A Mixed Bag of Blood

by Bernstein, David

“Since Gerri’s tongue whisked me away to a place no man ever has.”

  I had to sit, the room was going out of focus and my legs felt like jelly. “How can you be so cold?” I asked. “She was my love, the other half of my heart, and you ripped her away from me, the only thing that I could call my own.” Tears began to well, blurring my sister’s face, melting it. I didn’t want to cry; didn’t want her to see me hurting, but the pressure was building within and needed to be released.

  “It was impossible for me to sleep while you were having sex,” Sally told me. “The sensations drove me wild, your lover’s touch making me want moan, to cry out. I could only go with it.”

  “No,” I yelled. “You have to stop.” I pounded my fist against the dresser. “I’ll drug you if I have to.”

  Sally stood up, taking me with her, dragging me to the bathroom. In front of the mirror, she said, “Look at us.”

  There we were, conjoined from the waist down with two upper bodies. It was the moment I realized I’d never have anything to myself, except for my thoughts. The deep, dark, ominous feelings, torturing my every breath, making me hate my sister—myself.

  I stared into her spiteful eyes, seeing nothing. She was a completely different person than me, a different soul. We had become two people who spoke languages the other could not understand. She no longer knew me, nor I her.

  Later that night, after she fell asleep, I tied my scarf around her delicate neck and strangled her. She awoke during the deed, fighting futilely against me, but to no avail. I still have a few scars on my wrists and face from where she clawed me—reminders of the night I killed her.

  I was arrested and nearly prosecuted, but having been declared legally insane by a multitude of quacks, I was sentenced indefinitely to a psychiatric hospital where I would remain until deemed fit to re-enter society. I considered my sentence lucky, because I’m not crazy. For is it crazy to want independence?

  I’ve had five surgeries so far, each a progression towards my normality. Sally’s dead weight had been lopped off within hours of her death. The surgeons cut bone, reconstructed parts of my body, re-routed blood flow, and sealed off the pathways that had led to my sister. They told me that I had been close to death more than a couple of times, and that I was strong, a fighter.

  I tried contacting Gerri, for I still loved her, but she never answered my letters. With time, I hope she can see past what I had to do. I did, after all, forgive her for her indiscretions and hope she can do the same for me one day.

  I’ll never be completely normal. No one is. But I’m emotionally free now, soon to be physically free once the doctors believe me to be well-enough for society. Then, I’ll be able to help others like me.

  Invasion

  The spacecraft engaged its cloaking device as it neared Earth. The human’s primitive technology would not be able to detect it. It had taken years, but the ship’s inhabitants had finally created a weapon that would wipe out the humans, leaving the planet ripe for the taking. The carrier chosen was simple: the cockroach, only a modified version of the scavenging bug. The insects were the most formidable creatures on the planet.

  North America was the starting point and the capsule carrying the bugs was launched. With the right human, a bug would turn hostile, mixing its DNA with the human’s, and a Queen would be born.

  The capsule landed in Brooklyn, New York.

  * * *

  Timmy held the large, winged cockroach—commonly, but mistakenly, referred to as a water bug, between his thumb and index finger. He’d seen hundreds, maybe thousands, of cockroaches during his life, yet had never seen one quite like this. The insect’s head was rectangular and flat rather than round and bulbous. Instead of the usual six legs, this roach had ten, five to a side. A bright, almost glowing, red crescent-shaped circle tattooed its lower back, visible through its transparent wings.

  He watched its segmented legs work in mechanical fashion, moving back and forth like a child’s windup toy. Its antennae spastically darted about. Timmy wondered if the bug was able to send out signals, like a bumble bee, warning its brethren, or asking for help. Or maybe it was just scared shitless.

  He applied a little more pressure and the bug fluttered its wings, the image a blur. Timmy didn’t flinch. Bugs didn’t frighten him. He wanted to know if it was scared, knew death was coming. He’d held a Chihuahua, his neighbor’s dog, by the throat once. The little shit was always escaping from the backyard and snuck into his. It had squealed and bucked to get away. Timmy swatted it across the nose and forced it to the ground. It whimpered and released its urine. Timmy had enjoyed frightening the thing, gaining a sense of glee from it. He knew he’d be considered a sicko for having such feelings, for enjoying himself, but he didn’t care. Toys, music, drawing, art, television—save the news, with all its reports of violence and suffering—did nothing for him. He let the dog go, dropping it back into its yard. The thing never came over again.

