Mr. Suicide

by Nicole Cushing

  She turned her head. Looked concerned.

  You were following her.

  Her little pale freckled brow wrinkled. She bit her puffy lip, then started jogging away from you. Her little flower print sundress flittered up over her thighs with each step and you thought about pursuing her—thought about adding the mutilations Fate and Mother Nature had been cruel in depriving her—until you remembered the Mouth’s admonition and taunting.

  Chastened by the memory (and worried that if you kept talking to her, you’d no longer be able to control yourself), you left. You shunned Step One to move along to Step Two.

  There was a burger joint on the next block. It was breakfast, so they weren’t serving burgers. They were serving the breakfast equivalent of burgers. Sausage and egg sandwiches. But it didn’t smell like sausage or grease or egg or cheese in that place. You instead smelled the overwhelming odor of melting wax. It was coming from behind the counter. So-called sandwiches made of wax were melting under the heat of lamps meant to keep them warm until needed. It was like a toddler had taken over, and tried to warm plastic play food with real ovens.

  A plastic mannequin hand positioned itself at exactly the right angle so it could pick up one of the sandwiches from under a heat lamp. The plastic hand was attached to a plastic arm, which was in turn attached (flimsily) to a plastic torso. Atop the plastic torso rested a plastic head, with molded blonde plastic hair and blue plastic eyes. There was a hinge in the mechanism that allowed part of the chin and mouth to move (the same way the chin and mouth of a ventriloquist’s dummy moved).

  “We need three more sausage and eggs,” the goofy falsetto voice exclaimed. It wasn’t a woman’s voice. It was a man’s voice providing a shoddy over-the-top imitation of a woman’s voice.

  Loony tunes.

  Then the mannequin’s plastic legs carried it to the orange juice machine, where something the color of antifreeze leaked out of a tap.

  Batshit Loony Tunes.

  None of the other wage slaves behind the counter seemed aware that their coworker wasn’t human. None of the customers did, either. They didn’t notice the fake cashier and they didn’t notice the fake food. They tore their teeth into the wax and swallowed it down, hard. There was a steady din of wax-eating sounds in the dining area. You walked to the men’s room, and felt grateful when the noise was dulled by the door.

  You took a long look in the mirror. You’d only spent one day on the streets and, already, you looked transformed. Sure, you were caked with blood. But there was something else, too. It was like you’d aged a year in a day.

  You checked the bathroom and confirmed there wasn’t anyone else present. Then you looked back in the mirror. You smiled and then grimaced at the sight. “I’m a murderer,” you said to yourself, in a voice that was barely a whisper. “I did it. Wow. I did it.”

  It was hard—both physically and mentally—to wash off the old man’s blood. Hard, physically, because the bathroom had no paper towels. You had to grab handfuls of toilet paper and use it to scrub the red gunk away. When you scrubbed, your hands trembled. When you scrubbed, it irritated your scratches. Made them bleed again (and they’d started to heal). You applied pressure with some more t.p., and that seemed to work, but damn, it slowed you down when you didn’t need to be slowed down.

  It was hard, emotionally, because you felt like you were, in a sense, losing your trophy of the evening. You patted your pocket. You still had the knife. As long as you had that, you couldn’t forget him.

  A (non-plastic) man walked in when you were about two-thirds of the way through. Glanced over at you, sneered, and walked over to the urinal. You heard and smelled his rancid piss stream out. Ignored it as best you could and washed away the evidence. (Of course, you weren’t really washing away the evidence. The blood that had been on your face wasn’t eliminated, you’d just transferred it onto the sopping wet toilet tissue.)

  The urinal dude didn’t bother flushing but instead walked behind you, cleared his throat, and waited for you to vacate your place in front of the mirror and sink. You hastily finished wiping your face as clean as you could and dropped the toilet paper in a waiting trash can. You didn’t have the presence of mind to take it with you into a stall and throw the goddamned toilet paper into the goddamned toilet, where you could flush it (and its DNA evidence) away. No, you were in a hurry, because urinal man wanted to wash his hands after handling his own dick. So you threw the t.p. in the trash.

