Dead Silence
Page 41
Now, however, it would simply be used against him.
The first blow, when he delivered it, was a right. It hit his father square in the left temple, causing his knees to buckle as he reached for the wound, which was already oozing blood. The second was a line drive to the right side of his skull, and this time he heard—or maybe felt—the bone give beneath the wooden bat.
This time, the old man shrieked, his mouth wide, until no sound was coming out. He stared at his son, blinking in disbelief, right before he tumbled forward, falling on his face.
The next three blows were rights—his strongest hand—and came from above as he stood over his father’s slack form. Gratification surged through him each time he heard the sound of the bat crushing bone.
It wasn’t until his arms ached and he was breathless that he stopped. He wiped his hands on his pants before throwing the bloodied bat on the ground.
Panting, he waited until he caught his breath again before making his way back to the bedroom.
This time he didn’t call out to her, he just slipped inside without a sound.
He stood at her bedside, waiting for his eyes to adjust, until he could see the gray outline of the woman who’d once been his mother. The woman who’d lost herself, first to the pipe, and then to the needle. The woman who’d left him in the care of that bastard.
“I’m sorry,” he said at last, as he tried to make himself feel something.
And then he lifted the pillow and covered her face.
She didn’t struggle or fight to try to live, not the way a normal person would have. Instead she just lay there, letting her only son steal the air from her lungs.
Letting herself die.
When he felt her body shudder, a tremor he’d felt before, he knew she was gone. He lifted the pillow and set it aside.
“I’m sorry,” he said again, before smoothing a hand over her cheek.
He went to the cupboard then, to where the old man kept the lighter fluid, the kind that normal families used to start charcoals when they barbequed in their backyards, but that his own dad had used to refill his stupid D-Day lighter that he claimed had belonged to his dad—the miserable drunk who’d come before him. He pulled off the stopper and squeezed, dousing his father until the stream of butane made the blood watery, spreading the pool.
He pulled a pack of matches from his front pocket, then changed his mind and went back to the littered coffee table, where the ashtray spilled over with cigarette butts and ash. Beside it, he picked up the lighter his dad used to scold him for touching.
He stood at the door, surveying his handiwork; glad the prick could never hurt him again. Glad his mother wouldn’t have to spend another day suffering because she needed her fix.
Then he lit the flame, mesmerized by the dancing blue and yellow blaze that flickered and flashed.
He threw the lighter down, into the pool of bloody lighter fluid and watched as the old man went up in flames.
And he closed the door behind him.
CHAPTER 8
VIOLET STRETCHED OUT ON HER STOMACH, flipping through the pages of her grandmother’s diaries. Immediately, she was cocooned in the warmth of her grandma’s words, and even though she couldn’t eclipse her own music box, she reached over to her nightstand and wound the ivory box she’d found that first day, getting lost in the reassuring sounds of her grandmother’s lullaby.
The entries would have been dull to anyone else . . . stories about her grandma Louise’s married life, their family, and anecdotes from her mother’s childhood. But to Violet they were a treasure trove. She learned that her mom had sprained her ankle and skinned both knees when she was twelve, trying to impress a boy at the roller rink. She laughed out loud when she read another entry about her mom, when she was a teenager, getting busted for sneaking out with her friends in the middle of the night. She’d even taken the car—something she would’ve skewered Violet over, especially since she was only fourteen at the time. It was hard to imagine her mom causing trouble or having crushes on boys—anyone other than her dad. But there it was, in black and white.
Reading the journals was soothing, and she stretched again, until her toes were dangling over the edge of her bed.
She was about to call it a night, when one of the entries caught her eye:
March 4, 1987
A man came to the door today. At first I told him my usual “no thank you,” certain he must be a salesman even before he’d opened his mouth. It was the suit. No one in our neighborhood wears suits. Not unless they’re selling something. But he assured me that wasn’t the case. He said he was here to see me, and then he lowered his voice and told me he knew what I could do. I almost slammed the door in his face, then and there. But then he said a name that I hadn’t heard in years—Ian Williams.
Ian . . .
I think I was too stunned, hearing that name after all this time to even react at first, giving him enough time to say what he’d come to say. Giving him more time than I probably should have.
Whatever would have possessed Ian to tell someone about me all these years later? Whatever possessed me to listen to the crazy tale this salesman spun at my door?
I probably should’ve closed it after all.
Curious now, Violet rolled onto her back and kept reading, no longer sleepy. She scanned ahead, skipping past all the Maggie-this and Maggie-that entries that riddled this part of her grandmother’s life.
Then another one caught her attention, this one dated just three weeks later.
March 27, 1987
Maggie’s been gone all week, spending her spring break in Palm Springs with Sabrina Luddy’s family. I would be worried, except that Sabrina’s father is as strict as they come. Still, it probably couldn’t hurt to worry a little, she is sixteen after all. But I’ve been too preoccupied to worry. The man in the suit has come back twice. I still haven’t told John about him, although I’m not sure why. I’ve meant to, plenty of times. I’ve opened my mouth to tell him everything, but each time I close it again, feeling like this is something that needs to be kept to myself. At least for now. The man always wears the same dark suit, and he’s tried and tried to convince me that he understands what I’ve gone through. He’s told me, too, in far-too-mysterious terms, that I’m not alone.
