“I said, shut up,” Chris told her. He sat down on the bed next to her, Ryan’s body lying beside them, his eyes still wide and unseeing. Lark wanted to close Ryan’s eyes. She wanted to run. But Chris had a knife to her throat, and he looked crazy. She didn’t dare move or speak.
Chris moved the knife lower, tracing the outline of her throat and clavicle, almost as if he were caressing her with it. Lark swallowed. Her heart was beating so loud, she was sure Chris could hear it.
Chris grasped the material of her now bloody shirt with the hand not holding the knife and brought the knife down, not cutting her skin, but cutting the cloth of her shirt.
Oh fuck. Lark remembered the night in the kitchen. Chris’ mouth against her breast. She shuddered. What was he going to do to her?
Chris pushed aside the shreds of her shirt with his hands and the knife. He slid the blade of the knife between her breasts. Sliced the cloth that connected the cups of her bra. Her breasts tumbled out.
She begged him silently just to fuck her. If he wanted to do that, she could handle that. Lark had been fucked all kinds of awful ways, by all kinds of awful men. She could do that. It wouldn’t be fun, but she could let him do that. But Chris had just killed Ryan, and she didn’t think that was all Chris was going to do to her. Ryan had said that the ash man was trying to make Chris and Tim kill her. And Chris had protested that he wasn’t... God. A line from Hamlet, from her freshman English class in college, leaped to her brain. “The lady doth protest too much, methinks.” Wonderful. So, at moments like these she could quote Shakespeare? Fuck. She should have seen that he was overly defensive. She should have told Shane about the night when Chris had manhandled her in the kitchen. But now...now it was all too late.
Naked from the waist up, she looked up at Chris, who was still using the knife to gently trace the curves of her body. “Are you sure you want to do this, Chris?” she asked softly, her voice shaking.
“Don’t talk,” Chris said, but he didn’t sound nearly as angry or forceful now. He sounded calmer, as if the sight of her breasts had pacified him. “You’re in the way. He told me you were. If I get rid of you, then Shane and I can go back on tour.”
Good. He was talking. If he was talking, he wasn’t raping her. He wasn’t stabbing her. “Do you honestly think Shane would want to be around you if you hurt me?” she asked.
Wrong thing to say. Chris’ face twisted angrily. “Once you’re dead, whatever spell you put on him will be broken,” he said. “He’ll see you for what you really were. I’m helping him.”
God. Where was Shane, anyway? Hadn’t he heard her screaming? Why hadn’t he come to the door? Did he think that she was screaming because of the ash man? Because she and Ryan were confronting the ash man in the other world? What if she screamed Shane’s name now? Screamed it so loud, he’d have to hear and come? If she did that, would Shane have enough time to get up the stairs before Chris...killed her?
Maybe that wasn’t a chance she wanted to take. No. No, Chris wanted her. She knew that. She knew about men wanting her. Knew that sex could make men lose their heads, even the most violent of them.
Lark took a shuddering breath. She stretched languorously, seductively, arched her back, offering her breasts to Chris.
“Chris, you want to fuck me, don’t you?” she asked softly.
Chris stared at her body, his jaw twitching.
Lark put her hands on Chris’ hands. She wrapped her fingers around the fingers he held the knife with. She guided his other hand to her breast. “You don’t want to fuck me with a knife in your hand, do you?” she breathed, pushing her breast firmly into his hand, and using his hand to knead it.
Soothingly, she pushed the hand with the knife down against the bed and gently began to pry at his fingers. “Don’t you want to put your hands on me?” she asked. “Both your hands?”
Chris’s attention was on her breasts now. She was breathing hard, and it was mostly out of fear, even though she was trying to put on some kind of seductive act for him. Her free breast quivered. He opened his mouth, ran his tongue over his teeth.
“I want your hands on me, Chris. I want both your hands on me,” she whispered.
Chris let go of the knife and placed his other hand on her breast.
Lark fumbled to pick up the knife.
“Hey!” said Chris, trying to grab at her.
She grasped the handle, swung it forward on her torso, bringing her other hand around to hold it too. “Shane!” she screamed as loud as she could. “Shane, help me!”
