An Urgent Need for Ruin (Full-length Novel Version)

(PART ONE)

The ride home was quiet, despite Frank occasionally nagging me now that he knew I was capable of talking. He just didn't understand the disgusting use of irony he was asking for. Obviously, I would have to talk to tell him why I didn't talk, therefore ruining the entire explanation I was giving. I would literally be talking in circles. And that was an ungrateful waste of oxygen I wasn't even gonna try to justify.

The trip seemed shorter this time. I wasn't sure if that was just because I wasn't in absolute terror this time (I knew he was actually going to bring me home because trust was his endgame; not that he was going to get it, of course.) or because we took a different route. Maybe a mix of both. Either way, it was over before I knew it and we were walking into our respective houses, Frank obnoxiously yelling goodbyes and me blowing him off -- and internally wanting to flip him off -- something I feared would become routine.

I was suddenly mowed down by my dad slamming through the screen door. "Catch'imCatch'imCatch'im!" he yelled, shoving past me. Then, when he noticed whatever he was looking for wasn't there, he angrily swiped off his oven mitt (wait, oven mitt?) and grumbled.

I just stood there, blank-faced, hoping he'd answer my unspoken questioning. After a few seconds, he noticed my face and scratched the back of his neck, patting the oven mitt against his leg. "Ma wanted Frank ovuh fuh dinnuh ta thank 'im."

Dad had grown up in the southern part of Louisiana. Think "Swamp People." Dunno where. Dad didn't talk much about his past. The only way I could tell was the thick accent he still carried. You only heard that kind of rich, deep accent in the swamps. And since he only talked every now and then, he'd kept it just as deep and rich all these years.

Ah, so that explained the oven mitt if Dad was cooking dinner. Dad didn't usually cook; not because of all that gender role crap, just because he wasn't very good at it. Mom had probably left him a detailed set of instructions. She was the only good cook in our family, much like she was the only real talker. I think Jordan could stand a chance at being just as good if he came out of his room for more than just soda and bathroom breaks. In fact, he could--

Wait... Frank...? Oh yeah! Stranger Danger. Ha! His use of that creeper's real name had taken me a second to register when I'd been mentally-- ...calling him the same exact thing all day. Damn. He'd already seeped in there subconsciously, changing my thoughts. From now on, he was Stranger Danger. Period. Nothing else. Especially not--

HOLY--! Inviting him to DINNER?! I practically spat this aloud in shock, but there was no way I was going to use any oxygen sputtering redundant nonsense, especially about Stranger Danger. So...what? It had become social etiquette to invite your friendly neighbourhood would-be serial killers to dinner? Isn’t that just wonderful! Let’s have him come eat some red beans and rice and some steak and potatoes so he’s all healthy and strong enough to kidnap and/or murder our daughter! Yeah, thanks Mom and Dad. Oh, and wait! Since Dad was cooking I’d have to be the one to invite him! Without speaking! Oh yes, I could just say that he was sick and couldn’t come, but my mother would check for herself and probably bring him soup or something and wouldn’t take no for an answer when she did find out the truth. Betty Devereaux was a strong-willed woman capable of anything. No, etiquette had won this battle and I was going to have to actually tromp on over to his house and somehow invite him. Faaaaaaaaantastic.

Before my dad could say a word, I was waving my hand in dismissal (trying to disguise how much it was shaking) and gesturing in a way I hoped got through that I was going over there. My dad gave a shrug and loped inside to check on dinner. As soon as he was gone, I took a deep breath, shifted my not-taken-off-yet backpack on my shoulder and started the daunting trek next door.

________________________________________

It seemed even more abandoned-looking up close. Squeaky torn screen door, rotting porch, and a certain pungent odour to it all confirmed its abandonment. But I knew that lurking somewhere within was the nightmare I had been battling for years. And he was going to be sitting at my kitchen table tonight.

How was I going to go about doing this? Charades, and just hope he understood my gestures? Good plan, actually. Then I could abruptly leave and if he didn’t understand then it would just be that I did ask and he just didn’t come. There we go. Let’s go with that.

With a deep breath, I slowly made my way up the stairs, making sure they didn’t squeak too loudly, and came to stand in front of the screen door. Like a lot of people in Moss Bluff, he only had the screen door closed and locked, giving me a good, even if murky, look inside the house. It was dark and there was no movement on the inside, making me feel like any second the door would open and I would be snatched inside before I would even know what was happening. Okay, I could do this. Just ring the doorbell. The DING DONG was like a funeral bell. It echoed throughout the house, leaving me no room to assume he didn’t hear it. However, there was no movement inside the house. At all. All was still and quiet.

