Past The Patch Read online

  "Nothing?" he asked. "The eyes didn't give it away?" He shook his head in disappointment. "Let me tell you a story, Priss. It's a story of a boy and a girl and an abiding friendship.

  "This boy and girl were the closest of friends. Had been friends since second grade. So young. So ignorant. But, I digress.

  "The boy was a shy little bastard. Poor. But, kind and rather smart.

  The girl was a shining beacon of youth and beauty with golden hair and eyes the color of a Montana spring sky. Rich. A little spoiled. But, also kind and understanding. Or, so the boy thought.

  "They would play for hours on end during the summers of their young years. He would be goofy and funny and make her laugh until she hurt. She would make him see life in the most positive of lights. Until the age of twelve. When she began hanging out with more girls her age and level of society. Then, it seemed, the boy held little interest for her. She ignored him, hoping he would just go away."

  Red was really getting into the story, so much so that he was surprised to feel a tear of his own escape and track down the red and white of his makeup. He ignored it and continued to relate the story that had haunted him for all these years. He was happy to see she remembered now.

  "One day, the boy felt he could no longer keep the truth inside and declared his love for the girl. Right in front of all of her new friends. The girl appeared shocked and angry, embarrassed by this boy whom she had known most of her life. With only a few words she threw him away like so much unwanted trash. Do you remember, Priss? Do you remember the words you screamed at me that day?" He saw her nod, her sobs only serving to irritate him.

  "'You're nothing but a clown! I never want to see you ever again!'

  That was what you yelled out in front of everyone that day, Priss. You remember, don't you? Of course you do. Now. As for me, I never forgot. I never forgot a single moment I spent with you. Especially that moment when you ripped my heart from me and stomped on it for all to see.

  "The last time I saw you, I just wanted to talk. I couldn't give up.

  Looking back, I have no idea why I tried. And, look what it got me. Sand, literally, kicked in my face. In my eye. Damage done. I still have a little sight in it. Not much. But enough. Enough to see you for what you really are." With that, he stood and pulled the box cutter from his pocket.

  Priss was aghast at what was unfolding before her. If it were not for the horror of the situation she would not have believed it. Casey had always been a little strange, but she would never have thought him capable of this.

  She remembered growing up with him, how sweet and kind he was.

  He was so shy and introverted until he got around her, and then he became every bit the class clown. He was goofy and funny and so smart. But, then he had gotten clingy, overprotective of her. They were only twelve but his growing insecurities had pushed her away from him. What he said was true.

  She had called him a clown in front of everyone. She had just had enough of his constant hounding of her. She had no idea it would lead to this.

  She watched as he pushed up the sleeve on Thad’s right arm. Thad and Misty and the boy—she thought his name was Greg—looked as if they were only barely awake, like they’d been drugged or something. Their eyes appeared to roll back in their heads every so often and then they would try and refocus on what was going on.

  Priss couldn’t help the tears. He had somehow gotten rid of all of her guests, so they were now on their own with him. Her heart pounded and she looked around for some way to escape.

  “If you’re thinking of trying to get free, I wouldn’t count on it,” he said, turning back to her, catching her shifting her eyes this way and that.

  “Besides, the fun is just getting started.”

  Red turned back to Thad who was trying to focus on him but continued to sway back and forth. Red reached out and took the man’s wrist and slid open the box cutter.

  “This is your throwing arm, isn’t it, big guy?” he asked. “All those awesome games you played in high school. Some of your fondest memories, right? Hell, how could they not be? Cheerleaders hanging all over you, grades never really a problem. I mean, you were an important guy, right?

  How many trophies are in that high school case because of you, huh? Ah, the good old days. All those wonderful memories. Let’s make some more, shall we?”

