The Cereal Killer

At birth, we board the train and meet our parents. We believe they will always travel by our side but one day they step down and leave a permanent vacuum. Some ride the train looking out the rear, yearning for what was near and dear, watching hills roll by and marking every year. Kyle stands on his bathroom Spider-Mat brushing his teeth. Stickers frame the mirror: X-Men, Cars, Toy Story, Barbie, etc. His dirty clothes lay next to the overflowing laundry basket: a yellow Duck Camp shirt, cargo pants, knee-high green Dino socks. The bristles scrub, up and down, back and forth, his hand moves mechanically like the wheels of a train gliding along its tracks, unthinking, unfeeling. He nods at his reflection, blurry in the steamed mirror and does Spider-Man finger guns. 

“Pow-Pow! Got you!”

He mimics the act of swinging through the room, then pretends to drop down, hit. His purple toothbrush falls out and time slows as it tumbles towards the sink. He reaches out and catches it mid-air. 

“…aaaannnd another save!”

He resumes brushing. Purple toothbrush and strawberry toothpaste—three tubes of it stand in the cabinet next to unopened prescription pill bottles. He pokes his reflection in the mirror and slowly enunciates, “I am done. This was the last one.” 

Trundling through tunnels at breakneck speed, trains zoom past the countryside without so much as a halt. He hears the train hiss and hum and screech and wonders how many fall asleep only to miss their stop at full speed. Kyle stands in his bathroom on his Spider-Mat in his Spider-Man pajamas and braces, purple toothbrush wedged in his mouth, pink foam oozing from both sides. His glasses are tipped on the edge of his nose, his hair is wet. He stands enveloped in a cloud of steam, his towel crumbled on the ground next to last week’s. Spitting out the foam, he rinses his mouth, watching the residue swirl down the drain like a miniature bubble bath. He misses baths. He reaches into the cabinet and squirts a dollop of strawberry toothpaste into his mouth. Yummy. 

The train whistle echoes the long ago, it sings of the time when his father would take him to the nearby hill with lunchables; they would spend the day watching the Express Trains whiz from South to North. Kyle stands on his bathroom Spider-Mat in his Spider-Man pajamas and reaches for his Spider-Floss. His teeth look alright, straight and white behind the braces. Sometimes he pictures a train running across them and thinks of the specialist train using high-pressure water jets to clear leaves from the line. He flosses. 

The entire left panel of the mirror is shattered. He pulls his red sleeve over his hand and clears a small patch of the steamed mirror, just enough to see his face clearly. His right eye is barely open, purple and swollen. Mothers don’t need to know everything so he will tell her that he fell down while playing, which isn’t entirely false, so she’ll let it slide. He reaches for his favorite comb, the one with the Batman logo and nods. It’s a perfect excuse because there is no way to verify it, and when you lie there better be no one there to catch you red-handed. He combs through the wet strands and feels sorry for Teddy, but sometimes you have to use force in order to assert dominance and Teddy didn’t want to play by the rules. After some ‘explaining’, Teddy was docile. He grins at his reflection and winks.

“Looking good.”

You can hear the train’s low rumble as it drives past and laps miles; it licks the valley up and feeds on a pile of mountains. Kyle dashes out of the bathroom, leaving the light on and the door wide open; he flops onto the bed, bouncing upon impact and crushing the teal blue birthday invitations with hand drawn balloons, trains, stars, and spiders. They read ‘Kyle’s 9th Birthday Cereal Party’. Lying on his back with his limbs spread out he resembles a bug caught in a spider web. Above him, the Spider-Man poster seems to peer down, watching. Falling asleep, he would look at it and that was enough to make him happy. He is safe here, nestled in his tangled sheets, avoiding the outside world; in sleep, he couldn’t hurt anyone. His room used to be a safe place where he felt surrounded by friends but now, the action figures and stuffed animals in the play area only remind him of the fun he wants to have but never gets to. He grabs a well-worn Pikachu, and hugs it tightly. 

“Pikachu, tonight's the night we defeat the evil Dr. Tooth Decay,” he whispers. 

He throws the plush animal into the air a couple times and adds, “At least you showed up.” He starts crying and the room is dead in response to the sobs that overcome him. A train passes. Clip-Clop. Clip-Clop. Snot runs down to his mouth and he wipes it with his Spider-Sleeve. He takes a deep breath and attaches a tissue to Pikachu’s shoulders, and with both hands makes him travel through the skies. He makes electric zap sounds as if charging up for a big attack. Another train passes. Clip-Clop. His cheeks dry. Clip-Clop. The snot on the sleeve dries. He has a hiccup and it tastes of Fruit Loops.

Kyle reaches for the remote control on his nightstand and turns on the TV. He flips through channels and passes a cowboy show, politics, jewelry ads, the new Spider-Man movie—Peter Parker is on screen trying to figure out how Spider Webs work—and lands on the local news.

“…the teeth of his victims before killing them,” the anchor says gravely. 

Kyle turns up the volume.

“Stupid,” he mutters, his face scrunching up in annoyance. He grabs the remote with both hands and hits his forehead, then hits it again, and again, again, again, and again. 

“What kind of idiot would do that?” 

He clenches his fists and his knuckles turn white. Soon, he starts gesturing just like his father would during a tense game of soccer, fists flying in the air and chest puffed out.

“It’s pointless. Just stop it already, you moron!”

His voice rises and he is as red as his pajama, ready to battle. He glares at the TV almost as if he expects the killer to hear him. “It’s such a waste of time! If you’re going to... do something like that,” he stammers, “just get it over with.”

