The Chrysalis

by Deneen, Brendan

  “Hmm?” Tom murmured from the driver’s seat, white-knuckling the steering wheel as he stared into the brake lights of the minivan in front of them. It was a few minutes after midnight and they had come to a complete stop on the highway. Tom’s face looked hollowed out and demonic in the dark red light. Jenny wasn’t sure if she was hallucinating again or not.

  “We should have another party,” she repeated. The last one had been while Tom was on a roll, and he had been kind of going downhill ever since; maybe repeating the party would get him going again. “An early holiday party, maybe even next weekend, before everyone gets crazy with Christmas and whatnot. Andrea mentioned that it’s her and Frank’s last free weekend until the new year. Of course, it doesn’t have to be as insane as last time—”

  “I don’t know,” Tom interrupted as they started moving again.

  “It would be nice to do it before I get too much bigger. I may not want to see anyone in a few more weeks.”

  Jenny stared at his profile. He’d been so quiet at dinner, which surprised her. Victoria said that they’d had a very nice time at lunch a couple weeks earlier, though he seemed a little distracted. Tonight, it had been like that get-together never happened: Tom was distant and practically monosyllabic.

  At one point, Victoria had pulled her aside and told her to stay over because it was snowing; Tom was specifically not included in the invite. But Jenny had begged off even though part of her was eager to spend a night with her sister, away from her husband, just to clear her head a bit.

  The cause of the congestion became clear—a bad accident in the right lane that had clearly just happened. Jenny involuntarily looked over as they passed and wished she hadn’t. There were no visible corpses or injured people, thankfully, but one of the two wrecked cars had a huge, bloody, raw-edged hole in its front windshield, like some kind of violent mechanical birth gone horribly wrong. Her mind started to conjure horrible imagery of what had happened, and she wished the thoughts away.

  “Tom?” she said, looking at his stone-like face.

  “What?” he snapped.

  “The party?”

  After a long moment, he said, “I’ll think about it.”

  * * *

  It was almost one thirty in the morning by the time they made it home. There had been a disturbing number of accidents along the way, most likely due to the unfortunate combination of icy snow and tipsy holiday drivers. Jenny had successfully willed herself not to look at another one. She and Tom barely spoke after his angry retort. She’d dozed off for a while, until her forehead lolled against the cold window, shocking her awake.

  It was still snowing; the short, precarious walk from the car to the front door left them covered with flakes. Even the porch swing had a layer of white on it.

  Inside, Jenny took off her boots and snowy jacket, then gingerly backed up and sat down at the dining room table. Even simple acts like sitting had become much more difficult than normal. Tom headed for the kitchen, wordless, boots and coat still on, snow melting off him and falling to the floor, creating a series of tiny puddles.

  “Tom…?”

  He stopped dead in his tracks in the kitchen doorway, without looking at her.

  “Yeah?”

  “About the party—I’d like to start inviting people tomorrow. Today. It’s Black Friday, so I thought I’d do a cute little invite, make the party a ‘black and white’ theme, like—”

  “I said I’d think about it!” he yelled angrily, then stalked into the kitchen and out of sight.

  The intensity of his voice, its sheer volume, sent an almost literal shock through her body. He had never spoken to her like that, not even during their most heated arguments.

  The house was silent except for intermittent creaking probably brought on by the recent bitter cold. Jenny looked around. The space was painfully dark. She’d flicked the switch when they entered, turning on the light above the dining room table, but two of the three bulbs had burned out weeks ago. Another thing that Tom had promised multiple times to fix, like that goddamn basement stair, which was still a shattered mess. If anything, it looked worse than ever.

  He hasn’t even finished the nursery, she thought.

  “Tom?” she called into the darkness at the back of the house.

  There was a long silence. Then:

  “I’m going downstairs to paint a little. You must be exhausted. Go to bed. I’ll be up in a little bit.”

  She heard the basement door creak open and shut, muffled footsteps on the stairs. Then nothing.

