by C. K. Vile
Right. He had said that.
“Yeah. Actually, this was a new thing. I kind of wrote a story about The Shady Thicket. Loosely. It’s on my website.”
“Yeah? That’s what you worked on after we went out? That’s awesome.”
“I’m glad you think so. Someone else sure did.” He drew out the words, his voice hinting at conspiracy.
Danielle came back to Nick and grabbed his hands. “What does that mean?”
Nick blushed. He regretted he’d brought it up. It felt masturbatory.
“Ah, the guys who made Rat King already want to make it into a movie.”
Danielle exploded, but unlike in his head, it was figurative.
“Holy shit! You’re kidding. That’s unbelievable.” She threw her arms around Nick’s neck, jumped up and down, and made a noise that resembled a pig being slaughtered.
“Whoa, don’t get too excited, I basically told them to go fuck themselves.”
Danielle relinquished her grip on Nick’s person. “Oh, right, because you didn’t like what they did with Rat King’s ending.”
An opportunity had presented itself. What would a party who didn’t have direct financial gain at stake think?
“Yeah, they did a number on it. Do you think I’m nuts?”
She shook her head. “Hell no. you know how I feel about endings. Every story has a perfect one.”
That word again. He’d never heard it so many times in a week.
“Seriously, if they’re going to mess with your story, don’t let them touch it. Take it to your grave before you let someone mess with it. Because at that point it doesn’t matter anyway,” she said.
That made sense. As much as anything Danielle said made sense, at any rate. Why couldn’t her way with words translate into her writing? The world had been robbed of some brilliant work.
“You’re probably right. But either way, I should take the day and night to work.”
Nick tensed up. He waited for an outburst, but Danielle only kissed him on the cheek. Fortunately, it felt affectionate. He expected the kiss of death.
“Of course. Do your brilliant writer thing. I have my own work to do.”
Nick breathed a sigh of relief. The hope of a stable relationship with Danielle once again set up shop in his chest.
He followed her to her car. It was a sad little thing, covered in dings and chipped paint. Danielle playfully covered his eyes. “Don’t look at my car, it’s awful. I call it my 1994 Shitbox.”
Nick kissed her forehead. “I think it’s a little messed up, but has character. Like you.”
She drove off, waving out the driver’s side window. Nick retreated back into the house and collapsed into a chair at the kitchen table. As much as he’d craved real human contact, being a social person exhausted him. But not enough that it wasn’t time for him to get back to work.
Another day in the so-called salt mines. Another day of space. Sweet, blissful, space.
That lasted a full half-hour.
Chapter 10
“Well, there she is!” Bonnie greeted Danielle with her traditional warmth and bubbly enthusiasm. “We were wondering about you.”
Chuck kept his nose buried in his newspaper. “Mornin’.”
“Chuckie went out for the paper and saw your car wasn’t in its usual spot. We were worried about you last night.”
“I wasn’t worried, that was all her.”
Bonnie grimaced at her husband then went back to stocking a shelf with tiny cans of cat food. “You were the one who mentioned that her car was gone,” she said.
“I mentioned that her car was gone,” Chuck said, not leaving well enough alone. “I didn’t say I was worried about her.”
Danielle was used to this from the Littleberrys. She looked at her phone. It had been almost twenty minutes since she’d left Nick’s house and she didn’t have a new message from him. That wasn’t ideal.
The older couple bickered back and forth about who was worried, who wasn’t worried, whether Danielle was old enough to take care of herself, whether it was any of their business where she went or when she came home.
Someday she and Nick would be like them, except living in his big house. They’d probably be grandparents by the time they were as old as these two.
She did the math in her head. If she and Nick were married by the end of the year, they’d be parents within fifteen months. She frowned. That seemed far off.
If they skipped a proper wedding and were married by a judge, they’d be parents within eleven months. That’d have to do.
Bonnie’s rising voice interrupted Danielle’s life-plan. “I’m saying she could have been dead on the side of the road for all we knew, and wouldn’t you have felt bad?”
“Guys, I was fine. I was at Nick’s.”
“All night? Oh my.” Bonnie’s face turned a funny shade of red.
“Now dear, it’s not the same world we grew up in. It’s all gone to hell.” He briefly appeared from behind the black and white pages. “But at least we have our health.”
Bonnie moved from the cat food to the soap and straightened the limited selection. “I mean that was the second night in a row she’d been out with him.” The plump little woman turned her attention to Danielle. “You two take it slow now, there’s no rush.”
Take it slow? What was she talking about? They’d waited until their second date to make love. They’d wait until at least next month to get married. How much slower did she want two soul mates to go?
Danielle didn’t get old people.
She excused herself and climbed the stairs to her apartment, Bonnie and Chuck’s debate over the proper amount of interest to show in their young tenant’s affairs followed her up.
Danielle barged into her apartment—a.k.a. room with a sink—and kicked off her shoes. She collapsed onto the clothing-covered mattress in the corner.
She checked her phone. Still no messages.
The ceiling loomed over her. She stared up at it. Poor Nick. He missed his mother. That was a sign of a good man. It was further confirmation that he was the good guy she’d known he’d be.
