NEWTON
A Short Story by James D. Pratt
Copyright 2010 James D. Pratt
Smashwords Edition
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Newton winced. Based on the sounds coming through the thin trailer walls, it was happening again. The grunts were there, but this time no audible sobs. Maybe Christy had passed out. Or worse yet, maybe she was getting used to it. Either way, things weren’t going to get better than they had been for Christy in her twelve short years on Earth. Hard as it was to imagine, they were probably going to get even worse.
Newton struggled to come up with a word that would describe what he was feeling. He wasn’t quite sure what ‘impotent’ meant but it sounded about right. Just not in the way they used it on those late night commercials. Newton despaired for want of hands. Once upon a time he’d wished with all his might for hands, real honest to goodness flesh and blood hands, so he could do things like pet a kitten or finger-paint. Now he wanted them for a very different reason, not because he’d lost interest in petting kittens or finger-painting but as one bears the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune so too must one’s priorities change.
A few minutes later, Christy’s dad escorted her into her room. He tucked her into bed as if she was a small child, gave her a peck on the cheek, and turned out the light.
“Good night, baby girl,” he said affectionately. A few moments later, Newton refrigerator door opened followed by a clinking sound. The television in the living room clicked on after that. It was a nightly routine as dependable as morning, noon, and night.
Newton waited a few minutes before speaking. “Are you okay?” No response. “Christy?”
“I don’t want to talk about it,” she muttered. Her voice was dull and empty, as devoid of human emotion as the voice of a talking toy robot would have sounded. That scared Newton more than the crying ever had. He was pretty sure it meant Christy was accepting the things that were happening more and more frequently as a part of her life.
“I wish there was something I could do.”
“There’s nothing anyone can do.”
“Did you try telling someone?” Newton offered. “Your friends, maybe? Or one of your teachers?”
“I don’t have any friends,” Christy sighed. “Except you, of course,” she added in response to Newton’s wince. “And the teachers…you think the teachers really care about trailer trash like me? You think they want to get involved? Nobody cares. To them, I’m just…” Her voice trailed off.
“You’re not trash.” Newton sat down on the bed next to her. “And I care.” He wished he could lay a comforting hand on her shoulder but she probably wouldn’t have noticed anyway. Christy’s eyes were closed and her breathing even and slow. When she slept she was mercifully dead to the world. Besides, Newton only existed in her head.
Newton’s full name was Figment P. Newton. When Christy told her first grade teacher about her new friend, she was informed he was just a figment of her imagination. That in turn put Christy in mind of her favorite cookie, the Fig Newton, and so Figment P. Newton got his name. Neither was sure what the P. stood for at the time, but they’d figured they’d have the rest of their lives to figure it out.
Christy wasn’t exaggerating about not having any friends. Her family, despite Newton’s protest, was in fact textbook trailer trash. Her father hadn’t worked in years. Instead, he was living off a small settlement and Medicare for a work-related back injury. No one actually saw it happen, and any doctor will tell you back injuries are all but impossible to disprove (in lieu of photographic evidence of the victim engaged in strenuous activity), but the system said he was entitled to the money so by God somebody better pay up. It wasn’t much, but it paid for the overgrown lot on which their little trailer sat and kept the fridge stocked with a bit of food and a lot of beer. When Christy was three, her mother had hitched a ride out of town with a trucker and never looked back, thus completing all the mandatory requirements for full trailer-trash status.
By the time Christy turned eight, rumors had already been circulating around the trailer park about things going on behind closed doors. It didn’t take long for the rumors to reach the ears of her schoolmates where they spread like wildfire. Even the kids from poorer families than hers (and even those who were secretly enduring the same things she was) grinned and pointed and whispered. They were just grateful to be part of the game and not the center of it.
By the time Christy turned twelve, all of her schoolmates had outgrown their imaginary companions. But Christy was reluctant to give up her only friend and so, as she approached her teen-age years and her father decided it was time for years of coaching and prodding and grooming to pay off, Newton remained an important part of her life.
