PillowFace (5 page)

He quickly pulled his ear away. 

He clenched his mouth shut to stop the rising soft squeals, and folded his lips inward.  The quick gasps shot out of his nostrils in rapid hisses. 

Just do it
. 
Go in there.  Get it over with.

He began wondering if he really wanted to go through with this plan. 
Plan?
  Had he actually had one?  There was a point to all of this, right? 

Wrong. 

It was stupid.  He’d been more in love with the idea of it all than the actual reality of it.  What was he thinking?  He had no clue, and that would probably be why he‘d die soon.  Yet, with that in mind, his hand rose to the doorknob.  His fingers curled around it.  The knob was cold in his sweaty palm.  He removed his hand, then quickly wiped it dry on his shorts.  The stale odor of wet metal had clung to it.  He grabbed the knob again and slowly turned it.

The door popped loudly when it opened, thunderous in the still house.  He recoiled.  He could feel his heart pounding in his throat, could hear the wet clucking it made while doing so.  The door stopped in mid sway, leaving only a small band for him to see through.  It seemed to be darker than normal in there.  He could partially see his table, littered with masks and molds he’d made himself.  His walls were covered with posters, leaving no spot bare.  His bed was empty and unkempt.  If Haley would have known he hadn’t made it this morning, she’d surely have added that to the list of his chores. 

Shit…he had those to do yet.  He had time. 

If he was alive later to do them.

A musty odor drifted out of his room.  It smelled sort of like the petting zoo at the county fair.  It had to be the man who smelled like that.  He was in there somewhere.  Joel needed to figure out how to handle this. 

An idea struck him that made even less sense than what he’d already been doing.  So, what could it hurt?  He’d gone this far, might as well see what happened. 

Plenty could happen, and none of it good.

He’d decided to kill the prowler…with kindness.

“Excuse me?”  His voice sounded higher than normal.  And dry.  Why was he so thirsty?  “I know you’re in there.  Just make yourself at home.  I don’t want to hurt you.”

Yeah sure
. 
Like he’ll believe that.  You’re only armed with a Myers knife for Godsake.

“Tell you what I’ll do.” 
What am I doing?
  “I’m going to put my knife down to prove to you that I don’t want to hurt you.”

Am I crazy?

Yes.

He released it, letting the shiny blade fall to the floor.  It bounced on the carpet near his feet with a soft thump.  “Did you hear that?  That was the knife hitting the floor.  I don’t have it, listen.”  He lightly clapped his hands to prove his point as he edged closer into his room.  It was silent in here.  Too much so for his liking.  Felt like something was waiting. 

For him. 

Ignoring it, he said, “I’m coming in.”  He cautiously entered all the way into his room.  Psychos and madmen were everywhere, but they’d always been there and none of them was the one he was looking for.  Toys, models, and statuettes of Jason, Freddy, Michael Myers, and Leatherface.  Posters, lobby cards, and papers printed from the internet depicting scenes or cover art from various horror movies wallpapered his walls.  Not only was his work table dressed with grotesquery, the tops of his dressers were as well.  His closet was even worse. 

But, there was one missing though, and that was the psycho wearing the white hood.  Was it a pillow case? 

Joel’s bedroom usually felt so welcoming and familiar, but now it felt like a strange place, as if he’d never been in here before.  A slow, distressing creak of the door being closed froze him where he stood.  The drawn out, raspy huffs behind him sent an arctic blast through his body.  His bowels felt heavy and cold, like they were being ringed by icy fingers.

He turned around like someone with a gun on them.

There he stood, hunched over and leaning against the wall, his right hand pressed firmly against his wounded chest.  On the hardwood floor, a puddle of red had circled around his feet.  The man’s eyes were glossy, hazy.  His breathing was deep and slow. 

He was hurt. 

Bad
.

Joel forced himself to smile.  Not with happiness, but the way one would smile as if trying to approach a stray dog with a bowl of food.  “Hey there.”

He didn’t acknowledge the attempt.

