Mercy

Obscured by vines crawling along every inch of its wooden paneling was a shed. It wasn’t far behind Billie Joe’s house, but it was camouflaged enough by the foliage to remain completely concealed to the untrained eye. I didn’t see it until I unwittingly caught a patch of light glimmering in the corner of my eye as the afternoon sun reflected off the shed’s sole window. I gasped aloud and gawked at the modest structure while my mind slowly began to register its existence in the yard. Soon enough, I was able to perceive all its faces and corners, its roof, and a rusted handle on a door obstructed by vines. At once I felt as if I shouldn’t dare enter, and the crisscrossing foliage which blocked the doorway appeared to justify my ever-growing sense of foreboding. Even the fucking plants knew that shed was an ill omen, so they attempted to shield the world from its menacing structure by wrapping thousands of their scrawny arms about the place.

Unfortunately, they could not conceal the menace from Billie Joe. He knew exactly where to find it and promptly did so without so much as a second thought. He took one look at the natural warning signs and, scoffing, he grasped the rusted handle and used a similarly scrawny arm to pull the door open. There was a snap, a pop, and a deafening crack! as the vines reluctantly broke their hold, and the door groaned with the gut-wrenching despair of an invalid. Out of the corner of my eye, the same corner which caught a glimpse of sunlight shimmering off an unexpected window, I saw blood dripping from the broken arms of valiant vines. My focus on the door was immediately shifted to the snapped vines, but the second they left my peripheral vision the blood disappeared.

“I don’t like this, Old Man,” I whispered, afraid of disturbing whatever it was which haunted the shed. Somewhere in the distance, the wind picked up. Leaves fluttered, but the subtle disturbance sounded much more like mockery. They were laughing again.

“What, ‘n’ you think I’m gettin’ my rocks off by doin’ this, Fairy? Fuck you. Get in the shed,” the old bastard growled. The body-borrowing scenario with Joey had hardened him, and I watched, helpless, as he slowly detached himself from reality. He wasn’t all there anymore, and it frightened me beyond words.

I didn’t want to go in that shed.

“Why? What’s in there? The gun?” I pressed, shifting my weight from one foot to the other in a semi-comical display of apprehension. I began to clench and unclench my fists as Billie Joe drew nearer, subconsciously preparing to defend myself if he were to lash out at me.

Scowling down at my spastic hands, he grunted, “Yeah. The gun.”

“Then you get it. Don’t forget that this bullshit was all your idea,” I hissed, retreating a step or two. As I did so, leaves which grew from the vines seemed to glow a brighter shade of green.

“I can’t. I ain’t goin’ in there. You have to,” he insisted, hands groping out to shove me inside. I pushed him away, and the stubborn old bastard wobbled unsteadily before ultimately regaining his balance. When I met his soggy stare, I felt the rejection oozing from his very soul out through his eyes.

“Please, Fairy. Do this for me,” he pleaded, leaning forward in anticipation.

I sighed loudly. I stared at the ground. I obsessively picked at my fingernails. Billie Joe continued to gaze upon me with those goddamn pathetic, dying eyes. I was, inevitably, going to cave, and he damn well knew it. That alone made his patience all the more maddening.

“Fine,” I eventually snapped.

The old man scurried forward and buried his face in my chest, muttering his thank-you’s over and over again. His quick movement reminded me of a small rodent.

A squirrel, in fact.

I took him in my arms and pressed a quick kiss atop his head in an attempt to quiet him down, and his muttering did indeed subside in a moment or two. He shyly peered up at me, grinned, and murmured, “It’s in an antique-lookin’ wooden box. Can’t miss it.”

Grumbling incoherently, I took a step towards the shed. The leaves paled considerably in defeat, though it might have been my imagination wildly personifying the place out of fear. After gulping a considerable amount of air and holding it in, I entered the tiny shack and waited for all hell to break loose. I could have held my breath until I was blue in the face, and nothing would have happened. There were no spooks inside that shed, but there were, however, plenty of ominous factors which made my skin crawl.

