Dave Zeltserman - Bad Thoughts

“You’ve put her through a lot?”

“Yeah, I’d say so.”

“How do you feel about her?”

He glanced up and caught the tension in her face. There was more to the question than a therapist trying to treat a patient. He started laughing.

“I really don’t know,” he admitted after a while.

He leaned back in his chair and thought about it. It was a good question. He used to love his wife, he knew that, and he was also pretty sure she used to love him. Now, sometimes he’d look at her and know she was only a coin flip away from leaving him. The sad part was he’d just as soon give her the damn coin. Even though Susie never blamed him outright for what happened, even though she’d make a point of insisting it wasn’t his fault, he knew deep inside she blamed him for everything. And she had every right in the world to. The problem is, over the years all the blame and apologies tend to wear thin, eroding little pieces of you. Shannon had a good idea what was dead inside and what was quickly dying. He didn’t know, though, what, if anything, was still kicking and breathing. He told Horwitz about it, he even told her how the sex between him and Susie had the last few years become both infrequent and joyless.

As Elaine Horwitz listened her face took on a soft glow.

“You’ve opened up more tonight than the nine months you’ve been seeing me,” she said after Shannon had finished. As she talked she leaned forward and her knee momentarily pressed against his. She let the contact linger for a long heartbeat before pulling back, all the while smiling a sly Cheshire cat smile. Shannon felt a rush of excitement. Simply caused by her knee touching his. The thought of it made him dizzy. Then he thought about Susie and felt ashamed.

He got to his feet and mumbled something about having to make a phone call and that he’d be right back. He then headed to the front door, stopping to ask the girl with the fake jewelry to leave a message with his date that something had come up and he had to leave.

Even if he didn’t know what was still between him and Susie, he knew she hadn’t deserted him yet. That as bad as things had gotten she’d stuck with him.

Shannon walked almost blindly towards his car and was halfway there before he felt the cold air biting through his shirt and realized he’d left his coat in the restaurant. He slowed for a second and then kept walking. Then he sped up his pace.

He could always buy another coat.

Susie was waiting for him at home, watching TV. She observed him quietly until he sat next to her. Then she told him Joe had called and that she had been worried sick about him. He explained how he’d spent the afternoon with his therapist, that she’d thought he had a breakthrough and wasn’t going to black out this year or any year. When he was done he could tell she didn’t believe a word of it. He couldn’t blame her since he didn’t, either.

She sat trying to smile at him, exhaustion sagging her face. For a moment she looked like an old woman. She asked what happened to his coat.

February 7. Twilight.

Shannon squinted at the alarm clock. It was three in the morning. Susie was fast asleep, her small body clinging as tightly to her edge of the bed as it could. This had become routine. He knew she didn’t intentionally do it; it was more her subconscious wanting as little contact with him as possible.

He lay on his back and stared at the ceiling, making sure to keep his eyes wide open. Because when he’d close them his mind would start racing and images would start snaking in and out. He didn’t want to see those images anymore.

It was too quiet in the room. So quiet he could hear Susie’s soft, shallow breathing. If he strained he was pretty sure he could also hear the quiet thumping of her heart. Too damn quiet. No matter how hard he tried he couldn’t keep from hearing his own blood pulsing through his head.

When he would let his eyes close it would start to play out again in his mind.

What Elaine had been told about his mother’s death was only partly true. He did come home and find her body and for the most part it was the way he had explained it. But she wasn’t alone, and the killer wasn’t caught weeks later, and he didn’t die in prison. And the rest of it…

When he did get home that day he knew something was wrong as soon as he got to the front door and found it unlocked and all the lights out. He’d spent the afternoon playing street hockey with his buddies, and instead of leaving his hockey stick by the front door like he usually did, he kept it with him. And he moved as quietly as he could through the house.

He found them in the kitchen. His mother lying on the table, her legs hanging loosely over the edge, and him bent over her, looking as if he were caressing her cheek, his own head casually moving from side to side as a long, dirty ponytail swayed back and forth with it. At first all Shannon felt was embarrassed and confused, then he noticed the knife, the way it was coming out of his mother’s mouth, the angle it was tilting at, and after an agonizing moment he realized why. His blood chilled ice cold with the realization. The room started to sway. All he could see through a blur of tears was that ponytail swinging back and forth. And then he moved.

His hockey stick caught the killer on the side of the face. The blow cut a jagged gash running the full length of his cheek and the shock of it knocked him over. The killer rolled with the blow, spun to his feet in a fluid cat-like motion, and twisted his body so he faced Shannon. As he stood up, he towered over him.

More than anything it was his face that stuck in Shannon’s mind, permanently scarring his consciousness. Twenty years later and he could still vividly see that face leering at him. It was almost like a hatchet had been taken to it, leaving it with only a tiny slit of a mouth and even less of a jaw. The gash had left him bleeding like a stuck pig. The killer put a hand to it, noticed the blood and showed a slight twisted smile.

“That was pretty stupid,” the killer said.

Shannon swung the stick again but he was only thirteen and a good foot shorter than the killer and eighty pounds lighter. The killer let it bounce off his forearm and pushed forward, grabbing Shannon by the throat. Without much effort he lifted the boy and turned him on his stomach with Shannon’s right arm twisted behind his back. He pushed back two fingers and broke them the way you’d break a pencil. When Shannon screamed, he gave the fingers a hard jerk. The pain was unlike anything Shannon had ever felt.

“What’s the matter, boy, you jealous? Wanted your mommy all to yourself?” the killer whispered lightly, his breath hot against Shannon’s ear. When he didn’t answer, the killer applied more pressure to the broken fingers until Shannon repeated what the killer ordered him to.

“That’s better,” the killer whispered, his tiny, slit mouth close against Shannon’s ear. “Let me ask you something, boy. You think you have the right to make a god bleed?” After working more on his broken fingers, Shannon screamed out that he didn’t.

The killer jerked Shannon to his feet, one hand pushing the boy’s head, the other twisting the broken fingers. Then he forced him forward, until Shannon’s face was inches from his mother’s.

“Go ahead,” he whispered. “Take a good look. See what happens when you anger the gods.” Shannon had his eyes squeezed shut, but the killer kept whispering to the boy, modulating the pressure on his bent fingers, using them the way a puppeteer controls a marionette by its strings. When Shannon couldn’t stand the pain anymore he opened his eyes and looked into his mother’s dead face.