Chiral Mad 3

by Stephen King

  Today’s gift was a sea-smoothed piece of blue glass. Under her breast, nestled between her ribs, the glass went from cool to warm as she twined thread around it, caging the foggy bit of sky in a nest of snow-white thread, leaving it loose enough to bump against her as she moved.

  Sewing finished, she did some maintenance on the canvas of her skin. Not many spaces left to fill. A few punctures were hot and puss-yellow, but the aloe-soaked rag brought some relief. In front of the mirror, she moved with care to reach the crust of sores on her back. She twisted slowly, threads pulling as they stretched. She had managed a few stitches there, and criss-cross braided lines lacing up her spine. She kept the aloe in the fridge and when it touched her skin it raised goose bumps, sent ripples of tugs and twinges across her flesh.

  She ministered to her skin, taking comfort in the lingering smell of her grandmother, who had lived and died in this room, filled it with her yearning as she sewed her dreams. Frayed blue cornflowers poured across the bedspread, soft pink blossoms vined up the sun-bleached curtains, each mundane object transformed, made wondrous by her grandmother’s craft. From the walls hung needlepoint doorways to the street cafes of Paris, the terraced rice fields of Asia, the palm-shaded beaches of Fiji.

  That great big world out there is not for me, rabbit-girl. It’s too wide, too far. But I can see it when I sleep. I can draw the world close with my needle and thread.

  Jeremy showed her his secret.

  He didn’t mean to—at least it seemed like an accident. There was a scrap of paper skating by, folded into a fan. The long sleeve he wore, always pulled down, rose as he reached and she saw the glowing white ridges of ancient scars climbing his arm in an intricate lattice.

  I don’t do it anymore he said when he caught her looking. Don’t need to. He considered his bare forearm a moment, sending a huff of breath out his nose, before he pulled the sleeve back down and curled his fingers over his palm to hold it in place.

  That night she took the fan and sliced one edge across her arm above the elbow, wetting the paper with her blood. It sizzled and stung and she licked the spots of blood away. As she sewed on the paper fan she imagined him sitting on the side of his bed, a lamp spotlighting his arm as he cut a careful line with his straight razor. There would be more blood than from her paper-cut; a slow, dark welling until it could rise no more; the blood would spill over his pale skin, catching in older wounds as it wound its way down.

  He had made something beautiful of his flesh, brought something inside to the surface. Those pearl scars a delicate lace that traced across his skin the story of who he was.

  Her story was unfolding, the story of what she was becoming.

  The paper fan unfurled as she spread her legs, sheltering the hair that grew there.

  Something changed as she entered the park.

  The sun warmed her face, and she felt her abdomen ignite. Jeremy was waiting for her. Her pulse leapt at the thrill of it. A stir of movement at her shoulder—the robin’s wing ruffled and thrummed, pulling at its threads, sending a tremor across her body.

  She saw him, sitting alone on a bench, waiting.

  People were gathered around her, standing, sitting, leaning, walking; each with thoughts cast inwards, living a story all their own. Everyone on their mark. Setting the stage.

  The old woman who sat at her bench every day with a sad pile of dog food at her feet, smiling as owners yanked their drooling Labradors and pugs away from her offering; lonely. The young couple, head in lap and hand-in-hand, one listening to headphones, the other gabbing on a cell; divided. The smokers. The homeless, jobless; shunned. She stood in their midst and they told her their stories.

  The robin’s wing quickened, its tempo waking the surrounding threads, rousing them into motion. Her treasures hummed and vibrated and she felt so hot, smothered. They fluttered and writhed against the confines of her attire. She tore at her clothes, freeing herself of her jacket, shedding her sweater, her loose shirt and pants until she stood revealed, unveiled, and the gasps of her audience rippled around her when they saw what she had made. The strands covered her almost completely, drawn through her with such care.

  They see me.

  Thread tugged at her side, her legs, her shoulders, as she turned, spreading her arms. Awe, horror, confusion, alarm. The threads sewn across her body a subway-map to her inner dimensions, each treasure a remembrance of the streets, the pathways, the people who walked them. She brought them together, a collage of skin and blood and forgotten pieces.

