Body of Immorality

by Brandon Berntson

  What’s the big deal anyway? You’d think you never saw a little blood before.

  Red Joe, obviously. Tenebrook took a seat in the back of his mind and let Red Joe pilot his flesh. He didn’t necessarily enjoy the way Red Joe was acting. It scared him. When Tenebrook gazed in the mirror, he looked for signs of his old self. He was still in there somewhere, but where? Dark hair, blue eyes, the moles on his cheeks? Not a trace remained. Governing the ride was that ruby-eyed thespian, that ever smiling, always comical jester.

  Tenebrook had created a bond between himself and Red Joe, despite how he felt. Pretending it never happened wouldn’t make the situation easier.

  Humor is in all things, Tenebrook thought, no matter how sick and twisted.

  Wasn’t it time he looked at things in a brighter light, this everyday ritual in blood?

  Red Joe put a hand to his stomach and doubled over with laughter.

  Ritual in blood? That’s good, Charlie. You ought to write books. You ought to have your name in lights!

  Charlie Tenebrook didn’t rule out conclusive madness. That he was wading in it, relishing in the same bliss as his benefactor must prove something.

  Yep, it must prove something. It proves you’re truly bonkers, whacked right out of the old brain-pan. Nuts to the root, rover baby. How does that grab you?

  Red Joe wiped comical tears from his eyes. It was either that or become one with the bloody hell lapping at his knees.

  But you are the bloody hell. What have you got to say for yourself? No autographs, please. I must have time for meditation. Stand aside. Give me some breathing room, for God’s sake! I must have breathing room! Oh! I don’t know if I can handle all this attention! No more pictures! To all my fans, I adore you!

  What would’ve happened if he’d never cut himself? Would he be all right then? At least until he cut himself later? If his thumb hadn’t been under the knife, this never would’ve happened!

  The little bastard, Charlie thought, thinking of the knife. Look at it smiling, laughing at me! It knew what it was doing all along, the bloody fiend, the goddamn villain!

  Tenebrook was officially gone. He couldn’t distinguish what was his or Red Joe’s thoughts anymore.

  Yes, the knife had been the villain. The knife had a personality of its own. It laughed when he cut himself. It was laughing now, holding onto its steel belly, curling into a sharp, silver ball, similar to what Red Joe was doing.

  Things were different, though, now. The knife, like Red Joe, was a friend. Tenebrook, Red Joe, and the knife, were regular pals!

  Comedy held beauty. The sonofabitch couldn’t stop laughing! Laughter was essential. Tenebrook didn’t want to consider the ramifications without humor.

  Being crazy wasn’t as bad as he’d thought.

  Yeah! So laugh! Sing a song, dance! Take my slippery hand and put on your big sombrero! We’ll toast to friendship, lunacy! They’ll have to cart us away, we’ll be having such a good time!

  Humor had saved his life. Life without lunacy?

  Buried behind a vermilion guise, Tenebrook shuddered at the thought.

  Death was an option, though, right? Death was inevitable.

  Death is over-rated, Red Joe said. Death ain’t all it’s cracked up to be. Why, look at you, Charlie. You’re dead, and you don’t even know it, and you still manage to put on a smiling face!

  Tenebrook didn’t care, not now. Dismayed, he shook his head, trying to understand what had gone wrong, who this dancing, comical nightmare was living in his flesh now.

  It didn’t matter. Everything was clear in the eyes of Red Joe. Everything was exactly as it should be. Amy would come by, worried about him, even the police. Tenebrook and Red Joe’s world would come to a screeching halt.

  They had unfinished business, these two. Red Joe harassed Tenebrook to the brink of tears. It was understandable, even hilarious. Watching Tenebrook crack was a goddamn uproar!

  As Red Joe laughed, Charlie quietly wept inside, hidden in the recesses of safety. Charlie’s downfall made Red Joe laugh like a goddamn loon!

  Laughing and crying, Red Joe said. Is that all you ever do, Charlie? Doesn’t it get tiresome? Me laughing, you crying?

  He tried convincing Charlie it was best to play along.

