Baby Jonathan (The J·O·H·N Series Book 1) Read online

  (food?)

  (how do you know? you're just a baby)

  I lay there, calming down, ignoring the cold, and I think

  (think? what's think?)

  YOU'RE A BABY

  A NEWBORN

  YOU DON'T THINK

  YOU CAN'T HAVE THOUGHT, someone inside my head screams at me.

  I lay there, thinking about my Mother, thinking about her, thinking about Daddy being mean and hurting us, thinking about him hitting me, thinking about how he didn't want me, thinking about

  (red nipples)

  thinking about

  (in the snapper out the crapper)

  thinking about

  (brilliant skull)

  thinking about

  (demons)

  thinking about

  (the limb tree)

  thinking about

  (naked fleeing victims women running away screaming tiring down tripping falling crawling pleading DYING)

  I snap out of it, back to reality. The liquid stink around me makes me sick, but my fear

  (?fear?)

  keeps me company, no time to care about the rotten, nasty stench of garbage. There's only time to be scared, laying there naked and blood-crusted, my fleshy, severed leach still a part of me, sticking out of my tummy. Cold and damp, dark and spooky, I must realize my fate

  (?fate?)

  and deal with the truth that I may not come out of this alive. Too vulnerable, hungry, and pure. The elements would have me if no one found me.

  Scared to kick and scream, numbing from the cold, shaking with fear, I lay still and breathe.

  I breathe.

  Alone, I breathe.

  And I think.

  ***

  Time passes.

  I fight to stay awake, because I don't want to die. Sleep would be death.

  Wonder where Mom is? Is she close? Is she dead?

  I wish I could open my eyes. Slowly, I try. My hands come up and touch the crusty lids. My tiny, useless fingers brush at them, feeling the hard flakes of blood. But there's nothing I can do. Except wait. And hope.

  Hope someone, anyone, will find me. Hope I will survive alone. Hope nothing comes to keep me company. I hope. I pray.

  Don't go to sleep, don't

  (bedtime story, remember, counting sheep, remember, counting the DEAD)

  Fading

  (remember)

  Fading fast

  (remember woods, fall leaves, and flashy silver)

  Fading faster

  (remember the Valkster)

  Out.

  Chapter 3

  Time Out

  The scurrying awakes me. That, and the distance sound of thunder.

  Nothing but darkness, a darkness filled with stenches, rodent noise and private thoughts. My eyes still glued shut by Mom's blood.

  Again, a sound. A scurrying. Just below me, closing in.

  That's a rat, buddy boy!

  I wiggle around, desperate to free myself.

  (no rats no rats no rats)

  Thunder crashes closer above, the storm near.

  I scream, my tiny new lungs hard at work. But the thunder, loud and powerful, rises in pitch, drowning out my attempts. I start to slip deeper into the garbage.

  Lightning flashes as I push through heavy garbage, the strobe effect bright inside the dumpster, bright through my closed lids. I grab and push, my hands slimy and slick, soiled debris falling in around me.

  (NO RATS KEEP THEM AWAY)

  I claw for the top of the heap, a miniature body desperate for a forgotten adult strength, one taken for granted for years

  (?how old am I?)

  I cry and cry and pull and claw for the surface, the first sounds of rain hitting the top layer, large fat drops striking solid thumps on cardboard and aluminum, starting to drip in, reaching me with a vengeance.

  (SOMEBODY'S GONNA PAY FOR THIS)

  Cold, streaming water as the storm intensifies in sheets, pouring in on me as I lay there helpless and alone. The sound is loud in my new ears. My face wet with rain, my eye lids loosen, the water gelling the caked blood. At last, I open my eyes to the world around me.

  Move! You have to move! Seek shelter!

  I get busy, forcing myself to try and flip over on my side, somehow to gain purchase, get an advantage.

  Move or die! the voice - who's? - screams at me. You'll freeze to death, put some fire in your ass! GOOO!!

  On my bare back, exposed and soaked to the bone, helpless and alone, I start into action.

  Get to the cardboard! Use it as a shield!

  Wet and slippery, tiny hands useless, I push the heap to my left, trying to roll over on my side. No dice, the garbage to heavy and slick.

