I buy things: a chair, plates, knives and forks, a blowup mattress, and a blanket with a large, black crow on it. A coffee maker. During the day, I walk the streets, looking in store windows for HELP WANTED signs, and speaking to bums who assume I’m one of them. I take that as a bad sign and buy some new clothes, the type of things that may get me hired. I practice facial expressions in the small mirror in my bathroom. I smile, laugh politely, and keep my voice even and demure. I try to be the type of person someone would want to hire.
And, then, on an unusually sunny day, I am eating a small lunch of salad and soup at an all night diner in Capitol Hill, when the manager jokingly asks if I am looking for a job.
The diner is called Myrrh, and serves everything from waffles to crab legs. They let me work the graveyard shift because I am one of the few who is willing to do it. I start my shift at nine when the dinner crowd is thinning, and the servers who have worked all day are moody and short tempered, eager to go home for the night. I help them wrap their silverware in napkins, and sweep their sections, just as eager to see them gone. There is another girl who works the late shift. A pretty Asian girl named Kady Flowers. She keeps to herself, and so do I. We work together seamlessly, communicating with painfully short sentences: Refills for table five. Ran your food for twenty-three. Taking bathroom break. It works well for both of us. I sometimes wonder what Kady is hiding. Did she kill someone, too, or did someone kill her?
My shift ends at five, right as the sun is coming up. There is something both deeply demeaning and deeply satisfying about waiting tables. The jostling in the dining room, the blank-eyed stares that make you feel like an intruder when you’re just refilling a water glass, the yelled-out orders, minus the thank you. You are just a face, a nametag. It gives me the anonymity that I need, and an emptiness that I perhaps deserve. Mornings, when my shift ends, I walk to my tiny apartment and make myself tea with bags I steal from Myrrh. I sit at the window and think about Judah, and Nevaeh, and Little Mo. I think about my mother too—the way she used to be when she loved me. I am bone deep lonely.
When I have lived my new life for six months, I fill out the application and have my transcripts sent to University of Washington. I start with two classes a semester: Psychology 101, Comparative Animal Behavior, and then Behavior Disorders, and Human Development. I ask plenty of questions in class, my hand shooting up twice as much as any of the other students. My professors favor me, as they mistake my self-exploration as a hunger for the business. They think I’ll go far. They suggest master’s programs, they offer to write letters of recommendation, and invite me to sit in on their other, more advanced classes. I play along, because who knows?
I take long walks, and eventually long runs. Before, when I lived in the Bone, I lost weight. Now, I build muscle. It juts out of my body in hard, ugly cords. When I look in the mirror, I can almost see what I’m made of—the tightly pulled muscle, the bone, the marrow that Judah so often spoke about. There are days when I miss the Bone, and that is when I think about my marrow the most—the who I am, the what I am. You can leave, but it never leaves you.
I write letters to Judah, but he seldom writes back, and when he does, it’s just a page of scrawled words I have to work hard to decipher. He’s busy with class … life. I get it. So am I, right?
I sleep little—four hours a day, or night, depending on my work schedule. My eyes resemble darkly bruised moons. I often catch Kady looking at me strangely, like she’s wondering the same thing I wonder about her. One night she slips a tube of something into my hand and then walks away. When I go into the bathroom to examine it, I find that she has given me under eye concealer. Something to wipe away the look of exhaustion. I use it, and it makes a difference. I feel less dead. My customers must think so too, because I get better tips. After a few more weeks, Kady slips a tube of lipstick into my apron pocket. I put it on in the bathroom. It makes me look … alive. When the lipstick and the eye concealer run out, I ask Kady where to buy more. It’s the longest conversation we’ve ever had.
“Where can I buy the makeup you brought me? I couldn’t find it at the pharmacy.”
“I’ll bring you more … my mother sells it.”
