I walk home in the afternoon haze, and I try to think of a better ending to the movie. So far, nothing I’ve come up with is very good. It’s either too predictable or not gory enough. The leaves on the street crunch nicely under my feet, and I make squishing sounds with my mouth every time I step down. I imagine the leaves as little bodies breaking underneath me. I turn down the music in my headphones so I can hear the crunching better.
A flock of kids run past me. Their maniacal screaming echoes in my head. I pass a telephone pole with a fluorescent-colored MISSING CHILD poster. Greg Mackie. His badly photocopied face longs for discovery.
I turn on to my street and notice the plainness of the neighborhood—how all the houses look the same. It’s something that you don’t notice until horrible things begin to happen in your community. I’m too busy thinking of the contrast to notice Colt Stribal sitting on my lawn.
My first inclination is to turn around and run, despite how childish that would appear to Ally if she happened to be watching from her window.
He looks at me and then turns away with passing indifference. He cradles his arm and talks to himself, slightly rocking back and forth. I remain frozen. Fear weighs down my feet. Oh shit, I think, you haven’t come up with a part for him in your movie yet.
Then I notice the blood.
The hand that he’s cradling is deep red, too much like the corn-syrup mixture I use. The blood drips from his palm, down his arm and collects in a little puddle at his elbow. I can smell it. Over the greasy smell, there is a faint scent of copper. Not corn syrup. I take a step closer to get a better look. The blood pours out little holes in Colt’s hand.
That dumbass must’ve been cutting himself again … poking himself with a knife.
The skin around the holes is sunken. Jagged and black. They’re bite marks. A faint growling gives away the culprit: Brock.
I don’t know where my dog came from or if he’d been there the whole time. His sudden presence makes the hair on my neck rise.
Brock looks bad—flies buzz around his confused face and his hair is matted and missing in some parts. His wounds have turned black, and it looks like something has chewed the tip of his tail off. I don’t want to consider that he probably did it himself. A thick foam covers his lips, tinted red. He looks hot and tired, but he bares his teeth. His hair stands on end.
I turn back to Colt. Despite Brock’s terrible appearance, it’s been a long time since I’ve been so happy to see him. Once again, he is my savior. My best friend.
I feel my lips curl into a smile. Every color but red seeps out of my vision. I watch the scene with a Hellish camera filter. It feels good to be possessed. I let out a deep breath and walk past Colt. I want to run up and kick him when he’s down. Maybe slash him with a knife. But later. I put my hand out for my dog to come, ready to shower him with all the treats his heart could desire. He just stares at it. Even when he notices that it’s me, he doesn’t lower his lips. His teeth remain bared.
I pat my lap. Brock still doesn’t move.
From behind me, Colt says something. I turn around and see that he’s reaching out to me. He’s asking for help. I notice the tears on his face. I want to point and laugh. I want to hold him by the collar and scream “BOO HOO!” into his face so he feels the heat of my demonic breath. Briefly, he seems to recognize me.
(You can’t be in our movie)
The moment passes and he’s back to the smelly, greasy psycho who almost killed my brother. And the asshole wants me to help him because my dog, a dog he was planning to slaughter, bit him. Every cell in my body fills with tangible hatred. With my headphones in, I pretend that I don’t hear his pleas, and, without helping him, I walk up the stairs and slam the door behind me.
I leave him alone with Brock.