by Lara Hayes
What would he say if I told him that I dreamed of him last night? That I brought him into my bed and reveled in the weight of his body against mine? I nearly lose myself to the memory as I stare at him, still miming deep concentration. His strong hands wrapped around my thighs. His breath hot in my ear. My arms closing around his smooth waist. Fingers dancing up the notches of her spine. Tangling my hands in soft blond hair, and bringing our mouths close but not touching. Black eyes hovering above me, consuming, entitled, freezing my actions, muting my thoughts. The whisper of my name falling from her lips and—
“I got it!” James announces with a clap. The sound is as jarring as a defibrillator to the chest. My face remains a mask of polite inquiry and genuine surprise. “You were thinking about letting me take you out tomorrow night,” he says.
At first, I can’t say much of anything. My breathing has picked up, and I’m certain he can see the blush blooming up my neck. “Yes.” I unfold my arms and clasp my hands resignedly in my lap. “That’s exactly what I was thinking.”
His smile falls away. “Seriously?”
I clear my throat and force an airiness I do not feel. “Seriously.”
“Just like that?” He asks with eyes too shrewd for his welcoming face. “After, what? A year of asking?” He’s at a loss, and stands with his hands on his waist.
“Forget it.” Flustered with my own stupidity, I resume my abandoned task of sorting supplies. “Forget I said anything.”
“No—I,” he stammers. “Listen…you just surprised me, is all.”
I spare him a stiff smile over my shoulder and a casual shrug.
“Pick you up at eight?” he offers.
I cannot imagine anything more exhausting than my day off with my furious, impaired mother, followed by a meal with this man. “Sounds great.”
James responds with a firm nod, and it clearly takes all his composure not to fist pump the air. He struts a little too triumphantly down the hall toward his neglected patients.
* * *
This is the most I’ve ever overreacted in my life.
An overtly sexual dream about a woman in my bed is not a reason to go out with a man I find barely tolerable on a good day. Or any man for that matter. Clearly, this is cause to spend an evening at a lesbian bar, or resurrect the dating profile I deleted six months ago and change my orientation to “questioning.”
The problem isn’t that I’m curious about women, or being attracted to them. That’s not new. The problem is this woman. I can’t get rid of her. She’s everywhere. She’s in my head, my dreams, she’s like a second skin around me all day. Sometimes, I hear her voice, see her as plainly as my own reflection—if only for an instant. I know the way she smells. I’ve exchanged all of five words with this person—none of which I recall. It’s an alarmingly unhealthy preoccupation because it doesn’t make sense. She’s familiar to me in a way I can’t fully comprehend, and I swear I can feel her, like twins on opposite ends of the earth claim to know when the other is injured or in pain.
Instead of picking up my phone and telling James that this is a mistake: “I’m not feeling well.” “I have a prior commitment,” “I have grossly underestimated my attraction to the fairer sex,”—I’m pacing the length of my bedroom in my underwear with every article of clothing I own strewn across my bed. I pick up the twice-discarded black Armani dress and hold it up in the mirror. It’s safe, classic, and I have completely forgotten what people wear on dates. The neckline is lower than I would like, scooped, nothing drastic. Full sleeves, and the hem hits tastefully below mid-thigh without being somber.
Shoes are a much easier decision as I have no idea where he’s taking me. Flats in a crisis.
I make one final appraisal of the finished product, and I’m reasonably pleased with the results. The foundation smeared over my dark circles reveals only the faintest trace of lavender. With the pad of my index finger, I blend the crease of my eyelids once more to mute the shadow. Overall, I look more like a woman running late for an interview than an evening out. But as in all things, I do my level best.
With a weary sigh, I retrieve my clutch from the top drawer of my nightstand and move softly and swiftly down the stairs, as sure-footed as a burglar. I could cartwheel to the front door if I felt so moved. Mother has confined herself to her bedroom since yesterday, appearing only when she’s hungry. She’d never ask where I’m headed. Not when there’s an impasse to maintain. I leave a note on the island just in case.
