Including the baby tough guys we’ve got here. They might be impressing the shit out of themselves, but not me. We’re not exactly talking the Corleones or Tony Montana, after all. I’m not even convinced we’re talking Nasty Nick Cotton. Buried under all the detritus—this party has clearly been raging for a long time—this is a house that’s had some money spent on it. The furniture is minimal but tasteful, the gadgetry high-quality and expensive. It isn’t the lair of a gangster, it’s the bachelor pad of a well-paid City boy with an excess of alcohol, coke and bravado but a sad lack of imagination.
(I haven’t seen a single book in the entire place, and despite the top-level audio-visual gear the meagre DVD collection is mostly porn. If it hadn’t already been abundantly clear that these lads are splashing in the shallow end of the evolutionary pool, that would confirm it).
The most annoying part is that this was supposed to be my night off. A nice, free evening to spend getting to know someone I liked the look of. There’s going to be a party, she said. Docklands, friend of a friend. Come with me, it’ll be fun.
Fun.
Right.
It still could have been fixed, but they didn’t want to negotiate. They didn’t want to pay. Not so much because they can’t afford it—like I said, there’s no shortage of money here—but because the lizard brain takes greater control with every slurp and snort, and starts howling that they’re the kings of the universe. Kings of the universe take what they want and do what they like, gratis. At this point, they’re not looking for a professional. They’re looking for a victim.
Sarah starts to cry. It’s the wrong move; submissive but implicitly judgemental. They don’t like it. They want her to shut up.
The one whose house this is, I think his name is Alistair, explains that. He punctuates the speech with a few slaps, and she starts screaming. Alistair likes that even less, and decides to deal with the situation by demonstrating his conflict resolution skills.
He’s short but strong; she hits the wall with considerable force. Her head snaps back and she makes a huffing sound before crumpling in an ungainly heap on the carpet. Alistair and I watch her lip swell and split in slow motion like time-lapse photography. It’s quite beautiful.
First blood. It’s powerful, primal. It changes things. Changes people. Alistair takes a step forward, the other leg drawn back. That booted foot connects hard, and more blood flies. The other two soon catch the lust and join in.
To be fair, she was probably dead when her head hit the wall. The intent was to assault, not to murder. If it had stopped there, maybe things could have worked out differently. But this... by the time they stop, panting and dazed, there’s no way to sell this as an accident.
So now we all have a problem: one dead body, one live witness.
The youngest of the boys, a wiry blond, drops to his knees and vomits on the polished oak flooring. Alistair doesn’t look at him. One more puddle of puke is the least of his worries right now. Alistair just looks at me.
Forget Elizabeth Swann. Cunning and charm aren’t going to cut it, now. There are decisions to be made and I can see in Alistair’s face that they’re not going to go in my favour. Once a line that wide has been crossed, it’s easier to just keep going in the same direction.
I think about fighting skills. I tried Inigo Montoya recently and it was kind of amusing, but honestly? I don’t care who killed my father. Vengeance is a great theme, but it takes a kind of single-mindedness. Which isn’t really my strong point, if you know what I mean. And this isn’t exactly a swordfighting kind of scenario.
Maybe law enforcement is more what I need. Classics like good old Sherlock Holmes have served me well in the past, as have more varied and modern types like Dana Scully and Clarice Starling (and there’s a film as good as the book, which is something you don’t often find. Just don’t bother with the sequel. I’ve got a stronger stomach than most, but that scene where Anthony Hopkins eats Ray Liotta’s brain? Seriously.)
Puke Boy is still on his knees and the other one, dark-haired and slightly older, is whispering to himself over and over. It sounds a lot like ‘oh, shit.’ He fumbles a mobile out of his pocket and stares at it stupidly for a while, but Alistair knocks it out of his hand. It goes skittering through the remains of Puke Boy’s last pizza slice and cracks against the wall. He looks at it mournfully.
Alistair hauls Puke Boy to his feet and gives him a focussing slap. Shape up, lad, there’s work to be done.
All three of them turn to face me.
Okay then. It’s not the law, the good guys, that I need here. I decided a long time ago that Patrick Bateman was only for really special occasions, because—and yes, I know the clue was kind of in the title—that psycho really is crazy. It can be hard to come back from there.
But three on one, with the still-bleeding corpse of my girlfriend at my feet, I think qualifies as special enough.
It takes a while, and I have to get inventive with some household equipment, but eventually the odds even up. It’s just me and Alistair now. Nearly done.
Alistair, of course, thinks the same. He thinks the odds are still on his side. Admittedly he has good reason, since in normal circumstances you’d be forgiven for expecting the carving knife he stuck in my heart to be a game-winning move. Other people have thought similarly before, started celebrating just that bit too early.
