The Good Neighbor

The rain, the damned rain wouldn't stop. Every single drop slapping the concrete outside echoing inside Michael's skull. Every beat of his heart throbbed with the pitter patter beat of the fucking rain. It drove him mad. He'd already taken his medication over half an hour ago but it wasn't helping this time. No, this time the echoes of the world were trying their best to get to him and they were winning. Grinding his already cracked molars together sounded as if he was chewing of gravel.
Muggy, the air was stale and dusty in the studio apartment even with the Summer rain tormenting him. The odors of the house stinging his nostrils as everything became too clear, too real for him to handle. With each breath he felt the cold dampness of his sweaty clothes peeling away and re-sticking to his skin. The old familiar tingles like tiny insects crawling over him was back too. Itching, biting irritations from his scalp to the palms of his hands and even down to the arches of his feet.
A 19" color television was on, as always, with the sound off flashing images of laughing, singing people. Some sort of festival he told himself trying to focus on something, anything else would do. The ham sandwich he'd made only moments ago already forgotten on the tray next to the blue recliner.
He knew the visions would return soon. The haunting reminders of a violent childhood followed by his lost adulthood. The rain grew louder now and searing, burning jolts shocked his brain. In agony he stood grabbing his short brown hair knocking the tray over as he did so. The sandwich seemingly moving in slow motion. His eyes tracked the sandwich falling end over end slowly coming apart and spilling its contents out like...
"No," he told himself, "no I'm not going to think about him."
But it was too late and he knew it. The visions swarming around him like a cloud of diseased flies choking away his air. That day, that rainy Summer day like this one, so long ago but now replaying for him as if it just happened.
It wasn't his fault, they all told him that even the doctors and the police. But still, he could've done it differently couldn't he? After all, he was bigger, older and stronger. It shouldn't have mattered that his little brother had that hammer.
The world shattered before Michael's eyes now, stealing his breath and his balance as he fell back into the recliner unable to stop himself. He was now in his parents backyard. The rain just starting to fall like a cooling gift from God that hot, hot afternoon. His parents were in the house. Dad watching a John Wayne movie as Mom made his favorite, fried chicken with mashed potatoes and country gravy.
Even sitting in the recliner, Michael could smell the chicken and gravy. The memories slammed back into focus pulling him back. His little brother, James, building something out of scrap wood as he had been doing all Summer. Pounding nails with Grandpa's old wood handled hammer with the rusty head almost relentlessly every day. He had no idea what James was trying to make but that damned hammering all the time...
"Boys," it was Mom with her dumpy little round figure, salt and pepper curly hair framing her round face as she leaned out the back patio door. Michael remembered looking up, seeing James frail little figure hunched over the wood hammering away. Green striped shorts and a white undershirt hanging baggy on him as his straight, blond hair swayed next to his face with each swing of the hammer. James stopped and looked at their Mom too pausing his work to hear her.
"It's starting to rain and lunch is almost ready," she said with that tone of hers, the one that was almost friendly yet held an edge of impatience to it. "Come inside and get cleaned up."
"Okay Momma," James squeaky little voice answered as he stood and brushed away at his knees.
A blinding flash of lightning and sharp crack of thunder brought Michael back to the recliner. The wind was kicking up outside pushing the rain against the glass sliding door to the balcony. He was on the 5th floor overlooking the downtown streets.
A wet, choking breath forced its way into his lungs causing him to shake. He'd forgotten to breathe again. Cold sweat now running down his neck and cheeks. The palms of his hands ached relentlessly as he massaged them with tired fingertips.
The room was dim now. Looking to his cable box for the time he saw that it was off. The television was off too. His heart began to beat faster, panic at realizing the power was out. How was he going to regain control without the TV.? Another flash and rolling thunder shook the windows. Again the sharp, twisting pain in his chest forced him to recoil into the recliner...
Looking down at his hands, Michael saw the hedge clippers he'd been using to trim the bushes. Anger filled him, why did he have to trim the bushes? Why couldn't Dad do it like usual? He'd already had to mow and rake the yards, pull the weeds and edge the driveway. It was unfair that he was inside relaxing instead of helping at least.
The high pitched whine started to drone in Michael's ears again. He hated it when that happened, it blocked out everything else like he was deaf. Nothing but that ringing sound making him nauseous. Dizzy, he began turning to go inside because at least Mom's hot food would be comforting. His feet felt heavy as he trudged towards the house not noticing that the rain had hit so fast and hard that he was partially sinking into the fresh mud.
Sound was returning as the ringing whine faded away. Screaming? He was hearing screaming, it was Mom! Frantically he looked around to see what was wrong, finding it all too easily. There he was, at his feet. James lay on the ground, hammer in his limp right hand. Vacant, empty eyes staring into the sky as the rain formed puddles in the corners before running down the sides of his nose and cheeks. The hedge clippers looking fake as they protruded from his little chest. Blood, thick and dark, was everywhere and all over them both.
