Sixteen Small Deaths

by Christopher J. Dwyer

  I reach the top of the basement stairs and see my love covered in blood, crimson spots dancing on her white t-shirt. Smoke glides from the hot barrel and disappears into the ceiling. Chelsea falls to the floor, dropping the shotgun. The sound of her crying is the loudest noise I’ve ever heard in my life.

  The body is crumpled against one of the kitchen chairs, its legs curled. I can see that it’s an older man with hair the color of polished brass. His eyes are open and his chest is absent of breaths. Black and torn fabric reveals multiple patches of freshly penetrated skin.

  “He pushed open the bedroom door,” Chelsea says. “I shot him, Konrad. I had to shoot him.”

  I reach for her hand and she grips it harder than she ever has before. Holding on to her, I reach for the man’s wrist. His heart has stopped beating and his cold, dead body left this world with a filthy stare at my wife.

  “Go get a towel and clean off. Now.”

  She runs to the bathroom. I push the man’s eyelids down, flaps of skin covering the coldest stare to grace this lonely house. His arms are as heavy as tree trunks and it’s tough to pull him out of the kitchen. I let the body fall down the basement stairs, watching the skull smack the concrete wall, bits of blood smearing the marine blue stone. I trot along the steps, finding the toolbox and sheet of wood.

  Running back upstairs, I drop it on the kitchen floor and slam the basement door behind me. Chelsea is in the bathroom, wearing a lacy pink bra. She sits against the sink, head down and solemn. Her soiled t-shirt is crumpled in the trash barrel amidst a mess of wet paper towels. I put my arms around her and press my lips against her forehead. Her sweat is sweet, like sugar water.

  It only takes me five minutes to board up the window. When I’m done, I take a swig of wine and drink until it spills out of my mouth and drips on my shirt and the floor. It takes me a few moments to collect myself and realize what happened over the last ten minutes. I ease into one of the kitchen’s chairs and finish the bottle of wine before letting my mind calm to the tune of the nighttime’s ambient melody.

  #

  Chelsea stands next to the living room window, the hands of a woman gracing the shotgun like it was a sleeping child. She watches the trees sway back and forth, waiting for any sign of movement in the darkness surrounding the house. I drift in and out of consciousness, eyes following Chelsea in the silent filmstrip of my mind. Before long, I sit up and she’s gone, leaving me with a square portrait of absolute black. The wine leaves pulses of tenderness beating just behind my eyes, the remains of a violent evening.

  I slip out of the living room, ignoring patterns of candlelight dancing against the hallway floor. Footsteps are gentle and slide against the linoleum floor in a seamless motion. I stand before the basement door and take a deep breath before opening it. The steps come slowly, my boots lending weight until the wood creaks with an awkward moan.

  The intruder’s body is slouched at the bottom of the stairs. His eyelids are still closed, the fury once raging in his arms and legs now dormant in insipid skin. I poke his chest with a bitter finger and wince, part of me expecting that the corpse will return to full life. His pants are thick and soiled and smell like fresh dirt. I search his two pockets and find nothing. The head tilts to the side when I remove my hand. I jump back in reaction, each thud of my heart nearly popping through my ribcage. I stand up and notice the black marks on the left side of his neck. Leaning down, I see the amateur tattoo scrawled into the skin. It’s a sideways V and at this very moment all I can picture is Chelsea crying in her room, clutching the eggshell white blankets while trails of veins fill with anxious blood.

  I kick the body once, twice. It doesn’t move. Curses fill the room and my eyes start to water. I wipe away the discharge, running up the basement stairs and letting the cool indoor air graze past my cheeks as it shoves the door shut behind me. Ovals of light my guide, I follow them until I reach the bedroom door. Chelsea sleeps on the very edge of the bed, like a frightened dog. I’m careful not to startle her as I kick off my boots and fall into the mess of pillows and blankets.

  The world rages on outside of our house and all I can do is let the tears flow as I nestle my head next to the golden curls of my wife’s hair.