And as Christy changed, so had Newton. He’d stopped being a floppy-eared rabbit-teddy bear amalgam a long time ago. For awhile he’d been a shaggy dog-thing, then a gorgeous androgynous doll. A year ago Christy had discovered a new passion, as was evidenced by the various posters that adorned her walls and the stack of stolen VHS tapes shoved under her bed (her dad had yet to spring for a DVD player), and now Newton had become…something else.
Newton had watched the drama slowly unfold, uncomprehending at first, then curious, and finally, as Christy matured and his grasp of the situation along with it, understanding the wrongness of it. He sensed that, like her father, Christy was at a threshold. A step for him, a push for her, and there would be no going back.
But it wasn’t too late, not quite yet. Christy was strong. If not, she would have gone insane by now. Not in a loud, theatrical way but as a slow, quiet withdrawal from the world. But Christy was only human and Newton not even that.
Newton stood up. “Did he…did he do it this time?” No response. Her breathing had become slow and rhythmic. Newton slammed his fist against the wall. It was a futile gesture, without a gratifying THUD or sensation of bone-jarring impact .
Only this time there was.
Newton stared at his hand. He’d felt the wall, heard the sound of his own fist striking it like a hammer. It was a novelty. Newton had never felt anything before, not in a physical sense, nor had he ever expected to. He’d known what he really was for years, figuring it out even before Christy did, and never expected to be anything different. He struck the wall again to make sure it wasn’t just his imagination (the irony of an imaginary creature having an imagination wasn’t lost on him) and again, and again.
* * * * *
Dan Brewer sat half-dozing in front of the television, an open beer in his meaty hand and a couple of fresh ones on the TV tray nearby, when the banging on the wall startled him awake.
“Go to sleep, Christy,” he shouted. “You got school tomorrow.” Actually, he wasn’t sure about that. Today might have been Friday for all he knew. Or maybe Saturday. The days just kind of blended together after awhile.
BAM!
“Christy! What the hell are you doing? Settle down!”
BAM!
Now Dan was wide awake. “Don’t make me come back there!”
BAM!
“Alright, godammit!”
Dan had figured this day would come. Christy would be a teenager soon, and teenagers liked to test boundaries. Dan had done it himself. It was all part of growing up. And in the same way that Dan’s dad had made it clear in no uncertain terms which lines could and couldn’t be crossed (even as he was doing to Dan’s sisters what Dan was doing to his own daughter), it was his duty as a father to do the same for Christy. He’d already had to point out on many occasions all the sacrifices he had made to keep a roof over her head and how he’d stuck around when her whore of a mother had taken off. The least she could do was give him some respect.
Dan placed his hand on the doorknob and paused. He didn’t relish the idea of facing her so soon after having one of their little “father-daughter moments.” He’d half-convinced himself that as long as he didn’t do it, he wasn’t breaking the big taboo, the one you could go to hell for. All sorts of strange and perverted things went on in the Bible, and that was God’s own book. And God’s love was infinite, and if you asked for forgiveness with genuine remorse in your heart, the Good Lord would always grant it, right? And Dan always felt genuine remorse afterward, at least until the next time he got the itch. But he’d never gone all the way, never done it to her, and as far as Dan was concerned that proved he was showing remarkable restraint.
But Christy had reached the age when her body started to undergo real changes. She was developing curves and the first hint of what might one day be big, full breasts like her mama had. It was getting harder for Dan to hold back. All things considered, he figured he was being pretty decent about it.
But the banging on the wall thing, that was something new. Maybe adolescent angst, maybe just a cry for attention. Whatever the case, it wasn’t the way civilized people behaved. It was time for Dan to do his fatherly duty and nip it in the bud.
Dan banged on the door. “Christy, for God’s sake, go to sleep!” Silence. Satisfied, Dan turned back to-
BAM!
“Goddamit!” Dan flung open the door. Light spilled in through the doorway, partially illuminating the room. The walls were covered with posters depicting art inspired by the albums of Christy’s idol, the heavy metal group Iron Maiden. Each poster featured an incarnation of the group’s ghastly mascot, an undead time-traveling ghoul known only as Eddie. All the classics were there, from Iron Maiden’s self-titled debut album right up to the sort-of-but-not-really-a-concept-album Seventh Son of a Seventh Son. In the far corner (which really wasn’t all that far in the tiny room) Christy lay in bed, eyes wide, covers pulled up to her chin.
