Kevin

(A/N: Incomplete chapter.)

The voice in my head hadn’t said anything since I had forced in to the back of my mind a couple of days ago. Now I wondered if I had totally gotten rid of it.

Oh how wrong I was.

The sharpie was almost totally dried out and half of it was gone, but still it worked and that was really all that matter.

With my head propped up on one hand and Jason sitting by my side, I began to draw out the flyer.

“Jason,” I asked, unsure if he was listening or not.

Yes? He asked while starting to clean off his face. I watched his small almost human-like hands run over his tongue and then through his fur at lighting speed. “Are you okay?”

Jason looked up at me, blinking his small beady eyes.

Why do you ask? He inquired. What if Jason’s voice was just my own mind playing tricks on me, and he was just responding according to when I looked at him?

“I meant…Well, it’s not the best life we’re leading you know, not the best food.” I began. “I was wondering if you know, being an animal…If that was hurting you or anything.”

I swear the rat shook his head.

I am fine. He assured me. And to answer anything that may be on your mind, I am getting smarter.

I grinned and went back to writing. But, then another thought hit me. Unable to look at Jason at the moment, and trying to concentrate on my writing, I asked; “Are you that voice in my head?”

No Kevin. Jason replied sternly. That voice is the fuel to your rage. He was a very philosophical little rat, he was.

 “You think so?”

Yes Kevin, I am your rage and your sin.

My whole body shook with chills for a split second.

“What?”

I didn’t say anything.

That hadn’t been Jason’s light northern voice; that had been a much deeper, more demonic one. Like an upgraded version of the voice in my head.

As your urges grow stronger so do I, and soon you will be able to meet me face to face. It spoke with a venom-like demonized voice, gliding off and jabbing at my head like pins.

“You’re the voice in my head.” I acknowledged, nodding slowly. You are correct.

Kevin, don’t listen to it! Jason cried, nudging me.

Be quiet! You two are natural underlings to my power. The voice snapped with a growl. I saw Jason cower out of the corner of my eye.

“Who are you?” I demanded to know.

I have told you, Kevin McKinnon Douglass, I am your rage and your sin. And then it was gone. The upgraded voice wasn’t screaming anymore, it didn’t need too. Its darker tone was enough to scare the crap out of anybody, no matter their size or age.

How come I could hear it too? Jason whimpered. I ran a hand over my face. It was slick with cold sweat and I was shaking.

“I think it wanted you to hear.” I said glumly, returning to writing, although it was hard due to the fact that I could hardly even hold my marker. I felt like I was going to faint.

Jason came over and looked down at the flyer, taking time to read the whole thing.

You want to start over? He asked. I shrugged, brushing the little rat out of the way as I continued.

“It’d be nice. Earn some money; get a flat, maybe some friends.” I said.  

I’m your friend! Jason chirped.

“Yeah, I know that. But…maybe If I try at a decent life…maybe they’ll stop.”

Stop?

“The urges.”

Jason squealed a little at the mention and went back to reading the flyer.

 

Kevin Douglass.

Hired help.

Farmhand, paperboy, gardener, ect.

Pay depends on job and time.

Contact Kevin Douglass via operator and ask for local phone booth number near abandon library.

He’ll answer. Any job, anywhere.

 

Jason stepped back a few paces and allowed me to add a couple of finishing touches.

I thought you were going to get the number for that phone booth. He reminded.

“I’m feeling too lazy today.” I replied, beginning to copy it down on another piece of cardstock.

The only noise for a while was the scrawling of the marker on the thick paper.

Jason latched his claws into my shirt and pulled his fat rat self onto my back.

“What are you doing?”

Jason hop-wobbled over onto my neck and I cringed as his claws hit my flesh.

Sorry. He said quickly, and then leapt onto my head.

“Okay, seriously, what are you doing?”

Just…watching. Jason replied simply, weighing my head down. Rats and their…rattiness. It was adorable. I couldn’t help but love the little fellow that had become my best and only friend. Then, instinctively, Jason grabbed a small paw-full of my hair and began gnawing on it lightly.

Finally satisfied, I let the marker roll across the floor and looked at my freshly made fliers. They all had odd little finishing touches on them; an over-large I; a small extra dot of ink, a torn edge, all small things that made each one special in its own way.

Kevin! Kevin! It’s snowing! Jason suddenly blurted out, bounding from my back and scampering away to get a good view of the window. I rolled up the fliers and stuck them in my pocket. I liked the pocket, it was better then the tattered one on my own clothes. And finding a size of pants that fitted wasn’t hard. I wasn’t what you would call a fat person, having lived off the street most of my life.

“Charming.” I said, picking Jason up and putting him on the windowsill so he might better view the weather.
The warm sun that seeped through the window, mixed with the cold air, gave me the feeling of an immortal, or one trapped in a dream. But only one of those rare dreams, were one could fully control himself. I stood in the light, basking in it, soaking it in. It felt kinda like…Well, you know, like one of those dreams were you end up dying a painful, mangled death, and you wake up with a start feeling refreshed and more alive then ever, like receiving a sudden electric shock. Yeah, that’s what it kinda felt like.

“I’m going to go hang up some of these fliers around town. D’you wanna come?”
Jason waddled around on the sill and gave his ears a twitch. No. He said. I could tell by the tone in his voice that he wasn’t trying to be rude, but the snow wasn’t his best friend. Nor was it mine.

“Okay, fine, suit yourself.” I replied grumpily, grabbing the fliers from the ground. “If those two buggers, Hank and…that other guy, if they come around, leave the building, kay?”

Jason wanted to know why.

“Because they aren’t nice men, and I don’t like they’ll like seeing a rat watching the snow fall.”

Why? Jason wanted to know with interest, even though his Northern tone sounded innocent and small. I sighed and shook my head slowly.