The news anchor continues, oblivious to Kyle’s outburst. “Authorities are baffled by the meticulous nature of the killer, who not only brushes the teeth of the victims but also –”

He throws the remote with full force towards the window, it hits the wall and falls to the ground; batteries fly out, roll, and land under the bed; the remote lies on the pink carpet under the play-area table.

In the distance, a train slows down and the brakes squeal. The sun’s race is nearing an end. The TV is off. Kyle’s blank face stares at him on the dark screen. His reflection shows his Spider-Man pajamas stretched over a grown man's frame, his mouth is a gaping hole, his week-old beard is patchy and unkempt, and the braces on his teeth are incongruous with the wrinkles starting to form around his eyes. His mouth goes dry. He shakes his head and bangs his fists against it. It can’t be. No, no, no. The room suddenly feels too quiet, too still. He looks at Pikachu and Spider-Man and knows they are watching him. He burrows his face in the yellow fur, his breathing is fast like a train’s huffing and puffing. He shakes his head, tries to cleanse and eradicate the thoughts, and just forget.

Another train passes. Clip-Clop. Somewhere North lies a train, derailed and broken, with nowhere left to ride. Trapped in a state of limbo, far from its former home, it sits as a reminder of bygone days. He takes a deep breath and glances towards the small table in the corner of his room. Pink, it stands in front of the windows. Outside, it rains. Kyle was different so he was never invited to parties. These days, whenever he tries to have a cereal party with a friend, something inevitably goes wrong, prompting his mom to discourage guests from visiting as she’s tired of cleaning up behind him. After all, why deny himself some playtime? Sitting tied to a chair is his latest ‘friend’. Two bowls of Fruit Loops, untouched and soggy, stand in front of him. The table itself is a child-sized piece of furniture, pink and adorned with Hello Kitty stickers. 

Kyle walks over and stands beside the table, looking down at the man. 

“Teddy, you’re so silly. You haven’t finished your cereal!”

Teddy, a middle-aged man, is not moving, his eyes stare blankly at the ceiling. 

“You know I didn’t mean to play too hard, right? Please don’t be mad, Teddy.”

The man's mouth is slightly open, and traces of pink foam are visible around his lips. The man’s wrists and ankles are bound with colorful ribbons, the kind used for wrapping presents. Kyle reaches out and gently brushes a stray lock of hair from the man’s forehead, then he undoes the ribbons. First the orange, then the pink, then the red. A half-empty strawberry juice box lies on its side, its contents slowly dripping onto the carpeted floor. Drip-Drop goes the juice. Clip-Clop goes the train.

He remembers a time not so long ago when he told himself he needed to stop inviting friends over for cereal parties. Last time was supposed to be the final rendez-vous, and yet, despite his best efforts, Kyle couldn’t shake the urge. Teddy seemed promising when he first walked into the store and for the past year, Kyle had fought against his impulses; he tried to distract himself at work, burying his face in the world of heroes and villains, but as his birthday approached he couldn’t let go of those invitations sitting on his desk, waiting to be sent out. That morning, when Teddy came into the Comic Store wearing a Spider-Man shirt, everything went blurry. Today, he had to act. Tomorrow, he would tell his mother that she should be proud because he waited a whole year. 

He starts rocking from foot to foot and looks back at Pikachu.

“I tried not to. I swear.” 

  His hands shake as he looks at the pink foam around the man's mouth and steps closer to the table, looking at the bowls of cereal. Promises are made to be kept but in Kyle’s world, they hold no value, so when he told Teddy “nothing will happen to you,” he simply omitted the “yet”. He reaches out and touches the edge of one of the bowls, feeling how cold it is. 

“I just want to have a normal birthday. Why can’t you play right?” 

The train whistles and the iron beast heats up. It strains to depart but nothing will do; its whistle is hushed, its engines stilled. He shakes his head. Some tears. Tomorrow, his mother will be mad when she comes to clean his room. She will say, “Kyle-baby, you made a mess again,” and then, she will light forty candles and make him wish never to do it again, but everyone knows a wish has to be kept secret or it’ll never be fulfilled. 

He hurls his hand towards the cereal bowls and the sugary loops burst out, flying through the air like tiny frisbees along with splashes of milk that spray in all directions. They land everywhere: on the pink table, on Teddy, on the carpet. Some loops glide down the window panes whilst the milk seeps into the plush carpet and turns it a deep ruby red. The bowls land with a soft thud. 

“How’s that for a mess??” he yells out before opening up both arms, turning his face to the sky and letting out a loud and deep laugh. Then, as if all life were sucked out of him, his arms go limp and fall to his sides. He bows his head and bends down, as if in prayer, and gives Teddy a kiss.

“Sleep tight, Teddy.”

Turning away, Kyle heads back to his bed. He climbs under the covers, pulling them tight around himself. 

“Why do I keep doing this?” 

No station’s call can slow his pace. He tries to fight it but it always wins, and, hopeless, he watches as passengers are caught in his webs. The trance comes over him and blurs the line between reality and nightmare as he spins silken lies. A train that can’t stop, tightly wound in spider’s silk, the lost are bound.

He hugs Pikachu tighter and looks up at his Spider-Man poster. He smiles. This was his twenty-fifth tea party and all things considered, it went pretty well. Nothing ever works out as planned anyway. Tomorrow, Teddy will be found, but tonight he is both alive and unalive. 

“Goodnight, Pikachu. Goodnight, Teddy.”