“Christy?” Dan blinked. Something was materializing the gloom, a pale smudge that coalesced into an approximation of a tall, thin human shape.
The shape moved toward Dan. By the time it had taken three steps, the thing had transformed into an axe-wielding punk-rocker with the gaunt frame and leathery, worn-out flesh an ancient corpse. Its worst aspect was its face. It had neither eyes nor a nose, only a gaping nasal cavity and twin pin-points of light that burned like Jack-O-Lantern candles deep within its cavernous eye-sockets. The thing’s outfit transformed as it approached, becoming first an archaic red-jacketed military uniform (the axe morphed into a sword as a battle-damaged Union Jack materialized in its other hand), then a lunatic’s straightjacket, and then tattered mummy bandages before finally settling on something out of a science-fiction movie.
When the figure stepped out of the room, its ropy beef-jerky muscles were framed in thin strips of metal, a sort of partial exoskeleton that gleamed like chrome. Most of its skull was similarly encased in metal and its left eye had been replaced with a bionic equivalent that emitted a thin beam of light like a laser scope. Drawing a futuristic pistol from a holster that was part of its right thigh, the thing leveled its weapon at Dan.
“Wait!” was all Dan had time to say before the figure squeezed the trigger. A pale yellow beam erupted from the pistol and struck Dan, who watched in disbelief as his chest began to dissolve.
“Yeeaaahhh!!!” was all Dan had time to say before the heat and pain stole the air from his lungs.
* * * * *
It had been Newton’s idea to set the trailer on fire with one of Dan’s cigarettes. The trailer was engulfed in flames by the time the fire engines arrived, taking with it any of evidence of the strange way Dan Brewer’s sad, miserable life had come to a sad, miserable end. Truth be told, it was the nicest thing anyone had done for Dan in a very long time. Maybe ever. The authorities probably wouldn’t have seen it that way, but sometimes this tired old world has pretty strange ideas about compassion. So it goes.
Newton convinced Christy to confide in the authorities and how Dan’s activities were more or less common knowledge around town. Somebody mentioned the word “lawsuit” and it was decided a fresh start far away would be in Christy’s best interest. She ended up being placed with an out-of-state foster family who preferred “special cases”. While it was clear that Christy was a guest in the house, she was treated with a firm but fair compassion intended to foster mutual respect. With help and encouragement from her foster-mother, Christy was soon reading and doing math at an appropriate grade level and even became an avid reader. Most amazing of all, within a few weeks of the new school year she made her first flesh-and-blood friend.
No Iron Maiden posters were allowed though. According to her foster family, they and all rock musicians were devil-worshippers. Christy didn’t know how to explain that Iron Maiden had saved her sanity (and maybe her life) so she didn’t try. Christy saw Newton less and less till one day he simply vanished and never came back. It only took her two and a half years to convince herself that her dad really had burned to death in a fire of his own making and that Newton had never been anything more than a figment of her powerful imagination, and that was probably for the best.
* * * * *
Mark lay in bed staring at the ceiling. His six-year-old logic told him that, because his mother was perfect and infallible (as all adults were) he must have deserved the punishment he’d received and, because the punishment was so severe, whatever he did to deserve said punishment must have been pretty bad. The thing was, he couldn’t remember for the life of him what the dark deed had been. Mark struggled to hold back a sob. Big boys didn’t cry, his father had told him. Big boys who cried needed to be toughened up.
Something stirred in the corner. Mark sat up, blinking and straining his eyes. A shape rose up and threw off the shadows like a cloak, revealing a tall, powerful figure whose features Mark couldn’t quite make out.
Mark knew the normal reaction to situations like this was panic, but for some reason he was simply curious. “Who are you?” Mark asked. He was feeling the opposite of afraid, actually.
“My name is Newton,” the figure replied as his face took on the handsome, chiseled features of a superhero complete with spit-curl and cleft chin. “And you look like you could use a friend.”
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