I was so concerned with these terrible creatures, I forgot all about Katy. I guess I should be thankful to them for that, but I’m not.
I was sitting in the cafeteria, my eyelids heavy and a ring of specters surrounding me, poking at me with stinking fingers, when a nurse came running in.
“Mr. Murphy!”
I didn’t recognize my own name at first, not until she ran over and shook my shoulder. I heard the shadows laugh inside my head.
“Mr. Murphy, it’s your wife.”
“What? Is she awake?”
I could tell by the practiced sadness in her eyes that wasn’t the case.
“I’m afraid I need you to come with me,” she said.
The doctor said her body had simply given up, that the trauma was too much, and the odds of her surviving the crash in the first place had been slim. I knew better, though. The voices in my head told me everything.
Should have slept.
You’ll know better next time.
You’ll do what we say, now.
You don’t get to fuck with us.
I asked to see her, and the doctor told me of course I could. He escorted me to her room and said he would be at the nurse’s station if I needed anything. I took a deep breath and went in to say goodbye to my wife.
I screamed.
There must have been ten of the horrible bastards in there. A haze the color of faded parchment filled the room around them. They hovered over Katy, smearing her with ash. They wrote the words WHORE and BITCH on the wall. One had his hands under her gown, doing something to Katy I didn’t want to imagine, let alone see. And they laughed. Every one of them laughed in my head and told me this was what I deserved for not ignoring them and getting some sleep.
I tried to grab one, to pull him off of my wife, but he slipped out of my grasp. A female shoved me, and I tumbled over a male who had ducked behind me. I landed on the floor with a jolt and cried out again, more out of rage than pain. I jumped to my feet and started swinging. They sidestepped every punch, responding with laughter each time, and soon I was screaming, crying, punching at the air like a mad man. I tumbled over Katy’s bed and sent us both to the floor. The figures pointed at us and spouted insults, and I covered my wife and ordered them to shut up.
It took four orderlies to pull me off of Katy, and two more were needed to hold me down long enough for the doctor to give me an injection. I felt exhausted at once, and I’m sure I cried well after I finally fell asleep.
I’ve been awake for just over a day. I’ve heard you can start hallucinating after only twenty-four hours without sleep, but so far I have nothing to show for it. I’m supposed to be working on the funeral arrangements for Katy, but I can’t worry about that right now. I can’t see the figures anymore. They’re invisible again, and I have get back to the point where I can see them before it’s too late.
I can feel them sometimes. They nudge me when I’m all alone, or they whisper to me from far away, just letting me catch the slightest hint of their voices. They move things around when I’m not looking. They know I haven’t forgotten about them, so they’re trying to drive me insane with fear. Only I’m not afraid of them. Even when they try to hurt me, when they make cars swerve as I cross the street or drop objects toward me from above, they don’t scare me. I know about them, and I’m going to stop them.
I just have to stay awake.
SILENT CORNERS
I need to get out more. I realize that now.
I mean, seriously. This wouldn’t have happened if I had gone out Friday night. It wouldn’t have even mattered where I went, just as long as I had left my dorm room.
But I didn’t, and now I’m in trouble.
I guess it started in Friday’s acoustics class. Acoustics is standard first-year fare for music engineering students. Some of the upper classmen told me I’d end up bored out of my skull, but I thought it was fascinating. The upper classmen told me I needed to get out more (guess everybody knows), but I figured it was because they never had Mr. Donovan for a teacher.
Mr. Donovan’s new, working on some post-graduate project or another, and he ended up taking over the acoustics class. He was second engineer on the latest Stones record, and he’s just got this way of making everything sound so exciting, so amazing. He can separate the harmonics in his voice and tell what note a cellphone rings at. I’ve never seen a teacher so excited to be teaching.
Friday’s class was another head-spinner. Mr. Donovan was talking about sound, and how the physical environment can affect sound. See, sound travels through air, and sound waves bounce off of things that get in their way. That’s how we get echoes. All that bouncing, however, can make for some interesting phenomenon. For instance, many domed buildings have sweet spots, where you can hear a person whispering across the room as if they were right next to you. The Capitol has a sweet spot. So does the train station in Cincinnati.
Anyway, Mr. Donovan was saying that, just as there are sweet spots, there are also dead spots. These are places sound can’t reach, not even your own voice.
The idea blew my mind. I couldn’t pay attention to the rest of the class. I was just too absorbed in the concept, the idea of it all. By the time Mr. Donovan let us go, I had decided to spend the evening searching my dorm room for a dead spot.
Trust me. I know how lame it sounds. There I was at college, on my own for the first time in my entire life, and I decided to spend Friday night combing every inch of my dorm room for the one spot that sound couldn’t reach. You’ve got to understand, though, that I just had to do it. I was convinced that, somewhere in that cramped room of blue concrete, there was a dead spot. I wanted to find it.
Maybe I should have just gone out and tried to get laid.
I turned on the TV, switched the channel to a nice field of snow. The static was my test tone. I started near the door. I wedged myself into the corner as tight as I could. I didn’t expect to succeed right off the bat, and I certainly wasn’t let down. I heard the TV’s static loud and clear.
