Screwdriver Boy E-Book

Jake Wilhelm

• Herausgeber: BookRix
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2019

Beschreibung

From the author of Can't Find My Way Home and Devil's Side Pocket comes a short trip into pyschological terror, the short story...

SCREWDRIVER BOY

Crazy boy, killer boy,

A screwdriver is his toy

Our narrator is home after years of enjoying the dubious benefits of long-term care at the state mental institution. Screwdriver Boy might be free, but he’s a real mess. He’s stopped taking his meds, he’s having problems with the parental units, a woman is spying on him, and he’s out of Coca-Cola.

Screwdriver Boy can't remember why he was locked up. What awful thing did he do? According to the charming little ditty sung by the neighborhood brats, it’s probably a great idea to keep screwdrivers well out of our narrator’s reach.

Leseprobe

Jake Wilhelm

Screwdriver Boy

BookRix GmbH & Co. KG81371 Munich

Title

SCREWDRIVER BOY

by

Jake Wilhelm

FRONT MATTER

COPYRIGHT

Title: Screwdriver Boy

Author: Jake Wilhelm

Cover design: Jake Wilhelm

(c) Jake Wilhelm 2018/EP Dowd Enterprises. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in shape or form by any means, electronic, mechanical, copying, recording, or otherwise without prior written permission.

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

This book is dedicated to my father, for his inspiration and support

SCREWDRIVER BOY

When I see trees on the hills, I know my mind isn’t working right. So I try to think everything out, parse things through, make sure what I’m thinking at the time is correct. Mostly, though, I enjoy looking at the trees.

There are no trees on the hill because this is a desert town. I will call this town Prison, because it is really no much more than Northwestern Mental Facility where I spent my late childhood and early adulthood. I still am not allowed to go anywhere without one of my parents with me, and it has been awhile since I have gone anywhere.

I stopped taking my medication. I am off my medication! There’s a joke in there somewhere, I’m not sure. Anyhow, the pills are supposed to keep me in balance so that I can be a part of society, but I’m not sure I want to be a part of society. I am 24 years of age, and I have never been a part of society, at least not voluntarily. Being a part of society means that you feel dull inside, that your mind is a flywheel attempting to spin in setting concrete, that the things people say sound like they are coming from the wrong end of a downwards tunnel, and I’d rather leave all that to the other people if they so choose, so I choose to not take the same pills that keep the “normal” people straight.

But I have to stay in my room. It is easier this way, so that my parents do not know I have stopped taking my medication. If I stay away from them, they won’t know. If they know, they may not only make me take the pills, they may contact the authorities and let them know that I shouldn’t be with society even in this limited capacity.

Everything was fine until the woman showed up.

She’s out there. Usually across the street, staring at my house, at the second story dormer window, at me sitting in the second story dormer window. There is something about her face that makes me wonder if she knew or knows about the other thing I did.

I see another face, I see it in flashes. A little girl. Chubby cheeks, tiny nose, soft dark hair cut in the style they call page boy. I see this little girl in flashes, but I don’t know why I know her. Sometimes she screams no and that makes me hold my head in both hands in my second story dormer window as she screams inside my head and I have to have both hands on my head pressing down to make sure my skull doesn’t shatter.

The woman that stares at me has a small nose.

I don’t know what that other thing I did was – I truly don’t know what I did. But I think she knows. I know she knows. She stands there for hours at a time, standing under the tree in the parking strip across the street, sometimes the day moves around and the shadows obscure her, but I know she’s there.

Earlier, the little boys were playing outside. I watch them. I remember being their age, but I don’t think I was ever like them. They play with such ease, they are so gleeful. Strange how I don’t remember playing like that. It was always a chore; my mother would tell me to go play with my cousins and I would run around but I would miss their cues – they would shout with glee, then I would shout with glee too late, when there was no longer any reason to shout with glee and they gave me odd looks.

The boys held things in their hands today. They stood on the other side of the chest height picket fence separating our house from the sidewalk and they bounced up and down, chanting, “Crazy boy, Killer boy, a screwdriver is his toy” and they threw the objects in their hands into the yard.