Love and Other Horrors

by Boye, Kody

  As knife met cheese, and as cheese gave way under pressure of knife, I smiled.

  It felt good to watch something crumble under my own power.

  The next morning, I stumbled into the bathroom, took a shower, and rebandaged my hand. Then I started making breakfast. But when the sausage came out—when I realized I would need a knife—I stopped short.

  Get the knife.

  Which knife though?

  You know which one.

  The fillet knife—which I so desperately wanted to avoid—lay only a few feet away. It rested on the lip of the sink, clean but otherwise used.

  You’ve used that to cut your hand open, then used it to cut cheese for your sandwich. Now you’re going to use it to cut sausage?

  It happened so fast, I didn’t realized I’d swiped the knife off the sink. Before deciding to part the sausage’s meaty exterior, I ran it under some water.

  It’s good practice, the voice whispered, for when you do it again.

  “I’m not going to do it again,” I muttered, tossing the knife in the sink. “Not ever.”

  Breakfast tasted better than I could have ever imagined. Of course, I hadn’t been taught to cook, but I picked it up after a few years of doing it myself. I wasn’t the greatest chef in the world, but I didn’t think I cooked that bad either.

  After I finished eating, I walked into the living room and went to work cleaning up the mess I’d made. The gaudy-brown carpet stained like a bitch. Mostly likely, I’d end up paying fifty-something dollars to rent a carpet cleaner, maybe more if I had to have someone come in and do it for me.

  “Fuck!”

  Ten minutes of scrubbing at one spot over and over had resulted in nothing more than spreading the stain. I tried watering it down, then rubbing the newly-stained couch, but it only stained the rag.

  In my haste to get the carpet cleaned, I’d only made a bigger mess.

  “Great,” I said, rising from my knees. “Just great.”

  When I was fully to my feet, I almost kicked the bucket of soapy water over. I managed to restrain myself. I kept reminding myself that it’d just be a bigger mess.

  Take a few deep breaths, I thought. Calm down.

  You wouldn’t want to do anything irrational.

  “No, I wouldn’t.”

  My hand twitched.

  It was time to take my medication.

  When I went to the store to pick up some extra bandages, I ran into the same cashier that called me by my real name. She asked about my hand, but I distracted her by setting my groceries up onto the revolving rack.

  “You buy so little, Pansy,” she said. “You should eat more.”

  Bitch.

  I didn’t say anything. I only continued to pack the groceries onto the revolving stand.

  “Did you hear me, dear?”

  “Pardon?” I looked up, feigning ignorance.

  “I said you should eat more, Pansy.”

  “My name isn’t Pansy,” I said. “It’s Linton.”

  “Are you having a bad day?”

  I hadn’t realized that I growled at her.

  “No,” I said. “I’m ok.”

  “What happened to your hand again?”

  “I cut it,” I said. “That’s it.”

  “Are you sure, Pansy dear? It’s not that…”

  “MY FUCKING NAME ISN’T PANSY!”

  My outburst brought many states from my fellow patrons. The woman—who’s name I could never remember—stared at me, eyes wide and mouth slightly agape.

  “I’m so sorry, dear.”

  She finished scanning my groceries, I paid her—ten bucks too many—and left without waiting for my change.

  Every person in the immediate area stared at me.

  Really, fuck them.

  The phone rang the moment I finished bringing my groceries in the house.

  Great.

  I just begged to talk on the phone. At first, I ignored it, unbagging the groceries and arranging them in their particular cupboards, stands, or place in the small fridge. Whoever wanted to talk was persistent. They’d wait five times, give me a minute, then call again.

  Finally, I picked the phone up and placed it to my ear.

  “Hello?” I breathed.

  “Hi, Mr. Garnet. This is Dr. Stevens, from the hospital.”

  The handsome black man.

  “Hi,” I said.

  “Is everything going ok?”

  “Everything’s fine,” I said. For some reason, all the breath I had left my chest. I took a minute to try and get it back. “Why?”

  “You don’t sound too good.”

  “I just got back from the grocery store,” I said. “I’m tired. I carried everything in by myself.”

  “I take it you live alone then?”

  No, I live with my fucking parents, you…

  I couldn’t finish my thought. Stevens had called to check on me, even when he didn’t have to. Instead, I just said yeah, that I’d been living alone for a few years now.

  “If you need help, you can call me,” the handsome man on the other end said. “I’ll help you, Linton. I know what it’s like to be alone.”

  I know what it’s like…

  “Yeah,” I said, knowing my voice sounded low and sad. “I’ll be sure to call if I need help.”

  “All right. Take care, Linton. Bye.”

  “Bye.”

  The moment I set the phone in its cradle, a feeling I hadn’t experienced for a long time enveloped my being.

  It was the first time in a long time that I felt truly lonely.

  That night—when I got on to check my emails—the eccentric habit came back. I’d looked at the pictures before I had done the deed itself, but not since I got back from the hospital.

  The barrier I had put up collapsed.

  Some people could—and, most likely, would—call my addiction pornographic in nature. But, really, I’m not addicted to pornography, not even the least bit interested. That kind of shit is so fucking boring, it’s not even funny.

