Have a Bad Day: Seven Stories of Sickness Sin and Psychopaths Read online

Have a Bad Day: Seven Stories of Sickness, Sin, and Psychopaths

  Ross Willard

  Copyright 2013 Ross Willard

  System Purge: Book 1 of Digital Evolution

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people, not even if that other person is your evil twin, or your slightly unethical doppelganger, or your rather mischievous clone. If you find yourself tempted to share this with another reader, please take a deep breath and remind yourself of that one time, back in grade school, when you shared one of your precious cookies with that cute girl you had a crush on, only to find out that she went and gave your cookie to some boy that she had a crush on, and just how bad that made you feel. Then remember that the author, who has worked a series of menial, low-paying jobs over the years in order to focus his attention on his writing, just shared his oh-so-special book with you. But, no, he doesn't have a crush on you. I mean, he probably doesn't. Unless you're that girl who smiled at him at the coffeehouse that one time. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, well, shame on you. You get online, and you purchase your own copy, right now. I said NOW, mister! And don't think I didn't see you roll those eyes!

  Table of Contents

  If Only in My Dreams

  Vespine

  Shallow Graces

  A Terrible Itch

  Desperate Times

  A Gambling Man

  Last Day on Earth

  About the Author

  If Only In My Dreams

  There’s something I’d like to talk with you about. I know my problems probably aren’t your biggest concern right now, but I have to talk to somebody. Seeing as how you’re something of a captive audience, I thought I’d take advantage.

  I’ve got this recurring dream. I’ve had it for years. The dream always starts out the same. I'm walking down a street, and as I'm walking, I'm struck by what a nice neighborhood I'm in. The road is smooth and even, no potholes, no speed bumps. The lawns are manicured, without a weed in sight, and there are children running and laughing all around me. Usually they’re playing tag, or hide and go seek. The world is sunny, and bright. I feel good. I feel . . . clean.

  Then I realize someone is watching me.

  Sometimes he’s with the other children. Sometimes he’s standing in a window, staring.

  It’s Billy.

  And I know where Billy is.

  Billy is in heaven.

  That means I must be in heaven too.

  I look around again, and nothing’s changed, but somehow everything is different, and I wonder how I could have missed it, how I could have taken so long to realize where I am.

  I keep turning, and looking, staring, wondering . . . turning around and around until I find myself facing him. Facing Billy. He’s standing right in front of me now, and he’s smiling.

  The smile is . . . pure. Pure in a way I’ve never seen before. Not from my mother, not from any lover I’ve ever had. Not like anything I ever thought could be real. It’s a smile without hesitation, without doubt. Like he's truly happy to see me.

  I stare at him, trying to figure out what to say. It’s funny because he seems so much smaller than I remember. He was taller than me the last time we were together, but now . . . he’s still a fourteen-year-old boy, and I’m all grown up.

  Finally I open my mouth, and I tell him that I’m sorry. And I am. I tell him that I wish I hadn’t killed him. And I do.

  He laughs. He laughs, and he tells me that none of that matters anymore. That it isn’t important. Not here.

  But I can't believe that. I press him, arguing, convinced that there must be some kind of mistake. I know what I am. I know where I belong, and it isn’t heaven.

  Billy keeps smiling and tells me that there was no mistake. That I am where I’m meant to be.

  He's wrong, I say. My very presence taints this place.

  Billy shakes his head. Everything is as it should be, as it was meant to be. He tells me that I should come with him to meet God. That God will explain everything.

  He takes my hand, and we begin to walk.

  It’s a long walk, but the sky is bright, and there is a cool wind, and the people we pass all smile and wave.

  They become a blur as we pass, too many faces to count, much less remember. Until I see someone I recognize. That face changes from dream to dream. Sometimes it’s the whore from El Paso. Sometimes it’s the trucker from Tennessee. I stare, expecting hatred, expecting rage from them, righteous fury at my presence. But all I see are smiles, and as we pass they fall in behind us, laughing and talking as we go to see God.

