So there was hope!
I texted her back: What careers? As far as I know, there aren’t any careers in telesales, just minimal pay and the occasion consideration of suicide.
She’s been avoiding me since.
Dave’s been regaling me with his antics from last night. Yes, he spent the night alone after eating Chinese takeaway…alone, but as he says, it’s not the winning, it’s the taking part. The fun’s in the hunt.
I’m done with the hunt. In fact, no. Let’s hunt. Susan, a square mile of open bush and me with a shotgun. Yeah, now there’s hunting. I could have her stuffed and mounted.
Let’s see how that works out…
“Harry, you ignorant prick!”
I blink. “What?”
“What planet you on?” says Dave. “You look miles away.”
I smile. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to be rude. Just thinking.”
“About her?”
“No.”
Something I did gave it away, and Dave sighs. I’ve never been good at poker.
“I told you,” he says. “Forget about it. You going to spend your life dwelling on some admin assistant that dumped you after two meals out?” He shakes his head. “You really have to come on a bender with me, mate.”
Come on a bender? I don’t like the sound of that.
“And I didn’t want to bring this up…” Dave leans closer and whispers. “You keep talking to yourself.”
Nonsense! I’ve been talking to you. Thanks for listening. You understand, right? You know where I’m coming from.
And suddenly, she’s here. Susan. She’s in the room. I can’t see her in the maze of cubicles, stationary cupboards and water coolers, but I can smell her. I don’t know what perfume she wears, but it’s intoxicating, taking me back to the first time we met. I was out of staples, and so was the stationary cupboard. She sat at her desk sorting through some papers when I walked in. All raven-haired and sleek as a panther. She’s a little older than me, which doesn’t mean a thing. Beauty like that matures and grows, like…I don’t know. Cheese or something.
No. Wine is classier. I meant like wine. No woman wants her beauty to be compared to cheddar.
I asked her for staples…and she gave me staples.
And stole my heart.
And the first time I took her out... I couldn’t believe she’d said yes, and the whole night was spent in a weird kind of euphoric haze. I can hardly remember a thing about it, besides the night being over too quickly. And the scent. Her perfume.
And now the room is filled by its fragrance.
EVERYBODY HURTS…
Sometimes I wonder why I bother. Honestly. Why the fuck do I waste my life, day after day, sitting in this chair, looking at this screen filled with phone numbers, talking into this goddamn uncomfortable headset? Because we need money. We need money to live. We slog our guts out to earn money to live a life we hate. It’s like being tortured, and when you’re not being tortured, you’re working to save the money to pay the torturer. Fucking bullshit.
Sorry. Started on a very pessimistic note there. You’re here to listen, not be my punching bag and emotional outlet.
Dave called in sick. Something about a stomach bug, probably induced by copious amounts of alcohol last night. I miss him, a bit. He’s a welcome distraction from all this.
No text messages last night. Not a thing. But still, the smell of her perfume clung to me when I left the office. Even on the bus home, trying to read, and I just couldn’t shake it. The bus usually stinks, but yesterday, it sang with scents of floral bouquets, alcoholic temptation and sex.
Damn her!
How the hell can I work under these conditions? I’ve been sat here watching, and fuck the customers. We call them up and ask if they want a phone. They already have one! Not like I sell many handsets and payment plans anyway. I’ll just continue watching.
Yes, here she is. Again. Taking paperwork to the head of department in his office. Bet she’s screwing him. It’s the only real explanation, right? I was a complete gentleman, kind and courteous, a dream to be with. Our relationship was affecting her career… Funny how quickly you rise through the ranks with your boss’s cock in your mouth.
No, that’s silly. It is silly, isn’t it? She isn’t sleeping with the boss. He’s married and has two kids.
I hate this stench! It’s like she comes in and secretes it on purpose, a sexy octopus entering and squirting her ink of seduction. It fills the room. How much perfume does one woman need? No one else seems bothered by it. I have keen senses and I’m almost choking on it.
