The Everborn - Nicholas Grabowsky [148]
The opposing 19-inch color television perched atop a wheeled cart of molded plastic relayed its hourly Headline News updates, sporadically spewing the latest goings-on in between five-minute commercial sponsoring Irish Spring and super absorbent tampons. The volume was purposely low enough to maintain a dismal silence before and after Scratch had cleared the premises of the living room, and as he sidestepped his way down the corridor of the gaping hallway the television volume faded as did the memory of being able to hear it.
Upon brief inspection of the remainder of the house, Scratch was satisfied that all was clear. He made his way from the end of the hallway and the opposing mouths of the two bedrooms, casually relaxed and relieved, to return to the entrance of the living room, to return to the normalcy, the placid doldrum, to a front-and-center earshot once again to the Headline News.
He didn’t so much as emerge past the arm of the sofa when he halted, when the advent of the latest news update captured and contained his attention enough to extinguish the worries of a vigilant house search for good. His grip on the kitchen knife loosened to the point that the blade slid to the tips of his fingers as he held it lethal-side up, but the sting from its incidental incision did not prevent its fall onto the carpet by his feet. In fact, he paid this no mind.
Instead, without the slightest forewarning, the television news itself demonstrated that Scratch didn’t need an intruder to fuck up his day.
The Headline News, right before him and plain as peach pie, was reporting for the first time in three weeks a recap of the atrocities of the Church on the Rock’s secret attic abode. Added now to the saga was a segment centered upon Scratch’s own little dear Alice and her untimely pregnancy.
With a plastic sobriety, the screen’s bushy blonde anchorwoman spoke of an escalating religious controversy between sympathetic mourners of the late pastor and Right to Life activists. A cut to the scene of a crowded special Rock service was met with an articulate male voice-over narrative, preceding an announcement made by a woebegone Alice herself as she approached the main podium and leaned nervously into the mike.
“I...I’d like to express on behalf of myself and my family how blessed and grateful we are to have the prayers and support of so many loving friends through this horrible tribulation...in light of what has happened I made the only choice I could to separate myself from the pain. The abortion was performed on Tuesday afternoon. Please forgive me.”
***
Please forgive me?!
What did that mean, for goddamn’s sake? Was she speaking directly to him? To Scratch? To a wicked Dreg in search of a hope for redemption...and when at last he found it, it kicked him right the fuck back in the ass?!
Damn, Scratch thought the second before his heart froze, that’s just like a woman!
And then his heart did freeze, only to be revived in the instant of the sudden distraction of The Beverly Hillbillies.
And smoke....
Scratch turned his gaze towards the corner of the living room to his right, towards the loveseat about-facing the patio’s sliding doors, towards the presence responsible for changing the TV channels, the presence responsible for the smoke, the intruder....
“Just think,” spoke the presence, “you would’ve had a seizure right where your scrawny pathetic ass stands if it weren’t for The Beverly Hillbillies...and me, of course. So before you move to retrieve that knife, you’d best remember that. Especially after what you did to poor Nigel and all. I wouldn’t want you to go doing that to me. But, alas, now that Nigel is gone, you’re going to have me to deal with!”
The presence was crouched, squatting, demon-like, upon one half of the loveseat arm and the corner table, bobbing in his balance into the table lamp lampshade