The Journey of Raf Jennings

            Many children do not remember their fourth birthday party. At such a young age, it’s difficult to truly grasp the concept of time and memory without some sort of significant occurrence taking place, whether it be the death of a family member or a trip to Disney World. For me, it was neither of those things, but something that would entirely change the person I would become.

            I was in the yard, playing with my cousins. We had just finished opening gifts, and like small children do, we wanted to try them out. I remember being pissed off at the other kids as they hoarded my toys to themselves, so I threw a fit. Alex, who got the worst of my rampage, walked into my elbow as I spun in the air, knocking out one of her front teeth. As blood spewed from her mouth and tears poured off her cheeks, playtime came to a halt.

“What the fuck is your problem,” yelled Alex’s older brother Jeff as he pushed me to the ground and rushed to his sister’s side. As I picked myself up, I felt stares from all angles. I didn’t mean to elbow Alex, but I had. And now the family hated me for it.

By the time I made it to my feet, the aunts and uncles were marching across the yard in unison like the Spartan army. With each step, I could see more clearly the scowling, grimacing looks on their faces. They were almost here, and I was surely going to get slapped and hollered at. They stopped a few feet away with just those intentions, but before they could let me have it, a scream rang out from my kitchen window:

"No! Please don't do this! Please! I love you." It was my mother, choking back tears. What was happening?

“Don’t act like you didn’t see this coming.” My dad’s voice was a little lower than my mothers, but I could hear it clearly as I moved closer. “I don’t care anymore. Just shut the hell up.”

“What about your son? Don’t you care about your son?” She couldn’t seem to lower her volume. Each word became more and more frantic and the sobbing was now more obvious than ever. The party had moved from the fiasco under the pine tree to up right below the kitchen window. Alex, after I knocked a tooth from her mouth, had even stopped crying. The looks of anger all around me, had been replaced with looks of pity, and I had no idea why. The mystery became clear moments later when my father walked down the steps with a suitcase and a backpack, and my mother, in a screaming rage, chucked an ashtray at the back of his head as he descended. My father stumbled a bit, found his balance, and walked away without ever looking back. He didn't even say goodbye. At the time, I didn't think this was a big deal; I didn't realize he was gone forever. The party was over. After everyone gave the necessary gratitude, they left me and my mother to pick up the pieces of our newly broken lives.

The first few years after my dad left, I watched helplessly as my mother fell apart. She was working a part-time job, barely bringing in enough to feed us, and I could tell it was destroying her. Each day took a slice of life out of her, and each day I gained a stronger understanding of it. She was giving up her existence so mine could someday thrive. It was then that I decided I could not stand by and watch. I vowed that I would give us a better life. At age 10, I got my first job helping out on a farm up the street from our duplex. I had to keep the job from my mother, as she surely would not approve, so I began to save everything I earned, making sure she knew nothing about it. As days passed, the sadness in her eyes began to cloud her vision, luring her into darkness. In the darkness, she met the man who would eventually become my step dad.

Don't get me wrong, after watching my mother suffer for so long, it was good to see something that made her happy. Rick was alright I guess. He had a decent job at a construction company and basically got her out of the house that was becoming her tomb. She seemed genuinely happy with Rick, and when they got married, I figured the troubled times were over. Little did I know, Rick was just biding his time. As the first year of our living situation went by, I began to see a bit of darkness in him. In the beginning, we would sit and eat as a family, but it seemed with each day that passed, he would come home later and later, drunker and drunker. Sometimes, my mother would yell at him just like she yelled at my dad when he left us. The difference was, he stayed. That fact alone weighed heavily on my decision to overlook his demons. Everybody has them, after all.

This mistake on my part was made evident after one of my football games. I was a backup linebacker and starting tight end. In the middle of the season, we played a game against our rivals, the Foxton Bulldogs. It was a close game. We trailed by a field goal with seven seconds left on the clock and the ball on their forty-three. When the ball was snapped, I ran a perfect route and was wide open for a pass down the middle of the field. The ball was in the air and angling downwards into my open arms for an easy walk off touchdown. Just as it touched my fingertips, my feet became entangled amongst themselves and I fell flat on my face. In an attempt to cushion my fall, I broke my wrist. We lost the game and it was my fault. There was nothing I could do.

