Blood In Electric Blue

by Greg F. Gifune

Dignon closes his eyes. A pinhole of light emerges from the darkness, slowly grows brighter, stronger, and eventually becomes Nikki standing in a window.

  “Did that story disturb you?” she asks.

  “No.”

  “Did it turn you on?”

  “No.”

  “What then?”

  “It made me feel like I know you.” He opens his eyes, finds her sitting across from him. “It made me feel like I understand.”

  “And do you? Do you understand?”

  “Yes, I think so.”

  Nikki weighs this a while. “I’ve never told anyone about that before.”

  “Why did you tell me?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I’m flattered you did.”

  “Tell me something now. Something you’ve never told anyone before.”

  After considerable silence he says, “I’m ashamed.”

  “Of what?”

  “Everything.”

  Nikki swings her feet around to the floor. “Do you want to fuck me, Dignon?”

  He stares at her, hapless. “What?”

  “Do you want to fuck me?”

  The wind howls, as if in rescue, and the building shakes and creaks against the onslaught. Somewhere far off but woven within the wind is something else, something more. Dignon stands, looks to the window. “Do you hear that?”

  “The wind? Of course.”

  “No, listen. Inside the wind, can you hear it?”

  Nikki frowns. “Inside the wind?”

  Have you heard it yet?

  “It’s her,” he mutters.

  “Who?”

  “I have to go.”

  Nikki stands, moves toward him then hesitates. “Look, I didn’t mean to freak you out, OK? We can just hang out and play some records if you want. I was feeling vulnerable or whatever and there was this connection and I…”

  He looks back at her.

  “Jesus, are you all right?”

  “No.”

  She puts her hands in her pockets and rocks back on her heels like a nervous teenager. “Do you want to stay?”

  “Yes,” he whispers. In his mind he can see her in that window again, nude and alone. But she’s not alone. She never was. He’s there too. “But I can’t.”

  Nikki’s shoulders droop and her posture weakens, like she’s lost all the air in her body. Her hands fall free of her pockets and dangle lifelessly at her sides. The black smudges around her eyes, once spiders, no longer look intimidating or tough. They’re just peculiar and sad, a failed attempt to shield and conceal her from all the things that have stalked and cornered her on this cold winter day. “Then get out,” she tells him.

  The wind dies and he finds himself reaching for her. “I’m sorry, I—”

  “Go on, get out.”

  “Nikki, I know what it’s like to—”

  “Get the fuck out!”

  Her scream freezes him, sends him hurtling back to that dark and terrifying crawlspace where she is a specter behind distant glass, a ghost well beyond his grasp. As she always was. As she always will be.

  TWELVE

  The phone in his apartment is ringing, as he knew it would be. Having sprinted up the stairs to answer it in time, he is out of breath once he stumbles into the kitchen and snatches the phone from the wall. “Yes?”

  “Dig?”

  Willie, not Bree. His heart plummets. He recognizes the tone of her voice, knows it too well.

  Help me, Dig. Help me.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Can you come over? I…”

  “Tell me what’s wrong.”

  Something brushes the phone, causing a scraping sound in the connection. “I really need to see you,” she says, blowing her nose a moment later. “Please, love. Please.”

  “I’m on my way.”

  The line disconnects, becomes a dial tone. Dignon remains in place, the phone to his ear, his hand clutching it so tightly his entire arm shakes.

  Mrs. Rogo still isn’t home. The Christmas tree in her window remains dark. No cooking smells, no Christmas carols, no sounds of movement or life in her apartment below. She’s even taken in the silly ceramic Santa Claus on the front steps. Dignon has never before realized how comforting these things are to him. Where have she and Schnitzel gone? The wind cries, summons him. Or is it only the cruel taunts of banshees again, hidden beneath ice and snow?

  In his mind, day becomes night and it is snowing again. From the top of the roof, through a haze of flakes, he sees the factory stacks spill smoke into the sky above the city. At the edge of the roof is Kyle, head bowed and hands covering his ears, his unbuttoned coat flapping in the wind. He does not look back before he steps out into space. Initially it seems the air will hold and allow him to float from rooftop to rooftop like some miraculous creature undetected in the dead of night. But then he pitches forward, his hands leave his ears and snap out on either side of him, and he plummets into the swirling snow.

