Suicide Club

by Rachel Heng

  She thought of Ambrose. Of Anja’s mother, of Anja. Of Kaito. Lea felt a heaviness in her lower back, as if the weight of all their problems, all their pain, had crept into her body, wrapped itself around the base of her spine, settled there. Calcified, anchored, immovable.

  Lea began to walk home. Anja’s mother hadn’t repulsed her, strangely. She’d been more shocked by the size of the room, the filthy window, the cobwebbed ceiling and dark corners. A contrast with the Club’s private dining and lavish parties.

  But toward Anja’s mother herself, Lea had only felt a pull of curiosity. She wanted to peer into the mechanical workings of that body, to see where the whirrings came from, how tissue welded to silicone, to feel the viscosity of the dark SmartBloodTM that ran through her veins. The same fluid ran through her own, Lea realized with a jolt. She brought a hand to her neck, felt the push of it against the soft hollow under her jaw and imagined the color, the same thick brown that she’d seen in Anja’s mother today.

  If it were Kaito lying there, what would she do? Lea pushed the thought out of her head. It was ridiculous; it would never happen. Not with her around. Not with what she was planning to do, now that she had GK on her side. She would make the Third Wave and then she’d ensure that Kaito would make it too.

  Lea would fix it.

  When she got home, Lea fell into bed, fully clothed. The fatigue weighed on her, and she felt heavy, more tired than she had ever been. Sliding her legs under the covers, she closed her eyes with the light still on, falling almost immediately into a deep, dreamless sleep.

  * * *

  Lea awoke slowly the next morning. Despite still being in her clothes from yesterday and not having brushed her teeth last night, she felt surprisingly fresh, as if a great weight had been lifted. But then she saw Ambrose’s eyes, opaque as the night sky, unblinking, unwavering, and it all came back to her.

  She sat on the edge of her bed. The weight at the base of her spine had spread to her abdomen, and she could tell it was spreading still.

  In the bathroom, she stepped slowly out of her clothes, letting each article drop to the cold marble floor. She would pick it up later, she thought, mentally adding this to the list of things she had to do after breakfast.

  As she went to run the bath, something made her turn toward the mirror. She stopped, straightened up, and squared her shoulders. Her stomach and her glutes clenched, her hips tilted, and her neck lengthened. Still, there was no missing it. Lea saw the way her abdomen and her breasts sagged. She spotted a crease at the base of her neck, and a faint liver spot on her left bicep. A bulging vein crossed the front of one of her shins, a wrinkled worm under the skin.

  She drew a finger over the vein, tracing the dark green length of it. When she reached her knee, she started over, harder this time. And then again, with her fingernail. It didn’t draw blood, but the smarting felt good.

  Lea stepped into the bath. The water was so hot that her limbs felt like they’d been flayed. She pinched her nose between finger and thumb and slowly dunked her head as well. The heat entered her ears and made her head pound.

  She took her time, carefully exfoliating with the loofah that she rarely had the time to use. She scrubbed herself till her skin was red and soft. She imagined scrubbing the vein on her shin away, scrubbing the bulge of her stomach flat. When she was done, she unplugged the bath. It made a loud, gasping noise, the sound of a person drowning. Lea rinsed herself off in ice-cold water, feeling her pores expand and contract, relishing the numb burn that made it feel like she were wearing armor.

  Toweling herself dry, she looked at herself in the mirror again. The vein was still there, as were the liver spot and the soft middle. The image of Anja’s mother flashed into her mind suddenly, the raw, translucent length of her.

  * * *

  She would put the furniture back where it belonged, she thought. The sofa legs screeched against the polished floors, and when she looked down she saw a long white scratch across the wooden boards. Lea kicked the sofa leg with the ball of her foot, careful to curl her toes up, but it still hurt.

  “Lea?” A muffled voice. Then a knock at the front door.

  Lea glared at the door. She hobbled over and looked through the peephole.

  A large bouquet of white flowers, peonies or garden roses of some kind, nearly obscured his face. But as he shifted, she saw that it was Todd, dressed in a neat blue shirt and a maroon bow tie, the same bow tie he’d worn at her birthday party not that long ago.

  She let the peephole shutter fall.

