by Jeff Strand
“Which is it then?” the strange man asked. “Will you or won’t you?”
“Can you please give us a minute?” Matt asked.
The man smirked. “Look, Matt,” he retorted, his voice dripping with oil. “I’m on your side, and hers.”
“You’re not on my side.” Emily was close to tears again.
The man turned to her. “Is there any other way you could have gotten what you wanted?”
Tears were flowing freely down her face. “I. Don’t. Want it!” The tablecloth slid an inch or two toward her. She was grasping it under the table with her free hand. Matt gave the other one a squeeze.
“Nobody thinks you’re evil,” he said. “Least of all me.” Her eyes locked onto his. There was something of ice in them, glossy and frozen.
“I think I’m evil, Matt,” she said. “I think that every day.” For some reason, he felt chastened. Who was he, really, to come into her life and blindly pardon a lifetime of her perceived sins? He was no one. He was a stranger to her, and her struggle was alien to him. Certainly, he was willing to go through it, but there was no guilt in it for him. It was not something that had kept him up nights since he had hit puberty. Not something he had watched on film and touched himself, fearing that someone might walk in at any moment. This was not his difficulty, as difficult as that was for him to admit. This was hers.
“That must be so hard for you,” he whispered. “I’m sorry.” She lifted her napkin and dabbed at her nose. Her mascara was running and she was still exquisite. “But I meant what I said. I want you to do it. I want you to take that box and use whatever is inside of it. I want you to let yourself be the person you’re afraid of becoming, just for a few minutes, huh? Do you think you can do that? Don’t you want to give it a try?”
Eyes never leaving his, Emily reached out and took the box. Matt turned to dismiss the stranger, but he was already gone. “Thank you.”
“No,” she said, pressing her lips to the back of his hand. “Thank you.” He nodded and caressed her cheek.
“Just remember,” he said. “None of this is real.” She nodded and opened the box. She gazed into it, her face revealing nothing. Then she looked up at him again. Something had changed in her eyes. There was something behind them that he had never seen before, some snarling and smoldering hunger. Slowly, she got to her feet. She took the box in her right hand and, using only her left, turned the table on its side. Matt choked out a gasp. Glass shattered and their bread bowl scattered its contents across the empty tiles. Out of the box, she drew an impossibly large hunting knife. The blade itself had to be at least ten inches. How had that fit inside such a small box? But then, wasn’t he asking that question from somewhere outside of time?
Her heels were crunching on broken glass as she walked toward him, kicking silverware out of her way. The box was cast aside and the knife was raised. In a blink she was at his throat, her fingers closing around his tie. She pressed the hilt of the knife into his side, hard, then kissed him harder. Her tongue darted into his mouth and then snapped back as she closed her teeth around his lower lip, making him moan. The pressure on his lip increased to painful levels and his moan rose in pitch. When she pulled back, there was blood on her chin. His blood. He could feel his breath hitching, catching, coming in panting waves. He could feel the pressure of the knife handle still against his skin and, strangest of all, he could feel his slacks tightening between his legs. It wasn’t the pain, he had no interest in being hurt, it was something that he saw in her when she hurt him. Something sensually exquisite and miraculous. He didn’t want her to hurt him, but she was so beautiful when she did it.
“What are you smiling about?” The knife dug in harder and he gasped. “What’s so funny? Don’t you know you’re about to die?”
“I wasn’t smiling,” he murmured. Her hand moved from his tie to his throat.
“What was that?”
“I wasn’t smiling!” His voice was shrill, panicked. Matt didn’t like the way he sounded, but evidently Emily did. He could feel her body squirming against his. He reached for her, but she twitched out of his way.
“Don’t touch me,” she said. His hands fell to his sides. “Get on the ground.”
“The glass—” he started. Her palm had connected with his face before he had registered her releasing his neck.