I moved out of the corner, sliding to the right along the wall. I only moved a fraction of an inch.
No change.
That was how I began my search, and that was how I continued. I moved a hair’s breadth at a time, sliding all the way down the wall, moving forward, and sliding to the left. White noise, sound without frequency, rang constant in my ears.
Time seemed to slow, to stop. There was the room, the noise, and myself. Time didn’t matter anymore. I made it back to the door after three hours, back across the room in two more. The sun was rising when I reached the corner for the fourth time.
And then it happened.
It was barely noticeable at first, and I almost missed it entirely. The TV’s volume dipped as I was in mid-movement. I stopped as soon as I could, but the volume had already returned to its normal level. I moved back to the left, a minute and painfully slow motion, and the volume decreased again. I was close, and I knew it. I began shifting my stance, trying to find the dead spot.
It took two more hours.
It was hard not to get frustrated. Each movement seemed to take me to the brink only to pull me back again. The white noise fluctuated in volume, diving lower and lower only to shoot back up again. My body wanted me to give up. My legs ached with protest. My joints cried out for rest. I ignored them, shut it all out. I focused on the noise, listened to its changes, and tried to follow them to the dead spot.
Finally, I found it.
It only took a slight cock of the head, and the TV’s noise suddenly disappeared. I froze. The room was silent around me. My heart hammered in my chest. I spoke.
I heard nothing.
I smiled, broke into silent laughter. I had found it. I had found a spot of actual acoustic wonder, a perfectly silent corner of my room. I stood still as I celebrated my find. I sang “The Star Spangled Banner” and “Happy Birthday,” and laughed as both fell silent on my ears. It wasn’t until hours later, when I ran out of things to say without hea
ring, that I decided to leave the dead spot.
And found out that I couldn’t.
It seemed so easy. All I had to do was move away from the corner, but I couldn’t seem to find my way back. I looked at the room and realized for the first time that all I could see was the side of the TV and the corner of my desk. Everything else was blue cinder block. My heart jumped from an excited rhythm to a beat of terror. I ran my hands over the blue concrete, tried to feel my way back, but I never seemed to go anywhere no matter how far I walked. The TV never grew closer, never grew farther away.
I was lost.
I screamed, such a stupid thing to do. The sound never appeared. I don’t know if it made it into the room or not. When I was tired of screaming, I fell to the floor and cried. When I was tired of crying, I stared at the TV and the desk. They looked so close.
I think that was a day ago. I don’t know for sure, because I can’t see the clock. The sunlight hasn’t grown dimmer, hasn’t grown brighter. It’s just there.
I’m afraid. Maybe it’s been days, and I just can’t tell. Maybe it’s only been an hour. Maybe time has stopped.
I’m not hungry anymore. I’m not thirsty. I haven’t slept, but I don’t feel tired. I’m just here.
Maybe I’m going to be here forever.
I think my roommate should be back soon. He was only going to be gone for the weekend, just long enough to visit his girlfriend. I hope he gets back soon.
I hope he can see me.
SEÑORITA
One
I would have killed a hundred for her. Who knows? Maybe I’ll reach that number someday. Got a stretch to go, but you never can tell. My hands are already plenty dirty, and I did all of it for her.
Hell, way things are going, I’m probably gonna die for her.
Two
Met her out back of a bar in El Paso. Got myself kicked out for beating a guy half to death. He looked at me funny, and that’s something I don’t handle with a smile. I ain’t a bad guy, but I don’t take folks fucking with me so well.
Anyway, the ape at the door didn’t even give me time to go squirt a piss, so I eased my way around back to do my business.
And there she was.
A fat Mexican had her down on her knees. His fingers were curled up in her hair. She was skinny and a little dirty, wore a T-shirt that hiked up to show a broken heart tattoo on the small of her back, a pair of cut-offs that showed nearly everything else. Black cowboy boots covered her calves. Her neck moved like a chicken pecking corn.
I still felt a burn inside me. I was pissed at the bastard who’d looked at me and the ape at the door. That anger needed spending.
The Mexican moaned. Sweat shined on his face. I crept closer as his eyes rolled back and fluttered shut. He muttered something in spic and started to cry out. I cut him off with a right cross. He flew backward and bounced off the dirty bricks. I followed with a hook to the gut. He crumpled.
I looked down at her, and even through my whiskey haze I could tell she was just a girl. Big eyes, small mouth. A tangle of black hair framed her brown face.
“You okay, señnorita?” I asked.
She stared up at me, terrified. That’s when I knew the fat prick had raped her.
“Fucking wetback piece of shit.” The words rumbled out of me as I stalked him. He looked up. Grease ran off his fat face. His cheeks quivered.
“No!” he said.
I answered by damn near removing his jaw with my foot. I kept kicking until his skull caved in and his body started bucking.
I held out my hand to her. “Let’s go.”
She took it. We left.
Three
Twenty minutes later, I watched her work on a burger. She ate like a starving wolf.
“How long since you ate?”