The smell followed me home from the office again last night, even beyond the bus. My one room apartment reeked of her foul perfume, even though the whore had never stepped foot inside. How can that happen? Did the molecules of her fragrance bond themselves to the fibers in my clothing, only to peel away and reproduce in my home?
I put some fish in the microwave. Screw the other residents. For a blissful few minutes, the smell of her perfume was masked before it seeped out again. I couldn’t sleep last night. Susan wouldn’t let me. The smell, it held me from rest, invading my dreams.
Look, she’s come out of his office, and again the place smells of her hair, her clothes, her skin.
How am I supposed to get over this? Seriously, I’m asking you. Tell me what I have to do. I’m desperate.
HOW TO DISAPPEAR…
Completely through with this now. Completely through. I can’t work, I can’t sleep. She’s here, there, fucking everywhere. The smell. I can’t shake it.
You wouldn’t offer any help: not one scrap of advice. Thank you for that, from the bottom of my heart. Just sit there and listen to me. Watch me suffer. You’ve been such a friend.
I bought one of these inhaler things, the ones you stick up your nose when you have a cold. It worked, at least twice. I breathed in the harsh mix of eucalyptus and rubbing alcohol. It was bliss! Now it smells of her perfume, so I threw it in the bin and cried a little. People are watching but I don’t care. None of them will be the one to come over.
Dave’s sick again. I’m on my own here, besides you, and you hardly fucking count.
I called her last night, weeping into my phone. She told me to leave her alone and hung up. Can you believe that? She’s so wrong. I just want to grab her and shake her and tell her how wrong she is.
I can’t take more of this smell.
Feels like it’s coated the inside of my nose and mouth. My sinuses are awash with the stuff. I can’t shift it. Food tastes of her. Oxygen tastes of her.
Quitting my job wouldn’t solve this. Her fragrance is in my clothes and apartment. I can’t escape it. Unless…
I pick up the scissors. Remember I told you surgeons use scissors? I like these scissors.
I glance up as the door to the office opens. Susan walks in with yet more paperwork for the boss. She’s definitely sleeping with him. He doesn’t need that much paperwork. She walks in, her head held high. Won’t give me the pleasure of seeing her guilt…if she has any. Look what you’ve done to me, Susan.
Please.
Please look.
She spends a few minutes in there with him. I wipe the tears from my eyes and watch her chat through the internal window. All smiles and hair curls for him.
The plastic handle of the scissors are on the verge of snapping in my tight grip, so I set them down carefully. Not going to break my stationary over her. Dave was right. Women can fuck with your head in the worst way.
My idea is stupid. Please tell me it’s stupid.
But if it’s the only way to stop this smell…
Susan walks out of the boss’s office and without a single glance in my direction, pushes the door open and leaves the office. She’ll be returning to the sanctuary of her own small space.
Perfect.
I’ll need these scissors.
I USED TO LOVE HER, SO I HAD TO…
Kill her. That’s what I want to do, and as I watch her at her desk, I fe
el that urge. Perhaps that’s what my father would have done, in his last few months at least. He was seeing and hearing things by then, completely cuckoo. The scissors feel hot in my hand. No. I’m not going to kill her.
Did I just hear you sigh in relief? No, thought not. Killing her would be far too predictable. And how could I get away with it in a crowded office building? For one moment I thought you’d shown a little emotion. You’re a stone-faced bastard, you know that?
From my hiding place beside a storage cupboard in the corridor, I sneak past her room. I don’t know why I tiptoe quickly by…even if she saw me, what would she do? Nothing. I’ve come to terms with my place in her life, even if I don’t like it. I just want to get some closure, and that’s exactly what I’m going to do.
And to the end of the building and into the men’s room.
They clean this place every night after business hours. It should smell of bleach, detergent, and air freshener. But instead…I wonder if Susan has ever been in here. Probably with the boss. A bit of lunchtime fun in one of the cubicles.
I walk over to the sinks and stare at my reflection in the mirror. Not too shabby. A tad podgy around the waist and I could do with a shave, but generally…what did she want? What was she looking for? What does her perfect man look like?
