by Clive Barker
Even when it was cold, she liked to sit on the sand and run her fingers through the coarse grains. Her dad always said you could never be sad or angry sitting by the water. If she were home, by the water, maybe she’d feel better. Then again, if she were home, none of this would’ve happened. No Larissa, no Jeremy, no pictures.
She traces the outline of the phone in her pocket, thinks for the hundredth time of calling Mira, her best friend back home, but she doesn’t want her to know. Besides, Mira is sort of pissed at her anyway for making new friends so fast and spending time with them. She was so stupid. She should’ve known better.
At the first major street she has to cross, she waits for the light to change, scuffing the toe of one shoe against the pavement. Her phone vibrates again. She doesn’t need to look but she does.
Dirty little whore.
She doesn’t cry. Doesn’t delete the message.
When Hannah told Larissa what Jeremy had asked for, Larissa said it was no big deal, said they all did it, said Hannah was special because Jeremy never asked anyone. A lie, but one that Hannah couldn’t see at the time because she still thought they were friends.
Hannah didn’t even want to take the picture, but Larissa kept talking about it and talking about it. Funny how after Jeremy sent her picture to everyone, Larissa was the first person to send an email. Slut, it read. Hannah thought she was joking, until the other emails and text messages started coming in.
She was such an idiot.
And the absolute worst part? The part she doesn’t even like to think about? She liked taking the picture, liked the way it made her feel, liked the way she looked—older, different. It made her feel pretty and powerful. Did that make her a terrible person? Did it make her a slut?
She almost didn’t hit send, wanted to keep that sense of awe to herself, and the moment she did, the power fizzled away, leaving an empty hollow in its place.
All weekend long the messages came in, a barrage of ugliness and mockery and hate, and on Monday, she walked into school with a dry mouth and shaking hands. At first, she thought everything would be okay. They had their fun, they made her weekend miserable, time to pick on someone else. Then she saw their faces, their true faces, with their masks off. Everyone had vampire smiles and glitter-dark eyes, fingers hooked into cruel talons. Hateful and predatory. Monstrous. So sharp and clear, she wondered how she didn’t see it before.
Every time tears burned in her eyes, their faces brightened, drool ran from the corners of their mouths, and their cheeks plumped. They hid laughter and the names behind palms, smothering them in coughs that served only to amplify.
Slut was scratched into the paint on her locker; Hannah is a whore written on a bathroom stall in bright pink lipstick; Show us your tits on a piece of paper left on her desk. When she found the note, Mrs. Langan asked if everything was okay, and Hannah’s cheeks grew warm, then hot, and the truth pressed against her lips, but she said instead that yes, everything was okay, even though a small voice was screaming. Long after Mrs. Langan nodded and walked away, that small voice continued to scream.
If she could talk to her mom, she’d tell her that she’s tried to ignore it, hoping they would stop, she’s tried so hard, but inside, she’s all broken glass and she can’t put her pieces back together. There’s no way anyone can. And real monsters don’t hide under the bed or in the closet; real monsters aren’t afraid of sunlight.
If her parents knew, they’d hate her. They’d be ashamed and would never look at her the same way. Mostly, though, she doesn’t know how to try anymore. She’s tired, and all she wants is the water, the weightlessness before the cold.
Just past a gas station and a half-constructed fast food restaurant, she drops her phone into the gutter. Steps on it until she hears the screen crack and rocks her foot back and forth to make sure. The light changes and she moves on.
***
Leanne tiptoes upstairs and perches on the top step, the way she did when Hannah was a baby, resting her elbows on her knees and chin atop linked fingers.
Girls can be cruel, she thinks. It’s always been that way, even when she was in school. The surge of hormones brought something dark and primal to the surface, a savage sort of competition that, sadly, never went away for some. Even when the cruelties were relatively minor, the hormones brought sensitivity that affected perception. Maybe it wasn’t the end of the world, but it felt that way to Hannah, and Leanne knows she belittled her feelings.
