Scribbles and Scrawls

by Bethany Votaw

  “Sure. I can help you out.” Zeke stood and stepped on the cigarette. “Follow me.”

  He wasn’t sure why, but the man looked to be in so much pain. The blood was beginning to dribble down his neck and stain his white shirt. Zeke was never one to get squeamish; he had the guts after all. So he led the man, still scratching at his scalp, to the woodpile around back.

  “Here,” Zeke said, taking the ax from its spot on the chopping block. “This might help.”

  “Thank you.” The man stopped his incessant scratching and moved to chewing his lip. He took the ax from Zeke and gripped the handle with his bloody fingers and held it tight. Then he dropped it. “I can’t do it.” He started scratching again. “I am so close to getting it out, can you do it?”

  “Can I?”

  “Yeah.” The man pointed at the ax.

  “Sure,” Zeke said, picking the ax up, ignoring the warm, bloody fingerprints. It was sticky. He looked up to find the man stretching his head out, leaving a wide berth for Zeke to swing the ax and split his skull, no doubt the man’s end goal here.

  Zeke held it, ready to let it fall through the air. Really, it would be gravity’s doing, Zeke was just aiming. And then he couldn’t.

  “I’m sorry,” Zeke said to the man. “I just can’t.” He’d never had his guts go soft before.

  The man only nodded and shuffled away, muttering, “I gotta get it out.”

  “Gotta get it out…” Zeke whispered and shuffled back into his mom’s house, mumbling something about breakfast, scratching his head.

  And it never stopped itching. His scalp tickled and burned, begging his nails to break the skin.

  “I have an idea,” he explained to his mom at the dinner table that night. It had been nagging him all day.

  “Now I’m scared.” His mom laughed and shoved some chili in her mouth.

  “No,” Zeke said, scratching at his scalp through his thick, brown hair. “It’s just not coming to me.”

  “Well, give it a minute.”

  “No.” He scratched harder, trying to jar the thought loose, maybe help dig it out. “It’s like when you forget a word, ya know? Like right on the tip of your tongue? But it’s not coming to me. I just need to get it out.”

  And all through dinner, the idea of something poked at him, and he was determined to find the something. He went to bed thinking it could stave off the feeling of forgetting the something by sleeping. He fell asleep muttering, “I just gotta get it out…” Except he never fell asleep.

  The idea continued to pound at his skull from the inside, trying to break out from the bone. Zeke scratched his scalp and felt a moment’s elation when the blood got sticky on his hands. He was close to freeing the thing.

  But the idea? The memory, the thing, just pounded away from inside. Beating his skill like a drum, over and over and over. And when the sun broke the black night, he went out for his morning cigarette, pulling on some jeans and ignoring the sweatshirt he usually went for. The cold didn’t faze him at all.

  He sat in this regular spot, forgetting to light the cigarette and puffed on air, scratching and itching and pulling at the skin on his scalp. When the pounding grew to be too much, he paced the front, marching to the rhythm of the drumming in his head. “I just need it out.”

  The idea was there, so close, the migraine threatening to split him in two, and he knew he would get no relief until this thing was out.

  “Hey,” a voice called.

  It made him jump, and the pounding grew worse, angry to have broken up the rhythm of itching and peeling away the skin. He was at the bone now. He scratched harder. “What?”

  It was a student, so obviously a student, with his oversized backpack, giant coat, and lanyard. “Want any help with that—” The small student pointed to Zeke’s side, at the sharp and shiny ax.

  13

  Closet

  I was stuck inside a closet with a monster. “It’s just five minutes,” I whispered. The little closet was dark, and I felt the walls close in on me. I was careful not to touch anything in case it was the monster. He was probably slimy or sharp.

  “How’d they trick you?” the monster asked.

  The gaggle of girls laughed, and their shrill voices made their way into the tiny room. They didn’t hear the voice of the thing. It was like quiet thunder, shaking my bones. I took a breath; the air was sour and dry. The monster and I exchanged oxygen between our lungs.

  If it breathed at all. Maybe it didn’t have lungs.

  “Nothing to say?” it asked again. “Too scared? But not too scared to spend five minutes with me.”

  “They didn’t trick me,” I said. Screw my earlier rules. I let my back lean against a wall. The rough wood from the old house poked my spine as I slid to the ground. Better than trying to stand. It was too dark; it made me dizzy. Like I was underwater, and I didn’t know which way was up.

  “Yet you are in here. And they are out there.”

  “I know,” I said.

  “How’d they get you in here?”

  I thought I heard it lick its lips like it was going to devour me. At least I’d be a story the girls could use. I’d live on in their words, through their “I was there” stories. I almost wished he’d bite me.

  “What? You didn’t want to dance around and look like a fool for their attention, so you agree to this?”

  “I don’t dance,” I admitted.

  “What do you want?”

  “I don’t know,” I whispered, casting a glance to the little door that had been barred shut. I still heard the girls out there, talking, chatting, all without me. They’d get the butterflies in their stomachs when the time drew near. The clock ticked loud throughout the little basement. I could hear it through the walls and the monster’s heavy breathing. Probably four minutes left.

