The Ride Home

The kid looked young, mid-teens maybe. He wasn't; he said he was twenty and I knew he wasn't lying. He huddled against the car door like a scared animal, like a rabbit cornered by a hungry coyote. The rain plastered his dark hair against his head and his eyes reflected sparkling light from oncoming headlights. He said his name was Ben. That was a lie.

"I don't usually pick up hitchers," I told him without looking over, after a few miles, after those awkward introductions. "Never know these days, but it's too crappy a night out tonight."

"Thanks. Yeah, it's really coming down," he said, trying hard to sound cool and nonchalant. I remembered being his age, trying so hard to hide how scared I was.

"When'd your bus drop you off?" I asked. I wanted to be friendly, to let him know that I was just another good American like himself. He was only a few years younger than me, too young to be out hitching.

He looked over at me. I caught the look from the corner of my eye but ignored it. "Since about eight," he said. "I was waiting for a ride but I don't know where she's at."

I pulled into the passing lane, giving wide berth to another car, squinting through the rain. I gripped the wheel, gauging the slickness of the road. "Girlfriend, huh?"

He almost laughed, just a quiet chuckle under his breath, but he seemed to lighten up. "No. My mom was supposed to pick me up. I tried calling, but I think the lines are down. They live sorta in the boonies."

I laughed at that. "This is all boonies to me. I'm so used to the city."

He nodded in agreement. "Yeah. It didn't seem so bad until I went away to school. Now, coming back always seems like there's nothing here."

I hummed, wondering what else to say. "So, where we headed?"

He gave directions, then sat back in silence. I nodded to myself. I had my own thoughts to pick through. The rain was coming down madly, opaque sheets letting me see about a dozens yards ahead. The darkness made me nervous, but seemed appropriate. The black loomed ahead, broken only by the headlights cutting through the falling rain. Inside the car-- silence; only our breathing echoed in the uneasy quiet.

"So, why you coming home?" I asked. "I didn't think break was for another couple weeks."

He didn't answer at once, like he was trying to finish a thought before turning to conversation. "I come home every couple weekends," he said. "Just to be home a bit." The answer seemed too thought out, too practiced in his mind. I could only guess at why he was really making this trek.

I smiled, imagining what it would be like coming home from school to visit the folks. "Your parents must be proud of you," I said, hoping that my voice didn't show any bitterness. "I can't imagine being close to my parents."

He nodded but didn't say too much. What does anyone say to that? I almost pitied him for his discomfort. Almost. He turned in his seat slightly to face me. "My mom actually called me. I don't know why, she just seemed sort of scared."

I turned the wipers up another notch, watching them flip from side to side. My fingers were falling asleep around the steering wheel. "Moms are like that, I think. Always making a big thing out of nothing."

I watched him from the corner of my eye, his mouth hung open. I chewed at my lip, wondering if maybe I'd said too much. I bit my lip harder before speaking again. "You know, they always think something small is a big deal. Like the dog running off is something to cry to everyone about."

Ben nodded. "Yeah, she does get like that." He settled back in the seat, watching the road speed up.

More miles passed in a new silence. I wondered what else to say to fill the dwindling miles. "So," I started, trying to swallow back the lump forming in my throat, "you got any brothers or sisters?"

"No," he answered, quick enough that I knew he wasn't lying. "No, I got stuck being an only child. Lucky me."

I didn't notice the speedometer jump along faster. A shaky throbbing echoed in my fingers and the minute muscles along my eyelids quivered. "Me, neither," I replied softly. In my chest I felt my lungs clenching hard for breath, my heart was hammering hard. No more words could cut through the tightness in my throat.

"Turn at that next street," he pointed out, nervous that I was going too fast. Maybe I was; this neighborhood was supposed to be foreign to me, I wasn't supposed to know where I was going. I didn't think he noticed my familiarity, how I seemed to know these roads well enough. "That fourth house up there."

The house was lit well enough as I pulled to the side of the road. A pick-up truck stood in the driveway. "You want me to wait a minute, make sure things are all right?" I asked, setting the gearshift in park.