Something close to excitement swells within me the moment I step out into the murky evening. The humidity is unseasonable, and a fine sheen of dew glistens on the sidewalk. James flashes the headlights on his Civic, and to my surprise he’s out of the front seat in a flash, holding the passenger door open before I can protest. I’ve never seen him in anything but scrubs. He cleans up well: expensive loafers, dark chinos, a crisp lavender shirt. I smile at the effort, and his unexpected chivalry.
“Elizabeth, you look amazing,” he remarks seriously, settling his hands at ten and two on the wheel. It’s like prom night all over again.
“Thank you. For the compliment, and for not calling me Liz.”
“I thought you’d like that.” He winks, and revs the engine the superfluous way men do before whipping the car back onto the road. The rearview mirror clouds with exhaust, leaving my mother and my responsibilities behind.
* * *
James is both charming and inquisitive, without appearing pushy or overzealous. He’s a good listener, a fair sport and slightly self-deprecating which is a surprise. He’s extremely pleasant to talk to, even asks about my mother, but in a roundabout way that is casual enough to be easily dismissed in case it’s a sore subject. Mother almost always is, and with practiced ease James redirects the conversation to his own quirky parents.
I’d forgotten how enjoyable it can be to talk about the past with someone, to laugh in public. By the time the meal is finished my ribs ache, and I can’t push away the nostalgia it engenders. I’d blame it on the balmy evening air, but we’re indoors.
When James suggests an after dinner drink, I agree without having to be coerced which emboldens him. As we leave the restaurant he takes my hand and keeps me close. I should have foreseen the venue. It’s much more the atmosphere I envisioned for someone as playful and gregarious as James, and couldn’t be a worse choice for me. But I suspected the moment we sat down that he was uncomfortable in the upscale restaurant.
Thunderous music quakes the pavement from at least a block away. The bouncer opens a dreary door, and dizzying lights slice through the crowd in green and blue beams that make my head spin. I haven’t stepped inside a club in years.
Like a scalpel James cuts through the throbbing crush of bodies, shaking hands, and screaming introductions that drown in the bedlam. He changes our trajectory and veers off to the bar. He yells his order at the bartender, his fingers held up in a V to indicate shots for both of us. I tug on his sleeve and wave a hand in his face, telling him I don’t want one. He smiles, and hugs me around the shoulders in a friendly embrace. Reduced to lip-reading does nothing to dull James’s enthusiasm when he hands me a squat glass of tequila.
“Shots,” he yells, clinking our glasses.
“Bad idea! No.” My protest would sound more convincing if I wasn’t laughing and could actually be heard.
“Good idea!” He nods. “Yes!” Our speech has been reduced to single syllables. He sets up lime and salt. “You’ve done this before, right?” Pressed directly to my ear, I can hear him fine.
“I’m reserved, James, not sheltered,” I respond, drawing as close to him as I can with a barstool between us.
He settles the lime in my hand and licks the side of my index finger, sprinkling it with salt. I’d be lying if I said the contact was less than enjoyable. “Good to know,” he shouts, and with a countdown we lick the salt from each other’s hands and set our throats ablaze with alcohol. The blistering heat makes my eyes water, and I forget the lime un
til I see him bite into his. The acid forces my body into submission, and my vision quickly clears. My stomach swims immediately, and James balks at my tolerance, or lack thereof. He warns me not to throw up in his car. When I shove his shoulder, he kisses my cheek.
After three shots, a seemingly endless screaming match, and quite a bit of pushing, James pulls me through the horde and out onto the dance floor. The music isn’t unbearable anymore, and the bass thumps pleasantly in my chest. James is an adept lead, guiding my hips with steady hands as the songs bleed one onto the next, in a cacophonous, electric symphony.
The longer we’re out here, moving against each other, the more convinced I become that the last four years of my life have been a lie. I’m young. I have my whole life ahead of me. Under the right circumstances, I might even be fun. With each song, James manages to draw closer. We don’t shout anymore, everything we need to say we communicate through touch, and when the beat drops to a low rumble he turns my back to him. I feel his lips part, breath heavy in my hair, against the side of my neck. I close my eyes and rest my hand on the back of his head as his lips brush below my ear.
Elizabeth.