***

"You know, you're never gonna be shit," shot Rick as we drove home from the hospital, "You let your whole team down tonight."

"I know, sir." I was being sarcastic. By this time, Rick had been incessantly bitching to me about my chores for a while and quite frankly, I was sick of it.

"You can't even catch a football, how do you expect to do anything else?"

"Catching a football has nothing to do with succeeding in life." The frustration had been building up in me over the past few months, and now it was going to come out.

"You'd better watch your mouth boy." He was starting to get mad. As we drove, his hand moved from the steering wheel to the center console where his fingers tapped a broken rhythm throughout the rest of the car ride, even as he continued his rant: "I'm sick of you talking to me the way you do. Haven't said anything about it, but I think it's time to shape you for the future. You need to watch your mouth, and keep your grades up."

"Yeah. Study hard so I can become a fucking construction worker." Here we go.

"Raf, apologize to Rick right now."

"Tell him to apologize to me. Jesus mom." Why was she taking his side?

"Don't worry, he'll be sorry." He pulled the car off the road and got out. Then, he opened up my door and ripped me out onto the gravel. As I tried to push him off, a pin popped from my newly-set wrist. "You need to learn some respect, boy."

"No," screamed my mother as leapt from the passenger seat and came to my rescue. "Leave him alone."

"He needs to learn some damn respect Jenna, and I'm gonna teach him that.” He grabbed her by the shirt and threw her backwards towards the car. The fear on her face was obvious as she she curled up in a ball next to the car. She planted her face in her knees and began to sob. Once again, Rick put his focus on me.

The first kick landed on my ribcage, the steel toe of Ricks boot producing a sickening thud against my body. In an instant, the air poured from my lungs. Without the breath to scream, I laid uselessly, the rocks beneath me digging into my skin. As the assault continued, my mother cried with more intensity. Ricks’ excessive drinking and the anger that came along with it have been building up for a while, and now a storm was coming into fruition. It was already over, but that didn’t stop him. Another kick landed squarely where the first one had. There was a sudden pop followed by an intense burning sensation that had me drowning in tears. One more kick produced a trickle of blood from the corner of my mouth, and that’s how he left me battered and broken on the side of the road. He grabbed my mother again-- this time by the hair-- and as she tried to block him from forcing her into the car, he punched her in the back repeatedly. After a few moments of this, she let out one more scream before finally giving in. Rick had won. Looking back on it, I should have done something when I figured out he was bad news. But what could I have done?

I thought he cared about me, about my mother. Was I to ruin that on a hunch? It turns out he was a monster looking for the easy prey of a broken home. How could she let this happen to me? Does she care for him more than her own son? Or is it that she is a victim here too? As I hobbled that last mile home, I became sick with worry for her. Something needed to change.

It took me half an hour to get home, and when I did, I found my mother sitting at the bottom of the porch steps.

"Are you okay?" She said as I sat in the grass in front of her. I suppose she did care.

"I'm fine." I sat with my head in my knees, staring at the ground. After a couple seconds, I turned my head and spit a bit of blood into the dirt for effect. "He needs to go."

"It's not that easy, Raf." What does she mean?

"I recall dad doing it no problem." She teared up a bit. "I'm sor..."

"Oh, I see you made it home," hollered Rick from the kitchen. "Did you learn anything?" A sick smile spread across his face as he looked at what he had inflicted.

"You hit like a bitch. That's what I learned." The smile faded quickly. His face turned a deep red, as if he'd just eaten a pepper in a cartoon. In an instant he vanished from the window and reappeared from the back of the kitchen, coming at me at a dead sprint. He was big and I was injured, so I ran to the end of the yard and took refuge beneath the pine tree.

"I hit like a bitch, huh?" he managed to scream between the deep breaths brought on by a pack-a-day habit, "I'm gonna treat you like a bitch." As he reached the door, my mother stood and tried to hold him back.

"Rick, calm down," she screamed as hysteria set in, "He didn't do anything wrong." She was now hanging off the side of him, punching him heavily in the sides as he tried to push her off.

