Do you see the world in black and grey?
This is what he asked me when I was a child, a boy fighting puberty, a youthful, reckless, upstart crashing into the void. He was my father, and his mind wasn’t a vessel of joy, it was more so a dark hub of chaos. Through my younger days, I would observe his decline, his drop into a state brought on by prescription medication, and the urge to rip wings off of butterflies. They say if you kill harmless insects or animals; you are deemed a psychopath or a sociopath.
I’d have put my father into that category, that circle controlled by the devil himself. In hindsight, I lost him to the fever of deceit and the desire to bring a different woman home every night. By seducing them with charm and wine, he would use them as antidotes for his dangerous and depraved impulses. I’d open the freezer and see severed heads, broken bones, hearts and lungs. I couldn’t have done anything, I couldn’t have halted his progression, as I was only a young boy, trying to prosper.
Those days didn’t shape me as a person. I didn’t become the devil’s prodigal son. Using my intelligence was what I wanted to do, showcasing that I had the adept mind to create my destiny was my intention. And as I stand here, on a winter’s day, under an umbrella, I gaze at the name on the gravestone. Donald Hinton engraved in bold. The name of my father. The torturer of many women. As he lays in peace, many families have succumbed to torturing themselves over their losses.
I shed a tear for these families under the rainy skies, wiping them away with a cotton handkerchief. Beside me is my colleague of 10 years, an army veteran who fought impeccably for his country. Tired, I say goodbye to the monster dead to the world but is still alive in my thoughts, my skin, my blood, in my nightmares. He wasn’t a teacher or figure who I admired; he was there as an occupier of my whole childhood, belittling me, ridiculing me. Evil in his ways, he ruined my wonder years.
Feeling the effects, I drive home to my small apartment. It’s far beyond the house where I grew up, in stature and in hope. I abscond from the car and reach the apartment block. I open up the door to the small space and sit restlessly on the couch. I stare down at the pills and whiskey that sit on the coffee table. They’re both desirable at this moment, they’re both like packets of joyous serenity.
Trying to refuse them conjures up panic inside my rattled body. They’re what define me now, I am an alcoholic; I take pills to eradicate his voice in my mind, his monotone whistling, that song he used to sing. Enforcing a plan to dislodge myself from these noises and this powerful disease will have me going manic, insane, deeply joined to the undercurrent of mania and overcurrent of distress.
I take them with alcohol. They go down jaggedly. My empty stomach feels the brunt of them. Easing myself into the chair, I contemplate my life. The suicidal tendencies, the peeling skin, the blood coming from my nose as I blow it discreetly. Cascading into nothingness suits me, the abyss will suit me even more.
Sleep. Glorious sleep.
The alarm reverberation hits me like a cannonball. This time I smash it on the ground. Hungover, I answer the phone to Mick.
‘’Hey’’
‘’Hey Steve, you need to come down to Harold Way ASAP’’
‘’Why, what’s happened? Mick? Mick?’’
Mick hung up.
Trepidation wraps around me. Harold Way is a street I am familiar with. A street ingrained in my psychological makeup. Startled by this, I drink the remaining whiskey. I force myself to commit to the task in hand, a job I have become great at. I don’t want to fuck up now.
In the car, I drive slowly. I look on at the deprived streets, inhabited by homeless people with no chance of recovery. When I was younger, the streets were my best friends. I’d hide out in the shadows, the alleyways, and the rat-infested gutters so I could stay sane. That house I lived in was crippled by mistrust and dirty desires. Covered in the blood of women who were only young themselves, it had a life of its own. I’d feel trapped in it, stuck in isolation as the screams for mercy rang out.
Harold Way looks the same. It’s still as ugly and blemished as it was back in the deathly days. The houses are brick and mortar but contain secrets. They’re all frightening to look at. The grey exteriors send shivers down my back. But I have a job to do. I can’t stand behind a fake persona either, I will have to head straight into the frontline.