  As he freefalls, Dignon imagines Kyle thinking about his mother, his father, perhaps siblings, a wife and the children he’ll never have, the life he’ll never know. But he’s sure that what Kyle thinks about most is time. Ironically, he has an endless supply of it now, beneath this perfect moonlight. And in the seconds before body meets ground, Kyle is filled neither with terror nor regret. Instead it is beauty he feels, beauty he sees. Undeniable, infinite beauty.

  Kyle dies alone in the snow and cold, but Dignon will remember it differently. He will remember only a silent fall through darkness, a sky full of snowflakes and the grandeur of it all.

  The pain in his palm where the phone digs into his flesh reminds Dignon that like Kyle, the night has come and gone.

  He sees Mr. Tibbs sitting nearby watching him, and finally loosens his grip and replaces the phone in its cradle. The cat holds his gaze for several moments, calms, centers, and brings him back.

  I’m sorry.

  “I know, Tibbs. I know.”

  I’d save you if I could.

  Dignon goes to him, pets his head and neck and shoulders, embraces and kisses him again and again. The cat leans into him approvingly, adoringly, and begins to purr. “You’re my best friend,” Dignon whispers. “And I love you.”

  Eyes brimming with tears, he grabs something from a kitchen drawer then leaves without looking back, unsure if he will ever see Mr. Tibbs again.

  * * *

  He knocks but no one answers, so he tries the door. It’s unlocked.

  The apartment is a mess. Wilma’s dressing table has been tipped over and her various trays of makeup, costume jewelry and other accessories lie scattered across the floor. A hole has been punched into the poster of Marlene Dietrich, the stereo has been ripped from the wall and smashed to pieces, and the Christmas tree has fallen to its side, a few ornaments crushed and littering the red felt skirting around its base. The lone package beneath the tree, the box Dignon wrapped himself, looks as if it’s been stomped numerous times. The top is caved in and the paper torn. Her array of wigs has been knocked to the floor as well, many of them ruined. The kitchenette area and the bed against the far wall are the only things intact and apparently untouched.

  Wilma sits on the floor in nothing but a short silk robe that barely covers her, a phone she has pulled from the nightstand next to her, the cord running back across the bare floor like an umbilical tethering her to some other place and time. Her head hangs down and her hands are positioned out on either side of her, propping her upright. Spent tissues litter the floor around her. For some reason a nearby window is open, the curtains fluttering gracefully as occasional bursts of loose snow on the sill blow into the apartment and accumulate in a pile a few feet away.

  The apartment is freezing. Dignon watches his breath take flight then looks to the bed. Barry lies atop the ruffled covers, unconscious or asleep, he can’t be sure which.

  Wilma sees her brother, raises eyes smeared with makeup and tears, mascara running down her cheeks in long black stai
ns like wounds. Next to her right eye is a small cut, some bruising and swelling, and her bottom lip is caked with dried blood. A crooked brunette wig sits atop her head. Self-consciously, she reaches up and straightens it. She looks like a child, Dignon thinks, like a lost child from long ago, confused and frightened and broken.

  Dignon closes the door behind him, then goes to the window and slides it shut. Without comment he moves to the thermostat on the wall, turns it up then stands over the bed. On the nightstand is a burnt spoon, a syringe and a spent book of matches. He pulls a comforter from the foot of the bed, places it over Wilma and wraps her in it. She accepts it but says nothing as Dignon returns to the bed, his hands buried in his coat pockets.

  Barry’s long, thin, hairless body reminds Dignon of an insect. But for a pair of bikini-style briefs, he is nude. His suit, shirt, socks and long leather coat clutter a nearby chair. Dignon watches his narrow chest rise and fall. Oddly, Barry’s curly-perm looks perfect as ever.

  Dignon studies him a while.