  In a movement practiced and swift, Red placed the box cutter blade against Thad’s forearm and sliced a line almost from elbow to wrist. Thad’s eyes grew wider, as if he were beginning to realize this was not some sort of hazy dream. With another smooth movement, Red sliced a line at the top and bottom of the first long cut. Priss was screaming into the scarf within her mouth behind him. He glanced back with his bloody smile and winked at her. She was sobbing breathlessly. He felt an age-old pang, but there was no turning back, now.

  Reaching into his pants pocket, he retrieved a pair of thick needle-nosed pliers. Grabbing one corner of the sliced skin on Thad’s forearm, Red pulled downward, stripping the flesh from the muscle. Thad cried out and then passed out, falling over to one side in a heap, the blood oozing and flowing from his fleshless arm onto the carpet.

  “Well,” Red commented, turning back towards Priss, “I would have expected more from a big, strapping guy like that. Bit of a pussy wasn’t he?” As Priss sobbed in silence, Red wiped the box cutter blade and pliers on his red pants. He watched Priss, wondering if this was enough. No. He’d made his plan. He would follow through. What was done was done. He cleared his throat twice, to get Priss’ attention.

  “He’s pretty fucked up, huh?” he asked her, nodding his head toward Thad’s crumpled, bloody body. “Should make it easy on him, right? Show some mercy?” He nodded in agreement to his own query, reached into his pocket and pulled out a shiny black and silver switchblade knife. With a click and swish, the blade snapped out, over six inches in length. Priss screamed out behind her gag, as Red lifted Thad’s head, paused only for a split second, and struck out with the switchblade and sliced the man’s jugular in one smooth movement, laying him back down on the floor to bleed out.

  Red glanced back to Priss who looked as if she might pass out herself.

  He reached into his one shirt pocket and retrieved a small plastic encasement covered in cloth. Leaning toward Priss, he snapped the vial to release the ammonia and placed it under her nose. Her eyes flew open and her head jerked back to escape the harsh, overpowering smell.

  “Let’s pay attention, shall we?” he said, placing the smelling salts back into his shirt pocket. He placed a finger under her chin bringing her eyes to meet his. “One down. Two to go.” She jerked away in revulsion, and he noticed a strong contempt in those gloriously blue eyes. It hurt him to see it, but after all these years, he now saw such contempt as simple insurance.

  He turned to the Playboy bunny.

  “Misty,” he said to no one in particular. Then he looked back at Priss.

  “Was she worth it?” he asked. “Was she worth throwing away all that we had? Our friendship? The love I had for you? Was she really worth it?” He watched as Priss shook her head violently, but he knew it was not in response to his question but in response to what she was coming.

  “Head cheerleader. Beautiful girl, really. Probably doesn’t deserve this, but here we go.” Red ignored Priss’ screams as he slid the box cutter blade up and over Misty’s forehead, from one temple to the other. Misty became lucid enough to try and jerk free; blood flew out from the movement, giving her flawless complexion a dappled appearance.

  Red grasped her by the back of the neck with his left hand and retrieved the pliers with his right. Misty screamed out in agony as Red dug the pliers into the cut, gripping the skin of her forehead and pulled downward. The muscle and tissue exposed, Misty struggled for a moment longer before being overwhelmed by the pain and losing consciousness. Red dropped the pliers.

  “Well, now,” he commented. “She did better than the barbarian, did she not?”

  Priss re
alized that her screams were no longer audible in the least. Her throat was raw and she was breathless from her efforts. She sobbed into the gag and felt her heart break as her stomach turned. This was the most horrific thing she had ever seen. It didn’t make sense. Why would Casey do this? He was literally insane. That had to be it. He was torturing her friends right in front of her. But, why? What purpose could he possibly have for his actions?

  Priss blinked the tears away, noticing him moving Misty’s body. He looked at her pointedly, showing her the switchblade. He was torturing these poor people and then ending their lives. Was it mercy or a simple, sadistic show performed post-desecration? She couldn’t make a sound as he swiftly sliced into Misty’s neck and laid her back on the carpet to die.

