Creamy Murder Eyes

For Fred, who asked me to write her a story about creamy murder eyes.

It would be nice to say that this sort of thing didn't normally happen to him, but it wouldn't be true. J. M. Hatter had a knack for getting into this kind of situation. This was, at least, the fourth time. Hatter woke to find himself tied to a chair, in the middle of an abandoned warehouse, surrounded by gruff looking men. Most people would find this terrifying, but he was feeling rather chipper. Compared to some of the things he saw growing up, this was practically tame.

The leader of his kidnappers came forward. A short man with a strong build, the dim orange light glimmering off his bald head drew Hatter’s attention. Privately, Hatter dubbed the man McGleamy.

“Glad yah could join us,” McGleamy said, lighting up a cigarette. “When yah fought back da boys gave yah a pretty good whack on da noggin.” Hatter had noticed a painful throbbing in the back of his skull. “Truth is, yah didn’t wake up, I’d ah hadda shoot Jimmy. Now that yer ‘wake, I don’ hafta.”

“I ‘preciate that, Boss,” Jimmy piped up from behind Hatter.

“Glad to help!” Hatter said amiably, tugging on his bound wrists. “Now that Jimmy’s safe, if you’ll untie me, I’ll be on my way.”

McGleamy shook his head. “We can’t do dat. Yah’ve got info I need.”

“Is it where to find wax for your head? Because, it’s pretty shiny already,” Hatter quips.

WHAM! Ears ringing, blood pounding through his aching head, Hatter wobbles precariously on his chair, reeling from the sudden blow of McGleamy’s meaty fist.

“Dat’s funny. We got us a funny man,” McGleamy mocks. Grabbing a handful of Hatter’s hair with a jerk, he leans in close. “Yah tell me where yer partner is, Funny Man, or I’ll make yah wish yah’d never been born.”

Staring into the light grey eyes of his captor Hatter said with a lopsided grin, “You’ve got rice pudding eyes, and the pupils are raisins.”

McGleamy blinked, looked at his men in confusion, turned back to Hatter. “Yah makin’ fun ah me?” he asked. “Are yah really that stupid?”

Hatter chattered on, ignoring his captor. “Maybe not rice pudding. I never liked rice pudding. Tapioca eyes? Isn’t tapioca just rice pudding? I don’t think it is. I can never remember. Maybe your eyes are more like the cream filling in a Cadbury Egg. Or a cherry cordial!  No, you just have these dreamy, creamy murder eyes.”

“Hey! I’m talkin’ ta yah. Listen ta me yah stupid freak!” McGleamy yelled, shaking Hatter, to no avail. The mindless prattle continued uninterrupted.

“I think yah broke ‘im, Boss,” Jimmy suggested.

“No kiddin’, Nimrod. Get the pliers. Maybe a few broken fingers will get his attention,” McGleamy announced with a grim smile.

“No, once he gets on a roll you just have to wait until he stops,” a new voice said from behind McGleamy.

He turned, seeing a young, dark-haired woman. The same person he’d kidnapped Hatter to find. “Hey!” he exclaimed, a little stunned.

“Hullo,” she replied with a wicked smile.

                                                                                                                                  

“I’ve got it! You’re eyes look like cheese soup, if it was the white cream filling from a donut that was melted, and not actually cheese soup,” Hatter announced triumphantly. He realized, belatedly, that he was no longer with McGleamy in the warehouse, but sitting shotgun in a car. Hatter turned to greet the dark-haired woman driving. “Hi, Belle! Did you get the information you wanted?”

“I did,” she said with a satisfied smirk. “Your bald friend knew more than I expected. Thank you for being the bait.”

“Not a problem,” Hatter assured her, gingerly leaning his thumping head against the cool window. “You meet the most interesting people that way.”

“I suppose you do.”

After a few minutes of companionable silence Hatter piped up, “Y’know, his eyes did look a little like creamy mashed potatoes.”

Movie Night

A small horror story...

