Lit

by C. B. Wiant

  “Damn lady, you were in there long enough, could’ve shaved.” Giant says unbuttoning his flannel shirt and throwing it at me.

  Ruby gestures with the sawed-off shotgun in Hudson and Giant’s direction. “Is this the man that didn’t come for you?” I’m not sure who she’s referencing.

  “He’s my man,” I say and button-up another man’s shirt with shaking hands.

  “Again, who the fuck are you?” Giant asks again. He’s far too calm, as if he’s had experience negotiating for hostages. I have experience of being a hostage. Hudson is a wildcard and looks too composed given the situation compiling in the guest bathroom.

  “Name’s Ruby. Everyone file out.”

  No one moves.

  Ruby pulls me by the collar and smashes the barrel of the sawed-off 12-gauge shotgun hard against my temple.

  Hudson takes a step back. Giant does the opposite. He lunges. Natural instincts have my whole body clenching. My asshole puckers. Toes curl. Fists clench.

  BANG.

  The gun fires.

  32

  Home-defense

  The degree of shot dispersion depends on proximity. If the target is within a couple of feet, the pellets obliterate a dense area. If the target is a few feet further, the pellets radiate out and some flyers escape the main pattern. The greater the distance, the greater the spread of the shot.

  Giant wasn’t far when he dove to protect me. He was in the doorway of the guest bathroom. The bathroom was standard, possibly 5x8. If I stretched my arms out, I wouldn’t be able to reach him. Yet if I lied down on the tiles, I might have been able to tap him with my toes.

  Instead of shooting me as Ruby threatened, she redirected the barrel and shot Giant in the chest.

  BANG.

  It stuns those of us in the bathroom silent. The shot acoustics vibrate the air—the shot is tangible.

  Genevieve and Terra round the corner at the commotion. Giant is laying partially in the hallway. His head lulls centimeters from Hudson’s boots. Mouth agape, eyes vacant. Terra passes out and collapses in the forming puddle of Giant’s blood.

  “Move,” Ruby snarls. The barrel is hot behind my ear.

  We move. We step over Giant. Bloodied footsteps tread down the hallway to the living room. Ruby takes every opportunity to nudge and prod the shotgun against my skull.

  Genevieve hiccups on her tears. Her face is sweating. Quickly she turns behind the couch and vomits. She wipes her face on the fabric of the back of the couch and stands. And as soon as she’s upright she’s down like a slung sack of white potatoes, passed out cold.

  “You too? You passing out?” Ruby waves her shotgun as if it’s an extension of her hand. Murder isn’t traumatic to those of us left standing, we’re desensitized on a larger scale than violent video games.

  Ruby glitches—an involuntary tic, a physical manifestation of Tourette’s syndrome.

  Hudson’s hands clench. “What do you want?”

  “Sit down.” Ruby pats her shotgun on my cheek.

  Hudson sits, but his weight is on his toes—prepared to spring.

  “Did you know she fucked Onyx?” Ruby thrusts the shotgun in the hollow of my cheek. I have to open my mouth to accommodate the intrusion.

  Hudson’s feet flatten. “No, I did not.”

  “That’s because it didn’t happen.” I attempt to say, but it sounds more like dwa-ca-eh-dini-appen.

  There’s a knock at the front door. I turn to the door, which adds pressure against my cheek. The cops couldn’t be here, Ruby only let off one round. Neighbors probably thought it was fireworks, a car backfiring. Or even a fucking sound effect from an action movie. They wouldn’t jump to accusations. Not after one shot. Humans wait for a pattern.

  Another knock at the door.

  “Do you want me to answer that?” Hudson asks. He makes no moves to answer or assist.

  “Ruby, let me in.” Comes through the front door.

  “GET THE FUCKING DOOR!” Ruby screams and gesticulates with the sawed-off shotgun towards the door before stabbing the shotgun back into my cheek. Hudson rises and opens the door without greeting Onyx. Neither men sit.

  “Hey Nix,” Onyx nods his chin to me before nodding towards Hudson, “Beast.” Onyx walks behind Ruby, almost as if he’s helping her with her golf swing. His hands are at her waist. “My love, let’s stop the killing rampage. We kill in the Arena only; we’ve talked about this.”

  Ruby gives my cheek a reprieve. She moves the shotgun below my jaw, forcing my chin upwards. The popcorn ceiling blurs and glosses. Ruby’s shoulder hikes up momentarily. Another tic.

  “NO. YOU FUCKED HER.” Ruby’s neck pops.

  “My love, I did no such thing.”

  “BUT YOU’VE BEEN WITH HER. IT’S ALWAYS ABOUT HER.” With each HER the shotgun juts into my artery. Genevieve stirs but doesn’t regain consciousness. Terra hasn’t surfaced from the hallway. Terra may walk around the bend of the hallway appearing saturated in blood like Stephen King’s Carrie White.

  “No, my love, that’s not true.”

  Hudson stands before me, waiting for an opportune moment. His eyes plead for patience. He’ll find a way to save me. I need to Stay Alive.

  But this time I will not watch myself die. I will not wait to be saved. I’m just going to-

  I reach up and grab the barrel of the shotgun and light it up with everything I have. Ruby screams and drops the gun as if it’s on fire. The steel is bright orange. I flip the gun and point it in Ruby’s direction.

