by Ezra Blake
Ivan nods. “A shoulder disarticulation?”
“Whatever you think will look good. Can you come back at, let’s say ten tomorrow morning?”
“Of course.”
“Good. I have some business to attend, but my wife will let you in, and I’ll give you my number in case anything goes wrong.” They both step into the hallway and continue chatting quietly for a few moments while Chris tries and fails to meet Monica’s eyes. She doesn’t pull the strap up herself. Neither does Alyssa.
Ivan pokes his head back into the room and motions for him. “We’re leaving. Come along.”
“Bye,” he says quietly. Alyssa gives him a small nod.
In the painful nostalgia of his pitch-black office, Ivan is all he can perceive—not a face or a voice, but the overwhelming essence of his being.
"Why are we here?" He asks.
“Why do you think we’re here?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t seen this place since…”
Since when? Since he considered himself a hostage. Since he was bouncing up and down on Ivan’s cock, professing his undying love and hearing what he wanted to hear in response.
“I can still tell you what you want to hear.” His voice drips. “I’ve planned for every possibility. I make your decisions.”
Christopher’s tapping fingers still. “Did you just read my mind?”
“Does that surprise you?”
“I don’t—” He’s cut short by an ear-splitting, metallic wail. It pulses through the house, rattling the spotlight poised over Ivan’s head. It illuminates the office in terrible bursts.
“Focus,” Ivan says, nearly shouting to be heard over the shriek. “Focus on me, Christopher!”
As his attention settles, the light steadies once more and the sound dies down. He winces as he draws his hands away from his ears. “I don’t know what’s going on,” he says in a shaky whisper.
“Every human being suffers, but your suffering doesn’t have to be meaningless. Don’t you trust me to care for you?”
“I don’t know,” he says.
“Christopher.”
“I don’t know.” He grinds the heels of his hands into his eye sockets.
“Darling,” he says gently. “It’s alright. I love you.”
Chris jolts awake, and for a moment the words echo in his head. It’s murky, whirling chaos in there—and then it’s still, empty horror.
The alarm clock flashes 4:00. He disentangles himself from the bedding, from Ivan, and steps into the humid darkness of the courtyard. The night is alive with crickets, distant traffic, and the hollow yowling of street cats.
He strips off his shirt and starts stretching. Ivan wants him to stay limber. Fingers to toes, lie back, knees to chest. Stretch your ankles higher. Can you still cross them behind your head?
Though his time in confinement has blurred together, it occasionally bubbles to the surface in multimodal flashes: the close blackness, the smell of fear, the sound of his own heartbeat. He spent decades locked in this position. That’s real; that’s Trauma as a proper noun, yet part of him wishes the nightmares would come more often, in more detail. It’s worse to forget.
He does planks and push-ups until his arms are shaking, and the whole time, he’s plagued by the prickle of watchful eyes on his neck. They’re alone in this house. Just him and Ivan. His rational mind says cameras, but the thick night air screams monsters, demons, the ghosts of your victims! A nervous chuckle, a few more crunches. Chris is a scientist. He knows this is ridiculous.
Then something touches his shoulder.
“Who’s there?”
He spins around, but of course he’s alone. A trick of the darkness, a moth, or perhaps the onset of a long-overdue psychotic episode. It’s nothing, nada, void.
His heart stops again when he sees the dark figure seated at the dining table, but it’s only Ivan, of course, rubbing sleep from his eyes. Chris wipes himself down with his shirt, already damp, and steps inside. Goosebumps rise across his arms. He chokes out a forced laugh and adheres himself to Ivan’s side, breathes his earthy, familiar scent. No better remedy for fear of the unknown.
“Good morning to you too. It’s far too early for exercise.” Ivan covers a delicate yawn with the back of his hand. His forehead creases; the melody leaves his voice. “What’s the matter, Christopher?”
Chris can’t speak. He grips Ivan’s knee and they gaze into each other for almost a minute.
“You look like you’ve seen God.”
He blinks hard and looks away. “Don’t flatter yourself.”
