Here's the Kicker

Kent gripped the bottom of his favorite green tank top, it featured an angry cartoon princess kicking off a football, and pulled it up and over his head. He tossed it on the ground and turned off his bedside lamp.

Quinn had already fallen asleep; he had curled onto his side away from Kent. Kent pulled himself in and wrapped an arm around Quinn’s chest for a tight big spoon.

Kent pushed his face in close, inhaled, and thought to himself, “I love this man.” Then he began to drift off to sleep. Moments before he fell into unconscious slumber he felt a swift kick to the leg.

“Hey,” said Kent.

Quinn kicked with the other foot.

“Hey, Quinn, it’s just a dream.”

Quinn kicked harder with the first foot, then the other, and he kicked harder and faster.

“It’s just a nightmare, baby. It’s okay,” Kent hugged harder and held Quinn until the kicks slowed, softened, and stopped.

“It’s just a nightmare,” Kent said. He kissed Quinn on the back of the head and slipped out of bed.

He made his way, in the dark, down the stairs to get a glass of water where the glow of a full moon bathed the kitchen in a soft blue light. He pulled open the fridge and looked inside.

“Where did you get those bruises,” asked a soft voice.

Kent turned to see his kindergarten teacher, Ms. Spaghetti, sitting at the kitchen table. He was sure her real name wasn’t spaghetti, it was something like Spinelli, but she liked the silly name. She pointed to his legs and nodded once.

Kent looked down to see black and blue bruises leopard-printed across his shins and calves.

“It was Quinn, he’s kicking in his sleep again,” Kent said.

“Oh, sweetie, my boy. Kent died three weeks ago, honey,” said Ms. Spaghetti.

“No, he’s right upstairs,” said Kent, but Ms. Spaghetti just sat there shaking her head back and forth.

Kent turned and ran for the stairs. He took them two then three at a time and then started crawling. He pushed his way up as the stairs grew taller and then deeper. He strained harder to pull is way.

Kent woke up in bed and wiped the sweat from his eyes. Quinn was lightly snoring right by his side, it had all been a dream. Kent lay back down and pulled in for a tight big spoon.

“I love this man,” he thought then began to drift off to sleep. Moments before he fell into unconscious slumber he felt a swift kick to the leg.

“Here comes the kicker,” Kent teased Quinn. The kicks weren’t unusual events at night, but then they got harder, and then they got faster, before they started to hurt.

“It’s just a nightmare, baby. It’s okay,” Kent hugged harder and held Quinn until the kicked slowed, softened, and stopped.

Kent got out of bed. It was 2am, he needed some water. He went down the stairs and into the kitchen, through a blue haze that radiated off the electric mosquito catcher he’d installed for fruit flies.

He flicked a switch for the light and there was Zara, the single mother of three who worked produce at his local market, sitting at his kitchen counter.

“Where did you get those bruises,” asked Zara.

Kent looked down, but his legs looked just fine.

Zara pointed and raised her eyebrows at Kent.

Kent raised his shirt and saw his torso covered in bruises. He rubbed at them and said, “it was Quinn, he’s kicking in his sleep again.”

“Baby, no,” said Zara, “No, no, baby. Quinn never existed. You made him up!”

“That’s not true, he’s right upstairs,” Kent said.

“If you can even get there,” said Zara with a smirk.

Kent turned and ran for the stairs. He took them two then three at a time, but they started to melt under his feet. The carpet was slick like cherry butter cream on top of moist and cakey Japanese pine. He slogged through the stairs until he fell onto his hands and knees and he crawled.

Kent woke up in bed and wiped the sweat from his eyes. Quinn wasn’t in bed next to him, but he figured he’d just gotten up to get some water, he’d be back soon. He closed his eyes. Moments before he fell into unconscious slumber he felt a swift kick to the leg.

He opened his eyes, but Quinn still wasn’t there. He was in bed alone and yet, the kicks grew faster and more intense and they didn’t stop and they didn’t stop and they didn’t stop and so Kent jumped from the bed and ran down the stairs.

And he could see Quinn’s shadow just around the corner to the kitchen, but the stairs were so sticky. He wanted to run, but each step was like the floor of a non-profit movie theater.

“Quinn? Quinn, I had a nightmare. Quinn?”

Only a few steps away. Kent pulled at his feet and felt them pull away like he’d stepped in three day old gum on a hot July day.

“What’s a Quinn,” said a jet black canary.

“You can’t talk,” said Kent.

“I fucked your mother, you shit eating cunt,” said the canary.

Then, emerging from the shadows of the new moon, seven dozen jet black birds burst through the kitchen window and slammed into Kent’s body, pushing him backward onto the sticky stairs.

“Where did you get those bruises,” asked the jet black canary.

“Where is Quinn?”

“Wouldn’t it be better if you gave Quinn up,” asked the jet black canary.

“I love him,” begged Kent.

“He’s ours now, so just wake up,” said the jet black canary.

“Please,” said Kent.

“Wake up,” said the jet black canary.

Then Kent woke up. He was in bed and the sun was shining outside the window. He heard Quinn brushing his teeth in the bathroom and got out of bed to give his love a kiss. When he opened the bathroom door, there stood Ms. Spaghetti, in bra and panty.

“Did you see Quinn,” asked Ms. Spaghetti.

Then Kent woke up. He was in bed and the sun was shining outside the window. He heard Quinn brushing his teeth in the bathroom and got out of bed to give his love a kiss. When he opened the bathroom door, there stood Zara, trying to wrestle three overcaffeinated toddlers.

“Did you see Quinn,” asked Zara. One of her toddlers makes a dash from his exhausted mother and kicked Kent in the face.

Then Kent woke up. He was in bed and the sun was shining outside the window. His grandma stood over him.

“See Quinn,” asked his dead grandma before her teeth fell out, chattering against his face.

Then Kent woke up. He was in bed and the sun was shining outside the window.

“See Quinn,” asked the guy from the peanut butter billboard he liked.

Then Kent woke up. He was in bed.

“See-Quirnn,” hissed the neighbor’s one eyed cat.

Then Kent woke up. Then Kent woke up. Then Kent woke up. Then Kent woke up. Then Kent woke up. Then Kent woke up. Then Kent woke up.

Then Kent woke up, but his head hurt and he had a bag of ice on his face, and so he kept his eyes closed and he just listened and begged for the pain to stop.

“Yes, officer, that right there is the guy. To be clear, we warned him, and he’s been given a lot of warnings. Don’t touch the girls, Don’t touch yourself, and Do Not Cross the Yellow Line,” said a gruff voice of a large man who smoked too much.

“He crossed the yellow line?” said another voice, accompanied by some beeping and electronic noises that hurt Kent’s head.

“He crossed all the lines! After that many warnings, my girls were tired of the abuse. He crossed the line, made one of my girls feel unsafe, and my girl put her high heel to his forehead. Dropped him like a rock, she did. Out cold and falls flat on his filthy pervert ass, and then, uh, we call you guys,” the man coughed the last few words.

“Can we speak to the girl, get her statement?”

Kent pulled the ice bag from his forehead and squinted. He wasn’t sure which hurt worse, the neon lights of the Busty Kicker, a 24-Hour Gentleman’s Club and Bar, or the swirling crescendo of the blue and red police lights.

“Of course, she’s right over there, my bustiest girl. The blond, over there with the big cleavage. The pervert liked ‘em busty. Hey, Sequin. Sequin! Come here, the cops want to hear your statement. Office, this here is Sequin. She’s your kicker.”