MIdnight Diner 1: Jesus vs. Cthulhu

by Chris Mikesell

  I feel rain splashing on my shoulders, warm. The type that I remember running in as a child. I don’t know why I would remember that. Maybe because it’s different than the water in the room. I know a lot about water, now. I’m not sure I like it.

  Everything seems so terribly strange, here, walking into the woods. It’s different than before. Before, the woods must have been more inviting. More lovely. I distinctly remember loving trees. But now, here, they look as if they would mangle me if I were so much as to touch them.

  The trees are filled with malice, and I begin to hate them.

  Water runs down my cheeks, fills my pockets. It’s raining harder than it should. There should be a limit on how much it can rain, really. At times like this when it rains really hard, it hits my head and runs down my hair, gets under my coat, and I don’t feel like I’ll ever get dry.

  There is a trail ahead of me—isn’t that odd? I hadn’t noticed a trail before; maybe I was just too preoccupied with this confounded rain. I step onto the trail and keep moving ahead, looking.

  I don’t even know why I’m walking, why my legs are giving me such trouble. I’m not sure what I’m searching for, but I’m sure that here, in the woods, I’ll find it.

  I hear a quiet voice. “What’s your name?” it says, whispering, but I know it’s real—not one of those voices. Not like his voice.

  I look around; hope that I can see whoever it is through the haze of rain. “Over here, come here!” I see her, a girl, motioning to me, further up the trail—why didn’t I see her before?

  I take a step, look more closely. My head swims. Her hair is that dark chocolaty color that I’d forgotten existed. And she’s smiling, too!

  I take another step, hope I don’t trip. I always trip in my nightmares. She motions with her finger, giggles.

  Three steps and I’m standing three feet away from her. God, she’s beautiful.

  “What are you doing here?” she asks. Giggles.

  “I. . . er. . .” What am I doing here? “I don’t know.”

  “You don’t know? Why that’s the best answer I’ve ever heard. I mean, it makes the most sense, because, in a sense, nobody knows why they’re here.

  And that’s what makes your answer so intelligent!”

  Her voice flows in with a waterfall sort of motion and sound. I remind myself to breathe.

  “Are you going to speak, or just stand there?” “I’m going to—”

  “Did you know I’m not supposed to be here? So you’ll have to be quiet. But you’re good at that, aren’t you. Yes, you are, of course. You see, I’m hiding. My friend and I are playing hide-and-seek, and I’m afraid you’re interrupting.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say, embarrassed.

  “Just to make sure you’ll be quiet—and I know you will—I’ll give you a kiss. Is that a good deal or what?”

  “I . . . uh—what?”

  “You’re embarrassed, I know. Most girls don’t just go giving kisses to every chap they meet, do they?”

  I don’t know whether they do or not—that’s something I can’t remember. I feel my cheeks flushing, and—

  She takes a step, and her lips are locked on mine. Glory! Adrenaline! Electrical current sweeps from my lips to my shoulders and down my legs. My spine tingles. I haven’t felt anything like this in such a long time

  The girl steps away and smiles at me, I smile back, though faintly. He made me forget how to smile, I think. “Did you like that?” she asks.

  “Yes,” I manage to say before she jumps down the path, dancing and singing as if this were the happiest day of her life. Didn’t she just get through saying something about being quiet?—it must have been a joke.

  I remain motionless, watching her. Everything about her is perfect, her brown locks bouncing, her beautiful curves accented by her tight, silver blouse. I could stand watching her forever. I don’t even know her name, but she reminds me of someone I used to know, before.

  She stops dancing, and turns to look at me, and crunches her eyebrows as if I’ve done something wrong—did she catch me staring? I drop my eyes, guilty as sin. I can feel my cheeks blushing.

  “Well, are you coming?” she asks. “What?”

  “Are you going to come with me or not?” “Where are you going?”

  “Down the path, to see my sister,” she giggles, as if it’s funny. It’s like she thinks everything is funny. “Are you coming?”

  “I—yes.”

  “Don’t you even want to know my name?” “I thought of that earlier. What is it?”