It’s after midnight when Cassie locks the front doors behind the last few stragglers of the late night movie. In the front of the movie theater she begins methodically sweeping the debris of candy and popcorn, dropping empty cups into garbage bags as she goes. ‘People can be such slobs,’ she thinks disgusted, grateful it’s an old one room theater with only a small balcony, lobby and bathroom in need of cleaning. Her co-worker went home sick, so she’s stuck by herself. Bent under a seat to get a box of chocolate, the catchy sound of “Let’s All Go to the Lobby” gets her attention. ‘Somebody lost a cell phone,’ she decides. Scanning the seats she spots a shape at the back of the theater in the balcony’s shadow.

“Hello?” Cassie calls out tentatively, pulling a small flashlight from her pocket, walking closer. She could’ve sworn the seats were empty when she came through earlier. “I’m sorry, Sir, we’re closed.”

Caught in the beam of light is a man slumped in the seat. Head tipped forward his slit throat spills down the front of his shirt seasoning the red splattered tub of popcorn in his lap with a coppery tang. A squealing shriek rips from her throat as the flashlight falls from numb trembling fingers. Cassie’s heart falters, thumping away at a staggering beat. ‘Run!’ her mind screams in panic. ‘Now!’

Racing into the lobby she grabs her cell phone and keys from behind the candy counter. Crossing to the door she fumbles with the deadbolt twisting with all her might. Grunting, the metal refusing to budge, her hand flies free as one of her fingernails rips off. Biting back a scream, exposed nerves on fire, she clutches the injury. ‘Screw it,’ Cassie decides taking deep ragged breaths, ‘I’m breaking the glass.’

Unhooking the velvet ropes used to corral patrons she picks up a gleaming golden pole, wielding it like a bat as she swings at the door. THRACK! The force vibrates up her arms, turning muscle to jell-o, but the glass doesn’t crack. Rearing back for another swing the lights give a loud humming BRRZZZTCRICK and explode. Dropping, Cassie covers her head as a shower of glass rains on her. Plunged into darkness she lifts the pole, tightening her grip for another go at the door. A flicker of movement in the glass catches her eye. Someone is behind her. With a shrill banshee shriek she whips around swinging, the pole connecting with something solid and meaty.

A body crashes in the darkness and Cassie runs, racing up the stairs to the balcony. She can barricade herself in the projection room. Tripping, stumbling, heart thundering in her ears, she smacks into the rail of the balcony teetering dangerously. Pulling herself upright Cassie fumbles in the darkness, banging into seats, groping for the door. Movement echoes up from below with the sound of humming. Heart seized in panic, gasping, suffocating, she chokes on air. Somebody’s coming! Desperately she rips out her cell phone using the dim light to find the projection booth. Slipping inside she turns the lock dragging shelves, chairs, and anything that moves in front of the door. The Humming grows louder as footsteps come from the balcony. Jumping away from the door, Cassie crouches, praying they won’t get her.

Someone starts singing.

“Let’s all.”

The floor creaks.

“Go to the.”

Shoes shuffle.

“Lobby.”

The doorknob jingles.

Biting her arm to muffle a scream, Cassie listens to the door rattle. Blood rushing in her ears, fighting back tears, she wishes the person would go away.

Silence.

Heart fluttering a staccato her eyes fly to the projection window. It’s too small to fit through, she knows, but her throat closes tight at the scraping tap of nails on the window frame. A velvety chuckle fills the darkness as footsteps drift towards the stairs. Standing, cramped legs aching, Cassie steps back, starting to call the police. Hitting into something hard and warm two vice like arms close around her. The cell phone clatters to the floor. Body frozen in fear, mind screaming to struggle, Cassie feels lips press against her ear.

“Let’s all go to the lobby.” 

The Twinkie Massacre

This was written for a class in college. It's not one of my favorites, but it is an important first try at a different genre.

“I hate my life,” Zeke Porter mutters as he walks down a hill leading away from the campus of the college he attends.

 He isn’t sure how it happened, but someone switched his shampoo with hair dye. Stepping from the shower this morning he discovered wheat blond locks changed to the color of a deranged flamingo pink Easter egg. A man walking up the hill stops dead in his tracks, staring. Ready to rip into the man, Zeke realizes the gawking stare is focused behind him. Curious, he turns. The whirling hum he brushed off as a large insect is actually death, dressed in fuchsia, headed straight for him on a bicycle.