  What I wanted to look at was the musculature structure of the human body.

  Displayed on the page in brilliant, bloody detail was a human cadaver, trisected with a Y-incision. This man—older, in his thirties—revealed everything he had on the inside; his blackened lungs, his bloated heart, the ropy black of his partially-decomposed intestine.

  At this point, I got excited. Like some people like to look at porn—how they get that insatiable warm feeling in their chest that does not go away until all that extra energy is expelled—I got the shakes and the warmth. I stilled the shake in my right hand because it had been tender as hell all day, but my left hand twitched, slapping against my upper thigh.

  This is what I want to see, I thought, running a hand around my hurt arm. I want to see something like this.

  Of course, getting into a morgue—or something similar—would be extremely hard.

  Why waste the time? the voice beckoned. You could easily do this yourself.

  “No.”

  I shook my head, violently at that. I knew I was fucked up, but I was not that fucked up.

  Why not? It’s not that hard to do.

  “Yes it it. I can’t kill someone.”

  Ok, so what; I liked seeing the insides of people. I knew I should’ve been a doctor. I knew I should’ve been studying harder instead of just doing odd jobs here and there. This wouldn’t be happening if I had just listened to my dad and followed my heart, no matter where it took me.

  Your dad’s a smart man, Linton boy. Or should I call you Pansy? Your name is Pansy.

  “No it isn’t. My dad always called me Linton, even before I had it changed.”

  Listen to me, Pansy. If you want to see what’s inside these people, you’re going to have to do it yourself.

  “No, I’m not doing this.”

  You…

  I slammed the laptop shut.

  When I did that, everything would close, as I had programmed it to.


  Maybe I could finally get some peace.

  Maybe, just maybe, I wouldn’t hear the voice anymore

  Every day for the next thirteen days, the urge grew; and every time the urge became even more powerful, I would have to hold myself away, sliding my laptop into its case and putting it under the bed so it’d take more effort to get to it.

  On the fourteenth day, the largest black tumor—the one at the base of my brain stem—exploded.

  The black matter slid down into the course of my spine, locking up my reflexes. It had happened when I had been in the kitchen, pacing back and forth to try and keep the urge away. The immediacy of it was astounding. I’d had no warning, no premonition, no way to prepare for the darkness that clouded my vision—I had no way to prepare for anything.

  This is it. This is it. This is it.

  Three gongs, three flashes, three excruciating bolts of pain to the back of my neck, all signs that something bad had broke—like the bad egg that slid into a carton, erupting at a moment’s notice and contaminating the others with salmonella, or the conscience that finally bent under the constant pressure of scrutiny, comparable the bullied teen who finally decided to take a gun to the local high school.

  Whatever had broken had taken a long time to break.

  In the end, the downward spiral would go faster than anything I had ever experienced.

  I had lain down to get rid of the excruciating migraine headache. After it passed, I rose and walked to the phone, where I dialed the hospital and asked to speak with Doctor Stevens.

  The handsome black man.

  “Hello?” the man asked, deep voice sweet as honey.

  “Hey,” I said. “It’s Linton.”

  “Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Are you sure?”

  A smirk crossed my face.

  “I’m sure.”

  “Can I help you with something?”

  “Yeah.” I rubbed my neck, the curve in the back of the skull tender to the touch. “Can you come over here later, when you get off work?”

  “I can. What do you need?”

  “Someone to help me do the dishes, maybe clean up a little.”

  “I’d be more than happy to help.”

  I gave him the address and hung up.

  Markus Stevens had just stepped into my territory.

  The man made his appearance at nine-thirty that night. He stood at the door, waiting for me to come to it. Of course, I’d make him wait a few minutes, just to examine his movements. He had a habit of running his hand through his dark hair. His first nervous tick, I noticed. The second thing he did when faced with pause was shift his feet. He’d move from one foot to the other, sometimes scratching the back of an ankle with his shoe.

  Because of these ticks, I gauged him to be a very nervous man.

  Confident, I thought, stepping toward the door, but very nervous.

  When I opened the door, Markus’ demeanor brightened.

  “Hey,” he smiled. “What’re you up to?”

  “Not much,” I said. “Come on in.”

  Markus took his shoes off after he asked whether or not I cared. I didn’t, of course, but I preferred people take their shoes off instead of walking through the house.

  The carpet is bad enough.

  “You said you needed some dishes done?” he asked, rolling his sleeves above his elbows.

  “I can help dry them,” I said. “It’s just a few things here and there.”

  “I’m more than happy to help.”

  Markus smiled. I returned it.

  The poor man was head over heels for me.

  After a minute, a tint of color came to his dark skin. He told me he’d be in the kitchen if I needed anything.

  I told him I’d be in in a second.

  That’s when I pulled a hammer from a nearby table and advanced on the man.

  “Hey,” Markus said, not even looking over his shoulder. “How long do you usually wash these for? I mean, it doesn’t matter to me, I can just…”

  Two heads met; one metal, one bone.

  The man went down without a word.

  He looked so pathetic, lying on the floor with a small dent in the back of his head. He wasn’t dead, not yet, but he’d be unconscious for a little while.

