Little Deaths

by John F. D. Taff

  They didn’t ask him how he felt or what had happened.

  Ed offered no explanation, for there was none that he thought suitable. Besides, his tongue hurt, and his mouth was raw and tasted of blood.

  In the end, after things had calmed and several hours had passed, they asked him, gently, not to come back to the shelter. They no longer needed his services.

  The administrator urged him to go to the clinic, but he refused. Still, she pressed a card into his hand, along with his blood-spattered Bible, urged him to call and take advantage of the service.

  Ed bundled up for the walk back to his apartment. When he was outside, he unclenched his hand, looked at the card the woman had given him.

  It was for free mental health counseling.

  He laughed, tossed the card into the first trashcan he passed.

  There was no need to see a hospital or a shrink.

  Because he felt great.

  The voices in his head had grown quieter.

  He was sure, if more of them could get out, he would feel even better.

  He would feel like himself again.

  Just maybe, with most or all of the voices gone, there would be room again.

  He would come back.

  God would fill up the empty space inside him again.

  He smiled as he walked home, delighted that people smiled back.

  * * *

  Ed pulled open the creaky metal door of his apartment building, closed it behind him. If it was possible, it felt even colder in the stairwell.

  He looked up, saw the landing outside his door, and sighed.

  He wanted to go upstairs, take a hot shower, drink something warm to soothe his aching mouth.

  But he was impatient to put his plan into action.

  Staring at the lockbox on the doorknob to the shuttered butcher shop, he licked his lips, tasting blood.

  The lockbox seemed solid. He hefted it, tugged against the doorknob.

  Then he saw screws on the doorknob plate, and knew he’d found a way in.

  Upstairs in a drawer, he found an old butter knife with a thin, worn tip. He grabbed it, went back down and fumbled the tip against the head of one of the screws. It slid in, gripped, and Ed was able to turn it after a stubborn moment.

  Within a minute, one of the screws lay in the palm of his hand. A few more, and the doorknob, lockbox and all, clattered to the floor of the vestibule.

  Breathing heavily, Ed drew the door open, went inside.

  The voices in his skull roared to life, as if guessing or even knowing what he planned to do. They were shrill, loud, so overwhelming they made his teeth chatter.

  One step inside, and he had to stop, put his hands to his skull and press… hard… feeling as if his hands were the only thing keeping his head intact.

  He faltered, almost fell to his knees.

  For a time, he wasn’t sure how long, he lost his place in the universe. His mind went black, subsumed within the pool of voices.

  Then he saw the blood running down his wrists.

  Shaking, he unbuttoned his shirt cuffs, rolled up his sleeves.

  His arms were a mass of bumps, slippery with blood.

  From each of these bumps, a squirming, twisting thing, dead white in the wan light of the butcher shop, pushed through his skin, swayed to and fro.

  Disgusted, he slapped at one arm, then the other, dislodging as many maggots as he could, brushing them to the floor, spraying blood across the dusty tile floor.

  Staggering to the back room, his hands slipped across the tile wall. He found the light switch, prayed a silent, almost unintelligible prayer that the landlord hadn’t shut the power off yet.

  The fluorescent lights flickered, hummed to life.

  There it was, across the room in a corner on a stainless steel table.

  He went to it, holding onto tables and empty meat cases along the way, leaving a trail of blood and smudged, red handprints as he went.

  The meat-slicer gleamed atop its work station; its blade clean and ready.

  He’d start with his hand, one hand.

  Finding the toggle switch, he turned the slicer on. It growled smoothly to life, a tinny swirl of metallic sound filling the room.

  Ed swallowed, placed his left hand, palm down, onto the little platform that went back and forth across the blade, pushed forward.

  He expected pain, but was pleasantly surprised when none came.

  From the other end of the machine, a thin, ghostlike thing fluttered out, draped onto the table.

  Ed pulled his hand away, picked the thing up.

  It was a thin flap of skin, hand-shaped, looking like it had been cut from wet tissue paper.

  Ed’s palm appeared raw, abraded, with a few pinpricks of blood oozing from it.

  He replaced it on the platform, pushed again, again.

  On the third time, the whirring blade whined, threw out a thin fan of red droplets that sprayed across the stainless steel table.

  Ed yanked his hand back, slinging gouts of blood across the room.

  The machine had cut away the skin from the flat part of his palm, his fingers.

  But instead of blood and bone and meat underneath, he saw that his hand was packed with bugs. Worms frothed to the surface, spilled out. Small beetles, larger roaches, silverfish, ants, weevils, things with wings.

  He picked at them with his undamaged hand, scooped them out of the shell of his palm, pried them from the hollow sticks of his fingers.

  The voices, which had reached a perfect apoplexy of gibbering, fell silent.

  Elated now, Ed went back to the machine, lay his forearm onto the platform, dialed a thicker cut, and pushed his arm through the moving blade.

  The whine was rougher, the blade slowed. Blood flew in ribbons across the room, and Ed wept.

  Not in pain, but in relief, in release, in respite.

