by Jeff Jackson
* * *
The outline pulses with a certain presence, like it’s caught something within its borders. He can tell Edie and Flo sense this as well. As they stand on the cusp of the murder scene, it’s as if they’ve managed to summon her specter. The contours of Xenie’s gutshot spirit.
* * *
They duck under the tape, compelled to get closer to the chalk figure. Shaun removes his suit jacket and rolls up his shirtsleeve to reveal his scar. He remembers right after he slashed his wrist, that suspended moment of observing himself in the bathroom mirror. He was disappointed by his familiar reflection, hoping something about himself would look different so close to the end of his life.
When I told you, you kissed my scar.
Shaun holds out his wrist to Flo and Edie. He’s never talked with anyone else about this, and he’s surprised to realize how fully he trusts them. Under the scalding lights, the raised pink flesh of his scar seems to simmer.
—Xenie had one just like it, he says. A few years before we met, we’d both tried to kill ourselves.
—She told me how she felt after she made the cut, he says. She said she calmly put down the razor and looked at the incision. She watched the blood begin to spill out, these rolling waves of red, and it seemed like it was happening to someone else.
—She was sure that she was looking at somebody else’s blood, he says.
Are you being cremated now?
They stare, unsteady, at the residue of recently spilled blood.
—I never knew, Edie says.
—I’m sorry, Flo says.
There’s more to say, but words feel like another broken part of the night. He needs to do something, so he bends down and touches the form. Feeling the chalky residue on his fingertips isn’t enough.
Is your body burning up?
Shaun kneels on the ground and lies in the outline. Ignoring the cold dampness, he fits his limbs between the lines and matches the contorted position as closely as possible. He shuts his eyes and remains stationary. It feels like he’s finally been able to open her casket and climb inside.
Will the scar tissue be the last to blister away?
He stills his breath and slows his pulse. Maybe this is how he can finally give her a proper send-off. He tries to let his posture mold his state of mind and help him understand what Xenie might’ve felt that night, to make her death real, to release her.
Your ashes too hot to touch.
Flo and Edie stand over his motionless body. They’re overcome by the sight, their bodies quailing, holding each other’s hands for support. In the distance, a passing freight train rumbles along the track and lets loose a piercing whistle. Flo begins to quietly cry and Edie breaks down as well, a knot of sorrow buzzing in their throats until it turns to bile.
Love is a burning thing.
Shaun lets his body go limp and surrenders. He sinks into Xenie’s final moments, picturing her body strapped to the ambulance stretcher, her wheezing breaths becoming shallow, her hiccupping pulse slowing to a crawl, until he can feel the world around him begin to blacken, flaking apart and falling away, till nothing is left. Lying on the hard asphalt, he suddenly understands her spirit’s passage from this sad plane. It’s nothing more than a sensation of shifting into a different space, or slipping into a new story. A mental maneuver occurs, a lidless eye opens—
Another way to see.
part three
THE DREAM
“Sorry to wake you up,” Xenie said. “You were having a nightmare.”
“It was the same dream you had the other night,” Shaun said. “I was dreaming your dream.”
“Now it’s our dream.”
YOU’RE BACK IN THE WOODS—DEEP IN THE GREEN—pushing past vines, ducking under branches, shaking through brambles—surrounded by the stickiness of spiderwebs and the pulsations of insects—the sporadic path keeps vanishing, but you’re not discouraged because you know the way—you perk up your ears—listen closely to the wind whispering through the leaves of the trees—the unseen creatures rustling through the underbrush—the sparrows repeating their sequences of shrill calls—there’s an uneasy sensation your presence here is being monitored—even the pine needles seem to be conversing—you pass a series of dirt mounds adorned with small round stones and feel a cold rush of recognition in your veins—these are graves—venture farther into the forest—the trees squeeze together and the light filtering through the canopy pales—the trail ahead is banded by heavy shadows—slowly you realize other people are nearby—you catch flickering glimpses of them through the foliage—hear the thrash of their limbs as they clear a rough route through the woods—maybe they’re hunters here to thin the deer population, though none of them seem to be wearing camouflage—as you tramp across the fallen boughs and knobby roots, you spot a boy with a shaved head and missing eyebrows—he clutches a revolver—you wish you didn’t recognize him, but his blank expression is unforgettable—soon you can clearly make out the silhouettes of his companions—they’re closer than you imagined—the trails start to converge and you find yourself surrounded by a dozen boys shuffling along like they’re snared in a trance—armed with an array of weapons—handguns, shotguns, assault rifles—hunting knives, Molotov cocktails, backpacks of explosives—and they share that telltale uninhabited expression—soon you’re all walking together along the same path—its edges ornamented with refuse from a children’s party—crinkling candy wrappers, handfuls of soggy confetti, plastic bases from a kickball game—swallow your fear as more people join the swarming procession—boys and girls filing into formation from the far ends of the forest—a tree lies alongside the path, an urgent message tagged across its bark in purple spray paint, but the letters are