Journalstone's 2010 Warped Words for Twisted Minds (9 page)

I make a mental note of the name Thomas. Victoria continues.

“When I put him in his place, he seemed apologetic, but he began to recall times when he and I, apparently, used to do very interesting things! Honey, I know my memory is a little spotty at times, but please tell me, were we ever separated?”

“No.”

“Wow, then he was making up some very lurid stories about him and me sneaking off together and even making plans to be together! He said it all stopped after I came home two years ago, but what an imagination the man had!”

I have a hard time looking at my food, my children, anything. I have a hard time controlling this rage that came from nowhere, having known so little of Victoria’s private life. I had known there were problems, but this…this was beyond redemption.

“This man…Thomas…” I mask the anger in my voice, “Did he say where he lived? Where he was staying?”

“You know,” Victoria went on as if just then remembering some detail of the conversation with Thomas, “He did, in fact, leave me a business card. He told me to call him if I ever needed anything. You know, it was very odd, but towards the end of the conversation, it was almost as though he were afraid for me!” She laughs out loud, “As if I could be in any danger!”

My family joins in her laughter and look for me to join in. I smile, which reassures them. Inside, I’m seething. How could I have known so little of what went on in my own house?

I am calmed down by a flashing reminder as to why I began my work two years ago. Since then, my household had been running perfectly. That was all that mattered. Still, there was this to attend to.

“Victoria, your honesty is a shining example for our children. Would you please pass me that business card?”

“Dad, what’re you gonna do?” Chris blurts out the question.

It takes me a second to compose myself before replying, and I try not to let my glower burn into Chris.

“Daddy is going to call the man and talk to him, that’s all. Mommy is right. Men should never speak to married women in a certain way, and Daddy is just going to remind him of that.”

Chris says nothing. Alexander and Julie nod in admiration of me, as they should.

I look back to Victoria, who has gone back to her meal. “Victoria?” I extend my hand, “The card, please?”

“Oh!” Victoria says with a start, giggling and rising. She fishes the small business card out of her pocket and passes it to Julie, who passes it to Alexander, who passes it to me. I notice for the first time that Chris has not stopped staring at me, and his eyes are accusing.

I don’t address him. Instead, I look at the business card. It belongs to one Thomas Moyer, who, regrettably, lives in the city. The card states his business as a private investigator, and he works out of his home, which is in one of the more run-down areas in the city. I wonder what Victoria may have ever seen in this filth, but it’s in the past now, no need to dwell on it.

I look around the table to my children, smiling. Only Chris does not return the gesture. I extend my hands to all of them, maintaining the façade of perfection.

“Come now. Let’s not let all of this wonderful food your mother made go to waste! Your mother had a brief episode at the grocery store by what was clearly a lonely, desperate man hoping for some attention from a beautiful woman. We will not dwell on it any longer. Let’s eat!”

“Especially,” Victoria finishes, “because it was a G-rated episode.”

We all chuckle briefly, and I cut into my steak. One bite reveals a fatal error; the meat is too tender, too chewy, and I feel blood ooze between my teeth.

I retch, spitting the rare meat back onto my plate.

“Oh, dear!” Victoria exclaims, rising suddenly. “I’m so sorry! I thought you said you wanted your meat medium rare!”

“Medium well, Victoria,” I correct her, trying to keep my anger from erupting. No matter how many times we go through this, she just can’t seem to get it right. “Sit down. We’ll address it later.”

“Dad, it’s not that big a deal.”

I do not like the rebellious tone Chris uses toward me. I look sharply at him.

“I have told you not to meddle in the affairs of adults, young man.”

I do not like the look he gives me. The boy clearly must be dealt with.

“Would you like my steak, Daddy?” Julie asks.

She’s so sweet.

I shake my head, moving to the Caesar salad in the separate bowl that Victoria has prepared.

“No, Julie. You go ahead and eat your food. But thank you for offering.”

We eat the rest of our meal in silence. I curse myself, and the work that lies ahead. Where did I go wrong with Victoria? Why is this never exactly as it should be?

When the meal is complete, Julie, Alexander, and Chris clear the table without saying anything. Chris nearly drops my plate. Something is wrong with him, but Victoria must be addressed first. The children excuse themselves to their homework, leaving Victoria and me alone.

She looks up at me with reddened eyes. She knows.

“Come, Victoria,” I say gently. I try to make this as easy on her as possible. “To the bedroom.”

“I…I really thought you said…”

“I know.” I almost feel sorry for her. “But I didn’t. If you search your memory, you’ll recall the truth. And…mistakes…can only be tolerated for so long. Now come.”

