Love and Other Horrors

by Boye, Kody

  Then, three months later, a man in a long, black cloak and with Christ hanging from his neck pointed to the sky and began to watch as Armageddon reigned down upon all of them.

  At only seven years old, and tailing the heels of a social worker who made it his mission to adopt her, Delilah looked up at the sky at exactly the same moment the alarms went off. Washington, D.C, the home of the great, grand president, issued a warning to any and all who could hear, across all airways and across all radio signals.

  That warning had one meaning.

  And that warning ensured that death would come to the United States.

  Some got down on their knees and prayed, and some threw themselves into cars and headed for the hills, while others simply stared in wonder at the three angels soaring from the sky. With their mechanical wings and their broad, open arms, the faceless things from above extended their hands in offering. They offered peace, they offered gratitude, and they offered one final chance for those who believed to be with their loved ones one last time. Some did stand and wait, eyes wet and glistening, lips quivering and pouting; but not Delilah—not Delilah and the social worker who made it his mission to make a little girl happy.

  As if no time passed at all from the moment the alarm went off, the man in the big, black suit took Delilah’s hand and ran.

  Dodging through traffic, civilians and wayward pets let loose by their owners for one last, final feast, the social worker tucked Delilah into his arms and threw himself forward. Shoulder-first, like a football player on a grand field of sport, he slammed into his opponents—men and women running for their lives. Some fell to the ground, trampled by the crowd of wild apes, while others simply stumbled aside, only to be pushed again, and again, and again.

  Few survived that day, all because only a few knew where to go.

  The government had once said to run for the hills were the end of the world to come, to rush into the prepared bunkers in case tragedy did indeed strike.

  What the government didn’t tell them was that those bunkers couldn’t withstand a nuclear attack.

  So, while they ran, making their way to the hills, Delilah and the man whose name she could no longer remember ran toward the catacombs, a place where only certain military officials were allowed. And because that social worker wore a suit, and because he held a child no older than ten in his arms, they took him in, out of pity for a father seemingly rescuing his daughter.

  After that, they made their way into the ends of the earth, all the while listening to the sounds of the screams outside.

  A minute later, everything went silent.

  Then, like a man dropping a pin in a large, quiet room, the world exploded and everything died.

  With that memory held intact, and with those nightmares and dreams continuing to linger in the later days of her life, Delilah knew that she could not let anything else suffer, not after what she had seen and experienced.

  Whether a person was alive, dead, or undead, she knew that nothing deserved to suffer.

  That night, she did the unthinkable.

  She broke into the Anderson Neurology Department and made her way inside.

  Guided by the single, lone beacon of a flashlight, she made her way through the wide lobby and down the hall, careful to train her light at an angle on the ground in front of her. If she were to hold it the way a normal person would, and were Jason to walk out of a room and be caught in her spotlight, there would be no way to explain her reason for being here.

  I came to check on Claridia, she’d most likely say. Or, if her conscience betrayed her, I came to say I’m sorry, Jason. I shouldn’t have said what I said to you.

  Regardless, she’d come for one reason, and one reason only—to free Claridia.

  Taking a deep breath, she stopped at the foot of the examination room and waited, hoping to hear the sound of Jason’s heavy breathing or the click of his polished shoes. Neither of these sounds came to her ears, but she stopped to consider something else she might hear—a pen on a clipboard, the scratch of stubble, the quiet murmurings or the soft curses of a man with troubled thoughts. She heard none of the sounds that would attest to Jason’s lingering presence, and for a moment, stopped to consider one deadly possibility.

  What if Jason wasn’t in there?

  What if, after all this time, he’d simply been following her, waiting to make his move?

  “No,” she whispered. “He couldn’t…”

  “Hello, Delilah.”

  She whirled around faster than she ever had in her life.

  Jason stood no more than ten feet away, smoking a cigarette.

  “It’s a no smoking zone,” he grinned, plucking the cigarette from his lips, “but I’m not the bigger fire hazard here.”

  “Go away, Jason. No one has to know anything about this.”

  “So you want it gone, just like that? All the work we’ve done, all the progress we’ve made?” He dropped his cigarette. “I don’t think so, Delilah.”

  “You can’t stop me, Jason.”

  “You think so?”

  “I know so.”

  He smirked, spread his fingers, and pursed his lips.

  The cigarette he’d just dropped rose, suspended by invisible ropes and chains.

  “You…” she breathed. “You’re…”

  “You’re not the only witch in town, babe.”

  A firestorm erupted from the cigarette.

  Throwing herself to the floor, Delilah covered her head with her hands just as a plume of flame exploded inches over her head. The flames—hot, greasy, and slick—tickled the walls, pawing at the ceiling and sprinkler system like hellcats from the underworld.

  For one brief moment, Delilah thought the sprinklers would start.

  Then, with the horrible, deniable truth, she realized that they hadn’t, nor ever would, work.

