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He's sitting at the kitchen table coloring with crayons. He remembers that table well - white tile with wood trim. The spaces between the tiles left streaks in his drawings if he wasn't careful. Usually he stuck a book under the paper, like the one he has now. The name of the book peeks over the edge of the paper: Wildflowers of California.
It's a rainy Sunday afternoon. The smell of Mom's lavender bushes wafts in through the window, and Neil is gone. Left to run an errand or something. Billy doesn't remember, and he doesn't care. Back then, all that mattered was the light that filled the house when that man left.
As Billy's crayons whisper over the paper, a radiant presence slips into the kitchen behind him. Mom. Following the script, he glances at her.
She looks beautiful today. Then again, she always did. She's wearing jeans and her plum-colored shirt with three-quarter sleeves. Hoops dangle from her ears, and her golden hair streams down her back. She's holding a record album with a white and brown cover. Winking at him, she moves to the turntable by the wall, pulls the record out of its sleeve, and puts it on.
The soft, easy beat of Fleetwood Mac fills the kitchen. Here, dream diverges from memory: the record isn't playing the first song, but the second.
Now here you go again,
You say you want your freedom…
Mom goes still, closing her eyes like the music’s reaching into her soul. She even frowns a bit as she taps her hand against her jeans. When she looks at Billy, her frown melts into a brilliant smile.
"Good, huh?"
"Yeah."
"Would you like to dance?" She steps forward, offering a hand. Her bangles slide down to her wrist.
A heavy ache spreads through Billy's chest, and he lays down his crayon. Long ago, on the actual day, he jumped up eagerly to join her. Somewhere along the way, the script changed.
"I... I don't know how." Tears sting his eyes. He swipes them away. Pussy.
"Oh sweetie, that's okay." Mom steps closer, offering her hand again. "Come on. I'll show you how."
He chews his lip, gaze flicking between her hand and her face. Her hair glows gold; her smile warms him like sunshine.
He smiles in answer.
"Okay," he murmurs. He reaches for her hand...
...and wakes with a gasp, cheek pressed against cold metal.
A cough tickles his throat. He pushes up on his elbow, letting the cough tear its way out. The sound rings loudly in his dark little cell. After a full minute, he collapses to the cot and shuts his eyes, reaching for the memory of sunshine. Her smile. Already the warmth is fading, leached away by cold metal and a scratchy prison uniform. His eyes burn, and he wrinkles his nose.
Take me back. Please, take me back.
A door opens in the hallway. Voices spring to life, loud and harsh, moving closer. Billy's heart slams into his chest, and he bolts upright, looking at the cell door.
One of the voices laughs. Then another. There's a lot of them, and they're coming this way.
Rolling off his cot, Billy hits the ground running. By the time the door unlocks, he's curled in the corner, back to the wall, scrambling to push himself deeper.
The reinforced door swings open heavily, letting in the dusty light of the hallway. Guards swarm in - six, seven of them - yelling in Russian. Cattle prods crackle and spit in their hands. The most experienced guard, a big ugly man with a scar running down his cheek, stalks slowly toward Billy.
Trembling, Billy growls, "Commie bastard! I'll tear you in fuckin' half!"
And he could. They all know it.
Scarface stops to look at him, a grin darkening his blocky features. He swings his prod around casually, taunting Billy with it. The lethal end sputters with blue-white electricity.
He points it at Billy and walks forward. Billy snarls and strikes at it, but Scarface jerks it back, and Billy's hand whooshes through empty air. Scarface laughs, and the other guards laugh with him, like stupid kids cheering on their leader in a schoolyard.
Billy's chest heaves. His vision bleeds red.
Fuck you! FUCK YOU!
He roars and leaps at Scarface. Not fast enough. Dodging to the side, the man thrusts his prod into Billy's ribs. Fire explodes through Billy's nerves; lightning sizzles behind his eyelids. He hangs there, convulsing, until Scarface lets him go. He collapses on the floor, where he writhes in pain.
Scarface barks an order. His comrades swoop in, yanking Billy to his feet. Someone slaps reinforced cuffs on his wrists, and they shove him toward the door.
Dizzy and bleary-eyed, he doesn’t even struggle as they drag him down the long metal staircase. Near the bottom, a pain stabs his foot like he just stepped on a screw. He stumbles. A guard grabs him and shoves him forward, shouting impatiently. As Billy limps down the last few steps, warm liquid trickles out of the sole of his foot.
By the time he enters the arena, the pain is gone, and the trickle of blood has already dried up.
