Dominion

by Greg F. Gifune

  Natalie lay motionless on the floor, her features mangled and covered in blood. One hand still clutched the comb she’d been using to style her hair with earlier. She looked pulverized and battered but intact, as if she’d been destroyed then hastily reconstructed. One eye was swollen shut. The other blinked spasmodically, then shifted and locked on him.

  He brought the handsaw to rest against her throat. She attempted to say something, but could only manage a gurgling wheeze.

  “I could tell you it’s going to be all right,” he said. “But it’s not. Nothing’s ever going to be all right again.”

  With his free hand, he gently peeled her fingers back and away from the comb so he could take it from her. He held it upside down, laying the teeth in his palm then closing his fist over it so the long, pencil-thin handle protruded from his hand like the business end of an ice pick. “You’ve still got one good eye. Here, let me help you with that.”

  Smiling, he stabbed the pointed end down into her eye again and again.

  Natalie stirred a bit, and a soft moan escaped her, but she was in little shape to do much else.

  Once satisfied with the soupy consistency of the eyeball, Russell tossed the comb aside and again focused his attention on the saw, which still rested against her throat. “You don’t want to see Hell coming, believe me.” He could no longer be certain she was still conscious, so he leaned in close and whispered, “Everything you’ve always heard about, it’s true.”

  Something similar to the buzzing of bees rang in his ears.

  Upstairs, though the computer had been shut down long before, the tiny light on the hard drive began to blink rapidly.

  And from deep within the void of cyberspace, someone screamed.

  TWO

  When he remembered her, it was often in darkness. Like ink dropped to water, he saw her as a swirling liquid entity, blurred and fluid and always draped in shadow, as if she’d never existed anywhere but outside the light.

  And in darkness, nothing is ever quite as it should be.

  He knew, for example, that Lindsay had auburn hair and brown eyes. Yet in his memories now, her eyes were outrageously bright and her hair was fire-red, like some overblown caricature conjured in the imagination of a street artist for hire.

  It reminded him of a specific day while on their honeymoon, all those years before, when they had been strolling through a courtyard near their hotel just outside Disney World. Just such a street artist had caught her attention, an older man rendering sketches of passersby, mostly couples and children. Excitedly, the way Lindsay had been in those days—so effervescent and often captivated by things shamelessly mundane—she’d insisted they pose together right then and there.

  “When we’re old we can pull it out and look at it,” she’d giggled, tugging at Daniel’s arm. “Come on, it’ll be fun.”

  Thinking back on it, Daniel wondered what had ever happened to that sketch.

  Lindsay had it framed once they returned home, and although it adorned the wall space above his bureau for some time, he hadn’t seen it in years.

  Like her, and their life together, it was gone.

  Her death still didn’t seem possible. There was something inherently wrong about it—unnatural—the way a parent outliving a child was unnatural and obscene. He had always assumed they would grow old together and that one day he would die, leaving Lindsay to face her remaining years without him. She was supposed to survive him, not the other way around. Despite all that had happened, he still believed that’s how it should have played out, how it was meant to be. Lindsay’s death was no predetermined cosmic destiny; it was Man forcing fate, and in the process, perverting the natural course of things.

  Daniel poured some coffee into his favorite mug—one Lindsay had given him on some distant Valentine’s Day—a bright red number covered in white hearts. It had come wrapped in shiny plastic and filled with little chocolates, along with a card. The card, he remembered, was a straightforward affair, as her cards always were. The cover was a reproduction of a dated black and white photograph from perhaps the early 1900s: a man and woman in a rowboat lazily gliding across a beautiful lake. Inside, there was no prefabricated signature line. Instead, she had simply written: Love you always—L.

  He turned from the counter and walked slowly to the front of the apartment—the living room—and stood before the French doors overlooking the patio, small garden and the quiet street beyond. He stood in the center, as he always did, so he could see clearly between the lace curtains Lindsay had hung there so long ago. He looked at nothing in particular, because regardless of what he tried to focus on all he ever really saw was Lindsay.