  Taking a deep breath, she rolled over, thrust her hand into the air, and forced a gap between the flames just large enough for her stand. Once on her feet, she held the barrier steady, sweat tickling her neck. She didn’t know how long she would be able to keep the fire at bay.

  It won’t be long, she thought, closing her eyes.

  “Give it up, Delilah. You’re never going to win, not against me. I’m too powerful.”

  “No!” she cried, tears burning her face. “You’re nothing but a coward!”

  “You think so, girl? Would a coward defend his work until his final breath?”

  “Only a coward would defend something as futile as this!”

  The barrier broke.

  She screamed.

  Fire surrounded her.

  Laughs echoed the hallway as what Jason believed to be Delilah’s death ensued. Fire spiraled around her like a butterfly’s cocoon, smoke devoured her like a dog to a kill, and fear tightened its hold on her heart, once again playing the puppet of a teenage girl. All seemed hopeless for the Amberough girl, who’d tried to destroy what the doctor believed to be the cure to death.

  But, despite all this, Jason did not know one thing.

  Delilah had only shrunk the barrier, not let it break.

  “You see!” Jason howled, tilting his head back to the ceiling. “This is what you get for trying to destroy me!”

  “No, Jason,” she said, “this is what you get.”

  Using the barrier as a propellant, Delilah caught the flame in its surface, curled it around her body, and then thrust it right back at Jason.

  There was nothing the man could do as over two-thousand degrees of heat slammed into his body and forced him against the wall.

  The last of his screams died with the fire’s last breath.

  “Goodbye, Jason,” she said. “I’m not part of your game anymore.”

  She turned and opened the door.

  Claridia sat in her chair, unaware of the events that had just taken place outside. She did not look up once, not until the door clicked shut behind her.

  “Claridia?” Delilah asked.

  The corpse turn
ed her head up.

  Glossy eyes glowed in the darkness.

  “I… I came to help you,” she said, stepping around the chairs. “I don’t know what will happen now that I’ve killed Jason, but at least this way, you won’t have to suffer.”

  Delilah closed her eyes.

  A dead hand touched her arm.

  “I know,” she smiled, opening her eyes to find Claridia looking up at her. “You’re ready to go, aren’t you?”

  Of course she is, she thought, tightening her hands into fists. Why did you ask that?

  “I want to thank you for everything you’ve taught me,” she said, pressing a hand to Claridia’s chest. “I don’t know how I’ll ever repay you, but the least I can do is let you rest.”

  From her heart, to her shoulder, then down her arm and through her hand, the healing touch of mercy entered Claridia’s body and forever stilled her undead body.

  Closing her eyes, Delilah tilted her head back and let a tear fall from her face.

  You did it, Delilah. You finally set her free.

  “Goodbye,” she said, making her way toward the door. She stopped in front of it, gripped the doorknob, and took a deep breath. “Thank you, Claridia. Rest in peace.”

  Behind her, a flower sparkled.

  The rose began to shed its petals.

  Boquet

  The man stands at the register buying flowers for his boyfriend.

  “They’re beautiful,” the clerk says. “Who are they for?”

  In this socially-oppressed, medieval-minded neighborhood, you can’t get away with being gay, so he lies. With his tongue in cheek and his eyes clear, he simply replies, “For my girlfriend,” with his face straight as ever. He thinks it’s ironic that he just thought that, but he tries to push the sentiments aside. Calling his boyfriend a ‘she’ doesn’t further diminish his masculinity, as there is a ‘he’ in the ‘she,’ so there isn’t anything to worry about, right?

  “Have a good day,” the clerk says, passing money into the man’s hand.

  He nods and leaves.

  He drives home with his hands on the wheel and his mind in the sky. His heart feels as though it will fall out of his chest and it aches like it’s been struck with a metal hammer. Bang, he imagines, it crushing his ribcage and hitting his soul, and boom he thinks, for he has just delivered upon himself a horrible realization.

  It is their three-year anniversary.

  He and his boyfriend have been together for longer than most straight couples have.

  It’s all right, he thinks, looking down at the flowers in the passenger seat. He’ll like them.

  Michael has always liked flowers. He said when he was a little boy that he wanted to run down the aisle when his mother married his stepfather, that he was the one who wanted to cast the flowers and not a little girl. But Michael was told that he couldn’t because he was a little boy and not a little girl, and in that statement his life had been changed, his future sealed in this place of nothing and hate.

  Shaking his head, he pushes his foot down on the accelerator and tries not to think about just what it is that’s haunting him.

  “Jim,” Michael says as he opens the door.

  “Happy anniversary.”

  He presents the roses as though they are nothing more than trinkets, fake gold in a quarter machine. However, despite their cost, and despite their commonly-held, feminine sentiments, it is Michael’s smile that forces a grin across his own face as his boyfriend takes the flowers in hand and holds them as if they’re the most precious thing in the world.

  “I… I don’t know what to say,” Michael says, turning his eyes up to face him.

  “Then don’t say anything,” Jim replies.

  He leans forward.

  The rose bears its thorn.

  Blood falls onto Michael’s perfect white skin.

