Don't Look Back
"Oh!" he gasped, his eyes watering, his nose burning. "Oh, God! What is that?"
Slapping a palm over his mouth, he blew out the stale air in his lungs, then held his breath. The smell was nasty-oh-so freaking bad-that he grimaced. That acerbic scent hanging in the air reminded him of soured milk in a fridge, clotting in its carton, the drink left on the shelf for so long that it resembled a solid more than a liquid. Really, what was that? What could have been neglected for so long that it attacked the senses like a decaying dog? Still wincing at the horrible stench, he blinked back the forced tears, and pressed his lids into two painful-looking slits. Although his eyes were barely open and his sight was blurred, he quickly identified the culprit of the reeking odor.
"Man, I never thought I'd hate being right." He joked bitterly. Except even he, Joseph Wheeler (always that that to his mom, but known more universally as "Stray J." on the street), the class clown who was rumored to get a degree in pissing people off, didn't laugh at this one.
Making light of a serious situation was his specialty, but this time his humor was a no-go. That was good, in the respect that nothing here was particularly that funny. Then again, it was also bad, considering that he was so horrified by what he saw that he couldn't bring himself to shudder.
C'mon, Joe muttered, you can't stay here. You just can't. Staying here means you'll end up as a plate lunch, live meat where you'll end up worse than that-
But what could be worse than that-a puppy lying on its side, bound and gagged, practically bleeding from every pore on its mangled frame? Man's best friend had been cut up so many times that it looked like a voodoo doggie more than a child-friendly playmate. And from the pup's ugly, shriveled appearance, Joe could tell the poor thing had been there awhile. The pool of blood by the corpse wasn't runny or wet anymore. It was a spattered glob on the kitchen tiles, cherry gelatin that had oozed out of its furry little container to use the floor as a dessert tray. The dog's brown, red-rimmed eyes gazed at Joe innocently, almost as if it died with the thought of being scratched behind the ears.
Pet me, please! The mutt seemed to beg. Don't you want to show me how much you love me?
For once in a great, long time, Joe shook his head. Slowly, but at least he was trying to pull himself together. "Nu-uh, boy," he said, denying his own pet its final wish. Some of his blond hair brushed against the animal's blood, deepening the scowl on his face. "not like that. Not with how you're lookin' now, swimming in blood and guts and g-g-"
He meant to say "gore", but he couldn't get the word out before his voice cracked. He choked on his speech just like his puppy died choking on its red, sticky insides.
"Help me." whispered Joe brokenly, "Oh, Jesus, help me through this…"
Fixing a watery gaze on the canine, he gave one more expression of sympathy to the pretty pup, Good ole Daxx the Doberman, who would never lick his cheek or share a sundae with him again, before lifting his head. It didn't take long for him to regret that action. As he pulled his eyes away from his beloved animal friend, another grisly discovery was made.
"What on earth...?"
His voice, already quiet and raspy, dropped a decibel lower. No matter where he glanced, the whole room was trashed, and not in the conventional manner, either. The kitchen-well, what was supposed to be a place to cook and prepare meals at-was currently in as much disarray as a ransacked slaughterhouse was. Cabinet drawers were tilting on their hinges, some so close together that a hard, steady thwack-thwack-thwack echoed in the place. Shards of plates, glasses, and coffee cup saucers lay beneath the rickety-sounding cupboards, not a whole lot of them, since there was only four of each of those items in the house, but every one of them were shattered, nonetheless. Silverware and common household utensils (a rusty pizza cutter, small set of custom knives, napkin holder, spatulas, baking spoons, a charred cookie sheet on its last leg) littered the floor, is if someone decided the linoleum would be the nice, new storage bin for them.
"But…why?" he almost cried to the busted window above the sink, sections of glass scattered across the metal faucet and basins below. "Why me? Why any of this at all?"
He tried to look away, wanted so desperately to lower his eyes, but failed. He couldn't stop staring at the damaged goods, the refrigerator balancing on its left legs, its gray, shiny door dragging the ground, the last bit of food in there spilled over the tiles as if some bratty kid didn't see anything they liked and kicked at it till it all fell.
