Weeds in the Sidewalk

By Allen Renfro

Mirrors.

Mirrors always staring.

He was only nine years old when he survived an unspeakable crime, a crime so horrific it left him with no memory of what happened. All he was sure of was that his mother was missing and he was forced to live with a stranger.

Growing up in his new surroundings he pretends that his life is normal, but it isn’t. He’s different because of what happened to him, only he doesn’t know why and he doesn’t know how. Strange dreams haunt his sleep. Flashes of memories appear seemingly from nowhere, warning him of a monster growing inside him, offering him no answers except the inspiration to draw a picture that even he doesn’t understand.

Desperate for answers he begins his own search into his past, but when he discovers the tragic truth it unleashes an anger that he can’t control. Thoughts of revenge and the need for justice consume him and destroy his life. Dejected and left to fend for himself on the streets of Chicago, could his desire for justice lead him to become a serial killer?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Allen Renfro
• Release date: May 30, 2016
• ISBN: 9781311598851

Allen Renfro

Allen Renfro is a native of Tennessee and a graduate of Tusculum College. A published poet and artist in the zine culture of the 1990s he considers himself a "fringe" artist. He is an admitted history buff, horror movie watcher and reader of fiction. He is the author of eleven novels.

Book preview

Weeds in the Sidewalk

By

Allen Renfro

Other Novels by Allen Renfro

Bridge Water

Snap

Ambiguity

Rogue

The Raised

Superstitious

The Falling

Copyright © 2016 by Allen Renfro

ARMSlength Publishing Ltd.

Cover Art: LLPix Design

Editor: BZHercules.com

Smashwords Edition

Ebook Edition License Notes

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Thank you for respecting the author's work.

Weeds in the Sidewalk is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

All Rights Reserved

www.allenrenfro.com

Chapter One

9

I was nine years old when the thing with bug eyes and stringy mop hair wrapped his hands around my throat and squeezed. The rancid smell of his breath was in my face. His grungy hands wrapped like a snake around my throat, squeezing tighter and tighter. My unfinished life was not allowed to escape. The frantic shaking, my head smacking against the cold block wall behind me, the knowing; it made my heart beat too fast. Dying is easy; the fighting is the hard part. My face shoved against the piss-stained floor, the sour taste burning my lips as I grasped something cold as ice and porcelain, struggling, squirming, fighting to scream, muffled against the salty taste of his hand as I heard the clank of his belt opening. The pungent smell of his flesh made me gag when he unzipped my pants and struggled to pull them down. I felt the press of something strange against my butt, rubbing against me, his mouth on my face, the sewage-infested breath; his grunting laughter as the strangeness pressed hard against a place I didn’t know. I’m gonna fuck you.

When I tasted the blood from his hand, my teeth as deep into him as I could get, I knew I was meant to be a vampire. Not the kind that lives in a coffin and burns from the sun. The real kind: the degenerate, the goth, the animal that’s just barely human, the one that everybody knows and stays away from or beats to death; the vulture, the leech, the abandoned, the crazy, the outsider, the empty, the only. There is no in between. Kind of doesn’t work when it’s about being afraid. It’s the afraid that is love or hate. There is no kind of love. There is no kind of hate. There is only one. There is only either.

His free hand punching my face didn’t make me let go; the stench of piss on his clothes, his frantic screaming made me bite harder. I’m Cujo and I’m giving you rabies. With a tear of skin, he was loose and the slam of the stall door was the sound of freedom. With his scream swallowed behind the door, I stood up slowly, the salty sweet taste of blood in my mouth, like drool on my chin. I was not alone. I had me. Me would always be enough.

I was innocent then, even as I stared at the blood-spattered boy face in the dirt-encrusted mirror on my tiptoes. The sink faucet belched out a cold rusty vomit and I had to wait for it to turn to water. It was a mysterious thing that just happened. My body didn’t understand it. Neither could my mind; the strangeness that pressed into me and made me angry and afraid; the strangeness that turned me into the vampire that I became. I slid my hand across my butt, the softness there; used my finger to feel the place that he had touched. What did fuck mean? I’d heard the word before, but it never felt the way he just said it. His fuck meant something different from the one I heard on the playground, in the street, in the men’s room on the bad side of the park. I was supposed to know what this fuck meant. Especially now. Ink pen hieroglyphics and paint-chipped phone numbers on the dingy stall walls; I could read all the words, even the ones I didn’t know, the ones that felt like delicious wickedness. Fuck. Raw. Juice. Load. I had to know what it all meant.

