Chapter 6 #2
The tip of my finger presses for the trunk to open, then swiftly I exit the car, slamming the door behind me.
With determination the dim light guides me to the rear of the vehicle where a beautiful piece of cement rests.
The cinderblock. Gripping the cool stone, rough edges scratch against my skin and a sliver of stress departs as the comfort of what to come eases in.
Taking a step back, with the heavy block in hand, my free hand reaches up to press the button on the trunk allowing the door to slowly close.
Walking around to Mr. Carlisle’s door, where the infamous douche canoe is etched in, my head tilts down with eyes glancing slightly ahead.
Smirking, excitement builds, it is my turn to linger within the shadows, and my dearly departed companion shall join me.
Opening his door, I speak no words. Instead, I hook my arm underneath his and bring Mr. Carlisle out to stand, or lean, really, against me. Using my foot, I push the door closed because it doesn’t matter anymore. This car belongs in the junkyard at this point. Such an embarrassment.
As we walk down the quiet street, only the sound of my footsteps echo on the pavements.
He isn’t light, Mr. Carlisle’s bare toes drag behind us as I carry him alongside me; he is shoeless due to the dribbles of piss that splashed against them before he died.
There is only so much piss a man can handle in one evening.
Mr. Carlisle’s arm naturally wrapped around my neck.
He looks drunk and I appear to be his savior.
His best friend aiding him to safety. Sadly, all of it is an illusion.
Getting closer to the dock, my mind relaxes further as comfort penetrates through the anger.
Water crashes against the cement wall. Droplets splash up on my exposed skin as I breathe in the fresh-ish air.
Don’t let the smell fool you, though. The Hudson is anything but fresh.
I should know. And the extreme sanitation bath and shower combination that will take place after this will speak to my point.
I have polluted this river with bodies for years, never mind other like-minded individuals.
Plus, the raw sewage and other degenerates who litter this river with chemicals.
That perfect tourist slogan would be: Submerge yourself into its glory and come out radioactive with disease.
Walking us down the wooden stairs, Mr. Carlisle’s feet bang against each step and click on each piece of wood as I drag him down the dock. At this point, I couldn’t care less if any of this leaves him in bruises.
The plain steel framed fishing boat that I call my own sits perfectly boring in the middle of all these flashy vessels.
Tossing the cinder block over first, I hear it crack with a few pieces shattering off, which is fine.
It will make it easier to stuff his pants with later.
Then, Mr. Carlisle follows. First, I toss his upper half over the edge, then raise his legs and feet second.
Squatting down briefly gives me the extra momentum in getting his body over as I rise.
As I squat, I hear the seams of my pants split.
Nostrils flare as warm blood rages once more inside of me.
He has got to fucking go. First my shirt, then he encouraged me to destroy my car and now my trousers. This has to end.
A loud thump follows as I push up with my legs and get him successfully over.
I untie us from the dock, and throw the tie off rope over last before stepping onto the stern of the boat.
I leave the block and Mr. Carlisle where they are and step to the helm, where the controls and navigation are.
Taking a seat, I roll my sleeves up, then reach into my trousers pocket for the key.
Sliding the key into the ignition, the engine roars to life and my body relaxes once more while heading off into the darkness of night on the calm waters.
Annoying seagulls follow overhead. Pinching the bridge of my nose, I feel a headache coming on.
I wish those vile birds would fuck off. If one even tries to shit on me, I will lose my fucking mind.
Just the thought of it even pisses me off.
These are all logical reasons why I chose the Hudson to be my dumping ground for bodies all those years ago.
It’s the one place people would never think I would go.
Parts of me still dread having to come here.
It’s a necessary evil that is part of the tendencies I have.
“You’re mad at her. Not me. I’m not sure how many more times I can say this before it finally sinks in for you,” Mr. Carlisle murmurs boldly behind me.
“Will you shut up!”
My eye twitches as the boat dances over the subtle natural ripples as we speed towards the final destination.
