American Monsters Read online

  ― What? You don’t quite grasp fully what he’s asking. — I told you I’ll do anything.

  ― Anything? You sure?

  ― Yes please just tell me.

  ― Come with me.

  He takes you to his office, the only place that has no windows looking out into the lobby.

  ― The color of your eye is just magnificent. Has anyone ever told you that?

  You shake your head no.

  ― It reminds me of the sea from above. Clear as an angel’s bell and full of mystery.

  He begins to stroke your face and your eye closes instinctively. It is the first time in your life that someone has ever touched you in a tender way and for once you feel human. He caresses your face, moving his hands over your neck and shoulders. He pulls you closer to him in an embrace. With your face against his chest he smells of tobacco and fast food. There is something foul underneath it and you pull away from him.

  ― Don’t be scared. I want to do something with you.

  ― What?

  ― Just relax. I want to show you how beautiful I think you are and when I’m finished I will do everything I can to find your mother. Okay?

  He lifts your tunic and runs his fingers over your underwear. His breathing gets heavier and heavier and the stroking turns into pulling and poking.

  ― OW! STOP! OW!

  He covers your mouth with one hand and pulls your underwear down with the other.

  He’s hurting you somewhere that you don’t understand; the pain fills you with red. You don’t understand why he’s doing this. You don’t even understand what he’s doing. You are 15 years old, you’re big, full grown, but that doesn’t change anything. He’s hurting you and you realize you are bigger than he is. You raise your eye, which has turned a violent malachite, sharp and flashing. You trap his gaze.

  You stare deep into him. You stare deeper and deeper where the pools of fury begin to boil. You are furious that someone would hurt you this way just because you are ugly, because he thinks you are a monster. He’s the monster! You stare with your eye while the anger bubbles to the surface in pine-tinged spots. Your eye finally seeing what is not acceptable whether you understand it or not. The pain fuels your anger, the anger fuels your stare. Your eye burns and in a moment his face turns gray and hard as stone.

  His entire body stiffens, his expression one of shock as the slate travels through him, turning him to stone.

  You remove yourself from his hard and twisted embrace. He looks kind of funny this way. You giggle and then nudge the former warden, now statue. He falls and smashes into dust and pebbles. You did this! Your eye did this. You are not a monster, you are powerful. If you are a powerful monster then that’s what you’ll embrace.

  You escape from The Sanitarium later the same night. You are going to find your mother.

  —EXHIBIT NO. 7—

  BARREN

  Your gums bleed every time you floss, and sometimes even when you brush your teeth. You’ve noticed that you have a difficult time drinking a fresh cup of hot coffee and you have to let your ice cream melt before you can begin enjoying its sweetness. You have weekly appointments with the dentist to get a special gum treatment, and though you think it’s pretty strange to go to the dentist once a week, it’s become a part of your routine.

  About three weeks into the treatment, you start spotting between periods, and then bleeding heavily, even though it’s another three weeks before your time of the month. Since your weekly dentist appointment is in a few days, you decide to ask him whether the treatment has side effects. You really should have asked him sooner, or rather, he should have told you if there would be weirdness during the treatment, but in any case, maybe there have never been side effects before. Maybe you are just having an off cycle this month. Who knows.

  You go to his office for your 10:30 appointment. You get a very bad vibe from that Dr. Johnson. Sometimes when he looks at you, you are convinced that he hates you more than anything in the world. And sometimes when he’s working in your mouth, he smiles a toothy shark smile, and seems to enjoy when you are in pain. But then again, most dentists seem to be like this so you don’t think too much about it. You are going to ask him about the spotting, though.

  ― Doctor, um, this is kind of a weird question, but, um, are there ...side effects with this treatment I’ve been taking? I mean, because, well I’ve been, um, bleeding, and I’m not supposed to get my period for three weeks and...

  Your voice trails off as he stares at you with the most sickened and disgusted look possible on the face of man. He looks about to vomit.

  ― Are you sure you haven’t been killing with anything down there?, Dr. Johnson asks.

