Frisbee

FRISBEE

  BY ERIC BERGREEN

  Copyright 2011 Eric Bergreen

  METACARPAL

  At 2:48a.m., the Cleanser’s eyelids jerk open, startled out of a twisted dream of loud, laughing children. Children that will never know the atrocities of life. Children that are well to do and well dressed and well fed. Children unaware of life’s tasteless punch line that burden so many adults throughout this world. Children who are clean on the outside but hurtful and dirty as sin within.

  And I shall cleanse them. I am the Cleanser.

  Getting dressed in a darkened room. Quietly opening and closing a bedroom door. Walking down a hallway and through the front door, out into the dark morning.

  The car, a Ford, is parked at the curb in front of the house. The windshield reflects the sliver that is the moon, hanging in a starless sky like a wicked grin. With a turn of the key the vehicle roars to life, as does the Cleanser’s frenzied thoughts.

  What was her name? What was it? Melanie? No. Sounds like that though. Not Melanie. But Mel- something. Mel, Mel, Melissa? Yes. That’s it. Melissa.

  Flashback: Outside Jefferson Elementary School. It’s 2:45p.m. A woman is waving and facing a crowd of school children. “Melissa. Melissa,” the woman calls. “Over here sweetie.”

  A young girl runs toward the woman and away from the other kids. “Mommy,” the girl calls back.

  The mother and daughter hug and then head for a blue station wagon.

  The Cleanser is there, watching, pretending to wait for a child, too, then gets into the Ford to follow them.

  Flash: Now the station wagon is up ahead about a quarter of a mile, turning left. Turning right. Pulling up into a driveway. The house rolls slowly by as the woman and girl get out of their car and head to the font door of the house. The paint on the mailbox reads, 1402 Chalgrove.

  Flash forward: Out of the memory of two days ago and back in the Ford, concentrating, driving. It will take at least ten minutes to reach the house. The family lives in El Cerrito, a small suburb of Corona.

  Okay, let's see. Which way is it? Oh, yes. Take a right here, then another right, is that right? Yes. I remember now. Under the freeway here, then two streets down. Make a left and then a right. Is this it? I think… yes. Chalgrove. This is it.

  Oh, God, I’m going to get you, Melissa. Show you that life isn’t about being happy. Anguish is everywhere. There is misery in this world, I know it, and I intend to share it with your parents.

  How many houses down was it? Was it Chalgrove? Yes. Of course it was. It has to be. Oh, what is this… blue station wagon in the driveway.

  This is it.

  Driving two more houses down and parking.

  Okay. Got everything? Put the gloves on. Put the hood on. Got the flashlight? Yes. Got the Stuff? Patting a pocket. Here it is.

  Let’s get the show on the road.

  There are no lights on in the house.

  Why should there be? It’s three in the morning. They’ll all be sleeping.

  Walking up to the side gate. Then looking back out into the neighborhood to see if anyone is watching.

  Don’t see anyone. Good.

  Reaching over the top of the gate and finding the latch.

  Click!

  A little loud. Need to keep quiet. Don’t want to blow it. Wake someone up. Hope there’s not a dog back here.

  Walking down the side of the house. Peeking around the corner near the chimney.

  No doghouse. No water dish or food bowl. Good. Hope they don’t let Fido sleep inside.

  Going around to the back. To the sliding glass door. Careful not to make any noise. Surprising how many people leave their back doors unsecured.

  Please be unlocked. Please be unlocked. If it’s not I’ll have to find an open window. Might have to break it. What if it wakes the parents? Kill them? Only if I have to. Need them alive. Need them to feel the pain. The pain of loss. The pain of empty.

  Need them alive, so they can feel dead. Dead like me.

  Grabbing the handle of the glass door and pulling.

  Nothing.

  Pulling again, a little harder. Harder and harder still. Then it moves with a tiny squeak.

  Yes. Just a little tight in it’s frame. Now be quiet. Just be so very quiet.