  Priss watched him as he stared at her with those eyes of different colors. He seemed to hesitate, but then he blinked and he shifted position to sit between Misty’s corpse and Greg, who had dressed as a gymnast from Cirque du Soleil. She remembered Greg, now. He was only nineteen and he was Misty’s cousin. He had been well over his drinking limit and was still completely unconscious, his wrists bound to his ankles like the rest. With her eyes, she pleaded with Casey not to hurt Greg.

  “Two down. One to go. Now comes the interactive part of the evening,” he stated. With that, he looked over at the sleeping boy and then back to Priss. He reached down and retrieved the box cutter in his right hand and the switchblade in the other. Holding them up in front of him, he looked to each and then nodded to Priss.

  Priss held her breath at the realization of what he wanted. She was to choose. On one hand was the element of torture and, on the other, swift death. She refused to play his sick little game and turned her head away to show her disgust and declination.

  “Uh, uh, uh,” he said, shaking his head. He held the tools up a little higher and then placed them both behind his back, making a show of shuffling them between his hands out of her sight.

  Even though he probably could not understand her, she called him a sick bastard and told him to fuck off. The scarf in her mouth muffled her commentary far too much for any kind of comprehensibility and that frustrated her even more. She had already lost two friends tonight to this madman. She would not be party to the loss of a third.

  “It’s very simple. You choose,” he said, pausing for dramatic effect,

  “or, I choose. And, trust me, you won’t like my choice.” Priss thought about the consequences of not making the choice. If she chose wrong, Greg would be mutilated in the same manner as Misty and Thad. If she did not choose at all, the same would happen. Outside there was no sound of sirens or any sign that help was on its way. She looked at Casey, with his ridiculous makeup and bloody smile. How could things have gone so badly so quickly? It seemed that one minute they were all enjoying a friendly party and the next, people were being tortured and murdered. It was all too much for her. She wasn’t certain what to do, but she knew she had to do something.

  Priss nodded her head in the direction of the mad clown’s right hand, hoping for the best. She felt the world slip away when he brought his hand around, into sight. He held up the box cutter. She felt light-headed and swayed from side to side. He reached into his pocket for the smelling salts, but Priss fought for lucidity. She tried to refocus on him, to see if there was any way possible to stop him before he tortured the young boy beside him.

  She found herself shaking the tears from her eyes. She had to be strong. Her mind ran through all sorts of scenarios, none of which proved any success in stopping this madman from killing again.

  It was then that Priss stopped still, stared at Casey and realized that there was a good likelihood that she was next, after Greg, to face the mad clown’s blades. She was pondering her own mutilation when he cleared his throat.

  “Hold on a second while I make this call,” he said, retrieving a cell phone from his pockets. She found herself wondering what he had in those bottomless pockets of his. He pressed a few buttons and then began to speak, slowly with exaggerated enunciation. It seemed it wasn’t as easy to talk so clearly when you had safety pins in your cheeks. “Hello? Yes. There have been some murders. Three dead. Hurry.” He gave the 911 operator the correct address and laid the phone aside, still connected to the service.

  Priss stared in disbelief. Now, what the hell was he doing? He looked down at the box cutter in his hands. He looked back to her and spoke as he lifted the blade to his own face.

  “It only seems fitting,” he stated, the blade cutting into his cheek, edging along the outline of the red paint that exaggerated his smile. “After what I’ve done, I suppose I would’ve been a bit disappointed had you chosen the hand with the switchblade. Nothing memorable ever comes easy, right?” He continued to run the blade along the outline of his smile. As he got to his upper lip, he had to spit out the blood running into his mouth, in order to keep speaking. Priss could only stare in horror.

  “You were the only one, Priss,” he said through his bloody visage.

  “You were the only one who ever made me smile. When you said those things, it felt like I died right then and there. Maybe I did.” He had completed cutting around his smile and now reached down to pick up the pliers. Priss began to shake and scream through the scarf in her mouth. He cried out in searing agony as he gripped the edge of the skin by the safety pin on his left side and pulled with all of his might.