  “What do you want?” it asked again.

  “I don’t know.” I shrugged even though I knew it couldn’t see me. Or maybe it could.

  “I think you are willing to trade parts of yourself for their acceptance.”

  “Bold,” I said. True, I thought.

  The air in the little closet warmed. It was sticky, like I could reach out and mold a shape from the oxygen with my hands.

  “I propose a trade,” the monster whispered.

  Three minutes now. Only three minutes. “Okay, what do you propose?” And I searched the folds of my brain for what would be worth making a deal with an unseen monster.

  The girls laughed again, deep belly laughs. I ached. I wanted to laugh.

  “You want to be one of them. To be accepted for who you are. No more ridiculous trials to keep their interest.”

  It didn’t take a monster to see that.

  “A trade,” it said. “Your dignity and pride for their love and acceptance.”

  “Deal.”

  “It’s done.”

  And my thumb hurt. It felt sticky and wet. Two minutes now. I didn’t feel any different, save for an ember of hope in my chest and slick thumb.

  One minute. The girls tapped on the door, waiting for me to emerge. They were giddy and excited over the prospect of something scary.

  I got to my feet and fumbled for the handle. The darkness made it hard to breathe, like it was taking the last seconds to suffocate me. But the silent monster was more terrifying now. He had part of me. I supposed I had part of it.

  “You know—” its voice cut through the air. “I make no pretense about what I am. I can claim honesty, but you? What do you have now? You’re part monster, a fake. A false person walking. Tell me, what does that make you?”

  “Human, I suppose.” And I felt different.

  The door swung open. The light nearly blinded me, and I left the monster in the dark, walking out to my friends. I glanced at my thumb; the blood was finally starting to dry. A blood promise.

  “You’ll be back,” the monster said.

  And I was afraid it was right.

  14

  The Sister

 
; “Your mama home, girl?”

  “No,” The Girl said.

  “Oh, I see.” His fingers brushed over her hand as he dropped the mail into her palms.

  She liked the way his hand felt. Better still, she liked the smile he gave her. Even better after that was the way his eyes glinted when she told him her mama was off somewhere.

  “Maybe I’ll see you around later.” He smiled that winner smile, and she nodded.

  It felt good to smile at him. It felt better when he smiled back.

  She saw him later, just like he said she would. He was sitting on a bench at the park, licking an ice-cream cone. It made her shiver. The Girl held her little sister’s hand, and she didn’t smile at him because he smiled at her. He grinned at the little sister clutching The Girl’s hand, the ribbons bouncing in her hair.

  The Girl set her jaw and walked right on by. He never stopped his licking, even with the cream running down his hand. She tugged the little sister along, frustrated. She had been saving a smile just for him.

  “You didn’t smile at me yesterday,” he said.

  “I couldn’t.” She decided to meet him at the mailbox. The screaming from inside was embarrassing. Mama had too many of her drinks, and she was talking to the walls again. The little sister sat on the porch, drawing on the crumbling steps with a rock. She was too focused to notice, so The Girl gave him a smile. And he smiled back.

  But he looked at the little sister on the porch.

  The Girl frowned again and walked back to the house, mail in her hands.

  “Think I could come in some time?” he asked.

  She stopped her march back to the dilapidated single wide and thought for a minute. It would be nice. “No,” she said, her back still to him. “Mama…”

  “Maybe later.”

  She nodded and could feel his eyes on her neck.

  “I’ll see you later then,” he called from his spot at the end of the yard, hand resting on the mailbox.

  She turned and gave him a smile her little sister wouldn’t see. “Yes.”

  “Mama says you’ll go to hell,” the little sister said. “Mama said Jesus will carve out your heart and feed it to the dogs.”

  “That won’t happen.” The Girl pulled her little sister by the hand into the woods. It was their usual retreat. Twenty-four cans gone usually meant twenty-four hours away from the house. Sometimes Mama would fall asleep, sometimes she wouldn’t. And it wasn’t worth taking a chance on the latter.

  “Are we going to the creek?” the little sister asked.

  “Yup,” The Girl said, pulling the wide-eyed little thing along with her.

  They squatted at their favorite spot, letting the sun smooth their goosebumps away. The Girl was thankful it was still summer. The night would be full of stars, and the frost wouldn’t be there to bite at their feet.

  “Thought I heard you two ladies out here splashing.” It was the man’s voice. His hands were in his pockets, and he sauntered through the trees, wearing that straight smile of his.

  The Girl didn’t try to hide her own grin this time.

  “Is everybody decent?” he asked.

  We never are. “Yes,” The Girl laughed, toweling her little sister’s hair with her sweater and straightening the little sister’s mismatched ribbons.

  “Too bad,” the man laughed. He looked from The Girl’s eyes to the legs of her little sister.

  “What were you playing?” he asked.

  “A game,” the little sister said.

  “We were gonna play another,” The Girl said.

  “Chase?” the man asked. He wore jeans and a flannel, not his normal mailman uniform, and it made The Girl’s eyes linger over his exposed forearms.

  “That could be fun,” the little sister said.

  “It could,” The Girl said.

