I poured a capful of soap under the stream of water. Foamy white bubbles clung to each other, spreading further as they grew. He was still struggling out of his underwear when I slid into the tub. But his blue eyes were fixed on me.
He got in and put his hands on either side of my hips. I could feel his eager breath between my breasts. “Just lay back,” I said, and he listened.
I climbed on top, straddling him between my slick legs. “Oh, that’s warm,” he moaned. “Oh … it’s hot.”
I smiled, reaching for the shampoo bottle. Fastened to the back by two thick rubber bands I found my little red knife. The man started to pull away, limbs useless on the slippery porcelain. “You’re so hot! You’re hot! You’re burning me! My dick!”
I plunged the knife between his eyes. It came out with a wet gurgle. He had managed to grab a fistful of my hair, and I waited for his hand to fall away. It went limp and splashed at his side. I pierced the right side of his neck, pushing down until his skin met the handle. I dragged the blade across his throat. It left a rigid path of torn skin. Blood covered his neck, a glossy sheath of red that mixed with the water. He sputtered, wordlessly sputtered like a dying engine, blood gushing from his mouth when he did. I felt sorry for this one. He wasn’t all that bad.
I was kneeling over a corpse in a veritable pool of blood. The air was still pleasant, a hint of lilac from the soap. It would smell a lot worse if he wasn’t in water. You lose more than just blood when you die.
I threw on my black terry cloth robe, double-knotting it at the waist. My supplies were in a basket beneath the sink—a thin rope and a plastic shower curtain. I unfolded the curtain at the base of the tub. Black. The only color for me.
I pulled his hands, pushing with my feet against the outer wall of the tub, using all the strength in my legs. His body squeaked over the smooth edge, face landing in my lap. I tied the rope around him, just below the arms. Heave ho.
I dragged him out of the bathroom on the plastic shower curtain. His head wobbled from side to side, still connected at the spine. It thudded against the door frame when I turned.
I pulled him into my room and opened up the closet door. A heat wave spilled out. The air danced in waves. It was so hot, even I broke a sweat. A bead rolled down my forehead as I pushed the body, rolling him over twice to reach the door. I scrambled backwards, to the foot of my bed. And waited.
There is the edge of a cliff just beyond my door. It stops suddenly some thirty feet out. This cliff, this steep mountain, is made entirely of bone. Mostly spines, worked together like yarn, sprinkled with skulls here and there. Each mouth is agape in a petrified scream.
From my seat on the floor, I could see the stair banisters rising up like two giant tusks into the sky. The sky was red, but not the color of blood. Blood is much, much brighter. Something sharp ripped into the horizon. The first glimpse of his twisted horns could be seen, steadily rising between the two ancient banisters.
He is all muscle, and over eight feet tall. He has the snout of a wolf, and no hair. Human flesh against snarling teeth. His chest and arms look human, arms bulging with strength, veins threatening to burst. His lower stomach and legs have the scales of an alligator, massive spiked tail dragging behind. I could hear the clicking of his curved claws on the ground.
He knelt before the door, massive horns pointing at me as he scooped up the body. He lifted it easily, like a child with a cat … or more like a cat with a mouse. His beady eyes flicked to me, black as an insect’s and just as empty. His tongue is split, forked at the end. It quivered in the air just over the wound. He tasted the man’s blood … and approved. Bad blood. He only likes the bad men.
He stood, the body limp in his arms. And then flung it over his shoulder … a butcher with a side of beef. The head dangled loosely. The neck wound widened to a half-moon. I saw his spine glistening, still wet with fresh death. I wondered if that spine would become part of the cliff, woven into a mountain of bones for all eternity.
I watched until they were both out of sight, the back of his hairless skull disappearing down the stairs. A burst of fire shot into the sky. I shut the door, leaning my weight against its warped surface. I caught my breath and let my heart rate slow down.
When my hands were freshly scrubbed, my face and hair checked for blood, I jumped into a pair of cotton sweats. I’d be back to the vinyl skirt in no time, but right now there was work to do. I dropped the gun back into the darkness of my purse and grabbed the keys to his little red Honda.