Okaaaaaaaaaay… So what did I do now? I shifted from foot to foot on the creaky porch hoping beyond hope that the worn out wood wouldn’t snap on me. As quietly as I could, I tapped on the metal frame of the screen door. He already hadn’t heard the doorbell, so now I could at least say that I tried both and he didn’t want to answer the door. Of course he didn’t hear my purposely near-silent tapping, so there was still no sound or movement inside the house. Relieved, I turned to slip away down the steps, the scenario of being snatched inside still vivid within my mind.

Keeping one eye on the door the whole time, I scurried across the porch and practically jumped down the steps. I was almost almost home free when one of the stairs let out a dying screech and snapped with a loud crash. Oh no. Oh nonono! There was definitely sound from inside the house now. I just about froze, screaming internally at my body’s inability to move. Just as I was finally able to wrench my foot up to run, and before I could even hear the screen door, there was a hand roughly grasping my arm. I yanked it away, practically hollering in protest as I whipped around to punch the owner of said hand in the jaw. Weakly. I was a goner if I was ever in a fight.

“Toni!” Even through all my protesting, Stranger Danger latched on once again and kept yanking me backward ‘til we were back on the porch and he thought he had me calm. How dare he touch me?! The last time he had, he’d practically kidnapped me! What made this freak think he had the right to even try to touch me?! Now furious, I kept trying to pull away, grunting and squeaking in protest.

With a smug grin on his face, Stranger Danger locked eyes with me and spoke in an almost-childish sing-song “Sorreh. I dun speak cavewoman.”

I snarled at him ferociously and he let me pull away this time, a shit-eating grin splitting his already-creepy face. Angrily, I rushed through the series of gestures I had mentally planned, my hands practically a blur, only for him to cross his arms. “Dun speak Charades, neither.” Stranger Danger leaned against his house, eyeing me with humour, before finally after a few minutes he mock-sighed. “ ‘ow 'bout you jus’ speak like ya did earl’er. Know ya can!” And that sickening grin made its way across his lips again.

No. No! Nuh-uh! There was no way I was wasting any more oxygen on him. He’d already made me once today. It was never going to happen again. I made my stand right then and there, hands on my hips and my still-there bookbag hanging loosely from my shoulders, huffing hair out of my face with a furious exhale.

The popping-out of my hip I guess jostled my bookbag enough for a misplaced pen to tumble out of a side mesh pocket and stick between two gapping boards of the porch. In the midst of the stand-off, with a wall of solid silence between us, the clattering of the pen was painfully loud. We both kind of slowly hung our heads to stare at it like it held some secret solution. It wasn’t until like a minute later that I realized it actually did. Quickly, almost slamming into Stranger Danger, I crouched down and unwedged it from its prison.

Okay, so yeah, I was selfish. And yeah, I was lazy. I could have easily just grabbed a random piece of paper or a notebook out of my bookbag, but damnit, he was gonna work for me to tell him. I didn’t want to stand there in front of him, with that blasted grin still devouring his face, scrounging around in my bookbag while he chuckled at my stupidity. Naw, if he wanted to know, he was gonna work for it. I uncapped the pen with my teeth – and spit the cap at his feet – and made scribbles in the air that I hoped translated to “Get me paper. Now.”

He did eventually catch on, but definitely not in the way I wanted him to. At first, since the grin disappeared, I thought he was actually gonna go get some paper; but then, with barely a glance inside the house, he turned back to me and shrugged. “Dun seem to ‘ave any papuh.” His face was completely serious and so was his tone, but I could feel the goading within all of it: the ploy to get me to speak out of anger.

And angry I was. The anger, however, was pushing me to do the exact opposite of what he wanted, just to spite him. So, angrily, practically scratching into my hand, I scrawled,
DINNER
TONIGHT
COME
on my palm in barely readable writing and shoved it in his face. Before he could question me, I was bounding down the stairs and along the gravel path.

He did call after me, though. “Toni!” he yelled, all seriousness now. “Toni, wait! Are ya askin’ me out?” Oh boy… Oh HECK naw! Right before I could follow through on my plan to give him the one-finger salute so he would get the picture, his tone turned mocking and whiny. “But how’ll I know what time? An’ where?” And then I did follow through with that plan.