  It doesn’t take long before I see another familiar face. Another of my victims. Then another. And another. They all join us, walking behind us. Sometimes they skip. Sometimes they sing and hold hands. Their actions change, but their joy does not, as we go to meet God. Me and the people I’ve killed.

  There are so many people. So many faces. Faces that, when I’m awake, I can only remember twisted in agony or slackened in death. Here they’re smiling. Clean. Happier and healthier than they ever were in life.

  Then we reach the end of the road. We reach God. I stare at Him, gaping, in awe, struggling to find my voice. Finally I do.

  I fall to my knees before Him, confessing that there’s been some mistake. I tell Him that I’m not meant to be here. That I’m an animal.

  God smiles at me. The most radiant smile I’ve ever seen. He speaks. I’m exactly where I was meant to be, He says.

  I tell Him that I don’t understand. That I’m a monster.

  He shakes His head and says, “Didn’t anyone ever tell you, my son? I made you in my image. I made you just like me.”

  That’s when I see what’s in His hand.

  I try to turn. Try to run, but before I can move I feel their hands, the hands of everyone I ever killed catching me. Holding me still as God approaches.

  The first time, that was the end of the dream. Lately, though, it’s begun to stretch out. Sometimes I can feel that thing pressed against my flesh. Sometimes . . . sometimes I can smell God’s breath, thick and heavy around me. Sometimes I can hear them laughing.

  That’s when I wake up, screaming.

  I can see I’ve disturbed you. I apologize. If anything, I’d hoped it would be a comfort. The next few hours will not be pleasant for you, and I wanted you to know that you will get some small measure of revenge.

  If only in my dreams.

  ***

  Return to Table of Contents

  Vespine

  Michelle was humming a tuneless song as she exited her apartment.

  I stopped breathing for a moment as I watched her through the peephole in my apartment. She was stunning. Her hair, cut at shoulder length, was the color of daffodils. Her skin was tanned, but the thin pale lines on her shoulders spoke of a natural tan, not the kind bought at a salon. Her clothes were not immodest, but they didn’t hide her perfect body. The only jewelry she wore were metallic earrings, dark blue, verging on black, and a similarly colored bracelet.

  The most intoxicating thing about her, however, was the way she moved. She had a kind of elegance, a kind of perfection, that few people can aspire to. She seemed to float down the hallway.

  I held myself back from opening the door and following her to the stairs. As desperately as I wanted to talk to her, to touch her, I couldn’t. Not yet. I’d been overeager before. I’d moved too fast, I’d scared them away. It h
ad taken time for me to learn patience. Time and a few bad experiences.

  I waited until her footsteps faded away, then closed my eyes and counted to fifty before I opened the door. It had taken me a while to map out her weekly routine. Months, actually. Not because she was particularly elusive -- if anything, she was easier to follow than most women -- but there was a limit to how long you could watch someone before they noticed you.

  There was a distinct limit to how many days in a row you could watch someone without them noticing. If you wanted to stretch that out, you had to get creative. You had to change your clothes, your hair, your style. I got some funny looks at work, coming in every couple of days with a whole new look, but I wasn’t trying to impress them. Who cares what a bunch of minimum wage losers think?

  At the bottom of the stairs I peeked out the front window. Michelle was waiting at the bus stop. She was always early for her bus, which was always late.

  I slipped out the front door and headed down the street. I ducked my head and trudged slowly up the street, slouching, with both hands in my pockets.

  At the first intersection, I turned right and picked up my pace. One of the best ways to keep someone from realizing you were following them was to be wherever they were going before they got there. Getting there was the only problem. Traveling five miles on foot wasn’t fast enough, and taking a taxi got expensive. I’d gotten lucky, though. I’d found a bike someone hadn’t bothered to lock up, and I found a place to stash it. I could cover the distance from the apartment to her work with time to spare.

