by Неизвестный
Mister Gibson, her portly pedigreed feline, was squatting on his haunches on top of the armchair crunching down hard on one of the fairies. The wires were still attached to its feet, preventing the cat from dragging the poor creature away. One of its wings was fluttering brokenly against Mister Gibson’s face and thin black blood stained the fur around his jowls.
“Let go of it!” Nana howled at the car, waving her fists at him. He tried to shy away from her, but refused to drop the broken fairy. He jerked his head, pulling the wire, growling threateningly. Her eyes clouded with furious tears and she grabbed the cat’s tail in one hand, tugging it hard. With the other she squeezed his mouth until he had no choice but to spit the mangled fairy out. It was a ruined mess. The wings were dark and broken, it had teeth holes right through its thin body and it was oozing blood. It was dead.
***
Nana buried the broken fairy in the frozen earth of her back garden. She’d had to snip through its ankles with her sharp kitchen scissors before she could pry it off the wire. It made a horrible snapping sound, like twigs underfoot. She’d wrapped it in her finest flannel and taken it outside. The ground had been hard, digging a small hole had taken a long time and practically put her back out. The blood-stained Mister Gibson had watched her from beneath a small clump of dead brambles. He had a reproachful look in his eyes. She glared back in return, and spat on the earth.
When it was done she went back inside feeling chilled to the bones. She’d been in the garden for hours. The postman had been while she was outside, there was a postcard on the doormat. It read: “Mother, having a great time. Hope you are well. Thomas.” Nana stared at it for a long time before dropping it into the bin.
“Happy Christmas to you, too.” Feeling black, she made a cup of tea to warm her fingers and staggered back into the sitting room. She stood the Christmas tree back up and swept the fallen baubles and needles into a neat little pile below it. The fairies, still agitated from the attack, watched her every move.
Eventually, having finished the tidying, Nana curled up on her armchair, staring at nothing. Hours passed.
Some of the fairies had stayed awake all day, she noticed, fluttering their wings occasionally, watching her and the rest of the room with their beady eyes. The room no longer felt warm and cosy, it held an air of foreboding, of dread. They were frightened, she supposed, on guard in case Mister Gibson returned. Well, she’d make sure he didn’t, thought Nana tiredly, she’d shut the door and keep him away, except she was so tired from digging in the cold, she needed to sleep. Her eyelids began to droop. Yes, she’d get up to shut the door, in a minute maybe. She could rest first. Yes..
***
She dreamt dark dreams. She felt things tickling her face, her hands, her legs, like drifting lace. She heard wings in the darkness, wings of night creatures. Insects, moths, bats. She felt the gathering night like cords around her eyes and ears. She couldn’t see or hear, she couldn’t feel anything, only the blackness pressing against her skull.
***
The clock on the mantelpiece struck midnight. Nana woke with a start to find the sitting room bustling with activity. Through the gloom Nana saw scores of fairies skittering loops around her. They had grown up, they were free of the wire. They had changed colour, too, pulsing crimson, violet and, above all else, black. Everywhere the black fairies flew they remained perfectly visible, yet they seemed to suck the light out of everything around them. Nana felt a shiver run down her spine, they were ominous and terrifying.
Suddenly, the fairies all flew up to the ceiling, circling and flashing brightly. Before Nana could move they had swooped down around her in a great circle, buffeting her face and hands. She let out a confused scream and fell forwards off the armchair, vainly trying to shield her face. She went blind every time the black fairies flew across her eyes.
Staggering upright, Nana tried to escape into the hallway but the fairies gathered around her and buffeted her in the opposite direction. A low, menacing hum had risen from the creatures, from the movement of the wings, or from their voices, Nana didn’t care. She was on her knees now, crying, frightened. She didn’t understand, why would they do this?
The air around her glowed bright red as a flight of crimson-winged fairies flew over her head. They alighted in the branches of the Christmas tree and Nana saw what they had been forcing her towards.
