The night the Rhymer went whack

17

There’s a superiority when looking down at iniquity, literally thinking that it’s beneath you. Especially if you can control it, that wickedness, especially if you’ve never experienced it.

She sniffled and teared as her son strapped on his backpack and fastened its belts. He grabbed his hat and gloves and bottled water and a banana. Although it’s been a few years, it wasn’t his first adventure outdoors. Having just turned fifteen, Sharissa had been apprehensive of Nick’s desire to physically explore what he’s been witnessing from his window. What she saw as decadence, decay and destruction, he saw as adventure and opportunity.

Standing there, she recalled the first time he had tried to climb out. Around the age of five, she barely caught him with one leg strewn across the windowsill. Eventually giving in to his desire, she finally expanded his surroundings starting with their front stoop as they would sit out late mornings when the world was its slowest, enjoying the breeze and sights and sounds from a different angle. Now, as they descended the stairs, she felt his effort to break free but with anticipation, she held her son tight. She paused reflectively, just for a moment before opening the door. And once opened, she stepped back and watched her son as his senses were quickly flooded, shocking him into stillness as he stood spellbound for what seemed like an eternity, and ultimately it was she who had to eventually coax him outside.

A few steps later they settled in the doorway and sat as he cocked his head from side to side, listening to whatever caught his attention. The noise was plentiful. Sirens, screams, barks, yaps, thuds and other sounds that only he could decipher. He strummed his fingers, created a rhythm from the chaos, merged his soul with the outside world. It wasn’t until then, now on beat, that he gained his comfort.

He stood up and walked a few paces as his mom kept a close eye. Then out of nowhere he emitted a high-pitched scream. It started high but morphed into nothing as he stood there, mouth agape, looking as if he’s yelling at the top of his lungs. Sharissa stood and placed a concerned hand upon her son’s shoulder, then suddenly, all barking ceased as she looked around and noticed, one by one, dogs began approaching. Tentative at first, but soon tails wagged in unison with their panting. Now at his feet, they bowed submissively for petting. And no matter their condition—most were disheveled and mangy—Nick made sure he gave each one his undivided attention, rubbing their bellies and scratching their backs.

They soon became his and his mom’s protectors as they ventured further into the neighborhood. They would meet daily at their front porch with their tails wagging and tongues hanging. Then one afternoon, surrounded by at least twenty canines, Nick screamed again, startling his mother at first, but with a different pitch, a scratchy, throaty tone as she just sat with wonderment as to what this yelp would bring. Soon, on came cats, birds and small wild animals like skunks and raccoons. Similar to a rhythmic dance, they enjoyed each other’s company, no predator versus prey, and seemed delighted to be animals again not having to battle for food or protect their environment.

Humans too. Sharissa soon got used to walking past a few people, some obviously killers with fresh blood still on their clothes and still holding their deadly weapons. Nick would whistle or hum just right, producing a smile on the murderer’s face. They’d stop and stare at this young man surrounded by animals and then be surprised as they found themselves tapping their foot and nodding their head to the beat Nick created.

It was a balancing act and he had to be careful trying to hold everyone’s attention. Sometimes the cats would stray if the tone was slightly off, but he’d bring them back once he adjusted his voice to their liking. Frustrated at first, he was soon able to create a unified sound, and just like the North Star, people began awaiting his emergence at night. Animals too. He’d feed them and wave and smile and receive nothing but love in return. His mom watched in wonder yet still apprehensive while still taking notice of a slight change in the neighborhood.

She became aware of people, if only just for that quick encounter, becoming exempt from their troubled place and were able to enjoy happiness. Pure unadulterated joy. But if and when Nick slipped and produced the wrong note or the wrong sound, dogs would growl and sometimes bite and people would revert back to their old ways quickly and more viciously and deadly.

Once while strolling, Nick and his mom came upon a disoriented man strangling a young woman. As they approached, just before death, Nick whistled a tune that brought forth the most beautiful look on the man’s face momentarily stopping his assault, but Nick coughed and struggled to hold that note and in that nip of time the assailant used his razor and sliced the woman’s neck.

Nick was taken aback. He had heard murder but never actually witnessed it. Traumatized for months, he stayed inside, realizing how important it was for him to fine tune his audio skills. He took to the window with utter abandon, listening more intently, mimicking more precisely and testing his results more frequently. He would sit there summoning birds to his presence with an awkward bawk or yelp. A bluebird, a pigeon, hawks, they’d all come through with different sounds. He began regaining his confidence while tossing treats to the animals that he verbally invited to the window sill and soon he began venturing back to the stoop as he would courageously sit in the doorway playing with his new friends.

At times, he heard screams of bloody murder and instinctively turned his head toward the crime, but he’d look down, not wanting to see what he was hearing. He’d glance up occasionally, but was still affected by the actuality. And these crimes were abundant. Not just murder, but rape was commonplace, and assaults happened minute by minute. Nick realized that he must face his fears, face the onslaught of destruction and shortly, he no longer held his head down but would gaze at all acts of carnality with eyes wide open and witness all the gore and the mess building his immunity to be unaffected by all the carnages that were taking place.

It became a game to young Nick, a way of life actually. He decided that the world was just something he was a part of, a place that was neither good nor bad. It was just a platform where he could test his skills and manipulate and enjoy his gift. And with that conclusion, he began expanding his horizons. Fear now gone, it was replaced with a determination to succeed.

Sharissa took notice of this change from Nick’s initial trepidations and tentativeness, so she sat with him on his first few trips back out to the stoop and stayed alongside until he regained his confidence. What started out as being able to only bear it for a few minutes turned into his desire to spend days and nights on the stoop. After a while, she began to notice a smugness develop as he started to experiment with manipulating the animals.

He’d gain their trust then have them turn on each other. All with no remorse at the death he created, and this made her nervous, more so as she saw his bravery as a dangerous invitation to the world she’d known since The Great War. No matter his scheming skills, she thought, there will always be a risk of failure or a mishap that can cause disaster, flashing her back to the false bravado and protection she remembered so vividly in her time at The Sound Factory.