The air in the hall seemed to have thinned out, and Molly was having a hard time dealing with the lack of oxygen. She swallowed, cleared her throat. “I don’t know. She was just playing. Kids do all kinds of strange things.”
“According to the ER doctor, that knife wound wasn’t self-inflicted,” Mellick said.
“Was anyone else there at the time?” Rayburn asked.
“Just me.” Molly’s voice was barely audible. “Has Samantha said anything?”
“She’s been sedated,” Mellick said. “It required forty-six stitches close the wounds. When she was brought into Emergency, she kept repeating that she was sorry, that it was all a game.”
Molly’s eyes lit up, a new spark of hope. She’d coached Samantha before the ambulance arrived but had had no faith that the child would say what Molly wanted her to. How Samantha had done this to herself. How Aunt Molly had nothing to do with it.
“She told me she wanted to be a flower.” A faint smile touched her lips, and she shrugged.
“A what?” Rayburn asked.
“I have a painting on my bedroom wall. O’Keeffe’s White Camelia. Samantha said that she wanted to look just like it, that she wanted to be just like the beautiful flower. The perfect …”
“Perfect what?” Rayburn asked.
“Perfect woman, I suppose. She believes the flower represents perfect womanhood and …” But she felt that she was saying too much and didn’t finish the thought.
“That eight-year-old child said that?” Rayburn closed his notebook, but Molly could tell by his expression what he was thinking. He blamed her for everything. He didn’t believe a word of what she’d said. She knew it, could feel it.
“She’s … advanced for her age. A very smart little girl.” The way they stared at her, the puzzled looks on their faces—she knew men could never understand. Now they probably thought she was insane, and possibly that Samantha was as well, if they even believed the child had damaged herself.
“That’s all for now,” Rayburn said. “This investigation is still open, and I’m sure I’ll want to speak with you again.”
Molly nodded, and held her hands together in front of her stomach to keep them from trembling.
Katherine showed up a few minutes later—Molly had reached her on her cell phone—and demanded to know what had happened.
Molly told her sister the same story she’d told Rayburn and Mellick, but Katherine wasn’t buying it.
“What did you do to my baby? What did you do to Samantha?” Rage burned in Katherine’s eyes, and she was ushered her in to see her daughter before she could act out on her anger.
*
Home again in the dark, slowly rocking on the edge of the sofa, seeing the child’s blood on her hands even without a source of light. Illuminated, like iridescent paint, spotlighting the damage she’d caused, accusing her of harming the child.
Tearless sobs, wails of anguish, feeling sorry for herself, for not being able to show the world what she knew as universal truth. She’d never meant to hurt Samantha; the excess of blood had shocked her, made her quickly realize that she couldn’t do this, that she didn’t know how. O’Keeffe was the only one who knew, and she was dead. No one left in the world to take Molly’s hand and guide her along, to show her the way it was supposed to be done.
The phone rang and she listened to the machine intercept the call.
“You bitch! You sick bitch! What did you do to my baby?” Despite Katherine’s yells and sobs, Molly understood the words clearly. “Pick up the phone. God damn you, Molly!”
The line went dead. Molly dragged her fingers through her hair and clutched her head. “I’m so sorry, Katherine …” she muttered. Molly knew her sister’s hysterics, knew that although this was bad, terribly, terribly hideous, Katherine would eventually get over it. Molly was blood; her sister wouldn’t stay angry forever.
And when she saw the end result … maybe Samantha would be more beautiful now. Maybe Molly had done enough to help her. Then Katherine would thank her, and not be angry with her. Katherine must have wondered why Samantha was still abnormal … must have wondered how long it would take for the girl to blossom.
The answering machine intercepted another call. “Please pick up,” David said. “I want to see you. Please, Molly, don’t let it end this way.”
“I’m here.”
She could hear the relief in his voice. “I’m so glad you answered. Can I come over? I really need to see you. I want to work this out.”
She cradled the phone between her neck and shoulder and squeezed her eyes shut. “Come over then,” she said quietly. “I’ll leave the door unlocked.”