  #

  Two days have passed and neither of us has ventured outside. It’s only now that I’ve learned to accept the radiance of noise crinkling in the night sky, its mellow drone sliding into my ears in hypnotic fashion. Chelsea lies naked under the sheet and says that she can’t hear it anymore.

  “How?”

  “All I can hear is the shotgun blast,” she says. “The weight of his body slamming against the kitchen chairs.”

  I nod and understand that to kill someone is to accept seeing the person’s face every time you close your eyes. Chelsea turns to me with the look of desperation, eyes eager to confess their sins with only a single glance. The bed sheets barely cover her body up to her chest.

  “This isn’t going to last forever,” she says.

  I won’t answer her. Instead, I stare at the collection of stains on the bedroom ceiling, follow the collection with my hand as more words creep out of her mouth. I say nothing and get out of bed, waiting a moment before putting on my jeans and t-shirt.

  “Please listen to me,” Chelsea says. “We have to think about leaving. I don’t want to die.”

  Head down, I let my toes curl against the carpet. It takes all of my willpower to stay silent, but only a phrase escapes my lips. “We’re not going anywhere.”

  I blow out the candle on the dresser and find my boots, ignoring the waves of sound pounding on my skull. Chelsea closes the door after I leave. I sit at the kitchen table, my fingernails trying to pick off the dry chips of black and red paint. I don’t know the interpretation of the symbol but every time I see it I know that Chelsea’s right. It’s not safe here anymore but leaving the mountains will only guarantee that both of our lives will end under harsh circumstances.

  It’s only a matter of time before whoever’s outside will break in again.

  It’s only a matter of time before death comes knocking again.

  I find another bottle of wine buried behind rows of canned vegetables. Jade glass covers blood red liquid and before I pop open the cork, Chelsea grabs the bottle from me and smashes it to the ground. Tiny shards split and waltz into the air, drops of merlot splashing against banana-colored linoleum. She’s taking deep breaths, small breasts sulking under a thin layer of purple fabric. She shakes her head, disappointment rising from white knuckles.

  She clenches her teeth and leaves the kitchen. For a moment her aura floats behind her, a simple pattern of translucent lace crawling into the air. I rub my eyes, letting leftover sleep dig into my retinas. “Chelsea…”

  She doesn’t answer and within a matter of seconds I hear the bedroom door crash with unbridled might. I sigh and start to clean up the mess on the kitchen floor. Paper towels soak up the dirty residue of wine, leaving a trail of orange spots on the kitchen floor. I’m on my knees, dropping the towels into one of the last plastic trash bags we have left when Chelsea walks back into the kitchen, pallid skin drained of every drop of emotion.

  Her lips curl and I ask what’s wrong. She just turns her head back to the bedroom, a simple motion that beckons me to follow her. I take her hand and she leads me through darkness and into the bedroom where our bodies are lit by an array of lights. I step away from Chelsea and edge closer to the bedroom window, my hand shoving away the few inches covered by curtains. The moon hovers amongst the night sky, a bright eye looking down upon a scarred planet. In a matter of moments, the moon’s center pops in a vivid flash. It looks like a giant orange rose set to fire, purple streaks entwined with space glitter and tinges of silver.

  Chelsea presses her body against mine but I barely notice. “Oh my God,” she says. She squeezes the loose ends of my t-shirt, tugging on the cloth like a child clutching its father. We stand for what feels like hours, watching the celestial destruction unfold in
the sky. Gold light spills into the room and for a moment I look away, my vision locked on Chelsea’s tranquil face. The green in her eyes mixes with shimmering moonlight, like emeralds floating in a sea of melting bronze.

  I pull Chelsea to the bed, my hands on her hips. Breaths of sorrow take flight from my lips as flickers of dust begin to drop from the remaining stars. Chelsea lies next to me and a frightening calm creeps into my chest, every heartbeat forcing hair to stand on end. Her body nuzzled against me, we eventually drift into a dreamless slumber, an outline of igniting flowers burnt to the backdrop of our eyelids.

