The Dark Inside (A Human Element) (8 page)

His time here was just beginning.

A Lucky Strike

Ben

Ben Fieldstone watched the coffin as it was lowered into the earth and fantasized new ways to kill his foster father.

He drags Frank in his drunken daze to the shed, holds up his reeking body, and presses his head in the vise on the workbench. He winds the mechanism…tighter, tighter…Frank mumbles and shrieks…his skin splits and blood oozes down his face.

He didn't know what would happen if you squeezed someone's head in a vise. Would it just pop and bits of brain and blood explode outward or would it be a slow, bloody mess? His heart pulsed quicker just thinking of it. He knew he could never kill Frank, though. Ben was tall, but thin, and no match against Frank's bulky, squat frame.

"Hey, let's go." Frank nudged him. "I need to get outta here." His red-rimmed eyes made him appear forlorn over the passing of his wife, Emma, but Ben knew it was the booze. He nodded and ripped off his black jacket, heading toward the rusty car baking in the blistering August heat. It was as if the world had taken its last breath. Summer had sucked the life out of all things green, leaving the cemetery a burnt landscape. His shirt clung to his chest, and the sweat rolled down his back.

He already missed Emma. His foster mother had been kind to him, when she was sober. But when drunk, she had stared at the TV, ignoring Frank's rages. Those were the nights Frank chased him around the house. Sometimes he used the belt, the one with the heavy metal buckle on it that could catch him across the tender parts behind his knees. Sometimes Frank just liked to kick and pummel. Ben, at seventeen, was afraid to fight back. He'd weather the beatings until he turned eighteen. He had been in five foster homes over the past eight years. He'd seen worse.

He and Frank drove back in silence.

"You need to take over Emma's place now." Frank pulled up to their small bungalow. "The laundry, dishes, cleaning…grocery shopping, too."

A tear slid down his sagging cheek. He didn't bother to wipe it away. Ben tried to feel sympathy, but staring at Frank's rough hands on the steering wheel, he only knew hatred.

"No problem." Ben jumped out of the car. Up in his room he stretched out on his bed and let his mind wander. If he hadn't run away the night at the lake, he would be dead too, just like his parents. Sometimes he wished it had happened. Dead would be better than this place. Since then he had closed himself off from people. He didn't want to take the chance of loving anyone again. If a foster family decided not to keep him, he couldn't be hurt by their rejection. So he shuffled along from family to family, biding his time. He kept his painful memories just beneath the surface. He closed his eyes against them and dozed off.

When he woke up, dark enveloped him. Banging noises came from downstairs. He jerked upright. What could Frank be doing? He eased out of his room and moved with quiet control down the stairs from his room. He found Frank smoking at the kitchen table. The light hovered dim, the globe full of dead bugs. Ben counted nine empty beer cans scrunched up on the table.

"Want something to eat?" he asked, to gauge Frank's mood. He opened the fridge.

"If I wanted something to eat, don'tcha think I'd be eating it?" Frank spat on the floor. Grimacing, he dropped his head on his arms and started to cry.

Ben stood still. The sobbing bounced off him. He shifted from foot to foot the longer Frank cried. He forced himself to move nearer and placed his hand on Frank's thick shoulder.

"We'll be okay. You'll see." Ben tensed and snatched back his hand in disgust. As he turned back to the fridge, Frank touched his bottom. Ben stopped mid-step. He held his breath. He told himself it was just a light pat. Until the pat became a caress. It lingered. Soft in its want. He darted to his room, not looking back.

He dragged out his backpack from beneath his dusty bed and filled it, keeping one ear cocked for Frank's approach.

And it came.

He shoved the backpack under his bed. The door swung open, and there stood Frank.

"Don't ever walk away from me. You hear?" Frank leaned on the doorframe; his shirt clung to his gut.

Ben nodded with his head down, hoping Frank would leave. He had a terrifying vision of Frank throwing him on the bed, pulling down his jeans, and mounting him like a pig. He clenched his buttocks together.

"Why don't you answer me?" Frank staggered into the room, his face red and sweaty. He grabbed Ben by the shirt. "Get up!"

Ben shook off Frank's hand. "Leave me alone! You make me sick."

Frank's eyes narrowed. He shoved Ben down. He kicked him in the back, then the head. Ben curled into a fetal position.

