The Basement
Peter stared up at the wind chimes hanging over the porch and watched them twinkle as the summer breeze pushed them around. It was like any other summer day he could remember. It meant long walks for his father's neighbors who looked like they were a hundred years old. The lawn was dry and uncomfortable because of the recent drought, so it made lying out and relaxing on the lawn impossible. It was Peter's first day of summer vacation and he was to spend it, like the last four, with his father in the suburbs of Georgia. Peter would watch while the other kids in the little suburb play in the streets but never ask him to join. He glared as their parents called them inside to cool down while he was told he needed to leave for a few hours so his father could fuck his girlfriend. The sun was making the whole world boil and raised the seventeen year old boy's frustration. What was he supposed to do? Why was he meant to feel so alone? Why didn't anyone ever pay attention to him unless he was acting out? None of his questions were ever answered, and it made Peter feel even more isolated.
He drummed his fingers on the concrete step that he was laying on. His shoulders rubbed uncomfortably against the cool slab of stone as he repositioned himself to balance his mini radio on his chest. He listened intently as the newscasters recapped the ongoing story of a recent string of murders in the downtown area of Atlanta. The radio cuts to an audio clip from an interview with the lieutenant in charge of the investigation. "We are searching for possible suspects regarding the "Skinner" case. As of right now we have no witnesses, however we are still reviewing new evidence found at the crime scene last ni-" The audio began to fade into static. Peter fiddled with the channel knob trying to find a signal and hit the side of the radio in frustration. His sweaty palms battered the tiny electronic device until the speaker cut out. He grinded his teeth together and pouted, going over the same "woe is me" speech he had perfected.
"Piece of shit," he mumbled as he tossed the radio into the bushes. Nothing was good or holy in Peter's eyes. Everything and everyone was out to get him one way or the other, and they wouldn't stop until he was the most miserable person on the whole planet.
Just then Julie, his father's new girl friend, opened the front door and slipped out. She passed Peter without even noticing him and got into her car. Peter stared from his spot on the porch as she checked her make-up in the mirror and started her car. When she finally drove away and out of sight, Peter decided it was time to get back inside. He snuck up to his room, where he spent most of his time hidden away.
It was a plain room, he hardly lived there so he found no point to decorate or personalize his living space. After all, he was only there for the next three months. On one side of the room his bed and desk were pushed off into the corner under the window. On the other side his empty dresser and his travel bag, which set on the floor in front of it, sat staring at him from their dark corner.
"Fucking cunt." Peter spat. His fists clenched thinking back to the last time he was here for a visit.
_ "How dare you say that about her, you little prick!"_ His father's words rung in his ears. The last words his father had spoken to him in over a year. Last year when Peter was preparing to go to his father's house he said he had a surprise for Peter. Then he introduced Peter to Julie, his new girlfriend. Peter was furious.
"What the fuck do you think you are doing?" Peter yelled at Joe.
"Moving on from your mother, it's what grownups do." Joe said plainly
"So you aren't going to even try to get mom back!?"
"Believe me your mother isn't interested." Joe took another big drink from his glass, the amber liquid pouring into his mouth. He set his glass down and wiped at his mouth.
"So you go from some dumb slut instead?" Peter banged his hands on the table. His father was silent. He rose slowly and stood over Peter. In one quick fluid motion his hand came down and across Peter's face knocking Peter to the ground. A searing heat flared up in Peter's right cheek and he glared up at his father from the ground. It was the first time that Josef had raised a hand to the boy, and it was the first time that Peter had received any real attention from either of his parents.
"Fuck you!" Peter screamed and stormed off.
Peter's parents usually were off at work or living their own lives with each other, and hardly paid any attention to their son. With the lack of any parental guidance, Peter's school life was desolate and lonely. He had no real friends, and the people he talked to in class found him peculiar and did their best to avoid him outside of the forty five minute blocks they were forced to be in contact with each other. Peter didn't care about the people in his school, he hardly even noticed them. He hardly noticed how lonely he was until his parents divorced. It shouldn't have come as such a shock to him, every night he would watch as the dinner table became a warzone of trivial differences.
