Casually homicidal, p.1
Casually Homicidal, page 1
Praise for Casually Homicidal
“ Casually Homicidal is a gruesome, gritty, and heart-wrenching lens into the human condition. Olivia once again captivates with a stomach-twisting novel that will shake you to your core.”
—Devin, book blogger @thedearlydiary
“With a daring premise and striking, staccato prose, Casually Homicidal takes you away on an adventure like no other. Bennett’s sophomore novel puts its finger on the pulse of what it means to love, to hate, to lose, to bleed, to fight, to suffer, to live. With fearsome heights and dramatic lows, Casually Homicidal is a bloody story that’s sure to leave you breathless.”
—Brian McBride, award-winning author of We the Wild Things
“ Casually Homicidal is a true glance into the most raw and real of human emotions through the lens of two equally broken and beautiful people. Olivia’s writing captivates from the first page: this is a thrilling read that you do not want to miss.”
—Maddyson Wilson, author of Don’t Blame The Reckless
“ Casually Homicidal is a visceral, honest, and evocative look into the somber lives of characters that feel real. Olivia expertly crafts the suspense throughout, using atmosphere to her advantage in order to heighten the tension. At times heartfelt and others unsettling, one thing is certain: This is one road trip you will not forget.”
—McCaid Paul, author of The Summersville Series
“An adventure, literally as well as metaphorically, showcasing the vast impact of our relationships and our own perceptions of the world. Rich in its emotional depth, gruesomely raw on the page, and unforgettable with its powerful message, Casually Homicidal will leave you breathless, offering important reflection on what it means to endure pain, then heal.”
—Brittney Kristina, author of Fifty Days & Hummingbird Tales
“With raw and unflinching prose, Bennett takes you on a compelling journey of the human experience. Casually Homicidal is a thrilling narrative that will keep you turning until the last page.”
—Kayla N. Jones, author of Set Me Free & Mourning Doves
“Buckle up for a killer ride. If Tarantino and Safety Not Guaranteed produced a lyrical teen indie novel, this is it. A raw, winding quest of discovery.”
—Leah Humenuck, bookstagrammer @bibliobrunette
to my best friends
&
to my Uncle Tim
Copyright © 2022 Olivia J. Bennett
All rights reserved. This story is published subject to the condition that it shall not be reproduced or retransmitted in whole or in part, in any manner, without the written consent of the copyright holder, and any infringement of this is a violation of copyright law.
Definitions taken from the Youtube channel, The Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows by John Koenig: Koenig, John. “The Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows” Youtube.com, https://www.youtube.com/c/obscuresorrows/videos.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Ages 14 and up.
Paperback: 9798525716391
Hardcover: 9798782187644
Cover illustration © Wysteria Campion
Author photo courtesy of Miles Howley
More from Olivia J. Bennett
A Cactus In the Valley
Olivia J. Bennett
award-winning author of A Cactus In the Valley
TABLE OF CONTENTS
1. Frozen Yogurt & Rat Guts . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .10
2. The Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 24
3. Maizy the Cat . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 34
4 .Hindsight is 20/20 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 41
5. Deja Vu Has Claws . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .49
6. In this Quiet Darkness. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 59
7. Monsters In the Light. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 69
8. The Day the Music Died. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .82
9. Underwater . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 94
10. Not Enough . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 107
11. Even Fish Can Drown . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 121
12. Knives Tell the Whole Truth . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 135
13. Impulsivity Is Your Beautiful Strong Suit . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 151
14. The Hidden Vulnerability of Others . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 172
15. Just a Pair of Hypocrites . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 182
16. Places Left Behind . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 189
17. The Voices In Your Head . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 208
18. Broken Creatures . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 222
19. Same Shit, Different Package . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 227
20. House Wren . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 237
21. A Walking Contradiction . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 250
22. Missing Too Many Pieces . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 266
23. Memories Spoil Faster Than Milk . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 284
24. All the Hollow Places . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .295
25. Chafing Balaclava . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 312
26. Sixties Music Does Wonders For the Soul . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 318
27. Broken Things Bleed . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 325
28. No Country For Old Men . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 340
29. Egodystonic . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 352
30. The Cabin In the Woods . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 369
31. Cracks In This Darkness . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 381
32. I Understand . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 396
33. Caught In the Middle . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 403
34. 99 Red Balloons . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 414
35. Fin. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 423
1 Hendrix
Wednesday, May 9th
It takes three flicks of my lighter before the end of my cigarette even begins to glow red-orange. When it finally does, I breathe in, both the warmth and the tobacco awakening my chest. Moths fly into the flood lamp above the back door, buzzing and pinging to their deaths. The cool, spring night gives me gooseflesh.