Kady Flowers becomes my makeup dealer; concealer and lipstick first, then blush and mascara. She will not let me pay for anything; instead, she lets me roll her share of the silverware. When she suggests one night that I let her cut my hair, I shake my head. “I’ve never cut it,” I say. Her look is one of such grave disappointment that I immediately agree to have her come to my flat the next day. She arrives on what happens to be my twenty-first birthday with a little black backpack in her hand that makes her look like an old fashioned doctor. She takes a cursory look around my four hundred square feet, before setting me in front of the window in my only chair, and pulling out a sequined pouch that holds her tools.
“I go to the beauty school in the city,” she says quietly. “Just in case you’re wondering if I know what I’m doing.” I hadn’t wondered, of course. If someone wants to cut my hair, who am I to stand in their way?
“Is that why you work nights?” I ask.
Kady nods, then says, “You take classes. At UW.”
When I look at her with question in my eyes, she rushes on, “I saw you there once. While I was visiting a friend. You were coming out of a lecture hall I think.”
We are both quiet for a while, soaking in these new details. Kady is touching my hair, lifting it in places like she’s sizing it up.
“Take it all off,” I say suddenly. “As short as you like.” I suddenly feel emboldened by my twenty-one years. The fact that I made it this long without anyone helping me. I might as well have new hair to go with my new face and body. I’ve been here a year, in this city, in this culture.
I close my eyes.
I am not the Margo of the Bone. I am a new, tightly shaped Margo of Seattle, my white lashes painted dark like spider legs, and my iridescent skin blushed. I wonder if my mother would still find me ugly if she saw me now. I should look like a boy with my short hair, but the makeup softens me. Makes me feel tough and feminine all at the same time.
EARLY ONE MORNING, as the fog rushes in from the Sound, I am walking home from work an hour earlier than usual since the restaurant was dead, when I spot a scuffle down an alley. I linger along the street, wondering if I should do something. There is no one around to call to for help. Sometimes there are fights among the homeless—a strong possibility right now. It’s four in the morning; the late night drinkers have long stumbled home, and the working class has not yet risen. I strain to see the struggle, my breath fogging the air around me. I am cold. I want to wash the restaurant off my skin and crawl into bed. I should leave them to it, and I’m about to when I hear a woman’s scream. Short, like it was cut off before it could gain volume.
I start down the alley, my hesitation trimmed away by the sharp cry for help. I run on my toes—long, quiet strides. He doesn’t hear when I approach from behind, his back to me. A strong, broad man in a leather jacket. Pinned against the wall is a girl younger than I am. Her eyes are bleary and unfocused as she wriggles from side to side. Her attempts are futile. He is three times her size.
One hand is clamped over her mouth, the weight of his shoulder holding her against the wall, and, with his free hand, he is struggling with his pants, urging them down over his thick hips. I watch for a moment, my rage building. It’s a slow boil, but I let it climb—wanting the full force of my anger to be intact before I act.
In my mind I have already killed him. I’ve ripped him off her and slit his throat with the knife I keep strapped to my ankle. But I know I can’t kill him. There is a witness, there would be police, a long day answering questions, and eyes. I don’t want them to know I exist.
I have to be careful; he’s bigger than me. I wait until he’s slipped his pants lower. They hang mid-thigh. He’s taken the time to rip his belt free of the loops and toss it aside. I bend to retrieve it, grabbing one end and dragg
ing it toward me, never taking my eyes from his back. The girl has spotted me. Her eyes are on my face as I approach. I lift a finger to my lips, signaling her to be quiet. It just takes a second—my arms lifting, the belt around his neck. His yelp of surprise is cut short as I pull the belt tight.
“Run,” I say to the girl, before he pushes me backward. His pants restrict his movement, something I was counting on. I do not loosen my hold on the belt, but pull tighter as he repeatedly slams me into the wall. His fingers pull against the belt, but my boot finds leverage against a large metal dumpster, and I wedge it there and hold on tight. I can barely feel the brick bite into my skin, the adrenaline coating my nerves like a nice, rubber sealant. I manage to loop the belt. I hold it with one hand as I reach down for my knife. He almost knocks it from my hand, and, in the process, I slice open his thigh, which causes him to buck more wildly than before. I lose my grip on the belt, and he stumbles free, hissing and gasping for air. He uses his seconds to pull the belt from around his neck. I use my seconds to plow him into the wall, bending at my waist and rushing forward like I’d seen football players on television do. He hits me once, in the face, and I think I’m going to throw up from the pain. He grabs my arm and pulls it behind my back. I think he’s going to rip it from the socket when I swing my free hand up and slash with the knife at his cheek. He lets me go, and I clutch his face. I swing around and press the blade to the soft spot on his neck. His hands come up in surrender, though I know they won’t stay there. Another few seconds, and I’ll be in the weaker position. That’s the thing women don’t get; if you want to keep the upper hand, you have to act faster than they do. So I stab him. Press the blade through his skin until his blood warms my fingers. I didn’t intend to kill, but I did.
