“Oh, hey there,” she said. “You’re awake.”
Jack tried to lift himself but couldn’t. He commanded his body again to move, but it didn’t seem to be listening. When he attempted to open his mouth to ask what the hell was going on, a pathetic moan was all that emerged. Every ounce of his being felt numb.
Amy took her eyes off the paper, snuffed out her cigarette, and glanced at him with a kind, appreciative expression. “This is my favorite part,” she said, apparently oblivious to his struggle. “I’ll read it to you. ‘When I look at you, I know what it feels like to come face-to-face with divinity. Listening to your music is like a colonic for my soul. Every bit of pain in me goes away, if only for a moment, and is replaced by a lightness so wonderful that I lose myself in it. By the time the song ends, it feels as if my feet are touching the ground for the very first time. Because of this, I love you so much more than anything in my life, but it goes way beyond any concept I could possibly do justice to in the words that I have at my disposal. You make me happy, even though I’ve never met you, and for that I want to thank you.’ You wrote that, Jack. It’s beautiful. I appreciate it, I really do.”
Jack recalled exactly how he felt when composing those words, sitting in a hotel room in Albany with no shirt on, listening to her CD for the twentieth time that night. He’d been entranced, intoxicated by far more than the fifth of vodka he consumed. He tried to speak again, to let her know he remembered. Once more, nothing came of it.
Amy stood up. She carried with her the incomplete violin--a device that actually looked to be constructed from a wad of clay--and lowered herself to the floor beside him. She stroked his thinning gray hair. He felt comforted even though he couldn’t move, even though he remembered how he got to be in that position in the first place. He didn’t care.
Her other hand disappeared below the mound of his swollen belly. He couldn’t crane his neck enough to see exactly what she was doing, but it sure looked by the way her arm swayed forward and back like she was giving him a hand job. He felt nothing but a strange, uncomfortable, liquid sensation. It figured.
She must have noticed his disappointment. “Oh, honey. I’m really sorry about this. You were pretty angry and I’m just a tiny little thing. I had to protect myself.” A frown appeared on her face. “But that’s okay. You proved yourself to me, and that’s all that matters.”
“Huh?” asked Jack. His senses were slowly coming back to him; though he still couldn’t move, feelings crept their way from fingertips to forearm. A biting tightness shot its way up his spine from his abdomen. In that moment, he wished to be back in that prior state of deadened bliss.
Amy’s expression became distant. “There are so many things one person can give another. Love. Dedication. Commitment. All these things are special in their own right, but they’re also ambiguous. They’re subjective, without meaning in the physical state of being. But passion, on the other hand. Now there’s something tangible. It’s real, it’s juicy. And necessary.”
She lifted her hand. A massive gob of some sticky red substance rested in her palm. Snaky, dripping tendrils flopped through the gaps between her fingers, dangling there like the legs of a jellyfish. Jack’s eyes grew wide.
“Passion breeds creativity,” Amy continued. “It breathes life into everything, from the artist’s paintbrush to the writer’s pen. Without passion, life would read as a textbook, all cold and analytical and devoid of any true meaning.” She tossed the bloody mess into a basin placed next to him. There were four other tubs along with it, circling around his legs, all filled to the brim with more of that burgundy, gummy matter. Terror slithered into Jack’s brain, but he couldn’t express it properly.
“What…are you…doing…” he stammered.
“Shush,” Amy replied, placing a finger on her lips. “Don’t try to speak.” She went back to work, once again digging into the cavern he was suddenly sure had been opened up on the other side of his stomach, biting her lip occasionally in concentration. She maintained a running dialogue as she gutted him. “Take this stuff, for example.” She pointed to one of the bowls. Jack wished he could be sick. “Intestines make a very nice hardening compound. You put the right mix together, and you have a varnish that can act as a second skin. Blood mixed with putty is great for adhesive purposes. Muscle tissue, when dried and pureed, makes for the perfect resin. Bone itself is sturdier than wood and adds a different acoustic tonality to the instrument. But the sound can be kind of sharp, so a coat of flesh around both the interior and exterior dulls it somewhat, makes it more pleasant. And tendons…oh, wow, you gotta see this.” Amy excitedly reached behind her back. When she brought her hand around, it held a bow. “I’ve never really liked the sound of horsehair strings. And I did try human hair at one point, but it ended up being a bit too fragile, and it made the instrument sound, well, grumpy. That’s when I thought, hey, why not try something a bit more elastic? Tendons! It’d been right in front of me all along. I could’ve slapped myself for not thinking of it sooner. Look at this.” She held the bow beside Jack’s ear and flicked the yellowish-tan threads with her finger. A sharp twang echoed in his skull. “You hear that? Now that, my friend, is perfection.”