When the divorce papers finally went through it was a breath of fresh air for Peter's parents. Finally the constant torment of the other person was going to end. They could be free to start over again. Neither of them could have been happier with the way things worked out. Peter on the other hand was not happy, not even slightly.
The familiar sound of loud profanities and the loud clinking of glass against glass, the usual signs of his father doing the dishes drunk, snapped Peter back into reality. He walked over to his door and shut it, blocking out the noise, then returned his bed and looked out the window. He stared out over the horizon and watched the sun set. He thought about calling his mom and talking to her, but every time he called her she was off at some meeting or on a date with some other man. Peter couldn't tell if either his father or his mother noticed they even had a son. He frowned and lied down on his bed. Maybe he should just take all the money he kept stashed in a sock at the bottom of his suit case and get on a bus and go. Maybe Josef and Veronica would be happier if their son just disappeared for good.
Peter began to shake trying to hold himself together. He couldn't help feeling worthless. There was nothing he could do, nothing he hadn't tried in the past, to get them to notice him. He would act out at school as a kid not knowing any better, but his parents would look past it. Once his loneliness turned into depression he began cutting his forearms hoping, begging, for one of them to turn back from their computers and cell phones and open their mouths and show him that they knew he existed. But no day was different. No day brought a new feeling of belonging or love. Nothing ever changed. Peter shook and cried.
"Stupid," he sobbed quietly, "You're insignificant..." He choked out a laundry list of synonyms of the word he'd memorized from the dictionary. He rolled onto his side clutching at the sheets on his bed. His tears and spit soaked into the cloth as he rubbed his face against it. He felt disgusting, inhuman even. Like a dog that was left waiting at the pound for an owner to show up and claim him. But that day would never come. His heart ached and he was crushed by the weight of all of the emotions that had been stacking themselves up higher and higher since that faithful night four years ago; the night that his parents had decided that they no longer wanted him as part of their lives.
Peter tried to catch his breath and pulled himself to the edge of his bed. He looked at the clock; it read eight o'clock. He used the edge of his desk for support as he pulled himself to his feet. Peter trudged across the hallway to the bathroom. He washed his face and looked up into the mirror. He looked over his facial features, he never thought he was handsome but he wasn't ugly either. He always thought of himself as plain... plain as unbuttered toast. Another one of the devastating criticisms he'd invented to make himself feel worse. He dried his face and stared perplexed at his reflection. He was looking at someone he didn't recognize anymore. He was looking at the reflection of himself, an unwanted person. Not by his parents and not by any other person on the planet.
His blank stare turned into a furious glare. He glared at his reflection. He shook with a rage of his own. A rage sparked by an unfair world. A world filled with people who could be your best friend one second then completely forget you exists the next; people who don't help those in need even when they are screaming in their ear for just a little compassion. All he wanted was to feel loved, maybe a hug every now and then or even a good scolding; was that so much to ask?
"Are you going to just stand here and do nothing?" Peter's reflection asked him. "Are you going to let this keep going? Or are you finally going to do what they've wanted from the beginning and just leave? You have no family anymore, no friends to turn to. Just take what you need and go!" He breathed deeply staring at the reflection of the boy who was destined to fend for himself. Without a word or even a sound he gathered his things he hadn't even unpacked yet and left for good.
***
Peter stepped out of the bus and onto the platform of the Atlanta station. The station was completely deserted. Crumpled up newspapers and cigarette butts littered the dirty concrete walkway. As the bus pulled away behind him, Peter walked over to the information booth. He glanced at the pamphlets as the florescent light illuminating the booth flickered. He didn't want to stay here. He didn't expect to be recognized in the city, even so, being around people depressed him. He took the red line bus map and scanned it. He looked at the destinations, flipping page after page for the route that would take him the farthest away.
"Anywhere but this hellhole of a state," he sighed as he glanced over the pamphlet.