______________________________________

Apparently he did eventually figure it out, because a few hours later he was sitting at our small kitchen table, across and one seat to the left of me, tearing ravenously at our chicken fried steak and green beans and baked potatoes. Dad sat at the head of the table, right around the corner from Frank, and Jordan sat to my left, giving me free reign to smack him on the back of the head when he tried to copy Stranger Danger’s caveman style of eating.

My dad, Arnold Devereaux, as I’ve said before, found talking beyond small talk extremely painful; so it wasn’t surprising that he was keeping his mouth full at all times, albeit politely, unlike others at the table.

When he wasn’t trying to act like Stranger Danger, Jordan was shoveling food into his mouth as fast as possible anyway in an effort to leave the table as soon as possible. Dad always took that as a sign he was hungry and begged him to take seconds, though. He should have learned by now that no one leaves the table until we all do.

Speaking of seconds, Stranger Danger was now on his third plate and, after being unsuccessful trying to cut this piece of chicken fried steak, stabbed the whole thing with his fork and brought it to his teeth. Now, Cajuns weren’t known for being the neatest eaters either. In fact, I’d been known to do the same thing with meat. But I would say we kinda all sat there horrified as we watched Stranger Danger tear into the steak like a predator. When he did finally catch on that we were watching, he dropped the steak like he’d been burned and began to scoop up pieces of baked potato and pop them in his mouth.

I was the only one barely touching their food. Sitting at the table with one’s future killer took away a lot of one’s appetite, not to mention the way this particular future killer was eating in and of itself. I stabbed into my steak only to rip up tiny shreds, only ate maybe one green bean at a time, and just kept mixing the now-mushy cheese and sour cream and butter into my baked potato. In fact, I could probably be Jordan today: just abruptly leave the table and lock myself away in my room. But then Mom would be supremely furious, even if she made it home after the dinner she’d planned. Nah, I had to sit here and slowly eat and hope that it would be over soon.

All that could be heard was the clinking of utensils on plates and the smacking of eating. No one at this table was going to talk. I was surprised Creeptacular hadn’t tried. Maybe he was as socially…inadequate as the rest of us.

Jordan sat slumped, bored as usual now that he couldn’t copy Frank for entertainment without me giving him a glare or smack. He was having to suffer just as much as me through this.

Dad was a bit more relaxed now that he knew there wasn’t going to be much talking. He was eating more casually now and not worrying about keeping his mouth full. I was kind of glad he wasn’t one of those dads that would interrogate the guest at a family dinner. I would just about die if that happened.

Stranger Danger, now slowing down on his fourth plate (My word! He was a black hole!), was still eating like a barbarian but was actually tolerable now. And every now and then, when he caught me looking at him or I caught him looking at me and both Dad and Jordan were preoccupied, he’d send me a wink or some other mocking gesture.

Mom’s entrance was a lifesaver.

Betty Devereaux practically slammed through the screen door, already talking as if she’d started her ramble on the way here. “—‘appened to be a rel’tive o’ Vincent’s and she demanded I take a rest, too. She’ll be ‘andlin’ ta bar fuh a while ‘ere now. So I’m ‘ome early! Whatcha make o’ dat? ‘Prises ‘round e’ery cornuh!”

All of us kind of mumbled or hummed in response, our mouths full and still not used to the firework that was Mom in the almost dead silence. I was still so glad she was home early, though. Well, that was until I realized exactly what seat was open and exactly why it was open. Across from me and right next to Stranger Danger? Oh no… This was a strategic move. Darnit, Mom, NO! She ripped off her thin coat (everything Mom did was over exuberant) and threw it over the back of said seat before plopping down and loading up her plate. I looked over just in time to see Jordan gulp the rest of his baked potato and his Sprite, shoving out his chair with an overly loud honk and basically jogging to his room.

“Jordan Elijah…” He stopped in his tracks at Mom’s bellow. The green beans she’d been about to shovel onto her plate started to plop back into the porcelain dish as she froze to dole out judgement. “Plant cho butt back in dat chair ‘fore I do it for ya.” The low rumble turned into a polite voice as she acknowledged the animal next to her. “We have a guest.”