  Her audience began to sob, exclaim, cry out to each other, and her treasures vibrated with new intensity. The stitches that wove a reflection of her dreams—all of their dreams, all their stories merging—the threads that traveled under and over the terrain of her body tightened in preparation.

  The young couple held each other, clutching with fists turned white with strain; the dog-food lady’s withered face stretched in an unvoiced appeal amidst the drumming confusion of pigeons taking flight.

  They see me.

  The robin’s wing, feathers, petals and leaves, the bits of paper all strained towards the sky, yearning for release, pulling her up as the stones, pieces of wood and bark, the glinting metallic objects dropped, heavy with need they struck for the earth. And her audience sat together—frozen, stunned, their attention piercing her, pulling her in every direction at once. In this moment, together, they saw the magic of what she had become.

  Jeremy sat on his bench, cheeks bright with tears, eyes wide and unblinking as the threads yanked at her flesh, rifts opening when skin and muscle could no longer endure the tug-o-war between the stitches anchored there.

  He sees me.

  She smiled, though scorching trails of pain shot across her stomach, her hips, her arms and legs, where the wounds peeled back, gaping open to unleash gasps of steaming blood. She smiled at him as a scream thundered up her throat and out in a burst of joyous agony; a siren call that held all who attended. Dark began to steal the sight of him, and red, in flashes, painted his pale face. He was smiling back at her, at the beauty of her becoming, though he quaked with sorrow.

  The canvass of her body gave with a sudden rending of stress-fatigued meat. Her scavenged bits of treasure achieved freedom, bursting forth, releasing all that her skin had once kept contained. Pieces of scalp, tissue, flesh and bone exploded outwards in a firework flower of blood and heat, bright against the pale blue sky.

  They saw her.

  THE SPEED OF SOUND

  CIARÁN PARKES

  Slower than the speed of light, slower than

  a speeding bullet, its effect is seen

  when a child falls and there’s a gap between

  his falling and his cry as if the world

  had been paused then started up again.

  Sometimes slower still, the cry creeps on

  silently, to catch him years from then.

  RED RUNNER VS. THE SURGEON,

  ISSUE 18

  JESSICA MAY LIN

  WHEN I KICK DOWN THE DOOR of the preschool, my red Converse are the only splotch of color in the trashed-up gray of overturned desks and torn art projects. An electric fan rotates in one corner of the room, ruffling the blinds over the window.

  Beneath the frayed hem of my right sweatshirt sleeve, I slide my automatic knife out of its sheath and run my thumbnail absently along the blade.

  I am a man who lives with the torment of a nightmare that won’t die.

  It follows me, to the dark spaces where no man is supposed to go. But I have no reprieve. I’m not supposed to.

  “You’re worthless.”

  “Haven’t got what it takes to kill him.”

  “Leave me alone.” I grit my teeth, try to shut the voices out the way my psychiatrist told me to.

  The Surgeon’s in here. I know he is.

  And this time he won’t get away.

  A shadow flickers across the ceiling, and I whip around, listening carefully for the staccato of footsteps. My domino ma
sk presses into the corners of my eyes.

  “Red Runner, I could see those sneakers from a mile away.”

  The taunt comes from straight above me.

  I hook the thumb of my free hand in my pocket and smile. I don’t need to hide—not from him.

  “Come down and face me, coward.”

  The Surgeon drops from the rafters and lands with one knee down in front of me. He’s wearing his normal costume, blue scrubs and a white medical mask stretched across his mouth. “I’ve got a present for you, Red.”

  He reaches into his pocket and throws something at me.

  I snatch it out of the air and hold it on my open palm. It’s a piece of lace, torn from the collar of a five-year-old’s dress. “Too late. You won’t find her now.”

  I close my fist. “You’re sick.”

  The Surgeon laughs. “You’re the one seeing a shrink, if you want to talk about sick.”

  “He’s right.”

  “You’re not good enough to kill him.”