“Stop,” said Jack in a barely audible whisper. Tears rolled down his cheeks. “I don’t wanna die.”
Amy frowned. “I’m not finished yet, Jack. Now all this stuff is well and good, and it can create quite a pleasing musical instrument. But it has no power if there’s no passion behind it, if there’s no energy to feed the vision. That’s why I had to test you, Jack. My inspiration has been waning for some time. I had to make sure you possessed the essence I needed. Unfortunately, I’m nothing without my instrument. It feeds me, much like you now are feeding it.”
With that, she picked a large knife up off the floor. In one sweeping motion, she buried its piercing end into his chest. Jack could feel his ribs snap as she dragged the blade down his center with strength no mortal could possess, his flesh and bone opening up like an ever-growing, greedy mouth. Blood and entrails poured out, littering his lap and everything else around him, but it didn’t hurt. At first he’d assumed it was because of the drugs. He knew better; he must have been too far along in the process to feel much of anything. Thank heaven for small favors.
“The heart to shine the frets,” Amy said, gazing at him lovingly. She then pointed to his head. “And to top it all off, the source of your passion, your brain, will wax my strings. Oh, don’t look so down, Jack. You said all you ever wanted was to be a part of my music. Now you will be. Forever.”
“I…loved…you…” Jack said, his consciousness fading.
A low, rumbling snarl reverberated from the dim area behind them. A pair of red eyes lit up the darkness, just above her shoulder, behind a kinky curl of her hair.
“I know, honey,” said Amy, and a sincere frown crossed her lips before uttering the last words Jack Scherzo would ever hear:
“Unfortunately, I’m a kept woman. I’m sorry.”
This story originally appeared in the July/August 2010 issue of Darker Magazine. Feel free to visit the site at http://darkeronline.com.
DISPATCH #337
(TRANSCRIPT OF AUDIO RECORDING discovered in Zone Green, the area formerly known as Clearwater, Florida, 15 years after The Fall)
Peter, the clouds rolled in today. You know the ones I’m talking about; the black and grey ones that drop bucketloads of disease and fear on us all. The same clouds that called you away from me – from us – three weeks ago.
It’s starting, honey. I’m sorry.
I hope to God you’re safe. I saw on the news a couple days ago that the forces that’d been deployed in Mobile suffered ninety percent fatalities. I know that leaves me not much to wish on, but I have to wish. I have to record this for you. It’s all I got left.
You should see it here right now. It’s three in the afternoon and it’s dark as night. Oh, and it’s raining, of course. The only light I can see is this weird glow that ri
ses from the south. Sarasota is burning, Pete. So is St. Petersburg and Venice, I think. The light’s dancing off the wet leaves of the palms in the front yard. It’s kinda psychedelic, you know, like those raves we used to go to. You remember those, don’t you? Well, I do. And in a way, I guess it looks pretty. Maybe if things were different, I wouldn’t think I was being weird saying that.
(47 seconds of silence)
Oops, sorry ‘bout that. I had to step away for a sec. The floor was shaking. Turns out the Lockenshaw’s house blew up. It’s burning now, too. Just like everything else. There’s people screaming. I thought you might want to know that.
