The
Chickasaw
Home Short Stories Poetry Articles Humor Links
EMERGENT TALENT:
The Chickasaw Plum is pleased to feature the short
story, “Diabetic Murder” by Terrance Huiskens. Terrance
also has an entry in the poetry section of this issue of the
Terrance is a 20-year-old from
Thanks for the submissions, Terrance, and keep writing!
Diabetic Murder
Terrance Huiskens
I was out on my
front porch sweeping off debris caused by a storm we had the night before. The
guy on the TV was warning his viewers that a tornado was likely, but it turned out
to be just a harsh windstorm. As I was just finishing up, the mail carrier
walked up the few stairs and handed me an advertisement and a few letters. We
chatted for a bit then he went on to the next house. It wasn't long after, as I
was shooing a stray tabby away, I heard
the mailman and the neighbor a few doors down arguing, or rather, I heard the
neighbor shouting.
"SON OF A
B****,” the neighbor screamed. "YOU F***ING PEOPLE.”
"Sir, I delivered it yesterday,"
the mailman replied.
“AH NAW! DON’T YOU GIVE ME THAT .TWO DAYS
AGO IT SHOULD HAVE BEEN HERE! RIGHT HERE,” he started stomping on his front
steps. “I WANT IT NOW!”
“Sir, I’ve had
enough of this. I put them right on your doorstep. If you can’t find them, I
don’t know what to tell you. Good day.”
The mailman began walking to the
next house and the neighbor staggered down his driveway after him. He stopped
and reached in the back of his pickup and pulled out a long piece of wood; a
2x4 from what I could tell. He started staggering more rapidly towards the
mailman, shouting: "COME HERE. COME BACK HERE." The mailman paid
absolutely no attention and kept walking. I, too, forgot about the blundering
drunk. The whole town, and I mean the whole town knew
the type of person he was. Being tossed on his haunches out of bars nearly
everyday, being picked up by the local cops for various illicit acts; just a
run of the mill drunk. Drunks are a dime a dozen in this town, but this guy,
everyone knew. Little short guy, no more than a hundred pounds soak and wet,
but boy did he have a mouth on him.
I shook my head and started on
inside the house when I heard a horrible sound of pain that for a minute, I
thought would make my ears bleed. I turned to where the sound originated and
saw the neighbor drumming the mailman with the 2x4. Over and
over he whapped the poor guy. The screaming was ebbing, and after a few
more hits it was gone entirely. I immediately ran into my house and dialed
911. I told them what had happened, and what was, to the best of my knowledge
still happening. They asked me to wait in the house ‘til the police arrived; I
told them to hurry. When I hung the phone up I decided not to listen to the
woman and went back outside. By that time the neighbor had apparently gone back
to his house. Being that I was in no apparent danger I ran over to the beaten
man. From a distance I could see that he lay in a large pool of blood that
trickled down the narrow sidewalk and gathered in the little cracks. I tried to
wake him, but he wouldn’t budge. When I checked his breathing there was none; I
immediately began CPR. I was at the end of the first cycle when the police and
ambulance rolled up. The paramedics took over. As I watched them work on the
man, an officer came over to me and asked what had happened.
“The guy that did it is in that house over
there,” I pointed. “He just ran up and started hitting him.”
"Is he still in there?" The
officer asked.
"As far as I know."
The officer I talked with and four
other officers went to the house and started banging on the door. "POLICE, OPEN UP." The officers started motioning
like they were going to kick the door down: pointer finger, middle finger, and
finally his ring finger, and with their guns drawn busted down the door.
"GET ON THE GROUND, GET ON THE GROUND." I heard the officers yell.
About
five minutes later they brought the guy out in handcuffs and put him in the
back of one of their cars. One of the officers went to the ambulance where they
already had the mailman and were working on him. He asked something to the
paramedic, I couldn’t exactly hear what, but I knew the response wasn’t good
because the officer started shaking his head. He came back over to me and asked
a few more questions so
he could write a detailed report. When
he was all done I asked how the mailman was doing. He couldn’t by law divulge
to me the mailman’s condition, but he gave me a look that told me all I needed
to know. While the officer jotted down the information on my license I stood
there looking around, wondering what could cause someone to do what the drunk
did. I decided I’d take my chances and ask the officer what the guy had to say
for himself.
“Officer,” I said.
“Did he say why he did it?”
“Apparently a box
of insulin needles was the cause of this.” he shook his head, handed back my
license. “We found them lying in a bush a few feet from his front door. I guess
the storm the night before blew them there.”
“The mail comes in
the day,“ I said, confused. “The storm didn’t happen
‘til last night.”
“Yeah,” the officer
stated, like a question.
“So why didn’t the guy get them then?”
“He was in jail. Got let out today; two hours before all this.”
The
Chickasaw
Home Short Stories Poetry Articles Humor Links