Page 4 of Caution Tape

Chapter Three

Nolan

I’m night driving. Summer is decaying into fall, but the air is still warm. Alive. White moths fly by my windshield, dancing in my headlights as I cruise down the winding, hilly roads that make up the township outside the city.

Pop music thuds through my speakers. There’s a breathy, harmonious female voice singing. It’s a playlist sent by Natalie. We’ve reached the “sending each other music” stage of the relationship, which is something I struggle with.

Music does little for me.

I recognize it, I understand it, and I sense the function in most people’s lives. But music to me is sugar free soda; it is flat, tasteless, and lacking somehow. I play music out of habit, as a way to find bands and songs that I can use to relate to others. Stockpiling references like ammo for a social battle. Talking to people is a contest to see who runs out of content first.

I switch it off and drive faster, leaving me in a twilight shrouded silence.

I can be my true self at night.

As I continue to drive, I feel the muscles in my face relax. The tightness around my cheekbones, the muscles in my forehead, they all sigh with relief as I drop the amiable, good-natured expression I plaster on my face during the day.

A familiar hollow, dead look greets me in the rearview as I glance into it. When I was a child, the other kids would notice my vacant expression and joke that I was a robot. I had to learn to emote, to manually express things I did not feel. Slowly, gradually, the kids accepted me as normal.

That always bothered me. It was necessary, and sometimes fun, to hide my night self. Though the effort could get exhausting. Being what they wanted all the time took a toll, until eventually the agitation threatened to spill into bloodlust.

So, I night drive.

I drive for hours, letting the lethal waves of rage course through me, feeling every agitation and itch in my hands to strangle, maim, and kill. The ever-present dull ache in my head, the one that makes the world seem vaguely red, rises to a near blinding pain. Even still I drive faster, passing a pickup truck, weaving around a slow minivan, and going deeper into the countryside. All while watching the world outside get darker and darker as the car carries me away from civilization.

On one of the roads, I trail a large Jeep for a while, lost in murderous thought as I watch the red taillights bounce and jostle over each bump.

The rear lights of the vehicle suddenly flair and I hit my own brakes, coasting my car to a rolling stop. A group of deer dash across the road. The Jeep swerves and clips one—the right side of the vehicle slamming into the creature’s head.

The Jeep doesn’t stop. It weaves around the animal and roars on, ignoring the flailing creature.

I pull over to the side of the road. The other deer glance at their wounded comrade, then dash off, leaving it behind to its fate. It’s clear at first glance that the injured beast has a broken neck. It thrashes in the middle of the road for another moment before picking itself up and running clumsily into a ditch. The deer falls before it can get any further, struggling weakly.

I turn off my car and open my glove box. A short, steel knife greets me. I step out of the vehicle, twirling it gleefully in my hand.

I like everything that is happening.

I like the way my footsteps sound on the gravel shoulder. I like the way my arms hang at my sides. I like the way my shirt clings to my body. The knife feels fitted, groomed for my hand.

The grim weight behind my eyes, the constant hunger and boredom, has alleviated for the briefest of moments.

Clarity.

I trudge into the ditch, following the animals’ path. The deer is kicking feebly, staring wildly at the sky. One leg is bent underneath it as it lies on its side. Kneeling beside it, I place one hand gently on its ribcage. It shudders and snorts in response. Beneath its warm fur, I can feel its pulse. Rapid. It’s in harmony with my own. How long has it been since I’ve felt my pulse quicken? Since I’ve felt excitement? Since I’ve felt any emotion other than boredom and agitation?

I stab the deer twice in the side, the knife eliciting a crunch as it brushes bone and tough sinew. The deer gasps and jerks its head, one of its antlers grazing my left forearm and drawing a gash along the flesh.

Once, some time ago, someone in line at the cafeteria had spilled orange juice on me, and I had to leave the building to stop from chasing them down and kicking them to death.

In this moment though, I am calm. I ignore the deer’s struggles and slit its throat.

There’s more blood than I expected.

Lovely phrases like “torrent of blood” and “gouts of blood” come to mind as I step back so it doesn’t drench me and watch until the crimson spew slows to a trickle.

I’ve been testing things on different creatures for a while now. Sometimes a hammer. A knife. I dragged an axe over to a coyote mewling on the side of the road once. It’s always different than you expect. More blood, or less. The flesh is tougher than you anticipate.

I wonder what it will be like to hurt a human. Will their eyes gush when I drive a screwdriver through them, or will they implode like mini balloons? Can you rip teeth out with pliers, or are the movies lying to me?

---