  The bug continued to flutter its wings. Timmy’s fingers remained steady, applying the same amount of pressure, wanting to see if the insect would tire, but it kept on, only stopping for a moment at a time. Finally, he let up a little and the bug’s wings folded into place along its back. However, the legs and antennae kept moving.

  Timmy wasn’t having nearly as much fun as he’d had with the Chihuahua. Dogs had character, spirit, and he guessed that was why they were considered to be man’s best friend. Bugs were robots, performing functions and duties. Earth’s caretakers.

  Staring at the cockroach, he wished he’d killed the dog. But he hadn’t been ready. Next time, he would be. So for now, he would kill the cockroach, but killing insects was boring. No one cared. If he’d killed the dog, many people would care, even people who didn’t know him or the dog. Animal lovers would hate him. Killing bugs was no longer satisfying. There was no thrill in it for him. He could go on slaughtering the things all day and no one would give a damn. Hell, people would probably thank him.

  Timmy used to love killing bugs. He’d heard enough news stories, read enough books—even at his young age—to know he was different. Nothing fulfilled him, gave him happiness, save watching the life leave a living thing. But bugs were soulless.

  He’d imagined doing bad things to people, his neighbors, kids in his class, and it didn’t scare him. In fact, it excited him to the point of ecstasy, where he could get lost while thinking about slitting the throat of his teacher or the old man who lived down the block, the one who always said hello to him. It was getting caught that gave him pause, made him wake up in the middle of the night, sweating. Jail was not a place he wanted to go when he was older. He wondered if he was going to be a serial killer when he grew up. The tendencies were there; he was like many of the psychos he’d read about.

  Only time would tell.

  He continued to stare at the cockroach and thought it would make a good addition to his insect display, his trophy collection. He’d gathered bugs from all over the city and when he went upstate to visit his Aunt Lilly and Uncle Fred. He always brought the upstate insects back alive—for they had a better variety there—then pin them to his bug board where he’d watch them slowly die, their forms remaining perfect. That was the one good thing about insects, especially the ones with exoskeletons. The shell remained intact for years. Mammals rotted and crumbled back into the earth, leaving only bones and teeth, which gave little indication of what the animal truly looked like. If he ever—no, when he killed his first mammal, he would make sure to preserve it.

  His parents were happy enough to think he had found a hobby, that he was interested in insects. This worked to his advantage, keeping his need to maim and kill a secret. He didn’t care about bugs or his parents, but his bug collection kept them from thinking he was weird or dangerous. Pretending or acting was a wonderful skill he was blessed with and would need to perfect if he was going to one day become a serial killer. When he moved on to killing animals, he’d need to come up with something else, or have a really great hidi
ng place, for he loved his trophies and wouldn’t be able to display animal corpses like he did insects.

  Of course, he couldn’t keep all of the bugs he killed. The ones he cut up, pulled the legs off of, burned with matches or a magnifying glass, or crushed were too damaged to display on a scientific study chart. But he rarely threw the parts away, preferring to drop them into the batter his mother whipped up when she made cupcakes for the bake sales at school.

  Having never seen such a colorful and odd-looking cockroach, he decided to add the huge insect to his collection and headed down the sidewalk when he heard his cousin’s voice.

  “Yo, Timmy,” Brian called.

  Timmy turned around and saw his overweight cousin heading toward him, the kid finishing off a Snickers bar, the ripped wrapper still in his hand. He hid the roach behind his back, pondering a pleasant scenario.

  “Hey cuz, whatcha doing?” Brian asked after swallowing the remainder of the candy bar. He then spread the wrapper open and slid his tongue along the white interior, lapping up the melted chocolate. Finished, he released the paper as a breeze blew by. It sailed down the sidewalk and tumbled into the road where a yellow taxi cab ran it over. Timmy watched it rotate around the tire, stuck like it had been glued, until it was out of sight.