He’d be there soon. David’s apartment was a ten-minute walk from her place.
She also wondered when the cops would arrive. Wondered if Samantha had implicated her in the crime. But crime wasn’t the right word. Any harm inflicted had been unintentional, had been caused by an eagerness to help. Surely they would see that.
The bedroom was just as she’d left it; the bedding was painted with Samantha’s blood, and it had dried to a sticky, shiny hardness. It had soaked down to the mattress. The towels lay in a pile like giant blood clots.
Molly combed her hair with her fingers and slipped out of her clothing. She pushed the ruined bedding aside and pulled a clean comforter over herself. To wait for David, White Camelia above her head standing vigil, protecting her, guiding her. Almost shining down on her. Molly smiled, knowing that no matter what else happened, she would always have White Camelia.
Beneath the comforter, her hands roamed her body, gently caressing her stomach and breasts, bringing her to a state of relaxation. Closing her eyes, she wished to dream of White Camelia, wished that it could have been so easy. Wished for the pain that would be so soothing.
She heard David inside the apartment fifteen minutes later, heard him before he even spoke. Recognized the pattern of his walk, the sounds of stealthy movement through the hallway and living room. All else was silent in her apartment; no TV, no radio, just the soft rhythm of her own breathing.
“Molly?”
“In here,” she said, but she doubted he’d heard her.
“Sweetie, what are you doing in bed? It’s not even five—” He stopped in the doorway. “Oh my God—Molly?”
Her arms were covered in blood, and the knife dangling from her fingers thumped on the carpet. A heady, copper smell hung on the air.
She smiled at him. “You can see me now, David. It worked. I’m not afraid any more.” Her voice was weak, drained, as if her life was leaking out of her body.
The comforter was saturated with her blood, and he yanked it off her body, dragged it toward her feet.
Hands over his mouth, he staggered back until he hit the wall, unable to find another step.
“Hardly even hurts …” But that was a lie. When she tried to glance down, the pain tore through her body. She could see everything in the mirror she’d placed at the end of the bed. In spite of the crimson splashed over every inch of her from the belly down, she could see the beauty she’d created, the beauty beneath the blood.
Legs spread, revealing the labia she’d cut away and pulled back, flaps of mangled fatty tissue. Her vagina, carved out and spread until it rested on the mattress.
And later, she thought, they would clean her up, and after all traces of blood were removed, her body would heal, become the beauty it was supposed to be. It would retain the shape it was meant to be, the pinks and whites, and downy peaches, an explosion of colors and softness, unfolded in a flowery splendor.
So much better now. So much more natural.
“Come to me,” she whispered, bloodied arms spread in a welcoming embrace.
Huntin’ Season
“Well it ain’t exactly pleasant,” I remember Miller telling me. Like that would’ve made a difference.
By this point, the meat had turned a lovely shade of vomit. Kind of yellowy, a bit of brackish brown. Like heaving out the contents of yo
ur stomach after a real rowdy Saturday night. Kneeling before the Porcelain God, butt-crack smiling sideways at the world.
I held my nose. “Been in the sun too long, Miller.”
Miller nodded. “No shit, Dick Tracy. We’ll cut around the bad parts. At last we don’t hafta go hunting tonight.”
Hell—he was right. Ain’t nothing scarier than the hunt—because you’re not really the hunter. They come after you. They’re not scared of nothing.
Given the choice, I’d rather eat green meat.
But the next day, we were out of food again.
Was more spoiled parts than good anyway, and I mean real spoiled—not the sorta spoiled that’s still okay as long as you cook the shit out of it—but so spoiled even the maggots won’t touch it. That meat doesn’t go far, not when it was feeding me and Miller and Miller’s old hunting dog, Shep, who didn’t do no hunting no more.
So that morning we grabbed the shotguns and headed into the woods. My hands were shaking already, and we’d barely left the cabin.
“Calm down,” the old geezer said, following up his words with a phlegmy old hawk that he deposited all over the grass. He slapped me on the shoulder and shoved me toward the woods. As big as he talks, he always makes sure I go first. Sneaky old bastard.
