Page 84 of My Girl
I hesitate in the passenger’s seat.
“Is this your house?” he asks.
“You should come in,” I say. “I’ve got to package it. It’ll take a while.”
“Package it?” he asks. “It’sthatfresh?”
“It’s good shit. You can give it to—what’s her name?”
“Stephanie.”
“Right.” I smirk. “It’ll get her in the mood after the game.”
He chuckles. “All right. You got me there.”
He follows me inside. My ears throb. I open the basement door, then step to the side.
“It’s down there,” I say. “I’ll let you go first.”
As soon as he’s in front of me, I kick him in the back of the knees. He tumbles down the stairs like a basketball. His groan echoes.
I close the door behind us.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
“You asshole,” he coughs. “You fucking pushed me!”
I grab the gun from behind the stairs, then hold it up. My eyes focus on his form. I can see his head. I’m close now. Close enough that I can’t miss.
“It was an accident,” I say. After all, his death is an accidental necessity to this.
I shoot the gun. He collapses.
I switch on the light. A father, a ten-year-old, and a black-haired teenager. I wish I could’ve indulged in some of the techniques I’ve dreamed of over the years. But faking your own death doesn’t leave much time for pleasure or exploration, and I need to focus on my plan.
Mrs. Galloway waits in the backyard, her head resting on the ground. That was the only murder I truly wanted: revenge and ambition wrapped in one glorious death. The rest were purely for survival.
I pull Mr. Galloway’s body to the side, resting him against one of the support beams. Then I put the gun in his lap with his hand tucked underneath it, as if he killed himself. I scrawl a note about being a failure and deserving a bullet for each person he failed. I even smear the paper with his blood for effect. I douse the two young bodies in lighter fluid. Burned to a char, the cops won’t be able to tell who is who. My look-alike will disappear, like so many kids our age.
And me, Roderick Galloway? He will have burned to a crisp. Another Galloway that came to a tragic end.
I hide behind a large cacti plant in the backyard. As the smoke rises up, filtering through the house, a car slows, then zooms off. A few minutes later, a fire truck shows up. Then the police. Sirens wail through the desert.
No one looks in my direction. It’s like I’ve already disappeared.
A stretcher comes out of the house with a tarp-covered body. The cluster of people around the house try to make sense of the family murder-suicide. They run around like animals, searching for answers, tears and panic in their eyes, knowing they aren’t immune to a tragedy like that; they could be next. I squeeze my shaft tighter, relishing in that power.Idid that. I’m the one in control. The one who finally killed the bitch and her followers.Icreated that chaos.
I jerk off so fucking hard, a blister on my palm breaks open, the pus oozing over my shaft. The adrenaline lifts my head and dick so high, my hand doesn’t even hurt. It’s so loud at the house that no one hears me moan.
I stay in the desert, waiting until night comes. I don’t know what happens next, but I’m not Roderick Galloway anymore.
Roderick is dead.
* * *
Age 19
Michael Hall has light brown hair and movie-star blue eyes. He’s older, nearly thirty. But in boots, I’m as tall as him. I can pass for thirty. Add colored contacts and some hair bleach, and I fit right in with his family.
