But it made sense, didn’t it? Mama had tried to teach him, ever since Daddy died, what it meant to be a man. A man had to be strong… the slash of a knife against bare flesh was nothing compared to what the world would do if it had half a chance. And a man had to be fearless. Only babies were afraid of the hidden things that might lurk in the darkness, of the unknown nightmares that slithered and crept in pools of shadow. But, most importantly, a man had to respect and care for his mother… even if what that mother demanded with the blood from his very veins.
As a child, he hadn’t understood. All he’d known was that the blade hurt, that his skin opened far too easily, and that the sight of his own blood leaking from his body made his head feel as if he’d spun around too quickly on the merry-go-round. He’d cried when Earl would hold him down and Mama leaned over him with what looked to be the biggest knife in the world. He’d squirmed and thrashed and begged to be let go: no Mama, please Mama, no, no, no….
But it never made any difference. For, he knew now, she’d been trying to teach him a lesson. The pain was simply a tool, a way to make sure that the wisdom she was trying to impart was seared into his young, impressionable mind. Without pain, someone had told him once, there can be no growth. And that was all Mama ever really wanted. For him to grow into a strong, fearless man. For him to dam the tears that had welled in his eyes and keep the snot from bubbling out his nose. To choke back the shrill screams that, as he’d been so often reminded, sounded like a little girl throwing a fit because her favorite dolly had been taken away.
Why had it been so hard for him to realize all of this? Why had he forced her to shove him into the closet and endured days in the darkness as he thought about his sins? He remembered huddling in the corner with the smell of piss and shit so thick in the confined space that he could taste it with every breath. Hearing the mice scuttling and scratching within the walls, feeling their rough, cold tails trail over his bare flesh as he shivered and tried to pull himself into as tiny of a ball as possible. Sometimes, when the blood was still fresh and they were exceptionally hungry, they’d nip at his open wounds and pull away jagged little pieces of flesh. They’d gnaw on his hair when he was curled on the floor asleep, would cover his body with tiny scratches as their feet scrambled over him.
And if it wasn’t the mice, then it was the roaches. Or the spiders. Or any of the thousand other creatures his mind imagined to be sharing a space that was as cramped and dark as a coffin stood on end. And all the while, Mama’s voice would whisper through the keyhole at random intervals.
“Worthless little piece of shit.”
“Sissy boy….”
“Can’t even bleed right.”
But all that now seemed like it’d happened to someone else. As if the real Daryl had been hidden away somewhere in the back of that frightened little boy’s mind, waiting for the day he could emerge and lay claim to the bruised and battered body. And all it would take was one swing of the tire iron for him to emerge victorious.
The cop had finally managed to slip the cuff around Earl’s other wrist and Daryl was close enough now to hear his labored breathing as the man gasped out lines he knew so well that he probably muttered them in his sleep.
“You have the right… to remain… silent.”
Daryl squeezed the cold metal in his hand and the solidity of the bar made him feel as strong and invincible as the giant in his dreams.
“Anything you say and… and will… be used against you in a court of law.”
His shadow fell over the officer’s back like a death shroud.
“You have the right to an attorney….”
So close that he could see the individual pores on the back of the man’s neck and catch the whiffs of cologne that wafted in the air. He saw the gold band encircling the man’s ring finger, the dark arches of dark crud trapped beneath his fingernails.
“If you cannot afford one…”
Daryl pulled the tire tool back like a tennis pro preparing to lob a ball over a net. As he did so, the arm of his shadow extended over the cop’s shoulder, silhouetting the raised weapon perfectly against the trampled blanket of white snow.
Moving so quickly that he was nothing more than a blur, the cop rolled to the left. At some point, his right hand dropped to his hip and he sprang into a crouch.
Face to face with the enemy, Daryl stood as if every muscle in his body had crystallized. He stared into two eyes that were like shattered chips of ice and, for some reason, noticed how flakes of snow clung to the stubble on the cop’s square chin.
“Drop it!”
Mostly, however, Daryl noticed the dark, wide bore of the pistol pointed directly at the center of his head.
“Drop it now!”
And there in the middle of a snow-covered road with pendulous clouds overhead, the Daryl who’d been struggling to emerge from the scarred trappings of his childhood died.
SCENE TWELVE
Matt’s hand shot up like a flesh-covered jack in the box. His fingers wrapped around Mary’s slender wrist and squeezed until he could feel the delicate bones grind against one another; but still the old woman refused to relinquish her grip on the knife. Instead, she threw herself forward, pressing the entire weight of her body upon the man’s arms. With teeth clamped in a jaw tightening display of determination, he pushed back in an attempt to keep the sharp point from plunging into his chest.
The old woman was stronger than she looked and the muscles in Matt’s arms quivered beneath the strain of her ferocity. He twisted and bucked, but she straddled him like a psychotic lover. Her groin ground against the sickening flares of pain radiating from his testicles and her tits swayed over him like two low-hanging condoms that had been partially filled with water. Not wasting their energy on words, the sounds of battle erupted in pig-like grunts, low growls that rolled from the back of the throat, and occasional snorts of expelled air.
With eyes locked upon one another, they vied for dominance. Each studied the other’s face for the smallest flicker of doubt or hesitation. For that was what it would truly take: a fraction of a second where one combatant lowered his or her guard; or a distraction that passed more quickly than the eye could blink. One slip up and it would all be over…. The only question remaining was which of the two would falter first.
Even though the logs in the fireplace had been reduced to nothing more than glowing cinders and ash, the pair had fallen so close to the stone hearth that radiant heat, combined with intensity of their grappling, coaxed sweat from their pores. The air surrounding them was thick with the sharp tang of body odor and Mary felt the handle of the knife become increasingly slick in her hand. If it had been wood, or even textured, it would have been an entirely different story. But she’d had this paring knife since she was a new bride and it had been constructed to stand the test of time. Forged from a single piece of steel, the handle warmed quickly even under the best of circumstances; but, in this current situation, it felt as hot as if it had been lying on the bed of coals at their side. The perspiration on her palms was like oil and it took almost all of her concentration to keep it from slipping from her moist fingers.
This apparent disadvantage, however, was offset by the fact that Mary’s wrists also glistened with a sheen of sweat; it, too, acted as a lubricant and keeping his grip on her was becoming as difficult as holding onto a freshly caught fish.