  I throw Ruby’s words from the Arena back at her. “Tell me why I shouldn’t kill you?”

  “Nix,” Onyx pushes Ruby behind him. She taps her head against his back, between his shoulders like a ticking time bomb. Her hands are curled into her chest like she can reach the cartilage in her ribcage to absorb some of the burn. Her discomfort needs alleviating.

  “Nix, you don’t have to do this.”

  The gun shakes in my hands. “WHY NOT?!” I’m clearly doing it.

  Hudson presses a reassuring and steadying hand on my shoulder. I roll my shoulders away from my ears and take a breath. His hand slips off. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Hudson check Genevieve’s pulse. He rolls her onto her back and raises her feet to increase blood flow to her brain.

  “Onyyyeeee it hurts.” Ruby says and hammers her head harder into Onyx’s back.

  Onyx shifts Ruby around from his back and into his embrace. She continues to knock her head into his chest, but not as hard since she’s enveloped.

  “I know my love.” Onyx kisses the crown of her head. “She’s not well, Nix. When she’s not in the Arena, she hears The Hum.”

  I marginally lower the gun but don’t release it. I’ve heard of The Hum, but thought it was a phenomenon centralized in New Mexico and not worldwide.

  “What?” Hudson asks from the hallway.

  “It’s persistent low-frequency. It’s distressing and triggering for her. She gets insomnia, headaches, disorientation. If you let me take her out of here, we’ll go back to the Arena. You’ll never see us again.” Onyx takes a step back towards the door. He pulls Ruby with him.

  “How do I know I can trust you?” The shotgun has cooled from a golden, dark yellow.

  “You don’t. But you’ve trusted me this far. I’ve kept you alive.”

  “To keep Hudson working for you.”

  Onyx smiles, “All the angels are gone Nix, it’s only us Devils.” He kisses Ruby again on her crown. She’s finally stopped banging her head. “Are you going to kill us both? Because you can’t kill just one of us.”

  Onyx squeezes Ruby close to him and takes another step so that his back is to the closed front door. Ruby stumbles, a bit limp along his side.

  Genevieve stirs and mumbles. Her skin is clammy and has a sheen. It’s only for a moment that I’m distracted with Genevieve. But the seconds held weight. Onyx’s shadow pulled off of the front door and cloaked him and Ruby in darkness. Their cohesive form melded into the front door un
til all that’s left is my shadow pointing a sawed-off 12-gauge shotgun at the peephole.

  Hudson is at my side, “Av, we need to go.”

  Groggily, Genevieve asks, “What’s happening?” Fuck.

  Genevieve wobbles into a seated position as if drunk. “Wait, what?”

  “Av we need to go.” Hudson drags me towards the front door.

  The steel of the shotgun is gray. My knuckles are white around the handle.

  The front door slams behind us. Genevieve’s bloody screams penetrate through the door.

  Seventeen hours later Hudson and I touch ground in Brazil with no carry-on. I never even bought pants. Giant’s shirt is long enough that it passed for a dress.

  Back in the States, Hudson cleaned and discarded the gun in the Olentangy River. He left his truck in a parking lot of a mechanic. The keys were dropped in the lockbox.

  “Aviana,” Hudson softly touches my shoulder. He has a small chocolate bonbon covered in chocolate sprinkles in his palm.

  “Brigadeiro. Try it, you need to eat something.”

  I pop the confection in my mouth and hum in scrumptious satisfaction. With a swollen, red face from crying, I’m smiling like a loon. The small sweet brought me to life.

  Before Hudson and I leave the airport, I purchase a disposable phone and phone card with Hudson’s money. In the taxi, I dial the numbers to the one person I always struggle with reaching out too. I hit send and wait for the connection.

  “Hello?” A rough voice says.

  “I’m sorry.”

  A long pause follows in which Genevieve doesn’t say a word. I’m about to hang up when she says, “You’re always sorry.”

  The line disconnects.

  Yet I still hold the phone to my ear, truly sensing the sever.

  Hudson asks the taxi driver to pull over. We step onto the patterned stones. He stomps on the prepaid phone and tosses the parts into a trashcan along the São Paulo streets.

  Hudson opens his hand for me. I slip my fingers between his. We thread into the crowd and blend seamlessly with the bustling Paulistas.

  Acknowledgments

  There is a specific murder that happens when I literally wrote myself in the corner. My husband killed a character to clear the path—it was the only way. I’m sad too. My husband is my best friend. I love our life.

  I’m grateful to Kristy for cursing me and demanding words. Her unfiltered crass sarcasm keeps me on course and writing with the door closed.

  I’m thankful for Lindsey for telling me my words are good but make her stabby.

  My sincere gratitude to the ladies who read drafts, beta versions, and random sentences. Thank you for encouraging me to share my art. And thank you for showing up.

  I appreciate the reader, whoever made it to this sentence here. I truly thank You.

  About the Author

  C.B. Wiant lives in Ohio with her husband and dogs. She graduated with a Bachelor’s of Science in Biology from The Ohio State University. She considers herself an artist—and is truly grateful she is able to share her art.

  Connect with C.B. Wiant on Instagram: @CBWiant She’s interested in your perspective and will most likely profusely thank you for reading her words.