My name rings out more clearly than the bass thumping in the floorboards—firm and chastising—but I can’t make out the source. Definitely not James, who is still distracting himself by nibbling at my jaw. It’s impossible to see in this strobing half-light. I squint into the crowd, pulling away from my dance partner. The lights overhead drop in red streams that bathe her rancorous face.
Stela is standing to my left, not fifteen feet away, stoic against the pulsing bodies that claw at her like they’re worshipping some Grecian divinity. In the mere seconds it takes for my eyes to adjust, to lock on her obsidian eyes, a chilling certainty washes over me: she is visible only because she wants to be seen. A terror unequal to anything I’ve ever known floods my system with adrenaline and dread so potent I launch myself out of James’s arms.
Without a single glance in either his direction or hers, I bulldoze through the heart of the inferno. I see nothing but my own hands and feet, pushing at the damp flesh of scantily clad strangers, stepping on toes. Get to the door. Get out. I don’t turn or slow to apologize, despite the curses of bruised clubbers. She’s moving in time with me, toward me, and closing the insignificant gap with ease—I’m sure of it. But I will not check to see if she’s really there, or if I’ve finally snapped. For the first time since this nightmare began, I pray for the latter.
By dumb luck, I find the door and fling myself against the barrel belly of the bouncer. He brushes me away like an insect, dismissing my frantic cries as the frenetic ramblings of a tweaked customer. He places his large paw against the small of my back and shoves me outside. I don’t attempt to explain my situation again, there isn’t time. I run as fast as I can, thinking oddly that flats were a smart choice. I zip past the shadowed faces of couples enjoying a night in the city, lovers on bus stop benches, distracted pedestrians arguing over cabs until the scenery changes into homeless women pushing carts, and dirty old men leaning in darkened doorways.
Rounding the corner, I slip between two weathered buildings. My back is drenched with sweat, and the bricks feel cool. I peek my head back out onto the street, certain she’ll be waiting on the other side of the wall. But the city is still.
I let my head thud back against the brick wall. She isn’t there. She never was. Slowly, my breathing returns to normal, and when I notice the persistent sounds of sirens, I reach for my phone. First, to figure out how far I am from the nearest train, and second, to text James that I was ill and had to leave. I have never heard the sound of a gun being cocked at my head, but it’s a sound my body seems to recognize on instinct. I drop my eyes to my feet, and freeze without waiting for instruction.
“Purse and phone. Now.”
I offer up my belongings in two trembling hands, but I resist the urge to look. “Please. I haven’t seen anything.”
“No?” A hand snatches my last ties to civilization, and a pair of dingy sneakers settle directly in front of me. There’s a faint rustle of fabric as he drops my cell into his front pocket, and tucks my clutch in the waist of his jeans. “Look at you.” He whistles. “All dressed up.” Grimy fingers pluck at the front of my dress, just above my navel. “Lemme guess. You had a fight with the boyfriend and decided to walk home.”
“You have what you want. I can’t call the police. Couldn’t give them a description of you if I did.” I don’t know how my voice remains steady.
The man wraps his fist in my hair and yanks my head back. I open my mouth to scream, but he pushes the barrel of the gun past my lips. He’s young, early thirties, with a face as pockmarked as the bricks behind me. His lips are cracked and peeling in salty flakes. Hazel eyes, bloodshot and bulging. Greasy hair tucked into a knitted cap. His breath is foul.
“Scream and I will fucking shoot you. Nod your head.”
Tears roll over my eyelids. I nod and he moves closer, greedily inhaling his fistful of my hair. I turn away, searching the dimly lit alley for something, anything I can use against him. His body presses against me, one hand settled at my waist as the gun slides out of my mouth leaving a trail of spit along my cheek. His hand is gone from my body as suddenly as it arrived. He’s ripped away from me in a rush of wind, and a single gunshot rings through the air—shattering the sickening quiet.
Her back is to me, and she has both arms wrapped around my assailant. He tries to kick at the air. She hoists him skyward, his arms trapped at his sides, and his spine snaps in a series of sharp clicks. She throws him facefirst into the brick wall and his skull makes an audible crack as his knees crumble to the ground. The gun slips through his limp fingers and drops to the pavement with a feeble clatter.