I had already started following Jordan’s lead and risen from my chair to clean my dishes. Before I could backtrack, Mom’s eyes targeted me. “And you—“ she didn’t need to say any more. I was already slumping back down into my seat and resigning myself to a second plate of food. I may as well eat more since I was going to be here a while. Jordan moped back over and did the same. At least I wasn’t alone, right?

______________________________________

Jordan and I had already finished our plates and sat there, waiting to be excused, Jordan almost nodding off between exchanging bored looks and eye rolls with me every time Creeptastic spoke. At least Jordan agreed with me about this guy. I knew someone else had to feel the creepy! Stranger Danger was just about to finish his plate, too. As he took his last bite of his – fourth? fifth? – latest serving of steak, Mom urged him to get "seconds" and kept rambling on about how he needed to eat more or he’d wither away. Dad, Jordan, and I shared an amused glance between us, trying to hide snickers, before Dad softly assured Mom, “I think he’s eaten enough, hun.”

Stranger Danger went practically white with embarrassment, slowly gulping down that last bite. “I’m good, Mrs. Devereaux,” he stated in the most polite voice I had heard from him. That. Little. Suck up!

“Oh, chile. Call me Betty!” No, please don’t. EW. Please, please don’t. Really.

Stranger Danger silently agreed to this. Mom was impossible to say no to.

No. This wasn’t happening. Mom was not getting buddy-buddy with a serial killer. She was not establishing trust with him. She was not plotting to get us together. But then they both giggled like schoolgirls about something, Dad and Jordan shaking their heads, and that second plate raced up my throat.

My chair squealed and the table jolted, making all the plates and glasses clatter, as I shot up from my seat. Mom fixed me with an intensifying stare, so I jabbed my thumb toward the bathroom, grinning sheepishly. She only stared me down, I guess trying to assess whether I was just making excuses to lock myself in my room (which, in all honesty, I probably would have if I didn’t have the kind of mother that would break down the door and lecture me about social etiquette). Eventually, I guess she decided that I was telling the truth because she nodded, albeit unhappily. All the while, I was holding back vomit behind clenched teeth, Stranger Danger’s ever-present smug grin only making it worse.

The moment I saw her head start to nod, I took off for the bathroom, almost flipping over my chair. I hardly had the bathroom door closed before I was worshipping the porcelain throne, chunks of steak and butter and I think what used to be green beans spewing over my lips. Oh, God… It was all coming up. But while my body was focused on completely emptying my stomach, my brain had other ideas. It ran through everything I had learned and experienced throughout the day and just now:

Stranger Danger was now taking me to school every day. Mr. Dupart almost died. Mom was working more. Stranger Danger kidnapped me. Except he took me to my school instead. Correction, our school because apparently he goes there. He followed me into the girls’ bathroom, waited for me, and saw nothing wrong with it. He was trying to earn my trust. He was invited to dinner. He thought I was asking him out. He ate like a barbarian. Jordan was with me on how dangerous and…strange Stranger Danger was. Mom said we used to know each other. I don’t remember him. I doubt he remembers me. Now she’s trying to set us up.

Once I thought maybe the vomit comet had finally ended, I dragged myself to the sink, splashing cold water to cool my face and rinse off my lips, chin, and neck. I finally just ended up dunking my face into the water that had built up (we had unreliable drains). That was a lot to learn and experience in one day. No wonder I had thrown up! It was just the body’s natural reaction when overwhelmed, right?

Needing air desperately, both literally and metaphorically, I pulled my head out of the sink and blindly fiddled around for a hand towel to dry my face. I finally found one inside the cabinet under the sink and practically smothered myself in it. This towel was nice and soft and cozy. This towel was safe. This towel wasn’t going to throw me snide looks across the table while it schmoozed my parents to the point of no return. And then I remembered the main reason I threw up.

The poor cozy, innocent, comforting towel was flung into the air haphazardly as I made another mad dash for the toilet. I’d pretty much already emptied my stomach, though, so I just had to persevere through five minutes of dry heaves before my stomach finally realized there was nothing left to rid my body of.

They trusted him… Oh, GOD! Now they trusted him! They’d never believe me about him now. He’d wormed his way into their approval so they’d never suspect him when I went missing. They’d believe in his innocence, maybe even fight for it, when my body was found. And poor Jordan would be the only one besides Stranger Danger and my ghost to know the truth. They’d never believe Jordan over that disgusting suck-up sitting next to my mom and slowly seeping into their good graces. I was on my own now.

