October 20, 2005

Getting smashed in the face with a carpenter’s hammer, and then thrown down a set of stairs really fucks up your day.

I remember the hollow sound my head made when it hit the floor at the bottom.

Then, darkness.
Empty. Impervious.

My lungs erupted, spewing gouts of blood and snot that they evidently sucked in while I was unconscious. I jerk around like a spastic fish.

When the world rushes back in, I find myself on my back, staring up at the ceiling.

Agony bakes the left side of my face like a convection oven. I scream like a banshee, tearing the hell out of my vocal cords and I can’t see out of my left eye.

The hammer shattered the cheek bone, caving it in and rupturing blood vessels around the socket. Probably even sent some bone shards into the cavity. I would worry about that later.

Unless I die before then.

The floor is soaked with blood. My head is sticky with it. I can feel it spurt out as my head lulls from side to side.

Fighting against the delirium, I try to stand, but it proves too daunting a task. Instead I just lay there.

There's this incessant ringing in my ears. The kind you hear when they do that test on TV. The one with the colored bars for the emergency broadcast system. Except that this one is originating from inside my skull. It's muted, as if my head is wrapped in thick drapery.

From my position, I can see straight up into the stairwell. Normally, it would be very disorienting, looking at things from this perspective. But now, with this concussion, I had absolutely no idea what I was looking at.

At first it doesn’t register that the dark witch-shaped blur at the top of the stairs is actually the witch, until she moves.

She takes a step down.
Then another.

It's time for me to get the hell out of there.

* * * * *

Trying to stand, and failing miserably, I instead roll over onto my stomach. The action makes my brains slosh inside my busted skull.

Without consciously trying to, I start inching my way towards the living room. Not that it's a conscious choice. It just happens to be direction my head is pointing in.

I can hear her limping down the stairs after me.

I don’t bother looking over my shoulder. It'll just waste precious seconds. I bend all my will into propelling me through that door.

Blood trails across the hardwood behind me and onto the expensive looking rug (probably and heirloom) as if I have become some sort of mammoth slug. Since the family is heaped into the upstairs closet, I didn’t think they would be too upset.

My guilt is eased.

I ooze across the floor far too slowly. There is no way I am going to make it. Any second now and she is going to drive that hammer into my back. If I'm lucky, she will aim for my head and end it quickly.

The blow never comes. I make it into the room unmolested, and as I roll my body through the threshold, just as she reaches the bottom of the stairs.

I shut the door. She shrieks in frustration.

Through the narrowing gap, I watch as she hobbles towards me on her gimpy leg.

* * * * *

The door bows severely, but it holds - mainly because my body is bracing it. Luckily, I think of locking the door before she thinks of trying the latch.

That gives me about a minute longer to reflect on how stupid I am. This is just the type of situation amateurs find themselves in.

Amateurs.
Not me.

Finding the door locked, she rages; a hoarse, rasping wail that thrums through the walls. My self-admonishment ends as she starts railing against the door with cannonball fists. It bucks with every thundering impact. The shockwaves roll through me like a hurricane of hurt. I fight through it, pushing against the door, using every last ounce of strength I have left.

The bitch is strong.

There is no way this door is going to hold. I'm not that delusional to think that it will give me anything more than a momentary reprieve from the inevitable.

Each time she slams into it, something splinters and cracks around the frame. At that moment I realize just how scared I am. Only a minute ago I was dragging my carcass across the floor. Now I'm sitting up and keeping the door shut. That kind of adrenaline only comes from wholesome, unfettered terror.

Then, silence.
Immaculate. Ominous.

Except that I can hear the tick, tick, tick of the grandfather clock at the far end of the room. I know she didn’t just give up. But for the merest sliver of a second I dare to hope. A hope that's obliterated by those deep, wet wheezing breaths coming from the other side of the door.

BAM! The honeymoon is over.

Which is actually a good thing. I need something new to get the adrenaline pumping again. My brain is nuzzling into complacency and I can feel the fire devouring my body again. In particular, my ruined face.

The instant the hammer starts punching silver dollar holes into the door, I stop worrying about the expensive physio I would need later on.

Dowels of yellow light slice in through the splinter-toothed holes. The light is coming from the nicotine tinted kitchen light across the hall. It's one of those opaque globes with the stubby brass stem and base plate that hung from the ceiling – just like the one we had when I was growing up.

It’s funny; the shit that runs through your mind when it should be more concerned about the undead witch trying to smash through the parlor door with a carpenter’s hammer in an effort to murder you in the most horrifyingly painful way possible.

Metal rings against metal.

She finally turns her attention to the doorknob. Now it's only a matter of seconds before she's through.

This is probably be a good time to think up a plan.

* * * * *

I consider asking my old friend Jesus for help, but we haven’t spoken since I banged his sister during Cinco de Mayo back in eighty-five. Besides, he’s still back in St. Louis (I think). His sister ended up marrying some Puerto Rican from Charlton.

So much for focusing on a plan.

Directly across from where I'm awaiting my death is a liquor cabinet. It's a simple piece – dark mahogany, black knobs and four skinny peg legs. The double set of cupboard doors has a mesh insert so I can see that the cabinet is a maximum capacity.

I can really go for a drink.

Christ, I wish I still had my gun.

