ProetryPlace Blog 21 MAMA’S BOY (conclusion)
(parts 1-3 published as blogs 18, 19 & 20)
Masters Private Contracting: Painting, Building, Landscaping. The sign on his decrepit truck was faded and hard to read, like its owner. Nevertheless, his friendly manner and honest face were assets in convincing strangers to trust him with almost any small job that required a general handyman. His work was competent, and word-of-mouth recommendations secured a steady stream of odd jobs throughout the suburban neighborhoods, as well as occasional impromptu female companionship.
Because he worked throughout the city and its suburbs, it was not unusual for him to not remember when or why he had been at one particular site or another. Still, his memory had been quirky lately.
Jim frowned and squinted curiously in his rear view mirror. What’s there? Is something back there? A dull headache crossed his forehead. He relaxed his tight grip on the wheel, seeking to will his inner peace to remain, hoping the headache would not become what he had come to call the bloody, black monster. It could disable him with pain.
When the monster did come without warning to possess him, he was powerless to resist. He would have tried or done anything—anything for relief. He could not predict
the monster’s coming, always in the truck. He could not defray or delay the crippling, controlling pain. Still more distressing, he could not remember his escape from it. He would have bartered his soul to be rid of it. Perhaps he had.
Memory was like a heavy black shroud, yielding to his mental probes, deforming but not opening to reveal its contents. He feared stripping back the shroud lest the bloody black monster might lie within. Where are you from? What do you want from me? Fear of the monster enslaved him, fear of the pain that threatened to crush his temples when the monster seized his head, fear of the blood-red veil that blinded his eyes after—after . . . ?
That is when he begged for release, before the blackness descended where memory could not reach. He could only pray for the blessed lapse into oblivion. Later, he found himself parked in the truck, an awareness of the world around him slowly dawning. He wondered how he had arrived at this strange place. He knew only that the pain was gone and that something was very wrong.
Now, driving west, the bright sun attacked his eyes. Jim’s thoughts lept back into his childhood: Little League, late afternoon, retreating back, back, back into left field chasing the high fly ball, then the blinding sun in his eyes, the ball falling, not fielded, at his feet.
“I did try, Mom!”
“You should have had it, Jimmy.”
“But . . . the sun . . . .”
Masters knew the monster was with him now, in the truck. He swerved sharply, setting off a dissonant chorus of automobile horns while he crossed two lanes of traffic, seeking the nearest off-ramp. Just let me find a place to park and rest a little.
He eased the truck into a corner slot near the exit of an unfamiliar strip mall. His flannel shirt was drenched with sweat. Jim cranked down the truck window and waited, weary, his head resting on the steering wheel. Long shadows of late afternoon softened and faded into the dim light of dusk. He shivered with a cold fear while he raised his eyes and watched the steady flow of vehicles to and from the lot, customers entering and exiting the lighted storefronts.
The monster touched him now. He’d known it would, of course.
Masters stepped down from the truck while the ferocious pain took command of his mind and body. He reached behind the seat. No one observed him open the long, slim package. He held the small caliber Winchester bolt-action close to his side returning to the driver’s seat. He mumbled a promise of appeasement. “I’ll do it.”
He selected a convenient human target in the rifle’s scope and fired. One deadly shot. The target, a young woman in a brightly flowered dress, crumpled to the ground.
The monster whispered, “Good boy,” and laughed with relief while hot tears fell from his eyes.
The end
Richard Allen Anderson < : - 0 http://richardandersonblogs.blogspot.com
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