We don’t usually have to go far—we set up traps, and sometimes they’re sprung.
The scariest is when they hunt in packs—when they come after us. Holy shit, if that happens, you may as well stick your head between your legs and kiss your ass goodbye!
Cracking noises in the bushes. Something moved in there … tiny grunts and groans. Bloodhungry gurgles. My heart slammed against my ribs.
Miller grabbed my arm. “What was that?”
The hell should I know??? I wanted to say but my lungs felt like I’d just smoked a whole pack of Camels.
There it was … crawling toward us on its elbows and knees, dragging its belly along the ground, its small ass sticking up in the air. This was a young-un all right—not even walking on its own yet. But sometimes that’s how they try to trick you. Sneaky bastards.
I raised my gun and pulled the trigger. The head exploded, its hairless scalp flying through the air and sticking to a tree trunk like a patch of moss.
“Awwww, what’d you go an do that for?” Miller grunted. “You blew his fuckin head off! The brains is my favorite part!”
Miller grabbed the thing and stuffed it into his sack, shaking his head at me like I farted. Them lil’ buggers sure could bleed. I make less mess slaughtering pigs.
“We got enough,” I said. “Let’s get back—I got a bad feeling.”
Miller shook his head. “We ain’t got enough. ’Sides, this was easy.”
I nodded. “Too easy.”
Miller laughed. “You’re givin’ ’em too much credit, boy. Their brains ain’t even done forming yet.”
But then they came swarming out like locusts, on their elbows, on their bellies, on their feet. They just came and came and came and it never seemed to end. Falling out of trees, staggering or crawling through bushes. Some of ’em dragging that ’bilical cord between their legs. Some of them still dragging parts a their mommas that tore off when they tunneled their way outa the womb. I seen that once. In the woods. Lil bugger came bursting out his momma’s twat, chewed her clit right off. Sucked it down without even chewing.
They were coming at us like the Calvary—a fuckin’ herd of babies. I started to run, but hell—they just aren’t that fast. Even the toddling ones … well, they just toddle. Some a them may be on their feet, but a two-year-old just ain’t built for speed.
They went after Miller first, tiny hands grabbing, little chicklet baby teeth gnawing at his flesh. He tried to run but they had him down in no time flat.
Miller was real old, and he kinda toddled too. And they were coming from everywhere, biting and clawing and scratching, chewing on anything they could wrap their teeth around. He was screaming his head off and trying to get away, but there were too many. One was at his throat, chewing on his Adam’s apple like it was its momma’s teat. Every time Miller opened his mouth to scream, one a them babies tried to grab hold of his tongue, or stretched its butterball head over his face, glops of baby puke slopping into his mouth. Chunks like cottage cheese but curdled, stinking like a boggy swamp. Miller’s mouth filled up with the stuff and he had to swallow it just so he didn’t choke.
Wasn’t no place to run to yet—they were still dive-bombing from branches or moving in low, biting at my ankles. I was kicking ’em off, punching at ’em. Two a them hooked onto my leg, tiny arms wrapped around my calf, and I tried to shake ’em but they was stuck tight, like bloated ticks on a dead dog.
One jumped me from behind and clung to my head like a bad toop. I was banging at it with my hands and he was gnawing away at my scalp, trying to rip out a chunk. His tiny smelly fingers found my nose and dug in, tried to yank it off my face. Then his hands slipped down my face and found my mouth, grabbed hold of my tongue, started yanking away at it. I bit down hard as I could till I heard them cursed fingers snap like kindling, till the little fucker started to screech its fool head off and try to pull its hand out of my mouth. It managed to all right, but not before I kept a few of them digits as a souvenir. I spit ’em out though—I tasted better things in my dead wife’s snatch.
I bashed another one in the head with my gun and it still wouldn’t let go of my leg. By now her little head was all dented in, baby teeth cracking off. I hit the soft spot on the top of her skull and the gunstock sunk in like a spoon oozing into a bowl of oatmeal. Brains dribbled out the hole and she finally fell off. I kicked my leg out hard several times, and the biting rugrat went hurtling through the air. I never even saw her land.