He was already opening the door. "Naw, that's okay, man. Thanks, though. Thanks a lot." He was getting out as I turned to offer my hand to shake. I didn't know if he was hurrying from my presence or if worry was spurring him to forget his manners.

"No problem," I said as the door shut. I watched him trudge through the downpour, his head bowed beneath the rain. I waited until he reached the front door, watching him fumble for his keys, then I switched off the ignition.

The rain didn't feel real, soaking my skin. All I felt was heat burning through my blood, making the world tremble. The kid, his name was Danny, stood in the open doorway. He didn't hear as I walked up; he was totally entranced by the butchery that greeted his homecoming.

Over his shoulder I saw his father's headless corpse propped up in the armchair, his chest flayed open to reveal the emptiness there.

"They were mine first," I said through the rain. "I was theirs first."

He moved to turn around but I shoved him through the open door, closing it behind me. He fell to his knees, an awful groan leaving his lips as his hand slid in a pool of stiffening blood. "Oh God."

My coat billowed open as I reached in and took the knife from an inside pocket. Not a knife, really, but a bayonet from an antique rifle I bought some years back. Long nights of rubbing a whetstone along its edge gave the blade razor-like grace. There were still traces of blood at its tip from when I gouged out my mother's eyes. "They gave me up," I said evenly, never looking away from the back of Danny's neck. "They said they weren't ready to be parents."

Danny looked back at me, his eyes wide with terror. His bloodied hand clenched one of our father's fingers but I don't think he knew it. His face had paled, looking like the walls of the orphanage I spent so long caged in. He tried to get to his feet but things weren't working well for him. His legs moved like boiled spaghetti.

"Don't-- don't do this," he whimpered as I stepped closer. For some reason, I was reminded of the first time I killed: a boy there at the home. The little brat kept talking about how great and rich his parents had been and how great his life would have been if they hadn't died in that plane crash. The sniveling little bastard put up no fight when I smothered his snotty face with his pillow, barely even thrashed around. Danny wouldn't struggle either; they rarely do.

"They threw me aside," I spat, slashing the blade down to catch him in the shoulder, "so they could build their perfect life." I kicked forward, my foot tossing him onto his back. He stared up at me, hot blood running over his neck, his face screwed up in confusion. I wasn't about to sit here to explain all the reasons. I went through that talk earlier in the night. I raised the bayonet, looking down at this thief who stole my family. "What about my life?"

I didn't see his kick, but his aim was off. Still, my thigh buckled against his foot and I went down. I couldn't help laughing as I fell, thinking how absurd his meager attempt was. Did he think he had a chance? But my hand let go of the knife when I landed on top of him, air leaving my lungs in a rush. I heard something crack in my wrist but I ignored the pain and gritted my teeth around the flesh of his arm.

"You killed them," he gasped, twisting beneath me. His hand grabbed a fistful of my hair and I bit harder, a copper taste filling my mouth. "You killed them."

His sobs caught my attention and I stopped chewing on his arm. I grinned down into his face, threads of flesh hanging from my teeth. "They took my life first," I growled with my throat full of blood. "They should have killed me then."

Pain erupted in my side, burrowing deep into me. I couldn't stop the cry from exploding out and my hands tightened before they found Danny's throat. I leaned back, looking down at the bayonet's hilt jutting from my stomach. "Oh, Christ," I chuckled, clutching at the handle but unable to yank it free.

I tumbled off him, slumping back against the coffee table. I watched Danny get to his feet, his hands trembling as he stared at me. He stood there, looking at me, his eyes filled with tears and confusion. "You killed me," I whispered, the words hoarse, a fire filling my chest. He did look a bit like me, though not so hard. He looked more like our mother.

I turned toward her, her body sitting on the couch. My throat was squeezing shut and I wanted to cough, but I wouldn't. I wondered if I should regret all this, but I didn't. Her head drooped against her chest and she stared at me with black empty holes. I stared back. I stared until the black pulled me in.