Speaking of people…they’re changing, Pete. I saw Bob and Donna Mitchell this morning. They were sniffing around the front yard and hanging from the trees like a couple baboons. I was in the nursery upstairs, and I was gonna call out to them and ask what was going on, but then Donna looked up at me and started screaming. You should’ve seen her, baby. Her eyes were all yellow and sunken into her head. Her damn forehead was huge and bumpy, like one of those Star Trek bad guys. But her teeth…oh, those teeth. They stuck out of her mouth like daggers, her and Bob’s both. They jumped for the gutters like they were gonna crawl up them. Probably would’ve, too, if the Hendersons hadn’t come running from down the street like they had gators on their tails. Bob and Donna lost sight of me right quick and started chasing them, instead. And when they caught ‘em…shit, Pete, I ain’t never seen that much blood in all my life. They tore the whole damn family apart.
And you thought the Scientologists were scary.
Sorry ‘bout that, baby. I’m just scared shitless right now, and you know me. I get scared, I crack unfortunate jokes. It’s a fault.
(silence for 112 seconds: moans in the background)
I’m back. I had to take more Valium. My nerves are shot. Oh, Pete, I really hope you find this. I hope you come back safe and sound. I hope you live a long and healthy life, though if the guys you’re fighting are anything like the things that’re settin’ about town right now, I guess that’s nothing but more wishful thinking. Things’ve gone to shit in a big damn hurry, haven’t they? Nature’s got teeth, that’s what your pop used to say. Looks like it sure knows how to use ‘em, too.
I miss you so much, baby. I’m gonna love you forever, you know? But them black clouds are up there, it’s raining acid death, and there ain’t much time for me. (pause, sob) I’m getting eaten from the inside out, baby. It’s hurts so bad. It’s our girl, I think, our little Macy. Remember when you put your hand on my belly before you left? She kicked for you. Twice. Well, now she’s doing more than kicking. It feels like she’s clawing at my insides with a pitchfork. I’m peeing blood. I got a fever. It’s horrible, sweetie. I’m not gonna last much longer.
(sound of breaking glass, followed by muffled shouts)
Oh god, Petey, they’re in the house! (door slams) There isn’t much time left. I won’t let them get me. No, I’m not going out like the Hendersons! I’m not gonna let them rip me open! It’s bad enough our baby’s turned against me. You told me once that you didn’t wanna go out on any terms but your own, and I’m gonna hold myself to that, too.
(heavy crying: loud bangs)
I’m in the nursery right now. I got the shotgun with me. I’m looking at the mural you painted for Macy. She was gonna be the most beautiful girl. We were gonna love her and support her and do everything we could to make her happy. We would’ve been great parents. I would’ve made a great mother. I hate this! Why is this happening? I don’t understand! Why are you doing this to us, you fucker!
(shattering wood: screaming: howls: gunshots)
Get away from me! Fuck you! And you! You can’t have me! No! Leave me alone! It hurts, it hurts, it hurts!
(gunshot: baby crying: 37 seconds of slurping noise: end of tape)
Exhibit A
By David McAfee
OH GOOD, YOU’RE AWAKE. You’ve been out of it for a few hours; I was gettin' worried. But hey, you’re up now. That means we can get started, Ok? Now, hold on, settle down, you shouldn’t try to move so much yet. Just relax. That’s right. Wait a second, I gotta make sure the tape recorder's on. Yup. Good. Ok, now we're ready.
Y’know, watchin' you layin' on the floor like that really got me thinkin'. I’m always amazed by the guys who think having the ability to do somethin' is the same as havin’ permission. You know the type; the men and women who believe the laws of Man and God don’t apply to them, like they live above the rest of us. And I ain’t talkin' about some rich prick, either. Hell, those guys're conditioned to think that way. Nah, I’m talkin' about the people who are mostly just like you and me. Regular folks, so to speak, who for some reason get it in their head they ain’t regular folks.
I see 'em on TV every now and then. The jackass rapist who sticks his dork in half a dozen women and then wonders why everyone hates him when he gets caught. Or the twenty-somethin' year old gang-banger who kills four kids in a drive-by and then can’t figure out why the prosecutor's demandin' such a stiff sentence. Or even the housewife who thinks her hubby isn’t payin' enough attention to her and decides she’d be better off with his life insurance payout than with him. They all got one thing in common; they're always surprised as Hell to find out they gotta be punished for what they did. It’s almost like they think they’re entitled to do that shit, you know what I mean? Those are the assholes I’m talkin' about. I just wanna smack 'em in the face and say “You did the crime, y'know, now take your fuckin’ medicine. You earned it, after all.”
