“Joey,” Stanton rises, opening up a cabinet in the hutch and laying the checkbook on top of a stack of cloth napkins, “how old are you?”
Thoughts start running through Joey’s mind, “what does he care? Does he get off on killing kids? Dude, calm down. We don’t even know what he’s gonna do. Just relax.”
Joey clears his throat and stairs Stanton in the eye, “Twenty-two, sir.”
The words come out quiet and incomprehensible, Joey’s normally harsh tone taking a back seat in the presence of a man who could not only kill him, but also make it so he never existed. “Say that again, son? I didn’t hear you.”
“I’m Twenty-two. Sir.” Joey speaks the words louder, but they’re still drowned out by his pounding heart. Stanton moves toward the living room, sitting down on a brown leather recliner and motioning for Joey to follow him into the living room. Across the oak coffee table sits a similar chair, except this one looks older and discolored. Stanton points his finger toward it and Joey takes his seat, his eyes never leaving Stanton. The fear must be flowing off of him, as Stanton smiles in a way that tells you he owns you.
“You’ve never killed anyone before, have you?” Stanton’s gruff voice is both domineering and oddly comforting.
“No, sir. No I haven’t.” Stanton’s eyes catch my fingers twitching.
“And what did you think of it? Honestly.” Stanton leans over, anxiously anticipating what Joey is going to say.
Joey stares at Stanton’s unchanging face, trying to play a confidence game that he’s losing badly. He takes a huge gulp of air and considers whether or not he should tell him how badly he hated it. How he puked over and again as he cut off the appendages and shoved them in the duffle bag. How he cried and prayed to God that he would be forgiven, and that it would be over soon.
“C’mon, son. Answer me. And be honest. I can tell if you lie, it’s all in the eyes.”
“I hated it.” Joey murmurs rubbing his fingers over the arms of the chair.
“What’s that? Lets go, boy. Speak up!” Stanton’s tone grows more demanding, his comforting tone melting to animosity.
“I fucking hated it! I fucking hated killing the guy who I didn’t know what he did or who he was! I puked like five fucking times when I was cutting off the arms and legs! Do you know it’s like to cut through a bone!? Fucking…” Stanton laughs at Joey’s eruption. It’s the first time the boy’s had any balls since Stanton called Joey and told him he knew it was him that did it. He never even told Joey any details of what he did, but his voice, and the way he told him he knew, was enough for Joey to wet his pants
Stanton crosses his legs and fold his arms under each other. “That guy you killed? I have no idea who he was. He did nothing to me; he was nothing to me. Just some guy.” Joey freezes, his jaw drops slightly with the look of confusion enveloping his features. “But I made you kill him. You thought you got one over on me, but I made you kill somebody for the shear hell of it. Do you see what kind of person I am, what kind of person I can be?” Stanton walks into the kitchen and grabs the duffel bag. Joey sits up out of his seat in shock of what he just heard. He killed a man for no reason, in cold blood. He’s a twenty-two year old murderer. Stanton fingers for Joey to follow him out of the kitchen, taking Joey through the hallway toward the front door.
No words are spoken; the only sound is the uncontrolled breathing of a shell-shocked young man. Stanton opens the door and holds out the duffel bag for Joey to take with him. “Consider this, Mr. Robinson, a difficult lesson learned.” Stanton closes the door, leaving Joey with the remains of what was once a man.
“FREEZE! DON’T MOVE!” The voice yells out as Joey turns around the corner to see a small fleet of police cars waiting for him. Joey drops the bag and puts his hands behind his head. Several SWAT officers storm him, taking him down hard and breaking his nose. One of them takes the duffel bag and opens it, yelling to the others that it’s the body. They cuff him and read him his rights, blood streaming down his chin and into his mouth. One of the cops enters the house and exits almost immediately with a small rectangular piece of paper in hand. It was a difficult lesson indeed, one that Joseph Robinson will be paying for for the rest of his life.
