Second That Emotion

Second That Emotion

by Latikia

Chapter 8

I was in a comatose state for three days. The paramedics had me transferred to the University Hospital, where I was sedated and kept under a suicide watch. When I came out the cops officially informed me that my wife and unborn child had been pronounced dead at the site of the crash. They told me that the driver had been thrown clear of the crash, had survived and was being held in custody. He’d been determined to be DWI (Driving While Intoxicated), and was going to be charged with two counts of vehicular homicide. Apparently the driver of the other car had also died.

I barely heard them. Inside I was still linked with the feelings of our suffering and death. Round and round and round I went on that never ending ride from Hell.

I was released after five days and Mom and Dad came out to get me and take me…home? I had no home anymore. The family, the happiness I’d made for myself had been ripped away. I was less than I’d ever been before. And I was still dying. Every second of every minute of every hour that passed, I died one more time. I couldn’t break the link.

Mom tried to get me to come back with them. I wouldn’t do it. I had to bury Carlie and our baby.

The Van Lutens of Dover, Delaware made arrangements to have my wife and baby flown back east. I was told, over the phone by Mrs. Van Luten herself, that if I ever set foot in Dover she would have me killed.

I laughed at her. There was no humor in my laughter. How can you kill a dead man?

So, once again I was alone. I was dying and I was alone. What now, bright boy?

Seven days later I got a call from the police informing me that the driver of my wife’s car had been released on a technicality. Some rookie cop had screwed up the booking and a clever lawyer had gotten him free. The driver’s name? Harve Lattimor.

I waited a while; biding my time, getting things ready. Plotting and planning like I used to do while playing games when I was a boy.

I sent Mom and Dad back home, and started going to class again. I returned to my little room in the dorms. I pretended to study. Pretended to care about whatever drivel they were teaching.

In my spare time, of which there was far too much, I stared at the face in my bathroom mirror and wondered who the hell he was. He didn’t look like the me I remembered. The face was sorta familiar, but it never seemed to move. His eyes looked like mine, but they were lifeless and dull. My hair was red. The emotionless fucker in the mirror, his hair was white.

None of that mattered. There was only one thing I cared about anymore; getting rid of the feelings that kept going endlessly round and round inside me.

I made my visits to the Army recruiter, took the tests, chose my career field and signed the papers. Got my plane ticket and swore the oath. One week. I had one week.

I found Harve at a frat party, drunk off his ass. I made sure that my hair was covered up and couldn’t be seen before I went in and that no one got a good look at my face. I picked Harve up and carried him out to my car in the parking lot. Opening the rear door I stuffed him in, slammed the door shut and got in behind the wheel. I headed out into the desert.

Harve woke up with a bitch of a hangover. And that was as good as his day was gonna get.

I sat on the hood of the car drinking from a canteen of chilled water, a bolt action hunting rifle lying across my thighs.

The sun was climbing high in the cloudless desert sky and it looked like it was gonna be a scorcher. I had coated my face, neck and hands with three coats of sun blocker, and was wearing a wide brimmed straw cowboy hat to keep the sun out of my face.

Harve struggled to sit up and open his eyes. He peered around slowly and carefully, as if afraid his head might fall off his neck.

When he finally noticed me his eyes opened all the way and he tried to get to his feet. I set the canteen down on the hood next to me.

“What were you doing driving my wife’s car Harve?” I asked, my voice flat and lifeless.

He scrambled to his feet and started running. Foolish, foolish man.

I let him run thru the desert. Let him work up a sweat and think he might actually get away. Give him just a teeny-tiny taste of hope.

I linked, lifted the rifle sighted and shot him in the thigh. Harve fell down and slid thru a small ground hugging patch of cholla cactus.

Getting down off the hood, I collected the canteen then climbed into the car and started the engine. I drove the hundred and fifty yards to where Harve lay crying and holding his leg.

I stopped the car about ten yards away from him and got out. I left the rifle inside, but brought along the long thin fishing knife I’d purchased at the sporting goods store yesterday, as well as the tent pegs, small camping hatchet and fifty yards of clothesline.

“Harve, you are going to talk to me. You will answer my questions and you will tell me the truth.”

I rolled him over onto his back and straddled his chest, holding his arms down with my legs. I forced, one at a time, his arms up over his head and attached them to a tent peg with a short length of the clothesline. I drove the pegs into the hard dirt with the back end of the hatchet. When his arms where secure, I rolled over and grabbed his good leg, secured it the same way as his arms and lastly, his damaged leg. I checked it for arterial bleeding; there was none. I cut off his pant leg and used a couple of squared to stopper the wounds by shoving them into the holes with my thumb.

Harve shrieked.

I got up and walked back to the car, depositing the line, hatchet and remaining tent pegs on the front seat. I picked up the canteen and took a long drink. I had six more in the back seat in a styrofoam cooler filled with ice. Taking out the jar of sun blocker I smeared some more on the back and sides of my exposed neck, and on my hands and arms. I put the lid back on, tossed it onto the front seat and headed back to Harve.