Somehow the thought, although terrifying, was soothing. I didn’t have to rely on anyone else. I had to actually watch out for myself on this one.

After rinsing out my mouth and scrubbing off what remained of my makeup, I finally stepped out of the bathroom and tried to block out the horror wracking my body. Somehow I was able to walk into the kitchen and sit down, all like a normal human being. Apparently I’d taken long enough for everyone to move on to dessert. They all had bowls of ice cream in front of them, but they’d probably be soup by the time they actually ate them since Stranger Danger and my parents seemed more interested in talking.

Once they were all done giggling about whatever they had been talking about, Mom finally turned to me, and Dad and Stranger Danger started trying to scoop their quickly-melting icecream. “Oh, Toni! Ya back. Didn’t know if we’d hafta break down the bat’room door er not!” She kind of glanced around furtively and lowered her voice to ask, “Did dinnah not ‘gree wit’ ya or suntin’? We got Pepto.” I was tempted to yell “Ma!” in embarrassment, but then she’d win. She was wanting me to talk. She was wanting me and her precious “Francis” to bond. Not gonna happen, Mom.

Instead, I thought You could say that, and tried my best to say it on my face. It wasn’t dinner that made me throw up. My mom could read my expression like a book. That came from years of her having to interpret my silence and why I was silent. Apparently, Mom didn’t catch that second part, though. Not that I thought she would. She and Dad were already too far gone.
“Le’s get some icecream down dat t’roat. We got sho fav’rite, butter pecan, an’ ev’r’t’ing. Jordan! Get cho sistah some icecream.”

With a huff, (Everything Jordan was “forced” to do was with a huff. It was like his thing.) Jordan stood up and, like it took all the energy he had, swung his head over to me. “Ya wan’ icecream?” he asked flatly, already bored.

I didn’t relish the thought of being a pecan-and-dairy-loaded machine gun so I slowly shook my head and then busied myself with my placemat. Before I had even finished “answering,” Jordan had flopped back down in his chair and started chopping his icecream down to a milkshake. Mom fixed us both with a disappointed look but didn’t say anything. Until she noticed my hand.

“Wha’s dat?” Her question startled me. I was about ready to look at her in confusion before I noticed the hand I’d written my “invitation” on was the one I was using to pull at my earlobe (something I did when I was irritated) and the palm was facing her. It hadn’t even smudged. CRAP.

When I unknowingly avoided meeting her eyes, she held out her hand. I was expected to put mine in it. CRAAAAP. Slowly, I stretched my slender hand forward and laid it in her huge one. She practically yanked me across the table! Her face seemed to get madder and madder the longer she studied my hand; I’m sure I was a puddle of goop by the time she finally tore her eyes away from my hand and locked them on me. Have I mentioned CRAP?!

With an annoyed tut, she wrenched my hand toward Stranger Danger. “Is this how she invited you?” And you know what that intolerable little suck-up did? He nodded his head with the most solemn pathetic look on his face I’d ever seen! And of course Mom fell for it. She shook her head with a chuckle, still gripping my poor hand to death and dipping my elbow in the green beans. “Shill open up to ya sometahme. Toni here refusin’ ta talk. Mmm… Shill talk sometahme. Jus’ gotta keep tryin’.” No, Mom! You were supposed to be on my side! I simmered in my seat as she released my hand and I cleaned off the green beans.

Stranger Danger looked me over, not ominously or mockingly. In fact, I couldn’t really get a bead on him. He just looked me over and simply stated, “I plan ta.”

Mom had no idea what she had done.

Notes

WHEW. Can I get some praise for actually fighting with this monster enough to give y'all a part one? This chapter is ENORMOUS. But that's a given when it contains A LOT of important stuff. Part two, and possibly a part three, should be coming soon.
Part two will reveal and explain a lot about Frank's (and Toni's) past (and forseeable future!) I hope. Let me know what y'all think of this! Part two is when things get really rollin'.

~xoxo Ash
P S: Here's a little creepy picture I found that looks EXACTLY like how Stranger Danger looks in this chapter, down to the hair and jean jacket and dinner table everything. Frank Iero! Stop stalking my mind!


If you want to know what a Cajun accent sounds like: https://www.facebook.com/Miltonpostweekly/videos/456020541243559/