Lacy black clouds dimmed the moon. Sounds of traffic from the main road carried through the lot. The frigid wind turned drops of melted snow into frost that clung to the car. I slid the key in the ignition. The car sputtered to life.
I kept the headlights off and eased the Honda around back. There was a fenced-off bin where they used to keep the dumpsters. Tall, fuzzy weeds engulfed the empty lot. There was moss in the knots of wood on the gate. I opened the gate; drove inside. I parked the car and made my way back to the gate.
When I was safely outside, I turned to watch.
The ground had been concrete just moments before. Now it began to bubble. It melted and popped, bubbles bursting near the center. The rusty car was being swallowed up, sinking steadily down.
I heard the ground gurgling into the car through a crack in the window, but I never heard the shatter of glass. Every bit of car below ground level seemed to melt, to disappear completely. The car wasn’t sinking; it was ceasing to exist. Magic? Evil? Don’t look at me. I didn’t ask for any of this. I just wanted to live.
Yellow sheets. My legs are shaking. I grip the hammer so tight that my fingers are pale. “Leave me alone,” I tell him, but he won’t leave me alone. He comes closer. No, no, no, no!
His long legs straddle the bed with ease. There’s too much pressure on my abdomen. He is heavy, and drunk, and mean. I grip the hammer so tight I can feel a pulse thumping in my palm.
I swing the hammer at his temple. His head is forced to one side. A cracking sound hangs in the air. Worse than fingernails on a chalkboard.
All I can think is ‘I killed him. I killed him.’ Then his hand slides away from the back pocket of his jeans. I hear the sound of the butterfly knife. He plunges his free hand into my hair, gripping it. Pulls my head back. Sticks the knife in. I try to scream, but only manage a gurgle. I swing the hammer … again and again and again.
I was leaning on the wooden gate, cheek resting on the splintered frame. The ground was solid again. No sign of the little car. I wanted to stay and catch my breath, to reflect on things for a moment. To walk the streets in plain clothes. To look for the good in this world.
But there is always work to do. He is always hungry.
Just Desserts
Lauren pressed her knife against the old man’s throat, its steel blade shimmering in the street light. Convulsions of fear rattled through his meager frame, forcing his yellow teeth to chatter. His eyes bulged from their sockets, cue balls with tiny pupils. His spine was painfully stiff. One swift movement to either side, and the finely honed blade would slice the tender skin of his neck.
“Are you scared?” asked Lauren as the corner of her mouth twisted into a crooked half smile. Her lips curled into a sultry expression somewhere between arousal and rage. The man nodded carefully, moving his head in slow motion, allowing her to keep the knife steady.
Lauren raised her knee, easing it between his legs. She parted his thighs, angling her body so that his right leg was between both of hers. She whispered in his ear. “How long’s it been, old man? Since you felt the warmth of a woman?”
She watched his expression change from pure terror, to a mixture of confusion and fear. His bushy eyebrows drew closer together as his mind struggled to make sense of her intent. “Raise your knee,” she commanded in a sensual tone, hot breath moistening the curves of his ear. “Press your thigh between my legs so you can feel my heat.”
The old man did as he was told, and she began to grind against
him, no panties to keep her juices from dampening the fabric of his slacks. She ran her free hand up and down her slender body, feeling the slight curve of her hips, the side of her breast. The knife pressed even deeper into his flesh as she gyrated against the helpless man. Sweat poured from his forehead in streams.
“What the fuck are you doing?” a voice broke through Lauren’s panting. The old man turned his eyes, but not his head. A young man stood opposite of a car that was parked just outside the narrow alley. He wore sunglasses, despite the late hour. A skull cap hid the color of his hair.
“Get the fucking money, and let’s go!” He spoke in a whisper, but his tone was harsh enough for his partner in crime to comprehend.
Lauren turned her face to examine the starless sky. She let out an exasperated sigh. Whipping her head into an upright position, she stuck out her bottom lip in mock disappointment. “He never let’s me have any fun.” She raised her victim’s trembling, wrinkled hand and forced it to cup her breast. “One little squeeze and I’ll be on my way.” Placing her palm over the back of his hand, she used him like a human puppet, tightening his grip until her nipple was hard.