Why did I ever think keeping him was a good idea?
This is something I should have suppressed the moment it crossed my mind, but no, I had to entertain it the same way I entertained obtaining ten points.
A floating dinghy with a slow blinking light begins to get closer, time has passed quickly, we are already fifteen minutes away from the dock.
Two harbor seals rest upon the faded orange structure, they are the only witnesses I will ever allow.
This is the spot. Stopping the boat, and turning the engine off I rub the palms of my hands together in delight.
I will no longer tolerate his insubordination in my presence.
Mr. Carlisle is trying to speak but I ignore him.
“Tell this bullshit to the fishes who will feed off your decaying body. Everything bad that has happened is your doing. I am done. We are over. Do you hear me?” My voice is stern, unwavering as I step back behind me, peering down upon the fallen man.
His bucket hat rests atop his heavy head.
Reaching down, I snatch it up, balling it in my fist and shoving it into my back pocket. “This was a gift. I’m keeping it!”
Mr. Carlisle doesn’t argue. Everything goes quiet with the exception of the bell on the floating dinghy. He has accepted his fate and an afterlife without his powder blue bucket hat.
Crouching down, I take the cold, broken pieces of cinder block into my hand and begin to stuff the backside of his pants with it. This will help weigh him down as his body expands with gas, before the fish feast, which will help deflate him.
With the small pieces dispersed, I reach into the storage beside us for some spare rope, which is always stocked. Taking it, I tie it around the block, knotting securely using a constrictor’s knot, then I do the same around his ankles, securing them together.
Rising, I look off into the horizon. A cool breeze whisks by, and my bottom chills at the intrusion while goosebumps coat my arms. Hues of bright pinks and yellows attempt to push the darkness away, preparing to decorate the city that never sleeps with a mosaic of morning hues.
The clock is ticking. Looking off the side of the boat, my feet stay firmly planted on the deck as we gently sway, cinderblock in hand.
I look down upon Mr. Carlisle one last time.
He remains silent, following my rules perfectly.
He has not asked me to stop once, no pleas or begging.
My eyes look down at my hands with sadness.
He doesn’t want to stay. He wants to leave me.
Then I question, is this what he has wanted all along?
Has this been a game to him the entire time?
Have I fallen for it all like an idiot, was it all a trap to make me feel? Why is this so confusing?
“I hate you,” I spit back at him as I drop the block back onto the deck next to him, calling his bluff.
Mr. Carlisle is calm in his response. “…No, you don’t.
I make you feel more than you have felt in years, and it makes you uncomfortable.
And so did that girl… Her pulse would have been addictive if you just touched it once.
You need more. You want more. The silly warehouse games have gotten boring.
I’ve brought you back to life. We can have fun together.
” I fucking knew it. He didn’t want to leave after all.
Gripping my hair at the base, I pull it hard until the pain turns into pleasure, relieving my headache, which has slowly built since that dent formed in my car.
“Fine! But I still hate you, so, so much. God, it feels good saying that out loud. You were fun, until you weren’t, and now I am so angry with you.
But that doesn’t matter apparently because you win.
Is that what you want? Yay, winning! Congratulations, you won’t be swimming with the fishes today.
But I’m keeping the hat. You don’t fucking deserve it. ”
“You love me. It’s okay. You don’t need to say it. I feel it.” His statement nearly sends me hurling myself over the side of the boat. I am perplexed. Lost for words. Flabber-fucking-gasted at the audacity and ever so slightly sick to my stomach.
Quick to shut his bullshit down as I sit back at the wheel. “Absolutely not. Never. Ever. Fuck you.”
It’s almost like I can feel him holding my face when he speaks the words softly in return.
“I believe you.” This has escalated rapidly, has my skin crawling in discomfort, which screams to me that we need quiet time now.
I let the engine purr back to life as I push the throttle, and he takes the hint, leaving us in peace as I swing the boat back around and head toward land. What a shit show this night has been.