The Hazy-Eyed Mountain Killer
by James Eric Watkins
Oscar stumbles into the dark coughing. He stops and stands still while his eyes adjust. As soon as he sees Walter, he slaps him across the face, slaps the literal piss out of his co-conspirator. It trickles out the bottom of his pant leg. Steam rises from his shoe. Several drops of Walter's blood splatters, casts in a stark contrast against the blackness of the, almost stone-like, bumpy surface of a wooden upright that supports the ceiling of their hideout. Oscar's rough and calloused hand splits Walter's skin just above his right cheekbone.
He begins by enunciating his always-harsh words: “Shut the fuck up!" Then he draws back with a closed fist, his fingers so tightly forced together that his fingernails were turning white even beyond the filth of his hand, as if he's about to punch his partner. Then he just reaches out and touches the tip of his nose. "You fuckin' . . . you fuckin' piece of shit! I
told you not to get your hand in the way, you damn dummy!" Oscar laughs, snorts a little, then spits a chunky wad of mucus on the front of Walter's boots.
The injured man is covered in a strange combination of patterns of
blood and the uneven patterns of Oscar's insanity. He grips his right hand in agony, grunts, his scruffy beard beaded with
dirty droplets of sweat. His fingers are mangled. Twisted. Bent and bleeding. Walter
crotches down on the floor of the abandoned mineshaft in the mountains of
Kentucky. Oscar kicks Walter in the side of the leg. “Now your leg hurts you
whining piece of shit!” Oscar drops a bloody burlap sack. As the bag hits the
floor, the black dust that covers everything bursts into the still air, swirls
in a tiny vortex where the sunlight beams through.
Oscar stares through the eye of the vortex as it falls away and returns to dust. He coughs, shoves his hands into his pockets, shuffles
around for a moment, finds a pack of Lucky Strikes, shakes one from the pack,
grabs it with his other hand, and raises it to his white-encrusted lips. Pulling his lips away from his teeth slowly, he smiles to reveal the yellow and brown stains on them. The evil in the
center of Oscar rises as he reaches into his pocket and brings out a small matchbox. He slides it open and removes one while allowing four others to fall: tumbling in slow motion and bouncing away in real time. He strikes it against the side of the box. A flame bursts from its red tip, begins to flicker against the darkness: making shadows possible in the new light.
© 2022 James Eric Watkins
