Page 27 of Meating Dalton

DALTON

Wind slams into me at one hundred and twenty miles an hour, hands clenched around the handles of my bike, Natalia’s fear struck face taunting my mind.

How did I fuck this up so epically before it even began?

Getting up at the fucking ass crack of dawn, cleaning up the meat from the night before, buying her clothes and preparing breakfast, I thought for sure it’d win her over, convince her to stay. My hands kick the bike into higher gear, needing more speed to outrace the voices in my head.

You’re a monster, a freak. We never should’ve adopted you. I’d take you back if I didn’t think you’d kill the new fosters in their sleep. How would Charles and I live with each other if that happened? So, we’re stuck with you.

“Fucking bitch!” I scream, turning sharply, body nearly brushing asphalt before the bike gets righted. I keep going, one destination in mind, the only place that doesn’t make me feel ill in my own skin, ashamed of my needs.

Dick’s Junkyard comes up and the ache in my chest eases only slightly, slowing the bike down until I’m parked in front of a chain-link fence. I’m wrenching the helmet off before my leg swings over the bike, tossing the helmet aside carelessly. Violence churns within me, begging for an outlet.

I shove the fence open, glaring at the cars stacked on top of each other, row after row, waiting to be deconstructed.

“I need to hit something,” I say, not turning to face the man sitting to my left, a lit cigarette wafting smoke in my peripheral vision. A hand waves me forward, black nail polish catching the rays of sunlight.

“Have at it,” he says in a bored tone. Deaton always sounds bored, as if he’s seen all the mysteries life offered and wound up disappointed. At ten years older than me, maybe he has.

To my right rests a metal bat and it feels good wrapping my hand around it, boots kicking up dirt as I march toward the nearest piece of scrap.

Metal gleams and it pisses me off further, my arm pulling the bat back and swinging forward. Glass shattering sounds like music, light and whimsical. So I do it again and again. Jumping on the trunk, I smash the back windows in, jump onto the roof, slide down, and swing the bat into the windshield.

Jumping off the hood, I smash the bat down once I touch solid ground. Deaton doesn’t speak a word, smoking while I vent out my anger and underlying disappointment.

Why couldn’t it work out?Smash.

Am I really that different?Smash.

Is she really all that special?Smash.

Crumbling to my knees, tossing the bat aside, I know the answer to the last question. Yes, she is. No one has awakened within me the urges that she has. Only her skin tempts my lips and fingers, raising my cock from the land of limp dick.

“Woman trouble?” Deaton calls out, a mocking note entering his voice. Now he wants to chit chat. Annoying fucker. If we weren’t one and the same, I’d have killed him years ago. But it was Deaton who’d taken me by the shoulder, putting a knife in my hand and gave voice to the urges churning within my blood. We respectfully hunt in separate grounds.

Dusting dirt off my jeans, I holler back, “How’s Uncle Dick and Aunt Shirley?” I never see Dick around, it’s always Deaton loitering when I need to come smash something into a million pieces. Demolishing scrap cars doesn’t bring police to your door like leaving a pile of dead bodies does.

“Good, thinking of retiring early. He keeps saying he’s getting too old for this shit but we all know I’ve been running the show for the past five years.” Deaton’s tone resorts to his usual chord of boredom. Walking over with a false smile, heart still aching, I wisely keep my mouth shut and not ask if he actually killed his dad, summoning some professional curtesy.

“What’s with you?” he asks again, waving his cigarette at me.

“Nothing. What’s with you? Not enough work for you to do around here?” My eyes twitch and I fight the urge to fidget. Small talk is my weakness. Just spit the shit out.

“You’re not covered in blood and twitching like a damn drug addict so you’re not hurting to kill something. So it can only mean you’ve got woman trouble. About time you got laid.” He pulls a drag on the corpse maker. I wonder if he’d let me have his corpse if he kicks it.

“No trouble.” I’m not taking relationship advice from a guy who told me to fuck an eye socket, that it was the best nut he ever had. Some things we just don’t do. Pull the meat off and be done with it. Save the skull to jerk off with for later. The end.

Brown eyes narrow on me. I’m surprised he can see beneath the fucking mountain of eyeliner under his peepers. Or is it eye shadow? Weird fuck.

“Fine, but—” he points his cig again, “until you fix that shit, no more smashing my cars.” My fingers twitch, imagining the dirt stained with his blood. He smiles knowingly.

“Fine. I have woman trouble. Are you happy? Can we skip the therapy sesh?” I turn to go, but his words halts me, wrapping around my limbs.

“Normies get a little squeamish, cous. And when they’re squeamish, they get loose lips that tell the cops everything. Fix that shit or I’ll fix it for you.” Turning around, wishing the fucking bat was in my hand to bash his brains in, I notice he’s already jumped to his feet, long dark hair flowing like a fucking cape around him.

Alright, Fabio. This is not a hair commercial.

Opening my mouth, he beats me to it. “I’m just saying, stabby hands, that if you go down, I go down, too. If she a risk?” His chest moves rapidly up and down. So my little flower has him nervous, as if I can’t pluck her again.

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