Forgive Me, Alex (3 page)

I never understood why people worried about dreams. I'd dreamt my whole life—everyone did—but I never could remember any of the details. Until recently, that was. All of a sudden, I couldn't think about nothing else—terrible, horrifying nightmares. It turned out that not being able to remember dreams weren't such a bad thing.

They might'a been more like visions—hard to tell. I'd go to this place in my dreams, a "realm filled with unimaginable suffering." That's what the demon that lived there called it. He said he was preparing to impose evil upon the earth, and that he'd arrive on the wings of agony and the roar of death.

Yeah, whatever the fuck that meant.

Nobody else strolled in the park. It weren't exactly a park, just a little grassy area with a walkway and a few benches—didn't even have a name. I liked to dangle my fingers in the river and think about stuff, although....
Phew!
That weren't no rose garden. More like a pile of wet leaves baking in the sun, maybe a dead skunk flattened alongside the road, or our septic tank that had overflowed last August. More like all three, mixed into a vile liquid called the Fox River.

I rubbed my fingers on my pants. "I can't believe people swim in this shit!"

At least the bench was comfortable, the sun that perfect blast of springtime warm. This was the best time of year.

"Man, I'm so fuckin' tired."

I was still recovering from last night, like someone had beaten the ever-livin' shit outta me while I slept—typical, pretty much a daily occurrence. Amazing I didn't have any bruises, the way I felt. And my head! This weren't no little headache, this eye-popping, paralyzing, someone-parked-a-Mack-truck-on-my-fuckin'-skull headache.

I rested my head on the back of the bench and closed my eyes. I could almost see the sun right through my eyelids, a reddish-gold weave.

"Man, I'm so fuckin' tired. I should...."

***

My whole body shivers as an army of goosebumps marches up and down my skin. I could swear the river, the Beast, has reached up and clutched me by the throat.

"Yes, I know you are the Beast. I saw it in my dream last night. The voice told me you would be important to me. I used to think you were just a river, but I'm beginnin' to understand. I now see everything differently."

Maybe I see life correctly for the first time, shedding at last the timid, naïve costume that was Mitchell Norton. A new era is mine, one of greater understanding and power. If only I could drown the persistent fear, feed it to the Beast.

"I bet you like the taste of fear. Do you have a soul? What drives you? The voice said you would be my brother in evil."

Now that my senses have grown sharper, I long to see into the river's heart. The whole world has changed, and I've taken notice almost in spite of myself. I'm eager to grasp the true meaning of the world's follies.

"Follies? What the fuck! Where do these thoughts come from? Why, all of a sudden, am I smarter than ever before? Have I always been smart? Am I merely awakened, and, if so, why?"

The Beast doesn't answer. I don't care. I like it. Understanding gives me the power to see the truth, to see things others don't, like my newest friend here.

Cruel and determined, it no longer nourishes life as it once did. It is without remorse, for it is nearly dead, and the dead needn't suffer such trivialities.

"Hoo-wee! There's a word for you. Trivialities!"

The river runs wild and leaves in its wake the reek of many silent, screaming corpses. The constant hum of traffic on the nearby bridge, the insignificant human ritual, mutes its roar. Beneath the bridge, the Beast churns in anticipation of the nearby dam and gathers speed to make its powerful leap over the wall, for it is wise. It flees its self.

I remember the story from last summer, of the arrogant boy who decided to test his swimming skills in the water too near the bridge. Oh, the thrill of that adrenaline-charged moment, when he surrendered to the chill of realization, anticipating his inevitable outcome.

The surface waters, though treacherous, breed no fear. Therein lays the Beast's true genius: the dangerous thing waits within, silent and eager.

My mind's eye sees everything so clearly.

The swimmer dangled his legs in the black depths, unaware of, or unconcerned with, the thing that lurked within, that prepared to seize him and drag him below. What an ignorant fool.

