Milk Toast Dexter
i think
A mess. It’s all a mess. Years of time, years of plenty and yet it’s gone from me. I killed him, brutally, subconciously. The spray was lovely as it hit the aged wallpaper, staining those 2d flowers in a strange mix of color and aroma. They were dandelions, I think. That wallpaper had been there before I was born, there before the previous owner and show atleast an addtional decade from those of wear. Practically falling off in the entombed room that was rank with death already. Something in the walls, I think. Something looking for something pleasant. A week before, that rat was dug out to avoid the smell reaching further throughout the house. A week later, the one who dug it out was painting the room accidentally. I told him I’d do it. Told him it would come. He handed me the wrench anyway and expected my fingers to not act on their own. Death gripping that lump of metal was easy but the effort to continue the force after the second hit wasn’t. Then came the fourth, the sixth and stopping at twenty, I think. There wasn’t any build. We came in to finally remodel the room after the door was locked and key thrown away by Mother. She left after the room was forgotten by everyone. Father passed years before that.
The man I killed was my brother. He was bludgeoned to death with a wrench. Always had a smug smile in the oddest of times. During one barbaque, Mother held a toast to remember the night and all the lasting pain leading to that point. Vague to me, I was staring at Jessica Wheaty, the town bike. Why was she there? Free drinks and good food. My brother was manning the grill, shoveling lighning into stomachs. The entire night, that grin kept lighting up as everyone came back for seconds, thirds, and take-home-worths. It was a nice smile that stuck to mind. He was kind, stong of mind and will. He’d have helped a cancer patient cross the road as their dying wish.
Now he’s cold. Brains, brawn and beauty covering that dandelion wall wrap. His arms are crooked, legs partially tucked and there’s a valley where his right ear should be. It’s deeper than it is wide, came with a water feature. Neat red river. I’m not tired after commiting the act nor am I stunned. I told him, he didn’t listen. There’s more of my brother I’ve seen here than in a year, sadly. Wonder what Dad would come and say if he was here right now: “Nice swing, son” or “About time he lost that grin”. At least he’d say something, rather than scream, unlike Jessica Wheaty who entered after calling for us. She’s stuck in the doorframe outlining the picture in front of her. Shrill, earbleeder of a wail echoing throughout this ancient structure of a home. What a mess I’ve made now.
“Hey, Jessica. Calm down will you?”
“W-WHAT THE FUCK?!WHY?”
“Shhhh please. Sorry you had to see this.”
“He didn’t do anything to you. Why? Why? WHY?”
“Don’t know, frankly. Impluse.”
After standing around for too long, she turns and runs down the hall. I let her. What’s the point in chasing? Don’t know what to do now, didn’t think it’ll happen like this. Anything but this way, this response. Welp, best flee the scene.
I’m under a bridge now. It’s cold, it’s damp and I’m alone now. Left a trail, the wrench was leaking life oil all over and around my perfectly laid escape path. Red breadcrumbs stuck to my fused hand around the shaft of the instrument for my brother’s last gasp. Wonder what he thought about as the first strike came to his temple? Us? Mom and Dad? Why? Maybe he knew it was coming or thought the reverse would’ve played out. He would’ve done me in with a bat or a golf club maybe a 2x4 considering our little project. Doesn’t matter, I’m rambling to adjust to the weather and think of anything at all, other than murder. Won’t be long now before the police search and find something. A rat in a wall called: me, it stinks and it’ll the pollute the atmosphere with its rot. The stench of death travels and I need to change into something warmer. I’ll keep the spanner close by, protection is not a luxury to live without.
Hours have passed and the dim sun has been swallowed by the blanketed night sky. The air’s clear tonight and I wish Jessica a good one, her scream still reverberates my ears. Plenty to hopefully dream about, if it hits at all in the late evening, crawling past the resonant image of his flesh and skull deforming after each blow. First his ear bled, then it folded inside now cocooned in blood. Second, his cheekbone, it cracked and then split the skin before taking an obtuse angle. Sticking out like a splintered flag pole. Third, his jaw, one of the wrench swings must have crushed the molars, when I was done it resembled our dog’s hindleg. I miss Sparkle. She needed a wheelchair after getting runover by the neighbor, lost a hindleg and the other was weakened. Anyway, brother’s scalp was now slanted his eye ejected from the remains of brain. Sorry you had to see that, Jessica, I got carried away. Shouldn’t have happened there, too late to change course. I ran far, don’t remember what carried these legs to this bridge in this direction and this coming night. Tired now, need rest.