  A little bit of effort, and a few shortcuts, and I found myself on a park bench facing Michelle’s flower shop about five minutes before she arrived.

  Technically, the shop belonged to an old Brazilian man, but to me it was Michelle’s shop. She moved between the flowers, beautiful, captivating, perfect. She smiled at all of her customers, flirting with the regulars, making arrangements, taking calls. I watched her every motion.

  The trick to watching for that long without drawing attention is having a good secondary activity. I’ve tried a few things. Newspapers and books work pretty well, but I prefer feeding the birds. For one thing, not many people read with sunglasses on, and without sunglasses, people can tell when you’re looking at them. For another, trying to look like you’re reading involves turning pages at regular intervals, which means paying less attention to the person you’re watching than I like.

  But while feeding the birds is good cover, it isn’t perfect. You have to watch your time. If you stay in the same place for more than a couple of hours, you run the risk of being noticed. I waited until about ten thirty, when Michelle took advantage of the lull in sales to begin her daily culling of old flowers. It was the time of day when she was most likely to look out the window and notice me, so I headed down the street to a small clothing resale shop, which bought clothes for pennies, and sold them for dimes. The quality wasn’t very high, but all I needed was to change enough of my appearance that nobody would connect me to the man who’d spent his morning feeding birds in the park.

  I bought a crummy jacket and a ball cap. Then I headed to a sandwich shop just around the corner. Most of their sandwiches were overpriced, but the owner had a lunch special that fit my budget.

  After that it was back to the park. This time I took a spot near the playground. I avoided the benches immediately surrounding the playground. Mothers and nannies claimed those and were wary of anyone who seemed out of place. A picnic table nearby sufficed, as it left me far enough away that the women with children felt comfortable ignoring me but was close enough that I wouldn’t stand out of the crowd if Michelle happened to look my way.

  Being a bit farther away, and in a deeper shadow, thanks to the brighter sunlight, I was comfortable taking my sunglasses off and pretending to read a small novel I’d brought with me.

  Michelle was talking to a customer. A young man. He was attractive. Not as attractive as Michelle, but who was? Still, he was attractive enough that I had to admit it. And he was flirting with her. I could tell even from that distance. And she was flirting back. Usually she only flirted with her regulars, old men, long married and not the kind to cheat, though they might buy a larger than average bouquet for her sweeter than average smile.

  This young man, he wasn’t buying anything. Nothing in his hands and not looking. No, he was there to flirt. He was there for Michelle.

  And she wasn’t resisting.

  I took a deep breath and let it out slowly. I had to stay calm. I had to keep my head on straight. It wasn’t as though they were writhing, naked on the floor. They weren’t even touching. They were just talking. And smiling. She flicked her hair and gave him a coy look. He puffed out his chest like a bullfrog and said something that made her laugh.

  She pulled out a piece of paper, jotted on it, and handed it to him.

  I was stunned. She was encouraging him.

  He was a nobody, some random suitor, and she was encouraging him.

  The man winked at her, jocular, flirtatious, and headed out of the store, the slip of paper in hand. Outside he paused, pulling a phone from his pocket and dialing as he stared at the paper in his hand.

  Inside the store she paused from her work and pulled out her phone.

  Her phone number. She’d given him her phone number. I’d known it but hadn’t wanted to believe it. The whore!

  No. No, this wasn’t her fault; it was his. He should have known better. Just walking in like that and staking a claim! He was presumptuous! He should have done his research. He should have made sure she didn’t already belong to someone. He should have made sure she didn’t belong to me.

  They talked for almost a minute, smiling, glancing at each other through the window. Finally, he hung up, and, with a wave, walked away.

  Inside, I saw her smile and bite her lower lip.

  I heard the sound of ripping, and looking down, realized that I’d torn my book in half. My hands were quivering in rage. My teeth were clenched tight.