She didn’t answer. I guessed it had been awhile.
When she finished, she looked at me with eyes full of love. It looked mean on her. Beautiful, but mean.
“That man, he owe me money.”
“Huh?”
“Twenty dollars, make him pop. He no pay.”
I considered it. “He pop?”
“No.”
“Then he don’t owe you.”
She shrugged and ordered a Coke.
“Bad for your teeth.”
She ignored me. I didn’t mind. She was beautiful, such a sight it hurt to look right at her. I felt blessed just to be sitting there with her. She was too good for me. An angel with black hair and cocoa skin. She appeared a little older in the light, maybe eighteen or nineteen.
My eyes dipped lower. I saw the apple shapes of her breasts and the top of her flat belly. She stretched, and I made out the line of her lowest ribs. It answered my question about when she last ate.
“You like, gringo?”
My eyes jumped to hers. I saw disappointment on her face.
“Um…”
“Twenty dollars, want me suck you. Stick it in me for fifty.”
“I don’t—”
“Sixty, you want my ass. You need rubber for that.”
I watched her for a long moment. I couldn’t find the words. They’d all left me. My mind wondered, and images flashed through my brain. I tried to shove them aside, but they held on like angry dogs. Sweat, skin, and pleasure filled my world.
I hated myself and my lust, but she was looking at me. Her lips parted just a little.
I left a twenty on the table and pulled her out of her seat.
Four
I barely made it back to the truck before putting it to her. The act itself was fast and ugly. I grunted like a bull and she moaned, “Papi,” in my ear over and over. She sounded like a songbird, one of those pretty ones that don’t screech. Her legs hooked around me, and my beer belly fell out from under my dirty work shirt to slap against her. When I finished I thought I was gonna die. I’d had my turn with an angel, and now I’d been called away.
Instead I crawled off of her and pulled two twenties and a ten from my wallet.
“Thanks,” I said.
“You the big man,” she said. I caught the lie but ignored it. She was just being nice. She liked me.
She slipped the bills into her pocket and gave them a little pat.
“You get yourself something nice with that,” I told her.
“I give it to Abel.”
“Abel. He a pimp?”
“Guess so. I owe him my money.”
Anger burned. A fucking pimp. “He hit you?”
“He has.”
It was enough for me.
“Take me to him.”
Five
This guy—Abel—lived in a third-floor apartment in one of El Paso’s more hopeless neighborhoods. I pulled the truck to a stop across the street and looked up at the building. Place looked like a molded pile of dog shit.
“How do I get up there?”
“Why?” she asked.
“I want to talk to him.”
“Take stairs.”
“Which apartment?”
“Three-C.”
“He got guns?”
“Yeah.”
“What kind?”
“Don’t know. All kinds, maybe.”
“He alone?”
“Except Marta. She is pregnant. And Rosalie.”
Bastard had a whole string. I hated his guts more with each second.
“Okay. Wait here.”
“You go talk to him?”
“Yes.”
“What about?”
“Doesn’t matter. Wait here. I’ll be right back, okay?”
“Don’t make him mad.”
“That so?”
“So.”
“He mean?”
“Can be.”
“That when he hit you? When he gets mad?”
“No.”
“No?”
“Only when he have to.”
I took a deep breath. The air tasted like ash on my tongue. I hadn’t met Abel yet, but I knew I hated him. He’d fed her a lin
e of bullshit, played hell with her head. Spic bastard had her asking to be roughed up. I figured I was gonna have some fun with him.
“You just wait here, okay?”
“You not gonna hurt Abel?”
“Don’t think so.”
“You can’t hurt him anyway. He mucho big man.”
That one hurt a little. I didn’t let it show.
“Just wait, okay?”
“Okay.” I heard love in her voice. It jangled like raw nerves.
I felt cold as I pulled the keys from the ignition and shouldered open my door. I pushed everything aside and focused on Abel hitting her. I saw the ferocious smashing of a fist against her pretty face. The image burned behind my eyes as I unlocked the toolbox in the bed and retrieved the sawed-off I always kept there. I broke open the shotgun and saw two fresh shells. I grabbed another pair and stuffed them in my pocket.
“That oughta do it.”
I slapped the gun shut and walked across the broken street.
Six
The front door wasn’t locked. It wasn’t one of those where you need to get buzzed up, either. You couldn’t afford that sort of shit in that part of town anyway. Better to spend your money on heavy doors and hope for the best.
I stepped inside. Old tile crumbled to powder beneath my boots. Ancient bulbs cast a pale, sickly light over everything. The place hadn’t been cleaned in a dog’s lifetime. I started up the stairs, keeping to the edge where they wouldn’t creak so much. Each step puffed a cloud of dust into the air.
I took my time. Didn’t want to be out of breath two flights up.
The third floor was just as terrible as the first. Most of the bulbs were dead. A good crop of shadows filled the hallway. Probably a good thing. If some asshole poked their head out, I didn’t want them getting a good look at me. Not that I expected anybody to take a look. Place appeared to be all but abandoned.
Selected Stories Page 3