A teacher once called me gifted. She never had a student so good at reading at my age. I just seemed to have a knack for it. It was a miracle coming from a background like mine, I heard her say once when she didn’t know I was listening. There was a magic inside me that might pull me out of the pit I was in if I was lucky. If I was lucky.

No paper towels, my face wet and free of oozing red, and the flow in my mouth I had to swallow. I found my coat in the corner behind the door. A chill of damp on my clothes as the cold of the dying winter pushed into me raked across my skin like angry fingernails, only a soft kiss of sunlight reaching through bare tree limbs whispered hello as my breath turned to mist when it touched the air. The creatures of the night were beginning to stir and I froze as the sound of the restroom door creaked closed behind me, pushing me forward into the open. The taste of metal in my mouth, spitting on the ground, swiping my hand on my lips, his blood inside me, and I couldn’t get it out. I knew that his was different, poisonous, but I don’t know how I knew. I climbed on my sparkling blue bicycle. My shirt had to dry before I got home. I’d be in so much trouble if they found out I stopped to pee in the park. That I was alone. That I didn’t stay with Rodney like I was supposed to. I knew how dangerous it was. I knew better.

I could wrap my coat around me and they’d never see. They never saw anyway. They never understood anyway. It’s all your fault was what I was used to. Always the one to blame, always the one that ruined their lives; I knew the score. Don’t we all know the score? Don’t we all know the lie?

The breeze soothed me, my legs pressing the pedals, faster in the icy wind, pushing snot from my red nose, along the broken sidewalk, zigzagging around zombies and four-legged humans collared and yelping, whizzing past motionless covered piles of lives that weren’t dead yet. My reflection bled across storefront windows, the prisons that held motionless, plastic beauty inside, the glass walls that told us we were different, that freedom was the real prison. The sirens, the horns, the giant steel monsters with a thousand eyes, casting shadows down on the ground, the only place I’ve ever known, a vampire invisible on the streets. I searched for her; she said her name was Mary when I asked her once. This was her jungle. This was her land to roam. She reminded me of a Christmas tree, decorated with all the pretty colors glittering at night, her red hair sparkling with jewels of some kind, and her face painted with pretty colors, but I only saw her at night. It was a simple matter of luck that I saw her coming out of one of the fancy buildings, a man with a black suit and hat holding her arm and helping her down the steps.

Sonuvabitch! He owes me money, motherfucker!

I skidded to a stop and jumped off my bike. They were fighting. He wasn’t helping her; he was throwing her out. The zombies on the street, suddenly awake, walked the long way around.

Mary!

She stumbled away from the man in the suit, ripping loose and staggering toward me, spitting at him.

Honey, she said with her lipstick smile and purple and blue painted eyes. What are you doing out here? Shouldn’t you be home? It’s almost dark! Hey! You got a bike!

I slid my hand across the handlebars with a smile and nodded, but that was not what I wanted to talk about. I gotta question.

What is it? She took me by the arm and pulled me close to the building, out of the stampeding herd clomping down the sidewalk, and away from the roaming wind. She looked at me closer, noticing something on my face. Maybe I missed some of the blood.

What does ‘fuck’ mean?

She licked her lips, her eyes glancing around us. You shouldn’t be saying that word.

But what does it mean?

It can mean a lot of things, she said.

I was even more confused.

She studied my face, recognizing that I was being serious. Where did you hear it?

I was in the park, I replied. I had to pee, so I went to the bathroom and this guy was in there and he said he was gonna fuck me.

Oh shit, she said, suddenly clutching my face in her hands. Did he do something bad to you? Did he touch you? Who was he?

Yeah, he touched me, I said, still not understanding. He had his hands around my neck and he pulled my pants down.

She was alarmed. Oh my God! Did it hurt when he touched you?

I don’t know what you mean, I replied, thinking I was going to cry. Her voice was scaring me, telling me I did something wrong.

Did he stick something in your butt? she nearly shouted.

No, I replied, my head shaking. He touched it, but it didn’t hurt. Was it supposed to hurt?

What did you do when he touched you?

I bit him, I said. He ran away.