The first blow, when he delivered it, was a right. It hit his father square in the left temple, causing his knees to buckle as he reached for the wound, which was already oozing blood. The second was a line drive to the right side of his skull, and this time he heard—or maybe felt—the bone give beneath the wooden bat.
This time, the old man shrieked, his mouth wide, until no sound was coming out. He stared at his son, blinking in disbelief, right before he tumbled forward, falling on his face.
The next three blows were rights—his strongest hand—and came from above as he stood over his father’s slack form. Gratification surged through him each time he heard the sound of the bat crushing bone.
It wasn’t until his arms ached and he was breathless that he stopped. He wiped his hands on his pants before throwing the bloodied bat on the ground.
Panting, he waited until he caught his breath again before making his way back to the bedroom.
This time he didn’t call out to her, he just slipped inside without a sound.
He stood at her bedside, waiting for his eyes to adjust, until he could see the gray outline of the woman who’d once been his mother. The woman who’d lost herself, first to the pipe, and then to the needle. The woman who’d left him in the care of that bastard.
“I’m sorry,” he said at last, as he tried to make himself feel something.
And then he lifted the pillow and covered her face.
She didn’t struggle or fight to try to live, not the way a normal person would have. Instead she just lay there, letting her only son steal the air from her lungs.
Letting herself die.
When he felt her body shudder, a tremor he’d felt before, he knew she was gone. He lifted the pillow and set it aside.
“I’m sorry,” he said again, before smoothing a hand over her cheek.
He went to the cupboard then, to where the old man kept the lighter fluid, the kind that normal families used to start charcoals when they barbequed in their backyards, but that his own dad had used to refill his stupid D-Day lighter that he claimed had belonged to his dad—the miserable drunk who’d come before him. He pulled off the stopper and squeezed, dousing his father until the stream of butane made the blood watery, spreading the pool.
He pulled a pack of matches from his front pocket, then changed his mind and went back to the littered coffee table, where the ashtray spilled over with cigarette butts and ash. Beside it, he picked up the lighter his dad used to scold him for touching.
He stood at the door, surveying his handiwork; glad the prick could never hurt him again. Glad his mother wouldn’t have to spend another day suffering because she needed her fix.
Then he lit the flame, mesmerized by the dancing blue and yellow blaze that flickered and flashed.
He threw the lighter down, into the pool of bloody lighter fluid and watched as the old man went up in flames.
And he closed the door behind him.
CHAPTER 8
VIOLET STRETCHED OUT ON HER STOMACH, flipping through the pages of her grandmother’s diaries. Immediately, she was cocooned in the warmth of her grandma’s words, and even though she couldn’t eclipse her own music box, she reached over to her nightstand and wound the ivory box she’d found that first day, getting lost in the reassuring sounds of her grandmother’s lullaby.
The entries would have been dull to anyone else . . . stories about her grandma Louise’s married life, their family, and anecdotes from her mother’s childhood. But to Violet they were a treasure trove. She learned that her mom had sprained her ankle and skinned both knees when she was twelve, trying to impress a boy at the roller rink. She laughed out loud when she read another entry about her mom, when she was a teenager, getting busted for sneaking out with her friends in the middle of the night. She’d even taken the car—something she would’ve skewered Violet over, especially since she was only fourteen at the time. It was hard to imagine her mom causing trouble or having crushes on boys—anyone other than her dad. But there it was, in black and white.
Reading the journals was soothing, and she stretched again, until her toes were dangling over the edge of her bed.
She was about to call it a night, when one of the entries caught her eye:
March 4, 1987
A man came to the door today. At first I told him my usual “no thank you,” certain he must be a salesman even before he’d opened his mouth. It was the suit. No one in our neighborhood wears suits. Not unless they’re selling something. But he assured me that wasn’t the case. He said he was here to see me, and then he lowered his voice and told me he knew what I could do. I almost slammed the door in his face, then and there. But then he said a name that I hadn’t heard in years—Ian Williams.
Ian . . .
I think I was too stunned, hearing that name after all this time to even react at first, giving him enough time to say what he’d come to say. Giving him more time than I probably should have.
Whatever would have possessed Ian to tell someone about me all these years later? Whatever possessed me to listen to the crazy tale this salesman spun at my door?
I probably should’ve closed it after all.
Curious now, Violet rolled onto her back and kept reading, no longer sleepy. She scanned ahead, skipping past all the Maggie-this and Maggie-that entries that riddled this part of her grandmother’s life.
Then another one caught her attention, this one dated just three weeks later.
March 27, 1987
Maggie’s been gone all week, spending her spring break in Palm Springs with Sabrina Luddy’s family. I would be worried, except that Sabrina’s father is as strict as they come. Still, it probably couldn’t hurt to worry a little, she is sixteen after all. But I’ve been too preoccupied to worry. The man in the suit has come back twice. I still haven’t told John about him, although I’m not sure why. I’ve meant to, plenty of times. I’ve opened my mouth to tell him everything, but each time I close it again, feeling like this is something that needs to be kept to myself. At least for now. The man always wears the same dark suit, and he’s tried and tried to convince me that he understands what I’ve gone through. He’s told me, too, in far-too-mysterious terms, that I’m not alone.