  Time's a wastin'! Get the lead out!

  I push and push and push, but with my newborn strength depleted and the relentless gushing of rain freeze, I fall back flat against the garbage and instantly sense a new feeling

  (what is that? feels like fingers no no more like WHISKERS)

  Suddenly all else is forgotten, my heart racing, my mind a whirlwind of imaginative conclusions.

  (a piece of rug yeah that's it an old welcome mat maybe a wig with strong fibers no can't be of course it's possible anything's possible why not? a wig a rug an ever-loving welcome mat with tattered edges no no no can't be not a chance why not a chance, bucko? because THESE ARE MOVING)

  I crap myself, all control lost in an instance of total fear

  (babies do that sometimes)

  (if I had a Mommy, she'd clean and dress me and bring me outta the rain so I wouldn't get eaten by rats)

  (RED NIPPLES)

  (I want my Mommy!)

  Horrified, the stench of my own waste heavy and thick, the sensation shifts across my back and I feel the rat scurry closer, its wet nose against my skin, sniffing

  (next is the teeth to take a BITE)

  Driven by a will unforeseen, I scoot fast and furious away from the hungry rodent, and seek shelter from the downpour under the thick cardboard, maneuvering myself tight into a rusty corner, high and far away from the curious rat.

  Oh yes, someone's gonna pay for this. Pay fucking good.

  Before long, the storm subsides and total exhaustion takes me to the land of forever sleep.

  Chapter 4

  Godfather

  I dream of red nipples.

  In the dream, I am a master of men. I fear nothing, not even death. I travel through dark cities and tunnels and underground lairs, all rich with the signs of bodies. All women. Young. Innocent. Bloody...

  (red nipples)

  I walk powerful, not the short shit that I am now. I'm full grown, tough and mean, fearless of anything. Especially death.

  Woods. Night time. Wind brushing the leaves above, full branches swaying as I

  (chase)

  follow a fleeing victim. A woman. Young. Innocent. A girl really, no more than twenty. Maybe younger. She stumbles as I follow her, taking looks back to judge my progress. She falls, catches her breath, and recovers her feet to continue the hunt.

  I don't run. I don't have to.

  The lamb's going nowhere. Wearing herself down, pleading to live. Unaware of her destiny.

  In my meaty hand, a knife. Flashy silver in the moon glow. I squeeze the handle, hurrying my strides.

  Before me, the beautiful, young girl trips over a tree root, falling face-first in the dirt -

  (screeching terrible screeching)

  - and I approach the helpless lamb, studying her sweaty, desperate face. She scoots along on her butt, hands digging into dirt, feet pedaling to drive her back and away. She pleads, tearful, out of her mind. Her eyes magnet the knife, its silver menace -

  (SCREEEECH!!)

  The door! The dumpster door!

  - and I smile down at her as she weakens, her body fatigued. Helpless and along, dark woods with rustling leaves above, full moon watching, the nameless girl lifts her hands, pleading with the towering form above her, spitting out gibberish -
r />   (movement movement something moving close something searching probing around me THE RAT??)

  - and I stare down at her and for a moment I decide-or think I decide-to let her free, free to see another day, free to escape, but as fast as that I come to my senses

  (what's senses?)

  and I reach down and snatch the lamb's scalp, yanking her near, exposing her naked throat.

  (no rats I've had enough rats)

  Her hands dig into my shirt, pull at my chest hair. But there is no pain as the lamb plays, pleading for her life.

  (something's close moving close closer still WAKE UP WAKE UP WAKE UP)

  (RED NIPPLES)

  (NO RATS STAY AWAY COME BACK ANOTHER DAY)

  (“Please don't kill me!” they all screamed, as if sisters in death. Pretty young women with the same zest for life. “PLEASE DON'T KILL ME I'LL DO ANYTHING!!)

  Movement! Something in the dumpster!

  In the dream, the climax is sketchy, but I feel the knife hand at work, and I sense the lamb go limp. New blood as I release her hair and she droops away, piling at my feet, draining before me -

  (touching me something touching me)

  - as I study my weapon hand, blood smeared, coated -

  (WAKE UP YOU LITTLE SHIT!!)