"You better get off me woman. That boy needs to watch his mouth." After a few seconds of trying to pry her off and failing, he said: "Hey Raf, ask your mom if I hit like a bitch." By this time I'd walked halfway from the pine tree to the porch. When he said this, I quickened my pace to a sprint, but it was too late. In a second that seemed in slow-motion, he raised his fist to the sun and two punches landed two punches hard onto my mother’s skull. Dazed, she let go of him, and as he brushed past her to get to me, she fell down the stairs. She managed to get her arms out before her head hit the surface, so once again, I ran. This time, I wasn't stopping. I went across the alleyway in the backyard and cut through the neighbors’ woods. I wasn't sure how close he was, but I could hear him panting behind me. "I'm gonna kill you boy," he blurted, "You're finished."

"Don't call me boy, you sound like a rapist." For some reason, that's all I could think of at the time. This was pointless. He would catch me eventually. Even if he didn't, I wasn't gonna sleep in the damn woods. I remembered the vow I made five years earlier, that my mother and I would have a better life. Since my neighbor introduced me to pot, my money stash had withered away, so being of financial assistance was out of the question. I broke the vow, and that's not the person I wanted to be. I couldn't run from this. I had to save us like I'd promised.

He was a little further back now, as he didn't know the woods like I did, so I had a few seconds to work with. I finished my sprint at the creek where I took cover between two adjacent logs. My plan was to beat him in the head with my cast. When Rick got to the creek, he stopped and looked around. His back was to me, about 15 feet away. The hunter had become the hunted and I now had the advantage. My father left me, and now I was going to have to rid myself of another father figure for the sake of my mothers’ safety. She gave up everything for me, and now I had to save her—had to save us. Rick sat on a tree stump and lit up a cigarette. It was my time to strike. "I'm gonna hurt you, Raf. Just you wait," he said between puffs, "I'm gonna teach you a lesson." He sort of sounded like a born-again Christian. As he babbled his sermon, I crept alongside my log towards him, moving my cast back-and-forth, trying to get an idea of how I should swing at him.

"You're not gonna run your mouth anymore, I'll tell you that much." I was just about six feet from him now. I needed to rush him and crack him in the head. It seemed easy enough. It was at that point however, that I stepped on a twig.

In an instant, his eyes met mine. He reached out and grabbed me by the neck. "After I'm done with you, I'm gonna slap your mom around a little bit for taking your side."

"You won't fucking touch her." I tried to swing my arm, but his hand met it midway and trapped it against the log. It felt like somebody was slitting my wrists from the inside as the bone fragments snapped back out of place. I tried to scream, causing him to tighten his grip around my throat. I felt the blood building in my eyes as if any second they would explode from my skull, expelling spouts of blood onto Ricks’ filthy white t-shirt. As my face turned to a disgusting shade of purple, my mother ran down the hill.

"Rick, don’t!" is all I could make out before I faded into a state of unconsciousness.

***

When I awoke, three hours had passed. Narrated by the raunchy context of a daytime talk show, I opened my eyes to a new world. At first, the white of the hospital room was too much to bare; I squinted around, looking for a sign of my mother. As I became more aware, I felt an infuriating pain on each side of my throat and my wrist was now worse than ever. "AGGGHHH," I growled as I sat up in my bed, my giant cast knocking the set of controllers to the floor. In seconds, a nurse entered the room and sat me back down, after which she injected me with some sort of pain medication.

"You're larynx is fractured, that's why you're in so much pain," she said as she pulled the needle from my IV, "It could have been worse. I've seen people die from it." That's reassuring.

"Where's my mother?" As if on cue, the door opened once again. To my surprise, a police officer enters the room.

She is in her mid-twenties, tall with long brown hair that forms a tight braid snaking down her back. She is pretty, but in this moment, she seems saddened.

"Raf, are you feeling any better?" she asked sweetly

"I'm alright, I guess." I was trying to be a hard ass. Truthfully, the morphine hasn't done a thing.

She smiled, "That's good." She seemed nervous. Her fingers tapped a silent rhythm on her elbow as she stood with her arms crossed gazing someplace between me and the floor. "Raf, I have something to tell you."