  “What do you want, Todd?” she called back through the door.

  “I just want to talk,” he said. “Can I come in?”

  Lea wondered if it was a trap, if Ministry men in white coats were standing just around the corner, waiting to put her into a straitjacket as she came out. She wondered how much Todd had told them about the last time she saw him. Todd was a coward. He wouldn’t come back here alone, like this, after what had happened.

  “I don’t think we have anything to talk about,” she said, walking back to where the sofa lay askew. She picked up one end of it again. It sagged in her hands. It seemed heavier than before.

  “Please, Lea,” he said. “I want to apologize.”

  He wanted to apologize. Lea’s lip lifted, baring her upper teeth. She dropped the sofa again. Now this she had to hear.

  Lea marched back to the door and opened it with the chain still on.

  “Are you alone?” she said through the crack.

  Todd lowered the flowers. His face was meek and tan, as chiseled and square-jawed as she remembered him. Better than she remembered him. Lea felt a tightening in her abdomen.

  “Of course I’m alone,” he said, frowning. “Who would be with me?”

  Lea studied his face for a moment. He was wearing his best childlike expression, eyes unblinking and lips pushed out ever so slightly, glossy with spit.

  She shut the door again, unlatched and opened it. Taking half a step out into the hallway, she looked left and right. It was empty. Finally she looked back at Todd.

  Annoyingly, he seemed broader than before, more defined in the deltoids and lighter around the hips. He had grown out his facial hair ever so slightly, so that his jaw was now covered in even blond fuzz, like neat grass on a rich person’s lawn. Lea felt the same tug in the pit of her stomach, and she folded her arms.

  Perhaps she would have sex with him, she thought suddenly, in the hallway, there and then. She took a half step toward him, and inhaled the soapy, boyish smell of him. She would push him to the floor and sit on his face. Todd stepped back and thrust the flowers forward. Lea sighed. She took them from him and dropped them on the floor behind her.

  “So, tell me,” she said. “You’re sorry.” She placed the tips of her fingers on Todd’s hard chest.

  “Lea,” he said. “It’s good to see you. You look—” He paused. She saw him take in her tired skin, her limp, wet hair. His face softened into something that looked like pity.

  Lea let one hand drop to his left nipple, the other to his groin. She felt Todd jump and stiffen, felt a tremble run through him.

  “Go on,” she said. “Tell me what you’re sorry for.” Lea felt a predatory urge rise up in her chest. The frustration of the past weeks sharpened to a point. She tightened her grip and smiled as Todd winced. He was hard now, despite the discomfort on his face. She noticed that the maroon bow tie he was wearing was covered in tiny pink dots.

  “I’m sorry for reporting on you,” he said, his voice uneven, the rhythm of his words unnaturally quick. “I thought—I thought I was helping.”

  “Really,” Lea said, unbuckling his belt now. Todd moved to stop her, but she kept going.

  “Lea,” he said, “what are you doing? I came to talk.”

  “Then talk.” She pulled his cock out. It was in that confused, semi-aroused state, as if held up by an invisible string at its tip.

  “Lea,” Todd said. His cheeks were red, his eyes blinking rapidly. Su
ch pretty eyelashes, Lea thought. Todd’s breath quickened and he flushed even deeper. Was he going to cry?

  He didn’t try to stop her after that. Lea pulled him into the apartment, closing the door behind him.

  They did it on the floor, her on top, him meek and pliable. She almost forgot all of it, Anja and her mother and the Club, as she clasped Todd’s rough cheeks between her thighs, bore down on his soft mouth. Sitting on him like that she could break his neck, she thought to herself absently. Lea admired the obedient hard knot of his body bucking beneath her legs. Despite his faults, he was an undeniably beautiful man, she thought.

  When they finished she pulled herself onto his stomach and sat straddling him.

  “So do you forgive me?” he said, in such a small voice that it almost made her feel guilty. But then she remembered the same look on his face when she found out he’d been reporting on her, and she stayed silent.

  “I was saying,” he said. “You didn’t let me finish. But I thought I was helping. I only realized what I’d done, really, yesterday, when they told me.”

  Lea stiffened. “Told you what? Who?” she said.