  I stood and began to walk, my mind buzzing with fury. I didn’t even realize what I was doing until a block later, when I found myself a few short steps behind the man, my hands twitching, my teeth grinding.

  It took an effort for me to slow my pace, to let him put a little distance between us. As angry as I was, as hot as my blood boiled in my veins, I couldn’t do anything. Not yet. Not in public.

  So I fell back, forcing my clenched fists into my pockets and relaxing my jaw.

  I followed him for several blocks, around a corner. He turned into an alley, nodding at a group of young men wearing black pants and grey shirts. I knew the restaurant. Michelle had come here a few times. The man, no, not a man, the boy, he’d waited on her, I remembered that now.

  A waiter, a pathetic waiter, presuming he had a chance with the likes of her?

  I walked past them, then stopped, pressing against a wall to listen.

  “Well?” One of the men asked. “You chickened out again, didn’t you?”

  “Nope, walked right in and asked her out.”

  “Bull.”

  “I did.”

  “And?”

  There was a pause, a dramatic pause. “And we have a date.”

  My body quivered with fury, the world became tinted with red, and it took every fiber of my being to prevent myself from running into the alley and throttling the boy to death.

  “No way! When?”

  “Tonight.”

  “Tonight? A girl that hot, and she wants to go out with you tonight? You lucky dog.”

  “It gets better.” The boy’s smugness was salt in the crevice that had been cut into my chest. “We’re having dinner at her place.”

  A chorus of surprise and congratulations erupted from the group.

  It was more than I could stand. I pushed off the wall and forced myself to walk away. My emotions were too powerful, too overwhelming. I needed to t
hink. I needed to be calm, to be rational.

  I walked and kept on walking, trying to breath, trying to think.

  It was miles later that I managed to stuff the last of my emotions down. The boy was a problem, that was true, but that’s all he was. A problem, an obstacle to be overcome. All I needed to do was make sure that she realized it. And make sure that nothing happened before she realized it.

  That wouldn’t be too hard. We were neighbors, after all.

  I just needed to set some things up before their date got started.

  I took a deep, calming breath as I got my bearings and headed home, planning all the way.

  ***

  Michelle was in the lobby of the apartment when I came in.

  “Hey neighbor.” She smiled at me, then frowned. “You are my neighbor, right? 410?”

  “Uh. Yes.”

  “Oh, good.” She smiled again. “You changed your hair since the last time we talked.”

  I’d changed it about a dozen times since then. “Yeah.” I ran my hand through my hair. “Yeah, I did.”

  “Hey, can I get you to do me a favor?”

  I blinked. “Um, sure.”

  “I’ve been wanting to move some furniture around in my apartment for a while now, but, you know.” She shrugged in embarrassment. “A little girl like me, and some of that stuff is pretty heavy.”

  She was inviting me into her apartment. I’d never seen the inside of her apartment. I had learned the hard way that you had to be careful about that kind of thing.

  “Sure. I can do that.” I offered a nervous smile.

  “Awesome.” She jumped up and gave me a kiss on the cheek. “You’re a doll. Come on.”

  “Oh, now?”

  “Yeah. Is that a problem?” She had her hand wrapped around mine, pulling.

  “No. No, of course not.” I let her pull me up the stairs.

  Her furniture was bright, light blue and red, pink and yellow, like a field of flowers. I didn’t have long to look; before I’d even set foot in the room, she was pointing and giving instructions.

  I spent almost an hour moving things around, pausing only when she wanted to vacuum where furniture had been or look things over and decide where she wanted them to go. Her apartment, like mine, consisted of a main living room with a small kitchen alcove and a hallway that led to a bathroom and bedroom. How she had managed to fit so much furniture in so little space I couldn’t begin to guess, but then I didn’t much care. I was in her apartment. I was talking to her, like we were old friends. I hadn’t expected to get this far for another month. Maybe more. True, she had a date, but I’d take care of that eventually.