The guards stop him right inside the door. Scarface barks another order, and a smaller guard steps in front of Billy to unlock his cuffs. Billy steals the chance to scan the place - the familiar concrete columns, the black observation window to his right, and the center of the arena, where he expects to see a collection of loose steel bars on a table. Or a freestanding brick wall. Something they want him to punch through or bend in a test of strength.
Instead, he sees a man in a prison uniform chained by his wrists to a column. Their gazes meet, and the other prisoner frowns in confusion.
Billy frowns too, a chill crawling down his back.
The guard takes off Billy’s cuffs and retreats. Behind Billy, the reinforced door shuts with a clang, sealing him in with the other prisoner.
Lips twitching, Billy takes a moment to study the man. His face is caked with prison grime and framed by blond, shaggy waves of tangled hair. His uniform is a different color, blue instead of green, as if he came from another part of the prison. He stares at Billy, panting quietly like a nervous animal.
A voice crackles over a loudspeaker.
"Pozakhi!"
Billy freezes, his stomach lurching. It’s a word he knows well. They’ve shouted it at him before every test, urging him to break something. To destroy something.
The other prisoner looks at the observation window, then at Billy. His eyes widen.
"Nyet." He yanks at the chains on his wrists. "Nyet!"
Numbly, Billy walks closer. The man yanks harder, his breaths quick and shallow. The rattle of his chains echoes through the room.
"Pomiluyte!" he cries. "Pozhaluysta, pomiluyte!"
When Billy's shadow falls over him, he breaks down in sobs, collapsing against the column.
Billy observes the man up close. Beneath the grime, his skin looks as smooth as a baby's. Blond fuzz along his jawline hints at a downy beard struggling to grow.
He's young. Younger than Billy. A boy.
The boy whimpers and screws his eyes shut. Billy's hand flashes out, seizing the crown of his head, and gently forces it back. The boy looks at him, wide blue eyes glistening in the light. Tear trails cut through the grime on his cheeks.
Hardening his jaw, Billy looks at the observation window.
"Davai!" says the voice, more impatiently this time.
His mind settles in a cold, steely calm. Turning back to the boy, he leans in slowly.
"I'm not going to hurt you," he murmurs. "Just stay very still."
The boy doesn't understand. He's trembling now. The sour smell of piss hits Billy’s nose.
Heart pounding, Billy rests one hand on the boy's shoulder, the other on his upper arm. The kid is emaciated from prison - barely any muscle left. Billy could crack him open like a drumstick.
Billy inhales through his nose and exhales through his mouth. Under his breath, he mutters a prayer to whatever god is listening.
Then he shoves the boy away and darts toward the observation window.
He crosses the arena in four powerful strides. Leaping, he catches an imperfection in the concrete, hoists himself up, and catches another - another - until he grabs the lip beneath the window. With a mighty pull, he swings up and, in the same motion, smashes a fist into the glass.
Crack! It's reinforced, but they've never had to deal with someone like him. Crack! Crack!
A klaxon begins to screech. As he keeps pounding, pain slices through his hand, but he hardly notices. He can only see his reflection in the dark glass, the fractures spiderwebbing across it.
Someone's howling like a jungle cat in a trap. He realizes it's him.
The door to the arena swings open with a clang. Guards swarm the room, shouting, their cattle prods hissing and spitting. A meaty hand grabs Billy’s leg and sends him crashing to the floor. A prod bites into his side, and another into his back, lighting his nerves on fire.
Rage explodes inside him, blinding, all-consuming. With a throat-splitting roar, he kicks away a prod and grabs the nearest warm body, ripping it apart with all his strength. A scream pierces the air. Something wet hits the floor, followed by a heavy thump.
And then… silence. Silence, and the sound of his own panting.
When the red fades from his vision, he sees the prisoner chained to the column. He’s staring at the floor in front of Billy, face pale, limbs trembling. Billy’s gaze drifts down. At his feet, a guard lies still, breathing raggedly, a gory stump sticking out where his right arm should be. A pool of blood gathers around him, soaking into his green uniform.
Blinking, Billy looks down at his own hand. It’s holding the severed arm, torn sleeve and all.
The voice crackles over the loudspeaker. "Bravo," it says with dark satisfaction.
His veins turn to ice. Looking wide-eyed at the other prisoner, he throws the severed arm aside. The prisoner just stares, his gaze sharp with terror.
When the other guards grab Billy and cuff him, he hardly feels it. Their voices are muffled like they're submerged underwater.
One thought echoes over and over in his mind.
It's me. I'm the monster.
I'm the monster.