The Getaway

It is done.

Amanda lay still and bloody beneath me on her bed. My trophy from her floating in the chemical jar snug under my arm. Her nude body is enchanting in the candlelight, but I dare not disturb her. No, this is how I want them to find her.

I dress and leave.

The taste in my mouth is metallic, and I think it’s blood. There isn’t enough light in the getaway car to look in the mirror and check for any signs of bleeding.

The speed limit hasn’t been posted in miles so I’m going as fast as possible. I am alone on this dark and lonely stretch.

“Speed kills,” I say out loud and laugh. I gun the engine and bury the needle of RPM’s I’m free. The further I go the more the distance comforts me.

A few hours have passed.

I’m tired and searching for a place to stop. The thought of pulling over and sleeping on the highway shoulder doesn’t sound enticing, but I may not have a choice. I need sleep although I worry someone is tailing me.

I get away though, right? It was me escaping in the darkness. I didn’t turn on the lights of the car until I was miles away and just in time to avoid a ditch. It was a clean getaway as usual.

I’m paranoid. The pills don’t help, and the booze isn’t doing any favors. I need to focus. Once I find a place I’m going to sleep and sober up. Ready to go.

Although, it won’t hurt to finish the pills and whiskey. Not looking to be clean until morning so what’s it matter? Little party all by myself; just like old times.

I see a distant glow in the night. As I get closer, I can see it is a motel off to the right. It looks abandoned, but it is just at home in the background.

I stop and pull into the darkest part of the parking lot.

The office is unlit, but the door is unlocked so I go in.

What I guess is a junkie has his head down on the desk. The stench is mighty. I don’t want to touch him, so I cough to try and wake him, but nothing happens. Not sure if he is on the nods or sleeping. I slam my hand down and he pops up. His face is putrid, and I hold down the contents of my stomach.

“What?” he asks.

“I want a room, but I want it over there where it’s dark. Can you do that?”

“Nobody is here,” he says. “You can stay in whatever room you want.”

He turns to the lock box behind him and opens it up. He finds the keys to my room and turns back to me.

“It’s over there, figure it out,” he says.

I go.

The room is across from my getaway car. I go to the back of the car, and my hand is on the trunk, and the key is in the lock. I start to open it and decide to leave it be. I pocket the keys and enter the room.

The lights don’t turn on, but the bathroom is on the opposite side, and the light works. Dim light partially illuminates the room. It is as bad as the junkie and doesn’t smell much better. I sit on the bed and its damp; this room is horrible.

 I pop the pills and down most of the whiskey which causes a coughing fit. Some of the pills are spit out. I consider picking them up and remember the damp bed and figure it’s best to let them go. I’ll be too high to care. I take the next to the last gulp of whiskey and don’t choke, then finish it.

Time to sit on the bed and wait.

 I was too tired to drive and am now wide awake. With the cocktail of pills and drink I’ll be down for the count in no time.

The bathroom has dry towels, so I lay one on the bed for my body and another over the pillow. The bed still feels damp, and I lay down.

The curtain is open, and the parking lot is visible. I think about closing it, but better to keep an eye out on the car to see anyone coming. The bathroom light is still on; it does not bother me.

I close my eyes and wait for the pills to do their magic. The whiskey has not affected me.

I sleep.

In my dream I’m alone yet being watched. No matter where I turn there is someone in the shadows. Panic sets in then fear. I’m in a void and there are no corners to hide.

I wake up.

I hear breathing out of sync with my own. Holding my breath, I hear it. Afraid to open my eyes I wait and let air back in my lungs. It’s still there.

“This is my room; you got to go.” I sound scared and I am. Now I regret the pills which will kick in at any moment.

More breathing then nothing. Silence.

I open my eyes and notice the headlights of the car are on. The keys are still in my pocket, but I can’t remember if I locked the car. I go outside. The car is locked so I put the key in and open the door. I sit in the driver’s seat and can hear the radio on low. I turn it up and hear Waylon Jennings singing, “Amanda, light of my life.”  Terror rips through my body. Must be a coincidence. Have I heard that song before? I can’t remember. I switch it off. I wonder how the radio is playing with no key in the ignition. After a few moments of lost thought, I get out and lock the door. I stand alone and look over the lot. It’s empty and none of the rooms are illuminated. I am truly alone. After looking around and satisfied, I’m comfortable enough to open the trunk. I pull out the canvas bag and feel the chemical jar shift its weight.