  Eventually Barry’s eyes blink open. His mouth moves as he licks his lips and makes what sound like chewing noises, coughs and then realizes who it is standing over the bed. His expression is at first one of confusion, but quickly turns to annoyance. With a sniffle, he sits up. “What’re you doing here?”

  Dignon says nothing.

  “Oh.” Barry swallows, coughs again then puts his feet on the floor. He notices the state of the apartment, and though Wilma’s back is to him, he sees her too. “Yeah, things got a little out of hand last night.” He glances at the nightstand but makes no mention of the syringe, spoon or used matchbook. “Why is it so cold in here?”

  Only the wind bothers to answer.

  His face contorts as he yawns dramatically. Old acne scars on his cheeks are more pronounced at close range. “Nothing personal, Dig-man, but waking up and finding you standing over the bed staring at me qualifies as big-time creepy.”

  Dignon stares at him.

  “OK, listen up because I’m only saying this once.” With a bored sigh, Barry stands and rubs his eyes. He is much taller than Dignon. “All this,” he says, motioning to the rest of the apartment, “is between Willie and me. It’s our business, nobody else’s. I don’t explain myself to anybody. But because I like you, I’ll tell you this much. Willie got out of line and disrespected me, so she gets what she gets. It’s that simple.”

  Dignon steps closer.

  “Don’t try to be a hero,” Barry says. “You’re not cut out for it, babe. Christ, look at you, man. What are you gonna do, fight me?”

  “Save me,” Dignon says just above a whisper.

  Barry cocks an eyebrow. “What?”

  “Save me,” he says, voice strangled with emotion. “Save us.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “Isn’t it easier to save us? Isn’t it easier than hurting us?”

  Barry backs away uneasily, grabs his clothes from the chair and hurriedly begins to dress, eyes on Dignon throughout. “Goddamn freaks, the two of you.”

  “Why would you choose cruelty? Why would you do that?”

  “OK, I get it. This is some reverse psychology, pacifist bullshit, am I right?”

  “No. You’re not.”

  Fully dressed, Barry grabs his coat from the chair and slinks into it. “The world’s a brutal place, Dig-man. You and Willie go through life like two little kids cowering in a corner. That’s your problem. It’s pathetic. Try growing a set.”

  Dignon removes one hand from his coat pocket and holds it down against the side of his leg. “Have you ever been in that corner, Barry?”

  He tries to see what Dignon’s holding in his hand. “What’ve you got there?”

  “Do you know what I am?”

  “A pain in my ass?”

  “Thanatos Kataskevastis.”

  “Gesundheit.”

  “It’s Greek. The earliest traces of my kind were found in Ancient Greece.”

  “Your kind?”

  “Death Makers.”

  The hammer hits Barry in the cheek, making a strange clanking sound as it connects with bone. His head snaps back and to the side, and with a look of puzzlement and shock, he staggers back, shakes his head then touches his face as if to be certain it’s still intact. It isn’t.

  Swinging with a long arcing motion, Dignon hits him again, this time on the other side of his face. On the back-swing he connects with Barry’s chin, the third blow sending him into the nightstand. The lamp crashes to the floor and Barry clutches his face with both hands, hits the wall with his shoulder then collapses.

  “‘Though melancholy and nonviolent by nature,” Dignon mumbles, stepping over pieces of lamp and raising the hammer again, “given the right conditions these beings can also be consciously dangerous and extremely volatile.’”

  Barry says something unintelligible and dizzily reaches for the nightstand just before Dignon slams the hammer down across his forearm, shattering bone with an audible crack. Barry releases a rasping groan from deep within him as he clutches his arm, flops onto his side and curls into a fetal position, dark bruising already forming across his jaw-line and cheeks.

  Dignon straddles him, envisions smashing Barry’s skull to a frothy pulp.

  With strangely beautiful rhythm, he swings the hammer back and forth, striking Barry again and again with what soon becomes a wet, squishing sound. Blood sprays Dignon’s face and neck, but he continues to swing, methodically, purposefully, back and forth, back and forth. It feels wonderful.

  “Don’t kill him.” Wilma’s voice sounds miles away.

