The Egg Said Nothing - Caris O'Malley [29]
“I don’t even know why I’m wasting my fucking time.” I hung up the phone, stared at it, willed it to burst into flames. It didn’t. I howled in frustration and picked up the phone, slamming it against the wall. The plastic receiver shattered.
“Manfred?” my mother called. Great. Perfect. She can’t hear the goddamned phone ring, but she can hear it hit the wall. Fucking convenient.
“Manfred?”
I imagined I could hear her creeping closer, though the din of the TV prevented any such thing.
“Manfred?”
“What?” I yelled, punching the wall. I looked down at my fist. The knuckles were dusted with white from the hole I drove into the drywall.
“Manfred, what’s all that noise?” she asked from just outside.
I opened the door. “It was just the train, Mom.”
She looked at me, her dull green eyes searching for answers.
“The train?” she asked.
“Yes, the train. It came in through this wall like it does every day. It went through the living room behind your chair and disappeared into the refrigerator,” I said, staring at the ceiling.
“Into the frigerator?” she asked.
“Yep, into the frigerator,” I replied. “You can go watch your shows some more.”
“Okay,” she said. She turned and walked back down the hall. I watched her go, her fragile frame moving slowly. I didn’t imagine she would last much longer. A few years at best. Would she outlive me? Would she ever give birth to me? Would she ever leave me at home as a child?
Could I beat her head in with a shovel? Could I go back in time and take care of her before I was born? Could I hit her father over the head with a shovel?
For the first time in years, I looked with tenderness at her white hair and her old stained sweater. Maybe her shitty parenting wasn’t her fault. Maybe my childhood mistreatment was designed to make me unable to trust. If I couldn’t trust anyone, I wouldn’t be able to maintain a relationship with Ashley. What if my fucked up childhood was only in place to prevent someone else’s?
I curled up on the floor, using my arms as a pillow. I stared at the broken phone, the empty wall. My eyelids felt heavy. They dropped. Fucking life. Fucking bullshit.
Suddenly, it dawned on me. I knew what I had to do. Forcing my eyes open, I got to my feet and grabbed the shovel, accepting the one gift I had unwillingly left myself.
I would take that shovel and go upstairs. I would beat to death anyone who stood in my way. And then I would do everything I could to reroute time, to destroy everything.
I could see myself doing it: piling up every scrap of flammable material and torching it. With nothing left of my present, the future would be mine again.
“Orange peels and gramophones!” I called down the hall as I made my way out the front door, resisting every urge to stay and hide.
“What?” my mother yelled, her voice barely audible over the television. I could see the white cotton ball of her head peeking out over the top of her chair.
“I’m sorry for making you such a shitty person!” I shouted, apologetic for all that I had done and would do to her.
“Okay,” she said. Okay. It’s as good as anything. I closed the door and made my way down the hall. I pressed the elevator button, but decided not to wait. Opening the door to the stairwell, I stepped inside.
The lighting was so poor I could barely see anything. It was no wonder that mugger had chosen this place as his hunting ground. Anyone coming up the stairs would be virtually helpless. I heard a squeak as a door opened, then a pounding from down below. Someone was coming. I looked down over the railing and saw a man with my hair and my clothes.
Holy fucking shit, I said to myself. I crouched down in the darkness and waited. I had no idea if this one was going to try to kill me or not, but had to assume as much. Self-preservation demanded that I kill myself at every opportunity. He came nearer, finally reaching the landing.
“Hey,” he said, looking nervous. His pace quickened.