I go back inside.

The bag won’t fit under the bed, so I place it in the bathtub, close the curtain.

I lay back down on my side facing away from the window. I stare into the bathroom and think about the bag. It’s in there. My beautiful trophy. She screamed as I took them, and they are the best ones yet. Beautiful. I want to see them, but I want to wait until I’m home. The waiting is exhilarating. I’m hours away from slowly unzipping the bag, reaching in and sitting the jar in front of a light. Imagine how splendid it will be. To stare at it. Never touching it, but wanting to. Resisting putting them inside me. This won’t be like the others. No. This is different. All of it is different.

Amanda looked just like a younger version of the first one. Her hair, her body, and more importantly the color of…

I’m too excited and turned on to sleep but I force myself to close my eyes, and then I hear the breathing.

I open my eyes and adjust to the light.

“Who is there?” I ask. “I can hear you.”

“Stop,” a female voice says. “Please stop.”

The familiarity of the voice sends terror through my heart. It can’t be her. She is all the way back there. Miles away. Even then..

“Stop,” she says. “Why didn’t you stop?”

I jump out of bed and look around. I’m alone. It’s the pills. Gotta be the stupid pills. I’m high. This is all in my head. Sober up. Please God, sober me up. I slap myself across the face, it doesn’t help.

I feel a hand on my shoulder. I spin and find nothing.

“Stop!” I plead. “You aren’t real! I left you.” I look around, searching. “Please.” I’ve never sounded so weak.

The phone rings. I walk over and lift up the receiver.

“Collect call from, say your name, dear. Nice and loud.”

Oh God. Please don’t be her. Please. If this is a nightmare I want to wake up.

“Amanda,” she says. “And you’ll never guess where I am.” She laughs. “I know your secret,” she says. “I know why you do these things to girls. Did mommy hurt you, baby boy?”

I slam the receiver down and pull the phone off its cord. Somebody knows and is playing with me. It isn’t her. Impossible. I left no witnesses. I left her…

The shower turns on. I run to the bathroom, open the curtain and the bag is open. I see the top of the chemical jar, and I panic. It isn’t time. I close my eyes and feel for the zipper and find it. I zip it up, grab the bag, and turn the water off. The bag is wet but I’m sure the jar is untouched. I want to open the bag and check, but it isn’t time. The moment will not be ruined.

I go to the car.

The bag is on my lap, and I pull out of the parking lot. The highway is wide open and dark. Sinister. I feel like I can’t drive fast enough. Must make it home but that seems like an eternity away.

The radio turns on. Static then a voice accompanied by what sounds like music from and old-time soap opera.

“And now, friends, a special program just for you,” it says. “Here is a blast from the past. The missing piece to your life’s puzzle. The girl you just can’t forget, Amanda!”

I hear loud applause. Turning the volume knob has no effect.

“Hey baby,” Amanda says. “Why the rush to get away from me?”

“No,” I say. “Go away. You’re a demon. Leave me alone.”

She laughs.

“Oh, I’m the demon?” she says. “The past six hours begs to differ. You’ve been a very bad boy, Mister Sinner.”

I play back to six hours ago and I shudder. She’s dead. There is no doubt, she is gone.

“I bet this is killing you,” she says. “Did the big, bad wolf forget to blow the right house down?”

A laugh track plays so loud the speakers crack.

The announcer comes back.

“Friends, do you find yourself feeling lonely? Out of sorts or just barely surviving on the edge?”  he says. “Are the demons from your past haunting your every waking moment? Clouded memories of past traumas and the inability to run away no matter how hard you try? Try praying to your God who has clearly abandoned you. Your prayers will go unanswered, and you will surely face eternal damnation. Saint Peter will forever be a stranger to you.”

More laughter and applause. My ears feel like they are bleeding.

“And now,” he says. “Back to our program.”

“I want you to tell me all your secrets,” Amanda says. “And do not you try and lie because I know them all. The place you sent me, we know everything.”

An orchestra plays suspenseful music.

“Then why do you want me to tell you?”

“Because, silly, I want you to suffer,” she says. “Also, I find it interesting you haven’t asked where I am.”

“I think I know,” I say. “There’s only one place.”

“Very good,” she says. “We can skip that section of the game and jump to how in the actual hell did you find yourself in this predicament?”

I don’t know how to answer.

There is no way Amanda knows. I’ve never told anyone what happened. It felt wrong, but I wanted the attention. I was too inexperienced to know pleasure, but maybe it was.