Victoria takes her time in dabbing the corners of her mouth before slowly pushing away from the table. She keeps her eyes down. She folds her hands in front of her and exits through the kitchen behind her, and from there, she heads up the stairs to the bedroom. No sounds can be heard from the rooms in the hall. The children are doing homework as they should. I follow her into the bedroom and close the door. She whirls on me suddenly.

“Will…will it hurt?” she asks, afraid.

I smile.

“No, dear. You won’t feel a thing. I promise.”

“O…okay.” She begins crying. “I’m—I’m sorry.”

I nod. The time for apologies has passed.

“On your knees, please.”

She obeys dutifully, turning around, and kneeling. She lowers her head.

I reach over to the dresser to a bronze lockbox that can only be opened by my fingerprint. I touch my index finger to the reader on the front of the box, and the lock gives, allowing the box to open. Within is a .45 automatic handgun, unregistered, of course, and a silencer. I affix the silencer to the handgun and turn back to Victoria, who has not moved. I lower the muzzle of the gun to her head and with no hesitation, squeeze the trigger.

Her body flops forward, thrown to the ground by the terrible force of the bullet I just fired through her brain. Her head explodes in a beautiful, visual symphonic delight as gray brain matter, combined with my own rainbow of colored wiring and green circuitry are suddenly and violently revealed for my perusal.

Were I a surgeon, this process would be much less enjoyable. But I confess it is this part I love the most, seeing what I have created splayed about, the first impressions of what was right and what must be perfected.

Victoria’s head is more pieces than I can count; no one would ever be able to identify her. The shredded stub of her neck spits blood and oil onto the floor. I’ll need to have one of the children clean it up while I rebuild.

I replace the gun in the bronze lockbox and quickly slip on a pair of latex gloves. I squat, quickly rifling through the remnants of my wife’s cybernetic mind and — there.

Reinforcing the Black Box in titanium proved a wise idea; it survived the bullet. With the first two models, rebuilding had taken weeks. People had begun getting suspicious, but I had alluded that Victoria was enjoying her time in Italy and I, being the good husband, had no problem with my wife wanting to better herself. To make the story complete, I had programmed Victoria 2.0 with the ability to speak Italian like a native. No one had been the wiser.

Unfortunately, Victoria 2.0 had the audacity to question me in front of my children. Clearly, more work was needed. I originally had such high hopes for Victoria 3.0.

Fools say a soul cannot be replicated. I say there is no soul, only man’s vain hope that their actions in this world may be justified in another that couldn’t possibly exist. I wonder how anyone could possibly believe in things they cannot see, hear, have no definite proof of, but it’s not my concern. Their beliefs are for my exploitation, in this case. I am building their better world, right before their eyes. And they are none the wiser.

This Black Box, with the pulsing green light in its center to indicate it is still functional, contains what one would call a soul: virtually every quirk, mannerism, and personality trait, recorded during lengthy periods of observation. It is all programmed into routines and then inserted into the bodies I create. Bodies which are perfect replicas of the originals; as they wear down over time, they even appear to be aging.

Having been at this for more than two years, I understand why my genius went unappreciated by the masses. Had the world been aware I had the knowledge to do such things, I would never have come this far. It would’ve been so simple to check my background, which I listed plainly on my resume…but the world was so desperate to fill slots left vacant by plague victims, no one looked twice at anyone looking for work.

As always, I allow myself a moment of reflection, sitting at the foot of the bed I share with my wife, who will unexpectedly lose another member of her family, forcing her absence for seven days, which is more than enough time to ensure that Victoria 4.0 is ready to fulfill her duties.

Perhaps it had been a mistake to marry a woman clearly not ready to settle down, and step into the role of wife and mother as every woman should. The first decade of our marriage had been difficult, at best. Victoria was willful, arrogant, and flirtatious with other men, with no sense of duty. Oh, but how the children loved her.

Of course they did, as she indulged their every whim. Imagine: consumption of large quantities of sugar after dinner? Dessert is just child abuse veiled in tradition, if you ask me. Saturday mornings spent before the television watching poorly animated and equally crafted stories that were neither funny nor relevant? It was a recipe for madness.

Yet, I could tolerate all of this. My wife was beautiful, and she was mine. That was all that mattered. It was her threatening the status quo that forced me to take drastic steps.

I think we need time apart; her words will stay with me forever. You’re always angry, and you’re always yelling at the children, so I will take them with me, and you can find a better job – something that makes you happy. Your children are frightened of you, Robert, so it’s best I take them and go…

It was the second time in my life I gave into the impulse, but I could no longer bear it. Wasting away as a glorified file clerk to support a rebellious wife and three children, only to have her tell me she was leaving me?!

