Bad Games

51



The recent substitution to the game—the knives—caused a spastic uproar from Amy. Her garbled swearing increased despite her four-year-old son on her chest.

Patrick’s reaction to the knives was different. It appeared a sort of heroic defiance, almost willing his captors to throw them; his chest was out and his head was upright.

Amy wanted to scold her husband’s bravado. She understood his behavior (oh how she understood), but she feared it would only incite their antagonists. Or worse yet, make their sick game more enjoyable.

But she knew her husband. She knew he was a big teddy bear. But she also knew he had a breaking point. And that point had been broken a long f*cking time ago. His rage was now bubbling beneath the lid, periodically hissing as it touched the burner beneath. She just prayed his wrath still clung to common sense. That dying with your boots on was not the goal now—salvation was.

“Alright,” Arty said. “I’m gonna give this a try. Last chance, Caleb!”

No response.

“Fine.”

Arty whistled the first knife towards Patrick. Amy watched right up until the last second before impact, shutting her eyes tight before the knife had a chance to find its home. She only opened them when she heard the knife pierce the drywall behind her husband.

He had missed.

“Shit,” Arty said.

“It’s alright, bro,” Jim said. “You’ve got two more.” Jim glanced at Amy, winked and said, “Don’t worry; he’s good at this. Could have been in the f*cking circus.”

Arty looked at the two knives in his hands, then at Caleb glued to Amy’s chest. “I want the kid to watch this,” he said.

Jim pushed Carrie into a corner and told her to sit. She did as she was told and fell into a catatonic slump, sucking her thumb and staring at nothing.

Jim then stepped forward and ripped Caleb from Amy’s chest. Amy shrieked and fought so hard the chair fell over, her head and shoulder colliding hard with the wooden floor. The impact did not deter her tirade as she continued to scream and fight.

Both brothers laughed at the overturned chair as Jim hoisted Caleb up and into his arms. The boy was the opposite of Carrie’s dead weight; he was a tightly wound ball trying to retreat into himself. Both he and his sister had shut down. It was as simple as that. Their young minds just couldn’t process the horrific goings-on that were happening around them, and their only available coping mechanism was to switch off.

So when Jim felt the boy’s rigid weight in his arms, turned and fixed on Carrie’s blank stare in the corner, he fronted his brother and said, “These kids are going to be useless, man.”

Arty was not so easily deterred. “Bullshit.” He gripped knife number two in one hand, and peeled Caleb’s head back from his brother’s shoulder with the other, placing the blade directly in front of the boy’s face. “You’re going to watch, Caleb. You were too stupid to play, so now you’re going to watch.”

Arty spun and whipped knife number two at Patrick. The knife stuck deep within the drywall next to Patrick’s head, missing again.

“Shit! I hit him both f*cking times with the rocks!” Arty said.

“Relax,” Jim said, hoisting Caleb up. “You’re getting too wound up.”

Amy was still turned over on her side, but she could see clearly. She knew that last knife would be thrown with serious intent, and she prayed with every drop of blood pulsating throughout her body that it too would miss. But what would follow after? The knives could easily be plucked from the wall for a second round, or…

Arty steadied his breathing, gripped the remaining knife’s handle tight in his right hand, aimed it directly at Patrick’s chest, threw it hard enough to rock his own balance.

And the knife buried itself deep into the drywall to Patrick’s right.

Amy started to laugh. From her upturned, uncomfortable position, she laughed uncontrollably into her gag, and if her arms were free you can bet your sweet ass she would have pointed and mocked while doing so. Dying with one’s boots on? Hadn’t she been the one who silently hoped Patrick would abandon such bravado? So why was she laughing? Was she going crazy?

Both Jim and Arty exchanged looks. They looked truly dumbfounded for a moment. This wasn’t right.

Jim set Caleb down, walked over to Amy, and yanked her chair upright.

Arty checked the television and saw their mother still asleep in the recliner. “Take her gag off,” he said.

Jim shot his brother an uncertain glance. “Huh?”

“Do it.”

Jim took off her gag and Amy instantly spat in his face.

“Yeah, that was a good idea,” Jim said, wiping away the spit.

Arty went over to the green pillowcase and pulled something else from it. It was a bundle of thick lollipops fastened together with a rubber band.