She held the knife above her, its hilt resting against her belly button. Chris reached down and wrapped his hands around hers, trying to wrest the knife from her. They struggled, both yelling and grunting.
Lark shoved the knife forward. It plunged into Chris’ chest, right beneath his rib cage.
Chris shrieked.
Lark’s bare skin was bathed in a flood of Chris’ blood, but she kept pushing the knife forward, twisting it inside Chris.
The door to the bedroom rattled. “Lark!” called Shane from outside. “Let me in.”
Lark just kept twisting the knife. Chris was still yelling. Swearing. Blood was everywhere. It made her grip on the knife slippery.
Then Chris stopped. His body went motionless and he fell on top of her, his skin thudding against her own.
Lark started to sob. She lay under the dead weight of Chris’ lifeless body, lay in his blood, still holding onto the knife, and sobbed.
“Lark!” yelled Shane at the door.
“I’m okay,” she called shakily. But for a few moments, she couldn’t move. She just lay there, still shaking, still sobbing, and trying to remind herself that she was alive. Alive.
Finally, she slid out from beneath Chris. Tumbled to a heap on the floor next to the bed. She stood up tentatively, afraid her legs were shaking too hard to support her. But they did. She walked to the door, unlocked it, smearing it with blood. She opened the door.
Shane and Tim were standing on the other side. Shane took her in. “God,” he said.
She looked down at herself. She was half-dressed and bloody. Lark shrank back as Shane reached for her. “Messy,” she said.
“You’re bleeding,” said Shane.
“No,” she said, shaking her head. “Chris was bleeding.” She pointed at the bed. Shane looked.
“What happened?” said Tim.
“I...” Lark trailed off. It was all too, too terrible to be real, wasn’t it?
Shane was unbuttoning his shirt. “Are you okay?” he asked. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah,” said Lark. She was, wasn’t she? Shane put his shirt on her. Covered her breasts. Blood soaked into the fabric. “Your shirt is ruined,” she said.
“Don’t worry about the shirt,” said Shane. “Are you hurt?”
“No, I don’t think so,” said Lark.
Tim was at the bed, gazing at the two bodies. “What happened?” he asked again. “What did you do?”
“She didn’t do anything,” said Shane.
Lark shook her head. “No, I did. I did. I—Chris was—So I... I had to, though. He was going to...” She looked down at Shane’s bloody shirt.
Shane pulled her close.
“Messy,” she said again.
“I don’t care,” he said. And he held her.
Tim left the bed. He advanced on the two of them, his eyes blazing. “You,” he said pointing at Lark, “have to tell us what happened!”
“She’s in shock,” Shane said to Tim menacingly.
“They’re both dead,” said Tim. “Both of them.”
“Chris killed Ryan,” said Lark. “He cut open his throat. While we were...away. And then we were back, and Chris tried to...” She trailed off again, shaking her head.
“Shh,” said Shane. “Don’t try to talk yet. Just calm down. We’ll figure this out.”
“Tell us,” said Tim.
Lark pushed Shane away. “Okay,” she said. “I will tell you.” And she took a
deep breath, ready to explain everything that had happened to her as well as she could. The whole story. She started to speak. And she did tell a story. But it wasn’t the story she meant to tell.
* * *
Lark remembered when she first saw the gun. It was a funny thing about men, even the most sensitive and quiet of them. They all had a hidden reservoir of masculinity. It always came out somehow. Jimmy was an artist. He was skinny and stringy. He wore skin-tight t-shirts that proclaimed the names of bands he liked. And sometimes, he wore eyeliner. In fact, when she’d first started dating him, she’d been warned by several of her friends that he was probably gay. And Jimmy didn’t behave like a lot of boys she knew. He didn’t watch sports or action movies. He liked to talk about his feelings. About her feelings. But when she moved in with him, he showed her the gun. And she knew. This was it. It was his hidden, secret masculinity. Jimmy liked to shoot guns. He sometimes went to a range. Shot at targets.
She remembered it so clearly. They were sitting on the floor of their new apartment, surrounded by unpacked boxes, the only light a small lamp that Lark dug out of her belongings. Jimmy took the gun out of one of his boxes, his eyes bright with excitement. “I want to show you something,” he said.