“The glass is the least of your worries,” she said. “Get on the fucking ground. Now.” With panic rising like bile in his throat, he did as she said, falling to his knees at her feet. He could feel several pieces of his bread plate digging into his shins, but he didn’t want to make any sudden movements. Her face was set, determination in the hard line of her jaw. The knife was glinting in her hand, her knuckles white where she clutched it. Her empty right hand shoved his left shoulder and he reeled back, arm shooting out behind him to stop his fall. A sliver of glass dug into his palm and he let out a hiss of pain. She didn’t stop, forcing him onto his back, straddling him just below the waist. When he reached for her, he found his hands crushed beneath her knees.
“Aah,” he yelped. Her every movement was pressing him into the broken glass on the tile floor. It couldn’t have been comfortable for her either, but she seemed too lost in it to care. Her knife settled on his throat and she watched him, waiting. What was she waiting for? He swallowed hard, feeling the minute change in pressure as his Adam’s apple bobbed against the blade.
“Tell me what you’re thinking,” she said.
“I’m scared,” he replied. The words came out of his mouth without a second thought, and they were the correct ones. He could tell by the light in her eyes, the way she was rubbing up against him, pleasuring herself on the fabric of his pants. How he wished she would take just a moment to unbuckle his belt, take down his fly and …
“I could do anything I want to you,” she was saying. “Anything. I could fuck you, or I could kill you. I could do neither. I could do both at the same time. What do you think of that? I could hold the knife against my body or tuck it into my belt and every time you sink into me I sink into you.” Matt suppressed a shudder. He wanted to give her what she needed, but everything he gave away was another clue she could use against him. “Do you like that idea, Matt?” He was already shaking his head.
“Please, I—Aah!” She had lifted herself up onto her knees, bones digging into bones, glass digging into flesh. Her skirt was up and over her head, cast across the room. Her shirt and cardigan and belt stayed on. Matt noted briefly that he thought she had been wearing a dress, then he saw her take the knife and slice off her panties. It was then he realized that even under all of this duress, his cock was still standing at attention, extending desperately toward what he feared he would soon have at a terrible cost. With the underpants gone, she turned the blade toward him.
Matt tried his best to breathe through his nose. Deep, calming breaths. But this woman was about to literally fuck him to death. Certainly, as he had said, none of it was real, but it was really going to hurt. The handle of the knife slipped upward, between the belt she wore and her skin. It extended a solid four or five inches down between her legs. Once her hands were free, one rested on his chest and the other began to unbuckle his belt.
“Don’t,” he gasped. She had finished the belt and was moving on to his fly. Never had he been so thankful for the hindrance caused by a button fly.
“You don’t want me to fuck you, Matt?” she asked. His cock was in her hand now, the only part of him that was grateful for her touch.
“Not like this,” he said. He didn’t regret his choice, not exactly, but he didn’t expect it to go the way it was going. He expected her sensual beauty, the incredible, lustful way she looked at him when he was bleeding out, but he did not expect her to turn so cold. She was still far from ugly, but he was beginning to see a bit of what it was she saw in herself. The hand that was on his chest lifted to his face and caressed it, a blackened mirror of his earlier gesture.
“This is the best you get,” she said
. His entire body lurched. He felt as if he was about to experience the first and highest drop on a roller coaster too large to exist. She guided him toward her opening and sank down on top of him.
As the blade of the knife plunged into his body, the agony was too great for sound. He watched, open-mouthed and silent, as she lifted herself and followed the first thrust with a second, equally powerful one. She had come, loudly, by the conclusion of the second thrust. He had gone flaccid by the third. She abandoned her attempts at intercourse, but left the knife where it was, twisting it in the wound as she leaned her body toward his face.
“Had enough?” There was nothing of malice in her voice. It was an honest question. Matt nodded and then winced as she sat back up, withdrawing the knife from both her belt and his body. She draped herself over him, inching her knees off of his hands. With some hesitation, he wrapped his arms around her.