  The room was an abattoir; blood dappled the walls, pooled on the floor. Blood dripped from the light fixtures and the water-stained ceiling.

  Ed, transported now, moved to the large Hobart saw used to cut steaks and roasts from larger sides of beef. It creaked to life, like a demonic sewing machine, the blade bobbing up and down, slowly at first, then gaining speed.

  Eager to evict the inhabitants inside him, eager to make room, eager to prepare a place for his Lord, Ed slung one leg onto the saw’s table, pushed forward…

  In the end, there was space, emptiness.

  In the end, there was a light that rushed forward to fill that space.

  In the end, darkness collapsed around him, around that light.

  And he, and only he, filled it.

  * * *

  Detective Broget stepped carefully through the mess inside the now brightly lit butcher shop.

  The place was crowded with people, the crime scene specialists, a few uniforms, the medical examiner, EMTs. Near the front door was the landlord, pale as a gallon of milk, gesticulating wildly to one of the uniforms.

  Broget thought he heard the landlord complain about how was he going to lease the place out now?

  The stocky detective stepped as carefully as he could through the puddles, the pools of drying, tacky blood, but it proved impossible. The place was covered in it. He decided to stop trying, but still held onto tables as he passed, to keep from slipping. One of the uniforms skidded in the blood earlier, got covered with it, had to go outside to vomit.

  His partner stood near what looked to be a pile of red, soaked rags on the floor near the meat saw. One of the EMTs held a body bag at ready, waiting for the ME to stand out of the way.

  “So, what’s it look like?” Broget asked.

  “A fucking nightmare, that’s what,” his partner responded, his face tight, pinched. Broget knew why. It wasn’t the blood everywhere or the carved up body; it was the smell. The entire place stank like a bank vault filled with dirty copper pennies.

  The ME snapped off his gloves, tossed them in a nearby trashcan.

  “Looks like it happen
ed about six to eight hours ago. Basically cut and sawed to death, little by little, legs, arms, hands. Bled out, died from shock.”

  “Mob murder?”

  “Nah, looks self-inflicted.” He turned to a case on a nearby table, snapped it closed, picked it up.

  “You shitting me?” Broget’s partner sputtered, spreading his hand to encompass the scene.

  “Nope, I do not shit… leastways not about this. Read all about it in my report tomorrow.”

  The ME gestured to the EMTs, who zipped up the body bag, lifted it, sloshing wetly, onto a gurney, wheeled it to the waiting ambulance.

  Broget watched them go, sighed. “Landlord said Martinez volunteered at the New Life Shelter a few blocks over. Served meals, said grace, the usual. I rousted the head lady, and she said they let him go yesterday. He’d been acting strangely for months. Came to a head yesterday when he put some razor blades in his mouth during a service, cut himself up pretty bad, spat blood everywhere, freaked out a bunch of our more refined homeless.”

  His partner shook his head. “Jeez, let’s get the hell out of here. I need to clean my shoes.”

  They started through the mess back toward the door, when a small, dark shape skittered from under a table, darted across the blood-specked floor.

  Broget stomped down hard, twisted his shoe back and forth.

  When he lifted it, there was a crushed shell, splayed legs, a splat of yellow.

  “Damn roaches.”

  SHARP EDGES

  Monday: Revelation

  Ouch, she says, it’s sharp.

  And it is.

  So sharp, so very, very sharp.

  Thrusting. Shrieks. Warm gushes.

  I cry!

  I cut!

  And the wound hugs my knife, strokes it with its own warm, wet flesh; tries to prevent the blade from entering, but once in, tries to keep it from leaving.

  But it enters, and it leaves, reluctantly each time.

  Again and again.

  Then, it’s done.

  The warmth fades, the wound dries.

  In the morning, I awaken from this dream, disoriented, stiff.

  There is a spot, just a spot of blood on the clean, white sheets.

  A strange thought runs through my head.

  I bleed for them.

  I wonder…

  Will they bleed for me?

  What does this mean?

  * * *

  Tuesday: Worship

  I’m still disoriented today… feel a little strange… like there’s missing time… my memory doesn’t seem to be what it once was.

  I spend the morning loafing around the apartment, doing nothing, really.

  I looked again for the key to that locked door, but can’t find it.

  Imagine having a locked door in your own apartment!

  What could be in there?

  Something told me to relax… go to the park, take a walk.

  Though I seldom go there, the voice in my head is insistent.

  The park is beautiful on this fall day: cool, crisp and brown and comfortable. There are others here, forgettable; lost faces, meaningless voices, dim eyes.

  But She is among them.

  That must be why I’m here, because I don’t even remember wanting to come to the park today.

  Her hair is radiant, Her eyes luminous.

  She is real.

  But they surround Her, jostle Her, move about Her as if they were the real ones, not Her.

  But I know.

  I know.

  I hear the irritating voice of the wind in the trees. It thinks I’m not listening, but I am. I choose to ignore it.

  As I walk the concrete path that twists through the park like a broken spine, I hear the birds and ducks twitter amongst themselves: meaningless prattle.

  They’re nervous.

  For me.

  For Her.

  They can’t make me nervous.