So they shower—chrome and neon red perspex, water pressure like a Cambodian monsoon—and drink cinnamon steamed milk. He coaxes Chris back to bed but refuses to let his mind rest. “How long will you need in the morning?” He asks. “Are you ready for the operation?”
“I’m naked.”
Ivan gives him a playful slap on the thigh. “Are you psychologically prepared to assist me?”
“I thought I was just watching.”
“I’d like to see you take initiative. Pain management, perhaps. Help her cope.”
Chris cracks his eyelids. Ivan’s face is the only thing that isn’t blurry; the rest is soft light and dull color. “I didn’t cope.”
“Regardless, you can get inside her mind and do good. It won’t be difficult. She’s your classic abuse victim.” Ivan’s mouth curls into a wry smile. “A much more common reaction than yours.”
“Mine?”
“You have the most genuine and persistent case of Stockholm Syndrome I’ve ever had the pleasure to witness. I daresay it’s progressed all the way through pathological and out the other side.”
“…Thanks?”
“You’re welcome.” Ivan places a chaste kiss on the top of his head, a gesture which wreaks havoc on Christopher’s nervous system no matter how often he does it. “Now, show me what you can do.”
He allows Chris nearly an hour of silence, perhaps to plan. If Chris knew anything about pain management, it’s long gone; it’s rotten, buried. He drifts into a stream of faces he’s probably seen before, now divorced from their context. Old, young, black, white, kind, sad, cruel. Would any of them feel right?
The next time Ivan speaks, the sun is rising and Chris is on the broad edge of consciousness. “Hallucinations in the sane are common,” he says. “Especially in twilight states. You slept poorly.”
Chris clears his throat and rolls to face him, scowling. “Were you spying on me?”
“I made an informed assumption.”
“Well, don’t.” He soaks in the silence for a moment more. A motorcycle roars past the exterior window. “It sounds like you really want me to not be crazy.”
“It would be inconvenient.”
“Mm,” Chris agrees, because it would.
Alyssa opens the door dressed in funeral attire: flowing black dress, platinum hair pinned up in a bun. “Martin,” she says with a weak, sad smile. “It’s good to see you again.” She leads them through the foyer with purposeful steps, shoulders back, hips tucked. Her feet are bare.
“Miss Novello.” Ivan strides into the sitting room with a touch of fake enthusiasm. “How are we feeling?”
Monica is staring up into the skylight, wearing a thin white hospital gown. She can’t wheel around to face them, but she turns her head. “My last name is Fischer.”
“My apologies,” he says. “Are you ready for your operation?”
The fury in her face drains away, revealing the apathetic stare beneath. She shrugs. She’s checked out, but Ivan doesn’t care. He takes her wheelchair by the handles and pushes her toward the elevator.
“Will your husband be joining us?”
“He’s away on business,” Alyssa says. “Whatever that means.”
They follow the particle board ramp through the unfinished parts of the basement. The walls are covered in clear plastic sheeting. Buzzing fluorescent lights make the white tile whiter and the stainless steel equipme
nt gleam.
“I ran those packets through the autoclave,” Alyssa says. “They should still be sealed.”
“Thank you. You can wait upstairs.”
Monica snaps out of her daze, sharp eyes darting to Ivan. “She’s leaving?”
“I’m sure you don’t want to traumatize her. Would you rather she watch?”
“I’ll stay,” Alyssa says. “I stayed for the last two.”
Ivan lets out an almost imperceptible sigh. “Take a mask and a folding chair. And help me lift her onto the table, please.”
She holds Monica under the arms while Ivan takes her hips. “Up we go,” Alyssa murmurs. When she pulls away, Monica’s tiny hand lingers on her arm a little longer than necessary.
This is the part where Chris comforts her. He’ll tell her that Ivan is quick; he’s an expert. He’ll walk her through some breathing exercises.
“I’m going to give you some morphine for the pain,” Ivan says.
He’ll guide her focus through her body and instruct her to relax each muscle in turn.
“Hey, Ivan?” He asks.