Faded, yellowed pictures coated the walls like a child’s insufficient wallpapering attempt. The corners of each picture had commenced in curling in upon themselves as if they wished to shrivel and fade away into nothingness much like its artist had. Every drawing was signed with black crayon in a child’s sloppy scrawl. Joey, nearly all of them said.

Only one said Jakob.

“Oh my God,” I whispered, soaking in every aspect of the shed’s interior with a mounting sense of dread. Children’s toys, baseballs, mitts, bats, and tiny plastic guns littered the floor, waiting to be played with again. The nostalgic articles of childhood were naively unaware that their former playmate had grown and died, and the tragic finality of it all moved me to tears. The shed hadn’t been touched or used since Joey left home. It was a silent shrine to what was, what should have been, and what was lost.

Then, I realized a loaded gun had also been placed somewhere in Joey’s lair. My stomach dropped, and my well of tears dried almost immediately. What decent parent would leave their child alone to romp around a room with a violent weapon hidden somewhere amidst its uncanny plastic replicas?

Billie Joe’s significant lapse in judgment struck a chord within me that resonated right down to my very soul, chiming again and again in a disquietingly repetitive melody. It was a dead ringer for a song I used to sing to my infant daughter, a song the old bastard had purposely sung purely to earn a rise out of me. He was doing it again. From outside the shed, I could hear him humming that god-awful tune in a voice that quaked with either amusement or grief.

That miserable cunt lied to me. He was getting his rocks off by torturing me.

I stomped out of the shed, footsteps echoing on the grimy floorboards below, and grabbed Billie Joe by the arm. His eyes grew impossibly wide and his mouth flew open to release a bloodcurdling shriek, but my hand pressed against his lips muffled his cries of alarm. He began to pant uncontrollably, breath coming out in hot, jagged bursts against my palm, and his body squirmed desperately in a pitiable attempt to free himself from my livid grasp. No matter how hard he struggled, I was able to drag him further and further into the shed until my back made contact with the far wall. Yellowed paper crinkled upon my touch, and I shuddered at the unexpected noise. Billie Joe heard it too. He groaned and went limp in my arms. Not until he remained motionless for a good minute or two was I comfortable with uncovering his mouth. Just before I did so, he managed to lick my hand.

Sick bastard was always one step ahead of me.

“I fuckin’…hate you,” he whimpered, a light cough fragmenting his sentence ever so slightly.

“Love you too, sweetheart. Now, look around. Tell me what you see,” I ordered him. He abruptly began trembling.

“No,” he challenged.

With aggravation boiling thick in my blood, I flipped the old man around, nearly knocking him over in the process. After placing both hands firmly upon his shoulders, I scanned his features and groaned aloud as my gaze was met with two obstinately closed eyes. I slapped him, but his eyelids merely clamped down even tighter.

“Look at me!” I barked. Billie Joe sobbed, but did not open his eyes.

“Fairy, s-s-stop!” he stuttered. My nails dug into his naked shoulder blades. I wasn’t going to stop until he did as he was told.

“You’re a fucking coward, y’know that? An overbearing, paranoid, useless coward,” I spat, bringing my face closer to his with each spiteful syllable until I was humming sweet insults into ungrateful ears.

“No!” Billie bawled. I was so fucking close. I had him.

“Then open your eyes!”

Sniffling, his eyelids fluttered open and darted frantically about the shed. I turned him away from me, permitting him to properly soak in every lost detail, and I silently relished the moment as the old bastard continued to cry.

“What do you see, Old Man?” I demanded, resting my chin near the base of his neck.

Shivering, he replied, “Joey.”

“Yes, and what happened to Joey?”

Billie never replied. He kept on trembling and told me I would find the gun case hidden behind the only drawing signed Jakob.