  You did go into a stall, though, eventually (to change clothes).

  You did have the presence of mind to think it would be a poor decision to throw your bloody clothes in the trash, so you tucked them away in your backpack. But you didn’t have the presence of mind to wait until urinal dude was done with the sink. If he paid any attention at all to you, he probably could tell what you were up to, in the stall. So, really, he was another witness.

  You were collecting them that morning (witnesses, that is). You collected them the way pockets collect lint. Urinal Dude. Leggy Lady. Mullet Man. They could all attest to the blood stains on your face and your strange demeanor. They were three very different people, and yet—the moment the news of a murder downtown had been announced—they would all likely be calling the confidential police tip line. Ratting you out. Three very different dominoes. Click-click-click. Rube Goldberg. The gallows.

  “Stop wringing your hands, flesh-thing.” The voice came from behind you. You couldn’t speak to the Mouth, not with urinal dude rubbing his mitts over and over against the hot air of the electric hand dryer. So you went ahead and thought a reply, instead.

  You talking to me or to urinal dude?

  “Ha! You really think I’d consider him to be someone worth talking to? You gotta realize, I’m pretty select in who I hang out with. Only fascinating people draw my interest. Only fascinating people can hear my voice. I’ve had my eye on you for months now, bucko! When you banged and injured that retarded chick, I was pretty certain you were fascinating enough to chat with.”

  She wasn’t retarded. She just needed crutches and braces to get around.

  “Well excuuuussse me. I’ll correct myself, in that case. When you banged that cripple, I was pretty certain you were fascinating enough to chat with. The point is: talking with me is a rare treat. You need to know that. Being watched by me isn’t that big of a deal, mind you. I have eyes in every dark place—here on Earth and elsewhere. Every night sky. Every lightless room. Every shadow. Through those eyes, I observe billions. Being heard by me isn’t that big a deal either. I have ears in every dark place, too.

  “So I’m watching you and listening to you from the shadows, bucko. Every shadow in this bathroom. But I’m speaking to you from only one shadow. Your own. I only have one mouth. That I decided to bring it here, to Louisville, just to speak to you both in dreams and while awake is something you should consider an honor. So many want to be spoken to, and I can only take time to speak with one at a time. So many want to be devoured, and I can only devour one at a time.

  “Likewise, you should consider it an honor to now start Step Two in the Three-Fold Path: Derealization. By allowing you to see the unreality of the people and places and things surrounding you, I’ve actually sharpened your senses, bucko. Where’s the gratitude?”

  So going nuts is a privilege?

  “Why must you think things like that? You’re not—as you’ve phrased it before, in your thoughts—‘batshit loony tunes’, at all! You’re only a tad bit… nervous. That’s all, bucko. Just a little on the jittery side. To say otherwise is blasphemy!”

  Please understand, I don’t want to be a blasphemer. It’s just that… I’ve wanted to go mad for a very long time. My older brother went mad before me. My mother is a little wacked out, herself. Last night, I killed a man. Now I’m seeing plastic people and hearing voices. Are you telling me these things aren’t related? What if I follow the Three-Fold Path and it doesn’t work because it’s only a delusion? What if I still exist even after all of this?


  “Let me ask you this, bucko—do you think most lunatics suspect they’re lunatics? Especially at the beginning, at the first onset of symptoms? Before someone has taken them aside to tell them they’re a lunatic? I would go as far as to say that your suspicion that you’re mentally ill is the best evidence available that you’re not mentally ill, if you get my meaning. Stop being such a flesh-thingy worry wart!”

  I’m not a worry wart! I guess you could just say that I’m… concerned. Don’t you think, with all the attention I’ve attracted, that I have good reason to be… well… concerned.

