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THE SAME MOVIE REEL over and over like clones of the one before it. Sleep wasn’t in the forecast tonight for Romero, so he had retreated to his study in his pajamas to give the DVDs an eyeballing. He made himself comfortable on the couch with his feet propped up. He surmised that if he watched now, his team of three would have a head start for the morning meeting. He gave a little chuckle when he realized he now considered Billy a partner on his team. He pressed play and watched.
By the fourth DVD, infuriation was scraping through his pores. He closed his eyes against the images and visualized the timer on the coach’s life running out. The long, red hand skipped around the timer’s face. It ticked. And ticked. There it was again. The same reel—the girl lying on the bed sleeping. Blonde locks spread out on the sheet like a background in a painting as if someone had taken the time to style and pose the locks just so. The girl’s bare shoulders peeked above a white sheet. The sheet rose and fell with her breaths.
The sound of a door whining open on its hinges pierced the quiet. The wooden floorboards groaning with footsteps followed. The coach appeared at the bedside, wearing nothing, gazing down at the girl. His face wrinkled up into a grotesque mask of horror. He reached for the sheet. Romero was up, ready to fight. Not this time, he was thinking to himself. I’ll take you down first.
Romero grabbed the coach before he reached the girl. He wrapped his arm around the coach, pulling him back, away from the girl. Just as he thought he had succeeded; the coach was slipping away from his grasp. It was like his skin was bathed in olive oil. Romero watched as the coach slipped from his grasp and clawed and devoured the victim sleeping on the bed.
“No,” Romero heard himself yelling as he jerked awake looking around in confusion. He wiped his hands across his eyes, blinked against the sunlight streaming through the curtains. He glanced at the television screen. It was dark. The DVD clock read seven a.m. The coffee table in front of the couch held the DVDs in two piles, the watched pile and the to be watched pile. In the to be watched pile, there were two DVDs waiting in line. Two sick, disgusting movies he had no inkling of a desire to watch.
Feeling like a man being led to the edge of the plank overlooking the sea, he selected the first one his hand touched and popped it in the player. He grimaced as if he was going to be sick and pressed play. He knew the movie forward and backward. It never changed. As the movie loaded, he got up off the couch to start a pot of coffee and visit the bathroom. He needed to get moving, a date with the chief was in his near future and he needed to be ready.
At the door he paused. The movie was noisy. Instead of the coach’s taunts he was hearing a feminine voice and she was going at him. He turned back to check it out. The female was thrown over the coach’s shoulder like a sack. She was kicking, screaming, scratching, and biting at him. She was shrieking, “You sick fucker! Let me go!”
He slammed her onto the bed. She kicked at him. “You twisted bastard. I’ll die before I let you rape me!” She kept right on kicking and throwing punches. He slammed his palm over her mouth and nose.
“Shut up!” he yelled. “Shut up! You never know when to shut up!” His hand pressed over her mouth and nose. The girl stopped fighting. “You should have stayed in your grave. Why do you keep coming back?” The girl was still now. Romero’s face was inches from the screen. He was wondering why this one was different. Why the change? He watched. Was she dead?
She lay still. The coach moved his hand away. Romero watched as if her life depended on him keeping his eyes on the screen. She was breathing, but not fighting, not moving. “You bitch,” the coach yelled. He slapped her across her cheek. She didn’t move, but Romero thought he saw her eyes flinch. She was playing possum, he thought. Next the movie was back on track, and Romero was back on the couch wondering what the hell they were up against.
As usual, the coach tossed the girl’s clothes at her. Gave her the threats and warnings. He was talking and she wasn’t moving. He didn’t seem to notice or even care. He left the camera view. The girl’s eyes crept open, just enough to allow her to see around. She looked as if she was listening. Suddenly, she was in action. Tossing on her clothes and running for the door.
Romero stooped in front of the television, feeling on edge as if he was watching a thriller horror flick and rooting for the victim to escape. The movie was quiet. The screen only showed an empty bed with sheets hanging off. Romero waited. He didn’t dare go to the kitchen or bathroom. He may miss something. He would watch to the end. Romero jumped and fell on his ass when the coach reappeared on the screen. He rushed to the bed, looked under it. Rushed to the closet and threw the doors open. He slammed his fist into the wall. “When I find you, I’ll kill you for good!” He ran from the room.
The television was mute again with the screen showing the rumpled bed, no people. The DVD reached the end. Romero slammed his fist into his palm. That's the one we have to find, he told his study. He reached for the case to get the name. There was none. He scraped his thumb and index finger over his chin. He remembered picking up the cases at the house and glancing at them. He thought they all had names, but in a court of law he wouldn’t swear to it. It was late, the wee hours when things are missed. He restacked the DVDs and bagged them. A shower, coffee, the chief. In that order.