Too bad it was still on the floor upstairs. Not that it will do me any good. Me and her, we’ve danced this tango before. The first time, I shot her in the throat. That’s why she wheezes.
Yay me.

How the hell was I to know that a bullet in the neck wouldn’t be enough to kill her?

The second time, I emptied all six .45 slugs into her tits. I would have carved her into pieces if she hadn’t tumbled back into that crevice in Colorado. That’s were she fucked up her leg.
Me again.

The last time we tried to kill each other I ended up biting her ear off. I decided to do the sensible thing and run.

Apparently, she is more cunning than I gave her credit for. This was all a set up. Luring me out here to this farmhouse.

If I could, I would run like hell again. But this time, I think she's got me.

With a clatter, the doorknob and face plate fall apart and scatter across the rug.

Time to move.

Springing to my feet, muscles swelling with liquid fire, I fly into action. What was supposed to be a diving shoulder roll, where I land in a defensive kung fu crouch on the other side of the room – doesn’t turn out exactly how I imagine.

My bad knee rebels, and the springing dive becomes a flaccid belly flop. My chin smacks against the floor and the impact tears something else in my face. Lightning lances through my swollen eye and my good one flares with imaginary sparks. I recover quickly enough and scramble the rest of the way. My spine crashes into the liquor cabinet sending the bottles clinking against each other in their cage.

The only part that works flawlessly is the lit Zippo, balanced, hot and deadly, in my hand.

She stands in the doorway. A gleeful rasping sound, which I takek as laughter, rolls out of her like a palpable doom.

A year and a half ago she was ugly. Now, well, the word just doesn’t convey the true repulsiveness of what is standing before me. Sure, she's wearing a pretty emerald green prom dress, but it clashes horribly with her callous-colored skin.

The dress is covered in oily stains; leakage from the sores and lesions that cover her body.

I’m certain the dress looked better on the victim.

Even with the poor lighting and the slimy hair that veils her face, I can make out her pitted and craggy features. Both eyes shine with faint phosphorescence the color of dead frogs.

She takes a step towards me.

Reaching back, I yank open the liquor cabinet door. I have no idea what kind of bottle I'm grabbing, but I hope it's the very flammable kind.

As I fling the bottle at her, I squeal like a school girl as the label flashes into view.
Wild Turkey. Kentucky Bourbon.

Now, I don’t normally believe in omens or the concept of fate, but this is most definitely a sign.

Me and him, we're familiar friends.

And that is one friend whose sister you can fuck, and not worry about the consequences.

The bottle bounces on the rug, smacks off her boiled leather shin and spins to a stop against the baseboard.

Fuck.

The Zippo sputters impotently in my hand. She watches the aborted Molotov with some interest before she returns her attention to me.

This is where I die.
Horribly.

* * * * *

The hammer twitches in her boney claw. With a flick of her wrist the pronged end turns towards me. She hobbles forward and cocks her arm to strike.

Just for the record, I’m not a quitter. I never have been. My two pack-a-day habit is a testament to my unwillingness to surrender. That’s why when my body yearns for the serenity of rigor mortis I stubbornly reach back again and clutch at another bottle.

Old Crow.
The guy was a connoisseur.

I swing the nearly full bottle as hard as my rubbery arms allow. The bottle shudders in my hand as it connects with the side of her knee cap, shattering it. She collapses like an end of life Vegas casino. Writhing on the floor, she screeches like a baby seal getting squished in a vice.

This sudden and unexpected turn of events is so profound that it takes me a few seconds to grasp what is happening.

The worm has turned. But I just sit there, watching.

I become acutely aware that I was wasting time. Fearing that I've squandered the precious few seconds I've earned, I scream and unchain the lion. This scream is primal; far manlier than my squeal a moment ago.

Somehow I manage to straddle my broken body over hers, bringing the bottle down again and again. I lose count as to how many times I connect with her skull. My hand is so numb that the bottle just slips from my grasp.

Her head is a goddamn mess. Even worse than mine. She's completely motionless. Not even an air bubble percolates in the froth where her nose should have been.

It's a gruesome sight.
Captivating.

She's dead. But I know better than to trust her.

She's far too dangerous to leave alone for too long. I have no idea how she keeps surviving everything I’ve ever done to her, but I'm going to finish this once and for all.

I look around the room for something I can use to seal the deal. Over by the hearth I spot an iron stand loaded with a complete fireplace kit.

Perfect.
I’ve never killed anyone with a fireplace poker before.

With a lot of help from the armchair, I manage to push myself up. A sharp stab into my right side sends me back to my knees. I must have snapped some ribs when I was tossed down the stairs.

Guess that makes us even for the ear.

It takes me a minute to catch my breath and muster enough courage to try again. With a Herculean effort I stand and brace myself against wave after wave of unbearable agony.

I nearly black out.

The trek across the parlor is excruciating – the longest fifteen feet of my life. I can hear the jagged ribs sawing at my insides with each step.

Something vital might have been punctured. If that was the case, I was already as good as dead.

But like I said; I’m not a quitter.

Using the wall for support, I make it to the fireplace. I snatch up the poker and test its weight. The shaft is as thick as my thumb with a wicked looking hook and point. The handle is smooth and contoured for comfort.

It feels lethal; a very serviceable weapon.
Now to finish the job.

When I turn around, my heart leaps into my throat and my stomach twists into a knot.

The room is empty.
The witch is gone.