  Everything was still her. His mug, the curtains, every pillow and piece of furniture, his slippers and robe—more gifts presented over the years—her mark remained everywhere he looked, and everywhere he didn’t. He could still sometimes smell her on certain things—pieces of laundry or when he opened their bedroom closet and a wisp of lingering cologne slipped free. She was inescapable.

  On particularly difficult nights he’d walk the streets of Boston for hours, thinking, going over the same memories again and again, as if hoping to find something new, something he’d missed previously. Then, ex-hausted, he’d return to their brownstone in a quiet section of the Back Bay, and undress in the moonlight, awash in the utter silence of their bedroom. Nude, he would slip beneath the sheet and hold her pillow tight against him, like a lover. And when it seemed he’d cried so many tears he could never cry again, he’d hold the pillow and breathe deeply, his cheek against the soft case, lost in traces of Lindsay’s scent. Over time, along with the other numerous phobias he’d developed since her death, he became terrified that one night he might crawl into bed and her old pillow would lose its fragrance; that eventually time would steal even that from him too, and then all he’d have was his memories. Memories drenched in that awful, ever-growing darkness.

  On quiet nights, when he was able to keep the waves of anxiety under control, Daniel allowed himself to think about their history together. Despite the whirlwind of shadow, he remembered them in college, and the first time he’d spoken to her. In a yellow vintage dress and matching pumps, she’d looked like a vision from some earlier era, her makeup perfect and not too heavy; her long hair pinned up and styled like a 1940s poster girl. He’d never been so immediately mesmerized, and it was a feeling the magnitude of which he would never feel again for anyone else.

  The dress she wore that day revealed for the first time her figure and physical beauty—downplayed by her until that point beneath frumpy clothes and a demeanor so shy it rendered her nearly invisible. Daniel vaguely recalled her as having been in a few of his classes, and of occasionally passing her on campus, head bowed and books held tight against her chest as if fearful she might drop them, but he’d known nothing about her, not even her name. Lindsay had gone virtually unnoticed for their first two years at school, and then suddenly, there she was. Daniel wondered why she had worn the dress that day in particular. Why that day instead of all the others? Who had she hoped to attract, him, someone else, or no one at all? Perhaps it was sexist and presumptuous to think she’d worn it for anyone but herself.

  But in 1993, in college, no one dressed like that. Some surely laughed behind her back—and some right to her face—thinking her appearance silly, as if she’d been in costume. But to Daniel, she was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, and he could not take his eyes from her. Although several boys took notice and attempted to speak with her, she dismissed them the way they had dismissed her so many times in the past, and instead went out of her way to make eye contact with Daniel.

  “You look amazing,” were the first words he ever said to her, and though he’d been instantly embarrassed, he couldn’t have prevented himself from saying them even had he wanted to.

  “Thanks,” she said softly, her light skin flushed.

  Years later, after graduation and nearly a decade of marriage, Lindsay could still f
it into that dress, had she wanted to. A size seven until the day she died, she maintained her figure and youthful looks, her vibrancy. Despite it all, she looked like she hadn’t a worry in the world.

  Though that episode would forever hold a place in Daniel’s heart, in retrospect he’d grown to feel somewhat ashamed of himself as well. How could he have overlooked such an amazing person? How could he have not noticed the woman behind the flash of that flamboyant yellow dress until then? Why had he only noticed her then, like a dim-witted child fascinated by some shiny trinket? Why hadn’t he been more sophisticated even as a young college student to see her? She’d been there all along, he’d just never bothered to look. Time lost, never regained. But Daniel could not have known then just how precious their time together would be.

  Daniel sipped his coffee and wandered back into the kitchen, his memories dissolving and floating away like so much pollen on the breeze. The idea of eating just then repulsed him, so he passed on breakfast and instead stood next to the kitchen table with mug in hand and studied the pattern on the tile floor, hopeful it might distract him from the static filling his head. He needed his memories, and feared he might lose them to the darkness, but he could only take them in small doses. Otherwise he might crumble to nothing and die.