“Emily please,” the words came out bloody, bubbling up from somewhere deep and destroyed. The knife, already coated generously with his blood, traced across his throat. There was a great and terrible rushing in his body as his own unfaithful pulse carried the lifeblood out of his veins. He could see Emily, her face covered in a spray of it, leaning in to kiss his dying lips.
“Hi there, my name is Krissi and I’ll be taking care of you today,” a chipper voice shattered them awake. “Can I get either of you started with something to drink?”
It was over. Christ, it was over.
“I think we may need a minute,” Emily said. Matt looked up at her. She was pale. He could only imagine what he must look like.
“Okay,” Krissi was saying. “Just give me a holler if you need anything at all!” As she skipped away, Matt looked up at Emily. Her blanch had turned to a flush.
“Emily …” he started, but wasn’t able to finish. He didn’t know what to say to her. He didn’t know what he felt anymore.
“You’ve met her now,” she said. “What do you think?”
“Her?” he asked. It was all he could think of to say. He couldn’t bring himself to admit that maybe, in spite of all of the pain and suffering he had endured, he had liked what he had seen.
“The girl I don’t want to be,” she said. Matt nodded. He reached for his water glass, but did not lift it. Moments ago fragments of it had been opening his palms. “When I was in high school, I gave her a name. I named her Wesley Rose, after Rose West … some serial killer I read about.” Emily was carefully studying her hands, watching as she picked at her cuticles. It was all Matt could do not to grab them, make them hold still. And, in doing so, touch her skin again. “I guess I sort of tried to dissociate from her? Like, I wanted to make myself believe that I was a split personality or something. Sharing my body with a serial killer. Like I was some kind of hero for keeping her locked up.”
“You’re a hero for keeping her in check,” Matt said. “But you don’t have to keep her locked up.”
Emily looked at him as if he had sprouted horns. “You mean if that man comes back?” Matt shook his head. “I don’t understand.”
“What I mean is …” He trailed off. What did he mean? He didn’t mean that he wanted her to become this other woman, not even on a temporary basis. “Would you like to come over for a drink?”
“Yes,” she sighed. There was gratitude in her voice. “I can’t help feeling like someone’s listening here, you know?”
“Believe me,” he said. “I know.” Matt glanced around, then reached into his pocket and fished out a couple of dollars. “Let’s go.” As they walked out of the restaurant, Matt took a moment to observe the people sitting at tables around them. No, it was reasonably certain that there was nobody listening to them. This was New York City. Center of the universe containing eight million more centers of the universe. There was not a single person in the area with a concern greater than his or hers. And yet … all it takes is one eavesdropper.
Matt lived three blocks away from the cafe they had chosen, but he wouldn’t admit to having done that on purpose unless pressed. She had been the one to suggest Italian food. It was a nice building, but not overwhelmingly nice. Simple, with a doorman. Not too far from where he worked either. He rarely took the trains. Frankly, it was pure chance that he had run into her on the subway when he had. He had had a meeting on the upper East side that day. He wondered briefly if it had been predestined somehow. But that was ridiculous. He hadn’t known himself he would respond to her the way he had, how could anyone else? But then, how had they stopped time?
Or, the real question, why?
They got off the elevator on the sixth floor and walked to his apartment. It was a true one-bedroom, which Emily noted the moment they walked in. It was nice. Clean. He had no maid service, but tried to keep it reasonably well maintained. He had scoured it the evening he had met Emily, though, in the vain hope that she might call him and come by. It seemed silly, impossible, but here she was. The first woman he had had over in almost a year, and he’d had to let her kill him twice to get her there.
+ + +
“I’m glad we came here,” Emily was saying. “I’ve got three suitemates and they all think the reason I don’t date is because I’m a closet lesbian. I’d sort of like to keep the answer that simple.”