  Jenny remained stock-still, looking at the kitchen doorframe and the shadows beyond, then at the door, farther along the same wall, that led upstairs. She was exhausted, but part of her wanted to follow Tom down to the basement. She would step defiantly over that jagged hole that had drawn blood from her and give him the holy hell he deserved for treating her like that. Who the fuck did he think he was? Did he have any idea what she was going through? The constant ligament pain in her lower abdomen, her aching feet, her huge mood swings, the massive bouts of insecurity, fear, and depression. Not to mention running her own brand-new business, which was doing quite well but which she was already worried about—how long could she keep working?

  And yet … what would she really gain from storming down there and yelling at Tom, interrupting his painting to point out how strange he’d been acting? If he already wasn’t listening to her, what good would that do? Maybe she had pushed a little too hard, too fast on the whole party thing. She was just excited about the prospect of one last big gathering before she hunkered down for the apparently very bad winter that was bearing down on them. By the time the holidays were over, she’d probably be in no mood for entertaining. And once the baby was born? Who knew how long it would take before they reemerged into daylight.

  “Tomorrow,” she murmured before getting up and making her way to bed.

  * * *

  “They’re all unique. Every single one of them.”

  Jenny bolted awake, sitting up faster than she should have, her abdomen clenching in pain as a result and her head swimming.

  In the dim light coming from the bathroom down the hall—she’d left the light on so Tom wouldn’t kill himself coming up the stairs—she could see her husband standing over her, still wearing his coat. One arm was stretched out over the bed, and he appeared to be holding something in his hand. She risked a glance at the clock. It was a few minutes after 4 A.M.

  “Tom? What the fuck?”

  The last time he woke her up like this, months ago, he’d been wasted, so she’d understood, kind of, and forgiven him. Tonight, he didn’t smell like alcohol, and his speech wasn’t slurred.

  As her eyes acclimated to the light, she realized that Tom was holding a clump of snow in his bare hand.

  “Every single flake is fucking unique, Jenny. How many times has it snowed on this planet? How many snowflakes does that equal? Billions and billions and billions. And each snowflake is unique. How is that even possible? Do you know what that means?”

  “Tom, you’re scaring me.”

  “It is scary. It means the infinite is possible. Not only possible, but happening. Every day. Everywhere.”

  Jenny noticed that the bottom of the snowball was darkening. She squinted at it. Red. “Tom! You’re bleeding!”

  “Did you know,” he whispered, leaning in closer, “that every single person’s blood is unique, too, like their fingerprints? Which means we’re infinite, too, Jenny. We are infinite.”

  Bloody ice water dripped onto the bed from the melting snow. Jenny shot to her feet, moving faster than seemed possible, and grabbed Tom’s arm. She towed him, unresisting, out of the bedroom, down the hall, and into the bathroom. She angrily flipped on the light before positioning his injured hand over the sink, letting the crimson splash against the porcelain. Turning on the water, she washed away the snow and revealed a deep, bloody gash in his dirty palm.

  “Jesus!” she said. “Tom, pull yourself together!
I don’t know what the fuck is going on with you, if it’s the job, or the idea of being a dad, or owning this giant fucking house … but I can’t take it anymore. Do you hear me? Enough!”

  Tom stared as if he didn’t recognize her, then blinked several times. His eyes refocused and immediately welled with tears. “I’m sorry. Jenny. Oh my God. I’m sorry.”

  Her heart ached. He looked so lost and confused, like a little boy who had wandered away from home during a storm, with his hair matted against his forehead and tears in his eyes. His skin was incredibly pale in the bright bathroom lights, and there were huge circles under his painfully bloodshot eyes. She realized that he hadn’t had a haircut since his makeover, months earlier. Shaggy and unkempt, his dirty mop fell into his eyes. How had she not noticed that until now?

  “I don’t want to hear that you’re sorry,” she said, pushing aside her pangs of sympathy. “Your skin is ice cold. I want you to get into the shower, warm up, and clean yourself off. Put a bandage on that hand. I want you to come to bed and get a good night’s sleep—at least eight hours, and hopefully more like ten. We have nothing on our schedule tomorrow, so you can get up whenever you want.

