Disclaimer: I have nothing to disclaim yet...this guy is my own demon. This story is a bit violent...I needed to purge it from my system. If you read it, please review it.
~Retribution~
Chapter One:
"Open up, it's the police."
The tv was on, sending shadows flickering around the room. Nothing else was moving. The episode of Cagney and Lacy, that fateful episode, had ended eight or nine hours ago. There was a stream of info-mercials, one after the other, but he didn't notice.
He sat there staring, not seeing...yet looking deep into the darkness that had enveloped his mind. His eyes were open in a glassy stare, unblinking. His damp hair clung to his face, pale and waxen. His mouth was slightly open in a frozen look of anguish. His left hand was clutching the arm of the easy chair with his nails buried cuticle deep into the cloth and his right hand was still holding the butt of a cigarette that had burned down hours before.
Every flicker of the tv lit a memory in his mind. A small boy crouching deep into the corner of a dark closet. Tears stinging his eyes. A familiar voice floating under the door like smoke from a fire beginning to blaze. A woman's voice, laughing wildly, then yelling angry words. The door bursting open. The young boy being dragged, screaming from the darkness. Dragged to the hot stove, the bathtub of water filled with ice, the kitchen with various tools capable of inflicting unbearable pain.
The worst, of the multitude of tortures, was the threat of learning what it felt like to die. A pillow over the face, a cloth stuffed down his throat, her hand covering his mouth and nose...all done to the point of loosing consciousness. Her gun shoved into his mouth as she screamed " open up...it's the police" Then her wild laughter as she pulled the trigger, saying "this time I put one in...'click'...this is the one...'click'...it must be in the next one ...'click."
Some days she would pick him up from school in the squad car with her partner. Those days were the worst. Something bad had happened on her job and she would have to work late. They would pick him up and take him home. She'd tell her partner that a neighbor was inside to baby sit for him until she got off work. At first even he would believe her. Her partner would wait in the car while she took him inside. She called him a perp. She would cuff his arms to his ankles behind his back and stuff him into the oven. This was solitary confinement. Then she would say, "When I get home, I'll show you how we get confessions from the bad guys."
He would be in the oven, the faint smell of gas and stale food, causing nausea, and adding to the cramping...in his arms, his legs, and his stomach. The cramps were unbearable. He would be sweating and shaking at the same time. He would get delusional. He would cry for help, hoping that when he finally heard someone come in...heard the squeak of the oven door opening, that it was not her. God don't let it be her!
Getting confessions consisted of inflicting pain in various ways. Her favorite was to heat the spatula on the open flame of the stove. She would scream at him, 'Did you make this mess?' Mud on the floor, a dirty glass, anything. He would yell yes, even if he didn't. He would admit through tears that he was guilty as charged. And then she would burn him anyway. He remembered the smell of cooked flesh, the wet feeling of his skin melting to the metal, and screaming until he passed out.
He remembers when he first understood the term 'live' wire. She would put a plug in an outlet that had only two bare wires on the other end, and when she touched them to his arm or leg, it would cause a sensation of live bugs running through and eating his skin.
One night she came home dressed in her uniform. She was different somehow. He had never seen her look sad before. She was crying and talking softly to no one. He didn't understand her. Someone said she couldn't do her job because she was a girl, was all he could grasp of her ramblings.
She sat him on her lap and emptied all the bullets from her gun. She took one and showed it to him and said "this is the one." Placing it into one of the chambers and closing it up, she made him hold the gun in his hands. It was cold and heavy. She pointed the gun at his face and wrapped her hands around his. "We gotta go." she said sadly. 'click'. She then turned the gun towards her own face, while she spoke softly. 'click'. He still didn't understand what she was talking about as she turned the gun to his face again. 'click'. As she turned the gun back to her face, he pulled his hands away and hid them behind his back.
The explosion was deafening. The force of the gun, kicked him backwards off her lap. In a blur of red, he saw her face cave in and scatter around the room. She sprayed onto him, on his face and clothes. He could taste her in his mouth. He laid there on the floor shaking until he convulsed himself into the darkness. And that is where the child's life ended and 'his' life began. He had absolutely no memory of that child's life...until now.
Hours passed...as memories...all of them, attacked him in the dark. All because of a scene from Cagney and Lacy. Something triggered a memory, that was previously buried, of a small boy whose mother was an insane cop. His eye twitched. His hand grabbed the remote and shut the tv off. Suddenly it was clear. He now understood what she was trying to get him to do. He should never have pulled his hands away that day. That was suppose to be his retribution.
