panic-driven epidemic reports when you couldnât get it up?
Chapter Fourteen
The first thing I did the next morning was destroy my cell phone. I snuck out of bed, Candy snoring lightly, and padded down to the garage. I wrapped a thick cloth around the phone and hammered away at it until I was pretty sure it was toast.
âFuck you, AO,â I seethed.
I went back inside and found the family iPad, breaking it in half over my knee. A part of me cringed, thinking of the money wasted. That shit wasnât cheap.
But I was done with AO, whoever it was. Sure, for some reason, AO had some scary yet bizarre ability to control me and force me to do things I didnât want to do. But that was only once Iâd answered AOâs call or text. If I could destroy AOâs means of communication, I would stop being sucked into the murderous sickness.
Damn, it had felt good, taking down that fucking would-be school shooter, his white trash mother, and that dickweed road hog. I couldnât deny the intense feeling of elation that trilled through me when I snuffed them out. It feltâ¦righteous.
All the more reason to put a stop to thisânow!
I was going to avoid all electronics today. Even the radio and TV were off limits. Iâd tell Candy and Katie that I wanted a special day to spend with them, with no distractions. We would go for a walk, play in the yard, break out the board games under Katieâs bed. Time to get back to the Little House on the Prairie days. Charles Ingalls would never have been possessed by AO. No sir. And not me anymore.
I was just hiding the TV remotes on the top bookshelf in the living room when Katie waltzed down the stairs rubbing her eyes.
âHi, Daddy,â she said. âDo I have to go to school today?â
âNo, honey, not today,â I replied, picking her up. âWeâre going to have a lot of fun. You want to help me make blueberry pancakes?â Maine was filthy with blueberries. Everywhere we looked, someone was selling blueberries out of their front yard. Thankfully, my daughter couldnât get enough of them.
Her face lit up, casting aside the drowsiness of sleep. âYes! Can I do all the stirring?â
I walked her into the kitchen. âIâll even let you flip some.â
She surprised me by kissing my stubbly cheek. âI like it when you donât work.â
I kissed her back, smiling. âMe too. Now, you get the blueberries and Iâll get the pancake mix.â
âCan we listen to Radio Disney?â
I paused. âNot today. Why donât you tell me a story while we cook?â
âWhat kind of story?â The pint of berries looked enormous in her tiny hands.
âAny kind. No, wait, make it a funny story.â
âLike one about butts?â Katie giggled. She had recently discovered the word butt and there was no end to the fascination it held for her.
âSure, a butt story will be perfect.â
We cooked and talked about an angry butt that coughed farts. It was sick and so smelly, no one wanted to take it to the doctor. As I genuinely laughed at her potty humor tale, I couldnât stop wondering what she would think if she knew the very bad things her father had done. Would she be afraid of me? Would she run to her mother, pleading with her to send the bad man away?
Or would she still love me, not caring a whit about my recent bout with insanity?
Above all, that thought disturbed me the most. Iâd become a monster, whether I liked it or not. I didnât want to know my child could love a monster.
The sweet aroma of pancakes brought Candy down from her slumber and I proposed my day of being unplugged. She nearly choked me out when she hugged her arms around my neck.
It was a good day, despite the strange silence of the neighborhood when we took our walk. The only vehicle that passed by what was usually a relatively busy Route 302 was a lumber truck, rattling past well over the
Chapter Fourteen
The first thing I did the next morning was destroy my cell phone. I snuck out of bed, Candy snoring lightly, and padded down to the garage. I wrapped a thick cloth around the phone and hammered away at it until I was pretty sure it was toast.
âFuck you, AO,â I seethed.
I went back inside and found the family iPad, breaking it in half over my knee. A part of me cringed, thinking of the money wasted. That shit wasnât cheap.
But I was done with AO, whoever it was. Sure, for some reason, AO had some scary yet bizarre ability to control me and force me to do things I didnât want to do. But that was only once Iâd answered AOâs call or text. If I could destroy AOâs means of communication, I would stop being sucked into the murderous sickness.
Damn, it had felt good, taking down that fucking would-be school shooter, his white trash mother, and that dickweed road hog. I couldnât deny the intense feeling of elation that trilled through me when I snuffed them out. It feltâ¦righteous.
All the more reason to put a stop to thisânow!
I was going to avoid all electronics today. Even the radio and TV were off limits. Iâd tell Candy and Katie that I wanted a special day to spend with them, with no distractions. We would go for a walk, play in the yard, break out the board games under Katieâs bed. Time to get back to the Little House on the Prairie days. Charles Ingalls would never have been possessed by AO. No sir. And not me anymore.
I was just hiding the TV remotes on the top bookshelf in the living room when Katie waltzed down the stairs rubbing her eyes.
âHi, Daddy,â she said. âDo I have to go to school today?â
âNo, honey, not today,â I replied, picking her up. âWeâre going to have a lot of fun. You want to help me make blueberry pancakes?â Maine was filthy with blueberries. Everywhere we looked, someone was selling blueberries out of their front yard. Thankfully, my daughter couldnât get enough of them.
Her face lit up, casting aside the drowsiness of sleep. âYes! Can I do all the stirring?â
I walked her into the kitchen. âIâll even let you flip some.â
She surprised me by kissing my stubbly cheek. âI like it when you donât work.â
I kissed her back, smiling. âMe too. Now, you get the blueberries and Iâll get the pancake mix.â
âCan we listen to Radio Disney?â
I paused. âNot today. Why donât you tell me a story while we cook?â
âWhat kind of story?â The pint of berries looked enormous in her tiny hands.
âAny kind. No, wait, make it a funny story.â
âLike one about butts?â Katie giggled. She had recently discovered the word butt and there was no end to the fascination it held for her.
âSure, a butt story will be perfect.â
We cooked and talked about an angry butt that coughed farts. It was sick and so smelly, no one wanted to take it to the doctor. As I genuinely laughed at her potty humor tale, I couldnât stop wondering what she would think if she knew the very bad things her father had done. Would she be afraid of me? Would she run to her mother, pleading with her to send the bad man away?
Or would she still love me, not caring a whit about my recent bout with insanity?
Above all, that thought disturbed me the most. Iâd become a monster, whether I liked it or not. I didnât want to know my child could love a monster.
The sweet aroma of pancakes brought Candy down from her slumber and I proposed my day of being unplugged. She nearly choked me out when she hugged her arms around my neck.
It was a good day, despite the strange silence of the neighborhood when we took our walk. The only vehicle that passed by what was usually a relatively busy Route 302 was a lumber truck, rattling past well over the