Ivan ignores him. He’s wrapping her arm with paper and plastic sheets. He winds cloth bandages around her chest, not too tight; he crosses them under the table and back up over her left shoulder. Her tears soak into the paper pillowcase.
Chris is going to walk her through breathing exercises. He’ll set the cadence. Breathe in…hold it…very good, and out.
“Ivan?” He asks.
The lidocaine needle pierces her shoulder. She sobs when it enters the joint. Chris is going to tell her to breathe in…hold it…
Ivan withdraws the needle. “How do you feel?”
“High,” she chokes. “Terrible. Don’t ask me that.”
Chris says, “Ivan, should I—”
“Let me.” Alyssa crosses the room in a few long strides. She shoulders Chris out of the way and whispers, “I’m here with you. Let’s breathe together. In…two…three…four…and out. Just like that.”
Ivan picks up the scalpel, but he thinks better of it. “More light,” he says, gesturing to a surgical lamp in the corner.
Nobody moves.
“Martin, the lamp.”
Chris stares.
“Christopher.”
He jolts into action, muttering, “Sorry, sorry.” When he comes back, Ivan is carving through flesh with quick, precise strokes.
“How long?” Monica asks.
“Not long,” Alyssa says. “He’s faster than the last one.”
A bleary smile. Her tears have slowed. Ivan is through to the muscle now. His tongue pokes out of the corner of his mouth as he cuts. He says, “Plug in the cautery pen.”
Alyssa strokes Monica’s hair as they breathe together. Chris bites the insides of his cheeks. He pulls the extension cord closer, takes the pen from the table, and there’s the mess of gore that used to be her arm. It’s bleeding a lot, but Ivan knows what he’s doing. He removes his gloves again, positions the prongs over the socket, and—
Darkness. The room goes black.
For a moment nobody speaks, and then they all start speaking at once, what happened and what the hell and stay calm, breathe with me, in…
His mind flipped off with the light. He stands motionless with his hands locked in sterile claws until Ivan says, “Christopher, fix it.”
“Oh, shit,” he says. “Fuck fuck fuck, what do I—”
“The breaker. Do I need to draw a diagram?”
Chris breathes black air. It’s an easy fix, but he can’t move.
Open your mouth, idiot, he gave you an order!
“Right, uh, Alyssa. Shit. I need a flashlight or something. Take the stairs. Elevator will be out. Run.” She fumbles and clatters through the dark room, and when the door swings open, there’s no light to let in. His heart is beating in his throat.
“Monica,” he says, feeling for the edge of the table. He brushes against her hair and crouches to what he thinks is head height. “All we need to do is throw the breaker and everything will come back on. You hear me?”
She makes a sound that reminds Chris of biting through his own tongue. He prays that hasn’t happened. “You’re going to be okay,” he says. “Once Alyssa’s back, this will take me thirty seconds, tops, and then we can power through the rest.”
“Bleeding…” she murmurs.
“We have gallons of blood in the fridge. You’re going to be fine.”
And she will. She has to be fine, or they’re all fucked.
Claustrophobic silence. No sound but breath and pounding hearts.
The door bursts open and light floods the room. Ivan looks like a vengeful ghost, fury etched across his face, his gloved hand clamped hard over the seeping wound.
“Yes,” Chris says. “Pass it here.”
She does. Chris is already scouring the room. He saw the box when they came in earlier—ah, there it is, in the corner, except—
“Fuck.”
“What is it?”
“It’s locked. Who locks their goddamn electrical box?”
Alyssa groans. “Paranoid piece of—”
Chris grabs the nearest heavy object—the surgical lamp—and slams it into the padlock at full force.
“Christopher!”
He holds the flashlight in his teeth and smashes the base of the lamp into the box, over and over, until his shoulders burn and his vision is blurry with tears. The padlock pops open. He doesn’t waste a second; he rips it off the box and flings open the door, scans the mass of plugs and switches. There. He flips the switch.
The overhead lights flicker on, blinding him temporarily, but that doesn’t stop him from fumbling around the power strip and yanking out the cord for the lamp. He grabs the cautery pen, plugs it in, and passes it to Ivan by the cord.