The door to my right peels open and a shaft of light floods the dark alley. Already, I’m annoyed. It’s Michelle—Arden, I mean. We usually work together on weeknights.
She peeks her head out the door. Her tan, freckled skin makes her look like an albino leopard. “Some guy wants a malt, and I don’t know how to make those. I know you’re on your break, but could you please come in and make this one thing?”
Scoffing, I roll my eyes. Most of the time, Arden and I are in a nice limbo of an acquaintanceship. A comfortable, gray level of human interaction. Of course, until she goes and does something insufferable like this. “Jeez, you still don’t know how to make a malt?”
“No, Hendrix, I don’t,” Arden says. She huffs for a moment, considering. “I won’t tell Lisa that you steal a quart of frozen yogurt every third Wednesday if you do this for me.”
I’m just amazed that Lisa, our boss, hasn’t noticed yet. Or that the cash drawer is always a few dollars off when I close. “Fine,” I spit. Arden looks at me expectantly, but I sneer and wave her off. “Can’t I just have this one cigarette in peace?”
“Sure, but you don’t have to be a dick about it.” She sighs and shuts the door.
In.
Out.
I pull up the sleeve of my work shirt and put the cigarette out on my own skin, savoring the endorphin dump that lights up my brain like the Fourth of July.
Lisa leaves around seven. We can pretty much just hang out and serve customers after that woman stops watching us like a hawk. She gives me strange looks, but really, she’s nothing more than a spiteful, middle-aged woman who provides me with a steady income. Nothing I can’t handle.
Arden rolls her eyes, redoing her strawberry blonde ponytail and pulling it through her visor with the swirly Billings’ Best Yogurt letters on the front. “Yeah, well I always seem to fuck it up, so why even try?” She leans back on the counter, and I pick at a bloody hangnail. “You know, I don’t even know why Lisa keeps this place open this late on a Wednesday night. Everyone in this tiny-ass town is at church, so all we get are the seedy characters.”
“ You’re not at church,” I counter, pulling my shitty polyester work shirt away from the bloody spot on my upper arm, below my armpit. It stings, the ashy skin already blistering.
“Well yeah, that’s because I have to work.” Arden sighs and rubs her temples, and her tortoiseshell glasses shift with the movement. The only reason we have so much time to screw around and talk is because we’ve been here since five and we’ve had approximately five customers.
“Lisa should just send one of us home.” In defeat, I stick the corner of my thumb in my mouth to get it to stop bleeding.
“Amen to that,” Arden says, shaking her head. “God, nothing ever happens here. Can’t even sell froyo on a summer night.”
“There was that one time when our county voted Democrat.” I know she enjoys it when I make jokes, and sometimes they seem to come naturally around her. Sometimes she has an energy I like to rub the wrong way.
Arden bursts into laughter, echoing through the empty, tile-lined ice cream shop. “You’re funny, Hendrix.”
“Thanks.” Arden does provide ample entertainment for me, although not much else. More often than not, she dips past endearing and turns irritating.
The bell rings, meaning someone has just come inside the store. Like robots, Arden and I walk to the front.
Cue the usual spiel. Arden perks up and puts on a winning smile. “Welcome to Billings’ Best Yogurt . How can I help you?”
The guy is middle aged with a beaten-up baseball cap tucked low over his eyes. He toes the line of ‘could be creepy’, so a six out of ten. It’s a game Arden and I play when we work these long Wednesday night shifts.
The man orders and sits down at a chrome and pastel table. He wants a milkshake, which is a part of my job description as outlined by Arden herself. Sometimes she’s efficient and eccentric. Other times, I want to strangle her.
I pour in the frozen yogurt, the milk, and the toppings the man requested. It’s moments like these when my hands are occupied but my mind is elsewhere—where I seem to get lost in my own head, where the darkness tugs at the corners of my vision, crushing my mind like fingers in dough. I move over to the blender, and stick the cup underneath. The machine whirrs to life.
I sense Arden looking at me, so I glance up. She smiles at me, tight-lipped, and I give her the same smile back—an empty reflection. One that reassures Arden. One that makes me feel . . . normal.