Three lives, I tell myself. I stumble back as he collapses into a pile at my feet. That’s when I see the girl. She ran, but not far enough. She waited to see what would happen, or perhaps she stayed to help. She doesn’t really look committed to any one thing, even her socks—which are pulled up over her tights—don’t match. We lock eyes, hers considerably less bleary than when I’d last looked into them.
“You killed him,” she said.
I wipe a hand across my forehead, unsure of what to do next.
“Who is he?” I ask.
She’s staring at the body, and I have to repeat my question.
“Who was he,” she corrects me. “He’s dead.”
She’s a little thing. Not even legal. I eye her too-sexy clothes: a leather mini skirt and a tight sweater, and want to change my question to ‘who are you?’ But we are running out of time. Things must be decided. My fingerprints are all over this man. She’s seen my face. We can’t just walk away anymore. Someone might have already seen or heard us and called the police.
“Jonas. I met him online,” she says, in a flat, bored voice. “He told me he was eighteen. We were meeting for the first time tonight. I even snuck out.” Her last sentence she says with surprise.
“How old are you?” I ask. If I can get her to go home now, maybe she’d never talk. I could wipe down the area…
“Sixteen.”
“What’s your name?”
“Mary,” she says.
“We have two choices, Mary,” I tell her. “We can call the police—”
“They’ll tell my parents,” she rushes. “They’ll be so pissed.” She wrings her hands, and I notice the smudge of mascara under her eyes.
I blink at her for a minute. “Well, yes, they’ll be angry. There’s a dead man at my feet, and he tried to rape you. They’ll probably be happy that you’re okay,” I add. I lick my lips. My skin is itching underneath my clothes. I just killed a man, and this girl saw me do it.
“What’s the other option?” Mary asks. Her nose is running. She does nothing to wipe it away. She’s in shock, I think.
“We walk in opposite directions, and we never talk about this again.”
She turns without a word and heads out of the alley, hugging her arms around herself. “Hey,” she calls. I glance over my shoulder. She’s walking backward. “Thank you.” And then she sprints out of the alley, her hair whipping the air around her.
I want to tell her to be smarter next time. To stay away from men who want to meet up with her in alleys. To definitely stop sneaking out of her parents’ house in the middle of the night. But she’s gone, and I just killed a man, his blood cooling on the tar at my feet. There will be fibers, I think. My DNA will be all over him: hair, skin, perhaps blood. Thank God for the rain. That’s the key right there: commit a crime in the rain, and your chances of remaining a free man or woman significantly goes up.
“Jonas, my ass,” I say, slipping my hood around my face. Try Peter Fennet. And he was thirty-one. Pervert. I pocket his ID and prop his body against the side of the dumpster and pull the cash out of his wallet. Eighty-six dollars. I slip his watch off his wrist too—make it look like a robbery. I’ll dump it in the Sound later, I think, slipping it in my pocket. I look down at the body one last time. I don’t feel a single thing. Strange. I crack my neck as I leave the alley. I have to stop fucking killing people.
