The Death Boy by David Alan Richards

The Death Boy by David Alan Richards

     The landscaper didn’t want to be a kid. That had been rough. He wanted to raise a kid, but the married life had never been for him, so no kids.

     He lived by himself with his basic landscaping tools. He didn’t need them anymore. He worked for a large company that provided everything, but like himself who wasn’t needed in the world anymore, the tools existed. He wouldn’t have thrown himself away, so…

     Sometimes late in the night, he fondled his rake’s wood handle absently as he thought of nothing.

     He landscaped parks, got enough money for his apartment and food.

     That was that.

     He watched families on TV. He always liked the young boys getting into predicaments and smiling about life. He wished he could reach into the TV set and get into predicaments, smile with them.

     Of course it was only shows, but wasn’t life just TV of a sort? God wrote the screenplay, directed. Someday the landscaper would wake up from life, his body in a funeral home, and find it had all been television.

     Without a laugh track.

     Until then dirt, and sweat, and loneliness. 

     Just live on.

     Today he sat in Starbucks drinking a coffee. It was warm.

     A dad was arguing with his boy by the counter. “I can’t buy you a cake pop everyday,” the man said, “Those are expensive.”

     “But I want one,” the boy said. His voice was soft, nice, the voice children put on to manipulate.

     The landscaper took another sip of his coffee and watched the scene. Buy your kid a cake pop.

     But the boy’s dad didn’t react to the landscaper’s thought. The boy’s father was unmoved. He didn’t recognize the living treasure he had.

     Now he was yelling. “Bernard! You had a cake pop yesterday and the day before! Those things cost a fortune! You’re trying to bleed me dry! You will not get a cake pop!”

     “Pleeeese.”

     “No.”

     Bernard was angry, but what could he do?

     Another sip of coffee. Poor Bernard. A beautiful kid. Long black hair. Probably around eleven. Maybe younger? Big for his age? Most eleven year old’s these days weighed more. Slender. A cake pop wouldn’t have made him fat. Give him his darn cake pop.

     But his father pulled him out of the store in a rude jerk.

     They were gone.

     A cake pop was four dollars. Four dollars against your son’s joy…

     Suddenly the coffee didn’t taste so good.

     Putting it down, heading out the door, had to be at work soon.

& & &

     The landscaper plowed the earth and thought. If he’d been a dad he’d have treated his boy so differently.

     At six work was over, not the plowing, just for today.

     He was heading for home through the park, still thinking of dirt. And look, there was Bernard siting on a park bench looking at him.

     The boy put a long slender finger up his nose for a minute and stared.

     “Hello, young sir,” the landscaper said. Stupid, he thought. Children don’t speak to strangers. Especially these days with the kidnappings.

     Bernard looked him over from head to foot. “Hi.”

     “Where’s your dad?”

     “He’s gone.”

     “Waiting for him?”

     “Not anymore.”

     That sounded odd.

     “Can I go over your place?” Bernard sat on the bench, slightly slumped, his long legs splayed out, relaxed, didn’t seem he had a care in the world.

     The landscaper didn’t want to be harsh, so he tried to maintain a level friendly voice. “I don’t think your father would like you running off, young man.”

     “I told you he’s gone. You can be my father.”

     The landscaper looked around, no trace of the man who’d denied his son a simple cake pop so ungraciously.

     This was a little crazy, definitely a little crazy, the landscaper thought, but maybe…just for a little. He could be arrested, but he’d never do anything to hurt the boy.

     For an hour or so and then drop him back in the park. His dad wasn’t around. It didn’t seem anyone was taking care of the boy. The landscaper thought, I could step up to the plate for a bit. ”All right,” he said.

     “Cool!” Bernard said, happy.

     The landscaper loved Bernard was happy, loved his happy voice. If the landscaper hadn’t been so lonely he’d never have said yes, but now it was settled.

& & &

     Nice place,” Bernard said.

     The landscaper listened for sarcasm.

     It wasn’t nice. An old couch, an old TV, blank walls. A rake, shovels, pruning shears, assorted this and that leaned against one.

     No sarcasm.

     “I’m glad you like it.”

     “You have Adult Swim?”

     “Adult what?”

     “It’s a TV show.”

     “I don’t think so. Never heard of it.”

     “Okay.”

     Bernard jumped onto the couch and lay down. “You have any food?”

     “TV dinners. Lasagna’s the best.”

     “I’ll take it.”

     The landscaper went into the kitchen, took a lasagna dinner from the refrigerator and put it in his small microwave. He couldn’t remember when he’d last cleaned it. He got nervous. He didn’t want to food poison his son. Bernard not his son. That was silly, but a real boy in his living room relaxed on the couch. And well…, the landscaper thought, I could be his pop.