  Soon, he did. Charlie surveyed the blood through scarlet orbs, a deep pool of vermilion wet lapping at his knees, the walls, and the furniture…

  Laughing, of course, was the only thing left to do.

  We could be the main attraction anywhere, Red Joe told him. A carnival, you know? The Bleeding Man. Imagine the money rolling in? Able to abhor humans in a single bound!

  Tenebrook shook his head. He couldn’t believe it.

  Give him time, Red Joe said to himself. He’ll come around.

  He wished he had a float tube, some lemonade. He felt he was on the ocean, better than reclining in a hammock in the backyard.

  Don’t forget your sunscreen. You wouldn’t want to be redder than you already are.

  Red Joe erupted in another painful fit of giggles.

  Blood by the buckets. Blood by the gallons. Blood by the tubful. It was impossible to believe without seeing it.

  You’ve never seen anything this magical before, ladies and gentleman! Don’t be shy! It’s the most incredible marvel in the known universe…

  Red Joe beamed, the element fueling his derangement.

  The blood was deepening past his knees now, close to his waist. The marvel was where it came from, a feat of modern miracles too impossible to ignore. It gained momentum with every drop spilled, from every nook and cranny, every pour and molecule of Tenebrook’s flesh. Blood gushed from his skin like a self-made river. How could it not be a miracle?

  “You mean disaster,” Charlie said.

  He was a man-made waterfall, a blood-red ocean.

  Thank you, thank you, Red Joe said. No need to go to extremes! You’ve done enough. Quiet please! Thank you for your round of applause. You’ve been one hell of an audience!

  If Red Joe didn’t know any better, he might shed a tear. In all this ruby-colored madness, how could you not shed a tear?

  Can I get some tissue over here, please?

  Red Joe had made a name for himself. At least in his eyes.

  No lights please, no applause. Oh, stop. You’re making me blush.

  Forgetting about Charlie Tenebrook (move over, buster!), Red Joe took a bow.

  *

  It happened to people everyday…

  He’s been cooking enchiladas, chopping lettuce when he misjudged his thumb under the knife. Even then, the knife smiled over his hand. The next thing he knew, the blade eased in smoothly with a warm sting.

  Ah, fuck! Quick. Sure. Pain.

  Charlie yelped, winced, and bit his lip. He hurriedly went to the sink. He turned the water on and thrust his hand under, blood swirling down the drain. He’d cut it badly, he saw. The pain was a warm, electric throb.

  Tenebrook grabbed a dishtowel and wrapped it around his thumb, enchiladas forgotten. Trying to ignore the pain, he took a break from making dinner, and decided to watch a sitcom in his favorite chair.

  The rag was ridiculously heavy after half an hour. A tingling sensation pricked his elbow. Charlie lifted his hand. The entire dishrag was red with blood.

  Eyes going wide, he got up, went to the kitchen, and turned on the water. He unwound the towel and let it plop in the sink.

  “What—?” Charlie said, perplexed.

  Welcome, ladies! Gentles, all! Good of you to come! Don’t want to celebrate before the show’s over? So, let’s get started!

  Red Joe had made a dramatic entrance. The man thought highly of himself. Tenebrook didn’t know where he’d come from. He thought he’d imagined it.

  His hand was a deep scarlet stain. The wound seemed larger than before, deeper than he remembered. The gash was a mouth trying to speak when he flexed his hand. A dagger of pain shot through his arm. He was going to need stitches.

  “So much for a
quiet evening at home,” Charlie said, with tears in his eyes.

  He clenched his teeth, sucking his breath with the pain.

  See! It’s the knife! Look at the little bastard, Charlie? Look at him! He’s got a smile on his face, for crying out loud!

  Sure enough, as Charlie looked, the knife lay innocently on the counter except for a dribble of blood. The knife seemed to be smiling. That was true.

  “Why, you little motherfu—” Charlie said.

  Charlie held his hand over the sink. It bled porously. He could’ve sworn the cut had been smaller!

  He didn’t want to go to the hospital. The idea of doctors, needles, getting stitched up! It made him ill.

  That’s what the mouth on your thumb was trying to tell you.

  “Doesn’t matter whether you want stitches or not,” Charlie said. “Call Amy. Think you can drive?”

