He Crumbled More When She Sent The Police

She was watching him and every breath he took

His eyes were squeezed shut and stayed that way as the sin poured from his hands.

The red stains of shame would be washed away in due time. Not yet. This was a special occasion, and every minute would count. After all, it was his birthday.

He relished relying on his other senses. And this milestone, his final curtain call of sorts, would be burned in his brain to revisit when needed. Smells and sounds were vital to memorialize this day with accuracy. He would ensure that he could authentically immerse himself later when he chose to revisit this very moment.

All five senses needed to be in play.

He stood very still with his palms facing up, fingers cupped and yet splayed.

The warmth of his conquest was running through his fingers, yet seeping slowly. The thickness and oily texture made faint plinking sounds as the heavy droplets came to rest on the tile. He breathed in the iron smells that permeated his surroundings and clung to his hair.

One large gulp of air, and he was ready. Like drawing Roman shades, his eyes slowly opened.

The once barren all-white kitchen looked like a war zone.

Acid swirled as it slowly brewed in his core and bubbled up to the back of his throat. This revulsion was not unfamiliar to him but was nevertheless distasteful every time. He focused on the rancid burning and refused to vomit. Self-imposed punishment was administered as if his few moments of suffering balanced out the havoc he just created.

He slowly rolled his tongue over his salty lips in satisfaction.

Evan had burst on the scene with an explosive impact. Had all circumstances been run-of-the-mill, his announcement would have been no more than this:

Announcing the arrival of Evan Andrew Campbell born to Roxy Campbell on January 1, 1965 at Underhill Memorial Hospital, 6 pounds, 18 inches.

His auspicious beginnings did not allow for a mundane announcement. His birth was newsworthy as his arrival was stamped with January 1st at 1:11 a.m. He was the first birth of the new year and the report was lengthy. Instead of the standard birth announcement blurb, the entire front page of the local newspaper was devoted to his arrival. It documented his ailments with ensuing speculation as to whether or not he would be able to beat the survival odds stacked against him.

The story, forever accessible through archives, was a perfect blend of congratulations and freak show.

Evan had fought his way out of the warm womb dragging his dead twin with him still attached. Surgeries were delayed to allow for his lungs to develop. Time would strengthen him to withstand the invasive removal of the intertwined twin sister. As this was a true medical oddity, the only determination was that one baby had fed off the other and tried to absorb it.

With the concluded series of successful operations came the darkness that devoured his mother. Once the fanfare died out, so did the cash rewards for birthing an anomaly. No more press, no more magazine cover stories, and no televised interviews would continue to supplement her meager wage.

Once sensationalized news had faded to the background. The limelight had extinguished. She turned to any available sedative to numb her sorrow.

Evan was acutely aware, as early as kindergarten, that he had killed his sister. He was killing his mom, too, and she reminded him often. She resented him for being a freak, for surviving, and for sucking the life force from the daughter she wanted.

He rued his survival. Roxy rebuffed him at every turn. She was filled with resentment that she carried a monster, and left him to claw his way through each day, month, and interminably long year in her house. Since it was just the two of them, he was vulnerable and exposed to her maniacal tirades.

When social services came at the request of school officials, she smiled. Intuitively he knew to smile, too. Fake it to make it was an unspoken rule. “He does miss a lot of school days, I know. He was born with medical issues and still gets tired easily. Maybe you know his story?”

They nodded, agreed, and left.

Of course, they knew. The world was watching him. They knew every step he’d take. They just stopped caring. He knew he would never be saved and he was too cowardly to cross his mom by screaming for help.

Each year, like clockwork, venom was spewed in his face on his birthday. The only discernable difference would be the color of her breath.

Some years she reeked of Boones Farm wine, while on others, the stench of rotted teeth and rank, cheap gin seeped from her pores and her hot breath.

All years came with a Pall Mall dangling from her bottom lip.

On his 18th birthday, the first of January, 1983, he was greeted with her curled, gnarly, tobacco-stained fingers pulling at his shirt to wake him. Slurring and still sloshed from her all-nighter, she hissed at him.

“Get out — your sister should be here today, not you. You make me sick. A waste of life. You killed her. Just get out. Don’t come back!”

This birthday awakening was one of his better presents, and he appreciated it. He absent-mindedly traced the scars on his ribs, that led up to his neck and the side of his face, where the detachment was performed. Those wounds had long since healed, though remained visible reminders.

The festering in his mind would never, nor could ever, be erased either.

He knew she was coming for him whenever she cranked up the radio, cracked open a bottle, and sang. He instinctively ran for cover if her favorite Sting song came on. He recognized the killer combination that for some unknown reason, set her on a rampage.

When she hummed, “Roxanne,” he would hide under his bed.

He lay there contemplating his options. The bitch would black out soon, so he took his time to weigh out his choices and make an action plan.

Fight or flight, what’s it gonna be?

His epiphany struck like lightning and was delivered with total clarity.

Survival of the fittest was how he came into the world and that would be how he left.

The questions from the detectives on scene were rapid-fire. Evan’s catatonic state was evidenced by his blank stare and lack of response. Even the most seasoned officer averted his gaze away from the bloodied eyeball on the kitchen counter. Roxy’s severed hand rested in the fruit bowl and the fingers hung from the banana hook.

They never did find her lips.

Frustrated and sickened by the macabre site they removed Evan from the house. He was comforted by the hugging of the straight jacket.

Obvious to the judge, jury, and every lawyer was that an insanity plea was deserved.

Poor little freak boy, now a man, would spend the rest of his days in the State sanatorium.

Once again, he made the front page of the local paper.

Evan rocked with knees drawn to his chest, or sat ramrod stiff in the sunny spot at his barred window, and kept a fixed and unfocused stare. Every day he revisited his favorite memory of the only day he ever came out successful. Burned in his brain were the sensations of the warmth of his conquest running through his fingers, seeping really. The thickness and oily texture had made faint plinking sounds as the heavy droplets came to rest on the tile. Iron smells permeated his surroundings and clung to his hair.

Survival of the fittest. He had conquered the demon.

It was in May that year that the facility’s piped-in music interrupted his rocking. Radios weren’t permitted as they could become handy weapons. He rose to get closer to the speaker in the ceiling. He stood on his cot, transfixed by this new song with a familiar sound.

As he listened to the lyrics and squeezed his eyes shut, the acid swirled. It slowly brewed in his core and bubbled up to the back of his throat.

Every breath you take And every move you make Every bond you break Every step you take I’ll be watching you Every single day And every word you say Every game you play Every night you stay I’ll be watching you

No.

Not. The. Police.

Please, not Sting. He covered his ears as he crumbled on the bed.

“Make it stop!”

She’s back. She is still watching me with that damn Pall Mall hanging from her now lipless face.

“Make her stop!”

And, as he curled into the fetal position, ears covered tightly with both fists, he bellowed the wail of a wounded animal.

He will never be free.

For the first time in years, he laughed as he cried.

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This story was written in response to prompts of “1983” and “radio” given by Fictions publisher extraordinaire Danielle Loewen.

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