  ― Excuse me?

  ― Are you sure you have the [clears his throat] dates right?

  He looks ready to clean his mouth out for even responding to the question.

  ― Yes, Doctor. I’m sure. I’m on the pill so I know exactly when I’ll be getting it.

  This time he does in fact go over to the sink, reaches for the soap and proceeds to wash his mouth out, slowly and methodically, making sure to reach each hidden corner of his toothed orifice. You are completely bugged out. And what the fuck was up with that weird-ass question: Have I killed anything down there?

  You can hear him mumbling under his breath: ―It’s working. It’s working. By God, you’ve done it. You’re killing the widdler. Kill the widdler. Kill the widdler.

  ― Excuse me Doctor, what? If the treatment is working why do my gums still bleed? Why am I bleeding other places now? Doctor Johnson, what the hell is going on!

  He will not look at you. Well, he never meets your gaze, but he is being obvious about it this time.

  ― This is an interesting side effect. I have not seen this before. This side effect I mean. I have not seen this before. It must be a result of the uh, of the uh, bleeding uh being transferred it is a very uh, rare condition uh, yes the bleeding was transferred from the gums to the uh...

  He leans over and begins washing his mouth out again. He can’t even say it. Is he even a proper doctor? you begin to wonder. He seems to be afraid, but you have never seen anyone react to anything quite like this. You have no idea how to read the situation. He’s fricking washing his mouth out with soap!

  And then you begin thinking. The bleeding hasn’t gotten better in your gums either. Kill the “widdler”? What the hell is a widdler? Is this a biological term? Could it be what is causing the gum bleeding? Is he completely psychotic? Widdler sounds like a nonsense word. Is he trying to poison you? This is complete madness. You are pissed.

  ― Show me that pink stuff I rinse my mouth out with. Show it to me right now or I’m going to take some of my profusely spewing blood and wipe it on your nice clean white jacket!

  His eyes widen in fear, his fists are balled up at his side as if at any moment he will start stamping his feet in a temper tantrum. He hugs the wall as he gets the juice from the cabinet. He doesn’t hand it to you: He tosses it from across the room. You examine the bottle to see that the bubbles do not go upwards, they go down. And as you hold it, you notice the pink gooey stuff is climbing up the sides of the vial trying to get out!

  ― What the fuck IS this shit!?, you scream in his face.

  ― No! I’m only trying to help, I swear, you have a widdler and it kills and I am helping you get rid of it, the bleeding means it's dying. It’s dying! I’m saving you from that horrible monster that lives inside you and it comes out ...

  And it dawns. He has been poisoning you. You remember overhearing a gender studies major talking about male castration anxiety and you didn’t pay much attention at the time, but this must be what she was talking about. He is afraid of women because he thinks they have teeth in their vaginas that want to kill him.

  Your breakfast, the two cups of lukewarm coffee, and the acid churning in your stomach all begin gurgling.

  ― What is this supposed to do?

  You stalk towards him brandishing the via
l of freakish pink liquid. He is terrified, quaking in his doctor’s shoes.

  ― It’s supppposed to kkkill that thing (gulp), that thing down in there.

  ― There IS nothing in there, you ass! What. Does. This. Do?!

  ― It kills everything (cough) down there.

  He looks pained. But not as pained as you, as your stomach is. It roils up a storm. You feel faint, your throat closes up. You can feel retching coming on. It has a rhythm, a contraction, contraction, relax, relax, relax. Contract, contract, relax, relax. Your womb. Contract. He’s been trying to kill your womb. Contract. That poison was alive and trying to climb out of the bottle, contract, contract, contract. You know, you just know, he’s done irreparable damage. The anger roils with the food, and you can feel the rage stomp its way from your uterus through the rest of your body. Contract, contract, contract, contract. And just like in Stand By Me when Lard Ass Hogan puked up a lifetime supply of blueberry pie, your mouth opens and out spews the acid and breakfast and coffee all over Dr. Johnson’s surprised face.

