Thomas Craig: The Outkast

Sliding towards the brink of a sob, Robert said, “My mom doesn’t kill. She doesn’t hurt anyone.”

“Oh, yes, she does,” said Trevor ecstatically, still grasping the boy by the collar of his shirt. He looked down into Robert’s bleary eyes, and said, “What did I tell you about talking back to me?”

“It’s… it’s… an abomination for a troll like me to talk back in the perfect world of Mr. Carter.”

“That’s right. And how many times have I told you that?”

Robert paused, trying to remember.

“You’re a lot of things-horrible things. And as we both know, smart isn’t one of them.” Trevor released his grip on Robert’s collar in exchange for the boy’s left ear, clasping it between his thumb and forefinger, squeezing and tugging as hard as he could. “I’ve told you times without number to never talk back to me.”

Robert burst into tears.

“I’ve also told you to stop looking at your stupid scary pictures while you’re within the school premises. You have the tendency to poison other kids’ minds with that garbage. When you get to your mother’s-”

“I wasn’t looking at my pictures today,” Robert protested feebly.

“Oh, there he goes again-talking back to me. What a pitifully forgetful soul.” Trevor dragged the boy all the way to the toilet with his ear, not giving a damn if he tore it off the tiny skull or not.

Robert, who had been whimpering as he struggled to repress his pain, couldn’t endure it any more. He exploded into a very loud cry.

Trevor closed the toilet door, and locked it. He put his mouth to the key-hole and shouted, “When you get to your mother’s enchanted cottage, you could look at the crazy pictures as much as you desire.”

Inside the toilet, Robert was crying and trying to explain that he wasn’t looking at any pictures. He hadn’t even brought any books to school in almost a month since Heather Collins, an eighth grader, had told Mr. Murphy about the comic adaptation of The Black Mirage . But Trevor was already gone. He had no interest whatsoever to listen to the runty troll, a phrase he had used so many times it had become overworked even to him.

Suddenly, a voice echoed in Robert’s head. A scream.

He was screaming.

Maybe he was scared of the space in which he had been locked up?

But that would be utterly ridiculous, because he was hardly afraid of anything like the boogeyman or any similar crap that kids within his age bracket considered creepy. Nothing frightened him-not even in the dark. Nothing, except the two bullies in his life.

Yet, he kept screaming.

And even about that same moment, he heard Trevor Carter scream, too. Apparently, he was poking fun at Robert’s predicament.

Robert collapsed on the floor amidst his screams.

And dozed off to a deep sleep that led him into the zone of another very horrible nightmare.

Shortly after Robert and his mother had left the Sheriff’s Department, they walked down Cheshire Avenue to the bus terminal. Not long, the bus emerged from the distance and started to slow down. But as soon as the driver realized who they were, he put his foot down.

Kids gawked from the window of the bus; a couple of ladies exchanged glances, looked down at Holly and her son, and started to laugh.

Holly was busy waving at first, with the hope that the bus would stop, and she didn’t come to grips with what was transpiring. But then, when the bus sped past them, awareness hit her like an uppercut blow to the chin. She lowered her hand slowly, her jaw dropping. At that instant, she felt an internal exhaustion that threatened to engulf her more than ever.

Why had everyone chosen to be so cruel to her? What had she done to deserve all of this public derision? She wished she could procure an answer. But the deeper she sought a reason for their action, the farther it slipped away from her.

The thought of Robert going through this dark time together with her felt even more intense-so much it almost knocked the wind out of her.

Repressing a tear for the boy’s sake, she grabbed Robert’s hand, and they started to walk home. “I guess the bus is for another route-not ours. But we can walk home, can’t we?”

“Yes, mom. I love walking.” Robert looked up at his mother with pleading eyes. “Are we going to pick some berries on our way home?”

“Maybe,” Holly said.

They had walked perhaps fifty meters when Robert said, “Mom?”

“Yes?”

“Why did the man go away?”

“What man?”

“The bus driver. He didn’t stop for us. Is he mad at me, mom?” He looked up at her again.

“No one is mad at you.” Holly didn’t meet her son’s gaze, or slow her pace. She moved on, a thousand thoughts racing through her brain.

“Why didn’t he stop for us, then?”

“I think the bus isn’t going our way. Must have been a different route.”

“It’s the same one we ride home everyday. I even know the man driving the bus,” Robert pressed on. “Is he mad at you, mom?”

She stopped then. “Hey, what made you think anyone is mad at me-or at you, for that matter?”

“I don’t know.” There was a tiny stone perched on top of a bigger one on the ground, right in front of him. Robert kicked it hard, so hard he jerked forward and almost yanked himself off Holly’s grip. His gray pants shimmied in the process. “But I wanna know why, mom. Please, could you tell me?”

“Robert, I do not know why, okay? So, you cut that out and let it rest.” The words rushed out of her mouth unchecked, too harsh and cold. She felt bad instantly for exploding at her son, for taking her frustration out on him.

Robert recoiled a little.

She pulled him towards her. “All right, listen. I’m sorry I flew off the handle. But don’t you worry about the bus driver, about what he did or didn’t do. What’s important is that we’re heading home now, where there’s a lot of cheese and cookies to feast on.”

Robert smiled.

“And you like walking, don’t you?”

“I love it.” The smile on his face had put on some weight. “And I love picking berries, too.”

As they advanced home, Holly wondered how diverse-and greatly polarized-their thought patterns were. As far as she was concerned, the world was a ginormous eye-riddled ball, evil in its entirety. And it rolled after her every second, keeping track of everything she did, and poised to condemn each of her steps. To Robert, however, the enemies could be put behind at Our Lady of Peace Junior High, and they could lunch on wood shavings for all he cared. Whenever he was alone with Holly, all the ills of the world received adequate cures. It became a better place again.

A better place where his worries and frights of the Carters and Murphys of this world became but history.

The world of bliss.

Of chocolate and cookies and cheese.

Robert laughed at various jokes told by his mother, but later threw a tantrum, because Holly wouldn’t let him pick berries.

Monday, August 17

On the fifth day of Carter’s murder, Sheriff Stack visited Mrs. Wilson.

And Brad Conner on successive occasions. It was about eight-thirty in the morning. Our Lady of Peace was yet to open.

“It’s not uncommon that people begin to recollect the details of an incident after some time has elapsed, Mrs. Wilson,” Brian said. “Has anything drifted back to your memory from the last week’s incident?” There was a plate of apple cake on the table in front of him.

“Well, nothing has returned, because nothing left in the first place. There’s nothing different than what I stated from the outset when I was interrogated. Didn’t see a bird,” Mrs. Wilson said. She perched on the edge of her seat, palms wrapped around her coffee mug as though trying to draw warmth from it. “Have you pressed Ed Gibson further for information?”