  “It’s Chloe. Do you like that name?”

  I do. It matches her waterfall voice. “Yes, I do.” “Well?”

  “Well what?” She reminds me of someone I used to know. Her name was. . . could they be the same person? Chloe looks exactly like the girl I used to know. Her name was Myra, I think. I feel lightheaded at such a strong memory.

  “What’s your name, bare-foot guy?” “I can’t. . .”

  “Yes you can. What’s your name?”

  “I. . .” My eyes blur, I can feel my cheeks beginning to turn red, not from embarrassment, but because I don’t remember my own name. I don’t even know who I—

  A pang shoots through my chest—

  I panic as the gravel bites my elbows and knees, I see nothing but black. Inside the dark space I feel it.

  He is coming for me again.

  CLICK-CLICK-CLICK-CLICK-CLICK-CLICK-CLICK-CLICK-CLICK . . .

  I am awakened from the blackness by a monotonous sound.

  Only dimly aware of my surroundings, my consciousness fades in, out, in. I never know if I’m awake or dreaming. Sometimes, when he had me, I remember not being able to remember if I was alive or dead. It all repeats. After awhile I realized that maybe I would never actually die or live; I’d just go on in this state of delirium forever.

  I am lying on my back, of that I’m sure. My feet are numb with cold. My arms are simply . . . numb. I’m not sure if I have arms. I can’t move my head to check because there is a steel collar holding me to the table

  Click-click-click-click click-click-click-click-click-click . . .

  The ceiling is white. I presume that the walls are white, too, because for once, I remember something.

  This is one of his rooms; his rooms are always white, off-white. I don’t know what this means, but all I know is that it is cold.

  A solitary, white-cold.

  I hear a trickle in the back of the room. It’s water, I know, because it’s

  always water.

  The steel holding me to the table retracts into the table, and my left arm twitches. This means that he must have done something to me, because I never twitch when I’m here. I shake. Maybe it’s because the girl has calmed my nerves for once—

  I sit upright, hope that for once the water stops at a reasonable level— The table drops into the floor and I crash to the ground. Blood seeps from

  my forehead, into the water that now covers the floor an inch deep. I pick myself up off the floor, rise to my knees.

  Water pours from the pipe which is about an inch and a half wide, the water keeps flowing faster, faster, faster.

  The water is two inches deep. I feel it against my skin, cold, deathly. It’s different than normal rain water. That type of water is alive; this water is . . . dead. That’s why it’s a dark blue-grey color as it rises, instead of clear.

  Ten inches more and it’s a foot deep, my legs begin to feel—instead of going numb, because they’re already numb. There’s something wrong about all of this.

  FIVE FEET, and it’s up to my shoulders. My stomach is frozen, but I feel all of it. Everything is cold, in this white room with its water.

  The ceiling light flickers and goes out, I assume that he did it. Only he

  would do something like that.

  I feel the water begin to vibrate, to lap against the walls. I never know how it does that, but if it doesn’t stop rising soon

  I suddenly remember the nails t
hat slide out of the walls when the water gets so high I can’t touch the floor, long nails—eight inches or so—I swim to a wall and grab one to keep my head above the dead, wretched water. They’re not sharp enough to cut me just from touching, but if I hit one with force it would impale me—I know because I did it once. I touch one and pull myself up, placing my head against the eight-foot ceiling, the water touching my chin.

  I think this is how it feels to die.

  THERE IS SOMETHING ROUGH pressed against my face. I know I’m laying down. But in there, inside the rooms, there aren’t many rough surfaces . . . am I outside again?

  I feel wet, but that’s nothing new. It means I’m not dead yet, but should I really be thankful for that?

  I rise to my tired, aching feet and stare at my surroundings—trees, leaves, the swishing of rain running over things—I’m back in the woods, and the trees look more ominous than ever.

  Could I actually be free this time?

  But where’s the girl. . .Chloe? I want to feel her lips again, just like I felt

  Myra’s so long ago, until the day—

  Lightning splits the grey sky; thunder rumbles through the air like the sound of war. I jump—I haven’t heard thunder in a long, long time.