I throw Peter the Pervert’s watch in the Sound later that day. There’s a little plop, and it sinks gracefully into the gray. I wait until I know for sure that it’s not going to resurface like a demon to haunt me, then I walk over to the market. I buy fruit and spiced orange tea, and make my way home—body aching. I am black and blue under my clothes; I look like abstract art. Peter the Pervert whipped me good. But not good enough. He is dead, and I am alive. I was just there at the right time to punish him, but anyone else would have done the same. I make tea and carry the mug to the bath where I soak in hot water until my fingers are puckered. I wonder if Mary will tell anyone. If she’ll think of that night and always wonder what would have happened if I hadn’t heard her scream. Or maybe she’s like my mother—a shut-down-and-don’t-think-about-it kind of girl. Either way, I doubt I’ll ever see her again. And I’m okay with that.
I pull my laptop from underneath my mattress. I am afraid of someone stealing it. I hide it in a different place every day, even though if someone really wanted to, they could ransack the apartment and find it tucked somewhere fairly obvious. I search the news to see if anyone has reported a murder in Seattle. I wonder how long it will take to identify Peter Fennet and notify his family. I wonder who found him propped against the dumpster.
And there it is, the headline: “Man’s body found near Pike Place Market.” Except it wasn’t really near Pike Place. The media just wants you to know there is a killer in Seattle. An ugly blonde girl from the Bone, I think. The article is boney, just the basics. An unidentified male found dead. Late twenties to mid-thirties. Stab wounds and signs of a scuffle. It ends with the typical urge for information from anyone who saw or heard anything.
I bite my nails and think of Mary. She didn’t know my name, but I bet she could pick me out of a lineup. It was stupid, impulsive. I could have fought with him and given her time to run off, then perhaps gotten away myself. Unscathed , no … but perhaps not being sought by the police. I put my laptop away and crawl into bed. I sleep, but I have nightmares of being chased by headless lions down long alleyways.
Around four PM, I wake up and brush my teeth. I eat an orange over the sink and check my computer again. There is nothing else about Peter the Pervert. Some of the tension leaves my chest.
I REMEMBER WHEN I FIRST MOVED TO THE CITY; I thought I was very different from the people around me. I told myself that I was the one pretending to fit in, but life has taught me that we are all pretenders. Every single one of us. We are born ready to cultivate ourselves, find a place where we feel comfortable. Whether that is to fit in with the geeks, or the jocks, or the cold-blooded killers. There is nothing new under the sun. Nothing new we can invent or make up. We grapple with our likes and dislikes, who we want to please, what we want to wear and drive. Our interests, whether they include drawing Italian sunsets, playing video gam
es, or thumbing our way through erotic novels, they are all handed to us by a society that produces them. No matter how hard we try to invent ourselves, there have always been druggies, and tattoos, and ambitious men who take over the world. There have always been artists, and hippies, and meatheads, and that beautiful, single Mother Teresa, who lights up the darkness. There have always been murderers, and mothers, and athletes. We are all pretenders in life, finding a patch of humanity that we relate to, and then embrace it. We come straight down the birth canal and our parents start telling us who to be, simply by being themselves. We see their lives, their cars, the way they interact, the rules they set, and the foundations for our own lives are laid. And when our parents aren’t molding us, our situations are. We are all sheep, who get jobs, and have babies, and diet, and try to carve something special out for ourselves using the broken hearts, and bored minds, and scathed souls life delivered to us. And it’s all been done before, every bit of suffering, every joy.
And the minute you realize that we are all pretenders is the minute everything stops intimidating you: punishment, and failure, and death. Even people. There is nothing so ingenious about another human who has pretended well. They are, in fact, just another soul, perhaps more clever, better at failing than you are. But not worth a second of intimidation.
Seattle is my city. Washington is my state. It’s mine, because I say it is. And I take lives, because I want to. And I fear nothing, because there is nothing left to fear.
I’m reading on a bench one day when I see Doyle walking down 2nd Street, a wiry young man with glasses trailing behind him. Doyle’s latest target. He looks limp, like a kite that can’t quite catch the wind. He glances constantly at his phone, then back up at Doyle who is chatting and pointing to things along the way. Same as he did with me. He pointed out breakfast bars and corner stores, telling me the best places to buy bread and fresh fruit. All meant to make you feel comfortable, get you used to the idea of living in his building and impaling yourself on this neighborhood. I watch them from behind my novel, clucking my tongue at Doyle.
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