Read Online Bad Games 2 - Vengeful Games by Jeff Menapace - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Jeff Menapace
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tears from eyes still too frightened to look up, dripping down her full red cheeks.
Monica smiled and left.
*
On her way to the car, Monica went for a cigarette but found the pack empty. She cursed, crumpled the pack into a ball, and tossed it to the ground.
“Excuse me.”
Monica turned.
A woman, mid-40’s, leading a small white poodle by a pink leash. “You just threw your trash on the ground.”
“I know,” Monica said.
“Well that’s disgraceful. You should be ashamed of yourself.”
Monica approached the woman until they were a foot apart. She was pleasant when she said: “Say that again?”
“I said—”
Monica slammed her forehead into the woman’s face. A dull crack echoed in her ears as the woman’s nose exploded. Monica’s belly tingled as the woman hit the pavement ass-first and then slowly rocked backwards until she lay like a starfish on the ground. Monica bent over the woman and waved a hand back and forth above her bloodied face. The woman did not acknowledge her. She stared up at the sky, eyes wide and glassy, mouth opening and closing without words like a dying fish. Complete shock.
The only definitive sound thereafter came from the poodle, whose relentless yap seemed its only means of attack as it maintained a guarded distance from the stranger who had floored its master.
Monica glanced at the dog as she brought two fingers to her forehead (it felt wet) and wiped away blood. The stupid woman had bled on her. Monica squatted down and held her bloodied fingers out to the poodle. The dog cautiously approached, sniffed, and then began licking Monica’s fingers.
Finished, Monica then guided the poodle with her two fingers towards its still horizontal master’s face, where more of the same delicious red goo its palate had been tantalized with was leaking in abundance. The poodle instantly began licking away, and the dazed woman could only lie there and allow it.
Even though she really wanted a cigarette, Monica still drove off thinking today had been a great day.
Chapter 13
Patrick and Amy each took a side of Carrie’s bed as she sobbed in the middle. Caleb had cried briefly, but it was more a cry of empathy for his sister; he was not as attached to Oscar as she was. He remained in his bedroom while Amy and Patrick took turns soothing their daughter.
“I didn’t get a chance to say goodbye,” Carrie cried.
Patrick stroked her silken hair. “I know, sweetie. We’re so sorry.” He glanced up at Amy. Her eyes were already on him, and he’d have bet his left nut she was thinking the same exact thing he was: Our fault, our fault, our fault.
Amy took her eyes off Patrick and wiped the tears from Carrie’s cheeks. “Have you ever heard of Rainbow Bridge, honey?”
Carrie looked up at her mother with swollen wet eyes and a runny nose. “Huh?”
“ Rainbow Bridge ,” Patrick said. As he had promised Amy, the first thing Patrick had done when they got home was rush to the computer and perform a Google search for “Rainbow Bridge.” Sure enough, the anonymous piece appeared on several links. He clicked one, changed a few things—added Oscar’s name to make it personal, omitted or substituted words Carrie may not understand—printed it, and now held it in front of his daughter.
Carrie fixed on her father and the piece of paper. “What’s that?” she asked.
“Would you like me to read it to you?” Patrick said.
“What is it?” she asked again.
Amy stroked her hair. “It’s where Oscar is, sweetie.”
Carrie’s head whipped towards her mother. “ He’s not dead? ”
Patrick felt sick. And once again he felt Amy’s eyes leaning on him, sharing the grief. He did not look at her this time; he couldn’t. Instead he swallowed (it went down like peanut butter) and focused solely on Carrie.
“No, honey—Oscar is still gone. But he’s in a wonderful place. A place called Rainbow Bridge. Would you like Daddy to tell you about it?”
Carrie’s
Monica smiled and left.
*
On her way to the car, Monica went for a cigarette but found the pack empty. She cursed, crumpled the pack into a ball, and tossed it to the ground.
“Excuse me.”
Monica turned.
A woman, mid-40’s, leading a small white poodle by a pink leash. “You just threw your trash on the ground.”
“I know,” Monica said.
“Well that’s disgraceful. You should be ashamed of yourself.”
Monica approached the woman until they were a foot apart. She was pleasant when she said: “Say that again?”
“I said—”
Monica slammed her forehead into the woman’s face. A dull crack echoed in her ears as the woman’s nose exploded. Monica’s belly tingled as the woman hit the pavement ass-first and then slowly rocked backwards until she lay like a starfish on the ground. Monica bent over the woman and waved a hand back and forth above her bloodied face. The woman did not acknowledge her. She stared up at the sky, eyes wide and glassy, mouth opening and closing without words like a dying fish. Complete shock.
The only definitive sound thereafter came from the poodle, whose relentless yap seemed its only means of attack as it maintained a guarded distance from the stranger who had floored its master.
Monica glanced at the dog as she brought two fingers to her forehead (it felt wet) and wiped away blood. The stupid woman had bled on her. Monica squatted down and held her bloodied fingers out to the poodle. The dog cautiously approached, sniffed, and then began licking Monica’s fingers.
Finished, Monica then guided the poodle with her two fingers towards its still horizontal master’s face, where more of the same delicious red goo its palate had been tantalized with was leaking in abundance. The poodle instantly began licking away, and the dazed woman could only lie there and allow it.
Even though she really wanted a cigarette, Monica still drove off thinking today had been a great day.
Chapter 13
Patrick and Amy each took a side of Carrie’s bed as she sobbed in the middle. Caleb had cried briefly, but it was more a cry of empathy for his sister; he was not as attached to Oscar as she was. He remained in his bedroom while Amy and Patrick took turns soothing their daughter.
“I didn’t get a chance to say goodbye,” Carrie cried.
Patrick stroked her silken hair. “I know, sweetie. We’re so sorry.” He glanced up at Amy. Her eyes were already on him, and he’d have bet his left nut she was thinking the same exact thing he was: Our fault, our fault, our fault.
Amy took her eyes off Patrick and wiped the tears from Carrie’s cheeks. “Have you ever heard of Rainbow Bridge, honey?”
Carrie looked up at her mother with swollen wet eyes and a runny nose. “Huh?”
“ Rainbow Bridge ,” Patrick said. As he had promised Amy, the first thing Patrick had done when they got home was rush to the computer and perform a Google search for “Rainbow Bridge.” Sure enough, the anonymous piece appeared on several links. He clicked one, changed a few things—added Oscar’s name to make it personal, omitted or substituted words Carrie may not understand—printed it, and now held it in front of his daughter.
Carrie fixed on her father and the piece of paper. “What’s that?” she asked.
“Would you like me to read it to you?” Patrick said.
“What is it?” she asked again.
Amy stroked her hair. “It’s where Oscar is, sweetie.”
Carrie’s head whipped towards her mother. “ He’s not dead? ”
Patrick felt sick. And once again he felt Amy’s eyes leaning on him, sharing the grief. He did not look at her this time; he couldn’t. Instead he swallowed (it went down like peanut butter) and focused solely on Carrie.
“No, honey—Oscar is still gone. But he’s in a wonderful place. A place called Rainbow Bridge. Would you like Daddy to tell you about it?”
Carrie’s
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