IV Redemption #2
They woke up after sleeping for a few hours in each other’s arms. Madelyne was still wearing her bra and panties.
De’Andre wore underwear too. His room had clothes all over the floor.
He had workout equipment in the corner of his bedroom.
His desk had several books and papers on it.
A side table had half a dozen beers on it - all empty.
The closet was open to show Madelyne that no one hid in it - she was paranoid now. Relax, self, she told herself.
“Hey,” Madelyne said. “I love you, darling.”
“Was that in doubt?” De’Andre asked.
“I had lost touch with my feelings for you,” Madelyne said. “I hadn’t cheated but had considered it.”
“We’ve been over this; it’s nothing,” De’Andre said.
“You shouldn’t do that. Do you know that I have dozens of pretty sorority girls desperate to date me?
To fuck me? Who are wonderful and caring people who want what’s best for me?
” “Maybe you should be with one of them,” Madelyne said.
“I clearly cannot live up to that level of perfection that you require of your lovers.”
“I love you,” De’Andre said. “I don’t want a fight to make us lose sight of that.”
“Good,” Madelyne said. “Good. It’s just, you’re perfect. I’m not. I’m flawed, broken. A fuckup.”
“How?” De’Andre asked.
“Because of my mental illness,” Madelyne said.
“So?” De’Andre asked. “You should be able to do anything that anyone else can do. You should not be expected to do any less than the rest of us.”
“That’s a nice sentiment,” Madelyne said. “It’s also complete and total bullshit. There are plenty of tasks that I have trouble with.”
“You shouldn’t think that,” De’Andre said. “You shouldn’t say that.”
“But it’s true,” Madelyne said. “I’m not going to be a doctor or a movie director or anything like that. I can’t keep everything together in my head well enough.”
“Bullshit,” De’Andre said. “You listen to me, Mads. You can do anything. Absolutely anything in existence. You don’t let anyone convince you that you cannot do something. If you want to become a doctor? Do it. If you want to become a movie director? Do it.”
“I can’t!” Madelyne yelled. “I can’t focus on work.
I can’t focus on school. I get distracted.
I talk to voices inside of my head. They prevent me from getting things done, important things.
I was deposed as queen bee because I couldn’t handle it, because I wasn’t paying attention to the world around me.
I just can’t handle all of this, all of my life. I can’t handle it right now.”
“You listen to me, Mads, you are perfect, you are not broken.”
“I am! I am broken! I am a fuckup. I hear voices, I see things, things that are unspeakable, that tell me to do things, horrible things.”
Melody giggled. She ate ice cream. Madelyne couldn’t eat ice cream - not if she wanted to stay skinny.
Westfield sat on a couch next to Mitchell in Mitchell’s basement, hanging out.
Mitchell wore a blue dress shirt that had been untucked, and he had taken his socks off and thrown them into the corner.
He munched on popcorn that they had made and put tons of butter on.
Westfield had taken his work clothes off and worn shorts and a comic book T-shirt.
They didn’t listen to their phones or other devices, just watching television and ignoring the internet and its intrusions.
They each drank a beer.
“Mads is with her college boyfriend,” Westfield said. “Who’s charming and well-spoken and kind and in great shape and perfect.”
“Fuck him,” Mitchell said. “Who cares if he’s perfect? You are a fantastic person. I know that for a fact. I know you. You deserve a beautiful girlfriend, my friend. Fuck her for choosing that guy.”
“Thank you,” Westfield said. “I survived a terrible home situation. I work a job and go to high school to make something of myself. I wrote a one-act play that is, by all accounts, horrendous, and yet writing a one-act play is an impressive accomplishment. I should be able to seduce someone. I am a good, strong, powerful person. Oh, who am I kidding? I’m going to get murdered. ”
“No,” Mitchell said. “You might survive.”
“Right,” Westfield said. “I’m dying. I’m definitely going to die.”
“Only if you manage to get laid,” Mitchell said.
“I’m saved! I can’t get laid at all. That old joke.”
“See? You have hope. Hope for a better life after this killer is caught.” “He’s a bully,” Westfield said.
“Yes,” Mitchell said. “He fights really well. He is trained in combat and combat tactics.” “How do you know that?” Westfield asked.
“I saw some of his moves while dodging him while drunk,” Mitchell said.
“You can identify combat training and combat moves?” Westfield asked.
“I can identify real combat training versus a hack, yeah,” Mitchell said. “I know good fighting when I see it. This guy has training.”