My sensitive nose, of course, is a mess. Almost glowing bright red, the skin around the nostrils is dry and peeling. Just look what that bitch has done to me.
At least I can fix it.
Last chance to talk me out of this, my friend.
I see.
Your silence speaks volumes.
So you think this will work? It has to. It will work.
Now, what’s the best way to start?
I open the blades of the scissors and poke one into my left nostril. Or is it the right nostril? I get confused looking into mirrors. The tip of the other blade is on the outside, close to my eye.
Ready? One…two…three.
FUCK! Oh God… Blood. I lean my face over the sink. Don’t want to mess up the bathroom. God this hurts. Need to quickly do the next one. Quick quick quick.
I shove the shaking blade back inside my nostril and snip! A chuck of triangular flesh falls with a splat into the pool of blood in the sink. A glance in the mirror shows my half-ruined nose.
I can still smell her. Even through the wet copper I can still smell her. Blood is pouring down the back of my throat and bubbling from my destroyed face…and still I can smell her. Cough it up, spit it out.
I haven’t done enough.
Gritting my teeth, I slide the soiled scissor blade into my other nostril. Two blasts of brain-numbing pain later and a second piece of nose falls into the sink.
Things are getting a bit fuzzy now. Blood is jetting out of my face and across the enamel, taps, walls and mirror. I’m past caring. All that fills me now is the pain. And the smell. Susan.
My nose looks long and thin without the excess bits. I doubt these scissors can cut through bone…but I’ll give the cartilage a go. One good, hard snip should do it. Then a few jabs into the opened sinus cavity…
Grinning at myself, I open the scissors wide, clutching the slippery handles with both hands. The remains of my nose are between the blades.
Yeah, this should do it.
I WANNA BE…
Sedated, so now it doesn’t hurt so bad. The doctors keep me nice and topped up, which is nice of them because I keep going to pick it. It’s not there to pick anymore! Feels weird under all these bandages. Just a hole. The boss had walked into the bathroom, probably on a secret liaison with Susan, and what a shock he had! Don’t think they’ll be asking me to come back to work…another bonus.
Had to work fast though. The cartilage was tougher than I thought. I had to use the scissors to kinda chew through the rubbery stuff and then pull it off, using the scissors as pliers. All done now. I even managed two quick stabs up there before the boss and others jumped on me. The doctors said I could have killed myself if I’d stabbed another half an inch deeper. Just lucky, I guess.
My main doctor, he was my dad’s in the last six months! Small world.
They won’t allow me my phone, in fact, they won’t allow me anything, you know, just in case. Think I’ll be spending a few weeks drugged up in this here bed. I’d like my phone though. Want to call Dave and see when he’s coming to visit. I’d like that. And Susan. I think I should call Susan and apologize. I miss her. I miss her smell.
But at least I’m not alone, right? You’ve stuck with me all the way through. Nice to know I have someone. I’ll be fine, won’t I? Yeah, absolutely. Just don’t leave me. Promise you won’t leave me here on my own.
You won’t leave me, right?
SKUNK JR.
John McNee
Henry’s pants were wet. This was the first thing his senses told him as he started to come round. Next was the crisp cold of the night’s air on his face, followed by the smell of motor oil and the taste of blood. Slowly, painfully, his eyes eased open to reveal the dark of the sky overhead and snowflakes, tumbling softly down to land upon him and the ragged crush of glass and metal that, once upon a time, had been a fairly well preserved ’98 Chevy Cavalier.
It was difficult for Henry to tell what kind of shape the car was in. He was still only halfway conscious and a long way from a complete assessment of his own physical condition. The roof was gone, for sure. Windshield and windows gone. At least one door gone.
And Michelle. She was gone too.
Henry lay awkwardly on his back, safety belt digging into his stomach, head throbbing against the empty passenger seat, unable to see anything but snowflakes. He raised his right hand, hoping to uncouple himself, and saw its outline, swimming toward him through the thin light. Two of his fingers broken. Damn near severed. Index and ring dangled uselessly over the back of his hand from threads of skin, blood leaking weakly from the red wounds. Weird that his middle finger should escape unharmed. It didn’t hurt yet, but he knew it would.