  “After you wake up, you and I are going to eat a giant breakfast. Lots of eggs. Huge glasses of milk. Then you’re going to look me in the eye and apologize for yelling at me earlier. And we’re going to have a long talk. And this shit is not going to happen ever again or you and I are going to have a very serious problem in the near future, baby or no baby.”

  Tom stared at her, his eyebrows beetling. He looked scared.

  “Understood?” she asked.

  “Yes,” he barely choked out.

  “Fine. Good night, then,” she said, then left the bathroom, shutting the door behind her.

  * * *

  Tom stood in the bathroom for an indeterminate amount of time, stuck in place, cradling his injured hand. If someone had asked him where he was, what day it was, what had just happened … he would have been unable to answer.

  * * *

  The crowd of people pulsed around Tom, shoving him up against his living room wall. The party was out of control. They’d invited very few people, like last time, but once again, word had apparently spread, possibly fueled by stories of their last bacchanal, and by ten o’clock, the ground floor was jammed with strangers. Music was blasting from somewhere, most of the lights were out, and someone had brought a strobe, so all Tom could make out were flashes of faces, of sweaty bodies pressed up against each other.

  He was miserable and on the brink of tears.

  Ever since Thanksgiving night, when he’d scared the shit out of Jenny with that bloody snowball, he’d steered completely clear of the basement. Cold turkey. The next morning, a truly remorseful Tom had promised to change, and key to that change was avoiding the chrysalis, which he knew was ruining his marriage and his life.

  The last time he’d gone for any length of time without visiting the basement, he longed for the chrysalis as if it were an absent lover. This time was worse. He was physically aching, having trouble eating, and couldn’t concentrate. Thinking he’d caught a cold, Jenny had suggested canceling the party, but Tom insisted that they proceed. She’d put so much time and energy into it, had made it happen on such short notice. He focused on making sure his behavior was as normal as possible during the days leading up to the party even though he was collapsing in on himself.

  Kevin hadn’t been able to make it. He was dating a new girl, Felicity, and things had quickly become serious. He seemed convinced that she was “the one.” It was probably just as well, since Kevin and Tom weren’t talking very much. They weren’t fighting; Tom was focused on his job, working hard to get his numbers up. That meant he wasn’t in a joking mood most of the time, and that was Kevin’s default setting.

  Victoria and Lakshmi were there, somewhere, but Tom had barely seen them. He gathered that Victoria was still pissed off about Thanksgiving, but he couldn’t find it in himself to give a shit. He was having enough trouble focusing his eyes and trying to keep food down.

  He attempted to walk forward, to find a path through the mob of partiers, but a group of wolves with bloody faces pushed him back against the wall. No, not wolves. People, mostly women, dancing, their hair wild and flowing, wearing bright red lipstick, having fun, unaware that Tom was there at all. Their hands were all over him.

  “Get the fuck off me!” he screamed.

  The crowd in front of him burst out laughing, shifting slightly away from him without interrupting their conversations or their dancing. Pushing off the wall, Tom tried to shove his way through the throng of shadowy bodies. Garbage and spilled drinks covered the floor, making it hard to maneuver. Furniture had been moved and knocked over. It was absolute chaos.

  He needed to get to the basement. He needed to get his hands on the chrysalis. Now.

  Eyes and mouths surrounded him, gaping, gawking, and yammering as he pushed frantically past people who were barely clothed, people who were kissing each other and running fingers down naked skin. The music seemed to get louder with each step he took; the strobe light flashed frenetically. He felt as if he were suffocating. Every cell in his body was begging for the chrysalis. Please, he thought. PLEASE.

  The half-naked crowd suddenly parted and went silent.

  A woman walked toward him along a narrow path between bodies, the partygoers shuddering collectively as she passed them. A black dress covered her body, even flowing over her unseen feet, and long black gloves ran to just above her elbows. She had long, dark hair; her face was concealed by a thick black veil. In her hands she held an iron goblet, carved to show tiny naked figures in the metal, writhing in paralyzed agony. The music was still playing, but to Tom’s ears it was tinny and distant, like the memory of a nightmare. The strobe light throbbed in time to the beat.