  She walks so confidently among them, so carefree and secure.

  The bells begin to bother me, though. Why are they so loud today, so insistent?

  She is gracious, laughing occasionally, talking with the others sometimes as they pass by in their grey, sluggish mass.

  I wonder why She bothers with them.

  I don’t. They part around me, give me a wide berth.

  I like it this way.

  She prefers to wade in among them.

  Lovely, so lovely.

  I can feel it begin to stir within its sheath.

  My knife.

  I stroke it through my rough clothing, comfort it.

  Soon, soon…

  The grey ones stare at me, jealous of it.

  Jealous of me for being real.

  I move on more quickly. I don’t want to lose sight of Her.

  The others thin, their numbers dwindling.

  She continues through the park, and I am with Her for a moment, beside Her.

  Her eyes see me as I pass Her.

  Bright, so bright!

  I cannot bear them; I turn away.

  They burn! They burn!

  I move on, managing a smile.

  Wounded.

  The knife is sheathed; its blade is limp.

  She is so strong, so strong.

  I am not Her equal.

  I move on ahead…

  Those damn bells! Where are they?

  They are crashing in my head!

  I stumble on the path, head into the deep, covering woods to the left, where it is darker but the colors are somehow brighter.

  Ahh!

  The bells pound in my head as she passes by, doesn’t see me.

  I press my head into the damp mat of leaves, and it is cool, cool on my hot forehead. I can smell the earth, the things moving beneath it, dying beneath it.

  They are a comfort.

  When I look up, I see She has gone far down the path away from me, Her light a bobbing will-’o-the-wisp in the evening park.

  Suddenly, from Her left, something detaches itself from the undergrowth, moves toward her.

  I can see him, smell him, hear his heart race.

  He grabs at Her purse, yanks.

  The bells!

  The strap breaks, and he spins in one motion, darts back into the woods.

  He dares!

  And She did nothing?

  It’s a test.

  Mine.

  I move through the dense woods, crouched low.

  I hear his footfalls on the earth, dim and insubstantial, but I can follow them.

  He is near a group of large rocks, throwing things out of the purse pell-mell.

  His smell is thick with fear and joy, his blood races through him.

  I am behind him, knife drawn.

  He doesn’t notice me.

  We go down heavily, the purse and the rest of its contents flying.

  His breath bursts from him when we hit the hard, stony earth, me on top.

  Can he hear the bells?

  No. He is not real.

  He hears nothing.

  I press down on him with my full weight, and he wriggles to throw me.

  But he is small, young, no match.

  I cut away his pants.

  He twists, sees my knife, becomes frantic.

  His wound repulses me. It is hairy, dark, and smells of him, but he must pay.

  Pay for what he’s done to Her.

  I thrust in savagely, to the hilt.

  Blood spurts out around my knife, gurgles at the edges of the blade.

  I stab into him again and again.

  He grunts underneath me, before his breath becomes bubbly and liquid.

  Before it stops.

  He is still.

  I stand and wipe the blade on his shirttail over and over until all trace of him is gone. Then, I sheath my knife.

  Dirty, dirty. I feel so dirty.

  It takes me a while to collect all of the items from Her purse, but they all get wiped off neatly, put back inside.

  I leave it on Her
doorstep.

  The test is completed.

  I pass.

  * * *

  Wednesday: Remembrance

  I was a messy baby, my mother always told me.

  “If the other mothers’ babies used five diapers a day,” she would whine as she picked up my belongings when I got older, “you used 10. What a mess you were. And you never grew out of it.”

  But I did.

  I’ve gotten neater. If only she were alive to appreciate this fact.

  I know I’ve gotten neater.

  Because I’ve counted.

  I keep track of everything I consume.

  It’s a lovely word, isn’t it? Consume.

  Make the ‘u’ long in the second syllable, and the word sounds elegant.

  For example, since my adolescence I’ve used only 24 pairs of jeans, 43 shirts, 67 pairs of underwear, 105 pairs of socks, and 22 pairs of shoes.

  Since I’m almost 24 now, I think that these numbers are admirable.

  I keep everything washed and folded in my dresser, my shoes neatly arranged, socks balled and in their own drawer.

  Order is important, wouldn’t you agree?

  In an orderly system, everything lasts longer.

  Things aren’t wasted.

  You don’t have to consume as much.

  You understand.

  I think I like you. You appreciate my sensibility in this, unlike…

  Unlike the grey ones… th—

  Shit!

  Four thousand, two hundred and sixteen.

  I had to get a new pencil. They always seem to wear out so fast.

  Mother always told me that I bore down too hard.

  Everything, it seems, is destined to be difficult for me.

  Nineteen thousand, four hundred and seventy two.

  Tissues, that is.

  I have a lot of sinus problems, and I tend to sweat a lot.

  Tissues come in handy for a lot of things, like cleaning up unexpected messes.

  Four hundred and sixteen.

  That’s how many boxes of tissues are in the spare bedroom.

  I’m ready.

  There have only been eight women, you know.

  Only eight during my whole life.

  That’s not bad, I think.