“Because the guy named Hank thinks that this is his place.” I explained it in the simplest way I knew.

But we got here first.

“Yeah, but Hank thinks just ‘cause he gave some fat guy a lot of special paper that this place is his.”
He wants to buy our home? Jason suddenly sounded frightened.

“Yeah, he does. But that’s why I’m going to get a job. Then we’ll have an apartment all to ourselves and nobody can kick us out.”

Glad to hear it.

 

The air was so cold it was shocking. The sidewalk seemed to crack under me; like I was either too fat for its own good, or it was too skinny. But it was just a thin layer of ice, hiding under a blanket of snow.

There were very few people about and the buildings were bare, almost seeming empty, with no children running about in the streets, or the washing being hung from windows. And because of that every time I took a step the crunching ice echoed and bounced off the walls, sounding like I had on a pair of stereo headphones, or the neighborhood had suddenly grown surround-sound speakers.

In an effort to warm up, I had bundled up by wearing both my T-shirts, although only one pair of pants and my trench coat. My trench coat was the only jacket that I owned.

I stared down at my shoes. Unknowing to me, they were converses. My mustard-yellow lined shoes were converses! Not real ones, oh no, I’d never be able to afford them, but fakes.

I had heard an old woman scream the other day “Damned husband’s converse’s smellin’ up my house!” And she had chucked a battered up old pair of black ones out her window. They nearly missed my head.

I had sworn loudly at the old woman, thrown the shoes back through the window, and ran away. That was funny.

With no rat stuffed in my pocket, my load seemed lighter and I was able to go faster without the threat of a plump rodent rolling out of my pocket and smacking on the ground.

I passed Devi’s house, and I saw a light flicker on. Why the hell someone would turn a light on in the day eluded me. An elderly man pressed his ugly face to the window. He had a crown of balding hair, sharp, hawk-like eyes, and seemed obsessed with sweater vests. His mouth curved to form a perfect O, and he left, leaving the curtain swaying where he had been.

“Crap!” I blurted out, smacking myself in the forehead for forgetting. What was I supposed to hang the fliers up with? My amazing mental abilities?

Yeah, I know, shut up.

 I don’t know why, because I was perfectly safe from being hit, but I moved out of the way as I heard the alarming repeating cry of a fire truck. I guess it was just out of personal respect, because I had always admired the brave men and women as they risked their lives every day to save even just one human soul from a fiery death. The truck whizzed past, stirring up a chilly breeze that pulled at my coat and made me shake. The alarm was still ringing in my ears loudly, even though the truck was already all the way down the street. It slowed down slightly, and took a long, jarring turn around a street corner, and whizzed out of view.

I entered what I called the flat street. It was a long, narrow street lined with large buildings of up to five stories, each one old in age, made of brick, and haunting and looming, like when a cat tries to stare you down. This was the first sign that the town was near, having left my own neighborhood. The buildings, as I should’ve explained, had flats inside them, and I could hear the muffled crying of a child from deep within one of the flats.
There was graffiti all over the tall wooden walls that served as garden walls, and the gardens served as a space-filler, the tenants probably having no use of the alley. The tenants probably had no use of the alley because the trash bins were lying on the curb, one knocked over by the passing fire truck, and large black trash bags overflowing with garbage. It smelled like rotten veggies, and this was a horrible part of the neighborhood.

Normally, people would take the other street, and looped around tons of other houses, and all just to avoid seeing the buildings. But my library was two blocks away from this street, and this way was faster.

As I came upon a cleaner part, the starting of the real town, a couple of businesses here and there, I was passed again by another fire truck. And again I stepped out of the way. The fire truck sped away and I saluted them, and what made my day was the fact that even though they had been called out on an emergency they still honked their horn at me.
The fire truck was followed by an ambulance, a police car, and another ambulance. The line of emergency vehicles went down the street, each one almost bumping into each other. I watched them rattle down the street before my inquisitiveness took over and I followed at a jog. I knew I could not keep pace with any type of automobile, but I could still hear the sirens and the now faint roar of the motors.

In this small town of ours, you knew where everything was. The town was like an isolated island and anything that was out of place, one little thing that was new, and it was on the news, people would panic, and it would take forever to get used too.

The beginning of the town (and as I have probably said before, the name of this town I will not enlighten you on for not only the protection of me, but of my victims) always began with the police station.
It was a grand building nearly two stories high. It was made entirely out of old bricks that were broken and chipped but amazingly could still hold up the weight of the lot. The upper part of the second story was painted a dark navy blue, now somewhat fading and peeled off, giving the whole structure a sort of old and rustic appeal. The words “POLICE STATION” were painted across the fading blue in a dull white that now had a gray tinge to it.

But not any more.
There was nothing in its place, nothing at all except the crumbled ruins of where the building used to be. The entire thing had been blown, or possibly smashed, to pieces. It was a horrific sight. Men and women from Scotland Yard were cleaning up the remains of the police officers who had lost their lives; picking up the dismembered limbs and carting away the bloodied bodies.

More officers were holding back a crowd of people that had gathered to see what had been happening. I pushed my way through the mass of people, wrinkling my nose as a snow flake landed on it. But snow flakes weren’t warm…I rubbed my nose and looked at my finger. Gray soot covered my forefinger. It wasn’t showering snow, it was snowing ash.

I continued to shove my way to the front of the crowd until I could address the officer keeping the mob of people back. “What happened?” I asked. The officer shook her head sadly.

“I don’t really know.” She admitted. “We got a call saying a home-made bomb the station had taken away from someone had been set off, and then the line went dead.”
I could have sworn my jaw dropped open. “All of this happened because of one home-made bomb? How many did it kill?”
”All of them.”

“All of them?”
”Nearly all."