The invisible serpent from the deep grasped the unsuspecting boy and bid him "welcome" to its murky lair. The kid tumbled through the corridors of its domain in terror and in burgeoning agony. He struggled desperately for the surface and its promise of life, but the impotent kid dangled and bobbed like a human marionette.

The Beast grinned; such pleasant exercises fortified it.

It carried the boy to the end of its corridor where, like pitching human trash, it heaved him over the dam and into the churning pit. In that instant, with lungs ready to implode and hope nearly lost, the kid caught a single breath of air, a glimmer of hope, a renewed confidence.

Yet the game played on.

The Beast followed him over the edge and, like the hand of Poseidon, pressed him hard against the bottom. The violence in the pit overwhelmed him, as though he boxed a dozen heavyweights simultaneously. He suffered a constant series of blows to the head, to the body, and back to the head—relentless, powerful. It jabbed and jabbed and—
Wham!
—a wicked cross. A mean and determined fighter, it held the boy down with one hand and pummeled him with a dozen others.

The Beast's helpless toy could not resist its formidable strength.

It delighted in the boy's panic as he kicked and squirmed. It reveled in his terror, grew anxious as he wearily approached submission and, finally, basked in the glory and exhilaration of victory as it poured itself into the boy's lungs, and as life poured out of his feeble body.

Many have drowned at the dam in the Fox River, in my beloved Algonquin, despite the constant warnings to stay clear. Every year, one or two sports insist on sacrificing themselves to the pleasure of the unliving Beast. What a shame that, on this cool day in May, no swimmers will entertain my new friend and me.

I can't help but smile, all the same, for the impending summer promises a bounty of treacherous possibilities. Potential sacrifices linger in every corner of town.

***

"What the hell!" Sweat soaked my shirt and pasted my back to the bench. The park remained empty. "Fuck a rubber duck! What's with these goddamn dreams?"

I shook my head and banged it with both hands—a stranger to myself. One moment I was the same old Mitchell Norton: quiet, happy, unassuming, and, as my dad liked to say, "content to drift through life in a soup of uneventful ignorance."

The next moment I was judge, jury and executioner.

I couldn't remember exactly when it began, and I sure as hell didn't know
why
it began. I knew who was responsible, though—the demon. The Reaper. He'd told me so in my dream the night before, said I was special—supposed to be a judge in the Dark Minion's court, whatever the fuck that meant.

I lay across the bench and closed my eyes. My head pounded again.

"Son of a French whore, just what I fuckin' needed!"

I rubbed my temples, trying to remember a more peaceful time.

"Shit! I can't think straight."

A black shroud smothered my mind's eye and robbed me of its precious view. I saw only emptiness. The goosebumps returned. My lips wouldn't stop quivering. I weren't asleep, but I weren't quite awake either. I drifted somewhere in between, desperate to escape this place—dark, dangerous, disturbing.

Here comes the judge.

"Shit!"

The terrible voice echoed in my mind again—the Reaper—but I couldn't see him. I
never
saw him. I saw only flames, and burning images that wouldn't leave me in peace.

"What do you want from me?"

You know what I want, Mitchell.

"Yes, but I'm afraid."

You'll do fine. Trust me.

"Fuck a rubber duck."

I was so sick and fuckin' tired of this scene: I sat on the edge of my bed and massaged the sides of my head, where it felt like an elephant had plopped his fat ass all night. Most people would have considered it late in the morning, but who gave a shit what they thought! I worked nights and usually didn't get to sleep until three or four in the morning, so it weren't no big fuckin' deal if I slept until noon.

Recently my nights hadn't been nothin' but fitful, distressing attempts to sleep, what my dad liked to call an "exercise in futility." That's what he called
my life
. What a shithead.

I often awoke from too little sleep with a splitting headache, confused about everything that happened in the dark hours, where the Reaper prowled—a mad hunter, and fuck a rubber duck if I weren't the prey. Who was he, and why did he pursue me? Beat all hell outta me, but I recognized his pure evil. He was capable of hideous, unspeakable acts—no hesitation, no pity, no remorse.

