Bad Thoughts by Dave Zeltserman

to yourself?” the killer whispered lightly, his breath hot against Shannon’s ear. When he didn’t answer, the killer applied more pressure to the broken fingers until Shannon repeated what the killer ordered him to.
           “That’s better,” the killer whispered, his tiny, slit mouth close against Shannon’s ear. “Let me ask you something, boy. You think you have the right to make a god bleed?” After working more on his broken fingers, Shannon screamed out that he didn’t.
           The killer jerked Shannon to his feet, one hand pushing the boy’s head, the other twisting the broken fingers. Then he forced him forward, until Shannon’s face was inches from his mother’s.
           “Go ahead,” he whispered. “Take a good look. See what happens when you anger the gods.” Shannon had his eyes squeezed shut, but the killer kept whispering to the boy, modulating the pressure on his bent fingers, using them the way a puppeteer controls a marionette by its strings. When Shannon couldn’t stand the pain anymore he opened his eyes and looked into his mother’s dead face.
           “Now breath deeply,” the killer ordered, “smell that beautiful smell of death.” And Shannon did what he was forced to do.
           “That wasn’t so hard, was it, boy?” the killer asked softly. Then he jerked Shannon away from the table and applied pressure on his bent fingers until Shannon was kneeling on the floor.
           “I was fifteen before I had my first chance to smell that beautiful smell,” he whispered. “How old are you, boy?” A little twist made Shannon answer. “Aren’t you lucky,” he whispered, his breath obscenely hot. “Starting off so young. But this will be your only chance, boy. ’Cause you know what I’m going to do to you after this?” He described it in great detail, his breath flicking in and out of Shannon’s ear, tickling it like a snake’s tongue.
           At times Shannon would black out from the pain. When he’d fade back in the killer would be whispering to him about how little time Shannon had left.
           “Time to get up and kiss mommy good-bye,” the killer breathed lightly as he escalated the pain. He forced Shannon to his feet and back to the table. The killer pushed harder on his fingers, trying to force him forward. The pain screamed through Shannon’s head like a siren, exploding into a fiery burst. Then it went black. With the next twist, the pain reached a new level, a level beyond any conscious awareness.
           The pain was no longer a part of him. It had gone beyond that. It was as if Shannon was outside of himself, observing the scene from a distance.
           Something distracted the killer. Without being aware of it, Shannon swung his free elbow and caught the killer in the groin. There was a dull moan as he released his grip of the boy’s broken fingers. Shannon scrambled forward and pulled the knife from his mother’s mouth. Then he turned on the man.
           The rest was only a dizzying whirl of images, with him slashing and stabbing at the killer, knocking the killer to the ground, then pulling at his dirty ponytail and yanking his head back and . . . and trying to sever that malformed ugly head from his body. Hacking away, again and again.
           Someone pulled him off and twisted the knife from his hand. Shannon stared blankly at the man until he recognized him as his next-door neighbor.
           “I heard you screaming,” the man said, his face white as a sheet. “Jesus Christ,” he whispered as his face grew even whiter, his eyes scanning the room, “let’s get you the hell out of here.”
    * * * * *
           The police came. They put Shannon in a cruiser and took him to the hospital where he underwent surgery to save his badly mangled fingers. The doctor performing the surgery was more shocked than anyone that he was able to. Afterwards, Shannon was put on pain