The blue tape surrounds the house I lived in for years. The house where the torture had taken place. A home bound in blood, a place where many ghosts live, ghosts with torn limbs and scarred faces. Mick didn’t say on the phone. He didn’t utter the number 27. 27 Harold Way, the chamber of manipulation, one with deep catacombs and misery.
‘’Mick, fuck.’’
‘’What?’’
‘’You didn’t say.’’
‘’Say what?’’
‘’Nothing.’’
We go in. The décor is modernized. The fresh blood has been implemented raggedly. The hall has no clocks, but this house spurs me on to think about clocks. The tick-tock sound embeds my restless mind.
‘’Look over there, Steve.’’
I amble through to the kitchen. On top of the cooker lies a severed head reminiscent of what I would see in the past.
‘’Fuck.’’
Mick steers clear. I feel nauseous, but I keep the whiskey down.
‘’She doesn’t appear to be anyone familiar.’’
Her eyes are still open. I close them in respect. Her eyelashes are still tinted in mascara. She was such a beautiful woman, her life taken in such a sadistic manner.
‘’Anyone else.’’
‘’Yeah, upstairs.’’
Walking up these stairs spark snapshots and flashbacks. The carpet has changed, the picture frames hold different photographs, but I remain steeped in fear. His face, his fucking face, imprinted. I refrain from losing the plot and I struggle on.
The bedroom on the right was my space. A space where I’d write horror stories on crisp white paper. A space where I’d talk to myself and become a warrior who could take on the world. That wouldn’t happen, as I’d shy away from him, the deceiver, the tyrant, the obnoxious, crude bastard.
‘’She’s in there.’’
The bedroom with flowery wallpaper holds an innocent woman who has been mutilated. Her arms have been pulled from their sockets, her mouth is still open, the dreams that swirled like paper notes in her mind, faded. Blood disguises half of the walls, some teeth have fallen onto the floor. This woman has endured a terrible death, an end which angers me.
After that ordeal. I remove myself from this tormented house. Inside me wishes for more whiskey and pills. The nature of this crime alarms me and it reminds me of my father’s killing spree. Every detail, every concise detail. But he’s dead, dead to the world. Six feet under. He can’t harm me or anyone else.
Through the night the phone rings. A noise that has become familiar to me.
‘’Steve, we’ve found someone.’’
‘’Who.’’
Again the phone goes silent.
I quickly get ready and pick my badge up from the bedside cabinet.
Arriving at the station, I become hesitant. This could be the killer, a man who has brought down the empire of god. His motives, his evil touch, like my father’s. He’s sitting in there, breathing in the same oxygen as me.
I alight from the car and stroll slowly to the entrance. I look up and see birds chirping and then flying away in unison, like a family not pulled apart by maliciousness.
‘’He’s in there. Now he’s a shifty motherfucker, so watch out.’’
Gazing through at him, he looks young and innocent. Although, the world hasn’t beat him down yet.
‘’Name?’’
‘’No comment.’’
‘’Age?’’
‘’No comment.’’
‘’So why did you do it? Impulses?? Urges?? Frustrations??’’
‘’You know, you look like someone I know, those eyes.’’
‘’This is your time. Your stage to tell us why you committed those crimes??’’
‘’The eyes, the posture, the way you talk.’’
‘’Look, this isn’t about me.’’
‘’But it is.’’
The interrogation stops and I’m told to leave the room.
‘’Steve, I need to tell you something.’’
‘’Mick, what is it?’’
‘’We’ve ran a profile on the kid. He has the same…’’
‘’Wait Mick, let me do this.’’
The boy stares straight at me. His eyes are jet black.
‘’Listen, you look at me and tell me why you fucking committed those crimes.’’
He falls silent and then utters the words.
‘’Do you see the world in black and grey?’’
THE END
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Mark McConville is a freelance music journalist who has written for many online and print publications. He also likes to write dark fiction. His first poetry chapbook is due for release with Close to the Bone in 2021.
Follow Mark on Twitter: @Writer1990Mark