She grabs him by the hair and twists his neck up to her mouth. The wet sound of his flesh tearing in her teeth has me screaming. I scream until I can’t hear anything else, until I’m faint from the force of my own expelled air and my legs buckle beneath me into a pool of warm, fresh blood. She drops the body and it smacks against the ground.
I touch my fingers to the blood around my knees, on my calves, my dress, and realize belatedly that the blood is mine. I try to check my pulse, but my left arm hangs limp at my side—a gush of blood oozing from my bicep. The pain is immediate, white-hot and searing. I cover the wound with my right hand, unable to scream anymore.
Stela stands over me, blood dripping down her chin. Only half her face is visible from the streetlight on the corner, and she is a portrait of indifference.
“He shot me.” I lift my crimson-stained hand to her in starry-eyed amazement before my vision tilts the landscape, and paints the whole city black.
V
Preludes
She folds forward in half—bent perfectly at the waist, like a child’s paper doll—her hands at her sides, forehead resting on her knees. Before I can resist, I savor the air with an unnecessary breath to taste the ripe life still pulsing down her punctured arm. My hands curl at my sides and I turn away from her to evict the seductive scent from my lungs.
What to do with them now? Two bodies, my car blocks away and beyond, a crowd. It would be impossible to carry them both unnoticed such a distance. A single street camera in an intersection, or a night shift worker standing at a window would mean my head. Worse, we could attract the scrupulous gaze of an upstanding police officer—be there any left in this city whose silence my brother has not ensured—out on a routine patrol.
Why could this guy not have satisfied himself with just a robbery? I stare down at his motionless heap of bones and soft meat, and raise my leg to strike him with my heel. I stop just short of his ribcage. Another bruise is one more damnable piece of evidence. “Acquired post mortem” on the autopsy report, and the police would suspect the kill was personal. Which it was.
“Ridiculous.” I lift my head to the stars. It was utter foolishness to intervene. The sky is dense with thick clouds of black and blue exhaust, the pollution rif
e and stagnant in the humid air. A world in decay, inundated with senseless violence, and dressed in faux opulence. This city reeks of their waste. Animals, as my Lord said. Cruel, ruthless, dishonorable, and spoiled.
I take a handkerchief from my blazer and scrub my mouth and chin clean, forcing myself to look upon her. Elizabeth’s face is barely turned toward the street, smoothed as though in sleep. I stare down at her would-be attacker. I could reduce him to nothing more than a stain on the pavement. Instead, I strip his carcass of the belt and retrieve Elizabeth’s mobile and purse from his pants.
I kneel beside her, mindful of the enticing, black pool curling out from under her legs. The blood is thick but quick to push its way free from the shell of her skin, and my head swims at the thought of finishing her here. There would be peace in the act, for both of us. Her sleep would be endless, and I would be free of her scattered thoughts throughout my day. A return to the silence, as dense as the stillness that swims around us now.
Silence.
I hear nothing from her. No runaway thoughts, or fears, or hopes. I jerk her injured limb toward me, and the bullet glistens against the bone like a bronzed pearl. My blood will be of no use to her until it is removed, lest the bullet be sealed inside her forever. If it were my own wound, I would tear the flesh with my fingers, and pry the shrapnel loose like a shucked oyster. But she is weak and chilling fast. I rip the sleeve of her gown at the shoulder and strip the compromised limb, using the fabric to soak up the blood and make a tourniquet of her attacker’s belt.
Elizabeth’s head rolls back when I lift her upright. I puncture my wrist with my teeth and open her mouth, rubbing her neck to move the blood down her throat. The offering is enough to make her pulse quicken, which bodes well for the drive ahead. I lean her back against the brick and her chin drops down to her chest, as lifelessly as before.
Standing over the discarded young ruffian, I roll him on his back with the toe of my boot and smear a few drops of my blood over the gash in his throat. The blood circles the flowering flesh and disappears inside a new layer of skin. I do the best I can with such limited time. I wrap the gun in his cold fingers, and hope the injuries to his face and spine, the single defensive shot fired, and the smattering of Elizabeth’s blood on the wall are enough to suggest gang violence. And should some ambitious medical examiner see fit to draw attention to his unexplainable blood loss, I trust Bård’s associates to bury both the inquiry and inquisitor.