden
mantle above the fireplace and paced around the old woman’s body.
Mary had fallen entirely to the floor now with her knees pulled
practically up to her chest. She rolled back and forth and smacked
her head against the floor as if she could somehow beat the agony
out of her own face. With every thud, droplets of blood flung from
her gore covered hands and the old woman’s voice now sounded thin
and raspy as she screamed, as if her voice were beginning to give
out.

“
You fucked with the wrong people this
time, old woman. We were going to let you live. Because you helped
us. Can you believe that? We were really going to let you
live.”

Mona inspected the wrought iron tools that
jutted out of a brass vase near the edge of the fireplace. Picking
up what looked like a miniature hoe, she turned it over in her
hands like an antique expert examining a rare piece.

“
But now look at you. Oops . . .
“

Mona turned her head and giggled again as she
returned the fireplace tool to the fold.

“
I forgot. You can’t look, can you?
What’s the matter, Mary? Got something in your eyes?”

Selecting another tool from the cluster, Mona
smiled. This one was long and slender with a spear-like tip. Just
before the end, a nasty little hook curved away from the black
metal and something about it reminded her of a hornet’s stinger.
She lifted the tool up and down, as if testing its weight, and
cleared the bangs from her eyes with a shake of the head.

“
Bitch.”

Mary’s voice was nothing more than a hiss
between clenched teeth and the tightening of muscles required for
talking sent fresh spasms of pain tearing through her eyes. The
word, however, caused the cold grin to fade from Mona’s mouth and
her lips pursed as her pupils dialated.

“
Now, that’s not very nice.”

She swung the fire poker like a golf pro and
the metal whacked against Mary’s side with a thud. The old woman
howled in pain and pulled herself into an even tighter ball as she
struggled to make herself as small of a target as possible.

“
Lots of people used to call me
that.”

The poker whooshed through the air again and
there was a sharp crack as ribs splintered at the point of
impact.

“
No one calls me that
anymore.”

Mona swung again and the little hook at the
end of the poker snagged Mary’s dress. It ripped through the fabric
as easily as the Exacto had her eye, leaving a long ribbon that
fluttered like a banner from the end of the tool.

“
No one!”

With the next swing, the hook tore through
exposed skin, leaving a short gash that quickly welled with blood.
Mary was howling now and she tried to inch away from the younger
woman like a worm, but Mona followed quickly, swinging the poker
again and again. The flat smacking noise of iron on flesh was as
steady as the beat of a bass drum and the old woman’s skin had
begun to swell with green and purple bruises.

“
No . . . please . . . stop . . .
.”

Clenching a handful of gray hair, Mona
snatched the old woman back so viscously that clumps of scalp were
still attached to the wisps of hair in her fist when she finally
let go. The old woman fell backward and thudded against the floor
and Mona pounced upon her before she had a chance to roll over
again. With her knees pinning Mary’s shoulder blades, Mona looked
at the blood and pus-like fluid that streaked her wrinkled
face.

“
Why Grandma,” she gasped, “what big
eyes you have . . . .”

The younger woman formed a circle with
her index finger and thumb as if she were signaling that everything
was going to be okay. Leaning forward, however, she flicked her
fingernail against the pulpy hemorrhage that bulged from Mary’s
tortured eye socket. Fresh screams undulated as the old woman
thrashed her head as if vigorously saying
no
and Mona winced with each ear-piercing
screech

“
And what a big fucking mouth you have,
too.”

Snatching something that looked like a small
shovel from the vase of tools, Mona plunged it’s flat head into the
cinders. When she drew it out again, a mound of flickering coals
was piled onto the little shovel and she watched for a second as
the yellow and red glow pulsed like slow motion strobe lights.

“
Maybe this will shut you
up.”

Mona tilted the shovel and the embers fell
like a shower of sparks into Mary’s open mouth. They hissed like
snakes as spit instantly evaporated and curls of smoke carried the
stench of burnt flesh from the old woman’s mouth. Her lips were
blistered and swollen and she half-spar, half-coughed the nuggets
of fire onto the living room floor.