She wants to go in Hannah’s room, sit at the foot of her bed, and read her a story or sing a song. Would that such devices would work for a teenager. At best, she’ll get a roll of the eyes and an impassioned Mo-ther; at worst, she’ll make it two steps into the room before Hannah yells Leave me alone!
Silly, maybe, sitting here, stressing about a fight that in a few days will fade into memory, and in a few years to nothing at all. She allows herself a smile. All the angst and the chaos. Her memories of her own early teen years are threaded with band names, pining for cute boys in the neighborhood, and yes, fights with her own mother, for reasons unremembered.
Leanne heads downstairs, makes it to the bottom, and turns around, wincing when one of the steps creaks. If her mother were still alive, she’d call and ask her for advice. God, how many times did she do that when Hannah was an infant? Far too many to count. Cancer took her when Hannah was three, and the thought that she won’t see her grandchild grow up still sends thorns twisting in Leanne’s heart.
She passes Hannah’s room on the way into hers, making enough noise so Hannah knows she’s there. Maybe she’ll come out and decide she wants to talk. Leanne opens her closet, pulls out the half-full hamper. In their old house, they’d moved the washer and dryer upstairs; here, though, she has to go down to the basement. As she walks by Hannah’s room again, she lifts her hand to knock, but instead, clears her throat and says, “I’m doing laundry if you have something you want me to run through.”
There’s no answer, not that she truly expected one, but at least now Hannah knows Leanne isn’t angry with her. A subtle olive branch, of which she thinks her own mother would approve.
She adjusts the laundry basket balancing on her hip. Once this blows over, she’ll explain that her reaction had nothing to do with Hannah and had everything to do with the move, with her dad’s job, and the hours he’s spending at the office.
That’s partly true, but most of all, what she’s upset about and can’t mention to Hannah yet, is what David told her last night. He said he regretted taking the job, that he didn’t think the money was worth it, that his old boss had already indicated, strongly, that they’d love for him to come back, and that he’s seriously considering it.
Leanne said nothing, too shocked to speak. They’d uprooted their entire lives to move here. A good career step, David said. Unlimited potential. No more worrying about money for Hannah’s college fund. Over and over again, and now she wonders if he was trying to convince himself as much as he was trying to convince her.
They spent weeks hashing out the options, the downsides, the changes, and, once they decided the benefits outweighed the risks, several more weeks setting everything in motion. And now he wants to undo everything and move them back? Without even considering how this will affect Hannah or Leanne? Not to mention the logistical hassle. They signed a year’s lease for this house and rented out their old—thank god they hadn’t sold it, though it was a near thing. Breaking the lease will cost them money, and then they’ll have to find somewhere else to live in Edgewater until the tenants’ lease is up.
Leanne’s been doing remote paralegal work for the firm she worked for in Edgewater, so in theory, that won’t present a problem, but once they move back, her boss will expect her to come into the office and she likes working remotely, likes knowing she’s there when Hannah gets home from school.
She can’t even imagine how Hannah will react to the news. She took the move harder than any of them, and it was a huge relief when she made friends s
o quickly. Nice girls, all of them, especially Larissa. If they do decide to move back, will that only make things doubly hard for Hannah or will she be too happy to see Mira again to care?
Leanne pinches the bridge of her nose between finger and thumb. Readjusts the laundry basket. Maybe she should mention the possibility to Hannah and feel her out; then again, it might only upset her even more.
***
Beneath the overpass, through Hannah’s tears, trucks rush past in a blur. She wonders if her mom’s already figured out that she isn’t home. If so, she probably thinks she’s with one of the monsters. She touches a hand to her chest. In a way, she’d be right. If she peeled back the skin of her chest, she thinks there’d be claw marks in the chambers of her heart.
It isn’t the end of the world; that’s what her mother said. Hannah lets out a sharp sound halfway between laugh and sob. Her mom has no idea.
Her dad probably isn’t even home yet. He never worked so much at his old job. She told him that in the beginning, told him she missed him, and he said he missed her too and he wouldn’t have to work like that forever. She thinks maybe he lied and wishes he’d liked his old job a little more.