Mister Gibson hung from the middle of the tree, strung up like a bloody bauble. The wire from the fairy lights had been twisted around his neck, around his body, his legs, even around his tail. It was so tight that great clumps of ginger fur stood up between the biting wires. His eyes were gone, blood trickling down his face, and his blue tongue was lolling out of his mouth.
“Mister Gibson!” Nana screamed in horror. “My baby, what have they done to you? My poor baby!” She wailed at the fairies who had resumed circling slowly around the ceiling. “What have you done to him? Why did you....” She broke off sobbing and slumped to the floor, heart pounding. Her fingers and toes felt numb, her head was fogged with shock.
Slowly, the fairies ceased their circling. The noise stopped and they began to change colour, back to the blues, greens, pinks and golds that they had first been. One by one they dropped out of the air and darted into the fireplace, up the chimney and out into the night. Nana lifted her head as the last couple of fairies circled the room slowly. Her nose was bleeding; she couldn’t hear anything past the pounding in her ears. She saw the last fairy shoot up the chimney, golden glow fading slowly on the stones.
“Don’t leave me... alone,” Croaked Nana, as the world turned dark.
Broken
by Dave Paul
Awakening slowly, she surfaces from her dreamless sleep. Beside her lies the drained husk of her last feed; the grey pallor of his skin just beginning to show signs of darkening, as purple and brown bruises spread across his face. She smiles as she rises from the bed. She is satisfied and happy.
***
Outside the sunshine hurts her eyes after the gloom of the apartment, but she walks with a carefree bounce in her step. Her chestnut brown hair is tussled by the light summer breeze that glides its way through the streets and avenues of New York. Spiralling dust and paper bump lazily against tall, imposing buildings.
Ahead is Grand Central Station and she joins the crowd that streams that way. The hands of the station clock, high above the arches and columns of the grey building, announce to the bustling city that noon approaches. She is leaving, but there are many more cities to visit, many more people to help.
***
Broken, that is exactly how he feels, broken and twisted and dead inside. Not as dead as Catherine, not as broken as Catherine, but that, somehow, only makes him feel worse. The physical pain he endured is nothing to the mental anguish that continually throbs away inside him. He wishes he had died instead of Catherine. He wishes he had been in the passenger seat to take the full force of the impact. He wishes he had protected her the way she had unknowingly protected him from the swerving car that had crumpled them both.
Now, alone, he has nothing to live for. His whole world had been towed away with the wreckage of his car; with the wreckage of his wife. And what of the drunken driver who has wreaked this nightmare existence on him? A heavy fine and banned from driving for twelve months. Where is the fucking justice?
Nathan leaves the court and makes his way through the shiny wet streets of London. He welcomes the steady rain that plasters his thick black hair to his scalp. He appreciates its ability to hide his tears as his memory betrays him and wanders through happier times.
The neon sign displaying the name of the bar is distorted and blurred by the heavy drops of water that cloud his sight. Rain or tears it does not matter, only the fact that he is here means anything.
Inside he climbs aboard a high stool and rests his elbows on the sticky bar top. Music, non-descript and annoying, plays over a crackling speaker system. The light is dim, the customers match. It does not matter, Na
than is in no mood for clever conversation or companionship, he seeks only erasure of the pain.
“Hey, Nat.” The barman nods and pulls a bottle of Jack Daniels from a glass shelf. He places a shot glass in front of the regular customer and pours.
“Hey,” Nathan replies, eyes only for the glass in front of him. The first one burns, the next is smoother. By the end of the night it will be like drinking water, or more precisely, like drowning in water.
Smoke hangs low from the ceiling, making breathing laboured, making eyes sting. The mundane music gives way to a heavy rock ballad as the third glass of amber fire warms its way down Nathan’s throat. Wearily, he closes his eyes, shutting out the world around him, concentrating on what has been. Catherine comes to him and strokes his face. She speaks to him, but he is unable to catch her words, the music competing with her soft voice. It may have been “I love you,” it may have been “I hate you,” he doesn’t know which for sure, but he can accept either; he deserves both. When he opens his eyes again, his glass is full, the barman is gone.
