Body of Immorality

by Brandon Berntson

  “Mommy,” he said. “I think I cut myself reeeal bad.”

  Don’t you worry, baby. It’s just a minor wound, baby.

  “They don’t make band-aids big enough for this!”

  Red Joe cackled in delight.

  Thousands of voices surged in and out of his head, but he had nothing to worry about. The fight of some angry young man, presumably Charlie Tenebrook, was still in there, hammering on the walls of Red Joe’s consciousness:

  “I’ve seen enough, and I want out! You tricked me! This wasn’t how it was supposed to go!”

  Red Joe admired the attempt, but he ignored Charlie, and basked in the scarlet sunshine.

  The wound had snaked up his arm beyond his shoulder. It dove down the middle of his chest, heading for his naval.

  Just stitch the damn thing up, he thought. That’s all you have to do. Just stitch it up, and I’ll stop bleeding.

  Red Joe cackled maniacally.

  He didn’t know why he hadn’t thought of it before. Or had he? Had he known he would bleed through the thread, making more wounds with the needle?

  What about the hair, he thought?

  We’ll get a rug for it.

  The fingernails?

  Gloves.

  The nose? The mouth? The ears?

  We’ll buy a Halloween mask.

  And uh…what about…you know?

  We’ll buy diapers. We’ll be fine before the sun comes up!

  Red Joe (or was that Charlie Tenebrook?) didn’t believe it, but something had to happen. At the rate he was bleeding and not running out of blood, something had to give sooner or later.

  Another knock issued from the door, something that wasn’t Amy, or the shrill of Todd Dos.

  “Mr. Tenebrook?” a man called. “Mr. Tenebrook? This is Officer Walsh of the Denver Police Department. Are you having some trouble in there?”

  Red Joe laughed. Now, that was funny!

  No, he wasn’t having any trouble. How could Walsh say such a thing? He just couldn’t run out of blood. To some, that might be a blessing. To Charlie Tenebrook—now Red Joe—it was quite the dilemma.

  Red Joe, just look what you’ve done to the place, he thought. You ought to be ashamed of yourself.

  “I thought it was a rather nice touch myself,” he answered.

  “Mr. Tenebrook?” Walsh, a sound man of authority bellowed. “If you’re in there, will you please confirm? Don’t make us break down the door!”

  “Simple shades to this light and harmony, doc! There’s no place like home!” he said, loud enough for them to hear. “Man! What a beautiful day!”

  Surprising him, another voice sounded, one that—hurriedly—brought back the life he had.

  “Charlie?”

  The humor went out of him. Charlie Tenebrook, in a flash, came to the foreground.

  Amy?

  The blood deepened noticeably. The red walls closed in, ready to collapse.

  Red Joe’s thoughts reeled. He looked for a place to hide, to escape. The window was behind him, but he was four floors up.

  “Amy!” he said. “Don’t come in, sweety! Let me tidy up the place first! It’s a real mess in here!”

  Red Joe replaced Charlie and giggled.

  “Damn, Charlie, I knew you had it in you!” Red Joe said. “It’s good to see you coming to life!”

  “Mr. Tenebrook, please open the door!” Walsh said.

  Rage consumed him! How could they let her come up? Didn’t they have any sense? Suddenly, he had more fury for the officers than he thought himself capable. Part of him was even concerned for Charlie Tenebrook.

  “How could you let her come up here?” Red Joe shrieked. “Didn’t your mother teach you anything? Break it down then, you fucking sows! If you can stop the flood! If you can keep yourselves strong against the dam! If you got what it fucking takes! Break! It! DOWN!”

  Red Joe’s mad, reddened fury matched the blood. After all, he was still on Tenebrook’s side.

  In the hallway, Officer Walsh did as Red Joe instructed.

  *

  Gunfire sounded, demolishing the doorknob. The dead-bolt showered into splinters of wood. Someone tried to push the door open, but the depth and power of the blood pushed it shut again.

  Red Joe laughed uproariously.

  Again, the door was forced open, cutting through the gore. It spilled out into the hallway. Red Joe saw the youngest cop he’d ever seen, pockmarked with acne, battling the flow.