    The whine of the tires grows louder as a man wearing a black ski mask with a fuchsia track suit pedals harder to pick up speed. With a strangled yell Zeke takes a terrified hop-step out of the way, only to be ripped off his feet. Tumbling heels over head down grass and cement, he comes to a hard stop when a tree blocks his path. Head swimming, he distantly registers the sound of footsteps followed by the feel of hands gingerly prodding his body. The biker had missed him but clipped his backpack full force. That explains the burning wrenched feeling in his shoulders. The helping hands of the man that had been staring bring him to a sitting position as his mind begins to clear. Campus security is on its way. The maniac on the bike had stumbled after the hit, but took off again. Zeke turns. The torn remnants of the bag hang off his back, and its contents lie splayed across the cement. Dazed, he realizes this was no accident, someone is trying to hurt him.

Hours later Zeke walks into his living room, every muscle in his body screaming in protest. He wishes his roommate, Danny Tate, wasn’t out of town for a week. After going over the incident with campus security, then again for the police, he was stuck making a list of suspects. The cops had grilled him. Was this the first attack? Could he think of any reason someone would want to harm him? Has he been involved in any illegal activity? Questions and theories were thrown about until it felt like his head would burst. Yes, being alone is definitely a bad thing.  Has the apartment always been so big? Shivering, Zeke makes his way through the apartment, flicking on lights in every room until he’s satisfied there is no one else. He tells himself there’s no need to worry, it’s not like someone’s trying to kill him, but he’s not fully convinced. Sinking onto the couch, all of the lights still on, he falls into a fitful sleep.

The next morning Zeke nervously watches his surroundings for any sign of fuchsia. As the day passes he starts to relax, save the occasional flinch every time a bike comes near. Yesterday was just a freaky fluke. It’s ridiculous to think someone would actually be trying to hurt a harmless nobody like him. He steps onto the stairs just as something hard slams into his back. One arm swings out trying to brace for the impact as the other grips the railing. His knees slam into the stairs with a thud. Zeke catches himself, barely stopping before his face hits the concrete steps. He turns in time to see a flash of pink disappearing on the second floor.

That night he locks the door and checks and rechecks the windows, the lights stay on, and it takes longer for sleep to come.

“Hot damn, Zeke. You look like a three day old corpse,” Alice Edwards, a friend of his, comments the next afternoon as she meets him for lunch in a grassy quad on campus.

“If I look that good just imagine how wonderful I feel.”

“What happened?”

“Some guy in fuchsia has decided I’m on his hit list.”

Nibbling on a cookie Alice stares at him, taking in his tired face. Then she bursts out laughing. He takes a vicious bite from his sandwich, willing her head to catch fire.

Crunch!

The laughter has stopped. Alice and Zeke stare at each other, horrified. Very slowly he puts the sandwich down, opens his mouth and carefully spits the half chewed food out onto his napkin. Nestled in the gooey mush is a glistening shard of glass. Then the taste of copper burns his tongue.

The attacks become more frequent, more deadly, and Zeke grows more terrified. No one can be trusted. Nothing is safe. The man in fuchsia could be anywhere.

Shuffling through the halls on his way to class, Zeke looks at his watch—there’s still an hour before it begins. Funny how no sleep and very little food can mess with a person’s sense of time. His wary eyes scour the hallway for anything suspicious or pink. He sits on a bench lining the wall, waiting for class. Eyes shift left then right, roving over every inch of the space in sight. The quiet seems loud to Zeke, even though it is undisturbed save the steady ticking of his watch and the sound of his labored breath. His lids lower over eyes, his shoulders sag, his chin meets his chest before his head snaps up, sleepy but alert. It’s not safe to sleep.

The darkness is nice, soothing for reasons that can’t be remembered. How easy to just slip away in the darkness. Except…for the burning. No. Not just burning, stinging too. And the pressure. Better to fall back into the cool dark and forget. But the burning is worse. Burning, stinging pressure. Just take a deep breath and sink into oblivion. Zeke can’t breath. He needs air, can’t…

Zeke forces teary eyes open to find the masked face of the man in fuchsia. Thrashing, he wraps his trembling hands around the wrists of his attacker. Fingers dig in with desperation, trying to pry the vice like grip from his throat.