Say, how’s that rope, buddy? Too tight? Shit, my bad. I guess you can’t really talk right now, can you? Sorry about that. Tell you what, if the rope is buggin’ you, just nod your head. Yeah, like that. That's good. If I had a better place, with soundproofin' and whatnot, I’d take the gag off you, and we could have ourselves a civilized conversation. Ah, well. We’ll just have to make do.
Anyway, where was I? Oh, yeah. Assholes.
Not me, though. When they catch me (and I know they will sooner or later), I’m gonna deserve everythin' I get. Maybe they’ll even give me the death penalty. Hell, I guess you could kinda say that’s my goal. That’s why I’m startin' this audio journal; so later on, when the prosecutor is trying to prove Mental Capacity, he can play this tape and shout “There! There in the defendant’s own words is the proof that he knew exactly what he was doin',” and point at the tape player with a righteous look on his face. Or her face. Hell, this is the two-K's, I gotta start thinkin' multi-gender, huh?
People’s Exhibit A. That’s what they’ll call it, I bet. Like they do on those cop shows. I like C.S.I., don't you? I watch that show every week. It pisses me off they got ridda Warrick, though. Assholes in Hollywood don't know what the fuck they're doin'. But anyway, yeah. People's Exhibit A. As in “I'd like to present People’s Exhibit A, Your Honor, an audio tape made by the defendant himself.” Then they’ll play it for the whole courtroom, and I’ll just sit there watchin’ the jurors squirm and tryin' not to smile. Hey, you’ll be on everyone’s mind, then. Won’t that be great? I like to imagine it as a dramatic moment, full of hushed whispers as a courtroom full of people try to puzzle out the hows or whys.
“How could he do such a thing?” They’ll ask. Then: “Why would he do such a thing?” That’s the one that’ll keep 'em awake at night, I bet. Not the how, but the why. They just won’t know. They won’t get it. But that’s ok. I’m used to that.
Well, for those future jurors sittin' in that stupid little box, let me clear it up for you: There is no how. There is no why. I’m doin' this because I can, and because I want to. Oh, don’t be so prissy. Not one of you can say you never thought about it. Also, let me say right now, at the outset, that I don’t give a rat’s ass what the defense’s shrink may say about me while I'm sittin' there, don't you believe a word of it. I ain't fuckin' crazy. Give me the quack’s name and I’ll do him or her next so you won’t have to listen to their bullshit. Well, I guess that’s jumpin' th
e gun a bit, but you folks in the jury box get the idea. Hell, with any luck, maybe my next guy will be a lawyer. Ha! That’d be great.
Hey, guy, quit thrashin' around on the table. You’re only makin’ the knots tighter, anyway.
Shit. You know what, though? You’re abso-fuckin'-lutley right. I'm bein' rude. You’re my guest; I should be payin' attention to you, not some future jury of my “peers.” Okay, then, let’s get to work. I have my knife right here. Now, don’t worry; I sterilized the blade. See? There’s still some alcohol on it. Well, there was a second ago, but that shit dries pretty quick.
Don’t let the size fool you. I know it’s just a little one, but -- hey, what’s that line women are always feedin’ us? That shit about how it ain’t the size, it’s how you use it? Ha! I love that one. Well, I promise you won’t be disappointed. Sure, it’s small, but this little sucker’s good’n sharp. And this ain't gonna be one of those two-minutes-and-it's-over type of deals, either. You and me, we’re gonna be here a while.
Now, I woulda liked to get my hands on some good anesthetics. Maybe that crap dentists use. What’s it called? Novocain? Somethin' like that. But I can’t afford any of that shit, so this might sting a little. Sorry about that, I really am. Can’t be helped, though. You go on ahead and scream if you have to, it’s cool. That’s why I put the gag on you in the first place. Oh, and don’t worry about infections, either. I have lots of water and rubbin' alcohol, so the cuts’ll stay good and clean.
The Gate: 13 Dark & Odd Tales Page 7