  He blinks away blood and slides the hammer back into his coat pocket. Dignon watches his victim’s fallen form a moment and what he has done begins to sink in. Trembling, he backs away.

  “Is he dead?” Wilma asks.

  Dignon looks back at her. She’s still sitting on the floor staring into space.

  “Is he dead?”

  “I think so.”

  Though there’s not much to him, Barry at deadweight is surprisingly heavy. Lifting him under the arms, Dignon somehow manages to get him back to the bed without falling himself. Barry flops onto the mattress, a boneless doll, discarded and bloody. The bruising along his jaw and cheeks has already gotten worse, the damage apparent, and blood leaks from the corner of his mouth and various wounds across his face and head. Dignon looks to the window as he catches his breath.

  The neighborhood out there is little more than a frozen ghost town. Out there. The words repeat in his head. Out there.

  The smells…the sounds…the memories…the screams…his father’s face…

  Dignon sits on the floor next to Wilma. He feels himself crumbling to pieces from a place so deep inside that he’s unable to stop it. Like the blood flowing through his veins, he has no jurisdiction there and is powerless to control it.

  “I’m so cold,” he says. “Willie, I’m so cold.”

  “Sometimes it’s good to be cold. It reminds us we’re still alive.”

  As she turns and looks at him, with her bruises and cuts, Dignon begins to weep. “I’m sorry. Christ, I’m so sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”

  “For what, love?”

  “I can’t make it, Willie. I can’t do it.”

  “It’s all right. Really, it is.”

  “I don’t know what to do anymore. I don’t think I ever did.”

  “Close your eyes and live your life, Dig. Live your life.”

  “There’s no life left.”

  “Then lay your head down here with me and rest.”

  Wiping the tears from his eyes, he places his face in her lap. The wind calls him, but he tries instead to focus on the gentle motion of Wilma’s fingers tenderly rubbing the back of his head. “Are we dead Willie? Have we died?”

  “We’re just lost,” she whispers. “Lost in the dark a while.”

  “I can’t stay here. I have to go.”

  “Then go, love. Go.”

  Digno
n lets the darkness embrace him with what he can only hope is escape, perhaps even peace.

  But no one is ever really alone, especially in the dark.

  * * *

  Black becomes white. Everything is shrouded in ice, the snow sprinkled with diamond dust. The sun burns strong in an otherwise dull winter sky, gilding the city, bathing it in white gold.

  Amidst the serenity, the old abandoned tenement.

  Dignon finds himself sitting in the company van parked just outside, Jackie Shine next to him behind the wheel, a toothpick tucked into the corner of his mouth. A breath-cloud slowly rises toward the roof. Dignon looks closer. The same James Dean hair, the barracuda jacket with the collar up, the squinty but intense eyes, it’s definitely him. “Jackie?”

  A quick sideways glance and then, “How’s it going, kid?”

  Dignon knows he should be frightened, but he’s not. He feels relieved, safe. “What are you doing here?”

  “Just dropping you off is all.”

  Dignon looks through the icy van window to the tenement and his feelings of safety evaporate. “I don’t want to go in there.”

  “Can’t blame you on that one.”

  A dim yellow light fills a window facing the street. “But I have to, don’t I.”

  “Afraid so.”

  A shadow moves behind old, tattered curtains. “Will I ever come out?”

  Jackie Shine runs a hand up over his forehead and nods. “Yeah, you’ll come out.” The steam of his breath climbs past his face like mist. “You just won’t be the same.”

  “The same?”

  “It changes you. That’s what life does.”

  Hot dry air blasts from the vents, hits Dignon’s face and reminds him how warm it is in the van. But then…if the heater is on and the windows are rolled up, why can he see his partner’s breath?

  Dignon drops his eyes to Jackie Shine’s lap. The vapor rises not from his mouth or nostrils, but from the bloody gaping wound in his abdomen. Chunks of raw flesh and stringy entrails dangle from the jagged crater, the heat inside his body escaping in a steady rising steam. With a look of horror and astonishment, Dignon brings a hand to his mouth for fear he may vomit.