  The door sliding open just enough to allow a body’s entrance.

  Inside, the house is as silent as a coma.

  Waiting, standing just inside, letting the eyes adjust to the darkness. Shapes coming into focus.

  Surely a dog would have sensed my presence by now and woke everyone up. Probably don’t have one. Good. Would have had to kill it too.

  Eyes now adjusted properly to the gloom.

  The search is on.

  Walking through what appears to be a dining room. A square table to the left. Chairs at each of its four sides.

  Moving along the carpeted floor a few more paces and then noticing a large black rectangle to the right. An entrance to a hallway.

  Proceeding down it, keeping the left hand on the wall for guidance. Step by step. Further still. Then it suddenly ends.

  Wait. Listen. Listen.

  Standing in one place, tuning the ears like radar detectors. Listening. And hearing something. A low rumble.

  What is that? Now it’s gone. What the- there it is again. Snoring.

  Reaching out with the right hand, slowly. Coming in contact with…

  …a doorknob. And another one next to it. Double doors, closed to the master bedroom. A smile looking much like the moon outside, lights the Cleanser’s face.

  Sleep tight, parents. It will be the last peaceful sleep you ever have. When you wake up, your world will be gone. Forever. And you too will dream of laughing children. Children forever out of your reach.

  Pulling the small flashlight from the back pocket of the overalls. Click. Click.

  The hallway is lit up for a brief moment. Not even a second. Just long enough to check the surroundings without dilating the pupils. Or alarming the parents.

  There are two more doors a few paces down on the left hand side. Walking down to check the first one. If feels cool. Bending down, knees pop like shotgun blasts in the silent house. Feeling the floor.

  Linoleum. A bathroom.

  Shuffling farther down the hall. Checking the next door and finding it cracked open a couple of inches. A very soft, very faint glow coming from inside. Pushing it open slowly and seeing a night light by a desk.

  The Cleanser knows it’s the right room. The girl, Melissa, is fast asleep in the tiny bed.

  After closing the door, but not latching it, the work begins. And it must be quick. Out comes the stuff from the top pocket. A syringe filled with thiopental–a fast acting barbiturate-glints in the weak light. The cap is removed from the end, exposing a thin, angry needle.

  Pointing the sharp end up, pushing the plunger at the bottom until a quick clear stream squirts out. A drop at the point, hangs for a moment and then falls.

  No air bubbles. Don’t want her dead. Yet. There will be time enough for that. Now, hurry.

  Heart racing, the left hand pulls down the comforter, then lifts the thin pink nightgown to expose the left buttock. The syringe moves forward and the needle stabs deep. The liquid rushes from the tube and enters the body of the sleeping child.

  A small whimper, almost a cry, but she doesn’t wake.

  Pleasestayasleeppleasestayasleeppleasestayasleep. A mantra. A prayer.

  The Stuff should only take a few seconds to start working, but the Cleanser gives it a full minute just to make sure. Then bends close, and hears the child breathing. Deep breathing.

  Shaking her leg.

  Shaking her head.

  Picking up an arm and letting it flop back down.

  Nothing. She’s out.

>   She was already out, but I could throw her through the window now and she wouldn’t wake up.

  Don’t worry child, you’ll wake up eventually. And when you do, your pain will begin. So will mommy’s and daddy’s.

  Picking up the small comatose bundle and throwing it over the left shoulder in a fireman’s carry. Moving her to the bedroom door and checking the hallway.

  The snoring sound is still there, just barely audible.

  Click, click, goes the flashlight one more time to find the way back out.

  Down the hall, past mom and dad, through the dining room, through the sliding glass door and back out to the side gate.

  Wait. Check and make sure no one’s outside. A nosey neighbor up early in the morning or a paperboy making his rounds, someone walking their dog.

  Okay, coast is clear. I hope.

  Down the driveway and the sidewalk, back to the car. Putting the little girl in the back on the floorboard, the Cleanser hops in, starts up the Ford and flees to the Shelter.