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Thirteen
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House of Sighs Twelve:
TWELVE:JackJack was the smallest kid in class. He hated being short, hated being so narrow shouldered. Everyone else was broad and tall. Some boys even had hair on their upper lips.Though the runt of the pack, he emerged popular but never the ringleader he wanted to be. Time resigned him to their jokes about his size, and on some level, he hated himself for letting them get away with it.Jack accepted that he wasn’t extraordinary, or noticeable. In class, he raised his hand even if he didn’t know the answer just so his teacher—whom he loved and often dreamed about–would look in his direction. She never did. He had no great aspirations and came from average blue-collar stock. Jack appeared destined to be forgotten, and worst of all, he knew it.One recess, he slipped into the boy’s restroom. In the farthest stall, he sat on the toilet seat and opened his backpack, dug through notebooks and lunch wrappers to fish out a pen. Nervous, he scribbled words against the back of the door
House of Sighs Eleven
ELEVENThe uneven ground beneath Michael’s feet. Rocks jutted up through the earth with the sole purpose of tripping him over. He ran farther and farther into the trees. The sky was the color of a corpse—and Michael knew what a corpse looked like now. Heaven help him, he knew only too well.Tunnel vision. Tugging branches. Twigs raked his skin.The Beast pursued him.Michael pushed himself harder than he ever had before. Every yard he put between him and The Beast was a yard closer to safety. He heard the monster crashing through branches behind him. Michael ran blind, praying for a road, or maybe to discover some half-buried weapon in the ground.Lightning flashed. Trees in the strobe.
House of Sighs Ten
TENJack sprinted through two places at once.One was the dense Australian bush with its brambles and knots. The second was the room in which he’d killed the driver’s father. He could see, clearer than the dwindling day itself, the ugly carpet lining the living room floor and the old man beneath him as he bent down to bite off his lips. They came off with such ease.A scream. Coppery blood in his mouth.Euphoric victory.It was surprising how long it took to kill him. The human body was programmed to fight; a self-defeating trait, considering that in the end it was destined to give up the ghost. Given this, Jack found enjoyment in assisting someone fulfill his destiny.The father had rolled around, grabbing where his lips should have been. Jack laughed. Damn funny! Power over another was a special kind of freedom.A ceramic lamp in the shape of two swans kissing on a table near the television set. He picked it up, sneered at its tackiness, yanked the cord from the wall. Jack sla
House of Sighs Nine:
NINE:PunishmentJack on his parents’ bed from where he’d been thrown, face down, eyes closed. He waited for the unbuckling belt, a signal that his punishment was about to be enforced. And waited. Was his dad doing it slowly to prolong the torture? Or maybe he meant for it to be quiet—the element of surprise being the feature that distinguished this lashing from the others in the past.Nothing. In the distance, his cousin’s cries.Jack opened his eyes.The bulge of his father’s stomach through the apron he wore. In his hands, he held the blood-streaked scissors Jack used to slit open Charles’s hands and fingers.“What you doing, Dad?”“Don’t speak, boy.”“What?”“Don’t you say a bloody word, you hear?”Jack bit his tongue and pinched his lips together.“Now,” his father began, “you’re going to learn a lesson. And it’s a lesson I don’t much like teaching. But I’s got to do what I think’s fair.”Jack was frightened. He breathed hot air into the blanket. The fabric itched agai
House of Sighs Eight
EIGHTBack in that second reality, in the living room with the ugly carpet, Jack beheld the thin, white scars running the lengths of the two first fingers of his right hand. Surely all sons must hate their fathers for trying to make them stronger men. It was only natural to resent the teacher, the person who dealt cards no child wanted. But time passed and perspective drew things together. It made sense to him now. He didn’t hate his father as he assumed he did—he respected the bastard. These scars were his old man’s testament, and no doubt, they hadn’t been etched with ease.Those scars could never be undone. The carver and the carved had been united.Forever.The scissors from the kitchen weren’t cold anymore. If anything, they burned with their own inner warmth.He knelt beside another father—that of the driver who had brought him to this house—and wondered where to stick him. The stomach didn’t seem vital enough. The chest plate would be difficult to puncture. The heart? No, t
House of Sighs Seven
SEVENThe bush. The rain. The orgasmic scream escaping Jack’s lungs.“I’m gonna cut off your cock and stuff it down ya throat after I fuck ya, Charles!”He didn’t add that he planned to watch his eventual decay, planned to stand witness to the flies as they laid their eggs in his stab wounds. So much to see.I won’t be erased, he thought. I’m not a blur on the back of a toilet door.He didn’t need the voice in his head anymore.Jack finally had his own.***Wiping rain and sap from his face, Michael burst through a blockade of trees and fell into a clearing. An uneven patch of ground with a fallen eucalyptus across its girth.Two options.Just keep on running and pray to God he shook The Beast off. It was getting darker by the minute and the bushlands were thick and knotted. True, this could be used to his advantage. But if he came across a road—what then? The chances of a car coming by at that exact moment were slim to none. So, alternatively, would he end up fleeing further
House of Sighs Six
SIXMichael splashed through running water and followed a fast-flowing stream to a narrow cliff face on his right. He couldn’t tell how steep the drop was. Past the bluff, the valley writhed under the storm’s onslaught.His shoes slipped on mossy rocks. Behind him, The Beast jumped through the trees.“I’m going to get you for that, you shit! I swear to God—”Michael watched it twist its ankle on a loose boulder. The stumble gave Michael enough time to spirit into the thicket. Branches snagged his shirt, wrapped around his arms.The Beast walked towards the trees, limping. Drool strung from its chin, its face a mask of blood and shit-smelling mud. “Don’t you move, Charles,” it whispered. “Got a lesson to teach you. You ain’t going to like it.”The trees were its webs, and instead of fangs, the spider bore scissors. It crept closer and closer. It was as though The Beast wanted this to be drawn out, as if he was enjoying the thrill of the hunt.“You’re just too easy,” it told Micha
House of Sighs Five
FIVEThe rain stopped as night fell over the valley. And still, Michael ran with The Beast close behind, clothed in shadow and craving meat.Startled birds shot into the air.I do exist, thought The Beast. I’m not rumor or myth. I’m not a fairy tale told by parents to keep their children obedient. I’m not caged anymore. I shake off the clothing you keep in your closet where I was hiding. I wipe the dust from under your bed out of my hair. I will make you bleed and you will know how real I am. I will be heard. I’ll lift up your skirt and see what lies beneath, teacher. My hand is raised and this time I know the answer. And there is only one answer.Don’t turn back. Do not walk.Run!The trees cleared again. Moonlight across a field. At its far end, a steep incline, and at its very top, yellow streetlights shone through the grass.The road leading to Flagman’s Bridge, and the town beyond it.Michael tried yelling for help but his voice was gone. Every step drew him closer to pass
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