  Suddenly, two officers were visible. It made sense. The young face did not match the voice he’d heard.

  The blood tugged at Red Joes’s legs, gushing into the hallway. It forced him to take a step toward the door. He caught a glimpse of Mr. Fyuesterman and Todd Dos staring at him with round, white eyes of horror.

  The door opened wider, the younger cop battling the flood. Amy’s horrified face stared at him. Her jaw dropped, and their eyes locked. Her hands went to her mouth in shock. She paled noticeably, but did not scream. An intense, boiling rage overcame Red Joe when he looked at her.

  “How could you?” Red Joe shrieked at the officers. His voice was slippery, rough at the same time, like a bad gargle. “How could you bring her up here, you fucking sows!”

  Red Joe, again, locked his scarlet orbs on Amy White.

  She used to be a dandelion. Just as breakable, he thought. Just as fragile. What is she now? Where is that pretty little girl?

  Was Red Joe letting Charlie have a final say?

  “Goddamnit, Amy!” he shrieked. “Run! Get out of here before it’s too late!”

  Amy did not run, of course. She was paralyzed. She and Mr. Fyuesterman braced themselves against the opposite wall, battling the flood. Walsh slipped and fell but managed to steady himself by hanging onto the door as Jolves was doing.

  The door was open wide now. The flow leaving the apartment kept it open instead of closed. Todd Dos had not braced himself against the flood as the others had done. Despite the size of the man—and the current—he lost his footing, and disappeared somewhere down the hallway.

  “Amy! Run!” Red Joe shrieked.

  Amy stood, hands braced against the opposite wall, unable to take her eyes off the scarlet monster. The look she delivered was a dagger in Charlie’s heart.

  So much for the engagement ring. Living together, marriage…

  Walsh, Jolves, and Mr. Fyuesterman, mimed Amy’s disbelieving expression. They, quite simply, failed to comprehend…

  The river of blood gushed from Charlie’s apartment, tugging at everyone’s legs. In the midst, Red Joe (Charlie Tenebrook)—this strange, scarlet nightmare—continued to shriek and wail. He screamed at the officers, telling them what stupid sows they were.

  For Red Joe, the wound in his chest came to life, returning with an intolerable itch. He couldn’t ignore it any longer.

  Reaching up, he gripped each side of the vertical gash, and proceeded to pull his chest apart. A surge of blood gushed from his torso. Red Joe shrieked in agony, exposing his shimmering insides. He turned his head toward the ceiling. A turbulent arc spilled from his chest and he wailed in pain.

  This is my life’s end, my eternal work, Red Joe thought. My poetic justice, the crimson conclusion. Ladies and gentleman, goodnight, and thank you for coming, but the show is over.

  He managed to smile before his body liquefied. He tried to bow but fell just short.

  Instead, he disintegrated into a bloody mass. The last of Charlie Tenebrook sank into an abysmal horror—and like Todd Dos—disappeared somewhere down the hallway…

  *

  It was too much. She couldn’t think straight. She couldn’t believe what had happened, that this had happened, that it happened to her—to him—her Charlie Tenebrook.

  She’d made frequent trips to the plant over the last several days to see if Charlie was there, trying to prove to herself it was an illusion, a bad dream, as if her presence would perform a miracle and make him reappear again. The way she remembered. She’d imagined it a
ll, she told herself. The nightmare hadn’t been real. Charlie was alive. She’d see him any minute! He’d call her on the phone…

  She tried not to think about it, but how could she not? How could she not think about the river of blood, the scarlet monster, and his solid, demonic red eyes, shrieking at her: “Goddamnit, Amy! Run!”—giving her fitful dreams, repeated nightmares night after night?

  Her life, she knew, would never be the same.

  Their relationship had been going so well. Everything about him, about her—their life—had been perfect. Charlie had been thinking of proposing. She knew it. He’d hinted at it several times.

  If only she could forget, get it out of her mind. She tried telling herself it wasn’t Charlie, but something else, someone else. She’d wake up any minute! Someone would grab her by the shoulder and wake her up! Please, God, wake her up!

  When it was over, someone—Officer Jolves, she thought—said something ridiculous like: “We’re gonna have to get someone to clean this up.”

