Author's Commentary
Of all the short stories I've written, this one is probably one of my favorites. Written in October 2007 (just in time for Halloween), "Juvenile Delinquency" was spawned from a series of demented thoughts that somehow worked their way into my brain while I was taking a shower. My older brother was the first to read the story, and he seemed simultaneously pleased and disturbed. This is exactly what I was going for, so I hope the rest of you feel the same. Enjoy!
Kicking and squirming like a rabbit in the throes of an epileptic fit, she slips from my grasp just as I thrust the knife down on her with all of my strength. The feeling of the sharp metal blade hitting the carpeted floor with a dull thud is unimaginably disappointing, but watching her wriggle across the floor to get away from me is just as much amusing. So funny, in fact, that I almost burst out in overly-exaggerated maniacal laughter; of course, I suddenly remember that such things are never appropriate until victory is assured. Like shouting “touchdown” before the player is in the end zone, it only leaves too much room for embarrassing disappointment, should things not go as planned… and I’ve had enough of that. Sure enough, as I ponder the merits of good timing while pulling the kitchen knife from the living room floor, she gets to her feet and runs through the nearest doorway, still screaming.
Standing up straight, I decide to give her a head start. It’s really no fun if I kill her too soon, before she has time to think about it. A door slams elsewhere in the house, as I struggle to decide how far I should take this little charade. Michelle was always such a sweet girl… but she was arrogant. She thought she could use me, trick me into thinking she loved me, and then dump me for some asshole who never cared about her as much as I did. Well, I won’t let it get to me. I won’t let this little failure control me for the rest of my life. I’m in control, now. I can’t wait to see the look on her face when I finally corner her. This is quite possibly the greatest prank ever… so good that I have to remind myself every few seconds that I’m not actually trying to kill her, just scare the shit out of her and get even. She broke my heart, so I’ll break her spirit. Tooth for an eye, arm for a leg, what-the-fuck-ever. It always works out, in the end. Even if I do end up killing her, I could probably justify that, too.
But there’s no time to think about it right now. After going through all this trouble, I still have to make sure she doesn’t get away. If she makes it to the back door, I might actually have to chase her down the block, and that would be a royal pain in the ass. These suburban areas are far too crowded for that kind of spectacle, and some old bitch with no sense of humor would probably call the police.
Venturing deeper into the house, I can only wonder where she might have gone, but something deep inside me says I haven’t lost her yet. Holding my breath, as I enter the hallway adjacent to the living room, I stop and listen; to my surprise and delight, I hear footsteps upstairs, her little feet scampering directly over my head. Stupid slut. Either she plans on climbing out the window, or she’s really as dumb as I thought. It’s just like in the movies… why do they always trap themselves? As my Satanist friend Conner would say, stupidity is the greatest sin known to man. Morality is subject to interpretation, but a blatant lack of common sense transcends the subjective ambiguities of personal opinion.
Of course, I’ve done plenty of stupid things, myself. My life is riddled with countless blunders and mistakes, all of which I would give anything to forget. Sometimes I can’t even sleep at night, because I keep remembering all those times I said the wrong thing, all those times I made myself look like a complete fucking douchebag… but that’s what I call social stupidity, and it’s not the kind of stupidity that gets you killed, unless you blow your own head off like Hitler did when he realized he lost a world war. Most of my own mistakes, I can deal with. It isn’t hard, for example, to forget about the first time I tried to ask a girl out; I can laugh it off, push it to the back of my mind, and move on, because it happens to everyone. But some memories just stick with me, like the time I forgot my lines at the school play and ruined the entire performance. Or the Christmas that I opened my brother’s present by accident. Everyone yelled at me. Then I cried, like any five-year-old would do, and they yelled at me some more for ruining Christmas by being such a big baby, and then took away my toys.
Then there was the Thanksgiving six years later. My father told me to go out into the kitchen and get the mashed potatoes. Sure enough, half-way back to the table, I tripped on the cat and dropped the whole bowl on the floor. I still remember seeing it in mid-air, and trying to catch it, but it was too late… plop, splash, smash, and more screaming, because everything is my fault. “You stupid brat, Jonny,” my mother had said. “You’re a stupid little piece of shit, you stupid fuck.” Well, I showed her. I’ve been on the honor roll ever since, only at the cost of a more desirable social life that she wouldn’t have approved of in the first place, and now she’s dead, and so is the cat. Good riddance.
