Augustus Riley

The Deductive Douche

“Hi,” some random bitch said. I think it was directed at me. From my peripheral I took in every detail. Hair dyed blonde. Frayed at the end: damaged. Dyed once, twice, four times in the last year: doesn’t like the way she looks? Is extremely indecisive. Wearing expensive clothing. Tag still on shirt: new clothes. No other tags on other articles of clothing: not poor just forgetful- a slob? Makeup is done well: definitely doesn’t like the way she looks. Fingernails… ew. I detest girls that take the time to paint their nails once and then decide to let the job deteriorate. Stubs of red at her cuticles: definitely a slob, most likely has a messy room. Forgetful, well-off slob, who does not like her looks, is indecisive, and will jump at a chance to get plastic surgery because of her self-esteem issues. That took me too long, almost 4 seconds. I’m losing my touch.

She shoved a flyer at me and demanded I vote for her for prom queen. “Vote for me. Trust me I’m the best choice,” she says as I looked over the flyer in disgust. Her phony smile pisses me off. No, I think to myself, you pretentious sycophant. You don’t even believe you’re pretty enough. Why should I?

“No thanks. Raise your self-esteem and clean yourself and your room every once in awhile and maybe I’ll consider it. K bumpkin?”

She looks at me with such shock that I almost explode into laughter right in her face. I have to hold my composure, this’ll be the best part. I crumple her flyer, across the cafeteria is a trash can. I throw the paper at the head of a kid next to it. I threw it at a curve so it would bounce off the side of the kids head at a 180 degree loop. It goes into the trash can, of course. I walked away before it did but I knew it did. I could’ve thrown the crumpled flyer on the floor but that’s littering, I’m not a monster.

I'm known for being a jerk by the common folk of this establishment. Yet if it wasn't for me, the great Augustus, they would all take pleasure in the company of others obliviously. Ignorance is not bliss, it is giving up one’s right to the truth. I have single handedly exposed most, if not all, of the phonies in this school.

A few days pass and just as I predicted the girl with disgusting fingernails won prom queen. The idiots in this institution don’t know the tell-tale signs of a slob. If I had to sum up private school in a few words it would be high-society bullshit. I’m pretty sure I only got into this school to fill some under-privileged kids quota. Yet they told me I got in because of my intellect. Well maybe, but they ended up killing two birds with one stone when it came to me.

The Fall

My name is my pride. Augustus Riley, a name with a royal insinuation. I don't know how my father came across it. The drunken lunatic has never read a single book and won't bother to do so. I would've thought my mother, a woman that was on her way to college before being impregnated by satan, would have thought up the regal name. Yet somehow my father, satan, the man who is one drink away from having a negative number amount of brain cells, gave me the name that describes what I am. What am I you idiots might ask, I am great. Obviously that's the case as I am standing before all of you now.

"Perfect," I say to no one in particular as I jot down the last of my valedictorian speech. The school practically handed me the title, probably another subtle way of raising their under-privileged kids quota. "Come to Saunter’s Private Academy where some of our poorest students get the best of grades" I thought, laughing at my own ingenious joke.

"Is there something you'd like to share with the rest of the class Mr. Riley?" The teacher spat in my direction. Mori Gibson, a destitute man who teaches math and insists on being called Dr. Gibson, coming to the end of his tenure at a school he despises just as much as I do; he's realized he has done nothing significant in his life. There's slight discoloration at the base of his right ring finger: divorced. Unhappy personal life. Bags under eyes, they are slightly red: either partied hard the night before or-

"Back to work! Damn excrementum," he yells out suddenly. It has only been a second. He knows I was just analyzing him. It’s only natural he does, he’d be a bigger goddamn moron if he didn’t know when I was analyzing him by now.

I did this once before, when I first met him. I struck up a friendship with him when I first came here. Poor idiot thought he was going to take me under his wing when in reality I was scrutinizing his entire way of life. He was happier then. Until I saw his life a little too well and exposed everything wrong with it. When his wife came in one day it was clear to me that she was having an affair and from the way she was walking I deduced it was a satisfying one.

Wait what did he call me? That word, it's Latin, just like my name. He knows just as I the idiots in this class don’t know the language. Damn it I barely do because I only took one semester of it sophomore year. But Dr. Gibson knows I know. The phony has the audacity to call me an excrementum, a shit. After I did so much for him, after I helped him realize the fact that his entire life was a fallacy. Goddamn ingrate. I pack up my stuff and leave. I’m taking my ass back home.

