Cody McFadyen - The Face of Death

So I grabbed Mr. Perkins's crotch and said: "Thanks! Want a blow job, Mr. P?"

Just like that.

I'll never forget the two things that happened. His face fell and his cock got hard. Both at the same time. He pulled away and sputtered and walked out of the room. I think he was afraid, and I can't really blame him. I also understand that the first of the two (the falling face, the dis- may) was the real Mr. P. Like I said, a very decent man. I walked out of the classroom, fevered and grinning and heart ham- mering. I walked out of the school and around the back and I pulled out a lighter and lit that story on fire and cried while it burned and blew away in the breeze.

I've written a lot since then, and I've burned it all. I'm almost sixteen years old now, as I begin writing this, and though I find I kind of want to burn it too, I won't. Why am I telling you this? For two reasons.

The first one is a broad one, bigger than a breadbox. I want you to know that my sanity has become something I can see inside myself, like a white line or a vibration of light. It used to be strong and constant, but now it's weak and flickers a lot. Dots of darkness fly around it, like a swarm of sluggish death-bees. Someday soon, if things don't change, the dots will overwhelm the light and I'll be a goner. I'll sing forever, and never hear a word.

So if I hiccup sometimes, if my needle jumps the groove, understand: I'm hanging on with my fingernails here. I spend a lot of my time watch- ing that white line of light, because I'm afraid if I look away, I'll look back and it'll be gone, but I won't remember it was ever there. The Crazy is down at the watering hole, and it's a short walk from that bad water to me saying or acting in ways I shouldn't, okay?

Okay.

The second reason is because of what comes next on the white and crinkly. I could have done a diary, I guess, a nice, dry, factual recount- ing. But come on--I'm GIFTED. I'm a PRODIGY.

Why not tell a story instead?

So that's what I've done.

Is it all true? That depends on your definition of truth. Could I read my parents' minds? Do I really know what they were thinking when The Stranger came for them? No.

But I knew them. They were my people. It may or may not be what they were thinking, but that doesn't make it untrue because it's the

kind of thing they would have thought.That's the point, don't you see?

The truth is that I don't know.

The truth is that I do know.

That's what recorded history is all about: three-parts truth to one- part fiction. The truth is in the time and place and the basic events. The fiction is in the motivations and the thoughts. Since history only exists if we remember it, is it really such a bad thing to fill it out with a little hu- manity, even if that humanity is imagined?

They were my parents, and I loved them, so I wrote them as charac- ters, and I filled them with thoughts and hopes and feelings and then I read what I wrote and I cried and I said:

Yeah.

That was them.

I dare anyone to tell me otherwise. Actually, I don't, because if they did, The Crazy would come running, you can bet on that. I'd probably slap them till they bled and scream at them until they went deaf and I went hoarse.

And no, they never told me about their sex life, but fuck you, they were people, they were my people, and I want you to feel them living and sweating and laughing so you'll feel it when they're hurting and screaming and dying.

Okay?

Some things I found out about afterward, by asking questions. I asked Cathy, for example, and she was truthful with me. I don't think she'd have a real problem with anything I wrote about her. I hope not. Some things are me describing how I personally remember feeling or what I remember thinking. Even though I'm filtering the memories of a younger me through the mind of an older me, the spirit of those memo- ries, the good and the bad, is true. I'm able now, at nearly sixteen, to give a voice to things I thought when I was six and nine and so on. Some parts are things the monster told me.

Who knows what the truth is there?

Okay, okay. I'm stalling, I know.

How should I begin it? Once Upon A Time?

Why not? No reason you can't begin a horror story the same way you begin a fairy tale. We're going to end up at the same place no matter how it begins: down at the watering hole, next to the dark things with too-big eyes and the water that sounds like a giant smacking his lips as it beats against the shore.

It'll help, as you read it, to think of it as a dream. That's what I do. A black flower. A book of dreams. A midnight trip to the watering hole. Come and dream with me, have a nightmare with your eyes open and the lights all on.

Once Upon A Time, there was a younger Sarah, a Sarah who didn't watch the white line of light and hadn't yet met The Crazy. No, no. That's true, but that's not where I want to start. So: Once Upon A Time, there was an angel, and she was known as my mom.

The first thing I remember about my mom is that she loved life. The second thing I remember is her smile. Mom never stopped smiling. The last thing I remember is that she wasn't smiling when he killed her.

I remember that most of all.

Sarah's Story

Part One

18

SAM LANGSTROM SHOOK HIS HEAD AT HIS WIFE, BEMUSED.

"Let me get this straight," he said, forcing back a smile. "I ask you when we should leave for Sarah's dental appointment. In order to answer, you want to know what time it is now ?"

Linda frowned at him. "Yeah, so?"

"Well, babe, see--the appointment? It's already at a set time. Since we know how long it takes to get from here to the dentist's office--

how does what time it is right now have anything to do with when we should leave?"

Linda was beginning to get annoyed. She looked into her husband's eyes. She saw the twinkle there that never failed to make her smile. Eyes that said, I'm amused, but not at your expense. I'm just loving some character quirk of yours right now.

He loved her eccentric parts, and she knew that she had them, no doubt about that. She was a terrible housekeeper; he was a bit neat. She was a social butterfly; he preferred to stay at home. She was quick to anger; he was more patient. They were opposites in so many ways, but not in the ways that mattered. Their differences complemented each other, as differences in couples had been doing since time began.

In those parts of life where the rubber met the road, they were one person, they had one mind. Love each other until they died. Loyalty to each other, no matter what. Love Sarah, always, forever, unending. Their daughter was a representation of their most unifying principle: love and be loved. Their souls fit together in all the right places, but in other ways, they were worlds apart. As in this moment, where Sam's organized mind met her more Bohemian one and bounced off it with a smile.

"It has to do with checks and balances," she said, grinning back at him. "If we should leave at twelve-thirty to get there on time, but it's already twelve-fifteen, and I know it's going to take me twenty minutes to get ready, then . . ." She shrugged. "We'll leave at twelve thirtyfive, but we'll have to drive a little faster."

He shook his head at her in mock amazement. "There's something very wrong with you."

She stepped into him, kissing him on the nose. "The very thing you love about me, my perfect flaws. So, again? What time is it now?"