“Why were you driving my wife’s car?”

He cried, whimpered and thrashed around. I kicked his wounded thigh with the toe of my boot. He screamed.

“We were running away together! Alright? We were lovers long before she ever met you and…Arrrrrrrghghhhhh!” he wailed when I opened the knife and slipped it’s thin-thin blade into the joint of his knee and started scraping the underside of his kneecap.

Interesting…Harve had correctly come to the conclusion that he was not going to survive this interview, and was trying to make me angry enough to kill him quickly. I would have never given him that much credit, but then I never really knew the guy. He’d been Carlie’s friend, not mine.

“Harve, my granddad was part Lakhota Sioux and part Apache. He taught me close to fifty ways to torture an enemy while keeping the fucker alive and awake. You aren’t going to get me to kill you until I’m damn good and ready to kill you. And the more you lie to me, the more I’m going to hurt you. So just answer my questions and let’s get this over with.”

“Fuck you, you limp dick motherfucker!”

I nodded. So be it.

I spent the next five hours working on Harve. I used everything I’d learned from my granddad, everything I’d ever read about torture and even invented a couple of new variations of my own.

He was a raw, bloody mass of screaming meat at the end of those five hours. Well…not so much screaming as whimpering. His hands were burnt from the coals I’d forced into them and then tied closed around them. His toes were all on the ground below the feet they’d once been attached to. His chest had most of its skin peeled off.

There was more, but I doubt you really want to know all of the grisly details.

I’d gotten my answer at last. Harve and Carlie had been lovers before she met me. When we met she told him goodbye. This much I knew already from Carlie herself. I guess Harve didn’t take the rejection very well. He moped and brooded and then decided to kidnap her, going off into the desert for rape and revenge. Using a phone call asking for a ride to school he lured her to his apartment (after he got drunk enough to go thru with his stupid plan), knocked her out using chloroform and after strapping her into the passenger side of her own car, headed out of town. But he was drunk and drifted across his lane at the wrong time and hit another vehicle.

I sat there beside his miserable mewling form and put it all together. If I could have felt something it might have been disgust. Maybe even hatred. The problem was, I couldn’t feel anything, except for the constant pain, suffering and death of my love and my child.

“Harve, I know you think you’re hurting right now.” I wiped my bloody hands off on my jeans. Reaching over I wiped the blood and gunk and tears out of his eyes. “I’d like to know if your pain is greater than ours.”

I linked to Harve.

Well, he was feeling some pain, I’ll give him that. A fair amount of it too. Some terror, but not much…I think he’d finally given up hope. Lots of fear. Resignation…that figured. Not one iota of guilt or remorse though.

I thought back to a conversation I’d had with Isabeau a few years ago. ‘…it’s perfectly okay to want to hurt people who hurt you. As long as you don’t need to hurt them.’

I wanted and needed to hurt Harve. I needed to share our pain with the reason for our pain. He needed to understand, at least for a little while.

Vickie Carter had taught me that I could project emotions as well as receive them. I’d never tried to project since that day. It was long past time to work on my technique.

“Harve, you still don’t get it. Let me explain…” I glared into his eyes as if I could burn them out with the intensity of my stare.

I linked my never ending circle of Hell with my link to him. Then I pushed. I forced our pain and suffering down the line, stuffed it into his overloaded and straining body. He thrashed about as if I’d shoved another mesquite branch up his torn and bleeding asshole, screeching thru an already raw throat, spraying blood and spittle into the air like a geyser. I monitored his heart, beating as fast as a hummingbird’s, and just as it was ready to burst I shoved our death down the link slowly, forcing every long, drawn out horrible millisecond of it into his central nervous system and locking in place so he could spend a brief eternity in Hell with us.

I cut the link.

He twisted so violently that the bones in one arm snapped. Then he died.

I cut the clothes line from his ankles and wrists, pulled the tent pegs out of the ground and tossed them into a medium sized plastic bag, pulled from my back pocket.

The sun was going down and the temperature was dropping quickly. I stripped off my bloody clothes and put them in the bag along with my boots, then washed off the worst of the grime with the contents of one canteen. I took another pair of pants from the back seat and put them on, followed by a new shirt and a pair of running shoes.

I started up the car, drank half the water from another canteen, climbed in and drove off, heading out of the desert. I stopped after I’d gone twenty miles, put the remainder of the clothesline and tent pegs into the bag and then dug a hole in the sandy floor of the desert with the hatchet and buried the bag. Covering the bag and hole with the loose sand, I looked around and spotted a fairly large rock. I picked it up and placed it on top of the freshly covered hole. Then I got in the car and went back to Tucson.

At the end of the week I used my ticket and flew off to boot camp.