Chapter 1 - The Mad Teenager

After a strange death Jerry Price is back in the mental institution.

 

 

 

 

On October 18^th at 12:30pm my neighbor, Mr. Sullivan, was discovered dead, and I was immediately sent into the Greenbroch Mental Institution …again.  I can’t blame the police, not really.  You find a grizzly crime scene and the local crazy boy is his neighbor.  Crime solved.  But the evidence will clear me in short order, if you  consider a single severed foot  evidence.  I certainly don’t, but then again I’m mad, or so they tell me.  I believe the term my doctor’s use is “mentally unstable” with an extreme case of schizophrenia and constant visual hallucinations.  I’ve been on more medication than a life time drug addict, but nothing helps or even affects me.  Everyone, and I mean everyone, thinks I’m utterly insane and some days I wonder if they aren’t right.  When questioned by the police about the death I assured the good officers that I didn’t kill him but that he had been eaten by the wall.  The conversation deteriorated from there.

I remember it vividly:  Mr. Sullivan had just exited his apartment, the one adjacent to mine, wearing a rather heinous  green Hawaiian shirt with pineapples all over it.   A large sweaty man with a receding hairline, he had a belly that would make Santa jealous, and he avoids me like death itself. Most people do.     Too bad this time it caused him to die…or it was the shirt?     Anyway, that day he was edging along the far wall as I stared at him dispassionately.  In all fairness I wasn’t looking at him but at the six inch pink elephant on his shoulder.  I hadn’t seen one of those before.  It was making cute trumpeting sounds as it danced around him in mid-air.  Neat.

As he neared the exit for the stairwell a large face manifested out of the wall, grinning like a lunatic.    This was not an uncommon occurrence for me.  Often faces will appear out of structures or even roads and tell me what went on inside. But this time something was wrong.  The face was immense, reaching from the floor all the way up to the ceiling.  Large, fist sized teeth were visible in a mouth that was much too large, even for that face.  Granite colored eyes stared at the approaching man, an eager, hungry expression dominating its features.  I  shouted a warning but all that did was make Mr. Sullivan turn directly toward his death.  I don’t think he ever properly saw it, even as he was being eaten alive.  A quick, startled scream and half of him was pulled into that mouth by a long thick black tongue the size of a python, wrapping around his feet and pulling him in.  The first bite was the worst.  Those teeth were not meant for piercing but for grinding.  Sounds of shattering bones and urgent, pain-filled screams echoed in the narrow hall.  He flailed uselessly, half of him already inside the mouth being steadily chewed and savored.  Bloody hand prints decorated the wall at each wet slap of Mr. Sullivan’s hands like primitive cave paintings as he desperately tried to free himself.  The smell of coppery blood quickly drove all else from my mind as I stood and watched, horrified.  I wanted to help but the blood told me it was too late, there was nothing I could do for him.  Perhaps I should have ran but the sight of a two hundred fifty pound man being eaten like a tasty appetizer is one I don’t see often and a sick fascination held me in place.  I did pale when the face’s cheeks puckered as it sucked off all the clothes and skin off the man like he was a piece of extra crispy KFC.  Too bad the poor man was still alive when that happened.  A few more bites and splashes of blood along with other fluids and it was over.  With a final tug the rest of Mr. Sullivan disappeared into the mouth with all that remained was a single foot still in its expensive shoe that somehow fell out of the mouth during the meal along with a large puddle of blood. 

So here I am two weeks later in a straight jacket, being drilled by a licensed medical professional who knows I’m a lost cause.  I’ve been coming here on and off my entire life, ever since I could speak and reveal that I see disturbing things.  In fact, I’ve spent more time here than at school or home.  My mother doesn’t mind, it’s a relief to her when I’m away.  She’s far more interested in her social life and keeping me away from any potential boyfriends before I can scare them away.  My father disappeared shortly after my conception.  I have no idea who he was or if he’s even still alive, and my mother never talks about him.

My attention comes back to the professionally dressed man in front of me as he starts up his line of questioning;  the same repetitive questions they ask me every few days, expecting reason and logic to change my response.

“How are you today Jerry?”  He asks, making small marks on his notepad.