  One by one, Brian stuck his chocolaty fingers in his mouth and sucked them clean. Timmy still hadn’t answered his cousin as to what he was doing. He couldn’t talk, not without being mean. He thought his chubby cousin was an idiot, the kind of kid everyone picked on, the kind of kid that always had snot showing from his nose and dried ketchup at the corners of his mouth, or in this instance, chocolate.

  Timmy stared at his cousin, disgusted. Having witnessed the kid lapping up every last smudge of chocolate, was sickening, a vile act if there ever was one. Didn’t he realize how ridiculous he looked? How fat and pathetic? He wasn’t sure he could stand any more, not without pouncing on his cousin and beating him senseless, maybe even killing him, but then he felt the insect’s wings flutter, reminding him it was there. He must’ve started to squeeze too hard and frightened it. He quickly let up on the pressure.

  “I want you to see something,” Timmy said.

  “What?”

  Timmy held the cockroach up in front of Brian’s face, squeezed it a little to get its wings working.

  Brian shrieked and stumbled backward.

  Timmy chuckled, feeling his stomach grow warm with satisfaction. “What’s a matter, cuz?”

  “Gross,” Brian said, his eyes wide and focused on the insect. “What the hell are you doing with that thing?”

  Timmy ignored his cousin. “They’re all over the city, you know. What, you afraid of this little thing?” He took a step forward, holding the bug out.

  Brian took a step back and shook his head. “Keep that thing away from me.”

  Timmy stared at it. “It can’t hurt you, stupid. It’s harmless.”

  “I don’t care. Get rid of it.”

  “You mean let it go or kill it?”

  “Kill it.”

  Even a pussy like Brian didn’t care if he killed the thing. If Timmy placed the bug on the ground, his cousin would probably do the honors.

  “So, you don’t like cockroaches?” Timmy asked.

  “No, who does?”

  “So how about we kill it, slowly?”

  “Just step on it.”

  “You have a problem if I do this?” Timmy asked, then pinched the bug’s left wing with his other hand and tore it free.

  Brian’s face scrunched up. “What’d you do that for?”

  “Don’t you want to kill it?”

  “Yeah, but not like that.”

  “So you want to kill it, just not slowly?”

  “Yeah.”

  Timmy grabbed the remaining wing and ripped it off.

  “Stop it,” Brian said, taking a step forward, no longer seeming afraid of the cockroach.

  Timmy found this fascinating. One moment the kid wanted it dead, now he was showing pity for it.

  “It’s a fucking bug, Brian. It doesn’t feel anything. It’s nature’s robot.”

  “You don’t know that. It could be suffering.”

  “You just said you wanted it to die.”

  “Yeah, but—”

  “Well,” Timmy said, cutting him off. “You want it dead or what?”

  “I . . . I don’t know.” He was twiddling his fingers now, looking very uncomfortable.

  “I only tore off the wings so it couldn’t fly away,” Timmy lied. “If I’d just let it go, it might’ve gotten away.”

  “Oh,” Brian said, his brow furrowing. “Makes sense, I guess.”

  Timmy fought to keep himself from rolling his eyes. He was having fun with his cousin, and to think how annoyed he had been when he first saw the kid coming toward him. He never liked hanging out with Brian, but maybe, just maybe, he would hang with him more and do things like he was currently doing, playing on his stupid cousin’s emotions.

  “Drop the thing and kill it,” Brian said. “Just get it over with. It might be in pain.”

  “Ah,” Timmy said. “So earlier, we were just going to kill it because it’s a big, ugly bug, whereas now, because it might be suffering, killing it would be a humane act?”

  “Humane?” Brian asked.

  “We’re putting it out of its misery, right?” Timmy asked, through clenched teeth.

  “Yeah,” Brian said, nodding.

  “What if someone cut off your arms, Brian? Would it be okay to kill you, to put you out of your misery?”

  “What? No.”

  “You think you’re better than this bug?”

  “Yeah. It’s just a stupid bug.”

  Timmy suddenly had an idea. The bug was as good as dead, but he needed to kill it in a way that would make his cousin scream, give him nightmares. He needed to show him something he’d never forget. But how? In what way?