  He hadn’t elevated the wound above his heart. That’s why it was still bleeding, he told himself.

  Charlie proceeded to clean the gash, re-wrap his thumb, and put it above his head as if he always had a question to ask.

  “Look, Charlie wants to go on a ride!”

  “You know the answer, do you, Chuck?”

  “Something you want to say to the classroom, Tenebrook?”

  He tried calling Amy. She didn’t answer. He grabbed the keys to the Toyota instead. He’d drive himself. He felt light-headed, though, as he made his way to the door. He put his hand against the wall to steady himself. The hallway tilted one way, then the other. Charlie closed his eyes, tried to gather his thoughts, and shook his head. When he opened his eyes, the room swayed like a pendulum. Lights blinked on and off.

  Maybe this isn’t the best time to go, he thought, and made his way back to the living room. He dumped himself in the recliner.

  The wooziness passed after fifteen minutes. Charlie felt better. He stood up, awkwardly put a plate of enchiladas together, his hand still in the air. He sat at the table and tried to eat, but the corn shells were crispier than he liked; the cheese had blackened. Defeated, Charlie pushed the plate away and sighed. Lights blinked on and off in front of his eyes again.

  With his arm falling asleep and a dull heavy throb developing in his hand, he returned to the living room, trying to immerse himself in a sitcom again. His hand grew heavy, and the pain was intense. Tenebrook closed his eyes.

  Would he pass out? Bleed to death? A few stitches weren’t fatal, were they? He could heal it himself perhaps? Maybe he didn’t have to go to the doctor!

  He got up and tried to call Amy again. He waited and waited. Still, no answer…He didn’t trust himself to drive. He felt dizzy, like he was going to pass out, so he sat back down.

  Soon, the dishrag was heavy with blood. He hadn’t severed his thumb, had he? Two whole dishrags! He’d have to ask a neighbor to take him to the hospital. What a nightmare! Just home from work! What next? Helicopters? Flight for Life?

  Something better! Just wait! It gets better!

  Pulling his arm down, a rivulet of blood snaked from his wrist to his elbow. He felt faint again. He leaned his head back, closed his eyes, and wondered what to do. He let his arm dangle over the recliner.

  Charlie said a silent prayer. He was going to need a bigger dishrag. He hadn’t noticed the pool of blood widening on the floor.

  *

  The trouble, of course, was evident. Elevation, bandaging—a waste of time. Strange as it was, the wound would not stop bleeding, yet, he felt strong, not as though he were loosing blood. He was weak and light-headed only when he stood up. When he tried to call Amy or go to the door—endeavoring to seek the aid of one of his neighbors—his vision darkened at the edges, forcing him to sit back down, as if the wound and the blood had a mind of their own, preventing him from finding aid.

  Spots, ribbons, splatters, and lacy tendrils followed him through the apartment…

  At least have the decency to bleed in the bathtub, for crying out loud! Were you born in a barn?

  Red Joe wasn’t such a bad guy once you got to know him. The man made the situation easier at least.

  Unwrapping another towel, Charlie dropped this one, too, in the sink. He looked at the wound. A quick, hot flash of pain pricked his hand.

  More mesmerized, baffled, and frightened than before, he marveled over how the wound snaked beyond the ball of his thumb and angled toward his wrist.

  He went to the phone and dialed Amy’s number. Charlie let it ring twenty-three times before he hung up. Was her call waiting not working? He cursed and stormed into the hallway.

  He’d open the front door, run down the hall, and find a neighbor to help him! It was his only option!

  In a flash, however—before he reached the door—pinpricks of light blinked on and off in front of his vision. He swooned. He knelt on the ground, holding onto his stomach. For a second, he thought he was going to throw up.

  Inside, with Red Joe making an entrance, Charlie hugged himself in the dark. He began to worry for the very first time.

  Oh, quit being such a baby. You cry at everything! Want me to get some tissue for those tears?

  Red Joe was popping up now more than ever. He was taking over the show.

  What did Tenebrook care?

  Cockpit’s yours, Captain. I’m not cut out for this. Commander’s orders. Thanks for letting me tag along, though.

  Part of him wanted to scream! What kind of wound refused to stop bleeding without the patient passing out from loss of blood or dying altogether?