Despite his fear, she felt his manhood beginning to swell. This pleased her. She let go, giggling like a an evil school girl.
“Okay, I’ll be taking your wallet now… Which pocket?”
“B-b-back left…” the man managed to stutter. She slid her hand around his waist, finding the bulge at his buttocks, purposely pressing into the bulge at his front. She slid the leather wallet from his pocket.
“It’s been fun.” She gave his ear lobe a lick before turning to sprint for the car.
**
Tires squealed against pavement as they made their escape. Lauren ripped the red-haired wig from her head. Golden locks spilled over her shoulders as she released a tightly wound bun. She tossed the wig in the back seat, quickly followed by her thick-rimmed black sun glasses. Placing her hand on Jason’s inner thigh, she half-moaned and half-whined. “Jason, baby, I’m soooo horny right now.”
“You are always horny after a mugging. The only girl I know who loves to play with knives.”
“Pull over, baby, I need you inside me now.”
Jason sighed, much like a parent would sigh when faced with a ridiculous demand. “In a minute, baby, we’ve got to get further away…”
Lauren leaned over the seat, fumbling with the zipper of his jeans. “Well then, I won’t wait for you to pull over.” She smiled coyly, positioning herself on his lap. The car swerved as he struggled to see the lanes.
Leaning against the driver’s side door, allowing Jason to watch the road, she satisfied her aching desire.
**
Doris grimaced, the lines in her forehead deepening. A shot of vodka burned its way down her throat. Her stomach bubbled, churning in protest… but her muscles relaxed, welcoming the anesthesia. She bit her bottom lip, exhaling through her nose, and poured herself another shot.
Trying desperately to fight the frown that pulled at the corners of her mouth, she began to wrap the uneaten birthday cake. The kitchen’s dim, yellow lighting accentuated her headache as she stretched cellophane over the surface. She tucked the edges underneath, examining her work. The words she’d written earlier this day―Happy 17th Birthday, Lauren―were now smudged, smashed against the thin plastic.
Doris checked the clock again. 2:06 in the morning. Where in the hell was that child? Time and time again, she considered canceling Lauren’s cell phone. She was old enough to get a job and take over the payments herself. Besides, why should she bother to pay for a cell phone when Lauren wouldn’t even answer her calls?
Still, Doris supposed it would come in handy if Lauren were ever hurt, or in danger.
She took a shot. Alcohol wouldn’t solve her problems, but it would ease the pain for tonight. Things had been rough this past year. Money was tight. Lauren was spiraling out of control.
There were still bills—oh, so many bills―for Lauren’s “incident” eleven months ago. Grand theft auto, resulting in the injury of a pedestrian… and Doris was still paying for the damage.
What hurt the most, burned far worse than cheap vodka, distressing her more than bills or debt, was that Lauren didn’t come home for her birthday. Each stroke of the second hand mocked Doris’s pain, mirroring the ticking time bomb that her daughter had become.
After all she’d said and done to keep her daughter out of jail, she couldn’t even come home for birthday cake.
**
Lauren glared at the little trailer with disdain. Its gaudy blue siding was warped with age, moldy from years of rainfall. She took a long drag of her cigarette. Smoke clouded her vision as she exhaled. Pondering her skinny fingers, she rolled the cigarette back and forth, back and forth as she thought.
Finally, making her voice sound tame and meek, she pleaded, “Don’t make me go in there, Jason, please. I hate going home. I hate her.”
“And my mom hates you. If she catches us together, I’ll be shipped off to live with my dad. Do you want me moving 200 miles away?”
Lauren pouted. She let out a pathetic ‘hmmph’, lips curling into a look of childish disappointment. She groped around in her bag until she felt a cool glass bottle. She took it from the bag, unscrewing the lid. An acrid smell flooded both of their senses. After a moment of hesitation, she pressed the bottle to her lips, taking a swig of the golden brown liquid.
She cringed.