  She couldn’t count the times people asked her about the blood.

  Where did it come from? Was her Charlie nothing more than a wack-o, deranged killer? Did he keep gore in the refrigerator by the gallon?

  Amy couldn’t answer these questions, of course. She refused to answer. She was still trying to accept it, to get it into her head that it had actually happened, that it had been real and not a dream, that her Charlie—her beautiful Charlie—was gone forever, the life they had…

  Her mind, however, refused.

  She had no explanation, nothing to make sense out of what she’d seen. It just happened, like UFOs or ghost ships. Charlie Tenebrook would remain a phenomenon, forever part of the unexplained.

  Amy stomped her feet. She felt like a child, throwing ridiculous tantrums, trying to understand. It wasn’t fair! She drove herself crazy trying to understand. No matter what she heard—how many accosted her, asking her questions—she could not bring herself to understand. She could not bring herself to want to understand.

  Amy shook her head. She sat on the couch in her apartment going through the ritual: sadness, guilt, remorse. It wasn’t your average loss, of course. Charlie’s death hadn’t been cardiac arrest, a drunk driver hitting him. He hadn’t overdosed on drugs. What happened went beyond logic and reality and into a more difficult, unexplainable realm of madness and nightmare. How could God—if He was up there—allow such a thing?

  A whiskey and water in a short glass sat on the coffee table. The ice had melted long ago. She wanted to get drunk, to get as inebriated as possible. If she could put distance between the real world and the numbness of forgetting, she’d be okay, but she’d had only two drinks in under an hour because of the tears. She could hardly take a drink and find the glass because of the tears. They wouldn’t stop. At the rate she was going, she didn’t think she’d ever stop crying, and she hated all these fucking tears!

  There was blood on her hands when she reached for the tissue beside the whiskey. It made a circular patch on the carpet at her feet.

  Blood by the gallon. Blood by the tub-full. Blood by the buckets gushed from her eyes. It splashed her satin blouse, her pretty white skirt, and brand new shoes.

  Amy White shrieked in horror…

  Standing behind her, Red Joe placed a hand on her shoulder, pleased to make her acquaintance.

  “Ah, this ain’t nothing,” he said, leaning close. “Believe me baby, it’s better if you just accept it. Ask Charlie. Watch. You’ll see.”

  Red Joe paused for a minute and looked toward the ceiling.

  “Are you ready?” he asked, smiling. “Yes. I thought so.”

  In her mind, Amy saw a stage, a crowd of people taking their seats. A hush moved over the crowd…

  Red Joe motioned to a spot at the back of the theater, grinning like a maniac. Nodding, he pushed Amy aside, and took center stage.

  Sometimes, they just needed a little persuading. A little guidance. After all, the seat of Entertainment was not for the amateur, let alone the faint of heart.

  The last thing Amy saw was the curtains parting. Ironically, it reminded her of the Red Sea, a deep vermilion stain drowning out the rest of the world. With it, Red Joe’s voice rose in stentorian volume:

  “Lights, please!”

  Richard Korbett

  In the beginning, the beast…

  Richard Korbett was a man of many vices. His past was soaked in blood. If not for the choices he’d made, he could’ve been ‘normal.’ He could’ve believed, bought birthday cards, visited family and friends, accepted charity: pies, cookies, enjoy a quaint visit for an idle chat. He could’ve loved and accepted love.

  He could’ve been all these things and more. But the beast had power, and it finally caught up with him.

  He was a law-abiding citizen. At forty-six, he went to work everyday, never called in sick, and was never late. He was a good employee.

  His landlord, Mr. Fyuesterman, referred to him as, “A quiet neighbor. Always keeps to himself. Richard never complains.” He was, in the words of Mr. Fyuesterman, “the perfect tenant.” He paid his rent three days in advance every month.

  “Richard, thank you,” Mr. Fyuesterman always said about the rent. “I appreciate you being on time. I never have a problem with you.”

  His neighbor, Miss Dall, liked him as well, at least at first:

  “Oh, hi, Richard!” she’d say.