Hours pass and pass and pass. Darkened eyelids don’t break way to any image. Nothing comes to mind from within, no outside disturbance awakens me, no siren and flash of light to startle. Nothing. Even left a trail and still nothing beats me to attention, to stand and cower with guilt over action. They didn’t follow. They. Didn’t. Follow. All that for nothing Jessica, goodluck with your dayjob: busting. Think any guy would hear her out when she starts rattling off about a murder? Hopefully not, take your cash and go elsewhere for a decent shine, plenty are desperate for any. Found shelter in a homeless camp, they were kind enough not to notice the specks of brain coating my shirt or the freshly painted wrench slung from pants loop. They’re like him: upstanding citizens in a bad situation. Wasting away out with the bad weather and the rats looking for scraps of humanity. Easy pickings, shame. Time to leave.
A blanket around shoulders should ease the numb the winter chill. Don’t know which direction to head, just walking.
The chill is worse now, but there’s a dinner ahead, ripped straight from a hotrod magazine from the fifties, neon-lit sign, burnt beef and musty all around. It’s smell is in the soil, poisoning the air with bygone memories. Beautiful simple wonder and disgustingly cheap, my favorite. Hand into pocket, expecting lint and grab a miracle, fifty of them. Dinner time.
The bell chime alerts all four of the patrons in attendance for tonights grub and relaxation trip. We’ve got: Wild Bill, a man roasted by the sun and burnt to pure hatred. Dirty Diana, hair as high as a skyscraper in an Appalachian town and dressed in midnight black, can smell the perfume from Mars. Professor X for his bald activistism and The Loneranger with too many hours on the trail showing its result. Perfect, grab a stool and pluck away.
“You all right, youngin’?”
Wild Bill coughs repeating the question in discomfort.
“You all right, kid?”
A nod doesn’t stop him from pestering further, genuine concern is nigh. A good man.
“You’re bleedin’, junior. Tracking it all on Ms. Perry’s nice floor. Come here.”
His heavy hand feels around for dampness, from shoulder to shoulder, clear.
“I’m gonna go lower, son, if that’s alright?”
I accept, from shoulder to bicep, no whinces, no yelps, no slumping.
“Thank you, sir. But I think I’m fine. Just cut myself on something while walking down the freeway.”
He doesn’t buy it.
“Well, christ, you look pretty good for getting clipped by something big. You still dripping though, bathrooms to the left of the register.”
Painfully, seat is left without weight as I drag it to the room where it all comes together: The Shitter, The Golden Throne, The Porcelain Preist. A humble space to lay waste and think about the day, a lovely little contraption. Can’t stay long, lock the door and see the fallout. For the first time in hours, I see myself, caked in half-dry blood and pale, stone pale. The pants loop faux holster for my new friend Wrench Willie, as bloody as tampon and swollen from the handle playing against gravity from the head of Willie. He can rest in his bed: the sink. Time to clean up. Through the restroom door I hear obvious chatter.
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“What the hell was that about?”
“What? Kid needed help.”
“We should call the police, he might be a runaway.”
“Let’s hear him out, get an order and some coffee!”
Meanwhile, the stained porcelain overflows in rotten cherry colorwaves. The mirror showing the damage of hefty swings with a wrench doing to a clean complexion: brain, bone and life all over with the lasting hint of iron all mixed with dry sweat. My eyes seem different, blacker. Blacker?
“Hey, kid!”
Strong knocks startle.
“Yeah?”
“When you’re done in there, we’ll get you a meal! What you want?”
“Omelet.”
“Done deal!”
Heavy footsteps fade back to the now loudening sound of rushing tap water. Still too many bits of brother to pick myself clean from, I’ll have to hope. A tertiary glance up and down confirm the blanket gets overtime, soaked and heavy. Willie can stay closeby, heavy and lovely with recent history.
The silence is suffocating but the the heat of fresh omelets carry me back to the stool, all eyes buring in anticipation for more.
“You good, junior?”
“Been worse. How about you?”
“Frankly, you looked like hammered shit.”
A long stride of uncomfrtable silence carries through the room as rusty fork scrapes the plate. Every eye glancing around and back to the stranger, I finish my meal.
“So got anyone to call, son or you running away from ‘em?”
“Running.”
“Cops?”
“…No comment.”
“This ain’t an interview, son. You can tell.”
“Murder.”
“Excuse me?”
“Murder.”
“You a witness to one or…?”
“Witness. There was a lot of blood, just walked away from it.”
“If that’s the case, we gotta call the police, let’em run some questions and get you somewhere safe, alright?”
“No can do. No can do. I’m sorry.”
