CHAPTER
13
The night seemed to wrap around Eric, swallow him. He was crouched down in the bushes behind his mother’s house looking up into the kitchen window and listening to Jeff talk on the phone. A. 40 caliber handgun was tucked against the small of his back. It was the first gun he’d ever bought and it’d surprised him how easy it was. He just walked the streets of downtown at night and was offered drugs but asked for a gun. A young kid, no more than fifteen or sixteen, said he’d get one for him. An hour later Eric had a stolen gun that couldn’t be traced for less than two hundred bucks. The guns were purchased with fake ID’s from gun stores and were sold on the streets to people who couldn’t purchase them legally.
It was cold out, or at least he thought so. There were gray clouds blocking the moonlight and it made the city appear darker than normal. Eric was thoroughly drunk but not to the point of staggering. He stood up and peaked inside. Jeff was shirtless, a large skull tattoo with flames around it on his shoulder, a gold crucifix around his neck dangling with his chest hair.
Eric snuck around the back porch and slowly twisted the knob to the back door, stopping with each squeak to see if Jeff was coming. He opened the door only far enough for himself to fit through and shut it behind him. All he could hear was his heart thumping in his ears and he was short of breath, butterflies twisting his stomach in knots. The TV was on and he tip-toed over and turned it up.
Jeff was still on the phone; Eric could hear him from the hallway. With each step forward, Eric felt he was losing something. Some grip he had on his life that was quickly spiraling out of control. But something was pushing him to go into the kitchen. Eric stopped by the entrance of the kitchen and leaned against the wall. He reached behind him and came out with the gun. The trigger felt smooth and the weight of it in his hand gave him confidence, moved him forward. What other choice did he have? It was only a matter of time before Jeff would kill his mother. There was no way around it. His mother would be too frightened to testify against him and the police wouldn’t do anything. There was no one else.
He turned the corner and pointed the gun.
Jeff was sitting at the dining table with his back toward him. Eric took a couple steps and could see the sheen of sweat on Jeff’s neck. He pointed the barrel at his head, his finger feeling the trigger.
Jeff stopped talking. He put the phone down and stood up. Eric realized he could see his reflection in the glass of the kitchen window. Jeff turned and looked straight at him, fear flashing across his face before disappearing. He glanced down at the gun and then back up at Eric.
Eric could feel the anger in him, the hatred. It flowed from his gut, through his arm, and into the finger pressed against the trigger. Hatred had a taste; it came up like bile and clouded his eyesight, made him deaf. It consumed him and in the end, there was only the hatred. Eric squeezed the trigger. The click of the empty gun echoed in the room. Eric tucked the gun away, never taking his eyes off Jeff. “Touch my mom again, and it’ll be loaded next time.” He turned to leave the kitchen. Feet running on the linoleum behind him. Eric reached into his pocket.
Brass knuckles bashed into Jeff’s mouth as he tried to tackle Eric from behind, cracking his front teeth. He fell back, blood pouring down his chin and onto his chest.
“Motherfucker!”
He charged at Eric again, connecting with a jab to his face before receiving a powerful right to the jaw. Jeff’s eyes glazed over and he shook his head to rid himself of the blurry vision. Eric pummeled his face and Jeff threw his hands up in a guard. His hands and forearms turned bright red from the blows. He fell back against the sink and reached for a knife behind him.
Eric smashed the brass knuckles into his face with a straight right and that sent him to the floor. He stood over him, panting, and said, “Touch her again cocksucker, and I’ll kill you.”
Eric was near the front door when the sound of a cartridge hitting the floor registered in his mind. The round had nicked his ear and been embedded into the heavy wood of the front door. His ears began to ring and it felt as if time slowed.
Jeff held a revolver with a loose grip, his other hand stopping the blood that spilled from his mouth. Eric felt the pull of fear. He dashed behind the couch as a round missed his face by inches. Another round went through the couch and embedded into the coffee table. Jeff stepped closer and fired another round into the couch, grazing his leg. Eric knew if he stayed where he was he would die. He stood and rushed at him.
A bullet slammed into Eric’s shoulder but he tackled Jeff to the floor before the next round went off. They wrestled with the gun. Eric’s arm had Jeff’s hand pinned to his chest. Jeff began to pull down, trying to fire a round into Eric’s stomach.
Eric felt a sharp pain and thought he had been shot. He screamed as the muffled blast from the gun tore through flesh.
Eric stood up, blood covering his clothes, certain that he was shot. Then he heard the sucking noise coming from Jeff’s chest and the black liquid oozing onto his mother’s floor.
“No!” Eric shouted. He grabbed a blanket off the couch and pressed it against Jeff’s chest, putting his weight behind it to stop the flow of blood that was pooling on the floor. “Jeff, I’m calling an ambulance. Hold this here. Jeff!”
But it was too late. Jeff’s eyes soon sat still, life drained from them. He no longer appeared human but as a corpse. As if someone had pulled the animating soul out of the inanimate body.
Eric grabbed the phone and dialed 911. He told them his mother’s address and then set the phone down. He sat on the couch waiting for the police to arrive. Then a thought crossed his mind and it made him feel sick: they wouldn’t believe him. He showed up with a gun and brass knuckles. They would think he did this on purpose. New Hampshire had the death penalty; he would die for this.
He sprinted to the kitchen and out the back door into the night, hopping over the neighbor’s wooden fence and into a flowerbed. He ran across their lawn and noticed a doghouse in the corner. A growl drew his attention in front of him where an Akida stood bearing his teeth. The dog was large and muscular, thick strands of drool beginning to ooze out of its mouth. Eric darted for the fence and the dog was on him. He felt a burning pain in his ankle and turned around to see the Akida biting down and shaking its head.
Eric noticed for the first time he was still holding the gun. He hit the dog over the head with the butt and it whined and loosened his grip. Eric lunged over the fence as the dog made another jump at him but missed and bit down on air.
Eric jumped two more fences and then was on the street. He walked quickly around the block as he heard sirens in the distance, coming closer. They wouldn’t believe him. He went over there with a gun and pulled the trigger. He pummeled Jeff’s face. They would think he did it on purpose.
Each street lamp was like poison as he passed underneath, glancing around to see if anybody saw him. His ears caused him a dull pain and his wrist was starting to ache, but he didn’t feel much different. He didn’t feel much of anything; just a nothingness.
Sirens were right behind him now, on the same street. Two patrol cars were speeding toward him and he threw the gun into the first trash bin he saw and started walking slower, his hands in his pockets. As the sirens came behind him, he wondered if he should run or maybe pretend to have a gun so they’d shoot him. There was no way he could survive in a cage surrounded by men like Jeff for twenty years before being executed. He’d rather die now.
He held his breath as the first car’s lights hit him, and drove past. The other one followed and they turned a corner heading toward his mother’s house. Eric exhaled and his body seemed to melt, his knees wobbling and unable to hold him. He had to stop and lean against a fence before he was able to walk again.
He waited by a bus stop, sitting on the bench and trying to catch his breath. His ankle stung but the bleeding had stopped and the stain on his sock was covered by his pant leg.
The waiting was the most frightening part. Every sound became a gunshot and every conversation became the police yelling at him not to move. When the bus came it was half-empty and Eric sat staring out the windows. It felt like everyone that looked at him knew he’d killed. Like they could hear his thoughts.
