Matthew Hoemke

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Nightmare-Chapter 7




Jake slammed the front door to his house as forcefully as he could. He was releasing anger as he never had before.  He threw his backpack to the floor and began to pace in tight circles around his living room.  He was replaying in his head all the times Stan had beat down on him.  He kicked the couch and let out a bellow through gritted teeth.  He punched the wall, opening up a small wound in his knuckles.  He raced to the bathroom to wash the blood away.


Running his fist under cold water, he looked up at his face in the mirror.  He looked at the cut on his cheek.  It wasn’t bad.  It sure hurt though.  He fixed his focus on the anger in his eyes.  That was when his face made an ugly twitch.  He heard Stan’s voice saying,“ I will fucking END you!”


“Bastard can’t get away with this,” Jake said.  “He’s gone way to fucking far!”

Jake heard Stan say, “I will cut out your soul…”

Jake looked at his reflection in the mirror once more.  He fixed his gaze on the wound on his cheek.  Fear struck him once more.

“He’ll hurt you…” Jake whispered.  “He wasn’t lying.  He’ll kill you.”

Jake heard Angela say, “You have to take a stand.”  He could almost see her saying this to him in the mirror.  His heart sank lower.

“He’ll hurt her!” Jake realized in an aloud stream of consciousness.  “He can do whatever he wants to me, but not her.  You gotta do it.  What choice do you have?  No.  No, there is always a choice.  Do you honestly think you could?  Maybe it’s not so hard.  He will hurt her.  And, she’s right.  You have to take a stand.  It’s wrong.  But, he deserves it though.  She’s not a whore.   SHE’S NOT A WHORE!”

He pounded the sink.

“I’ve gotta take a stand,” Jake softly.


*          *          *


Jake was pacing around his bedroom.  He took off his shirt and threw it onto his nightstand.  From the nightstand, he took out a red hooded sweatshirt and put it on.  He opened his closet and withdrew a long black leather jacket and slipped it on over his hooded sweatshirt.  Jake walked back down to his kitchen and opened the drawer of eating utensils.  He eyed one of the knives that looked particularly serrated, but ended up slapping it down to the counter top.  He paused a moment before the thought struck him.

“Work shed,” Jake said.


*          *          *


From within the work shed, Jake turned on the swinging overhead light which illuminated a room full of blunt tools and gleaming saws.  He found a long hunting knife in one of the drawers and concealed it within the inside pocket of his leather trench coat.  As he went to turn out the light, he noticed a pair of black gloves and quickly grabbed them before turning the light out.


*          *          *


Jake was in the bathroom, looking himself over.  He stared at himself for a long while in the mirror.  As an idea crept up on him, he made sudden haste and exited the bathroom.  He headed back up the stairs to his room.  He rifled through the lowest drawer of his dresser trying to find it.  Bingo.  He pulled out; from beneath childhood clothes that he’d long outgrew but was too sentimental to give away, a creepy Bill Clinton mask.  He smiled.

Back in the bathroom, he eyes himself in the mask, red hood down, over the shoulder and back of his long black trench coat.  He took several deep breaths.

“Here we go,” Jake said confidently.


*          *          *


Stan walked down a long snow covered street in the dead of night.  Stan watched his feet, looking deep in thought.  He stopped sharply when he saw a masked figure standing some thirty feet ahead, under the illuminating glow of an orange streetlamp.  Stan was startled by the sight, but feigned otherwise.


“Halloween’s over dipshit,” Stan called out to the masked figure.


Jake pulled the knife from his inner jacket pocket.  He was surprised to find that his hand was shaking as he held it.  Stan took a step back.  Afraid Stan would run, Jake let out a bellow and rushed Stan.


The blade cleaved so deep into the end of Stan’s life, he could hardly make a sound.  For fear he’d yell, Jake covered his mouth as he removed the blade from Stan’s side.  Blood spilled to the snow in a single dark splash.  Jake plunged the knife once more into Stan’s stomach.  Stan lost his balance and Jake eased him to the street floor.  Jake pulled the knife from his stomach and stood above Stan.


Stan tried to crawl forward, sobbing audibly.  Jake drove his knee into Stan’s side and stabbed him in the upper right side of the shoulder.  Stan gave a hollow yell and gasped for breath.  Jake turned Stan over so that he was facing upward and plunged the knife one final time into Stan’s sternum.  Jake could hear the death rattle wheeze coming from the broken Stan at his feet.  He removed the knife and fled the scene.

Jake ran and ran, unable to stop.  Adrenalin pumped through his veins, as did a thrill of freedom.  It was complete catharsis.  He was free of his daily torment, but couldn’t shake the pathetic sight of Stan lying bloodied in the street.  The last sounds of Stan’s labored breathing sickened Jake.  The weight of reality flooded and crushed him.  He stopped abruptly, feeling ill.  He leaned against a tree and tore off the mask.  He tossed it into snowy woods.  Freezing tears streamed down his cheeks.


“What have I done?” Jake panted.


In the distance he heard a shrill female scream.  He was sure that this was the scream of some young girl, by the sounds of it, having just discovered Stan’s slowly freezing corpse.  Jake started to heave and vomit.  He dropped to his knees and let the tears come forth.  He noticed the snow begin to fall in large fluffy flakes.  He admired the beauty for a moment before rising to his feet.  In the distance, he thought he heard a siren.  His feet flighted once more.