Bob Avey
Bob Avey is the author of two currently unpublished novels, several short stories, and various treasure-related nonfiction articles. He lives with his wife and son in Broken Arrow, Oklahoma.

He works as an accountant in the petroleum industry and, when he's not writing, spends his free time roaming through ghost towns and Civil War battlefields searching for lost items from the past. Through his writing, which he describes as a blend of literary and genre, he explores the intricacies and extremities of human nature.

Twisted Perception
By Bob K. Avey

Chapter One


Terrence tightened his grip around the steering wheel of the old Geo Prizm when he saw the place, some bar along Thirty First Street where he'd found her before, and with a bit of trepidation, he pulled into the parking lot and shut off the engine. The chore ahead of him was anything but pleasant, but there was no getting around it. People ought to stay dead when they're put that way.
On such occasion he thought of himself as he would, even imagining his name, though not actually going by it, and not for a moment pretending to assume his presence. Such an act would be tantamount to disrespect. Something one should not do against one's own father. In preparation, he pulled down the sun visor behind which he kept a photograph to remind him of what she had been, and in so doing he caught a glimpse of himself in the vanity mirror. It unnerved him to the point of tears. What he saw was not his image. She was to blame for that. As if it might gain her attention, or offer insight, he stroked the surface of the photograph with his thumb, and along with an array of jumbled thoughts a disturbing memory rolled through his head.
He'd gone there, the house where they had come to be, and somewhere in the distance, he'd heard the sound of breaking glass followed by a bunch of laughter. Just a pack of kids, delinquents abusing their privilege of freedom as if it were nothing more than a worn out emotion, cheap and easily given. They could not be more wrong. He didn't go inside. He walked around to the backyard where he opened the wrought iron gate and stepped inside that fenced off area, and stared at the ground beneath his feet. She'd come back. There was little doubt in his mind about that, but like a terrified homeowner creeping through the darkness with a baseball bat to check out a noise in the night, he was powerless against a pressing need to go to her and confirm it. It was not a ritual that he cherished. It scared the hell out of him, and as he kneeled before her, the moisture from the damp earth drawing into his pant legs, he began to tremble.
He couldn't understand why she wanted such a life back, but she always did, and he had no more than placed the fresh cut roses onto the ground when she screamed, the shrill sound of her voice stealing from the depths of her grave as her hands came up from the
ground, like some giant species of plant sprouting forth in high speed motion, her cold fingers wrapping around his wrists and clamping shut, dragging him into a cruel reversal of fortune.
"You got to sign in first."
He took a moment to gather himself. He wasn't always like that, blanking out, losing pieces of time. But it had been awhile since he'd dealt with the problem. He just wasn't used to it.
He was inside the bar, staring at a sweaty man with ugly tattoos who pointed to a sign-in sheet while holding out a pudgy hand for the cover charge.
The man winked at him. He'd already begun to hate the guy. He despised ignorant people. They had a habit of treating him with less respect than he deserved. He scribbled a name onto the register and paid the greasy troll, then walked into the bar and selected a seat in the corner where he could see the stage and not be bothered. The current dancer held his interest only for a few seconds and out of a blend of curiosity and boredom, he began to look around the room. What he saw turned his stomach. It was a shame she'd sunk to such a shrine of misplaced emotions and dirty desires. He caught the waitress' attention and ordered a drink, in the bottle, and when she brought it, he sat back and sipped it.
A few dancers later, he began to feel the effects of the beer. It was not unpleasant, and he began to wonder if he'd been wrong, made a mistake. He thought about leaving, buying a six-pack on the way home and mellowing out a little further while he sat in bed and watched television. But she put a stop to all that. He was about to embrace the idea when she came from behind a curtained doorway along the back wall. He had not been wrong. She was there all right, and when she climbed onto the stage it wasn't long until she saw him as well, her lovely blue eyes piercing the smoky haze as though they carried their own source of illumination, looking through him and recognizing the memory of what he was.
A rustling noise accompanied by a voice broke his concentration. One of the dancers, whose face held a puzzling expression of hesitation, had come over and was standing beside his table. He'd known it would happen sooner or later, and he doubted the bout of tentativeness she appeared to be experiencing would stop her from carrying out her practiced charade. Soon, she'd sit down with a forced smile and try to make conversation, all in an effort to coax an overpriced drink out of him. It was a no win situation. If he accepted, he might as well have a stupid sign written across his forehead. If he refused, she'd make a scene, saying he was only there for a cheap thrill, to buy a couple of drinks and watch a little free snatch walk across the stage. He swallowed the rest of his beer then stuffed a twenty dollar bill into her g-string. It was time to leave. He'd found what he'd come for, and he had no desire to soak up any more of the club's impeccable ambiance.