He leaned right to try and free his other hand, blood spilling out of his mouth as he turned. He saw her then. Saw her pale legs, almost invisible against the snow, shoes gone as though she’d kicked them off to play at making angels in the drift. He saw the perfectly rounded swell of her stomach, straining against the dampening maternity dress. He saw her arms and hands, delicate and frail, but mercifully not mangled like his.
Henry wanted to call to her but, when he tried, could only drool blood. His left hand came free with a little more effort and, pressing his elbows against the seat, he managed to pull himself forward, straining against shattered glass. A sharp shock of pain in his thighs revealed he was pinned hard by the dash, plastic and metal cutting him deep. Explained why his pants were wet.
He stretched his neck, just enough to see her nose, her clear gray eyes…and the frayed red edge where the top of her skull had been. Her brains, sprayed vividly across the snow, looked like a pound of rotten strawberries dropped from a helicopter.
Henry shrank back, letting the door hide the sight of her again, as a new pain exploded from his gut, sending shivers through his limbs, forcing tears into his eyes and a wail of despair out of his throat.
He was answered almost immediately by the bark of a dog.
“Ace! Ace, c’mere, boy!” A man’s voice. His boots crunched through the snow as he clambered down the hill from the road. “Oh boy,” he wheezed. “Boy oh boy...”
The dog bounded into view, light gray and lean, and bent its nose to Michelle’s feet. It sniffed and whined, then turned its heavy head toward Henry. It was only when he saw its long, angular snout and pale blue eyes that he realized it was a wolf. The animal stepped back, raising its hackles and lowering its head. It pulled back its lips to reveal its fangs and growled.
A cry of “Ace! Heel!” quelled any immediate threat. The wolf immediately straightened up, a look of serene composure falling across its face, and ran to the side of its master, who now strode past the wreck and knelt down at M
ichelle’s side.
He was an old man—tall and broad-shouldered. His scalp was bald, but white hair sprouted from the sides and back of his head in long, twisting strands, clumped together with dirt. He wore a brown raincoat so ragged it could have been a hundred years old, only partly covered by a poncho fashioned out of clear plastic. When the man knelt down by Michelle he dropped a sack, letting it fall in Henry’s direction. Sat at the top was a dead raccoon, half flattened by the wheels of a truck.
The man placed a filth-black hand on Michelle’s belly and Henry tried to shout, but his exclamation was reduced to a blood-bubbling squeak. The man turned his head, revealing a long white beard and eyes as blue and pale as the wolf’s. He stared at Henry for a long few seconds, then bent his head to Michelle, placing his ear against her distended stomach. Nothing happened for a while, till the man’s eyes popped wide and he jumped back, breathlessly muttering: “Boy oh boy oh boy...”
Henry stared on, failing to remain calm, as the man plunged a hand into his sack of roadkill, rooting around, spilling assorted animal parts till he found what he was after—a long-bladed hunting knife, sharp as a scalpel and dappled in blood. He used it first to slice through her dress, revealing her belly in all its glory—white and round as an egg. Then he got to work on her flesh, sinking the blade into her side, just below the rib-cage and cutting toward her groin.
“No,” Henry tried (and failed) to shout. “Please. Stop.”
The man knew what he was doing. He carved the approximate C-section with a care and speed that could only come from decades of skinning and butchering animals. Even as dark blood spilled out of the wound, seeping into the snow around and underneath him, he didn’t slow. He dug his dirty fingers into the gash and opened her up, peeling her skin back like it was the soft-top of a sports car, revealing a red interior of blood and organs.
“Don’t,” Henry imagined he said, struggling to focus, as the man wiped his brow with his sleeve and picked the knife up again to make a last few considered incisions. Then he washed his hands as best he could in the snow, wiped them down on his jacket and plunged them into the quivering mess.
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