“Fine.  A snug straight jacket always improves my self-esteem.”

“I would like to talk about what happened to your neighbor.”  He says in a dispassionate tone,  dismissing anything I might say.

“I was watching the pink elephant dancing around Mr. Sullivan’s head when the wall ate him like a slim jim.”

“Uh huh,” he replies, making more notes.  He continues like he hears that every day, and perhaps he does. Maybe there are no crazies in the world, just people who see things like I do.  “Did anyone else see this happen?”

“Just my shadow.” I reply, looking over his shoulder at my shadow, who leans against the corner wall smiling wickedly at me.  It’s odd how no one notices I don’t have a shadow like they do.   They explain this away by the angle of lights or conflicting shadows around them.  The simple truth is that my shadow isn’t attached to me and can go where he wishes, but he never travels too far.

“You should just kill him and leave.  I’m bored,” my shadow says, glaring at the man in front of him.  My shadow always suggests violence and dark deeds, like my own personal devil following me around.

“Relax, we’ll leave soon enough,” I say over the doctor’s shoulder.  He instinctively turns around, looking to see who I am talking to.  A slight frown crosses his face as he notices the extra darkness in the corner. Turning back to me, he takes off his thick rimmed spectacles, wiping them on his shirt and dismissing the strange phenomenon like everyone else does.

He gives me a patronizing smile and says, “Its ok Jerry, no one is there.”  He gestures toward a large mirror so I could see that we are alone, but of course I see things differently.  I pause, studying my reflection.  I have reddish-brown hair that could be best described as a burnished. My odd hair color is offset by my vivid, forest green eyes which are more cat-like than human with slit pupils.  I was told it was some kind of genetic defect.  With the complexion of a lifetime heroin addict, I have large, purple bags under my eyes and a wiry frame.  I don’t do drugs of course; I’m already crazy enough.  I also don’t tolerate patronizing a******s like the doctor here.

I decide that I’ve been here long enough to satisfy any law enforcement and that it’s time to go home.  I really want to see Whisper, my best friend.  I’ve had plenty of practice getting out of these places.  I’m sure I can be back on the streets in an hour. 

“But doctor, there is someone there and he’s getting anxious that I’m still stuck here when the police have no proof that I did anything.  If he gets annoyed things might start happening.”  The doctor gives me a wary look.  There are a lot of not-so-nice rumors floating around about me.  Of course, I didn’t do any of the things they think I’ve done, but then again, I didn’t have too.  Madness can be rather infectious. 

“Now Jerry, I want to finish my examination and file my report.  You can stay here for a few more days.  For your own safety, of course,” the doctor says, making a few more marks on his clip board.  Focusing my gaze directly on my shadow still lounging in the corner, I deliberately squeeze both of my eyes tightly shut.  He grins.  This is our agreed upon signal for him to screw around as much as he wants.  He slides along the wall to his left, as if light was shifting away from the door, casting the room into unearthly dark shadows and he flicks off the lights. 

Startled the doctor looks up at the door.  The light switch is far away from me, now bathed in a soft red light by the always present dim emergency lights.  Confused, he stands up to turn the lights back on when my shadow does it for him. 

“Holy s**t!”  He cries out, backing away from the table.

 Smiling like a loon, I say, “Don’t worry doctor, it’s only my shadow. It happens all the time.  You’re just as sane as I am.”  I don’t think that comforts him.  The lights flick on and off several more times as the frightened man watches, not believing his own eyes. With a final act of mischief the doctor’s clip board spontaneously flies off the table.  He’s finally had enough.

Thirty minutes later I stroll toward the security desk with the doctor whose name I never bothered learning.  My ever present shadow trails behind us, poking at the doctor’s inanimate shadow.  Stopping at the front desk my doctor holds out a clip board with an unsteady hand to the guard, safe behind a metal cage. 

“What?  He’s being discharged?”  The guard asks, blinking in disbelief.

“I finished my examination.  He’s no danger to himself or others.”  The doctor says in a shaky voice.  “The police can question him at home if they need too.  I don’t need to see him again.”  He’s very careful not to look at me.

 “You ok, doc? Did the kid do something to you?”  The guard asks, cracking his knuckles.

