Ryan Thomas - The Summer I Died

The reality of the moment hadn’t sunk in, and even though I saw the empty chains, the notion that Tooth was dead was Greek to me. In fact, I couldn’t feel much of anything. A heavy numbness started in my head and dripped like oil down to my feet. Numb from the insanity, numb from the shock, numb from the pain in my shin which had become more of an itching than anything else. I was a Novocain space ranger.

The little axes and knives still sat in the middle of the floor. The hammer and spike were near my feet, but they were just far enough out of reach I couldn’t get them. If only the spike were a few inches closer, maybe I could shove it through my head and join Tooth.

There were no keys around, even though I’d heard them jingle when he unchained Tooth. That answered one of our earlier questions; he kept them all on the same key ring and he must have taken it with him.

From upstairs I heard, “I’ll do it! You don’t got to do everything yourself. Your way is not always the best way.”

Canine domestic dispute. God was a funny motherfucker.

I heard him go outside, leaving me in total silence. Even the flies were hushed, contentedly sucking in the bits of carrion strewn about. I hadn’t heard Jamie in a while, but I didn’t want to think about that either so I just rolled my head side to side, apathetic that I could feel the cold cement against the back of it once more. I didn’t care about anything; I just wanted to go to sleep.

But when my head hung forward and I found myself staring at the ground, I couldn’t help but notice the spike again. It was so close yet worlds away. What if? I thought. How long would he be outside? What could I do with that spike?

As if I was being controlled by a puppeteer, I stuck my foot out as far as it would reach. The chain offered about two inches, but the spike was about three away. There had to be a way. I’d read so much about telekinesis, about moving objects with your mind, but no matter how hard I willed the spike to move it just lay still, happy where it was.

I looked over at the chains hanging empty beside me, the open cuffs stained red. Could I reach them, use them somehow? Did I really care?

But my musing was cut short when I heard the driveway door creak open real slow, like an old man with back pains afraid to fart too quick. It could have been the wind, but somehow I doubted it. I just had that feeling that something was amiss. Not hard considering my location. And sure enough, out of the shadows, came Butch down the stairs. Alone.

The fucking dog was a spawn of hell, had eaten flesh for a living of that I was sure. His oily black coat reflected the blood-stained bulb as he hungrily walked over to me. A cold, slimy tongue whipped out and licked the wound on my leg. I jerked my knee and he pounced backward.

“You like that,” I said. “You want me to beat your face again, you fucking bitch?”

He cocked his head and studied me like I was abstract art.

“Yeah, you remember that, outside, when I punched you in the face. Hurt didn’t it? Something broke, huh? What was it, a tooth, your jaw, a cheekbone? Come any closer and I’ll do it again and I won’t stop until you lie dead on the floor. C’mon!”

The black hellhound didn’t move, just sat looking pensive. Then he sniffed the air a bit, like he was figuring out which part of me to bite first. Should have known he wouldn’t run away. He probably grew up biting chained prisoners.

I jerked my knee again to entice him, and he jumped back and forth real quick, almost as if he was just playing. He gave a little bark and glanced at the stairs, like he was afraid the noise would bring his mentally handicapped owner and a smack to his ears. So I did it again, thinking at least that would be something.

Dogs are quick though, and you can’t read them as well as humans, so when he charged me I yelped in terror. He jumped back, then snapped a few times and rushed me again. This time he went for my ankle but he bit the chain instead and shook it frantically. Growling and biting, he whipped the chain about. I spit a wad of phlegm at him and hit him in the eye and damn it felt good. Stunned, he took a few steps toward the stairs and licked his lips.

“Butch!” came from outside. “Butch, get out here now!” I heard Skinny Man getting closer to the house, yelling for his dog, until finally he stuck his head around the top of the stairs and said, “Butch, you know better than to go down without me. Get yer ass up here right now.” I could see from his torso he was still naked, his garish gray tattoos looking like spots of decomposition. Didn’t anybody live nearby enough to notice a naked man with a corpse in his backyard?

Butch looked at me, looked at his owner, and trotted up the stairs a defeated animal. As the two of them drifted out into the yard again I heard Skinny Man say, “Don’t worry, we’re gonna play with him in a few minutes.”

It was a small victory but it was mine and it was all I had so I took it. The flies were landing on me like early arrivals to a concert looking for the best seats. It was all very telling of what was about to come. And I knew I couldn’t win, not really, so I put my head down again and tried to find that spot on the beach once more.

And damn if I didn’t notice something lying by my feet.

The fucking spike.

How the-? It was right next to my left foot, practically touching it. A few half-smudged paw prints decorated the dirt next to it. Butch must have kicked it when he lunged at me. My heart started to race and my body broke a sweat. I almost fought the feeling off, because I didn’t want hope to fuck with me, but I also realized I didn’t really want to die.

I lifted the toe of my sneaker and got the spike under my foot. I would have to do this very carefully, I thought, and I’d probably only get one shot. I drew it back and placed it perpendicular to the wall so that it stuck out like a nail. Using my heel, I pushed back on the tip of it and lifted it slowly until it was upright. Quickly, before it could fall, I slammed my foot flat against it and trapped it under my sole. The leg iron bent outward and cut my ankle open, slicing in deep enough I could feel it in my head. I gnashed my teeth against the pain, telling myself if this worked a lifelong limp would be worth it.

I reached down with my hand as far as I could, about two feet away from the spike. At this point I cursed myself for having never played sports because I was going to need more than luck on my side. I needed some fancy footwork and some serious skill. With the spike facing up like a rocket nearing takeoff, I flicked my foot up as much as the chain would allow and shot the spike up the wall.

Into my hand.

My heart was a salsa beat trying to rip through my rib cage. I couldn’t believe it. I was so stunned I just leaned back against the wall and sighed, a big exhalation of tutti frutti emotion: rage, determination, fear, sadness, but mostly rage. I flipped the spike around so that the point was out and twisted my wrist to see what I could do with it. You ever see monkeys pick up a toy at the zoo and not quite understand how it works, try to eat a soccer ball or stick a comb up their nose? That’s how I felt. And forget what I’d seen in films. I sure as fuck wasn’t about to pick a lock with it, not only because I had never done so before, but also because the tip was too big to fit in the keyholes of the cuffs.

But I had it, so now what?

I thought maybe I could pry the cuff open, but thought better of it. The handcuffs were too strong to be broken and I’d probably break the spike or sever my wrist. I could see if Skinny Man would get close enough to jab it in his belly, but that would be a waste, he’d just take it away. I had to use it to get free somehow.