Page 46 of Miserable Marionette

My teeth score my inner cheek. Don’t be a problem, Braylon. You could barely keep your breakfast down when you saw what the animals had done to his cock. It would be unfortunate for such a tight-knit town to lose another beloved officer. Having to embalm you would take too much of my time away from Audrey. I roll my neck, another trained mannerism of mine. Another one my father taught me years before he passed.

“You walk too rigid, Gideon. Loosen your shoulders. Blink more, fidget with your glasses, don’t stare, don’t smirk. One of these days you might meet someone who will take one look at you and know, they’ll know you’re different. We can’t afford that kind of attention.”

I get into my car, pretending to mess with something in the seat beside me before shutting the door, not too hard, not too soft. I buckle my seatbelt, pretending not to be aware of his eyes on me. I buckle it up because Gideon Bell is a law-abiding citizen. A proud but unremarkable employee of Piedmont’s Medical Examiner’s Office who devotes what little of his free time to the local funeral homes as a freelance mortician, in honor of my late father, of course. I’m good at my job, hardworking, but not good enough to stand out. Friendly, but not overtly so. Quiet but not too quiet. I’m just a regular guy, normal, innocuous. I glance behind me in the rearview as I back out of my drive, my tires creaking on the road as I pull to a stop, waiting for one of the officers to wave me through.

It was the same for my dad after we left for Washington. He took up an unremarkable job as a mortician in an unremarkable funeral home in a big city, and got me a job there too. We started to blend. He made no real friends; nobody save for his coworkers and me showed up at his funeral. A man once loved and adored, a staple in the community his family served for generations, died alone and forgotten, all because of me. It’s not that I feel nothing when I think about it. I just don’t suppose I feel what I should. An officer finally gets around to letting me through, his coffee steaming in the cool air. I offer him a friendly nod because that’s just what you’re supposed to do.

I don’t feel… good or excited, satisfied or even content about the end of my father’s life like I did when I killed my mother. All I felt was… irritated that nobody showed up. That a man who dedicated his life to providing closure and peace at the end of everyone else’s would go out utterly alone. But there was nobody to call, nobody in the busy city of Piedmont to give a single flying fuck that Jason Bell had died peacefully in his sleep at the ripe age of seventy-five. Nobody cared that he’d fallen asleep on his stomach and levity had settled in his face. That the funeral home he worked for hadn’t color-corrected it quite right. That man who prided himself on perfection had gone to the ground in some unremarkable cemetery behind a church he never attended, far away from the decomposed corpse of his wife. Here we were, he and I doing the right things. Doing what you’re supposed to do, but nobody else bothered.

Nobody cared that it was all my fault.

But Audrey would care. Her big, pretty eyes would be weepy and sad. She’d sniffle, cry, and try to comfort me despite me needing no comfort, so then I’d comfort her instead.

Audrey is perfect.

She’s perfect and she’s mine.

If that means my father died without purpose and nothing he ever did mattered one single fucking bit, well that’s just fine.

22

A Life Without You

Gideon, Present Day, 1994

Humanity has an outstanding capacity for contempt. Even with the smiling, the small talk, the how have you beens exchanged because that’s just what you do. I see it, the way they dislike me, themselves, and hell, even each other. It is because they find me to be odd today, as I stand better equipped to mask such things. Or is it the memory of the morose, poorly adjusted kid from before?

Perhaps it’s because of Audrey, perhaps they worry for her. What my return might mean. She’s one of theirs after all. Every bit the staple in the community, the way her father was before her, even despite her swearing up and down she’s not. I suppose I threaten that. Nobody in this town is as dedicated to Audrey as I am; she’ll be fine. Now that I’m home. I don’t see any of them ensuring her doors are locked and the fridge is filled.

Another beep of the scanner, then another, and another. The container of strawberries opens up a few spilling out into the bag as it’s hastily shoved inside, the cashier making no move to correct it before piling more on top, smashing and bruising the fruit on the bottom. I don’t remember the woman in front of me in any genuine sense aside from a blurry face passing me in the halls of school. A sack of meat and sinew without discernible features. For the better part, that’s what the people of Swindon, Michigan are and always have been. Concepts. My attentions are entirely dedicated to the girl across the street; I rarely have time to spare for much else.

“One hundred thirty-six even,” she mumbles.

My eyes dip to her chest, the name tag there. Casey. A smile that barely sinks past the first layer of dead skin cells plastered on my face as I hand over two hundreds. It’d be polite to look away, but I don’t, watching as she fumbles in the register's tray.

“I heard you helped out with the Jordan boy.” A thick, meaty hand slaps down on my back, giving ole Casey a welcome reprieve from her discomfort. “A damn shame that one. Kid was a tank in high school.” It seems the police force is no better at keeping secrets than they were ten years ago.

I twist, the smell of Irish soap nearly enough to identify the man alone. “Coach Henderson, I was wondering if you were still around.”

“Still around and still whipping whiny string beans into shape!” His laugh draws the attention of everyone within a half-mile radius as he all but slams a six-pack of Budweiser down. His beer belly more pronounced than I remember. His tanned face is weathered and ruddy, like if Kris Kringle spent too many days drinking in a field instead of tinkering inside a toy shop.

Casey sets my change on the conveyor belt before me instead of simply handing it over. With my bags loaded into the cart and the bill paid, I’m effectively dismissed.

“I don’t recall whining too much,” I prod, because again, that’s just what you do. Banter, it’s polite. What’s not polite is me slamming the greasy fucks face into the register. His teeth popping out and skittering across the tile floor. I’ll never forget the pale and pallid look on Audrey’s face the day he forced her to run the mile, refusing to believe her when she’d said she was sick. I’d barely gotten her into the foyer of my house before she’d all but collapsed. I’d yelled for my parents, not giving a damn that they were with a client. It was the right thing to do. Audrey had a one hundred and three fever and hadn’t had a single sip of water all day. It was the sickest I’d ever seen her, seen anyone for that matter, before they’re dead, of course. It was the first night I snuck into her bedroom… just to check on her. I hadn’t intended to stay, but how could I leave her like that? Her mother was unreachable, gone, who knows where. Her dad had the bedside manner of a lamppost, but he’d done the best he could, given her some cold medicine and told her to sleep it off before heading to work.

She needed cool rags, comfort, and water.

I provided all of those things. Braided her hair, helped her to the bathroom, and cleaned her up after the cold medicine had sat wrong on her empty stomach.

I would do anything for Audrey.

Coach Henderson is still droning on about the missed potential for the wrestling team and me when Casey the cashier eventually gets fed up, the fake politeness slipping away quicker than it would take to open her throat to navel. “You’re holding up the line, Bell.”

I smirk. “Of course.”

Coach follows me as I collect my bags, not bothering with one for a six-pack that won’t last the night. What else is there to do on a fall evening in Swindon aside from binge drinking by a fire at somebody else’s house?

He whistles, shoving the cans under his arm to slap me on the back again like he used to when we were kids, despite me now being a full head taller than him. “Don’t worry about the hens. Your little friend, the Fisher girl, was part-time here when she had her little accident. Sent them all into a clucking frenzy. They still yap about it.”