Getting lost in these simultaneously painful and heartwarming memories, while searching for the staircase in Michelle’s rich family’s house, I begin to wonder if it was a mistake to cut the power. With all of the lights off, it has proven quite difficult to outsmart an animal who knows the territory much better than I. Then again, wouldn’t it be foolish to try to scare someone with the lights on? (I’d need a chainsaw for that.) Likewise, although the mask I’m wearing limits my vision and makes everything all the more difficult, it serves its purpose. I can’t take it off until just the right moment… not until she sees how well I can imitate Michael Myers.
Eventually, I do find those stairs leading to the second floor of the house, and slowly make my way up. I can hear her, now, in her bedroom… she’s picking up the telephone, only to find out that I’ve cut the phone line, too. (Sometimes I amaze myself with my cunning.) However, the next thing I hear is the annoying sound of a teenage girl’s cellular phone being turned on… those idiotic ringtones are enough to send anyone on a homicidal rampage; I know this because I’ve considered it twice. Yet even more annoying than the sound, if that’s even possible, is the fact that I had never seen this coming. None of the classic horror movie characters ever had cell phones. With her parents gone for the weekend, and the land line out of order, I had planned on taking my time… now I have to improvise. I quicken the pace up those carpeted steps as I hear her dial 9-1-1. Beep-boop-boop. A few seconds later, her voice comes echoing through the upstairs hallway in hysterical whispers to some operator who probably thinks it’s a joke.
“Please, help. Someone broke into my house, he’s trying to kill me. He has a knife. No, I opened the front door and he just attacked me. I’m upstairs. No, I don’t hear him. I think he’s still down there. The power’s out. Please, just send help, hurry…”
I reach the top of the stairs just as she gives them the address. Her voice is clearer, now, and I need not guess which room she’s hiding in. It’s all too easy. Raising the knife dramatically over my head as I approach the door with caution, I steadily prepare to kick it open. But then I start to reconsider. Haven’t I already won? Maybe I’ve gone far enough. The police will be here soon, and I’ve already given her nightmares for the rest of her life. Good enough, I suppose. Slowly, I slide the kitchen knife into my back pocket, and take off my hockey mask, tossing it on the floor beside the doorway. It’s over.
But while I’m here, I might as well have some fun.
Slowly turning the knob, I listen as her voice abruptly stops. There’s a faint “click” as she closes the cell phone, then silence. She’s holding her breath, and I’m waiting for just the right moment. As soon as I hear her begin to exhale, I put all of my weight on the door and push it open to catch her off-guard, but there she is right in front of me, ready to swing a ceramic lamp at my head. I have to move quickly to catch her arm; she screams, and the lamp falls to the floor. “It’s me,” I tell her, trying to hold her still long enough for her to recognize me. “It’s okay, it’s just me.” Immediately, she starts crying; how predictable. I almost felt proud of her, when she tried to fight back; now I want to slap her. But I have to keep up the act. “I called and no one answered, so I came by to see if you were okay… then I saw the front door standing open.”
“Oh God, Jonny,” she whimpers as she buries her head in my chest, “it was awful. He had a knife. He tried to kill me!”
“It’s okay, he’s gone now,” I tell her, trying not to smile. How can I not be proud of myself? It’s perfect. I got my revenge, and now I also get to be her savior. What a perfect way to get back into her pants. I should have tried this weeks ago. Maybe next weekend, if she still is not convinced of my heroism, I’ll murder her parents. Then again, maybe not. Maybe I should just finish things, tie up the loose ends, and find a girlfriend who’s less likely to betray me as soon as I run out of money. Maybe…
“I was so
scared!” she whines, as I reach for my back pocket.
“I know, I know… don’t cry, it’s okay. I’m here now, nobody’s going to hurt you… I promise, I won’t let anyone—SIKE!” Her guts sound like mashed potatoes as they hit the floor, and the look on her face as she slumps over and falls in them is absolutely priceless. Good thing I wore gloves. God damn, I’m awesome.
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