smeared together and there’s no time to decipher them—you have to keep moving—the killers maintain a steady pace—nobody speaks—the only conversation is the birdsong volleyed from tree to tree—it’s difficult to pick out the individual refrains because they’re redoubled by mockingbirds whose echoes add to the confounding chorus—up ahead, the path forks in two distinct directions, one route curving right and the other left—everybody pauses to assess these options—then the killers walk straight ahead, forging their own trail, tramping down the scrubby underbrush—follow them deeper into the darkening woods—listen to the dead leaves crackling underfoot—inhale the smell of fresh rot—the improvised passage progressively transforms into a smoothly furrowed thoroughfare—the vegetation thins and odd flowers peek out among the weeds, their twisting stems culminating in strange and suppurating blooms—the killers accelerate the pace—you can sense their increasing agitation—your own heart beats faster and your forehead is crowned with droplets of sweat—as you crest a hill, a building rises into view, emerging a few steps at a time—the familiar structure of a theater appears in this clearing in the middle of the woods—its façade is lit up like a beacon and its radiance illuminates the forest floor—the walls teem with thick shingles of ivy—the windows are scabbed over with multicolor band posters, illustrated concert schedules, official venue announcements—but the glowing white marquee showcases no performer names and remains pristine in its blankness—you can’t shake the feeling that you shouldn’t be here—a current bristles through the treetops and the atmosphere feels amplified, the charged air crackling and threatening to feed back—the theater’s doors are flung open and you find yourself standing on the cusp of the entrance—the parade of killers is assembled behind you, clutching their weapons, their vacant expressions awaiting your signal—you walk together into the theater, greeted only by the sagging strands of red bulbs suspended across the ceiling—there are no people—the bar is empty and the merchandise tables unmanned—enter the auditorium where the overhead lights are dimmed in preparation for a performance—there is no audience—instruments are set up on the stage, a ring of gleaming guitars, basses, keyboard, and drum kit—plus a lonely row of microphones—the surrounding speaker towers emit a gentle buzz that ripples through the room—but ther
e are no musicians—all of you stride down the sloping floor toward the stage to investigate—as you clamber onto the raised platform, the footlights slowly brighten—revealing a hole in the middle of the stage—a trapdoor—an escape hatch whose hinges have been triggered, leaving an opening large enough to swallow several people—peer into the hole—watch the spinning dust motes drift downward, though it’s impossible to determine any bottom—there’s only a yawning absence—all of you cluster tightly around the trapdoor—dismayed by the disappearance of the band—the boy with the shaved head and missing eyebrows begins to stamp his feet—maybe trying to generate a reaction—or to flush the musicians out into the open—a few others join him—and soon you’re all stamping your feet in tandem, the noise growing louder, the rhythm more syncopated—the blows reverberate through the wooden boards of the stage—the sound both sinister and alluring—there’s a heady intoxication as the stomping becomes more insistent, escalating toward a crescendo, enveloping you in its rapturous din—until the thunderous pounding rings in your ears—until your heart swells from the beat—until you realize that it sounds like applause.
ALSO BY JEFF JACKSON
Mira Corpora
Novi Sad
A NOTE ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Jeff Jackson is the author of Mira Corpora, a finalist for the Los Angeles Times Book Prize. His short fiction has appeared in Guernica, VICE, and The Collagist, and five of his plays have been produced by the Obie Award–winning Collapsable Giraffe theater company in New York City. You can sign up for email updates here.
CONTENTS
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Side A: My Dark Ages
Dedication
Prelude
Epigraph
Part One: The Epidemic
Epigraph
Day One
Day Nine
Day 27
Day 81
Day 100
Today
Part Two: The Echoes
Epigraph
Chapter One: The Erased
Chapter Two: The Equals
Chapter Three: The Elect
Chapter Four: The Exits
Chapter Five: The Embers
Side B: Kill City
Dedication
Epigraph
Part One: The Destroyers
Epigraph
Day One
Day Nine
Day 27
Day 45
Day 63
Day 81
Day 100
Part Two: The Devoted
Epigraph
Part Three: The Dream
Epigraph
Also by Jeff Jackson
A Note About the Author
Copyright
FSG Originals
Farrar, Straus and Giroux
175 Varick Street, New York 10014
Copyright © 2018 by Jeff Jackson
All rights reserved
First edition, 2018
Grateful acknowledgment is made for permission to reprint lyrics from “Ring of Fire,” words and music by Merle Kilgore and June Carter. Copyright © 1962, 1963 Painted Desert Music Corporation, New York. Copyright Renewed. International Copyright Secured. All Rights Reserved. Reprinted by Permission of Hal Leonard LLC.
E-book ISBN: 978-0-374-71836-7
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Gratitude for advocacy and sage advice: Jaida Temperly, Jo Volpe, Devin Ross, and the New Leaf Literary team, Jeremy M. Davies, Alethea Black, D. Foy, Frank Lentricchia, Phillip Larrimore, Darragh McKeon, Giorgio Hiatt, Michael Kimball, John Schacht, Gregory Howard, Sean Madigan Hoen, Irini Spanidou, John W. Love Jr., Jim Findlay, John Cochrane, Scott Adlerberg, Duvall Osteen, Virginia Center for the Creative Arts, MacDowell Colony, Hambidge Center, Ben Marcus, Dennis Cooper, and Don DeLillo.
For Stephanie.