She missed him already; his voice, his smell, his touch.
This was good though. A day of space was good. She needed to get some work done too. The sales of her recent art prints had flagged and her finances needed a pick-up. Nick taking a day and a night for himself was the perfect opportunity for her to finish the painting perched on an easel at the end of her bed.
But first, some appropriate music.
Danielle leaned over the computer sitting atop an egg-crate next to her bed. She clicked play on the media-player in the bottom corner of the screen.
The song had been easy enough to find. She’d searched for a bunch of ‘no’s’ and there it was.
Nobody But Me. Nick’s song.
It was already set to repeat. And while she was thinking about it, she needed to burn it onto a CD for her car.
The opening tone roared through her computer’s speakers as Danielle threw a blank CD into her computer’s writable drive.
She sat up on the edge of her mattress and arranged the workstation she’d put together. Water, paints, brushes. An energy drink that was terrible for her, as Bonnie mentioned every time she bought them.
The painting on the easel was well on its way to completion, but it lacked detail. It depicted a grotesquely-detailed fly with bulging compound eyes, and plenty of spurs on its legs and thorax. The creature’s mouth—also called a proboscis, thank you Wikipedia—dripped vomit like a nightmarish water hose.
Similar to how Nick’s mouth dripped vomit the night before.
God, that was adorable.
The fly had landed on human flesh and was bound to it. It’d attempted an escape and torn itself apart in the process. Legs and pieces of abdomen were left behind.
It was beautiful and ghastly all at once. Almost perfect, but not quite.
Danielle picked up a paint brush.
She looked over at
the computer monitor. She’d check out Myiasis for a minute, see what people were saying about her photo. Then she’d get to work.
She pulled up the black-and-red-colored site and clicked on her post. Thirty-six replies. No doubt people lined up to congratulate her and Nick on their happiness.
What the hell—?
Whore.
She’s lucky I’m overseas, I’d cut a bitch.
Fuck you Flypap3r eat shit and die.
Cunt cunt cutn cuntcunt
Post after post read like that. A couple of them were slightly more magnanimous in tone.
Whatever floats his boat I guess.
Where are you registered for wedding gifts?
Aw, that one was sweet. She continued reading.
/sarcasm.
Danielle thrust her fist into her mattress.
Fuckers. Spiteful, bitter, hateful, garbage-eating fuckers. That’s all they were.
Danielle scrolled through the comments to the bottom.
She hunted and pecked at her keyboard with two fingers. Each keystroke was a stab at the stupidity that lashed out at the two lovers.
She spoke aloud as she typed.
“Fuck all of you. You’re jealous. When Nick and I are married, we’re going to have a big party and invite you all so you can see what none of you will ever have and I’ll have a chance to shit down each and every one of your petty little throats. It’ll be the motherfucking Human Centipede of weddings.”
She read her scorching diatribe back to herself and wrote more.
“By the way, ladies, he’s unbelievable in bed. Think about that the next time your fat and ugly doucheturd of a man is using you as his cumdumpster.”
Posted.
She picked up her pillow and screamed into it. Her blood boiled so hot it pained her.
What did they know? Screw them. She could talk to Nick anytime she wanted. She could text him that second if she were so inclined. He was at her fingertips, but didn’t know any of these other assholes were alive.
She grabbed her phone and furiously pecked at it.
Hey sweetie <3 thinking about you xoxo
She gripped the phone and waited.
He’d respond. He would. He loved her. He’d always take time for her.
She started to hyperventilate. The black screen wouldn’t go away. What was taking so long?
The sound of a woman’s scream leapt from the phone as a text appeared. It was a smiley face.
That was it?
Of course that was it. He’d only acknowledged that he’d gotten the message because she hadn’t asked him any questions.
She tapped at the screen again.
How’s the writing going?
The wait for a reply was shorter this time.
Just getting started. Had fun last night, ttyl.
Danielle’s heart soared. She was ready to conquer the world, and began by conquering the canvas. She added texture to the fly and to the skin beneath it. Details. The awesome was in the details. She tried not to think of Nick every two seconds, but found it difficult. She wished she were back at his place. How cool would it be when she moved in? He could have his writing area and she could have her art area. They could stop and look longingly at one another whenever they wanted.
Bliss. Pure bliss.
After about two hours had passed, she texted Nick again.
The things I’m going to do to you when I see you next…
She added a heart. And another one for emphasis.
Can’t wait, he replied.
Satisfied, Danielle went back to work. This time she added a translucent effect to the wings. She thought about her current arrangement with Bonnie and Chuck. She was paying them month-to-month, which meant, technically, her lease was up the following week. She could bounce then. Move in with Nick. He’d be up for that, surely.
She leaned back in her bed and viewed what may be the finished piece. It didn’t look right. It lacked some kind of effect.
She texted Nick.
Have you seen American Mary? Sooooooo sick. I’d love to watch that next time we hang out either way. Love that movie.
A minute passed without a response. Was he in the bathroom and hadn’t taken his phone with him?