  There were days he wondered if that would be such a bad thing.

  If there were another side then surely he’d see her there, wouldn’t he?

  Daniel could no longer be certain. His confidence and clarity, once unshakable, had left him the moment his wife had. The day Lindsay died she took those things with her, those things and so much else.

  And he missed them all, each and every one.

  THREE

  Daniel made the drive to his office—or what had been his office—like he had every other day since Lindsay’s death, in a perpetual state of numbness while remembering their life together. On this day he remembered their last morning, just before things began to unravel. That day replayed in his exhausted mind like the aging film it had become, something he’d seen countless times and had since memorized, coming to him even when he wished it wouldn’t.

  Summer, he remembered it was summer—early July—and Boston was in the midst of a terrible heat wave. Oppressive humidity thickened the air that day, as it had the four previous days, beginning in the early morning hours and blurring the boundaries between control and chaos. It was the kind of heat that promoted the possibility of people cracking under the pressure and doing something violent or totally out of character as not only probable, but perhaps under the right conditions, even reasonable.

  “Well, good morning Sunshine.” Lindsay stood near the bureau at the foot of the bed, hips cocked, one hand on her waist and a familiar expression on her otherwise pretty face. “You’re so cute when you first wake up. You look like a little kid.”

  “Just thinking,” Daniel said softly, his throat parched and already craving nicotine.

  She stared at him as if expecting more. “Got any cash?”

  “Check my wallet. It’s in my suit jacket on the—”

  “Already did.”

  “Then you’re out of luck.”

  “No problem.” She gazed into the mirror over the bureau and fluffed her hair. “If I leave now I can swing by the ATM before work.”

  Daniel struggled into a sitting position and peeled the sheet from his back. The rotating blade on the ceiling fan hummed quietly.

  Lindsay sighed, focused on her reflection. “You think I should cut my hair? Go shorter, maybe? I’ve been thinking maybe I should.”

  He swung his feet around onto the floor and reached for his cigarettes. “Why?”

  “I’m not in my twenties anymore,” she said. “Maybe it’s time to go with something a little more mature.”

  “Don’t worry. You’re still a few years away from the football helmet.”

  She turned and smiled at him, the usual glint in those brown eyes and a negligible smirk along her lips, as if she was recalling an old joke, possibly one aimed at him.

  Daniel pawed sleep from his eyes, listened to his chest wheeze and promised himself this would be the day he quit smoking. Lindsay posed for the mirror and his eyes joined her there, scanning her petite figure. A white cotton pullover jersey was stretched snugly across her breasts, and a black skirt, black pantyhose and black pumps rounded out the ensemble, but his eyes quickly returned to her chest. Through the thin fabric and the lacy bra beneath, the outline of her nipples were clearly visible, two bright pink quarters for the entire world to see.

  “What? Why are you staring at my boobs?”

  “The shirt’s a little thin.”

  She looked at herself in the mirror again then spun around and gave a half-hearted laugh. “Oh, Danny, please. What am I supposed to do? I have a bra on, for God’s sake. It’s a sheer blouse and sorry, but I do have nipples.”

  “You certainly do.”

  “Shut up, you’re giving me a complex.”

  “Don’t get me wrong,” he said, smiling devilishly, “they look great, but you’re not leaving a whole lot to the imagination.”

  Lindsay waved her hands, shooing him away. “Don’t forget, I’ve got a meeting tonight so I’ll be a little late. Order some takeout. How about Chinese? We haven’t had that in a while. Get me something I can heat up when I get home, OK?”

  “Yeah, I’ll hit China Delight after work. Try not to be too late.”

  “I shouldn’t be much later than nine-thirty or ten. See you later.”

  Daniel lit a cigarette and hacked out the first drag of the day. “I love you.”

  “I love you back, baby. Please quit smoking, it’s disgusting.”

  “I’m working on it.”