    9 minutes. He turned on the microwave and went back into the living room.

     “Hey,” Bernard said. “Look who’s here. Did you miss me?”

     “The landscaper chuckled. “If you’d like some soda, there’s Pepsi in the fridge.”

     “Are you a pervert?” Bernard asked.

     “What?!” the landscaper said. “Pepsi?!…”

     “Pepsi’s fine.” Bernard lifted his head up on his hand and looked the landscaper in the eyes. ”I just wanted to know if you’re a pervert. I don’t really like getting it on with my fathers, but we could work something out.”

The landscaper blushed deeply. “No, no I’m not–nothing like that. You eat your lasagna and then we’ll get you back to your bench. I-I-I–how could you think that?!”

     Bernard smiled, “Sweet dreams are made of this. Whatever. Anyway I’m not going back to the park. You’re my dad now.”

     “Bernard. What are you saying? Your family…”

     “Haven’t had a family in a long time—just a lot of dads”

     “Bernard, your father’s probably expecting you.”

     “Naw, he’s gone?”

     “Gone?”

     “Yeah, he’s dead. I got hungry,” Bernard looked a little embarrassed, not too embarrassed though. ”I’m kind of hungry now.”

     The landscaper had a headache and he didn’t understand. This was insane. Was Bernard highly imaginative? Did he have mental problems? ”The lasagna’s almost ready,” the landscaper said.

     “Not for lasagna, stupid.”

     “Bernard. Do you have medicine for thoughts in your head. Maybe you need it.”

     Bernard licked his lips.

     “These days can be very confusing. There’s nothing to be ashamed of. Plenty of people have something wrong with their brains right now.”

     “Can I rip your throat out and drink your blood?”

     “Bernard!”

     “But I want to rip your throat out and drink your blood.”

     “Young man!”

     “Pleeeese?”

     “Son… You can’t…”

     “I’m gonna do it anyway.”

     Bernard leapt onto him. The boy grabbed the landscaper’s neck. Bernard dangled off him, feet not touching the ground. The landscaper could feel black hair brushing him as a young mouth reached the landscaper’s jugular vein. The boy’s saliva was hot.

     “No!” the landscaper screamed.

     He threw Bernard down.

     In a second his son was on his feet.

     From the kitchen the microwave dinged.

     It’s not fair!” Bernard said, “I want your blood!”

     Bernard, you know I’d give you anything, but I can’t… I–I want to live.”

     “No cake pops, no blood, no candy. You’re all the same. You don’t care!”

     Bernard was on him again, surprisingly strong for a thin boy, he almost toppled them.

     “Please son!”

     “Shut up! You’re my food!”

     “Please Bernard! You’re a good kid!”

     “Whatever!”

     Bernard’s mouth was around the landscaper’s neck.

     The landscaper, and it took all his strength, threw the boy from him. ”No, no, no, no this isn’t the way it was supposed to be!”

     “Just go with it,” Bernard screamed.

     He could see the boy’s teeth. Fangs really. Not two sharp teeth like in the vampire movies that would leave two tiny holes in the landscaper’s neck, but every tooth was sharp and pointed like an animal, ready to rip a throat out.

     This couldn’t be, but it was. He would have given Bernard anything, but not–

     Bernard’s small body tightened, ready for another leap.

     The landscaper felt exhausted. Somewhere he knew he couldn’t push the kid off again. “I’m sorry, Bernard,” he said.

     The apartment was small. It wasn’t hard to get to his poor rake. He took it. He broke it in half.

     Now he held a stake with sharp wooden shards on the end.

     As Bernard leapt, the landscaper thrust it into the boy’s chest with might. It went past bone and gristle, deep into Bernard.

     “Oooh!” Bernard cried. He fell writhing.

     Bernard’s child hands reached for the cut in half rake, attempting to pull it out, but he couldn’t manage to. ”Damn, dude,” he whispered.

     Tears filled the landscaper’s eyes, “My son, my son, my son…”

     Bernard’s blood was drizzling onto his chest from the piece of wood embedded in him. He was breathing heavily. “Fucking asshole,” he said.

     “Watch your french.” The landscaper was crying. He knew enough not to pull the stake out and even if he’d wanted to, he felt too weak. He felt sick.

     The landscaper slumped to the floor.  

     Bernard writhed a little more. “I’m sorry, dad…” Was he delirious?

     Then he was still

     For a second the landscaper thought, What have I done? Have I just murdered a poor disturbed young boy?

     Bernard’s whole body turned into a statue made out of ash.

     The ash lost its shape, became a cloud in the air.

     And disappeared.

     It was as if Bernard had never been there.

     As if what had taken place had never taken place.

     Except the landscaper’s rake lay on the ground broken.

* * * * THE END * * * *
Copyright David Alan Richards 2025