Michael froze in the grip of icy shock at what lay before him. The look on James' face forever etching itself into him memories. Wide, round eyes once blue now gone to grey and his mouth twisted open with the jaw slacked off to the side. Thick, sticky, dark blood matted in his blond hair like a wicked halo around his small head.
James coughed, only once, spitting a fine mist of crimson blood into the air before a long, rattling exhale. James was still now, empty, dead and pale as a thin line of blood ran from the right corner of his mouth and down his chin.
"Oh my God!" Mom was screaming hysterically and pulling at her hair dancing in the rain on the patio. "No! No! No! No!" she was yelling over and over as she dropped to her knees.
Dad came running out of the house mouth open and eyes filled with disbelief. His tall, lean figure stumbling with shaky knees as he sprinted out to Michael and James. Strong fingers pinched Michael's shoulders and began rocking him back and forth violently as they had many times before.
"What did you do?" Dad's voice was harsh and accusatory.
"Michael? What did you do?" he repeated as his voice began to quiver.
The fear came up like bile into Michael's mouth, what had he done? He didn't even remember seeing James but they'd never believe him. Dad would beat him again if he didn't answer. He might beat him, or worse, if he didn't
"I...I don't know," Michael stammered with the fearful voice of a 12 year old, "he started swinging at me. He...he said I was the last nail and attacked me with Grandpa's hammer! I put my hand out to stop him...I forgot I had the clippers and he ran into them!"
It had to be the truth, Michael figured because it made sense. James had his temper tantrums like any other 5 year old.
"James," Michael cried as hot tears began to pour from his eyes. His body convulsed with sorrow, grief and guilt. "Oh God James!" He screamed.
"Jesus God," Dad said pulling Michael into his arms, clutching him tight and crying himself.
The biting gunshot of thunder brought Michael back into the recliner. It was getting darker now with the storm still raging outside and no power. He wondered what time it was. The pain was going away and he was grateful for it. He stood and gathered the spilled food from the floor and began looking for the garbage can. Under the kitchen sink he found some rags and a spray bottle of cleaning solution.
Thinking of the time, it had been 4 days and he needed to go now. But it wasn't fair to leave a nasty stain on the carpet so he quickly sprayed it down and cleaned it up. Turning his back to the patio door he knelt down, gathering his things into his carry bag. A last look at his host, an elderly woman lying on the couch. What was her name? Oh yeah, Gladys, she's said she was Gladys.
Her grey curls now lay flat on the couch cushion. Michael took note of her blank stare forever looking up at the ceiling they were coated over now and milky white. Cocking his head to the side with a satisfied smile he nodded at the dead woman with the pair of sewing shears poking out of her chest. The brown dried blood had soaked her little white sofa and the carpet underneath after he'd stabbed her. It only took a few moments for her to die though just like all the others.
He felt grateful for his time with her. She was a clean woman and organized, Michael liked an organized home. She'd even had his favorite brand of lunch ham in the fridge! A last look around the apartment as he removed his latex gloves. It was a pain to wear them for days at a time but that one time he'd forgone the precaution they found a fingerprint. How they'd found it still confused him as he took a new can of lighter fluid from his bag and began squirting it around.
Comforting was the hiss of the wood match as he smelled the burned sulphur before touching the happily dancing flame to the carpet. Warmth bathed over him as he watched the fire grow and mature spreading over the carpets before crawling up into the recliner and over Gladys. In a moment the alarms would go off. He'd already disabled the sprinklers on this floor, they'd blame a rusted valve this time. There, the alarm bells started ringing and his mood lightened. Better than listening to that fucking rain he thought.
After a few seconds he heard everyone scrambling out of their adjoining apartments to vacate the building. It was all too easy to vanish. Latex gloves still balled into his right fist he pulled the door open as his left hand stuck the spent match into his pocket. His only trophy but he'd recall Gladys with this one just like all the others in his bag.
There! the hallway was almost empty as he stepped confidently out, pulling the door tightly shut behind him. An elderly man with a metal cane was having trouble getting his door shut two doors down. Michael walked to him with a broad smile on his clean shaven face.
"Here," he said almost cheerfully, "let me help you with that. Don't you hate these fire drills?"
"Are you sure it's a drill?" the old man sounded frightened.
"Of course," Michael reassured him, "if it was a real fire the sprinklers would be getting us all wet wouldn't they?"
With that the man smiled in relief and nodded. Michael waved at him as he entered the stairway halfway. He stopped holding the door open for the old man to follow.
"My name's Michael," he said to the approaching elderly man, "what did you say your name was?"