  Something grabbing me! Pulling!

  (THE RAT THE RAT HERE TO EAT ME I MADE IT THROUGH THE NIGHT AND THE STORM TO BE EATEN AT THE END -)

  Fingers! Human! A HAND!!

  (not the rat oh thank God)

  The dream slipping away, eyes fluttering, consciousness coming with daylight. Bright, sweet daylight.

  I'm alive! I'm alive!

  (open those baby blues)

  I open my eyes and come alert. Garbage, wet and stinky, still around me. I remember then, the night before, the rat and the rain. And with remembrance, the horror.

  I let out a scream, my tiny new lungs strong.

  Then reality hits me. The cold. The stink. The night before.

  Mother! Where's my Mother?!

  I scream out again, as loud as I can. Kicking, swinging my little arms, squirming desperately.

  “Okay, lil' fella,” comes a voice, deep and full of booze rot. “I've gotcha!”

  Mother?! You're not my Mother!

  The hand, male and filthy, rough with age, grabs my arm. Yanks me up through the nasty garbage.

  Before me, leaning half-in the smelly dumpster, the dirty derelict checks me over. My tears subside as I stare up into his wrinkled, toothless mug.

  “Holy hell, lil' man,” says the bum in stunned disbelief. “Naked to the core! Let's get you outta there!”

  He lifts me up and out the dumpster door, and the morning chill hits me hard.

  The wino wraps me up in his stinky jacket, the chill lost. I cry down, confident of my rescue. Bum or not, I'd been rescued. Plain and simple. Rescued from the grips of the rat. Rescued from certain death.

  The feeling of the wino's movement, fast and jerky. Like that of my Mother's womb

  (womb?)

  as he forces me down into something rough and tight, like a coffin or cage

  (coffin? cage?)

  trying to be careful, but anxious in his care. Covering me up, keeping me warm.

  “You'll be safe in 'are fa now, lil' man,” I hear him say, “gonna get ya help.”

  Then I feel the sense of rolling, speeding up. A bike! Yes! I can feel the grates of the wire basket on the handle bars, digging in through his nasty jacket. The small nubs of metal finding me as he speeds me to safety, as I bounce around inside the new metal womb, wrapped in leather, smelling leather, tasting blood, suddenly fearing nothing.

  Jerky movement, back and forth. Then a jarring bounce

  (Pothole!)

  Like being back inside Mom, dodging Daddy's fat knuckles, trying to hurt me. But this isn't Daddy, pedaling me to safety, no not Daddy, I know because I'm alive.

  Not hurting me, this man. Keeping me safe.

  I can hear the wino's breathing, fast and raspy. Old, ugly and death-ridden, the wino pushes for me, eager to help me. Eager to save me.

  (?save?)

  What's save? What's safe??

  Another harsh jerk, rolling me forward against the grate of the mesh basket, then back as he picks up speed.

  Like that of a cocoon, wrapped tight in the dirty leather, secreted with my own blood, my fleshy frontal tail coiled against my naked side, I hold my crusty hands against my new nipples

  (RED NIPPLES)

  rolling with the bike's movement, listening to my savior's grunts as he rides me through the streets, car horns sounding as he brakes, then resumes his mission, tiring down as he strains to seek me proper shelter.

  “Al-mos' 'ere, bubba man,” I hear him grunt between gasps. “Al-mos' home...”

  Home? Home? What's home? Mother's belly, the streets, a rodent-filled dumpster? Home?

  (HOME the woods the farm HOUSE the LIMB TREE the bicycle BASKET)

  Home?

  What's HOME??

  Thoughts suddenly flood me

  (thoughts?)

  (“Are you sorry for your destruction?” asks someone)

  (“Do you like pressing license plates?” another asks)

  (“PLEASE DON'T KILL ME!!” pleads a female, loud and shrill)

  as I hear the car horns and his breathing and feel the metal through the leather and the squeal of the bike's brakes as he -

  “Look out, asshole,” someone yells close by.

  - passes the public, pissing people off, darting in front of cars, hurrying me on, hurrying to save me.

