Forsaken - A Novel of Art, Evil, and Insanity

by Andrew van Wey

  This wasn’t her house, a fact she had realized last night. It would never be. She would always find herself outside looking in on that life. And then this morning, after that unpleasant conversation and its cold words, in the tears and sickness that followed her ideas had turned to crystal and all became so perfectly clear that it spread through her body like the deepest orgasm. With that epiphany she knew what to do. Freedom, she thought. Free him from them.

  She followed the hedges into the back yard, passing a bird feeder filled with brackish water and some dying rosebushes. The area was lit by yard lights in the shape of small pagodas that she knew were too tacky for someone like Dan. Those kitsch little lights, they spoke of all the compromises and concessions he had made to that whore, each one chipping away at him over the years, until he was little more than a shadow of the man Karina knew he wanted to be. She would free him. Yes, she would free him of that whore and those kids and that life that he had never wanted.

  And if he didn’t want to be freed?

  Well, there was always Plan B, she thought, as she crouched by the doggie door and whistled. She reached into her pocket, past the cold metal and found the dog treats. She could feel the hard edges of the sedatives that had been pushed into the meat filling. The vet had told her not to give a medium dog more than six a day, two at a time, and so she had stuffed over thirty into the treats, three in each. A final feast to quiet the beast.

  She whistled again, louder, waiting for the flap to open and that dog to emerge for its treat. Emptiness answered back, and beyond it a distant electrical hum from an insect, a cicada perhaps.

  “Come here,” she called, pursing her lips into another whistle, but realized she’d forgotten the dog’s name. Jerry, or Jasmine, or... whatever. But the black flap of the doggie door remained still.

  Then she remembered Dan had said the dog had gone missing. She hadn’t believed him at the time, his lies were so numerous these days, but perhaps he had been telling the truth. It was hard tell with him. That family of idiots, they had all looked so happy as they climbed into the car and drove off past her parked car, but then again they always looked happy.

  As she thought about their smiles she felt the sickness build up above her crotch like a sudden bout of cramps that sent her lurching over to her right side. She grabbed the wrought iron rail and her stomach folded in on itself as she dry heaved.

  She thought of Italy and those families.

  She thought of the old Jewish couple that lived downstairs.

  She thought of the liar in his bed with that hag at his side and those spawn she’d squeezed out from the gash between her legs.

  The sickness came up a second time, twisting her stomach, yet only gasps of air escaped her lips like a drowning animal. No, she would not let the sickness control her. She had too much work to do, too many mistakes to fix.

  She steadied herself and gave a gentle push on the backdoor handle, yet it didn’t budge as she had hoped it might. Dan sometimes left his office unlocked, even after he’d gone home, and occasionally she would sneak into his office and go over his emails and web history. She had thought his carelessness would have carried over to his house, she had planned on it, or perhaps just never thought of an alternative. Only hours ago her idea had been so clear, so crystalized, but now she found the details more complicated. For a moment, she wondered if the whole plan was worth it.

  Yes, she told herself. The whole thing was... was what? Unbalanced. Yes, it was unbalanced. That word seemed to capture it exactly. It was unbalanced and unfair and they needed to pay. She needed to free him and make them pay. The liar and his cunt wipe wife and those urchins, those parasites he called by names. The mistakes all needed to be fixed so he could be free and they could be together. So all could be balanced.

  The doggie door was too small to crawl through, but just large enough to reach into. And if the dog wasn’t there, she thought, then nothing could bite her. Yes, it was destiny. The dog had gone missing to allow her into the house without a key, all part of some grand plan that she was the lead character in. The clarity chased away the final edges of the sickness and all was right again.

  Reaching through, she found the locked doorknob and turned it from the inside. Destiny indeed, she thought.