He mumbles in a strangled gasp trying to yell.

Voices from the classroom echo into the hall as the door opens and the hands release. Sputtering for air, Zeke can only watch helpless as the man trying to kill him gets away. That’s it. This has gone on for to long. The police aren’t doing anything if that maniac can get so close. Time to call Danny, tell him what’s been going on, and beg him to come home. If anyone would know how to help, it would be Danny. With this in mind, Zeke rises from the bench and leaves.

Back in his apartment, he calls Danny.  “Someone’s trying to kill me,” he tells him.

 “What?” There is a pause. “That’s really funny man.”

“I’m serious. Someone tried to strangle me when I was napping on a bench.”

“Why the hell were you napping on a bench?”

“Shut up,” Zeke says. “Someone tried to kill me!”

“Was it the hobo whose bench you were sleeping on?”

“It was a man in fuchsia.”

“A fuchsia wearing cross-dressing hobo whose bench you were sleeping on?” Danny asks, unable to contain his laughter.

“Fuck it, Danny. I was at school in the hallway. This nut job has been after me all week.”

“Zeke, Zeke. Calm down. I get it, you’re really freaked out.”

“I need you to come home early, Danny. I’m not safe alone.”

“This had better not be a prank.”

“No!” Zeke interrupts. He takes a shuttering breath before he continues. “I’m serious. If only this was some stupid joke.”

“Calm down. I believe you. It’ll be a day, two tops, and I’ll be home.”

“That’s not good enough.”

“Just listen to me, okay? Skip the rest of your classes until I get back, stay in the house and keep safe. It’s not like you have to worry about a bike if your ass is pressed to the couch.  You hear me? Just stay in the house. I’ll be home soon as I can.”

Hanging up, Zeke does another sweep of the apartment. Door and windows are locked; lights are on, nothing unusual. Shuddering and tense he walks into the bathroom to splash water on his face. Movement in the mirror catches his eye. Whirling around, his knees give way and he collapses to the tile floor. Terrified, heart a sharp staccato, he searches for the intruder. Minutes pass, nothing happens, and Zeke realizes the movement was his reflection in the mirror.

 With a shaky breath he uses the toilet for support as he stands. He takes in the pale haggard face staring back at him in the mirror. Frightened hazel eyes ringed in purple bruises from lack of sleep. Rough spots of stubble where his hand trembled and missed while shaving. Matted, and tangled flamingo-pink hair that hasn’t been washed or brushed since the bike incident. Hard to believe that happened just a few days ago. At least Danny was right; nobody can attack with a bike so long as the apartment is locked tight. Wait. Zeke tries to recall the conversation with Danny.

He stumbles from the bathroom into Danny’s bedroom. It looks the same as every other time Zeke came through to check for the man in fuchsia. Danny couldn’t be. It all started with the bike, but Danny had left for the airport that morning. Running a hand through his hair, giving a tug, flamingo-pink catches the edge of his peripheral vision. No. It didn’t start with the bike, it started with the hair. That morning the shampoo was switched with flamingo bloody pink permanent hair dye. But that’s ridiculous.

Feeling boneless Zeke sinks to the floor. His heart hammers harder, breath coming in short gasps. Lying on the floor he tries to keep from hyperventilating. Feeling dizzy and light-headed he slowly opens his eyes. Something is poking out from underneath Danny’s bed. Picking it up he stares, blinks, and drops it. He reaches under the bed and comes in contact with smooth material.  Holding it to the light, his numb fingers lose their grasp.

“It’s really rude to snoop in someone else’s room, Zeke.”

He turns and stares at Danny standing in the doorway, blocking the only exit. The suit is lying on the floor. The fuchsia track suit. The pained betrayal in his eyes is clear when he turns back.

“I don’t understand,” Zeke mutters.

“Don’t you?”

“Why, Danny?”

“Why what?”

“Why are you trying to kill me? Why the hell did you choose fuchsia?”