"Okay."

"Your stepfather, Rick did this to you."

"I know this."

"Well yes, but there's more to it than that." She paused, expecting me to ask what more there was.

"Get on with it then," I replied in a British accent. The drugs were getting to me.

"The injury you sustained is very serious. Truthfully, you wouldn't have made it if your mot..."

"Where's my mother?" She turned pale and her pupils began to dilate as she looked into my eyes.

"Rick was choking you. He was trying to kill you."

"He was trying to kill me?" I knew it was a tense series of occurrences between Rick and me, but I didn't think he wanted to KILL me.

"Yes," she said quietly. She was paler now; I could practically see through her. I knew something bad had happened, and this drawn out form of information is making it lose it's luster. "Your mother saved you."

"Where is she?"

The officer began to sob as she spoke, "Your mother pulled Rick off of you. He attacked her. She was very strong, but she couldn’t fight him off." Tears were rolling down this woman's face now, and now, I was sure something disastrous had happened.

"What the fuck happened?" I was angry. I knew what was coming. My mother was dead. Otherwise, why tip-toe around it so much?

"She didn't make it." Though I figured this much, the words entered my ears and sent violent pulses throughout my body. The woman who gave everything up for me is gone. What's worse, she was killed by a man that, a day earlier, we had both trusted completely. He came into our lives at a time when my mother was at rock bottom.  He preyed on her, on us, knowing that we were vulnerable. Now the broken pieces of life were shattered all around me, and now, they were mine alone to pick up. He snapped over nothing. NOTHING! A fucking football game and now my mother was dead. It didn't make sense.

I should have cried. I know I should have cried, but I didn't cry. My mother was everything. Everything, was taken away. Crying won't help. Action will help. Rick is going to die. Rick is going to suffer.

"Did you catch him?" When I asked her this, her face shifted from severe sadness (they really should have sent a stronger-minded person to handle this) to one of anger. Her eyes narrowed and a scowl spread across her face. Once again, she began the nervous tapping on her thigh.

"He got away," she whispered violently, “Your neighbor, Mitchell, heard all the commotion and chased him off. We've lost him." A true revenge seeker understands that just because something isn't found, it isn't lost. If he was trying to kill me, he's probably going to try and follow through with it. No potential witnesses, no survivors. That's how I'd do it. I'll use myself as bait.

"When can I check out of here?" He mustn’t have gone far; perhaps he’s turned to a familiar refuge. I have just the place in mind. I need to get to him before they do.

"I'm sorry, but you're going to be in here a very long time. The doctors need to monitor your recovery, both physically and psychologically. Like I said, you're lucky to be alive. You've really been through a lot." I had been, and when these meds wore off, I would have to deal with all of it.

"Nurse, can I get another shot of pain meds. I need some sleep." I could hardly talk anymore as my recovering larynx burst into a flame of agony. At least that's what I wanted them to think.

"Sure," then, turning to the officer, "could you come back later?"

"I'll actually be posted up right outside the door. We don't know what Rick's intentions are, but we don't want to take any risks. I’ll talk to you tomorrow about what you want to do from here."

"Fantastic," I sighed as she put her hand on mine.

            “Try and get some sleep tonight, Raf,” says the nurse gently as she tends to the brace around my throat. They know I haven’t been sleeping. My mind and body have been in a war these last few weeks, trying to fight through the groggy, dead feeling brought on by the drugs, to stay focused on the reason why I am here: Rick killed my mother and he tried to kill me, all because I was a smartass. What teenage boy isn’t a smartass to his parents? I guess that goes to show you that any little thing can stir up a ruckus.

            The nurse leaves the room after checking my vitals. I wait for her to lock my door, to continue her nightly routine. I creep up to the small window that peeks into the hallway, IV fluids rattling quietly beside me. Everything seems still; the only movement is the red, constant-ticking hand of the wall clock above the elevator. The officer is gone. She left on Tuesday, saying that Rick had probably run after the murder. She checks on me in the mornings now, bringing strawberry-banana smoothies to ease the pain of my healing wound. At least she’s done something, I suppose. To break the stillness, the nurse walks quickly out of room 307. She checks her supply cart, and like every other night, she turns and slides into an “Employees Only,” hallway to retrieve more rations.

