From the Lookout

A man named Henry indulges into his own world of disbelief.

He spoke in a voice that disturbed the girl’s way of thinking. “When I was a kid, my father had a lisp. You know his, uh, his r’s became w’s and so did his l’s. I mean, he would talk and talk, but you could never understand him. He also, uh, he had a strange tone when he spoke which just made it harder to understand him. I mean, he would be talking all the time, but no one knew what he was trying to say. It got to the point where my mother actually said that I started talking like my dad even though I didn’t have a lisp.” He wiped his mouth on a dry napkin. “Well, one day, a psychologist came over to our house, said it was a problem in his head. You know, a mental issue. She lay him down on the bed and reached into his mind. Like, no joking, she was asking him all sorts of questions and my dad would answer and she actually understood him. By the time she left, my father was talking like anyone else. That man couldn’t talk for forty-five years, but when someone listened to him, just once even, he could speak fluently.” He took a sip of iced water. “And I think that means something.”

The girl ran her hands through her brown hair. “Actually Henry, I need to get going. I have to get to work, you know. Busy day.” She threw him a cheap smile. Henry took a breath.

“Go, then.”

She stood up and left the restaurant. Another speck in the sandstorm. Henry scratched the back of his right hand, paid, and left as he came: a champion in his own right.

The dim bar was packed to its absolute fullest. Stiff shoes of underpaid middle-class workers clapped across the mahogany floors. Glasses of cheap beer and strong alcohol clinked together in a relentless storm. From the bar, a voice came through and found its way to the bartender.

“I guess you can call me a distributer; a connoisseur of all things worth.” Henry and his grey smile backed the proclaim. The bartender turned her back on him. “You treat all your customers like that?” A firm hand grabbed Henry’s arm.

“Leave her alone, kid.” Henry faced a bearded man, possibly part of a bike-gang.

“Let go of me, prick.” Henry moved away quickly.

He found himself seated next to a balding man in his forties. The man and Henry watched a college football game on an aged TV that hung in a torn corner. The man turned to Henry.

“You watch football?”

“Yeah, of course.” Not exactly the truth.

“What’s your favorite team?”

“The Packers.” Henry spoke from memory.

“Nice.”

Henry waited, scratching the back of his right hand. “What about you?”

A smile jumped across the man’s face. “The Giants.”

Henry found his mark. “What did I say my favorite team was?”

The man gazed over Henry’s face. “What? You said the Packers, didn’t you?”

“No.” Henry replied. “I said my favorite team was the Broncos.”

The man pondered into his beer. “Well, I guess I wasn’t paying attention.”

“I guess you weren’t, a*****e.”

The man began to retaliate, but Henry had already fled into the crowd.

Henry stared at the girl from across the dining table. A different girl this time, one with fair black hair. Henry grinned. “What’s your favorite movie?” The girl looked up from her phone.

“What?”

Henry’s grin twitched. He scratched his hand. “What’s you favorite movie?”

“Oh,” She began. “Schindler’s List.”

“Why?”

She didn’t seem to notice his question. His hand became red.

“Oh,” She began again. “I like the cinematography.”

Henry held back a chuckle.

“Why are you scratching your hand like that?” She asked.

“Nervous habit.” He said.

“You’re nervous?” She said.

“I’m don’t go on many dates.”

“Really? You seem like one who would”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means you’re nice.”

Henry tried his hardest not to laugh.

“You’re nice too.”

She threw him a smile. Bingo.

Henry knocked on the grimy apartment door. “Kelli!” The muffled sounds of objects being tossed emitted from the apartment. Henry continued knocking, ignoring the sounds. “Kelli!” The sounds ceased. A voice rose. Masculine.

“Who the hell is that?”

Kelli screamed back.

“I don’t know!”

“Who the hell is it!”

“I don’t know!”

“Well you better go answer it goddammit!”

A plate crashed upon hardwood. The door swung open to Kelli’s brown hair in a tangle. Red dents hung around her eyes.

“What do you want!” She cried.

Henry smiled. “Time for our date.” He spoke cheerfully. She slammed the door. Henry scratched his hand.

Chloe was on her phone again, paying no mind to Henry. Her fair black hair hung loosely over her eyes. “My dad used to beat me, you know.”

That sure got Chloe’s attention. She put down her phone, ready to act sorry.

“Everyday he would come home drunk and beat me with a brown belt. He would scream at me too, but I never understood him. No one understood me either. I tried to tell anyone I could that my father was out to kill me, but no one listened. I tried to kill myself in the bathroom. I failed, of course.”

“Are you serious?” Chloe said.

Henry smiled. “No, of course not.” He scratched his hand.

Chloe took a deep breath. “You’re a sick man Henry. A sick, sick man.”

Henry chuckled.

“Why are you laughing? You know, normal people don’t make up their own suffering.”

Henry coughed. “Well, if that’s normal, then, quite frankly, I don’t want to be normal.” The skin on his hand peeled, letting a stream of blood trickle out.

Henry pressed the phone against his ear. “Hey Kelli.” The response was delayed.

“Please don’t call me again Henry.”

Henry became livid. “Time for our date.” She hung up. Henry laughed and scratched beneath the bandage.

Henry floated around Chloe’s house, eyeing anything that was sellable.

“I’m going to the bathroom, you can just stand there I guess.” Chloe said. Will do. Henry stuffed anything he could into his jacket. Glasses, statues, pictures, jewelry, plates, etc. If it had any kind of worth, it found itself resting in Henry’s jacket. Chloe came out gripping a silver knife.

“Is this your plan for everyone?” She said. Henry scratched.

“No, just most.”

“Put back my stuff, leave, and never pull this stunt again or you’ll be dead by next week.”

“We both know that’s not going to happen.”

“I won’t kill you.” Chloe said. “But I know people who will. You’re a sick man henry. I know what you’ve done.”

Henry began to laugh.

“Talk to her again and you’ll be nothing but a crime statistic.”

Henry scratched and left.

He knocked on the grimy apartment door. “Kelli!” He called out. The door flew open and a bag was thrown over his head.

Car doors closing.

An engine roaring.

Drunken laughs.

Silence.

Henry was thrown out into the cold world. The bag was ripped off his head, revealing to him a ditch. A grave. Metal rods came down on his back, smashing his spine. A strike on his shoulder made him turn over, moving the blows to his chest. A foot kicked him down into the ditch.

Car doors closing.

An engine roaring.

Drunken laughs.

Silence.

Henry felt blood trickle from his mouth. His vision became nothing but a blur. He reached for his hand and scratched.