She never had a chance. Rage amplifies strength a thousand fold. I throttled the life from that wench, wrestled her to the ground even as she silently pleaded with her eyes, striking vainly at my arms as I forced the breath from her body.

Then, of course, I realized I had a problem. Just as quickly, I happened across a desperate solution, one even I didn’t think would work. But it had. Amazingly, it had. Victoria 1.0 had not been a resounding success, not by any stretch, but she was as alive as alive got without breathing.

If anything was salvaged from that debacle, her voice emulator was perfect. She had shorted out within a week, while driving Alexander home from school. There had been a car crash, and far worse than Alexander being injured, he had discovered the truth about his mother.

In his prime, I may not have been a match for him. Lying prone and helpless in a hospital bed, dispatching him was easy. Alexander 1.0 had yet to require improvement.

But twins know. Somehow, they always know. And seizing upon that supposedly-intangible bond between brother and sister made programming Julie 1.0 remarkably easy. Julie was originally shy and stuttered when she spoke. Disgusting. Yet it was so easy to fix with a language and speech modifier! But I couldn’t throttle poor Julie, no. So having Victoria slip something into her dinner was her way of passing. I had her perfect replacement waiting, and no one was the wiser.

I toss the Black Box to myself as though it’s a coin, and I feel my spirit renewed with the challenge of a new Victoria. This one would be programmed with better cooking subroutines, and then I would turn my attention to Chris—

A door slams hard downstairs. Panic grips me.

I don’t bother to lock the bedroom door – I know Julie and Alexander wouldn’t betray me – and race to the front door, which is swinging open from the force with which it was slammed. I step out onto the front porch and look around.

Chris is gone.

As is the business card. I could’ve sworn I…

Damn that boy.

This is inexcusable, but easily rectified, I tell myself. First, I must get Julie and Alexander to bury Victoria 3.0 in the azalea graveyard. She’ll join the bodies of every other failed creations and their original models, who’ve been buried and feeding the garden all these years.

Then, I must send them for Chris, and they must bring him back alive. No one will question a brother and sister seeking to retrieve their runaway brother, the one who makes up crazy stories about Daddy killing their family and turning them into robots.

Unfortunately, Chris will need improving too, but all of this can be wrapped up within a matter of days.

Soon, everything will be perfect.

I live in a small, two-bedroom house in the beautiful sunny state of California. My house might be smaller than some, but it is cozy. It’s adorned with beautiful hardwood floors and detailed molding that signifies a house of its age. I try to overlook the draftiness. On most days, there is a slight breeze that whisks through the cracks in the creaking, old windows and doors. It has character, my old house, and it’s this character that is underappreciated in my generation of demanding, non-stop activities that push us to constantly overachieve.

I have only lived here a short time, but I am happy to share my house with several brothers and sisters of my own, as well as, three beautiful young girls to whom I am not related. One is 7, one is 12 (she just had a birthday), and one is 14 but will be turning 15 in just a few weeks. The three girls are all lovely young ladies who are not always as respectful as one might hope. But they have good hearts and a softness about them that only youth possesses.

In addition to our full and lively household, there are two dogs of vastly differing stature. One is a Labrador Retriever, and the other one is a Chihuahua mix of some kind. The little one can’t weigh more than 14 pounds. He is cute compared to his lumbering, overly exuberant playmate, with her whiplash tail that can only be described as a weapon. While she does not wield it intentionally, the effects are the same as I have now been beaten with this flailing appendage on several different occasions. It is not very convenient to be forcefully reminded that all objects must be kept at a strict minimum height level in order to avoid the inevitable smacking the vicious tail can dish out.

The last of our group is the father of the three girls. He is middle-aged, having just turned 42. With the exception of occasionally raising his voice, he seems to be a good soul and easily expresses his genuine love for his three lovely, little girls. I love cozying up in the back in a corner as he snuggles the little one in his reclining chair. The two of them look so enamored, sitting close together as we all watch an episode of Amazing Race or American Idol on the flat panel TV above the white painted brick fireplace. He professes not to like American Idol, but on the occasions where the three girls are at their mother’s house, it is easy to see the contradiction. He watches the show with nary a child present.

We have only recently moved into our little three-bedroom sanctuary. The father split with his soon to be ex-wife about a year ago. The divorce was not well received from the oldest daughter, and her adjustment has been extremely difficult. The two younger girls are taking things as well as can be expected, but as with all fractures of a family, it is not the easiest thing to transcend. Families are made up of all shapes and sizes in today’s society, so we have to be ready to openly accept the myriad of structures that are thrown our way.