He got up and walked out, keeping his head down while passing the bouncer. The jerk would be easy. Pigs like him always were. He pushed through the door and stepped outside where a light rain had started to fall. He got back in the car and rolled down the window, letting the cold mist pepper his face as he breathed in the fresh air.
He didn't have to wait long, and when she came out, she was alone. He couldn't help but smile. He did have a bit of luck now and then. Following her wouldn't be necessary, the parking lot was empty except for the two of them. He worked his hands into the surgical gloves and picked up the sock before running his hand through the roll of duct tape to wear it like a bracelet. The sock, which was lined with plastic and filled with wet sand, was something new. He opened the door and stepped quietly onto the asphalt, sliding the white-handled knife into his back pocket. He didn't intend to use it there, but he would if he had to. He came up behind her, the six-inch piece of tape he'd cut earlier already in his left hand. She was completely unaware of his presence, and he paused as a sweet scent coming from her hair filled his senses. He wanted to touch her, to take her in his arms and love her, the way he had loved her, and it was then that he saw her the way she was, lying on her bed, wearing only the top half
of her see-through pajamas while she pulled the bed covers back and shifted ever so slightly to allow him every angle. It was not unusual. She often stayed that way for awhile after he had left, even getting up on occasion to walk around the room, stopping close where he could see her through the cracks in the door. But it could never be that way for them. They could not co-exist. That much had been made painfully clear.
He thought about the small room that had been his prison where the dust particles would dance in the sun that showed through the broken shade, giving an impression of substance to the beams, making them appear as though he could reach out and grab them and move them about. But that, like so much else, had been nothing more than an illusion. The dust was not only in the light. It had filled the room. He'd eaten mouthfuls of it with every breath.
They were casualties of their own fates, and somehow he thought she understood what he had to do. He raised the sock, stretching to give it more velocity, and when he brought it down against the back of her head, he remembered how the light would catch her pretty necklace as she walked about the room. It was an enlightening moment, for she dropped quite readily to her knees, not unconscious, but dazed to the point of incoherence.
He positioned the pre-cut piece of tape and pressed it over her mouth, then slid the roll from his arm and pulled her hands behind her, binding them with several revolutions. He tore off another piece and put it across her eyes, then pulled her to her feet. She offered little resistance, and a delightful urge to take her now ran through him, testing his resolve, though he pushed the thoughts away and guided her across the parking lot toward the car. Once there he shoved her into the back seat.
The lot was still empty. No one had seen.
He started the car and drove out of the parking lot, heading west on Thirty First Street. Some distance would be good. When he reached Yale Avenue, he turned south, driving until he found a suitable location, an old wood frame house that had lost the fight for survival, giving in to the pressure of financial ventures that had transformed the once slightly suburban neighborhood into a mixture of banks, retail outlets, and, ironically enough, real estate offices. Acting as a reminder of the house's fate, an industrial trash bin sat in the front yard, boasting the name of some construction company on its side. A ridiculous notion. What they were up to was anything but constructive. He pulled her from the car and walked her to the front of the house, pausing briefly to check the door. It wasn't locked. They seldom were.
He pushed her inside and closed the door, his heart racing with anticipation as he switched on the flashlight, and in its dim red glow was revealed an old mattress lying on the floor. Some things were just meant to be. She had begun to sense her fate, struggling even as he'd pulled her from the car, and he had no choice but to use the sock again. With a little help, she fell onto the mattress. Lying beside her, he removed the tape from her eyes and studied her face, so pretty, and yet so lined with fear that he hardly recognized it. It had been cold in that room, a chilling dampness understood only by those left alone, not for moments, but for eternities in an unforgiving and infinite darkness.
He would not go back there. She would die first. He stroked her hair with the back of his hand and she tried to pull away, but she could not, so she squeezed her eyes tightly shut, and it was then that he brought the white-handled knife to her chest where he put his weight into it, shoving it through her rib cage and into her heart.
With that her lies gave way to the truth, and for her penance he laid her throat open, cutting it in the shape of a T. Capital T for Pappa Terrence.