“Looks like we’re going to have to improvise again,” he said. He pulled the rubber band off the bundle, unwrapped one of the lollipops, and jammed it into Amy’s mouth. She gagged and tried to force it back out. Arty gripped her jaw and held her mouth shut, keeping the lollipop in.

Patrick grunted to the side of them but Jim just walked over and slapped him. “Shut up, stupid.”

Arty unwrapped a second lollipop. “Grab her,” he said, motioning towards Carrie with his chin.

Jim grabbed the girl and brought her over to Amy and Arty, her feet dragging across the floor as she was being pulled.

“Do you remember the candy, Carrie?” Arty asked, showing one of the lollipops to her. “Do you remember?”

Carrie turned away and down, looking at the floor.

“Do you remember when your mother told you that you weren’t allowed to have any candy? Who ended up giving you some? Who was the nice guy who gave you the candy?”

Carrie’s eyes were still on the floor. Jim gripped her face, squeezing her cheeks, bunching the soft flesh together. He guided her face up and towards Arty.

Arty gingerly placed the second lollipop into her little hand, squeezing it tight into a fist to imply that he insisted she keep hold of it.

“But look at Mommy now,” Arty said. “Mommy is the one with the candy. Is that fair?”

Amy spat out the lollipop. It landed and stuck on the top of Arty’s foot. She laughed again and said, “You didn’t give her shit. You traded it for a doll, you faggot.”

Patrick mumbled something behind them.

Arty closed his eyes and controlled his breathing. When he opened them he looked at Carrie. “Mommy’s making this very difficult isn’t she?”

Jim still had hold of Carrie’s face; Arty still gripped the little fist that held the lollipop.

“Why don’t we see if we can give your mommy another lollipop?” Arty asked. Despite his attempts at calm, his tone was becoming increasingly agitated. “How does that sound, Mommy? Does that sound fun to you?”

“Why don’t you shove them up your ass instead?” Amy said.

Patrick grunted again. He was either asking his wife to stop antagonizing their tormentors, or cheering her on.

Arty closed his eyes again and breathed through his nose. He acted as though the comment had never been spoken. “It’s a game, Carrie,” he said. “A fun game where everyone wins. How does that sound?”

Carrie looked at Arty, her cheeks still bunched in Jim’s grip. Arty gestured for his brother to release his grip. He did, and the little girl’s face glowed red with the marks from Jim’s fingers.

“Do it, Carrie,” Arty said.

Carrie kept staring, her eyes unblinking, dazed. Amy went to speak, but Jim instantly slapped a hand over her mouth.

“Carrie…do it,” Arty said.

Arty slowly let go of the little girl’s fist, and Carrie dropped the lollipop to the floor.

Arty shook his head and immediately picked up the candy. He didn’t bother to seize Carrie’s hand again. Instead he jammed the lollipop into Amy’s mouth himself.

Something snapped in Carrie and she started to cry again.

“Oh you want to try it now, do you?” Arty asked. “Too f*cking late.”

He unwrapped a third and jammed it in. Then a fourth. A fifth.

Amy gagged wildly, her cheeks bulging. Patrick threw an absolute fit behind them.

“Jesus!” Jim said. “Look at the mouth on her!” He turned to Patrick. “Hey, man, you wouldn’t mind if I took your wife out of here for a little alone time, would you?”

Patrick’s face was a deep purple in its fury, snot and spit spraying from his nose and mouth. He struggled so hard against his binds his chair bounced.

“Thanks, pal,” Jim said. He patted Patrick on the head. “I promise I won’t tear it up too bad.”

Arty let out a long, wonderful breath. His faithful brother had revived the game.

Jim left the lollipops in Amy’s mouth, but unfastened her from the chair. He re-tied her hands together in front, but left her legs as they were, wrapped in a tight bundle at the ankles. Amy’s panic only made her gag harder on the candy still jutting from her mouth.

Jim reached forward, jerked her out of the chair by the hair, and hoisted her over his shoulder. Amy wriggled like mad, managing to spit two of the lollipops from her mouth. She hissed a wet, indecipherable curse and bucked harder, but Jim only held tighter; she was going nowhere.

Before leaving the bedroom Jim gave Amy a hard slap on the ass, looked over his shoulder at Patrick and said, “Don’t wait up, stud.”