Far as I know, the little fucker’s still flying high, sailing over some trees.
There wasn’t time for me to help Miller. The ol’ geezer was still trying to get away from the bastards, but he wasn’t gonna be getting up again.
And they were coming at me and I was dodging ’em, and finally saw my chance. I grabbed the sack with the headless baby torso and tore off through the bushes.
A few of ’em saw me take off and tried to follow. But hell, I could have strolled off and they still couldn’t have caught me.
But then I heard the baby-cry—a kind of gurgling mew like a cat in heat. I sure heard that noise before. It’s their war cry. They were telling others up ahead I was coming.
I plowed through another group of them, stomping their little bodies into the ground, jumping up and down on them till their malformed heads popped like grapes. They tried to grab me but I ran like my ass was on fire.
I made it back to the cabin but some others had beat me there. Poor ol’ Shep won’t be lying ’round the fireplace no more. Now he’s lying ’round the porch instead. All around the porch …
I made it inside the cabin.
I got me this here baby corpse to eat, and I guess it’ll have to last me a few days. I opened up the sack and dumped it on the counter. Baby shit had smeared all over the bag.
I scraped up as much as I could, wiped it off the dead rugrat’s ass, and put it all in a bowl. Licked my fingers—ain’t gonna waste none—tastes okay, a little strong. I can tell it’s been eating berries. This one had too much roughage in its diet—it was kind of runny, like mustard. Golden brown mustard. And there were ribbons of gore streaked through it. Probably from when I blew its head off. Baby poop is pretty special all right—one of my favorite meals is shit-on-a-shingle. But Miller was right—the best part’s the brains. Warm and squishy like Jell-O. Slurp ’em back, suck ’em between your teeth.
Though you ain’t lived till you tasted fried baby pecker. Especially one that ain’t been drained. Biting into that and getting a little piss surprise. Salty brine against the smooth sweet taste of tiny testes.
And even when the meat turns, it’s still good. Rotten baby flesh goes real soft, gets all squishy and spongy. Sometimes it gets a little too green … t
hen it’s like eating cottage ham … or maggoty Spam.
They’re crying again … shrill screams that cut right through your head like a chainsaw. When they’re all together, they scream so loud it makes your ears bleed.
They’re out there now. Pounding on the walls and scratching at the dirt. I can hear babygrunts, the little bastards fornicating right under my window. Fighting to get inside the cabin … they got themselves a taste for blood. Though the li’l fuckers ain’t figured out how to use their thumbs yet so they can’t open the door to get inside.
I think I can wait ’em out. Sooner or later, they gotta take a nap.
Vade in Pacem
It was almost impossible to see her in the blackness. The fetor of her unwashed body permeated the bricks. The stench of sweaty hair mingled with feces and unwashed teeth was overwhelming. The desperate odor of starvation oozed from her pores.
Hint of voice: “Why …?”
He knew her unspoken question. “Because adultery is a sin.”
“Please,” she moaned. “Save me.”
“I am saving you.” He peeked between the bricks.
She found his eye and met it. No tears … no body fluid left. “Please.”
“You cheated. You sinned.” As if she could accuse him. As if she had the right to point that self-righteous finger in his direction.
“Please.” Hours of screaming, muffled by the insulation of the outer walls, had ravaged her voice.
Six hours later her rasping stopped. Finally. A blessing.
Dominic pried bricks from the tiny hole in the wall he’d built around her. What remained slumped into his arms: her hands deformed, mangled ruins, her features barely recognizable. The pittance of nourishment he’d given her had been unattainable through normal means. She’d had to dislocate her shoulders and wrists to reach the cracker and ounce of water.
Her supplies had been exhausted days ago.
He’d warned her to ration them.
“I cheated on my husband,” she’d told him in tears. “I’ll do anything to make it better.”
In The End, Only Darkness Page 4