Everything seemed fuzzy and indistinct: the sharp edges of the writing desk and wardrobe blurred into hazy patches of reality and the bed looked like it were a mere prop. The down comforter, the crisp white sheets, and carefully fluffed pillows… none of these things looked like they were ever meant to be actually used. They were too ethereal for that, too perfect for a world that seemed as if it were about to careen off into the furthest reaches of space. And, on top of all of this, everything had a grainy quality as well. Like one of the old black and white films he’d watched as a kid when….
Washington squeezed his eyes shut and massaged his temples with the tips of his fingers.
It was better not to think about childhood, to continue dredging up all those memories. Maybe if he could somehow just manage to focus on the here and now, the room would stop this crazy carousel spin; maybe he could simply let go and be free.
But with his eyes closed, it all come rushing back. So clear that it could have been yesterday.
He was twelve again and had only recently begun to realize that girls weren’t exactly the nuisance he’d always assumed. In fact, they’d begun to awake something within him.
Something that was like a tingling just above his dirty worm; but, at the same time, it also gave him the same sensation that riding The Big Dipper did when the cars finally plummeted down the other side of the largest hill; for a brief second, he could see the entire park stretched out around him. There was that sense of exhilaration, of being at the summit of the world, only to it feel as though his stomach had been left near the top of the coaster once he began the plunge.
Except for his little sister, Brittany. She was annoying as ever with her whining and the way she was always taking his action figures and making them do ridiculous things. Like shopping. G.I. Joe wouldn’t be caught dead in the Dream Car. He’d be out, saving the world from COBRA and keeping democracy safe. Not chatting away with Barbie about how pretty her dress was. Luckily, he was four years older than she; Brittany had already been put to bed for the night and he didn’t have to worry about the little brat bursting through his bedroom door with all of her stupid little questions.
He could hear the television through his bedroom door and occasionally his mother’s muffled laugh. Which was good. As long as he could hear her, he knew where she was. Still, he couldn’t help but to steal glances at the door every few seconds. As if half-expecting to see the knob turning slowly.
Part of him felt this guilty excitement. It was like that time Ronny had dared him to steal the Hot Wheels from old man Pendleton’s store. He’d known it was wrong, that he would be in so much trouble if he got caught. But there was also this little thrill that made his breathing feel funny and caused him to border on dizziness. It felt like he was trembling from the inside out and was a confusing mash of good and bad wrapped in the same package.
He licked his dry lips and looked at the raccoon sitting on his lap. It was wearing this yellow t-shirt that said Molly and its button eyes were dull and scratched; one ear was ravaged from the time Bowser had decided Molly should be his new chew toy and in places its synthetic fur was matted with dried glue.
For nearly six months, Brittany had taken this stuffed animal everywhere with her. At all hours of the day, she would squeeze its stomach and, from somewhere within all that cloth and stuffing, this little voice would giggle. A second squeeze and it would exclaim Let’s play! Yet another and this girly voice would shyly say I want you to be me friend.
Brittany’s obsession, however, had ended shortly after she’d tried to take Molly into the bath with her. From that point on, it was almost as if the raccoon had suffered minor brain damage after a near drowning experience. Almost it’s entire vocabulary had been wiped out and forgotten; only three words remained in Molly’s repertoire and she would repeat them over and over as long as pressure was continually applied.
Those three words were the reason JT had snuck into the hallway closet the night before and secreted the animal away. They were the reason he now felt as if everything inside him had turned to warm mush. And the reason he’d taken his pocket knife and sliced a small gash between the toy’s legs and then pushed some of the stuffing aside with the tip of his finger.
He lay naked on his bed with Molly The Raccoon on his lap. His right hand squeezed the hard lump of the voice activator like the nurse at school working a blood pressure bulb. And Molly responded, time and time again, with the exact same phrase.
I want you…
I want you…
I want you…
Flash forward: crying in the bathroom, Mama looming over him, her face red and angry, while Brittany banged on the bathroom door, demanding to know what was going on. Still naked, he’d tried to cover himself but Mama kept smacking his hands away with hard raps from the backside of a hairbrush.
“You ashamed? You should be, you dirty little boy. You filthy little pervert!”
He felt smaller than he ever had in his life and wished he could just hop into the bathtub and disappear down the drain. His entire body trembled, this time with fear, and he kept his gaze pointed toward the floor, far from the angry glare of Mama’s eyes.
“God hates perverts, Julius! God hates you right now, too… you hear me? God hates you!”
Even over his sobbing and the way his heart seemed to pound within his eardrums, he heard the rattle of the clothespin bag as Mama took it down from the hook on the back of the door. Her footsteps thundered across the linoleum and he heard a sharp snapping sound as she the clothespin opened and closed within her hand.
“Perverts get VD! Perverts get disease! You know what VD feels like, you dirty little boy?”
He’d rapidly shook his head, slinging snot and tears from his face in the same way Bowser flung water after a bath.
“I’ll show you what VD feels like.”
The clack of the clothespin punctuated every word.
“I’ll show you what it does to your dirty worm!”
He must have passed out at some point for he was sprawled across the bed in his boxers.
For a moment, he wasn’t sure where he was. In the darkness, everything about the hotel room looked strange and foreign… like some alien landscape he’d been plopped into the middle of after a late night abduction.
“Wha’s that?”
Washington’s voice sounded slurred, even to his own ears, and it took a moment for the world to catch up with him when he sat up. He felt slightly nauseous but stumbled out of bed anyway, banging his shin on the bedside table with a curse.
“Who… what….”
He could hear something. Like a soft rubbing sound, furtive and distant.
He spun in a slow circle, surveying the shadows.
“Wha’s that?”
Nothing. He was entirely alone in the room… but he still heard the sound. Almost like scratching. Only smoother. Slow and rhythmic, like something being drug through sand. Or wood. Yeah, like something that was being pulled across wood.
There was a loud thump and rattle, so unexpected that he jumped slightly as his head snapped toward the source of the sound. It was followed by a moment of silence and then that soft rubbing sound again.
It was the door.
The noise was coming from the door.
Washington weaved across the room, trailing one hand over the wall to keep from tripping over his own feet.
The sound was louder now, more insistent. And definitely coming from the other side of the door.
“Shomeone there?”
At the sound of his voice the sound grew louder, doubling in intensity. For some reason an image of Bowser came to mind: the dog was standing in the kitchen, scratching at the wall as he looked from the door to the family seated at the dinner table.