“Are you happy, Mitchell?” Westfield asked.
“I am,” Mitchell said. “I know, I know, a serial killer is hunting us while wearing a bear mask. But I love my friends, my school, and when I graduate, I will become a doctor or a nurse or something and help people, do something that helps to save lives and make people’s lives better.”
It was a nice lie. Not even his friend Westfield could hear the truth: why he was in New Liberty.
“Not acting?” Westfield asked.
“Nope,” Mitchell said. “I’m just an amateur actor; it’s not going to become a professional thing. I’m just a hack actor because I love the theater kids and want to participate.”
“Do you watch the game?” Westfield asked.
“Not my thing,” Mitchell said. “You want to watch the game?”
“Nah,” Westfield said. “It’s not football season, so there’s nothing important on.”
“I think a lot of people would be offended if they heard that,” Mitchell said. “A lot of other sports matter.”
“Not like American football,” Westfield said. “It’s the most important thing in existence.”
“Ah,” Mitchell said. “I’m sorry that you think that.”
“I do,” Westfield said.
“And you’re a drama kid,” Mitchell said.
“And I hate high school football,” Westfield said. “I don’t even like the high school football players. I have nothing to do with those guys.”
“You need to understand, you can stay as long as you want, but after high school, the parents are going to want us to get an apartment for ourselves,” Mitchell said.
“Cool,” Westfield said. “It’s expensive, but I’ll have extra hours once high school ends. We should be able to afford it.”
“Cool,” Mitchell said. “I want to talk to you about something difficult.”
“Okay,” Westfield said.
“Do you know who the killer is?” Mitchell asked.
“What? No.”
“Several people do, according to InfoXTL. They won’t say.”
“Why? Why protect this person?” “I don’t know,” Mitchell said. “His mask isn’t fooling some people. Caitlyn figured it out and told some people. Apparently she identified the clothing and the shoes. She knew the shoes.”
“And then died,” Westfield said.
“And now no one will turn him in, for fear of dying,” Mitchell said.
“Everyone knows who the killer is, but no one is turning him in?” Westfield asked. “This is corruption and hatred and everything wrong with society.”
“Agreed,” Mitchell said. “I don’t know what to do. Madelyne might know.”
“Really?” Westfield asked. “Do you think De’Andre can kill the Bear Mask Killer?” “No,” Mitchell said. “He’s a former high school athlete, but athletics isn’t his main thing. He’s a nice guy who happens to be in good shape. He won’t win that fight.”
“So he’s going to die?” Westfield asked.
“Yes,” Mitchell said. “He fucked Madelyne like crazy until she came, according to her texts. It’s fair to say that the killer will try to kill him soon.”
They sat there, drinking beer and watching a comedy television show about wonderful people who had banter and disagreed with each other and had wonderful mundane adventures together in New York City.
Westfield had worked all day long - on Saturday.
He had moved parts for airplanes from one part of a warehouse to a place where they would be shipped out from.
He daydreamed of saving galaxies from baby rapers and having flight and invulnerability and super strength and the ability to fight better than anyone else in existence - all things which would never be true.
Westfield didn’t understand that this was reality. He didn’t know that these mundane occurrences combined to create reality - and that the fighting bad guys part was just a small part of a huge canvas in which reality was painted.
He sat there, relaxing.
Everything depended on him surviving against the slasher killer, though. He had to survive. He needed it.
Waylon sat in the driver’s seat of his car, a normal sedan that no one would notice parked across from someone.
It was, at that moment, parked across from De’Andre Lapzos’s house.
He had a physical book on him and drank coffee to pretend that he had justification for being sitting here randomly at night. No one questioned it.
Madelyne was fucking De’Andre Lapzos.
She was taking it from him - taking it hard.
Waylon tried to tell himself not to worry about it - to be a mature young man and say, sometimes, beautiful people fuck beautiful people.
But Waylon was Waylon, and he stopped that after a few minutes and proceeded to spy on them.
He turned on mood music, something moody and introspective with haunting guitars and beautiful melodies.
“I need to calm down,” he told the car mirror.
He sat in a car across the street from De’Andre’s house. They didn’t notice. Nobody noticed him. No one cared when he was nearby. No one gave a flying fuck about Waylon. Waylon was invisible to them.
He couldn’t attack just then. De’Andre’s parents were downstairs. His sister was in her room. That was too many people to attack safely.
He had to be smart. Attack later.