We have our ups and downs, but as families go we are happily making our way through life, dealing with the odds and ends and keeping our routines spiced up just enough not to get bored. The father tends to work a little too much, but on the days where his daughters are present, he comes home on time and cooks a nice meal with vegetables. The rule on entertainment is no TV until after 9 p.m. He often makes exceptions starting around 8:30, but in general, evenings begin with meal preparation, a nice family dinner and, on most nights, end with some form of reading.

We are somewhat well read as far as families go. There is always a supply of new books on the modern square coffee table sitting in the middle of the family room. The two little ones, as the father likes to call them, enjoy reading, while the oldest has to be pushed most of the time. She doesn’t take very well to sitting down long enough and focusing her attention on words. She, as most high school-aged kids, prefers her entertainment in the form of cell phones or her MySpace page (which was recently taken away). I hope she soon discovers the joys of reading and the places one’s mind can take you if nudged by a few well-chosen words cobbled together to form a magical place.

The only thing I can actually admit to finding truly sad is when the father takes the three kids and the two dogs away for the weekend to their lovely house in Twain Harte. For some reason he continues to leave my brothers and sisters, as well as me, behind.

He does speak to me on occasion, but through today we have avoided that one glaring issue which I can’t seem to understand. Admittedly, it does break my frail heart. The only reason I can fathom this oversight is he must be waiting for me to get stronger. Once my siblings and I have matured to a state of readiness, he will then include us in this activity. We continually discuss the stories of this vacation home, and I can’t wait to one day be included and feel like I am finally accepted as an equal.

The only other people that periodically visit our house are a friend of the father’s who comes over every few days. She is nice enough but doesn’t really speak to me directly. I see them holding each other on the couch, and I get jealous because I do appreciate the few times where he and I can be alone. We will always have the two dogs with us, but I would never count them as competition for affection. And, the girls and I will always get along splendidly, bar the minor altercations that sporadically occur between kids our ages.

It is now approaching the end of May, and we have lately been keeping the blinds raised. At times we have been opening the windows, as well. It is a wonderful time of year when it starts getting warm, and the sun shines almost every single day as a soft breeze blows through the house. I feel my skin getting that soft, silky, smooth texture that accompanies the springtime weather as you bask in its glowing feel. I have to be careful as I see my skin beginning to turn red, and the last thing I want to do is burn. The 12 year old just recently returned from the latest family trip to Twain Harte, and she had that unhealthy burnt-red tint. I am sure the next time I see her; she will be peeling back several layers of lost covering.

There is nothing more refreshing than sitting in the sun as you gulp down a nice full drink of water, letting the cool liquid nourish you as it flows through your limbs, replenishing your essence. I remember hearing somewhere that the human body is made up of 98 percent water. That seems like it is too high of a percentage, but we are all vastly made up of liquid. None of us can afford to get overheated without the replenishment of the much-needed source of energy.

We have modest furnishings in our little home with only a couple of couches, one chair, and enough beds to get us through the chilly nights. We have a dining table, a couple of end tables, and a minimal amount of dressers. The father is always proudly mentioning that everything was bought used on Craig’s List, keeping the costs to a minimum. He is a frugal one, that father, as he turns the heat off or way down at night, and during the first month I was here I must admit to getting shivering cold at times. While he watches what he spends on everything possible, he contradictorily spends a fortune at times on frivolous items, surprising me with his lack of judgment.

Happily, that is my biggest complaint. Listening to the stories of others as they come and go, I have it better than most and count my blessings that I have a family as good as the one that I lucked into. As I now sit in the family room, waiting for the father to come home and realizing that tonight is a night we will spend with the kids, I excitedly look forward to the evening. The clock seems to be taking its time as it clicks by each second in slow, painstaking motion with the minutes tick-tocking back and forth in steady rhythmic fashion. How can time move so slowly yet not actually slow down? Perception plays tricks on my mind at times as I sit impatiently looking out the window on the sunny day just slightly beyond my reach.

Finally, the father has made it home, walking through the front door somewhat out of breath. He has ridden his bike to work again today which is about eight miles away. It is not a long ride, but I have noticed he’s starting to look trim from the cardiovascular exercise. I have also observed him spending a renewed effort in the mornings with his pushups and sit-up routine. He attempts to do 250 pushups and 300 sit-ups every morning. He falls short of this on most occasions, but even his feeble attempts are showing some results in his physique.