“You were the object of Mommy’s affection,” she says. “And we all know it was bad. Dirty. You were so young. How did she touch you? Did you fight back? Did you enjoy it? What did you do?”

“I did a real bad thing,” I answer. “I’ve done lots of bad things.”

I start to cry and have never felt so alone.

“Oh,” she says. “So, I wasn’t your first? How disappointing.” The sarcasm in her voice kills me. “So, when was your first? When did you pop your cherry?”

I contemplate jumping from the car, but as I do the doors lock.

“I’m not answering,” I say. “I’m not playing your game.”

The orchestra plays reminiscent music.

“You were ten. A child. Was it the same thrill the first time? Why did you wait so long for the second?”

I cry harder and it is hard to see, and I worry about crashing. The car is driving itself, so I let go of the wheel and it drives fast and straight.

The orchestra picks up in tempo and plays faster, darker music.

“And just how many have there been?” she asks and matches the tempo of the strings. “I know you know because of all the trophies. You remember every single sick detail.”

“No,” is all I can muster.

She continues.

“So, what do you like best? The screams? The blood? Or the trophies? The fatal gunshot to the head must turn you on, am I right?”

I want to throw up.

“Or is it sicker than all that,” she asks. “Is it the pleasure of making women think you care? Convincingly acting like a great guy. A real catch. Are you too good to be true? You know. Say it.”

“I’m nothing,” I say.

More laughter and applause, this time louder.

“There we have it ladies and gentlemen! All of this for nothing! My life was worth nothing! Sorry ladies, we don’t make the grade!”

A cymbal crashes and the music stops.

I remember the bag with the jar in my lap and unzip it.  

“Why couldn’t you take your little trophy after you killed me? The pain was unbearable,” she says. “But I guess that was the point.”

A sad trumpet plays.

Her screams were divine; they always are with each one of them. It excites me. The look in their eyes as soon as they know what’s next. Mommy was already dead, so she didn’t know it was coming. It was too late when I started, but I felt then what I feel now. Ecstasy. This is how I know love. Thinking about her and the others calms me and I stop crying.

I turn on the interior lights, pull out the jar, and hold it up to my face. I fight for control of myself.

“Is it worth it?” she asks. “I know you think it is. The thrill wears off. You discard the memories like a teenager and worn-out nudie magazines and go searching for the next one. Something new to get you off.”

“It’s more than that,” I say and barely get the words out. I hate this and I hate her even more but talking to her after the fact is almost too much. Is this happening? I wish she were scared. This would be better if she were afraid of me.

“You want to re-live it,” she says. “I can feel it coming off you.”

“Yes.”

Take me there, Amanda. Tell me how you felt. Were you scared?

The music changes and sounds like a love song.

“Well…we talked. We had dinner and talked. You made me feel like I was the only girl who mattered. You kissed me for the first time. Your lips were soft. You kissed my closed eyes. And for dessert you spoon fed me tiny bites of ice cream with your vintage Mickey Mouse Spoon from a trip to Disneyland in your youth. Your mommy bought it for you. I know these details because you talked about them longer than you spent kissing me. You’ve kept the spoon in perfect condition. I found it strange you kept it in a pouch. Now I understand why. It’s People’s Exhibit A when they catch you and they will,” she says.

“No, they won’t,” I say, but I don’t know if I believe it.

“Do you remember why the spoon is so important?”

“Please no.”

Why does she know? It is a secret. I was told to never talk about it because it was so special others that would be jealous.

Music is sinister now.

“The ice cream afterwards was your reward for being still. For being a good boy,” she says. “How did mommy’s mouth feel on you? Can you say it for me?”

Her lips on me. How she looked at me during. The look in her eyes. I wasn’t allowed to look away even after it was over. Then her spoon feeding me ice cream as I sat naked, cold, and afraid. Ashamed. Alone.

“You’ve never dealt with this,” Amanda says. “You kept it stuck inside until you snapped. All the poor girls who crossed your path. The girls you thought you loved until they made the awful mistake of giving you that look. The unmistakable look of desire. What you don’t know is it was a look of love. All those girls had to love you to give themselves up. And once they did…”

“No!” I shout.

“It felt so good to undress them. To look upon their bodies. You were in control this time,” she says. “This was sex on your terms. It wasn’t sex though. You couldn’t perform the act. Those poor girls blamed themselves. Without mommy there was no excitement. The girls were confused. You towered over them nude and dominant but limp as a rope.”

