“Umm, I’ll have a number four with Dr. Pepper, and a number ten with Pepsi… and an extra seven layer burrito,” he half-yelled into the rusty receiver. A garbled price, almost inaudible, rumbled from the dwarf square poised outside his window. “Thanks,” he barked into the sickly looking speaker. “Plea__ p_ll up to _he _ext __ndow,” squawked back the irritated box. They both loved Taco Bell. Most of his girl friends couldn’t even stand hearing the name, but she swore by the place. Bean burritos were her favorite. She always argued that they were by far the best item on the menu, “the only thing that could make these better would be some guacamole,” she said with a smile and a look that always made him grin and shake his head in disbelief and, of course, disagreement. “No way, bean burritos suck. Seven layer burritos are they way to go.” “Why do you always have to argue with me?” she questioned. “Hey, I’m just saying,” he replied. She once told him she hated when they argued because she always felt like she lost. But he knew she adored it, and so did he.
He loved making her laugh. He simply loved seeing her smile. And it wasn’t a regular smile either. It wasn’t the typical smile that a stranger would give you in passing while walking down the street. Her smile said something genuine. When she giggled, the light blue in her eyes seemed to turn to a deep cobalt shade, and she had a way of tilting her head a bit so her hair would glide and sweep over the far side of her soft face. His favorite was when the small cup-like dimple and delicate biting of her rosy lower lip made him forget what he was going to say next. He was great at making her laugh too, not because he was especially funny, but because it really didn’t take much. He always used to tell her that if he even looked at her crooked she would laugh hysterically. “Hey,” she would respond, jovially pointing a finger at him and pretending to be upset, “I’m not that bad.” Her scolding of him lasted only a few seconds before she buried her head in her lap and laughed uncontrollably.
Tonight was his night off and he thought it would be nice to pick up a late dinner for them both. “Its been too long,” he though to himself, “its been more than a week.” It had really only been two days. “I miss her,” he thought, “there’s nothing like debating the superiority of the seven layer burrito over a mere bean burrito.” Meal in hand, he walked up to her door only to discover that it was already open. “That’s odd,” he thought. He put down his cache when he saw small slivers of brown colored wood randomly scattered below the handle of the door. “What the hell…?” he said as he knelt down to examine the lock. It was split and crooked, it looked as though it was kicked in. Suddenly, as if an answer to his question, he heard a muffled “glump” come from inside the house. Every muscle in his body tensed. His breath ceased and his face at once flushed and burned. Hands tightened around the door, pupils dilated, eyes widened and focused on nowhere in particular as he strained his ears in the hope of catching another sound. But nothing came.
Breath once more lurched audibly into his lungs when he stood. He sensed his heart echoing beats through his chest when he entered the front hallway. Nothing could be made out; every light was off. As if blind he fingered the walls for the light switch he never needed to find before. Slowly, chairs, couches, paintings and tables began to dissolve into sight. “Melissa?” he blindly called. He heard her answer in nothing but wet sobs. He hardly got another step before he recognized a dim shadow of two figures, almost melded together, displayed on the far wall opposite her open door. Some sort of wing rose from the side of the dual shadow, then swiftly and forcefully came down hard upon the bottom lump of the form with a dull thud. “Melissa!” Blue jeans and a black sweatshirt with “FLORIDA” printed on the front in big bold neon green and orange letters rushed out of her door. The intruder’s white sneakers squeaked across the tile floor as he shot a quick glance back at Jacob, threw open the door and stumbled outside.
Jacob ran to her door, not knowing, or maybe not wanting to think about what to expect. There she sat, curled up on the couch, crying and ravished. Pictures were broken, tables were overturned, there was obviously a struggle. Her yellow teddy bear pajamas were torn around the thigh and waist. The left sleeve of her white sweatshirt lay tattered and severed beneath her. And her chest was framed by a large cleave split by angry and desperate hands. Fearful tears moistened her eyes, and her once peach-like cheeks were now battered and purpled as old wine. The blood that trickled from her right eye down her stained cheek pooled in her dimple as she sobbed, and the hair that usually flowed without care over her soft face was plastered to her forehead in a sweaty mess. Only a slit of blue could be seen through swelling of her eyes, and her delicate hands shook violently as she gasped for breath. She looked up at him through baggy eyes, and as if she knew what he was going to do uttered something too faint to hear. He stood there in horrible disbelief, still wondering if this had really happened. He then cut her off mid sentence and said peacefully, “please don’t be angry at me.” Then he knelt down, wiped away wilted hair from her damp brow and gently kissed her. Rage filled him like he had never experienced before.
Walking toward the door, his teeth squeaked as he ground them together, his clenched fists were numb and his forearms burned. He couldn’t feel his heart anymore, and he didn’t even know if he was breathing. He looked strait ahead and no where else. As he then threw open the door a thud and sharp pain struck the back of his head. The attacker was waiting outside, and apparently ready with brick in hand. Gravel peeled and ribboned layers of flesh from his face and palms. The powerful blow made certain to replace sound with high-pitched ringing and sight with spotted black. All he could taste was blood and jagged gravel, or maybe tooth, he didn’t know, or care. A rib or two broke as he was kicked in the side by the attacker. He then looked up and saw, through his splotchy vision, the man running and periodically glancing back, watchful of pursuit. He dragged himself off the rough ground and began to chase after the attacker with fierce speed. Within a few dozen paces he was on the man’s heels. He tore down the attacker, rolled him onto his back, and without a thought began to strike him in the face. He didn’t even bother to look at the man. His ears kept ringing, and since his hands were still numb, the blows couldn’t be heard or felt, only echoed reverb through the shoulders and back. Like a drum, he bludgeoned the attacker’s head evenly and vigorously, two punches evenly splitting each breath in half, almost as if he was timing it. He didn’t once look down, but always forward. Skull soon became like a wet towel, and anything solid became tender, slippery and pulpy. Eyes still facing forward, he rose to his feet and began walking back toward the house. His fists began to burn. He looked downward to see hands and wrists covered with a deep red and arms splattered with pieces of gray. His ears still rang. He could feel a snapping resonance in his upper arm as he stretched out his broken fingers into a form not altogether correct.
Half dazed he then slowly made his way through the front door and into her room. Her walls looked abnormally bright, and the Christmas lights that usually blinked erratically were off and torn down. And there she sat, crossleg like a child, no longer crying outrightly, but still wincing from time to time. With bloody and crooked hands, he gently picked up a white teddy bear out of a rocking chair that nestled itself next to her bed and took a seat. He looked at her like a confused child would his mother while a hot liquid dripped from his face and fingers onto the pale white carpet, seeping into its pores. And there they sat, for what felt like hours, blank faces, not crying, not talking, not thinking, not even breathing.