  As the woman approached, shadows overwhelmed the people around and behind her. Their mouths widened in ecstatic pain, their bodies undulating silently, and they vanished completely, as if the darkness were eating them alive.

  When she took her last step and stopped in front of him, Tom’s world had been reduced to a small circle of pulsating light surrounded by absolute darkness and a thin strain of high-pitched music that sounded like a single unending wail from some ancient, dying creature. “Drink,” the woman whispered through the veil, offering him the goblet. He could feel the heat radiating off her.

  Tom looked into the cup: red wine, thick and viscous. No … it was blood, he realized, and the heat was coming from the liquid, not the woman. As he stared, he saw the blood tremble and realized there was something swimming in it, just below the surface. Several somethings. Long insects with multiple eyes and legs, unlike anything he had ever seen before. The veiled woman raised the goblet closer and closer to his face.

  “Drink…,” she commanded again. The smell of the blood hit him, metallic, pungent, gut-churning.

  Without thinking, Tom batted the cup away, using his right hand, which still bore the scab from the last time he’d visited the chrysalis, on Thanksgiving. He’d woken up on the basement floor that night, thrashing wildly, and cut his hand on the rake that he’d intended to use to destroy the dark mass on the wall, back on the first day that they saw the house.

  “No!” he shouted as the blood flew across the circle of light that surrounded him and the woman in black. Some splashed into his eyes, and the room went completely dark. He reeled backwards, hearing the goblet break into pieces as it hit the floor.

  Oddly, it sounded like glass shattering rather than metal. He clawed at his eyes, trying to regain his vision. Shocked murmurs reached his ears, along with the sounds of shuffling feet and soft classical music. Tom blinked as his sight cleared and he looked around.

  There were no throngs of half-naked people, no orgy-like dancing, no woman in black. He was in his own living room, staring at a dozen or so of his and Jenny’s friends and neighbors. The guests were dressed in sports jackets and trousers or cocktai
l dresses, all in black and white, just as Jenny had specified in her invitation, and they were staring at him in horror. Jenny stood right in front of him, barely a foot away, clutching one hand with the other, a look of pain on her face. An arterial spray of wine was spreading on the floor and wall. He had clearly knocked a proffered drink right out of her hand—broken glass littered the ground. Tears were rolling down Jenny’s cheeks.

  Tom knew he had crossed the final line. Victoria stepped forward and wrapped her arm around Jenny’s shoulders. None of the other guests said a word, moved, or seemed to be breathing.

  “I…,” he managed to say, but nothing else.

  “Get. Out,” Victoria said through clenched teeth.

  * * *

  Nick’s was packed.

  Maybe because it was Saturday or because the holidays were looming or because the weather had warmed up a bit, to a balmy mid-forties, or maybe it was all these factors combined. The crowd was a bit younger than usual, local twentysomethings staying in town for once rather than traveling into Manhattan. As Tom staggered in, he felt like an ancient animal climbing up from the primordial muck.

  He moved toward the bar, trying to avoid touching anyone. He could still feel the naked, sweaty bodies he had been forced to touch earlier that night, even though that hadn’t actually happened. Had it?

  There was some new guy tending bar. Long hair. Tats. For a second, Tom thought he was looking at himself. Was he somehow back in Alphabet City? Was this his chance to do everything over? No, that was insane.

  “What’s up, man?” the bartender said, throwing a coaster down in front of Tom.

  “Bourbon, double, straight,” Tom croaked.

  “Coming right up,” his doppelgänger said before walking away to fill the order. The multitudinous voices in the bar were deafening. Tom looked around, but the faces were indistinct. He tried to focus his eyes as he searched the room but couldn’t locate Malcolm or Hannah. He hadn’t been there since his visit with Jenny. Things had just been so crazy. He missed talking to Malcolm, missed having someone in his life who didn’t judge his mood swings, his paranoid thoughts.