Broken, Part I

“When I was a little boy, I never thought I’d become a hero, but as you well know, all of that changed with Vincent Gianulias,” I told Byron, the man kneeling in front of me. “Well, I guess I ended up more like an anti-hero.”

For the most part, he had kept his head down, but he had finally looked up at me. No doubt he avoided eye contact because he’d heard rumors that if you don’t look at the person with the gun, they’ll be less inclined to blow your head off. I didn’t know how true that was, and probably neither did Byron, but he would soon learn where the truth lied with this particular situation.

His eyes reflected both the cool white of the florescent lights and his deep regret for his life choices. He hadn’t, up to this point, understood the kind of man that he was to people. Criminals rarely do until they’re confronted with something that forces them to face the reality of their actions. Byron, the man with his skull pressed against my gun, only just learned that karma was not just a bitch, but a bi-polar cunt-whore with a serious beef. That was me.

His voice was meek. “I don’t know what that has to do with me.”

I said, “You asked me why I’m doing this, right? Well, you know Vincent, don’t you?”

He remained quiet. The tears in his eyes wanted to tell me a story of his fear and anguish, but it was of little matter to me. I knew he was scared. I didn’t care.

“Right?” I said louder, and pressed the muzzle harder into his skull.

Through his pointless sniveling, he said, “Okay, yes, I know him.”

“I knew that, but I wanted you to admit it. Not that it matters, but do you know what he does to people?”

He remained silent again, but this time, I didn’t really bother to force an answer out of him.

I said, “You see this?”

I lifted my right hand, and showed him what Vincent had done to me. Three fingers were missing, the pinky, the ring, and the brother. Half my palm had webs of skin forming into slick, mountainous scars. The two remaining digits didn’t work, but these days, it didn’t matter. Nothing I did anymore required two fully functional hands. Granted, it would help, but it wasn’t necessary.

That wasn’t true two years ago, though. In the past, I was a pianist. My wife once told me that I had the skill of one of the greats; that I played as gracefully as a silken scarf dancing in a soft breeze—her words. I spent my days practicing as she listened while reading novels, and I reserved my nights playing at Lucille Hall to no empty seats.

Now, I’m a murderer. The last graceful thing I did was entering this place without breaking the door down. Monsters aren’t supposed to be fluid. They aren’t supposed to feel that special positive energy that drives them to be smooth operators. They made me this way, and this way I shall be.

“Please don’t hurt me, man,” he pleaded, but it was in vain. I already knew I was going to kill this man. Him and everyone else who took everything away from me.

Pulling the hammer back on the Magnum made a click that sent a shiver down my back; the kind of satisfying sound that made my heart skip a beat. Perhaps I wasn’t destined to become a monster, but I felt giddy like a child on occasion. Some really dark things triggered that feeling, which made me wonder from time to time if I had this darkness in me all along. I didn’t care either way by that point, but it was fun to think about sometimes.

“Henry?” Selena’s voice was as soft as the first movement of moonlight sonata. It was more melodious than cannon D. It was the strings from which happiness could be woven just as the high-carbon steel in my old Steinway Grand gently hammered its descants. It was too bad, then, that she had been dead for over a year because I truly believe her real voice could have saved his life—and more importantly, mine.

I looked over, and Selena stood just beyond the coffee table. She was wearing the silver dress from the night we first met. Golden rings hung lazily from her wrist and neck, reminding me of that New Year’s party. She smiled, and I return the favor, though I imagined mine was as empty as my home and my soul.

“Hey, man, wh—what are you doing?” Byron asked, but I ignored him.

Selena,” I said, my voice cracking. I swallowed a hard, thick lump, nearly choking. My heart thumped in my ears, my face felt numb.

“Are you being crazy right now, ‘cause—” Byron tried to say, but I smacked him with the revolver.

“Shut the fuck up!” I screamed, and then to Selena I calmly said, “I thought you were…”

She interrupted, “What are you doing?”

There was a moment of weakness in me just then, brought forth by the memories of old. Standing in front of her, I felt guilty, like I was doing something of which she would never approve, but then I remembered what happened, and all I could see was red. “Making them pay. Making all of them pay.”

The air conditioner kicked on, and little tassels attached to the vent drifted languidly in place. Her black hair didn’t tussle, didn’t rustle. Her dress remained stagnant. She said, “This isn’t you.”

“It is now,” I said, and pressed the muzzle into Byron’s cheek. I imagined squeezing the trigger and watching his broken, shattered teeth blowing through the other side.

“It doesn’t have to be.”

“Yes, it does. All these mother fuckers took you away from me. Took Sadie away from me.”

I closed my eyes, and sighed. They took my humanity. None of them deserved to live.

Byron, realizing that he wasn’t going to survive, pleaded uncontrollably with deep sobs of regret and shame. I looked down at the pathetic man who was all too willing to do the dirty work, but when it came time to pay for his actions, he whimpered like a little bitch.

I kicked Byron over, and put my foot on his chest. Selena said, “Sweetie, don’t.”

That’s what she called me back then, back when I rubbed her feet every night before bed. She told me I did it to strengthen my fingers, but I truly only did it because I loved her. This was back when I made dinner every night before the concert, and despite my sometimes lingering insomnia, cuddled her for comfort until she fell asleep. Those were the days I probably was considered sweet, but just like everything in this world, I became sour, unpalatable.

I looked away from my wife’s gaze for it had a calming effect I didn’t like. This burning pain inside was what drove me to do what needed to be done, and I couldn’t have her take that away from me. I needed it. I needed to keep this darkness in me that prevented me from giving a damn about anything.

“Please, don’t—” Byron began to say, but I stomped on his head before he could finish. One is all it took, and the thirteen times after that were for me. For Selena. For Sadie.

When my eyes returned to Selena, she was no longer wearing that glittery silver dress. It had become a torn blouse and panties. Her hair wasn’t in curls but instead knotted and caked with dirt. Her skin was mottled with grime and dried blood. One shoe was missing, the other still attached to the swollen foot at the end of a broken and twisted leg. Her left eye was missing, gouged out by one of these bastards. At the time, I didn’t know which one or I might have done the same to them.

Sadie appeared next to her. Her blonde matted hair hung over her shoulders, decorating the dark purple rings around her neck. Neither of them smiled, as if they disapproved of my choices. Perhaps if I was still the man they knew, I might have cared. I wasn’t. I didn’t.

After using Byron’s shirt to wipe as much as I could get of the blood, brain, and skull fragments from the bottom of my shoe, I walked to the door. I looked back, and my wife and daughter had vanished. Maybe they’d show up at Vincent’s house, where I would finally put an end to the life of the man who tried to eat me alive. Maybe they wouldn’t. I hoped they would, because I still missed them, despite my broken emotions and my damage humanity. If they didn’t, that was okay, too. At least I’d still get some satisfaction force-feeding Vincent his own damn body parts.

To be continued next week! Do you like my stories? Read more here!

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