  “You’d better leave, Brian,” Timmy warned, his tone serious. “You’re a pussy and you’re not going to like this.”

  “Hey, don’t call me a pussy. I’m not a pussy.”

  “I’m going to kill this bug and I don’t think you will be able to handle it.”

  “Dude, you’re weird,” Brian said, shaking his head. “I’ve stepped on hundreds of bugs. Bigger than that one, even.”

  “You’re a nice boy, Brian. You don’t mind killing things; you just don’t want them to suffer.”

  “Not things. Just bugs. I’d never kill an animal.”

  “Your logic makes no sense, you know that?”

  “Dude, I’m out of here. You’re too weird for me.”

  “Wait,” Timmy said as his cousin spun around to leave.

  “What?” Brian turned back around, an annoyed expression plastered across his face.

  “Watch this,” Timmy said, the idea presenting itself. He brought the bug to his mouth and shoved the entire thing inside.

  “Oh my God!” Brian yelled. His mouth hung open and his face drained of color.

  Timmy chewed, feeling the insect’s parts thrashing against his cheeks and tongue. His jaw worked, easily crushing the insect’s exoskeleton, its gooey guts exploding over his teeth, filling his mouth with a putrid, awful taste.

  Seeing his cousin still staring, frozen, unable to move, Timmy opened his mouth, revealing the mashed up mess within. Brian’s eyes widened to an impossible size. His face soured as his hands dropped to his stomach. He bent over and vomited, his stomach’s contents splattering the sidewalk and his shoes with an oatmeal-like substance.

  Timmy continued chewing, his mouth flooded with bug juices and hard bits that were getting smaller and smaller. He ground them up, watching his cousin suffer, then swallowed most of the cockroach in one try. Using his tongue, he fished around his mouth, gathering up loose pieces and sent them down his gullet.

  Brian upchucked again, a smaller flow this time, but nonetheless pleasing to Timmy’s eyes. The kid then stumbled backward and fell to the gr
ound, landing hard on his rump. Spittle dribbled from his lower lip. He sat dumbfounded, staring at Timmy.

  Timmy smiled, feeling a sense of triumph. He’d accomplished his goal. Brian would never forget what he’d seen. The decision to consume the bug had been instant, like a reaction rather than a decision. He didn’t think about it, just acted.

  “You’re crazy,” Brian finally managed, wiping his mouth on his forearm. He stood, a wet stain at his crotch.

  Timmy couldn’t believe the kid had wet himself. His cousin was pathetic. “Have an accident?” he asked.

  Brian glanced at his crotch, then back at Timmy. His face was scarlet. “No . . . I . . . um . . .”

  “Go home, pussy,” Timmy said.

  “There’s something seriously wrong with you,” Brian said.

  “People eat bugs all the time, just not in this country. They’re quite nutritious.”

  “You going to tell anyone about this?”

  “About you pissing yourself?—no.”

  “Promise?”

  Timmy walked up to Brian, the kid inching away. “I’ll tell you what, Pisspants, if you eat a bug, too, I’ll keep your very embarrassing situation, one that’ll get you beat up and teased more than you already do, a secret.”

  Brian’s mouth hung open. He appeared to be thinking. “But you’re my cousin. Don’t you want to protect me?”

  “Eat a bug. A small bug. Then your secret’s safe.”

  “Oh, man,” Brian whined, flopping his hands against his thighs.

  “I did it and I’m fine.”

  An elderly woman with a pushcart filled with groceries walked by. She eyed the boys, then snickered at Brian before moving on.

  “See,” Timmy said. “And she was an old lady. Imagine what the kids at school would do if they know you pissed yourself.”

  Brian sighed. “Fine, but it better be a really small bug. And no spiders. I ain’t eating a spider.”

  The boys looked around the sidewalk, in the street, around the storm drains at both ends of the block. Neither one found a bug. Timmy saw a mangy orange cat resting under a Mercedes parked in a driveway. He thought about asking Brian if instead of eating a bug, he’d be into killing an animal, but he knew the little pussy wouldn’t agree. And if he did, as soon as it came time to do the deed, he’d run and tell his mother.