Excerpt – Schroeder by Neal Cassidy
Synopsis
A gripping new psychological thriller by author Neal Cassidy, SCHROEDER, weaves together elements of the literary thriller/horror genre, stream-of-consciousness narration, and critical social commentary.
When an ordinary young man wakes up in his quiet neighborhood on a day seemingly like all the others, the city he’s lived in all his life has no idea what’s about to befall it once he sets out on a day-long bike ride carrying a purposefully packed backpack and a definitive plan.
Who is Schroeder, and what motivates his brutal killing spree? As he cycles from one victim’s home to the next, keeping pace with the rhythm of a city that burgeons to life under an increasingly dazzling sun exposing both its beauty and vivacity and its dark, dirty, underbelly, Schroeder lays bare his dreams, disappointments, delights, and dismays, establishing himself as a compelling contemporary antihero. The day rolls ominously towards its climax through hectic city streets, lush suburban gardens, stately mansions, and decrepit housing projects, punctuated by Schroeder’s reflections on a society in shambles and a deeply damaged, if not broken, humanity—but not without revealing life’s boundless wonder and infinite possibilities for joy and redemption through moments that are within—and yet tragically beyond—Schroeder’s grasp. A tell-all denouement brings Schroeder out of the shadows of his actions, the pathos of his questions about the kind of world we live in lingering long after.
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Excerpt
Choosing to forget about it, I revert my focus on what’s in front of me, driving the silver blade down on his leg over and over, gore splashing my diaphanous suit, my khaki pants, shirt, and Members Only jacket untouched underneath. Twelve whacks. I sprinkle two pinches of salt on the exposed parts of his flesh and bone that are secreting liquids while he continues to bawl in horror, his sad look of desperation, which had visibly been worsening, instantly shifting to one of an absolute loss of hope as he stares at me like nothing in the world makes sense, but it doesn’t faze me in any way, shape, or form, it’s actually quite pleasing, so to respond to his pitiful countenance, I kick his useless leg under the weight rack. With that out of my way, I proceed to his other leg, chopping as vigorously and furiously as I can with a passion I wasn’t aware I possessed, not paying the slightest bit of attention to his exasperated screeches, when I find myself wondering again what type of music he listened to while exercising in here, whether or not he has a favorite song, and with me now humming to the deafening lyrics filling the room, he glances wearily, vacantly, to his left, into the mirror that reflects us—catching my ensanguined, thin-plastic encased figure kneeling beside him, spews of his blood flying everywhere, spraying his equipment and the weight rack—prior to blubbering one, weak, final scream as I separate his second leg. Thirteen. I have no idea why it took an additional swing, but I don’t get the reaction I’d anticipated, that had previously amused me, when I dash salt on this stub, and, turning to see his sporadically fluttering eyes fixated on the ceiling, registering nothing, I wonder if he’s bled to death or lost consciousness, grinning and chuckling at this lack of knowledge, then, standing to get to his lone, remaining limb, I notice the two women outside the window still talking on the lawn, the room’s thin white curtains, though drawn, permitting me to witness their discontent with the loud music emanating from here. Annoyed, the lady wearing golf attire points to her ears as her neighbor struggles to cradle the pet that’s wriggling in her arms, the pair shaking their heads in unison until the small, fluffy dog predictably escapes, scurrying further across the yard, forcing the women to dart off chasing it, waving their hands wildly in the air. Considering it odd and kind of neat that I can see them but they can’t see me and what I’m doing, I move on to his left arm, severing it with elated chops, as steadfastly as when I began, then, after tallying it all up and concluding that it took thirty-five whacks to relieve him of his four appendages, I take my last swing, burying the hatchet into the carpet next to his expressionless face, the wooden handle angled and aimed at the ceiling, and, for the first time ever, he doesn’t have a single word to say to me.