  “Chase us,” the little sister said, squealing as she took off running.

  And he did. He played at first. The Girl knew he was fast, but he let the little sister think she was winning. The man let them weave between the trees, and The Girl tried not to be annoyed that his smile was for the girl with ribbons. She touched her ribbon-less hair and grabbed the little sister’s hand. “We have to go.”

  “It’s time already?” the little sister asked.

  The man pretended to be out of breath. “Already? I just caught up.”

  “We have to go,” The Girl said.

  “I’ll see you later then,” the man said to her back.

  She nodded and pulled her little sister along. It felt like a real chase this time.

  They were lucky. Mama was fast asleep on the sofa when they crept back into the stuffy house. They snuggled tight in their bed, playing a quiet game of slapping the fleas off each other’s skin.

  “Leave the window open,” her little sister said. “Maybe he’ll come back to play.”

  The Girl made a mistake and left it open.

  They lied on their backs and stared at the water-stained ceiling. Their own private set of constellations. “Do you really think Jesus will carve out our hearts?”

  The Girl scoffed. “No, and even if he did, it doesn’t hurt.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I just do.” The Girl pinched her little sister’s side, and the little sister giggled.

  “I thought I heard you two ladies,” said the man from the window.

  The little sister sat up, eyes bright with the anticipation of another game.

  “What?” the man asked, climbing through the window. “No smile for me?”

  The little sister beamed, already pulling out a mismatched deck of cards. The Girl figured she would want to play their strange version of “go fish.” They had to amend and make up some rules when they figured out several cards were missing.

  The man didn’t even look at The Girl’s face once he got inside. Instead, he softly stepped across the floor and sat with the little sister, picking at the cards, then picking at her dress, then picking at the skin on her legs.

  “This looks funny,” he pulled the sleeve of the little sister’s dress down.

  “What about this?” The Girl asked. She stood in front of the man and pulled both of her sleeves down, revealing much more of her chest than she had ever before.

  The man stood and smiled. Finally he smiled at her. He stepped over the cards and the little sister. He tugged a little harder on the dress, pulling it down more.

  The little sister still on the floor, cards covering her legs, looked wide-eyed at The Girl and the man. “What are—"

  And her words were snapped off by the sound of a knife piercing skin. The Girl had to only reach behind her under her grimy pillow to find the handle. It took only a moment to sink it between his ribs. She swore she felt the vibration of a beating heart slow through the handle of the knife.

  The man let out a moan, a wet, sloppy sound. He fell to his knees, then on that funny little deck of cards.

  “I thought you said it doesn’t hurt,” the little sister said.

  “It only hurts the bad ones.”

  “Will it hurt me?”

  “No,” The Girl said, staring at the dead man on the floor, blood soaking into the wood. “You’re too good.”

  “Will it hurt you?” the little sister asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  15

  Family Dinner

  “Tommy, seriously, I get sick every time I eat your mother’s cooking. I literally cannot figure out why, but there is something that she uses that just does not agree with me.”

  “She just uses a lot of salt.” He sat on the edge of their new bed, pulling on his socks. “A lot of people get bloaty when they aren’t used to that much salt.”

  “It’s not salt, and I don’t think she likes me,” Amy confessed.

  “Stop that.” He smiled that sweet smile she fell in love with. He stood and wrapped his arms around her, and she buried her face into his shoulder, breathing in his scent. She was still trying to figure out what it was. Sandal
wood? “She just doesn’t speak English, and well—we sprung it on her. She just needs time. I am the baby, after all.”

  That needled at her. “We’ve been married six months now!” Amy pulled away and worked on applying her mascara.

  Their life was like a game, constantly getting to know each other, catching up for lost time. She knew he was the youngest, but the way he said baby made her wrinkle her nose. He wasn’t a baby.

  “Okay, but your parents reacted the same way—Hi mom and dad, it’s Amy. I went on vacation and came back married. Hope that’s okay!—she just needs some time to get used to the idea is all.” He laughed and pinched her butt.

  “Okay fine.” She rolled her eyes. “She gets a little grace.”

  “I’ll meet you in the car. Don’t forget tennis shoes. There’s this awesome hike I want to show you once we get over there. We didn’t get a chance last time.”

  She nodded, inwardly groaning at the idea of spending two hours in a car just to get sick off his mother’s cooking then try to hike. She had managed to skip the hike last time; her stomach had been too riled up to even think of a small walk. Tommy didn’t seem to be convinced until she vomited on the way home. Then he believed her.

  They had gone out to the small town about once every other month since they came back from vacation and their whirlwind marriage. It was so cliché, that “love at first sight” thing. But it was true. He transferred companies and moved in with her. They redid the little condo, all new furniture and paint, and it felt like home when she laid her head down at night.

  “Over there is where my uncle used to live. We used to walk over and play in the creek in his backyard,” he explained as they entered the sleepy little farming town.

  She wanted to learn more about the place where he grew up, more about what he did in college and post-graduation, but that was a black spot. He rarely talked about it. Said he’s lost his way in the corporate world, and meeting her on his spontaneous trip was the best change he needed. But his hometown? His childhood? That was an open book.