“Who would ever believe you? A man in fuchsia is trying to kill me. Oh no!” he mocks laughing. “You’ve been losing it all over the place, Zeke. People have noticed. They think you’re headed to a nervous breakdown.”

“Witnesses! There were witnesses for the bike.”

“Eye witnesses aren’t as reliable as they used to be. Memory is a faulty thing, and suggestion is so powerful.”

“People will suspect you.”

“Why? Everyone thinks I’m out of town for a week. It’s the perfect alibi to give the cops when I pretend to be the distraught roommate.”

“But where have you been hiding? I’ve been checking the apartment everyday.”

“I’ve been staying in a sleazy motel about an hour away. When all my other plans failed I decided it was time for a face to face. After strangling you, I came here, planted the costume, and waited.”

“You rat bastard.”

Furious, Zeke rises only to stop cold. With a patronizing smile Danny casually pulls a gun from his pocket. Aiming at the man crouched on the floor, he pulls back the hammer. Terrified, pleading, Zeke tries to understand.

“Why are you doing this?”

Danny’s face twists into a mask of venomous hatred. With a snarl he pulls the trigger. Padding spews from the mattress next to Zeke’s head.

“You ate the last twinkie, you bastard!”

“Wait? What! Twinkie?”

“Yes, the last twinkie. I was saving it as a victory snack for passing my midterms.”

“When did we have twinkies?”

“As if you don’t remember. It was three and a half weeks, two days, six hours, and I don’t care how many minutes ago. I just got back to the apartment after torturous hours of stressful exams and found you sitting on the couch, in your undies, defiling my twinkie!”

“How do you defile a twinkie?”

“I don’t—I—you just did.”

“You’ve been trying to kill me over twinkies?”

“Not twinkies, just the one. My twinkie.”

“I’ll buy you more twinkies. Hell, I’ll give you a twinkie everyday for the rest of my life if you put the gun down.”

“Too late, Zeke. I didn’t go through all this trouble just to let you go.”

A thunderous crack fills the air as Danny pulls the trigger ending the life of his terrified roommate. With a satisfied sigh he leaves the bedroom, planning to watch a movie before disposing of the fuchsia track suit and gun. Tomorrow he’ll call the police pretending to have just found Zeke’s body. Entering the kitchen, he opens a cabinet to grab a bag of microwave popcorn when something catches his eye in the dark corner of the shelf. Reaching in, he pulls out the item, stares, and begins to laugh.

In his hand is the last twinkie. 

Lumina

I wrote this for a class in college. The idea came when I was driving home with my friend for the weekend and someone on the road was driving like a lunatic. The title "Lumina" is based on her, then, car.

The sun hangs low in the horizon as Owen Cooper drives down the deserted highway in his Chevy Silverado truck, glaring rays of sunlight hitting his eyes. A country singer’s caterwauling drawl fills the silence as he taps his fingers against the steering wheel. Instead of watching the road his mind focuses on creating a devious prank to use on his best friend Pete. Owen lost the advantage in their ever escalating competition two nights ago when his play mate broke into his apartment and held a knife to his throat. At least, he thought it was a knife. After several panic filled moments his friend revealed that his weapon of choice was actually a metal spork. The bastard. In order to regain his dignity, Owen needs something good and terrifying

“Speak of the devil,” he mutters, noticing a car in front of him. “I don’t freakin’ believe it. That’s gotta be him. No way in hell there are two guys in this podunk little town driving a ’97 plum colored Chevy Lumina. Hot damn.”  

Idea forming, Owen’s lips curl into a malicious grin as his foot presses down on the accelerator. Flicking his brights on, he brings the truck scant inches from the back bumper of the Lumina. A sharp tap of his foot sends the truck lurching forward. Thunk! He chuckles as the Lumina gives a staggering wobble before speeding up. Pushing down on the pedal, Owen once again brings the vehicles dangerously close. Thwomp! Another burst of speed sends the Lumina fishtailing over the center line before it straightens. The car begins to pull over.

“It’s not gonna be that easy,” Own mumbles.

With a sharp twist of the steering wheel he rams the front of his truck into the back corner of the Lumina. A satisfying crunch resounds on impact causing him to laugh when the plum colored Chevy peals away in a shower of gravel.