"Who do you think–you–are?" Frank delivered a kick with each word.

Fury exploded through Ben's brain. He grabbed Frank's foot mid-kick, throwing him off balance, and punched him hard in the chest as he fell. He had never hit him before. Frank made a loud
whoomph
as he landed on an elbow. He slowly stood and clutching his elbow, took a shaky step toward Ben. But then Frank's red face suddenly turned pale and he grabbed his left shoulder. He contorted in a twisted dance. With a gruesome grimace, he stumbled out of the room.

Ben touched his forehead. Blood oozed slick. He wasn't sure what just happened. But he was glad it did. His hands trembled. His back knotted with pain. He had to get out. He pulled out a boot from under his bed and grabbed a roll of money he had been pilfering from Frank's top drawer over time. He had enough for a bus ticket and a cheap room. He'd find a place where no one could hurt him again. If he was found and brought back to Frank the beating might be more than he could take. But he had to face this fear. If Frank did more than beat him he would want to die anyway.

He swung his backpack over his shoulder and looked back at the bare room. He had never belonged here. He fought off self-pity and pushed open the door to listen. The television's ghostly light poured from Frank's bedroom and murmured old comedy.

Ben tiptoed to the door. Frank sat in bed, his eyes shut. He had passed out, an arm spread out on his leg. A cigarette hung from his fingers, the ash still glowing. The television flickered, canned laughter filled the room. Ben kept his gaze on the cigarette. The ash grew. Then the cigarette slipped. It quivered. It tumbled in slow motion. Nothing happened. The sheets smoldered. Laughter rang out again. Ben looked at the television. Some character ran around a kitchen. His gaze returned to the fallen cigarette. Minutes passed like hours to him.

He needed to choose. Run, or pick up the cigarette and prevent the certain fire? If he did nothing and Frank died, would he be a murderer? But Frank could have killed him just now. Might still kill him, or worse, if he ever caught him. He continued to stare where the cigarette fell. The flames burst up from the sheets and fanned along the comforter, framing Frank in a soft glow. They licked with hungry abandon through the old bedspread until Frank's image blurred. Why didn't Frank wake up? But he looked so serene, so harmless. Ben felt free and safe seeing him like that.

And he knew. He had to live. He wanted to live.

He ran.

Excerpt

A Human Element

Ben

Ben watched the pretty, tall brunette from across the bar. She flicked her long hair back and laughed with her short friend as she sipped a beer. Her white teeth gleamed against her tan in the red glow of the Chinese lanterns strung above the bar. Ben could tell she was a tourist seeking vacation adventure in Honolulu's rough spots. Hud's Place was no place for a white
wahine
from the mainland to be hanging out after 10:00 p.m. North of Hotel Street in Chinatown, or NoHo as it was called, carried its distinction as the known spot for prostitute action any time of the week. He swallowed the last of his beer and laughed to himself. SoHo could be a better name for the so-many-ho's that could be had around here. He knew. At twenty-one and after three years stationed at Pearl Harbor in the Navy, he had sampled them all. Chinese, Korean, Hawaiian, Philippine, Tahitian. Anything exotic you wanted. If you liked big mamas you could hook up with fat Samoan women, lurking on street corners strutting their expansive goods.

"Hey, let's get outta here and head downtown." Andy Novatoski clapped his big, tan hand on Ben's back. "Some of the other guys from base said they'd meet us down in Waikiki later. There's a new place on Kapiolani. It's supposed to be hopping. Lots of blonde babes from California seeking some sailor lovin'."

"I don't know." Ben's head hurt from too many Hinano beers and he was thinking of switching to vodka to get good and drunk. It could relieve the dull pain throbbing at his temples, until tomorrow. Hud's Place was not a bar that handed out flowery, umbrella Mai Tais. Beer and straight booze only in this dive bar. It sat in Chinatown's red light district where you could get cheap, stiff drinks, and listen to some decent music. That is, if you could get past the prostitutes, drug dealers, and meth addicts begging for money. Tonight a hump-backed man, reminiscent of Johnny Cash, cranked away songs on the tiny stage. The place only had a maximum capacity of seventy-five and Ben liked that. It was a dirty, dark cubbyhole where he could hide. Sometimes Andy tagged along to humor him.

"Come on, man." Andy persisted. "Enough of the ghetto Chinatown scene. Let's go where the clean action is. I don't want some old cougar winking her gray
punani
at me. I want me a young thang after some hot sailors!"