A look of relief fell across her face as she leaned against the wall of the building, a smile blossoming. Good! It’s what that sonuvabitch deserved.

Is that what fuck means? I asked. Putting something in your butt?

Listen to me, kid, she said, her hands gripping my shoulders, almost shaking me. Don’t ever let somebody do that to you, okay? You did good.

So that’s what fuck means?

That kinda fuck is for when you’re older, she said. When you’re able to understand what it really means. But you never, ever let some guy touch you there. Understand?

Do you fuck? I asked.

She took a long deep breath, a sigh that sounded like frustration. Honey, I wish that’s all I did.

But you let things go in your butt?

Don’t ever let anybody do anything to you that you don’t want, she said and it felt like a threat, like I’d go to prison if it ever happened again. She adjusted my coat and zipped me up closer to my chin. Don’t ever let them hurt you. Kill them if you have to.

I stared at her, not knowing what she really meant. Kill them if you have to.

You really need a toboggan for your head and a scarf. The wind is really cold today, she said as I watched her hands fidget with my coat and I grimaced when she pinched my cheeks. Tell your mama that Ricco wants her to call him, okay?

I nodded.

You better get on home before it gets dark, Mary said, ruffling my hair. You already got away from the big bad wolf once. I don’t think you can get away again.

Big bad wolf. I didn’t know what she meant, but I climbed on my bike and raced down the street, chasing the sun as it disappeared behind the tall buildings in front of me.

This was like my first day of freedom and I’d already learned more in a Saturday than most would learn in a lifetime. I wouldn’t be scared anymore. I just needed to ask the questions that nobody ever asked, that nobody ever answered.

Rodney sat on the steps of his apartment building, his elbows on his knees, bundled up and wearing sunglasses, even though he was sitting in the shadows. When I saw him, I thought at first he was praying. He was always dressed nice. His clothes didn’t have holes in them. His coat was the kind that rich guys wore. His sunglasses were the kind that detectives on TV wore. I didn’t think to ask if he was rich. I just guessed that he was.

When he saw me, he rushed down the steps straight to me, nearly ripping me off the bike, hugging me like we hadn’t seen each other in forever.

Aiden! he nearly screamed. Thank God you’re all right! Why did you take off like that?

Aiden? Why did he call me Aiden?

My face pressed into the soothing warm fabric of his coat. I could barely breathe, much less answer him. For some reason, I knew I wasn’t supposed to tell him what happened in the bathroom. I couldn’t tell him I was now a vampire.

I just wanted to see how far I could go, I finally replied, spitting out the words and wiggling my face free of his coat.

You can’t do that again. After what just happened, he said, still squeezing me. What did he call himself? My big brother? That was the title they gave him when they gave him to me. It was supposed to be a gift of some kind, something about giving me a father figure, whatever that meant. A guardian angel, maybe? What would he be after I ripped off his wings?

Sorry, I replied, not knowing what I was supposed to say or if it made any difference. I wondered maybe if I could ask him about the word Mary taught me. Maybe he would answer…

***

I never asked him. I knew he wouldn’t really answer.

I think about him from time to time. I wonder if he’s still a big brother, if he still tries to make a difference; if he’s happy; if he’s still alive. I wonder if I’ll ever see his beautiful face again. I wonder if I would eat him for dinner? The things my mind thought of then.

The mirror stares.

I don’t see me; I only see what’s wrong. Does that make me not the me I’m supposed to be? Does that make me the me that I loathe and despise? Does that make me the me that everyone expects me to be? Am I the me that somebody else built, the creation, the monster of a mountain of lies, a million words, a room of staring faces? Why did I let this me win?

Could I break the reflection, gouge out the regretful eyes that see through me? I probably could step through the mirror and go back to then. Fix it, glue it, tape it. Something to make me not be the me that I am.

***

Promise me you won’t do that again, he pleaded, hugging me like he was really worried about me, even though I only met him like two weeks ago, when the woman said I needed a man to look up to.

The cold wind was gusting hard against us, racing around the steel mountains from the great lake and the air looked blue. He noticed my face, looking closer just like Mary had. Was I bruising from the punches to my face? Did he see blood? He didn’t say.

Where’s Mom? I pushed past Rodney and ran up the steps to the red double doors of the building. Is she back yet?

No, she’s not.

I stopped at the door, the cold handle freezing my hand. She’s not?

I didn’t know what to ask. Why not?