  Then I feel the bike stop, throwing me forward, rolling me back. Then voices

  (his?)

  as his hands grab at me, fishing me out of the wire basket, desperate yet careful. Picking me up as I hear his bike hit the pavement, then bouncy, bouncy, bouncy as he runs with me, his breathing full of pain, my sticky body cold again, shivery even under the leather, my hands pasted to my chest, my thoughts unclear and wicked

  (KILL KILL KILL)

  as we bond, filthy vagabond and aborted tyrant, both outcast and alone, both uncertain about the future. Both living on the edge. Both -

  A whisk of automatic doors.

  The rush of voices.

  The exchange of hands.

  And I hear his name...

  “Cullen, ma'am,” the bum answers a nurse, stinky and out of breath.

  ...as I pass out.

  Chapter 5

  Visiting Hours

  I'm in a hospital.

  I know, I remember the color and the old person stink. Green, puke walls with bald doctors and nurses with sexy smiles. Not a one of them truly enjoyed their job, merely appeasing a paycheck and a cushion existence.

  I lay covered up, sweaty under my blanket overkill. I start to cry, aware of other infants around me, their cries offset, loud, strong lungs ready for the new world. Who in the glass shell next to me would be destined for greatness? The fat, bald Gregory to my left...would he rise to power of greed and lust? Or sweet, innocent Leslie May to my right...cute with curly thin hair and fat toes. Senior proms and first kisses...what life style would she choose? That of pearly bliss or deep, crazed hatred and disgust of those around her...would she smirk at society...and bear a deep desire for knives and razor-like weaponry?

  I miss my mother

  (?which?)

  as I lay here, an incredible pain in my bladder to pee, holding it off, not wanting to release, not wanting that feeling when it comes, the ugly, soggy feeling, warming my underside with wetness. No, not yet. Hold it.

  Then suddenly, I hear voices, not far off. Somewhere close. One voice nice and cheery, the other harsh and bitchy.

  “Nice shoes,” says the cute voice.

  “On sale,” says the mean voice.

  Who -?

  “What about our new arrival?” asks the cute. “Terrible how he was found.”

  “Terrible but typical,” says the meany. “Our John Doe here has had an unlucky str
eak since the moment he was born.”

  Who's talking about me?

  “...found him in a dumpster on Fifth Street,” the mean voice continues, “his mother dead not far away. Bled to death.”

  Where are you?? Who are you??

  Antsy, I squirm and start to cry

  (feed me)

  and draw attention to myself, wanting the voices closer. To my surprise, it works, stalking them out. I cry down, having worked my magic.

  One nurse, fat and old, appears above me, no smile about her. That's the mean one. Then another woman steps into eye shot

  (what a fox!!)

  staring down at me. That's the cute one. The older one in charge, the young looker her intern. Both women stare down at me, but only the cute one smiles, interested.

  “The mother was a hooker...usual street trash,” says the hag, her words like needles to my soft, new conscience, meddling with the memory of my mother. A street whore, yes. But still, my mother of this earth. I look up at her name tag. Nurse Dorothy Hennecy. Okay, fine.

  “What a useless waste of a tramp to give birth to this welfare magnet,” continues Hennecy, no love at all in her words. “You know, Nancy, it'll be you and I who'll pay for this little man...and pay good we will. Our tax dollars at work. Feeding the unwanted children of the world. Like it was our fault...or even our responsibility.”

  Trim it, you bitch.

  Nancy answers back, keeping her warm smile present, “Yeah, but it's certainly not this little one's fault either. How could it be? He had no choice in the matter. Do you have anything on the father?”

  “Police questioned a Casey Warch...if that's even his real name anyway. Won't let us stick him, though.”

  “Does he know?”

  “What would it matter? He'd only deny the child. Legally, he's refusing a DNA test. Water under the bridge. When the mother died, so did all hope for this kid. No relatives, no family. A ward to the state now.”

  “Adoption, then.”

  A small laugh, like a sigh, really. “Adoption? Good luck. It'll be years before this one's welcomed. Premature. Traces of drug poisoning. Afflictions. You name it, girl. Little John Doe here never stood a chance.”