  Miss Dall was a short, cheerful woman. She lived across the hall with three cats in number 36. She brought Richard homemade cookies and chocolate pies on occasion, but she was worried about him. He spent all his time alone. He never had people over, and the way Richard greeted Miss Dall always troubled her. His smile looked forced, as if it pained him. Miss Dall wondered what Richard did at night. After a time, she stopped bringing pies over. Richard had begun to frighten her.

  Alarm bells rang in the minds of various tenants throughout The Coachman (a modest apartment complex in downtown Denver) when they saw Richard. He was a haunted man; he owned a stare of soulless black that gazed from a lifeless face.

  It was no secret Richard liked to drink. Some suggested A.A., but he laughed at the idea. His problems were greater than alcohol, he’d said. He could go a long time without touching the stuff. Months, sometimes. Once, he’d gone an entire year-and-a-half.

  Throughout The Coachman, Richard Korbett became a regular topic of conversation:

  “Something happened to him,” some said. “He’s just trying to get over it.”

  “He needs to find a nice young girl,” others said. “He should start going to church.”

  Richard had found his girl, and his church came in fifths.

  He discovered alcohol at the age of fifteen. He’d gone to a party when he was a sophomore. A friend had invited him. Richard did not have to acquire a taste for drink; he liked it right away, not only the taste, but the way it made him feel. Life’s confusion became tolerable. It prolonged his years. Drinking kept the horrors at bay, the beast from gobbling him up. Drinking—in a strange twist of fate—had saved Richard’s life.

  Lately, he’d retreated to his ‘old self.’ He was there now. No persuasion, no ribbing, just a simple nod.

  Yes, dear. Of course, dear. Anything you say, dear.

  He was sitting on the floor, shirtless, his back against the entertainment center. He was wearing unwashed jeans with crusts of vomit embedded in the denim. A fresh urine stain at his crotch sent a sharp, acidic stench to his nose. He wasn’t concerned. Richard’s prerogative was to keep a full supply of alcohol, sit in the leisurely bliss of catatonia, and tip the bottle back. Life was a playground of horrors, and it was his duty to forget.

  The ‘old self’ had been battling the ‘new self.’ He didn’t know which one he liked better.

  Oh, yes you do, he thought. You like the old self. You like the old self much better.

  True. Richard liked the ‘old’ self, the one who pushed the ‘new’ Richard aside.

  His con
cern came with forgetfulness. Childhood, he thought. How much of his childhood could he drown in alcohol?

  He was Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, a perfect, antisocial outcast. He had oblivion, nothing more.

  Goodbye responsibility, priority, care.

  At one time, a violent Richard had come to the foreground. It happened with Danine, his girlfriend at the time. More than ten years ago already. He couldn’t remember why he’d gotten so mad. They’d gone to dinner one night. Afterwards, all he remembered saying was, “Get in the goddamn car!” He’d grabbed her by the arm, yanking her shoulder from its socket. Danine’s arm had popped. He’d asked her a simple question was all. He couldn’t remember. The tone she’d used to answer back had infuriated him. “I’ll pull your goddamn hair out of your fucking head in clumps! I’ll shatter that pretty porcelain face all over the sidewalk, if you don’t get a move on! Do you want me to spell it out for you in blood?”

  Danine had been terrified, eyes wide with fear. No one had ever talked that way to her before. Richard tried calling her later in the week, but Danine never answered. It was as if he couldn’t remember acting like an ass. Danine had her number changed. She’d left a message for him at work. If he tried calling of stopping by, she’d call the police. She’d had to go to the hospital because of her arm.

  No big deal, Richard thought. He had more important things to worry about.

  The beast smiled in the dark, not saying a word. It nodded, agreeing—virtually complacent—and breathed shadows deep into its lungs.

  *

  His current state began on Monday, April 17th, at 7:34 a.m. He was getting ready for work. He opened all the windows in his apartment, letting in the fresh air.

  “Man! It’s a beautiful day!” he said.

  Richard went to the bathroom for one last look at himself in the mirror before heading out the door. He straightened his tie, looked at his clean-shaven face, and rubbed a hand over his wet, black hair. He smiled to himself. In his opinion, he wasn’t a bad looking guy. He considered himself handsome.