  The voices bore into the corners of my skull, spaces I didn’t even know existed. I dig my nails into my palms.

  The Surgeon meets my eyes, as if he knows exactly what’s going on in my head, but before he can get anything out of his mouth, I lunge at him with the knife.

  Something invisible comes up and bars my strike.

  Without moving, his arms still at his sides, the Surgeon smiles at me. His power is psychic surgery. His weapons are crafted by his mind.

  “Who do you think you are, Red? You can’t beat me. I don’t have to fight you, Red. You’ll fight yourself.”

  I draw my knife arm back.

  “You’re weak.”

  “Not a real hero.”

  The voices. So loud in my head I can’t remember anything else. The knife falls from my hand as I watch.

  At times like this, all I can think about is that I’d rather die.

  The next thing I know, the Surgeon has me on the floor, held down by an invisible chokehold.

  “You can’t win, Red. You can’t save those kids. I killed them, and I’ll be back to kill more.”

  He lifts his foot and stomps down on my face.

  I double over, yelling, and he grunts in satisfaction.

  “If you knew better, you’d check yourself into an asylum, and stay out of my way.”

  When I look up again, he’s gone.

  I reach up and rip the domino mask from my face. I’m panting as if I’ve run a long distance, my vision blurry until all I can make out are my red Converse in the foggy darkness before me.

  My cell phone plays Hello Moto in my pocket, a weak bleat against the cold solitude of the destroyed preschool.

  Holding my sweatshirt sleeve against my mouth to staunch the blood pouring from my nose, I punch the green icon and shove the phone up against my ear.

  “Red? How’s it going?” Niall’s on the other side of the line.

  I exhale and lean my head back against the watercolor of a unicorn hanging on the wall. Blood trickles into the back of my throat. “He got away.”

  “Fuck,” Niall says.

  I spit onto the floor. “It’s all right. I’ll take care of it.”

  “You can’t.”

  “You can talk all you want about how’re in control.”

  “But really, you’re not.”

  There’s a clatter as Niall sets down a coffee mug on the other side of the line. “Listen, Red. I’m at Joey Duke’s right now. Someone left a message for you—Red, are you listening?”

  I realize I’m breathing hard again, squeezing the phone so hard I might crush it.

  “Yeah,” I tell him.

  “He knows.”

  “They all know how you weak you are.”

  It’s not real, I tell myself, but I’m not sure I believe it anymore. You can only run for so long before you hit a dead end.

  I shift the phone higher up on my shoulder. “I’ll meet you at Joey Duke’s, okay?” I tell Niall.

  And I hang up on him.

  Twenty minutes later, I pull my head out of the toilet in Joey Duke’s Bar and Lounge, gasping. My hands are braced on either side of the bowl, my tie still floating in the water.

  “You’ve been hunting the Surgeon since you were fifteen.”

  “Ten years and he’s still torturing children.”

  “You’re useless.”

  “Fuck you,” I say as my reflection bobs up and down. But I’m not sure who I’m talking to anymore.

  My phone buzzes in my pocket.

  Niall.

  I wish I had what it takes to ignore him—to just forget about Red Runner and the Surgeon and walk away from all of this.

  I grab my domino mask off the floor and yank it back over my eyes.

  “I know what I’m doing. He’s mine. I’ll kill him.”

  And I sink my fist into the lever that flushes the water away.

  When I bat the door open, into Joey Duke’s, the air is thick with sweat and whiskey. A girl in leather jeans and many gold bangles casts me a furtive glance from behind the bar—although what Joey calls a “bar” is just a moldy plank of wood, weighted down by the slumped figures of passed-out patrons.

  Ryvie Wilson, the bargirl. She’s got ivy tattoos all up her arms.

  “You want a drink, Red?” she calls to me, holding up a wine glass. Behind it, her glittered lashes wink at me. “It’s Happy Hour.”

  I scan the bar for Niall.

  “Sorry, Ryv. Got the Surgeon to take care of.”

  Ryvie presses her lips together slowly. Her eyes are the color of melted amber. “You all right?”