“Have you got a light?”
Nathan stares at his drink and wonders if he should make it the last. Night after night he has been dulling the pain this way; night after night he has been masking his memories with alcohol. Perhaps now, today, enough is enough.
“Excuse me. Do you have a light?”
For one brief, insane moment Nathan thinks that the shot glass has spoken to him. So absorbed is he in its contents that he has not noticed the brunette sitting on the stool next to him. Like a village idiot he turns and says, “What?”
“A light. Do you have one?” She holds up a cigarette as though realising she is dealing with someone of limited intelligence. Her eyes wander up and down the length of his body assessing the possibilities. His has difficulty focusing in the dim light, in the alcohol haze.
“Yeah.” Nathan replies as he searches through his pockets. He hands a book of matches over and for the first time looks into the face of the woman next to him. His heart skips two beats before slamming back to a quickened, irregular rhythm. “Catherine?”
The woman smiles as the flame of the match highlights her pretty features. She draws deep and long on the cigarette, blowing the smoke out in a long stream, her head tilted back.
“I’ll be whoever you want, honey.” Her voice is teasing. She licks her lips, leaving them glossy and wet. “But my name is Carla.”
Nathan, embarrassment burning his face, turns his attention back to the glass. “Sorry. I....” He doesn’t finish the sentence, or if he does the words drift away, carried by the smoke and rock music. He lifts the glass, tips the liquid into his mouth and returns the glass to the same spot on the counter with the perfection of the practiced.
“Want to talk about it?” Carla has shuffled her stool closer. Her arm is a fraction of space from Nathan’s. Her perfume now competes with the smell of burning tobacco.
“It’s a long story.” Nathan’s words are like a resigned sigh.
“I’ve got all the time in the world,” Carla replies as she rests her head on his slouched shoulder.
For two whiskey-soaked hours the pair stay together. Nathan pours out his heart, his soul, his life story. Carla drinks it all in, nourished by his sadness, feeding on his vulnerability. Often she places her hand on his arm or his thigh, feeling his wiry muscles through the fabric of his clothes. More than once he calls her Catherine.
When words finally refuse to flow, Nathan climbs down off the stool. The room pitches, throwing him into the eager arms of Carla. Once more he stares into eyes that remind him so much of his Catherine. He slowly leans forward and gently kisses her lips.
“I love you, Catherine.” Sorrow gnaws at his heart. “I’m so sorry,” he cries.
“I know,” replies Carla.
Nathan closes his eyes as darkness and erasure finally overcome him.
***
Carla watches the sleeping Nathan. They are in her flat, Nathan’s slumped body helped into a taxi by the barman. She studies Nathan’s features, the deep lines that are etched into his weathered skin, the small red veins that line his nose, the troubled expression on his face. He has the appearance of a broken man; she possesses the knowledge of what has snapped him.
Nathan is a lost soul with no one to turn to – her speciality. She is perpetually drawn to them, or they to her. She is unsure which is correct. All she really knows is that her very existence depends upon them. She has no knowledge of how she has come to be, or where her journey will lead. There are no memories of childhood or creation, of parents or creator. Her past is a black void, her future the same. Her only knowledge is that there are many like Nathan who need her and on whose helplessness she depends to survive.
“Nathan.” Her voice is soft and caring.
The prone figure does not respond and a part of Carla is glad that for a while he has been able to forget the past. But she is acutely aware that it will not last. Memory is not something that can be packed away forever. It will always return, it will always break his heart.
“Nathan, wake up.” This time she gently places her hand on his shoulder and rocks him. “Nathan.” She needs him awake if she is to lift his burden, ease his pain.
