As I lay on my bed, waiting for the drunk piece of shit to come home, I silently listened to Loui pacing around in the dark, unable to sit still as the anticipation continued to build. It felt a little maddening, but also soothing in a way, knowing there was a purpose to it.
10.
It was a little after one when my father finally stumbled through the back door. Like me, he’d also cut across the fields behind our house, tripping through the trees and finally staggering into the kitchen. I heard the door slam shut behind him, then listened as his footfalls only took him as far as the kitchen table.
All I needed to do was wait long enough for him to get comfortable wherever he was going to settle, then make our move. Or should I say, let Loui make his move. I heard a chair slide out from the table, creak as he dropped his weight into it, then slowly begin to hum to himself as the three of us remained perfectly still upstairs.
11.
We waited for him to fall asleep in his drunken stupor, the humming continuing for what felt like forever. He remained sitting on one of the kitchen chairs, its timber joins creaking with every sway of its intoxicated passenger. I thought we might fall asleep before him and thus miss giving Loui his opportunity for pay-back. But slowly, the humming became quieter and quieter, the rocking slowing with each tick of the old clock. I heard crickets chirping out in the yard, and then, as I was about to ask whether he was going to do it, I felt Loui come forward, carefully nudging me aside and taking control of our body.
It wasn’t the first time I had experienced him taking me over, but this time it felt much more familiar, probably because I wanted him to. There had been a couple of occasions where I had asked Eddie to step in while Royce Packard did his thing to us, but it was more of a “shared” experience, me still very much a part of the ride. I don’t know how else to explain it. When Loui came forward this time, relinquishing me of any ability to move my muscles, I felt more like a willing passenger. It was like I was inside my body yet outside of it, watching someone else moving around.
The other thing I remember clearly was when he pushed me aside that time, there was an overwhelming sense of rage. My heart began to beat with such an increased tempo that I felt it in my eyeballs, almost as if they were moving with each beat.
Loui began to take us slowly down the stairs, never taking his eyes off his prey. When he reached the fourth step, knowing it creaked, he stepped over it with such grace that it felt like he was making us dance. The other thing I noticed was that I couldn’t hear his thoughts. Unlike Eddie, who spoke to me with thoughts sometimes, Loui was silent. It was like I was a passenger in a driverless car. Does that make sense, James? I hope it does, ‘because it felt fucking weird.
When he finally reached the kitchen, Loui first walked to my father and stood directly in front of him. He had moved the chair sideways, one elbow resting on the table beside him. He was leaning back in the chair, his head rolled back far enough that I could see up his nostrils, both hairier than a cat’s arsehole.
At first, I thought Loui was just going to hit him or something. He had us standing there a long time, just staring at him, almost as if he was contemplating something. But then he walked around the table and went to the kitchen bench. He opened the second drawer down and peered inside, a collection of mixed utensils scattered in the bottom of it. The usual ones were all there, whisks, egg flips, a rolling pin, you get the idea. There was also an assortment of knives; some long, some short, some serrated, some small, some sharp, some dull. Again, Loui just stood there, staring as if contemplating, the kitchen filled with the sounds of loud snoring.
There was a sudden rasp from my father’s throat, a cough, then he lifted a leg and farted. It sounded so wet that I thought he’d shit himself. The smell that filled the room certainly said he did. Loui turned back to the drawer and reached in, his fingers grabbing the handle of a short and pointy knife, the blade maybe three inches long. To be honest, I was a little disappointed with it. I’d been expecting a big fat Christmas-turkey carver, but what he had chosen was more like a Christmas quail-picker. I tried to voice my objection but was unable to. For the time being, I was locked out, still just a passenger in my own skin.
He held the knife up and looked at the gleaming blade for a moment, then turned back toward my father. Grasping the handle tight, we made our way, or should I say, Loui made his way back around the table until he was standing in front of my father again, our feet almost touching.
“Slice his fucking throat,” I wanted to shout, but of course, I was unable to say anything, by voice or thought. It turns out, I didn’t need to because what happened next, happened so quick that if I hadn’t been watching with Loui’s eyes, I would have missed it.
With a swing of his arm, Loui brought the knife down so fast, I swear I heard it whistle. It missed his face, his throat, even