Just then he heard something heavy being put down to his right. He looked over his shoulder at a man in a black suit sitting down on the bench next to a suitcase. Peter folded the map up and bent down to pick up his bag. Loudly, he dragged it over to a bench and sat.
"The 453, waiting for the 4 - 5 - 3," he said to himself, flicking the paper map he'd just grabbed. The crisp paper snapped as he waved it back and forth against his fingers.
"4 - 5 - 3 gonna set me free. 4 - 5 - 3 and they'll let me be," he sang quietly while tapping the paper in unison.
"Would you please cut that out?"
Peter looked over at the suited man sitting on the other end of the bench. The man stared at Peter with an expression of frustrated bewilderment. Peter squinted and looked over the man. He had a briefcase resting on the seat next to him. He was slender and well kempt, probably a businessman of some sort. Peter stopped and dropped the map onto his bag without a word.
The man and Peter kept their eyes locked, neither blinking. The man had a piercing gaze; something about it screamed that he wasn't a man who was ever afraid or discouraged. Peter was perplexed by his stare, feeling smaller and smaller as each second passed. Just when Peter was about to look away, the man let out an awkward laugh.
Peter shook his head and shrugged, taken aback.
He laughed again, it sounded rehearsed as if it was meant to relax his clients. "You blinked!" the man said. "You lose... Ever win a staring contest before?" the man asked. Peter shook his head and looked away, trying to ignore the irritating freak.
"Hey. Sorry I might have killed your mood a second ago," the man said while approaching him with a smile and outstretched hand. "I'm Winston, Winston Hull." He grabbed Peter's hand and shook it.
"Peter" Peter said shortly.
"Ah, well what are you doing here Peter?" Winston asked. Peter thought for a moment about telling the man that he was running away from home. He weighed the danger of telling the truth and decided there was no harm in letting him know the whole story. 'What's the worst that could happen?' he thought.
"I'm leaving for Alaska. I heard there is work up there and I have no one here that's waiting on me."
"So you're just leaving everything behind?"
"Yeah, it's a long story," Peter admitted, scratching his head.
"Is that so?" Winston stepped back to his briefcase. He opened the clasps and flung open the top of the leather bound box. He shuffled around with papers for a bit, closed it after some time of searching, and stepped back after setting it down gently next to Peter. He held a card out in front of Peter."My card."
Peter stared at the piece of paper in Winston's hand, which smelled strongly of vanilla lotion.
"I'm a lawyer; if you are in need of legal representation I'm sure you'll find my fees are manageable. Or we could talk to your parents if you-"
"It's because of my parents that I'm leaving here. But thank you." Peter shook his head and pushed the hand away.
"Ah, so you're running away?" Winston asked. His voice began to sound more eager as he slid his hand into his pocket.
"Something like that," Peter nodded looking down at his feet.
"Well that must be awfully difficult for you." He slid silently to Peter's side and rested his free hand on his back and gave him a reassuring pat. Winston's hand began to gently rub the center of Peter's back. He pressed down ever so slightly, Peter could feel his fingers begin to drag along his back and he tensed up slightly.
'What the fuck is up with this guy?' He thought.
"Hey! What the fuck-!?" Peter exclaimed just as the needle slid into his neck. Peter choked as Winston pushed the plunger to inject the Ketamine into his throat. Peter felt a warm tingling sensation spread quickly through his neck and into his arms and legs. He went limp and everything went black.
Peter awoke in a dimly lit room. It was lit by one light bulb which hung from a single wire in the center of the room. He tried to remember what happened to him and how he had gotten into this room. He rolled onto his side and tried to stand and was choked back. He coughed, sending a cloud of dust into the air and rolled over to feel at his throat. He grabbed a cold chain attached to a metal collar around his neck. He quickly sat up and looked for the end of the chain. It was about five feet long and bolted to the wall with red rusted screws to hold it in place. He grabbed at the chain and tugged, making panicked gasps and shouting out to anyone that was there.