  “Jim,” Michael says, reaching down to take his hand. “You’re hurt.”

  “No I’m not,” he replies.

  When Michael frowns, he offers nothing more than a smile.

  Somehow, Michael finds the means to smile too.

  They watch TV by the light of the bedside table lamp. Light cast across the room and painting the room in beige, it seems as though the TV cannot speak and is instead made to cast its own light as well. Jim tries to watch it, but he can’t help but look down at Michael, who is cradled in his arms as though there is nothing wrong in the world. He is a child, Jim knows, of their generation, of their socially-oppressed and horribly-depressed kind.

  Hold him, he thinks. It’s the only thing that helps.

  Outside, a neon sign covers a brick wall that would have otherwise been the only thing there. The curtain is drawn, but still Jim can see it, shining through the curtain like it’s a devil hidden in a fruit bowl. Its V its beard, the A its face, the devil smiles in shades of red, white and blue, completely patriotic in semblance to their lives which are nothing but ordinary.

  “Jim,” Michael says.

  “Yes?” he replies.

  “Are you all right?”

  He wants to say he is fine, that nothing is wrong and that there is nothing that can hold him from the happiness he so desperately wants to have, but he can’t. For some strange, horrible reason, his tongue is silent, as though the cat has caught it and made it its canary.

  What do I say, he thinks, to someone who doesn’t know?

  So innocent Michael is that half the time, he doesn’t even realize there is a slip within his mind, a stutter within his voice or the pain within his skull. Headaches bloom there often, wicked flowers meant to show him the meaning of the world, but still Michael doesn’t notice. Sometimes, it makes him so mad that he wants to bash his skull into the wall in a fake attempt at trepanation, and other times, it makes him want to swallow as many Advil as he can manage. However, he always does neither, because he does not want to hurt not only himself, but his boyfriend, the one he loves so much.

  “I’m fine,” he finally decides to say, drawing his boyfriend close. “Don’t worry about me.”

  They continue to watch the TV as though there is nothing wrong in the world.

  Proclamation is king, and when the devil says AIDs, it automatically points to them. The gay disease, they call it, the thing that the homosexuals are made of.

  “All you have to do is be around them to get it,” some preachers say, then spread their arms to their communion. “All it takes is one simple step.”

  Once, when Jim was late to come home, Michael had called his workplace and asked if everything was all right. Up until that time, his boy hadn’t been aware of the existence of a young man named Michael and had asked Jim about it, to which he simply replied, It’s my brother.

  His boss didn’t buy it.

  They had moved the next town over shortly thereafter.

  As Jim watches the TV in the kitchen with his shirt halfway done-up and toothbrush in his mouth, he tries to avert his eyes as the man on the screen continues to speak about the AIDs epidemic. They say that people are dying, that gay men are spreading disease because of drug use and unprotected sex. They say they don’t use condoms, that they aren’t celibate and that they party non-stop. Jim wants to scream, to say that it is all wrong and that it isn’t true, but he doesn’t want to wake Michael.

  His sweet, sweet Michael… how he couldn’t live without him.

  I work, he thinks, for him.

  Automechanics is a manly thing for manly men. He couldn’t be gay, his fellow employees say, because he’s under the hood of a truck, because his jeans are stained with grease. It is the one thing that keeps them alive at night and food on the table.

  “Jim,” Michael calls.

  He shuts the TV off with a simple click of the switch. “Yeah?” he asks.

  “Are you going to work today?”

  “Almost,” he says, then frowns. Almost? Almost? What is he thinking? Of course he’s going to work. “Yeah,” he says, raising his voice over the sound of the toothbrush raking across
his teeth.

  “Will you come here for a second?”

  Jim doesn’t think he can bear it, especially after what he’s just watched on TV, but he spits the toothpaste in the sink and turns toward the bedroom, swallowing what he couldn’t spit out without a second thought.

  As he passes into the bedroom, he expects Michael to be out of bed—awake and fully dressed. Instead, he finds the precious being he has so devoted himself to, naked and with the sheet only barely covering himself.

  “Yeah?” he asks, leaning into the threshold.

  “I just wanted to say I love you before you went.”

  “Thank you,” Jim said.

  Little does Michael know that those two words are the only thing that keeps him going during the day.

  “Jim,” his boss grunts. “You almost done with this car?”

  “Yes sir,” he replies.

  He has been fixing this vehicle for the past four years. Always it ends up with the same problem—a bad carburetor, a slight of the wheel, a bad AC vent. He fixes all of them with little more than a passing thought, as it’s his job and it’s what he’s paid to do, but sometimes he wonders if Mr. McKinny’s car is just buying its time before it one day explodes out on the open road.

  That, he thinks, would be a sight.

  He nods to his boss, bows under the hood of the car, then begins to fix the problem he has fixed ten times before.

  He returns home at six in the evening dead tired and covered the grease, so into the shower he goes. His clothes on the floor, his mind in the ground, he barely hears the creak of the door opening, much less feels the press of naked flesh against his.