  #

  I sit up in bed, alone and tired. The blankets are crumpled at the edge of the bed. I reach over to the opposite side of the bed, expecting my hand to be greeted with the warmth of Chelsea’s skin. Fingers find nothing but cool sheets and my own shadow. My stomach growls, feeding off of the remains of slumber. I force myself out of bed and close the curtains.

  I stumble out of the bedroom and walk into the kitchen. The large board surprises me and after a few seconds I remember what happened a couple nights ago. Chelsea isn’t in the kitchen or in the living room. After checking the bathroom, a chilly wind lurches into my bones. The front door is wide open, the air barely able to rustle its sturdy frame. In a moment of panic, I grab the gun from our bedroom and run outside, my boots scraping against the dirt trail. The moon is nowhere to be found, replaced by a swash of stars the color of morning bruises. I see her hair tossed by a winter wind, whorls of curly locks spattered in multiple directions. The gun stuck inside the back of my jeans, I jog to Chelsea and stop just a few feet away from her.

  She stands with her arms covering her stomach. I take a step next to her and whisper into her ear. “Chelsea, honey, are you okay?”

  She closes her eyes in response, violet eyeliner gleaming with spatters of glitter. She takes a deep breath and takes a step forward, closer to the edge of rocks. Ashen swirls of mist circle around us and when I try to slide a hand into her crossed arms she pushes me away. “We can’t live like this any longer. It’s not worth it.”

  “Chelsea, please. Come back inside the house and we’ll talk.”

  She shakes her head, moving her arms to the side and opening her eyes. “No, I don’t want to go back in there. I’m not going to waste away in there.”

  Chelsea steps further, her pink sneakers now hugging the slab of grey rocks. Another few inches and she could fall. She starts to speak again but my arms are already around her waist, lifting her into the air. She kicks away the mist rising from the decaying mountain stream, screaming at the top of her lungs. The noise rattles the bones in my face. She attempts to fight her way out of my grip the entire walk back to the house. I set her down at the set of four concrete stairs at the bottom of the front door.

  “Calm down, please.”

  She lets her head fall and starts to cry, thick tears falling from her face and smacking the stone beneath our feet. I kneel in front of her, placing my hands on the sides of her head, soft rumples of hair touching my skin.

  “What’s wrong?”

  Chelsea sniffles and looks at me, smudges of mulberry wet with salt and sorrow. Her frown is almost icy and I have to look away. She holds onto my hand and I can barely hear what she says under the whine of my own thoughts.

  “I’m pregnant.”

  Blood in my heart quickens and in seconds Chelsea’s eyes glow with the reflection of scattered fireflies.

  #

  Chelsea sleeps with her head on my chest. I can remember the first night we slept together. She was twenty-three years old and it took every ounce of resistance to keep myself from proposing after only a week of dating. Only a couple of years later, we’re sitting alive after the earth’s funeral with a baby baking in her womb. She said that it wouldn’t be fair to raise a child in this new world. Wouldn’t be fair to bring life into a world that was so filled with death.

  She wanted to end her own life to avoid creating a new one. She said I was the reason she didn’t jump into the remains of the river. I was the reason why she wanted to continue to live.

  I ease myself out of her grasp and head into the kitchen, careful not to wake her. The wine calls out to me but even in celebration I know that the sweet taste of alcohol wouldn’t be respectful. I pour a small glass of water and sit at the kitchen table, wondering if the ideas running through my head were the same ones my own father experienced so many years ago.

  The liquid soothes my throat. I sit for a few minutes more, trying to ignore the remains of the intruder’s etching scrawled into the surface of the kitchen table. My palm slides over the markings and a slight chill runs up my arm and into the muscles. I finish the water and drop the glass into the sink next to a growing pile of filthy china.

  “Hey baby,” Chelsea says.

  I’m alarmed at the tinny peep in her voice and turn around with a fist. “Sorry, I didn’t think you were awake.”

  She smiles and sits at the table, rolling the sleeves of her sweater past her wrists to the middle of her hand. “It’s okay. We’ve been on edge since we found this place.”

  I sit next to her and she immediately curls her fingers over my hand. Her cheeks are as red as poinsettias. “We’re having a baby,” she says with a grin. “A baby.”