“That’s it Bubba, now you’re playin’ my game.”

Tensing in anticipation Owen shoots after the Lumina, putting more and more pressure onto the accelerator. Sixty. Seventy. Eighty and still climbing. A burst of cruel staccato laughter drowns out the country music as he draws closer to the retreating car. He pushes the pedal to the floor, enjoying the sound of the engine’s roar. His body thrums with the vibration of the car. Just gotta round this corner and I’m putting a giant ass crater in the back of Pete’s car, he thinks, tightening his grip in preparation for the sharp turn.

“Just a little bit further. C’mon, c’mon,” he hunches over the steering wheel, “FUCK!”

Slamming a foot on the brakes the sharp pull of the seatbelt and the loud scream of the tires don’t register, Owen’s attention is pinpointed on the corner where the Chevy Lumina had been only seconds before. He blinks. Blinks again. Then draws in a ragged breath. Jaw slack and arms limp on the wheel; Owen’s mind can’t seem to register what he just saw.

The Lumina takes the corner too wide, pulls hard to adjust as the back swings out off the road, past the gravel, and into the air over the gully next to the highway. The car is almost perpendicular with the road before the loss of traction causes it to tip, the nose falling backwards over the back, before careening downhill into the trees. It took the corner too fast, had to have been going at least eighty-five. And it’s a sharp corner. Too fast and too sharp. 

Fuck.

Shifting his truck into park, Owen pushes open the door and slowly, mechanically, follows the skid marks to the edge of the road. There is a long, horrifying gouge in the ground where underbrush used to be. Eyes scanning for any sign of the car, he tries to swallow but gags, his throat is to dry. A flash of plum catches his eye. His gaze fixates on it. There is a roaring in his ears; belatedly Owen realizes it is the sound of his heart leaping like a jackhammer. And then he’s running.

“Oh God. Oh hell. Goddamn damn stupid freaking hell,” he mumbles, feet eating away at the ground as he races to the car. “Please. Please, please, please. Ohhhhh, Holy Mary Mother of Fuck. Shit fuck!”

Tripping over his feet he falls smacking his face off the ground before scrambling back into a run. The car has stopped, the backseat buckling around the trunk of a tree. The driver’s window is smashed out. Owen cringes at the sound of glass breaking under his feet as he goes to it, hoping his friend is still alive. The driver is slumped over the steering wheel, hands gripping loosely, with his head turned at an unnatural angle. Wide eyes and an open mouth, a face locked in a scream, peer out the window at Owen. A chill sweeps through him as his throat constricts. It’s not his friend

Staggering back, Owen feels the burning threat of tears in his eyes and nose. He swallows, gags, then falls to his knees gasping, dry heaving, trying to breathe even as his stomach revolts. It’s just a kid. Some poor, dumb kid barely into his teens. A moan comes from inside the car. Slowly, trembling, Owen climbs to his feet and staggers over to the car. Gingerly he leans over the body of the boy and realizes for the first time that there is someone in the passenger seat. It’s a woman, young probably, but the mask of blood and swelling makes it hard to tell. She’s slumped in the seat, hanging limply against the seatbelt with her head pressed against the cracked window of her door. With great effort a quivering hand is raised towards the boy.

“Please,” she rasps as fresh blood oozes from her mouth.

“I’m sorry,” Owen whispers, unable to tear his gaze from her broken, quaking hand.

Cracked lips open but a whimper is all that escapes.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. It was a mistake, y’know, an accident. This wasn’t supposed to happen because I was trying to play a prank on my friend, I thought you were my friend, but I didn’t want this, not this, not ever, to you or him, but things got outta hand, and if I’d known, I shoulda known, it wouldn’t have happened, but I didn’t know and it happened, so you gotta believe me that I’m sorry cause it was just a prank, a stupid prank that wasn’t s’posed to be like this,” Owen rants, voice gaining volume and speed.