And he took out the gun case. Unzipped it. Inside, the gun was nestled against blue fabric. It was a black hand gun. Jimmy took it out, showed her it wasn’t loaded. He showed her the bullets, taught her how to put them inside the gun. Lark remembered lifting the gun with one hand. She remembered thinking that it was heavier than she thought a gun would be. She didn’t think she’d be able to hold it steady enough to aim it. Not with one hand anyway.
The gun had gone in a closet. And in the first couple months, Jimmy had taken it to the range once or twice, to practice shooting. But then, after the visions started, he never went much of anywhere anymore. He quit his job. He stopped going to classes. Then he stopped painting. Lark forgot about the gun. Certainly, when Jimmy was angry, when he was beating her, he never threatened her with it. For all she knew, Jimmy had forgotten about the gun too. She didn’t know if she would have remembered it at all if it hadn’t been for that night. The last night. The worst night. The night she never talked about.
She came home from work late. Jimmy was in the living room when she got there. The lights were all off. When she switched them on as she came through the door, he growled at her. Lark turned the lights back off and carefully made her way back to the bedroom, where she changed out of her work clothes. She remembered examining some bruises she had on her arms and chest. They were healing. That was good. The bruises were from the time Jimmy had beaten her with the bat. At the emergency room that night, the nurses had known that Jimmy had done it to her. They’d told her as much. They’d given her numbers for women’s shelters. Told her to get out. To leave Jimmy. But Lark knew that wouldn’t work. On the way home from the emergency room, bundled in bandages, Jimmy had screamed at her. Told her that if she ever tried to leave, he’d hunt her down and bring her back.
“You’re stuck,” he’d said. “Stuck with me. I’m never letting you go. I can’t live without you, Lark.”
And Lark believed him. She couldn’t leave. There was nowhere she’d go where Jimmy wouldn’t find her. Living with Jimmy in those days was like walking a tightrope. She spent every second with him trying not to make him angry. But everything made him angry. She couldn’t keep him from being displeased. Still she tried. She kept hoping that if she just figured out how to keep him happy, then everything would be okay again. Sometimes, she wanted to leave. Lots of times. But. Jimmy was her world. She didn’t know if she could imagine a life without him. She loved him so desperately, she didn’t know if she wanted a life without him.
The light turned on in the living room. That was good. That meant Jimmy might not be completely out of his mind right then. Jimmy went in and out. Sometimes, he barely seemed human. He just seemed like a caged animal, full of rage and hate. Then, other times, he was back. Sort of. He spoke English, and he didn’t growl. But he still hit her sometimes. But when he was coherent, he could sometimes be reasoned with. Lark left the bedroom. Came out. Smiled at him tentatively. “Hi, baby,” she said.
Jimmy was standing in the living room, wearing only a pair of ragged boxers. He smiled lopsidedly at her, his eyes full of love. She went to him, and he kissed her. “Hi,” he said. “You going to make food?”
Lark nodded. She always cooked for Jimmy. Jimmy liked it when she cooked. Of course, if she messed it up at all, he got mad. But as long as she did it right, everything was okay. And she lived to make Jimmy happy, because she loved him. “What are you in the mood for?” she asked him.
“Spaghetti,” said Jimmy decisively.
One thing about Jimmy was that he always knew what he wanted. And he always told her what it was. It was her fault if she couldn’t follow his instructions or do what he wanted. Lark immediately got busy in the kitchen, making spaghetti. She started boiling the water, and began chopping onions. Jimmy settled in the living room, watching something on television. She put a pat of butter in a skillet and turned the burner on. Then she dumped the chopped onions and garlic into the skillet.
“Not too much garlic, okay, babe?” Jimmy called from the living room.
Fuck. Was that too much garlic? Lark didn’t know. She thought about asking Jimmy to come and look, but if he didn’t like it, she’d have to start all over, and she didn’t have any more onion. She chewed her lip anxiously, hoping he wouldn’t notice. She stirred the onions and garlic on the stovetop and then went out into the living room to sit with Jimmy. He made room for her. Put his arm around her. So far, everything was going well. Lark let herself concentrate on the television program.