Why? His mind shouted, his head throbbing just from seeing the massive destruction around him. Why? Why, why, WHY?
But was it really the "why" of it all that bothered him the most? What about the "who" side of things, the classic inquiry "Whodunit?" that every victim usually demands to know? Even though Joe is a Brooklyn baby, a smart-talkin', sweet-walkin' street kid born n raised in the Bronx, the question never hits him. He just lies there, clasping a hand over his mouth so he won't scream, seeing it all, everything, every single wrecked and damaged thing, and not truly seeing anything. Sure, his hazel peepers didn't have the flesh curtains over them, but they were blank. Empty as the cupboards were. As devoid of life as too-cool Daxx the Dobie's eyes were. That would offer him some relief, some odd sort of comfort, if his mind was showing the same behavior. His sight may have short-circuited, but his head was still going, rewinding the awful images, committing them to memory, finally pushing play when the mental tape was done. Terrible snapshots flashed in front of his mind's eye-his pup's glossy, marble-like eyes, chunks of a generic white dinner plate strewn across the floor, a butcher's knife buried to its handle in a left-over turkey, and blood, blood-
"It-it's everywhere." He said in a conspirator's voice to the canine, the chocolate-coated wonder formerly known as Daxx. He kept it down just in case the perp was somewhere in his apartment, drifting close by, waiting for loud noises to ring out to give any survivors away. Just in case. The normally careless "Stray J." who barely turned in his homework and loved strutting on the mean streets in the Bronx at night was taking every precaution possible. "It's like so-some sicko came and dragged my d-d-dog all over the ki-kitch-"
He broke off, too upset and disturbed by the thought of a criminal clutching Daxx by the scruff, trailing the defenseless Labrador from the fridge to the counters, linoleum, and even the ceiling overhead.
Why? Joe kept grilling the ravaged room, both angry and sad that someone actually had the lack of conscience and balls to pull off such a sick stunt. WHY? WHY?
Still captivated by the one question plaguing his mind, he dropped his head, just in time to see a pair of scissors fly towards his throat. One moment, he was staring at Daxx's cut belly, the next; he was gazing into a pair of gray eyes, colder and sharper than the tips of the blades by his neck. He found himself wishing he could move, praying to God that he would find the strength to break free and run, but he couldn't. The weapon poking his Adam's apple wouldn't let him go. Neither would the rough, strong fist grabbing his hair, either. All he could do was wait. Wait for what the man wanted to do with him. Wait for his captor, loving and caring dear old dad, to issue his sentence, to come out and say-
"Welcome home, Joseph." His father said, grinning from ear-to-ear "Welcome home, son, welcome home."
Joe wanted nothing more than to believe the man standing over him, but he knew in his heart that the cruel-hearted parent meant nothing of the sort. This wasn't just any typical greeting. The phrase was intended to be more of a "welcome to hell" or "welcome to my nightmare", where love was replaced with fear, happiness with misery, and no other emotion came without a great deal of pain and sorrow. And yet the small, underdeveloped teen hunched on the ground knew better. Realistically, he didn't have to put up with any of this. None of it at all. Joe wouldn't allow himself to be drawn into his dad's madness, his violent tendencies, his stupid, hideous outbursts where he wrecked whatever he came across, trying to get his son to do the same.
That's not for me, baby. Joe thought silently, without even bracing for his nice, sweet father's on-coming swing. It ain't. That's one way I don't gotta be. A way I don't wanna be…
A sharp slap snapped his head to the right. His balance, based on the psychopath clawing his skull, gave up the ghost. Unable to hold himself up, he began a short, quick descent to the floor, a drop that would, no doubt, bang up his forehead. The linoleum was coming up fast, the tiles stained a permanent shade of red, the grooves between them always seeming like they were thirsty for a new batch of blood. In spite of himself, the unsteady boy cracked a weary smile.
I'll be okay. Joe whispered to Daxx tenderly, fighting against all odds to keep the tears down, to not give in to the sobs eating at the base of his throat. I'll be fine, D-man, I'll be just fine. All I gotta do is learn to not stay here, to go someplace else. Do like me, baby. Don't look back. Wherever you are, whatever you do, don't do it. Don't look back.