I let go of my IV stand and twist open the doorknob, my casted hand hanging uselessly at my side. Angling my shoulder through the door, I reach back and pull the stand behind me as I hobble as quickly as I can towards the clock. The re-stocking typically takes about a minute and a half, and with my body in shambles, I’ll need every second. I crouch down slightly as I make my way down the wall, watching the red hand tick, each movement slicing at my chance of escape, of retribution. As the first thirty seconds wither away, I realize how weak my legs have become, even with the afternoon walks my physical therapist has been taking me on. Too much bed-rest, I suppose. I grab the railing that lines the hall, improving my balance and easing the pressure from my legs. Up ahead, another nurse crosses the hall, from one patients’ room to another. Now even with the supply cart, I hunch behind as she gives the hallway a quick once-over before burying her face back into the clipboard she ripped from the wall. I look at the clock, a minute gone.

Desperation setting in, I use my good arm to lift the stand and do my best imitation of a dash towards my destination. Just a few steps away from the elevator, just a few ticks from the nurse returning from the supply room, I hear footsteps coming my way. I tip-toe across the pearlescent floor and manage to bump the elevator down button with my cast. Two floors away, the footsteps are getting closer. My heart-rate begins to climb, breathing increases. One floor away, they’re just around the corner. I think I can hear the sound of carbon dioxide fighting through stuffy nostrils. I rip the IV from my arm, grab the bag of morphine from the right hook, and shove it up under my apron. As I dash through the door to the stairwell, the stand crashes to the ground, bags of fluid splashing across the floor. The initial burst of energy subsides; I wearily make my way down the stairs. A flickering light bulb hangs a few floors above me, slowing me even more. Where are the footsteps? It seemed they were right behind me.

Suddenly the door just below me swings open. It’s my doctor. He sometimes checks up on me before he leaves at night, but there was never a pattern to it. I couldn’t have predicted this. “Raf, come with me now,” he sounds more concerned than angry, “It isn’t safe to be wandering around causing trouble. Especially in your condition.” I need to get the Hell out of here. With my cover blown and no way to out run him, I only have one option. With every bit of strength I can muster, I leap the last four stairs towards him, simultaneously swinging my recently re-cemented cast and striking him hard above the ear. His body becomes stiff; I manage to ease him to the ground. If only this had worked the first time. As I roll him behind the small cement wall at the base of the stairs, I hear keys jingling in his pocket. I set him against the wall and check his pulse. He’s alright, just in store for a major headache in a few minutes. I reach into his jacket finding the key to a BMW. I planned to walk, but I’d say this is a nice development.

The dark, narrow corridor that leads from the hospital to the parking garage is empty. My footsteps echo as I drag my weakened body as quickly as I can. Visitors aren’t allowed this time of night and shift change isn’t for another few hours. The sleepless nights I spent in that hospital bed had paid off. I learned a lot about what goes on in here. After the check-up that just occurred, the nurse returns twice more before the end of her shift, once every hour-and-a-half. Typically, she just looks at the readings, changes the IV fluids if necessary, and leaves. Many of the patients are asleep by now and the final rounds are nothing but a chore to the exhausted nurses. My doctor is the only person that I have to worry about. He should be waking up any minute now, and in doing so, will probably want some revenge of his own.

            The first time I went to Ricks’ cabin, I was thirteen years old. After finishing a school project, Rick picked me up from a classmates’ house. Instead of making a left out of the driveway to go home, he made a right towards the highway. In the position of not wanting to talk to him, I sat silently wondering where we were headed. Six miles out of town, he slowed down significantly and squinted towards the side of the road. He slowed a bit more as we passed mile marker one-sixty-three, and as I looked forward towards the distant mountains, he came to a complete stop on the side of the road. He got out and walked to my side of the car, and once again, began to scan the edge of the woods that ran beside the road. After a few minutes of staring and contemplating, he finally whispers, “There it is,” and jumps back into the car. He shifted into drive, looked at me, and said, “I just gotta handle a little business real quick.”