As he puts away his bike, he walks in my direction and, for the first time in several days, addresses my brother directly, stating today was his lucky day. “Lucky Day.” I never imagined those two words would change my life forever. That was the moment when my world changed, and everything I thought I had known was taken from me.

The father ripped my brother up with one hand, plucking him from his resting place where he had been fast asleep. I heard him scream, a sound that will never be erased from my memory. As he was crying for help, the father took him in the other room. It would be the last time I would ever see my brother alive.

I heard the slicing noises. My brother cried out for me to aid him for a few minutes, and then his voice went silent. I was so confused. This was the man who had cared for us, fed us, given us water. He was the one protecting us, providing us shelter. How could he brutally torture my brother? Was I now to assume my brother was dead?

It was at that moment the father returned. He casually walked around the corner back into the living room. Red liquid oozed down one of his hands, and I saw the crimson-sheathed layer of skin clinging to his shirt. I could see his mouth still moving, and remnants of my brother’s body were stuck to one side of his mouth.

I tried to warn the rest of my family, for now I knew this man was not our friend. He was nothing but a killer, a murderer of the innocent. He placed little-to-no value on the very life we all hold so preciously in our frail hands.

We were all screaming at this point, crying out for anyone, anything to come to our rescue. But alas, we were all too small, too weak to protect ourselves. The inevitable was bound to take place, I guess, as he grabbed one of my sisters, discharging her in much the same way my brother had only recently found his demise.

Right there in front of all of us, he placed her body in his mouth and took a bite. The liquid from her guts squirted out as his teeth met skin, and he chomped down all the harder. He callously bit a large chunk out of her with all of us sitting there, unable to do anything to save her.

I tried not to think of all the things in life she would miss – growing up, watching TV, reading books. There would be people she should have met but, at this point, never would. Her life was cut short. There was nothing any of us could do. She was now dead. My brother was dead. Most likely the rest of us would be dead, as well.

My only hope was his daughters. They would be back soon, and if I found a way to tell them what was going on, maybe they would be able to help us. They were small, as well, but they were good and kind. All of my hope rested on them finding us and saving us from this demonically possessed beast whom I had trusted just a short time ago.

The father spent the rest of the evening sitting in his chair, watching TV as if nothing had occurred. He laughed at Seinfeld, jumped a couple of times while watching a movie, pretending nothing had changed.

I heard somebody speak about psychopaths a couple of weeks ago and how there was one in every random 25 people who had no conscious. One person out of every 25 is a powder keg waiting to explode. If push came to shove, that one person was capable of doing anything without remorse.

Sadly, I now knew this was the case, and even more disturbingly, he was sitting in my living room.

The girls came bounding in the front door, their usual smiles on their faces. The little one talked about a pancake breakfast occurring at her school the next day. The father smiled and expressed his interest in taking her, conversing with his kids like he was a normal human being versus the stone-cold killer of reality.

I reached for her when she passed by, screaming at her to run and please help us. “Take us with you. Help us escape,” I blurted out as loudly as I could.

I didn’t understand it, but she ignored me, pretending I wasn’t even there.

We had never spent a ton of time together – she and I. It wasn’t like we were best friends, but she didn’t even look at me. It didn’t matter how loudly I cried.

“PLEASE, DEAR GOD, HELP US!” my remaining brothers and sisters screamed together, but none of the daughters gave us even a glancing nod.

I wanted to plead with them, beg them, ask them why they no longer cared until it happened again. I can’t begin to tell you why or what they were thinking. They were only girls for Christ’s sake – little children. How could they have been taught this was ok?

I don’t have any of the answers, and it happened so quickly I had no time to even react.

The father reached down, grabbing my only remaining sister and dropped her on the coffee table. She lay there with part of her body on a plate, and that was when I saw the knife in his right hand.

He placed the point inside her midsection, and with the precision of a doctor, effortlessly pushed it all the way in. He carved it to the side, slicing a section away from her as she wailed in pain. Again, he acted like he couldn’t even hear her.

The girls just sat watching. The middle child curled her lips in an awkward position while raising her hand.

“Disgusting,” she uttered. “I am not eating any of that. There is no way you can make me.”

“I want some,” the littlest girl yelled.

I felt a tear slipping down; I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. He was slicing pieces of my sister off, handing them to this little girl, and she was eating them like candy. You have never witnessed insanity unless you have been subjected to seeing your relative butchered and consumed raw right in front of your eyes.

“Don’t wipe your mouth with your sleeve, please,” the father said. “Do you know how hard it is to get the red stain out of your white tops?”