  Pushing the table to one side, I left a single chair in the center of the kitchen. With more difficulty than I had anticipated, I pulled Markus up into the chair and secured his hands and ankles with four pairs of handcuffs.

  Then, ever so slowly, I walked back into the living room and grabbed an artist’s chisel.

  I will see him, I thought, stroking the long nail. I will see his beautiful mind.

  His death wouldn’t be in vain. It’d be for the sake of art, for the love of mankind, for the kinship of two men who were so tired of being alone.

  Never again would I be parted from Markus.

  The beautiful act of love we were about to make would be forever burned into my mind.

  All I’d have to do is close my eyes, summon up his face, and there it would be, all in great, vivid detail.

  The chisel slid into my hand as gracefully as the hammer had just a few minutes before, and even more graceful than the knife had several days ago. The steps into the kitchen were like walking on wet sand; peaceful, but partially stressed as well.

  “It’s ok,” I whispered, running a hand through his hair. When I pulled my palm away, it came back with blood. “You’re so beautiful.”

  I kissed the top of his head. Copper exploded in my mouth, rusting the surface of my teeth and gums.

  “You have such a beautiful mind.”

  Chisel met skull.

  “You’re such a nice man.”

  Hammer met chisel.

  Chisel hit skull.

  “You didn’t have to come over and help me.”

  Bang.

  “It’s beautiful.”

  Bang.

  “You don’t know how beautiful it is, Markus.”

  Bang bang.

  “Your mind.” I gasped. “It’s so… beautiful.”

  Scarlet escaped his mind, bleeding me red. Hands—now cloaked in beauty—continued to do their work, exploring the inner depths of a brilliant man’s mind. I broke through the exterior, revealing an interior far more beautiful than was normally let on. A labyrinth of medical epitomes—crafted by years of hard work—lay before my eyes.

  What I saw could only be true beauty.

  The pain in my neck gradually dulled until it finally went away.

  The black tumors—sewed together by healing cells—stopped hurting.

  What happened?

  Everything had since blurred into one solid but broken line. I could remember things here and there—from stepping out of the kitchen after several long minutes of pacing, to collapsing on the couch when my neck started throbbing—but nothing concrete rested in the box of my short term memory. Had I gotten up to get some pain pills? How long had I been sleeping? Had I called the hospital, maybe to ask what had been happening and if I would be all right?

  No.

  For some reason, I was reassured that none of those things had happened.

  When I lifted my head to glance into the kitchen, I met a stain of red, one large enough to disappear around the bend of the wall.

  Did I hurt myself?

  No. I couldn’t have hurt myself, because I had been on the couch for God knew how long.

  If I didn’t hurt myself, why was there a stain on the floor?

  “I spilled something,” I decided. “Yeah, that’s it.”

  I stood and crossed the short distance from the couch to the kitchen.

  Markus Stevens sat in that chair.

  The back of his skull was crushed in.

  “Oh God, oh God…”

  I stepped around the man’s body.

  Not a single emotion lay on that man’s face.

  Really, what had I expected? Did I expect pain, anguish, agony? How was a person
supposed to look after they’d just been brutally murdered?

  You did this, a voice whispered. You did this to him.

  “No.” I shook my head. “I didn’t do this.”

  Who else knows that you have an art chisel?

  “What are…”

  I didn’t need to question whatever I spoke to further. On the table—which had come to rest up against the wall—a bloody chisel and a red-speckled hammer lay in all their glory.

  You did this, Linton, the voice said. Now we’ve got to finish it.

  “No. I have to call someone, I…”

  LISTEN TO ME!

  In a fraction of a second, everything stopped. I stopped moving, breathing, panicking.

  Now, it continued. You did this, Linton. It’s ok; really, it is. You were just interested, that’s all.

  “I didn’t kill him,” I sobbed.

  You did. And now you’re going to cut him up and get rid of him.

  “No, I can’t, I…”

  The pain in the back of my neck returned. I snapped my hand back to cover the throbbing spot, but instead of moving to the back of my neck, my hand hovered in front of my face, all five fingers spread.

  You have no control. Watch.

  One finger flexed, then two, followed by three. The fourth and fifth fingers flexed, then crossed together, the ring finger laying over the pinky.

  Now, you can either cut him up yourself, or I can do it.

  “You won’t make me!” I cried. “You can’t!”

  I flew back. My spine connected with the wall, head slamming into a shelf that held a few odd sculptures. The little black and white figures fell to the floor, but—miraculously—did not break.

  I can make you do whatever I want, the voice whispered. Now, let’s get the knife.

  When I tried to fight, whatever controlled my body brought my foot down on one of the sculptures.

  It shattered.

  I couldn’t say anything, I couldn’t do anything, I couldn’t even be anything.

  Against my own will—my body forced to act like a ragdoll to some wicked demon—I grabbed the largest butcher knife from a knife stand.

  All I could do was watch as I dismantled Markus Stevens, piece by little piece.

  Dismantling such a beautiful man was unlike anything I had ever felt. First I chopped off his feet and hands, then tossed them into the bag. From there, the work got more complicated. While Stevens didn’t have height on his side, the width of his shoulders would be especially troubling.