6. Shane
6
Shane
T he lot is vacant, and the old home dark and withdrawn. The ghosts of the past still haunt these walls, and the smells lingering within the old Macrae Mansion reek of moldy wood, dry rot, and decaying carcasses.
“C’mon, why do we always have to end up here?” Lana whines.
Much to my disapproval, Wheeter gave in and invited the girls along, unable to shake them when they heard our bikes start up.
“I can’t believe it’s been over two years already,” Wheeter remarks, kicking a cluster of old beer cans in the corner of the vacant kitchen.
“You know, they say she was still alive when he took her teeth out,” Josiah adds, the anger of truth lashing out with each word. “Right over there, strapped in that chair. He cut off her hair, stripped her naked, and used the handle of a shovel.”
I plop my ass down on a wooden chair at the crooked kitchen table, taking a long drink from the beer bottle in my grasp. Something about this place consistently pulls me to it, even if it’s not my nightmare.
The horrors of the gruesome event still rattle this town. The suspect, Richard Sheldon, a homeless man who frequently stayed at the abandoned home, was found passed out at the scene of the bloody, bodiless crime. To this day, he swears of his innocence, the twisted fuck. I should know. I met him.
Rumors of his harrowing statement had the rest of us inmates assuming they’d fucked up his placement within the system. Echos of those words he would repetitively mutter under his breath set themselves deep within my soul, and I can’t ever seem to eradicate them.
Coming here to the crime scene, when I’m feeling restless and filled with pent-up rage from a broken emptiness I have yet to fill, gives my mind something else to focus on. That and Sigh needs time and a place to unload the weight of his pain, the loss of his older sister, one broken window at a time.
Gabriella was a beautiful girl. She had a good head on her shoulders and a bright future ahead of her. She cared for Josiah after their mother passed away. Got them living with their aunt, enrolled herself and Josiah in school, and ensured he would always get the love that was stripped from him too soon. Losing her sent him into a spiral the past few years, but Wheeter took him in, and the rest was history.
A mirror shatters as he sends a baseball bat into it. Jagged pieces fly through the air, raining down on the wood floor beneath his boots.
I take another long swig of my beer, draining its contents and enjoying the building buzz as I watch Sigh destroy the space around him. The baseball bat meets a lamp on an end table, sending it flying against an opposing wall, shattering with destructive beauty as Wheeter spray paints something on the wall behind him.
“Cora, let’s go,” Lana says with an eye roll, finishing her cigarette and dropping it to the floor, her black ankle boot effectively putting it out.
I pull the lighter from my pocket, toying with the switch again, lighting it, then releasing it, extinguishing the flame. I repeat this methodically, remembering the vivid details released in the local news.
Bloodied shreds of a sweater, the end of a bloodied shovel handle, a clump of hair, and her charm bracelet were all that remained. The inanimate objects gave police all they could to construct the disturbing events and imagine the details of the most brutal murder this city has ever seen. Everything else was hearsay; stories of how it all played out swarmed the community like some sort of demented folklore.
“They couldn’t even properly identify her with the lack of evidence. No way to know who she was,” Cora says, seemingly mesmerized by the home’s dark energy. “Just assumed with the timing of Gabriella and her stuff—”
“It’s appalling. It’s brutal. And it’s disgusting. Let’s go,” Lana groans.
“You’re such an insensitive-ass-bitch, Lana,” Wheeter remarks, flipping open a switchblade and cutting a long gash into the back of the old flowery couch before him.
I chuckle at the accuracy of the diss.
“Why do you think he did it? I mean, honestly, what’s the motive for a man like Richard?” Cora asks, still watching Josiah move throughout the living room, breaking off a leg of the only remaining end table and splintering the wood.
“Does it matter?” Lana chimes in. “The man was psychotic. No normal person would let anything drive them to do such horrible things. I can’t think of a single thing that could drive a person so crazy.”
I smash the end of my bottle against the table, sending shards all over the wood, then chuck it at the wall behind Lana’s head, watching it shatter as she shrieks.
“Lust. Love. Boredom,” I reply. “And that’s only three.”
“What the fuck is wrong with you, Croix?!” She storms to where I’m casually leaning back in my chair.
No matter what I do to push my on-again, off-again fling Lana away, she just keeps coming back. The chick gets wet from rejection. I’m not entirely mad at it, though. Easy pussy, no commitments, and free tattoos? Sign me up.
Standing over me, her long black hair drapes around her face as she asks, “Are you seriously suggesting you understand the mentality of a monster?”
“What I’m suggesting is, it doesn’t take much for a seemingly normal man to snap. Men and monsters are merely separated by mismanaged trauma.”
“Well, aren’t you so fucking smart?” she replies, her hand caressing my jaw before trailing her fingers down the middle of my chest. She bends down and whispers, “But tell me, from which mismanaged branch does Shane’s trauma stem?”
I slowly stand, and her eyes widen more with fear at every inch that hovers over her. Her throat rolls as I glare silently at her. I know she’s expecting me to do something crazy. Probably even waiting for me to hit her. Choke her. Say something so nasty even her unhinged ass blushes. Practically pissing herself for the pleasure. But I wouldn’t waste my energy doing something to Lana that she’d actually enjoy.
“Go back to the house,” I demand.
She goes to open her mouth.
“Be a good fuck toy, Lana. Shut your face, and deliver your desperate, hungry pussy to my house,” I interrupt. “Before the drugs and alcohol wear off, and I actually come to my senses.”
With a reluctant sigh, she grabs Cora by the elbow, pulling her away from the destruction as they both head through the door toward her car.
After a few minutes, I approach a breathless Josiah, sitting on the old stained rug in the living room, the handle of the baseball bat dangling from his fingers. His damp, black hair hangs before his face, perspiration lining his forehead.
I don’t say anything because words are useless for this pain. They’re worthless for the emotions we hold within us that beg to be released violently through our actions alone. I sit beside him, resting my head back against the wall, and stare at the mess before us, handing him a beer and a pill. The Xanax he always refuses to take until the weight becomes too much, too heavy for him to manage. I crack another beer open with him and bring it to my lips.
“I’m not gonna make it,” he says, making me pause, the rim of the glass bottle sitting against my lip. The raw tone of his voice forces Wheeter to wince across from us. “It’s always the same shit drawing me back.”
Answers are what he needs, but unfortunately, there aren’t any. Nor will there ever be. His sister’s death will forever remain a mystery to everyone. The truth lies only within the man who did it, and Richard Sheldon isn’t sane enough to relive it.
Like a drug, these unknown answers seem to pull at us, demanding our focus, draining us of our strength, and leaving our hearts with holes that beg to be filled. We all have our broken structures. We just find destructive ways to occupy the void. Josiah needs the Macrae Mansion, just as I’m possessed by revenge.
“Let’s get outta here, man,” I say, standing up. “It’s time we leave.”
I’d reach out my hand to help Josiah stand as well, but he doesn’t need that. I watch as he stands on his own, knowing he’s got me here.