  He screams as the vomit begins dissolving his skin. You scream as his face melts away like in some cheesy horror movie, and all of a sudden there is nothing. His head is gone. The white coat and a twitching body crumpled on the floor are all that remain of Dr. Johnson, the dentist.

  You carry your hands over your uterus as you leave the building, and you tell no one of what happened.

  ―EXHIBIT NO. 8―

  SKREEM

  You suspect that your husband has been molesting your daughter. She’s seventeen now and you aren’t sure how long this has been going on. To make matters worse, you have no idea why you didn’t notice it sooner.

  Tonight at dinner he kept touching her face, and she looked tormented and disgusted as she shrunk away from his touch. It can’t possibly be any other thing. You pluck up the courage to ask him what is going on. You screw up though: you get all hysterical and shrieky, which he hates, and so with a condescending smile he pats you on the shoulder saying nothing. He smiles that disconcerting smile that makes him look like a stranger, someone terrifying you’ve never seen before. You wonder where the man you married has hidden. He goes off for his after dinner cognac and cigar, leaving your daughter with silent tears, and you with a heart full of fearful questions.

  What do you do? Economically you depend on him, and you have always trusted him. Where did you even get this idea from anyway? It’s probably nothing, you know. Lana is a beautiful girl, maybe you are just confused and reading too much into her father’s affections. But the tears... the disgust on her face. No, something is wrong. You need to call someone... but whom? This is not a big town, what will people say? It gives you shivers to think about your family being the brunt of gossip, especially if it is the talk that goes on about inappropriate relations between a father and his daughter. When does he do it? Has he been leaving the room at night? Have you ever even noticed? Oh God, this is too much.

  You brush your hair before bed, staring at your face in the vanity mirror. Nothing is the same. These wrinkles, this worry and fear in your eyes, you never had these before. Your hair too. It’s limp and the curls no way near as bouncy as they were in your youth. Like your breasts. You think about Lana’s breasts, so full and unfettered by all these years of gravity.

  Bob stands behind you and hands you your nighttime glass of milk. Something is different tonight: He has a biting intensity in his eyes. He watches you carefully as you drain the glass, doesn’t leave until you do. Even putting his hand up to the glass to make sure you drink each drop. Instinctively, you hand the glass back to him instead of placing on the table. He seems to be waiting for something. You lie down.

  There is a funny taste in your mouth. Bitter and medicinal. You can barely keep your eyes open, so tired, all of a sudden, so, so tired. You close your eyes and the spiked milk knocks you unconscious.

  You begin dreaming that something is not right. You watch a man walk up a familiar flight of stairs. He feels you watching and turns to look. He sees no one. You see your husband. He continues his ascent. He gets to the door and opens it. You see Lana in bed. She’s awake, her eyes are wide with fear.

  ― No. Please no. Not tonight. Just please, leave me alone.

  He says nothing to her. Moves to sit on her bed. She shrieks and moves as far away from him as possible.

  ― Please daddy, please stop. Please stop doing this to me.

  ― Now honey, don’t cry. I’m not trying to hurt you, I just love you so much. Can’t you let me show you how much I love you? Don’t you love your daddy? Don’t you want to be a good girl?

  ― Daddy, no.

  Lana sobs.

  ― Please, daddy. I won’t tell anyone, please just stop.

  ― Stop acting like this, right now. You don’t want daddy to get mad, do you? We know what happens when daddy gets mad, don’t we?

  Lana begins whimpering, just as do you in your comatose sleep. You feel like vomiting, but you know if you do, you could choke. You need to watch, see if there is something you can do to help her. And at least now you have no more questions. Now you know.

  He unbuttons his shirt silently. Folds it and places on a stool near the bed. He begins to take off his pants.

  ― I heard around town talk of you running around with boyfriends. Not just one boyfriend, but a few of them.

  Lana whimpers and shakes her head. He’s told her before if anyone else touched her, he would kill her.