  “Not if you do what I tell you, bucko. Don’t worry about the witnesses. No one can hurt you if there’s no ‘you’ to hurt. So you better get your ass over to your mother’s house and get that… pardon my language… motherfucking passport. Just keep your eyes on the prize. You’re doing fine. I did mention to you earlier that I was damned proud of the way you didn’t go all squishy-gushy on the guy outside of the dry cleaners this morning, didn’t I? I mean, damned proud of you. That’s all you should worry about, from here on out. My opinion of your progress should be the sole barometer of your self-esteem. And I do insist that you progress toward your destiny. After you leave this john, you’re going to grab a bus home. Then you’re going to walk into your mother’s room and collect your passport.”

  That’s another thing I’ve been meaning to ask you about. How can I collect the flesh or blood passport and avoid squishy-gushy?

  “You’ll know when you get there, bucko. You’ll see a sign outside the house that will give you a tip for how things will go down. That’s all I’ll say for now. I want you to trust me, without knowing all the details. Blind faith is the purest form of submission. You’ll know when you get there. Now, you’re going to notice some police activity outside the restaurant. Your job is going to be to ignore that police activity and pretend like you’re out on the proverbial wee merry stroll. You can do that, can’t you? Your leg hasn’t been so lacerated that you’re crippled now, just like your ex?”

  I checked it when I changed. It’s not bleeding so much, anymore. I put a fresh T-shirt around the wound, though, because the other one was getting a little messy. Took the sock off my arm, you know, where it got cut? Looks like that cut’s healing up okay, so I took it off.

  “I see… well… I suppose that helps, some. It doesn’t look normal for you to wear a bloody T-shirt around your leg, you know? Of course, it doesn’t look normal for you to be wearing a clean T-shirt around your leg, either, but it’s a hair more normal than the bloody one. And you want to look as normal as you can, bucko. Can you do that? I think, if only for a little bit, you can. Now, go ahead and take a wee merry stroll to the bus stop, then take the bus to your parents’ house. And don’t let yourself get squishy-gushy anywhere along the way, understand? Any more slips out of you, and I might decide you’re no longer fascinating at all. I may decide that I won’t deliver you into un-birth. I’ll leave you to the flesh-things and their justice.”

  Dominoes. Rube Goldberg. Gallows. Fear. Pain.

  “Indeed. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have another potential immigrant to connect with. A young Saudi dyke unhappy with her lot in life.”

  You going to send her all the way to Louisville to get to The Border Crossing, too?

  “Ha! Now that’s a provincial notion, if ever there was one! You think the Great Dark Mouth only operates a single Border Crossing, and that single Border Crossing is in Louisville Fucking Kentucky?” He giggled. “You have a lot to learn, bucko. There are Border Crossings all over the Earth. I’d explain it to you but I have to move along—and that means you have to move along, too. Just do what I suggested, go to your house, get your passport, avoid squishy-gushy and—I promise—you’ll be fine.”

  When you walked out of the men’s room, you noted that the menu had switched from sausage and egg biscuits to hamburgers. Plastic cups of antifreeze-looking orange juice were replaced with plastic cups of oil-looking pop. The mannequin behind the counter rocked on the heels of her feet, then let out a grotesque whistle and scrubbed the counter.

  You averted your eyes from her and glanced at the dining area. It wasn’t as full as it had been. The morning rush was over and the lunch rush hadn’t yet begun. Just as the Great Dark Mouth predicted, there were two uniformed cops out in front of the restaurant. They were taking statements from bums. When you walked out to the bus stop, one of them glanced over in your direction. You felt his eyes lingering over you. Got the feeling you were being assessed. You glanced back at him. Caught the expression on his face. He was staring at your backpack. You thought he was trying to sort out if you were homeless or a student. If the former, he’d want to interrogate you.

  But the Mouth had spoken to you. (“… your job is going to be to ignore that police activity and pretend like you’re out on the proverbial wee merry stroll. I know you can do that. Take a wee merry stroll to the bus stop and ride the bus to your parents’ house.”)

  You still were not one hundred percent convinced you weren’t going nuts. But you were comforted by the Mouth’s observation that people who went nuts were not usually aware they were going nuts. You were comforted to have any direction at all. Ignore the cops, the Mouth said. Pretend like you’re taking a wee merry stroll, the Mouth said. Above all else, don’t worry, the Mouth said.