“It’s not like that,” I cry.

“I remember your knees on my shoulders as you held me down,” she says. “Do you know how scared I was? You were so heavy. Then you pulled out that stupid spoon. The look on your face. You smiled at me. What happened next? I want you to say it.”

“I took my trophy,” I stop crying and relive the moment.

“Look at me!”

I turn to the passenger side and see Amanda. There is a hole in her forehead from where I shot her. Two bloody gouged out sockets from where I dug out my trophies.

“Your eyes,” I say. “Are the gateway to your soul and now only I can enter.”

“Give me back my fucking eyes!”

“They belong to me,” I say.

I’ve lost track of where the car is heading. Out the windshield I see a city. Cars and pedestrians. We are speeding through red lights. Then I notice the line of red and blue lights flashing behind us.

“When you heard the shot from the next room at the moment of mommy’s suicide,” she says. “You were having ice cream alone for once. She had left you alone this time.”

She did leave me alone. I was alone when she did it. I found her with a single shot to the head. She was nude. Her eyes were open, and I felt as if she was still looking at me. I scooped out her eyes with my Mickey spoon. It was nearly impossible. My small hands barely had the strength to dig in with enough force to pull out the eyes. Then when I did pop them out, they were still connected. So, I found her sewing scissors which I wasn’t allowed to touch and cut her eyes free. The police couldn’t find them because no one checked my stomach. She couldn’t look at me anymore.

The car is slowing down.

“Here,” Amanda says and hands me my Mickey spoon. “Time to take your eyes, Oedipus Rex.”

The car stops. I hear car doors slam behind me and Police rushing to my car door. They surround the car and yell for me to give myself up. Do they know what is happening inside here?

“I won’t do it,” I say, but I take my Mickey spoon out of her hand. I have lost control of my actions.

“You don’t want to see what is in store for you,” she says. “This is the end. You are caught. It’s over.”

The policeman is trying to open the driver’s side door, and he is pounding on the window.

“Open the goddamn door, mother fucker!”

“This is the only way,” she says. “A blind man can’t see his sins. Cleanse yourself before they take you.”

“Open the door. Step out and get your hands where I can see them!”

The music plays a disjointed version of ‘It’s a Small World’.

I lift Mickey up to my left eye and jab him in. I dig around and try to get behind my eye, but there is something stopping me. Is it muscle? I dig the spoon in deeper and the vision in my eye goes black. I feel as if I’m going to blackout from the pain.  There is a sucking sound, and blood is pouring down my face and into my mouth. I swallow it and the metallic taste from before comes back. My eye is moving, and I can feel it freeing from the socket. I remember I need mommy’s scissors to cut the fibers holding it to my skull. Maybe I can pull hard enough, and it will give. My eye pops out and dangles from the socket. I scream like I’ve never screamed before. It’s a scream I’ve known so many times and the ecstasy is the same.

It is done.  

The music stops.

The door unlocks and I feel two large hands pull me from the car. I am thrown on the ground.

“He popped his eye out!” the policeman screams. “There is a nude girl in here and her eyes are gone. Blood everywhere! What did you do?”

Please don’t find my trophy.

He finds the jar.

“I think these are her eyes.”

Someone flips me over and forces my head to the ground. My left eye is pressed under my face and there are small rocks and dirt in my socket, and maybe glass.

I feel handcuffs on my wrists. I am pulled up by my arms. I can’t see out of my left eye, but I see a policeman holding my jar.

“Can I have that back?” I ask. “That belongs to me.”

They put me up against the getaway car, so I am facing them.

An officer looks me over and vomits. He is pulled away. Another takes his place and looks as if he won’t last either.

“We’ve been looking for you,” he says. “I can’t believe you were driving around with a victim in the front seat of your car.”

“My getaway car,” I correct him.

“Stop with that right now,” he moves closer then steps back.

“I got to know,” he says. “Why take their eyes? Did you keep all of them? Are there more jars like this?”

“What do you think?”

“And why take this girl?” he asks. “You left the others. We found her, but the body disappeared as we searched the house for evidence. How did you sneak in?”

“She followed me into my car.”

“We’re done with you.”

I am placed in the squad car.

I fear they are going to keep my trophy, but I still have my first set. I can feel mommy’s eyes inside me.

Mommy will always be inside me.

 

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