Covering her mouth, she began to cough. Whiskey-flavored spittle ran down her chin. She wiped it with the sleeve of her jacket, raising the bottle to her lips once again. The second shot was much smoother, her taste buds beginning to surrender.
“At least the old man had enough in his wallet to get me through the night,” she said hoarsely. Jason only shook his head and smiled.
**
Lauren shut the door very softly, easing the deadbolt into place to avoid an audible click. Apparently, it was a fruitless attempt. “Where have you been?” her mother’s voice flowed from the blackened living room. “Why didn’t you answer my calls?” Her tone was ripe with hysteria and exhaustion, cracking at the end of each question.
“I’ve been out. It’s my birthday.” Lauren kicked off her shoes. She hastily made her way toward the hall.
A warm hand gripped her arm from behind, squeezing a little too hard before loosening its grip. “I know it’s your birthday. I made a cake, remember?”
Lauren jerked away, refusing to turn around. “Just leave me alo―”
“You smell like alcohol. You’ve been drinking.” The hand caught her arm once again.
“The same goes for you. You reek of vodka. Now let go! Let me fucking go!” She jerked away once more, storming to her room. She slammed the door, throwing her bag on the bed.
Later that evening, basking in the pale moonlight that shone through her bedroom window, Lauren sucked at her bottle of booze. “That woman,” she groaned, “is a pain in the ass.” She sighed, settling deeper into her pillow. “She drove my father away, and I can’t stand her either. I’d give anything for a different mother…”
A dark cloud passed over the moon.
**
Lauren awoke in a wave of nausea. Her brain felt like a wrung-out dish rag, as if someone had squeezed tighter and tighter until only a dry lump remained. She closed her eyes against the morning sun, watching little spots dance on her inner eyelids.
She recalled the old man’s terrified eyes and smiled. She still had enough of his money to buy a cheap pack of smokes and a pint—the only surefire cure for a hangover this bad. She grabbed her head, willing the pain to subside. It didn’t. She swung her feet to the floor and headed for the bathroom.
Water spewed from the bathroom faucet. Cupping both hands together, she filled them to the brim, splashing her face with an ice-cold shock. She tried not to look at the pale yellow walls of the cramped mobile home bathroom. They made her feel dizzy and sick.
There was a knock on the door.
“Yeah?”
“Oh good, you’re up,” her mother’s muffled voice came from outside. “Listen, I thought we could tap into that cake from yesterday. You know I can’t stay mad at you, honey.”
Lauren groaned. Couldn’t she get a minute of privacy? A few seconds to collect her thoughts? She grabbed at the door handle. “I don’t want any―”
The door opened, and Lauren recoiled in horror, scrambling backwards like a frightened cat. She tripped on her own feet, falling to one side and landing in a pile of unwashed towels. “Mom, what’s—what’s―what the fuck?!―”
Doris frowned, perplexed by the girl’s sudden fear. She stood in the doorway looking down at her daughter, intense worry filling her heart.
Lauren began to shiver, looking at her mother’s rotted face. She looked like something out of a B horror movie. The skin of her cheeks sloughed off in vile chunks. The weight of dangling flesh pulled at her lower eyelids—there was no sign of her upper eyelids. Ghastly black orbs that used to be brown and white protruded from her head like an insect. Lauren could see her reflection in those orbs, scooting closer and closer towards the tub.
“Baby, what’s the matter? You’re acting so strange…” Doris shuffled past the door frame. One of her putrid, yellow toe nails got caught on a stray towel. It cracked and split, yanking easily from the nail bed. She offered a hand, reaching out with spindly fingers not much fatter than a pencil, wrapped in flaky gray skin.
“Stay away from me!” Lauren shrieked. “Get back!”
“Are you taking drugs? Maybe you have a fever. Calm down, honey, it’s me! We’ll run some bath water. We’ll get you cleaned up―”
“Don’t take another fucking step!” Lauren pulled a knife from her pocket, flipping it open within an instant.
“Just put that thing down,” the monstrous mother said. Her lips were withered into a rotten hair lip, slimy gums dripping mucus as she spoke. She knelt before her shaking daughter. “Honey, please. I can help.”
Respect For The Dead Page 3