~Retribution~
Chapter One:
"Open up, it's the police."
The tv was on, sending shadows flickering around the room. Nothing else was moving. The episode of Cagney and Lacy, that fateful episode, had ended eight or nine hours ago. There was a stream of info-mercials, one after the other, but he didn't notice.
He sat there staring, not seeing...yet looking deep into the darkness that had enveloped his mind. His eyes were open in a glassy stare, unblinking. His damp hair clung to his face, pale and waxen. His mouth was slightly open in a frozen look of anguish. His left hand was clutching the arm of the easy chair with his nails buried cuticle deep into the cloth and his right hand was still holding the butt of a cigarette that had burned down hours before.
Every flicker of the tv lit a memory in his mind. A small boy crouching deep into the corner of a dark closet. Tears stinging his eyes. A familiar voice floating under the door like smoke from a fire beginning to blaze. A woman's voice, laughing wildly, then yelling angry words. The door bursting open. The young boy being dragged, screaming from the darkness. Dragged to the hot stove, the bathtub of water filled with ice, the kitchen with various tools capable of inflicting unbearable pain.
The worst, of the multitude of tortures, was the threat of learning what it felt like to die. A pillow over the face, a cloth stuffed down his throat, her hand covering his mouth and nose...all done to the point of loosing consciousness. Her gun shoved into his mouth as she screamed " open up...it's the police" Then her wild laughter as she pulled the trigger, saying "this time I put one in...'click'...this is the one...'click'...it must be in the next one ...'click."
Some days she would pick him up from school in the squad car with her partner. Those days were the worst. Something bad had happened on her job and she would have to work late. They would pick him up and take him home. She'd tell her partner that a neighbor was inside to baby sit for him until she got off work. At first even he would believe her. Her partner would wait in the car while she took him inside. She called him a perp. She would cuff his arms to his ankles behind his back and stuff him into the oven. This was solitary confinement. Then she would say, "When I get home, I'll show you how we get confessions from the bad guys."
He would be in the oven, the faint smell of gas and stale food, causing nausea, and adding to the cramping...in his arms, his legs, and his stomach. The cramps were unbearable. He would be sweating and shaking at the same time. He would get delusional. He would cry for help, hoping that when he finally heard someone come in...heard the squeak of the oven door opening, that it was not her. God don't let it be her!
Getting confessions consisted of inflicting pain in various ways. Her favorite was to heat the spatula on the open flame of the stove. She would scream at him, 'Did you make this mess?' Mud on the floor, a dirty glass, anything. He would yell yes, even if he didn't. He would admit through tears that he was guilty as charged. And then she would burn him anyway. He remembered the smell of cooked flesh, the wet feeling of his skin melting to the metal, and screaming until he passed out.
He remembers when he first understood the term 'live' wire. She would put a plug in an outlet that had only two bare wires on the other end, and when she touched them to his arm or leg, it would cause a sensation of live bugs running through and eating his skin.
One night she came home dressed in her uniform. She was different somehow. He had never seen her look sad before. She was crying and talking softly to no one. He didn't understand her. Someone said she couldn't do her job because she was a girl, was all he could grasp of her ramblings.
She sat him on her lap and emptied all the bullets from her gun. She took one and showed it to him and said "this is the one." Placing it into one of the chambers and closing it up, she made him hold the gun in his hands. It was cold and heavy. She pointed the gun at his face and wrapped her hands around his. "We gotta go." she said sadly. 'click'. She then turned the gun towards her own face, while she spoke softly. 'click'. He still didn't understand what she was talking about as she turned the gun to his face again. 'click'. As she turned the gun back to her face, he pulled his hands away and hid them behind his back.
The explosion was deafening. The force of the gun, kicked him backwards off her lap. In a blur of red, he saw her face cave in and scatter around the room. She sprayed onto him, on his face and clothes. He could taste her in his mouth. He laid there on the floor shaking until he convulsed himself into the darkness. And that is where the child's life ended and 'his' life began. He had absolutely no memory of that child's life...until now.
Hours passed...as memories...all of them, attacked him in the dark. All because of a scene from Cagney and Lacy. Something triggered a memory, that was previously buried, of a small boy whose mother was an insane cop. His eye twitched. His hand grabbed the remote and shut the tv off. Suddenly it was clear. He now understood what she was trying to get him to do. He should never have pulled his hands away that day. That was suppose to be his retribution.