  The inside of his house at 3350 Greer Park Lane was not as Karina had expected it. The mental picture in her mind had been one of tasteful, classical decorations and minor masterpieces lining the walls like a personal museum. A framed Poussin reproduction, or perhaps some painted bacchanalia near a rustic gas stove where dried peppers hung by thread. Instead, it was a simple house, no different or more exciting than her relatives had, only it was larger and scattered with occasional toys and books. A worn out dog bed sat by the corner next to a bowl, the name GINGER painted in a child's scrawl. Dead roses sat in a murky vase above the sink, and a wedding photograph of Dan and Linda hung at a crooked angle on the wall, mocking her.

  That photograph, she was drawn to it. When her fingers touched the warm glass the sickness flared up. For a brief second she almost vomited into the sink, but she forced it back inside. That photograph would be the first to go, she thought, and she pulled it free from the wall with a sharp yank that took the nail and a strip of wallpaper with it. She tossed it onto the kitchen table, smiling as the glass cracked.

  Filled with a sense of calm, she walked to the drawers and opened them, one at a time, until she found the silverware. Her fingers flittered across them until she came upon a special set, older and nicer than all the others, and she knew these were both wedding presents and family heirlooms. She placed the silverware on the table next to the wedding portrait.

  Tonight, the house would be her canvas, its contents her paint. Tonight, she would bring balance to this whole skewed mess.

  She opened the refrigerator, scanned the rows of leftovers, juice packets, and a re-corked bottle of red wine that would have driven the Italians mad if they saw it chilling inside. She needed something smaller, and settled on the condiments: pesto, mustard, and a jar of jalapenos, all good enough to work with, at least to start. She put them, with the silverware, atop the wedding picture. Then she walked to the microwave.

  The timer only went as high as 59 minutes and 59 seconds, but that would be plenty of time, she thought. After a few seconds the metal began sparking. In under a few minutes, the jalapenos were boiling inside the jar. The sound of ruin made her smile.

  Her fingers traced the cold tile surface of the kitchen countertop, not unlike the frames of the paintings she loved, and came to a stop at the rack of knives sitting in a wooden block. She ran her fingers over the hilt of each, feeling their weight against her fingers. Then she selected a medium sized paring knife. The stainless steel tip glistened as she withdrew it. In her hands it felt good, balanced. As she looked around the room she found the perfect place to put it.

  The whore and her spawn. They were staring back at her from across the room, happy and content. Yes, she would cut them. There were books and notes and newspaper clippings, but most sickening of all was the drawing taped to the wall. It was a horrid mix of crayon and marker that depicted a nauseating and cliche scene; a father, a mother, two kids and a dog stood before a house with a chimney and swirls of brown felt tip smoke. The words: “I love mine family!” were written in clumsy, retarded colors above the name: Jessica, signed with two backwards S’s.

  Karina heaved forward and drove the paring knife deep into the drawing. The blade vibrated and the plaster split as it sunk into the wall. She withdrew it and repeated, again and again, feeling the blade loosen the plaster as inch long gashes turned the childish picture of that bitch into nothing more than loose strands of paper. With a sudden scream she buried it up to the hilt.

  The blade hung from the wall, vibrating from the force of the final blow. She had destroyed that whore, and only then was she satisfied with her work. All that was left of the picture were those two kids, that rat dog, and the liar. If this house of lies was his
creation, than its destruction was to be her catharsis.

  She would fix them all soon enough, she thought. Balance would be restored.

  But now, there was more work to do.

  The Khmer Buddha head arced through the air and split the LED TV screen in two. What remained of his flat screen TV fell to the floor, followed by the stone head that had, until moments ago, decorated the mantel. Now it lay, like much of the room, in a gutted, broken pile, scattered and shattered. The candles had been cut, the curtains carved until they hung as frayed tinsel. She disemboweled the couches with a serrated knife until their stuffing lay spread about like confetti, and the living room, like much of the house, was reduced to a violent mess. She flipped the glass coffee table onto its side by the fireplace and spent the next fifteen minutes feeding photos to the gas flame. All that remained was that final photo album she’d found on the kitchen table.