Honestly, haven’t they ever seen a horror film? Jason Voorhees, Michael Myers, Freddy Kruger—they don’t die, not for good, whatever happens to them. Not when they’ve got more killing to do.
Alistair crouches down beside me. He puts a shaking, gore-covered hand to my neck, feeling for a pulse. He stays like that for a long while, then lets his head sag and his eyes close.
Now he can call the police, ask for help, tell the story of desperate self-defence against a homicidal lunatic without fear of contradiction. He thinks he’s won. He thinks it’s over.
He stands up, his knees cracking in the silence, and turns his back on me.
Someone needs to remind him that it doesn’t work that way, that the story’s never-ending. I get to my feet, as quietly as I can. He doesn’t hear, doesn’t look back. Good.
I am legion, for we are many, and I think that someone should be us.
About the Author
Michelle Ann King writes SF, dark fantasy and horror from her kitchen table in Essex, England. Her stories have appeared in various venues, including Daily Science Fiction, Penumbra Magazine, Wily Writers, and others. Links can be found at her website
She has worked as a mortgage underwriter, supermarket cashier, makeup artist, tarot reader and insurance claims handler before having the good fortune to be able to write full-time.
She loves Las Vegas, vampire films and good Scotch whisky. Favourite works of fiction include The Stand, Cloud Atlas, Lost Boys, Galaxy Quest, Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Supernatural, Preacher and Locke & Key.
The first two volumes in her Transient Tales series of SF, fantasy and horror short stories are now available—go to Transient Cactus Publications for details.
Feedback on any stories is always welcome. Contact Michelle:
Email
Website
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Thank you for reading! If you have enjoyed any of these stories, please consider leaving a review at Smashwords, Amazon, Goodreads, etc, in order to bring them to a wider audience.
Also Available
The Transient Tales Series: 20,000 word collections of science fiction, fantasy and horror short stories, ranging from light to dark and all shades in-between.
Volume 1 features dysfunctional families—some demons, some that don’t have that excuse—monstrous assassins, pragmatic cannibals, time-travelling reality TV shows, zombies, witches, phobias made real, law-breaking love and lessons in post-apocalyptic survival.
Volume 2 features a Halloween game with a chilling price, a call-centre at the end of the world, an unconventional quest for a portal to fa
iryland, a mother dealing with the loss—and the return—of a child, a desperate woman’s letter to her future self, a repentant scientist’s lament, an envious boy who gets more than he bargained for, and a misguided attempt to gain closure on a very dead love affair.
What Doesn’t Kill You: A 4,500 word dark fantasy from Transient Tales Volume 1, now available as a standalone e-short.
All titles available in multiple formats from Amazon, Smashwords and other online retailers.
Publication History
Inside first appeared at Postcard Shorts, January 2012, copyright (c) Michelle Ann King, 2012
Stop Me If You’ve Heard This Before first appeared at Flash Fiction Offensive, June 2012, copyright (c) Michelle Ann King, 2012
Speeding Towards Enlightenment first appeared at The Cynic Online, August 2012, copyright (c) Michelle Ann King, 2012
Bring it On first appeared at Shotgun Honey, March 2012, copyright (c) Michelle Ann King, 2012
Grandpa first appeared at Postcard Shorts, February 2012, copyright (c) Michelle Ann King, 2012
Communication Skills first appeared at Flash Fiction World, April 2012, copyright (c) Michelle Ann King, 2012
Like a Boss first appeared at Yellow Mama, December 2012, copyright (c) Michelle Ann King, 2012
Full Service Package first appeared at Every Day Fiction, November 2010, copyright (c) Michelle Ann King, 2010
Silence first appeared at 101Fiction, September 2012, copyright (c) Michelle Ann King, 2012
They Do Things Better in Albuquerque first appeared at Infective Ink, March 2012, copyright (c) Michelle Ann King, 2012
The Sacred Rule first appeared at MicroHorror, August 2010, copyright (c) Michelle Ann King, 2010
Deep first appeared at MicroHorror, May 2012, copyright (c) Michelle Ann King, 2012
Damnable Behaviour first appeared at The Pygmy Giant, July 2012, copyright (c) Michelle Ann King, 2012
Legion first appeared at Thrillers, Killers & Chillers, November 2010, copyright (c) Michelle Ann King, 2010
Shallow Cuts
Published: January 2013
Copyright (c) Michelle Ann King 2013
Michelle Ann King has asserted her right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of these works.
These stories are works of fiction. All names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Cover design by Transient Cactus Publications (c) 2013
Shallow Cuts Page 4