Minutes passed. “Babe?” said Jimmy.
“Hmm?”
“You better check on the onions,” he said. “You know how I hate it when they get brown.”
Fuck! Lark leapt to her feet and scurried into the kitchen. The onions were...not brown exactly, but a little on the tan side. Things were not going well. She wondered what she should do. And she’d tried so hard. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Well, maybe he wouldn’t notice. They’d be covered in sauce after all.
The spaghetti water was boiling, so she fed it some noodles. Jimmy wandered into the kitchen to inspect. Dammit. Lark backed into the stove, trying to hide Jimmy’s view of the onions. He peered over her shoulder at them.
“Lark,” he said. “Those onions are brown.”
“No,” she said. “No, they’re not, Jimmy. I’m watching them. They’re—”
“They’re brown. And I specifically asked you to make sure that didn’t happen. You know I hate that.”
“I just got distracted by the TV, I guess,” Lark said.
Jimmy shook his head. “You can’t do anything right. You’ve got to be the stupidest woman I’ve ever met. I mean, spaghetti is easy. What kind of idiot fucks up spaghetti?”
He was right. It was easy. He’d asked her to do something simple, and she hadn’t been able to do it. She was always fucking up like this. No wonder Jimmy was always mad at her. She hung her head. “I’m sorry,” she said.
Jimmy clenched his jaw. “Dinner’s ruined,” he said.
“I’m sorry.”
“Of course you are. But I’m still starving, and this isn’t edible anymore.” Jimmy picked up the pot of boiling water and spaghetti.
Lark backed away from him, into the kitchen counter. “Jimmy,” she said. “I really am sorry. I can go get another onion from the store and—”
Jimmy poured the scalding water onto Lark’s feet, and she stopped speaking because she was shrieking from the pain. It hurt so bad.
“Shut up,” said Jimmy, tossing the empty pot into the sink. “And clean up this mess. I’m ordering pizza.” He left the kitchen.
Lark hobbled to the freezer for some ice, sobbing.
“Clean it up, Lark,” Jimmy called from the living room. “Now. Your feet are fine.”
“It
’s just it hurts,” Lark said.
“Clean. It. Up.”
So Lark closed the freezer and found some paper towels. She mopped up the mess on the floor, hot water and half-cooked pasta. When she was finished, she got some ice and applied it to her burns, which had already started to blister. Her feet were blood red and covered in raised white bubbles. She was still crying. She sat down at the kitchen table, nursing her painful feet, and it was as if the pain burned itself all the way to her brain. She had a moment of clarity. This was fucked up. There was no reason for Jimmy to flip out about some caramelized onions. There was certainly no reason for him to dump scalding water on her. If Jimmy wanted it his way, maybe he should cook it himself. She stood up, determined. She limped into the living room. Jimmy was on the phone with the pizza place. She took the phone from him. Hung it up.
“What are you doing?” Jimmy demanded.
“This has to stop,” said Lark. “I try to do everything the way you want it to, and I can’t. I’ll never be able to. So maybe there really isn’t anything wrong with me. Maybe you’re too picky.”
“Give me the phone, Lark,” said Jimmy, his voice quiet but threatening.
“No,” said Lark. “No. Because you know who’s going to pay for that pizza? Me. Because you don’t work anymore. And—I made a perfectly good dinner. And it’s not my fault that you have issues. So, if you want something to eat, you cook it. Or—do whatever you want. I’m leaving.”
She stormed back into the bedroom and slammed the door after her. Throwing the phone on the bed, she grabbed as many of her clothes as she could from the dresser and stuffed them in a suitcase.
Jimmy ripped the door open. He was seething. “You don’t talk to me that way,” he said, “and you aren’t going anywhere.”
“Oh yeah?” said Lark. “Watch me.”
Jimmy advanced quickly into the bedroom. He took Lark’s arm roughly and threw her into the wall. When she collided, her head cracked against it. She winced, but moved forward. “Stop hurting me,” she said. “Just leave me alone.”
She strode past him. He followed, catching hold of her hair and yanking her back against his body. “I’ll never leave you alone,” he whispered in her ear. “Because you’re mine.”
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