One bus ride later I’m at my house. It’s too quiet, my brother is always usually making noises. Kid has Aspergers so he lives in his own little world. The house is riddled with bottles as always. But there's something off about it...all. It becomes clear in half a second what has happened. Bottle of Bacardi half finished on the living room coffee table, surrounded by a bunch of similar bottles, all empty: interruption. Fridge open, telling from the temperature in the room it's been open for some time: another interruption. I walk towards the fridge slowly. Small spots of blood are on the door. It's been three seconds. I'm taking too long. I can’t process anything properly. The information is incoherent. I can’t waste much time. What happened? What happened? What happened?! I feel the gears in my head turning. The pieces finally fit together.

My father is a greedy alcoholic. He never leaves a bottle alone unless he's sucked out every drop of alcohol. My brother has Aspergers, he's in his own little world 90% of the time, he doesn't listen all that well. My father is careless, he never fed us when we were younger. My brother and I had to wait for mom to get home from work, I ended up learning how to cook after a while. My brother tends to open the fridge and stand there, looking, contemplating, looking, contemplating. He doesn't know what he wants to eat, dad notices the fridge open too long. Yells from the sofa, bottle in hand. He doesn't get a response so he gets angry. When he gets angry he...

I run upstairs to my brother's bedroom and open the door. He's in bed, blanket on him from head to toe. I pull the blanket to reveal him asleep... No he's not asleep he's unconscious. The right side of his face is the color of a ripe apple. His right eye is swollen shut. The blood coming out of his nose is pooling into his left ear in a new flourishing pond of blood. The pond of blood in his ear is spilling over in a gushing stream onto his pillow. The pillow is drenched in blood and stained with mucus. His breathing is shallow. Goddamn it! Goddamn it! I yell as I run downstairs.

"911 what is your"-

"I need an ambulance now! He's not breathing I think his heart stopped," I say frantically as I put the phone down so they can trace the call. The cops have been here before, I've called 911 on more than one occasion. I have 8 minutes, my plan is set. I run upstairs again. Blood pulses in my ears. My heart pounds with the fury of a race horse.

I burst into my parents room. I know where he keeps the gun. Bedside bureau, middle drawer. I grab it, check the clip: full. He's in bed, head under the covers. I point the gun at his head. I get ready, finger on the trigger. I’m not gonna shoot. Just wake him, scare him. I stand there, deciding how to best put the fear of my strength into him. I'm tensing, my finger on the trigger hurts. It's been six minutes. I-

"What are you doing?" a deep gravelly voice asks me from the doorway. I look to see satan there, my father. In my shock I pull the trigger. BANG. The sound from the gun going off will echo in my head forever. I know exactly who I have shot the moment the gun goes off. I hear the clink of bottles on wood as my father has dropped the liquor he has just gotten.

I pull the blanket back to reveal a full head of brunette hair. A soft stream of beautiful brown with some strands of silver. My mother's hair. She stayed home today. I miscalculated! I created a theory before looking at all the facts. I think back and in my anger didn't realize that there was more information I had not processed. I look at the side of my mothers face where a large bruise has started to form. He had beaten her too, she was the one who had the fridge open. She was preparing food for my brother. My brother got in the way and he got beaten too.

My father runs at me while I still have the gun. We begin to fight for it. Moving towards the door with every step. The gun goes back and forth. It's pointed at him, at me, at him, at me. This goes on for another second. The horrid smell of alcohol permeating off him smothering me. We're near the stairs now. The echo of the gun thunders out with a reverberation like no other. He looks me dead in the eye, scared for his life. Scared? Why is he scared? I shot him. I'm the one that should be scared. The pinging in my ear wasn't going away, I can't focus. Why can't I focus? What's happening? I look down and the gun is poised up against my chest.

He shot me. I'm dying. "You have 1 second before you tumble down these stairs," a voice says in my head. "Make them count, you can survive if you fall just right. You'll survive this." I saw this coming. I called that ambulance for either my father or myself. As it turns out I'm the one who won't be breathing soon. The only thing I didn't see coming was my mother. As I fall I pull a picture frame off the hall. It falls gently over my face. A skinny face: malnourished? Poor? Dark circles under bright blue eyes: lack of sleep? Cut under the cheekbone: result of glass. Rounded glass, a bottle: abuse. Those dark circles, they're not from lack of sleep, they're from not being able to. They're too dark, any normal person would have fallen asleep- insomniac. Sensitive and poor individual, who's overly emotional, and is constantly abused. The picture frame passes over my head and I hear a crash. Here comes a step. CRACK, my skull says greeting the step it just landed on. My neck joins the conversation with a few small creaks of its own. As I see the world going black it decides to show me one last trick, a change in orientation as my body flips over in an involuntary somersault. How nice. Gravity has been reversed. I shouldn't be able to see my arm at this angle, right? It all ends as a rib on my left connects with the stoop of the staircase. Another crack evacuates the rest of the air in me. The cough I release comes with blood from a most likely punctured lung. "Oh no oh no oh no" he says at the top of the stairs. What's that sound? Silence? My heart just stopped. Eight minutes have passed now. I can hear the ambulance and cops coming.

