Lust Demented

{XXII}

I WAS AN ARROW SHOT from the beach towards the sun only to drop into the ocean. The ocean in this case is an ocean of books. The sky I was staring at was a fresco on the ceiling of the New York Public Library’s reading room. I rubbed the bruise on the back of my head. Kind of ’em to place me face first into a hardcover copy of A Greater Truth. I rubbed my eyes with both fingers, standing up, and moving to the main staircase. I kept rubbing my eyes until I was staring at the door leading out onto the roof, which was left open a crack, similar to the way Percy’s apartment invited me in. I kept rubbing my eyes until Lars appeared in front of me. He didn’t turn around, just kept writing in the fat notebook. He knew I was there, but took his time finishing up his last thought.

Lars popped the pencap back on, sword in its sheath, momentarily leaning inward like he was disemboweling himself. I knew the words were still coming.

“You came here to trade confessions, I assume.” Lars peeked out of his black sunglasses.

“Lars, I knew about the baby. One day your old man hunted me down. Percy told me he wanted to raise the baby as if it was his own. He wanted to never let the baby know I was the father. I froze in anger. I could hardly react. He said he’d take care of me. Rent an apartment for me where I could write and be left alone. He said he’d publish every book that I’d put out for the rest of my life. A few weeks later I sent him A Greater Truth. He seemed to truly like it, but said if we were going to sell it, I’d have to change the ending. I flew into a rage and disappeared on a never-ending bender. Somewhere, in the middle of the haze, Percy approached me one last time. This time he had a better plan he said. He looked devious, but even before he explained what he was up to, I knew it would work. Percy still wanted to change the ending, but instead of publishing it under my name. He wanted to publish it under Missy’s name… but only until it was success. Which is when he promised to reveal I was the true writer. Percy told me he wanted to sell a scandal. He said he not only planned to put out a profitable book twice, but he wanted to create a legend. It was best for the baby. It was best for me. It was best for your father. It was best for everyone, but Missy. I wanted to tear his throat out, then and there, but there was some truth in what he said. No matter how evil or manipulative, there was truth in his plan. And words are words, right Lars. Words are words.”

“Words are words Farrow. Words are words.” Lars continued to scribble without looking up.

“Lars, I knew about the baby. I was in on A Greater Truth. And I went to Gramercy Park to kill your father that night…”

“But he was already dead.” It was a tough call. I couldn’t pinpoint if Lars lost his mind recently or he never possessed it in the first place

“He was, but I wanted to do it. There was no satisfaction, only more pain when I saw him there.”

“Farrow you couldn’t kill anyone.”

“How do you know? We’re all beastly. The instinct is in all of us. Some can kill for a few dollars or a foul glare. I had a great reason to kill Percy Featherton. I could’ve killed him.”

Pissing me off, Lars just kept nodding his head, rejecting my claim.

“I could. I would’ve.”

Brimming with arrogance, Lars kept nodding.

“How do you know that I couldn’t kill?”

“You know Farrow: Anyone can write a fucking book. Even when my father was coming up and half the country was illiterate, they fought through it to the last page. Nowadays teenagers can thumb-type a fucking novella on their phones. Are you aware that there are more writers in New York City than in any other spot in the world. Now there are a little less.” A cemetery silence filled the terrace. Two lions and the white steps of the New York Public Library were below us. Lars became stone. The buildings became flesh.

“Farrow, same as you I showed up that night for revenge. A different type of revenge.”

I didn’t know what to say… a thousand more scenarios of death and destruction blossomed within my head of flames. An acre of wilting flowers slowly burned, only to be born again.

“I killed my father. Percy Featherton. I stabbed him dead. One less writer clogging the shelves.” It was strange the way Lars said his father’s name as if he was standing in front of a captivated jury or behind a glass window of family and friends while settling into the electric chair. Lars morphed inhuman. His breaths became large demanding everything from his chest.

“I have no honor. The world is filled with people who everyday go places and do things in order to create a better life around them. And what do I do? I write about it. While people live and people die: I write. Write myself to fucking death. Farrow…” The words left Lars mouth with a strange croak. “Sell me to the cops and get your book back. I know they’ve already asked you.”

I could see Lars goring his own father to death. I could see Percy not bothering to struggle. I could see Lars insatiable, needing to kill him over and over again.

“I saw my father kill Gloom. He literally exterminated the competition like one of his biblically tainted psychopaths. He manipulated you, Missy, me, and a thousand others. He is… was the top publisher in New York and I am the only heir to his legacy.”

“Nobody needs to know the truth.”

“I dishonored myself. What kind of man am I?”

“A man survives Lars. A man survives.”

“Right now would be a good time to be a bird instead of a man.” Pigeons and sapsuckers stuck to the stone lions out front.

“Shut up Lars. Shut the fuck up. Choose the middle ground.”

“Writing… art… life… is confrontation. The middle ground is for pussies. You have to be willing to die for…” And with that Lars vaulted over the ledge.

“Better to live for it.” I shouted at him on the way down.

It was a closed parachute leap for the faithless. The wingless bird flew forward ignoring the violent spasms attacking its lungs. The sickly grin stayed carved on his face, until it exploded on the library steps. Live street theater, I could see the red paint the white stone. Squirming side to side in pain, his sunglasses stayed strapped to his face.