“I’m Joel.”

He raised his eyes at the introduction, looking at Joel from inside the holes in the sack. 

“Uh—do you have a name?”

The maniac didn’t respond to that one either, only continued wheezing, his shoulders rising and falling with each deep breath. 

“What…are you doing here?”

He took a heavy step in Joel’s direction.  His figurines softly shook on their shelves.  Joel quickly leaped back, and because of that the man shied back against the wall. 

Joel felt stupid.  “Sorry.  I’m so sorry.  I didn’t mean to scare you.  I’m not going to hurt you.  I don’t want to hurt you, at all.”  The maniac raised a cagey eye, tilting his head as if confused.  The eyes pulled away from Joel and scanned the room.  The posters, the horror merchandise, the masks, the toys—eyes getting wider as the stare took it all in.  Joel watched with excitement and pride.  “Do you like my room?  Look around if you want to.  I’ve got a lot of cool stuff.  I’m pretty proud of it.”

He pushed himself off the wall with his elbow, grunting as he sloshed forward like a drunk man leaving a bar.  With each staggering step he took, he left a dotted trail of blood behind him.

Joel couldn’t peel his eyes away from the inflictions across the maniac’s massive torso.  Slashes, gashes, and gullies of gore drenched through the torn fabrics of his clothes.  His arms were marked just as bad, but the penetrations seemed less severe.

“You’re hurt really bad.”

Ignoring him, the man clumsily hobbled to the desk of Joel’s creations.  Some were tributes to other iconic horror characters, but many were of his design.  A burlap mask curtained a Styrofoam head.  Two eye holes had been neatly trimmed, and a small slit where the mouth should be.  Joel watched him as he rubbed his thumb across it.   

Now, Joel couldn’t be sure, but it seemed he liked that mask.  He vigilantly approached, keeping a good distance from him as he leaned closer.  “Are you hurting?”

He glanced at Joel over his shoulder, hesitant like an untrusting animal.  Finally, he gave him a single head nod.    

“Do you need help?”

His eyes tapered.

“I mean, do you need me to fix you up?”

Slowly, he shook his head, pointing a thumb to himself. 

“You can do it?”

Another nod.

“Okay, well, do you want some uh…supplies?  Like bandages, stuff like that?” Nod. “We have all that.  But, you can’t use them in here.  I’m sure it’ll get messy.  So, I’ll show you the bathroom.  Follow me!”  Joel darted to the door.  Turning around, he noticed the man hadn’t moved from the table.  Nor, had he changed his stance.  With his back turned, he continued observing over the shoulder with one eye.  “It’s all right, I promise.”

He finally took Joel’s word and put the mask back on the desk, then turned around, keeping an arm draped over his bloodied chest and stomach.  Facing Joel, he still appeared uncertain to give him his trust.

“I swear.  You can trust me.  I won’t hurt you, or even try to.  It’s not like I could do much if I wanted to.  Look at me.”  He grabbed his shirt, tugged, and let it drop.  “I’m skin and bones.  You’d kick my ass.”  Joel nervously laughed.  “I want to help you.”

Why did he
want
to help this guy so much?  He’d disagreed with his own words even as he’d heard them spoken.  Nothing was right about this.  He shouldn’t be offering anything to this man.  And, so far he’d given up his room, soon the bathroom, and the first aid supplies.  What was next?  Food, a bed, a place to stay? 

Just have to see how the rest of the day goes.

The deep stomps of boots pulled Joel out of his conflicting thoughts.  The man was tottering toward him.  His tread reminded Joel of Frankenstein.  Another classic movie, but this one had a scene where a child was accidentally drowned by the monster.  More red flags that he should really pay attention to.  Nothing good ever came to the children in horror films. 

He already regretted what he’d done, but that didn’t keep him from bracing the man, draping his arm over his shoulder, and helping him to the bathroom, making sure he didn’t bleed all over the white carpet on their way.

(III)

The kid locked the door once they were inside. 