He spoke in vile words, and performed such wicked deeds that even the strongest man would cry his fuckin' eyes out, and I weren't that strong. He carried me to distant worlds where the people writhed in pain and misery. I didn't understand, but he tried to explain it last night.

For those who suffer such misery on others, the rule of the realm is pure delight. You too will reap the rewards, Mitchell. The unmistakable look of death will be upon you, and it will be a joyful grin, indeed.

Right, whatever the fuck that meant.

I struggled to keep my eyes closed when he took me, but my mind's eye zoomed into every horrifying scene. If I opened my eyes, I could piss him off, and he'd treat me like one of those wretched souls made to suffer "endless agony and unimaginable misery." The Reaper might'a become a real, physical being, free to reach out and touch me in dreadful ways—he hadn't done that... yet. If I opened my eyes, the vicious bastard wouldn't be a simple trick of the mind, but an honest-to-God, kick-you-right-in-the-teeth monster.

As long as I kept my eyes closed, that weren't gonna happen. He'd stay locked up in my nightmares. I hoped.

"Shit! Who am I kidding? What am I gonna do?"

I rubbed around my eyes and dragged myself outta bed. I desperately needed relief for my head, which felt like someone had split it with a fuckin' axe. I drudged to the bathroom and knocked on the door.

Tommy, my little brother, opened the door and pretended to be foaming at the mouth. "Grrrrr." He snorted and giggled at his toothpaste trick, which he considered clever and hilarious.

I rolled my eyes and reached past him into the medicine cabinet, and pulled out a bottle of aspirin—sweet relief. I'd been eatin' that shit like candy lately.

Tommy finished his business like I weren't even there. Officially an adult, a strong and otherwise healthy eighteen-year-old, he was still slow in the head, on an even par with most nine-year-olds. I snickered at his exaggerated brush strokes, not to mention the ridiculous gob of toothpaste he used.

Most people made me feel like shit-on-a-stick, something they scraped off the bottoms of their shoes, but not my little brother. I always felt right around good old Tommy, and I didn't mind watchin' over him while our parents were away from home.

He liked to call me the MAN, which stood for Mitchell Andrew Norton. He played that simple game to occupy his mind and help him remember people's names. He was quick to tell others that he was TEN, for Thomas Edward Norton, but it confused them. They always thought he'd announced his age, though he was obviously much older. He was also obviously slow, so people shrugged it off, smiled politely, and ignored him.

The curse for folks like Tommy: people ignored them. Sometimes it broke my heart. Mostly I wanted to stick a fork in their eye. I swore I'd beat the snot outta the next fuckhead that called him a
retard
. He might'a been one, but that weren't for them shitburgers to say.

I leaned over the kitchen table and chased down three aspirin with a glass of grape Kool-Aid, Tommy's personal favorite. He drank about a gallon a day. I'd have preferred a shot of bourbon to wash them down, but it was too early for my Jimmy Beam. Maybe later.

I massaged my head and attempted to defeat my headache through the sheer power of determination.

"Yeah, that should work."

A small, tender lump jutted out above my left ear.

"Shit! Twenty-six years old and I'm still fighting zits. Are you fuckin' kidding me?"

My mind drifted into a foggy nowhere land, a place I visited a lot these days. It always made me think of that Beatle's song,
Nowhere Man
.

Yeah, sounded like me, making a bunch of nowhere plans for nobody. My mental strength, admittedly quite improved lately, had diminished for the moment. This sleep deprivation had drained me and turned me into milktoast again. I couldn't fuckin' concentrate.

Too bad. My newfound intellectual...
prowess
was...
invigorating
.

Some kind'a distraction sounded good, a little relaxation, an escape from the boring grind. I needed some fuckin' excitement!