Suddenly it’s too much for him. Those glassy eyes staring at him from the boy’s permanently terrified face and that hand, that mangled broken hand reaching out for help that he can’t give. It’s too much. There’s an accusing look in those eyes and that hand’s pointing at him, trying to mark him as a fiend. It was an accident. He said he was sorry. Nothing else he can do. Another pleading moan escapes from the woman, and something inside Own snaps. Backing away, he turns and sprints towards the road, hands digging into dirt as he scrambles up the hillside. Owen notices another car pull over as he peals off down the highway.

Owen wakes with a start, his body and sheets drenched in sweat, heart thrashing in his chest. The gray tiles of his ceiling stare down at him; stray beams of orange light filtering through the window illuminate the tiles frayed state. Dark shadows consume the majority of the room leaving it in a state of gloom. Scrubbing at his face with a hand, he tries to calm down with deep breaths. Every night for the past six months he’s been reliving that tragic accident in his sleep. He can force back the guilt when he’s awake, but the moment his eyes close his conscience won’t allow a minute’s rest. Every night the crunch of metal, those glassy staring eyes, and that desperate rasping “please” replay in his mind. Even the presence of his girlfriend does nothing to sooth the nightmares. Owen isn’t sure if it’s the fact that he accidentally killed someone, that he ran away, or that he hasn’t told anyone the truth about what happened keeping him up at night. Shivering as the after images flash through his mind, Owen looks longingly at his sleeping girlfriend before climbing out of bed. There is no way he will be able to get back to sleep

In the kitchen he decides to open yesterday’s mail while waiting for the coffee to finish. Bill, bill, ad, free coupon, and a letter he opens while pouring himself a cup of black coffee. Opening the envelope he pulls out a folded piece of paper. CRASH! The mug slips from his grasp as porcelain and coffee scatter across the floor. On the sheet is a picture of the boy he killed and written in sharp red letters that leech into the paper is one word:
MURDERER.
 The crunch of buckling metal roars in his ears, the smell of vomit and blood replaces coffee, and those glassy eyes stare at him in silent accusation. “Please,” the sound of that pleading voice drowns out everything else.

“…en…Owen…OWEN!” He jerks back to reality at the sound of his name being yelled. Shaking his head to get rid of the daze, Owen realizes his girlfriend is standing next to him, shaking his shoulder and hollering.

“Raina. What are you doing up?”

“The sound of the coffee mug smashing woke me.”

“What coffee mug?”

“The one smashed all over the floor!” she pauses, taking in his ashen features. “What’s wrong with you?” 

Grabbing a dish towel from the counter she crouches down to clean up the mess.

“I’m just tired. Nothin’ for you to worry about.”

“That piece of paper in your hand sure as hell makes it seem like something.”

Looking down, Owen realizes he’s still clutching the picture of the dead boy.

“Like I said, it’s nothing. Just somebody’s idea of a dumb prank,” Owen winces as the words leave his mouth.

“Liar. If it was nothing you wouldn’t be making that face.”

“What do you want from me?”

Pausing, Raina stares at his face but he refuses to meet her gaze.

“I just want to know what’s going on. That thing says murderer on it, and you’re white as a sheet.” She stands and makes him look her in the eye. “There is absolutely nothing in this world that could ever make me feel differently towards you.”

Owen gives her a weak smile and watches as she drops the porcelain into the garbage. His eyes follow her around the kitchen as she grabs a dish towel and crouches again to soak up the spilled coffee. Looking down at the photo of the smiling boy in his hands, the image of glassy eyes flashes across his mind, and he releases a loud sigh.

“You’re going to hate me for this, but I suppose if I’m gonna tell anyone it might as well be you. Six months ago I was driving home from work and I saw my buddy Pete’s car. We had this real nasty way of playing pran…jokes on each other, real violent ones, and I got this great idea. Except it wasn’t so great. I uh, kept ridin’ real close to his car, tailgating, y’know? And I’d hit it with my truck, and he’d speed up, then I’d catch up and hit him again. We started goin’ really fast and um, he lost control. The whole car just tipped over the edge of the road, way down an embankment into the woods. When I found it the car was wrapped around a tree and he was dead.”

“We, uh, we just hung out with Pete last week.”

“It wasn’t Pete’s car.”

“Whose car was it?”