Rodney shrugged, taking the steps one at a time, slowly coming toward me. She’s very sick. So she’s going to have to spend more time in the hospital.

I wanna go there, I insisted. I wanna see her.

She’s very contagious, he replied. You can’t see her.

Something itched, just far enough away that I couldn’t reach. I was only nine, but my vampire senses told me he was telling a lie. The suspicion grew like cancer inside me.

Look, Aiden, you’re going to have to stay with me a little longer, he said. At least until your mom is better.

Why are you calling me Aiden? I asked.

He looked at me. I looked at him.

I’m sorry, he said. You remind me of somebody I used to know.

Somebody called Aiden?

He grinned. Yeah, we called him Aiden.

My eyes wandered away in thought, studying the scars and scratches of the stone that formed the wall of the apartment building. A gust of wind shoved me. It felt like a hand pressed against my back, the eagerness of a stranger anxious to push me off the side of a cliff.

Hey, don’t forget your bike! Rodney’s voice turned away from me, jarring as he scampered down the steps, the metal clanks and scrapes as he grunted, pulling the bicycle up the steps. You can’t leave it outside overnight. It could get stolen.

I opened one of the doors with a struggle as Rodney led my bike inside like a dog on a leash. A rush of heat flowed from inside, swallowed in the icy throat of the wind. I closed the door and followed Rodney slowly up the wood staircase, climbing up and up to the third floor, my steps in harmony with every creak and groan.

What do you want for dinner?

I don’t remember what I told him. No matter what I said, he always heard the word hamburger. I didn’t care about eating, even though chocolate pudding was always good for dessert and we always had it. But all I really cared about was finding my mother. She was in the hospital and I wanted to see her, I needed to see her, I needed it to be real. I needed it to be more than Rodney’s voice. Reassurance was a lie. Promises were lies. Brand new bicycles were lies.

***

I could see the lights in perfect squares through the window next to the table where we ate; the giant towers reaching for the sky. Rodney’s place was like a palace compared to where I lived with Mom and the man, whoever he was. The voices in the night that crept through the cracks of the walls; the couch I slept on, with a spring pushing into my back; the blankets never enough to stay warm; the rumble of footsteps over my head like thunder. Except for my mom, the cockroaches were my only friends.

The curtains pulled back just enough, a misty heat from the kitchen that turned the panes of glass white with steam. I waited for Rodney, the sizzling smell tempting to my stomach.

What’s that? His curious voice was behind me with the sound of plates settling on the table, the squeak of a chair sliding across the linoleum floor, my finger cutting through the foggy white, and the picture I saw in my head.

Trees, I said. I breathed against the glass, creating more fog, a wider canvas. My fingers carved into the chilly wetness, creating mountains behind the trees.

Trees?

I nodded. Mmmhmm.

Well, sit down and eat your dinner before it gets cold.

I sat at the table in front of a white plate filled with hamburger, bun, tomato, and cheese and piles of tater tots and a can of soda pop. I loved carbonation.

I sat across from Rodney at a table meant for four. He offered me a smile, his mouth already full with a huge bite. He loved hamburgers. I looked around the table at the salt, the pepper.

Where’s the ketchup?

Oh, sorry, he said and quickly ran into the kitchen, returning in an instant with a bottle half-filled with red.

So why do you draw trees?

I don’t know, I said, wrestling with the fork that was too big for my hand, stabbing at the bloody tater tots and overflowing my mouth.

You must really like trees.

Doesn’t everybody?

Yeah, I replied, accidentally spitting ketchup-covered tater tot onto the table.

Are you sure it’s trees?

I turned to look at my masterpiece as the dark slowly swallowed it up.

It looks like a cage to me, he said, burger in hand. And clouds.

I didn’t offer an answer. I knew what my drawing was. I knew what it meant. I knew what I saw. It wasn’t his vision; it wasn’t his finger that slid across the pane. It was mine.

So what do you wanna do tomorrow? he asked, taking a long slurp from the can of soda.

I wanna see Mom, I said, meeting his eyes with my eyes, holding the fork in my hand, wondering how bad it would hurt if I stabbed his hand with it.

I told you, he sighed in frustration, she’s too sick. She might make you sick.

Can’t we call her?

He shook his head. She’s sleeping.

Why can’t I go see her?

He slammed his fists against the table, his fork flying off the table