  Todd turned his head to the side and spoke quietly, almost under his breath. A lock of curly blond hair fell over his right eye. “I’m not supposed to tell anyone, not until it’s all publicly announced. But they’ve started notifying people already.”

  Her hands turned cold.

  “It’s the Third Wave, Lea. Who knew it would be so soon? But they say it’s real. And we’re to be among the first.” There was a quiet wonder in his voice, a seriousness that she hadn’t heard before. Suddenly Todd sounded much older, and much more tired.

  Lea pressed one hand onto his chest.

  “What do you mean?” she said. “What do you mean we’re to be the first?”

  Todd turned his face back up to look at her.

  “I’m sorry, I meant ‘we’ as in—I’m sorry,” he stumbled. “I was notified, you see,” he tried again. “And I realized, well, maybe you were too. Were you, Lea?” He searched her face, but the pity in his eyes told her that he already knew. He’d guessed, or he’d asked, or somehow he’d found out.

  Lea leaned into his face, until her nose was just inches away from his. She placed her hands around his neck and felt how thick and solid it was, but how warm. She imagined the color of the SmartBloodTM within.

  She squeezed his neck a little, felt him start to panic underneath her.

  “Lea,” he said, eyes widening. She kept squeezing, just gently, just playing.

  “Lea!” he shouted, bucking his hips and throwing her off to the side.

  Lea tumbled to the cold floor. Her elbow exploded in a burst of pain.

  Todd was standing over her now.

  “Jesus Christ, Lea. What’s wrong with you?” He rubbed the back of his neck and stretched out an arm. “I’m sorry,” he said, suddenly contrite again. “Did I hurt you? I’m sorry.”

  Lea grabbed her elbow and tried to straighten her arm. It wouldn’t move.

  “Come on, Lea,” Todd said. “I came to say maybe we can fix it together. Now that I’ve been notified. Maybe I can put in a good word for you.”

  Maybe they could fix it together. Maybe they could. She thought of the footage of Ambrose’s death, of her conversation with Anja, sitting in the tiny memory card of the buttonhole camera, yet to be sent to GK. What was she waiting for? Why hadn’t she sent it yet, exonerated herself, gone back to normal? Todd could move back in. She could go back to work.

  But as Lea stared into Todd’s perfect, golden eyes, she realized she didn’t want to. That was why. Her old life seemed like a distant reality, a hollow one, laughably so. She could not imagine being back in her office, sitting behind her desk, talking to moneyed clients about wealth that was enough to last several lifetimes that they would not have. She could not imagine carrying on with Todd, going to vitamin-spritz-filled parties, gossiping about whose physical trainer had slept with whose client, whispering about each others’ numbers in hushed tones behind cupped hands.

  What did she want, then?

  The answer came in a rush.

  “I have to go,” she said to Todd.

  “Where?” His immediate look of suspicion didn’t bother her now. It didn’t matter what Todd thought; it didn’t matter what any of them thought.

  She stood up and began to dress. When she was done, she grabbed her purse and looked around at her apartment. Suddenly she felt an odd sense of loss, as if she would never see it again. But even then she felt the knot in her abdomen lifting, felt a strange, free, reckless tickle in her throat.

  “Where are you going, Lea?” Todd said again, still lying on the floor.

  “Bye, Todd,” Lea said. Not waiting for an answer, she closed the door behind her.

  THIRTY-THREE

  The flowers were beginning to wilt. Huge bulbous peonies in violent corals and heavy white roses strained to open, their thick petals peeling backward obscenely, revealing powdery orange centers. Slumping over in their crystal vases, naked stems starting to give under the weight. The balloons were sinking, too, helium leaking into the dense cloud of human breath. While there were so many that the ceiling was still filled, some floated at half mast, their tasseled tails trailing along the floor.

  The other children were fidgeting, casting sulky gazes toward the cake. Parents stroked silky heads, cooed into small ears. Just a little longer, they whispered. Be good. Lea felt they were all looking at her surreptitiously—first at her, then at her mother, who fluttered about dispensing vegetable punch and good humor, smoothing tantrums and assuaging concerns.