She shifted over to her computer and pulled up Myiasis. There were sixteen new replies to the thread she’d created when posting the picture of the two of them.
lol u mad bitch?
Married ha ha Nick Dawkins can have any girl in the world he’s not going to marry a basic twat like you.
Please kill yourself.
Danielle’s body tensed so tightly she could hardly move. She reached up and scratched at her head. These assholes. What was wrong with them?
She scrolled through the senseless hate and rancor to the bottom and watched the curser blink in the reply box.
She had no idea what to write. There wasn’t a word she could say that would make them understand. These animals were unreasonable. And probably insane. They probably sat in their dingy little dungeons and obsessed about Nick all the live-long day. Not a one of them had the connection with him that she did. It was pathetic. Laughable.
The phone taunted her. Still no response. She hopped off the bed and paced around the room. In her head, she replayed the responses she wanted to send to the assholes on the forums and what they’d say back. The imaginary arguments were broken up by the texts she considered sending to Nick.
Are you there?
Did I do something wrong?
Let me know you’re okay.
She finally decided on one and sent it.
So bored. Miss you.
There. He’d picture her sitting in her room, lonely and listless with nothing to do. He’d want to entertain her; to relieve the boredom.
If he cared in the slightest, that’s what he’d do.
Minutes passed. Danielle looked at the painting of the fly. What was it missing? If Nick would only text her back, she could focus on it. Figure it out.
She checked her phone to make sure she hadn’t missed any replies. Nothing.
Where was he? Why wouldn’t he talk to her?
She paced her room faster and stopped to press her forehead against the wall. She thumped the two together several times.
Inconsiderate bastard. Was it over already? Had he already decided he was done? He screwed her once and that was it? He’d already had his fill?
What the fucking fuck was wrong with him?
Danielle dug her nails into her scalp and scratched hard. Nerves fired off to report the damage. She scratched harder.
“Agh!”
Danielle looked at her nails. A faint trace of red lined the underside of them. She ran her fingers through her hair and found the spot she’d scratched. She inspected her fingers again.
Blood.
Why would he hurt her like this? Was he oblivious to what he was doing to her or did he just not care?
She looked at the painting of the fly. Real pain. Real suffering. That’s what it needed.
Danielle dropped hard to the floor and ignored her angry knees. She opened a box of art tools and rummaged through it.
Jackpot.
The exacto knife was an invaluable tool of the artistic trade. It was useful for cutting any number of things, from canvas to cardboard. Hers had dulled over the years. Tiny specks of rust dotted the blade.
She stood and moved back to her bed, her throbbing knees crying out for mercy. She sat in front of her painting, her almost-masterwork.
She dug the blade into the meat of her arm. Pain ripped through her and she bit her lip, still sore from two nights prior; from the night she watched Nick dance his ass off to the song she’d been listening to on repeat for the past several hours.
Nick’s song. The memory of him being inside her. The hurt she felt now that he’d disregarded her. The collective of these things was her muse.
She dropped the knife onto the bed. Blood soaked onto a gray skirt she’d worn a week ago.
Danielle took her fingers and ran them through the stream of crimson running down her arm. She smeared it across the painting. She added viscera to the fly, and to the skin ripped by its attempt to free itself.
Now the fly suffered. Now it understood pain.
And so did the person it was bound to.
Her work complete, she pulled back to take it in.
It was perfect.
She fell out of her creative headspace and crashed back to grim reality. Her blood-spattered phone displayed nothing.
She lay in bed and stared at the black screen. She felt a crushing sadness for the girl who stared back at her. Pitiful little thing. Cast aside and forgotten.
Day turned into night as Nobody But Me played for approximately the fiftieth time straight.
Danielle sat straight up in bed. This was an affront. It was practically emotional abuse. Completely unacceptable.
This was not how a healthy relationship should be.
Chapter 11
Nick sat at his laptop, brainstorming. He had to get some writing done; wasting another day wasn’t an option. Perhaps another short story was in order.
Beep, beep.
His smartphone’s screen lit up and he slid the lock icon to the side. A message opened onto the screen.
Hey sweetie just thinking about you xoxo
He sent back a smiley face out of courtesy, pushed the smartphone to the corner of his desk and resumed plumbing the depths of his mind for macabre material. He was onto something with the ‘Old hag’ dream he’d had the night before. His fingers hovered over the keyboard, a maestro on the verge of a masterpiece, he was certain of it.
Beep, beep.
The screen lit up again. Nick stared at it for a second before unlocking. Really, Danielle? Really?
How’s the writing going?
It wasn’t yet, thank-you-very-much, not a damn word. That was what the Mr. Hyde in his brain wanted to say. Instead, he took a breath and sent the bare minimum of cordial responses: Okay.
He waited five minutes for another text, but it didn’t come. Thank God—or whatever-the-hell kind of Lovecraftian other thing might be up there. Danielle seemed content to make art or whatever it was she did in the space above Bonnie and Chuck’s.
Danielle. Who was she, anyway? He wasn’t sure how he felt about her at the moment. He liked her an awful lot, but sweet Christmas, she was a tad needy. And by a tad, he actually meant a ton.