  I coax my legs to walk, I see the path ahead of me, I long to run! I haven’t ran. I haven’t done anything, felt anything, for so long. I can’t think of anything but Chloe’s lips. Those magnificent, beautiful lips.

  I like them so much because they remind me of Myra’s, so long ago. I think of Myra’s beautiful figure, but am overcome by a wash of anger. She betrayed me. But Chloe will not betray me, no, Chloe is innocence, I know it.

  The sound of footsteps clops into my ear, I follow the sound down the path, break into a run.

  There she is! Her chocolate hair just nipped behind some bushes, didn’t it? My lungs heave for another breath of the humid air, suck it in, thankful that the rain has stopped for a moment.

  “Chloe?!” I yell. How I long for just one more touch. Human touch, the real thing. To see her pearly white teeth behind smiling lips. “Stop!”

  She lets out a long, sumptuous laugh which I don’t know how to interpret: it’s the laugh of both insanity and amusement, which seems to fit her well . . .

  I round the corner into a clearing, where did she go? There’s a cabin standing in the middle of it, old and broken down . . . did she go inside? Is that where her sister is? She can’t have left, please don’t say she’s left.

  The grass is cool, almost cold, between my feet. Wet, soft, cushioning. “Chloe!” I yell.

  There she is! Her back is turned to me, just around the corner of the cabin. Why won’t she turn around?

  “Chloe, it’s me!”

  My God, why won’t she turn? I force my legs to run, my broken feet send painful signals up my legs.

  Finally I stand next to her, but she stares straight ahead, her eyes red with tears—why is she crying? “Chloe, are you okay? What’s wrong?”

  I try to wrap her in an embrace, to comfort her, but she steps away, looks past me. Her tears fall bitterly.

  “Answer me!” I yell at her. I shouldn’t be yelling, that’s no way to talk to a young girl—I remember that much. Yet, I keep yelling, wondering why I’m being so loud. “Tell me what’s wrong!”

  She begins to stagger away from me, and I ask myself why she’s in such pain.

  “Why can’t you just tell me what’s wrong?” I’m screaming. Raving.

  She turns to me slowly, but there is no compassion in her eyes. Only sadness.

  What’s your name, she mouths, and at that moment, nobody in the world could look more like Myra.

  What’s your name, she’s saying again, and I feel a shock inside my skull like gunfire as I realize that she is Myra. . .because Chloe was Myra’s middle name. The name I used to call her when we were in love.

  “I don’t know!” I scream, cutting my words off bitterly.

  I feel my head clouding up again, my feet move across the ground, my hands flail in the air. Something is in my hand.

  I stumble. Get up.

  And then I see it, as I stagger toward the cabin, trying to find her. Somebody, someone, lying in front of the front steps.

  Why hadn’t I seen her a second ago? Is she sleeping? I’m at her side in a matter of seconds—or a matter of steps. My heart is hammering in my chest at an irregular beat, crashing, crashing, crushing the outside of my chest.

  But no, this isn’t right. Something’s wrong with her face. What happened?

  “Why?” she asks through a gurgle of blood entering her throat.

  There’s blood seeping out of a gash in her right cheek . . . a thin, red line stretching across her throat. There are tears in her fearful eyes.

  And the knife is in my hand, as the rains begin again, soaking me to the bone before I can manage to fade from consciousness.

  “WHAT HAVE I DONE?” I scream toward the ceiling as the water rises. I try to tear myself free from the restraints that bind me, those insufferable steel bands, because I begin to realize that this hellish existence will go on forever.

  This ceaseless repetition, for the crimes I have committed against those

  I love, for all I know is this, the world I am condemned to.

  Inside where there is a broken heart crashing with an irregular beat, I know I could not tell her. So wretched, wretched, wretched . . .

  LAST TRIP TO CRYSTAL MOON

  R.M. OLIVER

  He raped me.”

  My tongue involuntarily pushes a toothpick around in my mouth as Dana tells me what happened. She is beautiful, despite her already too-thick makeup, mixed with tears and dried on her face, despite the dark bruises on her neck. Her tears are spent now and through clenched teeth she tells me what happened, passing her anger to me.