But the distraction makes my hand slip, and the cup jerks out of control. The chocolate brownie shake splatters all over the blender, the floor, and me. Lightning rips through my body, shattering my veins.
It comes on fast, like it always does. One second the waters are calm, but the next is a raging hurricane, the darkness detonating at ground zero. “Fucking shit !”
I hear Arden gasp, but I don’t care because my hands are trembling from the startle and anxiety and the rage swells up to my eyes. It’s blinding me. Even the man who ordered the milkshake is leaning over the counter. Both of their eyes are wide and accusatory and gaping at me like I’m the headline act in a freak show. Just like the goddamn milkshake, I feel my control slipping from its carefully tuned axis.
Crushing my hands into fists, I storm outside, the door creaking and slamming behind me. My breathing spasms, rattling and beating against my chest. I hear Arden profusely apologizing to the man and attempting to make him another shake, but I don’t care. I don’t care.
Digging my spine into the brick wall, I push the heels of my hands into my temples, trying to ground myself. The anger boils in my chest, hot steam clouding my head. I slide to the ground, locking my body into a box, and try to resist the urge to punch the brick wall until me or it is a bloody pulp.
My eye catches on a stack of metal pipes against the alleyway wall. I grab one and bang it against the brick, chips of mortar flying. Fear—the kind that crawls up your back and makes a home in your neck—creeps up on me. The rippling pain through my arms almost feels good as I hit it over and over, replaying the moment inside the frozen yogurt shop in my head. There’s a part of me that knows my anger is irrational, but I couldn’t care less.
I drop the pipe with a clang and grab fistfuls of my hair. It’s like I’m breathing fire.
I wait. I wait until the nothing returns.
As I breathe, it returns just like the smothering darkness of clouds covering up the stars above.
I walk back in. Arden’s on her hands and knees, wiping up the last bits of chocolate and brownie.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” she hisses, standing and crossing her arms. I clench my jaw. She scoffs, smiling bitterly. “Sorry, that was rude—but seriously, Hendrix?”
“Seriously.” When Arden doesn’t budge, I give in. “Alright, I’m sorry.” I’m not.
Sighing, Arden rubs the bridge of her nose. “It . . . it’s fine. I made him the shake and gave him a generous discount. It’s fine.”
I don’t think Arden has actually forgiven me yet, which means I have to play an angle. There’s still two long hours of our shift left, and I’d rather be in Arden’s good graces when we close up. So I decide to approach her when the man leaves.
“I really am sorry,” I say, picking at a hangnail.
She smiles, and it looks like something inside of her is breaking. “It’s okay. We all have those days, right?”
“Right.” Except that’s my whole fucking life.
Arden serves herself a small cup of vanilla frozen yogurt and sprinkles in crushed Butterfingers. “It feels like I’m having one of those years, you know?”
I scoff. “Yeah.” More than she’d ever know.
She holds out a spoon to me. “Want some?”
I grimace. “Butterfingers are weird. They’re hard and flaky and get stuck in my teeth.”
Arden drops her jaw. “Wow, I guess we can’t be friends anymore. I love Butterfingers.”
“Were we ever friends to begin with?” Maybe not the best thing to say, but it’s too late now.
She hoists herself up on the counter, cleaning her glasses on the end of her shirt. Raising her eyebrows at me in the harsh, artificial light, she says, “Touche, Hendrix. Touche.”
I sigh and start to count the cash in the register.
“Did you ever work anywhere before this?” she asks, her words garbled by a mouthful of frozen yogurt.
“The slaughterhouse out by I-90.”
Arden’s face wrinkles up a bit as she tries to hide her gut reaction. “Oh.”
Yeah, that’s the response I usually get. As I’m counting the ones, I turn around and shove some in my back pocket, away from the camera that sits in the upper right hand corner of the kitchen.
Arden stands, pacing. “Alright, now here’s the million dollar question: where are you going after graduation?” she asks.
“I don’t know. Nowhere.”
“Ha, yeah, same.” Pause. “Are you nervous? It’s in like, two weeks or something.”
I hesitate. “No.” This is a lie, but she can’t know that.
“You’re lying. Everyone’s nervous-excited about graduation.” Arden jabs my ribs with her fingers, and I worm away, cringing. “We are at the beginning of the rest of our lives, Hendrix! Isn’t that an amazing kind of scary?”
Arden’s vulnerable questioning makes me uncomfortable. I try to think of something to end this conversation. “I guess.”