Matt snorted. “Is this a date?” Emily said nothing, just sat down on his couch, perched on the edge of the cushion like she might fly away if given the chance. “I see.” He walked to the kitchen and opened the fridge. “I’ve got beer and I’ve got whisky. I might also have some vodka in the freezer if—”
“Beer is good,” Emily said. “I mean, I don’t really drink, but I think if there was ever a time to start …” He pulled two bottles out of the fridge and set them on the counter, beginning his usual search for his bottle opener. The thing had feet. It never stayed in one place.
“How old are you, anyway?” he asked. He didn’t want to know, not really, but the question had come and it was too late to take it back.
“Twenty,” she said. He licked his lips. “You?”
“Twenty nine,” he replied. The bottle opener was where it was supposed to be for a change. The bottles were opened and Matt made his way to the girl on the sofa. “Sorry it wasn’t someone closer to your age.”
“Matt,” she said, accepting the beer he offered her. “If it had been anyone else, he and I would still be on the train.” At this, Matt couldn’t help but laugh, but she only gave a watery smile. She was right. He knew she was. Perhaps not anybody else, but the chances of her being paired with someone willing to die for her were slim. If the pairing was accidental.
“Do you do this often?” he asked. “I mean, stare at people on trains?”
Emily shrugged, then nodded. “I try not to, but sometimes …”
Matt took a long pull of his beer. “Maybe he’s been waiting for someone like me,” he said. “Maybe the guy knew I’d be … I dunno. Whatever it is I am.”
“How would he know?” she asked.
“How would he do any of whatever he does?” Matt replied.
“So what are you then?” Emily was peeling the label off of her drink, but not drinking it. Matt glanced at the ABV and wished it was higher.
“I’m not sure,” he sighed. “I don’t have a death wish. I’m not even a masochist.” At this, Emily took her first swallow of beer. She winced. “Okay?”
“I’m not used to it,” she said. Matt nodded. She was a kid. Not even old enough to drink. He was giving booze to an underage girl. “If it’s not masochism, what is it?”
“I think it’s you,” Matt said. Emily choked on her second sip.
“Me?” she asked, wiping a dribble of foam off her lower lip. She used her wrist, then glanced at it like there might be something there other than a little liquid and a slight smear of pink from her lipstick. The leak made her lips shine. “What do you mean it’s me?”
“It’s hard to explain to someone who’s never seen it,” he said. “I mean, I know you can’t see it. But when you’re that
… um … on … it’s just … I mean, you’re beautiful.” Her face was flushing and her eyes were on her wrist, which was in her lap. She carefully rubbed away the lipstick smudge with her thumb. “Not that you’re not beautiful otherwise, just … it’s hard to explain.”
Emily spoke softly, without looking up. “Try?” she said.
Matt glanced at his beer, wishing they had opted for whisky. “Well.” He set it on the coffee table. “Do you remember how I said I uh, was most interested in you enjoying yourself?”
“That’s one way to read what you said.” There was a faint smile playing at the corner of her mouth. Now it was Matt’s turn to look away.
“Yeah,” he said. “Well, I mean, watching you watching me when I was … I mean … it was the most on I’d ever seen any woman get.”
“To use your language,” Emily said carefully. “It was also the most on I had ever been.” She set her drink down and turned to face him. There was an urgency in her features that made her look even younger. “You have no idea how much I wish that wasn’t true, but it is.” She set her beer next to his and began picking at her cuticles again. This time, Matt decided to make the leap and take her hand. Her fingers were pale and clammy. Probably because every drop of blood had just rushed to her face. “Matt,” she said.
“Emily,” he replied. Unable to fight the magnetic pull drawing his lips to her neck, Matt simply gave in, kissing lightly along the line of her throat. She gasped, but didn’t pull away.
“You don’t want to get involved with me,” she sighed. “I’m messed up. No one knows that better than you.”
“I know how much you wanted to kill me,” Matt breathed into her collarbone. “And how much I had to beg before you did it. Do you think that means you’ll hurt me now?” Her fingers were plucking at his suit jacket like harp strings.