“I didn’t do anything.  It was just my shadow,” I reply. My shadow lets out a deep, evil laugh; the kind of laugh that raises your hackles.  It affects the men too.   Although they can’t hear it, the sheer malevolence is heavy in the air.

The doctor shudders.  “We can’t help him here.  Send him home!”  Without waiting for a reply, he turns and does a stiff, fast walk away, obviously resisting the urge to run.

Grumbling, the guard comes forward and unlocks the door.   With an impatient gesture, he signals me forward and helps me out of my straight jacket.

“That was fun,” my shadow says, blending into the various shades of darkness around me as I exit the asylum.  I smile but don’t respond.  Although annoying, my shadow can be helpful if it suits him, or if he’s bored.   Only partially existing on this plane of reality, like myself, he can manipulate a few small objects before tiring.  More often than not he will just ignore me and do whatever he wants.

I really wish I could drive, but despite being seventeen and passing every test they throw at me, the state simply won’t allow a person with my mental condition to drive.  They are probably afraid that I’ll see a large bug or something and swerve into an oncoming car.  A valid concern.  Well, at least there is plenty of entertainment as I walk home. 

As I continue home a terrified orange and white puff ball zooms past me as my shadow chases a cat up a large willow tree.  Bad choice there, kitty.  A rough patch of bark rapidly shifts on the trunk, intercepting the cat.  With the speed of a mongoose the cat is sucked into the tree, leaving only enough time for a quick yowl of pain and a single tuft of orange fur floating in the wind.  My shadow finds the cat’s death hilarious, laughing as the tree belches.   I give the tree a wide birth.  A rumbling fills the street as a horde of creatures pursue a large stick like man who stands nearly ten feet tall, yet ais skinnier than I am.  Naked with strangely long limbs and no outward signs of gender, it races down the street with long frantic strides, trying to escape its pursuers.  The creatures chasing him are ones I’ve seen before, lots in times in fact.  They seem to be prodigious hunters in one of the other worlds,  with the body shape of extremely large tortoises.  Moving more swiftly than most natural land animals, they have four strong legs, allowing incredible bursts of speed as they weave in and out of obstacles in the other world, cutting off the stick man’s escape routes.  They have a large upraised hump of tan, hairless flesh on their backs like an immense shark fin that wobbles slightly as they run.  It appears to be more cartilage than bone, with hundreds of gold rimmed eyes along its surface.  This must give them a complete field of vision and from the speed that those eyes dart around they must be excellent at tracking prey.  Covered in soft gray fur, except the ridge on their backs they have  no eyes on their bony heads, but who needs them when your back is covered in them?  But they do have  large mouths filled with several rows of sharp, hook-like teeth, more for seizing prey than scissoring flesh.   These vicious traits are  offset by the long, fluffy gray squirrel tail each of them have.  I call them watchers. 

I watch as they speed past me, moving through cars and trees like they aren’t even there.  Luckily for me they don’t exist on my plane of reality but somewhere else altogether, in a secret place I can see partially into.  They do avoid the willow tree though, it must exist both here and there.

Having closed the distance between them and the stick man, the nearest one leaps in a single great bound, its neck and head snaps out and clamps onto the man’s leg.  With a guttural cry of pain the stick man falls to his knees and is quickly covered in watchers.  Vicious sounds of tearing flesh and splashes of crimson blood dominate the scene.  The stick man is dead within seconds.  Only the feasting remains, their tails swishing in excitement.    I just keep on walking and try not to think about it.  I’ve seen the show before. 

As I start to move away something new happens as one of the Watchers pauses, looking directly at me.  I can sense a change as a vast intelligence fills its features, like a vicious dog spontaneously developing Einstein’s IQ.  I freeze …Can it see me?  

I’m usually invisible to creatures so far removed from my reality.  They shouldn’t be able to see me.  It takes a single step toward me and I feel real fear for the first time.  What is going on? 

My shadow rears up behind the looming watcher, smothering it like an inky blanket woven from the darkness of the void.  A few frantic struggles and then my shadow stands upright.  The watcher is simply gone, as if it had never been there.  Growling, the other watchers regard my shadow warily, and back away slowly, their eyes darting around as if unsure of what to do.  With a lunge my shadow covers two more watchers in his darkness and the others flee. Well, that was new.  I’ve never seen my shadow kill before.  Perhaps he can only do it when he shifts to the other world.   I’ll have to ask him about it later. 