  “Have a good day.” Lindsay leaned in, kissed him and was gone, leaving behind a trace of perfume, car keys jingling as she hurried down the hallway.

  Daniel scratched himself through his boxer shorts and walked to the double windows on the far wall. Pulling back the curtain, he saw her cross the street to her car, sunglasses in place and enough jiggle in her stride to draw the attention of three sanitation workers emptying trash at the end of the block. The morning sun was still low in the sky and burned dully amidst a bevy of gray clouds and a distant symphony of chirping birds. Through the window screens he heard the garbage men hoot and holler at his wife. They continued even after she’d gotten into her car and started off down the block.

  “Unbelievable,” he muttered.

  Lindsay’s reaction had seemed guarded at best, and for a brief moment Daniel entertained the notion that it was because she knew he’d been watching. He’d have guessed her reaction to be one of embarrassment or discomfort, but she seemed somewhat oblivious instead. Maybe she was used to it.

  Sweat trickled across his chest and settled in his navel as the men resumed their duties and laughed like a locker room full of junior high school boys. Daniel focused instead on the caress of the sun, and quietly finished his cigarette.

  Their apartment was in a brownstone in Boston’s Back Bay, approximately ten minutes from the radio station where he’d been sales manager for nearly a decade.

  Five months later, only a few days before Thanksgiving, as the replay of that July day faded away, he found himself sitting in the station parking lot. The radio station—one of the largest in the Boston area—in many ways at first glance more closely resembled an office building. This was, of course, fitting, since the largest part of the station consisted of office space rather than studios. Though the building had been constructed at some point in the 1970s, unlike much of the architectural landscape in the area, it had a cold, impersonal and nearly sterile look to it. For so long this place had been an enormous part of his life and daily existence, but since Lindsay’s death he could think of nothing less trivial. Some moronic Top 40 station playing pop tunes sandwiched between inane ads and trendy public service announcements. How could any of it have ever meant anything to him? Then again, nothing mattered these days. Not his c
areer, not his life, not his future.

  The waves of heat rising from the pavement that day months before had been replaced with a cold howling wind. Christmas lights were already blinking in most of the stores in the nearby retail district, as retailers prepared for the day after Thanksgiving, which was traditionally the busiest sales day of the year. Daniel loved the holidays. Had loved them, he corrected himself. Even after the passage of time, he was still learning to speak of many things in past tense. Now he dreaded the thought of Christmas without Lindsay. It seemed impossible and profane, something ruined, tossed into a dark void like everything else left in the wake of her death.

  Four months after he’d lost Lindsay he’d been fired from his job. It had been a little over a month ago now, since October, but he still forced himself to make the drive to the station every day anyway. He knew it was a peculiar practice, and something he shouldn’t have been doing, but there was a strange comfort in the routine of it all he’d had trouble relinquishing. And besides, he reasoned, it wasn’t hurting anyone.

  On the day he’d been fired, Daniel arrived at work to find the station owner, Jack Karnakian, waiting for him. Just over five feet and weighing perhaps one hundred and thirty pounds or so, Karnakian was neither a large nor imposing figure. The most arresting thing about him was the size of his head. Too large for such a small body, it sat atop his tiny frame at a slight angle, as if the sheer weight of it was too great for him to hold erect. With his dull brown eyes, manicured nails, salt and pepper hair closely cropped in a near buzz-cut and a full but precisely trimmed beard, he was the epitome of neatness and order. His outfit on that day was typical for him: a tweed jacket, an open-collared but pressed sports shirt, khakis and calfskin loafers. Though Karnakian was as well-spoken as he was well-dressed, the volume of his voice was often so low it required one’s undivided attention. Each word was carefully chosen and articulately expressed in a strange cadence that led one to believe he’d previously rehearsed every sentence. His voice was deep, velvety and reminiscent of someone conducting a relaxation seminar, but he seldom looked people in the eye when he spoke to them. Instead, he preferred to gaze beyond them, as if something far more compelling resided just over their shoulder.