At least they won’t ever find out what she did.
She peeks over her shoulder, half-expecting to see the monsters standing there, smiling and waiting. No one’s there, of course, but she feels their presence, their hot breath on the back of her neck, their claws tracing the length of her spine.
For a brief moment, she wonders what it would’ve been like to talk to her mom. Then she shakes off the thought and checks over her shoulder again, this time to make sure no cars are driving past.
She climbs over the railing and stares down at the trucks, listening to the rumble of their tires on the asphalt. Inside, she’s cold and still and unafraid, but she hopes it’s fast. She hopes it doesn’t hurt.
***
Leanne stands outside Hannah’s room, arms crossed and elbows cupped in her palms. She fidgets in place, lifts one hand to knock, lets it fall. It’s almost ten o’clock; Hannah might be getting ready for bed.
At the low creak of Hannah’s window, she gives a wry smile. Hannah is so like her father that way, always wanting a window open at night, even when it’s chilly. Leanne prefers a downy pile of blankets, regardless of the weather.
She reaches for the door again and again hesitates. Take a deep breath before making a decision. A bit of advice from her mom, one Leanne’s passed down to Hannah. Silly, perhaps, to think a lungful of air caught then expelled could help so much, but it always does. Leanne knows it from years of practice.
If she goes in now, will they be able to talk without it turning into another argument? Maybe it’s better to wait until the morning. Everything looks better after a good night’s sleep, and tomorrow is Saturday. No rushing in the morning, no watching the clock. She can make waffles with raspberries and powdered sugar—Hannah’s favorite—and help her work through whatever’s upset her. She’ll listen, no matter how silly everything seems; she’ll let Hannah cry or yell, whatever she needs.
Leanne stares down at the shadows her feet have made on the floor and takes a deep breath. With a shake of her head, she heads back downstairs and texts David: Hannah and I had a big fight tonight. His reply comes a few minutes later: On my way home. I’ll talk to her when I get there. Everything will be OK. Love you.
She paces in the living room, scrubs her face with her hands, and takes to the stairs. Maybe letting David swoop in and take care of everything isn’t the best decision. Maybe this time it’s on her to fix things. Standing outside Hannah’s room, she says, “I’d like us to talk now, babygirl. Or I can talk and you can just listen, but if you tell me to go away, I will.”
There’s no answer and Leanne sighs in relief, picturing Hannah lying in bed with her one hand under her cheek, listening. She sits with her back against the wall next to Hannah’s door, pulls her knees to her chest and rests her chin atop folded arms. “Okay, then, here goes.”
She closes her eyes.
“When you were little, I told your dad I wanted to roll you in bubble wrap. He thought it was because you were clumsy, but it wasn’t. I just wanted to protect you from everything, from the world. Sounds so silly, doesn’t it?”
Hannah doesn’t answer, but she doesn’t need to because it does sound silly. You can baby-proof a house; you can’t life-proof a child. A tiny breathless laugh slips from Leanne’s lips. “You know, the last time I did this, sitting outside your door like this, you were six, almost seven. We got home from your cousin Felicity’s birthday party, and it was late and you were tired and said you wanted ice cream.
“We said no. For one thing, it was way past your bedtime and for another, we didn’t have any ice cream. We didn’t remind you that at the party, you said you didn’t like it, even though we knew you did. You shrieked at the top of your lungs that we were the meanest parents ever, and you stomped into your room and threw yourself down on your bed, crying like nobody’s business. I sat outside your room talking for a long time until you calmed down.
“The funniest part was that we offered you ice cream the next day and you said no, you didn’t like it anymore. That lasted about a week, I think. Such a goofball you were.”
Leanne shakes her head. Blinks away tears.
“I’m so sorry for tonight, babygirl. I’m sorry I didn’t listen better and let you talk. I’m sorry if I made you feel like I was making light of what you said. I didn’t mean to. The last thing in the world I want is to hurt your feelings or make you feel like they’re not important, because they are, and I want you to be able to talk to me about anything. Like the way you can talk to your dad.