  Her mother was behind her. Lea knew from the smell—a sharp, summery perfume, but also the salty sweet undertone of her body, a smell so indistinguishable from Lea herself that she could not tell if it was pleasant or unpleasant.

  “Lea,” her mother said, kneeling down next to her.

  She looked into her mother’s face, tried to find comfort in the golden warmth of it, the dark eyes and full walnut lips. But it wasn’t enough; it was never enough. She couldn’t sink into her mother, couldn’t bury her face in her shoulder. Her mother was too strong, too solid, too tightly held. There was no opening for Lea, and she dropped her eyes again. She knew what her mother was going to say.

  “He’s not going to make it, Lea,” her mother said. “His flight must have been delayed.” She turned to Samuel, who stood at her side. “Tell her, Samuel.”

  Samuel repeated after his mother. “I don’t think he’s going to make it, Lea.”

  He’s not going to make it. At those familiar words Lea felt something inside her squeeze, a heat gathering behind her eyes. But she was conscious of the awkwardness hanging in the air, the looks and whispers of the friends and classmates who still sat scattered about their living room, hours after the last games had been played and the vegetable punch was all gone. The sun slanted down in the sky, disappearing into an orange squint between the blinds.

  Her legs felt heavy, but she let herself be brought to her feet. A rustle seemed to go through the lethargic room, the guests looking up, alert.

  “Time to cut the cake!” her mother said firmly, less to the guests than to Lea.

  A ripple of excitement ran through the crowd. Children got to their feet, abandoning streamers and toys, mothers brushed hair from their eyes, and fathers cleared their throats. They all gathered around the pedestal where the cake stood in the middle of the room.

  Even as she allowed herself to be steered in front of the cake, as a pink plastic knife was pressed into her small hands, Lea never took her eyes off the front door.

  He said he would make it this time. He promised.

  But the doorframe, adorned with a rainbow balloon arch, stayed empty. He’s not going to make it.

  “Time to cut the cake!” her mother said again. Under the brightness, Lea could hear the warning, the edge to her mother’s voice that always compelled her. Then her mother’s hands were under her armpits, lifti
ng her up onto the high chair in front of the cake.

  Lea gripped the sticky plastic knife between both hands. She scanned the faces of the crowd in front of her. Maybe he was hiding in the crowd, waiting to surprise her. As if I would miss my favorite girl’s day. But he wasn’t there. She’d waited, she’d made everyone wait, and now the balloons were sinking and the ice was melting and they were going to cut the cake without him.

  “Happy birthday to you,” her mother started singing, still in that loud, bright voice. Samuel joined in, and then the rest of the guests too, an uneven chorus. “Happy birthday to you. Happy birthday to Leee-ee.”

  Even sitting in the high chair, the table still came up to her chest. The cake loomed over her, tall and white, the red of the flowers as garish as a clown’s lipstick.

  “Happy birthday to you.”

  Lea’s mother leaned in behind her, wrapping strong arms around her shoulders in a hug. But it wasn’t a hug; she was holding Lea’s hands too, guiding the knife toward the cake.

  Not yet. Lea looked up at the empty doorframe in panic. He wasn’t here yet. They couldn’t cut it without him.

  But the pink plastic blade was already starting to sink into the clean buttercream corner closest to her, her mother’s steady hands wrapped around her own small and sweaty ones. Everyone was clapping, the applause like firecrackers going off. It hurt her ears.

  Lea tried to pull the knife back, but it was too late. They were through the ivory layer now, and she could see the dark chocolate sponge within. He wasn’t here yet. But now it was too late.

  She pressed the knife harder, more freely. It went through the thick sponge layer messy and jagged, crumbs spilling out of the cut, until the knife hit the hard surface of the pedestal.

  The clapping intensified. Lea’s mother took her hands off her, straightening up. “Thank you, everyone,” she said, satisfied. The party had been a success after all.

  But the guests weren’t looking at Uju. They were looking at Lea, who sat in the high chair, both hands still tightly gripping the handle of the plastic knife. The knife that she hacked into the cake again, making another cut parallel to the first, and again, this time swinging carelessly, going for the second perfect layer of the cake. She sank the plastic knife into the cake’s innards, so far in that her fingers were covered in soft buttercream.