Page 2 of Senescence (Inferno World)

I flick my eyes behind him to see the dead child in the bed of his pickup truck on a rucksack of sorts. The cover on the bed is pulled closed but the gate is open. How long had it taken me to stand up? Apparently, enough time for him to move the dead child without getting any blood on him.

I nod my head, my eyes well up by the mere glance of the boy. The boy that I just killed. He’ll never know another sunset, another cartoon, or another hug from his mom. What have I done?

I don’t have a chance to let a single drop fall from my eyes as the man’s large hands find their way around my throat and I’m lifted into the air gasping for breath.

“What are you doing?” I cough out, my feet kicking out below me. I may only be about five foot and a half, but I’m not the thinnest fellow.

“That was my son,” he growls, his thumb squeezing the sides of my neck. I can see spots already, but they aren’t overpowering.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper in an attempt to conserve oxygen. This man is going to kill me. I probably deserve it though.

“I should snap your neck.”

His eyes no longer contain merriment and have been replaced with hollow, deep, pools of black hatred and disgust.

“I have money,” I squeak out, the spots becoming more vivid.

The man squeezes once more and then drops me to the ground like a sack of potatoes where I immediately curl into a ball. I wheeze and cough trying to suck in as much oxygen as I can to replenish my lungs.

The man paces next to me as I regain my composure and as I find my footing and stand once more he stops in front of me and smiles. It’s not a pleasant smile. No. It’s menacing and it sends a splash of icy water through my veins.

“You’re married,” he says more as a statement of fact. I’m not quite sure how he knows as I don’t wear a ring but I nod my head which makes his smile grow even bolder.

“I’ll tell you what,Bob,” he sneers, punctuating the one syllable in my name. “Call your wife. Tell her you’re bringing home a guest for dinner.”

I’m confused and the look on my face seems to irritate the man. His anger rises and unlike anything I’ve ever experienced, I can actually feel it. It’s unnerving. It’s daunting. And it’s absolutely terrifying.

“I can just call the fucking authorities if you prefer,Bob!”He shouts, and I look around to make sure no one heard him.

I go to the front seat of my car on shaky feet and pull out my phone. The man watches for a moment while I punch in my wife’s phone number before he goes back to the bed of his truck and closes the gate, erasing any sign of the dead boy from human eyesight.

After I’ve confirmed dinner with Stella, I turn back around to find the man with his arms over his chest, leaning against his truck.

“Go back into your office, grab the shirt hanging on the back of your door and get yourself cleaned up. We wouldn’t want to scare that lovely wife of yours.”

“How do you know about my shir--,” I stammer but he cuts me off.

“Do it before I lose my patience with youBob.”

The way he says my name unnerves me further and I walk away without another word. I sneak through the back of the store out of sight. There’s blood all over me and the last thing I need is one of my employees to see me. My fingers flail and shake as I try to undo the buttons of the shirt I’m wearing, but I finally manage to yank it off. I waste no time in pulling on the new one and heading back out.

My mouth goes slack as soon as I return, my nose scrunching up at the sterile smell. The small puddles of blood that were on the ground are gone and replaced with large puddles of bleach. I want to ask where he got the materials, but the look on the man’s face tells me otherwise. This isn’t a man I want to cross.

“I’ll follow you Bob,” he says my name again. “And don’t even think about driving off.”

“I wasn’t planning on it,” I mumble, turning away from him and walking towards the driver's seat of my car.

A question pops into my brain and I turn back to the man before he gets in his truck.

“What’s your name so I can introduce you to my wife?” A silly question, to be sure, but for some odd reason, I need to know this man’s name. It seems imperative.

The corners of his mouth turn up for a fraction of a second before he opens his truck door.

“She can call me Pater.”

Seventeen Years Later.

End of March

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