  How come I didn’t leave the front door open?

  He could go downstairs, find a way to the hospital. Someone would take him to the emergency room. No city could be that hostile, could it? Where the hell was Amy?

  He couldn’t just sit here and bleed to death!

  Making the resolution, Charlie grabbed the keys to the Toyota again. He was determined just to get the goddamn door open! He headed there now. He was almost there! He grabbed the dead bolt, the doorknob, giving each a twist at the same time.

  Just as quickly, his legs turned to liquid…

  Before he could unlock the door, the darkness came. It descended furiously into his brain. Lunatic whispers invaded his thoughts.

  The knob slipped away, his fingers falling from the door…

  I should’ve done this when I had the chance, Charlie thought.

  Don’t worry, Red Joe said. That’s what I’m here for.

  A blood-drenched smile emerged in the dark.

  Tenebrook buckled and collapsed. His head cracked with a heavy thud on floor.

  Red Joe had officially claimed residency, veering the vessel in route to a new horizon.

  Pleased to make his acquaintance, Tenebrook accepted the dark sleep of unconsciousness.

  Red Joe was more experienced anyway. Hell, the guy did this kind of thing for a living! Let him run the show!

  *

  It played itself in Charlie’s mind, an extraordinarily vivid performance before a sold-out crowd. Red Joe was the lead, piloting a huge warplane across a vast stage.

  “Hold on, Charlie,” Red Joe said, fitting goggles over his eyes. (If not for the situation, Charlie would’ve found it comical.) “It’s going to be one hell of a show!”

  The plane started to roll.

  Can you fit an airplane on stage, he thought?

  Tenebrook smiled, knowing he had nothing to worry about, thankful to put this situation in someone else’s hands. Red Joe was enjoying himself anyway. Charlie was confident. He sat back and lost himself in the performance.

  The plane nosed into the air. The curtains parted. A hush came over the crowd. Columns of light hit the stage. No longer in the plane, Red Joe—wearing a black cape—walked on stage from behind the curtains, and looked at the crowd. He threw his hand into the air. The audience erupted with applause, shouts of praise, a standing ovation! Cameras flashed. Hollers, cheers, and whistles boomed throughout the auditorium!

  Stopping at mid-stage, Red Joe crossed his legs at
the ankles. He flourished the cape, slicing his right hand through the air. A smile lifted the corners of his lips. He bent at the waist, the cape unfurling, and stood again!

  The crowd was alive, maniacal! Applause bounced raucously from everywhere! It was dashing, perfect!—a bow to complete and dazzle the wonder of every show!

  Red Joe relished in their ardor. Letting them soak it in for a split-second more, he motioned to the lights, and focused on the coming performance.

  The crowd took their seats. The din quieted to a hush, a cough, a few whispers…

  Red Joe looked from one side of the audience to the other. He nodded, his smile twisting into a hellish grin.

  Making sure they got their money’s worth, Red Joe (as he did night after night) declared his position as one of the grandest masters of the arts. The most inspiring and memorable of celebrities to enthrall the universe with his unique and unparalleled vision! Red Joe showed the world why he’d usurped the throne from the seat of Entertainment!

  *

  For now, however, the show was about Charlie Tenebrook…

  When he awoke in the hallway, stars tingled in his head. The plane, he realized, was the sound of propellers in his brain. That’s why Red Joe pulled goggles over his eyes.

  He looked at the bandage. The wound couldn’t be bigger, could it?

  Groggy, his head reeling from a goose egg, he unraveled the dishrag. His eyes fluttered.

  It was bigger. The wound had curved from the ball of his thumb beyond his wrist, and was heading toward his elbow. Blood spilled steadily, a pool on the floor where he’d fainted.

  No big deal, he thought. Can’t seem to stop bleeding. Can’t seem to run out of blood, either. Ho ho ho. The best of millions do not understand this wonder, this magic show.

  How come he wasn’t dead? Why did this constant energy and weakness come and go? Was it simply the way Red Joe played the part?

  He had resolve. Part of him denied it was happening. If he couldn’t make it to the hospital or rely on Amy, he’d cauterize the wound himself.