            “Whatever, that’s cool,” I said back to him as I bounced my head rhythmically off the window. We drive along the side of the road about thirty yards and turn sharply into the woods. From there, we took a dirt path; a mile in, another car is parked. It is an old Ford Escort, rusted through on the rocker panels and of a disgusting sort of caramel color. Again, Rick pulled to the side and turned off the engine. “Get out, we have to walk for a bit,” he said to me. For seven minutes, we fought through the thick, twisted patch of low-rising bushes that sat just beyond the old Ford. Near the end of the obstacle, Ricks’ foot got caught up in the growth. He stood stupidly for a few moments, squatted, and lunged forward, nearly sending himself over what seemed to be an immediate drop-off. It would’ve been simpler if Rick had lifted his foot and pushed the branches downward, but Rick is a badass. Once I reached the edge, I realized the drop-off was a small hill that led down what seemed to be a path that, at some point, was well-maintained. Planks of rotted wood lined the sides of the trail and it seemed the horticulture was just beginning to return to some sections. I followed Rick down a slight, gravel covered hill, and then around a bend that gave view to the stream below, edging its way through massive rocks, reflecting the streaks of moonlight that found their way down, back up through the trees. Mesmerized, I stared for a few seconds before looking up the path. When I did look, I realized we’d reached our destination.

            I pull the BMW off the road near mile marker one-sixty-three and switch off the headlights. Squinting like Rick had three years earlier, I searched the darkness for the opening into the woods. In a few minutes, my lights are back on and I’m flooring down the dirt path, trying not to let my exhaustion get the best of me. I slow down when I see a reflector flicker in the distance. As I pull closer, I confirm what I already know. Rick’s SUV sits alone in the driveway. The old man had died a short time after our visit. Rick said he had a stroke. I’m starting to think maybe he was just being a smartass like me.

            I stop and shut off the lights. Grabbing my supplies, I get out and duck down beside Ricks’ car. After confirming I’m the only person in the immediate area, I continue through the patch of bushes, picking my knees up to my waistline with every step in an attempt to stay quiet. I stumble a bit, my casted arm throwing me off balance, but all is well as I make it to the hillside. My moment is about to come to being. Rick destroyed my existence. His baggage became too much to handle and he snapped. When he choked the life out of my body, his darkness filled the void. This moment, this revenge. He brought it upon himself. I reach the stream, this time too focused to be distracted by its beauty. Finally, I see a gleam of moonlight reflecting off the pond.

            Looking at the shack, I see the door has been ripped down and replaced by a tarp. The chimney seems to be leaning a bit more this time and the window is boarded up. As I inch closer to the tarp, my strength returns to me. I’m anxious, but in a way that frightens me. I’m not afraid. I don’t regret what I’m going to do. I feel like a five-year-old going to a baseball game for the first time. With each step, my heart beats faster and my breaths become deeper. The hairs on my neck are erect, and I begin to tap on my cast. My eyes are wide open, like I’m searching for a shooting star. Not tonight. Frankly, wishes are for people who don’t demand justice. I demand justice. Tonight, I become my hero.

            I stand to the side of the entranceway and listen for something to break through the constant whistling of the wind rustling the leaves. I slide my foot underneath the tarp and lift it a bit, doubling over to peek inside. A small amount of light, probably from a lamp, beams into the nighttime, stretching all the way down to the pond. Turning my head, I see a dirt-crusted, brown-leather boot balanced on its’ heel, a blue-jean covered leg awkwardly angling upwards to the knotted frame of the wooden chair. I lift the tarp a bit more and see a hand hanging over the armrest, clutching an empty bottle of Jack Daniels.

            “I knewyud come ferm e,” blurts Ricks’ drunken voice from behind the tarp, “I knewyud remember.” I let myself into the small room as he stands up. He used to scare me, but now he’s the one who should be afraid. He’s not leaving this cabin.

            “Have you been waiting for me Rick?” I ask sternly as I step towards his swaying body. “What if you’d killed me? How long would you have waited?”