  ― Now, Lana, I’m going to trust you on this, but if I hear that again I’m going to cut your tongue out, you hear me? Cut it right out of your head. You’re mine, do you understand? You are mine. Lie down and stop crying.

  Back in your bedroom your eyelids flutter. You cannot even begin to believe what you are seeing. The fury is exponentially increasing in your body and spirit. You are shaking, as if wracked with electric seizures. You see him climbing on top of your daughter, your daughter!

  Your silent scream begins. The scream begins in your toes and moves all the way through your body until it reaches your brain and in a burst of energy that scream of rage and hopelessness surges into his head. He puts his hands to his temples and falls backwards. Lana gathers the sheets, crying, and covers herself with them. He falls to the floor, writhing and moaning, while you continue your breathless scream. He stops moving. You see a trickle of blood from his right ear. It pools on the floor.

  Lana is shaking. She has no idea what has just happened. Nor does she have any idea of how many times her father has come to her room. She is trying not to think about it. She wonders if he’s dead. She wonders if she did it. She wonders if it is over.

  You watch your beautiful daughter in her confusion. She gets up out of bed and quickly dresses, crouched on the floor where she can’t see him and vice versa. She begins crying again. There is a railroad of scratches along her arms where she has been raking her nails over and over. So that’s why she’s only been wearing long sleeves, you think.

  She goes into the bathroom and begins running a bath. She goes through the medicine cabinet, takes out a packet of her father’s razor inserts and places one by the bathtub. You watch your daughter, your only baby, the one you haven’t truly seen until this day, as she prepares to kill herself. She is still crying.

  NO!, you scream. HONEY, I LOVE YOU, DON’T DO THIS.

  She sits on the toilet waiting for the water to fill up. You wish you knew what you had done to her father, you wish you could call on it again, you want to save her, God damn your body, God damn your husband.

  Lana climbs into the bathtub, tears streaming, and picks up the razor. In your dream you reach your arms out to her: they are so long, stretching through love and space, but still they are not long enough to reach her. You graze her shoulder as her body slumps over, and the tub fills with red.

  You wake up in the morning, feeling oddly refreshed from your long sleep. Even though your dreams were nightmares, they are over. You look over to Bob’s side of the bed, and se
e he’s not there. An icicle of fear lodges itself in your throat. You begin shivering. You walk upstairs to Lana’s room. You find Bob, where you left him in your dream last night, the pool of ear blood on the floor.

  ― LANA!!!, you scream and scream as you run to the bathroom. The door is locked. You throw yourself at it until the lock gives, you feel a detached pain where several ribs and a clavicle just broke. There is your baby, in the bathtub. The razor is on the floor having tumbled from her bloody fingers. You pull her from the water and continue screaming until the neighbors call the police and send an ambulance over.

  ―EXHIBIT NO. 9―

  SLASH

  Yesterday you were a prepubescent boy. Today you wake up with your pajama bottoms covered in a sticky white substance you had never seen or felt before. Somehow, everything inside you has changed, although it’s not quite clear how or why.

  You grudgingly discuss this with your father, and he, equally grudging, gives you a video to watch that is supposed to make you aware of birds and bees, or something. You don’t really know how birds and bees connect to the white stuff, unless it comes from them, but to not feel stupid, you nod your head with him as if you already know well what he’s talking about.

  Your dad lets you move one of the VCR’s into your room to watch the tape, Debbie Does Dallas. You wonder, What can someone do to Dallas? while staring at the young blond girl on the cover. This is all so confusing.

  It becomes even more confusing when the tape begins and what you assume must be sex, is initiated. You watch transfixed. You are puzzled at the opening shower scene where two cheerleaders have assorted sex with three football players in the girls locker room. Is that what happens in locker rooms? It must or else they would have done this business somewhere else. You wonder if it looks like that in real life. You begin to wonder what it feels like. You are certainly glad to be male for the sight of the girls being impaled like that...Yuck. You wonder if it hurts. You wouldn’t like anyone sticking anything in you. Injections come to mind. But, still, fascinated, you continue to watch, and think, and plan.