On any given day, he’d easily find half-a-dozen children unaccompanied or whose parents were otherwise distracted, either fighting or on their phones. On any given day he could walk into a park or a beach somewhere and see another potential guest at his place. Somebody to put a stab at happiness into his dark world.
It’s not his fault that he needed to snuff out the life in them within a few days to weeks. He tried to keep them longer. Especially Jason. Something was supremely sweet about that little boy. But he was obviously sick right from the beginning. He’d been skinny and had gotten skinnier over time. It was really too bad because his parents should have taken him to the doctor a long time ago.
As it was, he’d given Jason the nicest few months that he could. But still, Jason had died, and he’d hadn’t even had to do the job himself. Poor Jason; he’d deserved so much better. He shook his head. Life was a bitch.
He turned to watch a toddler heading toward the water. He looked around for a parent and didn’t see anyone. He watched, open-mouthed, as the little one went crashing into the water and fell headfirst. Then he laughed because his mom had been in the water, and she had scooped up the little one, who was laughing and crying at the same time.
He smiled at that. “Don’t see that too often,” he said. But the toddler was screaming from the cold water and yet laughing with happiness.
With a smile, touched at the obvious love between the two of them, he turned and walked down the path a little farther, feeling lonelier than ever.
The beach here wasn’t groomed on a regular basis, which was nice, so he could always find driftwood and shells, little bits and pieces that floated in on the tide. He was out here more for himself, rather than looking for anybody to join him again. Jason’s death had hit him hard. He’d been a good little boy, a happy little boy. He hadn’t liked his new owner very much, but that was to be expected.
Something about Jason’s soul made him feel like he could reach out and touch that happiness. He often wondered, if he could maybe just capture the light in these children, their innocence, if it would help redeem him. As if what he was doing was somehow helpful. Positive. But then he just shook his head and laughed at his foolishness. He’d realized quickly enough that anytime he snuffed out one of those little lights, nothing else happened. Death was death, and, once they were gone, they were just garbage to be taken out and disposed of.
He didn’t even know how many he’d disposed of over the years, but there’d been dozens. Twenty-five, maybe even thirty. He kept a book, but he didn’t like to keep count. That was too egotistical. He didn’t like to compete against others either because he didn’t really see himself that way. And he didn’t want anybody to remember him by his numbers. Nobody would remember him kindly. Too many dead children now. He’d been doing this for so long; why should he stop now?
If his mother knew, she’d be horrified. His sister knew, but, well, she would understand because she had a twisted bent herself. They’d inherited it from their father. But somehow their sweet little dense mother had never really understood. She wasn’t quite all there now either. Last time he’d spoken to her, the Alzheimer’s had kicked in pretty heavily, and she kept asking him if he would bring home cat food. They never had any pets.
He couldn’t remember even bringing home a stray. Well, a turtle one time. Maybe when he had been what, fourteen? He didn’t know what age she was stuck at in her own mind, but it was obviously decades ago. He’d ignored her for years after that, just like she had ignored him when he was younger. His sister had called him a week ago to say Mom’s health was failing. He hadn’t been sure what she wanted from him on that. Finally she burst out and asked, “Will you even be sorry when she’s gone?”
“She was a pretty minor aspect of my life,” he said. “She’ll be even more minor in her death.”
His sister had found that hilarious. He smiled because she was just like him.
“Dad’s dead, you know?” she said.
“You’ve told me that dozens of times,” he said patiently. Again he didn’t know why she kept bringing it up. But he figured it was just to get a rise out of him.
“You never could prove yourself to him.”
“Good, then I don’t have to bother trying, do I?”
“But I wish you’d stop trying to be like him,” she said in frustration. “You’re better than that.”
He smiled a secret smile, knowing she couldn’t see it. “Of course I am,” he said. “I’m the devil’s spawn.”
“What does that make me then?” she retorted. “The devil’s spawnee?” She giggled.
He didn’t even crack a grin over that one. “No, we’re both the devil’s spawn,” he said, “two peas in the same pod.”
“We are twins for sure,” she said, “but I don’t think we’re all that much alike.” Her tone had been very doubtful.
“Oh, I think we are,” he argued. “We are very much alike.”
“No,” she said. “You have that weird twisted side to you. I’m nothing like that.”
“Give it time,” he said. “You just won’t indulge in your hobby yet. With some time and a bit of freedom, you will.”
“No, it’s nasty,” she said, “and it’s not my hobby. It’s yours.”
“Yes, but you like to hear all about it, don’t you?”
He caught her there because, although she didn’t dare do what he was doing, preferring instead to be outraged and disgusted at his “hobby,” she always wanted to hear the details. And maybe that’s all she could do. Maybe she couldn’t be honest with herself or with him; maybe that’s just how it worked. He was okay with that too. He knew how deep their connection went, even if she wouldn’t acknowledge it.
“Jason died,” he said abruptly. “A few days ago.”
“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I know how special he was for you.”