I make it home by six and my mom is still out; getting wasted, no doubt.  I walk in the door and am immediately bombarded by a rancid odor.  It smells like the aftermath of an all-night kegger.  House cleaning has never been high on my mother’s to-do list, but this is bad even for her.  The entire place, minus my bedroom, looks like a dumping ground.  Empty pizza boxes and crumpled beer cans litter the floor and I have a hard time not stepping in anything sticky.  The only thing not covered in garbage is the worn cloth couch and that has other unmentionables on it.  Stains of various bodily fluids decorate the entire surface like a Jackson Pollack painting. 

My stomach grumbling, I carefully wade through the debris to the refrigerator hoping to find something edible.  Small chance of that, but miracles do happen.  A large, freshly-dried puddle of vomit is in front of the stove.  Chunks of partially digested food could be seen and it reminded me of spilled split pea soup.  Strangely it looks like someone had dug through it to collect certain pieces.  Was it Whisper?

At that moment Whisper comes trotting up to me, a large struggling cockroach clamped in his mouth.  Whisper is a pure white ferret, sleek and beautiful.  He’s the size of a large cat and has startling deep blue eyes.  Crunching down on the bug Whisper drops it at my feet, his long whiskers twitching as he pushed the bug toward me with his small pink nose and rubbing against my leg. 

“Welcome home, Shifter.  I have tried to keep the vermin at bay in your absence ,” Whisper says in a soft,  purring tone.  He’s always called me that, ever since I rescued him. 

Two years ago I was walking home from school and I stumbled across a ghastly sight.  A massive white ferret, easily the size of a fully loaded semi truck was being swarmed by a group of watchers.  Its bright, snow white fur was stained with crimson in at least a dozen different spots as it continued to fend off the pack.  Curling in on himself the ferret lashed out with lighting quick strikes to any watcher that was too slow to evade.  Yet for every watcher killed another one took its place, taking  bites out of the ferret.  Chewing on their bits of stolen flesh, blood soaking into the gray fur around their mouths they circled around the ferret looking for another tasty bite. 

Even as I watched, the ferret’s movements became slower as it grew weaker from blood loss and pain.   My shadow was content to watch, laughing and clapping at every new splash of blood and growl of pain.  Saddened by this beautiful creature’s impending demise, I strode through the watchers, who didn’t even feel my passage, laying my hand on the ferret’s bloody flank. The act was instinctive with no real thought on my part.  At first I was surprised that my hand didn’t just pass through the ferret since he was so far into that other world,  but I could feel his soft fur beneath my palm.  As the watchers closed in for the kill, I tried something I’ve never attempted before.  Getting an iron grip on his fur, I pulled him.  I didn’t physically pull him like pulling a child out of harm’s way, instead I dragged him across realities.  It took less than a second for me to drag the ferret from his reality into mine and as I did so he changed.  Instead of a dying massive white ferret that easily outweighed me by several tons, I held a small cat size ferret dying in my arms.  The watchers snarled and snapped at each other, confused about where the big a*s dying ferret went.

I took him to a nearby vet, which refused to help until I reminded them who I was.  They rightly decided that treating a ferret was better than dealing with the local nut job.  All patched up they told me to take my rodent and get the hell out.  Over the next few weeks I nursed him back to health and named him Whisper.  My shadow wanted to flush him down the toilet or stick in him in the microwave, but I decided to keep him as a pet.  After several weeks of nonstop chitterling from Whisper, I thought he might be trying to communicate, but I had completely pulled him into human reality so his abilities were limited, like my shadow.  Experimenting I pushed him slightly out of sync with the human world, more to my level of reality. To my surprise he really could talk! He was still close enough to the human world for everyone to see but only I could hear him.  Everyone thought he was just a dumb animal instead of becoming my only friend.