As Peter choked and coughed as he looked for something he might be able to free himself with. He caught site of a large metal rod a few feet away; as he crawled the length of the chain and reached for the rod with his hand muffled footsteps descending the stairs. He scrambled for the rod as quickly as he could when the rod was kicked away. Peter watched devastated as his one hope for escape was sent loudly clanking across the room. He tried to stand and was kicked hard in the side of the face, sending him rolling back against the wall his nose gushing blood. He glanced up through his tears at Winston who was standing over him, staring at him with his piercing grey eyes.
"What are you doing? Why am I chained up?" Peter screamed. Winston remained silent and shifted his jaw grinding his teeth together.
"Look I got money in my bag, where is it? I'll get it for you!" Peter nervously stammered out.
Peter blinked rapidly; the dust that had been stirred up was getting in his eyes causing him to cry more. Winston took a step towards Peter, who sat up straight with his back pressed hard against the wall. Winston bent down and the two locked eyes. Peter quaked with fear as Winston's gaze bored into his soul.
"Look please just let me go. I'm nobody, just let me go!" Peter sobbed desperately.
"No Peter, you aren't going anywhere for the moment." His voice was calm and collected, like a supervisor talking to one of their underlings. And with that he advanced on Peter squeezing his neck and pressing him against the wall.
Peter couldn't breathe. His body's first reaction was to swallow, but nothing was going to clear his throat. As his body twitched trying to pry free from Winston's grasp, Peter's fingers clawed at the thin arm. Winston tilted his head and clenched his jaw, tightening his grip around Peter's neck. Peter's legs kicked weakly and his arms collapsed at his side, his eyes felt like they were going to fall out of his head and his lungs felt as though they were about to pop. Just as his eyes were beginning to roll back in his head, Winston released him. Peter gasped for air on the dirty ground he coughed as he breathed in the dry dust.
Without a pause Winston unsheathed his fillet knife and sliced open the back of Peter's shirt. He tore off the shirt and threw it aside. When Peter tried to pull himself up again Winston had no choice but to pin him to the ground with one knee and put the knife up to Peter's throat. Peter froze in place his eyes darted around quickly like a rat looking for some where to hide.
"You know how easy it is for me to kill you right now?" Winston whispered into Peter's ear.
"All I got to do is pull back my arm; like I'm playing the violin. Do you get me?" He asked. Peter stayed still petrified. The knife dug into his throat harder and he gasped.
Peter nodded obeying and answering the question he was asked.
Winston laughed again, the same dry uncomfortable laugh as before.
"Now lie as still as you possibly can." The knife lowered away from Peter's throat, and Winston stood walking to another part of the room. "Wouldn't want you to hurt yourself," He laughed again.
Peter exhaled. He turned his head and stared at the wall his heart beating in his head, his neck stung from where the knife was pressed against his neck. Trembling he tried to lay as still as possible and listen. He couldn't hear the man anymore, not a shuffle of clothes or the click of shoes on floor. His eyes widened and his mouth opened slowly. The scream caught in his throat, the knife must have compressed something in his vocal chords to prevent out the blood curdling scream of pain and terror as the knife dug deep into Peter's back.
The knife was as sharp as a razor, separating all the layers of flesh it passed through with ease. It almost glided along his back, long slow cuts dragging through the shoulder as Winston sheered away Peter's flesh. Peter's eyes flashed white hot as he felt the coolness of the blade gliding through his back, like a finger through gossamer. He listened as this demon cut him open.
Winston hummed along to the song "Nice Day" which had been stuck on his mind a lot recently. This boy was the fourth person included in his trail of bread crumbs for the police to follow. He would sheer just enough off and treat the wounds so they would last as long as he needed them. He turned the fillet knife in and began to pull the patch of flesh off and away from the boy's body. As he collected yet another slab of the sweaty, bloody, and disgusting meat he looked at the boy. He hadn't screamed like the others. He hadn't fought against the knife making the flesh tear and separate unevenly, making it much more difficult for him to treat the wound. The boy just laid there blankly staring at the wall. For a second he almost began to pity the boy.