  It was pleasant advice, and you needed some measure of pleasantness. So you did as the Great Dark Mouth told you. And if the cops still suspected you were homeless and/or had information to share about the atrocity reported to them, they didn’t act on that suspicion. Maybe the Mouth knew what He was talking about. After all, you’d cleaned yourself up and changed your clothes, and they were looking for the blood-stained youth reported to them by Leggy Lady and Mullet Man. You were relatively calm, and they were most likely looking for someone who seemed unhinged. It probably didn’t hurt that a group of Jefferson Community College students lingered near you at the bus stop, waiting to take the 17 back to the Highlands. You didn’t exactly blend in with them, but you were young and they were young and you wore a backpack and they wore backpacks.

  Now, that guy with the pants so raggy you could kind of see some of his dingy underwear, that guy with the beard down to his belly, that guy was homeless. Better to ask that dude about the goings-on in the neighborhood.

  So you waited for the 23, because your passport was in Hikes Point. It came before the 17 arrived to pick up all the community college wannabe-hipsters. You wondered whether this, in a sense, outed you as an outsider. You weren’t with that group of students. An observant cop would have picked up on that. But, lucky for you, the Louisville-Metro Police Department is not known for its cleverness. You got on the bus unmolested.

  There was a disabled girl up front. She looked to be a couple of years older than you. She had big old tits—not firm, unfortunately, but humungous in a way that managed to escape sloppiness. She was wearing a white tank top that fit snugly around them. More importantly, she had the hottest legs you’d ever seen: skinny-scrawny, heavily scarred, and crumbled-up-looking. You suspected they’d been broken in several places, because they seemed to almost unfold—accordion-like—from her torso. But in that first, quick glance at them you weren’t able to determine if the breaks were a result of her condition or of some surgical intervention to address her condition. They poked out of a denim skirt that rose to about an inch below the knee. They were alabaster with a tinge of pink around the ankle. They glistened. You guessed that they were sweaty but cold, the way Cressida’s legs had been. Sweaty and cold and somehow sick. You tried not to stare at them too obviously. She might think you were gawking because you were disturbed by the sight of her. She might not get that you were just admiring her beauty.

  The Great Dark Mouth had warned you not to engage in any squishy-gushy, but this was public transportation—possibly the least sexy locale in all of Louisville. Likewise, it was one of the less-promising venues to kill without detection. So there was n
o harm in having a closer look. And you had a plan to get a closer look.

  XIV

  You swung your backpack off your shoulder and pretended to drop it. It fell right next to her feet. She wore ratty tennis shoes. Once white, now dingy. Cracked leather. Frayed laces. But that’s not what you were there to look at. You used the opportunity granted by your “accident” to get up close and personal with the legs. They smelled like suntan lotion. Maybe that’s what made them glisten. Not sweat, but lotion. You started to daydream about putting lotion on those legs, but heard a guy behind you clear his throat, and you realized it was time to pick up your backpack and find a seat.

  All the TARC buses had this big, empty area in front reserved for wheelchairs. That’s where she sat—in that miniature wheelchair parking lot on the bus, right in front of the first row of seats for regular, non-deformed folks. You grabbed a seat in that front row and smiled and started making small talk.

  “I can’t believe I did that. My hands must have been sweaty. Just call me butterfingers. Damn this heat.”

  She looked at you. Craned her neck from one side to another. The skin of her neck looked so pale and soft, not scarred or even blemished. You ordinarily didn’t succumb to traditional standards of beauty, but—on her—a soft, swan-shaped neck worked. You dug it. She took a deep breath in. Smiled softly. It looked to you like she was weighing her options, mulling over if it was wise to speak to you (and if it was, sorting out what her reply would be). It came out a little bland, for your taste: “I don’t mind the heat so much.”

  Hardly a promising exchange… it didn’t seem to indicate any potential for romance. But then again, you couldn’t have a romance. The Great Dark Mouth prohibited it. If you tried to tap that, He would be through with you. Forever.