  “I know.” My voice twinkles with the type of delight that neither of us have experienced before.

  I’m just about ready to ask Chelsea what she wants for dinner when I hear a screeching bang in the living room. We both stand up, the light of terror sprinkled in our eyes. “Not again,” I say. I rush to the bedroom, Chelsea behind me, and grab the shotgun. It hasn’t been touched since she shot the intruder just days ago. It feels powerful in my arms, almost a living, breathing entity soaking up the weight of my arms.

  “Stay here, I’ll be right back.”

  Chelsea closes and locks the door behind me. Long strides to the living room turns into a full run, another snapping crunch striking the walls. The front door is shoved off its hinges before I’m there, bolts and screws tossed into the night air. Three figures stand before me, each dressed in black. I raise the shotgun but before I can pull the trigger I’m brought to the ground by someone behind me. His hands knock the shotgun across the living room floor and in only a second I feel the clout of a wooden plank against my face.

  “Get the girl,” one of them says.

  Springs of pain rush into my eyes, my cheekbones. My breaths are panicked and all I can see are flickering spots of white. The man keeps his arms on mine, movement stifled by his grimy body. The three other shapes walk past me and into the kitchen. I can barely see them now, only wads of black against the blood dripping into my eyes. Chelsea’s apocalyptic scream pierces the air and everything is starting to fade away.

  The last thing that comes across my vision is my wife’s body dragged across the carpeted floor, her golden hair now just a distant memory.

  #

  Jarring flashes of pewter poke me out of sleep. I turn over to see the shotgun leaning against the loveseat in the corner of the living room. My tongue finds a small hard object in my mouth. I spit it out and see it’s one of a few teeth that are missing from my jaw.

  Moonlight drips into the room through the broken living room window and I say one name before shouting as loud as I’ve ever had before. Chelsea.

  I frantically run to each part of the house, the basement. She’s not here and after a few seconds I remember the figures dragging her across the floor. My wife, my love. Gone.

  My father used to say that men’s tears were a different color than women’s. I look in the bathroom mirror and see a torrent of salty water shooting from my eyes, each arc of every tear burning the bruises and cuts in my battered face. They look darker, as if my glands started producing secretion as black as motor oil. I can’t feel my heart beating and I could die right here in the bathroom, clutching my heart while calling out the names of everyone I’ve ever known.

  There’s only one name I need to hea
r and I don’t have the strength to speak it out loud again.

  I leave the bathroom and stagger into the kitchen, try to picture Chelsea cooking at the stove, a tight white t-shirt cut just below the belly button. My eyes closed, I walk into the living room and feel the chill of a winter breeze. The front door lies on the floor, digging into the carpet. The outside air is cold and unforgiving and when I see their symbol splattered against the front entrance’s landing I kneel to the ground. They took my wife but I wish they had taken me instead. My child could be breathing, unknowing of the world outside his mother’s skin.

  I take a few steps along the sandy trail, kicking dirt into the air. The ethereal hum of the stars is gone, replaced by lifeless silence. I walk around the house twice before going back inside, stepping on the front door as I enter. I expect to see Chelsea leaning into the living room, swinging by one arm gracing the edge of the entryway.

  I’m greeted by nothing except a blood-stained carpet and regret.

  A familiar shine hops across the kitchen walls and I remember the nights when Chelsea would read by candlelight, her legs crossed and head perched by a fist. Her hair would hang over her eyes and I would always ask how she could see in between the long, frosty curls.

  The bedroom smells like burnt cinnamon. I notice the tip of something small and brown placed in the center of the bed. It’s a bag made of burlap, tied with dirty brown string. It feels like two squishy marbles and I drop it to the floor, not wanting to open it. Deep breaths eclipse a wearied heart and I force myself to pick it up and open it.

  The string comes undone with a simple twitch and the bag falls apart in my hands, each corner easing open. What I hold is something that I’ve stared at for too many months. What I hold is the beautiful siren that lured me to my wife in the very beginning. What I hold convinces me that she’s far away and dead.