  As she crossed her legs and sat down, the metal in her pocket pressed deep into her hip. It was uncomfortable, but she knew there was a strong chance she’d need it for the finishing touches she intended to make. If all went sideways, it would be her way out, an insurance plan, a final solution to end all the lies.

  She took the gun and placed it on the floor next to that wretched photo album. Then she settled on the first series of photos. They were a disgusting mix of digital print outs and old pictures from a film camera. Each picture showed that liar or the whore and their horrible spawn as they developed and grew over the years like fattening grubs. She cut them to pieces, just as she had cut Jessica’s picture, then added them to the fire. The flames flickered and grew as the ink burned, the paper curled, and ash danced in the updraft.

  She stopped on a photo of that rat dog and felt the sickness bubble up to chest level. The beast was hideous, far uglier than she’d ever thought, and it made her angry to think that Dan could share a house with such a thing. Its face was little more than matted hair, its eyes: two curdled marbles. A spotted tongue hung out of a crooked mouth like a limp, filthy sleeve. Worst of all was the casual way the family sat around the beast, each of them smiling and staring at the camera in front of a glowing Christmas tree.

  She pulled the picture from the album and tore it up like a student ripping a failed test. As she tore it a fourth time she heard something from the other end of the house. A noise, sudden and sharp, over the sound of tearing paper. She swung her head towards the hallway. The air was thick and dust hung in glowing moonbeams around the room. The hallway felt darker, the within dim and cold.

  Far away, an electrical hum grew, seeming to come from within the walls. A vague taste of rot danced on her tongue. Everything felt... off balance, she thought. Even that word, balance, seemed foreign and out of place, as if it had been injected into her thoughts, intended for another but intercepted by her. But that wasn’t her concern, not now. The end was close, she told herself. She stood up, ready to meet it.

  Another sound, louder and longer. It resonated with a frequency that seemed to penetrate her skin and go right to her bone. It was unmistakable. It was a dog, whimpering. That filthy beast, they had found it. Or perhaps, never even lost it. The whimpering grew, coming from the room at the end of the hall, behind the closed door. Had the dog been home this whole time? Had they left it locked in there like the monstrosity it was?

  Her clarity of mind was fading and she found herself thinking muddied thoughts; small regrets and actions which didn’t seem to logically line up, yet had somehow brought her here, to this very moment. For the first time tonight, Karina felt genuine doubt in her plan. Past it all, past the torn photos and tears, their dead bodies and the taste of gun smoke in her mouth as she pulled the trigger, a single voice whispered that it was all madness and mistakes on the road ahead.

  No, she thought, don’t be distracted. Finish it.

  She fingered the gun, light and warm to the touch, and moved it to the pocket of her sweatshirt. Behind that door at the end of the hall that same sound ran in a loop. A faint canine yowling, and the rattle of metal.

  She stepped towards the door, hand inches from the knob. Finish it, she thought. Fix these mistakes, one by one, and if he doesn’t savor his freedom he can be fixed as well.

  Then she opened the door.

  The study was dark and cold, shockingly so. A chill, like a walk-in refrigerator, yet behind it hung a damp taste of dry grass and earth. The buzz of insects seemed to fill the darkness, then faded as a passing car lit the study in long shadows. A rectangular object sat at the other end of the room, an unframed painting as large she was. It seemed to shimmer for a brief moment, as if it were beneath glass. She drew closer to the towering shape, intrigued.

  It was a simple painting: an empty old room, a grandfather clock, and an open window that looked out onto a small hill with a dead tree atop it. Other than its size, she found the painting unremarkable, devoid of anything that really held her eyes. It was little more than a photorealistic still life with too much empty space on both sides of the painting. Unbalanced. Yes, it was all wrong, as if it was unfinished.

  That sound returned, the muffled whimpering, and only then did she remember what drew her to the study. Past the painting, off in the left corner of the study, by the bookshelf, sat a small form.

  “Hello?” Karina asked as the sickness rose, and she saw that what sat in that corner was no animal.

