Lasting Impressions. John Schlarbaum

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      "I wonder if that stunned whore is still sobbing her brains out." He laughed aloud as he put the smaller knife on the dresser before grabbing the larger one. "You have been very bad lately."

      He examined the blade, making sure there were no nicks or imperfections on its surface. The crusted blotches of blood at the tip of the handle didn't bother him. He picked up a dirty pair of jeans to wipe the knife clean.

      "There," he said, inspecting his work, "now you look like new again. Like a virgin. That last girl we met in Thurman said she was a virgin. That was her first and last mistake."

      Dale's demeanour changed and his face was now pale. He pulled the knife close to his chest and embraced it, as if holding a baby.

      "I didn't mean to harm her," he whispered, his voice as angelic as a child.

      Tears began to roll down Dale's face as he continued to sway back and forth. When he opened his eyes several minutes later, he called out in terror. Blood was everywhere. On his clothes. His hands. His face. Deep, dark, warm blood was smeared on everything. In his state of panic he couldn't figure out where it had come from.

      Awaking from his confused state, Dale's mature voice quickly returned. "Leave me alone! It's not your time yet."

      He tried to wipe the blood onto his clothes, the knapsack, the bed sheets, but it only smeared more blood on him. As he bolted toward the washroom, he caught a glimpse of himself in the wall mirror and came to a halt.

      The face staring back was not his own. It was too young. Or was this the real Dale Hawks, a mirage of some sort? A mental trick being played on him? He wasn't like that! Was he?

      Dale's eyes glared into the mirror and with each passing second, he felt himself slipping away. His zest for living dissipating, he succumbed to the feelings that were overpowering him.

      A weak smile began to surface on Dale's face; a calmer look than the one seen for the last few days. It was the face of someone lost and confused, unaware of his bearings. The last memory this person had was walking down the highway, trying to hitch a ride.

      ***

      The first order of business was to take care of the nasty cut on his hand. He didn't know how it had happened, but with fresh blood smeared on everything in sight, it couldn't have been long ago.

      He walked into the washroom to clean up. The water felt cold against the throbbing warmth of the open flesh. The incision wasn't as bad as he'd imagined and it stopped bleeding within a few minutes under the running tap. He grabbed some toilet paper and wrapped the cut, which would have to suffice until he visited a drugstore for a proper bandage.

      Relieved that this minor crisis was over, he wet a facecloth and gently scoured his face and arms. As the last visible signs of blood were transferred onto the cloth, he unexpectedly became shaky and steadied himself against the vanity for support. He knew that he shouldn't look up at the mirror, but as was usually the case, he felt forced to do so.

      The eyes that bore back scared the life out of him.

      "Thanks for cleaning me up, buddies," Dale said, laughing insanely. "You know how I dislike a mess, especially a bloody one."

      Feeling better than ever, Dale stepped into the other room and stopped in front of the mirror, where moments earlier, his power and his control had been tested. Fixated on his reflection, Dale spoke to his younger foes in a low ominous tone.

      "Thought you could creep up on me and take over, didn't you? You should know by now that's impossible because even when we're working as a team, you're always the weakest link." He paused briefly to admire himself. "I must admit that you're getting trickier. For a moment, you had me feeling helpless, with no reason to go on, like our friend Peter. But you fail to understand I'm divinely superior to that mere boy. He lacked the will to live in the first place. He had no purpose in life."

      Dale looked down at his wounded hand and saw the toilet paper was saturated in fresh blood, forced out by the clenching of his fist.

      "I do have purpose that I intend to carry out here in Lasting. Do you hear me in there?" he asked, tapping his finger against his temple.

      Dale watched the mirror's image a few moments longer, making sure all traces of the "weaker Dale" were gone. Satisfied, he went back to the bed, tossed everything on the floor and laid down. It had been a rough day, which had taken considerable strength from him. Checking his watch, Dale phoned the front desk to request a wake up call for later in the evening.

      Drifting to sleep, his thoughts were a montage of talking to Susan, meeting Olivia, and learning that Jeremy Atkins was the most popular guy in town.

      With each new stop, Dale had learned that to keep his mind sharp, he had to constantly exercise it in many different ways. This usually took the form of becoming friends with a set of individuals, then slowly manipulating them to turn on one another, or even band together to do something out of their comfort zone. These mental workouts could include destroying the trust in a marriage, robbing a bank or simply empowering people to stand up for what they believed in, regardless of consequences or personal loss.

      Having endured a lifetime of pain already, Dale enjoyed being the ultimate puppet master, ultimately leaving a wake of destruction behind when he once again stuck out his thumb on the side of a highway.

      It was all a game to Dale, but he always played to win. Until now, his unsuspecting victims were adults, all of whom should have known right from wrong, yet were willing to live on the wild side (if only for a short time) in the company of a total stranger.

      For this sideshow stop, Dale had decided to try something new; to catapult this teenaged trio of local stars to the front pages of every newspaper in the country.

      Overnight they would become legends and with that would come immortality.

      CHAPTER SEVEN

      After cruising the countryside for two hours, Susan's thighs were getting saddle sore, while Jeremy was prepared to ride forever. With each person they encountered, Jeremy would stop to get their opinion on his new bike. It isn’t made of gold, Susan kept thinking, wanting to go home for a hot bath.

      "Can we rest somewhere, Jeremy?"

      "Stop complaining," Jeremy said. "My legs are cramped. My bum is sore. My thighs hurt," he mimicked Susan. What a wimp, he thought. "Okay already. We'll go back to my place. My parents are at some convention until tomorrow, so we'll have the whole place to ourselves."

      In the fading light, she could see the smile on Jeremy's face. She wanted to be alone and here he was smirking. Will this night ever end? Susan asked herself.

      She'd discovered one benefit to being the passenger was you could let your mind wander. She took advantage of this perk and tried to come up with a way to tell Jeremy she'd fallen out of love with him. Was there an easy way to say such a thing?

      By the time they arrived in Jeremy's driveway, Susan felt confident that the timing was right. "It's me, not you, Jeremy," she repeated to herself.

      Jeremy jumped off the bike and helped Susan dismount. "Pretty nice machine, huh?" he said, inspecting the bike.

      "Yeah, Jer. Nice machine," Susan said.

      Jeremy looked at her as she СКАЧАТЬ