            “I wa’nt tryna killya, Raf. I wa’nt tryna killyer mother.” He tried to walk towards me to no avail. He was too drunk. As he claimed his innocence, there was no look of sadness on his face, no remorse. Just the stupid look of intoxication and hollow, deadened eyes.

“I wasn’t trying to drop that touchdown pass either, but shit happens I guess.” I stared him in the eye and grabbed his arm. 

            “It ain’t abahht dagame. It ain’t abahht you. Um sick Raf,” He said as an evil, toothy grin crawled over his face. His eyes project enjoyment as he scours over the idea. Just as quickly, the grin turns to an intense scowl and he reverses my hold on his arm, “I’M REAL FUCKING SICK.” He raises his whiskey bottle into the air and brings it down hard just as I squeeze my cast between the bottle and my face. It shatters and shards of glass pours to the ground, emitting shiny bits of dust into my eyes. He pushes me backwards onto the floor, my supplies falling from under my gown and skidding across the floor. I wish I’d had a change of clothes. He kneels at my side and puts his forearm across my injured throat. “I’m going to kill you. Just like I killed your mom, just like I killed Pete.” He seems to have become instantly-sober. His once emotionless eyes are now full of life, full of fire, as he talks about killing my mother. And Pete. He slides the jagged remains of the bottle up and down my chest, slowly scraping away the top layer of skin. “Understand, murder is what keeps me going Raf. The only thing that makes me truly content. The whiskey, the beer. I was trying to change, trying to be better. I was hiding the real me, but there’s no fighting it. Of course, you already know that.”

            “Who the fuck is Pete?” I ask him, my voice jumping up a bit at the end of the sentence.

            “You don’t remember Pete? The old man that lived here? Remember that construction job I landed in St. Louis? I was here that week. I tortured him in that chair. I sliced his neck IN THIS VERY SPOT.” The smile returns and his eyes light as he brings the rough glass to my esophagus. He forces the edge into my skin, tears of pain building in the corners of my eyeballs.

            “BOOM,” I turn my body and punch Rick in the balls as hard as I can. In a schoolyard fight, this would be frowned upon, but we’re not on the playground. This is real life and at this point, failure is not an option.

            “AGH,” he groans as he lets the bottle drop to my side and grabs himself. He pushes forward on top of me, pinning me down. I reach back and beat my cast down on the back of his head three times before he stands and grabs my left foot. Still on my back, I kick upward as he tries to grab my other foot. On the fifth kick, I barely escape his grasp, my pinky toe cracking as I pull it from between his thumb and index finger. I grab the bottle at my side and dig it into the back his leg, ripping apart his calf muscle. Screaming in agony, he lets go of my trapped foot and doubles over clutching his leg. I drag myself across the old wooden floor, my gown snagging on nails as I crawl. Rick is breathing heavily, desperately behind me. “I’m gonna kill you boy.” He limps towards me and grabs my foot once more. I stretch my arm as far as I can reach, brushing my bag of morphine with my fingertips. He pulls me backwards and hope is beginning to fade. “Hehhehheh,” he laughs as he yanks me to my impending doom.

            As he reaches once again for the broken bottle, now covered in his own blood, I flip to my back and kick him in the torso as hard as I possibly can, knocking him on his ass. I dive forward towards the morphine and pull it underneath my hip, balancing my body above it on my elbow. I hold the IV between my thumb and index finger, and as Rick dives on top of me and wraps his hands around my throat the same way he did in the forest, I shove the length of the needle into his left carotid artery while simultaneously dropping my weight onto the bag. The sweet nectar rushes into his blood, instantly causing hip grip to loosen.

            He falls to his side, his breathing getting slower and more labored every second. His eyes are wide open as a drowsy look overtakes his face. His lips turn blue as his pulse drops eminently lower and the color starts to fade from his face. “Raf, don’t. Don’t kill me,” he manages to whisper. I pick up the glass bottle and shove the tip of glass into his neck next to the IV. As I pull it right to left, ripping the skin of his throat in half, causing blood to gush like lava to the surface, bubbling as it hit the air, then forming puddles beneath us like a summer rain, I said:

            “I can’t help it, Rick. I’M REAL. FUCKING. SICK.”