  “Jessica?”

  A child's shape crouched in the corner, a yellow dress shaking as it cried. Faint muffled sobs as if it were scared...

  ...or hiding. From who? she wondered. From the boogeyman.

  Yes, from the boogeyman. From me, she thought, fingering the gun as she approached the shape.

  “Jessica?” she asked again, and the girl shivered in response. Her hair had small burgundy streaks in it, held up in two pig tails tied with white lace ribbons.

  How long had had she been hiding here? An hour? Two? Karina had thought the house empty but in hindsight she realized she’d always heard the whimpering and crying, just as she’d always heard the hum of insects. From the backyard, into the kitchen, through the halls and into the living room. It had always been there, a white noise, a constant behind all else.

  “Jessica!” she snapped a final time as she clenched the gun and raised it.

  “I broke it,” sobbed the little girl, but it came out as: “Aieee buh-woke eeet,” rolling off heavy, trembling lips. And as she said this Karina saw what it was the girl held.

  A small animal bone, no larger than two fingers spread in a victory sign, was clutched in her hands. One side was dirty, covered in muck and hair. The other had a row of teeth on it: fangs, incisors, and molars. The girl stretched her hands upward, holding a dog’s jawbone, raw and wet, like a child asking a parent to fix a toy. As she presented this gruesome artifact her face passed into a beam of light from the window and all within Karina’s mind went sideways.

  The sickness erupted, fast and violent. Karina cupped her hand over her mouth and vomited into it.

  The young girl had no face.

  Or at least, nothing that resembled a human face. It was a mask, but only in the sense that the skin painted on a doll’s face is a mask over an abstract shape. Cracked patches of paint hung from bark-like skin, and between the cracks lay wet stitching. Her eyes were empty chasms, not even sockets where eyes had once been, but holes into a dark core that leaked tears of wet paint down cracked cheeks and past cold, quivering lips. Her engorged head rolled around on her neck like a pendulum.

  Karina felt a second spasm and covered her mouth but the sickness escaped between her fingers. Instead of being repulsed, the girl, that doll headed vagary of a child, shuffled towards Karina. She hadn’t stood up, or if she had the action had taken a mere microsecond to complete. To Karina the doll headed girl appeared suddenly upright, as if the movement between squatting and shuffling had been spliced out. Her hands reached out, holding that jawbone--“Aieee buh-woke-eeet”--and behind her Karina saw what she had broken.


  A dog lay on its side in the corner where the girl had just been. The liar’s disgusting rat dog. Ginger. It gave Karina a weak glance, like an old mutt greeting its owner on a hot afternoon. A whimper came from a wet hole where its bottom jaw had been removed, and it wagged its tail and farted in spasms.

  The sickness gave way to something else, and in the transition between the two, for one clear moment that stretched forever, Karina felt no other feeling than utter and complete regret. She thought of Dan, of the first time they met, how witty and clever he was, and yet how awkward and clumsy he came off. She thought of the knife and how she drew it across her wrist, not deep enough to kill, but deep enough to keep him there for another hour, another week. And she thought of the smile he gave her as she boarded the plane, the smile that meant a part of him was happy to see her leave, and how she had replayed that smile in her head over the summer months in Italy beneath that sickening sun.

  Most of all she thought of today. Of her plan, her stupid fucking plan to kill them all, one by one, and then finally herself. All those actions and plans, when laid out and played back in that brief ocean of clarity, stood awkward and embarrassing and foreign, and had someone else told them to her she would have called them insane. But it wasn’t someone else, it was her, and for that she felt absolute shame.

  And then the void collapsed, the shame was gone, replaced by a horror so vast her mind reverted to that of a child and her thoughts became simple.

  Not right. Something wrong happen. Move. Away. Go!

  She tried to run but her feet fell out from beneath and the hardwood floor rose to catch her. The world went sideways and a bright pop lit up her senses as the floor connected with her ear. The instant ringing muffled her screams which came in short, shrill bursts.