  The flesh tore away, but not wholly; there were stray strips that did not come away clean. Priss continued to scream, unable to truly believe what she had just witnessed. The pain must have been horrendous, yet Casey still sat there with his calm demeanor, a permanent bloody smile etched into his face. Bits of flesh hung haphazardly, and drops of blood fell into his lap, mixing into the red of his clown pants. He was crying, now.

  “Every moment we ever spent together,” he said, the pain of speaking increased a thousand fold, “I remember like it was yesterday. You were the one good thing that I ever had in my life, Priss. You were the light at the end of my tunnel. I remember the day we met on the playground. We were only five years old, but I remember it clearly. I remember the first time we kissed, just to experiment with the idea. It was playful and embarrassing and perfect. Every one of those memories is burned into my mind and heart forever.”

  The pressure built in Priss’ heart. She remembered those times, too.

  Though, perhaps, not as vividly as Casey did. She had never known how important she was to him. And, now, this. What was she to think? How was she to deal with this? Sirens screamed in the distance. It was almost over.

  She stared at Casey, with his bloody smile and sad clown eyes.

  “I wanted you to remember me, Priss. That’s all. I just wanted you to remember me.” He reached for the switchblade. “And, now, you’ll never forget.”

  The switchblade entered his neck, through his jugular and into his esophagus. He coughed out a gush of bright red, as he ripped the blade away.

  Drastic Red sat motionless, staring at Priss, as his own life bled from him without a sound. Priss maintained eye contact with the bloody clown as the door burst open to shouts of the police. Her vision focused on him, narrowing down to a pinpoint on his different-colored eyes.

  FUNSIZE

  Jack Lloyd

  Jack Lloyd started writing years back partly for his own enjoyment and partly to cope with his own inner demons. If someone can take his words and find something in them that makes them laugh, or cry or connect with in someway then that’s awesome. Oh and you should be sure to thank spell/ grammar check because without it, looking at anything he wrote would seem like he took a coffee cup and smashed it against the keyboard.

  Did I really spell ‘spontaneously’ right? Outstanding! Jack lives in New York and when not delivering pizzas or pretending to be witty on the internet, he spends his times staring out across the ocean, doing his best to try and drown out the sound of Fate’s cruel laughter with disturbing amounts of rum.

  ***

  As Halloween
nights went, it was picture perfect. The wind had been picking up since sunset and the crisp air accentuated the crunch of the leaves under foot. The crowds of children scouring the neighborhoods for free goodies were better than most people had expected in light of the missing Culverton boy.

  Scotty Culverton had gone missing a few weeks back. There was nothing overly mysterious about it. Normal enough family, nice kid, well liked by everyone, but one night he simply didn’t come home. The police investigation turned up little as they asked the usual questions, and as it was they were leaning towards a simple runaway.

  It would take more than a disappearing eight year old to keep kids inside on All Hallows Eve with the promise of free candy calling them.

  Hands were clutched a little tighter and eyes paid notice to every little detail that night as parents led the littler ones around. By the time the streetlights came on the babies were inside and the ten year olds ruled the streets.

  John and his younger sister, Maggie, took advantage of the lessened competition and were cleaning up on candy quite nicely. The two had already dumped the contents of their respective plastic Jack-o-lanterns into Johns backpack twice and were well on their way to a third. Being out later than the streetlights was not really a problem for the two. They had grown up learning to look after themselves more than most kids their age. Their mother passed away years ago and their father did his best on his own. He worked nights but his confidence in their inherent street smarts allowed them to stay out later for trick or treating.

  Besides, how lame is Halloween in the daytime?

  Maggie stopped to tie her shoe and readjust the skirt on her pirate costume, as her brother took a quick inventory in the army backpack of his soldier costume.

  “Kit-kats, m&m’s, peanut butter cups, um… some change, and candy corn. Blechhh, those are yours.”

  “Shut up doofus, those are nasty.” Maggie said.