“This kid’s,” he holds up the paper in his hand. “The boy in this picture died because I was screwin’ around. There was a woman in the car with him, don’t know if she lived or died.”

“Didn’t you help them?” A trembling edge of desperation enters her voice.

“No. I panicked. It was a total accident, because I never wanted anybody to get hurt. Pete’s a really good driver so I thought he could handle it, except it wasn’t, it wasn’t…”

“Pete,” she finishes, “it was some kid who didn’t know what hit him.”

“Yeah. Since then I’ve been getting nightmares about it every night. And about three weeks ago this picture of the kid has been showing up everywhere I go. His folks have started a memorial scholarship in his honor and their lookin’ for donations. People have been putting these fliers up at my job, the place I buy groceries, on my windshield, but it was all harmless. Now someone is sending his picture to my apartment with a clear message. You killed him and I know about it.”

“Have you told anyone else about it?”

“No. You’re the first.”

She wipes up the last of coffee. Owen studies her face.

“You hate me now, right?”

“No. My feelings for you haven’t changed.”

“Then why do I get the idea there’s a but at the end of that sentence?”

“I just—I don’t understand. You killed this kid and you feel bad about it, right?”

“Yeah, it’s been eatin’ me up inside.”

“If you feel so guilty, why don’t you go to the cops?” 

“Because they’ll arrest me!”

“Right, but wouldn’t they, I don’t know, be willing to cut a deal or something if you turn yourself in?”

“I killed a kid. They won’t let me walk because I feel really bad about it,” Owen points out, growing irritated.

Glaring blindly at the floor, Raina scrubs at the tiles.

“It’s the right thing to do! Don’t you want that boy’s family to have some peace?”

“Not if it means I go to jail with a murder charge.”

“You’re scared, I get that. If you want I’ll go with you to the sheriff’s office.”

“What are you gonna do? Hold my hand the entire time?” Owen sneers, scowling down at her. Hating Raina for not understanding.

“If that’s what it takes.”

“Gee officer, can my girlfriend come along with me? She’s gotta hold my hand.”

Coffee starts leaking from the dishtowel as Raina presses harder on the tile.

“I sure as hell won’t anymore.”

“Guess I’m not going to the cops then.” 

Minutes pass as Owen watches the cold brown liquid seep across the linoleum. Eyes traveling up, he takes in Raina’s white knuckled grip, tense shoulders, the teeth buried in her lower lip, and the salty tear tracks drying on her face. Sighing, he shakes his head.

 “I can’t go to the police because they’ll arrest me.”

“You won’t even consider it?” She asks, voice quivering.

“I don’t want to go to jail.”

“Even if it means you’ll be free from the guilt and it gives his family a little justice?”

“I knew you wouldn’t understand.”

“Then make me understand.”

Reaching down Owen takes the dishtowel from her and begins sopping up the cold remnants of coffee.

“You’re not going to like it.”

“Do you think I’d like it any better drunk?”

“You might.” 

“In that case, do you have any liquor?”

“Should be some scotch in that cabinet over there,” he says, pointing over his shoulder.

Owen listens to the sound of glass clinking on plastic followed by the splash of liquid pouring. His chest feels tight. But with a little convincing, he thinks, Raina will come around. Standing up, he wrings the dishtowel out in the sink. He feels her step up behind him. Chin resting on his shoulder, her arm loops around him offering a plastic glass filled a quarter of the way with scotch. Taking it, he swallows it in one shot, relishing the burn in his throat.

“C’mon,” Raina says, taking his hand and leading him out of the kitchen.

Head starting to spin, Owen notices his body feels heavier. With stumbling footsteps he follows her out the door of his apartment, down the hall, into the elevator. Slumping against the wall, his eyes blur as he tries to focus on Raina’s face.

“Thrrr’s somthin’ wrrrong,” he slurs, reaching for her.

Owen feels her slinging his arm over her shoulders as she pulls him back onto his feet. Leaning heavily on Raina, she supports his staggering form as they lurch through the empty lobby out to the barren parking lot next to his apartment building. He feels her pushing him into a car, his body dropping like a lead weight. As the world grows dim the last thing he hears is the woman’s voice from the accident rasping her frantic “Please.”