Stirring to consciousness, his eyes flicker open. An expression of confusion spreads across his face and, on seeing Carla, Nathan sits up quickly.
“It’s okay.” Carla’s voice is soothing and gentle.
Nathan quickly scans the room trying to recognise where he is. Nothing is familiar to him. Nothing except the brunette who sits opposite.
“I have to get home,” he says, rising from the sofa that has been his bed for the past four hours. His head aches; his mouth is dry and sour.
“What for? There’s nothing waiting for you there.”
Carla’s words hit Nathan hard, knocking the breath from his lungs. He sinks back down and lowers his head, cradling it in his hands.
“I know how you are feeling.” The words drift past Nathan’s hands and snake their way into his mind. Carla moves to his side and sits down next to him. “I can help.”
“How?” Nathan asks. “How can you help me? Can you make Catherine come back from the dead?” Tears stream from his eyes.
“No, I can’t. But I can take away the guilt.”
Carla places her hands on either side of Nathan’s head. She gently massages his temples, easing the growing pain that throbs away inside his skull. He closes his eyes and lets the gentle movement of Carla’s fingers tease away the hurt he feels inside. He imagines that the hands do not belong to Carla, but belong to Catherine. He feels their warmth as they slowly move in small, calming circles.
Carla applies more pressure to her fingers and the circles they make become smaller, concentrating on the temple area alone. Gradually her finger tips soften, the flesh seemingly melting into Nathan’s skull. She pushes harder and her finger sink deep into Nathan’s head, absorbing Nathan’s skin, merging with his flesh, eating through his bone. Carla and Nathan become one with no discernable junction between his face and her hands. One is becoming part of the other, it does not matter which, the result will be the same. She delves deeper with her now liquid fingers, probing, searching, as she continues to drive further inside Nathan’s brain.
A low, almost animal groan escapes Nathan. His eyes are tipped far back into their sockets so only the whites can be seen. His body trembles as though a series of mini convulsions are rocking his soul. Saliva dribbles from the corner of his mouth, which droops with slackened muscles similar to that of a stroke victim.
“Yes, I’ve got it now.” Carla’s inhuman fingers have penetrated the temporal lobes of Nathan’s brain and her link with Nathan is now far more than just physical. She has merged with his emotions, his thoughts, his desires. She sees what he sees, knows what he knows, feels what he feels. This is her feeding ground, this is the source of her sustenance.
Within this section of Nathan’s brain memories of his life are stored like old
film canisters, stacked heavily one on top of the other. Carla scans through the images, discarding all until she happens upon the one that she knows is there; the one that, more than any other memory, brings Nathan to his knees whenever he visits it.
Flesh to flesh, emotion to emotion, soul to soul. Nathan and Carla are inseparable. She has reached deep inside him and she now holds the one thing that Nathan has tried to keep hidden from himself, the truth. Before Carla finally consumes the nourishment she has sought, satisfying the hunger that now burns fiercely inside her, she lets the images play one last time in Nathan’s mind.
Sinking to his knees, tears flowing freely from his sightless eyes, Nathan, for perhaps the millionth time since the accident, sees himself walking to the car with Catherine on his arm.
***
The night is dark and the brightly lit sign, highlighting the name of the bar in neon glory, casts electric blue shadows over the small car park. They chat happily, arms linked, both using each other for support as they make their alcohol hampered journey to the green Peugeot in the corner of the courtyard.
Nathan unlocks the car and they both get in, he in the driver side, Catherine in the passenger side. It takes two or three attempts for Nathan to insert the key into the ignition slot, but eventually he manages. Catherine has pushed back her seat and closed her eyes to the spinning interior of the car.
Just before he strikes life into the engine, Nathan pauses. A single, sober thought flashes through his mind: I’m too drunk to drive.
“Take me home,” Catherine slurs at the precise moment Nathan’s conscience is telling him not to drive the car, and his thoughts are shattered into minute fragments by his desire to please his wife.