Starting with the wide gash across his abdomen, the kid studied his wounds, following them to the two massive gorge-like wounds on his chest.  Those were the ones that hurt the most.  They were deep, and burned like fire in his lungs. He wondered if that girl had busted one of them, but he doubted he’d be breathing if that were the case. The only trouble he’d had so far came when he took deep breaths.  Those pulled against the wounds, triggering more jolts of pain in his chest.

He was in bad shape.  Fortunately for him, the boy was more than willing to help.  This was odd, too.  Why was he?

Pointing to the toilet, the boy said
,
“Might be easier if you sit down.”
 

He escorted him to the porcelain seat and helped him down.  He could feel the coolness of the lid seeping through his pants.  He leaned over, bracing his elbows on his knees, letting the burden fall against his arms.  Taking the pressure off his chest helped the pain.  His dog tags fell out from under his shirt, dangling against his thighs. 

“Wow, dog tags?  Were you a soldier?”

He grabbed the tags and tucked them back under his shirt.  They marked a time he wished to forget but knew he never would, but he definitely didn’t want them consuming him at the moment.  Usually when that happened, people died.  The boy was nice, and seemed like a good kid.  If he continued letting his mind drift he wouldn’t be able to help himself. 

“Don’t want to talk about it, huh?”
 

The kid responded better if he acknowledged him, so he shook his head. 

“I understand. My Dad was in the Gulf War. I hadn’t been born yet, but my sister used to tell me stories about how he’d just get quiet on certain dates and times. She figured that was like an anniversary or something of one of his army buddies being killed.  You know, a lot of people pick on the Gulf War, but from what I hear, it was pretty bad for the soldiers, too.”
   

He’d heard the same stories.  But much like the war in Iraq, civilians looked at the American soldiers as the bad guys.  The way they’d been treated after nearly killing themselves to protect them--he had to stop--was something that he--
stop it
--

They’d just been doing what they were ordered…

Stop! 

He took deep breaths to stagnate his rising heartbeat and blocked those images before they could surface.  He could hear the screams; see the red, all of it, everywhere.  When he looked at his hands, he found four short indentions from his fingernails across both palms. Thin layers of blood had risen to the surface.  He wiped them on his pants.  As his head cleared, the ringing in his ears slowly ceased, but the boy hadn’t stopped talking the entire time, hadn’t even noticed the rage that was taking him over. 

Hadn’t even noticed how close to dying he’d just come. 

“….but, my Dad was a great guy over all.  I miss him, a lot.  I’ll tell you more about him later.”  He got quiet.  Then he asked, “Can you talk?  Or do you just choose not to?  That’s okay if you don’t talk, I’ll do the talking for both
of us, even though I’m normally the quiet one.  At school, I barely say a word, which is why I think I get picked on a lot.  I’m glad it’s summer vacation and I don’t have to worry about those assholes for a couple of months.”

At one time, he probably would have picked on someone like the boy.  But now, he could relate to him.  Hell, he could identify with someone like him more than most.  They were similar. 

Joel opened the mirrored cabinet, rummaging along the thin glass shelves.  He took a tube of antibacterial ointment, and placed it on the sink.  He squatted in front of the cabinet underneath, then removed a large bottle of peroxide, a roll of gauze wrap, and some larger bandages.  He reached up, dropped them in the sink, then he grabbed a white aluminum kit with a red cross on the front. 

Joel stood up.
 
“There’s some stuff in here, I hope it’s enough.”
 

He handed the lunchbox-looking kit to the man.  He opened it.  Inside were plenty of items he could use.  But, there were two things missing that he would definitely need.  He handed the kit back to the boy
. 

“What?  What’s wrong?”

He pinched his thumb and forefinger together and lowered them to his stomach.  Doing an up and down motion, he pretended to tug at the something thin from the wound.  Joel didn’t grasp what he was saying.  Lowering his pinched fingers down, he mimicked poking something through the flayed opening and repeated pulling up at it.  Joel’s face brightened, understanding the sewing act.