Cindy watched Tom turn the gun on her, so clear and precise that it seemed like slow-motion. He aimed it at her chest. She could feel a cold spot where the bullet would enter, right next to her heart. It made her knees shake.
Growing up in northern Michigan, Cindy knew guns. Her dad had several, and when money was tight—and it usually was—he would supplement groceries with fresh rabbit, possum, and deer.
Knowing the damage guns could do, and the respect they demanded, made her understand the depths of Tom’s stupidity. Even at this distance she could see the pistol was cocked, which meant the slightest touch of the trigger, or even dropping the gun, could cause it to fire.
I made Cindy realize, with a combination of both fear and relief, that she didn’t want to die.
Being in rehab before, and being around other addicts, showed Cindy how deadly meth was. It killed you three times. First, it killed your will, making you a slave to another fix. Then it killed your looks, turning you into a toothless, underweight skeleton. Then it finally snuffed out your life, but by that point the end was welcome.
Cindy had begged, borrowed, and stolen to get high, giving up everything she cared about. She even had meth mouth, her teeth starting to rot in her head, losing three molars before being put into the Center. Her first few months at the Center, Cindy didn’t care if she lived or died. She thought wanted to straighten out her life, but she was unsure if that was just the therapy talking.
But now she knew. Staring down the barrel of the gun, Cindy wanted to live.
“Tom. Don’t point that at me. It’s not funny.”
Tom stuck out his chest. “Who’s trying to be funny? I know what you—what all of you—think of me. You think I’m some kind of joke. You laughing at me now?”
Cindy cast a quick glance at Tyrone, his knees bent and his head slightly lowered, and figured he was getting ready to rush Tom. Tyrone was fast, but bullets were faster.
“I never thought you were a joke, Tom. I always liked you.”
“Is that why you were holding hands with Tyrone? You pretending he was me?”
“If you wanted to hold my hand, all you had to do was ask. But how much do you think pointing a gun at me will make me like you?”
“I don’t care who likes me.”
“Sure you do, Tom. Isn’t that why you stole that car? For attention? But there’s good attention and bad attention. This is just more bad attention.”
“Give me a break, Cindy. I’m not the loser here. How many guys you suck off to get a fix? Is that why you’re playing Tyrone? You think he’s got some ice?”
Anger replaced some of Cindy’s fear.
“Do you like it here, Tom? Because if you shoot me, the place you’re going will be a lot worse, and for a much longer time. No juvee hall. You’ll be tried as an adult, stuck in general pop. Then we’ll see how many guys you suck off to stay alive.”
Tom lowered the gun, just a fraction. Then Tyrone lunged, crossing the distance between him and Tom in two steps, driving a shoulder into the kid’s chest while stiff-arming Tom’s gun hand up and away from Cindy.
Tom toppled like he was on hinges, the gun arcing out of his hand and plopping into the campfire with a puff of sparks.
Cindy’s automatic instinct was to reach for it, but she stopped. She’d gotten burned before. Second degree on both hands. That’s why she didn’t roast a hotdog or marshmallows earlier. Fire scared the crap out of Cindy.
She often had nightmares about it. The meth lab, her friend cooking a batch, the flask of chemicals exploding and setting him ablaze. He ran at her, screaming, and she had to push him away to keep from dying herself, scorching her hands in the process. They healed, with minimal scarring, but the pain wasn’t anything she’d ever forget.
Badly as she wanted the gun, Cindy knew there was no way she’d reach into fire to get it.
Instead, she ran toward Tyrone and Tom. Tyrone was straddling him, one hand on Tom’s neck, the other raised to punch him in the face.
Cindy caught Tyrone’s fist, held it back.
“Don’t.”
“Fool needs to be taught.”
“He’s off his medicine, Tyrone. Beating him up won’t teach him anything.”
Tom looked small, terrified, a big difference from the swaggering macho dipshit he’d been seconds ago.
“Apologize to the lady,” Tyrone told him.
Tom wheezed out, “I’m sorry.”
“You ever gonna try that shit again?”
Tom shook his head, much as he could with his throat being squeezed.
“We’re all on the same side, fool. We gotta watch each other’s backs. And y’all are trippin’ on Clint Eastwood. Be cool.”
Tom nodded, and Tyrone got off him. Cindy still held his fist, which opened and then clasped her hand, and then he turned and looked at her, his face soft and his pupils wide. His free hand slid around her waist, pulling her a little closer, and Cindy felt her legs get weak again.
Tom had been wrong. She hadn’t ever done anything sexual for drugs. When she was so far gone she was willing to, the boys she hung out with her too far gone to want any. So her experience was limited to a few French kisses, and a freshman year groping session on a couch that felt more like wrestling than foreplay.
But looking up at Tyrone, she felt her knees start to shake for the second time in only a few minutes, and as his lips moved slightly closer she tilted her chin up and began to close her eyes.
“Jesus!”
Tom’s outburst was followed by him tearing ass into the woods, disappearing into the dark.
Both Cindy and Tyrone looked in the opposite direction, at what had made Tom run.
Three men stood along the tree line. They were each tall and thin, dressed in dirty, ripped clothes. Cindy knew Martin had made up that Civil War cannibal story, but that’s exactly what these men looked like. Like crazed cannibals out of a 70’s horror movie.
“What do you want?” Tyrone said, moving Cindy behind him.
Astonishingly, the one in the middle stepped forward, and out of his pockets he pulled a rusty knife and fork.
Meadow had gone insane with pain, sometime shortly after his eyes boiled and burst. But now, even though a thin thread of consciousness remained, he was at peace. The agony was gone. He had no way of knowing it was because most of the nerves on the front side of his body had burned away, but had he known, he wouldn’t have cared. All that mattered was he didn’t hurt anymore. His throat was too swollen to scream anyway.
Then they flipped him over onto his uncooked side, and the screaming began again.
When Georgia felt Lester’s horrible teeth begin to pierce her tongue, she squeezed his testicles. Not hard enough to cause damage, but as a warning; if he didn’t let up, neither would she.
Lester’s jaw clenched, and Georgia realized she’d judged him wrong. He was going to bite off her tongue, and her lips, and her face, and that would just be the beginning. The first man she’d ever kissed was going to make headcheese out of her.
But then his mouth opened, his own tongue snaking out of her mouth and across her lips in a way that made her chest feel heavy and her breath quicken. He stuck the tip into her ear, sending sparks throughout her body. His tongue flicked across his chin, down her neck, and then Georgia was gently lowered onto her back. She wrapped her legs around his waist as he tugged her sweater up over her head.
This was all happening fast. Too fast. She’d never done anything like this before, and she didn’t know this guy at all. Plus he was psychotic. Georgia knew she should be scared, and maybe she was. Her heart was beating so fast she couldn’t differentiate between fear and exhilaration. Then Lester had her bra up, around her neck, not a strangle move but enough to show her he was in control. His hot breath was on her chest, and then his horrible teeth were nibbling on her breasts, her nipples. First one, then the other, the points barely grazing her skin, causing pin-pricks of pure sensation. Georgia knew that if he wanted to he could tear them off, chew them up, turn this exquisite pleasure into unbearable pain, and in some sick way that made it even more exciting.