  “He must have given me something. I’ve blacked out before from drinking, but not from two beers.” She bites a quivering lip and swears, “He left me on the steps outside my apartment.”

  “Who did this?”

  “You know him. His name is Eric, Eric Matthews.” Her tone is not accusatory but I feel accused.

  You know him . . . His name is Eric . . . Eric Matthews.

  A huge ball of nausea replaces my stomach. I’d introduced Eric to the club. I wait for an hour in the easy chair next to her bed until she’s asleep; then I slip out to the living room. Mike is watching TV with Dana’s roommates.

  I toss my keys to Mike. “Let’s go, dude.” Mike will drive because he drives fast. I glance over at Amy, a secretary at a large insurance company, and Tina a nursing student and waitress at the Metro Diner, and wonder how these three women live together.

  “Where would a rapist go at a quarter after twelve?” I ask myself out loud as I wait for my gas tank to fill up.

  We stop for cigarettes and coffee. Mike guns the truck back onto the road, driving too fast, too aggressive. “Don’t get stopped, bro.”

  You know him . . . Eric Matthews.

  There are not many places Eric would be. We check the gas station where he works, we check his school, his apartment, we even go by the Texas Roadhouse, but he’s nowhere. Mike is getting thirsty, I can tell because he keeps sighing and smoking, and he’s still drinking hot coffee at four-thirty when the Texas sun is at its peak.

  “You ain’t said two words to me all day man.” He says after driving around Eric’s apartment complex for almost half an hour. “I know what this is about Chris, and I know you’re stalling me. Just tell me where this bastard is.”

  I sigh. “He’s at the Crystal Moon.”

  Mike raises an eyebrow, shrugs, and guns the truck onto I-30.

  ONE YEAR AGO Mike was banned for life from the little strip club I work at called the Crystal Moon. Coming through the doors he’d already killed a twelve pack—I knew this because Mike is a non-repentant alcoholic and had been ever since we met in high school.

  I was on the door that night and he spoke with me for about
five minutes before heading to the bar. He ordered two shots, which he drank quickly, and a beer. He picked up the beer and turned around to choose a girl for a lap dance. The moment he left his barstool, another man, equally as inebriated, bumped into him, spilling beer down the front of both of their shirts. Mike didn’t say a word; he just dropped his mug and broke the guys nose. I heard the sickening crunch, and saw the spray of blood from the front door and raced over to Mike before any of the other bouncers hurt him. I wasn’t fast enough though, and Mike and I ended up in a pile with two other bouncers in front of the mahogany bar. I almost lost my job over that deal, but like I’d done since the day we met, I vouched for Mike. And I explained to him the next morning why he could never come back to the Crystal Moon.

  YOU KNOW HIM . . . ERIC MATTHEWS.

  Mike steers the car past an old Chevy pickup clunking along the freeway, and I begin to play the scene out in my mind. I have to take care of this myself, I feel responsible for Eric. I won’t call the cops—wouldn’t do any good—but it’s not like I’m going to reason with the kid, either. I feel like I’m being pounded by remorse, guilt hammering in my head like the six pistons in my truck.

  I’d met Eric the day after the incident with Mike. He was a college student who worked at a gas station. One day paying for gas and donuts, I asked how old he was. “Twenty-one in two days.”

  I spread a thick grin on my face and told him, “I’ve got just the place for you to celebrate.” I gave him a flyer my boss had passed out to all the employees of the Moon.

  “You got girls like that?” He indicated a leggy blonde pumping gas outside.

  “Better.”

  I’d convinced myself stripping was harmless fun, just good ‘ole boys having a good ‘ole time. Yeah, right, whatever helps you sleep at night.

  In a month Eric was coming in three or four times a week during the day, paling up to my boss, not drinking, but spending all his dough on table dances. I had smiled then, Harmless—What red blooded American boy doesn’t like naked flesh? At night, when the drinks did flow, Eric would stumble up to me, wanting to spill all the details of his sexual exploits, bragging about how depraved he could be.