Peter listened as the man finally set the knife down next to Peter's side. He listened to the sound of the skin that was just cut from his left shoulder slapped down like a wet rag next to his head. He turned his head to look at it as Winston pulled rummaged through a bag and pulled out supplies for treating the wound. The wisp of the gauze and the hiss of the isopropyl alcohol filled his ears as the wound was sanitized and bandaged. Peter remained motionless, for him wondering what was going to happen next.
Slowly Peter stared at the square of blood soaked flesh. He struggled with himself to find his voice; when he did his voice was as calm as Winston's was when they started.
"What are you going to do now?"
Winston was taken aback. The boy wasn't sobbing uncontrollably, he wasn't begging for freedom or release. The boy seemed to simply want to talk, even after he'd just brutally ripped him apart.
"What exactly do you expect me to say?"
"I don't know, but can you please tell me if I will at least see you again?"
"Yes, I will be back to collect more of you later." He said darkly. Surly this would intimidate the boy and bring out the fear once again.
"Thank you." Peter said plainly.
Winston blinked, what in the hell was happening. This boy wasn't shaking; he wasn't threatening to do something much worse to him when he got free. He was just staring straight back, his dirty face made him feel as though the boy was actually pleased to hear that he was coming back for more later.
Without a word Winston picked up Peter's skin and put it away in a plastic baggy and threw it into the bag and turned to walk away up the stairs leaving Peter alone in the dark. The room must have been used many times for the same purpose. There was a thin, dim beam of light from the window above where Peter lay. The light bounced off of the disturbed dust particles floating in the air, Peter lay on the cold stone floor watching and thinking back to the wind chimes on his father's house's front steps. His shoulder swelled and pulsated with pain, but he went over the same thoughts that he had been thinking throughout his gruesome torture.
'It will all be over soon. He needs me for this, and once he's done so will your pointless life.'
After a while he counted the number of things that littered the floor, a while after that he counted the number of times the light bulb flickered. Then he counted the number of seconds till the man returned to alleviate him from his loneliness.
Winston sat in the front room of the run down house he'd received in his parent's will after they "mysteriously disappeared". It wasn't the only property he owned, however, he didn't publicize the building with a collapsed roof making it impossible to access the second floor to anyone.
He pulled the baggy with Peter's skin out and examined it. 'What is going on? Why is this different from the others?' His mind spun in frustration. 'It's him! That boy, what the fuck is wrong with him?'
Winston clenched his fist around the skin and tried to squish it completely. Blood eked out of the flesh and filled the baggy.
"Disgusting..." He spat. 'Maybe I will just need to end him faster than the rest of them. I'll take more next time. I'll cut deeper!' Winston rose and walked to the door. He opened the front door and stepped out into the hot summer air. 'I will leave this at the same bus station I found him. That will be a nice place to continue our mouse hunt.'
He chuckled, this time it wasn't the awkward laugh. It was his real laugh; a dark, deep and evil laugh that reflected the monster that was hidden under his well kempt and treated flesh.
As he reached the lawn a dozen police cars flew around the dirt drive and surrounded the house. Winston stared in horror still holding the baggy and looked right at the lieutenant.
"Drop what's in your hands and put your hands in the air!" She screamed.
Winston glared and made a motion to run. She smirked, as if she was hoping he would, and pulled the trigger and put a bullet right between his eyes.
Winston collapsed as the police force swarmed out and around the body.
"You got him sir!"
"Good riddance!" The lieutenant laughed. "Maybe next time he'll realize that dropping a business off with a body isn't the best idea for a low profile."
She looked at his hand and noticed the skin.
"It's another patch of flesh! Looks like we got another victim, someone get in there and find em!"
The police began to search the house checking every corner for a possible threat or anyone else still remaining in the house. Slowly the approached the door leading down to Peter, still counting down till Winston would return for him.
"449... 450... 451... 452... 453..." He paused and smiled weakly and began to sing the same song as he did in the bus station. 4 - 5 - 3 he's gunna set me free. 4 - 5 - 3 then everyone will leave me be.