I killed my mother. My hard working mother. I hope they can't save me. All this because I wanted to try to be a hero. This was about me the entire time, it wasn't to save my brother at all. I'm not gonna fight death. Come to me. My brain is dying, ten minutes is all it takes and it's all over.

Silence.

I'm being picked up. The paramedics most likely. They won't have much luck in reviving me. I've given up. I'm working against them. Thirty seconds to the end: brain death.

"What's gonna happen to your brother?" The question escapes the recesses of my mind. "They'll blame your father for your mothers death, he's a drunk. What will your brother do? No mother, no father, no brother. Unless you take his custody."

I'm the only one who understands that kid.

"Exactly. So fight."

I'm in a tunnel. It's shaking wildly: earthquake.

"Augustus?" I look back to see my mother. "Come here Augustus."

I want to say sorry so badly. I want her in my arms. I-

"No August! Come here! Save me!" My brother’s voice comes from the opposite side of the tunnel as I am walking towards mom. Cracks run throughout the cavern towards him. I didn't save him before. I can stop him from getting hurt again. I run after him and catch him just as the tunnel falls into blinding light.

I open my eyes to a team of doctors. A defibrillator over my chest. I close my eyes within a second but the silence inside me is put to rest as my heart begins to beat once more, filling my body with it's orchestral rhythm.

I open my eyes again.. there’s something in my throat. I start pulling at the tube in my mouth and throat with my right hand, I can’t move my left. Goddamn hospitals have cruel and unusual punishments. The tube slides out with a disgusting slurping sound. My mouth is dry, I hear beeping alarms and the chatter of machines. A nurse comes in suddenly.

“The situation is handled,” a weary voice says beside me. There was obvious irritation in the voice prompting the nurse to close the door quickly. I look over to see an older man dressed as if a senile grandmother picked out his clothes: Blazer over t-shirt and jeans. There's a female doctor next to him. He has a cane in his hand, must be a- “Hey kid don’t stare too hard, you make it obvious,” he says with a Mona Lisa like smile, all-knowing but untelling.

“I’m leaving, if you found it hard to not stare at me you’ll find her irresistible” he continues as he skillfully gets up with the strength of one leg and hobbles away. In his place was the doctor.

"You're lucky to have survived," she says. "I won't get into anything technical about your injuries at the moment since you just woke up. Don't try to speak either this'll be quick."

She's in her mid thirties. Hair short and unruly: doesn't care how she looks? She probably works too hard to deal with it. Cheap plain clothing under white coat. But she's a doctor she doesn't have a problem with money: definitely doesn't care how she looks and is actually committed to the practice rather than reeking the monetary benefits. Fingernails with stubs of purple at the cuticles: not a slob just works too hard to get to it. All in all, a busy hard working doctor who cares about her patients.

"It was really stupid of you to try and attack your father. There’s only so much you can do when the other person has a gun," she says. "It was selfish. You weren't thinking about your brother at all. Anyone who goes off without thinking won't make it in the real world."

Pause.

"I'm sorry about your mother," she says as she leaves the room. She confirmed my own thoughts about being stupid. The room itself is sparsely furnished, a chair here and there that are generic and unmemorable. A TV above me on the wall opposite the foot of the bed. Under the TV is a mirror catching some of the fleeting sunlight of the afternoon.

In the mirror I see myself: the top of my head is bandaged, so is my abdomen, my left arm is in a cast, and my neck is in a brace. Most of the damage is internal I'm guessing. There’s a strand of golden hair on my hospital gown-- it’s mine. Doctors shaved my head? Most likely. The strand slips out of my fingers and falls. I follow it with my eyes as it descends towards my left arm. I look down at my cast and see it signed. In green is Daniel, my brother’s name. A tear streaks down my face. I took away his mother and his father. Am I monster after all?