“It was hard for me to talk to my mom, too. She always told me not to worry about things so much, instead of just listening to what I had to say. I made the same mistake tonight, and I promise I won’t do that anymore. I’ll just zip my lips and listen.
“I love you, no matter what, and I always will.”
She rakes her front teeth over her lower lip, listens for movement.
“Hannah?”
Slowly, she gets to her feet, curls one hand around the doorknob and knocks lightly with her knuckles.
“Babygirl, can I come in?”
REPENT
Richard Thomas
In the beginning, there was no pattern to the sacrifice, merely one more thing to clean up after a long, hard day—no reason to believe that I’d brought this upon myself. No, it was just another violent moment in a series of violent moments—so many mornings waking up in the city, the Chicago skyline vibrating in the distance, my knuckles tacky with dried blood, gently running my fingers over my bare skin looking for bruises, indentations, and soggy bandages. In the kitchen, the sound of laughter, my son and wife crisping some bacon, a million miles away. The decapitated squirrel on my front stoop, I stepped right over it, hardly seeing the fuzzy offering, heading out into the snow, boots on, leather coat pulled tight, the bourbon still warm on my tongue, my belly filled with fire. The blue feathers tied into a bouquet, lashed to the wrought iron fence, they fluttered in the wind, and I hardly noticed.
I should have paid more attention.
I huddle around a metal trashcan, the flames licking the rim, hands covered in dirt and grime, a black hooded sweatshirt around my head like a praying monk, my legs shivering under torn jeans, my skin covered in tiny bite marks, slices up and down my arms, eyes bloodshot, as I hide in the darkness, wondering how much time I have left. I stand at the end of the alley, three walls of faded red brick, eyes darting to the opening down by the street, waiting for something to lurch out of the snow that spills across the sky, the world around me oblivious to my suffering.
I threw it all away.
Perhaps we should start at the beginning.
It’s finally time to repent.
***
As a boy I liked to work with my hands, helping my old man repair a variety of cars—the ‘66 Mustang in Candy Apple Re
d, the ‘67 Camaro in that shimmering deep Marina Blue. Many a day and night were spent under a car, skinning my hands and arms while trying to wrench off a nut or bolt, oil and cigarettes the only scent. When my father would backhand me over the wrong tool, I’d laugh and grab the right one, as my blood slowly began to boil. It started there, I imagine—the anger, the resentment, the need to transfer that rage. Did I drop a wrench between his fingers, watch it smack him in the face—let the car door bang his hand, step on an outstretched ankle, as I walked around the garage? Sure I did. But I never lowered the jack all the way down, letting the weight of the car settle on top of him, crushing him slowly as our black lab ran around the yard barking at cardinals and newborn baby rabbits. No, I never let the sledgehammer descend onto whatever limb stuck out from under the cars—I placed it back on the shelf and handed him a screwdriver, a hammer, a socket wrench, and grinned into the darkness.
But the seed had been planted. Yes, it had.
I played baseball all through high school, outfield mostly, and on the days that we took batting practice inside, claustrophobic in a slim netted cage as the rain fell on the ball fields, I’d watch one of the boys pitch me closer and closer, edging me off the plate, laughing to his friend outside the cage, as I started to sweat. I’d squint and tighten my grip, ripping line drives back up the middle, as he kept getting closer and closer until he finally beamed me in the shoulder. The coach watched from a bench on the near wall, chewing his dip, spitting into a plastic cup, a slow grin easing over his face. He loved this kind of shit. They all did. The boy pitched again, and I smashed the ball right back at him, the netting in front of him catching the line drive, a sneer pulling at his upper lip. He pitched me inside, clipping my elbow this time, and I dropped the bat, cursing under my breath. As I slowly walked toward him, massaging my elbow, my arm a jumble of nerves, trying to get the feeling back, the coach said, “That’s enough,” and my time in the cage was over, the pitcher smirking as he tossed a ball gently into the air, then catching it again, muttering an insincere, “Sorry, man,” under his breath.