The encounter with Whisper taught me much about the other world and mine.  I envision the world of humans as the surface of a vast, endless ocean.  The other worlds are distinct, yet intertwined levels going all the way down to the sea floor.  I stand ankle deep in the water while the rest of mankind walks on the surface without even getting their shoes wet.  Those on the surface have no idea that there are hidden depths just below their feet.  Those below are just as oblivious to the existence of humans, except for a few that exist across multiple worlds like that murderous willow tree.  Some can even shift through the worlds, staying for a brief time in different realities like the face that ate my neighbor.  I seem to be able to permanently bring others across like Whisper, and stabilize them in any level of reality I wish.  I’m guessing that’s why Whisper calls me Shifter.

“How nice,” says my shadow, melding into the dark areas around us so even I can’t locate him.  “Tell me rat, did you chase down that fearsome beast before or after you spent all day licking your balls?”

“Silence, corrupt shade of a horse’s a*s!  I need no lecture form the likes of you!”  Whisper hisses back.

 I smile.  My shadow and Whisper often get into some really amusing slang matches.  My smile fades as I look down at the puddle of vomit again.

“Whisper, did you eat something from this?” I ask, gesturing toward the puddle.  Although intelligent, he still retains some animal behavior, and he looks malnourished. 

My shadow cackles, “Yes rat, perhaps as an after afternoon snack?  Did all those bugs make you thirsty? Did you drink from the toilet as well?”

We both ignore my shadow.  “No Shifter, it was your mother.”

“What happened?”  I ask.

“More annoying men came about the dead man and you.  So she rushed in here and took a bag full of round bugs and swallowed them all.  After they left she brought them back up and collected them,” Whisper says, obviously confused by this strange behavior.  No doubt the “bugs” he is referring to were some type of drug.  She has been taking some hard-core street drugs for a while now.  I really need to leave this place. 

Scooping up Whisper I place him on my shoulder.  He curls around my neck nuzzling his face against mine, his soft fur giving me comfort.   Grabbing a jar of pickles and some sandwich meat I head to my room, locking the door behind me.  My shadow follows us in, sliding under the door like  insubstantial nothingness.  My room, unlike the rest of the apartment, is spotlessly clean.  Perhaps in some strange type of rebellion I feel the need to keep my living area spotless since I spend so much time in here.  The walls are covered in posters from all my favorite bands ranging from Metallica to the Beatles.  l love all music.  The only spot with nothing on it is the white ceiling, and even then, model airplanes and a reconstruction of the solar system dangle above me.   I have a small, single bed in the corner and a computer desk with an old but functional laptop on it.  Connected to the computer is an equally old stereo system to play my music.  Besides the enjoyment I get from it, it also helps to drown out my mother’s less savory activities.  A single worn dresser near the door along with a closet filled with various trinkets comprises worldly belongings.

Flopping down on the bed I open the package of meat, giving the first slice to Whisper. No doubt this is the best meal he has had since I was taken.  Tomorrow is Saturday it might be nice to take him to the park. Wait, what about those watchers? And more importantly, what about my shadow?

Looking for him I find him on the ceiling, hiding in the shadow of the planets above.  I am about to ask him about the watchers, when a loud bang interrupts my thought process.  “Jerry!  Get out here you crazy little s**t!”

Oh great, Mother is home…

 

 

 

 

Reviews

[Scott Durham]

The plot is going to move along at a good even pace, it seems. I have one major critique and it is just in the way you structure great blocks of lines together. I would recommend breaking some of the 10-15 line paragraphs into smaller chunks for ease of read.
A new reader walks up on the scene and sees 10-15 line blocks and it seems daunting. I am finding that I get people to the end of my chapters by not stringing too many lines together in a blob. Your communication from a vocabulary standpoint is very good. I think adding some of the colors into the little grains between the story might expand this into a nice read for a 50-80 page novella. Bring some of the palpable boredom and regularity to this main character, so that we are not riding a roller-coaster uphill the whole time, you gotta let the Earth drop out from underneath the reader once in a while.
If you have ever read Thomas McGuane, a man who uses tedium and minutia to explore very real human-scapes, you would see what I am getting at. There is something in your palette of words that will attract me back to this story in its fuller, richer expression.

My favorite phrase here:
"My shadow follows us in, sliding under the door like insubstantial nothingness"