"Big, blond, Viking sailors you mean." Ben grinned back. Andy was a magnet for all kinds of women, but he could score easy with the young girls on vacation from anywhere-USA. At 6'4" Andy stood larger than life with streaked, white-blond hair, ice-blue eyes, and chiseled features. He looked like some Norse god standing at the helm of his great ship, sailing into harbor from a long voyage at sea. Women shivered when they saw him, probably envisioning him throwing them over his shoulder to claim them for the night in a romping good time. All Andy needed was a cloak, horned helmet, and axe to complete the look. Unlike himself. Ben knew he appeared as a scowling, rebellious teenager mad at the world with his slouched posture, dark looks, and hands shoved in his pockets.

"Nah, just a dumb Pollack they can have their way with." Andy shot back. "We'll find someone for you, I promise. I'll share. You can be my brooding sidekick Hank, from Texas. The chicks will think you've been hurt by love and want to heal your broken heart. Come on, let's go."

Ben looked over at the dark-haired beauty at the other end of the bar, glad they had arrived early and gotten seats. She smiled at him and then looked away. He could see the top of her breasts pushing up through her white tank top as she leaned over the bar to get another beer. Her friend said something funny and the brunette flung her hair back. Her breasts poked out in enchanting round mounds as she arched her back and laughed. She looked so clean and white and American. Usually he came to Hud's to be left alone and drink himself into a slow stupor among hip music. He could always count on ending up in a back room on Hotel Street. There he could get quick relief for $50 followed by a dazed cab ride back to the base. In World War II a night here for sailors involved getting "screwed, stewed, and tattooed." But tonight he lusted for sweet sex with an all-American girl.

"Nope," Ben decided. "I'm going to stay here and check things out."

Andy caught him staring at the brunette across the bar and laughed. "Dude, she is so not your type. I thought little Asians wanna-sucky-sucky was more your thing? You know, love 'em and leave 'em in fifteen minutes? That tourist chick won't even give you the time of day. It would take you fifteen minutes just to get close to her. Forget about it, man."

"Yeah, well, I can dream, can't I? Besides, I'm not feeling the downtown, social scene tonight." He ordered a straight up vodka from the bar and downed half in one chug.

"Okay. But if you keep drinking this fast you won't be able to find a cab to get back to base. You sure you want to stay here?"

Ben smiled at the girl across from him who caught his eye again. She bent down to say something to her friend and looked back up at him. His time here on the island was almost up. He knew he would get ship duty overseas when he re-upped on his next tour. It may be his last chance for a night with an American girl for a while.

"Yeah, I'm sure."

"Okay, but now I don't have my sacrificial friend with me to offer the street trash that jacks me up on the way out of town."

"That kung fu grip of yours will ward off the trash. Now get outta here. I'll catch you tomorrow."

"Okay, later, brah. Stay clean." Andy gave him the Hawaiian hand salute and made his way out through a throng of Marines, locals, aged women, and hipsters. It all created a blended, steamy smell of sweat, stale beer, and perfume. Andy was Ben's only friend. He accepted his moodiness and didn't ask questions. Ben found out one night on a drinking binge Andy had been orphaned, too, when he was seven. He lived in an orphanage for two years until he was adopted. They didn't talk about their past, but Ben knew it connected them. From what he guessed Andy had a rough time of it, too. He gave a final wave to his friend as he left the bar.

The Johnny Cash wanna-be left the stage in a spattering of applause and a new band set up for the boisterous, late night crowd. Ben finished his drink and ordered another vodka, a double this time. He'd make sure it went down slow. He looked up. A tall man stared at him from across the far end of the bar. It wasn't a passing a glance. He had on a black T-shirt that stretched across his muscular arms and chest. Even in the murky bar light his bright, green eyes glowed eerie in the dim light of the bar. He looked familiar to Ben. He knew he had seen him before but couldn't remember where. The man nodded at him and then disappeared into the crowd, his massive body pushing through the throng of partygoers. Ben shook his head in puzzlement and wished he hadn't. The room spun a bit. His drink was almost gone already. Too soon. He sipped the ice in his glass and debated whether to get another. It suddenly reminded him of his foster father's drinking, his empty beer cans around the house. He didn't want to think about him. He wasn't like him.