  I remember how my shirt is stained with blood, my hair dripping with toilet water. I look like a freak, not a hero.

  “But maybe that’s what you are.”

  I grimace. “Yeah. Had a rough night.”

  A mischievous gleam lights up her eyes, and she leans over the bar. “I don’t think I ever told you, but I bought a pair of red Converse after I started reading your comic.” She pouts gently, waiting for my reaction. “They’re the hottest thing in New York City right now.”

  I manage a smile and turn my head away. “Thanks.”

  She reaches out and claps me on the back. “Your sidekick’s waiting for you over there.”

  I find Niall at the end of the bar. He’s dressed in his usual gray latex get-up, the perfect mirror of his superhero future. No arch-nemesis, no superhero name, no fruitless goose chase to the ends of sanity. Yet.

  “Hey.”

  He turns around, and his eyes widen.

  “Whoa, man. He got you good.”

  “Yeah, let’s not talk about that.”

  I drag a chair out and collapse in it.

  Niall scoots to the side to make room for me. “You okay?”

  I rest both my elbows on the counter and exhale deeply. Sometimes I’m thankful I have Niall—that he’s young and unbroken, still waiting to meet the costumed motherfucker who will screw him over in ten years. Give or take. “I’m fine.”

  Ryvie sets a mug of coffee down in front of me. The tips of her fingers linger at my wrist for an extra second.

  “So, who’s it from?” I ask Niall. “The message you were all excited about.”

  He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a crumpled envelope. There’s a name scrawled over the top in red marker—one that I haven’t seen in years. “Here. You better take a look at it. I found it on the doormat when I got home from school.”

  I run my thumb over the name on the label.

  Elliot Fox.

  “How’d you know it was for me?”

  Niall shrugs. “When people give me things, they’re always for you.” He pauses. “So, was that you? From…before? Elliot Fox?”

  I turn the envelope over. There’s no point in lying to him. “Yeah. It was.”

  There aren’t many people who know about this name. I thought I’d buried it away, never to see it again.

  But apparently I’m wrong.

  I flic
k the automatic knife open and slit the envelope. A single sheet of paper falls out.

  It’s the last page of a comic book, displaying a single panel where a villain in hospital scrubs dangles off the edge of a tall skyscraper in the middle of a hailstorm. A superhero in red sneakers stands over him with his arms folded over his chest.

  “Issue Twelve,” Niall says. He’d remember because that’s the issue he made his debut as my sidekick.

  Underneath the panels, there’s a photograph of a dark-haired young woman posing under a tree, and a three-lined biography about the author.

  “You think it’s from the Surgeon?” Niall asks.

  “Who else would it be from?”

  Niall shrugs. “Why would he send you the last page of a comic book where you have him dangling by the feet over the edge of the Empire State Building?”

  I turn the page over, searching for a hidden message of some sort. “I have no fucking clue. Maybe as a joke?”

  For some reason I have the odd intuition that someone is watching us. I turn around, and Niall jumps.

  “What?”

  “Nothing.” I crumple the page up and stuff it down my pocket. “But it’s late, Niall. I should get home and take care of all this.” I gesture at my face.

  “You sure you’re going to be all right?” he asks. The steam from the coffee makes his face waver in and out of focus.

  “What makes you think I’m not?”

  Niall doesn’t get up. “Um, hey Red?”

  “What?”

  “I know it’s been rough recently, but there’s something you’ve gotta remember. It’s something you told me.”

  I adjust the knot of my tie. “Yeah? What’s that?”

  He draws himself up straighter, and for a second, I can’t help it—I’m reminded of myself, ten years ago. “To remember what it means to be a hero. We don’t do things for pay, or publicity, or girls. We do them because we want the world to be a better place. You told me that as long as I didn’t forget that, I could do great things.” His expression turns solemn. “You can’t forget either.”

  A moment of silence falls between us.

  “Thanks, Niall.” I clap my hand on his shoulder, trying to shut out memories of the old days, when every step I took held conviction and not the worn-out tiredness of the present. “I’m glad you remember that. Take care, okay?”