Ivan doesn’t thank him. He snatches the pen starts sealing Monica’s bleeding arm.
“Do we need blood?”
“No,” he says.
Monica says, “I think I’m gonna pass out.”
“Are you sure she doesn’t need blood?”
“An unnecessary transfusion could harm her. Alyssa, can you take blood pressure?”
“I can,” Chris says. He’s already found the cuff and stethoscope. “120 over 82. I don’t know what that means for a double amputee.”
“Normal, but watch it.” He glances up for just a second, but his gaze lingers on Chris’s shaking hands. “You’re going to crash very soon. Show Alyssa how to use the cuff, get a blanket from the cabinet, and wrap yourself up.”
“I can help—”
“You’ve helped enough,” Ivan says. “Take care of yourself, or you’ll be ineffective later.”
“She’s out,” Alyssa says, an edge of panic in her voice. “What do we do?”
“Are you good at math?”
“I don’t see what that has to do with—”
“Take her heart rate, and then take her systolic blood pressure. Divide the first number by the second. Do this every two minutes if you can. We’ll perform a blood transfusion if the ratio rises above point eight, but it will slow me down. Chris, show her, and then hurry up and get a blanket. I’ll need your help if we have to—ah.” A sharp intake of breath, and he peels off his right glove. It’s melted to his index finger.
“Are you okay?” Chris asks.
“I’m fine. Blood pressure, now.”
He burnt himself on the cautery pen. Ivan doesn’t make mistakes.
Chris pushes the thought from his mind and shows Alyssa what to do. He takes off the expensive watch he doesn’t remember putting on, buckles it around her wrist. There are two blankets in the cupboard. He wraps one around his shoulders and sinks down in the corner. The open wound is out of sight.
“Point six-two-five,” Alyssa says.
The room is filled with damp breath, the buzz of the cautery pen, the sickly smell of fresh blood and burning flesh. Ivan hurt himself. The open wound is migrating up his nostrils and down his throat.
<
br /> “Point six-four.”
The scalpel is ripping a bloody cavern into the bottom of Christopher’s stomach. The wound is inside him. It’s black, reeking, miles deep.
“Point six-three-five.”
Something is breathing at the bottom of that pit.
Chapter 21
The side door stands ajar. The walls are stiff and breathless; condensation beads on the red leather couch. Jake fumbles the Glock out of his pants and aims at everything.
No sound. No motion. Is he alone?
“Fuck this,” he mutters, and shuffles sideways into the kitchen.
The mortar and pestle are stuffed behind that coffee gift basket his drunk uncle Jeremy gave him for Christmas last year. He’s sent one every year since Jake refused to drink the coffee at camp. He doesn’t have the heart to explain that he hates all coffee, not just the instant shit.
Whatever. Fuck the pestle. He can smash pills with anything—with the butt of the gun, even. He sniffs jagged shards and he allows himself a moment to revel in his own badassery. If Elliot is still here, if he broke into the house and gave Ash so much as a drink of water, Jake is going to blow his brains out.
He kicks off his shoes and toes his way up the stairs. He slips, catches himself on the banister. Six people have fallen down these stairs since he moved in, and Elliot will be next. Swipe his feet out from under him. Splat, sprawled out in a heap of his own guts. What a terrible accident.
Murderer! Sadist!
The landing is dark. Jake’s heartbeat thrums through the trigger.
There. Elliot is a motionless lump on the landing, and Jake doesn’t think. He doesn’t fire. Jake grabs a fistful of shirt and launches him down the stairs.
Whoosh!
The comforter billows like a flock of wedding doves. It slaps down on the fourth step and slithers the rest of the way to the ground. He stripped it from the guest bed, of course. Covered in crusty vomit. He was supposed to wash it.
Jake recenters himself and aims with two hands, the way cops do in movies. He shoulders the door open. The room is dark. Ash’s limbs poke out from under Jake’s half-finished quilt, stitched together from scraps of old band shirts. It’s been stuffed in the back of his closet for the past six months, at least. Now it’s here.